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1962dude420-blog · 2 years

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Today we remember the passing of Albert King who Died: December 21, 1992, Memphis, Tennessee

Albert Nelson (April 25, 1923 – December 21, 1992), known by his stage name Albert King, was an American blues guitarist and singer whose playing influenced many other blues guitarists. He is perhaps best known for the popular and influential album Born Under a Bad Sign (1967) and its title track. He, B.B. King, and Freddie King, all unrelated, were known as the "Kings of the Blues." The left-handed King was known for his "deep, dramatic sound that was widely imitated by both blues and rock guitarists."

He was once nicknamed "The Velvet Bulldozer" because of his smooth singing and large size–he stood taller than average, with sources reporting 6 ft 7 in and weighing 250lb and also because he drove a bulldozer in one of his day jobs early in his career.

King was inducted into the Blues Hall of Fame in 1983. He was posthumously inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2013. In 2011, he was ranked number 13 on Rolling Stone's 100 Greatest Guitarists of All Time.

Albert King was born on a cotton plantation in Indianola, Mississippi. During childhood he sang at a church with a family gospel group, in which his father played the guitar. One of 13 children, he grew up picking cotton on plantations near Forrest City, Arkansas, where the family moved when he was eight years old.

King's identity was a longtime source of confusion. He stated in interviews that he was born in Indianola on April 25, 1923 (or 1924), and was a half-brother of B.B. King (an Indianola native) but, documentation suggests otherwise. King stated that whenever he performed at Club Ebony in Indianola, the event was celebrated as a homecoming, and he cited the fact that B.B.'s father was named Albert King. However, when he applied for a Social Security card in 1942, he gave his birthplace as "Aboden" (most likely Aberdeen, Mississippi) and signed his name as Albert Nelson, listing his father as Will Nelson. Musicians also knew him as Albert Nelson in the 1940s and early 1950s.

He started using the name Albert King in 1953 as an attempt to be associated with B.B King; he was billed as "B.B. King's brother". He also used the same nickname as B.B King, "Blues Boy", and he named his guitar Lucy (B.B. King's guitar was named Lucille). B.B. King later said: "He called his guitar 'Lucy,' and for a while he went around saying he was my brother. That bothered me until I got to know him and realized he was right; he wasn't my brother in blood, but he sure was my brother in the blues."

According to King, his father left the family when Albert was five, and when he was eight he moved with his mother, Mary Blevins, and two sisters to an area near Forrest City, Arkansas. He said his family had also lived in Arcola, Mississippi, for a time. He made his first guitar out of a cigar box, a piece of a bush, and a strand of broom wire. He later bought a real guitar for $1.25. As a left-hander learning guitar on his own, he turned his guitar upside down. He picked cotton, drove a bulldozer, worked in construction, and held other jobs until he was able to support himself as a musician.

King began his professional work as a musician with a group called the Groove Boys in Osceola, Arkansas. During this time he was exposed to the work of many Delta blues artists, including Elmore James and Robert Nighthawk.

In 1953, he moved north to Gary, Indiana where he briefly played drums in Jimmy Reed's band and on several of Reed's early recordings. In Gary, he recorded his first single ("Bad Luck Blues" backed with "Be On Your Merry Way"), for Parrot Records. The record sold a few copies, but made no significant impact and Parrot did not request any follow-up records or sign King to a long-term contract. In 1954, he returned to Osceola and re-joined the Groove Boys for two years.

In 1956, he moved to Brooklyn, Illinois, just across the river from St. Louis, and formed a new band. He became a popular attraction around the St. Louis nightclub scene alongside Ike Turner's Kings of Rhythm and Chuck Berry. He signed to Little Milton's Bobbin label in 1959, releasing a few singles, but none of them charted. However, he caught the attention of King Records which released the single "Don't Throw Your Love on Me So Strong" in November 1961. The recording features musician Ike Turner on piano and became King's first hit; peaking at number 14 on the Billboard R&B chart. The song was included on his first album The Big Blues in 1962. King left Bobbin in late 1962 and recorded one session for King Records. In 1963, He signed with jazz artist Leo Gooden's Coun-Tree label and cut two records for them, but these failed to chart.

With no apparent career prospects other than touring the club circuit in the South and Midwest, King moved to Memphis, where he signed with the Stax record label. Produced by Al Jackson Jr., King with Booker T. & the MGs recorded dozens of influential sides, such as "Crosscut Saw" and "As the Years Go Passing By". In 1967, Stax released the album Born Under a Bad Sign, a collection of the singles King recorded at Stax. The title track of that album (written by Booker T. Jones and William Bell) became King's best-known song and has been covered by several artists (including Cream, Paul Rodgers, Homer Simpson, and Jimi Hendrix). The production of the songs was sparse and clean and maintained a traditional blues sound while also sounding fresh and thoroughly contemporary. The key to King's success at Stax was giving his songs an upbeat, slick R&B feel that made the songs more appealing and radio-friendly than the slow, maudlin traditional blues sound.

In 1967, King was performing at Ike Turner's Manhattan Club in East St. Louis when promoter Bill Graham offered him $1,600 to play three nights at the Fillmore West in San Francisco. He released the album Live Wire/Blues Power from one of the concerts.

In 1969, King performed live with the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra. That same year, he released the album Years Gone By. In 1970, he released an Elvis Presley tribute album, Albert King Does the King's Things. It was a collection of Presley's 1950s hits reworked and re-imagined in King's musical style, although critics felt the results were mixed.

On June 6, 1970, King joined the Doors on stage at the Pacific Coliseum in Vancouver, Canada. Recordings of this performance were released in 2010 by Rhino Records as Live in Vancouver 1970.

In 1971, he released the album Lovejoy which notably includes a cover of the Rolling Stones' hit "Honky Tonk Women". To retain his popular appeal, King eagerly embraced the new sound of funk. In 1972, he recorded "I'll Play the Blues for You," which featured accompaniment from the Bar-Kays, the Memphis Horns, and the Movement (Isaac Hayes's backing group). He recorded another album with the Bar-Kays, I Wanna Get Funky (1974). He also made a cameo on an Albert Brooks' comedy album, A Star Is Bought (1975).

In 1975, King's career took a turn downward when Stax Records filed for bankruptcy, after which he moved to the small Utopia label. His next two albums, Albert and Truckload of Lovin' (1976), devolved into generic 1970s pop music. His third album for Utopia, King Albert (1977), while somewhat more subdued, still lacked any standout material, and King's guitar took a backseat to the background instruments. Clara McDaniel teamed up with King at Ned Love's Club. This led to her touring with King in the Deep South in the 1970s. When McDaniel returned home she managed King's fleet of taxicabs. The last recording King made for Utopia was Live Blues in 1977, from his performance at the Montreux Jazz Festival. The track "As the Years Go Passing By" is noteworthy for his duet with the Irish guitarist Rory Gallagher.

In 1978, King moved to a new label, Tomato Records, for which he recorded the album New Orleans Heat. The label paired him with the R&B producer Allen Toussaint, who had been responsible for scores of hits in that genre in the 1960s and 1970s but was a novice at working with blues artists. The album was a mix of new songs (including Toussaint's own "Get Out of My Life, Woman") and re-recordings of old material, such as "Born Under a Bad Sign."

King took a four-year break from recording after the disappointing sales of his albums in the late 1970s. During this period, he re-embraced his roots as a blues artist and abandoned any arrangements except straight 12-bar guitar, bass, drums, and piano. In 1983, he released a live album for Fantasy Records, San Francisco '83, which was nominated for a Grammy Award. The same year he recorded a studio television session, more than an hour long, for CHCH Television in Canada, featuring the up-and-coming blues sensation Stevie Ray Vaughan; it was subsequently released as an audio album and later as an audio album plus DVD titled In Session.

In 1984, King released the album, I'm in a Phone Booth, Baby, which was nominated for a Grammy Award. The album included a redo of "Truckload of Lovin'" and two old songs by Elmore James, "Dust My Broom" and "The Sky Is Crying".

King's health problems led him to consider retirement in the 1980s, but he continued regular tours and appearances at blues festivals, using a customized Greyhound tour bus with "I'll Play The Blues For You" painted on the side. His final album, Red House (named after the Jimi Hendrix song) was released in 1991.

At the time of his death, he was planning a tour with B.B. King and Bobby "Blue" Bland. Bland told the Associated Press, "there was never any type of jealousy when we three worked together on a package. One just pushed the others."

King died of a heart attack on December 21, 1992, in his Memphis home. His final concert had been in Los Angeles two days earlier. He was given a funeral procession with the Memphis Horns playing "When the Saints Go Marching In" and was buried in Paradise Gardens Cemetery in Edmondson, Arkansas, near his childhood home.

King was survived by his wife, Glendle; two daughters, Evelyn Smith and Gloria Randolph; a son, Donald Randolph; a sister, Elvie Wells; 8 grandchildren, and 10 great-grandchildren.

#December 21 #1992 #R.I.P.#Albert King

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1dfangirls35 · 3 years

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The Language of Your Soul

An enemies to lovers Ballet AU in 5 Acts

Masterlist

Act I

A/N:

First of all, thank you so much to @booksncoffee for the absolutely gorgeous banner!

I am so excited to share this story with you all! Inspired in part by a night rewatching Center Stage on Netflix and from years of ballet classes, I hope this AU brings a new twist on Harry fics (and maybe even helps you gain a new appreciation for the world of ballet). Please note, while I have used my own 10+ years of classical ballet training in addition to research on this topic to hopefully make this as realistic as possible, this is still a work of fiction- and some details may have been changed to better fit the constraints of the story. The companies mentioned in this fic are real, however this story and its characters are entirely works of fiction. On a more personal note, while I have chosen to publish this story now and believe I will be able to maintain weekly updates to its entirety, I am preparing to take my boards in less than four weeks. Should I not update as scheduled- please be patient and know that an update is only a few weeks away! :) Thank you so much for reading!

Warnings: This story will contain language, mentions of emotional abuse from a parent and eating disorders. Please read at your own discretion.

Ten Weeks to Opening Night

Albert Einstein once said, "dancers are the athletes of God." Giselle Mason certainly doesn't feel like pne of God's athletes at the moment. Not with the way her muscles are screaming with every movement that she makes as she stretches before class, not with the way her right hip cracks as she lifts her leg onto the bar, and certainly not with the way her feet sting as she tapes up yet another blister on her toe before shoving her foot into her pointe shoes for another day full of torture.

Giselle stands, sticking one last bobby pin into the bun of her nearly ebony hair and finding her spot at the front of the barre in the center of the studio. She grasps the wooden cylinder with her left hand before releasing her body in a forward bend, taking a deep breath in and then a deep breath out. There is a familiar ache in her hamstrings as she begins to stretch, which loosens ever so slightly with every breath.

And so begins her daily morning routine in the studio. Fifteen minutes of stretching before company class begins. Relaxing each hamstring, hip flexor and spinal muscle until a sense of calm washes over her body. Letting her mind drift into a thoughtless focus, preparing itself for the waves of choreography that would be coming in minutes. Typically, this time is quiet; the only melody present the rhythmic breathing of company members preparing for class. But today, the studio seems to be filled with an underlying buzz. And Giselle doesn't have the slightest idea why.

"I heard he slept with the artistic director's wife, so they kicked him out of the Royal," she hears one of the new corps de ballet members murmur.

"I mean have you seen him, I don't blame her for getting her hands on a piece of him," another girl giggles.

"Did you hear, G?" Caleb, Giselle's friend, whispers as he slides into a spot on the barre behind her, adjusting the black bandana keeping his signature black curls in place across his forehead.

"Hear what?" Giselle asks, removing her leg from the bar before reaching down to adjust the black leg warmer that had fallen down her calf.

"They've hired Harry Styles- you know from the Royal," Caleb adds as if Giselle hasn't heard of Harry Styles. Everyone who was anyone in the ballet world had heard of Harry Styles. A good chunk of the non-ballet world might even be able to point him out as that 'sexy male ballet dancer' from the Sports Illustrated nude edition.

Harry Styles was a rare kind of natural talent. The type of person that was put on this earth to dance ballet. His talent had landed him the honor of being the youngest person to be named a principal in the history of the Royal Ballet. And if the rumors were true, that talent had also landed him the reputation of one of the ballet world's most arrogant. Giselle had heard several stories about how the male dancer had been a terror to work with- demanding, rude, uncooperative. Giselle didn't doubt it- people of that skill and fame rarely developed without some sense of entitlement.

"Why would we hire Harry Styles, we've already got Viktor?" Giselle questions. This isn't the first time a rumor has circulated through the American Ballet Theatre company, and it certainly won't be the last time.

"Rumor is they want Viktor to retire," Caleb shrugged before stepping back to his place behind Giselle as Mistress Ivanova claps to gain the class's attention.

Giselle couldn't believe the rumors. Viktor Dmitri retiring from ABT? He was practically the face of the company. The man had been dancing for the American Ballet Theatre for over a decade. He'd been the principal ever since Giselle had joined the company as a corps de ballet member five years ago.

Giselle knew that retirement came early for a ballet dancer. Her own mother, the famous Natalia Korsakova, had retired at the age of 33 after a knee injury. Viktor had just turned 35, but he'd shown no signs of slowing down. She refused to believe that he was calling it quits. Or to believe that the board would be stupid enough to bring in someone with Harry Styles's toxic reputation into the company.

She shoves the thought aside. Viktor is in his usual place at the back of the studio and Harry Styles is nowhere to be seen. This was simply another piece of gossip threatening to distract everyone from the Swan Lake auditions tomorrow afternoon, and Giselle won't lose her focus. The auditions are too important.

Giselle Mason has dreamed of playing the role of Odette/Odile ever since she first watched her mother on stage at the age of four. It was one of her earliest memories of the theater- her mother twirling about in a bright white tutu that at that time Giselle could only dream of wearing. In fact, Giselle wasn't sure there had ever been a moment where her dream hadn't been to be a principal dancer at ABT, like her mother. She'd been in ballet shoes from the second she could walk, wore a leotard and tights more often than she'd worn pajamas, and didn't recognize herself in the mirror if her hair wasn't pulled back into a bun. She'd ate, slept and breathed the art form. But she supposed that all came with having a prima ballerina as a mother.

Natalia Korsakova was a ballet sensation. "One of the greatest to have ever danced," according to the New York Times at the time of her retirement. The world had come to watch her dance and she'd traveled it performing: Russia, Australia, London, Paris. You name the location and Natalia Korsakova had danced there.

When Giselle was growing up, she was constantly told how lucky she was to have Natalia as a mother. To have seen the shows she's seen, to have met ballet royalty, to have traveled the world. But Giselle never felt lucky. Not when she was the accident that put her mother's career on hold for almost a year. Not when her mother was gone for months at a time performing, missing recitals, parent days and school concerts. And certainly not when an injury forced her mother into retirement, shifting her focus from her own artistic talents to turning her daughter into her next protegee.

Much to her mother's dismay, Giselle was not the younger version of her mother. She was good, great even, but she was no sensation. Giselle made soloist in her fourth year at ABT, which was a feat all on its own, unless you compared it to her mother's two. Giselle lacked the raw, natural talent that her mother possessed. Instead of her mother's high arches, she had her father's averagely flat feet. Instead of her mother's uncanny ability to match the music, Giselle had spent hours counting eights in her head to get down a rhythm. Instead of looking effortless the first time she ran through a routine, Giselle spent hours in the studio after rehearsal, running through the choreography until it wasn't possible for her to get it wrong. Giselle had gotten to where she was because of her hard work, not her natural talent- something her mother would never let her forget. To Natalia Korsakova, Giselle would never measure up.

The Swan Lake auditions are Giselle's first real shot at landing a lead, especially with principal dancer Anna Elliot out with a back injury for the foreseeable future. Giselle wants this role more than anything. To prove to herself that she is capable of following in her mother's footsteps. And to prove to her mother that she is just as capable a dancer as she. For once in her life, she wants to hear her mother say not that she'd lost her spot or forgot to point her toes, but that she was proud of Giselle. Four words- that's all Giselle really wants.

"And will start first position, demi, demi, grand, demi and port de bra. Repeat in 2nd, 4th and 5th and then balance in fifth position arms in fifth," Mistress Ivanova barks, before gesturing to the pianist to begin.

Giselle focuses on her movements as the music begins. She tightens her core, elongates her neck and reaches her fingertips to the edges of her silhouette. Her legs quiver slightly as she bends her knees into the first grand plié, her mind focusing on maintaining her turnout.

"Relax that face Giselle," Mistress Ivanova corrects, as she makes her way around the room. "I don't want to see that this is work."

Giselle takes another deep breath, this time releasing her lips from their concentrated place and focusing on her breath. She lets the downtown Manhattan studio disappear from the background. Gone is the distant honking of impatient taxi drivers maneuvering their way through the New York City traffic. Gone is the light shining in from the full-length windows looking out at the city skyline- well what you could see of the skyline behind the crumbly brick building neighboring the school. There was nothing but the dancer, the barre and the music flowing gently through her veins.

"Beautiful lines Teagan, thank you," Giselle hears Mistress Ivanova say from across the room and she fights the urge to roll her eyes. Giselle has known Teagan Davidson since she was fourteen years old, when Teagan had moved from California to New York to join the ABT school. Over the course of a decade of competing for roles, partners and teacher's praises, the two had developed quite a rivalry. To Giselle, there was almost no better feeling than snagging a role that she knew Teagan also had her eyes on.

Giselle uses Teagan's praise as motivation to work harder, feeling the burn in her inner thighs as she pushes further into her grand plié in second. The role of Odette/Odile was hers, Teagan would have to settle for understudy.

The class is in the middle of their balance, Giselle's focus locked in on a spot just at the edge of the window at the rear of the studio when a loud bang reverberates through the room. Dancers drop their balance and turn their heads, looking to see who has caused such a commotion with their entrance.

"Mr. Styles, you're late," Mistress Ivanova snaps.

He is taller than Giselle imagined, and even from this distance she can see the definition in his arms through the black tank top that clings to his body. His hair is slightly disheveled, curling at the top. His face plastered into some cheeky grin, dimples present on both cheeks, like he knows exactly what he's doing, interrupting class like this. Almost like he's enjoying the attention. He throws his black messenger bag to the side before grabbing his ballet shoes and scurrying over to an open spot at the barre near the front of the studio.

"My apologies," he replies in a thick British accent. His tone sounds anything but apologetic.

"Damn, he's even better-looking in person than he is in magazines," Caleb mutters under his breath, eliciting an eye roll from Giselle.

"Well, I suppose after that entrance," Mistress Ivanova sighs, stepping to the front of the class. "Now is as good of time as any to announce that Mr. Styles will be joining our company as a principal dancer."

Gasps fill the room, and Giselle turns her head to look at Viktor, whose face is stoic after Harry's entrance. A low chatter fills the studio, everyone trying to figure out exactly what is going on. Would he get the lead in Swan Lake? Would he be understudying Viktor?

"Silence!" Mistress Ivanova shouts. "This chatter can wait until after class is over!" She turns to face Harry, her lips turned into a stern frown. "If you'll find a place at the barre Mr. Styles, we will continue our class."

Giselle watches as he slides into a spot at the front of the room, shooting a grin at the young company member behind him. Giselle rolls her eyes, returning her focus to the mirror in front of her. Two minutes with the company and she was sure Harry Styles was exactly who she thought he would be.

Giselle tries to forget Harry Styles is in class with them. Instead she focuses on her breathing, her turnout, the rhythm that comes from the pianist in the corner of the room. She watches the early morning New York City sunrise reflect off of the mirrors, leaving little spots of sunlight over the gray Marley floor. Everyone else in the company could focus on Harry Styles all they want, but she is only focusing on one thing- and that is landing the role of her dreams tomorrow.

But Harry Styles wasn't the type of person whose presence could be forgotten so easily.

********

Harry Styles isn't scared of a little attention. In fact, he typically thrives on it. That's why he is a performer after all. To Harry, there is no better feeling than knowing all eyes are upon you, that you are the center of attention, the focus of the room. Maybe that is a prideful and egotistical thing to say, but it is true. Everyone wants to feel important, valued, admired- and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

But the attention Harry has been getting since he walked into the American Ballet Theatre studio a little over twelve hours ago has not been the type of attention he necessarily sought out. He knew there would be rumors, leaving the only company he had ever been a part of during his dance career was sure to draw up the best of them, but something about this felt different. It was the whispers. The stares. The way some members of the room were staring at Harry as if he was a god and a few wouldn't dare look in his direction.

Harry doesn't know what's come over him- this wavering self-confidence. Maybe it's this new place. This new country. Or maybe it's the fact that in the words of his agent, if he "doesn't get his act together" he will never dance at this level again. And if he's not dancing on the world's biggest stages, well, Harry might as well not be dancing at all.

Harry grabs his phone from the side pocket of his black messenger bag, connecting it to the Bluetooth speaker he found in the corner of the studio and presses play on his hip hop playlist. He needs something to drown out his thoughts, and classical music just doesn't cut it. As the beat begins to fill the studio, Harry lets the music take over his body and begins to dance.

Giselle tries to focus on her music, but there's the noise of a pounding bass in the background interfering with concentration. She's always the only one at the studio this late at night- that's why she comes- to be alone and without distractions.

She tries to ignore it, focusing on the one and two of the music as she fouettés. One and two, three and four, five and... a boom from somewhere in the building breaks her concentration and she falls out of her turn, letting out a groan. This could not be happening to her the night before auditions, and if she found out that Teagan was here trying to interfere with her practice...

Giselle makes her way down the hall, guided by the incessant bass that sounds like it belongs in the backseat of a teenager's car and not one of the most prestigious ballet studios in the world. When she turns the corner to enter the studio, it's not Teagan she sees but Harry Styles.

But he's not dancing. He's laying on the floor, wearing nothing but a pair of black athletic shorts that show off the god-like definition of his thighs. His signature butterfly tattoo stands out on the middle of his chest, beads of sweat dripping towards the center of his stomach, the bass vibrating the mirrors around him. He doesn't notice her at first. How could he with the music so loud?

"Excuse me," Giselle says loudly in an effort to get his attention. His body doesn't even flinch.

"Excuse me!" she yells this time.

Harry looks up. In the corner of the studio, towards the door stands a girl. Her almost black hair is pulled tightly back into a bun. Her thin arms are crossed like she's about to lecture him, and her lips are held in a tight line that looks anything but happy. The corners of Harry's mouth curve upwards in a grin, entertained by the fury that was seeming to come from her tiny body.

She taps her foot impatiently, like she's waiting for something. Harry realizes that she is- she's waiting for him to turn off his music.

He sighs, reaching over to his phone beside him and sliding one sweaty finger across the screen to bring the rhythm to a halt.

"Yes?" he asks expectantly, not bothering to move his body from his reclining position.

"Other people in this studio are trying to practice, you know. It's kinda hard to do that with this," she gestures into the air, as if trying to find an appropriate adjective to describe the torture that had been gracing her ears over the past half hour.

"Not a fan of my music?" Harry smirked.

"I'm not a fan of someone disrupting my rehearsal." Giselle spit back.

"Rehearsal? It's bloody 11pm."

"I know what time it is, and like I said, your music is interfering with my ability to practice." Giselle stares Harry right in the eyes. He doesn't intimidate her, and she's not going to back down until he agrees to turn down his music.

"Wasn't aware you were the owner of this studio," Harry taunts.

"I could say the same about you." Giselle moves her hands to her hips. Just agree to turn off the damn music, she thinks to herself, even though she knows at this point, it's not worth the time it will take to warm back up to continue practicing.

Harry sits up, grabbing a blue towel from inside his bag and wiping the sweat that remains off his forehead. "Fine, music's off. Continue your rehearsal. I'm too jet lagged for this shit," he stands, wrapping the towel around his neck.

"Thanks," Giselle says under her breath, before making her way back to her studio, where she knew she would be gathering her own belongings.

Harry groans, grabbing his bag from the floor and sliding it over his shoulder. You could travel halfway across the world and still run into the same entitled ballet brats who thought they ran the place. It's those type of people, company members and otherwise, that were precisely the reason he had left the Royal. Well, not that he had necessarily had a say in that scenario, but they had been the cause of all of his problems.

You just have to dance, Harry, he tries to tell himself. But Harry knows that as much as he tries, there's a lot more too it than that.

**********

“Gi!" Caleb exclaims, bounding down the hallway towards her without concern for anyone in his way. "Cast list is up."

Giselle gulps. She isn't sure that she is ready for this. The look of disappointment on her mother's face if she doesn't land the part. The list of corrections that her mother has come up with from watching Giselle's audition. "Now you see there, you've lost your center. You're never going to make that triple if you don't hold your center Giselle." The reminder that "you only have so many opportunities to prove your worth, before they move onto the younger, better version of you." It didn't matter to her mother if Giselle was the youngest soloist at ABT by five years. It didn't matter if nearly every other soloist had previously understudied for the role. Everything but a lead was a disappointment to Natalia Korsakova.

"C'mon," Caleb exclaims, and before Giselle has a moment to collect herself she's being pulled down the hallway by her arm.

And there it is. The thin, white piece of paper that holds the fate of her next ten weeks in its hands. When she looks at it at first, she thinks she must be dreaming. Because her name has never been on that spot on the list before. Not since she officially joined the company five years ago.

Odette/Odile- Giselle Mason

Sigfried - Harry Styles

She feels frozen. Like she's in a dream and she's paralyzed. It's what she's always wanted-this role and yet, suddenly it feels like a whole lot of pressure.

"You did it Gi," Caleb exclaims, lifting her up and spinning her around before Giselle even has a moment to look any further down the list. Giselle laughs, giddy with excitement. "New York will have never seen a more beautiful Odette."

Giselle rolls her eyes at his comment. Caleb, her friend since joining the American Ballet School at the age of six and partner for many years had always been her biggest cheerleader. In a way, he made up for what she didn't have in her mother.

"And you Caleb?" Giselle asks, realizing in her excitement that she had forgotten that her best friend also had a role in the this ballet.

"You're looking at the newest Benno," Caleb says with a grin. Giselle often wondered what it would be like to be like Caleb. To be happy with any role. To not care about his place in the company. To simply want to dance. Caleb had always been like that- relaxed, calm- the antithesis to Giselle who was always high strung and anxious. Perhaps that's why they'd always been such good friends, because they balanced each other perfectly. Giselle pushed Caleb when he needed some extra motivation and Caleb- albeit not always successful- tried his best to keep Giselle out of her own head.

Giselle watches as Teagan makes her way over to the board, her long black hair swinging from the ponytail at the crown of her head. She grins in slight satisfaction as she sees Teagan's face turn into a frown. Giselle turns and gives Caleb her best, "what did she get?" eyes. He exaggeratedly mouths, "UNDERSTUDY".

As if sensing that she is the topic of conversation, Teagan looks over at the two. "Congrats Giselle," she says, her face moving in a way that makes it seem like the words taste disgusting leaving her mouth.

"You as well," Giselle responds, to which Teagan only scoffs and storms off.

"You know she's going to make your life living hell as your understudy don't you?" Caleb said with a laugh.

"Ugh, I know," Giselle groaned.

"It will be worth it though. You are going to be dancing the role you've always dreamed of." Giselle smiled. "Plus," Caleb begins, leaning down so his mouth is next to Giselle's ear. "You get to dance with the greatest male dancer of our generation. Think of all the hours you're gonna get to spend looking at that GORGEOUS body."

Giselle groans. Her perfect moment temporarily ruined by the realization that she would have to dance with Harry Styles. Sure, he may be talented, a great dancer, and likely a great partner. But his entrance yesterday and their encounter last night told her everything she needed to know about Harry Styles. And she was sure that working with him would be anything but easy.

"That GORGEOUS body," Giselle imitates Caleb with an exaggeration of the word, "Doesn't make up for the fact that the guy's an asshole."

"Okay, okay, point taken. Now can we go get some lunch?"

Giselle nods, but she already knows she's not hungry. Instead, all she can think about is how she's going to get through the next ten weeks of rehearsals with a man she already loathes.

**********

Giselle slides into the rehearsal studio with extra joy in her step later that afternoon. She's so on Cloud 9 that she doesn't even realize Harry standing at the barre doing pliés as she hums the opening notes of Swan Lake aloud.

"Sorry didn't know anyone else was in here already," she apologizes quickly, standing and stretching out her feet.

Harry looks at her, his face hard and eyes sharp. If he recognized her as the girl who interrupted his jam session last night his face didn't show it. "And who are you?" Harry asks, his voice laced with condescendence.

"Odette," Giselle smiles, the words feeling foreign leaving her mouth.

"Obviously," Harry scoffs, and Giselle feels her confidence waver. "Who are you?"

"Giselle Mason, soloist."

"Doesn't ring a bell," the corners of Harry's mouth turn up at his comment, like he gets satisfaction out of reminding others that they aren't the household name that he is.

Giselle wants to say something back. Something sharp and witty to show him that just because he was one of the greatest dancers in the world and she was still trying to make her way into the spotlight didn't mean that he could treat her like a nobody. She was going to be his partner after all- whether he liked it or not. But then Gregory Alexander, ABT's Artistic Director, enters the room, clapping his hands and tells them they are about to begin on the Act II Pas de Deux and Giselle doesn't have a chance to say otherwise.

"As new partners you will need to put in the time to understand each other. Build trust. Anticipate the other's movement. Portray to the audience that you are a swan and a prince in love." Gregory moves his arms in the air theatrically, as if he isn't wearing a designer suit.

"Now I understand that the ten weeks we have to prepare before our season debut isn't an ideal amount of time to form a relationship with a new partner. But in this case, it simply must do." Gregory's face turned serious, the wrinkles on his forehead more defined as he furrows his eyebrows. "I expect that the two of you will put in the time outside of your scheduled rehearsals to work on this chemistry. Anna and Viktor will also be assisting with rehearsals and my hope is that they will also be able to assist the two of you with this transition."

"Gregory," Harry interrupts, then as if realizing he'd made a mistake, he corrects himself. "Sir."

Gregory nods.

"I'm not sure what the concern is. I've danced with hundreds of partners in my career, I'm not sure how the other principal's would have much more experience than me?" Giselle thinks Harry is meaning this as a question but it comes out more like a statement.

Giselle watches as Gregory's eyes narrow again. He looked irritated, and why wouldn't he be? Harry had been here all but forty-eight hours and was already questioning the artistic director's decisions.

"That may be the case, Mr. Styles," Gregory paused. "But when the two of you step onto Metropolitan Opera House stage in ten weeks, I expect the audience to believe that you two have been dancing together for years. Have I made myself clear?"

Harry nods, this time remaining quiet.

"Now then, I'd like us to start with the Act II Pas de Deux. The very beginning- with your entrance Harry."

It's an hour into rehearsals when Giselle hears the echo of heels clicking down the wooden hallways. She doesn't even have to look up when the steps stop as they reach the studio floor. She could recognize that walk anywhere.

"Aahh, Natalia!" Gregory exclaims. "So glad you could stop by," Gregory reaches over to embrace Giselle's mother, his grey hair brushing the sides of her face as he kisses each cheek.

"Mr. Styles, I'd like to introduce you to Natalia Korsakova, former ABT principal and member of our board."

Natalia Korsakova looks as put together as always. Her dark brown hair pulled tightly into a neat French twist. Her tight black dress and coordinating pumps show off every bit of the dancer's body that she still maintained. Giselle watches as her mother's mouth curves to form a polite smile.

"A ballet legend. It's an honor to meet you Madame," Harry says offering his hand.

"The pleasure is all mine. I'm so glad you are joining us here at ABT. And what a joy it will be to watch you next to my daughter," Natalia gestures towards Giselle, with a polite smile plastered on her face that was generally reserved for generous donors and patrons of the ballet. It is all a show. That's all Giselle's mother ever did was put on a production. She was a performer after all, how could anyone expect her life to be anything but a crowd-pleasing performance?

"Your daughter?" Harry turns to look at Giselle, raising an eyebrow. His eyes narrow, as if he's caught Giselle in a lie. As if she'd snuck her way into this position and was just hoping that someone wouldn't notice she wasn't the real deal. "Why that makes this even more special."

Giselle fights every urge to roll her eyes from across the room. It is clear that Harry Styles is every bit as much of a performer as her mother. Just minutes before he was looking at her as if he had been paired with an amateur and suddenly working with her is 'something special'?

"I'm going to watch rehearsal for a bit," Natalia announces, making her way over to a stool next to the pianist. "Carry on." The pit in the bottom of Giselle's stomach grows as her mother takes a seat next to Gregory in front of the mirror.

"Odette makes sense to me now," Harry whispers into Giselle's ear, as he slides behind her to resume practice. It takes everything in her to keep her face stoic as Harry's hands settle once again on her waist.

Rehearsal goes badly. Giselle can't seem to get her leg into the attitude position that Gregory wants, she losing her balance on her penchés, and Harry almost drops her on several promenades. Giselle says almost, because someone as experienced as Harry Styles would never let his partner hit the ground, but she should have, because she surely wasn't holding her weight quite right. And then there's the fact that Gregory pronounced that Giselle "looks at Harry as if he is the villain of the story instead of the prince she's fallen in love with".

Giselle wants to say that's because he is the villain. The villain of her story anyways, the person that is somehow going to turn her dream role into somewhat of a nightmare. Why couldn't she be dancing with Viktor? He was so patient and kind and he would never look at his partner as if she deserved to be in the audience instead of on stage with him.

After yet another failed run through of the first half of the pas de deux, Gregory announces that they are done for the day, but that he expects to see them in the studio bright and early tomorrow morning to work on their timing. Giselle's never been so thankful for a rehearsal to be over, and as she sits down to remove her pointe shoes, running her hands over her swollen feet, she watches Harry leave the studio without saying a word.

"I hope you realize how big of an opportunity this is Giselle. It's not one you should take lightly," her mother's voice startles her, as Giselle had almost forgotten she was there. Almost.

Natalia stands above Giselle, one hand on her hips and the other on her forehead, as if watching today's rehearsal had been exhausting for her. It probably was exhausting for her, keeping tally of all the things that Giselle had done wrong for the past two hours. Natalia's voice is shrill as she speaks again. "There are thousands of ballerinas around the world that could only dream of getting to dance with Harry Styles. And here you are dancing with him in his first show with ABT. That's an enormous responsibility, darling. This performance with him will set the stage for his entire career with our company. One that the board is hoping will last until his retirement."

Giselle nods. That's all she can do when her mother begins one of her lectures- nod. She thought maybe this would be the time that her mother told her congratulations. The time that her mother did what she'd watched countless other mother's do during her time as a dancer, wrap their arms around their daughter and express their pride to them. But instead, today is like any other day, and even with a lead role in an ABT production, Giselle still hasn't done enough to make her mother proud.

Giselle shoves her shoes into her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she stands.

"And Giselle?" her mother adds, as she makes her way towards the door.

"Yes mom?"

"Might want to hit a few more cardio classes this week too, my dear. Got to make sure you are going to be an easy dancer to partner with."

And with that comment Natalia Korsakova clicks away, leaving Giselle standing in the middle of studio wondering if her biggest dream has suddenly become her biggest nightmare.

#it's here!#let me know your thoughts #writingby1dfangirls35 #harry styles #hs #harry au #ballet harry #harry styles fanfic #harry styles au #1dff #one direction fanfiction #harry fanfiction #enemies to lovers

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revelation19 · 3 years

Note

Table Talks is from 1941. He came to power in 1933. You’re just going to ignore everything he said about Martin Luther and his own personal history with Christianity? He ended up hating Christianity. Par for the course with people who end up leaving Christianity. It’s not surprising. Doesn’t mean he was never a Christian. You Evangelicals have this problem of assuming people who left Christianity were never really Christians.

His confessions in Mein Kampf don’t help your case either. He wrote it in 1925. You would have to argue that he knew he would rule Germany eight years later and that his autobiography was propaganda well before the fact. He was raised by a Catholic mom and baptized.

From Mein Kampf in ‘25 until his suicide in ‘45 his public position never changed. He never left the Catholic church. His public position on Christianity never changed, it was always positive. His private position also never changed, whenever he speaks about Christianity in private it is always negative.

Assuming Hitler was never a Christian and could never have been a Christian is perfectly reasonable since he himself said so. He said “I shall never come personally to terms with the Christian lie. In acting as I do, I'm very far from the wish to scandalize.” He says right there that he could never come to terms with Christianity, and that he lies about being a Christian in order not to create a scandal among his Christian followers. This is backed up by Hitler’s confidant Albert Speer when he said in his memoir...

“Around 1937, when Hitler heard that at the instigation of the party and the SS vast numbers of his followers had left the church because it was obstinately opposing his plans, he nevertheless ordered his chief associates, above all Goering and Goebbels, to remain members of the church. He too would remain a member of the Catholic Church he said, although he had no real attachment to it. And in fact he remained in the church until his suicide.”

Goebbles confirms this in his private diary in an entry from 1941 when he said “Hitler forbids me to leave the church. For tactical reasons.” Goebbles also wrote in his diary that “In early 1937 [Hitler] was declaring that 'Christianity was ripe for destruction', and that the Churches must yield to the 'primacy of the state', railing against any compromise with 'the most horrible institution imaginable'” In 1939 he wrote that Hitler knew he would "have to get around to a conflict between church and state" but that in the meantime "The best way to deal with the churches is to claim to be a 'positive Christian.'" He also noted in 1939 that Hitler “had expressed his revulsion against Christianity. He wished that the time were ripe for him to be able to openly express that. Christianity had corrupted and infected the entire world of antiquity.”

So according to Goebbels, He was lying about being a Christian for tactical propagandistic reasons. He wanted to turn against Christianity publicly but couldn’t because he didn’t think the time was right. So... yeah, the idea that he was a Christian was propaganda and people like you are still falling for it.

And yes, he was baptized as a Catholic and was even confirmed in 1904. His biographer, Jon Toland, pointed out that he was confirmed unwillingly and that his confirmation sponsor had to “drag the words out of him... almost as though the whole confirmation was repugnant to him.” There isn’t a single account of him having a positive thought about Christianity that isn’t from his own speeches or writings... ever.

And your only evidence to support your case is “but he said he was.” Yeah, have fun taking Hitler at his word.

#Anonymous

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potatocrab · 4 years

Text

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (13/18)

Chapter 13: An Abominable Man

At the Valentine Detective Agency, the group reconvenes to discuss MIT’s revelations to the public. With more questions than answers, it’s up to Piper to follow the trail while Nick continues the cold case investigation. After reliving a past trauma, Madelyn takes comfort in the distractions Deacon provides. Later, Nick and Madelyn follow a clue straight to the man they’ve been hunting for.

“He was an abominable man. Why do women marry abominable men?” - Charlotte Inwood as played by Marlene Dietrich (Stage Fright, 1950)

[read on Ao3] x [chapter masterpost]

May 16th, 1958

Man or Machine? –The Synthetic Truth Behind MIT

The newest copy Publick Occurrences was waiting on Ellie’s desk when Madelyn arrived at the agency early that Friday morning, the stack of newspapers fresh off the presses and ready for circulation. Piper certainly didn’t dawdle after attending the MIT demonstration—she knew how to strike when the iron was hot and get a story out in record time. But Piper was never one to procrastinate—if you gave her and inch, she’d run a mile. Madelyn was interested to see what kind of marathon the reporter would run this time.

“What do we really know about MIT?”

Piper’s question hung in the air of Nick’s office as she paced before his desk, arms crossed with a steely expression. The detective himself was still reading over that morning’s edition, already on his second smoke of the day—nobody dared to reprimand him for getting such an early start, not when he was still within his grieving period. Madelyn watched the newshound’s movements from her usual spot in the armchair to the left, wondering if Piper’s eyebrows furrowed any further they might mold together into one, brown, bushy line. She hid her amusement behind her hand, glancing back to where Deacon was leaning against the back wall, holding a relaxed smirk as he silently observed the room’s occupants from behind his tinted shades. Even though the chair next to her was empty, she knew he was more comfortable where he stood, still cautious about being invited back into the fray of agency life.

“You’re worried about…” Nick looked up from reading the Publick Occurrences article. “A robot?”

Piper balked in offence, abruptly stopping in her strides to face him. “Jesus, Nick, did you lose track of your reading comprehension skills or something?”

“Not a robot,” she corrected, waving her hands in dramatic fashion as Nick frowned at her intended insult. “An android. A synth. MIT have essentially built themselves an infiltration unit—”

“We don’t know that,” Nick interrupted with a grumble.

“They installed it with a distinct personality,” Piper explained, gesturing to the black and white photo of the mechanical man that had been presented the previous day. “The Doctor said it himself. Makes it so they are indistinguishable from you or I.”

Nick rubbed at his chin as he studied the snapshot before pulling away to stare at his prosthetic hand—built by the very scientists Piper was questioning. He clenched his fingers into a fist and sighed. “I’d like to think I’d be able to tell that thing from a human,” he muttered, extinguishing his cigarette. He refrained from igniting a third from his nearby pack. “Looks fairly metal to me.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Piper argued. She pivoted, gesturing towards Madelyn and Deacon. “You were there! You saw how it moved.”

“Yes,” Madelyn agreed with a short nod, though she had her own hesitations. Despite the suspicion raised at the demonstration, she wasn’t one to jump to conclusions without solid proof in hand. “Doctor Ayo suggested it would be years before the synth could actually look anything like a human.”

“Can we actually trust the scientists and researchers at MIT?” Piper countered.

This wasn’t her usual wild goose-chase or paranoia fueling her, but genuine fear and concern. A kind of worry that Madelyn hadn’t seen in her friend since they started investigating Eddie Winter’s rise as family crime boss and his rampant spree through Boston. But this wasn’t some mobster they were after, this was the Massachusetts Institute of Technology—a revered university that had always played a pivotal role in the city’s development of modern science. Without the Institute—as some affectionately called the college—Boston would still be in the dark ages. Like any industry giant, however, so much of what the Institute accomplished was shrouded in mystery. From their elusive board of directors, to their once-in-a-blue-moon presentations—it was any wonder Piper was suspicious.

“The way that doctor spoke,” Piper continued, a little calmer than before. “There’s the implication they’ve built more than one, and they’re just itching to put them to use. If they haven’t already.”

She picked up a spare copy of Publick Occurrences from Nick’s desk and stared at her own headline. “It bears repeating. What do we really know about the Institute?”

Silence settled within the room as the group contemplated what Piper said.

“She’s right.”

Madelyn peered over at Deacon, who barely moved from his spot against the wall. He offered a small shrug as he repeated his words. “She’s right,” he spoke, much to Piper’s surprise. “What do we know?”

“You’ve covered them before, right?” he asked, continuing his train of thought. “Something about the mayor’s campaign funds?”

The journalist raised a curious eyebrow in his direction. “Didn’t realize you were such an avid reader of my publication.”

“I like to stay informed,” Deacon replied, cheekily. “Freedom of the press, and all that.”

“They’ve shown up in Railroad reports as well,” Madelyn added, keeping the conversation on point. It certainly caught Piper and Nick’s attention. Deacon, however, seemed less than enthused about her sharing insider knowledge. But the information was out in the open now, ripe for dissection.

“Seems suspicious—promising,” Piper said with a curious smile. She glanced to Deacon. “For an undercover organization, can’t you find out more? Send one of your agents to snoop around the university for secrets? Sneak around yourself, Mr. Spy?”

“You make it sound so easy,” he responded with a smirk, though Madelyn could tell Piper’s tone was getting on his nerves. “Why don’t you go stalk the boogeyman, Miss Wright?”

“Maybe I will!”

“For once I’d like to have a civil conversation in my office,” Nick interrupted, already striking a new match to light another cigarette.

Madelyn could only imagine the amount of stress he was experiencing, and their presence wasn’t helping. She glanced at the others. “We might as well start from the beginning. What else do we know about the university? Media reports, rumors…anything?”

“There was an attack in 1955 at University Point,” Deacon recalled. “A fight broke out between some Mass Bay and MIT students over some supposedly stolen tech. One of the MIT kids lost control and beat a Mass Bay freshman to a bloody pulp.”

“I wrote about that too,” Piper remarked. “The student died. Didn’t think it was anything but a student brawl gone bad. Seen plenty of those covering the Fens district. What does that have to with what they’re doing now?”

“You’re the one who’s suggesting they’ve been using synths longer than they claim,” Deacon explained. “I’m just trying to offer evidence that supports your theory, is all.”

“That would mean…” Madelyn trailed, alarmed by the connotation. She furrowed her brows, unable to wrap her head around what was being suggested. She wasn’t about to trust what the Institute scientists had claimed at the demonstration—that they were years away from life-like synths— but she needed more proof than one incident that sounded more like a disagreement gone awry. “Is there anything else?”

“1949,” Nick spoke, gaining everyone’s interest. “I had just set up the agency here. Vadim told me about an Italian restaurant across the way from the stadium, praised their homemade pasta,” he leaned back in his chair, clearly reminiscing on nearly a decade’s old memory. “Before I could make a visit, the place was shut down. Turns out a professor, Mr. Carter, from MIT decided it was the perfect place to commit mass murder.”

“I remember that restaurant, but I’ve never heard about that!” Piper seemed genuinely shocked, especially as someone who had lived in the Boston area all her life. “What happened?”

“Seemed like any other patron at first, according to witnesses. Sat at the bar and told war stories, spoke about a big government grant his department had just been given. Then suddenly—” Nick snapped his fingers, his expression solemn as he explained. “Pulled out a revolver and started shooting. After an hour-long stand-off, Boston P.D. opened fire and put him down. When the dust settled, eight people were dead, including the professor.”

Madelyn pointed out what she hoped would be obvious. “If Mr. Carter were a synth, you’d think they’d be able to determine that after his death.”

“Assuming there wasn’t a cover-up,” Nick offered with a shake of his head. “The event itself was conveniently swept away in the news-cycles. Between the Red Scare in Hollywood and some ape dying in space—”

“Poor Albert,” Deacon quipped. Madelyn resisted the urge to laugh amidst their serious discussion and looked his way. He only smiled.

Nick cleared his throat, pulling their attention back. “As I was saying,” he tapped his fingers against the newspaper spread across his desk. “That’s two instances of MIT personnel losing themselves to madness. Piper, you’re the one who is worried about synths going unchecked. Malfunctioning and attacking without provocation. I’m all for throwing accusations against a reputable establishment when something smells rotten, but you need to be sure before going after something, or someone as big as the Institute.”

He was right, even as he inferred he believed Piper’s theories. Madelyn thought about what the group had discussed, and what she’d seen at the MIT conference the previous day. To think that the university had lied and had secretly placed realistic synths—indistinguishable from real humans—in the Boston populace. Worse yet, they had been doing so for years. Confusion settled in her mind—why? Why come forward now with the revelation of a new prototype if they’d been infiltrating the city all this time? It wouldn’t be the first time she dealt with a corruption scandal. What did the university have to gain from planting sleeper agents—synths—throughout Boston in the first place? She only ended up with more questions than answers.

Piper seemed to share a similar sentiment, a worrisome frown etched into her features. “I’ll hit the streets, connect with some sources,” she paused, giving Nick a cautious glance. “I know you still don’t trust him, but ol’ Danny Sullivan might be my best shot at getting any information from old police files,” she rolled her eyes when he groaned. “Or would you rather I break into precincts, for old time sakes?”

“Do what you will,” Nick sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Just leave us out of it for the time being,” he motioned towards Madelyn. “We’ve got enough on our hands with this cold case.”

Not that Piper needed his permission to follow her own leads for a story, but it was nice to have the support of a friend—the three had been working together for a few years now, and despite her reputation, she wasn’t one to run off and go rogue. Especially when it could put herself, or others, in danger. Considering they’d just come off from putting an end to Eddie Winter and his wide-spread corruption, she needed to tread lightly—well, as lightly as Piper was capable of. With a shrug, she moved to occupy the opposite armchair, sinking back into the cushions.

“Do you think any of this is connected to the Shaun Perlman case at all?” Madelyn decided to ask, gauging Nick’s reaction.

“I’d rather not cross that bridge right now,” he mumbled, dragging his palm across his face in exasperation. He shot a warning glance to Piper before she could get started. “Better we focus on the best lead we have—the kidnapper, and the fact he very well may be the same man who killed Madelyn’s husband.”

It felt like the air was sucked out of the room as she sensed all eyes focus on where she was sitting. She hadn’t expected Nick to be so upfront about sharing the information, but they were amongst trusted colleagues—anyone else and she likely would’ve had a more hostile reaction. That being said, she hadn’t divulged any case details to Deacon, and she his subtle reaction to the news didn’t go unnoticed out of the corner of her eye. Her secrecy wasn’t to be deceptive, but rather to protect her emotions. Madelyn was still struggling with the reality of the situation, and it took all the mental fortitude she had left to focus on helping to solve the case.

“What are you talking about?” Piper asked, looking between her and Nick.

“Preston, our witness from Concord. His description of the kidnapper…” he trailed.

“That wasn’t all,” Madelyn reluctantly added. “The way the wife, Nora…the way she described the kidnapping. It was all too familiar,” she swallowed down the nervous flutter rising in her throat and steadied her breathing the best she could. “From being ambushed in a public setting, to the way he made them—us—beg for our lives.”

“You don’t have to—” Nick tried to interrupt but she hushed him with one steely look.

“He was wearing a military fatigue and a leather jacket. His head was shaved, and there was a long scar that crossed over his left eye—just as Preston described,” Madelyn continued. “His gun wasn’t military issue, that much I know. Had to be modified, on account of the—” she broke off as the tears prickled her vision. Deacon shifted from his spot against the back wall, but she shook her head, silently rooting him to the spot.

“The coroner pulled a .44 hollow point from Nate’s chest,” she stated, biting back the overwhelming desire to cry. She lowered her gaze, focusing on the wedding ring she’d moved to her right hand. “Same kind they pulled from…” she found herself unable to say the husband’s name.

Nick took note of her struggle and interjected. “Mr. Perlman’s arm.”

Piper loudly clapped her hands together, causing Madelyn to flinch at the sound. She didn’t pause to apologize before she was bent forward and speeding through another tangent. “That weapon! A .44 caliber with hollow point bullets? I’ve read about several unsolved murders up and down the Eastern coastline with that modus operandi.”

“We can’t say that every shooting with a magnum was him, can we?” Madelyn asked, focusing her attention on Nick. He was smoking again, but she’d lost track of what number he was on.

“No,” he mumbled, the cigarette bobbing between his lips as he maneuvered the paperwork strewn about his desk, pulling out a tattered notebook. She wasn’t sure what he was looking at when he started reading. “1950—robbery outside the Boylston Club. Two injured, one dead, with—wouldn’t you know—a .44 hollow point bullet to the head.”

Madelyn grimaced, trying not to imagine what that would’ve looked like for the victim—perhaps Nate had it easier, even if he had a slow, and painful death.

“There was a suspect,” Nick read on, flipping though an old casefile. “Released on a technicality, but we all know by now that is code for corruption. Disappeared after that. No trace.”

“How much do you want to bet it’s our guy?” Piper asked to nobody in particular.

“Five bucks says it was Kellogg!”

Everybody in the room turned towards the new presence in the doorway—MacCready, who stared back with equal surprise. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop or nothin’ but…” he jutted his thumb over his shoulder towards the lobby. “That blonde chick wasn’t around to shoo me away, so I thought I’d—”

“Who the hell is Kellogg?” Nick stopped him from rambling.

“Oh, yeah. Right,” MacCready stepped into the office and shrugged. “Way you described him and that gun, only one person I know that fits the bill,” he said. “Conrad Kellogg.”

“Who is he?” Piper asked this time, turning in her seat so she could look at the former mercenary properly.

“Used to run with the Gunners, still might for all I know, but was high up in the ranks way before I came to Boston,” MacCready explained, leaning over the back of the armchair where Piper sat. “Rumor has it he killed some gang leader out in California before heading East. Never met him, but he’s got one hell of a reputation. Can’t believe that fu—” he hesitated, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Guy is still alive.”

“We don’t know that,” Nick said for the second time that morning. “Hasn’t been any reports of similar cases since—”

“Since Nate,” Madelyn finished, gulping down the ache that had formed in her chest.

“At least now you have a name,” Piper remarked, but it was hardly any consolation. “A lead. Better than nothing.”

“Sure, sure,” Nick agreed, though he didn’t lift his gaze from Madelyn, the two sharing a silent exchange. “MacCready, you know anybody in Quincy who’d be willing to talk?”

Their mercenary-turned-informant looked stunned, jolting upright as he anxiously rubbed at his neck. Getting dragged into another investigation was probably not why he had chosen to visit the agency that morning. Whatever the reason, it would have to wait. “Well, sure,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, I guess.”

Nick pushed back his chair to stand, moving towards the nearby coatrack to tug on his patched trench-coat and fedora. He pointed to the younger man. “Alright. You’re with me.”

When the detective noticed the confusion on Madelyn’s face, his expression settled. “I’m officially assigning you R&R.”

She couldn’t help but smile a little. “You don’t have the authority to assign me.”

Nick rolled his eyes, mumbling something about how stubborn women would be the death of him before nodding towards Deacon. Her Railroad partner understood the gesture and moved away from his spot to stand next to her. She didn’t need watching over, or protection, but she’d gladly take a reprieve if it meant spending time with him. Madelyn glanced up to find him with a tiny smile of his own, and he reached out to give her shoulder a comforting squeeze before retreating his hand back to his side before anyone could notice.

“Piper,” Nick gave the reporter a pointed stare before exhaling as he shook his head. “Whatever you do, just—be careful.”

She stood, playfully mocking him with a salute. “Aye, aye, detective.”

“You lied.”

“Of course I lied,” Deacon responded without missing a beat. “Which lie are we talking about?”

Madelyn softly laughed from her spot across the circular dining table, watching as he poured her another glass of wine. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out to dinner—to an actual restaurant that wasn’t a 24-hour café—and was suddenly grateful for Nick’s subtle push. On Deacon’s suggestion they traveled uptown and found themselves a hidden gem of an Italian bistro in the process. More than one macabre joke about running into an Institute spy was made, wondering if Nick’s earlier mention of pasta had indoctrinated them, if only a little.

“When Piper asked about sending an undercover Railroad agent to MIT,” she clarified, bringing her refilled glass to her lips. “You lied.”

A sideways smirk. “I didn’t lie, I just omitted the truth.”

Madelyn chuckled, nearly choking on her drink. “That’s—that’s the same thing!”

“Hardly,” he countered with a wave of his hand. “Do you honestly think I’d talk about Railroad business in front of Piper?” It was a rhetorical question, followed up with words Madelyn had heard him speak time and time again, “you can’t trust everyone.”

She sighed, and couldn’t help it as her demeanor fell, ever so slightly. “Even me?”

Deacon’s expression was hard to read—it always was when he shielded his eyes with those sunglasses—but she figured he was studying her carefully. After all the emotional breakthroughs they’d shared, she didn’t want to think for a second he didn’t trust her—not when he was one of the very few she found faith in. She wondered if it had anything to do with her holding back information on the Shaun Perlman case, and even more doubt filled her mind. Before he could say anything, she had to speak—

“Sorry,” she set her wine glass down and fidgeted with the linen tablecloth. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about what Nick and I discovered while investigating. I should’ve said something sooner and—”

“Charmer,” Deacon stopped her short, reaching over the small table to cover her hand with his own, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “That doesn’t bother me. If it wasn’t you, I would’ve snooped around and found out already. But that’s not my place in this partnership, not anymore. I trust you to tell me whatever’s important, on your own terms.”

Trust—there it was.

Madelyn gradually allowed the smile to return and flicked her gaze across his face. “Does that mean I’m allowed to have secrets?”

“A few,” he caught on to her tease. “You still haven’t told me who really taught you how to pick locks.”

Her chest tightened as she thought about her departed husband, simultaneously reminiscing about her and Deacon’s first jaunt together through the underground Switchboard tunnels. Her fingers twitched beneath his grasp. “Who says anybody taught me?” she joked, recovering as best she could.

He nodded, flashing that secret smile that told her he knew she was bluffing—but he was never one to rat her out. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, slowly withdrawing his hand from hers.

“Dez is the only one that knows,” he started. “We’ve had an inside man—hell, it might be a woman—nobody has met with the agent face to face,” Deacon’s lips skewed to the side in thought. “They aren’t an official Railroad operative. But they’re the ones that started feeding us information while we were still operating at the Switchboard.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Madelyn asked, trying not to sound accusatory.

“Back then, Dez and I weren’t sure of what we were dealing with,” he explained. “It was all coded. Most of it still is. We only knew the source was coming from what we believed to be an ally, working on the inside.”

“How can you be so sure?” She was rightfully skeptical. “You never found out who was responsible for attacking the Switchboard.”

“Fair point,” Deacon replied with a shrug. “We never stopped receiving correspondence either. Even after moving to the church. Dead drops with encrypted MIT data from Doctor Rendezvous themselves.”

She tried not to laugh. “Is that what you call them? Of all the codenames…”

“No,” he shook his head. “Dez and I call them Patriot.”

At least that explained all the reports Tinker Tom and Glory had been sifting through for the last several weeks. She wondered if any of it would prove fruitful, and if something of value would materialize sooner rather than later. You can’t trust everyone—and yet, the Railroad leaders seemed to be playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse with an unknown. She hoped they knew what they were doing.

“Enough work chat,” Deacon mused, plucking the napkin from his lap and placing it across the table. “What would you say to some blueberry pie?”

Madelyn grinned, pulled from her doom and gloom thoughts. “Yes.”

-x-

It was a short, hand-in-hand stroll through the uptown district to the Olympia Theatre, where she fixated on the matinee signs advertising Gigi—she hadn’t seen a film in years. If it wasn’t a late night rerun on CBS, she was completely out of the loop on modern day culture. She’d seen Leslie Caron in An American in Paris—a movie date with Nate so many years ago—seeing her picturesque face on the advertisement now brought back bittersweet memories.

“Pie and dancing tonight,” Deacon’s voice was suddenly in her ear as he leaned close. “Lerner and Loewe tomorrow.”

The promise alone caused excitement to bloom in her heart, even if a trickle of guilt remained. He gently tugged on her hand, and she followed him down the cobblestone alleyway to the familiar red door and golden placard, leaving the theatre behind.

The Memory Den was expectedly crowded for a Friday evening, but as soon as Irma caught sight of the two, she quickly ushered them to a private corner of the bar. Madelyn recognized it as Deacon’s corner—if he had such a claim to the place. Given Irma was an unspoken Railroad informant, Madelyn was sure he could very well have run of the place—especially now that Eddie Winter was out of the picture. It was hardly quiet were they perched themselves on two barstools as the house band played an upbeat song, but Irma’s cheery voice was loud as ever.

“We have a live singer tonight,” she boasted, standing between them with her hands on her hips.

Madelyn chuckled as she glanced towards the stage. “As long as it isn’t Bobby Darin.”

“Oh—” Irma faltered, unsure of her joke. “Uh, no. You’ll see! They came all the way from New York!” she beamed. “Now, I’ve seen the way you two can move, so why are you sittin’ around?”

Deacon arched an eyebrow and leaned against the bar-top. “We can’t dance on an empty stomach.”

Ironic, considering their stomachs were full of pasta, bread and wine. Madelyn only smiled at Irma when she glanced between them with curiosity. The other woman sighed before moving around the bar, walking down to the far end of the counter where a glass display showcased a variety of deserts. After a few minutes, she returned with a plate and two forks.

“Lucky you,” Irma remarked. “Last slice of the night.”

Deacon deferred to Madelyn, allowing her the first bite—it was just as delicious as she remembered, when he brought her an entire blueberry pie from Irma on Valentine’s Day. She held her palm beneath her chin on the second bite, trying not to disperse crumbs or berries all over her satin dress. She didn’t realize Deacon was watching her movements until she went for a third forkful, noticing he hadn’t taken his first. Very suddenly, a blush crept up her cheeks and he smirked.

Irma baked away with a bright grin. “You’re welcome!”

Deacon finally took a bite, followed up with a second so they were even. They sat and ate in silence, smiling and laughing at each other over nothing and everything as the atmosphere around them intensified. Madelyn blamed it on being tipsy from her dinner wine, but a lingering thought in the back of her mind echoed it was more than that. It was always more with Deacon.

“You said there’d be dancing,” Madelyn noted, eying the crowd of dancers when their desert was finished. The singer Irma mentioned had taken the stage and had already played through a melody of fast-paced swing ensembles to warm up the audience and the band.

He nodded, taking her hand in his as he slid off the barstool to stand. As soon as they navigated through the throng of people, the lights dimmed into a bluish-purple hue, and the band’s music slowed. It didn’t deter them—they’d slow danced before, but that was undercover and what felt like a lifetime ago. This was something entirely different. Deacon’s arms encircled her waist, one hand on her lower back and the other planted firmly between her shoulders. Madelyn loosely wrapped her arms around his neck, leaned back far enough so she could study his face in the dark lighting.

“Last time we were here, you tried to slice my throat in the hallway,” he smiled at the memory, and so did she. Thinking back, it was any wonder he hadn’t turned the tables and pinned her to the wall—he certainly possessed the strength to do so. Madelyn didn’t let the thought get carried away in her mind, as much as it thrilled her.

“You weren’t so keen on dancing with me,” he remarked, tilting his head to the side.

“But I did,” she countered, inching herself closer. “You were a stranger. I should’ve known better, but I still danced with you.”

Deacon shrugged. “I still might be a stranger, you never know.”

“Bullshit.”

“Adorable,” he retorted, right on cue. “You still want to dance with me, after everything you know?”

Madelyn suddenly wondered if they were speaking in code—Deacon wasn’t really talking about dancing, was he? She desperately wished she could see beyond the tinted shades he was wearing, knowing if she caught a glimpse of those baby blues, she’d have her answer within a heartbeat. Regardless of the inuendo, she knew what to say.

“Why not?” she offered in a soft voice. “You make one hell of a partner.”

He smiled. “You’re not so bad yourself, Charmer.”

As the song continued, she steadily drew herself closer until she was resting her head against his shoulder, swaying slowly in his arm as the soothing beat echoed around them.

“You’ll see me home tonight?” she asked, closing her eyes to the world around her. She felt his lips brush against her temple near her ear as he whispered so only she could hear.

“Yes.”

-x-

Madelyn had never traversed the stairwell of her apartment so slowly. With Deacon at her side, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to reach the seventh floor, knowing that when they reached her door he would have to depart. That wasn’t necessarily true, but after the evening’s events, she wasn’t entirely sure if inviting him in for their usual nightcap would constitute crossing some kind of unspoken line. But what had started as a distraction had turned into what felt like a date. She was faced with an increasing dilemma with every step, one she’d been suppressing for weeks.

Their relationship—whatever it was—wasn’t a topic of discussion. Even after so many near misses, and what might as well have been a confession in a church—of all places—Madelyn couldn’t pinpoint where they stood. Partners? Friends? Something more? Or something in-between? Mitigating circumstances forced them to pump the brakes before discovering if what they had was meant to be. But now, Madelyn was tired of waiting, tired of hiding her emotions to the world. All she wanted to do was drive off the cliff with a lead foot and find out.

“Charmer,” he said her name—her codename—in that sly way of his as he leaned against the doorway outside her apartment, glancing up at the shiny lettering D. Madelyn took it as some kind of sign. “Here we are.”

She nodded but didn’t move to rummage through her purse for her keys. “Here we are,” she repeated. Her eyes danced across the hall. “Do you think Drummer Boy is listening to us right now?”

“Without a doubt,” he responded with a soft laugh. “He needs all the gossip he can get.”

There was somebody else that was listening too, judging by the robotic voice that echoed out from beyond her door. “Miss Madelyn, is that you? Oh, it’s such a late hour!”

She groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead in a vain attempt to hide her embarrassment. What was worse than having a Mister Handy that acted like her parental guardian, reprimanding her if she came home past midnight?

“Your metal hubby is calling for you,” Deacon joked. His next action surprised her as he reached up to remove his sunglasses, tucking them away in his coat pocket. Even in the faint lighting of her hallway, his eyes gleamed with a certain kind of magic. “Shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

“Let him wait,” she hushed.

It was the cue she needed, taking a hesitant step forward, closer to where he was. She reached out, one hand gripping the fabric of his tie while the other sought out the side of his face, tugging gently to bring him closer. Madelyn thought about all the times she’d wanted to kiss him but didn’t, all the times they’d almost kissed but hadn’t, every time he had slipped through her fingertips. Standing there, in front of her apartment door, it seemed to mirror previous occasions—they were so close, Deacon’s breath ghosting over her mouth as their hooded eyes locked under the intensity. She hesitated, waiting for the other foot to drop, for some kind of interruption—except, it never came. Instead, his hand at her waist tugged her just close enough as he tilted his chin and—bliss—as their lips softly met.

For a long moment, the kiss was nothing but chaste, sweet. But there was a certain kind of desperation behind the contact—understandable considering how long it had been for her since her last kiss. She wasn’t sure how long it had been for him, but if she believed what he’d said about his wife—which she did—it had to be a significant time. Madelyn increased the pressure first, Deacon taking the cue to slide his tongue past her lips. His fingers gripped her side as they continued, the two content with the measured pace being set. Even though they both had done their fair share of waiting—there was no need to rush.

With a soft breath, she reluctantly pulled away, a delightful heat encompassing her entire body. She relished in being able to witness the sparkle of Deacon’s eyes, his blown pupils as they darted across her face and body before snapping back up to meet her gaze.

“Shouldn’t keep him waiting,” he repeated, voice raspy. As far as goodbyes and goodnights went, it was fitting for the Railroad spy. He smirked, replacing his sunglasses where they belonged before slowly backing away towards the stairwell. “Charmer.”

Madelyn didn’t enter her apartment until she was sure Deacon had descended at least a few flights of stairs, leaning against the door as she closed it behind her. Her heart was racing, the speed of which made it feel like it was lodged in her throat. She raised her fingers to trace over her lips where his mouth had just been and felt a warmth she had been chasing for months—years—a sprinkle of goosebumps appeared across her skin. She felt foolish, like a schoolgirl with a crush all over again—except, this was much more than a crush. She felt a rush. She felt alive. She felt—

“Mum?” Codsworth’s voice made her realize he’d been hovering in front of her frozen state, robotic eyes zooming in on her body with curiosity. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she answered, without hesitation. “Never better.”

May 18th, 1958

“You’re smiling.”

Madelyn tried her best to suppress the grin she knew was pulling at her lips but failed. “Am I?”

She glanced over to Nick as they walked, noting that for some inexplicable reason he was in a better mood than usual. It likely had something to do with their case, and how after a decade of little to no progress, things had heated up in a matter of days. After leaving her alone for most of the weekend, he’d finally called her early that Sunday morning with an update from his own investigating. He had a lead promising enough that it demanded swift action, though Madelyn was glad to be back on the streets and investigating with the detective—just like old times.

“Yeah,” he nodded, raising a quizzical brow in her direction. “Something I should know?”

Madelyn played coy, moving closer to link her arm in his as they continued their stroll down the Fenway district sidewalks. She patted his coat affectionately. “Mr. Valentine, don’t you know a lady shouldn’t kiss and tell?”

The surprise in his expression was short-lived as he caught on to her insinuation, and after a small stretch of silence, a low smirk settled on his face. “It’s a good look, doll.”

“Where are we headed?” Madelyn asked before he could start a line of questioning—not that she expected it, but she wanted to avoid any unnecessary pestering. “You never told me how your little date in Quincy faired.”

“I’ll tell you about my date when you tell me about yours,” he countered, with expert precision. Instead of taking offense, Madelyn laughed. They hadn’t bantered in so long and it felt refreshing. “MacCready can be a hard-ass, when you need him to be.”

“Good cop, bad cop?”

“Detectives,” Nick corrected. If there was one thing he hated, it was being mistaken for any member of the Boston police force—even if the two had snuffed out Eddie Winter’s corruption. It was one of the reasons they were heading this investigation on their own, and without assistance from the inside. As far as they knew, the only people worth trusting were themselves. “We got what we needed. Last known address for a one Conrad Kellogg.”

The pair continued walking past the large green walls of the Fenway stadium until they reached they grouping of apartments situated on the western side of the district. Almost immediately, the memory of when they’d last visited the Parkview Apartments came flooding back and she stared up at the tall buildings.

“Earl Sterling,” she muttered under her breath before looking to Nick. “Is it coincidence that Boston serial killers like to congregate in one area?”

“Cheap place to live, in a nondescript area of the city,” Nick frowned. “Hiding in plain sight. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe they don’t realize they all eventually follow the same patterns eventually.”

The two didn’t delay for much longer in the courtyard, entering the building and ascending the stairs after finding initials C.K. on one of the lobby’s mailboxes. On the fourth floor, they made their way towards a faded green door, Nick double checking the number scrawled on a lose piece of paper before shoving it back into his pocket.

“This is the place,” he assured.

“Looking for someone?”

Nick and Madelyn turned to find not exactly who they expected—a well dressed man in a tan colored suit, a freshly picked flower pinned to his lapel. He regarded them with a polite smile, but there was something unsettling about the way he stared ahead that had Madelyn’s skin crawling. Be it the location they were in, or the assumption of the people who lived there, she didn’t want to make any sudden movements.

“Do you know anything about the person who lives here?” Madelyn asked.

The suited man shook his head. “Lived. Haven’t seen his handsome face in quite a while.”

“Did he die?” she continued her line of questioning, careful not to reveal too much about the circumstances of why they were there. “We’re…old college classmates of his. In town and thought to surprise him.”

“Oh, I do love surprises,” the man replied with the same, measured smile as before. “He isn’t dead. Just gone. Just like that child that came to visit every now and again. What an adorable young man.”

“A child?” Nick questioned, on high alert.

“Around ten years old, I should say,” the man answered, raising his hand to gesture height. “Hm. But what do I know? He always did say I was…too nosy.”

“Thank you,” Madelyn hesitantly nodded. “For letting us know.”

He made to move past them down the hallway in the opposite direction but stopped at the last moment. “The next time you’re in the neighborhood, please, stop by my gallery,” his recommendation came in a soft, eerie tone. “I have a feeling you’d be an admirer.”

Madelyn’s grip on Nick’s arm didn’t loosen until the mystery man was out of sight and even he didn’t seem to relax until all was quiet around them.

“Jesus,” he muttered, swiftly turning towards the apartment door and shuffling through his coat pockets, pulling out a lockpick. He made quick work of the deadbolt, catching the doorknob in his hand so it wouldn’t swing open. “Come on.”

Nick took the lead, his gun unholstered and at his side as he took measured steps through the small space. Madelyn followed, closing the door behind her and securing the lock—the last thing they needed was a visitor while they were sneaking around. The apartment itself was sparse, barely filled with any furniture or proof that anyone had lived there before or had been there recently. As she loitered near the kitchen nook, glancing over a pile of forgotten comic books and a case of cigars, she heard Nick call from the back bedroom.

“All clear!” he announced. “What do you make of this?”

The bedroom was just as empty as the entranceway, a double bed and desk occupying the space. Madelyn found Nick studying a pile of documents, shifting them about with a mix of confusion and concern. She plucked a dusty file from the stack and was alarmed to see a familiar set of emblems and insignia.

“These are military documents,” she confirmed what he already knew, being a former airman himself. “What are they doing here?”

Nick shook his head, unsure. “Kellogg was described as a military man in suspect reports. What if that description is accurate and he really is an enlisted officer?”

“A killer in the ranks?” Madelyn didn’t want to believe it.

Nick didn’t respond, his eyes shifting rapidly as he read over more and more of the scattered reports, even if they were mostly redacted. Madelyn couldn’t make heads or tails of them—she never could, even when she would try to sneak a peak at the files Nate would bring home. Whatever Kellogg was researching, it involved a scientific endeavor—backed by the government and heavily funded—that required top level security clearance.

“There’s only one military base in town that would be responsible for such a project,” Nick explained. Madelyn knew. The only question would be how to get inside.

He tapped the document. “Fort Hagen.”

#fallout 4 #noir au #deacon x f!solesurvivor #madelyn hardy #deacon #nick valentine #piper wright #robert joseph maccready #and other spoiler characters...#more easter eggs than your body can handle!#something happens in the chapter that you've all been waiting for #👀👀👀

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threeminutesoflife · 5 years

Text

Flaying a(n Albert) Fish

Pairings: Clint x Dark!Reader x Steve Summary: Reader extracts revenge against a monster. Warnings: 18+, dark reader, blood/gore, serial killer similar to Albert Fish- mentions of sexual assault and death against children- no description, home invasion, kidnapping, cannibalism, body parts, murder Word Count: 4.5k

Halloween Challenge- Are You Afraid of the Dark @barnesrogersvstheworld Thank you for hosting! Hope you have a fantastically Haunted and Happy Halloween!

prompt: #20 monster

“I would say sorry for not having smaller hands, since that’s what you prefer... and this’ll be the last time you feel anything warm on it...” you snarled at him coldly, “but we both know I’m not.”

Taking a step away from him, you twirled the hammer in your hand.

“Don’t forget to scream- just like they did. Because this is going to hurt,” you reeled the weapon back behind your head. “So. Very. Much.”

Deafening screams filled the house as you connected again and again, bludgeoning his depravity.

Bursts of air flared from your nostrils, while you tried to collect yourself and settle your breathing.

Blood dribbled down the end of the hammer adding to the growing puddle of inside-out remains between you both. Adrenaline slowed and your knuckles cracked as you jerkily loosened the grip on the hammer.

Tossing the weapon to the side, you eyed the new bastardized art piece. Blood spilled out, a waterfall between his legs. Tormented whimpers, broken sobs and dying struggles for breath; all his suffering brought a sense of warm achievement in your chest.

The police scanner bounced off your old Tower bedroom walls again.

You knew FRIDAY could simply stream the chatter, but there was something nostalgic about pushing buttons and twirling knobs.

You’ve listened to scans and phone calls, examined emails and files, plotted an idea of homegrown justice, and researched possible suspects. It was a haunting police case taking up your attention in between the missions. Maps and photos hugged your wall with notes crisscrossing over other various notes.

FRIDAY recorded the scans and police emails when you were away. Ever vigilant to highlight any details or new findings from the police mainframe about the intruder, who was preying on families with young children.

Which is where you read that the gags he placed between the children’s teeth- were all torn from what they determined to be one main source, a blanket. A dark line of all the better to hush them with came to your mind.

According to the notes, the gags' frayed ends matched each other when lined up. FRIDAY displayed the crime photos that showcased how the arrangement made an old, faded cartoon character emerge. Police thought the sexual intruder, dubbed the boogeyman, was ripping up his own childhood blanket to use in his assaults. One detective scribbled a possibility that the intruder's gags meant he was sentimental- and this was a way to intimately share himself and be closer to the victims.

You hoped the sentimental criminal slipped up on a small detail, perhaps overlooking the copyright year by the licensed character design. A small something to help narrow down his age, but unfortunately no. The print design was too timelessly popular and none of the victims left living could describe him.

And with no leads, the crimes continued. The boogeyman kept breaking into homes in the middle of the night to preform heinous acts. He threatened to kill the parents and siblings of the terrified children to keep them quiet and pliable.

Families were terrified for their children, scared their homes would be next. If victimizing the children out of their innocence wasn't monstrous enough, he'd hog tie them with duct tape and hide them away in their closets or stuff them into toy chests. Then he'd ransack the homes, randomly pocketing worthless items before leaving.

It was a grim thought you always had when reviewing the crime photos, it was like the children were his play things and he was simply plucking them off the floor, clearing them away when he was done with them. This monster needed to be stopped before he broke more toys and threw them away completely.

But it was always the same- until it wasn't.

Michael Robertson's small body recovered from river.

Steve was well-aware how this case was taking over your attention. From the smaller missions you traded or tried to give away to other teammates- to the many nights you kept the middle of his and Clint's bed empty.

Both men clearly remembered the cold shoulder you served them when Steve sent you out on a two week mission, pulling rank and ordering you to comply. Clint sided with him believing a break away from the case would help. As begrudgingly as you felt at the time, it did help to be away from the white noise of the scanners. Until FRIDAY sent you an urgent message- another child victimized a few days into the mission, this one resulting in death. His body found a day before you got back.

Breaking News: CHILD TAKEN, BODY FOUND.

Michael Robertson, age 6, kidnapped from home while parents slept. Killer removed boy's pajamas and laid them out on child's bed for parents to find next morning.

You knew you were losing yourself more and more in this police case, but with the hysteria emerging on the streets now that the boogeyman claimed another victim, one resulting in death, you expected additional branches of law force to step in soon. And you didn't want to deal with another player on the field.

You wanted this guy. He gave you something to sharpen your attention on and the want grew in you to strike him down. It was a tumor-like revenge. The team noticed you pulled away from evening dinners and movie nights. They began murmuring their concerns among each other and then to Steve and Clint.

While looking over more crime scene photos about the Robertson case, FRIDAY announced Wanda would be making cottage pie for dinner tonight. Glancing at your watch, 3pm, you mindlessly mumbled a 'no thank you' and then froze. Slapping the desk, you knocked an empty cup over onto mission reports you've been avoiding to fill out much to Steve's annoyance.

“FRIDAY, please bring up the old police notes about cottage- about home repairs or work crews. Wait, how far back did the police look?”

“The officers went back three years, Miss. No common links appeared.”

You scanned over the photos of children and their similar ages of 6 and 7. Would he have waited for more than three years to attack? He would have known the homes' layouts, he broke in so easily to each child's bedroom. If he did wait, for how long? Why wait so long?

Your gut was rarely wrong, and the home repair angle felt like something solid, “FRIDAY, please run all the family's credit cards and bank accounts to see if there were any repair companies or purchases done within the last five years.”

Looking at the youngest victims' age, Gabrielle Reyes with her toothy smile just turned 6, “If nothing, please try six.”

An electronic chorus poured in your room as computer alerts went off, reports fired across the screen.

A description and photo of self-employed contractor photo, Randall Williams, looked back at you.

FRIDAY ran off the newly found information. The victims' families hired his company in the past four to five years. Rachel Collins' home was his last before heading out of state. He was recently released five months ago from an out of state prison for a buffet of reasons, one being incident exposure.

“Miss, I took the liberty to run his payment history. He's been paying for a storage unit over the last eight years under a different name and P.O. Box number.”

You scoffed with a mix of thankfulness for Williams' laziness of leaving a trail and a curse that the repair history was not run back further in the beginning.

“Send me the address for the storage unit and his current address please, FRIDAY. And don't forget you're beautiful!”

Snatching your leather jacket and utility bag, you ran past Steve and Clint, who were folded against one another on the couch.

“I'll be back tomorrow. Don't wait up, my loves!” You called out to them over the action movie.

Clint and Steve stared at your figure fading quickly out the door, both pairs of eyes zeroing in on your large utility bag. They turned back towards each other and exchanged a knowing look. Steve dragged his hand over his face with a heavy sigh.

Unfolding himself from Steve, Clint kissed his cheek and patted his thigh, “I'm on it.”

Picking up his keys and jacket, Clint paused and took in Steve's concerned expression. “Hey, don't worry.”

Steve only sighed again as a reply and let his head hit the back of the couch. The sound of the door locking behind Clint drowned out the explosions on screen.

—

A fresh tank of gas, a new box of protein bars and a couple bottles of water later, you pulled into the storage facility. Stretching your limbs from the two hour drive, you took in the old property. It was run down with no foot traffic or desk clerk. The only camera you could see around the buildings was pointed at the office door, lens broken.

After grabbing your leather gloves and pulling the crowbar from the trunk, you went to work on the unit's lock.

Randall Williams reminded you of New York's grandfather serial killer, Albert Fish. Breaking into the storage container and shifting through his boxes, the incriminating photos he had of known and unknown victims were simply too hard to look at.

This man, this thing, was something that needed to be put down. The police were right in calling him a boogeyman. But they didn't know the accuracy of the nickname especially since it was once bestowed to Albert Fish himself.

You hoped Williams wasn't a cannibal, yet.

The young faces looked out at you from the photographs, some with tears and others with defiance. There so many, so many unrecognizable faces. You could feel the acid burn starting to rise in your chest. For a second, you wanted to talk yourself into believing these newly discovered victims were fake snuff photos he collected along the way, but you knew better and you saw the gags. Some with the same design used on the recorded victims. This was the man you’ve been looking for, and this man was a monster.

Eyes watered and the taste of bile rose in the back of your throat. With a shaky hand, you read a recipe of brown butter and sautéed onions with human flesh. A list of spices and measurements. Your memory flashed to the little Robertson boy with questionable wound and knife markings.

Flipping through the journal you read Williams’ comments next to the favored recipes and the preferred cooking techniques.

How long has this been going on? Your eyes darted to the stacks of photos with mystery faces.

There was a strange recipe of your own growing within you; ingredients of anger, sadness, disgust, revenge.

Laying the photos out on the cement floor, you surveyed the expanding collection of tragedy. You shuffled your feet across the ground and paused before each photo. 4x6, 5x7 and 8x10’s created a paper train of frozen mementos from each child’s nightmare. On the shelf, another box of negatives caught your eye.

Monster.

Your body felt heavier with each photo; guilt and sorrow for not stopping these events from happening, even if you never knew some occurred until now. You sent out an apology and prayer in your mind for them all.

“I’m fine. Be back in a few days. Love you, see you.” You quickly sent the text to Steve and Clint. Leaving you the grim photos on the ground, you pulled the storage door closed behind you. Pointing your car west, you drove off to deliver revenge and extract other things.

Randall Williams lived outside of a small town on a neighbor-less dirt road. Parking your car a safe distance away, you quietly made your way to his neglected looking home.

The house was quiet, dark and smelled sour. The sliding door was unlocked. Flipping the safety off your gun, you slowly slid it open. Suppose monsters don't have a lot to worry about.

Closing it behind you, you immediately covered your nose with back of your hand and tried to save your sense of smell from the pungent stench. The kitchen reeked of moldy food and ignored trash. You would have thought the home was abandoned, except the mail on the counter was stamped with this week's date.

Walking around, a calendar caught your attention. Next week's dates were circled and marked, Growing Dreams Day Care- install shelving. Biting your cheek, you tried to bury down the rage.

Creeping quietly in what you assumed to be the direction of the bedroom, you gingerly opened the door with your fingertips, gun ready in your other hand. Bathroom.

Squaring your shoulders, you made your way further down the hall. The second door held the right answer. There laying on his stomach, snoring in a pair of dirty briefs was the small statured, unaware boogeyman.

Three quick fast steps into the room, you came up to the bed and kicked the mattress. “Hey! Devil's Reject!”

Randall's eyes shot open and he flipped himself over to sit up.

CRACK!

You slammed the butt of your gun on his jaw. “Hurts, don't it?”

He let out an unearthly growl and groggily scrambled up, attempting to right himself to lunge at you. Bringing your boot up and kicking him back in his sternum, his head slammed against the wall and cracked the stained plaster.

“Nighty-night, fucker,” you smashed your gun against his face again.

Grabbing his legs, you pulled his unconscious, dirty body down the hallway. Dragging him through the kitchen, you were about to set him up at the kitchen table when you saw another door.

The door creaked open and basement steps greeted you, “Bingo.”

Bringing Randall's body around, you positioned him by the stairs and let him topple down the steps without a care.

Skipping down after him, you heaved Randall's body into position. After securing him to a chair, you took the time to exam the basement and survey his workspace until he woke.

You stared almost uninterested at the bound man before you. The toe of your boot lifted the lid of his unlocked tool box and knocked it open.

“So how’s the carpentry business?” an air of indifference in your question as you reached in and pulled out several hammers before spying a box of nails.

The man only muffled and grunted against the material wrapped around his mouth.

“Yeah, sorry about that gag I suppose,” you examined the different tools in your hands, flipping them from side to side testing their weight.

“Not the same blanket you tore off for your victims, but I did make sure to grab your dirtiest work rags. So please, wet it down real good and enjoy the taste.”

Standing up, you swung the hammer around, “Ah, this is the one.”

He eyed you with hatred as he rocked and rammed his body against the ropes in hopes to loosen them. Frantic sounds erupted deep from within his chest only to be stifled by the gag, when he realized the restraints wouldn’t give.

You hummed in pleasure at the trapped animal before you.

“Girl Scouts,” you nodded toward the knots on his body, “Don’t let the cookie sales fool you, asshole. Us little Daisies grow up to be Venus flytraps later in life.”

He rocked his body forward again as you bent down and picked up the box of nails.

“Not interested in what you want to say. Plead innocent, plead guilty. Shit, I don't even care if you regret every monstrously thing you've ever did. Actually, don’t give a fuck if you don’t regret it either. All that matters is that it ends here, that you end here. I know you checked out those homes you worked on, picking out the children and then coming back for them. Like some twisted human layaway plan. That was a hell of wait, but I bet you had nothing else to think about when you were locked away. ”

Reveling in his fear, you circled him. You could practically smell the panic ooze out his pores. “Ever hear about the serial killer, Albert Fish? Preyed on kids, ate them even. You both had common interests, similar ways- he your inspiration? My gut told me within time, you'd be like him.”

Dancing your fingertips across the tops of his shoulders, you emphasized each word with a tap, “And. You're. Already. There.”

Williams knocked his head side to side, trying to shake off your touch. He glared in your direction but refused to make eye contact.

“But there's a thing you’re missing from being so very much like him. A subtle difference to some, but devil's in the detail- am I right?”

You shook the box of nails up to his ear as you leaned by his other.

“He stuck pins in his groan, 29 to be exact. They have x-rays of it. No, no, I shit you not. So we're going to improvise with these nails and recreate it on you,” you bopped him on the nose. “Artistic interpretation and all.”

Driving the nails into him with a hammer, you randomly picked spots along his inner thigh and pelvis. “Do you like astronomy? Should I make the Little Dipper?”

He howled against his restraints. Drool and hatred running down his chin. Randall passed out on nail number eight, when it was jammed into his testicle, but came back around for the thirteenth nail while you slapped him awake. He passed out again on the twenty-third nail and you carried on without your audience.

“Oh good! You're awake- again,” false happiness laced your voice. “Take a look at the new additions!”

Swiftly grabbing the back of his head, you forced him to crane his neck awkwardly downward as he tried resisting.

“Oh good god. Stop bawling already,” walking around to his front, you brought the hammer down and smashed it against his left kneecap.

More cries of anguish poured out of Randall.

Reaching back into his toolbox, you crouched down in front of him, “you only have yourself to blame- for all of this. But also because you kept passing out on me- and that… well that, gave me time to think.”

You delivered a Cheshire grin and held up a pair of pruners.

His body shook and he screamed at you through the gag as you painfully pulled down on his nailed testicles. You quickly shoved the pruners around one sweaty ball. His right nut rested between the tool's blades, the nail stuck out below. His body convulsed in pain as you smiled and began cutting into him.

Randall's shoulders involuntarily shook as he wailed incoherently. After a few minutes his shoulders fell down around him, making him smaller with the weight of defeat.

Pressing the toe of your boot into his broken kneecap, you slowly and gradually applied more pressure, “Pay attention, fuckface. There’s still more I can cut from you.”

Blood painted his cheek as you tapped his face with the pruner’s blades, You pulled down his gag and he reeled his head away.

You plucked his testicle off the floor, “Hm. Kind of looks like a weird party appetizer, meatball and blood gravy. Gore gravy? You think that sounds better? Here. Want to try?”

Twirling the hammered nail between your thumb and finger, his detached ball freckled his cheek and forehead with blood. Threads of veins and skin twirled on the air like streamers.

“Blow on it, might be hot,” you cackled at your joke.

“Fuck you!” Randall cursed through shaky, chapped lips, gaping in pained disbelief at his removed appendage.

“Tsk-tsk,” you snapped the meatball appetizer back and forth on front of his eyes. “That bad, lousy fucking attitude and those actions is what got you here, motherfucker.”

You sneered at him coldly. “Don't make me get creative. Could always skin away pieces of you and wrap them around other parts,” you dramatically cut the air with the human hors d'oeuvre and pointed at his crotch with it, “like pigs in a blanket. Foreskin's optional, you know.”

He started paling between your words and the blood loss, silently staring wide-eyed when visualizing your threat.

“Now,” you stepped between his bounded legs, “Open up, fucker. Time to try, then die.”

Pinching his cheeks, you forced his mouth open and scrapped the nail against his teeth until his ball rested in the back of his mouth. Horror filled Randall's eyes as the taste of warm iron hit his tongue.

Quickly grabbing the sides of his head, you abruptly raised your knee and slammed it up against his jaw. “Enjoy.”

A mixed sound of wet squishing and teeth cracking sang throughout the basement as Randall sobbed. The deflated testicle and pieces of teeth fell from his mouth between his hysterical wails. You leaned against the wall until his banshee screams subsided, a mask of boredom across your face.

When his shoulders stopped shaking and he settled to broken whimpers, you punched him again and slid the gag back in place between blood-coated teeth.

“And now, for our final act,” you callously taunted as you eyed his maimed and bloody crotch. Locking eyes with Randall, you jerked your chin in to the direction of his tools, “Ready?”

—

Standing before Randall's crumpled body, you heard your name float down from the top of the stairs, “Sweetheart, it’s time to go now.”

Clint silently made his way over, stepping between you and Williams’ broken corpse.

He pulled out a plastic bag from his utility vest and held it out to you with his own gloved hands.

“Meet you back at the car?” you inquired as you stuffed your bloody gloves into the bag he always provided.

“Always,” Clint kissed your forehead and tucked the soiled bag away. “Go on now, gonna do a once over here and I'll meet you. Love you.”

“Love you,” you backed away and made your way to the car.

Clint pulled out several photographs of Williams’ victims and scattered them around his corpse. Picking up the bloodied hammer, he cringed when seeing a few pubic hairs stuck to it. He promptly dropped the tool on top of the victim's photos.

When he followed you to the storage unit, he figured the photos would come in handy for what he knew you'd do next. As he resumed to tail you from the warehouse, he decided to make an anonymous tip to the police about the storage unit when you were done. He didn't want to risk any evidence showing who Randall Williams really was could be overlooked.

Back at the car, you turned up the volume and resumed listening to your audiobook. You didn't have to wait long, soon Clint tapped on your passenger window asking you to unlock the door.

Dropping into the passenger seat and assessing your appearance, Clint raised your hand to his lips for a quick kiss, “You look more content already.”

“Only because it’s over and I get to go home to you and Steve,” you smiled and cupped his face. “Thank you.”

“Never have to thank us, sweetheart.”

He rolled his cheek into the warmth of your hand. Your fingers skimmed through the top of his hair. You liked to tease that his hair felt softer with the mohawk.

Blessed is what you felt. You found a home with Clint and Steve. And they accepted your need to play judge, jury and executioner.

Clint tapped your thigh and gave it a squeeze, “Let’s get home to him, sweetheart. He’s been worried.”

He reached behind your seat and pulled out the unopened box of protein bars, “See, you plan well but then forget details like this.”

Ripping the box open, he freed a bar from its wrapper, “Eat.”

You wanted to object for a moment and say you were fine, but Clint's tone was laced with a plead, not a command.

“When we get back he'll want to feed us, you know. No one was happy you skipped another dinner.”

You chuckled at Clint's reminder about Steve's concerns and opened a bottled water, “What about your car?”

“Had FRIDAY drive itself home.”

Humming at his answer, you capped the water, “Ready?”

Clint nudged your arm and took the bottle for himself, “Yes. And tomorrow we'll have a long talk about you being more aware of your surroundings. You were so blindly driven, you didn't notice me following like you usually do.”

—

When FRIDAY announced your return home, Steve felt he could breath easy again. He knew what these kills meant to you and the sense of serenity they brought.

Determined to make your and Clint’s return as smooth as possible, he put on your favorite playlist and he spread out the 24hr takeout menus.

He heard you before seeing you, smiling at the sight of you and Clint rounding the corner. Your legs swung back and forth, head tipped back with laughter, humor staining your expressive lips as Clint gave you a piggy back ride. A smile of Clint’s own beamed across his face at Steve as he set you down.

“Hey, doll.” Not hiding his admiration for you, Steve scooped you up into a tight embrace.

“Hey, handsome.” With a kiss on his jaw, you nuzzled in closer to him.

Opening up your embrace, you both pulled Clint into the hug.

Steve pressed his forehead against Clint's temple, “Thank you for being careful and bring you both back safely.”

Clint leaned into Steve's words, “Never have to thank me.”

Steve kissed Clint soundly and turned his gaze on you, “Give me everything you need burned.”

You nodded at his request and pulled out the bloody bag.

“Weapons?”

You turned your head shyly towards Clint, and he slightly shivered as he replayed in his mind what you orchestrated in the basement.

“She used his own. Left them there with some incriminating photos. Less things to carry back,” Clint explained to Steve.

Tilting your head at Clint's mention of photos, you truly realized then just how absorbed you were for not noticing him at the storage unit. Hearing Steve call your name, you gave Clint a soft smile before turning back around.

“Alright, doll. You know the next part. Strip.”

Without a second thought to his request, you swiftly slipped out of your jacket and boots, followed by your top and pants.

“Always love this part, sweetheart, ” Clint murmured behind you.

“Me, too. She looks so pretty with that new sense of accomplishment. Don’t you, doll?”

You laughed at your boyfriends’ praises, “Gonna go shower now. We eating soon?”

“Pulled out some menus when you two got back. I was thinking that little Italian place.”

“Sounds delicious,” you left for the shower after gifting both men a slow, appreciative kiss. “Maybe come join me before the food arrives?”

Both men hummed in appreciation as they watch you walk down the hall.

“I’ll get hers. Gotta wash mine, too.” Clint offered, collecting your soiled items from Steve to bring to the laundry room and incinerator.

Clint stepped into the elevator but froze suddenly when he saw Steve holding the Italian menu.

“Steve!” Clint frantically called out, forcefully pushing the elevator doors apart. “Order mine without meatballs!”

#dark!reader #steve x dark!reader #clint x dark!reader #clint barton x reader #steve rogers x reader #ayaotdchallenge #dark!clint x dark!reader #dark!steve x dark!reader #dark!clint #dark!steve #dark!marvel #dark!fic #dark!fanfiction #steve x reader #clint x reader

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lukeskywaker4ever · 4 years

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King Pedro V’s 5th sibling: Infanta Maria Ana de Portugal

Born: 21st August 1843 Necessidades Palace, Lisbon, Portugal Died: 5th February 1884 (aged 40) Dresden, Saxony

Infanta Maria Ana of Portugal (Maria Ana Fernanda Leopoldina Micaela Rafaela Gabriela Carlota Antónia Júlia Vitória Praxedes Francisca de Assis Gonzaga) (21st August 1843 – 5th February 1884) was a Portuguese infanta (princess), the eldest surviving daughter of Queen Maria II of Portugal and her King consort Fernando II of Portugal, a member of the House of Bragança.

After her mother's death in 1853, when Maria Ana was just ten years old, she became the leading lady of the court, until her older brother, King Pedro V of Portugal, married Princess Stephanie of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen,

in 1858. Although in the early stages of their acquaintance the two sisters-in-law had a good relationship, in a letter written in 1859 to Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha,

when Stephanie was already dead, King Pedro mentions that his sister made unflattering comments regarding his wife "because of her feminine vanity caused by a lower status (...)"

The relationship between the sisters-in-law seems to have had its ups and downs since Stephanie's arrival in May 1858 and Maria Ana's wedding in May 1859. The Queen wrote about her sister-in-law: "She is, in every respect, the one who is more like Pedro (...)", "She is a charming person, good, generous, remarkably sensible for her age, with no trace of selfishness, respected and loved by all of us (...) George of Saxony has discovered a true gem. She is happy and loves him, but she cannot talk about the moment in which she will leave her family without crying. What is certain is that she will leave a terrible emptiness behind". Maria Ana's brother, Pedro, also claims during this time that his sister is "the pearl of our family circle", in a letter to Prince Albert.

She married in Lisbon at the Belém Palace on 11th May 1859 Prince George of Saxony (1832–1904),

second son of King John I of Saxony,

a kinsman from the Catholic Albertine branch of her father's Wettin dynasty. Queen Stephanie tried to organize a brilliant ceremony, but, in the end, the wedding was quiet and went unnoticed in both Portugal and Saxony. The newly-weds spent their first days as a married couple at Belém Palace. During their short stay in Portugal after the ceremony, Prince George left a poor impression with the Portuguese Royal Family, as he "barely talked to the bride" and did not attend a theater performance to which he had been invited. During that same performance, 15-year-old Maria Ana was seen crying. The couple left to Saxony on May 14th. Maria Ana was not allowed to take Portuguese ladies-in-waiting with her and was only accompanied by her brother Luís

in the journey. Pedro V wrote the following regarding the wedding: "the wedding of my sister to Prince George of Saxony was celebrated with more pomp than happiness. The former is followed by a regretful fate, as he left no sympathies and people who met him often left with a poor impression."

The marriage was not a happy one, according to Historian Eduardo Nobre who claims that the Prince "did not live up to the expectations and qualities of the Portuguese Infanta". Despite their issues, they had eight children.

Although she renounced her claims to the Portuguese throne when she married, Maria Ana could still become Queen if the male line became extinct. This situation nearly happened in 1861, when King Pedro V and two of her other brothers died from Typhoid Fever and left no children. However, this hypothesis was completely put aside when her brother, King Luís I, married Princess Maria Pia of Savoy

and had two sons, the future King Carlos I

and Infante Afonso.

Despite everything, it's not likely that Maria Ana ever gave this hypothesis great importance because of her troubled marriage and many children.

Around 1883, her youngest son, Prince Albert of Saxony,

became seriously ill. Maria Ana took care of him for several months until he recovered. This effort would be fatal, as the Infanta died from exhaustion, on 5th February 1884, before her husband became King. Her husband would remain unmarried for the rest of his life.

In Portugal, her second brother Luís I soon succeeded her eldest brother Peter V as king.

Her husband's elder brother Albert

succeeded her father-in-law as King of Saxony and gradually it became clear that he and his wife Carola of Vasa

were not able to have children of their own. Maria Ana's eldest son would almost certain to one day succeed to the throne.

Marie Johanna Amalie Ferdinande Antonie Luise Juliane, (19th June 1860 - 2nd March 1861), died in childhood, no issue

Elisabeth Albertine Karoline Sidonie Ferdinande Leopoldine Antonie Auguste Clementine (14th February 1862 - 18th May 1863) died in childhood, no issue

Mathilde Marie Auguste Viktorie Leopoldine Karoline Luise Franziska Josepha (19th March 1863 - 27th March 1933) died unmarried, no issue

Frederick Augustus Johann Ludwig Karl Gustav Gregor Philipp (25th May 1865 - 18th February 1932)

married Princess Louise of Tuscany (1870–1947),

later divorced, had issue

Maria Josepha Luise Philippine Elisabeth Pia Angelica Margarethe (31st May 1867 - 28th May 1944)

married to her cousin second degrees Archduke Otto Franz of Austria (1865–1906),

had issue

Johann Georg Pius Karl Leopold Maria Januarius Anacletus (10th July 1869 - 24th November 1938) married first Duchess Maria Isabella of Württemberg (1871–1904) and second Princess Maria Immaculata of Bourbon-Two Sicilies (1874–1906)

Maximilian Wilhelm August Albert Karl Gregor Odo (17th November 1870 - 12th January 1951) ordained as a priest, died unmarried, no issue

Albert Karl Anton Ludwig Wilhelm Viktor (25th February 1875 - 16 September 1900) died unmarried, no issue.

Princess Maria Ana predeceased her father Fernando, her husband George, and her brother-in-law King Albert of Saxony. In 1902 George succeeded his childless brother as king, and on his death in 1904 Maria Ana's eldest son became King of Saxony as Frederick Augustus III.

#infanta maria ana de bragança #house of bragança #queen maria ii of portugal #king consort fernando ii #king pedro v of portugal

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sciencespies · 4 years

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The Lab Saving the World From Snake Bites

https://sciencespies.com/nature/the-lab-saving-the-world-from-snake-bites/

The Lab Saving the World From Snake Bites

In a patchy ten-acre tract of grass in Coronado, a hilly exurb northeast of the Costa Rican capital of San José, a weedy horse paddock and corrugated metal stable stand adjacent to a building of pristine laboratories and climate-controlled habitats. Through one door is a necropolis of dead snakes preserved in glass jars arranged helter-skelter on a counter, reminiscent of a macabre Victorian cabinet of curiosities. Through another is a sterile-looking white room full of humming scientific instruments.

A variety of snakes preserved at the Instituto Clodomiro Picado, in Costa Rica, a world leader in venom antidote production.

(Myles Karp)

The Instituto Clodomiro Picado, or ICP, named after the father of Costa Rican herpetology, is one of the world’s leading manufacturers of snake antivenoms, and the only one in Central America. The need for antivenoms is far more urgent than a person living in a developed nation blessed with a temperate climate might suppose. Globally, venomous snakebites kill roughly 100,000 people each year, mostly in South Asia, Southeast Asia and sub-Saharan Africa. In these regions’ poorer corners, local capacities for antivenom production are limited or nonexistent; the ICP has stepped in to help fill the gaps. Beyond meeting its own country’s needs, the institute has supplied or developed lifesaving antivenoms for victims on four continents, each treatment customized to protect against species that still pose lethal threats, from the West African carpet viper to the Papuan taipan.

At one time, snakebite deaths were common in Costa Rica, as Picado himself documented in his 1931 book Venomous Snakes of Costa Rica. He reported 13 in just one month—a death rate, given the population of about 500,000, higher than the current global death rate from lung cancer. Largely because of the ICP’s antivenoms, snakebite deaths in Costa Rica today are negligible, typically one or two per year in a current population of some five million—about the same per capita death rate as powered lawn mower accidents in the United States.

Celebrated for its abundance of tropical wildlife, Costa Rica is a place where it pays to watch your step. It is home to 23 species of venomous snakes, including the Central American bushmaster—one of the world’s largest vipers, growing up to 11 feet—and the bocaracá, whose indigenous name means “devil that brings death when it bites.” Yet none is more feared than Bothrops asper—the terciopelo, also known as the fer-de-lance. Across a range extending from Mexico to northern Peru, the terciopelo is dreaded for its tenaciously defensive temperament: In situations that would cause other vipers to flee, it strikes. And when the terciopelo bites, it injects a remarkable volume of venom, around ten times as much as a copperhead.

Among the most feared snakes to inhabit Central and South America is the terciopelo, or fer-de-lance, a venomous pit viper up to eight feet long.

(Alex Hyde)

For the stricken, the result is hellish. Terciopelo venom destroys the flesh at the injection site, causing severe swelling, tissue death and excruciating pain. As it travels through the body, it induces internal bleeding and, in severe cases, organ failure and death. Blood can seep out of the nose and mouth, among other orifices, which Mayans compared to sweating blood. Picado described the late stages of such a snakebite this way: “If we ask the wretch something, he may still see us with misted eyes, but we get no answer, and perhaps a last sweat of red pearls or a mouthful of blackened blood warns us of the triumph of death.”

* * *

“Are you scared?” asked the ICP snake handler Greivin Corrales, with a touch of concern and some mild amusement. I was standing in a small room with a six-foot-long terciopelo, unrestrained on the floor, only a few feet away from me. Corrales had witnessed me tense up when he removed the snake from a bucket with a hook; I had heard of the terciopelo’s reputation. Corrales’ colleague Danilo Chacón referred to the specimen as a bicho grande, using an untranslatable term that falls somewhere between critter and beast. The snake exhibited the characteristic scale pattern of diamond and triangles in light and dark brown, and the trilateral head that inspires the common name fer-de-lance, or lancehead. Though the snake was highly conspicuous on the terrazzo tiles, the markings would blend seamlessly with Costa Rica’s forest floor, making it all too easy to step on such a bicho.

The ICP has mastered the process of antivenom production, and I had come to watch the fundamental first step: the extraction of venom from a live snake, sometimes called “milking.”

The bucket from which the snake had been drawn was full of carbon dioxide gas, which temporarily sedates the snake, making the process less stressful for both animal and handler. Chacón, the more experienced handler, only recently started using carbon dioxide after nearly 30 years working with unsedated terciopelos. “I think it’s about not getting overconfident,” said Corrales. “Once you’re too confident, you’re screwed.” Even while occasionally handling unsedated snakes, the technicians use bare hands. “You have to feel the movement,” he said. “With gloves you don’t feel the animal, you don’t have control.”

The handlers bent down and picked up the groggy terciopelo, Chacón grabbing the head, Corrales lifting the tail and midsection. They led the snake headfirst to a mechanism topped by a funnel covered with a layer of thin, penetrable film, which the snake instinctively bit. Venom dripped from the fangs, through the funnel and into a cup. In its pure form, viper venom is viscous and golden, resembling a light honey.

One challenge of producing an antidote to snake venom is that you first have to produce the venom. Above, in the serpentarium at the Instituto Clodomiro Picado, Danilo Chacón and Greivin Corrales handle a live terciopelo, Bothrops asper, after sedating it with carbon dioxide gas. The men don’t wear bite-resistant gloves because they want to feel the snake move. Above right, when they place the fangs through a film stretched over a collection tube, the reptile’s venom glands, located below its eyes, discharge the honey-colored venom through ducts, out the fangs and, far right, into a cup. Small amounts of such venom will be repeatedly injected into a horse over several months, and the horse’s immune system will generate antibodies to the venom that will serve as the basis of an antivenom treatment. Left, Chacón and Corrales open the snake’s mouth to reveal its tongue and substantial fangs.

(Myles Karp)

Antivenoms were first developed at the end of the 19th century by the French physician and immunologist Albert Calmette. An associate of Louis Pasteur, Calmette was stationed in Saigon to produce and distribute smallpox and rabies vaccines to local people. Alarmed by a surge of fatal cobra bites in the area, Calmette—who later gained fame as an inventor of the tuberculosis vaccine—applied the principles of immunization and vaccination to snake venom. He injected serial doses into small mammals in order to force their bodies to recognize and gradually develop antibodies as an immune response to the toxins in the venom. In 1895, he began producing the first antivenoms by inoculating horses with Asian cobra venom, drawing the horses’ blood, separating the venom-resistant antibodies, and mixing them into a fluid that could be injected into a snakebite victim.

An institute staff member checks the temperature of a horse involved in generating antibodies to snake venom it has been exposed to. Technicians will collect the horse’s blood and separate off the antibody-rich plasma, which is purified, sterilized and packaged as an antivenom. The institute produces about 100,000 vials of antivenom annually, for treating people in Central and South America and sub- Saharan Africa.

(The Instituto Clodomiro Picado)

Today, the ICP produces antivenoms in much the same way, but with more advanced processes allowing for a purer product. “Our antivenoms are basically solutions of horse antibodies specific against particular venoms,” said José María Gutiérrez, a former director of the ICP and a professor emeritus at the University of Costa Rica, which oversees the institute. The ICP’s roughly 110 horses live mostly on a farm in the nearby cloud forest and are brought to the stables to take part in antivenom production periodically. Venom is injected into a horse’s body in tiny amounts every ten days for two or three months initially, then once every two months—enough for its immune system to learn to recognize and create antibody defenses against the venom over time, but not enough to harm the horse. Afterward, blood is extracted from the horse in a quantity that is “like donating blood at a blood bank,” according to Gutiérrez. “We have the horses under strict veterinary control.”

Once the blood settles, the antibody-containing plasma is separated, purified, filtered, sterilized and mixed into a neutral liquid. The antivenoms are sent to hospitals, clinics and primary health posts, where they are diluted with saline and administered intravenously into snakebite victims.

Top, Clodomiro Picado, who was reared in Costa Rica and studied in France, was a zoologist, botanist and author of a 1931 book, left, about venomous snakes. He worked at a time when snakebites were a significant cause of death in Costa Rica. Far left, Albert Calmette, c. 1920, a French physician celebrated for his contribution to the tuberculosis vaccine, produced the first snakebite antidote in 1895, having studied venomous snakes while stationed in Saigon for the Pasteur Institute.

Antivenom counteracts venom precisely on a molecular level, like a lock and key. Because venoms vary chemically among species, an antivenom to protect against a specific snake’s bite must be prepared with venom from that snake, or from one that has very similar venom. To produce an antivenom that protects against multiple species, called a “polyvalent,” different venoms must be combined strategically in production. “That specificity makes anti-venoms sort of difficult to produce,” said Gutiérrez. “In contrast, tetanus antitoxin is the same all over the world, because tetanus toxin is a single toxin.”

The ICP maintains a diverse collection of live snakes, mostly caught and donated by Costa Rican farmers and landowners, some bred in captivity. From these, the ICP technicians have built an impressive stock of extracted venoms, supplemented with occasional imports of exotic venoms.

“Venom, more venom, and more venom there,” said serpentarium coordinator Aarón Gómez, opening a freezer in a laboratory room, exposing dozens of samples. After extraction, most of the venoms are immediately dehydrated for preservation. He unscrewed the top of a plastic container the size of a spice jar, revealing contents that looked like yellow ground mustard powder. “That’s terciopelo venom,” he said. “We have 1.5 kilos,” he said with raised eyebrows. That’s enough to kill 24 million mice or probably thousands of people.

The snakes that produce the world’s most potent venoms inhabit deserts, tropical forests and warm seas. Many pose a grave threat to people, but others are seldom encountered. Below the map, learn about ten of the most lethal snakes, ranked in descending order by venom potency. —Research by Katherine R. Williams

(Eritrea Dorcely)

Enhydrina schistosa

(Alamy)

Lethal venom dose*: 0.6 micrograms Venom yield**: 79 milligrams Common name(s): Beaked sea snake, hook-nosed sea snake, Valakadyn sea snake

This highly aggressive species kills more humans than any other sea snake. Its venom is so potent that one animal may carry enough to kill as many as 22 people.

*Estimated amount of venom, in micrograms, to kill 50 percent of laboratory mice in a sample, if each mouse weighed 30 grams. A microgram is 0.001 milligram, roughly the mass of a single particle of baking powder.

**Maximum amount of venom, dried, in milligrams, produced at one time by an adult snake.

The ICP’s success in maintaining and breeding snakes that otherwise fare poorly in captivity has allowed for the collection to include workable quantities of exceedingly rare venoms. For example, an innovative technique involving a diet of tilapia filets sustains about 80 coral snakes in the serpentarium, a rare quantity. “Most other producers don’t produce coral antivenom,” said Gómez. “But because we have the snakes, we can produce the venom, so we can produce the antivenom.” A potent neurotoxin, coral snake venom is about four times as lethal as terciopelo venom. In powdered form, it is pure white.

* * *

There’s no question that historical factors like accessible health care, the migration from rural to urban areas, and even a decrease in barefootedness contributed to the decline of snakebite deaths in Costa Rica. But without the ICP’s antivenoms, bites would still carry a grave risk. Traditional remedies popular before the proliferation of antivenoms—such as drinking an elixir of tobacco leaf or rubbing a bone on the bite—were no match for snake venom.

At a Doctors Without Borders clinic in Abdurafi, Ethiopia, a 24-year-old farmworker received antivenom after a snake bit her on the forehead as she slept.

(MSF)

Other countries, however, cannot claim such progress. India alone suffers nearly 50,000 venomous snakebite fatalities each year, chiefly from the saw-scaled viper, the Indian cobra, Russell’s viper and the common krait. Nigeria’s snakebite mortality rate has been reported at 60 deaths per 100,000 people—more than five times the mortality rate from automobile accidents in the United States.

A combination snakebite treatment produced by the Costa Rican institute consists of antibodies to three venomous snakes that inhabit sub-Saharan Africa.

(Susanne Doettling / MSF)

“We want to expand the knowledge and expertise generated in Costa Rica to contribute to solving this problem in other regions and countries,” said Gutiérrez, who is also a member of the board of directors of the Global Snakebite Initiative, a nonprofit that advocates for greater recognition and understanding of snakebite mortality worldwide, especially in impoverished regions. Since the near-eradication of snakebite deaths in Costa Rica, the ICP has endeavored to fill antivenom vacuums in these faraway places where antivenoms have been inadequate, inaccessible or nonexistent.

Even the United States, with its advanced medical science and robust pharmaceutical industry, has experienced occasional antivenom shortages. Despite the exorbitant prices for which the product can be sold in the U.S.—generally over 100 times what ICP antivenoms go for—the relative rarity of venomous bites and the esoteric, labor-intensive manufacturing process have kept antivenom production a niche industry there. Only two entities in the United States currently produce snake antivenoms for human use: Pfizer (to counteract coral snake venom) and Boston Scientific (to counteract pit vipers like rattlesnakes).

Clark’s coral snake, native to rainforests in parts of Costa Rica, Panama and Colombia, is nocturnal and doesn’t often trouble people. ICP scientists have decoded its venom and found three toxic compounds.

(Alamy)

That leaves labs like the ICP fulfilling the supply of antivenoms where the demand is greatest. Founded in 1970, ICP began steadily furnishing the drugs to other Central American countries in the 1990s. To develop new antivenoms for regions in need, in the early 2000s it began importing foreign venoms with which to inoculate its own horses; the institute doesn’t import live snakes because of ecological and safety concerns.

For a decade the institute has been distributing a newly developed antivenom to Nigeria, capable of protecting against the venoms of the West African carpet viper, the puff adder and the black-necked spitting cobra. Bites from these deadly snakes had been treated in the past mostly with a polyvalent antivenom manufactured by Sanofi-Pasteur, but the French pharmaceutical giant, citing a lack of profit, ceased production in 2014, leaving a dangerous gap in the market. The ICP’s antivenom is now being used in other countries in the region, from Burkina Faso to the Central African Republic. “Doctors Without Borders is now using our antivenom at their stations in Africa,” said Gutiérrez.

Named for the unusual scales protruding from its head, the eyelash viper is a venomous tree snake found from southern Mexico to Venezuela.

(The Instituto Clodomiro Picado)

“The Instituto Clodomiro Picado has been doing this production for many, many years, and they’ve got it dialed in,” said Steve Mackessy, a biochemist from the University of Northern Colorado, who has collaborated with the institute. “They produce an affordable product that works very, very well. So applying that to a situation where you have anti-venoms that either weren’t available at all, or were poor quality, or poor efficacy because they’re mostly designed against other species, that’s a godsend for those countries.”

An estimated 250,000 people have been treated with ICP’s antivenoms in Central America, South America, Africa and the Caribbean. The institute has recently developed new products for Asia, specifically Papua New Guinea—home to the extremely venomous taipan—and Sri Lanka, where imported Indian antivenoms used there have been described as largely ineffective.

The largest venomous snake in the New World is the bushmaster—here, the Central American species, which may grow to 11 feet. Its inch-long fangs inject prey with copious venom.

(The Instituto Clodomiro Picado)

Antivenoms may not be a lucrative business, but Gutiérrez stresses that access to such essential medicines should be considered a human right rather than a commodity. “This is a philosophical issue here,” he said. “Any human being that suffers snakebite envenomation should have the right to receive an antivenom.”

* * *

Clodomiro Picado himself—whose imposing bust adorns a sign outside the ICP’s entrance—was not generous in his estimation of the character of snakes. “He who dies victim of snakes does not fight, his death won not by conquest but by thievery,” he wrote. “For this reason the serpent, together with poison and the dagger, are signs of treachery and treason.” Gutiérrez is more measured, pointing out that snakes have been both gods and demons in mythologies around the world: “They’re fascinating, yet they can kill you.”

#Nature

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wisconsinprelawland-blog · 4 years

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A Eugenic Disaster: The Implications Of Buck V. Bell

By Mersadie Murray, University of Wisconsin-Platteville Class of 2020

August 3, 2020

In 1927, a Supreme Court ruling set a dangerous precedent for women’s bodily rights. In the landmark case Buck v Bell, it was determined that Carrie Buck would be sterilized against her will. The majority judges opinion:

“It is better for the world. if instead of waiting to execute degenerative offspring for a crime, or to let them starve for their imbecility, society can prevent those who are manifestly unfit from continuing their kind… three generations of imbeciles are enough (Goldstein, 2016, p. 66).”

Carries’s case was brought to the Supreme Court by a man named Dr. Albert Priddy, who has been described as a “rabid eugenist (Goldstein, 2016, p. 66).” He wanted to find a way to prove that mental incapacitation is inherited. Therefore, Priddy filed a petition for the sterilization of Carrie and then found a colleague to appeal the petition so that the case would be seen before the Supreme Court and set a legal precedent for states to legally force someone into sterilization (Goldstein, 2016).

The court concluded that “imbecility” is a heritable trait based on Carrie, her daughter, and her mother. Her daughter, Vivian, was just eight months old when she was given a test that declared her mentally unfit. Carrie's sister, Doris, was unknowingly forced into sterilization, as well (Goldstein, 2016). She was told that she would be having an appendectomy at the time of the sterilization and did not know the reason behind her infertility until after she had been married for 39 years. When Doris and her husband found out the reason behind their troubles conceiving, they broke down and cried. While Carrie was aware of her sterilization, she frequently grieved over her loss. And despite the court labeling her as an “imbecile” when she was 18 years old, later in life Carrie never missed reading the paper, loved to do crosswords, and was interested in the fine arts at the nursing home where she died.

While eugenics might be thought of as a pseudoscience left long in the past, Buck v Bell has never been overturned, and forced sterilization due to mental incapacity is still allowable based on this landmark decision (Goldstein, 2016). Eugenics is “the practice or advocacy of controlling selective breeding of human populations (as by sterilization) to improve the population’s genetic composition,” according to Merriam-Webster. One infamous eugenic movement cited the United States’ use of eugenics as it’s ideal-- that movement was the holocaust. In Mein Kampf, Hitler wrote:

“There is today one state in which at least weak beginnings toward a better conception [of citizenship] are noticeable. Of course, it is not our model German Republic, but the United States (Gross, 2016).”

Shortly after, Hitler passed sterilization laws that would lead to the largest genocide in history.

The case of Buck v Bell was just one foreboding step in the United States’ long history of eugenics within the court system. The United States began experimenting with eugenics in 1907 with a federally funded sterilization program used in 32 states. This program allowed for forced sterilization of people with “undesirable” traits (mostly the disabled, criminals, the poor, and minorities). When the program was ended in the late 1970s, over 60,000 people had been sterilized without their consent (Hunter, 2017).

A more recent tragedy in inmate sterilization occurred in California between 2006 and 2010. One hundred and forty-four women were forcibly or coercively sterilized in state prisons. State prison employees either neglected their duties to require informed consent before this procedure, or they abused their power by encouraging women to consent to it (California State Auditor, 2014). The hierarchy of power between a prison employee and an inmate is clear, and it is hard to fathom that any kind of consent could be purely of free will in this type of circumstance. To add, consistent with the United States’ patterns and history of systematic racism, a high percentage of these women were people of color (McKay, 2020).

It is important to discuss whether informed consent is really consenting when dealing with a power imbalance, such as that between a perpetrator of a crime and a judge, prosecutor, or prison warden. In 2015, a mentally ill woman was given the choice between forced sterilization and 15 years in prison for her crime (Klugman, 2017). This woman was forced, by someone of great power, to choose between two extremes: her freedom and her reproductive rights. To some, it may seem like she simply received a plea deal; however, cases that force women to give up their reproductive rights allow for these rights to continue to be abused in the future.

In 2017, a Tennesse judge’s tactics were put under scrutiny when it was discovered that he was offering a reduced prison time in exchange for inmates “consenting” to a vasectomy or contraceptive implant. Seventy inmates took this offer-- none of them were convicted of violent or child-related crimes (Klugman, 2017). As the judge put it, the inmates were receiving “an opportunity to take personal responsibility and give them a chance, when they do get out, to not to be burdened with children…This gives them a chance to get on their feet and make something of themselves (Klugman, 2017).” The inmates were expected to take “personal responsibility,” yet their very personal decision of if and when to have a child was taken away.

Every case that forces or coerces a person to give up their bodily rights, and is deemed legal, sets a precedent allowing the limitation of that right, just like Buck v Bell did almost a century ago. It is time that the United States takes responsibility for its’ history of intrusion on reproductive rights and the principle of autonomy, which states, “that a person who is competent and capacitated has the right to make his or her own medical choices free of coercion (Klugman, 2017).” A decision as important as whether or not to have a child should not be undermined or coerced by a “get out of jail free card.” It is time to acknowledge that Buck v Bell has paved the path for abolishing reproductive rights, exploiting the nation’s most vulnerable populations (mentally ill, poor, people of color), and continuing to ignore the systematic failures in the United States. It is time to learn and move on from the past. It is time to overturn Buck v Bell.

________________________________________________________________

California State Auditor. (June, 2014). Sterilization of female inmates. (Report No. 2013-120). Retrieved from https://www.auditor.ca.gov/pdfs/reports/2013-120.pdf

Goldstein, D. (2016). End of the Line. New Republic, 247(4), 64–67.

Gross, T. (Host). (2016). The Supreme Court ruling that led to 70,000 forced sterilizations [Audio podcast]. NPR. https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2016/03/07/469478098/the-supreme-court-ruling-that-led-to-70-000-forced-sterilizations

Hunter, L. (2017, August 23). The U.S. is still forcibly sterilizing prisoners. Talk poverty. https://talkpoverty.org/2017/08/23/u-s-still-forcibly-sterilizing-prisoners/

Klugman, Craig. (2017, August 2). Sterilization for prisoners is not new and shows that studying history is essential. Bioethics. Retrieved from http://www.bioethics.net/2017/08/sterilization-for-prisoners-is-not-new-and-shows-that-studying-history-is-essential/

McKay, H. (2020, June 15). New documentary highlights the forced sterilization of women in California prison. Retrieved from https://www.foxnews.com/entertainment/new-documentary-illuminates-the-forced-sterilization-of-women-in-california-prison

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judgestarling · 4 years

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A Short Story by “Martian” Physicist Leó Szilárd on a Funding Agency whose Mission Is the “Retardation of Scientific Progress”

Leó Szilárd (1898–1964) was a physicist and inventor. He conceived the nuclear chain reaction in 1933, patented the idea of a nuclear fission reactor in 1934, and in late 1939 wrote the letter for Albert Einstein's signature that resulted in the Manhattan Project that built the atomic bomb.

Legend has it that Leó Szilárd was once asked why there is no evidence of intelligent life beyond Earth despite the high probability of it existing. Szilárd responded: "They are already here among us—they just call themselves Hungarians." Thus, was born the term Martians, which included in addition to Leó Szilárd, such luminaries as Paul Erdős, John von Neumann, Edward Teller, and Eugene Wigner.

The Martians were characterized by their strong accent (made famous by horror actor Bela Lugosi), their “superhuman” intellect, and by the fact that they spoke two incomprehensible languages, Hungarian and Mathematics. John von Neumann even invented a history for the Martians. They are descendants of a Martian scout force which landed in Budapest around the year 1900, and later departed after the planet was found unsuitable for colonization. They left behind children by several Earth women—children who all became famous scientists.

In addition to physics, engineering, and politics, Leó Szilárd also wrote short stories. These were published in a collection entitled The Voice of the Dolphins (1961). The title story describes an international biology research laboratory in Central Europe. This laboratory became reality after a meeting in 1962 with Victor F. Weisskopf, James Watson and John Kendrew. When the European Molecular Biology Laboratory was established, the library was named The Szilárd Library and the library logo features a dolphin.

My favorite story by Leó Szilárd is “The Marla Gable Foundation,” a funding agency whose mission is the “retardation of scientific progress.” It reminds me of the NIH and NSF.

The Marla Gable Foundation

Leó Szilárd

[1948]

As soon as I saw the temperature of the rabbit come back to normal, I knew that we had licked the problem. It took twenty-four hours to bring his temperature down to one degree centigrade, injecting three grains of Dorminol every ten minutes during that period. Sleep set in between the third and fourth hours, when the body temperature fell below twenty-six centigrade; and after twenty-four hours, at one centigrade, there was no longer any appreciable metabolic activity. We kept him at that low temperature for one day, after which time, having completed our measurements, we injected Metaboline and allowed the temperature to rise to normal within one hour.

There was never any doubt in my mind that once we got this far, and got the temperature down to one centigrade, we could keep the rabbit “asleep” for a week, a year or a hundred years just as well as for a day. Nor had I much doubt that if this worked for the rabbit it would work for the dog; and that if it worked for the dog, it would work for man.

I always wanted to see what kind of place the world will be three hundred years hence. I intended to “withdraw from life” (as we proposed to call the process) as soon as we had perfected the method, and to arrange for being returned to life in 2260. I thought my views and sentiments were sufficiently advanced, and that I had no reason to fear I should be too much behind the times in a world that had advanced a few hundred years beyond the present. I would not have dared, though, to go much beyond three hundred years.

I thought at first that one year should be plenty for perfecting the process as well as for completing the arrangements; and that I should be in statu dormiendi before the year was over. As a matter of fact, it took only six months to get ready; but difficulties of an unforeseen kind arose.

A section of public opinion was strongly opposed to “withdrawal from life,” and for a time it looked as though the eighty-sixth Congress would pass a law against it. This, fortunately, did not come to pass. The AMA, however, succeeded in obtaining a court injunction against my “withdrawal” on the basis that it was “suicide,” and suicide was unlawful. Since a man in statu dormiendi cannot of his own volition return to life—so the brief argued-from the legal point of view he is not living while in that state.

The ensuing legal battle lasted for five years. Finally, Adams, Lynch and Davenport, who handled my case, succeeded in getting the Supreme Court to accept jurisdiction. The Supreme Court upheld the injunction, with three justices dissenting. Mr. Davenport explained to me that the ruling of the Supreme Court, though on the face of it unfavorable, was in reality a very fortunate thing for me because it removed all obstacles that might have stood in the way of my plans. The ruling of the Supreme Court, Mr. Davenport explained, established once and for all that a man is not legally living while in statu dormiendi. Therefore, he said, if I should now decide to act against the advice of his firm, disregard the court injunction and proceed to withdraw from life, no legal action could be taken against me under any statute until I was returned to life three hundred years hence, at which time my offense would come under the statute of limitations.

All arrangements having been completed in secrecy, and having named Adams, Lynch and Davenport as executors of my estate, I spent my last evening in the twentieth century at a small farewell party given to me by friends. There were about six of us, all old friends, but somehow we did not understand each other very well on this occasion. Most of them seemed to have the feeling that they were sort of attending my funeral, since they would not see me again alive; whereas to me it seemed that it was I who was attending their funeral, since none of them would be alive when I woke up.

According to the records, it took about two hours until sleep set in, but I do not remember anything that was said after the first hour.

The next thing I remember was the prick of a needle, and when I opened my eyes I saw a nurse with a hypodermic syringe in one hand and a microphone in the other.

“Would you mind speaking into the microphone, please?” she said, holding it at a comfortable distance from my face.

“We owe you an apology, as well as an explanation,” said a well-dressed young man standing near my bed and holding a microphone in his hand.” I am Mr. Rosenblatt from Adams, Lynch, Davenport, Rosenblatt and Giannini. For reasons of a legal nature we deemed it advisable to return you to life, but if you wish to complete the three hundred years, which appears to be your goal, we hope we shall be able to make the necessary arrangements within one month. At least we shall try our best to do so.

“Now, before you say anything, let me explain to you that the gentleman sitting next to me is Mr. McClintock, the mayor of the city—a Democrat, of course. Subject to your approval, we have agreed that he may give you an interview which will be televised. The proceeds will go to the Senile Degeneration Research Fund. The broadcasting companies understand, of course, that it’s up to you to agree to this arrangement, and they have an alternate program ready which can be substituted if you should object. If you agree, however, we shall go on the air in one minute. Naturally, the broadcasting companies are anxious to catch your first responses rather than have something rehearsed put on the air. I’m certain you’ll appreciate their point of View.”

“Before I answer this,” I said, “would you mind telling me how long I’ve been asleep?”

“I should have told you this before,” he said. “You were out ninety years.”

“Then,” I said after a moment’s reflection, “I have no friends left from whom to keep any secrets. I have no objection to the broadcast.”

As soon as the announcer finished with his somewhat lengthy introduction, the mayor came in.

“As chairman of the Senile Degeneration Research Fund, I wish to express my thanks to you for having graciously consented to this interview. Senile degeneration is one of our most important diseases. One in eight die of senile degeneration, and more than half of those who reach the age of a hundred and five. Given ample funds for research, we cannot fail to discover the causes of this disease, and once the cause of the disease is known it will be possible to find a cure. But I know that I should not monopolize the air; there must be many things that you would want to know about our society. Please feel free to ask anything you like.”

“Why was I returned to life?” I asked.

“I’m certain,” the mayor said, “that Messrs. Adams, Lynch, Davenport, Rosenblatt and Giannini will want to give you a detailed explanation of that. It was their decision, and I have no doubt that it was a wise one in the circumstances. I’m not a lawyer, but I can tell you something about the political background of their decision. Politics—that’s my field.”

“I wonder whether you realize how much trouble your process of “from life” has caused the government. For a few years only a few persons followed your example, mostly political scientists and anthropologists. But then, all of a sudden, it became quite a fad. People withdrew just to spite their wives and husbands. And I regret to say that many Catholics who could not obtain a divorce chose this method of surviving their husbands or wives, to become widowed and to remarry, until this practice was finally stopped in 2001 by the papal bull “Somnus Naturae Repugnans.”

“The Church did not interfere, of course, with the legitimate uses of the process. Throughout the latter part of the century doctors encouraged patients who suffered from cancer and certain other incurable diseases to withdraw from life, in the hope that a cure would be found in the years to come and that they could then be returned to life and cured. There were legal complications, of course, particularly in the case of wealthy patients. Often their heirs raised objections on the ground that withdrawal from life was not yet an entirely safe process; and equally often the heirs demanded that they too should be permitted to withdraw from life for an equal period of time, so that the natural sequence of the generations would be left undisturbed. There are about one million cancer patients at present in statu dormiendi, and half a million of their heirs.”

“Then cancer is still not a curable disease?” I asked.

“No,” the mayor said, “but with all the funds which are now available it can take at the most a few years until that problem is solved. The most important, even though a somewhat controversial, application of your process,” he continued, “came about twenty-five years ago. That was when the present great depression started. It came as a result of seventy-five years of Republican mismanagement. Today we have a Democratic President and a Democratic Congress; but this is the first Democratic President since Donovan, and the first Democratic Congress since the Hundred and Fifth. As more and more of the Southern states began to vote Republican, our party was hopelessly outvoted, until gradually its voting strength began to rise again; and today, with a Democratic majority solidly established, we have nothing to fear from coming elections.”

“So finally there’s a truly progressive party in the United States?” I asked.

“Yes,” the mayor said, “we regard ourselves as progressives. We have the support of the Catholic Church, and eighty per cent of the voters are Catholics.”

“What brought about such mass conversions?” I asked.

“There were no mass conversions,” the mayor said, “and we wouldn’t want any. Families of Polish, Irish and Italian stock, having a stronger belief in the American way of life than some of the older immigrant stocks, have always given birth to more children; and so today we have a solid Catholic majority.”

Now that the Democratic Party is established in office, we’re going to fight the depression by the proper economic methods. As I said before, there was a Republican Administration in office when the depression hit us twenty-five years ago. In the first year of that depression unemployment rose to ten million. Things looked pretty bad. There was no public-works program or unemployment relief, but Congress passed a law, the Withdrawal Act of 2025, authorizing the use of Federal funds to enable any unemployed who so desired to withdraw from life for the duration of the depression. Those unemployed who availed themselves of this offer had to authorize the government to return them to life when the government deemed that the labor market required such a measure.

“Seven out of ten million unemployed availed themselves of this offer by the end of the first year, in spite of the opposition of the Church. The next year unemployment was up another seven million, out of which five million were withdrawn from life. This went on and on, and by the time our party got into office, two years ago, there were twenty-five million withdrawn from life, with Federal support.

“Our first act in office was to make withdrawals from life unlawful; and the second was to institute a public-works program.”

“What does your public-works program consist of?” I asked.

“Housing,” the mayor said. “Is there a housing shortage?” I asked “No,” the mayor said. “With twenty-five million unemployed in statu dormiendi there is, of course, no housing shortage.”

“And will you now return these twenty-five million unemployed to life?” I asked. “Only very gradually,” the mayor replied. “The majority of the sleepers are non-Catholics and it would upset the political balance if they were returned to life all at once. Besides, Operating the refrigerator plants of the public dormitories for twenty-five million sleepers is part of our public works program.

“Incidentally,” he added, “Whether you yourself come under the Anti-Withdrawal Act of 2048 is a controversial question. Your lawyers felt that you would not want to violate the law of the land, and they tried to get a court ruling in order to clear you; but the court refused to take the case, because you weren’t legally alive; finally your lawyers decided to return you to life so that you may ask the court for a declaratory judgment. Even though there is little doubt that the court will rule in your favor, I personally hope that you’ll find our society so pleasant, and so much more advanced than you would have expected, that you’ll decide to stay with us in the twenty-first century.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Mayor,” the announcer said. “This was beautiful timing. We’re off the air,” he said to me, thinking I needed more explanation.

The mayor turned to me. “If you feel well enough, I would like to take you home for dinner. It’s a small party, four or five guests, my wife and my daughter, Betty. The poor girl is brokenhearted. She has just called off her engagement, and I’m doing what I can to cheer her up. She’s very much in love with the fellow.”

“If she loves him so much, why did she break with him?” I asked.

“All her friends teased her about him because he wears teeth,” the mayor said. “Of course, there’s no law against it, it’s just not done, that’s all.”

Something began to dawn upon me at this moment. The nurse, a pretty young girl, had no teeth, Mr. Rosenblatt had no teeth, and the mayor had no teeth. Teeth seemed to be out of fashion.

“I have teeth,” I said.

“Yes, of course,” the mayor replied, “and you wear them with dignity. But if you should decide to stay with us you’ll want to get rid of them. They’re not hygienic.”

“But how would I Chew my food, how do you chew your food?” I asked.

“Well,” the mayor said, “we don’t eat with our hands. We eat from plates-chewing plates. They plug into sockets in the table and chew your food for you. We eat with Spoons.”

“Steaks, too?” I asked.

“Yes, everything,” the mayor said. “But have no fear, we shall have knife and fork for you tonight, and flat plates such as you are accustomed to. My daughter kept them for her fiancé.” “I’m sorry that my second daughter will not be with us tonight,” the mayor said as he was starting his car. “She’s in the hospital. In college she’s taking mathematics and chemistry. She could have talked to you in your own language.”

“Nothing seriously wrong, I hope,” I said.

“Oh, no!” the mayor said.” Just plastic surgery. She’ll be out in a day or two.”

“With a new nose?” I asked.

“Nothing wrong with her nose,” the mayor said. “As a matter of fact, she has Mark Gable’s nose. No, it’s one of these newfangled Operations. My wife and I don’t approve of it, but this girl, she runs with the smart set. ‘Esophagus bypass,’ they call it. No longer necessary to watch your diet, you know. Eat as much as you please and switch it to the bypass—goes into a rubber container, of course. I tried to talk her out of it, but that girl has an answer for everything. ‘Father,’ she said, isn’t there a food surplus in the world? If everybody ate twice as much, would that not solve the problem?”

“Maybe she’s right,” I said, remembering with an effort that I always used to side with youth. When we sat down at table I looked forward to the steak; I was pretty hungry by that time. But when it was served, after a few fruitless attempts with knife and fork I had to ask for a chewing plate.

“The choice cuts are always especially tough,” my hostess explained.

“Tell me,” I said, “when did people begin to discard their teeth, and why?”

“Well,” the mayor said, “it started thirty years ago. Ford’s chewing plates have been advertised over television for at least thirty-five years. Once people have chewing plates, what use do they have for teeth? If you think of all the time people used to spend at the dentist’s, and for no good purpose, at that, you’ll have to admit we have made progress.”

“What became of all the dentists?” I asked.

“Many of them have been absorbed by the chewing-plate industry,” the mayor explained,

“Henry Ford VI gave them preference over all categories of skilled workers. Others turned to other occupations. Take Mr. Mark Gable, for instance,” the mayor said, pointing to a man sitting at my right, a man about fifty, and of great personal charm. “He had studied dentistry; today he is one of the most popular donors, and the richest man in the United States.”

“Oh,” I said. “What is his business?”

“Over one million boys and girls,” the mayor said “are his offspring in the United States, and the demand is still increasing.”

“That must keep you pretty busy, Mr. Gable,” I said, unable to think of anything else to say. Apparently, I had put my foot in it. Mrs. Gable blushed, and the mayor laughed.

“Mr. Gable is happily married,” the mayor said. “He donated the seed when he was twenty-four years old. The stock should last indefinitely, although the demand may not. The Surgeon General has ruled that no seed donated by anyone above twenty-five may be marketed in the United States.”

“Has there been legislation about this, giving the Surgeon General such authority?” I asked.

“No,” the mayor said. “Legislation was blocked by filibuster in the Senate. But the Surgeon General takes action under the Pure Food and Drug Act.”

“How can he do that?” I asked.

“There was a decision by the Supreme Court thirty years ago,” the mayor said, “that all ponder-able substance which is destined to enter through any orifice of the human body comes properly under that act. There was no legislation in this whole field whatsoever. Any woman who wishes to bear a child of her own husband is perfectly free to do so. Over fifteen per cent of the children are born in this manner; but most wives prefer to select a donor.”

“How do they make a choice?” I asked.

“Oh,” the mayor said, “the magazines are full of their pictures. You can see them on the screen at home and in the movies. There are fashions, of course. Today over seventy per cent of the ‘donated’ children are the offspring of the thirty-five most popular donors. Naturally, they’re expensive. Today a seed of Mr. Gable’s will bring a thousand dollars; but you can get seed from very good stock for a hundred. Fashions are bound to change, but long after Mr. Gable passes away his estate will still go on selling his seed to connoisseurs. It’s estimated that for several decades his estate will still take in more than thirty million dollars a year.”

“I have earned a very large sum of money,” said Mr. Gable, turning to me, “with very little work. And now I’m thinking of setting up a trust fund. I want to do something that will really contribute to the happiness of mankind; but it’s very difficult to know what to do with money. When Mr. Rosenblatt told me that you’d be here tonight I asked the mayor to invite me. I certainly would value your advice.”

“Would you intend to do anything for the advancement of science?” I asked.

“No,” Mark Gable said. “I believe scientific progress is too fast as it is.”

“I share your feeling about this point,” I said with the fervor of conviction, “but then why not do something about the retardation of scientific progress?”

“That I would very much like to do,” Mark Gable said, “but how do I go about it?”

“Well,” I said, “I think that shouldn’t be very difficult. As a matter of fact, I think it would be quite easy. You could set up a foundation, with an annual endowment of thirty million dollars. Research workers in need of funds could apply for grants, if they could make out a convincing case. Have ten committees, each composed of twelve scientists, appointed to pass on these applications. Take the most active scientists out of the laboratory and make them members of these committees. And the very best men in the field should be appointed as chairmen at salaries of fifty thousand dollars each. Also have about twenty prizes of one hundred thousand dollars each for the best scientific papers of the year. This is just about all you would have to do. Your lawyers could easily prepare a charter for the foundation. As a matter of fact, any of the National Science Foundation bills which were introduced in the Seventy-ninth and Eightieth Congresses could perfectly well serve as a model.”

“I think you had better explain to Mr. Gable why this foundation would in fact retard the progress of science,” said a bespectacled young man sitting at the far end of the table, whose name I didn’t get at the time of introduction. It should be obvious,” I said. “First of all, the best scientists would be removed from their laboratories and kept busy on committees passing on applications for funds. Secondly, the scientific workers in need of funds would concentrate on problems which were considered promising and were pretty certain to lead to publishable results. For a few years there might be a great increase in scientific output; but by going after the obvious, pretty soon science would dry out. Science would become something like a parlor game. Some things would be considered interesting, others not. There would be fashions. Those who followed the fashion would get grants. Those who wouldn’t would not, and pretty soon they would learn to follow the fashion, too.”

“Will you stay here with us?” Mark Gable said, turning to me, “and help me to set up such a foundation?”

“That I will gladly do, Mr. Gable,” I said. “We should be able to see within a few years whether the scheme works, and I’m certain that it will work. For a few years I could afford to stay here, and I could then still complete the three hundred years which were my original goal.”

“So you would want to go through with your plan rather than live out your life with us?” asked the mayor.

“Frankly, Mr. Mayor,” I said, “before Mr. Gable brought up the plan of the foundation, with science progressing at this rapid rate I was a little scared of being faced with further scientific progress two hundred years hence. But if Mr. Gable succeeds in stopping the progress of science and gives the art of living a chance to catch up, two hundred years hence the world should be a livable place. If Mr. Gable should not go through with his project, however, I would probably prefer to live out my life with you in the twenty-first century. How about it, Mr. Mayor?” I said. “Will you give me a job if I decide to stay?”

“You don’t need a job,” the mayor said. “You don’t seem to realize that you’re a very famous man.”

“How does being famous provide me with a livelihood?” I asked.

“In more ways than one,” the mayor said. “You could become a donor, for instance. Now that over half of our professional men are medical doctors, more and more wives want children with some measure of scientific ability.”

“But, Mr. Mayor,” I said, “I’m above twenty-five.”

“Of course,” the mayor said, “the seed would have to be marketed abroad. The rate of exchange is none too favorable,” he continued, “but even so you should be able to earn a comfortable living if you decided to stay.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Mayor,” I said. “The idea is a little novel for me; but I suppose I could get accustomed to it.”

“I’m sure you could,” said the mayor. “And incidentally, whenever you decide to get rid of that junk in your mouth, I shall be glad to get an appointment for you with Elihu Smith, the dental extractor. He took care of all our children.”

“I appreciate your kindness very much, Mr. Mayor,” I said, smiling politely and trying to hide a suddenly rising feeling of despair. All my life I have been scared of dentists and dental extractors, and somehow I suddenly became aware of the painful fact that it was not within the power of science to return me to the twentieth century.

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david-halim-blog · 5 years

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This may not be what you call “Unusual” or “Strange” but know that something is missing.

As we entered an entrance of our most convenient access to a nexus known only as Dream Library, a sign that we could hear but not see read, “Gentlemen must not, and others will not, read a book within that holds a respective name of one self individual concerning.” My darling, Valerie and I have come to such sanctuary of a dream library twice or trice before on other times that best flexed for both of us, today constitutes as what would be a first time together to this or any dream library. An excitement bubbled about between us, we could recount adventures we have had without company of one another, but now we have found a time to come together and make new experiences to keep a topical idea of converse when we come to a day of old age.

We have made an arrival to what can be called nothing short of a grandiose lobby, a truly theatrical spectacle of highly admirable architecture reaching higher than any skyscraper outside. Beautiful detail etched into every wall that climbed its own journey to a colossus and terrific piece of art that of an excellent masterful ceiling that arched and flew high over those of us wandering underneath. Valerie and I stopped in middle of such adroit and complicated design work in total awe. This library was created with a size no smaller than cosmic, but yet hardly anybody came within to wander.

I looked down to Valerie, a gorgeous rose within this marvelous spectacle of reality just outside grasps of those unknowing of this beauty that Valerie and I behold. “Dearest Valerie,” I inquired, “Don’t you agree to such an idea to let curiosity to run amuck?”

Valerie changed her gaze away to my eyes and jubilantly fitted a most darling smile to her face, “Why Franklin!” she exclaimed with a great excitement, “How could I resist an offer of this manner?”

We turned completely to each other, an exquisite design surrounded above and beyond our close proximity to one another. I answered to her exciful tone with my own eagerness, “Let us go read dreams of those who could only be described as terrible!”

I could not think that her face could show more excitement, but her expression makes me happy that I was wrong, “I love it!” Her high emotion of joy spread throughout her adorably small stature, “Shall we start with Albert Fish?”

My grin grew to my ears, “Even worse than he Valerie!”

Valerie’s voice rose in pitch out of every anticipated excitement that I induced with giddy suspence, “Who may he be?”

“Adolf Hitler my darling!” we reached a pinnacle of what could only be described as psychotic excitement,

She excitedly pulled ourselves to a row of truly endless books with a calligraphy “A” beside it, “Why did we wait!”

We hurried toward our crazy destination labeled with that sign of letter A. Every book within this gorgeous piece of art was organized in alphabetical order by first name, a name that most people would know any person in question. If any of you only know a last name, where we entered has a nexus within this nexus- you write a name you know and you are taken where that name is held. We have entered our aisle, A. Every book within this dream library holds size that could compete with an entire rib cage of a large man. Every book has a name but no book has an author. If a person a respective book is linked to is deceased, then there is nothing more to add to their book of dreams, if a person of a respective book still breathes then their book isn’t finished.

Valerie and I reached a point of this aisle where a subaisle of “Ad” can be found. Then Ada, Adb, Adc, continuing to a name we searched for, a name of a dream book of none other than infamous Adolf Hitler. But, his book was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t placed on a wrong shelf because every caretaker of this library never makes a human mistake. We have a little swell of disappointment within each of us, but we can look to find if Hitler’s book is elsewhere of this library.

We went to a library caretaker, a rather large man who could carry three books from this library in one hand, he stood twice as tall to that of my height and had a boldness in his hazel eyes. I asked of this giant of a man, “Sir, what is your name?”

He turned from his activity of shelving his giant dream books and addressed us, “Eiqab, sir” his voice bellowed down to our level, his voice rumbled oddly within my loins. Valerie was troubled by his sight and hid behind my stature so she may not gaze upon what she conceived as a terrifying height of an individual.

“Where may we find Adolf Hitler’s book?” chirped in comparison of his voice, “we went out to where his book should have been found, but it wasn’t there.”

Eiqab had a low look about him after we asked, perhaps he had not seen an odd interest of unconventional ideas as we held, or he could have been saddened by Valerie’s fear of his high elevation, or else it was another matter that gave him such a downcast look to his face, “Adolf Hitler’s dream book had been overdue for a greater portion of eight years,”

Valerie reflected a sorrowful look of her own, “What could have happened to it?”

“This I understand, who ever checked his book out last has created a religious cult around Adolf Hitler’s dream book and orchestrates rituals according to select dreams within his book.” Eiqab explained to us,

“Oh my,” I am amazed by this idea,

“What does this eight year late fee account to?” Valerie asked,

We were in a silent moment of thought from Eiqab until he came up with an answer for us, “An eight year fine would cost any party in question a with draw of three children under an age of five,”

I was astounded by this, “Three children under five?” I gave that a thought, it would be awful to have to collect a payment like this to pay a fine such as this. Would someone else’s dreams be worth so much if held onto for so long? Here is an extravagant thought I must ask this giant as we have his attention, “What would a collective fine be for anyone who goes to read a book with their name on it? What is their debt?”

A distressed look came about our good fellow Eiqab, he took a crudely imaged card from his coat pocket and handed it to me. He walked away without another word, I solemnly fear that our silly little ambitions may have troubled him.

I looked down at this rather bland and out of character card that I have been given, I haven’t begun to read it yet and there is a clear distasteful nuance about this card that could burn a person’s eyes if they took too long of sight to this repulsively crafted card of paper.

“What does it say?” Valerie peeked from behind my at what unsightly artifact I held,

I read its dark colored words out loud for her, “It says this, Any eyes of an individual who beholds in front of them a book holding their own name on its cover is burdened with a debt described as follows, furthermore entirety of this payment is due one week after charges are given to guilty party in question.” I read ahead to what anyone guilty of this act is tasked with if they partake in any such activity that breaks a single, solitary rule given to everyone who enters. I have never seen such a hard or cruel punishment in all my life! “Required payment is as follows, two gallons of prostitute blood, four anonymous stomachs filled with glass, a flask filled with liquid from human after birth, a filled blunt crafted from a page of “War and Peace”, and finally- ashes of any of this current guilty individual’s genitalia burned to ashes and collected in an envelope. Once entire payment is collected in one place at one time, every guilty party in question in denied access of our dream library for every remaining moment of their lives.”

Valerie and I were speechless where we stood in fearful awe of what we had read. “Would that mean I would have to cut off and burn my breast if I were to do that?” Valerie’s joy from a moment before could not be found, almost as if what was just put into sound and poured into her ears sapped every piece of joy away from her soul today.

“I suppose that is what’s implied.” My tone was no better than hers, “Would you like to leave? That was a terrible experience.”

Valerie’s face was awe struck with terror, “Yes.” She choked out,

I hate seeing her like this, I hate seeing her afraid of anything like this. I let go of Eiqab’s card, letting its terrible design leave our sight. I reached my arm over Valerie’s shoulder, I could feel every tremor she gave off as we walked to where we entered this expansive masterpiece of architecture. We walked under what was best described as a lasting statement to keep you in amazement even as you left, arches that swirled and twisted above its crowd that they watch over as crowds walk in and out. Valerie and I walked through to access where we came to enter this Dream Library faction, Valerie’s wardrobe. Valerie’s bedroom held an ambiance that strangely captured a greater peace and wonder than any dream library, where even though such dream libraries held designs and intricacies that could be found nowhere else; it seemed as though a greater amount of love and care and empathy could be found within Valerie’s humble room and in any extravagant dream library.

Eight months Later

I wish I had never laid my eyes of any dream library, I dare say I lust such an idea of a lack of existence of any dream library. Every extravagant detail within, every book from every outlet around where we call Earth, I wish, I desire them gone! Endless bookcases filled with visions and dreams and nightmares can return to their God forbidden home in hell! How can anyone endure a punishment like that of a dream library? Such a punishment that strikes fear into hearts of both a Mason and a common man. For that was whom a punishment expressed was deviously crafted for! So those who work any dark practice of Masonic religion could never ritualize any lucid dream they have. For anyone who could create their own altercations to a dream could change what is read another time, agreements could be changed and destroy realities of millions of people. This to which I will boldly state “I blame those cultists!’ For if not for them there would be peace within my fragile life! I wish such circumstances were never a possibility, I wish I could look into my archive of what was presented to me as I lay down in slumber; I could spend my leisure hours old and grey reading my dreams! Dreams telling of a future desired or a world wished for, visions that reveal amazing mysteries of our world and those we care deeply of, and nightmares of vivid abhorrent images that ought not be; all a colorful component to a despicable evil that prays on curious souls.

Valerie, such a beloved soul adored dearly by her friends and family, succumb to her own curiosity and read her own book. We had found a way around that detestable punishment by word of mouth, but her deepest personal curiosity overcame herself and was so swift I couldn’t stop her from that dire action of partaking with unto her eyes her dreams once again and never again. That punishment would devour a strong man’s soul, but it burned her soul and her souls ashes and those ashes ashes. I found her in her room in a terrible hysteria of tears and anxiety and regret. I hated every emotion that radiated from her eyes that day, I saw no motivation to live within her eyes and this brought mourning to my soul. Valerie never made any motion to make any requirement that her punishment asked of her. By week’s end, a librarian giant came and relieved her of her life and every sorrow and regret that accompanied it. I will never go into a dream library again, I wish to forget every sorrow it brought me, but every day I think of my darling beloved Valerie and I can’t think of another thought other than that she was taken from me by her own curiosity.

#writeblr #writeaway #writer #writers #writers on tumblr #my writing #writing #short story #dream #library

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pamphletstoinspire · 6 years

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Understanding The Bible - A Practical Guide To Each Book In The Bible - Part 25

Written by: PETER KREEFT

TWO

________

The Gospel of the Kingdom: Matthew’s Gospel

Matthew’s Gospel is the first book of the New Testament, not because it was written first—some of Paul’s epistles take that honor—but because it is the bridge between the Old and New Testaments.

Matthew’s main point and purpose in writing, the conclusion of his whole twenty-eight-chapter argument, the verdict that all 1,071 verses of evidence point to, is this: to prove to his fellow Jews that Jesus is the One to whom all the Jewish prophets point: the Messiah, the Christ, the King of the Jews, the founder of the Kingdom of God. Matthew’s Gospel is written by a Jew to Jews about the Jew who was crucified for claiming to be the King of the Jews.

Because Matthew was concerned about convincing the Jews, he uses far more Old Testament quotations and references than any other Gospel writer: forty direct quotations from the Old Testament and sixty other references to Jewish prophecies. Often these have the connecting phrase, “As it is written in the prophet . . .”, or, “This was done to fulfill what was spoken by the prophets . . .”

That’s also why Matthew refers nine times to Jesus as the “son of David”. The Messiah was to be the literal descendent of David.

That’s also why Matthew begins with Jesus’ genealogy, tracing Him back to David and then to Abraham, the first Jew, through His foster-father Joseph rather than through His only biological parent, Mary. In accordance with the rules of Jewish genealogy, it was the father’s lineage, not the mother’s, that counted legally for royalty.

That’s also why Matthew introduces Jesus’ public ministry with John the Baptist, who pointed to Jesus, thus fulfilling the essential task of all the prophets. John is the last and greatest prophet of the old kingdom, the Old Covenant. Yet the least member of the new Kingdom is to be greater than John, the greatest of the old; of that we are assured by the King Himself (Mt 11:11).

John was the first prophet Scripture mentions in more than four centuries. The Word prepared His public ministry with silence—not just thirty years of silence, but over four centuries of it. Then He broke the silence and spoke the Word—Himself.

John sums up the teaching of all the prophets in two words: “repent” and “believe”. Jesus repeats this two-word message many times. They are the two things we need to do to be saved, to enter God’s Kingdom, to be justified and accepted by God, to go to Heaven, to be freed from sin, to live God’s own life on earth, to be born again, to have the Holy Spirit live in us, to be in the state of grace, to become members of Christ’s Mystical Body. All ten of these expressions refer to the same thing, the unum necessarium, the “one thing needful” (Lk 10:42).

Matthew had been a tax collector for the Roman rulers. To approximate the way the Jews felt about tax collectors (publicans), imagine all the nasty lawyer jokes you have ever heard. Then add the way people feel about IRS auditors, politicians, dentists, umpires, and Mafia hit men. Tax collectors could set their own rates over and above what their Roman masters required. Most of them lined their own pockets with extra money extorted from their own people. Thus they were regarded as both thieves and traitors. No one could have been a more unlikely convert, certainly no one a more unlikely saint. Yet when Jesus called Matthew to follow Him, he immediately left his office and his job (Mt 9:9). He had probably already heard Jesus’ preaching and been moved by it. Jesus’ timing was perfect, as usual. So was His choice of men. Many of the greatest saints were made out of the greatest sinners.

The fact that Matthew was one of the inner circle of twelve apostles means that Matthew’s Gospel was written by a direct eyewitness to the events it describes (except for the narratives of Jesus’ birth).

Matthew’s Gospel has been called “the Gospel of the Kingdom”. He emphasizes the kingly aspects of Jesus, as Luke emphasizes His priestly ministry and John His prophetic wisdom. The term Kingdom appears fifty times, and Kingdom of heaven thirty-two times. What is this Kingdom?

It is His Church, the new Israel, where God is known and worshipped, where sins are not only forgiven but removed, where eternal life is poured out for all her citizens. This is not a political kingdom, but a spiritual one. But Matthew also clearly presents Jesus as establishing a visible institution, headed by visible men. Though the Church is spiritual, not political, she is also visible—just as you are spiritual (you have a soul), yet visible.

Christ made Peter the “Rock”, the foundation and ruler of His Church on earth (Mt 16:13-19) after Peter confessed the reality the Church has always most centrally confessed and taught: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus replied, “Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven.” For nearly twenty centuries the Church has always claimed that her message is from God, not from man, and therefore has divine authority. This claim is the fundamental scandal in the eyes of the world—the rock-hard offense that cannot be compromised. There is nothing she can do about it, for she is not the author of her message and has no authority to change it, only to deliver it, to announce it, to proclaim the good news, the “deposit of faith”. She interprets this data, but she does not edit it.

Jesus then changed Simon’s name to Peter (“Rock,” or “Rocky”). In Judaism, only God can change your name, for only God designed your identity and your name in the first place. (Your name is not just a label but signifies your real identity.) Thus God changed Abram’s name to Abraham and Jacob’s name to Israel. But if an Orthodox Jew legally changed his own name, he would be excommunicated. Jesus’ giving Simon a new name, then, was a claim to divinity.

After singling out Peter as the rock on which He would build His Church, He gave an incredible authority to this Church: “I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind (prohibit) on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose (permit) on earth will be loosed in heaven.” The actions of “binding” and “loosing” in Heaven are verbs in the perfect tense, meaning that when Peter binds or looses, it will already have been accomplished in Heaven—that is, Peter follows the will of God in Heaven and not the reverse.

Jesus’ last words in Matthew’s Gospel also speak of this kingly authority. It is called the “great commission”: “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all things that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Mt 28:18-19 NKJV, emphasis mine). Please note the four “alls”.

Matthew shows Jesus’ authority over death by His Resurrection.

Matthew shows Jesus’ authority over sin by His forgiving sins. Those who heard Him claim this authority immediately perceived it as a claim to divinity. They protested, “Who can forgive sins but God alone?” (Mk 2:7).

Matthew shows Jesus’ authority over nature by His miracles, especially the series often miracles he includes in chapters 8 and 9. These show His power over not only nature but disease and death as well, and even their ultimate source, the devil.

Chapter 12 is the turning point in Christ’s ministry. There the Pharisees reject Jesus as Messiah and even claim His power comes from the devil. After this, Christ begins to teach in parables, which His enemies do not understand; He begins to teach more to His own disciples and less in public; and He begins to emphasize His impending death.

Matthew interrupts his fast-moving narrative five times by long discourses, each ending with the set phrase “Jesus finished” (7:28; 13:53; 19:1; 26:1). These five discourses are: (1) the “Sermon on the Mount” (chaps. 5-7), (2) missionary instructions to the disciples (chap. 10), (3) parables of the Kingdom (chap. 13), (4) on the cost of discipleship (chap. 18), and (5) the Olivet discourse on the end of the world (chaps. 24-25).

This last discourse shows that the Gospel was written prior to A.D. 70 when Jerusalem was destroyed—an event Jesus

predicts in this discourse. The event is often used by modernist Scripture scholars to “prove” that Matthew was written after A.D. 70. The presupposition is that miracles such as predictive prophecy are impossible. But in that case Jesus’ prophecies have been faked, and Matthew is a liar. (The scholars are seldom forthright enough to say that!)

The Greatest Sermon Ever Preached

The most famous part of Matthew is surely the “Sermon on the Mount”. It can be printed on a single page and read in fifteen minutes. Yet its influence on the world has been greater than that of any other sermon ever preached.

The high moral standards of this sermon have often been thought to be so impractical and impossible that it has been interpreted as a morality only for an elite circle of saints and mystics. Or it has been thought to describe how we will live in Heaven, but not on earth. Finally, some consider this teaching an “interim ethic” (Albert Schweitzer’s term), which could be lived only for a short time before Christ’s Second Coming. In this scenario, only if we shared Christ’s belief that the end was near could we live in such a detached and unselfish way. This idea that true morality must be based on a false conception of history is self-refuting.

But what is the right answer? The problem is the extreme difficulty of “turning the other cheek” and “going the extra mile” and avoiding hate and lust as well as murder and adultery. There are two possible solutions.

The first solution is suggested by the incident with the rich young ruler in 19:16-22. The solution is that the law is deliberately too difficult for us. Jesus is not giving us a morality He thinks we can practice, but a morality He knows we can’t. For morality is not salvation. The moral law is not the good news, the operation; it is the bad news, the diagnosis, the X-ray. It is law, not grace; law correctly and purely interpreted.

The Pharisees had misinterpreted obedience to the moral law as a performance, as external behavior. And they obeyed it to the letter. But Jesus says that God demands more, not less, than the strict observances of the Pharisees; He demands a pure heart. For God is a lover, not a machine. He wants not just behavior of a certain kind, but persons of a certain kind, persons who are “perfect, as your Father in heaven is perfect” (5:48). The law shows us what we must do and can’t do. Then and only then are we in the market for grace and salvation.

The second answer is that although we cannot, God can accomplish this transformation in us. Matthew 5 to 7, like 1 Corinthians 13, describes the love-life that is natural to God, not to us. It is supernatural to us. But it is what starts to happen in us when Christ gets inside.

Many modern readers dislike Matthew’s Gospel because of its hard sayings, its warnings against riches and worldliness, its announcement of divine justice and judgment, and its demand for good works. If we dislike this book, then this is precisely the book we need most. For we need to know the whole Gospel. It is precisely those aspects of it that we still find repellent and try to avoid that we need most—not those we already understand and love.

Perhaps the most challenging passage in the whole Bible for the Christian is one of Jesus’ last sayings before His trial and death, taken from the parable of the Last Judgment (25:31-46). It ends with these thought-provoking words: “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me” (v. 40). If a thousand Christians really believed that and lived accordingly, the next century would be shaped by a thousand saints.

#understanding the bible

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