#working towards a less ableist world takes work but it's so worth it

[ms-spkhd]

been dabbling in omegaverse lately, so congrats, you get an excerpt of one of my WIPs

(tw for period-typical homophobic and ableist language)

Funny. Eddie could have sworn that the padlock on his locker door had been completely intact when he last checked before first period biology. 

Well, he’d hoped, since he changed the little bastard three times since the school year started–some barbarous, degenerate dickheads thought ransacking his locker and painting freak across the walls would really warm the cockles of their sad, commiserable little hearts. But those hopes, puny at most, seem to be dashed the moment he dragged his feet back from his final class of the day and found his locker, visibly padlock-less. Fuck.

Eddie stares vacantly at the door.

Well, it’s not actually funny. The joke never is, anyway, but what’s really funny is that Eddie has absolutely no clue if this whole thing is a joke or not. There’s evidence of funny business, of course, but the door isn’t tagged with fag or spazz or that ever-prevalent freak. He turns his head from left to right, surveying his surroundings, but nobody’s huddled together and snickering behind their hands like he’s the punchline of a school-wide inside joke. The hallway is relatively empty, save for plucky junior Gareth who’s hurrying towards him with his backpack slung around his shoulder and–funnily enough–Harrington, who quickly averts his gaze when Eddie’s eyes fly past him. 

Eddie huffs. So much for a damn Alpha, huh? Can’t even make eye contact with the freak of five years worth of weeks.

“Eddie!” Gareth greets enthusiastically, skidding to a stop next to Eddie, “What’s up, man?”

“Somebody fucked with my locker,” Eddie says blankly and points to the door. “The lock’s gone.”

“Shit, that’s not good.”

“I concur,” Eddie mutters bitterly. “Should I open it?”

Gareth straightens and takes a defensive step away from the locker. “No way,” he insists. “Knowing those guys, they’d put live frogs in your locker.”

‘Those guys’ is too broad of a statement–it could be anybody, considering their steadfast placement at the rock bottom of Hawkins High’s metaphorical feudal system. Now that he thinks about it, with Harrington leaning faux-casually against the lockers and occasionally scratching at his nose, it ought to be the work of the basketball team; no doubt Billy or Jason at the forefront of it all.

There’s a faint stench of anticipation whirling around the air. Dread, Eddie realizes. It smells like…like freshly ground pepper and the dewy forest behind his trailer. Like dead leaves and suburban rot.

“I don’t hear any croaking,” Eddie says, resolving to approach the situation with some natural caution. He swallows a great big breath and opens his locker.

The good news is that there’s no frogs.

The bad news? What he finds instead is fucking confusing.

All four walls are spotless, apart from the tally-marks he scratched into the left wall with a nickel for every detention he’d score, and there isn’t a single textbook, notebook, or balled up wad of graphing paper out of place. But, smack dab in the middle of his locker, nestled between the half-eaten tuna sandwich he’d forgot about last Thursday and a dog-eared copy of Brave New World, is a ziploc baggie of chocolate chip cookies, a black velvet pouch, and a piece of lined paper folded into a neat square.

“Any animal bits?” Gareth asks.

“Worse,” Eddie confirms.

To start, the gifts and the free food aren’t usually a thing. In fact, they’re never a thing because Eddie’s not a hot item in the high school market. He’s nowhere near lukewarm, practically Antarctic, at that. He’s no Ubermensch Alpha, weighed heavy with the stink of fresh blood and ash, nor is he a simpering and sweet-blooded Omega. He’s a Beta, like the other 80% of the high school population. There’s no reverence in the way he’s treated–he isn’t worshipped for his ‘powerful masculinity’ like they would an Alpha, and they definitely wouldn’t idolize or protect him for his honest to goodness high fertility rates.

Eddie is just Eddie. No one would even think to look at him twice if he didn’t decide to scrap his normalcy for the ‘devil-worshipping freak’ shtick. Jocks with inferiority complexes loved him for that. They loved the big red target he painted on his back, how it made them feel powerful, like big tall Alphas that howled into the moon and shifted the tides. But he’s not weak–he knows he’s not weak. He yells and claws and makes a scene; lets them know he has just as much power as them.

But that’s beside the point. No one is kind enough to sneak nice shit into Swirlie-boy Munson’s locker without ransacking it.

Eddie fishes out the pouch from between the cookies and note and examines it carefully, as one does with a bomb or vial of rat poison. As he loosens its tie, the sickly smell of apprehension spikes with his heart rate. 

What he finds only compounds his confusion. 

“It’s a D20,” Eddie tells Gareth, feeling light-headed. Gareth squints at him, his face scrunched like his brain hasn’t caught up with the information yet, which Eddie thinks is fair enough.

The dice is a yellow like sunshine, like a dandelion pinched between his fingers when he was small. It’s beautifully shiny, polished enough for Eddie to nearly see his reflection on its surface. There’s not even a single stain of a fingerprint on it. God, it must be brand new. It’s beautiful.

“Holy shit,” Gareth says, dazed.

“There’s no way,” Eddie breathes out, because the universe couldn’t possibly be this kind to him. There’s gotta be a catch–what if it exploded? What if it’s blackmail? Oh, God, the note.

Eddie fumbles with the pouch and tosses it into Gareth’s hands, who holds it gently in both palms as if he’s nursing an injured mourning dove. Like a bat soaring out of hell with its ass ablaze, Eddie snatches the note out of his locker and almost rips it to shreds in his haste to unfold it.

Dear Eddie,

I know I’m not the best with words, but I need you to know how much I feel towards you. I feel like we’re both on different sides of the track, a real Romeo and Juliet type situation, if you ask me–you’re King of the underdogs. You fight for your friends and the little ones you keep under your wing, and you have no idea how much I admire you for that. I guess you’d call me King of the school, but I hate that title. It’s got a lot of baggage I don’t handle too well, and, well, I’ve never been brave about it. I watch you and I see braveness personified, and I know I never fought for you like you fought for the guys in your corner.

Not just that, you’re beautiful too. Every time you look at me I feel like I shot a three-pointer at the championship game. It feels like a winning move. Those eyes you have, they’re like stars. And, God, your scent is so good. Like ginger and cinnamon behind all that tobacco, I wish I could smell it forever.

I know I’m not the type of guy you’d go for, or the type of guy you even tolerate, but I hope you’ll give me a chance.

Yours, 

S.H.

(Ps. Sorry about the lock, I accidentally broke it trying to jimmy it open like an idiot. I’ll pay for it if you want me to.)

(Pps. Look behind you.)

The first thing Eddie registers is the overwhelming scent of peppercorn swirled together with rain-soaked oakwood. “Time and place?”

Eddie’s eyes widen before he whirls around and almost brains Steve fucking Harrington with the white-knuckled fist clenching his letter. Harrington dodges his swing swiftly, catching Eddie’s hand in his, and smiles expectantly.

Holy shit, holy shit.

Gareth is braced against the locker beside Eddie’s, eyebrows high into his hairline and mouth aghast like a suffocating walleye. His eyes dart back and forth between Eddie and Harrington like the latter is going to swing back and stuff both of them into a locker.

Eddie swallows, feeling ill and cotton-mouthed. He wrestles his hand out of Harrington’s grip, hard enough to almost slam his knuckles back into Harrington’s pretty face again, and shoves the note into his front pocket with a huff. He shoots a glance over at Gareth and gestures at him to find Jeff or Phil with a flick of his head.

Gareth, typical of his dutiful nature, flips Harrington off with both hands and scampers off, sneakers squeaking distantly against the linoleum flooring.

Once Gareth rears the corner, Eddie sets his jaw and squares his shoulders. “My bench behind the school,” he says rigidly. He’s going to set this right. “Now.”

Harrington’s eyebrows scrunch curiously. “What?”

Eddie grabs the lapels of Harrington’s Members Only jacket and yanks him forward with all the force he can. “I said now.”

[feminist-space]

There is nothing wrong with a person who wears adult diapers. Those are an aid, a tool, to help that person be more mobile and preserve their dignity.

If someone has tremors in their hands and needs help picking up everyday objects, that doesn't take away from who they are as a person. There's no dishonor in muscular tremors.

If someone can't see or hear, or can only see or hear with aid of a tool, a piece of technology, that's fine! Here's a really simple one: so many of us wear glasses because our eyes can't do the thing on their own.

Having disabilities doesn't take away from who a person is. Mocking someone for needing aid to do things, however, is morally repugnant. And using ableism to put down or mock someone who themselves is morally reprehensible is still never ok.

It is important for all of us to re-examine how we, too, perform ableist acts in our daily lives. Here are some simple ones:

Stop using ableist words (check out this page: https://www.autistichoya.com/p/ableist-words-and-terms-to-avoid.html).

Stop calling disabled people "inspirational" and using them as a way to say "if they can do it then so can you" (see: paralympic commentaries from the same people who still support organizations like Autism Speaks -- https://www.themarysue.com/the-autism-speaks-controversy-explained/).

Stop mocking people for not being able to move the way you think they should move.

Stop calling bigots "crazy" (their bigotry isn't a mental illness).

Stop saying that "only disabled and immuno-compromised people are at risk from COVID-19" when what is unsaid after that is "so that's why I don't need to care about it or take any precautions."

Stop calling someone "blind" or "deaf" when they're being ignorant.

Stop making fun of someone for taking an elevator or using a motorized scooter at the store.

Eliminate the stigma of disabled people asking for accessibility by making things accessible in the first place.

When you're in a position to design things, physical or otherwise (buildings, software, apps), think about accessibility.

Actively learn from disability activists, what things are actually helpful and actually accessible. Incorporate those things into your design.

Hire and elevate to positions of leadership people with disabilities (and if your gut response is "but we hire by merit," I challenge you: are you telling me you don't think disabled folks can perform the duties of leaders in your organization? What are you saying, exactly?).

Change your organization to be supportive to disabled employees, and get rid of policies that marginalize them.

There's a whole LOT of ableism weaved in to literally everything. Even if we don't get it all in one go (and we won't), it's important to put in the work to do better.

--

Before someone comments with these:

"what's wrong with people?"

Ableism is EVERYWHERE, it is in EVERYTHING in this world and we have to actively work against it. Don't assume you're exempt. None of us are.

"who says these things?" "who does these things?"

A lot of people. A lot of people you might love. A lot of people that might include us (likely, actually). These mostly aren't monsters in alleyways saying and doing ableist things.

It's the nurse getting annoyed at the person using a wheelchair for having their wheelchair there. It's the dude at the gym who tells his friend that if those paralympians can do it, they definitely can do it. It's the person who keeps telling their friend with long covid to just do more yoga. It's the liberal angry at Trump who mocks him by saying he wears adult diapers. It's the person who builds a business branded and marketed on being kumbaya "we're so progressive" but they made their doors so heavy that they're hard for anyone to open and definitely impossible to open for a wheelchair user. It's the boomer telling a young person using a disabled parking spot that young people can't be disabled. It is literally everywhere. It's that guy telling disabled people they shouldn't be out past sunset ("we're disabled, Daniel, we're not werewolves."--Jen L Rossman).

--

Reading list, obviously not exhaustive:

https://thebodyisnotanapology.com/magazine/14-black-disabled-women-reminding-us-of-our-power/

https://thedailytexan.com/2018/03/23/stop-using-ableist-language-and-call-out-others-who-use-it

https://www.autistichoya.com/p/ableist-words-and-terms-to-avoid.html

https://www.tolerance.org/magazine/no-joking-matter-words-and-disability

https://diaryofadisabledperson.blog/

https://www.thegauntlet.news/p/disabled-peoples-exclusion-from-indoor

https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/being-grabbed-pushed-touched-without-27376323

https://www.sociability.app/blog/the-medical-vs-social-model-of-disability

[thehardboiledham]

I’m going to assume you’re asking in good faith and take these one by one! 1. Is a diagnosis harmful to autistic people, or does it help, as I have seen in my experience?

This varies a lot on a case-by-case basis, and depends on the kind of support they need (is it possible to get that support without a diagnosis?), how much they need that support, and what other needs/supports they have. For some people, the cost (both literal and figurative) of diagnosis is worth it; for others, it’s not. In my case, my support needs are sufficiently minor that not having them met is preferable to the risks and harms I might incur if I were diagnosed. I don’t think the person you’re responding to is outright telling people not to get a diagnosis; they’re saying to weigh the costs and benefits carefully before deciding. 2. The diagnosis is not the problem, but these countries’ haughty and ableist approach to the subject, right? 

*hand wobbles* People disagree a lot on whether diagnosis is a problem, and exhausting that debate would take far too long to cover, so this is my personal take: I’m not sure that diagnosis as it currently exists can be disentangled from ableism. Diagnosis pathologizes, in that it labels you as ill simply for existing. It also gatekeeps; a diagnosis functions as “proof” that you need the support that you’re seeking. As things stand, your son needs a diagnosis to receive the support he’s getting, but *it doesn’t have to be this way.* It should be possible to receive that support without a diagnosis.

I don’t necessarily think we need to do away with diagnosis entirely as a concept. As a shorthand and a guide, it can be useful; it’s much easier to get your needs met if you know what your needs are, and diagnosis can help with that. But note the term useful; I think diagnosis can be beneficial if we understand it as a tool, but it should not be the end-all-be-all. 3. But is it worth giving up on the support you can get in the country you live and grow up in, thanks to the appropriate diagnosis? 

That’s pretty much the heart of the issue! Like I said earlier, it’s very much a pick-your-poison scenario. Which poison is preferable will depend on the circumstances and needs of the individual. For some people, the risks that come with diagnosis are unimportant, and the support that comes with diagnosis is very much worth it; for others, the opposite is true.

I can’t tell you which one is the case for your son; in any case, he’s already been diagnosed, so it’s kind of a moot point. The most important thing is to communicate with him, and to take what he tells you seriously. If you’re already doing that, then good! If you’re not, then it’s good to ask him: is he getting what he needs? Is there anything that he’s getting that he doesn’t want or need? 4. Instead of telling people to not get a diagnosis, shouldn’t we fight to ensure that autistic people are not discriminated against but are given the support they need to function and do their jobs without risking being overwhelmed? 

I mean...both? We can and should work towards a less ableist world, but we also have to live in the world as it exists right now. Not getting a diagnosis, and making sure other people know the risks of getting a diagnosis, is harm reduction. It doesn’t take away the source of the harm, but it helps us lessen the harm until we *can* take away the source of harm. This isn’t a perfect analogy by any means, but if your house is on fire, you have to put out the fire before you can start building a new house.

This is exactly what I mean when I say the society even more “progressive” societies are inherently ableist

[hecohansen31]

Royally Savage

Ivar x Princess! Reader (Modern AU)

(A/N): Hello there, lovelies!

It’s been a long time I know, and this is... kind of... not the best that I could come up with... but I have been slowly coming up with more and more ideas (I have one half-written, although I am probably going to involve a few new characters).

But I wrote this for @youbloodymadgenius​, since she was nice enough to buy me a few ko-fis and I felt like this is just the least that I could do to return the favor!

I hope you’ll like this!

And if anybody is wondering: this is indeed a continuation to ‘Royally Screwed’!

As always, if you like/want to see more content, don’t forget to share your feedback through either comments or writing something in the reblog option.

SUMMARY: Galas can be insidious shits for sure.

WORDS: 1,9 K

WARNINGS: Incorrect Royal Etiquette, Ableist Insults, People Being Stuck Up, Slight Dirty Talk (do not read it at work...).

Life as the soon-to-be-prince of a small country wasn’t as easy as all those princess movies made it seem.

Even more when your legs weren’t properly working.

A way that (Y/N) had to say that he was ‘a fucking pathetic cripple’.

Not that he even thought that his princess was able to say and utter those words.

She wasn’t certainly completely unknowing of all the curse words of the world, and in fact, she could probably curse in five different languages, but he doubted that she had enough cruelty to properly do it.

But that night she had proved him wrong.

That same night when he was boring himself to death, straining his new braces, to stand up and welcome the guests at the charity ball her father had organized a month before their wedding, suggesting they took this as a ‘way to warm up before the marriage, understanding what a public marriage might entail’.

Which was a way to get Ivar to understand that he wasn’t just made for all of this.

And that he should have left his sole daughter and heir to the throne, alone.

Except he was stubborn but (Y/N) was even more stubborn.

But she was still standing beside him, smiling at the thousandth guest with an unfaltering smile in some kind of horrid nightmare of organza that felt too heavy to carry around and Ivar had a few doubts that she would have been able to properly sat down in a chair.

And that sight never failed to remind him that it was all worth it.

That his princess was definitely worth it and her father could just go to hell, alongside everybody who said that they just wouldn’t have made it.

“… we have just a few more” muttered softly (Y/N), as she finally noticed the death stare with which Ivar had welcomed the sleazy guest that had dared to send a slight look at your cleavage, quite more conservative but yet…

… creeps were everywhere.

“… hold on, sweetheart”.

He felt himself melt inside so deeply that he couldn’t help but shiver lightly and when she backed up her soft look with a smile, he felt his heart speeding up in a way that he wouldn’t have thought possible a long time ago.

But now it happened daily.

“Believe me, I could stand another thousandth more” he shot back, as he puffed his chest, making her laugh loudly, a bit snoring in that adorable way that was completely and utterly not-princessy like.

The side that he had helped you develop, before they had both chosen to go back to her native country.

“… but that doesn’t mean that you should” she mumbled, before lightly raising the monstrosity she called ‘gala dress’, scandalously showing him her beautiful ankles and the pointy high heels she was wearing “… and also I just want to personally sit down, these traps are killing me”.

“I’ll massage your feet if we manage to get through the next five guests” he promised her, making her smirk softly, as she pushed the dress down and turned with a bright and renewed smirk on her face, gently linking their arms at the elbows and leaning in for what looked like a chaste kiss, but appeared to be more.

“… or I could keep them on for a little bit more…” she mumbled deviously and for somebody who knew the perfect and utter etiquette, she dared on continuing deviously “… meanwhile we are in bed… together”.

“Don’t give me these suggestions, if you want to get some sleep tonight”.

“… oh I am trembling already…” she shot back with a fake higher pitch, but moved a bit further away from him to welcome softly an older couples which called her by a sweet nickname, and although she was extremely polite, Ivar knew that by her glance…

… she had no clue who they truly were.

And he couldn’t blame her.

On his first social outings there he had been introduced to more people than he could ever remember…

But who truly seemed to trouble his princess was the man that came forward after the older couple, in an elegant smoking that suited him like a second skin, bringing out the perfectness of his healthy body and he had something royal just to look at.

An obvious show of dominance in his movements, as he puffed his chest forward as if he was some kind of bird trying to court ‘his princess’.

He was used to boys swooning onto her in America, with her pretty accent and the elegant touch you always had even in your club clothes.

But she just had that melting look for him and he never felt like she might change him for a cooler version of himself.

And neither should have this dude.

And yet the slight light of recognition in (Y/N)’s eyes was bright.

“… (Y/N)” he didn’t mutter her title and with the way her eyes reciprocated the glint in his eyes, although with a more casual and calmer note, he didn’t need to.

“… it has been a long time since I last saw you. You went to America and… poof you disappeared”.

His English was perfect and tasted of many schools spent to make it perfect till he managed to sound like he came straight from Oxford.

“I just lost the sense of time, there” her words were cordial, although cheerful and with the way your whole pose tightened itself in the ‘pretty princess’ ‘ one matched with a look of pure cordial coldness “… too much fun and too many programs”.

And Ivar knew that she wasn’t in the slightest at ease.

“I wonder why” his tone instead was a calculated cheerfulness that reeked of royal fakeness.

He definitely didn’t like this guy.

“… when I went there, I just saw badly-dressed people with horrible manners” and he shot Ivar a look as if to say that he should have taken offense to what he said.

And he wasn’t in the slightest sorry for making him feel that way.

Honestly, Ivar wouldn’t have felt sorry for throwing a punch on his way.

“Are you sure that you visited the right part of America?” (Y/N)’s tone was politely saying ‘fuck you’ and the beautiful royally looking man seemed to take it personally with a light scoff that he matched with a smaller smile “… I found it quite interesting and very useful to understand many things”.

And with ‘many things’ she turned to look to Ivar, with those love-sick eyes that he knew he returned whenever they were together and he felt the need to hold her close, gently cuddling her to his chest.

She had discovered that America was interesting, meanwhile he had started believing in love.

The gesture of turning to Ivar, brought him immediately in the conversation which meant that he had to also endure his fakest smirk towards the royally scorned man and gently offered him his hand.

It wasn’t proper etiquette but as (Y/N) had explained to him, charity galas, even more the ones that were opened to celebrities all over the world, were more relaxed occasions, allowing for less formal etiquettes.

But the stuck-up idiot ignored it.

Well, he was definitely being ruder.

And (Y/N) bumped in.

“Might I present you my fiancé, Ivar Lothbrock?” she presented him softly, as she moved to hold onto his arm to make even clear their relationship, which Ivar enjoyed immensely, since he was a little touch-starved…

… just a tad.

“… this is Reginald III Montwald, he is a duke of my kingdom” everything in her words was meant to undermine him.

To keep that pure male arrogance in check.

“I actually… I actually have to say that I am far more than a duke, owning a few lands all over the world…” he was fighting and trying to attract somehow Ivar’s princess’ attention, not that she even was tempted to fall in it.

Honestly (Y/N) looked bored, but she didn’t hold back.

“I thought that you had been prohibited from using those possessions, since they belong to another side of your family”.

She had managed to hit a sore point and Ivar had to hide a small smirk in your neck as he gently moved to give it a small kiss, to give her a bit of his own courage and to thank her for the exciting show.

It was scandalously wrong for them to be so all over each other in public, but he honestly couldn’t care less.

It made him feel damnably good to know that she’d choose him over and over again.

And then Reginald Mont-I-Have-Something-Up-My-Ass hit a sore point as well.

“I also didn’t think that you’d dump me for a cripple”.

Ivar was kind of used to the whole ‘cripple’ thing.

It wasn’t anything that he could hide, and he had collected quite a few annoying nicknames over the course of the years that he had passed in his wheelchair and later on in his braces and crutches.

He had a few favorites.

Certainly, because in the end there wasn’t much that he could do, aside from letting it pass through him.

The bad taste in his mouth still lingered.

But with (Y/N) by his side, he felt like it was just an aftertaste.

And her lips always had a better taste.

Aside from punching people.

Not in front of (Y/N), still.

Also because she honestly looked like she might punch Reginald in the face.

The royally asshole was looking at them both with a smirk that expressed how much satisfaction he felt at the ignorant statement he had just muttered, as if he should have been proud of his idiotic humor.

And (Y/N) wasn’t pleased with it.

Maybe pissed even more than Ivar who was used to it.

“… I dumped you because you were a fucktard who couldn’t even move his ass to pour himself a glass of water without asking for his ‘servants’, as if we are back in Victorian England and not in fucking 1998”.

Her tone was meant not to attract anybody, but it cut right into whatever little dignity Reginald still held up.

“… and there are a few million reasons that I am sure that the medias would love to pick onto, wouldn’t they?” and she turned to the reporter that was basically waiting for her time to shine, a bit bored in a small gala where everything was going ‘oh so well’.

She would have been happy to have an excuse to talk about the drama that was slowly unfolding.

Reginald did try to hold up and say something to fight back.

But (Y/N) disregarded him completely turning away from him, as her hold onto Ivar’s arm became tighter and her soon-to-be-princess swore that he stood taller with the renewed pride he felt at his beloved’s fierce behavior.

Her father had had a million doubts about them, and Ivar would be lying if he said that he didn’t share a few, because (Y/N) was out of this world.

A damn princess.

And he wanted him, a pathetic idiot with anger issues.

But he’d be damned if he didn’t say how much all her love was starting to convince that maybe… just maybe he was worth of her grace.

In any other occasion he wouldn’t have been happy of having been babied like that.

But right now, he felt like he was on top of the world.

And he was definitely going to make (Y/N) keep those pretty pumps in bed.

And use that smart tongue onto him.

 ---

Taglist:

@guiltyfiend​

[crossdressingdeath]

You mentioned Sera, whats your take on her?

Honestly I can't say a huge amount because a) I haven't played Inquisition in A While and b) even before I stopped playing it I had stopped recruiting Sera (because she's Just The Worst), so. Just to be clear, I'm working off what I remember of her character, which may not be entirely accurate to what actually happened although I'm pretty sure it is.

That said, she's just... awful to Lavellan. Just horrible, all the fucking time. She insults their people, insults their culture, if they're a mage pretty much insults their entire existence (and the mage thing extends to Trevelyan and Adaar). She gets mad at Lavellan for refusing to abandon their beliefs having LITERALLY JUST SPOKEN TO ONE OF THEIR GODS because SHE thinks Mythal was actually a demon! I have a post somewhere about it, but if Lavellan points out that it doesn't actually matter what they believe because the Inquisition has made it clear that they'll insist on calling them "Andraste's Herald" even if they've outright denied it and come as close to saying "don't call me the herald of the religion that has persecuted my people for centuries and all but destroyed my culture" as the game will allow she disapproves of that because, again, they're not willing to convert to the religion using them as a glorified figurehead against their will! If a female Lavellan romancing her does this she will break up with her! And you'll notice that I only mention Lavellan; she will not break up with any other Inquisitor if they suggest Mythal might have been real. Oh, she'll still disapprove, but it's only an offence worthy of breaking off their relationship if her girlfriend actually worships Mythal. In other words, her girlfriend being Dalish and holding to the Dalish faith after being given empirical evidence that her gods exist in at least some form is worth breaking up with her over. Because she can't prove Mythal wasn't a demon and that makes choosing to believe in her a huge problem. In a game that is largely about faith. And of course there's the whole "elves and mages aren't little people" thing when they're literally the bottom rank of all of human society that we see (and certainly in Ferelden, which is where Sera grew up, and Orlais, where we meet her); you don't get more little than that! Also (speaking of relationships) from what people have said she comes across as outright objectifying towards a female Cadash or Adaar Inquisitor, but having never played either of them with her in the Inquisition I can't say whether or not that's true.

And she just will not take anything seriously! If memory serves she wants to play pranks in Halamshiral during a very important diplomatic event that the Inquisition CANNOT RISK BEING KICKED OUT OF FOR FEAR OF CORYPHEUS WINNING! She will murder a man to assuage her own feelings without considering the impact that could have on the organization trying to prevent the end of the world that she is ostensibly part of (a man who if memory serves is useful to the Inquisition if you make the right choices) because he's a bad person and she thinks she has the right to be judge, jury and executioner without so much as asking anyone else including the person whose orders she's SUPPOSED TO BE FOLLOWING (because murdering a noble won't piss off the Orlesians at all...)! The fate of the world is at stake and she's just dicking around, playing pranks on the people in charge of keeping it together! And some of her pranks are downright cruel, or even dangerous! Like, dumping a bucket of water on Josephine and humiliating her in front of her people so that they'll laugh at her is just uncalled for, especially given there's as far as I recall nothing to suggest Josie is anything but good to those serving under her; hey, maybe her people don't want to laugh at her! And if memory serves her "prank" against Vivienne involves putting a venomous snake in her underwear drawer! Vivienne turns it around because Vivienne's badass, but that could have killed her! What the fuck is wrong with Sera that she thinks putting someone's life in danger is funny?! I don't think she even offers any assistance that we see outside of her own presence even though the Red Jennies should logically be useful!

And you know the worst part? You can never call her out on any of this. From what I remember the closest you get is the option for some ableist insults that in no way even begin to cover any of the actual issues an Inquisitor would logically have with her, and from what I understand even if you kick her out you don't get to tell her "Your refusal to take this seriously is putting us and the world at risk and I cannot allow that" or "I cannot and will not work with someone who refuses to so much as not openly insult my culture and religion" (at least Solas, bad as he can be, will apologize and reconsider his stance if your approval gets high enough and has understandable reasons for responding the way he does) or "You have made it clear that you think my magic makes me at best less of a person and at worst a monster and I will not tolerate that any longer"! Basically Sera is horrible to the Inquisitor if they're an elf or a mage and Bioware said "What's a reasonable response to this when we give the player an opportunity to react negatively? Ableism? Yeah, let's go with ableism" and it pisses me off.

[responsiveparenting]

PSA On this account, we often discuss ways to make learning, working and living environments more accessible and inclusive. For some reason, this discussion often elicits defensive and dismissive statements from those who defend the neuronormative and ableist society we have built. I just can’t understand why this topic is not worth exploring, for some people. But if it’s not something you wish to think about at least don’t actively try to prevent others from reducing the ableism in our society. When we speak of the rights of children, we are not trying to take away the rights of parents and teachers. They are not two sides of a scale, where more to one means less to the other. When we defend the rights of children to learn in an inclusive environment this is not “teacher bashing.” When we defend a child’s right to a safe and loving home, we are not “mom-shaming.” We cannot change what we don’t acknowledge. Also, from my perspective, we ARE defending the rights of parents and teachers to work and live a more fulfilling and meaningful life. Parents and teachers who agree with our philosophies, find our page supportive of a journey that they often feel alone on. Parenting and teaching from a child-led perspective is easier and more rewarding than always trying to force kids not to be kids. It’s the same with inclusiveness. When we work towards more inclusive environments for everyone, everyone feels a greater sense of belonging. We’re not going to wave a wand and make the whole world, loving, accepting and inclusive but for some of us it’s important to try. So please stop getting in our way and wasting our time with arguments about the “why?” If you do not understand why inclusive learning, living and working spaces are important, at least don’t sabotage others attempts to make society a little more comfortable, for everyone. J. Milburn #responsiveparenting #jmilburn #childism #inclusiveeducation #inclusivelearning #ableism #childadvocate #accessiblelearning #neurodivergent #neurodiversity #stopbeingabarrier https://www.instagram.com/p/CSk-s4brb82/?utm_medium=tumblr

[scripttorture]

My setting is a fantasy historical setting set roughly around the late 1800s to early 1900s that focuses on a fantasy species currently subjugated by humanity. They're generally forced to serve on the front lines of an ongoing war, in part because they're seen as "not people" and "repairable". A major antagonist is a human member of the military who is officially supposed to be treating their injuries but who has the blanket approval of the government to do what he feels is best. (medical 1/2)

As a result, he often purposefully lets soldiers die or lie there in agony if he feels they've been disrespectful or disobedient to him- death is not permanent for this species, so he isn't really wasting soldiers. His motivations are both to have a more "obedient" army and some degree of bigotry from being raised with the idea that these beings' lives don't matter. (medical 2/3) Would the withholding of medical treatment by a government official be torture if it were motivated by similar motives to most torturers (ie political difference, belonging to a specific group, wanting obedience/information)? Do you have any advice on this setting or story? Thanks in advance! (medical 3/3)

-

I think that this fits with a lot of the general pattern of how torture occurs but- My instinct is that the legal definition probably matters less in this case.

 In terms of the time period I think this is before our world had international laws against torture. It’s before this sort of thing was codified in a standardised fashion. This doesn’t change the effects but it does change things like- what a culture views as torture.

 In our terms? Yes I think this meets the legal definition of torture. It’s conducted by a government official who has power over/responsibility for, these victims. He knows his actions are causing pain. And he’s doing it to punish them, individually and collectively, which is one of the possible motivations listed in anti-torture law.

 That means that it’s likely the research I talk about is relevant to what you’re writing.

 But we shouldn’t ignore cultural views of particular practices. By which I mean that commonly held unethical views impact your world building and characters.

 This pattern of individual and collective punishment was common in most armies historically and is still used today. Forced exercise as punishment has led to deaths in UK army training facilities and (prosecuted as such or not) this is torture. Whippings, beatings, stress positions and starvation have all been used historically to ‘punish’ members of the military. In fact much of today’s clean torture might come from European military punishments.

 (Side note, the origin of any one particular torture is incredibly hard to trace and since they are simplistic it’s likely they don’t have one standard point of origin.)

 As general advice- I think it’s worth considering what these subjugated people get from being part of the army.

 There have been a lot of historical cases where subjugated people and second class citizens were an integral part of a country’s armed forces. But if violence and threats are the only ‘reasons’ for participation then the results are unlikely to be positive.

 If you’re aiming for a system with a reasonable ‘success’ rate (we are taking success to be a non-human who is an obedient part of this army and makes a reasonable effort to fulfil most of their duties) then I think there should be some kind of benefit to the soldiers themselves.

 It doesn’t have to be a big positive and you can use it to highlight just how shit their general situation is.

 I’ve got a broadly similar scenario in one of my stories: with a fantasy sub-class that’s strongly associated with the armed forces.

 The reasoning that I came up with was that life was genuinely better for them as part of the military. They were systematically barred from ordinary jobs and housing, the other main employment option open to them was a particularly dangerous form of mining and without some sort of patron they were routinely attacked and harassed. The military consistently provided shelter, food and a higher degree of comfort/security then the other options open to them.

 In contrast to the mines, where their kind routinely went unfed and were typically dumped on the street when too injured to work, the military looked like a ‘good’ option. Not so much ‘positive’ as ‘better then the typical alternatives’.

 I’d encourage you to think of similar back-handed ‘benefits’ in your story. Better food, better pay, perks that benefit their family, something that gives an understandable reason for these people to stick around.

 I’d caution against trying to make it completely impossible for them to escape or refuse orders because that’s never the case in reality and doing that makes these people… well less human, less relatable.

 For analogous situations in real military organisations you might want to look up the British Empire’s sepoys and the role of black soldiers such as Thomas-Alexandre Dumas* and the men who served under him in European armies.

 In the sort of environment you’re building up I think that a lot of these supernatural people would know about what this doctor is like. They might not know the specifics of what he does, but the rumour mill is likely to make it clear he does something bad.

 This doesn’t mean that characters will always be able to avoid him and it doesn’t mean every character would hear the rumours. But people in these situations, where an abusive figure is in an entrenched position of power, do try to warn each other.

 It’s common for people in these situations to try and help each other and try to resist. The methods available to them are often small and sometimes ineffective but I think it’s important to try and capture the attempt.

 One of the things I’ve noticed in fiction that uses abusive situations with this kind of hierarchy is that there’s a tendency to ignore any action that isn’t obvious and violent. You occasionally write about the victims attacking abusers or enablers and we write about escape attempts. But we generally ignore other smaller acts. Sabotaging equipment or plans, victims educating each other, helping each other, prayer, ‘magic’, keeping illegal traditions alive.

 I think cutting out these smaller acts can flatten the portrayal of victims. It presents a false binary of responses: passive acceptance or violent resistance. And that makes resistance appear much rarer then it is in reality.

 In situations like the one you describe survival and self expression can be forms of resistance.

 If you’re not writing about a real world group of people then I think concerted historical research in that area is less important. By which I mean: if you’re showing a fictional group then you want to capture the kind of responses that happen in this situation rather then say specific aspects of Cuban culture and history.

 I’ve found reading about the history of black resistance to slavery in the new world a really good starting point for understanding… well how people respond in systematically awful abusive situations. That’s partly because it is really well studied and recorded. (And also available in a variety of languages). I’m not sure what to recommend as a good starting point though. James’ The Black Jacobins is traditional, I also liked Barcias’ West African Warfare in Brazil and Cuba but it’s been a while since I read it and the focus was violent resistance.

 People keep their humanity even in terrible environments and I think it’s important to try and capture that.

 For the doctor himself there are two sources I’d suggest looking at. The first (somewhat inevitably) is the appendices of Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth where he describes two torturers he treated for mental health problems. The second is The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks.

 I’m suggesting that as well because of the examples it gives of doctors who were definitely not acting in the best interests of their patients. The focus of the book is the origin of the HeLa cell line, the standard cell line in all medical testing. It isn’t an exaggeration to say that Henrietta Lacks’ cells changed medicine and the production of pharmaceuticals forever. Research on these cancer cells has done immeasurable good.

 They were also taken from a dying black woman in America without her consent. People have made billions off of these cells while the Lacks family never received a penny.

 And doctors have done indefensibly dangerous things with them.

 I think having a look at both will help you find a way to frame this doctor’s personality and the way he justifies his actions. Because while he is a torturer there are more discussions of that in a policing or military context then there are in a medical one.

 I’ve found that discussions of doctors as torturers tend towards a different set of tropes. They’re more likely to assume that the abuse is an experiment, without questioning whether the record keeping, accounting for variables etc is strict enough to yield meaningful results. They also tend to portray the torturer as ‘charming’. And there can be significant ableist ideas (anti-disability and anti mental illness prejudice) built into the story.

 The kind of situation you’ve outlined is already pretty realistic in a lot of respects: this is the kind of situation where you see doctors acting as torturers.

 But it’s also not how authors tend to approach writing doctors as torturers. Which means I’m not sure what to add. I think you’ve already avoided most of the usual traps by virtue of how you’ve constructed the setting.

 Overall I think this a pretty solid idea. It has enough similarities to real world historical situations that it feels ‘real’. And there are plenty of sources to draw from. It brings in fantasy elements in a way that I think is really interesting, almost playing out generational trauma within the same generation. And it feels like an original situation. I don’t often see doctors used in this way or the combination of period and fantasy elements you’re proposing.

 I think it’s going to be a very interesting story and I wish you the best of luck. :)

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

*No not that Dumas, his dad. The other one.

[miss-spooky-eyes]

Riddle (Part II)

My Imperial Agent Devinahl’s backstory continues, and doesn’t get any happier.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of child abuse and child prostitution (in this part); emotionally abusive adults; ableist language. It is not fun.

NOTES: All names by the Star Wars name generator; all Star Wars universe mistakes by me. I do not own the Star Wars universe.

The type of riddle poem described by Sifter does exist, but from medieval France, not Alderaan; and it’s spelled ‘devinalh’, not ‘devinahl’. I switched the spelling when I created this OC, not knowing I would eventually feel compelled to write this ...

Part I: Stanza

PART TWO: GELLA

Her name is Gella Marogan, and she is Doctor Korpil's best.

The name 'Gella' sounds like a kind of flower they have on Draavi Prime, and Doctor Korpil likes to make use of this. 'Our littlest flower,' he will call her, laying a paternal hand on her hair as he beams at the men and women standing around them; she is the smallest of his children, if not the youngest. 'Our smallest miracle.'

She knows, when he does this, how to nestle into his side as if shy, and look up through her eyelashes at the faces smiling down at her. Good for half a million at least, or so Doctor Korpil tells her.

She has been at the clinic for years, and she understands many things now that she did not when she first joined the other children.

She always knew that Draavi Prime was a hospital world, famous for the medcenters and surgeons and clinics of its capital city. Now she understands that it’s a rich world, too, because unlike some of the other hospital worlds, Draavi Prime isn't part of the Republic, merely affiliated with it. This means that people from the Republic, from the non-aligned worlds and even from the Empire can come there for treatments which are banned in the Republic - extreme cosmetic surgeries, experimental therapies, risky augmentation techniques; you can get anything done on Draavi Prime, if you have the credits.

Even the Empire's attempts to take the system, which have systematically devastated the outer planets but have yet to reach Draavi Prime, haven't stopped a percentage of the wealthiest people in the galaxy coming to the city in search of remedies, therapies, enhancements, and it's on these people that Doctor Korpil preys.

She has learned much of this from the other children, once she was finally allowed to join them. It's important to Doctor Korpil's plans that the clinic looks like the happy haven for refugee children his brochures promise, and so they are well fed, lavished with toys and books, allowed to spend hours playing in the courtyard; even given lessons in the well-appointed classroom, although the 'teachers' are the clerks that monitor Doctor Korpil's computers, and when there are no visitors, the children are mainly left alone to educational software. She learns, eats, plays and laughs with the rest, all of them with metal implants gleaming somewhere on their faces or prosthetics on their bodies.

Gella is particular friends with a plump boy named Mithus, whose implants are thick and bulky and wrap round the back of his neck, and a tall girl named Tay, who has a prosthetic arm.

These aren't their real names, of course. No child who has got as far as the public areas of the clinic would ever dream of saying their real names.

Their number shrinks and grows, but there are generally less than fifteen of them, although more children come to the clinic every month. Few of them reach the public areas, though. Mithus has whispered to her that some children's implants don't take, or their brains can't handle the added stimulus. Tay thinks it's more likely that they don't get through 'the office'. Gella keeps her own counsel. She's getting good at that.

She understands now why Doctor Korpil would have taken her from the camp even though she was healthy, why he told that lie about Larbec Syndrome (she looked it up on the learning computers, just to be sure, and of course there is no such disease). It can’t be easy, finding children who are suitable for his purposes.

It's taken her some time to learn the full extent of Doctor Korpil's scam. It has three layers.

First, there is the charity. Scarcely a week goes by that Doctor Korpil isn't invited to attend a reception or speak at a gala about the work he does with the poor refugee children, and often begged to ‘bring some of your little angels as well'. With so many rich people on Draavi Prime, undergoing lengthy, boring treatments or waiting for surgeries, there are plenty of these events, held in ballrooms and elegant salons and rooftop gardens, with crowds of men and women dressed in their elaborate best, ready to feel that they are doing something for the less fortunate.

Doctor Korpil takes some or all of the children, dressed in the nicest clothes the charity can buy for them, and they stand with him as he gives an eloquent address about his charity, explaining how the children with him were the lucky few he'd been able to save from the refugee camps, suffering from injuries or conditions brought on by the devastation the war had rained on their worlds; how he had used his knowledge and resources to enable them to see, hear, walk, play and be full members of society again; how he wishes he could do more for the many, many children (for more refugees arrive on Draavi Prime every month or so) but is limited by lack of funds ...

Doctor Korpil is usually presented with a large credit cheque by the organizer of the event at this point, but there's more to be done; after his speech, the children are expected to circulate through the room, each of them carrying a small basket. They are allowed to tug plaintively at the sleeves of military officials talking intensely to bureaucrats; to allow senator's wives and Republic officials and society matrons to sweep them into powdered, scented embraces; to answer the questions and give their names and tell their stories. Anything for a credit chit or a promissory note dropped in the basket.

Gella is so good at this game, which is not after all so different from what she did at the refugee camp, that once her tears get a planetary governor's wife to strip off her entire flamegem bracelet and toss it into the basket. When they got back to the clinic, Doctor Korpil lifted her and spun her around for that. 'Little flower, I knew it when I first saw you - you're worth your weight in jewels!'

This is partly why Doctor Korpil is so picky about the children he takes; he doesn't want anybody unpleasantly disfigured, nobody maimed in a way that can't be fixed with a shiny prosthetic. He likes small, pretty children with holo-genic implants that don't cover up their big, sad eyes. It's why he likes Gella.

Doctor Korpil doesn't rely on the generosity of the rich people, though. Far from it. That's where the second layer comes in.

Most of the children, like Gella, have some sort of facial implant. Gella has long since learned to narrow her focus so that, although she can hear and see more than human ears and eyes should be able to, she only perceives what is in a 'normal' range, to keep her brain from being overloaded by stimuli.

But just because she isn't consciously aware of hearing something doesn't mean her implants aren't picking it up. As the children circulate through the crowd, smiling pleadingly and holding up their baskets, their implants hear and record what is being said above their heads, by wealthy and influential and important men and women seizing a moment to discuss something important, barely even aware of the presence of the charity children except as a tug on the sleeve and an instinctive response to stuff a credit chit into the basket. Gatherings that do not allow commlinks or personal datapads for the sake of privacy and security ushered in Doctor Korpil and his children, and stood back to let them leave again, their little baskets full of generosity and their little heads full of information.

Gella and the rest are barely aware of what they have heard, but their implants have recorded it all, and back at the clinic, Doctor Korpil's clerks comb through it. The children agree don’t know exactly what the clerks look for, but they agree between themselves that it must be scraps of information let fall or indiscretions hinted at too heavily, any fragments of data they can piece together to get to something compromising or valuable. They do not know what exactly Doctor Korpil does with whatever he learns; does he sell that information to the Republic? To the Empire? Both, depending on what he's learned? Gella is certain, however, that at least some of it is used for blackmail. Because of what she knows about the third layer of Doctor Korpil's business.

Some of the children never learn about the third layer. Most do.

Gella does, less than a year after joining Doctor Korpil's children, when a Republic senator's aide in florid dress, with a row of decorations on his sash, takes her by the hand and steers her out of the crowded reception room they are in, telling her he has a treat for a good little girl. Puzzled, but not wanting to upset Doctor Korpil by offending a guest, Gella obediently followed him until she realized that they were crossing the lobby towards the elevators. Not wanting to go with him, but not wanting to cause a scene, she managed to bump into a decorative table and drop her basket, spilling credit chits across the floor, which gave her an excuse to burst into noisy tears. Staff converged on them to pick up her basket and the spilled chits, and in the confusion, Gella was able to slip her hand free from his sweaty paw and tearfully beg for Doctor Korpil until the senator's aide had no choice but to take her back into the reception room.

In the speeder on the way back to the clinic, when Doctor Korpil asked her what the fuss had been about, she told him.

Before she has finished telling him, he is shaking his head sadly, and her mouth goes dry, because this is exactly the way that he used to shake his head in the office as he lifted the silvery device and pointed at her. He lifts his hands, and she can't stop herself from flinching, but although she is sure he notices, he gives no sign of it. He unbuckles the safety restraint, and lifts her into his lap, cuddling her against him.

'Dear Gella,' he says sadly, and although he is only speaking to her, she knows his words are meant for all the children in the transport. 'Did you forget what I told you?' He taps very gently against her implant with one finger; the thunder in her ear is deafening. 'I will always know where you are. Nothing can happen to you that I don't know about.' He ducks his head to smile at her. 'Did you forget, silly girl?'

Next time that she, or any of them, find themselves being taken away from a party by a grown-up, Doctor Korpil continues, they should go. Go right along with that grown-up and do whatever they say. These are rich and important people, after all, and if they want to make a fuss of the children or play with them privately, then there's nothing wrong with that, not when Doctor Korpil knows exactly where they are and what is happening to them. It's not as if Doctor Korpil is going to let anything bad happen to his little flowers, is it? He beams around the inside of the transport at all the faces upturned to him, while one hand strokes Gella's hair.

So the next time a grown-up tries to take her out of the restaurant which is hosting this particular gala and upstairs to his apartment, Gella goes with him, docile, hand in hand. And it's just like Doctor Korpil said. She has only been there a few minutes when the door to the suite bursts open and in comes Doctor Korpil, two of his clerks at his heels, gathering Gella up and clasping her close to his side while he storms at the rich man, demanding to know what he thinks he's doing, threatening, condemning, while the rich man sweats and pleads and bemoans. Gella hides her head in Doctor Korpil's jacket, a show of fear and trust which also means she doesn't run the risk of ruining anything by making the wrong expression at the wrong time, while Doctor Korpil slowly allows the rich man to make him less angry. By the time they leave the suite, Gella still clasped firmly to Doctor Korpil's side, the rich man's clothes are stained with sweat. The two clerks stay behind, to supervise the credit transfer. 

'See, little flower?' Doctor Korpil says fondly to her as they stand in the elevator, his hand stroking her hair again. 'I told you, nothing can happen to you that I don't know about.'

This happens twice more, with different grown-ups in different buildings but Doctor Korpil still bursting in just the same way, and then one day it's the same Republic senator's aide who started it all who draws Gella aside, his hand shaking as he holds hers and steers her out of the reception room. Gella follows him quietly this time, and smiles encouragingly at him when he fumbles with the key to the suite, and sits where he tells her and folds her dress neatly on a chair when he tells her and doesn't realize until it's almost over that Doctor Korpil isn't going to come this time.

After that, she never knows whether Doctor Korpil will come or not. Sometimes, it's unassuming people she'd never have picked out who get to play their games with her without interruption, because they have offered Doctor Korpil something that's somehow worth more than what they would pay him to keep quiet about being caught red-handed doing ... the things they do. It's better not to say it, even to yourself, the older children whisper to the younger ones, under cover of the shouts and screams of playtime in the courtyard. Doctor Korpil knows everything that happens to you, doesn't he? He wouldn't let anybody hurt you, would he? Not with all that precious metal in your head. So if he lets something happen to you, it stands to reason that thing isn't really hurting you, doesn't it?

Gella whispers this, in time, to other, smaller children, her hand stroking their hair.

She still opens the door in her head to the secret room when she's alone at night, but these days, more and more, she finds that she doesn't want to be inside that room with Mother and Father and Scerra and the old man from the camp and the rest of them. She imagines, instead, a new room, still with yellow walls, but everything else white: The floors, the ceiling, the curtains. There is only one thing in the room: A bed, as clean and white and empty as the rest of it. The room has no door. No one else can get in. This is where she goes, on those nights. Long before the nurses are finished sponging her down or running the scanners over bruises and sprains, she is safely curled up in that clean white bed, in that empty room.

Time passes, and it's easiest just to be Gella, grateful Gella, and let everything else - the refugee camp, the office sessions, the things that happen in the private rooms - be as far away and unimportant as the Empire and the Republic and their distant battles in the sky.

Still, Gella has a new fear now. She is getting older, and there are no children older than fourteen among Doctor Korpil's little miracles. Being so small helps - at twelve, Gella looks ten at most - but she knows that the years of being malnourished in the refugee camp won't save her forever. Teenagers are no good for Doctor Korpil's purposes; he needs them as little and unthreatening as possible. One day, Tay is gone, her room empty and blank as if she had never lived in it; soon there is another child who sleeps there, cuddling the toy bantha that used to be Tay's.

They do not need to be told not to ask the adults where their friends go. But in corners of the playground, under cover of the noise of a music lesson, or between mouthfuls at mealtimes, they exchange theories, rumours, whispers. Some of the children think that Doctor Korpil simply sends the children back to their parents; others cling to the idea that the older children are adopted by rich families; Gella does not know whether to be scornful of those children who need to delude themselves so badly, or jealous that they can apparently do so successfully. Most of the others whisper about slavery, brothels, prostitution, but this seems, to Gella, as unlikely as the idea they would simply be allowed to return to their families; it's as if the other children have forgotten one of the first things that Doctor Korpil told them, about the price of their implants and the upkeep they require. Brothel owners and slave traders can get the bodies they require without having to pay for ones with metal parts which require expensive maintenance.

This is why Gella, unwillingly, believes the worst whispers that pass from child to child. Two things make them valuable: Their youth and smallness and ability to loosen a rich person's purse-strings by one method or another on the one hand, and the metal and machines bonded to their bodies on the other. When they lose the first, doesn't it make the most sense that Doctor Korpil would simply salvage the second, and attach it to another, more useful body?

Whatever was left over, she doesn't think it would be very valuable to anybody.

Gella cannot help noticing familiar-looking components in some of the implants and prosthetics the new arrivals sport. She tries very hard not to recognize parts of Tay's prosthetic arm, now attached to a freckled boy who says his name is Eskol. Those are Stanza's thoughts, not Gella's; but she needs to be Stanza now in order to be Gella, she needs to be as smart as she can, to be as good as she can at what Doctor Korpil wants her to do.

She concentrates, studying the names and faces of the rich and powerful people at their parties, targeting the ones who are most generous or who seem to have the most valuable secrets, drifting and weaving in their direction as she circulates through the lavishly-decorated rooms; remembering the ones who pull her aside, too, or who are waiting for her in those private places, the games they like to play, the way they like to begin and end. The Empire take Draavi 3, and Draavi 2, and there is talk above her head of a blockade; now the rich people cannot leave the planet, but it only makes them more determined to enjoy themselves, to congregate at their parties, to give away great handfuls of credit chips as if they can keep themselves safe by pretending hard enough. Gella understands; she is pretending, too, as hard as she can. Pretending that as long as she can still return to Doctor Korpil with her basket stuffed full, as long as he still strokes her hair and calls her his flower as they take the speeder back to the clinic at the end of the night, she is safe. She will be safe.

Gella is at a party at the Fixeve Tower Hotel when it happens. It is a special reception for Doctor Korpil, to recognize and support his work, held in the penthouse reception rooms of the tallest building in the city with floor-to-ceiling windows that command a spectacular view. While Doctor Korpil introduces his little miracles to the gathered dignitaries and has holos taken shaking hands with planetary governors and Republic diplomats and wealthy businessmen, Gella is a hundred floors down, in the bedroom of a private suite in the hotel with a man that she has been brought to before, a man with a pristine white moustache who wears sky-blue robes embroidered with gold.

And that's why Gella lives.

Because as the white-haired man is unfastening her dress with shaking hands and telling her about his own daughter, there is a flash of light from the windows and a sound like tearing concrete that rips through Gella's implants and straight into her brain. In the last split second before the ceiling comes crashing down, the man, moving with a speed she would not have believed possible, grabs Gella and pulls her to the floor beneath him, rolling both of them underneath the massive desk that stands against the wall. And then there is just shaking and shuddering and the tearing sound, and then blackness.

Later, it is the light shining in her eyes that wakes her. It is dark and she doesn't know where she is, but there is a thin beam of light, wavering and bobbing around, disappearing behind shapes she doesn't recognize. Gella coughs; her mouth is full of dust. She makes the loudest noise she can.

There is the faint sound of a startled voice; the light returns, shining in her eyes again. The voice is closer. Gella tries to move; everything hurts and her legs feel like they are on fire with the heavy weight lying across them. She cannot look behind her to see what it is. A second beam of light joins the first, and as they bob and sweep, she begins to understand; she is still underneath the desk, but cannot crawl out from underneath it even if she could move, because there is what looks like a mound of rubble blocking the way, with only small gaps here and there allowing the light to shine through.

The light from torches; she can see hands now, hands in heavy black gloves, pulling at the rubble, trying to clear it away. Through the widening gap, she sees a face, streaked with dirt and sweat. Gloved fingers push up the heavy helmet, marked with the Imperial crest; eyes meet hers.

'Blast me,' she hears him say, 'there's a child in here.'

It takes the Imperials maybe an hour to clear a big enough gap. Two of them, the two that first found her, do the work of painstakingly clearing the rubble without shifting anything which might cause whatever is above them to collapse. Behind them she can see other indistinct shapes, other blurry faces, watching anxiously as they try to prise away enough debris to get Gella out. They talk to her, in voices which are meant to sound reassuring, but she can hear the fear. She lies quietly and waits, gathering her strength, and when they finally clear a big enough space, she lifts her arms silently.

The rescue workers grab her arms and pull; Gella squirms and kicks, trying desperately to free her legs. It's a dark and cramped struggle, twisting in the tiny space beneath the desk, but eventually she manages to wriggle one leg free, then the other, and the Imperials start to pull her out through the small gap. As they do, Gella manages to turn her head and look back, knowing what she will see; the warm weight on her legs was indeed the white-haired man who had pulled her under the desk. As the beams of light from the wrist torches the Imperials are wearing flicker and sweep, she sees that there is something dark trickling from the corner of his mouth, which is moving soundlessly, but his eyes are open. They meet hers, silently pleading.

With a final heave and a painful scrape of skin, she is out into the dark musty air, and one of the men is carrying her, staggering and sliding, across more rubble towards where the door used to be, where more rescue workers are waiting with torches and anxious faces. As he puts her down, medics kneel around her, one of them feeling her shaking arms and legs while another tilts a canteen of water gently towards her lips. She swallows and coughs as the man who carried her kneels down, too. 'Is there anybody else in here?' he asks her, his dirt-streaked face intent but his voice gentle. 'Was there anybody in here with you?'

She shakes her head.

The rescue worker sighs and pats her comfortingly on the shoulder. 'You're a very brave girl.' Then he raises his voice. 'That's it for this floor, people - let's get out of here before the rest comes down.'

Gella doesn't look back as she is carried away.

*

She doesn't know what her name is now.

When the rescue workers pulled her out of the wreckage of the hotel, she told them, without thinking, that her name was Gella Marogan, so that's what is written on the ID bracelet fastened around her wrist, and that's what the screen above the bed displays, and that's what the doctors and nurses call her on the sunny ward where she has been taken. But it doesn't take her long to realize how stupid that had been. Gella Marogan does not exist outside Doctor Korpil's clinic; she has no parents, no documentation, no refugee number. No explanation for the expensive implants wrapped around her ears. It will not take them much checking before they discover that she is not who she is supposed to be.

And they will check. Gella lies in her hospital bed and watches the holo-news; the Empire has taken Draavi Prime, and after all the years of fighting in the outer system, they have done it with little bloodshed. Just one surgical strike from orbit, levelling a single block. Most of the planet's highest-level officials, as well as most of the most influential Republic citizens on planet, had been at the Fexive Tower Hotel; they had all been killed, and in the confusion, the Empire had taken over, smoothly and efficiently and with minimal resistance. Now, so the holo-news said, they were setting about to restore everything that had been wrong on Draavi Prime, putting it all back in order. The refugee camps, overcrowded with starving, diseased people, were being reorganized, the refugees treated and cured and fed. The hospitals that had catered exclusively to the insatiable appetite of the galaxy's wealthiest inhabitants for cosmetic surgeries were now being used to treat the sick and injured. The Empire was putting everything back in order.

Sooner or later, that will mean Gella, too. Once all her injuries are healed, they will want to put her neatly in her place. But her only place was at Doctor Korpil's clinic, and Doctor Korpil is dead, along with most of his aides.

She will have to go back to being Stanza Tuain, and that prospect, once so dearly longed for, now within arm's reach, is dry and sour in her mouth. How can she explain what Stanza Tuain is doing here, in this hospital bed in the capital city, with machines in her head that make her a walking holo-recorder? How can she tell anyone why she was in that private suite and not at the party with the others? What if they decided someone had to pay for all the things Doctor Korpil had done, and she was the only one left who could be punished?

She could run. No one now is monitoring the signals from her implants; those frequencies are buried in the rubble of the Fixeve Tower Hotel. It would be so easy to slip out of the ward, out of the hospital and into the streets now patrolled by Imperial soldiers. But where would she go? She doesn't even know if her parents and Scerra are alive; the news has said that the casualties in the refugee camps in the last few months were astronomical.

Besides, if she did find her parents ... Gella absently touched her implants, feeling along the edges where the metal was fused to her skin.

If she did find her parents, she would have to tell them. Everything. And it would all stop being locked up safely in the different rooms in her mind, and spill over, and become real.

It doesn't help that being in the hospital - the texture of the sheets, the colour of the lighting, the sounds, the smells - reminds her irresistibly of that first nightmare spell in the clinic, the restraints, the pain. It makes her dizzy and sick, her head feels burning hot, something crawls underneath her skin. Just as she had used Stanza's pain and fear to help her become Gella, she now uses the same pain and fear to her advantage; crying, shaking, screaming when they try to ask her too many questions, so they largely leave her alone. But it cannot last. Her days of being left alone are numbered as surely as her injuries are healing.

Gella lies curled in her bed and stares at the wall, pleading silently for someone to tell her who she is supposed to be.

*

'Her name is Devinahl.'

Gella gasps and leaps to her feet, spinning around to face the speaker with her hands flying behind her back; she had been so absorbed that she had not heard anybody come in. Behind her, the little creature she had been kneeling to pet gave its own trill of alarm, or perhaps indignation; it darts between Gella's feet and across the thick carpet, all six legs rippling and its long, soft feathers flattening. It ran up the wall like a lizard until it reached a shelf; grasping the underside with five clawed feet, it rotated its head back towards Gella and trilled again.

'I didn't mean to startle you,' the woman said. She was a distinctly average-looking person, dressed in a grey Imperial military uniform that seemed somehow blanker than usual; her tightly-curled black hair was swept across her brow and tied in a knot. Her dark skin was lined at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth; her face seemed somehow familiar.

'I'm sorry, I - they brought me here from the hospital and I was waiting and I - I heard -' All Gella's fear, momentarily deadened by the surprise and intrigue of discovering the strange little creature basking in the sun beneath the window, had returned in full force.

'There's no need to apologize. To me or to Devinahl.' The woman crossed the room to where the little creature was hanging from the shelf and uttering her trilling sounds, and held out her arm, extending one finger. The creature hissed. 'Now, that's not polite,' the woman chided.

Despite all her fright at being taken from the hospital and brought to this building, this office, Gella couldn't stop herself from watching the creature; she had never seen anything like it. With a long body, six legs and a blunt-nosed head on a short neck, it was shaped something like a lizard; but it was covered with downy feathers, intricately patterned in shades of blue and silver, that gave way to short fur at its lengthy tail, which wound and gripped like a monkey's. Beneath a shock of bright orange feathers on each of its six feet, those feet were clawed and had pads like paws; and no lizard had big, pointed, furred, tufted ears.

'Don't bother asking me what she is,' the woman said, apparently reading Gella's mind. 'Everybody does, and I don't know what to tell them.' She crooked her finger and the creature rubbed its cheek against it, giving a softer trill. 'The trader who sold me her egg spun me a tale about bringing it back from an expedition into Wild Space, and swore blind that she would be six metres long two months after she hatched. That was nine years ago, and she hasn't grown a centimetre for eight and a half of them.' The little creature, apparently recovering from its unwelcome alarm, hooked one clawed paw around the woman's finger and swung out from the shelf, her tail wrapping around the woman's forearm as she hung upside down as she had done from the shelf.

The woman turned back towards Gella, the creature dangling, apparently comfortably, from her arm. 'She only eats once every two months, won't drink anything except for substances so alkaline it should immediately calcify her internal organs, and every so often - if she likes you - she will sing something that sounds startlingly like Devonian opera, and I don't mean that as a compliment.' She stroked the creature's furry tail gently with the tip of one finger where it coiled around her arm. 'The Imperial Science Division has no record of anything remotely similar, and when they said that the only way to discover more about her was to dissect her, I decided it was best if she remained a mystery. That's why I named her Devinahl. You can pet her, if you like.'

Tentatively, Gella reached out as the woman extended her arm, and stroked the creature's head. Its long ears swivelled, apparently independently of each other, and it gave another of those trills, but this one lower-pitched.

'Do you know what a devinahl is?' the woman asked as Gella petted the creature, rubbing its ears and stroking its feathered back.

Gella shook her head.

'It's a type of riddle poem that was popular on Alderaan about twenty-five centuries ago. The poet would make elaborate paradoxical statements in rhyming verse around a central theme and the listeners were supposed to guess at the theme or idea that linked all the seemingly nonsensical statements - "devinahl" literally means "guess poem". I thought it would be an appropriate name for my little riddle.'

The creature, apparently growing bored with being petted, suddenly swung itself upright on the woman's arm and ran lightly up it to her shoulder, across the back of her neck and on to the other shoulder before launching itself into space. Gella gasped, startled with what seemed like a suicidal leap, but more orange feathers suddenly seemed to fan out from around each of the creature's six paws, buoying it as it sailed through the air in a graceful arc to land on the desk. It did not pause, but ran with the same sinuous, rippling motion across the desk to the opposite edge where it launched itself into space again, this time landing on the drapes where it swarmed upwards towards the top before stopping and seemingly curling up vertically, showing no discomfort as it dangled its body, wrapped into a knot, from four of its six feet, claws fastened securely in the drapes.

'Looks like the next person to have this office will have to replace the curtains,' the woman sighed. ‘They were extremely ugly, to be fair.’

The woman’s smile is warm and broad, inviting Gella to share the joke, but Gella cannot do much more than give a small, automatic smile in response.

‘Don’t mind about Devinahl,’ the woman says, crossing the floor to the desk, going to seat herself behind it. ‘She's a temperamental little thing, but she does like to curl up in people's laps if they're sitting still.'

Gella took the hint, and sat down in the chair across the desk from the woman. An alarming number of datapads were stacked in neat piles across its surface, but there were no holos or ornaments; just like the room itself was richly furnished, but with a curious blankness, as if anything personal had been removed. Probably the woman had had everything chosen by the previous owner taken away, but she had replaced it with nothing of her own.

'Now,' the woman said, and Gella looked back at her; she was still sure she had seen her face somewhere before, but could not remember where. 'I must apologize for keeping you waiting - not just because I was late for this meeting, but for the length of time you have been kept waiting for this interview to happen at all. I'm sure that, with your history, being in the hospital was not a comfortable experience for you.'

Gella stiffened, panic flooding her.

'Yes,' the woman said gently. 'It will probably save a great deal of time if I tell you now that I know a great deal about you, Stanza Tuain, and the things that have happened to you.' The blood was thundering in Gella's ears, but her implants still picked up every word perfectly as the woman went on. 'I know that you are the eldest daughter of Edson and Hosha Tuain, and that you lived in the Dragemef Grasslands refugee camp after your family was forced to flee Draavi V. I know that Doctor Kiran Korpil separated you from your parents on some pretext and brought you to his clinic in the city, where he gave you a new name along with a set of implants that served a variety of functions - none of them medically necessary. I know that Doctor Korpil exploited you, and the other children like you, to illegally obtain funds from the wealthy patrons of this hospital world, through a fraudulent charity, blackmail and prostitution.'

'How.' The word stuck in her throat and came out strangled, barely above a whisper. She licked numb lips and tried again. 'How -?'

Again, the woman seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. 'Not from Doctor Korpil himself, I promise you. He and most of his aides were killed instantly when the surgical strike on the Tower Hotel was made. Along with,' she added more quietly, 'all of "his" children. You would have been killed too, had you not been on a much lower floor of the building. Even then it would be considered highly improbable for you to have survived.'

Her last words hinted at something that Gella did not understand, but it did not matter, because she had remembered. 'I know you!'

The woman raised her eyebrows. 'Excuse me?'

'I know you.' Amidst all the confusion and the welter of emotions, Gella clung to the momentary triumph of having finally pinned down the elusive recollection. 'I mean, I've seen you. At the - the parties. One last month, at the Aquilla Ballroom. You were wearing blue. And then once before, at the Nabeshin. You had a headdress on.'

'Very good,' the woman said softly. 'I wondered if you might have a knack for remembering faces. Yes, I have been stationed on Draavi Prime for some time now.'

'Stationed - ?' Gella knew she should be playing this differently, but she was too panicked, and right now anything, even demanding answers, was better than listening to the woman talk about Stanza Tuain and the things that had happened to her in those even tones. 'Who are you? How do you know these - these things?'

The woman held up a hand, and despite the warring emotions currently flooding her, Gella noticed for the first time that unlike most of the Imperial officers she had seen in this building, the woman was not wearing gloves. 'I will answer your questions to the best of my ability, and I won't lie to you, but I would like you to be calm and listen to me, Stanza.' It was the second time she had said the name and, just as it had the first time, it pinned Gella to her chair with an icy needle made of terror.

'Now.' The woman sat back in her chair, considering Gella. 'You asked me who I am. That's a very difficult question for someone like me to answer. To the men and women of the Imperial forces tasked with securing this planet -' she waved a hand at the door - 'I am known as Major Lapis Dar. But that is not my real name, any more than Gella Marogan is yours. As for my real name ... let us say that I don't enjoy being addressed by it, any more than you like it when I call you Stanza. Names, real and unreal, are a very tricky business, as you've already learned. For now, you can call me Sifter.'

'Sifter,' Gella repeated blankly.

'It's a ... designation ... that means a great deal to a handful of people spread across the galaxy, and nothing at all to everybody else. Like anybody's true name.' The woman smiled at the look of confusion on Gella's face. 'Tell me, do you know what an "intelligence service" is?'

'It's ... spies. And secrets.'

The woman's smile broadened. 'Well put.' She glanced up at the curtains, where Devinahl was unwinding herself. 'An intelligence service is something every government in the galaxy has - even the former government of Draavi Prime. Its task is simple: To gather and interpret information about what the enemies of its government are doing. I work for Imperial Intelligence, and it is to them - at least, the sufficiently highly ranked among them - that I am known as Sifter.' She held out her arm as Devinahl made her way headfirst down the curtains.

Gella frowned, watching as the little creature leapt nimbly on to the woman's arm, her tail wrapping around it again. 'And they sent you here.'

'Naturally,' There was the faintest trace of - something - in the woman's voice, but when Gella's eyes flew to her face, it gave nothing away. 'As the Empire's quest to conquer Draavi Prime entered its closing stages, I came to this planet in the guise of a wealthy Republic citizen seeking medical treatment for an obscure condition. I blended in with the rest.' She folded her arm back into her chest, cradling the creature, stroking it with her other hand. 'I wanted to know who the most important people on Draavi Prime were, and understand the best way for the Empire to take over the planet with minimal resistance. In the course of my investigations, I came across Doctor Kilpore and his ... charity. It did not take too long to understand the true nature of his "clinic", at least in broad outlines. Nor to see that what passed for a government on this world, and its Republic allies, chose to ignore the obvious, because the most powerful among them were either living in fear of what Doctor Kilpore could reveal about them if he chose, or were too busy indulging in what the doctor had to offer. Or both.'

'You told them.' The knowledge had arrived in Gella's brain unbidden, but complete, and she could not stop herself from saying it out loud. 'You knew who would be at the Fixeve for the party. You told the - the ship in orbit to destroy the hotel and kill all those people.'

'Yes, I did,' the woman - Sifter - said, just as calmly as she had said everything else, still stroking her pet. 'I learned as much as I could about the structure of this planet's society, and everything I learned told me that most of this world's real executive power had been usurped by a small handful of citizens obsessed with their own interests. Knowing that, it was clear that a surgical strike which removed a high concentration of those individuals would essentially paralyse the planet for a few crucial hours - hours the Empire could use to move in and take control of key centres of power.'

Gella did not say anything. It felt like her mind simply had too much to process, and had shut down.

'I could have made a different choice, of course,' Sifter continued. 'I could have recommended that the Empire proceed with a more conventional invasion. Engaged the orbital defense platforms, landed troops in the grasslands outside the capital city, let them establish camps and fight their way inwards, sector by sector. The Empire would have prevailed, of course, but only after weeks - perhaps months. Time in which millions would have died, and not just soldiers. They had already cut the food shipments to the refugee camps to the bare minimum; how long do you imagine they would have gone on shipping anything at all to the camps once the shortages really started to bite?'

Mother. Father. Scerra.

'I chose the deaths of a few thousand corrupt and selfish individuals over the suffering and loss of millions,' Sifter went on. 'Because of my work, I knew precisely when and where the Empire could strike to remove those least likely to value the lives of their people, with the least loss of life to those people. Now, instead of fighting in the streets, there are Imperial patrols combing the wreckage for survivors, Imperial teams exposing what this society kept hidden so that it can be put right.'

'But the others.' It came out as a whisper again. Gella cleared her throat, tried once more. 'The other children -'

‘I know.’

‘They didn’t deserve that!’

‘I know,’ Sifter said again, gravely, meeting Gella’s eyes squarely. ‘They didn’t deserve anything that had happened to them. But it was the only way to accomplish the mission – and perhaps, if they had chosen, they might have opted for a quick death.’

‘They w-wanted to g-go home!’ Gella burst out.

‘Perhaps that’s what they thought they wanted, when they were living at the clinic and doing Doctor Korpil’s bidding,’ Sifter said gently. ‘But now there is no clinic, and they have no option but to go back to their families – well, they might feel that anything was better than that. Looking their families in the eye and knowing that their parents, their siblings, knew everything that they had done? Knew how those extra rations in the camps had been paid for? Can you imagine what that would do to those parents, those families?’ She learned forward, allowing Devinahl to uncoil out of her arms. ‘Maybe the children would have wanted a way out rather than having to cause so much pain to the people they loved. We’ll never know, I suppose.’

There was silence in the office except for the faintest clicking of the creature's claws as she stretched and sauntered across the surface of the desk towards Gella, stopping and giving an enquiring trill. Automatically, Gella took her hands from her lap; Devinahl took it for an invitation and leapt lightly on to her knee. Gella could feel the little claws pressing into her clothes, but not painfully so, as the creature investigated her lap, before giving another satisfied-sounding trill and settling her warm, soft weight down against Gella's abdomen, curling herself up into a tight, feathered ball.

'What about the nurses?' Gella asked eventually. 'Everybody else at the clinic?'

'I had a team secure Doctor Kilpore's clinic and the remaining personnel almost as soon as the initial strike took place. Between questioning those who remained and looking through the doctor's files, all my suspicions were confirmed.' Sifter adjusted the cuffs of her uniform tunic one by one. 'I imagined that my investigations would provide only restitution for the dead, and ammunition with which to go after those who had allowed all these travesties to occur. But then I heard that a young girl, with no apparent family or friends but with some very unusual and expensive facial implants, had been rescued from the wreckage of the hotel, and it was not very difficult to piece together the story of Stanza Tuain and Gella Marogan and see that they were one and the same. Doctor Korpil's security precautions always relied on the premise that nobody with any power or authority would come looking, you see.'

There was another long silence as Gella stroked the creature in her lap and the woman watched from across the desk.

'What about my family?' Gella asked eventually; she thought she tasted blood in her throat.

'Your father and mother and sister are alive,' Sifter told her quietly. 'Mortality rates at the Dagemef camp were above sixty per cent, but Edson, Hosha and Scerra Tuain were able to survive. They seem to have been able to trade some of their extra rations for other useful supplies, extra credits that bought them some protection even when things were at their worst.' She smiled her warm smile. ‘You saved them.’

'What will happen to them now?' Gella asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sifter shrugged. 'I'm sure you've seen the broadcasts. Imperial peacekeeping forces are even now reorganizing the camps, ensuring that there will be sufficient food and medical supplies and shelter for all the displaced people. Your family will be much better looked after under our regime, I assure you. But they are still not Imperial citizens, nor citizens of Draavi Prime in their own right. They will have to remain in the camp until a place for them to settle can be found.' She gave Gella a reassuring smile. 'Still, I'm sure they will be delighted to have you back.'

Gella felt something cold settle into the pit of her stomach. 'I'm going ... back? To the camp?'

Sifter raised her eyebrows. 'Isn't that what you want?'

Gella looked away, avoiding Sifter's eyes, focusing instead on the creature curled up on her lap, and on trying to get her voice under control enough to ask the question. Despite her best efforts, it still shook as she asked, 'Will they ... know?'

'About Doctor Korpil, and the things he made his children do?'

Gella nodded.

'I'm afraid everyone on this planet will know,' Sifter said gently. 'It's important that the people of Draavi Prime come to understand the kinds of crime and corruption that their government, and their government's friends in the Republic, were willing to allow to flourish under their regime. I know an investigative team are working on an exclusive holo-broadcast about Doctor Korpil's clinic as we speak.'

Gella swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat. She could see it so clearly: The looks on people's faces when they heard about all the things that had happened to Doctor Korpil's children. The broadcast would not leave out the things that had happened in the private rooms; maybe they would even find out about the office. Mother and Father and Scerra would know how their extra rations had been paid for all those years. Gella Marogan would be gone forever and only Stanza would be left. She left cold sweat running down her back at the thought. It would be Stanza Tuain who had done all those things, and everybody would know.

'What about -' it came out as a croak; Gella swallowed and tried again. 'What about my implants?'

The thought had been just forming in her mind that if her implants were removed, it would be easier to hide. But Sifter was shaking her head, and the hope died before it had even finished unfurling. 'I have spoken to the doctors who examined you, and they all agree. There was nothing wrong with your hearing or your eyesight before the implants, but after four years of continuous use, your optic and auditory nerves have become accustomed to the additional stimulus, your neural pathways have been reconfigured ...' Sifter spread her hands, an expressive gesture. 'You now need the implants to help you see and hear. If they were removed, it's almost certain that you would become partially or completely blind, and certainly deaf. That's if you survived the initial neural trauma of the severed connections.'

Gella's mouth was dryer than ever; this was something she had not thought of. 'But the implants - they need adjusting every few months. The doctor said so.' Sifter gave a confirming nod. 'My - my parents - they can't pay for that, even if someone in the camp could do it ...'

She trailed off, looking hopefully at Sifter, waiting for the woman to offer some suggestion, some solution.

The woman simply leaned back in her chair and met Gella's gaze, impassively.

Gella swallowed again, her arms tightening around Devinahl. Sifter didn't have anything more to say; she was finished with Gella, and that meant Gella was finished.

She steeled herself to do it, to get up off the chair and walk away and start the journey back, back to her family, back to the camp. But just as she had tensed to rise, Sifter spoke again, not as if there had been a pause of several minutes between her last statement and this one, but as if she was continuing her thought.

'Of course, there is one other option.'

Gella sank back on to the chair. 'What is it?'

'You could come and work for me.' Gella's arms tightened convulsively around Devinahl, and the little creature shrieked in protest. Sifter held up a hand. 'I don't mean prostitution, and you will not be subjected to any form of abuse. I am not another Doctor Korpil.'

She relaxed her arms slowly; Devinahl squirmed out from under them and leapt off her lap and on to the desk, streaking over to swarm up Sifter's arm to her shoulder once more. 'Then what ...?'

Sifter pursed her lips, once again searching Gella's face intently with those fathomless dark eyes. 'There are those in Imperial Intelligence,' she said slowly, 'who believe that the work most vital to protecting the Empire can and should be done by those we have explicitly designed and programmed to fulfill those functions.' Gella frowned as Sifter went on. 'And there are those, like me, who believe that there is still a place for the organic, autonomous field agent; the man or woman on the spot who can be flexible, inventive, creative, finding ways to carry out their orders that even those who issued those orders could not have anticipated. I believe that so strongly, in fact, that I have spent much of my career seeking out and recruiting remarkable individuals to be those agents.'

'You ... want me to join Imperial Intelligence?'

Sifter smiled. 'Not quite yet. Let's say that I think that you have some unusual and promising qualities, which I would like to nurture.'

'What qualities?'

'Well, for one, you're a very good liar. Your experiences over the past few years have given you an almost intuitive understanding of how to appear unthreatening, and go unnoticed. You come already equipped with some top-of-the-range implants which enhance your intelligence-gathering abilities, and which could potentially be modified to enhance other physical attributes as well. And - forgive me - you will not be missed. As far as anyone on this planet is concerned, Stanza Tuain died along with Doctor Korpil and the rest of his children in the Fixeve Tower Hotel. The hospital staff know you as Gella Marogan, who never existed; and only a small handful of Imperial personnel, who will have no interest in pursuing the subject, have any idea that a child survived the demolition of the hotel. You could board my starship and leave this planet with me today, and leave poor little Stanza Tuain behind forever. This, for my purposes, is extremely convenient.' Sifter shrugged. 'I told you I would not lie to you.'

'What would you do with me?' Gella asked.

'Oh - educate you, mainly. Teach you various skills. Put you to work at the same time, if it can be done. I think you'll find it stimulating.' Sifter absently stroked the long tail of Devinahl where it curled around her neck. 'You'll be under my protection until you reach adulthood. Then, if you wish to join Imperial Intelligence, you will find yourself perfectly suited to do so. And if you don't - well, you can make your own way in the galaxy. Or come back here, if you like.'

'What about my parents?'

'They already believe that their daughter is dead. I simply won't disabuse them of that impression.'

'No, I mean -' Gella searched for the words. 'Can you ... look after them?'

Sifter raised her eyebrows. 'It could certainly be arranged for them to receive Imperial citizenship. They would be able to leave the camp, move to the city, access all the benefits Imperial citizens enjoy in healthcare, education, housing, employment ... Would that be sufficient?'

'It would,' Gella said slowly. 'If I said yes.'

Sifter simply leaned back in her chair and continued to stroke Devinahl's tail, watching Gella.

Gella tried to think clearly, to picture her parents' faces, to make up her mind whether she could trust Sifter. But it was hard to concentrate. What came into her mind was not any of the things Sifter had said: It was the face of the white-haired man with the moustache, the blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, the look in his eyes, as she looked back beneath the desk. He had taken her into that room to ... to do those things, but when the tower fell, he had pushed her under the desk, saved her before himself. It frightened her that both those things could be true.

It frightened her that she had left him to die.

'There's one other quality I recognised in you,' Sifter said quietly, watching her. 'One last reason I want you. You're a survivor, Stanza.' Gella flinched in spite of herself. 'You were taken from your family and placed in a situation where the worst things that can be done to a person were done to you, over and over again - and yet here you sit, free and alive, and your tormentors are dead, or facing their punishment. The Empire needs that determination. It needs that strength.'

Still Gella didn't say anything.

'Your family loves you. They will always love you, and care for you, and hold you in their hearts. But they will always see you as a victim. No matter how much they love you, they will always see you as the wreckage of what their daughter might have been.' Sifter twisted Devinahl's tail around her finger, still watching Gella. 'The life I offer you holds no love, no warmth, no safety. Nothing but loneliness and danger and fear. But I can promise you that I will only ever look at you to see your strength. And I can ensure that the galaxy sees it too.'

Gella had nothing to say.

Sifter leaned across the desk, Devinahl riding on her shoulder, eyes intent on Gella. 'What is it,' she asked, 'that you want?'

She looked back at the woman across the desk, and let the words come from deep inside her.

'I want to be nobody.'

A smile, deeper than any she had seen so far, curved Sifter's lips. 'I think that can be arranged.'

[goodbyecringe]

(Un)Natural Selection Chapter 15

Éponine

I stood with the rest of the Selected Girls behind the red rope that sectioned us off from the rest of the guests. Most of the girls were smiling with their mimosas in hand waiting in line to be interviewed. Cosette and Iris were being interviewed together in their complimentary shades of pink and blue. Musichetta was pushing Liberty to a place in the shade and Teresa could be heard arguing with Claudia to let her wear a pair of gody sunglasses. I figured that Enjolras would come out with The Queen when she was announced so I sipped on my drink until Cosette was finished with the press.

“Éponine I haven’t been able to tell you yet but Coral looks lovely on you!” Cosette beamed.

“Thank you! I can honestly say I was surprised when my maids showed me the dress since most of the time they design more neutral toned dresses,” I smiled, just in case anyone was taking any pictures.

“You look great in those colors, but it’s nice to see you in something bright for a change.”

“Do you think we’ll have to spend the whole time behind this rope?” I asked, as Cosette accepted a drink from Iris.

“I think I heard Claudia telling Teresa that once the Queen arrives Enjolras will take turns escorting us around to keep the guests engaged,” Iris piped.

“I wonder if we’ll meet anyone of extreme importance,” Cosette said, looking at the crowd.

“We’re guests of The King and Queen, and no one here could be more important than them.”

“The Guest of Honor rescued thirty people from a factory fire a few months ago. I hear the King will be awarding him a medal for his heroism,” I said, remembering that was the reason Enjolras had been late to our date.

“Yes well he’s also an amputee now. Take that as you may,” Iris murmured.

“Don’t be such an ableist,” I stated. “Liberty will run over your foot if she hears you.”

“Well she’ll have to catch me first,” Iris said.

Just then, trumpets began to blow to announce Queen Carolina’s arrival. We turned to watch as Enjolras escorted her down the stairs to a podium. To my right, Iris began to fan herself, but it wasn’t due to the heat. Girls around me began to giggle and whisper as they continued to stare at Enjolras, who was in his military uniform.

“He does look extremely handsome with that sword,” Cosette blushed.

By all definitions, Enjolras was attractive, but I would have thought that after being at the palace for two months the other girls would have gotten used to it. I didn’t realize until Laila had food poisoning a few days ago that I had become reliant on her scalp massages. Now I realized why they made girls Threes, because when I went home I would never be able to live with my parents. Musichetta told us at breakfast that Anne was already engaged to a Two in Angles, less than two weeks after being sent home. When each of us left the competition we would be sought after because of our positions.

Maybe a nice Three would want me and we could take Azelma and move far away from Allens. I thought about if I had any chance with any upper caste men until I heard applause. Queen Carolina had just finished her speech and was beginning her trip around the garden. Enjolras made his way over to our section and requested Liberty, probably because the first section of guests were on tile.

“Éponine, the press would like a word,” Claudia said, offering to take my drink.

“Thank you Claudia,” I said, giving the glass to her and making my way towards the camera and interviewer.

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with us Lady Éponine!” The cheery interviewer said as I sat on the stool.

“The pleasure is all mine,” I said, forcing a smile.

“So we hear that you recently went on another date with Prince Julien. What was it like?”

“Well this date was a bit different than our previous dates. As I’ve discussed on the Report, we normally watch the new episode of Law and Order. But this time we had a beautiful dinner in the garden,” I said.

“Do you mind disclosing what you talked about?”

“Of course not. We talked about books that we’ve recently read, how incredible the food is here at the palace, our favorite childhood memories, mostly the “getting to know you” topic.”

“Anything more?” She said, holding up the cover of “Illeá Weekly.”

The caption read ‘The Prince and The Pauper… In Love?’ in bold white lettering. Enjolras had leaned over the table to get a dead bug out of my hair after we had finished discussing Joly’s severe case of Hypochondria.

“Prince Enjolras was being kind enough to get a bug out of my hair,” I laughed, playing the cover down.

I didn’t want the other girls to see me as more of a threat to their game.

“I’m sure that was what was going on. How would you describe your relationship with our beloved Prince?”

I had to be strategic and smart here.

“Enjolras has become a great friend to me during my time here. We share a lot of common interests and passions but we also challenge each other. So I would say we’re doing okay,” I said, continuing to smile.

“I’m sure you and Enjolras are doing better than okay,” the interviewer said, smirking.

I immediately realized my mistake and knew that every attempt to downplay my relationship with Enjolras had failed. I made sure that I didn’t let my persona falter while the camera was rolling. I made a beeline for the refreshment station so I could down my pride with a mimosa.

“Make sure you don’t drink too much before Enjolras takes you out to the crowd,” I heard an amused voice say from behind me.

“Thanks Musichetta, I guess I just let that reporter get to me a little,” I said, setting my glass on the bar.

“Please, call me Chetta. It happens to the best of us. If it weren’t for my fair share of warnings I would have been in several scandals by now,” she laughed.

I realized that this was my first time talking to Musichetta by myself as she was very selective of who she allied herself with. She had received a moderate amount of praise from the gossip rags for her beauty and work with the underprivileged.

“Éponine, I consider myself a fairly transparent person and I wanted to let you know that I would like to get to know you. You should stick around the Women’s Room more often,” she winked.

We began to talk about how a few of the other girls appeared to be on the verge of one of the scandals Chetta had mentioned when I saw Enjolras out of the corner of my eye. He was returning to our section while Marissa, a feisty Four, followed a few feet behind him. She looked absolutely dejected as she stumbled into the arms of Claudia, who rushed her inside.

“Excuse my interruption ladies, but may I borrow you, Éponine,” Enjolras asked, his voice tense.

“Of course,” I said, excusing myself from Musichetta, who gave me a smirk.

“Is everything okay, Enjolras?” I asked innocently.

“It appears that Marissa has had a few too many drinks, which I didn’t believe was possible from mimosas,” he said, bringing his hand to the bridge of his nose.

“You’d be surprised at how low a beginner’s alcohol tolerance is,” I said mindlessly as I hooked arm arm through Enjolras’s.

“It was such an embarrassment. I had to excuse us because she was about to throw up on the Viscount de Gillenormand’s shoes. The man is already a raging royalist and I would hate to put his grandson in such an uncomfortable position,” Enjolras grumbled.

“So I’m your damage control?” I laughed.

“You are who I feel most confident in, as long as you don’t mention politics to him.”

“Then why bring me over at all?” I asked, knowing that our relationship was strictly reliant on politics at this point in the Selection.

“Let’s call it a lesson in self-restraint. And to be frank, I feel immensely calmer with you,” Enjolras smiled as we approached a seated old man and a lanky boy.

“Viscount de Gillenormand I’m pleased to introduce you to the Lady Éponine Jondrette of Allens,” Enjolras said, releasing my arm.

“A pleasure to meet you young lady,” the older man said in a thick french accent.

“Please sir, the pleasure is all mine,” I said smiling.

“Marius, where are your manners?” The older man said, scolding his grandson.

“My apologies. Marius Pontmercy at your service, Lady Éponine,” the lanky boy said, kissing my hand.

My skin felt like it was on fire when his lips met my skin.

“Illeá never fails to surprise me whenever I come to visit. Your rituals are most disturbing at times, Your Highness” grumbled the Viscount.

“The Selection has been a time-honored tradition since our country's inception. I’m quite exalted to be able to participate in my own Selection,” Enjolras stated.

If I had just met Enjolras I would have thought he was telling the truth.

“A Selection seems like such an odd custom for a Frenchman like my grandfather. What are your thoughts on it, Lady Éponine?” Marius asked, placing a hand on his grandfather’s back.

“Honestly, I’m honored to be a part of such a fantastic tradition. I’ve learned so much during my time here at the palace and I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world,” I lied.

“You seem awfully well put together for a commoner. What’s your rank?”

“Grandfather, Illeá uses the term caste. It’s more to determine a citizen’s job in society, not their worth,” Marius corrected.

“Well with Prince Enjolras present I am unable to disclose that information.”

“I don’t know the castes of any of the Selected Women. I want citizens of Illeá to see that I am impartial to caste,” Enjolras explained.

“Well seems like a waste of effort to me. Marius, would you escort Lady Éponine to get some refreshments for Prince Julien and myself. I have an important matter I would like to discuss in private,” the old man said, sitting up straighter.

“My Lord, I am very confident in Lady Éponine’s-” Enjolras started

“Forgive me but I am not very confident,” Viscount Gillenormand bellowed.

Marius and I began to walk to a bar on the other side of the gardens to give his grandfather and Enjolras time to talk.

“I apologize for my grandfather. His old age has made him quite cynical,” Marius began.

“It’s okay, I’m a little tougher than I look,” I laughed.

“You mean you didn’t grow up in heels and fancy dresses?” Marius gasped.

I impulsively decided that this would be the right time to dust off my old tricks and snatched Marius’s pocket watch while he ordered the drinks.

“It’s easy to tell that you grew up in heels and fancy dresses,” I smirked, holding the watch up.

He immediately grabbed at his vest pocket, only to find that he was actually staring at his watch.

“Where did you learn that?” He asked.

“Let’s just say that castes in Illeá determine a little more than your job in society.”

“That’s terribly unfortunate. You should consider emigrating to France when you’re done here. I can proudly say the worst thing in France is our temper, but I’m sure you already know that,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that your necklace has the Gallic Rooster on it. It’s the French symbol to protest the monarchy in favor of the republic,” Marius explained.

“My friend gave this to me the day I came to the palace. I had no idea what it meant,” I said, reaching for the necklace Justine gave to me.

“Your friend must think you’re quite the fighter, Lady Éponine,” he smiled, handing me a drink.

No one had ever called me a fighter.

“Well, Monsieur Marius, if France and I have so much in common I might just have to consider your offer,” I said as we clinked out glasses together before walking back towards Enjolras.

“If you don’t find it completely inappropriate, I would love to send you some pictures of Paris. So you can prepare for your move, of course.”

“I would deem that as quite appropriate,” I blushed.

I couldn’t help but stare at Marius’s freckles while his grandfather continued to complain about such a large gathering of peasants. Even while the other guests gushed over Enjolras I was the perfect image of trust while I stole glances at Marius, who had escaped his grandfather and found Les Amis. I couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol but as the garden party grew longer the butterflies in my stomach intensified.

[ospreys-watch]

Bird’s Eye Review: Pokemon Detective Pikachu

Video game adaptations tend to not do very well as feature-length films, mainly due to the length of most games being far too long to squeeze in the extensive details and lore many games entail. As such, game adaptations of any kind often tend to do better as graphic novels or animated series (i.e. Persona 4: The Animation or Netflix’s Castlevania). And with the absolute travesty that was the trailer for the upcoming Sonic the Hedgehog film (I honestly don’t know if overworking the animators to redesign the title character will save that movie), I admittedly had some reservations when I sat down to watch Pokemon Detective Pikachu on Sunday. However, the general response from my friends who had seen the film had been very good, and the response online even better.

I think what partially saved this film was that it was only covering the plot of a single game in the series’ 20+ year history; a Nintendo 3DS title with the same name, that wasn’t all that connected to the main series. The plot of the film (and game) centers around Tim Goodman, who teams up with a talking, wise-cracking Pikachu to discover what happened to his father Harry, who supposedly died in a car accident. However, the Pikachu has no memories of its past, with its only clue being Harry Goodman’s address stitched into its hat. It should be noted that the premise and some other plot points are the same between the game and film, but most of the characters are different to include a bit more diversity. From here on out, I’ll only be discussing the film.

When Tim goes to his father’s apartment (and meets Pikachu), he encounters and (stupidly) opens a mysterious vial containing a purple chemical; as he opens a window to air out the room, unknowingly causing a group of wild Aipom to go on a temporary rampage and attack the pair. This begins the investigation of a second plot point—a strange chemical compound called R being produced to drive pokemon mad. It becomes clear that Harry was also investigating this R, as when Tim and Pikachu manage to find a lead and encounter an underground pokemon fight club (Ryme City, where the film takes place, does not permit pokemon battles, normally a staple of the game series), the club owner recognizes Pikachu—and doesn’t take kindly to its return.

There’s so much I want to discuss about this film, but I’ll begin with the pokemon themselves—they’re fleshed out beautifully in this film, as if they actually belong in the scenery, affected by lights, shadows, water and other aspects of their environment. There is a scene early on where Tim is licked by a Lickitung, and saliva appears on Tim’s face right beneath the massive CGI tongue. Later scenes seamlessly blend CGI pokemon attacks with special effects, such as fire and water. Human actors are impacted by animated characters very clearly, though I feel like in some cases the movements were a big exaggerated. Pikachu’s fur is shown as short and fuzzy without seeming to be too much; Charizard’s scales have full detail, and even details of an electrical burn from a previous battle. The pokemon characters are a seamless blend of human and animal, visibly changing expression and showing that they’re not beneath instincts (such as when Pikachu is scratched on the chin and begins tapping his foot like a dog). My favorite pokemon depiction in the film, however, is Mewtwo. Heeded in-universe as one of the most powerful pokemon in existence, the genetically-created psychic type is shown as a blend of highly intelligent, yet still an animal at its core. It communicates telepathically, and I absolutely love the way they blended the audio for Mewtwo’s voice, using two voice actors, one male and one female—Mewtwo is a genderless pokemon, so this was a very nice touch. It’s clear the people who worked on the film were people who loved the series and wanted to be as loyal to it as possible.

The human characters were, honestly, a bit flat, but nothing terrible. Tim, played by Justice Smith, is a cynical adult who gave up his dreams of being a pokemon trainer and hasn’t spoken to his father in years, harboring a sort of resentment toward him—he at one point in the film states it sometimes felt like his father, who lived in Ryme City while Tim was cared for by his grandmother (his mother had passed), cared more about pokemon than his own son—this can sometimes be a sentiment shared by children whose parents work demanding jobs, or travel frequently for work. Lucy, played by Jessica Newton, is an okay character, but at the same time, I feel like she looks too young to be an adult character (that’s just a personal thing, though). To be honest, she reminded me a lot of Hilary Duff during the Lizzie McGuire era—and that’s a bit young. But that’s really a minor gripe; other than that, Lucy’s a nice supporting character who proves herself to be useful to Tim without falling into the “sexy lamp” category (i.e. she has enough of a presence on the screen where she can’t just be replaced with a sexy lamp—look that test up if you’re curious), not to mention having her own ambitions that happen to coincide with Tim’s.

Naturally, the one who steals the show is Ryan Reynolds as the titular Detective Pikachu. He’s crass, overconfident, and a good foil to the much more strait laced Tim. It’s pretty clear he’s pulling a lot from his role as Deadpool in 2016’s titular Deadpool, but that doesn’t make him any less funny in the role.

Now, at this point, I want to talk about a few things in the film that bugged me, or I felt were worth noting. They’re relatively minor, but they are spoilers, so they will be down below the Read More.

[[READ MORE]]

I feel like the dialogue was a bit weak in some areas; most noticeably in the scene where Mewtwo speaks to Pikachu before merging Harry with him. Mewtwo simply states that “not all humans are bad.” I understand this is a children’s movie, but Mewtwo is a highly intelligent creature, and is highly likely the same Mewtwo from Pokemon: The First Movie, who said the famous line, “The circumstances of one’s birth are irrelevant. It is what you do with the gift of life that determines who you are.” I simply feel like “not all humans are bad” could have been said in a more sophisticated way. On the subject of Mewtwo, I understand he’s a powerful pokemon, but the idea of him being able to merge humans and pokemon seems a bit out of his range of abilities as a psychic-type.

The other issue was with Ryan Reynolds playing the actual father at the end of the film. Ryan is far older than he looks, but his youthful appearance did not work for him in this film—he simply looks too young to be the father of an adult son.

The villain’s motive, to merge people and pokemon to advance humankind, is a bit more complex than the typical, “take over the world” plot—the villain is an old man, confined to a wheelchair, who wants nothing but strength, and uses Mewtwo’s body and DNA (to produce the chemical R) to achieve that end. I have seen some arguments that the film is ableist because the villain is disabled. I just don’t think the film set out to be that way, and calling it “ableist” may be going a bit too far—granted, I am not physically disabled, so I can’t speak for anybody whatsoever.

All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed the film, and I highly recommend it—the people who worked on the film made it clearly as a love story to the decades-old series that’s inspired and entertained millions of players since its inception, and their hard work and research shows, from subtle dialogue hints (Pikachu says “Arceus” instead of “God” at one point, referring to the godly pokemon), to references in the environment that are there and gone in the blink of an eye. It’s a good film that’s worth a watch, with a decent mystery and plenty of action.

Gotta catch ‘em all, indeed!

[eclectia]

Silent Hill 2: As A Disabled Woman

Please be warned this piece discusses ableism and abuse, including murder, and contains a minor mention [just a passing plot-point, not elaborated upon] of childhood sexual abuse.

The Ancient Land is in its final stages- I'm finishing up the coding and there'll be a demo very very soon; so in my downtime I've been working out other concepts and brainstorming a lot of various things for what may or may not become my next project. There'll be more on those in the coming weeks, but I wanted to post something slightly different in the meantime to make up for the fact that I can't really keep posting “yep, still coding, still bad at it”.

One of the ideas I had revolves around a horror game, and in working out concepts for it I've been revisiting some of my favourite horror franchises – films, video games, and novels, to try and work out what makes me tick, what makes horror tick, and how I can make my game tick. In doing so, I replayed one of my perennial favourites in Silent Hill 2. As well as being one of my favourite games, it is widely held as one of the best horror video games to date, held up alongside Resident Evil, Clocktower and Alone in the Dark as a foundation of Survival Horror.

It had been some time since I last played it, and when I was a newly-diagnosed diabetic it resonated with me because of its portrayal of chronic illness, more specifically, that a character within the game had one. There weren't any games that dealt with that subject matter in such a visceral manner. At a young age, 11, I was processing my diagnosis and trying to understand how it would effect my whole life, a process which I am still trying to come to terms with and this was isolating to say the least. I was traversing my own fog.

Silent Hill 2 is not my favourite Silent Hill, that honour goes to 3 – teenage girls in horror!-, but it holds a special place in my heart, important during a time of my life where I was processing the lifelong grief of my new diagnoses. And, as I grew and co-morbidity –the tendency for multiple conditions to cluster around a primary condition - meant I had a great many other diagnoses, I found myself revisiting those claustrophobic streets as a source of comfort. It seems oxymoronic to play a horror game for comfort, but horror as a whole is a genre I have often retreated to during my darkest periods. There's safety in monsters too fantastical to exist. Yet, the real horror of Silent Hill 2 for me isn't in its psychological monsters but in the real fears of ableism and sickness.

I realised as I grew that Silent Hill's handling of and representation of illness was the reason for my constant revisits. It comforted, repulsed, terrified and saddened me and helped me process the guilt of being sick. As my relationship with myself and my disabilities [they're multiplying!] has evolved so has my reading and relationship with Silent Hill 2. There will be spoilers if you've not played it, so if you don't want it spoiled don't read any further.

I am in two minds about it on many fronts, mostly for how it handles and represents disability conceptually and literally. On the one hand, stories about how disabled people are burdensome and which usually end with their dying are a constant staple. We are a tragic love story, and in many ways Silent Hill 2 reinforces this- indeed, this is the crux of the story. The narrative of Silent Hill 2 is driven by its unreliable protagonist James Sunderland; his actions are frequently cast into doubt and Mary's right to live is what drives the main conflict within James' psyche, manifesting as the horrors of the game. Her slow death, James' desire to prolong and shorten her life, and how this conflicts with both of their wishes all form important narrative milestones. James and Mary both are cast in sympathetic lights, and many players come to understand through the naturally presented narrative that James was in the wrong. At least I hope so.

This journey of guilt mirrors the traumas of the cast of supporting characters, all of whom are dealing with guilt stemming from murder – Angela kills her sexually abusive father [which frankly I cannot criticise]; Eddie, bullied, snaps and kills a dog and perhaps a person although this is left ambiguous. Between Angela's self defence, Eddie's snapping and James' sympathy-killing of his wife, there are many facets and stages of guilt portrayed within this game. And in this world, moral greyness, like fog, presides. Yet I don't think I can agree with how yet again a disabled character is killed off to forward the plot of an abled protagonist and often we feel sorry and empathise with him by vice of his being the player character. We view the game through his perspective, and in controlling him the default perspective and empathy lies with him. This could be a problem if twinned with a player who's view and experience of disability is informed solely through media or second-hand experience. Being asked to sympathise with a character, especially one who killed a disabled woman, might lead to your average abled person simply thinking he is in the right because, concerningly, it is something they would consider. Within the context of real life this sad story -of a carer or lover who kills a sick partner, thinking it's the best thing for them- happens all too often. A very real horror for me.

Just a few years ago, in Japan nonetheless, an able bodied man slaughtered 16 disabled people because he felt they were better off dead. I am not inherently against assisted suicide, but this is not that. It is important to note there is a form of ableist abuse wherein abled people coerce disabled people that they're not worth anything, and would be better off dead. I want to make it clear that these two things are entirely different. This is not, explicitly, the situation in Silent Hill 2. There is an ending where Mary thanks and forgives James but it is also shown Mary does struggle with feelings of self-loathing during the course of her illness; not brought on by James in any way, at least not actively, and definitely something I as a disabled woman have dealt with, but worth considering. And, I think, abled people want to feel justified in their views on the worth of disabled lives, so perhaps the apology is there as a form of catharsis for abled people more than it is anything else. It is OK to sympathise with James, we'd all do the same in his situation, disabled people all secretly want to be put out of their misery. This is the unpleasant streak that runs through the game, the crux of where our sympathies stem from.

Having mentioned this, his actions are never actively condoned by the game. It is simply a harsh reality of ableism that often, abled people think they are putting us out of our misery or that our existence is inherently twinned with suffering. I don't think the writers of the game were aware of this when they wrote this in, they simply wanted a psychological angle to take so this accidental aesop is perhaps, a fluke. Many aspects of the game were planned and researched meticulously, but as far as I know none of the development team had any personal experience with illness, so the game comes from their wholly abled perspective.

As I have grown as a person, I have come into my own internal conflict with the themes and presentation therein of the game. When I was newly diagnosed with a condition that, at the time I was told would carve years off my life and which needed lifelong medication simply to function, I found solace in Silent Hill. James' struggle to understand and cope with the death of his wife was similar to how I was struggling to cope and fathom the life-changing diagnosis I had had. I think, perhaps, that when I ran through the streets again and again I was searching within the game, for some ways of processing the diagnoses I found myself saddled with. James mourned his wife of 3 years [3 days] dead, I mourned for a life drastically changed in a matter of days. James, struggling to understand his wifes' illness, was just like me struggling with mine. I was lost in my own fog, in the streets of my own head trying to come to terms with myself.

Bearing this in mind, as I have grown up and come to terms with my conditions my attitudes towards the narrative of Silent Hill 2 have changed. In it, illness is this fearful beast – it could be you! You could be sick!-, except I was; and I didn't want scares, nor did I find the implicit implications of illness scary in the same way an abled person might. What might be horrifying to an abled person was just a daily experience for me. I knew how scary illness could be. I wanted to feel normal.

Looking for normality in a horror game might feel extraneous except for when we take into consideration that many monsters in horror are stand-ins for minorities within society; the queers in the vampire, the proverbial “other”, the rejection of Frankenstein's Monster. Like them, the monsters in Silent Hill 2 all represent something, illness and the multiple perspectives of illness that James has, and I found it less comforting and more... melodramatic. Illness is a daily fact of life for me, and using my existence as a threat to abled people – you could be sick and burdensome just like Mary- just felt insulting. In Silent Hill, illness and sick people are as much the monster as James. Mary looms like Orlok's shadow.

As a character Mary is shown to be multi-faceted; James' manifestations of his guilt and feelings about Mary show her to be venomous, angry bitter, a monster spitting acid but her final letter to him reveals that she admits to this, but more than that: she is a guilt-ridden wife who knows her illness is effecting her spouse. It is heart-wrenching, and beautifully written, and as an ending monologue is poignant and reflected many of the feelings I have felt as a disabled woman. There have been times I have lashed out to people I love because of a particularly bad month of illness, and then the guilt comes because I am only human. Anger, pain and this endless cycle is an intrinsic part of Mary's character throughout the game, and despite it all, Mary is shown to be all that James wants. This is not a narrative fault, but a character flaw within James that he readily recognises and criticises repeatedly, and again, desire and the nature of it is wholly human.

Mary's portrayal within the game is both progressive and sympathetic, and concerningly backward. Mary is humanised in a way that very little media about sickness has ever done, and shown as a multifaceted and complex character just as James' own motivations and desires are shown to be both good, and bad. My readings of Silent Hill are in no way the only way to read it, and in no way lessen the story Silent Hill 2 is telling; it is an amazing, visceral game with a humanising and terrifying portrayal of how illness can take over lives.  

Silent Hill 2 holds a special place in my heart. At a time in my life where I was processing the first of many illnesses to grip me it allowed me to process and deconstruct my own feelings towards my mortality, dwindling health and illnesses. Experiencing and living with illnesses is isolating and lonely to say the least, not least because of how abled people treat us and I think Silent Hill almost nails that on the head accidentally.

This is not to say that people living with spouses who deal with illness should feel wrong, or guilty, for feeling bad about illness and I am not silly enough to suggest that illness does not have an effect on those around me; it does, but the way Silent Hill missteps is in showing illness as a singularly burdensome, corrupting thing, and offering justification for James' actions. It is left up to the player, ultimately, but I do worry for how abled gamers might perceive and justify James within the wider context of society.

There isn't much point to this post. Its just a ramble, and an internal struggle, I've dealt with for a little while and decided to finally try and hash out.

[stimtoybox]

Hi!I'm 22 years old and have had my aspie diagnosis for 6 years now.I'm a university student,and always masking my autism related behaviors.Any tips and advice on how to stop doing that and start stimming proudly in public when I need to? Also when I blurt out stupid things because of autism my mom tells me to stop and think about what I'm saying.What to do when the thinking goes off in my head in the wrong direction or otherwise doesn't help?I want to stop masking my autism behaviors.

Unfortunately, I am so much less good on the art of thinking before speaking–oh, if it were only that easy. I can usually manage when not upset or distressed, simply because Not Saying What I Am Thinking is a survival tactic in my family, usually resulting in Not Saying Anything At All. (For obvious reasons, this isn’t something I’d encourage in anyone else, because it’s born of a toxic dynamic.) When upset, though, there is no filter between my mouth and my brain–and often limited ability to even get words out–and it’s something I’ve never been able to improve myself. Perhaps other autistics have some ideas, or posting in the #actuallyautistic tag?This is one subject where I really don’t have advice to give and I fear anything I’d say would be spectacularly less than helpful.

As someone who has had to relearn/reclaiming stimming as an adult after my diagnosis and who had fairly successfully lost the ability, though, this part of your ask is comfortable territory for me. So I will talk your ear off about this! For context, I went from being afraid to pace in a therapy session with an allistic psychologist who knew about my diagnosis and was supportive of it to being someone who can obviously stim in a department store without caring. It took me about three years, but it can be done!

Please recognise that you’ve spent so long suppressing your need to stim from the world and from yourself, so this relearning will take a while and that’s okay. I mean, you’ve spent more than a decade without a diagnosis or perhaps even context for how you behave and move, engaging in the suppression of what is natural to you. That’s so much training about allistic-appropriate movement and behaviour you have to undo and unravel, and it’s not going to happen overnight, as much as we wish it. It’ll take time.

The first step, if you haven’t already, is exploring and developing your stim kit and your bodily stims. Figure out the toys and stims you like and how you like to use them. Make sure your kit includes toys that are quiet, don’t contain flickering lights, are low-odor and won’t draw too much attention–toys, in other words, ideal for public stimming. Consider mermaid sequin bags/pencil cases, fidget jewellery pieces like necklace pendants and spinner rings, keychain fidgets that can be attached to your bag, etc. You might also wish to consider toys that have become popular, like squishies, as they’ll draw less negative attention through their normalised use. Have more standard toys too, like Fidget Cubes and spinners and Tangles, but make sure you have a selection of stealth toys ready to go for your first ventures into public stimming.

Beginning with toys where I less feared any kind of reaction from others helped a lot in reducing my anxiety that people would say something about my stimming. In all honesty, few people say anything if I fidget with a necklace pendant or a bracelet. Neurotypical people do this sort of thing all the time.

The next step is to work on being comfortable with stimming in private–really comfortable. If you’re in your room with the door closed, stim. If you’re in bed at night in the dark, stim (with toys safe for this purpose). First thing in the morning after waking up, before you’ve interacted with anyone–stim. Make stimming part of your private life, a daily habit, part of your routine. Stim in the shower or bath–plastic toys like Tangles or hedge balls are fine for bathroom use and nobody else will see you do it! Keep toys on your desk and in your pockets so they’re right there, and when you’re alone and you see them, use them, even if only for a moment or two. The more you stim generally, even when you don’t need it, the more unconscious it will become and the easier it will be to stim when you do.

More steps under the cut because long post is long:

This step is not easy. Even with my door closed, at times I felt so desperately uncomfortable (and afraid of people barging in, because that happens at my house). Start with the most subtle/unobtrusive toys even in private, if you’re anxious about this. Just spin a spinner ring while watching TV or stroke a textured pendant. Do these smaller stims until you’re comfortable with them. I will say that keeping other toys within reach made it easy for me to progress from more subtle toys to less subtle ones, so I’d recommend that–starting with a spinner ring but having a Tangle within sight and reach. You might find, as I did, that you reach for the toy before you recognise that you’re ready for it, so have it there, waiting.

Stimming in private is for experimenting--for trying toys out, for trying movements out, for letting yourself move and sway without caring about other people. The more you can do this, and the more you can gain confidence to further experiment with bodily stims and toys, the more you can grow the habit of stimming generally, so I do recommend looking at every opportunity you can find for even short stim sessions.

Third, once you’re starting to feel comfortable with private stimming, look at what situations relating to public stimming might cause more anxiety or discomfort. There’s stimming on a bus, where people look more at their phones than at other people, versus stimming in a shopping centre or on the street. There’s stimming in front of strangers versus stimming in front of friends and family. Stimming in the library might be easier for you than stimming in the classroom during a tutorial–and stimming inside a lecture theatre, with nobody paying attention to you, might be easier than both. Figure out what seems hardest and what seems easiest, even if only in theory, and then write out a list of those situations from easiest to hardest. Take the easiest five from the top, tear them off and throw away the rest of the list, because it’ll feel overwhelming now and you don’t need it. Just keep the five easiest ones and put it aside.

Fourth, make another list with circumstances, right now, in which you think you can easily and safely stim outside the house/bedroom. The cinema was one of mine, so dark nobody can see my hands move, and it’s easy to shove my toy in a bag or pocket when the lights come up. This is just to get you thinking about circumstances where you can, with no risk of anxiety or ableism, stim, to continue the habit-building of your private stimming. If you don’t think about it, you won’t know that you can try it, so I do recommend making this list. You won’t always remember to stim in these situations when you’re in them, and that’s fine and normal, but if you think of it once or twice, it’s worth the effort.

While doing all this, keep stimming in private! Keep cultivating an interest in stimming and stim toys! Add to your kit so you don’t get bored of one toy; get your favourite toy in a couple of different colours; talk to other stimmers; admire toy collection posts, enjoy bodily stimming GIFs--do whatever you can to connect to your stims so stimming has a positive association for you. You don’t have to stim all day long, just make it a habit to pick up a toy or perform a bodily stim once or twice a day, for a little a while, and over time you’ll unconsciously do this more often and for longer. Let your body point you towards where it wants to go and roll with it, because your body does know–you’ve just got to get used to understanding and allowing it again.

Once you are comfortable with both stimming in private and stimming in situations that are theoretically public but are safe (like said cinema), pull out your list of five. You may have written it months ago by now, but see if you still feel like you want to attempt these or if–now you are more used to thinking about stimming and places in which you can stim–you can think of easier ones. Pick the easiest one, with your most subtle toys, and start to make a habit of stimming there, too. When that space becomes comfortable, look at other locations. By this stage, stimming should be becoming more of a habit that it becomes natural to start unconsciously reaching for a fidget pendant. I know that you can’t imagine it now, and neither could I when I began, but it will happen.

In the meantime, in private, introduce less-subtle toys into your stimming, and begin to get comfortable with these where nobody can observe you.

Slowly, over time, you introduce subtle stims into more and more locations/situations, and then you start to introduce less-subtle stims into these locations. You’ll build up both the habit and the confidence over time--and then one day you’ll find yourself rocking on your feet in front of your aunt and don’t realise until later that you were being so damn autistic in front of your most ableist of relatives and you don’t even care. It took me three years to get there, but I did, and you will too.

(I will say, that for me, using stim toys gradually brought me more comfort with unconscious bodily stims, too. I do still stim more with toys, but I’ve regained a lot of natural movement in all sorts of ways through my toys.)

Just be patient and slowly, gradually work your way up from safe/private spaces with subtle toys wherever possible for you. Take your time, don’t push yourself into anything scary until you feel ready for it and just quietly build up the habit, and before you quite know it you will be stimming when you need to. You just have to get your body used to looking toward stimming as the answer.

[thebibliosphere]

Just while we’re on the subject of spelling and grammar, I do appreciate when people point things out to me. Sometimes I do make mistakes, sometimes it’s autocorrect. Other times it’s a pun (forever the curse of a pun lover) and it goes over other people’s heads. Other times I’m writing something off the cuff and in rapid fire and I’ll miss things here and there in the quick scan I do before moving on to the next thing I need to do on here so it feels like I am not ignoring people. 

But here’s the thing, people sending me “wow you’re an editor and you type like that? lol” messages? Is a dick move for several reasons and I’ll tell you why...

First of all: I am not at work when I am on tumblr. I might as well be my second full time job at this point, but I am not in actual fact on the clock when I am here.

I am not at work when I am texting someone unless I am texting them as a client. I am not at work when I am having conversations with people online, unless they are my client. 

You can correct my grammar or my spelling if you want, but don’t make some derisive comment about me being a writer and an editor and not being able to type and make it into a thing like “wow I guess  could be an editor too if it’s that easy” just because you’re being pedantic with someone you are having an informal conversation with. 

It takes more than the ability to spell and get your grammar right 100% of the time to be an editor. It is not an easy job to be an editor. Which is why when I am not at work, my typing goes to absolute shit because I don’t have the excess energy to expend on that level of concentration when I am not working. Or sometimes just plain don’t give a shit. Like, I do not care. My typing is imperfect when I am talking rapid fire, sometimes with multiple people over multiple platforms at once. Woopdiedoo.

And when you’re mean about it? When you say? “I can’t help it, I know it doesn’t matter but it annoys me when people can’t spell”? 

You’re not only admitting that you don’t care enough to regulate behavior which you know is rude to others, you are also being ableist and quite possibly racist as well. 

Not everyone finds it easy to write, and I don’t mean that in the creative sense, I mean that in the very basic sense that some people with learning difficulties struggle to read and write. 

This does not make them less intelligent than you. It does not make them less brilliant than you. It does not mean they give any less of a shit about something important than you do, or are any less deserving of your respect and civility than some asshole who is an asshole but who knows how to use an em dash correctly.

I’ve dropped clients who had good grammar and spelling, but I just plain couldn’t deal with their attitude, and stuck with the people apologizing over and over for how much work I have to do on their manuscript because they know. They know they’re not as good as everyone else and the social stigma around it is so overwhelming it undermines everything they will ever do.

Other people may also not come from the same culture as you, speak the same languages as you, or have had access to the same opportunities you have had. If their way of communicating is understood but doesn’t conform the views of intelligence, quite frankly instilled by White Nationalism and Colonization and you tear them down for not conforming to your limited world view of propriety? They’re not the problem here, you are.

Someone’s ability to spell does not indicate their value or worth, or even the time they have put into something. I see so many rebuttals on this hellsite and on other places, where people go out of their way to invalidate the words of other people simply because they mixed up “your” and “you’re”, even though it doesn’t stop their meaning from being understood (and honestly it’s most likely auto-correct and you know it), but hey I guess it’s just way easier to tear someone down based on an arbitrary and false idea of assigned intelligence and societal worth based on their use of English grammar than it is to come up with an actual rebuttal. Boy aren’t you a hero.

So just...like...I get it, I get you see something and it’s incorrect and part of you may niggle at it and yes there are times when “perfection” is not only expected but required and spelling and grammar is important (or else I wouldn’t have the job I am very good at). But just, I dunno, quit being a dick to people because you’re a pedantic asshole who wants to feel superior. 

At the end of the day we’re all just sentient atoms hurtling towards the same unknown. The least you can do is be kind.

[autistic-answers]

Hi. I'm a recently diagnosed 26-year old autistic woman. There seems to be pretty widespread agreement in the autistic community that it's bad to want a cure, but I kinda don't get it? As far as I can tell, autism only contributes negatives to my life. I would love to get rid of the sensory issues, the executive function issues, and the trouble understanding people. I get that it may be impractical to find a cure, but if it weren't, why is it bad to want one?

trigger warning for ableism, eugenics, genocide

I understand.

Autism is a real disability. Some things truly are harder for us. Some things we can’t do. It’s okay to be frustrated by this. Many autistic people sometimes wish that they were not autistic.

Let’s talk about how autism works for a minute. Autism is caused by a “supercharged brain,” with more neural connections and activity (at least, if I am interpreting the research correctly). It is hardwired into the structure of your brain.

You couldn’t remove autism from your brain without ripping it apart. There’s no one “autism part” of your brain. It’s everywhere. It’s deeply ingrained.

There are 2 types of autism cures that people talk about:

Fake “cures” sold by scammers (e.g. Miracle Mineral Solution), which may be useless, harmful, or potentially deadly

Eugenic cure (creating a test for autism, testing fetuses for autism, and aborting the fetuses that test positive)

(The eugenics movement around WWII posed two more solutions: forced sterilization of disabled people, or killing disabled people, which Hitler did. Nowadays we don’t see many people advocating for these.)

A world without autism would be a world in which you and I are either dead or never given a chance to live.

Realistically speaking... you were born autistic, and you will die autistic. There is no magic pill to ravage your brain and destroy its structure, as that would tend to kill you.

Will humans someday learn how to change the intricate structure of the brain without destroying it? Maybe. I’m not a scientist. But I don’t think we should pin our hopes on a possibility that is unlikely to happen in our lifetimes, and could be very dangerous.

Now let’s talk about attitudes about autism.

Society tends to see autism in a deeply negative light. This isn’t an accident; society is inherently ableist and we have groups like Autism Speaks working to keep it that way.

Ever heard of the social model of disability? It’s the idea that disability is caused by society, not by inability. I always like to describe it using my glasses.

My eyesight is not great. With my eyes, I can’t read clocks, signs, even these words on the screen. My eyes are less capable. There are things my eyes can’t do.

And you know what? None of that matters! I have these magical things called glasses. They level the playing field. I have exactly the same opportunities as my friends with 20/20 vision.

Poor vision is a difference in ability that society accommodates.

Autism is not.

What if nobody paid attention to your stimming because they considered it normal? What if the world was designed to eliminate painful sensory stimuli, and to provide opportunities for sensory seekers to get their needs met? What if meltdowns and shutdowns were seen as normal, and there were quiet rooms in every building where you could go to calm down? What if honesty about one’s feelings were more common? Autism might not be such a big deal then, huh?

The problem isn’t that you were born different. The problem is that society does not adequately support your differences. This lack of support is what defines a disability.

Besides, not all your differences are deficits. Some of these strengths may sound like you:

Enhanced pattern recognition

Focused special interests

Loyalty

Better observation skills

Helpfulness towards other

Superior long-term memory

...and that’s just the beginning. Check out this article for even more.

I’d also like you to read the article “How to Accept Your Autism.” Heck, bookmark it. You shouldn’t have to go through life hating the way you are. Autistic people can be wonderful, capable, caring people. Redefine what success means for you, and work towards goals that will improve your happiness.

(”Being more neurotypical” is a garbage goal. Please take out the trash. You are only going to be sadder if you spend your time comparing yourself to others.)

Here are some example goals that are really good for you:

Spend time with my special interest(s) each day

Hang out with people who make me happy

Eat more fruits and vegetables

Get better at recognizing sensory overload, and taking breaks to keep it from getting worse

Buying and using some great stim toys

Writing down 3 good things that happened today before going to bed

You are good enough the way you are. You are not bad for being autistic. Please stop looking down on yourself. You are worth so much more.

[life-the-universe-pie]

Tribes Against Humanity

So much of our woldview is determined by the tribe of which we are a part. Disagreeing with your tribe is difficult and painful. So if on the Left they decide that we can’t sing about “standing up” against injustice because it’s ableist—not everyone can literally stand up—and I think that’s stupid, it creates a disconnect. Same with my martial arts friends on the Right—I like you, I like working with you, but your ideas are bonkers. It’s hard to feel community in those circumstances.

(Third in a series that starts >here<)

But if the tribe I choose influences my worldview, it’s still the tribe I chose. So a critical element of all this is, how did I choose? Why is the society of nerds congenial but the society of sports fans or frat boys less so? What are the attractive elements of the tribe and what are the dealbreakers that will prevent my joining?

Take the Right. There’s a lot in the espoused values of the Right which I find attractive. Personal responsibility, the worth of the individual, not looking for a handout but making it on your own—all these fit me well. 

But there are dealbreakers for me on the Right as well. The absolute inability to appreciate the experience of those less fortunate or marginalized. Taking individualism to such an extreme that it justifies letting people die in the streets rather than help them. (Which this is not exaggeration. This is the actual, literal consequence of policies pushed by the Right these days.) The authoritarianism. The lack of empathy and imagination. Carrying water for plutocrats.

That list got a bit out of hand. And what I keep coming back to is, I can make all the rationalizations I like but the fundamental issue is one of the heart. I don’t like the worldview of the right. I grew up reading Heinlein and found a lot to like in the libertarian perspective. But I never bought it. I never adopted it as my worldview. On the other hand, I read The Dispossessed and accepted Le Guin’s perspective immediately. One of the characters prepares a list of who will get food and who will not in an expected famine, based on their usefulness to the group. The protagonist comments, “There is always somebody willing to make lists.” Yeah, and don’t be that guy. My recognition was immediate and visceral.

A person is known by the company they keep, because that shows where their soul is. Not the heart, which is a fickle organ. The soul is much more foundational.

And yet the match is never exact, in the first place, and in the second: tribes drift. Often, their self-reinforcing nature makes them become more extreme. What starts as a harmless exaggeration becomes lunacy—a disconnect with the facts of the world as they are.

To choose this political moment as an example, there’s always been some tendency towards conspiracy theories on the Right. On the Left, too—but at one time the conspiracy theorists on Left and Right were equally kept on the margins. The John Birchers and Area 21 people were both fringe elements with no access to or control over policy. They were pandered to sometimes, by more mainstream politicians—but forgotten as soon as their votes were in the bag.

What changed is that Republicans decided they could not do without these people to win elections. First was the opening created by the Democrats embracing civil rights—the Southern Strategy was an explicit decision to appeal to racists on racist grounds. Then came Reagan, giving a still-civilized voice to the same people. Reagan invented the welfare queen not just to make the case against welfare—he used her to make the case for Americans to turn against Americans, for those with little to be suspicious of those with less. And more than that, she made the case that government itself is the enemy, giving your hard-earned money to those who never worked a day in their lives.

And if government is the enemy, what else will it not do? Gingrich brought a whole new class of Republicans into power, who did not have the restraints of the previous generation. They led their tribe to a new place. Vince Foster didn’t just commit suicide, he was murdered; and he wasn’t the first or last; there are dozens of murders to the Clintons’ account. But the government is the enemy, so it’s perfectly logical that the FBI is in the Clintons’ pocket which just explains why they got away with it. So when Trump is accused of collaborating with the Russians, who are you going to believe? The FBI, who are already compromised? Or the people in your tribe who will explain to you how it all works?

Having bought into the worldview of this tribe and having followed it through its evolution from the 80’s to today, this all makes sense. Everything in the bubble is justified and proved by everything else in the bubble and there is no external reality to set perspective—because anything outside the bubble is lies anyway.

Summing up, choosing a tribe (or several) is almost inevitable and my initial choice has to do with my innate characteristics. In what tribe available to me is my soul most at home? That is where I will gravitate. The tribe becomes my community and its discourse sets the parameters for how I see the world. And the more committed to my tribe I am, the more that is so. Though I chose the tribe, the tribe then becomes my guide, my framework, and the lenses by which I see the world. But even if the tribe was healthy at the beginning, there is no law of the universe that says it will remain healthy. And if it develops a sickness, it is likely to take me with it.

My task as a human then is to live in my tribe, and yet not be bound by it. To be a member of my community and yet still be myself.

(To be continued.)

[fashiontrendin-blog]

Gal Gadot’s Seemingly Innocent Tribute To Stephen Hawking Pissed Off Some People

https://fashion-trendin.com/gal-gadots-seemingly-innocent-tribute-to-stephen-hawking-pissed-off-some-people/

Gal Gadot’s Seemingly Innocent Tribute To Stephen Hawking Pissed Off Some People

Actress Gal Gadot probably didn’t mean to offend anyone with a recent tweet — but she certainly did.

Stephen Hawking died Wednesday at the age of 76 from complications due to amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, a progressive neurodegenerative disease. On the day of his death, many, including “Wonder Woman” herself, mourned the world-renowned theoretical physicist and cosmologist on social media.

“Rest in peace Dr. Hawking,” Gadot wrote in a tweet. “Now you’re free of any physical constraints. Your brilliance and wisdom will be cherished forever.”

Rest in peace Dr. Hawking. Now you’re free of any physical constraints.. Your brilliance and wisdom will be cherished forever ✨ pic.twitter.com/EQzSxqNTuN

— Gal Gadot (@GalGadot) March 14, 2018

People with disabilities and their advocates took offense at Gadot’s statement that Hawking was finally free of his “physical constraints” and said the assertion was ableist, or discriminatory toward people with disabilities.

Hawking was diagnosed with ALS at the age of 21 — and is believed to have been living with the condition longer than any other patient in medical history. He spent the majority of his public life in a wheelchair and used a sophisticated computer system to speak.

Several people on Twitter explained to Gadot that it’s bothersome when a disability is viewed as something that inhibits a person from living life to the fullest and that death relieves a person of this burden.

I think you’re fantastic Gal but this tweet is very ableist. His physical constraints didn’t stop him from changing the world. People with disabilities don’t wish for death to be free of their challenges. We wish to be valued for what we CAN do, not pitied for we can’t.

— Adam B. Zimmerman (@ABZimm) March 14, 2018

Yes!!!! Thank you. Stop making death seem like a positive alternative to being disabled!! It’s that attitude more than anything that makes disabled ppl’s lives difficult.

— Nina Fiore (@NeedsNYC) March 14, 2018

Gal I am chronically ill. Can’t shower or even get myself out of bed. Lost 18 years thus far. But I ran a charity funding research for my illness #ME and advocate for Change. All from my bed. Is my life not important? Disablement is not shameful, bigotry is. Watch @unrestfilm pls

— amara campbell (@amaracampbell) March 14, 2018

Ms. Gadot, he will always be remembered for his brilliance and humor despite his physical condition. I must disagree however, with a mind like his, he had no physical constants. He took trips through space, time and dimensions that we could not even imagine. May he Rest In Peace.

— Rev. Gary Conkle (@nthdeegree) March 14, 2018

So what we’re NOT gonna do is talk about Stephen Hawking’s disability like it was a tragedy. Because it wasn’t. Disabilities are not tragedies. Abled people can go away. https://t.co/e1PB6TB79F

— Ophelia Brown (@bandaidknees) March 14, 2018

Hawking has even credited his ALS as a motivating factor in his life.

“Before my condition was diagnosed, I had been very bored with life. There had not seemed to be anything worth doing,” he wrote in his 2013 memoir My Brief History. The realization that he might not even live long enough to earn his Ph.D. inspired Hawking to pour himself into his work.

“I suddenly realized that there were a lot of worthwhile things I could do if I was reprieved,” he wrote.

He added cheekily, “After all, if I was going to die anyway, I might as well do some good.”

Gadot is not alone in her thinking, however. Some disability advocates were bothered by media coverage that fixated on Hawking’s ALS and suggested he was heroic simply for living with the condition.

for the love of dog and all things holy, please don’t describe stephen hawking as having overcome his disability, or his disability as inability, or any number of boring, ableist tropes that take away from what an utter badass he was and how the world was better for him in it.

— ace ratcliff ♿️ (@MortuaryReport) March 14, 2018

Cartoonist Mitchell Toy ‏also drew a tribute to Hawking that many viewed as ableist.

I know that people are not sharing this image to be ableist, but please remember that it ties into the rhetoric of “Stephen Hawking is now free of his wheelchair now that he is dead”. This is highly problematic since it reinforces the “better dead than disabled” trope. pic.twitter.com/08csp8Ml1d

— Derek Newman-Stille (@DNewmanStille) March 15, 2018

The image also suggests that Hawking was not free as a wheelchair user. Remember, his wheelchair allowed him mobility and access to different areas. He was not “confined to his wheelchair” as people keep saying – his wheelchair was a vehicle of freedom, not confinement.

— Derek Newman-Stille (@DNewmanStille) March 15, 2018

This is such a problematic image! It is an ableist fantasy that every person with a disability dreams of being made “Typically-abled” in the after-life. Not to mention that Stephen Hawking did not believe in an after-life! https://t.co/GZJXA1SRqE

— Hank Jenkins (@HankAJenkins) March 14, 2018

“It just reinforces the ableist view that disability is something negative,” filmmaker and activist Dominick Evans, who has spinal muscular atrophy — a progressive neuromuscular disability — told HuffPost of Gadot’s comment. “[It] encourages sentiments and beliefs that disabled people are somehow less simply because of their disability.”

“Do I think people mean something harmful when they say this?” he added. “No, I think they believe they are being kind, but the long-term implications of reinforcing Able Normative Supremacy in this world has direct implications and effects on disabled people ― especially with how we are viewed and treated.”

http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js