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umbry-fic · 3 years

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Beaches! And Dolphins! (And Arsonists!)

Summary:

Colette: Misella, come play at the beach with me! Misella: I appreciate the invitation, but I must decline. Misella: I have been informed that I am 'not the beach type'. Colette: What? But... the beach is so much fun!

Colette, Lloyd, Arche and Genis spend an afternoon at the beach. Shenanigans ensue.

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia, Tales of Crestoria Characters: Colette Brunel, Lloyd Irving, Arche Klein, Genis Sage, Raine Sage, Misella Relationships: Colette Brunel/Lloyd Irving, Colette Brunel & Lloyd Irving & Arche Klein & Genis Sage Rating: G Word Count: 4789 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 20/07/2021

Notes+Warnings: A fun fic based on Colette's Crestoria summer alt. (Don't take this too seriously!) Arche and Genis are both wearing their Asteria summer alts.

Slight spoiler warning for a design change in Crestoria chapter 8. No spoilers for Lloyd's side story.

Credits to @likes-words-and-shrimp for inspiring the conversation at the start. Happy summer! ♥

~~~

“Oh god.” Arche spat out a mouthful of pineapple juice, fumbling and nearly dropping the glass she was holding, tiny umbrella and all, into the sand. She coughed into her free hand, desperately trying not to enter a wheezing fit. She had not expected to witness this today.

“Genis already warned me, but… Really, what possessed you to choose this?!” Arche asked in disbelief.

Genis and Colette, in Arche’s humble opinion, both looked adorable - Genis in swimming trunks and a pair of kitten flip-flops; Colette in a swimsuit dress, golden hair tied into a messy ponytail, and equipped with cute accessories that only added to her charm.

Then there was Lloyd. Who was wearing the loudest Hawaiin print shirt she had ever seen, paired with… shorts that were secured with a belt? These were the weirdest clothing choices she had ever seen. Who wore a belt when they were going to the beach?

Lloyd was very red and very noticeable, sticking out like a sore thumb on the beach.

At least he had made a sensible decision when it came to his footwear - he was wearing sandals. If he had chosen to wear covered shoes to the beach, Arche may have needed to bury Lloyd on the spot for his crimes.

Lloyd scowled, clearly not appreciating Arche’s gaping expression or Genis snickering behind her. His childhood friend had a hand on Arche’s shoulder, and it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing in laughter.

“It’s my favourite colour!” Lloyd protested, crossing his arms and glaring away into the distance. “Besides, how much more ridiculous is it than your silly hat, Arche?”

“Excuse me?” Arche retorted, straightening up in indignation. She adjusted the hat in question, which was not a hat at all. “This is a sun visor! Can’t you see it’s made of plastic? It’s a fashion statement. A fashion statement. And a practical one at that, because my sensitive skin needs protection! It’s miles better than your shirt!”

Arche glared back in full force, fire raging in her eyes. Despite her being a full three heads shorter than Lloyd, she appeared threatening enough to make Lloyd take a hurried step back.

“Alright, alright!” Lloyd conceded, holding his hands up in surrender. “Don’t murder me.”

“I told you this was a horrible choice yesterday, Lloyd,” Genis gasped between snickers, bending down with his hands on his knees. His sides were in pain. “Anyone would have known that this was a horrible choice. Anyone except you! You should have been there when he tried it on, Arche.”

Genis had done more than just tell Lloyd. Upon seeing Lloyd step out of the dressing room, Genis had groaned and buried his head in his hands. For an entire hour. Colette had tried to get him to raise his head with wonderful motivational quotes like “You can do it!”, but ultimately failed to knock Genis out of his stupor.

“Honestly, I’m thanking my lucky stars that I already owned mine,” Arche replied drily. And her two-piece swimsuit was cute too! A win. “I was spared seeing this disaster unfold live.”

“I think it looks nice,” Colette spoke up, butting into the conversation with a sunny smile. “Red looks good on Lloyd. It’s like… How do I explain it… His colour?”

“See? All of you just have no sense of taste!” Lloyd said triumphantly, blushing a little as he scratched the back of his head, grinning from Colette’s compliment.

“I’d say love is blind. But you’re both blind,” Arche commented, shaking her head and patting Genis on the back. “Come on, Genis, let’s go get started on a sandcastle before these two idiots derail this whole day.”

Colette stared after the retreating back of her two friends, Arche holding her drink high above her head and Genis still letting out a final few peals of laughter. She turned back to Lloyd, blinking in confusion. “Love…?”

“JUST - Think nothing of it!” Lloyd blurted out, blushing harder until his face resembled his shirt. All in all, too much red. “They don’t mean anything by it! Shall we get going too? We only have until Professor Raine picks us up to enjoy the beach.”

“Alright!”

Colette still wanted to know what was up, but chose to drop the line of questioning in favour of getting started with this day of fun. Neither she, nor Lloyd, nor Genis, had ever been to the beach. How could they, having been confined to the limits of a single village for their whole lives?

This was her chance to experience the sparkling waters and pristine sands that every child was supposed to know and experience at least once. All with shining eyes, a ton of energy, and the company of her friends! Arche had promised to act as their guide to all things beach-related, boasting about her expertise in this rather strange area.

It was going to be great, and she couldn’t wait!

Colette spotted a familiar figure in the corner of her vision, standing some distance away on the golden sands. Was that…?

“I see Misella!” Colette chirped, jumping up and down on the balls of her feet in excitement from spotting her new friend. She hoped she could get to know her better - that was a favourite pastime of hers. “I’m going to go say hi!”

“The girl you met last night at the inn? Have fun! I’ll be waiting with...” Lloyd trailed off as he realised that Colette had already taken off, leaving nothing but a cloud of fine sand in her wake. “Ah, she’s gone…” he muttered, smiling fondly. “Just like her.”

Lloyd turned, following the footprints Arche and Genis had left behind. Might as well get started on learning some beach activities! Then he could help Colette ease into them.

He wanted to make this day as amazing for her as possible.

~~~

“Misella!” Colette called out, practically lunging at the other girl’s back in excitement. Misella, rightfully startled, turned around just in time for Colette to grab onto her hands instead of sending Misella face-first into the sand.

Hm? How strange, Colette thought. Misella was still wearing gloves.

Maybe her hands were sensitive to sand…? That was the only reason Colette could think of. Or maybe it was just a fashion thing! Arche would know. She’d ask her later.

“Oh. It’s just you, Colette.” Misella blinked, releasing the tension from her hunched shoulders.

“Sorry for startling you.” Colette giggled. “I’m glad you ended up coming to the beach! You said you wouldn’t last night...”

“Ah, Kanata wanted to come. He said this was a famous beach and it would be a shame if we didn’t visit it,” Misella replied with a gentle smile, her gaze drifting to a boy with blond hair, who was wearing a plain pair of swimming trunks and was busy lugging a bucket from the direction of the waterfront. Kanata’s hand was bandaged - was he injured? Oh, Colette hoped he’d get better soon!

“And… the rest of my acquaintances,” Misella continued, tone shifting from adoring to carefully neutral as her gaze slid further right.

Acquaintances? What a strange way of putting friends!

Colette followed Misella’s gaze... And had to pause to process what she was seeing.

A man with black hair stood next to a lady with light brown hair, both slaving away with shovels in hand. The man wore a Hawaiian shirt over a pair of swimming trunks, the shirt even more eye-catching than Lloyd’s, and unbuttoned to reveal a strange symbol on his stomach. The lady wore a two-piece swimsuit, together with a sun hat made from straw and a pair of dark sunglasses that fully obscured any view of her eyes.

But what Colette was more interested in was where the two were dumping the sand they were so determined to dig up. All of it, weight and all, was going onto a third person who was so obscured by the pile of sand covering them that only their head of silver hair was visible, together with two flailing arms.

And was that screaming?

“Don’t be worried, Colette. This is an activity known as burying someone in sand. It’s a tradition at the beach, and Aegis volunteered,” Misella said in a deadpan tone. “Yuna and Vicious are just helping him.”

“I… I see.”

“Your swimsuit is very cute,” Misella commented, turning so that she blocked the concerning view behind her. She pointed out the white petals nestled securely in Colette’s hair. “And the flower is very beautiful. Is it a lily? I must admit I’m not too knowledgeable on flower species...”

“Oh, thank you so much! Lloyd picked it out for me, and it is a lily! At least, I think so,” Colette replied, any thoughts about the person in the sand already forgotten. Her happy smile only grew wider as she recalled how Lloyd had gifted the lily to her on the way to the beach.

Lloyd had been shifting from foot to foot, unable to look her in the eye as he had offered her the freshly-picked flower, the petals still wet from the morning rain. She hadn’t understood why he had been feeling so nervous, but hadn’t wanted to probe him on it. She had, however, accepted the lily in the blink of an eye, letting him place it in her hair, his fingers brushing against the tip of her ear for a brief moment and making her shiver. Her heart was filled with warm happiness from his actions. She intended to cherish the flower for as long as she could, for it was a gift from Lloyd, and all gifts from Lloyd were precious treasures.

“Like my brightblaze…” Misella muttered to herself, fingers cupping the precious flower that continued to sit in her hair, no matter her outfit or agenda for the day. It would never leave.

“Yours is really pretty as well! So is your swimsuit. It’s elegant,” Colette said eagerly, wanting to return the compliment. Misella’s two-piece swimsuit with a skirt truly fit her!

“Thank you, Colette. And did you get yours from the same place as us? This…” Misella asked, fingers reaching out and brushing the inflatable float that snugly hugged Colette’s arm. The float didn’t resemble any normal ring float - it was shaped like Lloyd, complete with his large smile, spiky hair and red Hawaiian shirt. It was adorable, and Colette absolutely loved it. She would be keeping it forever, even if she never went to the beach again! Lloyd had said much the same about his float, who looked just like her, down to the exact outfit she was wearing right now.

Besides, who said she wasn’t allowed to wear the float even outside of the beach? She wasn’t opposed to proudly wearing it every day, no matter what anyone said to her.

“I see that you have a similar float.” Colette giggled, gently poking the Kanata-shaped float on Misella’s right arm, which complemented the one she could faintly see on Kanata’s arm. “Did the friendly man at the swimwear shop offer to make you a pair as he did with me and Lloyd?”

“The short man with the accent?”

“The very same! He was so nice.”

Colette clasped her hands together, hoping she’d be able to see that friendly man with the bushy beard again. She wanted to thank him one more time for the generous gift - the pair of floats had been completely free of charge, and the details were perfectly done!

She also wanted to just spend some time with him. He seemed like an interesting person, and Lloyd seemed to like him too.

“Ah, Colette,” Misella said, breaking Colette out of her train of thought. “Kanata is calling for me.”

“Oh! Then I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Sorry for cutting our conversation short…”

“Don’t worry about it.” Colette waved Misella’s worries away. “We can always keep talking in the inn tonight. My friends and I aren't going to be leaving till tomorrow. I hope you have a good time! I’ll be joining my friends now.”

“You too, Colette! Have a fun time!” Misella waved goodbye, yelling after Colette’s retreating back.

Colette really was doing a lot of running around today.

She hoped she wouldn’t trip and ruin something…

~~~

“Sorry about the sandcastle. I lost us the competition...” Colette sighed. She crouched and dipped her hand down, letting the incoming waves wash away the granules sticking to it. That wouldn’t be enough to rid her of all the sand clinging to her from her plunge through the sandcastle, but nothing was likely to do that except a dip in the ocean.

Neither would the water wash away the frustrated frown on her face.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lloyd said, his gaze drawn to her, as it always was - watching the sea foam part around her hand; the sea flinging droplets into the air around her. “I’m just glad you’re not hurt. And what mattered was that we had a lot of fun, right?”

“Right!” Colette stood up, her frown fading away. Rivulets of water flowed down her arm and dripped from her fingertips. “I had a ton of fun!” She turned to face the azure waves, taking a step closer. Sunlight rippled on their surface, forming diamonds of pure gold that danced in merriment. “The waters here really are beautiful. They might be the most beautiful thing I’ve seen. Apart from Pasca’s clearing, that is. Thanks for suggesting we come here, Lloyd.”

Lloyd walked further out so he was standing next to Colette, feeling the waves lap at his ankles and submerge his bare feet, his sandals having been abandoned in the protection of Arche and Genis.

The sea wasn’t anywhere close to the most beautiful thing here.

“Anything to make that smile return,” he muttered.

No, that title belonged to the girl standing next to him. Her ponytail swayed in the slight breeze that teased his shoulders, her dress fluttering around her thighs, the metal around her neck glinting golden under the sunlight. Her arms were outstretched to feel the sea spray, her head tipped back in bliss. And on her face was the smile he always wanted to put there, bright and happy and content.

He couldn’t tear his gaze away.

“Lloyd? Earth to Lloyd?”

Lloyd snapped out of his daze to find Colette waving her hand in his face, a pout on her face and her hand on her waist.

“You can’t just stare at me and go silent, you know,” Colette grumbled.

“Sorry. I… I was, um...” Lloyd scrambled to return to his senses, wondering what he could even say without exposing just how deeply he had tumbled into love. Just being this close to her made his heart sing, not to mention how her current outfit turned her cuteness up to eleven and made functioning normally for him nigh impossible. All the ribbons…

He’d choked on his spit when Colette had walked out of the dressing room, hardly able to believe his eyes. Genis had spent the entirety of yesterday night reminding him of this, and Lloyd knew Genis would never let him forget.

A sudden clicking sound emanated from near their feet, interrupting his awkward attempt at an explanation. Boy, was he glad for the distraction.

“Oh!” Colette squealed in delight, crouching once again to peer at the snout that now poked out of the waters - one belonging to a grey dolphin with shining, curious eyes. “Hello there! Come to say hi?”

So the clicking sound had been the dolphin’s cry! He’d have to thank the dolphin later for saving his hide.

Colette laughed, the sound as refreshing as the sea spray, as the dolphin bumped its snout into her open palm. “You’re a playful one, aren’t you?” she whispered, patting its rubbery head. “Hm, I think I’ll name you Tim. Do you like the name?”

The dolphin proceeded to swim one rapid round, seemingly expressing its joy. It leapt into the air before diving back into the water, the slap of its tail spraying the both of them with a faceful of salt.

“I think it likes it,” Lloyd said. He couldn’t help but smile - even as he blinked seawater out of his eyes - content to watch Colette play with the dolphin. Naming the dolphins was so inherently... Colette.

That was when a second dolphin appeared, emitting equally enthusiastic cries as it joined the first. The two swam around each other happily, squeaking and clicking, with what appeared to be smiles on both of their faces that revealed rows of teeth.

“I think Tim and Robert are friends!” Colette exclaimed, clapping her hands together. She had come up with a second name on the spot. Impressive. “How sweet.”

“They’re… They’re coming back,” Lloyd noted in surprise, staring at the two rapidly approaching dolphins gliding through the ocean. The two sea creatures came to an abrupt stop before him and Colette, both clicking out an unknown message.

“I wonder what it is they want,” Colette mused, reaching out a gentle hand to stroke Robert’s fin. Only to be met with enthusiastic clicking, Tim bobbing its head up-and-down in what Lloyd interpreted as a nod.

“Huh.” This was probably going to sound dumb, but it was the only thing that came to Lloyd’s mind. “I… I think they want us to ride them?”

As if they could comprehend what Lloyd was saying, the two dolphins burst out into a cacophony of cries, shocking even Colette.

“I think you hit the nail on the head!” Colette kicked off her sandals, the two shoes landing on a haphazard pile on the sand, before grabbing his right hand in both of hers. She did it with no hesitation at all, the warmth of her hands seeping into his. He didn’t know how she did it, but he never wanted her to stop.

“Come on! This will be so much fun!” she cried, tugging him along, the bracelet around her right wrist jangling. She was the brightest thing before him, brighter even than the sun, her smile lighting up his chest with fireworks.

He would follow her anywhere. Anywhere in the whole wide world.

“Let’s not keep Tim and Robert waiting!”

~~~

“I wish you would have told us about the dolphins,” Arche grumbled, sitting up on the beach towel that formed her seat and hugging her knees to her chest. Genis was squatting next to her, continuing to work on the turtle sandcastle that had won the pair the spontaneously-held sandcastle competition. And rightfully so, considering how intricate the design was - complete with grooves on the shell and accurately shaped flippers.

Colette wondered how the turtle continued to stand on such a narrow base, however. Shouldn’t it have collapsed by now? Sand wasn’t this stable, was it? How did Genis do it?

“Sorry,” she apologised, plopping down under the shade of the umbrella that the two half-elves had commandeered. Her legs were still slightly shaky from the thrill of the past half-hour. “I was too engrossed and forgot entirely.”

It had been so much fun to navigate the seas on the back of an energetic dolphin with Lloyd by her side, catching the waves and speeding along the currents, feeling the sea breeze kiss her face. The cries of the dolphins and Lloyd’s laughter had filled her ears, his delighted smile carved into her memory. He’d even challenged her to a race, one that had ended in a draw as both Tim and Robert reached the shore at the same time. She and Lloyd had stumbled back onto the sand at that moment, her head spinning from all the tight turns they’d made. His arms had steadied her, as Lloyd always did, as she had turned and waved goodbye to the dolphins before they sped away.

“I’ll definitely tell you next time!” Colette promised. Arche and Genis should get to know the magical experience as well. And she would love to do it again.

Maybe she’d get to see Tim and Robert again! That would be great.

Genis not-so-discreetly elbowed Arche in the side, raising three fingers into the air and shaking his head.

“Ah, you’re right, Genis. Never mind, Colette, it’s alright. I’m actually somewhat glad.” Arche nodded sagely, having understood Genis’ symbolism perfectly. She flopped back down onto the towel, resting her head on her crossed arms. “I would have died so young from third-wheeling.”

“What does that even mean?” Colette asked, half-ready to place her hands on Arche’s shoulders and shake the answers out of her friend. It was bad enough that Arche and Genis seemed to be sharing an inside joke, but they also kept using these mysterious terms that Colette couldn’t wrap her head around! Even Lloyd seemed to be in on it.

“Don’t mind them!” Lloyd hurriedly interjected, slipping his feet into his sandals. Was he… blushing again?

What was happening?!!

Colette pouted. Fine. She’d drop it for now. But she’d find out one day, she swore.

“So. Shall we play a game of volleyball?” Arche asked. “Our sandcastle competition fell apart from the beginning, and…” Arche reached blindly into a backpack that the half-elf had magically procured out of somewhere, for Colette did not remember her bringing it to the beach. Arche triumphantly pulled out a colourful beach ball, all without budging from her lazy position. “...it’s the perfect use for this!”

“Sure. You’re on,” Lloyd replied, grinning. “I bet me and Colette can beat you any day.”

“And you two are automatically on the same team.” Arche finally sat up, raising one eyebrow before dropping it immediately. “Why am I even surprised? Anyway, you sure you want to make that bet?”

Genis sighed, setting down his shovel. He was not looking forward to all the physical exertion, but he knew he’d get dragged into it whether or not he agreed. Might as well indulge his friends. “Don’t try to be cocky, Arche. Lloyd may be the dumbest idiot in the world, but he is strong.”

“Oh, you’re right…”

“Yeah! See? I’d beat you - Wait, Genis!” Lloyd shouted, having finally processed that his friend had insulted him.

Colette paid no mind to the childish jabs her two childhood friends were busy exchanging. Rather, she was deep in thought about how to make the upcoming volleyball game more fun. Genis would get tired fairly quickly, and she’d rather let him rest instead of forcing himself to continue. But that would make the teams unbalanced, and who knew how long Arche and Lloyd could continue playing for?

The solution…

Ah!

“Can I invite Misella and her friends?” Colette perked up, raising her arm like she was answering one of Professor Raine’s questions. She’d come up with a brilliant idea, and she wanted to share it! “Since they’re here at the beach, they might as well join in the fun!”

“I mean… I don’t see why not?” Arche shrugged.

“The more the merrier!” Lloyd agreed.

“Okay then, I’m off!” Colette scrambled to her feet, quickly brushing down her bare legs. “I’ll bring them back here.”

Colette sprinted towards where she remembered Misella was, becoming nothing more than a blur of yellow and red that zoomed past other people. She spotted a familiar head of pink hair and adjusted her path.

Misella was standing with her back to Colette, her arms crossed across her chest. The person who had been in the process of being buried was now fully covered with a massive mound of sand, arms laying slack as if in resignation.

As Colette neared the group of five, the sound of enraged shouting reached her ears. Oh no, was there some argument going on?

All Colette could make out was the word “bazongas”. She had no clue what that meant, for she had never heard it before. Perhaps it was some mysterious creature, befitting of such a unique name. She’d just ask Professor Raine later!

What Colette did know was the chain of unfortunate events that unfolded within the next few minutes. It was such a short time, and yet it was packed to the brim with frantic activity, seeming to stretch into eternity.

Colette spotted Misella raise her arm, a bird of flame coming to life and rearing its head gloriously. She absent-mindedly registered in a small section of her mind that the phoenix was gorgeous, elegant and regal. A perfect match for someone like Misella.

The rest of her mind was focused on all-consuming worry.

Lloyd, Genis and Arche tended to get into arguments a lot. They were always playful, however, never malicious in nature. And they most certainly did not stray into full-on fights with intent to injure. At most, Genis would hit Lloyd lightly in the shoulder, while Arche hit a little harder by slapping the same spot.

Friends shouldn’t hurt one another! She staunchly believed in that! So whatever disagreement Misella and her friends had gotten into, they should resolve it peacefully. Not with red-hot flames!

“Mise - Ah!” Colette was interrupted mid-shout as her foot caught on… absolutely nothing. There was nothing in the sand - not a pebble, not a fragment of a seashell, not a handle of a stray, forgotten shovel. She had tripped over thin air.

The mystery of how Colette had fallen, while intriguing, was not the most important thing.

Rather, it was the immediate consequence of her fall, as it usually was.

Misella, too wrapped up in yelling at Vicious, didn’t hear Colette’s approach at all. The others took notice of the girl flailing her arms in warning far too late, identical expressions of alarm crossing their faces as they stepped forward in a futile attempt to stop the inevitable collision.

“Now burn - Eek!” Misella let out a surprised squeak of her own as Colette’s outstretched arms slammed into Misella’s back, sending them both careening towards the sand.

Unfortunately, this was also the moment wherein Misella released her scorching flames.

And you can guess how that ended.

~~~

“First of all. Lloyd, what are you wearing?” Raine groaned, dragging a tired hand down her face. As the responsible, and only, adult of the group, it had fallen to her to retrieve the frolicking children from the beach before the day got too late, and shepherd them back to the inn. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be leaving this town on time. Or ever.

If Raine was to be truly responsible, she should have been supervising them the entire time. After all, there was no telling what consequences Arche’s shenanigans would usher in, nor the problems that Lloyd’s stupidity could cause, nor the calamities that Colette could trip her way into. Genis, bless her little brother’s poor soul, would try his best, but he was nowhere near intimidating enough to get a handle on all three of them.

But there was no way anyone was going to convince her to spend her afternoon at the beach, passing each second petrified by terror and staring at the slowly approaching waters, waiting for the ocean to swallow her whole. She still wanted to let Lloyd, Colette and Genis experience the beach, however. Colette, especially, had been deprived of a childhood for far too long.

So Raine had happily traipsed off to the library for a few hours of quality reading, convinced that even these trio of troublemakers (and Genis tagging along) couldn’t get into that much trouble in such a short time.

And she’d come back to this mess.

“Is this really relevant, Professor? And why does everyone feel the need to bring this up?”

“Because it’s appalling! I taught you better than this!”

Genis and Arche, sitting on a nearby stone wall and observing the proceedings with identical deadpan expressions, let out a synchronised snicker. Though they quickly shut up when Raine glared at them. They did value their lives.

“That’s NOT the point, Professor! Don’t we have more pressing issues to deal with?”

"Then to get to the point… Colette," Raine forced through gritted teeth, the last word pointed. These kids were really something…

"Yes, Professor Raine?" Colette laughed in a higher pitch than usual, clasping her hands behind her back as sweat ran down her brow. Both because of nerves, and because of... Well... The situation behind her.

It was really, really hot. Not to mention the group of five arguing close-by, the boy who had finally managed to extricate himself from the sand desperately patting at his originally silver hair, which now had blackened tips. It might also have been… significantly shorter than it used to be, and certainly more jagged.

Raine sighed, brow furrowing in exasperation. She could feel the beginnings of a pounding headache.

"I left the four of you for three hours. Why is the beach on fire?"

#tales of symphonia #fanfiction #one shot #tales of crestoria #colette brunel #lloyd irving #genis sage #raine sage #arche klein #misella #colloyd #colette's crestoria summer alt

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bookishreviewsblog · 5 years

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V.E. Schwab: Vicious (Villains #1) | Lara

Victor and Eli started out as college roommates—brilliant, arrogant, lonely boys who recognized the same sharpness and ambition in each other. In their senior year, a shared research interest in adrenaline, near-death experiences, and seemingly supernatural events reveals an intriguing possibility: that under the right conditions, someone could develop extraordinary abilities. But when their thesis moves from the academic to the experimental, things go horribly wrong.

Ten years later, Victor breaks out of prison, determined to catch up to his old friend (now foe), aided by a young girl whose reserved nature obscures a stunning ability. Meanwhile, Eli is on a mission to eradicate every other super-powered person that he can find—aside from his sidekick, an enigmatic woman with an unbreakable will. Armed with terrible power on both sides, driven by the memory of betrayal and loss, the archnemeses have set a course for revenge—but who will be left alive at the end?

“Plenty of humans were monstrous, and plenty of monsters knew how to play at being human.” When can I marry Victor and adopt the rest of his gang? Seriously, I would do anything (ANYTHING!) for any of them, but I’ll come to that later. Dark, twisted, vicious. This story reminded me all over again why I am such a sucker for hardcore anti-heroes. Victor and Eli are best friends and college roommates. Were. Before Eli shot Victor and sent him to jail after he killed his girlfriend. It is sure as hell more a little bit more complicated, but it started with Eli’s research on his class thesis about EO – the ExtraOrinary. Namely, those are people who endured trauma, more accurately near-death experience, and body’s chemical composition changed and gave them… powers. Naturally, what would two arrogant, rich, bored seniors do rather than experiment, on themselves? What could possibly go wrong? World building in this book is by all means astonishing. As in Shades of Magic, Schwab provides a whole new perspective on superpowers. This mixture of science fiction and fantasy makes a perfect foundation for an extraordinary story. I especially like the concept of EO’s getting their powers – persons last thoughts are somehow connected to the source of their newfound power. Genius. I have a sudden urge to write a poem about Schwab’s spectacular writing and pacing. This book is everything I didn’t even know I needed in my life. The whole book is, in fact, a big preparation for the epic encounter between Eli and Victor. The book begins with the opening of Eli and Victor’s story, how they got to where they are, ten years from the moment that changed their lives and where are they now. Then it slowly introduces backstories, development, motives and then it begins the process of including other characters who complete their story. I loved the way Schwab introduced her world and story, with all “10 years ago” “two weeks ago” chapters she created the rhythm of slowly unraveling the plot, and I could, indeed, feel the story piecing together like a puzzle. Tension is everywhere, all over the city of Merit, and it keeps increasing, chapter by chapter, hour by hour until I almost lost it from lunatic anticipation. It is growing slowly, almost lazily, that I didn’t notice it at first, but towards the end, it was so much of it that I was all nerves. Even though I knew (suspected,,) Victor had a plan the whole time, I felt on edge the whole time and just waited for everything to go wrong. The plot was really dynamic and it is so worth reading because I couldn’t part with my kindle for the most of the time. I really want to shout this aloud a few more times because I am afraid there is a person in some corner of the Earth that don't know it. Victoria Schwab has the absolute greatest characterization. Victoria Schwab died, was revived and received power to write the most shshiny, perfect, spectacular characters. That’s the only explanation for this perfection. Victor Vale“Because you don't think I'm a bad person," he said. "And I don't want to prove you wrong.” I knew I’d love a wonder that Victor Vale is from the moment he appeared on the pages. An introvert ambitious genius constantly overshadowed by his charming roommate. From early descriptions, I could see something that is going to be a big trigger for Victor – jealousy. He’s constantly envious of Eli, even though he does not know it. Whether of his ambition, knowledge, his girlfriend Angie or his ability to charm his way out of anything, he is constantly overshadowed by him. His chance to shine pops out during Eli’s research about EO’s – if they could do it and Victor became EO, wouldn’t that make Victor equally, or even more important for the research and force Eli to work together? Well, that is about to be good. His blind determination to become part of Eli’s research turns to obsession, and he isn’t willing to stop until he succeeds, no matter the cost. After a series of events, he ends up in jail for ten years. That is, like, “before” (before becoming EO) part of his character. I’m still missing out some of his backstory, but I hope Schwab will bless us with that in Vengeful. “I want to believe that there's more. That we could be more. Hell, we could be heroes.” The “after” part of Victor is insane. What can a guy do in prison for ten years? Well planning a vicious revenge sounds like a deserving source of entertainment. I love revenge and characters driven by it because it always makes things dirty. So, Victor breaks out of jail, with nothing on his mind but sweet sweet vengeance, no moral compass and ability to inflict or stop pain on anyone. The reason I said there is “before” and “after” of his character is that becoming EO changes people. It takes some basic but vital feelings, like grief, guilt, regret, empathy. He remembers what it’s like to feel those things, but can’t actually force himself to feel them, but has to constantly “remind” himself of it. He acknowledges something is wrong, because he set it like that in his mind, but he doesn’t sense it. (I had a quote but can’t find it, damn, but here’s one I found: “A pang of guilt, something foreign after a decade in jail, nudged his ribs.”). That I-don’t-care-but-care, ughgghghgg he’s so adorable, with a weak spot for twelve-year-old necromancer, old dog and his hacker cell mate. (“Victor fed it to him, and gave the dog’s ears—which came to his stomach, even sitting on the stool—a short scratch. He looked from the beast to Sydney. He really was collecting strays.”) Mitch Mitch aka chocolate milk is the most iconic character ever to exist. A kick-ass hacker, who constantly ends up in prison for crimes he didn’t commit. So one day, he loses it and decides to actually commit a crime, well, if he’s going to end up in jail anyway, better make it good. He’s actually the ultimate sweetheart and I love him. Sydney Sydney is also a EO, with a badass power – she can raise the dead. She grew up with manipulative older sister and parents who didn’t particularly care for her, so she isn’t to eager to go home after her sister and her psycho boyfriend try to kill her. I just have to say how much I love the three o them together. They are such a cute, badass little family and I love it so much how they grew on each other without knowing it. “She knew exactly where she was going. Serena hadn’t told Sydney to go home. She hadn’t told her to run away. She’d told her to go somewhere safe. And over the course of the last week, safe had ceased to be a place for Sydney, and had become a person. Specifically, safe had become Victor.” I’m melting inside. Eli Cardale “If Eli really was a hero, and Victor meant to stop him, did that make him a villain?" Eli Cardale the ultimate villain, who believes himself a hero with a mission from God to purify the world and protect people from monsters that are Eos. I guess he forgot that he’s an EO himself, whoops. “When no one understands, that's usually a good sign that you're wrong.” But it’s all good if he feels blessed. I actually thought I’d like him for his dedication to the cause, but he just annoyed me all the time with his god complex. Serena Serena is a really good female villain – always gets everything her way and know exactly what she wants. She has real ambition and is a type of villain I usually like but she possesses a dose of bitchiness that made me hate her. *spoiler* I was so happy when Victor killed her, but I have a bad feeling about her and that they aren’t done with bitch-siren yet. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go and read the second book in one go, probably regretting it later because I’ll miss half of my life 😊

#books #bookreviews #v.e. schwab #vicious #villains

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thedeadflag · 7 years

Text

Okay so it’s been a long time since I did this, but I’m gonna do it again because I’ve got so much unpublished unfinished stuff that I just need to air some of it out.

Here’s some more of the crackfic clanya spy AU

May 26th

"I'm just saying, this is completely ridiculous and uncalled for." Clarke asserted as they made their way through the market, complaining yet again for being supervised on her turn at picking up groceries.

"And I'm telling you that when I write cheese on the grocery list, cheeses that we've both eaten and enjoyed like cheddar or gouda or mozzarella or havarti, that you not come back with this obscure and gross blue cheese instead. And that when I list the specific type of bread I want, that you not come back with two loaves of pumpernickel!" Anya argued, frustrated that she had to watch over Clarke after three consecutive botched grocery runs by her roommate.

Still, they were nearing the end of their shopping trip, and it'd gone off without a hitch aside from the odd argument, so Anya counted that as a success.

"Look, sometimes I just ignore the list and feel it out. It's not a crime!" Clarke contested, using her absurd logic yet again.

"It's not a crime, but it does leave me with less food that I like! I get everything you ask for, and you get half of what I put on the list. Have some courtesy, Clarke." Anya argued as she put some turkey pate into her basket.

Clarke grabbed some grape jam and placed it in her basket, the jar slamming down with more than a little force. "'Have some courtesy, Clarke'. Ridiculous." The thief muttered to herself, clearly mocking in tone, and just barely loud enough for Anya to hear above the noise in the store. "Oh, I can be courteous. I can. Just you watch."

Anya just grinned, watching Clarke read off each remaining item on the list, getting the exact ones Anya had written down. The forceful grabbing and stashing was still ever-present, but it was nice to see that Clarke was cooperating, even if potentially just out of spite.

"And finally, your dried oregano leaves, which apparently are super different from the grou..." Clarke continued on with her rambling, just about to head into another one of her spice-related rants when a passing customer rushed down the aisle and practically shoved Clarke out of the way on route to the checkout.

Anya just barely managed to angle her body and reach out her arms and catch the thief, who definitely hadn't seen or heard the man coming while in the midst of her ramblings, bracing herself against the shelf with marinades and pre-packed spice rubs.

Clarke was silent, hands gripping hard at her shoulders, fingers pressing sharply enough to leave indents through her top, most likely. For what it was worth, Anya needed a breather of her own, because after weeks of avoiding much physical touch with Clarke, having her soft, supple body in her arms felt blissful.

"Are you okay?" Anya eventually asked, once she'd rediscovered her ability to speak again.

Clarke nodded silently letting out a sharp exhale before taking a step back, Anya barely letting go in time to allow it. "Yeah, yeah. Just caught me off guard. I'm fine."

Clarke was breathing was a little faster, more laboured, and even if it was just slightly, it definitely meant something. Just what, Anya wasn't sure, but she'd keep a close eye on Clarke.

After all, it wouldn't do to have her roommate be distressed. And it certainly wouldn't be polite to just ignore any sense of trouble.

---

May 30th

Anya slowed to a stop in the narrow spot she was allotted and shifted her car into park, letting out a heavy sigh at how brutally frustrating her day had been. Wallace had been working towards this big arms deal for weeks, and the swap day was getting closer and closer, and it seemed like she just couldn't focus enough to be steady for her contact.

For days, Clarke had been agitated and on edge. Far from her usual behaviour, and Anya didn't need any fingers to count how many times Clarke had even minutely tried to win her over or charm her. Something had her thief off of her game, and that had Anya nervous, because Clarke's job was as a mediator between her employers and Anya, trying to make that deal happen.

Clarke being in trouble could mean that she'd run out of time. If she was out of time, then she and her contact could be killed any minute, and the mission would be lost. Years of hard work, all wasted.

Anya couldn't let that happen.

"I have to get her to talk. I need to know what's going on." Anya mumbled to herself, nodding at her plan, hoping she could find the motivation to rock the boat. Living with Clarke had eventually descended into something of a stable dynamic, and it had made it more difficult to just demand answers from Clarke when the thief was holding so much over her head already.

No more. She would find out how much time she had left.

Newly focused, Anya got out of her car, locking it before heading up to her home. However, as she neared, she could see the security system was offline.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins immediately as she unholstered her pistol and checked the area for any threats. Nothing. Concerned, Anya quietly opened the front door and slipped in silently, wishing her pace didn't have a short hallway before it reached the more open concept area.

Still it provided potential cover as she kept close to the walls, eyes ahead, gaze fixed on the closed door of her bedroom and also its active security lock, letting her know her separate system was still up and running. Anya took a slow, steadying breath as she reached the corner and glanced out into the kitchen and living room area, immediately spotting the carnage of a struggle, broken glass strewn across the floor, knives missing from the block, an attempt at a salad covering the kitchen island and floor.

But it was the dark figure slumped over the arm of the couch that grabbed her immediate attention, Anya scanning the area for threats as she slowly approached, spotting a discarded gun beside the couch as she neared.

For a brief moment, she took in the sight of a well-built man, dead and slung atop her couch, a large puddle of blood dripping off the leather seats and onto the floor. However, when she caught sight of a pale leg, Anya's focus shifted, catching a blood-soaked Clarke Griffin, white-knuckling her chef's knife as the thief stared blankly at the dead man inches away.

"Clarke?" Anya asked, rushing over the quickly check the man's pulse before kneeling in front of her roommate, checking her for injuries. The right side of Clarke's face was badly swollen, and there was a grazing bullet wound at her bicep, and some broken glass sticking out of her forearms, but aside from that the woman looked thankfully in one piece.

The thief didn't register her presence, still staring blankly at her apparent assailant, fresh tear tracks running down her bloody face. As much as Anya wanted to just wrap Clarke up and keep her safe, she knew she needed some bare-bones answers, because if that was a hitman of Wallace's, then they were on very limited time before more would arrive.

Carefully, Anya placed her hands over Clarke's grip of the knife, taking advantage of the thief startling and recoiling away to strip the weapon and toss it aside. Where Clarke's expression had been dead before, it was suddenly full of fear and pain, the woman breathing heavily and head on a swivel, frantically checking around.

"Clarke, it's just me..." Anya noted calmly, using her best smooth, reassuring voice as she returned to a kneel beside her roommate. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I...I killed him. Oh my god I killed him, I killed..." Clarke started, the panic in her voice rising exponentially by the moment, forcing Anya up enough to slip in on the other side of Clarke, forcing the thief around physically so she couldn't stare at the dead man.

"I'll take care of it. Let's take a deep breath for a second, okay? Let's just do one or two of those, okay?" Anya asked, taking Clarke's hand and pressing it to her chest, slowly breathing in and then out. It took three goes until Clarke finally tried, and another two before the thief's attempt was even passable, but it was something. "There we go, good girl. You're doing great. Now, do you know who that is? Any idea at all?"

Clarke kept the heavy breathing up, thankfully steady if a lot faster and deeper than she'd like. "Head of...head of security. Zurich. Emerson. He...he worked for...can't remember the name. Tsing? Maybe."

Anya scoured her memory for any memory of those names, and felt frustrated at coming up blank. "Did Wallace hire him? Did your employer?"

Clarke shook her head ever so slightly. "After the heist, the Tsing woman had him try to find me. That was...that was two years ago. I guess he finally caught up to me." Clarke explained shakily, bringing a bloody hand up to run through her hair. "Oh god, I killed him! I didn't mean to, I just...and he was trying to..."

As much as she felt for Clarke, the relief that her own life wasn't in danger, that her mission wasn't in danger, was near overwhelming, letting her pull Clarke into a hug, feeling more confident that they had the time to figure this out. "It's okay. You were defending yourself. Whatever you stole back then, it wasn't worthy of you losing your life. You were protecting yourself, here. You had no choice."

As Clarke cried into her shoulder, heavy sobs shaking her frame, Anya knew she had to fix this. That this couldn't happen again. Clarke may be something of a minor adversary in a way, but she cared for the woman. She didn't have to give in to the thief's employers to keep Clarke safe and protected.

She had a feeling it would be a long night.

---

Clarke had been in the bathroom for hours.

Anya would have been lying if she said she wasn't worried, the first kill was always the hardest, and Clarke had been more than a little shaken up about it and the attack in general. Still, every time she passed the bathroom and gave a light knock on the door, asking for one in return, Clarke would. Which meant she was alive and, for the moment, safe.

Anya knew how important space could be in times like those. Having space to think, feel, and process. Having space where you could feel safe and secure and distanced from the pain and death. Of course, she also knew how important familiarity was, but that it could offer a painful reminder, so when she'd finished cleaning up the glass, she rearranged all the appliances on the counter, what pots were hung where on the ceiling rack, where the veggies were kept, and so forth. Familiar enough, but different enough to maybe help a little.

Handling the body was no small task, but she'd already planned on how to kill Wallace, including good dump sites. She'd call in to her contact the next morning, buying herself enough time to get rid of the body she'd cut up and stashed in an old set of luggage. She was going to get rid of it anyways, so it was good that she could let it serve a purpose, resting in her car trunk for now.

When she was done cleaning up the scene of all evidence that a murder had taken place, it was hours later, and her thousand dollar bribe to a local furniture shop had panned out. Two delivery men brought by a couch she'd chosen on a whim early that evening, not having much time and figuring that it had looked comfortable and nice, along with a certainly more expensive than warranted higher quality faux fur throws to go with it.

Money, as it turned out, moved mountains, which she was thankful for, even if it had cost money from her personal account. Sure, she rarely ever bought anything nice for herself, and though this wasn't technically for her own benefit, it would benefit her roommate. Anya needed Clarke to feel safe again, and since that wouldn't distract her from her mission, there was no harm in doing everything she could on her free time to make sure both goals were met.

It took a little creative wrangling given the space involved, but they managed to fit the couch where she wanted it, and the movers took her old one to the truck to be junked. It'd been a long night of steady, relentless effort and attention to detail, but as midnight neared, Anya felt accomplished and confident that the home was clean and free of evidence, and that she'd find out what to do with the living room some other time.

Right then, with her work seemingly complete, Anya just wanted to make sure Clarke could rest up. She'd patched up the woman's wounds earlier, covering them so Clarke could shower, but it'd been hours, and she was sure that Clarke was exhausted, at least as much as she was.

With an armful of clothes and her spare robe from the linen closet, Anya gave another light knock at the bathroom door. "Clarke?"

It took a few seconds, but the familiar knock from the other side of the door eventually came. "I'm happy you're still there, dear, but I was wondering if you might want to come out and get some rest."

"I'm fine here." She heard Clarke note quietly from inside, sounding a bit on edge. Which, really was an improvement from tearful sobs, but still.

"We both now the stone floor isn't comfortable, Clarke. I have a change of clothes here for you, why don't you take your..."

"I'm not sleeping on that couch, Anya!" Clarke snapped, interrupting her mid-sentence, reminding Anya that Clarke hadn't spent the evening with her, that Clarke wasn't on the same wavelength. That maybe Clarke had a different impression of Anya's plans.

Anya carefully sat down, resting her shoulder against the door, putting her more at the same level Clarke was at, gauging by her voice. "Clarke, I would never ask that of you. The couch is gone."

"So what, you're gonna let me sleep with you in your bed now? Taking pity on poor beat up Clarke?" Her roommate sniped back, offering a fair point, even if that hadn't exactly been Anya's plan.

"I told you before...my bed is exclusively mine. I keep my word, Clarke. You won't be sleeping in bed with me. Just...I know this is hard. I know you're scared. Please just trust me." Anya asked, knowing it was a major request, that it'd be asking a lot of Clarke to put herself in Anya's hands, but she wasn't going to let Clarke down. She would stay by that bathroom door until the woman let Anya prove that much to her.

She could hear Clarke's wet sigh crystal clear across the width of the door. "What if someone else comes in the night? Emerson bypassed our security system pretty easy."

"You and I both know the bedroom is on its own power grid. And even if that security system went down, there's enough physical locks there to buy time for a reaction. It took you ten minutes to break in last time, right?" Anya offered, waiting as silence stretched on and on, leaving her with an uncomfortable brand of anticipation as she hoped beyond hope that Clarke would give her a chance.

Eventually, the door clicked open, if just a smidge, Anya making out Clarke's beautiful blue eyes peeking out at her. "You said I wouldn't be sleeping with you."

"I said my bed is my own. When you first came by, you said that as long as I had a couch for you to crash on..."

"...that I'd make a habit of sticking around." Clarke chimed in, finishing her sentence. "But you got rid of the couch?"

Anya shrugged. "Got another one. Comfier."

Clarke opened the door a little more, enough to shoot her a bewildered look. "Your bedroom's not all that big, Anya."

"There's still enough room for you." Anya offered with a smile. "I told you I'd take care of this. That means you, too."

Clarke stared at her, those blue eyes piercing into her as Clarke's brain worked, hopefully coming to a favorable decision. "I'm blackmailing you."

Anya rolled her eyes at the ridiculous retread of old, useless facts. "Yes, but you're also my roommate. And as annoying and infuriating as you might be, you're also the closest I have had to a friend in years. I'm a spy, Clarke...I'm good at compartmentalizing. I can care for you and still not give in to your blackmail demands."

Judging by Clarke's expression, the thief wasn't entirely sure of her sincerity, but eventually a tired reluctant sigh escaped her, letting Anya know she'd succeeded in her gambit. "Can you leave the clothes by the door?"

"Of course. I'll be in the kitchen." Anya answered, holding back her audible relief until she was safely in the kitchen, far away enough so Clarke wouldn't hear. Not that it'd be a big deal if she did, but she didn't want Clarke to be on edge any more than she already was.

It took a little longer than she'd hoped for Clarke to emerge, but she eventually did, looking exhausted and sleepy, with heavy bruising settling across her face. Anya carried a glass of water over, waiting for Clarke to guzzle half of it down before gesturing with her head for her roommate to follow.

Maybe some might have considered it a gamble, doing what she did, but when they stepped into her bedroom and Anya locked up, she could practically feel Clarke's body relax less than a foot away. And when she flicked the light-switch on, and Clarke's gaze swept the room, catching on the couch set up directly beside the bed, facing away from the window just as the living room couch had?

Clarke nearly melted from the relief, bracing herself on Anya's armoire for a moment before shooting her a questioning glance, hope and something softer shining in her eyes. "It's pressed up against the bed. Facing you. Are you sure that's...?"

Anya waited for Clarke to add on, deciding after a few seconds that her roommate was probably just waiting for an answer or some clarification, given the clear confusion. "I want you to be able to wake up and see me there. See that you're safe."

Clarke ducked her head, a rosy tint rising to her cheeks as her roommate bumped shoulders with her. "It's still a couch."

"The comfiest non-leather one I could find at the place. If you don't like it, I'll arrange for a different one." Anya noted, watching Clarke approach the couch. The thief cautiously took hold of one of the blankets, letting out a soft gasp as she clutched it to her chest.

"Anya, this...I don't understand." Clarke spoke, plopping down on the couch with more than a little satisfaction, curling up against the armrest.

Anya shrugged, moving closer to sit by the edge of her bed, inches from Clarke. "I care about you. Not enough to betray my country, but...enough to consider you one of my people, perhaps. And I take care of the people in my life, Clarke."

"At least let me pay you back for all this, I have tens of millions in my bank accounts, I could..."

"No, Clarke." She interjected firmly if calmly, stilling the woman and making Clarke even more visibly confused. "This is a gift. You don't owe me anything."

Clarke's teeth sank into her lower lip, blue eyes scanning the room with a little more wonder and relief. "So...I sleep here now?"

"If that's okay with you." Anya answered easily, taking hold of one of her pillows and tossing it at Clarke, who just barely got her hands up in time to catch it. "Is one pillow okay, or do you prefer two?"

"I always slept with two, back home." Clarke said in return, much more prepared this time when Anya tossed another pillow her way.

"I'm going to go brush my teeth and wash up. Why don't you get settled in?" She asked, earning a quick nod, letting her feel comfier taking her leave.

It'd definitely be different, sleeping in the same room as someone else for the first time in ages, but Anya knew she'd get used to it. Clarke deserved safety, to not be vulnerable, and Anya knew it was a small sacrifice to have the woman sleep in her bedroom to ensure she could keep to those goals. It was bad enough that the comfy couch Clarke had seemingly loved had been ruined by a murder, the thief's favourite blanket had also been irreparable saturated with blood to where it'd had to be tossed as well. Offering Clarke some comfy furry replacements only seemed the right thing to do.

When she finished up and made her way back into the bedroom, Clarke was fast asleep, curled up in the blankets. Anya locked up, flicked off the lights, and crawled into bed, setting up on her usual side, closest to Clarke.

As she drifted off, she hoped Clarke would sleep undisturbed. The last thing the other blonde needed was any more hardship.

---

June 16th

Sixteen days.

That was all it took to flip Anya's world upside down. Sixteen short days of Clarke recovering, little by little, exposing Anya to a whole host of feelings and urges, surprising her over what she'd missed along the way. Or, more accurately, how Clarke Griffin had grown on her.

It had taken seven days for Clarke to be outside the bedroom with any regularity. The thief would leave to go meet with her handlers, but outside of that, Clarke mostly kept to the bedroom, leaving the home unnervingly quiet. Strange as it was, Anya missed the noise, missed the obnoxiously loud music, or Clarke blending up some smoothies for them. And really, she just missed the sound of Clarke's voice.

The gentle timbre of it when Clarke spoke of her favourite foods. The exaggerated highs and lows when Clarke would poke fun at her over her love for a good sauce or how boring she was. The low, husky rumble of Clarke's 'seduction voice', and how the addition of a slightly teasing lilt would shift it into Anya's favourite conversational tone of hers.

Clarke had a lovely voice. It was perfectly natural to miss it.

It had taken nine days until Clarke would join her in the living room. Anya had ordered a second couch to replace the destroyed one, and it wasn't such a bad couch, but going so long without any company had been difficult. After all, the arms deal she'd helped broker to set up her business relationship with Wallace had finished. She was in now, but it meant keeping her head down and letting her contact inside doing the work over the coming weeks to make an excuse to bring her in again.

Sure, she could have maybe tried to finagle a deal with Clarke to fly back stateside, but she just stuck around, instead, which made for a lot of alone time for a few days. Lots of watching movies alone, having meals alone, going to the market alone, going on walks alone. Perhaps it was absurd, but by the seventh day, she'd desperately missed Clarke, and by the ninth, she'd just really wanted some of that closeness that had apparently snuck up on her before the incident.

So when Clarke had joined her on the couch, perhaps she'd slung a blanket across their shoulders and sat thigh to thigh with her thief roommate. And perhaps Clarke leaned up against her, the thief's gentle weight more than welcome after so long.

It had taken twelve days before Clarke's sunny disposition reared its head again, even if it was still a little muted. Anya hadn't understood the impact of it before, but going so long without Clarke smiling or cracking jokes had left their home much drearier. Anya had done everything she could think of during those days to try and brighten the place up, to shake the vague feeling of unease and blandness that infused their place, including a new paint job for their walls, but it hadn't helped. Not until Anya unthinkingly made a terrible pun on the eleventh, and Clarke had let out a tiny laugh, an amused smile curling at the edges of her lips, had it truly clued in what she'd been missing all along. She was hardly versed in comedy, but like hell if Anya hadn't tried to crack a few more jokes in the hopes of earning another smile or two.

Maybe that was a little ridiculous or pathetic, but she couldn't deny that Clarke's happiness made her happy in return. And there was nothing wrong with chasing happiness.

It had taken sixteen days before Clarke had managed a calm, uninterrupted sleep. Which, honestly, had been a faster recovery than her own after her first kill, so perhaps the overwhelming relief Anya felt over falling asleep and waking up at her usual hour instead of in the middle of the night? Maybe it was justified. She hadn't minded, truly; it didn't bother her to wake up, grab a fresh facecloth and a glass of water, and help calm her roommate down, but it worried her.

Clarke had been so confident and strong, and she missed that, but she also just wanted Clarke to finally get some quality rest. The woman desperately needed it.

So on the morning of the seventeenth day since the attack, when Anya woke to find Clarke asleep still on her couch, still wrapped up, maybe it was a little hard to get out of bed. Maybe she made an executive decision to throw the early morning hours away just this once, remaining in the cozy comfort of her bed, splitting focus between Clarke and her e-reader.

It was around nine-thirty when she heard a sleepy groan, Clarke's body stretching out beneath her furry covers, eyes still shut as she stretched an arm backwards, into the air. Anya smiled, enjoying the slow, languid sobering of her roommate, a lovely change of pace from the past weeks' trend.

"Mmmmn." Clarke let out, the rumbling hum of her voice warm with comfort. "Anya?"

If anything, that comfort didn't recede, even if some confusion mixed in with it as Clarke spoke her name. "Good morning, Clarke."

"Are you feeling okay?" Clarke asked as she propped herself up on an elbow, brow knitting in worry.

Anya set her e-reader down and rolled onto her side to face Clarke. "I'm well, Clarke. Just enjoying a restful morning."

Clarke nodded to herself, wiping the sleep from her eyes. "How was breakfast? Did you leave anything for me?"

"I haven't had any yet." Anya answered simply, letting out a laugh at how quickly Clarke sat up, suspicious blue eyes set on her. "What?"

"You always get up early. You have breakfast. You go on a walk. You come back and either work out a bit or read on the couch." Clarke listed, her confusion and concern growing with each entry. "What are you up to?"

Anya's eyebrows rose toward her forehead. "Am I not allowed to enjoy the comforts of a cozy bed?"

"No. You're Anya Pine, you don't do that." Clarke countered quickly, eyes narrowing.

"Maybe I felt like starting this morning." Anya shot back with a grin, and maybe she might have been sending some strange signals given everything, but she was happy. That familiar spunk was back in Clarke's attitude, and Anya loved it. "It's not that deep, Clarke. But if you're hungry, I can start on breakfast?"

Clarke's suspicion held, even if she did end up offering a silent nod, giving Anya leave to head out to the kitchen.

She remembered Clarke enjoyed french toast, and particularly enjoyed having berries in the morning, so Anya worked on prepping some of that, figuring it might be a nice change of pace from the toast and leftovers Clarke had been having lately.

"It's because I slept." She heard Clarke call out as she walked out of the bedroom, halfway accusing and halfway in triumph, as if Anya's behaviour was some mystery worthy of solving. "It's because I didn't wake you up, so you were enjoying relaxing in bed while you could."

Anya peered over her shoulder, ensuring Clarke could see her rolling her eyes, wanting her roommate to know how ridiculous she sounded at the moment. "It is because you slept. It wasn't because I was clinging to some semblance of rest, though. I'm just pleased that you managed to sleep well, you've been so exhausted lately, dear."

"And what, you couldn't be happy for me out here?" Clarke asked, voice softer this time, letting Anya feel more comfortable turning her focus back to the food.

"I could have. I just..." Anya started, shaking her head at the silly explanation she'd concocted, knowing Clarke would laugh at it. Still, it was all she could offer without descending into something tremendously sappy or whatever. "...I just know I've been there when you've woken from nightmares. I wanted to be there when you've woken up, fully rested and relaxed. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

"I never needed you to do that." Clarke let out with a sigh, taking a seat on one of the stools on the other side of the kitchen island.

"Of course you didn't, you're strong. You're resilient. But I take care of my people whether they ask for it or not." Anya stated, bringing the french toast from the skillet to their plates and quickly ferrying them and their bowls of fruit over to the island. "I'll grab some juice."

Clarke was quiet during their breakfast, but Anya took pleasure in the woman's small smiles and sounds of delight. Though it was clear that Clarke was busy thinking something over in her mind, it was clear that she was happy, and Anya decided to just keep her focus on that for the time being.

It was after she'd finished with the dishes and taken a seat on the living room couch that Clarke practically bolted off her stool and joined her, sitting sideways facing Anya, legs tucked beneath her. "Since when am I one of your people? When did that happen, anyway?"

"You're like a fungus, Clarke. You grew on me over time, little by little." Anya noted, laughing at how Clarke's face scrunched up at the comparison. "Before, I knew I liked having you around, but...these past few days...there were a lot of things about you that I missed, and most had to do with your happiness. So I try to do what I can to...well, make you happy. Not betray my country, but just about anything else."

By the end of her aimless rambling, Clarke was giving her this unbelievably soft look, blue eyes searching her for any sign of insincerity before Clarke let out a sigh. "Well, there is one thing. But it's ridiculous, and I already know you're not go..."

"Clarke." Anya interrupted, using just enough firmness in her voice to still the other woman's words and catch her gaze. "If it matters to you, it's not ridiculous."

Clarke shook her head as she ambled off the couch, pacing the length of the coffee table over and over, face growing redder and redder, until finally Clarke threw up her hands up in frustration. "I miss hugs, okay?! I miss them! And you can call me childish or weak, or whatever, but it's only human to miss affection, Anya! I used to have a dog, and he gave the best hugs, and then I've just been, you know, real busy, and then I got this assignment with you, and I just...whatever!"

Anya wasn't exactly shocked at what Clarke thought of her, but she did know that she was happy to relax her boundaries after everything that had happened, after she'd grown closer to Clarke. It didn't mean she was up for seduction, but affection was something she was happy to offer.

She waited until Clarke's gaze was back on her, the thief still pacing, before she patted the spot beside her. Clarke cocked her head, shooting her a wary stare. "Look, no, okay? I get that you, like, want to take care of me or something, but I'm a grown woman. I don't need a pity hug."

Anya let out a grating sigh, all her frustrations burning at her throat, knowing she'd have to be as open as Clarke was being if she wanted to be trusted. "Clarke, please. You're not weak for wanting a hug." Anya countered softly, eyes averting downward as she felt blood rush to her cheeks. "I've....I've missed you."

She heard the soft padding of Clarke's feet, felt the couch dip beside her. She didn't fight it when she felt soft fingertips press under her chin, angling her head to face Clarke. "You're blushing. You're not even lying."

It was only the alluring mix of wonder and hope in Clarke's voice that kept her from turning away, even if she still kept her gaze focused on their wall clock over Clarke's shoulder. "Why would I lie about something like that?" She asked, voice straining slightly from the swell of emotion building in her chest. The last time she hugged Clarke, the woman was in shock and scared. And now, Clarke was much better, and on the rebound, and maybe Anya wanted something to rinse that old memory's pain away a little bit.

"Hey, come here, babe..." Clarke murmured, the softness of Clarke's lips pressing against her forehead all Anya needed to bring her arms around Clarke and hold her close, burying her face in her roommate's hair. "I missed you, too." Clarke added swiftly, immediately returning Anya's embrace.

Anya just clung, needing to feel Clarke's steady heartbeat, needing to feel the warmth of her touch, needing to be certain that Clarke was okay. There were no words she could think of to explain, so she didn't try, simply hoping that Clarke would understand.

"I'll be okay, Anya." Clarke whispered, angling them back enough to where they both fell back onto the small pile of throw pillows that Anya always had pushed up against the armrest for a good makeshift reading spot. Predictably, it turned out to be a quality spot for cuddling, not that Anya would directly admit to that.

Even if she did hold Clarke for a good hour, blanketed by a delightfully comforting silence, embracing her roommate's warmth and the lovely sensation of being wrapped up in Clarke's arms.

---

June 21st

Without much activity in her mission, Anya found herself focusing a lot more on what was happening at home. Which, coincidentally, wasn't a very complex situation, even if it was growing more dangerous by the day.

Ever since she and Clarke had hugged on the couch, it was like a switch was flicked, Clarke mostly back to her old self. The thief would have moments of heightened anxiety, or would still occasionally wake during the night from nightmares, but by and large, Clarke's flirty, playful personality was back at full force.

And yet, it was different.

Clarke would tease her, and flash some skin, and employ all of those blatantly seductive techniques like before, at least from a distance. But when the thief was close, those big blue eyes would soften, and Clarke's touch would turn gentle, and Anya would have to fight every instinct, every thought in her head, just in order to not do something stupid like kiss her.

Really, it wasn't even as if Clarke was doing it on purpose, at least not in an attempt to sway her, but each touch made her feel more compromised. And while she'd still never give up any secrets, she wasn't supposed to fall into bed with the thief that was assigned to blackmail her. More than that, she certainly wasn't supposed to fall in love.

Which made it all that much harder on the morning of the twenty-first while making breakfast, when she felt Clarke's hands smooth down her biceps, her roommate's soft frame gently pressing into her back a second later. "Hey, babe. Smells good."

Anya tried to keep from focusing on the delightful sensation of Clarke's hands just stroking up and down her biceps, or the way Clarke's blonde tresses tickles her cheek as the thief's cute butt-chin took up residence on her shoulder.

"Let's hope it tastes good." Anya let out, thankfully managing to keep a lid on her nerves and emotions for the time being.

"Psh. You're practically a master chef by my standards. You've got this." Clarke remarked easily, following her confidence with a lengthy yawn. "Do we still have enough orange juice, or do you need me to pop by the store?"

Anya flipped the pancakes on the griddle. "We still have about half the jug. We're fine on juice, dear."

"Well since you've done so much this morning, why don't I at least watch over the blueberry sauce? Pretty sure I can't screw that up." Clarke offered, giving her arms a slight squeeze before moving beside her to hold watch over the blueberry sauce, which was already essentially done, anyways, but she didn't have to tell that to Clarke.

Anya wasn't sure whether to be relieved by the slight distance or saddened, her heart yearning for a touch that her head knew was much too dangerous.

Even still, as the day progressed, Anya could feel her resolve weaken bit by bit, as it had in previous days. Every night she'd go to sleep with her walls lower and lower, but as Anya rested on the couch early in the evening, legs stretched across the seats as she read on her e-reader, she had a feeling that her ability to hold out wouldn't last the day. Not with Clarke being more affectionate than usual all morning and afternoon.

"I don't understand why you read out here so often instead of your bed, when you have to pile all those throw pillows up against the armrest so you can recline back and all." Clarke noted, having freshly returned from meeting one of her handlers.

"It's called sleep hygiene, Clarke. You keep your bed almost purely for sleeping, and your body will associate it with sleep, making it easier to relax and fall asleep." Anya explained, flicking her finger across the device to move to the next page. "That leaves me with the couch when I want to read."

"You know, you can always use mine." Clarke offered, Anya needing a moment to realize Clarke meant the couch in the bedroom. Clarke's bed.

Anya felt her face warm and she hoped her blush wasn't so visible. "I could never put you out. Besides, that's your bed."

"I'm totally fine with you using it whenever you want. I get that you have restrictions on your bed, but I really don't mind." Clarke added, carefully stepping onto the couch in the small gap between Anya's legs and the backrest. "Might be a nice change of pace, even. I don't think you've ever actually sat on it, have you?"

She scooted a little to the side, feeling flummoxed at Clarke's maneuvering until she realized what Clarke had in mind. As much as Anya's head was raising the alarms, her body remained perfectly still as her roommate nestled in at her side in the small nook there, arms wrapping around her just above her hips, Clarke's head resting on her chest.

Anya took a few moments to steady her heartbeat, even if it was a little futile with such a wonderful woman curled up at her side. For a moment, she wondered if this was part of the seduction ploy, but Clarke's yawn had her thinking the thief was just tired after a night of intermittent sleep that probably didn't add up to as much as Clarke should be getting.

"I don't think I have, no." Anya spoke absently, bringing her free hand over to run through Clarke's hair, adoring the content hum from the woman.

Clarke let out another yawn, cheek nuzzling against the slight swell of her breast. "You should. It's the comfiest." Her adorable roommate asserted, sleep coming on quick if the slight slurring of her voice was any indication. Anya offered an amused hum in return, and could feel Clarke smile against the thin cotton of her top. "An' I'm the comfiest, too."

"Oh, I'm aware, dear." Anya said with a soft laugh. "I'll wake you in time for your show."

The arms around her torso tightened ever so slightly, one of Clarke's legs lazily slinging over Anya's. "Thanks, baby. Soun's good."

Every term of endearment was like a wrecking ball against her defenses, and with a single word, Anya finally found herself entirely defenceless, not that Clarke was awake to witness her victory. Anya wiped at her teary eyes and shook her head, knowing she was just so done for. She could keep fighting it, but at that point, it'd never take much to clear a path to her heart again.

"Damn it, Griffin. You're going to be the death of me."

#TBCThursday #spycrack #writewritewrite #clanya fanfiction

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bluewatsons · 4 years

Text

Glenn Harlan Reynolds, Ham Sandwich Nation: Due Process When Everything is a Crime, 113 Colum L Rev Sidebar 102 (2013)

Abstract

Though extensive due process protections apply to the investigation of crimes, and to criminal trials, perhaps the most important part of the criminal process -- the decision whether to charge a defendant, and with what -- is almost entirely discretionary. Given the plethora of criminal laws and regulations in today's society, this due process gap allows prosecutors to charge almost anyone they take a deep interest in. This Essay discusses the problem in the context of recent prosecutorial controversies involving the cases of Aaron Swartz and David Gregory, and offers some suggested remedies, along with a call for further discussion.

Introduction

Prosecutorial discretion poses an increasing threat to justice. The threat has in fact grown more severe to the point of becoming a due process issue. Two recent events have brought more attention to this problem. One involves the decision not to charge NBC anchor David Gregory with violating gun laws. In Washington D.C., brandishing a thirty-round magazine is illegal and can result in a yearlong sentence. Nonetheless, the prosecutor refused to charge Gregory despite stating that the on-air violation was clear.1 The other event involves the government’s rather enthusiastic efforts to prosecute Reddit founder Aaron Swartz for downloading academic journal articles from a closed database. Authorities prosecuted Swartz so vigorously that he committed suicide in the face of a potential fifty-year sentence.2

Both cases have aroused criticism. In Swartz’s case, a congresswoman has even proposed legislation designed to ensure that violating a website’s terms cannot be prosecuted as a crime.3 But the problem is much broader. Given the vast web of legislation and regulation that exists today, virtually any American bears the risk of being targeted for prosecution.

I. The Problem with Prosecutorial Discretion

Attorney General (and later Supreme Court Justice) Robert Jackson once commented: “If the prosecutor is obliged to choose his cases, it follows he can choose his defendants.”4 This method results in “[t]he most dangerous power of the prosecutor: that he will pick people he thinks he should get, rather than pick cases that need to be prosecuted.”5 Prosecutors could easily fall prey to the temptation of “picking the man, and then searching the law books . . . to pin some offense on him.”6 In short, prosecutors’ discretion to charge—or not to charge—individuals with crimes is a tremendous power, amplified by the large number of laws on the books.

Prosecutors themselves understand just how much discretion they enjoy. As Tim Wu recounted in 2007, a popular game in the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York was to name a famous person—Mother Teresa, or John Lennon—and decide how he or she could be prosecuted:

It would then be up to the junior prosecutors to figure out a plausible crime for which to indict him or her. The crimes were not usually rape, murder, or other crimes you’d see on Law & Order but rather the incredibly broad yet obscure crimes that populate the U.S. Code like a kind of jurisprudential minefield: Crimes like “false statements” (a felony, up to five years), “obstructing the mails” (five years), or “false pretenses on the high seas” (also five years). The trick and the skill lay in finding the more obscure offenses that fit the character of the celebrity and carried the toughest sentences. The, result, however, was inevitable: “prison time.”7

With so many more federal laws and regulations than were present in Jackson’s day,8 a prosecutor’s task of first choosing a possible target and then pinning the crime on him or her has become much easier. If prosecutors were not motivated by politics, revenge, or other improper motives, the risk of improper prosecution would not be particularly severe. However, such motivations do, in fact, encourage prosecutors to pursue certain individuals, like the gadfly Aaron Swartz, while letting others off the hook—as in the case of Gregory, a popular newscaster generally supportive of the current administration.

This problem has been discussed at length in Gene Healy’s Go Directly to Jail: The Criminalization of Almost Everything9 and Harvey Silverglate’s Three Felonies a Day.10 The upshot of both books is that the proliferation of federal criminal statutes and regulations has reached the point where virtually every citizen, knowingly or not (usually not) is potentially at risk for prosecution. That assertion is undoubtedly true, and the consequences are drastic and troubling.

The result of overcriminalization is that prosecutors no longer need to wait for obvious signs of a crime. Instead of finding Professor Plum dead in the conservatory and launching an investigation, authorities can instead start an investigation of Colonel Mustard as soon as someone has suggested he is a shady character. And since, as the game Wu describes illustrates, everyone is a criminal if prosecutors look hard enough, they are guaranteed to find something eventually.

Overcriminalization has thus left us in a peculiar place: Though people suspected of a crime have extensive due process rights in dealing with the police, and people charged with a crime have even more extensive due process rights in court, the actual decision of whether or not to charge a person with a crime is almost completely unconstrained. Yet, because of overcharging and plea bargains, the decision to prosecute is probably the single most important event in the chain of criminal procedure.

Despite the problems described above, most of us remain safe. Prosecutors have limited resource and there are political constraints on egregious overreaching.11 And presumably, most of the time prosecutors can be expected to exercise their discretion soundly. Unfortunately, these limitations on prosecutorial power are likely to be least effective where prosecutors act inappropriately because of politics or prejudice. Limited resources or not, a prosecutor who is anxious to go after a political enemy will always find sufficient staff to bring charges, and political constraints are least effective where a prosecutor is playing to public passions or hysteria.12

Once charged with a crime, defendants are in a tough position. First, they must bear the costs of a defense, assuming they are not indigent. Second, even if they consider themselves entirely innocent, they will face strong pressure to accept a plea bargain—pressure made worse by the modern tendency of prosecutors to overcharge with extensive “kitchen-sink” indictments: Prosecutors count on the fact that when a defendant faces a hundred felony charges, the prospect that a jury might go along with even one of them will be enough to make a plea deal look attractive. Then, of course, there are the reputational damages involved, which may be of greatest importance precisely in cases where political motivations might be in play. Worse, prosecutors have no countervailing incentives not to overcharge. A defendant who makes the wrong choice will wind up in jail; a prosecutor who charges improperly will suffer little, if any, adverse consequence beyond a poor win/loss record. Prosecutors are even absolutely immune from lawsuits over misconduct in their prosecutorial capacity.13

So how to respond? Although this brief Essay cannot begin to address all of the possibilities, it can serve as the beginning of a much-needed discussion. As this Essay indicates, the decision to charge a person criminally should itself undergo some degree of due process scrutiny. Short of constitutional due process scrutiny, however, it is time to look at structural changes in the criminal justice system that will more successfully deter prosecutorial abuse.

Traditionally, of course, the grand jury was seen as the major bar to prosecutorial overreaching.14 The effectiveness of this approach may be seen in the longstanding aphorism that a good prosecutor can persuade a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich.15 Grand jury reforms—where grand juries still exist—might encourage grand jurors to exercise more skepticism and educate them more.16 But grand juries are not constitutionally guaranteed at the state level, and reforming them at the federal level is likely to prove difficult.

Overall, the problem stems from a dynamic in which those charged with crimes have a lot at risk, while those doing the charging have very little “skin in the game.” One source of imbalance is prosecutorial immunity. The absolute immunity of prosecutors—like the absolute immunity of judges—is a judicial invention, a species of judicial activism that gets less attention than many other less egregious examples. Although such immunity no doubt prevents significant mischief, it also enables significant mischief by eliminating one major avenue of accountability. Even a shift to qualified, good faith immunity for prosecutors would change the calculus significantly, making subsequent review something that is at least possible.

Another remedy might be a “loser pays” rule for criminal defense costs. After all, when a person is charged with a crime, the defense—for which non- indigent defendants bear the cost—is an integral part of the criminal justice process.17 For guilty defendants, one might view this cost as part of the punishment. But for those found not guilty, it looks more like a taking: Spend this money in the public interest to support a public endeavor, or go to jail. Perhaps the prosecution could be required to pay a defendant’s legal fees if he or she is not convicted. To further discipline the process, one could implement a pro-rate system: Charge a defendant with twenty offenses, but convict on only one, and the prosecution must bear 95% of the defendant’s legal fees. This would certainly discourage overcharging.

The “nuclear option” of prosecutorial accountability would involve banning plea bargains. An understanding that every criminal charge filed would have to be either backed up in open court or ignominiously dropped would significantly reduce the incentive to overcharge. It would also drastically reduce the number of criminal convictions achieved by our justice system. But given that America is a world leader in incarceration, it is fair to suggest that this might be not a bug, but a feature.18 Our criminal justice system, as presently practiced, is basically a plea bargain system with actual trials of guilt or innocence a bit of showy froth floating on top.19

A less dramatic option might be to require that the prosecution’s plea offers be presented to a jury or judge after a conviction, before sentencing. Judges or jurors might then wonder why they are being asked to sentence a defendant to twenty years without parole when the prosecution was willing to settle for five. Fifteen years in jail seems a rather stiff punishment for making the state undergo the bother of a trial.

It is also worth considering whether mere regulatory violations—malum prohibitum rather than malum in se—should bear criminal sanctions at all. Traditionally, of course, citizens have been expected to know the law. Yet traditionally, regulatory crimes usually applied only to citizens in specialty occupations, who might be expected to be familiar with applicable regulatory law. Ordinary citizens needed no special knowledge to avoid committing rape, robbery, theft, etc. But now, with the explosion of regulatory law, every citizen is at risk of criminal prosecution for crimes that, as David Gregory’s defenders noted,20 involve no actual harm or ill intent. Yet any reasonable observer would have to conclude that actual knowledge of all applicable criminal laws and regulations is impossible, especially when those regulations frequently depart from any intuitive sense of what “ought” to be legal or illegal. Perhaps placing citizens at risk in this regard constitutes a due process violation; expecting people to do (or know) the impossible certainly sounds like one.

Support for this notion comes from Court of Appeals Judge John R. Brown, who wrote, in a 1965 case holding that a prosecutor could refuse to sign a grand jury’s indictment, that such a refusal was justified by the complexities of modern criminal law:

Putting aside these factors which bear on the delicate nature of governmental decisions, there are technical reasons indigenous to criminal law which are equally compelling. Federal crimes are more and more for violation of highly complex statutes. Federal jurisdiction, indeed, whether the activity constitutes a federal crime, depend on intricate facts, many beyond the knowledge and experience of laymen composing the Grand Jury.21

This naked admission that federal criminal law is so complex that a grand jury cannot be expected to understand it carries two lessons: First, it seems optimistic to expect grand juries to provide an adequate check on prosecutorial overreaching; and second, if a federal grand jury cannot be expected to understand the complexities of federal criminal law, it seems utterly absurd to maintain the fiction that ordinary citizens should be presumed to know the law.

That being the case, it seems to me that the problem here is a real one. If we care about due process—and we should—we should be deeply concerned about a system in which official discretion reigns almost unfettered where constraint matters most.

Footnotes

Peter Hermann, David Gregory Won’t Be Charged, Wash. Post: Post Politics (Jan. 11, 2013, 4:44 PM), http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/post-politics/wp/2013/01/11/david-gregory-wont-be-charged/ (on file with the Columbia Law Review); see also Letter from Irvin B. Nathan, Att’y Gen. of the District of Columbia, to Lee Levine, Att’y, Levine Sullivan Koch & Schulz, LLP (Jan. 11, 2013), available at http://www.docstoc.com/docs/141426869/DC-Attorney- General-Letter-Declining-to-Prosecute-David-Gregory (on file with the Columbia Law Review) (declining to prosecute David Gregory).

Lawrence Lessig, Prosecutor as Bully, Lessig Blog, v2 (Jan. 12, 2013), http://lessig.tumblr.com/post/40347463044/prosecutor-as-bully (on file with the Columbia Law Review).

The relevant legislation was introduced by Representative Zoe Lofgren (D-Cal.). Lawrence Lessig, Aaron’s Law: Violating a Site’s Terms of Service Should Not Land You in Jail, Atlantic (Jan. 16, 2013, 4:38 PM), http://www.theatlantic.com/national/archive/13/01/aarons- law/267247/# (on file with the Columbia Law Review). For criticism of the Gregory decision, see David French, David Gregory and the Decline of the Rule of Law, Nat’l Rev. Online (Jan. 15, 2013, 10:12 AM), http://www.nationalreview.com/corner/337702/david-gregory-and-decline-rule-law-david-french (on file with the Columbia Law Review) (“Can we even speak of the rule of law as a meaningful concept when we combine an explosive regulatory state with near-absolute prosecutorial discretion?”).

Harvey Silverglate, Three Felonies a Day: How the Feds Target the Innocent, at xxxvi (2011) (quoting Justice Jackson).

Id.

Id; cf. Federal Offenses Series: Examining the Bloated Criminal Code, Wall St. J.: Washington Wire (May 6, 2013, 11:49 AM), http://blogs.wsj.com/washwire/2013/05/06/federal-offenses-series-examining-the-bloated-criminal-code/ (“There are more than 4,500 federal laws and regulations on the books. Lawrence Lewis was ensnared in one of them and now has a criminal record to show for it. All for a mistake he didn’t even know he made.”).

Tim Wu, American Lawbreaking, Slate (Oct. 14, 2007, 8:03 AM), http://www.slate.com/articles/news_and_politics/jurisprudence/features/2007/american_lawbreaking/introduction.html (on file with the Columbia Law Review).

How many crimes are there now? Too many: There are now more than 4,000 federal crimes, an increase of one-third since 1980. Many of those crimes, spread out through some 27,000 pages of the U.S. Code, incorporate violations of federal regulations that are in turn spread throughout the tens of thousands of pages of the Code of Federal Regulations. As a result, even teams of legal researchers—let alone ordinary citizens—cannot reliably ascertain what federal law prohibits. Gene Healy, Go Directly to Jail: The Criminalization of Almost Everything, at vii (2004).

Id.

10. Silverglate, supra note 4.

State prosecutors are often elected and thus subject to direct political constraint. But even federal prosecutors are subject to supervision by the Attorney General or the President, who must take account of public reaction. After Aaron Swartz’s suicide, for example, Justice Department officials were called to explain his prosecution before Congress. Ryan J. Reilly, DOJ to Brief Congress on Aaron Swartz Prosecution, Huffington Post: Politics (Feb. 15, 2013, 12:12 PM), http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/02/15/aaron-swartz-prosecution_n_2695356.html (on file with the Columbia Law Review).

Reportedly, Aaron Swartz was prosecuted so vigorously because of Justice Department unhappiness with his copyright activism and “Open Access Manifesto.” Ryan J. Reilly, Aaron Swartz Prosecutors Weighed ‘Guerilla’ Manifesto, Justice Official Tells Congressional Committee, Huffington Post: Politics (Feb. 22, 2013, 1:28 PM), http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/02/22/aaron-swartz-prosecutors_n_2735675.html (on file with the Columbia Law Review). Senator John Cornyn (R-Tex.) suggested that anger over Freedom of Information Act requests filed by Swartz may have contributed to his prosecution. Stephen Dinan, Top Senator Scolds Holder over Reddit Founder’s Suicide, Wash. Times: Inside Politics (Jan. 18, 2013, 12:18 PM), http://www.washingtontimes.com/blog/inside-politics/2013/jan/18/top-senator-scolds-holder-over-reddit-founders-sui/ (on file with the Columbia Law Review).

See generally David Keenan et al., The Myth of Prosecutorial Accountability After Connick v. Thompson: Why Existing Professional Responsibility Measures Cannot Protect Against Prosecutorial Misconduct, 121 Yale L.J. Online 203, 209–20 (2011), http://yalelawjournal.org/2011/10/25/keenan.html (on file with the Columbia Law Review) (discussing prosecutorial immunity).

See, e.g., United States v. Cox, 342 F.2d 167, 170 (5th Cir. 1965) (“The constitutional requirement . . . of an indictment . . . has for its primary purpose the protection of the individual from jeopardy except on a finding of probable cause by a group of his fellow citizens, and is designed to afford a safeguard against oppressive actions of the prosecutor or a court.”).

The phrase, made famous in Tom Wolfe’s novel, The Bonfire of the Vanities, apparently originates with New York City federal judge Sol Wachtler in a lunchtime interview with a reporter from the New York Daily News. Barry Popik, “Indict a ham sandwich,” Big Apple (July 15, 2004) http://www.barrypopik.com/index.php/new_york_city/entry/indict_a_ham_sandwich/ (on file with the Columbia Law Review).

Grand jurors might, for example, be given extensive training, or be given counsel and investigators of their own.

See Legal Servs. Corp. v. Velazquez, 531 U.S. 533, 543–45 (2001) (stressing role of attorneys in administration of justice).

Adam Liptak, U.S. Prison Population Dwarfs That of Other Nations, N.Y. Times (Apr. 23, 2008), http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/23/world/americas/23iht-23prison.12253738.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0 (on file with the Columbia Law Review).

See Stephanos Bibas, The Machinery of Criminal Justice: From Public Morality Play to Hidden Plea Bargaining Machine, Volokh Conspiracy (Mar. 13, 2012, 9:22 AM), http://www.volokh.com/2012/03/13/the-machinery-of-criminal-justice-from-public-morality-play-to-hidden-plea-bargaining-machine/ (on file with the Columbia Law Review) (discussing transformation of legal prosecutorial system from “lay-run morality plan” to “professionalized plea bargaining assembly line”).

Howard Kurtz, David Gregory, Piers Morgan Under Assault over Guns, Daily Download (Dec. 26, 2012), http://daily-download.com/david-gregory-piers-morgan-assault-guns/#.UNr0lpOeoB8.twitter (on file with the Columbia Law Review). For other examples in the same vein, see Katie Glueck, Media Disdain for the David Gregory Story, Politico (Dec. 26, 2012, 10:44 PM), http://www.politico.com/blogs/media/2012/12/disdain-for-the-david-gregory-story-152840.html (on file with the Columbia Law Review).

United States v. Cox, 342 F.2d 167, 182–85 (5th Cir. 1965) (Brown, J., concurring).

#criminal trials #criminal justice system #due process #criminal law #grand jury #indictment #plea bargain #overcriminalization #civil rights #robert jackson #harvey silverglate #glen healy #crime #aaron swartz #pretrial detention #david gregory #tim wu

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harlindroth · 6 years

Quote

1918 – 2018 Angèle Laval Paul Nougé ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF ANGÈLE LAVAL (Lyrical impromptu for big daily) Tulle; transparent fabric, network of tight stitches, French town whose color and roundabouts I don’t know, but which tells me everything I need to know about it when I see that very slender, brown haired, musical and light young woman who made it the scene of her pathetic exploits. Angèle Laval was then about thirty-five years old. She would be fifty today. I want to believe that she is still alive. But what is she thinking about? What is she doing at this hour when I write about her? To what humble or magnificent object is her hand, her eyes, her heart fixing themselves at this moment? Which way, which path of light or of crime is tempting her steps at present? Or if she is sitting down with closed eyes, populating the night with memories and dreams. Will she give us a sign one day? I scarcely dare hope. She belongs to those who die with sealed lips, to those people without confessions... I have often regretted not having lived, around 1917, in closeness to Angèle Laval. Perhaps I would have had helped her with all my strength. Better than her mother probably, that mediocre accomplice who at best was fit for panic and who, in the end, threw herself in the blackest water at that spot from where one is certain not to come back again. Angèle, who obeyed motives that were incompatible with her mother's, could simulate suicide excellently; it was after all but a forethought episode in a game that she did not intend to give up. I would thus have helped her. Though less well than I might have pleased. Because the rage, the boundless hope or the harmed love that roused Angèle Laval would have left me behind on the way. (There comes a time, alas!, when one cannot fool oneself too grossly about oneself). At best it is up to me to recognize in myself certain features, certain glimpses, the tension and the movement that combined in the amazing silent preparation of events that she succeeded in bringing forth. I can see her exercising in a thousand ways the qualities of a soul that is passionately dedicated to a great design: calculating coldness, minutious patience and that skillful dissimulation without which nothing great is ever achieved. She tries never to lie to herself. I do not know whether Angèle Laval knew Emma Bovary (*). But I am certain that she could have only felt contempt for her indulgent weakness and her peculiar blindness. That petit bourgeois woman maddened regarding the possible – what mediocre shape she gave to her torment, what weak means, what poor adventure she invented; what perfection in the art of betraying all true grandeur in oneself. Angèle Laval would have refrained from following her. She refuses to counterfeit reality and herself in such a summary way. Possible, impossible; these have no essential contradictory meaning for her. She dreams of the miraculous unknown that surely will emerge some day following a favorable incantation. She accepts to act upon the world as it is given to her; she refrains from vaguely modifying its form according to a formless desire – she knows that she would then compromise the action that she is dreaming of exerting. It is necessary that her actions insert themselves into that reality made of shopkeepers, rentiers, functionaries, of young and old maids, of elementary and frightened excesses behind closed shutters, of mean appetites, obscure, peculiarly base and ardent prides and lusts. If that world were to flee from her, what would be left for her? Angèle Laval does not belong to those who relinquish. She wants to act upon the world, not upon the ghosts that she could all too easily substitute for it. Thus her first step is not to invent the universe, but rather, thanks to a precise inquiry, to evaluate its true weight and fruitful horror. ...The world as it is, admittedly, but what should we do with the world? A question that all those on whom one still may rely must ask themselves. Angèle Laval, who strives for sparkling rigor, does not let herself get caught in any vulgar trap. We do not see her bow before some priest and seek protection in eternal life. We do not see her seclude herself in ordinary excessiveness or love. She neglects confessions, anathemas and the poems she could have written. By far her glance exceeds ordinary designs. And thus she is capable of strange sacrifices. Angèle, who is totally dedicated to her essential distinction, withdraws here, devoting herself to mingling with what most strongly excites feelings of revolt around her. For she strengthens and multiplies the ties that burden her. Every day Angèle makes herself a little more imprisoned within her province. I can hear her take part in stupid and calumnious conversations. I can see her alone behind her thin curtain watching the street. There is, at the window, a “spy” that her eyes do not bother to question. Her greatest courage, for the time being, is not to turn her back on that equivocal thickness, not to shut her eyes, not to cover her ears – but rather to participate in it and to live with it. She is still safe. Her curiosity, the attention that she is paying to everything being said and done around her – who would not be able to give an explanation that is obvious to most women; who would guess her secret motives? She is left to gather the elements of her work of fire in peace. Angèle listens and watches interminably. She lets her own memory become populated by the very images and words she abhors. She knows how to remain silent when necessary, to commiserate, to be indignant, to invent opinions that the circumstances require. When she does not have the opportunity to see or hear, she can suppose, guess and verify through a marvellous organization of cunning and audacity. Her mental traps are multiplied and perfected. Suddenly the fruit of that discipline takes the colors of miracle. The heaviest walls acquire the transparency of glass; there are no secret acts in that diaphanous town of Tulle anymore. Angèle sees all thoughts creeping within all heads. Everything has changed within her too. The system of subtle deductions she had so far had made use of vanishes and lets only the agility of a naked mind subsist which moves through leaps thanks to sudden illuminations. Angèle is here, there, and everywhere, at every street corner in time for conspiracy or for crime, in every recess in time for love, for fornication and for betrayal – the entire town is penetrated by her presence, the town belongs to her at last. But what will she do with what she possesses and by what she is possessed? We know that she expects nothing from contemplation or ecstasy. Complacency is not her strong suit. She knows that there is nothing to be won through soliciting wonders. When their hour comes, they will be able to force it to roll transfigured in their stream. Angèle Laval expects the best of the fires that she feels inclined to set in a world that is the least prepared for explosions and flames. But those insipid faces, those lifeless looks, those gestures measured by dusty habits... Just as she refused any exemplary life, Angèle Laval refuses to proceed through suggestion, through intimidation. “Look at me, – see this, – that is, – take a better look, – that is; truly, that exists”. Prophecies do not keep her attention either, as that kind of abuse of trust seems to her not so much reprehensible as all too precarious. Angèle Laval sets her bewitched town on fire. Her procedures have the simplicity of a naked hand moving towards a highly visible point in the bright light. Of all the means that she has taken into consideration, she retains but one, the most vulgar, the simplest, the most suitable one for her purpose. Day and night she draws the large, obscure and fascinating characters that populate her anonymous letters. It is a plume of fire that strikes the town every morning. She invents a style that corresponds exactly to her aim, in all aspects an admirable style: Madam, Your brother's fiancée is a person of notorious misconduct. In October 1918 she did away with her newborn brat… and when necessary, with an unparalleled detachment, she can call herself a wench and a whore. We know the consequences of that enterprise which she untiringly developed for long months. Incidents full of humor take place such as the one with the scorned priest, tragicomedies carrying those very people in a peculiar movement whom one thought were forever accommodated in a stony torpor, and lastly, on a stormy night, Insanity and Death rising together at the two extremities of the town and starting to wave at each other. Slamming doors and capsized minds – that great mysterious storm passes which turns the world upside down however it pleases. ...At the height of the storm that she had released and which center she occupied, I do not know whether Angèle Laval did herself justice. “I gave them everything that could give their miserable life a chance”, she could have said. “I gave them hatred, fury, hopelessness and insanity, I spread those ferments among them which are more precious than happiness.” But it is too much to imagine such clear-sightedness; the mirror that would reflect our true face never answers our questioning look. We only know that Angèle became silent. We also know how her adversaries managed to fight her, those which our abominable world automatically raises against those who have sworn to subvert its corrupted features. Those first in line, as is almost always the case, we know, turn out to be the physicians armed with their dreadful and laughable court of justice-psychiatry. It is of course a matter of quickly demonstrating that Angèle Laval is subject to illness and insanity. How to succeed with that? From her life whose scope they devote themselves to concealing, they grasp and emphasize only those features which according to them constitute the surest guide to the cursed path that they have chosen. Love, inhibition, transfers – into what mediocre abominations have they not tried to drag Freud and a few others? The point of departure for Angèle Laval's subversive enterprise is of course an amorous vexation and a deficiency that these people reduce to their own sad measure. Angèle the typist was in love with Moury the office manager, who was in love with the typist Solange, who pokes fun at Angèle who swears to take revenge and who extends her vengeance to the universe... Moreover, Angèle had a developing case of tuberculosis and displayed the evident stigma of neurosis, and then during the ten hour long test that she had been subjected to during which she was forced to incessantly write while being watched for the moment she would betray herself and resume her writing of fire, Angèle Laval suffered a nervous breakdown... But Angèle remained silent. Contempt is a sure means of defense. Invincibly she kept silent. She would never have consented to give out her views on love, on life, on death, views that we have to regard as incommensurable when compared with the ones that imperatively one would want to force her to acknowledge – life, love, what she was ready to hand over to them at the price of her own ruin. Thus she let the physicians and the judges accomplish their gloomy business. One could think of subduing her only by substituting a vulgar, hideous image of hers that was capable of rousing all adversity in place of the dangerous, mysterious and fascinating one that she presented to the world. Thus one easily constructed a letter-writing maniac, a sporadically semiconscious sick person. If only she had incidentally married her functionary... Erotic substitution always looks right. The image of Angèle Laval nevertheless escapes the absurd sketch into which they tried to confine her. For a moment she allowed a great surge of anxiety and revolt to sweep over the whole of France. One probably recalls the succession of enterprises that resembled hers, of the cluster of scandals to which she is not unknown. So that it is right the judicial system was deplored for not having been able to purely and simply suppress the whole affair. It now seems that oblivion has settled over Angèle Laval. Oblivion and space were part of her calculation. Shadow envelopes her, a cold and pure shadow that delivers her from dubious contact with journalists, judges and the police. But for attentive minds, the night that she inhabits cannot conceal the exemplary lesson. And yet. At critical moments, who could not let oneself think that Angèle Laval failed, and that the madness, the suicides, the tears and the outbursts of laughter that whirled for a while over her town quickly abated and sadly expired at the feet of the miserable beings that they had agitated? What is there to answer? (Angèle Laval must have often thought of the reserves of the world...) Through this manner of revealing herself to us, she could not provide a more or less satisfactory explanation. But she was, in a common way, only a poor woman delivered to a crowd of enemies. Her misery is maybe the very one that any attempt which finds a point of support and its justification in strictly a personal will is doomed to fail. Would one imagine Angèle Laval participating in the activity of a revolutionary party at the hour of insurrection? That chance has been denied her. Thus one could not talk of victory or defeat with regards to her, but simply of existence. She exists. Her hand is raised sometimes and seems to indicate a point on the horizon or some road. This gesture is enough to reject the weak exercises of the petty litterateurs to the limit of the grotesque and the odious, who really believe themselves to have transgressed literature and to think that they are transforming the world through the innocent game of their mute syllables. (Summer 1928) (*) from the novel of Gustave Flaubert (transl. remark). The case of Angèle Laval, the author of anonymous letters sent to many most petty bourgeois people and officials in the French town of Tulle during a few years starting in 1917 provoked not only scandals and great commotion, including a suicide, but also a significant media craze (transl. note). (transl. Bruno Jacobs / Jason Abdelhadi. From projected anthology of writings by Paul Nougé in English)

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thecoroutfitters · 6 years

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Anybody can buy handcuffs. It only takes a few bucks and a criminal mind to turn this simple item into a mean of terror against a person whose freedom is suddenly compromised.

Even so, rememeber that handcuffs are employed for temporary restraint. Which means that if you are left alone in handcuffs, you can escape. If you don’t know how to do it, then this article is exactly what you need.

Keep reading!

Briefly:

Freeing yourself from handcuffs can save lives or get you a court-appointed lawyer. Exercise sound judgement as to when to use and when not to use this skill.

After I wrote about restraint escape kits and how to carry them, readers requested articles about how to use restraint escape gear. This article is one of a series on how to do just that.

If SEALs can be captured, so can you!

More than anything else, executing a restraint escape takes practice.

Clearly, the decision to use this skill is very situation-dependent. As is the case with many of the survival skills, freeing yourself from handcuffs could potentially save lives, cost them or worse, so be sure you understand and carefully weigh the potential consequences before attempting to do so.

“I don’t think you should teach people to escape double-locked handcuffs because criminals only single lock them and LEO’s double lock them.”

LEO (Law Enforcement Officer)

I disagree. The idea that less information makes people safer is a slippery slope.

Whether software, hardware, safety equipment or security equipment, it is better to expose security flaws and limitations to the average consumer, voter or shareholder so they can be corrected, making the things that protect us more effective.

It is reckless to assume that anyone who might illegally restrain you must be stupid and uneducated.

SEALs are Issued Bobby Pins

I have heard a lot of big talk and bluster from self-proclaimed death machines about how they will never be taken prisoner or walk away from a fight.

Do they impress you? Put the fear in you? Interest you? Me either … I guess death machines must bore their enemies to death.

One day, I noticed that a request for proposal for SERE kits for one of the SEAL teams included a lot of the same gear that I carry, including bobby pins. Why carry bobby pins? Because they are ubiquitous, don’t scream “restraint escape tool!”, easy to hide and easy to improvise serviceable restraint escape tools from.

In trained hands, they can shim handcuffs, pick handcuffs, act as a reach tool for handcuff keys, pick locks, tension locks, push a friction saw past tight flex cuffs or duct tape and have many more restraint escape applications.

Before you decide you are too hard or too righteous to ever possibly need to escape, consider this: If SEALs can be captured, you can too.

3 Second SEAL Test Will Tell You If You’ll Survive A SHTF Situation

SEALs carry tools to execute a last-ditch escape plan. What do you carry?

Anyone can Buy Handcuffs

One does not need to be a law enforcement officer to buy handcuffs. All they need is a few bucks of credit and a heartbeat.

Under the circumstances, you are wrong thinking that you’re safe!

Still some people are more prone than others to get into this kind of situations.

Who Are People with High Risk of Illegal Restraint?

Violent Crime

While many Americans think that the risk of restraint-related crime is too low to justify learning to escape, the US is only ever one congressional vote away from becoming the newest banana republic and one cyberattack, EMP, financial collapse or Black Swan away from sliding back to third world status.

Also, when assessing risk, considering the probability of occurrence, but ignoring your exposure to the risk is a recipe for disaster.

Where I live in the US, the rate of violent crime is very low, but the fact that so many people own or carry firearms helps keep it that way. In Brazil, it’s just the opposite. Home invasion and related crimes involving illegal restraint are on the rise, with groups even crossing state lines to perpetrate crimes. It can happen to you.

International Travel

Kidnapping for ransom, lighting kidnappings and politically-motivate crimes involving illegal restraint are significant risks in some parts of the world, especially for Americans. I spend months at a time in parts of Brazil and travel to other countries where illegal restraint is a significant threat, and often precedes homicide.

Journalists, Reporters, Media

With high visibility, comes elevated risk.

Sex & Stalking-related Violent Crimes

Some people just won’t take, “Hell, no!” for an answer and believe it or not, it doesn’t just happen to women.

I will never forget how a 6’4” man’s man bawled like a baby as he tried to recount the experience of explaining to his son how a group of bikers abducted him from a gas station, drove him outside of town in a van and sexually assaulted him repeatedly.

If criminals try to restrain you during a crime and transport you from a populated area, your chances of survival drop to single digits, whereas 6 in 7 victims shot with a handgun in a US city survive. You may be much better off making a run for it in this situation. Escaping your restraints may position you to fight and/or run, affording you your best shot at survival.

Military

Whether working overseas or on active duty, military personnel are high value targets for politically and religiously-motivated crimes.

International Aid Workers

Too often victims of “wrong place, wrong time.”

Celebrities

Don’t laugh, the internet has made it possible for the average person to reach a worldwide audience. It is also a dream come true for stalkers.

How Handcuffs Work

Essentially the same basic handcuff design most widely used in the USA has changed very little in over 100 years. It is so widely used that changing it would be expensive and create a huge logistical headache.

Most arrestees are cooperative, so leadership does not want to deal with said headache and does not typically value officer safety very highly. They whitewash over the fact that the standard handcuff design has security vulnerabilities with SOP, stating that standard handcuffs should be used only to secure prisoners temporarily while an officer is present.

Since departments don’t typically issue high security handcuff for situations that fall outside this rule, there are plenty of situations where officers do not have other tools at their disposal. These factors make standard handcuffs both widely used and relatively easy to escape.

Standard handcuffs have a single strand with ratchet teeth that pivots on a that bisects both arms of a double strand. The single stand interlocks with teeth on a locking bar. This feature makes handcuffs simple to apply and adjustable.

Once the single strand is closed around the wrist and its ratchet teeth engage the opposing ratchet teeth on the locking bar (normally obscured by the cheek plates), the single stand will not open. In this condition, the handcuffs are single locked.

To double lock the handcuffs, the double locking bar is engaged by depressing a recessed detent pin with a short push pin, called a stem, located on the top of the key. Once the double locking bar is engaged, the handcuffs are double locked. In this condition, the handcuffs are secure and cannot be tightened further.

Unlocking Handcuffs

To unlock standard handcuffs, simply Insert the handcuff key and turn it counter-clockwise, as this disengages the double locking bar. Turning the key clockwise and maintaining pressure disengages the teeth on the locking bar from the ratchet teeth on the single strand, enabling the single strand to open.

Caution! These techniques are best practiced with a key handy and a second responsible party nearby to aid in removal of handcuffs if necessary. If handcuffs are over-tightened for an extended period, they can cause nerve damage!

Standard Counter-picking Features

The keyway has a post protruding from its center which make it difficult to insert tools into the keyway to manipulate the locking bars, but allows handcuff keys to seat because the

To further thwart attempts to open handcuffs by picking, the double lock bar is often replaced with two thinner double locking bars so if a tool that matches the shape of a handcuff key is used to manipulate the double lock bar, but is too thin, the tool will only disengage one of the two locking bars at a time.

Methods & Tools for Defeating Handcuffs

Today, the cultural norm is to solve problems with money. Need a tool? Buy it online. To me, survival involves solving problems without money, stores or the internet. If you really want to buy a specific tool, I’m sure you can get someone to sell you on (including me).

But I strongly suggest that you start making basic restraint escape tools yourself and save your money for the more specialized tools, like a cutaway handcuff with one of the cheek plates replaced with plexiglass. They are not perfect for practice as the cheek plate is thicker than actual handcuffs, but it will enable you to manipulate the internal parts and understand how they work.

Not only will you save money making tools, but you will learn a lot and build a skill set that cannot be easily discovered taken from you.

You can make escape and entry tools from any material that is sufficiently strong and ductile, including aluminum cans, bobby pins, wiper blade, feeler gauges, street sweeper bristles, water bottles, cordage, tubing, lip protectant and any number of other bits of trash that litter areas inhabited by humans.

Keys

If handcuffed effectively from the point of view of preventing escape, the palms of your hands will be facing away from the keyways and the handcuffs double locked. This position and the fact that the handcuffs are double locked makes it very difficult for anatomically normal folks to reach the keyways and movement is further restricted if hinged or rigid handcuffs are applied.

Not all police departments use this method though. Some departments handcuff with palms together to prevent nerve damage if the suspect struggles or the handcuffs are not removed in time.

The solution is to use an extension or reach tool to extend the reach of a concealable handcuff key. I explained the pros and cons of different models of keys in a prior article.

A reach tool that I like that can be used with many key designs is the bobby pin, but any number of tools can serve the purpose. A short length of silicone tubing (like I wear on my necklace) can be useful with some models and can be employed to pad your fingers as you bend metal.

Necklace designs, keys and ways to conceal them in the articles linked in the BLUF section.

Picks

Modified Mini Binder Clip Handle

The modified mini binder clip is one of my favorite ways to open handcuffs. I carry mini binder clips as money clips for cash. I prefer to distribute cash on my person instead of preparing it for theft by gathering it in a single, easy-to-find wad. I also find it handy to separating foreign and domestic currency. Now I have plausible deniability should a loose binder clip handle be discovered on my person … it must have fallen off a clip I was using as a money clip.

If you can find binder clips of the right dimensions that’s great, you won’t need to modify them. If you can’t, the modifications are difficult to notice, especially to someone without a lens or an idea of what they are looking for.

Shorten the length of the bend of the binder clip handle that will be used as the tooth of a handcuff key to 2.80mm including the diameter of the wire. The diameter of the wire should be reduced to 0.85mm to ensure that it can pass feely between the keyhole in the cheek plate and the security pin. Modifications can easily be performed with a wire cutter and a diamond jeweler’s file, by rubbing it on a concrete or stone surface of appropriate grit or with a diamond cutoff disc for a rotary tool. The detail-oriented can even re-finish the clip to avoid detection.

To use, bend the clip open. Work the “tooth” into the keyway and use it to sweep and/or stab open the double locking bar(s) in a counter-clockwise direction and then the locking bar in a clockwise direction and … “Presto!” you just opened double locked handcuffs without a key.

Hook Pick

A medium or so hook lock pick can be used to manipulate the locking bars as with a mini binder clip handle only you will be pushing at an angle to manipulate the locking bars as opposed to sweeping. Give it a try.

Bobby Pin

Same deal basic idea. The technique can be sweeping or pushing depending on how you bent the bobby pin. Believe it or not, SERE shops online actually sell “pre-bent” bobby pins, but if you lack the wherewithal to bend a bobby pin, you aren’t realistically going to be escaping anything. Better to retreat to your safe space and trust in the mercy of captors.

Shims

Shims are tiny, easy to conceal and can open handcuffs quickly and quietly, if the handcuffs are only single locked. Shimming will not open double locked handcuffs because the double locking bar prevents downward travel of the locking bar, which is necessary to disengage the teeth enough to wedge a shim between the two sets of teeth.

Shims can be purchased inexpensively or improvised from hair clips, bobby pins, cotter pins or similar objects. Just understand that many models currently sold will not open even standard handcuffs featuring narrow single strands and ratchet teeth, like UZI brand and some generic cuffs sold at military surplus stores without modification.

I test every new shim I see hit the market and measure them with a caliper. Most are too wide to reliably open cheap handcuffs. (Shim manufacturers take heed!) Many shims need to be modified by narrowing the width.

We are not talking huge measurements here, just a fraction of a millimeter, so a narrow shim can open handcuffs with a wider single strand just fine, but the opposite is untrue. Unfortunately, that fraction of a millimeter of extra width is the difference between a shim not working or working.

To shim handcuffs, insert the shim beneath the teeth on the single strand, where it enters the handcuff body. Wedge the shim between the single strand teeth and the locking bar teeth, maintaining constant (stabbing) pressure on the shim, pushing it in between the two sets of teeth. Maintain pressure once in place and simultaneously tighten the single strand, taking care not to over-tighten.

One ratchet click should be enough to seat the shim between the teeth! If the shim does not seat in a couple of clicks, start over and do not risk nerve damage in training! As the single strand is tightened, it forces the teeth to disengage for an instant before the locking spring slams them back shut. In this instant, the shim can be wedged between the teeth, preventing them from engaging. Once seated, the shim can then travel a couple of centimeters inside the handcuff body as the single strand is tightened and the single strand then be opened since its teeth will slide along the shim instead of engaging the teeth on the locking bar.

Slipping Handcuffs

Human anatomy varies a great deal. Some folks have wrists that are larger than their hands, flexible hands or muscular forearms. All the preceding anatomical features aid in slipping handcuffs. The higher handcuffs are applied on the forearms, the easier it is to slip them.

Flex your forearm muscles discreetly as handcuffs are applied. When your muscles are relaxed, your forearms will become thinner. Even if you are not able to slip the cuffs at this point, your range of motion should be increased.

Applying handcuffs over long sleeves or coat sleeves increases range of motion and applying a little petroleum jelly, white petrolatum, lip protectant or even butter or grease from food can act as a lubricant and aid in slipping handcuffs.

Breaking Handcuffs

Breaking the Chain

It is possible to break the chain of most models of standard handcuffs by pulling the chain taught and then twisting both wrists so that the cheek plates bind on one another, creating a fulcrum. Employ pressure at the rivets that bind the single strand to the double strands, using the strands as levers to gain sufficient mechanical advantage to snap the chain.

The downsides are that practicing this technique is on the expensive side and you will still want to remove the handcuffs.

Cutting the Single Strand

Do not cut the single strand near the rivet! If you do, the ratchet teeth may prevent the single strand from opening. Cut it closer to where the single strand enters the handcuff body. That way it can open, pivoting on the rivet.

The Secret to Restraint Escape

The secret recipe for effective restraint escape (and most other survival skills) is simple. Whichever method or tool you choose,

…more than the best instructor on the planet,

…more than raw talent or genius,

…more than sexiest or best tools,

… effective restraint escape requires practice and dogged persistence! The others may help a little, but practice and persistence mean the difference between proficiency and failure.

Avoid This Too Common Mistake

Practice. As you do, start with the models of handcuffs you are likely to need to escape from.

A huge mistake a lot of folks who live the tactical lifestyle often make is practicing with only well-maintained, high quality handcuffs they own or are issued as opposed to models of handcuffs criminals are more likely to use.

If you carry handcuffs, you should be experienced in escaping from the handcuffs you carry and carry a spare key attached to a reach tool, but a street criminal perpetrating a home invasion to get money to score drugs is more likely to use a pair of cheap army surplus store handcuffs that have been rusting behind the seat in his truck for the past 5 years than a pair of well-oiled high-end handcuffs.

Practice with both! This is how you will be able to make the smart move when your life would be on the edge!

This article has been written by Cache Valley Prepper for Survivopedia.

from Survivopedia Don't forget to visit the store and pick up some gear at The COR Outfitters. How prepared are you for emergencies? #SurvivalFirestarter #SurvivalBugOutBackpack #PrepperSurvivalPack #SHTFGear #SHTFBag

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