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literary-illuminati · 1 year ago

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Book Review 68 - Babel by R. F. Kuang

Overview

I came to Babel with extremely little knowledge about the actual contents of the book but a deep sense of all the vibes swirling around its reception – that it was robbed of a Hugo nomination (if the author didn’t outright refuse it), that it’s probably the single buzziest and most Important sf/f release of 2022, that it was stridently political, and plenty more besides. I also went in having mostly enjoyed The Poppy War series and being absolutely enamoured by the elevator pitch of an alternate history Industrial Revolution where translation is literally magic. And, well-

It is wrong to say I hated this book, but only because keeping track of my complaints and starting organize this review in my head was entertaining enough to keep me invested in the reading experience.

The story is set in an alternate 1830s, where the rise of the British Empire relies upon the dominance of its translators, as it is the mixture of translation and silverworking, the inscription of match-pairs in different languages on bars of worked silver and the leveraging of the ambiguity and loss of meaning between them that fuels the world’s magic. The protagonist is pluckted from his childhood home in Canton after his family dies in a cholera outbreak and whisked away to the estate of Professor Lowell, an Oxford translator he quickly realized is his unacknowledged father. He’s made to choose an English name (Robin Swift) and raised and tutored as a future translator in service to the Empire.

The meat of the story is focused on Robin’s education in Oxford, his relationship with the rest of his cohort, and his growing radicalization and entanglement with the revolutionary Hermes Society. Things come to a head when in his fourth year the cohort is sent back to Canton to, well, help provoke the first Opium War, though none of them aware of that. The final act follows the fallout of that, by which I mean it lives up to the full title of “Or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution”.

To be clear, this was technically a very accomplished book. The writing never dragged and the prose was, if not exactly lyrical, always clear and often evocative. Despite the breadth of space and time the story covers, I never had any complaints about the pacing – and honestly, the ending was, dramatically speaking, one of the more natural and well-executed ones I’ve read recently. It’s very well-constructed.

All that being said – allow me to apologize for how the rest of this is mostly just going to be a litany of complaints. But the book clearly believes itself to be an important and meaningful work of political art, which means I don’t feel particularly bad about holding it to high standards.

Narrative Voice

To start with, just, dear god the tone. This is a book with absolutely zero faith in its audience’s ability to reach their own conclusions, or even follow the symbolism and implication it lays down. Every important point is stated outright, repeated, and all but bolded and underlined. In this book set in 1830s England there are footnotes fact-checking the imperialists talking heads to, I guess, make sure we don’t accidentally become convinced by their apologia for the slave trade? Everything is just relentlessly didactic, in a way that ended up feeling rather insulting even when I agreed with the points Kuang was making.

More than that, and this is perhaps a more subjective complaint but – for an ostensible period piece, the narrative voice and perspective just felt intensely modern? This was theoretically an omniscient third person book, with the narrative voice being pretty distinct from any of the actual characters – with the result that the implicit narrator was instead the sort of person of spends six hours a day getting into arguments on twitter and for this effort calls themselves a progressive activist. The identities of all the characters – as delivered by the objective narration – were all very neat and legible from the perspective of someone at a 2022 HR department listing how diverse their team was, which was somewhere between a tragic lost opportunity to show how messy and historical racial/ethnic/national identities are and outright anachronistic, depending. (This was honestly one of the bigger disappointments, coming from Kuang’s earlier work. Say what you will of The Poppy War series, the narration is with Rin all the way down, and it trusts the reader enough not to blink.) More than that it was just distracting – the narration ended up feeling like an annoying obstacle between me and the story, and not in any fun postmodern way either.

Characters

Speaking of the cast – they simply do not sound or feel like they actually grew up in the 19th century. Now, some modernization of speech patterns and vocabulary and moral commensense is just the price of doing business with mass market period pieces, granted, but still – no 19th century Anglo-Indian revolutionary is going use the phrase ‘Narco-military state’ (if for no other reason than we’re something like a century early for ‘narco-state’ to be coined as a term at all). An even beyond feeling out of time most of the characters feel kind of thinly sketched?

Or no, it’s not that the characters are thinly sketched so much as their relationships are. We’re repeatedly, insistently told that these four students are fast friends and closer than family and would happily die for each other, but we’re very rarely actually shown it. This is partly just a causality of trying to skim over a four-year university education in the middle third of one book, I think, but still – the good times and happy moments are almost always sort of skimmed over, summarized in the course of a paragraph or two that usually talk in terms of memories and consequences more than the relationships themselves. The points of friction and the arguments, meanwhile, are usually played out entirely on the page, or at least described in much more detail. In the end you kind of have to just take it as read that any of these people actually love each other, given that at least two of them seem to be feuding at any given point for the entire time they know each other.

Letty deserves some special attention. She’s the only white member of Robin’s cohort at Babel and she honestly feels like less of acharacter and more a collection of tropes about white women in progressive spaces? Even more than the rest, it’s hard to believe the rest of the class views her as beloved ride-or-die found family when essentially every time she’s on screen it’s so she can do a microagression or a white fragility or something. Also, just – you know how relatively common it is to see just, blatantly misogynistic memes repackaged as anti-racist because it specifies ‘white women’? There’s a line in this that almost literally says ‘Letty wasn’t doing anything to disprove the stereotype of woman as uselessly emotional and hysteric’.

Also, she’s the one who ends up betraying the other three and trying to turn them in when they turn revolutionary. Which is probably inevitable given the book’s politics, but as it happened felt like less of the shocking betrayal that it was supposed to be and more just, checking off a box for a dramatic reverse. Of course she turned on them, none of them ever really seemed to even like each other.

As a Period Piece

So, the book is set in the 1830s, in the midst of the industrial revolution and its social fallout, and the leadup to the First Opium War (which is, through the magic of, well, magic ,but also mercantilist economics, make into a synecdoche for British global dominion more broadly). On the one hand, the setting is impeccably researched, recent and relevant historical events are referenced whenever they would come up, and the footnotes are full to bursting with quotes and explanations of texts or cultural ephemera that’s brought up in the narration.

On the other, the setting doesn’t feel authentic in the slightest, the portrayal of the British Empire is bizarrely inconsistent, and all that richly researched historical grounding ends up feeling less like a living world and more like a particularly well-down set for a Doctor Who episode.

The story is incredibly focused around Oxford as a city and a university. There’s a whole author’s note about the research and slight changes made into its geography and I absolutely believe its portrayal as a physical location and the laws about how women were treated and how the different colleges were organized and all that is exactly as accurate as Kuang wanted them to be. The issue is really the people. With the exception of a few cartoonish villains who barely get more than a couple pages apiece, no one feels, sounds like, or acts like they actually belong in the 19th century. The racism the protagonists struggle with all feels much more 21st century than Victorian, and the frame of mind everyone inhabits still comes across more as ‘unusually blatantly racist Englishman’ than 19th century scholars and polymaths.

This is especially blatant as far as religion goes. It’s occasionally mentioned, sure enough, but to the extent anyone actually believes in Christianity it’s of a very modern and disenchanted sort – this is a society that sends out missionaries as a conscious tool of colonial expansion, not because of anything as silly or absurd as actually wanting to spread their gospel. Also like, it’s Oxford, in the nineteenth century. For all the racism the protagonists have to deal with, they should be getting so much more shit from ‘well-meaning’ locals and students trying to save their (one Muslim, one atheist, one probably Christian but black and protective of Haitian Vodou on a cultural level which would be more than enough) souls.

Or, and this is more minor, it is a central conceit of the whole finale that if a few (like, two) determined revolutionaries can infiltrate Babel they’ll be able to take the entire place hostage with barely any trouble. This is because the students and professors there are, basically, whimpy bookworms who’ll faint at the sight of blood and have no stomach for the sort of violence their work actually supports and drives. Which – look, I really don’t want to defend the ruling class of Victorian Britain here, but I’m not sure physical cowardice is really one of their failings, as a group? I mean, there’s an entire system of institutionalized child abuse in the boarding schools they went to to get them used to taking and dealing out violence and abuse. Basically every upper-class sport is thinly disguised military drill or ritual combat (okay, or rowing). Half of them would graduate to immediately running off and invading places for the glory of the queen. I’m not sure two sleep-deprived nerds with knives would actually have been able to cow the crowd here, is what I’m saying. (This would stick out less if the text wasn’t so dripping with contempt for them on precisely these grounds.)

Much less minor are our heroic revolutionaries themselves. And okay, this is more a matter of taste than anything but like – the Hermes Society is an illegal conspiracy of renegade current and former Babel scholars dedicated to using their knowledge of magic and access to university resources to oppose and undermine the British Empire in general and the work of the school in particular. Think Metternich’s worse nightmare, but in Oxford instead of Paris and focused on colonial liberation (continental Europe barely exists for the purposes of the book, Britain is Empire.) So! A secret society of professional revolutionaries in the heydey of just that, with a name that just has to be Hermetic symbolism, who concern themselves with both high politics and metaphysics.

They are just so very, very boring. This is the age of the Conspiracy of the Equals, the Carbonari, the Seasons! The literal Illumanti are still within living memory! Where’s the pageantry, the ritual, the grandiosity? The elaborate initiation rituals and oaths of undying loyalty? They’re so pragmatic, so humble, so (and I know I keep coming back to this) modern. It’s just such an utter wasted opportunity. Even beyond the level of aesthetics, these are revolutionaries with remarkably little positive ideology – the oppose colonialism and racism for reasons they take as self-evident and so don’t feel the need to theorize about it (and talk about them with the vocabulary of a modern activist, because of course they do), but they’re pretty much consciously agnostic as to what world should look like instead. They vaguely end up supporting a sort of petty-bourgeois socialism (in the Marxist sense), but the alliance with Luddites is essentially political convenience – they really don’t seem to have any vision of the future at all, either in England or the various places they claim as homelands.

On Empire and Industrialization

The story is set during the early nineteenth century, so of course the Industrial Revolution is a pretty core part of the background. The Silver Industrial Revolution, technically, since the Babellers translation magic is in this world a key and load-bearing part of it. Despite the addition of miracle-working enhancers and supports to its fundamental technology, the industrial revolution plays out pretty identically to history – right down to the same cities becoming hubs of industry, despite steam engines using enchanted silver instead of coal and thus, presumably, the entire economic and logistical system that brought this particular cities to prominence being totally unrecognizable. This is not a book that’s in any way actually about tracing how something would change history – which isn’t a complaint, to be clear, that’s a perfectly valid creative choice.

It does, however, make it rather galling that the single actually significant difference to history is that the introduction of magic turns the industrial revolution into a Legend of Zelda boss with a giant glowing weak point you can hit to destroy the whole enterprise.

On a narrative level, I get it – it simplifies things and allows for a far happier and more dramatic ending if destroying Babel is not just a symbolic act but also literally sends London Bridge falling down and scuttles the entire royal navy and every mill and factory in Britain. It’s just that I think that by doing so it trades away any chance for actually making interesting commentary on anti-colonial and -capitalist resistance. A world where a single act of spectacular terrorism really can destroy a modern empire is frankly so detached from our world that it ceases to be able to really materially comment upon it.

Like, the principle reason to not take the Luddites as your role models is not that they were morally vicious but that they were doomed – capitalism’s ability to repair damage to infrastructure and fixed goods is legitimately very impressive! Trying to force an entire ruling class not to adopt a technology that makes whoever commits to it tremendous amounts of money (thus, power) is a herculean task even when you have a state apparatus and standing army – adding an ‘off’ button to the lot of it just trades all sense of relevance for a satisfyingly cathartic ending.

(This is leaving untouched how the book just takes it as a given that the industrial revolution was a strictly immiserating force that did nothing but redistribute money from artisans to capitalists. Which certainly tracks as something people at the time would have thought but given how resolutely modern all the other politics in the work are rings really weirdly.)

All of which is only my second biggest issue with how the book presents its successful resistance movement. It all pales in comparison to making the Empire a squeamish paper tiger.

Like, the book hates colonialism in general and the British Empire in particular, the narrative and footnotes are filled with little asides about various atrocities and injustices and just ways it was racist or complicit in some particular atrocity. But more than that it is contemptuous of it, it views the empire as (as the cliche goes) a perpetually rotting edifice that just needs one good kick; that it persists only through the myth of its own invincibility, and has no stomach for violent resistance from within. Which is absolutely absurd, and the book does seem to know it on occasion when it off-handedly mentions e.g. the Peterloo Massacre – but a character whose supposed to be the grizzled cynical pragmatic revolutionary still spouts off about how slave rebellions succeed because their masters aren’t willing to massacre their own property. Which is just so spectacularly wrong on every axis its actually almost offensive.

More importantly, the entire final act of the story relies upon the fact that the British Empire would allow a handful of foreign students seize control of a vital piece of infrastructure for weeks on end and do nothing but try to wait them out as the national physically falls apart around them. Like, c’mon, there would be siege artillery set up and taking shots by the end of week two. As with the Oxford students, the Victorian elite had all manner of flaws – take your pick, really – but squeamishness wasn’t really one of them.

On Magic

So the magical system underlying the whole story is – you know how Machinaries of Empire makes imperial ideology and metaphysics literally magical, giving expert technicians the ability to create superweapons and destroy worlds provided that the Hexarchate’s subjects observe the imperial calendar of rites and celebrate its triumphs/participate in rituals glorying in the torture of its ‘heretics’? It’s not exactly a subtle metaphor, but it works.

Babel does something similar, except the foundational atrocity fueling the engine of empire on a metaphysical level is, like, cultural appropriation. As an organizing metaphor, I find this less compelling.

Leaving that aside, the story makes translation literally capable of miracle-working – which of necessity requires making ‘languages’ distinct natural categories with observable metaphysical boundaries. It then sets the story in the 19th century – the era of newborn nation states and education systems and national literatures, where the concept of the national-linguistic community was the obsession of the entire European intelligentsia. Now this is not a book concerned with how the presence of magic would actually have changed history, in the slightest, but like – given how fascinated it is by translation and linguistics you’d think the whole ‘a language is a dialect with a navy’ cliché would at least get a light mention (but then the book doesn’t really treat language as any more inherent or natural than it does any other modern identity category, I suppose.)

As an Allegory

Okay, so having now spent an embarrassing number of words establishing to my own satisfaction that the book really doesn’t work at all as a period piece, let us consider; what if it wasn’t trying to be?

A great many things about the book just fit much better if you take it as a commentary on the modern university with Victorian window-dressing. Certainly the driving resentment of Oxford as an institution that sustains itself and grows rich off the exploitation of international students it considers second-class seems far more apt applied to contemporary elite western schools than 19th century ones. Likewise the racism the heroes face all seems like the kind you’d expect in a modern English town rather than a Victorian one. I’m not well-versed enough on the economics of the city to know for sure, but I would wager that the gleeful characterization of Oxford as a city that literally starts falling to ruin without the university to support it was also less accurate in the 1830s than it is today.

Read like this, everything coheres much better – but the most striking thing becomes the incredible vanity of the book. This is a morality tale where the natural revolutionary vanguard with the power to bring global hegemony to its knees through nothing but witholding their labour are..students at elite western universities (not, I must say, a class I’d consider in dire need of having their egos boosted). The emotions underlying everything make much more sense, but the plot itself becomes positively myopic.

Beyond that – if this is a story about international students at elite universities, it does a terrible job of actually portraying them. Or, properly, it only shows a certain type; just about every foreign-born student or professor we meet is some level of revolutionary, deeply opposed in principle to the empire they work within. No one is actually convinced by the carrot of a life as an exploited but exceedingly comfortable and well-compensated technician in the imperial core, and there’s not really acknowledgement at all of just how much of the apparatus of international institutions and governments in the global south – including positions with quite a bit of real power – end up being staffed by exactly that demographic who just sincerely agree with the various ideological projects employing them. Kuang makes it far too easy on herself by making just about every person of colour in the books one of the good guys, and totally undersells how convincing hegemonic ideology can be, basically.

The Necessity of Violence

This is a pet peeve and it’s a very minor thing that I really wouldn’t bring it up if that wasn’t literally part of the title. But it is, so – it’s a plot point that’s given a decent amount of attention that Griffin (Robin’s secret older brother, grizzled professional revolutionary, his introduction to anti-colonialism) is blamed for murdering one of his classmates who had the bad luck to be studying while he was sneaking in to steal some silver – a student that was quite well-loved by the faculty and her very successful classmates, who have never forgiven him. Later on, it’s revealed that this is an utter rewriting of history, and she’d been a double agent pretending to let herself be recruited into the Hermes Society who’d been luring Griffin into an ambush when he killed her and escaped.

This is – well, the most predictable not-even-a-twist imaginable, for one, but also – just rank cowardice. You titled the book ‘the necessity of violence’, the least you can do is actually own it and show that violent resistance means people (with faces, and names, not just abstractions only ever talked about in general terms) who are essentially personally innocent are going to end up collateral damage, and people are going to hold grudges about it. Have some courage in your convictions!

Translation

Okay, all of that said, this isn’t a book that’s wholly bad, or anything. In particular, you can really tell how much of a passion Kuang has for the art and science of translation. The depth of knowledge and eagerness to share just about overflows from the page whenever the book finds an excuse to talk about it at length, and it’s really very endearing. The philosophizing about translation was also as a rule much more interesting and nuanced then whenever the book tried to opine about high politics or revolutionary tactics.

Anyways, I really can’t recommend the book in any real way, but it did stick in my head for long enough that I’ve now written 4,000 words about it. So at the very least it’s the interesting sort of bad book, y’know?

#book review #babel #r. f. kuang #sff #lesbian space atrocities #-ish #hatermode

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asteronomical · 7 months ago

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Ratiorine/Aventio Mirror AU where Ratio is part of the Genius Society and Aventurine is a Masked Fool. Yes, I know it goes against the point of their characters, Ratio's especially. However, what if we took the other core aspects and reapplied it to the new background and context?

Genius Society member Dr. Ratio whose love for humanity manifested differently, enough to get a glance from Nous. Genius Society member Dr. Ratio who believes in humanity so much that he pursues knowledge in its rawest form knowing that someone somewhere will eventually pick up the pieces of his research and do something with it. Genius Society member Dr. Ratio who searches for the untarnished truth, who studies all the intricacies of subjects most helpful to humanity, who lays down the foundation of objective information for future scholars to build off of. Genius Society member Dr. Ratio who is a utilitarian when it comes to the good of humanity, who lets the passage of time bring him the fruits of his efforts, who makes necessary sacrifices for the greater good.

Masked Fool Aventurine who accepted the Tavern's invitation, whose thirst for survival manifests in the manner of technicalities. Masked Fool Aventurine who seeks the thrill of living in the present, seeks hedonistic pleasures in daily life, makes big gambles just so he can feel the rush of exhilaration with every win. Masked Fool Aventurine who lives and dies and is reborn with every new identity, with every mask he puts on, with each different name he wears. Masked Fool Aventurine who impersonates all the people he's lost in hopes of seeing them alive one way or another, who plays into his stereotypes so that even small remnants of his roots survive (even in the ways that aren't fun, because negative attention is still attention). Masked Fool Aventurine who loses himself in the frivolities of a fool, who slowly forgets his original name and face.

It all starts as a game, at first. You know, those stuck-up geniuses are so fun to mess with. They're so uptight and serious, can't they just lighten up a little? Ah, but they're not immune to nonsensical antics. For the quintessential component of a scholar is curiosity, and the most curious thing to a genius is the mind of a fool. Just like that: hook, line, and sinker. The masked gambler reels in the good doctor, who had been following his little trail of clues all this time...

"I finally caught you, gambler." "Hah, as expected of the esteemed doctor. It didn't take you long to figure me out." "You've made yourself into quite the enigma, though it is one not impossible to solve for someone like me." "Of course, of course. Now, why don't you put that oh-so-intelligent brain of yours into solving something else instead?" "What do you mean to imply?" "A genius's job is to discover the unknowns, is it not? I wonder... if rediscovery is on the agenda, too." "With time comes the inevitability of outdated data or newfound truths. I suppose it is not out of the question, depending on its purpose." "What if the purpose was something... selfish?" "It would not faze me, for it is nothing new to me." "My, how scandalous! Well then..." "You fool, what are you—" "My original face and name. Can you find them for me, darling doctor?"

#ratiorine mirror au #ratiorine #aventio #raturine #dr ratio #aventurine #asteronomical writings

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maryflorlovyblog · 4 months ago

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Living in society is a challenge because sometimes we are trapped by certain norms that force us to follow rules that limit our being or our non-being... By this I mean that we have, at least, two personalities: the objective one, which everyone around us knows; and the subjective... At times, this appears so mysterious that if we ask - Who are we? We won't know for sure! Now I know one thing for sure: we must always be authentic, people need to accept us for who we are and not for what we appear to be... Herein lies the eternal conflict of appearance x essence. What a challenge, huh? "Never suffer for not being a thing or for being."

(Clarice Lispector)

#maryflor #pazeequilibrio #positividade #citações #meuspensamentos #sentimentos #reflexões

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desaintjustfancam · 4 months ago

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Bodies in Nier Replicant

NieR Replicant is a game characterized by a preoccupation with bodies, their failures, their betrayals, and their significance both constructed and inherent. Each of its protagonists enjoys a complicated relationship with their body, its main plot threads revolve around the discrepancy between body and soul, and the game both out of necessity and seemingly some genuine interest engages with sexual politics. An accounting of this ought to be made in an organized and thoughtful fashion, and I believe the best way to proceed with such an account is to discuss how the questions of corporeality touch upon each of our protagonists, painting a picture as we go. It is worth noting that I will from time to time touch upon the question of authorial intent, as Yoko Taro and associates have been vocal and engaged with fan questions. While this may be the case, I am engaging with NieR as a text, of which its creators' interpretations are one of many and do not possess a unique charisma of truth. I also do not wish to make conjecture about authorial intent, but merely about what I regard to be substantive and valid readings of a work of fiction. Spoilers will be unmarked and plentiful.

Kaine is a fairly apparent and explicit case of bodily and sexual politics. Kaine is an intersex woman of uncertain parentage raised in a xenophobic, superstitious, and authoritarian society. Within her society she is a pariah along with her grandmother Kali and is forced to the social margins, often subject to violence and abuse from a young age. Kaine is a creature of contrasts and contradictions: a beautiful woman full of hatred and profanity, a victim who has become a fierce warrior and herself a victimizer, a social outsider who herself participates in genocide and the destruction of the other, a woman ashamed of her body who dresses in an outfit that would make Hugh Heffner blush, a human and a shade, an object of sexual gratification but also one of revulsion.

The issue of Kaine's presentation is a recurring discussion in the game, frequent reference is made to her undress and Weiss refers to her with the increasingly affectionate nickname "hussy", despite the fact that Kaine's sexuality is actually a subject that is not broached in the game – her existence is solitary and lonely, and her only romantic inclinations are rather chastely directed towards Nier himself within the game itself. Indeed, in Ending E, NieR is reincarnated with all his purity in the body of a child, and the pair cling to each other in nudity amid a pure white blossom – a Lunar Tear, which by this point has taken its place as a signifier of pure love (Yonah and Nier, Kali and Kaine, and now Kaine and Nier). As Kaine holds NieR, there does not appear to be a sexual element to her protective embrace. In this sense, we see a glimpse of Kaine the maiden, Kaine the woman.

The audio CD "Lust" depicts Kaine as lustful and fixated on Nier, and engaging in necrophilia by proxy in a fit of madness. Kaine is also a murderer, with a dark passenger in the form of the shade Tyrann who permits her to live only so long as she victimizes others. Kaine is uniquely situated to prevent the wholesale slaughter inflicted by Nier upon the Shades, including innumerable children and infants, yet she remains quiet and does not disclose her understanding of their language. Kaine drips with profanity, threatens to mutilate her enemies often in sexualized fashions. Kaine, in this context, is powerful, violent, lustful – here we have Kaine the monster, the phallic Kaine.

These contradictions are not tolerated well within Kaine. Her duality, reflected in her twin swords, one of which is ultimately destroyed in her conflict with Nier, is the source of a great deal of suffering. She struggles to continue to psychologically steel herself to kill Shades as the apparent evil of her deeds makes itself clear. Even after avenging herself on the shade Hook, Kaine is not satisfied and simply wishes, feeling her purpose exhausted, for death to take her before being, effectively, reanimated by the benevolence and purity of child Nier. Even Tyrann, symbolic of Kaine's evil and masculinity is eventually moved by the experience of love and comes to regard himself and his actions with disgust. Kaine ultimately resolves the struggle between feminine-masculine, good-evil, chastity-sexuality in favor of her womanhood.

However, as in all conflicts there is a unity in opposites. Kaine's phallic aspect is given rise to by her desire to protect her womanhood, her virtue, from the community of hatred that surrounds her, from a society that spurns and rejects her. Kaine is hateful and murderous because she has been given no other recourse, no other communities, no other options. A clear example of this is in Ending E, where when the player attempts to manipulate the camera to obtain the vaunted panty shot, and as the game's achievements frames it, "discover her secret" – a clear reference to her ambiguous genitalia, Kaine assaults and eventually murders the player themselves to defend her chastity and modesty. Rather than an intrinsic quality of her person, her aggression and masculinity are passed onto her by her grandmother as means of self defense. Kaine's greatest acts of evil and murder are all fundamentally acts of love, tribute, and defense to those who have given her life meaning. One might interpret her clothing, which shows clearly a body she hates and despises, as an act of self-sacrifice, a hair shirt, a tribute to the efforts of her grandmother and to those that love her.

Emil is textually homosexual. He expresses his wish during the wedding of Facade's King to Fyra that he might enjoy such a wedding some day and as Nier assures him he will find a bride some day, he is left to awkwardly note in his absence that this is not what he desires. The creators of the game have similarly confirmed their understanding of Emil as a homosexual character who is motivated by an unreciprocated love for Nier. Emil is depicted as pure and essentially omnibenevolent, despite being cursed with a body that destroys everything that he sees and later contains a monstrosity so profound that it exterminates entire communities. His love for Nier is chaste and is held in contradiction to the terror of his condition.

I think, however, equally compelling as a strictly homosexual reading is a reading of Emil as transgender. Wishing to be the bride in a wedding is conducive to such a reading, and NieR is a game with a lot to say about bodies. Emil is first met wearing a blindfold, alone, isolated from the world, unable to see the people he loves or wishes to give himself to, the very act of looking, of desiring, in this regard, becomes violent for Emil. Emil spends more time with Kaine than Nier for his time in the narrative, and they develop a close bond. It is, as well, Kaine who Emil petrifies with his gaze, not Nier. It is to free Kaine from the stone which symbolizes Emil's world that Emil descends into the depths of his home, his past, to confront the monstrosity within, represented by Halua, his twin sister, who has been reduced to a monster.

Emil gives himself to the monstrosity willingly, sublimating himself and being devoured by it with the hope that he might take it similarly into himself. And he does. Emil and his feminine counterpart, twins, exist within each other as anima and animus. Emil is blessed with sight, desire, knowledge, power, but is placed into a monstrous, hideous, ghoulish body, which he despises and which provokes fear and hatred from those who might previously have offered him kindness. It is a body designed to inflict harm, a body which does not suit its contents, a body which Emil himself desperately fears. In joining Kaine within the ranks of monstrous bodies and dysphoria, Emil is able to free her from this self-imposed prison. He is able to enable her to live a normal life. Emil rescues Kaine again in the narrative, saving her in Ending E and in the Shadowlord's Castle. These are tasks Nier is incapable of performing. Nier, despite loving Kaine, does not appear to understand her and might be incapable of understanding her. It is only her peer, someone who truly does empathize with her monstrosity, Emil, that is able to free her.

Emil as a pre-awareness transgender woman, trapped in a rotting, artificial, ghoulish body designed to do harm on her and others, able to free and empathize with those like her, pining after a man who cannot understand her, now free to desire but acutely aware of her own ugliness, inadequacy, and the hatred her desire provokes in others, I argue is extremely compelling. It is worth noting that Emil's bodily monstrosity escalates as the end of the eternal childhood her body had been trapped in, her beatific and cherubic features melting away to bones at crude angles, her hair falling away, at the moment she is meant to be graduating into self assurance and control.

Nier and Weiss are somewhat less involved from the perspective of body politics. Nier is noteworthy in that per associated works he was forced into sex work as an adolescent in order to get by, and that as a result he binds his hair into a ponytail as a response to sexual trauma. As he matures into adulthood he severs this ponytail, wearing his hair loose, representing in ways a growth past this. In doing so, however, Nier steels himself into a warrior, devoted only to recovering Yonah, sacrificing everything in his path to do so. In this sense I am not sure Nier has grown past his trauma so much as he has sublimated it into the acts of brutality which he inflicts upon others and his obsessive, bordering on incestuous, fixation on his sister. Nier is repeatedly prompted to feel empathy for other victims and outsiders and refuses to do so willfully, choosing to remain ignorant and deluded in his quest. Weiss, himself without a body or bodily autonomy, assists Nier in remaining blind and hardening his heart.

Louise forms a mirror to the concerns of bodies that are exhibited by Emil and Kaine. A Gestalt without a corresponding Replicant, Louise is a girl who was born without any options, a cruel product of fate. Able to think, feel, and take a false form as a woman, Louise is unable to speak or sing or perform in human society. She admires the beauty of humanity and desperately wishes to join them, cursing her own hideousness and admiring, desiring, the beauty of the world. She is infatuated with Hans the Postman, who cannot and will not reciprocate her love. She is denied humanity or sympathy by Nier and Weiss – although Kaine and Hans are able to provide it for her posthumously. In this sense Louise is a mirror of Kaine and Emil. This parallel might cast Neir and Hans in somewhat of a Walrus and the Carpenter role – they will both mercilessly eradicate the Other from the world, but one will, at least, cry about it.

Louise, is of course, the pinnacle of the Other. She has no Replicant. No earthly or human attachment. She cannot become anything except herself, her efforts to do so render her even more monstrous, hideous, and terrible than before. The sort of perverse excitement with which Nier and Weiss regard her extraordinarily powerful body feels at times reminiscent of discourse about the physicality of transgender women and athletes. It reminds me of the times one clocks involuntarily a person they encounter. It feels dirty, transgressive, and wrong.

There are innumerable stones left unturned in this brief discussion of how NieR Replicant talks about and shows bodies and people's relationships to them, but I thought it would be interesting to reflect on my own thoughts on the issue, how they made me feel, and what kinds of readings can be made of the work.

#nier replicant #nier #text post #kaine #emil

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daydreamtofiction · 7 months ago

Text

The Feature XXI // Benedict Cumberbatch x Reader

Series Overview | Previous Part | First Part

Chapter Summary: (Female Reader) While on assignment at another glamorous event, Quinn takes the opportunity to have some fun. Though it doesn't quite go the way she'd hoped.

Chapter Word Count: 8K

Chapter Warnings: Morally-grey reader, strong language, adult and sexual themes, tones of jealousy and possessiveness, fake event, op-ed excerpts contain graphic imagery. Quinn back at it again with her nightmarish antics. Readers must be 18+

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Julia would bounce her knee when she sat at her desk; one leg crossed over the other, the heel of her Louboutin slingback clinking against the table leg with an irritating rhythm. You were sitting across from her as she read your final draft, your gaze focused on the blood red sole of her shoe, the remnants of the discount sticker she hadn’t fully peeled off.

She placed the papers on the desk and cleared her throat. You looked up at her, only then realising you’d been making a face; eyes narrowed, lip curled disdainfully. It wasn’t intentional, your face just settled that way sometimes. So you softened your edges, rounding your eyes and relaxing your jaw as you waited for her to speak.

“Quinn…” she sighed.

Your thorns quickly returned; lids turning heavy with indignation as you rolled your shoulders and pressed your back into the chair.

“You know what I’m going to say,” she continued with a patronising smile. “It’s well written, there’s no denying that, but it’s not going in the mag.”

“Why not?” you asked bluntly.

She picked up the papers and licked her thumb, using it to flick to the second page where she began to read aloud. “I just wanted those men to stop looking at me. I wanted to erase myself, piece by piece, I imagined my face sloughing away, then my arms, my breasts, until there was nothing left but a pool of flesh and marrow where I’d once stood. But then, I thought, would they even care? Or would they still find pleasure in my remains; dig their hands into the slurry and let it slip between their fingers. And that scared me more than disappearing altogether...”

You blinked at her, waiting for her to explain the problem. But the way she was looking at you made it seem like you should have already known.

“It’s quite graphic,” she said.

“It’s a metaphor.”

“Yes, obviously I understand that. But it’s not the most pleasant of visuals, is it? Really, the topic of the op ed on a whole, it’s- It’s dark, heavy-”

“It’s about gender, sex, inequality, how I’ve learned to navigate society as a woman, it’s not meant to be all bubblegum and rainbows. And it’s not like the magazine hasn’t shed light on these kinds of topics before.” You shrugged.

“Yes but not this… Brutally.”

You furrowed your brow.

She sighed, flicking to another page. “I thought sex was supposed to make me human, make me whole. But in the end, he was just a prop, an object. They all were. I could always tell they wanted me to love them, and they thought I might if they gave me everything. But nothing ever seemed worth taking.” She looked at me. “You can’t seriously think Draft would publish this?”

“It’s an op ed,” you said, your tone growing snippy. “It’s supposed to be personal, subjective, opinionated-”

“But there’s a fine line, Quinn, between sharing your views and experiences on important topics and oversharing to the point where it becomes disturbing and completely indigestible for readers.”

“Disturbing?” You breathed out a laugh. “So this, a woman’s real, lived experience of men and sexuality and emotional connection is ‘disturbing’, but the piece we let that dick head comedian write back in August where he said Hitler ‘wasn’t such a bad guy’ was okay?”

“It was a joke he made in poor taste and a retraction was published almost immediately.”

“Still made it to print though.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. “Look, I’m not saying this isn’t a good piece of writing. Because it is. I know you’ve been working on it for months and it shows. It’s important and it’s relevant, I get that. But we have to give readers balance; some escapism, y’know. And that’s the job of our staff writers, to uplift the magazine with stories about celebrities and fashion and lifestyle and-” She sighed. “We have the hard hitting stuff covered. What we need from you is-”

“Fluff.” You inhaled sharply through your nose and crossed your arms over your chest. “I just thought after the Benedict Cumberbatch interview and how well it was received I might finally get to write something with more… substance.”

She let out a single, clipped laugh, shaking her head at you condescendingly. “Quinn, one feature on a big name celeb doesn’t fast track you to serious journalism. You wrote about his films, his love life, what he does in his spare time. It wasn’t exactly an exposé.”

You bit back a retort, crossing one leg over the other and glancing out at the office through the glass wall. “What did Ellen Ford say about it? The op ed.”

“I haven’t shown her. And I’m not going to.”

“Julia-”

“I’m not having this conversation anymore, Quinn. I was given this position permanently because I know what I’m doing. Ellen trusts my judgement and my judgement is that this piece is a no go. If you want to write something for the next issue then you can cover the London Arts and Culture Gala tonight. Kate was supposed to be going but she just called to say she’s sick.”

You groaned, pressing your fingers into your eyes. “Why do you keep sending me to fucking galas?”

She tutted sarcastically, pushing out her bottom lip. “Getting dressed up to have free food and drink while rubbing shoulders with celebrities all night, how evil of me.”

You glared at her.

“I hear Benedict Cumberbatch is on the guest list,” she said, a slight snarkiness in her tone. “Maybe you can cosy up to him, get yourself a follow up interview. Not exactly Pullitzer material but hey, it’s another step towards those doors you’re so desperate to open.”

You already knew Ben was going to be there. You wanted to tell her that you knew; that he’d told you about it as you lay together in bed last night - still not having sex, to your utter dismay - and that you’d scoffed when he asked if you were covering it for the magazine. You wanted to punch her for suggesting you cosy up to him, as though he was nothing more than a rung in the ladder of your career.

“The last editorial assistant that suggested I get ‘cosy’ for a story ended up escorted out of here by security,” you said with a cold, flat smile.

She held your gaze, her foot bouncing more quickly now. “I know you like to think the world’s against you, Quinn. But I actually think you’re a good journalist. Hence why I keep sending you to fucking galas…”

You paused a moment before finally giving in and standing up with a huff. “Can I get another dress?”

“I’m sure you have something at the back of your wardrobe you could wear.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning over and snatching your papers off the desk before turning to leave her office.

The back of your wardrobe had provided you two options: the first was a short, bright chartreuse dress with a boned bodice and sparkly straps. It was awful. So awful that you grimaced when you pulled it out, wondering what kind of fugue state you’d been in when you bought it. But then you noticed the tag was still attached, realising you must have come to your senses and decided to never let it touch your body or see the light of day again.

The second option was plain, black, high neck and sleeveless. It hugged your figure like a second skin, skimming just above your ankles as you stood on your tiptoes in front of the mirror. You wondered why you’d never worn it before. Then you remembered you’d bought it for a funeral, only to get it home and realise your dead uncle’s family probably wouldn’t appreciate being able to see the outline of your arse at his wake.

You put your hair up and did your makeup, feeling pangs of excitement in your stomach at the thought of seeing Ben’s face when you arrived. You hadn’t told him you were coming, much preferring the idea of him spotting you from across a crowded room, having to hide his surprise and keep his cool, to pretend he barely remembered your name. You slipped into a pair of heels, stuffing your ticket and press pass into your bag alongside a notepad and pen, your fully charged phone and the perfume he always complimented.

When you arrived at the Claridge’s hotel, you stepped out of the cab to a mob of flashing cameras lining the carpeted entrance. There was something humbling about being unimportant, being able to weave through a sea of celebrities and influential figures like a ghost as paparazzi screamed for them to stop and pose for photos. It was comforting, almost, to be overlooked.

You made your way inside, the grand hall warmly lit with ornate chandeliers, large round tables covered in pristine tablecloths and floral centrepieces. The room buzzed with the sound of clinking glasses and reserved conversation, servers weaving between guests with trays of champagne and dainty canapés. You took a glass from a waiter with the most dazzling smile you’d ever seen, unable to resist a glance at his backside as he walked away.

The press table was at the other end of the hall. You took a large swig of champagne and began the long walk, meandering through tables and crowds of famous faces you never got used to seeing in person. Olivia Colman was at a table to your left, close enough for you to reach out and touch her - and you thought about it, just for a moment - but you resisted.

You hadn’t been watching where you were going, an elbow almost knocking the drink from your hand as you walked right into it. You looked up to see an actor you recognised but couldn’t remember the name of, his surprise softening to a friendly laugh as he placed his hands on your arms to steady you.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Sorry,” you said. “I was distracted by Olivia Colman.”

“Ah, we’ve all been there,” he replied.

He was tall, smartly dressed, with a crooked smile and reddish hair. He’d been in a TV show you watched. Or was it a movie? God, what the hell was his name?

You gave an awkward laugh. “Sorry again.”

He waved his hand, as if telling you not to worry. You smiled appreciatively and turned to walk away, but his voice suddenly made you halt.

“Benedict! How’ve you been, man?”

You glanced back over your shoulder to see him pulling another tall, suited man into a hug, the pair smacking each other hard on the back in that weird way only men ever seemed to do. The corner of your mouth curled, threatening a smirk when you saw the side of Ben’s face.

You tilted your head, waiting for him to notice you. And when he did, it was as delicious as you’d imagined it would be. It began with a flicker of recognition, followed by the slow widening of realisation, his expression changing so subtly that only someone who knew him as well as you did would notice.

He composed himself quickly, giving the man he’d been hugging a final, firm pat on the back before stepping away with a slight smile. You kept your face neutral as you stood in his eyeline, as if seeing him was no big deal, as if you hadn’t spent the majority of your evening fantasising about this very moment; the way his eyes travelled down your body, his jaw clenching as he lingered on your curves. You brought the glass to your lips, taking a slow sip of champagne, never looking away from him as he tried to engage in polite conversation.

It didn’t take long for him to excuse himself, squeezing the man’s shoulder as he stepped around him and made his way towards you, his long strides closing the distance far too quickly. You’d wanted to make the moment last, to savour it, make him sweat a little while longer.

“Quinn,” he said, his voice low and warm as he came to a stop in front of you.

“Benedict,” you replied coolly, giving a slight nod.

He glanced around before returning his gaze to you. “You said you weren’t coming.”

You smiled, giving a casual shrug. “Didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

He gave you a look, one that told you he wasn’t buying it. Then his eyes flitted down again, taking you in once more. “You…” He trailed off, his gaze returning to your face, and for a second you thought he might lose his composure. “You look… Nice.”

“Nice?” you repeated, feigning offence.

His mouth twitched, his voice darkening. “Very nice.”

You could feel his restraint, the effort it was taking for him not to touch you, to close the distance between you.

“So.” He cleared his throat. “I take it you’re here for the magazine?”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, taking another sip of champagne. “Mhm. Julia, the editorial assistant, completely shat all over my piece, decided I was more useful rubbing shoulders than writing anything of actual substance.”

His brows came together for a moment with a sympathetic smile. “Well clearly she’s an idiot.”

“Tell her that.”

He leaned in slightly. “I’ll tell her, if you want.”

You laughed and rolled your eyes again. “Yeah, that’ll go down well; getting the guy I’m fucking- sorry, not fucking, to pull strings for me at work.”

He smirked, dropping his head and fixing the cuff of his blazer. “Just say the word.”

“Stop it,” you laughed, holding back the urge to push him playfully in the chest.

“Well I suppose there’s worse assignments you could’ve ended up with.”

“Yeah.” You looked around at the glitzy hall, the man he’d been talking to finding his seat at a table. “Oh my god, what’s his name by the way? It’s been driving me mad.”

He looked over to where you’d pointed before turning back and opening his mouth to speak. But before he could, a sudden presence appeared at his side.

“Benedict, good to see you again!”

You recognised Leo McGrath immediately. He was a documentary filmmaker, award winner, known philanthropist. Yet it was his recent appearance at the Oscars that had shot him to sudden, unexpected internet fame. You wondered what it must feel like, to be so unbelievably attractive that just standing there on a red carpet could send the whole world into a frenzy. To have millions of people suddenly know you, not because of your work, but because they fancied you.

It was true, he was undeniably stunning; green eyes framed by masses of dark lashes, full lips and thick wavy hair long enough to tuck behind his ears. When he smiled, his cheeks dimpled, his imperfect teeth giving him a charm that made it hard not to swoon, even just for a second.

“Ah, Leo,” said Ben as he shook his hand. “It’s good to see you too. How’ve you been?”

“Good, yeah, it’s been… intense.” He breathed out a laugh, running a hand through his hair.

“I can imagine.”

“Well I suppose you don’t need to imagine, you’ve been there too. What did they call you? The Internet’s Boyfriend?”

Ben rolled his eyes, nodding with a laugh.

Leo’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes lighting up as if he hadn’t noticed you until now. “Sorry, I’m so rude!” he said, reaching out to shake your hand.

“Oh, of course, sorry. Leo, this is Quinn Armitage. She’s a writer for Draft.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Quinn,” he said, looking you up and down, far less subtly than Ben had.

You shook his hand with a smile, catching a fleck of irritation on Ben’s face. “Likewise. And congratulations on your Oscar win.”

“Ah, thank you very much.” He took a step back, his eyes bouncing between the two of you. “So are you here together, or?”

“No,” Ben replied, and you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the speed of his response. “Quinn wrote a piece on me at the end of last year. We were just catching up.”

“Oh right.” He seemed pleased to learn you were there alone, his interest in you piquing, attention lingering on your face. “So you’re here for work then?”

You nodded, watching Ben’s jaw tighten from the corner of your eye, like he was grinding his teeth. You held back a grin; the sight of him ruffled was a rarity, and you couldn’t help but take some pleasure in it.

“Well you should join me at my table,” said Leo. “It’s near the front, a much better spot for you to get some good material.”

You glanced up at Ben, the slight flush in his cheeks, how hard he was having to work to stay calm. He was jealous. You liked it.

“Yeah,” you said with a smile. “That sounds good, I’ll take you up on that offer.”

He gestured for you to follow him, and you did, meeting Ben’s gaze as you stepped aside and began to walk away. You couldn’t hold back the smirk as you watched his eyes darken, a silent warning etched on his stony, unamused face.

You followed Leo to his table, the weight of Ben’s eyes heavy on the back of your neck. You couldn’t help but feel excited, perhaps even satisfied; Leo’s sudden interest in you was undeniably flattering, and Ben’s barely contained jealousy made it all the more enjoyable.

He pulled out a chair for you and you thanked him as you sat down. The view was indeed better from here; the stage only feet away, every guest visible with the turn of your head. He took a seat beside you, getting comfortable as he chatted casually to the other people around the table.

Then he turned to you, snatching you out of a daze.

“So is this what you do for Draft then?” he asked. “Report on parties and events and stuff?”

“Well I’m a staff writer, so I pretty much just do what I’m told,” you said, your voice laced with cynicism.

He smiled. “I sense some… unrest.”

“You could say that.” You drank down the dregs of your champagne, twirling the stem of the flute between your fingers.

He leaned back in his chair, cocking his head as he looked at you with narrowed eyes, an amused smirk creating a deep dimple in his cheek. “Let me guess, you’re trying to work your way into serious journalism, but all they’re giving you is celebrity gossip and… listicles.”

You pressed your lips together, exhaling a laugh through your nose. “I wrote this piece - it’s my best work to date - put it forward for an op ed but they weren’t interested. Sent me here instead.”

“Y’know, this industry is… brutal. You fight to be heard, to have your work taken seriously, amplified, given the platform you know it deserves. Then you finally get recognised for that work after years and years of graft, and yet somehow it still ends up overshadowed by how fuckable women on the internet think you are.”

“You are quite fuckable though, to be fair,” you replied bluntly.

He dropped his head to disguise a laugh, before composing himself again, lifting his head to meet your gaze. He stretched his arm along the back of your chair to lean in closer, speaking quietly. “What I’m saying is that no one in this industry gets anything without going over heads and stepping on toes. It’s a fight. And even when you get to the top, you have to claw at it if you want to stay there. It’s like… the Hunger Games but for losers who watched the news too much as kids.”

You gave a slight smile, allowing a quick glance over your shoulder to Ben’s table where he sat fidgeting with his hands, watching you beneath a heavy brow. You looked down at Leo’s arm draped behind you, your smile quickly turning into a smirk.

You leaned in closer to Leo, mirroring the intensity of his gaze. “So you’re saying the only way I’m going to transition to serious journalism is if I… play dirty?”

“Exactly,” he replied in a low, husky voice.

“How do you suggest I do that?”

He thought for a moment, running his tongue across his top teeth. “When I first started making docs, I got turned down by every production company, every channel and network. No one would give me a penny, wouldn’t even agree to broadcast. So I said fuck it, went out there with my camera, whatever money I had in my account and I made them anyway. Then when these companies saw that people actually gave a shit about the things I was documenting, they came running to me.”

“So you’re saying I just go rogue?”

“Potentially.”

“Hm. There’s just one problem with that; there’s this thing called rent, and erm… needing to eat…” you said sarcastically.

He laughed. “I’m not saying you go and quit Draft and start a fucking blog or something. I’m saying… check out. Quietly quit, as they say. Attend the fancy events, write the fluffy articles, do whatever you need to do to keep your affiliation with the magazine and use it to your advantage.” He reached up and took your chin between his finger and thumb, turning your head towards the sea of tables behind you. “See all of these people? Actors, producers, investors. You have direct access to them all right now. You could charm and persuade and get numbers in your phone and your name on people’s radars. And all you have to do in exchange is write a silly little article about their clothes and how they spend their evening.”

You turned your head back to him slowly; his insight like an epiphany, turning the banality of your surroundings to an abundance of possibility. Ten minutes ago this man was a stranger, yet now here he was with his face inches from yours, giving you the best advice you’d ever heard.

“Let me interview you,” you said.

He leaned back, brow furrowed in curiosity.

“What? I’ve made a connection and I’m using it to my advantage.” You shrugged. “Isn’t that what you told me to do?”

The corner of his mouth curved into a smile. “Fair play. Though, an interview… with Draft…” He scrunched his nose with scepticism.

“I won’t write anything about your looks. Won’t ask a single question about anything other than your work.”

“It’s tempting,” he replied with a hum.

The lights of the hall dimmed as a single, bright spotlight illuminated the stage. A woman stepped up to the microphone holding a stack of cue cards and clearing her throat. Leo turned away from you to listen, and you felt your chest heave with a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. He was intense. Beguiling, even.

“Welcome everybody,” said the woman, her voice creating a screech of feedback through the speaker. She took a step away from the mic with an embarrassed laugh. “Thank you so much for coming…”

Your phone buzzed inside the clutch bag on your lap as the woman continued to speak. You dug it out and opened the message waiting on the screen.

I know what you’re doing.

You subtly turned your head, giving Ben a mischievous wink from across the dark hall.

What am I doing? you replied.

Flirting. Stop it. Now.

Your stomach fluttered as you pictured the tension in his fingers as he typed each word, the firmness of his jaw as he grit his teeth.

Flirting???

Quinn. I’m serious.

Not my fault he fancies me. I’m actually quite enjoying the attention.

As if on cue, Leo turned his attention back to you, leaning in to speak directly into your ear. “What’s so interesting on your phone?” His breath was warm against your skin, his hushed tone filled with playful curiosity.

You looked over at Ben again, smiling as you put the phone face down on the table, turning your attention back to Leo. “Nothing.”

“Good. I’d hate to think I was losing your attention so soon.”

The woman on stage continued her speech, her words fading to a muffled hum as you lost yourself in the game you couldn’t resist playing.

“You haven’t lost my attention,” you said, keeping your voice low. “I still want that interview.”

He chuckled. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.” He leaned in again, his lips almost brushing your ear. “But I don’t think a formal interview is what you really want from me…”

Your heart began to race, his proximity sending shivers down your spine. You could sense the shift in his demeanour, the hunger in his eyes. If this had been a year earlier, you were sure you’d have ended up in Leo’s bed by the end of the night. But instead, you found yourself more thrilled by the idea of Ben watching you; the power you wielded to make his blood boil from across a crowded room.

“What else could I possibly want?” you murmured, tilting your head slightly towards Leo, your lips nearly grazing his cheek.

He let out a low, throaty laugh, his hand sliding from the back of your chair to your thigh. You wondered how far you could take things before your actions became indefensible, before the flirting verged beyond a game and evolved into something less playful.

“I have a feeling there’s a lot of things you want.” His touch was soft yet bold, his fingers tracing swirls that tickled, even through the material of your dress. “Some I might be able to… help you with.”

You bit your lip, unable to hold back a smirk, before leaning in close. “And here I was, thinking you invited me to sit at your table because you wanted to do a good deed for a struggling journalist.” You pressed your lips to his ear. “Turns out you just wanted to fuck me.”

He turned his head to look at you, his face so close you could feel his breath. “Can I not want both?”

“You can,” you replied simply. “Doesn’t mean you’re going to get it though.”

The room erupted with applause, quelling the tension between you as you turned your attention to the stage. A young woman made her way to the microphone with a guitar in hand. She smiled shyly as she waited for the clapping to fade, before pressing her fingers to the strings and beginning to play.

Your palms were beginning to itch; every speech and performance receiving a lengthier round of applause than the last. You had no choice but to join in with it, no matter how boring or mediocre you thought it was, putting down your little notebook and pen with a quiet groan to bring your hands together in feigned appreciation.

You’d been nursing your second glass of champagne for most of the evening, knowing it was your last and taking small sips to savour it. Julia warned you not to get drunk, and you’d taken offence to the insinuation that you couldn’t be trusted to stay professional. But when you realised Leo’s arm was still draped along the back of your chair, you thought perhaps she’d had a point.

The last wave of applause rippled across the room as the host made her way offstage; the spotlight dimming, chandeliers regaining their warm glow as the atmosphere began to relax, the hum of conversation drifting through the air like a sigh of relief. You skimmed over the pages in your book, trying to decipher the chaotic notes you’d scrawled in the dark when Leo turned to look at you.

“Get everything you need?” he asked, nodding to your notebook.

“Eh, I’ll probably have to employ some creative writing here and there,” you replied as you looked up at him.

He smirked. “You weren’t paying attention to any of it, were you.”

“More than I would have if I were back there at the press table.”

“Well it’s a good job I had a spare seat.”

“Mm.” You allowed your gaze to flit from his eyes to his lips and back again, just enough to keep him interested. “I better do a few rounds, get some quotes from people before they start to leave.”

Mingling had never been your thing, the idea of approaching strangers or interrupting conversations creating a pit of dread in your stomach that made your skin clammy and your mouth dry. Usually you came with someone else; dragged Nick along or found yourself on assignment with another writer who would do most of the talking. This time, you had no choice. .

You moved around the hall, weaving through a maze of tables as you searched for targets. And with each interaction, it became easier. You took quotes from a table of theatre directors, had surreal conversations with celebrities, and when you finally plucked up the courage to speak to Olivia Colman, the only thing you managed to write down was ‘aaahhhh’.

You took a moment to breathe, scanning the room to see Ben still at his table, deep in conversation with another actor you vaguely recognised. You watched him for a moment, noticing how his usually easy smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, how he kept brushing the tips of his fingers over his bottom lip. To anyone else, he seemed happy, comfortable. But to you, it was clear he wasn’t nearly as composed as he appeared.

You made your way over, navigating the scattered chairs and waiters topping up champagne until you were close enough to hear their voices.

“...and everyone I’ve spoken to about it has said I should do it,” the other man was saying. “But it’s just such a big commitment.”

Ben nodded, his eyes flickering in your direction for just a moment. “It is a lot. But you’ve just got to weigh up the pros and cons…”

He trailed off as you finally made it to their table, turning his attention to you as though he hadn’t known you were coming.

“Sorry for interrupting,” you said as you cleared your throat and held up your notebook. “My name’s Quinn, I’m a writer for Draft Magazine. I was hoping I could steal you for a second to ask a few questions?”

His eyes stayed on you for a moment before returning to the actor beside him. “Sorry.”

“Ah no worries, duty calls.”

“But if you want my honest opinion, I think you should go for it.”

The man smiled appreciatively as he rose to his feet, raising his glass in a mock salute before walking away.

You quickly sat in his place; the seat was still warm, turned towards Ben at an awkward angle. You shifted it further to face him, leaning back with the notebook in your lap.

“Hi,” you finally said, holding back a smile.

“Hi,” he replied, his face calm, tone unreadable.

“So, the question I have for you is…” you flicked to another page. “Do you have any thoughts on how we as a society, and as individuals, can foster the arts in ways that don’t involve funding or monetary-”

“What the fuck was that?” he interrupted quietly, gesturing subtly towards Leo’s table across the hall.

“What was what?” you replied casually, defiantly.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead he mirrored your posture, leaning back in his chair and lowering his chin slightly, his eyes darkening beneath the shadow of his brow. “His hands were all over you…”

“So?”

“So you knew exactly what you were doing.”

Your stomach fluttered with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. You cocked your head, widening your eyes to feign innocence. “What was I doing?”

“Trying to piss me off.”

You pushed out your bottom lip. “Are you jealous?”

“Jealous-?” He exhaled a laugh through his nose. But there was no amusement in it. Then he lowered his voice. “I was jealous when I saw him eyeing you up. I was jealous when he invited you to sit at his table. But now? I’m not jealous, I’m furious.”

You regarded him for a moment, taking undeniable pleasure in his silent rage. But when you finally opened your mouth to speak, a hand on your shoulder made you still.

You looked up to see Leo standing at your side, glancing down at both of you with a charming smile.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he said. “Quinn, my team and I are heading to an afterparty at the Edition. I wondered if you wanted to join me?”

“Oh, I…” you looked at Ben, then back up to Leo. “Thanks, but I can’t. I’m still working.”

“Your boss doesn’t have to know…”

You breathed out a laugh. “No really, I think I’m going to be good for once and actually do my job.”

“Or you could come with me to the afterparty and start being good tomorrow…”

“She said no,” Ben interjected firmly.

It caught you off guard, raising the hairs on your arms and sending a shiver down your spine. It was his unexpected harshness paired with a friendly smile, the restraint it was clearly taking him to keep his cool.

Leo seemed taken aback too, turning to him with raised brows and parted lips, like he wanted to speak but had no idea what to say. He eventually gave up with an understanding nod, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a business card.

“Give me a call some time,” he said as he handed it to you. “If you want, of course.”

You took it with a smile, waiting for him to walk away before turning your attention back to Ben.

“That was rude of you,” you said.

“Sorry… Rude of me?”

You rolled your eyes and slid the card between the pages of your notebook.

“Are you really keeping that?” Ben asked.

“He’s a documentary maker, I’m a journalist. It might come in handy.”

He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek and shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he continued to glare at you.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow, you weren’t joking when you said you were furious…”

“No. I wasn’t. I told you the mind games and manipulation wouldn’t fly with me. I told you that.”

“You are taking this way too seriously.”

He leaned forward suddenly, his movement sharp, teeth clenched. “Too-” But he stopped himself, pressing his lips together and looking around the bustling hall as he slowly reclined again. “We’re leaving.”

You furrowed your brow as you watched him stand up. “Did you not hear what I just said? I’m working, I can’t leave yet.”

“I said we’re going.”

You hadn’t seen him like this since the first night you met. You’d almost forgotten he was capable of it; the hard angles and stern tone, the dominance of his demand sending a flutter through your core. The thrill of it was undeniable, but his anger was palpable, making you stutter as you tried to speak.

“Ben, I’m- I’m not-”

“Now.”

You yielded with a sigh, shoving everything into your bag and tucking it under your arm as you rose to your feet. Your heart was pounding as you began to follow him, almost tripping over the leg of your chair as you went. He didn’t speak as he made his way to the exit of the hall, his fist opening and closing at his side in a steady rhythm, face brightening with a polite smile whenever someone greeted him as he passed.

He gripped your wrist as you neared the exit, leading you out into the large, echoing foyer. The indelicacy of his touch surprised you, flooding you with a fleeting rush of panic, like a child preparing to be scolded once their parents got them home.

Your heels clicked against the marble floor, your quick, uneven footsteps struggling to keep up with his long strides as he walked you towards a quiet, hidden corner.

“Don’t you need to tell people you’re leaving?” you asked. “Like your publicist or whoever you came with?”

“I came alone,” he replied, stopping once you were out of sight.

“Really? Why?”

“Because I drove here.” He glanced over his shoulder, assessing the paparazzi as they waited outside. “You’re going to go and wait for me by the car. I’ll follow in a couple of minutes.”

You did as you were told, emerging into the mild spring night and slipping through the chaos with ease. When you got to Ben’s car, you waited with your arms folded over your chest, watching from a distance as an explosion of camera flashes illuminated the darkness like fireworks.

You pressed your lips into a straight lined smile when he finally reached you, hurrying around to the driver’s side without a word. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, glancing around to make sure he hadn’t been followed. You raised onto your tiptoes to look at him over the top of the car, breathing out a laugh when he almost scowled back.

“Are you seriously still annoyed with me?” you asked.

“Of course I am,” he replied. “I can barely look at you right now.”

He slipped into the car and pulled the door closed. You paused for a moment before deciding to climb into the back seat instead.

He looked at you in the rearview mirror, brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“You said you didn’t want to look at me,” you replied brattishly. “You don’t have to if I’m back here.”

He rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated breath. “Get in the front.”

You thought about defying his demand, but you quickly gave in; choosing to clamber arduously over the centre console instead of getting out, purely to annoy him that little bit more. You settled into the front passenger seat, turning to look at him as you dragged the seatbelt across your chest.

He drove in silence at first, the journey ebbing and flowing between heavy traffic and dark, deserted streets. You’d been waiting for him to speak, but with each silent wait at a red light, you found yourself growing impatient. He turned his head towards you, and you glanced back at him hopefully, only to realise he was looking past you, checking the road was clear before driving across it.

You huffed. “Fine, you win, I apologise for flirting with the sexy man, alright? Can you stop acting like I slapped your mum now?”

“You really don’t get why I’m pissed off, do you.”

“He was just giving me career advice-”

“Career advice? What career advice requires him to touch you like that? To whisper in your ear, run his hand up your thigh?”

You couldn’t resist; the old Quinn taking over with a shrug and a surly glare. “I was just having a bit of fun-”

A deep growl rumbled in his throat, his grip tightening around the steering wheel. “Nothing about that was fun.”

“Maybe not for you…”

“Quinn. I swear to god.”

You threw your head back and let out a groan. “It was flirting, Ben. He clearly fancied me and I took the opportunity to tease you, wind you up-”

“Oh yeah, and I’m sure you got no pleasure out of it whatsoever,” he quipped cynically.

“Oh I’m so sorry,” you said sarcastically. “Y’know, it’s almost like I haven’t gone the past four months without sex because the man I’m seeing refuses to touch me anywhere below the fucking neck. I mean, Jesus, I’ve been masturbating so much I could give a teenage boy a run for his money; forgive me for indulging in a bit of physical affection for one night.”

“So you did like him then...”

“No, Ben-” You stopped yourself, pinching the bridge of your nose and letting out an exasperated breath. But when you composed yourself again, your brows came together in sudden realisation. “Actually, what if I did?”

He took his eyes off the road for a second, glancing at you in confusion.

“What right would you have to tell me I couldn’t flirt with him? Couldn’t let him touch me?” You sat up straighter, turning your body towards him. “What if I wanted him to do that? What if I enjoyed sitting with him and decided I wanted to go to that afterparty? What authority would you have to tell me I couldn’t?”

He rolled his eyes.

“What if I went with him? Danced, drank, let him take me home, undress me, kiss me…”

Your words were getting to him; crawling under his skin, making him roll his shoulders like he was trying to shrug the image away.

“I mean, you said it yourself to whatshisface back at the gala; I’m just Quinn, the journalist you met once back in November. Why would you care who else I fuck?”

He turned the wheel sharply, pulling the car into a layby with a sudden stop. It was dark, void of streetlights, thick trees lining both sides of the road. You jerked forward as he broke, the seatbelt pressing firmly against your chest.

“Jesus Christ, Ben.”

He shut off the engine and turned in his seat to face you. “You know full well that neither of us want people to know about this. You don’t get to use it against me to justify flirting with someone else.”

“I flirted with him to annoy you. Clearly it worked… A bit too well.”

“But why? Why would you think I’d find that amusing?” His voice was raised, his hands moving in time with his words.

“I didn’t. I thought I’d find it amusing.”

He growled, letting out a hot angry breath through his nose. “You are the most infuriating fucking person.”

“Then why have you stuck around for this long?”

“Why have you? If taking it slow and doing things right has been such a fucking chore for you then why are you still bothering?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he didn’t give you the chance, unclipping his seatbelt to lean in closer.

“I’ll tell you why. It’s because you know I’m the only man who’s ever been able to handle you. Who sees you for who you really are and likes it.”

Your heart began to race, your back pressing against the passenger door. He was right, and you hated it.

“Because even though I haven’t touched you in four months, you still aren’t bored of me.” His voice was dangerously soft now, his eyes fixed on yours. “Because even as another man threw himself at you tonight, you still found yourself looking for me.”

“So if that’s what you think, why do you care that I let him touch me?” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Because I don’t like watching someone else touch what’s mine.”

You swallowed hard, your defiance faltering as his words sank in. He was so close now, one arm outstretched along the back of your seat, the other holding back the urge to reach out and touch you.

Your eyes flitted from his face to his crotch then back again. “You want to fuck me right now, don’t you…”

His gaze flickered with something dark, primal. He exhaled slowly, the angles of his face sharp with anger, partly with you, but mostly with himself.

A rush of excitement flooded through you as he reached out to cup your face, pulling you into a sudden, intense kiss. You could feel his possessiveness; the way his lips moved with a firm pressure, tongue sweeping impatiently into your mouth.

You fumbled for your seatbelt, unfastening it quickly and letting it snap back against the door, your hands immediately snaking around the back of his neck, pulling yourself into him. His hand dropped to your side, his touch rough, almost painful as he pressed and squeezed his fingertips into your waist. You felt him pulling you closer, his body radiating a heat that almost made it hard to breathe. His hand travelled lower, pushing up the material of your dress and allowing his fingers to graze the bare skin of your thighs. He ran his palm over the place Leo had touched, as though he was cleansing you of it, wiping it away and replacing it with his own.

You’d been starved for so long that even his hand on your thigh made you tremble, a soft moan escaping your parted lips as he kissed you. The sound stirred something in him, and in moments you found yourself straddling his lap in the driver’s seat.

He was hard. You could feel it straining beneath his trousers, pressing against your centre as you tangled your fingers in his hair, your breaths hot and heavy, anger and lust fogging the windows like steam. You rolled your hips, the steering wheel letting out a short, loud beep as your backside knocked against it. But neither of you paid it any attention, giving in to the fevered, passionate release you’d been denying yourselves for so long.

His hands settled on your hips, gripping you firmly as he pushed himself against you, the friction drawing a satisfied groan from his throat. You’d missed those sounds, the way it felt to have him desperate to fill you. But you knew he was losing himself, intoxicated by his own frustration. You were in a car, parked on the side of a quiet, winding road. This wasn’t how he wanted it to be, and you weren’t sure it was how you wanted it to be either.

You broke away, letting your head fall back as he began traipsing hot, hungry kisses down your neck. “Ben,” you whispered breathlessly. “If we go any further I won’t be able to stop.”

You felt him pause, his lips still, breath tickling your skin.

“This isn’t how you wanted it to be,” you said softly, masking your disappointment. “We need to stop.”

He lowered his forehead to rest on your collarbone, letting out a quiet sigh. “Fuck,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, thick with lust.

He pulled away from you, his hand lingering on your waist for a second longer before finally letting go. He sat back, his head tilting against the headrest as he closed his eyes, trying to compose himself.

You slid off his lap, climbing back into the passenger seat and fixing your dress. You looked over at him, watching him in silence, fearful of what awaited you when he finally opened his eyes. You’d spent four months wanting nothing more than to see him break, to give in to you, and if it were anyone else, you would have taken full advantage of this lapse in judgement. But you couldn’t.

The silence was awkward, moonlight casting a soft glow through the steamy windows, your slowing breaths providing the only sound. When he finally looked at you, there was a clarity in his expression; his jaw softening, eyes rounding.

“Thank you,” he said.

There was something about the way he said it, like your restraint had renewed his faith in you, shifted something inside him.

You nodded slightly, reaching behind you for your seatbelt.

He nodded back, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment longer before finally starting the car again. The engine rumbled and he leaned forward to wipe the windshield, using his sleeve to clear it.

The tension remained as he drove, but it was different now. He was no longer angry, and you no longer cared to push his buttons. After a while, you gathered he was taking you to his house, and it filled you with a sense of relief you couldn’t quite explain.

The road was empty, quiet, yet still the traffic light turned red. He slowed to a stop, resting his hand on the gearstick as he waited for it to change.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “About Leo. I really was just teasing you. I never would have-”

He reached out and took your hand in his without a word, giving it a gentle squeeze. You relaxed back into your seat, looking down at your intertwined fingers as they rested in your lap.

*Reader Tag List: @blondekel77 @evelynrosestuff @bakerstreethound @annesthaeticc @aephereal @sharp-cheekbones-locked @sherlux @veryladyqueen @graciebear47 @allurenia @jamerlynn @cottagecore-cat @aysamuka @thegardenerofeden @cumbercatchmebaby @inspirationalandrandom @turkisherlockian @swds @weepingdreamerpanda @elzabethann @childofgod215 @briecantopme @lovecleastrange @jaspearl31 @paola-carter @greatburger @azu21 @xourownsidee @hunterofshadows04 @asgardianprincess1050 @teddycrimson @sherlocksgirl91 @oliveoilthoughts @hai-kbai @shjl15 @bloodyxsaint @charleighsblog @stephenstrangeaddictions @omgstarks @sleutherclaw @bisciwri @theevilsupreme @druggedbyfiction @gwoods123 @classickook @coffee-d0t @strangeobsessed @januarycolor @strangeions @lonadane @downtownshabby @diabaroxa @stllbrln @thealleydog @cakesandtom @irisbutterfly @coffeebeing @lexlexigogh @mun7on @svntnpldis @belan-the-dilf-hunter @blxckdragonfly @detective-sherlocked @xdelulu @nicoletk @filmlock @bensherstrange @midnightramyeoncravings @coldnique @dearwatson @scailedandisolated @aphroditesdilemma @bergararyans @txylorrvelasco @classicrebound @hthrevr @happybunnyclumsyduck @c00letha @j3mj3rrica @ironstrange1991 @vi0letdaze @theothersideofthescreen @alessandra-cumberbatch @indiefilmfatale

#benedict cumberbatch #fanfiction #fanfic #fanfic writing #benedict cumberbatch x oc #benedict cumberbatch x you #benedict cumberbatch x reader #benedict cumberbatch imagine #benedict cumberbatch smut #benedict cumberbatch fanfic #Benedict Cumberbatch fanfiction #smut #smut writing #lemon #fanfic series #ao3 fanfic #the feature

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leftistfeminista · 3 months ago

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Testimonies of sexually enslaved Marxist revolutionary women

Women's bodies do not belong to women; they have historically been the property of men, the state and the church. Women's bodily autonomy and sexuality is a public matter that is based on oppressive patriarchal moral norms.

Sexual torture of women in a dictatorship is not just any kind of torture. It is focused on punishing women who transgress the gender contract that we have established in this heteropatriarchal society. Women who are fighters, emancipated, revolutionary are punished. The aim is to annihilate the freedom of women who have broken with established patterns and occupy public space.

During the civil-military dictatorship in Chile, women suffered torture in a different way than men. Sexual torture, based on rape, the introduction of objects and the use of animals to harm bodies, was common in torture and extermination centers. This practice has been made invisible, firstly because many women who were subjected to these acts do not speak about them, which makes legal proceedings against the abusers difficult. In addition, sexual violence is equated with "traditional" torture without considering the profound damage it causes in the development of women's lives and finally, because many of the abusers today walk free, unpunished and protected by nefarious pacts of silence.

Our bodies are violated, occupied and invaded, as an extension of the war. They are spoils for the agents of the State and for negotiating with capital.

Today, women are still punished when they break with the imposed stereotypes, that is why Nicole was murdered; the repressive forces of the State, forcing the lagmien Lorenza to give birth in shackles; they abuse women in police stations with impunity, groping high school students when they raise their voices. The judicial system protects violence against women by letting abusers go free. The State institutionally violates women through all kinds of discrimination.

We continue to resist, we are their political enemy. WE DO NOT FORGET WE DO NOT FORGIVE WE DON'T RECONCILE For all of us, for a feminist memory. Feminist Propaganda Brigade

#chile #political prisoners #marxism-feminism #violence against women #women's rights

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avnasace · 10 months ago

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no but the way viserys continues to haunt the story through rhaenyra and alicents conflict, which gets passed down to both of their children, is crazy good content.

the irony in that viserys the peaceful was the one who started this war, and the downfall of the dragons/his family in the first place.

viserys and daemon had their own conflict, but when viserys alienated rhaenyra initially by marrying her best friend, he then ignored his and alicents children, eventually later his actions leading to rhaenyra marrying his brother (who he'd also taken for granted and ignored).

he then kept doting on rhaenyra up until the moment he died, further seperating himself from his own children by alicent.

alicent knows of rhaenyras affairs, grows hateful and takes that resentment out on her own children instead, while her father otto is further poisoning her and them for his own ends to scheme for the throne.

so then alicents children learnt to grow up disliking rhaenyra's. the only time you see them even remotely amicable is when theyre bullying aemond, another bond made through cruelty instead of kindness. this is ironic considering at laenas funeral you can see that aemond actually thinks about trying to offer comfort to i think baela and rhaena (if i remember correctly?)

aegon and helaena couldnt care less, which to me makes it even more sad. if aemond had, he might not have then been so quick to rub his claiming of vhagar in their faces, and he might not have lost an eye.

the taking of the eye plus viserys' incompetence reignites and cements alicents hatred for rhaenyra even more. viserys takes rhaenyras side, not defending his hurt child at all, even going as far as to shout at aegon for even the mention that he might have said something against rhaenyra. this causes alicent to attack her, and later making her then double down on her efforts to pressure aegon into hating rhaenyra, further distancing him from her.

later we see with aegon that his mothers pressure leads him to find affection in other very unhealthy and harmful ways, assaulting his maids, excessive drinking, brothel going, and assumably fathering many bastards, leading him tho the child fighting rings as well. aemond too starts going to the brothel and avoiding alicent, but for platonic affection instead of anything more.

helaena is the one who received the most of her mothers love and the least of her cruelty, however their relationship is similarly screwed up because shes the only child that doesnt actually want affection from her...

meanwhile rhaenyra is a very loving and fiercely protective mother to her children, fighting for them above all else, especially when their parentage is concerned. she does anything for them, and it shows in their natures that their upbringing, other than the scrutiny from other nobles about their father, that they were raised kindly and wisely.

whats also completely different is that rhaenyras children have not one but three father figures, all of which love them in different ways, which is three more than alicents children have. you could make an argument for cole being a prominent male figure in their lives but he is also quite cruel and hateful.

we see team greens children grow up to be anxious, affection starved control freaks, with mummy and daddy issues, with not one of them knowing how to be a leader even though they are all in some way forced to be one.

aegon is an incompetent drunkard of a king who knows nothing of court or war or politics, not even high valyrian. he is only a figurehead, but is strangely empathetic towards his subjects and loves his children.

aemond is cruel and objective, a fierce fighter and being the most studied and educated of them all, but with no care to his subjects and far too willing to disregard or maim his own blood for his own ambitions.

helaena is the gentlest but she herself has no ambition to rule, she is kind but also an outcast of their society because of her prophecies. she also does not particularly care for her subjects, even being scared of them and their willingness to get to know her.

meanwhile in complete contrast jacaerys and lucerys are kind, more than willing to learn, theyre fluent in high valyrian, they are very interested in their histories and heritage and they learn sword fighting from harwin and assumably laenor? later probably daemon too.

they stand in the war council room with their mother and learn, and even baela and rhaena are involved by rhaenyra to both take part and learn.

the generational trauma goes crazy in this show, but all these characters are so compelling. i dont think there is a single main character that doesnt interest me. yes most of them are bad people and have done awful things, but its also so interesting to see how they got that way and see how one fathers actions, or lack thereof, caused so much destruction.

#this was much longer than i thought itd be xjdjxjsjjza #ill also admit i havent read the books but i am planning to #so there may have been things i missed or got wromg #idk this show is really special honestly and its a breath of fresh air from the shite writing and pacing from the last few seasons of GoT #idk something about this being a 'mans world' but these whole events were started by tragic yuri is amazing #and until recently its been two women leading the two oppositions no matter how subtly they were leading #a man drove a wedge between two girls and they spiralled into thus #its art #also tragic siblings/family goes hard im ngl it always makes me sad #house of the dragon #hotd #aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #helaena targaryen #alicent hightower #viserys targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #lucerys velaryon #laenor velaryon #harwin strong #i didnt talk much about rhaes younger children because they havent gotten mich screen time yet #and also i havent read the books and hopefully avoided most spoilers sjdjsjdks #baela targaryen #rhaena targaryen #ace rambles

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thatsonemorbidcorvid · 1 year ago

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“My reporting on stalking began in 2018, when I launched a national anti-stalking campaign, Unfollow Me, at my former employer Vice, in partnership with the stalking advocacy service Paladin. Using freedom of information laws, I found that more than 60 women had been murdered by stalkers in a three-year period, despite having reported them to the police.

Alice Ruggles, Shana Grice, Molly McLaren. I cannot forget their names. Their last moments haunt me. How Ruggles’ ex-boyfriend slashed her throat with a knife as she cowered from him in her bathroom. How McLaren’s ex-boyfriend stabbed her 75 times in a car park in broad daylight. How Grice’s ex-boyfriend subjected her to unthinkable terror in the months before her death – he let himself into her house and watched her sleeping – before murdering her, and setting fire to her body. All three women reported their stalkers to police, who did next to nothing. Grice, unbelievably, was fined by Sussex police for wasting police time. It’s been six years now, and all I see is the same police apologies and hand-wringing. Nothing has changed.

What I believe underpins all of this is a rich seam of misogyny. Men – and it is mostly men who are stalkers, although of course they can be victims too – who feel entitled to women’s time, their attention, their bodies and sometimes even their lives. And police forces that regard women as time-wasters and their complaints as histrionics, for objecting to this. Stalking victims deserve to live in safety and peace. Right now, as a society, we are failing them.”

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mystical-shadows · 9 days ago

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During a recent philosophical discussion, a friend accused me—perhaps only half in jest—of advocating anarchism and abandoning the foundations of organized society. It was a surprising charge, not because it was entirely unfounded, but because I had never consciously embraced anarchism as a legitimate political or philosophical framework.

Throughout my life, I have often lived in a manner that could be described as anarchistic—feral, self-determined, and skeptical of authority. Yet, I never afforded anarchism serious consideration. Like many, I had been conditioned by the prevailing system to fear the term. The dominant narrative taught me that a society governed by anarchist principles would inevitably collapse into dystopian chaos—a Mad Max-like world of lawlessness and despair.

As a result, I dismissed the ideological leanings of my anarchist-leaning friends as little more than eccentricity.

However, now that I am older and possess both the time and intellectual curiosity to explore the subject with greater depth, I find myself re-evaluating my assumptions. What I have discovered is startling: for most of my adult life, I have, in practice and belief, aligned with anarchist principles—without consciously realizing it.

This revelation has compelled me to scrutinize the systems of governance humanity has implemented throughout history. Whether it be chiefdoms, monarchies grounded in divine right, feudal hierarchies, parliamentary democracies, communist regimes, socialist structures, oligarchies, fascist states, or theocratic rule, they all share a fundamental characteristic: a concentration of power in the hands of a self-appointed elite who govern from the top down.

And what of democracy? Its idealistic promise has too often been undermined by manipulation and propaganda. The most recent electoral outcomes serve as a grim reminder: a large portion of the electorate, influenced by misinformation, chose to empower individuals whose actions reveal blatant corruption and disregard for the public good—effectively looting the nation without meaningful resistance.

When we examine history objectively, we find that only two governance models have ever truly provided stable, sustainable, and life-affirming structures for human societies—often enduring for thousands of years:

1. Egalitarian Tribalism, characterized by communal decision-making, shared resources, and horizontal social structures;

2. Individualist, Freedom-Centered Anarchism, which emphasizes autonomy, mutual aid, and voluntary association, free from coercive authority.

And so, yes—I am an anarchist. Perhaps I always have been, though I lacked the vocabulary and historical context to claim the title.

This raises an essential question: What is anarchism, really? And why is it viewed as such a profound threat to the status quo—a status quo that overwhelmingly serves the narrow interests of a self-perpetuating elite perched at the apex of society’s hierarchical pyramid?

Let me explain.

The Philosophy Behind the Anarchy Movement: A Vision of Freedom Beyond the State

Anarchy, in the philosophical sense, is one of the most misunderstood and misrepresented movements in modern political thought. Too often associated with chaos, violence, or lawlessness, its deeper philosophical roots tell a different story—one of radical freedom, ethical responsibility, and a belief in the innate potential of human beings to self-organize without domination. At its heart, the anarchy movement seeks not the destruction of order, but the dismantling of imposed hierarchies and coercive institutions, particularly the state, in favor of a more voluntary, cooperative, and egalitarian society.

The Core Philosophical Tenets

The anarchy movement is grounded in a fundamental distrust of centralized power. This stems from a philosophical commitment to autonomy—the belief that individuals have the right to govern themselves. Anarchists argue that when individuals are subjected to the authority of the state or any dominating structure (including corporations, religious hierarchies, or patriarchal systems), their freedom is diminished. Anarchy thus does not reject order but seeks a form of order that arises organically from the bottom up, rather than being imposed from the top down.

This anti-authoritarian stance is complemented by a commitment to mutual aid and voluntary association, concepts popularized by thinkers like Peter Kropotkin. Contrary to the Hobbesian idea of a brutish state of nature, anarchists view human beings as inherently capable of cooperation and empathy when freed from oppressive structures. Anarchy therefore is not synonymous with selfish individualism but rather envisions communities based on reciprocity, shared responsibility, and collective well-being.

Historical and Intellectual Foundations

The roots of anarchist philosophy run deep. From Laozi's Taoist rejection of rigid state structures to the early Christian communities’ communal living and rejection of Roman authority, the seed of anti-hierarchical thought has long been present. In the 18th and 19th centuries, as Enlightenment ideas began to challenge monarchic rule, figures like William Godwin, Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, and later Emma Goldman, Mikhail Bakunin, and Kropotkin began articulating an explicit anarchist philosophy.

Proudhon’s assertion that “property is theft” was not merely an economic claim but a moral one, questioning the legitimacy of institutions that concentrate power and wealth. Bakunin extended this critique to the state, famously warning that even well-meaning revolutionaries could become tyrants if given the reins of power. Goldman infused anarchist thought with a deep sense of personal liberty, advocating for women's rights, freedom of expression, and the right to pleasure and individuality.

Anarchy and Ethics

At its core, anarchism is a deeply ethical philosophy. It asks: How should we treat one another? For many anarchists, the answer lies in the rejection of domination in all its forms. The philosopher Noam Chomsky describes anarchism as a “tendency that is skeptical of authority and seeks to challenge it.” Yet anarchists do not seek a world without organization; they envision a society where organization exists, but without rulers—horizontal rather than vertical, participatory rather than imposed.

Anarchist ethics reject utilitarian calculations that sacrifice the individual for the so-called “greater good.” Instead, they emphasize dignity, agency, and consent. This lends the philosophy a poetic, almost spiritual quality—an idealism that believes another world is possible if we dare to dream beyond the structures we have inherited.

Modern Expressions and Misconceptions

Contemporary anarchy movements often take the form of direct action, protest, and community-building. From the Zapatistas in Chiapas to anarchist mutual aid networks in the wake of natural disasters or social collapse, the movement lives in practice as well as theory. Yet it remains plagued by misconceptions. The image of the black-clad rioter smashing windows has overshadowed the patient work of organizing free schools, community kitchens, and consensus-based assemblies.

Indeed, there are many branches within anarchist philosophy—anarcho-communism, anarcho-syndicalism, individualist anarchism, green anarchism, and more. Each branch shares the same root rejection of coercive power but diverges in its vision of the ideal society. This diversity is a strength, not a weakness; it reflects the movement’s refusal to impose a single ideology or blueprint.

Conclusion: A Flame That Refuses to Be Extinguished

The philosophy behind the anarchy movement is ultimately a yearning for a society where individuals and communities can flourish free from oppression. It is a vision of radical democracy, ethical integrity, and unshackled creativity. While critics dismiss it as utopian, its power lies in its refusal to compromise with systems of domination. Anarchy is not the absence of all structure, but the presence of just ones—formed by consent, driven by compassion, and evolving in harmony with human dignity.

Like a wildflower that grows between the cracks in concrete, the anarchist spirit endures—fragile, beautiful, and irrepressibly alive.

#anarchism #anarchist #social justice

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heretichromia · 11 months ago

Text

Exploring the Relationship Dynamics Between the Abyssal Hunters

I had a few people either misinterpret or express confusion regarding this post that I made, so I want to make a different post covering the same (and more) material that's more rooted in explicit textual evidence which doesn't use emotionally-charged language. I'm going to try my best to stay neutral here and discuss multiple possible interpretations.

In short, I want to break down all that we know regarding the nature of the relationships shared by the four* Abyssal Hunters. In long, see below. And...I mean long, it's 5,000 words.

*Abyssal Hunters as a faction of Ægir; sorry, Andreana. Note: Minor Path of Life (CN) spoilers below. None of the major events are spoiled, but I do talk about a lot of the context that the event gives us on Ægir society and the backstories of the Hunters.

What we know from the text:

I'll keep this segment as objective as possible, and only state things that I can directly argue as nearly indisputable from textual evidence. Some interpretation work is going to have to be done here, however, and I'm open to anyone who disagrees with anything here pointing out the passages in the text that contradict my assertions.

Ages:

This is a subject the community as a whole is widely misinformed about, so I'm highlighting it separately.

We know from Path of Life that the expected lifespan of an Ægir is around 150 years.

Gladiia is likely in her late 30s. She has 17 years of combat experience, which we're led to believe began relatively shortly after she received independence from her abusive, neglectful, and controlling mother. She was appointed as Consul of Technology before becoming an Abyssal Hunter, though her module description characterizes her as having been unable to decide the trajectory of her life, which implies to me that she was not free of her mother for very long before the operation. We don't have reason to believe Ægir uses child soldiers nor appoints children to be Technology Consuls, so this places her minimum age at around 35 and her likely age as a little older than that. She was still characterized as a young Consul ten years after her appointment, so I don't believe she'd be much older. Late 30s is my best approximation; much older than that, and things begin making less sense regarding the multiple parental figures still present in her life.

Skadi is likely also in her 30s, though the actual bounds are wider than Gladiia's. She has 13 years of combat experience, making her 31 at the youngest. However, from Path of Life we know that she was the most skilled technician in her division prior to becoming an Abyssal Hunter. This means she probably had at least a few, if not several years of work experience out of the Academy. If she's younger than Gladiia, it's likely not by many years, and she could even be conceivably older than her. I think she's probably a small handful of years younger, if you had to ask me my personal interpretation.

Laurentina is the youngest of the Abyssal Hunters. She has seven years of combat experience, implying that she joined a decade after Gladiia. This places her minimum age at 25. We can imagine she's probably not too much older than that, since she never fully embraced a career as a sculptor before changing circumstances caused her to apply for the Abyssal Hunters. She's probably in her mid-to-late 20s.

Ulpianus is the oldest, and potentially by a considerable margin. He was the first Abyssal Hunter, becoming one twenty years ago, as well as one of the scientists who created the Abyssal Hunters to begin with. He was already one of the most preeminent scientific minds of Ægir by this point. Since Ægir can live to 150, this means the upper bound on his age is potentially very high. This man could conceivably be in his 80s or older without it breaking anything we know about the story. The lower bound of his age is probably somewhere in his late 40s at an absolute minimum, assuming that the Ægirian process for becoming an accomplished scientist is anywhere remotely similar to the real-world one. It's completely up to speculation where his actual age falls between those bounds.

Connections between the Hunters:

An important note to make here that isn't precisely a connection, but does inform them: Ægir as a society does not have a compulsion towards nuclear family structures. In fact, the opposite is true. From Path of Life, we know that Ægir are usually raised in groups in dedicated schools. Ægir seems to prioritize careers over interpersonal relationships, and direct blood family ties are much weaker. Ægirian women don't give birth to their children directly; the embryos are surgically removed and then grown separately.

Laurentina's close relationship with her biological parents was noted as being somewhat atypical, and they still didn't raise her themselves. Instead, they allowed childcare services to raise her while frequently taking her with them on their trips when they could. Gladiia's upbringing, where she was isolated by an abusive and neglectful mother, is also atypical. From her conversation with Clemenza, we learn that she was in fact strongly suggested to give up Gladiia to childcare services, but refused to do so.

Onto the actual connections:

Gladiia met Ulpianus in the earlier years of the Abyssal Hunter project, when she was a young, emotionally vulnerable woman who was actively seeking new familial connections (see: her module). Given how well Ulpianus understands the other Hunters (implied in Stultifera Navis and displayed in Path of Life), it's very unlikely that he wasn't aware of this. Ulpianus declined his student Underflow's application to the Abyssal Hunters because he didn't want her to become like him. It's likely, then, that he personally processed Gladiia's entry into the Abyssal Hunters.

We know from Specter the Unchained's module that the two of them spoke at least somewhat often, discussing subjects like philosophy. In the one conversation we see, Ulpianus is explaining to Gladiia his concerns about the direction Ægir is heading in these "protracted days of calamity," and she seems to either agree with or absorb his pontification. He certainly takes the lead in this conversation with the "young Consul," and while a mentorship role can be inferred from this, it's not directly stated anywhere.

From Gladiia's IS3 ending, we know that Ulpianus never directly indicated to her that he felt any connection between them, nor did he bring up concepts like seniority around her. However, his actual feelings concerning her were clearly more sentimental than he let on, as he unexpectedly sacrificed his life for the sake of his "junior." Gladiia hadn't realized he was so sentimental until it happened, but in retrospect she looked back upon it warmly, realizing she never truly understood Ulpianus.

We have fewer interactions between Ulpianus and Skadi than we do between Ulpianus and Gladiia, but we can infer something of a dynamic from what we do have. Ulpianus trusted Skadi implicitly. From Path of Life, we know that he treated her differently from the other Hunters in his company. Ulpianus was a brilliant tactician who gave complex plans to each of his soldiers, but when he got to Skadi—who frequently spaces out when listening to others, and by her own admission in the event doesn't like to think—he merely told her that he trusted her to carry out her duty. He understood her, and didn't belittle her for her weaknesses. He had faith in her, and was right to do so; Skadi completed every mission exceptionally.

In the Second Company, meanwhile, Gladiia and Laurentina clearly had a closer relationship than just their positions would imply. Gladiia considered herself Laurentina's teacher, instructing her not only in the art of war but also in life skills. Their first lesson was not in violence, but in dance (Specter the Unchained OpRec). Whereas Laurentina is now frequently associated with her dancing, not just in narrative framing but actively by Ulpianus in Path of Life, she had barely danced much at all prior to her dances with Gladiia.

Already by the time of her aforementioned conversation with Ulpianus, Gladiia had developed a fondness for her subordinate. She even smiled when she spoke of her glowingly, something she almost never does. Gladiia, as critical as she is of almost everyone, can hardly find fault with Laurentina. From the aforementioned OpRec, we see that even Laurentina expects her to lecture her more than she does. Frequently, when confronted with her peculiarities and the choices she makes, Gladiia will approve of them warmly. The OpRec also has a wonderful passage of them just talking and spending time with one-another. It's very warm and gives a lot of small insights to their relationship and their relationship with the arts (a subject they're both very attached to) that I can't really explain effectively here without exploding the already extremely high word count. I'd recommend reading it if you haven't already.

In short, though, the relationship between Gladiia and Laurentina is very warm despite Gladiia's frequent brusqueness and coldness. In Ægir, they would see plays together—but because of Gladiia's insistence upon minimizing distractions while experiencing art, would sit apart. In Specter's post-Under Tides OpRec, Laurentina had to practically beg Gladiia before she showed her any more warmth than would be warranted to any other subordinate, as Gladiia kept her emotions tightly to her chest. Laurentina's emotional intelligence and close bond with her allows her to see through Gladiia's practiced emotionless exterior. Like Ulpianus, she understands Gladiia well enough to see through the strong facade she fronts to get glimpses into the deep well of anxiety beneath. In Laurentina's story in IS3, their bond is described as so close that she doesn't need to speak with Gladiia to understand her. She continued to dance with her as their primary method of silent communication for months after Gladiia had ceased speaking because of how much she hated how the Seaborn assimilation had changed her voice.

Of course, Laurentina and Skadi also share a deep bond, which is probably the most well-known one. Though how well they knew each other prior to the attack on Ishar'mla is still somewhat unclear—though it's clear from multiple sources (e.g. Specter OpRec, Path of Life, etc.) they weren't strangers—the important bulk of their relationship concerns their time spent together at Rhodes Island on land. Tortured by the Church of the Deep's horrific experiments and driven insane by the originium that Bishop Amaia injected into her spinal column, Laurentina was in an almost unrecognizable state when she was reunited with Skadi (Specter OpRec). She'd developed a second personality called Specter as a result of her experiences, one that was fully unfamiliar to Skadi, and the real Laurentina seemed to be locked away inside her own mind, in endless sleep, unable to awaken.

Skadi took care of Laurentina. She was not easy to care for. Beyond just requiring intensive care to keep her alive, Specter was mentally unstable. She would be unable to leave her treatment room for long stretches of time, and if the way she spoke to Skadi during her OpRec once she'd 'fallen asleep' again is any indication, some of the things she'd say to Skadi were truly vile. To continually bear this cannot have been an easy burden to shoulder, but Skadi would nonetheless come into her room constantly, sing songs to her, and tell her stories. Laurentina heard it all, though she couldn't speak. Though she teased her for it mercilessly when she awoke after Under Tides, she expressed legitimate gratitude to Skadi for all she'd done taking care of her.

If their bond was not intensely close before, it is now. Laurentina, now awake, teaches Skadi to dance in Unchained's OpRec, just as Gladiia taught her before. Just as she can see through Gladiia's facades, Laurentina understands Skadi enough to be able to see through hers to the genuine, warm, and caring person she is. Skadi, meanwhile, goes to great lengths to make sure Laurentina is okay. She cared more about her wellbeing than she did about obediently listening to the orders of her superiors; when Gladiia came to take Specter from Rhodes Island, she protested, and followed Gladiia to Sal Viento to take her back.

Skadi and Gladiia do not have nearly as warm a history. Both are rather emotionally unintelligent and wear masks of indifference around each other. That isn't to say they don't care about each other, though; if anything, we have plenty of evidence to the contrary. Gladiia did not hesitate for a moment about risking death for Skadi's sake in Under Tides, feeling a duty to protect her from both the First to Talk and the monster that dwells inside her head. They share a bond of camaraderie that's constantly reinforced in every event.

In Stultifera Navis and its supplemental material, we got more inklings of the development of a deeper relationship between them, though it's naturally strained because of their natures. Skadi, who always calls Gladiia "Second Captain," accidentally called her Gladiia in SN—to which Gladiia brusquely remarked that she was getting rather comfortable around her. She corrected her mistake and hasn't made it since. In the oft-mentioned now Specter the Unchained OpRec, when Laurentina teaches Skadi how to dance she remarks that Gladiia would like to dance with her. Skadi brushes this off as a mean-spirited joke, but it's much more likely that Laurentina knows they both feel an unspoken fondness for the other and is steadily poking at them to share it with the other.

Lastly, and certainly least, we have Laurentina and Ulpianus. There's...almost nothing here. We know that they're not strangers, and from Path of Life we know that Ulpianus at least understands Laurentina well enough as an individual, but as far as I'm aware there's not much to suggest what sort of relationship they may have had beyond just comrades, if any. Ulpianus seemed to become disinterested in continuing his conversation with Gladiia once she started gushing about Laurentina, but that's more likely a case of him being averse to talks about feelings in general than it is any distaste for Shark herself.

---

Possible interpretations:

From this, we have a pretty good idea of the general shape of how these dynamics work. There's a lot of room to talk about the intricacies of their relationships, and I...can't cover every single possibility here.

I'd love to. If you ask me, I can keep yapping. I didn't write all of this because of some solemn dedication to archiving these fictional fish. Please, litter my inbox if you have questions. I can yap endlessly.

Instead, I'll focus on some of the predominant interpretations that I've seen across discussions and fanworks. Namely, the idea of the Abyssal Hunters as a family and the idea of some of the Abyssal Hunters as romantic partners.

I'll be covering interpretations that are both supported and not supported by the text to varying degrees. I'm going to outline how well I believe the text supports these interpretations, which is obviously going to be subjective, but I'm going to try to keep my own personal bias out of it. I have my own preferences, but I will be as neutral as I can be here.

The Family Angle

The Abyssal Hunters are a found family. That's not so much subtext as it is text—again, see Gladiia's module about how she failed to find the warmth and belonging she sought from her biological family, and instead searched for a new family. They have dynamics between them that are clearly at least meant to mirror existing family dynamics.

But a found family is not the same thing as a biological family. It does not necessarily feature the same dynamics as you'd find between actual family members. The "family angle" is the interpretation that the relationship between all of them is in fact completely familial in nature. While found families do not preclude romantic and sexual relationships between their members, a familial relationship between these characters implies that their bond is strong in a way that is neither romantic nor sexual in nature.

This, in itself, is neither confirmed nor denied by the text. It's consistent with what we're shown, and is perhaps one of the more 'pure' interpretations of these relationships—in the sense that it doesn't read more into the characters than the information presented. The Abyssal Hunters are characterized in expressly familial terms, and so this interpretation says that this is the extent of their dynamics. For clarity, it is neither more nor less correct than other interpretations for this, and is not personally my own. If there's anything limiting this interpretation, it's that Ægirians don't have nuclear family ties in the same way that we do, but that doesn't in my view contradict a familial interpretation as much as it modifies how it's perceived by the characters.

There are, of course, a lot of different ways you can approach the family angle. I'll outline some of the more sensible ones that can be concluded from the text.

One of the more common interpretations is that of the three female hunters as siblings. Again, there's no real confirmation of this in the text—only sentiments that the bond between them is thicker than blood—but there's nothing in the text which contradicts this. They certainly could play into typical sibling dynamics fairly well, with Gladiia as the serious, beleaguered older sister who whips the younger siblings into shape, and Laurentina as the brattiest child of the family who's nonetheless more emotionally intelligent than her stubborn sisters. It's one I see a lot, and I don't really see an issue with it.

Another common interpretation is that there exists something mirroring a parent/daughter relationship between the Captains and their subordinates: Ulpianus/Skadi, and Gladiia/Laurentina. From what's been outlined above, there's definitely food for this sort of interpretation in the text. Gladiia, for instance, is definitely motherly towards Laurentina. I do not believe this is a coincidence; as someone who was failed by her mother in horrendous ways, she's taken on a motherly role towards those she cares for and whom she believes she has a responsibility for. I think this, in itself, is a fine interpretation.

I think it gets much weaker when it's taken a step further into a literal parent/daughter relationship between them. These are adult women. At most, the age gap between Gladiia and Laurentina is a little over a decade, and they were adults when they met. She might feel a motherly responsibility for this woman, but I do not believe she'd consider a fully adult woman only around a decade her junior to be her daughter. Friendships between people in their mid-20s and mid-30s happen all the time in the real world. They are not, by any stretch of the imagination, anything like real parent-child relationships. The age gap between Ulpianus and Skadi is likely wider, and thus it's more reasonable that Ulpianus would see someone Skadi's age that he met in her 20s as someone who could have been his daughter. Even in that case, their dynamic would be heavily qualified by the fact that he has always known Skadi as a fully adult woman.

One similar possible dynamic that I almost never see is the idea of Ulpianus as a father for Gladiia. They're of similar ages, and if he saw Skadi as someone who could have been his daughter, he surely see Gladiia as the same. Gladiia, as well, desperately needed a parental figure in her life and never got one. They clearly have a senior/junior, possibly mentor/student relationship in the text, even if neither of them explicitly acknowledge it as one. This is the logical next step, which many have taken for the other plausible parent/daughter relationships, but I never see this one.

The Romance Angle

People like shipping. I'm people, too. I like shipping. It's pretty natural that, when it comes to characters we like that have close relationships like this, there's going to be people who are primarily invested in slapping two or more of them together like Barbies. Some of these relationship dynamics are more plausible than others.

Here's where some of the objectivity might break down. I'll try my best to limit my personal bias, but it's extremely hard to speak objectively about topics that are so obviously subject to personal interpretation.

First, I'd like to emphasize that Ægirian social dynamics, likely including romance, are alien to us. The likelihood that these characters would feel exactly the same about romance as we do in a predominantly monogamous society structured around nuclear families with a marriage at the core is...very low. Ægir and the nations of land are fundamentally different in ways that make understanding one-another difficult. Listen to some of Specter the Unchained's voicelines expressing her frustration about how she doesn't have the means to convey to the Doctor everything she'd like to. While we can (and should if we'd like to) have fun with applying our concepts of romance to them, we should always keep in mind that they might not actually share them as characters.

On the more fun side, this opens up a world of possible arrangements. We can speculate, for instance, that these characters might be much more open to polyamory than others might. Or, perhaps, their courtship looks very different from ours, and we can explore how that might look through fiction. One relationship existing does not need to preclude the others even in our society, much less theirs.

The most obvious potential romance that most people would identify among the Abyssal Hunters is Skadi and Laurentina, and I have to agree that it's one of the most plausible, if not the single most. I...don't think I even need to linger too much on this one, because most of it's already been laid out. Their story reads like a tragic yuri plot. The romance is practically already written; if you showed me the exact same story that these two have, but they kiss at the end, it would not remotely feel like it came out of nowhere. It's one of many dynamics between characters that would be readily interpreted as romantic by a wider audience if, say, Skadi were a man. It's already one of the most popular Arknights ships as-is! It fits their characters, and makes sense as an interpretation.

It isn't necessarily the only interpretation of these characters, of course. As discussed, there's a wide array of ways you can interpret their bond, and many are just as supported by the text. While there's plenty of subtext that can be said to be romantic between them, that subtext can all be interpreted in platonic and familial ways. This is a Chinese gacha game; we're not going to get explicit confirmation of any of these relationships, and all romantic subtext will be written to resemble other kinds of subtext. That means that other subtext that was legitimately not meant to be romantic can scan as romantic. There's no strong argument here for authorial intent regarding the two of them either way.

...You can tell how strong the potential for a ship here is that I felt the need to use one of the two paragraphs I spent talking about it to discuss how it's not necessarily the only possible dynamic.

The second most likely, in my eyes, is Laurentina and Gladiia, which I'll elaborate further on than Skadi/Laurentina because of its rarity as a ship by comparison; it's legitimately plausible that most who might read this haven't considered it at all. Of the pairs possible within the trio, they're the two with the oldest history, who clearly have a deep and intimate bond. The exact nature of this bond is subject to interpretation, of course. As discussed earlier, Gladiia is quite motherly when it comes to Laurentina. A familial interpretation of the two of them is common, but as uncommon as a romantic interpretation is, I think it's both easily supported and already has plenty of material in the text to feed it. You can easily read the time they spent together in Specter the Unchained's OpRec as a date. That their dynamic has motherly characteristics does not stop it from being romantic. Plenty of romances in popular fiction have motherly elements to them; that behavior can simply be Gladiia's chosen language of love.

An issue that I can imagine is the power dynamic between them—not necessarily even as a moral argument about the ship, but as an issue between their characters. Laurentina was, of course, young when she joined the Abyssal Hunters, and Gladiia became both her superior and her mentor. I would be surprised if Laurentina was much older than 21 at the time, and I would not be surprised if she was in fact 18. Gladiia, meanwhile, would have been probably in the range of 28-30. While almost the same exact age gap would be present between Laurentina and Skadi, who would have met her at a similar time, the fact that Gladiia served as her mentor definitely colors the relationship in a different way.

As someone who clearly felt a responsibility towards Laurentina, I find it very unlikely that the nature of their relationship was immediately romantic. Even though Gladiia was immature in many ways and inexperienced compared to others of her age as a result of her isolated childhood and arrested development caused by her mother's abuse, she still likely would have seen a romance as unacceptable between the two of them. That may have even contributed to the arm's length she seems to sometimes keep Laurentina at, to the latter's chagrin.

However, critically, they aren't that age anymore. Laurentina is firmly an adult who can make reasoned decisions for herself, and frankly often showcases more emotional maturity than Gladiia does. Their situation is radically changed. Gladiia is still her commander, but she's her leader more because of mutual trust than any necessity to follow the orders of the Ægirian military. They're no longer student and teacher; they're much more akin to equals now. There are now things that Laurentina can teach Gladiia; Gladiia is now the one who most desperately needs character development. The barriers that could have stopped their feelings from becoming a romance have eroded, and there is now the potential for one to form that is completely fitting within the bounds of the text and our understanding of their characters.

...

Okay, it's time to discuss the subject matter of the post I linked at the top of this one. Ulpianus and Gladiia.

...Almost everything I've just said about Gladiia and Laurentina applies doubly here.

It's the same dynamic. A junior who becomes an equal. It's much more common, in my experience, probably because it's heterosexual. Like with the other dynamics, there's nothing in the story that outright contradicts it. I do think its claim is weaker than the last two, though. I find it much harder to believe that Ulpianus would have harbored romantic feelings towards Gladiia.

She was much younger than him at the time they met, compared to the age gap between the other Hunters and Laurentina, and—as mentioned—he was likely very aware of her emotional immaturity, vulnerability, and desire to form real connections for the first time in her life. Ulpianus is, from what we can tell, a very thoughtful man who understands his comrades very well and reckons solemnly with the consequences of his actions. As I put it in a previous post, he's a man who "constantly pontificates on duty, responsibility, and what 'ought to be.'" I don't believe a principled man like Ulpianus—who is stubborn about principles to the point of contentiousness, who considers emotions to be secondary to duty and righteousness, who is prepared to throw away everything for what he believes in, including his life and his humanity—would do anything that could be considered taking advantage of an emotionally vulnerable young woman. That seems incredibly contradictory to his character. Even if she's grown physically, I think it's easy to read from his actions that he still sees her as someone who's still immature. I think he would have a much harder time seeing Gladiia as an equal peer than Gladiia would Laurentina.

Now, to play devil's advocate somewhat, I will say that there's material within this to work with. The love of a man who won't even confess that he cares at all for his younger student, much less act upon his desires is a setup for what could be a great fan-made story. I don't personally think it could ever end with the two of them together while staying true to their characterization, but that's up for interpretation. This is, however, not the way I see this ship characterized at all. If anything, they're most popularly depicted as ex-lovers or the husband/wife of a nuclear family. I've probably belabored the point enough that I don't need to break those concepts down, so I'll leave it there.

Briefly, I want to pay some lip service to the idea I floated earlier of a...fish polycule. I don't believe that Skadi and Gladiia have the most romantic flags at present out of the trio, but (especially in the event that both of them are romantically involved with Laurentina) I can easily see them growing closer and eventually breaking down the barrier of communication between them that stops them from expressing their fondness for one-another in ways that aren't professing they'd want the other to kill them if they became a monster.

There's not a lot of material in the text for this, but that's hardly stopped anyone before. It certainly hasn't stopped me. I ship Gladiia with Lavinia/Penance. I don't need them to acknowledge each other's existence to see a line there; I'm not about to judge anyone for pairing off two characters who have had considerable screen time together, where one nearly died for the sake of the other.

Lastly, I feel like I should at least mention e.g. Laurentina/Irene and Gladiia/Kal'tsit. Mostly because this post isn't about those dynamics. I could talk about Gladiia/Kal'tsit. I could talk about the parallels in Gladiia's first IS3 scene, where Gladiia's recollections about her mother's neglect are immediately juxtaposed with Kal'tsit's concern for her. I could further elaborate on Gladiia's complex relationships with the concept of motherhood, and how Kal'tsit relates to that. I won't. But I could.

I don't even know if I ship Gladiia/Kal'tsit as a romantic couple. I just like their relationship a lot, whatever form it takes.

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Endnotes.

Thanks for reading! I don't have a sweeping conclusion to finish with; the point of this post was just to compare and contrast popular fandom depictions of these characters with the actual material found in the text.

I hope you enjoyed, or learned something. I know there's so much goddamn text in Arknights that it's kind of impossible for anyone to reflect thoroughly on every single part of it. If you have any questions, criticism, or suggestions, my inbox is open!

#arknights #gladiia #specter #skadi #ulpianus #abyssal hunters #ak text

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