#you have to provide AT LEAST six weeks of off-screen stewing about it

[cakesandfail]

Can you write the Nightwatch conversation that Vimes and Vetinari have two months later? (Being cheeky with a prompt since you made me think about it and then were talking about prompts!)

I most certainly can, yes! Thank you <3

For context, this is set in the Oblong Office, with a desk full of plans relevant to re-opening the Treacle Mine Road watch house. It's very, very dialogue-heavy, but that's sort of the point, I guess.

"Regarding the roof," said Vetinari, "I seem to recall that the tiles were-"

"Don't," said Vimes, throwing his pencil down.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't try to weasel your way into another conversation about that. I'm not talking about it with you."

Vetinari studied Vimes carefully for a moment, and then turned. "Mr Drumknott, could you file these blueprints, please? It appears we have finsihed for today."

After Drumknott had left the room, he continued.

"I believe an apology is in order."

"No," said Vimes. "I'm not apologising to you for anyth-"

"From me."

Vimes stared. "You don't do that."

"I rarely find it necessary," said Vetinari. "This time, however... I may have misjudged the situation, last time we spoke about our, ah, shared history. I am, after all, only human."

Vimes snorted. "Could've fooled me."

"Not for much longer, I think." Vetinari flashed one of his sharp little smiles. "Our conversation in the cemetery was not as productive as I had hoped, Vimes. In hindsight, I fear I said some things which came across as somewhat... insensitive."

"That," Vimes growled, "and you sounded like you were making a move on me when my wife had just had our fucking kid."

"Ah," said Vetinari. "Yes. My intention was merely to change the subject, but I see how you would have thought..." He paused. "I really am sorry, Sam. For general thoughtlessness, mostly, but also for what you went through. Once was enough: I cannot imagine how it must have felt to be there twice."

And after all those weeks of keeping his thoughts to himself, with a new baby at home and more to think about at work than ever, that was all it took for Vimes: hearing words that nobody had ever said about any of this, from the last person he ever expected to apologise for anything at all. He visibly deflated, sliding down in his seat, a hand over his face. He took one shaky breath, and then another.

"I thought he was my dad," he said. "Back then, the first time around. I knew Mum had lied about what had happened to him, and I was a fucking idiot, so as soon as Keel showed an interest in me I put two and two together and made five. Can you imagine, getting your hopes up like that and then the guy just dies right in front of you a week later?"

Vetinari said nothing; he merely raised an eyebrow. Vimes laughed, though there was little humour in it.

"Hah. Yeah, I suppose you can, can't you?"

"We both thought very highly of Sergeant Keel, certainly."

"Probably not as highly as the other me did though," said Vimes. "When I went back- when I was Keel- the younger me there must have been even more convinced than I was. We looked alike, for fuck's sake! Of course we did!"

"And you worry for him. For you."

"Can't help it," said Vimes. "Poor kid got left behind twice, just like I did, and now it's my own bloody fault."

The two men sat in silence, the irregular ticking of the clock in the corridor outside just barely audible in the background.

"I think," said Vetinari carefully, "that it was necessary in order for you to be you. The fact that you feel guilt for events beyond your control is, I would suggest, a part of that."

"You really believe that, don't you?"

"In all honesty, Vimes, I think it would do you good if you believed it too."

Vimes thought for a moment. "I can't imagine you feeling guilty about anything."

"Oh, quite the contrary. There have been things that were necessary that I wish were never so. But back then? No. Only that-" Vetinari stopped abruptly, looking away.

"Ah, come on, you can't do that shit. Not now you've got all this out of me."

"I would rather not-"

Vimes leant forward again. "Tell me."

There was another long silence. Vimes sighed, but as he rose out of his seat to leave, Vetinari finally spoke.

"If I had known how that night was going to end, I would never have taken the commission."

Vimes sat down heavily. "That was you? You bumped off Winder in the middle of a damned party?"

"I wouldn't put it quite like that, but yes."

"And you were how old, seventeen? Eighteen?"

"Just turned eighteen."

"So practically a kid then, right?"

"Old enough, by Guild rules."

"Good gods," said Vimes. "This place really does rely on us for everything. No wonder I hate it here."

"You do not," said Vetinari, a faint note of amusement creeping into his voice. "I have no doubt that you have this city's best interests at heart."

"Yeah," said Vimes. "That's why I haven't cut your head off yet."

"Oh? Might I assume, then, that the barricades won't be going up again any time soon?"

"Eh," Vimes shrugged, "I still think you're a pain in the arse. But for now... yeah. You're doing alright."

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Of Dust and Ashes (chapter 25)

Sorry for the late posting, I intended to post it Friday but well, life happened. We're surprise moving at the start of next month so things may get a little crazy but I intend to keep at least biweekly posts.

Chapter warnings: Violence

Clint x ofc (Deanna). 

Series warnings: Legit, if it’s a trigger it’s probably in here at some point...

Rated: M for mature themes

Masterlist Kofi

Chapter 25: Into the City

Clint watched the world around them. Cold air bit at his cheeks and ears, made colder still by the breeze. Sun warmed the top of his head. He was alone on the roof with only the wind and the slight ringing in his ear to break the silence. Absently. he rubbed at his ear as if he could somehow rub away the sound that had been with in for much of his life. There were only so many blows to the ear and explosions one could experience without some sort of lasting damage. All things considered, he was lucky. It could have been worse.

In the cold, he sat watching and waiting. He’d left Dee on the top floor, inside and safe from the cold air to care for baby Elsa. It wasn’t a place for her or a baby, not when they didn’t need to be. The desire to protect her, to isolate Dee from any harm burned inside him. He'd rather her never be on this roof but she wanted to help. While he didn't like it, having eyes in the sky and ranged attacks would provide a useful distraction.

She didn't need to be out there right at that moment, at least. For now, she could be warmer and safer than he was. Later, he could show her what she needed to see. Right now, it was better that she rested and cared for the little one. Anxiety ate at him though.

He did the best he could to cut the top floor off from the rest of the building but there was only so much he could do. He did his best while maintaining his own path to get to the roof and back. He wouldn’t hear it if someone where to fight through his makeshift barricades and Dee was sleeping.  

He was proud of her for how well she handled the amount of walking they had done but now she needed to rest. They’d covered miles of ground today and would likely cover miles again tonight, assuming they didn’t die. She’d done little complaining and had earned her rest. It was a lot that she was putting her body through for someone who wasn’t a trained agent.  

In his pocket, his phone vibrated. Slipping it out, he looked at the name. 'Natasha' flashed on the screen next to a picture of a spider. In the top corner of the screen, next to the date he’d been trying to ignore was a small satellite symbol. They’d not gotten cell phone service returned yet but Stark's satellite phone services still worked.  

“Hey.” He hadn’t wanted to answer but he had been ignoring her for longer stretches of time. It wasn’t fair to her. It wasn’t her fault.  

Except, it kind of was.  

She was there. She was at the battle. She didn’t call him. She didn’t tell him. She went to space. She was there when he died. She saw his blood. She didn’t bring him. She failed to save them. She failed to bring them back. She failed. She failed.  

“How’s it going?”  

Clint cleared his voice, pushing the turbulent thoughts away as he always did. “It’s going.”

“I wanted to check on you.” She started, sounding more like she was talking to a wounded animal than a friend, comrade and the man who had at one point saved her life. “I know today’s-”

“I’m fine.” He didn’t mean to snap. “Sorry- Just a bit cold. I’m getting to be a grouchy old man.”  

“Are you sure? I can take a few days, fly out… I worry about you, being alone in the house and today’s-”

“It would have been 15 years.” Clint offered, knowing damn well that she was calling to make sure he hadn’t gone off the rails.  

“That’s a long time.” Nat offered.  

“Not nearly as long as I had planned on being married.” There was nothing he could do to keep the ice from his voice.  

“I know.” He could hear the regret in her voice. She didn’t mean to pick at the emotional scab. “I just worry about you. You don’t have to be alone right now.”

“I’m not.” His attention was divided between the phone call and the men walking down below.  

“You’re never worried.” Natasha teased, or at least tried. “But I mean it, you don’t have to suffer alone. I’m here for-”

“I’m not.” He snapped.  

Below, men pushed women out in the open. They had pots in their hands. One tripped and landed in a heap on the ground. What looked to be a soup or stew spilled onto the ground. Another woman tripped over the first and dropped the loaf of bread she had been carrying.  

“You’re not? Who’s with you?” He hadn’t told Nat a whole lot of what he had been up to.  

“It’s not important.”  

Men appeared to be yelling at the women. There was a stark difference between the way the two groups of people were dressed. The men had heavy coats, gloves and hats to protect against the bitter cold. The women, by contrast were lucky to have even a light jacket over their shirts. Many had rips in their clothes.  

Regardless of if they were men or women, all were dirty. Their hair was unwashed. Men kicked at the woman who had been carrying the soup. Mouths contorted in anger. The woman who had carried the bread was pulled to her feet only to be thrown back onto the ground. Clint watched as her head connected with the ground and her body went limp. The first woman was still being beaten by the others.  

“What have you been up to?” Clint asked. “How’s things on your end?”

“We’ve got order in the East coast established again.”  

“That’s good.” Clint sounded as if he wasn’t sitting on a roof watching a woman get beaten to death. “Was there much resistance?”  

“Not much.” The squeak of wheels pierced his ear. He could close his eyes and picture the exact chair she was sitting in. It’d always had the wheel that would squeal if it wasn’t oiled often enough.  

Tony would often get annoyed and take care of it himself though she was plenty able to ignore it. Tony was back and had made great strides in the physical aspects of his recovery. At least, that's what Nat had told him before. It seemed that he still wasn’t hanging around the compound enough to notice that Nat’s chair was crying for some oil. Or maybe he just didn’t care anymore.  

“How’s Tony?” Clint hadn’t intended to ask. What he wanted to know was more details about the state of things on the east coast.  

“Pulling away.” Nat’s breath washed over the phone in a sigh. Clint could imagine her leaning back in her chair, turning and looking at the wall behind her. “He came back and he just- for a while he was angry and shut down. And that made sense, you know? But then he started getting better. Pepper being pregnant seemed to help a lot. He’d get in the suit and even if he was going it alone, he’d go clean things up. Set up power for the hospitals and fire stations. It took a while to realize he was working himself into the ground.  

I don’t think we wanted to see it. I was doing what I could to locate the mayor or find the president or whatever. I could do that because Tony was doing so good making sure people in the city were not killing each other over Cheetos.  

I assumed everything was okay, that he was getting better. It was easier to assume that, I guess than question if he was ready. We didn’t really have time to question that.  

Once New York State was re-established, he slowed down, started pulling away from the service. He bought a house outside the city and has been decking it out. Sometimes we don’t see him at the tower for weeks at a time.”

“Pepper- she’s what, five months along now?”

“More like six.”

“Nat.” Clint shifted, almost falling on his ass. Below a feast was being staged by what he grew to understand were slave women under the watchful eye of guards. The stage where the bodies hung was not even twenty feet from where the chairs were being placed around a series of long folding tables. “He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t doing any of that to help others. He was doing it to help himself. He needed the area safe for Pepper. Now that it is, he’s got no reason to keep helping.”

“It’s Tony. He’s all about helping everyone else. That’s who he is.”

“That’s who he was.” Clint stressed. “And what did that get him? A fractured team? A world that wouldn’t listen to him? Half the goddamn universe turned to dust? A failed battle? Being selfless didn’t do shit except cause him pain, so why keep doing it?”

“Is that what you’re doing? Checking out and taking care of yourself? Letting the world burn? Is that why you won’t come back?”

“This isn’t about me. And for the record: In the last week we’ve saved a baby from freezing to death, provided food to a clinic and we’re getting ready to take down a man calling himself King and abusing people.”

“We?” Again, she pushed.  

“It doesn’t matter.” He dismissed her with those few words. “You didn’t hit a lot of push from those who claimed territory?”

Natasha sighed. “We did.”

“How’d you handle it? Don’t want to be undermining you.”

Seconds ticked by as he waited for Natasha to answer. She was thinking about her words, choosing them carefully. It was something she only did when she wasn’t sure how the one she was speaking to would react. It wasn’t a good sign at all.  

“The president offered them a way to keep the territory in a round about way. Many governors and mayors are just gone. Ones that we think survived abandoned their positions and so many others we can’t account for at all.”

“So what? You just give the position to who ever is in the area?” Clint was outraged though there was a part of him that tried to speak up, to remind himself that he’d probably do the same in her situation. The evil that you know is better than the one you don't in the short term. Once things were established again, they could go back and take out the trash and replace them.

The world wasn’t black and white and in the absence of leaders, they had to make do with what they had. There would likely be less death if they brought current leaders into the fold rather than challenging them and taking the power by force. It’s not like they had a way to be sure that whoever they did give the position to after wouldn’t try to take the land for themselves. He tried to reason with himself but all he could see was the bodies hanging from the beams down below. The United States government and the Avengers were giving power to what could be people like King Jacob.  

“We can challenge them later.”

“Right. Don’t spill blood yourself while you restore order. Wait until it’s convenient than take care of it if they abuse the power.”

“You know it’s more complicated than that.”  

“I’ve got to go, Nat.”  

“Clint-” He disconnected the call and pressed the power button on the phone before she had a chance to finish what she had been trying to tell him.  

The screen blinked once and went dark though Clint’s eyes were trained on the scene below. While he’d been arguing with Natasha, a woman had committed the grave crime of spilling some wine on the man Clint assumed to be King Jacob. The punishment for such a crime was a swift execution, Her blood stained the dirty snow in front of the table as the men ate.  

~~~~~<3

Cold bit at exposed skin. The temperature outside fell quickly as the sun set. Deanna sat alone on the roof with only the sleeping baby strapped to her back to keep her company. The weight of Elsa pressed tightly to her back under the heavy coat was a comfort even as the child slept.

Trust had followed Clint down the endless stairs, much to his dismay. It was a comfort to her at least, to know he at least had Trust to watch his back. Sure, the dog wouldn’t survive a gunshot but they both remembered well how the dog had loyally fought to protect her.

As far as she was concerned, the plan was beyond stupid. Clint had left her high up on the roof with a tactical bow so unlike what she usually used for practice. He’d told her that it would allow her to pull an arrow back and loose it with much more force than she normally would be capable of handling.  

He also left her with his arrows. They’d sat inside as the sun had set while he explained what each one would do. He drilled her again and again, making sure she knew which ones would explode on contact and which were simply sharp enough to split a hair on. He showed her how to use the scope and every single time she expressed doubts, he promised that she could do it.  

In truth, as he worked his way trough the dark city streets, admitted to himself that he wasn’t at all sure that she would be able to hit any intended target from that distance. But what he did know is that it would be hard for them to hit her where she was. That was what mattered most to him. Clint counted himself lucky to have convinced Trust to wait on the bottom floor of the building. Hopefully, if anyone tried to go after her the dog would be able to make enough noise to alert her.

As he moved through the shadows, Deanna did her best to keep her eyes on him. She watched as he made his way through the streets. There wasn’t much she could do when he would have to move behind buildings though. Each time she lost sight of him, her stomach would tie itself up in knots.  

~~~~~<3

Clint moved through shadows every chance he could. His hood was up, hiding his face within the darkness. Dressed in black from head to toe, he was easy to miss once the sun was down. Snow crunched under his boots as he swiftly made his way through alley ways and side streets.  

Anyone who caught sight of him and dared to make a threatening move was quickly cut down. He left men’s bodies in pools of their own blood, hidden only by the shadows. Turning a corner, he came face to face with a woman in rags. Her eyes went wide and she gasped a breath.  

His hand shot out, grabbing her and pulling her into the darkness. Another hand clamped down over her mouth as he pushed her against the wall without a single thought to how the cold brick would feel through her thin shirt.  

“Do. Not. Scream.” He waited until she nodded before removing his hand.

“What do you want with me?” She pleaded in a hoarse whisper. “Just let me go. Please, don’t hurt me. Please, I'll be good. Please.”  

“I’m not going to hurt you unless you give me reason to. There was a woman brought in not long ago- she had a baby recently. Do you know of her?”

“Rachel.”

“Is she still alive?” There was no denying that there was a very real possibility that she was dead.  

“Y-yeah. The King- The King liked her. He keeps her for himself.”

“Are any of the women here free to go? Or are you all kept women?”

“Some are, more kept than not. But the freedom they have is an illusion, I think. Why are you? Am- Am I in trouble? I don’t know you.”

“I’m not from around here.”

“I- I shouldn’t be talking to you. I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to talk to outsiders.” She pulled away from him but he held her in place firmly. “You- Why don’t you have a guard with you? I should leave. I- they’ll beat me if they catch me with an outsider.”

“When I’m done here, there won’t be anyone left to beat you. Where is Jacob right now?” She hesitated. “If you don’t tell me, I can’t cut the head off the snake quickly.”

“He’d be in his house, with his women.”

“For the rest of the night?” Clint asked. He’d caught sight of fire pits being set up in the town square park. He’d wholly expected that the night wasn’t over for the people under the care of King Jacob.

“No.”

“Then what next? I need to know.”

“When he’s done they come out. He passes his best women around to the men he’s close to. They- they- they-”

“You don’t have to say it. I’ve dealt with his kind before.”

“Any women who fight back are killed. Sometimes they kill so many that they have to go outside of the city to find more. They call it hunting. They bring them back in cages.”

“Are all of his men at the town square during this?”  

“Most. There’s a watch at the roads out of town. Always, as far as I know. But not as many now. Most people around are already dead or been brought in.”

“Are there any good men here?”  

“Some.” She chewed on her lips. “The ones that go to the town square are bad. Most of the good ones challenged things and were shot. Or hung. Now they just gave up.”

“If I let you live, will you do something for me?”

“I don’t want to die.” The woman whimpered. “I’ve been trying so hard, so hard to stay alive. Please. Please don’t kill me. Please.”

“Do not tell anyone I am here. Do you understand?” She nodded, tears gathering on her wide eyes. “Carefully, tell every person you trust to hunker down until morning.”

“What are you going to do?”  

“I’m going to cut the head off the sneak and drive out the rats.”

“How?”

“Not your problem. Go.”

As she scurried away, Clint jogged across the alley and slipped between two dumpsters. He waited in silence for a sign that the woman had betrayed him. Minutes passed as kept as still as possible but no one else came into the alley.  

After fifteen minutes came and went, he moved on. He took his time working his way through store fronts and alleys. There was no rush. He moved as if he had all the time in the world, as if he had the rest of his life to spend making his way behind the platform in the town square.

In truth, if it went sideways he would be spending the rest of his life on this walk. This wasn’t how he wanted to spend the last hours of his life and so, he decided that he wouldn’t. He didn’t care what he had to do, but he’d take down the rats in the city on his own and live to tell the world about it. He’d do whatever he had to do to go back home with Dee and keep the battle from her. He’d kill the whole city if he had to.  

~~~~~<3

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[veronicassadboi]

V and J fighting?😘

Thank you, darling, for the prompt!

Veronica and Jughead fighting.

Notes: this is a futuristic argument laced with angst.

———

Archie’s name lights up Jughead’s phone. Jughead barely tears his eyes away from his computer screen and hisses a; “shit,” as he picks up the phone discarded amongst papers. The text message is short and to the point, he could tell that it was a rushed one, no time to beat around the bush.

“Bettys about to call you. You’ve been warned.”

Even after all these years, Archie Andrews had an eye out for his brother in arms. Jughead silently thanks his best friend but doesn’t have an opportunity to reply when Betty’s name flashes across the screen. Jughead rolls his eyes back into his head, swiping open the phone while tapping a pen on the desk with his free hand.

“Yellow,” Jughead announces.

Betty’s sigh already scolds him before her words do. “Juggie…” she warns between the screams of her four month old son.

“I know, I know,” he says quickly, turning his computer off promptly, convincing himself that if he does it quick enough, his words aren’t lies. “I was just leaving, hey, is that Freddie?” He asks, trying to divert the conversation.

Betty hushes her son. “Ignore his screaming and listen to me. You have to go home, work will be there -“

“- In the morning, I know. I just really wanted to get this article done for you.”

“Don’t try and act like you’re doing it for me. V and Dylan are probably wondering where you are!”

Jughead groans, rubbing his eyes then bending down to pick up his bag from the ground. “I know, I know Betts…”

Betty doesn’t even attempt to argue her point across and even that makes Jughead’s panic beat faster in his chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “You will.”

He locks the door to the Riverdale Register before closing his eyes to take a breath. This was exactly what he promised Veronica would never happen again, but history has a funny way of repeating itself. Jughead knows. That’s why they were back in Riverdale.

------

Veronica Jones was never one to hide her unhappiness. Jughead reads it loud and clear through the deeply etched frown on her soft face and the way she bites her lip while she ticks through all the thoughts in her mind. He could almost hear them. The various lines she’d spit at him about how he promised he’d be home at seven, but nine was the time that broke it.

He could also feel the radiation of frustrated sighs and heavily placed footsteps through the house. Another not so poetic display of her anger was the crashing of dinner plates in the sink, the roughened putting away of dishes and the arching of her back as she waddles through the house.

Jughead sits at the kitchen table with his boots and coat still on, wanting to look up from cold lasagna but too worried to do so. He wants to ask how Dylan’s day at school was, but it was something that a father should know about his own son.

When he catches a glance from the side, he can see Veronica’s glassy eyes and her tired frame. She was only four weeks away from their own daughter’s arrival but to say that she was drained of her own energy would be an understatement. He hated seeing Veronica like this, no sharp, quick quips or jarring comebacks. No grin as large as the sun or her questioning tilt of an eyebrow. Jughead knows, deep down in him that he’s often the only person that can get to her like this, and as much as it shows her love for him, it was a feeling he hates to endure.

Veronica was his entire world but loving Veronica came with its ups and downs. Just as he knows that loving him wasn’t the easiest thing.

“You could have called.”

Four simple words tear him away from moving food around his plate, but she doesn’t look away from a cup she’s been drying for at least two minutes. “I know, V, I’m sorry.”

“You always are.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair but moving off his seat to make his way to the sink too. His six year old son’s gentle snores can be heard from his bedroom through the static silence that just makes the guilt creep up him a little more. Jughead reaches Veronica who finally looks up at him, he places his hands on her hips, but she takes a step back and takes his heart from him at the same time. His heart tightens and his mouth searches for words but nothing comes out. “I truly am, before I knew it, Betts was calling me to go home I just lost track of time -”

Veronica huffs loudly and pushes Jughead’s chest softly as he tries to move closer, nails digging in a little. “This is what you promised would never happen.”

She retreats back to the same argument she always fights with and it hits him like whiplash. “I know and I’m trying.”

“Work always comes first though, Jughead. Can’t you see?” Her cheeks are bright red and her hand on her swelling stomach rubs faster and faster with each beat. As if she was trying to steady herself. Jughead reaches out to her stomach, taking it in his hands but Veronica just rolls her eyes. “Don’t.”

“V…” he starts, unsure of what to say. “I’m really, really sorry -”

“We moved back to Riverdale because you said you’d cut back on work!” Veronica battles, poking him in the chest again.

Jughead’s frustration builds, unsure of whether it lies in himself, or her lack of understanding. New York was their home until too many late nights stole him from Veronica and Dylan, he wiped so many fallen tears there that he just wanted to come home to Riverdale. But everything he did, every extra dollar, every late night was to try and provide his family with everything his own father didn’t. He never thought he’d be punished for hard work, but hard work and the money that came couldn’t buy his time with his own family. It was the vicious cycle that never ended. “And I have! But working for Betty while she’s looking after Freddie and trying to keep on top of everything at the Register is hard at the moment!”

“We moved back to Riverdale for you, Jug!”

“I know,” he says, tilting her chin with his finger.

“Sometimes I miss the old days, you know?” she says with a sigh. “Sometimes it feels like we’ve done the wrong thing coming back…”

Veronica looks down at her feet, a nervous lick of her lips tells Jughead she’s been stewing. “We haven’t, its good being home, don’t you think?”

“Your home,” she mumbles. “That we moved back to for you.”

“And I moved to New York for you!”

He takes a deep, steadying breath as he watches Veronica’s face contort with shock. “And what does that mean?” she asks, menace in her tone, darkening in her eyes.

He could watch her forever, even like this she bought an air of exactly what Jughead fell in love with all those years ago, but as much as she was his love and life, as much as she took his entire heart and married him, as much as she was Veronica Jones, she was a Lodge. And no one says no to a Lodge. “It means,” Jughead says with a sigh. “That I followed you to New York because I love you, I took the busiest job imaginable because I love you and wanted to take care of you.”

“I don’t need looking after!” she argues, glaring up at Jughead.

“Jesus, Veronica. It’s what people do when they’re in love, they look after each other!”

“I know!” she snaps. “Have you ever thought in your ego fuelled head that maybe for once someone could look after you?! That maybe, you don’t have to dive head first into everything because you can let down that barrier you’ve always had up and just let me look after us for once?!”

Jughead exhales loudly through his nose, summoning the courage to back down from an argumen. Often, they were too much and as much as Jughead fights, Veronica fights back harder and sharper than he ever could. But they’re not sixteen and desperate anymore, eighteen and running away. She was the only one who never tried to change him, he was the only one who understood how she truly felt and New York was the place where no one knew them, but for all their escaping, for all their flaws that only each other understood, it never changed who they were underneath it all. He was the broken boy who couldn’t let anyone look after him because his parents were never there, so why would anyone else care about him? And she was the girl who tried to provide people with everything she possibly could because that was the only way she knew how to show she cared - possessions were all her parents ever gave her. But all she ever wanted was time.

Even with glass-like tears brimming on the edge of dark eyelashes, he can tell she was unable to back down and maybe he should. She looks to the ceiling to stop the tears from falling. When she’s like this, Jughead only wants to pull her in, but her pursed lips, hands on hips and chest rising and falling rapidly keep him from doing so. He lets her breathe, he reminds himself he needs to breathe too. “We always said we wouldn’t be like our parents.”

Jughead feels like he’s been slapped in the face. He would never compare himself to his father whose answers laid at the bottom of a bottle, or his mom who’s answers laid in running away from her family. Veronica wasn’t Hermione who stayed out of fear, or Hiram who created it. He tries to shove the hurt from his tone but it slips in when he says; “You really think we’re like them, Veronica?” he almost spits. “The whole reason why we skipped this place? We don’t shove our kids to the back, use them, ignore their basic-fucking-needs.”

Out of habit, he grabs his beanie of his head and wrings it in his hands. Trying to keep the twitch in his jaw at bay, he runs his tongue over his lips. Hurt. He was hurt. But not as hurt as Veronica seems to be from his word, her eyes flutter to the floor. “I didn’t mean that…”

“Then why did you say it?” he asks throwing his hands in the air.

She doesn’t reply. She slowly turns, walking towards the bedroom door and when she enters, she shuts it before Jughead has a chance to say anything else.

-----

He can’t sleep when they fight, she can’t sleep without him and the floor of their son’s room is cold when he’s so upset. Jughead holds on to their son’s hand and feels sorry for himself, but mostly, he feels sorry that their fight even happened in the first place.

When Veronica found out she was pregnant with Dylan, twenty-two years old and still finding themselves in New York, Jughead panicked. He didn’t know how to be a father, and for every step forward FP Jones made, Jughead was met with two steps backward and left to try and pull his father along. When Jughead struggled to accept that maybe he would be a decent dad, Veronica pulled him along in the same fashion. She had never felt as loved as he did when Jughead was around, so how could he not show that same level of love to their own son? Veronica told him he was better than their parents combined and he tried his damned hardest to live up to what she told him he could be.

Dylan was Jughead’s gift that kept on giving, he was his saving grace. Dylan was the one thing that Jughead got right. After having their son, Jughead’s connection with his own parents was tarnished even more, because there wasn’t a reality in any dimension that he could treat his kid the way he had been treated.

The move to New York when they were eighteen was something Jughead had thought would never happen. And there was no way Jughead Jones could have ever foresaw himself in the bright lights of New York, but when he thought it was a ridiculous joke, Veronica convinced him he’d be a success there. So he followed her all the way, because there wasn’t a chance in hell he could have lived without her.

They were his everything, and he wanted to give them everything. He would never win his mental fight, he knew that.

Jughead gets off the ground, kisses his son’s head and makes his way with heavy eyes and a heavy heart to his bedroom.

He hops in the bed, Veronica’s back is to him but he slides his arm over her belly, bringing himself closer to her. Finally feeling at rest for the first time in a long time. “I love you, Princess…” he hums.

She groans in reply, her anger loosening her body, but still laying dormant there. But he knows, she’s resting too now that he’s with her.

He drifts to sleep with her in his arms. The fights were always over their level of love, and that counted for something.

———

Send me a jeronica centric ft Barchie prompt and I’ll write you a >2000 word Drabble!

[crapfutures]

Careless whispers

In a previous post we mentioned the story of the infamous conflict between King Henry II and Thomas Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury, in 12th century England. It’s a familiar story of two powerful and egotistical men clashing over issues of status and pride. After a series of altercations over clerical privilege, Henry finally loses his temper; what he actually said to the assembled courtiers has been lost to history, but the most likely version comes from the biographer-monk Edward Grim, who recorded it as follows:

What miserable drones and traitors have I nourished and brought up in my household, who let their lord be treated with such shameful contempt by a low-born cleric?

Whatever Henry said, four of his knights (Richard le Breton, Reginald FitzUrse, Hugh de Morville, and William de Tracy) interpreted the utterance as a royal command. They rode to the Normandy coast, took ship for England, and confronted the Archbishop. What happened next was described by the aptly named Grim, who was on the scene and actually wounded in the attack:

The wicked knight, fearing lest Becket should be rescued by the people and escape alive, leapt upon him suddenly and wounded this lamb who was sacrificed to God, cutting off the top of the crown which the sacred unction of the chrism had dedicated to God.

More terrible blows followed, and eventually the Archbishop succumbed. Was the king’s statement interpreted correctly? We’ll never know. But we can perhaps read parallels to our own time in the complex motivations and agendas that informed the knights’ collective decision to commit murder.

Another story, more recent. This one takes place in Dallas, Texas, where a six-year-old girl asked her family’s Amazon Echo: ‘Alexa, can you play dollhouse with me and get me a dollhouse?’ Alexa promptly complied, ordering a $300 KidKraft Sparkle Mansion doll’s house from one of Amazon’s suppliers. She also ordered (for reasons known only to the internal logic of the system) nearly two kilograms of sugar cookies. The story doesn’t stop there: the following day, when a San Diego news programme reported the story, a number of Echos were roused by the wake word ‘Alexa’ coming from proximate television sets, and they in turn followed the command to also purchase dolls’ houses.

What inspired Alexa to order the biscuits? A flawed system or a very smart one?

In 560 BC, King Croesus of Lydia set a challenge to the world’s oracles to determine who provided the most accurate prophecies. His emissaries were sent to seven sites to ask the resident oracle what the king was doing at that precise moment. The winner was the Oracle of Delphi, who correctly reported that the king was making a lamb-and-tortoise stew.

Oracles were seen as conduits to the gods, speaking and giving advice on their behalf. Divination came in many other forms: augurers would follow the flight paths of birds (legend has it that the location of Rome was decided through this approach). Haruspices would read the entrails of sacrificed animals. Today, however, reading the future is much less exotic or gruesome, being mostly about data and statistics.

The next story starts back to front. A man walks into a Target outside Minneapolis and demands to see the manager. He’s got a handful of targeted coupons that had been sent to his teenage daughter, and he’s angry. ‘My daughter got this in the mail!’ he said. ‘She’s still in high school, and you’re sending her coupons for baby clothes and cribs? Are you trying to encourage her to get pregnant?’ In fact the daughter actually is pregnant. Target knows it before the girl’s father, thanks to a hunch based on its analysis of online searches and product purchases - in this case a particular lotion often used by pregnant women in the second trimester.

One more story. In happier times for Facebook, the social media giant played a significant - if unevenly distributed and still debated - role in the Arab Spring by facilitating communication between protesters. The April 6 Youth Movement in Egypt, for example, used Facebook to launch a successful call for protests in the aftermath of the Tunisian Revolution that preceded the spread of uprisings across North Africa and the Middle East in 2011-12. Events of the Arab Spring demonstrated that social networks provide a perfect mechanism through which to disseminate information broadly and quickly, as long as you have access to the internet.

So far this is a familiar and well-trodden tale; the more interesting story, however, happened when Arab states began to shut down internet access. Activists in Cairo found the solution in a different kind of social network - not screen-based, but via the city's taxi drivers. The activists realised that if they could direct conversations towards the planned anti-Mubarak gathering on 25 January 2011 in Tahrir Square, taxi drivers might spread the word and the protest would be a success. Initially, the activists tried to talk directly to drivers. 

But they soon discovered that due to the highly politicised nature of their subject, conversations would quickly turn into arguments rather than dissemination, and their objective would fail. The solution was found in exploiting the human tendency to gossip. Instead of engaging in direct conversation, the activists allowed the taxi drivers to overhear a mobile phone conversation where they would disclose the details of the protests. The taxi drivers eavesdropped, and believing they had overheard a gossip-worthy secret, they began to spread the message.

‘Technology is making gestures precise and brutal, and thereby human beings.’ - Adorno

In one of our very first posts, The Pleasures of Prediction, we described the daily experience at our local cafe - where the gestures of interaction were not always precise, sometimes brutal (depending on the mood of either ourselves or the people behind the counter), but mostly genial and surprisingly seamless. More recently, our colleague was telling us how his landlady keeps track of the number of bottles of alcohol he consumes each week by counting his recycling - a sort of small island version of a fitness tracker like the Fitbit. ‘She’s not judgemental’, he said. ‘Well … not really.’ Of course surveillance and tracking - mediating, amplifying, interpreting - have always been present in society; in the past they were just more social, or at least more analogue.

These examples raise some big questions, such as: Would you rather be monitored by a human being or a machine? If machine, why? Why don’t we trust humans? For that matter, why don’t we trust ourselves? How have we been shown to be untrustworthy and unable to control our own self-destructive or anti-social impulses? For the past two years we have been collecting stories that relate to the interpretation of information - tracing the shift from human beings to technological mediation as translator and interpreter; who is making important decisions, on whose behalf, and why.

There is certainly precision and brutality in Cambridge Analytica’s use of Facebook data for micro-targeting and psychological profiling. Likewise Amazon Echo, a data-based Trojan horse mediating our personal lives in increasingly precise but also brutal ways. There is a tendency to understand and evaluate technology according to old-fashioned notions of progress: faster, easier, more efficient and so on. But digitisation, the data that it creates, and the vast networks of dissemination also facilitate the augmenting of darker aspects of human behaviour, targeting our deepest vulnerabilities. How we examine the implications, embrace the ethics, and understand the complexity of these systems are some of the fundamental challenges we face.

Real Prediction Machines

Shortly before the Echo appeared on the market in 2014, Real Prediction Machines addressed many of the issues Amazon’s new device (and others like it) would raise. The speculative project was developed by James Auger in collaboration with designer Jimmy Loizeau, artist Alan Murray, and Edinburgh University data scientist Ram Ramamoorthy, who at the time was developing predictive modelling systems combined with machine learning to predict when professional athletes might sustain an injury through overtraining.

James, Jimmy and Alan began by asking Ram what kind of other things might be predictable through such techniques, such as ‘Will my child become a professional football player’, ‘Will Labour win the next general election’, and ‘Will I suffer a heart attack?’ The words inside the circles of the Bayesian network diagram represent potential variables. In relation to a heart attack they could correspond to something like diet or exercise, the data coming from a supermarket loyalty card, or the accelerometer in your smartphone. Or more finite information such as family history, for example data coming from a genetic testing service like 23andMe.

These variables combine to create a live and ongoing feed into the predictive algorithm. The heart attack example seemed a little too banal due to its obvious connection to wellbeing and the huge growth of data and tracking methods, so the group suggested another question to Ram: Will I have a domestic argument?

The Bayesian network shown above looks similar to the earlier one, but in this instance a microphone was added for live sound input (anticipating the omnipresent Echo). Using machine learning, the system would become better at predicting arguments through the statistical analysis of keywords, tone, and frequency - identifying particular subjects that a couple might commonly fight about.

The output was translated into an object - not an app but something more symbolic, sympathetic. They settled on an ambient device sitting in the background, providing information when you might need it. 

The device essentially has three states:

Clockwise means that the argument is moving into the future;

Anti-clockwise means that the argument is approaching, and the slower the rotation the more imminent it is;

When the rotating stops, the argument starts.

Projects like Real Prediction Machines work when it is not completely clear whether the idea is a ‘good’ one or not. Is it too invasive? Is it genuinely helpful? This is how we should think about all potential technologies, but we rarely do.

What happens next? How far away are we from Alexa ordering not biscuits, but a councillor? How much control will we have in the future, and how much do we want to have?

Images:

All diagrams by James Auger; photo of Real Prediction Machines by Sophie Mutevelian.

[dani-qrt]

In South Sudan, a Never-Ending Hunger Season Puts Millions in Danger

Even during harvest time in January, when food was most abundant, more than five million people — almost half the population — did not have enough to eat. Now, as food runs out over the next few months, international officials expect that number to grow considerably, with millions potentially facing acute malnutrition.

Photo

Nyantioop Mach outside her home in a camp for displaced people in Juba, South Sudan. “This year is the worst we have seen,” she said of the country’s food crisis. Credit Kassie Bracken/The New York Times

This year’s harvest was the smallest on record since South Sudan gained independence from Sudan in 2011, with the country producing only a fraction of its needs, according to the World Food Program.

On top of that, peace talks have stalled and cease-fires have largely been ignored, which means the fighting has cut off some areas from emergency help. Aid workers have been targeted by government and rebel fighters alike, making food distribution increasingly difficult.

Even here in the capital, which had been largely immune to the food crisis, many families are finding it impossible to pay the steep prices demanded in the city’s markets, their options vanishing as the currency crashes.

Families from across the country pile into a clinic for malnourished children, setting aside the political and ethnic divides that have torn this new nation to shreds. Some mothers come from areas backing the government. Others have husbands, brothers and sons who fight for the rebels.

Dozens of the women lie outside on the floor, their children wrapped in blankets. The signs of malnutrition are clear: Swollen bellies and emaciated limbs. Skin hanging in folds from tiny bones. Bodies covered in open sores, the painful result of edema breaking the skin.

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Cecilia Kideen feeding her 9-month-old daughter, Sarah Keji, at a Unicef clinic in Juba. Credit Kassie Bracken/The New York Times

Cecilia Kideen struggled to feed her 9-month-old daughter, Sarah. Her breast milk is not enough, as she barely eats one meal a day.

Continue reading the main story

“The mothers,” she said, “are really suffering.”

South Sudan, the world’s newest nation, was born from an enormous international push to end decades of conflict between the north and south of what was then Sudan.

But just two years later, the new country was at war.

In December 2013, a feud between forces loyal to President Salva Kiir and Vice President Riek Machar quickly descended into a conflict that has fractured the country, killed tens of thousands of people and decimated what was already one of the world’s least developed nations.

“There are very few populations that are escaping the impacts of hunger,” said Elizabeth White, Oxfam’s South Sudan policy adviser. “But all roads lead back to conflict and insecurity.”

Talks between the government and opposition leaders have been postponed. But even if peace can be reached, the hunger crisis still looms.

Farming on the Front Lines

The civil war in South Sudan has set off the largest refugee crisis in Africa since the Rwandan genocide, the United Nations says. More than two million people have fled the country, crippling food production. Nearly two million others have abandoned their homes and remain scattered around the country, leaving behind ghost towns and untended fields.

At the nation’s southern border, dozens of refugees cross a narrow bridge into Uganda each day, bringing stories of hunger with them.

Mary Yar, 20, arrived with her 1-year-old son at a small reception center on the Ugandan side. At the site, the first assessment that refugees go through is a malnutrition screening

“There is no food there,” Mrs. Yar said of her home village, pointing back toward the bridge to South Sudan.

Photo

Mary Yar, right, crossed the border from Nimule, South Sudan, into neighboring Uganda. She arrived in a United Nations reception center with her 1-year-old son, Abram. Credit Kassie Bracken/The New York Times

During the height of the hunger season last year, South Sudanese arrived by the thousands, said Geoffrey Chandiga, a child assessment officer.

Continue reading the main story

He keeps a tally of new arrivals on a whiteboard, noting that officials are bracing for an uptick in the months ahead.

Two years ago, South Sudan’s war expanded into southern parts of the country that had long been seen as the country’s breadbasket. People flooded across the Ugandan border. Most have yet to return.

When United Nations peacekeepers visited the areas in early 2017, they saw entire villages burned to the ground.

$321.70 for a Plate of Beans

Under a sharp midmorning sun in the capital, Elizabeth Kenyi and her husband, Johnson Ali, plucked vegetables from their garden along the White Nile, a tributary of the Nile.

For two decades, they have sold their okra, peppers and tomatoes in a nearby market. But even with a plentiful harvest this year, they are finding it harder than ever to feed their family of seven.

“The money that I got from the garden is useless,” Mr. Ali said.

Photo

Elizabeth Kenyi and her husband grow okra, peppers and tomatoes in their garden. But they say the high inflation rate has made the money they earn useless. Credit Kassie Bracken/The New York Times

While their produce commands a higher price than it did last year, prices for the staple grains they buy, like maize and sorghum, are climbing fast.

South Sudan’s currency is in freefall and hyperinflation has squeezed virtually everyone. Before the war, one American dollar was worth about five South Sudanese pounds. By March, a dollar was worth about 220 pounds.

Continue reading the main story

The impact has been devastating. A 2017 World Food Program report determined that the relative price of a meal in South Sudan was among the highest in the world.

It found that people here typically needed to spend 155 percent of their daily income for a single plate of bean stew. To put it another way, a meal that would cost a New Yorker just $1.20 would cost someone in Juba the equivalent of $321.70.

Awaiting Aid That Can’t Be Delivered

With agriculture in tatters, emergency aid is keeping a growing share of the country alive.

By early 2018, half of South Sudan’s population relied on food aid, according to the United Nations, and the percentage will grow as the hunger season reaches its peak in the coming weeks.

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Women waited during a monthly distribution of food at a United Nations camp on the outskirts of Juba. Credit Kassie Bracken/The New York Times

But delivering that aid is another matter entirely. The rainy season hits during these lean months, too, turning many roads into rivers of impassable mud.

Beyond that, at least 100 humanitarian workers have been killed here since the start of the conflict, 30 in the last year alone, targeted by warring parties that think the efforts are helping their enemies.

Even within the protected camps set up around the country by the United Nations, there is not enough food to go around.

Mrs. Chok, the woman who boiled leaves for her children, had been at a protected area in Juba for a month. The camps sprang up in 2013 as ethnic minorities who feared violence from government forces and their supporters fled to the base of the United Nations peacekeeping mission. Many stayed, and the camps have sprawled into makeshift cities ringed by barbed-wire fences.

The United Nations provides food to registered camp residents, but thousands inside have no official status, so they rely on their neighbors for food. The rations are simply not enough.

Aid workers say that so much of the country is on the move — with vast numbers of people fleeing places where violence erupts — that most new arrivals to Mrs. Chok’s camp have not been registered in more than a year. That means she and countless others receive nothing.

Continue reading the main story

Staying in the camps is dangerous enough. Attacks and sexual abuse by camp officers have been widely reported. Other accounts have emerged of women trading sex for food. But leaving the camp brings an entirely new set of risks.

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Each day, Tafisa Nyattie collects firewood outside the camp, where she lives. Ms. Nyattie says she has survived a beating and attempted rape by soldiers while collecting wood. Credit Kassie Bracken/The New York Times

Tafisa Nyattie, 30, who has lived in a camp here since 2013, has six children. Her food rations regularly run out, so she leaves the camp daily to gather firewood, hoping to earn enough money for milk and soap to wash her children’s clothes.

She walks up to three hours in each direction, braving threats from government forces before returning with a large bundle of wood on her head.

“They will rape you or beat you, and sometimes they kill you,” Mrs. Nyattie said, recounting the well-documented dangers women have faced in the conflict. “Some government soldiers tried to rape me.”

On another day, she said, she was beaten and her leg was badly injured. But when she saw how hungry her children were, she decided she had no choice but to head back out again.

“You just go, and you don’t know if you will come back to your children,” Mrs. Nyattie said.

Hunger’s Youngest Victims

The malnutrition clinic offers a chilling glimpse of what this hunger season may hold.

The hospital ward, frequently dark because of intermittent electricity, is treating nearly a dozen more children each day than it did this time last year. They come from around the country to be weighed, measured and given antibiotics and a milk formula before moving on to Plumpy’Nut, a peanut-based nutritional paste — if their bodies can handle it.

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Sylvia George fanning her 2-year-old son at the Unicef-run nutrition clinic at Al Sabbah Hospital in Juba. Credit Kassie Bracken/The New York Times

Many of the families here are not even victims of the horrors that have chased millions from their homes. Some have jobs, career plans and families to lean on — yet their children are still going hungry.

Continue reading the main story

Selwa Anania, a restaurant worker from Juba, brought her 2-year-old son, Taban Zacharia, to the clinic. Her small salary does not go far in the market. Most days, it is only enough for a single meal of porridge.

Sylvia George, 27, fanned her son, Mandela Bisa, 2, who lay half-conscious on a bed, hooked up to an intravenous drip. The child’s father is a student at Juba University, and the three live with Ms. George’s mother, whom they rely on for food. There is never enough.

For now, with the peak of the hunger season still weeks away, the clinic manages the steady flow of patients, said Josephin Ruben, the head nutritionist.

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Selwa Anania, right, and her son, Taban Zacharia, 20 months, sitting outside the hospital. After two weeks, Taban’s condition has improved. Credit Kassie Bracken/The New York Times

But, she noted anxiously, there “will not be enough when we get to June and July.”

Continue reading the main story

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