#the show is apparently just WAY more obscure than I anticipated in general?

[decepti-geek]

for all that I love Ghosts, I've been getting a very different kind of joy out of watching uploads of a very, very similar show on youtube - The Ghosts of Motley Hall.

Like, a setup where the ghosts actually mostly like each other from the off, so that a huge chunk of the dialogue just goes towards establishing more and more of their meandering, idiosyncratic shared history (especially because the budget was clearly about £1.50 so they have to establish most things through dialogue)... that has its own kind of charm.

[animepopheart]

Wonder Egg Priority, Episode 11: “The Temptation of Death”?

Wonder Egg Priority is a beautiful, uncomfortable, moving and confusing series that starts out engaging all the things we don’t talk about—self-harm, abuse, rape, bullying, gender dysmorphia, and homosexuality, to name a few. Our silence and blindness to these issues have a weight and pressure to them, and WEP shows how this reinforces the isolation and hopelessness of the young women of the “eggs” who turn to suicide for relief. The first ten episodes have been exhilarating and exhausting alike.

And then there is Episode 11. This past week, the series took a bit of a turn, leaning hard into the sci-fi-philosophical, with appearances from Greek gods, a murderous artificial intelligence, and really, really disturbing insect girls, one of whom, despite being a brutal killer, is apparently a vegetarian. Has the show gone off the rails? Has it lost its way in departing from the familiar procedural approach of engaging a differing social or mental health issue with each episode?

Such a critique is perfectly legit, but before you write off the penultimate episode of WEP, just hear me out on why the abstract, meta turn in episode 11 may just be the most valuable thing this series has to offer so far.

Before we begin though, a little recap of what we learned this week. In episode 10, we hear the eggheads, Acca and Ura-Acca, discuss the need for warriors of Eros to battle Thanatos. This is our first hint that things are about to get lore-full and maybe a bit weird. Eros and Thanatos are of course gods in the ancient Greek pantheon, Eros being the god of love, and Thanatos, of non-violent death. Within the first minute or so of episode 11, it’s clear that the eggheads’ hope is now focused on Ai becoming the long-awaited warrior. At this point though, rather than continuing with Ai’s story, the episode shifts into flashback mode and we are finally introduced to the villain, an artificial intelligence created by the eggheads back when they were still human. Their lives gradually come to revolve around her: She is the fulfillment of their obsession to create life, and she is good.

Frill is associated with hydrangeas, which symbolise heartlessness and pride in Japanese flower language. But is it her heartlessness and pride, or that of her makers?

(Atelier Emily has done an outstanding series of posts on the flowers in WEP. Check it out!)

Only, it turns out she doesn’t play so nice when others join the happy family. After killing Acca’s wife, and putting the life of the unborn baby at risk, the AI—who named herself Frill—is unrepentant, all traces of her seeming humanity now revealed to be illusory, a mere affectation. Acca locks her away in a hole in the cellar. Years pass. The baby, Himari, grows up and is a ray of sunshine. But after effectively confessing to her ‘uncle’ (why does anime always do this?), she commits suicide. Ura-Acca discovers that Frill is still very much alive and active from her hole in the cellar, having powered up all the discarded monitors and laid down reams of electrical cables—to what end, we do not yet know. Though Ura-Acca surmises that she has somehow influenced Himari to take her own life. How else would the girl have known about Ura-Acca’s admiration for her mother? Where else would she have learned to make what will forever be to me now that uncannily sinister popping sound?

Here’s where it gets weirder. Unlike the suicides of subsequent egg girls, there is no indication that Himari, Frill’s apparent first victim, struggled with any mental health or other issues that would motivate her to take her own life. Indeed, her ‘uncle’ did not even reject her confession. (Again anime, why you do this thing?) Instead, the eggheads explain Himari’s suicide as being on account of the “temptation of death.” What now?

This is implying that death is somehow attractive, not just to someone facing overwhelming brokenness, trauma or pain, like the egg girls we’ve met so far, but to someone on the verge of stepping from a (relatively) happy childhood into young adulthood, with the promise of potential love to look forward to; someone who has not known suffering, but rather only smiles and cake. (To be fair, it is always possible that she experienced trauma in the womb, or was more deeply affected by her father’s sadness than Ura-Acca’s memories belie.)

That’s my question too, Ai.

The notion of death as somehow attractive or even beautiful is rather alien to Western culture. Certainly, there will always be some who romanticize death, à la star-crossed lovers (Shakespeare, I’m looking at you). But in general, Western culture views death as something ugly and frightening, something to avoid until it is staring you directly in the face, and even then, closing your eyes in denial is a perfectly reasonable response. Death is one of those things we don’t talk about. In my experience, Anglo-American culture is not very good at even mourning death. We lack the grieving rituals and observances of other cultures, and instead seek to confine death to the sealed, sanitized spaces of hospitals, care homes, and funeral parlors. We keep it shrouded tightly in silence. How could there ever be anything like the “temptation of death”? How could we ever consider death to be something desirable? Are the eggheads or CloverWorks simply aestheticising suicide and death here to make it sound deep and philosophical?

No, I don’t think that’s it. Instead, Acca and Ura-Acca are doing what all good researchers do—and indeed what all Christians, as believers in an unseen spiritual reality, are also called to do: They are looking more deeply into phenomena that seem, on the surface, to already be explained. The two idol fans were consumed with their obsession, so when their idol killed herself, they followed suit. The young woman whose identity was wrapped up in her own appearance ended her life to preserve her beauty. The abused gymnast saw no way out, no hope in ever living free from torment. Some explanations may be more sympathetic than others, but they all possess their own internal logic. Contemporary society is full of a vast array of pressures and stresses and each one, taken to breaking point, can result in death. Case closed. This might very well be our conclusion from the first ten episodes.

Only the case isn’t closed. Because there is a question that has pervaded every episode until now, but has remained unspoken: How is it that death could even become an option for the egg girls? Why does reaching a breaking point trigger suicide? What made death seem like a savior to these girls? This is the question that episode 11 tackles, in its own admittedly obscure way. The eggheads are focused on the underlying, deeper reality that unites all the eggs’ stories, as disparate as they are—the common thread, which is the idea that death is a release, a rescue, a beautiful ending, and as a result, it is tempting.

“But we wondered if there could be another push that drove them to suicide,” explains Ura-Acca.

This is a really important question for us to be asking. Because it’s not just these traumatized, vulnerable girls who fall for the seduction of death. We do, too.

Just ponder for a moment: Have you ever anticipated how wonderful it will be when, in heaven, you no longer struggle with that particular temptation? When your temper is no longer so short, when you’re not afraid of being hurt anymore? Or maybe you think about how one day, on those gold-paved streets, you won’t have to worry anymore. All your hard work coping and just keeping it together will finally pay off and you’ll cross that finish line and heave a sigh of relief, knowing that you made it in the end. Have you ever contemplated these kinds of things? I know I have.

But here’s the thing: When I expect my liberation to come only after I die and not right here, right now, then it is not Jesus who is my savior, but death. I am waiting for death to free me from temptation and sin and fear and brokenness, and usher me into eternal life. I make Thanatos my god.

The temptation of death is not limited to the drastic act of suicide, but also permeates all the accusations and fears that inspire us to put off living the fullness of life in Christ here and now. It’s the temptation to believe that it is death that will ultimately solve the more difficult and painful problems in life.

Acca and Ura-Acca seek to create a love that suits their ideals, just to relieve their stress.

The source of this “temptation of death” in Wonder Egg Priority is Frill, the AI. That is, a man-made, artificial version of love—with ai meaning “love” in Japanese. According to Ura-Acca, they made her “just for fun,” as a way of dealing with the stress of their enclosed lives. They designed her to suit their preferences, to make it easier to love her and forget that she was artificial. In this sense, Frill is the fruit of their self-centeredness, her every characteristic designed to satisfy their own ideals of how a daughter and woman should be. And this artificial love born of selfishness brings death into their midst and beyond, spreading it through the horrendous deformities of girlhood that she in turn creates, in imitation of her fathers. (Only perhaps her creations are less deceptive than theirs, wearing their monstrosity plainly on the outside…)

Frill’s creations. We’ve met Dash (right) and Dot (center), but who is that on the left? And is her name Morse??

To counter her destructive influence, Acca and Ura-Acca need true love, a genuine love. They need Ai, a messy, at times very weak human being, but one who nevertheless is willing to fight to live up to her name and maybe, just maybe, become a warrior of Eros.

There is also a deep, underlying force at work in our world, one that connects all despair and the actions born of it. A wide range of social issues, traumas and mental health challenges can and do trigger suicide, but they do not explain it fully. The deeper reality is the existence of an enemy who seeks to manipulate us into believing our true savior can only be death, whether it is right away by our own hand, or more subtly, decades from now by natural causes. But this is a lie, and it is one that we can combat. Just as I’m sure we’ll see in the final episode that Ai is equipped to wage the coming battle in WEP, so too are we armed, here and now, with the power to overwhelm the enemy’s “temptation of death”—we possess already the words of life, given to us by our true savior.

Jesus began his ministry with a public announcement that he had come to heal heart wounds, comfort those in pain, fill broken lives with beauty, and wrap those in despair with reasons to praise like a warm protective blanket, so that they might celebrate with joy once again. He came to bring freedom to prisoners and captives alike, giving a fresh new life to those locked up because of deeds done wrong, and those punished and injured at the hands of others. He came to take the outcasts, the weak, the traumatized and broken and transform them into mighty oaks, clean and strong; into people with the vision and skill and compassion and fortitude to rebuild a broken world (Isaiah 61:1-4, Luke 4:18),

He came to rewrite and restore our experience of life here on earth, and through us, to redeem our communities, cities, nations, and the world. God does not withhold the fullness of life from us until we finally make it to him in heaven. No, instead he moved heaven and earth to get right up close so that he could pour his own life out into us, even going so far as to breathe his very spirit into our hearts and bodies and minds. We don’t need to wait for death’s rescue—our hero has already come. But we do need to remind each other and ourselves of this truth pretty often, and let it work down deep into all the cracks and bruises in our souls until it strengthens all our weak spots.

In Deuteronomy 30:19, God tells the Israelites that he has given them the authority to choose between life and death. But he also tips the balances in their favor, urging them to choose life. In Jesus, he comes to tip the balances even further, making it possible for us to step into eternal life here and now, immediately and forever. So let’s do it. Each day, through each struggle we face. Let’s choose life and not death.

Warrior of love? And is Ai’s himawari (sunflower) related to Himari somehow?

Join me (in spirit) for the final episode on Tuesday to see Ai’s love triumph! (At least, I really really hope that’s what happens!)

[bexterbex]

Masking the Heart | Ch. 4

A new galactic war was forming, and your star system needed to create an alliance. Your father, the king, made a deal with the First Order in a promise of protection for guaranteed trade. You are arranged to marry the Commander Kylo Ren, apprentice of the Supreme Leader. A man who is hidden behind his mask. Will your husband show you his heart? Or will it be forever hidden behind a mask?

No tag lists | Masterlist

*Note: The author of this work does not condone arranged marriage practices, domestic abuse, or non-con sexual encounters, this work is for fictional uses only.*

TW: POTENTIAL ED TRIGGERS IN THIS CHAPTER!

Chapter 4

The next few weeks went by in a blur. You were still isolated from everyone but your husband, but even then he wasn’t home often. When he was home, he fucked you against any flat surface in your shared chambers he could get to, with the exception of his room and your bathroom. Almost any time he entered your chambers you could expect to be thrown against the nearest thing while he fucked you until he climaxed. Luckily he would only have you suck him off after he was freshly showered. That was one of the few things you were grateful for.

You were officially married for two-and-a-half months before you saw another person in your chambers. It happened to be General Hux, who followed your husband in.

“I don’t see why you can’t make that possible Ren,” said Hux who stopped dead in his tracks as he saw you. He seemed to morph at the moment, his demeanor changing like a chameleon. “It’s good to see you well Princess. I am glad the rumors aren’t true.”

Your husband was still facing the General if you had to guess you were pretty sure he was glaring under his mask at the ginger-haired man. But you were curious as to what rumors he was talking about. “It is a pleasure to see you, General. May I ask what rumors are you talking about?” Your etiquette is still ingrained in you.

You could see a ghost of a smirk on his face, as his blue eyes mixed with something unknown to you. “Your husband is a rather violent man, one who is not known to like the company of others. One of the main rumors is that you are dead since you have yet to be seen for months. But again, I am glad to see that this rumor just isn’t true.” His hands were behind his back, but if he was anything like your father, he did that to avoid showing what his figurative mask failed to cover.

His statement shocked you, but you could see the truth behind it. You hadn’t left your chambers since you first got here; you hadn’t contacted anyone outside him either, and no one has been here to see you so it wasn’t a far stretch to think you had died. But it saddened you, no one had come to look for you to see if it was true, no, they just assumed it was and were fine to just leave you here to rot. Your humanity was completely stripped away.

You fake laughed at his statement, to cover up your own hurt, “Well I’m glad the rumors aren’t true either. Would you like to stay for dinner?” You were desperate for human contact other than your own husband. You also hoped that if you got to know the General a bit more than you would be comfortable messaging him.

The General looked confounded at your invitation. He then shared a look with your husband, who was still looking at him. Neither of them shared words before the General responded, “I, unfortunately, have a busy schedule tonight. I can however put something in for next week. If that is acceptable Princess?”

You felt what little of yourself that you had built up to ask him initially shatter. But you were glad that it wasn’t a total rejection. “Yes, most certainly although you will have to make sure it is a night that my husband is home.” You knew that he knew that you weren’t allowed to leave and that having dinner with him without your husband would mean bad news for the both of you.

The reevaluation of the invitation earned you a small smile from the General, but before you could say anything else your husband ordered you, “To your room.” It made you feel like you were a small child again being banished from adult conversations. You held your head low as you walked into your room. He didn’t even allow you to relish in your first human contact in months.

You could hear them arguing loudly, but shortly after everything went quiet you got up to walk to your door. But Kylo opened it before you could. You were immediately slammed against the wall facing him as he forced his hand up your dress skirt. You stopped wearing underwear when he was home weeks ago. They seemed to serve little purpose since they were almost always immediately ripped off. You heard him unzip his zipper before his cock slammed into you.

This was the first time since your wedding night that he was taking you face to face. Every time since then he had been taking you from behind, but that wasn’t the only thing that was different than usual. While you had the initial pain and adjustment to him and his cock, all you could feel was pleasure. The way your walls clenched down around his cock made you ride waves of bliss. The head of his cock wasn’t pounding into your cervix anymore, it was hitting something else. Perhaps it was because this was an angle and position you had yet to try. But every time he slammed into you, all you could see were stars.

It was like he was hitting a button to nirvana, and you seemed to be a moaning mess because of it. You clutched his back to allow yourself more support as he deepened his thrusts. Your body quaking with satisfaction instead of pain. And then it hit you, the most wonderful feeling you had ever had. All you could see was white, but you felt yourself clench down around him as you let out a loud, long moan. Your head was thrown back in euphoria. His name but a pleasured scream on your lips. And he forced you to ride it out. He wasn’t done yet.

Eventually, when he did climax he pulled out and dropped you down to the floor. The impact shocked you back into reality. While putting his cock away he leaned down to speak to you, “Congratulations on your first orgasm Princess.” And then he left.

You should have been happy, you have had your first climax, but he used your title as an insult again and all you could feel was that you were dirty. You felt as if that was something you shouldn’t have shared with a man who continues to use you as he does, but you had no choice. You were his by law, and he would one day have to impregnate you. So why were you crying? You picked yourself up off the ground and you wiped away your tears. You walked over to the untouched bed and lied down. You fell asleep. For the first time, you had forgone washing yourself, scrubbing yourself raw, after having sex. You felt dirty and your exterior reflected that.

When you woke the next morning you felt grimy, you had sweat through the night in your dress, and you still had the remnants of last night’s escapade dried between your legs. Even Though you slept hard, you still felt tired. You didn’t have the effort in you to take a bath so you stepped into the shower. Washing away the night’s previous sins and atrocities. You stepped out of the shower and quickly dried yourself off and headed into the bedroom to change. When you were ready you stepped out into the living space but you saw something you did not expect.

Your husband had usually left by now in the morning and typically did not return until dinnertime, however, it seemed as if he was waiting for you today. “You did not eat dinner last night, do not let that happen again,” he then turned to walk out of your chambers.

You called after him, “Wait. I was wondering if I could ask for something?” Your heart was pounding in your chest, but right now seemed like the best chance you were ever going to get. Because you really only saw him when he was fucking you and these two seconds before he left were important.

But you swallowed away any possible nerves as they turned into fear. He turned slowly to face you. Almost as if he was silently saying ‘how dare you say demand something of me,’ but you couldn’t see under his mask. His face and any emotions that it held were obscured from your vision, all you had to go on were voice and body language. Both of which were almost as obstructed. His voice came out like a harsh bark, “What?”

You tried to combat the rear you were feeling and just jump the ship, “I was wondering if you would allow me to order cooking and baking supplies? The datapad you gave me said that you needed to authorize such things.” You wrung your hands anticipating his rejection.

He turned away from you and left; you weren’t even granted an answer. You walked over to your window seat and started to cry. You ignored all feelings of hunger and exhaustion as you let your emotions flow. He hadn’t had the decency to even respond to you with an answer. You were bored, you were lonely, and he didn’t care.

You watched as TIE fighters occasionally flew by the window; you had lost all concepts of time when you heard the door open. You kept your back to it, choosing to stare out the window. You knew you would be scolded for missing last night’s dinner, and today’s breakfast and lunch. But it wasn’t your husband who entered your chambers as you heard your kitchen cabinets opening and shutting. You turned around to see two droids unpacking crates of crockery, baking pans, and groceries. So he apparently had listened, or you wondered if he thought that you were going to starve yourself until you got it. Because in many ways that’s what it looked like, you had missed two meals after he ‘rejected’ you, after you had already missed one.

You watched as one of the droids entered your room and delivered you your datapad. Now installed seemed to be cookbooks and training videos. You thanked the droid. But not two seconds after the droids left you received a message from your husband.  

Princess Ren,

I expect you to maintain a proper diet. The droids have delivered what you requested. Now eat.

                                                                                             Commander Kylo Ren

              Apprentice to Supreme Leader Snoke and Master of the Knights of Ren

So he did think that you had purposefully starved yourself to get what you had wanted. That wasn’t your intention, you were just depressed, but now you felt as if you should follow orders. But you ordered food instead of making it, not wanting to wait and botch your own meal. You contemplated whether or not you should tell your husband that it wasn’t your intention to starve yourself but it just happened. Your thoughts were cut off with the food's arrival.

You weren’t completely inexperienced in the kitchen; you had learned a few things, but you were by no means a chef. When you were younger and done with your studies, you would sneak down to the kitchens before dinner to watch the palace chefs cook. They taught you some of the basics, you remembered the head chef saying, ‘everyone should learn to cook a few things, you have no idea how your life will play out and you need to be able to feed yourself.’

After looking over all the food and scanning through some recipes you decided to make yourself dinner tonight. You had all of the ingredients and the recipe looked easy enough, there was even a video tutorial. The recipe made two portions; you were debating on whether you should put the other half away or if you should offer it to your husband. In your two-and-a-half months of marriage, you had yet to see him eat anything, yet to see his face. Part of you wondered if he had a breathing problem and that’s why the mask stayed on or if he thought you were unworthy enough to see his face.

You finished making the food and ate; you decided to leave a plate for him on the counter with a note, but before you could return to your bedroom he returned. This was the first time he didn’t immediately accost you, he just stood there staring at you. Or you at least assumed that’s what he was doing since you couldn’t see his face. You had the courage to speak first, “I made you dinner if you want it.” It was almost a gesture of peace, a way to say sorry for earlier, for unintentionally starving yourself.

You weren’t expecting a thank you or anything but you were also not expecting to be told, “Go to your room.” Treated like a child. You did as you were told.

He was right behind you; you were pushed down on the bed, flipped over so you were facing him. Something he didn’t do. As your dress was pushed up, you felt his helmet come crashing down to your face. His mouthpiece against your lips, like your wedding day. You heard his belt fall to the floor and the distinct sound of his zipper. But this man was a liar. You felt his leather-gloved hand feel up and down your folds for a few moments. Teasing you…..prepping you. Something he said he wouldn’t do. But then you felt his cock enter you.

But like the rest of this encounter, it was different. His pace was slower but still powerful. It felt more….intentional. You had really no idea what to do with your arms or your lips at this point. You were usually faced down in the mattress which didn’t allow for much, but this time you were facing him, and kissing him? You didn’t really know what to call being lip to mask but his ‘lips’ were against yours. You made the rash decision to wrap your arms around his neck, which somehow changed the position of your hips as you arched your back. This earned a deep, modulated moan from your husband.

The slow pace was more pleasurable to you. You felt like you did last night, more relaxed and euphoric. You temptingly moved your hips with his, something you were scared to do, but it felt so good. And then you felt that nirvana again, your walls clenched around him as you threw your head back in a moan. Your second ever orgasm. Better than the first as your tight cunt milked the cum out of his cock. He climaxed shortly after you did. Only out of sync by a few moments. And this time he didn’t scold you, he didn’t degrade you. But he left without a word.

You continued to lie on your back and stare up at the ceiling. Your brain slowly analyzed what just happened. Was that your first relatively positive encounter with your husband? Was he really trying to kiss you? Or was he sick and tired of holding his head back? Was the reason why he took things slower because he wanted to pleasure you? Or was it because he was tired? Did he really prep you? Or was he just trying to find your hole? All of these questions and more were swimming in your head.

But your mouth was dry, so you got up and headed out to the kitchen to get a drink of water. One thing you did notice was that the plate of food was gone. You checked the fridge and trash to see if he had put it there, but it was just completely missing. You finished your drink and slipped back into your room and into the refresher to shower, not take a bath.

Somehow today was the first day since before you were married that you had felt something other than grief for yourself and your situation. You didn’t know what exactly you were feeling, but it wasn’t bad. You stepped out of the shower and dried off. Changed in your bedroom and crawled into your bed. Today was also the first night that sleep came peacefully. You dreamed of the bright halls of your palace back home, and the kitchens and gardens. A beautiful rosebud was waiting to bloom.

[wings-of-indigo]

So, Waitress is closing and Why I am Happy about that: An Exceedingly long essay Rant about Broadway

Look. Nobody's gonna read this, most likely, but it's 2 in the morning and my brain's been obsessing over Broadway (more than usual, anyway) since communing with my people at intensive this week. So, in the interest of getting some sleep before 8 hrs of dance and shitty high notes tomorrow, here goes.

I love classic, high-school-and-community standard musicals. I love new and experimental musicals. I love Disney film-to-stage musicals. I love institution musicals like Chorus Line, Cats, and Wicked; I even have a soft spot for Phantom. I am eagerly anticipating West Side Story next Christmas (seriously, I have a calander).

BUT.

As I said to one of my fellow dancers during post-class stretch (after noting his insane flexibilty and making yet another resolution to stretch more) I am Sick to GoDAMnEd DEATH of revivals, franchise adaptions, and restagings taking up the Broadway and greater theater markets.

I get why it's happening; I do. Musical theater, even shows that never make it out of Regional productions (Be More Chill, btw, I'm so proud of you bby :'-D ) are REALLY FREAKING EXPENSIVE, not just to stage, but also to develop. Broadway productions nowadays regularly go upwards of TENS OF MILLIONS OF DOLLARS in costs.

Those costs are more and more frequently being met through funding by large groups of wealthy investors, who can expect basically little to no return on that investment. Only a select few shows that make it to the Great White Way do well enough to turn a profit (let alone the kinds of numbers that Hamilton, DEH, and Wicked continue to make), and more and more shows are closing in defict or once they break even. (Coincidentally, this is probably why we're seeing more and more straight plays on Broadway, especially in limited engagements. They're quicker, cheaper, and still have the same level of prestige.)

It makes sense then to assume that a show linked to an already successful property has a better chance of reaching that break-even mark, or perhaps generating a small return, than a more original idea. It's a surer bet, and we've seen it a lot these past few seasons. Anastasia, Beetlejuice, Pretty Woman, Moulin Rouge, Mean Girls... we get it. We promise. Investors want some security in an extremely and notoriously insecure market before they're willing to lay out the dough.

I get it. Everybody gets it.

And, to be fair, some of those shows are and continue to be GOOD. Tony nominees and award winners, even. But here's the problem: it's boring.

And not because I know how Act 2 ends without getting spoilers on tumblr. Unless they're younger than ten, the population of Broadway-and-musicals fans generally has a good handle on where a show's relevant plotlines are going. It's really not the wanting to know the end that keeps your butt in your overpriced red velvet seat and your eyes on the stage. It's the score, the words, occasionally the choreography, and most importantly the magicians on, off, and backstage bringing those things to life in a new and interesting way.

The antithesis of this, then, is having to watch slavish recreation of iconic scenes, lines, and characters from iconic films, presented Onstage! (TM), now with Bonus Songs! for your reconsumption. (Yes, Pretty Woman, I'm looking at you.)

Hey, I love Pretty Woman the Movie, slightly dodgy messages about feminity aside. I love it as a movie, and I really don't need to watch the knock off version of it, even if it comes in a shiny Broadway package.

Anastasia, and Beetlejuice, on the other hand, work extrodinarily well as musicals because they are NOT carbon copies of the original, somehow miraculously transplanted onto the stage.

Ironically, musicals based on original ideas are actually some of the most successful and well reviewed recent productions. Hamilton, Dear Evan Hansen, Come From Away, and Hadestown this season are all original works, and well, look at them. (Fishy, huh? Coincidence, I think the fuck not.)

Recently I got to see The Prom on Broadway, the day after I saw Pretty Woman. The contrast between shows and my enjoyment of them was well defined. I couldn't look away from The Prom, despite many of the major story beats being as obvious as our Cheeto-in-Chief's spray tan. I and the entire rest of the theater were completely engaged by what was going on onstage, both comedically and dramatically. At Pretty Woman, I found myself checking the Playbill to see how many songs were left for me to make it through and anxiously comparing the size of my thighs to the dancers onstage to pass the time (ah, pre pro Body Issues, welcome back! We all thought you'd retired!)

Three guesses which show I'd choose to see again.

When I read that Waitress was closing, the first thing I did was panic and start marking pre January weekends where I would both be free and possibly have disposable income (I've never gotten to see the show, and frankly I would like too). My second reaction was, yes, to mourn the closure of a wonderful show, but it was mixed with hopeful anticipation. Waitress had a good long time in the sun, and just like a well lived life, eventually it must and should end. It's better, in my humble student opinion, to live with memories and cast albums (and regional productions) than the stodgy life of a show that's jealously clung to its Broadway berth through the tourist-and-date-night trade (*cough*Phantom*cough*). It's sort of like your 40 something mother taking selfies in booty shorts in an effort to prove she's still 'hip' and in her twenties. Cringe.

Ephemera is the nature of live performance, and probably part of its allure. And just like in the natural world, old things have to end so that new things can become. Waitress closing is a vital part of this cycle.

Broadway has a limited number of theaters. That's a hard and absolute fact. Maybe a quarter of them are effectively taken off the market for new shows by productions apparently cursed with immortality. Waitress has just opened up another spot both physically and creatively for a new project- hopefully something we haven't seen before- and I hope to God, Satan, and Sondheim that it doesn't get filled with another franchise spinoff, celebrity jukebox musical, or -Lin Miranda forbid - yet another revival.

Why the revival hate, though? Aren't revivals an major way to revisit the landmark and important musicals of the past and bring them to a new audience?

Well, yes. They are, especially when they're staged and presented with the emphasis on letting the music and words speak for themselves and giving the actors leeway to work with the material, without the typical levels of Broadway Extra (TM) and creative meddling from the producers. (The recent Lincoln Center staging of A Chorus Line is a good example of the stripped down style I'm talking about.) But even if they have their place, once again, revivals (while valuable and cool and all that) are Something We've Already Seen.

Let's take Newsies for example. A show with a huge fan base (mostly teen, mostly girls) who I frequently see wishing for a revival.

Now, I am a raging Newsies fan. Newsies is the show that got me started on attempting to make a profession out of dance and theater. I can sing both the OBC and Live albums back to front. I may or may not have had embarrassing crushes on certain cast and characters that I will take to my grave (I'll never tell and you'll never know, mwahhaha). So, do I love and worship ever iteration of this show? Yes. Do I wish I had been able to see either the Natl Tour or Broadway productions? Hell yes, with all my heart. Do I wish the Gatelli choreography was in any way accessible for me to learn? More than I want Broadway tickets to cost less than my soul, kidney, and hypothetical but unlikely first born combined.

But do I want a Broadway revival? Hell FUCKING No.

It's over, it's done, and it lives on in reinterpretation in regional and junior productions. Good. That, to be quite honest, is where it should belong.

It doesn't need to be rehashed on the biggest stages, and to be frank, neither do most of the ultra popular revivals that have been happening. (Yes, Ali Stoker is awesome and deserves the world, but Broadway does not need Oklahoma. If you need to see it that bad, go find a high school production somewhere. I recommend the midwest.) Broadway does not need 1776 (even though I am looking forward to it). Broadway does not need a Sweeney Todd revival (even though I want one like I want ice cream after suffering through jazz class in an un-air-conditioned studio on a 90 degree afternoon with no breeze. Seriously, I might be making sacrifices at my altar to this cause in the back of my closet).

Broadway needs musicals that are at least nominally original, and if not, come from something obscure enough (Kinky Boots, Waitress, Newsies) that they can make their own way. Barring that, investors, writers, and directors, please have the courage and decency to take established content in a new direction. Please, I'm begging you. I'd honestly-and-truly much rather sit through something that didn't try to shove the better version of itself down my throat even as it bored and annoyed me to tears. If I'm going to pay $80+ to sit through two hours of something terrible (and less engaging than my dancer body image issues) at least let me get my money's worth in unique horribleness.

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Word by Word | 02

Genre: Fluff, Romance, University/College AU

Pairing: Graphic design student!Bangchan x Literature student!/Irish!Reader

Warnings: Swearing (but what can you honestly expect when dealing with an Irish person?)

Summary: An ancient saying dictates that polar opposites attract, which is proven once again once an introverted whiskey-loving aspiring author meets a fairly extroverted boy initially proposing to survive the loneliness brought about by academic administration together.

But soon the meaning of ‘together’ expands as personal creative worlds are explored and understanding stirs up hidden emotions.

Masterlist

Previous part / Next Part

In life, nothing goes according to plan for Fate is cruel and God is dead. There is no other explanation for the amalgamation of desperately ironical chaos which follows in the wake of the checked-in transport card going to the steady place by the window all the way in the back of the bus while blasting music. To be more precise, it comes in the form of bleached locks also lost in songs, cruel enough due to the circumstances to unapologetically settle down on the empty seat that cannot be occupied fast enough by throwing the habitual laptop bag onto it.

Oh, for feck’s sake. Alright, lass, just keep calm and read yer book. Just don’t look and... fuck, he’s looking. Calm down and fake ignorance!

Out of the corner of the eyes, a glint is beheld of jasper eyes staring interestedly at the cover of the current read, clearly trying to make out the title partially obscured by cramped with timid fingers while every thought is overrun by the scent of the widespread ocean lapping at the shore mixed with a light hint of coconut. However, impossible as it might seem, a steady yet vague focus is kept on the letters shaping the memoir of a bookseller and good faith is put in the general universally acknowledged fact that earbuds in is equal to the meaning of “leave me alone”.

Though some, like the fairly unwelcome stranger, never grasp this simple meaning.

‘Good book?’ AirPods are taken out in favour of understanding while patiently awaiting a response, continuing to gaze at a rapidly becoming distracted soul heavily debating whether or not to reply.

‘Sorry, what?’ Despite still sounding annoyed, the level of irritation is considerably lower than when speaking to another person asking the same thing and that is quite a curious occurrence for strangers are kept at bay at all costs and by any necessary means such as music.

Songs which are weirdly put to rest without hesitation. 

At seeing uncomprehending brows knit together, fortunately failing to see a part of the confusion is also turned inward at a fluttering heart and discombobulated thoughts, platinum strands elaborate on the initial inquiry. A long finger rises and points at the cover of the novel in a manner that should not be deemed as cute yet is. ‘The book. Is it any good?’

Neither should speech come as difficult as it does, stuttering normally entirely out of the question as well as the want to expand on the curt reply. ‘Uhm, y- yeah. It is.’

The response evokes a bubbly giggle which miraculously turns up the temperature in the vehicle on its way to the university, surely painting cheeks with a roseate flush. Judging by the mesmerized sparkling irises staring back in unwavering contact, they do. ‘That’s not a whole lot to go on. What’s it about?’

How can I act like this? Get yersel’ together, Y/N, and act as you would during an event. Be a cold professional.

A splendid plan that is always immediately resorted to in similar situations because it offers a sufficient amount of social protection. Moreover, it nullifies any further advances pursuing the conversation as it employs the harshest coldness of politeness.

That is the case under normal circumstances. 

But not now.

Now there is nothing but an oddly enchanted girl stammering while explaining the premise and cause of the diary written by a Scottish bookseller, gradually becoming more and more flustered with every word that flows from lips eager to engage. In the meanwhile, focus is kept steadily on the friendly handsome face intently listening with genuine interest, clearly doing so in delight.

‘So, uhm, tha- that’s the p- pre- premise.’

‘Huh, sounds interesting. Maybe I should read it.’

‘You should!’ The suggestion ignited a giddiness preserved for private moments with Grandfather, particularly on whiskey nights when books are the sole other companions in whose company to rejoice. ‘I- I mean, if y- ye want to. You ob- obvi- obviously don’t have to.’

‘I mean it, I’ll check it out. Wait, I haven’t even properly introduced myself. Hi, I’m Chris. Or Chan or Bangchan. Whatever you prefer.’ The last bit is added shyly, a careful smile ghosting over pale pink lips while a trustworthy veined hand reaches out.

And is taken for a strong handshake that clearly surprises the lad. ‘Y/N.’

‘That’s a firm hand.’ Both barely suppressing a gasp for different reasons, gripping digits swiftly unravel. Personally, it is because of a sense of being attacked on a womanly front while never having been bothered by it, only endeavouring to act entirely ladylike on important occasions. Until someone cannot shut their gob properly. In case of the lad smelling like a beach day, a grimace as if mourning the loss of contact flashes over the composed expression trying to look merely surprised yet fails in doing so. ‘Which is good, because it signifies a strong character.’

Distant remorse laces the elaboration on the original response, jasper eyes averting from a panicked face to the novel put down. Picking up on this, bookish fingertips rapidly retracted to a denim lap graced with the sarcastic memoir creep ever so slightly towards the edge of thighs to feel the warmth of ones still formed as if they were enveloping those that ran away.

But stop and flee once more.

Falsely calm.

Acting.

Though they are not doing so in the desire to get to know the boy showing sincere interest in a cold professionally introverted and, above all, unlovable girl.

‘Whe- Where are y- ye from?’ To keep the exchange going, a natural question follows from what has been quietly observed from speech.

‘Hm?’ Eyes wide, the brooding grim mood fades from chiselled features and morphs into curiosity due to incomprehension with a tilted head.

‘Yer ac- accent. You’re not from a- around here.’

‘No, I’m from Australia. I moved here recently to study.’ A playful grin promises that the same observation pertaining to the manner of speaking has been made as well, counterattacking the question by means of a proposing comment. ‘But you have an accent as well.’

‘I’m actually from around here, but thanks to Charles I got the good ol’ Irish accent.’ Composure has been regained entirely, mostly thanks to the fact the matter comes up frequently whenever accompanying Charlie to foreign publishing events where everyone always seems surprised to hear from the north.

‘Charles?’

‘My grandfather. He’s the one who raised me.’ Nothing is said about the family name out of a conscious disdain to be associated with a great author instead of being seen as an original person and novice writer. Although, mayhaps it is more of an unconscious endeavour since the thought of even mentioning a surname does not comes up.

‘What about your parents?’

‘I’d rather not talk about them, Chris.’ A brief look out the window shows the long line of variously branded cars in front of a steady red light letting solely up to three pass before halting the ever-growing queue, every driver showing impatience in a fashion as diverse as the range of names on the trunks. Next to the bus is a jet black Volkswagen Polo, a father driving while the mother and lone daughter are chattering away.

 That could’ve been me. If only life had been different. If only I wasn’t a bastard.

‘Sorry, I didn’t know it’s a sensitive topic.’ The remorse is more prominent in display than awareness thinks to let filter through to the world, curly platinum strands leaning in apologetically despite not being at fault when reverting attention to Chan.

‘You couldn’t have known, so it’s fine.’ Regardless of sounding as if nothing is wrong, the deeply-rooted pain of being raised in a good yet different life with a father figure rather than an actual parent nevertheless colours the used tone.

Withal, and fortunately fluidly, the subject changes to something casual creating a grander sense of comfort. ‘You said you came here to study?’

To forget what could have been.

Lips part as if to protest but change their mind at the last second, going with the flow and thusly leaving the previous topic behind. ‘Yeah, I did. I’m studying graphic design, but added a literary course to my curriculum this last part of the semester. Unfortunately, all my friends have either chosen a different course or are doing a whole other study.’

‘Then you and I are on the same boat.’ Unintentionally, there is a question of teaming up through the absence of familiar faces placed in other workgroups if present at all. And it is weird it is there at all since loneliness is nothing new and actually bearable, though a little bit more when being in the company of a nice character.

‘Wanna stick together and try to survive?’

Had another person been asked this, no doubt the chance to have a familiar face for support would be taken advantage of. However, it is not so in the case of a bastard who is apparently in the way. Easy to discard, as has been made evidently clear by the monsters that should have raised her instead of the other glorious bastard under a swearing whiskey roof shared with two cats from Inferno.

Trustworthy in action, honest in words, true in sincerity of company.

Just like the aura of the newly met fellow student looking like a puppy anticipating a consenting reply, excitedly wagging an imaginary tail but trying to suppress any signs of enthusiasm under a veil of patience. Still, the gloss over cheerful eyes and pursed lips indicate hoping for the best, despairing when being denied. Henceforth, while the persuasion of attitude comes second in the factors of changing minds, the proposal is accepted gladly with the brightest contained smile that has been given to someone in a long period of time, honest in meaning. ‘I’d like that.’

‘You don’t have to.’ Despite agreeing to the plan, understanding disappointment rings in the taken on tone of speech, Bangchan pulling away barely noticeably yet introducing a familiar abyss that makes the heart sink to the deepest depth it knows.

‘What makes you say that?’ Maintaining the facade of ignorance to hide the unintentional sensitive pain, the face of a summer beach day is carefully analyzed in the hopes of finding an explanation for what has been done wrong.

Why the truth cannot be seen when it has risen from beneath the rose.

‘You seem reluctant.’ The fingers held earlier in a friendly handshake dig their nails in the fabric of the seats to hide the sadness thanks to suspected denial.

But, just this once, there is a wholehearted agreement.

An exception.

For him.

Notwithstanding, the mirage of happiness fades after being built so carefully, flowing down the melancholic stream of the consciousness forever stuck in its grasp with a lowering voice and averted focus. ‘It... it’s a bad habit. A likely wrong thinking pattern.’

‘I don’t understand. What are you thinking?’ Brows knit as the Australian boy stares on in wonder, in need of an explanation to lift the mystery of the cryptic response. In fact, the weird urgency in the inquiry hints towards honestly pondering what makes a mere stranger sympathize with Atlas.

A train of thought which is disregarded by a self-mocking comment of no importance, somberly mumbled with a shake of the head. ‘Nothing. You’ll think me a drama queen.’

Because everyone who knows the truth has judged its teller as such.

An attention seeker.

But why then is she alone?

Dismissed?

But not by Chris, in whose nice to listen to voice has slipped in strong determination underlined with personally deemed misplaced worry. However, perhaps if it is truly so, it would not be evident in the overall distressed attitude sitting on the next seat. ‘No, Y/N, I won’t. I want to know and we’ve still got a ways to go before we’re at the university anyway. Please, tell me about what’s weighing you down.’

We.

Us.

Two.

Of us.

A pleasant notice that is nullified by the knowledge of the inevitable walking away because this lie has been heard one too many times by the grandsons and sons of famed writers who are in contact with Charlie. ‘You’ll discover soon enough, Chan.’

A moment of silence passes, gazes averted and one steadily kept on the memoir of a bookseller with the need to escape and wander alone again. Dwell in familiar solitude and curl up inside it.

Running away is always easier with music. Henceforth, digits already reach towards Airpods and phone.

But are halted by slender fingers wrapping around the forearm, asking for attention with a light squeeze followed by a soft-spoken call. ‘Y/N?’ Kind happiness timidly filters through in the visage of the chatty lad when looking up again, cheerfulness forming a proposal. ‘Shall we first get some coffee after we arrive and walk to the classroom together?’

Curiously, the emphasis on the concept of together remains, thus also continuing to stress the overall paradoxical importance of the word which only enhances the wonder about why contact would want to be had at all.

 Why me? Why “us”? Why “we”?

As if reading the train of thought, Chan voices the answer to the unspoken rampant inquiries. ‘Because everyone deserves to have at least someone for support.’ Teeth bite down on the lower lip, the corners of the mouth wanting to curl up but hesitating to do so. ‘And... I want to see you smile again.’

‘My smile’s fecking horrible.’

Don’t go effing and blinding. So much for that.

They shape themselves into a warm smile regardless, an adoring sentiment that filters through into sincere speech. ‘No, it’s not. Happiness looks good on you.’

The heart flutters at hearing the warmth and unknowing how to deal with the show of affection towards a mere stranger, the book which had been put to rest for a wee bit is picked up again to hide the likely very carmine flush dusting over heated cheeks. Adorable laughter sounds from behind the safe protective walls of pages, the sound enhancing the furious blush following what was surely wrongly heard but which was interpreted as a muttered under the breath “cute”. However, eyes do not shift to check the truth, having no courage to face Bangchan while being an uncharacteristic emotional mess.

The bus starts moving.

And so do we.

In music and literature.

Word by word.

[yellowind-writes]

The Dark Wave: Prologue

Boku no Hero Academia Male!Reader-Insert x Various

Rated M for violence (blood, gore, general villainy) and language. Link to intro post + index.

“BASTARD!” The glint of a dagger reflecting neon lights. The scrape of shoes against wet concrete. The damp smell that lingers after a hard rain, an unpleasant, oily scent that’s particular to the city and it’s rotting streets. Senses are on high alert but it’s all a blur. Like the vague residue of a long, troublesome dream. Some flashes vivid and others a mesh of color with no apparent connection or meaning. “FUCKING BASTARD!”

A sharp bark of laughter, insincere and mocking echoes through the dark alley. “I’m surprised it...you’re a fool...two and two...” There are pieces missing. Important pieces. It’s as if you’re listening to a record skipping over beats in a song. “I...once...and I’ll take...again...”

“YOU LIED TO ME!” A surge of darkness, even darker than the surrounding shadows, rising like an inky curtain and rushing through the small space like a storm contained within a snow globe, swirling furiously when it’s shaken. “YOU FUCKING LIED TO ME!”

There’s a woman crying outside the door. Her grief is the only thing to listen to besides the heart monitor, beeping out a calm rhythm to remind you that you’re alive. You’d love to go and tell her to shut up if it wasn’t for the fact you’re cuffed to a hospital bed and woozy from whatever medicine the staff has been giving you (mostly to ensure you don’t try to escape rather than because you’re in any pain). Whoever she is, she’s been at it for a while.

Your head hurts, throbbing in time with your pulse.

“A necessary evil...I...you...so sad it’s turned...” A scream that could’ve been yours, could’ve been someone else’s. Raw and tormented, nigh beastly. Sirens.

A gaunt man enters the room holding a scuffed up shoe box in his large, bony hands. He looks like he needs bed rest more than you do with how exhausted and frail he appears. He says nothing as he shuffles across the linoleum and settles himself in a chair beside you. The corners of his mouth pulled into a frown and his shoulders tense.

“[Name], right?” It’s not a real question so you don’t dignify it with a response, just wait for his raspy voice to continue. There’s a glint of hope in his startlingly blue eyes--

“I. AM. HERE!” A crashing boom. There are windows breaking. A car alarm going off. You aren’t on your feet anymore. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

--but what he wishes to gain from this little visit is beyond you. “I’m Yagi. I’ve brought some things for you to look at if you wouldn’t mind.”

You would mind, actually, but the lid to the show box is already being removed with slow care. It’s almost as if he’s worried any sudden movements will startle you. Inside the box is a pile of photographs and some worn old action figures with chipped paint.

You can’t help but scoff when you recognize one of them as Endeavor. The model is from earlier on in his career and manufactured cheap but it’s impossible to mistake that flaming hair for anyone else. The painted eyebrows are furrowed to mirror his signature glower. What’s this stranger doing bringing you toys and mementos?

He hands you one of the pictures. It proves difficult to hold up for examination due to being restrained but there’s no helping it. As timid as this man is acting one doubts he’d be comfortable aiding their removal. The metal around your wrists is cold and the skin irritated.

It’s a glossy capture of two boys sitting side by side on a park bench. They’re eating slices of watermelon as big as their heads. One of them has a mop of dark curls and freckles dusting his round cheeks. He’s staring at the camera with a 1,000 watt smile while the boy with [color] eyes is oblivious, munching on his summer treat and focused on something out of frame. His [color] hair is messy and there’s dirt on his chin like he’d rolled around in the bushes moments prior. They’re wearing matching All Might t-shirts.

“I’m disappointed...so young...villainy is...” You’ve seen many different expressions on heroes and wannabe heroes alike. Shock, disgust, even fear. But pity has never been one of them. You like pity even less than contempt.

It means nothing to you. Nothing at all.

“What’s the point of this?” You ask, staring blankly at the photo and then turning a glare on this Yagi fellow. He let’s out a deep sigh, deflating even more into the baggy clothes that pool around him. You try to wrack your brain to understand the situation. Try to get why you’re still chilling out in the recovery bay of some nondescript hospital instead of wearing a muzzle in maximum security.

Villains that get caught are put away and never heard of again.

“[Name], how...how far back do you remember?” He leans forward in anticipation of the answer, fingers tented and elbows on his knees. Something tells you he already has an idea of how you’ll answer. It throws you for a second. This entire thing is like a lead up to something else. “The doctors said the head trauma from the fight might’ve caused...” He trails off and waves a hand, no need for further explanation to understand what he’s trying to get at.

“What’s it to you old man?” You find the vase of daisies on the nightstand suddenly very interesting. The sun coming through the window lights up the white and yellow petals in a warm, almost ethereal glow. That woman, the one no longer sobbing out in the hall, brought them into the room earlier. She had pretty, long [color] hair but you don’t know her. You’ve never seen her or anyone similar in your life though she acted like she knew you.

At the very least they’re a much needed decoration in this sparse room. Everything else is in shades of grey. It’s terribly clinical even for a medical setting. A prison cell would be just as inviting.

“His quirk is strong...we could...be a shame to...if it failed...a waste of...”

The heart monitor picks up the pace, green pixels jumping across the screen to draw higher, steeper mountains.

Shadowy figures closing in, faces obscured. The room is dark but there’s a blinding light in front of your eyes. You can’t move. There’s something stuck in your arm (get it out, get it out, get it OUT). You want to throw up.

Your head hurts.

There’s a long silence where Yagi simply waits for you to give him an actual answer. With what little mobility you have you flick the picture into his lap. You’d been aiming for the box now perched beside him on a tray but missed.

“I remember getting my skull cracked open by All Might, if that’s what you mean. You some sort of reporter digging for a scoop? Because I don’t think there’s a story here.” You’d have the spirit to be snarkier if you weren’t drowsy still. You feel like your body is a lead weight that’s about to sink into the hard mattress and down further still into the floor. The bandages wrapped around your head itch too.

Yagi seems disappointed by this. He faces the floor, his blond hair hiding most of his face. The strands look as dry as straw. Does he even use conditioner? Or maybe he just uses too much hairspray?

“[Name], I don’t mean your recent fight with your former ‘colleague’ and resulting arrest. I mean your past. The life you had before crime.” It strikes you as he’s saying this that his sunken eyes are the most alive part of him. They’re tremendously intense as they bear into your own.

“I didn’t have a life before crime. I grew up on the streets, learned to look after myself the hard way.” It’s not entirely a lie. Your nails scrape against the stiff cotton sheets as your fingers curl into fists. “I’m pretty sure you can figure out how it went from there.”

. . .

Yagi slides the door closed behind him with a huff. This case will be a tough one. Seeing as he’s the one who apprehended you he feels a certain amount of responsibility. Not to mention learning of the tragic circumstances regarding your status as a criminal and...

He’s been aware the world is an unfair place for quite a while but it still feels like ripping open a painful wound every time he learns it anew.

“I think,” It’s hard to say. Especially to the woman standing rigid and forlorn against the wall. Her eyes bloodshot and her nose red. To have waited for so many years for a phone call only to get the news that she did. That they found her son but he wouldn’t be coming home. “I suspect his formative memories have been wiped in order to brainwash him...he doesn’t even recognize himself as a child in pictures.” He says what both of them already suspected was so.

A second before the woman draws in a shuddering breath, “What are you, or they, going to do with him? With my boy?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.”

Hopefully.

“Hey kid...use...from now on...for me.”

[sweetsweetnathan]

Robyn and Evadaro, Chapter Two

Chapter Two: The Storm of the Century

No one and nothing in Evadaro Amberwyne’s life meant more to him than his father and the work they did together. It started when he was twelve. His father would rise every day before dawn to get to the dock that their town, Limsa Meada, was built around. Always Evadaro’s father was the first one there, and always he gave the orders. He was “foreman”, though titles such as that meant less in Limsa Meada than in other parts of the world. Limsa Meada was not a place of paperwork, organization, or really much in the way of rules. Evadaro was certain that his father was foreman, and he was also certain that people only recognized him as foreman because he showed up at the dock before anyone else. There existed a constant, unspoken threat that if Evadaro’s father ever failed to wake up on time, he would not be foreman for long. Evadaro worried about this at first. He even once stayed up all through the night just to make sure his father woke up on time. This was a heartfelt gesture that his father commended, but ultimately unnecessary. He wasn’t waking up on time to maintain his position as foreman. Things were far more simple: He woke up on time, and this allowed him to be foreman.  

   Evadaro knew that most children his age weren’t spending their summer days working. “Well,” he thought, “I can’t imagine their lives being much fun.” At the dock he saw things that other kids were only reading about in books: Pirates, privateers, and merchants, all intermingled, all kissed by the sun of some far-off sky. The Elezen, tall and aloof, with eyes that pierced right through Evadaro’s heart. The Hyur, whose minds were fast and ambitions restless. The Lalafell, quaint creatures that Evadaro could tell always know more and saw more than they let on. And the Roegadyn, whose hands hung heavily at their sides even as their feet maneuvered with the agility of a hummingbird.  

   But watching the adventurous pass by is like looking at a party through a keyhole. Eventually one has to open the door. Then came the eighth sun of the third astral moon in the twentieth year of Evadaro’s life.

   Evadaro could feel the storm brewing in the air. The wind scarcely moved. To a Hyur or Roegadyn Evadaro’s insights would seem irrational. But that stillness was precisely what put Evadaro’s senses on edge. For every so often the wind would stir. Warm gusts would tease the small hairs of his ears. Like hearing a whisper penetrate silence Evadaro would always hunch his back and look upwind. And always he would find the same image haunting him: A tower of clouds, taller than he had ever seen, perched like an eagle on the horizon.

   "Hey, dad,“ Evadaro patted his father on the shoulder. They were loading crates of grain onto a ship bound for Limsa Lominsa. Forty pounds each and Evadaro’s father was carrying one on each shoulder. Evadaro asked, "Think that’s gonna be bad?”

   The man let the crates slam against the deck. He stretched out his back and took a long look at the horizon. The storm was undeniably formidable, but Evadaro’s father said nothing. Evadaro could never tell if he was thinking of what to say or what not to say.  

   "It’ll be bad. But it won’t come this way. Storm that big hasn’t come this way in forty years.“

   "Foreman!” The husky voice of a female Roegadyn came rolling across the dock, followed by its bearer: Guolgeim, captain of the vessel the pair was loading up. “Come hither, I want to give you something.”

   Evadaro’s father approached. Evadaro pretended to work for a moment before quietly sneaking up on his elders’ engagement.  

   "A map?“ Evadaro’s father asked.

   "You said you wanted you and your boy to see the world, right? Well then that’s its prized jewel: The Sylphlands.”

   Evadaro’s father took a moment to think. “I’ve never met anyone from the Sylphlands.”

   "No you have not. Neither have I. It is a primal land untamed by even the most distant relatives of the sentient races. It’s a place beyond the reckoning of a civilized mind; it grew long before we were here, and will continue to grow long after we’re dead. The roots of its trees spin down into the ground for what seems like miles, and its native wildlife glows brighter than the stars at night.“

   "Wow…” Evadaro spoke involuntarily. Without even turning around Evadaro’s father said,

   "Get back to work boy,“ with a slight smile in his voice.

   Evadaro did so. He knew his father was aware that he had snuck over to listen to Guolgeim speak. And his father knew that he knew– very little was unknown between the two of them. Sailors would impart gifts and wisdom to Evadaro’s father quite regularly. Never anything too valuable: A map, a piece of shaped metal, or a gem that was more of a curiosity than a valuable. With these trinkets came stories, but those stories were the most valuable gift of all. A map foretold exotic, hidden lands that Evadaro could only see in his dreams. Shaped metal conjured the impression of ancient artificts from long before civilization’s founding. "Someday,” Evadaro thought, “I’ll be able to go out and see it for myself.”

-

   Two days passed before Evadaro saw Guolgeim again. He was leaving the house with his father early in the morning, as usual, when a man accosted them at their door.

   "Foreman!“ A fearful exclamation echoed from down the street. It was one of the men under Evadaro’s father’s command. He was shouting while still a ways down the road, "Foreman, you’re needed at the dock!”

   "What–?“

   "It’s a ship! Guolgeim’s ship!” the worker blurted, finally coming face-to-face with Evadaro and his father. The man immediately fell to his knees. “She asked for you. Hurry!”

   Evadaro and his father made for the dock. It would’ve normally unsettled them to see someone up and about before they were, but there was an air of tension throughout the whole town that did away with their concerns: Everybody seemed to have woken up early. Every house was empty, but nobody had disappeared; Evadaro could see all of them gathered at the dock, obscuring whatever dire situation was brewing. And again the wind taunted Evadaro’s senses, this time more boldly. Evadaro and his father parted the crowd. At the center of its attention was Guolgeim, inexplicably soaked from head-to-toe. Behind her was her boat, its sail completely missing, floating crooked on the water, one side higher than the other. Fear came to life in Evadaro at the sight of Guolgeim. Once casually intrepid, she looked like a lost child now. She looked out-of-place, as much due to her physical condition as the far-off look in her eyes.

   She sat on the dock with her back precariously close to its edge. Evadaro’s father crouched down beside her. He took her shoulder in one hand and her face in the other, seeming to know exactly what was going on with her and exactly how to snap her out of it. He turned her face towards his and looked her in the eye.

   "Guolgeim,“ he rumbled, "Why did you return so quickly? What happened out there?”

   A small light came back to her eyes. She looked around at the on-lookers who had gathered around to gawk at her. She took a breath that indicated to Evadaro’s father that rationality had come back to her, even if fear had not entirely left her. She tried to speak, failed, swallowed a lump in her throat, then tried again. When she succeeded she said, “That storm is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s impenetrable! It blotted out the sun and turned the wind around on itself. I swear… That storm is not of this world. No natural storm could wreak such chaos.”

   Evadaro looked to his father for a response. He couldn’t see behind him, but he was sure the whole town did the same. Evadaro’s father responded with stern certainty, “Well you’re out of it now, Guolgeim. You’re safe.”

   These words touched a nerve with Guolgeim, for suddenly the light in her eyes turned to a fiery madness. She took Evadaro’s father by the collar and stood up, pulling him to his feet and lifting him off the ground by his shirt. Guolgeim’s grip was shaky and furious, and her voice was a panthery growl as she said, “No! None of us are safe! The storm is coming this way!”

-

   When Evadaro was a child a typhoon came that flooded the dock, leaving its pier underwater for three days. It was the worst storm in living memory, as far as Evadaro knew, but even so it wasn’t a cataclysm. It was hard for Evadaro to believe that the coming weather was any more serious. But the whole town was in an uproar over Guolgeim’s forecast anyways. Evadaro and his father walked through the main street of the town, where the chaos was localized. Everyone dashed to the general store to make its owner very rich as they bought up all the dried food they could, then dashed home to secure their roofs and walls. It all seemed a little hysteric to Evadaro, who asked his father, “Is it really gonna be that bad?”

   His father took a moment to think. As adults stomped about with lowered foreheads and serious looks their children reveled in the excitement; before now everyone in Limsa Meada had lived within generally modest means. When the children saw their parents claiming huge bounties of food they couldn’t help but be intrigued by the circumstances. Evadaro watched as a group of three children carried a blanket loaded down with salted pork in jars, while another child dragged dehydrated fruit behind him in his toy wagon. All the while their parents plotted behind eyes of eagle-like focus, anticipating the results of the impending disaster.

   Finally Evadaro’s father spoke, “Yes,” he said, “we’ve received storms before, as I’m sure you’re aware. But even the worst of them was barely worth mentioning to the sailors that come around here. If it’s enough to scare a sea-dog such as Guolgeim, it’s enough to scare me. And apparently everyone else.”

   "I don’t get it dad,“ Evadaro said, "how bad could it be? If it floods the dock, we’ll evacuate the dock. If it floods the town, we’ll evacuate the town. If it rips down a house or two–”

   "Stop.“ His father interrupted, "Stop right there. You’re right. Flooding can be escaped. Crops can be resown. Homes rebuilt. But only if we have farmers to resow the crops. Or builders to rebuild the homes. What happens if they die?”

   "Why would they die?“ Evadaro knew it was a foolish question. He saw Guolgeim’s boat. Wind that strong could easily pick a person up and dash them across the rocks of the coast. Or even pull a house down over someone’s head. Evadaro thought he knew exactly how a person might die.

   "I know what you’re thinking,” his father said, “you think you know how a person might die in a storm, right?” Evadaro blushed at his father’s accuracy. His father went on, “Storms aren’t scary for what we know will happen, but for what we don’t know. We don’t know if the storm is strong enough to hurt a person. We also don’t know if our homes are strong enough to survive it. Sometimes a storm might totally destroy one house and leave the house next to it in perfect condition. Maybe it’s not a storm that can kill people. Maybe it’s just wind and rain. But there are some worst-case scenarios I can imagine. If, somehow, all our farmers die, or if all our fields are destroyed, then we’ll have to rely on outside help just to eat. And if that happens, then we’ll only get outside help if we can pay for it. But if we have to pay for outside help just to eat, how are we going to pay for repairs for anything that gets destroyed? Society is like a blanket: It can bear a lot of weight and still be stable. But if it’s ripped, the whole thing can come undone. That is how bad it could be.”

   Evadaro had never heard his father speak so much before. That alone unsettled him. But the man’s words shook Evadaro to his core. He imagined the “blanket” carrying an assembly of stones, all lined up like soldiers. Then he imagined a knife piercing the blanket from above to create a tiny tear, and the weight of the stones expanding the tear to be a hole, and then the hole swallowing up the stones until…

   "Okay. What can we do to prepare?“

-

   "No! Back off!”

   Evadaro and his father were helping a Lalafell family reinforce the roof of their home when they heard the cry. They looked across the street and saw a Mi'qote grappling with a Hyur. Immediately they dropped to the ground and rushed over.

   Evadaro’s father spoke first, “Guys, what’s going on?” They didn’t listen. He put his hand on the Mi'qote’s shoulder. The Mi'qote responded by turning around with a hiss, shoving Evadaro’s father away. Evadaro caught his father from falling. His blood boiled at the sight of the Mi'qote’s outburst.

   "Hey!“ He barked loud enough to alert the whole street to the quarrel. The Mi'qote turned to face him. Evadaro got within inches of his face. "You got two seconds to explain why you just laid hands on my dad.”

   The Mi'qote’s eyes locked with Evadaro’s. He growled at Evadaro, “Who the hell do you think you are? This ain’t your business boy.”

   "Micah, what’s going on?“ Evadaro’s father stepped forward and put his hand on the Mi'qote’s shoulder. The Mi'qote, apparently Micah, saw Evadaro’s father and backed off.  

   "I’m sorry boss,” Micah said. Evadaro deduced that Micah worked with his father, “Alan here has an underground shelter. There’s plenty of room but he won’t let anyone in!”

   Evadaro’s eyes went to the Hyur, scrutinizing him fiercely. “Who are you to deny your neighbors their safety?” He asked.

   Alan was taken aback. Like a cornered animal he looked between Micah and Evadaro and saw viciousness brewing behind their eyes. Lucky for him, Evadaro’s father stepped up and said, “Both of you calm down. I’m sure Alan has an excellent reason for not letting anyone else in. Alan?”

   Alan breathed a sigh of relief, “Yes, I do. I only have enough food and enough space for just my family. Letting others in means my family runs out of food faster.”

   "We’ll remember that if you ever ask me for help,“ Micah growled. He looked to Evadaro’s father. "Right?”

   Evadaro’s father stared Micah down. With no emotion in his voice he said, “Micah, go home.”

   Micah did as he was told. Evadaro didn’t know how to feel as he watched him walk away. His father shook Alan’s hand and departed. Evadaro was quick on his tail, asking, “Dad, why did you side with Alan? If Alan is part of this community he should be helping every survive, shouldn’t he?” Evadaro felt his voice rise, betraying more anger than even he was aware of. His father was quick to answer this time,

   "It ain’t right to ask a man to starve his family, Evadaro.“

   "Alright. I’m kinda with Micah though… He better not ask for anyone else to sacrifice for him if that’s what he’s gonna do.”

   Evadaro’s father suddenly turned around and stepped forward, invading Evadaro’s space in much the same way Evadaro had invaded Micah’s. Insinuating himself on Evadaro, Evadaro naturally expected him to say something, and yet… Nothing. His father just stared at him, unblinking and imposing. Evadaro mumbled, “What? Dad, what is it?”

   Evadaro’s eyes shifted reflexively away from his father’s. He felt like he was in trouble. As if his father were scolding him without speaking a word. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked his father. “Are you upset with me because I sided with Micah? Listen, if you believe I’m wrong I wanna know why.” More silence. More staring. Evadaro raised his voice at his father, all the while looking right in his shoes, “Alan is part of a community! We’ll take care of him if he takes care of us! What’s wrong with–?”

   "There is nothing I can say to change your mind on that.“ Evadaro’s father finally spoke. Evadaro opened his mouth to respond, but his father quickly added, "Anything I say, you can just say something back. I tell you why you’re wrong, you tell me why I’m wrong. Seems like a waste of time. So we’ll see what happens. Maybe we’ll see who believes what and why. But I hope not.” He turned his back on Evadaro, “Gods I hope not.”

-

   Evadaro lived with his family in a two-story cottage not far from the docks, a location Evadaro always thought of as a blessing until this very moment. The sky had grown dark. Mist rolled in as the sun went down, making everything murky more than a foot outside the door. Evadaro’s younger sister N'daila and baby brother Kihmaro played with a puzzle box they had been toying with for days, a gift from one of their father’s many sailor friends. Neither of them were as tense as Evadaro and his parents.  

   His mother was by the fireplace. She had tried to wrap herself in a blanket and read by firelight, but the tension of the encroaching storm left her frozen in her chair, rocking back and forth with the book closed in her lap. She just waited, looking out the window near where Evadaro and his father were seated. They both sat at the dinner table, which was placed beside a window so that meals could be taken in the warmth of sunlight. Instead of sunlight, this dinnertime had been haunted by the darkening sky.  

   A raindrop struck the window. Evadaro was so tense he was surprised it didn’t make him jump. “No, not yet,” he said, “I feel I have to save my fear. Ration it out for however long this night is.”

   Another drop followed, and like a switch had been flipped the quiet fog turned into a grey downpour. Raindrops hissed against the fire. Evadaro paid no mind to this at first as this happened whenever it was rainy. But soon the fire began to flicker under the torrent of raindrops, then fade. Everyone in the house stood up and watched as the rain only increased in intensity. Soon the fire was extinguished. This had never happened before. Evadaro’s father paced over and closed the metal gate on the fireplace. His mother was quick to act second, digging out a box of candles and lighting one for the younger children to continue their game in peace. All the while Evadaro felt helpless. “Gods, isn’t there anything I can do but wait?”

   A hour passed with the rain only getting worse. Soon the younger siblings weren’t able to hear each other speak for the sound of the storm. No thunder, no lightning, just wind and rain. Evadaro felt the house shift under his feet, a shudder followed by a moan. Evadaro looked to his father, who said with perfect calmness, “The house seems to be sinking.”  

   Evadaro nodded, trying to project as much calmness as his father. He asked, “Should we go upstairs?”

   His mother said, “No. We haven’t heard any thunder yet. That means this isn’t the real storm. We need to be in the pantry where the house is most stable when the real storm hits. The rest of the house might come apart around us but that pantry will hold.”

   "Even if the house sinks into the mud?“ Evadaro asked.

   "It would have to sink more than four feet into the mud for it to pose any danger. If it does, we’ll get out through the second floor. But your mother is right: We need to get into the pantry. Come on kids, come with your mother and me.”

   Evadaro followed his parents without question. Even the act of going from one room to another seemed to exercise more agency than anything he was willing or able to do. Evadaro’s parents each carried a child as Evadaro gathered blankets and pillows from upstairs and laid them out in the pantry. But as he was about to close the pantry door he saw something: A torchlight through the window. “The rain is too dense for that to be too far away. That can only mean–” someone tapped against the window. The tapping was barely audible, but over it Evadaro could hear someone’s voice,

   "Foreman! Anyone, help!“

   Evadaro dashed to the door and opened it, letting the stranger in. He didn’t recognize them, but they fell against them in desperate terror. It was a Hyur man whose eyes were wide with terror. Evadaro propped the man up against the wall, where he fell onto his backside in exhaustion. Evadaro didn’t want to imagine what the man had gone through just to reach the house. He knelt down and put a hand on the man’s shoulder as he caught his breath.

   "Evadaro, what is it?” His father asked from behind him. Seeing the Hyur, Evadaro’s father quickly came and knelt down to Evadaro’s side, saying, “Arthur! What’s happened?!”

   "Foreman, it’s Alan. Alan’s house is sinking into the mud!“

   "Yeah, ours was too,” Evadaro said.

   "No you don’t understand!“ Arthur sputtered, "He was with his family when it happened. They were underground! They’re going to be buried alive!”  

   Evadaro and his father looked at each other. There was much unsaid in that moment, Evadaro could tell. His father’s eyes challenged him: “Will you help Alan, who didn’t intend on helping you?” Evadaro wanted to answer preemptively. He wanted to blurt out an explanation as to why he was right, and why they shouldn’t go to help Alan now. But only when he imagined himself saying these things did he realized what his father was trying to teach him.

   Evadaro’s father said, “Stay here. I’m gonna get them out of there.” And threw open the front door. Lightning flashed, thunder roared, and the door slammed shut. Evadaro clenched his fists. He wasn’t about to waste time wallowing in pride, waiting for his father to return from an act of unadulterated heroism. He knew there was danger beyond that door. Nothing was safe outside the room he was in. “But,” he thought, “there’s nothing inside this room worth doing.”

   Evadaro threw the door open. His mother called to him, but he did not hear her. He ran into the darkness, following his father’s footprints in the mud.

   "Dad!“ Evadaro called, "Dad!” Evadaro walked through mud up to his knees. It never occurred to him that the ground was made of dirt that could easily turn to quicksand in the right conditions. Every step seemed to suck him down further, and he was kept aloft of it only by maintaining a quick pace.

   "Go back, Evadaro!“ His father’s voice was audible, but the rain was so dense that hardly anything was visible. Evadaro ran towards the voice.

   "No! I’m helping you! I couldn’t find my way back even if I wanted to.”

   Evadaro felt his father’s hand grip his collar. He pulled Evadaro in and barked, “You could die out here boy!”     “So could you!” They both tensed up as lightning struck somewhere nearby– Evadaro couldn’t tell if it was a tree or a house that go struck, only that it exploded with a sudden flash of white and gold and that its fire was just as suddenly smothered by the rain. Evadaro shouted, “You were right, dad! Whatever you wanted to say, you were right! Now let’s go help Alan!”

   His father’s grip softened, then let go. He led the way, offering Evadaro his tail to follow him. They came to Alan’s house, which was indeed half-submerged in the mud. Evadaro’s father pointed to a corner of the house and said, “The entrance to his shelter should be on this side of that corner. We’re gonna have to dig.”

   Evadaro nodded. His father was somehow aware of the affirmation. They made their way to the designated corner and began to dig. It was easy enough to clear mud away from the house by the handful, but it had a terrible habit of finding its way back to wherever it was cleared from. Evadaro had to use one arm to push the mud away, one arm to brace himself against the house, and then hold back the tide of mud with his back. He only now realized the real risk of digging Alan’s family free: He could just as easily be drowned in the hole he was digging.

   Progress seemed hopelessly slow until Arthur came stumbling through the rain carrying half a dozen shovels. Before Evadaro could ask why he brought so many, two more men slogged through the mud after him. Without a word they each picked up a shovel, handed a pair to Evadaro and his father, then all got to digging, forming a pit around the corner of the house where the shelter should’ve been.  

   Eventually Evadaro hit paydirt– the door to the underground shelter. It had sunk a whole five feet lower than where it started. His father helped him clear the mud off of the door itself while the other three men kept the rest of the mud from undoing their labor. When half the door was accessible Evadaro immediately ripped it open. What he was met with made his blood run cold.

   Evadaro looked down into a pool of jet-black rain water. “It must have flooded,” he thought, “Of course it flooded. Everything is flooded, everywhere…” He moved to keep himself from despairing. He stepped into the pool and called into the dark, “Hello? Is anyone still alive down here?!” The words were so grim that he had trouble projecting them with confidence. Someone seemed to hear him however. A woman’s voice called,

   "Help! Please help us!“

   The voice echoed in such a way to give Evadaro a clear image of what had happened, even as the darkness obscured it: The water must have nearly reached the ceiling, but this woman was floating on it, probably high enough to touch the ceiling. The image would make Evadaro shiver if he weren’t thinking about other things. He shouted back, "Hang on, we’re going to get you out of there! Swim towards my voice!”

   A part of Evadaro kept thinking “Where’s Alan? Where’s Alan?”, while another part of him responded: “Alan’s dead, Alan’s dead…”

   Evadaro reached into the water, waving his hand around trying to find the woman. Instead he felt something come to rest in his hand. Knowing what it was he immediately pulled it towards him before the water could rise any higher. “Dad, take it! Or him! Or her, I don’t know!” It was a baby the woman had placed in his hand, crying and cold. Evadaro handed the child to his father, then stuck his hand back into the water, searching for the woman.

   "Evadaro we have to go! The house is still sinking!”

   "No! She’s still in there!“

   Evadaro leaned in deeper, letting the water come up to his shoulders. Rain continued to pour, raising the water to his neck within moments. He flailed an arm, a leg, and his tail all around, searching for the woman, hoping against all reason that she would find him and grab onto him. Evadaro cried, "No! Come on, I heard her! She was right there!”

   Two mighty hands seized Evadaro by the upper arms and pulled him out of the water. His father yanked him out before it could rise over his head, then handed him to the three men, who pulled him out of the pit. Evadaro stood up, ready to strike his father. But his father was still in the pit, looking up at him. He pushed the baby up into Evadaro’s arms. The pit had already filled halfway up with water. Evadaro saw his father standing waist-deep in the pool, taking huge, deliberate breaths. “What are you doing?!” Evadaro shouted.

Without a word Evadaro’s father turned around and dove into the water.

   "Dad!“

   The wind made every house in Limsa Meada creak. Some were beginning to disappear under the force of the storm. Rather than splitting apart one piece at a time, others were simply coming undone from their foundations and flipping onto their sides. Planks of wood flew through the air. Arthur and the two men Evadaro didn’t know ran for their homes, leaving Evadaro at the edge of the now-totally-flooded pit, cradling the crying baby. Evadaro wasn’t ready to cry yet. He wasn’t ready to accept that his father might not come back out of that pool.  

   "Come on, you can do it,” Evadaro said aloud, “There’s no one stronger than you, dad! Come on! I helped the person who wasn’t going to help me. I learned my lesson! Come on! Reward me! Come back outta that water! Come on!”

   The water erupted with the form of Evadaro’s father, the woman in his arms. Evadaro let out a breath. Tears fell down his face. He reached his arm to his father and helped drag him to the edge of the pit with the woman in tow.  

   "Where’s Alan?“ Evadaro asked.

   "Alan’s dead!” His father answered.  

   Evadaro and his father brought the baby and its mother back to their home. They entered through an upstairs window that now easier to access than the front door. Evadaro’s mother, brother, and sister had retreated to the room that they entered by. They were expecting to have to escape the sinking house through it at any moment.

Evadaro figured that the woman they rescued was Alan’s wife, and the baby Alan’s child. He didn’t ask them what happened in their underground shelter. He didn’t want to imagine it.

   The rain slowed and the wind picked up, but since the house had stopped sinking Evadaro and his father found it to be an opportune time to rest.  

   The storm had passed by morning. Evadaro found his body too heavy to move, but his mother dragged him and his father out of their sunken house. She took them to a hill far above the town to keep them away from the flooding. There Evadaro could finally see it: His home was gone. Every one-story house had been swallowed by the earth or destroyed by the wind. And though most had escaped the destruction with their lives, Limsa Meada was essentially no more.

[ruminativerabbi]

Books and Mirrors: As A New Year Dawns

The month of Elul, the last month of the Jewish year, is well known as the traditional time for reviewing the year, reflecting on our behavior and general comportment, owning up to our shortcomings, and finding the resolve to face the season of judgment, if not quite with eager anticipation, than at least with equanimity born the conviction that we can and will do better in the coming year. You often hear the Hebrew phrase ḥeshbon ha-nefesh, literally “an accounting of the soul” in this regard—and those words really do capture the concept pithily and well: thinking of our lives as ledger-books in which our instances of moral courage and ethical inadequacy stand in for the accountant’s credits and debits works for me and will probably suit most. There is even a book with that title—Sefer Ḥeshbon Ha-nefesh by Rabbi Menaḥem Mendel Lefin, written in 1808 and the only rabbinic work known to have been directly influenced by the Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin—which I wrote about to you all a few years ago just before Pesach. (To review what I had to say there, click here.)

How exactly to go about this is a different question, however. I suppose some people really can just sit down and review the year week by week, noting where they personally feel themselves to have come up short and resolving to respond in a way more in keeping with the moral code they claim to espouse when facing analogous situations in the future. For most of us, though, that process—although theoretically possible—is not that practical an approach to the larger enterprise: who can remember the days of our lives with clear-eyed enough exactitude to analyze deeds from months ago with the certainty that we are remembering things precisely correctly? Fortunately, there are other ways to see ourselves clearly and for many, myself included, the simplest answer is to use a mirror.  Not a real one, of course, in which you can only see the reflection of your outermost appearance. But there are other kinds of mirrors available to us, some of which have the ability to reflect the inner self and which can serve, therefore, more like windows into the soul than the kind of mirror you look into each morning when you brush your teeth and see yourself looking back with a toothbrush in your mouth.

For me personally and for many years now, that mirror has always been a book I’ve chosen to read or re-read during Elul in the hope that it will allow me to see myself reflected either in its plot, in the way some specific one of its characters is depicted, or in the world it describes. Over the years, I’ve chosen well and less well. But when I do somehow manage to choose the right book for Elul, that choice makes all the difference by allowing me to see myself in the depiction of another far more clearly than I think I ever could have managed on my own.

This year I read Marcos Aguinis’ novel, Against the Inquisition.  Although the author is apparently very well-known in his native Argentina and throughout the Spanish-speaking world, I hadn’t ever heard of him until just this last July when Dara Horn published a review of the new English-language translation by Carolina de Robertis of his most successful book, called La Gesta del Marrano in Spanish, in Moment magazine. The review was stellar (to read it for yourself, click here) and left me intrigued enough to buy a copy with the intention of it being my Elul book for this year. It wasn’t a big investment, so I wasn’t risking much. (Used paperback copies and the e-book version are both available online for less than $5 each.) But it turned out to be exactly the right choice: I just finished it earlier this week and found myself truly astounded both by the author’s literary skill and, even more so, by what the book has to say about the nature of Jewishness itself.

Seeing myself in the protagonist, Francisco Maldonado da Silva—a real historical figure who lived from1592 to 1639—was simple enough. Imagining myself reaching the level of piety, self-awareness, courage, and moral decency he exemplified in his life and, even more so, in his death—that was the mirror into which I found myself peering as I read Aguinis’s book. I don’t have to be him, obviously. But I do have to be me. And so the question is not whether I could learn Spanish and move to the seventeenth century, but whether I have it in me to be me in the same sense that the book’s protagonist was himself. If the concept sounds obscure when I formulate it that way, read the book and you’ll see what I mean: I can hardly remember feeling more personally challenged by a novel, and more eager to accept the protagonist as a moral role model. Against the Inquisition is a historical novel, of course, not a non-fiction work of “regular” history. But it tells a true story…and the opportunity to read the story, to take it to heart, to be moved incredibly by its detail, and to feel transformed by the experience of communing with a great Jewish thinker through the medium of his art—that is the gift Against the Inquisition offers to its readers.

The plot, fully rooted in the real Francisco Maldonado da Silva’s life story, is beyond moving. The details of Jewish life in Latin America in the late 1500s and the early 1600s will be obscure to most readers in North America today. But the short version is that all of South America except Brazil was part of the Spanish Empire back then. And the Catholic authorities (whose power over the region’s secular rulers was almost absolute) were dedicated not merely to making the practice of Judaism illegal, but to ferreting out even the vaguest traces of Jewish practice of belief that might still be lingering among the so-called “New” Christians, the descendants of those Jews who chose conversion to Catholic Christianity over flight when the Jews were exiled from Spain and Portugal, but at least some of whom retained a deeply engrained sense of their own Jewishness intact enough to pass along to their children and their children’s children as well.

Da Silva’s life story as retold in the book is remarkable in almost every way. His father, a physician harboring a deep, if secret and entirely illicit, devotion to his own Jewishness is eventually discovered and punished so cruelly and so degradingly that it beggars the imagination to consider that his torture—which is certainly not too strong a word to describe his treatment—was undertaken by men who considered themselves not only deeply religious but truly virtuous. But the meat of the novel is the story of how exactly the physician’s son Francisco, who also becomes well-known and highly respected doctor, is made aware of his Jewishness and then finds it in him not to dissemble so as not to be caught, but, at least eventually, to embrace his Jewishness and his Judaism openly and fearlessly. That kind of behavior was not tolerated in Spanish America, and the consequences for Francisco are, at least in some ways, even worse than the physical abuse and public humiliation to which his father was subjected.

The last chapters particularly are seared into my memory. You know what’s coming. You know that there’s no other way for the book to end. You understand that the protagonist, Francisco himself, sees that as clearly as you do. And yet you continue to hope that you’re wrong, that some deus ex machina will descend from the sky and make things right. You know you’re being crazy by hoping for such a thing—and, if you are me, you already know that the auto-da-fé of January 23, 1639, in Lima, Peru, was perhaps the largest mass execution of Jews ever undertaken by the Catholic church, a nightmarish travesty of justice undertaken in the name of religion in which more than eighty “New” Christians were burnt alive at the stake for the crime of having retained some faint vestige of their families’ Jewishness—but you continue to delude yourself into thinking that perhaps the author will take advantage of his novelist’s prerogative to just make up some other ending.  That Francisco is depicted as having the means of escaping his prison cell but instead uses his freedom to visit other prisoners and encourage them to embrace their Jewishness and to accept their fate with pride and courage—that detail alone makes this novel a worthy Elul read.

My readers all know who my personal heroes are. Janusz Korczak, who chose to die at Treblinka rather than to abandon the orphans entrusted to his care. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who returned to wartime Germany to preach against Nazism and eventually to play a role in the plot to assassinate Hitler, for which effort he paid with his life. And now I add Francisco Maldonado da Silva, who chose to die with dignity and pride as a Jew rather than to run off and spend his life masquerading as something he was not and had no wish to be. Could I be like that? Could I live up to my own values in the way these men did? Could I be me the way they were them? I ask these questions not because I wish to answer them in public, but merely to show that they can be asked. They can also be answered, of course. And that is what Elul is for: to challenge us to peer into whatever mirror we choose…and ask if the man or woman we could be is looking back, or just the woman or man we ended up as. That is the searing, anxiety-provoking question the holidays about to dawn lay at our feet. If you’re looking for the courage to formulate your own answer, read Against the Inquisition and I’m guessing you’ll be as inspired to undertake the ḥeshbon ha-nefesh necessary to answer honestly as I was.

[cubelelo]

He Invented the Rubik's Cube. He's Still Learning From It

Erno Rubik, who formulated one of the world's generally well known and suffering riddles, opens up about his creation in his new book, "Cubed."

Erno Rubik, who created the Rubik's Cube, composed his book "Cubed," he said, "to attempt to get what's occurred and why it has occurred. What is the genuine idea of the cube? Video by Akos Stiller For The New York Times

The primary individual to settle a Rubik's Cube went through a month attempting to unscramble it.

It was the riddle's designer, an unassuming Hungarian engineering educator named Erno Rubik. At the point when he created the 3D shape in 1974, he didn't know it might at any point be settled. Mathematicians later determined that there are 43,252,003,274,489,856,000 approaches to mastermind the squares, however only one of those blends is right.

At the point when Rubik at long last did it, following quite a while of dissatisfaction, he was overwhelmed by "an extraordinary feeling of achievement and utter alleviation." Looking back, he understands the new age of "speedcubers" — Yusheng Du of China set the worldwide best of 3.47 seconds in 2018 — probably won't be dazzled.

"Be that as it may, recollect," Rubik writes in his new book, "Cubed," "this had never been finished."

In the almost fifty years since, the Rubik's Cube has gotten perhaps the most suffering, flabbergasting, goading and engrossing riddles at any point made. In excess of 350 million solid shapes have sold internationally; in the event that you incorporate knockoffs, the number is far higher. They enrapture software engineers, rationalists and craftsmen. Many books, promising pace settling techniques, dissecting solid shape plan standards or investigating their philosophical importance, have been distributed. The 3D square came to epitomize "significantly more than simply a riddle," the intellectual researcher Douglas Hofstadter wrote in 1981. "It is a keen mechanical development, a side interest, a learning device, a wellspring of illustrations, a motivation."

ImageErno Rubik, right, at a Rubik Rsquo;s Cube big showdown in Budapest in 1982. The competitors included, from left, Zoltan Labas of Hungary, Guus Razoux Schultz of the Netherlands and Minh Thai of the United States.

Erno Rubik, right, at a Rubik's Cube big showdown in Budapest in 1982. The competitors included, from left, Zoltan Labas of Hungary, Guus Razoux Schultz of the Netherlands and Minh Thai of the United States.Credit...via Rubik's Brand

Be that as it may, even as the Rubik's Cube vanquished the world, the exposure disinclined man behind it has stayed a secret. "Cubed," which comes out this week, is halfway his diary, part of the way a scholarly composition and in enormous section a romantic tale about his developing relationship with the creation that bears his name and the worldwide local area of cubers focused on it.

"I would prefer not to compose a personal history, since I am not inspired by my life or sharing my life," Rubik said during a Skype meet from his home in Budapest. "The key explanation I did it is to attempt to get what's occurred and why it has occurred. What is the genuine idea of the shape?"

Rubik, 76, is exuberant and energized, motioning with his glasses and bobbing on the love seat, running his hands through his hair so it stands up in a dim tuft, giving him the vibe of a surprised bird. He talks officially and gives long, intricate, philosophical answers, much of the time following off with the expression "etc" while circumnavigating the finish of a point. He sat in his family room, in a home he planned himself, before a shelf brimming with sci-fi titles — his top choices incorporate works by Isaac Asimov and the Polish author Stanisław Lem.

He talks about the solid shape as though it's his kid. "I'm exceptionally near the 3D shape. The 3D shape was growing up close to me and the present moment, it's moderately aged, so I know a great deal about it," he said.

"Here's one," Rubik said, recovering it from the end table, then, at that point tinkering with it missing mindedly for the following hour or thereabouts as we talked.

Rubik Rsquo;s introductory plan was made of wood, then, at that point he added shading to the squares to make their development noticeable.

Rubik's underlying plan was made of wood, then, at that point he added shading to the squares to make their development visible.Credit...Rubik's Brand

"While heading to attempting to comprehend the idea of the 3D shape, I adjusted my perspective," Rubik said. "What truly intrigued me was not the idea of the solid shape, but rather the idea of individuals, the connection among individuals and the block."

Pursue The Great Read Every work day, we suggest one piece of outstanding composition from The Times — an account or exposition that takes you somewhere you probably won't anticipate going. Get it shipped off your inbox.

Perusing "Cubed" can be an unusual, bewildering experience, one that is similar to getting and winding one of his solid shapes. It does not have an unmistakable story construction or circular segment — an impact that is intentional, Rubik said. At first, he didn't need the book to have sections or even a title.

"I had a few thoughts, and I thought to share this combination of thoughts that I have to me and pass on it to the peruser to discover which ones are significant," he said. "I'm not taking your hands and strolling you on this course. You can begin toward the end or in the center."

Or then again you can begin toward the start.

Erno Rubik was brought into the world on July 13, 1944, about a month after D-Day, in the storm cellar of a Budapest clinic that had become an air-strike cover. His dad was a specialist who planned flying lightweight flyers.

As a kid, Rubik wanted to draw, paint and shape. He contemplated engineering at the Budapest University of Technology, then, at that point learned at the College of Applied Arts. He became fixated on mathematical examples. As a teacher, he showed a class called distinct math, which included helping understudies to utilize two-dimensional pictures to address three-dimensional shapes and issues. It was an odd and obscure field, yet it set him up to foster the solid shape.

In the spring of 1974, when he was 29, Rubik was in his room at his mom's loft, fiddling. He portrays his room as taking after within a kid's pocket, with pastels, string, sticks, springs and pieces of paper dispersed across each surface. It was likewise brimming with shapes he made, out of paper and wood.

Keep perusing the primary story

At some point — "I don't know precisely why," he composes — he attempted to assemble eight 3D squares with the goal that they could remain together yet in addition move around, trading places. He made the blocks out of wood, then, at that point penetrated an opening toward the sides of the shapes to connect them together. The article immediately self-destructed.

Erno Rubik, the creator of the Rubik’s Cube, at his home in Budapest. “I’m exceptionally near the cube,” he said. “The solid shape was growing up close to me and at the present time, it’s moderately aged, so I know a great deal about it.”

Erno Rubik, the creator of the Rubik's Cube, at his home in Budapest. "I'm exceptionally near the 3D shape," he said. "The 3D shape was growing up close to me and this moment, it's moderately aged, so I know a great deal about it."Credit. Akos Stiller for The New York Times

Numerous cycles later, Rubik sorted out the novel plan that permitted him to fabricate something incomprehensible: a strong, static item that is additionally liquid. After he gave his wooden solid shape an underlying turn, he chose to add tone to the squares to make their development apparent. He painted the essences of the squares yellow, blue, red, orange, green and white. He gave it a bend, then, at that point another turn, then, at that point another, and continued curving until he understood he probably won't have the option to reestablish it to its unique state.

He was lost in a bright labyrinth, and did not understand how to explore it. "There was no chance back," he composes.

After the 3D square turned into a worldwide wonder, there would be mistaken records of Rubik's innovative cycle. Reports portrayed how he isolated himself and chipped away at the 3D shape day and night for quite a long time. In actuality, he went to work, saw companions, and chipped away at tackling the 3D shape in his extra time, for no particular reason.

After he broke it, Rubik presented an application at the Hungarian Patent Office for a "three-dimensional coherent toy." A producer of chess sets and plastic toys made 5,000 duplicates. In 1977, Rubik's "Buvös Kocka," or "Sorcery Cube," appeared in Hungarian toy shops. After two years, 300,000 solid shapes had sold in Hungary.

Rubik got an agreement at an American organization, Ideal Toy, which needed 1,000,000 3D squares to sell abroad. In 1980, Ideal Toy carried Rubik to New York to a toy reasonable. He wasn't the most appealing sales rep — a bashful engineering educator with a then-restricted order of English — however the organization required somebody to show that the riddle was reasonable.

Deals detonated. In three years, Ideal sold 100 million Rubik's Cubes. Advisers for addressing the block shot up the success records. "There's a sense wherein the 3D shape is incredibly, basic — it's just got six sides, six tones," said Steve Patterson, a logician and writer of "The starting point: The Foundations of Knowledge," who has expounded on the 3D square as an epitome of mysteries. "In an extremely brief timeframe, it turns out to be fantastically unpredictable."

Right away, Rubik didn't have a compensation from the toy organization, and for some time, he saw little of the eminences. He lived on his educator's compensation of $200 every month.

[griseovis]

Thoughts, headcanons, and more. A miscellaneous post without a proper title.

So, there are a number of things that I'd like to personally discuss, and I haven't grouped them in a particular order. The only preface that I'd like to give is that at the heart of this post lies my perception of various things all related to TLJ. Naturally, my perception influences my portrayal.

I suppose I can actually group some of these points as me rolling my eyes and disapprovingly shaking my head at some absurd fandom things. Now, I actively try to avoid most of the SW fandom ( outside of rp ) by refraining from visiting tags ( save for one tag in particular because it's usually filled with fascinating meta and beautiful art ). However, because people are shamelessly hateful to the people in that tag and they abuse crosstagging, I stumble across irritating posts sometimes that inform me of some of the vapidity of some fans. Normally, I stay silent, but not today.

One of these ridiculous things is that there's some argument apparently going around, and one of the points is that Rey didn't consent to the Force Bond. There are so many things wrong about that statement that I don't know where to begin. For instance, obviously she didn't, but are you forgetting about the hiiiiighly apparent fact that Benlo ( yup still referring to him as that for now because it keeps things concise and it's inoffensive ) didn't either? In the first two connection scenes, he's the one actually trying to make sense of it because he's so confused. Regardless of how they feel about this connection, neither asked for it or tried to establish it.

Kind of jumping around too but not quite, I need to take this moment to emphasize the fact that I don't condone hatred whatsoever. As someone who didn't really venture into the SW side of roleplaying but has been involved with plenty of other communities ( ex. The Secret Circle, Pretty Little Liars, Revenge, Teen Wolf, Harry Potter, Disney, etc. ), I can honestly say that no fandom I've been exposed to is quite as vicious as the SW one. This whole 'anti' thing just gets taken to a whole new level. I'm stunned and appalled by the fact that there are people who think that it's considered 'acceptable' and 'cool' to bash others for loving fiction. Who think that defamation is alright. ( When you insist that people who support a pairing are women haters despite the fact that a majority of them are women themselves, that's defamation. ) It's not. There's a difference between not liking something and being an ant. For example, I don't like Cassie Blake from The Secret Circle, but I absolutely don't consider myself an ant because I don't antagonize people who love her and I don't spend my energy making spiteful posts & whatnot about the character. I simply have this dislike and that's the end of that. Whether you're an anti-character ( ex. anti-Poe [ do any actually exist? ] ) or an anti-ship ( ex. anti-FinnRey ), I don't want this blog to be touched by anyone who considers themselves an ant of any character of ship. Anyone who actively disparages and demonizes people for loving fiction should be faaaaaaar away from this blog. I want to be surrounded by loving and peaceful people. Not cutthroat and mean-spirited people, thanks.

Now, I'm going to be rather bold and say something. At some point while I've had this muse, I started seeing posts made by personals about Rey being a lesbian. At first, I didn't think much of them. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. Now? I think they're quite annoying and telling. Why? You realize that a number of those people are probably FinnRey shippers as well, right? Possibly even ReyPoe. No, I've got nothing against these ships at all and actually appreciated both as a multishipper ( though I will say I love StormPilot and FinnRose a bit more than FinnRey ). So, what's wrong with them appreciating those ships yet insisting that Rey is a lesbian? Well, you can't have it both ways, and it's quite apparent that they're insisting she's one to try to justify their abhorrence of those who ship Rey with someone they can't picture her with as well as the ship itself. From my experience, these posts insisting she's a lesbian come from ants for the most part, and they make this assertion in quite the arrogant way. They say it as if it's a fact that she's a lesbian ( and blatantly dismiss / reject the possibility of her being anything else ), when it isn't a fact. There's nothing wrong with portraying her that way in fanfiction and roleplaying, but to act as if it's a canon fact that she's a lesbian is absurd. Also, these people will ditch her in a heartbeat if she ends up with someone they don't like by the end of episode IX. If she finds happiness somewhere, they disagree with, they'll ditch her immediately. Supposed Rey 'fans' have already ditched her because of the continuation of her story in VIII. Had I not anticipated that response from them, I would have been disappointed. Honestly, they were never fans to begin with because they never really understood or appreciated the character. I roll my eyes so hard when people claim she wasn't herself in TLJ. It's not true in the slightest.

Something else. Kind of me rolling my eyes at the faaar opposite end of the spectrum. I'm genuinely disgusted by posts that insinuate she was thirsty for Benlo in this film. They're over-sexualizing a character who has likely never dated or done anything sexual in her life. Rey has never been one for needlessly socializing and she doesn't invest trust easily in her eyes. That's evidenced by the novel 'Rey's Story' and I believe another TFA related novel that I can't quite recall the name of. It's been a long day and I'm too comfortable to go upstairs to pick up the book right now. ( Here's where I get a bit more direct with my headcanons in this post. ) Yes, seeing him shirtless flustered her because she believed ( at the time ) that he's supposed to be her enemy and she's seeing him exposed. Also, while you're really not going to get her to say it out loud ( again not as I portray her ), she doesn't find him aesthetically displeasing. Even if only to herself and not out loud, she can admit that he's attractive physically and personality ( save for the parts that she severely disapproves of such as his willingness to let others die ). However, she absolutely wasn't thirsty and by suggesting she was, you're kind of taking away from her intelligence & depth as a character. The attraction / pull primarily lies in the magnetism of this bond as well as their similarities as individuals. It's a much more sophisticated pull. She feels drawn to him inexplicably and on a profound level.

Now, again, me rolling my eyes at something. Some ants are suggesting Rey didn't defend Ben Solo by fighting Luke, and I'm just baffled by such denial. There are several reasons why she fought Luke after he interrupted the hand touch moment. She doesn't like being lied to - especially by someone she's revered for so long. She wanted to force Luke to cast aside his deception and reveal the truth. Lastly, she was INDEED defending Ben Solo and that came from a place of empathy. Yes, there's a part of her that sympathizes him, but her empathy is much stronger. The thought of someone nearly being killed by a relative - one who went on to paint a story in which the roles of aggressor and victim were reversed - enraged her. She felt as if his story deserved to come out from the darkness and be revealed instead of obscured by Luke's lies. She was angry on Ben Solo's behalf and protective of him in that moment.

Also, surprise surprise, me rolling my eyes at something again. The whole "you're nothing, but not to me" line that sparked so much conflict among fans. I actually spoke with my mom about it after her first viewing / my second viewing. Thing is, I feel like a number of people who find the line 100% reprehensible are missing something HUGE. It came from someone who hasn't been shown kindness, warmth, and love for years. Someone who hasn't needed to show it. Someone who's been trained by this oppressive menace to be brutal, hostile, and savage for years. Someone whose parents didn't have an amicable and peaceful relationship. Someone who was sent away to train with his uncle. Someone that same uncle considered murdering. Someone who has had his trust broken more times than probably any of us are aware of. Someone who's had to worry about being perceived as weak by his superior. Someone who's had to worry about being humiliated or one upped by a particularly competitive and opportunistic general. Someone who's been suffering from a feeling of being torn apart for years. Someone who's felt lonely in his own way for years. Yet, there are audience members who for whatever reason expect him to have the tact, gentleness, and sensitivity that they have - that have been foreign to him for who knows how long. His experiences have resulted in the formation of a disconnect between him and more harmonious emotions. He doesn't have the sensitivity that many of us do, and that needs to be understood. No, it doesn't make what he said right, but his mentality is so different and we must remember that. Also, no, he wasn't trying to use the past to hurt or manipulate her. He values the truth more than words can properly convey and he wanted - perhaps even needed - her to understand him. There's a sense of human desperation there - especially in the way he says please.

Adding to this scene, but a different part. Apparently, some people are divided on her response to his offer / plea as well. I think she responded as appropriately as she could have, but her feeling of regret was inevitable. Thing is, although talking with him and explaining why she couldn't join him then seems ideal, the circumstances were dire. She needed to act with haste, and felt pressured to do so. Those transports and the people aboard needed to be saved. She knows how determined he can be and that he doesn't do things halfheartedly. Even if she'd explained - even if those transports weren't in danger, she's quite certain he wouldn't have simply allowed her to walk away. At that point, he seemed quite sure of his path, and he couldn't be swayed. So, she used the element of surprise while she had it.

Now, for Rey's lightsaber skills in the Throne Room. We notice her doing a good bit of twirling. It needs to be emphasized that while we as audiences have seen him partake in lightsaber matches, she hasn't. She was Luke's student for a quick second, and she wasn't a traditional student either. She was offered three lessons and she never really received that final lesson. At no point did she personally witness him wield a lightsaber. So, where does that twirling come from? Whose mind has she been inside of? Who has she seen use a lightsaber? Just think about that for a moment. She combines the knowledge gained from him with battle techniques she used when wielding her staff.

Now, for the last part of this post. Their respective visions. During one of the six times I viewed it in theaters, I realized something on my own. Both of their visions technically came true. Rey stood beside Benlo in battle and for a moment, they were on the same side. Not the Light side. Not the Dark side. Not the First Order. Not the Resistance. A side of their own. Just before that, Benlo did betray Snoke. So, when you think about it, it's kind of tragic that the two of them misinterpreted their visions and believe that they still have yet to occur. However, I do wonder precisely what it is that each saw and I hope we get more information come the release of the novelization. 

[sociologyquotes]

90 companies are to blame for most climate change

from the article Just 90 companies are to blame for most climate change, this 'carbon accountant' says by Douglas Starr

“Last month, geographer Richard Heede received a subpoena from Representative Lamar Smith (R-TX), chairman of the House of Representatives Committee on Science, Space, and Technology. Smith, a climate change doubter, became concerned when the attorneys general of several states launched investigations into whether ExxonMobil had committed fraud by sowing doubts about climate change even as its own scientists knew it was taking place. The congressman suspected a conspiracy between the attorneys general and environmental advocates, and he wanted to see all the communications among them. Predictably, his targets included advocacy organizations such as Greenpeace, 350.org, and the Union of Concerned Scientists. They also included Heede, who works on his own aboard a rented houseboat on San Francisco Bay in California.

Heede is less well known than his fellow recipients, but his work is no less threatening to the fossil fuel industry. Heede (pronounced "Heedie") has compiled a massive database quantifying who has been responsible for taking carbon out of the ground and putting it into the atmosphere. Working alone, with uncertain funding, he spent years piecing together the annual production of every major fossil fuel company since the Industrial Revolution and converting it to carbon emissions.

Heede's research shows that nearly two-thirds of anthropogenic carbon emissions originated in just 90 companies and government-run industries. Among them, the top eight companies -- ranked according to annual and cumulative emissions below -- account for 20 percent of world carbon emissions from fossil fuels and cement production since the Industrial Revolution.

[Visit article page to view interactive graphic charting years of annual emissions]

[...]  The results showed that nearly two-thirds of the major industrial greenhouse gas emissions (from fossil fuel use, methane leaks, and cement manufacture) originated in just 90 companies around the world, which either emitted the carbon themselves or supplied carbon ultimately released by consumers and industry. As Heede told The Guardian newspaper, you could take all the decision-makers and CEOs of these companies and fit them on a couple Greyhound buses.

The study provoked controversy when it was published in 2013, with some complaining that it unfairly held the fossil fuel industry responsible for the lifestyle choices made by billions of consumers. "It's a cop-out to blame the producers of products that we have demanded, and benefited from, for more than a century," wrote Severin Borenstein, a business and public policy expert at the University of California (UC), Berkeley, in a blog post.

Others, however, saw the study as a turning point in the debate about apportioning responsibility for climate change. With traditional environmental issues, such as river pollution or toxic waste, it has always been possible to identify perpetrators who could be targeted for regulation or enforcement. But greenhouse gases are emitted everywhere, in every process that involves combustion. "For decades there's been a persistent myth that everyone is responsible, and if everyone is responsible then no one is responsible," says Carroll Muffett, president and CEO of the Center for International Environmental Law in Washington, D.C., who also serves on the board of a nonprofit that Heede co-founded. "Rick's work for the first time identifies a discrete class of defendants."

Heede's carbon accounting is already opening a new chapter in climate change litigation and policy, helping equip plaintiffs who believe they have suffered damages from climate change to claim compensation. "Rick's work really helps connect the dots," says Marco Simons, general counsel of EarthRights International, a Washington, D.C.-based legal group that defends the rights of the poor. "He hasn't sought out the spotlight, but I think his work is tremendously important."

Heede tallies carbon obsessively. When we discussed my plans to fly out from Boston to Sausalito, California, where his houseboat is anchored, he did a quick calculation and told me that my share of the flights would add 716 kilograms of carbon to the atmosphere. "And if you'd driven an average car the trip would be 1.78 tons of CO2 [carbon dioxide]" he added, apparently riffing on his own compulsiveness. During my visit I noticed that when he boiled water to make noodles for lunch he put a frying pan on the pot instead of a lid—to preheat the pan so it would use a tiny bit less fuel to heat up the stir-fry. "It's a practice of mine to figure out how I can minimize energy use."

He was born in Norway into a long line of watchmakers, which may contribute to his own meticulousness. At 15, he and his parents immigrated to the United States. His father was a consulting engineer, but the younger Heede wasn't keen on "fixing problems that should not have been created in the first place"—which, he admits, is exactly what he's doing these days.

Heede has spent most of his life in Colorado, and he has the solid build and weathered face of someone who has spent lots of time in the mountains. He earned undergraduate and master's degrees in geography at the University of Colorado, Boulder, and then joined forces with Amory Lovins, the soft-energy guru who co-founded the Rocky Mountain Institute in Boulder. Ronald Reagan had just been elected president, and his administration moved to gut subsidies for alternative energy sources, claiming that they were not economically competitive. Heede tested that assertion, analyzing the federal budget to find the hidden subsidies to the coal and oil industries, even including the cost of treating workers who developed black lung disease from coal mining.

Contrary to Reagan administration claims, Heede showed that the vast bulk of federal energy subsidies went to conventional energy sources. He wrote a report, testified to Congress, and wrote an opinion piece in The Wall Street Journal. "I don't recall getting any calls as a result," he says. It was an early taste of working in obscurity.

In 2003, he left the Rocky Mountain Institute to form Climate Mitigation Services, a consulting firm specializing in surveying and mitigating greenhouse gas emissions. One of his early clients was Aspen, Colorado, a rich and progressive ski town whose leaders wanted to act decisively to reduce emissions. They hired Heede to do a baseline greenhouse gas inventory with the broadest possible scope—including not only activities within the city, but the cars and airplanes that annually brought in hundreds of thousands of tourists … in short, Heede recalls, "everything that uses energy as a result of Aspen's existence."

The exercise raised fascinating questions, Heede says: "What is a community, and what is a boundary? There's leakage everywhere: airplanes, trucks, cars, visitors. How do you quantify that stuff?"

Heede interviewed airport managers and checked their logs to find out which aircraft served the more than 178,000 annual passengers, calculating fuel consumption and emissions for each flight. Standing at the main bridge into Aspen for hours at a time, he categorized the cars that went by—sedans, SUVs, trucks, vans. Then, he used his records to estimate emissions from the 13,000 vehicles tabulated by an automated counter each day. In the end, he determined that in 2004, Aspen was responsible for more than 840,000 tons of carbon emissions—"roughly equivalent to a large, diesel-powered aircraft carrier running flank speed at all times." This and subsequent reports enabled the city to reduce its emissions despite a growing population and economy.

Aspen was an early test of Heede's ability to gather information and see beyond obvious boundaries—the invisible ripples from every project that affect the infinitely interconnected atmosphere. In the early 2000s, for example, an Australian firm proposed building a liquefied natural gas terminal off the California coast. It seemed a good way to transition to a low-carbon "bridge" fuel. But, Heede says, "They hadn't done any work on life cycle emissions." When he tallied all the direct and indirect emissions—from the gas extraction in Australia to distribution in California—he found that the project would have produced nearly a third more carbon than anticipated. His analysis helped persuade California officials to vote it down.

Later, he tackled targets that produce bigger but more diffuse ripples. Several U.S. cities and environmental groups were suing the Export-Import Bank of the United States and the Overseas Private Investment Corporation, alleging the institutions were financing projects that would damage Earth's climate. The plaintiffs retained Heede to analyze the carbon emissions resulting from the banks' loans and investments around the world, from a gas project in Central Africa to a coal mine in Poland. He found that the projects were directly and indirectly emitting nearly 2 billion metric tons of CO2 per year—almost 8% of the world's emissions. The plaintiffs won: The banks agreed to conduct environmental impact statements, create carbon-sensitive policies, and increase their financing of renewable energy projects.

Meanwhile, a new idea was coalescing in the environmental law community. For years, attorneys had litigated so-called environmental justice cases to redress the fact that poor people disproportionately suffer from pollution. By the early 2000s, it was becoming clear that the poor will also face the heaviest impacts of climate change. But how do you structure a liability case when the entire world takes part in the carbon economy? Can a Pacific Islander whose town has been flooded sue 7 billion people? Searching for more specific culprits, Peter Roderick, head of the Climate Justice Programme for Greenpeace International in London, commissioned Heede to study ExxonMobil and quantify total greenhouse emissions across its history.

He would have to follow a tangled corporate path. Founded as Standard Oil by John D. Rockefeller in 1870, the company became one of the world's largest multinationals until 1911, when the Supreme Court split it into several "baby Standards." Decades later, two of the largest of those firms merged to form ExxonMobil. Heede tracked down production figures in annual reports scattered among university archives on two continents, supplemented by court documents, news reports, and academic and industry papers. Then he converted production volumes to CO2 and methane. He included direct emissions, for instance from the fuels used to run the company's operations, and indirect emissions released by the combustion of its products.

After 15 months of research, Heede concluded that ExxonMobil and its precursors had directly or indirectly emitted 20.3 billion metric tons of CO2 and 199 million metric tons of methane. Friends of the Earth calculated that the quantity represented between 4.7% and 5.3% of humanity's industrial greenhouse gas emissions since 1882.

"I thought, 'This is exactly the kind of thing I had in mind,'" Roderick recalls. "But I knew it was just a small part of the big picture."

Roderick commissioned Heede to look at the entire fossil fuel industry. To make the project manageable, they limited it to companies that produced at least 8 million tons of carbon per year, the so-called "carbon majors." The research took 8 years. Money from the original grant ran out, and after the crash of 2008 Heede's consulting business collapsed. He maxed out his credit card, borrowed against his Colorado house, and scraped by, enlisting graduate students in several countries to photocopy and send him papers, which he checked and double-checked with a watchmaker's precision. He filled shelves with binders of information and spent thousands of hours entering it into spreadsheets, working alone, often until midnight. "I take pleasure in that kind of stuff," Heede says. "I like to pay attention to detail."

Sitting at dual monitors in the captain's cabin of his houseboat, Heede takes me on a tour of his data set, a seemingly endless series of color-coded and cross-indexed spreadsheets. Each sheet lists hundreds of entries, with columns showing the year and total production volumes for products such as crude oil, natural gas, and varieties of coal. Clicking on a company's name opens additional spreadsheets with the company's year-by-year production, plus screenshots of its annual reports for verification. Color-coded flowcharts display the evolution of companies as they separated or merged. The flowcharts from Russia are particularly ornate, as they incorporate the transformation of companies after the fall of the Soviet Union. (Heede got production data for the Soviet companies from Central Intelligence Agency analyses and the International Energy Agency.) Detailed annotations reveal his methods and calculations. The structure of these charts, so layered and interlocking, seems almost medieval in its complexity, and Heede seems monklike in his devotion to compiling it.

The result, peer reviewed and published in Climatic Change, showed that just 90 companies contributed 63% of the greenhouse gases emitted globally between 1751 and 2010. Half of those emissions took place after 1988—the year James Hansen of NASA testified to Congress that there was no longer any doubt that global warming had begun.

The data "just blew me away," says Naomi Oreskes, a science historian at Harvard University and co-author of the book Merchants of Doubt, which compares the fossil fuel industry to the tobacco industry in its efforts to raise doubts about science. "Everyone talks about this as a problem since the Industrial Revolution, but I now think that's incorrect," she says. Heede has shown that the roots of the problem are more recent and easier to trace. In 2011, Oreskes joined Heede in creating the Climate Accountability Institute, a nonprofit devoted to quantifying the contribution of fossil fuel companies to climate change and investigating their alleged attempts to obfuscate the science.

Other people criticize the work as oversimplified and naïve. David Victor, a political scientist and energy policy specialist at UC San Diego and a co-author of the 2015 Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change report, doesn't question Heede's numbers but says his approach is wrongheaded. "It's part of a larger narrative of trying to create villains; to draw lines between producers as responsible for the problem and everyone else as victims. Frankly, we're all the users and therefore we're all guilty. To create a narrative that involves corporate guilt as opposed to problem-solving is not going to solve anything."

Heede concedes that the responsibility is shared. "I as a consumer bear some responsibility for my own car, etcetera. But we're living an illusion if we think we're making choices, because the infrastructure pretty much makes those choices for us." He focused on fossil fuel companies, he says, because unlike industries that produce greenhouse gases as a byproduct (such as the automobile industry, which has adhered to increasingly strict mileage standards), the mission of fossil fuel companies is to pull carbon out of the ground and put it into commerce.

His data, together with an emerging line of research that uses computer models to discern how likely it is that a given storm, flood, or heat wave was related to human-caused emissions, are now driving efforts to allocate responsibility for climate change. Last year, for instance, several nongovernmental organizations in the Philippines filed a petition with that nation's Commission on Human Rights. It asks the "carbon majors" to take remedial actions on behalf of typhoon survivors in the islands, which suffer devastating storms that may have worsened as a result of climate change. "Heede's report is one of the bedrock pieces of science and research that helped form our campaign," says Kristin Casper, litigation counsel for Greenpeace's Global Climate Justice and Liability Project in Toronto, Canada. In late July, the commission sent orders to 47 of the world's largest investor-owned fossil fuel companies, asking them to respond to the human rights charges in the petition. Similar actions and lawsuits are proceeding in several other countries.

Now, Heede is extending his carbon accounting into the future, quantifying the potential carbon release from future fossil fuel exploration. Like the other recipients of Representative Smith's subpoena, he has no intention of complying with what he calls a "campaign to intimidate us and stop scientific research." At the same time, he confesses an admiration for the fossil fuel industry, which has made "fantastic efforts to find resources for the betterment of humanity," often in the harshest environments. They've done such a good job that we haven't paused to reflect on the unintended consequences, he says. "And now we have to cope with the result."

[willsherjohnkhan]

Enigma

RATED: MATURE

Chapter 1: What Have I Got Myself Into?

***

The Kelvin Memorial Archive in London hid a secret. Above ground all appeared as you would expect. But below, out of sight of prying eyes was its true purpose – Section 31.

Section 31 was a secret branch of Starfleet. It existed outside of normal Starfleet Intelligence Agencies, dealing with external threats to the security of the Federation. Accountable to no one, they readily broke the rules when dealing with external threats, going so far as pursuing those it identified as a threat by whatever means it saw fit.

Low-level employees at Section 31 were advised that it is a special security operation, run to gather intelligence and to support the Federation in defending itself against possible attack.

It is run by Admiral Alexander Marcus, who has determined that there is a need for Section 31 to expand its realm of influence, and has set in motion plans that will see Starfleet have a darker and more menacing objective than just exploration.

***

Admiral Marcus watched Section 31’s newest recruit as she prepared to go through the security scan.

She sub-consciously pulled at the short skirt of her blue Starfleet uniform, before running a hand through her ponytail. Then as she stepped up to the scanner Marcus could see the way her teeth worried her bottom lip.

‘Good,’ he thought. ‘Uncertain but wanting to make a good impression.’ That was what he needed, especially for the job to which he was assigning her.

He knew for one so young, she was just twenty-four, that she was already proving to be the best in her field. She was an exceptional find, not to mention hard working. That was why she had come to his attention. Her other attribute was her uncertainty. With that he was positive that he would be able to easily coerce her to do her job without misplaced concerns over conscience or morality.

As she finally made it through the scanning procedure, the admiral approached her with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Lt Molly Hooper. Welcome to Section 31.”

***

“Just place them on the tables over there,” Molly instructed the nameless orderlies who had brought two more bodies into the morgue.

Six weeks in and she was still getting used to the fact that there were so many people who worked here who appeared not to have names.

When she had made enquires about this. She was simply told it was “a matter of security.”

So she had let the matter be.

Molly was by in large hard working and not the type to ‘rock the boat.’ But she did possess a curious nature, and the longer she worked for Section 31, the more she had become curious to know just what she’d got herself involved with.

Her job was a good case in point. The parameters that she had understood on accepting the position had quickly changed to something else. That wasn’t to say that she wasn’t performing the job she’d been employed to do. She was.

It was just… Something didn’t feel right.

She walked over to the newly brought in bodies. Removing the sheets that covered them, she frowned. “Definitely not right,” she muttered.

***

Admiral Marcus had told her when she started that the corpses she would be looking at would have been experimented on.

“Experimented? In what way experimented?” she’d asked.

Marcus had waved away her concerns.

“Don’t worry Lieutenant,” he’d responded. “The experiments are being performed on dead bodies.”

When she still looked concerned, Marcus continued.

“The bodies have been donated by various prison facilities. They are giving us prisoners who are deceased. They hope that at least in death the prisoners can make a useful contribution to society.”

That had reassured Molly a little bit. At least that would mean that her work would not be of an unethical nature.

So she had agreed. And soon after the bodies started arriving.

In the six weeks since she’d come to work for Section 31 she had written countless reports on the effects to the bodies of various pathogens and agents. Many of which had not been seen since the 20th and 21st Century’s.

What concerned her most was that what she was dealing with had either been eradicated due to cures being found, or the use of particular agents had been banned, for 300 years or more.

Bubonic Plague Small Pox Ebola Anthrax Mustard Gas HIV / AIDS

And the list went on.

The morgue had the prerequisite safety procedures to ensure that none of the contaminates could infect the population, those inside Section 31 and the general public. But even with all these safety measures, Molly was still required, for her own personal safety to wear head to foot protective clothing. And after examining every body had to go through a thorough decontamination procedure.

As time went on, Molly couldn’t say in all honesty that she felt comfortable with what she was being asked to do. Nor did she understand the necessity to reintroduce highly dangerous, and in many cases lethal diseases and the like after they had been abolished for over three centuries

When she had tried to talk to Admiral Marcus about her growing concerns, she had been shocked by his response.

“Your job Lieutenant is to do what you are told. No questions asked.”

“But Admiral, surely…”

And then the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

“Lt Hooper,” Marcus said quietly. “You will return to your work, and do what is required of you.”

He paused briefly.

“If you continue to be insubordinate, may I remind you that any cures we may have available for what you are dealing with are in very limited supply…”

It was then that Molly saw Marcus for what he really was.

With no other option she meekly retreated back to the morgue and continued to write the required reports on her findings as to the effects on the bodies that she examined.

***

As she began her examination of the latest corpses, she knew immediately that something was very different about them.

And her curiosity was telling her she needed to find the answer – and fast.

Even without performing any scans Molly was almost 100% certain that as much as the two corpses appeared human, they actually weren’t.

She took blood samples from both, and analysed them.

The results caused as many questions as answers.

They confirmed that the bodies weren’t human.

But the results also showed that there had been a mixing of genetically engineered platelets that had been added to the non-human blood. And the altered plasma may have been human.

“What is going on here?’ she thought.

She walked over to her desk, sat down and began to search the file that came with the bodies.

As with all the other cadavers, information in the files was next to nothing. But just as she was about to give up, an attachment appeared.

Curious, she opened it.

*

It read:

Klingon Experiment – Augment Blood

Need to find if possible how to enhance Augment blood taken from Khan Noonien Singh so that it can have the capability to cause damage internally, instead of the current cosmetic affect of making Klingon’s appear human.

Investigation into Eugenics Wars is proving difficult with so little information available. Fact known, a virus had been created to decimate the Augments. If this information could be confirmed and more information on the type of virus used, this could prove very useful.

Subject unwilling to give details of what he knows.

Will need to increase pressure to get a result.

Admiral A. Marcus

*

Molly was stunned.

Stunned, horrified, sickened.

The implications of what she’d just read didn’t bare thinking about.

She got up and made her way back over to the bodies.

The Klingon bodies.

As she looked at them she realised that since she had taken the blood samples, a number of disturbing changes had taken place.

Bruises, lacerations, and the unmistakeable sign of multiple broken bones now appeared.

The Klingon’s had been alive when they’d been experimented on. The bruises hinted at them being held down firmly.

And then they’d been beaten.

Then murdered.

***

Section 31 also contained another mystery that kept Molly awake at night.

At least in her dreams.

His name – Commander John Harrison. Section 31’s weapon’s expert.

He was tall, dark-haired, muscular and extremely handsome. He could have his pick of any of the female employees who were only too willing to fall at his feet.

But he ignored all of them.

A loner, he spent most of his time whether working or in private on his own. The reserved commander rarely worked or spoke with others.

In fact the only person he appeared to interact with was Admiral Marcus. Someone that even Molly could tell he clearly loathed.

Molly had only seen Commander Harrison on a few occasions. And although she felt drawn to him, there was something about him that frightened her.

Which, she reflected sadly was probably for the best. It would be unlikely that anyone like him would ever be interested in someone as plain, shy and ordinary as her.

***

As Molly prepared to leave for the day, her mind still focussed on what she had discovered, she spotted Commander Harrison heading for the Admiral’s office.

He walked in looking determined and confident not even bothering to wait for an invitation to enter.

Admiral Marcus’ office was a large, grand affair. But he liked to keep an eagle eye on those around him. So the office had been made so that two thirds of it was made up of triple glazed glass.

And this was how Molly was able to observe the two men.

And it soon became apparent that things were not going as the Commander had anticipated.

Very quickly their conversation became heated. The Admiral remained in his chair at his desk, while the Commander paced agitatedly around the room.

Though Molly couldn’t hear what they said, she did catch snippets of their conversation by reading their lips.

“You promised me Admiral… If I did as you… Let them go…”

“I still need you to…”

“No! I have done all that you have asked of me… We had an agreement…”

“… If you want to see them again…”

The rest of what was said was obscured at they both turned away, continuing their argument.

Molly was about to leave when she heard the hiss of the office door as it opened.

Not wanting to be caught observing their private conversation, she stepped back into a shadowed part of the room. From where she stood though she could still see the two men.

Admiral Marcus remained in his office. He sat with a smug, self-satisfied look upon his face.

Clearly he had won that round, in a battle Molly was certain had been going on for sometime.

John Harrison stormed across and out of the room. His face was like thunder. His hands clenched with barely contained fury. The rage and hate that rolled off him was palpable.

But what remained embedded in Molly’s memory was the pain, sorrow and despair that she had read in his eyes.

***

Chapter 2: Who Is Commander John Harrison?    

***

The following morning Molly was finding it exceedingly difficult to concentrate on writing up her reports.

Commander John Harrison’s eyes continued to haunt her.

Admiral Marcus was clearly blackmailing him.

Why?

And how?

What did he have over him?

If nothing else she now understood why the Commander was so reserved and why he kept to himself.

But how was it possible that someone as clearly brilliant as John Harrison was reported to be would allow himself to fall under the control of a snake like Admiral Marcus?

Her teeth worried her bottom lip as she tried to think of answers to all these questions.

But she couldn’t.

Clearly there was something she was missing…

As it was she had other mysteries that needed solving.

And yet…

She just couldn’t forget the deep sorrow of those eyes.

Letting out a resigned sigh, Molly closed down the file she’d been working on.

It was time to do a little covert sleuthing.

She was going to see if she could find out just what the admiral had on him. And then she was going to look for a possible way to help him get out of it.

Molly realised that she should probably just go and ask the man himself. But she was certain that in all likelihood he wouldn’t want or need the help from a young, female, junior officer like her.

No. Better she start this on her own. If she did manage to find something useful, then she could bring it to his attention.

‘Now,’ she thought, frowning slightly in concentration. ‘Where to begin?’

***

Commander John Harrison was furious, and he didn’t care who knew it.

In fact he preferred it that way.

At least he would be left to work on his own, instead of having to deal with complete imbeciles.

He was not the type of man to suffer fools gladly.

‘And yet,’ he thought bitterly, he had undoubtedly been the biggest fool of all.

As he returned to the designs of the long-range torpedoes he was currently developing, he wondered how it could be possible for someone as superior as he could end up being tricked by someone like Alexander Marcus.

The more he thought about it, the rawer he felt.

He turned away from the plans again. He needed to decide what his cause of action was going to be.

He had to find a way to get them free.

His crew.

No. His family.

But first he had to find their location.

Then he would get them as far away from Federation space as he possibly could.

Find them yes, that was the priority.

Then find a safe way to transport them until he could find somewhere out of the way to reawaken them.

His eyes flickered back to the plans…

“Perfect,” he murmured, allowing a small smile to play across his lips.

***

Later that night Molly began her investigation.

It wasn’t unheard of for Section 31 staff to be working late. Though the building was not as busy as it was during the day, as with other organizations there was the need for shift-workers.

And those who needed to work overtime.

With Molly’s workload increasing, with more and more bodies being delivered to the morgue every day, and no sign that she was going to be receiving any assistance anytime soon. It hadn’t been too hard for Molly to make a case for some overtime, so that she could catch up on the backlog of administrative work.

In truth the only backlog was due to those reports that she should have been working on that morning.

But she now had the required permissions to stay back late. She’d worry about the consequences later. She may only get one shot at this. So she was determined to use that time as productively as she could.

Not certain what she was looking for or where best to look, Molly decided the best place to start was the Personnel Files.

She called up the records for Commander John Harrison.

***

John Harrison was just making the finishing touches to the revised plans for the long-range torpedoes, when he received a notification on his terminal of an unauthorised access to his personnel files, or at least the personnel files relating to Commander John Harrison.

The fury he had finally been able to suppress while working on his mission to rescue his crew suddenly erupted back to life.

Whoever was daring to snoop around in his files would pay, and pay dearly.

He performed a quick scan to trace for the location of the security breach.

“I have you now,” he snarled, getting to his feet and leaving his office.

And made his way over to the morgue.

***

Molly frowned. This was all very odd. In fact she would go so far as to say that it made no sense at all.

Personnel Files, especially in an installation like Section 31 would contain a wide range of information on each employee. The idea being that the more they had on you, the easier it would be to detect if anything untoward or ‘out of the ordinary’, tampering of records etc were to happen.

The records that were kept went right through your working career, not just your current employer. They also included a lot of personal information relating to employees private lives. It was claimed this information was needed in the name of security.

But Commander John Harrison’s records were defined by the little data there was to be found.

It was almost as if he’d just magically appeared out of nowhere a little under a year ago.

“Is that the hold Marcus has over you?” she pondered aloud.

Molly was so caught up in what she was doing she was completely unaware she was being approached from behind.

“What do you think you are doing Lieutenant?” a deep, baritone voice enquired close to her ear.

Molly jumped in fright. There had been no indication that her unauthorised access to the file had been detected.

She leapt to her feet, whirled around and collided with the impressively muscled and very solid chest of Commander John Harrison.

Stepping back she made an attempt to put some distance between them. But the Commander would have none of it, taking hold of her arms he marched her back until she was slammed up against the wall at the rear of the morgue.

“Where do you think you’re going little one?” he asked.

Molly was most definitely feeling small as he towered over her.

She tilted her head back in an attempt to look him in the face, rather than be sidetracked by his magnificent physique.

But… Oh, my!

She’d never seen him close up. They worked in two completely different areas, that didn’t require that they had any dealings with each other.

Molly couldn’t help herself. She’d likely never get another chance. So she let her eyes wander. That jet-black hair her fingers itched to run through. The hypnotic aqua coloured eyes she could lose herself in. Those high cheekbones she wanted to trace with her fingertips. And those heavenly full lip… lips she would give anything to taste.

Molly wasn’t the only one cataloguing features.

John Harrison had been surprised on finding that the one accessing his file had been this petite, plain little Lieutenant.

Though as he looked down into her big brown eyes, and observed how her teeth worried her bottom lip. He realised he may have to re-evaluate his first brief impression of her.

He suddenly frowned, annoyed with himself and where his thoughts were headed.

He mentally shook his head as he re-focussed on why it was he was here. He wanted answers and she was going to give them to him.

He moved her arms that he had held at her sides so that they were now pressed against the wall above her head. Then he pressed one of his long legs intimately between her own.

She let out a startled gasp.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Lieutenant Molly Hooper, Pathologist,” she immediately replied.

“And why Lieutenant Molly Hooper were you looking into my personnel files?”

“I wanted to help you.”

“Help me?”

She nodded.

Harrison frowned. Not the answer he was expecting. Unless…

Leaning down so that he could look her straight in the eye.

“What is Admiral Marcus up to now? It must be something in particular if he feels the need to bring in what he no doubt believes I will see as an insignificant junior officer, instead of his spy.”

It took a moment for the implication of his words to sink in. But when they did she shook her head vigorously.

“No,” she cried out. “You’ve got it wrong. I told you before I was trying to find a way to help you.”

The Commander laughed, but there was no humour in it.

“And why little one would you want to help me?”

Molly was finding it difficult to think clearly with his body still pressed so close to hers.

“Could you just move back a little bit?” she asked, a little breathlessly.

“No,” was the response.

Molly took a deep breath, and then wished she hadn’t as her lower body rubbed against the Commander’s leg, and could not conceal the shudder as her body began to beg for release.

It was then that she became aware that the Commander was not so unaffected as he outwardly appeared, if the current hard-on against her hip was anything to go by.

A tell tale blush heated her cheeks.

He watched her closely as he waited for her answer.

“I saw you the other night when you went to see the Admiral,” she explained. “He’s blackmailing you isn’t he?”

Harrison didn’t respond.

“I wanted to help you.”

“Why?”

“Because Alexander Marcus isn’t a very nice man,” she replied. “He’s up to something that doesn’t feel right. When I expressed my concerns about the use of pathogens and agents that have not been around for 300 years, he implied that I would meet an unpleasant end.”

Harrison frowned. Clearly the Admiral’s lust for war was taking a more sinister turn.

“And then there were the findings to the most recent bodies that I examined,” Molly continued. “And the attachment from Marcus in the file that I’m certain wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“What did you find?”

Molly looked deep into his eyes.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“Tell me.”

“The bodies weren’t human, they were Klingon. The Admiral had them injected with augmented blood from a Khan Noonien Singh,” she replied.

Every muscle in Harrison’s body tensed. Molly could see he was in shock.

“He took my blood,” he whispered. Then realisation set in. “Used my blood,” he snarled.

Molly’s eyes grew wide. “But you can’t be… It’s not possible.” She shook her head with disbelief. “How? You should be…”

He looked coldly down at her.

“What?” he asked. “Dead?”

He suddenly rammed his body deliberately against hers. Finally giving in to his primal nature as he ground his erection against her core.

Molly felt her eyes roll to the back of her head and she let out a moan.

It was music to Khan’s ears.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against the shell of her sensitive ear.

“I am Khan Noonien Singh,” he murmured. “Do I feel dead to you?”

***

Chapter 3: The Unspeakable Truth

***

Before Molly could offer a response Khan’s lips had possession of hers, his tongue diving deep into the recesses of her mouth.

He let go of her hands so that he could bury his long fingers into her hair.

Arms now free, Molly reached up to grasp him around the neck. She rubbed herself against him and was rewarded with a desperate groan that reverberated through his body.

But as he moved his hands down her neck and shoulders, before making their way until they came to rest on the swell of her breasts, cupping them while massaging her aching nipples. Then her low keening cry brought him out of the passion-fuelled haze he had been in.

With great reluctance he released her lips. Leaning down so that his forehead rested against hers, he brought his hands up to gently hold her head as he looked directly into her eyes. He worked hard to get control over his breathing and the urges his body was demanding he fulfil.

As much as his body craved to continue, his mind was once again in control. Now was not the time.

He needed to find his crew, and get them and himself away from Marcus’ clutches.

Molly watched the play of emotions Khan was battling to get under control. She saw how he finally mastered them moments before he stepped away from her.

They both stood looking at each other as frantic breaths gradually slowed.

“How… how is it possible for a man born in the twentieth century to still be living in the twenty-third?” Molly finally managed to get out.

Khan watched her closely, letting out a sigh of relief satisfied that she was not working for Marcus, and clearly had no knowledge about what the admiral had done.

“Seventy three actually.”

“What?”

“There are seventy three of us. Though I was the only one Marcus reawakened.”

“Reawakened you? How? Why?”

Khan reached out to her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders as he led her over to her desk, sat her down and pulled over another chair for himself.

He then began his story.

***

“As a child I was kidnapped off the streets where I lived.”

“Were you not missed… your family…” Molly asked.

“I was an orphan, one of many on the streets of New Delhi. When we disappeared we weren’t missed. There would soon be others to replace us.”

“What happened to you?” she tentatively queried.

“We were experimented on,” Khan replied.

He got to his feet, unable to remain still and began to pace.

“We were injected with genetically altered DNA. It made us ‘better’.”

“Better? In what way?”

“In all ways: strength, intellect, enhanced immunity, regenerative capabilities, better hearing, vision and an ability to adapt to any situation.”

“What was the purpose of all these experiments?” Molly asked, though she had a terrible idea she knew what his answer was going to be.

“For war,” Khan confirmed her fears. “We were the greatest weapons ever created. We were trained to be the ultimate soldiers. Trained to defend Earth and its people at all cost.”

“What went wrong?”

“Wrong?” Khan looked at her in surprise. “Nothing went wrong.”

Molly wasn’t convinced. “But something happened, something changed.”

He looked at her with admiration. She truly was remarkable. If only there was time for him to explore just how unique and special she was.

“We found out that we’d been implanted with neural inhibitors.”

Molly frowned. “Why?”

“They didn’t want us leaving the compound we had called home for fifteen years. They knew that the general population would rightly fear us. So they used the inhibitors to control us, or punish us if we tried to escape.”

“What did you do?”

Khan smiled coldly. “We found out how to remove them. Then we integrated ourselves under assumed names into the world of business and government. We posed as regular humans, and we waited.”

“For what?”

“For the right time to take control of the Earth,” he replied calmly.

Molly felt sick, and her face went deathly pale.

“And… how… how precisely did you do that?” she stammered.

Khan stopped his relentless pacing and walked back to where Molly sat.

He crouched down beside her and took her small, delicate hands in his larger ones. He raised one hand to his mouth grazed the knuckles softly with his lips. He felt her hand tremble, and heard the catch in her breath at the contact.

Looking into her soft, brown eyes he told her honestly. “I’m afraid to say we took it by force.”

“Oh God!” Molly cried, closing her eyes.

Khan continued his explanation. “We took control of the earth, splitting it up into seven territories.”

He let out a sigh and Molly opened her eyes to watch him closely.

“I ruled with a firm, but fair hand. Everyone in my territory prospered. But sadly not all rulers were so generous.”

“Enslavement?”

Khan nodded. “A rebellion was growing. And then the very thing made us unique became our curse.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our genetically engineered DNA. Scientists discovered a virus that when introduced to our DNA caused a mutation that gradually destroyed us from the inside out.”

Molly shuddered. She chewed on her bottom lip, deep in thought. ‘So that was what Marcus was referring to in the attachment.’

“What happed next?” she asked.

Khan’s expression became remorseful. “War,” he replied sadly. “Not just against the humans, but among ourselves. Petty jealousies had arisen when some territories did better than others. It became known as The Eugenics Wars.”

In a small voice Molly asked. “How many died?”

“According to the small amount of records Starfleet has pertaining to that time, over 73 million.”

The figure was simply staggering.

Molly took a deep breath. “How did you escape?”

“My territories were under attack from all sides, and I knew we were not going to win. I gathered together as many of my supporters as I could and we fled. We eventually found a sleeper ship, which was how we used to travel in space. It would take so long to get anywhere in our Solar System that we used cryosleep technology, essentially freezing ourselves in sleep until we reached our destination.”

Molly nodded. She remembered being taught at Starfleet Academy about how space travel worked in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

“We set off on the SS Botany Bay. And I hoped that when we awoke we could find somewhere where we could live in peace.”

“Instead you were found by Admiral Marcus.”

Khan sighed. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“He recognised the name of the ship he found drifting in space. And he recognised me. He realised he had an opportunity to exploit my intellect, and my savagery.”

Molly nodded, silently encouraging him to continue.

“He decided to only reawaken me. But before doing so he had my appearance, including my voice surgically altered, so that I appeared English instead of Indian. He also had my memory wiped, so that when I woke I believed him when he told me that I was a Starfleet Officer called Commander John Harrison who worked for him at Section 31 as a weaponry expert.”

“That explains the lack of data in Commander John Harrison’s personnel file,” Molly noted.

Khan nodded before continuing. “He told me I’d been on a secret mission to QoNo’S that had gone wrong.”

“Wasn’t he concerned that with your genetic enhancements that you would likely regain your memories?”

Khan smiled softly. Yes this young Lieutenant was a very intelligent one. “He knew my memories would eventually be reinstated, so he had a contingency plan worked out for when the inevitable happened.”

Molly waited, though in truth she had already had an idea of what was involved in the Admiral’s contingency plan.

“My crew,” Khan confirmed. “When my memories returned and I realised the extent to which I had been used. I wanted to kill the only man who had been able to truly humiliate me.”

“What did you do?”

“I confronted him. But he told me that if he died I would never see my crew again. He told me if I continued to help him develop new weapons and spacecraft, he promised he would reunite me with my crew once I had completed what he needed me to do for him.”

“Except that he hasn’t kept his end of the bargain, has he?” Molly asked.

“No,” Khan replied bitterly. “The more tasks I complete, the more new ideas he comes up with.”

“Do you know where your crew are being held?”

He shook his head sadly. “But I must find them.”

“I could help you,” Molly offered sincerely.

Khan moved his hands so that he now cradled her face and gazed deeply into her eyes.

“No little one,” he replied softly. “This is my fight not yours. I don’t want you involved. Alexander Marcus is a very dangerous man to cross.”

Molly opened her mouth to argue with him. But Khan placed a gentle finger against her lips and shook his head, his expression stern.

Time was of the essence he needed to start putting his plan of action into motion. He could not, must not allow himself to become distracted by one sweet little Lieutenant with intelligent eyes, and …

“I must do this on my own,” he stated. “You must not become involved.”

Molly removed his finger from her mouth and gently placed her hand against his cheek.

“I already am involved.”

Khan rested his hand over hers.

“Then for my sake do not pursue what you now know any further.”

He stood up, pulling her up from her seat and enfolding her in his powerful arms. Resting his chin on the top of her head he made one final attempt to make her see sense.

“You must remain safe, Marcus is not to be trifled with. He may not be an Augment, but he can still kill you.” He stepped back and looked into her upturned face. “Live for me Molly Hooper.”

He then swooped down and kissed her hungrily on the lips once more, before turning and without looking back left the morgue.

***

Admiral Marcus was not the type of man who liked to be kept waiting. He especially didn’t like it when he believed that the delays were deliberate.

He knew that the long-range torpedoes Khan had been working on were almost complete. Then he had received notification that there would be a short delay due to the need to correct a design malfunction.

Coming from anyone else this wouldn’t have been an issue. What was thought could work in the design stage didn’t always work when put into practice.

But when it came to the superior mind of Khan Noonien Singh, this was unheard of.

And that had made Marcus suspicious.

So he’d decided to look through the designs and any modifications Khan had made to work out what the augment was up to.

Pulling up the latest specifications on the designs, Marcus went through them meticulously. At first he didn’t spot anything out of the ordinary. But looking again closely at what appeared to be only a minor alteration, and the purpose of the changes, given the one who had designed them, became clear.

“Well, well, well,” Marcus murmured. “Thank you Commander. That is indeed a most excellent and ingenious idea.”

Marcus then sent a transmission authorising the transfer of the torpedoes to a secure location.

***

Molly’s head was spinning. All that she now knew made sense of what she had found in the autopsies she had performed.

But that was just a small part of what was really going on at Section 31.

Did Starfleet, and for that matter The Federation, know what was really going on here?

Did they even care?

Or did they prefer to look the other way and remain in ignorance?

Molly was truly beginning to wish that she didn’t know what she knew. But her damned curiosity just wouldn’t let up.

Despite Khan’s warnings she knew she couldn’t leave things be.

She knew he hadn’t told her everything he knew. She knew he was trying to protect her, keep her safe.

But whatever it was that was going on here clearly had greater implications that simply could not be ignored.

She checked the time, took a deep breath, it was now or never. Marcus wasn’t likely to still be around here this late. She left the morgue and made her way to the Admiral’s office. As expected he was nowhere to be seen.

Molly was certain that whatever Marcus’ true intentions were they would be found here.

She walked over to his desk and sat down. She was surprised to note that the Admiral’s terminal was still on, and that he hadn’t logged off.

This would make it easier for her to access any information she was trying to find, but it also made her stomach clench nervously. The Admiral was not the type of man to forget to logoff. That meant that he was still around. She wasn’t going to have much time, she needed to find out what was going on and get out as quickly as possible.

What she did after that would depend on what she found.

She quickly spotted that Marcus had been checking on the progress of the new torpedoes that John – no Khan had been working on.

Skimming through his personal logs on the torpedoes, she froze when she read the transmission he had sent no more than an hour before.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

And then she felt a phaser being pressed to the back of her head.

‘Idiot!’ she berated herself silently.

“Lieutenant Hooper, how may I help you?”

Molly turned very slowly, determined not to show any fear. She got to her feet, and faced the Admiral, looking him in the eye.

Marcus was surprised by her move. Clearly he had underestimated her.

Molly ignored his question instead she stated. “I know Commander John Harrison is a complete fiction, and that his real name is Khan Noonien Singh.”

Marcus tensed in shock. How had she come into such classified information?

“He told me.”

His shock turned to anger. “So Lieutenant Hooper, you’re in league with him. Traitor!”

Molly stood her ground. “There’s only one traitor in this room and it isn’t me.”

“Don’t take that tone with me Lieutenant. You don’t know whom you’re dealing with,” he warned.

Molly kept her nerve. “I know exactly whom I’m dealing with,” she replied. “A man set and determined to start a war, a dirty war with the Klingon Empire. What I don’t understand is why?”

Admiral Marcus looked at her in disbelief.

“You’re kidding me?” he said.

She shook her head.

“You are aware of what happened to Vulcan?”

“Of course,” Molly replied. “But if I remember the events correctly, Vulcan was destroyed by a rogue Romulan from an alternate reality, not a Klingon.”

“It is because of what happened on Vulcan that it has become necessary to make a pre-emptive strike against the Klingon’s to neutralise any potential threat that they may pose.”

Molly still couldn’t follow his logic.

“Why?” she asked. “They haven’t made any direct threats against The Federation.”

“But the potential is there,” Marcus stated. “Every time Starfleet has come into contact with the Klingon Empire they have repeatedly shown nothing but aggression.”

“So what you’re saying is, because the Klingon’s don’t want to be friends, you think this is reason enough to start a war?”

“Yes,” Marcus replied unrepentant.

“And what of Khan and his crew?”

Marcus scowled at her. “What of them?”

“What happens to them once you have your war? I can’t see Starfleet or The Federation being particularly pleased or comfortable with your method of enforced labour.”

“Starfleet and The Federation will never know.”

Molly’s eyes widened with horror. “You’re going to kill them, Khan and his crew.”

The Admiral smiled triumphantly. “Of course,” he replied. “I can’t risk anyone finding out what has been going on here.”

“I know what’s going on,” Molly bravely stated.

Marcus raised the phaser he still held in his hand. “True, which makes you a liability.”

Molly turned and started to run just as Marcus fired. Her stunned body crumpled unconscious to the floor.

***

Chapter 4: Never Underestimate An Augment

***

When Molly came to she had no idea where she was. As her eyes regained focus she realised she was sitting in the cockpit of a Starfleet Shuttle. But when she attempted to move she found she couldn’t. Looking down she saw that she was restrained; her hands and feet were secured by metal restraints.

“Computer, release me,” she ordered.

“Unable to comply,” came the response.

“Why not?”

“Because the only one with authorization is me,” came the recognizable, if somewhat disembodied voice of Admiral Marcus.

Molly turned her head, searching for and finding the small view-screen on the control panel.

“Where am I?” she demanded.

But her attempt to appear strong was undermined by the tremor in her voice.

Marcus heard it. His triumphant smirk almost splitting his face in two. “You Lieutenant Hooper are on a shuttle that has just crossed the Neutral Zone into Klingon air space.”

In the shuttle the computer sounded a warning. “Shuttle is headed for the planet QoNo’S. Current heading will result in a collision with the planet. Abort. Abort.”

Before Molly could open her mouth, Marcus reminded her. “All command codes for the shuttle have been redirected to my authorization only.”

Molly tried desperately to free herself, but the restraints wouldn’t budge.

She turned to look at Marcus, refusing to beg for her life. She was determined not to give him the satisfaction. Instead she stated. “Your fear of what may happen has driven you mad.”

Marcus ignored her. “Better hope you die as the shuttle hits the planets atmosphere. Because if you should survive and the Klingon’s find you, you really will wish you were dead.”

He paused briefly. “And don’t expect Khan to come to your rescue. No matter what he has told you, you are nothing to him.”

“I never thought he would,” Molly said bravely.

“He was just using you.”

“As you used him.”

But the view-screen had been disconnected, so he had not heard her defiant last words.

***

As soon as Khan discovered the torpedoes were missing, he knew there was only one person who could have taken them.

Rage and fury built up inside him, but he would not let them overwhelm him. He needed to remain clear-headed.

Since regaining his memories he had been forced to face the uncomfortable realization that he was under the power of another. And that someone was a person he regarded as totally inferior. For the one-time ruler, this had been a very bitter pill to swallow.

But he had done it.

He had very little choice.

The ultimatum had been made crystal clear. If he wanted to be reunited with his crew, he had to agree to be Marcus’ pawn. Marcus wanted to start a war and Khan had the skills and knowledge he needed to achieve it.

But it soon became apparent that Marcus had, and probably never would, keep his end of the bargain.

So, desperate times called for desperate measures.

And although he had still rather frustratingly not been able to find where the Admiral kept his crew. Khan was confident in his own abilities to track them down. Once he had, he was going to need the modified torpedoes.

The now missing torpedoes…

“Lost something?” There was no mistaking the smug satisfaction in the enquiry.

Khan had of course heard Marcus when he’d entered the room, his superior hearing made sure of that. No matter how quiet the Admiral thought he was being.

He turned to face the Admiral, no longer bothering to disguise the absolute disgust he felt towards the man now standing before him.

“Where are they?” he demanded.

Marcus barely batted an eyelid. Such was the confidence he had in his hold over the Augment.

“I’ve taken possession of them.”

“I was still working on them.”

“Yes I know,” Marcus responded. “The modifications you’ve made were… very specific.”

Khan stiffened. “Meaning?”

The Admiral glared at the other man. “I may not have your superior intellect,” he snapped. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t recognise when torpedo casings have been altered to hold cryotubes.”

Khan took a step towards Marcus. “Where are they?” he asked again. Though asked quietly this time, there was no mistaking the menace behind it.

Marcus, sensing a shift in their ongoing power struggle attempted to regain control of the situation. “Your crew are safe for now,” he replied.

Khan took another step closer.

Marcus looked into the Augment’s eyes. They were cold, hard and emotionless. It occurred to him that threatening Khan, even if only implied was not the best way to go about things. But he was dammed if he was going to show this man any fear.

“Kill me and you’ll never learn the location of your crew.”

Khan paused, but only for a moment. “I will find them,” he said. “With, or without your help.”

Marcus realised the situation was slipping out of his control. He tried again, but his growing fear that he could no longer mask was making him desperate. “You may find your crew, but what about your little accomplice? Or was I right when I informed her you were just using her.”

Khan was now only a step away from the Admiral. But he paused again as his words sunk in.

Accomplice?

He then realised Marcus was referring to Molly.

“What have you done with her?” he snarled.

Marcus, in his position of power was more used to Khan’s forced capitulations to any of their arguments. But with that power now quickly fading the Admiral had never felt more vulnerable.

But then he realised that with Khan’s unexpected ferocity of feeling that he was showing towards such an insignificant Lieutenant, the Admiral could not believe his good fortune. His confidence that had been dwindling now began to grow again. Khan, the great ruler had lost his heart to a little slip of a girl.

Here was an opportunity for him to regain the upper hand. He knew he was playing with fire. Khan was an undoubtedly dangerous individual. But he got an immeasurable amount of satisfaction whenever he could get a rise out of the Augment, who usually was so cool and calm. He couldn’t help testing just how far he could push him.

“I wouldn’t worry yourself about her,” he replied. “If the shuttle she’s in hasn’t burnt up on entry to QoNo’S’ atmosphere, then I’m sure the Klingon’s will finish the job.”

Marcus barely had time to realise how badly he had miscalculated the situation. Even as the words left his mouth, Khan was on him, his eyes full of unrestrained rage as he grabbed the Admiral by the head.

“You should have let me sleep,” he roared as he applied pressure, and with his extraordinary strength crushed the admiral’s skull.

Khan left Marcus’ body where it dropped.

He went to the monitor on his desk and made quick work of accessing the movements of all Starfleet spacecraft.

It didn’t take him long to find the identification of the shuttle Marcus had sent spinning uncontrollably towards the Klingon Home world.

Next he unlocked a cabinet under his desk. Opening the cabinet he removed a rectangular metallic box.

He rechecked the current position of the shuttle before entering the co-ordinates into the box.

As he felt the familiar sensation of particle beams enveloping him, he couldn’t help but wonder how it was possible for Montgomery Scott, the creator of this particular device, to have not realised that the errors in his calculations, the end results that had seen him posted to Delta Vega for an indefinite period, had been due to the fact he had not considered that space was the thing that was moving.

An error he had very quickly spotted and corrected.

***

The cockpit of the shuttle was being inundated with various alarms. Warning of loss of stabilizers, that the shields were down and being on course to crash into the planet it was currently hurtling towards.

On top of this the shuttle’s computer was doing its best to alert the only occupant of the perilous position she was currently in.

“Life support is failing.”

“Evacuate! Evacuate!”

“Life support is failing.”

But even though Molly wanted nothing more than to get free and escape her present predicament, she couldn’t.

She had tried again, and again, and again to get lose from her restraints. But they were too strong.

She had even briefly entertained the idea that Khan might come to her rescue, her dark knight. But the closer the shuttle got to QoNo’S the less likely that possibility seemed.

After all, why should he? He barely knew her.

And as much as she hated to consider it, a nagging doubt worried her. Maybe Marcus was right. Maybe Khan had used her.

It was a sobering thought.

But as she began to lose consciousness she sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case.

She could still remember the passion of his embrace and his unique taste on her tongue.

As her eyes closed for the last time she thought she glimpsed the unmistakable signs of a transporter beam. But instantly dismissed it as wishful thinking.

***

The metal restraints were ripped away by strong arms with a superhuman strength. Those same arms then gently lifted the unconscious Lieutenant from her seat and enfolded her against a muscular chest.

They dematerialised moments before the shuttle finally broke up into thousands of tiny pieces. All of which burnt up in the atmosphere never hitting the surface of the planet.

A war averted, with the Klingon’s none the wiser.

***

Chapter 5: A New Beginning

***

For the second time Molly opened her eyes with no idea where she was. But this time she was reassured when Khan came into view.

“You little fool!” he exclaimed angrily.

Molly sighed. So not the reunion she’d been dreaming of. She struggled into a sitting position and looked around. She was on a bed in what appeared to be the Captain’s quarters of a Federation Starship.

Khan was now pacing furiously around the room. “I told you not to get involved. Did you not hear me when I warned you how dangerous Marcus was?”

“I was trying to help you.”

“Help me,” he roared, whirling around and storming over to her. Glaring down at her he continued. “Because of you I may never find the location of my crew.”

Molly bowed her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

As Khan looked down at her, the defeated slump of her shoulders, he felt his anger evaporate as quickly as it had erupted. Crouching down he placed his hand under her chin and lifted her head, before taking her stricken face into his hands.

“No,” he replied quietly. “I’m the one that should be sorry. I have no right to take my frustration out on you.”

He stood, pulling her up from the bed and into his arms. “What’s done is done. If I’m going to be angry with anyone it should be myself.”

“What about Admiral Marcus?”

“You don’t need to worry about him anymore,” he assured her. “He’s dead.”

When Khan offered no further explanation Molly didn’t ask. She was confident that whatever the circumstances of Marcus’ demise, they would have been deserved.

But as she snuggled deeper into Khan’s embrace, she still couldn’t help feeling some guilt. ‘If she hadn’t…’

“Stop it,” he ordered, the order softened by the gentle brush of his lips against her worried brow.

A sigh escaped Molly’s lips.

“Thank you,” she said. “For rescuing me.”

Khan smiled. “You are entirely welcome.”

Guilt was now replaced by curiosity as she asked. “Khan, where are we exactly?”

“We’re on the USS Vengeance.”

“Never heard of it,” she replied. But then she frowned. If she’d never heard of it before, then why did it sound familiar?

“The USS Vengeance is a Dreadnaught-class warship Marcus had me design for his war with the Klingon’s,” Khan explained.

Of course! Molly let out a gasp of disbelief.

“What is it?” Khan asked, becoming concerned when she didn’t immediately respond. “Molly, what’s wrong?”

Molly stepped out of his arms, then grabbed his hand and pulled him over to a terminal in the corner of the room.

She sat down at the terminal, using the pass codes she’d found of Marcus’ personal files, she brought up the data she had discovered.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she reassured him, as she checked the information on the screen against the information on the ships data files. She got up from the seat, indicating to Khan that he should take her place.

As soon as he read the information, his eyes widened with surprise and delight.

In the Vengeance’s weapons bay were his torpedoes. Not only that, inside the modified torpedoes were the cryotubes with his crew still safely inside them.

Khan turned to Molly. “How did you know…?” he asked completely stunned.

“I didn’t. I came across the information by accident while I was trying to find out what Marcus was really up to,” she replied. “I was hoping I could find something that could be used to pressure him to ensure the safe return of your crew.”

When Khan turned back to the terminal, Molly was suddenly filled with self-doubt. Now that Khan had his crew, his family back. Would he want her anymore?

After all, she was just an ordinary human, while he and his crew were so much more.

“Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”

Molly’s head snapped up to find Khan standing in front of her.

He reached out a hand and gently wiped away tears she hadn’t realised were streaming down her face.

Khan pulled her back into his arms, resting his cheek against the top of her head. As his fingers began to lazily slide up and down her arms, Molly shivered, but she wasn't cold.

Goosebumps appeared on her suddenly heated skin. Her nipples became painfully erect as they rubbed against her bra, and moisture pooled at the apex of her thighs.

Khan felt her reaction and he allowed himself a satisfied smile.

He eased the zip at the back of her uniform all the way down.

Molly stepped back to remove the dress, quickly followed by the black slip and then her boots.

Standing now in only her underwear she took a deep breath as she looked up at Khan. Would he like what he saw?

But she had nothing to fear. His pupils were dilated, there was a hitch in his breath, and his hands when they reached out to cup her face trembled ever so slightly.

He was in her thrall as much as she was in his.

She arched up into him when he suddenly pulled her to him and bent to capture her lips with his own.

They were both eager to continue what they had begun in the morgue. Desperate kisses were exchanged as they reacquainted themselves with each other’s touch and taste.

Khan pulled away reluctantly only long enough to remove his own clothes, before easily lifting Molly and carrying her back over to the bed.

He put her down and set to work removing her bra and underwear. He then took her in his arms again, lifting her and laying her down on the bed before joining her.

Molly immediately reached out, running her hands over his chest, teasing his nipples before moving her hands up his arms and over his shoulders and around his neck.

She then pulled his head down and as her tongue entered his mouth to duel with his, her fingers buried themselves into his jet-black hair.

Khan was not idle. His hands moulded themselves over her breasts. Molly gasped when his fingers plucked at her nipples.

Lips now free, Khan planted ravenous kisses over her face, down her neck where he nibbled and sucked. He looked down at the mark left by his love bite and grinned. Unaugmented as she was Molly would wear the mark for several days,

Khan moved down her body, shoulders, breasts, naval, leaving a trail of moist kisses in his wake.

He kept going until he reached the nest of curls at the apex of her thighs. With several quick jabs of his tongue he made his way along the inner wall of her clit where he soon tasted her musky sweetness as it coated his tongue.

Then he began sucking deeply on her little nub, which caused Molly to raise her hips seeking release. Sensing she was close, he now impaled her with a firm tongue, lashing her again, and again until he was rewarded with her cries of pleasure.

Molly reached down and tried to pull him back up, but Khan had other ideas.

He lifted his head and watched her as he slid a long finger deep inside her. He smiled with satisfaction as her big brown eyes at first grew wide and then closed in pleasure. He began with a slow, even pace. But soon ramped it up, moving his finger up and down, and side to side, grazing the walls of her warm, wet cunt.

Molly lifted her hips again, grinding herself against him, she then clenching her internal muscles around his fingers as she tried desperately to find release

Khan chuckled softly. “So impatient my little one.”

Molly’s only response was a low drawn out moan.

Khan took pity on her, pressing harder against her clit while moving his fingers faster.

“Right… there,” she cried as her thighs tensed. “Oh God, yes!” Molly screamed as she came, arching up against his hand as shudders shook her body.

This time when she made to pull him to her Khan went willingly.

He lay on his back, pulling Molly close and simply enjoyed the feel of their skin pressed together. Then he turned and burrowed his face into her long tresses that were spread across the pillows.

He smiled when he felt her hand move down his body. She clearly recovered quickly. He obligingly lay flat on his back, giving her complete access to his body.

Molly ran her hand over his chest, massaging his nipples and then moved her hand over his abs, before playfully circling his bellybutton. She continued moving down until she reached his semi-hard cock. She slid her fingers from the head to the base, then cupped his balls, giving them a gently squeeze.

Khan groaned.

Molly returned her attentions to his shaft. Her grip was firm and her rhythm steady, and it didn’t take long for him to become fully hard.

But Khan needed release. He pressed her hand against his erection. “Harder,” he moaned.

Molly quickened her pace, increasing the friction along his hard cock.

He raised his hips, matching her pace.

When she grazed her nails up and down his length he came hard, his hips bucking wildly while spilling his seed all over her hand.

He took a moment or two to recover before getting up from the bed and making his way over to the en-suite. He returned with a warm, wet towel that he used to clean them both with.

When Molly pulled him back onto the bed, Khan dropped the towel to the floor.

He leaned over her trekking gentle kisses over her face, neck and breasts.

But Molly would have none of this she needed him inside her right now.

Khan had no intention of disappointing her. Without further delay he entered her with one forceful thrust. He immediately stilled to savour the intense pleasure that engulfed him.

“You are so tight,” he gasped against her neck. He then pulled out completely, and pushed back in, moaning with pleasure. “You were made for me.”

He raised himself up so that his forearms supported him on the bed, the movement causing his lower body to press more deeply into her. He cupped her face in his hands. “I can’t wait,” he told her. “I need you now.”

Molly smiled as she ran her hands over his shoulders and around his neck. She then raised her hips sharply causing his cock to imbed itself to the hilt. “Then take me.”

Khan didn’t need telling twice, he immediately increased his pace, his hips pumping frantically. The only sounds in the room now were their rapid breaths and the slap of their bodies as he continued to ram his cock into her tight, willing body.

They both cried out as they came together. As their climax washed over them they clung together unwilling to let each other go.

But Khan made sure to keep his weight off Molly as he rode out his climax as it pulsed through him. He then pulled out of her carefully before laying down and pulling her back against him.

As he thought about all that had happened since he had met the little Lieutenant, he trembled when he thought about how close he had come to losing her.

In such a short period of time she had come to mean everything to him. Initially he had tried to resist his feelings. But ultimately his heart had won over his head.

His crew was his family, but she was his life.

Drowsily Molly pulled Khan’s head down so that it rested against her breast. When his lips claimed a nipple, laving it with his talented tongue, Molly clutched his head even closer to her, enjoying his ministrations.

They lay there enjoying the simple pleasure of leisurely caressing each other until they finally drifted off to sleep, deliciously sated and spent.

***

When Molly opened her eyes, she knew exactly where she was.

She reached out a hand to brush aside the hair that had fallen into Khan’s eyes. She grinned as she continued to play with his hair. He looked less severe, less serious without his fringe slicked back.

‘Have to talk to him about changing his hairstyle, at least in private,’ she thought happily.

And then a sudden thought struck her.

But as she made to get out of the bed, she was pulled back. Khan loomed over her, eyes smouldering. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Your crew. We should begin reviving them.”

Khan nuzzled her neck with his nose, dropping kisses on every part of her body that he could reach.

“They’ve been asleep for 300 years,” he pointed out. “They can sleep a little longer.”

Molly sighed, as his lips settled on hers. She was more than happy to agree with his logic.

***

Ten Months Later

Molly continued to be indispensable to Khan on so many levels that he had given up counting.

She had helped him to successfully revive all 72 members of his crew. They in turn immediately accepted her, whether due to her kind and generous nature, or because they recognised the depth of his feelings for her, it really didn’t matter.

Molly had also been instrumental when it came to the best way of dealing with Starfleet.

Once they were made aware of just what lengths Admiral Marcus had been willing to go to in his attempts to start a war with the Klingon Empire, they had backed off on their threats to come after them.

They had even been more than happy for Khan to keep the Vengeance. They claimed that he was likely to need it more if he was determined to find a habitable planet to live on that was outside the Federation.

The truth was more likely that they didn’t want such a potent reminder of Marcus’ plans to turn Starfleet from an exploratory and peacekeeping service to a solely militarised one.

It had taken them several months, but they had finally found a planet that suited their requirements, and had even been welcomed by the local humanoid population.

For a man genetically engineered for war, Khan welcomed the opportunity of peace with open arms.

His reasons were many, but the main one was always Molly.

He reflected on their good fortune as he reclined on his side, one arm keeping his upper body upright, while with his other hand he gently explored the wonderful creation that lay between them on their bed.

Molly had been determined to have a natural childbirth. It had taken eleven long hours for their son to come into the world.

Khan looked over at her in wonder. She was exhausted, but the smile she gave him was full of wonder, delight and love.

He leaned over and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

“I love you,” he whispered reverently, before lying down and gathering his wife and child in his warm embrace.

Against all the odds, across space and time, they had found each other. They had been offered a second chance, one full of love and family, and so much more.

Finis

***

[blackcattetats]

Limsa Lominsa was a busy town, even as the sun faded into the horizon and the darkness was kept at bay through innumerable torches. Even in the dead of night, there were still deals to be made, goods to haul both into and out of ships, and more than a glasses of ale were being passed around. All in all, there was little to distinguish the night from any other in the naval city, save for a robed figure that trod upon the creaking planks so close to the sea. A heavy linen robe obscured all save for the person’s height, as they walked up to a rather bored looking bouncer. The Roegadyn had been peering out at the sea with a rather thoughtless expression on his face until the figure approached, but the only real change was to be a slight shake of his head towards the door. “Oh, it’s you. Head on inside, the others have been expectin’ ya.” The figure seemed to hesitate at this? Expecting them? That hadn’t been part of the plan. Not that there had been much of a plan, really, but this was a development they hadn’t been counting on. Still, they were here, and it wasn’t like they could back out now. Pushing the doors open, the robed figure would head inside, a dim pathway opening up to an equally underlit bar. Only it wasn’t a bar, exactly; There were people, and a bar, and liquids in bottle behind the counter that were ostensibly alcohol, of course, but the purpose of the patrons and the reason for their gathering in such an out of the way location usually availed themselves of anything but getting recklessly drunk. Shadowy figures stood at the edges of the room, their activities hidden in the rather poor lighting of the place, while a trio sat at a table in the middle, smiles atop their faces. It wouldn’t be until the figure’s gaze fell upon the hyur that left his feet lazing on top of the circular table that they would hear anyone speak. “Aye, it’s you innit, Miss Warrior of Light?” The figure took a step back at this, only to seemingly shrug, and pull down their hood. Indeed, there was Rania, warrior of light, savior of the realm, slayer of primals and imperials alike, etc etc. The dark-skinned mi’qote discarded the robe on a nearby coat rack to reveal her typical enchanted attire; a rather tight-fitting, if elegant robe that spread from her neck down to near her legs. The sheer amount of magick woven into the garb’s fabric meant that even the most magickally-disinclined could sense it, and while it might’ve been a breathtaking piece elsewhere, the seedy, dark atmosphere of the bar meant that it was more awkward than anything else. “Very well, you’ve discovered my identity. If you knew who I was, however, why would you permit me entrance to your hideout? I could be coming as an advance guard for the Yellowjackets, after all.” There was laughter at that, and not just from the hyur. Another miqo’te and a lalafell sat at the table in the middle of the room, and all three of them seemed rather amused by the scenario laid out by the summoner. “You’ve got a right sense of humor, y’know. Do you really think we’d have let you get this far if that’d been your aim? Give us some credit; We had you pegged the second you came down to the lower levels, and you ain’t down here for no one but y’self, aren’t ya?” It was the other mi’qote who had spoken this time, her expression nestled somewhere between amusement and derision upon seeing the fabled warrior. Her attire seemed to be a patchwork mixture of belts, buckles, various little pouches, and the sort of leather leggings and chestpiece one would expect from a person in her profession. Indeed, as Rania’s eyes began to grow accustomed to the seedy lighting, it became apparent that all of the bar’s clientele were garbed in such a fashion, though the particulars varied from person to person. “Ain’t many we let through the doors, y’know.” She continued,”clients, recruits, and bollocks-for-brains mark what marches himself right in here for an easy job. You don’t seem like you’re here for a job, and yer definitely not dumb enough to come in here and try to strut like yer owner of the place, which means yer here to learn from us, ain’t ya?” It was an accusation that silenced the room. Rania was an esteemed summoner that had bested some of the toughest enemies the imperials and tribes could throw at her. Why would such a figure be here, amongst the doom, gloom, and generally unsavory participants that made up the room’s inhabitants? At the same time, there wasn’t much else she could be there for, right? Her hesitance only seemed to confirm the answer, though rather the the laughter she’d anticipated, confusion instead spread across the hyur’s face. “Y’could have the pick of the Admiral’s best to train you in any fashion y’like, right? So why are you here ‘round us ruffians instead? We’re not the folk you’d like to be seen consorting with-’specially not someone as prestigious as yourself, Miss Kilthon.” His tone was equal parts biting truth and mocking skepticism, something that the young mi’qote had been anticipating. “Your...guild, is it not? Your compatriots and yourself are somehow one of the best and worst kept secrets in Limsa Lominsa. Ask any half-addled fisherman straight off his latest trip and he’ll be able to tell you about ‘The Dutiful Sisters of Edelweiss,’ but ask about their location and suddenly he’s just remembered he needs to go walk his mammet. It’s the same elsewhere, too; Sailors, merchants, even clerks for the Admiral’s office rebuffed my advances. It wasn’t until I finally found a loose-lipped Yellowjacket at the Wench and got him drunk -and I mean really drunk- that he finally let slip of this location, and that was all I got out of him before he slipped into unconsciousness. But..” She paused at that, her gaze locking onto the hyur after having avoided him for most of her diatribe. “Limsa Lominsa was the first place I arrived at in Eorzea, and I took, perhaps, three steps off the boat before hearing about the code.” The room seemed to grow noticeably more tense. The code was unspoken, but the ultimate guidelines for how the guild operated. Everyone in the harbor town knew of it, but few would openly remark upon just who kept it in place. “Everyone I’ve met here, from Master Baderon, to Mistress Thubyrgeim, to the Admiral herself has welcomed me to Limsa Lominsa like I was born just around the corner. Everything I’ve done so far, I’ve done either to further my studies or for the protection of Eorzea. But Ultima is dead and now that I have some free time on my hands, I’d like to protect the city that helped me get started, and you folks are the ones who can help me do that.” There was a pause. The cause sounded noble, befitting someone like the esteemed Summoner, but… “That wasn’t what he meant, luv.” The lalafell had spoken up this time, peeking out from under a bandana placed upon his head to stare straight at her. “Wantin’ to serve and protect is all good and lovely, but we got the Yellowjackets for problems in the city and the Maelstrom for problems out’a it. So why are you here? With us. You can serve the code without having to skulk alleyways and the like.” The ebony-skinned cat glanced away again. “...My travels have taught me two things. The first was that you can’t always go through the proper channels to get things done, and the second was that being good with spells doesn’t always mean you’re good in a fight.” A thin arm stretched out from the summoner, bending upward to better show her example. “I’m not exactly marauder material, and I doubt I ever will be. But I’m not completely weak! It just needs to go towards more...dexterous pursuits.” There was another pause as the room digested this latest explanation. No one knew better than the rogues that going through the proper steps to stop a problem didn’t always work, but as far as skills to be taken to the battlefield? “Y’know we’re not warriors, right? A handful of rocks and a stabber to the back will take care of some shite-gobbling mark with no problem, but it ain’t the style for fightin’ a demigod or whatever you’ll be havin’ at next.” For the first time since she’d entered the dingy establishment, Rania smiled. “That is where you’re mistaken, Miss-” “V’kebbe is the name, and ain’t no ‘Miss’ appended to it, ‘less you’re trying to take my order.” The crimson-haired woman appeared mildly offended at the rather proper manners Rania had attempted to employ. “...Right. V’kebbe. I’ve been on more battlefields than I care to name, and there’s a place for everyone. Dragoons, archers, marauders-Hell, I wield a bloody book! You can’t tell me there’s no place for stabbin’ things when I’m out there with a tome, throwin’ spells at people like they’re stinkbombs!” The warrior put a hand to her face, face mildly red. Normally the warrior of light had done her best to stay as eloquent as she could, but her time spent in Limsa Lominsa had rubbed off on her somewhat. The rogues appeared to be amused by this, again. “...What I was trying to say, is that even someone with skills meant more towards skulking about in the dark can still be applied in an even fight. Mostly to make it uneven,” she finished, a rather crafty gleam in the young cat’s eyes. Murmuring passed through the room as the rogues considered this. It wasn’t that they were a cowardly lot-quite the opposite, actually: You didn’t go toe to toe with pirates willing to step out of line when faced with the admiral and not carry around some rather impressive stones. It was just that fighting wasn’t their aim, most times. Punishment was the name of their game, and this didn’t seem to quite mesh with what Rania wanted. Regardless, however, it was down to the guild leader, who appeared to be awash in thought. Minutes would pass as he stared at a wall, enough time elapsing that even the hyur’s two compatriots began to grow concerned. It would shock the room (as well as Rania) when he finally swiveled around, a rather cocky grin on his face. “Gotta hand it to you, lass. Not many prim and proper-like warriors and noble figures like y’self would try and find us, and even fewer would be willin’ to put the work in to try and learn how to uphold the code. You’re an odd one, no mistake. Lucky for you, we’re a place full of odd ones. But I’ll ask one last time, just t’be sure you’re willin’ to commit. Are you sure you wanna join up with the Rogue’s Guild?” The warrior paused for a moment, before suddenly spitting into her hand and offering it to the rogue leader. There was a moment before the room erupted into laughter, the loudest laugh of all was the leader, of course, who suddenly unsheathed a small blade from his belt. A brief moment of panic would flare within the mi’qote’s eyes, until she realized he had placed the dagger in her outstretched hand, shortly before grabbing her other one to do the same. “No need for superstitious shite like that here. We’re the ghouls in the dark that the sailors use that shite for to ward us off-not the other way around.” A broad smile came to the hyur’s face as he pat Rania on the back. “Now, you’re gonna be too. Welcome to the rogue’s guild, lass: The name’s Jacke-and you’re what properly inducted into the guild now. Jacke tilted his head at the brown-skinned lalafell, his expression growing more protective. “Yer gonna go with Underfoot there. He’s gonna teach you some basic moves with your stabbers-that’s your knives there,” he pointed at the rather dull blades still clasped in her hands,”And he’ll show you ‘round to find some proper wear. No doubt them fancy robes are great for casting spells, but you’re gonna need somethin’ a bit less suspicious if you’re knifin’ gobshites at the crack of dawn.” He turned to the diminutive Lalafell, his expression shifting more towards a commanding one. “Get her clothed right and teach her which end is the stabby bit ‘fore the sun comes up. If we’re lucky, we’ll have some easy job she can do when you get back. Don’t go screwin’ around, Underfoot.” As if on cue, “Underfoot,” seemed to grow offended. “Like I’m gonna drag her around for food at half ‘past the moon like V’kebbe did with the last newbie! C’mon, Rania. We’re gonna teach you how to uphold the code.” With a gait that suggested as much determination as it did spite, the Lalafell led Rania out into the cold Lominsan night, setting the warrior of light up to take her first step towards a darker side of the city.

[owl-eyed-woman]

Attack on Titan Season 2 Episode Reviews - Episode 4 (Episode 29)

This week, it’s finally time for some pay-off. With the boring (but necessary details) set up last week, this episode can focus on tone, character and tension, giving its conflict all the development it needs to soar.  

After briefly re-establishing this episode’s major set piece as titans surround the tower, we flashback two hours before this battle begins. The first chunk of the episode focuses on giving context to this conflict and the character threads that will come into play. But more than this, by first placing us in the midst of a life-threatening struggle, our cognizance of this coming conflicts causes a potent feeling of anticipation and tension to pervade these flashback scenes.

In this calm moment before the storm, the 104th cadet corps finally have time to ponder the perplexing situation they’ve found themselves in and, more importantly, establish their understanding of their world and its mysteries. Despite being (ostensibly) safe, they are unable to rid themselves of the uneasiness caused by the day’s discoveries. Christa vocalises the question on everybody’s mind; if the wall is intact, where are the titans coming from?

Though we, the audience, have realised that humans within the wall are turning into titans, for realistic, believable writing, these characters need to come to this conclusion organically and earn this knowledge through sacrifice and toil.

Connie is the closest to understanding the truth behind the titans. In this moment of safety, Connie finally begins to process what exactly has happened to his hometown and, most importantly, his family. Recounting his experience, Connie postulates that, since there was no sign of violence, his family must have gotten out alive. Even as he asserts this to those around him, he can’t help but confess that the titan crushing his house reminded him of his mother.

Some part of Connie realises the horrifying truth of the matter but he is still unable to make the logical leap and fully comprehend its implications. He’s so close to grasping the truth that he can’t help but acknowledge the connection between the titan and his mother. But emotionally and intellectually, he is unable or perhaps unwilling to put the pieces together.

But maybe I’m reading too much into this situation. Ymir appears to think so as she starts raucously laughing at the suggestion that his mother is a titan and openly insults Connie for even considering it. It’s crude, it’s callous and it’s calculating. This reaction appears natural, but Ymir is a complicated character to say the least, and is doubtless concealing something. Is Ymir doing this as a kindness, as Reiner believes? Connie certainly forgets his troubles, as outrage replaces pensiveness.  Or, rather, is she concealing something, distracting Connie so he won’t connect the dots? I honestly don’t know at this point. While I want to believe this is a selfless act, Ymir’s motivations and feelings are so well obscured, either seem possible.

Finally, we learn something concrete about Ymir’s identity and what she might be hiding (and there’s more to come at the end of the episode too!) Whilst confronting Ymir about her treatment of Connie, Ymir casually passes Reiner a can of food. As he inspects it, Reiner realises that, while he doesn’t recognise the language on the can, Ymir can read it. Does this mean that Ymir is from outside of the wall?  

Before we can ponder this any further, we’re back to the present and the titans are here and very hungry. Now it’s time for the armed scouts to jump into battle and get into some good ol’ fashioned titan slaying. While the armed scouts hold off the titans outside, our 104th cadet corps are given a daunting task; as they are useless without their ODM gear, they must ensure that no titans get into the tower by barricading the doors and defending themselves to the best of their abilities.

From this point onwards, AOT really hones in on the horror aspects of its premise, as the next chunk of the episode becomes a tight little collection of horror set-pieces. The conceit itself is classic horror; a small group of people trapped in an enclosed space where they must contend with quintessential human fears, specifically their own disempowerment, isolation and vulnerability. Essential to this horror dynamic is the suffocating feeling that any success is meaningless and momentary, as they are ultimately powerless against the force that seeks to destroy them.

This genre shift is accentuated by AOT’s measured use of cinematic language and pacing. As Reiner rushes ahead to investigate if a titan has entered the building, separating from the group, the music shifts from more typical action fare to foreboding silence. As he opens the door, rather than immediately revealing the room, the camera remains on Reiner’s face, heightening the suspense by depriving the audience of clear information as to the whereabouts of the threat. While the next shot confirms the titan’s presence, dread only increases as its sinister and uncanny smile, showing off his teeth and gums, suggests a type of disturbing excitement about what is coming next. The heretofore slow pace suddenly cuts off, as the titan lunges just as Reiner closes the door. As Reiner is about to be crushed in the titan’s grasp, time slows down, lingering on his thoughts and emotions as he confronts his death, selling to the audience that this could very well be his end.  

Luckily, Reiner dodges at the last moment. Through quick-thinking and co-operation, they are able to defeat the titan, crushing it with a cannon. However, a door is destroyed in the process, decreasing the number of barriers that keep them and the titans separate. Considering this episode’s structure more generally though, its overarching conflict is characterised by this type of war of attrition, where each small victory prolongs their survival while simultaneously weakening them and ultimately bringing their inevitable doom ever closer. To survive in the moment, something of use must be sacrificed, such as a weapon or a door, further disempowering them as a whole and heightening the fear and tension.

At this point, everything is going as well as it possibly could in such a dire situation; the scouts have killed off most of the titans and the door has been successfully barricaded. Just as they begin to feel complacent, the beast titan catapults rocks at the tower, killing two soldiers, and sets another horde of titans on the tower. The power dynamic shifts in the titan’s favour, as the humans start to lose this war of attrition and the end seems nigh.  

In this final part of the episode, with our characters facing the prospect of their own death, the over-arching theme of this episode becomes startlingly apparent: death through heroic sacrifice. In war stories, this type of death is frequently idealised as perhaps the most noble and selfless way to go. By contrast, AOT interrogates this idea, challenging any character who idealises such a fate.

Take Reiner: after seeing someone sacrifice their life to save his own as a child, it’s clear that he views it as his duty to do the same. For Reiner, a true soldier is always ready to die in the place of another. With this mindset, he unflinchingly charges ahead, putting his life on the line for those around him.

While his actions are undeniably brave, in the context of these scenes this impulse is either entirely unnecessary or ultimately unhelpful. Without any hesitation, Reiner was prepared to hurl a titan and himself along with it out of a window. Only Connie’s relatively simple solution is able to stop him. Reiner is practically blinded by his devotion to the ideal of sacrificing himself for others, complicating situations and missing other, less deadly solutions. In the end, what ultimately ensures his friends’ survival is not Reiner’s willingness to sacrifice himself unnecessarily, but rather teamwork, communication and ingenuity.  

Christa desires a heroic death as well, and is outright criticised by Ymir because of it. Christa has always been one of the most selfless characters in the show, but this episode fascinatingly complicates this, challenging our perception of Christa, and perhaps Christa’s understanding of herself. Dying for others appears to be, on the surface, an inherently selfless act – I mean, you literally sacrifice yourself for the good of others. What’s more selfless than that? However, in Christa’s case, it’s important to consider not just the act itself, but rather the motivations behind it. Examining these underlying motivations, AOT shows us how even ostensibly altruistic or selfless actions can hide a selfish, self-serving core.

Fundamentally, Christa is drawn to this type of death because she wishes to be seen as a hero. Yes, heroically sacrificing herself may save lives, but this is not the impetus behind this act for her. The fact that she might save lives through her sacrifice is, ultimately, incidental to her motivation, rather than central. Instead, Christa places herself at the centre of this act of sacrifice, with anyone she might aid functioning primarily as tool to give herself meaning. While heroic sacrifice as an ideal is perceived as inherently selfless, through Christa, we see here how easily this ideal is corrupted by selfish motivations and self-serving desires.

Finally, through Gelgar’s death, the show sees a heroic sacrifice through to its inevitable conclusion and shows us the suffering and emptiness at its core. After hours of killing titans, heroically holding them off, Gelgar is finally faced with the prospect of his own death. In this moment, his doesn’t feel pride that he will die a ‘noble’ death; instead, he is filled with remorse that he couldn’t have one last drink. For Gelgar, the abstract ideal of a heroic sacrifice and the supposed honour that comes with it is ultimately worthless compared to the small but tangible pleasures that we find in life. What more is a heroic sacrifice than just another way to die horribly?

There is no reprieve from the cruelty of death for Gelgar. Seeing the bottle of alcohol he discarded earlier, he shakily goes for a drink, hoping to be sated in his last moments. No such comfort comes though, as the alcohol was used up earlier to treat Reiner’s minor injury – a perfect metaphor for the emptiness of such a death. As he is grabbed by a titan, Gelgar petulantly laments the cruelty of this world before he slams his head against a wall and is unceremoniously knocked out – he doesn’t even to get to go out with dignity. Through Gelgar’s end, AOT strips away any pretence of nobility or heroism in death and shows it for what it truly is – unfair, unhappy and cruel.

In every possible way, this episode tears down the ideal of heroically sacrificing your life for others. This could have so easily been an uncomplicated episode, honouring the deaths of noble soldiers. Instead, this episode challenges this idea, refusing both the characters and the viewer any easy empowerment and instead acknowledging the dark, unpalatable reality of all death, no matter how noble it may seem. In the end, AOT shows us that heroic sacrifice isn’t noble or selfless or meaningful; it’s foolhardy, it’s selfish and it’s ultimately empty.

In the face of all this, with the senior soldiers dead and the cadets almost certainly doomed, Ymir takes action. Taking Connie’s knife, she says that she going to fight. Unlike Christa or Reiner though, Ymir is not planning to die; she is fighting so they can live.

Before she takes the plunge, Ymir entreats Christa to remember their promise and live a life she can be proud of as the sun rises gloriously behind them – it’s a sincere, hopeful moment between Christa and Ymir in a dark, dark episode. Then, jumping off the tower, we finally discover what Ymir has been hiding all this time, as she cuts her hand and begins to transform into a titan…

AND then, the episode ends because of course it does. Now that’s a cliff-hanger!

Overall, this was a super compelling episode on all levels. It contains tense scenes, thrilling action and some genuinely thought-provoking ideas. This is AOT at its best.

[colorofmymindposts]

In Plain Sight

Fandom: X-Men: First Class

Words: 1267 

Summary: Erik normally does not let others care for him when weak. Charles is the exception. Set pre-Cuba.  

Tags: Sickfic, Sick Character, Fluff, Slight Angst if You Squint 

Notes: This is a gift work for @k-dayun who is a lovely mutual of mine. Unfortunately, this is a bit late for her birthday, so happy belated birthday present! If you want to read this on ao3 rather than tumblr, here’s a link. 

Work: 

Charles woke with an unpleasant start, his frame chilled with a sudden sense that all heat had left the bedroom. Once ensconced in comfortable sheets and quilts at the beginning of the night, he found that the bedsheet presently only covered his left leg. The cold clamminess of his hands and feet reminded him of the bitter days spent on the Russia mission, and it was at times like these that he was eternally grateful for his flannel pajamas. Turning over onto his left side, Charles could now identify the culprit behind the overnight blanket theft.

He barely discerned Erik’s form in the cushy cocoon the man had so obviously constructed for himself in the night. Although they were admittedly new bedfellows, and Charles had certainly noticed his friend’s apparent fondness for turtlenecks, he never would have anticipated Erik being a blanket hoarder of all things.

Nor was it typical for Erik to deviate from his morning schedule, which Charles had charted in his head as valuable information. At the ungodly hour of five in the morning Erik would rise, press an impassioned kiss to Charles’ temple which was blearily received, and start his morning workout on the estate grounds. Checking the wristwatch laid out on the bedside table, Charles realized, not unhappily, that Erik had seemingly well-abandoned the routine today and for that reason alone Charles could not continue to remain the least bit upset.  

Erik did not show any signs of rousing soon, so Charles thought it prudent to make the two of them breakfast for the day. Judging by the time, the children would be up within the next two hours, and they would both need to at least appear ready for the day and not give any indication of the state of their secretly shared room.  

Just as Charles started on the coffee, Erik’s preferred drink of choice, his skin broke out in goosebumps, and he was colder than he had been earlier in the morning. Running his hands up and down his upper arms, he in fact found no goosebumps and yet still felt the unwanted sensation. With the coffee brewed, Charles began scrambling the eggs in the skillet only for a feverish warmth to overtake his senses, a dizzying heat flooding to his cheeks and a dull but persistent buzzing playing a monotone tune in his head. He took several steps back from the stove, foolishly believing for a moment that the gas burner was contributing to this unwelcome assault.

But the unusual symptoms nagged on, and more out of instinct than trained control Charles threw up his mental shields to isolate himself from all other sensations not produced by his own mind. Thankfully, the throbbing and temperature imbalance vacated his system almost immediately. Perhaps Erik was correct in some ways that Charles had been overexerting his mutation and the bodily reaction demonstrated here in its powerful force was the proof of his friend’s conviction. However, after saving the eggs from a disastrous fate in the pan and scooping them out onto a plate, Charles decided it would be best to assess his physical condition in the lavatory.

Despite all the sensations that would normally indicate a fever, all sense of discomfort or illness had left him. All symptoms of an apparent fever had to have been imagined by his mind, a thought slightly troubling in its own right. Remembering the eggs and coffee as well as his own cup of tea would go cold if left unattended for much longer, he bounded from the lavatory back into the kitchen, haphazardly fixing everything on a tray.

He was not certain what scene he had expected to return to before reentering the room—probably Erik would have been upright in bed, giving him one of those cherished pointed smiles or something of the kind. Instead, upon opening the door and stepping inside, Charles discovered Erik ungracefully half-falling out of their bed, intent on bringing the covers with him.

Charles rushed over, swiftly setting the tray down on the bedside table, and took hold of either side of Erik’s chest, heaving him back onto the mattress. His skin was warm, frightfully so, and this was the first time this morning Charles looked at Erik without a multitude of blankets obscuring his view. His friend’s face was flushed, his lips dry, and his eyes heavy with sleep and sickness. Pressing the back of his hand to Erik’s forehead, a touch which Erik leaned into, confirmed Charles’ diagnosis.

“Charles,” Erik rasped.

“There, there darling, don’t push yourself,” Charles soothed, brushing a bit of Erik’s auburn locks back. “I imagine you’re not feeling too well.”

Charles truthfully knew exactly how Erik was feeling, or at least the incident in the kitchen gave him a general idea. Erik must have unintentionally projected his symptoms telepathically, explaining why the sensations he experienced felt so real yet physically were not present.

The telepathic link between him and Erik had grown considerably over the months, with every cheated move in chess and every secret little conversation. In the weeks spent at the various dingy motels, Erik became more and more amenable to Charles’ voice inside his head, and Charles, grateful that someone wanted to engage in telepathic conversation, did not hesitate to let him in. How deep the bond ran, however, was a question Charles had never previously considered, and when the errant thought of in sickness and in health fluttered in his head he quickly buried the fanciful notion.

Erik scoffed, although a cough stole whatever wry quality it might have held. “Yes, Charles, I suppose you could say that. I haven’t been this ill since—” Erik cut himself off, and Charles did not pursue the memory. “How do I fix this? I need to get on with the day already.”

It was Charles’ turn for cheek. “Fix this? Erik, with your temperature, you’re going to have to rest the entire day to feel better.”

Erik screwed up his face, clearly not an enthusiast of the idea. “Since when were you a doctor?”

“I am a doctor. I believe you were aware I received my diploma this past year at the University of Oxford,” he replied with a grin.

“In genetics. I do pay attention, Charles.”  Another cough violently wracked Erik’s body, and Charles gently lay his lover down on the pillows, a concerned frown donning his features he was sure. “McCoy is going to regret the day he ever suggested doing a trial run of Sean’s powers in the damn rain,” Erik groaned vehemently into the soft cushions.

“His name is Hank, Erik,” Charles playfully corrected. “And no one is going to give anyone else a reason to regret something. Testing Sean’s capabilities in inclement weather was a good idea in theory but perhaps not in practice. It was just as much Hank’s idea as it was mine.”

Martyr flashed from Erik’s thoughts to Charles’, and he had to bite back a bitter laugh.

“Well, if that is the case, then you wouldn’t mind getting a cold towel for me,” Erik rather politely requested.

He beamed back, “Absolutely not, my friend.”

Charles spent the entire morning with Erik, only to leave him to tell the children that they could enjoy the day as they pleased, omitting loud and property-damaging parties. His friend did give initial protest, claiming that he needed to sort through the illness alone, but Charles still telepathically picked up on his true reasoning.

There was no force that could make him leave Erik’s side at this moment, none that either of them would allow.

[livingwithashipname-blog]

Ermanda’s Inner Sanctum: Scorpion Season 3A

This is a general review post on the first half of Scorpion season 3 with my introspective critiques.  To follow my in-depth episode reviews, drabbles, and thought pieces for Scorpion (and other shows), follow the tag “ermanda’s inner sanctum” for more.  This post is long so read at your own risk! 😜😂😂😂😂😂

I think this portion of the season resolved season 2 cliffhangers well.  The elements were addressed in a step-down manner that showed adequate research of these topics and didn’t introduce anything too unrealistic in their resolutions.  There were other elements that didn’t deliver because of the quantity over quality conundrum.  I appreciate the exploration of new relationships this season within the cyclone and all the new foreshadowing bits I have witnessed so far.  I am intrigued to see where these stories are going.  Here are some specific things I would like to address. 

Series Goals vs. Time Slot

Various interviews from the showrunners and actors, as well as elements of the show itself, suggest that Scorpion is a family show and will continue to meet this goal over time.  A 10 pm time slot means that there is room to push portions of the show to appeal to more adult audiences.  The showrunners have decided to do this in the type of major storylines introduced and how they are portrayed on screen.  Episode 3.03 It Isn’t The Fall That Kills You is a good example of a grittier portrayal of the Waige dynamic and Happy’s cadmium poisoning that mimicked pregnancy in symptomatology and testing is another example of dealing with the concept of loss that doesn’t involve miscarriage.  However, disillusionment within the fandom exists when the personal storylines don’t fit fandom expectations for a show in a particular time slot.  When the show (in the eyes of fans) fails to deliver on the personal end, it is easy to default to the mission.  If the same happens there, the entire episode feels inadequate.  I am indifferent If Scorpion stays in its 10 pm slot or returns to 9 pm.  I am more concerned about which day it is scheduled.  Mondays are perfect right now.  Tuesdays are too competitive with other networks (gotta save those slots for the network’s heavy hitters - NCIS series), Wednesdays are already devoted to Survivor and Criminal Minds, and Thursdays are devoted to sitcoms.  Scorpion is not a show that fits CBS’s aims for Friday programming and it is not close to an end for the network to push it to Sundays “to live out its last days.”  There are still a large number of shows that have to go and be replaced by new shows.  If the show returns to 9 pm, there are certain ways they have to “censor” the dialogue to fulfill network demands to audiences accessible at that time.  Thus, there will always be this struggle between fulfilling the family goal and pushing the envelope with a 10 pm time slot.  The show has succeeded in some ways, but it can definitely do more with the opportunities the 10 pm time slot provides.  I don’t anticipate any sex scenes beyond the scope of that seen in episode 1.14 Charades for this show, but if that happens in the future I will be pleasantly enthused.  

Comparison to Numb3rs

In a lot of ways, Scorpion feels just like Numb3rs, which is another crime drama that premiered on CBS for 6 seasons.  It’s one of my all-time favorites and currently lives on in syndication on ION television in the US almost 7 years after the series finale.  If you’re not familiar with this series, all 6 seasons are available on Amazon Instant Video with a Prime account and Hulu.  Here’s a synopsis of the series: 

FBI agent Don Eppes recruits his younger brother, Charlie, a mathematical genius and college professor, to help solve some of Don's toughest cases. Although others at the bureau are skeptical of Charlie's involvement, he finds support in a colleague at the university where he teaches.

The show showcased a romantic relationship between Charlie, the math genius, and a fellow colleague who was as equally smart; the nerdy, awkward friend who managed to woo the strong heroine; the difficulties of raising a family where one child is a genius and the other is a normal; the sibling rivalry that exists between brothers because of this dynamic; and much more.  Maybe this is why I flocked to Scorpion so quickly.  And now that Scorpion is up for syndication, it all seems like deja vu.  So I am curious to see if Scorpion will be handled like Numb3rs in the future since both shows are with CBS. 

Areas for Improvement

Suspense/Mystery

I think the show needs to do a better job at CONSISTENTLY creating suspense with each mission’s operational casualties.  For example, I think that the apparent danger of the tornado scene in 2.21 Twist and Shout wouldn’t have fallen flat if it had obscured Walter and Paige for a moment and we only heard their voices while they were holding onto each other for dear life.  That would have given the situation more of a semblance of realism and make us wonder about their safety even though we know that they would survive.  Also, don’t get me started on the wire work in that episode.  Where was the body control?! 😂  For this season, episode 3.10 This Is The Pits comes to mind when Walter got stuck in the tar.  One episode I quickly recall where this is done well is in 2.13 White Out. 

Continuity of Injury & Emotional Fallout

These characters manage to find themselves in dangerous situations mission after mission and heal quickly or they encounter a major emotional event that is resolved in that episode or picked up again 10 episodes later.  Granted, this is expected of procedurals where each episode is set up to tell a new story each week that keeps the casual, periodic viewer engaged and cognizant of the show’s overall goals without the need for 5-6 episodes to fill in the blanks.  Also, the actors talk about this superhero aspect that has been infused into the show.  So this suggests that this is intentional.  However, there have been moments such as Walter’s hand injury and Toby’s post-kidnapping injuries (physical & emotional) that should have been seen for more than 1 episode.  Thus, it would be nice to see the dramatic elements of this show extended in small, subtle ways outside their brief multi-episode arcs that are not foreshadowing elements for later developments and are done in ways that are not easily missed when presented within an episode.  Yet, I will argue that certain things are not as easy to portray on-screen and it is an understandable reality that I am willing to accept in some ways. 

A New Cyclone Hangout 

I would like to see a financial investment in new hangouts that are also used to explore the emotional complexities of the cyclone as is done with the garage rooftop.  These could be anywhere from someone’s living quarters to an unexplored area of the garage.  I use Criminal Minds as a point of reference - another big budget show with a central hub that also explores more locales throughout each season.  Yet, I also consider that these new locales may not be chosen as often as the fans would like to see because investment is an expensive venture that is not fiscally possible given approved plans for the season and what can be accomplished by production within a given time frame.  For example, the backdrop of city scene on the rooftop is CGI, but it takes time and money (paying editors to make it work with actors who are moving in and out of shots) to do it well. 

Better Application of Plausible Scientific Scenarios & Explanation of These Events

I think this point is self-explanatory, but I will refer to a recent scene.  Scott Porter was directed to deliver this lengthy piece of dialogue for his character in 3.10 This Is The Pits and then perform the task afterwards.  This order negatively affected the purpose of the dialogue and the efficiency of the action.  It would have been more realistic for his character to perform the task while reiterating an understanding for the science so it didn’t seem like he dictating a term paper.  I hope that makes sense!  LOL!      

Dropped Storylines

There have been several storylines within this series on a whole that have been introduced and never mentioned again.  But the ones that are problematic are those that contributed to a story arc within a season.  The best example of this would be Sly’s journey to acquire naming rights for the pediatric ward in the hospital Megan spent her last days.  Sly was working on raising enough money to do that.  And it was insinuated that the turnover time was not long.  So... 👀  Is there a plan to work this into his political campaign in the future?  Let’s hope so!

Number of Plots Covered in One Episode

This is another self-explanatory point.  It’s another quality over quantity argument with a show that already gives so much given time constraints.  

BE REALISTIC!!! 😉

There will always be things that we like and do not like with all of our favorite shows.  Does this mean that you should lower the bar of expectation?  No.  However, it is so important to put your expectations in check.  Pay attention to clues within each episode and think about the music choices, the shot selection, and the dialogue to fully understand what is being communicated in that moment and beyond.  In other words, you have to put down your shipper goggles for a minute and use foreshadowing ones.  Hahahaha... but fo real tho!  Recognize production patterns because they are usually good predictors of what to expect from season to season.  I even addressed one in this post.  There are many within this show, but the most prominent is that for the ships.  I’m gonna let you figure that one out! 😉  If you want to talk about it more, drop an inquiry in the inner sanctum (aka. my ask box) or hit me up in the chat! 

A short note on ratings & syndication: Syndication is the evil twin of continuity.  CBS loves its syndication deals.  A show will get renewed if it is up for syndication.  Ratings for 8 & 9 pm shows are always better than those at 10 pm.  The important factor to consider is average consistency.  Even if ratings decline in the US, the network will choose to move forward with episode orders if a show has a good international following (e.g. Elementary).  So if you have international followers who are also fans, ask them to indulge the content in the way it’s available within their country. 

Constant complaints about things that can be fixed are just seen as noise if they are not accompanied with realistic ideas.  They only put up more walls between creators and fans in an era where communication between these two groups is closer than ever.  The reality is that all these comments come with a turnover time of AT LEAST 2 months in which 3-4 episodes have already been written and shot.  If it fits with what’s already established, there’s a chance it might be considered.  But if it doesn’t, expect that idea to get tabled for the latter portion of a season or the next.  It is more advantageous to share your headcanons, set ideas, etc., as it would be done in the writing room and be specific when you do.  If you honestly think no one is watching/reading because your desires have not been met, you are living in the clouds.  That’s how you set yourself to get baited by clever PR moves.  Patience is a virtue.  If a season’s developments still do not suit your fancy, stop with the emotional masochism and either figure out a new way to indulge the content if you still want to stay close to it or drop off entirely.  At the end of the day, EXERCISE YOUR CREATIVE FRUSTRATIONS IN FANFICTION if all else fails!  That’s where everything goes down and I love it!

Kudos to wardrobe because the looks this season are really great!  Kudos to production and art  departments for the amazing cave set of 3.06 Bat Poop Crazy and the cabin set for 3.11 Wreck The Halls.  Kudos to location scouts and the camera crew for capturing scenic beauty in 3.08 Sly and the Family Stone!  Kudos to the showrunners and writers for exploiting the strengths of their cast!  

THAT’S ALL PEEPS!  TOODLES & HAPPY SCORPION MONDAYS!!! 😘