#yes you want to be free of violence. that would be the only concession.

[moreweightamongplanes]

ok so idk if this means anything to anyone but me specifically but: virginia woolf would hate terfs. she'd hate them so much.

[krillissue]

Shower - Lazarus "Coyote" Nashville Pt 1 (Prequel)

parts 1 and 2 of my trisona stuff is here but this is a prequel that takes place before August was August. Lazarus and Matheus (@cosmiq) both work for the Eye of Michael and were Hopeland kids. Sorry for only writing stuff about my ocs but these tragic gay men have consumed by every waking thought. ~700 words

It was a quiet and mild evening. Lazarus sat in the open window, blowing his cigarette smoke out. It was a concession to his insufferable roommate, Matheus. He had a certain affinity for worms Lazarus didn’t understand and the scent of the smoke irritated him. 

Good. Matheus was irritating. Lazarus didn’t know if he’d ever met someone that could get under his skin like that. He’d done something stupid on their job again, reckless and dangerous. He swore the guy had a death wish. It wouldn’t normally be a concern of his, they were both disposable members of the Eye of Michael, but Matheus was going to get them both killed at this rate.  

Sharing a hotel room wasn’t his ideal situation either. Even though there were two beds and it was cheaper than two rooms, he didn’t like sharing his space. Lazarus had spent years in the orphanage sharing his room, he thought now that he was an adult that part of his life was over. But no, there was Matheus. He was aggravating, alway leaving his things around and asking him asinine questions. He disturbed him late at night with his glowing eyes and sleep talking. Honestly he couldn’t have been stuck with anyone worse. 

“Hey, Rusty,” Matheus called from the open bathroom door, dragging his attention out of his thoughts. “Shower’s free.” He always had that smirk on his face that made Lazarus want to punch him. But his smirk wasn’t what caught his eye. Matheus was naked save for a towel wrapped low on his hips, his skin still damp from the shower. Lazarus had sucked in a breath at the sight but luckily the cigarette between his lips provided him cover. 

The immediate heat that flooded him mixed with shame. He’d never felt like this about anyone, not really, and of course it had to be Matheus of all people. He had to stop staring. It didn’t matter that his partner had nice broad shoulders and distracting arms. Lazarus shouldn’t follow the bead of water that dripped its way between his bare pecs. He shouldn’t be wondering about what was beneath that towel. It wasn't his business, none of his concern. 

“You hear me?” Matheus snapped in front of his face, startling him. 

“Yes, I heard you,” He snapped back, smacking his hand away. “Can’t you see I’m still smokin’ here?” Matheus opened his mouth to make some flirty comment or crack a joke but Lazarus wasn’t in the mood. His face still felt too hot for Matheus to be this close to him. ”Just shut up.” 

“What’s up your ass tonight?” Matheus just kept leaning on the sill next to him, completely obvious to his burning face. He thanked the stars and angels above for his darker complexion. But Matheus could tell he was riling him up anyway and there was no escaping him once you gave him even the smallest hint of attention. 

“You,” He tried to spit but Matheus snorted and he realized his mistake. “Just— Shut up and leave me be. Haven’t you started enough shit today?” 

“What did I do?” He asked with false innocence, his eyes flicking down to the cigarette still between his lips. It was burning out faster than he’d like stuck between the window and his roommate. He contemplated briefly jumping out but it would just encourage Matheus further. 

“Y’know exactly what you did, bug boy. I’m tired of covering for your ass.” He stood and shoved Matheus back, getting in his face. Lazarus was just a bit shorter and it pissed him off, too. Matheus just smiled, crossing his arms. He wanted to hit him, he wanted to kiss him. He did neither. 

“Do somethin’ about it then,” Matheus challenged, that light sparkling in his eyes for violence. He liked getting Lazarus angry enough to hit him but he didn’t take the bait this time. Not while he was naked. The last thing Lazarus needed was that embarrassment. 

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Lazarus blew the last of his smoke directly in his face before brushing past him to the bathroom. He felt shaky and hot but he’d done it, he could calm himself down in the shower and when he was done, hopefully Matheus would be asleep. 

If he was lucky. 

Lazarus wasn’t a lucky man. 

[imakemywings]

"The fact that the Feanorians choose to pursue Luthien's Silmaril with violence and bloodshed rather than make a go at the two that Melkor has always revealed their hypocrisy to me." YES!! YES TO THIS, I always wonder why they chose to do the easy way out and commit horrific acts instead of doing what Luthien did to retake the silmarils from Melkor again. Didn't Maedhros hear the deeds of Beren and Luthien? How come he didn't go like 'Maybe I should do that too instead of committing mass murder?' Like, many can boast about the might of the feanorians, but the fact that they committed the kinslayings when Doriath was vulnerable and the ruler was still young shows how much of a coward they are. You said so many good takes that I really want to discuss, but I don't wanna annoy you with too many asks hahahaha

As someone fairly pointed out in the tags, an effort for Melkor's total overthrow was made (I do think "defeat Melkor" and "regain the Silmarils" are two separate goals, although the former would definitely make the latter much easier), and the Nirnaeth ends in a very decisive and lasting defeat for Maedhros, which I'm sure put him off trying again.

Interestingly, Beren and Luthien were precisely what inspired Maedhros to try the Nirnaeth:

"In those days Maedhros son of Fëanor lifted up his heart, perceiving that Morgoth was not unassailable; for the deeds of Beren and Lúthien were sung in many songs throughout Beleriand...and he began those counsels for the raising of the fortunes of the Eldar that are called the Union of Maedhros." ( "Of The Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad," The Silmarillion)

However, what's notable about all other successful efforts to get in and out of Angband is that they were all stealth missions to a degree. It was just a handful of people--or even a single person--not a whole armed assault. Why didn't Maedhros ever try this? We can only speculate.

My personal take has been that he simply despaired after the Nirnaeth. He believed Melkor could not be overcome (indicated above he had already before the Nirnaeth begun to believe that it was not possible to successfully attack Melkor) and therefore there was no point in trying to obtain the two Silmarils that he had--better to go for the one where they might have success: the one held by other Elves, who can be defeated.

Particularly interesting is that where Maedhros originally took hope from the success of Beren and Luthien, he later apparently comes to see it as their holding something which belongs to him--which to me speaks to his no longer seeing the other two Silmarils as in play, and falling back on the one which is still obtainable.

Does that justify it? Of course not.

Furthermore, one would ask why this allegedly skilled diplomat was unable to come to any understanding with Dior and in this, I'm inclined to put the fault on Maedhros, who is older and frankly, after what his house has done to Dior's house, the one who needs to be making concessions. After all, why was it so urgent? Why could the Feanorians not take time to try to convince Dior of their view? Elves are immortal, after all--it's not like Maedhros had a ticking clock behind him, unless he believed (as I think he did) that Melkor's victory over Middle-earth was assured, and wanted to get at least one Silmaril before the ultimate defeat of the free peoples of Middle-earth. But that's just my opinion.

As I noted to a friend this morning, I have an unfortunate condition of being incapable of not sharing my opinion when it's asked for, so don't you worry about that XD If I need a break from answering asks, I'll take it.

Anyway, this stuff is so interesting to think about! It's not really a surprise why Maedhros has captured the fandom so well--there's a lot going on there.

[maenage-a]

parts of the jw 4 script (a special thanks to @yllowpages <3) that live in my mind rent free. spoilers ahead.

i'll start from the very beginning, of course. and oh, do a lot of things make me unwell here.

charon

first of all, is the way winston was expecting that gun to stay on him. he was, if reason failed, ready to "such is life" his way to the grave. he does in fact tell charon, as they enter the office, that he shouldn't be here for this, that he shouldn't watch him get executed for his mistakes. but charon, of course, stays, bless his soul and his loyalty and everything about him (but i'll get to him on the multi, let's not digress).

the point here is: he doesn't let him fall. he goes down with him. he cradles his head!!! it's an awfully intimate and caring gesture. in the movie he kneels down after, when the marquis is leaving (it makes sense why, logistically). and don't get me wrong, i love that version too. winston staying still until the very last moment, not baring (almost) any reaction. but there's something so gentle about the script version that has such a grip on me. he keeps holding him, he takes his hand and tells him to rest. openly calls him friend, too. it gives me the impression that i'm intruding on something very private here, almost as if i should be looking the other way.

and here it is. the hotel is one thing.. still a blow, still hits right to the heart, to the very core of who he is, but charon? charon is unforgivable. in killing him to supposedly teach him a lesson the marquis has signed his own death. of course he can't kill him directly, he's smarter than that, but he will find a way (and he will indeed).

vincent

bastard on bastard violence, my beloved. winston walked so neil josten and his legendary "Pity only gets you so many concessions, and you used yours up about six insults ago. So please, please, just shut the fuck up and leave us alone.” speech to a mafia adjacent person could run. neil is half british, winston is half scottish (in my portrayal).. maybe it's the european part in them.

this is almost word for word in the movie, but why is it so much cuntier on page?

bonus

yes, winston is smart. yes, he plans ahead. but this little, crucial detail, slipped away from him. i think that, ideally, winston would keep himself off from the line of fire, from exposing himself to such a risk. i love this, so much: he doesn't know everything, he can't possibly account for every single variable there is.

and the same thing could be said for the rooftop scene in parabellum. i've seen people theorize that he knew exactly where john would fall so he wouldn't die. and i.. personally don't agree with that. it takes away the fact, painful as it is, that john's survival was not his end goal there. a nice strike of luck, surely, since he didn't want john dead, but that was also not the point. his main objective was to not have the hotel and everything else that comes with it stripped from him. and with it, a chance, at least that, of john living to see another day. but not a certainty. and it does work well for him in the end, albeit temporarily: the abjudicator has seen him shoot. not once, not twice, but five times (yes, i counted them, leave me alone). so even if john walks away, she can't say winston didn't try to kill him. she doesn't believe him, i do think, but she has no choice but to walk away.

john

if you listen really well, you can hear me chew on forniture. this truly is the culmination of their almost but not quite father-son relationship (also no, i don't think they're actually father and son. or blood related in any other way). the fact that winston only ever refers to john as "son" at his grave, when john can't possibly hear him, after having buried him, much like a father would, is so tragically beautiful to me. and it leads me to believe that 1) he might not have wanted it between them, spoken out loud, not wishing to become another rope around john's neck, yet another thing between him and freedom. sure, he helped him along the way, best he could. he was — and the continental as a whole — i think, a stable and fixed point in his life, someone and somewhere he could always turn to. 2) he possibly also didn't see it that way until then, not so surely at least to admit to it. to empty air and a gravestone, but still.

[sabineelectricheart]

Song of the Caged Bird

Summary: Cupid has only one thing for herself in her prison, her singing. Her captor takes that away, too.

Rating: M - Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16 with non-explicit suggestive adult themes, references to some violence, or coarse language.

Words: 1000

Notes: The tag on AO3 was so lonely that I felt that it was a waste. So, here we are.

Cupid cried, kept quiet, slept and sang.

Every day was the same for her. The sun rose and fell from the sliver of a horizon that could be seen from her window, in a place that she does not know where it is, exactly. In fact, everything in these last few years is strange and hazy at best, and no-one was interested in walking her through the timeline of events. Not that there was anyone to talk to, anyways.

He left her in a cute little room underground, which served essentially as a holding cell, and said he would be back as soon as possible. It has been some seven sun cycles since then, but she is not holding her breath. It was lonely, but she could appreciate the silence.

There was little to do, though. He had taken away her bow and arrow, which she had been able to steal back, and there is not much in the way of entertainment in this new world. It reminded her of her earliest years as a goddess, back to the times of the Bonfire of Vanities. Things are strange and she longs for the life she has known as human.

Cupid is allowed some concessions, though, as she is allowed to retain artifacts from the times before. He wanted her to play with the expensive items he brought and preserved for her until he came back, so that she would not be too bored and remember him.

Yes, it was incredibly nice to be surrounded by things to remind her of him. Even if it hurts to see love and happiness and electricity shown on the screen, even if it came at a too steep of a price.

So, she sang and sang, to escape reality. It had been a habit she had picked up during her centuries of godly cloister, a habit she had not been compelled to follow on in the seven years she lived in Los York.

She closed her eyes and dreamed that she was free again. She wished to be free when she was singing, just like in the olden days. Singing was her only key to escape from him, from this place, and she wanted to protect it no matter what.

Alas, she could not.

"I will be right back, I promise." He kissed her lips with a deceiving softness and hugged her firmly.

Cupid started singing as soon as she heard the door closing. She closed her eyes and dreamed, unaware of him.

He listened to the woman for a long time. Did she always sing like this? Why did she not sing when he was with her? Is this why his soul, before he was awakened to his true nature, felt so connected with her? It is like the sirens of the Odyssey, it is sweet perdition in song form.

She just proved to him that she indeed is an actual goddess. Not the sort of grotesque creature, like Minerva, or self-aggrandizing fools, like Jupiter. A goddess from the legends that Aristotle taught him many millennia ago. One with actual powers and abilities, with potentialities, and not merely the representation of a meaningless feeling that floated in weaker hearts and minds.

Alexander was enthralled.

"My beautiful, divine goddess. My queen, my precious goddess."

The moment that Cupid heard his ecstatic voice, she stopped and started to tremble. How could she be so careless?

"Why do you never sing while I am around?” The blond man wonders aloud and opens the shut door. “You are a shy, so shy goddess, trying to withhold this gift from your Basileus."

He enters the room again, sat down on a chair and took the woman on his lap, snaking his strong arms tightly around her waist. He grabs her face with pure admiration and caresses her hair.

"Your shyness makes me so wild, my goddess, I can barely contain myself. I scarcely believe that you had this gift all this time and never deigned to mention it, even once. How could you hide it from me?” He wonders, with just a tint of rage lacing his voice.

“Dominus, I…” Cupid choked, but words would not leave her throat.

Alexander held up a hand, demanding her silence. He smiled, one that, in all objective metrics, should be just like the one which she once loved more than life itself. Alas, this man did not seem like himself, it was a twisted smile, tainted with blood, violence and obsession. None of the innocence she came to love, all gone to never return.

“I care not for excuses, and it does not matter. Now, sing for me." He demands, lust taking over his eyes. "Sing for me, my goddess."

"Please, please do not do this." She cried.

"Why are you crying? Are you too shy to sing?" He kissed her lips.

"It was my only way to…" She sobbed. He stopped holding her face and rested her head on his shoulder. "You cannot have it. You have so much, and I…!"

"Shh. It is perfectly fine if you are not ready, yet.” He consoles, patronizing. “We have all the time in the world and you can sing for me later."

"N-no!" She tried to get away but he held her tight. "Let me go!"

"My shy little goddess needs to be comfortable enough, that is all. Do you understand me?” His hold on her waist tightens uncomfortably. “You are too shy, which is why you are acting like this."

"No, I want to go. I want to be free!" She cried and sobbed over and over again.

Cupid felt cornered, as if her entire existence was now over. His hands running through her hair and waist made she shudder. She felt like a trapped pet, crying and begging for a mercy that would never come, praying for a god that has already been slaughtered.

"Quiet, I am here." Alexander lovingly kissed the top of her head.

She screams in despair.

*_*_*_*_*

Cupid Parasite Masterlist

[legendaryoikawa]

haikyuu boys as part of the mafia + how he met you

note: i just thought of this while im washing the dishes HAHA. female reader insert. also happy birthday to the ultimate baby bokuto 🥺💖

warnings: nsfw, mention of violence, grammar issues because im dumb asf

bokuto kotaro 

decoy/manipulator

has a two persona that is best used especially when he is in the midst of a deal

even though he’s a decoy, it is enough to send a rival down to his knees and beg for his mercy

Because bokuto doesn’t show tiny bit of his mercy especially when his dominating side takes over him

Is a good manipulator. To the point that you would have constant nightmares with just the slip of his words.

Good with his hands. Quite aggressive. Yet he plays his cards elegantly like the man he is.

you met him in a luxurious casino. you were the attendant of his table and you could always note how fast his mood changes and it was scary. you carefully stacked the chips in front of him, feeling the heavy weight of his stern gaze. you saw from your peripheral how his hands slid down the edge of the mahogany. “play with me.”

you didn’t answere and continued on organizing the stacks for a new game as per bokuto’s request but he repeated those words again, “play with me. you. im talking to you.”

and you did. he lost. and that’s what made you terrified even more. he grew dejected and stormed out of the casino like a raging tsunami.

that didn’t made bokuto happy at all, so he made sure to find you so he could play with you once more. it didn’t caused him a sweat when he found out where your apartment complex is. and his words have shaken you when he laid the stacks of money on your table and said, “play with me. the loser gets to kiss the winner, if you’ll allow it of course.”

there’s something with his words that are like witchcraft spells. and you found yourself nodding, yes.

daichi sawamura - 

the kingpin. 

daichi is the leader of the mafia group: karasuno or better known as their alias ‘lethal crows’.

 daichi is born into the syndicate. so he doesn’t get caught up unlike amateur people in the black world. 

undergone strenuous training just to prove himself as the worthy kingpin. 

he often orders the assassination and criminal deals. 

he isn’t as ‘intimidating’ like how people expect kingpins to act, but daichi has his own way that makes people so afraid of him. if he wishes to kill on the spot, he kills. even if you’re something important, if you annoyed him to the edge, you’re six feet deep.

however, one flaw of daichi is that he prioritizes his members that he doesn’t oversees the barriers coming his way. 

you met him during this time when curiosity get the best of you. you entered this fancy yet abandoned building in hopes of scavenging something that was left by its past owners. however, no treasure came to your view, rather a drug deal with bunch of rogue looking guys.

“daichi?” you were so shocked to see your co-worker in an expensive designer coat sitting in this throne like chair with stack of bills piled in front of him. he isn’t the typical guy you were used to seeing: the goofy guy in the fryer with his greasy apron. 

you didn’t expect him to be so, different.

“who’s this?” tanaka rose up to his seat. cracking his knuckles while giving you a dangerous look. 

“let her enjoy her remaining life as a free citizen. after this..” he counted the bills and paused at look at you, “you’re coming with me.”

akaashi keiji 

weaponry/gadgets specialist

Quite reserved.

He is often hired to big projects but he would turn it down if it requires his apperance.

No matter how much his members push him to bite off the job he wouldn’t, not unless he works up in the roofs, alone.

Usually works in the shadows. Where his identity is hidden.

Ask him about any weapon, he’ll have an answer in a few.

give him a vague description of a bomb, he’ll have it ready, ticking, for you.

he met you when you walked into his first walked in his gang’s base, with your red stilettos clicking aggressively against the marbled tile. then comes the second meeting and the third till you’ve both made good acquaintances. you liked him. for both his smart mouth and big dick. if he wasn’t just too difficult to persevere.

but you could see that way his breath hitched the moment you walked in with your fitted versace dress. which made you cocky from head to toe.

he could note the way your lips tugs upward as you scan the whole interior of the place. you didn’t need it though as you know every curvature of the place. you were just that shit going around him so you could give him a good view of yourself that he refused indulge in.

you stopped midway to stare at him from head to toe then back to his pretty face. gaze fixated on his kissable lips. despite your urge to kiss him up, you decided to tease, “give me something bold.”

“pardon?”

“you heard me, akaashi.”

and he gave you a fancy handgun, a caliber. however that wasn’t your request. you pulled his shirt and whispered to his ears, “i said i want something bold. want me to spell it out for you? A-k-a-a-s-h-i”

and you walked away. just like that and things just became bold in your apartment complex.

oikawa tooru 

underboss/ loverboy

Smooth talker. Usually uses his pretty face as an advantage to get something off girls that swoon over him.

he is quite unpredictable as well.

he approached you out of nowhere in the met gala and you were forced to be in his own disposal. he isn’t really a headache to deal with. but you aren’t here to flirt around especially with pretty boys like him. there is something in him that is similar with a ticking bomb. so best is to admire guys like him at a distance.

however, oikawa is determined to chase over you. because you are like a diamond in a room full of charcoal.

he approached you immediately when you stopped by in the concession stand to nurse yourself a cocktail.

“fancy a dance, miss?”

you looked at him. oikawa tooru. beautiful as they say but you immediately walked away.

oikawa smirked to himself, “if you just don’thold a precious information. i wouldn’t chase over a doll like you.”

tendou satori 

head of intelligence

can predict the moves of the rivalry gang

so in result they end up getting butchered thanks to tendou’s half assed predictions.

guess monster

the boys entered the room with a agitated expression painting their faces.

tendou raised a brow and looked at the boy filling in their ammos. “what’s up boys?”

“we got played.”

tendou grinned. “oh, interesting. who pulled an ace card?”

“y/n of the yakuza.”

tendou made sure to track you down for meddling in his play.

kyoutani kentaro 

torture specialist

All the dirty work is assigned to him

But kyoutani is quite carefree with his job, to the point where oikawa needs to step in to clean after his mess.

he is really brutal when it comes to finishing a rat pack from a rivalry gang and he gives no mercy.

knows every possible way of killing

but he fancies using the bat since it can strengthen his arm strength and it’s practical.

loves the sound of metal clashing with hard skull with the splasing sound of fresh blood slightly staining his skin.

you were both childhood sweethearts. however, you were the only one pursuing him because he doesn’t want to commit anything to you. not until you found out about him and his crucial job out of accident and he was forced to confess to you, and it was the reason why he don’t want to accept your heart.

one time he went home and he couldn’t find any trace of you. panic coursed through his veins when he heard your cries over the line.

“fucking touch her and i will drench all of you in boiling acid.”

ushijima wakatoshi 

hand to hand combatant

people are usually afraid of him because of how he could flip people off easily without drenching a sweat

he has the capability to run a whole gang just by himself

but he would just rather go and fight fist first

and chill afterwards

both of you met when you were scouted as a new member and part of the group’s test is to have a hand to hand combant against wakatoshi.

you were mortified when he approached you. with his large built and driving aura.

“ready?” he asked lowly.

“no?”

he raised a brow, “i bet.”

and he let you win just so you would get accepted in the gang.

tanaka ryuunosuke

hand to hand combatant

really moody

aggressive and violent

could kill with just the use of his hands, alone. 

but he has his soft moments too but this happens when the moon turns blue.

you were tasked to be his sparring mate. and to be frank, you were really spooked and frightened that you won’t get out of the arena, working let alone, alive. 

and to see him up close, it was really, a deal. he’s tall, with a slim yet broad frame, and really is intimidating. he gave you a look and ruffled your hair. 

“i don’t hurt girls.”

that was the first time you saw him smile. rumors said he never did. 

sugawara koushi 

consigliere

smart shit. 

he’s usually responsible for the activities of the group.

master at hiding the illegal stuff away from prying eyes

and a genius at continuing the legal stuffs even though it’s just for a front

he is also the adviser of the kingpin, especially at plans and deals on heists and forgery

at some point, he is the official diplomat for Japan.

he met you when he is trying to study the floor plan on the central bank. he was in this beige tux, with his gray hair brush up to give justice to his whole other persona. 

you came up to him and offered him installation plans and bank deals perfect for a bachelor like him. 

he gave you a smile, “i will be meeting you soon.”

and he did. in a creepy dali mask and a red overalls. “i told you, i will be back.”

iwaizumi hajime 

sniper

he goes with codes to maintain his anonymity

he works like a black panther, often sleek yet deadly

even the police couldn’t catch up with his hideous crimes because he never leaves unwanted trails behind

kills in his own special way

one time, he made someone swallow a C-4 and stitched his neck leaving it looking so grotesque

and boom, red, bloody like a slaughter house

he once made his way onto one of oikawa’s fancy bar to unwind. however, things went distrupt when there was a sudden shootout. he was beyond amused at how petty the shooters were aiming down at him. it was full of chaos.

he ducked down to fill in his ammos but he could see a figure crouched down underneath the satin cloths drench haphazardly above the tall tables.

he yanked the cloth and saw you there, looking lost as fuck. “what the hell are you doing here?!”

your eyes widened at the sight of the handsome man looking down at you as if you’re some unknown species. “uhm— chilling?”

he repeated your words. “chilling? in a middle of a fucking shoot out?”

“yo. i was lost okay? i don’t know where the exit is”

he grabbed you and threw his arms over your head so you’re protected from the stray bullets ricocheting over the place. “you’re a fucking goner.”

—

i hope you guys like this 🥺💖💖

[lazyliars]

The Quackity Meta: a Tale of Two Absolutes

More than anything else, Quackity wants control, and to never, ever lose his own autonomy. And that is why he despises Technoblade.

But wait, how is Technoblade a threat to Quackity's autonomy? Techno is all for individual freedom! He wants to eradicate the government so that no one can be controlled!

There's the question though... How do people exercise control within the framework of a video game like m/inec/raft?

“a person exercising power or control in a cruel, unreasonable, or arbitrary way.”

Power on the Dream SMP cannot be translated one-to-one with real  life power. In real life, yes, a government had infinitely more power than an individual, for numerous reasons. But on the Dream SMP, the government's power is always directly tied to the power of the individuals who are willing to defend that power.

Technoblade is powerful. This is not debatable. How he uses this power, historically, has been a mix of generosity and self-interest*, although primarily the latter.

Generously, He gains resources and then distributes them to his allies during the Pogtopia Rebellion, gearing everyone up and giving them a fighting chance against Dream. However, in the aftermath of Tubbo's being appointed president, Techno turns on them, swiftly and mercilessly. The moment that it becomes clear** that Pogtopia's interests don't align with his own, he crushes them with the aim to prevent them from ever recovering.

( *I use self-interest as a neutral term here. Everyone on the SMP is selfish to some extent – it doesn't make them evil, and in fact has been treated as a positive at times, as well as a negative.

**I want to note that whether or not Technoblade knew of Pogtopia's goal of reinstating the government is unclear. It would seem that from Techno's POV that he didn't know, or assumed that it was a minority who wanted another government. But on the other hand, no one was actively lying to him about their intent, and people like Tommy and Quackity made their goals very clear.  Further doubt is cast on the idea that Techno had no idea when you take into account that he enchanted the Netherite armor in the vault with worthless enchants like Fire Res.

Ultimately, there's no way to know until it is confirmed by cc!Techno himself, and it doesn't pertain that much to this analysis, but I'm aware that it's a hotly debated topic so I wanted to address it.)

It can be argued that Techno's destruction of L'manberg, both the first and especially the second time, was necessary. It can also be argued that it was cruel and a disproportionate retribution against both culpable and innocent parties. Extant of these arguments however, how does it feature into control?

Well, we can’t talk about control without mentioning the most controlling force on the server and the other person on Quackity's hitlist, Dream.

Dream is a tyrant. I don't think anyone can really make an argument against that in good faith at this point. He ticks off every box, no matter how vague or esoteric. This makes the interactions that Quackity and Techno have with him very interesting.

Quackity despises Dream. He's one of the earliest adopters of the hating-Dream-train, to the point that some people have compared him to Cassandra, a priestess who was cursed with the vision of prophecies that would always be true, but never believed. And indeed, Quackity's apprehension of Dream comes in as early as Pogtopia, and grows at a steady pace after the fact.

But despite his rightfully calling out Dream's hypocrisies and his controlling tendencies, Quackity was largely ignored on this front, especially when the time came to exile Tommy and Quackity basically predicted the next arc – If they gave Dream this concession, they would never be able to get out from under his thumb. Flash forwards to the Green Festival, and the moment Tubbo hands over the discs, any illusion of nicety drops and Dream proceeds to destroy them, side by side with...

Technoblade has always had an amiable relationship with Dream. From their first proper interaction on the server being Dream giving Techno some hefty resources, to their snap team-up on Doomsday, they've had a smooth time, with some notable bumps.

Techno fought against Dream during the Pogtopia rebellion, but when it became clear that Dream was more invested in chaos than his other allies, Techno temporarily allied with him to summon the Withers and drive the nail deeper into Manberg’s coffin.

The only time Techno has really bothered to challenge Dream directly is when he came for Tommy in exile. Techno went to great lengths to protect Tommy, hiding him and distracting Dream.

He did give Dream the option to call in his favor and take Tommy, but there are arguments to be made that he did this more as a challenge – that Tommy is worth the favor. Again, we probably wont ever know.

The difference in their relationships with Dream is polarizing. It also reflects the difference in personality – Quackity is an aggressive, ambitious person, whereas Techno leans more towards passivity and caution. Quackity is looking for enemies to challenge, where Techno is avoiding them, people who actually stand a chance against him most of all.

Technoblade is an individual with extraordinary amounts of power. Others have pointed out that he is rarely challenged by other characters or the narrative, and regardless of the merits or flaws in that, it paints him as nearly untouchable. His being in the good graces of Dream only adds to this.

And like with Dream, the only way that people have been able to threaten Techno is when they work together. The Butcher Army, for all it's flaws, managed to capture Techno through numbers – with Tubbo and Fundy (barely) holding off Techno's blood rage while Quackity snuck off to take Carl hostage. And they would have gotten away with it too, if the other most powerful person on the server hadn't stepped in – both by pointing Techno to a totem of undying in the days before the attack, and by getting Punz to cause a distraction and directing Techno to the final control room, where he could escape with Carl.

So, if the most powerful person in the world can only be threatened by people working together, and the most common form of organization is by government, then what does it say about Technoblade, who wants the government destroyed?

People like Tubbo, Fundy and yes, Quackity, all benefit from organizing and working together. They all tend to be less armed, less ready to defend themselves, and completely unable to stand up to titans like Techno and Dream on their own. It's safety in numbers, but it's also control, and control is power.

Ranboo's insistence that Snowchester is a Government is interesting when viewed through this lens. Ranboo is another person who is insanely rich, and able to defend himself and his belongings consistently. Ranboo doesn't need other people to defend him – he's living with Techno and Phil not out of necessity for his survival, but out of need for connection with others.

This seems to be the main difference he finds with Snowchester, which has a more structured environment, geared to defend itself and it's people, if harm should come their way.

Which makes sense, considering it's founder, Tubbo, holds no earthly belongings, and Jack, another prominent member, has made a character trait out of losing his things every other day. The two of them have no conceivable way to defend themselves against people who are stronger than they are. But together, holding the keys to nuclear armaments, they can suddenly play on the field of gods.

The anarchist commune, despite having all members working together and being on good terms, aren't really an organization, they're individuals with common goals and interests. They don't need to live together to be strong, they're all already strong, they choose to be near each other because they want to.

Snowchester is not a government and has no ruler, but together, it's members hold power. They have sway in the world when they work as a collective, and most members have a vested interest in keeping themselves and each other defended because of this. Consequently, the “identity” of Snowchester becomes more prominent, resulting in the flag, the uniforms and the, well, identity.

(Now, the more perceptive among you might have noticed that I basically just compared Techno Phil and Ranboo to the ultra rich 1%, which. Um. Is a pretty serious comparison to make about in a block game rp?

And I wanna say that I don’t think this was necessarily intentional on the parts of either the CCs or the characters, and beyond that, it’s just one way of examining the text. This analysis is by no means the “Right” way to view the story, just a different one.

Regardless...)

Techno uses his considerable power to further his own goals, first and foremost. This is not inherently good or evil, it just is.

Contrast with New L'manberg's cabinet; Four people, pooling their limited power to further their shared goals. Not good or evil, just a way of exercising power.

But power is not static. Power is fluid and changing, moreso now on the SMP than ever before, and Quackity and Technoblade are fighting to define what Power means going forwards.

Techno is fighting for the status quo, knowingly or not. Individuals with power should lead the world, and those without should strive to emulate their betters. He destroys all forms of government, which strip away the rights of the individual in exchange for hierarchy and consolidated power within that hierarchy.

At it's best, this is a very freeing ideology, where nothing and no one can hold back the individual. The world is your oyster if you are willing to work for it.

But at it's worst? “Violence is the only universal language,” is the key phrase. Where does this ideology leave people who aren't strong? Where does it leave those who cannot fend for themselves? If Violence is the only universal language, then the weak have no means to speak.

Quackity is fighting to get a foothold for a contrary ideology – One that prioritizes words over violence and offers alternative methods of gaining and exercising control, such as through currency and conversation. Quackity has tried to varying degrees of success to implement this on the level of his own individual power, such as during the elections, but his attempts at employing this on a grand scale have all been short-lived.

At it's best, this ideology can uplift anyone, regardless of their strength. It encourages more communication, more commerce, and thrives under, you guessed it, strong government.

At it's worst however, it creates a brutally controlling environment. Where a few people gain absurd amounts of power through the complex machinations of a fiat currency, and are then able to use their sway and influence with governing forces to exercise power that they would never be able to hold on their own.

Again, neither of these ideologies are inherently good or evil. They both have flaws and benefits, and benefit no one more than perhaps Techno and Quackity respectively, while hindering the other.

Techno is benefited by anarchy because he holds incredible amounts of individual power. He is the strongest person on the server, he is rich beyond anyone's wildest dreams, and on a meta level, he's straight up good at the game. The current status quo puts him firmly at the top of the food chain, and this is most obvious on Doomsday, when he and the other two most powerful individuals (Dream and Philza) come together and crush the combined forces of New L'manberg. They are not meaningfully challenged in any way, whatsoever.

Meanwhile, Quackity is deeply hindered by the current status quo. He's not strong, he's poor, and he's vulnerable to anyone who wants to bully him with brute force. On a meta level, cc!Quackity just straight up does not play m/inecraf/t as much as some of the other people that on the server. (To be clear, I do not mention that as a criticism, just to contrast Techno. Neither of their levels of play are better or worse for content, they just add to the experience differently.)

On the other hand, in a government? Quackity “Law Student” HQ is suddenly on top. He's charismatic enough to debate with Wilbur “Can Talk His Way out of Anything” Soot during the elections, and come out of that arena smelling like roses. Back during the days of El Rapids, Quackity held his men back from conflict with Dream, and talked him into a corner of technical truths where Dream had to concede that he viewed El Rapids as an independent nation if he wanted to get involved with their conflicts.

And Techno, while he is brilliant and an English Major, suddenly loses a lot of his intimidation factor if he has to respect laws preventing brutal murder. Techno can certainly debate, but his go to conflict resolution is usually violence, and if you take that away, you take away the threat of challenging him. Because make no mistake, challenging Technoblade right now? Is suicide.

And this duality, this grey morality and clash of ideals, is why Quackity is my favorite character on the SMP. He isn't strong. The power he holds is tenuous and balanced on a knife's edge. It would make more sense for him to stay quiet, keep his head down, and if anything, try to change things from the shadows, where he'll be in the least danger.

But he isn't quiet. He doesn't just challenge authority, he challenges the authority; Dream, Wilbur, and of course, Technoblade.

And in all but one of those matches, he's come out with a concession from his enemy gripped between his teeth. He schooled Wilbur in the debates. He forced Dream to grant El Rapids Independence at a time when he hadn't done so for New L'manberg.

But he failed miserably when he challenged Technoblade. Quackity lost that fight in the final control room before it began. He lost the moment he formed the Butcher Army. He would have lost if he managed to kill Technoblade, and he lost still when he died.

He lost because he conceded that the only way to achieve his goal was through violence. He decided that the only way to establish himself and New L'manberg as powerful? Was to kill Technoblade. And he lost that fight and he always will. There was never a way that he walked out of that fight with the victory; Quackity lost the ideological battle long ago.

But not the war.

As of writing this, Quackity is in the process of introducing an economy to the Dream SMP, on Sam's initiative. There is no action I can think of that is wiser for him to take right now. Now, when Dream has been deposed and there's a vacuum in power; Now, when people are getting tired of endless violence and the loss it brings; Now, when people are looking for something new.

An economy is a direct challenge to Might Makes Right. Trading, supply and demand, politics. It offers a new way for people to obtain resources and a direct alternative to brute force; other methods to pay for slights and breaches of honor and etiquette. No more will pet wars be fought with iron swords and shields, but with money! A healthy sum of cash for the murder of Fungi!

If Quackity can get this system off the ground (and with Sam's help, he definitely can,) the stage would suddenly be tilted in the favor of not just Quackity, but the people who he has associated himself with most closely – Tommy, Fundy, even Schlatt. They're all business men, all scammers. This could be Quackity's world, and he's damn well intending for everyone to live in it.

We’ll have to see what Techno thinks of this - Quackity hasn’t made any moves to start another government, and an economy doesn’t inherently contradict anarchy. But it does hold a potential threat to Techno’s current power.

And as for Quackity? What will he do once he’s at the top? Will he finally become a true tyrant? Will he usher in a new age of equality and justice? Or will he eschew all of that in favor of personal riches. For once, the cards are in Quackity's favor, and we might get the chance to see what he does when he holds real power.

[kkintle]

The Little Drummer Girl by John le Carré; Quotes

When Schulmann talked, he fired off conflicting ideas like a spread of bullets, then waited to see which ones went home and which came back at him. The sidekick’s voice followed like a stretcher-party, softly collecting up the dead.

That if you want to catch a lion, you first must tether the goat?

Whereas Joseph, as they called him, was not part of their family at all. Not even, like Charlie, a splinter group of one. He had a self-sufficiency that to weaker souls was a kind of courage by itself. He was friendless but uncomplaining, the stranger who needed nobody, not even them. Just a towel, a book, a water-bottle, and his own small foxhole in the sand. Charlie alone knew he was a ghost.

How could he be a fraud, they argued, when he wasn’t claiming to be anything in the first place?

Like other successful proposals, it was one that in a strict sense was never made.

(…) another long luncheon at which they discussed almost nothing of importance—but then what do old friends need but one another?

Was it difficult getting away from your friends? I am sure it was. One hates to deceive people, but most of all the people one cares for.”

“I read somewhere that no true drama can ever be a private statement,” he remarked. “Novels, poems, yes. But not drama. Drama must have an application to reality. Drama must be useful. Do you believe that?”

(…) a lady who consents to listen is a lady who consents, he said, and Gavron very nearly smiled.

He had granted her an early glimpse of the new family she might care to join, knowing that deep down, like most rebels, she was only looking for a better conformity. And most of all, by heaping such benefits upon her, he had made her rich: which, as Charlie herself had long preached to anyone who would hear her, was the beginning of subservience.

(…) to the uninitiated, the secret world is of itself attractive. Simply by turning on its axis, it can draw the weakly anchored to its centre.

“For a woman, lying is a protection. She protects the truth, so she protects her chastity. For a woman, lying is a proof of virtue,” Kurtz announced, still washing.

“The ear selects, you see, dear. Machines don’t.

Some interrogations are conducted in order to elicit truth, others to elicit lies.

Hands matter, hands speak. Hands act.

“Help yourself, Charlie,” Kurtz advised quietly, from his chair. “You’ve read Frantz Fanon. Violence is a cleansing force, remember? It frees us from our inferiority complexes, it makes us fearless and restores our self-respect.”

Volunteers fight harder and longer, he had argued. Volunteers find their own ways to persuade themselves.

“You love Michel, you believe Michel loves you.” “But am I right?” “He says he loves you, he gives you proof of it. What more can a man do to convince you, since you cannot live inside his head?”

“Nevertheless, you have made a dangerous concession to him.” “How?” she demanded, stung. “You have made a practical objection. ‘We cannot dine together because there is no restaurant.’ You might as well say you cannot sleep together because you have no bed. Michel senses this. He brushes your hesitations aside. He knows a place, he has made arrangements. So. We can eat. Why not?”

If you have to use violence, and sometimes you couldn’t do much else, always be sure to use it against the mind, not the body, he said. Kurtz believed there were lessons everywhere if the young would only have the eyes to see them.

“And the letter—not too much—you can live with it?” “If you can’t let it all hang out in a love-letter, where can you?”

‘The greatest crime is to do nothing because we fear we can only do a little.’

“Clear away the smoke, you find more smoke. The fire is always down the road a little. That is the way these people work. That is how they always worked.”

But he did recognise that, in these materialistic days, people valued most highly what cost them most.

(…) remember that every handgun is a compromise between concealment, portability, and efficiency.

What we do alone, we alone can betray.”

(…) drew her to a bench; she sat on it, then stood up in order to assert herself. She had learned that emotional scenes did not play effectively between people who were walking, so she stood still.

Her eyes were grey and lucid and, like Mesterbein’s, dangerously innocent. A militant simplicity gazed out from them upon a complicated world. To be true is to be untamed, thought Charlie, quoting to herself from one of Michel’s letters. I feel, therefore I do.

Your job is to make them need you, Joseph had said. Think of it as courtship. They will treasure most what they cannot have.

Grinning his pirate’s grin, he said it now. “You want to catch the lion, first you tether the goat.”

Fear will be a matter of selection, Joseph had warned her. Unfortunately, no one can be frightened all the time.

Do not mistake seeming confusion for incompetence (…)

Greet people solemnly,” he added. “Do not smile too readily or they will think you are laughing at their misery.”

“There is nothing so hard in war,” Kurtz liked to quote to his subordinates—and assuredly to himself as well—“as the heroic feat of holding back.”

A good fighting man is never normal, Kurtz told Elli, to console himself. If he’s not plain stupid, he thinks too much.

There is no fear like it, Joseph had said. Your courage will be like money. You will spend and spend, and one night you will look in your pockets and you’ll be bankrupt and that is when the real courage begins.

I’m doing it for them, she thought. Somehow Michel had believed that. Somehow we all do. All of us except Halloran, who had ceased to see the point. Why was he so much on her mind? she wondered. Because he doubted, and doubt was what she had learned to fear the most. To doubt is to betray, Tayeh had warned her.

“He died, so we are selling him for revenge. The trees to the tree destroyers. The land to the land destroyers. The statues and furniture to the flea market. If it is worth five thousand, we sell for five.

Choose, never hesitate, Joseph had said. It is better to be inconsistent than to be uncertain. “We never talked about them.” “Not even about horses?” And never, never correct yourself. “No.”

[leam1983]

Cyberpunk 2077 Thoughts

Having perused Dark Horse Books’ The World of Cyberpunk 2077 over the past few days, I’ve gotten a better feel for the various basic hooks that structure V’s inception as a protagonist. The short of it is the Polish wizards are on the right path to nailing Pondsmith’s treatment the same way they nailed Sapkowski’s works.

Consider the following as half a brain dump, half a series of prospective spoilers, and also half projection, so either skip this, find some other entry to read, or come back to this come late November.

I know I mentioned three halves, but it’s late and I don’t give a shit.

I’m serious - DO NOT PRESS ON IF YOU’RE THE TYPE TO BLOW A GASKET IF YOU’RE INADVERTANTLY SPOILED. 

The latest Night City Wire as of August exposed three incipient “life paths”, or starting branches of V’s path. I’ll tackle my personal narrative approaches to them in the order of my choosing.

Nomads: CP2077 is set in a world where much of what we understand to define a family has been blown up, tossed around by climate change and nuclear fire and then stitched back together using grit, resourcefulness and the last dying embers of human decency. Nomads are less a group of people defined by blood relations and more a cadre of individuals that share something more significant than mere genes. It might be a common history, a set of shared hardships, a yen for similar automotive and engineering-related projects - whatever it is, that something pulls people together in ways Corpo rats and street kids will never experience.

This seems to define even the average Nomad’s degree of education. Surprisingly, Nomads are the most well-read group in Coronado Bay’s greater area, some caravans reportedly including entire RVs packed with books. Nomads generationally elect teachers and record-keepers and seem to care for those cultural remnants of the old world, before Pondsmith’s paranoid alternate sixties kicked off more than a century’s worth of technological progression and rampant dehumanization. To a Night City native, a Nomad’s speech patterns appear precious and uselessly florid, while they might appear almost normal to us - maybe slightly touched by the fact that Grandpa Joe or whatever really wanted you to have your Greek classics down before you were old enough to repair your first CH00H2 carburetor on your own.

That new, mega-clustered version of family matters immensely to the Nomads. You identify to yours the same way Orcs in Shadow of War might refer to their clan, or the same way a Scottish clan might design specific visual cues identifying its members. In normal circumstances, Nomads live, thrive and die in service to the clan - and the opening segment for V’s Nomad origins suggests that something happened to his clan. They’re gone, or so the narration says, without going into further detail. Is V responsible? We don’t currently know. As it stands, however, he is a lone Nomad in a clan of one, and soon finds himself pushed out of the Californian wastes and into Night City’s neon-drenched streets.

Seeing this, I considered the narration as an admission of guilt on V’s part. He feels responsible, and hopes that grinding his way to success will in some way atone for what he’s done. Consequently, my Nomad V would be as gruff as could be, but as moral and upstanding as the setting allows. He considers himself as having been invested with an example to set, and would intend to set his sights on more than just filthy lucre. Honest filthy lucre is what matters to him, if that concept even is possible: he might deal in unsavory types and illicit activities, but he always does so with a certain moral rectitude - as a tough and gruff, lean and stringy type you can occasionally catch in his battered Thornton pick-up truck with his feet up on the dashboard and a dog-eared copy of Plato’s Republic in hand. Jackie honestly wonders how he can put up with that Greek pendejo’s endless words and the lack of scrolling animations, while V keeps his Kiroshi optics’ News ticker locked onto grassroots Leftist RSS feeds that stoke a bit of an ignored Rockerboy ethos in him. Quoting Marx in Night City might feel like trying to teach lab rats in the finer points of string theory, but it at least feels genuine to him, compared to the predigested sociopolitical pap Militech, Arasaka and their ilk are more than happy to spew on the airwaves. 

There’s a lot to be pissed off about in Richard Night’s failed utopia, a lot of fat cats to gut and buildings to burn. Still, he leaves the glowering act and the churning rage to Johnny Silverhand’s imprinted ghost. Being more of a down-low, gun-toting choomba than a classic Street Samurai, Vincent “V” Carson thinks first and strikes second.

Vinnie isn’t much for electric guitars and anarchy in the UK, much less in the Free State of Southern California; but he does love the occasional Leonard Cohen ballad or the occasional shot of Johnny Cash’s melancholy. Having picked up something of a Northern Texas drawl while cruising, he might feel like Harry Dresden’s Good Ol’ Boy cousin, magic tricks here pushed aside in favor of a measure of dermal plating and a good ol’ fashioned twelve-gauge and revolver combo. Not being much of a techno-fetishist, he considers his optics and his skull jack as being begrudging concessions to an era that looks down on fully “ganic” types. Having grown up with TV serials and the occasional visor-based Braindance all depicting cyberpsychosis as something vile that utterly dehumanizes its sufferers, he’s naturally wary around anyone who seems a little too giddy with the prospect of taking a few scalpels to perfectly decent muscles and bones.

His Thornton is where most of his Eddies go, and yes, he’s named his truck Suzie. Suzie’s done right by him, and he’ll do right by her - unless someone else with a pretty smile and a working moral compass makes him swoon.

Street Kids: if you weren’t taught on the highways or in corporate arcologies, odds are you became a positive blip in an otherwise grim statistic, one of the myriad fucked-up kids raised by other fucked-up kids with more seniority than you. With no roads and paid-for nannies, you survived off of grifts, grit, violence, deceit, smarts and gumption - and that, in its own screwball way, creates its own blood ties. You’re wise by Heywood’s standards - streetwise, that is - and you speak the back-alleys’ lingua franca of threats, insinuation and casual intimidation like no other.

If only Jackie hadn’t fingered that Rayfield, huh? This beaut could’ve been paydirt! Well, at least for a week or so, judging by the fact that hundreds of car thefts are reported across Night City on a daily basis. At least, Dean - who also goes as “V” - got to make a new friend while out in the pokey, and managed to shake a few proverbial trees... They’ve got a short-lease in with Trauma Team’s frequency and could maybe hook themselves up with a sweet finder’s fee for anyone who’s on the verge of death at the hands of the city’s Scavengers...

Little does V know, that’s selling Trauma Team as well as their clients painfully short. Shows of gratitude don’t mean anything if you’re not packing the right social status. He barely remembers his birth parents as it is, and grew up the fifth grubby prospect of one of the Valentinos’ “school clubs” (hence the nickname) - where the points of study refer to the proper observances to be held in Jesus Malaverde’s presence, intensive Chicano and Spanish immersion, as well as the handling of common types of weaponry.

Vincent and Dean would be likely to shoot one another, if placed in the same room. One clings onto nearly-lost value systems, while the other commodifies what can be discarded like so much flesh - only inasmuch as his efforts to pacify his unofficial five or six abuelas force him to forego extensive modifications. His knives and wrist-mounted data port are his main tools of the trade, although Dean keeps his hacking creds along the bare minimum. Why bother, when melting an ATM’s ICE wall and whacking the cops with a baseball bat is all you need? There’s a type of gun for nearly anything else, if someone knows where to look...

Dean has no last name, and is consequently registered as “Dean Smith” in the city’s Census records. That doesn’t suggest, however, that he wouldn’t want to make one for himself. As he’s less focused on the city’s legends than on its kingmakers and pawn-movers, Dexter DeShawn strikes him as someone to emulate, watch and learn from - all with a decent degree of caution.

Being on top matters a little less to him than eventually pulling Heywood’s stings. With a little fear and a lot of persistence, Dean “V.” Smith knows that one day, he won’t go hungry on a weeknight. To that end, he’s certainly a hearty eater, here paired with extensive free-weight training regimens and the use of anabolic stimulants. Oh, sure, he’ll speak of family and blood like the best soldier festooned in Santa Muerte visual codices, but his friend Jackie’s got a mind like a slow and steady steel trap.

Either Dean blows his new fellow Street Samurai out of the pond, or he does. Unlike Jackie, however, Dean isn’t realistic about it. Friendships are a rare gift in Heywood, if not the rest of Night City, and Dean’s convinced that Jackie could conceivably look past his final betrayal.

Corpo: nowadays, we’re mostly familiar with the idea of one-percenters creating a bubble of affluence for themselves. Boarding schools, private villas, prebooked vacations across the globe’s priciest spots, access to the hottest trends on the minute of their inception - what this tends to forego is the level of social disconnect that’s required in order to stay relevant. We’re only just waking up to the consequences of letting an aging, crusty first-generation Yuppie be crowned the ruler of the free world, and even someone who’s behind on their Bret Easton Ellis could tell you that Donald J. Trump is a sociopath and a narcissist.

Take that mindset, and cultivate it into an ethos that’s taught to children from a very early age - children who live, eat, shit and breathe in accordance with their parent corporation’s tenets. The more placid, mid-tier lifers in the genre are called sararimen, in reference to William Gibson’s use of the term to designate low-level company workers in Chiba City. A bit like Shenzhen’s factory workers and execs, everything in a corpo’s life is in service to the corporation.

In Night City, as of 2077, two major players have installed this culture of total obedience in their roster. Their names are Militech and Arasaka. One is a juggernaut in the field of military-grade personal defence, the other has a wider grasp and reach, but is more fragile. Arasaka owes that fragility to the last fifty years having involved its re-establishment and reconstruction. Fifty years ago, Night City’s Corpo Plaza was blasted open by a thermonuclear discharge that sent the Japanese giant packing. The charges had been set by three Edgerunners: Rogue, Morgan Blackhand and Johnny Silverhand - accessorily a well-respected Rockerboy and front-line member of the band SAMURAI. Only Rogue survived that fateful night, or so the street lingo goes, having gone on to start a legitimate consultation business as well as a fruitful career in the hospitality business. Her bar, the Afterlife, is Night City’s hotspot for every techie, script kiddie and accomplished cyber-spelunker.

Our gal Vivian knows this. She knows this, because Vivian “V.” Banks lives two lives.

In one of them, she’s a lean and hungry Junior Executive in Arasaka’s Counter-Intel division. In that line of work, you either fuck someone’s prospects or protect your own, or ensure that no up-and-comer just out of the company’s Law School program manages to push you off the board. She knows full well that in centuries past, corpo-speak was made up of mild euphemisms that at best referred to destroying a rival’s prospects or lifelihood. Taking a life was something that required careful deliberation, especially when tossing a fat severance bonus into an aging CFO’s three-piece pockets and letting your erstwhile rival snort cocaine off of the rolling hips of Tahitian dancers was so much cheaper...

Nowadays, zeroing someone is commonplace.

You’re born for Arasaka, and chances are you’ll die for Arasaka just the same. Viv’s killed, lied, cheated and even stole her way to her position, remorse being this vaguely churning sense of coldness in her gut that keeps one-night stands coming in and out of her bedroom. She only remembers her parents as being credit-chip enablers and personal enhancement drug addicts, cutting ties with them so completely on the day of her official hiring that it felt more like a tacit understanding.

On most days, sex and booze keep the cold at bay. On most days, Vivian Banks is a class-act of a sociopath. The stronger she gets, however, and the more paranoid her targets become - which reinforces her own paranoia. Before long, playing the part of one of Arasaka’s several poisonous flowers won’t work anymore.

Unfortunately, she trusts no-one. No Fixer could put her in contact with any hacker she’d trust, no rando fresh off the street with a retro-tinted National Arms plinker would satisfy her. To climb up the ranks and maybe share tea with Old Man Saburo himself, she needs a spotless performance record. She needs skills.

More importantly, she needs a reputation. That means leaving Arasaka Tower and mingling with the experts in their own field - and it means filling out her back book of successful hits. The drinks at the Afterlife are decent enough, but what she’s after is an official in.

If she can get to Rogue, or maybe even hook up with a ripperdoc not bought and paid for by the company, she might be able to score both new skills and increased performance...

If it were as simple as slitting Janet’s throat in HR and diving her way to an orgiastic performance review quite innocently left on the department’s server, she would’ve done that already. Viv is my obvious Pure Stealth build candidate, my main-line hacker and would-be engineer with a thing for black power skirts and designer offensive augments.

With that said, we’re months ahead of schedule, all the good shit’s already come out, so we’re stuck playing the waiting game...

What are your own character or build ideas for Cyberpunk 2077?

[blancheludis]

Tagging: @tokky231

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Characters: Tony Stark/Steve Rogers, James Rhodes, Pepper Potts, Bruce Barton, Steve Rogers Chapters: 31/?, Words: 171.146

Summary: Tony meets his soulmate under the worst possible circumstances. It is not just a kidnapping gone wrong. It turns out Steve and his gang picked him on purpose and they want some personal revenge. If only he had managed to say the words written on his soulmate’s arm before they threw him back out into the streets.

—

Steve throws the door shut behind him, brimming with restless energy. He stalks down the floor, almost wishing that someone would accost him or throw a problem his way. His fingers are itching to clench into fists and he is yearning for the feeling of the punching bag beneath his knuckles.

He will change out of his shirt and kick his dress shoes into the dresser where he will hopefully never have to see them again, and then he will go to the gym to hit things until his thoughts stop racing and his arm burns from something other than rejection.

It is difficult to say what he expected to happen. He was certainly not naïve enough that Tony would throw himself into Steve’s arms, thank him for his timely rescue and allow them an immediate shot at their happy ever after.

Making him choose between the life he has built for himself and the mere possibility to keep seeing Tony on occasion is a joke. A cruel, undeserved joke. The Avengers are flawed like any other group of people. What kind of person does Tony think he is to ask him to abandon his family?

The base is quiet as he stomps down the hall to his room. Either nobody has returned yet, or they decided to ignore his angry approach. That is fine with Steve. He is not in the mood to deal with even more emotional baggage. Any attempt at mediating would fail horribly.

He throws his door open and does not bother to close it before he starts undressing. His fingers get caught in the buttons of his shirt so that he gives up the attempt with a frustrated growl and simply pulls the shirt over his head, not caring whether he will rip the cloth. He kicks off his shoes and pants, and leaves everything where it falls. Nobody will care whether he wrinkles his clothes. He is just the leader of some mob anyway.

On his way back to the door, he grabs sweatpants and does not stop walking while slipping into them. He does not bother with a shirt. Halfway down the hall, he slows briefly when the door to Bruce’s room opens.

“Not now,” Steve growls before Bruce even manages to open his mouth. He has talked enough for one day, has gotten enough advice on how to lead his life.

He does not wait for an answer, nor does he look whether Bruce goes back into his room. A single goal sits at the forefront of his mind and that is to get to the gym and free himself of the tension constricting his chest.

The gym is empty and Steve does not stop to warm himself up or bandage his knuckles. Without slowing down, he walks towards the punching bag in the corner and throws the first punch before he has completely reached it.

It should not feel good, but with every punch, the anger bleeds out of him and his breaths come easier. The soul bond is still firing wildly but he just keeps hitting harder with his left arm until fatigue creeps up his muscles. Slowly, his thoughts become his own again.

Steve had high hopes for this night. Tony’s invitation for dinner was like a sign that everything is going uphill again. Instead, it was just another letdown. It was stupid to think that they could put everything that happened behind them and start anew, but surely they should be making some concessions for each other.

The Avengers might be part of the problem but that is not all. They were helping, making up for what they did. Steve is an inextricable part of them.

It altogether feels too much like everybody but Steve is ready to move on. First Bruce talks about seeking a better life, then Natasha runs out, and Bucky is withdrawing. Since Clint, too, talks about perhaps turning towards other things, this is almost a done deal. Everything is falling apart and Steve is not sure how to hold it together. He does not even know whether he should.

He has never minded change as long as he could tackle it with his friends, as long as he had them guarding his back. He never accounted for them pushing for that change.

Steve lets his fists fly and keeps going even when his breath grows ragged and each punch is accentuated by a yell. His eyes burn. He feels entirely too small for everything that is being thrown at him.

“Steve,” someone says at his side. “That’s enough.”

It is not. Not until Steve cannot make sense of what is happening anymore, of what he is supposed to do. He ignores the voice and throws another punch. A hand reaches out and catches his, keeping it from connecting with the bag.

That contact is what breaks him. Skin on skin, warmth where he feels cold, a gentleness in stark contrast to the violence of punching an unmoving object.

A sob catches in his throat as Steve sinks to the ground. He does not want to lose his family.

Bruce sinks down next to him, still holding his hand. He is talking but Steve cannot understand a single word. He recognizes Bruce’s face, though. Calm and soothing, meant to ease someone out of shock.

Steve does not move as Bruce gets a small first-aid kit from somewhere – he apparently came prepared once he saw Steve heading in the direction of the gym – and starts to clean Steve’s abused knuckles. They sting when he dabs them with alcohol, but Steve welcomes that. It brings him closer to the surface, away from his swirling thoughts.

By the time Bruce is wrapping bandages around his hands, Steve has emerged from the tide of panic pulling him under. This is not something he can decide while being emotional. Detaching himself from the matter at hand will be hard, of course, but he will have to try to see all possible angles. He knows Tony has a point, just like he knows it will not be as simple as disbanding the Avengers to give them a path forward.

“Thank you,” Steve says quietly when Bruce is done. He stares down at the bandages, only now noticing the pain in his knuckles.

Neither of them moves to get up. At this point Steve is just waiting for Bruce to ask what happened, to defend Tony against them again. This time, he might be able to listen.

“He wants you to choose between us and him, right?” Bruce says instead, his voice too understanding.

Irritation flares up inside Steve as if it never left him. Did Tony tell Bruce? Before he basically gave an ultimatum to Steve?

“How do you know?” Steve asks, unable to keep his voice low. Everybody but him seems to know everything these days.

Bruce cocks his head to the side, apparently unaffected by Steve’s temper. “It seems to be the most sensible solution. He might logically know that he doesn’t have to fear us anymore, but that’s not something one can shake easily.”

This is not about fear. It cannot be. Perhaps Tony does not want the hassle of having to cover for them if anyone comes asking, but he must know that Steve would not let anything happen to him. Not again.

“Well, I’m not going to,” Steve says with less anger than before but still certain that he is not going to change his mind.

Bruce’s expression stays impassive. “No?” he asks without judgement or disappointment. Almost like the answer does not matter to him, like he is not part of this equation anymore.  

“Don’t look at me like that,” Steve says, wishing for just one person to feel like he does. “You know that we have built something good here. We’re a team. I’m not going to abandon you or our cause just because Tony thinks being with him and doing something good in the world is mutually exclusive.”

Bruce nods but hums in a way that makes it obvious he disagrees with Steve’s view of the situation. He is packing the first-aid kit back up as he asks, “Why did you create the Avengers?”

The question catches Steve off guard. Or the apparent change of topic does. “You know why.” He is not in the mood to be lectured. At the same time, he wants to know what Bruce is thinking, without the mind games, without being guided to some conclusion.

“Indulge me,” Bruce says, and Steve is not strong enough to refuse.

He looks around the gym, remembers the hundreds of times he has trained here, aiming to get better and stronger to be able to do good.

“Because our world is corrupt,” he says with all the conviction he can muster. “Because people get away with crimes every day because they have money or friends in high places, while others don’t have any choice at all, be it because of their skin colour or because they offended the wrong person. We all agreed that we could do something about that, even the odds a little.”

No matter what other reasons each of them had when joining up, this is the core. This is what Steve believes in, that he can leave the world a better place than he has found it, even if he has to do it from the shadows.

“You started this right after you came back from the war, yes?” Bruce asks, still keeping his tone neutral.

“So what?” Steve says, knowing what Bruce is trying to say.

If a happy domestic life would have been possible for them, the Avengers might not exist. Everybody needs a push to do something. Nothing happens just like that. He refuses to think that Tony’s demand might be just another one of these pushes.

“You were uprooted,” Bruce takes over the narrative. “Bucky lost his arm and needed to be guided away from self-destruction. Clint and Natasha were tired of being pointed at targets without making any of the decisions themselves. Wanda and Pietro are happy to get back at the people who suppressed them all their lives. Sam is going to follow you wherever –”

Steve’s head snaps up so he can glare at Bruce who trails off, not intimidated but perhaps satisfied that he made his point.

“So we were all lost sheep and only you can see us clearly?” Steve asks, his tongue tasting acrid from the way he spats the words.

They are all a little damaged, but they are far from being broken. The Avengers were not a means for an escape. Other people could not have done what they do, so they stepped up.

“I was desperately afraid of ending up in Ross’ clutches again,” Bruce resumes speaking, presumably completing his little list of their scars. “They’d have thrown me in some dark cell and would have never let me out again. You offered protection from that. And I think we did some good, but I also think that is not all we have to offer the world.”

Bruce had been rather sceptical when they first met and they made clear they would not deliver him to Ross. He did not trust them and kept looking for escape routes. To this day, Steve does not know why he stayed. Surely he would not have if he had not seen that they were doing good.

“But we don’t have anything else,” Steve all but yells, wishing he could see where all of this is leading. If he knew what lies at the end of this road, he could perhaps see his friends’ perspectives more clearly. Perhaps he could believe Tony.

If one strips away the Avengers, Steve has accomplished nothing in his life. He has nowhere to go, nothing to do instead.

A small smile tugs at Bruce’s lips. “You wanted to be an artist.”

Failing to see how this is supposed to be an encouragement, Steve scowls. “Are you saying I should abandon my friends just so I can draw some pictures while I starve?”

Even if he were inclined to go back to canvas and paper instead of pursuing justice, he would not know where to start. He cannot just leave all of this behind.

With the first-aid kit all packed up again, Bruce shifts his position into something more comfortable and looks at Steve. “I’m saying that this is a chance for all of us to reconsider where we are standing and where we want to go.”

It all becomes clear then. “You want out,” Steve says quietly, feeling like he has not enough air in his lungs.

Bucky is falling apart. Now Clint and Bruce have basically said they are done. This is happening, and there is nothing Steve can do. Tony’s ultimatum or not, he has already lost his family.

“Steve, I’m a scientist,” Bruce says, aiming for a soothing tone that falls flat. “I would like to get back to what I loved doing at some point. That doesn’t mean I didn’t like being here, with you. Or that I couldn’t have gone at any other time.”

Denial washes up inside Steve like ice spreading out from his chest, making him shiver.

“Tony is making this too easy on himself,” he says because focussing on Tony’s demands is easier than acknowledging that he is clinging to a thing that is already dead. “First, he tells me he wants nothing to do with me, and now he’s telling me to choose between him and my whole life.”

While Bruce’s expression remains soft, his mouth twitches with a warning His protectiveness where it comes to Tony has just grown with time.

“I’m pretty sure he did not tell you to leave your friends,” Bruce chides, unwilling to let Steve twist the facts. “Just that he won’t stay in your life if you keep being a criminal.”

Put like that, it sounds reasonable. He cannot give up so easily, though. “We’re not –” he tries to argue but falls silent easily when Bruce raises his eyebrows at him.

“Call us what you want, but we do not operate inside the law,” Bruce says as if it is that simple. “Tony has never seen the good we might have done with that. All he knows is that he ended up on the wrong side of our fists because we acted on incomplete information. It’s a miracle he is not going to report us but is giving you a chance to redeem yourself.”

Steve deflates. He is cold and in pain, and he just wants to be able to make sense of his life again and sleep through an entire night. For weeks now, nothing was as it seemed. Enemies turned into friends. Fights never ended when they should. His emotions are not entirely his own anymore.

Pulling his knees up to his chest, Steve wraps his arms around his legs. “What if Tony decides he still doesn’t want me?”

That is the thing. Steve is not sure he can deal with even more rejection. Losing his team and his soulmate in one strike is too much.

“Don’t you think that is his choice to make?” Bruce asks, not too sympathetic.

Steve understands that, but still, he protests, “I can’t give up my entire life for a chance.”

His life has been one giant exercise in losing. First, he lost his father to alcohol and war. Then his childhood to sickness. Then his mother to cancer. Then the happiness of his best friend.

Other people certainly have it worse than him, but he is tired of everything coming at a price.

“And that is your choice,” Bruce concedes, refraining from making any judgement about that either. “Talk to Bucky and the rest of the team. Think about what you want. Tony is your soulmate. I know that means something to you, and it obviously means something to him, too, or he would have been done with you already.”

That is true. Even after clinging to Steve after the warehouse fight, Steve half-expected to never hear from Tony again. And that would be his right. Just like it is his right now to look out for his own safety.

Unable to look at Bruce, Steve stares at the bandages around his hands, slightly disappointed that he cannot see the blood. “I’m afraid I’ll choose wrong.”

Bruce’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing once. “Then you’ll have to make another choice down the road,” he says but has the decency of sounding chagrined. “That’s life. For all it’s worth, I believe that Tony genuinely wants to try this with you.”

Steve knows how to work off hope alone. He has done so for years before he built himself a support system consisting of his friends and their willingness to follow him. He has not forgotten how that works.

When he does not answer, Bruce gets to his feet, ready to let him think on his own. Steve is glad for that, although he does not really want to be alone. He is reasonably sure that Bruce will not leave him alone in the base while he is like that. No matter that Bruce is ready to speak every uncomfortable truth, he is also a caretaker at heart.

“Bruce?” Steve asks when Bruce is almost at the door. “Thank you.”

They smile at each other. It stretches Steve’s face almost to the point of being painful, even though he barely lifts his lips.

“I’ll be in the lab if you need me,” Bruce says.

Then he is gone, leaving Steve with his thoughts and a decision to make.  

---

All the lights are on when Tony comes home. It is not late and Rhodey is too curious to go to bed before he could ask Tony how it was. Tony still would have preferred to be alone, at least for a little while.

He is disappointed, but chiding himself for it at the same time. This was always the way it was going to go. He did not really expect that Steve would throw away his life just because Tony asked. And that is not what Tony asked. Not really.

The Avengers are criminals, and he does not want to be associated with them, does not want to lie for them or watch them hurt other people and destroy other lives. That much of what he told Steve is the truth.

Less easy to explain is the thrumming fear he feels in the pit of his stomach when he thinks of Steve continuing that life. He does not know how they usually operate, how they plan and execute missions. All he saw was them storming into the warehouse, guns blazing, with little to no regard of their own safety.

If he was to let Steve close, he could not stand knowing him in danger so often. Losing people hurts, and there is no ultimate guard against it, but knowing that his soulmate throws himself into every fight he can find makes it impossibly harder.

Tony knows he is being ridiculous. As of yet, there is nothing between him and Steve. He is not even entirely positive yet whether he wants there to be anything. The only thing he is very certain about is that he does not want to lose anybody else. If the only way to achieve that is to send Steve away, so be it. He can live with that.  

The rejection hurts. While he expected the answer, he was surprised by the vehemence of it, echoed by the acute restlessness shooting through the bond. It felt like the very thought of staying with Tony is ridiculous to Steve.

Tony laughs at himself without humour as he walks into the living room. What bothers him the most, he guesses, is that he thought he would be the one rejecting Steve, not the other way around. It is like he told Steve, he is the selfish type. Now that Steve refuses to play by his rules, he wants nothing more than to change the game.

Rhodey is lying on the couch but scoots over to make room for Tony the moment the door opens. JARVIS must have announced him because Rhodey does not seem surprised that he is back so early. To give him credit, he does not shower Tony with questions immediately but pats the couch in invitation first.

Just a moment ago, Tony wanted to be alone. Now, he is magically drawn in by the promise of warmth and a shoulder to lean against. Rhodey has always been his saviour, his safe place.

With a sigh, Tony climbs onto the couch opposite from Rhodey and pulls the offered blanket over him. Already, he is feeling better, even though Rhodey is brimming with questions he does not want to answer.

“Don’t worry,” Tony says, desperate to get ahead of the inevitable. “It’s over.”

Saying it out loud just adds to the pressure on his chest, and he tucks in his left arm tightly under the blanket as if that is enough to drown out the way it echoes with feelings.

He is now glad he left the restaurant because whatever Steve is thinking, he is livid. The bond pulses almost like a heartbeat but rapid and punishing. It reminds Tony of flying fists and boiling blood. He has dealt with enough violence for a lifetime.

“What did he do?” Rhodey asks, straightening enough to make it clear he is ready to get up and hunt Steve down if he hurt Tony further.

That is not necessary. This is Tony’s doing to save himself some pain down the road.

“Nothing,” Tony says as lightly as he can, trying to be inconspicuous about cradling his arm. “I asked him to choose between me and the mob.”

There it is. Such a ridiculous string of words, and yet Tony should not be so surprised that they make sense in his world.

Rhodey looks at him, equal parts searching and worried. “I’m sorry.”

Tony knows that look. It is the same Rhodey wore when Tony told him he was going back to Stark Industries, or when he got a call from Howard while he was spending Christmas with the Rhodes’ and started packing his things without a word. Rhodey only ever does that when he thinks Tony should not make any hasty decisions, when he should sit down and just breathe for a moment before throwing himself into whatever idea his head has cocked up.

Frowning, Tony asks, “What for? This is what you wanted, right?”

He will get rid of the soulmate who hurt him and be free to concentrate on the more important things like his company and his own well-being. No more people following him in the dark, no more fear of Barton snapping, no more obsolete discussion about morals. That is a good thing, surely.

“I want you to be happy, Tones. And I want you to be safe,” Rhodey says, his tone heavy like he is mourning a loss that Tony has not yet noticed happening. “I could have lived with you letting him close if that did the trick.”

Says the man who has punched Steve the moment he stepped out of the elevator and then continued to threaten him. More so, who tried to convince Tony from the very beginning that he should turn the Avengers in to the authorities.

Nothing should have changed. Nothing has changed, apart from Steve coming to Tony’s rescue and Tony being tired of everything falling apart. Rhodey should congratulate him.

It does not matter. It is done, and Tony needs to deal with the future.

“Well, I’m pretty sure he’s not going to call,” he says with all the cheer he can muster. “So I can concentrate on saving my company from ruin.”

For a long moment, he is sure Rhodey is not going to let the topic drop. He can cling to one thing as single-mindedly as Tony, although he pretends his fixations are more sensible. Tony does not want to argue, and Rhodey must sense that because he finally nods, even while he does not appear happy about it.

“Let’s get Pepper,” he proposes, and Tony knows that is because he hopes to turn the conversation back around. “She’ll kill us if you make any more rash decisions.”

Smiling, Tony does not dispute that. Without Pepper, he would be horribly lost. Instead, he can finally voice a thought he has been toying with for a while.

“Like making her CEO?”

Rhodey’s smile freezes as he stares at Tony, likely surprised at the sudden change of topic. “What?”

Tony shrugs like it is no big deal, like Pepper will not rip his head off before she hugs him. “I’ve had the paperwork drawn up a while ago. Just waiting for the right moment.”

What better moment could there be than a new beginning? Cynics might say there is no worse moment than this, while the company is in upheaval and they have already lost one person in a leading position. Pepper will like the challenge, though, no matter that she will curse Tony for heaping all the work on her. They all know she would do it nonetheless. This way, at least, she will have the right title and salary to go with it.

“Are you sure?” Rhodey asks, but it sounds like a mere formality.

Tony’s lips twitch into a grin. “Have you met her?”

He expects Rhodey to grin right back and join in the joking. Instead, he narrows his eyes, and asks, “You’re not doing this because you think you can’t do it yourself, yes? Because that’s bullshit. And she’ll be as happy to tell you as I am.”

An argument could be made here, but Tony feels his head shaking before he can decide whether it is worth it.

“No, platypus,” he says, as reassuringly as he can muster. “But she’ll do a much better job of it, and she won’t hate every second of it.”

That is nothing but the truth and Rhodey knows it. Finally allowing himself to smile again, he says, “I can’t argue with that.”

And that is that. Now that Tony has announced it, there is no more reason to delay it. They will have to plan some official announcement and the press will flip out again, but Tony does not care. Pepper deserves some recognition.

“Well, then let’s hand her the crown,” Tony says, the pain in his arm almost forgotten. “She’ll enjoy being able to boss me around even more.”

By the time Pepper arrives and they are all toasting her, Tony feels almost at home in his own skin again. The pain in his arm has lessened to a mere echo, still noticeable but drowned out by their laughter.

He will get through this. It is not a rejection if he goaded Steve into leaving him. He has everybody he needs right here: Rhodey at his side, Pepper glowing as she smiles. Even Thor, recuperating several floors down, and Bruce, whose lab is already being prepared even though he has not yet accepted Tony’s offer.

He has all these people around him that he trusts and loves. They are enough. He is not going to ask for more.

[irelise]

the yew tree 3.3a/3.4

Erik has worked with Sebastian Shaw ever since Shaw rescued him from human experimentation when he was a boy. He is reluctantly enlisted to assist in Shaw’s newest scheme: seducing the wealthy and enigmatic Lord Xavier to claim his vast fortune. With Shaw posing as Xavier’s doctor, Erik goes undercover as Xavier’s personal manservant to convince him to fall in love with Shaw.

But Xavier has secrets of his own, and it isn’t long before Erik starts having second thoughts about the whole thing…

Featuring mysteries, hidden agendas, and a whole heap of master/servant tropes.

(the handmaiden inspired au - no canon knowledge required

part one and two now on ao3!

beginning of part 3)

Warnings for this part: Canon-typical violence and death Rating: M Word count: 2917 Notes: holy shit i’ve been so late with these updates, but the end is in sight! Next part is definitely the last, we only have two scenes left to go \o/

Shaw is waiting to spirit them away. He stands in the middle of the road, a tall dark figure idling by an automobile. Under Shaw’s watchful eye, Erik clambers into the driver’s seat while Shaw ushers Charles into the back, his voice dripping like honey as he fusses over Charles, all false solicitousness, and Erik grits his teeth and seethes quietly to himself.

The engine purrs to life under Erik’s touch and he spares a moment to admire the fine workmanship, knowing this journey may be their last moment of calm before all hell breaks loose. Before, he might not have particularly cared. Now, he takes the time to run his senses across the metal, enjoying its pleasant hum as he taps on the accelerator. The ink-dark countryside unfurls in front of him as he drives, and the journey would be perfectly tranquil if not for Shaw. In the rearview mirror, Erik can see him gathering Charles close. Shaw knows how to play the role of a doting lover; he leans in, mouth brushing against the shell of Charles’ ear as he murmurs something. Charles’ lashes flutter in response and Shaw smiles, arranging the two of them so that Charles’ head is pillowed against his shoulder, and Erik frowns at the way Charles just lets him, pliant as a little ragdoll. It isn’t long before Charles’ face goes slack with sleep, but Erik can see a small line of tension furrowing the space between his eyebrows, and he knows Charles is less at peace than he appears.

Still, nothing prepares Erik for the sudden whisper of Charles’ voice: Erik? Erik, can you hear me?

Erik’s fingers twitch violently on the steering wheel, shock flooding his mind. You’re in my head. Charles had never used his telepathy with him before. He thought Charles’ abilities would be weak from disuse, but the hint of Charles’ power brushing against his mind feels impossibly vast, deep and boundless as the sky at dusk.

Yes. Is that fine with you? We need to talk.

Of course. Perhaps he should be uneasy with a telepath rummaging around his head – certainly, he would never trust Emma in the same way – but right now, Charles’ powers are simply breathtaking.

He can feel Charles’ surprise colouring his mind, quickly followed by warm gratitude. Thank you.

Talk to me, is Shaw planning anything we need to know about?

The marriage ceremony will be carried out tonight. Afterwards… Erik can feel a chill creep through their connection, a gathering of dark clouds. He’ll consummate the marriage.

No!

Charles continues as if he had not heard the red-hot flare of denial. Within the week he’ll have secured the fortune. He plans to kill you after that, although he’s yet to work out the specifics. We were planning to fake my death so Uncle won’t have any reason to search for me; Shaw intends to stage an automobile accident. A rather explosive one, shall we say. The sort that leaves behind nothing but a corpse charred beyond identification.

Using my body, you mean. Well, it’s a sound plan. No reason we can’t turn it back around on Shaw.

Charles’ presence in his head goes pensive and thoughtful. No. No, I don’t see a reason to stage my death anymore. I can’t spend the rest of my life running from Uncle.

And Shaw?

What about him?

He needs to die, Charles, you know that.

…Yes. Yes, I know.

Erik thought he would feel triumphant at dragging the concession out of Charles, but instead he’s left strangely unsatisfied. So you’ll help me?

That was never in question. But I’m concerned about the potential fallout.

What do you mean?

Uncle’s research. I’m thinking about the best way to help our people. I think I may have a plan, but it would require me to step into the spotlight – and the last thing we need is for a bloody, brutal murder to be traced back to the two of us. If we must deal wi– if we must kill Shaw, then let’s do it in a manner that is more subtle.

I don’t care how we do it as long as we don’t leave him to walk free. What do you have in mind?

Shaw promised me something at the start of all this. A tool to escape my uncle for once and for all. Let’s see if he keeps his promise.

***

The wedding is a hurried, emotionless affair. The officiant rushes the couple through their vows, and when Shaw bends to kiss Charles, Charles merely blinks at him placidly even as Erik sees red. He calms only when Shaw steps away to sign the marriage document, especially when he feels Charles' presence slips into his head once more.

The officiant has been handsomely paid off, he won't ask any questions. Whatever Charles is feeling, it's locked tight away somewhere Erik can't reach; all he senses is a steel wall of resolve. After we're gone, he'll conveniently forget to file the marriage certificate.

Are you going to wipe all his memories of tonight?

Erik glimpses a flash of regret, then the walls rise up once more. I should, shouldn't I?

You know it has to be done. You won't cause any permanent damage, I've seen Emma Frost wipe memories all the time.

You're right, of course. I'll do what I have to. To keep us safe.

Charles' presence fades away again. The sham of a ceremony ends; Erik sees Shaw pull Charles to one side, and he strides forward just fast enough to catch the tail end of what Shaw is saying: "-not to use it so soon, hmm? We have a fun night ahead of us." Shaw’s thin lips twitch in a familiar, mocking smile, and light glints off his hand as he passes something to Charles.

"Ah, Erik!" Charles feigns surprise as he turns to face Erik, his eyes wide and blue. I have it, he says directly into Erik's head, even as he asks, "Is it time to leave already?"

"Just about, I'll go get the car ready. If you'll come with me, sir?"

"Yes, let's not delay. Sebastian?" Charles favours his newly-wed husband with a beaming smile, so brilliant and charming that Erik might have believed it if not for the lingering darkness that shadows Charles' thoughts.

Shaw, still playing the role of the perfect gentleman, offers Charles his arm with an indulgent chuckle. Charles takes it, the smile never leaving his face.

But as they walk past Erik, Charles - hesitates, a barely perceptible flinch. Certainly, Shaw doesn't notice. But Erik is attuned to Charles' moods after months spent by his side. Stick to the plan, he warns Charles, sending a pulse of reassurance even as he tries to stress the urgency of the situation.

Charles responds with a wordless brush of acknowledgement. A second later, Erik feels something small and hard pressed into his hand.

He turns away, hiding a grim smile.

***

Shaw promised me a wedding gift, you see. He doesn't want to murder me outright, but he thinks I'm not strong enough to survive the outside world. So he intends to give me a painless way out and claim the entire fortune once I'm gone.

And this gift is...?

A vial of opium, concentrated enough to kill. I'll be sorry to part with it. But Shaw is known to indulge in alcohol and opiates and the like - it won't be so strange if he accidentally imbibes too much during tonight's celebrations.

Replaying their earlier conversation in his mind, Erik stares down at the innocuous crystal vial resting in the palm of his hand. There's only a small amount of liquid inside, colourless, catching the light in a glinting prism of colours as Erik tips the vial from side to side, watching the opiate swirl around.

Strange to think that something so innocent-seeming will be the end of a mutant as powerful as Shaw.

Stranger still is the thought that he'll be the one killing Shaw, killing him with poison and treachery, this man who had raised him and called him son.

It's not too late to back out, a voice at the back of his head murmurs. Erik can't be sure if the thought belongs to himself or to Charles. Either way, he shakes his head, drawing on the bottomless reserves of his anger. Shaw had his parents killed. Shaw sold out his own kind. Vengeance, justice - they're one and the same. Erik has a duty to see this through.

He looks down at the modest spread of food in front of him. Currently, he's alone in the kitchen of one of Shaw's safehouses, still playing the part of Lord Xavier's dutiful manservant. Shaw had tasked him with preparing dinner - "Oysters, perhaps," he had said with a chuckle that almost made Erik hit him - and, more importantly, Erik is to serve their drinks. Well, dinner is as finished as it's ever going to be. He rings a bell to signal the start of the meal, bringing the appetizers out to the cozy round table where Shaw and Charles are seated. Too close, Erik thinks angrily, only for Charles to smooth calming mental fingers against him, a feeling not unlike having his hair stroked.

The main course is next, with the wine alongside. In the closed confines of the kitchen, Erik stares down at the glass of dark red liquid, rolling the crystal vial around in his hand.

Shaw made him into the man he is today.

And Charles... Charles is making him into someone better.

Erik tips the entire vial into one of the glasses. Then he carries both glasses out, setting one in front of Charles, one in front of Shaw. It feels like a goodbye.

Charles dips into his mind again, and his presence already feels so familiar that it makes Erik ache with the enormity of all he feels. It's done, he tells Charles, and Charles surrounds him in a warm blanket of reassurance and love.

Then it's almost over. I'm glad.

Don't get too comfortable yet, he might still have a trick or two up his sleeve.

It doesn't take long for Erik to be proven right. The effects of the opium start subtly at first: a yawn, a lazy blink, a flirtation trailing off into drowsy silence. Shaw keeps drinking - but not fast enough.

Erik! Charles' mental shout of alarm sends Erik grabbing all the nearest metal just as Shaw surges to his feet and slams his hands on the table in a deafening crack.

"You!" He thunders at Charles, lurching forward. "The hell did you do to me?"

The effects of the opium have made Shaw clumsy, but he's still a deadly threat - Charles had scrambled up to his feet already and is now backing away, glancing between Shaw and Erik. He lifts one hand and presses two fingers against his temple.

Then he drops his hand, eyes wide.

"Hold him, Charles," Erik snarls. There's plenty of metal orbiting him, sharp knives and heavy tools, iron banisters fashioned into deadly points to stab and pierce. He doesn't know if any of it will do any good against Shaw.

Shaw spares him a look. Fury twists his face into a snarling mask.

Then he smiles. It's a chilling, poisonous expression. "Charles," he croons, sickeningly sweet. "Have you turned my Erik against me?"

"Charles did nothing except give me the truth." Erik clenches his fist, reshaping all the metal around him into long, flowing lengths of chain. Brute force won't work against Shaw; he must keep him contained somehow...

Shaw gives him a contemptuous look, dismissing him as easily as he would swat a fly. Erik's heart leaps into his throat as Shaw advances on Charles again, menace roiling off him in waves. "Did you seduce him? Does he know what you do behind closed doors, little Lord Xavier?"

"Hold him, Charles, what are you waiting for-"

Be quiet, Erik, he's stronger than I expected. Charles' fingers go to his temple again. He stands his ground, staring Shaw down, a quiet fury in his eyes that Erik has never seen before.

But Shaw just keeps going, looming over Charles, and Erik's panic grows. “Get away from him!”

He hurls the chains forward with a jerk of his hand. They snake around Shaw’s neck and chest, a strangling noose of iron powerful enough to break bone. Erik yanks at the chains; he needs to force Shaw back, anything, anything at all to get him away from Charles…

Shaw only laughs. The air around him ripples with heat, and his skin churns nauseatingly as he absorbs the energy of Erik’s frantic attempts. “I taught you better than that,” he chides.

With nothing but a light flick of Shaw’s wrist, the chains snap. The fragments crumble to the ground and Shaw treads carelessly over them. He’s only three feet away from Charles now. Two.

Erik sees red. He doesn’t think, just hurls piece after piece of metal at Shaw, Shaw’s sick laughter ringing in his ears as all his efforts crash and break against the unmovable wall of Shaw’s body, useless, powerless.

Keep it up, Erik, it’s working, you’re distracting him–

Charles’ presence in his mind vanishes abruptly. His face is blanched of all colour, but the blue of his eyes remains stark and fierce, and he never once blinks in the face of Shaw’s advance.

But courage isn’t enough against an enemy like Shaw. Neither is brute force, Erik thinks, even as he sends the chains lashing forward again. Subtlety, that’s what he needs here, that’s what Charles had taught him; mere anger isn’t enough.

“Once we’re done here, I’ll tear down every single one of your projects,” Erik promises. He winds the chains around Shaw’s neck again and again, and when Shaw shatters them, Erik reforms them once more, implacable. “The Brotherhood will know everything you’ve done. Your memory will be a curse.”

Shaw is snarling now – his pride and greed have always been his weakness, and Erik presses his advantage.

“Mutants will flourish without you. All along, you were the one holding us back–”

“After all I’ve done for all of you – I was the one who made you–“

“You lied to me!” Erik roars, fury surging. “All my life, you’ve been using me!”

“For the greater good!” Shaw whirls around to face him, eyes blazing–

–And then his eyes go empty. He is a statue, frozen in time. Erik darts a quick glance at Charles and finds his expression drawn tight with strain. Blood is trickling down his nose, a shade of red so dark that it’s almost black. But his voice is even as he says: “Hurry, Erik. Remember the plan.”

Erik picks up the wineglass and approaches Shaw. His eyes are so dead. It’s as if he’s already a corpse already – and perhaps that’s not so far from the truth, when Shaw will never move under his own power again, will never speak another word, never tell another lie…

Vengeance should be more satisfying than this. Erik only feels numb as he prises Shaw’s jaw open and forces the rest of the poisoned wine down his throat.

Shaw collapses. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow. Erik knows he’ll never wake again.

Then Charles crumples to the ground as well, and Erik moves before he registers what he’s doing, rushing to Charles’ side and dropping to his knees. “Charles! What’s wrong?”

Charles’ eyes are cloudy, blood still trickling down his nose, splashing his lips red. “Did it help?” He asks quietly.

“You’re not making any sense.” Erik gathers Charles into his arms, registering with dull surprise that his hands are shaking. Charles is trembling as well, swallowing convulsively, his breathing rapid and shallow. “Talk to me, Charles, what’s wrong? How can I help?”

“Did it help?” Charles repeats insistently. “Killing Shaw. Did it help?”

Erik shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. It’s impossible to think about Shaw when Charles looks worse with each passing second. Erik fumbles for his pulse, finding it dangerously weak and thready. “Forget Shaw. You’re, are you–” He grips Charles’ hand. “Fight it, Charles, whatever it is, you need to fight it.”

Charles reaches out, gently running his fingers against Erik’s cheek. “I think I’m still in his head.” His voice is soft, almost dreamy. “You were magnificent. You made him so furious at the end, he forgot about everything else. He was determined to take us down with him. He still is.”

“He won’t succeed,” Erik vows, even though he’s cold with dread. “Stay with me. Focus on my mind, not his.”

Holding tightly onto Charles’ hand, afraid to let go, Erik guides him to press the tips of his fingers against the side of Erik’s head. Stay with me, he calls to Charles again, trying to project warmth and comfort, candlelight and memories of the long hours they had spent in the study. He grasps hold of the little details: the feeling of parchment paper under his fingertips, the play of light across Charles’ hands when he gesticulates, the cadence of Charles’ voice as he argues a particularly fine point…

They stay together like that, Erik holding grimly onto Charles, an unmovable anchor as their minds bleed together, intertwining. Behind them, Shaw’s breathing gradually slows, then stops, and with his passing Charles goes still as well, peace falling over him.

(next part)

[monstersandmaw]

Monthly story, exclusive to the Pixies and Goblins tier and above.

One day I will learn that these stories were only intended to be about 3k words long. This one is 7984 words, but I had fun writing it!

Contents/warnings: slavery and all the poor treatment that goes along with that, but no violence. Gender neutral reader, alien anatomy/genetalia, nsfw scene.

They’re based on the magnolia sargentiana var. robusta, which looks like this. No prises for guessing what their hardware looks like...

EDIT: I realise from the preview in the link above that it looks like I made the alien male, but that’s the reader’s alien friend, not the alien that we’ll be romancing. Just wanted to put that out there...

Preview:

“Oh boy, are you lucky!” Garris chattered as you approached and halted beside your good friend on the hangar floor.  

“You’ve heard already?” you asked, cocking an eyebrow at the slender, tall, chitinous medic.  

“News  travels fast on a base this small, ‘Ambassador’,” he grinned, slapping  you on the shoulder with one of his upper sets of hands. His double set  of delicate mandibles fluttered briefly as he laughed.  

You shook your head. “We ready to ship out?” you asked, and he nodded. 

“Jutan is just doing the last inventory of supplies,” he added. “It’s a long way to Talos-5.”

“Yeah,  but worth it. Think of all the samples you’ll be able to collect for  the advancement of medicine. I hear the flora there is like nothing  we’ve ever encountered…”

He  fairly quivered with excitement. “You’ll have to tell me on the way  there,” he said, following you aboard the sleek, diplomatic ship. “You  know I don’t do my homework til the night before.”

“I’m not doing it for you! You’ve had the dossiers, same as I have! How you passed your med finals, I’ll never know.”

“Sheer  brilliance,” he chuckled, patting you affectionately and yet  oh-so-patronisingly on the head from his great height with his upper set  of arms.  

You settled into your bunk - a rather more spacious one than any one  else given your importance on this mission - and tried to fight back  the nauseous, pre-flight nerves. This was your biggest responsibility  yet, and the Eshara,  for whose planet you were now about to set off, were almost a complete  mystery. Until now, they had been hostile to all attempts by the  federation to contact them, though they had never been actively  aggressive towards anyone either, unless provoked. A closed off and  secretive people at the furthest reach of the known universe, the Eshara  had now, for some reason, decided to reach out and invite a diplomatic  envoy onto their planet for a special cultural exchange. And, because of  the way you had handled a very nasty situation about six standard  months earlier, you had been selected for the job.  

Once you’d left atmo,  the pilot prepared the ship for Faster Than Light Travel. With two  stops to refuel and supply at federation bases, the trip would still  take six weeks.  

By  the time the verdant planet lay before the viewing deck of the ship,  its lush green, red, and purple forests visible even from orbit, you  were gasping for fresh, non-recycled air, even if the atmospheric  composition of Talos-5 was a little different from what you were used  to.  

A  light foot-fall behind you on the viewing deck made you jump, and was  followed by a rasping laugh like a sheet of paper rubbed against  another. “Nearly there,” Axie  said. The First Officer had long been a friend of yours, and the twin  tanks of pure hydrochloric acid that were affixed to her gills bubbled  softly as she respired; she was as excited as you were, though she  showed no other signs of it. Yes, you were one of those humans who  embraced the immense biodiversity of the federation to the point that  you actually had very few friends of your own species.  

Axie’s planet was absolutely hostile to human (and basically all other) life without protective suits, and even then the acidic conditions ate through most suits within a few days. In fact  it was so harsh that very few non-native species could visit without  similar and vast amounts of protective gear. Understandably, she had  left the sweltering, arid, pock-marked planet behind and had never  looked back. The twin, ovoid tanks sealed over her gills and attached to  a tank of acid were the only concession she had to make to being free  of her miserable planet, and one she gladly weathered.  

Entering  planetary atmosphere was never particularly pleasant, but soon your ship was being escorted through dense clouds by two Eshara  fighters, down to a landing bay. All around, as you left the banks of  low, drifting cloud, you could see the lush, jungle-like growth of the  planet, as though it were straining at the boundaries the Eshara  had put up to create the airfield, desperate to reclaim what had been  taken from it. It made you shudder, and suddenly it all felt a little  more suffocating than you’d imagined it would.  

“Go  do your thing, babe,” Garris chuckled, winking one of his four red eyes  at you once you’d landed and the pilot had cut the engines. “Get the Eshara onside. We need their med tech, like, yesterday.”

“I know the stakes, Garris,” you smiled, perhaps a little thinly.  

He nodded. “Be safe,” he  added.  

He and the rest of the crew would wait behind until you and the captain had conducted your preliminary meeting with the Eshara High Council. A translator would be assigned to you, and should be waiting for you. 

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[lfthinkerwrites]

When in Rome

So here’s the second of my series of romantic oneshots, this time focusing on the professional and personal relationship of RiddleCat! 

“How long as it been since we’ve been in Rome?” Edward asked from the other side of the table. “Five years?”

”I think so,” Selina said. The pair were sitting on the outdoor seating area of a charming cafe across the street from the Trevi Fountain. The marble statues were just visible through the massive throng of tourists that were crowded around taking pictures and tossing coins over their shoulders. They were in Rome ostensibly on business, but Edward had insisted on getting up early to see some of the sights before the tourists overwhelmed them. Selina supposed she could indulge him just this once. The fact that he was footing the bill for their lunch helped make up for being dragged out of their hotel at six in the morning. She took a sip of her drink and smiled at her partner. "Having fun?"

Edward nodded, then took a bite out of his cannoli before he responded. "I have to say, it's certainly an improvement over the last time we were here."

Selina rolled her eyes. The less they talked about that fiasco, the better. "That was your fault, you know. You'd better not be planning on trying on my suit again."

Edward chuckled and took another piece of cannoli. "Oh, you're just bitter that it fit me better."

"Keep eating cannoli like that and it won't," Selina teased. She let out a laugh at the offended look on Edward's face which gave way to a pout. She leaned across the table to kiss him on the cheek. "I'm sorry baby, that was mean. Do you still want to go to the Pantheon before we head to the Palazzo Barberini?"

A smile came back to Edward's face. "Let me get the check and we'll be on our way."

What a pair we make, Selina thought as they left the cafe and strolled about the Trevi district. The only concession Selina would make to the cobblestone streets were a pair of simple if still stylish black flats. Otherwise, with her black dress, wide-brimmed hat and her dark shades, she looked the part of a heroine from Fellini. In contrast, Edward was, while still dressed well, in much more casual clothing than he typically wore, without so much of a hint of green. Selina didn't even know he owned a short-sleeved shirt. He stopped them every few minutes during their wanderings to point out a landmark, or to spout off some bit of historical trivia, or to take pictures. Every so often, Selina would pull them into a boutique, or insist on getting a picture of the two together, occasionally stealing a kiss. To anyone else, they looked like a pair of tourists on a romantic holiday.

Well, who would expect that the Riddler and Catwoman, two of the most notorious thieves in Gotham City's history, would choose to take a job in Rome of all places?

After they had walked from the Pantheon and back to the fountain, he checked his watch. "Well, it's 2:00. Should we head over?" Selina didn't miss the trace of disappointment in his voice

"Yep, it's about that time." She reached out to squeeze his hand. "We'll have more time after we finish the job."

"I know." Then he set his shoulders and outstretched his hand. "Shall we, my dear?" he said in that brassy, smarmy way of his that entertained and irritated her in equal parts.

Selina smirked. "After you."

There were still tourists in the Palazzo Barberini when they arrived at a quarter past three. The art hung on the walls in a classic way, free from the barriers and alarms that kept most pieces in the Gotham art museum protected. Selina had admired many of the old masterpieces, but her attention was caught by the Holbein portrait of Henry VIII. She stood in front of it for a time, considering the artwork. It truly was a spectacular piece. She tapped a finger alongside her chin. And it was going to be a challenge to get out of here and to its buyer.

"I'll never understand the general population's fascination with the Tudors," Edward huffed. "No offense to Good Queen Bess, but her forefathers are somewhat lacking."

Selina shrugged. "Sex, religion, and violence. What's not to be fascinated by?"

"The Plantagenets are far more interesting. Or the Stewarts even. Henry VIII was a narcissistic, self-indulgent fool who if he were alive today would probably be the star of one of those tawdry reality shows you force me to watch."

Selina gently nudged him with her elbow. "Don't pretend you don't enjoy them just a little bit. Besides, even if you don't find Henry interesting, the jet-setting mogul who's paying us $2 million for him does."

Edward gave a quick nod. "Fair enough. You've had time to scope out the security?"

"Of course." The paintings weren't the only thing Selina had her eye on in the old palace. She'd been keeping an eye on the guards on their patrols out of the corner of her eyes, committing their routine to her memory, just as she had for the past three days since they'd arrived in Rome and had come to the Palazzo, at a different time each day to avoid suspicion. Edward had been doing reconnaissance work in his own way, both in the gallery and in their hotel room, hunched over his computer. "The guards change their shift every hour. There's always at least two at all times. How about on your end?"

Edward hummed. "It's all taken care of. The Paris Protocol is ready for tonight."

"Eddie, I told you I don't like that name."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Well for one, we first did it in London."

"Paris fits better! Think of the alliteration!"

Selina made a small, dismissive noise. "Eddie, baby, why do I bring you out in public?"

Despite her misgivings about the name, the 'Paris Protocol' went off without a hitch, and by 3 am, the pair and their ill-gotten gain were in the Roman penthouse of Massimo di Carlo, a trust fund bum (with an emphasis on bum, Edward was fond of pointing out) with a tan that would make the Gotham guidos jealous and far too much of Daddy's money to spend. He had the portrait in his hands and a gleeful smile on his face. "Bravissimo!" he cried. He handed the painting to a retainer and clapped his hands. "Now, $2 million, yes? Would you like a check or-"

"Direct deposit will do just fine," Edward said. He handed di Carlo a small slip of paper. "This is the account information."

"Of course." Di Carlo snapped his fingers and another attendant stepped forward. "Alexander, see that this is taken care of." He handed the man the slip of paper, then crossed over to a table with a bottle of wine and two glasses on it. He poured himself a glass, then he filled the other glass and held it out towards Selina. "Would you care for a drink?" Selina didn't miss the fact that while he was speaking to her, his eyes were on her chest. Or that Edward had noticed and that his green eyes were narrowed.

"No thank you," Selina declined, holding her hand up.

di Carlo shrugged, then sat down on his plush red velvet sofa. "I imagine that you must have many stories about your exploits. Perhaps I could persuade you to stay and tell me about them?" Once again, he was only talking to Selina. She had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. Rich playboys were the same in Gotham and Rome alike.

"We really should be going," Edward said. "We've had a long day after all."

di Carlo ignored him entirely and raised his glass in Selina's direction. "Perhaps another $500,000 could convince you to stay the night?"

A noise from indignation came out of Edward's mouth and he stepped forward, no doubt ready to bash the spoiled brat's head in. Selina held him back with one hand against his chest. "Down boy. I can handle this." Selina then stepped forward, sauntering up to di Carlo where he sat, ignoring the smug look on his face. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Massimo," she purred. Then she leaned down and gripped him on the shoulder tightly, relishing the hiss of pain and the look of fear on his face. "But I'm not for sale. And for the record? Mine and Edward's relationship is more than professional." di Carlo's face went pale when the full magnitude of the mistake he'd made dawned on him. "I think we'll each take an extra $500,000 each as an apology." di Carlo nodded. Selina let him go and tugged Edward toward the door. "Ciao Massimo."

Selina woke up at noon in their hotel suite, $1.5 million richer. She stepped out of the shower and noticed that Edward was sitting in front of the TV, a smug look on his face. "Did we make the news?" she asked, grabbing a cup of coffee that he's prepared.

Edward chuckled. "In a way."

Selina arched an eyebrow, then turned her attention to the flatscreen. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw none other than Massimo di Carlo on the TV, being led away in handcuffs by the police. The newscaster spoke in Italian "Heir to the di Carlo fashion line arrested on charges of art theft this morning in Rome! The police received an anonymous tip that the Henry VIII painting that was stolen from the Palazzo Barberini was in di Carlo's penthouse. di Carlo has issued no comment."

Selina turned to Edward. "Eddie. Baby. You didn't."

Edward grinned. "I did."

Selina shook her head and laughed. "Aren't you a vindictive little thing."

Edward shrugged. "That's what he gets for propositioning my girl. The best part is, even if he suspects that it was me, he can't say so without admitting he hired us."

"So we get $1.5 million apiece and Henry VIII goes back home. A happy ending all around." Selina tilted his chin down to plant a soft kiss on his lips. Then she reached up to ruffle Edward's hair and laughed again at the protest he let out. "So what's on the agenda today? The Coliseum?"

Edward's eyes lit up and he lay out his travel plans for the day, including a walk by the Vatican. Selina nodded her approval, and the two set off for their romantic holiday.

[littleredroseonthevalley]

Our Lady of the Incarnation

Or, Positive Sum

Summary: Summoned to Ledford Park under false pretenses, Edmund Marlcaster is offered a trade he might be unable to deny.

Rating: K - Content suitable for most ages. Intended for general audience 5 years and older. Free of any coarse language, violence, and adult themes.

Words: 2160

Notes: Hello, people of the XXI century. How do you do? A few clarifications, I do not know whether intraracial marriages were in fact abolished in Paraguay under de Francia’s dictatorship (c. 1810 - c. 1836), but I do know that it is a popular folk tale, and I also know that Paraguayans are amongst the most miscigenated populations in South America.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy it!

“And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.”

~ 1 Corinthians 13:2

Edmund Marlcaster rode silently through the dark of the night, the only light being the one from the full moon above him and the only noise was the sound of roofs hitting against the pebbles on the road.

He took a leisure pace, his carriage had suffered an accident on his way to Grovershire a few days ago, and his ribs still felt sore. In fact, if the destination was not so close and the tone of the request was not so urgent, he might had declined.

“Mr Marlcaster,” Theresa had said, on occasion of his father’s wake. “I understand you might not be at your best condition, given all that happened to you those last few days, but my father is becoming impatient about our wedding.”

“Miss Sutton, do you not realize I am burying my father or you simply does not care?!” He asked, on an uncharacteristic harsh tone. She usually tires him, but his response is always cool disinterest.

She, in turn, sighs. “I know, Mr Marlcaster, and I understand. However, it took all of my persuasion to keep him from coming here himself to hand you a demand. If you could only… talk to him, explain that during your closed mourning, it would not be proper for your family to hold a marriage celebration…”

He had to concede that the woman had a point. It was so rare he had to take note of it.

“I cannot travel long distance.” He responded. “I am still unwell from my accident.”

“I understand. That is why I had required of Mr Sinclaire the use of Ledford Park for an evening next week. I am sure I can convince my father to come, and it is not so far as in to be extenuating for you.” She said, and turning into pleading eyes, she continues, “Please, Mr Marlcaster. It is of utmost importance.”

How could he decline such a simple request from his fiancée? To meet her at Ledford Park for an evening. The young man may not care much for Miss Sutton, but he had to admit she was a dotting, loving woman; he owed her at least some deference.

So, he complied. He had the groom saddle him a stable ride and departed through the three-mile road that separated Edgewater from Ledford Park.

Upon arrival, he notes there were three footmen waiting for him at the entrance, what was most unusual. Edmund may not have had many an opportunity to interact with Mr Sinclaire, but he never appeared to be one for such gestures of grandeur.

It must be Miss Sutton’s idea, he dismissed quietly.

As two footmen care for his horse, the third asks to be followed, as his master awaits for him at the study.

When he reaches the room, and the footman disappears, is that he notices it was all a carefully engineered set-up. There were three people inside that room, and neither one of them was Mr Sinclaire or Mr Sutton.

“Good evening, Edmund.” His stepsister greets, smiling wickedly from the chair behind the bureau. “Nice of you to join us.”

“Miss Sutton, what is the meaning of this?!” He barks at his fiancée. “Where is your father?”

The young woman glared in response. “Mind your tongue, Mr Marlcaster! Believe me, I wanted to do much worse. You ought to thank your sister for that deceiving you is the least I am due.”

“Edmund, please.” Miss Daly tries to reason with him, from the right-arm side of her mistress. “Just listen to what Susan has to say. I promise you, it is not something bad.”

What was particularly striking about Briar is that she was not wearing her uniform, but she also did not seemed to be wearing anything a servant might on their holy days. No, instead she wore a royal blue dress, highly embroidered and decorated.

It was so fancy that, if not for the perfect measurements on her figure, she would have swore it was a loan or a donation from Lady Susan.

“It seems it is you I have to blame for this whole spectacle.” He glares, furious, at the natural daughter of his stepfather. “Very well, then. What is that so important that you have to tell me, Miss Beauchamp?”

She smiles like a lioness closing on her prey. “Edmund, please. We are supposed to be family. You can call me Susan.”

“Miss Beauchamp, please.” He growled.

“Very well, as you wish.” She smirked, stood up and walked around the Bureau, in a pensive fashion. “Tell me, Edmund, do you know where the Parana River is located?”

He huffed. “No, and I do not see how that relates to anything.”

“I am getting there, I am getting there.” She smirked and then pointed a map hung on the side of the study. “It is in southern America, between the old colonies of Portugal and Spain, up the estuary of Rio de la Plata.”

Susan walks around the bureau once more and sits back on the chair. “Say, Edmund, would you not mind to take a seat? This would be much easier on both of us.”

As if on cue, and perhaps exactly like that, Miss Daly sat on one of the chairs in front of Susan, while Miss Sutton retained her sneering post on the left corner of the study.

Feeling the tiredness of his ribcage, he begrudgingly complied with a chair next to Briar.

“As I was saying, some nine hundred miles from the mouth of Rio de la Plata, up the Parana River, lays a small village named Encarnación, at the Intendancy of Paraguay. Lovely place, I am told.” She smirked once again, probably out of her own inner joke. “A few years back, I have you hear, their ruler decided to outlaw marriages between any two locally-born Whites. Their men often marry Indians. Isn’t this so very curious?”

“Very.” He grunts. “Again, what does any of this have to do with any of us being here?”

“You see, Edmund, my mother and I were not completely destitute, she could amass some savings out of a lifetime of work. That, coupled with a generous loan from Mr Sinclaire, was just enough to buy a sizeable chunk of land, just outside Encarnación.”

“I see. Are you sailing to the New World, then?” He questions, a tone of hope on his voice.

“Not really.” She responds. “You see, I never hated you. If anything, I pitied you. A mother who did not care for you, a stepfather who would take more to a daughter he never seen before than the son he raised from age five. The only person who loved you, and whom you loved in return, was dead and buried.

“Furthermore, you have no tact for business or administration. You were positively lost with the legers at Edgewater under the watchful eye of the Earl, now that you are alone, you would absolutely wreck the books. And if you did think I would not notice your infatuation with my maid, you are more naïve than I thought.”

Briar chooses that moment to interlock her fingers on his and to smile kindly at him.

“Given our situation regarding the Earl’s last will, and your mother’s delusions, I am here to offer you a way out, so to speak.” She opens a drawer and fetches a few papers. “There is a ship that sails from Liverpool in a fortnight, headed towards Buenos Aires. From there, it is a three-day journey upstream to Encarnación.”

“Susan wants you to leave.” Theresa blurts out, and, under the intense glare of the aforementioned woman, retracts with a, “Pardon me.”

“While I would not put it in quite those terms, yes.” A pause for effect. “I do believe it is mutually beneficial for you to immigrate to Paraguay.”

He looks at the woman dispassionately and then chuckles loudly. “Are you insane, woman?”

“Edmund, please.” Briar holds his hand tightly. “Think carefully. More than once you complained to me your unwillingness to inherit Edgewater. Lady Susan is offering you a way to back off from it, and still have a comfortable lifestyle.”

“Yes, but in Paraguay.” He stresses the word, as if it is poisonous. “How can I trust that this is not a plot to take me away from the country long enough to usurp Edgewater from under me?”

For the disdain for the land, Briar takes her hand away, as if terribly hurt. Edmund notices it, but does not understand why.

“Well, Edmund, I chose Paraguay because it was the most suitable place for you and Miss Daly to live together as a lawfully-wedded couple. There would be no man to bat an eye to it there, of this, I am certain. In here, though…” She trails off.

“The British are harsh with those of different skin colours, and even more so of those who collude with them. If you doubt me, I can have Mr Harper to come here and attest to it. However, if you so desire, I am sure we can find something here in England to your tastes.”

Such a statement made the grinds on his mind to swirl. Edmund did not think about the complications arising from Briar’s skin tone. He was still stuck on those related to her position as a maid and his status as an engaged man.

Furthermore, while he did feel a great deal more strongly about Briar than he did for Miss Sutton, or any other woman, for that matter, he was still unsure about whether he wishes to actually marry her.

“As for whether you can trust me, I am willing to make a concession. The current owner of the estate I am proposing is a business associate of mine, a Frenchman who lived in Paraguay for many years.” She continues, off-handedly. “He has agreed to guide you through your journey from Buenos Aires, to show you the estate. You need only to sign your claim to Edgewater to me if it is all to your liking.”

“What about my mother?” He asks. Wretched or not, he still had a duty towards the woman.

Susan shrugs. “I do not care what you do with her. Leave her here, send for her after you settle, take her with you in the ship. Just be certain she will have no home with me.”

It was to be expected, he considered, seeing how strained is the relationship between his mother, his step-grandmother and his stepsister.

Despite Susan’s assurances, however, he was still very insecure about it all.

“That being said, the ship goes off in fourteen days. While my offer leaves with it, I am sure you can afford a few days to think about it, dear brother of mine.” Susan says, detecting the doubt on his features. “The farmstead is not attached to a marriage to Miss Daly, as well, though I believe it to be in good taste, considering your night-time activities.”

“Very well.” Edmund breathes out. “I will consider your offer.”

The brunette nods. “It is all correct. Miss Daly will be awaiting for you with your tickets and the name of my associate at Ranelagh Place in Liverpool. You needn’t to speak to me about it any further, but I am willing to respond to any further doubts you have. Miss Daly shall relate to me whether you made the deadline or not.

“There is one thing I ask of you, and it is of utmost importance. Do not speak to your mother about my offer. I am trusting you, but I do not trust Henrietta.” Susan glares at the mention of the name. “If I know you consulted with her, I will be interpreting it as a refusal of my generosity.”

“Sure, seems reasonable.” He agreed.

“The major domo shall show you out.” The woman points to the door and he left with no further words.

Later that night, when Briar and Theresa had already left for Liverpool, Susan sat alone at the study with the master of the house.

“Do you think Mr Marlcaster will take it?” Ernest comments, thoughtful. “The deal, I mean.”

Susan hums her affirmative. “I suppose he will. He desires a fight for Edgewater just about as much as I do. He knows he has no talent for administering an estate of such nature, and he has been blessed with the lack of desire for it as well. The Paraguayan farm I offer him is much more manageable.”

The esquire smiles. “In any case, it was generous of you to offer.”

“Eh.” She shrugs. “I know how much value Edgewater holds, monetary and emotionally-wise. If a few hundred pounds and the loss of a handmaid is enough to keep it, then I say it was mighty cheap.”

Taglist: @catlady0911; @choicesyouplayandmore; @cocomaxley; @enviouslylove; @hellospunkiebrewster; @mrsernestsinclaire; @shelivesinthewoods; @tornbetween2loves

[utilitymonstermash]

Taleb:

One of the problems of the interventionista — wanting to get involved in other people’s affairs “in order to help” — results in disrupting some of the peace-making mechanisms that are inherent in human affairs, a combination of collaboration and strategic hostility. As we saw in the Prologue 1, the error continues because someone else is paying the price.

I speculate that had IYIs and their friends not gotten involved, problems such as the Israeli-Palestinian one would have been solved, sort of — and both parties, especially the Palestinians, would have been better off. As I am writing these lines the problem has lasted seventy years, with way too many cooks in the same tiny kitchen, most of whom never have to taste the food. I conjecture that when you leave people alone, they tend to settle for practical reasons.

[...]

Imagine [Nero1] the absurdity of Arab states prodding the Palestinians to fight for their principles while their potentates are sitting in carpeted alcohol-free palaces (with well-stocked refrigerators full of nonalcoholic fermented beverages such as yoghurt) while the recipients of their advice live in refugee camps. Had the Palestinians settled in 1947, they would have been better off. But the idea was to throw the Jews and neo-crusaders in the Mediterranean; Arab rhetoric came from Arab parties who were hundreds, thousands of miles away arguing for “principles” when Palestinians were displaced, living in tents. Then came the war of 1948. Had Palestinians settled then, things would have worked out. But, no, there were “principles.” But then came the war of 1967. Now they feel they would be lucky if they recovered the territory lost in 1967. Then in 1992 came the Oslo peace treaty, from the top. No peace proceeds from bureaucratic ink. If you want peace, make people trade, as they have done for millennia. They will be eventually forced to work something out.

Moldbug:

Under the Wilsonian interpretation, this right to judge has been removed from Israel and Gaza, and transferred to Washington, our honest—or, depending on your point of view, dishonest—broker. Our single global sovereign.

Result: Arabs persistently refuse any settlement, always involving concessions in their favor, which Israel will accept. As diplomats put it, they will “not take yes for an answer.” Small wonder, as the conflict is essentially their national industry at this point. War continues for sixty years, on and off, and bids fair to go on for the next sixty.

Note that in none of this analysis have we considered the actual merits of the case Palestine v. Israel. We have simply observed that the old international law, generally perceived as brutal and bellicose, results in peace. And the new international law, generally perceived as civilized and humanitarian, results in war. This would not be the first such inversion.

War is, generally, more evil than peace. So our evil detector is going off. But we have only begun to scratch the surface of the evil in this case.

There is actually an English word which refers to the Palestinian case. The word is irredentism. The fit is perfect: “Irredentism is any position advocating annexation of territories administered by another state on the grounds of common ethnicity or prior historical possession, actual or alleged.” The origin of the term is also worth a look. And irredentism can also be considered a special case of revanchism.

But you seldom see these terms used in relation to the Middle East conflict, because both have acquired a distinct odor of… evil. It’s all too easy to understand how irredentism and revanchism are the polar opposite of peace. Peace means accepting the results of history. Irredentism means the Welsh Liberation Front, demanding the return of London from those notorious human-rights violators, the Saxons.

Moreover, one question too seldom asked is why irredentist violence occurs. After all, changes in borders, even mass population transfers, are ubiquitous throughout history. Focusing on our own era for a moment, we have the expulsion of the Germans from Eastern Europe, the expulsion of the Jews from Egypt, and the expulsion of the pieds-noirs from Algeria. In each of these cases, a population of millions was expelled at gunpoint from land they had lived on for generations, an enterprise blatantly inconsistent with “the rights of humanity.” And resulting in a complete absence of irredentist violence, or even political organization. So far as I know, not a single pipe bomb has been detonated by any victim of any of these expulsions.

Why? Perhaps these particular peoples are just genetically docile. A racial characteristic. Or a cultural one, at least. Can these factors be ruled out? Of course not.

But there’s another troubling factor, which is that none of the docile expellees enjoyed the sympathy of the “international community.”For the Germans, this is obvious. The Jews and pieds-noirs were expelled by Arab nationalists—who, as we’ve just seen, did enjoy that sympathy. (Or see, for example, Suez.)

[indn241callagdecl2021]

Project 2 - Dr Martens 1460 Design Investigation

Who designed it? And when was it designed? The Dr Martin 1460 boot was designed principally by Bill Griggs in 1960, using the air cushioned sole developed by Dr Klaus Maertens in 1945.

What was the motivation? Was it designed to solve a problem? If so, what was the problem? And was the design deemed a good solution at the time? Is the approach still valid? Dr Klaus Maertens had injured his foot while skiing in 1945 and invented an air cushioned shoe sole to support his foot during the recovery process, as there was nothing on the market at the time. Nowadays, the foot would be either set in a plaster cast, splint, or other support, although supporting shoes have since been further developed. He had also previously been in a motorcycle accident which had left him with one leg shorter than the other, so already had experience of having to adapt to this kind of circumstance.

How the designer came up with the idea? How long did it take to complete the design since its inception? Although Dr Maertens created the prototype of his shoe sole in 1945, it was not initially a success until 1947 when the design was revised by his friend Dr Herbert Funk, a mechanical engineer. In 1960, the UK based Griggs company adopted the air cushioned sole for their new working boot, the 1460 Dr Martens.

Why was it formed that way? Did the designer consider any different shapes, structures or configurations? Has the original form been modified? If so, what was the reason? The design of the Dr Martens boot follows many typical boot making procedures, and for that reason has become the architype of a working boot. The major differences are in the attachment of the sole containing the air cushion, as well as the iconic visual elements such as the yellow stitching. While the original form has only been subtly modified to create a cleaner and more uniform product, both Dr Klaus Maertens and the Griggs company both filed a number of patents during the development of their product. Otherwise, the form and manufacturing processes are largely determined by precedent.

How was it crafted, manufactured, or built? Was the method or process believed innovative then? Is it still the same from today’s perspective? In their single UK factory, which accounts for just 1-2% of manufacturing, Dr Martens are made with a combination of traditional and modern techniques (Insider, 2018). However, these shoes are all marked up and sold as part of their Made in England collection. I have been unable to gain any insight into factory practices in China of Thailand, so could not say how the majority of boots are produced. One of the most innovative processes at the time was the Goodyear welt, stitching on the PVC or Rubber welt to the upper with the iconic yellow thread and using intense heat to melt the welt to the sole without the use of adhesives. In theory, this means that the soles should never separate from the upper. The disadvantage being that if the soles are worn or damaged, they cannot practically be resoled. In a world where we expect that most things will be made through highly controlled and mechanised processes there is also something exciting about seeing a pair of shoes being subjected to such extremes as part of a manufacturing process.

Who was the target audience? How did the audience or critics react to the design at first? Has it changed over time? Adopting the air cushioned sole that Dr Maertens had marketed to older women, the Griggs company produced a boot designed for working men. Following the massive social upheavals of the 1960s, the boots became heavily associated with youth culture, rebellious music genres, and anti-authoritarianism. However, while Dr Martens as a company nowadays trades on the association with a generalised free-spirited individualism, the dark side of this was the violence and racism of the neo-Nazis, and skinheads, who frequently clashed with the police. As social unrest enveloped the UK, the Punk genre emerged, and the Dr Martens boot regained its association with anti-authoritarian counterculture.

Is the design still in production or use? If so, is the fact noteworthy compared with the competition or similar attempts that have since been made? Yes, the 1460 is almost unchanged since its creation, although the ethos behind the boots has changed several times over the past two decades in order to keep the product relevant. Many alternatives have been created by other companies as a way to circumvent the ethical problems with the company (E.g.), however none of these have had the same iconic impact as the Dr Martens 1460 boot.

How can the short-term and long-term impact of the design example, including associated factors, such as introduction of a pioneering process or subsequent changes it has prompted, if any, on our lifestyle, other designers, relevant industries, and the environment be described? Given the singular nature of the Dr Martens brand (and certainly a singular narrative), it is difficult to tell how much influence it had on other brands of the time. The air cushioning technology had already been available for a little over a decade by the time the 1460 was first produced. In the short term, they were popular boots for policemen, postmen, and others who worked on their feet. The fact that they were comfortable, and the soles particularly hardwearing was what made them successful. This is in direct contrast to their status today, where their counter cultural legacy has transformed them into a commodity of the fast fashion market, where there is no real incentive to produce a lasting or hardwearing boot.

What was planned and practised by the designer ahead of the times? Initially built to last, the boots were originally constructed of rubber and leather, with processes such as the goodyear welt and the use of a puritan stitch in order to keep them as sturdy as possible. The use of the air cushioned sole would also have allowed people to work effectively on their feet for longer, as well as providing another level of support to those who needed it, as Maertens had intended.

What was not fully considered or even missing at the time? Has there been any improvement made? As with many designed objects predating the environmental movement, few environmental considerations would have been made. If anything, the ethics of the company and their sourcing of materials would seem to have nosedived in the last two decades, and while minor concessions have been made toward leather and energy usage, their manufacturing processes lack transparency.

How different today’s perceptions, knowledge and values are from those of the times? And how likely would they change in the future? Dr Martens have historically been identified with the counterculture, something which shifts and changes over  time. This has come to include vegetarianism and veganism, philosophies that reject the consumption of animals, or the use of animal products altogether. This has led to the release of Vegan Dr Martens made from synthetic leather substitutes. However, this substitute is likely to be Polyvinyl Chloride, which is less easily recycled than leather. 

Do we have access to better materials, processes, and technologies now Yes, there are many different types of sustainable leather alternatives which are available to the modern fashion industry, including plant-based leathers made from Mushroom and Pineapple. Just as we can now synthesise vegan friendly artificial meat, it is also now possible to synthesise animal leather.

What do you want to say to the designer if you had a chance? As the originator of the 1460 boot, I would ask Bill Griggs which he thought to be more important, more profit or a better product? Should the aim of commerce and innovation be to serve society as a whole, or to pursue the acquisition of wealth at any cost? If he had seen the way in which the company’s practices would change, would he have taken steps to avoid this eventuality?

 Most of what I have found was taken from the Dr Martens website. There are numerous articles concerning the origins of the boots, but they all contain essentially the same information. As a business that has switched to a fast fashion model, Dr Martens have little incentive to make a product that lasts, yet trade on a reputation of solidity and reliability. What I have found from largely anecdotal evidence is that there are many people who have had bad experiences with the soles cracking or wearing out, and people who staunchly defend them as timeless and hardwearing.  Doubtless, the shift in company practices including the outsourcing of manufacturing, is slowly and deservedly discrediting the company’s reputation.

Bandoim, L., Minnis, G. (2017, August 2). Is My Foot Broken? Symptoms, Recovery, and More. Healthline. https://www.healthline.com/health/broken-foot-symptoms#treatment

Dr Martens. (2021). 1460 Smooth Leather Ankle Boots. https://www.drmartens.com/uk/en_gb/p/24614700 Dr Martens. (2021). History. https://www.drmartens.com/us/en/history Dr Martens. (2021). Sustainability. https://www.drmartensplc.com/sustainability/produce-responsibly/

Hodgson, S. (n.d.). Quintessentially British brands: A brief history of Dr Martens, shoes with soul. Fabrik.https://fabrikbrands.com/british-brands-dr-martens-history/

Insider. (2018, June 6). How Dr. Martens' Are Made [Video]. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rO1YAx4QW1I

Smithers, R. (2019, November 25). Why did my £170 Dr Martens split after just six months??. The Guardian.https://www.theguardian.com/money/2019/nov/25/dr-martens-boots-quality-wear-tear

Smithers, R., Collinson, P. (2019, November 30). Dr Martens: are things going wrong with the UK's beloved brand?. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/money/2019/nov/30/are-things-going-wrong-with-the-uk-beloved-dr-martens-brand

Stanton, A. (2019). These Leather Alternatives Are Changing The Future Of Sustainable Fashion. The Good Trade. https://www.thegoodtrade.com/features/sustainable-vegan-leather-alternatives

Wolfe, I. (2021, February 3). How Ethical Is Dr Martens?. Good On You. https://goodonyou.eco/how-ethical-dr-martens/