#which is standard PR and equals nothing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wordpressukfast · 2 years ago

Text

WordPress Hosts Are Not Created Equal-Here's What You Need To Know about Finding the Best WordPress Host

WordPress is a free and open-source software that makes it easy for anyone to build a website. As one of the most popular content management systems (CMS), it is used by thousands of websites around the world. However, before you start building your site, you will need to choose a hosting provider that will be able to host it. A host is one of the most important factors to consider when selecting a web host for your WordPress site, such as speed and reliability. Choosing a fast, reliable WordPress hosting company is one of the best ways to ensure your website will always be up and running. We will take a look at what makes a great hosting provider so that we can make an informed choice and get your WordPress site up and running as quickly as possible.

Speed is of utmost importance

When it comes to web hosting, speed matters-especially when it comes to WordPress sites. You should aim to make your website load as quickly as possible so that your visitors will have the best possible experience. In this case, a fastest UK WordPress hosting is essential for any website to be successful. As a good rule of thumb, if your website takes longer than three seconds to load, visitors are likely to give up and find another site for what they are looking for (which means that you will lose potential customers). So when choosing a hosting provider, ensure that they have servers that offer speeds up to par with industry standards.

I believe that reliability is key in any business

It is also important to consider the reliability of a WordPress host in addition to speed when selecting one. You want someone who offers consistent uptime and guarantees excellent performance even during traffic spikes or other times of high demand on their servers. If you are looking for reviews on the web from previous customers or contacting the company directly about how long the average server downtime is over the past few months before committing to a particular provider, you should look online for reviews from previous customers. Having that knowledge upfront will give you a better idea as to what kind of reliability to expect from them before you sign on the dotted line.

There are several security features available

The last point to consider when choosing a fast WordPress hosting provider for fast WordPress is to keep security features and customer support in mind. Despite the fact that most providers will offer a certain level of security protection against malicious attacks and other threats, not all providers may be equally protected when it comes to security threats. Before you make your decision, you should check the policies of each provider carefully so that you are aware of exactly what kind of protection they provide against potential threats such as hacking attempts and viruses infecting your data files hosted on their servers.

Choosing the right hosting service is essential to your success as a business owner

After you have picked your host, it is absolutely essential to be able to convince them that you are worth hosting. There is nothing like having an experienced and knowledgeable member of staff on hand to help with any issues that arise and to make sure they are willing to assist you when necessary. In order to find a hosting provider that fits your needs, either do some research before choosing one or ask around to find people who have used the service in the past for personal recommendations.

There is also the matter of what type of support they can provide you with. The fact that they know how WordPress works and what goes on behind the scenes means that you are in good hands. You should find their customer service team to be friendly, helpful and knowledgeable when dealing with any issues you may encounter with your site or other applications hosted on their platform or if you want to discuss your concerns with them.

You want to find a host that offers reliability. When it comes to reliability, it is the ability to deliver a service or product according to the specifications provided. It is important to choose a hosting company that can deliver what they say they will deliver, when they say they will deliver it. You can ask them about their uptime and page-load speed by asking them directly: if it is good, ask the host whether it is reliable. You should also ask about customer service tickets and customer satisfaction ratings, both of which are usually listed on companies' websites or customer portals (if they are not, you should contact them directly). The information provided by this company should be compared to what other reviewers have said about the company in question before you decide whether or not you want to sign up with them.

In order to become a good hosting company, you should be able to get a response within an hour at the latest. Additionally, you can judge how helpful and knowledgeable the support team is by asking them specific questions about their hosting plans and comparing what they say to what you have learned from the Internet about their service. It is a good sign if they know more about your needs than websites like ours do-and even better if they have someone on their team who has actually worked on our website before-so that's another sign of quality. Another thing worth checking out is whether or not your potential host offers 24/7 support options like live chat or phone calls (or both). These aren't essential in every case-especially if you're not having problems with your site-but they'll show that the company cares enough about its clients' needs to have them accessible at all times of the day and night.

You want to pick a WordPress host that values your success. You need to choose a WordPress hosting company that values your success when making your choice. You are looking for a company that will invest in your business and in you. If you are looking for a host that can provide you with all the resources and support that will help you grow your business online, look no further.

As well as the reputation of the company, you should also consider its track record. Make sure you choose a hosting company that has a good track record and positive reviews from other owners of similar businesses to yours as well. Talk to past clients, if possible, before you sign up with a new company so you can get an idea of what it will be like working with them on an ongoing basis before signing up.

Our hosting plans are fast and we value your success as much as ours

..veryfasthosting.com is the fastest WordPress hosting service on the market right now-and it can be tailored to meet your needs.

WordPress hosting is the kind of service that understands how important it is to have a website that loads quickly so visitors can go through your products and services without feeling as though they're waiting for too long. The truth of the matter is they understand it better than anyone else.

Featuring 220% faster performance than GoDaddy AWS hosting, 85% faster performance than WP Engine AWS hosting, 65% faster performance than Siteground Google Cloud hosting, and 45% faster performance than Kinsta Google Cloud hosting, all with advanced security protocols. It is their job to know what it takes to create an amazing experience for your website visitors-that is why VeryFastHosting was born: to propel businesses like yours to their maximum potential, online. You can reach them at 0131 210 0413 or via email at [email protected].

#Very Fast Hosting #fastest uk wordpress hosting #fast uk wordpress blog hosting #fast wordpress hosting uk #fastest woocommerce hosting #fast web hosting for wordpress #fastest web hosting for wordpress #best fast wordpress hosting #fast managed wordpress hosting #ultra fast wordpress hosting #fast wordpress hosting

1 note · View note

softinkshadows · 4 years ago

Text

Shingeki no Kyojin Demon AU (Part 1) (x female reader)

You’re a young graduate working long hours at a bistro and doing food deliveries. Little did you expect your life to get entangled with the leading figures of the largest conglomerates in the world. Or a thousand-year-old demon clan war.

Part 1 / ?

---

“Tch,” Levi tuts in distaste as his gaze wanders across the empty pantry shelves. “There’s no tea, Erwin. You have a 50 million-dollar home, but no damn tea.” He shuts the sleek cabinet doors brusquely, giving a side-eye at the blond reclining on a lush sofa in the living room. Behind him, large down-to-floor Fleetwood doors open into an expansive backyard, where the soft lights of the infinity pool and the pool house stand out against the night sky and the rolling hills of Paradis beyond.

“There’s no coffee either,” a loud voice calls from the corridor, “Just rows and rows of expensive alcohol. Talk about an upgrade... Ahhhh and I’m getting hungry too...” Levi turns to see Hange return from the wine cellar, looking equal parts fascinated and frustrated with the home.

“Sorry about that. I only just moved in proper, so I only have the essentials - Miche, glad you could make it,” Erwin breaks of mid-sentence and nods to greet the brown-haired man entering the living room.

“I saw off Nanaba with the rest outside. For a meeting this late at night... this must be something big, Erwin,” Miche glances around the room, his body tense with concern.

“I’m afraid it is. We need to get used to more meetings like this. It seems they are moving again,” Erwin leans forward, tenting his fingers. Levi moves to sit on a nearby couch, his brows furrowed and arms crossed, clearly annoyed. “If we’re going to be up all night, we’re going to need tea.”

Hange sighs in acknowledgement, before running out onto the patio, yelling. “Moblit!! We need tea, coffee and decent hot food. Anything that can deliver at this hour, and fast!” As she rounds back into the house, the scurrying of footsteps and the softer response of “Ryoukai! (trans: Roger!)” is heard immediately.

---

“Change the channel will ya!” your uncle shouts from the kitchen as the blare of heavy metal rock screams from the old, wall-mounted television.

“Just a minute!” you yell back over the din, serving a customer’s plate of fish and chips before walking back to the bistro counter, scrambling for the remote. The screeching music stops as the screen switches to the standard Paradis News Channel, and you heave a sigh of relief. It is already close to midnight, and the bistro is occupied with only a handful of regulars who work the night shift nearby. But as the niece of Bruno’s Bistro, a cosy establishment and hidden gem of the Trost district, you had a reputation to uphold; there is no way you’d put your customers through that noise at this hour.

A hand pushes a small plate of tacos towards you on the counter. “Supper,” says your uncle cheerily, wiping the sweat from his face with a towel round his neck, his eyes shining with quiet affection. He brings a second plate round for himself, tucking in straightaway, and you do the same. You know that even after all these years, he feels sorry. That he blames himself when you threw away the prospect of working a cushy, corporate job after graduation to help him run his bistro, toiling long hours till three in the morning every day. But you are happy to. It was your uncle Bruno who took you in as a child and looked after you since your parents’ untimely death many years ago. His wife had passed on earlier from an illness, and he was alone. So were you. And for the longest time, all you had was each other. The main phone rings loudly from the kitchen, and Bruno walks over to answer it. You can’t make out the conversation, but you suppose it’s one of the bistro’s food suppliers.

“This is Ilse Langnar, and this is Paradis Nightly News. Today, Mitras Holdings announced a joint venture with SNK Group to develop the world’s largest shopping district in downtown of Paradis city. This marks Mitras’ third large scale project in Paradis, after the restoration of the Reiss chapel and the commissioning of a cutting-edge renewable energy plant in the eastern district. We hear more from its chairman on their string of successes -” You look up from your food at the flickering image on the television, as a stoic, charismatic man with blue eyes addresses a crowd of reporters on a podium. “What a different life,” you mutter to yourself, before turning your attention back to the tacos. The newscaster drones on. “In other news, Liberio Corp’s shares increased another 10% this week, cementing its standing as the most influential conglomerat-”

“Y/n!” Bruno’s voice interrupts suddenly, slamming the phone receiver down. “We got orders! Lots of them!”

“What? At this time?” You hurry and shove the last of the tacos into your mouth, wiping your hands of crumbs, before gathering your senses.

“We got half a dozen chicken and beef pastries each, 1 strong black, 1 mocha, 1 latte, 4 flat whites and 2 cups of our best tea. And it’s delivery,” recites Bruno. Your quick mind and experience from working through the busiest shifts already has you committing all the orders to memory and preparing the drinks on cue. Minutes later, you’re packing the orders neatly into the back of your motorbike, and strapping on your helmet.

You peer at the slip of paper with the delivery address scribbled over with Bruno’s messy handwriting.40 Ehrmich Drive... Damn. Isn’t that the wealthiest district in all of Paradis, just north of downtown? you wonder to yourself. Didn’t know rich people pulled all-nighters. Whoever was on the phone did promise to tip lavishly if you could deliver within the hour. Without hesitating, you step on the gas pedal.

You find yourself winding through the lanes of Ehrmich Drive, only passing by an intimidating front gate every two hundred meters or so. The houses here are huge. And so far apart that it is rather dark, save for the sporadic streetlights here and there. You come to a stop at a long steel gate, on the side of which the number 40 is engraved into the limestone wall. “Where’s the damn doorbell,” you mutter, looking around wildly but to no avail. You catch sight of some security cameras and wave to get its attention, but nothing happens. You groan. The person who called didn’t leave a contact number. Here goes nothing, you think, resigning yourself to fate. You try the steel gate, and realize it slides open easily. So much for security.

It’s a walk before you even reach the main house, a chic two-storeyed mansion sprawling across this vast acre of land. You are aware of your place when you catch sight of several luxury cars parked along the driveway, each looking more expensive than the last. You look back at your faded, worn sneakers on the gravel, feeling extremely out of place. Strangely, what appears to be a mammoth-sized glass front door doesn’t budge. Please just make my job easier, you grumble to yourself in frustration. Contemplating leaving the food on the hood of one of the cars, your turn back when you are drawn to sounds of distant conversation from around the patio.

“In any case, the purebloods are moving in on Paradis,” you hear a familiar low, smooth voice. “They are certain that they’ll find what they’ve been looking for.”

Your mind whirls a little. Pureblood? What is that? Some kind of dog?

Another deep voice chimes in. “Is this the reason for the venture with SNK? I thought we were supposed to be killing off -” Then silence. Killing?

Just as you are about to reach the corner, someone steps in front of you so fast you barely have any time to register. A man with cropped dark hair and even darker eyes blocks your way, dressed in a fitted black suit and a slightly unbuttoned white dress shirt. He’s a little shorter than you, but something about the intensity of his eyes, his stance with one hand resting on the wall and the other casually tucked into his pocket makes you feel incredibly uneasy. You feel your chest tighten, you mind blanking out as an indescribable fear washes over you -suddenly you’re thirteen again, running through the dark streets, breathless, desperate, running away from something - what? - and then cold, cold all over, feeling the shadows encroaching, creeping across your skin and reaching deep to clutch at your heart, squeezing the light out of you- You snap back to the present and feel yourself trembling, shrinking under his gaze. Your mouth runs dry and you struggle to form words, your feet frozen to the spot. Suddenly, the man takes a sharp intake of breath, his hand against the wall now balled into a fist, as if trying to maintain some semblance of control. His eyes narrow, scrutinising you.

“Who the fucking hell are-” he stops himself, glancing at the bag of drinks and food you’re holding. Then he yells, furious. “Moblit!”

Within seconds, a panicky-looking brunette appears from the side. “Take her through the front,” the black-haired man ordered. You’re mindlessly ushered through the main door, which you realize is in fact unlocked. It seemed impossibly heavy earlier, yet the brunette in front of you swings it wide open with apparent ease. He leads you through the entry way into a informal dining area, passing by the living room along the way. You can feel a frightening atmosphere emanating from that direction, heightened by a pervasive and uncomfortable silence hanging throughout the house. Were you intruding upon something just now? You lift your gaze briefly, and what you see causes your back to stiffen, the hairs on your neck standing on end. The shorter, dark-eyed man from moments ago leans against the open doorway leading out to the patio. On a couch nearby, a woman with dark brown ponytail and glasses looks over her shoulder, while next to her sits a man with light brown hair and emerald eyes. In the centre of the room, in a crisp blue dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sits a man whose presence seems to be the electrifying point around which everything else seems rotate. Blond hair and icy blue eyes. It takes a second for you to realize who he is. And another to realize they are all looking dead straight at you. The next few minutes are a haze. The suffocating, overwhelming sensation returns, and you avert your eyes and set the delivery down on the table before your legs give out. The man called Moblit quickly hands you a fifty, apologizing and thanking you at the same time, before he sees you off. You heart thuds wildly in your chest. You can’t think, and you only vaguely feel your limbs clumsily half-running, making their way back down the driveway, across the wide lawn, past the gate and back onto your bike. It’s only then that you finally catch a breath. You hastily step on the gas pedal and take off into the early hours of the morning, still feeling the sharp and penetrating gazes burning into your back all the way home. ---- Notes: This is my first attempt at a long running narrative, after falling so deep with snk recently. The canon status of many characters break my heart, and I wanted to write them into a world where they aren’t dying or dead. Not sure where this chapter will lead, but I have some mechanics of the world thought out, with hopefully more demon/power smut things coming in the later chapters. Please bear with my trashy trashy writing

#shingeki no kyojin #snk #attack on titan #aot #levi ackerman #erwin smith #levi ackerman x reader #erwin smith x reader #snk imagines #aot imagines

39 notes · View notes

its-bound-to-get-loud · 4 years ago

Text

Speculating about sexuality

It’s time to get a little controversial on this blog. Or at least talk about a controversial subject. I’ve recently seen some fandom discourse about this subject from multiple sources. A lot of people have the opinion that discussing a celebrity’s sexuality is a bad thing, something you shouldn’t do. I strongly disagree.

Full disclosure, I’m a Larrie. I’m a 1D fan who believes Harry and Louis are a couple. I’m also a 5SOS fan. Now I know many 5SOS fans seem to be wary of Larries in particular. I know some people have taken it too far sometimes. But also, it’s hard to compare Larry/1D to 5SOS in many ways, because Larry and 1D themselves have done a lot of things to encourage fans looking into things they normally might not. It feels to me as if 5SOS fans saw the things that happened in the 1D fandom, turned around and decided to do the exact opposite. This is a good thing in some ways, but it also leaves no room for critical thinking.

Now back to 5SOS. I’ve had a few conversations about this topic and what it comes down to is this. 5SOS are famous, they live a life that’s (partially) being seen by the public and the media. Now this will sound cold, but it’s a fact: 5SOS are a product. When we interact with them on social media, we interact with a product. In the end they want to keep selling their music to us. In order to do so, engaging with fans is part of their job. It doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy it, it doesn’t mean they’re not genuine. If you work in a supermarket part of your job may be stocking shelves. You have to do it because it’s your job, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it as well.

Part of the product that is 5SOS is their relationships. We see their girlfriends plastered over their social media, they mention them in interviews, etc. That’s not something they HAVE to do generally speaking. If we are to assume that (for argument’s sake) all 3 current 5SOS relationships are genuine, then they don’t have to show us their girlfriends if they don’t want to. This means they either choose to do so, because that’s what they want, or these girlfriends are being presented to us for a reason (PR, bearding, etc.). Which of these it is, is for you to decide. Both options make them become part of the product. We are allowed to question that product, since we are the ones consuming it. If the person in question has made comments that can be regarded as them hinting at not being straight they open the door even further. You cannot tell someone to come over and then slam the door in their face because they get too close.

If 5SOS want to they can keep their relationships private. Their social media profiles are not the same as ours. They are a representation of the product they are. A representation of their image. That’s why celebrities often have private profiles as well, where they can share private things that they don’t want to share with the public.

The 5SOS girlfriends themselves are a product as well. They all have careers that involve being in the public eye, they are just as well selling us a version of themselves. 2 public people dating does not mean we automatically HAVE to see that they are dating. Celebrities can keep things a secret or low-key if they want to. In fact, I’d dare to argue they have more tools to do so than you and I.

You can look at it like this, if I’m buying a laptop I’m doing research online, I’ll check out reviews. I’ll ask questions at the store. I question the product before I buy it. That’s not that different from what we do as fans. Before we buy their music we question if this is a product we want to buy. Most of the time that’s an unconscious decision we make. Sometimes a product can becomes unsatisfactory after a while and we choose to move on from it. I know it sounds cold, but it’s not that different with celebrities. If 5SOS keep showing me their public girlfriends on their public social media, I get to question that. If I come to the conclusion that I think that what they are telling me is false. I get to discuss that. Being a fan does not equal always taking things at face value.

There’s also a double standard in this fandom. Some people are more than willing to yell about how problematic and toxic the girlfriends are in their opinion. Which means they are allowed to poke into (what they think is) a real relationship between 2 people. When Luke says Teeth is about Sierra, they question his words and don’t hesitate to say their relationship is toxic. But when it comes to sexuality suddenly that’s a no go. I am absolutely not a fan of the way some of the way girlfriends behave. As long as this happens in a fandom environment I am also fine with talking about that. But if you disapprove of one thing and then do something similar, maybe it’s time you start practicing what you preach or leave people to have their own opinions.

This doesn’t mean you should tell the guys directly that you think their relationship is not real or that you think they are not straight. You don’t harass their friends, their crew, and their family about this. Discussing a celebrity’s sexuality/relationship should stay limited to fandom spaces. With social media it’s a lot easier for celebrities to see what we say about them. Therefor I always suggest being mindful of what you say (they may be a product, but they are still people). Personally it’s why I enjoy Tumblr, because most celebrities don’t go on here and (most of the time) we can safely discuss things that are more difficult to discuss in a place like Twitter. I will say, just because we are questioning a product, it doesn’t mean we get to be rude in the process. You generally don’t go to the store and start yelling at the salesperson if you don’t agree with what they tell you.

People seem to think it’s disrespectful to say someone is gay. Why? Is there anything wrong with being gay? Absolutely not. We live in a society that’s very heteronormative, being straight is seen as the “default” sexuality. It should not be. If you’re going to argue that it’s disrespectful to say someone is gay, then please also don’t assume they are straight. You can have personal thoughts, sure. I have personal thoughts on the specific sexuality of the guys in 5SOS as well. But I keep in mind that my personal thoughts aren’t a fact. I could be wrong. So unless someone has specifically stated their sexuality it’s best to not assume anything and keep an open mind.

Then finally I want to briefly touch on a topic that goes hand in hand with what I’ve talked about: shipping. Some people have a problem with shipping when it comes to real people. For some people shipping is just enjoying the idea of 2 people together even if you think they aren’t. While other people truly believe in that relationship. There’s nothing wrong with any of that as long as it doesn’t become invasive. It all comes back to what I’ve said before. We are consuming a product. The relationships between the 5SOS guys are a huge part of that product. The chemistry between them is part of why we love them. I’m not saying they are pretending to like each other. I fully believe their chemistry is genuine, but it does help sell the product. It also means that sometimes the guys/their team plays into that chemistry to sell the product.

They guys should not have a problem with fans shipping them together, because it’s not up to them to decide that. They sell us their relationships, so we get to form opinions about that. If we stay in our own fandom space and do not become invasive by showing them or people around them fandom content (fics, headcanons, manips, etc.). Then they should not come into our spaces and invade stuff we enjoy in that space. I get super uncomfortable whenever I see celebrities reading fanfiction or being read fanfiction. Fanfiction about them is not for them. It’s made for fans to enjoy and they should stay away from that. I want to encourage you to go and read this answer* about shipping real people. Because sometimes other people’s words say it better than my own words ever could.

With that we have reached the end of this post. As usual I am always open to discuss this in an adult manner. If you feel like you have anything to add to this discussion, feel free to send me an ask/dm. Or reply to this post. If you like/agree with what I write I would love it if you reblogged this post. That’s the only way more people can see it. My blog is small, so reblogs are very much needed to keep the discussion going. Don’t think of coming in my inbox and yelling at me how everything I said is wrong and bad and awful, because it is only going to get you blocked. If you don’t agree, that’s fine, but I’m not going to tolerate any hate.

Finally, just because you are allowed to speculate and question whatever 5SOS or any other celebrity/influencer tells you, doesn’t mean you have to. If that’s not your cup of tea, then that is more than fine. The reason I wrote this post is because we need to stop making people who think critically about the things they are being told, feel guilty about what they do.

* Please note that the author of this post does not have anything to do with what has been written in this post. If you have a problem with anything in this post, please direct it to me and not them.

#5 Seconds Of Summer #5SOS #Ashton Irwin #Calum Hood #Luke Hemmings #Michael Clifford #original #sexuality

53 notes · View notes

theculturedmarxist · 4 years ago

Link

Good morning it’s Wednesday!

And what a fine day to discuss an unfashionable leftist view of mine. The discussion “racial wealth gap” is a somewhat perverse way to think about the real issue: A relatively small minority of the American population controls a huge share of the wealth, and that small minority is disproportionately white.

You could, in principle, try to ameliorate the resulting racial wealth gap by making the wealthy elite more racially diverse — a strategy that would do nothing to help the vast majority of non-white people. Alternatively, you could try to narrow the gap between rich and non-rich people, which would help the majority of people of all races. The latter approach is better on both substance and politics. So much better that to an extent it raises the question of what’s the point of talking about a “racial wealth gap” as opposed to simply a gap between the wealthy and the non-wealthy?

The wealth gap is about the wealthy

For his master’s thesis, Kevin Carney took a detailed look at the evolution of the black/white wealth gap in the United States and among other things came away with this finding — if you lop off the richest quarter of white people, then suddenly Black and white wealth dynamics over time look very similar.

The infamous destruction of African-American wealth during the subprime mortgage crash, for example, also happened for the majority of white households. The reason the racial wealth gap grew during this period is that rich white people own a lot of shares of stock while everyone else’s wealth is in their homes (if it exists at all).

Another way of looking at this is that while most white people are not members of the economic elite, the economic elite is a very white group of people.

With some help from Matt Bruenig of the People’s Policy Project, I looked at the racial composition of the wealthy elite according to the Fed’s Survey of Consumer Finances:

If you look at the top 10 percent of Americans by wealth, only 2.2 percent of those Americans are Black.

The top 5 percent of Americans by wealth are only 2 percent Black.

The top 1 percent, is only 0.5 percent Black.

Bruenig cautions that when you look at tiny subgroups like the top one percent, you get into sample size issues since the Fed only surveys about 5000 families (he also did an article looking at the numbers from the older SCF that’s worth your time). But it’s plain as day if you look at the numbers that as you go from top ten to top five to four, three, two, one you get a less and less Black group of people while the white percentage goes up and up.

Now some level that “white people are richer than Black people” and “the rich are a very white group of people” are two different ways of saying the same thing.

But I do think the framings lead to someone different ideas. Talking about income rather than wealth, Valerie Wilson and William Rogers found that the black/white economic gap grew between 1979 and 2016 primarily because wage inequality overall grew (see also this discussion in The Grio). You could address that either by trying to create a more egalitarian wage structure or by trying to create a more diverse set of people earning very high salaries even while doing nothing to improve the average person’s pay. Similarly, you could approach the wealth gap issue primarily as a lack of diversity among America’s billionaire class.

Billionaires own a lot of white wealth

According to the Forbes 400 list (an imperfect metric but good enough for a ballpark estimate†), there are seven African-American billionaires who have a combined wealth of $13 billion. These people are all very rich, obviously. But there’s a (white) guy named David Tepper who’s not particularly famous and who Forbes says is worth $13 billion all on his own. And he’s only 41st on the list!

And billionaires collectively own a lot of wealth. Forbes says their top 400 are worth $3.2 trillion, of which less than one percent is owned by Black people. In a statistical sense, this drives a considerable racial wealth gap.

Now on the other hand, it’s not as if the typical white person is a billionaire. Mark Zuckerberg’s vast fortune is not materially benefiting Jared Golden’s constituents in northern Maine or Joe Manchin’s constituents in West Virginia via some magical property of shared whiteness.

Now a right-wing opponent of redistribution might want to do some racecraft to convince tens of millions of working class white people that they participate in the wealthy of white billionaires. But it’s often been people on the left perpetuating this idea! Simply redistributing resources from billionaires to the majority of the population would help most white people, and help most Black people, and would also narrow the racial wealth gap.

Diversity or equality?

Going back to Carney’s research, he’s talking about the top 25 percent of the white wealth distribution, which is a much bigger group than just billionaires. But you do see among the mass affluent some of this same impulse to say we need more diversity, rather than more equality. Take for example the town of Hingham in the suburbs of Boston which is getting its own YIMBY group.

Except according to the Boston Globe “the Hingham YIMBY group is not focused on promoting low-income housing, but is instead aimed at increasing the town’s racial diversity.”

Now one point YIMBYs normally make about towns like Hingham is that by excluding new housebuilding and zoning out low-income families, they tend to render themselves very white. Hingham YIMBY’s solution to this is to market the town more heavily to prosperous African-American suburbanites in Greater Boston and encourage them to consider moving to Hingham. And mathematically, they are correct. Hingham is not a large place, so a pure marketing campaign to convince more rich Black people to move there could make it a diverse place.

But look at this land-use in Hingham! The town is home to two MBTA commuter rail stations. One of them abuts a golf course and some underdeveloped land:

The other just abuts a bunch of underdeveloped land:

If you allowed the construction of apartment buildings near those stations, you’d almost certainly improve the diversity of the town. But more to the point, you’d create the opportunity for a bunch of people to live in transit-oriented housing with convenient commuter rail access to the Boston labor market. And if Massachusetts as a whole opted to legalize housing near transit, they could do an enormous amount to grow the state’s economy, raise living standards, and promote sustainable commuting patterns.

Convincing a few affluent Black families to move to Hingham, by contrast, isn’t really going to achieve much of anything.

And that’s the big picture here. Exclusion is bad for racial equity. But that doesn’t mean the solution is to fiddle with the racial equity dial by importing some really rich black people. The solution is for the Bay State to embrace housing growth and adopt international best practices in commuter rail operation. That would create broad prosperity that lifts up the majority of the people in the state and, yes, by doing so, it would also improve racial equity.

By the same token, you could take a Hingham approach to the billionaire problem and say that we need to make the billionaire class more diverse. But while conjuring up four dozen additional Black billionaires would have a impact on our understanding of Black wealth, it would not actually accomplish anything to make life better for the overwhelming majority of Black people. What would do that is the exact same thing as what would make life better for most white people — broad steps to create a less lopsided distribution of economic resources.

Tractable solutions are not “reductionism”

Now please do not read me as saying that there is no racism in America or that class politics is the only thing. We have lots of evidence of racial discrimination in the labor market, in the housing market, in policing and elsewhere.

But the way to tackle those problems would be to tackle them.

For example, there’s solid reason to believe that the relatively straightforward step of conducting more DOJ “pattern or practice” investigations of police discrimination would lead to both less discrimination and fewer murders. And there’s probably a lot the Civil Rights Division could be doing with audits to crack down on housing and labor market discrimination.

But if you’re concerned about the economic disparity between white people and Black people, what you really ought to be concerned with is the disparity between rich people and non-rich people. You obviously don’t want to narrow the gap in an economically destructive way. But if you can find growth-friendly ways to redistribute resources, you mechanically improve the racial gap. And even better, you have a tractable political problem — most voters are white, but most voters are not rich. And white people are overrepresented in the Senate, but rich people are underrepresented. So if you try to build a politics around racial redistribution, you’re just going to lose. But if you try to build a politics around economic redistribution you just might win.

None of this is remotely revolutionary; it’s just long-held conventional wisdom about politics. But the internal dynamics of progressive spaces have shifted in a weird way. Everyone is sensitive to often valid complaints that they’ve slighted racial justice in the past. But instead of dropping their work to refocus on problems that really are distinctively racial, what’s mostly happened is either an effort to give redistributionist ideas new (but less popular) racial framing or else Hingham-esque efforts to achieve a superficial veneer of equity. But the majority of people in all ethnic groups are similarly situated in economic terms, and far and away the best way to make progress on material conditions is to emphasize that rather than reify the whiteness of the billionaire class.

† Thomas Piketty has told me that in his view the Forbes 400 (and similar lists from Bloomberg and other media sources) undercount the wealth of old money heirs who own diverse assets rather than large, easy to spot, stakes in single companies. If he’s right about that, the true super-rich class is even whiter than what Forbes says.

#wealth gap #class analysis #class warfare #capitalism #socialism

28 notes · View notes

frankendykes-monster · 4 years ago

Text

On revisiting Mothra vs. Godzilla (1964)

Mothra vs. Godzilla is an interesting film to say the least. On the surface it looks like nothing special, if anything you could call it an example of how Japanese science fiction films were stagnating only a decade after Godzilla (1954), considering this film barely does anything new, just aping material that was already handled by its two predecessors: Mothra (1961) and King Kong vs. Godzilla (1962). But somehow it’s become one of the most beloved entries in the series and something of a gold standard for everything that came after.

Mothra vs. Godzilla opens with a title credit sequence over a hurricane, with Godzilla’s theme from 1962 transitioning into an instrumental version of Mothra’s theme. The hurricane has caused property damage along the Japanese coast, but most notable is the washing ashore of a giant egg. We soon get introduced to Ichiro, a news reporter, Junko, a news photographer, and Dr. Miura, the leader of a scientific team called in to study the egg, who serve as our three main three heroes for this story. The egg is bought by Happy Enterprises, headed by a Mr. Kumayama, who is in turn financially backed by a younger Mr. Torahata, who plan to turn the area surrounding the egg into an amusement park. They and the three leads are both confronted by Mothra’s twin priestess fairies from Infant Island about returning the egg (the current adult Mothra is nearing the end of her life, and the egg secures Mothra’s legacy), and the efforts to retrieve it are also squashed, forcing the fairies and the indigenous people of Infant Island to turn their backs on the outside world. When Godzilla appears, having also been caught up in the hurricane and thrust onto the mainland, he immediately goes onto another rampage, and it seems the best option is to ask Mothra for help (personally I find it humorous that there needs to be some reason for monsters to fight in these early films given they’d eventually go at it on instinct). Some arguing is done but the fairies and Infant Islanders agree in return for the possibility of a better world to be built. Both Kumayama and Torahata are killed in Godzilla’s attacks, and the monster seemingly can’t be stopped, as even the adult Mothra succumbs to battle, before the newly hatched larvae from the egg eventually stop Godzilla, and all seemingly returns to normal, in a cautiously optimistic way, as the protagonists have vowed to make a world better for everyone.

Mothra vs. Godzilla switches from the intense anti-commercialism satire of King Kong vs. Godzilla to some more general anti-capitalist themes. Near the opening when the damage of the hurricane is being documented by Ichiro and Junko, and unnamed capitalist protests about such possible news coverage as it could damage public opinion on an industrial project being built there. Later the same capitalist protests about the protagonists returning to test the area for radiation (as Godzilla is buried in the general vicinity and is contaminating the soil). There’s some inherent ridiculousness that’s openly stated about Kumayama buying the egg in general, but the cost is 1,224,560 yen (i.e. the logic is since a chicken egg costs 8 yen, and the giant egg is approximately 153,820 times larger, it’s a fair price). It’s explained “[the egg is] not private property, the public can watch it incubate for an admission fee.” A musical cue used in the series to hint at some under-the-surface tension and dread is used in this film when we discover that the egg’s incubator has been built and is already operational. Kumayama later stiffs the fishing village who brought the egg to shore out of the money he owes them, only to later on in the film be scalped by his superior Torahata (the two of them turning on each forces Torahata to shoot Kumayama, and in turn Torahata has wasted too much time before Godzilla destroys the hotel they’re in). Torahata is explained to have originally been some trust fund kid to some larger businessman before heading up his own endeavors. When the public discovers that it’s Mothra’s egg and it will not be returned, Kumayama effortlessly throws a PR stunt to counteract.

Functionally it’s a repeat of the plot from the first Mothra film, only here it’s Mothra’s egg and not the twin fairies that have not been kidnapped. I feel as if everything works smoother here as this film definitely has more weight to the proceedings and isn’t nearly as theatrical; the villian in Mothra, Clark Nelson, is often times a bit too exaggerated. (There’s something to be said about how Kumayama and Torahata have zero concern about provoking the wrath of Mothra considering she partly destroyed Tokyo and NYC in the previous film in the effort to get her fairies back; I guess it’s more accurate than capitalists just giving up possible investments.) I’ve seen some fans vouch for Mothra as anti-colonialist story but this film allows concepts such as that much more room to breathe given how the Infant Islanders have actual agency in the story, turning down the possibility of Mothra fighting Godzilla on behalf of Japan, whereas in the previous film they didn’t have much of anything to do given Mothra immediately goes on the attack upon discovery that the fairies were kidnapped.

The rather dense first 30 minutes of the film gives way to the reveal that Godzilla was also thrust ashore by the hurricane, and buried underground in the process, before reawakening. The entire film shifts into a mode of immediate urgency, as everyone now has to confront Godzilla. A lot of Godzilla’s scenes are far more detached than what else the film has to offer, as we’re following mostly nameless crowds fleeing and evacuating and JSDF officials trying to handle the situation. Once again it resembles the previous film, which had all the main characters more closely associated with King Kong. This film spends a much more notable amount of time showcasing military strategies being implemented against Godzilla with tanks and land mines and air strikes and giant electrocuted nets being thrown at him. I think it’s this film that fully established that while Godzilla could take a beating, the character is functionally indestructible, as nothing leaves any lasting damage.

Even though this film isn’t as upfront with the nuclear text as the first Godzilla film (which openly compared the coming of Godzilla to the atomic bomb attacks and brought up Godzilla being born out of hydrogen bomb tests as the most likely origin), it’s still the only other entry in the Showa series aside from that first film which brings it up in any meaningful capacity. Initial news reports call Godzilla “the atomic monster”, and when our protagonists first ask for Mothra’s help because of the attacks, the Infant Island chief shoots back with, “it’s your fault for playing with the devil fire!” Both on a narrative and thematic level, Godzilla and the age of nuclear warfare are one and the same, and everyone from Kumayama/Torahata to any number of offscreen civilians to the people of Infant Island to even Mothra must contend with Godzilla; a deadly force that threatens everyone. Godzilla’s characterization in this matches with the first film more so than the previous two; Godzilla Raids Again doesn’t have much interesting to say given it’s a cash-in sequel, and the explicitly comedic tone of King Kong vs. Godzilla makes him out to be much more jovial than expected, taking delight in dishing out death and destruction. (An added detail in this film is the subtle inquiry that Godzilla is like a natural disaster, you can only move out of the way in the same capacity that you can’t physically fight a tsunami or a hurricane. This was an element of the first film with Godzilla’s first landing being obscured by a hurricane or the electrical towers set up outside Tokyo resembling sand bags defending against a flood.) But this film is the only sequel of the Showa era to maintain Godzilla in a purely threatening, antagonistic role.

The decision to feature both Mothra and Godzilla in a single film does produce more interesting results than having done so with King Kong. King Kong vs. Godzilla only really happened because Kong, in the real world, was the only extremely notable giant monster of the movies prior to Godzilla, and this limitation extends into the film with how the characters remarked over how their individual rampages were like a ratings battle, with constant “who’s going to win?” fights over the stronger of the two. There’s much more thematic depth with this entry, even on immediate visual level; Mothra is quite dainty and gentle compared to how dark and brutal Godzilla is. (Kong was blown up from approximately 20 feet to 45 meters to fight Godzilla for that film, and this film does so in turn. Mothra was absolutely massive in the first film with a wingspan of 250 meters, she’s been shrunk to 135 for this film. Whether it’s succumbing to radiation or just a natural part of Mothra’s life cycle is never openly mentioned.) The first Mothra film made mention of how nuclear testing occurred near Infant Island because no one knew an indigenous population lived there, and upon seeing it, both the characters and the audience discover a lush paradise that has somehow survived the radioactive fallout. This film stands in stark contrast; when the protagonists land on Infant Island, we discover it’s become a desolate graveyard, with only a hidden oasis being what sustains the local population. It’s not just that the egg was stolen, the Infant Islanders are initially non-compliant because their home has been destroyed. (For narrative purposes, Ichiro, Junko, and Miura function as representatives for the outside world, and are confronted about the atomic age despite them, you know, being Japanese. It works in context of the rest of the series wherein nuclear warfare isn’t blamed on any single country and is viewed as something that threatens the human race equally regardless of nationality.) Bringing in Godzilla as the overarching threat thematically completes the mythos surrounding Mothra. Mothra has the upper hand during the entire initial fight, what with her being able to fly and Godzilla being a slow lumbering animal, but one hit of Godzilla’s atomic breath is all it takes to finish her off.

Director Ishiro Honda has mentioned that the driving thesis across all his films (except maybe Matango) is the quest for peace amongst people, considering Honda embraced pacificism following WWII. Mothra vs. Godzilla is possibly the least subtle about this, with the scene where Junko makes a statement to the Infant Islanders might as well being directly aimed at the audience. “I understand why you don’t trust us, but even as we speak many are dying because of Godzilla. Many of them are good people, but even bad people have a right to live. You may call it divine retribution...but all are equal before the gods. They don’t choose sides. Please. We need your help.” Mothra eventually appearing to stop Godzilla comes alongside the fairies stating “we always keep our promises”, a reversal of the unnamed capitalist saying the same line about his industrial project being completed by the target date.

Some have complained that the final act loses steam, as the film has already finished on a thematic level, with the antagonists killed by Godzilla and the vows of a better future already ensured. To which I respond if some people have ever heard of the concept of a final action scene, but I digress; what caught my eye with this viewing is that Godzilla’s final targets are a group of schoolchildren on an island that can’t escape because all the boats have already left. The protagonists are able to have time to rescue them as the Mothra larvae contend with Godzilla, and it stands in contrast to the first Godzilla film where we know that children are amongst the body count, children suffer from radiation exposure by being in Godzilla’s presence alone, and had to see their parents die in front of them. Children in this film being rescued without harm feels like the closest this film gets to putting “a better world” into action, moreso than just a means to artificially increase the runtime.

The ending is what gets me. It essentially combines the endings of the first Godzilla and Mothra films. Godzilla was killed in the first film but forced back into the sea in this one, but regardless, while the immediate danger has been averted, nuclear testing still occurs, the conditions that allowed Godzilla to come into existence haven’t changed. With Mothra, she is able to return to Infant Island with what is hers and the Infant Islanders’ been rightfully returned. They’re sobering and delightful respectfully, but combined we know that forces that created Godzilla have also terribly weakened Mothra and her people, and a better world being made by the protagonists includes rectifying this specific situation. You know the scene in Ratatouille (2008) where Remy shows his brother that while strawberries and bananas taste good on their own, the flavor is far greater when eaten together? Yeah.

16 notes · View notes

raevenlywrites · 4 years ago

Text

The Ties That Bind 8 of ???

Elanor was sent off with the Cobriana ring--Sisal’s ring, my ring--and a letter written in my hand to take back to the Keep. I insisted a guard go with her and Raymond, Vasili’s cousin, volunteered. I agreed with the choice that the less even tempered Emune stay with us. He’d done nothing distrustworthy, but the way he watched Adelina made me want to keep him close. I trusted Raymond to see Elanor back to the Keep safely, and to ensure my words were delivered to Andreios’s hands.

Why Andreios, and not my mother? Because I didn’t trust her anymore.

I loved my mother, I truly did. And I believe everything she did that felt so stifling to me was out of love as well, and overprotectiveness. She had told me it was time for me to become Queen. Well, a queen didn’t ask for her mother’s permission. She let the captain of her guard oversee her safety, and had her staff carry out her orders. My mother wasn’t needed in this decision.

And, I wanted to see what she and my generals would do.

I needed to know if I could trust those who had led in war to follow me into peace. This week at the Lyssia farm would show me much, and Zane and I could adjust our plans accordingly.

Zane and I. Our plans. It still seemed so ludicrous. But the cobra stayed by my side, making small sounds here and there as I drafted my letter, making suggestions rather than corrections, which I greatly appreciated. This was the hardest letter I’d ever drafted in my life. Having help was very welcome.

I gave Andreios specific orders on who and how many he could bring, knowing that he would come himself--and hoping he remembered our old signal of the vase of roses I’d carefully moved to the trunk of my bed before fleeing--and that there was no way the heir to the Tuuli Thea would be allowed to spend a week in the outer territory unguarded.

Especially once he got to the part about me doing so with Zane Cobriana.

I couldn’t help but remember the look of betrayal on his face when I’d thrown myself between him and Zane. I wondered if I’d have to do it again.

This week would tell me so many things.

As we exited the Lyssia bedroom, surrendering it to its proper owners, the ladies of the house made some fuss about letting us keep it. Zane and I both demured, him with considerably more cool than myself, me knowing it wouldn’t be long until Andreios arrived. I’d have a long night of aruging with him on my hands, I knew. Unless I was willing to play the absolute monarch like my mother did. I tried not to do that with Rei. I didn’t have enough friends to risk the ones I did.

I realized with a start that I’d mentally put Zane on that very short list. Not a good friend, by any means, but... Well, I’d asked for an ally, and he seemed to be doing his best to do just that. I’d spent so long being told my place, having to push and claw for every liberty and point that I’d started thinking of anyone on my side as a friend. Zane was a fellow monarch, an equal. I didn’t know him well enough yet to be friends.

But surprisingly, I wanted to. Every interaction I’d had with him, Zane had opened up. Alarmingly quickly, by avian standards. He was so ready to talk about his pain, his losses, his vulnerabilities, his dreams. Maybe I was projecting, but he seemed as hungry for a friend as I was.

Maybe friendship was enough.

I felt my cheeks heat at the foolishness of the thought, especially as I looked up and realized I’d lose track of Zane. Emune hadn’t, and I’d simply trusted my guard to have my back. That was beyond foolish; the serpiente could move so frighteningly quick--

No, I stopped myself. It wasn’t foolish.

It was trust.

I turned to offer Zane a tentative smile, to show him this small blossom of trust--

and found him with Adelina.

They weren’t touching--they weren’t even being that civil with each other, I noticed--but their movements spoke of bodies well familiar with one another, moving seamlessly to set up their bedrolls by the fire as they quietly bickered.

That is not a man unfamiliar with your body.

My flush deepened, and I’d have given anything for the guard at my back to be Andreios instead of Emune. What must he think of all this, his mad future queen and these bickering serpents.

What would the rest of the court think of me.

It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter, not really. But... it did. It didn’t matter to me, personally, but it would affect my ability to lead. The Shardaes were well loved, for their patronage of the arts and their generosity with all their had--and their gifts of song. That, more than anything else I knew, was what kept us in the hearts of the people. That lingering kiss of magic that cast the mind back to our mythical hawk queen--one who danced, Zane said, over a serpiente symbol.

My head was beginning to hurt.

I turned my back to the arguing couple--and they were most certainly a couple--by the fire and addressed Emune.

“I assume you’ll want to keep a watch rather than sleep?”

He nodded, his habit to remain more or less mute, I supposed. I bit back a sigh.

“I figured as much. Then I shall nap in the rocker, until Rei--Captain Andreios comes.”

I knew better, I really did. But what I wanted was Rei, not Captain Andreios. I wanted to talk to my best friend, to unravel the tangle of my thoughts in the retelling of them, and maybe, I added guiltily, spend a few minutes in his arms. Just for the comfort of it but--well, Zane was in his favorite pair of arms. Why shouldn’t I retreat to mine?

Because he wants to take you as his...mate. I realized I still didn’t know the word. If it had been just me and Zane, I might have asked him. But I wouldn’t interrupt he and Adelina for the world.

“That can’t be comfortable.”

Zane’s words cut through my thoughts, startling me in my rocker. I blinked owlish eyes at him, head absolutely scattered.

I realized, belatedly, that I was looking at him alone. Adelina wasn’t in his bedroll. She was perked grumpily on the raised edge of the hearth, back to the fire and her Arami, eyes locked on Emune. Her gazed flicked to me and Zane as we spoke, but she never uncrossed her arms, or moved from her tightly coiled lounge against the stone. She looked just like Zane had in the camps, I realized. Was it from physical familiarity, or a mark of some serpiente style they both trained in?

“I said,” Zane said again, tearing my thoughts from Adelina and all that violent potential, “That can’t be comfortable. If you’re tired, Danica, come lay down.”

My eyes darted around the room, to Emune, to Adelina, to the door I just knew Rei would come through the moment I laid down--if I lay down. Not a chance.

Zane laughed, and it sounded bitter, and tired. Had I spoken that last out loud?

“To public for you to relax, pretty Danica?”

I gave him narrowed eyes. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Say my name like that, like its some kind of title. And like I won’t know which Danica you mean, if you don’t inclue ‘pretty’ or ‘beautiful’. Is there some other Danica I should be aware of?”

To my utter shock, it was Adelina who laughed. Zane shot her a dirty look, and Emune almost jumped out of his skin, but I just stared, enchanted by the startling sound, as cold and hard as the rest of her.

“She has you there, my Arami. She may be a better match for you than I thought, if she sees through you this easily.”

I blushed and looked at my lap, unable to think of anything to say. Besides, she wasn’t technically addressing me.

Of course, then she did.

“Lay down with him, brave Danica. I won’t bite, and I won’t let him bite you either.”

I felt my eyes bug from my head. I felt more than saw Emune react, and I halted him with a raised hand. Drawing my composure around me like the armor it was, I raised my eyes to Adelina.

“I understand you are very familiar with your Arami.”

Zane snorted, but Adelina watched me with utterly unreadable eyes. I understood the measure she was taking of me, and did my best to live up to it.

“But I am not your Arami, or whatever the equivalent title would be, and I do not know you. I ask that you kindly refrain from teasing me until we are both comfortable with it.”

Adelina arched a perfect, pale eyebrow. “Ask?”

I nodded, chin held high. “Yes, ask. You are not of my court; it is not my place to rule you. But I thought I’d do you the courtsey of asking directly, rather than dragging your Arami into it. I assumed you’d prefer to speak directly, since you felt so comfortable doing so a moment before.”

Her lips thinned, and I couldn’t tell if it was in displeasure or to supress a smile. But she inclined her head right back and settled back against the stones.

“Very well, Lady Shardae. I will refrain from being so familiar with you, until we’re all comfortable with one another.”

I didn’t care for that parting shot at all. There was mockery in it, and implications I didn’t quite know how to untangle. I knew I was being made fun of, challenged, but so indirectly that I didn’t know how to counter it. But Adelina didn’t seem to expect any response, closing her eyes and resting her head back against the warm hearthstones.

I didn’t look at either of the men, instead choosing to mirror Adelina’s repose. I’d both passed and failed this first test, of that I was sure. But I didn’t know how to make use of my new allyship with Zane to figure it out while we were all waiting so tensely for the Royal Flight to come.

Oh feathered furies.

That’s what they’d been arguing about.

Adelina, Zane’s only guard, had surely been unhappy at the idea of being outnumbered three to one--because I had been adamant in my letter that no more than four guards be on the grounds at any given time. I knew I couldn’t keep Rei from bringing scouts, and this was avian territory after all, but I could and would limit how crowded this small farmhouse would get, and I’d thought four was a reasonable compromise. That’s how many usually walked with me in the fields, and this was simply the fields.

But Adelina had no reinforcements coming.

And her King--her beloved prince and personal lover--had told her to shut up and sleep on it. Or whatever words he’d actually used. I’d assumed a lovers’ spat because that was how I saw her first, the obvious lover I was going to surplant, and least publicly. Zane had all but said he’d keep lovers, and--oh skies above, this was all so stupid. We could never be lovers. I could daydream about what it might be like to kiss those lips, or let myself lay down beside him and that tempting fireplace. But Adelina knew the real thing, and there was no way I could ask her to give him up just to save a little face. For all I knew, the serpents wouldn’t care one way or another.

And as I’d said to Zane, they wouldn’t like him one way or another. A mistress on the side was the least of Zane’s villanies, in the court’s eyes.

But again, there were those vows to be upheld. Oaths really did bind the strength of the Tuuli Thea to the service of her people, and every oath sworn to or by her helped strengthen her magic. We were all hoping my powers would grow when I took the throne--part of why my mother had decided to step down. Her own gifts lay more in veils and illusions, in tricking the mind to be at peace, and not notice the thing she didn’t want noticed. Mine lay in comfort, and the mending of small wounds and illnesses. I had hoped against hope when I held Gregory that my gifts could give him enough life for his own magic to do the rest. But Cobriana magic, it seems, did not line in healing. Or at least, that prince’s hadn’t.

I wondered what powers Zane had, and if they had any use outside of battle.

And maybe he had none, I reminded myself. Just because the falcon monarchs had magic and the avian monarchs had magic, and the tales of Cobriana on the battlefield seemed like magic, didn’t mean it followed that Zane had any gifts. Goddess, my own younger brother Xander could only sing away the noticing of pain, and conceal tropes that did not move. Only if they stood perfectly still, and numbered less than a score, could Xander keep his people from sight. It had been hoped his gifts would grow on the battlefield--

Instead they were lost, he was lost, wasted. Just so much spilt blood.

I must have fallen asleep without realizing it, my thoughts of blood turning to dreams of blood. Because I woke with a strangled cry of “Zane no!” as Andreios shook me awake.

The Ties That Bind Tag list: @thehellinsideyourhead @therecouldbecolorsandlove @adventuresofacreesty

Raev’s Gen Tag List (should I tag you guys in this? It IS a thing I wrote. I’m gonna say yes unless you guys are like “no of course not we’re sick of hearing about your stupid fic for a twenty year old book XD)

No one has complained yet so yall gonna keep getting tagged :P

List is currently: @lordkingsmith @writinglyra @drbibliophile @mperialscribe @adie-dee @adie-dee @lexiklecksi @writinginslowmotion @raenawrites @apollon-arium @anika-writes

#raev does fic #the ties that bind #hawksong fic #hawksong #the kiesha'ra #kiesha'ra fanfic #danica shardae #zane cobriana #andreios #my writing tag

10 notes · View notes

roseate7 · 4 years ago

Text

Pens fans and Sid fans are great at holding our faves accountable - you’re probably not

If you’re inflamed by that title then this post is for you. Flouncing away from it makes you look like a clown who can’t handle criticism and correction. I’ll go ahead and preface this by saying my disability limits my usage of screens to only the absolute essentials so I won’t be back here to see if you’ve done either so please save yourself time and any huffy replies you’re bristling with. I’m not interested in returning to tumblr, trust me.

I shouldn’t be surprised considering this fandom’s selectiveness when it comes to politics and hockey but it’s still not great to get an anon message that huge swathes of fandom are now treating the topic of racism not with regards to Akim Aliu or BLM, but as a popularity contest of performative white men. Oh and their eagerness to once again remind anyone they think cares that “humph they don’t wike Sidney Cwosby and their fave is superior! Take THAT Cwosby fans!”

Again, y’all should’ve saved yourselves the trouble but fortunately I and Pens fandom have a nice history of protesting and holding our team and Sid accountable for you to learn from. Especially Caps and Blues fans recently, also anyone gross enough to be Ovechkin fans, but especially if you consciously decide to have anything to do with supporting the Blackhawks and not smacking yourself in the eye every time you type or utter the team name. Like, holy shit are we really out here on the brink of saying you can be best friends with Patrick Kane and still be... jesus christ. (Start here and work backward - any other Pens fans, rb and add your own history of it) I’ll try to keep this brief but I couldn’t really care less if anyone finds it too long lol. If you’re all willing to post about this shit then you can sit and listen.

1) If any of the gestures made by these white men has turned your head or made you think they’re better than other white men in hockey then a) you’re obviously biased towards them in the first place and are jumping on any fucking crumb cast your way, and b) you’re wrong. They do not care about you. They do not care about BLM. They have known all along when they and others have done wrong and they have done nothing until pressured to do so. They do not care about anything beyond hockey.

2) I have watched multiple rotations of PR efforts to Make Hockey Players Seem Like Great Guys over the decades. This is the latest. They pretend to atonement. They donate. They make statements. They wear tape on their sticks. They put on special jerseys for fifteen minutes. They pose with the minority they have offended (or attend Pride parades and get nothing but praise for it and the unearned mantle of having saved gays everywhere). And yet as I am here to attest, it has never done anything. It is intended to make you like them and do exactly what you’re doing now - buy into their cultivated hierarchy of goodness that has zero relevance to real world ideas of goodness or morality.

3) The bar is too low to call any white male hockey player a good man. “But you stan Crosby!!” Yep. Read through my blog and I absolutely go nuts with the narrative of this guy’s career and his impact or lack of action in hockey. I balance a fascination with him as a hockey player with real life criticism of him as a person. You can too!

4) Lastly, if you think “omg my guy is SOOOOO much better than Crosby because of x, y, and z” then you are a fool. You’re playing precisely into what the NHL and it’s teams have been pushing - especially on female fans! You’ve been fed a version of a white man, you’ve been given a tamping down in terms of your expectations, and now you’re in love. You’ll take anything he throws you and carry it like a banner over the heads of any inferior hockey men! You’re the loser in this exchange.

Ironically for the latest batch of “I hate Crosby”, Sidney Crosby has in fact done far more to improve the diversity of hockey than your white faves - the Little Penguins was his baby and spread league wide as the Learn to Play program and his focus has been to push management of his teams toward making tickets and events accessible to lower income families. Most of your dudes wait for initiatives from Head Office to be handed down via PR. Here’s the kicker! that absolutely every Pens and Sid fan I know is aware of! Neither Sid’s proactive work nor most players’ going along makes them better than each other in a real world sense! Because none of them are doing a fraction of what they could easily be doing to tackle real issues in an up front and direct way! And they all know it and hide from it! They’re all white boys who don’t like to rock the boat unless enough of their brothers do it with them!

None of them spoke up for Akim Aliu in any actual supportive way!! They waited for human trash bag Evander Kane to say something and slowly trickled in!! they all waited!! They waited their whole careers and they’re gonna keep you waiting!!

Jonathan Toews is not better than Sidney Crosby. You are the ones who are upset by that fact - we’re the ones who’ve never questioned it. Johnny being best friends with a racist and abuser (and defending him openly!) and never answering for his racist logo on his chest or his notoriously brazen racist fans DOES NOT GO AWAY just because in this instance Sidney Crosby was later than him. It does not disappear just because his fans read a silly and utterly empty, self-serving mansplaining text post and decide that he is suddenly better than Sidney Crosby’s equally empty statement days later. Judge these men intelligently!! Stop making it a teen magazine bestest boy rating!! DO NOT TELL PEOPLE TO BRUSH OFF A MAN’S FRIENDSHIP AND DEFENCE OF A RACIST ABUSER RAPIST JUST BECAUSE HE WROTE A NOTE SAYING HE’S FOUND OUT ABOUT RACISM AND BOY IT’S NOT GOOD EH.

Please, just for a second, just think of how stupid it is to take an issue like systemic racism and actually sit down and actually turn it into whose boy is better than whose. For the love of god please if nothing else stop doing that!!

THE TIME FOR STATEMENTS TO ACT AS BROWNIE POINTS IS DONE. THE TIME FOR WHITE MEN COPPING TO RACISM IN THEIR LEAGUE AND THE WORLD AS SOMETHING WORTHY OF PRAISE IS DONE. THEY ARE TOO LATE. STOP ACCEPTING SO LITTLE JUST SO YOU CAN ENGAGE IN STAN WARS.

THE PEOPLE DOING THE WORK TO IMPROVE SYSTEMIC RACISM IS ALL YOU SHOULD CONCERN YOURSELF WITH. NOT THEIR SEEMINGLY BENEVOLENT OPPRESSORS. STOP TALKING ABOUT THEM. STOP PRAISING THEM. IF THEY REALLY MEAN WHAT THEY ARE SAYING THEY WILL CONTINUE WITHOUT PRAISE AND WE WILL SEE IT IN REALITY OVER YEARS TO COME. THEY GET NOTHING FROM US NOW. NOTHING.

NO ONE CARES THAT YOU DO NOT LIKE SIDNEY CROSBY. WE CARE THAT YOU ARE INSISTING THAT WE REDUCE OUR SOCIAL AWARENESS DOWN TO SLURPING ON ANY WHITE MAN’S EGO IN THE MIDST OF INEQUALITY AND ABUSE THAT HE - WHOEVER HE IS - HAS SILENTLY AND ACTIVELY PERPETUATED, JUST BECAUSE HE DONATED MONEY OR WROTE STUPID FUCKING WORDS IN NOTES APP.

#sidney crosby #jonathan toews #chicago blackhawks #alexander ovechkin #gabriel landeskog #braden holtby #idk who else people are slobbering over but this is a start #too fuckin tired and I only came back to offer support to pens fans dealing with morons again

34 notes · View notes

spookyspaghettisundae · 4 years ago

Text

Emily's Awakening, Part Two

The memory of Julian tore Emily out of the here and now. Time stood still as their shared past flashed back to her.

Julian was the once in a lifetime kind of blend of genius, compassion, and peak physical perfection, all rolled into one incredible package.

Emily had known him from high school, though they were only loosely acquainted in those more innocent years. It wasn’t until much later, right when she had graduated from Berkeley, that she bumped into him again. Similar to how she remembered him from high school years—when he was basically the football jock who also happened to have his head screwed on right and was writing good grades as well—he was now a successful plastic surgeon in L.A. and had stayed in shape.

She was in the middle of getting her feet wet in the journalistic field, and drinking in a hotel bar to get over the rejection letter she had received from the Los Angeles Times. He exited from a doctor’s convention that he was attending there and instantly recognized her, even after all those years. They chatted, hit it off big time, and kicked off a turbulent phase of dating each other, filled with a lot of laughter and fiery passion.

Now he was dead. A ghost in her mind.

Julian was a generous guy, affluent due to both his work and his wealthy parents, well-connected—he had it all. His family didn’t like Emily, but it didn’t matter to either of them. He was a gentleman, vowed to have her back, and always lived up to his word.

Four months in, she decided that she wanted to surprise him by asking him to get engaged. But he didn’t show up for dinner. Or come home that night. Or arrive at work the next day. He had just vanished from the face of the earth. Nobody knew why, though worries grew amongst everybody close to Julian.

Even while she was worried sick, Emily was one of the prime suspects once enough time had passed and cops had gotten in on the case. She did her own part to find him, flexing her reporter muscles, but to no avail. Nothing added up and not a single clue pointed to his whereabouts.

Eventually, Julian’s body showed up. His parents and Emily identified his remains. Cops found the right culprit, too. A real whackjob D-list celebrity whom Julian had refused to operate any more on—she freaked out, murdered him, and kept him in her trunk for the whole week.

Even though the circumstances of his death were a major cogwheel in the chaos machine of what jaded Emily over the course of her life, she refused to let Julian’s horrible death ever overshadow the time they had shared together. She really loved Julian, because he was the only person who ever appreciated her—all edges and flaws and everything. He really got her—her strange sense of humor, how she only acted mean to keep people at an arm’s length—and they would laugh about inside jokes that nobody else in the world could ever even hope to understand.

She quit smoking for him. He always said that he didn’t like seeing her smoke because he thought the vice would make her leave this world sooner, and he couldn’t bear that thought. She started smoking again soon after he died, but she always refused to think about the why.

Julian was one of several people who shaped who she became—a driven woman, an unstoppable force of nature. One of the many undeserving, innocent victims mangled in the meat-grinder of a shitty, merciless world. But he was the one she cherished the most.

No partner before Julian was ever comparable, and she hadn’t been on the lookout ever since. Emily was convinced that it was the once in a lifetime thing. That she would never find such love ever again.

That bubble of time burst. Just popped back out of existence.

Here she was, still in front of that security guard whose frame reminded her of Julian.

Tall, broad-shouldered, probably worked out every day. Jawline that could cut glass. Definitely some eerily reminiscent facial features, too.

Part of it made her feel soft. It helped fuel that smile she flashed at the guard to the back entrance of the Estoria Pacific; helped conceal the things lurking underneath her facade—the darkness she harbored in her soul. Then she remembered what she was here to do.

The gears went off, grinding furiously behind her head, and she was grounded in reality once more. She pushed the memories back—both the pleasant and the unpleasant ones.

No more Julian. No more Vicky, Hal, Gloria. No more Tran—the hazy, drunken memory from the previous night returned to her in a flash. How many more times did she have to visit a morgue and ID a corpse? No more.

No more.

The guard gave no response to Emily’s query. He simply opened the door, stepped aside, and let her in. Another guard awaited her inside. Latino fellow; dressed similarly but shorter and much less handsome, equally silently—he nodded to her and motioned to follow him.

She caught a glimpse of a beautiful hall through kitchen corridors, being prepared for a party to come some time later. Exquisite meals were being prepared, crates loaded, waffles and cream made from scratch for cakes. Nobody here spat in the food, everyone wore a hair net and gloves. People paid well for the grub, and the patrons received quality service.

Who owned this place? That was one thing that eluded Emily’s investigation. Estoria Pacific never published any articles that would interview the club owners. It was common knowledge that there was a board of directors, a sort of a group of elite founders—likely wealthy investors. But they stayed out of newspapers and issued statements through the Club’s spokesman; some PR monkey who wasn’t in the savvy of anything.

Emily tensed up, and remembered one of her most valuable lessons: breathe. She let her eyes do the sweeping, not the head. The reporter found her steady rhythm in breathing, in a swaying stride filled with swagger.

She followed the second guard down corridor after corridor. She knew she was out of place. But she belonged here, now; more than anybody else.

She held her chin up high, burning inside—a cocktail of a hangover countered with pain medications and cheap booze, blending with excitement over the case finally going somewhere, anywhere—and the sweet, sweet cherry of impending victory sitting on top.

But something else, too. Something familiar, something she had to fight back. Something she hadn’t felt since the trafficking story. Something that made her think of Tran again. The pale corpse of Tran on the cold slab in the morgue.

That something she felt was fear.

The guard led Emily all the way down to storage warehouses, where she was handed off to yet another guard. This one took her under the mezzanine down into the freezers. Things looked less and less like a club and more and more like a cold and unforgiving facility. The doors started looking less polished, more metal, rustic, bulletproof—until eventually things became seedy enough to send a chill down her spine.

The guard was joined by another guard, deeper in the underbelly of the facility—a big bald giant of a man, this one without a club uniform suit, looking more like an actual gangster. His gun’s grip stood out from a chest holster in plain view. Just like the previous guys, he didn’t spare a single word for Emily, nor did he react to her in any way, merely doing his job of showing her to where she belonged.

They led her down another flight of stairs, and the gangster-looking fellow opened a double-lock and then removed a chain off of a steel cage door. This portal separated whatever this was where she was, from whatever lay hidden within. Likely an increased security facility.

A sinking suspicion filled Emily’s mind, giving her the impression that she had wound up somewhere completely different in the city—somewhere not even under the club anymore.

At one point, she registered a little sting of pain and found that she had dug her own fingernails deep enough into her palms to leave visible pink impressions.

She flashed a smile at the next guard as well. It was only honest—timid, clipped, and fading quickly from her lips—because she needed it more for herself. She needed it more to support her own confidence than she did to keep up any veneer of belonging.

Cages, cages, and cages of various sizes. Some were large enough to stand in, while others were obviously dog cages in which an adult human being could only be inside of them on all fours. Leashes with collars hung inside the cages. Dog bowls for food and water were set into every one of them. However, all cages were empty.

The whole place smelled of sweat and waste. A black man in a white wife beater was washing the floor, pushing murky mucky fluid down the many floor drains. There were hints of yellow and pink slop on the mop.

This was it.

The razor’s edge.

Just like when Emily walked into the trafficker dungeons. An icy cold gauntlet gripped her heart.

Like then, just like with the hit man in the Mancini mansion, she realized how she straddled the razor’s edge, balancing along that dangerously thin line between life and death.

Was the camera working? Would the government spooks be here in time to help her if and when anything went south? There was no telling and Emily felt more alone than ever before.

The lifeless body of Tran returned, creeping up on her in the back in her mind, haunting her through her inner eye. This time, however, it ignited something unfamiliar.

This was for her. This was for them. This was for all the victims, both the ones she knew and the ones she’d never know. This was bigger than herself. This was what she was meant to do; where she was meant to be.

Emily inhaled sharply but quietly and her nostrils flared.

A door on the other end of the room of cages was so thick that it could be rightfully called a vault door. It bore the makings of something made up to submarine standards. At least six inches thick, and looking heavy by the body language of another guard opening it with a grunt. He struggled to release the locks, and a familiar hiss of military grade machinery released the hydraulics.

The door was insulated, possibly pressurized. Small round window set into it, nautical in appearance. Through it, Emily perceived the silhouettes of people standing in near darkness. The door opened fully, and the big bald guard admitted her inside with a sweeping hand gesture.

She discovered a well decorated room, more in line with the poker rooms up in the club; centered around a wooden stage. Carpet floors, curtains, candles, tables. No foul smell here, which helped explain the unusual door.

This was an auction stage, clear as day. Around it, men in tuxedos and women in evening dresses were assembled in the dark. Everybody wore masks befitting a crowd at a Venetian carnival party or a certain movie by Stanley Kubrick.

A live classical band performed in the auction hall, humming away with their cello, bass, and two violins; orchestrating this odd event with quiet and non-intrusive live music. A few of the masked figures nearby looked back at Emily and the guards with her—more reactively, because the sound of the door’s hiss had distracted them from their subdued conversations.

The auctioneer, dressed in a red tux with a grinning devil’s mask on his face, addressed the crowd in a ceremonial festive voice.

Emily knew the type: this one sure mowed his lawn and had three kids, a dog, and a trophy wife. Probably donated often to charity.

“That certainly was an entertaining bid,” he almost sung. “Now, for our next prize. A beautiful exotic—I would say, extravagant item. Ladies and gentlemen, I guarantee it, whatever your taste, whatever your preference—this is not one to pass up. It will force you to fall in love. Coming to us from far away across the seas is—oh, welcome, we have newcomers. Welcome, welcome. Step right in, you’re right on time for the show.”

Regardless, Emily walked deeper inside. Her digits tingled; her nerves turned into iron strings so taut that you could play tense music on them, rising to a crescendo. Her mouth ran dry with a cottony feeling and she heard the blood rushing in her ears.

She hoped the camera was working. This was one of those things that nobody would believe if they only heard about it. You had to see it with your own eyes, and even then people would dispute the grainy recordings that accompany such scandalous discoveries.

She observed some of the masked guests, looking out for clues that might let her recognize familiar features and famous faces.

This was also the kind of crowd who had ways to silence you if you wanted to testify in court.

Accordingly, Emily knew she needed something concrete.

A waiter served her a mask on a platter with a glass of sparkling white wine. The mask depicted the stylized face of a gray rat, complete with long whiskers—Emily felt a pang of guilt when she got the sense that its mean expression and a crooked smile matched her common demeanor towards the world.

Slipping the mask on to shrug off that sinking feeling, she looked through the crowd some more and finally recognized a woman standing among the high society bidders, near the higher elevated seats, VIP row. This lady wore a black mask in the shape of a happy theatrical face, dressed the same way as Agent Laura Davidson, from the meeting on the bench in the plaza before.

Out of earshot of anybody, all the while glaring at “Agent Davidson,” Emily hissed under her breath, “Motherfucker.”

Every fiber in her body screamed at once—she knew things were about to end badly. But she had to see this through. She always had to.

She fought the urge to curse more and pretended to mingle, blending her way through the small crowd and raising her glass to her lips. But she didn’t take a sip, only tipping it lightly, feigning to drink from her glass.

The scent hit her nostrils with tantalizing sweetness, but she knew better. She was not drinking any of this shit.

The crowd parted around her and a spotlight transfixed itself on Emily.

“As I said gentlemen, a rat,” said the black-masked woman.

The crowd started chanting, “Rat, rat, rat, rat.”

“No matter your taste, no matter your preference, it is hard to pass up a good rat. Bring her up!”

The rat-masked Emily struggled against the plethora of strong hands and arms that suddenly seized her. She quickly found herself more easily shoved and carried onto the auction stage than she could kick and buck against them to stop this from happening.

The mountains of meat that were the guards holding her then bent her arms behind her back and forced her down onto her knees. With the flash of light bouncing off a knife, followed by the cutting sound of fabric, one of the goons harshly cut the front of her clothing open to expose her breasts.

Despite the chaos engulfing her, Emily spotted him in the crowd. He hadn’t been there all this time, but now he was. In the shadow, escaping the flood light. Invisible to the world around him.

The mysterious old homeless man from the night before.

His lips did not move but his words entered her mind, “When the world is a prison, there are those who are the prisoners, cursed with unknowing; and the jailers who hold the keys to their unseen cells. But what the jailers don’t know is that they themselves are also inmates. A prison built by inmates for inmates, happy to stay within the prison as they build it around themselves and cherish it. And they will do anything they can to maintain and stay on their thrones of shit within it.”

The old Wise Man watched Emily from the crowd. His presence and the voluminous words in her mind drowned out the auctioneer’s festive descriptions of her hair, face, body, and temper.

Bid flags flew up—almost everyone bid on Emily like she was some piece of meat.

From behind the two muscle-packed men forcing Emily into her kneeling position, a third one approached. He brought a glass of champagne to her lips and roughly forced it under the mask. He breathed into her left ear, “Drink.”

“The inmates and the wardens are the same—they know each other only by the rules they accept, out of fear of losing the prison and the illusion of power they hold within its confines,” the Wise Man’s words cut like knives through the void, reaching only Emily’s mind.

The blood rushing in her ears turned into the pounding of drums. It was the first time she had ever sensed what embers lay beneath, blistering with malicious heat. What slept there, crackling like a dying fire, hidden underneath the canvas of fear, was what lay deep at the heart of her deepest self.

A burning rage.

The fire roared into flames within, and it was not fear that paralyzed her, but the power of those forcing her down. Those who forced everybody down, making them small, treating them like objects.

Emily took a sip, then spat it right out; right into the face of the nearest goon who had forced her to drink. She thrashed and flailed and tried to wrestle free in the ensuing split seconds of confusion, but to no avail.

If she was to die here, what would become of her cats?

Is she was to die here, then everything here would burn with her. It was the oath she swore unspoken. Instead, through a string of profanities she spewed out, she sneered at her captors through gritted teeth, clenching her jaws until her gums bled, “You shit-heads are going to pay.”

A hard slap on the face made her ears and head ring—an indicator that her spitting the drink into someone’s face was successful and had gotten to that sack of shit. It was hard to see because the damned mask had slid up into a crooked position with the eye holes somewhere over her forehead. Who did she get?

Didn’t matter. Fuck him. Fuck ‘em all.

The rage inside of her drowned out whatever the announcer was saying and the crowd of this sick perverts murmured in response.

Then the crowd whistled and applauded, in what almost sounded like a polite and timid manner. Not like a football crowd—not a roar—but a calm, timid, amused applause. Bearing the gentlest “ooohs” and “aaahs,” as if her painful outburst was a nice touch of surprise to this whole deranged show.

“Ten thousand! Eleven! Eleven and a half! Twelve—thirteen thousand—fourteen anyone? Fourteen! I see fifteen, sixteen—really? Alright alright, let’s go straight to twenty? Twenty anyone? Twenty! Twenty one—twenty two,” the bids kept rising.

“Quell the rage. Its fire will consume you. Stay calm and you will not die,” Wise Man recited in her head, mirroring ancient mantras, blending them with her current situation.

With her nostrils flaring and her whole body trembling—with liquid fury pulsing through her veins—she listened to Wise Man. Emily focused. Wild thrashing wouldn’t cut it. It was all about the timing now. Finding the right opportunity and seizing it.

She refused to end up as the next pale lifeless body on the metal slab in some dark morgue. She owed it to everybody she had lost, and everybody who might be saved, no matter how little she may accomplish in this life.

Emily whispered to herself, finding an uncanny and almost foreign clarity deep within. It became a mantra as she repeated it, “Rat finds the way off the sinking ship.”

The men continued to strip her and then strap her hands together behind her back with cable ties. People came up on stage to enjoy her various aspects—in the way only psychopaths torturing animals would regard the creatures with a fascination detached from any semblance of empathy.

Focusing on Wise Man and her mantra, she tuned it all out. She detached from this reality. Her meditative mind—a mind steeled in cigarette smoke, drowned in bottomless whiskey glasses, subdued by numerous nightly joints—that jaded mind, that lack of innocence. This mental state protected her and kept her sane now.

She was okay with this. She was surviving.

Mirroring the immovable object that she had become, the Wise Man stood motionless, like a mirage in the crowd, the singular only figure standing still in the midst of a hurricane of animated beasts, in the middle of a pile of demented animals passing as humans.

He heard her whispers, her mantra. Only he.

Someone ripped her mask off. It tore her from the bubble, peeled away a layer of protection, but instead of the grim reality outside, Emily glimpsed something else.

She found herself entirely elsewhere: on a burning pentagram, in the depths of an ancient, evil cave. The audience and her captors—her tormentors—not human, but all devils of various shapes and sizes. Their tongues twisted and split as they drowned out each other’s cacophony of blasphemies in hideous laughter. They lashed each other and themselves with barbed whips, rent their own flesh with horrifically jagged blades. They ate human body parts from trays made of bleached bone.

In a bright flash of orange flame, Emily landed naked. And free from her captors, unbound.

In the middle of her own apartment? Had she done this somehow? Winked her way out of that impossible situation, just by willing it so?

The scope of things threw her off and made her stomach knot. Everything around her was far too big. The couch and coffee table were huge, like dark towers supporting a glass sky. Behind her loomed something the size of a building, of black shiny substance with a soothing green window up on top, ocean blue numbers projecting inside of it. They displayed time, but that clock was frozen solid. Time stood still.

The craziest part of it—Emily wasn’t freaking out.

This was not real in the common sense, but also not unreal. A more apt description would be to explain it as a different reality intersecting with the one she had grown accustomed to.

Everything made perfect sense, which also meant that the current situation caught back up to her in a bright white flash, of cold and unforgiving colors like that of fluorescent lamps in a hospital flickering on. Or the lights in a morgue.

The savagery of nearly being turned into a sex slave by some crazy rich assholes, and the gruesome images of the devils in the dark cave washed over Emily, and she wept. Tears of release, tears of despair, acting out their passion play to go with a whole chorus of emotions bubbling up. Every other little thing she had pushed deep down in her life to function, every last ounce of dust from the edges that had been sanded down by the darkness of this world—it all boiled over and spilled out, streaming forth through rivers of tears.

Through the blurry haze of it all, she took in her surroundings, hugging herself while remaining on her knees, just seconds of despair away from giving up and curling up into a fetal position. She wondered if this was just some elaborate fantasy to detach herself from the horrible reality of people doing things to her while she was helpless.

Maybe none of this freaked her out because nothing ever made any sense to begin with.

As she rose to her feet—wobbly, trembling, and wiping away the tears—the clarity returned.

No guilt. No regret.

No worries came from a world made of glass and shadows.

“Oh no, you don’t. Get back in here. You’ve always been a rat on the inside and now you’re one on the outside,” Jones spoke in his raspy voice. His words did not arrive through the tinny speakers of a phone. They droned like the deep bass of a colossus.

His titanic form towered above the monolith that was the suitcase, a man in a black business suit, garbed in a fancy white overcoat. A cruel grin marked his stubbled face while he attempted to step on Emily. Before he could bring that giant shoe crashing down, three gargantuan tigers leapt in front of her to shield her. With growls and snarls, they clawed at him and got in his way, causing him to recoil and topple backwards.

Samantha, Miranda, Charlotte—unmistakably, Emily knew it was them—now saber-toothed tigers, hailing from another era. From another world.

He kicked them away as they rent and ripped at the ends of his trousers. Giants fighting giants.

“Oh no—no! Don’t try to fight this with your compassion. With your little friends. You were warned. You’re all in now. Shoulda taken the deal, silly girl,” Jones droned on as he swung at the tigers to keep them at bay.

The black building—the doomed suitcase—exploded. Jones, the world, Emily herself—flames engulfed everything.

“What?” Jones cried out, his tone rising into the fever pitch of surprise. “No!”

The three tigers, with manes of fire, jumped to Emily. Miranda snatched her in her mouth and they took off. The beasts ran through a hellish landscape where fire consumed all; where everything solid flaked into the ashes of oblivion.

No—Emily knew better—the realities crossed again—these were the industrial underworld hidden underneath the Estoria Pacific. The tigers had crossed over as well and carried her off the auction stage.

The devilish audience stared in shock, stunned and incapable of reacting. Their masks had become their faces: pigs, lizards, devils, hounds. Those masks had turned flesh, gaining a full facial reality. Masks no more, the onlookers were these abominations now.

Emily looked around, struggling to regain her bearings. Just like none of it freaked her out before, finding that calm center in the eye of the storm, her eyes now darted back and forth, weighing every option within the window of a split-second.

What could she grab hold of? Where could she go?

How could she make these fuck-pigs pay?

As soon as she asked herself these things without uttering them loud, a deafening cacophony flooded into her head, drowning out all her own thoughts.

“I need to pay my mortgage today.”

“Should mow the lawn this Tuesday.”

“I hope Theresa is okay with this when she finds out. Maybe I can get her into it. Maybe get her a nice Vietnamese boy.”

“What if Mark knows? Jesus, what if Mark knows?”

“Okay, two hours tops, gonna cum real quick, fly over to Boston, change tickets, check the stock market, meet with the execs tomorrow morning, be ready for dinner with Ehnske, and still make my way back for the merger talks. Get a nice hooker in between.”

“Tonight—I’ll do it tonight. Everything’s written off. Gonna do it with my .38, the .22 might not do it and leave me crippled. Put tarp in the garage, put my head in the bucket, so the blood pools, I don’t want Ellie to have to clean up, to call the police.”

“Damn, she has nice tits. I love a redhead with nice tits. I wanna eat that ass.”

“They let us kill the last rat at the end of the session, I’m seriously going to outbid Lanston this time. That motherfucker got to drug the Chinese chick to death. My god, it was so hot—he kept fucking her as he kept the injection going until she passed out.”

“Man, what am I doing here? I’ll quit, next week, I promise. God, forgive me. I’ll turn in my VIP card this Sunday. Please, God forgive me.”

“God, if this is wrong, why don’t you strike me down? Strike us all down?”

“God, is this wrong?”

“I’m scared.”

“This is kind of scary.”

“What if someone finds out?”

“What if the kids find out?”

“What if this was my kid?”

Voices. The voices of the audience flowed into Emily’s consciousness, like searing red-hot lava.

The rage swelled again; a candlelight flickering and then flaring into a flame with a sinister roar. But this time, it was not all-consuming, devouring, or controlling. It was a ghostly blue fire. Burning with dark purpose, and cold as the iciest circles of hell that Emily could imagine.

Oblivious and uncaring about her torn attire, she looked down and cupped her hand in front of her breasts, as if to cradle something invisible. Something like that blue flame, encroaching from the edges of her thoughts, eating away at the fringe of the alien minds that hers was touching, keeping those foreign thoughts distinct.

She stared into her empty palm. That fury was something she could grasp.

Something she wanted to grasp.

She felt an aspect of her will manifest in her head. That icy gauntlet that gripped her earlier. The will itself became a gauntlet. But the ice cracked and melted in the flames. As it sloughed off, the gauntlet revealed itself to be forged of iron.

Her will was not made of ice, fickle and prone to hysteria when the flame of anger torches it. Her will was of iron—it could take the heat.

As soon as that aspect took shape in her mind, she comprehended it. And as soon as she comprehended it, her rat paws become human hands again.

Miranda threw her over herself somehow, allowing Emily to land on the mighty tiger’s back. Emily rode, a nude Valkyrie wreathed in furious fire, holding onto the giant beast’s fur, in control of her deadly mount.

She wanted to make the fuck-pigs pay. So much so that their heads burst into flames and exploded. Samantha and Charlotte ripped people’s bodies apart with claw and fang, but there wasn’t enough time. Miranda led the charge and wordlessly urged them to escape. Time was short and Emily felt it, too. All-engulfing flames raged behind them, consuming the stage.

The ancient cave retained the vault door. The tigers approached it.

Emily only blinked and they had teleported beyond it by merit of mere thought, then the tigers raced on. No question as to why, or how that made sense. It happened, therefore it became reality.

Cages, cages, cages—now filled with tormented victims, packed like sardines. Grasping hands that reached out from between the bars, desperate for rescue. The captives cried out. But it was not their cries that Emily heard.

“I want to go home.”

“My baby!”

“I want to die.”

“Save me.”

“My babies.”

“I want to go home.”

“What will happen to me?”

“This is the end.”

“I want to go home.”

“My poor boy.”

“I want to die.”

“Save me.”

“My baby.”

“I want to go back.”

“What will happen to us now?”

“This is the end.”

“I want to go home.”

“Where are my children?”

“I want to die.”

“Save me!”

“What did they do to my sisters?”

“I want to go back home.”

“What will happen to me?”

“This is the end.”

How oddly similar all these internal pleas were, though they coalesced and clashed through different minds, different voices. All different. All the same. All at the same time.

It was time to open those cages. To rip them open. The liberation would hurt. Ripping the band-aid off always did.

Emily blinked again to clear her vision, sensing how different realities intersected and clashed. The voices in her head echoed and screamed, to the point of becoming unbearable. The rage turned righteous. The gauntlet gripped those bars and wrenched them apart with that furious wrath.

The gauntlet transcended the existence of mere imagination and fantasy—it covered her hand. Bleeding into one reality from the next, she wore it like a second skin. Its iron thrummed with unspeakable might.

All the cages flew open at once and a firestorm swept through the world, swallowing everything in a cleansing heat. The whole damned place turned into an inferno.

The three monstrous tigers charged forth and Emily clung to Miranda’s back. All around them, the dimensions changed and twisted and distorted. They escaped through clusters of winding corridors tangled into a labyrinthine, hellish knot.

Furious shouts followed them from the inferno behind them—Jones’ voice overshadowing the bedlam, “No! Kill her! Kill her now! Don’t let it happen! Don’t let her go! Mine, she’s mine! This worthless sack of shit belongs to us!”

Emily raised her hand and splayed her fingers. The gauntlet forced the maze to unfold. She rode Miranda onto cages, jumped from one set of bars to another, inside and through two ends of cages, dashing down a tunnel of narrow cells, up a spiral of bars—these catacombs ever-changing around them whenever she blinked away the tears that the sheer velocity drove into her eyes.

She rode upward against gravity. Right became left, up turned into down. Then they fell, going backwards upon these iron bars, until the world consisted of nothing but iron and fire.

A tremendous invisible force knocked Miranda over, sending her and her dauntless rider into a spiraling fall.

“I can’t take you further. Only you can go there, mom,” said a voice in Emily’s head. Was it her cat? Or Tran’s daughter? Why did they sound the same now?

—Submitted by Wratts

3 notes · View notes

tedfashionski · 4 years ago

Text

Seeing Red

I was drawing today and reminded somehow of that depressing development where the sister of David & Samantha Cameron has been appointed editor of the Evening Standard. Like, I’m looking past the implied wider corruption problems in ‘real’ journalism here, but one point she said in her announcement interview really bothered me. She said, something to the effect of ‘Oh, thank god I spent 20 years working at Vogue while David was in politics, because I am just so fond of him and I would hate to have to be critical of him. So I was safe at Vogue.’

That, right there, sums up how far fashion media is from even being able to recognise the functional role of journalism. Oh, thankfully, at Vogue we can hide from criticality and awareness of the political dimensions of the world. All the while, the fashion industry is feeding this planet-killing spirit-crushing capitalist consumerism. But, no, why would it be political? Stop making it political. It’s just clothes.

K, I’m going to RANT a little about these digital fashion weeks we’ve just been subjected to. I’ll preface by saying, yeah, I get it, it’s hard to be creative in the thick of a pandemic. My standards have been accordingly lowered 20%. I am very generous.

Chanel and Dior’s lack of energy was no surprise. Although, keeping in mind female designers tend to be more pragmatic as a matter of course, it’s sad the two top women are being so listless. I was pleasantly surprised by Azzaro – it gave a hint of a vibe but was sure of itself. It emphasised that there was no reason for the Chanel & Dior videos & collections to exist, no point of view. The smaller couture players like the Dutch trinity of Ronald van der Kemp, Iris van Herpen, and Viktor & Rolf were a little more canny, you got the impression they were enjoying themselves at the very least.

Regarding men’s, I do think Rick Owens was actually well judged in its boringness – we don’t need product-based experimentation necessarily. I enjoyed the meta-narrative aspect, it seems to me a good time for that kind of subtle, slightly snide interplay of references. Yohji’s design’s really sang, the video could have worked harder, it felt thrown together and didn’t do the clothes justice. (Side note, that showstudio Yohji review video, 45 mins of failing to say anything, was what finally pushed me over the edge. Dude. Are you guys for real? ‘Where is the avant garde’? If you don’t know, give up already. I’m not even a Yohji fanbear but he deserves better.) Kiko gave us a real stab at a pscho-medieval vibe, and I would’ve written a full review about it cus there’s stuff going on there. But fuck that. If he doesn’t want to talk to us, and show his full vision to the public in a spirit of optimism and faith in the culture, why should I bother with him? Mean and snooty gatekeeping gets mean and snotty graffiti right back.

Fashion culture (twitter, specifically) wants to be wowed by everything all the time. Then, it complains and says why is fashion week even happening during a pandemic, now isn’t the time for fashion. Another example of our schizo cognitive dissonance as we consume this shit. What do we even want?

I’ll tell you what I want. I want fashion designers to be engaged in a collective speculative in-depth discussion of what the future feels like right now, as an artform. So, I’m not going to analyse anything as a commercial proposition, because the future features less and less buying shit. In part as I believe that with growing internet dispersal of OG systems, awareness will rise, the vocabulary will expand, and we’ll stop caring so much about the performative aspects of fashion clothing. The interiority aspect will only grow, and that means unique-feeling experiences that are like conversing with a familiar presence. The fashion designer as moot, a parasocial meta-commentator. A friend you don’t actually have to talk to, just talk with, in the culture. That process won’t start from a point of ‘buy my shit’. First, a relationship should be built up, set up and running along. Then, if product occurs it’s incidental. Wow, I’m being a real little weatherbear. Check out my prophecies!

So, I’m pretty disappointed and depressed about the resentful undertone of much of the work presented to us. Like, they’re crossing their arms and getting all grumpy about how they’re not allowed to carry on like they always do. FFS, you’re FASHION PEOPLE. Change is the name of the game, this shit should excite you. It’s your job to guide each other in an open-ended perusal of future possibilities, and to make recommendations. It’s not just clothes, they’re the medium, the language in which you build the commentary. If all you care about is nice product (*cough*, hedi slimane, *cough* jacquemus), stop calling yourself a fashion designer, because you’re a clothing manufacturer and I don’t care about you.

Why are all these videos so boring? Have any of these people heard of editing, rhythm? They do realise you can hire people for this kind of thing, right? The deadening lack of imagination amongst people whose full-time job it is to be creative about the present’s transition into the future is astounding. This really underlines the risks of nepotism and gatekeeping. The only people who can afford to participate are the gutless products of a bloated upper middle class. I don’t believe in that class’s creative capacities for one fucking minute. They’ve got nothing at stake, no guts to go against anything, because their boring shitty system works for them, so why should it change? Ugh, vom.

Where is the communicative power? Nothing is being said, it’s filler for an elite determined to go down with their ship. I’m glad it’s sinking, it wasn’t fit for purpose and I’ll happily stick some extra holes in to make it sink faster.

I’m going to single out Jonathan Anderson again. Listen, he’s a little pretty boy who’s working so effectively within the system, who has played the game perfectly to the best of his ability. His work is top level, he wins every time. So, I reckon he can be held up as an example. He can take it. I’m looking at the box-shows he did for Loewe and his own brand, and I’m thinking, oh that’s such a lovely take on alt fashion communication. So much heart, and care. Then, what’s the internet equivalent? A little video showing off the box. Some 3d shots & backs of looks and boxes. A little extemporised pitter patter from Jonny. That’s it. It’s still classist as fuck. With garment design there’ll always be limits on what’s possible in terms of digital translation. This isn’t actually garment design though. It’s fashion design. If I’m stuck with a low-grade clip and some jpegs, it’s pretty clear to me you don’t care about your wider fashion community. There should be an open digital experience that feels equally cared for and crafted. And here’s where I get really angry: all these fashion journalists have been delivered this unique, beautiful experience, and what are they doing with it? Where is the thoughtful response? Every single one of these people in this privileged position should be DOING THEIR JOBS (WHICH THEY ARE PAID TO DO, FULL TIME) and WRITE ABOUT FASHION. Not post online, ‘omg lovee ittt, so cutee!’. Anyone can do that. Are you a fan or a professional? This is an embarrassment. I’m stuck analysing some pixels. You’re getting the ‘real’ experience. I know I’ll never be an insider given these opportunities. I chose this path and I’m not going to try and play that game, because the rules are: you get access, in exchange for sacrificing criticality. Because these people, as educated and privileged as they are, don’t understand the value of criticism. Good criticism, the detailed, even handed, unafraid kind, pushes the culture forward. You can’t have a healthy art form without it, it’s essential because it’s the back in the back and forth. I probably could’ve tried to play their silly PR game a bit harder. But I had a nervous breakdown, in part, because I knew I would never be allowed to get close to the art enough to analyse it fairly if I spoke freely as I do now. And freedom is essential. So, pixels it is. Rudeness it is. Because there is work to do to salvage the bottom-dwelling wreck of our fashion dreams so that maybe we can travel somewhere new and better with them. It just sucks that there’s people standing there with the tools to help and no desire to save themselves or anyone else.

1 note · View note

keeloca · 5 years ago

Text

SW ficlet: Or Else Into the Light

Recently returned to the light, the man who was Darth Vader struggles to find peace through meditation. And old friend shows up to help. This, too, is hard.

The first time he might have fled, given the chance:

The initial meeting with representatives from the Chandrilan House ran unexpectedly short, and once he had nodded a curt goodbye to the other member of the council, he allowed himself to retreat to his room. Normally he would remain in the common areas, doggedly inserting himself into the daily lives of the Rebels. He would do it unobtrusively, if possible, as not to provoke conflict or promote tension, but he would always be very much there, undeniably present. Letting himself be seen; claiming a space; helping where he could and was allowed.

He supposed that this, too, was a kind of penance.

Not only that, though; not even primarily that. He knew that if he wanted to make a real difference here with the Alliance, they would need to accept him, trust him. That could not be achieved if he hid away in his rooms.

Perhaps it could not be achieved at all. Incidents of actual (attempts at) violence or overt hostility had been surprisingly rare in the few weeks since he had thrown in his lot with the Rebels, but the undercurrent of fury and suspicion just barely held in check rarely abated. If Luke had been there it might thave been different, but Luke was not, and it was not.

Turning a corner, he pushed open the wooden door to the chambers he had been assigned upon their arrival early this morning. The room was spacious by Alliance standards, and luxurious. As per Chandrilan custom, the furnishings were simple enough, but the bed was large, the floor antique stone tiles, and the windows high and arched. The vivid blue of the carpet accented the earthy browns of the stone and wood.

As the door closed behind him, he felt his shoulders sink just the fraction of an inch. Solitude was a luxury he rarely indulged in nowadays, and while his own company was not something he'd wish upon his worst enemy (well, maybe upon his worst enemy, one last time), it was a relief to be away from angry, fearful eyes and angry, fearful thoughts.

He'd drawn strenght from those not so long ago. Not anymore.

Less fear here though, and a lot less anger, than on the main base. Only the High command, of which he was now a very inofficial member, had been invited to Chandrila for the covert negotiations. The truly formidable Mon Mothma had arranged the secret conference held in a small town far, far away from the capital and prying Imperial eyes, and though she'd never come outright and said it, he had been given the distinct impression that the House's willingness to meet with them was due in part to his own recent defection. Though having him join them was closer to a PR disaster than a victory for the Rebels, there was no denying that his presence changed things.

Things became possible that had not previously been so.

There'd be a formal dinner later, and he'd be expected to attend. He did not look forward to it. One of the relatively few perks of being Darth Vader had been the tacit understanding that he did not, as a rule, need to show up for any state dinners or other functions, unless he so chose or there was particular threat to be dealt with.

A glance at the ornamental time piece over the door told him that dinner was still more than two hours away. That was a lot of time to kill, particularly for someone who had not bothered to cultivate any hobbies beyond work and the occasional tinkering with machines for the past twenty years. Stuck here, there was little enough in the way of work he could do, and he doubted the Chandrilans was in need of a repairman.

With a inward sigh he decided it was a good time as any to have another go at meditation. Removing his boots, he sat down in the middle of the thick carpet with his legs crossed, and closed his eyes. Took a deep breath, and reached for the Force.

Always more suited to action than to contemplation, he had often struggled to stay relaxed and centered while sitting still and doing nothing. At least as a Jedi – as a Sith and drawing on his pain and hatred and rage it had proved much easier, and a source of both rejuvenation and sharpened focus.

Thus he had learned the value of meditation, as he had learned so many other things: much too late and for the wrong purpose. And now, when he ached to simple rest in the light and let its warmth and peace permeate him, it was again proving very, very hard.

Impossible, so far, every time he had tried.

He was not one to balk from a challenge. Taking another deep breath, he forced himself to unclench his fists and relax. Slowly, calmly, into tranquility, nothing but the Force around him -

Five hearbeats he managed. Five hearbeats, before they started creeping up on him: memories and visions, guilt and grief, the remnants of a pain and rage so vast it tainted everything, coloured it black and red.

It was always like this, as soon as he let himself lower the shields he kept so carefully in place at all other times. Those shields allowed him to keep walking and talking rather than succumbing to the weight of the past twenty years, but the second he let them slip –

Jaw set, he tried to ignore it, push past it, reaching for the tranquil light, but to no avail. It fled him, and all that was left was the roar of his own churning mind.

Breathing heavily and with heart hammering, he opened his eyes. The taste of defeat was familiar by now, but no less bitter for it.

Too hard. Too hard, even for him.

Kark that. Setting his jaw, he closed his eyes once more. His younger self would have given into sulking by now, he knew with some shame; that boy had been so used to mastering almost everything with ease that he had little patience to practise the rest.

That boy was gone, for better and for worse.

Again, he relaxed, iron will overriding they body's natural response to the stress and anxiety.

”Don't worry so about relaxing,” a soft voice intoned. ”Concentrate instead on the sensation of your limbs pressing down on the floor.”

He sat completely still, frozen. The voice had come from behind him and been utterly, impossibly familiar. He'd have dismissed it as an audiotory hallicunation, not entirely unknown to him these days, had he not also been able to feel the intruder's presence, steady and bright in the Force.

Obi-Wan.

He did not turn. Did not move. Did not even attempt to parse the many, intense and conflicted feelings coursing through him.

”The sensation of your limbs pressing against the floor,” Obi-Wan repeated, giving no indication that he had noticed the turmoil had had caused. ”And breathe.”

Belatedly, he realized that he had been holding his breath, so still had he been. Now he carefully let his chest rise and fall with a long, slow breath. Another.

And another.

”Focus on the sensation of your limbs pressing against the floor,” Obi-Wan said for the third time, and this time he did, if only because utterly at an loss what else to do. Focused: bottom and heels, pressing down, the floor hard and somewhat cool against them.

”Good,” Obi-Wan said, and the small, casual word brought with it a wave of pleasure that threw him. It was absurd that such a tiny morsel of praise could mean anything to him now. Absurd, that the man he had murdered would offer it. ”Now, your calves.”

He did as he was told. And so, part by part, he was guided through a careful examination of his restored body in the very first, the most basic, of all meditation exercises. Nothing about the Force, light side or dark – although of course everything that existed was about and of the Force, and so too was this. Whenever his mind began to stray and the darkness began to stir, Obi-Wan's calm voice drew his attention back towards his hands, his spine, his neck. Breathe, in and out. Feel your chest rise and fall, unassisted. Listen to the faint humming of a generator two rooms away. Whatever is, let it be.

Nothing else was said. He kept his eyes closed and never once turned his head to catch a glimpse of his unasked helper. When eventually he realized that he was alone once more, he could not have said how long it had been so.

Even as he rose, his initial feelings of unease and confusion begun to reassert themselves, disspelling the calm of the meditation. Yet this was tempered by the knowledge that for a little while, he had known peace. Not impossible, then – not even now, and not even for him.

He wondered what it had cost Obi-Wan to grant him that, and for what purpose it had been done.

---

The second time was sought and feared in equal measure.

For the next few days he kept busy enough that there just wasn't time to meditate. There were meetings, longer every time, a renewed effort to socialize, lightsabre practise to pick up, and would you look at that, it appeared the Chandrilans did need a repairman after all – the state of the basic maintenance techonology of the villa was not up to scratch, if you looked hard enough...

Eventually he was forced to admit he was making excuses. This annoyed him so much that he stormed to his room and more or less threw himself down on the carpet, cursing himself for a coward.

If pressed – had anyone known to press him – he would not have been able to say what scared him more: that Obi-Wan would show up again, or that he wouldn't.

As it turned out, the voice came almost immediately, before he had had time to take more than few breaths.

Gratitude then, wordless and overwhelming. Something sharp and painful lodged in his throat, and for the first few moments his attempts to swallow it down distracted him from Obi-Wan's instruction. But the other man was patient and repeated himself without reproach until he was heeded.

It was easier this time, and became easier still the time after that, and the one after that.

They remained on Chandrila; negotiations were going well. Others joined them, delegates from several different worlds, as what had begun as a small and tentative meeting grew into something different and larger. The rumour was spreading: Darth Vader had joined the Rebels. The Rebels might have a shot. Trusted or not, liked or not, he was needed now, and kept busy at almost all hours of the day. So much knowledge to share, so much to plan and prepare – and so many times to be presented and paraded about, he is here, ours, all that power, notice how he isn't strangling anyone.

He played along, to the best of his ability. But no matter how much he had to do, or how late it was when he returned to his room, he always took the time to meditate. Once more, and with the help of his ghostly guide, it offered the rest and clarity he could find nowhere else, least of all in sleep.

Obi-Wan was there every time, appeared the moment he closed his eyes, always. The dead Jedi never appeared before that, and never tried to coax him into conversation. Indeed, he never offered anything at all that wasn't instruction. The man on the floor kept waiting, heart in his mouth, for the other to say something, and finally force him to acknowledge his presence.

Obi-Wan never did. Obi-Wan had always been patient, and wise.

They were well into their tenth session when he was finally the one who spoke, the words spilling over his lips almost involuntarily:

”Why are you being kind to me?”

At first there was no answer. The silence dragged out, enough that he almost began to suspect that the other had left. But he could still feel his steady presence in the Force, and eventually Obi-Wan replied: ”Would you prefer me to be unkind?”

Yes, he thought but did not say. It wasn't entirely true – but not entirely false either. It'd be easier in some ways, he suspected, if the friend he'd betrayed would rage and berate and condemn. He could deal with that; was used to it; could not deny its appropriatness.

”A question for a question is not much of an answer,” he said instead, evenly. Control – he was good at it now, had needed to learn to survive, and he wondered if Obi-Wan appreciated the irony of that.

”Perhaps not,” the ghost of his old mentor conceded. ”But perhaps it is part of the answer.” A brief pause. ”Perhaps I am being kind, as you put it, because I believe you need me to be. And perhaps what you judge as kindness is merely the absence of expected unkindness.”

”There's no reason for you to help me.” Curt, almost angry.

He could damn near hear Obi-Wan raise an eyebrow. ”On the contrary. It is quite obviously in everyone's best interest to keep the Chosen One firmly rooted in the light. Anything I can do to aid that is a direct service to the galaxy, and to the Force.”

There was a familiarity to this that was both comforting and deeply unsettling. The cultured voice, calm, reasonable, and yet utterly unyielding, Obi-Wan may be humble, but he was also stubborn – and utterly confident in his own understanding of the Force, and his place within it. It seemed death had done nothing to change this.

He nodded. ”I see. Your presence here is a means to a end. Your duty as a Jedi. That is all.”

That made perfect sense. The Chosen One was a terrible weapon, no matter which side wielded him, and only a fool would refuse the use of such power when facing the might of Darth Sidious. It was the only reason the Rebels, with great reluctance and after much debate, had accepted him, after all.

And so there was no reason for a simple statment of this fact to hurt so.

Obi-Wan's voice was infinitely gentle, and almost as sad. ”That is not all. But I think it might be all you're ready to accept right now.” Another pause, longer now, and he imagined the other rising – if indeed he had been sitting, did spirits bother to sit? – as he prepared to make his leave.

The man on the floor had yet to turn and look at him. In all their time together since Obi-Wan first appeared, he had yet to do that.

There was a sense of withdrawal, a growing distance – but right before Obi-Wan's presence faded entirely, the murdered man added, very softly: ”When you are ready, I'll still be here.”

He opened his eyes then, and looked over his shoulder. The room was empty, dust dancing in the shaft of light falling through the arched window. A sense of peace, and – implausibly – affection, lingered, like the trace of perfume once the wearer has left the room.

Slowly, he stood and walked over to the window. Beyond the small town the neiden fields stretched out, budding green as winter once more gave way to spring. He could hear birds singing in the distance, and the sound of a gentle breeze rustling the high trees. Somewhere close by a child laughed.

Anakin Skywalker raised his face towards the sun, and let the light warm him.

#darth vader #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #i just have so many feelings about redeemed anakin okay #and all the things he and obi-wan would and would not say to each other #just don't have the time or patience to write proper fic so vignettes it is #fic #Original Trilogy #original content

3 notes · View notes

tarysande · 6 years ago

Text

Lucifer & Eve & Cain (no spoilers; just personal speculation based on mythology)

Like I said, I’m avoiding spoilers as much as I can, but I’ve been thinking a lot about Eve (mostly because I’ve had to think a bit about Cain for this post 3x24 fic I’m working on) and something occurred to me that just really pleases me about the idea of her as a character on the show. Because there’s some mild speculation (nothing fueled by spoilers because I’m not looking at them!), I’m going to throw the whole thing under a cut, though.

Okay, so, in the show’s universe, we know Lilith exists(ed?) because Maze is Mazikeen of the Lilim. That means that the show is probably working from the Lilith-was-Adam’s-first-wife mythology. In that mythology, God created Adam and Lilith at the same time, from the same “stuff of the earth,” making them equal. When Lilith was then expected to be subservient to Adam as his wife, she was like “NOPE,” grew some wings, and went off to have demon babies of her own. When some angels were sent to her to make her go back to Adam, she was like “Oh hell no, literally,” and even though they said, “Look, if you don’t go back, a hundred of your demon babies will die every day,” she said, “That’s still better than being with Adam. Lilith out.”

Meanwhile, Adam’s all, “Ugh, I’m bored and lonely,” so God says, “Fine, fine. Go to sleep, when you wake up things’ll be better.” So, Adam goes for a nap, and God yanks out a rib and makes Adam a wife, Eve. He figures that, by making Eve literally out of a piece of Adam, she’ll be down with the subservience thing. “Helpmate” is the positive PR spin put on this. (PS: YUCK.)

Which brings us to the show and its recurring and super important focus on CHOICE. The importance of choice, the horror of choice being removed or manipulated, free will as choice, even choosing your own hell based on your own guilt. Choice choice choice, right?

It’s implied that Lucifer rebelled because he resented not having a choice about things, and because he resented that angels were created to serve certain purposes according to the gifts God had given them (and possibly because he was irritated that Adam, built in God’s image and all that, got to have choices). Enter Eve, right? Again and again, Lucifer tells us he’s misrepresented---his story is part of history told by the victors. We’ve got Man’s (assumed also to be God’s) version of events and Lucifer’s version. The truth is probably somewhere in the nebulous grey area between these. Nonetheless, I think we can probably expect that the show’s truth is not the standard, “Lucifer manipulates Eve into eating the forbidden fruit.” My guess is it’s more, “Lucifer gives Eve some important information that’s been kept from her, like, ‘Hey, did you know my Dad literally made you out of a piece of your husband so that you’d never make a decision for yourself and so you’d constantly put Adam’s needs before your own? (Sidebar: has Eve ever had an orgasm? Was this reason #1 that Lilith flipped a table on her way out the door? Just saying.) Did you know Adam had a wife before you who noped out of this place because she wasn’t keen on a role as helper instead of star of her own life? I’m not telling you what to do, but if you eat this apple, maybe you’ll have the knowledge you need to be your own person. (Also, I can probably help you with the orgasm thing.)’”

Because if we’ve learned anything about Lucifer over three seasons, it’s that the right to be one’s own person is sacrosanct.

By the fact that humanity exists, we sorta have to believe that Eve took this knowledge and still decided to stay with Adam. Maybe he didn’t know Eve was essentially coerced by the method of her creation to be with him; maybe eating the fruit of the tree of knowledge was illuminating to him, too, and showed him she deserved better, and that he actually wanted a true partnership, which hadn’t been possible up to that point. Maybe he saw what an entitled little shit he’d been. Partnership is another of the show’s major themes, after all.

But if this is true, what if Eve isn’t actually back to jump Lucifer’s bones or tempt him or anything similar? What if she’s there to return the favor---helping Lucifer to see how he’s continually refusing to act on his own choices out of fear, the way he once helped her to see a truth she wasn’t aware had been hidden from her? What if she’s there to help him because she feels that he deserves some damn happiness and he’s still the biggest obstacle standing in the way of his own happiness? Now, she might do this in any number of ways, and one of those ways might be “temptation” in an attempt to stop lying to himself and see what he really wants. That’s what Lucifer understands; sex, pleasure, etc. It could be she shows up as if that’s what she wants only to say, “No, you dummy, you deserve better than this, wise up!”

Basically, I want Eve to be friends with Chloe. (I would also straight-up love it if she and Adam are actually really happy together, but she didn’t realize what she had until she tried something else and ate the fruit that let her decide for herself.)

Obviously, Cain has to be part of the whole equation. You can’t introduce the mother of a person Lucifer killed and condemned (essentially) to Hell without that character being relevant and important. In the some of the same mythology mentioned above (as I posted about a while ago), Cain is Lucifer & Eve’s son; I don’t know if the show’s going to use that bit of mythology. It certainly would put a spin on things, especially vis a vis Lucifer’s obsession with truth (and yet choosing to hide truths from Chloe, which has meant he’s been living his own brand of lie of omission and living counter to his own true nature, in which truth, fairness, and justice are his dominant character traits); Lucifer’s own issues with his absentee father and messed up family life; Lucifer’s fears about being lied to or manipulated; and the distinct parallels drawn between Lucifer and Cain/Pierce in S3. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Like I said, they may not go this route at all, but if they do? An absolute ton of the groundwork has already been laid in the story they’ve told thus far. (Or they could just do an entirely different twist; parallels were drawn between Lucifer and Abel, too, after all.)

Anyway, the tl;dr of this whole thing is that I think Eve’s characterization will revolve as much around truth and knowledge and choice as things that are withheld or manipulated by others as Lucifer’s does, and I am excited to see what they do with that.

#lucifer morningstar #lucifer on netflix #lucifer thoughts #lucifer speculation #lucifer meta #adam and eve #cain and abel #nothing informed by spoilers #just my own brain

40 notes · View notes