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mfingenius · 4 years

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The ‘Accio’ miracle

Trigger Warnings: very brief mention of self harm and addiction

Draco keeps secrets.

He’s always prided himself in it, knows there’s no one who’s better at it than him; he kept his father’s secrets, first, thirteen and feeling like he was being let into the world of the elite, where people knew things other witches and wizards didn’t. Then, he kept his mother’s secrets; the quiet contempt no one seemed to see, the anxiousness that ate at her day by day because of things Draco didn’t quite understand, things he wasn’t told, not yet, not even though his father had called him a man.

Third, he kept the Dark Lord’s secrets; he remembers the day they came into his home, the Dark Lord and his cult of followers, each crueler and more heartless than the last, and Draco had been fifteen and terrified, and he didn’t feel like a man, not at all, he’d felt like a child. He’d heard the things they planned, seen the things they did, and he’d kept his mouth shut. He thinks he’d died a little, then; the first time he’d heard someone scream under a Crucio was the first time he realized he knew nothing at all, that the glory and the knowledge he thought were his, what he thought the cause he was fighting for entailed, was all wrong.

He was all wrong.

He still said nothing.

Fourth, he keeps his own secrets; or he tries to, at least. When he’s sixteen and the name Harry James Potter appears across his ribcage in horrible handwriting, he stays locked in his bathroom for three hours, the world crashing down around him; it is the summer before sixth year, and he just – he just needs to make it to September first without anyone noticing, and that’s all. He’s off to Hogwarts, and he can fuck off and never come back. For now, however – for now, well, he’s trapped in a place that used to be his childhood home but is now unrecognizable, filled with people who will not hesitate to kill him – or worse, and Draco knows what they’re capable of, he does, he’s seen them – if they find out who his soulmate is.

In that moment, Draco hates Potter, truly and overwhelmingly hates him, because he’s not going to get out of here, he’s not going to survive this if anyone finds out. The older Death Eaters already hurt him for fun, and he’s done nothing. After this, they’re going to kill him.

So he does what he has to; he draws a Difindo across the name, over and over until it is unrecognizable, and the pain of it is agonizing, but he shoves a towel between his teeth and bears his way through it; it gives him time, an excuse not to come out of his rooms if anyone comes looking for him – they don’t - but when the skin heals, the name is right there, readable over the scars, and Draco has to sit and just breathe, because this can’t be happening.

After that, he does the next best thing; he wears layers upon layers, skin-tight shirts underneath loose robes so no one will notice, keeps the mark hidden, knows he only needs to get through the summer.

And he almost succeeds. The last day of July – Potter's birthday, Draco knows – the Dark Lord tells him he’s taking the Mark; it’s supposed to be an honor, Draco knows, he can see the pride in his father’s eyes, but the only thing he feels is dread.

He doesn’t want the Dark Mark.

“Shirt off,” the Dark Lord hisses, and Draco’s blood runs cold; he knows it is usual for people to take the Dark Mark shirtless; it’s a metaphor, he thinks, something about his mind and body belonging to the Dark Lord, but for him it’ll be his doom.

Slowly, very slowly, he begins unbuttoning his robes.

Seven years later

“Anything yet?” Ron asks, stepping into their office when two bags of Chinese food; there’s a muggle place two blocks away from the ministry that makes the best spring rolls in the world, and they always eat from there when they’re working on a tough case.

“No,” Harry says, gratefully taking the box that Ron offers him. “Fuck, this smells delicious.”

Ron nods. “Got extra spring rolls for you.”

Harry groans a muffled ‘thank you’, already devouring the fried rice; he hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and he’s starving. He welcomes the taste of salty, fried food, and then looks back to the surveillance footage they’re watching. They’ve been investigating the death of a muggle military general, because he had no apparent cause of death to muggles – an Avada Kedavra - and because traces of magic were found at the scene.

“There he is, look at that.” Harry and Ron lean forward at the same time, eyes narrowing at the grainy footage; they'd ‘confiscated’ it from the Muggle Police – better to avoid unwanted questions when they saw it – but they’re used to how well one can see surveillance charms, so this is undoubtably a step down.

“What is he doing?” Harry asks, frowning; Edward Thomas can be seen drinking alone in the hotel bar; he’d be found in his hotel room, but they’ve already scanned the elevator and hall tapes and nothing has come up, so they’re working their way back.

He’s speaking to the man beside him, whose face they can’t see because his back is to the camera. Harry, however, can see Thomas’s face, and he looks – evidently interested. Harry thinks he might be flirting. The other man is evidently not interested, because he turns away, but Thomas reaches out to harshly grab the other man by the arm; the man steps back, and they struggle for a moment before he manages to break himself free, finally turning towards the camera to leave.

“Holy fucking shit,” Ron says, pausing the footage and placing his takeout box on the table, moving closer. “Is that Malfoy?”

Harry nods numbly.

“Holy shit,” he echoes, and continues to stare at the furious, cool face of his soulmate.

“I can stay on the case,” Harry insists. As a policy, the Ministry doesn’t allow an Auror to work any case where their soulmate is involved, but Harry thinks these are special circumstances.

No one’s seen Malfoy in years, for one. He went missing before their sixth year – two years of being a prisoner at the manor, Harry knows – and though he appeared briefly, it was only long enough for the healers at St. Mungo’s to take a look at him. He disappeared again afterwards, as soon as he was discharged, and hasn’t been seen or heard from in five years.

Secondly, they’d finished watching the surveillance footage, and Thomas had left for his room after talking to Malfoy, which means he was most likely the last person to see their murder victim alive.

“You cannot be objective about your soulmate, Potter,” Robards says.

Harry would’ve loved not to tell him about this new development in the case, but he’d walked in while Ron and Harry were discussing it, so they’d had to.

“Sir, Malfoy and I are hardly soulmates,” Harry argues. “We haven’t spoken in five years!”

Robards looks at him calculatingly; Harry is his best Auror, and him and Ron work best together. Taking him off the case is a bad decision and he knows it, but if he doesn’t and something goes wrong because of Harry being stupid about Malfoy, it’ll be on him.

“Fine,” he says, finally. “You can stay on the case. Find me Malfoy, find me our murderer, and you do not stay alone with him at any point. If I hear you’ve messed something up because you’ve gone and done something more reckless than usual, I swear I'll fire you, Potter, even if the Minister himself tells me not to.”

Harry nods.

Malfoy opens the door, takes a look at them, and tries to close it again. Harry slaps his hand against the door to stop him, and Malfoy sighs, rolling his eyes and opening the door again, resigned.

“Potter, Weasley. What are you doing here?”

“Edward Thomas was murdered three nights ago,” Harry says; he thinks one of them should have something more to say; they are soulmates, after all. He expected Malfoy to ask how they had found him, five years after leaving the Wizarding World without a trace. Harry sort of wants to know where Malfoy has been, wonders if he’s been here, in muggle St. Rémy de Provence, the entire time, but he is trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care about Malfoy. It's not working; he’s looking at him and there’s an itch just under his skin that he can’t quite get rid of. “And you were the last person to see him alive.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Malfoy says.

Ron shows him a picture of Thomas, and Malfoy’s eyebrow raises marginally.

“Oh,” Malfoy says. “Him.”

“Yes, him,” Ron says, unimpressed. “You are a witness in our murder investigation, Malfoy, and we’d like you to come into the Ministry for an interview.”

“No, thank you,” Malfoy says politely. “We’re in France, which means you have no jurisdiction. You can’t make me.”

“You’re an English wizard,” Harry says, irritated. Malfoy hasn’t changed one bit. “We could bring you in under-”

“Subsection 1359?” Malfoy finishes for him smugly. “That law only applies to active suspects, Potter, and, as you’ve told it, I’m not one.”

“We could make you one,” Harry says. It’s less than moral, and not something Harry would do, not really, but the arrogant look Malfoy keeps giving him is pissing him off. “We know you left the bar before he did, but you could’ve hired someone to kill him.”

Malfoy cocks an eyebrow. “Oh? With what money?”

“The Malfoy fortunes weren’t seized after the war,” Harry says.

“Right.” Malfoy nods. “Except I’m not a Malfoy anymore.”

Harry opens his mouth to argue, and then shuts it again. “What?”

Malfoy – or, well, not Malfoy – opens his hands in a wide gesture. “Emancipated myself from my parents as soon as my trial was over, Potter, and I haven’t done magic in years. I’m officially a muggle. I have a muggle birth certificate, a passport – I'm Monéguasque, by the way, and yes, I chose it just because I like the way it sounds – and even social security and a job. I’m a muggle.”

“What?” Harry demands, because he can’t quite wrap his head around it; Malfoy as a – as a non Malfoy? Malfoy as a muggle?

“Yes,” Malfoy says. “So you can leave me alone.”

And he closes the door on their face.

“Well,” Ron says, awkwardly. “That was – not good.”

“You don’t seem very surprised,” Harry says, mildly, when he and Ron – mostly Harry – have finished their rant about Malfoy.

“Well,” Hermione says, shifting on the sofa. “I knew all of this.”

“What?” Harry and Ron ask.

Hermione sighs and puts down the box of Greek takeout she’d been eating.

“He asked for my help, when the war ended,” she confesses. “I got him the muggle birth certificate, the passport, the school records, all of it. I had help, obviously. Luna was very helpful, unexpectedly. Turns out her father used to be a barrister, and she-”

“Why would you help him?” Harry asks. Then, “Why would he need help?”

“You’ve made him practically untouchable, I hope you know,” Ron says to his wife, kissing her cheek and reaching for another box of takeout. “It’s made our case a thousand times harder.”

“Thank you,” Hermione says, smugly. “That was the point.” She turns to Harry. “Harry, I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but Draco spent two years as Voldemort’s prisoner because he is your soulmate. He lied for us in the manor. He – understandably, I might add – wanted a break from the wizarding world, he asked for my help, and I said yes. It was decent.”

Harry knows, logically, that she is right; that he shouldn’t be as angry as he is about finding out Malfoy has made a successful life for himself in France, and, if he’s honest, he’s not entirely sure why he’s angry.

Maybe – well, a tiny bit of Harry had been excited about knowing who his soulmate was since he was told about them when he was eleven, and, after getting through the initial shock of having Malfoy’s name on his ribcage, he’d hoped they could be – normal, for once.

He should’ve known better; nothing between them is ever simple.

After Malfoy had lied for him in the manor – and Harry knows Malfoy knows it was him, because they could’ve recognized each other blindfolded and with their hands tied simply by the feeling of it – Harry had been stupid enough to think that, since the war was over, now came the easy part.

The part he deserved.

And then Malfoy had disappeared without another word, and Harry had been left without a soulmate and with the entirety of the Wizarding World expecting him to know why his soulmate had left, where he’d gone to, and when he and Harry would get together.

It had been stressful.

“Why did you never mention it?” he asks, finally, and Hermione gives him a knowing look that Harry doesn’t quite understand.

“You would’ve looked for him.”

“I wouldn’t have!”

“Harry,” Hermione says sensibly. “The first year after the war – you were a mess.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not that it’s wrong! Or that it wasn’t understandable, or anything, it’s just-” she exhales, shaking her head, and continues quietly, sorrowful. “We all were. All of us, we were all – Malfoy was, too. You did not see him - I spent only a week visiting him in St. Mungo’s, and it was like he was still trapped in that house. I cannot imagine what it must’ve taken for him to move forward. If you’d gotten together then, you would’ve broken up.”

Harry clenches his jaw and looks away, but he knows she’s right; he barely remembers the year after the war, drowned in a haze of alcohol and sex and potions and clubs and anything that could make him feel even a little better for a second.

Hermione, though looking better from the outside, had been just as bad; she’d thrown herself into her work in a way that had meant she’d needed potions to keep up, and had had a brief addiction to a wizarding version of Adderall, five times as potent. She had spent almost an entire year struggling to stop after Ron and Harry had found out. There’s too much to fix, she’d said, frustrated. I can’t do it any other way.

Ron had been, surprisingly, the least self-destructive of them; he’d spent the first three months in bed, without moving at all, barely eating, and without speaking to anyone. He’d begun getting better after that – he’d seen a mind healer, and had later dragged Hermione and Harry with him, too – and now, thankfully, they’re all successful, functional people.

None of them forget, though.

Harry was surrounded by people who’d gone through what he did, by people who somewhat understood.

He couldn't imagine Malfoy having to live through it in the muggle world, with no one who could understand why he couldn’t sleep at night, why he got lost in his own head.

“I’m going to talk to him again,” he says stubbornly.

Hermione’s smile is wry. “I know you are.”

“Holy shit,” Malfoy jumps when he walks out of his apartment and finds Harry standing there, leaning against the wall. “Don’t you know how to knock, Potter?”

“Would you have opened the door?” Harry asks with a raised eyebrow.

Malfoy glares at him. “If someone won’t open the door for you, the polite thing to do is leave.”

Harry ignores him. “Are you a doctor?”

Malfoy is wearing lavender scrubs, with a navy blue Henley underneath thick white shoes.

“Nurse,” Malfoy corrects, and then seems surprised at himself for having answered. He crosses his arms across his chest defensively. “I’m a neonatal nurse at the hospital.”

“Is it far?”

Malfoy shakes his head mutely.

“I’ll walk you,” Harry offers. Malfoy looks surprised and more than a little bit suspicious, but he chews on his lower lip and nods. Harry lets Malfoy lead the way, and, together, silently, they walk towards the hospital where Malfoy works.

St. Remy de Provence is unexpectedly beautiful; it’s small, and much quieter than Harry’s used to – magical London is busy and loud on the best of days – but it’s cozy, and Malfoy looks truly peaceful.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” Malfoy asks finally, quietly. “I’m not going to help you with your case.”

“I don’t have a case anymore.” Harry shrugs. “I was transferred.”

He’d gone to Robards after he’d seen Malfoy, and had admitted he couldn’t work the case. Robards had already another team waiting.

Malfoy gives a humorless smile. “Should I be expecting another Auror at my door soon, then?”

Harry shakes his head. “I told them you didn’t know anything.”

Malfoy blinks, stunned for a second, and then mutters a quiet ‘thank you’.

They continue walking in silence, and then Harry decides to simply say it.

“I want you to come back.” Malfoy immediately stiffens, and Harry can see he is going to refuse outright, which is why he continues quickly. “It doesn’t have to be right now. I don’t mean to pressure you, and I know you - I know you’ve been dealing with – well, everything, like the rest of us, but – it's not the same without you.”

He wishes he were lying, but he’s not; he’d been unable to sleep the night before, and had, very slowly, very painfully, realized that he’s actually missed Malfoy, all this time. Sixth year without him was worse than ever, and through being on the run, Harry had, secretly, wondered where he was, all the time. He'd checked every day, nearly every hour, his soulmark with Draco’s name in his handwriting, only to make sure that it was still inked black and not a faded grey, to know he wasn’t dead.

Seeing him at the manor – and that is not a memory Harry will ever forget. Seeing Bellatrix dragging him forward with a chain wrapped around his neck had sent blinding fury through Harry – had been a breath of fresh air and relief where there was none, if only for a few seconds. Losing him again so shortly after, when he’d disappeared after being discharged, had been unbearable, even on top of everything else.

“I can’t,” Malfoy whispers.

“What?”

“I can’t.” Malfoy clears his throat, looks away. “I meant it when I said I was a muggle, Potter. I – we're soulmates, and I’ve missed you for some – some reason-” he lets out a disbelieving laugh and shakes his head. “I can’t do magic.”

Harry cannot speak. Then, “What?”

“I can’t do magic anymore,” Malfoy says, louder. “When I was – there - my wand was taken away, and I spent - I spent two years without being able to even touch a wand, let alone do any magic, and – afterwards, I was so – so terrified of them I couldn’t bring myself to grab one.”

“Have you tried?”

Malfoy gives him a look. “Obviously. My therapist – she's a muggle, so I had to come up with some pretty creative metaphors, and I think she knows I'm lying to her – she suggested I try to get more comfortable to eventually start doing it again. I worked on it, and I’m not – afraid anymore, not really, I can be around wands, but - I can’t do magic. I’ve tried, even with the simplest of spells, and I can’t. She says – it's just trauma, I know that, but I can’t.”

Harry stays quiet; he cannot imagine not being able to do magic. It had been one of the few things that got him through everything after the war, and having it taken away – well, fuck.

“I’m sorry,” he says uselessly.

Malfoy gives a tense shrug. “I’ve gotten used to it. But I can’t go back.”

“I-”

“I have to go in.” Malfoy gestures to the big hospital on their right. “I’ll... see you later?”

Harry nods, and watches as Malfoy walks away.

“This is crossing so many lines,” Hermione had said, when Harry had told her of his plan.

Harry is aware he is crossing many, many lines, but he is now outside of Malfoy’s door, so he cannot back down.

He knocks, and, a few seconds later, the door opens; Malfoy seems to have just woken up – and it’s nearly four in the afternoon, but Harry doesn’t know what kind of shifts he works at the hospital, so he’s not judging him too much – and blinks owlishly at him for a few seconds before sliding his gaze to the person standing next to Harry.

“Potter,” he says, very slowly. “What have you done?”

“This is Healer Bo,” Harry says, placing his hand on Malfoy’s door to stop him from – predictably – slamming the door on their faces. Healer Bo is a little old man with dark, greying hair, shorter than both of them but also probably smarter than them combined. “I know you’ve said your therapist thinks it’s trauma, but what if it’s something different?”

“Potter.” And oh, okay, Malfoy is furious, as is evident by the quickly blooming color on his face. “I am not some victim you can focus your – your hero complex on. I told you those things to explain, not to have you turn me into some pet project!”

“That’s not what I'm doing!” Harry defends. “I’m only trying to help you-”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“Well, deal with it, you git, because we are soulmates and I want to help you, and I want you to come back, and I want you to be able to do magic because you deserve it!”

“So you just want me to uproot my entire life for you?” Malfoy demands. “Why don’t you come to the muggle world instead of setting me up with a healer appointment I didn’t ask for? He’s not going to be able to do anything!”

“How do you know that?” Harry pushes. “Your therapist is muggle, Malfoy-”

“Don’t call me that, I’m not-”

“Draco, you can’t have told her everything, so her diagnosis can’t be reliable-”

“Well, too bad! I’m not letting some random healer you’ve brought to my door run tests on me-”

“I’ve already run them,” Healer Bo says calmly. “Your magical core is damaged.”

Silence.

“What?” Draco asks, fragile.

“It could be trauma, as well, but it’s not only that,” Healer Bo explains. “Your magical core is damaged. I need you to come into my office so I can run some more tests.”

Harry spreads his hands in an ‘I told you so’ gesture, and Draco throws balled socks at him.

“What did he say?” Harry asks anxiously, standing up as soon as Malfoy comes out the door, Healer Bo following close behind him. “What did you say? What’s wrong?”

Healer Bo and Draco share a look.

“I told you he frets,” Draco tells him.

“You were right,” Healer Bo agrees solemnly, and before Harry can be properly offended, he continues. “Draco's magical core is damaged because of Crucio.”

“That can happen?” Harry asks, frowning.

“That’s what Crucio does,” Healer Bo says. “It cracks one’s magical core. It’s why it feels like everything is burning. If it’s done enough, the magical core can be damaged irreparably.”

Harry holds his breath. “Is - Draco’s-”

“No,” Healer Bo says; Draco can complain all he likes, but he’s beaming beside Healer Bo. “It’s not irreparably damaged. It will be a long process, however. You’ll both need to be patient.”

They both nod, quickly, and Harry asks, “Do I – should I do something?”

“Support your soulmate,” Healer Bo says simply. Draco’s cheeks turn red, but Harry nods seriously. He’ll do anything he can. “I’ve already given Draco the Potions he’ll need to be taking, and we will have to perform Healing spells once every two days. You can either come in here, or I can send one of my interns-”

“We’ll come in,” Harry says immediately; he assumes Bo’s interns are good – Bo is, after all, one of the highest praised healers in the world – but he wants Bo to do it. He won’t trust anyone else with his soulmate.

“Alright,” Bo says. “I’ll see you in two days.”

“What are you thinking about?” Harry had taken Draco out for a late lunch; they’re at the only restaurant reporters never find Harry, a tiny Indian takeout place. The lady who runs it loves Harry, so she never calls the reporters, and doesn’t allow anyone else to call them, either. He’d figured Draco wouldn’t want to be in a Prophet article on his first day back.

“A lot of things,” Draco admits. “The possibility of getting my magic back. The fact that I didn’t quit the hospital before we left, which means that technically I have a shift in twenty minutes, which I figure I’m not going to make. The fact that I have nowhere to live and no money to get a place to live-”

“Come live with me,” Harry blurts. He’s never had the best brain-to-mouth filter.

“What?”

“Live with me,” he repeats. “I’ve - a flat. I moved out of Grimmauld place, it was too – too many memories, but – we can live together, and – if you want to leave, later, I’ll let you, but – well, I'd like it if you stayed.”

Draco stares at him for a moment, and then looks away, a pink flush spreading across his cheeks. “Alright.”

Harry can’t help but grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The recovery of Draco’s magical core is, as the healer had said, slow. Healer Bo tells them that it really helps that they’re together, because being far from one’s soulmate can be greatly stressful, and Harry is glad to be doing what he can. Apart from that, they settle into Harry’s flat quite nicely.

Harry refuses to sleep on the couch – he was about to offer, but then Draco demanded it, so Harry would be damned before he gave up his bed – and Draco refuses to not sleep in the biggest bed available, so they share Harry’s bed, which Harry thinks should feel weird, but it doesn’t.

It feels... right. Like home, sort of.

Time passes much quicker than it used to, without Draco; Harry takes a year leave from the Aurors so he can dedicate, fully, to his soulmate. Draco gets reintegrated to the magical world slowly, and though he cannot do magic, he’s evidently glad to be back.

They even get pets – a fat kneazle that they call Morgana and a huge black crup that they call Godric – and pretty much build their life together. Draco opens a bakery – and really, of all things Harry imagined Draco doing, this was not one of them – and it turns out that Muggle treats are not widely known in the wizarding world, and they are widely liked, once Draco starts selling them. Because he runs the place, he only works during the morning, which means they get to spend their afternoons lounging together in their flat, watching the telly or teasing each other.

“Potter, I swear to Merlin,” Draco growls, glaring tightly at Harry, who’s holding his favorite mug as high as he can reach.

“I’ll give it to you,” Harry tells him. “As soon as you admit that you’re the one who got our reservation wrong.”

“I did not! You said seven!”

“I told you, a thousand times, that our reservation was at six!”

“No, you didn’t!”

Turns out, being soulmates didn’t really stop their fighting, but it’s different now. Harry is rarely truly angry while they argue, unlike before, and Draco is the same way.

“Yes, I did!”

“No you bloody didn’t!” Draco snaps. “Give me my mug back right now, or I’ll - I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Harry asks smugly. “What will you do to me, Draco?”

Draco glares at him, ears red in his anger, and then grabs Harry’s wand off the counter and yells, ‘Accio’.

The mug flies straight from Harry’s hand into Draco’s. They’re both so surprised it slips from his hands, shattering on the floor.

Neither of them care.

“Did I just-”

“Did you just-”

They look at each other for a moment, before they both break into the biggest grins imaginable. Harry laughs and pulls him in for a tight hug, lifting him and spinning around in their kitchen, miraculously not stepping on any shards of ceramic.

“You just did magic, Draco!” Harry practically yells, not putting him down. “Magic!”

“I did!” Draco’s ecstatic, over the moon, grin wider than Harry’s ever seen. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

And he grabs Harry’s face roughly and pulls him in for a deep kiss.

They both freeze momentarily, and Harry puts him down.

“I’m sorry,” Draco begins immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - I didn’t - I shouldn’t have-”

Harry pulls him in for another kiss, deeper this time, and pulls him closer, grabbing his hips.

“Don’t apologize,” he pleads. “I’ve been wanting to do that for ages.”

“You have?” Draco sounds surprised.

“Yes,” Harry says, and he kisses him again. Draco wraps his arms around his neck, and Harry lifts him again, sitting him in their kitchen counter, and he can’t get enough, he can’t stop, he can’t.

When they both pull away to breathe – a long, long time later – Harry cannot stop grinning at him.

“I love you,” he says. “Soulmate.”

Draco’s grin is the only thing Harry wants to see for the rest of his life.

“I love you, too,” he says, rubbing their noses together sweetly. “Soulmate.”

And Harry kisses him again, and he thinks that if everything he had to go through was leading to this moment, he’d do it all again, a thousand times, however many times it was necessary, because this? This is everything.

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vln-vibes · 4 years

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Unwanted, Unreliable, Unstoppable

Yeah so this thing is crazy long so I’m dividing it into three parts. Anyways this is very self indulgent but I hope you like the content.

Summary: They were tired, they were so so tired. This fight has been going on long enough, this war was getting harder and harder to fight as the years went on but no one ever helped; Not the citizens of Paris, not the French government and certainly not the Justice League. But what is they received help from a man that was practically a myth himself; the Batman. Is this exactly what the Miraculous Team needs or will this lead to their falling from grace?

🔴⚫🔴⚫🔴⚫🔴⚫🔴⚫🔴⚫

“I’m so tired of this!” Ladybug scratched at her head feverishly. Currently she was standing at the second most top of the Eiffel Tower with her team: Chat Noir, Ryuuko and Viperion.

“I know m’lady” Chat sighed, letting his cheerful mask take a break as he stood next to her, leaning into the railings.

“Those— Those assholes that call themselves the Justice League just keep ignoring us; it's like they just don’t give a shit about us” Viperion rolled his eyes. They had tried, time and time again, to get help from older, more experienced heroes with their situation in Paris; they were fucking teenagers thrust into an adult’s war. One they didn’t even care for anymore.

“They don’t care for Paris… Why should we?” Ryuuko spoke up, cold fury clear in her eyes. “If they cannot find the need to handle the Paris situation themselves then why must we be the ones to? No one even appreciates out efforts, its like they just want us to have everything handled”

It was true.

At first the Parisians praised the Dynamic Duo, Ladybug and Chat Noir, for stepping up and saving the city from the terrifying Akumas they had no way of handling. They even got the heroes to help out with things not in their jurisdiction; suddenly any crime, as minor or major as it could get, required their attention, any fire could not be handled by the fire department alone, schools needed the heroes to make guest appearances, they were wanted in television interviews, everyone needed to know everything about them. It was fine, for a while, they didn’t mind helping out.

Then Heroes’ Day happened.

Suddenly they were pathetic.

If they were supposed to be so strong then how come other heroes had to come to help? It had never occurred to them that they were chosen by Ladybug and Chat Noir, all they knew was that the duo was not as strong as they once believed.

After all it was just one criminal,

How hard could it be?

Sometimes, Ladybug wishes, she had just let Alya keep the stupid earrings. She was sure the girl would have taken them immediately at the time but, given her brashness and temperamental nature, she would have already lost to Hawkmoth.

Plus she didn’t blame the small kwami or even Master Fu all that much: She resented the man but still respected him very much and knew he went through the same thing as she did at an even younger age with absolutely no way out. She was aware that if she truly wanted to all she could do was just give the earrings to someone else or even hand them over. But Ladybug was stubborn and the earrings were her’s now, just like the ring was Chat’s, the choker was Ryuuko’s and the bangle was Viperion’s.

That didn’t mean this battle was theirs to fight.

“... Why don’t we leave?” Viperion asked, disturbing their silence. The trio looked at him curiously, as though he broke an unspoken rule.

“Why would we?” Ladybug responded, knowing fully well that Viperion didn’t tend to speak up unless he was certain of his words.

“Because they’re running us dry, this city is killing us” Viperion raised his voice, aware that they could already, “Adrien and Kagami are living shitty home lives with abusive assholes that want to call themselves parents. Mari, you’re being burdened with too much responsibility by that bitch Bustier and that class full of sheep! I hate seeing you all kill yourselves for people that will never appreciate it because they think they’re above it!”

At the end of his rant Viperion’s eyes were nearly glowing, his breathing a bit more rough than normal, looking away from his teammates knowing he stepped too far. “Sorry, but I don’t want my friends to die on me when I can do something to stop it”

Ryuuko, Chat Noir and Ladybug understood where he was coming from but it was like a slap on the face, a reminder of what civilian life was like for them. Ryuuko could feel the sting coming from her leg, where mother had hit with her shinai after failing to be in proper form. Chat Noir still felt the ache of having to do photoshoots all day and then staying up at night to have to do his make-up work; not that his father cared with his disregard of child labor laws. Ladybug still had some redness from bruises Alya had caused by tripping her on her way to class.

“... Okay so these are the sad gang hours” the group turned back seeing Roter Fochs land, Roi Singe and Pegasus landing behind them. The Parisians were really only aware of ‘The Core Four’ as they’d rather have some aces up their sleeves; not that the three were ready to confront the Parisian backlash just yet. They didn’t want to deal with anymore bullshit than they had to in their civilian lives.

“Is everything alright? Or is it just Life™?” Roi Singe asked, leaning onto his bo-staff next to Viperion.

“It takes 60 euroes to go to therapy but no money to say it just be like that sometimes” Roter Fochs shrugged, much to the dismay of Viperion, Roi Singe and Pegasus.

“Can you please stop joking about your mental health” Pegasus found himself groaning. A small hovering screen appeared next to him, a cowboy hat firmly attached to the top with an antenna sticking out.

“Yes studies show that LGBT youth have a higher percentage to suffer from depression, some even to the point that they𑁋”

“Thanks for the concern CowBot but, really, I’m fine; let me have my fun” Roter softly tapped the little robot. It was nice having people, well sentient beings, still concerned with his well being.

Suddenly the group tensed, their artificial ears and enhanced senses picking up a light clink, the sound of something quickly winding up followed. Two male figures landed in front of them, quickly surrounded by the Parisians. The taller one of the two quipped:

“Well aren’t you a merry bunch”

“Who are you and why are you here?” Chat Noir kept an icy cold edge to his voice, emulating how his father would talk to employees that weren’t Natalie.

“They’re not Akumas, no magic radiating off of them” Ladybug analyzed, looking closely at the duo but she couldn’t recognize them at all. The male that had spoken had a lean and relatively tall body, he couldn’t be more than four years older than her team, so around his late teens early twenties. He had long raven hair, his bangs framing his face perfectly, even in the moonlight she could tell he had a pale complexion though the black domino mask he sported helped hide most of it and his eyes. His uniform wasn’t one she recognized from any superhero from the League; black kevlar, if she had to guess, made up nearly the entirety of his suit, from his boots, pants and even gauntlets, heck she wouldn’t be surprised if his cape was bulletproof. One of the only things to bring color was his crimson chest piece, with two belts across it holding up a golden bird symbol, the same one on his canary utility belt.

“Tt, we just came here to talk” the smaller male scoffed, his posture not looking any more tense or relaxed, just attentive. His build was also lean like his taller partner though she could tell his body would be able to build more muscles with his broader shoulders. She assumed they were around the same age, his jawline defined but not to the same extent an adult’s would be. His hair seemed almost darker than that of his partner’s and was slicked back though maintaining most of its volume, a naturally tan skin was found beneath a green domino mask, much like his companion’s. His uniform was definitely more colorful, almost as if he was meant to garner attention(and boy wasn’t that concerning); black seemed to be the main color in his suit with the outer cape, pants and sleeves being that color, ruby red tunic that went beyond his belt with dandelion accents on its edges and a golden R over his heart, pine boots and gauntlets matching the shade of his mask with dandelion yellow covering the inside of his cape and hood as well as his own utility belt.

She had no clue who they were.

“And why should we trust you?”

“Because we don’t like the Justice League any more than you do”

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One Week Ago

“Hey B, we found something interesting while reading the League’s data” Barbara Gordon’s voice echoed in the BatCave. Currently she and Tim were doing the weekly check-in on the League, something those heroes never seemed to notice. Not that they were surprised.

“What did you find?” Bruce asked, telling Duke and Damian to take a break from combat training while he did.

“There’s an alarming amount of distress calls from France, specifically Paris, that the League has been either ignoring or not receiving” Tim showed him the graph of all the history, going back at least three years closer. It was small at first, once every two months at the beginning, once a month when the second year began, every two weeks bordering on weekly near the end of it, by the start of the third it was daily until some time three months ago they just stopped.

Well wasn’t that cause for concern?

“Can we get any audio of the calls?” Bruce’s detective side coming up as Barbara was able to bring up a few that hadn’t been automatically deleted by the Justice League’s system. The first one was the very first from three years ago, a video call.

“Uh hello!” the girl on the video said awkwardly, clearly nervous but determined to get her message out, “My name is Ladybug”

Her costume looked like it was simply made by spandex, a rather plain design of red with black spots around, a domino mask with open lenses was the only thing really concealing her identity.

“Paris has a supervillain, his name is Hawkmoth and he feeds off of negative emotions. His power can turn anyone into his enslaved champion and we- my partner and I are the only ones really fighting this. I- I know you’re all really busy saving the world and all that but- but we’re just kids! We have no experience and well, we were hoping you can send someone to help? We’ve only confronted him three times now but well, we were just pushed into this”

Bruce could feel his blood growing cold, she couldn’t have been older than thirteen when this was recorded. He knew no Leaguers went on missions to Paris for the past five years… He told them to play the next video, from two years ago.

“Hello Justice League” Ladybug still wore her simple spandex though now standing tall next to a boy with a black cat leather outfit. Behind them was a girl with a bee themed outfit, a girl with a fox themed outfit and a boy with a turtle theme.

“We just came out of this Heroes Day disaster”

“No thanks to their help” the bee girl snapped before looking away.

“Look, Hawkmoth is getting more and more dangerous. He was able to transform half of Paris into his minions, they took over Paris and nearly won”

“What is it going to take you for you guys to finally help?” the cat boy growled much to the surprise of the others.

“Chat Noir!”

“Oh please we can totally handle Hawkmoth without them; you two should be enough already. With us three helping you, defeating him should be easy, power of teamwork and all that” the fox girl waved off, much to the surprise of the turtle.

“Rena did you seriously not remember what just happened. We were compromised, we nearly let Paris fall. We’re not trained for this, not even LB and Chat, and they’ve been doing this for the past year”

“Whatever”

“What was the last transmission?” Bruce found himself asking as the cave suddenly grew silent, all eyes on the monitor as their last transmission played.

“Why are we even bothering with this?” a new male voice asked, the video was shaky before finally pointing at the Parisian streets. If you could even call what was essentially a river of water, reaching to the top of most rooftops streets anymore. Items were floating about, bodies littered around them.

“They’ll never listen, they never did” another female voice agreed, they assumed it was the girl at the corner of the screen, looking down on the streets in what could be described as pity.

“I know” Ladybug’s voice sighed from behind the camera. “But they should at least see the consequences of their actions”

“If they even bother watching these, I wouldn’t be surprised if they just delete these as soon as we send them” Chat Noir entered the screen, eyes cold and calculating.

“Paris should be thankful that Lucky Charm is able to bring them back” the male with the snake themed outfit shook his head. “This is probably the 1,000 time most of Paris died with an akuma, second with Syren”

“Super lucky” the dragon female rolled her eyes “It’s not even worth trying to save citizens since all they do is cretique us”

“And the officers; Apparently we should be able to deal with city-destroying being and protect the people at the same time while officers just stand behind the lines waiting for us to do both” Chat Noir hissed

“What's done is done. This will be our last call for the Justice League; I hope you’re all happy, knowing that you’ve forced children to grow up and fight in a man’s war. Bug Out”

“There are no records of these videos even being played, or even of these events happening as far as Parisian government records say. But there’s clearly a lot of cover up going on, most of Paris’ emergency broadcasting doesn’t make it out of its borders, heavy encouragement of tourism even though there have been complaints by the people about… akumas?” Tim reported as soon as the video finished playing.

“There’s even records of a city-funded statue being made for Ladybug and Chat Noir yet no indication of where it is or what its for” Barbara continued “This blog keeps coming up, it used to be called the Ladyblog before it switched to Fox Tea. Look at these videos”

The screens were suddenly filled with shots of these Akuma; one that froze the city over, one who controlled the weather, one who began dropping adults from the sky, Syren, Heroes’ Day… All of them had to be handled by scared children.

“These look too real to be edited” Duke said in awe. He was very aware of his children all surrounding the screens, looking at the countless destruction of one of the major cities in the world.

And none of them had ever heard of them or these children who were forced to deal with it.

Ones who seeked out help and were never given the time of day.

“Red Robin, Robin” his two sons standing in attention “I want you to investigate the matter and offer our help; convince them that we’re on their side on not aligned with the League”

“We’re on it, Batman”

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“So you just want us to believe you found out about us and suddenly want to help?” Roter Fochs looked at the duo skeptically.

“We wish to assist you with this whole… situation. No one has heard of Akumas or of Parisian heroes before, we concluded that it may be the government attempting to keep tourism up” the shorter male, Robin, they later learned, spoke up while keeping his hands in the air.

“Though that doesn’t excuse the League, who we know you personally sent distress messages” Red Robin echoed the message “We understand the incompetence of the League better than anyone else. Did you know they never bothered to even open most of those messages?”

Red Robin was surprised by the sudden animalistic growling coming from the group, some of their eyes glowing while others looked disappointed.

Ladybug looked hurt.

“Who do you work for?” Ryuuko asked, curious but not letting her sword lower from its position.

“We’re Robin and Red Robin”

“Like the food chain?”

“.... Yes. Anyway we’re vigilantes sanctioned in Gotham, New Jersey in the United States; we’re both proteges of the Batman” Red Robin held back the need to roll his eyes at the monkey boy’s statement.

“Never heard of him” the French heroes turned to each other, trying to see if the name rang any bells.

“According to the internet the Batman is almost a folklore for Gotham; people claim to see him and his array of birds and bats but none could ever get clear photos” CowBot replied after a quick search.

“If the League never saw our messages then how do you know about them?” Chat Noir stared right at them, as though he’d know they were lying, which he couldn’t but Roter Fochs could and would.

“Because we’re better than the League” Robin said with the same certainty one would say the grass was green.

“Why should we believe you?” Ladybug asked skeptically, if they were so good then why didn’t they handle what the League wouldn’t? Why didn’t they just try to take over the Hawkmoth situation without their input? Why didn’t they just take down the League by themselves?

“You shouldn’t, “ Robin shrugged once more “But we’ll actually help where the League wouldn’t”

Ladybug stole a look from Chat Noir, both turning to Roter Fochs, who shook his head softly indicating the duo wasn’t lying.

“If you really want us to talk then give us the coordinates to meet with the Batman” Ladybug demanded, Robin looked outraged at the implication while Red Robin nodded.

“Alright, but how will you know if we’re lying to you?” he asked curiously, typing something in his communicator, the center of his utility belt, before handing it over to her.

“Trust me, we know when you’re lying plus we’d know when we get there” Viperion smirked, “Also you can stand down now Bunnix, MultiMouse”

The duo were not surprised to see two figures standing behind them, one male with a mouse theme and rope wrapped around his hands, and a petite girl with a bunny theme and a sharp looking umbrella pointing straight at their backs. They were just surprised that they hadn't sensed them before.

“Did you get those coordinates, Pegasus?”

“Yes Ladybug, waiting for your signal”

“Well then birdies, we better hope you weren’t lying or you’ll find Hawkmoth won’t be your biggest problem”

“Voyage!”

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“Why don’t you guys like the League?”

The meeting between the Bats and Team Miraculous had gone much better than any of them had expected; it had certainly helped when they found out one of their own, Agent A as they called him, was once a wielder.

They had both been surprised by the amount of members each team had: The Bats had expected Ladybug, Chat Noir, Ryuuko and Viperion; Roter Fochs, Pegasus, Roi Singe, Bunnix and MultiMouse had been a surprise.

Meanwhile Team Miraculous had only heard of whispers of Batman and many Robins, even a theory on a bat girl of sorts from their brief research; having Batman, Robin (V), Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Signal, Batgirl, Batwoman, and Black Bat not to mention Oracle and Agent A; they had almost thought it was an ambush.

They supposed they each knew how to keep certain secrets tight.

“The Justice League, though still consisting of some of the most powerful people in this Earth, are too high and mighty; none of them really consider the consequences of their actions and are too reliant on their powers to be able to resolve all their problems. None of them have any contingency plans if their enemies find out their weaknesses and exploit them. Not a single member is a ‘normal human’”

He pulled up a hologram in the middle of the meeting table, every person who's worked with Justice League showing up, each showing their array of powers and abilities before showing their membership status.

Batman, Green Arrow, Speedy, Robin, Artemis; Non-Members

Two Green Lanterns, Captain Marvel, Black Canary, Bumblebee, Rocket, the Atom, Blue Beetle (II), Superboy; Reserve members with clearance.

“That does seem pretty discriminatory” Viperion hummed as he thought of the people on the list, those on the Non-member list had no power or enhancement at all while those on the reserve, with the exception of Captain Marvel and Superboy, had powers or suits but the vulnerability of humans.

They weren’t considered strong enough, or maybe even reliable enough.

“We’d probably be considered in the same capacity as a Green Lantern” Pegasus concluded “Take away their ring and their powers go away”

“Which brings us to the next question” Batgirl chimed cheerfully “What is it exactly that you’re facing off against?”

“The Miraculous are ancient artifacts that lend you the powers of certain godlings named Kwami. Kwamis are the essence of concepts and ideas: The Ladybug who represents Luck and Creation, the Black Cat who represents Misfortune and Destruction and Horse who represents Transportation and Innovation are just some examples” Ryuuko explained for them

“Hawkmoth is in possession of the Butterfly Miraculous of Metamorphosis and Desire along with the Peacock of Emotion and Will” Ladybug paused briefly as she saw the look of surprise on Agent A’s face, wondering if she’d feel that way if she found out Tikki was being used for evil in the future. “Both were thought to be missing, possibly destroyed, when the last Master of the Order was able to salvage them from the attack to the Temple of Miracles. He was only a child when the Temple was attacked, thus he was able to escape without being detected by the enemy”

“If I remember correctly,” Chat Noir interrupted “I believe Master Fu said their name was “The Shadows” or I think he said they now go by𑁋”

“The League of Shadows” Nightwing softly added, the air tensing immediately.

“You know of them?” MultiMouse was weary considering the Shadows were very keen on keeping to, well, shadows. That had to mean that the Bats had confronted them.

“Intimately so” Batman growled out.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bunnix’s brows furrowed underneath her mask, feeling as though they wouldn’t like the answer.

“The Shadows have been a pain in Gotham’s ass in the past” Batgirl explained before turning to Batman “Especially since the Demon’s Head was interested in having Batman as a Son-in Law, though his daughter is sometimes an ally”

“Batgirl!” Red Robin admonished

“Don’t forget the little demon over here” Red Hood joked, missing the look of shock in the Parisian heroes.

“Or the fact that it sometimes seems like he wants to get on Red Robin’s dick and have his babies”

“Batgirl, Red Hood that’s enough” Batwoman sternly looked at the duo.

“You’re saying Robin is related to the Shadows” the Parisian heroes in the Reserve Team looked at them suspiciously while the Core Four just patiently waited to see what the Bats would say.

“That’s in the past” Nightwing steely stated “He was born into that lifestyle, but his mother let him chose to leave and live a different life”

“We had no choice of who our parents were” Black Bat reinforced, the team taking a mental note that she was once a shadow as well.

“Noted” Chat Noir said cooly “Though you must understand our reluctance when hearing the Shadows; like we said the Shadows destroyed the temple that was meant to safeguard the Miraculous and killed off every Guardian in the process”

“It would be foolish of us to not be on guard when hearing of them being so close to us again” Ryuuko explained “Though we will give the benefit of the doubt”

And so was the beginning of their partnership.

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“You’re all skilled fighters for not having any proper training” Oracle commended, looking at the statistics of the spars they all had, by far the Core Four had the strongest stats but it wasn’t because of the others’ lack of skill.

“Thank you, Oracle” Ryuuko bowed after finishing her match with Robin, an intense sword fight having just finished. If she had truly wanted to she could have ended it by cutting Robin’s katana but she found it both dishonorable and the easy way out considering they were testing skill sets. On the other side of the room was Red Robin and Roi Singe’s fight, bo-staff against bo-staff, being monitored by Black Bat.

“Oh kwami” Ladybug whispered as she and Chat Noir were called for the next match… against Batman and Batwoman.

“This is where we die Noir”

“It’s been an honor m’lady”

The fight had been entertaining, each side coming in with an array of attacks. At first the Bats had played offensive with the Miraculous duo playing defensive, dodging Batarangs and all their little gadgets. The Bats hadn’t expected just how durable the simple looking yo-yo and staff would be or any of its features.

At some point there had been a flash bomb, Chat Noir blocking it from Ladybug and getting temporarily blinded, Batwoman had planned on attacking while he was disoriented however the attack amplified his enhanced hearing, extending his staff and tripping her in the process.

In the end the Bats had won but it had been a close victory considering the Miraculous Team had not bothered to use their special abilities during any of the fights.

As they were taking a breather, resting and getting drinks, Robin spoke up.

“How are you allowing your city to step all over you?” Team Miraculous looked at him briskly before Red Hood, of all people, continued for him.

“We’ve seen the reports and the Parisian news, they’re relying on your team of four, considering they aren’t aware of the others, to be there to solve all their problems”

“It’s okay for your people to put so much trust in you but it's gotten to the point where they expect it of you” Robin concluded.

“I’ve tried telling them” Viperion sighed, facing his group “We really should be leaving Paris to handle their own problems, we’re busy enough in civilian life and akuma fights as it is”

“How do you suppose we do that when we already face scrutiny for not dealing with Akumas fast enough?” Chat Noir asked, his tail flickering behind him.

“You could always stop patrolling in broad daylight if you don’t want to leave the city altogether” Red Robin suggested, “Hiding in the night is easier to avoid any authority or anyone trying to get interviews. Plus this way it's less predictable where you’ll be certain hours of the day”

“He does make a good point” Ladybug said, mostly to herself, before nodding “I think it's a good idea”

“You heard her team,” Chat Noir turned to face the others “All for stopping daylight patrol?”

All of them nodded in agreement, the beginning of a long list of necessary changes in their lives.

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“My father is planning a press conference to talk about his ‘concerns’ with the lack of your appearances” Chloe rolled her eyes. A year ago, after the Heroes’ Day Disaster, she and Carapace had chosen to stand down while Rena was ultimately retired. She’d found out about Adrien when she went for a visit only for him to jump in through the window.

It was awkward between the two of them before they called for Ladybug.

She gave her neutral face of disappointment first before making a plan.

They were all aware that Lila must have been the one to start the disaster, being Volpina was the only explanation, as Ladybug confessed that Lila had a vendetta against her. Chloe also figured she must have been lying, something she had already suspected before, about being in another country considering Hawkmoth’s attacks only stayed in Paris.

Due to Chloe’s secret identity being out in the open they realized Hawkmoth wouldn’t be above targeting her family again. Thus Chloe became Ladybug’s spy.

Meanwhile in civilian life Nino was getting tired of Alya and Lila’s antics, especially the ones against his bros Adrien and Marinette. Well more against Marinette and more sexual harassment/getting together with Adrien. That’s not even touching on their newest content on the blog which was just criticizing the Miraculous Team for all their weaknesses and shortcomings, in the guise of offering “suggestions” on how to get better.

They thought it’d be good to have an inside man, someone who could warn them of anything Lila and Alya might come up to.

They were both the secret members of Team Miraculous.

“Holy shit are you serious?” Nino exclaimed in Chloe’s room. They’d all come in secretly and by different entries to meet up in case certain nosy classmates had spotted them.

“Yep, I may or may not have threatened my father with a lawsuit against his violation of child labor laws and me not receiving my paychecks” Adrien said excitedly.

Chat Noir had made an off-hand comment on how his father had tired him out with a packed work schedule. This resulted in prodding from the mother hen known as Nightwing asking for details which ended in Chat Noir confessing that he works for his father’s company, had been homeschooled most of his life and often had a packed schedule full of extracurriculars, including up to around 12-hour work days sometimes. Turns out with that brief information Oracle informed them that his father was violating child labor laws due to the fact that he had worked more than thirty five hours a week since he was fourteen.

“Holy shit” he’d say in awe at the moment “My father is rich though… who knows if this would even go through with his influence”

“No man is truly above the law” Nightwing had given him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, “But… is everything alright in your home life?”

“I- I shouldn’t say anything that reveals my identity… '' the usually chaotic boy said solemnly, his cat ears downcast.

“Chat Noir,” the group turned to Ladybug, the one who’d help introduce her team to the life of masks and magic “Your own safety is much more important than keeping your identity safe. We both know the kind of person your father is… I’d rather you have the best options possible to face this”

“How come you’re so fast to trust us?” Robin asked, surprised but keeping a stern face.

“You do realize that she has the coordinates to this place, right?” Viperion smirked “She’s known who you are for a while and never mentioned anything. We just expect you to return the courtesy”

“That seems about right” Red Robin sighed before taking off his mask, the others of the Bat Clan following suit. Team Miraculous gave Ladybug one last look before dropping their own transformations, some of them looking familiar to the Gothamites.

“Marcus is that you my boy?” Agent A, otherwise known as the family butler, Alfred Pennyworth made his way to MultiMouse who nodded shyly.

“I actually go by Marc now great-uncle Alfred”

“Wait what, Al has siblings?” Stephanie exclaimed, Jason was whispering for Tim to write it down in The Book.

“Yes, an older half-sister” he said with an impeccable raised brow “I would have never thought you’d follow after my footsteps Marc”

“I guess it does run in the family”

“Adrien Agreste! Like son of the fashion mongul Gabriel and late actress Emellie Grande de Venily?!” Stephanie exclaimed as soon as she focused on the blonde teen.

“Yep” was all he could find himself saying, taking comfort in Marinette’s presence next to him.

“Don’t worry Adrien,” the boy looked up to the slightly intimidating looming figure of Bruce Wayne “We’ll help you deal with your father”

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“Boys” Bruce had said as soon as he entered the living room, where the group had devolved into a video game competition. “Remember tomorrow is your monthly therapy session”

“Already?” Damian groaned, his brothers, with the exception of Dick, looking like they would rather not go.

“Timmy isn’t prepared to face his inner demons”

“And it seems Timmy hasn’t slept in some time again, hasn’t he?” Luka teased, continuing to run his hand through Tim’s hair, the boy practically purring in response.

“You have a therapist?” Marinette asked Bruce skeptically.

“We’ve all… gone through things growing up. Alfred made me realize that we were all in need of some help”

“And do you umm… talk about your nightly activities?”

“They’re trustworthy and confidential, yes”

“Do you think you could give me their information?”

That’s how Team Miraculous found themselves on the day after another akuma attack, in a private room within Wayne Tower, each waiting their turn to see the doctor.

“You’ve been through alot Luka” the teen was lying on his back, facing the ceiling as the psychologist who worked with Bruce talked. “Losing what you’ve come to accept as your family, watching your friends die, even though you knew you could change the outcome. Doing it over and over again in order to save the city… It's not something anyone could be expected to handle, let alone a child your age”

“I… I know Dr.Quinzel. But I can’t allow myself to feel guilty over everything or even get overly emotional. If Hawkmoth found out it’d be a disaster, especially because Marinette trusted me with the miraculous… the first for her to assign full time as the Guardian…. I can’t let her down” Luka gave her a lost look, one rarely seen on the charming boy before.

“Keeping all of that inside… It could fester up and explode if you’re not careful Luka”

“So you’re telling me that you are perfectly fine with how your life at home is going, Nathaniel? Even after everything we’ve discussed”

“Look I’ve tried telling my parents they were wrong but they just keep saying I’m confused, not to mention think my art is a joke… and maybe they’re right”

“Those are important parts to who you are. Saying that would be like considering yourself a mistake… Do you feel that way Nathaniel?”

“I…”

“I think I have pretty bad taste in girls, though my friends usually call me a himbo for not really thinking things through. Maybe I should think before acting more?”

“I’ve known I was going to become Bunnix ever since I was fourteen, it was always just a matter of when. So when I was finally called to action I was so excited but… I can’t help but wonder if I’m cut out for this”

“My mother has groomed and taught me to be perfect at all I do. It was something ingrained to me since I was a child; It wasn’t until recently that I learned that is impossible to achieve. Why was mother so pertained to me being it?”

“I know I’m the smart guy but I shouldn’t be expected to have all the answers, especially for my classmates who refuse to look at evidence as it is. Seriously, if I had known they would have taken my comment about how dangerous a napkin can be as pure fact then I would have not said anything that day”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m not enough for my grandmother. She’s getting older, she’s starting to forget a lot. I help by telling her things like stories but I’m not sure how long that will last… She’s the only family I have left in Paris, I don’t want to leave my friends or boyfriend behind”

“My father has always been a distant man but ever since my mother… I’m not sure if he even sees me as his son at this point. There are some days I’m treated as nothing more than a trophy boy or a regular employee. I wonder if this would have happened regardless of my mother’s passing”

“I am Ladybug, I am also the last Guardian. But I’m just a teenager! I have a life I want to live outside of Paris… I want to be a designer, start my own brand, find love and have my own family… But Hawkmoth is in the way of all that”

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“Are you sure about this LB?” Nino asked from the terrace of Chloe’s penthouse. They’d been talking strategy when an Akuma attacked, given the chaos displayed by the news via LadyBugOut livestream, they could only assume it was another Volpina attack.

Unfortunately Volpina had a Sentimonster to help, Reality Check. A glorified 3D printer who could temporarily make Volpina’s illusions tangible and real.

It had proven to be a difficult battle, especially since Luka and Adrien had been caught up as civilians and couldn’t help Ryuuko and Ladybug. The others still had to wait for Ladybug to give the signal before they’d consider going out to help in broad daylight lest their hidden cards be revealed too soon.

In the middle of the fight the two heroines had made a strategic retreat, one the Fox Tea blogger did not hesitate to call the coward’s way out. Suddenly the two appeared at Chloe’s along with Roter Fochs. The scarlet hero had taken out two familiar boxes with extremely familiar jewelry inside.

“I’m certain of it” she said with a determined smile, “Besides this could finally get Hawkmoth and maybe even Alya off your backs if I introduce new heroes; Of course your costumes will have to be different, as will your codenames, but I trust that you’ll know what to do”

“Hello my queen!”

“What’s up dude”

Paris was in uproar when they heard of the new heroes; Abeille and Anselm.

Abeille’s costume was much more armored than that of Queen Bee’s; the whole suit had a honey yellow bodysuit with black armor pieces, her chest piece in the shape of a bee’s face, black elbow length gloves with some honey stripes, thigh high black boots with honey kneepads. Her own mask was different from her former as it changed her eyes to royal blue like Pollen’s while being honey colored with black v shaped lines. The golden gauntlets on top of her gloves would be able to send out small shocks, capable of stunning enemies for small intervals at the time, nowhere near as potent as Venom.

Anselm’s own attire was not so different from Carapace; Anselm still kept the hoodie his predecessor did though beneath it is where the differences began. Anselm wore a pine green helmet, yellow tinted goggles on top of his red eyes, with pale thin daffodile lines going from the top to the bottom of his hood. The hoodie and his undersuit was sacramento green, bordering on black, though the majority of the suit was also armored with pine pieces like the hexagonal chest piece, shoulder, thigh, shin, knee and elbow pads. He also had much thicker gauntlets than Abeille’s along with armored gloves and reinforced sneakers.

Of course, Chloe Bourgeois and Nino Lahiffe were quickly off of the suspect list when the two were spotted separately looking for shelter amongst the Akuma attack during Fox Tea’s livestream.

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“So you’re part of the OG Team huh?” Stephanie asked as she gave a once over to the two newcomers.

“Deep undercover missions, you know how they go” Abeille scoffed, her honey blonde hair swaying along with her five black streaks around it.

“What she said. We couldn’t help as Queen Bee and Carapace anymore, compromised identities, so we helped as civilians before covering our tracks and coming back” Anselm tried to keep back Chloe’s prickly personality.

“Like what?” Cass’ appearance startled the two, though both looked like they were about to draw out their weapons.

“Well I get them intel from what’s happening in the mayor’s office that Max and Markov can’t get out from the computers, daddy is a bit of a pushover and squeals pretty easily”

“While I get intel from Fox Tea’s disastrous dude duo. I’m usually among the first to find out about anything their plotting… though I’ve had to drop that. It was getting too much for me to continue being with Alya so we broke up”

“So you kept dating Cesaire just to gather intel? Doesn’t that seem manipulative?” Duke asked from his seat on the monitor, the two Parisians looked at one another before beginning to laugh.

“Not compared to what those two are capable of”

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“Are you sure about this?”

Currently Viperion, Ladybug and Bunnix were on the Gotham rooftops, shadowing the Bats for the night. The three were honored to be trusted with the responsibility but still felt foreign in the much darker environment, literally and metaphorically.

“It’ll be a good experience” Oracle said in their ears, their comms being synced to those of the Bats “And you won’t be alone, I’ll be here and so will your partners”

Right on cue Robin, Red Robin and Black Bat landed on the same rooftop. The plan was for the six to cover the patrol for the night, the others would be getting rest or doing specialty training with their abilities. It was a surprise for the Miraculous gang when it was revealed that Signal and Red Hood would be joining them as fellow trainees. Alfred and Black Canary, a metahuman who often worked together with Green Arrow in Central City, would be in charge of the training while Bruce also oversaw their progress.

Honestly they hadn’t known what surprised them more: the fact that Batman had metas on his team or that he trusted other heroes with the training of his children.

“It should be a regular night; standard mugging, gang fights and possible robberies should be all that happen tonight”

Of course that was not what happened.

As it turned out Riddler had escaped Arkham, no surprise, and had gone too long without his medication. Edward Nygma was usually a pretty tame man, if a little eccentric with his love of riddles and his brilliant mind.

He decided to hold Gotham Grand Terminal hostage.

Ladybug was decidedly trying not to panic as she saw the very obvious bombs spread across different sections of the terminal. There were too many for them to deactivate in less than three minutes and there were probably more hidden around.

“Riddle me this; What is Joan of Arc made of ?” Ladybug and Robin were the first to arrive at the scene, Viperion and Red Robin being the closest to coming as back up. Robin seemed as confused as she felt but decided to really think about it…

This was so stupid.

“Maid of Orleans” the look Robin gave her, like she just made the most foolish decision of her life, was seen spread across the faces of hostages before Riddler began to laugh.

“Why you are correct, little red” he wiped a tear from his eye “Bats would never think of something so punny like that!”

“Yeah well I’ve had a lot of experience with annoying puns”

“What’s colorful, loud and is a mess to clean up?” Ladybug’s eyes widened as he pressed the big red button on the remote control, Robin bringing Ladybug down and shielding her as the hostages began to scream.

BOOM!

“...Confetti cannons” Ladybug muttered, her whole body covered in the colorful paper pieces with glitter in the mix.

That son of a bitch!

It was April 1st.

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“So what is it that we’ll be doing?” Bunnix asked as Black Bat silently leaped through the Gotham rooftops, camouflaging effortlessly with the shadows unlike her because of the white and baby blue costume she had on.

“You two will be checking up on Red Hood’s sector for the night, Crime Alley” Oracle’s voice responded for her.

“Right, so is this just a standard patrol?”

“Something like that”

Bunnix was admittedly a bit nervous about being with Black Bat, Cass didn’t really talk much and was kinda hot. Bunnix had just dutifully shadowed her, staying as quiet as she could even if she did more parkour than necessary, when they stumbled upon a drug deal. Bunnix was about to go down to smack some people around with her umbrella when Black Bat shook her head.

“One of Red Hood’s men, let’s wait to see the deal go through”

Bunnix wasn’t sure what to think as she watched the deal go down. Weren’t they supposed to be the ones to stop this from happening and not helping them? It was a bit confusing and against her moral code…

“We do this to keep the kids out of the involvement” Oracle seemed to read her mind, explaining their reasoning “Before Red Hood decided to get involved with drug trafficking Crime Alley was full of children who would be taken advantage of by dealers; whether it meant getting them addicted or becoming their messengers and delivery boys. He made it very clear to his ‘allies’ that no child from Crime Alley was getting involved in their plans again or else the deals were off. Those who tried going above him… well they’re no longer around to try and take him down”

Still that did not help ease Alix’s worries as the night continued on. Black Bat came to a sudden stop on top of a warehouse, gesturing for Bunnix to follow behind her, and climbing in through a shattered window. Inside were dozens of wooden crates, each with cameras pointed at them and only one with an open lid. Black Bat walked towards the open crate with ease, going inside and taking out three duffle bags from inside. She placed two on her, criss-crossing each other before handing the other one to a reluctant Bunnix.

The tow then headed to a hidden tunnel underneath one of the empty crates, making their way in a closed (?) Gotham sewer. It didn’t smell as disgusting as Alix imagined it would be, musky at best, though she thought that it may be due to the fact that there was no dirty sewage water there. They walked in relative ease, essentially walking for what had to be at least 15 minutes in numerous twists and turns before reaching a ladder. The two got out, Bunnix recognizing it as part of Crime Alley with how run down the area looked.

Black Bat knocked on a rusting steel door, three times, five, once and then a tap with her palm.

The door opened up, a boy no older than 12 being the ones to greet them.

“Where’s R.H?” he questioned, he looked disappointed but not alarmed, clearly he had met Black Bat before.

“Was busy. This is Bunnix, she’s helping for the night” The boy was clearly unimpressed with her but he closed the door and led them down the long hallway. She noticed the few scattered toys along the way, with some open doors showing mountains of writing supplies and even a little library.

What was this place?

“This is Red Hood’s sanctuary for the kids of Crime Alley” Black Bat whispered next to her “Batgirl and Red Hood are usually the ones to come here though all of us have come at some point.” they entered the large room showing children of all ages, some as young as infants and others looking close to early adulthood. They dropped the duffle bags in front of what she thought was the leader of the pack when Red Hood wasn’t around.

They were filled with non-perishable food, wads of money that will probably be used to provide for the group of 30 or even more for the next month, toys, books and some new clothes.

As the children gathered around, each a little dirtier than Alix remembered ever being as a child, lining up to get a new something that Red Hood got for them she couldn’t help but think;

… Maybe things were never so black and white.

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“I know it may seem frightening, even unnerving, to let go of your control but if you keep your powers bottled up it may prove to be disastrous in the future” Black Canary told the group of teens.

“With abilities bestowed to you like those of the Miraculous are left untrained then it may prove to lead to your downfall” Alfred nodded along to Dinah’s words.

“As capable as Ms.Lance and I are, we have realized that we would need further assistance to properly be able to train each of your abilities”

From one of the Batcave’s entrances they could hear the screech of tires before a slick black car parked next to the Batmobile and Hoodcycle.

“Sorry, we’re late” a red headed woman said as she stepped out of the car, her pale freckled skin slowly gaining a green tint to it as she removed her lab coat and glasses, “Selina here thought she could make a quick steal on our way here”

“Oh c’mon Pam, you know you love the rush as much as I do” a tanned woman laughed, twirling around a golden necklace with one of the biggest rubies they had ever seen in its center.

“Now, ladies; Pam-a-lamb has a class of powered kids to teach” they recognized Dr.Quinzel belatedly as she was missing her glasses and uniform. She was now wearing a much more colorful array of clothes with the consistent theme of red,black, and white. Her skin seemed paler than they remembered and her blonde hair had red tips on one side and blue on the other.

“Hey girls” Barbara came down the elevator at the same time as Stephanie and Cass, seemingly cutting their conversation when she saw the newcomers”

“Babs!” Dr.Quinzel exclaimed, making her way to the other girls after giving a quick kiss to the green skinned woman.

“Well you’re right on time Pam” Dinah sighed, cocking her hip before pointing at the newcomers “These are Dr.Pamela Isley otherwise known as the Gotham Rogue Poison Ivy, Selina Kyle a more vigilante type thief Catwoman, and, of course, you know Dr.Harleen Quinzel or as she prefers to go by Harley Quinn”

“Hey kittens” Selina waved at the group “By the way it's been too long since we girls have hung out; how’s about a Birds of Prey raid? You in?”

“Only if Oracle agrees”

“Oh pleasepleasepleaseplease!” Stephanie and Harley’s persistent pleading could be heard immediately afterwards. A polite cough interrupted the chaos.

“As enthusiastic as you ladies are for your plans, may I remind you that we have prior plans to care for first. Namely the training”

“Sorry Alfie” Harley said, chastised, “We’ll get out of your hair. C’mon ladies!”

“...So training?” Marc asked

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“What happened to you?” was the first thing Kim laughed out as the duo stepped into the cave, leaving a trail of confetti and glitter behind. Marinette looked back at her team, unimpressed, in their own state of disarray.

Chloe, Max, Marc and Nathaniel seemed to be nursing their own cases of migraines; most likely having pushed the limits of their own new abilities which relied on mental fortitude. Chloe and Jason’s powers were the most similar to Alfred’s which involved manipulating and projecting thoughts and ideas to the people around them or to specific targets. Nathaniel was developing the power to create illusions that only his target would be allowed to see. Marc could create intangible clones of himself but could still project what they were seeing and hearing to him. Max could teleport objects a few meters away from or towards him.

Kagami, Kim, Adrien and Nino seemed the most physically exhausted. Kagami was beginning to have slight control of fire, wind and water but not yet conjuring it; given her slight burn marks, wet clothes and messy hair Marinette would guess that she still hadn’t fully grasped the manipulation aspect outside of being Ryuuko. Kim’s own face was dirty and slightly bruised and matched that of Adrien’s. Kim had begun to use his chaotic energy to make the wackiest things happen but to have the outcome he wanted while Adrien could suck the luck out of people for small intervals lest he want to have the misfortune backlash cling on him. Nino’s was more tame though he now had to focus on two things since he could now use his energy to both heal and to create a shield that encompased his body like armor.

“Oh god you guys look like messes!” Alix laughed along with Luka, the only two that looked fine as they had a fairly tame patrol with Cass and Tim.

“Next time I see Riddler remind me to throw a glitter bomb” Marinette grumbled as she made her way to the showers.

“Not before I stab him with his stupid cane” Damian growled heading for the male showers.

“So how long till Daminette guys?” Adrien asked

“Definitely before the end of the year” Duke concluded, the others not being sure if he used his power or not.

“I’ll take you up on that. I’ll bet we make more money than with Red Scales” Stephanie laughed.

“Red Scales?” Luka asked curiously before the others yelled out.

“Nothing!”

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“Okay how come no one warned me about that!” Jason yelled as he came out of the Cave’s entrance. The group either gave questioning or amused looks.

“Oh, so you saw that too?” Alix asked, perched from one of the sofa’s armrests.

“You assholes could have given me a heads up” he complained before groaning into a sofa “God, someone get me some bleach”

“What’s Jaybird talking about?” Dick asked, coming in from the kitchen with an array of snacks for the rowdy bunch of teeneagers.

“Oh just Timbers getting some with the big bad snake boi” Stephanie sang, causing Jason to groan and Dick to choke on his own spit.

“More like trying to eat each other’s tongue out” Nathaniel responded in disgust.

“Timmy, no!” were the words the oldest yelled out before heading into the Batcave in record time.

“Anyway,” Stephanie began “It’s time to pay up bitches. Marinette and Cass get the loot”

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“Hmm, so I guess that’s what fresh blood splatters looks like” Chat Noir said in morbid interest.

“Well it's certainly more noticeable than dried blood” Viperion nodded along, watching as Red Robin and Red Hood carried out the interrogation from a one-way mirror. There was a new gang who specialized in child trafficking, most of the kids coming from Crime Alley and therefore not getting reported to the police; luckily they had Red Hood looking out for them.

“Yes, well we are here to see how they carry out their investigation and get used to all the squeamish things” Ladybug gave a calculated look, as though she herself were in there and what she would do to get the information out of the man they captured earlier that night.

“Do you guys think this sort of thing is going too far?” MultiMouse asked curiously, he was beginning to grow a bit uncomfortable with the amount of blood the man had begun to lose.

“I mean this asshole deserves it” Roter Fochs glared “I don’t think it's too much if it means saving all those kids”

“Standing on the edge of what is seen as a hero𑁋”

BANG

“Let’s you see all the things you can’t from the center” Ryuuko watched as the man was forcibly being held back up by Red Robin after Red Hood slammed his face on the interrogation table.

“World is not black and white” Black Bat spoke from next to them “Many shades of gray in between; We are in the gray”

Ko-Fi

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rasoir-national · 4 years

Text

How to lose to a duck

The celebrations are over and you’re still stuck with family members ? Looking for a way to avoid them ? I’ve got just the thing for you ! Ever wondered if someone could write a 5000 words essay on a technical legal case and make it interesting ? Well... I don’t... know if I did that (and you ask yourself weird question, hypothetical reader I made up for this intro), but you can judge by yourself.

So here’s the story of a case I’ve been thinking about for over a year now. It’s about Justice, mental illness, and duck poop. It’s called : How to lose to a duck.

Enjoy.

Let’s talk about the spectacle of Justice. Even way back in the days of arrest letters, when the real decisions were happening behind closed doors, Justice has always had an element of publicity to it. People flocked to public executions like one goes to the movies ; the events had their own popcorn vendors, who sold souvenirs and belongings of questionable origin of the deceased to be. This federative aspect of these executions is, in many ways, what most people at the time considered to be Justice : society rallying as a whole to punish the failing individual.

Nowadays, the publicity of Justice is written as a statement of intent in the founding texts of most countries : for Justice to be just, Justice has to be public. Justice is rendered in the name of the people, therefore it is up to the people to show up at any trial they want to witness the justice that is served in their name. And if you’ve never gone to a courtroom on an idle day to contemplate the supreme grandeur of justice in action, let me tell you, you are missing out. Whether or not you consider the spectacle to be in good taste, it is indeed a spectacle, with its decorum, its assigned roles and its pathos. Just ask the busload of retirees who storm the petty crimes courtroom every Wednesday instead of watching Lifetime.

Here in France, there is however one type of justice that usually remains quite out of sight : the administrative courts. The French judiciary is separated in two main branches : the civil courts, which concerns disputes between individuals – including disputes between an individual and society, which is to say penal justice – and the administrative court, which rules on disputes between individuals and the state. Simply put for my American readers, challenging a state regulations, which in the US happens before the same courts as civil disputes, is in France the exclusive jurisdiction of administrative courts. However, regulation has to be understood in the broadest of terms. France’s Supreme Court has direct jurisdiction over any challenging of national decrees, meaning administrative courts only have jurisdiction over… everything else. You were denied a tax deduction. The city lets cars park in front of your garage entrance. Your visa application to vacation in Paris was rejected. You teach at a public school and you were moved to a different town. Any time any administration in the country tells you “no” or takes any decision that prejudices you in any way, you are entitled to challenge this decision before an administrative court. And unlike civil courts, cases aren’t dispatched between judges based on their perceived importance ; in the same hearing, judges can hear a dispute concerning a public contract worth millions of euros, and then immediately after a disgruntled couple who wants their rural town to clean up the dung due to herd traffic in their street.

Now there are several reasons why this type of justice doesn’t attract the attention of the masses : as previously mentioned, the flashiest cases happen only in Paris in front of the Supreme Court. It is also an extremely technical type of dispute, from tax law to urban planning law. But perhaps most importantly, the procedure is essentially written. All arguments must be communicated in writing before the hearing, or risk being declared moot. The presence of the parties at the hearing isn’t required, and when attorneys are present, they usually only stand up for a second to confirm they maintain their written arguments.

Now parties without representation, that’s another story. In most cases, you aren’t required to have an attorney before administrative court. That’s part of the appeal : no matter your means, you can challenge the state at no cost. But of course, usually the cost of that is losing your case. Representing yourself is generally a bad idea, but in administrative law, where arguments have to fit in certain pre-established categories and where there are dozens of procedural rules to follow to present your case, it’s more often than not a fatal idea. I can’t tell you how many individuals without attorneys I’ve seen stroll in hearings expecting to be able to present their case, only to look abruptly disarmed when the judge only ask them one question before reserving judgement.

What these individuals don’t know, and what is the dirty secret of administrative justice, is that when they enter the hearing courtroom, their ruling is usually already written. It would take an extraordinary event for this ruling to be modified in any way by what is said during the hearing. I know that because for six months, I was one of the interns writing them.

Being an intern is rarely glamorous, but if you’re like me, getting to write “In the name of the French people” in front of your work is probably the height of achievement. I’ve worked on millions-worth litigation cases in-between petty neighbouring disputes. Through their writings, I’ve gotten to know some truly angry people, confused people, miserable people. I’ve worked for a month on calculating damages for a man who had gone through an experimental knee surgery that had gone wrong. I’ve tried for days to find the nicest possible way to reject a case from parents of a mentally disabled child who had been kicked out of an institution due to violence problems. And then, for two months, I’ve worked on the Duckman.

Given that at this point, I’ve probably read more from him than anyone else on Earth, it is surprising how little I truly know about this man. I’ll call him the Duckman because that’s how I came to refer to him while relating the case, but also because his actual name is already so strange and peculiar that I couldn’t possibly find a pseudonym that would do it justice here. I know he was of retirement age, although he wasn’t retired. I know he was white, of either Dutch or German origin, and had a nobility title. I know he was also the proud owner of a beautiful 19th century castle situated in a little village in Southern France, which happened to fall within the jurisdiction of the administrative court I was interning at. I know that in 2013, the village delivered a building permit regarding a portion of land bellow the castle to a young farmer who projected to build a duck force-feeding plant there. But as far as the Duckman goes, this is where my knowledge stops and speculation begins.

Getting to know people through their writings is an uncanny experience. On the one hand, it is clear that you don’t really know anything about the people whose case you’re reading. But on the other hand, there is something there about them that you get to understand faster than anyone who actually knows them. The complexity of the legal procedure and the confusion it provokes strips people bare in some way. It can be something as small as an exclamation point, or as huge as the case file my internship supervisor gave to me on a November morning.

The folder was bursting with pages. In and of itself, not necessarily a bad sign. Some cases do take up a lot of space, whether you want it or not, especially when it concerns land in any way. No, the bad sign was on the folder cover itself, in the guidance notes : “DIFFICULT PERSONALITY” entered in all caps by a court clerk, the only people who actually come in contact with claimants during the investigation phase.

Another bad sign revealed itself to me when I checked the case history : at some point, either the claimant had fired his lawyer or his lawyer had fired him. Now, a lot of people would be entitled to fire their lawyer. Just like with any profession, the vast majority of them are mediocre. But finding a lawyer is in itself such a stressful and confusing process, and it’s so difficult to know whether or not you made the right choice, that a person firing their lawyer has become a classic red flag for judges. In accordance with the sunk cost fallacy principle, people tend to stay committed to their mistakes.

On top of everything else, the case touched upon both urban planning law and environmental law, two of the most specialized and technical types of litigation out there. But at this point, my supervisor had already decided she trusted me with pretty much anything, and I’d already decided any case could be worked the same as long as you did things rigorously and step by step. Law is before anything else a type of reasoning ; once you understand it, all that’s left is research.

What was the case about ? It was a compensation claim, meaning the tail end of the dispute process. This was usually the part that came after the illegality had occurred, after the person had suffered harm, and things were now headed toward the state’s cash register. To avoid being influenced early on, I didn’t check past claims concerning the case and directly read the demand. The case itself seemed fairly standard, and potentially well-founded : a duck force-feeding factory, complete with an open duck excrement pit had been built 300 meters (about a thousand feet) away from a beautiful 19th century castle, spoiling the view and more importantly ensuring the entire castle park smelled of duck poop all year round. According to the claimant, the building permit had been delivered illegally, therefore compensation was to be paid to the castle owner and the plant to be demolished. That’s when I fired up my computer and looked up past disputes concerning this situation, and when I got my first inkling that something was very wrong.

The dispute dated back over five years, and had been kept alive through a dozen of individual claims. The castle owner had fought the implantation of the plant at every possible step. When the permit was first delivered, he had it suspended. Another modified permit was issued, which was also suspended. Then the administrative court ruled that second permit lawful, so construction was able to begin. However, the castle owner contested that ruling in front of the Appellate Court, which also ruled the permit lawful. He then contested that ruling in front of the Supreme Court, which elected not to hear the case. In the meantime, another claim had been introduced, this time to force the city to file a report of observation due to the fact that the plant owner hadn’t respected the prescriptions of the building permit – which the castle owner was still challenging. Finally, two claims were introduced, which were the ones on my desk : compensation claims from both the city which had issued the permit, and the county prefect who was surveying this type of factory. The claim concerning the respect of the building permit was actually still under investigation by another chamber of my administrative court, and both this chamber and mine were looking to purge these disputes simultaneously.

From this load of information, I deducted two things : first, this was someone with the means and the time to fixate on such an issue, and second, this was someone who was indeed utterly fixated on this issue. Now as someone who has lived next to horrible neighbours before, I had my sympathies for this man, and I was more than ready to believe that having a dung fosse next to your property couldn’t have been fun. But the law doesn’t work that way. The state’s purse is more tightly shut than the North-South Korea border, and even if you are suffering from an established nuisance, you have to jump through a considerable number of hoops to ever see some compensation.

As someone who was working solely on that part of the dispute, my position was an uneasy one. I could technically say that all those courts that had ruled time and time again that the permit was lawful were wrong and that the Duckman was entitled to compensation, but then I would have been disagreeing with the Supreme Court itself. That’s not really something judges do in administrative law, where court hierarchy is strictly enforced. Luckily, the state is never out of ideas when it comes to avoiding recognizing they screwed up. So what I could do was establish the state had acted perfectly legally, but the consequences suffered by the Duckman still merited compensation. So I set out to do just that.

This proved harder than anticipated. For one thing, the lawyer, for the time he’d been there, was indeed of the mediocre type, and only gave me the bare minimum to work with. For someone whose client clearly had the resources to fully back up their case, there was surprisingly little for a file so huge : every map, every report, seemed to always miss just the piece of information I needed to tie it all up together, leaving me to try and superpose multiple maps found online to measure the necessary distances. When you start off in law, they never tell you it’s going to involve math.

So because of that deficit of information, I did what I usually avoided doing, that is look up what had been given in other cases related to this situation. And this is where, fittingly enough, I fell not so much into the rabbit hole as into the duck poop hole.

From the moment he had parted from his lawyer, the Duckman had handled every communication with the courts himself. I started uncovering dozens upon dozens of additional letters that contained what could not really be described as an argumentation, although it clearly believed itself to be so, and was only one step removed from the proverbial doomsdayer street corner rambling. What started as a strange, but not necessarily unique showcase of anger against the injustice with which he was faced, devolved month after month into an unhinged charge against the system as a whole, from unironically uncovering “conspiracies” to accusing the Supreme Court of being in on it. As I mentioned, it wasn’t rare for people representing themselves to adopt this sort of tone. But the language was different : usually, behind the rightful anger was a desperately obvious crushing feeling of powerlessness and incomprehension before a genuinely complex system that seemed deaf to their human pain. But it wasn’t the case with the Duckman. The Duckman didn’t doubt – he knew. He wasn’t desperate – he was outraged. He’d go on these pages-long displays of attempts at making legal arguments so deeply misguided that correcting them would involve teaching multiple college courses. This was someone who didn’t doubt for a second his ability to understand the law better than the administration, his lawyer, or the multiple judges that had already weighed on his case. Most people, when the justice system doesn’t come to their aid, might go through different stages of grief, but they invariably end up on a befuddled shrug at the unfair complexity of the system, and move on, as much as possible. Not the Duckman. The Duckman, in the end, pursued this case not so much to right his personal wrong, but to expose to everyone the full corruption of the system. Midway through the collection of letters, any reference to what he was going through, to the case itself, progressively disappeared to make room for phrases such as these : “I wish the [redacted]th chamber Strength, Courage and Honour as we continue to unravel this excellent case study of the corruption of the system”. It was that expression that first struck me : “excellent case study”. I was the intern. I was the one going through case studies. And even I, when I had started working at the tribunal, had been plagued by prolonged episodes of panic at the thought that behind each of my files were real people whose life might be on the line. And here was this man, who seemed as detached from his own case, kept alive with his own time and money, as if it had jumped out of a textbook. Which is not to say the whole wasn’t important to him ; clearly, the problem was that it was way too important. But it was important in the wrong way ; in the way that would never give him an answer with which he would be satisfied. Each and every time a figure of authority disagreed with him, he’d run to the next brandishing the answer of each previous one as evidence of their incompetence or corruption, usually both. From the mayor, he’d gone to the county inspection board, then the prefect, then the courts, then the superior courts, and all the way to the top. And each time, giving dates, referring to people by name. There was no way he wasn’t going to suffer consequences for this behaviour, I told myself.

He already had.

In an older case, I found out that some of the health inspectors he had complained against in one of his multiple ventures had lodged a complaint against him. He had been charged with defamation and insult, and condemned in criminal court. He had appealed the decision, and during the Appellate Court session, behaved so poorly, screaming against a supposed “SLAPP suit” that the judges ordered for him to be removed from the courtroom. In all my years going to court sessions, I have only seen that happen once. Needless to say, the condemnations were confirmed.

The reason I found out all that was not through court communication – the Duckman told me himself, in minute details, in one of his endless letters that were always numbered, and always came in several parts, from three to five or six. All of this, all of this hardship, to him, was apparently nothing less than additional proof of the scope of the conspiracy of which he was the victim. There was almost glee in those letters ; exultation at the idea of being able to present such sound evidence of the state of corruption of our nation.

My mother is a psychiatrist, and I grew up bathed in psychoanalytical lingo. My armchair diagnosis didn’t take long : paranoid personality disorder expressed via a persecution complex. A carrot would have come to the same conclusion, and it would have had exactly the same value. But what this man might be suffering from was not my problem. My problem was what I was going to do with this case.

It was easy to worry about other things : long cases like those always came after the hundreds of cases that demanded a quick response. Deportation challenges, requests for emergency shelter – the dreaded winter months were there – all of which had to be dealt with quickly and efficiently, and all of which felt it mattered considerably more in the grand scheme of things that some poop smell in a castle park. Still, I came back to this case as often as possible, refining my reasoning, backing up my legal points, trying to make sure this case was the last time any court would hear of this case. The solution I ended up with, for legal reasons that aren’t necessary to expose here, was to reject the request. I was satisfied with my choices, and I ran my work by multiple senior judges to make sure there was nothing to legally object to. But I was also relieved from a human perspective. This man was hurting himself and others through years of proceedings : money, time, social circles – he had been expelled from every association in town – criminal record even, were only some of the things this obsession had cost him so far. The last thing he needed was any kind of kindle to his fire. Don’t get me wrong : if the law had dictated for me to rule in his favour, I would have ; but I am fairly certain that the worst thing anyone could do for this man at this point was to tell him he was right.

And then the court told him he was right.

As you might not remember since this story is already way too long, there was a second case related to this situation in the works in another chamber of the tribunal, concerning the city’s refusal to issue an infraction report to the farm’s owner for violation of the building permit. The judicial assistant handling the case, if she hadn’t gone as deep in the case as I had, had done her job faultlessly, and had ended up finding out one instance of permit violation among the multiple alleged ones. It was a tiny victory, almost a pyrrhic one, yet it had the potential of sending the whole case spiralling again. Thankfully, it didn’t directly influence my own solution. I pushed my supervisor for our case to be heard as soon as possible, before more claims could be launched.

We weren’t fast enough. The week after the judgement in the other case was rendered, I received another delightful letter from the Duckman. I expected gloating, Watergate-level paper-waving. But of course it wasn’t. No, it was another rant against every instance in which the other court had disagreed with him. That small, small victory, the only one he’d had since starting the case over five years before, and it didn’t make him happy. Not even a tiny bit. Had thunder descended from the sky to individually strike down each and every duck on the farm, I’m not sure he would have managed to get any enjoyment from it at this point. If this case was an addiction, we had reached the stage where it didn’t matter whether the fix brought him joy or not, it only mattered that it was there.

The court date approached. Slowly, first once every month, then once every week, a new letter arrived. In the last two weeks before the hearing, I started receiving one every day. By the eve of the hearing, he’d reached part fourteen of his exposé, and he promised we’d hear more at the hearing. Before that, the chamber had held a reunion to decide the best way to handle this particular man in court – unlike criminal courts, we didn’t have police officers. The only time they showed up at the courthouse was to make sure migrants couldn’t make a break for it in that tiny courtroom whose door and windows were locked if the judge ruled against them, a baby under their arm and a six-years old playing with a toy truck on the carpet. Three armed border officer for each migrant, that was the rule. But that’s a topic for another time. Eventually, we decided to hear the duck case last, so most of the public would have already left the room, and there was less of an opportunity to turn his intervention into a spectacle, all while giving him the possibility to make his case, which he deserved just as much as anyone else.

I showed up to the courtroom early and sat in the back, as interns usually did to watch hearing on cases they’d worked on while disturbing the room as little as possible. The room was even more deserted than usual. As I said, administrative justice isn’t popular entertainment. Aside from the lawyers, recognizable to their gown, there was only one person in the room who was the right age : an old man sitting all by himself in one corner of the room. This had to be him, surprisingly quiet and hunched on himself, reading and rereading his notes. As I said, getting to know someone through their writing is a peculiar experience. Whatever mental image I had formed of him, this wasn’t it.

The court clerk called the case before the end of the hearing, which surprised me. I saw that old man walk up to the stand. As he griped his papers, I noticed the trembling of his hands : early signs Parkinson’s disease, most likely. He started talking, in a meek, slow voice, and that’s when I realized : he wasn’t the Duckman. He had been sent to represent the county. The Duckman hadn’t come.

The court followed my reasoning and rejected the claim, as planned. This wasn’t exactly the last time I heard of the Duckman : the day after the judgement was rendered, he wrote to the administrative equivalent of the prosecutor asking for a written copy of his oral conclusions. The latter refused, as was his policy when people didn’t show up in court, and his right, as these conclusions were legally his intellectual property. And so the court clerk arrived at my desk with another one of these letters, adding us to the list of corrupted agents of the system he had vowed to expose. I have no doubt that at this very moment, somewhere in the Administrative Appellate court, there is another intern slaving over a file so incredibly thick you’d never guess it’s about duck poop. Onto the next authority, the next one given the chance to redress the injustice. As its chances of succeeding get slimmer with every rejection, I wonder at which point this decent, fairly standard case turned into something no judge could possibly look at in a favourable light.

This is a story about a man I’ve never met, and never will. But at the same time, it’s not a story about him : because every time I think of him, which is more often than I’d like – that Christmas, my mother gifted me a toy duck dressed as a barrister – I think of those dozens of other cases on which I spent not even a tenth of the amount of time and energy I spent on the Duckman’s, because there was no time, and because there was no effort to be made when the lawyer themself had barely had the time to put together a passable claim. I think about this mother of three who had come to France to escape a family vendetta, and was arguing that her younger son needed specialized therapy after his father was murdered in front of him. I think of this father of two infants who had come to receive treatment for his early stage Parkinson’s disease caused by a rough beating he had received in his country of origin, and needed to be on suicide watch due to his depression, but was about to be kicked out with his family of the emergency shelter, because his state wasn’t “serious enough” to warrant sleeping inside. I think of this chamber president, whose ties to the far-right were well-known, grinning, explaining to me never to trust anything I was reading from people claiming to be sick, when I had to come to her for advice on the case of a man who’d been left entirely paralyzed except for the eyelids after an emergency room mistake. All those claims I’d been instructed to doubt, to challenge, to evacuate. There’s no time, and the ball must keep rolling. But that one case ? The one case that keeps drudging from courtroom to courtroom, generating dozens of expert reports, building plans, and land infiltration testing ? The one whose judgement will undoubtedly be appealed again, all the way up to the Supreme Court ? The one whose plaintiff clearly doesn’t care whether or not justice is rightly served, no matter his claims, because this is all clearly just a mean to foster something much more private and sad ? This one I had to spend months on, because someone had the resources to make it into a difficult and important case.

Whether or not you feel sympathy for the Duckman is up to you. I still do, or at the very least I feel compassion, as I do for every human being who is hurting and could hurt less if they received the appropriate help. If the justice system is part of the generalized victimization of mentally ill people, and it clearly is, it doesn’t mean it operates the same at every level ; for some people, the aggression is direct, constant, unforgiveable : it ignores and distrusts, it rejects and abandons. For others, it simply gives them the tools to victimize themselves. There is something in law, in its spectacle, in its byzantinism that appeals to the more broken parts in us, the same way people came to watch executions. Some kind of truth, inflexibly delivered, whether it’s through the voice of a judge or the roaring of an angry audience. Whatever you believe about the judicial system, I doubt anything I’ve written here will change your mind. For it to retain its power, we need Justice to remain mysterious to us, just as much as Justice needs that veil of inaccessibility and incomprehension to keep at bay the pain, the humanity, the illness. It has to be blind and closed to it all, to remain what it is, a monolith of right and wrong, the object of so many fantasies and yet so many certainties.

Judges aren’t therapists, and they aren’t meant to be ; just like every other part of society, they are absolutely ill-equipped to deal with the irrationality and the often self-destructive nature of mental illness. Once, after receiving a particularly aggressive letter from the Duckman, I went up to the judges’ chamber to ask them if there was anything we could do to stop this man from keeping up with this defamatory tone that was undoubtedly headed toward another criminal suit against him. Judges and clerks simply laughed at my concern, and it was understandable : how many times before had they had a similar experience with another plaintiff ? The truth is the justice system is as desensitized to insane behaviour as we are to people claiming this system itself is insane. The wall that separates the two is one through which anything can look irrational on the other side, no matter which side you’re on. In making Justice a spectacle, a science, we have made it a new language, which no one speaks but its actors. It didn’t have to be like this. Justice doesn’t have to be something you have to suffer through : it was made for the people, by them, and it is as much on people to know their rights and their judicial system as it is on this judicial system to remain an accessible part of society instead of its Sphinxian judge. Justice should not be afraid to be human, for us not to be afraid of it. Then, maybe, there will be fewer people who come to break against that great wall separating two worlds that can’t seem to both make sense at the same time. And maybe people like the Duckman, people who are both privileged and victimized by such a system, won’t turn to Justice as much as a way to hurt themselves. And maybe we, on the other side, will have more time on our hands to try and ease someone’s pain rather than fostering it. Imagine that.

#law stuff #well this took forever to write #maybe now i can finally put this case behind me #exorcism writing

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ruminativerabbi · 3 years

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The Blount Conspiracy

Did former President Trump’s remarks to the crowd that subsequently stormed the Capitol in January cross the legal boundary that separates speaking intemperately and unwisely from actually fomenting insurrection? I myself am not a lawyer, but fifty-four out of our hundred senators actually do have law degrees and should therefore be more than qualified to answer that question…and especially since they were all present to witness the events under consideration! So, assuming the senators vote honestly and without allowing political affiliation to cloud their vision, we should have the answer soon enough.

In an obvious way, the President’s trial begs to be compared with the three previous presidential impeachment trials our country has seen: the trials in the Senate of Andrew Johnson in 1868, of Bill Clinton in 1999, and of President Trump himself in 2020. But less well known is that the House has in the course of our nation’s history voted, not four times, but twenty-one times, to impeach individuals and thus to send them over to be tried in the Senate for “treason, bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.” They were a varied lot, the accused: three presidents, fifteen federal judges (of whom, one Supreme Court justice), one cabinet official, and one senator. That’s twenty…and President Trump’s trial this week makes twenty-one. And these trials, which ended up with eight guilty verdicts and eight acquittals, together constitute the real precedent for this week’s proceedings. (Those verdicts add up to sixteen because in one instance—see below—the charges were dismissed and in three cases the accused individuals chose to resign from office before they could be tried.)

Given the degree to which impeachment has been a topic for discussion in our nation for the last two years, it’s amazing to me how rarely anyone mentions the impeachments not involving presidents. (The only exception would be the 1876 impeachment of William W. Belknap, the Secretary of War under President Ulysses S. Grant who was charged with accepting payments in exchange for official appointments and whose case was actually mentioned several times this week on the floor of the Senate.) This week, I would like to write about the first of them all, however, and in my usual way to invite readers to look into the future by looking into the past and considering the strange case of Senator William Blount of Tennessee (1749–1800).

The whole matter had to do with something now called the Blount Conspiracy, a huge to-do in the last decade of the eighteenth century and now yet another important event in American history more or less completely forgotten by almost all. It was, however, a very big deal in its day. When Abigail Adams, our nation’s second First Lady, suggested in public that she regretted that Congress lacked the ability to resolve the matter with a guillotine, she clearly had Senator Blount’s neck in mind as she spoke.

William Blount was not a nobody. He signed the Constitution. He was the sole governor of the “Southwest Territory” that later joined the union as the State of Tennessee. He was one of Tennessee’s first two senators, coming to the Senate in 1796. He was also heavily into real estate, eventually owning about 2.5 million acres in his home state and in the adjoining territory then known as Trans-Appalachia and today covering parts of Illinois, Kentucky, Indiana, and Ohio. (That there were native Americans on the scene to whom the land belonged in every sense except the strictly legal one invented by the Colonials themselves seems to have occurred to no one at all.) The problem—for Blount and his brothers—was that much of the land had been purchased on credit. That, in and of itself, wouldn’t have been a problem if the price of land hadn’t collapsed when war broke out between Great Britain and Spain the same year that Blount entered the Senate. The crucial detail here is that the Treaty of 1783 that ended the American Revolution guaranteed that Americans would henceforth be able to navigate the Mississippi freely, a commercial boon that was obviously going to collapse if Britain was defeated by Spain, which eventuality would have made the Blounts’ real estate dramatically less valuable. And so Blount, eager to avoid bankruptcy, chose to act daringly and wholly extra-legally by conspiring on his own with the British to assist the latter in defeating Spain. Part of the plan involved invading Spanish Louisiana. And another part involved abetting British plans to invade Spanish Florida.

There is a lot here to digest. For one thing, who ever heard of Spanish Louisiana? Didn’t our nation acquire Louisiana (along with another 750,000 square miles of what today is most of the American Midwest) as part of the Louisiana Purchase of 1803, one of President Thomas Jefferson’s greatest accomplishments while in office? So the answer is that, yes, that is what happened. But Louisiana itself went through different colonialist phases and was indeed part of the Spanish Empire after Spain acquired it from France in 1762 as part of the Treaty of Fontainebleau that was signed towards the end of the Seven Year’s War (another conflict remembered today by none). But Spain didn’t hold onto Louisiana for long, ceding it back to France in 1802, just in time for the United States to purchase it—and another roughly half billion acres—for all of fifteen million dollars. But when Senator Blount was trying to keep the price of land from collapsing even further, Spain was in control of present-day Louisiana.

Blount’s extra-legal negotiations with the British came out in in July of 1797 when a letter written by Blount was discovered and read aloud in the Senate. When Thomas Jefferson, then the nation’s Vice President under John Adams, asked for an explanation, Blount asked for some time to consult his papers. The Senate gave him twenty-four hours. That happened on July 3. On July 4, the twenty-first anniversary of American independence, Blount failed to appear and it became known that he had fled Washington. On July 8, the Senate voted 25 to 1 to expel him from the Senate for acting contrary to the nation’s best interests by secretly negotiating with a foreign power. Later that month, a federal district court judge issued a warrant for Blount’s arrest.

And then, on January 28, 1798, the House approved five articles of impeachment against Blount, including conspiracy to violate both the Neutrality Act of 1794 (that made it illegal for an American citizen to wage war against a country at peace with the United States) and the Treaty of San Lorenzo, also called Pinckney’s Treaty, that defined the border between the United States and Spanish Florida. (The plan Blount hatched with his British handlers involved, among other things, invading Pensacola.) Seven “managers” were duly chosen to argue the case in the Senate. Almost a year of in-house wrangling followed, during the course of which Blount steadfastly refused to return to Washington. And then, finally, the Senate convened as a Court of Impeachment on December 17, 1798. (In the meantime, Blount, clearly taking his expulsion from the Senate as a done deal, ran for and was duly elected to the Tennessee Legislature.) For its part, the Senate debated whether it could proceed in the absence of the accused, then decided that it could.

And now we get to the interesting part. Blount’s lawyers argued on two different grounds that the Senate lacked the jurisdiction to try Blount: one, because the phrase in the Constitution allowing for the impeachment of the “President, the Vice President, and all civil Officers of the United States” did not mean to include senators (and, indeed, Blount was and is the only member of either the Senate or the House ever to be impeached); and, two, because even if it did have the theoretical right to try a senator, Blount, by virtue of having been expelled from the Senate, was specifically no longer a “civil Officer” of the United States government and was therefore no longer under their jurisdiction.

They apparently made their case effectively. On January 10, the Senate failed to approve a resolution declaring that Blount’s prosecution fell within the Senate’s jurisdiction. Then, on January 11, the Senate voted formally to dismiss Senator Blount’s impeachment, whereupon Vice President Jefferson formally dismissed the case against him.

Blount died a hero to his fellow Tennesseans, but the precise reason his impeachment was dismissed remains a matter of debate. Did the Senate feel that having made him a hero was enough, that they hardly needed to go all the way to making him a martyr? Or was the sense of the Senate simply that the impeachment process exists to remove criminals from positions of authority in the government and that there cannot be any real reason to undertake proceedings against someone no longer holding office? Both arguments are cogent. And both are highly relevant in that both could easily be applied to President Trump. How it can be that William Blount’s name is not on the nation’s tongue these days as the very same issues are debated in the very same Senate—now that, at least to me, is even more of a mystery than the “real” reason, whatever it was, that James Blount was able to break the law with impunity without suffering any consequences at all!

( The portrait reproduced above of Senator Blount is by Washington Bogard Cooper, one of the greatest American portrait painters of the nineteenth century and also a son of Tennessee.)

#James Blount #Impeachment #Spanish Louisiana #Seven Years' War #Louisiana Purchase #Treaty of San Lorenzo #Pickney's Treaty #Neutrality Act of 1794

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palmtreepalmtree · 7 years

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Last week an anon asked me about my favorite little-known Supreme Court decision. In continuing an indulgence of my nerdiness, I would like to share the first runner-up, which has been nagging at me to write about since I wrote that last post.

Shaughnessy v. United States ex rel. Mezei, 345 US 206 (1953).

This case has everything. National security threats. A quote from Judge Learned Hand (that was seriously his name). Reference to the “Iron Curtain.” And two separate dissents from four different justices. This case is legit.

So what’s it about? Here we go.

This is a case about a man who could not escape Ellis Island.

Mezei---referred to throughout the decision as the respondent since this case originated as an immigration proceeding---was a legal resident of the United States for twenty-five years beginning in 1923 and lived much of his life in Buffalo, New York. He was born in Gibraltar (then and now a British territory) to Romanian and Hungarian parents. In 1948, Mezei sailed for Hungary to visit his dying mother in Romania. He never got there.

Little did Mezei know he was about to enter travel hell.

Denied entry to Romania, Mezei became stuck in Hungary for 19 months for lack of an exit visa. Eventually, he obtained a visa to return to the United States, by way of France. He got on a ship, as people did back in the day, and he steamed for the United States. Only when he got there, an immigration official was not too impressed with his papers. In February of 1950 Mezei was temporarily excluded from the United States. While he waited for a final decision, the government transferred him to Ellis Island.

A few months later, without any hearing at which to argue his fate, the Attorney General ordered that Mezei’s exclusion was to be made permanent. He could not enter the United States.

So, Mezei tried to get the hell out of Ellis Island. Only no one would take him. This is how the Court describes the Kafkaesque position in which Mezei found himself:

Twice he shipped out to return whence he came; France and Great Britain refused him permission to land. The State Department has unsuccessfully negotiated with Hungary for his re-admission. Respondent personally applied for entry to about a dozen Latin-American countries but all turned him down.

Mezei was essentially stateless. He was from nowhere.

Trapped on Ellis Island for more than a year, Mezei sued for his release---he requested to pay a bond to free him while he continued trying to find another country that would accept him.

So what the hell was wrong with Mezei and why didn’t anyone want him?

That’s an excellent question, and it is not entirely clear. The Court describes it this way:

[The] determination rested on a finding that respondent's entry would be prejudicial to the public interest for security reasons.

Yada yada yada national security, right? What the hell does that mean?

That’s exactly what the lower court judge wanted to know. In considering whether to issue the bond for his relief, the district court judge asked the government to produce evidence that Mezei was a danger to public safety. The government refused. They would not even show the judge their evidence in secret.

Both the district court and the court of appeals thought that was totally bogus. So they issued and upheld the bond. The government appealed.

So what did the Supreme Court do? Was Mezei ever going to be able to escape the hell of Ellis Island?

Well, this is where we come to the real question of this case: Is a non-citizen protected by the Constitution when seeking entry into the United States?

If you have been paying attention at all to immigration law and policy over the last many months, you probably know the answer already: Nope. Not really. A non-citizen does not have much, if any, constitutional protections when seeking entry into the United States.

There are a lot of questions being asked and answered in this decision:

Was Mezei actually admitted to the United States when he was moved to Ellis Island such that he was actually being deported instead of excluded?

Was Mezei a de facto prisoner on Ellis Island?

Was Mezei constitutionally guaranteed a hearing or proceeding at which he could view the evidence against him or argue on his own behalf?

What ends up being central to the Court’s decision here is the distinction between being excluded and being deported. Once you have been admitted to the country, the Court acknowledges that you are owed constitutional protection that includes a due process right to some sort of process or proceeding to contest your removal. But when you’re outside and wanting to enter, you are not owed those same rights.

Suffice it to say, not all of the justices agreed. Four of them about done lost their minds. Here is Justice Black in his dissent, co-signed by Justice Douglas:

MR. JUSTICE JACKSON forcefully points out the danger in the Court's holding that Mezei's liberty is completely at the mercy of the unreviewable discretion of the Attorney General. I join MR. JUSTICE JACKSON in the belief that Mezei's continued imprisonment without a hearing violates due process of law.

No society is free where government makes one person's liberty depend upon the arbitrary will of another. Dictatorships have done this since time immemorial. They do now.

Note that Justice Black straight up refers to Mezei’s status on Ellis Island as “imprisonment,” while the Court’s decision refers to it merely as “exclusion.”

In Justice Jackson’s dissent, co-signed by Justice Frankfurter, he starts off with a bang:

Fortunately it still is startling, in this country, to find a person held indefinitely in executive custody without accusation of crime or judicial trial.

And then he runs through all the hits of history. American oppression under British colonial rule, American slavery, communism, Nazism. I could go on. But in doing so Justice Jackson makes a passionate case for due process of law---generally and in the immigration process.

Why is this case relevant?

If it isn’t apparent so far, let me lay it out for you. The specter of a national security threat is doing heavy-lifting in the majority’s opinion in this case. In distinguishing Mezei’s situation from others where immigrants have been treated more fairly, the Court points out that Mezei was “behind the Iron Curtain for 19 months.” At this point, the Court has not seen any evidence about what threat to the public or national security Mezei represents. The government has not produced any. But the Court is still willing to look on Mezei’s months stuck in Hungary with suspicion.

This case does not remain a strong legal precedent as it once was (take a look at Zadvydas v. Davis, 533 US 678 (2001) if you’re curious). But much of it still holds, and more importantly, it follows a familiar, well-trodden path.

Throughout the history of our country, national security threats have been used to justify some of our most shameful acts---from Japanese internment to COINTELPRO and the House Un-American Activities Committee, just to name a handful. Though time provides us with sufficient perspective to regret these dark moments, we seem doomed to repeat them.

In his dissent, Justice Jackson concludes with these ever-relevant words:

Congress has ample power to determine whom we will admit to our shores and by what means it will effectuate its exclusion policy. The only limitation is that it may not do so by authorizing United States officers to take without due process of law the life, the liberty or the property of an alien who has come within our jurisdiction; and that means he must meet a fair hearing with fair notice of the charges.

It is inconceivable to me that this measure of simple justice and fair dealing would menace the security of this country. No one can make me believe that we are that far gone.

#this post is long #i like the law #and the supreme court #thanks for letting me nerd out #i <3 immigration law

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[SF] A College Admissions Essay From The Future President Of The World

Dear Mikirken State University Admissions Board,

For my college entrance essay, I have chosen the three prompts:

Why should we choose you for Mikirken State University?

Tell us an experience that humbled you.

What do you hope to accomplish at Mikirken State University?

I hope to prove with these essays that I am MSU material and will be a unique and valuable contribution to the MSU student body… and humanity.

Why should we choose you for Mikirken State University?

I have a 3.4 GPA, my SAT score is 1350, and I am the proud son of a hard-working single mother.

But my most important qualification is that I will become the first president of the world.

That is to say, that sometime in the year 2062, I will be inaugurated as the first president of the United World Order, a democratic, federal government with jurisdiction over the entire Earth.

Why do I know about my destiny?

Although I don’t have the full story, I have preened this information from the hundreds of time travelers who have visited, stalked and harassed me since my birth.

That might sound unusual, and it is.

At least, it is for normal people.

However, for People of Historical Interest (POHI), it’s quite regular. In fact, every POHI from the Egyptian King Narmer to the 24th century Cyber Warlord Bob has been swarmed by curious, fact-finding time travelers.

You might also think it’s strange that the time travelers have told me so much about my history. The truth is, they’re not supposed to reveal themselves as time travelers or tell me anything about the future.

But time travelers, while being generally intelligent people, are so enthusiastic about meeting historical figures that they tend to let things slip.

When I was four, our mailman would deliver mail three times a day and regularly ask if he could join us for breakfast in our home.

My mother assumed he was romantically interested in her, but it quickly became apparent that he was more interested in her parenting. What she fed me, what books she read to me, if I showed any traits that might facilitate my future greatness, etc.

He was writing a book.

They’re always writing a book.

When confronted with the fact that the post office had never heard of him and his uniform was clearly made of a chrome-colored, synthetic fiber unknown to modern science, he confessed.

Since then, my mother and I have become adept at spotting time travelers. They almost seem relieved when they’re exposed, admitting their professions, but adding that they cannot reveal anything about the future or risk dire consequences for the timeline and humanity’s destiny.

But slip-ups happen.

When I was nine, a woman asked me what influence the U.N. declaration of human rights had on my understanding of Neo-Gramscian International Relations theories.

I asked, “why?”

She said, “because you quote the declaration in your inauguration speech as first President of the United World Order in 2062.”

That’s when I knew.

Since that embarrassing slip-up, it’s been easier for me to collect information about my future self and explore why I would make a great MSU student from the perspective of Post-Doctorate level historical analysis.

In the future, I will lead a band of highly-talented individuals to save the planet from the worst effects of climate change, mitigate the chaos and violence caused by depleted world resources and unite all nations in the greatest endeavor ever taken to end war, forever.

Although I’m not the most brilliant POHI or the strongest, I have a high degree of honesty and moral courage, or so I’m told, and yet I am strangely evasive.

I will be regularly compared to Abraham Lincoln, although my place in history is closer to that of foundational leader like George Washington, speaking from a strictly American historical perspective.

Also, my favorite subjects are math and biology.

Tell us an experience that humbled you.

This answer is also related to the time traveler/future president of the world thing.

My college prep tutor told me that I needed to show a variety of experiences in my essays, but seeing as that tutor is also a time traveler in disguise, I have decided to write more about this particular aspect of my life.

I also realize that being a POHI with a constant retinue of time traveling observers hardly seems like a humbling experience.

Certainly, my mother has taken enormous pride in my future. She has used it as affirmation her all-bran breakfasts are the cornerstone of a healthy childhood. Time travelers seem reluctant or unwilling to dissuade her of that idea… unfortunately.

Nevertheless, many conversations have been disturbing.

Most travelers come from the years 2130 (roughly the year time travel was invented) through 2180. But I also get people from 2200 through 2240, a period where my legacy becomes “problematic.”

During my rise to power and administration I made (or will make) several compromises and had a variety of moral blind spots that were perfectly acceptable, or at least overlooked, until the year 2200, when citizens of the first world order start to “wake up.”

These moral failings include not recognizing Kurdistan, the Basque Country, Tibet, Somalia and France as independent states within the global federal system.

Supposedly, that’s due to the racism and ignorance of my “America-centric perspective.”

I also blocked amendments to the global constitution that would grant human rights to cyborgs and genetically enhanced humans. That backwards view will lead to a century of discrimination.

Time travelers tell me about these problems regularly with almost no observance of temporal law. I suspect that many of them hope to change the timeline, and maybe they have.

Whereas other time travelers are looking for the keys to greatness, these people are looking for the seeds of evil.

They hate bran.

My mother doesn’t like those travelers and tries to shoo them away whenever possible, but they keep coming. They argue a lot with historians that praise my administration. Sometimes, they’ll even start fist fights.

I used to argue with them too.

I’d become defensive and scream. Tell them they wouldn’t even be alive without future-me.

I’ve grown. I recognize their pain and try to listen now. They’re right to be angry or even hate me, because I could have easily made their lives easier by a simple admission of their humanity.

But I didn’t (or won’t).

These historians have made me realize that I’m not perfect, and I never will be.

How I come to forget these lessons in the future is beyond me. I suspect that I will be forced to compromise my morality for some sort of greater good.

I don’t know.

But I’m the only person who regrets something they haven’t done yet.

What do you hope to accomplish at Mikirken State University?

As you are probably aware, Mikirken State University currently ranks towards the bottom of universities nation-wide. There are almost no notable alumni or programs with significant acclaim.

I’m sorry for my honesty and the arrogance of this observation — but why would the future president of the world want to go to your university?

This application was inspired by one time traveler from the year 2567.

You see, after the year 2240, I stop being a POHI with such an emotionally controversial legacy and I start becoming a stale subject of academic interest.

I still get visitors from past that year, but they usually stay hidden, my failings and victories too distant to be provocative.

One morning, a dirty old man burst into my bedroom. His eyes were blood-shot and crazy. His hair hadn’t been washed in some time and he had a long, wiry beard.

He made no attempt to disguise himself for our time. Instead, his clothes were dirty and as grey as his beard.

I thought it was a time assassin, but before I could even scream, he held his hand to my mouth and pleaded with me to hear him out. I figured I had no other choice.

He told me that in his era, the government I founded is gone. The world is suffering from a terrible, man-made blight that’s left billions to starve to death. Competing cults have turned people against each other and freely destroy the world’s technological infrastructure and kill off engineers and scientists.

War and nuclear destruction envelope large sections of the planet. The ideals of justice, equality and freedom are taboo. Even the words used to describe them are being expunged from the future global languages.

The man told me he had saved the last known time traveling device and used its last charge to come talk to me.

He knew that in his distant past I prevented the horrors his world faced. He and his followers had come to worship me as their last hope for fixing a broken world.

And after telling me every detail of his time, he asked what I would do to heal the planet.

I said, “dude, I’m only 12.”

It wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

I never saw him again, and I’ve never seen a traveler from after 2567.

That doesn’t mean civilization was wiped out. It could be that my legacy was cleaned from history or time travel was banned or many other possibilities.

But getting back to the question — why MSU?

Right now, your institution may not be the best. And it won’t become significant in the next century. Or the century after that. Or the one after that.

Nevertheless, by 2567, it will be the last institution of higher learning left on the entire planet (at least, as far as that man knew). It’s from your university that that desperate man made his journey.

To be precise, he traveled from the basement of science center, which still exists in 2567.

I didn’t have an answer for him when I was twelve, but I plan on spending the next four years looking for one and leaving it for him.

I’ve been told (indirectly) that my college years don’t actually matter. There’s no record of my experiences during those years, and I will one day confess to being kind of idiot during this future time.

And so, I am not interested in a specific program, a career track, or even a degree.

I only hope to answer that one man.

I have included these essays along with my transcripts and other application materials.

Thank you for your time and consideration, and I hope to speak with you soon about my joining the student body.

Go Mavericks!

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trippinglynet · 4 years

Text

The Burning Question at Black Rock

Carl Nolte, Chronicle Staff Writer

Sunday, December 1, 1996

This fall, 10,000 people were sucked into the Nevada desert for a Woodstock at the stake -- five days without inhibitions where, on the final day, a huge structure of a man is burned in effigy. Now people are wondering…

It was the damnedest thing anybody here had ever seen: the Burning Man Festival, a village of maybe 10,000 people, drawn by nature, sex and the Internet, plopped down in the middle of a trackless desert for five days in the baking heat of Labor Day weekend.

The Burning Man this year was the biggest performance art festival in the West. There was poetry around the clock, there was music, drugs, mass nudity, hot springs, dust storms, a daily newspaper, five radio stations, hundreds of portable toilets, motorcycles, dune buggies, Jeeps and all the Jeep pretenders, airplanes, anarchy, fun, madness. There was one death.

"The Burning Man is Disneyland in reverse . . . Woodstock turned inside out," said Larry Harvey, the principal organizer behind the event. Everyone, he said, is an actor in the pageant. "It is anything you want it to be."

It was not anarchy," said Phil Thomas, the local justice of the peace. "It was more of organized mayhem."

This year's festival was the 11th running of the Burning Man, an event that began in San Francisco and moved to the desert in 1990. The Burning Man is named for a big wooden figure of a man, set afire as the finale. What does it mean? Anything you like.

It has doubled in size every year, from a couple of hundred participants in 1990 to perhaps 1,000 or so a year later, to 5,000 last year, to 10,000 or so this year. There are no exact numbers, only guesses.

The Burning Man was perfect for the Internet. It made the cover of the November issue of Wired magazine, which called it "The New American Holiday."

The Burning Man is on the Web, of course: Black Rock City Online billed as "part of the smoking hole in reality." There were 100,000 hits in two days.

This year, the Burning Man was bigger even than the immense and brooding Black Rock Desert, 100 miles north of Reno.

It was so big, so popular, that nearly everyone agrees on one thing -- never again. Not the same way. Some people question whether the Burning Man is an appropriate use for the Black Rock Desert, where the chief attraction is a sense of space, and solitude. It was a basic contradiction -- a huge crowd in an empty land, an event that hailed anarchy that had too much anarchy for its own good.

The desert is also used for other events, including speed trials. This October, car racer Craig Breedlove tried -- and failed -- to set a world land speed record on the desert. His jet-powered car reached 675 miles per hour, then nearly tipped over.

The stage for all this is more than 900 square miles that once were the bottom of the ancient Lake Lahontan. The surface of the desert is playa -- the floor of the vanished lake, cracked and dry in summer and damp and impassable in winter.

It is surrounded by sere brown mountains. To Glenn Miller, a professor at the University of Nevada, it is a place "of mystery and majesty," where one can see the curvature of the earth. It is possible to be absolutely alone in the desert; there are no animals, and almost no plant life on the playa. "You have to learn how to look at it," said Bernie Schopen, a Reno novelist and teacher. "You have to get past green." One of his books, a detective story called "The Big Silence," is set in the Black Rock.

The nearest town is Gerlach, set between the Black Rock and the adjacent Smoke Creek desert. To get there, one turns off Interstate 80 at Fernley and heads north through the Indian reservation town of Nixon and the company town of Empire. On the highway between Nixon and Empire, 50 or so miles, there are two houses.

Gerlach likes to brag it is the place where the pavement ends and the West begins. It is hot as the hinges of hell in summer and bitter cold in winter.

To get to the Burning Man, one heads out of Gerlach, out a dirt road, taking one of two unmarked tracks into the desert and heading easterly. The playa is like the ocean, you don't drive on it, you navigate. The playa is flat, and most cars can handle it fairly easily, if it is dry. However, this is desert, miles from anywhere and desolate, a bad place to be in trouble. After some miles, for five days late last summer, one came upon the fantastic Black Rock City, home of the Burning Man. Admission was $40 on site, $35 for tickets in advance. The money buys sanitary facilities, some security, and admission into a kind of organized anarchy, where anything goes.

The theme this year was hell. There was a McSatan burger stand, a Hell Oil gas station and a Motel 666. It was as hot as hell, nearly -- 105 in the shade. At the hot springs, steam came out of the very ground.

There were camps all over the desert, tents, domes, motor homes, clouds of dust so thick no one could see.

"The vehicles and structures are organized into affinity tribes," Bruce Sterling wrote in Wired, "pyromaniac camp, windsurfer camp, piano-fire camp, rave camp, industrial grunge camp, radio camp, art camp, gun and ammo camp, and so on. Beyond this, nothing is certain."

"The weirdest stuff you could see in San Francisco is out there," said John Law, one of the organizers, "but some of the most imaginative as well."

It is very much a San Francisco event. "This thing," said Harvey, "could never come out of any place but San Francisco, the world center of eccentricity."

The central premise, he said, is "to create your own world. You don't go there to be entertained. You are the entertainment. Indeed, it is your duty to create. It is the idea -- isn't it? -- behind every great party. It is like a carnival."

"A republic of the creative," he called it, "a powerful force."

There is a tradition in Nevada -- you can do anything you like as long as nobody gets hurt and you don't frighten the horses. And in Gerlach, most people seem to like the Burning Man and the people who come with it.

Gerlach has a population of 350. There are five saloons and no churches. There is a cinder-block courthouse with an eight-seat courtroom, Judge Thomas presiding. "I am the clerk, the judge, the department head, the budget analyst and the bouncer," he said. His jurisdiction is larger than New Jersey, 7,500 square miles, with a population of perhaps 1,000. He is the law between the Pyramid Lake Indian Reservation and Oregon.

Gerlach has a high school and its sports teams travel hundreds of miles for road games, sometimes as far as Tule Lake on the California-Oregon border. Gerlach High graduated 14 students last year.

It is 79 miles from downtown Gerlach to the nearest ATM machine and 100 to the dentist. "We live in the slow lane of life," said Bev Osborn, who owns one of the bars. She came to Gerlach in 1943, when the town was a little bigger and the train still stopped there.

The Union Pacific railroad runs on the edge of the desert and through Gerlach, but the trains are all freight and seldom even slow down.

If there is a leading citizen in Gerlach, it is Bruno Selmi. He and his wife, Frances, own Bruno's Country Club and Casino. Bruno is a self-made man, who came to town 50 years ago from Italy with nothing. Now his empire includes the town's only motel, only gas station and leading restaurant, famous for its raviolis. Everybody knows Bruno, and Bruno knows everybody, including former presidents of the United States, and the people behind the Burning Man.

The Burning Man folks, he says, "are the nicest people I ever saw in my life."

What they do in the desert is their business, and when they come to town they fill up on Bruno's gas, put dimes in Bruno's slot machines, eat his raviolis and drink his beer.

"If they don't bother me, I don't give a s--." That's his philosophy.

Osborn feels the same way. "They just go out there and have a big party," she said. "It is one time in life when people come out here to go crazy. And everybody in town gets a piece of the action. Even the Girl Scouts went out there to sell ice and raised $900 this year."

John Law, who has been Harvey's right hand man, feels the desert is like "a blank slate" that is empty when the Burning Man begins, and is cleaned up afterward so that when it is over, it is empty again, as if it never happened.

The federal Bureau of Land Management, which administers the desert, came out some days after the event to inspect the cleanup effort. The Burning Man volunteers had done such a good job that Lynn Clemons, the BLM's officer in charge, could not even find the site of the Burning Man.

You can't hurt the desert, some people say. Once it is gone over by the cleaning crews, it is the same as it ever was. But there are those who say it was the desert wind that took care of the trash. Two days after the end of the Burning Man, a windstorm came up and blew the dust from the playa, churned up by thousands of vehicles, and the trash together into the immensity of the Great Basin. Bob Ellis, a member of a group called Desert Survivors, called it "the mother of all dust storms."

Everyone agrees about a few things: Some of the Burning Man was shocking. There was public sex, there were drugs, and drinking and people driving drunk and stoned. There were too many vehicles, and they made too much dust, which was dangerous, because people drove very fast in zero visibility.

One person died in a head-on motorcycle crash, and three others were injured when a car ran over their tent. One of them is still in a coma with head injuries, two months later.

These accidents might have happened at a rodeo or a rock concert, or some other big event. When there are crowds, things happen, and some are tragic. "It is a community," said Harvey. "There are marriages, and divorces, and births and deaths."

On the whole, the Burning Man was interesting and fun. It reminded the BLM's Clemons of Mardi Gras in his native New Orleans. Karen Keesee, her husband and family, all went out from Gerlach and liked the festival.

"I went to Burning Man and enjoyed it a lot. I had a great time," said Ellis, who is a leader of the Desert Survivors. "I am not one to say it is not appropriate to be on the playa, but it is not appropriate to have that many people on the playa. It just got too large.

"It's a great time and a lot of people learned a lot about the desert, but it can't go on the way it is. It's gotten too big."

"We are coming to the point now where we are thinking it is inappropriate for the desert," said Steve Tabor, another member of Desert Survivors.

Black Rock City is in a far corner of Pershing County, 6,000 square miles, with a population of 6,200 people, and Burning Man has strained the county's resources. Sheriff Ron Skinner was able to borrow officers from other jurisdictions, but he had only six officers to handle 10,000 people this year, a clearly impossible assignment. If there was trouble, he had to get help from Lovelock, the county seat, which is 150 miles away by paved road.

"It's just gotten out of hand," he said.

Some people hate the whole idea of Burning Man. "In the '40s, they were going to use the Black Rock as a place to dump the garbage from San Francisco," said John Bogard. "And now they have." Bogard and his wife, Rachel, operate a pottery business called Planet X, eight miles outside Gerlach. Like a lot of Nevadans, they came from California years ago, drawn by the beauty of the desert. "This place has a certain soul," John Bogard says.

The Burning Man, Rachel Bogard says, "is basic hedonism. The thought is, 'Where can we go to do something we are not allowed to do somewhere else?' "

"If they are doing stuff that is not OK in San Francisco, why is it OK here?" said John Bogard. "I say get rid of 'em. There's too many of them."

Too many seems to be the heart of the problem. "Every time you advertise on the Internet that you have the biggest party going, you get people from all over," said Thomas, the justice of the peace. "You don't know who the hell's coming in.

"You have a million acres of playa. You can't contain it, you can't control it."

He likes the Burning Man, with certain personal reservations, mostly moral. But the Gerlach court's workload -- 400 citations this year compared to 165 in 1995 -- just buried him. "As a pain in the ass, it was a 10," said the judge.

Even Larry Harvey, the main organizer, feels something has to change. He is adamant in defending his operation; his record, he says, speaks for itself. "With all the wild, passionate things going on, there was not a single fist fight. You can talk about criminality all you want, but we are upstanding citizens, exemplars of civic virtue."

But there is another side: the Burning Man has too many vehicles, too many people who don't understand. Though it is supposed to be art, even the organizers realize that some of the people don't get it. The Burning Man was played up in the Reno media as a huge weekend party, and many kinds of people came. Some, Harvey said a bit ruefully, came out "to grab a couple of six-packs, and drive around and look at tits."

There is a debate about the future inside the collective that provides the leadership and the volunteers for Burning Man. "I personally am not going to do it again," said John Law, who has been with Burning Man since it started as a party on a San Francisco beach. "I have mixed feelings about bringing that many people out there (to the desert)."

Baker Beach in San Francisco had the problems that have followed and caught up with Burning Man in the Black Rock, Harvey said. In its last year there, the crowd -- about a thousand -- were more spectators than participants. It was all wrong, Harvey said, and there was a riot. The U.S. Park Police were not amused.

In a single conversation, Harvey swings between defending the festival to saying it has to change. "We are going to reinvent ourselves," he said. "Maybe move to private property. It is a movable feast. Hell, the Mormons moved, didn't they?"

Would it move from the Black Rock? "Yeah," said Harvey, "I think so.

"We will do it again," he said, "but it will be different."

The Burning Man event requires a permit from the BLM, routinely granted last year after the organizers posted a $5,000 bond and obtained $1 million in insurance. This time, however, public hearings would probably be necessary -- and there is opposition.

The Pershing County Commission, the legislative body of the county, voted to oppose granting another permit for the Burning Man for security reasons, and as Sheriff Skinner says, "because of the nature of some of the performances. A lot of them are sexual in nature. I don't feel they are appropriate for public display."

Susan Lynn, of Public Resource Associates, a Reno firm, has serious doubts about using the desert for Burning Man. She first saw the desert in the '70s. "I fell in love with it," she said. "The Black Rock, frankly, is as good as Death Valley or Yosemite."

"What I object to is the enormous number of people that come. The hot springs, for example, were overwhelmed. There were hordes of motorcycles, there were people hiking, walking, motorcycling, trampling."

Her group has appealed the BLM's decision to allow the 1996 Burning Man and would probably oppose a 1997 event.

Anyone who missed Burning Man missed something that probably won't ever happen again in the same way. "The Black Rock Desert is big," wrote Jon Cristensend in Great Basin News, "but not big enough for Hell on Earth. We hope the organizers get the message without having to be banned. The Burning Man is dead. Long live the Black Rock Desert."

Harvey gets the last word. "Let's see what happens," he said. "It's a mystery for now."

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