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hjellacott · 2 years ago

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Thoroughly impressed by this... review? Specially about the "dodgy bill of goods" bit. I'll try to express myself more clearly than that.

First and foremost, let's just make it clear, it's fine to dislike the Strike books. Hey, it's fine to dislike ANY book. But if you dislike something so much that you want to write about it, you should have a proper structure of ideas and reasonable criticism, things that you can pinpoint and say "this wasn't so well done", not to mention you need to write things properly and nicely so that people understand exactly what bits of the book need more work and how they could improve if they were writing. Otherwise it just sounds like this "review". Like, the main idea I get out of it is that somebody decided to start a series in book three, ignoring the previous two and their backstory, then interpreted it as a romance and got annoyed that it isn't a proper detective series but two lovers detecting. So let me break that down (and I'm speaking to whoever's reading me, not OP in particular)

Firstly. One should NEVER start a series from the middle. Seriously, why would you do that? Do you just want to dislike something from the start? Even when I hated even the sole idea of the Twilight saga, I started reading them from book one, and made myself read them to be able to properly criticise them (and to see if I got surprised and they were actually good books).

Secondly. I cannot say this strongly enough, The Cormoran Strike Series IS A DETECTIVE SERIES. Is 100% detective books. We've so far had six books and so far it's truly two best friends solving crimes while also trying to navigate their growing feelings for one another, feelings that become reasonable and logical if you've been with them from the start and can see why their feelings begin to grow. You've got a detective in his forties who's so fucking lonely (even if he won't admit it), who hasn't been able to find a girl who doesn't hate his job, who's had toxic and problematic relationships, and who suddenly finds this woman who truly loves his job and shares his passions and interests (which is how any romance should start), of course he falls for her. And similarly, she is an inexperienced woman who has always dreamed of being a detective, who as a woman has always been made to feel like she shouldn't pursue police work because it's dangerous and she should be kept safe, and here, she finally finds a person who truly is her person: who supports her, who adores her, who gets terrified for her wellbeing but responds by preparing her better and accepting he cannot shield her from the world, a person who doesn't slow her down but who pushes her to excellence, and with whom she can truly be exactly who she is. Of course she falls for him. But the main thing with these books is the detective work, which is why 6 books in, they haven't kissed, nor confessed their feelings for one another, and in fact, are quite determined to avoid becoming a couple because they want their work to go first.

Thirdly. If you start reading a book series by the third book, why not Google it a bit? You could've even gotten free extracts of it, they're available for almost any book, or asked people online, and we would've told you exactly what's about so you wouldn't have been surprised.

And speaking about love in detective series, DOES ANYBODY SERIOUSLY EXPECT THE TWO MAINS TO NOT GET ROMANTICALLY PAIRED???!?!?!?! I mean, you've got Castle, Bones, The Mentalist, any NCIS or CSI series, Rizzoli and Isles (who did remain platonic, but everyone shipped them), and even fucking Sherlock Holmes and Watson get paired, often by the fans, as a romance and see romance in everything they do, which doesn't mean is there necessarily. So Strike and Robin having a thing for one another, or fans pairing them can't truly be a surprise, let alone if you start by book three and could've seen plenty of them online, including J. K. Rowling's interviews. It's not toxic fans. It's fans who get attached to the characters and genuinely want them to be happy, and when they see another character they'd fit so well with, of course they naturally pair them together. It's only normal.

Additionally, OP makes quite the criticism of the character of Robin Ellacott "suddenly" messing things up and endangering the agency. Of course it's sudden for OP, they've missed book one and two. But I'll explain. Robin starts off being cautious to a fault. She does exactly what Strike says, she never questions him, she's super shielded and afraid because of her trauma. But then she begins to get furious. Over and over in books one and two, she sees women being fucked by men who wanted more money, more power, or who cheated, or all of the above. It's not just the main cases, she also has other smaller cases, and begings to get pissed off with the way the world treats women, which reminds her of her own trauma. But let's not forget, by book three, Robin is only a twenty-six-year-old woman with no formal police training or education, except for a small surveillance training, who is being taught everything and mentored by Strike, a man a decade her senior who worked for many years as a military detective. So by book three, Robin, full of anger, and getting further upset by the actions of her fiancé, and further angry towards men, decides to take matters into her own hands and God forbid, SHE TRIES TO SAVE A 4 YEAR OLD GIRL FROM A PAEDOPHILE!!!! What a horrible, irresponsible thing to do. And yes, it risks the agency, yes, Strike gets very angry, but between saving your arse at work and helping a four year old, I would've hoped all of us would go for four year old. And indeed, Strike ends-up admitting what Robin did was a good thing. Then, behold, the next horrible and irresponsible thing Robin does is walk alone at night so that she gets attacked by a serial killer. I won't even comment there.

But let's jump to Lethal White, Troubled Blood and The Ink Black Heart. So, they're a continuous saga of Robin being furious with humanity, the world, and specially men, for all the shit they put women through. She keeps getting cheated on, attacked by men, and made smaller by men, and investigating cases where men are shit to women, but now she's becoming-and-becomes a full partner in the agency so she starts to try and get Strike's head out of his arse now and then, which also means she has to fight him now and then, but still, she doesn't tell him what to do because he's THE BOSS, and she respects him. She'll just disobey lightly when there's no other choice or accidetally fuck up now and then because she truly is learning on the job.

Exhibit A: She makes the mistake of let the killer in LW know about her relationship problems, which he uses to try to kill her.

Exhibit B: She disobeys and ignores her stubborn boss Strike in LW so that she can pick him up in a car and rescue him from angry dogs instead of letting him try to do it himself and be bitten to bits by the angry dogs.

Exhibit C: The most serious act in TB was to pursue justice for a prostitute, even at the risk of putting a bullseye on her and Strike's backs by going after a very dangerous mafia. But does she really put anybody at risk? Well, as a matter of fact, no, because she's incredibly careful with her disguise, as much as Strike doesn't trust she has been. As a matter of fact it's been years since (in the story) and the mafia is still none the wiser, because Robin knows what she's doing and now Strike knows and trusts her more.

Exhibit D: There's little to say about her actions in TIBH because she is a fucking superstar, my girl's slaying, she's making purée with stupid men. But her anger for men does hit the fan, specially when Strike's bloody stubbornness and reckleness begins to be bad for business, affecting all the agency negatively and, worse, putting his own life at risk. So the girl screams bloody murder at him, but I think after getting stabbed, Strike's learned his lesson. My boy's going to be good from now on.

I really like the Cormoran Strike DETECTIVE series. I started reading the books at CAREER OF EVIL, thinking it was a DETECTIVE series. I went back and read the earlier books and joined groups to discuss STRIKE among like-minded people. To my horror: most other people had started at book one and bc "R was there from the beginning" [and they have the brains of 12 year olds] were treating the series like a romance with a bit of detective stuff instead of the other way round 🤦‍♀️

And despite all her BS interviews where JKR said just wanting....to have it be about the writing [maybe she did] I think she MEANT it to be a romance, disguised as a detective story, the whole time. Especially after ploughing through 🖤. The fandom in 🖤 is so similar to Tom Burke and STRIKE fandom. Not as viciously harmful but just as toxic. Twatter is JKR favourite platform. Her worst fans are there. All the rest of the fandom promote the romance. If you go against the narrative, you are vilified. I'll finish 🖤 and try the next one. But I've been sold a pup. The books evolve, sure. But I was sold a dodgy bill of goods, from the outset. I thought I was getting a detective series with 2 good friends. Not a romance whose tedium I would have to navigate between cases. And a junior partner [with a genuine knack for the work] that has gone from temp to making life threatening and agency threatening decisions in such a short period of time. Especially given her actual life experiences are abysmally lacking for someone her age. Plus, she is taking over a lot of Cs' actual work in the TV adaptations. 🤦‍♀️

Credit to creators

#cormoran strike #robin ellacott #robert galbraith

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mommymooze · 4 years ago

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Death By Association

Hubert approaches the woman who is bent down at the table, silently pouring through various tomes and books in the library. He coughs into his fist. “You have requested my presence?”

You look up suddenly and stand erect, making a respectful bow. “General Von Vestra, thank you so much for gracing me with a few moments of your valuable time.”

“Yes, my time is quite valuable. Proceed.” Hubert eyes the woman cautiously. He has seen her around for several months but does not recall working with her directly.

“I am a cleric, in General Von Hevring’s battalion. I also work in the medical tents treating the wounded. Sometimes Linhardt will discuss his research with me. This particular subject is one that he has lost interest in, however I believe this is something I must share with you.”

You advise that you have been studying plagues following wars throughout history. Making notes of transmission methods, symptoms, etcetera. You have been studying this subject for several years. Thus far there have been no unknown illnesses or diseases that have affected the masses, however there is something unique you must discuss with him.

You look about the library seeing no others.

“I have seen six victims.” You begin, “the first a few years ago. The other five within the last year. It was quite gruesome. I have recorded the symptoms that I have been able to identify. Most concerning is as the illness comes to its end, the subjects begin to bleed profusely, their blood is hot, appearing to be boiling out of them. It is so hot that their clothing catches fire. Anything that was used to clean their blood begins smoke and catch fire as well. Needless to say it is a horrible death.”

“What interest would I have in this?” Hubert stares intently.

“The two most recent deaths were from your own battalion. The dark magic corps, correct?”

“Yes.” He mutters, still eyeing you suspiciously.

“The last battle at Gronder was horrific.” Your voice trembles, “Only those two were affected. Bleeding from their eyes and hands. Bloody noses that would not stop. We quarantined them. Their symptoms worsened quickly until their blood boiled out and they died. We pursued multiple ways to fight this affliction. Healing merely slows the process. We placed one subject in a deep bath filled with ice water. His temperature continued rising higher and higher. He burst into flames while submerged in the water.” You shudder, crying as you recall the gruesome deaths.

“Could it be…” Hubert abruptly stops.

Within the hour you are in a meeting room with Emperor Edelgard, Hubert, and Linhardt. Hubert provides a succinct summary of your findings.

Linhardt speaks. “It is obvious that it has something to do with the Agarthans.”

“There are quite a few in Hubert’s battalion.” You comment.

“How do you know about them.” Hubert stands, leaning over toward you and glaring.

“I am one of their failed experiments, courtesy of our beloved friend, Cornelia.” You subconsciously hug yourself, looking away.

“How do you recognize them?” Hubert’s eyes still piercing you.

“I can smell them.” You snarl.

The Emperor excuses herself after placing a high priority on obtaining a solution. The remaining three brainstorm on what is known, what is suspected, and what can be done. Tomes and books are brought in from Claude and Lin’s room as well as Abyss. Hubert assigns several of his spies to multiple battalions, other Generals battalions to monitor what occurs in his own unit.

Reviewing the data gathered thus far, it is obvious advanced magic is needed. The green haired cleric suggests Rhea and Seteth’s rooms. You split up, he takes Rheas quarters, while you take the other, agreeing to bring any items of interest back here.

You scour the books on the shelves of his office. There are a few tomes but none contain the desired spells. You search Seteth’s bedroom, moving every object you can. You check the two bookshelves. One is easily pushed to the side, the other will not budge. You resort to removing all books from the shelves until you find a lever behind a book. Once pulled, the bookshelf swings into the room. On the back of the shelf is a recessed area shelving several unique and very old tomes. Snatching them up, you return to the meeting room.

Two books are historical, probably interesting to Hubert. One is written in a language that you cannot understand. Two are filled with clerical procedures and spells. Some you’ve seen in practice as part of church services, some you have never heard referenced before.

Lin returns several hours later. Not that he had found anything particularly interesting, but he did take a nap in Rhea’s bed.

The green haired healer peers at the spell book you wave in front of his face. His eyes widen as he reads through the runes and incantations that are recorded. The spell you have the greatest interest in is “Purifying Light.” The two of you begin to make notes, dissecting the spell into its component parts.

Early the next morning Hubert enters the room bringing coffee, which you graciously accept. You have been so absorbed in the research you had not noticed the sun is just starting to rise over the horizon. You and Linhardt have nearly completed the mapping and logic stream of the spell. Hubert, having very little experience with this type of magic, does not completely follow your cryptic writings, that does not stop him from asking many questions about the effects, the intent.

You explanation the dissection of the spell. “Its purpose is to banish the darkness from a person. A spiritual exorcism. If they are too far gone, it may simply end them, in a peaceful manner hopefully. The texts do not discuss unexpected effects or results. Primarily the intended target is a victim of a high level dark magic spell. If you are banishing the darkness, what will happen to those that have cast nothing but dark magic all of their lives? We still have much more to investigate. The Agarthans live in near total darkness. Surely a spell creating a pure light would have a pronounced effect on them as well as those that they have contaminated.”

The sun traverses the sky and begins to descend in the west when you finally decide your productivity level is too low and you need sleep. Heading to your room you think of Hubert. He has been helpful throughout the research, frequently checking on you, bringing food and coffee and insisting you take breaks, walking with you around the monastery getting exercise.

Several weeks pass, you are prepared to test the spell. Hubert is away on a mission, his battalion with him. You and Lin agree the timing is perfect, keeping the Agarthans unaware of this spell. The pair move to the magical training area, specifically the fireproof area. You cast the spell, the sigils glowing before you as you concentrate on the proper movement and sequence while reciting the verbal components of the spell, at the final words a bright radiance fills a glass sphere that is floating in a basin of holy water, the two physical spell components. The orb rises into the air and glows with a bright whiteness, the intensity of the light increases to the point of needing to shade your eyes. Suddenly the room is in complete darkness as the spell concludes.

Blinking your eyes to readjust to the normal light in the room, both of you inspect the walls and floors of the stone structure to see if anything has changed. Besides feeling physically warm there is no affect to your person. The room smells…clean. You cannot see any traces of mold or mildew on the walls.

The components are reset. Linhardt casts the spell, it does not seem to be as bright as yours, his movements are not as crisp, nor did he care to be as precise as you. Still, you both feel warm. The room is unchanged. You casually wonder if it can remove that permanent funky smell in the laundry room.

Two nights later, Hubert warps into the monastery. He is accompanied by one of his spies hiding within his battalion.

“This man was standing next to an Agarthan when they were killed. As we have seen in the past, many of those that slither crumble to dust when killed, especially in the daylight. We had to wait until my man was separated from the rest of the battalion. I believe he is showing signs of the illness.”

The spy, now patient, is holding a cloth to his nose. Blood runs down his face and hand, pooling under his fingernails. The clerics don thick aprons and gloves, a table is moved to the spellcasting training area. The fireproof area is chosen again. Losing the infirmary to an explosion or fire would be devastating.

The patient is calmed and lying prone on the table. You remove the patient’s shirt, exposing more of his skin to the light that will be created by the spell. Fresh holy water is poured into the basin next to the patient, the glass orb is now floating.

Reviewing the spell a final time, you raise your hands to cast, warning everyone to shade their eyes.The patient uses one hand to hold the cloth under his bleeding nose, the other covering his eyes.

Casting the Purifying Light spell, you manipulate the sigils, then recite the verbal incantation, your voice more powerful than the last time as you have gained confidence having cast the spell before. The orb floats high into the air, the water pulled up into it to fuel the light, then a bright flash occurs, the spell ending with a distinct ‘pop’ and the room goes dark.

Uncovering your eyes, you run over to the patient, fingers to his throat. He still has a pulse! He removes his hand from his eyes, suddenly turning away from you, coughing and hacking viciously, then vomits. Linhardt takes a cloth to wipe the disgusting mess from the table.

Studying the expelled liquid on the cloth, Linhardt comments. “This is very black and fine. Much finer than blood in his system. It resembles a powder.” The green haired scholar surmises. “Like dead Agarthan dust.”

Linhardt checks the patient further. “He is breathing well, no longer bleeding. His fingers now look clear, no blood pooling.“ He asks the man on the table, “How are you feeling?”

“I feel warm. There are other things, but mostly warm.” He says with a smile, happy that he can breathe again.

You turn to Hubert, bolting to where he was standing. He is now lying on the ground. You realize nobody had warned him it would be in his best interest not to remain within the room during the spell casting as you had no idea how it would affect him. You hastily sit him up, sitting on the floor next to him, anxiously checking him out. His pulse is fine. You put your ear on his chest to listen and see if anything is wrong.

“Mmmmm.” Hubert hums. “It is incredibly warm.”

“I’m so sorry, Hubert. Did you hit your head? Are you hurt?” Your hands brushing any dirt from his clothes. He looks to be a bit dazed. You pull his eyelids open checking his pupils, grasping his face to turn his head this way and that.

“No, I recall a bright light and then found myself on the floor. I am not experiencing pain.” Hubert says slowly, as if he has to think twice before speaking any word.

“When you are ready, I will help you to stand. We should take you to your room, as well as inform the Emperor of the current events.”

Hubert takes a moment to situate himself then takes your hand, with your assistance is able to stand.

Hubert looks down at your hand in his. “Your hand is incredibly warm. Not hot, not burning. Just…warm.” He at you. “You also appear to be glowing.” His brows furrow.

Linhardt interrupts without looking up from the patient, “Yes, she was last time she cast this spell too.”

You look at Hubert unsure if he is well. “Let’s get you to your quarters, General.” You turn him around to make certain any dirt from his fall is brushed away.

As you lead him to the door he takes your hand in his again. “Still warm.” He smiles walking toward his quarters holding your hand,

He arrives, opens his door, then waves causing several candles flicker to life. He ushers you inside and closes the door behind you.

“How are you feeling now? Any dizziness?” You cautiously ask, heaven forbid if you did anything to one of Adrestia’s greatest generals. You lead him to sit on the chair next to his desk.

Hubert thinks for a moment, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. “I do not recall striking my head or falling. I recall the spell, the bright light and the popping noise. Then you were assisting me to stand. My hands feel oddly sensitive.”

You frown, quite concerned. “Hubert, please remove your gloves?”

“This has nothing to do with me or my hands.” Hubert responds curtly.

Well, that sounds more like him. “Humor me. I’ve seen them before.” Your voice stern, sounding more like the cleric you are.

The dark mage reluctantly pulls his gloves off his hands, you grasp his fingers in yours and pull them closer to the light. You notice the fingers are not as dark black as they had been, the purple streaks only going into his palms, no longer covering his wrist. You take your fingernail and scrape it under his pinky finger.

“Why did you do that?” he snaps at you hastily pulling his hand from your grasp.

“Because I could. Look.” You take his hand, showing him his palm.

Hubert stares, first at one hand, then the other. Touching his fingertips together. There is a look upon his face that you have never seen before, a look of awe.

“How…?” The man is mystified, staring as he clenches his fingers into a fist, then uncurls them.

“My apologies, Hubert. Linhardt and I had discussed that prior to performing the spell that we should ask you to remove yourself from range. We were not certain how the spell would affect you. Our error is serendipitous for you. It appears to have reversed some of the scarring.”

Hubert shakes his head. “I have not had this much sensation of feeling in my fingers for years.” His voice softens as he stares at his fingers again.

“We must report to Her Majesty.” You remind him. Definitely distracted.

“Absolutely.” Hubert stands, brushing himself off and then taking your hand in his as quickly guides you to the Emperor’s room and knocks. “Apologies, my Emperor, there is a matter we must discuss.”

He pulls you by the hand into her room, keeping it clasped in his. He explains his rushed return, the performing of the spell and that everything thus far is considered a complete success.

Emperor Edelgard peers at the two of you slightly squinting, spying that he is holding your hand tightly. “Thank you, Hubert. Anything else?”

“No, my lady, you will have your report in the morning.” The general bows and so do you. He shows you to the door, returning to his room’s interior, refusing to release your hand.

He proceeds to sit on the edge of his bed, you stand next to him.

“Hubert, you should rest.” You whisper softly placing the back of your free hand to his forehead to see if he is warm. He’s not.

“I will take your recommendation under consideration.” He says, less curtly than usual.

“I have had a busy day as well.” You say softly, looking down. “If you do not mind…” you look to your hand in his.

“What if I do mind?” Hubert says, looking into your eyes. “I find your presence comfortable.”

You think to yourself, others have said many times of how Hubert’s presence is so frightening, how he gives off a scary aura, however you have never seen him to be that way, never felt cold chills at his approach or terrified should he look at you.

“As I do yours.” You sit on the bed, a bit of space between you.

“I wish to thank you for restoring some sensation to my hands. We have tried many different spells and cures. How can I thank you?” Hubert looks a little overwhelmed.

“I charge you one hug.” You shyly slide your hands between his arms and body, pulling him into a hug, putting your nose into his neck so he cannot see the bright red flush of your cheeks.

Hubert, not the most practiced at hugs, wraps his long arms around you one hand above the other at the center of your back resting his cheek on top of your head.

You hear the most beautiful sigh as you give him a little squeeze.

#fe3h x reader #fe3h #feth #hubert von vestra #FE16 #Fire Emblem Three Houses #linhardt von hevring #myStories

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imnotoverlyobsessive · 4 years ago

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Aight my dudes here’s chapter four of Oopsie Daisies have fun. Thanks again to @edward-or-ford for editing!

Looks Like Someone Picked a Whole Bushel of Oopsie Daisies Chapter Four: Shadows

You’re all I want and I don’t know why. This new addiction is all I know, and it’s safe to say that I’ve lost control. - 2 in the Chest, 1 in the Head, New Years Day

Mabel knew a great many things. She knew how to fix rips in tights and leggings without making it noticeable (and if it was noticeable, it was fucking fabulous, okay?). She knew how to straighten and re-curl her hair in just the right way. She knew how to contour her makeup to change the way her facial structure appeared, and how to paint a mug while keeping it dishwasher safe.

Mabel was, of course, interested enough in those things to learn about them. What she was not interested in is how things work. It was far more important that they do work rather than how, as far as she was concerned. So whenever her Grunkles, dad, and Dipper got together to watch a marathon of How It’s Made on the Shack’s frankly ancient TV, both Mabel and her mom were bored out of their minds.

She was forced to learn plenty in school, thank you very much. It was winter break. She didn’t wanna learn on winter break. Gross. That’s the exact opposite of what winter break is for, and Mabel was of the opinion that doing otherwise is positively blasphemous, but under the careful tutelage of her mother, she’d long since stopped trying to understand the males of the species. Or rather, the males of her family specifically (she’d managed to obtain a vague grasp on the male minds outside of her family, or at least some of them, she thought. Perhaps the boys at her school were just easy to read, or maybe it was teenage boys in general. Not that they were strictly logical in her mind, of course; she just understood how their brains worked to some degree).

And so, an hour after they return to the Shack from the hike, Mabel found herself standing at the kitchen counter, carefully stacking the fifty-seventh (she hadn’t counted, of course, but it was indeed the fifty-seventh) mini marshmallow on top of its companions in her mug of hot chocolate while the beginnings of their silly show blared in the background.

She was humming an old BABBA song as she plucked another marshmallow from the bag, swaying her hips back and forth to the beat in her mind. She stopped when she heard the sound of footsteps, looking over her shoulder to see Dipper shuffling into the room on socked feet.

He was looking everywhere but her. Mabel found this unusual, but what was infinitely more odd was the way he walked over to her quietly, dropped a folded piece of paper at her feet, and then promptly moved to open the fridge as if nothing at all had occurred.

Dropping the marshmallow into her mug, she reached down to retrieve the paper.

“Uh… Dip, you dro-“

“What do you think I should have to drink?” Dipper cut in quickly, the words sloppy and thrown together without proper enunciation.

Mabel blinked. He didn’t want her to ask about it, that much was evident. A note for her, then, perhaps? A secret note?

“Well… I’m having hot chocolate, myself,” she suggested.

“With an obscene number of marshmallows, I see.”

Mabel gasped and put a hand to her chest. “Me? My dear brother, I am positively offended that you would even suggest such a thing!”

He grinned. “Maybe I’ll have some more cider.” He poured himself a glass and left the room before Mabel could think to ask about the paper again.

Glancing around to make sure nobody was coming, she turned back towards her mug, just so, if needed, she could shove the paper into her sweater pocket unnoticed and pretend she was still preparing her hot chocolate. She unfolded it carefully. Dipper didn’t write her handwritten notes. She was a bit excited (more than a bit, but she would never admit to such a thing). Sue her. His handwriting was messy, and she had some minor difficulties reading it, but she did manage to decipher it after a brief moment of staring at the page.

I need to talk to you in private. Once everyone’s gone to bed here, I’ll pick you up from Candy’s. I’ll text you if anything goes wrong.

In private? Mabel’s heart might very well have stopped. She’d never been alone with Dipper. This afternoon had been the closest she’d ever come to it. Even then, though, they hadn’t been actually, truly, genuinely, legitimately alone. Their parents had been right there. And then they’d been interrupted. Their parents were always there.

She was so nervous, so focused on the way her heart was pounding in her ears, that she completely forgot to put the marshmallows away.

—————

If Mabel could see how nervous Dipper was as he pulled on his jeans and shoes, she wouldn’t have believed it was in any way related to her. If it was somehow proven to her that it was related to her, however, she would have been thrilled beyond all measure.

But Mabel couldn’t see Dipper, as he was on the other end of a text message that read leaving now, and so she remained wholly unaware of the absolute terror he wasn’t bothering to keep from his facial expression, as there was none of the usual audience present.

With no one around to request an explanation, Dipper felt no need to keep his anxiety in check as he placed his shaking foot on the last stair of the Shack.

He was about to walk over to the coat rack by the front door when-

“Dipper,” rang out his father’s voice, the low tone sounding like a roar in the quiet of the house.

Dipper whirled around to face his dad, who was seated in an armchair hidden in the shadows of the living room. It was no wonder Dipper hadn’t noticed him before he spoke; he could’ve been a shadow himself.

Dipper was relieved it was too dark for Mr. Pines to see his expression clearly, the man’s face obscured by darkness. He instead concerned himself with his body language and voice. He hunched himself over as if he were barely awake and faked a yawn.

“Dad, you scared me.”

“What are you doing up this late?” Mr. Pines asked.

“Getting a glass of water. Woke up thirsty,” Dipper explained, careful to keep his voice tired-sounding.

“Mmm,” Mr. Pines nodded. “Kitchen’s that way,” he pointed in the opposite direction Dipper had been walking in, as if Dipper didn’t live there and was not fully aware of the Shack’s layout (note: Dipper was indeed fully aware of the Shack’s layout and could certainly navigate it half asleep).

“Huh?” Dipper said with false bleariness. “Oh, right.”

Shuffling into the kitchen, Dipper poured himself a glass of water and moved sluggishly back to the living room with it in hand.

“Goodnight, son.”

“Night, dad,” Dipper mumbled with more fake sleepiness.

If Mabel had seen it, she wouldn’t know what to feel. But she hadn’t seen it, because Dipper was on the other end of a dad’s awake, we’ll have to tomorrow text.

She also couldn’t see the expression he made when she replied, asking why he couldn’t just text it to her, and not to keep her in suspense, nor could Dipper see her inflamed face (and neck and ears, if we’re honest, but don’t share such observances with Mabel) or the way she was biting her lip nervously, perhaps he might not have been as nervous. Perhaps he might have even been hopeful.

But alas, neither twin had the other in their sight, and were therefore doomed to be eaten alive by their anxiety and respective insecurities.

If one knows anything about teenage girls (and perhaps even a fair percentage of women as well), one is fully cognizant of the rather unfortunate tendency many of them have to analyze, reanalyze, and overanalyze each individual word, action, and tone of voice that emerges from the object of their affection.

In Mabel’s case, she was seated on the cold tiles of Candy’s bathroom, back leaning against the locked door. It was late enough that Grenda and Candy were asleep, thankfully. Recently, Mabel had been taking forever to fall asleep. Which was strange, because she had never had any issues that could be anywhere near insomnia before. Thus, everyone else fell asleep before she did.

It wasn’t her fault. Honestly, it wasn’t! It was just that Dipper was so damn attractive and sweet and funny, and how could she sleep when she could only fight her thoughts of him while conscious? He plagued her dreams, so she couldn’t even escape him in sleep the way she used to be able to do. He had invaded her every thought, every moment, every breath. He was in her bloodstream. In her veins. She could not escape her yearning for him.

And so, as she sat on the bathroom floor staring at her phone, at Dipper’s last text of I need to tell you in person, she typed out a slow, resigned okay and leaned her head back against the door.

What was going on with him? He’d told her so many things over text before and it had never been an issue. Why was this different? Maybe he was only insisting on telling her in person because they were so close distance-wise, which wasn’t a regular occurance, of course, but maybe he’d have been perfectly fine with telling her whatever it was over text if she hadn’t been visiting Gravity Falls? Or maybe he’d want to FaceTime or Skype instead? Or maybe it was so very important he tell her in person that he’d actually been waiting since the last time they had seen each other?

But what could be so important? How was it so important he needed to tell her in person? Was it truly so different than every other thing he’d ever told her? Countless stories and anecdotes and complaints and late-night phone calls and existential discussions; how was this different?

No matter how much she thought and analyzed it (which, rest assured, was a great deal indeed), she kept coming back to one thing, one unthinkable, horrifying, terrifying, heart-wrenching, devastating scenario:

What if he’d found his soulmate?

What else would have been so important, made it so essential he told her in person? The more she thought about it, the more it made sense.

Dipper had never mentioned how he felt about the prospect of having a soulmate. He knew how she felt about hers, and having a soulmark, but he’d never shared his own feelings with her in return.

Which was fair, honestly, because soulmates and soulmarks were intensely personal things. She might as well have asked him to strip down and do some nude modeling for her (which, side note, that sounded positively heavenly. She never drew him or painted him where anybody could see; only in the secret sketchbook she kept in a locked drawer in her bedroom, and those drawings were primarily focused on his jawline and facial structure, although she had drawn his butt on more than a few occasions. And his arms. And his torso. What could she say? She looked at him a lot, studied the way he moved, and he inspired her to create. In any case, she’d absolutely love to see him naked, obviously, because who wouldn’t, but to draw him… get it together Mabel, you’re getting all worked up!), which… was not going to happen, tragically.

He’d never shared anything regarding his soulmate with her. That meant, of course, that he hadn’t found his yet, nor was he in the unusual soulmarked-but-not-knowing-with-whom situation that Mabel herself was in. As indicated by his insistence on telling her in person (which he had, of course, never insisted upon before, or even expressed a passing desire to tell her something in person rather than digitally), whatever it was must have been more important than anything he’d ever told her.

What was more important than him finding his soulmate? She couldn’t think of another possibility. Couldn’t even fathom it, no matter how hard she tried. Unfortunately, she couldn’t really fathom the possibility that he might’ve found his soulmate, either, but that was primarily because she didn’t want to.

What would that be like, to watch him with his soulmate? Knowing Mabel’s luck, she’d never find out who hers was (she’d clearly been around him her whole life and had yet to find him, so what were the odds she’d figure it out later? Once she left school, she’d probably start experiencing withdrawal symptoms, which would be horrible, but she had long since accepted the likelihood of that), and since she saw Dipper regularly and talked to him all the time, it wasn’t likely she’d get over him.

Family gatherings could be a real bitch.

Which meant, of course, that Mabel was doomed to suffer withdrawal symptoms for the rest of her life while watching the man she loved, who just so happened to be her twin brother, find his soulmate, fall in love, get married, and have children. It was when she considered things like that that the idea of regularly consuming Smile Dip sounded fan-freaking-tastic. At least then she’d be too out of it to suffer.

Mabel wasn’t one for wallowing in self-pity and misery. She was a fairly positive person. Whenever she found herself moping or depressed, she could usually pull herself out of it. In that respect, she was tremendously lucky, as not everyone was capable of that.

But with this, loving Dipper (or rather, being in love with Dipper, which she very much was)... there was this sadness deep inside of her that she just couldn’t seem to shake. She could tuck it away in the back of her mind, pretend it wasn’t there. At least for awhile, anyway. But it never left. Not really. It was always there, in the box she’d locked it away in. Sometimes, though, the box broke open, and it would consume her, like shadows consuming light.

When she thought of Dipper with his soulmate, smiling at a nameless, faceless stranger, beaming at his wedding (knowing Dipper, he’d insist she be a bridesmaid. What agony that would be), holding a child that wasn’t Mabel’s, could never, ever be Mabel’s (Mabel would probably be the godmother, too), the shadows never failed to consume her.

She pulled her legs to her chest, resting her forehead on her knees, and let the tears fall.

#gravity falls fanfiction #gf fanfiction #Pinecest #Mabel pines #dipper pines #fanfiction #fanfic #looks like someone picked a whole bushel of oopsie daisies #my writing

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blackevermore · 3 years ago

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x Secrets of The Lake: The Company of Misery and Pain

{ Chapter 4: Slight Nsfw }

Summary: Vladimir Masters’ family tree has always been tainted by secrets swept under the rug. From generation to generation there have been countless reasons the Masters’ family had seemed to keep private from the public. Even to this day, Vladimir was no exception. But what was one to do when a restless spirit from the settlement years finally breaks free from restraints and demands you answer for your ancestor’s crimes? Vladimir doesn’t know. However, Clockworks does.

Notes: We just having fun, rewriting some of the canon, new adventure new characters. I will apologize now for any grammar, spelling, weird sentence structuring in advance. My brain writes faster than my fingers and even when I go back through to reread it I still miss things. Sorry about that!

Word Count: 3730

P.s: the nsfw is only in the beginning but it ends in stabbing like nothing graphic. Also would anyone like to be tagged when i update?

He doesn’t remember how he got here, or even where here was but it was familiar and felt like home. It was warm by the fire that lit up the room in feverish reds and oranges. He could feel his body gaining back its energy and his core being restored the longer the warmth surrounded him. In the comfortable bliss, he didn’t notice the pair of arms snaking across his torso until they were wrapped around his neck. His eyes shot open but he was quickly buried in the shallow of someone’s neck in a strong embrace. That’s when he felt the pressure of a body on top of his pushing down. He hadn’t registered the rocking motion against his hips until he heard the broken moan in his ear. Who? It was like a siren's call that made him clasp his hands on the body atop of him. He doesn’t remember how any of this started nor did he care to stop it. The pleasure he felt was intoxicating and drowned out all of his logical senses telling him to stop. He clung to her breathlessly as he felt his chest start to burn, he was now chasing this ghostly high throughout his entire body.

“Vlad…” The voice called his name in desperation, begging him to continue and singing for all those to hear. Her voice was all he ever wanted to hear, yet he had never heard her like this at all. What? Nails dug into his shoulders and down his back leaving trails of red tracks and intricate designs. It stung like lashes but it fueled him even more as he shifted to bite her neck. Her cry sounded more surprised than pleasurable which worried him for some reason. Before he could pull away to ask if she was alright she pulled him in again and slammed down at just the right angle to distract him once more.

“Fu-fiddlesticks,” He caught himself saying and pulled her down against him as close as possible. He hadn’t felt this in god knows how long and he refused to allow it to fade away. Once again her nails found his back and circled around his left shoulder blade. It tickled a bit and he chuckled into her, daring to take another bite of her lovely dark skin.

Vlad had very much given in to this fantasy of whoever he had with him. Surely, there was no harm in enjoying a fit of passion in comfortable privacy. The hands around his neck now played in his hair combing out soft tangles. But when their hand pulled back with a few loose strands he peeked and saw how dark they were. ‘My hair hasn't been that way since-’ his thoughts were cut short as he felt the jerking motion of his body as the hilt of a blade buried itself inside him. Then followed a burning, searing heat pooling and dripping down before pain came from just under his left shoulder.

Vlad shot up from the bed choking back a scream of utter pain as his back still felt attacked. He was sweating and panting as he stumbled to get out of the bed and head towards the adjacent bathroom. He made it to the mirror and looked himself over. He looked exhausted, his long silver hair was a mess as it hung into what was left of his ponytail and his eyes were lifeless. What left him speechless was a small patch of hair towards the right that had now turned jet black. He fumbled with the strands mesmerized and very confused. He hadn’t seen the darkness of his hair in almost 24 years, yet here it was. Vlad’s head began to hurt as everything that had happened flashed across his mind. He was nearly torn apart and crumbled down to nothing, Vlad knew what it was like to be badly beaten but never to the brink of existence. He gripped onto the sink to steady himself when he felt the sudden weakness in his legs.

He knew he passed out which meant Danny was the one to drag him all the way back home. Vlad felt embarrassed having to think about the young hero having to do so. After a moment of finding the strength to stand on his own again, Vlad pushed off the sink and headed towards the door of the room. He much preferred to be in the comforts of his own bedroom than the guest room. At this moment, Vlad cursed himself for being a rich bastard, the halls seemed to almost go on for miles. He had thought about trying to turn into Plasmius to hurry the journey along but he knew his powers were still in recovery. He was stuck in his normal human form until otherwise. When he finally made it to his room he heard talking coming a few doors down where Danielle’s room was. Who in the world was in his house? That’s when it hit him he was supposed to pick up Dani from Danny’s. Had Danny brought her home? Vlad slowly made his way towards the door and slowly pushed it open. Expecting Dani to be on her bed doing whatever she liked doing. Vlad found Danny instead looking out her window on the phone.

“Yeah no, Dani has to stay with me until all this is dealt with, not that she minds it. But Vlad still hasn’t woken up and it’s been three days and when he does I don’t think he’s going to be in the best of moods.” Three days? He had been unconscious for three days? Vlad swore it felt like a couple of hours from the time he fainted to now. He gripped his head when it started to pound again. Danny's ghost sense flew from his mouth and he turned around. “Hey, I gotta go, yeah he just woke up and the last thing I need is him dying on the floor. Talk to you later guys.” Danny hung up the phone and crossed his arms.

He gave Vlad a weak smile, “Welcome back to the land of the living, feel like shit?”

“Language,” was all Vlad could retort with before he pulled back out of the room and headed towards his. Danny followed but had never actually been in Vlad’s bedroom before. He felt like he was invading privacy but if this was where they were going to talk, fine by him. Danny should have known it would be a mini apartment but he wasn’t expecting the gothic-like interior. Sam would feel like the dark goddess she was in this room and it made him snicker. Vlad sat in an armchair in front of an unlit fireplace and slumped down to get more comfortable. Danny frowned, sympathetic to the situation, he had been there before, he took the chair next to Vlad and waited for the other to speak first.

“Where do we even begin?” Vlad grumbled before dragging a hand down his face.

“Maybe with what Clockwork told you,” Danny answered. Vlad only nodded and forced himself to sit up straight and take a more proper position before he told Danny everything. Danny really wanted to crack a joke, tell Vlad that’s what he gets for all the years going after his mom, mock him for breaking a heart he knew nothing about, however, Danny kept silent and only nodded along. Vlad took long pauses between his explanations and side rambles when he felt himself getting worked up. It was just a lot to take in.

“So… do’ya know which ancestor she might be linked to?” Danny could see it on Vlad’s face the man was just as clueless as he was back at the lake.

“No idea, like I told you my family stayed in Europe the whole time then settled in Russia. I'm a second generation American, there would be no point in my family owning a servant of African descent in the German empire then losing everything and going to Russia. None of this makes sense.” Vlad’s brows knitted together and he mumbled a few curses under his breath.

“Maybe there was an ancestor that came overseas during the Mayflower or whatever and they never went back. So like now you have this distant relative that your family never kept up with and they did something bad and BAM angry ghost.” Danny could admit he was a bit dramatic with his explanation, the hands in the air waving back and forth near the end was a bit much. But he had a point, a strong point, those that went overseas tended to be forgotten by the main family if the root of the tree stayed put. Vlad had many cousins he knew nothing about simply because they lived in other European countries. This didn’t feel like a distant cousin ancestor problem though, Vlad could feel that it was heavily tied to his main bloodline.

“I would agree with you, Daniel, but something tells me this is more within my family than some twice removed cousin.” Vlad looked up at the boy weakly. Danny huffed and nodded before propping his chin upon his hand. “I have access to my complete family records,” Vlad began again which made Danny perk up a bit. “I could try to trace back and see if anyone had travelled over during that time and had maybe gone back. I heavily doubt it but right now that’s all we have.”

“Better than nothing.” Danny tried to sound optimistic but he knew it failed. Vlad only nodded in agreement before staring off into the distance once again thinking. His thoughts were clouded between checking his family records but also the dream he had earlier. Danny felt the room become uncomfortably silent and knew it was time to leave Vlad alone.

As Danny got to his feet he scratched the back of his head and asked, “So do you need anything? I’ve kinda been babysitting you while you've been out, but don’t expect me to wear some butler outfit.” Vlad lightly chuckled and it made Danny feel a bit better.

“You can’t even tie a tie without throwing a fit, but anyways no I’m fine, you may go, Daniel.”

“M’kay. Let me know what you find.” Danny turned ghost and shot through the floor to get to Vlad’s portal so he could get back home. Vlad watched him leave then sighed before snapping his fingers for a ghost maid to appear.

“Yes, Master?”

“Something heavy, no ice.” Vlad gave his order and the maid was fading away to retrieve it. A drink, a drink was what he needed even if his body was still in recovery.

#📖Ghost Stories👻#vlad masters #danny phantom #my writing #self ship community #Secrets of The Lake #dp fanfic

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cafeinthemoon · 4 years ago

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My Name is Rae (General Hux x OFC)

Title: My Name is Rae

Genre: Fanfiction

Pairing: General Hux x Millicent (OFC)

Rating: general

Word count: 2042

Chapter (s): 1/1

Warnings: none

Symbols: ✔ | ⭕ | 🔺 | ▶▶

Find the Millicent Series on ao3

Summary: Rae lives a peaceful life with her mother, Millicent, in the countryside of an Outer Rim's planet. One day, they are visited by a stranger, a man Rae has only seen in unpleasent news on HoloNet and other communication channels: Armitage Hux arrives at her house and asks for Millicent. Rae doesn't know what her mother has to do with the former General of the First Order himself, but Millicent has a different story to tell.

A warm purple sky spreads above her head as Rae tries to build a toy from the pieces of something she found on her best friend’s father’s storehouse. The remaining parts of a service droid from the Clone Wars era, according to the outgoing male Rodian. Rae has her doubts about the droid’s age, but not about the fact that the pieces belonged to a droid. Now, she is trying to turn the artificial limbs into something useful. However, the task is proving itself to be more difficult than it appeared at the beginning.

Under her tiny bare feet and the droid’s parts there’s an entire yard of fresh, dark grass. The wind that comes with the dusk finally starts to blow, refreshing her skin and her mood after hours of hard work. Rae is still wearing her shoes, as her mother told her to do, but the grass is too tempting. She tries not to make a noise as she releases her heated feet from them, for she doesn't want her mother to find out she had ignored the prohibition of playing outside without the so-called proper shoes. But what her mother calls proper shoes Rae calls a problem, and the wet grass of the evening is something you just don’t ignore when you were born and raised surrounded by green mountains.

The front door, an old handmade structure, is half open, its crackling white paint reflecting the last moments of the sunset. The wooden door is softly moved by a warm breeze; so is the grass, and the thick curls of her hair. She looks at the tiny gap behind her back from time to time to see if her mother is coming: Millicent has soft feet, which makes easier for her to do unpredictable appearances.

She had just looked at the door and is taking a breath of relief to see no sign of her mother.

Rae is on her own now. Tash, the Rodian girl from the storehouse, usually comes to play with her by this time, but today she's not here: when she’s not helping her father with his amount of technological trash, she is too busy with her mother at home. But playing alone is not a nightmare for a child like her: sometimes, she always heard her mother saying, you need to learn how to face some things alone.

So she plays alone... But not for a long time.

She looks toward the carved path ahead, in a lower slice of land, and spots someone walking up, approaching the grass yard.

Soon, the stranger is walking on the same piece of grass as Rae. She looks closer. It is a man. He walks slow, with some difficulty; the closer he gets, the clearer it becomes that he is almost limping.

Rae considers running toward the house, but something seems to grab her feet and force her to stay outside. She's still afraid of her mother's calling out, but it is a stronger sensation that keeps her from running: she knows that the reason why she was about to leave is fear, and she immediately rejects it. Why should you be afraid of someone if you don’t even know who he is? Besides, the curiosity to know who is that man and what he wants is more appealing, for strange visitors are far from a common matter in that isolated land.

Now the man is close enough to speak to her, and the girl takes time to observe him in precious details.

Rae has seen humans and aliens of the most various and extraordinary looks, but this man would catch attention anywhere.

He is tall; taller than many human males she has seen in her life. Despite appearing to spend his current days under the sunlight, his skin is pale. Just like her own.

The man is ginger. The orange shade of his hair is something vibrant, almost living, by the sunset. Besides, he has a beard, as orange as his hair. According to human standards, Rae is ginger too, but compared to him, her hair can seem dark, even brown.

His eyes are blue. Rae has blue eyes too, and so does her mother, but they’re cannot be compared to those eyes. They are pale, as would be eyes made of ice. To a reckless observer they might seem lifeless, but the girl is good with details, and finding herself under their reach is something terrifying for the exact opposite: those eyes are inflated with life.

He is wearing usual but dark clothes, which makes him even more pale. It's even hard to imagine him wearing another color. And despite his usual clothing, something in his entire person claims he's not a common man. And the girl knows why.

He's a military, or at least he was once. The way he walks, his gestures, his looks, every single detail suggests he spent too much time in spaceships and bridges. She saw this sort of things before; well, she heard about it: in his stories, Mr. Poe, the pilot, told her about the typical manners of the imperials, which were not too different from those ones of the First Order's members.

The revelation hits her like a blaster shot.

She knows this man. Now he's older, of course, and he even grown a beard, but she remembers of seeing images of him on HoloNet and other places. And she remembers hearing things about him. Not exactly pleasing things.

Rae knows this man. And that’s why she knows she has reasons to be afraid.

***

Rae doesn't remember of being so afraid in any previous moment in her life.

But she knows that running away is silly, as much as it would be a shame if she screamed for help. She doesn't like the idea of having to choose any of them and looking coward before that man. You simply don’t show your fear to men like him. She expects him to not realize she's afraid, or not notice she just recognized him.

She leaves the droid’s pieces on the grass and stands up, quiet, waiting...

But the stranger does nothing to increase her fear. Instead, he speaks to her just like any other visitor would do:

- Hello.

After a second of freezing silence, the girl responds to what she thought to be the last thing she would hear from this man.

- Hello... Sir – she doesn't find it safe to leave him without a respectful treatment.

- Where is your mother?

Rae notices he doesn’t waste time asking if her mother is at home or if they can receive visitors at that time. The request itself, as well as the way he makes it, says enough about what kind of person the girl has in front of her. His voice sounds low, calm, and he even tries to soften it, but it doesn’t escape to her that the man is used to give orders, but not to see people disobeying them.

She replies respectfully.

- She's inside the house – and adds – Do you want me to bring her here, Sir?

He lets his practical side show when he dismisses her offering:

- It's not necessary. I'm going to look for her myself.

He is about to pass by her and move towards the front door of the house, and the girl almost lets him go. But something wakes inside her, and her tongue is suddenly released, letting her say what she's been thinking since she recognized her visitor.

- I know you.

The man has already turned his back to the kid, but these words, sharp and clear, makes him stop and turn back to stare at their speaker. It’s not a simple task to describe his gaze, but she could say it is nothing but meaningful.

He is not surprised, nor irritated. He just nods and says:

- Yes. I suppose you do.

He must know about his fame. Or about the people's opinions on him. But, the girl is almost sure about that, he does not care.

Suddenly the man asks her a question she's not prepared for.

- What is your name, girl?

Her name? Why does he want to know her name? Does he think her name is important? Why would it be?

But she doesn't refuse to answer.

- My name is Rae, Sir.

Something changes in the stranger to what she says. Some slight discomfort in his position appears, something in the way he twists his lips, something in his eyes, impossible to define. The girl's answer touches him in a way she would never imagine to be possible. It was not logical; it could never happen. Not with someone like him.

But somehow it encourages her to extend the conversation; she takes a step toward him and speaks with what seems to be a free manner, comparing to the restrained tone that dominated her speech since the beginning of the conversation:

- I also know your name, Sir. It is...

- Rae, who are you talking to?

Her mother's voice, coming from the door sill. The girl turns toward the door to reply but gives up as soon as she puts her eyes on the woman.

Millicent is staring at the stranger with such an odd expression. Her mouth is half opened. Her eyes barely move. Her entire body seems paralyzed. She's not exactly afraid, but the girl can't find a better word to describe what she sees. If there’s any other emotion on the woman’s face, it would be surprise in its purest form. Besides, by the way she keeps her hands at the sides of her body, Rae would say she’s apprehensive with the man’s presence: without a single word, Millicent almost screams that he’s not supposed to be here.

Seeing this reaction, however, is not as impressive to the girl as noticing her mother is a little… entranced.

Rae looks at the man and realizes he stares at her mother but seems to hold a better amount of self-control. The ice of his eyes melts a bit as he looks at the woman. Like he finally found someone he hasn't seen in years, after spending all these years looking for her. The kid is almost capable of forgiving him for his unexpected arrival, and even his demanding tone when he asked about her mother.

When Rae turns to Millicent, she understands everything.

Her mother knows this man. But not the way Rae knows him, through the holoimages and the news. She truly knows him, as if she had spent a long time in his company.

The man says one word; so different sounds his voice that Rae takes a moment to understand it.

- Millie.

Rae never heard any man talk to her mother that way. Besides, only a few people call her “Millie”. As far as she knows, her mother's friends only, like Tash's mother, auntie Rose, uncle Finn and Mr. Poe…

No. There is someone else. Someone who's not a common subject in her mother's talking, unless when he’s brought to conversation. He’s not counted among her friends but is still important to her. Maybe more important than a friend.

Her mother answers the visitor’s greetings in a similar manner, but her voice sounds more gentle, moderate.

- Armie.

Armie? Such a nickname was given to that man? Rae is confused. Or she wants to be, for the truth of the situation is too much for someone her age.

She now sees bright tears in her mother's eyes.

Rae knows this man. But her mother knows him better. The man knows her mother, and now he knows the girl too.

This is the one who is not counted among Millicent's friends, but still is too important to her. Maybe even more than her friends.

- Mom...

The woman turns to her daughter, as if only at that moment she remembered the girl is there. She tries to smile, but the kid knows she's about to cry.

- Yes, Rae?

Rae stares at the man as she speaks. He is looking carefully at her, waiting for what she’s about to say. Though he knows what’s to expect.

- Armitage Hux is my father... Right?

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #general hux #general hux fanfic #armitage hux #armitage hux x oc

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thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 5 years ago

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Why do u think Napoleon made Josephine an empress in 1804 when he knew that she can't bear him any child as they have been married like 10 yrs and he made his brother marry Hortense to produce a heir for him. He knew Josephine cant bear a baby very well

Napoleon made her empress because she was his wife. He believed that she was his companion and it was only just, proper and right that she share in all his successes (and failures). As he said to Roederer: If I had been thrown into prison rather than mounting the thrown, she would have shared my misfortune. It is only right that she should have a part in my greatness.’

Not to mention that Josephine was indispensable in terms of her social graces, her ability to manage a court and the broader society they mixed in. Napoleon knew he could always rely on her. And, if you’re the same anon from earlier I suspect you will disagree, but he cared for her. He wanted her there with him.

God, he even went so far as to suggest maybe he have a child by another woman then they pretend it’s Josephine’s. Which is WILD and someone needs to write an alternate history where that happened.

With regards to having children, prior to 1806 Napoleon thought he was the one who couldn’t have any. His logic being: Josephine has had two already so she clearly can, we’ve been married and haven’t had the bebes, must be me that is at fault. Which is sound reasoning. There was a possible miscarriage early on in their marriage but, it’s hard to say. Josephine did think herself pregnant, but it could have been a false alarm or a miscarriage.

Napoleon had settled on Napoleon-Charles as his heir so there was little concern for that (until the poor lad’s death). The intended inheritance structure was to go from Napoleon to Joseph (who had only daughters) and from Joseph to Louis then to Napoleon-Charles. Convoluted but you know, no more crazy than other monarchical situations.

Napoleon’s first child, Charles Leon, wasn’t born until 1806, well after the beginning of the empire.

“he made his brother marry Hortense to produce a heir for him“

No, that’s not the case. Josephine was the architect of that match, not Napoleon. Indeed, Napoleon was against it. So was Hortense and Louis for that matter. But Josephine was the one who pushed it through and Napoleon caved. Napoleon had intended to have them marry into more advantageous situations but it wasn’t to be. Also, it was thought initially that Hortense would marry Duroc until uh that fell through. (Because Duroc refused to leave Napoleon’s side and Napoleon said he wouldn’t live with a son-in-law in the house making mischief.) The entire Hortense-Louis marriage was a huge family drama.

Neither Napoleon nor Josephine were very good match-makers.

A lot of this chaos was because Napoleon kind of accidentally became emperor. Which is to say, when he became First Consul he didn’t intend for an empire. That wasn’t in the plans until, quite suddenly, it was The Plan. Which made inheritance and heirs suddenly important in a way they hadn’t been prior. Napoleon did a lot of “flying by the seat of his pants” when it came to things. I mean how do you empire if you’ve never been raised to empire?

#history #ask #napoleon #napoleon bonaparte #josephine #josephine bonaparte #josephine de beauharnais #19th century

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weaselandfriends · 5 years ago

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Hymnstoke Intermission

Andrew Hussie had the courtesy to drop some thoughts on the Epilogues, the full text of which can be found here. As you can probably tell, it’s dense, so I’ll summarize what I consider the key points.

1. Hussie intended the Epilogues to be “conceptually distinct” from the main narrative of Homestuck (i.e., Acts 1 through 7).

2. Hussie intended the Epilogues to set new narrative stakes and establish a way for the narrative to continue (as opposed to the traditional idea of an “Epilogue” as something that resolves what came before).

3. By labeling the Epilogues as “Epilogues” while not adhering to traditional expectations of what an epilogue entails, Hussie intended to prompt readers to question storytelling concepts and the agenda of the storyteller.

4. Hussie intended to cede his authorial control over the Homestuck story and “pass the torch” to the fandom.

5. Hussie intended to prompt the fandom to develop skills like “critical discussion, dealing constructively with negative feelings resulting from the media they consume, interacting with each other in more meaningful ways, and trying to understand different points of view outside of the factions within fandom that can become very hardened over time.”

I actually disagree with several of Hussie’s conclusions, which probably sounds hilariously presumptuous. But if Hussie truly wants the fandom to develop skills in critical discussion, and to foster and understand different viewpoints, while also ceding his authorial control over the work, then his word being “Word of God” has to be called into question. Act 6 of Homestuck already does this; Hussie’s author avatar is literally killed followed by a flash titled DOTA. DOTA, of course, being short for “Death of the Author,” a frequently-cited essay by Roland Barthes that argues that author's intentions can neither be wholly known nor taken as the sole interpretation of a work.

It’s arguable whether Hussie’s shout out to this essay is meant to be an endorsement of its thesis, and I think a claim could be made that the DOTA in Homestuck is inherently parodic; Hussie’s author avatar continues to exist and influence the story even after his “death,” and at times (such as the Meenah walkarounds) the author avatar appears to give direct statements of the author’s intentions behind certain creative decisions. In fact, the DOTA flash itself marks one of the Hussie avatar’s most direct interactions with the story, as it is during this flash that he gives Vriska the Ring of Life.

Even now, Hussie’s actions contradict his claims, at least to some extent; he cedes narrative control and promotes differing critical interpretations at the same time he dumps a tremendous block of text explaining the intentions and goals of his work. An author’s statement on “what the story means” usually affirms his or her control and quashes differing viewpoints, after all. But it’s not something new. Homestuck has always blurred the line behind author and fan. Some of Hussie’s statements I don’t take as major revelations but rather reiterations of themes that have been clear since Act 1.

If you have read my more recent Hymnstoke posts, you can probably guess which of Hussie’s points I disagree with. In particular, I think the Epilogues are too thematically important to Homestuck to be treated with the kind of “take it or leave it”/“canon or non-canon” ambivalence Hussie claims in his post. Or maybe it’s more that I wish it didn’t have that kind of ambivalence? Because his logic is sound; the Epilogues are presented in a way that sets them apart from “Homestuck Proper.” The AO3 fan fiction cover page, the prose, the way they’re organized as a distinct entity on the website, all of these elements contribute to and support Hussie’s claim of separation. Perhaps, then, my counterargument is that the Epilogues shouldn’t have been displayed this way; that they should have been a fundamental part of the story, one that is unquestionably considered “canon.”

Without the Epilogues, the ending of Homestuck is bad. Really bad. Game of Thrones bad. The original ending of Homestuck fails Homestuck on every conceivable level. It’s a poor resolution of the plot, as it relies on a deus ex machina (Alt!Calliope) while leaving tons of smaller narrative elements completely unresolved. It’s a poor resolution of the characters, as most of them wind up being irrelevant (even those given absurd amounts of screen time, like Jake) and their personal issues are resolved off-screen during a timeskip. It’s a poor resolution of the themes, as despite constant statements that one can’t cheat their way to “development,” that is exactly what happens when Vriska is revived and fixes everyone’s problems instantly. It’s a poor resolution of the structure or form, as what was a tightly-wound machine narrative that relied on innumerable tiny parts sliding into perfect order ended with a big dumb fight scene where people just whap each other over and over until the good guys whap hard enough to win. Beyond the fact that the ending is “happy,” I still can’t find much good to say about it even after years of turning it over in my head.

And during the hiatus-strewn period that marked Homestuck’s end, Hussie was noticeably scant on dropping essays about his intentions.

The Epilogues redeem so much of what went wrong with the ending of Homestuck. I won’t delve into the specifics in this post, as I should probably save it for a more comprehensive series of posts about the Epilogues. But from that perspective, it feels to me as though the Epilogues should not be divorced from Homestuck so thoroughly.

But see, my disagreement with Hussie on this point is a bit disingenuous for another reason. Because, like his claims of ceding authorial control, he’s contradictory here too. Consider these points:

1. Hussie intended the Epilogues to be the launching point of future story developments.

2. Hussie, ceding his own control, intended these future developments to be created by the fans.

3. Hussie designed the Epilogues so that the fans could accept or deny them outright, consider them “canon” or “non-canon.”

If the Epilogues are the breeding ground for Homestuck’s future, then that part of the fandom that denies them renders themselves inert. Without the Epilogues, Homestuck is over. It’s done. The window of our Pynchonian party is closed. All life has petered out; no energy enters to sustain it. The Epilogues open the window. Denying the Epilogues kills the story, and thus the fandom; accepting them leaves room open for the future. And if the part of the fandom that rejects the Epilogues withers and dies, that means only the fandom that accepts them will remain. Ultimately, the Epilogues will be considered canon by the Homestuck fandom, because those who disagree will no longer be part of the fandom, at least the active one.

That probably sounds imperious. But it’s not something I want; the people who deny the Epilogues ought to have a voice as well, and nobody is stopping them from providing their opinions. But I have a hard time imagining that people who deny the Epilogues will stick around in a fandom for a work now defined by the Epilogues. As such, many of Hussie’s conciliatory claims fall flat or seem overly idealistic. Can the fandom continue as a divided house on such a fundamental line when future developments to the Homestuck story will be based on the Epilogues? The canonical arguments for which books belonged in the Bible did not end in blithe harmony; one viewpoint prevailed and all schismatics extinguished. Obviously there will be no burnings at the stake over Homestuck canon, but in a world where there are so many options for entertainment, those who do not accept Homestuck’s active element will probably leave of their own volition.

There's also a third option, expressed by one of the commentators on the Reddit thread I link at the beginning of this post.

Here's my suggestion for you, Hussman. Big subversion, you'll like it: Make "Homestuck 2" and then not have anything form [sic] Homestuck in it at all and just make the story you actually want to make.

The Homestuck fandom might die, but the “Hussie” fandom will survive, as long as Hussie himself continues to create art. Before the Epilogues, I often expressed a similar sentiment. I wanted Hussie to get away from Homestuck, make something new, even if it was just something short and far less ambitious than Homestuck. I think Hussie is a strong storyteller and writer in his own right, and he did not merely “get lucky” with Homestuck the way a hack gets lucky when their trashily-written novel strikes a perfect chord with the culture and sells millions. If Hussie does actually intend to cede authorial control and leave Homestuck to the fandom, then what is his next move? Retirement at 40? I hope not.

Those were my hastily-written thoughts on Hussie’s commentary. While at times contradictory, I consider Hussie’s claims and actions in line with themes established throughout Homestuck. But I also question whether his storytelling decisions will be able to achieve the result he desires for the fandom.

Whether he or we can achieve it, I do agree with Hussie’s hope to create a fandom that is smarter, more willing to view the work with a critical lens, to discuss with one another, to understand each other’s viewpoints, to deal with difficult subject matter. I think a lot of people can be scared to delve deeply into a work, either because they only want their entertainment to be light escapism or because they feel gatekept by not knowing a lot about literary criticism as a field of study. Maybe escapism is fine, but it’s not the only use of art. Treat the stories you like as art and really ask yourself what you like about them, what makes them good, and especially what it means that those things make it good. Those questions will serve a fitting substitute for an understanding of postmodern literary trends of the 20th century.

#homestuck #hymnstoke

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funslayer · 5 years ago

Note

( unprompted meta! in what ways, if any, do you think growing up / spending time mostly around girls has influenced who boey is? )

ooc;

so after all the mbti types greeking out yesterday, i think this is about time i answer this.

firstly, thanks for the interesting question, rai! i haven’t really thought about this in depth before.

secondly, now without further ado…. this got long, so i’ll put it under a readmore.

i’ll be bringing up mae frequently since that’s a major character that helped instrument a lot of boey’s inner character workings in game, plus she is his only support conversation. but it did reveal a lot in there.

but back to the beginning:

he comes from a family of five; a fisherman pops, a mystery mum, apparently two older brothers, and himself

at the novis priory, he knows/once knew: celica, mae, genny, silque ( until she left shortly before act 1 ), and nomah

nomah is the only known man at the priory school, who’s also the elderly sage and teacher. boey already has his own dad, so he didn’t see to him like a father figure, but rather as someone who guided him through his studies and shared wisdom. the priory most likely has a 75/25 female:male ratio with their clerics and mages. as most valentian men seem to largely prefer physical jobs like the paths of being knights, merchants, traders, fisherman, sailors, mercenaries, ect.

i would imagine boey’s older brothers followed in his father’s footsteps undertaking similar physical work, so boey was the only male of his poor family to be in a female-dominated area like the priory. i also have a headcanon he’s the only one in his family who’s proficient in reading and writing, that the rest can’t write and can only read if it’s market-related ( prices, very basic words of food listings ).

i don’t think he was intentionally resisting to the societal structure norms by taking the path of non-physical job instead, but that he was just tasked to protect celica along with mae and genny when she came to novis. it was only then he decided to join them at the priory to stay close by her side to better protect her as it was his shared duty.

pursuing on being fisherman or a travelling mercenary for a kid at the time isn’t exactly the best way on sticking to his duty to protect someone of high status. attending school with celica where they study magic, read books, write texts, be more connected to the earth mother ( like fodlan’s faith ) was far more beneficial and efficient.

and because of that, he tries to compensate for his poor background by donning on a more eloquent persona one would see in nobles. he isn’t actively trying to pretend like he is one, but he considers respect, presentation, and proper etiquette to be very important to be taken seriously as celica’s guard and vassal.

with all that said, i definitely do think being around mostly girls his age did have some impact on his mind and personality construct.

back to the main question:

a person’s childhood and influences can play a key role in how they turn out, and this definitely is no different for boey. growing up over the years, as more girls come and go at novis, he spent most of his day to day life either studying and training from crack of dawn to twilight at school, travelling to the harbor alone or escorting one of the girls there to run errands, or spending whatever free time he had with them.

protectiveness

this is very real in his psyche.

with his brothers and father, they all looked out for each other but also could hold their own. it was a non-verbal understanding between them and even though boey was the youngest and the least conformed to the masculinity structure, he didn’t get teased for not being able to carry his own weight… much.

with his childhood friends, however, he finds himself always acting as their bodyguard or escort to keep them out of harm’s way. if either mae or genny got hurt or killed, that wouldn’t bode well for keeping celica protected. he likely did have an overbearing phase as a kid where even a cut or a scrape would make boey stress out over them until he calmed down after some time.

some of that returned ( but in a different form ) after mila’s blessings was disappearing, and there was a steady rise in thievery, banditry, terrors, and just all around chaos. having learnt better from prior experience, he was more adamant than ever on keeping his friends and celica safe from harm. he had feared for the day one of them would steal one of the girls away at the harbor and sail away with them ( or a case like silque’s in act 1 where she got kidnapped into a shrine cave ).

we… don’t have much at all about silque’s side of the story with the novis gang, so there’s not a lot to go off on. but until we get a silque, this part is up in the air for some possible changes later. with silque leaving, i’d think boey and the others accompanied her to the harbor and made sure she got on a safe ship, since banditry and piracy was on such a high rise during that time. he would have escorted her to mainland zofia personally, but since he had a more important duty to do, he had to stay behind at the priory despite his own wishes. wishing silque and any other leaving novis a safe journey was all he could do.

when celica and mae were about to board the ship to leave novis to go on their pilgrimage journey, boey was very adamant on not letting them go off alone, not without his protection. it’s what makes him feel valuable as an ally, as he cares very much for their safety but also lending a helping hand to get to their destination, so that he isn’t be a hindrance and trying to shelter them like much of the older folks.

more in-tune with emotions

it still doesn’t trump his natural rationality-driven mind, but it’s been nurtured and grown over the years to a somewhat better understanding of them and his own feelings.

being around girls a lot come with other packages that open up a side or two. he has likely listened to a lot of girl gossip about how they feel about their families, friends, loved ones, or mundane things that happen in daily life. there’s no end to these things, and he’s simply accepted it of hearing or being told things. he’s also the type to be an active listener and give feedback, so this particular trait is probably another reason he appears more approachable.

since he can come to find girls to be so… different than how he usually worked, he wanted to better understand where they’re coming from… kind of, and hope to better relate. from that, he became more knowledgeable about what he may feel at a lot of times ( friendship love, familial love, romantic love are big things, but also annoyance, happiness, relief, anxious, proud - a large array of emotions that bubble underneath his grounded outward persona ).

i found it fascinating that they subvert a couple of the tropes in boey/mae’s supports. i’ll do a quick rundown:

not oblivious to what he’s feeling -we can see in their A support that boey is subtlety confessing to mae. he didn’t wish to be blunt about it since that’s opening up his heart to let the love bleed out too much. in popular tropes, we see this as the other way around where the girl is obviously in love and confessing, but the guy’s too oblivious to Get It.

doesn’t tell her to back down or stay off the battlefield -in their B support, boey ( coming from their C support ) confronts mae if she was sure she could handle fighting as he misunderstands it as her not liking it nor enjoying being out in the battlefield. he could have just simply told her to get behind him as he’d protect her or tell her to give up fighting if she doesnt like it… except he didn’t. he simply asked these things to better understand where she’s coming from as he misunderstood her prior, and thought there was something wrong when he thought about her feelings on the matter but there wasn’t anything much wrong. just from these, he’s rather considerate and keeps others’ well-beings in mind.

he still isn’t perfect at reading emotions in others ( and likely never will, but may improve bit by bit ). he still resorts to thinking with the approach of logic or rationality to matters and calmly confronts those he doesn’t fully understand ( especially if they’re coming from with the carefree/spur-of-the-moment feelings approach which he doesn’t think of to view from, and even if he did consider that side, he doesn’t a hundred percent get the exact inner workings of… why they say or do as is ).

so being around the novis gang all throughout childhood and schooling years did open some more doors. not all of them and not all rooms are enlightened with full understanding, but it’s more than what other boys his age would probably be set with on this particular fundamental of being human.

#wolfhednar #asks;#meta;#/ IM SORRY i got carried away/sidetracked but i get back to the point of the ask's question.... eventually. haha orz

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as-the-doctor-ordered · 5 years ago

Text

{ @as-the-doctor-ordered @pragmatic-purple @wrathful-red @the-great-and-powerful-zim @waking-nightmares @Prisoner 777 }

Mika paced outside the door to the bridge wringing his hands together. He had asked to set up a meeting with the Tallests and they were expecting him to arrive any moment. He didn’t want to be late, but he certainly couldn’t quell his nerves. Although they were family now, this was a professional request. He was not approaching them as their mate and ‘in-law’ as the humans would call it. He had asked Pur personally not to speak to him as his mate, but as an employee, as he was hired.

Honestly, the thought was intimidating, but he knew he had a good defense for his request, one that made sense for the betterment of Irk’s youth as they begin to change the way things are run, particularly with the absence of the control brains. Not only that, but even at Mika’s young age, only in his 60s, he was more than qualified to take on the task. Taking a deep breath, Mika stepped forward, tapped on the door with his knuckles, and pushed it open, not surprised that Pur and Red were ready and waiting for him, an extra seat set up just below as they might from any request from a Taller (that they actually decided to entertain).

“Good afternoon, my Tallests. Thank you for seeing me,” Mika said, giving them a slight bow and a submissive droop of his antennae as he shuffled to the chair and sat down, hands in his lap and sitting up tall and straight.

The Tallests were sitting side by side in the room, a plate of doughnuts between them. They had talked for awhile about how to separate the fact that Mika was Purple's mate from the request he had- it was not something that they had to deal with since they had taken on mates and the concept seemed rather strange, but they figured that since it was Mika's direct request that they would try their best to not allow the Irk's title to sway their decision in what had been a rather vague and ominous request to speak to them.

When Mika entered in Pur flashed him a bright and toothy smile, lifting one hand in a wave before looking to Red.

Tallest Red cleared his throat softly, leaning forward on the table and asked with a raised brow, "Now that you have our attention- what is it that you would like to speak about, Mika?"

Mika fidgeted a bit in his seat, but tried his best to keep himself looking tall and professional. "I have a proposal for you. The reason for this meeting, rather than simply approaching you about it, is because it will change many things about how one of our current academic systems are run. And I felt that would be an important decision that should be unbiased by our relationships," the doctor began, clearing his throat into a gloved hand before continuing, "I wish to propose we move medical academy in its entirety to the Massive and adapt the curriculum to better represent Irk's political changes."

At the request both of the Tallests looked toward one another with raised brows. Red looked back to the little Irk and asked, "What is it about the current medical academy structure that you do not find satisfactory?"

"First, it separates the brightest of our youth, the smeets made here on the Massive, from the Academy itself," Mika replied slowly, taking a deep breath. He'd practiced this. He knew what he was doing. "I have noticed since my departure from medical academy, and even during my tenure, numbers are dwindling. Those of age are opting to attend other institutions. But I do not believe distance is the sole issue," he continued cautiously, "The second issue lies in the curriculum itself and thus my second proposed change. Currently, students are required to complete at least two years of on-site training. Historically, this has been posed in active battlefield. I was posed myself in the line of active duty. While I feel this training to be important, it is currently mandatory and extremely traumatic. We lose more medics to death during this time than we gain into the academy as a whole as they are not trained in war but in healing. I would like to propose that this route be optional with a choice between either active duty or during peacekeeping missions, to be arranged with Taller Dib once he is well. I also propose those that do choose either route should take additional time to prepare them for emergency and trauma care."

Red listened carefully and looked to his brother with a shrug. Tallest Purple then shifted forward and said, "The logic is sound, Mika. I trust that your facts are straight and I believe that they would all be confirmed if I dug into them myself. I do trust that you know that the remodeling of an entire educational structure that has been in place for many centuries will be a daunting task and an expensive one. We would have to find where on the Massive the new school would be housed and we would likely need to purge the current educators who are set in very traditional ways, bringing on a new and likely diverse staff. You understand that this will cause backlash. Then there is the question of where the funds for it are coming from. Do you have a proposal for that - or is this something that you are asking the Tallests to foot the bill for?"

The tall purple-eyed Irk gave a half smile, knowing that he would gladly front the bill for any of his mate's passion projects- but Mika had asked for him to be seen as an employee in this meeting and he did not want to adopt the totally whipped mate role too soon and make the young Irk feel like he was being merely placated.

"I understand such a large change will come at great cost, both financially and by way of staffing - including room and board for other instructors. However, I did some research and I happen to know that there is a great deal of space in the lower starboard wing. Currently, medbay also has many unused operating rooms that can be converted to hands-on teaching rooms with minimal expense," Mika replied, tugging his tablet out of his PAK and bringing up a holographic screen, resizing for the Tallest's to see blueprints of the Massive. "Just here - this area is relatively unused aside from a bit of storage. Also, if we open admissions to other races, within only a few years any incurred expenses should be returned. The rest will be profit. So, in short - yes. I am asking you, my Tallests, to 'foot the bill' as it were. But it will be a worthwhile investment."

Tallest Red looked over to his brother and asked, "How many are in the Academy now? Will shifting them back to the Massive be feasible with our current population?"

Pur shrugged, pulling up his own computer to check the numbers as he replied, "It looks like we have about thirty thousand Irks currently enrolled… ah. I mean I guess we could repurpose sections Alpha-327 through Beta-Five for dorm ideas and to house the actual Academy. Most of those areas are just training rooms for Invaders and barracks. We could have students intern under the Irks on the Massive in their respective fields and utilize many of the areas on board for on site training and such… we could bring in our Engineers to try to redesign those areas to be more useful for education stuff." He then raised a brow and said, "Opening up diversity would probably be good for PR too."

Red nodded softly and looked back to Mika to ask, "When are you proposing to implement this?"

Mika leaned back in his seat, twisting his hands together in his lap as he replied, "As soon as possible, my Tallest. Without institutional change to our core systems, the majority of Irk is still being led by old and out of date laws. It is essential we begin enacting these systems within our main organizations if we wish to truly change mindset, perspective, and public opinion. Beginning with how we heal our own kind and others.""

Tallest Red let out a soft sigh at the answer. It was absolutely the one that he expected but it was the least convenient planning wise. They had a lot of work ahead of them if they were going to implement a new structure for education and rewrite the laws around it. At the moment all he wanted to do was to be home with his mates, but the work was never ending.

He looked up at the little orange eyed Irk and said, "We have heard your requests. Please forward everything you have put together on it to your Tallest. We will look into it and see what is feasible."

Pur leaned forward and gave a smile as he said in a voice that was very much one mate to another rather than maintaining his station above the other, "I think it is a great idea, Starshine. We will see what we can do to make it work."

"Thank you, Tallest Red. I will forward everything I have," Mika nodded, standing from his seat and giving them a low, proper bow. He couldn't restrain the affectionate chirp, however, in response to his mate's words, nor the tilt in his antennae toward the Tallest. When he straightened up, his eyes were bright. "Thank you, Tallest. I will see you this evening," he chittered, taking his leave.

"See you, Starlight." Pur replied softly as his mate took his leave, unabashedly watching his figure as he walked away. When he had gone he turned to Red and mused, "I think it is honestly a great idea. I might be slightly biased, but he made some good points."

"I agree," Red mused as he pulled up his computer display to write out a summons. "But we are definitely going to need our Engineer back. And honestly, it is probably big-time that he is pardoned anyway. I cannot even recall why we put him in jail."

"I don't know that there was any legitimate reason," Pur replied almost uncomfortably. It was always a bit unpleasant when they were faced with their own bad decisions from the past as they attempted to move toward a better future.

Red sighed and said, "I think it is time we probably look at the prisoner roster for Moo-Ping 10 and reevaluate who should actually be there. My guess is that it is not many."

"I think that is fair," Pur said as he stood from his seat. "Let's sync this evening with a list. We can put together restitutions and an apology speech."

"I think I need to get a speech writer, honestly. I am running out of ways to say I am sorry," Red replied wearily.

"I am sure you will come up with something," Pur replied as he placed one hand on his brother's shoulder, "I'd offer my assistance in making these speeches. But, you know. Stage fright."

"I know, brother-mine. It is fine," Red assured as he sent off his message. He looked up to the other and said, "I imagine that the Vortian will arrive within the next few days. Let's try to put together the basics of what we want before he gets here. Now, if you do not mind. I am going to go barricade myself in my quarters with my family. Unless the ship is going to explode, I would like to not do a single thing as Tallest for the remainder of the evening."

Pur laughed softly and said, "Go on, then. I will keep an eye on things. Have a lovely evening, Tallest Red."

Red stood and flashed his brother a smile, "You as well, Tallest Purple."

-0-0-0-

Far from the Massive on the Prison Planet of Moo-Ping 10 a Gellaxis guard sat at a desk, moving the perfectly square coffee cup and his rectangle lunch box so that one corner of each was touching, creating several perfect and visually appealing right angles. Around the room, everything appeared to be set up to create as many right angles as possible. It extended even further- the entire prison seemed to follow in suit- an obvious design of the Gellaxis, who were as a whole race, obsessed with the precision and balance that right angles created.

It had been quite some time since he had anything to actually do as the secretary of the prison, so when a message came through he emitted a shriek of surprise at the loud notification sound. Recovering from this he opened it and read through the message, noting the attached payment for the release of a prisoner.

Because that is how things worked on Moo-Ping 10. It did not matter what a person's crimes were- or if there had even been a crime committed. The Gellaxis were happy to imprison anyone- for a monthly price. To release someone, however, the balance of their entire 'sentence' had to be paid in full.

The Gellaxis printed out the release papers to be reviewed, signed in triplicate, subjected to council inquiry and then filed away. Typical turnaround was between two to three business days, but seeing as this request came from the Tallests of Irk, he grabbed one of his square stamps and lined it up precisely with the corner of the paper, leaving a box that said 'Urgent' in red ink before he sent it off to the warden.

With that task done, it was time to inform the prisoner that his release was pending and so, the Gellaxis straightened the squared badges on his chest and stomped his way through the halls to where the prisoner's lodgings were. He raised a hand to knock on the glass of the cell and demanded, "Prisoner 777, report."

The requested Vortian’s eyes opened, staring up at the ceiling above him. He hadn’t been sleeping, but the knock on the glass alerted his attention. With an exhausted sigh, Seven shifted to stand, for a moment glancing about the perfectly square room, back at his bed tucked perfectly in the corner, and scowling at the hard and straight frame he had raked his knee off of on multiple occasions. If it were up to him, the entire prison would be designed very differently.

Sighing again, Seven walked up to the glass wall and stood across from the Gellaxis, raising one brow. “What?”

The guard looked over the Vortian as he approached the thick glass and said, "I am here to report to you that a petition has been submitted for your release from Moo-Ping 10. The request is currently under review but from a glance I can tell you that your fees have been paid in full and I cannot foresee a reason that you would be further detained at this point. It is recommended that you prepare yourself to be released- any loose ends should be wrapped up in the next day cycle. You are meant to report directly to The Massive."

“The Massive?” Seven asked, looking a bit surprised. He was, albeit vaguely, aware of the plentitude of changes encompassing the Irken Armada’s rule, including the destruction of the Control Brains. They’d all seen the news, had heard the speeches from Tallest Red himself. After a moment’s thought, the Vortian figured it made a bit of sense that he would be reporting back to The Massive after all this time, having been the lead designer and mechanic for the ship. In any case, he had a few choice words to deliver to the Tallests, if he had the chance. “That’s great news. I’ll get all my belongings together,” he scoffed, glancing over his shoulder at the practically empty cell, save for photographs of his children. “Might need some time to get all of this together.”

"You will be provided a box for your belongings," the guard commented, obviously not licking up on the sarcasm in Seven's voice before stepping back. "I will have your container delivered and as you are being checked out you will receive your personal affects which were confiscated from you upon your arrival. Which, if my records are correct, is a pen-knife and a bag of groceries. These will have been kept in storage for you."

“I don’t know how I lived without them,” Seven replied with a roll of his eyes, giving the guard a bit of a shrug before stepping a bit back from the glass. “I’ll be ready to go,” he added, finally turning his back on the Gallaxis, walking to the wall to take down his few photos of his children and prepare for his departure.

Due to the Urgent status of the request it was completed before the evening was out and a transport had been arranged to bring the Vortian from Moo-Ping 10 to The Massive- a transport which arrived first thing the next morning. The new model of the Minnow docked in the main hangar of the prison and when the door opened, it was a human with bright red hair that stepped out, dressed in lack armour made from some kind of leather, but he wore a blue jacket over it with painted yellow flowers decorating it.

Keef approached the warden as well as Prisoner 777 with a bright smile, though he looked exhausted as always if the dark circles under his eyes were anything to judge by. When he spoke it was in Irken, somewhat clumsy Irken, "Thanking you for quickly processing the Tallest's requests." He looked to the Vortian and added, "It is a pleasure."

Seven was surprised when he saw Keef step off the ship. The redhead hadn’t been present in any of the broadcasts, though he was vaguely aware of Tallest Red’s human mates. It was strange to think of the Tallests taking mates at all, that they desired these humans so much they were willing to change the entirety of how their systems were run.

Now that he was no longer cuffed or behind the walls of a cell, he stepped slightly toward Keef and gave him a low bow as a sign of respect to the Taller. “Thank you for coming to receive me so promptly,” the Vortian replied, straightening back up and smoothing out the front of his prisoner’s uniform. “Though admittedly I expected more pomp and circumstance from the Tallests. I suppose they’d prefer to handle this matter quietly.”

The Taller watched the Vortian bow with an incredibly uncomfortable look on his face. He was still definitely not used to that. As the alien stood, genuinely towering over him Keef lifted one hand to run it through his mop of hair and replied, "You do not have to bow. It is weird. I don't super like it. And ah. Yeah. Sorry. To be honest I requested the assignment to get out of the Massive. I'm sure I've got some glitter in the ship I could toss in the air as you get on board if you want something fancier."

Seven couldn’t help the chuckle that left his lips and he replied, “As you don’t care for bowing, I don’t care for glitter. I think avoiding fancy is probably the best bet for both of our comfort level.” Tucking his hands into his pockets, he gave Keef a wide and sharp-toothed grin, taking in the appearance of the human. His experience with humans was limited, first to that tall dark-haired one that occasionally appeared on screen with Zim many years ago, and now the redhead standing before him. He was much paler than the other human, too, freckled a bit like Zim with strangely bright red eyes. He was really quite fascinating. “Shall we go, then?”

Keef nodded and gestured toward the ship before signing what was more or less a receipt that the warden extended to him. He then turned and walked alongside the much larger alien toward the ship and asked, "I don't have to be worried about you losing your shit and trying to take out the crew or anything, right? Like, I'm prepared for it, but I'd rather not."

“I’ve never committed a crime in my life, if you don’t include supplying Zim with Vortian mech while he was on Earth,” Seven replied as they walked, keeping his eyes forward and trained on the doorway of the ship. “I’m not about to start when I’ve finally been released.”

"Fair enough," Keef replied as they stepped on board and he began to close the door to seal them inside. He then nodded down the hall for Seven to follow him and continued, "I know that the Empire has been a bunch of bullshit. The Tallests were terrible as were most Irks. They are working towards being better every day and I think you will find yourself pleasantly surprised with the changes. Most people are."

The redhead stopped outside one of the many doors and opened it, "We will not be on this ship long, probably about six hours. But this is your temporary room. You can shower there are clean clothes and there is some food. You are a free Vortian at this point, you are welcome essentially anywhere here. When we arrive at the Massive you will be on boarded, the Tallests will propose their new project to you and, should you accept, you will be assigned housing and yadda yadda yadda. If you want to tell the Tallests to piss off and do your own thing- then you will be given the opportunity to leave the Massive. And that's not a threat, they don't toss people out the airlock anymore. But there are severance packages for people that leave. A voot, some cash and a good luck, ya know?"

“That doesn’t sound like the Tallests at all,” Seven chuckled, stepping into the room and looking around. He could feel his shoulders relax at the sight of it, a weight seeming to lift visibly from him. Even on the Minnow, he had a room, a proper bed, a change of clothes that wasn’t a restrictive prison uniform. Stepping up to the bed, he dragged his fingers along the fabric of the folded shirt, feeling the softness and quality of it. He turned to face the human again, a bit of a distracted but curious look in his eyes. “What’s your name?”

"The Tallests have worked very hard to change things. I think that you'll find that all of this is very much in line with who they are striving to be," Keef replied as he stepped into the room as well to tap a display by the door to make the system aware that the guest was here. He looked toward the Vortian with an incredibly bright smile and said, "I'm Keef. You got a name?"

The Vortian tilted his head slightly as he watched Keef move, each action seeming more fluid than he would expect from one of his stature and species, finding himself a bit caught off guard by the dazzling smile tossed his way. After a moment of silence he replied simply, “Seven.”

"Fair enough," the human replied before stepping away from the display. Around them they could feel the ship pulling away from the hangar, the engines whirring subtly around them. He gestured toward a fridge and said, "We packed some Vortian snacks. There's some sweets and stuff and a couple sammich kind of things. But we will have like actually dinner for you at the Massive. I'll let you, ya know… do your thing but if ya need me I'll either be on the bridge or in the training room. There's a mappy thing on the wall just down the hall.” He took a few steps back and added, "See ya around, Sev."

“Thank you,” Seven replied, picking up the folded pile of clothes from the bed as he watched Keef begin awkwardly excusing himself. Once the door closed behind him, the Vortian let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and shuffled off into the attached bathroom to shower and get changed out of his uniform.

The Tallests had a job for him. Although Keef reaffirmed the changes that the Tallests were making, there was still the thought in the back of his mind that his release would be temporary, and likely dependent on the work that he would be agreeing to when he returned. Seven let the thought roll through his mind, trying and failing to convince himself otherwise until he was showered and dressed. Stepping back into the main room and realizing he didn’t really have much of an appetite, he exited the room instead and made his way through the hall, only glancing at the map before his feet brought him just outside the training room the redheaded human had mentioned earlier.

Inside the training room, Keef had decided to blow off some steam. It was nice to have this time that he did not have to worry about being interrupted by his family. He grimaced at the thought- it was not that he did not love his family- he did, with everything within him. But he was hard pressed to find a time of not being interrupted in his self care by a mate who was tiptoeing around, trying to stop him from being mad at them. That or by his children, which he truly did not mind. But having a few hours that he could work himself to exhaustion without having any of them sneaking up on him was something he truly needed. It was most of why he took this job.

He had set the training simulator to an expert level and began running through the insanely difficult and stacked battle simulations without even knowing that he was being watched.

Seven remained quiet as he watched, quickly becoming immersed in Keef’s smooth movements and his dance-like fighting style. It seemed to come easily to him; it was clear that the human was well-trained and it was fascinating to watch. The Vortian himself was not much of a fighter - certainly not trained in that sort of thing - though he could hold his own simply due to his race and stature. He preferred to use his hands for building than for breaking.

He watched Keef go through the entire simulation and stop to catch his breath before bringing attention to himself, coughing softly as he stepped into the room. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t lose my shit and try to take out the crew.”

Keef spun around at the sound, one sword still in his hand and his eyes narrowed, but as he realized who it was he dropped the tip of the blade down and replied, "Hiya, Sev. Ah. Yeah. At risk of sounding totally full of myself- I wouldn't recommend it." The redhead sheathed his swords and gestured vaguely toward the Vortian, "The new threads look nice. The jumpsuit clashed with your skintone and dignity."

The Vortian chuckled, walking a bit further into the room as Keef spoke. “Definitely not in the plan now that I’ve seen you training,” he replied, then looked down at his change in clothes. They were simple, certainly - mainly slate grey but with detailing in the classic Irken reddish purple - and a bit more flowy than he was used to, but way more comfortable. Blushing slightly, he shrugged as he lifted his eyes back up to Keef’s. “Thank you. It’s nice to be out of the uniform.”

"When we get back to the Massive there's a few folks that do clothes that can help ta get you a set of new stuff that isn't ya know, this stuff. There's even a few Vortians, so they should be able to get em to fit right and all. I am terrible at the whole fashion thing. So I just kinda stick to the armour and whatever Zim decides I'm wearing for the most part."

“That would be very nice,” Seven agreed. “And the armour seems to suit you, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about. And how is… Zim?” he asked, a bit of a scowl crossing his features as he tucked his hands once more into his pockets.

"Zim is good," Keef replied- certainly not missing the scowl, but understanding that Zim was not very good at making friends in his past. "Parenthood is treating him well. He has mellowed out a lot. I mean, he is still heckin crazy. But more mellow. He has been through a lot. So, I don't know what he did to you. I am sure it deserves some anger. But know that Zim has been through enough trauma in the last decade that he isn't the Irk he was before. If you need to talk to him to clear the air, he'd probably be up for it. But go into that knowing that he is a bit broken now."

The Vortian opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again as he processed the information Keef presented him with. Zim was a parent now. How could he forget? Tallest Red’s smeet had certainly been big news once it was made public. However, it didn’t stop the bitter jealousy that built up in Seven’s chest that, despite what Zim had gone through, the Irk got to be a father while Seven wasted away in jail, wondering what that very Irk had done with his own children. “There will be words, certainly,” he replied flatly.

Keef furrowed his brow and nodded, knowing that it was not his place to undo the wrongs of his mates but he could not help but feel protective. He let out a sigh and said, "I hope that you can understand that I will be there and will not hesitate to put a stop to any aggression towards Zim. Physical aggression, at least. I am contracted as his personal guard and I do take my job quite seriously. So, keep that in mind and try to keep it to words or seeking legal counsel."

“I have no intentions to threaten Zim,” Seven replied. “But I do hope that now, as a father, he can empathize with the fact that I would like to know what happened to my girls. Considering he held them hostage.” Turning, the Vortian began to make his way back out of the training room and continued, “Perhaps I’ll be pleasantly surprised. But do forgive my concern.”

"Are you fucking kidding?" Keef replied with genuine disgust in his voice. He had assumed that Zim had fucked Seven over on a deal or something. Even for as bad as Zim had been- he could not imagine him holding children hostage. He stepped forward, placing a hand on the Vortian's arm and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Seven stopped when he felt Keef’s hand on his arm, looking down at the contact for a moment before glancing over his shoulder at the redhead. “I’m not kidding. If Zim has changed as much as you say, then I doubt it is something he’s in any way proud of. I’m not surprised it hasn’t been mentioned. That, or he doesn’t remember. Who knows.”

"I am sure he remembers…" Keef replied with a hint of worry in his voice. He released his grip on the other and stepped past him muttering, "Excusing me. I need to make a call."

Seven watched as the human walked away, his own brow furrowed in response to the uncomfortable reaction. It certainly wasn’t an easy topic to bring up. His wife had been gone now for some time, nearly four years, but with hope Zim would be able to return his children. That they would be safe.

-0-0-0-

"They is dead," Zim replied flatly as Seven stood in front of him in the reception hall of the Tallests. The Vortian had demanded an audience with him before considering the offer of a job and so, Zim had readily agreed to it. He let out a sigh and continued, "They was never hurt while I had them, Seven. Really theys even had fun a lot of the time. But when Zim was captured they was too."

All of the air seemed to be torn from the Vortian’s lungs as Zim spoke. Everything seemed to fade out of focus except for Zim in front of him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to leap forward and take it out on Zim or if he wanted to throw himself out of the airlock. In a slow and shaky voice, Seven asked, almost as if he didn’t hear the Irk at all, “What happened to my girls?”

"Zim does not know for certains," the little Irk replied sadly. "Zim was captured as well, you see. To be tortured and experimented on. I did not see what's happened to them. But Zim does know that they is gone." Zim let out a soft sigh and took a step towards Seven and said, "Sevens, Zim needs you to know that Zim never hurt them. Zim never would have hurt them. Zim only took them because Seven was on Moo-Ping. I said they were hostages, but Zim was going to gives them back to Seven when he was out of Moo-Ping. Saying they was hostages just made paperwork easier and Zim thoughts it was funny to mess with Seven. But I was caring for them."

Seven had begun to hyperventilate as the little Irk continued to explain. It was true - no matter what, they were likely safer with Zim than they would have been anywhere near Moo-Ping or anywhere else that was under the Armada’s jurisdiction. In any case, his girls were dead just like their mother. The Vortian dropped down to his knees, eyes wide and out of focus as he tried to remember how to breathe.

Zim stepped forward, his heeled boots slapping against the polished floor as he walked. He dropped down directly in front of the Vortian, well aware that even though Seven was peaceful by nature, he could definitely squash him if he wanted to. But even so, he looked up at the other, reaching his hands out to take Seven's hands in his as he said, "Zim meant to care for them. I know that sorrys do not fix it. That they cannot. But Zim is really and truly sorry, Sevens. Sevens has always been Zim's friend. I did not mean for them to be hurts."

At this point, while Seven heard all of Zim's words, he wasn't exactly processing anything that was said to him. He let the Irk take his hands, making no move to attack or threaten him. Instead, the Vortian simply bowed his head, horns coming close to Zim as he did so, and began to cry, his shoulders shaking.

Zim quickly shifted his weight to allow him to wrap his arms around Seven's shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug as the little Irk buried his face in the crook of the Vortian's shoulder. "Zim is so sorry, Sevens."

Seven wrapped his arms around Zim in response, clinging tightly to the little Irk as he continued to sob, completely lost to everything else outside of the death of his children, suddenly aware of how small his world had become. The only one he really had any relationship to was Zim, who sat here with him apologizing for what happened.

Truthfully, he was aware it wasn't Zim's fault. That his girls had been safer with Zim than they ever would have been otherwise. That it was a crazy happenstance that they were taken when Zim was. But all he could think was how he would never hold his daughters again, that they didn't live to see his freedom or to be reunited. Seven cried until he couldn't anymore, and slowly ebbed into still silence.

Zim remained almost uncharacteristically quiet as Seven cried, allowing the Vortian to cling to him the whole time. He could not imagine going through what he was going through at the moment- if all of his children were suddenly gone. But Zim understood pain and knew that sometimes a person did not need the situation to be fixed, but simply needed someone to sit inside that pain of grief with them and so, he stayed.

Seven had truly been one of Zim's dearest friends through his youth and even after. They had gotten into worlds of trouble together- or more accurately, Zim had caused worlds of trouble with Seven at his side. It made his spooch ache to see him like this.

When Seven had quieted Zim asked quietly against the skin of his shoulder, "Would Seven likes to have many fruity alcohol drinks for this? That is how Zim's mates deal with sad things."

Seven raised his head slowly, gently detangling himself from Zim as he considered the proposal, freeing one hand to rub at his eyes. "I don't think getting drunk will make this feeling go away. I'll probably just end up too drunk to speak to the Tallests. Tell me… How long were they with you? When did - how long have they been gone?"

Zim settled himself into the Vortian's lap and said, "They was with Zim for two years before we was all taken…" The little Irk let out a sad sigh and said, "They was gone within the first year we was taken. Zim was there for many years. They woulds be gone for five-ish years now, Zim thinks.. it may not help, but it is better to have been gone than to have been in that place, Seven. They did… many cruel things there."

The Irk reached his hand up to unfasten his collar, letting his shirt slip off one shoulder to expose a small section of the vibrantly pink scars that coated his body as he added, "They went before the experiments went this cruel."

Seven raised a hand, gently grazing his fingertips along the lines of scars to Zim's shoulder, a sad rumble leaving his own lips. "I'm sorry about what's happened to you, too, Zim. I can't imagine it. If it got this bad, then I'm glad they were spared any worse suffering. But it doesn't make the loss of my baby girls any easier. I hope you can understand that."

"Zim knows this," he said as he leaned back against his friend's chest and tilted his head back to look up at him. "Zim wishes that he had different words to give Seven. But I do not. If Seven cannot be Zim's friend because if this, Zim will understands."

Seven sighed softly, looping his arms around Zim's waist and shaking his head. "If this ends our friendship then I will really be fully and completely alone. I know you would never hurt my children on purpose. I had a lot of resentment toward you for a long time - but it was never really at you. It was the fear of never seeing my girls again, and after my wife died, there was nothing else."

Zim let out a soft sigh and let his arms rest on Seven's as he said, "Seven had made Zim the… the back up parent. You had a name for it but Zim forgets. I tried to be that for thems, but I was never any good at it. They gots too many sweets and never went to bed on time. They played with lasers and things. But Zim did try. I know how smeets mean to parents now and Zim is sorry for the ache that Seven must feel… like his insides are broken. And I am sorry Zim could not keep them safe for you."

"If I know you at all, I know you did your best. When they were with you and to protect them after," Seven murmured. "It's good they had too many sweets and that they got to do silly things like play with lasers before… and I am sure that with you, they had a great deal of fun. Though I did come in here thinking I would be punching your teeth in," he chuckled.

"Zim is rather glad you did not punch the teeth in," Zim chuckled back. He looked up at the other and said, "If Seven needs days before talking to the Tallest, Zim will talk to them. Their plans can be waiting a few days."

Frowning, Seven considered the offer for a moment before he shook his head. "No, I think I'd rather go now. I'd like to spend as little time thinking of the death of my girls as possible."

Zim nodded softly and stood, reaching a hand out to help up the Vortian, though with how little he was, he was probably not much help at all. He gave a smile and said, "Let us be seeing Tallest Red then. We can get Seven some works to do and places to stay. Work helps Zim to not be thinking of thinks he wants to not think."

Seven took the Irk's hand, but mostly lifted himself to stand and gave Zim a thankful smile, weak as it was. "It helps me, too. Let's see what the Tallest has in store for me," he agreed, wiping his face free of the drying tears and rubbing some life back into his eyes. At the least he could be composed.

-0-0-0-

Tallest Red handed over the plans he had managed to write out for the planning of the Academy. Mostly it was scribbles in red marker all over a blueprint that vaguely gave an idea of what he had in mind, but it was so disorganized that it also could have very easily have been the work of Miguel getting into his father's work.

"We want to make these changes to host the Academy on the Massive instead of off-world. We would like it done sooner rather than later," he said as he sat back in his chair. He picked up a cup of hot cocoa that was on his desk, passing it to Zim who currently sat in his lap as he added, "But through this we have actually stumbled upon several large opportunities on board- particularly in the lower levels. As such, we wanted to offer you a long term position here, working on upgrades throughout the entirety of the ship. As it turns out, the Control Brains did not care in the slightest as to the living conditions of those in the lower levels and we'd like to remedy that."

Seven was humming thoughtfully as he looked over Tallest Red's vague and messy schematics, listening to his instructions. "As far as the Academy goes, that shouldn't take too much work. I remember this area - we just need to knock down some walls and make sure the area is wired for the right tech. From there it's just design work. As for the living quarters, that's going to take a lot more time to bring up to snuff, whatever that is for you," he said, straightening up to look at Red. "Redesigning the living quarters does mean that many will be displaced if we don't time it properly. We'll have to reno the new spaces first and make sure they're complete and can move before we redo current rooms."

"We have plenty of rooms which people can be relocated to during renovations, plus there are many ships in the Armada that can serve as temporary housing," Red replied softly as he pointed to another section of the map, "Those who are required to stay on board the Massive can be moved to these areas. They are typically kept empty except for diplomats, but upwards of twenty thousand could be housed here. Then, between the Armada, we can find places for them to stay and simply keep the lower levels empty while you- and your team who we will move forward to hire, should you take the position, redesign these areas."

The Tallest began to idly pet Zim's head as the little Irk drank his hot chocolate and added, "We would like for all the housing aboard the Massive to be of the quality of the diplomatic suites and we want the Academy area to be able to accommodate not only the teachings of Irk, but we want to bring on teachers of other races as well, so we will have to accommodate their technology as well."

Seven listened carefully, nodding along as he made notes on his own datapad, provided to him by Red at the start of their meeting. He glanced up from his notes with a smirk at the Tallest's latest comment, replying, "I was wondering when there would be some kind of challenge. But making all of the Armada tech universally compatible is exactly why you hire me for a job like this."

Straightening up, the Vortian gave a slight bow of his head to the Tallest and added, "You have your engineer, then, my Tallest."

"Yes, we had figured that you would likely be the best for the non- seeing as all the framework was your design to begin with and also because you have experience working with many kinds of technology." Tallest Red replied with a smile- a smile which grew wider as Seven had agreed to the job. He picked Zim up, placing the Irk on his desk before standing and walking around the desk, extending a gloved hand to the Vortian and saying, "Then it is a pleasure to have you aboard. I am forwarding you your contract, feel free to adjust your prices as you see fit if my estimates do not look fair. You are also free to meet with our Alien Resources manager, Taller Dib to discuss negotiations in your contract before you sign. He is currently still technically on bedrest, but he is desperate for something to do and will likely start pulling out his hair if he does not have someone to advocate for soon."

Seven chuckled, reaching forward and taking Red's hand in the handshake and gave a nod. "That sounds… Shockingly reasonable, my Tallest. I will be sure to check over my contract with Taller Dib and I will have everything signed and sent back to you as soon as possible. Thank you for this opportunity - as well as freedom."

"It was long past time for you to be free, old friend. We were-- I was wrong for it in the first place," Tallest Red admitted with a guilty look in his eyes. "I will have you know that we are now reviewing the imprisonment of every prisoner of Moo-Ping 10 and reevaluating those sentences and giving pardons where needed."

The Tallest then dropped the Vortian's hand and moved to open a drawer in his desk, pulling out a package which he handed over to the engineer, "Inside is your access badge for your quarters and for the ship, a communicator, identification for you and a Monies Chit which will have your pay. There is universal conversion- and instructions which will be sent to your systems, which will be in your room. You will find that there is restitution and back pay already on your Chit- at the rate currently listed in your contract, not what we were paying you before, which was basically criminal. Your room is fully furnished, but feel free to make any changes you see fit and anything structurally you can simply invoice for the cost. We will also have some of our tailors come by to get your measurements for work uniforms and things." Red then shrugged and said, "Anyway, welcome back."

"It appears there have been many changes since I completed my work on the Massive," Seven replied thoughtfully, adding, "That's all very gracious of you, Tallest Red. Thank you. I should be set to begin within the next couple of days." Turning to Zim, he gave the littler Irk a bit of a nod and said, "It's good to see you again, Zim. You're welcome to visit with me any time."

"Zim will come to see Seven all the times," the little Irk replied after wiping whippy cream from his face onto a handkerchief that Red had absently handed over to him. He then set down his cup and climbed up onto the Tallest's back saying, "Is Tallest done with working now?"

"Yes, Smeetling. I am finished," the Tallest replied as he walked the Vortian over to the door of his office, opening it for the other where a SIR unit was waiting outside. "They will show you to your room, Seven. You may simply send me a message when you have finished looking over your contract and I will schedule an appointment for you to meet with Taller Dib in the morning."

The Tallest walked out of the office behind the engineer and turned to begin walking down the hall with his mate still clinging to his shoulders.

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kai-borg · 6 years ago

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VV finds, Ebay grab unboxings, and more bio-related things: Part 3 - Mocs

And now’s where we get into the real meat of these posts. The real filler. That quencher for an appetite I so rarely feed due to my terrible laziness. MOCS!

For the most part the ones in this aren’t that special beyond one who managed to enter my hall of favourite personal mocs. Beyond that they’re just some basic characters, a rather fun little... ‘concept, and a pair managed to spawn a minor joke-’headcanon’ for me.

Firstly I give you, ‘Toa’ Elnas:

Name: Elnas

Element: Iron

Gender: Male

Species: ‘Toa’

Kanohi: Kualsi

Weapon/s: Spear

Bio: Elnas is an interesting character for a Toa. Ancient in build, speech, and what little wisdom he gives, and uncaring, distant, and near disdainful of those around him in personality to a degree even a Toa such as Kopaka would find him... cold.

Despite this Elnas does still protect those under his watch, mercilessly so. Any who dare to attack what is ‘his’, to disturb him, quickly find that they will never be able to attempt such again.

Elnas, while a powerful a Toa, is far from one any consider ‘good’, much less a proper Toa.

When Elnas is not patrolling his village he is either studying, or collecting items and materials which he transports... elsewhere. Wherever that may be though is unknown to his wards. Al that is known is that, despite his location while he is there being unknown, it doesn’t mean his sight decreases any.

Or at least, this is the mask he lets others see.

In truth Elnas, a name cleverly come up with due to its meaning, disrupted detection (technically detection disruption (Elda + Felnas), is actually a being disguising himself as a Toa.

A being better known by the title of, Makuta Avrua, the devourer of knowledge.

While Avrua did take his current form as an attempt to escape from Teridax and his plans, a successful attempt at that, that doesn’t mean he is any better than the conquering betrayer. If anything he is worse.

Avrua, while truthfully similar in goal to Teridax, is also far different.

Avrua has, since the day of his creation, found himself obsessed with knowledge, with learning all he possibly could, and in particular everything he could find on the Great Beings. Both that about them, and from what they left their creations.

Where Teridax wishes to rule the GSR, to overtake and become one of their creations, Avrua wishes to join them, to gain such knowledge he himself can become a Great Being and do as they once did. And he will do anything it takes to gain their knowledge, and reach his goal.

Next off are these fun little two from Sidorak’s species. A duo of infiltration & elimination class dark hunters. A mated (or whatever word you might use for GSR species marriage/romance/whatever) pair to boot! Also a lil’ joke-’headcanon’ along with ‘em!

Ok, so first off comes the headcanon.

As you can see Nille (the name I’ve given to my tall, keetongu orange, green, and gold friend) is rather... ‘extravagant’ looking. Especially in comparison to his much smaller, more ‘dulled-down’ mate, Guhra.

At first, this wasn’t really planned, just started building and once I was done I realized how well, like, blatantly different the two were. Combine that with the somewhat more ‘feminine’ styled ‘hair’ I’d given to the second, smaller one of the two, and, well... that section of my brain that keeps spitting out all my weird character ideas, AU’s, and everything related started kicking! And from that emerged my newest ‘headcanon’.

Basically I kinda had this idea that, what if Sidorak’s species were kind of like peacocks, or similar birds. You know, the male’s are real colourful, flamboyant, and flashy. Also typically probably larger than the females (though this does not mean it’s by a high percent, nor that said females are any weaker (if not even stronger)), and typically try to gain a mate through lots of posturing, looks, and giving them random little (and sometimes big) gifts all in an attempt to better curry favour with them.

Heck, this even works with, and honestly kinda makes sense with Sidorak’s own courting attempts towards Roodaka.

Every scene he’s in he’s acting flamboyant in a way. Posturing, speaking, and even moving in ways oh-so purposely done to show himself off. Make him look more impressive. Draw attention to his literally polished looks.

And then there’s his gifts, such as literally giving Roodaka what basically amounted to full control of the Visorak hordes. Sure, she basically already had it, but he actually acknowledge it instead of, y’know, deluding himself that he held the actual power over them.

There’s also his promises, the way he speaks and acts around her, and quite a good bit of other little things. I mean, heck, if I really wanted I could even consider the fact they had some, like, crazy goal or whatever to rule their entire universe/world as a sort of gift to Roodaka.

Y’know, showing his dedication by literally giving her the entire world as a gift.

Though going by this logic it also means Sidorak himself was kinda gay/bi due to him, you know, going after Roodaka. One of the most bloody extravagant characters out there in the canon bionicle universe. Like, yeesh! Her build, her stance, the aura she projects, even her friggin’ voice all scream ‘extravagance’!

I dunno, I just really liked the idea for some reason once I came up with it, and couldn’t help but keep it. (Though the Sidorak bit also helped said choice. XD)

Name: Guhra

Gender: Female

Species: Steltian

Weapon/s: Dual modifiable-energy launchers

Bio: Guhra’s more the heavy hitter of the team. Surprising to some due to her difference in size to Nille (though far from it for him), though due to her less than noticeable build she does exceed in more visible/crowded infiltration work

Name: Nille

Gender: Male

Species: Steltian

Weapon/s: Hidden Y-blades/shields along his forearms

Bio: Nille, despite colour and size, is the infiltration expert of the team. His looks, and lifetime of cultivating the necessary skills and personality to be as flamboyant a gentleman as possible have lead to him being quite skilled in the necessary etiquette to easily sway higher ranking officials, steer conversations, and easily dismiss suspicions towards himself with but a few touch words, and the proper posturing.

Thirdly you have, while still a Moc, less so one built for the character than to show off an idea/concept. A rather infectious one at that.

Shown above is an example of an individual infected with a partially developed case of a disease known as the ‘Plagued Vines virus’, or, as it is more commonly referred to as, the ‘Zombie virus’.

The Plagued Vines virus is a highly infectious, fatal, highly adaptable, and near incurable disease. As shown the individual carrying a partially developed case of the ‘Plagued Vines virus’ has suffered multiple physical changes. From heavy growth of a black, oily flesh-like organic material, metallic spikes and claws, the beginnings of various, randomly positioned extra limbs, and the emergence of the virus namesake, pitch black, vine-like veins beginning to emerge from the individuals various facial orifices.

As mentioned above, the vine-like veins that emerge from an infected individuals facial cavities are where the diseases namesake comes from. This is due to them regularly being the first physical changes an infected individuals undergoes, and the full activation of the diseases mental takeover,

A Plagued Vines infection is very difficult to detect before this initial physical development. This causes most cases of it to result in a fatal conclusion even when the rare cure is developed due to the emergence of these ‘vines’ indicating the hosts brain to have already been fully consumed.

Infected individuals show little sapience, but high sentience when alone, or in groups numbering less than 20. Creating crude traps/ambush locations, plans, and being able to track prey for long distances despite attempts to cover its tracks.

In groups of 20 and above it has been noted that infected individuals begin to develop varying degrees of sapience. Allowing for even greater efficiency in gathering food, and infecting others to further increase their packs size.

Fortunately in most cases the elimination of a quarter of the packs is usually enough to highly decrease their collective sapience, and half is enough to fully erase it.

Addendum: A pack of 90 infected individuals was discovered. This pack showed a much higher sapience than even an uninfected’s average, the ability to partially vocalise words, and were developing the materials needed to create various weapons, armours, and traps.

They were quickly eliminated, removing the possibility of further pack, and collective intelligence growth, but during this it was noted near two thirds of the pack had to be eliminated before they began to show a notable decrease in sapience. Fortunately once a loss of 3 quarters was reached a full decrease was noted.

Infected individuals display notable aggression towards others of their kind not in their designated ‘pack’, and a focus more on physical consumption, with a focus on meat and metal, which has been hypothesized as necessary to further the diseases physical growths, than spreading of their infection.

In truth the only reason the infection is as dangerous as it is, having required the destruction of entire galaxies to eliminate outbreaks of it, is because of how quickly it physically overtakes infected individuals that die. Requiring mere minutes to begin physical emergence, and revival of any killed by an infected individual that aren’t quickly burned.

Due to its highly adaptable nature it is nearly impossible to find a universal cure for the virus. The disease practically rewrites its genetic structure for every planet it shows up on.

The Plagued Vines virus is even more so dangerous due to how its outbreaks begin. All of which have been noted to be started soon after a successful meteor strike on the soon after virus ridden plant.

Its origins may be unknown, but the fact that this is a truly alien disease is not, and the danger its form of spreading poses, being near undetectable before outbreak, make it one of the most dangerous viruses out there.

And last, but oh so far from least, my favourite Moc of the bunch (discounting Lhikan’s trio who’ll have their own separate post), Tolzak, ‘skakdi’ of psionics.

AAAAHHH! I just can’t help but love her so much! Her builds greebles, colours, shaping, even the way her weapons store are all just so... perfect in my mind!

And, what’s even better, is the fact that she lets me use an AU I jokingly came up with a good while back after reading a certain what-if post about swapping species sizes, and took the base concept on my own odd little route.

A little hint right here and early is, as you’ll notice, Tolzak is rather... odd looking for a Skakdi. A bit too tall. A bit too thin. A bit too... colourful. And then there’s here little... additions. Small, heel-esque structures naturally built into her feet, her odd, built in, hair like head adornment.

All things less so found in her species, than in a certain others.

Name: Tolzak

Element: Psionics

Gender: Female

Species: ‘Skakdi’

Weapon/s: Tonfa style, curved blade, & dual throwing knives

Bio: Tolzak is an outlier for her species.

Where most Skakdi are cruel, violent, and aggressive, Tolzak is surprisingly calm, sociable, and at times even gentle with others around her. This of course doesn’t mean she doesn’t mean she doesn't have, nor show said typical Skakdi attributes. If anything she can at times be even worse than most of her species.

Tolzak typically acts as a sort of... hero in a way, or more-so a mercenary for higher with strict morals, aligned only with the ‘lighter’ end of said compass, and a willingness to both take jobs, and offer a hand in additional tasks she might spot without pay if the reasoning behind such is both reasonable, and honourable enough.

Now, while such may be an odd sight for the denizens of the standard bionicle-universe, for hers it is much less so.

Yes, you’ve read that right. Tolzak is actually a displaced denizen of a different universe, though she herself didn’t know that at first.

The universe Tolzak originally came from is an... odd one. Even for one of any connection to the bio!verse.

In her universe, to put it simply, everything has been reversed in a way.

Where in the main!verse The GSR is the species home, and Bara-Magna the world they’ve fled from in a way. Where the Great Beings left themselves, and the other inhabitants of their planet to die while their creations lived and traveled. Where the Toa were heroes, the Matoran their ‘universes’ keepers, and the Makuta, and all else villains.

All has been reversed in hers.

The GSR, while existent, was made not to act as a travelling, humanoid ‘ship’ from which their creations could live. No, it was made to preserve them. The Great Beings, the Agori, the Glatorian, any who were fortunate to make it in, while the rest remained upon the devastated planet with the GB’s creations.

To act as their new world until their old could be rebuilt.

That’s where the GSR’s species came into play. The Makuta to act as rebuilders of the environment, the repopulators of animals, the various other species the more hands on/detail workers, caretakers, and spreaders of the Makuta’s creations.

They were this universes ‘heroes’.

But this left the Matoran, the Toa and Turaga, the usual heroes requiring new roles. More villainous roles.

They were the keepers of order, those who ensured everything went to the Great Beings plan, and if not, then those who would bring about a reset to it.

The reset is also where another difference between this universe, and the main differs. Where the original has its ‘world’ centered around the Ignika, the Mask of life, as that which keeps it alive, that resets it when needed, her world is centered around the Vahi, the mask of time, as its reset button.

The GB’s, upon the completion of their ‘saviours’, the GSR and their worlds rebuilders, created an additional device which they activated upon their departure.

A large, indestructible machine, hidden behind barriers only their Toa should’ve been able to pass, and designed to use their two strongest masks, the Vahi, and the Ignika, to reset all life, and the world itself back to its ‘original’ (i.e. the time of the machine’s activation) point whenever their creations begin going against their plans, and to add minor... changes to said beings in attempt to gain different results.

During these reiterations a point eventually came where the GB’s creations were made more organic, to a degree they truthfully were not that far from the remaining Agori and Glatorians in their ‘mechanics to organics’ mix.

In fact they were at such a similar level that they gained the genetic functions needed to physically reproduce in but a handful of further reiterations. A useful, and apparently permanent achievement seeing as how the GB truly had no way to otherwise repopulate the species if they died off beyond a full global reset.

But with this newfound ability soon came the possibility of hybrids.

You head that right folks! Hybrids of the various species came into being in this universe, Tolzak being one of them. A Skakdi Vortixx hybrid at that, which does help explain her physical differences in comparison to a ‘proper’ Skakdi.

Tolzak was sent to her current universe, one of the more standard ones during one of the numerous attempts at resistance seemingly every ‘reset’ has happen once the Toa are sent down to begin it.

During her 'generation’, Brutaka, Axonn, and a good number of others had defected from the Order of Mata-Nui (OOMN), the organization now dedictaed to ensuring the Great Beings wills are successfully followed, even if that means they themselves most lose all.

As is to be expected though for such a group, many tend to defect, and resist their will once it comes down to the choice of initiating a reset.

While they failed in their attempts, as was truthfully usual, Brutaka decided to attempt to save at least one member of their resistance, already fatally wounded himself, before the Toa succeeded.

He chose Tolzak. Just barely managing to drop her through a portal into a separate universe as the Toa activated the Great Beings machine. This left her, while physically unchanged beyond some ‘youthening’, mentally muddied. Much of her memories shattered, hazy, and otherwise unrecallable upon her awakening.

This is also why she so readily allowed herself to fall under the moniker of, ‘just an odd Skakdi’. At the time she herself didn’t known otherwise, and while she has regained much of her memory, having pieced together what she could, and slowly been clearing up and recalling the rest, enough to remember she is not a true member of her current universe, and her hybrid status, she still is more than ready to continue carrying said moniker.

It is truly a much easier option than attempting to explain the truth of her origins, and the actual reason behind her physical ‘oddities’.

So far Tolzak’s world has gone through near 500 000 separate reiterations, though she herself came from the 35 372nd reiteration, and upon her ‘escape’ from the world was never reborn.

Also, here’s a little bit of a closer look at her weapon storage, and just why I find it so... perfect.

I mean, heck! Look at it! Everything's perfectly aligned, her curved blade is stably positioned, and I can even fit its cross axle in right there at the top due to the Metru torso’s build!

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kinet-media · 5 years ago

Text

On idizwadidiz by Alexandre Galmard

http://kinet.media/diopter/on-idizwadidiz

A new ‘demolition of the wall’ (of language) has brought itself to the Ground [zu Grunde gehen], then back as a background. Isiah Medina. Every plus is a passing through the event-horizon, a projection of the concept of concept which, driven to be unwritten and ceasing to be what it is by an unnatural reverse to natural plane, challenges concepts on another basis than the one of philosophical articulation, outlining the contours of the world of thought. There is a crossing of threads from which this work stems : philosophical concepts and artificial languages are toys, and their geometries, figuration, animation and interaction multiply their dialectics and change the way we think worlds are made.

As a foundation kit, a trans-world toolbox to share with fellow makers and thinkers, an about-face to a ground-zero, idizwadidiz's‘textless punctuation’ is a sort of ‘concept-script’ whose ideography registers itself into an articulated rebus. More than encrypting a formal methodology for content-breaking, it rather breaks from old moulds by breaking from the molded idea of the mould itself. If we must break from the despotism of fixed grammatical rules at every point, against the idea that each composition has its own mould, one point at least must break with this idea by dealing with the most absolute form of despotic formalism.

The obverse position rendered here is subtraction for the very purpose of unconstraining thought to a position, of unconstraining the concept to a lens of truth, to an epistemological go-between which would render the world ingurgitable. The point is not so much that, if one were to show it all, artistic creativity would be compromised. Rather, the desire to see it all always already inscribes the Idea into the intimate domain of placement, whose lack of split intelligibility fortifies it into a perishable appearance. What is not-all-there is not a lack of explicit sources to retrace, but the impasse of the real from which you do not come back scot-free, from which you do not come back at-all. You can see it all without the necessity of an absolutely codified contextual structure ready to topple, without which it would be ‘like turning round hopelessly in some obscure labyrinth’. As Grothendieck puts it (regarding mathematics), you do not read, you listen.

By reflecting upon both epistemic transactions, between abstract things and concrete ideas, and their typological axiomatization, one goes through a sort of brachylogical sabotage, the very destructive step towards a re-foundational grounding of all parameters, of the conceptual and the not-so-conceptual brought to appear in other ways than they were made or thought to exist, and doing so by unconstraining the conceptual to an effect and the understanding to an affect : from ‘having or not having’ to ‘having or being’, that which ‘presupposes the subject as always already having a generative capacity’ shifts into that which 'takes into account how the subject itself emerges through the substance’s auto-scission’. Thinking is this montage whose Idea of montage is always-already a Montage of ideas, and ‘what is already there in the process of knowledge is taken from being, and not from the idea’.

(0)

An empty screen appears. A ‘compulsion to repeat’ chops the opening shot, beginning over and over, acting as its own absolute self-reference : A is A, which, being repeatedly posited, differs from itself; a reminder that substance always-already splits itself intermittently. The original black frame is pre-ontological while the screen is the Void proper, its failure of being something other than nothing, or rather, a nothing which is counted for, just like the ground floors marked ‘0’. The black frame leaves its place for its negative correspondent, the white empty sheet.

This is closely followed by the appearance of another form of nothingness, a projection, a ‘shadowy double’, which plays the pre-roll countdown. This is at once the countdown of the beginning of the roll, and the reference that we already have begun to count. The two unaligned empty squares marks the difference of A’s voided being and A’s appointed there. The out-of-jointness from frame to screen, from picture to movie, as seen throughout, disrupts their identification with one another.

Once the logical projection meets the ‘ontological ground’, at this stopping point to the adjustment of the two, the co-incidence, the moment they superpose each other, the non-excluded middle, becomes the intersection of a union, a mark of their conflation, giving the shared part a space of its own (which will in turn burst into solid colors). This third term is at once the Two’s representative and its disordering into a blind spot, the passage from ‘there is no relationship’ to ‘there is a non-relationship’, its very own display.

(1)

The game of apprehending and comprehending the ‘completely identical and the completely different’, between both animation and inanimation, relies on playing their very own identities and differences with and against each other in order to conceivably and inconceivably register their transitions. If you take 'Envers' in F is a •reverse• in E, some fundamental laws of thought are written down, then reversed in correspondence with the axioms prescribed. The dynamic range is used to picture the cancelling out of the maximal and the minimal with no other way, fading to black or manually pushing and pulling the exposure, cancelling out the background formed of water and skyscrapers. To rely on such grounds, discernment must be the basis by which one perceives a space for neither full white nor full black, since both flattens out, evens out. Complementarity of logic and geometry is the opening of the movie – the union drawing – and its ending – an extended logical square diagram shown on top of a computer screen as a continuation of paint.

This is expanded in idizwadidiz : invariants transacting between similarity and dissimilarity unfold in accordance to how they are cut together and with which predicaments, drawing positional and oppositional relations out of strength. We thus depart from the ontological grounding of the count to a full scale dynamical geometry, that is, of the discernment, in the presentation, of the continuous and discontinuous orchestration of the interpenetrability of the same and the other (from 16mm green water to video of green synthetic grass, for example). Forms shift within a precise palette between shapes and dimensions, flatness and depth (circle, square / sphere, cube), from its support (film, video / drawing, CGI) up to its editing structures, the cutting (normative / transgressive – with a singular cut-to, with shot/counter-shot, with its acceleration into flicker, with a superposition, etc.). The body of idizwadidiz works through its web : after having backed up from nothing, the move between opposition and ‘n-opposition’ is the one between the very distinctions it posits – flatness and depth, interior and exterior, inward and outward, implicit and explicit, symmetrical and asymmetrical, real and artificial, between the ‘what’ and the ‘how’ –, binding the count point by point via raccords of site and sight, between conceptual mappings and points of representation.

(2)

In the diagram drawn, a chain bites its tail, the head, colored in orange, is the One, while the tail, colored in blue, is the Multiple. The One/Orange is the world-view, the representation of a set which collects all into a singular intensity.

This element is presented both as ‘CGI-earth’ and ‘16mm-globe’, both extending from the flat surface of the diagram into a three-dimensional object from which one may circle around, from which many perspectives are available, allowing to be counted in what is being worked through, the out-of-experience body. The world as logo is the rationality which extirpates itself from the icons of ratiocination, from the circumvention of ‘what there is’ to the articulated making of a renewed representative accuracy, the universality of new forms of accuracy.

The Multiple/Blue presents the expansion of the particular, the unifying continuous scanning of its ground, as the very immersion within the element that was lost by looking at the world from a global focal point. The solid blue from the iMessage screen, the empty space for text to the homogeneous set of the ocean can be read as this singularity which stands out of the totality, the exception of the ocean being the drop of water that is drinkable rather than a singular addressless message drowned in the indefinite depth of communication.

This game of univalences and multivalences is finally formalized in the very shape of the frame, in its convex or concave bend. Each stretch forging an object whose framework is being framed and systematically worked through via the spacing out of the cut.

The transgression of some pre-patterned and programmed transitions requires in fact that the transitions be fully rendered, then re-injected into the project. Collections turn into sets when multiple timelines, bound with the use of various presets, are rendered-as-one : modifications are glued in, frozen, and can be reprogrammed as being-cut. This is the ‘how’ of the recoil of the frame, not only turning it into a floating flat-screen, using cubic transitions and other pre-sets, but mostly by cutting and superposing them, playing them against each other, transitioning between a variety of increments in order to obtain dynamisms impossible within the same base, reconfigurating the preconfigured modes of configuration.

(3)

The decapitated couple (the bathroom divide), already painted as being torn from their respective bodies, being representative of their own inherent disjunction, are paired by being parred. The rime is simple, we all do not fit our bodies. A ‘bi-sexed body’ always-already splits itself in the working through of the impossibility to cope with its own predisposition. This left/right exchangability of the body turns to one-sided heads, two flat green circles that are subliminally pictured as the same, flashing away, tied by the bokeh which focuses back into its real form, the common ‘separated interior’ which ends up being a buoy, a systematic and ‘underlying oppositional backbone’ made so that our ships don’t get lost or worse, sink.

First, the impossibility of each sides to appear without what stands them apart, the vue d'ensemble which includes the gender divide, is resolved by a subtractive priming. Second, the fast flickering signals, through the accelerated shot/counter-shot, the inability for each sides to properly overlay (at least materially). And third, each dot, being the punctuation of their own inherent gap, can only meet outside of sides, that is, in the mark of their identity being ‘out there’ (like the undetermined ‘objet u’ of love) : from ‘bokeh’ to its focus on ‘buoy’.

From the impossibility of a One to emerge from difference (the flicker with the inverted positions), to the impossibility to have a One for the parts that are the same (the flicker with the two heads), we move to the signaling of the buoy. From the ‘finitude of desire’ to the ‘eternity of drive’, from the excluded middle, the ‘parallax gap’ between the two from which no synthesis is possible, we move to the permanently revisable formula : Spirit is a buoy.

A mapping with the light characteristics chart (the navigational maritime signalization system) forms subtle shifts between the normative function of editing patterns and their dynamical rhythmic compositional tour-de-force.

In the buoy sequence, the steady navigational signaling breaks from the irregularities and twitches of the flicker. The formal synchronization of the cut with a separated entity regularizes the irrational cut-flow between positions, breaks out of the repetitive cuts between the law (the gendered separation of bathrooms) and its transgression (the stroboscopic flickering). Similarly, in the scene where the vignette flashes at every marking of dots of water, it is the marking on the cement which, as the law of cut, controls the vignetting of the frame, so when the marker gets included in its own count, pointing the act of pointing, a new dimension beyond the law opens up as the axis shifts. The proliferation of dialectics through their particular continuities (ideas, to copies, to models, to representations, to forms) is compelled by the cut to rupture, from itself and by itself, by disjoining ‘the place of the Other from any insistence of same-others’.

Finally, the cut is torn between flickers of void and intervals of infinities. The dynamic condensation of this shot/counter-shot generates the stereoscopic vision, just like the thaumatrope (or trauma-trope) : two stasis traverses the same motion and opens thus a new synthesized image of stasis whose ‘simulated simultaneity’ is something like an afterimage, an ‘afternature’. The totality of the ramified network of oppositions, contracted in the shift of this eternity-coin does not rely on the inception’s ever-spinning totem, where at every take the stakes are the same. Rather, the untenable invariant whose purpose takes form by playing forms and nonforms against each other, makes us ‘traverse the fantasy’ whose trajectory is rationally constructed by montage.

So what may finally lie beyond phenomenological description and conceptual prescription? By replacing ‘the object and its identity by the system of its perspectives, the functor’, IM registers a ‘dialectics of formalization’ whose impulse, challenging the classical thinking of the image by tearing down the ‘classical image of thought’, expands from contextual strings of pro-grammatical operations within an enrolment of body-volumes by subverting the motion study into the study of thought's very own motion, a motion ‘without arrows or bodies’, a ‘(meta)stasis of the conditions of a motion study itself’, a ‘metalogic of one's logic of theorization’.

This has only been a highly volatile and non-exhaustible investigation into idizwadidiz, I wish for and know that the best of many more dots are to be connected and entertained. Less than its ‘subjective glorification’, like the ones of the last century; a passion for the indexation of its consequences. If there is only one oeuvre for the next hundred years, it is it.

Bibliography :

Alain Badiou. Being and Event serie (1988, 2006, 2018)

Ray Brassier, Transcendental Logic and True Representings (2016)

Olivia Lucca Fraser. L'éclat de la dialectique dans les courts-circuits de la syntaxe: Hegel, Petersen, Girard (2012)

Isiah Medina. On 'Demolition of a Wall' & Summertime Reflections on Cinema (2017)

Alessio Moretti. The Geometry of Logical Oppositions (2009)

Reza Negarestani. Intelligence and Spirit (2018)

Fernando Zalamea. Synthetic Philosophy of Contemporary Mathematics (2012)

Slavoj Zizek. Absolute Recoil: Towards A New Foundation of Dialectical Materialism (2006)

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seasaltmemories · 5 years ago

Text

Suffering

Rating: T

Summary: You’re mistaken to believe hate swallows every other emotion.” Slowly he closed the distance between them. “Love and hate are a masochistic pair of dancers, yet they continue twirling around one another all the same." [Arranged Marriage AU] [Trigger Warnings]

Rigel Castle was quiet. After an exciting night of song and dance, it seemed no one had the energy to return back to the land of the living just yet. Few guards remained at their posts, and the ones that did were often, sleeping, drunk, or both. It was a blessing Celica was thankful for, but it did nothing to alleviate her anxiety.

The only things left fueling her plans were desperation and determination. Neither logic nor well-constructed strategies meant anything, anymore. Tonight might be her last chance at freedom, and if she wasted it and got caught then returning to the dungeon might be the least of her worries.

Earth Mother, guide me please. Don’t let my escape me in vain.

Just then, Celica heard the sound of clear, hurried footsteps. Frantically, she scanned her surroundings for a place to hide. Like the rest of the Rigel Castle, there was a restrained formality that offered little decoration. The only break in its strict design was a large door that laid at the end of the hallway. It made the hair on her body stand on end, but there was no time for second thoughts. As quickly and carefully as she could, she cracked open the door and slide herself inside.

Just as she rested her back against the door, she heard the sound of voices, and like that ever muscle in her body froze.

“Disgraceful!” A low voice scoffed. “Absolutely disgraceful to see Rigelian soldiers like this. Doubt we’ll be able to find enough to form a half-sober platoon.”

“Aren’t you being a little harsh, sir? After the last few days, they’ve earned their relaxation.”

“They’re not done yet though.”

“Excuse me? I thought the Deliverance had already ridden out.”

“Exactly. We’re not done dealing with them yet.” At the news, Celica’s eyes widened in fear. “Like I said, get me the least drunk men you can. We ride out at dawn.”

Something like a scream curled in the back of her throat. Not just because of the footsteps growing louder and louder, almost upon her, nor the bitter taste of betrayal on her tongue, but because of all that had happened since the Rigelians first step foot into Zofia--since this terrible marriage bound her to them in the first place.

I will never go back to that dungeon. Magic crackled at her fingertips. We all will die before that happens.

But soon the footsteps grew soft again, then completely silent. She was completely alone with nothing but her burning hatred as company.

Before she could dwell on it much longer, she notice that the prickling sensation had not gone away. In fact as Celica examined herself, she found the pain had all concentrated around her brand.

For the first time, she noticed her surroundings were much different now. This part of Rigel Castle felt like neither like its brutal dungeons nor its deceptive residential wings. It seemed...older, less another man-made structure and more as if it had emerged from the earth itself.

A flight of stairs descended before her, yet as she peered over the edge, she could see no bottom. It just extended deeper and deeper into the cave. Every instinct in her body warned against what might wait at the bottom, but her brand seemed to sting even more the closer she got.

What did such a phenomenon mean, Celica couldn’t say. But she wanted to it mean something. That was the only thing she was certain of anymore.

And so she mouthed another her prayer to herself as she ventured down.

Time seemed to elongate, seconds taking minutes to pass. The steeper the stairs grew, the more the brand burned her skin. Soon both facts were all that she was focusing on. What if in reality she was just falling into a giant pit? She usually wasn’t one to doubt her perception so much, but the pain seemed to twist and bend her sight. When she made it to the bottom would she find her limbs broken and mangled for her reckless endeavor?

Just when she was sure the pain in her palm would grow overwhelming, when her courage would finally give way and she’d scramble back to Alm’s room to forget about the attack on the Deliverance and play the good Rigelian wife, she came across a strange cell of sorts.

In the middle of it sat a great skeleton of a dragon with a sword piercing its skull.

“Oh Mila...” Celica murmured to herself.

“You called?”

It took all of her willpower not to shriek as she moved closer to find another dragon lying just out of her initial line of vision. Brown-dried blood stained its scales while feathery wings curled around its body. It had been centuries since she had assumed that form, but could it really be?

“Earth Mother!” Celica’s voice cracked with emotion. Her arm seemed to move with a mind of its own, straining to touch her, yet what little distance she could reach through the iron bars wasn’t enough.

“I’m here, child.” She sighed. “It pains me I can’t take a shape you are more comfortable with, but it really is me.”

After weeks of refusing to cry, it was like the floodgates opened. Celica found herself sobbing like a child again as she collapsed to the floor. There was so much she wanted to say, it all swirled together into a mess of tears. Had Mila heard all the prayers she had offered up, knew the pain and humiliation she had endured in her name? Dragon or no, she wanted to be there with her, pressed against her scales as she babbled away every hidden secret she had carried since the fire.

But no matter how close she was to true peace, Celica knew she couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. Slowly, she rose so that she could sink into a proper bow.

“I traversed all of Valentia in search of you, Earth Mother. How may I serve you?”

“You may rise, Anthiese.” It felt strange to hear Mila address her. Outside of the disaster of a honeymoon, she had only visited her once or twice. Her purpose had always been to stand as her father’s daughter rather than an individual, to be seen and not heard as the pageantry and rituals took place before her eyes. “My, you look so much like Liprica now. You’ve blossomed into such a fine lady.”

Celica stiffened. Sometimes even she forgot about her mother’s life before becoming just another wife of her father’s. She had been a sacred and well-respected priestess at Mila’s Temple. To directly serve their goddess was an honor only few ever received. She should have held that position until the day she died.

Yet after her father’s men had kidnapped her in the middle of the night, Mila hadn’t remarked on the situation at all.

“Her sacrifice was a tragedy I grieve to this day,” Mila closed her eyes and paused as she took a labored breath. “But without it, I couldn’t have claimed you as mine.”

“Claimed me?”

“Yes,” With one word it was like a spark had been ignited her eyes. “Neither Duma nor I knew the exact details, but we shared our blood with you humans, for a reason. One day our bloodline would return to save us from our darkest days.”

It was difficult to process such news, but something deep inside of Celica accepted it without question. Her pain and suffering had been for a reason. She wasn’t a failure. Her goddess needed her, specifically. Despite the rush though, she tried to remain calm and level-headed.

“What did they do to you, Earth Mother?” Her gaze drifted back to dragon skeleton with the sword. “Is that--”

“I’ll explain everything to the best of my abilities.” Mila tilted her head towards the other dragon. “That is, indeed, my brother, and that is Falchion. It was a secret weapon he held, back during our quarreling days. If he died against me, then one of his branded could return the favor and avenge him. Only it seems the current emperor has gone mad and fancied himself a god greater than Duma. I don’t know what spurred this betrayal, but I pity my brother all the same.”

“What about the prince?” She found herself interrupting Mila by accident. “Forgive me, but I perceived that he was the one to harm you.”

“He did.” Something like laughter bubbled up from her fangs, but it was as if her body couldn’t form the right sounds. “Poor boy has been twisted from his birth to hate his master and true destiny. He used Duma’s hair and teeth to create a special net to ensnare me. Can you imagine such blasphemy?”

It was only with that information, Celica finally noticed the wires extending from Mila’s body. They were thin, only visible when they caught the light. Usually such trifling things would be easily ignored by a goddess. It had to be something about coming from Duma that did this.

“Why haven’t they killed you too? What twisted purpose would they torture you for?” It felt like she was on the verge of something, like she was slowly putting together a puzzle and just needed a few more pieces, but she still couldn’t quite tell what the picture was.

There was that not-laugh again. Was she trying to smile? Mila was showing teeth, but there was little mirth in the action. “My dear brother isn’t dead. He almost is, but it seems sentiment got in the way at the last minute. Or spite, who can tell? But this is where you can come in and save me.” Mila strained to lean forward, yet could only move a few centimeters. “You are branded. If in his dying breath he gives you permission to wield Falchion, you could cut me free. Nothing else can break these ties. You’re my only hope, Anthiese.”

The weight of her gaze laid heavy on Celica’s chest. As honorable as such a role was, the responsibility was beginning to drown out her previous elation. She was so tired. She didn’t know how many more burdens she could carry before her body gave way.

“Are you sure this is the only choice, I don’t what would make Duma trust me now when I’ve--”

“Don’t question my judgment!” Her sudden roar made Celica flinch. “I apologize,” Quickly Mila lowered her voice. “But you do know what a brand means?” There was that spark again. “Your life is mine. I nursed your ancestors for centuries. As the product of their prosperity, you have no right to refuse me now.” This time, Celica could tell she was indeed trying to smile, although the expression was terrifying on her face. “I believe in you.”

Celica took a deep breath. Mila was right. How selfish could she be to abandon her country and people right at the last minute? If that ambush on the Deliverance was really going to happen, she couldn’t waste anymore time dallying about.

“I’ll do it.” She bowed deep and low to the ground. “I won’t let you down.”

After examining the cell, soon, she had found an entrance. Considering Mila was trapped in her dragon form, it seemed they hadn’t bother to lock a small human-sized door on the other side. When she entered, the size of both dragons took her aback, yet Mila continued to give that fanged grin in encouragement.

“Take Falchion. Then all will be made clear to you.”

As Celica took hold of Falchion, she didn’t know what she expected. Perhaps more pain, or holy fire damning her for touching another god’s sacred weapon.

Well she didn’t know when she closed her eyes, but when she opened them instead she found a tall man standing before her.

He was dressed in Rigelian armor, long green hair done back in a ponytail. Despite lacking any similar facial features to his sister, somehow she recognized him immediately.

“Duma,” Celica whispered. Then realizing her error, she tried to bow while still holding on to Falchion, although of course she couldn’t bow as deeply as she had for Mila, as that would be disloyal to her, yet for some reason she couldn’t see Mila nor Falchion anymore where had they--

“Peace, child.” His deep voice steadied her thoughts.

“War Father,” Celica ducked her head. “I petition you on the behalf of my own patron. Please excuse any sacrilege I might have committed against your Faithful and put aside any old grudges because the only way I can--”

“I said peace, child.” This time there was an edge to his voice. “Although I am in this decaying state, I still have not lost my hearing. I know my sister’s schemes. The only thing I remain ignorant of, is if you are worthy of my judgment or not.”

It took all her willpower to stay standing tall, to keep looking him in the eyes. She didn’t know what was more likely to happen once her nerve gave out, if she would cry or strike him.

“You have the bearings of a warrior, child of peace. That’s not something I’ve seen in many of my kings, much less a pet spoiled on milk and honey.”

“Forgive me War Father,” Before she could stop herself, the words were already slipping past her tongue. “But I don’t recall ever being given milk and honey.”

Red eyes set on her, and for a moment, Celica was certain she’d be vaporized any second. Instead, Duma tilted his head.

“Elaborate.”

“I don’t know what you want to hear, but Jedah talked as if you loved suffering. I’ve had enough suffering just to get to where I am standing now. I don’t wish to suffer more simply for your entertainment.” Alm had been the first to insist that pretty lies had no place in Rigel. Even if that had proven to be a pretty lie in of itself, she wanted to see how their god would fare against a brutal truth.

Duma just continued to study her. “Tell me, child of peace. Do you hate me?”

The question took her aback. “I respected you. Even if Mila guarded Zofia, without you, Valentia would have never survived. I’m grateful for that.”

“Why do you use the past tense?”

“Because when I was forced to pray to you until my voice went hoarse, when my torturers hurt me in your name, I truly did loathe you. Even if you never wanted any of that to happen to me, I can’t help but carry that pain with me when I think of you now. I don’t know which one will win out after this is over.”

“You’re mistaken to believe hate swallows every other emotion.” Slowly he closed the distance between them. “There’s a part of me that still hates my sister, yet the only reason I’ve refused to die yet is in hopes that she might be spared.” As large as he was next to her, there was something in the curve of his lip that seemed to bring him down to her level. “Love and hate are a masochistic pair of dancers, yet they continue twirling around one another all the same."

Something uncomfortable swirled in the pits of her stomach. She did her best to push it down. “So did I fail your judgment?”

“I wanted Prince Albein to wield Falchion so badly.” Duma sighed. “He reminded me so much of Rigel. I thought we might take all of Valentia together. Maybe even dethrone Naga and her precious people.” Whatever vulnerability that had existed before was gone now, replaced with a proud strength that could snap her like a twig if he so pleased. “But I supposed his soul partner shall do. I see fire in your eyes, child of peace. You know how to do what is necessary.” Gently he placed his hand on top of her head.

“I’m putting a lot of trust in you. Once Falchion is unsealed, there will be no going back. Promise me you’ll save my sister.”

“I will.” Celica clasped her hands and brought them to her lips. “I swear on my life.”

“No matter what she says.” The last part startled her, and her confusion must have shown on her face. “I’m afraid I don’t have enough time to explain. Still I always believe even the worst suffering can bring wisdom. I hope it may guide you well.” He turned around, looking at a horizon that didn’t exist. “Is it alright if I close my eyes now? I used to be too stubborn to ever accept peace. Perhaps this old fool still has time to learn.”

In an explosion of light, Duma’s image dispersed. When Celica found herself opening her eyes again, Falchion was free and the skeleton gone.

“I’ll pray for you, War Father.” Celica found herself whispering. “I’ll pray that you learn peace.”

“Good work Anthiese.” Mila’s voice was high and tinny, breaking Celica from her musing. “Now just cut the wires and then everything will be fixed.”

The weight of the sword felt heavier than it should. As she dragged it toward Mila, she tried to assess Duma’s words. Did he believe Mila to have lost all hope? Or perhaps he worried that she might unknowingly drag her own brand bearer into another trap.

“Wait,” Celica slowed to a stop. “Before we start this, there is something you have to know. I have soldiers who could be walking into a trap--”

“None of that will matter once I’m free!” Mila groaned. “Please you’ll understand soon.”

It seemed in this panicked state, there was little reasoning with her. It was selfish of her to not consider how Mila’s pain might cloud her mind just as it had clouded her own in the dungeon. There seemed to be one only one way to dispel the chaos. With a sigh, Celica readied her blade.

Once Mila is free, everything will be fixed.

With a single swing, Celica cut the wires embedded in Mila.

In an instant, she stood on her hindquarters, form shifting rapidly between her full draconic size and a woman of feathers and scales. Every time Celica’s eyes got used to one version, Mila snapped back to a different one, sometimes even ending up stuck in a grotesque half-form. It was only once her mind gave up on processing this did she finally register the guttral scream that remained just as pained and tortured no matter what.

“Oh Earth Mother,” Celica whimpered, not sure if she was calling out to the being in front of her anymore.

“No...I-I expected...this,” Mila croaked out between cries. “I apologize for my deceit.”

A great clawed foot crashed into Celica’s chest as Mila straddled her. Her claws tore through her shirt with ease and laid readied above her skin to do the same thing.

“Mila please, I didn’t mean to hurt you!” She pushed uselessly against her leg, unable to escape its weight. “I’m sorry, please forgive me!”

“Your soul is so bright...it’s such a beautiful thing,” Her voice was more gentle than ever, sounding scarily human-like now. “Just one bite won’t hurt,” Her right foot transformed into a human hand, and it gripped Celica’s chin. “Quit squirming and remember your vows, Liprica.”

What followed next shouldn’t have occurred. Falchion had been knocked from her hands and laid out of reach. And even without the lack of touch, enchanted weapons always took a while to master. Arts couldn’t be called from them without intense practice. Yet once Mila grabbed her, Celica felt as if her bones had been turned to gunpowder.

And well Duma had said the fire had been there from the start.

An inferno of red and gold consumed them both. Mila’s cries, their brilliant blaze, it was all drowned out by the blood boiling in her veins. The part of herself aware of what was happening wondered if this is what her siblings had felt in the villa, if they had now bestowed on her combined pain of their deaths as they had slowly burned to ash. Or maybe it wasn’t ghosts, but fate that had paid her a visit. Maybe all the times she should have died had now converged to make sure she couldn’t slip away this time.

The rest of her could only weep in fear.

As quickly as the flame had appeared, it died out soon after. Celica struggled to remain conscious, but darkness blurred her vision. The only thing her eyes could focus on was Mila, now charred and burned as she stumbled back. Yet as she regained her footing, she took off running towards her.

Oh this is it

The thought came to her with sparkling clarity. Killed by her own goddess, how crueler could the universe get?

Yet right as Mila was about to trample her, she leaped and crashed through the cell bars. A roar filled the tunnels and once it faded away, equal parts dread and relief flooded her body. Soon she could tell her vision would darken completely.

Seems I’m still the princess who refuses to die...

I guess even I don’t deserve such kindness.

The first thing destiny took from Alm was his dignity.

A servant had barged into his room, and in his half asleep state he had cared little to listen to her. Rather he had frantically pulled at his covers to try and maintain some degree of modesty for him and Anthiese.

But as he reached for her, all he found was empty space.

While stunned, the servant had dragged him out at bed. She was an older matron who between frantic cries scoffed at his bashfulness. Rather than noticing his indecency at all, she kept yelling about a giant beast ravaging the halls.

In an instant, Alm became completely awake.

He sent the servant in search of his sword and armor as he dressed himself, mind whirling with worries. There was so much to consider, where to find Father, if the Duma wires had given way, and if so, would it be worth it to try and pry Falchion out of Duma’s skull for the umpteenth time. But one thought concerned him above all else.

She’s not here. She said she’d stay here.

His first instinct had been to run up to Father’s bedroom, but by the time he made it there, he was nowhere to be found. Anxiety and fear gripped his being. He searched for a servant or guard to guide him, but everyone he talked to proved to be just as agitated and confused as him. Would Berkut be any help? Or would there just be another naked, surprised prince to have to explain everything all over again to? Gods, where had Anthiese gone?

There were so many questions, so many possible answers he didn’t want to face. He couldn’t tell if it was a blessing or a curse when a rumbling shook the castle, jostling him from his thoughts. Before he could regain his footing, there was a crash, and a soldier was thrown through a nearby window.

“What’s going on? Can you report on the current situation?” His first instinct was to help the soldier up, but on closer expectation he found her legs broken, bloody things.

“Monster...” The soldier muttered as she clung to his breastplate. “You have to help the Emperor, he’s--” Her words descended into an unintelligible mess of groans. As much as her state pained him, he couldn’t help but drop her at the revelation.

For a split second, he almost prayed.

Instead though, he rushed out onto the ramparts the soldier had been thrown from. The night was still dark, with only a few torches to light the way. But for his lack of sight, the sounds and smells illuminated enough. There a low, constant moan, humming from station to station. With each source a disgusting mixture of blood and piss tainted the air. While Alm was no stranger to the battlefield, this wasn’t anything so honorable. This was a massacre.

Don't look at them, find Father

He ran down its length, trying not to focus on the bodies the light settled on, trying not to listen to their calls for help. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry--” Maybe that was all he was good for anymore: useless apologies that were uttered too late. None of his words had ever been good enough for Anthiese, why did he thing they would do him any good as hurried whispers? At this point he felt as he was no longer himself anymore, but some puppet on a string desperately trying to remember his dance. Gods, he had to do something. He was the brand bearer, it didn’t matter who started the fire, if the world burned, it only do so because of his failure to stop it.

They have to be alive, they have to be alive, please take me if you must, but they have to be--

Both his thoughts and steps came to a crashing halt once he reached the far bastion. In the darkness it was difficult to make sense of it all, but there was something almost in the shape of Mila. It was the right size, bearing both feathers and scales, but something in his mind couldn’t put all the details quite together. He had already seen her draconic form, already faced down the goddess and her greatest power, yet something about this terrified him to the core of his being.

The earlier rumbling crystallized into something like words as she bent towards the soldier pinned beneath her.

“Heretic, blasphemous rat, wicked man, rotting in my shit is too good a fate for you, you don’t deserve to wear my brother’s brand--”

“No!” The cry came from somewhere young and foolish inside of him. At the interruption, the dragon turned to reveal a beautiful woman’s face stained with blood. Her movement allowed a beam of moonlight to slip through and confirm the worse of his fears.

This time even just focusing on the details couldn’t save him from the truth. Even if he could have somehow missed the emperor’s lance which laid still clutched in his hands, if he brilliant red and gold armor wasn’t a give-away, if the entire face had been smashed in and not only halfway where he could still fear like never before on Father’s face--

His body was in motion before he could realize it, sword poised to hit not the most lethal locations, but the most painful ones. Yet with each swing, she deflected the blow with hardened scales lined against her legs.

“My, my, you need to save your breathe boy,” It was only then Alm realized he was screaming, no roaring as if he was a wild beast himself. Yet such taunts only made him grow louder and his lunges more frantic.

“I’m trying to do you a service!” She laughed. “While you couldn’t help your upbringing, your pain will be a long, (delicious) experience.” Despite her crowing, she stumbled at those words. Alm wasted no time. In one swift motion he raised his sword--

--and just missed her as jumped off the bastion and flew away.

For a minute, Alm could only stare at her slowly fading figure and seethe in his rage. He wanted to transcend his bones and flesh, become a force of nature with no higher purpose in his life than to destroy. But as he lost sight of Mila, the grief and pain became all there was left of him.

Before he figured it would consumed him completely, he approached Father’s corpse. There was little that would make such a grisly sight palatable, but he did his best to straighten his armor, to place his crown back upon his head. He did his best to fight against the tide of regrets. It was a warrior’s death. He had protected his country until his last breath. Better to mean something than to just waste away.

But it didn’t stop Alm from wishing more than anything that he had at least gotten to be there with him when he died, to have more memories of the end than a mangled corpse.

“Father, what am I supposed to do now?”

The only answer he received was his own chocked sobs.

A.N. Lots more blood and pain in this chapter, which was similar to the writing process for this lol, I had a rough semester, plus some outside projects, which made what I knew would be a difficult chapter even more of a challenge, sorry if this feels thin content-wise, but there is a lot going on with lore and action so I figured it would better to stop obsessively editing it and to just get it out before Three Houses takes up a lot of my free time

The plot of Echoes have finally come to terrorize the PLBT!cast, just when a stable status quo seemed in sight, now both of them most handle the consequences of their choices

#celicalm #celica #alm #fire emblem echoes #fe echoes #my lame writing #otp: I'll send a storm to capture your heart and bring you home #arranged marriage au #ships and deserts and swamps oh my #lol got a bit too consistant there #probably couldn't believe it really was me

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bombardthehq · 5 years ago

Text

Patriarcha

by Robert Filmer

published 1680 (written by 1640), read 15/09/19 - ???

Filmer was, by all accounts, the most popular and influential political theorist in England in the 17th century. The seminal works of many major contributors to the political theory of that century - particularly Locke - were responses to Patriarcha. But he is not read today, really by anyone. He was the principle theorist of a tendency which would, by the next century, no longer exist anywhere: of absolutism, and in particular, that Kings ruled by divine right. Most courses of political science or political philosophy in universities do not even mention Filmer: the only reading list that I found him on was an infographic originating from /pol/ which was structured from most socially acceptable (things like Hayek and Burke) to least (things like Hitler and Kaczynski): under the section ‘Reactionary Right’, Patriarcha appears at the very bottom.

I began reading out of curiosity but it became clear that it was both a relatively complex text and one that is both downstream and upstream of things important to us: thinkers like Tacitus and Machiavelli, and the theory of Sovereignity respectively. So, notes. I always say I’ll try to keep my notes brief and never do, how about this time I promise to be thorough?

Chapter I: That the First Kings were the Fathers of their Families

Filmer opens by talking about an idea which contemporary political theorists believed in, which is that humans are “naturally endowed and born” with “freedom from subjection”, and that forms of rule only have power over them because they give them that power.

Often Hobbes and Rousseau are contrasted on a certain point about human nature: Hobbes believed that civilization was a necessary imposition because of the disastrous anarchy of man’s natural condition, while Rousseau believed (something like) man’s natural condition being good and peaceful and civilization creating problems, although he still affirmed the necessity of civilization in some sense. Anyway, both of these thinkers were later than Filmer, and both take as their beginning the very point that Filmer notes here, which Rousseau makes when he writes that “man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.”

Filmer says that this is a new idea, and not something originating from the bible or the early church fathers, and hints that it was devised by the Jesuits!

He gives a logical conclusion to the idea: that if the people gave the Prince his power, they can take it away. He considers this a dangerous idea.

In fact, Filmer rejects the very idea that Kings are subject to the laws of their country, and when other theorists (he names ‘Buchanan’ and ‘Parsons’ - two names I’ve never heard) criticize the sovereign for breaking the law he considers it an error.

Equality is mentioned (just like that!) in connection to natural liberty, when he mentions their position as “the natural liberty and equality of mankind.”

Anyway, he comes around to saying, its time someone takes this seditious idea of natural liberty to task! (An early appearance of the ‘say what you’re going to say in the introduction’, by the way!)

Filmer enumerates a number of ‘cautions’ he’s giving himself for the discourse.

First he spends a paragraph going over how it isnt for him, nor anyone else, to pry or meddle into the affairs of the state, “the profound secrets of government”, which he refers to as arcana imperii. “An implicite Faith is given to the meanest Artificer in his own Craft,” he writes - true enough! - and so even more faith ought be given to the sovereign, who is “hourly versed in managing Publique Affairs.”

Arcana imperii (literally ‘mysterious power’, more semantically ‘state secrets’) is an expression from Tacitus which has gone on to have a certain currency in political theory (see here), apparently appearing as recently as Agamben, and having been appropriated earlier than Filmer, by “Botero and Clapmar” (who?). In Tacitus, arcana denotes secrets which ought to be kept secret.

The end of this paragraph is confusing to me, so I’ll note its location (here). The gist is that people ought to obey the sovereign, and he relates this to “render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s...”

In a sentence which goes “...knowledge of those points wherein a Sovereign may Command...”, he has a footnote - attatched to the word may ! - which leads to a paragraph weighing rule and tyranny. For Filmer, a King who rules by his own laws becomes a tyrant, "yet where he sees the Laws Rigorous or Doubtful, he may mitigate and interpret.” I’m going to note the location of this footnote too (here), because it is actualy a very clear and very early exposition of the Non-Derivative Power of sovereignity, and states precisely what Carl Schmitt means by “the leader keeps the law”.

His second caution is that he isn’t going to dispute the “laws or liberties”, only inquire wether they came from Natural Liberty or from “the Grace and bounty of Princes.” Obviously, Filmer will come down on the latter position: that any liberty one has is the benevolant gift of the Sovereign.

He says that the greatest liberty in the world is to live under a monarchy, and that anything else is Slavery, “a liberty only to destroy liberty” - although this whole paragraph is actually plainly an apology for writing a political text, which was surely somewhat dangerous back then, and while this is the official ideology that everyone had to believe (even Rousseau makes the same gestures, framing his dialogues by saying ‘this is all what I would say if I didnt live under a benevolant rulership...’), its actually clearly a bit more extreme than even Filmer is willing to commit to.

His third caution is that he isn’t disparaging the people he criticizes, simply adding on where there are gaps in their thought, and so on. “A Dwarf,” he writes, “sometimes sees what a Giant looks over.” He briefly summarises his idea about the cause of their error: that in order to ensure the authority of the Pope, they placed the People above the King. I’m not sure if thats how Buchanan saw it! Anyway, this is how he explains that the two major factions at the time were the “Royalists” and the “Patriots” - the error, for Filmer, is that people had come to believe that one could be loyal to ones country while traitorous to the King. (True enough - isn’t patriotism always a kind of category error?)

Cautions set aside, he begins the critique proper. He starts by quoting Cardinal Bellarmine (now a saint!), which we’ll reproduce:

Secular or Civil Power is instituted by Men; It is in the People, unless they bestow it on a Prince. This Power is immediately in the whole Multitude, as in the Subject of it; for this Power is in the Divine Law, but the Divine Law hath given this Power to no particular Man— If the Positive Law be taken away, there is left no Reason, why amongst a Multitude (who are Equal) one rather than another should bear Rule over the rest?— Power is given by the Multitude to one man, or to more by the same Law of Nature; for the Commonwealth cannot exercise this Power, therefore it is bound to bestow it upon some One Man, or some Few— It depends upon the Consent of the Multitude to ordain over themselves a King, or Consul, or other Magistrates; and if there be a lawful Cause, the Multitude may change the Kingdom into an Aristocracy or Democracy.

Filmer comments that this is the strongest defence for Natural Liberty that he’s ever seen, and thats why he selects it for critiism: after all, as he said earlier, its usually never a position argued for but simply taken for granted. Filmer now begins a fairly fascinating sequence of deducing things ‘backwards’ from this quote and examining what it presupposes, in a way that very closely reflects the way I approach argument (this is the reason I decided to take notes on this text)

“First,” Filmer writes, “He saith, that by the law of God, Power is immediately in the People”, and therefore the political system that God gave the world is Democracy! because Democracy has no meaning but power belonging to the people. Therefore, not just Aristocracies, but also Monarchies are against God’s will, who rightly gave the people Democracy. (This is a sort of reductio ad absurdum, I think - today it seems quite a natural thing to say!)

We want to object to Filmer here by saying that the Bellarmine does not necessarily refer to Democracy (of course, he explicitly refers to Democracy as something other than the ‘Power and Law of the Multitude’), but its not quite as easy to dismiss as one would think initially. Bellarmine does not argue for a kind of Hobbesian state of nature here, because in Hobbes’ anarchy there are surely no Powers, nor a Law. For Bellarmine, God gave men powers and laws. I would like to look more into what Bellarmine meant by this, that he perhaps thought of a prepolitical power, prelegal law... but there is surely some basis for Filmer equating it with Democracy. That said, it does not necessarily follow that investing those powers and laws in a form of government should be against God’s will.

Second, Filmer says, the only Power that men have in Democracy is to give their power to someone else, and therefore they really do not have any power. (Ho hum!)

“Thirdly,” Filmer writes, Bellarmine says “that if there be a lawful Cause, the Multitude may change the Kingdom.” Filmer asks: who will be the judge of wether something is lawful or not? It would be the Multitude. Filmer considers this “pestilent and dangerous.” (Again, surely quite natural today.)

Now Filmer quotes Bellarmine making what he feels is his only argument for the existence of Natural Liberty. Bellarmine writes: “That God hath given or ordained Power, is evident by Scripture; But God hath given it to no particular Person, because by nature all Men are Equal; therefore he hath given Power to the People or Multitude.”

Filmer now pulls out another quote from Bellarmine to refute the position just quoted, which he is proud as punch about, calling it out right before he does it and also including it in the chapter summary at the beginning (”Bellarmine’s Argument answered out of Bellarmine himself”).

The promised passage goes like this: “If many men had been together created out of the Earth, they all ought to have been Princes over their Posterity.”

Take that, shitlibs! Absolutists: 1 Republicans: 0! See you in hell Milton!

Anyway, Filmer takes this to be true: that Adam, and the succeeding patriarchs, had authority over their children: “by right of father-hood”, they had “royalty over the children”, in fact.

So children are subject to their parents, and parenthood is the “fountain of regal authority”, and this authority was bestowed by God himself. The argument promised in the chapter title begins to take shape: the first Kings were Fathers of their Families.

God also specifically assigned it to the eldest parents, which I think becomes important later.

He ‘saith’: Adam had dominion over the whole world, a Right granted him by God, and that Right was passed down to the Patriarchs. He gives what this Right is specifically, using biblical examples of authority: Dominion over Life and Death, the ability to make War, and to Conclude peace. (All of this is quite fundamental to later theories of sovereignity, especially critical ones: biopower! necropolitics! Indeed, Filmer refers to them as the “chiefest marks of Sovereignity”)

Although his history is Biblical and not the kind of historic epistemology we tend to use, as far as we’re concerned, Filmer’s argument is correct. At least for some parts of the world. I need to read more about stone & bronze age sovereignities globally but my reading on ancient Greece absolutely confirms this: the first forms of authority in that part of the world that we have record of was that exercised by a familial Patriarch who governed over a small kinship villages, setting the law (which is spoken of in terms of having ‘power over life and death’), and declared wars. There would eventually become a ruler who was largely symbolic but who, for this or that reason (not even political reasons, but often reasons related to the development of the productive forces or of national security) would appropriate more and more power from the Patriarchs while the social groups based on kinship ties would lose coherence.

Filmer’s argument here is not quite a naturalistic fallacy because he does not argue directly that it is right because it was so. Rather he uses history here to say that liberty is not natural to men, which he feels most Republican theories of government presuppose. Monarchy is argued to be good only indirectly, so the fallacy only happens ‘between the lines’ of the page.

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