#the empire strips back is a GENIUS name

[awkwardexxodus]

i opened the municipal theater site looking for the nutcracker and stayed for burlesque star wars

[milks-thoughts]

Rottmnt x human sister reader, splinter decides she should go to a human high school so she could be around her own kind and learn more. And the bros are all pretty protective over this and are worried about her being in human school.

I’m trying out a new header style! Tell me if you enjoy it or if I should go back to the color strips!

Summary: Reader goes to school, hell ensues

TW: vomiting, a nasty panic attack in a public space, talk of animals insides

Notes: anyone mentioned in this that isn’t from Rise is an oc of mine! Please don’t use them in any works without explicit permission

Study Sessions

You stared at your father as he called a family meeting, usually, these go horribly wrong. Especially as of recently, when your father decided that you, the youngest and the only girl (other than your older sister, April) should go to school…and not the school Donnie and (as of recent) Draxum have been teaching. No, human school. A human high school. You sat down at the table and hugged your knees to your chest, Donnie leaning on the wall, Raph and Leo sitting in the chairs and Mikey sitting on the counter. Splinter smiled but before he could speak Red spoke “ Pops- if this is about school I’m sure Donnie could teach her about algebra and..whatever else human kids learn! “ Donnie snarked “ I could teach her rocket science! “ Splinter nodded “ I’m sure you could purple but, she needs to be with other humans, learn to socialize “ you looked away as he slid papers on the table “ April’s parents did me a favor and enrolled her with Casey Jr! “ you felt doom and anxieties cloud your chest, you took the papers and read it, the papers were illegal documents that Donnie made…you read through each line before getting your schedule. How fun. It was seven classes a day with each class being an essential skill…apparently. What I’m the actual fuck is Home Ec.

The next few weeks came quicker than anticipated. Donnie made you and Casey matching bracelets, they were emergency bracelets (ignoring that your ninpō could just…tell them if something was wrong). And of course they were genius tech! He was making an empire after all! You did clothes shopping with April and also learned how to be socially acceptable with not only April's help, but also Sunita…and finally, the dreaded day. You and Casey stood shoulder to shoulder and stared at the high school, it was bustling, a few interesting faces but mostly everyone already knew each other. There was a larger group, of about seven people. You noted how one had a pretty sapphire necklace and a prosthetic arm that was so fluid it rivaled Donnie’s own he made for Leo. You gave Casey a hopeful smile and walked into the high school, you were immediately overstimulated. Going from a rather empty sewer to a high school was anxiety filling. A blonde haired girl bumped into you, when you turned to apologize for being in her way she immediately apologized. She was probably 5 '6 with sea green eyes and blonde hair “ my names Nyssa, you two seem a bit lost- do you need some help? “ Casey immediately nodded, Nyssa smiled and held out her hand “ oh right! They/Them! "Oops. You smiled and spoke your name, Casey following your lead. Nyssa led you two to your first class “ Your schedules are exactly the same, I didn’t know they could do that. You may get separated when testing comes up, you could be boosted into honors or lowered to just skills class “ Nyssa stopped at the first door. How amazing, math at 8 AM.

When the class finished you saw the white haired boy meet up with a brown haired girl with a tiger eye brooch. All the jewelry you’ve been seeing was very similar to Sunitas cloaking device, the brown haired girl seemed to be a senior based on how old she looked and sounded. You smiled and led Casey to your other classroom. Science.. how lovely, you knew you’d get this fine. Casey had a bit less of knowledge than you, they didn’t exactly have a need for schooling in the apocalypse. While you…well your brain has been nurtured by your older brother since the both of your youth. You could speak four different languages fluently, you could do some math that college students learn, you could do most things. Your biggest problem? American history. You learned Japanese history, your father telling you myths and legends that he learned. And you knew a bit of history from China. A sudden electrical feeling ran through you and Casey, it was simply a blue warmth, less like a fire or a sun and more like an electric heat. You were more than happy to welcome it into your ninpō, walking with it through your science class. It was simple biology, you slept through most of it with Casey and answered any questions sent your way. It left soon after second period and left you alone during third.

Then it was time for your language class…you spoke flawlessly, holding a full conversation with the teacher in Spanish before halfway switching to Japanese to see if the teacher could too. He couldn’t. Casey suddenly spoke up next to you and you turned, the two of you happily chattering in Japanese, sometimes clicking at each other before you realized that was weird, so you continued in Japanese. Yes, both you and Casey are fluent in the “ turtle language “ but shhh that doesn’t matter. Language class moved quickly and then off to fourth. You met Nyssa again, they said hello as you sat down next to Casey in biology. It was announced that you’ll be dissecting something. When you questioned what the teacher smiled “ oh! we’ll be dissecting something super exciting tomorrow, a red eared slider! “ you felt queasy. Quickly shooting up your hand to ask for the restroom, you sped off and found yourself emptying your stomach in the school hallway, a trash can in your hold, your ninpō going crazy and altering not only all of your brothers of your panicking but also a feeling…someone who was spewing mystic energy somewhere in this school, and no, it wasn’t Draxum. His mystic powers felt a certain…way. It wasn’t long before Casey found you and rubbed your back. The feeling of Raphs sturdy ninpō wrapping around your panicking one helped calm you down. You breathed and wiped your mouth with a sanitary wipe Donnie was demanding you keep with you. Slowly you and Casey went back to class, you still looked clammy and jumpy as you sat down and looked anywhere but the board that was a display of snapping turtles insides, Casey was holding it together, but barely. Like an overstuffed suitcase. The bell soon rang after that.

You made your way to lunch where you spoke to Draxum a bit and then was swept away by Nyssa. Brought to a table with the same few interesting people you’ve seen that day. When you really got closer to them, most of the jewelry was spewing mystic energy…cloaking devices. The brown haired senior was named Bellezza, there was a tan girl with short curly hair and a seal coat named Öskra, a blonde senior with blue eyes named River, she had a opal gemstone in a choker on her neck. A brown haired girl named Ésme who shared a ruby ring with the white haired boy (whom you learned was named Mason) and was the only one who didn’t buzz with mystic energy. And the last person, a black haired boy with burgundy eyes named Alexander, he had a garnet bracelet on. They all seemed to be able to pick up on your free flowing ninpō, and how it was prickling from previous panic. You were stuck close to Casey as you rested through lunch, your ninpō reaching and searching for two in particular. One that kind of felt like Mc Donald’s sprite and the electrical warmth. They both responded immediately, their ninpōs like two cats curling around a scared kitten. Your ninpō is the metaphorical kitten.

You didn’t eat lunch that day, moving into fifth period, ELA. The teacher gave you a free period and you simply slept. Your lashes attached to your cheek before you woke up with a startled noise, your eyes wide before looking up. There was your purple clad brother, staring at you as you looked at the ceiling tiles. You glared at him, before looking around and getting yourself into the roof quickly “ what are you doing here?! “ you hissed “ I’m just seeing how my dear sister is doing! and if this school is really better than my teachings! '' you sighed “ it’s super easy right now- “ Donnie laughed “ of course it is! He said confidently “ you smiled at your brother and sighed “ How’s everyone holding up at home? '' Donnie hummed “ Nardo has been fighting Raph to not just portal in this school and hunt you down. I didn’t let him come! “ you stared at him dead panned “ and you can? '' Donnie stared and then slowly backed away into the shadows of the dusty air vent. You dropped down quietly after that and slipped back into your seat, knocking dust off yourself. The bell rang again…god you were tired of that damn bell. Time for sixth period.

Next was a world history class. The teacher had turtles as a class pet, you were immediately drawn to them. Casey watched as you quietly chirped and rumbled at them. The turtles craning their heads closer to you as you made noises at them, their quiet voices responding. You quickly scampered to your seat, far away from Casey. Squished between two boys that made your ninpō scream and demand you return to Casey’s side, anxieties pulling your brain into mush. The teacher put on a video about ancient Egyptian mythology. Stuff you already knew. Your eyes grew heavy as you fell asleep, halfway through your rest the sound of a large bang startled you awake.

You whipped back with a noise and fell out of your chair. Backing up a bit, you didn’t see a classroom. You saw the tunnels, kraang infested as they chased you and your brothers. Raph missing. That was your whole mission, to retrieve your oldest brother. Leo and Casey Jr got separated. Mikey and Donnie hid in the tank. Leaving you, to get stolen away. You fumbled and looked around for something, anything to fight the kraang. Someone grabbed your arm and you started hitting it, the arm didn’t relent, it was softly pulling you away from the tunnel. The whole…incident… was traumatic for you. any really, everyone. You, Casey, Raph, and Leo got the nastiest of the flashbacks. The yokai therapist that the family got said they were classified as panic attacks. Even as the soft arms pushed you to the floor you continued hitting and thrashing, pausing when the feeling of something wrapping around your ninpō entered your brain. Your body is basically shocked to real life. Casey was holding you by your arms, you had hot tears running down your face and hurt vocal cords. You stared at him and blinked before letting out a quiet sob and leaning forward, him just holding you throughout the entirety of sixth period.

You guys didn’t go to seventh period. You just sat in the corner of a hallway and breathed, at some point the same blonde senior, River, came and sat down with you two. And after that? Mason, the albino boy, and Bellezza the senior with auburn hair joined her. They were all siblings, Casey theorized that they were wolf yokai based on how they flocked like a pack. Seventh period ended quickly, when April came to get you guys she immediately noticed the tense mood from you two, walking back to the sewers…she could only wonder how the brothers would react. When the three of you walked in, Raph was the first to notice you being back, he looked at your and Casey’s sour faces and lowered his snout so it rested on your head and hugged you, chuffing hard enough your entire body vibrated. You made small similar noises, but they were weak and halfhearted. Raph was so worried about what happened to you at school. Leo and Donnie soon returned to the main area and joined the upwards cuddle session, Casey and April being pulled into it as they all wrapped around Raph to feel his churrs, Mikey soon attaching to Raphs shells and starting to chur as well, you forgot how amazing it felt to be held like this. You took off your cloaking device and the scars that were hidden from the public eye became known. Oh how much they wanted to ask about school, why your ninpō wailed in pain, why your chirps that normally sounded so nice were half hearted and deflated

[tumblertown-headcanons]

Minecraft Things

Assistant is a redstone genius but loves going into mods like the Create mod absolutely blind so they can discover everything. They also love messing around with the most stupid texture packs possible

Sage handles everyone’s food supply and makes sure no one leaves on an expedition without two stacks of steak and a half stack of golden carrots. She’s a bit of a hoarder and her chest situation is a little bit egregious but at least it’s organized! She’s got an enormous auto-composter

Vapor and Sylve are the ones working to build the base into something both very functional and aesthetically appealing. Sage set up a logging area to help them out.

When awake, Mel likes to do the most menial tasks possible so if she accidentally falls asleep, it doesn’t have to worry about being a hazard. Like Strip Mining. It’s relaxing after a long day of fighting crooks

Alex comes up with server-wide events like lil festivals and likes to make fireworks. He has blown up multiple times due to creepers, but hey, at least he’s got his parrots.

Chad is the designated Nether Ambassador. If there is literally anything anyone needs from the Nether, he’ll handle it. But he’ll handle it a lot faster if Sir is the one asking

Speaking of Sir, he and Cathy work together to do the more magical stuff like potion making (since it’s not too removed from chemistry) and enchantments. Thankfully, they have a spawner.

Ivan and Misra rule over and protect a village together because Ivan finally has an empire to himself now. The village is absolutely huge and Ivan would never admit it but he needed to trade Sage for all the wheat seeds he needed for the field in exchange for emeralds

Caden was the one to first kill a wither. He set up the proper underground chamber situation and everything. The Belle Kingdom and Alliance of Homos (Alex’s name for the base everyone else stays at) have beacons thanks to him. He probably lives underground, dangerously close to an Ancient City.

Deed sporadically logs on but the first time she did, she somehow was able to single-handily take on a Mansion with almost no armor and the second time she killed the Ender Dragon. Ever since, once she logs on, everyone’s a little on-edge. Last time it happened, she drained an ocean monument and then just left.

Goon loves to go caving but 4/10 times they end up dying from either fall damage or an onslaught of mobs due to running out of torches. On the bright side, they brought back moss, axolotls, and glowberries last time, much to Sage and Vapor’s delight.

Memiri will log on, pick one person that’s on with her, and stick by them doing whatever she can to help. Watch Chad’s six while fighting ghasts? Totally. Carry an entire inventory of torches and light the way for Goon? No problem. Farm with Sage? Sure thing. Help rig up a skelly spawned with Assistant? Can do!

( I had a lot of fun coming up with these :>)

[OH MY GOOOOOD??? BELOVED WHOEVER YOU ARE YOU COOOOOKED!!!! I fucking love this, Assistant being a Redstone wizard is now canon]

Assistant and Alex: @evilassistantbutnotmean

Sage: @sagehyperfixates

Vapor and Sylve: @vaporeon2010317

Mel/Melatonin: @chaotic-neutral-melatonin

Chad: @deadless-corpse

Sir: @sirlordevil

Cathy: @dr-catherine-sherman-owens

Caden, Ivan and Misra: @the-belle-siblings

Deed: @that-knife-lady

Goon: @boredgoon

Memiri: @memiri-belle

[deadcityhq]

CHARACTER NAME: nathaniel / john mandrake

CHARACTER FACECLAIM: gabriel marques

CHARACTER AGE/DOB (if relevant/they’re not old af): 20, but likes to pretend he’s way older

CHARACTER PRONOUNS/GENDER IDENTITY/SEXUALITY ETC: he/him, thinks he’s a man in a manly man way but is actually just a guy, attracted to people who are either bad for him, will punch him in the face, or both.

CHARACTER FANDOM (if relevant): bartimaeus sequence

OC OR CANON: canon

CHARACTER TYPE (for example: werewolf, shadowhunter, warlock, demon etc): magician/spirit but it’s complicated

HOW LONG HAVE THEY BEEN IN NEW YORK/WHY ARE THEY THERE ETC: he got thrown into this place in a brand new reality after being blasted to atoms, doesn’t really have a choice, is trying to figure things out and this just seems like a good place to stick to for that.

IMPORTANT CHARACTER INFORMATION TO NOTE AND SHARE (this could be important headcanons for initial plotting, mini bios etc, supporting docs):

- first of all, if reading any of this makes you go “wow t, another wet and pathetic man raised in a fucked up system with strong social divide between people with and without magical capabilities who saw the flaws of the system and then subsequently died in a self-destructive/sacrificial way who you are now dragging back to life to make suffer some more?” then the answer is yes, absolutely.

- so imagine this: in a world controlled by magicians capable of summoning powerful spirits and bending them to their will, the british empire reigns over the world in our very own 21st century and, to avoid family dynasties forming, magicians adopt the very normal practice of paying non-magicians to give up their children so they could be trained in magic. you are nathaniel, aged five, and your mother just literally sold you to some man so you could have a chance at a better life. you are stripped down of your name (because spirits can use your true name against you), any identity but than of an apprentice, and forced to be a genius student of a very mediocre man (who forces you to have the fake wizard name of john mandrake). at the age of ten his work friend publicly bullies you so you spend years plotting an elaborate revenge plan against him, succeed but only by the grace of being constantly roasted by the powerful spirit you summoned (who knows your true name, whoops) and discovering that the guy was kind of planning to feed the entire government to a spirit of immense power, become a government official yourself and kind of a self-centered dick (don’t let the spirit return to his home plane because you’re scared he will tell your true name to someone, even though he is kind of your best and only friend and it almost kills him), finally slowly realize how fucked up the whole system is (both with dehumanizing people who can’t use magic and enslaving so many spirits), get faced with a brewing revolution because many non-magical people are resistant to magic now, find out even more evil wizard plans to be fucked up and take over the government, fuse with your spirit bestie in a profound and powerful display of human-spirit trust and equality not seen by the world ever before, fight the bad guys, win and then sacrifice yourself to save your human revolutionary not-girlfriend (but maybe girlfriend just a little bit, it’s complicated??) and spirit bestie, desummoning him from your literal body the last second before a fucking building collapses on you (and blows up).

- as if that wasn’t enough, after all of the events described above nathaniel didn’t die. his soul had been too altered by having fused with a spirit, his death had too much magic involved, but instead of drifting away to the plane where spirits dwell, he instead got sucked into another world of humans. (I’m not saying that it was because of some recent cosmic imbalance caused by various events, but maybe)

- surprise! his magic doesn’t work here anymore because there is no access to the spirit plane.

- also surprise! the last events before his death have left him so profoundly changed that he now has some spirit powers himself! those include shapeshifting, manipulating energy and the elements, and so on. he is pretty bad at it so far.

- he is also really trying to be a better person now, and maybe find a way back to his own world to be a better person together with his friends and found family, but the latter might just be easier than the former, because turns out it is really hard to unlearn a lifetime of awful habits.

THREE AESTHETICS THAT REMIND YOU OF YOUR CHARACTER: a night spent pouring over ancient tomes, intimate conversations with friends, standing under the rain, thinking that you’re cool while you’re actually just kind of wet.

OOC INFORMATION:

MUN NAME/ALIAS: t

MUN AGE: 22

MUN TRIGGERS: -

[quickdeaths]

@more-than-a-princess continued from here

Shinobu bristled. She was used to being misunderstood. Anzu would argue that it was due to the way she spoke, that she didn't make being understood a priority. There was truth to that, they supposed, given how little they didn't offer correct anyone who had taken their words the wrong way. And yet... There was something about this particular interaction that pushed them to ensure their words weren't misconstrued.

"You've misunderstood me, Miss," Shinobu murmured, hands crossed over their chest as they found further space for themselves under the covering. "When I spoke of tourists, it wasn't literal." She was obviously not Japanese, so perhaps Shinobu's words had offended, but even that seldom mattered to her. A veiled accusation of impoliteness, though, was one thing Shinobu couldn't stand. She was an unkind person, truly, but rudeness was a step too far.

"Rather, this event is for the benefit of music, visual arts, and other traditional pursuits. In the modern era, those who strive for excellence in such fields operate at society's fringes." Shinobu herself understood that feeling, though her icy heart repelled any attempt at shaming or belittling her. Even for a master of an art like herself, societal pressure would so often rather see her as a businesswoman.

Perhaps Anzu was a better example, a peerless, generational talent, a genuine genius in an art that many people forgot existed in the age of television dramas and imported American films. How many times had she heard that she should switch careers, to give up her craft in favor of modeling hand soap or being the twenty-fifth chair in a morning variety show? Small-minded idiocy.

Again, they bristled, questioning for what purpose they were even bothering to explain themselves. "The eccentricities and the dedication of such figures is derided by the society at large. For those socialites whose livelihoods depend upon stamping out that dedication to then surround themselves with art and play at a night of creativity, only to wash their hands of it in the morning as though the ambition of the most dedicated among us were dirt upon their palms, strikes me as shameless behavior."

Most of the time, Shinobu considered herself restrained, and though she hadn't shown anything, she could feel the smallest of embers burning inside of her, directed not towards Sonia but rather many of the fundraiser's organizers. A lifelong businessman, a scandal-ridden politician, the heir to a telecommunications empire, all using a fundraiser as a stepping stone to boost their own reputations.. "I have no issue with those whose appreciation is genuine. It's those who fake their appreciation in the name of status, that I find distasteful, regardless of national origin."

She did not enjoy being worked up, and Shinobu forced herself to cool off, extinguishing those small embers without mercy or reservation. The offered card and pencil provided the excuse to cease speaking long enough to return to their typical, frigid state. Rather than write her name, though, Shinobu simply began to sketch in the designated area. Never would she call herself a visual artist, but something simple wasn't beyond her capabilities, and as she handed the pencil back to Sonia, her drawing was revealed: the head of a deer, one half furred and alive, the other half simply a stripped skull. The in-between.

There wasn't time to say much else before Sonia was whisked away. Shinobu was left alone, until her phone began to buzz inside her jacket pocket. Anzu. "Shinobu-chaaan~ How's the fundraiser? Are you having fun? Making friends?" Shinobu scowled. "You're obnoxious, Miss Tachibana." Over the phone, Anzu gave a weak, whimpering sound. "Miss Tachibana, huh? You ARE mad." Whatever faux-gloom had settled into Anzu's voice dissipated quickly as she let out a soft giggle. "Sorry, sorry. I've just had so many shows recently, and fundraisers can be so stuffy! Much easier just to spend time being adored at the host club."

Shinobu's expression didn't improve at all. "You said you weren't feeling well." "Oh, did I say host club? I meant hospital ehehe..." Anzu gave a weak, fake cough. "But enough about me, don't dodge my questions!" Shinobu let their eyes flick upwards, looking back into the ballroom. "Neither fun nor friends, no." "Really? I'd thought you'd be popular. You haven't talked to anyone?"

"I should return home." "She's totally dodging the question! You did talk to someone! A girl? Did your Rules come up? Oh, tell me ab-" Shinobu sighed, rubbing at one temple with her free hand. "You're obnoxious, Miss Tachibana. I will text you later. Goodbye." End call, power off. What an annoying companion, she thought, even as she dried herself once more with Sonia's handkerchief and returned to the ballroom. It would be rude to leave after having signed Sonia's card, they supposed.

[sisterofleatherfrog]

The Silence Brings Me Home

Hey! This is my first fanfic so I hope you all enjoy it! I was inspired by an illustration I saw of Crosshair sobbing and holding Lula for comfort (which I cannot find for the life of me, if I do eventually I’ll link it). I meant to get his done before ep. 11 Devil’s Deal (and especially before this week’s) because we still didn’t know what Cross looked like at that point, but I’m slow and here we are. There is some fanart I did at the end, I’ve only recently gotten back into drawing after a long time, so it might be a little rough sorry!

Summary: The Batch get Crosshair back, but what he has, and almost done haunts him. Comfort is given in the simplest of ways: by being presen for the healing.

Warnings: Mention of blood/injury, killing/murder. Heavy angst with comfort. Self loathing ideation.The beginnings of a family healing together from trauma.

Word Count: 2188

It was as close as it got to silent within the Havoc Marauder. The ship always faintly hummed as it cruised through space; the engines and various systems constantly working away in the background via a complicated web of technology and wiring, maintained by the Batch’s resident genius. Rumors were, if someone listened close enough as a ship passed through hyperspace, they could faintly hear the sound of the decillions of particles out there passing around the ship. Something like sand blasting the outside of the hull, but with a bell-like, ringing, song. It was that sort of silence that found all six of the inhabitants within the Marauder.

Tech, the aforementioned genius, was nursing a new goose egg on his forehead with a cold compress while attempting to repair a hairline fracture in one of his goggles lenses. Echo sat across from him helping to guide the nearly blind man in his endeavour. Besides a myriad of small cuts and new bruises, Echo’s left leg lay detached and balanced on his lap, waiting for attention from Tech for a recently smoking blaster hole through the calf. Laying in his bunk, Wrecker was also nursing a new blaster wound: the bolt having ripped through his armour and taken a chunk out of his right bicep. He lay quietly, making sure to stay off his wound so the bacta could do its work and trying to process the events of the day. Remembering the adrenaline and the genuine moment of fear he’d had, but smiling nonetheless. Foreword in the front of the ship, Hunter sat quietly, his face kriffing hurting, his nose having to have been reset after being knocked out of joint. He’d definitely taken a beating, he’d be feeling everything that currently hurt fivefold tomorrow, but the wounds could have been worse. Everything could have been much worse. What could have been was an ache that never faded and a silence that was never filled. 

Hunter’s gaze slid to the seat beside him, looking at the small girl that had so quickly become a priority in his life. Omega was curled up on the seat, her arms and legs tightly squeezing Lula to her body while her eyes peaked over her knees to watch the blue of hyperspace. She had thankfully missed all the action this time, safely tucked away within the ship by a promise Hunter had made her swear. He looked over at her, thankful she and his vode were all together here, alive, and relatively in one piece. Still needing something to comfort him though, he reached over and ruffled Omega’s short blonde hair. Her eyes, brown like his, slid over to look at him and he could see a small smile curling at the edges of her mouth. She’d been incredibly worried at the state her family had been at their return, seeing them beaten, bloody, bruised, and punctured wasn’t something a kid should ever be exposed to. They were alive though, and…

Hunter turned his head a little, gazing into the back of the ship where, almost hidden in the furthest recess of the bunks, he could see a pair of long, thin legs encased in black armour. Omega followed Hunter’s gaze and that smile wavered some as nervousness played over her face. She was happy her family was alive and she was happy that her fathers’ brother had been brought back, but the fear of all that time being hunted lingered like a dark cloud on the horizon in her mind. Omega knew it wasn’t Crosshair’s fault. The chip wasn’t something that the host could reason with; locking them far away in the back of their own minds. From the little she could get from what she’d heard, he could be mean, but wasn’t inherently malicious. Everything he’d done in his hunt for them under the Empire was a stripped version of himself- the man was gone but the shrewd soldier remained.

…

Waking up in that dingy medbay was one of the most disorientating moments of Crosshair’s life. He was… a man again, something that thought independently from orders given. But good soldiers follow orders. He wasn’t a drone though. But you are a soldier... Yes, he was, but something else guided him, rather than his superiors he’d always looked elsewhere- 

“He’s awake!” The call came from nearby, as did the sound of several pairs of feet rushing in. He knew that voice, but reacted on instinct to the people closing in and jerked his head up, ready to defend, no, attack- Hunter was there, the closest, he was one of his targets-

...So follow through.

No!

Revulsion rose so strongly within himself that everything in his mind that wasn’t his own shrank back like frightened animals, leaving him gasping with an acrid taste in the back of his mouth and a feeling of bile rising in his chest. Pitching sideways he landed gracelessly twisted on the metal floor and began heaving, unable to tell if anything came up at all; not able to remember when the last time he ate was, only feeling a burning in his stomach. Hands gently touched his back but he jerked violently, seeking to remove that touch even if it wasn’t a punishment. When was the last time he’d been given that understanding? When had somebody last cared that his body needed tenderness? It felt unnatural to him now, no longer familiar, and painful.

Voices filtered through as the haze of sickness cleared: “...scans indicate the procedure was a complete success and that he should recover the same as us. Crosshair’s reaction is due to something else entirely.” Tech, he’d know that voice always rattling away with statistics and diagnostics. He’d almost silenced it forever with a single shot- how long ago was that? How long had it been since the ion engine had left him broken and the Kaminoans had pieced him back together, fit him with an eye that didn’t quite measure up to his shooting one and left him always a little off balance? 

“Crosshair? Vod?” Hunter now, “Are you with us?” Crosshair felt him kneel next to him and could see his concerned face in his peripheral vision now that his initial haze had begun to fade. 

He considered himself for a moment now that the remains of whatever had been in his head were gone. “Yes, I’m here.” Physically, but everything felt so strange. He could hear Wrecker roaring something nearby, probably his loud approximation of a greeting, but he made no move to meet it, didn’t (couldn’t) move himself to. At this, Hunter motioned for him and the others to back off a little before speaking again. “That’s good, we finally caught you and your inhibitor chip is gone now. You’re going to be fine, we’ve got you.” Fine? After everything Crosshair really didn’t think so.

…

Despite the best possible outcome the Batch made their way back to the Marauder, from another downed Jedi cruiser they’d managed to locate thanks to Rex, in an unwieldy silence. Back on the ship they all finally began to address their variety of wounds, and Crosshair, seeing this, froze. This was all him. This was his fault. He had hurt his vod, brought them pain, tried to kill them. He felt sick again, felt as if he was dropping out of his body while his heart constricted painfully and began to race in a clumsy gallop. Crosshair stayed where he was in the back of the ship and sat while somebody got it under way, finally feeling the vague reeling in his gut from entering hyperspace. 

It was quiet, nobody made a move to approach him yet. He didn’t know if he even wanted one of them to get close. Everything felt so wrong. He was wrong. What he’d done, betrayed and tried to murder his family, all because of an order?! Him, who flicked his toothpicks at commanders and belonged with a group of defective clones, couldn’t defy an order. Kriff him. One simple pull of a trigger and it could have been any one of them. If he hadn't missed, it could have been Tech’s brain matter splattered over the hull of a downed starship. His vod who was so much like an over-eagre younger sibling. Or Wrecker, who Crosshair had teased and soothed in equal measures in his life. Or Echo who, even though he wasn’t modified like the Batch, could never be normal again and Crosshair had learned to respect him as a brother. And Hunter… he couldn’t think it, couldn’t parse a world where he was dead, where he had been responsible for his death. 

Kriff him. How did he- how did he go on alongside his brothers when he’d almost done that? When he’d always be haunted by the pitiless voice in his head (his own, that had ordered the death of innocents) that had repeated his mission as a mantra. He could scrub his skin forever with the harsh scourer he used to clean his armour, but this isn’t something he could wash away. Whether it be in the new scars that had accumulated on their bodies, or the cybernetic eye that now greets him in the mirror, there would be no losing this. No taking it back or making it better. He couldn’t- he should-

A black mass came into his sight and he jumped. Lula was being offered to him in two small hands. The girl, what was her name again? She’d spoken to him when they were all in the cell on Kamino together (the last time they were all together where he wasn’t trying to kill the rest of them). She’d told him it wasn’t his fault, had she known what was working against him in his head? It didn’t matter now. The girl-Omega, that was her name- watched him partially hidden behind the tooka doll with the eyes of his brothers. 

“Here” She said, her kaminoan accent still strong after all the time she’d been running, “Wrecka’ lets me borrow her when I’m upset, I don’t think he’ll mind if you do too.” 

Crosshair looked at the old, scuffed doll and noticed a stitch in grey forming a cuff on it’s left arm. It had been a dumb scuffle over his and Wreckers continual rivalry and it had ended up with Lula getting the worst of it. He’d stayed up all night trying to make his stitches even and neat, not wanting to ruin the doll. He touched those stitches, gently tracing the line they made before gently grasping it and curling forward, needing to wrap the aching sore that was himself around something. Omega slipped onto the seat next to him and leaned into his left, he wanted to flinch away but something about this gave him... grace. He’d ordered the men under him to aim for her fragile little body and yet here she was offering him comfort through it’s support.

What comfort did he deserve though? What did he deserve indeed. Crosshair gazed unseeingly at the floor, trying to piece the parts of him left scattered in a thousand memories together to once again become the man he was before all this. He startled again when another body suddenly pressed itself into his right side. He turned, a masque of death greeted him, etched into a face permanently carved stern, but the eyes- Hunter’s eyes reminded him of the rail-thin cadet he used to be, not built to fight off any clones who wanted to get a piece of him on his own. He wasn’t alone back then though, three other boys were always there to back him up, and they would patch each other’s wounds together in their quarters afterwards. Hunter, their de-facto leader, was always worried about the hits they’d taken, not relaxing until every bump was seen to and bandaged. It was that look again, that same look that said: ‘I’m staying right here until I know my brothers are going to be fine.’

Some more shuffling in the ship Tech and Echo came into view, the latter still short a leg and being supported over to sit across from him. They didn’t say anything, but Tech came and sat in front of Omega on the floor, letting himself rest against Crosshair’s legs. Echo didn’t move to touch him, but remained in his presence just the same and gently smiled, his posture relaxing to lean against the wall of the berth. Just visible from behind a corner, Wrecker gingerly turned over with his injury, meeting Crosshair’s gaze with a smile already there for him. His injury prevented him from rising, but he extended a large hand towards him from his bunk. He was too far to physically reach him, but the gesture translated anyway: ‘I’m here brother, I missed you, I was worried.’ 

The Marauder sang through hyperspace; no words were spoken by anyone aboard for a long time. But this silence was familiar, and even though he felt a long way from having earned it, Crosshair could understand it perfectly: ‘Welcome home.’

Here’s Crosshair as in the story, I thought it would be really cool if he and Wrecker had matching cybernetic eyes. I gave him his ep. 11 haircut though because it’s cool.

[route22ny]

The split-screen reality of the Trump era became all too real for Stephen Richer recently, and in a very literal way. On May 15, the Arizona election official — a Republican — was looking at two computer screens. On one was former President Trump’s claim that a key election database had been deleted, an “unbelievable election crime.” On the other screen was that very database, quite intact.

“Wow,” Richer tweeted. “This is unhinged. I’m literally looking at our voter registration database on my other screen. Right now.”

A couple of days later, he made his dismay even more explicit.

“What can we do here?” he asked in an interview with CNN. “This is tantamount to saying that the pencil sitting on my desk in front of me doesn’t exist.”

When Richer unseated a Democratic incumbent to become Maricopa County’s recorder in November, he thought he had won the most boring job in politics: maintaining the county’s voter files. But he had not reckoned on Trump, #StopTheSteal, and the most massive, audacious and successful propaganda campaign in modern American history — a campaign that has adapted Russian-style disinformation to U.S. politics with alarming success.

Fortunately, Richer and his local Republican colleagues have refused to be victimized. Instead, they have shown how to fight back.

Information warfare takes many forms, but it has an overarching goal: to divide, demoralize and disorient a political foe by manipulating the social and media environments. As Yuri Bezmenov, a Soviet intelligence defector, explained in a chilling 1983 interview, “What it basically means is to change the perception of reality of every American to such an extent that despite the abundance of information, no one is able to come to sensible conclusions in the interests of defending themselves, their family, their community and their country.”

One potent weapon of mass distraction is the “fire hose of falsehood,” a torrent of lies that aims not so much to persuade as to confuse and disorient. After Russian intelligence services got caught poisoning a defector and his daughter in the U.K. in 2018, the Russian government responded with a blizzard of mutually contradictory lies: Britain did it, Ukraine did it, a jealous lover did it, it was a suicide attempt and so on.

Another standard technique: conspiracy bootstrapping. First you spread a rumor. Then you demand an investigation. Failure to investigate just confirms the conspiracy, but so does an investigation with a negative finding. It’s a trap: either ignoring or debunking the conspiracy theory propagates it.

Those techniques are not new. Intelligence services and propaganda experts understand them well, and master propagandists like Josef Goebbels and Vladimir Putin have used them to powerful effect. What no one imagined was that they could be deployed by an American president and his party — and not against a foreign antagonist, but against the American public.

Pundits often say that, whatever his authoritarian tendencies, Trump is too inept and inattentive to have done much lasting damage to democracy. They are wrong: In the realm of information warfare, Trump is a genius-level innovator. It was he who figured out how to adapt Russia-style disinformation to the U.S. political environment, no mean accomplishment.

His use of the fire hose of falsehood was masterly. In his 2016 campaign, according to PolitiFact, 70% of his checkable claims were false or mostly false, a flood of untruths whose like had never been seen in a presidential campaign. He began his presidency by lying about the weather at his inauguration and also lying about the size of the crowd. By the time his presidency was over, Washington Post fact-checkers had clocked him at more than 30,000 confirmed falsehoods, with nearly half coming in his final year.

Similarly, he was a master of conspiracy bootstrapping. He retailed conspiracy theories and falsehoods on the grounds that a lot of people were saying them, although of course he was the sayer-in-chief. Truth and common decency need not apply; when a prominent cable news host criticized him, Trump peddled an absurd (and deeply cruel) lie that the host was suspected of murder.

The black arts of disinformation had the intended effect, at least from Trump’s point of view. They exacerbated the country’s divisions, commandeered the country’s attention, dominated his opponents, disoriented the media and helped him establish a cult of personality among followers who trusted no one else.

Still, he saved the worst for last. His pièce de résistance was the propaganda attack on the 2020 election. Beginning months before the election, he launched a drumbeat of unfounded attacks on mail-in voting. Pundits were puzzled. Many Republicans vote by mail, and the pandemic was especially dangerous to older voters who lean toward Trump; why discourage them from voting safely and conveniently?

But Trump was aiming for the post-election. He saw he was in electoral trouble. With the anti-mail campaign, he was organizing, priming, and testing an unprecedented propaganda network, ready for use if he lost.

And then came #StopTheSteal itself, a disinformation campaign whose likes the country had never witnessed. It mobilized the White House, Republican politicians, social media, conservative cable news and talk radio, frivolous litigation, and every other available channel to broadcast the message that the election was rigged. The Big Lie, as it was aptly named, failed to keep Trump in office, but it succeeded at its secondary goal: turning the Republican Party itself into a propaganda organ.

In April, only a fourth of Republicans believed Joe Biden was legitimately elected, and GOP politicians who insisted on truth were persona non grata.

With that as background, we can see more clearly what is going on right now in Maricopa County, Arizona’s largest. In 2020, Biden carried Maricopa by more than 45,000 votes, and with it the state. The result was certified by the Republican governor, double-checked twice by the county’s election officials, and then confirmed by two independent audits.

But in classic bootstrapping fashion, Trump and state Republican leaders seized on conspiracy theories, such as that phony ballots had been smuggled in from Asia, to launch an unnecessary recount conducted by an unqualified company whose boss had promoted uncorroborated charges of election fraud. In textbook fashion, the controversial recount drove yet more public attention to the conspiracy theories, engendering yet more suspicion and spawning me-too demands for partisan “audits” across the country.

The Arizona shenanigans will not change the outcome of the 2020 election, but that is not the point. A great propaganda campaign is cyclonic and self-propelled: once unleashed, it takes on a life of its own, heedless of any underlying reality. By that yardstick, the Arizona recount is a great propaganda campaign.

Americans have never been exposed to Russian-style disinformation tactics, at least not coming from a major political party and deployed on a national scale. We are thus dangerously vulnerable to them. What can we do? There are no quick or simple answers; developing immunity requires everything from more sophisticated journalism and better-designed social media platforms to teaching media literacy, and much more.

But here is where to start: Do what Stephen Richer did. Insist loudly, unwaveringly and bravely on calling out lies, even at the cost of partisan solidarity.

Once it became clear that the #StopTheSteal campaign was escalating instead of dying out, Richer went public with a no-holds-barred denunciation of what Trump and his enablers were up to. “Just stop indulging this,” he told CNN. “Stop giving space for lies.”

At his side were all five of the Maricopa County supervisors — four of whom are Republicans. Calling the recount a sham, a con, and a “spectacle that is harming all of us,” they declared they “stand united together to defend the Constitution and the republic in our opposition to the Big Lie. We ask everyone to join us in standing for truth.” They also wrote a blistering 14-page letter shredding the alt-audit in detail.

Propaganda attacks succeed when critical points of resistance collapse; they stumble when trusted voices expose lies for what they are. Individuals and small groups may not be able to shut down a propaganda campaign or neutralize all its effects, but they can strip away its facade of legitimacy and act as an anchor against runaway fabulism. That was why the Soviet Union struggled so mightily to silence Andrei Sakharov and other dissident voices, and why those voices ultimately brought down the evil empire.

And it is why Rep. Liz Cheney made a difference when she chose truthfulness over her job in the Republican congressional leadership. The day she was booted, she read her colleagues John 8:32: “You shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.” She could not end #StopTheSteal, but she could, and did, dent its credibility and embarrass Republicans whose equivocation and silence abetted the Big Lie.

In the same way, Richer and his colleagues in Arizona laid down a marker. They risked their political standing and even their personal safety (Richer has needed security protection) to expose their own party’s propaganda and shame those who spread it.

The deployment of Russian-style information warfare has allowed Trump and his authoritarian cult to usurp the Republican Party. And they are not finished. Now that they have succeeded with mass disinformation, it will be a fixture of American politics for years to come.

Countermeasures begin, though do not end, with personal integrity: standing up for facts and staying reality-based, whatever the short-term political costs. Think of it as epistemic patriotism, and pray for more of it, especially from Republicans.

***

The author, Jonathan Rauch, is a senior fellow at the Brookings Institution, and the author of “The Constitution of Knowledge: A Defense of Truth.”

https://www.nydailynews.com/opinion/ny-oped-arizona-dreaming-20210522-uyd6ivuv75hd5gof2geyd5adtu-story.html

[colehasapen]

Eternal - Star Wars (One Shot)

There's a Mandalorian in Anchorhead.

Ben Kenobi hears about it during a trip for supplies into Mos Eisley, slipping unnoticed through the crowds. Its when he passes two settlers that the whispers reach his ears as two women speak to each other in nervously quiet voices, talking about the Mandalorian in black and blue that lingers like a frightening phantom or a bomb primed to explode, asking around about 'the desert hermit', and Ben falters.

There's only one Mandalorian welcomed on Tatooine, employed by Jabba the Hutt and unwilling to share his coin pouch, and Ben knows that Boba would warn him if something changed about the Imperial bounty on his head. Boba was a good lad in need of guidance and advice - hardened by the world and tragedy far too early, and still so young in so many ways, despite his complaints that he wasn’t a child anymore. It hadn’t been easy to win the boy’s trust when he had come to his hut all those years ago, arrogant and angry and intent on collecting the massive bounty on his head himself, but Ben had worn him down - a part of him needing a young soul to guide and nurture to feel some sort of control in his life - and the child had been so desperate for a connection to his father’s culture that even Ben’s poor substitute was enough. Boba would have warned him, had he known, because as angry as he was at the world, the young man held tight to the things he considered as his, and as much as he complained and claimed that he didn’t like Ben, the youngster had yet to actually do anything to get his bounty. In fact, he actively kept other hunters away.

So when he hears the rumours of a Mandalorian bounty hunter that wasn’t Boba poking around looking for him, Ben adjusts the bags in his hands, carefully pulls his hood over his face, and calmly slips off the main market road and into the nearest alley. A simple mind trick has the youth gang gathered in the shadows splitting up and heading home to rethink their life choices, and Ben slides into their place, wedging himself between two dumpsters. It’s hard now, to slip into meditation and expand his senses, knowing that he’ll be met with the yawning Darkness in the Force and the lack of the Light of his fellow Jedi in the galaxy, it’s easy to find himself slipping endlessly without a tether until he doesn’t know who he is anymore, but little Luke Skywalker is a calming beacon of light, a sun among dead stars, and his presence in the Force chases off the clinging Darkness and makes it easier for Ben, as broken as he is, to focus.

Mandalorians are surprisingly easy to find in the Force, if one knows what they’re looking for - an indistinct mass shielded by the beskar they wore - but they’re also as rare to stumble upon as a trained Force Sensitive, hunted and scattered almost as much as the Jedi are. They’re a threat, and the Empire made an example of them. A warning to any others of what would happen should they try to fight back against the Emperor. Anyone who could be outwardly identified as Mando’ade had at least a little beskar on their person, even Satine had weaved it into her headdresses, and it was a connection to their lost culture and home that they guarded jealously, even as the Empire collected any and all of the rare metal it came across, often through violent means.

Even the smallest amount of beskar worked to make a Force signature unidentifiable, and for people like Ben, who had worn and owned beskar, the imprints the alloy left on the galaxy around it is easy to locate.

He finds the headache-inducing Force signature in his hut. A fuzzy, staticy spot in the Force with only the faintest of traces of nostalgic emotions sparking among their mind, and the familiar signature of Ben’s lightsaber reaches out to them, an excited greeting like an old love had finally come home.

 

 

Alpha-17 comes out of the rise of the Empire with his sense of self intact through sheer dumb luck - apparently all those explosions Alpha had powered through came with some sort of perks, beyond the general sense of awe and fear his inability to die inspired among the brats. He stubbornly avoids the same fate his fellow Alpha-classers meet, staying too useful as a trainer for it to be worth putting down or in stasis as he bides his time and plans his escape.

There’s nothing he can do for the younger troopers, and he’s forced to come to terms with the fact quickly when he sees the blankness in the eyes of the men he had trained. It’s a punch to the guts, one he can’t show, when he passes Havoc and Blitz in the hall and they show no familiar recognition to him or each other - they’re silent, blank, and unrecognizable from the cadets Alpha had thrown around during training. It feels like he’s drowning when Cody shows up and there’s no personality, no burning fire, in his blank eyes as the tactical genius and determined field commander is assigned to a glorified desk job to give a natborn whelp the rank he had been so proud of. There’s none of Wolffe’s feral determination to protect, or Bly’s gentle kindness - and both of them disappear quickly, taken away quietly in the night for decommissioning when they break. So many empty faces and cold eyes, and sometimes it feels like Alpha is choking.

He had raised all of them, and it hurts to see them as walking corpses - it hurts more that he can’t help them.

So Alpha bides his time until he sees an opportunity and takes it. Fox is killed on a mission with Lord Vader, and a new Purge Trooper is needed to replace him - who better than the trooper that had trained him? Alpha adds the clever little cadet and broken man he had known to his remembrances as he puts on his new armour - black-painted beskar’gam, because Vader’s personal death squad were the best and thus needed the best - and marches to face his fate.

They’re hunting surviving Mandalorian commandos when Alpha sees his chance to shed the helmet of a clone and strip out of the ugly red pauldron of a purge trooper, to take up a buy’ce and a new identity. To the Empire, Alpha-17 dies on Concordia, one victim of many to fall in the mines, body buried by tonnes of rocks that would be his tomb. But Alpha lives, he survives, and he finally does the one thing he had always dreamed of doing, but never did because he had vod’e to protect and refused to be like Spar and leave them all behind.

He deserts.

His brothers and sisters are as good as dead now - in fact, death would probably be preferable to what had become of them - and Alpha lets himself disappear. He becomes nameless, faceless, but this time it’s a choice - he becomes ‘ Mando ’, a ruthless bounty hunter with a hatred for Imperials. Any stormtrooper he comes across is put down with a quick, efficient, shot through the head because Alpha doesn’t know anymore which are vod’e and which are the poorly trained natborns that replace them. The Empire only makes half-hearted attempts to kill him, at best, because he’s good at what he does and the Guild doesn’t want to lose him.

He uses his new contacts to listen for any possible Jedi sightings, because he knows that his jetii is still alive. The massive bounty on the General’s head isn’t just for show, afterall, and Alpha knows that the smug sheb is too dramatic to just roll over and die when he could continue living just to piss people off.

Alpha’s already lost everything else - his brothers and sisters, his rank, his purpose - he doesn’t want to lose the only man he’d ever loved too.

Their relationship hadn’t been the steadiest - Kenobi had been his superior, a Jedi that he served because he had to, but then Rattatak and Ventress had happened, and a professional respect had turned into something more through their captivity and recovery. After that, Alpha had been promoted and reassigned to Kamino as a trainer, and he had been answering to a different Jedi General instead. They had taken any moment together that they could, because their duties had led them on different paths, and it hadn’t been easy, because Alpha was a cold bastard at the best of times and Obi-Wan’s inability to properly express himself had come between them, but they had always tried to do better by each other - but it was all gone now.

And maybe Alpha wants more. He wants the stability and support Obi-Wan had always offered him after the loss of everything he had ever known, and he wants to offer it in turn - to have a purpose again. But Alpha is a realist, he knows that it’s not likely that he’ll actually find his lover out there in the galaxy if he doesn’t want to be found as much as Alpha wants to find him, so he keeps his goals a little more realistic. He passes his information anonymously onto the fledgling Rebellion, throwing them what he knows on the postings of vod’e , hoping that what little he can do will help, so he keeps his ear to the ground and continues to give the information onto the Rebellion.

It’s the news about Boba working for Jabba the Hutt that has Alpha flying to Tatooine, intent on hunting his brother down. He hadn’t seen Boba since before Geonosis, before everything had gone to shit and Aurra Sing had gotten her claws into the boy. He’d be nineteen now, Alpha knows - an adult, but still young in the way the other clones aren’t, despite being the first, and alone. He knows his little-big brother can take care of himself, that he’s talented and deadly, but he’s also one of the few free clones that exist, and Alpha wants to at least check in on him.

It’s on Tatooine that Alpha first hears the name Ben Kenobi, and hears the legends of the crazy hermit living in the Dune Sea. The native Sand People of the planet call him a mournful god and they leave offerings so that misfortune isn’t brought upon them. The settlers call him either a crazy old man or the wizard of the wastes. There’s only one thing everyone agrees on - don’t anger the man who lives in the desert. More than one story about thugs trying to shake him down for money includes coming back not fully the same, and Alpha recognizes the description of a mind trick when he hears it.

He’s one of the few people who knows Obi-Wan’s connection to the name Ben, the story behind it, and it’s in meeting young Luke Skywalker and his aunt that Alpha knows that he found him.

 

The Force holds no warnings as Ben approaches his hut, just the opposite in fact, as it tugs on his robes like an excited child and urges him forwards, but Ben still palms his blaster as he pushes the door open and steps inside. There’s a man sitting at his table, helmetless, and he looks up when Ben closes the door behind him - in his hands, Ben’s lightsaber sings in greeting for the first time in a long time, since it had gone quiet all those years ago, love and the feeling of home chasing away the silence of blood and tragedy.

His bag slips from numb fingers.

Bottomless brown eyes so dark they’re closer to black meet his gaze. They’re fathomless and deep, drawing him in and drowning him in their depths, holding so many emotions that he feels like he’s choking even as he breathes. The handsome bronze face is older than Ben remembers, with more lines and scars than before, and tight black curls are splashed with gray - he’s a decade older than he was, but his face is still familiar and comforting - frightening too, because it brings back the memories of bodies young and old killed in their home by those they trusted, and makes the thousands of broken bonds in his soul ache with the weight of emptiness.

He stares, hand falling away from the blaster at his hip, and the man stands. The armour is different, but Ben recognizes the pattern painted on the black beskar, now accompanied by splashes of gold stating his desire for vengeance for everyone to see, pauldron missing and a shorter kama swinging around his knees.

“General.” The man states, voice gruff and Concord Dawn accent strong, though it’s so much more hesitant than Ben ever has a memory of hearing. His lover was never hesitant, not even when they had first started their secret little rendezvous; he was always assured, confident, and strong - even when chained and brutalized. “ Cyare. ”

Ben shudders, blinking but unable to tear his gaze away from those dark eyes, and his voice breaks when he speaks. “I haven’t heard that in a long time.”

He tries for humorous, and it falls short, but even then the other man smiles, a sad, quiet little thing that spoke of grief and heartbreak and exhaustion.

He’s real.

He’s here .

“Haven’t said it either.” Alpha-17 flips the lightsaber in his hands, stepping closer and closer still until they’re chest-to-chest and in each other’s space for the first time in years, and Ben shivers. “Thought you were always telling those brats of yours that their weapons were their lives.” The man says gruffly, and with a click the weight of his lightsaber is added to his belt, but even then Ben can’t look away from Alpha’s gaze. The other man doesn’t seem intent on looking away either, and large, warm hands linger on his hips, making heat travel from the touch and circulate through his body.

“Hello Alpha.” Ben whispers, reaching between them to grip the edges of his armour, to press his fingers around them to seek out the warmth of another living being for the first time in a long time. He can’t make his voice louder than a shaky sigh, throat tight and heart pounding in his chest.

Alpha continues to stare like a dying man who had seen the other side and wanted more, leaning into his touch until there was no space left between them. “ Su cuy’gar .” He says, awed, like he couldn’t fully believe it, and his fingers spasm, drawing the former Jedi even closer to him, as if he would vanish if he let go. The armour presses uncomfortably against him, but Ben can’t bring himself to care as Alpha presses their foreheads together, noses touching, and every breath mingling. “You’re here.” Alpha says, “I found you.”

“Yes.” Against all the odds, he had.

“ Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum .” His voice is hushed, reverent, and Ben chuckles wetly for lack of what else to do.

“I haven’t heard that for some time either.” He says, instead of what his head is telling him, that he’s undeserving of such sentiment, as he leans into the pressure on his brow and closes his eyes. He can’t cry, not anymore - he has no tears left to shed.

“You’ll hear it for as long as I breathe.” Alpha vows, and Ben shudders again at the truth of that statement that rings in the Force like a bell. “As long as you’ll have me.”

“You’ve become awfully sentimental, my dear.” Ben chokes, and Alpha huffs, breath fanning against his lips.

“After everything - I think we’ve both earned a little sentimentality.” The man murmurs, and Ben laughs wetly. “ Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum , cyare .”

Ben doesn’t want to let go.

“Stay?” Ben asks, clinging to his lover just as tightly as Alpha clings to him.

“Of course.” Alpha promises, hands sliding away from his hips to cradle his face instead, thumbs brushing oh so gently under his eyes - hands that could destroy droids without issue and kill without hesitation, but had only ever been soft when they touch him. “I said darasuum , didn’t I, ner cyare ?” Ben’s eyes flutter open, meeting Alpha’s deep gaze once more, seeing the love and truth in those dark pools, and -

Oh .

Wet, burning tears drip from his aching eyes, sliding down sunburnt cheeks and over Alpha’s strong fingers, a dark contrast against his pale skin, and his lover tilts his head, gently capturing his chapped lips in a silent promise.

Darasuum .

[tomfooleryprime]

The Deep Space Nine episode “Statistical Probabilities” is my favorite Trek story of all time. Don’t remember it? That’s not surprising.

There are more than fifty year’s worth of articles listing the best episodes of Star Trek across the various series with passionate defenses. The same episodes generally top these lists, even if the order shifts around. Does “City of the Edge of Forever” or “Inner Light” deserve top billing? Or should it be “Yesterday’s Enterprise” or “Far Beyond the Stars?”

Perhaps the reason no one ever considers this episode is it’s less of a story and more of a thought experiment. In today’s highly polarized environment, this inconspicuous DS9 episode feels more salient than ever.

In 2020, social media fights devolve into reductive arguments where everyone is assumed to be either a nationalist or a socialist and depending on your worldview, one of those words is a dirty slur and the other is a badge of honor. Even everyday discourse outside of social media has seen us turn words like “patriotism” and “treason” into weapons to suit narratives, with both sides firmly believing they are the true patriots while the other side is comprised of traitors.

I get caught up in this myself. I don’t want to get into my own political views or start a “both sides” argument, so this is where I turn it over to Star Trek and Dr. Julian Bashir, who finds himself caught in an impossible situation that calls into question the very nature of patriotism and treachery and shows how easily the line between those two concepts can be blurred.

A little background if you’re not familiar—in the year 2374, the Federation is made up of thousands of member planets. War is rare, poverty has been eliminated, aliens of all different species live in general harmony with each other. Then the Dominion, an interstellar military empire run by shape-shifting aliens shows up and wants to annex the Federation under its control.

The Federation, understandably miffed at the Dominion’s plans for stripping them of their autonomy, tells the Dominion to kick rocks. A war breaks out. Unfortunately, the Federation is outclassed, outgunned, and outnumbered in just about every way. It’s tough to win a war against an opponent with a larger force, superior technology, and aliens who can shape shift into literally anything, from a table to a Federation starship captain, making them able to easily swipe any intelligence they want on a whim.

It’s also important to note that the Dominion, while an imperialist superpower, isn’t necessarily out to break, exploit, and subjugate the spirits of the people under its control. For planets willing to peacefully submit to Dominion rule, life for the average citizen probably continues on more or less the same—people probably still have barbecues and go to church and do whatever they did before—they just trade one government for another. For planets not willing to yield, punishment is swift and severe.

And this is where “Statistical Probabilities” comes in. Dr. Julian Bashir is tasked with working with several genius “augments” to develop a statistical model to predict the outcome of a Federation-Dominion War. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take the augments long to recognize the Federation will never win with its current resources. They determine if the Federation fights back, it will suffer the loss of hundreds of billions of casualties and Dominion reprisal for their resistance will make life very brutal for the survivors.

However, they calculate that if the Federation peacefully surrenders, there will be no casualties and no Dominion reprisals—the only thing that will functionally change is who people make out their tax checks to. Not only that, with the saved lives and resources of averting a catastrophic zero sum war, the Federation will position itself to develop technologies within a few generations to successfully defeat the Dominion and re-declare independence in the future.

So the augments recommend immediate and strategic surrender. Dr. Bashir is disheartened to hear this, but he sees the logic in temporary capitulation because he’s a medical doctor and the idea of saving hundreds of billions of lives has to fit into that “first do no harm” ethic, surely. So you know what’s coming.

So he tells his higher ups what they’ve discovered, and you can imagine how that goes.

So the augments’ next play is to go full WikiLeaks. They calculate that if they were to give the Federation’s battleplans to the Dominion, the war would be short, casualties would be minimal, and the Dominion would still treat them relatively well once all the member states learned to toe the line.

This is the part I’ve chewed on for decades. When is treason not treason, or at least, when is treason the better option?

I served in the U.S. Army. I took an oath to protect and defend the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic. The idea of freely giving the enemy all the actionable intelligence they need to defeat my country makes me nauseated. The only thing that makes me sicker is the thought of most of my fellow citizens being senselessly murdered if I didn’t go all Benedict Arnold on their asses.

The dictionary says treason is “the crime of betraying one's country, especially by attempting to kill the sovereign or overthrow the government.” But is betraying your country and betraying your government always the same thing? A country is made up of people, and a government is made up of a few people who should, in theory, support what is best for the greatest number of citizens. So what is to be done when a few people in power decide they would rather die free than live in subjugation, even if it comes at massive cost to the citizenry they have a duty to serve? A conversation that goes like this.

As an American, I fully appreciate that many of my fellow citizens have a lust for freedom that borders on psychopathy, but I personally accept that most of life is lived in shades of gray and not in black and white. There’s a pretty wide spectrum between total freedom and total slavery and life at either of the extremes would be pretty bleak. But there’s also no apparent consensus on what even constitutes independence or oppression.

Just look at the debate over masks in the midst of the Covid-19 pandemic. On the one hand, you could argue being required to wear a mask is a total violation of your personal freedom. On the other hand, you could argue we wear masks so that you can be free to live your life as safely as possible. Perhaps the truth is actually somewhere in the middle—wearing a mask is a small concession of individual freedom for the greater freedom of everyone.

I’ve thought about “Statistical Probabilities” and Dr. Bashir’s conundrum a lot in recent years. Would he be a patriot for supporting his government, even if he knows it would result in unimaginable death and suffering in the name of the theoretical ideal of freedom, or would he be a patriot for betraying his government for the sake of a practical outcome, which is saving the lives of hundreds of billions of people and ensuring the quality of their lives is bearable? 

And the reality is he’ll be a traitor no matter what he does, but what kind of traitor is better? I have a sneaking suspicion that how people answer this question is probably a powerful predictor of their political affiliation, and how quickly they answer it is directly correlated to the amount of wisdom they possess.

I won’t tell you how he gets out of this awful pickle because of course he does. Dr. Bashir is fictional and exists in a universe where everyone gets a tidy copout in the end. Us mortals in the real world are rarely so lucky and we’re doomed for eternity to grapple with impossible questions, each of us more convinced than the last that our solution is the right solution and everyone else it’s everyone else who’s the traitor.

[tillidontneedfantasy]

A Track-by-Track Breakdown of Taylor Swift’s 8th Studio Album: ‘folklore’

Taylor Swift’s 8th studio album, folklore, starts off with the lie, “I’m on some new shit.” Perhaps to someone who hasn’t been paying attention this would seem to be true. But to those listening, folklore is the essence of her skill and success throughout her entire career stripped down for all to see, but more refined, enhanced, and impressive than ever.

Even prior to her pop-world domination with 1989 (2014), Taylor’s storytelling ability has always been her most compelling strength as a writer. In 2010, she released her third album, Speak Now, penned fully solo to prove to the cynics that she does, in fact, write her own music. And it’s damn good. Widely considered her best song, “All Too Well” from Red (2012) is a five and a half minute epic about love had and lost, all in walks through autumn trees, almost running red lights, dancing round the kitchen, and a scarf reminiscent of innocence, unreturned.  

Yet her pop prowess over the last six years perhaps leads to her storytelling being overlooked to those more focused on the music. There is a particular genius in writing a successful pop song, let alone three successful pop albums, that still has hard-hitting lyrics underneath the synth. Take the excellent “Cruel Summer” from Lover (2019) for example. The song is just under 3 minutes, and the production is so enthralling and infectious that it can take such a hold on you, you might miss the tale being told along with it about a fraught summer relationship that was actually just the beginning of her own love story.

But without the pop production, her stories on folklore demand attention. Swept up by a strong wave of creativity and inspiration, Swift secretly wrote and produced this album in around three months with Aaron Dessner of The National, one of Swift’s favorite bands, and long-time collaborator and friend Jack Antonoff. A surprise album is a new endeavor for Swift, as she generally spends months meticulously planning an album rollout. It is refreshing, and as a dedicated, long-time fan of Taylor, it is thrilling. Due to the album cover where she is standing in the woods, and the genre of the album itself, there have been think pieces regarding the “man in the woods” trope and what it means that Taylor seems to be embodying it. As a result of over-exposure, people are unable to stop focusing on her image and the way she presents herself. It’s understandable, as she is a very smart and deliberate businesswoman, and clearly cares about how she is perceived. But with this album, it is clear that none of that was at play. We are in the middle of a pandemic. Her mother has been battling cancer for years. Isolate a creative person in a dangerous world and they will dream up an escape. She understands more than ever how precious each moment is, and does not want to waste another one. The woods being the landscape for the photo-shoot is most likely attributed to the fact that it is the safest place to have one under these circumstances. She’s not pretending she removed herself from society and became enlightened, she didn’t dabble into a more alternative sound to prove anything; she is just sharing stories she wants to tell that she is proud of, and nothing more.

Of course the music of the album is important, but the lyrics are the heart of it all, and I wanted to focus on them. Upon its release, Taylor explained in a foreword that the album was a mixture of personal and fictional accounts. The beauty of stories is that once they are shared, they never live one single life; each person who consumes a story interprets it uniquely, and the story becomes a multiverse, with different meanings and outcomes than what initially drove the pen to the paper. As explained by Swift in a YouTube comment prior to the album’s release, three songs on the album are all one story, which she has dubbed “the teenage love triangle.” The three points of the triangle are “cardigan,” “august,” and “betty.” But if someone had not seen her say that, they might not have figured it out. Maybe they’d interpret each song as their own story, and connect it to their own. Taylor knows this. It is why she loves storytelling and is why she is so good at it. The album itself is a mirror ball, shimmering with every version of the stories being told, reflecting a bit of each person who listens. These are my interpretations, but they can mean whatever you make of them. 

1. the 1 The melody of this song helps set the scene; picture yourself skipping rocks on a lake, reminiscing on the one that got away. “the 1” is about learning to assimilate into a life without them, resentfully accepting that they might be moving on, too. She ruminates on what went wrong and what could have been. In a very Swift fashion, she puts the blame on herself when she sings, “in my defense, I have none / for digging up the grave another time.” Perhaps this song is fictional, perhaps it’s a revisit of a past feeling or relationship, but its relatability makes it feel real and present. She searches for explanations, restraining herself from asking, “if one thing had been different, would everything be different today?” But it’s good she didn’t ask, because she’d never find the answer, anyway. Best lyric: “We never painted by the numbers, baby, but we were making it count / You know the greatest loves of all time are over now.”

2. cardigan (teenage love triangle, part 1: betty’s perspective) “When you are young they assume you know nothing,” Swift sings in her smooth low-register on this Lana del Rey-esque single. “But I knew everything when I was young,” she asserts. They say wisdom comes with age, but there is wisdom lost, too, of what it felt like to be young; but she has held onto it. In this track, the narrator (Betty) is looking back on her relationship with someone she once loved (James, as name-dropped in “betty” later on in the album). Her insight on his character was always spot on; she knew he’d try to kiss it better, change the ending, miss her once the thrill expired and come back, begging for her forgiveness in her front porch light. As soon as she was feeling forgotten, he made her feel wanted, his favorite. The ending in question is unclear, whether she granted him her forgiveness or not. But what is clear is Taylor’s understanding of the pull of young love, the intensity, the immortalization of all the smallest of details, the longing to be someone’s favorite. It’s why we look back on it so often, read stories and watch films about it, even as we grow old. It’s the cardigan we put back on when we want to be Peter Pan and remember what it was like to fly with Wendy. Best lyric: “You drew stars around my scars / but now I’m bleeding.”

3. the last great american dynasty The story of Rebekah Harkness and her destruction of the last great American dynasty, Standard Oil, is documented in this track, as each verse covers a different part of Rebekah’s life, going from a middle class divorcee to one of the wealthiest women in America by marrying into an empire. Swift paints Rebekah as an outcast, the Rhode Island town blaming her for her husband’s heart giving out. Rebekah used her inherited fortune on her ballet company, throwing lavish parties with her friends who went by the “Bitch Pack,” playing cards with Dali (Yes, as in Salvador Dali. It’s not clear if they actually played cards together, but her ashes were placed in an urn designed by him), and feuding with her neighbors. Then, fifty years later, Taylor Swift bought that very house and ruined the neighborhood all over again, bringing with her the triumphant return of champagne pool parties and women with madness, their men and bad habits. It’s a note on how women will be blamed for tarnishing what is sacred to men rather than celebrated, specifically when its related to wealth and power. They will call them mad, shameless, loud. But just like Rebekah, Taylor learned to pay them no mind, and just have a marvelous time. It is also interesting to note that Rebekah went by Betty. Perhaps Taylor felt inspired by and connected to her and gave her a whole backstory, and thus the birth of “the teenage love triangle,” or maybe it’s just a coincidence; but that’s the fun of it all. Either way, this track is a standout showcase of how Swift has truly mastered her craft as a songwriter. Best lyric: “Holiday House sat quietly on that beach / free of women with madness, their men and bad habits / and then it was bought by me.”

4. exile ft. Bon Iver You know that feeling when your parents are fighting and it’s upsetting you but you can’t help but listen? That’s kind of what listening to this song feels like. Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon co-wrote the track, and he lends his gorgeous vocals to play a man who has been exiled by his ex who has moved on with someone else while he desperately tries to understand where it all went wrong. The bridge is particularly poignant, both proclaiming, “you didn’t even hear me out,” while talking over each other. He thinks he was expected to read her mind, but she is adamant that she gave him plenty of warning signs. Miscommunication is one of the most common downfalls of a relationship, and the emotion in Swift’s and Vernon’s voices really draws you into the argument with them, transporting you back into your own exile from people you once called home. Best lyric: “I couldn’t turn things around / (You never turned things around) / ‘cause you never gave a warning sign / (I gave so many signs.)”

5. my tears ricochet Taylor describes this song in the foreword as “an embittered tormentor showing up to the funeral of his fallen object of obsession.” If you know enough, you can put the pieces together that the tormentor is Scott Borchetta, the head of Big Machine Records, and the funeral is of their professional and personal relationship. Taylor was the first artist ever signed to Big Machine. Borchetta and Swift had to trust each other in their partnership for it to be a success, and oh, how it was. But prior to Lover’s release, Taylor announced that she would be signing to Republic Records as her contract with Big Machine had ended and Republic offered her the opportunity to own all of her masters moving forward and negotiate on Spotify shares for all their artists. It all could have ended amicably there, but then Scott Borchetta sold all of Big Machine, along with Taylor’s masters from every album prior, to Scooter Braun. Braun manages some of the biggest stars out there, and had previously managed Kanye West. Taylor publicly spoke out about this purchase, stating that she was not made aware of this before the announcement, and how much of a betrayal it was considering she had cried to Scott before about Scooter’s mistreatment of her. Taylor has continued to be vocal about this, and so she sings, “I didn’t have it in myself to go with grace.” There is a lot to unpack in this song, but the main takeaway is that this betrayal hurts him just as much if not more than it hurts her, because his career was built on her achievements. He buried her while decorated in her success, becoming what he swore he wouldn’t, erasing the good times for greed, all just to be haunted with regret for pushing her out and stealing her lullabies. The pain is palpable, and it is notable that this is song is placed at track 5, the spot generally reserved for the most vulnerable on the album; it shows that there are different types of heartbreak that can shatter you just as much as those from romance. Best lyric: “If I’m dead to you, why are you at the wake? / Cursing my name, wishing I stayed.”

6. mirrorball On Lover’s “The Archer,” Taylor expresses her anxiety over people seeing through her act, her own grief at seeing through it herself, wondering if her lover does and whether he would stay with her regardless. “mirrorball” is about the act, one of the more obviously confessional songs on the album. She talks about how a mirror ball can illuminate all the different versions of a person, while also reflecting the light to fit in with the scene. Taylor’s critical self-awareness is heart wrenching, and it’s clear that the anxiety that surrounds the public perception of her is still prevalent. She describes herself as a member of a circus, still on the tightrope and the trapeze even after everyone else has packed up and left, doing anything she can to keep the public’s attention. It hurts to hear the desperation in her voice, but there’s hope in the song, too. She is speaking to someone (we can assume her long-term boyfriend, Joe Alwyn) and thanking them for not being like “the regulars, the masquerade revelers drunk as they watch my shattered edges glisten.” In 2016, the height of Taylor’s fame and subsequently her farthest fall from grace, all the people who pretended to be her friends and attended all her parties celebrated her (temporary) demise, continuing to dance over her broken pieces on the floor. But he stayed by her side as she put herself back together. And so now, when no one is around, she’ll shine just for him, standing even taller than she does for the circus. Best lyric: “I’m still a believer, but I don’t know why / I’ve never been a natural, all I do is try, try, try / I’m still on that trapeze, I’m still trying everything / to keep you looking at me.”

7. seven Her voice gentle and haunting, Taylor recalls the freedom and innocence of her childhood in Pennsylvania. She asks to be remembered for how she was, swinging over the creek, before she learned civility when she would scream anytime she wanted, then letting out a very pretty one. She sings to her old friend soothingly about taking them away from their haunted house that their father is always shouting in, where they feel the need to hide in a closet, perhaps literally, or figuratively, or both. They can move into Taylor’s house instead, or maybe just to India, just be sure to pack their dolls and a sweater and then they’ll hit the road. She can no longer recall her friend’s face, but the love she had for them still lives in her heart, and she wants it to live forever through story. Just in the way that folklore itself blends reality and fiction, but the truth within it passes on, so will the purity of that love and friendship. Best lyric: “Please picture me in the weeds / before I learned civility / I used to scream ferociously / any time I wanted.”

8. august (teenage love triangle, part 2: the other girl’s perspective) If you had to assign the feeling of longing to a song, it’d be “august.” It’s when you’re teetering at the edge with someone, unsure of where you stand with them, clinging to anything they give you and doing anything just to raise your chances, “living for the hope of it all.” August, the last month of summer, its heat causing it to slip away the fastest in a haze before reality hits. This track is a display of how sometimes losing something you never had causes an even deeper ache than losing something that was yours, and Jack Antonoff’s signature production intensifies the emotion even more. It’s the story of shattered hope, and the longing for the days where it could still fuel you. Best lyric: “To live for the hope of it all / cancel plans just in case you’d call.”

9. this is me trying “this is me trying” is like a drive through a tunnel at night, hearing your loudest anxieties and insecurities echo all around you, caving in. The track is another apt insight into Swift’s struggles with her self-image, with the pressure she puts on herself, so much so that she sometimes pushes herself too close to the edge, her fears luring her out of the tunnel and down, down, down into her own cage, stunting her own growth and keeping those who care out of reach. She tells us how she was “so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere.” Every action has an equal, opposite reaction, meaning that she was pushing herself so hard, she rolled back to where she started, and now has to reset. This could be referring to the period between the end of the 1989 era and the release of reputation (2017), or a different time in her life, or just a general sentiment. It doesn’t really matter, though, because no one’s growth is a neat, straight line; growth is jagged. Just like any of us, Taylor will always have to face new obstacles, new pitfalls, new reasons to get back up. She sounds most vulnerable as she cries, “at least I’m trying,” and you feel comforted knowing someone so beautiful and successful has to push herself to try, too, and yet that motivates you more to try yourself. Best lyric: “They told me all of my cages were mental / so I got wasted, like all my potential.”

10. illicit affairs A quiet, slow-build testament of the passion, the tragedy, the secrecy, the inimitability of a romance that shouldn’t exist, “illicit affairs” demonstrates how you can ruin yourself for someone from just one moment of possibility or truth, quite like the narrator of “august” does for the hope of it all. An illicit affair can be many different things: infidelity, forbidden love, a love that can never be fully realized, a relationship that is inherently wrong but electrifying all the same. It’s a reminder of what so many of us would do just to see new colors, to learn a new language, even if the one moment of enlightenment destroys us forever. We might lose the iridescent glow but we don’t forget it; we carry it with us, but must be careful to remember its blinding effect, to remember how fatal the fall is from the dwindling, mercurial high. Best lyric: “Tell your friends you’re out for a run / you’ll be flushed when you return.”

11. invisible string Clearly the most outright autobiographical track, “invisible string” is the plucky pick-me-up needed. The song is like sunshine, as Swift endearingly links all the little connections between her and her boyfriend, Joe Alwyn, since before they even met. She compares the green grass at the Nashville park she’d sit at in hopes of a meet-cute to the teal of his yogurt shop uniform shirt, and gives a nod to her smash hit “Bad Blood” from 1989 with the delightful line “bad was the blood of the song in the cab on your first trip to LA.” She reasons these coincidences as a fateful, invisible, golden string tying them together since the beginning, always destined to meet at the knot in the middle. She thanks time for healing her, (a callback to “Fifteen” from Fearless [2008]), fighting through hell to make it to heaven, transforming her from an axe grinder to a gift giver for her ex’s baby (the ex in question, Joe Jonas, and his wife Sophie Turner, happened to have their first daughter two days before this album’s release). As she has on her previous two albums, she uses the color gold to illustrate how prized their love is to one another. It’s sweet to know in all the gloom that the string has not been severed, and the trees are still golden somewhere. Best lyric: “Cold was the steel of my axe to grind for the boys who broke my heart / now I send their babies presents.”

12. mad woman Throughout her entire career, Taylor Swift has defiantly defended female rage, all the way back from throwing a chair off a platform on her Fearless Tour during the impassioned “Forever & Always,” to her patient, vengeful reliance on karma in reputation’s lead single, “Look What You Made Me Do,” to her most recent tackling of the matter on Lover’s last and final single, “The Man,” where she explores society’s acceptance and encouragement of angry men yet disdain for angry women. “The Man” is catchy and upbeat, and a fun thought experiment into how Swift’s career would be perceived if she was a man, something that is even more interesting to think about now as she releases an album in a genre heavily dominated and lauded by males. But on “mad woman,” she further explores the creation and perception of female rage, though masked under a smooth, haunting piano melody, her vocals subdued, taunting. In the album foreword, she describes the inspiration behind this song as “a misfit widow getting gleeful revenge on the town that cast her out.” This could be the continuation of Rebekah “Betty” Harkness’s story at her Holiday House in Watch Hill, RI, and how she further alienated herself from the rest of the neighborhood as they cast stones at her for the collapse of the last great American dynasty. (Or perhaps Daenerys Targaryen’s descent as the Mad Queen played a part in the song’s inspiration, as Swift has spoken of her love for Game of Thrones and her character specifically.) Taylor herself could also represent the widow, her music and masters as her love lost, and the men behind the crime as the “town that cast her out.” In the first verse she sings, “What do you sing on your drive home? / Do you see my face in the neighbor’s lawn? / Does she smile, or does she mouth ‘fuck you forever’?” It’s the first f-bomb of Taylor’s career (though a much more playful one will come two tracks later in “betty”) and it speaks volume. Taylor has received a lot of condemnation for expressing her anger at their transaction, for calling out their greed for what it is. Some view Swift’s stance on the ordeal as petty and trivial; they see the men as orchestrating a good business deal, and Swift as the girl throwing a tantrum. Ask any woman, and they can tell you about a time a man told them they were crazy for being justifiably angry; it only makes us angrier. “No one likes a mad woman,” Taylor states, “You made her like that.” Swift underscores that here, how they will poke and poke the bear but then blame it for attacking, as if they had never provoked it at all, and how dare it defend itself. Just as they blamed Rebekah for her husband’s heart giving out, they somehow manage to blame Swift for not being allowed to purchase the rights to her own work. And yes, she’s mad, but the song is measured and controlled; she’s used to her anger now, and knows just how to wield it. Best lyric: “Women like hunting witches, too / doing your dirtiest work for you / It’s obvious that wanting me dead has really brought you two together.”

13. epiphany This is another track Swift provided some background on, stating it was inspired by her “grandfather, Dean, landing at Guadalcanal in 1942” during WWII. The first verse paints this image, while the second verse depicts a different kind of war, happening right now, fought by doctors and nurses. She speaks of holding hands through plastic, and the escape folklore has granted you suddenly lifts. Watching someone’s daughter, or mother, or anyone suffer at the hands of the COVID-19 pandemic, just as watching a soldier bleed out, helpless, is too much to speak about. As she points out, they don’t teach you about that vicarious trauma in med school. We are living in a tireless world with barely any time time to rest our eyes, but too much going on while we’re awake to make sense of any of it. “epiphany” is a cinematic prayer, pleading for some quiet in order to find an answer in all the noise. We’re still waiting for that glimpse of relief. Best lyric: “Only twenty minutes to sleep / but you dream of some epiphany / Just one single glimpse of relief / to make some sense of what you’ve seen.”

14. betty (teenage love triangle, part 3: james’s perspective) It makes sense that a song reminiscent of Fearless would exemplify some of the best story-telling on folklore. The final puzzle piece of the teen love triangle, “betty” is a song sung by Swift from the perspective of the character of her own creation, James, attempting to win back his true love, Betty, who he slighted in some way. He proclaims that the worst thing he ever did is what he did to her, without explicitly stating it. Though the infamous deed is unclear, here’s the information we collect from this song: James saw Betty dancing with another boy at a school dance, one day when he was walking home another girl (from “august”) picked him up and he ended up spending his summer with her yet still loved Betty, and though he ended things with his fling and wanted to reconcile with Betty, he had returned to school to see she switched her homeroom (James assumes, after saying he won’t make assumptions. Classic men). So in order to make it up to her, he shows up at her party with the risk of being told to go fuck himself (the second and charming “fuck” on the album! Which is repeated!). Upon his arrival, there is a glorious key change (ala “Love Story”) and all the pieces fall into place for the listener; we realize Betty is the girl singing in “cardigan” as he lists the things he misses about her since the thrill expired, like the way she looks standing in her cardigan, and kissing in his car. He’s 17 and doesn’t know anything, but she knew everything when she was young, and she knew he’d come back. The way I see their story conclude is that she led him to the garden and trusted him, but as they grew older they grew apart, but the love she had for him never faded completely. Listening to this song is like being back in high school, whether you were the person who did someone wrong or the person so willing to forgive in the name of young love, or Inez, the school gossip, you’re right there with them. The other great thing about this song is that it is sung to a girl, and though it is set up so we understand it is most likely from a boy’s perspective, it doesn’t have to be. It’s really great that girls in the LGBTQ community can have a song in Taylor’s voice to fully connect to without changing the pronouns or names (even James, which is unisex and is one of the names of the daughters of Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds, Taylor’s close friends, mentioned in this song). That is the beauty of folklore: the infinite ways a story can be told, perceived, retold from a different perspective, and told again. Maybe you’ll hear it from Inez. Best lyric: “But if I just showed up at your party / would you have me? Would you want me? / Would you tell me to go fuck myself, or lead me to the garden?”

15. peace One of the most beautifully solemn songs of her career, “peace” echoes the same fears explored in “Dancing With Our Hands Tied” from reputation; will the person she loves be able to weather the ever-present storm that comes with the life of a superstar, but also dwells within herself? Will holding him as the water rushes in be enough? Will giving him her wild, a child, her sunshine, her best, be a fair consolation? Presumably another confessional track and about Alwyn, Swift puts him up on a pedestal, praising his integrity and his dare to dream. She proclaims that she would die for him in secret, just as she told him she’d be on her tallest tip toes, spinning in her highest heels, shining just for him in “mirrorball.” She highlights some of the greatest gifts of love, such as comfortable silence and chosen family. She knows what they have is special, but she also knows the value of peace, the ultimate nirvana, and does not want to deprive him of that. It is so deeply relatable- to me, at least- to feel like you can give someone so much of yourself but know it still may never be enough, and to fear either losing them or robbing them of something better. But looking at what they have together, maybe peace is overrated. Or maybe, she’s looking for peace in the wrong places. The calm is in the eye of the storm, and sometimes, there’s nothing more freeing than throwing away the umbrella and soaking in the rain. Best lyric: “I never had the courage of my convictions / as long as danger is near / and it’s just around the corner, darling / ‘cause it lives in me / no, I could never give you peace.”

16. hoax The truest enigma of the album, the closer, “hoax” is a devastatingly dark ballad about the uncertainty, or perhaps incredulity, of someone’s love for you, a love that is your lifeline. The lyrics are ambiguous, which gives way to a plethora of interpretations. Perhaps she is speaking about a hypothetical situation that has yet to happen (and hopefully doesn’t) in which someone she loves and trusts betrays her. Maybe she is talking about a relationship, real (hopefully not) or fictional, in which despite the torment it brings her she holds onto it for dear life. I’m most inclined to believe that the song represents her difficulty in accepting that someone is willing to love her through such dark periods, that their love must actually be a hoax, but she chooses to believe in it anyway and uses it as the motivation to rebuild her kingdom, to rise from the ashes on her barren land. And even through the downs that come at some point in every relationship, she can still see the beauty in it all. Yes, their love is golden, but waves of blue will crash down around any partnership, because life does not exist without them. So even when things are as blue as can be, she’s at least grateful it’s with him. Best lyric: “Don’t want no other shade of blue but you / no other sadness in the world would do.”

Although we still have yet to hear the deluxe track, “the lakes,” as a fan of Taylor for almost 12 years, it feels so obvious that this is her strongest work yet. The storytelling I fell in love with on Fearless as a teenager (which, much like folklore, was highly inspired by imaginary situations and real emotions) is even sharper now as we have both grown into adults. The music on this album might not be everyone’s speed, and that’s okay. But it allowed Taylor to dip back into what made Fearless such a success: using pieces of her own truth and the whims of her imagination to develop a multi-faceted narrative that becomes universal. During her Tiny Desk concert, before performing “Death By A Thousand Cuts” from Lover, Swift explained the anxiety she felt around the possibility of stunted creativity when people would ask her what she would write about once she was happy. Taylor has released an abundance of beautiful, fun, complex love songs since the start of her relationship almost four years ago now. But “Death By A Thousand Cuts,” which is a fan favorite, helped her prove to herself that she can still write a killer breakup song while being in a happy, fulfilling relationship; the song was the last track written for Lover and was inspired by the film Something Great on Netflix. And so it makes perfect sense that Taylor used folklore to continue exploring this new avenue for songwriting. All of her discography and all of her life experiences have culminated to the folklore moment: as all the best artists do, she will never stop finding inspiration in hidden corners of this dark, mystical, wondrous universe, and falling in love with new ways to share those wonders. And that love will be passed on.

DISCLAIMER - REVIEWER’S BIAS: I love Taylor Swift more than any person in my life, yes including my parents, they are aware and have accepted this fact long ago ❤️

[blazingopus]

Green Haze - Golden Wind

This story ended up much darker than I had intended. It was very difficult for me to write in some places. Drawing from detective noir can do that sometimes. For the squeamish of you (and this is in no way a judgement), I will list the parts where there is body horror in bold. Please enjoy.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3LZDJ6gWi5HP2P2YCMTcn1?si=A4Kncm8JR_mkOdszS7TCww

You're a private investigator taking photos of someone who spots what you are doing. What happens next?

Napoli, and all of Italia for that matter, is ruled by The Famiglia. A complex web of businessmen, smugglers, politicians, assassins, drug peddlers, hustlers, bookkeepers, and every other role a mafioso could fill. Money acquired legally and illegally is funneled throughout the web, funding the various operations and front businesses. And pulling all the strings from the shadows is the illusive Boss, hiding his identity to preserve his life and keep control over all of Italia. He hears all, sees all. Little happens in the Famiglia without the Boss knowing at least in passing. This is the Empire called Passione. At least, this is what I hear when dealing in the underground.

I am a private investigator. I am paid large sums of money to investigate things that the police cannot, or will not, touch with their pristine hands. I say this, knowing that most of the police are in bed with corrupt politicians. The same politicians working closely, or at the very least taking bribes from Passione.

I only know this because I was in the police force for a few years myself. I saw first hand what went on behind closed doors. They say they want law and order. They say that they want to protect people. They say that they serve the citizens of Napoli. Lies. Nothing but lies. Most who join the force are corrupted by the system and the people. The few who do not leave of their own accord or are forced out.

Morality is a funny thing. Philosophers, authors, religious figures, and other thinkers have debated and formed their own frameworks to understand it. All of which are very different. But there are some basic ideas that most people tend to agree on. Killing innocents is bad. Stealing is bad. Lying is bad. Usually. There are more shades of grey to it all than an overcast sky. And many are willing to throw it all away for their own gain.

I walked away from all of it. The corruption, the lies, the posturing, the cutthroat environment. I was done with it all. I took the skills I had learned as a police officer and went into business for myself. You see, when the world is stripped of morals and decency, there are few things of value: Money. Information. Sex. Sometimes drugs, depending on how you felt that day. And the occasional organ. Of these, information became my currency. I procure information you want, for a price. Unlike the information brokers of Passione, I work on the street, I take the photos, and I steal the evidence. I can provide some of the most incriminating, career ending, reputation ruining information that the brokers would spend millions of Liras for. That is, if I were to sell it to them.

I don't work for Passione, and I have only worked with a few members. Poor souls. They had such ambitions of righting the wrongs, undoing the injustices from the inside. All of them ended up dead soon after their last visit to my office. Seems that the Boss doesn't much like members of his Famiglia trying to undo everything he had worked for.

It was a few days ago when another poor soul asked for my services. An up and coming politician with bright eyes and a noble heart. After being elected to a local office, he had found the government was as corrupted as any other. He was on a valiant quest to rid all he could of the "evil" out of Napoli. I told him that most do not survive that silly quest of his. He replied saying that, 'He would be one of the few who did, and bring some decency to his fair city.' He owed it to the people who elected him into office. I could tell he was a stubborn man, hellbent on his sacred duty. All I could do was shake my head and accept the upfront fee from him. How naïve he was.

Among some other things, he wanted me to look into a young man named Bruno Buccellati. The valiant knight had concerns about where Buccellati stood, since he liked to keep a low profile. While he was a mafioso, he was in good standing with the people of his territory and was a trusted right hand man to Polpo, the capo of Napoli. He suspected that Buccellati was either a noble individual like himself, or was playing nice to everyone to get an advantage. I told him it didn't matter either way.

I spent a couple of days getting a feel for his regular haunts. The people who lived and worked in his territory had a favorable view of him, but were somewhat protective of him. I was able to get more information out of them when I told them that he had helped me not too long ago, and was wanting to repay his kindness. Many said he would not accept any gifts or rewards, but wished me good luck. I didn't need it, but it was appreciated.

Buccellati moved around a lot, completing assignments from Polpo and maintaining the businesses under his jurisdiction. He did however, favor a particular restaurant. He tended to have small meetings there once a week or so with the team he was building. Such things were not uncommon in Passione. Many higher ranking mafiosi had a team of trusted few to help with whatever they were up to. It was a crucial part of the structure of the Familgia, and most teams were extremely independent. It was important that teams did not know of each other, so that separate operations could be conducted without interference or information leaking. At least, that was the intention. For some, it didn't matter how independent or how secretive a team was. Once they gained a certain level of status and notoriety, no matter how careful and secretive they were, word got around about their exploits. The only exception, of course, was the Boss.

The strange thing was, of the two people Buccellati had on his team, both were under the age of 18 and both had criminal records. Pannacota Fugo had allegedly murdered a teacher of his, and had a genius level IQ. If Buccellati played his cards right, he might make Fugo a crucial member of Passione. Narancia Ghirga was a different story. He had ran with gangs most of his younger years and only committed petty theft. From all I could gather, I could not understand why Buccellati had put him on his team. He had no outstanding qualities that I could find. The boy hadn't had an education in years, and had no particular skills.

There wasn't much else I could do now. I had been watching the restaurant for the past few days. I did a little snooping around the restaurant itself, and I found that Buccellati had made a reservation for tomorrow at noon. Four top. If I had to make a guess, he might be recruiting a new member or making some sort of deal. I would have to wait and see.

I made sure I look the part. The goal is to get a good look at Buccellati and his team. Take a few pictures. Start collecting some information about them. In order to accomplish this, I decided to dress a little casual chic. I was playing the role of a photographer for a travel magazine, getting some pictures of the local shops and the people in their natural state. It was important that the magazine had some candid photos along with the glamorized landscapes and reused building shots. At least, that was what I would use as an alibi.

I set up across from the restaurant at a quaint cafe with outdoor seating in the front. I had previously asked the owner if it was alright if I took a few pictures, and he let me eat free for the publicity. He didn't ask many questions. It was ten till noon, and the lunch rush was ramping up.

From what people told me, Buccellati had a few defining features. Piercing blue eyes. Dark hair cut in a severe bob. Pair of gold clips to adorn said bob. Suit with strange poke-a-dot pattern. Exposed chest with a tattoo or lace undershirt, no one could tell for sure. For someone who was so skilled at keeping a low profile, he was damn good at standing out from the crowd.

My eye caught someone entering the restaurant. Blue, hair, gold, pattern, chest thing. That must be him. I watched him talk to the host, who led him to a table right in front of a nearby window. My lucky day. At the table, I could see two other individuals, both looked to be young. These were most likely Fugo and Naranchia. They matched the descriptions I had come across earlier.

I was still watching the customers coming and going. Buccellati would not have reserved a four top if he was not expecting another person. Who that person was, I had no idea. A male walked in that made me pause for a minute. It was not his attire, which was also very distinct. Pale hair and skin deeply contrasted by his dark and broody clothing. It was the fact that it gave me a strong feeling of deja-vu. I didn't think it was a past client, or a past target. It went farther back than that, into the past I wanted to forget.

I took a sip of my water and made myself focus again. Fortunately for me, the mysterious man joined Buccellati at his table. He was lucky number four. It took about an hour and a half for them to order, eat, and discuss their business. The entire time, I was taking notes for one of the articles I was writing. At least, that is what I told the cafe owner. I was making note of particular ticks or quirks they had in their movements and speech patterns. I was also able to get a few pictures of them, but the main photos I was wanting would have to be taken as they left the restaurant.

I put my stuff in my bag when I saw they were beginning to wrap up. I left my camera hanging around my neck. I watched Buccellati pay the bill. The four of them stood up. They moved to the front of the building. I moved the camera to my face. I snapped a few photos as they came out the front door.

My heart stopped.

The last one out was the mysterious man. I finally remembered him. Abbacchio. He was one of the victims of the cruel justice system. I was coming to the end of my time in the police when I heard the news of his departure. He had made a hard decision, and it didn't pay off for him. I had worked close with him on some assignments, but I had not seen him since...

His deep purple eyes met mine through the lens. Deep. Accusing. Damn it. Why did I hesitate? I lowered the camera, keeping eye contact with him. His eyes bore into me. They were full of distrust and suspicion. Did he recognize me? Had he caught on to what I was doing?

Abbacchio finally broke eye contact with me, slowly walking away. I let our the breath I didn't know I was holding. I didn't know what his next action was going to be, but I needed to get the hell out of there. Damn it! How could I have been so reckless? So stupid? I could have just compromised everything. I put my camera in my bag and told the waiter my thanks.

I walked briskly toward the nearest train station. While it would be much more convenient to own a car, such a thing was dangerous. Cars can be tracked via licence plate, or could identify my apartment if someone should see me on assignment. That means my options for transportation are limited. Taxis would be faster, but I can blend into the crowds and loose people easier that way. If it all plays out properly.

When I reached the station, I bought a ticket and waited to board. I stood in the crowd, watching around me for anyone from Buccellati's team, or anyone else suspicious. I stepped on the train and found a seat. No one of note came on board. I spent the train ride anxious, my mind racing. Would Abbacchio do anything? Would they hunt me down? I could handle myself well enough, but the members of Passione were dangerous individuals. If they did, I probably wouldn't live through it. But this is what I signed up for when I took up this line of work. This is all my own doing.

The train came to a slow stop. I stood up and stepped onto the street. Heading straight home would be stupid. It would be better to head to the office first, where there would be people to witness anything that might happen. I walked over a block or two to the building where my office was located. I entered and unlocked the door. Inside was the same as I had left it. The heavy wooden desk sat in the back of the room with a chair to match. In front were two large chairs. I picked them out especially because they were very, very uncomfortable. I didn't want people staying longer than they had to, and having comfortable chairs just encouraged people to linger. It was important with the kinds of people I deal with.

I picked up the few documents I had sitting on my desk and stuffed them in my bag. They weren't of great importance, but I could not afford to leave any sort of evidence out. After most of my assignments, if I didn't think they would be useful I burned most of the information I had collected. I didn't want any evidence pointing to me if something got out. I usually didn't need it anyway. There were a few exceptions, though. I had a few safes in my apartment containing very valuable information that might come in handy one day. Don't know when, but you never know when you need to expose someone, or blackmail them, or call in a favor.

I straightened up the place before I left again. Speaking of calling in favors, if shit hits the fan, I might have to do that. Working in the professions I have, you get to know the right people, or the wrong people that need a favor. I didn't want to cash my chips in just yet, but I didn't know how all this would play out. I might not even have time to call in the first place. I have to be damn careful.

I locked the door and headed out onto the street, looking for a cab. My apartment was a bit away from my office. While I would have liked to be able to walk home every day, I didn't want anyone following me home that easily. I hailed a cab down and gave the driver directions.

As soon as I got home, I set the several locks on my reinforced door. Some may say I am paranoid, but that paranoia has kept me alive through some pretty bad scrapes. I quickly changed out of my clothes, throwing on a tank top and sweatpants. If they come for me tonight, I at least want to be comfortable. I then went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. It wasn't the first time I was going to miss out on a lot of sleep. I will have to keep up throughout the night.

I reached into a kitchen drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I needed something to calm my nerves. I hate smoking and would have much preferred alcohol. Alcohol makes me sleepy, and being able to aim is important if hell breaks loose. Nicotine would have to do instead. I took out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling the sickening smoke. Stale, this pack was getting old. I would have to pick up a new one soon.

I went back into my bedroom, opening up the top drawer of my bedside table. I took the two pistols I kept in there and checked the clips inside. I turned off the safety and stuck one in the waistband of my pants, feeling it settle against my spine. I picked up the extra clips I kept as well, putting two in my bra and sticking the rest in my pockets.

I went to the kitchen and grabbed one of my kitchen chairs, dragging it in front of my door. I poured myself a cup of coffee. I walked over to my chair and sat in it backwards. Pistol in my right hand, coffee in my left, cigarette in my mouth. I waited throughout the night with my eyes trained on the door, waiting for anything to go wrong.

The night passed to morning, and the time passed in silence. The sun rose on a new day. I was still alive and unharmed, for now at least. I rose from my seat and quickly showered. I hit myself with the cold water to wake myself up again. I tiredly put on clothes, keeping the pistol in its spot next to my spine. I put the other in the holster I keep in my jacket. I grabbed my bag and walked out my door, undoing all the locks from the night before.

I made my way back to my office without incident. The door was still locked and intact. Everything was in place inside. I sat down behind my desk and pulled out my notes, going over what I had collected over the past few days.

Buccellati seemed decent, at least. Many people went to him for counsel and help. He was Polpo's most trusted mafioso and went above and beyond to complete his missions. He ran his territory well and kept businesses alive. Giving his team a second thought, he probably picked them up off the street and took them in. The younger ones looked a little rough around the edges, and the one that was probably Narancia did not know what comb was. Still, I have run into a lot of people that looked like good people who ended up being rotten to the core.

I sighed and rubbed my face. I needed more coffee, but I didn't want to get up to actually make it. I was pretty much done with Bruno Buccellati, and I needed to move on the other targets my client had hired me to dig up dirt on. That is, if Buccellati didn't come after me and cut my life very short.

I sighed again and stood up, starting up the coffee maker. I watched blankly as the pot filled with caffeinated hot bean water. I needed to stay alert. I needed to stay awake. My life might depend on it.

I poured myself some coffee and walked back to my desk. I didn't need this information much anymore. I put everything in a manila folder and put it into a small safe under my desk. Damn thing was heavy, so it wasn't like anyone was carrying it out anytime soon. I took out my small spiral notebook from my bag, and looked at the list I had written a few days before. It was the list of targets I had been hired to investigate. I took out a pencil and crossed out Buccellati's name. Who would be the best target to go after next?

My head snapped up. There was a knock at my door. I quickly shoved the notebook back in my bag. There were a few possibilities going through my head. My client; he seemed to be a little impatient when I took the job from him. It could be a potential client, they liked to drop in sometimes. Or, it was Buccellati. That last one had my heart thumping against my chest and adrenaline filling my veins. I checked the guns on my person. Everything could go bad very quickly.

I stood up and crossed the room. I hesitated for just a moment before grasping the doorknob and pulling it open.

My heart stopped for just a moment. Before me stood Bruno Buccellati and Abbacchio, their eyes bearing down on me with serious expressions on their faces. I did my best to maintain a stony expression despite the terror filling me.

"Can I help you, Gentlemen?" I asked professionally. I might be able to talk my way out of this.

Buccellati nods his head slightly. "Yes. Do you have time to talk, miss?"

"I do." I moved aside and gestured for them to enter. They slid past me and moved to the chairs situated across from my desk. I swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Of all the things that could have happened, this was probably the worst. I would have to be smart about this.

I moved over to my office chair to sit down. A part of me was quite pleased to see Abbacchio becoming visibly uncomfortable trying to settle himself in his chair. Buccellati also looked very uncomfortable, but he was trying his best to not let it show.

"Allow us to introduce ourselves," Buccellati said as I pulled myself up to my desk. "My name is Bruno Buccellati," he gestured to Abbacchio, who had a stern glare on his face, "And my companion is Leone Abbacchio."

"A pleasure," I replied politely.

"It's not," Abbacchio shot back in a low voice. The glare on his face intensified.

Buccellati looked back to me with suspicious eyes. "Though, I am sure that you already know who we are."

"It is my business to know things, Mr. Buccellati." I had to be careful. "Word of you has spread throughout Napoli. It is not uncommon to hear tales of you in the crowds." I looked over at Abbacchio. "And Abbacchio and I served on the same police force together. We had some assignments together from time to time. Now, you said that you would like to speak with me. Are you interested in my services?"

"Not quite." Buccellati shifted his weight a little. "Your reputation precedes you, Miss (Y/N). You are known as a very talented private investigator, perhaps one of the best in Napoli."

I chuckled a bit. "Those words are not mine, Mr. Buccellati. I let my clients decide for themselves if my work is up to par." I tilted my head a little. "It also seems you know who I am. You know your way among the town gossip."

Buccellati cracked a small smile. "It has helped me before in the past, I must admit." His eyes bore into mine again. "What exactly do you do in this profession of yours, Miss (Y/N)?"

I had to play it cool, use a bit of misdirection. "I am a private investigator. I investigate whatever my clients hire me to. Cheating spouses, missing family members, the occasional long lost flame. Many people think that we like working with reporters, but they almost never tell the full story. Police are not much better. Too wrapped up in internal politics to investigate properly and arrest the right people."

"Many people also think that you investigate corruption." Buccellati interjected, his eyes still trained on me. "There are many politicians that do whatever it takes to achieve their goals, no matter how illegal."

I took a breath in. "I don't do that kind of investigating, Mr. Buccellati. If I were to investigate one bad politician, it would take me years to unravel the web of misdeeds and lies. Bad people tend to work with other bad people, who would also be exposed. All for what?" I shrugged. "There will always be corrupt politicians. Removing one would lead to another taking his place, if you could remove him at all. Best to stay out of it entirely. There are many people out there who need help that the police and politicians cannot provide. In doing my work, I hope to provide some solace to them."

"Do you really believe that garbage?" Abbacchio growled at me. Anger was washing over him. "Talking about helping people by going through their private lives. Sounds like a load of shit to me."

"Abbacchio, calm down," Buccellati ordered. His voice was stern and commanding. Abbacchio turned away, becoming more broody by the minute.

Buccellati looked back at me. "Passione is a powerful organization in Napoli, and all of Italia for that matter. It controls one of the largest drug trades in the world, and engages in many illegal activities. Surely, there would be people interested in finding out all they can about it, and the people who comprise its members?"

Buccellati was proding around, trying to find a way to pin me down. I would have to be careful how I answered "Yes, there are many people who would like to uncover the secrets of Passione. I have had my fair share of people try to enlist my services, but I have made it policy to turn them down. The mafiosi don't much like it when people go sniffing around where they shouldn't, and they tend to respond rather violently when they do. I also do not take any assignments from members of Passione. One job leads to another, and you either end up a member of Passione yourself or very much dead. Neither sound very appealing to me."

Buccellati nodded intently. "What kind of people do you take these "assignments" from, Miss (Y/N)?"

I looked at him suspiciously. "A variety of individuals. If you are wanting specifics, I am afraid I have a strict confidentiality policy. I do not share any information about any previous or current clients, or anyone I have or am investigating. Any information I find stays between me and the respective client. What they do with said information is their business."

Buccellati narrowed his eyes at me. " I want to change subjects, if you don't mind."

I nodded. "Go ahead." I had the sense that this conversation was taking a turn for the worse. I could feel my pulse speed up.

"Yesterday, Abbacchio saw you taking photos of me and my team as we were leaving a restaurant." Abbacchio turned back to me and stared at me like he was reading my soul " Not only were you taking photos of us, you were in the perfect location to take them. You were either very lucky that day, or you had been investigating me and tracking my movements." He leans forward, his voice becoming more direct and commanding. "So I ask you, what were you doing there that day, and why were you taking photos of us?"

I had to keep reminding myself to stay calm. I could not let anything important slip. I could not show weakness. And I could not answer that question. "I am not at liberty to say. I told you I keep my work confidential."

"That's fucking bullshit," Abbacchio yelled at me. "You know damn well that someone is trying to get dirt on us!"

"I told you, whether or not that is true, I cannot and will not release any information to anyone but my client."

Abbacchio stood up suddenly, violently knocking over the chair in the process. Anger seethed across his body. "I am not taking any more of this. You tell us everything, or I will beat the living shit out of you!"

I stood up, pulled the pistol out of my jacket and aimed it at him. I knew that if I pulled the trigger, the first bullet would lodge right between his eyes.

"You can try, but you would have to reach me first."

Before anything else could happen, there was a small flash of blue light in the corner of my eye, before something hit me square in the chest. I fell back a few feet, my body feeling like it was tearing apart. I landed on my side, my muscles not functioning and my joints not moving. I didn't know what kind of weapon Buccellati had used on me, but it was very effective. I moved my head a little, just enough for Buccallati and Abbacchio to come into view.

Buccallati looked deep into my eyes, murderous intent in his cool blue pools. "I'm tired of playing games, Miss (Y/N). Tell us what we want to know, or I will have to resort to more extreme measures. And know that I am very good at telling when people are lying."

I gave him a defiant glare. "You think you are the first person to threaten me? I have put up with a lot of shit in my life, I doubt you can do anything to me to make me talk."

His gaze lingered on me for a few seconds. Then he looked to Abbacchio. "Move her onto her back and support her head. I want her to see this."

Abbacchio nodded and knelt down next to me, sliding his hands under my arms and easing me onto my back. He pulled me up to his chest, and I could see my body splayed out in front of me. My arms and legs were in strange and unnatural angles, but they didn't look broken or damaged. Still, they were doing some very unnatural things.

I looked up at Buccellati. He was rolling the sleeves of this suit jacket to expose his forearms. "There have been many sorts of punishments used over the course of human existence," he said as he kneeled beside me. "Disembowelment is particularly brutal and painful. Most people don't tend to live through it. It just so happens that I have an ability that allows such an act to be easier on the both of us."

He outstretched an empty hand, and touched me just above my collar bone. If I could move, I would have flinched away. Abbacchio and Buccellati's strange power kept me from doing much of anything. Buccellati clenched his hand like he was grasping something. He then moved his hand down my sternum, over my abdomen, and stopped just below my navel. A thin line was left on my clothing. He then took both hands and pulled on both sides of the line he drew. Slowly, my clothes and my skin separated together to reveal what lay underneath.

I could see inside myself. I saw my heart as it drummed and sent blood shooting through my arteries and veins. I could see my lungs rise and fall with my breathing. I watched my stomach churn and move. My intestines pulsed as they did their digestive dance. I could see all the red and soft organs that were keeping me alive and well. Everything was wet and held together by long, thin membranes you could see though. I couldn't move, but that didn't stop me from shaking in fear.

"How easy it would be to kill you," Buccelatti said as he looked into my eyes. "All I would have to do is squeeze your aorta until your cells die of oxygen deficiency, if your heart doesn't explode first. Or I could cut off the air to your lungs and let you suffocate. But if I wanted to make this really painful," He moved his hands over to where my intestines pulsated, "I could simply disembowel you. That would be much longer and more painful, giving me more time to get some answers out of you."

My shaking was becoming worse, my breathing becoming ragged. I kept my eyes locked on Buccellati, avoiding the horror he had unleashed. "Even if I do tell you, you would just end up killing me anyway."

He gave me a small, terrifying smile. "I may be a mafioso, Miss (Y/N), but I can assure you that I am a man of my word. You tell me what I want to know, and all this will end."

"Either way, I'll be spilling my guts."

"That's the idea."

He reached into my body and grabbed hold of my small intestine. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a small pocket knife, flipping it open. He brought the blade to my abdominal cavity, preparing to cut the thin membrane that held my organs in place. He was going to pull my intestines out right in front of me.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to thrash around, do something to stop it, but nothing was working. I could feel hot tears running down my face. I began to scream, to beg, to plead with Buccellati to stop. This was not worth getting my intestines ripped out for. This was not worth dying over.

"What were you doing yesterday?" he demanded an answer. "Why were you watching us? Why were you photographing us?"

The tears kept coming. "I was hired to."

"Obviously. Who hired you?" Buccellati nearly yelled.

I choked out the client's name.

He thought for a moment. "You said that you didn't work for politicians. You also said that you don't investigate members of Passione. You are either lying or you are very confused, and I doubt you are the latter."

I dropped my head back and stared at the ceiling. "It doesn't matter if I take the job or not. Either way, he ends up dead. They all do."

"They end up dead?" Abbacchio questioned from behind me.

"Fools who think they can fix everything. Undo all the terrible things that Passione has done. Rid Napoli of corrupt people. They don't understand what they get themselves into." I swallowed and let more tears fall. "I try to warn them. Try to tell them they are playing with fire, but they never listen. They are so hellbent on being the hero that they don't have time to listen. It doesn't matter if I get them the information or not. They never have enough time to do anything with it. Passione always finds out. Passione always comes for them. And the fools always end up dead."

My words hung in the air for a moment, the mafiosi taking in what I had said. "That still doesn't explain why you took the job." Abbacchio said softly. "You could have refused him."

"I know, " I whispered. "But if I did, he would turn to other places to get what they want, and most of them are being funded by the government officials or are members of Passione. He would be found out and dealt with much quicker than if he came to me. The problem is, idiots like him tend to have family and friends that care about them. If I take the job, instead of someone else, he might live just a day longer."

I lowered my eyes to look at Buccellati again. He looked intently at me, but I couldn't read his expression. What was he thinking? Did he hate me? Did he think I was a fool for even thinking like this? Did he feel sorry for me for lying to myself, justifying working for these poor souls?

Buccellati put the knife back in his pocket, taking out a handkerchief to clean his wet hand. He stood up and walked over to my chest. "Help her up, Abbacchio." The two of them lifted me to my feet, careful not to hurt me.

I looked down at my body again. My limbs were normal and straight. There was no gaping whole in my torso. I was magically whole again. I wiped some of the tears off my face. What kind of superpowers did these people have?

I took control over my body again, trying to regain my balance. I smoothed out my clothing and adjusted myself. I took a deep breath in. "If you gentlemen would excuse me," I said without looking at the mafiosi, " I will return shortly." I promptly walked out the door and turned down the hall. I opened the lady's room door and headed to the sink.

I took a few haggard breaths. My body had stopped shaking but I was still trying to recover. I wasn't dead yet. I was still intact. I just needed to let my body calm down.

As far as interrogations go, that was very effective for how little he actually hurt me. How the hell did Buccellati open me up like that without actually cutting into me? Was this all some sort of fever dream? Or a nightmare?

I turned on the faucet and ran the water over my hands. I needed to gather myself. I splashed the cool water over my face. I glanced at the mirror as my face dripped. I looked like death. All the color had drained from my face, there were dark bags under my eyes. Even the muscles under my face didn't have enough energy to move properly. I grabbed a few paper towels and dried my face.

I was so tired. I didn't want to be here anymore, to deal with Buccellati anymore. I just wanted to sleep forever and let the world pass me by. Damn it all.

I gripped the edge of the sink. I had to go back in there. I had to face them one more time. I didn't have a choice. They had gotten what they wanted from me. I didn't know what other information they would attempt to get from me. I didn't know if I would want to give it to them. Besides, my bag was still in there.

I gave myself a few more adjustments in the mirror before walking out into the hall. I told myself to breathe, to stay calm. I forced myself to walk to my office door. I gripped the doorknob. I turned it and opened the door.

Abbacchio was sitting on top of my desk, one leg tucked under him while the other dangled off the side. Buccellati stood off to the side, involved intensy with the conversation with his companion. The chair that Abbacchio flipped over was still laying on its side. They did, however, pick up my office chair. The both of them looked at me as I opened the door.

"Are you alright, Miss (Y/N)?" Buccellati asked me, a concerned look on his face.

I closed the door behind me. "Well enough, at least." I looked up at him. "I am surprised you would even ask that."

He gave me a strange look. "I may be a mafioso, but I am not heartless."

"You could have fooled me."

Buccellati looked at me intensely. "You would do whatever necessary to protect what is important to you, am I right Miss (Y/N)?"

I thought for a moment. "I suppose so."

"So would I. In my business, people important to you end up dead if not protected."

I sighed. "I see your point, Mr. Buccellati." I walked over to my office chair. "My question is, who is important to you? Who is so close to you that you would torture and kill to protect?"

"Haven't you done enough digging as it is?" Abbacchio growled at me. He was always a little prone to bad moods, but I don't remember him being this bad.

I glared at him. "I answered you damn questions, you might as well answer mine."

Buccellati raised his hand. "She's right, Abbacchio. We owe her an explanation for what happened that day." He looked back to me. "Miss (Y/N), would you join us for lunch? I would be happy to answer any questions you have."

I gave him a confused look. "Why would you trust me? How do you know I won't just sell all the information you give me?"

"I agree," Abbacchio spoke up. "This is stupid, Buccellati. We have more pressing matters to attend to."

Buccellati looked back to me, a small smile on his face. "Something tells me that you can be trusted. But I will only answer you questions if you come with us."

I thought for a few moments. This could be a trap, certainly. But I didn't think so. Buccellati didn't seem like he had something up his sleeve. Free food also didn't sound so bad either. I leaned down and grabbed my bag.

"Lead the way."

Half an hour later, I was sitting in a restaurant. The very same restaurant I watched the day before. Sitting across from me was a very calm Buccellati and a not as calm Abbacchio. I scanned over the menu, trying to narrow down what I wanted to eat. It all sounded so good. After the waiter took our orders, he whisked away our menus, leaving the three of us to talk.

Buccellati folded his hands over his face. "So, what do you want to know?"

I thought for a moment. "Narancia Ghirga. Why is he on your team? I can understand Abbacchio. He has a lot of skills from his career as a police officer. He also has a lot of knowledge on how both criminals and police operate. Pannacotta Fugo is extremely intelligent, and can probably think his way around problems. Narancia has no particular skills or qualities that set him apart."

He took a breath in. "It is not a simple story. Fugo found him alone and broken on the street. He brought Narancia to me in the hopes that I could help feed him. He was also in bad shape and needed extensive medical treatment. I made sure he had a full recovery. I could tell as time went on he began to idolize me." He looked away for a minute. "This life I lead is not for most people. It can destroy you if you are not careful. I didn't want to drag Narancia into it. I sent him home to his father to continue his education."

I leaned forward, intrigued by the story he was crafting. "Then how did he become a mafioso?"

Buccellatti gave a momentary smirk. "He went behind my back. Went directly to Polpo for initiation. He requested to be under my command. I accepted." He took a sip of his water. "He might not look like much, but Narancia fights to the bitter end. He is deadly when he wants to be, and is extremely loyal. I could not ask for a better charge."

During the course of the meal, I asked many questions. I learned more about what had happened to Abbacchio, the hard choices he had to make. I learned about Fugo, the difficult life he led of study and high expectations. And I learned of Buccellati, his life of fending for himself and his father. Now, he fights for Napoli, doing what he can for the people.

While the stories were being told, I told mine. I had always wanted to make a difference here. There was this righteousness that always burned within me. But whenever I tried, someone or something always stopped me. The only correct way to get anything done in Napoli is the illegal way. So I stopped trying. I used my skills to support myself, maybe help where I could. But the more you dig up, the more you realize how evil people can be. The more it beats you down and takes hold of your soul.

By the time everything was said, we had finished eating and Buccellati was paying the bill. Once he had finished, he looked to me. "Would you wait for us outside, Miss (Y/N)? There is something I would like to discuss with Abbacchio."

I nodded. "Of course."

I wandered out the front door and leaned against the building. I watched the people pass by. One person in particular caught my eye. A teenage boy wearing an altered pink private school uniform. His blond hair braided down his back and his bangs intricately set. A strange sight indeed. But not the most extravagant person you would see in Napoli.

I saw Buccellati and Abbacchio walk out of the restaurant. I stood up and walked to them. "Before we part ways," Buccellati said to me, "I have one more question to ask you."

"Another one?" I joked.

He smiled for a moment. "Just one. What do you think of joining my team? With your skills, you would make a valuable asset. You already know Abbacchio, and the two of you would work well together."

"I am the last person who would want to join Passione," I said promptly.

He shook his head. "You would be a member of Passione, but you would be working for me." He looked intently at me. "You of all people would know how I run things. I am trying to make Napoli better for everyone. Would you join me in doing that?"

I avoided eye contact, trying to make sense of everything. Just earlier that day, we thought of each other as enemies. Now, he had seen something in me that compelled him to ask me to join his cause. And Abbacchio had agreed to this? He had been so antagonistic towards me.

I looked Buccellati directly in the eyes. "I would need to wrap up my assignments, or try to get out of them somehow. But, yes. I will join you, Mr. Buccellati."

He nodded. "Good. I was hoping that would be your answer. By the way, you don't have to call me 'Mr.' anymore. Bruno will do just fine"

I smiled up at him. "You don't have to call me 'Miss.' either. (Y/N) works just as well."

[happy-beeeps]

I Don’t Do Droids Pt 4

Pairing: translator!reader x Din Djarin

WC:2.5k woohoo! Longest part yet!

Warnings: cursing, brief mention of space slavery, incredibly quick speed throughs of episodes 1 and 2 on my part.

A/N: We’ve jumped ahead! I wanted to start focusing on their relationship, and getting Yodito in the mix. Also, I’m sorry if anyone is disappointed that I skipped over massive parts of each episode, I didn’t want this to just be a speed through of the episodes. I probably won’t even touch on much of episodes 5 and 6, this is just a good spot to start! As always, if there’s something you want to see, let me know!

* * *

In the months you’ve spent flying with Mando, you had to admit, this was one of the weirder jobs you’d accompanied him on. The lack of information, the remote location, and the clientele had made this a much more… complicated mission.

Still, you had to admit. That shiny beskar pauldron on his shoulder glinter with just the right amount of starlight, you could imagine the motivation for finishing the job. Letting a glance linger on him a moment more, you tried to think what he’d look like covered in the silverish metal.

“What are you staring at vaar’ika?”

“Thinking about what your bucket head is gonna look like with a matching tin suit.” You responded, earning a quiet scoff from your counterpart. He relaxed back in his seat for a moment, before switching the controls to autopilot. “Gonna check the weapons. Can you watch the ship?”

“What did you hire me for?”

“Speaking mostly, you already excel at that.” He placed a gentle touch to the top of your arm, letting it linger just a moment too long before tearing his glance away. Even under the shield of his visor, his eyes felt heavy on you. “Right then I’ll just… watch the ship.” You smiled, turning your attention to anything, the stars bleeding into one another out the window, the dust under the controls, literally anything but the giant man standing behind you. Once you heard the door behind him close, you released a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. The months you two had spent close together, waiting for him on the ship while he wrestled in a new quarry, hunched over children's books you had saved on your datapad while you tried to teach him new languages, your feelings for the Mandalorian had absolutely flourished. You hated it. Each moment spent with him was suffocating, you felt butterflies in your belly when he touched you, leaving scorching marks where his fingers had been.

All this fanfare for a man you couldn’t even see.

The sound of quick beeps brought you back into your senses, as you prepared to switch the ship off of autopilot. “Mando!” you called, and were met with the sound of bustling and clambering as he stepped back into the cockpit. The bright light of Arvala-7 soon came into view as he pulled the ship out of hyperspace, and you looked around at the landscape as you circled around to land. “Looks like Tatooine.”

“Not every sand planet looks like Tatooine.”

“Yeah, well, this planet also has Jawas, so it’s basically Tatooine, alright bucket head?” “There are no Jawas here. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Who’s the linguistic genius of this operation?” You asked, earning nothing but an exasperated sigh from the man next to you as he set the ship down in a seemingly deserted sand patch. “I still think there’s Jawas here.”

* * *

“Just, stay here. Don’t start anything.”

“You act like I haven’t been with you for months now.”

“And you have the blaster I gave you?”

“Alright thanks dad, go do your thing now. I’m a functioning adult.” The ramp lowers as he prepares to step out into the blinding sunlight before he turns to face you. “I need to train you more on a blaster.” With his final remarks, you’re left on the ship, with a tiny blaster gifted to you by the weapons obsessed man before he steps out.

He makes it, by your guess, maybe a tenth of a click away from the ship before he gets absolutely rocked by two gigantic creatures. You laugh for a moment, before realizing how long it’s taking him to get up. “Oh shit,” you mumble, before keying in the code to lower the ramp to run out to him. Once you’re out there, and the gigantic creatures face you, you realize how stupid you look, tiny blaster pointing at these huge animals, shots reflecting off their thick hide. “I thought I told you to stay on the ship!”

“Oh yeah you have everything totally under control here!” You call, while one of the animals tears itself away from Mando to come charge at you. “Shit shit shit shit shit!” you call out, sending shots at them and resorting to a run. You’re saved by a large shot to the animals side, more following onto the remaining member of the herd. You glance over at Mando, pinned by one of the beasts, when a small Ugnaught approaches, riding his own creature. “Thank you.” Mando offers, and you’re always put off by how reserved he is with strangers. If he’s quiet with you, then he’s radio silent to everyone else.

“You’re a bounty hunter?” The man offers him.

“Yes.”

“And you?” He says, looking over at you, where you stand. The two of you must be a sight, a battered Mandalorian and a you, clad in your favorite skirt and shortened top from a market stall in Naboo, you had prepared yourself for a day of comfort, and secret blaster practice while he got the quarry. “I’m his translator.”

“Mmm,” he mumbles, looking pensive for a moment before giving a short and simple, “I will help you.” Mando looks over at you, and you glance up at the Ugnaught again before he speaks once more. “I have spoken.”

* * *

The Ugnaught’s camp is quaint, you happen to quite like it. Mando looked large and uncomfortable, nestled around smaller, homier things, but you happen to feel rather at ease. The man seems kind and blunt, two things you value, and it reminds of your home in Coruscant, or the small place you lived on Tatooine. Now, however, you are brought to the ever present mortality of your counterpart's profession, as you saddle up behind him on the bluurg he will ride to the location of the asset. You and the Ugnaught will return to his farm after dropping Mando off, you know better to mess with him and a quarry, and frankly, from the way it sounds, it would take a miracle for you to not die on the way. “Hey, Mando?” you start, as you stand next to him by the bluurg, “can you try not to die on this one?”

“Don’t I always?”

“Just… try double hard?” He looks down at you, holding your wrist for just a moment before softly speaking, “Is that the scarf I bought you on Devaron?” Before you could offer a reply, the Ugnaught returned. “We will leave when you’re ready. I have spoken.”

The ride to the asset’s location is long, and under different circumstances, probably enjoyable. Blurrgs were fun to ride, they way the bounded over the canyons made you feel free. The feeling of dropping off Mando at the encampment still clung to you like a wet rag. You couldn’t wait to be done with this bounty.

* * *

You appreciated that the Ugnaught (whose name you learned was Kuiil, when you realized that Mando had forgotten to ask) was kind enough to not only keep you at his camp for the night, but keep you busy. He was kind, talkative, and appreciated the help in small repairs. “You seem to have much knowledge of many things. Where are you from?”

“I’m from Naboo originally, I had a very expensive education.” “Naboo is wonderful, so I’ve heard. Was rule under the empire hard on your people?” The question struck you with some difficulty. The rule was by no means hard, you just happened to be unlucky. “Not entirely. I didn’t get to live there long. I enjoyed it very much though, I would love to go back.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I…  was studying to be a handmaiden for the queen. When I was twelve, the academy was attacked. We were picked off and sold into slavery. My owner fell into hardship, and freed all of us before fleeing the system. I was on Tatooine for many years before I was helped by a man. An old bounty hunter, who needed some assistance on a job. He gave me credits and contact, and dropped me off on Coruscant.” Kuiil hesitated for a moment before reaching over and placing a gentle hand on yours. “I was a slave for many years. I worked for my freedom, and now I live here in peace. I empathize with you. You would’ve made an excellent handmaiden, but I think you work much better with the Mandalorian.”

“Thank you. Although, I have to admit, he’s fun and all, but have you seen how fancy some of the dresses the Nabian royalty get to wear?” With that Kuiil let out a hearty laugh before patting your hand. “Get some rest. Your Mandalorian will return in the morning. He cares deeply for you.” He rose with this, and you stretched out on the bench in the hut. You shot him a confused look quickly, “What do you mean?” He smiled before walking towards the small cot in the far side of the room. “I have spoken.”

* * *

Kriff. He was going to kill you. Actually kill you, chop you into little pieces and then feed them to Kuiil’s blurggs. You knew it wasn’t your fault, Kuiil had assured you that Mando would’ve been in the hut with you too, but still.

Jawas had stripped the entirety of the Razor Crest. Every tiny piece. They even took the very thing you were looking for, the ceramic caff cup you got on Rodia. “Kuiil. He’s going to kill me.”

“He will not.” “He’s gonna drop me off at Mustafar and never look back.”

You spent the day assisting Kuiil with any repairs you could, and practicing your shooting at the abandoned part of his farm. Every passing minute made you more anxious, you needed him to be back soon, but you couldn’t imagine how he’d feel when he returned, and asked to go back to the ship.

It was nearly the following nightfall when he returned, and you could tell by the way he walked that he was not very pleased. You ran out of Kuiils house to meet him, “Mando!” you yelled, running towards him, he visibility softened at the sight of you, grabbing your arms before asking, “Are you ok? The Jawas took everything. Were you on the ship?”

“Mando I’m so, so sorry. I thought you said there weren’t any and I didn’t even think to guard it and-”

“We’ll deal with it somehow.” He responded, before turning his attention to the busted control pad on his arm, leaving you to soak in the adorable green bundle at his feet. “This is what everyone was searching for?” Kuiil asked, causing Mando to look up for just a moment.

“I believe it's a child.” he responded, leaving you to send them both a scoff. You scooped up the tiny baby in your arms before turning to them. “Ugh, men. Of course it’s a baby. It’s PRECIOUS.”

“Best to turn it in alive then.” Kuiil said, sending a sinking feeling into your gut. Turn it in. For some reason or another, this was a bounty, and it was Mando’s job to turn it in.

“I will take you to the Jawas to get your parts. I have spoken.”

* * *

You and Mando had returned to the ship, him absolutely caked in mud, and you still smirking over the memory of his butchered Jawa Trade Talk. The ride back to Kuiil’s was quiet, him brooding over the baby in its floating bassinet. He had mentioned something amazing had happened, but said nothing more. “You’re lucky they didn’t try and use Jawaese, you can barely get trade talk down.” You had teased, trying to lighten his mood. After a few moments of silence he retorted, “Says more about my teacher than me.” With a gentle nudge to your side.

Now, you were practically knee deep in parts, as you worked with him to repair the ship after he had bargained with the Jawas, and retrieved their weird fuzzy egg. The baby was beside him, enclosed in the bassinet, while he worked on finishing up some of the interior wiring in the hull. Kuiil had turned in for the night, leaving the two of you to work until you were exhausted.

There was something about seeing him like this, with the baby floating behind him, tools slinging off of his hip as he repaired the ship… he’s almost paternal. Your heart flies up to your chest as you watch him work in the soft work light you had loaned from Kuiil, and the warm fire that barely dripped in from outside the camp. In spite of yourself, you let yourself stare a little more, wondering if he’s handsome underneath that helmet. What color his eyes are. You’re almost sure they’re brown, the inviting and comforting kind. You can’t shake it, it’s the same desire you felt on Devaron. The woes of falling for a man you’ll never see. Your moment of solitude is up when he turns to face you, letting a breathy laugh escape from under his helmet-- so slight the modulator almost lets it by. “What are you staring at?” Maybe it’s the light, or maybe it was the chaos of these past few days, but you let yourself say it. “You.” He hesitated for a moment before stepping closer to you, leathered hand snaking around your wrist. “Would you believe it if I said I was staring at you too?” You turned away from him, a deep blush spreading across your face as you tried to look anywhere but at him. “Your dumb visor blocks me out, how am I supposed to know if you’re lying or not?”

“I guess you’ll just have to trust me.” Your red faded into a pink as his hand snaked up to rest on your cheek, you leaned into it and felt him step even closer. “Can I trust you?” he asked, his voice soft and quiet. He leaned over and tapped out the work light next to you, plunging the hull of the ship into pitch black. “You can trust me.” You whispered, and his thumb traced your cheek for just a moment before he responded. “Good. Close your eyes” In seconds, you heard the sound of his helmet coming off, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing them closed with all your might before you felt his lips on yours. You sighed into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck and running your fingers along the edges of his hair. It felt longer than you expected, but not unkempt. His breath tasted like caff, and something else you couldn’t quite place, and you could melt into how soft his lips were. This was perfect, this was bliss. You could die right here and now so help you gods. He pulled away far too soon, and you soon heard the hiss of the helmet reconnecting. “You can open your eyes now,” he murmured, and he was once again illuminated by the soft work lamp. “You have no idea how long I wanted to do that,” he spoke, and you stepped towards him, placing his hand in yours, “Well, maybe I’ll just have to stare at you more often.”

[dougmeet]

flynt (13)     hustler (5)     died (4)     trump (4)     million (3)     doing (3)     insurance (3)     larry (3)     seniors (3)     ditching (3)

In 2017, Flynt offered a $10 million reward for evidence that would lead to Trump’s impeachment, and in 2019, Larry Flynt Publications sent a Christmas card to some Republican congressional members that showed Trump lying dead in a pool of blood, with the killer saying: “I just shot Donald Trump on Fifth Avenue and no one assassinated me” — a reference to Trump’s boast that he could commit such a killing and wouldn’t lose votes.

Eggleston Works è una società di cui  avevo sentito parlare molto tempo prima che io abbia mai avuto la  possibilità di assaggiare le loro merci. Situato a Memphis,  nel Tennessee, La loro prima offerta era un oratore che  sembrava un tavolo finale, ma alla fine non ha avuto il successo come  avevano sperato. Alla fine del 1996, l'Andra fu rilasciato.

Dr. Seuss Enterprises Will Shelve 6 Books, Citing 'Hurtful' Portrayals

no more Seuss or WAP for my kid

CSS Grid CSS Grid simplifies existing layout patterns

and

adds new possibilities for graphic design.

It’s a layout framework — without the framework

Fixed or FlexibleYou can create a grid with fixed track sizes or with flexible sizes using percentages or the new

fr fractional unit

Place & Align

You can place items at precise locations on the grid independent of their HTML source order. Alignment features control how items align when placed into a grid area, and also how the whole grid is aligned.

In our urban and suburban houses what should we do without cats? In our sitting or bedrooms, our libraries, in our kitchens and storerooms, our farms, barns, and dockyards, in our docks, our granaries, our ships, and our wharves, in our corn markets, meat markets, and other places too numerous to mention, how useful they are! In our ships, however, the rats oft set them at defiance; still they are of great service. How wonderfully patient is the cat when watching for rats or mice, awaiting their egress from their place of refuge or that which is their home! How well Shakespeare in Pericles, Act iii., describes this keen attention of the cat to its natural pursuit! A slight rustle, and the fugitive comes forth; a quick, sharp, resolute motion, and the cat has proved its usefulness. Let any one have a plague of rats and mice, as I once had, and let them be delivered therefrom by cats, as I was, and they will have a lasting and kind regard for them.

watch  -- 6,780 results ("mrjyn" AND "dougmeet") OR ("dougmeet" AND "BLACKPINK") SEO Results Deliver (images) in something i call (Bracket Racket Cluster SOF SEO) inspired by mr. Kurzweil, who makes your piano tuned No thanks to The Recording Academy for inexplicably overlooking Apple's new album Fetch the Bolt Cutters for an Album of the Year nod at this year's Grammys. @fionaapplerocks

In 2017, Flynt offered a $10 million reward for evidence that would lead to Trump’s impeachment, and in 2019, Larry Flynt Publications sent a Christmas card to some Republican congressional members that showed Trump lying dead in a pool of blood, with the killer saying: “I just shot Donald Trump on Fifth Avenue and no one assassinated me” — a reference to Trump’s boast that he could commit such a killing and wouldn’t lose votes. (65)

flynt (13)

hustler (5)

died (4)

trump (4)

million (3)

doing (3)

insurance (3)

larry (3)

seniors (3)

ditching (3)

Porn purveyor Larry Flynt, who built Hustler magazine into an adult entertainment empire while championing First Amendment rights, died Wednesday.

He was 78.

Flynt had been in frail health and died of heart failure at his Hollywood Hills home, said his nephew, Jimmy Flynt Jr.

Advertisement Skip Ad From his beginnings as an Ohio strip club owner to his reign as founder of one of the most explicit adult-oriented magazines, Flynt constantly challenged the establishment and became a target for the religious right and feminist groups.

Flynt scored a surprising U.S. Supreme Court victory over the Rev.

Jerry Falwell, who had sued him for libel after a 1983 Hustler alcohol ad suggested Falwell had lost his virginity to his mother in an outhouse.

Paid Post What Is This? Seniors Are Ditching Their Auto Insurance and Doing This Instead Seniors Are Ditching Their Auto Insurance and Doing This Instead Seniors Are Ditching Their Auto Insurance and Doing This Instead See More Sponsored Content by Comparisons.org Flynt’s company produced not only Hustler but other niche publications.

He owned a video production company, various websites, a Los Angeles-area casino and 10 Hustler boutiques.

He also licensed the Hustler name to independently owned strip clubs.

His publishing and financial successes were offset in equal measure by controversies and tragedies.

Advertisement 00:48 02:53 Shot by a sniper in 1978, Flynt was paralyzed from the waist down and used a wheelchair the rest of his life.

He fought battles with drug and alcohol addiction, and his fourth wife died of a heroin overdose.

His daughter, Lisa Flynt-Fugate, died in a 2014 car crash in Ohio at age 47.

With a fortune estimated at more than $100 million, Flynt spent his later years in the political arena.

When Gov.

Gray Davis was recalled by California voters in 2003, Flynt was among 135 candidates who ran to replace him.

He called himself “a smut peddler who cares” and gathered more than 15,000 votes.

A self-described progressive, Flynt was no fan of former President Donald Trump.

Before the 2016 election, he offered up to $1 million for video or audio recordings of Trump engaging in illegal or “sexually demeaning or derogatory” activity.

In 2017, Flynt offered a $10 million reward for evidence that would lead to Trump’s impeachment, and in 2019, Larry Flynt Publications sent a Christmas card to some Republican congressional members that showed Trump lying dead in a pool of blood, with the killer saying: “I just shot Donald Trump on Fifth Avenue and no one assassinated me” — a reference to Trump’s boast that he could commit such a killing and wouldn’t lose votes.

Flynt’s life was depicted in the acclaimed 1996 film “The People vs.

Larry Flynt,” which brought Oscar nominations for director Milos Forman and Woody Harrelson, who played Flynt.

—2021年3月3日 (@mrjyn) status: WAP—2021年3月3日 (@mrjyn)

  Twitter [@]  Tweet to: @squarebooks From:  @mrjyn Comm. on:  squarebooks (reply) RE: SB mention by  (author) re. SB her book status: WAP—2021年3月3日 (@mrjyn)

mrjyn comment: quotes Elvis song lyric: 'i don't care' adds:  'I miss #BarryHannah (author), mutual friend to mrjyn (person) and SB, Oxford, MS (bookstore) adding here: RIP Date: 03:13:2021 Time: 8:17 CST

1 of 3 jpg att: 1.  Elvis photo ephemera 'TCB Oath' 2. Photo of cover of Barry Hannah book jacket "Tennis Handsome" Pub: Knopf Ed.: Gordon Lish 3. Jerry Lee Lewis   Cover of Bio Author: Nick Tosches

definitive hypnogogic, Biblical Ovid Southern Gothic Epic hagiography, esprit l'escalier epitaph precursor to whose words will be most tribute to the possible mortality race between the Killer and Keith Richards, KR JLL's Jr. by 15 yrs. check Vegas Book for Odds says Stanley Booth, Author 'Up and Down with the Rolling Stones,' Memphis, TN 'author' -- not Rockcrit, please?

   mrjyn comment: quotes Elvis song lyric: 'i don't care' BarryHannah

This frisky pop confection finds Blackpink teaming up with American singer Selena Gomez. The five girls use a series of ice cream double entendres to send out mating calls and detail how they are different from the other females. I know that my heart can be so cold But I'm sweet for you, come put me in a cone Blackpink and Gomez are encouraging the guys to ignore their icy cool demeanors. Once they take a couple of scoops they will find they are loving and affectionate.

The song's icy metaphors not only have a sensual connotation but also allude to the singers' wealth. Ice on my wrist, yeah, I like it like this Get the bag with the cream The girls are wearing diamond encrusted watches (ice is a slang word for diamonds). "Get the bag with the cream" refers to a bag loaded with cash.

The song is Blackpink's second hookup with a major American pop star in 2020, following their Lady Gaga collaboration, "Sour Candy." Both songs use sexy food analogies to represent the enticing love that the girls are ready to give out.

Frequent Blackpink collaborators, the Korean Teddy Park and the American Bekuh Boom, are the primary writers. Park wrote the main melody while Boom was in Korea. She then wrote the lyrics over his tune, incorporating a series of sexy ice cream-related play on words. The other credited writers are Ariana Grande, her go-to collaborators Victoria Monet, and Tommy Brown, Mr. Franks, Selena Gomez and the Korean producer 24.

The retro-tinged video finds Gomez driving a pink ice cream truck in a pinup sailor outfit. The four Blackpink girls all appear in a candy-coated frozen dessert fantasy land before ending the clip in an ice cream amusement park. Blackpink's scenes were filmed in South Korea, while the scenes featuring Gomez were shot in the US because of the coronavirus pandemic.

The song was birthed at a songwriting camp that producer Teddy Park asked Bekuh Boom to run for Blackpink's debut studio album. Boom asked Tommy Brown and Victoria Monét to come to the sessions at LA's Westlake Studio, and the pair brought Mr. Franks along with them. "Tommy had Franks pull up beats, and eventually Franks played the one that all of us started vibing to and decided to work on together," recalled Boom to Genius. "Victoria brought up the subject 'ice cream' and started humming melodies that we then started writing lyrics to together in the room. From that point on we had a great back and forth of ideas for the first half of the song that was done that night."

  A post shared by mrjyn (@dougmeet)

no more Seuss or WAP for my kid. Dr. Seuss Enterprises Will Shelve 6 Books, Citing 'Hurtful' Portrayals https://t.co/Cc23ru1M6K— mrjyn (@mrjyn) 2021年3月3日

     Eggleston Works " Fontaine II "

           Diffusori a torre    

         SCHEDA

Di            cosa si tratta:

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Produttore:

         Egglestone Works  Usa

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 Due vie Reflex

Costo:

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   L'opportunità per me di ascoltare  un altoparlante EgglestonWorks è arrivata tramite il mio amico e collega,  Marshall Nack. Alcuni di voi lettori a lungo termine  potrebbero ricordare la recensione approfondita di Marshall dei Rosas di  EgglestonWorks.    Marshall e la sua adorabile moglie  Lynn sono una coppia insolita in quanto entrambi sono audiofili. In  realtà, sono l'unica coppia audiofila che conosco personalmente. Sono  certo che il fatto che siano entrambi dei musicisti seri è in gran parte  responsabile della loro capacità di ascoltare le gradazioni e i dettagli  tonali molto fini con tanta facilità. Tra i suoi molti  talenti, Marshall ha un'eccezionale capacità di dare voce a  un sistema. Sembra sempre in grado di trovare la giusta  miscela di componenti e accessori che si traducono in un sistema  eccezionalmente ben bilanciato. Questo è molto più difficile  da realizzare di quanto si possa pensare. Tuttavia, la natura  rivelatrice dei diffusori EgglestonWorks è stata determinante nel  raggiungimento dei suoi obiettivi sonori.    Quando lo Stereophile Show è  arrivato in città questa primavera, la stanza di EgglestonWorks era in  cima alla mia lista delle visite obbligatorie. È stato lì che  ho incontrato EgglestonWorks prez Jim Thomson e ho iniziato il mio primo  ascolto con i Fontaines. So che hai tutti sentito che la  qualità del suono agli spettacoli è generalmente piuttosto brutta. Mentre  trovo che questo sia ampiamente vero, allo stesso tempo, puoi avere  un'idea del potenziale sonoro di un prodotto, o come alla  fine potrebbe funzionare in condizioni di casa. I Fontaines  furono sistemati nella sala dell'home theater di Eggleston. Incluso  con il display era un paio di sub-woofer dedicati.    Secondo la letteratura aziendale,  "il design di ciascun modello di altoparlante nella linea EgglestonWorks  inizia con il midrange". Per le Fontaines, una coppia di 6  "polipropilene, i driver a doppio magnete gestiscono il  midrange e il basso. Ognuno di questi driver ha una bobina da  3 "di diametro, che è stata ripetuta molte volte ma che ripete, come è  vero, se il midrange non è corretto, di tutti gli altri è  infruttuoso. Il tweeter ha una grande camera di smorzamento  aperiodico che imita il caricamento infinito del diaframma. Il  tweeter è collegato al crossover con un cappuccio e due resistori  utilizzati come un L-pad.    Un singolo set di morsetti è  montato in un pannello incassato nella parte posteriore della sezione  driver. Ho chiesto a Jim Thompson di utilizzare un singolo  set di post di rilegatura in contrasto con la tendenza attuale di  utilizzare post doppio. I driver sono direttamente collegati  ai bind. Ovviamente, se un cliente è impostato su biwiring,  questi diffusori possono essere dotati di doppio binding post su un ordine  speciale.

I driver dei bassi e dei medi sono  alloggiati in quello che EgglestonWorks descrive come una custodia con una  linea di trasmissione quasi in trasmissione. Ciò si ottiene  impiegando un materiale di imbottitura acustico specializzato noto come " Lastre  di granito italiane legate a loro. Il risultato finale di  questi sforzi è un recinto molto inerte che fornisce una risposta dei  bassi molto migliore rispetto alle dimensioni ridotte dei driver.    Dopo diverse conversazioni con Jim  Thompson, quattro cartoni di dimensioni medie ma piuttosto pesanti  arrivarono da EgglestonWorks. I cartoni contenevano il driver  e le sezioni di base corrispondenti. Dovresti stare molto  attento mentre imposti questi diffusori per non danneggiare la squisita  finitura nera del pianoforte. L'immagine non rende in alcun  modo giustizia a questi oratori. Devi davvero vederli di  persona per capire cosa intendo. I Fontaines possono essere  visti come uno di quei prodotti che rientrano nella categoria "audio come  arte". Sono semplicemente belli. I Fontaines  possono essere visti come uno di quei prodotti che rientrano nella  categoria "audio come arte". Sono semplicemente belli. I  Fontaines possono essere visti come uno di quei prodotti che rientrano  nella categoria "audio come arte". Sono semplicemente belli.    La vestibilità e la finitura sono  proprio lì con il meglio che abbia mai visto.È ovvio per me che  EgglestonWorks ha preso molta cura e ha fatto spese considerevoli nella  progettazione e costruzione di questi contenitori.    Una volta assemblati, gli  altoparlanti danno l'aspetto di un monolitico sul pavimento. Le  basi sono sabbia-fallibili e formeranno un recinto molto sostanziale. Vi  consiglio caldamente di stabilirvi il posizionamento finale prima di  riempire le basi di sabbia. Questi bambini sono abbastanza  pesanti per cominciare; una volta riempito di sabbia, sarebbe  quasi impossibile per la persona media muoversi da sola. Ho  posizionato gli altoparlanti su una trapunta, quindi sui loro lati, per  inserire i quattro bulloni che fissano le basi in posizione. Questo  viene fatto attraverso un pannello di accesso nella parte inferiore della  base. Mentre le punte fornite sono molto robuste, hanno  un filo sottile e possono essere facilmente danneggiati se si è negligenti  durante l'installazione. Il cofano del conducente è molto  inerte quindi consiglierei molto se decidi di eseguire il test delle  articolazioni.

Mi piace particolarmente il modo in  cui hanno scelto di affrontare le griglie. Sono costruiti con  un materiale molto puro montato su una sottile struttura in acciaio. Si  collegano al pannello frontale mediante magneti che sono sepolti sotto il  laminato di superficie. Questa disposizione rende il  fissaggio delle griglie il più semplice possibile e ha funzionato bene per  me.    Mentre l'efficienza è elencata come  quello che potrebbe sembrare un 87db piuttosto basso, non ho avuto  problemi a raggiungere livelli di rottura del lease con l'amplificatore di  potenza Bel Canto EVo. Però,    Quando ricevo nuove attrezzature da  recensire, inviterò spesso diversi amici non audiofili, accenderò il  sistema e osserverò le loro reazioni. In ogni caso, le  reazioni ai Fontaines iniziarono prima che il primo CD fosse nel cassetto  ed erano sempre abbastanza positivi. Tutti sono stati presi  con il loro aspetto sorprendente e il modo in cui si sono mescolati così  facilmente nella stanza. Sono belli come sono discreti. Mentre  è abbastanza ovvio dalle specifiche e dalla qualità dell'hardware  utilizzato che EgglestonWorks costruisce i suoi diffusori con molta cura,

Come suonano?    Dal momento che non ho la  possibilità di eseguire alcuna misurazione sull'attrezzatura che ho per la  revisione, posso solo dirti come si comportano nel mio sistema. Mentre  credo che le misure abbiano il loro posto, difficilmente  danno il quadro complessivo. Ci sono stati molti componenti  che hanno misurato terribilmente, ma erano artisti stellari dal punto di  vista sonoro, e viceversa.    Hanno quella qualità trasparente  che consente ad ogni strumento di occupare il proprio spazio, ma sempre  con un naturale senso di proporzione all'interno del palcoscenico. Nessuna  durezza o nervosismo ha mai accompagnato questa chiarezza. Ho  notato anche una qualità semplice e costante del suono che lasciava che la  musica scorresse in modo molto seducente. Piatti e campane  hanno la giusta quantità di lucentezza e delicatezza e di nuovo, sembrano  avere le giuste dimensioni. I tassi di decadimento per questi  strumenti contribuiscono anche al senso del realismo.    Hanno costantemente svelato i  dettagli di basso livello che tra l'altro davano un senso reale delle  dimensioni del luogo di registrazione. Con Miles Davis,Tipo  di bluHo sempre messo in  discussione il suono registrato del pianoforte, specialmente con molte  delle vecchie registrazioni Blue Note. Proprio l'opposto è il  caso della registrazione XRCD, in particolare con molte delle  vecchie registrazioni Blue Note. Proprio l'opposto è il caso  della registrazione XRCD, in particolare con molte delle  vecchie registrazioni Blue Note. Proprio l'opposto è il caso  della registrazione XRCD,Waltz  for Debby del  Bill Evans Trio [JVC XRCD VICJ-60141]. Qui le qualità tonali  e la complessa struttura armonica del pianoforte sono presentate molto  bene.    Sono rimasto sorpreso dal senso di  profondità con cui questi relatori mi hanno presentato. La  mia stanza non collaborerà molto in quest'area, quindi questa è stata una  sorpresa gradita. In effetti, è il migliore che ho sentito  qui. Il riempimento del centro era azzeccato: i solisti erano  un po 'più avanti di quanto io non fossi abituato, ma era di buon effetto. Nel  complesso, ho trovato le capacità di imaging di questi diffusori di essere  eccezionalmente buone. Per i miei gusti,    Dal momento che il punto -3db è  quotato a 55Hz, non mi aspettavo troppo dalle regioni inferiori, ma sono  rimasto piacevolmente sorpreso da ciò che ho sentito. Ora non  fraintendere, questi non sono gli altoparlanti per gli organi  a canne o i fan del reggae. Per quel tipo di uscita dei bassi  dovresti guardare molto più in alto nella linea EgglestonWorks. Ciò  che è notevole in questo caso è la precisione del basso. Non  è mai cupo; piuttosto, tende ad essere stretto e melodico. Quando  eseguito male, il basso può oscurare gli elementi musicali nella gamma  media inferiore. Il basso dei Fontaines non interferisce o  oscura affatto il midrange. In altre parole, la fioritura  della fascia bassa non viene a scapito della chiarezza del midrange. Per  classica e buona parte del jazz, potresti essere abbastanza  soddisfatto della fascia bassa delle Fontaines. Nel  complesso, l'uscita dei bassi è stata molto meglio di quanto mi  aspettassi.    Lo scorso giugno Tim Shea ha  scritto una magnifica recensione del Musse Audio Reference Two NF  speakers. Li ho a portata di mano e farò una revisione di  follow-up. Tuttavia, poiché sono nella stessa fascia di  prezzo delle Fontaines,    I Reference Twos, come i Fontaines,  sono monitor bidirezionali. In questo caso, fornisci gli  stand. Le differenze sonore colpiscono a causa della forza di  ciascuna bugia alle estremità opposte dello spettro sonoro. Con  un punto -3db di 35Hz e una frequenza di sintonizzazione della porta di  29Hz, non sorprende che i Reference Twos si approfondiscano. La  parte bassa qui è stretta e melodica. Mentre i Fontaines non  vanno così in profondità, Devo dire che il basso è un po 'più  stretto e un po' più melodico dei Reference Twos. Tuttavia, i  Fontaines ottengono sicuramente un cenno del capo per l'estensione del  registro medio e superiore, dolcezza e ottima resa dei  dettagli. Questi sono tratti sonori che sono un appuntamento  fisso nella sala d'ascolto di Perry e in seguito sono venuto ad ascoltarli  per tutto il tempo. In aggiunta a questo, c'è  molta aria intorno agli strumenti con un tasso di decadimento molto buono. Alcuni  potrebbero descrivere questi diffusori come neutri dal punto di vista  tonale, tuttavia si desidera descrivere questa caratteristica. Io,  d'altra parte, trovare la loro tonalità per essere  leggermente sul lato caldo. Mi sta bene. Nel  complesso, semplicemente si tolgono la via della musica.    Etta James, Life,  Love and The Blues [Private  Label 01005-82162-2]: Questo è un CD che è un ottimo esempio del suono  "Mussel Shoals". Ha una linea di basso sostenuta molto  pesante durante molti tagli. Check-out " senza  alcun segno di sovraccarico del conducente o altro pericolo. Dal  basso superiore in su tutto va bene. La voce di Etta James  arriva con la giusta quantità di morso e calore. Dal basso  superiore in su tutto va bene. La voce di Etta James arriva  con la giusta quantità di morso e calore. Dal basso superiore  in su tutto va bene. La voce di Etta James arriva con la  giusta quantità di morso e calore.    Patricia Barber, Companion Il  senso di immediatezza e presenza è tale che è possibile ottenere  un'implicazione delle dimensioni della stanza senza alcun iper-dettaglio  per intromettersi. Sul taglio "Usami" c'è un  assolo di basso verticale che i Fontaines riproducono con tutte le trame e  la ricchezza armonica in tatto. Signorina. La  voce del barbiere ha una trama soffice che è abbastanza piacevole senza  che i dettagli vocali siano mai esagerati. Non ho mai avuto  l'impressione di poter vedere le sue tonsille.    Con opere sinfoniche su larga  scala, questi bambini continuano nella stessa vena. Mentre le  loro capacità limitate di fascia bassa diminuiranno parte dello slam e del  peso che i loro fratelli più grandi sono in grado di gestire,    Per riassumere, la EgglestonWorks  Fontaines può essere descritta come molto musicale. Mentre ti  daranno tutti gli attributi che gli audiofili bramano, non sono mai  eccessivamente analitici. Apprezzo molto le qualità dei medi  che mantengono le mie sessioni di ascolto sul lato lungo. Mi  fanno venire voglia di togliersi la roba da audiofili e semplicemente  sedersi e godersi la musica. Mi trovo a tirare fuori CD dopo  CD che non ho sentito da un po 'di tempo per ascoltare. Se  ritieni di dover semplicemente avere quell'ultimo bit di uscita dei bassi,  ricorda che i sottotitoli corrispondenti sono disponibili. palcoscenico  sonoro totalmente coerente e la massima semplicità della presentazione  musicale. Non ho mai sentito alcuna discontinuità tra basso,  medi o alti. Erano sempre coerenti in questo senso.    Questi diffusori sono di altissima  qualità ed è necessario collegarli a ingranaggi di pari qualità a monte. Ovviamente  lavoreranno con amplificatori economici, ma riveleranno  rapidamente tutte le carenze e le deficienze del suono. Le  Fontaines EgglestonWorks sono l'essenza del lusso. Mentre non  possono essere considerati a buon mercato e sono in un campo affollato a  questo punto di prezzo

     VEDIAMO DIETRO

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[bunnybananasims]

Capulet family, Roaring Heights

The Capulets are two of the nicest and most generous people around. As family-oriented persons and owners of many of the Roaring Heights’ businesses, their day is always either on work or tea time with their children. But everything changed when a “miracle” entered their empty nester lives. What would be the impact of this miracle to the whole clan?

Powerful supernaturals and tycoons Leonardo and Melissa Capulet reside at the largest residential building in Roaring Heights, the City Condo at 43 Collins Street. They are the patriarch and matriarch of the whole Capulet clan who are originally from Monte Vista and moved to Roaring Heights, to trade their quiet, Tuscan countryside lives for a glamorous, glitzy and roaring lifestyle.

Leonardo, Melissa, and their eldest daughter Juliet, who just became a young adult back then, decided to move to Roaring Heights from their quiet life in Monte Vista, because of the promise of opportunities to build their own business empire there. Leonardo is a genius, ambitious and hardworking man who is really into business, while Melissa is a very supportive wife who loves cooking, gardening, and the finer things in life. Sometimes she can be too “friendly” to other people, but he doesn’t mind. He trusts her so much.

After settling at Roaring Heights, Leonardo applied for a job at the Law Enforcement, while Melissa applied for a job at the Business career, since they love being in those careers so much even though they don’t really need to because their finances are in a very good place. After Juliet, they had their second daughter, Isabella, and twin boys Lorenzo and Alessandro. And due to their tinkering and inventing hobbies, they managed to make a time machine and travel back in time, and came back with a vampire child named Patricia, who they raised together with their own children. There are times when their relationship was definitely not in a good place.

Not all the time their marriage is perfect and good. There was a time when Leonardo ended up having a short affair with his partner at the law enforcement, the late Ainsley Andrews, and he didn’t know then that they had a daughter. She named her Sonia. At the time he didn’t care about Sonia, which made Sonia move in near the City Condo so that she could try to be closer to him. After Ainsley passed away, he realized that he was wrong not to care and he’s making it up with her now, by being close to Sonia and her children. All of Leonardo’s children accepted Sonia and are very close with her now. Melissa doesn’t care anymore about his husband’s short fling before. The past is past. What’s done is done. They only want to focus on their own children and businesses.

And, not long after, they own almost all the establishments at the beachfront strip. They are living in the lap of luxury and swimming in cash. And all their children are successful in their own careers and family lives.

They were now empty nesters, living their best lives, looking after the businesses, socializing with other Roaring Heights residents, exploring the town, and catching up with their children and grandchildren.

And they thought only two of them will be living in their large home. Turns out the total residents will now become three, as Melissa got pregnant. Being (almost) immortal supernaturals, they still have their youth and still have the capability to have children. But, at this time and age, they have no plans to have children anymore. Looks like they have to adjust again, back to their early parenting days. They’re still so happy.

What will their child become in the future? How will the child fit into his/her older siblings and relatives’ lives?

[404fmdhaon]

creative claims verification — maestro

summary: a song written in 2016. an angry boy says fuck you to the people that doubted his talents, again. warnings: none wc: 1820 (not including lyrics)

he touches a real piano for the first time in years.

the set of ivory keys lined up, sparse increments of black filling the void. eighty-eight keys, fifty two white thirty six black. he’s always favored the b and e from first glance when he realized the onyx keys weren’t the only casualty of a flat or sharp. it takes him all but three seconds to line up the technical keys — first the octave progressions that start with basic fingering. four fingers, spanning eight keys. it starts at octave one, breaches to octave seven.

he remembers the first time he played a piano.

five years old at the mercy of his mother — pianos make pretty hands, and my son will have pretty hands. in hindsight, he doesn’t know what the fuck she meant then, and still doesn’t know when he’s twenty-seven severed ties from a family long gone. yet, he remembers the prosperious beginnings of a formidable boy at age eight — playing along the tunes of chopin, schubert and mendelsson. 

for old times sake, he plays the etudes. and like muscle memory, schubert and the hours invested into each tick on the clock and mark against the practice sheet take its toll — it plays smoothly, and the smirk curved on his face tells otherwise of the distaste that subsides inside his stomach.

he leaves, places his hand on the side arm before folding himself ninety degrees (muscle memory takes him there too).

-

the taste of a grand piano becomes addicting on his fingers like an insatiable itch by the time it’s three days pass. he waits another two.

addiction doesn’t pass, and impulsitivity ensues. his name marked on the reservation sheet placed in the recording room with the grand piano, he marches straight through combatted for war with the lingering ties of his past.

it starts when he mimics the beginnings of beethoven and mozart — the first names he learns when he’s sitting on edge scrawled across the piano with the sheet music at bay. it’s the first of two pieces juxtaposed together, inside the minor keys (he remembers, he hated the minors. too many damn sharps to account for). it starts with a two note combination — flits past two octaves. it’s here it becomes an ode, a death march to the things he’s buried under.

but his creativity ceases when he’s struck at a standstill.

no beethoven or bach — there’s nothing that budges past the iteration of the same baseline he’s concocted. no codas composing one break into the next — instead, it’s a repeat measure when he finds solace inside. clicks of the mouth amassing it, only to string it out past the span of three minutes.

it’s the ode to classics and the greatest: the bare standard he manages when he’s thrown the years of promising futures to a life underground and the classics washed away into the easy floating beats of hip hop and rap. yet, he never loses respect — the morsel of respect left for the era that kept him afloat all those years. and he suspects, it must be an effect of music. the keys that leave him jarred and marred with years of memories he can’t forget nor bury. call him a hypocrite — he doesn’t fall out of love with the classics. not when he’s eight and not when he’s twenty-two on the verge of relenting adulthood.

-

he takes the notes for what it’s worth — the repetition on loop in the background. and if he’s had to guess, he gives it to his favorite period: the romantic era where chopin and brahms take him by storm. 

yet, the contrast takes him when the black screen reflects his own image — the contours of his face, sullen and pulled empty by the ties of schedules. stretched to his core where music no longer hovers along lonely bodies and disassociations. a scandal a dozen, and he’s stripped bare void of any creative freedom or outlet. (this becomes his outlet).

when his pen mars the empty pages, and he’s left with telling the story untold. a history he’s never spoken — the question looms: who is chung gyujeong. like a nightmare, he can’t give the answer. instead, what he knows is that the piano became a life hold when he was five. fawns over his small frame and sways to the movement of his fingers — talent encompassing. now, he makes bodies sway to the shitty rhymes and pop-drenched beats of a sell-out inundating him heavy.

sunbaes, and he has to fold himself over. speak the formalities to same fucking round of people trapped in the vicious cycle. it’s here, he understands. his escape started at fourteen, inside late nights with nothing more than a side lamp and the tawdry note pad — lyrics. sounds of his mother shaking her head, yanking him into obedience inside the four walls of hakwons saying the carbon-printed sayings of ‘there’s no future in lyrics. time for piano.’ 

he shakes his head, laughs. the ripple effect coming inside a wash of memories when he tells her to look at him now — a lost son, cut and tied with a cold shoulder faced to his family inside a marble house. “call me maestro.” his voice whispers out loud.

i played the piano since i was 5, i was a musical genius beethoven, mozart, bach and chopin were my predecessors however at 14, i put them aside and started writing lyrics i quite like this, you can’t make money that way — they all can shove it unlimited refills of versace drink — that was my first movement maserati car, white marble house — that was my second. the mic is my baton, call me maestro

there’s parallelisms he sees in clear sight, visceral and vibrant. the sounds of people telling him that he’d fuck up the second he cut his money string in family roots in tune with the rancid talks of idols pinpointing an inflated ego with no talent. gyujeong huffs a laugh, raises a middle finger in lieu of the words held down without a punch. there’s no gentleness here, no. not when the world opens into clarity — the divide between him and them. he’s not a fucking sell out, not when he’s still put his art on the line. traded in the suit pants of the events for his distressed pants and the years of lessons into amassing his own small empire.

he flicks a middle finger at his family — fuck you all for never seeing me for my work. and fuck you to the underground facades guising themselves as a temporary home only to rip out the benefits the second he stepped onto a big stage. this song becomes his mic drop — a fuck you to everyone because it’s chung gyujeong against the world. a twenty something with his pride tattered, he salvages the remains and puts them right here.

truthfully, distressed pants are way better than suit pants i can’t be gentle, i just scream and the money piles up the wealthy are all on the gentle side mr. geonhee give up your ceo title to me mr. nochang should give me his “genius name”* (천재노창 / genius nochang is a real rapper, but i’m using it as a npc point for gyu for the sake of verifications)

there’s stares inside every hallway he walks across. the scowl permanently engraved along his face when he passes by the hopefuls with innocence drowning their eyes in starry-wide visions. then, the whispers back stage of crude avoidance (he hears them all. hears all the shit, sees all the shit they say). a no-good nothing, spoiled and satiated by the fame handed to him on a silver platter — a talentless nothing, starved by nothing. they call him fucked, he calls them pathetic.

you listen to my line just now and say i’m fucked up.

his family’s pathetic when their on their last lifeline. a stern warning coming in volatile shouts, repeating in steps — you’ll never make it, so stop the act now. teenage rebellion stopped at fourteen, and that’s when he takes a plunge into the risks. by then, he’d been a boy with high hopes and higher expectations, a cesspool of goals and the ambition bursting the seams of his heart. an image with the name ‘haon’, a gentle rich boy nestled inside the heart of han-nam (he tells the underground kids, choke on your words when we’re on different levels).

but rather than being locked up by life i’d rather plunge right into the risks i knew my voice would be my moneymaker i dug a huge pit in the neighborhood ground with music and declared that my confidence was my classic image “to me, a sonata is just a car.” i’ll never think anything like that.

no expectations now, he tells it all to eat the shit he’s sowed. choke on their sacred words and cheap laughs, mocking his state. a sell-out, maybe — but he doesn’t take that to his grave. not when his pen still flows against the paper inside each verse and rhyme matching clear. it’s not da capo, and never the beginning. from here, he crawls his way out — fingers pressed and clawing for the taste of his name for everyone to choke on.

he writes the last few statements in a farewell to the harrowing thoughts that kept him restless for so many nights. the pen, dwindling on the last remains of ink — he stops caring, and lets the imprints carry the words he’ll take to heart.

fuck da capo, ill never go back to the beginning no applause, no, play the second movement, hallelujah the normal kids can fuck off but i don’t give a fuck son here is your tombstone with your name written on it. my art hall is the club, call me maestro.

the loop plays in the back, and he repeats the words written back. it flows, uncertain and heady when he doesn’t get it straight the first time.

frustration comes when he grabs onto his hair, pacing back and forth inside an echoing studio booming only the same chords from the start — beethoven’s madness, he thinks to himself. it’s a taste of mirroring an art form, and here, he must be doing something right.

headphones solidified back into his ears, he goes fueled this time. fueled by each memory and word shot back at him like weaponry, aimed straight for his gut. it comes in the billows of his voice, blaring when he shouts and places a piece of his soul into the chords played. there’s no repercussions here, not when it’s just him and the keys in a dead-eye match of past, present and future.

(he takes this, keeps it till the eighth take fulfills).

and what lacks, he sees when his ears perk up the void that lays subtle inside the track. he doesn’t want the hollowness of the piano — not when he sits upon as a maestro of an orchestra. 

the keyboard comes out — this time fine tuned settings poised towards the deep cellos coming in at the two minute mark. it sets the baseline once more for the breach into the bridge. he sits there, doesn’t want it to linger longer than it’s enough to get the punch of meaning into frame. because he’s no longer the classist perched against the walls of a lonely room with no windows and the piano’s not the only voice he speaks to. instead, it’s the frame of a closing in on an attack he’s ready to dig deep in.

no longer a pianist, he picks up friend through the loose mic. the traverse into hip hop where the kick drum and reverbs become solace (he adds those too). adds in each of beat at the end of each iteration. the chords become hugged by the bellowing arches of the reverb, and he finds — this becomes his new sound of home. the one replayed at the hands of his martyrdom. except, he doesn’t fall at the hands of so many loose words. fragility, it doesn’t exist when he’s built himself a skin of armor like a shell encasing a boy no longer molded or mangled.

he’s been strung thin long enough. heard enough empty words. it’s a lesson learned — fuck everyone who’s ever doubted him. 

[flippyspoon]

hello girlyy 💞 i was hoping you could help me i’m trying to expand my mind & all that during quarantine, could you give me some of your fav book recs? thanks ;))

OK. Well, these are probably tragically obvious but oh well lol:

The Raven Cycle by Stiefvater: Blue has spent the majority of her sixteen years being told that if she kisses her true love, he will die. When Blue meets Gansey’s spirit on the corpse road she knows there is only one reason why - either he is her true love or she has killed him. Determined to find out the truth, Blue becomes involved with the Raven Boys, four boys from the local private school (lead by Gansey) who are on a quest to discover Glendower - a lost ancient Welsh King who is buried somewhere along the Virginia ley line. Whoever finds him will be granted a supernatural favour. -That summary does not do it justice. Trust me. if you haven’t read it yet.

The Captive Prince series by C.S. Pacat: Damen is a warrior hero to his people, and the rightful heir to the throne of Akielos, but when his half brother seizes power, Damen is captured, stripped of his identity, and sent to serve the prince of an enemy nation as a pleasure slave.Beautiful, manipulative and deadly, his new master Prince Laurent epitomizes the worst of the court at Vere. But in the lethal political web of the Veretian court, nothing is as it seems, and when Damen finds himself caught up in a play for the throne, he must work together with Laurent to survive and save his country.For Damen, there is just one rule: never, ever reveal his true identity. Because the one man Damen needs is the one man who has more reason to hate him than anyone else… 

-Some people have trouble getting through the first book because everything in book 1 is sort of reframed in book 2 but in 1 you’re very much like…this dude is so evil how…It’s kind of genius how everything later turns upside down.

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon:

  A young escape artist and budding magician named Joe Kavalier arrives on the doorstep of his cousin, Sammy Clay. While the long shadow of Hitler falls across Europe, America is happily in thrall to the Golden Age of comic books, and in a distant corner of Brooklyn, Sammy is looking for a way to cash in on the craze. He finds the ideal partner in the aloof, artistically gifted Joe, and together they embark on an adventure that takes them deep into the heart of Manhattan, and the heart of old-fashioned American ambition. From the shared fears, dreams, and desires of two teenage boys, they spin comic book tales of the heroic, fascist-fighting Escapist and the beautiful, mysterious Luna Moth, otherworldly mistress of the night. Climbing from the streets of Brooklyn to the top of the Empire State Building, Joe and Sammy carve out lives, and careers, as vivid as cyan and magenta ink.

-It’s been a long time, I’m due for a reread. But this is probably one of my favorite books. Especially great if you’re at all interested in comics history which I’m not especially and it’s still one of my favorite books.

The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro - This is Kazuo Ishiguro’s profoundly compelling portrait of Stevens, the perfect butler, and of his fading, insular world in post-World War II England. Stevens, at the end of three decades of service at Darlington Hall, spending a day on a country drive, embarks as well on a journey through the past in an effort to reassure himself that he has served humanity by serving the “great gentleman,” Lord Darlington. But lurking in his memory are doubts about the true nature of Lord Darlington’s “greatness,” and much graver doubts about the nature of his own life.

-This is in my top 3 of all time.

The Kiss Quotient by Helen Hoang - Stella Lane thinks math is the only thing that unites the universe. She comes up with algorithms to predict customer purchases—a job that has given her more money than she knows what to do with, and way less experience in the dating department than the average thirty-year-old.It doesn’t help that Stella has Asperger’s and French kissing reminds her of a shark getting its teeth cleaned by pilot fish. Her conclusion: she needs lots of practice—with a professional. Which is why she hires escort Michael Phan. The Vietnamese and Swedish stunner can’t afford to turn down Stella’s offer, and agrees to help her check off all the boxes on her lesson plan—from foreplay to more-than-missionary position…Before long, Stella not only learns to appreciate his kisses, but crave all of the other things he’s making her feel. Their no-nonsense partnership starts making a strange kind of sense. And the pattern that emerges will convince Stella that love is the best kind of logic…

-A romance so good I was once trying to read it while in line for rides at Disney Land lol.

A Room with a View - E.M. Forster - A charming tale of the battle between bourgeois repression and radical romanticism, E. M. Forster’s third novel has long been the most popular of his early works. A young girl, Lucy Honeychurch, and her chaperon—products of proper Edwardian England—visit a tempestuous, passionate Italy. Their “room with a view” allows them to look into a world far different from their own, a world unconcerned with convention, unfettered by social rituals, and unafraid of emotion. Soon Lucy finds herself bound to an obviously “unsuitable” man, the melancholic George Emerson, whose improper advances she dare not publicize. Back home, her friend and mentor Charlotte Bartlett and her mother, try to manipulate her into marriage with the more “appropriate” but smotheringly dull Cecil Vyse, whose surname suggests the imprisoning effect he would have on Lucy’s spirit.

-One of my books since I don’t know…8th grade or something.

Hope this helps!