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indigosunsetao3 · 2 months

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Chapter 9 - Under the Overpass

Masterlist of Chapters

Warnings: 18+ - No minors Please read the tags on A03 for any of your triggers

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick X Original FMC 7.1k words - AO3 Link.

When they pulled into the main drive the rain had not relented in the least but that didn’t stop Price from storming to the carriage house as Gaz backed in. Olivia had woken up when they had stopped at a light and was sitting in the backseat blinking a bit confusedly, the alcohol still strong in her veins as she gripped Kyle’s jacket in her lap. Gaz watched her for a second in the rearview mirror before Price came around to the driver’s side door and pulled it open hard and fast enough that it bounced off a support pillar.

“Head inside,” Gaz said quietly to Olivia who was staring at the situation with a look of shock. She didn’t need to be told twice though, she quickly scooted to the door and climbed out, not stopping for her dress or shoes and just opting to run barefoot in the rain to the house. Gaz and Price watched her go in silence, his Captain at least giving him the dignity to not dress him down in front of someone else. But Gaz had a feeling that’s where the niceties were going to end.

“You better have a really good fucking explanation Sergeant,” Price snapped as he stepped back for Gaz to get out. “Because I’ve spent the better half of my evening trying to keep the peace and I’m tired of not knowing the reason why.” He crossed his arms over his chest and gave Kyle a quick once over, noting that he was shirtless and soaking wet. “If you took this as a chance to get her alone, we have several problems.”

“She called me,” Gaz snapped back as he matched Price’s stance, knowing he was really pushing his limits. “It was my night off. I didn’t miss a check in, nor desert my post,” he continued and raised an eyebrow. “So, I don’t see why this is a problem.” He knew exactly why it was a problem and Price looked like he was going to explode.

“Don’t be fucking cute,” Price answered. “She’s a job, we don’t get friendly with the jobs,” he snarled before spotting the bright red dress on the seat which was also soaking wet. “Or fuck them,” Price said the last words were laced with heavy accusation and Gaz shifted once on his feet.

“You knew my history with her. Yet you still stuck me on this job. I asked for anything else but you said no. That we had to do stupid fucking rotations. You put me here, I didn’t choose it,” Gaz answered and he knew that the blow up from Price was coming. He was poking for a fight, for a punishment, for something to concentrate his anger on that he had been stewing with after everything Olivia had, and hadn’t, told him. “And I didn’t fuck her,” he tacked on after a second to clarify that. “She snuck away from her friends and security. She called me and I went on my off time to find her, she was in the pouring rain drunk and alone. Then she asked to talk.”

“Watch your tone,” Price answered, his voice leveling into an eerie calm. That was always when people went running, or cowed down to him. “Your history should have no impact on the job, you’re a better solider than that. Or so I thought,” he continued and saw the tick of irritation in Gaz’s jaw at that. “Do you know what this looks like? Her ex sweeping her away into the night with little more than a text saying your found her. Showing up a few hours later with her in your clothes? And you half naked yourself?”

“I thought you trusted me,” Gaz answered simply. “I know what I am doing,” he continued though really, he was so mixed up in his own thoughts at the moment he had no idea if he truly did. “She wanted to talk about what happened with us, to clear the air and maybe make this easier for everyone,” he looked at the house as a light upstairs flicked on and caught his attention. Olivia’s bathroom judging by the location. “And in her half-drunk state she told me things that I’m sure she didn’t mean to. She’s terrified of Henry; says he knows people and would make her family disappear. She admitted he hits her and,” he clenched his teeth together for a second, “and then some.” He let the words hang in the air for Price to fill in the blanks.

“It’s not a matter if I trust you,” Price answered. “It matters that we are on a high-profile, high risk, job and you’re letting your feelings get in the way. When you know Alex is working his ass of for information for you, that I’m giving you the freedom to dig,” he paused giving Gaz a chance to interrupt him, and effectively hang himself by a rope even more. Gaz knew better and stayed silent but the look on his face was full of rebuttals that he was biting back.

“You want off this job? Fine,” he gestured to the house, “get packed up. You’ll be on rotation elsewhere. Take some time to get you head back on straight and out of her ass,” he smirked, though it didn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t want to hear any shit from you. You want to be babied; I’ll baby you.” Gaz opened his mouth to fight back and Price held his hand up. “That’s an order Sergeant. You’re taking my spot at the Prime Minister's tonight since you’re the reason I was dragged here. I’ll let Ghost know about the changes. You have ten minutes and don’t fucking wander.”

Gaz shut his mouth at the order but let his displeasure be known as he slammed the SUV door shut and stormed to the house. He all but kicked in the backdoor to find Soap standing there attempting to look like he wasn’t trying to snoop but failing miserably. He gave up pretense and raised an eyebrow as Gaz snatched up a pile of laundry off the washing machine a few feet away and started wiping down his arms.

“You going to tell me what happened?” Soap asked simply as he walked over and looked out the window to see Price was still in the carriage house on the phone. “I tried to warn you, he’s in a fucking state. All but ran me over on my rounds when he pulled in and demanded to know if I knew where you were.” He saw Gaz give him a questioning look as he moved to kick off his shoes that were squishing with each step. “Heavy rain is messing with the cameras and I couldn’t see shit so I did a walk around,” Soap answered, “would be the time for someone to try something.” He shrugged, “it’s what I would do anyway.”

“Nothing happened,” Gaz lied by omission.

“No?” Soap laughed a bit, “that why she ran in here in nothing but your shirt after you were gone for a few hours?” He raised his hands up a bit in surrender as Gaz turned on him. “I’m just saying what everyone is going to see and know by morning. Henry’s been all in a twist about it, calling Price, calling the security team, demanding we track your phone,” he shook his head. “I’m not going to tell you what to do but every time this woman is involved you get screwed over, are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“I didn’t want to do any of this to fucking start with. I was put here against my choice if everyone remembers,” Gaz answered as he let out a frustrated sigh. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Price is pulling me off, says I’m getting too close. I’ll be working with the Prime Minister and whatever else he decides I need to do for penance,” Gaz explained with a small grumble. “Keep an eye on things here,” he stated, the words heavily implying something else aside from the obvious job. Soap merely nodded and watched Gaz disappear upstairs to change and pack.

Henry was returning home from his trip early, which was never a good omen. Olivia had sat in the small library and watched him return with his group of staffers in late morning two days after her drive with Kyle. The night was still a bit of a blur, some things coming in and out of focus in her memory as she tried to remember it all. One thing she knew for sure was that he had held her in the backseat while she cried, soothed her to sleep as they just sat in silence listening to the radio and rain. She had laundered Gaz’s shirt herself and deposited in the bedroom where he had been staying when no one was around. The Captain had returned her dress the day before without a word and Olivia hung it to dry before putting it back in her closet along with her freshly cleaned shoes. She was being careful to try and rid all evidence of the crimes Henry would accuse her of, knowing there was no way around the cameras but she needed to at least try.

She was gripping her teacup tight between her fingers as she watched Henry walk toward the house. His eyes were downcast looking at his phone until the last moment before he stepped inside, his gaze found her with pinpoint precision. There was anger and violent promises behind the gaze and Olivia felt her hands shake, splashing the cold tea on her front before she set the cup down and attempted to take a deep breath. When the maid stepped in to dust a few minutes later Olivia nearly jumped out of her skin thinking it was Henry, her body was wound tight waiting for the inevitable.

He didn’t come to the library though; he didn’t even attempt to seek her out the rest of the day for that matter. He was holed up in his office working and Olivia finally left her sanctuary of the library when the sun started to set, giving the man in the Ghost mask a small polite smile as she passed him in the hall. Kyle hadn’t returned since he left two nights ago and she found she was seeing the man they called Ghost when it should have been his shift. Did he ask to get moved? She thought after their talk they were going to turn a corner and maybe begin repairing the past but maybe Kyle decided against it. He got the confession from her and was just going to close the chapter of his life and move on. That would be better, safer for everyone, but the ache deep in her chest disagreed.

“Liv,” came Henry’s voice as she passed by his office. Shit. She had been avoiding going anywhere near his office or the bedroom. That’s where he liked to dole out his worst, where he could cut the cameras and have no witnesses. “Come in here a moment,” he stated politely but she knew it was a command. She debated just running, just head back down the hall and pretend like she hadn’t heard him but Olivia knew better.

“Coming,” Olivia answered putting a small little smile on her face before turning to face him to see he was leaning in the doorway. He was still in his suit but his tie was undone hanging from his neck and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone. If he had been a normal husband, the one she thought she was marrying, it would have been a sight to see him looking at her like this. But Olivia knew the predatory possessive gaze he was giving her was anything but loving. “How was your trip? You’re home early,” she mused as she walked up to the door and did her best not to flinch away as he grabbed her by the arm and lead her inside.

The office was empty, all the staffers gone for the day, and Olivia’s eyes darted up to the camera in the room to find the red light was off. He was already setting the scene and she swallowed once as he shut the door behind them with a snap and she heard the telltale click of the lock being turned. If she had been braver she would have asked him to unlock it again, walked out, but instead she walked out of his grasp and further into the office. She stopped when she made it to his desk and gazed at the papers scattered all over, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings on the oak. She opened her mouth to ask him something, anything to keep him talking, but he was already behind her with a vice grip on the back of her neck.

“Drop the act,” Henry snapped as he slammed her forward over the desk, barely giving her a chance to catch herself with her hands before she fell face first on the paperwork. “You know why I am home early,” he continued as he pressed her harder until her hands gave out and slid over the desk knocking things over. He ignored the pained whimpers she gave as he pressed her cheek hard into the wood. “Did you think it was cute Olivia? Did you think yourself amusing to behave that way while I was gone? I was nice, I let you go out with your trashy little friends,” he chuckled a bit, “let you have a girl’s night. But that wasn’t enough, no, you needed more,” he chuckled darkly.

“No, Henry,” Olivia tried, preparing to tell the story she had concocted and recited to herself hundreds of times over the past few days. She had come up with a story of fighting with her friends, that they had dumped her and she had no idea where she was. She didn’t have her security teams’ number in her phone but she had Kyle’s because she had all of the task forces numbers in her phone, just like him. “I was lost and I didn’t want to worry you. I called Kyle because I knew he was with his girlfriend, she lives in downtown London and I thought,” she whined as she felt Henry make a grab for her pants. She was hoping using the term girlfriend Henry would realize that Kyle had no interest in her, that he wasn’t a threat.

“You thought what?” Henry asked as his fingers found the button of her pants and flicked them open. “That he’d come to your rescue? He can’t like his girlfriend too much if he ditched her and came looking for you,” he answered as he shoved her down hard again when she attempted to stand up. “If that was true why didn’t you come right home? Surely, he wanted to get back to his,” he paused to wrench her pants down to her knees, “girlfriend.”

“I asked him to take me for a drive,” Olivia said her voice taking a pleading tone as she twisted, “I was feeling sick. I wanted fresh air. That’s it Henry, I promise. Please let’s talk,” she twisted hard and managed to get out of his grasp for a brief second, which was enough for her to fold down to her knees on the ground and try to scramble out of his grasp. He didn’t let her get far though, his hand shooting out grab her by the throat this time and raise her up to her feet and then some, so she was on her tiptoes. “Henry please. I promise, nothing happened,” her words were a bit strained at the grip and she scratched at his still sleeved arm. Bastard knew this would be a fight and was already preemptively covering his bases.

“You have one more chance to tell me the truth Olivia,” Henry answered as he freed the tie from around his neck and wound it around his free hand in a threatening gesture. “So, I would choose your words very carefully,” he let go of her throat with a shove and smirked as Olivia stumbled over the pants at her knees and grabbed onto one of the highbacked chairs.

“I don’t know what you’re asking,” Olivia tried before Henry took a step toward her. “I told you what happened, that’s everything. I swear, please,” she tried begging though that never worked.

“Oh darling,” he said with a small laugh, “you should make sure you have your whole story covered before you make things up.” He twisted the tie between both of his hands now, holding it like he was going to make to choke her with it. “You went to the dance club he used to take you to and asked him to pick you up. You knew exactly where you were, you weren’t lost,” he was backing her up against the wall. “I followed your phone GPS, I watched the drive. Saw where you stopped and sat for a very long time. Then suddenly you leave when I texted you? When you ignored my phone call? And you show up in his shirt?” He tsked, “and him naked from the waist up? It’s not hard to figure it out.”

“No, I swear Henry,” Olivia pleaded, “nothing happened. He didn’t touch me. I was standing in the rain and he gave me his shirt because I was frozen,” she felt the wall hit her back and she darted her eyes around the room for an escape. She didn’t remember sending those messages, that part of her memory a blur when she begged Kyle to come get her. She had been scared to look back at them afraid Henry would see her poking about in her phone and know she was up to something. “It won’t happen again. I won’t go out again. And he’s gone anyway, they moved him to another assignment. He isn’t around anymore and we can go back to how it was before,” she tried as Henry silently grabbed her hands and wrapped the tie around one wrist before the other pulling it so tight she instantly felt her fingers go numb.

“He’s not gone yet,” Henry answered as he grabbed her tied hands and roughly pulled her forward and down, using her imbalance against her so she fell forward into the carpet right on her face. “I’m still working on that part,” he smirked as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair and started work on his button down. She had twisted to look up at him, moved to try to get up on her elbows but he merely pressed her back down with his still shoed feet, knowing the heel would dig into her lower back. “It’ll be a shame when the Sergeant’s body is found in the Thames,” he laughed a bit, “all the work you did to keep him safe and you still fucked it up. Maybe I’ll let you go to the funeral,” he started work on his pants, “get a few pictures of you grieving over a soldier killed. It’ll do wonders in the press.”

Olivia felt her blood run cold and she stopped squirming, feeling the fight leave her body as Henry’s words fell heavily on her. Everything she had done to keep him safe, keep her family safe, and she had thrown it all away after a drunk mistake. A stupid drunk mistake because she was so broken and alone, she had sought out an ounce of comfort. Like she tried telling Kyle that night Henry always, won. Always. She had to warn Kyle, warn his team, somehow if it wasn’t already too late. She felt the silent tears fall as Henry finished undressing and she slammed her eyes shut as his hands found her again doing her best to disassociate from the situation and instead come up with a plan.

Despite the fact that Gaz was actively working it still felt like he had been shunted to the sidelines by Price. He had been given his weekly rotation schedule the night he had left Henry and Olivia’s house and as Price had promised, he was not going back there. He was to rotate between the Prime Minister the Deputy Prime Minister, some other officials with MI6 and given a few hours of down time. Gaz knew better than to try and reach out to Olivia but he still dared to ask Soap how things were going, and Soap stated it was all quiet. He wasn’t sure if he liked that answer, quiet was unnerving especially if Henry was as bad as Olivia made him out to be. Then of course the summit was in a week, one week and they still weren’t any closer to finding out who did it.

When Gaz’s phone rang and he saw it was Price he sat up quickly from where he had been lounging on the back patio of the minister’s house. It was a sunny, albeit cold, day and he had taken the opportunity between events to try and soak up the sun. He had some down time coming to him that night and had arranged to meet Abby for a proper date. Gaz was hoping the distraction would help him not linger and wonder what was going on with Olivia, it was keeping him up every night and he was going mad with questions.

“Sir,” Gaz said into the phone. It was the first time they had spoken in over a week and while Gaz was still not happy, he knew he deserved what Price gave him, worse really.

“We have credible intel,” Price said in way of a hello. “Alex has been tracking it down and the source is legit,” he paused, the sound of footsteps on gravel telling Gaz he was walking to somewhere more private to talk.

“Intel on what, Sir?” Gaz asked as he patted down his jacket to try and find his little notebook and pen he kept in it. When he pulled it out, he stared at the wavy paper where it had obviously been soaked and dried, pushing away the thought that it was Olivia who had caused it when she slept on his jacket in the backseat.

“The Russians who orchestrated the attack in Belarus,” Price answered. “We think they’ve got a safe house here in London. Alex found a log of shipments buried in legal drabble showing items going in and out from one of Henry’s warehouses in unmarked black vans, few of them went there,” he continued.

“Henry? Are you moving on him? What do you need from me?” Gaz asked instantly as he wrote it all down feeling that excitement build in him that he was actually going to be able to do something. “Olivia was trying to tell me something but she was too afraid, maybe this was it,” he muttered.

“You are going to be pulling doubles,” Price replied, his voice flat as he cut across Gaz’s musings. “Ghost and Soap are going to work the lead,” he explained. “I’ll need you with the ministers taking Ghost’s rotations and I’ll be taking Soap’s. Alex is going to setup shop in MI6 to continue work.”

“Let me work the leads,” Gaz tried as he slumped a bit defeated in his chair. “I’m doing nothing but sitting around all day, going from meeting to meeting all day,” he groused. “I am good at recon, I can blend in a bit better with civilians than Ghost,” he tried to reason.

“You wanted off the Henry patrol, you got what you wanted,” Price answered knowing that it would grind on Gaz’s nerves. He still wasn’t letting him back into the swing of things yet, he needed to learn what happened when he did what he wanted and didn’t listen to his Captain. Gaz had gotten a little too comfortable pushing his boundaries as of late. “Enjoy your time off tonight because you’ll be working around the clock.”

Gaz snarled and shut his phone shut with a click before looking at the time on his watch. It was time to move again and he rose from the chair and headed inside. He would have to let Abby know tonight would be the last time they saw one another for a while. Shooting her a quick text to confirm their dinner he headed to the waiting town car to go to another meeting about who knew what.

He watched the clock slowly creep for the rest of the day, standing at attention at a door or escorting a large group of stuffy suits to and from the car. The unknown number had been silent for days, not answering any questions Gaz threw at them. Still, he checked the phone, opened the messages and glared at the lack of response for a bit before putting it away. He even found himself looking at the string of messages from Olivia that night and found his fingers hovering over sending her a message before knowing better and closing it out as well. The only person that was actively talking to him was Abby and Soap when he could get away, it seemed Ghost was joining in on the silent treatment from Price. Though that could just be Ghost in general, he wasn’t one for many words. Alex was head down in intel work and since Gaz had nothing new for him, he had nothing new for Gaz.

“See you in the morning,” Gaz called to the team he had been with all day before heading out into the bitter cold. The restaurant was within walking distance to where he was so he opted to just leg it instead of taking the SUV and trying to find parking. He’d just catch a ride with Abby back to her place and taxi back in the morning if needed. Flipping his coat collar up Gaz shoved his hands into his pockets and headed west toward the river, wondering if the twenty-minute walk was worth not dealing with traffic.

As he exited out of the Whitehall Gardens and neared the overpass of the Hungerford Bridge Gaz knew something was off. He had sensed someone had been watching him the second he made it to Horse Guards Ave but he shook the idea off. He didn’t see anyone in his peripherals or in shop windows as he walked and he had even made a fake pitstop at one of the sculptures in the park but no one appeared. It still felt odd though and the minute he got to the underpass he knew for sure someone was watching and following.

He watched as two men appeared from behind a large utility box, as if they just melted out of the shadows. They were burly, dressed in all black with baseball caps pulled low over their faces to try and obscure their identity as much as possible. Gaz glanced over his shoulder in time to see three other people appeared on the sidewalk the way he had come effectively blocking his retreat. Knowing he only had moments Gaz quickly assessed the area he was in to see what he could use to his advantage, if anything. The one and only light pole had one light out and the other the bulb was barely alive giving off hardly any light. There were no bikes tied to the racks, not that he would expect a bike to last five minutes here with or without a lock. And there was no one around, on foot or in a car to witness what was about to happen.

Gaz could either go for his pistol or his phone, and ever the person not wanting to risk putting civilians in danger Gaz went for the phone. He looked down for just a second and selected who to call before slipping the phone back into his breast pocket as he continued to size up his odds. He hoped they would pick up, that they weren’t busy, and would figure out what was happening just by the sounds coming from Gaz’s side. One of the men didn’t seem to care about possible innocent casualties as he raised a gun while the man beside him let a metal bar of some sort slide down their arm so they could grip it better. Next choice Gaz had to make was who to go for; the gun or the lethal looking pipe. He still didn’t know what the men behind him had yet but he needed to work this down one at a time.

Darting down quickly Gaz pushed hard with his legs to rugby tackle the man with the gun, barely flinching as the guy fired a shot that echoed loudly and ricocheted off the brick. Gaz’s ears were ringing slightly at the closeness of the sound but he still managed to get the guy down on his back. His knees stung as the slacks he wore tore against the concreate but he kept moving, making a grab for the gun. He grabbed the guy’s wrist and slammed it hard against the curb to get him to drop the pistol, once, twice, three times. Gaz felt the pop of the guy’s thick wrist before the pistol fell away into the road and somehow toward the drain but Gaz only had a second to enjoy his small victory as something hard nailed in him the back.

The air was forced out of Gaz’s lungs as he rolled to avoid another hit, he coughed and spluttered as he pushed up onto his hands and knees to get back on his feet. The man with the metal bar took another swing and Gaz quickly stepped back, twisting to avoid the hit but it still caught his arm. It hurt like hell, the shock of the hit vibrating up his arm and making his teeth rattle. The rest of the men had joined them now, having hung back for a moment as gunfire had gone off. Gaz gazed between all of them, looking for his best option to get out of the situation; if there was a way out. Something he learned long ago was to know when you were outnumbered and it was time to fall back.

“Anymore coming or is five it?” Gaz asked in a taunt but also as a way to convey information to the person that was hopefully on the other end of the call he made. One of the people laughed for a second as they all just stared at one another waiting for someone to make the first move. Gaz curled his hands into fists and let his eyes dart back and forth, he wasn’t going to attack first because that would make him vulnerable. He would lure them in and then do his best to disarm, disable and run though he knew the odds of getting out of this one without help were low.

Three seconds of silent watching then all hell broke loose. Gaz felt each hit as they landed on him but he didn’t stop to truly let the pain settle in. He landed hits of his own, kicking out hard enough that he felt someone’s knee snap backwards followed by a bellow of pain and a man went down. Bolstered by the fact it was three on one for the time being Gaz continued to scuffle, dodging hits when he could and only grunting for any sign of pain so as to not show these men weakness. He took a cheap shot elbow to the face that sent him sideways, stunning him for a brief second as blood flooded his mouth but that was enough for them to get the upper hand. The man he had knocked to the ground with the gun wrapped his arm around Gaz’s neck and squeezed. When Gaz quickly headbutted backward toward him he hit only hit his chin as they hefted him up.

Gaz tried to shift his legs back to sweep the guys out but the bastard with the metal pipe took a swing that landed right across his knees. The pain exploded in Gaz’s legs and he briefly saw black for his vision as he cried out and scrambled to get his feet back under him. His legs still worked but they fucking hurt. Something was busted in his right knee so even if he got out of this there would be no running. But there was no time to focus on that as the hits just started coming, one right after the other without letting up. They were aiming to incapacitate him now; the fight had been more than they bargained for and they weren’t looking to draw it out any longer. The arm around his neck was getting tighter and Gaz pulled on it with his hands, giving up trying to protect himself because if he couldn’t breathe it didn’t matter.

“Smile for the camera fuckwad,” came a heavy voice in Gaz’s ear as he was wrenched standing again, his legs no longer supporting him properly after seconds, minutes, of being hit and kicked. Someone grabbed his jaw and forcefully turned him somewhere, the left they turned him left he realized. Gaz couldn’t see what he was supposed to be looking at though, his vision a haze after all the hits and he was sure he had blood in his eyes. “He wants to make sure the Missus gets a good shot,” he laughed before Gaz shook his head to the side to get out of the grip.

“Go to hell,” Gaz muttered, spitting out drool and blood. He knew exactly what the man was saying, who the missus was and what she was about to be forced to see. Gaz didn’t want that, didn’t need Olivia to live with that thought, which was enough to give him a bit of steam back.

Lifting his arm up he drove his elbow back hard into the man’s diaphragm and the grip loosened around him just slightly. It was just enough for Gaz to grab the man’s thumb and bend it back hard and fast enough it snapped loudly. Gaz stumbled one step before righting himself and turning back to the fight, despite the fact he could barely see or think straight. He wasn’t running out of there, he just needed to keep buying time. Someone was bound to come around, a car, a pedestrian, fuck a little old lady walking her dog. He knew any sort of witness would scare them off and London was always full of people, it was just a matter of time before someone happened upon them.

“Please not tonight,” Olivia begged as Henry grabbed her by the elbow and bodily dragged her from the library toward his office. She had been on pins and needles since Henry had last had her in the office, trying to figure out what to do. She knew Henry always lived up to his threats and promises but he had been quiet since that night. Not giving her a hint if what he was thinking or going to do, had even been sweet and bought her flowers which had unnerved her even more. “Henry I’m exhausted and frankly still sore,” she tried as she winced as he sat her down in his office chair.

“You’ll want to see this darling,” Henry nearly purred as he walked back to the office door and flicked the lock. “I did it for you,” he smirked as he saw the confusion on her face. He leaned around her in the chair and quickly typed in the password on the laptop there before moving back to stand with his hands on her shoulders. He had pulled up a live video feed and waited for Olivia to figure out what she was looking at.

“What?” She asked leaning forward a bit to try and figure out what this was all about. It was a dimly lit area; a street or tunnel of some sort and she squinted to try and make out where this was. “What is this Henry?” Olivia asked, feeling unease settle over her but she wasn’t sure exactly what for because it was just an empty street.

Henry looked at his phone for a second before smirking and looking up at the laptop again, “just wait a moment. Patience my love,” he was practically oozing smugness and delight and he looked down at Olivia who turned her head to watch him. None to gently he grabbed the back of her head and turned it back to the screen. “You’re going to miss it; I doubt it’ll last very long. Though I’ll keep the recording just for you. For when you need to remember.”

Goosebumps erupted on Olivia’s skin as she looked back at the screen and spotted someone walk into the frame. He was moving quickly with his coat collar turned up but then the man stopped and turned to look behind him and Olivia saw his face. It was grainy footage but she knew Kyle’s face anywhere. She gasped and attempted to turn to look at Henry but he held her head fast. “Henry what are you doing?” Olivia asked, her hands moving to grip the desk as men closed in around Kyle and he stuffed his cellphone back into his jacket pocket. “Henry stop this,” Olivia said after a moment before the gunshot went off as Gaz tackled one of them. There was no sound on the video but Olivia saw the flash, watched all the men flinch and she screamed.

“Quiet,” Henry instructed as his eyes darted to the office door to make sure no one was nearby and came knocking. “Don’t ruin this for me,” he grinned as he moved around the chair to hover near Olivia’s shoulder, his face pressed close to hers to take in the scene on the laptop but also her face. “I warned you. I told you to leave it alone, but you didn’t listen and now he gets to pay the price. I honestly thought you would have tried to tell him, tried to help him,” he chuckled as Gaz took the hit to the knees and lost his footing. “But self-preservation has always been your downfall. Keep yourself alive and well and fuck everyone else, isn’t that right love? Isn’t that why you chose me? Keep that cushy little life, keep your family from going under or be exposed for all their illegal dealings? Can’t ruin that family name or let daddy go to jail.”

Olivia was crying, her hands pressed against her mouth as she watched Kyle take hit after hit, unable to outdo the five men who had trapped him. She attempted to close her eyes and look away but Henry shook her and forced her to keep watching, keep seeing Kyle attempt to hold it together as he was beaten mercilessly with fists and weapons. He couldn’t take much more and she whimpered as one of the men yanked his head around to fully face the camera and Henry pressed a few buttons on the keyboard and zoomed in a bit. He looked awful, he was badly battered and there was blood all over his face and mouth. He was dazed but then she saw Kyle say something and he broke free of the hold, deftly getting the man off his back and stumbling to the side before straightening preparing to fight again.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Henry mused as he saw Olivia widen her eyes and sit up straighter watching. Gaz was barely able to stand up straight but Henry would give him the fact that he wasn’t going to go down on his knees, he was a good little soldier. “Ah, there, see?” Henry added with a laugh after a small fight ensued and Gaz took a final hit across the chest with the metal pipe and he fell down winded before taking a kick to the face and falling to the ground limp. “Makes the job easier to look like a mugging. More bruises and all that,” he mused as he quickly sent a message on his phone.

Olivia was leaning over the laptop, her knuckles white as she gripped the wood and silently willed Kyle to get up. He wasn’t moving and she flinched herself as one of the men kicked him over onto his back and started rooting around in his pockets and pulled out what looked to be his phone and wallet, along with a pistol that was tucked into his back waistband. “Get up,” Olivia whispered silently, “please.”

“He had a gun this whole time and never used it?” Henry laughed, actually sounding genuinely amused, “good people are always so noble. He probably would have lived if he took the risk,” he grinned as Olivia quickly jerked in the chair to face him. “Oh. You thought this was just a beat down? A warning shot of sort?” He smirked as Olivia turned a delicate shade of green and he saw her chest rapidly rise and fall. “I already told you how this was going to end, remember? Come now you remember,” he prodded before gesturing for her to look at the screen again.

Olivia watched as the men smashed Kyle’s phone on the ground and pulled items out of his wallet before throwing it down next to the phone. One of them took the pistol and tucked it into their own pants before two of them bent down and lifted Kyle’s still unconscious form up and started to walk him out of what Olivia figured out was an overpass and down the sidewalk a bit.

“Stop this,” Olivia shrieked as Henry switched cameras to follow where they were moving. London was covered in cameras and Olivia was certain while she could see this now this footage would miraculously disappear overnight or be corrupted. “Stop this,” she tried again, her voice getting even higher as she watched another man come to assist to heft Kyle’s body up onto the railing. “Please Henry, I’ll do anything. Please!”

“See, you say that but then you just do as you want. I think it’s time you learned from your mistakes. Really understand that there are consequences to your actions. That while you are my wife you will do as I say. If you don’t, then you’ll see what happens when you disobey or disappoint me. Be grateful it was only him this time and not your mother or father,” he grinned as Olivia glanced at him for a moment, taking in the look of fear on her face, before he pushed her cheek to force her to watch what was happening.

It was over in a second. If Olivia had blinked she would have missed it, but she didn’t. She stared horrified as the men pushed Kyle’s limp body over the railing and into the rushing Thames river below.

#fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 author #ao3 writer #call of duty #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #cod #my fic #gaz fanfic #kyle gaz garrick #gaz cod #gaz x oc #keeping lines blurry

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wisdomrays · 3 months

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REFLECTIONS ON THE QUR'AN: Suratu'l-Baqarah (The Cow) : Part 22

“Yet, there are among humankind those who take to themselves objects of worship as rivals to God, loving them with a love like that which is the due of God only—while those who truly believe are firmer in their love of God.” (Al-Baqarah 2:165)

This verse relates the following general fact: There should be no firmer and greater love for true believers than the love for God. Rather than being natural, the believers’ love of God is acquired by will, and it increases to the extent of their knowledge of God until it becomes a part of their nature, which would turn them almost mad. This love is of the character of voli-tional interest and preference.

The Prophetic saying, “None of you will have (true, perfect) faith until he loves me more than his parents, his children, and all human-kind,”[1] points to this fact, bearing in mind the reality that love of God requires loving His most beloved servant and Messenger and thus follow his perfect example in both worship and sublime character. In fact, true love begins with this first step, that is, with taking interest. As for the natural love towards one’s parents, children, spouse, property, and so on, it should be in accordance with God’s commands. Otherwise, God Al-mighty either tests His servants with some troubles in this world, or He reprimands them in the Hereafter. In short, believers are balanced people and need to have a balanced life. They have to keep the balance in each period of their life time despite all their personal desires and pleasures.

Some people go so far as to adopt as deities those whom they ad-mire. They claim that those admired people are their “lord” and “deity.” Moreover, they talk about their “dominion and control” over the existence in the world, and they attempt to substitute them for God, Who is the real Creator of everything in the Universe and the One Who uniquely deserves worship. Others commit the same wrong by revering others highly as if worthy of adoration and expecting from them and attributing to them that which is far beyond their human capacity. This amounts to association of partners with God. The verse above forbids people to be in the first catego-ry severely while it warns people not to be among the latter ones.

The verse also draws the attention to the fact that there is a rela-tionship between Divinity and love. Human beings love and feel deep rela-tionship with those they deify. If such false deities are loved by some peo-ple, the Unique, Real Deity, Almighty God, should be loved madly and from the bottom of hearts; believers set their hearts and fix their eyes on Him solely, find the value of their lives in obedience to Him, and make the acquisition of His good pleasure the goal of their lives. Those who cannot love Him must be afraid of their end. Believers should love God to the extent that they love Prophets, saints, and saintly scholars out of love of God and due to their place in God’s sight. Whatever and whoever they love, they love for God’s sake and on account of God and His love.

#allah #quran #muslim #revert #god #help #convert #religion #ayat #islam

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arstudios2000 · 3 years

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The 6 Guai Clans who live in the land of Ayoni. The bovine humanoids who are nomads travelling all over the lands, divided by ideology and even faith in some fields. 1. Mugkai: The vanilla. Standard nomadic affairs. They eat plants, leaves, vegetables and fruits like all Guai. Their lifestyle isn't just some societal norm of theirs; its a religion too. It is part of their spiritual beliefs that the being who gave birth to them was also wandering across the lands it was thrown in, eating the plants and fruits it came across. They don't bother others much and prefer being left alone. 2. Hathor: Metalworkers who like to innovate. They try to make new inventions to up the quality of life for their people and even for others who are allies with them. They hold spiritual value on hard work and sweat. Their tools are their lifeblood and heirlooms. 3. Khaboyaan: Orators and great speakers. They also have the most colorful tongues when it comes to rude talk. Even simple greetings can come across highly offensive to anyone outside of the Clan. To them, it's normal. The shortest in height and complete pacifists. 4. Powdus: Converts to the Eltarye Pantheon and like the Eltarye, have taken a more nature-hippy stance. They still are vegetarians but are very protective of wildlife, plantlife, and even sapient life. To the point they can become downright violent if you take away someones life pointlessly or chop a tree with no good reason, or kill an animal just for sport. 5. Jazajir: The most 'settled' of the Clans. They are atheists who place large value on material goods and capital gains. Thus, their society is more trade and commerce based. They live on the backs of enormous, titanic beasts which carry their cities (of tents) and such, including agriculture areas on these beasts boosted by nature mages. They are the most welcoming and tolerant to other races and actively try to engage in trade and barter. However, these Guai also have serious issues with slavery (their own people are not safe from being enslaved) and the value of people's lives over material goods and monetary gains. They run a considerable slave trade network with the Eltarye. 6. Khoonbadar: The most hostile and dangerous. Every member of this Clan are trained fighters and raiders, capable of rapid raid and pillage, guerilla warfare, and are no slouches in combat, on foot or on mount. Cunning, deadly, but hold no true hate for other races; they in fact simply see the lives of certain races (aka a lot of races) having little to no value and even detrimental to nature and the cycles of life so they are worth being killed off, which they will gladly pull off. They have 'Tomes of Contempt' containing the races and their traits, their strengths and weaknesses, and what makes them worthless. Some races are not on this list, including other Guai.

Ayoni/AEON Fantasy belongs to TheFusionLatios (deviantART)

Eltarye belong to Sebistara (deviantART)

#fantasy #magic #bovine #heights #clans #art #AEON #cow #cow peo

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oo0-will-of-the-wisp-0oo · 4 years

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I’m SO EXCITED!! My Fanimation is FINISHED!!! I think I’m vibrating a little. 😆😆😆

It has music, sound effects... And my husband and I did the voices!!! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

Here it is! Please tell me what you think! ❤️♥️❤️ Consider this the “trailer” for @aelaer ‘s short FanFic A Kaleidoscope of Butterflies. Here is the link to that FanFic - you’ll have to read the last half of the story (and enjoy Aelaer’s beautiful drawing at the end!)

I should mention I made 99% of this on my cell phone, and only just recently ordered and received my new 12.9 inch iPad Peo!!! OMG, what a HUGE difference! I did not know how much better quality I would have on this 3rd gen iPad compared to my iPhone MAX... I nearly jumped over the moon (with the cow from that nursery rhyme)...

youtube

3000 panels, my friends. 😱 For 4 minutes of animation! lol I drew it all on FlipaClip and recorded my husband’s and my voice... Then downloaded it to Splice because the Sound Effects and Music on that app are all FREE, even without the premium version...

A lot of people helped me while I was working on my animation! (UPDATE: I sent them little previews of what I had and they were kind enough to provide opinions, helpful critique, and encouragement♥️❤️♥️) yuliya, babywarg, madness-in-the-multiverse (a big help with my issues with Tina Minoru’s face when I was trying to have her look up in the air!), nishtha3012, alix326, wolfstarstuff, whotheheckitheheck, leemaht, mistressstrange, onedeadfellow, drstrangefangirl8900, elisaphoenix13: special thanks to you for pre-viewing and being my panel! 😃❤️😃 And mmoonbows, shinsetsu, ironstrangeao3: you helped me on the previous project, “Meditation,” so I feel you should be mentioned, of course!

A lot of other people I tagged helped me through a difficult time (life is still a bit wonky, but I think I’m handling things a bit better lately)... Thank you all for checking in on my occasionally! Seriously, you really helped! ❤️♥️❤️

Please let me know if I didn’t put your name up, I would feel so bad if you didn’t receive recognition. If I didn’t tag you, please don’t be offended, several of these people specifically requested that I tag them, and the rest I just wanted to say thank you. If I missed someone, it was accidental, most assuredly.

Remember to have your volume turned on! 😃😃😃

@yuliya-dosky @youknowwhoiam3000 @babywarg @satanskatze @ashlynn-destinyz @madness-in-the-multiverse @ririsasy @alix326 @an-odd-idea @nishtha3012 @mistressstrange @leemaht @wolfstarsstuff @drstrangefangirl8900 @whotheheckitheheck @onedeadfellow @mmoonbows @ironstrangeao3 @elisaphoenix13 @angelfoxlove @strangcrdoctor @letswritefuriously @atypical-snowman @tardistara @m1ster-myst1c @cosmicdangernoodle @salty-ironstrange-shipper @hopeful-art-loving-biscuit @cupcake93151 @ajunkblogorsomethingiguess @chesireleaf @stark-strange-love @ironstrangefrostohmy @golden-asp @onedeadfellow @ironstrangehaven @megafandomfreak @elisaphoenix13 @shinsetsu

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dont-offend-the-bees · 4 years

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I miss just being in other places

(Obviously a pandemic is serious business and obviously it's basic human decency to treat it as such but I'm feeling weird tonight and need to bellyache about stuff sorry)

Like I'm not an avid traveller and I have limited social energy but I miss going to visit a friend for a weekend and exploring cosy old pubs in towns I've never been to before, I miss going for afternoon tea, I miss charity shopping, I miss exploring woods and parks, I miss sitting in a pub or cafe and just bashing out some writing in my notebook with some pleasant background noise and no home distractions, I miss going to just spend some time on a friend's couch in companionable silence with something fun on TV or playing games, I miss occasionally meeting other people (preferably other queers with whom I can engage in long, relaxed Socratic dialogues about gender and sexuality without having to always reiterate The Basics). I miss having other things going on and other places to be to distract me from all the shitty things going on in the world because rn the internet is my biggest connection to the world which means I'm always the first to goddamn know when Tr*mp isn't paying his goddamn taxes and R*wling is going further down the TERF rabbit hole.

(and obviously it's important to keep up to date on current events especially when human rights are at risk, but no human was designed for endless day in day out newsreels of misery, it breaks your hecking brain and if you're gonna be wired into the bad new matrix at all times you need to at least try to counterbalance it with the good stuff)

I'm an introvert, and a homebody, and I can be comfortable and settled staying in the same place for a long ass time so I know I'm doing better out of this than a lot of people are but knowing that you have to stay put- and so does everyone else who shares your space- is just a lot and it really makes the walls start to close in. My attention span is getting worse and worse because the days melt together, the future is a fog and time has no meaning, I just measure my days in hand pain and number of Red Dwarf or Taskmaster episodes re-watched. Books go unread and gathering dust on my shelf, I manage maybe a couple of words a day max of writing when this time last year I'd just finished a 118k word story in five months (largely scribbled in notebooks at a pub table over pints of alco-free strawberry kopparberg). Creative hobbies feel like they take up too much s p a c e, physically and mentally, and I can't get started. Same to consuming new media, new shows and movies and books, opening my head to new characters and worlds feels like too much effort, even though ironically I'm craving new mental and sensory input. It sucks. It's exhausting.

I'm not saying it's been all bad. I've been able to actually sleep in my body's preferred rhythms, for once. And being away from society at large with time to just exist in my own skin and space without too much pressure from other people has led to a lot of fun self-discovery- but even that's hampered, because were it not a pandemic I'd be supplementing all the old femme clothes I got rid of lately with some fun new masc things from charity shop trawls. I've picked up a couple of things online but it's not the same at all, I want to blow like a tornado through secondhand and vintage shops, try stuff on and rebuild myself from the ground up, with a friend or two who get what I'm going for along for the ride. Instead it feels like the shiny new me (who btw is just like, so much more confident than the me before in so many ways holy cow do I feel liberated 10/10 would recommend some casual gender exploration) is just indefinitely shelved. Which SuCKS. Here I am, a fresh and adorable little nonbinary man with very fluffy hair and I can't even go out and flirt with lads. What a waste.

And yeah I know, I know, I could go out, we're not in the strictest of lockdowns atm (least not where I am) and a lot of people are just going out shopping and socialising. But! It's stressful and inadvisable. I know I said I'm more confident now but that's just like, generally, in myself and my presentation- I still have social and health anxieties and they're pretty hecking amplified if you put me in a crowd of strangers, half of whom don't know how to wear a mask properly. I can't have fun and cut loose under these conditions, nor should I, this ain’t a game. Things aren't gonna be 'normal' again for a long time, they'll probably never be completely normal again but if they get close, it's not gonna be for a while. In the meantime, a night on the town or a shop trawl feels like an activity with high risk, low reward and a considerable amount of stress.

I was making tentative plans before all this hit, seems like a lot of people were. I was eyeing up a prop making course down in Brighton, thinking 'bout building up that portfolio making props for some amdram productions, thinking 'bout saving up some cash if I could, maybe looking for some little jobs in aid of that. I guess in a sense I am saving money, not having anywhere to go or anything to spend it on. But it all feels so formless now. Maybe I'll still do it, maybe I'll put it off two more years, I just can't tell; it's very likely that this time next year, when I would potentially be starting the semester, it still won't feel safe and my already very belated uni fresher's experience will be hamstrung by virus anxiety and numerous other horrible things. Obviously leaving home is always a big, unpredictable change but this is ridiculous.

Look, big ramble aside, I'm actually okay. Mostly. Surprisingly okay, really, considering I've been off antidepressants for several months amidst a pandemic. Major, major executive dysfunction aside I'm mostly holding up alright, serious mood swings are infrequent and mostly period-triggered, full nights of sleep are being had and the positive progression of gender discovery has buoyed my spirits somethin' wonderful. But some nights you just sit, staring at the six youtube and thirty Ao3 tabs you have open that you don't actually feel like watching or reading but staring at a screen unseeingly feels less daunting than trying to do something that engages you or makes you happy and you just think... shit.

#mr. bees speaks #ramble #late night thoughts #bleak #you are under no pressure to read this i just needed to vent a little #the walls are closing in on me today #and around this time last year i was just like exploring quaint old pubs in cambridge with a gay bestie #and i miss the world

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dreamings-free · 4 years

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How Harry Styles Became A Modern Style Icon

by Phoebe Luckhurst - Evening Standard 15/11/19

A man wrought in the fires of teenage boyband hyper-stardom is not afraid of a little commotion. Still when Harry Styles — the One Direction matinée idol turned languid Gen Z icon — tweeted, at 1.01 pm GMT on Wednesday afternoon, that he would be taking his upcoming album Fine Line on tour, you could, if attuned to the correct demographic frequency, hear the howl echo around the internet: guttural, hungry, ululating. This was a pseudo-religious experience: one viral meme depicted the Pope holding a copy of his album aloft. The announcement has been retweeted almost 70,000 times.

The 25-year old is a tour veteran — he spent five years and five albums strapped to the thundering 1D juggernaut — but this new tour is his first as a bona fide solo brand. The album, his first in two years, is synth-soaked and soulful, the album’s aesthetic fever-dreamy. Granted, he’s not the first person to go to SoCal, try a few magic mushrooms and declare himself radically transformed, but the results are beguiling — and certainly a world away from his years as a Simon Cowell Ken doll. Since his last record, he has co- hosted t he Met Gala and been reborn as an Alessandro Michele muse. This is your Styles crib sheet.

Melody maker

Styles’s new album — written under a tie-dye mist after taking the aforementioned psychedelics, which also resulted in a mishap in which he bit off the tip of his tongue — is “all about having sex and feeling sad”, which, granted, as a topline, does not wildly differentiate the record from the genre of “al l other music ever”. Still, the early signs for Fine Line are encouraging. Its first single, Lights Up—which has been streamed almost 100 million times on Spotify —is synth-y, soulful, understatedly anthemic, very different to, and better than, the lead single on his last solo record, the Seventies, soft-rock Sign of the Times( it still, of course, hit No 1), and very, very different from anything he did with 1D. Many thousands of words have been written about whether there is a bisexual subtext to Lights Up. It has been noted that the song was released on National Coming Out Day, that Styles’s sexuality has been subject to frenzied speculation before, the video features an oiled-up, topless Styles gyrating around men and women, and that the lyrics (“Shine, I’m not ever going back/ Shine, step into the light”) could be interpreted as a meaningful revelation of sorts. Certainly, he has become a queer icon — especially with Gen Z — who are thrilled by his selection of genderqueer singer-songwriter King Princess as his support act for the European part of his tour. Speaking of collaborators, Styles worked on the album with producers Tyler Johnson, who has worked with Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus and Ed Sheeran, and Jeff Bhasker, who has collaborated wit h Mark Ronson and Kanye West, and his friend, Tom Hull, aka Kid Harpoon, who co-wrote Shake It Out for Florence + The Machine. He has also been granted a fairy godmother: Stevie Nicks, who called him her “little muse” at Fleetwood Mac’s hyped Wembley headline gig i n J une. “S he’s a l ways there for you,” Styles has said in the past. “She knows what you need: advice, a little wisdom, a blouse, a shawl.” Sure.

Got Styles

Any young man raised in the white heat of a boyband spotlight must be granted the space to find his fashion path; Styles has done so with no missteps and exuberant pleasure. Once upon a time, he would semaphore his individuality with a bandana; now, he turns up to a cover interview with Rolling Stone in a white floppy hat, blue denim bell-bottoms and Gucci shades, his nails coloured pink and green. His favourite trousers, until he lost them on the beach, were a pair of mustard corduroy flares; this week, he wore a Lanvin sweater vest with a sheep design that sent a coterie of London menswear stylists into throes of ecstasy. He wears floral suits and Cuban heels, ruffled, New Romantic shirts, Charles Jeffrey jumpsuits and pussy- bow blouses. It is flamboyant, self-consciously Bowie/Jagger, and in Gen Z parlance, “very extra”. His stylist Harry Lambert is partial to an extravagant collar, dramatic neckline and a voluminous trouser.

Besides Lambert, another part of this evolution has been his relationship with Gucci’s creative director Michele, who has turned the Italian heritage brand into the ultimate post-gender luxury fashion label, the first to merge their menswear and womenswear, and dispatch male models down the catwalk in dresses and women in suits. A good look for a Gen Z idol.

With the brand

Notably, the branding on this album and its tour artwork is consistent with this new look Styles. The album cover features Styles i n white custom- made Gucci bell bottoms and a Pepto Bismol-pink shirt, open almost to the waist, shot by mod-goth Tim Walker with a fisheye lens (it is Walker’s hand in that S&M glove you can see in the left-hand corner). In the dreamy video for Lights Up he wears a glittery suit and suspenders, in a sort of hallucinatory version of Saturday Night Fever. Into it.

Stand up

Then there’s his voice — not the music, but the activism. Even as one-fifth of a boyband manufactured by Cowell’s algorithm, he was quick, quippy and itching to go off-message; but now that he controls his own, he is amplifying causes such as Black Lives Matter and End Gun Violence. He wore stickers for both on his guitar on his last tour, which might sound small, except that photographs of Styles gallop around the digital world at hyperspeed. At concerts, he has waved pride, bi and trans flags, and a Black Lives Matter flag. He once borrowed a flag from an audience member at a show in Philadelphia that read, “Make America Gay Again”. At a show on his last tour, he declared: “If you are black, if you are white, if you are gay, if you are straight, if you are transgender — whoever you are, whoever you want to be, I support you.”

A vocal, engaged fandom of teenage girls minted his multimillion-pound fortune; he is loyal and admiring of their zeal. “They’re the most honest — especially if you’re talking about teenage girls, but older as well,” he told Rolling Stone this summer. “They have that bullshit detector. We’re so past that dumb outdated narrative of ‘Oh, these people are girls, so they don’t know what they’re talking about.’ They’re the ones who know what they’re talking about. They’re the people who listen obsessively. They f***ing own this shit. They’re running it.” Obviously, he’s a feminist. “Of course men and women should be equal. I don’t want credit for being a feminist. I think the ideals of feminism are pretty straightforward.” An icon is born.

#harry styles #evening standard #15.11.19 #article #stylesupdated #hlsource #hs2 promo #harry #mine

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angelofthequeers · 4 years

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Hold Me By Both Hands: Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I don’t own ML.

Chapter 13 | Chapter 15 | AO3 link

“Ugh, do they seriously think I’m going to get my hands dirty cooking like some maid?” Chloé scoffs loudly as Marinette’s father demonstrates how to make the perfect ganache. “If I want a croissant, I just make my butler get it for me.”

“He’s not making croissants, Chloé!” Rose says as Adrien shoots Chloé a quick look out of the corner of his eye, debating whether to tell her to pipe down or avoid making a scene. “Those are macarons!”

“It’s all done with a flick of the wrist!” Tom says, still stirring the ganache. “But you mustn’t go too fast or you might splash yourself!”

“And soil my Chanel pants?” Chloé complains. “Who’s he kidding?”

Tom holds out the mixing bowl to demonstrate the emulsion, and Adrien has two choices: he can do the right thing and tell Chloé to shut up, or he can lean in to see the emulsion and ignore her, letting her grow even worse. Marinette’s words from last week come swimming to the forefront of his mind.

“I’m telling you this because you’re the only person she’ll listen to.”

But just before Adrien can gather himself enough to tell Chloé to stop it, he catches sight of Marinette leaning in to see the bowl with sparkling grey eyes and his confidence ruptures like a pin in a balloon. He can’t call Chloé out now. If he does, he could ruin this whole thing for Marinette, when she looks so happy to have her father here to show them how to bake. And ever since the photoshoot, ruining anything for Marinette is the absolute last thing that Adrien will ever do.

Later, he decides. Next time Chloé’s mean, I’ll call her out. She can’t do too much harm beyond a few nasty comments anyway, right?

Decision made, he leans in with Nino to view the bowl until Tom takes it back and asks Marinette to go and put it in the fridge in the cafeteria and Lila volunteers to accompany her. But why does he feel like there’s a stone in the pit of his stomach?

His question is answered when the fire alarm goes off moments after Marinette leaves the room and Miss Bustier leads them out of the class in an orderly fashion. When they’re gathered in the courtyard and Principal Damocles is grilling them to find the one who called the fire department with a false alarm, Adrien can’t properly focus. All he can think about is how he’d once again turned a blind eye and pretended that everything was fine to avoid getting involved. But Marinette had been right: ignoring Chloé’s antics hadn’t made them disappear.

In fact, when Chloé smugly points the finger at Marinette and declares that she must be guilty because she was absent from the classroom when the alarm went off, Adrien starts to wonder if his inaction had just made the situation even worse.

“Uh, excuse me, sir, but it couldn’t possibly be Marinette,” he pipes up, raising his hand and hoping that he at least doesn’t outwardly look like he’s a mess internally. “Why would she disrupt her own father’s cooking class?”

Marinette’s look of gratitude tells him that he’d done the right thing by standing up for her, especially when Alya chimes in to add that Marinette didn’t have her phone when she left the classroom and Lila adds that she’d been with Marinette the whole time and can confirm that Marinette definitely hadn’t done it. But he can’t help feeling that it’s too little too late and that there’s still going to be backlash from this situation.

Part of him wishes that Marinette had never given him that talk. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel so…guilty right now, like he’s had a hand in this purely by not using his power to rein Chloé in. But part of him knows that Marinette had been right to give him that talk, and that he really does need to stand up and speak out, especially when he’s the only one with the power to do so. Ignoring Chloé in class certainly hasn’t made this go away, after all.

“Well, we all know it can’t be me,” Chloé says in that tone of voice that all but says that she is the culprit but good luck proving it.

“I’m not gonna let her get away with this!” Marinette hisses. “I’ve gotta tell –”

“Hang on, Marinette.” Adrien rests a hand on her shoulder so that he can better whisper in her ear without anyone but Alya overhearing. “We don’t know for sure it was her.” He means to tell her not to make a scene when she’s got no proof, to let him talk to Chloé first and try to right this wrong, but Alya jumps to agree with him and add something about not stooping to her level before he can get the words out.

“Fine,” says Mr Damocles. “Since no one is owning up, the whole school will be punished!”

Adrien’s stomach drops, while everyone around him gasps and protests. This is so unfair! Why is he being punished for something he hasn’t done?

Selfish, selfish, chides a nasty little voice in his head. You had your chance to put a stop to Chloé’s antics in class. This is punishment for your inaction.

“What?” Chloé bursts out behind Adrien, her shrill voice smothering the voice in his head. “I’m not so sure my father will react so kindly to me being punished without any proof!”

Adrien’s heart skips a beat. Despite the overwhelming knowledge that Chloé won’t actually do so, he can’t help but hope that she’s going to shut the principal down all the way and get them all out of this punishment. But apparently, she doesn’t see the hypocrisy in weaselling her way out of punishment without proof while letting the rest of them suffer for something there’s no proof of them doing, as she smiles rather smugly and tucks her phone away after Principal Damocles declares that she is the only one exempt from punishment.

She didn’t even try to bail you out either, says the nasty voice. She threw you to the wolves with everyone else. Is she really that great a friend? All she does is hang off you and smother you, no matter how much you ask her to stop.

Adrien’s lost in his thoughts as he shuffles off with the crowd to collect cleaning supplies for their punishment. There’s so much he could have done. He could have spoken out, pointed out that Chloé’s logic should apply to them all and no one should be punished until the culprit is found. As much as he loathes using the Agreste name, he could have used it in this instance to cow Mr Damocles into submission just as Chloé does with her father’s name. Chloé might get away with exempting herself from punishment, but she probably wouldn’t be able to do much about no one being punished. Demanding that she be exempt from punishment is an easier injustice to ignore than demanding that everyone be punished after the punishment is lifted from everyone, as that just makes her look plain vengeful. And she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it without pitting her father against Adrien’s when she knows very well that if she does that, she alienates Adrien, which is another reason why he never does it.

Is she really your friend? is the question replaying on a loop in Adrien’s mind as he scrubs the window while Chloé lounges nearby on her phone, surveying the courtyard of working students. She’d just let her “Adrikins” take the fall for something he hadn’t even done; something that she’d done. In fact, this isn’t even the first time she’s done this. Adrien distinctly remembers his very first day of school, when Chloé had stuck gum on Marinette’s seat and let him take the fall for it and be branded “Chloé’s friend”. If he hadn’t gotten lucky enough to get Marinette to believe the truth, he would’ve ended up with her hating him, and the thought of sweet Marinette hating him is enough to make his stomach roll.

Now he understands why no one wants to be branded with that label; this is a side of Chloé Bourgeois that makes him sick, a side that he’s been trying to ignore all year for fear of losing his first and, for the longest time, only friend.

“If Chloé hates you because you make her take responsibility for her actions, then she’s not really your friend. Sometimes…the right thing is the hard thing, and you just have to do it, even if that means losing those years of friendship.”

He looks over at Chloé, who’s bullying Rose by calling her Cinderella – yes, bullying, because that’s the only word to accurately describe just how gleeful she looks at picking on Rose – and then looks down at his own hands. Does he really want to be friends with someone who’s so disgustingly nasty? Does he really want to associate himself with that behaviour by virtue of inaction?

“What do you have? Friends who like you as Adrien. Friends who you used to sneak out to see even though your father never let you go,” Plagg’s voice says in his head. He realises that while he’s terrified of losing Chloé and ending up friendless, being alone is no longer a possibility. He’s been at this school for months now, and not only is he friendly with all his classmates, but he’s also got friends. Real friends that he’s made himself! He’s got Nino, who feels like more of a best friend than Chloé’s been all year. He’s got Alya, who’s hilarious and fun to hang out with, even if they’re not as good friends as he is with Nino.

And he’s got Marinette. Marinette, who’d not only made him a scarf by hand with her own time and materials but had also let him think it was from his father purely because she’d known how much that would mean to him. Marinette, who had staged a protest and then gone and tracked down Ladybug just so that he could go back to school, knowing how much school meant to him. Not only that, but she’d risked her own future fashion career by making a negative impact on such an influential fashion designer with her protest and defying him in such a way.

The sound of Rose crying snaps Adrien out of his mental mess, and he looks over to see Chloé smirking widely and lazing back on the bench while Rose shuffles off with her broom, wiping her eyes.

“There’s a quote by Majestia that Alya told me on our first day of school that’s stuck with me: “all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good people do nothing”,” says Marinette’s voice.

“You were picked to be Chat Noir because you can be brave and selfless and put others before yourself. Don’t act like a spoiled brat and prove Master Fu wrong,” Plagg’s voice adds.

Scowling, Adrien storms over to Chloé with clenched fists. Oblivious to his fury, she squeals, “Adrikins!” and throws her arms around him, crushing him while he tries to dislodge her. He’s once again reminded of Nino and Marinette and Alya, who never touch him without his permission or hang off him, and his heart swells for them as he finally tugs Chloé off him and sets her on her feet at arm’s length.

“Tell me, was it you, Chloé?” he says in a hushed voice, not wanting anyone else to overhear. Just because he’s finally calling Chloé out doesn’t mean that he needs to make this a public spectacle, which feels like an appropriate compromise until he’s more comfortable with publicly standing up against injustice and wrongdoing.

“Of course it was me who called the fire department,” Chloé brags, crossing her arms, no trace of remorse anywhere on her body. “So what?”

“And it doesn’t bother you that everyone’s being punished because of you?” Adrien says in one last-ditch attempt to get Chloé to display some semblance of humanity.

“No,” Chloé says immediately. “Why would it? They all seem to enjoy getting dirty making cookies. How’s it any different getting dirty cleaning floors? They should be thanking me, if anything.”

Adrien takes a deep breath so that he doesn’t end up going off at her. What he’s about to do is going to hurt enough, so there’s no point in making it more painful than it needs to be. “Chloé,” he sighs, facepalming. “How long have you and I been friends?”

“Since we were adorable little tots, Adrikins!” Chloé coos. Her kissy face makes him nearly take a step back out of fear that she’s going to jump at him and try to actually kiss him.

“Well,” he says, shaking his head, heart hammering at the terror of taking action rather than ignoring it like he’s done in the past. “Sorry, Chloé, but I can’t be friends with someone who treats other people like this. You’ve gotta be nice to people.”

“N-Nice?” Chloé squeaks, the word sounding foreign coming from her mouth. She looks around at the courtyard, and everyone glares back at her in response.

“Yes,” Adrien says firmly. He has to stick to this. He can’t just retract it when she turns on the waterworks, because Marinette’s right: he’s the only one with the power to make her learn and change. “It’s not that hard.”

He turns and walks off, back to the window he should be cleaning, leaving Chloé to process the fact that they’re no longer friends. But it’s not just out of respect for her feelings. It’s also because if he looks back and sees her devastated face, he doesn’t trust himself not to cave and give her one more chance.

Marinette must have fallen through a wormhole into another dimension. Maybe Hawkmoth had created an akuma with the power to send people across time and space. That’s quite possibly the only reason for Chloé to not only have thrown a party for everyone with seemingly no agenda whatsoever, but to also have invited Marinette.

Or maybe the latest akuma is mind-controlling Chloé? Reversed her personality? Something? Anything?

“Adrikins!” squeals the voice from every one of Marinette’s nightmares. Chloé comes dashing through the crowd of people milling in the ballroom of Le Grand Paris to throw herself onto Adrien and kiss his cheeks, and Marinette grits her teeth and forces herself not to say anything because why do people keep touching Adrien without his permission?

“Hey, it’s okay!” Lila whispers as Chloé brags to Adrien about being nice, which is a story that Marinette’s very interested to hear. “You know Adrien’s not into her at all! You can relax.” She nudges Marinette teasingly.

“I’m not jealous!” Marinette argues, resisting the urge to tear her hair out in frustration. She’s not! She’s mad that Chloé can’t see how uncomfortable she makes Adrien! Why does everyone have to reduce her to some silly, lovesick, jealous girl just because of a crush?

Her mood swiftly improves, though, when Rose rushes over to kiss Chloé on the cheeks and thank her for the invitation, followed by Kim and Max. But then the universe plays possibly the worst joke ever on Marinette by having a dazed Chloé walk off and nearly slam into Marinette, then freeze as she comes to the same conclusion as Marinette: that she also needs to kiss Marinette’s cheeks in greeting. And not only is this bad enough, but literally everyone in the whole room has paused what they’re doing to watch the two archrivals be forced to play nice with each other.

Marinette’s totally not going to do it. As Chloé leans in, she’s tempted to shriek and back away while warding a cross and chanting an exorcism. But she feels Tikki shift in her purse, no doubt wanting to get a closer look at what’s going on, and she realises that she needs to suck it up and just do it. She’s Ladybug! She can handle two seconds of a polite greeting! She just needs to pretend she’s wearing the mask and she’s not Marinette right now, because Ladybug can’t snap and tell Chloé to buzz off. If Chloé can be nice then so can she.

Two seconds and then it’s over, and Marinette and Chloé are staggering away and coughing and spluttering to erase all traces of the friendly greeting. Alya cackles and says, “I should have gotten it on video!” and while Marinette’s not too happy that her best friend is teasing her about this like it’s a great big joke that she’d had to play nice with her bully, she also gets that Alya isn’t trying to be malicious or anything.

“You don’t need to rub it in,” is what she ends up saying, playing along with Alya’s teasing.

Soon enough, the party’s in full swing, but Marinette can’t find it in herself to enjoy it. There has to be some ulterior motive to this, because Chloé Bourgeois doesn’t just play nice for fun. Marinette finally has her answer when, a short distance away, Chloé tears into Mylène but then visibly collects herself and nods at the shorter girl before walking off. Marinette doesn’t miss how she shoots a glance at Adrien, who’s also sitting there with Nathaniel, before she leaves.

“This whole BFF thing is just one big charade!” Marinette scowls to Alya and Lila. Why can’t anyone else see past it? Maybe they’re just giving her the benefit of the doubt, while Marinette’s too blinded by her dislike of Chloé when she’s normally the first one to extend the olive branch to people. “She’s just doing it to get close to Adrien!”

“But you didn’t want to come to this party until you knew Adrien would be here too,” Lila points out, smoothing down her short tangerine dress. “Remember when we were modelling your designs for you and we got the invites?”

Normally, Marinette would just let a comment like that slide. But she’s already annoyed by how Chloé’s got everyone hooked by her fake niceness act to blatantly suck up to Adrien, and she’s absolutely sick of how Lila’s just dismissing her as jealously lovesick rather than someone who’s fed up with her archrival’s bullshit, especially when Lila was the one to out her crush to Adrien in the first place.

“Please don’t compare me to Chloé,” Marinette snaps, crossing her arms. “That’s not fair, Lila. I might have my moments, but I’m never constantly mean and rude like she is. I never bully people like she does!”

“Whoa!” Lila holds her hands up. “I’m so sorry if I upset you! I…well, I was just saying that you also didn’t want to play nice until Adrien was involved –”

“Um, I wouldn’t go there –” Alya says.

“And why would I have wanted to come to Chloé’s party unless the only person she’s nice to was coming too?” Marinette says. “Why can’t I ever be upset about something without people insisting that it’s because of Adrien, like I’m some stupid, jealous teenage girl? I know I went too far sometimes, but – but – just don’t! How is me coming to a party because my friend is also going the same as Chloé only not being a bully because of him?”

She’s breathing hard after her outburst, light-headed, while Alya and Lila stare at her in wide-eyed shock.

“Marinette –” Lila says, her eyes starting to glisten. Marinette’s stomach drops. Nope, no way, if she’s made someone cry then she can’t do this –

“I need some fresh air,” Marinette blurts out, stumbling away from Alya and Lila towards the hotel doors. This is exactly why she never stands up for herself. Standing her ground leads to disappointing other people, and how can she be a nice person if she disappoints others? But at the same time, she just couldn’t stand there and continue to be labelled a silly, lovesick girl.

“You did the right thing, Marinette,” Tikki says, zooming out of Marinette’s purse when they’re alone in a nearby alleyway and Marinette can sink to the ground with her back against the wall.

“Did I?” Marinette says, blinking rapidly so that she doesn’t burst into tears. The last thing she needs is for Chloé to see that she’s been crying; Chloé won’t ever let that go, as nice as she’s claiming to be now. “Did you see Lila’s face? I – she – upset her made, Tikki! What if – what if – gah – I am Chloé just like?”

“Marinette, listen to me.” Tikki hovers in front of Marinette’s face, and Marinette forces herself to focus on the kwami’s lilting voice rather than the panic bubbling in her chest and stomach. “You weren’t mean to Lila. You just stood up for yourself.”

“But I made her upset!”

“You didn’t say what you said to upset her. You said what you said to stand up for yourself. People are always going to be upset when you show them that they’re wrong, because they don’t like that feeling. No one walks around thinking that they’re wrong. But I know Lila will realise that she’s wrong and she won’t hate you.”

“What if she is still upset, though?”

“Then that’s her problem.” Tikki nuzzles against Marinette’s cheek. “You weren’t wrong in setting your boundaries, and you weren’t mean about it.”

Marinette takes a deep breath, then smiles and hugs Tikki. “Thanks, Tikki. You’re always there for me when I need you.”

“Of course I am, silly,” Tikki giggles. “You’re my friend. I’m – Marinette, look out!”

Marinette’s head whips around and her stomach drops when she catches sight of the purple-black butterfly circling above her head. She shrieks and leaps to her feet, backing away down the alley and looking for something – anything – she can use to protect herself.

“Calm down, Marinette!” Tikki urges, swooping to her side. “The akuma can’t get you if you’re not upset!”

But it’s too late. Before Marinette can put a lid on her emotions, the butterfly darts towards her head, and she’s only able to turn her head just enough that it sinks into a hair ribbon rather than an earring. Immediately, her feelings of terror and distress and raw anger explode, surging through her like lava, filling her with the need for justice, to make this right.

“Miroir, I am Hawkmoth,” says a smooth voice in Marinette’s head. “Your friend calls you a mirror image of the girl who bullies you? Well, I’m giving you the power to show everyone their own mirror images and make them reflect a little on themselves. All I ask for in return is –”

“No.” The word is weak and broken, but it still escapes Marinette.

“Pardon?” Hawkmoth says. The emotions intensify and it’s so tempting to just give in, to let Hawkmoth empower her so that she can get vengeance and right the injustice of being treated like a boy-obsessed teen girl…but that’s not right. She doesn’t need vengeance. She doesn’t…

“I said no.” Marinette takes deep breaths, fighting back against the tsunami of emotions rolling through her. “I don’t want your power.”

“Nonsense. You want justice, to right the wrong that was done to you. I can feel it.” Hawkmoth brushes off her denial as easily as Lila had brushed off her feelings, which amplifies the negative emotions but not in a way that’s likely to make Marinette to agree to his power. “In return for this power, Miroir, I ask for –”

“I’m upset about people dismissing me and not listening to me and you do the same thing to me?” Marinette snaps. She clenches her fists, as though this alone can help her fight off Hawkmoth’s influence. “Just because I feel like that doesn’t mean it’s right to act on it! I said no, Hawkmoth! Leave me alone!”

The dizzying surge of negative emotions suddenly dies down. Marinette slumps against the brick wall, taking huge gulps of air to try and steady her whirling head and trembling hands as the realisation that she’d been two seconds from being akumatised crashes down on her.

“Way to go, Marinette!” Tikki crashes into her face to hug her. “You fought Hawkmoth off! You’re amazing!”

“I am?” Marinette lets a smile spread across her face. “I am! I didn’t get akumatised!” Her smile fades slightly. “I was just…he didn’t even listen to me when I said no! And it felt just like when Alya kept reducing my feelings to a crush back when I was in love with Adrien, and like what Lila did before, and I got even angrier but at him.”

“You’re so strong!” Tikki says, then gives Marinette a sly little grin. “And you definitely made Hawkmoth upset by standing up to him.”

Marinette bursts into loud laughter, sliding down to the ground for the second time. Tikki’s joke has banished any lingering negative emotions, instead filling her with giddy relief, and she’s about ready to brush herself off and go find Alya but she gasps as she’s standing up.

“Tikki, do you really think the akuma’s just gone back to Hawkmoth?” she says. “What if it’s looking for someone else to akumatise?”

“It’s possible,” Tikki says. “The akuma may not have even been here for you specifically. All these people in the same place as Chloé and she’s trying to be nice? Hawkmoth might have sent that akuma pre-emptively in case Chloé snaps and upsets someone.”

“I’m not surprised,” Marinette snorts. “If Chloé’s just doing this to impress Adrien and not because she wants to be nice, she’s bound to break eventually. Should I transform in case the akuma finds someone else? Or should I wait?”

“I’m not sure,” Tikki says. “Ladybug’s presence could keep everyone calm, but it could also make them panic at the thought of an akuma being nearby –”

A scream suddenly reaches Marinette’s ears from inside the hotel. She and Tikki exchange a look.

“I guess the akuma already found someone else?” Tikki says.

“I don’t even want to know what Chloé’s done now,” Marinette says. “Tikki, spots on!”

#miraculous ladybug #ml fic #aotq fic #aotq: hold me #marinette dupain-cheng #adrien agreste #chloe bourgeois #alya cesaire #lila rossi #ugh #anti-lila #despair bear #wow chloe it's like being mean has consequences #near-akumanette #except our girl is amazing

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calloftheancestors · 4 years

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To America, From a Worried European Friend

A country convinced that it is irredeemably racist can’t lead the world as the ‘indispensable nation.’

By Daniel Schwammenthal.............Brussels

History and evolutionary biology teach us that the normal course of human affairs is tribalism, oppression and poverty. The emergence of liberal democracies isn’t the inevitable endpoint of supposedly linear Western progress but an aberration—and a rather fragile one at that.

This is why the rising illiberalism in the U.S. is so troubling. Activists who seem to understand George Orwell’s “1984” not as a warning but as a manual see free speech—the lifeblood of democracy and human betterment—as a fascist tool of oppression. Other classical liberal ideals—a colorblind society, rational discourse, the scientific method—suffer the same fate.

These unenlightened views have spread with lightning speed. Once confined to the campuses of the nation’s elite universities, they have moved into the mainstream of public discourse. America’s future leaders have been spoon-fed two theories born of Marxism. One is postmodernism, so called because it rejects the liberal ideas of modernity and the very notion of objective truth. The other is critical theory, which is preoccupied with uncovering hidden power structures that have supposedly stood in the way of a communist revolution.

These once-fringe theories have given rise to quasireligious dogmas that divide society into hierarchies of oppressor and oppressed, setting the stage for eternal societal strife. In this new cult, dissent or insufficient fervor is interpreted both as validation of the doctrine of ubiquitous racism and a punishable thought crime. As in medieval witch hunts, both denial and forced confessions prove the defendant’s guilt.

On the other end of the political spectrum we find right-wing populism, which imagines “pure people” taking on a corrupt elite, and of course the far right, with its Nazi infatuation. The wide availability of guns in the U.S. isn’t only a subject of dispute in the unfolding culture war but could help turn it deadly. Witness the recent synagogue shootings by real white supremacists. Anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism are obsessions shared by the far left and the far right. America is headed for unprecedented polarization and possibly civil unrest.

But why am I, a German Jew living in Brussels, so worried about U.S. domestic affairs? As the adage goes, when America sneezes, the rest of the world catches a cold. Right now America has pneumonia.

I learned to cherish the U.S. long before I had the privilege to live and study there. History can be very personal. What Madeleine Albright called the “indispens-able nation” meant the difference between life and death for my family. I was brought up in the firm knowledge that had it not been for those unimaginably brave American boys storming the beaches of Normandy, I wouldn’t have been born, and my parents and the rest of my people would have been extinguished. No doubt I’m leaving out entire libraries of nuance, but that is the quintessential truth.

America today is what it has always been: a flawed society, like all others, but also a unique force for good in the world. No other multiethnic, multireligious society can credibly claim to be more democratic, more prosperous and more just than the U.S.

But America can’t remain the leader of the free world if it is itself no longer free. To be the guarantor of Western security requires military and economic power, but also a sense of mission. And right now Americans are committing mass character suicide. If the country goes beyond acknowledging that racism and inequality persist and must be fought, and instead convinces itself that it’s inherently and irredeemably racist, it can’t possibly continue to believe that it has any right to lead. Such an America would reject the notion that the West is worth defending and regard Europe as also inherently oppressive. We know who will fill the vacuum left by an America in retreat and at war with itself. As they watch America’s self-immolation, leaders in Moscow, Beijing and Tehran surely can’t believe their luck.

Any functioning society must extend tribal loyalty beyond the ties of blood. Ethnicity and Christianity were the glue that helped hold the more homogenous European nation states together. America’s Founding Fathers laid the foundation of a society worthy of the motto “e pluribus unum”—out of many, one—by replacing ethnic and religious loyalties with liberal ideas and deist ideals. A shared loyalty to the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution allows Americans to see each other not as strangers but as fellow citizens.

Yes, the U.S. has not always lived up to its ideals. But to claim that the Founding’s “promissory note” was never anything but a scam to maintain a system of white oppression is ahistorical revisionism that will erode the country’s foundation.

European anti-Americanism constantly imagines the rise of fascism in the very country that defeated the real thing and constantly predicts the end of liberty in the world’s oldest democracy. I have always proudly opposed this view. But I am reminded now of Benjamin Franklin’s famous line: “A Republic, if you can keep it.” For the first time I have terrifying doubts.

#politics #america #free speech #postmodernism

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hlupdate · 5 years

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A handshake can quell political unrest and stifle impending war. It can, with a bit of spit, validate a gentleman’s agreement, end a years-long romantic relationship or send a young heart racing. But it all depends on the two parties involved.

Daisy, 21, felt a seismic jolt when Harry Styles, 25, wearing a striped jumper and rings on three of his five fingers, clutched her hand two days after this year’s Met Gala in New York, when she served him gelato at the shop where she worked.

“He decided on a small mint chocolate gelato and I made his and the one for his friend and I said, ‘Can I just say I absolutely loved your Met Gala look’ and he said ‘Thank you very much! What’s your name?’ And I said, ‘Daisy’ AND HE FUCKING EXTENDED HISHAND AND REACHED TO SHAKE MY HAND AND I ACTUALLY FUCKINGSHOOK HIS HAND WHAT THE FUCK,” she wrote on Instagram after The Shakening. “Like I didn’t even say anything to gas him up besides ‘I loved your met gala look’ and his fine ass went and shook my hand! WHAT A BEAUTIFUL FUCKING HUMAN BEINGTHAT HE IS GOD BLESS HIM AND I HOPE HW [sic] LIVES FOREVER.”

For Harry Styles, a handshake can be a romantic gesture, conjuring a potent reverence in its recipient, like the time he met Gucci’s creative director Alessandro Michele. “He was as attractive as James Dean and as persuasive as Greta Garbo. He was like a Luchino Visconti character, like an Apollo: at the same time sexy as a woman, as a kid, as a man,” Michele told me, hastening to add: “Of course, Harry is not aware of this.”

No, Styles has no idea the power he wields. In person, he’s towering, like someone who is not that much taller but whose reputation adds four inches. Styles has a sedative baritone, spoken in a rummy northern English accent, that tumbles out so slowly you forget the name of your first born, a swagger that has been nursed and perfected in mythical places with names like Paisley Park, or Abbey Road, or Graceland. Makes complete sense that he would be up for the role of Elvis Presley in Baz Luhrmann’s upcoming biopic. He was primed, nay, born to shake his hips, all but one button on his shirt clinging for dear life around his torso. Then the part was awarded to another actor, Austin Butler.

“[Elvis] was such an icon for me growing up,” Styles tells me. “There was something almost sacred about him, almost like I didn’t want to touch him. Then I ended up getting into [his life] a bit and I wasn’t disappointed,” he adds of his initial research and preparations to play The King. He seems relaxed about losing the part to Butler. “I feel like if I’m not the right person for the thing, then it’s best for both of us that I don’t do it, you know?”

Styles released his self-titled debut solo album in May 2017. The boyband grad was clearly uninterested in hollowing out the charts with more formulaic meme pop. Instead, to the surprise of many, he dug his heels into retro-fetishist West Coast ’70s rock. Some of the One Direction fan-hordes might have been confused, but no matter: Harry Styles sold one million copies.

Despite its commercial and critical success, he didn’t tour the album right away. He wanted to act in the Christopher Nolan film Dunkirk. To his credit, his portrayal of a British soldier cowering in a moored boat on the French beaches as the Nazis advanced wasn’t skewered in the press like the movie debuts of, say, Madonna or Justin Timberlake. Perhaps he was following advice given by Elton John, who had urged him to diversify. “He was brilliant in Dunkirk, which took a lot of people by surprise,” John writes in an email. “I love how he takes chances and risks.” Acting, unlike music, is a release for Styles; it’s the one time he can be not himself.

“Why do I want to act? It’s so different to music for me,” he says, suddenly animated. “They’re almost opposite for me. Music, you try and put so much of yourself into it; acting, you’re trying to totally disappear in whoever you’re being.”

Following the news that he missed out on Presley, his name was floated for the role of Prince Eric in Disney’s live-action remake of The Little Mermaid. However, fans will have to wait a bit longer to see Styles on the big screen as that idea, too, has sunk. He won’t be The King or the Prince. “It was discussed,” he acknowledges before swiftly changing the subject. “I want to put music out and focus on that for a while. But everyone involved in it was amazing, so I think it’s going to be great. I’ll enjoy watching it, I’m sure.”

The new album is wrapped and the single is decided upon. “It’s not like his last album,” his friend, rock ‘n’ roll legend Stevie Nicks, told me recently over the phone. “It’s not like anything One Direction ever did. It’s pure Harry, as Harry would say. He’s made a very different record and it’s spectacular.”

Beyond that, Styles is keeping his cards close to his chest as to his next musical move. However, the air is thick with rumours that his main wingman for HS2 is Kid Harpoon, aka Tom Hull, who co-wrote debut album track Sweet Creature. No less an authority than Liam Gallagher told us that both big band escapees were in the same studio – RAK in north-west London – at the same time making their second solo albums. Styles played him a couple of tracks, “and I tell you what, they’re good,” Gallagher enthused. “A bit like that Bon Iver. Is that his name?”

Harry Styles met Nicks at a Fleetwood Mac concert in Los Angeles in April 2015. Something about him felt authentic to the legendary frontwoman: grounded, like she’d known him forever, blessed with a winning moonshot grin. A month later, they met backstage at another Mac gig, this time at the O2 in London. Styles brought a carrot cake for Nicks’ birthday, her name piped in icing on top. By her own admission, Nicks doesn’t even celebrate birthdays, so this was a surprise. “He was personally responsible for me actually having to celebrate my birthday, which was very sweet,” she says.

Styles’ relationship with Nicks is hard to define. Inducting her into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in New York as a solo artist earlier this year, his speech hymned her as a “magical gypsy godmother who occupies the in-between”. She’s called him her “lovechild” with Mick Fleetwood and the “son I never had”. Both have moved past the preliminary chat acknowledging each other’s unquantifiable talents and smoothly accelerated towards playful cut-and-thrust banter of a witch mom and her naughty child.

They perform together – he sings The Chainand Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around; she sings the one allegedly written about Taylor Swift, Two Ghosts. One of those performances was at the Gucci Cruise afterparty in Rome in May, for “a lot of money”, Nicks tells me, in a “big kind of castle place”. She has become his de facto mentor – one phone call is all it takes to reach the Queen of Rock’n’Roll for advice on sequencing (“She is really good at track listing,” Styles admits) or just to hear each other’s voices… because, well, wouldn’t you?

Following another Fleetwood Mac concert, at London’s Wembley Stadium, in June, Nicks met Styles for a late (Indian) dinner. He then invited her back to his semi-detached Georgian mansion in north London for a listening party at midnight. The album – HS2or whatever it’ll be called – was finished. Nicks, her assistant Karen, her make-up artist and her friends Jess and Mary crammed onto Styles’ living-room couch. They listened to it once through in silence like a “bunch of educated monks or something in this dark room”. Then once again, 15 or 16 tracks, this time each of his guests offering live feedback. It wrapped at 5am, just as the sun was bleeding through the curtains.

Even for a pop star of Styles’ stature, pressing “play” on a deeply personal work for your hero to digest, watching her face react in real time to your new music, must be… what?

“It’s a double-edged thing,” he replies. “You’re always nervous when you are playing people music for the first time. You’ve heard it so much by this point, you forget that people haven’t heard it before. It’s hard to not feel like you’ve done what you’ve set out to do. You are happy with something and then someone who you respect so much and look up to is, like: ‘I really like this.’ It feels like a large stamp [of approval]. It’s a big step towards feeling very comfortable with whatever else happens to it.”

Wading through Styles’ background info is exhausting, since he was spanked by fame in the social media era where every goddam blink of a kohl-rimmed eye has been documented from six angles. (And yes, he does sometimes wear guyliner.)

Deep breath: born in Redditch, Worcestershire, to parents Des and Anne, who divorced when he was seven. Grew up in Holmes Chapel in Cheshire with his sister Gemma, mum and stepdad Robin Twist. Rode horses at a nearby stable for free (“I was a bad rider, but I was a rider”). Stopped riding, “got into different stuff”. Formed a band, White Eskimo, with schoolmates. Aged 16, tried out for the 2010 run of The X Factorwith a stirring but average rendition of Stevie Wonder’s Isn’t She Lovely. Cut from the show and put into a boy band with four others, Louis Tomlinson, Liam Payne, Niall Horan and Zayn Malik, and called One Direction. Became internationally famous, toured the globe. Zayn quit to go solo. Toured some more. Dated but maybe didn’t date Caroline Flack, Rita Ora and Taylor Swift – whom he reportedly dumped in the British Virgin Islands. (This relationship, if nothing else, yielded an iconic, candid shot of Swift looking dejected, being motored back to shore on the back of a boat called the Flying Ray.) One Direction discussed disbanding in 2014, actually dissolved in 2015. They remain friendly, and Styles officially went solo in 2016.

It’s been two years since his eponymous debut and lead single, Sign of the Times, shocked the world and Elton John with its swaggering, soft rock sound. “It came out of left field and I loved it,” John says.

After 89 arena-packed shows across five continents grossed him, the label, whomever, over $61 million, Styles had all but disappeared. He has emerged only intermittently for public-facing events – a Gucci afterparty performance here, a Met Gala co-chairing there. He relocated from Los Angeles back to London, selling his Hollywood Hills house for $6million and shipping his Jaguar E-type across the Atlantic so he could take joyrides on the M25.

“I’m not over LA,” he insists when I ask about the move. “My relationship with LAchanged a lot. What I wanted from LA changed.”

A great escape, he would agree, is sometimes necessary. He was in Tokyo for most of January, having nearly finished his album. “I needed time to get out of that album frame-of-mind of: ‘Is it finished? Where am I at? What’s happening?’ I really needed that time away from everyone. I was kind of just in Tokyo by myself.” His sabbatical mostly involved reading Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, singing Nirvana at karaoke, writing alone in his hotel room, listening to music and eavesdropping on strangers in alien conversation. “It was just a positive time for my head and I think that impacted the album in a big way.”

During this break he watched a lot of films, read a lot of books. Sometimes he texts these recommendations to his pal Michele at Gucci. He told Michele to watch the Ali Macgraw film, Love Story. “We text what friends text about. He is the same [as me] in terms of he lives in his own world and he does his own thing. I love dressing up and he loves dressing up.”

Because he loves dressing up, Michele chose Styles to be the face of three Gucci Tailoring campaigns and of its new genderless fragrance, Mémoire d’une Odeur.

“The moment I met him, I immediately understood there was something strong around him,” Michele tells me. “I realised he was much more than a young singer. He was a young man, dressed in a thoughtful way, with uncombed hair and a beautiful voice. I thought he gathered within himself the feminine and the masculine.”

Fashion, for Styles, is a playground. Something he doesn’t take too seriously. A couple of years ago Harry Lambert, his stylist since 2015, acquired for him a pair of pink metallic Saint Laurent boots that he has never been photographed wearing. They are exceedingly rare – few pairs exist. Styles wears them “to get milk”. They are, in his words, “super-fun”. He’s not sure, but he has, ballpark, 50 pairs of shoes, as well as full closets in at least three postcodes. He settles on an outfit fairly quickly, maybe changes his T-shirt once before heading out, but mostly knows what he likes.

What he may not fully comprehend is that simply by being photographed in a garment he can spur the career of a designer, as he has with Harris Reed, Palomo Spain, Charles Jeffrey, Alled-Martínez and a new favourite, Bode. Styles wore a SS16 Gucci floral suit to the 2015 American Music Awards. When he was asked who made his suit on the red carpet, Gucci began trending worldwide on Twitter.

“It was one of the first times a male wore Alessandro’s runway designs and, at the time, men were not taking too many red carpet risks,” says Lambert. “Who knows if it influenced others, but it was a special moment. Plus, it was fun seeing the fans dress up in suits to come see Harry’s shows.”

Yet traditional gender codes of dress still have the minds of middle America in a chokehold. Men can’t wear women’s clothes, say the online whingers, who have labelled him “tragic”, “a clown” and a Bowie wannabe. Styles doesn’t care. “What’s feminine and what’s masculine, what men are wearing and what women are wearing – it’s like there are no lines any more.”

Elton John agrees: “It worked for Marc Bolan, Bowie and Mick. Harry has the same qualities.”

Then there is the question of Styles’ sexuality, something he has admittedly “never really started to label”, which will plague him until he does. Perhaps it’s part of his allure. He’s brandished a pride flag that read “Make America Gay Again” on stage, and planted a stake somewhere left of centre on sexuality’s rainbow spectrum.

“In the position that he’s in, he can’t really say a lot, but he chose a queer girl band to open for him and I think that speaks volumes,” Josette Maskin of the queer band MUNA told The Face earlier this year.

“I get a lot of…” Styles trails off, wheels turning on how he can discuss sexuality without really answering. “I’m not always super-outspoken. But I think it’s very clear from choices that I make that I feel a certain way about lots of things. I don’t know how to describe it. I guess I’m not…” He pauses again, pivots. “I want everyone to feel welcome at shows and online. They want to be loved and equal, you know? I’m never unsupported, so it feels weird for me to overthink it for someone else.”

Sexuality aside, he must acknowledge that he has sex appeal. “The word ‘sexy’ sounds so strange coming out of my mouth. So I would say that that’s probably why I would not consider myself sexy.”

Harry Styles has emerged fully-formed, an anachronistic rock star, vague in sensibility but destined to impress with a disarming smile and a warm but firm handshake.

I recite to him a quote from Chrissie Hynde of The Pretenders about her time atop rock’s throne: “I never got into this for the money or because I wanted to join in the superstar sex around the swimming pools. I did it because the offer of a record contract came along and it seemed like it might be more fun than being a waitress. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Styles – who worked in a bakery in a small northern town some time before playing to 40,000 screaming fans in South American arenas – must have witnessed some shit, been invited to a few poolside sex parties, in his time.

“I’ve seen a couple of things,” he nods in agreement. “But I’m still young. I feel like there’s still stuff to see.”

#harry styles #the face #050919

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stylesnews · 5 years

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The Face - Volume 4 . Issue 1

“He decided on a small mint chocolate gelato and I made his and the one for his friend and I said, ‘Can I just say I absolutely loved your Met Gala look’ and he said ‘Thank you very much! What’s your name?’ And I said, ‘Daisy’ AND HE FUCKING EXTENDED HIS HAND AND REACHEDTO SHAKE MY HAND AND I ACTUALLY FUCKING SHOOK HIS HAND WHAT THEFUCK,” she wrote on Instagram after The Shakening. “Like I didn’t even say anything to gas him up besides ‘I loved your met gala look’ and his fine ass went and shook my hand! WHATA BEAUTIFUL FUCKING HUMAN BEING THAT HE IS GOD BLESS HIM AND I HOPE HW[sic] LIVES FOREVER.”

They perform together – he sings The Chain and Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around; she sings the one allegedly written about Taylor Swift, Two Ghosts. One of those performances was at the Gucci Cruise afterparty in Rome in May, for “a lot of money”, Nicks tells me, in a “big kind of castle place”. She has become his de facto mentor – one phone call is all it takes to reach the Queen of Rock’n’Roll for advice on sequencing (“She is really good at track listing,” Styles admits) or just to hear each other’s voices… because, well, wouldn’t you?

Even for a pop star of Styles’ stature, pressing “play” on a deeply personal work for your hero to digest, watching her face react in real time to your new music, must be… what?

After 89 arena-packed shows across five continents grossed him, the label, whomever, over $61million, Styles had all but disappeared. He has emerged only intermittently for public-facing events – a Gucci afterparty performance here, a Met Gala co-chairing there. He relocated from Los Angeles back to London, selling his Hollywood Hills house for $6 million and shipping his Jaguar E-type across the Atlantic so he could take joyrides on the M25.

“I’m not over LA,” he insists when I ask about the move. “My relationship with LA changed a lot. What I wanted from LA changed.”

Because he loves dressing up, Michele chose Styles to be the face of three Gucci Tailoring campaigns and of its new genderless fragrance, Mémoire d’une Odeur.

Elton John agrees: “It worked for Marc Bolan, Bowie and Mick. Harry has the same qualities.”

Harry Styles has emerged fully-formed, an anachronistic rock star, vague in sensibility but destined to impress with a disarming smile and a warm but firm handshake.

Styles – who worked in a bakery in a small northern town some time before playing to 40,000screaming fans in South American arenas – must have witnessed some shit, been invited to a few poolside sex parties, in his time.

“I’ve seen a couple of things,” he nods in agreement. “But I’m still young. I feel like there’s still stuff to see.”

#theface19 #harry styles #sep19 #article

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miscellaneousmeditations · 2 years

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Tragedies through the eras

August 19th 2013

Every era has something that they are not proud of. There will always be something that is an issue; either socially, politically or religiously. Most of the time, it's massive genocide. Each and every case of genocide had a reason so that it made at least some sense. Some would say that 15th to 18th century Europe seemed to have a very linear mentality. God in both the Christian and Catholic religions had complete dominance over the majority. The Pope's word was law and no Catholic questioned it. Within communities, biased opinions started with rumors by word of mouth. We continue to observe this phenomena to this very day. It still remains to deceive us every time. Another very classic example that seems to repeat itself throughout history is greed. It is the strongest motivator for almost all men in power during the 15th - 18th Centuries. With the combination of the preceding three social factors - greed, community bias and religious control - it is no surprise that the the tragedies of the famous witch trials occurred during those years.

Greed has been a sin in the Bible since the ruling of King James. Yet it lives on to this very day and influences even the best of us. Men were especially greedy in the 15th - 18th centuries, in a time where a cow could distinguish a peasant from a farmer. In (Doc 2), the executioner is glorified and rewarded with gold and the goods of the accused man. This "get rich" scheme could influence more people to accuse people of larger wealth compared to peasants. It's a quick, yet extremely cruel way to get to a goal. Accuse a man of witchcraft if you want his gold, his cow and his wife. Subsequently, glorification comes from killing this "witch" because it brings pride into the communities that are fearful of these witches.

While in a community, you are limited to the talk of the people in the town, similar to the 1950's suburban American culture. One becomes dependent on rumors, because that's all they really had to define someone if they didn't know them personally. The phenomena occurred in the 16th century as well. Reading (Doc 4) one can support this support this observation. If a story goes around town of unusual occurrences, people start playing a game of Telephone. Where one thing leads to another; for example, someone could start saying "Bless you" when someone sneezes and then by the end they have turned into a witch healer. Being suspicious and isolated from others Ina community where everyone talks about everyone is dangerous. You could be accused of any random crime that had occurred. This is exactly what happened during the witch trials.

Now imagine this kind of fearful community full of religion that's so intense it dominates your life. In the early 15th century God was the answer to practically every question. Women were especially targeted because they are viewed as such holy and sacred creatures that cannot sin. God, women and law were three subjects that were extremely controversial in the early 16th century and in the following centuries. (Doc 11) agrees with the fact "women are impressionable" and therefore easily responsive to witchcraft. Women are therefore the ones prosecuted more because men believe them weak and easily tempted by the devil and his "lustful" ways. God and The Devil have a lot to do with The Witch Trials; God was extremely domineering in the 15-17th centuries. It's no surprise that during those centuries all of the Witch Trials occurred. If the pastor says you are a sinning witch, not a single Christian would dare to disagree. In fact, they'd cheer and beg to burn her.

The combination of religion, greed and community prejudice filled with biased minds without enough liberalism to have sympathy brings cruelty. There is always a massive event in history with homicide as its main feature (example: Holocaust. Not even a century ago). Senseless murder has occurred all throughout history. But there is always a reason for the killings. Some people have an attitude in which they think anyone in that time period is just senseless, heartless and too conservative to think for themselves. The fact is: there is a reason for everything. The 15-17th centuries had plenty of vital reasons for the massive amount of prejudice.

#history paper #writing #history #religion #death #genocide

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bookandcover · 3 years

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[Note: I wrote this post in its entirety in September 2020].

Our August book for the family Anti-Racism Book Club (and the choice of my historically-minded mother) was Black Boy by Richard Wright. I was a bit skeptical about this choice, because of its publication date (1945), and a feeling of urgency to read and think about the pressing issues and questions around race in America today. Ultimately, though, I was very glad to have read this poignant memoir and to take a closer look at a certain time period in Black American history through the lens of Wright’s direct, astutely observational style.

From this novel, I learned a lot about historical context: the experiences of Southern life under Jim Crow in the early 20th century, the urban/manufacturing context of the North that presented its own set of charged racial issues, the educational and occupational framework in pre-Great Depression era and during the Great Depression, the rise of Communism in America and the overlap of this with the Black experience (I had no idea that many Black men and women were interested in and drawn to Communism as a means to reinvent the system of oppression under which they lived). While I felt, at the end of the memoir, a gap in my understanding (how do we go from this point to 21st century racial tensions?), I was able to trace and draw certain, important connections.

This memoir is, of course, the perspective of one person on his experience growing up as a Black man in the South in the early 20th century. Wright does have an interest in capturing the larger Black experience beyond himself, of observing and cataloguing the impulses of his generation and the emotional psychology of his setting and situation. He speaks often about psychology, explaining how he perceives the groups and categories of people around him. He does, it seems, want to capture something that is intrinsic and universal about Blackness and about his time period and context for Black people in America. At the same time, there are aspects of the memoir and his perspective that, I assume, must be unique to Wright. His perspective is bleak. He goes through phases of more or less hope for the future of race relations in the U.S. He writes that “for white America to understand the significance of the problem of the Negro will take a bigger and tougher America than any we have yet known.” He links issues of race to larger, over-arching problems in American psychology and economic philosophy. He expresses a desperate need for more in his own life, but sees no tools to take him there, no model or example for him to follow. This need for more echoes his physical hunger, a repeated motif throughout the memoir, and the source of the memoir’s original title (American Hunger).

At certain points in the novel, I felt baffled that Wright (with his passion for change, his strong conviction that he could be cowed by no one) was also the author of Native Son (which I read years ago, and which I recall as being a bleak, grim portrait of the terrible way the world is stacked against young Black men). While this stacking and this bleakness is true (there is overwhelming evidence in support of this truth), there is a bleakness that pervades Native Son’s tone and outlook to the point that I was struck repeatedly by that alone. By the end of his memoir, though, I could see the link from Wright’s life to Native Son. Over and over again, the hope Wright holds up to the world is shattered. By the end of the memoir, the bleakness expressed in Native Son seemed to me to be well-aligned with his experiences. His falling out with the Communist Party, in which he had hope, seemed like some kind of final nail in the coffin.

Despite phases of hope and a burning hunger for both literal and spiritual resources, Wright feels eternally misfit for his circumstances—no one seems to see him and accept his truth. This is not something that is born in him over time, but something he always faced. Piled on top of this are continual disappointments. The North presents as many challenges as the South. The Communist Party—which he embraced as a real framework for change—expels him, casts him out. This misfit-feeling—while also evidencing a world designed to uplift white men and ensconce them forever in positions of power, while keeping Black men outside of this framework and these opportunities—is one of the things that I perceived to be specific to Wright’s experience. While other Black figures in the book also face a world designed to dehumanize and oppress them, Wright experiences being an outcast in every way. One good example of this is Wright’s experience being run out of the Negro Theater by the Black actors, who feel that Wright has turned against them in trying to present realistic dramas. Wright’s vision doesn’t align with that of the other Black people around him. The Black Communists respond with similar criticisms of Wright, and these criticism focus on Wright’s reading and learning (he is branded an “intellectual” by the Communists). Wright’s passion for writing and his commitment to thinking in a sweeping, analytical style shaped and developed by his reading seem to put him “out of step” with a lot of the people around him, Black or white. The more he reads and thinks, the bigger the gap seems to grow, moving him beyond the experiences and thoughts of those closest to him.

While it is, of course, an oversimplification of Wright’s misfit feeling to reduce it to the self-education he pursued compared with the poor, working class people around him, I thought it was interesting to see elements of his perpetual misfit feeling be traceable to Black experience, while others are traceable to other aspects of Wright’s upbringing and personality (such as his passion for self-directed learning). Interestingly, Wright does not engage whole-heartedly with school. Many times, he prioritizes other things in front of school (and not just employment, money, and food). He leaves his home with Uncle Clark, the place where he has the best support for his education, because of his fear of his room (where Mr. Burden’s young son died) and his family’s insistence that he overcome this fear. Wright’s stubbornness is clear. He’d rather leave this place, where he has not only opportunities for schooling but also enough to eat, in order to return to his grandmother and mother, face hunger, yet feel the independence to enact his way. He also stands up strongly against his principal when he’s told to deliver a speech he did not write when he’s elected as the Valedictorian and asked to speak at his 9th grade graduation. Despite the principal’s threats that Wright might not graduate and that he’d no longer “think of placing him in the school system, teaching,” Wright delivers the speech he wrote. He says to the principal—faced with his offer to help him go to college if Wright “plays it safe”—that “I want to learn...but there are some things I don’t want to know.” This stubbornness and conviction characterizes Wright even before he follows his interested in reading, before he expands his worldview. It sets him apart and alienates him from others by pitting his will against theirs.

Self-directed learning, unlike formal education, draws Wright’s complete and utter commitment. While Wright clearly doesn’t find enough in formal education to fight for (and it’s interesting that his Southern public school didn’t inspire this passion in him, although this perhaps has something to do with the communal aspect of learning, and the challenges such as the conflict with his principal), but he does find something worth fighting for in self-directed learning (independent, directed by his own pathway and choices). One of the most memorable scenes of this book—as also discussed in the Introduction—is Wright’s plan to forage a note requesting books from the white man who gives him his library card. Wright’s fear that he’ll be found out does not overcome his attempts and the books he chooses immediately demonstrate his interest in thinking and reading outside the box, as he chooses books that would be seen as highly controversial reading for a Black man.

Before Wright becomes an avid reader, he already experiences feeling like a misfit. As a child, he seems continually out-of-step with his family. The way in which this is repeatedly evident is through his rejection of their punishment system. Something inside him makes him refuse to accept beatings. In a similar fashion, in his first encounters with white people, through his part-time jobs while a student, he refuses to be cowed, intimidated, or accepting of belittling treatment. He leaves many jobs because he cannot stand the way he is treated. He chocks this up to experience, saying that he encountered white people too late in life, and that he had not learned, instinctively, how to interact with them, how to make them feel his deference when he did not feel this nor believe in it. Time and time again, Wright is not willing to sacrifice ideals of pride, independence, or instinct in favor of long-term goals or schemes. He seems to wear his heart on sleeve, while others read in his eyes and his face how he truly feels, even if he stays silent. His spirit is perceived and it’s a threat.

Throughout the book, my primary question was: how did Wright get like this? How does someone, anyone, who is driven and passion develop those characteristics and mindset in an environment that not only does not encourage or teach those things (creativity, vision, analytical thinking, independence), but actively discourages them? I have wondered this about some of my students, as well—both Upward Bound students and international students—who seem to burn with a fire for something without any reason to have had this fire lit or sustained. What fuels them? What keeps them fighting against their situations and circumstances? How did they ever lock onto this pathway out of and beyond their context? Other people make some sense. In spite of very challenge circumstances (poverty, race, abuse, disability), they had some positive reinforcement at a critical time period (a strong parental figure, a teacher or mentor who fought for them, a community who said “hey, you are doing something important”). But, in Wright’s narrative, I saw none of this, and, in fact, much of the opposite. His family treats him with very little love. His mother is strong-minded, but not compassionate. She does not push or challenge him or inspire him (unlike, say, Trevor Noah’s mom, as depicted by him in Born A Crime). And Wright’s mother falls ill early and seems to become back-drop in Wright’s narrative. Wright’s energy seems to come from the opposite of support—a furious defiance of those around him, starting with his own family and expanding to the world. And while the oppression he feels from his punishment-oriented family is vastly different than he oppression he feels from a community designed to stratify race and class, his response to these forces has some similarities. Watching his strength and passion, his stubbornness and sense of self, proclaimed loud and proud again and again, I kept circling back to the question of why he was this person...in an environment that seemed pitted fully against these characteristics ever coming to be.

This is the first book read for our Anti-Racism Book Club by a writer (self-proclaimed, prioritizer of writing). Trevor Noah and Bryan Stevenson, while incredible advocates and compelling storytellers, are not writers. They use writing and story-telling as tools, to share their points and their perspectives, to entertain, to engage, to expose, to reveal, to motivate, to rally. But Wright is a writer, caught up in the literary moves of his own life, themes and motifs, development of character, the psychology of humanity, language and its frivolities and necessities. This may seem like an unnecessary or unimportant comparison among the authors we’ve read so far, but Wright’s literariness (his love of literature/reading/writing) was something that compelled and engaged me about this novel. While, as discussed, this passion is one of the things that made him misfit from those around him, it’s also something that connects him (to others throughout the world and history, to others writing since his time period and drawing on his literary depiction of the life of a Black man in American, inspired by and challenging his tools of memoir and narration). Wright writes (pun? almost) in direct, clear prose. His words don’t get in his own way. I loved moments, though, where he dropped into beauty. Early in the memoir, he uses a literary device of listening phrases and descriptors that capture his changing awareness of the world and his own expanding mind and these, list-like, border on the poetic:

“The days and hours began to speak now with a clearer tongue. Each experience had a sharp meaning of its own.

There was the breathlessly anxious fun of chasing and catching flitting fireflies on drowsy summer nights.

There was the drenching hospitality in the pervading smell of sweet magnolias.

There was the aura of limitless freedom distilled from the rolling sweep of tall green grass swaying and glinting in the wind and sun.

There was the feeling of impersonal plenty when I saw a boll of cotton whose cup had split over and straggled its white fleece toward the earth...”

This early expansiveness in Wright’s mind prepare us for the elegant motif of reaching—beyond circumstances and obvious information, for truths (fundamental, enduring, portraits of humanity). Wright’s project of interviewing and writing profiles of his fellow Black Communists seems to come from this same poetic impulse: a need to reflect the complexity of the world and reveal it. He does, on some level, have faith in the potential improvement of the world, in the idea that communication (through writing and reading) could move us to a place of better understanding of each other. Writing and reading become the things he still follows and pursues, even in the face of major disappointments and disillusionment, and he—aptly—ends the memoir on this note, having cemented reading and writing as the central, enduring things for him. He writes, “I wanted to try to build a bridge of words between me and that world outside, that world which was so distant and elusive that it seemed unreal.” Both Wright’s stubbornness and his misfit feeling seem brought to bear here...even in the face of that feeling (of not being able to understand the world, to relate easily to others, to see his perspective aligned with and reflected in others), Wright continues, stubbornly, to try. “I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words...” He ends on this note of conviction, of striving in spite of everything stacked against him. And it is not idealism. It is not blind-faith. It’s his stubbornness and inability to not rise up and talk back. It’s an unusual and specific motivation.

#richard wright #black boy #historical context #racism in america #historical perspective #anti-racism #books by black authors

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tokutenshi · 6 years

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Friendship

An excerpt from my Origins fic where little kid Kaedence Cousland and Alistair have some fun at Redcliffe Castle. posting for Alistair appreciation week day 5, friendship.

Kaedence gave her a wide grin before rushing off to find her father. When she did, her parents were speaking with another couple while Nathaniel and Fergus leaned against a wall and chatted lightly. “Father! The arlessa has mabari puppies! Can I go see them?”

Bryce looked down at the eager excitement in his daughter's eyes. “Well, I suppose if Fergus goes with you-”

“Absolutely not!” Eleanor cut in.

“Dear...”

“The messy kennels are no place for a young lady,” the teryna explained. “Just stay here and play with Delilah some more.”

Kaedence pouted and walked away. She really hated being a girl sometimes – boys got to do everything! She stilled as an idea slowly began to take shape. If girls weren't allowed in the kennels, then she would just have to be a boy. She snickered quietly and slipped out of the main hall to an empty corridor. After checking that no one was coming, she took the dagger from her waist and grabbed hold of a pigtail. She cut the styled locks off, then repeated for the other side and shook her hair loose from the ribbons. Kaedence pulled off her detailed jumper and awkwardly cut her dress past her hips, exposing the leggings and boots she'd snuck on before leaving Highever. She never liked feeling exposed in billowy skirts. So drafty...

She stashed the mess she'd made in a corner and made her way out the door. The guards stationed there gave her an odd look, but said nothing as she dashed down the stairs and went around the yard. She just wanted to see the puppies, maybe play with them a little, and then she would put the jumper back on and fix her... She stilled and realized there wasn't a way to fix her hair and would definitely get in at least a little trouble. Well, she was disobeying her parents by doing this, but she really wanted to see the puppies.

After wandering around for a while and checking several doors, Kaedence was beginning to think she'd been tricked and there were no kennels. If that were true, she'd take back all the nice things she said to Lady Isolde. Lying to children was against the rules. Fearing that asking an adult would only get her brought back to her parents, Kaedence sought out someone closer to her age. She managed to find one in the stables poking a pile of hay absentmindedly with a pitchfork. He was a bit older, but didn't really seem busy.

She took a steadying breath and hoped her alterations to her hair and clothes would work. “You there, fellow boy,” she called out from the other side of the stable's gate. He turned around and raised a brow. “Do you know how to get to the kennels? I've been walking in circles...”

The boy continued to eye her curiously and for a moment Kaedence thought she'd been caught. “Yeah, through that door.” The boy pointed behind him. “Then you take two lefts and a...” He paused. “Or was it one left?” He stabbed the pitchfork in the hay, leaving it standing straight up so he could fold his arms in thought. “Let's see, if you are coming at it from this side, its...” He laughed awkwardly and scratched his head. “Tell you what, how about I just take you. I'm not the best with giving directions.”

“If you don't remember well enough to tell me, how can you take me?” Kaedence frowned in confusion as the boy walked out of the stables and latched the gate behind himself.

“Muscle memory, fellow boy,” he explained with a grin. “Like how you can lace your boots without thinking about it and just look down and, whoa, laced boots.”

Kaedence hummed thoughtfully and followed the boy as they moved across the yard to the door he'd pointed at. As it turned out, there were right turns and a set of stairs he'd completely forgotten about between them and the kennels, but after a little while the pair made it to their goal. Kaedence rushed forward to the large cage, disappointed to find the sleeping puppies and mother secured away from her. She stretched her arm through the bars and tried to touch one, making all sorts of awkward grunts and whimpers. The boy began laughing at her efforts and she turned around to level a mild glare. “What?”

“You're a bit strange,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, and?” This was nowhere near the first time she'd heard this news.

“Strange is fun.” The boy sat on the ground beside her and looked at the little dogs. “Why are you so determined to play with them? They're little more than lumpy skin with ears at this point.”

“Because mabari bind with only one master and follow them everywhere.” Kaedence looked longingly at the litter. “I've seen a few when people visit father – they get so big! I think I could ride a full grown one.”

“Oh, there's an image.” The boy tilted his head. “Do they make mabari saddles?”

“They must. I can't be the first person to think this...” Another thought struck her suddenly. “So who names them? The kennel master? The Arl?”

“You know, I'm not sure.” He folded his arms.

Kaedence hummed quietly as she stared at the dogs. “Arl Howl.”

“What?” The boy turned to her.

“That would be a good name, I think.”

He grinned and turned back to the animals. “Bann Fleagan.”

“Arl Barkland,” she added.

“Teryn Mac Grrrr.” He elbowed her and she began to giggle.

“Arl Woof,” Kaedence managed to get out before the laughter completely overtook her and she fell to her side.

The boy laughed himself. “I knew there had to be a reason to study Fereldan nobility.”

“Yes, those dumb lessons have finally done some good.” She picked herself off the floor and wiped at her eyes. She'd told herself that after looking at the puppies she'd go back to her parents, but the main hall was so boring and this boy was funny. While she hadn't interacted with many boys, those she had met were either whiny or snobby and just an all around pain. “Why aren't more boys fun like you?”

He reached out and punched her arm lightly. “Don't go selling yourself short there, you're pretty fun.”

Right. She was a boy. Maybe the other children she'd met acted the way they did because she was a girl. Would this boy act different if he knew? “Well, I can't play by myself all the time and my brother is too old to have fun with. I'm a bother to him.” She had tried to sound annoyed, but from the way the boy looked at her she knew it didn't work. Kaedence looked down and tugged at the fraying edge of her former dress, trying desperately to to keep her sadness away.

“Do you still have some time?” The boy climbed to his feet and offered her a hand. “I know where we can find a really, really big cat.” She stared at him and nodded, letting him help her up. “Great!” He smiled widely and pulled her along through the lower levels, ending up outside behind the stables. The boy dropped her hand and turned to face her, making a shushing motion before quietly creeping to the corner of the building. Kaedence followed him silently, her light footfalls being a small point of pride which enabled her to sneak extra snacks from the kitchen under Nan's nose.

The boy pointed to a large cat stalking an unsuspecting pigeon. For such a big animal, it moved with a surprising amount of stealth. “He's got to be part cougar or something...” Kaedence breathed in awe as they watched.

“Dire cat,” the boy corrected.

“That's not a thing... is it?”

“Definitely. Just look at him!” He whispered harshly.

The cat drew closer to the bird, bending low and readying to pounce.

“Wait... is he going to attack that pigeon?”

The boy turned to her with a smirk. “He's going to swallow it.”

Kaedence dropped her mouth in disbelief. “You're having me on. There's no way.”

To her surprise, the cat jumped on its prey and managed to do just that, taking the entire bird into its mouth and gulping the feathered creature down in one swift motion. The boy laughed at the look of utter horror on her face. “See? I told you.”

“Di... did he unhinge his jaw?!” Kaedence watched, mortified, as the cat calmly licked its paws and settled down in the sun.

“Like I said, dire cat.” The boy sat down on a nearby crate and held out his hands. “You see, Ferelden's Circle of Magi lies on the other side of Lake Calenhad and the mages do all sorts of weird experiments on animals, pulling beasts from the Fade and twisting them into grotesque creatures! This cat was one of their earlier creations, but he escaped and swam all the way here to be free of the torture they subjected him to. Who knows what could emerge from the lake next? A fire-breathing bunny? A half-fish, half-goat monstrosity? Maker help us if they ever figure out how to put wings on cows!”

Kaedence frowned suddenly and folded her arms. “I believed you for a minuet there. I was actually terrified of Redcliffe.”

The boy grinned sheepishly at her disapproval. “Sorry, guess the joke got a little out of hand. But Redcliffe ispretty scary, now that Lady Isolde is here.”

She tilted her head in confusion. “The arlessa? She's not scary. She's pretty and nice.”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “To you, maybe, but she hates me.”

“Who could hate you?”

Again, he snorted. “Lots of people, apparently.”

That didn't seem possible. “Well, I like you.” Kaedence felt a strange tightness in her chest as she said the words and could suddenly no longer hold the boy's gaze. The new sensation scared her and she wasn't entirely sure what had caused it.

“One down, an entire castle to go,” the boy sighed and leaned back on the crate, staring up at the cloudy sky.

“Do they know how funny you are?” She said after the tightness had faded. “If they're laughing, they can't be hating. Its a rule.”

The boy looked down at her curiously. “A rule? Whose rule?”

“My rule.” Kaedence climbed up on the wooden box and sat beside the boy. “I have a people code. Its how you can tell good people from bad ones.”

“Oh?” He raised a brow. “And how's that worked out for you so far?”

She smiled. “Pretty good, I'd say. For example, you're funny, so that means you're a good person. Mean people can't make others laugh, but for some reason they often find themselves hilarious.”

The boy hummed in thought. “Think I know a person or two like that. Ahern is always-” He stopped suddenly, frozen in horror. “I was supposed to have the horses brushed and fed by now. Shoot. Shoot, shoot, shoot!” He slid off the crate and rushed around the building, hopping over the latched gate and scrambling to grab a brush. Several other tools were knocked to the ground in his haste and the boy cursed quietly as he tried to pick them all back up.

“You made this look so easy,” Kaedence grumbled, trying to pull herself over the low fencing. She flipped suddenly and hit the dirt with a startled shriek, one boot caught awkwardly between the posts. She tried to kick it free, but found it to be firmly wedged and painfully twisted. If Fergus was there, he would surely laugh at the strange position she'd landed in for several minuets and never let her live it down.

“Hey, hang on,” the boy called out, dropping the tools back to the ground and moving over to help. He inspected the situation and tried to pry her foot loose from a few different angles, each attempt drawing a different muffled squeak of discomfort from the girl. The boy frowned and unlaced the boot, shaking his head. “I don't like those sounds you're making.”

“Well they aren't intentional,” Kaedence groaned as she looked up at the boy standing over her. “I just wanted to help you with your work, since I'm the one who made you leave in the first place.”

“And a fine job you've done at that,” he sighed and grabbed her under the arms. “Brace yourself, this won't tickle.” He pulled her back as quickly as he could, yanking her foot free of her boot and the wooden posts. Kaedence bit her lip to keep from crying out, but she couldn't prevent her eyes from watering at the pain. “Alright, let's have a look.” The boy squeezed along her foot and ankle, frowning further as she whimpered at the pressure. “That's not good.”

“Is it broken?” Kaedence asked fearfully, her hopes of slipping quietly back into the main hall unnoticed completely dashed.

“No, but it'll need to be wrapped,” he sighed as he stood. “Stay put, I'll be right back.”

Kaedence lay on her back in the dirt, blowing at the choppy hair in her face as she stared at the planked ceiling of the stables. None of this would have happened if her mother had just agreed to let her see the puppies or if Delilah wasn't so mean or if she wasn't dragged to Redcliffe in the first place. Nothing good ever happened when she had to follow other people's rules, that's why she made so many of her own.

The boy returned and plopped down with a roll of linen in his hands. “Lucky for you I'm rather accident prone myself, so I've had a lot of practice with this sort of thing.” He wrapped her ankle, focusing on making the linen snug and secure, but not too tight as to cut off circulation. When he finished, he leaned over and tugged her boot free of the fencing. The boy carefully slipped the boot back on and laced it up, patting the foot once he finished. “Let's see if that did it.” He stood up and took both her hands, pulling her to her feet.

There was a mild throbbing and she wasn't going to be jumping around anytime soon, but Kaedence could put weight on the foot easily enough. She looked up at the boy sheepishly, embarrassed for the entire thing. “Thank you...”

“Hey, what are friends for?” The boy grinned widely and Kaedence felt her face heat. He bent down and picked up two brushes. “Did you still want to help?”

“Y-yes.” Kaedence awkwardly accepted the offered brush and did her best to follow the boy's instructions on the proper grooming techniques, needing to stand on a low stool to reach the top of the mounts.

“No, you got to do it harder, firmer strokes, or else you don't actually get them clean.” The boy grabbed her hand and moved the brush a few times down the side of the horse. “Like that, see?”

“O-okay. Sorry.” She pulled her hand free and focused on the animal's flank.

“Don't sweat it. Took me time to get the hang of it myself, but now I'm a master.” He grinned and flipped the brush in his hand.

“Don't be getting all smug on me now,” Kaedence sighed, shaking the awkward feeling away again. “If you start boasting too much, I'll have to dislike you.”

The boy chuckled. “Is that another rule?”

She turned to him with a grin, but dropped both it and the brush as she locked eyes with Fergus on the other side of the gate. “Uh oh...”

“Uh oh is right, little brother,” Fergus growled in annoyance, storming into the stables and grabbing her wrist. “After finding that little stash of yours, I've been looking everywhere for you!” The teen pulled her from the stool and dragged her out the gate.

“Fergus, wait!” Kaedence looked over her shoulder desperately at the boy, the first person she could truly call friend.

“You are in so much trouble. Mother will have an absolute conniption when she sees you.” Fergus increased his pace, tugging the girl behind him. “And don't you dare try and get me in trouble for this too. This was all you.”

“But I-” she tried to explain what she knew to be weak reasoning, but her brother was moving too quickly to properly keep up and her sore ankle twisted under her after a particularly hard step. She fell to the ground with a muffled cry, feeling the pain shoot up her leg all over again.

Fergus turned around with a firm frown, but quickly replaced it with concern as he took in the sight of his sister gripping her ankle and fighting back tears. “Are you okay? I didn't think you tripped that hard.”

She shook her head and met his eyes. “I hurt it earlier. That boy wrapped it for me, but you're too fast.”

He looked back at the stables to see the other kid leaning over the fencing, as if on his way over to help. Fergus raised his hand and the boy stopped. “Looks like you will be able to get me in trouble for something after all,” he sighed remorsefully. The teen scooped up his sister, ignoring her embarrassed squeaks of protest, and carried her inside. Kaedence watched the boy from over her brother's shoulder until the doors blocked him from view.

Fergus set her down on a bench in the corridor, removing her boot to get a look at the injury. “That's pretty swollen... You should stay off it for a while.” He sighed heavily and brought Kaedence her jumper. “Stay put. I'll go get Mother and Father.” He took a steadying breath and walked back into the main hall.

Kaedence looked down at the clean dress, knowing she was in a great deal of trouble. Seeing the puppies had been fun, but definitely not worth the punishment she would receive. On the other hand, by running off, she had made a friend. A small blush crept onto her dirty cheeks. Meeting him had been worth it.

Read the rest of it here: The Duty That Can Not Be Forsworn

#Alistair appreciation week #day 5 #alistair theirin #Kaedence Cousland #kiddy kae #dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #kiddos #childhood crushes #but like #she doesn't understand #mabari #dog puns

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