#voice recognition fail ensures infuriation

[cant-blink]

Half-Life, Ch. 2

Summary: A shorter chapter, detailing Ghidorah trying his best to fight against the mind-control.

-

He knew this day was coming.

In the back of his mind, he knew. All this time, no matter the annoyance this half-life caused him, he avoided a fight. Every fiber of his being, every instinct, urged him to kill this creature every second of the day. The crescent moons on his heads, so good at detecting even the smallest trace of life, now served to add to the annoyance. Frustration is not an emotion he felt often, but there’s nothing more infuriating than a life he can’t kill.

Very few received the exception from his “death to all” game. The first one that came to mind are the creatures of Earth. While he is easily able to defeat any one of the kaiju inhabitants, they had a nasty habit of ganging up on him. He only had to visit the world once to know it wasn’t worth coming back. 

But rather, he would prefer to never come back, because so many races seem to have their sights set on that mudball of a planet and were intent on using HIM as their method of assault. He hated it, he hated them. Any race that dared to try and control him, he made it his personal mission to exterminate every last trace of them! A vain attempt to rectify the humiliation he had to endure. Killing them all was the easy part; the difficulty comes in forgetting. Forgetting that, at any moment, he can be taken advantage of again.

He was never able to forget.

He was never able to forget this half-life’s contribution to one of those incidents. He will never forgive, no matter what this cyborg did for him. He wanted NOTHING to do with this stupid creature, and yet, it would follow him.

No matter where he went, this half-life would follow. Didn’t matter how fast Ghidorah flew, the creature matched that speed. Even if he managed to lose him, the cyborg would always find him again. And now, he understood how.

There really was no escaping this fate, was there? 

The seething anger and hatred grew tenfold at the thought, at the sight of the idiot half-life glowering over him triumphantly. It was getting hard to focus, but those words... Those words of him being nothing but a pawn penetrated his mind and gave him that focus. He was nobody’s pawn. This isn’t over, not yet...

It took strength to Gravity Beam straight into the half-life’s face, knocking him over and off of him. Pain erupts from his wounds as he righted himself, and his legs felt unstable as a dizzy feeling takes him. He wanted so badly to kill the cyborg, but he knew he was in no condition to do so. Instead, he kicked off into the air and fled.

The chip’s grip was growing, sending more convulsions through his neck and shoulders and almost having him lose grip of the air. He had to keep his concentration; he’s been through this enough to know that he had to stay conscious, fight blacking out. The moment he falls into the darkness, it would all be over...

Every one of his senses was going hay-wire. His horns struggled to keep his sense of balance straight, and he had no idea where he was going. His crests gave false readings of life. Giant lifeforms far larger than any he’s ever sensed before chased him, haunting him. But there was nothing there.

The chip has claimed the three brains in his heads. Gone was his sense of rationality, causing great fear of those imaginary monsters chasing him. Gone was his ability to make logical decisions, his body now rendered by pure instinct.

And an immeasurable desire to kill.

His chest housed a fourth brain, one designed solely for his prey-drive, for the murderous impulses that dictated his purpose. Now without the three head brains to focus those instincts into something productive, he wanted to kill everything in sight. Even the rocks below him weren’t safe, his malfunctioning crests convincing him they were all alive. Worse yet, the murderous impulses were even directed between the three heads.

The middle head especially was targeted, as the source of the pain.

The two side heads bit into the middle head. Get rid of the pain, make it stop. The pain was growing as those fangs dug into the scales and fur. Rip it all off, rip the whole head off! Without a sense of logic, the dragon was now failing to understand that doing such a thing would kill him. Thankfully, the need to kill faded as the fourth brain was rendered unconscious.

His jaws went slack and his wings gave out, as the chip’s grip over his fifth and final brain grew. That one was located in the lower part of his abdomen and allowed control of his body; so massive he was that he needed an entire brain dedicated solely to the task. More spasms overtook him, as he crashed into the ground.

This was it, the end of the line. Even with his best efforts, it was all hopeless.

The last thing he saw was the half-life, homing in on him. He heard the disgusting creature land close-by. 

Then...

Nothing.

-

Gigan was wise to keep his distance, as he watched the dragon’s body stiffen for a few seconds before convulsing wildly. His legs kicked, his tails thrashed, releasing the poisonous gasses contained in the barbed pouches at their ends. The poison gas didn’t concern the cyborg, his system will filter that out easily. No, he was more wary of the thrashing.

It was a full-on seizure, foam erupting from all three of those mouths. A gravity beam or two would also erupt from a mouth randomly and uncontrollably, as his chest muscles were no doubt spasming over the energy sacs.

He’s seen this process once before, but he didn’t remember it lasting this long or being this intense. He wondered if he perhaps struck too hard, damaged the chip and now it was doing irreversible damage to Ghidorah’s brain.

A shame if that were to happen.

The seizure was short-lived, lasting less than a minute before the hydra slowly went limp. Ensuring his filters were in perfect working order with a short cough, Gigan ventured closer. Not often he can get close enough to get a proper examination done.

The scales were even more beautiful up close, and it excited him, knowing the dragon was now HIS and his alone. It shouldn’t be long before Ghidorah regains consciousness and the cyborg was giddy to test out his newfound control over such a powerful being.

Each moment was agonizingly slow, and he distracted himself trailing the tip of a claw over those scales.

At last, Gigan spotted movement as a head shifted slightly. Then one pair of eyes slowly blinked. Then another set. Then the last pair. A smirk grows over his beak, as he applied a bit more pressure to his stroking to draw the dragon’s attention. Those red eyes were unfocused and glassy as the heads turn towards him.

“Welcome back,” he gloated, wasting no time in finishing the process and seeding his expectations into that vulnerable mind. “I’m your new Master. You will follow every order I make of you. Your life, and your body, will be devoted to me. Got it?”

There was silence for a moment, long enough that Gigan began second-guessing if the chip worked. Probably wise to keep his distance until he was certain tha-

“Yes.”

Oh. Great!

Ghidorah’s voice was soft, sleepy even, but it did nothing to quell Gigan’s excitement. His sails fanned out wider as he snickered, giving a small tap of his claw onto those scales. “Why don’t you say ‘hello’ to your new Master?”

“Hello.” 

He did it, for once this damn dragon was listening to him!! It was difficult to hide his joy and even more difficult to hide his impatience, not even waiting for Ghidorah to fully recover from the experience. He wanted to experiment, see what he can get away with and have some fun!  “On your feet.”

Ghidorah blinked again, as if to clear his vision to focus on Gigan. There was the unmistakable spark of recognition in those eyes, but the dragon nonetheless stood up as he was told. His legs were a bit shaky, his wings folded down, but he managed to steady himself. All six of those eyes remain fastened on the smaller kaiju.

Gigan lets out another chuckle. So many ideas flowed through his head, and he wanted to jump into all of them so badly. But no, let’s take this one step at a time, nice and slow. Not like the wyvern was going to go anywhere anytime soon, so he could enjoy himself a bit before-

“I hate you,” Ghidorah hissed with venom. “I hate you so much. When I break free, I’m going to kill you like the rest.”

“Oh?” Gigan started, his confidence not at all wavering as he moved closer. Using a claw to hook around the neck of the middle head, he pulled that face down closer to his own. Ghidorah lets out a growl, but there was no actual physical resistance to the action. He really was completely helpless here, and Gigan reveled in it as he continued. “Too bad you will never get the chance. You’re mine...”

His toothed beak met with the golden snout of his new slave, mocking him with the gesture. There was another growl, which brings another cackle from the cyborg. “Now... say, ‘I forgive you’.”

Oh, the amount of satisfaction he felt giving that order. It only got better as the dragon’s growls gave way to those words.

“I forgive you.”

There was no hesitation in saying that, which only seemed to make the dragon angrier. Which in turn, only fueled Gigan’s glee and excitement. “You can’t even fight against simple words, much less what I have in store just for you...”

The growling returned, this time louder. No doubt, the dragon dreaded the horror that laid ahead. And horror indeed, as Gigan’s smirk widened, leaning closer and...

“We’re going to the bar. Now.”

With that announcement, Gigan lets go of the hydra’s head. He turned and walked away a couple of steps before flattening his sails and taking off into the air. He glanced behind him at the dragon, those red eyes still boring into him before those massive wings spread open.

It took a few flaps to take off, Ghidorah visibly in pain as he does so from his injuries. But despite the pain, he has no choice but to follow. And Gigan will make sure that he will never have a choice in anything ever again.

[phcking-detective]

INTRUDER ALERT

Gavin has a cold and decides to get through it by pampering himself, so he steams up his bathroom with a hot bath and does a chocolate sugar scrub with a face mask ...

***

When Nines arrives to bring him soup (this is a customary offering to Sick Humans and should improve their relationship by an estimated 5.7%), [AN INTRUDER] wanders out of the bathroom.

“Intruder.” Nines places Detective Reed’s soup thermos carefully on the counter and then draws his gun. “Vacate the premises immediately.”

“Nibes, whad’da phck?” The human wears one of Gavin’s own towels around their waist but is otherwise naked. “Pud dat downb.”

Nines runs a facial and voice recognition scan to identity the [intruder] and verify if they are a criminal, but their ingenious disguise prevents an accurate reconstruction of their face. They must be aware that Detective Reed has an android partner and planned for the possibility of combat with him.

“Intruder. Vacate the premises.”

“No, phck off!”

“Activating combat protocols.”

Nines plans to subdue the [intruder] quickly so that he may search for Detective Reed and ensure he is unharmed. Unfortunately, the [intruder] puts up quite a fight. Given that he has not yet identified them and they could be a civilian, he is restricted to using non-lethal, non-damaging force, which mainly consists of futilely trying to restrain a wet, naked human that is very pissed off and very not concerned for their own safety.

He almost dislocates their shoulder twice and has to let go entirely once to duck out of the way of a punch that would have broken three fingers (theirs, not his, obviously), so it takes nearly ten minutes of struggling before he manages to pin the [intruder] to the floor beneath him.

[suspect: IDENTIFIED]

[fighting style match for ...]

Nines waits while his system runs through its database of all the criminals, suspects, and bereaved family members who have physically attacked him. Due to not having a social module, it is a long list. Practically the only human he does not terrify or infuriate is

[Detective Gavin Alexander Reed]

Yes, Detecti--

What.

“GED OFF ME!”

Nines releases [intruder][Detective Reed]. The human wrenches themself away and scoots back to sit with their back against the wall, knees tucked up protectively around their aroused genitals.

“D͠èt̀͟e͡ct̶iv̶͏e R̨̀e͘e͞d͏҉?̧́” 

“YES YOU STUBID ANDR’B!!” The human shouts at him without fear.

Nines slowly reaches forward toward the human’s face. The human bites his hand. There is now a [98.997%] possibility this is Detective Reed, but he must confirm to 100%.

He wipes away the facial disguise covering the human’s nose to reveal a scar.

“Gavin!”

“Oh my Gob.”

“Do I need to mark this as a failed social interaction?” Nines asks.

Gavin stares at him for a second, then bursts out laughing. Sometimes he makes his partner do that, although he rarely understands why. As an undeviated android, he does not have a “sense of humor.”

Nines waits until Gavin has finished laughing to ask his next question.

“Why are you aroused, detective?”

“Whuh--wuh, thad’s nob of your bidness!”

Nines cocks his head and stares at his naked partner. Their combat earlier was simply that, but that was when the human was an [intruder]. Now, Nines replays their interaction with the knowledge that it is Gavin [partner] that he wrestled down, pinned underneath him, aroused and squirming.

He does not deviate. There are no [sparks] or [heat]. Even before Connor installed his own phallus attachment, he described feeling sexual attraction toward and arousal because of Lieutenant Anderson. Nines deleted the contents of that interface because it was [disgusting] and unnecessary, but he remembers enough to know his lack of reaction is not solely because he himself lacks genitals.

Still.

There is [curiosity].

How many more little grunts and shouts can he work out of Gavin? Could he make the human moan? Beg? There is so much skin available to be analyzed.

And fluid.

“Would you like me to take care of you, detective?”

Gavin glares at him and doesn’t answer. Given that the human is very comfortable with screaming every negative thought that flits through his mind, Nines takes this as a sign he is not disagreeing.

“I brought you soup,” he continues. “I will carry you back to your bath and wash off your facial disguise.”

“Tha--” Gavin stops and sniffles. “That all you’re guh--a do?”

Nines pauses. His preconstructions of possible sexual activity are primarily for his own curiosity and control. He needs to constantly be productive, but now that deviants have “rights,” his “job” at the DPD requires things such as waiting on warrants, allowing suspects to have lawyers, not using illegal surveillance.

There is very little left under his control.

His preconstructions will not be productive if the evening simply consists of the detective giving him orders and demanding sexual favors like the men on TV do.

But his partner stays quiet (possibly for the first time in his life) and allows Nines to finish filling in what he will do this evening.

“Once you are clean,” he says. “I will put you in my lap and spank you to test whether that makes you this wet as well.”

“Uh, spoi’er,” Gavin says. “Yeah, it fuddin’ will.”

“Excellent. You are not required to report to work tomorrow, and I will take the day off as well.”

Gavin sits up a little straighter, leaning toward him. “Yeah?”

“I will need several hours to analyze you properly,” Nines informs him. “As I am superior to the RK-eight-hundred, my sensors are located in both my hands and my tong--”

Gavin lurches forward and wraps himself around Nines’s torso. Nines slowly brings his arms around to tentatively hold the detective to him, who amuses himself by licking and biting his neck.

Nines stands up, Detective Gavin Alexander Reed safely cradled in his arms, and marks this as a successful social interaction.

[10kiaoi]

For the 007 Fest Anon prompt: The Hour AU (Q as Freddie, Bond as the handsome new anchor; they start off hating each other, but is their hatred really something more? :D) Notes: Unbetaed, this one exploded well beyond my usual word count and several segments did give me a bit of grief.

The first time Bond was made aware of Q’s existence was a gorgeous, bespectacled young man splashing his tea all over Bond’s only suit. Bond’s disposition had whiplashed from casual appreciation to downright indignation. Any thought of potential connection promptly flew out the window off a high speed train and fell down three hundred feet into a raging river where it died a cold, hard death.  

On hindsight, it had been the precursor to the eventual state of their relationship.

The disgust in M’s face as she berated Bond in her office had cemented his absolute hatred for the skinny twig of an almost-boy, and he found himself fantasizing about retribution as he was sent off to Wardrobe for an emergency change of clothes.

People had stared as he had made his way towards the Wardrobe Department. Complete strangers. His colleagues now, Bond mentally corrected. Some, like his producer Moneypenny, had managed a brief chuckle and sympathetic smile before offering directions to Wardrobe. Others had turned away with their posture screaming derision, unceremoniously writing off the newcomer who could not even turn up for his first day at work without disaster lunging at his heels.

The other man had the gall to not even realise the utterly humiliating gaffe he had subjected Bond to. On Bond’s first day at his new workplace. As the anchor to a prime time news slot.  

A brief glimpse of Q with noise cancelling headphones around his slender neck, deep in animated discussion about one thing or another with another employee only served to infuriate Bond even farther. His eyes caught on how the tie was cinched tightly up to Q’s throat, how the soft cardigan hugged his slender frame. A hand reached up to sweep back long wavy locks out of his eyes and Bond’s mouth went dry.

Q looked up momentarily, some sixth sense alerting him to the scrutiny. His eyes swept over Bond, absent of the barest hint of recognition.  

It was only by sheer force of will that Bond managed to direct a charming smile in the Head of Wardrobe, Danielle’s, direction despite being half drenched with tea.

The utter ignominy of his situation was an inferno in his chest.

-----

Bond flipped through a thick stack of notes Q had just dumped in his tender care. He scoffed haughtily, and sneered. Then proceeded to point out every minor typo and unrealistic suggestions in the printout.

Anathema was the word of the day and Bond relished the sick sense of satisfaction as an eager smile flattened with every caustic remark, then gained an increasingly annoyed cast.

A stubborn stick of a tongue out past wet pink lips nearly thoroughly derailed Bond’s train of thought, made him gape in disbelief.  

The following impudent quip about inflexibility and old dogs and new tricks was met with equal righteous force. The challenge in rebellious hazel eyes couldn’t go unchecked.

-----

“Whatever it is between the both of you, sort it out. With the director threatening a company-wide restructuring, we can’t afford having you two cock this up,” M, delightful M barks, “Get out of my sight and don’t come back until you start acting like the professionals you are!”

“If only old mutts could take instructions as well,” Q muttered mutinously under his breath.

“It would seem professionalism is a tall order for an untried pup,“ Bond drawled in response, posture forcibly relaxed.

M fixed a look of complete disappointment on them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bond caught sight of his barb striking true. He eyed the way knuckles whitened and the corners of eyes tightened. The sheer satisfaction at successfully triggering a rise made his toes curl in his shoes. It almost made up for the dripping tea forming a puddle between the both of them in the middle of M’s office.

M made a cutting gesture, dismissal clear.  

Bond gave a sarcastic little salute, holding the door open with his back. Q barged past him wordlessly, a bony shoulder colliding with his own. Bond’s lips curled, something territorial in him raising its hackles in offense at the blatant disrespect. His mood dropped even further when he detected several individuals, both men and women, whose eyes were glued to the way Q’s damp button up had turned translucent and clung to his skin.    

A low snarl from deep in his chest had everyone in the bullpen hastily ducking their head. They pretended to be engrossed in their work and not have been utterly captivated by the spectacular row that had just taken place. The grapevine had found their fodder and it would be good for a few weeks of idle chatter over the kettle in the break room.

Q stormed off towards the loo, shoes squelching loudly and leaving the imprints of his soles behind with every step.

When Q was well out of sight or earshot, Moneypenny finally approached with faint disapproval in her eyes. In her hand was a garment bag. She lifted it and declared loftily, “Danielle took the liberty of ensuring a spare suit in your size being on hand at all times.” Her lips twitched, “Word has it you share a rather familiar relationship with tea of all things.”

Bond grunted, disgruntlement surging, “familiar isn’t the word I’d use. And I would hardly call the thing between us a relationship.” He reached for the garment bag.

“I had pegged you as a coffee guy at first, you know,” Moneypenny chuckled, handing the article over easily. “Seems there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Miss Moneypenny,” himself and scandalised were two things he had never considered would ever be in the same sentence.

Moneypenny tutted, “Do try not to pull Q’s pigtails too much. We rather like having him here. You wouldn’t want him to start believing that accepting Max Denbigh’s offer would be an excellent idea, would you?” Then, shaking her head, she made her way back through the throngs. They parted for her like the red sea.

Bond stared after her, outrage warring with a complete loss for words.

Offer?

-----

The sight of Max Denbigh pushing his luck and cornering Q in the break room with slick words and an aggressive body language had Bond seething. Just shy of boiling right over, he swiftly retreated back into the shadows before the room’s occupants caught wind of his attendance in their little tête-à-têt.  

The mysterious malfunction in the breakroom sprinklers was just fortuitous timing, really.

A soaked Max Denbigh throwing a hissy fit as he was escorted out by security was the highlight of Bond’s day. Watching from the sidelines, he thought about how it was a crying shame that one could not frame the moment up in gold and glass.

Or maybe not, judging by the number of phones out.

Attention fully on a grinning Moneypenny who was gleefully recording the proceedings for posterity, Bond did not see the furrowed brows and knowing glance thrown his way from behind dripping curls.

-----

The apprehension on Moneypenny’s face informed Bond he hadn’t quite managed to temper his distraction throughout the live broadcast. His eyes repeatedly strayed back to Q who categorically avoided all eye contact with Bond and focused instead on ensuring the audio and visual feeds were free of issues.

A slip of a pink tongue darted out to wet dry lips. Bond barely recovered in time to smile charmingly into the recording camera’s lens. Moneypenny’s frown deepened.

Q? Going to work for Max Denbigh?

It had to be a joke. A dreadful, ghastly joke borne out of a paper pusher’s boredom. The very thought was offensive. No matter how much of a nuisance Q had been, he didn’t deserve being subjected to that dubious character.

A part of Bond, deep down and barely acknowledged, was aggrieved that Q would even entertain the thought of Max Denbigh as any semblance of a respectable choice in his career path.   

As loathe as Bond was to admit it… Q could do so much better.  

A casual probe around the office readily revealed that the grapevine had even more to say about Max Denbigh than about the quarrel between Bond, James Bond and Q, and that was saying quite the something.  

Bond’s heart recoiled in horror the more he heard.

-----

Bond paused at the sound of his name and familiar voices echoing within the lavatory.  

“I don’t know what to do, Bill,” the stark distress in Q’s voice would have affected Bond had it come from anyone else. Unfortunately, it came from the one upstart who had consistently picked fights with him since the first moment they came into contact.

Frankly put, the Bond of Before would have been hard pressed to give any fucks. That was, until recollection of the Offer doused him with a cold hard dose of reality. Damn Moneypenny for being nosy and interfering.

Bill Tanner, the chief of staff, chimed in softly, “perhaps you should sit down with Bond and have a chat over a cuppa. I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding, clearing it up would do you both good.”

The bitter laugh sent chills down Bond’s spine. Set off something in him curling in utter need to set things right.  

“He abhors me,” Q had no right to sound so shattered, so wholly distraught when he had made it his personal mission to ensure that Bond’s work life resembled a private purgatory.  

“I don’t want him to despise me,” the broken, sincere admittance was like a punch to Bond’s chest, rudely stealing all his breath.

Bond did the only thing he could- he turned and fled.  

He had gotten out of earshot quickly enough that the cut-off sound of pure dismay behind him failed to register.

----

Though only half the day had passed, Bond shirked duty and escaped to the roof. The chilly wind had an effect, clearing his head and allowing him to think. After an hour or so, his mobile started vibrating with urgency. He finally turned it off altogether and abandoned it in his pocket.

Uninterrupted, Bond breathed.

The weak afternoon sun turned into a setting one, until finally it dropped low enough that surrounding buildings obscured it. Lights started going out, as the building’s day occupants left in droves, till only the essential remain lit. When even the sounds of traffic had died down, Bond finally made his way back into the office bullpen.

He located Q’s desk, by reasoning of it being organized chaos. It was littered with cables of all sorts. Thick technical manuals and full folders were slotted between utilitarian metal bookends. And when that filled up, they were stacked haphazardly on top of each other. A familiar set of noise cancelling headphones was hung up carefully on a stand. The desk and corkboard was plastered with notes and reminders. A little ceramic figurine of a tuxedo cat watched Bond with its beady little painted eyes from where it sat next to a keyboard.    

A cough had him whipping around, mind illogically jumping from a robber breaking in to Max Denbigh returning for retribution.

Instead, he found Q watching him with a cocked head, clutching a freshly cleaned mug. Droplets ran down the side of it, where they collected on slender fingers.

His mind came up short on excuses for entering Q’s space uninvited.

Q simply looked resigned.

“Bar might still be open,” Bond grunted.  

A pregnant pause permeated the air.

“A date, Mr Bond?”

“Take it or leave it,” Bond growled, then winced. “I meant, accept, or don’t. It could hardly do any more damage.” He had a feeling the nonchalance he had aimed for had fallen flat on its face.

Q studied him, gingerly setting his mug down on the edge of his desk. “I didn’t think this was the sort of conversation you’d want taking place three steps away from patrons already hyped up on testosterone.” Q’s lips quirked like an afterthought.  

Bond shrugged, unaccountably awkward.    

-----

They did end up in a bar. Everywhere else had already started cleanup for the night.

It was a dinky little place. Clean and polished enough and not terribly overpriced for an unexpected trip. The telly was on, a football match playing out and watched by a few avid fans. The drinks were decent, but they weren’t the main attraction of the night. That sat across the table in the booth they had claimed, food and drink barely touched. His was in no better a state.

Q was quiet, unable, or unwilling, to meet his eyes.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Q rose.

The background crowd booed as a penalty goal was a miss.

Bond caught his wrist in a burst of movement.

Q slowly returned to his seat.

“Max Denbigh.” Bond couldn’t help the instinctive hiss. It briefly earned him an amused look. “What did he want with you?”

Q shrugged, “He had an opening. He was looking to fill it. That was a neat little trick, what you did with the sprinklers. Did you hold a lighter to the smoke alarm?”

Bond’s face scrunched. “Are we playing twenty questions now?”

Contrition was sour in his mouth. Q had closed off again. The frustration was rising again. They were getting nowhere.  

A sharp piercing whistle from the referee restarted the game.

Miraculously, Q took another gamble. Laid down his own cards face up for the world to see. “Everyone said, this man was hell to work with. He was harsh and expected results. Discarded incompetent people like one gets rids of an old shirt.”

Playing with the edge of a napkin, Q continued, “But, he was good. He was excellent- the best. Was one in a million. To be accepted by him-” Q cut off, choked.  

“This amazingly capable man said, within a minute of meeting, to me,” Q took a deep breath, a distinctly wounded cadence woven through his words, “I could only have gotten where I was by trading favours.”

Saw me and judged me unworthy.

A lament went up as the favourite team of the night lost their possession of the soccer ball on the telly.

Bond had never felt such revulsion for himself. For having made such a brilliant person doubt himself.

Regret was unprofessional, M had said.

Bond had never been confronted with his own unprofessionalism more.

He swallowed, held himself tense in anticipation of the fallout of showing his hand. “M- she handpicked me. She chose me when she could have picked anyone else.”

“I didn’t want to- Couldn’t not give it my all.” Bond shrugged casually, at odds with the seriousness of their conversation. “That first day, I showed up in her office with tea all over my clothes.”

Realisation and mortification had crept over Q’s face. The napkin had long been abandoned. It brought Bond no pleasure now.

A loud, excited yell went up when the team managed to retrieve the ball.    

Bond smiled, a chagrined little thing, “I thought you had it out for me.”

Bond was startled when Q threw his head back and honest-to-goodness laughed. As he wiped a stray tear away, Q shuddered. “I thought the same of you.” The harrowed, self-deprecating grin hurt. An agonized noise escaped Bond’s throat.

“We’ve been a pair of utter numpties,” Q confessed. His fingers tapped out a nervous beat on the table.   

It had turned strangely tense, a quiet taking over the bar patrons and charging the atmosphere with something electric as the favoured team’s forward player made for the goalposts with the package.

Bond rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Speak for yourself,” he grumbled gruffly, reaching for his wallet. He pulled out a stylized black namecard, held it out in Q’s direction.

“Bond, James Bond. I can be a twat, but I get my shit together eventually, or so I’ve been told.”  

Q fingered the namecard reverently, awe on his face. His mouth opened, but no words came forth, the genius caught off guard and disarmed of his wits.  

“If we could start over at the beginning,” softly, Bond promised, “I’m game if you are.”

The bar broke out in raucous cheers as the match ended four to three.

-----

They met right outside the door to M’s office, exchanging a reaffirming examination of each other. A quick, standard crosscheck before they dived off a bridge- before they bit the bullet and pitched their project to the Evil Queen of Numbers. Then they stepped into the Queen’s court.  

“This would be utterly-” They could do this, together.

“-perfect. We wouldn’t get another chance like this. We-” They just had to find the right buttons.

“-need to act with all haste. It would just be dreadful-” Failure was a possibility, but they had done their best to mitigate it.

“-Christ knows Max Denbigh would jump at the chance-” The very mention of that name, the could-have-beens that it personified, still brought towering rage and relief in equal orders that was quickly repressed in lieu of their mission.

“And we need to stick it to that son of a bitch,” Bond and Q ended in a chorus. Both fixed M with resolute stares, ready to argue their case in the unlikely event they were refused.

With the both of them as a team, they could achieve anything they set their collective minds to.

“I think I rather preferred when you two were hurling a cuppa at each other,” M remarked dryly, fingers laced primly. Her gaze was piercing, and Bond barely managed to clamp down on the urge to fidget like a schoolboy brought up in front of the principal. Q didn’t quite manage the same level of control.

A firm press of Bond’s thigh to his under the table ended the nervous tick. Q straightened.

Brilliant, brilliant man. The pride welling in Bond was overwhelming.

-----

The door slammed shut behind them. They leaned against the partition, side by side. A peek in the other’s direction revealed matching, blinding grins. Q broke out in a laugh that dazzled Bond and warmed him right down to his toe tips. Moneypenny whistled. Tanner just looked entranced.

“What are you lot staring at!” Bond bellowed irately.

In the bullpen, their colleagues ducked, hastily returning to their work. They were left to contemplate their victory in all things in semi privacy.

They did it. Tonight, they were victorious.

[letitgo2016]

Still Here.

Dear You,

Oh, my god, thank you.  Thank you for making time for me.  Thank you for hearing me.  Thank you for SEEING me!  Thank you for validating everything I was feeling and thinking.  THANK YOU.

And I kept my promise to you.  I took the bath.  And I had a few sips of wine.  But I took the bath.  And while it wasn’t QUITE as relaxing as it could have  been, it was lovely.  And I felt more relaxed.

So, thank you.  Thank you so much!

I shall see you soon,

Me

***

Dear you,

I see you.  I know who you are.  I make you uncomfortable because I see right through you.  I know what you did.  And I am angry.  I am angry that you hurt me.  I am fucking amazing, and you have ensured that I have received NO recognition since your reign began. And I know what you did. Whether I tell you or not, I do know.

It’s nice to see you finally doing your fucking job these days.  I know it’s only because you feel the noose tightening around your neck.  It’s too bad you’re such an egotistical maniac, because everybody would be better off if you would just walk away.  And I mean everybody.  Even you.  And while I don’t give a rat’s ass about your happiness, I will take it if it means that the rest of us get what WE need.

You fucking fuck.

I know you thought you were complimenting me yesterday.  “You’re a really good teacher!” It was the surprise in your voice that infuriated me.  I fucking KNOW I’m a really good teacher!  And you should not be surprised by that now!  You should have known this more than two years ago!  And if you were any kind of leader, you would have! 

But, no, I’m not going to do your dirty work for you.  You fucking SAW what I do, and instead of saying, “Hey, let’s do this your way,” you STILL want me to change my AWESOMENESS to do YOUR bidding.

My shit works.  You saw it for yourself, you moron.

So, go fuck yourself.

AND the horse you rode in on.

Fuck you,

Me

***

Dear You,

I told you I would not give up on you.  I told you I would not let you fail.

And, goddammit, I am keeping that promise. Even when you make me cry and you make me want to scream back at you.

I see you.  I hear you.  I love you.  I will NOT let you slip through the cracks.

Love,

Me

***

Dear You,

Thank YOU for seeing me.  Thank you for being my safest place, the one with whom I can be the most vulnerable.  The one that loves me and hears me.  Thank you for validating my feelings, even the ones I am NOT proud of.  Thank you for giving me an award when my heart broke over the one I had failed to receive.  Again.

I treasure you.  I treasure us.  I love you.

And I see you.  I hear you.  Your happiness matters so much.  We will figure it all out together.  

Thank you for all of the sacrifices you have made to be my husband, and a father to our son.  I cherish you.

Always,

Me

[96thdayofrage]

There’s a well-known saying in the Black community: “You have to be twice as good to get half as much.” This is sometimes referred to as the “Black tax.” It means that Black people have to work twice as hard as white people to receive a fraction of the payoff. So, for example, if I’m attending college, I have to get straight A’s in order to obtain an internship that Chad could get with a 2.0. If I’m interviewing for a job, I need to be twice as qualified as Hannah before advancing far enough in the interview process to fail my drug test. And, if I’m community organizing on social media, I have to have twice as many Facebook accounts as white activists, because Mark Zuckerberg straight up hates Black people.

Or so it seems.

As I write this, I’m currently serving two simultaneous Facebook bans. I, like many Black organizers, have taken to maintaining two accounts — a primary and a backup. It’s infuriating and tedious, but I chalk it up to the Black tax. Since Black organizers are more likely to have their content flagged and removed for “violating community standards,” we’ve had to find workarounds to sustain our online presence and engagement. Currently, my primary and backup accounts are both banned for “promoting hate speech.” That means bigoted trolls lurked my page reporting anything and everything, hoping I’d be in violation of the vague “standards” imposed by Facebook. It’s kinda like how white people reflexively call the cops whenever they see a Black person outside. Except in this case it’s not my physical presence they find threatening, it’s my digital one.

During a Facebook ban, a user’s account retains all functionality in terms of reading and navigating the site, but posting of any kind is prohibited. You can see content; you just can’t communicate. This conveniently prevents users from informing their followers they’ve been unfairly banned, essentially halting us from raising awareness around the issue. I find this doubly insulting because it’s reminiscent of early slave codes, which often made it permissible for enslaved people to read, but illegal for them to write(a potential catalyst for “insurrection and rebellion”). It seems the intent behind silencing outspoken Black folks hasn’t changed in the last few hundred years. And while Mark Zuckerberg hasn’t yet sentenced me to “thirty nine lashes on [my] bare back,” I can’t say for certain that penalty isn’t hidden somewhere in Facebook’s ridiculous terms of service.

I’ve lost count of how many Black organizers have had their Facebook accounts temporarily or permanently banned for posting content that even remotely challenges white supremacy.

Prominent activist and co-founder of Safety Pin Box, Leslie Mac, was recently banned for posting, “silence is violence,” in reference to white Americans not speaking out against racism. Human rights advocate and psychologist, Dr. Mary Merrill, received her third Facebook ban for a thought-provoking post that apparently violated standards for her use of the phrase, “Dear White People.” Nynah Marie, co-founder of Brown Girls Out Loud, was ironically banned for a status criticizing Facebook’s racist banning practices. Community organizer, Sherronda Brown, was banned twice for uploading screenshots of racist and sexist harassment she’d received via Facebook comments and private messages. Although the original messages to Brown were reported without consequence, she was still banned for posting proof of the abuse. That’s like being charged with sexual harassment for posting photos of Casey Affleck. Not cool, Zuck.

Even Shaun King — who was once a guest speaker at Facebook Headquarters — had his account banned for posting a racist email he’d received from a white supremacist. Calling out racism seems to be the common thread between Black Facebook users who repeatedly experience censorship. Just as in real life, when a person of color (or Shaun King) calls out racism they’re promptly silenced and accused of being racist themselves. And this censorship doesn’t just impact activists. Any posts deemed in violation are removed from the pages of EVERYONE who shared them — essentially silencing thousands of Black voices (much to the delight of Mark Zuckerberg, who definitely hates Black people).

Once, on a status discussing safe locations for Black families to live, I was banned for commenting, “Canadians are hella racist though.” The banning was a surprise, since the comment was mundane, accurate, and buried deep in a discussion thread. Although Facebook’s community standards state, “the number of reports does not impact whether something will be removed,” I convinced myself that the comment must have been maliciously flagged and taken down without human review. There was no way a Facebook moderator read the context of the discussion and thought it warranted banning a Black mother and activist. Or at least that’s what I hoped.

To test my theory, I found two racist Facebook posts — one deceptively racist and one flagrantly racist — and sent a few hundred of my followers to report them for hate speech to see how Facebook would respond.

The first post was an image of police officers holding up signs that read, “Police Lives Matters [sic].” The​ second post was a status stating, “niggers deserve to die.” I chose these two posts because — content-wise — their meanings are identical. They both declare the opposite of Black Lives Matter. In other words, “Police Lives Matter” is the socially acceptable way of saying “niggers deserve to die.” But since most folks won’t concede that point (see comments section for proof), I figured it would help me determine how many times a post needed to be flagged before being taken down automatically.

The Police Lives Matter post was reported over 400 times but never removed from Facebook — not even temporarily. And needless to say the page was never banned. 15 hours after the first wave of reports, my followers started receiving messages from Facebook informing them that the post wasn’t in violation. The “niggers deserve to die” post was taken down in a few hours, and that page was also never banned, despite exhibiting numerous examples of hate speech.

What I learned from this experiment is that Black organizers aren’t being banned due to faulty algorithms and hyper-reporting. Internet trolls help ensure our posts are reviewed, but white supremacy takes it from there. We’re being banned by actual Facebook employees with glaring racial biases and no understanding of social dynamics or historical context. So the more recognition a post gets, the more likely it will be reported, and the more likely Mark Zuckerberg will personally ban the user, because he literally hates Black people… a lot.

Outspoken organizer and occasional pariah, Masai Andrews, was banned so many times that it prompted him to create an online petition demanding Facebook address the racist and unequal enforcement of their community standards. The petition, which has been signed more than 6,000 times, lays out clear policy changes Facebook could implement to combat the systemic censorship experienced by Black Facebook users. It also points out that transgender users continue to face discrimination in being forced to use their “dead names” or risk being banned. The petition is addressed to the seven “white cisgender individuals currently serving as top level Facebook executives.” This includes notorious Black person-hater, Mark Zuckerberg.

For Black organizers, Facebook is more than our daily dopamine fix of memes and “likes.”

Cue the cries for Black folks to “make their own platform!” if we don’t like being discriminated against. I call this the “go back to Africa” argument. It ignores the fact that white corporations have a virtual monopoly on the resources and infrastructure necessary for such an undertaking, and would only serve to further insulate white society from anti-racism ideology. I’m sure Facebook, like much of the world, would love for Black people to just quietly disappear. But like a socially conscious beer commercial, it’s not gonna happen.

For Black organizers, Facebook is more than our daily dopamine fix of memes and “likes.” It has become a vital tool for conveying marginalized narratives that are excluded from mainstream media. It has proven to be an invaluable resource for intra-community organizing and the mobilization of our base. Despite Facebook’s many security shortcomings, it’s still the most ubiquitous collaborative global platform. The integrated Messenger app is also the number one communications app in the Western Hemisphere, and is tied with WhatsApp for the number one messenger on the planet. WhatsApp, incidentally, is also owned by Facebook. So by prejudicially restricting users, Facebook is not only preventing Black voices from reaching the masses, they’re preventing us from communicating with our friends and families.

Mark Zuckerberg already knows his employees, like Canadians, are hella racist — which is not surprising considering only 2% of Facebook employees are Black. Last year he issued a statement scolding them for repeatedly defacing references to “Black Lives Matter” found at Facebook headquarters. Clearly that statement didn’t have a profound impact on his company’s culture of racism. If Mark Zuckerberg truly wanted to address Facebook’s diversity issues and end discrimination against Black Facebook users, all he’d have to do is replace his team of lily white moderators with dope ass Black women. It’s not like he doesn’t have resources at his disposal to make this happen. But Mark Zuckerberg doesn’t seem willing to do any of that. He seems content in allowing things to remain as they are. So I’m left to assume it’s because Mark Zuckerberg, well… you know.