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ssavanessa22 · 4 years ago

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Bad blood

Warnings: racism, hate crime, cannon type violence, kinda but not really smutty so like 16+ as always if I missed someone pls tell me !

A/n the girls of Wattpad really liked this one so I hope you all enjoy as well!

"Y/N you and Reid are going to lead this interview even though you are together make a great team and I think you can crake him are you guys okay with that?"

Spencer and I looked and each other and smiled in unison we replied.

"Yes we are more than okay with that"

Spencer and I have been together for 2 years 324days and 6 hours well that's what he said to me when I woke up next him laying of his bare chest, even though we basically spend every day together we still needed uno special time together and oh was it special. Before we told hotch about our relationship we were able to be in the field together until one time I thought Spence died and then I started crying and it was a whole big thing but now are months not working together we got to do what we both love and with each other.

Before we walked into the interrogation room together Spence turned to me and said.

"Are you sure your okay to do this, you don't have to if you don't want to this case is close to you even if he didn't hurt your family"

This unsub was committing hate crime murders for the last nine months pretending to go on dates with balck women then brutally murder them, Garcia found his manifesto online called "the eradication of all unpure women" it took Kevin who was with her at the time to calm her down as she had to read it out loud I felt bad for her but everyone else felt bad for me. Was looking at me in that moment I wished more than ever to be where Tara was right now, interviewing a child rapist.

I replied to Reid whilst plastering on a fake smile,

"Spencer I'm gonna be fine if anything these women looking like me being like me makes me wanna catch this motherfucker even more"

He smiled and gently kissed me before we both walked in.

"Tyler Walker do you know hey your here"

He ignored my question then Spencer asked the same one only then did he reply.

"Tyler if I'm going to be in here you need to speak to both of us" I sternly replied

"Well if your gonna bring you boyfriend in here since you clearly can't do this on you own them I'm gonna talk to the man here if you'd don't mind"

Spencer interjected saying

"Tyler we found the hearts of all the women murdered in you home why were they in there?"

I don't know I didn't touch them"

He didn't ask if you touched them we asked what you did to those girls" I sternly said.

"You know what If you want to know what I hypothetically would have done to those women I tell you, but only little miss chocolate in the room and only her."

Before Reid could protest I said "yeah sure let's talk"

Spencer's POV

As I walked to the door I gave y/n a reassuring smile she turned and gave me one back but her face was filled with anger and fear, she would never tell me this but she was scared. We didn't shy away from the topic of race within our relationship I read of lot of books and educated myself before I even started dating her I would never understand but I will always try my hardest to be there. And sometimes she just wanted to come home and cry let her emotions out about what it was like being black in American and that was okay as well because I love her.

"How do you think she's gonna do in there?" JJ asked reluctantly

"If I'm being honest I don't know"

Y/N's POV

I sat down trying to make myself look bigger and take up more space within the room than I actually did to encourage my self but in my head I was fucking shitting it.

"Okay we are alone now tell me"

"Just remember sweetheart this is all hypothetical I never did anything if the thing I am about it say" Tyler replied in a menacing tone

"Yes I know get on with it then"

The next 15 minutes felt like a blur, 15 minutes 900 seconds that's how long I heard Tyler speak about all the torcher he wanted to our women like me through half way he started to refer to the women with my name making me imagine him doing these Haines and despicable things to me. I think what was the worst part was that he was smiling whilst he describe these disgusting thing to me he smiled I felt violated and felt used and felt like he had infested my personal space chipping away at the emotional armour I developed whilst having this job.

Once he finished I was on the brink tears but I never going to show him that I left the room being met only by Spencer's face he was seething but I didn't care I just wanted him to hold me to tell me everything was going to be okay.

"Y/N it's okay your okay your other now" he said whilst soothing me.

"I just don't think I can get back in there-"

As I said that Derek stormed in took one look at me and brought me to his arms even though it wasn't Spencer it just felt right in the time to hug him he would understand the most out of the team what I was going through.

"Y/N I know you said you don't want to go back in there but he got him his prints were all over the bodies we found and he had the hearts of the victims he's going to go away for a long time but now you can tell him that take back your power Y/N"

"Ok I'll do it"

"Y/N are you sure you wanna do it this you don't have to?" Spencer said whilst searching my eyes for any fear I had.

I smirked at Spencer whilst he looked at me in confusion I replied.

"Nope I'm okay and I know just what I'm gonna talk about"

By this point the whole team was in the room

"Y/N are you okay love I heard what happened"

"I'm okay Emily but right now you get to watch me drag a white supremacist to filth."

I barged into the interrogation room not letting Tyler speak.

"Okay listen Up bird brain your already done for we found your prints all over the body and that were at your house so now this is just a formality"

"So if you think you've caught me why I am not in a jail cell right now? Hmm"

"You were so nice to me and described the rape, torture, murder and the disfigurement that you would do to me so now I'm just going to repay the favour"

"You know you were right about him being my boyfriend you know"

"so the lanky white one is you boyfriend, I've always said that pure breads shouldn't mix with you people"

"Tyler your going to prison for a very long time you racist rhetoric means nothing to me,but since you I have been so kind to me I am going to spend the next 15 no 20 minutes going in full detail about the amazing sex I had with my white boyfriend last night if we can fit it all in 20 minutes. We will just have to see won't we?"

Spencer's POV

My jaw had dropped to the floor when y/n said that I mean yes it would be hot for her to describe every single we did last night both of us have an eidetic memory so I know she remembers it all but in front of a racist unsub I had I was weirdly impressed and terrified at the same time.

"You don't think she's actually gonna do that?" I asked to the team in complete and utter shock

"Reid when was the last time y/n has ever lied to us?"

"Once JJ but she couldn't even go the whole day telling the lie she ended buying hotch a dozen of his favourite donuts even though she only ate one"

Derek and Emily started chuckling and said.

"That means she's not lying"

The unsub was seething with anger when y/n carried on speacking

" Tyler I didn't a little digging on you and I found out form you pervious girlfriends that apparently you can't put it up in one of you girlfriends exact words she says no matter how hard I tried he could never get hard"

"You don't know anything you slut"

"oop Tyler your using big words especially with someone who only has the education of a 5th grader"

But you know what Tyler lucky for you I have and eidetic memory I don't think you know what that is so I'm just gonna tell you... that means I remember everything so we're gonna have some fun together hmm"

20 minutes, 1200 seconds that's how long y/n spoke in detail about about sexual escapades from last night throughout these 20 minutes Derek started recording so he could send this back to Garcia. Light chuckles and laughs were heard here and there then oos and ahhs, then total shock was the look on everyone's face and a gasp coming from Garcia who Derek had patched in a phone call so she could listen too when y/n got to the last bit. I guess they just assumed because I'm the youngest apart from y/n and .... well I'm me that we would have a boring sex life but I guess we surprised them.

Y/N's POV

After I finished I wasted no time in leaving but before I did I said one more thing.

Tyler you are going to prison for a very long time you probably get life or even the death penalty so I want you to remember what I spoke to you about every single time you try your hardest to get it up every. Single. Time. I hope you know after your manny years in prison never getting to see the outside again and you die I will be sleeping soundly knowing you are burning in hell"

I walked out and the whole team was silent in utter shock of what I said then i realised I probably shouldn't have said any of that too an unsub.

" omg hotch I am so sorry that was completely inappropriate and unacceptable what I did in there and wasn't right at all I-"

"I'm sorry y/n I don't know what your talking about what did you say in there"

"What I just spent the last 20 minutes-"

Seriously y/n what are you talking about you went I told him what he was being charge for and you walked back out hun what are you talking about?"

Im what I'm so confused what?"

Then Spencer finally said

"Babe I know I can be dumb sometimes but please read the room"

I looked around still so confused until I finally realised.

Ohhhhh ok yeah yeah I get it now"

Okay but when are you are pretty boy releasing the sex tape cause I would like to pre order"

The whole teams was laughing including me and Spencer I replied simply with

"in your dreams Morgan in your dreams"

#wattpad #spencer ried smutt #ssavanessa22 #spencer walter reid #spencer reid x reader #cm #criminal minds #black stories #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x y/n

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alyblacklist · 4 years ago

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So about that kiss...

I apologize for ignoring a whole bunch of asks this weekend, but I wanted to share my thoughts on that emotional, beautiful, bittersweet, angsty scene on my own terms and not in response to an ask. Because wow, it’s been a long time coming. And yes, it was worth the wait.

It is so typical of the plight of a Keenler shipper to have Ressler and Liz’s first kiss delayed 8 months by a pandemic, and then filmed only under COVID restrictions because what - we’ve only waited seven years, right? Patience is always required when it comes to Keenler and this time was (and is) no exception.

Overall, I thought the scene was beautiful and that Megan and Diego did an incredible job conveying the message that the emotion between Ressler and Liz that led to the kiss was absolutely genuine despite Liz’s play at the end with the gun. (Something later confirmed by the show runners, but that wasn’t a confirmation I needed - I thought it was obvious from how they played the scene). Anyone who insists these two are nothing more than good friends is watching a different show than I am, for sure. I feel like this was a turning point for the writers to finally acknowledge that, and I can’t wait to see how it plays out over the rest of the season. This was the kind of moment that a lot of Keenler shippers wished for back in S3 between them before she went on the run and while I don’t think Liz “on the run” is going to last very long based on the promo pics for next week, her abandonment and betrayal of the Task Force may not be so easily resolved.

Let’s start with the meeting. Liz texted him and asked to meet in person. Why? She could have talked to him on the phone and asked him for time. Instead, she chose to take the risk of an in-person meeting and trusted him enough that he would show up alone and without the cavalry in tow. And no, I don’t think it was for the purpose of seducing him or nabbing his gun - she had her own weapon when she was driving the transport van with Dom, she didn’t need his except to prevent him from following her. And I’m sorry, but I just have to shake my head at the idea I have seen floated by some that Liz was somehow emulating her mother in that moment as if the tale of a 15 year old forced to sleep with American soldiers somehow inspired this? Please. I think Liz asked to meet with Ressler in person because she knew she had seriously betrayed his trust by lying to him and she knew she needed to see him in person to try to convey that. I think that’s evident in the early part of their conversation as she sees the hurt on his face and she tries to explain herself.

I don’t think she headed into this meeting intending at all to kiss him. I loved how they built up the scene between them slowly, and I thought Megan and Diego played their characters’ emotions perfectly. In fact, it was Ressler who stepped closer to her first (and it looks like he took her arm or her hand?), pleading for her to come with him and telling her he’ll back her no matter what.

You could tell how much that meant to her, and I loved how her lip trembled as she admitted that while she still needs the favor, she also needs him to keep believing in her. Because that matters to Liz, and it always has.

In fact, her reaction reminded me of the moment in the SUV on the way to the courthouse in 3.09 (also a Cerone episode) when she reacted to him telling her that, for what it’s worth, he believes she was framed. Both times, she had tears in her eyes.

Except this time, he does too as they have that long pause before she finally leans in to kiss him.

And I loved how he gently snaked his arm around her waist to pull her closer to him during the kiss.

And afterwards, his first words are "I won’t give up on you.” That’s it - that’s setting the stage for the rest of this season. He meant it when he said “not on my watch” in Brothers. He’s not going to let her slip away permanently into the darkness. But at the same time, he reminds her that he still has to do his job, although you could see on his face how much that pained him. And he’s back to calling her Keen instead of Liz, despite the kiss, already putting some distance there.

And I think this is the moment where Liz decides to take the gun. Not when she first decided to kiss him, but when he reminds her that he can’t just let her go. Because she didn’t have to kiss him to get close enough to take his gun - and certainly not on the lips as she did. Moreover, if the purpose of the kiss was purely to get the gun, she could have disarmed him mid-kiss instead of waiting. She took it only when she realized she had to in order to prevent him from coming after her - they’ve been down this road before.

And she knows as she does so, that she has hugely broken his hard-earned trust once again as she slips away into the night. The regret is palpable on her face.

So - where do we go from here? I think the writers have set Ressler and Liz up for a lot more short term angst and eventually a beautiful reconciliation. It was so typical of The Blacklist for their first kiss to come at precisely the wrong moment, but that’s also why it happened because it finally got them to cross that line. I am curious to see if Red and Ressler work together to bring Liz back from the brink. Red knew in S3 that Ressler had feelings for Liz - I don’t think it’s going to take long for him to figure out the current lay of the land. And especially not if Dembe is in fact returning Ressler’s gun in 802.

I’d love for Ressler for once to tell Liz how her betrayals have affected him, to really call her out and for Liz to feel what it’s like to not always have him at the ready. But I also look forward to seeing how they interact with each other now that they have both mutually acknowledged feelings that go beyond simple partnership and friendship. I have a feeling their next kiss - and there WILL be a next kiss someday - will be very different.

And on that note, the logistics of how they performed the scene honestly did not bother me - mannequins for the close ups, and live photo doubles (or “stunt kissers” as Zee called them) for the distance shot - they did the best they could in the world what we live in right now and I thought Megan and Diego sold the scene beautifully with everything that came before and after. Of course we’d all rather have seen Megan and Diego do the whole thing but none of that takes away from the fact that the *characters* of Liz and Ressler had a “real” kiss no matter how it was filmed, and that moment is canon. If COVID restrictions get lifted, they can go back to filming like usual. If they don’t, I’d much rather see the actors play it safe than put themselves at risk for a little extra fan service. And to those gleefully mocking the mannequin moments - all I can say is laugh away, because we both know that if it was a different ship, you’d be lighting off fireworks in celebration no matter how it was filmed.

I’m still pinching myself that we got canon Keenler in the very first episode of the season! Looking forward to more - much more - to come as it sounds like their story will be a big part of this whole season. I still believe the ultimate outcome will be a good one for them - they have endured so much and come so far. Thanks to those who made it this far.

#keenler #keenler kiss #8.01 #long post

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journalxxx · 3 years ago

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By Hook or by Crook (2)

May 1st, 2270

“Hello, Izuku.” “Hi, dad.” Izuku hadn’t exactly been dreading this conversation, but he hadn’t been looking forward to it either. He’d hoped his mom would do all the talking, having to break the news to his friends had been hard enough. For him. Most of them seemed to have gotten quite the kick out of it. “How are you? Your mother told me you’ve been having a rough couple of weeks.” “Mh.” “Still upset over that visit?” “Mh.” “Speak, son. Sulking doesn’t translate well over the phone.” His father chided gently.

Izuku sighed. “The doctor said I’m never going to get a quirk. I’m sorry.” “Whatever for? It’s not like you have any choice in the matter. Quirks are innate, surely you know that.” “Yes, I do.” Izuku said, staring at the paused frame of All Might’s debut video on the computer screen. The reflection of his own miserable face was superimposed with the triumphant silhouette of the hero. “But I’m sorry anyway. You have such a cool quirk… and mom’s useful too. I could become a great hero with one of them, but I’m never going to get any.” “Again, that’s none of your fault. And I wouldn’t be so sure of that anyway.” “Uh?” Izuku gulped, gripping the phone tightly. “Y-you don’t think I’d make a good hero?” “No, that’s not what I mean.” His father chuckled. “I mean that I wouldn’t lose hope just yet. You’re very young, there’s still plenty of time for your quirk to manifest.” “But the doctor said that all quirks appear before one is four years old. And I’m four. And I have the extra toe joint-” “Tsk! Some doctor they assigned you. As if one could unerringly guess the nature and development of something as unpredictable as a quirk with a single test. An x-ray, of all things. Ancient technology.” “The doctor said there was a study...” “I have an extra toe joint too, you know.” Izuku’s father laughed hearing his son’s surprised gasp. “Studies like the one your doctor mentioned draw conclusions based on the analysis of hundreds, thousands of cases. Those conclusions may hold true for the majority of them, but there are always outliers. Having that oh-so-precious joint and a quirk is indeed rare, but not unheard of.” “B-But…” Izuku’s eyes burned with the feeling of impending tears. He hadn’t expected his father’s reaction to be like this. No one had even remotely doubted the validity of the doctor’s opinion. No one. It almost hurt to hope. “I’m also too old…” “My own quirk didn’t show until I was… fifteen? Maybe sixteen. Way older than you are, anyway. Another important point to consider, don’t you think?” Izuku sniffled. Then cried, quietly. His father remained silent as the boy let the tears flow freely, wiping them on his arm now and then. There was a tangled ball of emotions deep in his chest, that he couldn’t quite unravel. After a couple of minutes though, the sobs abated and he felt better. Better than he had been feeling before his mom handed him the phone. “...Do you really think the doctor was wrong?” “You shouldn’t believe everything doctors tell you. My personal physician keeps calling me ‘the peak of biological and anthropological evolution’, but that’s because he’s been fishing for a raise for years. Clearly you’d expect a Darwinian champion to be able to walk under the sun without protection for more than five minutes without turning into a peeling tomato.” “Uh? Does that really happen to you?” “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that I’m albino? My skin is very sensitive to sunlight, and it burns easily. I have atrocious eyesight too.” “I didn’t know that.” Izuku winced in sympathy. “I’m sorry. That sounds terrible.” “Not nearly as much as you think. I have plenty of skills and tools at my disposal to compensate. It isn’t an inconvenience at all these days, although it did cause me some grief when I was a child.” His father’s tone got softer. “Sometimes it does feel like our bodies are our own worst enemies, doesn’t it?” Izuku hummed in assent, very much agreeing with the sentiment. “I’m happy it doesn’t hurt you any more.” “And I’m glad you didn’t inherit this nuisance from me.” A sudden thought made its unwelcome way in Izuku’s head. “If… If I didn’t inherit your skin and eyes… maybe I won’t inherit your quirk either…” “Izuku.” His father’s tone was kind but firm. There were times when his presence, even just through his voice, felt way more real and solid than that of many people Izuku habitually shared a room with. “Your ability will emerge one day, I’m positive of that. Just give it time and don’t agonize over it.” Izuku nodded, even though he realized that wouldn’t translate well over the phone either. “...Okay.” “Now, what else have you been up to in this past month, other than brooding over a criminally incompetent diagnosis?” Not much, honestly, but Izuku told him anyway. As he kept chatting, his heart grew lighter than it had been in weeks. Mom did always say that his father was a good listener.

July 1st, 2272 “They were talking about it on TV yesterday. It’s an old incident from some years ago, before All Might met Nighteye!” “I see...” “Not many people know about it, because there’s no villain involved, and villains make all the stories more interesting! But it’s a great story nonetheless!” Izuku rattled on enthusiastically, taking advantage of his father’s unresponsive compliance. “Uh-huh...” “So this boy was having some big troubles, I think, and he jumped into a river because he didn’t know what to do about them. But luckily All Might was around! Do you know what he did?” “He offered to cover all the expenses for the years of therapy the boy would need afterwards?” “Uh… They didn’t say that on TV. I don’t know. I think he just rescued him from the river.” “That doesn’t seem to address the underlying problem.” His father commented icily. “Daaad, you’re ruining the story.” Izuku chided him. “Anyway, the funny part is that this boy had a quirk that could turn water into vinegar, and he activated it in a panic while he was drowning.” “Mh. A peculiar quirk...” “So All Might got all drenched in vinegar when he dove in to save him. He made this very silly face in front of the cameras, it was great! And when the boy apologized for causing trouble, guess what All Might told him?” “I’m sorry I’m the living embodiment of this unfair, hypocritical society that has driven you to the brink of despair?” “No. He said,” Izuku continued, breezing past his father’s petty remarks with practiced ease, “It is I who should thank you. My skin’s looking ten years younger now.” “Oh my God…” The man groaned, and a loud thunk-crash noise accompanied his words. “Oh, come on!” Izuku giggled, covering his mouth with his free hand. “It’s so funny!” “Just because they’re called ‘dad jokes’ doesn’t mean I’m legally obligated to laugh at them.” “But it is funny! All Might’s the funniest! Did you know that he just wrote a joke book? It’s called All Might’s Gags and Jokes: A Compendium. It already has amazing reviews! They say it’s warm and relatable and cy.. cyclical…” “He wrote a joke book. A veritable Renaissance man, this one...” His father muttered. Izuku heard something clink in the background. Probably the pieces of whatever his father dropped. “Mom says she’ll buy it for my birthday!” Izuku added, swinging his whole body on his chair in sheer excitement. “That is such a poor use of your remittance. I’ll need to have a couple of words with her…” “It’s for my education!” Izuku enunciated with solemnity, straightening his posture. “There’s a whole chapter of American puns and word plays! It will help me learn English!” “If you want to learn English on your own so soon, please choose a decent source. Start with basic grammar and alphabet books, watch some subtitled shows and movies to get the hang of the correct pronunciation-” “I’m learning a lot from All Might already! The catchphrase he used when he was in college in California was I am here! When he’s surprised, he says Oh my goodness! When he doesn’t believe something, he says Nonsense!” Izuku parroted, taking great care of imitating All Might’s confident, surprised and disbelieving expressions respectively. They would be lost on his father, but he needed to practice them anyway. “If that’s a good American accent, I’m the next Symbol of Peace.” “Dad.” Izuku said, suddenly very serious. He had a very important question to ask, and it had been a long time coming. “Why do you always make fun of him? It’s like… It’s almost like you don’t like him at all.” The words sounded so wrong he almost wasn’t brave enough to say them. Izuku would have been mortified if anyone had moved such an accusation on him. “I suppose he has a sort of… charisma about him.” His father admitted ruefully. “I can’t say it strikes any chords with me though.” “Are you just jealous of him?” Izuku asked shrewdly. “Kacchan also talks a lot of trash about All Might, but it’s obvious he’s just jealous. It’s all right if you are, though, I mean, he’s so-” “I’m this close to hanging up, Izuku.” “But- but how can you not like All Might?! Everyone likes All Might! Boys and girls, children and grown-ups! From age 0 to 100!” “...I guess I just don’t fit the target demographic then.” Izuku huffed. “You’re so boring, dad.” “Says the one who’s been talking my ear off about the same topic for the last forty minutes.” The boy frowned, nibbling at his lip. “...Sorry. Am I annoying you?” “I’ll admit I may have hit my monthly tolerance limit of All Might trivia. Don’t worry about it though.” Izuku did in fact stop worrying, his father’s amusement clearly detectable in his voice. “I think I’ll be able to bear with your unabashed enthusiasm until you hit your mandatory disillusioned teenage phase. Then we’ll see if that obnoxiously cheery act of his will still resonate with you.”

June 2nd, 2274 “His normal body temperature is about two degrees higher than the average. Around 38-39 °C.” “And what can you deduce from that?” Izuku’s father goaded. The boy stared at the scribbles in his notebook in deep thought. “Uhm… that it’s difficult to tell if he has a fever or not?” His father laughed, but not unkindly. “I wouldn’t think so. You just said yourself that that is his normal temperature. Therefore, I wouldn’t call Endeavor’s doctor unless his thermometer read more than 39.5 °C, probably.” “Right.” Izuku nodded. That was obvious, wasn’t it? Why hadn’t he understood that on his own? His father didn’t seem to mind his blunder though. “Try again.” “I think…” Izuku’s eyes were just about to bore a hole into his rough sketch of the hero’s costume. He gave up after the silence started to make him uncomfortable though. “...I don’t know. What can I deduce from that?” “Hm… You did bring up an interesting point. Do you know how fever works, Izuku?” “Yeah. Your body temperature rises when you’re sick. If it rises too much, you can get in serious trouble, you could even die. It never really gets that bad though.” “But why does it rise? What does your body accomplish by doing that?” “Uh…” Izuku frowned. He was sure he’d read or heard something about that, but the details escaped him at the moment. “To help you fight off the sickness, right? You feel worse at first, but it actually helps you get better.” “Exactly. Most bacteria and viruses that infect men thrive and multiply optimally at around 37 °C, which is the average person’s normal body temperature. But the growth of these microorganisms is hindered when the environment gets too hot. That is the principle that makes fever useful for humans. As your body gets hotter, it debilitates the invasors, so that your immune system can remove them more easily.” “..Oh.” It was a pity that his father called him only once a month, Izuku could have easily listened to him for hours every day. He always had so many interesting things to say about so many different subjects, and he always exposed them so neatly. “So. Can you deduce anything new now?” “Uh, uhm… He… I guess he...” Izuku snapped out of his reverie. Right, this was a conversation, not a lesson. He went over the new information in his head as quickly as he could. Higher temperature than normal... Fever... Microorganisms... Immune syst- Oh! “He heals quicker than- no, wait! He doesn’t get sick at all! Because he’s always too hot for the microorganisms! They can’t grow in his body!” “Excellent reasoning!” His father’s warm praise made Izuku’s chest swell with pride. “Obviously he isn’t completely immune to any and all infections, there are lots of exceptions to the mechanism I just explained to you. But yes, I do believe it’s safe to assume that our esteemed Flame Hero suffers from the occasional seasonal maladies far less often than the general population, if at all.” “That’s so cool…” Izuku immediately added the new data to his notes, almost breaking the tip of the pencil in his enthusiasm. “Is that what you wanted me to deduce? Or did you explain that just because I brought up the fever thing?” “I was actually thinking of something else. But, on second thought, it may be too technical a topic for an eight-year-old.” “...Can you tell me about it anyway?” “Of course.” Izuku would never not be grateful for the patience his father had, never denying him any clarification on anything. He was just about the only adult who never got tired of his questions. Even his mom sometimes hid her fatigue behind a mildly insincere I don’t know. “High heat isn’t exactly conductive to the activity of human cells either. That’s one of the reasons why you feel exhausted and achy when you have a fever, your body struggles to keep doing what it’s supposed to do above its normal temperature range. But Endeavor not only is at peak condition at 39 °C, he can also withstand open flames with a much higher temperature. This suggests that his cells must be fundamentally different from the average person’s on a biochemical level, that his quirk must provide some particularly efficient cellular mechanism to prevent heat damage. One example might be some dedicated enzymes to protect proteins from denaturation, but now I’m entering mere speculation.” A pause. “Did you follow me?” “...Kind of.” Izuku said, kind of lying but not entirely. He had followed most of that. He scrawled and circled a couple of terms he hadn’t grasped - Biochemical - Enzymes - Denaturation - on the page. He didn’t want to waste his father’s time by asking him to explain the meaning of words he could easily look up later on his own. “The gist of it is that Endeavor’s Hellflame has at least two facets. Not only ‘creating fire’, but also ‘not incinerating himself’. The first trait would be a fatal liability without the second.” “Got it!” Izuku cheered. Now that he had understood completely. “You sure know a lot about quirks, dad! Like, a lot! About anything, really!” “For the sake of intellectual honesty, it must be said that it isn’t difficult to impress a primary schooler.” His father laughed. “I’m just older than you.” “How much older?” Izuku asked, realizing for the first time that no one had ever told him his father’s age. “Oh, by a lot. Centuries.” Izuku cackled. “You can’t be that old. You still go to work. Our neighbors are 80 and they’re already retired.” “I do try to keep a youthful outlook on life. But yes, quirks fascinate me quite a bit. And they make for the perfect topic to distract you from your incessant yapping about All Might.” “Speaking of All Might-” “No, I-” His father sighed theatrically. “I just walked into this one, didn’t I?” “Yep.” Izuku grinned. “What about his quirk? Do you know anything about it? He never gives straight answers when people ask him about it…” “That may be the single sign of intelligence he’s ever displayed. The more your enemies know about your quirk, the easier it is for them to find your weaknesses. I’m surprised the other pro heroes aren’t as reserved.” “I wonder why All Might does that, though. His quirk is… pretty obvious.” Izuku pondered. “It just makes him strong. Very strong. Like, the strongest ever. But that’s it.” “Allegedly, yes. But as you noticed yourself, if raw power was all there was to it, there would be no reason to skirt around the issue in interviews, no?” “So there must be something else… What do you think it might be?” “I think it would be no less than cruel to deprive you of the thrill of carrying out your own research.” Izuku let out a dissatisfied moan, and his father chuckled. “You are already so very proficient at it. Your mother told me you’ve already filled a whole notebook with hero and quirk analyses.” “Oh, ehr… It’s just stuff I read here and there…” “Mh, I’ve heard enough of your ‘stuff’ to know that there’s more than random factoids in that head of yours. In fact…” Izuku felt his cheeks warm for the compliment. “I think you’ve gotten old and judicious enough to be trusted with my emergency number.” “Uh? What emergency number?” “It’s a phone number I’ll always answer to, on any day and at any hour, in case you may find yourself in a bad situation. Hopefully you’ll never need it, but better safe than sorry. Now…” His father’s voice raised slightly, drowning out Izuku’s impending interruption. “Can I rely on the fact that you are aware that desperately wanting to tell me that All Might saved a kitten from a meteor does not qualify as an emergency?” Izuku pouted. “I know what an emergency is, dad.” “Good. Ask your mother to give you the number then. Don’t save it on your phone or write it anywhere. Memorize it, and be responsible with it.”

December 3rd, 2275 Sorry for the long silence. I had an accident on the job and I won’t be able to speak clearly for a while. We can talk with the included devices. Use your ring finger to activate them. Usual days, usual hours. Hisashi That short note held the first words Izuku had received from his father in the last five months. The first month he hadn’t phoned, Izuku had felt slightly disappointed, but understanding. His father was a busy man, surely something very important must have been requiring his full-time attention. It was fine, Izuku was confident he could manage to sweet-talk him into a double-length call the following month to make up for that. The second month, he had started to worry. His mother hadn’t heard from his father either. It was unprecedented not to hear from him for such a long time. Since Izuku could remember, his father had never skipped one of their monthly calls. They often talked on the first day of every month, and he kept trying to contact them exactly once each following day if his calls were missed. He never failed to reach them past the third day. He always called from a hidden number, so trying to get hold of him was not an option. The third month, Izuku’s mother had decided to use the emergency number. She hadn’t been able to get through to her husband, but the polite colleague of his who had picked up had reassured her that he was indisposed but overall fine, and would get in touch with them as soon as possible… which could still take a while. Curiously, the coworker had also instructed them to collect a sample of their fingerprints and send them to a specific address. Izuku had been mystified by the request, but his mother had readily agreed, commenting that it was “not the strangest thing Hisashi’s ever asked for”. The silent wait that followed had been a little uneasy, but not harrowing. Izuku and his mother reread the message a couple of times before opening the box they’d just been delivered. Inside were only the two mentioned devices with their respective chargers, snuggled among waterproof packaging and stuffing. They looked very much like ordinary mobile phones, except they had no buttons or ports on any side. Some quick experimentation proved that they could be turned on simply by pressing the indicated finger on the touchscreen. The display showed a very minimalistic chat interface, with a fixed red dot on the top left corner. No amount of tapping on the screen could bring up the virtual keyboard though, which was puzzling. There was no way to access the rest of the phone’s functions, if it even had any. It was the third day of the month, so technically still within the familiar communication window. Izuku kept poking and prodding at the buttonless phone for the whole afternoon until eventually, shortly after dinner, the red dot at the top of the chat became green. A minute later, a message popped up. Hello, Izuku. Izuku almost dropped his cup of hot chocolate in excitement, which was quickly replaced by frustration because he still couldn’t type anything in any way. How was he supposed to- Speak. I can hear you. “...Oh! Nice!” Izuku exclaimed. “Hi, dad! How are you? What happened?” I’ve been better. I got decked by a hysterical ape. Izuku frowned. “That’s not funny. Mom and I were very worried.” That wasn’t really a joke. What? What even- “...How? Did you break into a zoo or something…?” Sorry, you’re right. Let me rephrase. I had a violent disagreement with a brute. “Oh…” Izuku was about to ask for further explanations but he waited. The three bouncing dots at the bottom of the screen signalled that his father was still writing. We will have to communicate like this for a while. I hope it isn’t too much of an inconvenience for you. Judging by how long it took him to type even the shortest messages, Izuku thought it was going to be much more of an inconvenience for his father. He felt sorry for him. “No, not all. Is it… is it really bad? Shouldn’t you come home so we can help you get better? It sounds like you won’t be able to work anyway…” I’ll receive better medical treatment here, and I can still get some work done while I recuperate. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll recover fully sooner or later. Izuku picked at the lint of his blanket, choosing his words carefully. “You could… come home anyway. Even if you could work. When you’re feeling a little better. So we could spend some time together.” The three bouncing dots reappeared, but Izuku kept talking. He already knew what his father’s answer was going to be, but he wanted to take advantage of the delay to get a few more words in. “Some of my friends have parents that work far from home too. They’re away a lot, but… they do come back to visit sometimes. Usually for the holidays. At least… At least once.” At least his friends had actually met their fathers once in their whole lives, Izuku completed only in his head. You know how things stand. My job doesn’t afford me this kind of free time. “...What do you even do that won’t let you ever do anything?” Izuku muttered, out of sheer petulance. That was another familiar point of contention, to which his father replied with the same, word-for-word justification he always used. Every detail concerning my activities is classified by the government. We’ve been over this. Don’t be childish. And that was usually the end of it. Any further questioning after the ‘classified’ thing invariably turned Izuku’s father into a slippery wall of smooth deflections. But, considering the current situation, Izuku felt like he could get away with a little more nagging, if he played his cards right. “I know you can’t say anything. But how about…” He physically leaned forwards, trying not to let his tension seep through his voice. “How about I try to deduce something? About your job. Just… for fun.” No new message showed up, not even the typing dots. Izuku decided that it was as much of an approval as he was going to get, so he started to voice his thoughts as they formed. “...Your job is classified by the government. So it’s important, very important, so important that other people can’t know about it.” When he was very young, Izuku had obviously interpreted it as irrefutable proof that his father must be some sort of secret agent. He had exposed his conclusion to Kacchan and his gang once. They had… not-so-respectfully disagreed. Izuku had never brought up the matter with them afterwards. “Your note said that you got hurt on the job. So someone you know from work punched you so hard that, even after five months, you still can’t talk well.” Izuku paused. That was… a scary idea. It dawned on him, for the first time since the beginning of this whole ordeal, that his father may have really dodged a bullet there. What kind of a brute could possibly want to injure someone that much…? Surely a criminal… A villain, maybe…? “Your job is dangerous, and it leaves you almost no free time. It also pays well.” That last item was admittedly a shot in the dark, Izuku didn’t really know much about money handling. But he had noticed that his mother never denied him a gift or a treat on the grounds of its cost (his vast collection of All Might memorabilia was a testament to that), like so many of his friends’ relatives were wont to do. She didn’t need a job herself, and Izuku remembered overhearing a conversation she had with Kacchan’s mom where she had said that they were ‘well provided for’. “You know a lot about a lot of stuff, especially about quirks and heroes. You know a lot of things about quirks and heroes that I couldn’t find anywhere on the internet.” Izuku paused, racking his brain for anything else that stuck out. Before he could come up with more points to make, his father finally wrote back. You sure put some thought into this. I’m impressed. The lack of reprimands was an encouragement in its own right. Now came the hard part. These were all facts that he already knew, now he had to put them together… and no matter how much he tried to come up with different possibilities, there was only one explanation that rang true in Izuku’s mind. “Dad… are you some sort of… undercover hero?” Izuku waited with baited breath for the dancing dots to turn into a complete message. Definitely not. ...Aw, shoot. Although I guess I do happen to deal with heroes quite often in my line of work. Izuku gasped. That was the first real piece of information his father had ever shared with him about his job! And wow, he worked with heroes! And whatever support he lent them had to be pretty vital if he was always so busy and tight-lipped. “So you’re like… a policeman? An informant that tracks down villains for the heroes to catch? Or an engineer bound by trade secret? Or-” Enough, Izuku. I’m supposed to be resting. I don’t think being given the third degree by my own son counts as such. Izuku deflated. So close to the truth, and yet so far… Maybe he could manage to get some other clue out of his father later. But… there was one more thing he simply had to ask. “...Have you ever met All Might?” I’m just going to ignore you after this. Well, it had been worth a try. Izuku finally relented, reasonably satisfied with the result of his investigation. “Okay, okay. Sorry. No more questions. And no All Might stuff. Not that I have much to tell you about him. He hasn’t really been around lately.” Hasn’t he, now? Uh, odd. It wasn’t like his father to miss an opportunity to dodge All Might gossip. Izuku supposed there’d be no harm in taking advantage of this atypical spark of curiosity. “Yeah. It’s been like this for a few months. Rumors say he’s abroad, working on some large scale mission. Something very secret, that’s why there are no articles on him in newspapers from other countries either.” I wasn’t aware of this. That’s very interesting. Although I couldn’t imagine anyone less suited to hushed-up operations. Izuku couldn’t help but snort. In light of the recent revelation, he wondered if his father was so unapologetically critical of All Might because he had worked with him and they hadn’t gotten along… which seemed kind of impossible. How could All Might be the unpleasant type of coworker? Or maybe his father really was just jealous because he couldn’t work with All Might often enough. A sudden thought occurred to the boy. “...Sorry, I guess you don’t want to hear about hero stuff now that you’re, uh… on forced vacation.” Actually, I’d love to. I’ve been a little out of the loop lately, I need to catch up with the news anyway. Fire away all the information you have. Izuku smiled. “Even about All Might?” Especially about All Might.

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #izuku midoriya #deku #all for one

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emerald-studies · 4 years ago

Text

Racism in Education

June 27, 2020

Day 6 of 7

[ These are just some thoughts I have in my head about this topic, it isn’t meant to be a purely academic discussion. It’s meant to be a conversation to learn about another perspective. ]

—-

Ok this will be my most challenging post. This is a long read but I’d appreciate you reading it all because I’ve been doing free emotional labor for almost a month and if you want to be an ally, that means learning from other perspectives. So please read. This drained me so much to write, please make it worth it.

You have the time, please read.

As I stated in my intro, I moved from a very conservative State (I don’t even want to say the State because I hate it so much.) to Washington State. I moved after graduating online school a year ago.

Growing up in that State I was almost always the only Black girl in my class. For my whole educational career. I hated when we would discuss the civil rights movement because I could feel my White peers staring at me, like I was the face of my race.

It was junior year that broke me.

I began the year optimistic. I always did, even though I had experienced racism before each year, pushing me to move to 4 different schools in 4 years.

I moved to a school in a rural area with a lot of mormons and maybe 5 Black people in the whole, huge school.

It was in September that my mental health plummeted. I don’t know why. I guess I was overwhelmed. I was in an AP US History class and there was work over the summer that everyone else did, but I didn’t. I had just gotten there, after all. I didn’t have the textbook. That class was such a heavy workload that we were having a quiz every other day, 1 test a week, and I was trying to study for a test that my peers had months to study for, and already took.

I attempted to take my life, but I knew I didn’t really mean it. I’ll be honest about that. I just wanted everything to stop so I could catch my breath.

I went to the ER on a Thursday night. My Mom drove me.

We sat in the ER for a little bit and then I was taken to a little room where a nurse came to talk to me. BTW I have never had a good interaction with a nurse.

This nurse came in and basically shamed me.

“You’re so young. You have your whole life ahead of you. You don’t need to do this to yourself.”

Yeah, no shit. I thought about that every day. My grades, getting into college, getting into law school.... that’s the point. I was overwhelmed.

She suggested that I punch a pillow if I “Got upset” because that’s what her daughter does.

Fuck off.

The Doctor came in and he gave me butterfly bandages and he was so much more understanding, shockingly. (I’ve shadowed Surgeons and Doctors and they can be a little abrasive).

I liked that the Doctor fixed me up. I liked having this wrap around my wrist. I felt like I could move on. Like I let something out.

The Doctor asked if I needed to stay at this place that dealt with cases like mine.

I said,

“No.”

I couldn’t have that on my record for what I want to do. So, I went home.

I took the Friday off and my Mom visited the school to let them know what happened. I was already preparing for pity.

I had to come in on Monday to set up a 504 (students with disabilities act) for depression. I don’t think I had depression, but whatever. I dropped out of AP US History.

They made accommodations for me: more time on tests, working in the library, more time on assignments, etc.

I want you to know that I did not touch those accommodations for 5 months.

I knew I didn’t need them. I maintained a 3.8 GPA.

I sat in a room with all 8 of my teachers (we had a block schedule 4 classes per day alternating), seeing all of them look at me with disgusting levels of pity.

They each talked to me in private saying things like,

“If you ever need anything, let me know.”

“I’m here for you.”

“You matter.”

I thought,

“Hm ok, that’s nice.”.

I went on for months without using my accommodations and practically wooping my “normal” classmates in intellectual discussions.

But then the casual racism I experienced was escalating.

First, in the beginning of the year, my AP US History teacher put his hand on my head and said to a student,

“If you really believe that, Faith would be a slave right now.”

(I don’t remember what the hell we were even talking about)

Then I got little questions/comments like,

“Why do you dress White?”

“Cracker is just as offensive as the n-word”

But now we were going into Black History Month. My new history teacher was an old White Man and we were talking about the civil rights movement, while in English we were reading “Black Like Me” with my blonde, Female, millennial teacher.

I nailed everything in the civil rights movement discussions. The teacher loved me. I nailed the conversations about “Black Like Me”.

But....I don’t know. The environment got really toxic. There was more racism, gaslighting, slurs. Every. single. day. It could break anyone.

I would be on the brink of tears in class every day.

Guess who didn’t notice?

All 8 of those concerned teachers.

They don’t give a shit.

My grades were still pretty good, but I started working in the library. I couldn't be around all of those racist peers.

While in the library, my counselor would come in and interrogate me.

“How long have you been in here?”

“Have you tried, really tried to go to class?”

Of course I tried! I felt like I wanted to be dead and so I left. That’s what the 504 Plan was for. Again, I hadn’t touched my accommodations for months so I thought maybe these grown adults would use their tiny brains and think,

“Huh maybe she needs help.”

But no.

I would go to the counselor almost every day and say

“I’m not doing well.”

And she’d ask,

“What does that mean?”

Ok...so I have to tell this Woman that I feel like dying but not at my own hand? Because she can’t use social cues and read my face stained with tears?

I couldn’t say anything.

She said,

“What can we do to keep you going here?”

I said,

“I don’t know”

Because that’s not my job.

Then it happened.

My history teacher was talking about affirmative action.

He said,

“If I worked at a bank for 30 years and went to work at another bank, FAITH would get a job over me because she’s a BLACK WOMAN. Do you get that? She covers TWO minorities!”

He said this while pointing his wrinkled finger in my face.

None of my peers said anything.

I replied with,

“Well, what are my qualifications?”

He ignored me.

He went on a rant teaching his opinions, not facts. So I wrote down what he said on sticky notes.

I called my Mom at break and asked her

“Is that racist? Do I do anything?”

I was so desensitized to racism I couldn’t tell anymore.

My White Mom, my awesome Mom said,

“YES.”

I went to the Vice Principal and reported the teacher and gave her the sticky notes.

The next day we got an email from the principle saying that the teacher said, he never said anything about me.

So I was a liar?

To get evidence, I recorded the whole next class. I was scared every minute that he would find out.

He didn’t. And he said more awful things.

I had concrete proof.

We told the Principal and he ignored me. My Mom emailed the superintendent (very high up person in the school district) and oh now he responds?

They basically said,

“We gave him a warning, he won’t do it again.”

Ok so he just will hide his racism now. Just remember, teachers legally aren’t allowed to teach their opinion. The Supreme Court deemed it unconstitutional to teach opinions.

I was still required to go to this racist Man’s class. I still answered every question he posed to the class and he recognized my intelligence.

So WHY?

WHY me?

The whole year he loved having me as a student and then....that?

Moving on to my English class.

We had to do a cultural experience trip and so my acquaintance and I went to the Black History Museum. Because I’m Nigerian-American. I do identify as Black though because everyone assumes it anyways, but I wanted to learn more about the history in my city.

We were required to make presentations talking about the experience we had. I decided to add a little twist.

I made a whole slide in my slideshow dedicated to every racist thing said to me in that class.

The slide was met with laughter because racism is just so funny.

My teacher said nothing.

So I, the student, the minor in the room, had to say,

“I see you laughing but this is why I’m leaving this school. This is serious.”

Nothing from my teacher.

Cut to maybe a week later and I was done. I was sitting in my English class about to burst. My acquaintance asked me,

“Are you doing ok?”

I replied,

“No. Absolutely not.”

A classmate checked in on me, while all my 8 teachers who actually knew about my attempt on my life didn’t.

We went outside and I decided to leave the school that day. Three weeks before summer break. I couldn’t be in either class anymore. I felt my brain rotting from being exposed to the absolute shit that those students/teachers would spew, every day.

I lost my 3.8 GPA

I lost my credits for the semester.

The racist teacher is still working.

I had to go online.

It happened again.

Another racist history teacher.

Wasn’t removed.

I graduated with a lower GPA.

Didn’t apply to my dream school.

I have the trauma seared into my brain. I’m terrified of taking another history class. Terrified.

Ok, that’s it. If you made it this far, thank you. It took me awhile to write this. I hope this gave you another perspective.

So.... discussion time.

Let me know what you think here

I’d like to hear from you since I delved into my trauma.

I don’t think I’ll ever tell this story again, it makes me sick and tired. But I’ll answer questions/asks.

If you have a lot of White guilt and wanna do something, you could donate some reparations to my venmo lol:

@faithrebecca1397 (last 4 digits are 4809)

or paypal

http://www.paypal.me/faithrebecca1397

Edit: People are asking me if they can reblog this. YES PLEASE REBLOG. It’s important to let people know that all types of racism are alive and well.

#blm #black lives matter #education #academia #black women matter #discussion #racism #history #mental health

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notyetneedcoffee · 4 years ago

Text

Soul Seer, Pt. 12

Loki Master List

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Angst, 18+ Smut

Author’s Note: Takes place right after Avengers 1, with time travel elements and hints of Infinity Wars. Does NOT follow cannon after Avengers.

Sorry for taking so long to update... there’s only a couple parts left to go!

“We have a problem.” Tony Stark strode into the conference room Steve Rogers had taken over as his head quarters for the rescue and clean up operations. Cap looked up from the tablet he’d been studying. Tony didn’t usually sound that angry even in the middle of a fight.

“What is it?” Cap stood up.

Tony looked around the room. You felt the wave rage, betrayal, flowing off him and looked over at Loki with confusion. The other three men in the room, Army General Ramirez, Colonel Whitehall and the FDNY Fire Chief all stopped, waiting.

Tony flicked his mobile unit, sending a holographic display over the table. A huge group of citizens was gathered outside the damage zone. They were chanting and carrying signs with things like “Justice Must Be Served”.

“Someone leaked who our out of town help really is.” Tony flipped the display to a news anchor. An image of Loki taken from the battle sat next to an image someone caught on their cell phone of him in his “Luke” disguise. Tony crossed his arms and scowled. “They’re calling for him to be turned over to authorities.”

“He’s helping us.” Steve scowled. “He’s been held accountable by his own people.”

“Anyone know who leaked?” The General slapped his notebook down.

For all of the confusion and anger flying around the room, Loki was a center of calm. You stood, walking slowly to Loki’s side. You placed both your hands on his chest. His eyes remained on the holo image, but his focus was elsewhere. At your touch, his hands came up to cover yours.

“Loki?”

“The secret is out and cannot be put back. There are now but two choices. You deny your people a justice they deserve and watch as dissent and violence erupt amongst the masses, or you turn me over.” His eyes lowered to meet you wide stare.

“No.” You shook your head.

“That- “ Tony waved his finger around. “That is not going to happen. God, I can’t believe I’m going to say this! But we actually need your help.”

“He’s right” Steve rubbed his forehead. “We would not have accomplished what we have in the last three weeks without your help.”

“Loki is also right,” General tapped his pen on the desk. “If people know he’s here, even if we prove he’s helping, they’ll call for blood. People are terrified. This was an alien attack on American soil. It’s going to be ugly either way.”

“Excuse me.” Jarvis cut in to the conversation. “Sir, Secretary of State Wallace is calling for you.”

“Fuck.” Tony shut down the holo image.

“Buy time, Tony.” Steve folded his arm. “We need to talk about this before we agree to anything.”

“Yeah.” Tony brought his mobile to his ear. “Hey Jack! How’s it hangin’?” He marched out the room for his office.

“Loki, why are you so calm?” You studied his face. “Oh, no. No. You knew this was going to happen. You’ve been waiting for it to happen.”

His cool hand cupped your face, thumb ghosting over your lower lip. “Yes, my pet. I knew.”

Within an hour, you found yourself sitting beside Loki in a room filled to the brink with Avengers and US officials. You listened to the arguments fly around the room, felt level of animosity rise. Fury insisted if Loki was going to be incarcerated it should be with SHIELD. Others insisted there be a trial. Some wondered if sentenced to death, could he even be executed. What it mean in the public opinion if he couldn’t be killed. Bruce was adamant that Loki had already been tried by Odin.

“Are you alright, my pet?” Loki’s baritone voice cut through the noise.

“No.” You shook your head, realizing how close you were to tears. Anxiety, anger, and frustration raged inside. “You can’t let them take you.”

Loki stood and held his hand out for you. Before you made two steps from the table, Rogers called out. “Loki. Where are you going?”

“Captain, I believe you know my intentions in regard to the work you are doing here. I am bound to whatever order is given me. Being here, while my fate is decided, is not necessary.” Loki’s gaze moved to you then back to the Cap. “Don’t you agree?”

He understood. This was about you. “You’re right. The conversation may even be a little more honest with you out of the room. We all know the weight of Dr. Banner’s opinion. We’ll let you know when we’re done.”

Loki tipped his head and led you from the room with a hand at your back. The calm radiating off of him was infuriating. He was normally full of fire and fight. It scared you and you hated being scared. You managed to keep quiet until the elevator doors closed.

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re just giving up.” You growled, staring at the readout taking you to your floor.

“I must do as Dr. Banner orders. What is there to give up?” Loki sounded distant.

“What is there – “ You spun, instantly furious. “My entire life, my entire existence, has changed! Do you have any idea what would happen to me if they took you! Do you know what that would do to me! What is there to give up?! You selfish- “

Loki’s mouth crashed over yours. His hands roughly pulling you flush against his body, lifting you off your toes. Waves of possessive need, protective outrage, wrapped around you as tightly as his arms. Your fingers slipped through his silky hair as you clung to him.

The elevator doors opened, Loki waltzed you onto your floor. A tickle dance across your skin just before he dropped you down on the soft sheets of your bed. The cool air tickled across your bare flesh. Loki pinned you to the bed, hands holding down your wrists.

His face hovered over your, eyes blazing. “You are mine. I will not allow you to be . . . taken . . . from me. I will do whatever I must to keep you safe.”

“But you were so calm.” The tightness in your chest began to unravel. “What if they decide to. . .”

“It doesn’t matter what they decide.” Loki’s nose ghosted over yours, his breath mingling with yours. “The only word that matters is Banner’s.” His tongue slipped along your lower lip. “He is a man of reason.”

“You’re not concerned?”

“No, my pet, worry not.”

“But…”

His mouth covered yours, tongue dancing around your, drawing a moan from your throat. He nipped your lower lip between his teeth. “Whatever may come, I will protect you, my feisty little pet.”

“Don’t laugh at me. I was furious.” You rocked your hips up against him, causing Loki to growl. You twisted your wrists until your fingers entwined with his. “You are mine.”

Loki fell upon you like a man starving. He bit marks across your neck. His body slid along yours. The coolness of his skin against your flushed skin sent shivers over your body. His teeth grazed your nipple. You pulled at his hair, calling his name. Loki marked your delicate flesh.

“So fine.” Loki growled. He pushed apart your legs, teeth nipping, hot tongue painting wet trails along your inner thighs. It sent fire racing through your veins. His fingers slid through your wetness, delving into your depths. With a wicked smile, Loki licked his fingers. “My sweet.”

“Loki, don’t tease.” You clawed at the sheets.

He pressed your knees toward your shoulders, his tongue taking a long sweep across your sex. His voice rumbled deep. “Don’t tell me what to do, my pet.” He flicked your clit with his tongue. “I do what I want.”

You wrapped your legs around him and twisted. He allowed you to flip him over onto his back. Straddling his waist, hands on his chest, you nipped at his jaw. “I wanted to stand in front of you, and dare anyone to take you from me. I would rip them apart. You are mine.”

His fingers dug into your ass as you rubbed against his hard cock. Loki’s eyes fell closed. Your declaration feeling more intoxicating than any Asgardian mead he’d ever tasted. “You are a marvel, my dear.”

“Loki,” you breathed, lowering yourself on him. “Loki,” you sighed, relishing in the stretch and the feel of him. “Oh, fuck, Loki,” you panted sitting up and rocking on him. His cock hitting you perfectly.

His feet anchored on the bed, thrusting up. So powerful. Your cunt clenched around him. Loki growled, holding you in place and fucking you harder. You reached back, balancing with a hand on his knee. Heat coiled in your center.

Loki watched the sweat break out on your skin, delighted in your tits bouncing for him. He extended a tendril of magic. A cool vibrating thrum pressed against your clit.

“Oh fuck!” You began to quiver.

“Do not come until I say.” Loki ordered. You whined, but nodded. The onslaught of his cock and the vibration overwhelming.

An icy pinch nipped along the edge of your breast. You yipped. A series of them circles your breasts, making them feel tight and hyper-sensitive. Ghost finger pinch your nipples hard, sending a shock to your cunt that near pushed you over. “Oh, god, Loki!”

He growled, a smirk upon his face. The thrum upon your clit became stronger and pushed against you harder. “Not yet.” Loki slammed into at a brutal pace. Wet, skin slapping skin. You panted. Shook. You couldn’t help it. The pinches upon your nipples pulled hard, coming free, the flash of pain making you snap.

Heat burst forth. You flooded, squirting over his cock. Soaking everything. Shaking uncontrollably. Falling forward. Loki wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against him. Burying in you deep, coming hard with groan.

You lay boneless on his chest, breath slowly returning to normal. Loki stroked your skin, holding you gently. He allowed himself to get lost in your breath and heartbeat. You sighed and drifted into near sleep. He would not say it aloud, but if Banner makes any decision that takes you from him, he would tear everything to the ground.

You’d become his salvation. Loki once again wondered if the Norns laughed at him. A fragile little mortal.

He let you sleep, just holding you.

In short order though, Jarvis quietly alerted him of visitors. “Loki, excuse me, but Captain Rogers wishes me to inform you that he and the others are on their way to your suite.”

You lifted your head, sleepily.

“Thank you. Have they come to a decision?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Time to get up?” You sat up, the worry returning.

“Yes.” Loki stood and held a hand out for you.

With a shimmer of magic, you were both clean and dressed. You smiled, leaning into him. “Magic is so cool.”

His lips covered yours in a gentle kiss just as the door to your suite chimed. You both walked out of the bedroom just as the living room filled. Rogers was joined by Stark, Banner, Romanoff, and surprisingly Fury.

“You’ve come to a conclusion.”

“Yeah.” Banner was smiling. Good sign.

“We explained about Odin’s orders and the oath.” Cap began. “But the court of public opinion is a pretty powerful force.”

“Indeed it is.” Loki agreed. He took you hand in his to keep you from fidgeting. Everyone’s emotions were bounding all over the spectrum.

“We couldn’t exactly ask some of the others to defy direct orders,” Fury continued the story. “So we figured we’re going to have to handle this one on our own for a while.”

Natasha smiled. “We are the spies after all.”

“So what did you finally decide to do about Loki?” You finally blurted out.

“If we’re going to get the happy ending we all want,” Tony smiled. “Loki has to die.”

TAGS

@1800-fight-me \ @abschaffer2 \ @alexakeyloveloki \ @archy3001 \ @asgardianthot \ @asiaaisa77 \ @badassbaker \ @bangtan-serendipity \ @beautifullungs \ @buchanansebba \ @buckybarneshairpullingkink \ @buckybarnesplumwhore \ @buckybarnesplumwhore \ @daughterofthenight117 \ @dawnlaufeyson \ @dsakita \ @everything-is-awesomesauce \ @fangasm202 \ @geeksareunique \ @girlmadeofivory \ @girlmadeofivory \ @imma-new-soul \ @jesseswartzwelder \ @jillilama-blog \ @kalesrebellion \ @kermittheshipper \ @kiki5283 \ @kneel-before-queen-loki \ @lbouvet \ @lovely-lollipops-blog \ @messenough \ @michelehansel \ @mindtravelsx \ @morganhoran1671 \ @myownviperroom \ @night-cereus \ @notyourtypicalrose \ @osric-the-l3m0n-l0v3-demon \ @person-born-winchester \ @rainbowkisses31 \ @readermia \ @rinthehufflepuff \ @rogerrhqpsody \ @rynabarnesrogers-reading \ @sammghgecko \ @scarlettsoldier \ @sebbysstangirl \ @sex-cee-seabasss \ @sexyvixen7 \ @smokeandnailz \ @tahiri-veyla \ @theladybiers \ @theneuropsychwriter \ @the-omni-princess \ @the-reading-octopus \ @thorfanficwriter \ @ultracolorfulnerdcollection \ @ultrarebelheart \ @unadulteratedwizardlove \ @vanillabunn21 \ @vintageroses1014516 \ @vodka-and-some-sass \ @wwe-fanfiction-queen \ @itsag \ @neverending-space \ @saiyanprincessswanie \ @a--1--1--3

#Loki fic #loki x reader #loki smut #loki fanfiction

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the-hidden-writer · 4 years ago

Text

I’ll Remember You This Way

Chapter 3: 2,689 Read on AO3! (check reblog for link)

The story of one unsuspecting man named Edwin Jarvis and how his life and legacy are carried throughout the universe.

Edwin Jarvis -> JARVIS -> Vision

Snippets of that legacy include Tony Stark carrying his butler’s words in his heart for his entire life and Wanda Maximoff sensing an unfamiliar presence in Vision’s mind.

Chapter 3: it’s a beautiful new day

Edwin hates hospital waiting rooms.

He has a huge respect for the hospitals themselves, of course. It’s the actual experience of sitting in the waiting room that sends a chill down his spine.

It’s not the first time he’s been in this position; stuck in a chair with worry crushing him. Although Mr Stark prefers to call his private doctor when he falls ill, and Edwin also occasionally uses his services, Ana much prefers to physically visit the doctor. She says that it makes her feel like they’re an ordinary couple in the life they don’t have. And Edwin respects her decision.

What he doesn’t tell her is that each time he is asked to wait outside, he is transported back to that horrifying night in 1947. His whole body is shaking. The world around him is all too loud but also alarmingly quiet. His mind is completely overwhelmed with fear and anxiety. Ana is in surgery with a terrible wound, possibly on the brink of death, and he is just sitting outside in the hospital waiting room, utterly helpless. The only thing on his mind is that it’s all his fault.

Then Miss Carter is by his side, offering much-needed wordless support.

But this early morning, he is desperately trying to convince himself that Ana is perfectly fine. She has simply gone inside the room to offer support to Mrs Stark. He can hear her unusually loud voice trying to overpower Maria’s agonised screams as she calls out for Howard, despite him being on the other side of the world.

It pains him to think that this is typical of him.

“Mr Jarvis!”

The familiar click of heels alerts him to Ms Carter’s arrival. She, like all of them, looks appropriately dishevelled as she rushes towards him. “How is she? How’s it going?”

Extremely grateful to her for pulling him out of his dark thoughts in a waiting room for a second time, Edwin gestures for her to take the seat beside him. There is a sense of déjà vu.

He takes a moment to listen out for Maria’s screams, which seem to have subsided.

“I believe it’s going well.” He responds. “Ana’s inside with her now, and this is the first time it’s been quiet since we arrived. I can only think of two options as to what that could mean.”

Ms Carter lets out a strained chuckle. “Since when have you been such a pessimist, Mr Jarvis?”

Since Ana was shot and lost the ability to bear children.

She seems to read his mind and her face falls quite suddenly. She is wise to not address this though, and she decides to change the subject instead.

“Have they thought of any names yet?”

Another welcome distraction. “Maria’s quite insistent on either Antonio or Isabella, depending on the gender. They got into an argument when Mr Stark wanted the name to be American.”

“Where is Howard, anyway?”

Edwin isn’t quite sure why his chest tightens. It almost feels like anger or hatred, but not quite. More like… disappointment. “He’s currently in Amsterdam trying to settle a trade deal.”

The expression on Peggy’s face perfectly reflects his own thoughts on the matter. She scoffs. “Oh, typical Howard.”

There is a strange kindred spirit shared between himself and Ms Carter, which is odd considering that their personalities could not be more different. She is everything he isn’t; strong-willed, professional, courageous, and incredibly intelligent. She could stop a global threat in the time that it takes him to plan a dinner party. She would much rather spend an evening engaging herself decoding classified secrets whereas he would watch some television with his wife.

And yet, despite their obvious differences, they completely understood one another. Peggy often needs a break from S.H.I.E.L.D. and her busy lifestyle, which is why the Jarvis household is open to her at all times should she need it. It’s also why she comes for dinner each Sunday evening without fail. And if he is ever feeling under the weather or is having any manner of internal struggle, she picks up on it just as quickly as Ana does and checks in on him an embarrassingly large number of times until she’s convinced that he’s feeling better. Ana once described the pair as two sides of the same coin.

Edwin feels blessed to have possibly the two best women in the entire world in his life.

He is suddenly pulled out of his thoughts by Ana rushing out of Maria’s room.

Both he and Ms Carter immediately stand up. “Is she alright?” They ask simultaneously.

Ana’s hair has come loose and her eyes betray her weariness, but they are also filled with joy. “She’s fine.” She announces with a wide smile. “It’s a beautiful baby boy.”

Peggy exhales loudly with relief, and she begins to mirror Ana’s smile. “Oh, that’s wonderful! May we go inside?”

Ana falters for a brief moment. “Ah, I will have to ask Mrs Stark. I did not know you were coming, so I will ask her.” She turns to her husband. “She is asking for you, Edwin, so you can come.”

There is silence until Peggy turns to him. “Mr Jarvis?”

Edwin is frozen. It feels as if the world has stopped spinning. Mrs Stark has just had a son. A boy. A son. A child. And she is fine, and he is fine, and she’s just had a son. A brand new life.

Ana grabs his arm and starts to pull him towards the door, and only then does he snap back to reality and feels himself breathe again. As they wait for the pack of nurses to finish leaving the room, Edwin bends down to whisper into his wife’s ear the one word that has suddenly branded itself into his mind.

“Anthony.”

When they are finally let into the room, his whole body melts. All the exhaustion, anger, and sadness from last night is washed away at the sight of the little bundle in Maria’s arms. Ana senses his awe and entwines her hand with his as she leads him closer to the bed.

“How are you feeling?” He breathes.

Maria is almost unrecognisable in this state. Her hair is the messiest he’s ever seen, and she is drenched in sweat. In any other circumstance she would be furious and desperately attempt to fix herself up. But right now, she has the warmest smile on her face.

“Tired, Mr Jarvis.” She answers, her voice slurred with exhaustion and her Italian accent shining through.

She looks down at the baby in her arms, and his own eyes follow. There is a tiny mop of dark hair visible over the blanket, but he can’t see much else very clearly.

Maria seems to notice his gaze. “Do you want to hold him?”

Yes, he does want to hold him. He wants to hold him and cradle him in his arms and talk to him and cuddle him and raise him.

But he can’t seem to get the words out. Ana answers for him. “Yes, he does.”

The second that Maria hands him the child, Edwin feels warmth rush into his body. The child is awake but not crying, and he knows he will do everything in his power to keep it that way. Distantly, he hears Ana ask Maria if Ms Carter can enter, before she also instructs her to sleep. He is too busy gently rocking the child to hear the precise words spoken.

“Hello there,” he whispers, a tear rolling down his cheek, “welcome to the world, little one. You are going to grow up and be strong, smart, kind, beautiful…”

His list goes on, and he is unaware of how sadly both Ana and Peggy are looking at him.

~-.-~

Mr Stark leaps out of the car before Edwin finishes parking.

He can’t blame him. He is about to meet his son for the first time, albeit a day late, so of course he’d be in a hurry.

Edwin locks the car and rushes to follow Howard.

On the journey from the airport, Mr Stark had done nothing but chatter about this that and the other. Anecdotes from his trip, celebrity scandals, new groundbreaking ideas. He managed to talk about every topic apart from his wife and son.

An outsider may think that he was being heartless, but Edwin knows Howard well enough to know that the genius was beyond nervous and his family was actually the only thing on his mind.

Once he nears Maria’s room, he can hear the sound of raised voices coming from inside. His heart sinks. He had been positive that Mr Stark would be happy upon seeing his son but, although he cannot hear the exact words being said, it sounds like something has upset him.

Bracing himself for the worst, he lightly knocks before entering.

“I promise you Howard, that’s what I said- Edwin!”

“Edwin!”

Edwin is not at all frightened by the way both Howard and Maria’s heads instantly snap towards him as they call him by his first name. Not in the slightest. It is perfectly reasonable for them to do so and is not unusual at all.

He recovers from this initial shock to note that little baby Anthony is in his father’s arms. This immediately fills him with relief as whatever the couple were arguing about didn’t seem to involve the newborn.

With that option eliminated, his curiosity begins to grow. “Is everything alright?” He asks.

Maria sinks further into her pillow and Howard hangs his head, bringing Anthony closer to his chest. It is a concerning visual, even more concerning when Mrs Stark looks back to her husband, ignoring his question entirely.

“And you’re sure it’s too late?”

Wearily raising his head, Howard answers. “I did most of the paperwork over there. The announcement’s been made- it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” Edwin inquires, dread pooling into his stomach. He sincerely hopes that whatever the situation is isn’t too bad.

The pair turn to acknowledge him for the first time since their initial outburst. Both of their faces seem… guilty?

Howard shuffles towards him, being very mindful of the baby in his arms. “So you know Anthony’s name, right?”

Edwin nods nervously.

“Well, there’s been a mix up.” Howard continues, his face sheepish.

“An accident.” Maria interjects. “I was exhausted, my accent was thicker than normal, and they misheard me.”

This only makes Edwin all the more worried.

Without warning, Anthony begins to wail, and Edwin instinctively holds his arms out for Mr Stark to pass the child to him. He starts to cradle him to shush him.

Howard rubs a hand over his face and takes a deep breath. “Anthony Edward Stark was supposed to be Anthony Edwin Stark.”

And if human nature hadn’t prevented him from doing so, Edwin would have dropped the baby.

He must have heard incorrectly. “P-Pardon?”

It is Maria who answers him, her expression apologetic. “We discussed this a while ago. Because we know that you and your wife can’t… have children,” Edwin bites his lip to try and prevent the tears from forming in his eyes, “and you both have been nothing but kind to us, we wanted to name our child after you. His middle name was supposed to be Edwin if he was a boy, and Ana if he was a girl.”

“But I fucked that up, too.” Mr Stark adds, but Maria just tuts at him.

“Language, Howard. We have a son now. The nurse misheard, and there is nothing we can do about it now.”

“‘Course, sorry.” Howard apologises. Then he lets out a small, pathetic laugh and a wide smile begins to grow on his face. He takes Anthony from Edwin’s arms and stares at him with an amount of adoration that is uncharacteristic for the great Howard Stark.

The same Howard Stark whose bottom lip began to tremble. Whose eyes begin to shimmer with tears. Who struggles to keep his voice even as he leans down to plant a tender kiss on his son’s forehead.

“You...” he whispers, “are hands down the best thing I have ever created, little man. You’re beautiful. God, I love you.” He turns to Edwin again, pride radiating off his face as he holds the child in front of him. “Look at my son, Jarvis! Look at him! I have a son!”

Edwin, who has been trembling all this time, matches the adoration on his employer’s face as he nods in response to the command. His mind, however, is elsewhere.

They were going to name him Edwin. The Edward mishap does not bother him in the slightest as it is the thought that counts but… they were going to name their son Edwin.

And standing there, even in front of Anthony Edward Stark’s parents, Edwin feels like a father.

~-.-~

“Shush now Anthony, your Mama will be here soon once she’s finished her very important meeting, alright? Please, shush now.”

Anthony has been wailing for the past ten minutes. And, for the past nine minutes, Edwin has been trying to calm him down. The only problem is that the only thing that will currently soothe him is Edwin’s own tie, which he very much needs and is not willing to part with. Ana made him that one.

“Awamaaaaa! Mamaaaaa!”

The ten-month old pulls himself up so that he is just-about standing in his crib with one chubby arm sticking out, trying to reach him. He has just learnt to stand, and although it makes him happy each time he accomplishes it, the fact that he has started to stand in defiance is the bane of Edwin’s existence.

With a weary sigh, he turns back from where he was about to leave and slowly crouches down so that his eyes level with Anthony’s.

“Anthony darling, your Mama will be here soon.”

“Awamamaa!”

‘Mama’ is Anthony’s first and only word, one that he’s learnt only recently. One of the maids had first heard the little boy chanting it, and had hurried to get Edwin. Edwin then commanded her to go and fetch Maria and Howard. Maria had come rushing in, but Howard had claimed to be busy.

His heart shattering at the sound of the boy’s cries, Edwin tries again. “I promise Mama’s coming.”

Anthony’s screams take on a sudden increase in volume that causes Edwin to wince.

“Waaaaaaaaah! Awamamaja! Awajaja!”

Now Edwin is by no means a young man anymore, and he convinces himself that whatever he thought he just heard was simply a trick of his imagination. Nothing more. He definitely did not just try and call out his-

“Jaja! Jaja!”

Paired with the wide brown eyes staring up at him and the arm outstretched trying to grab his tie, this time the child’s intent was unmistakable.

In his shock, Edwin says the only thing he can think of. “S-Say that again?”

“Jaja!”

“Are you trying to say… ‘Jarvis’?”

“Jaja!”

“Oh my goodness!”

Although the ‘J’ syllable wasn’t quite as clipped as it should be (sounding more like a ‘sh’) it was recognisable enough. And to say Edwin feels emotional at the fact that Anthony said his name would be an understatement.

In this time Anthony had stopped crying and instead is looking at him expectantly, as if he knew exactly what effect his words would have on him and is waiting for his reward. Edwin takes off his tie and hands it to the boy without a second thought.

He has to tell Ana. There is no time to lose. He has to bring Ana and try and get Anthony to say it again as proof that his second 'word' was a variation of 'Jarvis'.

(He feels like he shouldn’t tell Maria, and especially not Howard. ‘Dada’ is supposed to come after ‘Mama’, not the name of the family butler. This moment would be his and Ana’s private treasure- something he would confide in Anthony when the boy grew up.)

(If the boy still liked him by that time, of course.)

(Edwin hopes he will.)

#marvel #mcu #agent carter #the avengers #edwin jarvis #peggy carter #tony stark #ana jarvis #howard stark #maria stark #i'll remember you this way #fic

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tortillastar · 3 years ago

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Ribs

She drags the shoe across the linoleum tendu à la second. The offending stockinged leg stares back from the mirror. The creased turnout - just shy of 180 - the lemon-peel crease at the crook of her knee, the tumor bulge of her kneecap, and the limp left toes, hung out to dry like Sunday laundry. Slight, like a pimple dotting one’s brow, yet enough to give it the look of a crooked branch.

She shifts her gaze to the leg and gazes detachedly as the flesh constricts, pulling and stretching into the same strange crests and valleys traced by shadow. A heaviness presses upon her knee, a directive to point is lost in translation, and only then did she realize her feet were numb.

A few streaks of light claw the studio floor, slicing her leg like a loaf of brioche. She nudges her phone with the frayed corner of her pointe shoe. 8:10. Two hours she’d been in the empty studio tucked at the end of the hall, only the hawk-eyes and bitter laugh of the mirror for company.

For the past month, she’d taken to running the exam combinations in some pretense of preparing for the winter final. In ballet, no amount of midnight cramming would shuffle the pecking order. Anna would top the list, Svetlana and Maria eating at her heels a few miles removed. She would powder the bottom, placidly hanging on the brink of expulsion as only one who’d lived bare-necked beneath the guillotine for five years and four months could.

She hadn’t gotten past the first set of pas de bourrées, engaged in a staring contest with the knee she’d hammer straight, the bones she’d melt and remold, the feet she’d shape into the neck of a goose.

She peers at the face in the mirror, fixed with a melted and molded smile, like a wax mask worn in the sun. The janitor would be making his rounds soon. He was a stubby hunchback who reeked of greasy bacon and cottage cheese and picked his teeth with the rusted keys on his belt-sized keyring - one she preferred not to cross.

She wobbles over to her bags and collapses by them, a boney addition to the hobo pile. Practiced hands dig out the knot and unravel the ribbons. They leave red tracks crisscrossing her calves - she’d tied them too tight. Her nails absent-mindedly trace the straw-like veins, some purple, some blue along her feet, peeling off millimeter by millimeter each patch and piece of toe-tape. They pull at her skin and reveal the scabs, the welts, the splotches of red. She slips out the studio, leaving a foot-width slit as the teachers did, a silent dusting of her tracks.

The two-minute trek back to the dorms was enough to stain her exposed cheeks crimson and numb the fingertips poking out of holes in her winter gloves. The knob gives too easily.

No Anna, but the heap of dress and stockings, shed like a lizard's skin at the foot of the bed, confirmed her lurking presence.

Stealing food again.

At this, the girl allows herself a haughty flick of the lead eyebrows smeared to the crown of her forehead. The fading desk lamp huffs out a sickly-yellow glow on the knots of hair, specks of dust, bits of paper, and the torn sole of an unwashed stocking poking forth from beneath the bed. They invaded the edges of her vision, rubbing a crude line around the corners.

The girl picks up a corner of the lilac leotard, the sheer purple skirt would clumsily about the waist and noted with a bitter cornrow twist of the lip the xs tag, the letters faded and cracked, but the jeer no quieter. Hers was two sizes bigger - two sizes too big. A fist-sized patch of sweat bloomed at the chest. She smells in its sticky sweetness, browned toast, and poached eggs. Hands bring the damp clothing closer to her hankering nose. She stumbles at the rusty stutter of the doorknob and flings the dress back atop the pile with a flinch.

Anna slips in, lithe as a cat. She flips the lock shut with a blind hand, balancing in the other a plate piled with the usual - tattered cheese squares and soggy folded between slices of flaking bread heels.

“Back already?” The words are puffy and thick. Two folded sandwiches balloon from her cherry-petal lips; a scrap of ham flags the corner of her mouth. The lilt fills in the rest - given up already?

The girl hums, letting the implication roll off her like a raindrop caught on an umbrella.

Anna flops on her bed, sidestepping the strewn clothes and bunched skirts on impossibly high relevé. A few sandwiches flop open, but no creak of the headboards. A few sticky stabs of the remote control and a projection flickers to life on the far wall, bathing her form in a hazy-blue hue. It flecks her hair, mud brown and unbrushed, but pretty in that careless way only those who didn’t care their appearance seemed capable of. A white collarbone peaks out the collar of her nightshirt, paper-strip legs from the mouth of flared pajama pants. A flat chest and masculine frame suspended her at that blissful age where the body seemed an insatiable black hole, vanishing the food she ate without a trace. The girl stares at the way her kneecaps vanished into the line of her leg, and the natural doming of her foot, even unpointed, and subconsciously shoved her numb toes and bruised legs further beneath her bed.

She was the same once - wolfing down oil-crisp fries and cheese-dripping burgers at the KFC beneath her ballet class, shoving a bag of chips to the tail of the conveyor belt, being chased around the house by her grandmother, begging her to down the last gulp of soup.

It had come about gradually, imperceptibly, like the callouses about her big toe. A few arched eyebrows, a few frowns, and a simple “Katia switch with Sofya” relegated her to the spot by the exit door. The ones who occupied it never stayed long - dismissed, or crushed under the pressure of digging themselves out.

Her fork lingered over the beefsteak, wound an uneasy pirouette, and stabbed into the neighboring mound of greens. That had been easy. The academy canteen didn’t serve much red meat in the first place. Fish was harder, especially the cuts of smoked salmon she slapped on everything from burnt toast to insipid spinach leaves. Eggs went because she forgot to grab one breakfast. Then milk, because the skim milk pitcher had run dry one morning, and if she wasn’t drinking milk anymore why keep up with the yogurt.

She forced down finger-sized carrots, bitter brussels sprouts, and broccoli florets that sunk into her teeth. First with leftover dribbles of salad dressing, then fruit, then nothing at all. She gazed at the squares of beef steak wedged in others’ mouths, trying to taste the greasy, crumbly juices in her raw cucumber slices.

She took to keeping food and water on her person at all times - an orange bulging like a tumor in her clutch, a thermos tucked in the rooster pouch of a holey jumper. It was to avoid starvation, the dull cramp in her stomach that tugged down the corners of her lips and inevitably followed by overeating. She never ate the food but kept bringing it along anyway - on the two-minute walk from her dorm to the academy, the few hundred-step walk from cafeteria to class.

Partly, she derived some warped pride from the fact that she could eat, but would not. Partly, she came to enjoy voicing with a breathy, bogged-down sigh, “I’m too full, anyone want this?” when she spotted a teacher turning the corner, and answering calls of “I’m starving, anyone got a snack?” with granola bars, and too-large apples shoved in her classmates’ faces, smiling an evasive smirk when they accepted.

She scanned barcodes and tallied up the calories, grinning in triumph when she dragged herself through the day at under a thousand - net, of course, she was careful.

“Want one?” She realizes she’d been staring, and by the arch of Anna’s single crow-bar brow, for too long. Without shame, the girl raises her eyes to meet Anna’s pitch-black orbs, poised before an eye-roll she would probably share with her bed lamp.

“No thank you.” Creaks the automatic reply. “I don’t eat bread.” She adds to strengthen her conviction, though nobody would spare a glance at her plate at lunch to check if she’d kept her word.

“Your loss.”

A buoyant, techno tune draws her gaze to the projection. For the night, Anna had passed up the flabby American rom-coms she inhaled under the pretext of learning English. Instead, flappy, armless sleeves, squirming tuber dresses, and pendulum purses paraded down coffee-stained roads, easily avoiding the few puddling gulps dotting the curbs. Towering lampposts, shop signs, wobbly curbstones, each leaf bleached grey. A flap of bat’s wings and the occasional lilting bird whine completes a pretend eeriness ruined by the too-matte paint, the too-smooth roads, the too-new metal benches.

The camera whirled about, favoring a bottom-to-top shot that lent full view to jutting, crooked knees, and bowed legs. The girl frowns at their pastry-thin shoulders, chicken-wing spatula, and pigeon-toed walk. She sees in bed-sheet expressions not aristocratic coolness, but contemptible misery - a silent plea on weighted lips.

“You can become a model if you’re dismissed.” Her smacking lips pork chop the words, her mouth brimmed like her suitcase, its zippered mouth perpetually open in half-hearted surprise. She tears open the final sandwich, nails pressing crescent-moons into the holey bread pockets. The girl lifts a corner of her lip in a wan smile.

The words pick at hardened scabs, no more than a tickle. She’d been suspended on the chopping block from the moment she was accepted, and the sense of urgency had long since worn thin. The studio hours after class was fulfilled out of habit, not any imminent fear of dismissal.

The girl thought it was Anna’s brand of helping - disaster prevention through repeated exposure. They walked the no-man’s-land between friend and stranger on a scaffolding of convenience and pity.

“They have it easy. Just starve themselves, look miserable, parade around clothes slapped with some expensive brand name. And people shower them with praise.” She sucks the tips of her fingers with a pop.

“We have to starve ourselves and look happy doing it.” She stands up with the empty plate. A few dark specks had already seized on the leftover crumbs.

“You’re showering first.” A phrase stranded between question and demand.

The door croaks shut, and her wobbly “Yeah” sinks in the empty room. The bed groans as she stands. She wants to peel off the bark and tear the baseboards but glares dully woodgrains for a few beats before grabbing her shower duffel from the doorway.

The shared bathroom is conspicuously empty. The others had showered after class, she assumed. She twists off her jumper and lets the cold prick at her bare arms, observing each pimpling goosebump. Slowly, she peels off the lilac leotard and rejoices at the wrinkle of fabric bunched beneath the armpits. Cold fingers trace along the ribs, revealed one by one, pressing a chill to each angled, protruding bone. In the mirror - lustrous despite the grimy tiles and cracked sinks, copper wire lips bend into a smile.

#ballet #writing #short story #fiction

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arcticdementor · 3 years ago

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By now, the spectacle that is South Africa’s insurrection has been dominating the attentions of just about every political junkie on twitter, drawing the best minds from every corner of the world to bear witness to the fall of the rainbow nation into a predictable quagmire of irresolvable chaos. At home, the pessimism comes in many flavours, and the denialism in many, many more.

The brute facts are now well-known. After dodging prosecution for extreme corruption for over a decade, the former president Jacob Zuma was finally arrested for the relatively minor charge of contempt of court, for not appearing when summoned. While he held out for several days as his supporters (who comprise about half the ruling party including several senior cabinet ministers) picketed outside his palatial compound (bought with the UK foreign aid budget of 2017) and blocked police from entering, he eventually handed himself in. So concluded a long factional battle between Ramaphosa and Zuma that claimed hundreds of lives in burned freight trucks, assassinated councillors, and billions of Rands in legal fees, patronage and PR. Or so it appeared.

On the 8th of July, the president disbanded the Umkhonto weSizwe Veterans Association, essentially the continuation of the old military wing of the ANC, and fiercely loyal to Jacob Zuma. The next day, together with assistance from elements within state intel and security, they deployed to major transport routes, food depots, retail outlets, police stations, power stations, water treatment plants, and ports, to shut down and burn what they could, crippling the Johannesburg-Durban trade artery that carries 65% of our trade volume and half our economic capacity.

After encouraging looting targeting white-owned businesses or “white monopoly capital”, the MK vets could watch as riots burst out to take advantage of the chaos and everything was stripped to the bone by opportunistic looters. In the shadows, organised and disorganised elements blurred together, as even the wealthiest elements of black society got in on the fun of looting, packing luxury sportscars with groceries and appliances before watching the flames tear down the shops and factories.

The police and the military did nothing, and the president was silent, paralysed. Soon the violence spread to the suburbs, and residents cobbled together militia to guard their homes. Proof of address was required to buy groceries. This received wails of agony from the press class and black social media. Slogans calling for the slaughter of Indians (who form a large minority in Durban) and whites became common, and soon the newspapers were joining in on the scapegoating, accusing the citizens’ militia of racism.

…

Everyone here saw this coming, but for decades now, it has been an unacceptable thing to do, to remark upon the inevitable future we find ourselves in. Why it came to all this, and why it matters to Americans and Europeans, is the point of this essay. It will be uneasy to stomach, but it must be swallowed. We live on the brink of barbarism, and the West is following us every step of the way.

A nation may have a lot of ruin in it, but a poor nation has less ruin in it than a wealthy one. When a state collapses or undergoes revolution in the distant reaches of Africa or Asia, there is a certain social distance which prevents Westerners directly apprehending the significance of the social dynamics, the closeness of the dangers, the universality of the lessons, the pain and the tragedy of the loss.

But South Africa is different. South Africa is at once Western and alien to Westerners. Our constitution is Western. Our revolutionaries and our reactionaries and our racial cosmology is Western. Our highest aspiration is that of the West at large – a universal state which recognises no difference of class, race, or creed. And that is why when we observe South Africa, we stare into the abyss of Western civilisation and its global future. Each Westerner sees himself reflected in that void, from the national-socialist, to the anarcho-communist, to the black-nationalist and the bleeding-heart liberal.

And they are right to.

…

Watching any graph of any indicator in South Africa sees every resource drying up, every indicator of health taking a nosedive, and the population booming beyond control, kept in check only by the enormous and perennial pandemic of AIDS and tuberculosis that take many times the number of victims supposedly taken by the SARS-CoV2 virus, every year. We are the rape capital of the world, have seen over half a million homicides since 1994, and the state has not replaced any of the infrastructure built by the Afrikaner nationalist government. The graphs just spell doom in their trend lines, and have for years now, as the Centre for Risk Analysis’s I-told-you-so’s often repeat.

When they came to power, the ruling party was a coalition of communists, black nationalists, organised criminals and common thugs. However, their patrons in the Soviet Union were disbanded, and the Western state apparatus was still composed of law-abiding institutions and competent civil servants. So they purged the minorities, and placed party members at all key posts throughout, to ensure ideological and partisan loyalty – this was called cadre deployment. This crippled the institutions. When the last of the old guard experts were ushered into the wilderness in 1998, they made several systematic departmental reports, which declared the need for replacing infrastructure immediately, to cope with the increased dependent population. This was ignored, largely because the experts were white.

…

While many see the doom as setting in after 1994, it in fact began much sooner. The means by which the ANC gained power was not through civil disobedience, but through a long and sustained campaign of totalitarian violence called the Peoples War, which raged from 1979 until 1993. Black wage increases increased faster than white until this period (51.3% vs 3.8% since 1970), economic growth was over 5%, inequality was falling and blacks enjoyed the highest standard of living of any black population on the continent.

The addiction to cheap black labour meant that industry was irritated with state policies, and in the end, it was the local plutocrats like Harry Oppenheimer and the old secret societies like the Afrikaner Broederbond who opened secret negotiation to end apartheid. And while SA may have had a robust economy once, nothing survived the People’s War. It aimed to “make the country ungovernable”, and largely succeeded. Controlling migration from the black homelands became impossible, and maintaining law and order as the bodies piled up became harder and harder.

…

But the liberal establishment could not bring themselves to believe there were systemic reasons for this state of affairs beyond “corruption” or “inequality”, and the struggle to blame the status quo on the previous regime became ever harder. So they blamed Zuma. The lost decade, they called it. So when Cyril Ramaphosa, a man largely blamed for the Marikana massacre, finally took the party leadership in 2017, after a long, expensive battle of assassination, bribery and skulduggery, he billed himself as a liberal reformer and anti-corruption campaigner, and the international community fell for it hook line and sinker, and local liberals worshipped him like the coming of a new Mandela. He promised the 4th Industrial Revolution. He promised the reigning in of BEE. The Economist endorsed him over the liberal DA.

But he was lying.

…

There are only three sources for non-socialist print media coverage of politics in South Africa. Politicsweb, where all the old senior analysts go when they become persona non grata, the Institute of Race Relations (a venerable old classic-liberal institute with a daily paper, the Daily Friend, and a consulting business, Centre for Risk Analysis), and Maroela Media, an Afrikaans-language publication run by Afriforum, the civil rights activist organisation which sprung from the Afrikaner-national Solidariteit movement.

Aside from this, every other publication leans further to the left than a man with his left leg blown off, and due to a hangover of apartheid-era Cold War politics, “left and right”, terms only applicable among the educated classes, roughly align with a black-vs-white friend-enemy distinction. The Mail & Guardian, for instance (indirectly owned by the Open Society Foundation), has refused to cover any rural homicide committed against a white victim in nearly a decade, despite a global magnifying glass being placed on the barbaric torture and murder spree that has slowly been smouldering across our rural hinterlands. When a white person commits a crime, it is milked dry every day until the journalists get carpal tunnel. But against the ocean of violent depravity committed by the racial majority, which has taken half a million lives since the fall of apartheid, we receive virtual silence. Swaziland, seeing the same kind of violent uprising as KwaZulu Natal is, is treated as a democratic revolution against a tyrannical absolute monarch, despite the opposition being mainly violent communists receiving support from South African parties like the EFF.

…

I was a communist when I was at university. I was delivered a faithful belief in progressivism, nonracialism, revolution and universal democracy, through the national curriculum in South Africa. I was introduced to Marx and Mill as an A Level student in the UK, and when I returned to my native country, I was exposed once more to the poverty and desperation and racial tensions. I assumed all the positions one would expect. More democracy, more repudiation of Christianity and white people, more redistribution, more socialism. But the political waters were calm in those days, and this was mere posturing. Then in 2015 my friends began a campaign to topple the statue of Cecil Rhodes overlooking Cape Town from the university his will founded.

#RhodesMustFall mushroomed rapidly, and became the romantic darling of not only us horny little revolutionaries, but leftists worldwide, who exported the new iconoclasm to Oxford and South Carolina. It is now remembered as #FeesMustFall, a campaign to make tertiary education free (for blacks). But I watched it grow from the inside, and partook in the occupation of admin buildings, touring other college protests in the Cape out of solidarity. But it became clear that it was first and foremost about racial hatred and the purging of Western influence, under their holy trinity of Steve Biko, Franz Fanon and Kimberlé Crenshaw – segregation, national-socialism and a metaphysical racial hierarchy, in new nation called Azania, synonymous with the basketcase fictional nation of Evelyn Waugh’s novel Black Mischief.

This movement, while it began as nonracialist, soon became openly genocidal. Student leaders who called for genocide went unpunished, even praised by the VC of the University of Cape Town. This movement spread to every single university in the country, and despite prominent student leaders praising Adolf Hitler and calling for whites to be swept into the sea, singing genocidal songs at every protest, white students still offered themselves as human shields before police. Dining halls were segregated, classes were violently shut down, nonparticipants in some universities were beaten in their dormitories, staff were chased with buckwhips, buses were burned, paintings were burned, even security guards were burned, and more recently, so was the continent’s largest library. But no big newspaper offered moral criticism, just worries about whether the tactics were effective.

These young people defined a new era, and a new consensus – all struggles are one, and all are about black vs white, and whites must hand over everything and beg for their lives. The only lecturer in the entire country who stood up in public against this cultural revolution was the antinatalist philosopher David Benatar. All others kept their heads down, dithered, or joined the fray, calling for the heads of their less enthusiastic colleagues. Now the Fallists’ ideology is the official pedagogy of the entire university system. But this agitation had been the nature of political life at the poorer “bush colleges” for years now, just without the presence of minority students to trigger resentment or the ideas to build ideology: shut down every exam season to extract more lenient standards and increases in student grants.

And much like the explosion of violence seen at the national level today, South Africa’s poorer areas have been an unremitting hell for all those living in it below a certain class divide. 15% of all women are prostitutes, and the homicide rate is among the highest in the world, and some areas experience permanent civil war level violence. The old apartheid era town planning meant that black areas and minority areas were clearly separated, and this has meant a geographical buffer, where violent protest, which is again among the highest in the world, has largely left the middle classes out of it, even while it occasionally diverts traffic. Protests flare up constantly, as rival factions of the ANC, hamstrung by a corrupt internal promotions process and forbidden from dragging out dirty laundry in public, instead mobilise violent protests to contest wards and civil service posts, often burning down public infrastructure while the mob on the ground chants for “service delivery”.

…

Whatever else Nick Land writes, the lasting impact he had on me was in the very first essay at the opening of Fanged Noumena. He wrote it in 1989, when nobody beneath the highest reaches and darkest recesses of the Atlantic power structure had any awareness that South Africa was about to change forever.

Apartheid still seemed undefeatable to outsiders. The NP had recently smashed the heart of the ANC’s military campaign, creating a bloody hurting stalemate that observers at the time had no expectation would result in any pleasant outcome. Tens of thousands had already been massacred in the Peoples War to give the ANC a monopoly over the black liberation movements, but they seemed to be running out of steam. And so did Pretoria – influx from the Bantustans was unstaunchable, dependence on black labour was firm, and confidence in local cultural hegemony collapsed in 1976.

Nick Land, watching this, noticed something peculiar.

For the purposes of understanding the complex network of race, gender, and class oppressions that constitute our global modernity it is very rewarding to attend to the evolution of the apartheid policies of the South African regime, since apartheid is directed towards the construction of a microcosm of the neo-colonial order; a recapitulation of the world in miniature. The most basic aspiration of the Boer state is the dissociation of politics from economic relations, so that by means of 'Bantustans' or 'homelands' the black African population can be suspended in a condition of simultaneous political distance and economic proximity vis-a-vis the white metropolis. […] My contention in this paper is that the Third World as a whole is the product of a successful - although piecemeal and largely unconscious - 'Bantustan' policy on the part of the global Kapital metropolis.

…

When the British seized the Boer republics in 1900, they drew up the limits of control of the native African tribes where they already lived, and displaced a few thousand of them to tidy up the borders. These eventually became the Bantustans. Immediately, a long slow trickle of immigration was encouraged, not just from the Bantustans, but from British possessions in Asia. The migrant labour created a dense network of diffident ethnicities who demanded fences between them and their neighbours, while attempting to pursue economic exchange.

Black men, who could achieve far greater material wealth from working in the white economy than raising cattle and sorghum in the homelands, flowed steadily into white farmland areas and mining towns. In 1922, the South African Communist Party launched a general strike to demand the enforcement of a colour bar – “CPSA for a white South Africa!”. They were put down in a hail of gunfire by Jan Smuts, the architect of the unitary constitution, which allowed no devolved powers for regional self-governance.

Smuts was a member of Cecil Rhodes’s Round Table club, and shared Rhodes’s ambition to create a grand state where all literate English-speaking men and women south of the Zambezi would have the vote regardless of colour, and all the resources would belong to one grand cartel controlled by a British-American elite of enlightened natural aristocrats. Rhodes used money from his diamond empire and loans from Nathan Rothschild to fund the Jameson Raid and other means to instigate war with the Boer republics, which eventually resulted in the second Boer War and the creation of the Union of South Africa.

…

Smuts, architect of the Union of South Africa, also had a grand philosophy not unlike Nick Land’s – Land treats all matter and life as being ontologically the same, driven by “machinic desires” – all tendencies to motion and behaviour, whether in living or non-living material being fundamentally the same. All matter seeks more complex and integrated forms over time as a result of the force of entropy. Smuts’s grand philosophy, of which he wrote at length in Holism and Evolution, envisaged a means of looking at the world in which all of nature and society could be apprehended and governed as a single holistic system – all organisms, all cultures, all individuals, were destined to evolve into a greater whole, in which each part had its natural place, and that the common teleology of all matter and spirit was the global state, embodied in the League of Nations, the constitution of which he penned himself. Together with his extensive biological knowledge, Smuts and his London interlocutor Arthur Tansley gave birth to the modern systems theory of ecology, and hoped to see a central global technocracy overseeing a holistic ecological management system.

The aims of the United States since the Second World War have some remarkable similarities in approach. The post-war order saw the US employing a philosophy of “defence in depth,” controlling a defensive frontier from the China Sea in the East to the very edge of the Warsaw Pact countries, to ensure freedom of trade throughout this entire region. But this extended beyond military control. The use of embedded CIA operatives meant that those democratic representatives who resisted the grand plans of Atlanticism were swiftly dealt with under insidious operations like Gladio.

…

As these ideas bled into the old left, who were increasingly disillusioned from the failures of the Soviet Union. They turned, as Laclou and Mouffe did, to the notion of using sectional grievances to deconstruct the nation state, leading to the birth of intersectionalism under Kimberlé Crenshaw. The very foundations of nationhood and capitalist Christian civilisation could be toppled if only we united our struggles by leveraging our historical grievances, creating acrimonious divisions in the body politic on the basis of sex, sexuality, race and religion. Thus, the universal loyalties of the nation state that supposedly upheld capitalism would fall, and revolution would arise. This fell right into the plans of the American ruling class.

However, when the social morality of the postwar American colonial project in Europe met the plans of the military and the Malthusian tendencies of the RAND corporation, everything took on a far more ambitious character, with the help of a concept called “environmental security”. The first reference to ES in the sense of protecting the natural environment comes from the US EPA Technical Committee in 1971, as part of an ambitious attempt to quantitatively measure total social wellbeing. This EPA committee was the first to make environmental regulation part of a comprehensive plan for social wellbeing, driven by Holism and cybernetic ecology. They were exceeded in scope by the UN’s 1972 Stockholm Conference, where the idea of “comprehensive” (today, “human”) security emerged, and further, the Palme, Brundtland and Brandt Reports.

…

Under these new umbrella concepts came “human security” and environmental security, the Social Sciences Department of UNESCO and the SSRC found the unifying principles and programs they had sought since the 1950s, and pushed a proselytising program grounded in cross-discipline application of avant-garde ideas to seek “new ways of knowing”, promoting not scientific objectivity, but a synthesis of diverse perspectives. A wholesale transformation of the rules and discipline of social sciences followed, in service of global governance (see the works of Perrin Selcer).

UNESCO even deliberately set about creating a new world religion, in the words of its founder Julian Huxley, and formed the United Religions Initiative, to mould the world’s spiritual beliefs in line with international Anglo progressivism. Feminism and sexual libertinism formed a crowbar against the community cohesion that couldn’t be attacked by means of anti-nationalism, and into this soup of value inversions (erosion of disciplinary distinction, inter-subjectivity [i.e., truth-by-consensus over objectivity], and utopian welfare ideals like “freedom from fear”; “freedom from want”), dropped three wonder pills: Poststructuralism, the collapse of the Soviet Union, and Global Warming. Now the great power-narratives of the Atlantic empire were consolidated – Malthus-by-proxy, anti-traditionalism, international diversity-and-inclusion, and the free-trade, open-borders paradigm of the 90’s.

In the same moment as de Klerk gave up on apartheid, the West gave up on the nation state, and handed control to the internationalists, under hegemony of the Atlantic community. A new empire was being consolidated from the territories captured by the Allies in WWII. Thirty years later it is becoming transparent – the new centralised global tax regime has cemented it. Just as the ANC funds the influx of black voters into urban minority areas to build shacks on squatted land, the West welcomes mass migration from the third world, total open-borders, to transform the electoral system against the interests of the native population who might have their own desires, against the grain of global empire. Every corporation and state in the Western world discriminated against whites in hiring. The CIA peddles Critical Race Theory and actively recruits sexual minorities. Colour revolutions can be spotted whenever the rainbow flag or black fist makes an appearance.

Today, the Democratic Party in the US openly looks to South Africa for inspiration in dealing with what Yarvin called the “outer party” – all conservatives are being purged from every institution, in a vast cadre deployment program to ensure the core of the establishment becomes forever untouchable. On the streets they have even begun to use the same tactics for control – deploying huge mobs to destabilise cities when election season is approaching.

Minimum wage rises funnel employment into companies in public-private partnerships with the state, like Amazon, who is part of the Enduring Security Framework partnership of the CIA (which includes Facebook and Google). The analogies between their experimental management strategies and collectivised central-planning are no accident – any company that aims for a total retail monopoly through state-subsidised negative-profit growth is merely another route to total control.

And as the nation and the state are decoupled, the liberal-democratic institutions are being geared toward the concentration of power and wealth, and a strategy of divide-and-rule, to create a cannibal economy. Only a few, like Denmark, have realised what they have gotten themselves into.

…

Much as Aristotle said, a democracy can only function beneficially when steered by the middle class, as it was in Rhodesia and the old Cape, which restricted the vote to property-owners of all races. The middle class’s needs are the core of the productive community, and as Marx observed, they are loyal to the requirements of productive industry and local trade. With the combination of the proliferation of the welfare state and globalisation, the middle class has been whittled away in the West, just as it has here in southern Africa.

Reliance on the state for services means they can’t be sacrificed – in the UK, the NHS has become essentially a religious cult, feeding the civil service, medical contractors, immigrants and the poor alike, in a financially unsustainable way, for decreasing returns. As Philip Bagus observed, the democratic pressures to maintain institutional support via this sort of patronage forces modern western states to take on ever more debt and expand taxation to the limits. This then must be offset by QE, which must be guaranteed by the central state at a rate that benefits the most fragile provinces of any empire so that the whole system does not collapse.

…

What Robert Mugabe did was pursue the universal extension of a first-world welfare state to every peasant in the hinterland, praised by the global left. This required taking on an enormous amount of national debt. Once the IMF tried to impose austerity, Mugabe found this politically unsustainable – his support depended on the handouts, corrupt and legitimate, that he was delivering. So he had to switch to printing money to pay the debts. When inflation became too much to handle, they replaced the core of the economy with dollars, and only elites could survive, much like Venezuela today. As the national treasury ran dry, the military and the civil service became restless. To placate them, they were fed the farms and businesses of the remaining white minority, as well as many areas formerly occupied by black peasants. The state had to cannibalise itself to sustain the predatory ruling class.

During this time, Mugabe attempted to control every aspect of the environment and economy through price and capital controls, suffocating every aspect of social life with red tape. It only accelerated the process. While the vast global network of UN subsidiaries extract compliance from the US client states

In South Africa today, the state coffers are empty. Even the ruling party is feeling it, as their headquarters Luthuli House was attached by the court to pay for a crooked PR contract they refused to deliver on. We have since taken out an IMF bailout, which is being poured into infrastructure, mostly Durban’s port, which is now choked by smoke and looting. Our president’s advisors are pushing for land reform, and remarkably, one of them, Ruth Hall, was advising Robert Mugabe how to liquidate his pale kulaks back in 2002. Other advisors, like Thembeka Ngcukaitobi, call for the fulfilment of the genocidal prophecy of Makhanda, and have whites deprived of all land and all moveable and liquid assets. This is deliberate Zimbabwefication.

The same economic dynamics are present in the world at large – the share of GDP spent on welfare keep increasing, as does the debt-GDP ratio. Capital formation has been falling for decades, and chronic inflation is treated as a static phenomenon, which nobody dares reign in, because the entire system is dependent on low interest rates to keep the constant corrosive consolidation of the global market going full steam ahead. This arrangement results in the inflation of property prices as along term hedge against inflation which, when the plebs followed suit resulted in the 2008 bubble, when they tried to play the elites’ asset accumulation game with borrowed money.

…

What has America been doing these past 18 months? It has been printing money so fast that it has kept pace with the plummenting Rand, and allowed Cyril Ramaphosa to tell investors that his economy is relatively strong – the Rand has “stabilised”. Error of parallax. Nor is it even just America printing money. While they certainly can afford to, as the holders of the world’s reserve currency, China is attempting to do the same, only they are directly funnelling the cash into commodities, rather than spreading it around a financial elite over which they have minimal control.

And yet their leverage is far worse than America’s – Kyle Bass, who has been shorting the Chinese market for years now, insists that the historically unprecedented levels of leverage in the Chinese economy are unsustainable, and that they cannot, even under miracle conditions, correct their shrinking population trends sufficiently to turn this ship around. But what many forsee in dreams of revolution and revolt, the breakups of massive crumbling empires, is not going to happen as they hope.

Instead, the state will protect the stability of the ruling class and its control over the levers of power at the core, bleeding everyone dry and terrorising them into submission. What happened to Zimbabwe is a warning, but it only happened the way it did because half the population could leave and send home remittances. The iron fist of a “democratic” government capable of rigging its elections and gagging the press and the courts is only as tyrannical as the cost of a bus ticket to the next country. After 900-member Zoom calls and election “fortification”, I shouldn’t need to gild the lily any more.

As many observers of China remark, an economic collapse of a country of its nature will not result in a breakup or a massive reform, but in the shrink-wrap tyranny of North Korea, an eternal sclerotic stagnation, fed by government dependency, held in place by state security. The West is losing control of its ability to provide the kind of total state security required for this however, and has been reaching for a far more sinister method of control – the financial system.

And this is where all analogies break down, because what is about to happen here is unprecedented. The international Bank of Settlements has recently announced that they intend to use Central Bank Digital Currency to control the spending of all global citizens, and have the tech and the power to control each and every expenditure, and to shut anybody out of the ability to feed themselves if they so choose. But this movement to kick away the ladder and consolidate total control follows the same logic as Zimbabwe’s – the poor can only be fed for so long, but the ruling elite must be fed forever, or else the whole house comes down.

…

The twin systems of China and Atlantis are both attempting to consolidate total control over their economic and social environment. And in order to achieve the kind of reforms that he wishes to, Ramaphosa has reached for the help of both power blocs. China has colonised our northernmost province, and receives special treatment from law enforcement that must learn Mandarin. Chinese are registered as black, to benefit from the racial privileges blacks enjoy under Black Economic Empowerment. While the government’s reports usually look like a dog’s breakfast, their reports on the UN sustainable development goals are always crisp, professional, and detailed. SDG 10 justifies the expropriation of property, according to their logic.

…

The erosion of the middle class, the working class, the institutions of law and order and even the substance of the informal economy was dry tinder to the Zuma-faction’s firebrands. To fulfil his mandate to end corruption, Ramaphosa had begun prosecutions proceedings into the Zuma faction – tentatively of course, since any too-wide-ranging investigation would unearth the corruption of all. But lawfare isn’t enough. They were cut out of party patronage systems as big figures like Ace Magashule were expelled from the party. Judges ruled that the state would not cover their defence costs anymore.

When the Umkhonto we Sizwe veterans association was disbanded and cut off from “pension” money, they finally put into action something that they would have had up their sleeve for months. Police armaments caches had been going missing for months. Firearms training for youths had been going on at the local branches for years. Every storage depot and major highway was targeted, petrol stations, power stations, water treatment plants were hit. They needed to make the country ungovernable, and they did. But this time they didn’t have the support of the Swedish, the Russians or anybody else.

Complicit elements are even inside the SSA, our central intelligence agency. What it will take for Ramaphosa to clear the state and party of seditious elements will give him the power of a modern dictator, cheered on my the press and everybody else, who despises Zuma and his people for what they’ve wreaked upon us. But with three months left of military deployment, all of the military capacity in one province, and the president fearing wielding lethal force on black mobs for fear of his Marikana ghosts coming back to haunt him, the rebels have three months to decide whether to act.

That leaves three months to see whether we become a black-nationalist disctatorship, or a new Yugoslavia. The Zulu, who form the backbone of the rebellion, have cheered for Zulu independence before, though their forces are split – the Zulu nationalist/traditionalist party the IFP have stood firmly against this chaos. Zuma’s people are still pushing black identity over tribal. Zuma may have been a traditionalist, a defender of the Swazi royal house when in crisis, an expander of chieftains’ rights, but his time in head of the ANC death squads in Zululand in the 1990s makes Zulu solidarity impossible.

So chaos it is.

#robert duigan #substack #read the whole thing #south africa

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bananaofswifts · 4 years ago

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This summer, Taylor Swift was meant to headline Glastonbury. In fact, she was meant to be playing a whole host of festivals and shows on an international tour as well as hosting her own two-part ‘Lover Fest’ in America, all in celebration of her sixth studio album ‘Lover’, which was released last August). The global pandemic, of course, meant these plans were scrapped, leaving Swift with bountiful spare time. No longer locked into rehearsals or jetting around the globe performing to tens of thousands, she used these hours to write.

The results of these unforeseen quarantine writing sessions have come together on Swift’s new, eighth studio album, ‘Folklore’. She’s uncharacteristically ‘done a Beyoncé‘, announcing the album less than 24 hours before it drops, a stark change to the very deliberate, calculated release schedules we’ve seen from Swift in the past. In a simple statement posted to social media, she acknowledged that she’d usually wait and release the album at the “perfect” time, but said the global situation acted as a reminder to her that “nothing is guaranteed”. These shock release tactics go hand-in-hand with a change in musical direction for Swift; ‘Folklore’ is something totally unexpected from one of the world’s biggest pop stars.

Over the course of seven albums, we’ve seen Swift evolve from a fresh-faced, teenage country crossover hopeful to sleek synth-pop chart-juggernaut. Each record has brought with it gradual changes – 2010’s ‘Speak Now’ was rockier and 2012’s ‘Red’ saw more pop-leaning production, and by the time we got to 2014’s ‘1989’ she’d cast the cowboy hat aside entirely for pure pop bangers. On album eight, Swift dives headfirst into the world of folk, alternative rock and indie.

It was written in isolation; she remotely teamed up with a handful of her musical heroes – and indie legends – including The National‘s Aaron Dessner (who worked on 11 of the 16 songs), Bon Iver‘s Justin Vernon (he makes the record’s only guest appearance on ‘Exile’) and long-time collaborator Jack Antonoff. In her pre-release statement, she claims to have worked with another ‘hero’, the mysterious William Bowery – though no known details exist about him elsewhere and fans have speculated that this is a pseudonym for her brother or boyfriend, the actor Joe Alwyn.Whoever Bowery is, the results are unexpected, and sometimes astonishing – ‘Folklore’ feels like Swift has travelled to a metaphorical cabin in the woods – albeit one with a very strong WiFI connection – and concocted a gorgeous, relaxed record filled with modern folk songs.Dessner’s fingerprints permeate most of ‘Folklore’. The trickling piano on ‘The 1’ and ‘Mad Woman’ are reminiscent of last year’s The National album ‘I Am Easy to Find’ and ‘The Last Great American Dynasty’ evokes the glitchy production heard on the band’s 2017 album ‘Sleep Well Beast’. These brooding instrumentals are always complemented by Swift’s distinctive vocals and ear-worm hooks, though, a reminder that this is the artist behind some of the biggest songs of the past decade. Meanwhile Bon Iver collaboration ‘Exile’ is a melancholy duet, a slow-burner that eventually erupts into a climax of glittering euphoria filled with chorused vocals and soaring strings reminiscent of Vernon’s fourth Bon Iver album, last year’s ‘i, i’.

Despite the bold new direction, there are moments of nostalgia for Swift albums gone by, too. ‘Betty’, a sweet tune about high school romance written by Swift and the enigmatic Bowery, fuses this new folk-rock sound with moments of country we’ve not heard for several albums. ‘My Tears Ricochet’ feels like a sister to the Imogen Heap co-written ‘Clean’ from ‘1989’, only this time a megawatt pop song is encased in layered vocals and twinkling music box instrumentals.

True: at 16 songs (17, if you count bonus track ‘The Lakes’) ‘Folklore’ can sometimes drag slightly. ‘Mirrorball’, a saccharine declaration of romance, lacks the bite of the rest of the album, while ‘Epiphany’ feels slightly sluggish. Yet for the most part, the elegant melodies, glittering production and, crucially, Swift’s songwriting and lyricism pull it back from the brink.

In fact, it’s Swift’s vivid storytelling that makes ‘Folklore’ such an impressive album. This facet has always been a keystone in her music, but her discography twinkles with gems in which it’s heightened (the gut-punch couplet of “you call me up again just to break me like a promise / So casually cruel in the name of being honest” on ‘Red”s ‘All Too Well’; the rich description of a gaudy wedding in the title track to ‘Speak Now’).

‘Folklore’ is infused with this sort of storytelling. Take ‘The Last Great American Dynasty’, which is a contender for the best Taylor Swift song ever written. Describing one woman’s life crumbling around her, the descriptive lyrics evoke those of ’80s singer-songwriter Mary Chapin Carpenter, or the complex tales Bob Dylan spins in his lengthy, winding verses. ‘Invisible String’, filled with an unusual turn of phrase – “Bad was the blood of the song in the cab on your first trip to LA” – is a candid glimpse inside Swift’s current relationship. And, of course, there are plenty of pithy kiss-offs perfect for your next Instagram caption, the greatest arriving when Swift whispers “And if I’m dead to you why are you at the wake?” on ‘My Tears Ricochet’.

‘Folklore’ feels fresh, forward-thinking and, most of all, honest. The glossy production she’s lent on for the past half-decade is cast aside for simpler, softer melodies and wistful instrumentation. It’s the sound of an artist who’s bored of calculated releases and wanted to try something different. Swift disappeared into the metaphorical woods while writing ‘Folklore’, and she’s emerged stronger than ever.

#taylor swift #folklore #review

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thespiralgrimoire · 4 years ago

Note

Would you consider posting your thoughts on the Twilight series? Because the bits and pieces I catch on your main are HILARIOUS though maybe it’s just because I find salt hysterical LOL

Oh good grief

Under a read more for my sake if not anyone else’s

The year was 2007. I was 11 year old, in 6th grade, nursing a substantial superiority complex over my classmates, and idolizing the 7th grade girls. This is where my story begins.

Now I won’t get into all the semantics as to why I was such an insufferable little garbage person in middle school, but I will tell you that I was convinced that I was not like other girls. While this proved true, my reasons as to why were completely off the mark in my tweens. Back then, I thought it was because I was smarter, wiser, and more mature than any of the other 6th grade girls in my class.

But not the 7th grade girls. The 7th grade girls were it, man. Nobody was cooler or smarter or more creative than the handful of ladies who were blessed with the patience to put up with my nonsense in middle school. So naturally, when they read Twilight, I read Twilight.

Twilight, if you have the good fortune to not be intimately aware of it by now, is about the Bella Swan, blandest girl in the entire world, moving to a small town to live with her emotionally awkward father, where she meets the Cullens, a clan of vampires who don’t drink human blood, because they’re trying to be morally upright. Her scent is irresistible to one of the vampires, (the only single one among them because the rest are dating each other) named Edward. Edward has the ability to read minds, and Bella is the only person he’s ever met who is immune to this power. I must stress again that she smells so good that he has to physically restrain himself from eating her, and murdering all witnesses. For reasons I can’t really remember now except “because that’s what the books are about”, they fall in love.

Here’s the thing about these books: Even as I was reading them, they gave me the creeps. Something in my little baby mind was vaguely aware that Edward was a messed up motherfucker, and Bella was a one-dimensional stand-in for the reader, and everything interesting in this story was happening on the fringes, facilitated by the far more interesting side characters. There were parts of these books that were uncomfortable to read. There were parts that made me seriously question why these books were so popular. There were parts that made it physically difficult to keep reading. About 3 things happen in the entirety of this series that feels good and satisfying, and none of them are things that the author, who I will derogatorily refer to as Smeyer, meant to be satisfying.

Two things kept me reading these books. The first was, obviously, the 7th grade girls, and my other friends in other grades who quickly caught the hype wave.

The second. Was the fact. That the writing style of these books, despite being the modem for a story that is absurd at best and a giant, flaming, stinking dumpster fire of bad takes, racism, and sexism at worst, is HYPNOTIC. A lot of my opinions about this series have changed drastically over the years, but this is one that I was acutely aware of even as I was reading these books. No matter how stupid or frustrating or repulsive the things that Smeyer is writing are, her writing style will not let you put the story down once you’re invested. And since I was reading these for social clout, I was invested on page 1. I want to believe that this was a trick played on my young mind, but after reading the first chapter of Midnight Sun (the newly released book that is literally just Twilight from Edward’s POV instead of Bella’s), I can confirm that this woman’s style is genuinely Like That. I enjoyed maybe 6 sentences of the 15-page chapter and I am still frothing at the mouth to read more.

So now that I’ve justified why I subjected myself to this shit in the first place, let’s get to some feelings about it.

Edward is a CREEP. He knows this. His family knows this. His love rival knows this. The only person who does not know this, rendering the fact completely inconsequential to the events of the story, is Bella. I’m not really willing to talk about how Edward is such a disgusting model for what young girls should expect out of a partner that there was discourse for MONTHS over Fifty Shades of Grey, but.... Edward is such a disgusting model for what young girls should expect out of a partner that Fifty Shades of Grey exists. It’s literally Twilight fanfiction. Fact check me. I wish I was making this up.

Bella is, as I said before, a cardboard cutout of a human being. The book is from her point of view, and includes copious amounts of her thoughts, and yet it’s still clear that she has absolutely no personality. She is supposed to be your Jane Everywoman, and yet there is not a single relatable thing about her. Her three personality traits are Brown Eyes, Clumsy (but not in a way that matters often), and Likes Edward. That’s it. This girl has nothing going on, which only draws more attenton to the fact that literally everyone else in the story has a rich and interesting backstory. But they’re side characters and this is about Stale White Bread Bella over here, so go fuck yourself if you want more information on Rosalie using her vampire abilities to get revenge on her fiance and his buddies, who assaulted her to the point of near death, or Alice, who sees the future and spent a good chunk of her life in an asylum, or Jasper, who was a Union soldier fighting the Civil War which was ALSO the vampire war???? Fuck off with that shit, this is about Bella.

But you know who the best characters are? The werewolves. But not REAL werewolves. These are Native Americans whose initial transformation is triggered by the proximity of the vampires, because vampires once terrorized their people and now this ability to turn to wolves is hereditary to protect themselves. The fact that these fellas are not REAL werewolves, and that there are real lycanthropes of lore, is mentioned in passing in the last book and never mentioned by anyone ever again.

One of these wolves is Jacob, Bella’s childhood friend and, for the first two books, an absolute sweetheart. Just a big goofball who’s a couple years younger than Bella, and all he wants is the best for her. Real wholesome shit. When Edward leaves her because he thinks that she’s too attached (SHE IS), Jacob literally talks Bella back from the brink. The wolf pack, and the Native American tribe, welcome her as one of them. They’re adorable. I can’t stress enough that they would have also been an excellent candidate for the focal point of this shitshow.

But it doesn’t last. Edward does some real dumb shit in Italy and Bella has to go rescue him, which tips off the Vampire Illuminati that Edward was trying to get killed by (i.e. the real dumb shit). They don’t like that Bella, a human, knows about them, and demands that she be turned. Edward’s family is divided on this. Eventually they decide that they got time because the Vampire Illuminati are ancient and don’t have a good enough sense of time to hold them accountable immediately.

So Bella is fine and Edward is fine and everybody is back in the same town and they’re dating again and literally everyone in the town is like Bella what the FUCK. Nobody likes Edward because they think he’s no good for Bella. They are written like the bad buys. Jacob especially, becomes a huge asshole. Because he decides that he’s in love with Bella now. Because werewolves can imprint on people, which is just a sloppy soul mate mechanic used for absolute evil in this story. He wants to fight Edward over her. Edward is chomping at the bit to throw down, but pretends to be the bigger person even though he’s just as big an asshole about all this as Jacob is. This is as misogynist as it sounds. From this point on Jacob is now also a creep.

Oh, but it gets worse!

I gotta talk about the last book in the series now, Breaking Dawn. Because this shit was so awful that it made me regret, instantaneously, ever second I spent enjoying Twilight.

Bella and Edward get married after they graduate high school because Edward is a religious virgin and Bella is HORNY. They go on their honeymoon. Bella gets pregnant. This is Not Something That Is Supposed To Happen.

Smeyer tells us WHY this happened post-canon. Edward, the virgin, has never nutted. Because of this, he still has living sperm in his balls. So when he boffed Bella, his 80-year-old sperm made it count. I wish I was making this up, y’all. I’m tearing up thinking about it.

Bella is now pregnant with a half-vampire baby that is destroying her body from the inside out. It is growing at an exponential rate. She’s eight months along after three weeks. Edward can hear its thoughts. It loves Bella. Bella has to drink blood or die. Jacob is like What the Fuck. I am also, pretty thoroughly like What the Fuck. A couple members of the Cullen family are, very quietly, like What the Fuck.

Queue the most forced and ineffectual pro-life discourse you’ve ever read in your life.

All is well and good until it’s not. Baby suddenly wants to get out of Bella RIGHT NOW IMMEDIATELY and thrashes so violently that it shatters every bone in her body between her ribs and her femurs. Edward has to rip her uterus open with his teeth. Baby is out. It has a full mouth of teeth. It bites Bella. Edward whips out several syringes full of his own saliva and injects them into Bella all over to make her change into a vampire. This is all written in disgusting graphic detail that still makes my skin crawl to think about. I cannot fathom why Smeyer was not made to tone this scene down.

So it takes a few days for Bella to change into a vampire, during which time the Cullens (and Jacob) have to look after her hellspawn of a daughter. Jacob decides that he must kill her, because she basically killed Bella. But--- surprise! He wasn’t in love with Bella! He was in love with the eggs in her womb-- particularly this one egg that is now a baby! No more crush on Bella! No more beef with Edward! He’s just in love with a newborn infant. I am, at this point, wondering in my little 12 year old mind, how this was allowed to be published.

Bella wakes up a vampire, and in her first display of rational thought through the entire series, does not like this. Don’t worry though, that’s quickly cancelled out by her naming her baby daughter Renesmee.

Renesmee is clearly supposed to be a sweet and gifted little angel that you’re meant to love, but frankly, all I can picture is the Chucky doll but quieter. She does not talk much, because she has the ability to share thoughts by touching people’s faces. She also grows super fast. In a few days she’s toddler age. Nobody knows what the fuck is going on and nobody has time to worry about it because the vampire Illuminati found out about this (a vampire friend of the family snitched) and they’re coming to fuck up the whole family.

There is a reason why they want to do this but it’s stupid and frankly I’m not going to explain it.

So the vampires mobilize. They call all their vampire friends because their plan is just to fight the thousands-years-old vampire Illuminati over this horrible child. For some reason dozens of vampires agree to this. They’re all smitten by Resume I guess.

So the illuminati comes, the family tells them that Ramune isn’t the problem that they think she is, and they leave.

That’s it. That’s the climax.

And then everyone gets their off-putting happily ever after: Bella and Edward can now fuck as much as they want because neither of them can die. Bella abandons her human life without so much as a second glance. Resonate will physically be an adult by the time she’s 7, which means that Jacob can start fucking her then. Bella’s dad sort of knows what’s going on, but doesn’t. For some ungodly reason I don’t make a bonfire out of these books.

You may notice, if you have any knowledge of Twilight, that there are whole plots that I didn’t talk about. That’s because I’ve surely forgotten things. While I read these books with what I can only describe as a manic fervor in my youth, I could never bring myself to reread them. On God, I tried. Multiple times in the last decade I have pulled my box set, hard covered Twilight books off my shelf, and opened them up. But I never even make it through the first chapter before I am so put off that I have to put them back. The plots are flimsy. The main characters are made of sand. The secondary characters are treated like garbage. The lore is disturbing.

And yet as soon as I heard that Midnight Sun was coming out, I knew that I must read it. I’ve made it through the first chapter. I do not know when and how I will make it through the next, but I know, for little middle schooler Theo’s sake, that I must.

Twilight? Horrible. Twilight Fandom? Geniuses.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

#twilight #spinda tea #shinyshammie #this took a lot out of me #it's not even funny #we never really escape who we were at 12

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hansoulo · 4 years ago

Link

“A pandemic has taken the lives of more than 100,000 Americans and put more than 30 million out of work, and to top it off, there has been an almost 30-day, caught-on-tape spree of police and vigilante violence against black people. For some, it may feel like the nation is on the brink of near-biblical levels of chaos.

The responses across the nation, whether you call them riots (and you shouldn’t) or whether you call them protests, uprisings, unrest, or rebellions, are being covered by local and national news and social media. As a journalism professor who has studied and experienced media coverage of protests for years, I have watched repeatedly how poorly these events are conveyed by the media and understood by the public. Here’s what people watching the news must understand in order to get what’s truly going on, and keep your faith in America nominally intact in the process.

First, it’s important to understand the mandate of the news, and that is to get eyeballs on the screen, whether that is your television screen or the one in your hands. Networks focus on spectacle: fires, people crying, and broken windows, instead of the larger story. In most cases (such as with the Ferguson, Missouri, and Baltimore, Maryland, protests a few years ago), property damage and fires are limited to a small area, and even during those times many people are just milling about, but shaking camera angles and tight shots want you to believe that every reporter is an extra in Saving Private Ryan and every protest looks like Kanye’s “No Church in the Wild” video.

In reality, these protests are usually not completely consumed with chaos. Nighttime coverage will seldom show a full city map demonstrating that, two blocks over from a street that looks like a “city engulfed in flames,” there’s a CVS still open for business. The press flocking to dramatic images as a protest metaphor is not a new phenomenon.

Further, much of the property damage attributed to protesters is often the result of police action or inaction in the face of lawful public behavior, something I’ve witnessed from Ferguson to the far-right protests in Charlottesville, Virginia. Tear gas canisters can still burn your hand hours after they’ve been launched by police, flares are thrown by riot response teams with reckless abandon, let alone live munitions and flash grenades.

Sometimes buried at the end of post-protest reports by local authorities is the fact that police munitions often start fires at protests, but this is seldom reported by the press, and there have been surprisingly few protesters arrested for arson relative to the fires that erupted during the unrest. Which is more likely to set row houses ablaze, three teenagers in face masks with “No Justice, No Peace” signs or two smoldering tear gas shells sitting on a pile of dry leaves and newspaper for two hours?

This is not to suggest that some protesters don’t cause violence or property damage, but observers, let alone journalists, should be making distinctions between the various actors that are actually on the scene during civil unrest. You have the aforementioned police who are armed. Then you have chaos agents and anarchists who infiltrate peaceful protests with their own agenda. This isn’t conspiracy theory; in Minneapolis alone, videos have emerged of strangely dressed people just engaging in wanton property destruction. No one knows who they are, but it seems unlikely that they are protesters.

Then you have your run-of-the-mill opportunistic criminals. When the police are so occupied harassing and corralling peaceful protesters and the streets are filled with smoke, it’s pretty easy to break into a Verizon store, a beauty shop, or a grocery store and take what you want. These people are often conflated with actual revolutionaries, who are protesters that target actual structures and symbols of abuse and oppression. For protesters who are angry about violent, unaccountable police in Minneapolis, overtaking and burning down the Third Police Precinct is a specific act of revolt. This is a fundamentally different action than using the chaos from two blocks over to raid a liquor store.

And, of course, none of these actors should be confused with the hundreds of men and women peacefully protesting who are usually subjected to violent reprisals by police. Which is why “they’re burning their own community” narratives are so misleading and dangerous. It’s irresponsible to not distinguish which “they” is being talked about.

Which brings us to perhaps the most important thing to understand about how to watch protests: the context of what kind of protest garners police response. Over the past three months, the 24-hour cable networks have extensively covered mostly white armed men and women threatening police and politicians at state capitols across the nation over coronavirus lockdown policies.

How often have you seen police in riot gear? In fact, police seldom use force or even present in force (protest shields, black helmets, etc.) when conservative or right-wing groups protest. When is the last time you saw a group of anti-abortion activists get tear-gassed? Yet with left-leaning groups, and especially groups of minorities, their protests are often met with shows of force. Right-wing groups spit in the faces of police in regular gear in Michigan, while SWAT teams show up like Storm Troopers for chanting teens in Minneapolis.

This lack of context is even more corrosive when national press coverage chooses one staging area of protest over another. People are marching in Phoenix, Arizona; Columbus, Ohio; and New York City in solidarity with George Floyd, and in Brunswick, Georgia, for Ahmaud Arbery, and in Louisville, Kentucky, for Breonna Taylor. Seven people were shot during the Louisville protests, but 24-hour news coverage is blanketed with images of burning buildings in Minneapolis as if that’s the default of protests instead of the outlier.

So what should be your main takeaway as an American concerned about the future of the country? Protests are not simply stories of “good guys” and “bad guys” no matter where you fall on the political spectrum. There are actors all operating simultaneously, and all too often local and even national reporting only covers the story of the local politicians and police who have a vested interest in presenting themselves as overwhelmed and beleaguered as opposed to negligent and incendiary.

Former Minneapolis officer Derek Chauvin, who pinned George Floyd by placing his knee on the man’s neck for almost nine minutes, has been arrested and charged with murder and manslaughter by local authorities. By all accounts, whether it’s Minneapolis (or Louisville or Brunswick), if the police and vigilantes who committed these acts of violence were consistently arrested and charged, it’s highly likely that these protests would be less volatile.

More importantly, the focus and amplification of property damage over the lost lives that sparked unrest to begin with is a reflection of the press’s ghoulishly misplaced priorities. As a news consumer, you don’t have to feed the beast. You can choose to follow men and women on the ground covering events as concerned citizens. You can sift through the dross of hot-taking, moralizing pundits and pay attention to the data on the ground about what causes protests. (This was all but predicted five years ago.) You can refuse to submit to goodthink and stop using words like riot, protest, and resistance interchangeably.

In other words, you can be a sincere, informed American citizen, and recognize that your fellow Americans are hurting and expressing their pain. It does not have to be filtered and sanitized through the state or the press to be legitimized.”

#blm #black lives matter #justice for george floyd

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raywritesthings · 5 years ago

Text

In the Dead of Night 3/9

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Dinah Lance, Sara Lance, Ra’s al Ghul, Nyssa al Ghul Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen (Eventual) Summary: Oliver Queen returns to Starling City after five years away, three years after Sara Lance was found and rescued by her mother. More troubling to him is Laurel’s abrupt and unexplained absence from the city for the same length of time that her sister’s been home. Three years into the past, Dinah Lance makes a terrible choice. *Can be read on my AO3 or FFN (links to both accounts are in bio)*

Three years ago

Dinah hadn’t been able to stay in Starling. How could she have, when her grief was one of a far different kind to what the rest of her family was experiencing? The grief of the guilty. Remorse.

It had been impossible to keep looking Quentin in the eye. And Laurel, that had been out of the question. Her eldest had the same quick temper of her father, and Dinah had been convinced if she stayed, she would have confessed, and then Laurel would have shut her out of her life anyway. So she had left on her own terms.

And not just to get away.

While Quentin had thrown himself into his police work, Dinah had gotten to work of a different kind.

She had taken sabbatical and dedicated her time to research of the North China Sea region. Working out of a little apartment in Central City, she had read up on currents, the islands both large and small, and common comings and goings in the area.

She refused to believe Sara was dead, not until she had turned over every rock on this Earth. Because if she was dead, if she had been the one to send her little baby to a watery grave — no, she couldn’t think that. Not yet.

Now in her second year of research, she began to travel with multiple language dictionaries and every recent photo of Sara she owned. Everywhere she went, she asked. Left copies of Sara’s picture. Left her number, to call in case there was any sign or sighting.

Four months in, she had her first breakthrough.

“There was a girl on the boat that came in for supplies. American blonde. On a big boat.”

“What kind of boat? Did it have a name?”

“English. Like the...the shipping company. Or rain forest.”

“Amazon? It was called Amazon?”

“Yes, I think so. They were here for food and fresh water. Big boat.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She traveled up and down the coastline and out to some of the bigger islands asking for any news of the Amazon. Nothing turned up.

Just as Dinah was starting to become discouraged, a report came in of a shipwreck making the waters potentially treacherous. The ship’s name was Amazo.

Dinah traveled to where most of the debris had washed up and into the village beyond. Someone must have survived, whether Sara or someone who could tell her more.

She went door to door, knocking and asking. “Please, I am looking for my daughter. I believe she was in a shipwreck near here. The Amazo?”

One woman who had answered her door eyed her warily. “Let me see the photo.”

Dinah handed it over eagerly, trying not to worry as the woman’s brow creased.

“Yes, I have seen this girl.”

Her heart leapt. “Oh, thank you! Where? Did she wash up with the wreckage?”

“I was collecting driftwood when I spotted her along the coast. But—” the woman looked around cautiously and continued in a much lower tone “—the Demon’s Heir was with her. She carried her away.”

“The Demon’s Heir? What is that?”

“Part of the League that controls the mountain range. We provide them food and goods for their protection and amnesty.”

“And they have Sara? Where can I find them?”

“You must go into the mountains and seek them out. They will find you there.” The woman reached out and caught her sleeve. “But, few who go there ever return. And when they do, they are changed.”

“Then I must go,” Dinah insisted. “She’s my daughter. Thank you for the information.”

Dinah climbed into the Himalayas, looking and looking for some sign of life. At night she was forced to find some type of shelter and parcel out the minimal food supplies she had packed on her person. On the third day, she felt she had been walking for miles when a black-clothed figure suddenly jumped from atop a rock into her path, a sword drawn and pointed at her. Dinah gasped, holding up both hands in a gesture of peace. Was she about to be robbed?

“You are a Westerner,” said a male voice from behind his mask and hood.

“American, yes.”

“Why have you come to Nanda Parbat? You have trespassed on the land of the Demon Head.”

Demon Head for a Demon Heir. It looked as though she was in the right place.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve come looking for my daughter. She was in a shipwreck that washed up near here.” She risked placing her hands together in a begging gesture. “Please, if she’s here, I have to see her.”

“You would request an audience with the Demon Head?”

“I would.”

There was a pause as the man considered her. Dinah held his gaze, unwavering. Then his sword lowered.

“You will follow me.”

Dinah was led further into the mountains, more and more people beginning to appear as they walked, similarly dressed to her guide. At last they rounded a corner and came upon a fortress cut into the rock. There were more of these masked and hooded figures than she could hope to count, and Dinah swallowed once before squaring her shoulders and following into the earthen caverns.

They were stopped in one corridor by a young woman with dark hair and eyes. She spoke to Dinah’s guide in Arabic and eyed Dinah suspiciously for a few moments. Then she turned and left them for some time.

When she returned, it was in English that she spoke.

“My father, Ra’s al Ghul, the Demon Head, and leader of the League of Assassins, accepts your request for an audience.”

Assassins? Dinah barely held back a gasp of surprise. Why would assassins have taken her daughter?

Dinah entered the chamber beyond the corridor nevertheless. It was a high-ceilinged room with gated off exits. Several of the masked and hooded people stood to each side, and at the front was a dais lined with candles. On the dais stood a man in a robe adorned in a way the others weren’t. The young woman stood to his side in front of the dais, and he radiated power and intimidation.

“Welcome to Nanda Parbat. I am Ra’s al Ghul, head of the League of Assassins. What is your name?”

“Dinah Lance,” she said, willing her voice not to shake so badly. “Please, I was told your daughter found a young girl. I believe she’s my Sara.”

Ra’s al Ghul considered her words. “You have journeyed here to determine if that is true?”

“Yes.”

He looked to his daughter. “Nyssa, fetch the girl.”

She gave a short bow and left the chamber.

“I assume you have a request should the girl be your daughter.”

“Yes,” Dinah repeated. “I’ve been looking for her for two years. There was a boating accident, and we thought we’d lost her. But I couldn’t give up. I want to bring her home.”

There were two sets of footsteps and a gasp. Then a voice she couldn’t possibly mistake. “Mom?”

Her heart swelled as she turned to see her daughter standing there just behind the young woman. “Sara!”

They rushed to each other, and there was no describing the feeling of holding her in her arms. She was real. She was alive.

“Oh, my baby! I knew you were still out there. I knew you had to be.”

Sara was clutching at her like she was afraid it would all be ripped away if she didn’t hang on tightly enough, and she could feel tears soaking through to her shoulder. “Mom, mom.”

There was a throat cleared somewhere in the room, and Dinah looked back up to the dais. She quickly wiped at her eyes.

“Thank you for saving my daughter. I don’t know how to describe what this means to me. For two years, all I’ve wanted is to find her and bring her home.”

“But your celebration is too soon,” Ra’s al Ghul replied. “I have allowed you to see your daughter, as I believe that to be a mother’s right. However, the League is not a hospital nor a charity, Dinah Lance. I have expended food, supplies, and the skills of my assassins to bring your daughter back from the brink of death.”

At the mention again of assassins, she felt Sara tense in her hold, and it was hard not to do the same. “I would be happy to repay you. Name your price.” There was no cost too steep to have Sara safe and sound at home.

“There is no currency that could repay your daughter’s debt to me. I instructed Nyssa to keep and heal her in the expectation that she would serve me well. The price for your daughter’s freedom must equal that. A life for a life.”

Dinah exchanged a horrified look with Sara. “You mean, you want her to become an assassin?”

“Her, or another to take her place,” he stated. “I do not make this offer often, but your determination has earned a measure of respect.”

Sara could not stay here. She would not let her sweet, innocent girl be turned into some killing machine. Dinah swallowed once and moved her daughter behind her. “Then I will stay, if it lets Sara go free.”

“Mom, no!”

Almost immediately, Ra’s al Ghul’s face split into an awful grin as he laughed. “You would have to think me a fool to believe that an equal trade. You are twice her age, if not older, and untrained. It would be a waste inducting you into my League.”

“You said a life for a life!” How could he expect her to give someone else over to them?

“To take her place, yes. Someone of her equal. Unless you can provide such a substitute, then she will remain to be inducted into the League.”

He nodded to two of the masked figures, who stepped forward and each took one of Sara’s arms, starting to pull her away.

“No, please!” Sara cried out.

“She’s my daughter! You can’t just take her from me!”

“That is up to you. What are you willing to sacrifice, Dinah Lance?” He demanded. Beside him, his daughter kept her eyes on the stone floor. “If the answer is nothing, then leave this place.”

What had started like a dream was becoming a nightmare. Her little baby, she couldn’t lose her again. Not when it had been all her fault the first time. She would do anything, give anything.

“Wait!” Dinah cried, lunging forward to take hold of Sara’s hands. Everything seemed to freeze in that moment.

Sara was her choice. Sara would always be her choice. She saw so much of herself in her; her reckless abandon, her youthful belief in love. Mothers weren’t supposed to have a favorite, but hadn’t she already proved that just wasn’t the case with her?

And with that thought, she turned to face the Demon Head once more. “I- I have another daughter.”

“Mom?” Sara’s voice betrayed her shock and disbelief, and Dinah couldn’t bring herself to look at her.

Ra’s al Ghul tilted his head. “You are offering your daughter...for your daughter?”

Dinah swallowed once. “Yes.”

“Mom!”

“Her name is Laurel. Dinah Laurel Lance. She’s older than Sara by two years, more mature. And my ex-husband had her in self-defense classes from the time she was little. She took them seriously. She knows more about fighting than Sara.”

“Mom, no, this is crazy,” Sara said.

“No, crazy would be me leaving you here after I have spent the last two years searching for you,” Dinah replied sharply. “I let you get on that boat, and that was my mistake. I can’t let you go twice, I just can’t. But your sister...if she hadn’t befriended Oliver, if she hadn’t brought him into our lives, none of this would have happened. There would have been no boat,” she reasoned. Hadn’t Quentin warned Laurel time and again that Oliver was no good? That she shouldn’t have been involved with him? Sara had only been acting out. It had been a silly schoolgirl crush, one that wouldn’t have developed if she hadn’t been around him so much because of her sister.

“But Laurel—”

“Is your older sister and is supposed to protect you. Remember all the times you two used to play, and she’d be a police officer working to keep you safe?” Dinah let go of Sara’s hands to place her own on her daughter’s shoulders. “Laurel has known her whole life she was responsible for you.”

“Then this is your offer?” Ra’s al Ghul asked.

Her daughters. It came down to that. They were both her daughters. Sara was her baby and still loved her. She could save her. Laurel, she had had to leave already, and Laurel would never love her again if she knew the truth about the boat. Either way, their family was broken, but if it was Sara back, then maybe she could live with herself. Maybe she could forgive herself the mistake she’d made.

Dinah stared at Sara for a long moment, willing her to understand that this was the only way. Sara’s eyes were wide, but she remained silent.

Dinah closed her own eyes and stated a clear, “Yes.”

---

Laurel woke as a black cloth was lifted from her head, and immediately she began to struggle. She remembered coming home to her darkened apartment, feeling hands close over her mouth, kicking out and reaching desperately for the drawer with her gun before darkness had engulfed her.

There were still people holding her arms here, in this new place. She caught impressions of it in panicked, darting looks. Candles, stone walls, a line of people dressed all in black and with covered faces.

“What—”

“Don’t hurt her!” A voice she’d given up on hearing ever again shouted. “Laurel, honey, don’t struggle.”

Laurel turned her head to the side and felt the breath leave her.

“Mom?” Her eyes drifted past the mother she hadn’t seen in two years and fixed instead on something even more astonishing. “Sara?”

Her sister stood there, flesh and blood, her hair a ragged mess and tears in her eyes. Her voice was a ragged whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Sara was alive. She’d survived the Gambit. But then—

Laurel looked around at the room of unfamiliar people. “Wh- where’s Oliver?”

Sara swallowed once. “He’s dead. Everyone else didn’t make it.”

It felt as though she’d been hit with the news all over again. Oliver was dead. Had been for two years. She already knew that, and yet seeing Sara was bringing all of those emotions and memories rushing to the surface.

“Touching as reunions are, this matter has already taken enough of my time,” a man spoke, and Laurel noticed him for the first time. He wore a dark-colored robe that was different from the uniform almost everyone else was in. A younger woman stood at his side in dark red and black. “Dinah Lance, the elder.”

Her mother stepped up to the raised dias he was on. Another woman in jewels and heavy makeup emerged to hand the man an intricately designed knife. He took the knife and her mother’s hand.

“Hey!” Laurel tried to wrench her arms free, but the men on either side of her held fast while she watched her mother’s palm be cut open.

Her mom gasped, but took her hand and pressed it to the scroll of paper the woman presented her. It left behind a red stain.

“Bring the younger,” the man at the front of the room commanded.

Laurel dug her heels in as she was dragged forward. “No, no! What is this place? What is happening?”

“It’s alright, Laurel, please,” her mom begged. “You have to do this. For Sara.”

“Sara?” She craned her neck around to look at her sister, whose shame-filled gaze was on the floor.

“Your sister was found by my daughter and brought here. She was to serve me in exchange for her life,” the man explained. “But your mother journeyed here to Nanda Parbat and interceded. She has offered you to me in her place.”

“She- what?”

Her mother looked at her with pleading eyes. “It was the only way. Sara nearly died and was assaulted by the men who first found her, Laurel. She needs to come home.”

It took her a few tries to find her voice. “And I’m supposed to stay here with- with these people? You can’t just use me like that.”

“It is her right as the mother to decide what is to be done,” the man proclaimed. “And she has chosen to relinquish her rights over you to me, Ra’s al Ghul.”

The woman with the knife came forward and took Laurel’s arm with a surprisingly strong grip. Before she could react, the woman sliced her palm, causing her to cry out at the sharp pain. Her hand was then forced to press against the scroll beside the mark her mother had made.

“It is done,” said Ra’s al Ghul. “Let me make myself clear. Should you return to undo the deal we have made, I will take great pleasure in killing first your daughter, and then the rest of your family and home. Should your daughter fail to serve me through any means, even by the purposeful forfeiture of her life, your family and home will be destroyed. Starling City will suffer the wrath of the entire League of Assassins if you attempt to cross me.”

“I understand,” her mother said, only the slightest tremble in her voice. She turned away without even meeting Laurel’s eyes and walked down to where Sara stood. Sara, who was watching with horror-filled eyes.

“Wait,” her sister said. “Wait, this isn’t right—”

“We’re going home, Sara, quickly.”

Her mother took her sister’s arm and began pulling her from the room.

The woman with the knife took a cloth strip and bound it tightly over Laurel’s cut, then retreated with a deferential nod to Ra’s. He barked an order in some other language, and Laurel felt the men holding her start to drag her away.

“Let me go! This is crazy! Sara! Mom! Mom!”

She was taken down a series of twisting passages all identical to each other, and even if her head had been completely clear she would have been hopelessly lost within minutes. Laurel was thrown into a room and hit the stone floor hard. By the time she’d scrambled back to her feet, the door had slammed and locked. She started pounding on the heavy wood anyway.

“No! Let me out of here! You can’t do this! Mom! Sara!”

There was no answer.

Laurel turned and spotted a window in the far wall. She raced to it, only to find that it let out on a steep, rocky drop she could never hope to descend alive.

She slid down until her knees hit the floor again and sobbed against the stone windowsill. Her whole body shook with her cries.

#lauriver #laurel x oliver #laurel lance #dinah lance #arrow #sara lance #ra's al ghul #nyssa al ghul #black canary #my writing #blackbird

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scarletgardensrpg · 4 years ago

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LIVING ♦ FORTY-FIVE ♦ ASCENDANCY

NIKOLAAS VAN HOUTEN is Head of the Ascendancy—commonly addressed as De Dominee by Undead members—and was Senior Advisor to Agostina for the first two years of the House's inception before stepping down. He is also a founding member of the infamous Red Room, where the fatal PM-GRNT 197 drug was first conceived. For his unapologetic and public involvement in this project, Nikolaas remains a controversial figure, especially among the living. Although he possesses the rare and coveted gift of resurrection, he avoids using his ability, preferring instead to work through Cecile.

BIOGRAPHY

tw: violent death, needles

This is how it starts. A bullet splits a woman's head in two outside Patisserie Chez Maitre Pierre, and her shopping bags fall to the ground, tipping over as children's books and clothing scatter across the pavement. She drops the cake, too, and it smears against the plastic casing, blood red velvet on black chocolate. The paramedics come and go, taking the body with them, but her bags are abandoned in the street, kicked aside by passing strangers. She lives in an apartment in Riquier, a stone's throw from Nice. They send someone, who pounds twice on the door with a closed fist and only hesitates for a moment when a boy answers, blonde and brown-eyed, not a day older than thirteen. He knows, because there had been thirteen birthday candles in Eva van Houten's coat pocket. Nikolaas, the man says, and it is not a question. He looks just like his mother. Something's happened. And just like that, the serene, open look on the boy's face begins to change.

- ❀ -

He was conceived against the counsel of every Moulin Rouge whore with a say in the matter. Pretty Mila had struck Eva across the face, red nails leaving lines, hard enough that she saw stars. Do you think he is your husband? She was on the brink of tears, but her expression bore nothing but cold rage. He will have you killed for the information you have stolen. If not him, his wife, de Dame. She is Queen of the Penoze. She will spare neither you or de klootzak. And Eva, in knowing this and more, had silently slipped out of her heels and wiped off her makeup. She placed a delicate hand to her stomach, which would begin to swell soon. By then, she'd be long gone from this place. Mila began to sob finally, but Eva felt warm. She felt sure. That spring, in a hospital in Rome, Nikolaas came into the world with a wail, no larger than a doll and twice as pretty. He was a dangerous, miraculous child, the love crime of a common whore and a lord of the underworld; a fugitive on the run the moment he was born. And loved, still. One year hiding in Italy, two in Germany, another six months in Thailand. Three and a half in the safehouse in Nice, hopefully longer. Eva ran the coordinates in her head over and over. She sang them softly to the tune of nursery rhymes, lulling her son to sleep.

Nikolaas and Eva; Eva and Nikolaas. His world began with her hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake, and ended with the sound of her laughter on the evening balcony. He had never felt embarrassed for it, had never felt compelled to earn the doggish approval of neighborhood boys by treating her poorly, as they treated their own mothers. All other things, after all, were temporary: the apartments they lived in, the cities and schools they rotated through every six months, the men who came and went; some kind, some cruel, none permanent. The kind ones, he ignored. The cruel ones, he broke his knuckles on their teeth. Eva always said: You deserve a father. Nikolaas always replied: I have you. His mother, beautiful as she was, carried with her a sadness Nikolaas could not understand. She was lonely, but enforced their rootless existence year and after. She slept fitfully and jumped at loud noises. He knew better than to ask. Once, he had seen the puckered line that ran up along her abdomen, too high up to be a cesarean scar—as if someone had vivisected her and clumsily sewn her back up. He would grow up to look just like her: high cheekbones, straight nose, sun-silver hair. He acquired her love of books and silence, her intimate charisma, her academic wit. And the things he did not inherit from her—that needle of unfeeling darkness when he ought to have felt affection or love for someone other than Eva, that cruel thread of pleasure when he hit a classmate—he pushed down dutifully, deep where it would not be found. And so it festered within him, a slow night-falling in his soul while he won awards and played tennis and made Honor Roll, cloying and uncomfortable—growing larger and larger, until, after Eva died, it became unbearable at last. Something's happened, the police officer said. Nikolaas had found the papers the night before. They'd fought the morning she left. When they returned her coat to him, the wool was still spattered with blood and bits of dried cake. She had gone out and gotten the gifts as an apology.

After: an apartment of ghosts, the incessant whir of press outlets, the city of Nice at his back for the next ten years. Teachers and students alike either pitied him or adored him—usually both at once. Fatherless, motherless, and with nothing to his name but thirteen candles and a ruined coat, he became something of a tragic hero. Poor thing, so went the lamentation. Another victim of the Penoze. Another helpless child unjustly bereaved. Of course, he was also an adept actor: warm to the touch, willing to pose for photographers and sit in studios, bringing journalists to tears while the funds and donations rolled in like tidewater. And all the while, the first tendrils of a gestating obsession gripped him: something to ease the agony of waking in the middle of the night to the sound of a skull splitting, sometimes Eva's and sometimes his, the smell of rotten cake, the nonsensical pulse of a ghost scar on his abdomen, sheet after sheet of stolen papers—papers that had costed Eva her life. His mother had not been killed. She'd been hunted. Death, death, death. It was all he thought about. At Johns Hopkins, at Harvard. Gripping Agostina's hand for the first time in an empty classroom. How to outrun it. How to survive it. In Palestrina at midnight, listening to the sound of Thalia's velvet voice, saying, We never wanted you, just your drug mule of a mother. And still, death. He thought about the shape of it as he squeezed the syringe into Cecile's neck, then his own, the pain immediate. It lingered in the air as he stood in her and Evander's empty cell, the metal bars bent, his creatures gone to set fire to the world. And when he returned, at last, to bury the ruins of Amsterdam beneath a new order, he thought of Death once more. How to conquer it. How to master it.

CONNECTIONS

AGOSTINA – MIRROR, MIRROR. She was no lamb. He had seen it in her the moment they shook hands and exchanged names and vices: the deceivingly delicate curve of her steady mouth, the lush dark of her infinite gaze, the edged grace with which she commanded lecture halls and courtrooms—and later, entire cities. In Agostina, Nikolaas found a place to put down his dreams. She was someone to share with, when he had not thought sharing was possible. She was intelligent, unafraid, his. For who else but him had she bared her true face to? Who else but him was privy to her spider-web mind, had indulged in the dark waters of their shared ambitions? Life after life. Deathless death. Together, they had destroyed a world, and raised it once more from the ashes. Whatever strange, bleeding thing bloomed between them in the wake of those rituals, it was intimate. Rare. Pure. Nikolaas considers their falling out over No. 200 and subsequent separation his biggest failure. Up until then, she had remained his unconstestable ally—an unquestioned friend and irreplaceable life partner. Almost naively, he had not thought it possible for the two fo them to disagree. But in the end, Agostina had shaken her head and refused to venture deeper, go darker. He does not disagree, that Agostina looks radiant under the sun: a leader among lambs, herding her flock toward salvation. But deep down, he is sure she would look even lovelier among the wolves. At his side. Nikolaas may have been the one to walk away, but it was Agostina who refused to follow.

CECILE – LITTLE MONSTER. If there were a God, Cecile would have bitten his wrist. If God were a beast, she would have had his throat torn out and his body tossed at Nikolaas' feet—and they would have both understood it to be a gift. Fifteen years ago, when she entered the Red Room as a test subject, she did so with all the flagrant, unwavering arrogance of a true American. They wound up developed a strange friendship over the years: steady Doctor and willing patient, two dark things who could never quite look away each time something died in a cage. She had egged him on and dragged him into deeper, more depraved depths than either could imagine on their own—daring him to find a place she could not follow him to. You aren't going to escape? He had asked, if only to watch her face twist in amusement. This is my sanctuary, she purred. Out there is where I'm shackled like a dog. So he had killed her, and freed her, and damned her, and saved her. She had done the same for him. When the worst of the chemicals subsided, she awoke: Undead and terrible, his first and only creation. Somehow, he knew there would be no one else after her. They are tied together forever, by flesh and blood—and perhaps this is why Cecile will always find him, again and again: shivering together on the laboratory floor, in Warsaw at the end of the world, in Amsterdam at the start of it. When they had agreed to perform the act, two syringes in Nikolaas' coat pocket, he had said to her: Don't be afraid. Every transformation requires the death of its predecessor. To this, he still remembers the way she had tipped her head back and laughed. That rich, terrifying sound. Then, Doctor, I am a woman who has died a hundred times over.

LUANA & MAURICE – COME ASTRAY, LITTLE LAMBS. He likes them. They hate him, of course, but their hatred is grown from a dishonest seed—they hate him for a crime he did not commit, and see only a monster among monsters when they look to him. The irony is not lost on Nikolaas: that the royal twins, upon their return, learn immediately to eat from the hand that ruined them and snarl at the one that saved them. He sees Agostina's bloody signature written all across this devil's deal. It's a clever political play on her part, Nikolaas can admit; something that will guarentee the twins' eventual alliance to her, provided the truth of the family massacre never comes out. Regardless, Nikolaas is not concerned; just as all blooms grow toward the sun, the Prince and Princess, being clever children, will grope their way through the darkness and eventually come out with the horrible, funny truth. He feels no need to personally reveal this crucial information to them either, as the discovery will be sure to do greater damage if they can find out on their own. As such, he will only gently nudge them closer, disincline them to partake in blind obedience, and encourage them to see the ugly light. While Luana remains steadfast in her condemnation of the Undead, Nikolaas sees something more hopeful in the boy, Maurice—his resolve wavering in the wake of Dimitri's most hospital gestures, his curiosity rising to defeaning volumes with every night he spends racing with Nikolaas' garden of monsters.

OPEN ♦ FC: MADS MIKKELSEN

#nikolaas #o #l #r #asc #all #new rp #bio rp #horror rp #lsrp #lsrpg

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