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#agent donnely
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I care for you...
For the charming @bondsmallory​ 🤩
Hope you’ll enjoy the gift!
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"I don't think that's a good idea," sighed Gareth.
"I know: that's the hundredth time you've told me, darling."
As she brushed her hair, (Y/N) couldn't help but smile: Gareth had always been the protective type with her. She could understand him, as their job often exposed them to danger. After all, working for the British secret service was not easy. As head of MI6, Gareth was safer, but for (Y/N), the situation was different: she was often in charge of accompanying the 00 agents in the field, which exposed her to the various risks of the job.
For Mallory, losing his girlfriend was unthinkable, but he could not go against her will.
"Do you know who you're going on the mission with?"
"Let's see... I'll be with 001 and 007."
The MI6 boss did not feel well: sure, she was going with experienced agents, who were also her best friends, but he also knew that these agents were real hotheads. All he hoped was that the mission would go smoothly.
"You know, you don't have to go. After all, I can send someone else..."
"I'm not sure the others will like it. They'll think you protect your girlfriend by sending others to the front!"
"I thought you didn't care what other people thought..."
The young woman turned around.
"Maybe, but I do care about you. I don't want your desire to protect me costs you your job!"
Gareth stepped forward and took (Y/N's) face in his hands.
"Don't worry about me, (Y/N). I know what I'm doing. All I ask is that you come back safely."
"I'll be careful, I promise. Besides, I'm not going alone."
"I know, but I don't know if it's a good thing to go with them. Those two are quite capable of causing disasters..."
"Yes, but don't forget they are two of your best agents. And don't blacken the picture: the last mission I did with them in Bogota went very well!"
"Let's just say it was a lucky shot!"
(Y/N) rolled her eyes.
"You're stubborn!"
"I know, and I understand that's part of my charm."
The two lovers exchanged a kiss.
"I'll be back in one piece soon. I promise!"
"I don't doubt it, my dear. I don't doubt it for a second..."
💥💥💥💥💥💥💥
A few days later.
"You have all the files? Now, get out of here!"
"It's what we're trying to do, Q!"
Behind his screen, Q looked anguishedly at James, Edward, and (Y/N) running in the middle of the streets of Roma.
The three British agents were chased by mobsters, determined not to let them leave alive.
"Good thing Q said this mission was a walk in the park!" joked 001.
"I hear you, Ed," retorted the engineer.
"Focus on the mission instead of yakking. Right now, we have to save our skins!" scolded (Y/N).
Fortunately for them, the quartermaster was watching over them and guiding them on their way.
"You're on the right track: your car is at the end of the alley on the right!"
"Well, at least it's good news! I'll take the wheel, you shoot!" declared the young woman.
"I guess this is no time to negotiate!" quipped James.
Sitting next to Q, Tanner watched the chase, looking worried.
"Q ?"
"Yes, Tanner?"
"I guess M doesn't know what's going on."
"No, and it's best to keep him in the dark. If our boss finds out mobsters chased his girlfriend, he'll go ballistic!"
"Don't tell Gareth! He was already reluctant to let me go on a mission: if he finds out we're gunned down, he'll lock me in my apartment and ban me from missions until retirement!"
"Are you talking about his retirement or yours?" sneered Ed.
"Dare you say that to his face: I'm sure Mallory will appreciate you reminded of his age." retorted James.
The three English spies arrived at their car, an armoured sedan with all the necessary equipment for the agents.
Y/N got behind the wheel and drove off while James and Edward, seated in the back, prepared to fire back.
Q and Tanner guided them, hoping their friends would make it to their hideout in time.
The shots they heard did not reassure them.
"My God, don't let anything happen to them!" Q whispered.
"For the moment, we don't say anything to the boss: he must not know anything!" stammered Bill.
"What shouldn't I know?"
Hearing their boss's voice, the two officers looked at each other in horror before turning around to find Gareth Mallory standing behind them.
The head of MI6 glared at them.
"What are you two hiding from me?"
"Nothing at all, sir. We were monitoring the progress of the various missions in the field. And so far, everything is fine. Isn't it, dear Quartermaster?"
"Exactly."
"It's curious: I see that you are focusing on a single mission."
The MI6 boss squinted and read the caption, "Rome, Italy."
"And why are you especially interested in Italy?"
He heard the shots.
"There's a shootout?!"
"A shootout? Not at all: it's fireworks! It's the national holiday in Italy!"
"Q, Italy's National Day is June 2, and we're in October! If you think you can fool me, that's a huge mistake!"
Mallory stopped and asked:
"Wait: The mission you're watching is in Italy?"
"Yes?"
"And who is on a mission in Italy?"
They heard the voice of James Bond.
"Agents 007 and 001 on the report, sir. Agent Black Orchid cannot respond: she is driving!"
Gareth understood the situation: Y/N, 007 and 001 were being chased and were under machine gun fire.
"But what's going on? You were supposed to act discreetly!"
Y/N's voice replied.
"But we acted discreetly! Only here it is: James didn't think it was more stupid to sleep with the wife of a Camorra leader!"
"Tell me I'm dreaming! Bond: I've told you a hundred times before that sex is only out of necessity!"
"I know, but let's say the lady was very charming, and how could I refuse her request since she asked me nicely?"
Mallory slapped his forehead.
"Since you're never alone messing everything up, I guess Agent 001 must have been acting up! Mr Donne, I dare to hope you haven't slept with that mobster's wife too!"
"No: I slept with his sister. A pretty woman! And she wanted to show me her room!"
"These two are going to drive me crazy!" sighed M.
"I'm not blaming them: I almost slept with this guy's brother!"
"YOU WHAT?" Gareth screamed while Q and Bill choked back laughter at their boss' outburst of jealousy.
"Do you listen to me when I talk to you? I told you that I almost slept with his brother, not that I did. That said, he was rather handsome: too bad, it was a psychopath! But I reassure you, my darling, he didn't have time to do anything to me: I strangled him with his belt!"
"Coming from you, that doesn't surprise me!"
The young woman retorted.
"Don't be offended: I'm sure you sleep with many women during your missions!"
"Darling, know that as the boss of MI6, I don't go out into the field anymore. And even if I did, I wouldn't sleep with any woman!"
"Oh? And why?"
"Just because no woman reaches your level, (Y/N)."
The spy couldn't help smiling, flattered by the compliment.
Of course, James and Edward couldn't help but annoy their boss.
"I didn't know you were capable of romanticism, sir!" Donne joked.
"You could say nice things to us once in a while," Bond added.
"Shut up, you two, and get out of this mess alive! I'll hold you responsible if anything happens to (Y/N)! "
At the same time, Y/N spotted two other cars coming in their direction.
"Gentlemen, we have company! Q, we have no choice: we have to organize our extraction!"
"I'm taking care of it!"
The engineer looked at the plan and said:
"I found you a shortcut! The meeting point is the port of Ostia: a boat will be waiting for you there! As soon as you board, it will take you to Marseille, where you will take a direct flight to London!"
"Lovely program, but I suggest that we respect the steps! Where do we go?" Edward asked, shooting at their pursuers, killing several thugs.
"Y/N, take the first street on the left, now!"
"Understood!" replied the young woman who sped the wheel, shaking her passengers.
The chase seemed long for Gareth, who feared to hear one of his agents hit by a shot.
He bitterly regretted let (Y/N) go on a mission with these two hotheads. He would never forgive himself if Y/N got hurt or worse.
Gareth Mallory loved the young woman and wanted her to realize it.
In the meantime, he could do nothing but stand there, waiting for the outcome of this mission.
Meanwhile, (Y/N) continued to drive at breakneck speed. She was desperate to get rid of her pursuers before reaching the rendezvous point.
An idea came to her mind, and she said:
"Guys, hang on! It is going to be a rough one!"
"What are you going to do?" asked James.
"If I were you, I'd wear my seatbelt!" said Edward.
No sooner had Agent 001 finished his sentence than (Y/N) gave a violent jerk and drove into an alley, leaving no time for their pursuers to figure out what happened.
"Q, give me the new route!"
The engineer scanned his screen and replied:
"Good news, folks: you'll arrive directly at the port of Ostia in a few minutes!"
"Well done, Agent Black Orchid!" exclaimed Tanner.
Gareth felt relief run through his body. 
At least he knew that Y/N would return safely. But he promised himself to have a little chat with her.
At the same time, the three British agents boarded the ship and departed from Marseille. While recovering from their emotions, they expected the remonstrances of their boss.
🛫🛫🛫🛫🛫🛫
A few days later, in London.
When she returned home to the flat she shared with her lover, (Y/N) felt good. Sitting on the sofa, she felt like she was in a protective and reassuring cocoon.
This calm was short-lived when she heard Gareth enter the flat.
He walked into the living room and saw that the love of his life was in the living room.
"Good evening, darling," Y/N said, a mischievous smile on her lips.
The MI6 boss crossed his arms and replied detachedly:
"Good evening, Y/N. I see you're back home already. Have you made your report?"
Seeing her companion's reaction, the young woman pouted in annoyance and replied:
"I missed you, too. If it makes you feel any better, I wrote my report during the flight from Marseille to London and sent it to you. Check your mailbox if you don't believe me."
Mallory picked up his phone and checked his girlfriend's words. And indeed, she was telling the truth.
"You did write your report, but I would have preferred to hear your account of what happened in Rome in person."
"James and Edward have already told you everything you need to know, haven't they?"
"Yes, and they told me they'd rather I pulled their ears off than yell at you!"
Y/N grinned mischievously.
"Well, you said they weren't team players, but I guess they stick together!"
"Together to do anything! And I wonder how you agree to go with them, knowing they can put you in danger!"
"I wasn't in danger in Rome! We had it under control!"
"I'm not sure that the car chase through the streets of Rome proves any control!"
Y/N rolled her eyes.
"You know very well that's part of the risk of the job!"
Gareth lost his patience.
"DAMN IT, Y/N: YOU COULD HAVE DIED OUT THERE! WHY ARE YOU TAKING EVERYTHING SO LIGHTLY?"
The MI6 chief knew he had overreacted when he saw Y/N's eyes glow with anger.
"I see... I thought you trusted me, but I'm wrong."
Without a word, the young woman stood up and walked away, leaving Gareth alone.
The latter ran a hand through his hair: he knew he had overstepped the mark.
He went to the bedroom and found Y/N sitting on the bed, reading a book.
He sat down beside her and said:
"I'm sorry: I didn't mean to yell at you."
The young woman did not respond, focused on her reading. A silent way of saying:
"I don't care what you say: I'm too angry with you to listen!"
Gareth moved closer and stroked Y/N's cheek.
"I would never doubt you, Y/N, you know that. You are an extraordinary woman and the best agent in MI6. Not even 007 could keep up with you!"
"Do you dare tell him that again?" asked Y/N.
Seeing the smirk on her lips, Gareth knew he would succeed.
"Well, order me to do it, and I'll tell him that tomorrow, eye to eye!"
Intrigued, Y/N turned to her lover.
"Are you serious? You, the strictest man in MI6, would be willing to bruise James Bond's ego to please me?"
"Indeed, I am serious. Like I'm serious about worrying about you. Just because I worry about you doesn't mean I don't trust you!"
Sensing that he wanted to say more, the spy put her book on her bedside table. 
"But what now?"
Mallory ran a hand through his hair before answering:
"I don't like the idea of you going on a mission without me, not because I doubt your skills, but because I'm afraid something will happen to you!"
He sighed.
"I always fear that if you were to find yourself in danger during a mission, I would not be there to come and help you. I dread this feeling of helplessness at the idea of ​​knowing you are in the hands of mobsters and other psychopathic criminals. Losing you would be unthinkable for me. I don't know what I would do if you were to die on a mission!"
Y/N's reaction was immediate: she straddled Gareth's legs and pressed her forehead against his.
"And you're only telling me all this now?"
"I know: I'm a stubborn old man!"
"Probably. But I wouldn't trade my stubborn old man for anything in the world!"
"That reassures me!"
Slowly, they exchanged a kiss. A kiss that became more and more passionate as their hands caressed each other's bodies.
Then Y/N, with feline agility, removed Gareth's tie and threw it away. dexterity
"Did anyone ever tell you ties were dangerous? Someone could strangle you with that."
"I know. I hope that idea never crossed your mind!" Gareth joked.
"Only when you annoy me. But it never lasts more than half a second: I care too much about you to commit the irreparable!"
"I appreciate your honesty, darling. And while I struggle with your risk-taker character, it's hard for me to blame you!"
"That's nice to hear!"
The young woman bent down to her lover's ear and whispered:
"Now help me take this dress off!"
"But your wishes are orders, Y/N," the MI6 boss smiled as he tossed the dress to the corner of the room.
Then he began to place kisses along her body, making the young woman sigh with pleasure.
He lingered on the few bruises that dotted Y/N's skin, traces of past hectic missions.
For her part, the young woman undid the buttons of her lover's shirt and took it off.
Throughout this undressing, the two lovers did not stop their games of caresses, kisses and other proofs of love.
Then, once under the sheets, the only obstacle covering their nudity, Gareth and Y/N made love.
This act of carnal love was not there to satisfy their desire: it was a way of renewing their promises of love and reassuring themselves about the presence of the other.
As Y/N reared in pleasure at feeling her lover's thrusts between her legs, Gareth caressed his lover's skin, their voices moaning in unison.
After reaching the supreme pleasure, the two lovers remained to lie in the sheets, their bodies tightly entwined.
While planting kisses on the young woman's forehead, the MI6 boss whispered:
"Stay with me...Let me take care of you..."
"I'm staying here. I promise you," answered Y/N, who dozed off.
On these new promises, the couple fell asleep, happy and relieved to be reunited again.
💕💕💕💕💕���
One year later.
"I'm going to believe you two are doing it on purpose! Is it too hard to ask you not to wreak havoc everywhere you go?"
Edward and James exchanged an amused look. Remonstrances from their boss no longer mattered to them.
As for Gareth, they wondered if 001 and 007 weren't purposely pissing him off each time they returned from a mission.
"The minister yelled at me for 30 minutes on the phone because you messed up Rio de Janeiro! Your mission was simple: find our contact there, get her to safety, and then sneak her out! What did you miss in the instructions?"
"But we did things by the book, sir: the only unforeseen event in this story was the arrival of a cartel who came after us. The main thing is that Miss De Souzeira is safe with us in London, far away from all danger!" protested James.
"By messing up all of Rio?"
"We had no choice: we had to slow them down!" Edward added.
Gareth had thoughts of murder that crossed his mind, but he preferred to cut the interview short.
"If you don't have any other nonsense to tell me, you can leave!"
At the same time, there was a knock on the door.
"Yes?"
Eve Moneypenny opened the door:
"You have visitors, sir. And I think you'll like it!"
Suiting the action to the word, Eve shifted and let pass Y/N, who was holding a baby in her arms.
"Hello, everyone!"
"Y/N!" James and Edward exclaimed, jumping up to greet their friend.
"I didn't know you were coming here today!"
"I was supposed to have lunch with Gareth today. Besides, Victoria wanted to see her dad!" added the young woman, looking tenderly at the baby dozing in her arms.
"It's crazy how fast she changes! To think she's only three weeks old!" mused Eve.
"She looks a lot like her mother - a real charmer!" Edward grinned.
"We will teach her the art of seduction!" smiled James.
"No way! I don't want you teaching my daughter your nonsense! Get out of here, you two: I've seen you enough for the day!"
007 pretended to be offended.
"Is that how you talk to your daughter's godfathers? You upset me, sir!"
"We take our role seriously!" added 001.
"That's what worries me! I often wonder why I accepted that you are Victoria's godfathers! Go away!"
The two spies left the office, a mocking smile on their lips.
Eve asked:
"Do you need anything else, sir?"
"No, thank you, Miss Moneypenny. You can go: I have an important meeting!" Mallory replied, glancing at his wife and daughter.
"Very well, I leave you!" smiled Eve as she closed the door.
Once alone, Gareth and his partner exchanged a knowing smile.
"Now that you finished pulling James and Edward's ears, do you have time for us?" asked the young woman.
"But you know I always have time for you two! Are you okay, Vicky?" Gareth said as he hugged his daughter.
Y/N smiled when she saw her companion being tender with the newborn: from the start of her pregnancy, the young woman had been able to count on Gareth, who had taken great care of her.
And the moment their daughter was born, the MI6 boss threw himself into being a father.
Of course, he wasn't the only one who fell in love with Victoria: all the 00 agents, Tanner, Eve and Q adored the little girl - so much so that James and Edward had claimed to be her godfathers.
These moments of happiness in a constantly changing world were essential for the two agents.
"And if we had lunch? I ordered food from an excellent Italian restaurant: you will tell me about it!"
"I look forward!"
While Gareth, Y/N and Victoria enjoyed some simple family time, the two spies knew that as long as they cared for each other, nothing could happen...
Thanks for reading!
I hope you enjoyed the story!
Feel free to send me story requests!
Take care: I love you all!💘💘😘🥰😍
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osappleobeneduci · 7 days
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SUICIDI in DIVISA: UNA MORTE OGNI 6 GIORNI nelle FORZE di POLIZIA e FORZE ARMATE
I dati relativi al tasso di suicidi all’interno delle Forze Armate e di Polizia sono drammatici, ma nonostante ciò se ne parla poco. Si tratta ovviamente di una questione delicata, su cui i Corpi preferiscono spesso la strada della riservatezza per evitare ancor più dannose polemiche e preservare la dignità di chi ha compiuto questo gesto estremo. Complice anche il difficile distacco dallo stigma…
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opinionatedmedia · 2 months
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megachirottera · 1 year
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La storia completa dei vaccini per la depopolazione
Sono molto più comuni di quanto si possa pensare Source: Apr 6, 2022; by A Midwestern Doctor on The Forgotten Side of Medicine (more…) “”
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camewiththeframe · 8 months
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Lengthy Rant… & Slight spoilers ahead…
You won’t be shocked to know that I’m not particularly pleased with a portrayal of Jean in Oppenheimer,  and the portrayal of Jean and Robert as a whole. I understand that the movie is necessarily building toward Trinity,  and thus, that some things aren’t going to get the insight & sensitivity we’d like. But to portray what existed between them only sex and drama does disservice to the part Jean played in his life as a whole. That Nolan picked the most superficial part of their relationship – her disliking bouquets, and always getting rid of them—and then making that emblematic of their entire affair, shows you how little thought was given to Jean.
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They shared a deep love of poetry – there are multiple antedotes that he named the bomb test “Trinity” in memory of her, as they shared a mutual love of John Donne. Apparently this real life connection wasn’t enough up for Nolan, so instead he made up the “Sexy Bhagavad Gita” incident. WTF? The Jean/Trinity reveal would have had more emotional impact, but I’m sure he couldn’t resist making Jean seem mopey & destined for death, so “Destroyer of Worlds” climax it is. 🤬
Yes, she opened his eyes to geopolitical movements and Communist circles, but, more importantly, she sought to make him more empathetic to those suffering around him. whether it be his students in need, or longshoremen on strike, she opened his mind and his heart. If Kitty cultivated his ambition, Jean woke his compassion & curiosity.
It was a relationship that was truly intellectual and intimate— they understood each other like no one else got them in their lives – so to make it solely “Mentally unstable woman clings to a man who she can never have” is just lazy writing. Especially because both American Prometheus & An Atomic Love Story note that there is no proof that Oppenheimer ever told her he wanted to stop seeing her. They met nearly an estimated 10 times between their “break up” and her death, and while being at Los Alamos certainly impacted their reunions, there’s no reason to think they wouldn’t have continued.
(Also, when Jean & Robert did “break up” (tho they really didn’t 🤣), it was Jean who did it, not Robert. Says Vulture, “while the film shows Oppenheimer as the one who ended their on-again, off-again relationship, American Prometheus states that "in the end, it was Tatlock who made the final break." What this says about Nolan's filmmaking vis-à-vis female agency, I'll leave you to debate.’”)
Both American Prometheus & An Atomic Love Story (and the notes the FBI agents took on scene) are emphatic that she was happy and smiling when she and Oppenheimer last encounter each other. They were both joyful to see one another. While Jean certainly experienced episodes of depression in her life, & may have initially reached out to him in a time of trouble, on that day, it was a very happy reunion.
The embraced and kissed on the street – says FBI report, both with wide smiles on their face.  They spent the night together, and then met again the next day, and later, she drove him to the airport.  It was not an angsty goodbye.  It was not a desperate naked meeting in a hotel room.  They met at her home –  They went out for Mexican, for pity’s sake.
So basically to imply the reason she killed herself is because Oppenheimer didn’t call her enough is just sexist and stupid. Jean was not a stupid woman – she certainly knew that he was doing something big, and shared enough mutual friends for her to know that he was doing something for the war effort. She had her own very important job as a child psychologist at a major hospital – she was not sitting and pining for him. Did his absence affect her? Of course. But it was not the cause of her depressions, or her subsequent death.
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(And don’t get me started on how they portrayed his reaction to her death – Yes, he was deeply grieved, but he found out about it during the day, most likely from their shared friend, Mary, Ellen Washburne.  He openly wept at his desk, said Robert Serber, then yes, took a long walk by himself into the woods, with his security trailing him. He did not go “missing.” But he did remark to one of the guards how alone he felt in his grief, because no one could understand the bond he and Jean shared. So he certainly wasn’t not telling Kitty about it by a tree. 🙄)
So many ways, Jean and Robert were the victims of bad timing. She was so young when they met, and still hadn’t figured out who she was, in the world that didn’t understand young women who were interested first in having a career; who didn’t fit tidily into the box of “girl next door.” She lived in an era  where the mental health issues she was dealing with didn’t yet have adequate treatments or medications. She was made to feel inadequate and defective, with few avenues available to bring her peace.
The cloud of war certainly affected Jean and Robert’s relationship path. It’s tempting to envision a history with no WWII, a timeline where they were allowed to be cerebral, liberal West Coast academics who fell in love, broke up, and somehow found their way back to each other later in the decade, older and wiser.
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philliam-writes · 1 year
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you are in the earth of me [02]
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Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader
Content: canon-typical violene, patching up Reader, author pining for Lockwood
Summary: Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their demeanours are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems striking like a flash of bright lightning—quick-witted and assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off that he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.
Notes: [01] | [03]
Words: 7.3k
A/N: Nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming positive feedback I got for chapter 01!! Thank you so much for everyone who's joined the ride. I hope you guys will enjoy this as much as I!! (I'm on my 4th rewarch of Lockwood & Co. and I still delight in noticing all the small details they put into the show. Also. Lockwood's voice! Makes! Me! Weak!
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02: for whom the bell tolls
each man’s death diminishes me, for i am involved in mankind. therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee
      — John Donne
The Rotwell dormitory you live in, nicknamed the Lions Den, is a stocky brick house taking up a good chunk of Dovehouse Street. There used to be a hotel there, way before the Problem, and then an apartment complex for the rich elderly until Rotwell bought the whole building and its private gardens just to prove they can. Echoing the classical Georgian townhouses of Chelsea built out of pale toast and earthy red shades of brick, every residence features timber-panelled walls, triple-glazed windows, and smoked oak floors throughout.
The front entrance has glass doors sliding open for anyone entering. Somehow, the foyer always smells like pine needle polisher. To the right side is a row of mail boxes with each tenant’s name, on the left side is the guard’s office, separated from the foyer by sleek glass panels. Someone decided to put a whole rainforest inside, monstera, rubber trees, philodendrons. They nearly swallow tonight’s agent covering the shift: a bulky, young girl with dark curls to her chin looking like a malformed porcelain doll—delicate features on top, sinewy muscle stretching the seams of her wine red agent jacket going down. She stares at you for a moment, blinking with her long black eyelashes.
You wave.
She doesn’t wave back, and returns to painting her nails a vibrant yellow you could pick out from space.
Inside your mail box, you find ads and unpaid bills, reminders to pay said bills, and a very unflattering drawing of you working out in the dormitory’s underground gym area. You crumble the note and throw it back inside, slamming the window shut.
Your two-room apartment lies at the end of a long corridor, facing the backside and gardens. It is a copy paste of all other living complexes inside this building: a small entrance leading into a spacious living area with a cream-coloured two-seater couch at its centre, a solid cherrywood desk next to the curtained window and a heavy antique armoire twice your size pushed against the wall. Behind an ornate cedar door is the small bedroom, king-sized bed and heavy bureau and all that makes it look more like a hotel room advert than a place where you could wind down after a hard day.
As always, you stand in the hallway for a moment before turning the lights on. It is quiet, the room smells of polished wood and washed laundry. As always, it feels as though the walls are closing in.
You flick the light on and stash your rapier inside the umbrella rack by the front door, ignoring the two trash bags waiting to be thrown out. The laundry has been hanging for three days, but there was just no time to clean it away because you’re barely here—every minute spend within these walls is taken up by sleeping, eating or occasionally staring bleary-eyed at the ceiling and counting the heavy thuds from above whenever the agent living in the upper apartment decides it is time to practice tango in high heels at three in the morning.
You cross the room and open the window, letting in the cool night breeze. The smell of dawn hangs in the air, crispy and cold like the crackling of dry leaves. It will take only a few more hours for the sun to rise and draw London’s people from their homes to go about their daily lives. Jobs, grocery runs, late afternoon dates, strolls through the parks. When the world wakes up, you turn in to sleep, bloody, beaten and bruised, but alive.
You wonder if every day will be like this. Fight against the Problem and only chip away at the immeasurable scale of its extent. This night, you have secured two Sources, stopped two hauntings. But how does this affect the grand scheme of things?
Your head hurts. Best to leave the existential crisis for another day; right now all you need is your soft pillow and the familiar smell of your lavender-detergent. The Problem will still be there once you wake up; it will not ruin those precious hours asleep where you don’t have to worry about anything.
Every apartment has a tiny kitchen and bath adjacent to the living area. A cup of tea before you turn in, and maybe one or two of those chocolate chip biscuit a client gave you last week in appreciation for driving off the Lurker in her basement.
The kitchen looks just like you left it: as though a salt bomb has gone off. There was no time to put away the dishes or give the pan a quick scrub before you left for your shift, and now the leftover burnt bits stick to the dark surface. The half-full cup of coffee has grown cold since the morning, left forgotten. You’re too tired to clean up. It’ll have to wait until you wake up, or maybe even after the next shift.
You consider throwing your head back and screaming for a second when all of a sudden an intense hate for this apartment geysers up and threatens to swallow you. It is tiny, suffocating. There is nothing personal about this—you could disappear from the world and it would just become someone else’s responsibility and property. Nothing would indicate that you left a mark in this place.
Putting the kettle on the stove, you pick out your favourite mug with a broken handle—Kipps’s fault when he knocked it off the table a couple months back—and return to the living room. Your coat smells of burnt fabric from ectoplasm. The agency is very strict when it comes to appearance and representing Rotwell's splendid work ethic, so replacing it will put another dent in your account, but that is still better than going through the same trouble as last month when you appeared with a chocolate smudge on your jacket and every supervisor spotting you gave you hell for it.
Half-shrugged out of your coat, you walk back, past the closed window.
And stop.
Slowly, you turn. Only your own reflection stares back at you—wide-eyed and dishevelled from today. There’s a dark patch on your shoulder where ectoplasm has eaten like acid through the fabric of your coat. The lock is latched firmly on the inside, the metal clip winking at you under the Tiffany lamp’s reflection. Suddenly, everything depends on how still you are against the moving world.
Where did you leave your rapier? Ah, inside the umbrella rack back in the hallway. What’s the closest bludgeon weapon you can get your hands on? Only an empty Pringles can, yesterday’s dinner.
In the window’s reflection, the dark patch on your shoulder rises, distorts. Grows a head. Even with the room plunged into silence, your heart beats rabbit-fast and you hold your breath to keep from making a sound. Just this once, you’re thankful you were running late this morning and didn’t have time to clean up the leftover breakfast on your office desk that stands against the wall. Not even five steps separate you from the blunt silver knife glinting under the lamp with specks of dried jam on its blade.
The shadow behind you grows bulky shoulders and broad arms. When it steps onto the small area just a little to the right from the entrance, the wood creaks.
The world jerks back into motion.
You lunge for the knife on the table when a hard body slams into yours. You crash against the wardrobe, your head hitting the hard wood with a loud crack. The room spins as all air is knocked out of your lungs. You notice a blurry shadow rising in front of you, and your body moves on autopilot—rolls to the right and falls to the ground just in time to dodge a fist punching a hole into the wardrobe.
Nauseating headache throbs like lightning flashes in the back of your head as you scramble back to your feet, wheezing from the pain spreading through your body from the impact. Your rapier. You need your rapier.
Wood splinters when your attacker draws his hand back. He is almost two heads taller than you, completely clad in black. Even his face hides behind a ski mask. All you see are two pinpricks of unfathomably dark eyes as though this man has gazed into an abyss and the abyss has gazed right back at him.
He doesn’t move for a second, stands as though frozen on the spot. Only his hand flexes, relaxes. Clenches. Silver glints off his gloved knuckles. He is here with one intention only: to hurt you.
You don’t have time to ask why. His legs are longer; he closes the distance between you with two long steps, swings his arm towards your face. You spin and fling yourself over the backrest of the sofa, bounce off its cushions and jump to your feet on the other side. With furniture between you and the intruder, you finally force yourself to take in deep breaths. Think.
The smell coming off of him. You recognise it. Grainy, woody with a fruity note. The sweetness you picked up earlier this night must have been caramel. Alcohol.
“Look, if this is about me bumping into your table earlier at the Green Goose, you could just ask for a proper apology,” you press out between gritted teeth. Your whole body feels like a giant bruise, sore and laden from exhaustion.
Every step he takes around the couch, you mirror until it becomes a dance of bodies and mind to see who gives in first; who slows down and loses focus.
At first you believe the noise to be your frantic breathing—or his rattling wheeze, but then you pick it up. A rough, scratchy voice.
“Dickey … need … dickey …”
Your muscles are so taut you fear they might snap any second. Another circle around your couch you go. “What? I don’t—I don’t know what that is.”
“The … the key,” he repeats, louder this time. “I need the key.”
“Key? What key?” You feel the gnawing urge to squeeze your eyes shut against the vertigo of this situation. “I don’t have a key—”
The memory flies back so fast it nearly knocks you out like an incoming brick. Bronze, small, resting within the cushions of a small seal. Disappearing into the deep pockets of a black coat. The echo of death and violence still sticking to your fingers even through the fabric of your gloves.
You round the couch again and stop, the desk at your back. The knife is just in reach. “I don’t have that key.”
“I saw it. He gave it to you. You have no idea how important it is to us.” His voice rises to a snarl, the quality rougher than satin scratching over bark.
“He never gave—” Another memory hurtles your way—it is a wonder you don’t pass out from a concussion. The candy. It is still inside your pocket, suddenly heavier than a stone.
Everything makes sense now.
You take a step back towards the table. “You’ve got it all wrong,” you say, your words tumbling over themselves in their haste to get out, “I don’t have the key, and I don’t know where it is. I’ve got nothing to do with it.”
“LIES!” he hollers, and punches the backrest of your couch. The loud thud is like a gunshut, and you move, whirl around and grab for the knife—and completely misjudge where it is. Instead, your hand slaps on the dirty plate.
It could be worse.
Heavy steps thump behind you. You grab the plate, turn and hurl it at the man. It slams into him, shattering into thousand pieces.
You fly past him, towards the hallway and umbrella rack where your rapier is waiting. Stretching your hand out, your fingers brush against the silver handle—
A hard grip catches the end of your trenchcoat, yanking you back. The blow comes out of nowhere, slamming into your face so hard you see stars. Your back teeth clang together. Black dots dance before your eyes and blur your vision as pain radiates from your cheek. Something sharp and hard slides across your knees, slicing the fabric of your jeans clean in half.
Fingers curling, tightening their hold around the familiar hilt, you turn and draw back your arm, and let it snap forward like a snake lashing out and sinking its venomous teeth into its prey.
The silver-tipped edge of your rapier drives into the man’s shoulder and he cries out in pain, staggers back—and takes your rapier with him. He curls his gloved fingers around the thin blade and yanks the tip out of his shoulder, throwing your weapon to the ground where it lies useless and completely out of reach.
He reaches into a side pocket and draws a jagged, razor-sharp knife.
On second thought, maybe you should just run.
You bolt for the hallway once more, this time aiming straight for the door. The sound of a fast-moving object sailing towards you—something moving quickly and swiftly and with enough force to slice the air in half—makes you throw yourself forward, just in time to dodge the glinting edge nipping your hair.
You yank at the handle, letting white light spill into the apartment from the outside hallway.
Two thinks happen at once.
You wrench the door open and squeeze through the narrow gab. The man behind you slams bodily into the door and you hear a pained groan. At the same time, something sharp cuts through your trenchcoat and jacket. Searing-hot pain explodes in your left side.
You manage to push through and shut the door with a loud slam. A second bang shakes the door; he must have run into it again trying to chase after you.
Hot pain radiates from your side. You grit your teeth hard enough your jaw hurts and follow along the hallway all the way back to the foyer.
When you reach the night guard’s office, there is nobody inside. As if this night couldn’t turn even worse. A small glass bottle lies disturbed on the table, spreading yellow nail polish like spilt blood on its surface. The girl must have knocked it over, now gone to fetch a cleaner.
Great.
You throw yourself under the table and disappear from sight; somewhere on the first floor a door slams shut.
There has to be a way out. A way to draw attention; a way to drive him away. As your eyes rake across the room to find something, anything, they land on a red button behind a small glass window. The ghost-alarm in case of hauntings inside the dorms.
You crawl out from under the desk and scurry across the room, heart beating in your throat. If you turn and he is behind you …
Slamming your fist into the small panel, the button gives away without any resistance.
Sirens blare in the building. More doors slam—opening this time as hundred agents emerge from their rooms. Voices echo from the hallways, drowned by the sprinklers going off and raining salt from the ceiling like little diamonds.
You back into a corner, wide eyes staring at the foyer and counting down the seconds until your attacker enters—any moment, any moment, any moment. Only agents begin to spill into the hall, pale faced, groggy from being rudely awakened after tiring shifts.
With the imminent threat gone, the adrenaline pumping through your body slowly ebbs away—leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion, and mind-numbing pain as though your whole body is one giant bruise.
Your clothes stick to your skin, something warm tickles down your side. You cross the room on wobbling feet, forcing yourself not to look; convincing yourself that it is just coffee, just like a few hours ago when you sat in the booth next to Kipps.
The phone receiver on a corner stand is heavier than you remember. Your fingers move as if possessed, finding the familiar numbers on the dial. It rings. Once, twice.
Tears prick in the back of your eyes as it keeps ringing, your call remaining unanswered. Maybe he hasn’t come home yet. Maybe he is still out. Your throat is dry. You feel like an animal trapped against a corner. Suddenly, everything goes blurry.
Click. Kipps’s tired groan is all you get for a hello.
“Quill,” you choke out. Because despite having to call DEPRAC or maybe an ambulance, Quill Kipps will always be the first you turn to in moments of crisis. “Quill, I might have been stabbed.”
Silence. On the other line, you hear fabric rustling, as though he is crawling out of bed.
“What,” Kipps says, his voice rough from sleep, “the fuck.”
You still don’t know what is so special about the address Kipps has sent you to compared to the hospital or Scotland Yard where you assume they are more qualified to handle your dilemma, but you hope that you arrive soon because the daggers the cab driver keeps throwing at you seem more lethal than the gashing wound in your side.
When he finally stops the car—abruptly enough to launch your body against the frontseat—you rummage through your pockets and empty them completely, leaving a generous tip for bleeding on his car seats.
You barely manage to close the door behind you when he speeds off, leaving a dust trail behind.
The sky is turning cotton pink on the horizon. Dawn spreads light and hope across the city, bright and clear, and very painful for your strained, exhausted eyes. You turn away, taking in your surroundings.
The cab has left you in a residential area at the centre of London where the Victorian semis look like they might belong on old postcards from better times, before the Problem. 35 Portland Row is an inconspicuous, four-level house at the very end of the street. Just like its neighbours, it would not suffer from a new repaint, or maybe just a good clean-up.
A lone shadow sits by the stairs leading into the building, rising when you approach. Kipps looks like you feel: his hair sticks out in all directions and there are half-moons of shadow under his eyes, as if they have been smudged there with coal. He rubs the back of his neck as though that would release all the tension from the last twenty-four hours. Worry is etched deep into his face—worry and guilt, and it is an expression you haven’t seen in a long time. It makes your heart clench, turning it into something small, hard, and cold.
He meets you halfway and catches you when you stumble into him, allowing yourself to be held at last. His hold on you is strong and hard, until you hiss when sharp pain from your wound makes it hard to walk. Kipps’s hold lightens.
“What the hell happened?” he demands, his long fingers gently nudging your head left and right by your chin. You’re pretty sure there is a nasty bruise blooming from the punch.
“Turns out someone out there really wants that bloody key,” you say, unable to put quite the heat into the words like you wanted.
The effect is pretty much the same.
It is like a door slamming shut; his expression closes off completely. He puts your arm around his shoulders and hauls you up the stairs. To your surprise, the door is already unlocked and swings open when he pushes against it with his other shoulder.
You enter into a narrow, dark hallway, only illuminated by light streaming into it from an adjacent room. The house smells of iron and salt, leather coats, and a curious dusty, musty tang. On both sides of the walls hang weird masks and odd curios on shelves. Everything about this entrance screams extravagance, but also something inexplicably homely. The complete opposite from your apartment. Voices sound from the first door to your right, silencing upon the front door clicking shut behind you. Now everything is dead silent.
Kipps leads you past an old, chipped plant pot that functions as an umbrella stand and rapier holder. They are old French models with specks of ectoplasm stuck to blades, and dents in the hilts. One long, black umbrella is bent in the middle as though someone had used it as a weapon and didn’t get around to throw it away.
You emerge into a small, cluttered living area containing a fireplace, an old sofa and a few sturdy armchairs grouped around a coffee table. Heavy dark curtains obscure half of the window where the first streaks of sunlight steal through the gap, showing dust dance in the light.
Three heads swivel your way, all in different states of confusion. You recognise one face.
Anthony Lockwood jumps out of his armchair. It has only been a few hours since you last saw him, and so far he has only taken off his black coat. His white shirt is wrinkled, his black tie thrown over his shoulder. There is something restless about him, like a moth fluttering from flame to flame.
Kipps slides you into the free seat on the sofa right next to a giant pile of crumpled ironing. Shirts, pants, and briefs tumble to the ground as you finally allow yourself to slump into the seat and let your guard down.
The room tilts for a moment. You close your eyes, trying to comprehend today’s events. Multiple voices bombard you from all directions and turn into a pounding headache at the back of your skull.
A metal lid clicks open. Careful hands remove your coat, then lift your shirt where the blood has seeped into the fabric, making it stick to your gashed skin. When your eyes flutter open, Kipps kneels before you on the rug, a deep worry crease slicing through his forehead as he inspects your wound.
“Well, good news. It’s not that deep,” he observes. With swift fingers, calloused from handling rapier and tools, he takes the antiseptic and a clean wipe from the first-aid case—expert hands that are used to medical attention; that know the dance of patching up wounds and tending to injuries. You doubt it is something any agent will forget, even when they have served their duty.
When he applies the disinfect after cleaning the blood, you hiss; your body tenses from the pain. “Cool. I’ll thank him next time I see him,” you say through gritted teeth.
Kipps gives you a curt, quick look—but there is still some relief; relief that even now you can be snippy.
“Did you see his face? What did he look like?” Loockwood asks. He’s leaning over the back of the couch, hand holding onto the backrest hard enough his knuckles turn white.
“I don’t know, I was busy trying not go get turned into a shish kebab.” You kick at Kipps when he dabs the gauze a little too hard into your wound.
“Stop moving,” he warns.
“That didn’t work out much,” a girl’s voice notices drily.
You open your eyes. Behind Lockwood’s shoulder, two agents stare at you, blinking their wide eyes like owls.
The boy’s nose twitches. “She bled on the new rug, Lockwood.”
You feel like an exhibit in a museum. Lucy Carlyle and George Karim. Names only familiar to you because you can’t remember a day where Kipps has not complained about them as much as about Lockwood.
“Yeah, why exactly—am I here?” You shift in the seat. Something is poking you in the back. When you pat the cushion, you find an old, dry biscuit.
Behind Lockwood, Lucy gives George a long, pointed look. Seems like this isn’t the first time they witness someone finding leftover snacks in the crevices of their couch.
“You said he was looking for the key?” Kipps is applying gauze to your clean wound which makes everything just a little better; you begin to feel like a human again. Now all you need is a good, healthy amount of sleep. Preferable for the next three days.
“He thought I had it on me. Said something about … how important it was to them.”
Lockwood perks up. “Who is them?”
“Well, he didn’t give me a list or anything.” You pull out some stray socks from under your bum and let them join their siblings on the ground. Slumping into your seat, you notice it is quite comfortable. You’re sinking into the cushions and there is something calming about the smell of old wood and the heavy curtain’s detergent. “But he was desperate. It seemed like … I don’t know. He’ll be in serious trouble without it.”
“Well, good thing it’s with DEPRAC now,” Kipps says, settling back on his heels after he finishes bandaging you up. The silence hanging in the room is stifling. Kipps looks over the backrest of the sofa at Lockwood. “You did bring it to DEPRAC like we agreed to. Right, Lockwood?”
Slowly, Lockwood leans away from the sofa as though that is the only appropriate measure to take in case Kipps decides to hurl himself over the sofa and strangle him. He has the good manners to look almost contrite. “I might have missed out on the chance to deliver it to Inspector Barnes,” he says slowly. His face is calm and betrays nothing, like the blank statue of a saint in a cathedral.
Kipps is on his feet in an instant. Red patches of rage have broken out over his face and throat. “You lying, conniving piece of—”
Lockwood claps his hands loudly. “This just proves that we cannot let anyone except professionals handle this case. Least of all DEPRAC. Someone’s after it because they know whatever that key unlocks is important.”
“Or he was the Visitor’s killer and he knows it could be evidence,” George points out. “Like Annabelle Ward and Fairfa—”
Lucy slaps her hand over her coworker’s mouth. Her wide eyes stare at him, then pin you down. George blinks, then nods slowly.
You raise your hand. “You know, being the one who got stabbed over this, I veto you let the adults handle it.”
Lockwood gives you a dazzling smile. “Overruled.”
“Let’s sleep on it first,” Lucy says, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes with her sleeve. “We’ll decide what to do next when we wake up. And yes, leaving it with DEPRAC is still an option.” She looks over at Lockwood, her eyebrows raised. You can’t think of many who manages to make a proposition sound like a threat.
“First reasonable thing I hear any of you say today,” Kipps scoffs. There is still anger in his voice, but you don’t think it is directed at anyone specific this time. This anger smells of frustration. It stems from knowing days like these are in the fine print of becoming an agent. The danger from having to deal with the living from time to time, which can be so much more dangerous than the dead. He turns to you. “Let me drop you off at a hotel.”
“I—” You don’t want to be alone, not after tonight. But Kipps also lives in the Fittes dormitories and they are mercilessly strict when it comes to non-employed visitors, despite being a senior supervisor like Kipps who enjoys some privileges.
“We must assume whoever attacked you might be out there still tracking you,” Lockwood says, and leans forward to settle his elbows against the backrest. His white shit stretches taut over his shoulders and back, catches over his spine. He lowers his dark eyes to you, within which swims a quiet, but solid confidence as though he has never faced a situation he couldn’t handle. It makes you want to rely on him, a thought you quickly push away the moment it steps into your mind. “We have a spare couch in the library you can crash on until morning—” He glances over his shoulder towards the window where sunlight peaks through the heavy curtains. An almost coy smile captures his lips, showing the hint of a dimple. “Until we wake up.”
You raise both eyebrows. “I can?”
Both Lucy and George give Lockwood the sideye. “She can?”
Lockwood frowns. “Unless you have somewhere else to go?”
“A couch sounds perfect.” You are tired enough you wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor. You throw Kipps a quick look. He doesn’t look happy, but even he realises this is better than leaving you all by yourself.
With nobody objecting, George heaves a defeated sigh. “Let me go and pick up the empty chips bags,” he says, and shuffles out of the room. You hear wood creak when he stalks down the hallway.
When you tear your eyes away from where he left through the door, you notice Lucy keeps staring at you with an odd look you can’t place. As though she doesn’t really know what to think of you and why you are suddenly here, only 'here' doesn't seem to apply to the living room of her home. It feels like she doesn't seem to know why you have suddenly stepped into her life. She manoeuvres around Lockwood, painstakingly making sure there’s furniture between you and her.
Kipps is by your side helping you up. He follows Lockwood's directions through the entrance hall. You pass the stairs to the end of the hallway where George is carrying an armful of empty bottles and plastic bags out of what you assume must be the library.
It is a small, oak-panelled room across the hall from the lounge. No light sneaks inside with the heavy curtains shrouding the windows. Up to the ceilings, hardback volumes are crammed into black, heavy shelves that line all four walls. It smells of books and ink and printed paper, making you immediately feel at ease under the dim, warm light of an old standard lamp tucked into a corner.
Kipps makes sure you’re comfortable on the leather couch, throwing a worn, chequered wool blanket over your legs. He looks at you for a long moment. Then he seems to crumple inside, like paper; he sinks down in the leather chair opposite you, and puts his face into his hands. “I should have just told Lockwood No when he asked for someone with Touch. I never wanted you to get involved like this.”
“It’s a little too late for that now, isn’t it?” you state, but there is no malice or accusation in your voice. You are too tired for that.
Still, Kipps makes a sound like a kicked puppy. When you look over at him, you see him pale and slumped down, like someone who’s taken so many blows that the doesn’t want to stand anymore.
Your grab for his hand and squeeze until he returns your gaze. His pale green eyes look haunted. “I don’t think this is anyone’s fault,” you say. “Least of all yours.”
Kipps purses his lips. You squeeze his hand tighter.
“Maybe,” he allows. He scrubs at his face, eyes flitting over the hardcover books surrounding him. You grow drowsy with every steady ticking of an ornate mantel clock above the fireplace. To your side is a small, mahogany Victorian pedestal table with a leftover cup next to a stack of London Society magazines. “Or maybe I should have been more careful,” he continues. “Be more careful. So this doesn’t happen again.”
The fog of sleep that almost takes you is cleanly cut by his words. You blink against the dizzy feeling that tries to pull you under; dragging you down like wet clothes when you swim. You let go of his hand and sit up. “You are not responsible for me,” you say, unable to keep the heat out of your voice now. It comes back full force, scathing and blazing. “I can look after myself perfectly fine, and I would not have you waste your life away because you think you are obliged to protect me.”
“You could barely fend off that attacker by yourself,” he shoots back—his voice strains to remain diplomatic, calm, but this is Quill Kipps, and he has never been capable of putting the lid on the smouldering fire when it comes to your safety. “I made a promise and I mean to keep it until you’re retired and old and stop getting into danger—”
The rage that always lives inside you rears when he says that ugly word—promise. It is an almost physical pain, like nails against flesh.
“You are not my brother,” you snap. “And I don’t want you to be!”
All colour drains from Kipps’s face, then comes back in a rush of angry red as he tries to keep his anger under control. You know a lot about rage. How hard it could be to rein it in without a lifetime of practice. How it could eat you up inside.
He stands, slowly, calmly—and that is so much worse than when he explodes. This is him in his upset mood that you call ‘scary-calm.’ It is a calm that makes you think of the deceptive hard sheen of ice before it cracks under your weight.
“Quill—” you begin, but he is already moving towards the door.
“If I were Matthew,” he says at the threshold, not looking at you, “I would actually be able to protect you.”
It is a blow not meant to be a blow, and yet it drives through your chest like a poison-tipped spear. It stirs up age-old dust from a past you try to bury so hard that now you choke on it.
Matthew. Mat. Mat is gone because of you. And now Quill leaves you too.
You jump to your feet, ignoring the piercing pain in your side and stumble after him. Kipps disappears down the hall, then you hear the front door open, and slam shut.
You close your eyes and bang your head silently against the doorframe. Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat and your fingers shaking. All day you felt like walking on a tightrope, and now a single misplaced step sends you plunging. You have never felt this alone before.
“Do you do that because you enjoy it, or because it feels good when you stop?” says a drawling voice from the corridor outside.
Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their presences are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems bright like a flash of lightning—quick-witted, assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off, he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.
Any retort dies on your lips when he throws something your away, and you catch the first object mid-air, pulling a face when your wound protests. It is cold and heavy—a pack of ice cubes wrapped in a towel. The second thing hits you in the shoulder and clatters to the ground. A package of painkillers. If you would look up the word Oops in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Lockwood’s current expression.
You bring the ice pack up and press it against your cheek. “Thanks.”
Lockwood gives a crooked smile. “Plenty of time to figure everything out later. If you need anything, our rooms are just another floor up.”
Your mouth is dry. He isn’t nice because he wants to; he too does it out of an obligation. “OK. Thanks.”
He crams his hands into his pockets, eyes raking from your feet up to your face. It seems as though there is something else Lockwood wants to say, but he decides otherwise and ends up simply nodding before he ducks back towards the kitchen where you can hear the hushed, urgent voices of Lucy and George.
You retreat into the library and shut the door gently. Only the clock’s ticking fills the room now, so loud it is almost grating against your ears. You tug your gloves off gingerly and place them next to the magazines. The skin on your knuckles and the back of your hand is dry like sandpaper. Later this evening, you have to make sure to get your hand lotion.
Ignoring the unpleasant feeling, you lie down and shimmy under the blanket. You tug your hands close to your chest where there is no danger to accidentally touching anything—you know there is no threat from objects belonging to the living, but after almost a decade of experiencing death echoes ranging from mild joy to severe depression, it is soothing to know that the gloves conjure a sense of separation, of safety. Without them, you feel naked and vulnerable.
Just a few hours of sleep. Then you’ll figure out what to do. Maybe you can pretend the whole day didn’t happen—run a few jobs, clean up your room after the attack. Return to normalcy. Return to your day-to-day life before you got roped into Lockwood & Co.’s business and their wayward modus operandi.
You close your eyes and pretend you don’t feel strangely safe listening to the muffled voices coming from the other room.
Something has taken a hold of your legs.
Your stomach roils with panic as you thrash against its grasp, smelling damp soil and rotten leaves—someone is trying to put you under the ground, bury you alive in unholy ground where all hope and virtue is lost, just like—
You jerk free—
—and fall.
The floor is hard and unyielding, slamming you awake on impact. The pain follows right after, radiating from your side to the rest of your body. Groaning, you try to turn to your other side, but with your legs still half-entangled in the blanket, you don’t make it far.
There was a dream. At least you think there was a dream. You can’t remember much, only the smell of rotten soil and copper.
From under the closed door, you see a slim sliver of late afternoon sun peak into the dark room. You lie very still for a moment, even though your back and neck hurt from being curled up on the small couch all night. It is not the foreign place that startles you, but the noises that belong to a lively home: cabinets open and close. Dishes clatter. Water boils. Voices drift through the walls, muffled but heartily warm and bright. It smells of heated butter, herbal tea, and something burnt.
A home. This is a home where people come to wind down after work, to be vulnerable, to pick up the broken pieces after a case.
For just a minute, you close your eyes and imagine this is your life. Your home. This is your room, smelling of books, ink, and candles. Somewhere downstairs a cup smashes into bits, but there is only laughter, bright and cheerful—someone shouts a jolly “Luce!”
You pop your eyes open; the pipe dream dissipates. Your body is a medley of bruises and aches as you get up. Kipps was right, the cut isn’t too deep, you didn’t even bleed through the gauze during the night. You look at the ornate clock hanging above the fireplace. It is past three o’clock. You have to be at Rotwell’s in an hour.
Blinking against the sting in the back of your eyes, you get up and grab your gloves from the small table and your torn, dirty Coat hanging from a chair’s armrest. The fabric stinks of blood and sweat, but there is no time to get back home and change into clean clothes. You can’t get late to work a second time this week.
Your initial plan to just march through the front door and leave doesn’t work out when you pass the open kitchen door. It is a small, cluttered room with a huge table in its centre like a pillar of strength. Several plates with food have been placed down, breakfast served for three people: boiled eggs in cute little eggcups, sandwiches, a fruit bowl, some hot, greasy sausages just out of the pan. There is flatbread and right beside it a plate with small bites like fruits, walnuts, sliced cucumber and radishes.
The agents of Lockwood & Co. coordinate around each other in a way that seems like a practised dance—Lucy swiftly dodges George carrying a plate with doughnuts while Lockwood steps out of her way striding towards the water kettle without even looking.
When she pauses and says something to him, he does that thing you find annoyingly attractive in men: since he’s much taller than Lucy, Lockwood leans down and tilts his head towards her to hear her better. He has a striking side profile, all sharp lines and elegant curves, a pointed jaw.
You see him smile, and grow increasingly annoyed at how effortlessly handsome he is.
George clears his throat, and then all three are staring at you standing in the doorway.
Lockwood’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Hiya.”
Lucy’s mouth twitches into something that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to be a smile or a scowl.
George notices you looking at the food on the table and promptly says, “We don’t own enough dishes for another person.” He calmly closes the cupboard behind him where you see another stack of plates and cups.
“Wasn’t interested. I’m not much into burnt toast,” you say like a liar. George huffs in offence. “I have to go anyway. Work and all that.”
Three heads nod at the same time, a conjoined Hydra.
Remembering you have something like manners, you quickly add, “And thanks for letting me stay.” That should be enough pleasantries. You hastily make your escape through the front door and manage two steps downstairs before you hear footsteps behind you.
“One more thing,” Lockwood says, propping himself against the doorfrome. You wonder if he owns any other piece of clothing other than his white shirts and ties. “Regardless however we proceed with our case, it would be to both our benefits to work out an association. There is no harm in having friends in established circles.” He puts on a smile, one you recognise from meeting him for the first time. Charming, but bashful, he plays coy to try and pull you around his little finger.
So this is how he wants to play it.
You slip into your jacket and smooth down the fabric to appear at least somewhat dignified. “We are not friends, Tony,” you say, and notice with some satisfaction the tick in his jaw whenever someone uses that nickname. “And frankly, if our paths don’t cross anytime soon, I wouldn’t mind. Now, if you excuse me—“ well aware of the ectoplasm stink and the tears in your jacket, you push your shoulder blades together— “we at Rotwell are quite busy with actually solving the Problem instead of playing detective games.”
With a confidence you don’t feel at all, you grant Lockwood one of your sly grins, your usual selling argument whenever you’re wearing your Rotwell armour. Lockwood’s face remains impassive. When you turn, heading out to the main street to get a cab, you feel his eyes burying like a dagger into your gut. In the distance, a church bell rings on the quarter hour, and you try and remember the poem about the bell tolling.
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A/N: I cheated a little, the Rotwell dormitories are pretty much the Auriens Chelsea apartment complex. I'll upload a masterlist for this sometime this week to keep things a little more organised.
Taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse
(Just a heads up, if I can't tag you, it might be because of your settings)
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pleasecallmealsip · 9 days
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L'Ami du Peuple No 214, Tuesday 7th September 1790, my translation
L’Ami du Peuple au sieur Necker
From the Friend of the People to Sire Necker
Si votre démission, Monsieur, n’était pas feinte, si votre retraite était sans retour, si vous aviez rendu fidèlement vos comptes, si vous étiez puni de vos malversations, la justice satisfaite m’imposerait silence. La haine que j’ai portée à un administrateur infidèle, à un ministre dangereux, à un suppôt redoutable du despotisme, expirerait avec votre pouvoir et je ne verrais plus en vous qu’un particulier dont je dédaignerais de m’occuper un moment.
If your resignation, Sir, were not a pretence, if you were to retire with no return, if you had given your explanation faithfully, if you were punished for your malversations, I would be made silent by justice well-served. The hatred that I have held for an unfaithful administrator, for a dangerous minister, for a dreadful supporter of despotism, would expire along with your power and I would no longer see you as anyone other than a private individual whom I would loathe to dwell on for one moment more.
Mais je crois assez connaître votre caractère ambitieux, pour me défier du parti que vous venez de prendre, pour regarder votre départ comme l’effet d’un orage que vous prévoyez et dont vous voulez éviter l’éclat, ou comme le dernier des pièges que vous voulez tendre aux Français. Vous le couvrez du prétexte de l’altération de votre santé, du retour de ces maux qui vous ont mis l’hiver dernier sur le bord de la tombe et qui n’empêchèrent pas le mort ou le mourant de figurer à l’Assemblée nationale pour séduire le peuple. Vous alléguez aussi les inquiétudes mortelles de votre compagne chérie qui vous presse d’aller retrouver l’asile dont vous a tiré l’Assemblée nationale. Mais en dépit de vous, la vérité vient se placer au bout de votre plume.
But I believe I understand your ambitious character well enough to distrust your recent course of action, and see your departure as the effect of a storm that you anticipate and whose thunder you wish to avoid, or as the last of the pitfalls that you wish to set for the French. You mask it with the excuse of the deterioration of your health, of the return of those illnesses that put you at death’s door last winter and did not prevent the dead or dying from standing in the National Assembly to seduce the people. You also put forward the deadly worry of your beloved companion who is pressing you to return to the asylum from which the National Assembly has taken you. Yet regardless of you, the truth appears on the tip of your pen.
En achevant sa phrase, l’ex-ministre donne aux pères de la patrie la clef de l’énigme. “A l’époque de mon arrivée, Messieurs, leur dites-vous, vous approchez du terme de votre session et je suis hors d’état d’entreprendre une nouvelle carrière.” Ce qui signifie : Il faut, Messieurs, que je prenne enfin mon parti ; il n’y a que des gens de votre espèce qui puissent maintenir en place un agent de la mienne ; vous approchez de la fin de votre bail et je suis hors d’état de lutter contre vos successeurs qui, probablement, s’aviseront d’abord de vouloir faire leur devoir, qui m’éplucheront des pieds à la tête et qui me forceront de changer de marche, si plutôt ils ne me livrent à la vindicte publique.
As he finishes his statement, the ex-minister gives the fathers of the patria the key to the enigma.
“At the time of my arrival, Gentlemen,” you say to them, “you are approaching the close of your session and I am not in no fit state to undertake a new career.” Which means: I must, Gentlemen, take my side at last; only those of your type can keep an agent of my type in place of power; you are approaching the end of your lease and I am in no fit state to fight your successors who, probably, will dare to do their duty first, will examine me from head to foot and will force me to change my course, if not expose me to the public vengeance.
Permettez-moi de jeter un coup d’œil rapide sur la manière dont vous justifiez votre administration. Voici vos propres expressions : “Vous m’avez demandé, Messieurs, un compte de la recette et de la dépense, à[1] commencer du premier mai 1790. Je vous l’ai remis. Vous avez chargé votre comité des Finances de l’examiner. Je crois qu’il aurait déjà pu reconnaître s’il existe quelque dépense ou quelque autre disposition digne de reproches. Cette recherche est la seule qui concerne essentiellement le ministère, car l’inspection des titres, la révision des quittances sont particulièrement applicables à la gestion des payeurs, des receveurs et des différents particuliers comptables.” [1] On dira sans doute que le comité des Finances s’entendait avec le fripon, pour n’avoir fixé qu’à cette époque la reddition des comptes.
Let me take a glance at the way you justify your administration. Here are your own expressions:
“You have asked me, Gentlemen, for an account of the revenue and expenditure, starting [1] from the 1st of May 1790. I have given it to you. You have tasked your Finance committee to examine it. I believe that they would have already recognised if there exists any expenditure or other arrangement worthy of reproach. This investigation is the only one that the ministry is essentially of concern to the ministry, since the inspection of the securities, and the reviewing of the receipts are particularly applicable to the management of the payers, the receivers and the various private individuals taking accounts.”
[1] Marat’s note: It will be said doubtlessly that the Finance committee went along with the rascal, having only secured accountability at that time.
Ce qui veut dire que sans s’amuser à vérifier les pièces, vraies ou fausses, le comité des Finances doit se borner à examiner si vous avez bien additionné et soustrait. Or, soyez-en sûr, Monsieur, personne ne s’avisera de douter de votre savoir-faire.
This means that without wasting time checking the documents, be they true or false, the Finance committee must be limited to examining if you have correctly added and subtracted. Yet, you may rest assured, Sir, nobody will dare to doubt your know-how.
La fin de votre lettre est digne d’observation. La voici : “Les inimitiés, les injustices dont j’ai fait l’épreuve m’ont donné l’idée de la garantie que je viens d’offrir. Mais quand je rapproche cette pensée de ma conduite dans l’administration des Finances, il m’est permis de la réunir aux singularités qui ont accompagné ma vie !”
The end of your letter is worth noting. Here it is:
“The enmities, the injustices that I have stood the test of have prompted me to think of the guarantee that I have now offered. But when I bring this thought together with my conduct through the administration of Finances, I am entitled to see it as one of the singularities that have characterised my life!”
Ce n’est pas là, Monsieur, soit dit en passant, le langage d’un administrateur intact, qui s’est empressé de mettre sous les yeux du public, le fidèle tableau de sa gestion, ce n’est pas là le ton d’un cœur pur, oppressé de douleur, qui s’enveloppe dans le manteau de son innocence, moins encore celui d’une âme fière au-dessus de la calomnie, mais le ton d’un homme sans honneur, qui ne s’était jamais offensé des soupçons injurieux tant de fois élevés sur son administration, au milieu même du sénat, mais celui d’un petit intrigant éconduit. Vous accusiez l’injustice du sort. Eh ! qu’y a-t-il donc de si étrange dans ce qui vous arrive aujourd’hui ? Depuis dix ans, vous receviez nos adorations en vous moquant de notre simplicité, et vous nous accabliez d’emprunts. Vous avez affecté de rendre compte de votre gestion dans un temps où rien ne vous y obligeait; vous avez imposé ce devoir à vos successeurs; vous avez refusé dès lors de vous y soumettre vous-même, malgré les instances du public; vous vous êtes joué des ordres des représentants de la nation; enfin vous avez remis un compte où l’on ne comprend rien; vous nous avez donné mille raisons puissantes de vous regarder comme le chef des accapareurs du grain et du numéraire, le père du projet de famine qui a fait notre désespoir une année entière; vous nous avez épuisés par un impôt vexatoire; vous avez opprimé les pauvres dont vous vous disiez le père; vous vous êtes opposé au plan de la liquidation des dettes de l’Etat. Vous fuyez au moment où l’on vous en demande un meilleur, et vous avez le courage de vous plaindre ?
This here, Sir, is incidentally not the language of an intact administrator, who quickly gave the faithful record of his management, to put it under the eyes of the public, this is not the tone of a pure heart, overwhelmed by sorrow, protecting itself in the cloak of its innocence, still less that of a proud spirit beyond the reach of slander, but it is the tone of a man without sense of honour, who has never been offended by the injurious suspicions levelled so many times against his administration, even among the Senate, it is the tone of a little scheming man spurned. You blamed the injustice of your lot. Eh! But what in your current situation is so surprising? For ten years, you have received our adorations while mocking our simplicity, and you have overloaded us with loans. You assigned yourself to account for your management at a time where you were under no obligation to do so; you imposed this duty on your successors; you refused thereupon to submit to it yourself, despite the insistence of the public; you toyed with the orders of the representative of the nation; finally you left us with an account that is incomprehensible; you have given us a thousand compelling reasons to regard you as the chief of the monopolisers of grain and of cash, the father of the famine project that has caused our despair for a whole year; you have depleted us with a vexatious tax; you have oppressed the poor whose father you claimed to be; you have opposed the plan of the liquidation of the debts of the State. You flee as soon as we ask for a better account, and now you have the nerve to complain?
Vous accusez le destin de la singularité des événements de votre vie. Que serait-ce si, comme l’Ami du Peuple, vous étiez le jouet des hommes et la victime de votre patriotisme ! Si, en proie à une maladie mortelle, vous aviez, comme lui, renoncé à la conservation de vos jours pour éclairer le peuple sur ses droits et sur les moyens de les recouvrer ! Si, dès l'instant de votre guérison, vous lui aviez sacrifié votre repos, vos veilles, votre liberté ! Si vous vous étiez réduit au pain et à l’eau pour consacrer à la chose publique tout ce que vous possédiez ! Si, pour défendre le peuple, vous aviez fait la guerre à tous ses ennemis ! Si, pour sauver la classe des infortunés, vous étiez brouillé avec tout l’univers, sans vous ménager un seul asile sous le soleil ! Si, accusé tour à tour d’être vendu aux ministres que vous démasquiez, au despote que vous combattiez, aux grands que vous accabliez, aux sangsues de l’Etat auxquelles vous vouliez faire rendre gorge, si, décrété tour à tour par les jugeurs iniques dont vous auriez dénoncé les prévarications, par le législateur dont vous auriez démasqué les erreurs, les iniquités, les desseins désastreux, les complots, la trahison, si, poursuivi par une foule d’assassins armés contre vos jours, si, courant d’asile en asile, vous vous étiez déterminé à vivre dans un souterrain pour sauver un peuple insensible, aveugle, ingrat! Sans cesse menacé d’être tôt ou tard la victime des hommes puissants auxquels j’ai fait la guerre, des ambitieux que j’ai traversés, des fripons que j’ai démasqués, ignorant le sort qui m’attend et destiné peut-être à périr de misère dans un hôpital, m’est-il arrivé de me plaindre ? Il faudrait être bien peu philosophe, Monsieur, pour ne pas sentir que c’est le cours ordinaire des choses de la vie. Et il faudrait avoir bien peu d’élévation dans l’âme pour ne pas se consoler par l’espoir d’arracher, à ce prix, 25 millions d’hommes à la tyrannie, à l’oppression, aux vexations, à la misère, pour les faire enfin arriver au bonheur.
You blame fate for the oddity of the events in your life. But what if, like the Friend of the People, you were toyed by men and victimised for your patriotism! What if, plagued by a life-threatening disease, you had, like him, renounced the preservation of your living days to clarify the rights and means to recovering rights to the people! What if, from the instant you were healed, you had sacrificed for them your repose, your waking hours, your freedom! What if you were reduced to bread and water to dedicate all your possessions to the res publica! What if, to defend the people, you had warred on all their enemies! What if, to save the class of the unfortunate, you fell out with the whole universe, without holding for yourself one single asylum under the sun! What if, you were alternately accused of being bought by the ministers you unmasked, by the despots you combatted, by the great ones you condemned, by the bloodsuckers of the State from whom you sought reparations, what if, you were in turn under the decrees of the iniquitous judges whose prevarication you would have denounced, by the legislator whose errors, iniquities, appalling purposes, schemes, and treason you would have unmasked, what if, you were pursued by a mob of assassins armed against your livelihood, what if, running from asylum to asylum, you were determined to live underground so that you might save an insensible, blind, and ungrateful people! Always under the threat of eventually falling victim to the powerful men I have fought against, to the ambitious men I have crossed, to the scoundrels I have unmasked, with no idea of the lot that awaits me and probably doomed to perish miserably in some hospital, have I ever complained? A quite unsound philosopher alone, Sir, would be able to deny that this is ordinarily the way things go. And quite undignified a soul alone would not find solace in the hope to wrest, at this price, five and twenty million men from tyranny, oppression, from vexation, and from misery, to see that they eventually find their own happiness.
Quant à vous, Monsieur, vos destinées sont un peu différentes. Vous avez sacrifié les adorations d’un peuple idolâtre aux sourires d’une cour perfide, dont peut-être vous avez encore la faveur. Mais il vous reste des trésors. Vous ne passez plus pour Aristide, mais vous êtes encore Luculle. Est-il un seul monarque qui ne s’empressât de vous offrir une retraite honorable, est-il un seul plaisir dans la vie que puisse donner la fortune et qui vous soit refusé ? Voluptés, honneurs, dignités, tout vous attend. Vous pouvez disposer de tout, excepté de l’estime des cœurs droits et des âmes élevées, ou de la gloire qui n’est pas non plus le prix de l’argent.
As for you, Sir, your destiny is a little different. You have sacrificed the adorations of an idolatrous people for the smiles of a perfidious court, whose favour you still will have. But you are left with treasures. As Aristides you can pass no more, but as Lucullus you remain no less. Is there a single monarch who would not be quick to offer you an honourable retirement, is there a single pleasure in life that fortune grants denied to you? Voluptuousness, honours, dignities, all await you. You can own everything, except the esteem of upright hearts and dignified souls, and except glory, which money still cannot buy.
Quoi qu’il en soit, Monsieur, si votre retraite n’est pas jouée, dès aujourd’hui, je m’impose à votre égard un éternel silence. J’ai travaillé à votre chute avec un zèle peu commun ; mais à l’instant que vous n’êtes plus un homme public dangereux, vous redevenez pour moi un particulier sans conséquence.
Be that as it may, Sir, as long as your retirement is not a prank, from today, I impose on you an eternal silence. To defeat you I have worked with quite uncommon zeal; but the moment you stop being a dangerous public figure, to me you revert to being a private individual of no importance.
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spiritsonic · 1 year
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Do you have any tips for getting into the industry as a writer, specifically for comics?
Breaking into comics as a writer can be tricky, as unlike art positions, most companies don't have open submissions for work. But you still have some options:
-Networking. I hate "networking" because it sounds a lot more opportunistic and businessy than it really is. In the context of comics, this mostly just means finding other people who like writing and drawing comics, making comics together, and becoming friends. Participating in fandom and visiting conventions big and small are great ways to get this going, and fun to boot. If one person in your group of comic-making buds breaks into professional work, that's an opening for everybody else! And of course, there's no reason not to self-publish in the meantime.
-Get an agent. This is the standard for traditional book publishing and is becoming more of a normal thing for comic writers and artists to do as well-- especially in the graphic novel sphere. An agent is someone who has industry connections and experience that will help connect you to projects that suit your skillset or get your own project in front of publishers (for a cut of the profits). The agent-getting process can be pretty complicated and daunting and as I don't have one myself, I don't really feel qualified to explain it.
To learn more, I'd recommend Alexa Donne's videos on Youtube on how getting an agent and having a book published in trad pub works. And to start looking for comics-focused agents to eventually query, try looking up your favorite artists' and writers' social media. Many will list their agent in their bio information. If you like someone's work and do something similar yourself, their agent might be a good fit for you as well!
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We’re notifying you, citizen, that we believe it is time to close the barriers, if they have not been so already; that we send to the post office, that we put seals on all the journalistic presses, and that for this purpose we give order to the police commissioners to put under arrest the journalists, as well as the treacherous deputies; this is our and Robespierre’s opinion. Signed: the police administrators, Tanchon, Faro, E. Bigant, Quenel
The Paris Commune in a message to one of its agents on 9 thermidor, cited in Rapport fait au nom des Comités de salut public et de sûreté générale sur les événements du 9 thermidor an II, précédé d’une préface en réponse aux détracteurs de cette mémorable journée, prononcé le 8 thermidor an III, la veille de l’anniversaire de la chute du tyran by Edme-Bonaventure Courtois, supporting document number 13.
I thought that scene in LRF where Robespierre on 9 thermidor tells a guy (don’t know who he’s supposed to be) to shut down newspapers and arrest journalists and Convention deputies was made up in order to make him more of a bad guy, but turns out it’s actually not that far from the truth?
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Original text (I thought it was rather strangely phrased in a few places, so feel free to tell me if there’s any translation fails):
Nous te donnons avis, citoyen, que nous croyons qu’il est instant qu’on ferme les barrières, si elles ne le sont pas; qu’on envoie à la poste, que l’on mette les scellés sur toutes les presses des journalistes, et qu’à cet effet on en donne l’ordre aux commissaires de police, et les journalistes en arrestation, ainsi que les députés traîtres; c’est l’avis de Robespierre et le nôtre. Signé: les administrateurs de police, Tanchon, Faro, E. Bigant, Quenel 
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garadinervi · 3 months
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Sakine Cansız (Sara), Fidan Doğan (Rojbîn), Leyla Şaylemez (Ronahî), Paris, January 9, 2013
Sara, Rojbîn, Ronahî – Jin Jiyan Azadî
«Il 9 gennaio 2013 Sakine Cansiz, Fidan Doğan e Leyla Şaylemez, tre compagne del movimento di liberazione curdo, sono state uccise da un agente dei servizi segreti turchi (MIT) a Parigi, nel cuore della grande Europa "democratica". Nonostante siano chiari i motivi che hanno portato a questo assassinio, non ci sono ancora verità e giustizia per le nostre compagne. Queste tre donne, che gli stati occidentali hanno chiamato "terroriste", avevano deciso di dedicare la loro vita alla lotta per la libertà. Erano bellissime, belle perché libere, belle perché amavano i popoli e le persone, belle perché credevano nella rivoluzione.» – Rete Jin
(image: Leyla, Sakine, Rojbîn... militantes kurdes assassinées à Paris, le 9 janvier 2013. Un crime toujours impuni!, Drawing by Zehra Doğan (Kurdistan, December 2020), Graphic Design by Naz Oke)
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imoonblaze · 1 year
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🌸Yina and art belong to @imoonblaze 🌸CrossoverMansion AU belong to @some-multifandom-stories 🌸Running mas belong to Seoul Broadcasting systen and LINE friend corporation.
❄Nombre: Yina ❄Edad: ??? años ❄Sexo: Femenino ❄Sexualidad: Heterosexual ❄Especialidad: Espionaje, combate cuerpo a cuerpo, artes marciales y hechizos de hielo. ❄Ocupacion: Agente secreta e ingenierja tecnologica y robotica. ❄Alma: alma de la justicia
❄Especie: gato ❄Altura: 168 cm ❄Peso: 55 kg ❄Habilidades: sentidos y reflejos agudos, artes marciales, espionaje, hielo/congelar y meterse a la mente de una persona con solo tocarla
❄Enfermedad mental: N/A ❄Enfermedad o lesionnfisica: N/A ❄Trauma: N/A ❄Fobia: N/A
❄Gustos: C.M!Dodi y C.M!Donn (les tiene cariño), el frio y la lluvia, comer helado, convivir, entrenar, hacer las cosas de manera justa, color azul, la calidez de un hogar, la robotica y la tecnologia, musica relajante, cantar, la lectura y el chocolate caliente.
❄Disgustos: que la gente se preocupe por su condicion, que alguien trate de lastimar a su familia y amigos, la injusticia, las mentiras, que bloqueen su campo de sentido, que la gebte piense que no es capaz de muchas cosas por su ceguera y la oscuridad.
❄Personalidad: linda, amable, calmada, noble, positiva, determinada ante todo, atenta, aprende rapido, responsable, valiente, fuerte, heroica, justa, con un corazon de oro, empatica y capaz de leer las emociones de los demas con solo escucharlos y algo torpe si algo obstruye su campo de sentido.
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albad · 9 months
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À chaque jour une nouvelle idée catastrophique du macronisme.
Le président veut que les amendes pour «possession ou consommation de cannabis» puissent être payées directement par carte bancaire, à l'aide de 5000 terminaux de paiements distribués aux policiers dès cet été, ou en argent LIQUIDE !
Les contrôles de stupéfiants sont la principale modalité de répression dans les banlieues, et en particulier contre les populations non-blanches. En permettant le paiement immédiat sans traçabilité ni contrôle, c'est la porte ouverte à toutes les corruption et à tous les rackets.
Le 15 juin dernier, quatre anciens policiers de la Compagnie d'Intervention du 93 ont été reconnus coupables d'avoir rédigé un faux PV d'interpellation et d'avoir commis des violences à Sant-Ouen en 2019. À l'époque, ils avaient contrôlé Jonathan S. assis devant sa boutique, en train d'écouter de la musique. Un policier avait jeté un sachet derrière le jeune homme pendant le contrôle, avant de le frapper. Les agents avaient accusé le jeune homme de posséder de la drogue contenue dans le sachet. Pas de chance pour eux, la caméra de surveillance d'une épicerie avait tout filmé. Mais pour un cas prouvé, combien d'autres ont été commis ?
Avec la possibilité d'extorquer un paiement immédiat en liquide sans preuve ni suivi, cette affaire n'aurait tout simplement jamais été connue. Le montant de l’amende forfaitaire pour détention de stupéfiants est de 200 €, ramenée à 150 € si elle est payée dans les 15 jours. S'ils réalisent plusieurs contrôles fructueux par jour, les policiers pourraient théoriquement se promener avec des milliers d'euros en liquide en fin de patrouille.
Traduction de l'annonce de Macron en langage policier : «Tu me donnes 50 balles en liquide maintenant ou je dis que je t'ai choppé avec ce shit qui vient de ma poche».
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Une source : https://www.francebleu.fr/infos/politique/cannabis-les-amendes-pourront-etre-payees-immediatement-en-carte-bleue-ou-liquide-annonce-emmanuel-macron-7755853
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osappleobeneduci · 12 days
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OSAPP: "QUANDO il FENTANYL ARRIVERA' nelle CARCERI ITALIANE sarà una VERA STRAGE"
“Si profilano cifre che vanno ben oltre quelle, gravi e inaccettabili, dei 56 morti dall’inizio dell’anno di cui 23 per suicidio e delle 980 aggressioni al Personale di Polizia Penitenziaria nello stesso periodo nel momento in cui il Fentanyl o “droga degli zombie” prenderà il sopravvento sulle altre sostanze stupefacenti, all’apparenza a scopo terapeutico-analgesico, delle quali è già fatto…
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raisongardee · 7 months
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“Pour beaucoup, et notamment les plus vulnérables, les présentateurs, les animateurs, les journalistes, bref, les "vedettes vues à la télé" sont des mentors déspiritualisés mais non désidéologisés par qui le média audiovisuel va imposer les codes d’une nouvelle culture totalement artificielle et foncièrement étrangère à celle du public rural. Dans le processus d’acculturation enclenché par la télévision, il n’y a pas syncrétisme, mais substitution pure et simple de la culture populaire au profit de la culture urbaine des classes dominantes […] En diffusant une culture de masse sur l’idée que toute nouveauté est, par essence, supérieure aux formes anciennes, la télévision donne au phénomène de mode une ampleur et une portée jusque-là inconnues. Elle fait couple avec la modernité, en ce sens qu’elles œuvrent toutes deux conjointement à une même entreprise de disqualification du passé qui vaut, en conséquence, condamnation esthétique de tout ce qui, de près ou de loin, s’y rapporte. Elle est un puissant agent d’uniformisation au service de la laideur fonctionnelle des cultures urbaines qui, pour pouvoir s’imposer, exigeaient que les traditions locales et les particularismes régionaux fussent humiliés, rétrogradés au rang de survivances anachroniques et de vieilleries méprisables.”
Patrick Buisson, La fin d’un monde. Une histoire de la révolution petite-bourgeoise, 2021. 
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gimmigezz · 11 months
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IL 26 APRILE 1937 I NAZIFASCISTI BOMBARDARONO GUERNICA RADENDOLA AL SUOLO E UCCIDENDO CENTINAIA DI CIVILI
 “Giunsi a Guernica alle 16 e 40 del 26 aprile. Feci appena in tempo a scendere dall’automobile che cominciarono a piovere le bombe. La gente era terrorizzata. Scappava abbandonando le bestie al mercato. I bombardamenti proseguirono fino alle 19 e 45. Per tutto questo tempo non ci furono nemmeno cinque minuti senza che il cielo non nereggiasse di aerei tedeschi. Scendevano a bassissima quota, le mitragliatrici devastavano i boschi e le strade, ai cui lati si stringevano donne, vecchi e bambini. Presto si levò un fumo denso che impediva di vedere oltre 400-500 metri. La città era avvolta dalle fiamme. Ovunque si levavano lamenti e la gente terrorizzata si inginocchiava alzando al cielo per implorare la protezione divina…Nella mia qualità di sacerdote cattolico io dichiaro che non si sarebbe potuto infliggere oltraggio più grande alla religione del Te Deum cantato in onore di Franco nella chiesa di Guernica, che era stata miracolosamente salvata dall’eroismo dei pompieri di Bilbao.”Con queste parole padre Alberto Onaida, agente diplomatico ufficioso delle Province basche a Parigi, descrive il bombardamento della città di Guernica operato dalla Legione Condor lunedì 26 aprile 1937. A guidare l’unità militare tedesca, mandata in appoggio ai soldati franchisti durante la Guerra Civile, Wolfram Von Richthofen, cugino del celebre “Barone Rosso”.I piloti al suo comando, insieme a quelli dell’Aviazione Legionaria, parte del contingente “volontario” che Mussolini aveva mandato in aiuto dell’amico Franco, uccisero un numero di persone compreso tra le 150 e le 1.500 (i dati a disposizione sono diversi) e distrussero completamente buona parte del centro abitato. L’attacco organizzato in tre ondate si dimostrò particolarmente devastante e a nulla servirono i modesti rifugi antiaerei approntati dalla popolazione. Va ricordato che Guernica all’epoca era piena di profughi che fuggivano dinanzi all’avanzata delle truppe di Franco. Si trattò di un esperimento che i tedeschi utilizzarono per capire quali conseguenze avrebbe avuto un bombardamento di quel tipo. Un “piccolo” antipasto di quello che poi avrebbero fatto durante la Seconda guerra mondiale. L’evento come si sa fu immortalato per sempre nella celebre opera di Picasso.
Cronache Ribelli
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camewiththeframe · 5 months
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There are new pictures of Jean & Oppie, so you know this immediately means I have to post more in my obsessive “Jean x Robert” series of book quotes. (LINK TO COMPLETE SERIES)
Today from “Oppenheimer: A Life Inside the Center,” by Ray Monk
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“…Oppenheimer was referring here to one particular event that happened in 1936, namely his meeting and falling in love with Jean Tatlock…
“In any case, by the autumn of 1936, he and Jean were dating. Though there was a considerable age gap (he had turned thirty-two in 1936, and so was ten years older than her), he was, by all accounts, completely in love with her.
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…Though he and Jean were both drawn into, and sympathetic, toward, the leftist political currents that converged on and forts to support the Loyalists in Spain, it was, one suspects, far more important to them and their intimacy that they had in common both a deep love of literature and a fervent interest in psychiatry.
It was primarily with others that Oppenheimer would develop his interest in left-wing politics. With Jean, he shared a love of, for example, the poetry of John Donne (a particular favorite of hers) and an exploration of the depths of the human soul, which the theories of Freud and Jung promised to shed light upon.
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Their love affair lasted from the autumn of 1936 to the spring of 1939, during which time he twice proposed to her. She turned him down on both occasions and the end, when it came, was brought about by her. As he had many years earlier with Charlotte Riefenstahl, Oppenheimer turned Jean away from him by courting her a little too insistently. He overdid it…
By 1939, this—the greatest love Oppenheimer had yet known and, in the opinion of some of his friends, the greatest love he would ever know--was over.
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…What transpired when the two met is recorded in some detail by the report that Pash's agents sent to the FBI. On June 14, 1943, those agents reported, Oppenheimer went from Berkeley to San Francisco, where he was met by Jean Tatlock, "who kissed him." The two then drove in her car to a local bar, where they ate and had a few drinks, after which Jean drove them back to her apartment on Montgomery Street, San Francisco. The agents, sitting in a car outside the apartment, noted that at half past eleven the lights went off, and the following morning, Oppenheimer and Jean left the building together. That evening the two met again in downtown San Francisco, where they "greeted each other affectionately" and then went to have dinner together at a place called Kit Carson's Grill. After dinner Jean drove him to the airport, where he caught a plane back to New Mexico.
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… [Charlotte Serber] took the telegram to her husband…"When I got to his office," Robert Serber wrote in his autobiography, "I saw by his face that he had already heard.”
He was deeply grieved."
How had Oppenheimer heard the news of Jean’s suicide before Serber tould tell him? The answer seems to be through the security surveillance of her apartment. According to Bird and Sherwin’s biography of Oppenheimer, Captain Peer de Silva- a man committed to Pash's view that Oppenheimer and Tatlock were engaged in espionage-claims in an unpublished manuscript to have been the person who first informed Oppenheimer that Jean had killed herself. When told, de Silva writes, Oppenheimer "went on at considerable length about the depth of his emotion for Jean, saying that there was really no one else to whom he could speak anymore."
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BtS pics from Cill.I.Am
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