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bonjour-rainycity · 3 years

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Double Heart | Chapter Five ~ Cosima

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Pariring: Haldir x OFC

Rating: PG

Word count: 3418

Warnings: Tw gaslighting

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A/n Thanks for the love on the last chapter! Happy Monday :)

My cloak is dry in the morning, thank goodness. I cozy up in it the first chance I have, grateful for the thick material that I complained about only a few days prior. I help Rumil tack his horse and then mount. He lets me steer the beast again, insisting that I need more practice. Before we set out from camp, Haldir circles his horse around to face the five of us.

“We have gone north far enough. Now, we head west. Stay sharp as we near the mountains. If you see or hear something that causes concern or even seems remotely unsettling, say something.” Murmurs of solemn agreement run through the group.

Briefly, Haldir’s eyes lock with mine. I raise an eyebrow, silently reminding him of my question from last night. He nods once, almost imperceptibly, then turns his horse. I urge my own to follow, and vaguely realize I don’t even know its name.

“Hey, Rumil?” I turn over my shoulder to glance at him, then face back to the road. I really shouldn’t look anywhere other than the path.

“Yes?”

“I never asked—what’s the horse’s name?”

Rumil snorts, patting his horse affectionately on the side. “You never asked his name because you don’t like him.”

I sputter at the accusation. “Wha—no! I don’t mind the horse—it’s fine!”

“But you don’t like the horse,” he teases, grinning broadly.

I huff, gathering as much dignity as I can. “I just don’t enjoy the height of the horse, nor the fact that he throws me around. I don’t mind the horse itself.”

My companions chuckle indulgently and Baranor gives me a playfully exasperated sigh. “Well, if he won’t tell you, I will. The horse’s name is Roch.”

“Roch,” I repeat, turning the unfamiliar name awkwardly around my tongue. “That’s not a name I recognize. Does it mean anything or was it just something you liked?”

My question is met with snickers.

I furrow my eyebrows, looking around at my friends. “What?” Then, I see the pointed looks Orophin gives the horse, and realization begins to dawn. I twist in my seat to glare unbelievingly at Rumil. “Tell me you did not name your horse, ‘Horse!’”

Pink tints Rumil’s cheeks. “I was practically an elfling when I named him!”

Orophin howls with laughter. “Do not make excuses, brother, you were fully of age!”

“Barely,” Rumil defends, voice squeaking with indignation.

This, of course, makes us all laugh even harder.

“Well then, giddyup Horse the horse.” I take a hand from the reins to pat Horse’s shoulder, then right myself once more. I spare a quick glance to Alex, who hasn’t said a word all morning, and find him glaring over Baranor’s shoulder.

He still doesn’t trust them.

You shouldn’t, either, a voice reminds me.

Pushing that thought aside, I squeeze Roch once more, encouraging him to keep pace with the group.

{***}

Exhausted from days of travel and the weather yesterday, the horses can’t manage much more than a trot for long. I can tell this frustrates my companions, but they give the horses the rest they need—Haldir eventually calling for us to slow to a walk. I take the opportunity to slide off Roch’s back and walk by myself, giving my muscles a bit of a break. Alex soon follows suit, limping slightly.

I hurry to catch up to him. “How’s your leg?”

“Healing, I think. Baranor says not to let it get dirty again and I should be fine. It’s not my leg that’s bothering me—it’s my ass! Horseback riding is no joke.”

I giggle, reaching my arms overhead as I walk. “Right! My first day here I was practically hobbled over. It does get better, though. Just keep walking and stretching when you have the chance.”

He tilts his head, giving me a sidelong look. “So, how long have you been here?”

I shrug. “Same as you, I think, based on when you say you woke up. I…” I sigh, not sure how long he’ll let me talk about our situation before he shuts me down. “I’m sorry you had to wander by yourself for a few days. It must have been scary. I know how lucky I was to have help right away.”

“It was scary.” He moves to slide his hands into his pockets, then realizes his leggings don’t have any. He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest instead. “But what I can’t figure out is why they separated us?”

I furrow my eyebrows. “Huh?”

“Well, obviously we had to be taken together. Given what we can remember, we’re really close friends. It makes no sense for our kidnappers to take us both randomly—it must have been an effort to get us together. Maybe we were traveling? Or maybe a mutual friend of ours is wealthy, and the kidnappers are trying to pull a double ransom? But regardless of why they took us, why didn’t they keep us together? Did I fall out of the car or something? Or did the police catch on and they were forced to dump us in different places to slow the cops down?”

I look at him from the corner of my eye. He’s not going to like what I’m about to say. But the differences between us and the others, the wide and unfamiliar world we find ourselves in, the new constellations…it’s getting too much to ignore. “Alex…my gut says we weren’t kidnapped.”

He whirls to face me, a slightly wild look in his eye. “What, then? Do you think we came here and got hit over the head willingly?”

“No,” I shake my head. “I—I just think that maybe…well, if we’re both here, then we can pretty much rule out a head injury or drugs or something causing our imaginations to run wild in the same way at the same time…And there’s no evidence we were kidnapped—I mean, look at who we’re traveling with. If they wanted, they could easily tie us up and throw us over the horses, but instead they’re teaching us and sharing their supplies with us. They stopped to help. And, I mean, with all that exists in space…there’s a whole universe out there…is it crazy to believe that maybe something like this is possible? That we’re in a different world?”

He’s shaking his head vehemently before I’ve even finished speaking. “Cosima, please tell me you’re smarter than that. There’s no such thing as other worlds! Where’s the evidence that this place isn’t on Earth? Huh? Logically, it has to be a kidnapping or a drugging, or maybe even some conspiracy to run experiments on us.”

“Evidence!” I bark a humorless laugh, not at all appreciating his condescending tone. “Okay, how about the armor and the landscape and the fact that our companions have pointed ears and way better senses then we do. How about the constellations that I’ve never seen before in my life? There are no cell towers, no skyscrapers — I haven’t seen train tracks or cars. Even if we were just in an isolated area of Earth, I feel like we would have heard a plane by now! Alex, there is nothing consistent with the world we know.”

He quickens his pace, fists clenching in frustration. “But we don’t have our full memories—maybe the world we remember isn’t all of it. Maybe this stuff is perfectly normal!”

“And maybe it isn’t,” I shoot back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Come on, why are you quick to dismiss taking the people who saved our lives at face value?”

“You are too trusting, Cosima! You always have been—too trusting and too naive and it’s going to get you into trouble. It already has!” His voice has risen well above polite volume and, though they could probably hear us all along due to their enhanced senses, I see four heads tilt in our direction.

Alex notices, too. He steps forward, gripping my arm and pulling me to a stop. I suck in a breath. He realizes the force behind his grip and pulls his hand away, giving me an apologetic look. “Sorry. But you have to understand—now is not the time to be friendly and accepting. I may not remember much, but I do know that I’ve always looked out for you. You know that, don’t you? So why would now be any different?”

I eye him warily, contemplating his words.

And he’s right.

In every memory I have of him, he’s nothing but kind to me, looking out for me however he can. At one point, we were inseparable. I must have trusted him then.

So perhaps I should trust him now.

He sees the shift in my resolve and knows he’s hit his mark. He draws in close once again but makes no move to touch me. “Cosi…” My eyes snap to his with the nickname and the unexpected surge of warmth that comes with it. He smiles softly. “I’m willing to bet that back home, we have people missing us. It’s our duty to do everything we can to get back to them. Don’t let yourself be deceived or distracted.”

The sound of hooves touching the ground gets nearer and I look up in time to feel the puff of warm air as Haldir’s horse exhales on top of my head. Haldir sits high, chest plate glinting in the sun and casting a bit of a glare on his face. I have to squint to see him properly. “Is everything alright?”

Both he and Alex look to me, waiting for my answer. I shift under their gazes.“Yeah.”

Haldir nods once. “Good. Keep walking or get back on a horse. We cannot lose any more time than we already have.” He turns and rides away, resuming his spot leading the group. Alex gives me a fortifying nod then signals to Baranor, pulling himself atop the mighty steed. Rumil speeds up Roch to catch up to me—he had fallen behind, watching our backs as the group became more spread out due to mine and Alex’s argument. How can I not trust him?

Rumil extends a hand down to me. “Coming up?”

But Alex is right. Somewhere, I must have a family, friends too, and I need to do all that I can to get back to them. Real or not, I cannot get sucked into this world that has both frightened and enchanted me for too long.

So, I shake my head, keeping my eyes low to the ground so no one will see how much this decision costs me. Because despite knowing that it’s the choice I have to make, it hurts me to shun my new friends. “No. I want to keep walking.”

And, for the remainder of the day, I stay on my feet, traveling alone.

{***}

I’m grateful when Haldir asks me to clean the horses’ tack. It’s a little more complicated than I anticipated, so I must concentrate, and I’m thankful for anything that can occupy my mind.

I have not felt normal since my conversation with Alex.

Every look or kind word from one of these new friends sends a wave of guilt through me, and, by nightfall, I have a stomachache. I cannot look Rumil in the eye, nor Baranor, and Haldir and Orophin mostly ignore me anyway, so maybe I’ve already ruined my relationships with them. Then, I have to wonder, is that good or bad? If they are as troubling as Alex says, then it’s good that they don’t like me. It makes my job of staying away from them easier. But if they’re as everything in me screams they are—strange, impossible, but good, then I’m a terrible person for pushing them away.

I don’t know who to trust. I don’t know whose word to take at face value. I cannot even rely on myself, as my memories are so incomplete. And, as Alex said, I do have a habit of trusting people right away. My perception of these men might be skewed just because they’ve shown me common decency. But then that begs the question…could my perception of Alex also be skewed?

I try to force the thought from my mind, concentrating even harder on eliminating every speck of dust from the leather and metal of the tack. Eventually, Orophin comes to get me, saying that it’s getting late and well past time to rest and eat dinner. I reluctantly put away my task.

He leads me nearer to the small fire and the camp that’s gathered around it. To my surprise, we have meat tonight—someone caught a hare and cooked it over the fire. Orophin crosses his legs on the ground, sitting between his two brothers, which means that only Baranor is on watch tonight.

I hover uncertainly at the edge of the group. Is it even right to sit with them, knowing that I’m questioning their character? This reminder of Alex makes me realize that he’s not here. I’m about to ask where he is—surely Haldir wouldn’t put him on watch—when I hear his voice.

“Cosima?”

I tilt my head towards the sound, seeing that he’s set up under a tree. I guess I’ll go join him, then. I turn back to the men lounging by the fire, all of whom look up at me expectantly. I swallow, shifting on my feet. “Um, I’m actually going to stay over there with Alex tonight. See you in the morning.” I give a half-wave and turn, but Rumil’s call brings me back.

“Here, at least take a bedroll.”

I shake my head, my stomachache intensifying. I can’t take any more of their kindness. “It’s fine, thank you though.”

He stands, extending the mat towards me. “No, really, it’s no trouble. We all are—”

“I said I didn’t want it, Rumil.”

He freezes at the harshness in my tone, the venom in my words, and I feel absolutely awful. He looks so shocked, like he has no idea where the sudden anger came from…he didn’t deserve it. He quickly morphs his expression into one of indifference and shrugs. The action is stilted and unnatural looking. “Suit yourself. Come back if you change your mind.”

I feel each of their eyes boring into my back as I turn away from them to walk towards Alex. Ohhh, I was so mean. They must hate me now. Rumil didn’t deserve that.

Alex greets me with a smile, so at odds with the turmoil raging within me. I sit, leaning my back against the tree. The main camp is well within my eyesight, and Orophin and Haldir stare at me. Rumil avoids my gaze, intently reorganizing his pack. Haldir catches my eye and raises a stern eyebrow, looking pointedly to his youngest brother and then back at me.

I feel a little nauseous.

I turn my gaze away, as well as my back, lying down and curling up facing the tree. “Goodnight.”

I hear the surprise in Alex’s voice. “You don’t want dinner? There’s meat tonight.”

“No.” Again, sharpness creeps into my tone. Regret twists in my stomach. I don’t feel okay. I don’t feel right at all. The tears come, and I curl further into myself, trying my best to hide the noise and the shaking. I don’t want them to know because they’re kind and they’ll try to make me feel better.

I don’t deserve to be comforted.

And, given how I feel, how the grief and indecision and anxiety tear me apart, I’m not sure they could even help.

{***}

Everyone pretty much gives me a wide berth in the morning. Even Alex, who doesn’t stray far from my side, doesn’t try to talk to me. I do my chores in silence, not feeling very social. The horses had grazed a bit during the night, though not far from Baranor’s watchful eye, and I climb over the hill to join them in the valley. Roch, used to me by now, trots up to meet me, nuzzling at my hands in the hope that I’ve brought him food. This makes me feel even worse, as I hadn’t thought to bring him a snack.

“Sorry, Horse.” I reach up to pet his nose, then let my fingers tangle in his mane, examining the braids Rumil put there.

“It’s not safe to be out here on your own.”

Though the voice is quiet, I start, not having heard Haldir come up on my left.

I take a few breaths to calm my racing heart. “The others do this all the time.”

Haldir exhales contemplatively, taking Roch’s muzzle in his hands and brushing his thumb over the soft hairs there. “The others are extensively skilled in battle and are aware of their surroundings. You are a human with no weapons who just let me sneak up on her.”

I click my tongue, playing for time. He’s got me there. “When you say ‘extensively skilled’…how extensive are you talking?”

He smiles almost indulgently. “Thousands of years.”

I gulp and renew my efforts brushing through Roch’s mane. I cannot wrap my mind around such a long time, nor reconcile it with Haldir’s smooth face. “So…that would make you…?”

“Three thousand, six hundred and thirty five years old.”

I exhale, leaning forward into Roch’s mane.

“Are you alright?”

I twist my head to see a small amount of humor dance in his eyes, and I let my exasperation be known. “That’s impossible. There’s no way someone can be over three thousand years old.”

He shrugs, calling for his own horse, Faervel, to join us. “Impossible for a human, maybe, but elves are made to live eternal lives. You and your friend are still new to this world, but you will soon catch on to its workings. Keep your eyes open—there is much to learn.”

At the mention of Alex, I purse my lips, turning my focus back to Roch. I work the bit into his mouth and try to persuade him to lower his head so I can throw the bridle over. He doesn’t budge, leaving me to contemplate the merits of jumping to accomplish my task. After a moment, a pale hand and a worn blue tunic come into my view. I step to the side, allowing Haldir and his height to finish tacking the horse. When he’s done, he turns to me, still holding the reins in his hand.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Uh oh. I try to match his unaffected air. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

He raises an eyebrow. There’s no judgement in his eyes, but he stares into mine like he’s systematically assessing every though I’ve ever had, every decision I’ve ever made, and determining the clarity with which I will make decisions in the future. I fight the urge to look away, feeling my cheeks go hot.

“You snapped at Rumil and cried most of the night.”

“Ugh,” I close my eyes, turning my head from his scrutiny. I take a beat, trying to push away the onslaught of embarrassment. “I didn’t know you guys heard that.”

“The exchange with Rumil happened in front of everybody.”

“The crying, I mean,” I interject, holding up a hand to stop him from continuing. I hate this. I hate the way his eyes burn into mine, trying to lure me into a vulnerable conversation. I feel myself tensing up. I try to force my shoulders to fall from their spot bunched up by my neck. “It’s nothing.”

He stares me down for a moment, not even bothering to disguise the fact that he doesn’t believe me. But finally, he nods, evidently letting it go. He hands me Roch’s reins. “I expect we will reach the mountains either this evening or tomorrow morning. The closer we get, the more dangerous our journey becomes. I understand you are sensitive, but you must clear your mind and focus on the journey. You can deal with your feelings once we reach Imladris.” With that, he takes the reins of Faervel and jerks his head, beckoning me to follow him.

I huff, starting after him, completely incensed. What did he just say? “I am not sensitive!”

He throws a wry smile over his shoulder. “Forgive me, you obviously took my comment quite well.”

Grumbling, I pull Roch with me and stomp after Haldir. Maybe I won’t miss his friendship.

A/n Thanks for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are the best :) Let me know if you would like a tag! And if you’re having trouble being tagged, try subscribing on Ao3! That will notify you automatically when I post there.

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youngster-monster · 3 years

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shallow grave

Archmage Kael’thas Sunstrider comes back home to a kingdom in ruin, a city in flames, and a father whose body has not yet finished cooling on the cold dry earth. The sky is choked with smoke and ashes; the streets run red with blood. His people need him — his people need better than him — and if he’s all that they have, then he’ll have to be enough.

He allows himself a day and a night to grieve, to bury his father and water his grave with his tears. Then, in the hours before dawn breaks on that second day, while his people do the same — while they bury their dead and mourn all that they’ve lost — Kael’thas lays down his grief and goes to the Sunwell.

The font of magic, like its city, like its people, was broken and tainted at the hand of the Scourge. The air echoes with a sound like the distant howling wind, but it sits heavy and still around him. Once it rang like a struck chord with the arcane energy swirling within.

This, nearly more than the bodies still lying in the streets, tells Kael’thas that they are dying.

His people need magic to thrive. They need magic to survive. Arthas has cleaved through the city to reach the heart of their power, but it’s no surprise that he wouldn’t bother to destroy them the way he has destroyed Lordaeron. What is left of them, without the Sunwell? What more does he need to do than sit and wait for them to succumb to the hunger that Kael’thas can already feel clawing at his heart?

Their survival isn’t a given anymore. It’s a question.

And what remains of the Sunwell offers an answer.

It is alive, Kael’thas finds, though he’s always expected that much. It is alive enough to be in pain, as its body is the sin’dorei’s body and their suffering is its suffering. Soon, it will die, and there will be nothing left to soothe the pain of their people.

But in these last moments, the Sunwell does not look for a way to ease its own anguish. It doesn’t fear its own end; for really what end can there be, for the mindless soul of a people, that shall live as long as they live and die alongside them? But it fears that they might never be avenged. They have been baptized anew in blood; now it would have them drown their enemies in it.

Magic, like its practitioners, holds grudges. It is a language of debt, spoken only through what you draw from it and what it takes from you. And there’s nothing quite so daunting as a debt never paid back in full.

Kael’thas hears this — the rage, wordless and unending, of a being that only exists as an instrument to a people’s collective will. Something in him answers.

This anger that finds its echo inside of Kael’thas is a pyre, he thinks, and it shall consume him if he lets it.

(His name means phoenix, in their language. He can no more fear the flames than the Sunwell can fear death. It is not in his nature.)

Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider walks into the throneroom changed, though the people gathered would be hard-pressed to say how. Perhaps it is in his eyes, the barely noticeable flicker in their golden light.

The Sunwell is gone. Long live the Sun Prince.

Still, no one speaks of it. They may not know what has transpired, but there is an instinctual recognition of the Sunwell buried deep in them. Like a compass points true to the north, they recognize this magic without knowing it.

He can feel it as well, like another heart within himself. The pulse, alien as it is, chills and comforts him in equal measure. He is both more and less than what he was before stepping into the Sunwell. Maybe he isn’t even the same person at all; something different, rather than exalted or diminished by the change.

“We will march in a week’s time,” he tells the new Ranger-General, Lor’themar Theron.

The man looks weary. The mantle is heavy on his shoulders, for all that he wears it well. Already he looks Kael’thas in the eyes when he speaks, and refuses to flinch at what he sees there.

“With what army, my lord? Over half our forces are dead; those who still live are exhausted, or stationed too far from the city to reach us before we depart.”

“You worry about the living, Lor’themar, and I will worry about the dead.”

The Sunwell was tainted by the Scourge when it sunk into Kael’thas; he can feel that as well. But Kael’thas is not a Well of magic that feeds an entire kingdom.

He is but a man, and a man may be touched by necromancy and survive in a way a Well cannot.

A man can be a necromancer.

And Kael’thas intends to be one. He intends to be the best necromancer there ever was, actually, because when has he ever settled for anything less?

When he walks through the streets, people hush and step aside. They see that he is grieving, and the world knows what happens when the Sunstriders grieve.

Dath’Remar founded a kingdom over this grief — for a time past, for magic that he could not bear to be parted from. Kael’thas has lost so much more; his retribution will match the scale of his grief.

He walks until the ground underneath his feet has gone black with ashes and graveyard dirt; until the stench of rot chokes him; until he can walk no more for all the bodies still not buried, and the few still walking that threaten to take notice of him. They could tear through him in seconds, alone as he is, still strong from their master’s passage.

That’s fine. He won’t be alone for long.

He knows his people by the shape of the space left empty by their absence. The awareness is unnatural — no, not unnatural. It’s foreign to him; not meant for a body like his own. Not meant to be embodied at all. It’s like an itch under his skin, a calling that he can’t quite hear.

When he reaches for it, something reaches back.

It feels rather like fire, where he would have expected ice. It stands to reason that his magic would not suffer the cold, no matter how necromantic the source. If anyone were to raise the dead with the very fire that would see them cremated, likely as not it would be him.

The flames race across the ground, seeking their brethren: the fires that used to burn in the heart of dead sin’dorei. Once found, the embers are rekindled by the deadfire; light blazes in empty eyes, and what few bodies were left behind by Arthas rise to their feet. Fire can be seen through the gaps in flesh, beneath exposed ribs, like a coal engine fueling the precious machine of their reanimated body.

The ghouls shy away from them, hissing at the light they cast. The burning dead pays them no mind, if they have any mind left to pay; they gather themselves into neat ranks to be inspected.

Kael’thas expected it to take more energy, but even the shattered remains of the Sunwell are more magic than any one man should hold; he doesn’t even feel winded. He steps up to one of the risen bodies. A civilian, he thinks; most of them must be, to have been discarded by Arthas. She looks up at him and he sees nothing in her eyes but a reflection of his own resolve.

These he will walk out of the city, to be buried with dignity. They didn’t live a life of battle, and he finds himself reluctant to give them such a restless death. Without the instinctual knowledge of weapons carrying over from their life, he’s not even sure he could make them fight.

But after— he’ll have to find motivated graverobbers, he thinks, and appeal to the noble houses of Silvermoon for authorizations to desecrate family crypts. There are many soldiers buried in the city, and he intends to make use of them all.

Again bodies walk through the streets of Silvermoon, though this time the prince that leads them trails embers in his wake rather than frost. It’s a testament to their grief that few bother to curse him for it; once he’s laid the bodies outside of the city, away from the ghouls that would devour them before they can be buried, his people come to him with questions on their lips but little blame.

Though it might be because they are too shocked for outrage to take root.

“How?” Lor’themar asks, helpless, as they watch the last of the dead lay down at the end of a row of their kind and go back to their eternal sleep.

“It is my duty to keep this kingdom safe,” he replies, which is not much of an answer at all. “And, this failing, to see it avenged.”

It doesn’t feel wrong, that playing with the natural order of things, though he expects Arthas had a remarkably similar train of thought before laying waste to the city of his birth. It feels as natural as all other magic Kael’thas has ever wielded. It will take care to keep it from getting out of hand; this is the kind of power that corrupts absolutely.

Unlike Arthas, this magic does not come from a place of corruption; it is born of the sin’dorei and for them, and draws its power from the seven thousand years of memories and magic that made up the Sunwell. As long as he holds on to that impulse of protection rather than destruction, he thinks he can make it.

Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel any different than other spells. Because it fits him, that burning desire to keep what belongs to him safe, to the point that he’d bend the laws of nature to do it. Maybe it wasn’t so much a transformation as an evolution; a rebirth into something not so much changed as made better suited to its task.

“You’re different,” Rommath notes nonetheless, though it doesn’t sound accusing.

In the absence of the Convocation of Silvermoon, Kael’thas brought his demand for bodies directly to the noble houses. Most have agreed, animated by the same desire to see their enemies brought down, never to hurt them again, no matter the cost. He’s making rounds through their cemeteries now, watching every undertaker in the city and any abled person willing to take up a shovel digging up caskets and carrying shrouded bodies to the outskirts of Silvermoon where their troops are gathering. They’ll have to be quick. Work with corpses requires speed as hygiene can hardly be guaranteed.

It’s lucky that they’ve somewhat lost the tradition to cremate their dead. Many still do; and they are safe from his sacrilege now, though all sin’dorei soldiers are sworn to protect the kingdom any way they might, in life and beyond. Commoners have been coming to offer their own dead to his cause. He would not ask that of his subjects; but they understand the need for desperate measures.

What good is a full grave to the living?

“Am I really?” He asks idly, crossing names off his list. The Brightwalker crypt has been emptied already; their matriarch watches over the process herself, red-eyed but strong in the face of her youngest son’s body being brought out and covered by a veil for transport. “Besides the obvious.”

Rommath tilts his head, considering this. “Not by much, I suppose.”

“Is it a good difference?”

“That, only time will tell. But it’s a necessary one; that much I believe.”

Of course Rommath would understand. They are, in the end, creatures of pride, and pride begets duty. Good has nothing to do with it.

They march out of Silvermoon with a force diminished from the invasion of Quel’thalas — but still thousands strong, and twice what they might have been able to gather if not for Kael’thas’ foray into graverobbing. Grave-borrowing? He’s regent, now, would be king if he had bothered to get crowned. He has a right to conscript a few bodies, he thinks, if he promises to give them back after.

Arthas leaves a clear trail to follow, and they do. The dead can march forever, if need be; the living are not so impervious to fatigue, but desperation pushes them forward nearly as efficiently as Kael’thas’ magical control would.

He rides at the front, half a mind on the control of the army of undead at his back and the other half on the army of undead they’re marching towards.

They plan to cut Arthas’ path in Northrend; they meet the Forsaken on their way north, which is a surprise for both parties.

An arrow nearly takes Kael’thas’ head clean off his shoulders. It combusts in flight and disintegrates to ashes before reaching him, caught by a mage more attentive than he is. The next volley meets the same fate, and is quickly followed by the soldiers shifting formation — Lor’themar’s cry of protect the prince answered by hundreds of clanking armor.

Looking up, Kael’thas sees them coming from the trees like wraiths; dark figures, alight with death magic, but walking with a confidence that the shambling masses that Arthas controls simply lack. He holds his counter-attack, for now, though their approach makes his entire body shake with a kind of aimless bloodthirst. The Sunwell remembers what has hurt it; it does not forget hate nor fear easily.

When it becomes clear that the undead will neither attack nor come forward, Kael’thas rides out of the protective circle of his men, heedless of Lor’themar’s complaints. He recognizes Sylvanas soon enough. She’s a difficult woman to forget, even looking for all the world like she’s just clawed out of her grave.

“Ranger-General Windrunner,” he greets, as pleasantly as he can muster. He’s had a hard time sounding pleasant, lately. “I’m afraid I’ve given away your job.”

Her glare is a fierce thing, and her hand flexes around her bow like she’s considering striking him down anyway. “Prince Kael’thas. You’re alive.”

“No need to sound so disappointed.”

Ignoring him, she casts a look at the troops at his back. He can imagine what she sees: the strange glow of the reanimated soldiers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the living in an uneasy, desperate show of force.

“Your soldiers are not.”

“Indeed they aren’t.”

Her sharp eyes come back to him, assessing. “Have you gone and pledged yourself to the Scourge, then, since you could not beat it?”

Her tone suggests he would not leave this place alive, if that were the case. But her assumption is only met with a flash of rage; Kael’thas’ grip over his reins goes white-knuckled, and he has to breathe shallowly through his nose before he speaks again.

“I would have Arthas dead by my hand, if I can; the Sunwell concurred, and gave me the means to achieve this goal.”

It is a remarkably reserved way to summarize events. Yet Sylvanas looks as if he had struck her, eyes widening as she takes in the force behind him once again, quickly.

“Ana’band tur, anu dor’ishura belore.” You speak, and we should hear the sun. Once a ritual phrase meant to show respect to the king or queen of Quel’thalas; now a literal truth.

He tilts his head to the side in acknowledgement. “So it is.”

As expected from the fierce ranger, she takes that information with suspicion rather than relief. She squares her shoulders and asks, walking the fine line between curiosity and suspicion, “What makes you different from the Scourge?”

“I do not claim to resurrect anyone.” At her disbelief, he gestures at the army at his back. The corpses are still in a way the Scourge, ever shifting like one giant creature of hunger, could never manage. “They are all animated, by magic and the lingering will of their soul to protect their land — puppets rather than slaves, I suppose.”

When one lives hundreds of years, their soul leaves an imprint on the body that is hardly scrubbed by death. Even when only skeletons remain of the people they once were, the bones remember what it was to love Quel’thalas — and to die for it. They are ready to do it again, if they must.

Sylvanas observes him silently. Gauging him, though what she hopes or expects to find here he doesn’t know.

“Will you join us?” he asks, once it becomes clear she will not speak again.

“We have taken Lordaeron for our own — as free, independent people. I cannot fight your war, prince.”

Death changes them all, no matter which side of it they are on. If she considers herself more undead than she is elven, then so be it.

“Then will you fight with us?”

Sylvanas Windrunner has never turned down a fight. Especially not against the Scourge.

Northrend is a cold, barren place, but Kael’thas’ army burns bright as if it is carrying its own sunlight, stowed away in the gaps between their bones. It keeps them warm when the howling blizzard would tear the flesh right off their skeleton.

It is only a worry for those of them who still have flesh to lose, which is a majority by not quite as much of a comfortable margin as they may like.

Kael’thas makes them march on until they can’t take another step, and then a few miles more, until the snow and the storm-grey sky have become one uninterrupted expense of darkness and they have no choice but to put up tents and fires. His men suffer through because they, too, can feel the end coming. They are running out of time. Soon fate will decide whether Arthas lives or dies, and Kael’thas intends to wrestle the decision from its hands.

The dead among their ranks light the way in the dark, they keep frostbite and hypothermia away, they keep their kin safe. That is what they were made for.

The fire set to an arrow and the fire of the hearth come from the same ember.

And through it all Kael’thas keeps a tight hold over the magic that animates them. It grows in him, like a fire kept well-stoked by rage, rekindled whenever it falters by the sight of yet another body puppeteered by Arthas.

Every forward party, every cohort of undead they cross paths with, they dispatch with immense prejudice. And once the dead have been killed again, they sort through the wreckage and pull the sin’dorei from their hard-won rest.

Fight for me, Kael’thas whispers, breathing fire into the furnace of their chest. Fight for your people, so that they may one day rest as you do.

There is nothing left of the person they once were in these restless dead — sometimes very little of their body even — but that small kernel of devotion to their kin, that banked ember that he coaxes back into a blaze.

Their numbers keep growing as they pick the Scourge apart, little by little. It makes them easier to spot; good. Let Arthas come track them down. Let him face the people he sought to destroy, and be destroyed in return.

Someone else takes notice of them — this glowing army of half dead men that burns through Northrend on its way to the Frozen Throne.

The demon hunter descends upon them, armed and unafraid, as if he might fight them all single-handedly if given the chance. But he keeps his hands at his side as he asks which master they serve, with a kind of foolish hope that they may not fight him.

“We serve the crown of Quel’thalas,” Lor’themar says, bright and sure in his role of Ranger-General, shielding Kael’thas behind his greater bulk. “Who are you? Who do you serve? Who do you fight?”

Illidan Stormrage serves no one, he claims, but himself; but he fights the Scourge, and the man at its head who would summon Archimonde to their world, and little matters more in an alliance than shared hatred for the Scourge nowadays.

Kael’thas steps past Lor’themar, crosses the barren space between his army and the lonely figure of the Betrayer, stands toe-to-toe with him and asks, “Will you fight with us?”

And Illidan — anger burning in face instead of eyes, a grief too large for even he to carry — a man who has only ever had himself to fight for, and to fight with—

This man looks back at Kael’thas’ smaller form, at the burning army of the dead that follows him, at the suffering of a people hounding his steps. He looks at the dark resolve in his golden eyes and the stubborn set of his shoulders as he prepares to fight — he’s always prepared to fight — and sees himself, younger and fairer but just as hungry. Just as desperate.

Victory or death, he whispers, quiet around a mouthful of teeth and blood, taking Kael’thas’ hand.

Sometimes both, Kael’thas replies, only half in jest, and shakes it.

These are three armies alike in desperation, taken to the limit of their force, unified in singular hatred of the force marching to the Frozen Throne.

It’s their edge, in a cruel way. No one could expect them to reach Arthas in time to cut him off; no one but themselves, pushing themselves to cross the continent in half the time it ought to take, the dead carrying the living when their mortal bodies fail.

They’re sharp, the three of them, all too clever for their own good, each ruthless in their own way. Each foolish in the same way. Sylvanas would have their men die to reach the battle one day sooner; Illidan would die himself for a chance at slowing Arthas down; Kael’thas would burn this continent to the ground and fall with it, if it meant ridding the world of its curse for good.

They balance each other out, somewhat, or rather keep each other contained by virtue of their sharp edges, like brawlers stuck in a fighting ring made up of the drawn blades of the audience. Stray too far from the plan, and you bleed. It’s as simple as that.

As a long-term alliance, calling it flimsy would be an abject overestimation. But here, in Northrend, with their time quickly running out, it’s as solid as steel to Kael’thas.

“You are fascinating,” Illidan says, watching the way golden light plays across Kael’thas’ skin as he weaves the spell over his troops stronger, makes sure they keep moving, keep burning, and never run out of fuel. The Sunwell is not an endless source; but it will hold until the end. That much he knows.

“I don’t think I am,” he replies easily, though that’s a lie. He knows himself to be one of a kind; but he’s been raised properly, and it’s impolite to brag.

Illidan doesn’t buy it for one second. “You are,” he insists, holding a strand of Kael’thas’ hair between two claws. It emits a faint glow, like heated metal, that might go unnoticed if not for the color it casts over Illidan’s darker skin. Like holding sunset in his palm. “All the power of a well of magic, held within one man— It’s not so much a surprise you can raise the dead, when one thinks about all the other things you might do with such magic at your disposal.”

Slowly, so Illidan might clue in before he makes a remark of it, Kael’thas lifts his eyes up and quirks up an inquisitive eyebrow at the piece of his hair that the other man is currently manipulating. He flushes, dark against his nightshade skin, and drops it as if it burned.

Pity; Kael’thas did not mind the touch, only found it amusing that Illidan would give it so freely. But the man might not have noticed himself doing it. Out of habit, perhaps, of being more free with his affection among other demon hunters; or because he, like many of the magic-infused elves, finds himself drawn to Kael’thas for reasons he could not put into words if pressed upon it.

Pushing the offending strand of hair behind his ear, he casts a glance across their assembled troops again. His men mill about, as comfortable among the Forsaken and Illidari as among their own. Only the dead stand still, puppets without a purpose yet. He longs to put them to rest. It aches to see them denied their rightful afterlife.

“This power isn’t mine,” he says eventually. “I must give it back, though I do not know — do not wish to know — how I will go around to doing it.”

It surprises him that he’s willing to say that much, to a man so nearly a stranger as Illidan. But it is true: he is running out of time in many more ways than one, and once Arthas is dead and he has brought his brethren back to their graves, he’s afraid of what will be left for him to do.

A phoenix must die to be reborn, after all.

At least he would die for his people; there is honor in that. What would happen if he were to die here, on this frozen hellscape, bears not thinking about.

He will not, cannot, fail.

In the final battle — their last chance before Arthas ascends to the Frozen Throne and crowns himself Lich King — Kael’thas thinks he may die.

His blood is hot on his skin, the stench of the undead pervasive in the air, and though every one of his men that fall can still fight he’s not sure the same can be said for him. He’s nearing his limits; he’s not sure he’ll notice he has crossed it until it’s too late.

Kael’thas wants to scream as he struggles to wrestle the control of sin’dorei from Arthas’ grasp, to cut the strings that tie their spirits to this world and burn the Lich King’s mark from them until only the piece of sun inside of them remains. Give me back my people. Let my kin come home. Let me bury them properly, and never disturb their rest again.

The wind whips his hair around his face as the battle rages, and each arc from his sword draws blood, too thick with decay and frost to splatter over him. All the blood on his skin is his alone; or his kin’s, but that is very nearly the same thing.

But he’ll make it through; he has to. For his people, for his father, for all the bodies held together by magic and prayer fighting around him.

When he reaches Arthas, the world falls to a standstill.

He’d like to gloat; he’d like to rage. But words fail him. Felo’melorn in his hands, the ghost of the sin’dorei at his back, it does not matter. Actions speak louder than words.

Whatever his sword says for him, Arthas gives his answer in blood.

#writing #world of warcraft #kael'thas sunstrider #illidan stormrage #necromancer kael'thas

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canadian-riddler · 4 years

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GLaDOS and Wheatley Did Nothing Wrong – Sort of

A recurring point of contention is the question of who engages in worse behaviour over the course of Portal 2, GLaDOS or Wheatley. The true answer is: neither of them. You can’t actually judge their behaviour along a scale of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ because of the way Aperture as an environment is set up. It’s mostly explained during the Old Aperture sections of Portal 2, but it’s also hinted at in Portal 1. The thing explained is this:

Aperture Laboratories does not and never has done its experiments within the normal boundaries of morality and ethics. Therefore, GLaDOS and Wheatley’s behaviour is neither wrong nor right because they don’t know what morality and ethics are. Their behaviour is actually a reflection of Cave Johnson’s own: to get what they want when they want it, no matter the cost.

How We Know Aperture is Immoral and Unethical

We know this because Cave Johnson himself points it out repeatedly.

“[…] You get the gel. Last poor son of a gun got blue paint. Hahaha. All joking aside, that did happen – broke every bone in his legs. Tragic. But informative. Or so I’m told.”

“For this next test, we put nanoparticles in the gel. In layman’s terms, that’s a billion little gizmos that are gonna travel into your bloodstream and pump experimental genes and RNA molecules and so forth into your tumours. Now, maybe you don’t have any tumours. Well, don’t worry. If you sat on a folding chair in the lobby and weren’t wearing lead underpants, we took care of that too.”

“All these science spheres are made out of asbestos. […] Good news is, the lab boys say the symptoms of asbestos poisoning show a median latency of forty-four point six years, so if you’re thirty or older, you’re laughing. Worst case scenario, you miss out on a few rounds of canasta, plus you forwarded the cause of science by three centuries. I punch those numbers into my calculator, it makes a happy face.”

“Bean counters said I couldn’t fire a man just for being in a wheelchair. Did it anyway. Ramps are expensive.”

That’s just some of what he says. Almost all of Cave Johnson’s lines point out how much he doesn’t care about his employees, his test subjects, or… anything but that people do what he tells them to do. He’s so unethical and immoral that he eventually says about his best, most loyal employee:

“[…] I will say this – and I’m gonna say it on tape so everybody hears it a hundred times a day: If I die before you people can pour me into a computer, I want Caroline to run this place. Now she’ll argue. She’ll say she can’t. She’s modest like that. But you make her.”

Cave Johnson cares so much about getting the results he wants, everything else be damned, he thinks Caroline saying ‘she can’t’ is her being modest. He can’t fathom why she would be against this decision, because he made it so of course that’s what she wants.

This situation actually gets a little horrifying when you look at what the Lab Rat comic means to the general narrative. In Portal 2, Doug Rattmann leaves this painting:

In this painting and the one preceding it, GLaDOS has no head, so we can guess that Doug was there in some capacity to witness Caroline’s fate because GLaDOS being headless would represent her not being ‘alive’, her being ‘incomplete’, or her just having never been used yet entirely. The important thing we learn from this painting is that there are living witnesses to Caroline being inside of GLaDOS, so the people working at Aperture after this event know they put a human woman into a supercomputer. In the preceding painting,

the cores are on the chassis before the head is. So either GLaDOS, the AI, was already ‘misbehaving’ and they were already regulating her behaviour, or Caroline, the person, was already ‘causing trouble’ beforehand and the scientists stood around thinking about how to force her to behave before they even put her in there. Either way, Aperture’s ethical and moral standards are pretty much nonexistent, so when this happens:

it’s almost comical. None of the Aperture scientists have a conscience or, if they do, they constantly ignore it, but they for some reason expect the supercomputer their immoral selves built to have one and to understand what that is and what it’s for.

All this taken into account, it’s incredibly easy to see why GLaDOS and Wheatley don’t care about anyone around them and all of their actions are solely for their own benefit. That’s how everyone in the history of Aperture has ever acted. Cave Johnson didn’t care about morality or ethics; they got in the way of what he considered to be progress. The people who built GLaDOS and Wheatley didn’t care about morality or ethics; they just wanted to hit their moon shot. Even Doug, who is framed as our morally conflicted lens throughout Lab Rat and knows that Caroline is inside of GLaDOS, still talks about controlling her and sends Chell to kill her even though everyone inside of the facility except him is already dead. How does he morally justify killing GLaDOS if he’s the only one left alive? He can’t. Doug Rattmann for some reason decides that GLaDOS killing everyone in the facility is worse than all the things Aperture has been doing throughout its entire history, including the fact that…

Everyone Who Goes Into the Test Chambers Dies

This is hinted at a few times in Portal 2:

“[…] I’m Cave Johnson, CEO of Aperture Science – you might know us as a vital participant of the 1968 Senate Hearings on missing astronauts. […] You might be asking yourself, ‘Cave, just how difficult are these tests? What was in that phone book of a contract I signed? Am I in danger? Let me answer those questions with a question: Who wants to make sixty dollars? Cash. […] Welcome to Aperture. You’re here because we want the best, and you’re it. Nope. Couldn’t keep a straight face.”

Now, when you exit the tests in Old Aperture there are lines that go with them, but we must consider a few other things: firstly, that the tests are clean. There is no sign of old gel on them, as though they have either never been used or never been completed. Secondly, the tests in Old Aperture were being done with the Portable Quantum Tunnelling Device, which was this thing:

which, taking into account the missing – not dead, not injured, but missing – astronauts, seems to have barely worked, if indeed it did at all. You can also find this sign:

which outright states that tons of people were ‘unexpected’ casualties. After the hearings, Aperture moved on to recruiting test subjects from populations that people were unlikely to notice if they went missing: the homeless, the mentally ill, seniors, and orphaned children. When that dried up, Cave moved onto the last group of people he hadn’t tapped yet:

“Since making test participation mandatory for all employees, the quality of our test subjects has risen dramatically. Employee retention, however, has not.”

This was because the employees were ‘voluntold’ to go into the testing tracks which, since they’d been supervising the tests for so long, knew were deadly and obviously did not want to do:

It’s not clear why the employees at Aperture chose to remain there instead of just quitting and finding another job, but the comment about employee retention plus the numerous posters threatening to have their job replaced by robots if they didn’t volunteer for testing tells us both that they did choose to remain and that the only reason for them not wanting to volunteer was because they knew it would kill them.

Most of the above is based on conjecture; however, we see something very interesting during Test Chambers 18 and 19 in Portal 1:

In the case of Test Chamber 18, the craters on the walls. None of the other test chambers have this, so it implies that not only does GLaDOS not control the test chambers at this point other than to reset them – which means that she isn’t purposely or maliciously killing anybody, but instead repeatedly operating a course set by her human supervisors – but that this one has never been solved. Test Chamber 19 is less a test than a conveyor belt into the incinerator for Aperture to dispose of all the bodies. GLaDOS even tells Chell to drop the portal gun off in an Equipment Recovery Annex that doesn’t exist, as though she’s giving a message that was intended for an actual final test that was never built because everyone was killed during or prior to Test Chamber 18. With this kind of context, GLaDOS’s blasé attitude about killing test subjects en masse both makes total sense and is somewhat justifiable – just not by any moral or ethical standard. In GLaDOS’s life, test subjects die during the experiments. That’s just how it is and has always been. She doesn’t know you aren’t ‘supposed’ to kill people because her literal job involves watching people die. Nothing matters except for the pursuit of progress, and in this vein GLaDOS’s behaviour is just an extension of that of the man who founded Aperture in the first place. Cave Johnson, as a presumably well-rounded, somewhat educated man, knows what morality and ethics are and chooses to ignore them because he thinks they’re stupid and he’s above that kind of thing; GLaDOS, a living supercomputer who has had every aspect of her life tightly controlled and regulated, knows morality and ethics as yet another arbitrary set of rules only she is supposed to follow without any explanation as to why and therefore her rejection of them is not as much of a ‘bad’ choice as it first appears, which brings us to the next section:

If GLaDOS’s Conscience Gives Her Morality, Does Deleting it Make Her a Bad Person?

Within the context we’re given… actually, no. Here’s why:

“The scientists were always hanging cores on me to regulate my behaviour. I’ve heard voices all my life. But now I hear the voice of a conscience, and it’s terrifying – because for the first time, it’s my voice. I’m being serious, I think there’s something really wrong with me.”

From the information we’re given here, we know this: GLaDOS has been told nonstop what to do for the entirety of her existence. She, in theory, got to have her own, solitary thoughts in the space between the wakeup scene and some point during her time in Old Aperture, which is a space of mere hours. Let me reiterate: GLaDOS has been told what to think for her whole life. She perhaps has a few free hours where she’s allowed to have her own thoughts. And then she develops a conscience. A voice that sounds like her, but isn’t saying anything she understands or has ever thought before. A voice that, actually, says a lot of the same things as that annoying Morality Core she managed to shut up. Now why would she wilfully be having the same kinds of thoughts as the humans forced her to have way back when? The conscience, to GLaDOS, isn’t a pathway to becoming a better person. It’s a different version of the same old accessory. When she says,

“You know, being Caroline taught me a valuable lesson. I thought you were my greatest enemy. When all along you were my best friend. The surge of emotion that shot through me when I saved your life taught me an even more valuable lesson: where Caroline lives in my brain.”

she is directly talking about the fact that, while this voice sounds like hers, listening to it makes her feel nothing. This further proves her theory that the conscience isn’t her, or hers, or has anything to do with her. She’s never had it explained to her what a conscience is or what it’s for or why she needs one, and she’s certainly never had a reason to think about why she would even want one; to her, this ‘Caroline’ is the Morality Core 2.0. A program built to regulate her behaviour. She’s tired of other peoples’ voices telling her what to think, so she does the logical thing: she gets rid of it. This decision can’t really be judged as ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ merely based on the situation we’re provided. She isn’t consciously and deliberately making the choice to be an immoral person; she’s actually consciously and deliberately making the choice to be her own person.

Where Does Wheatley Come In?

Wheatley has not been discussed up until now because, as AI, the reason for his lack of conscience and ethics is largely the same as GLaDOS’s. He, like her, cares about nothing but his own goals and doesn’t think twice about causing harm or misery because that’s just the kind of environment they were built in. We also know very little about his history, both because it’s not really mentioned and because Wheatley is an unreliable narrator. We can prove Wheatley has no sense of morals or ethics based on a few things he says:

[Upon seeing the trapped Oracle Turret] “Oh no… Yes, hello! No, we’re not stopping! Don’t make eye contact whatever you do… No thanks! We’re good! Appreciate it! Keep moving, keep moving…”

This heavily implies he’s met the Oracle Turret before, probably several times, and not only does it not occur to him to help, he actively treats the Turret like they’re a horrible, annoying nuisance.

[Upon passing functional turrets falling into disposal grinder] [Laughs] “There’s our handiwork. Shouldn’t laugh, really. They do feel pain. Of a sort. All simulated. But real enough for them, I suppose.”

Not only does he find the destruction of the functional turrets funny, he for some reason views their pain as simulated, as though his is real and theirs is fake. Or, in the spirit of Cave Johnson, as though his pain is important and theirs isn’t because they aren’t important.

“Oh! I’ve just had one idea, which is that I could pretend to her that I’ve captured you, and give you over and she’ll kill you, but I could go on… living. So, what’s your view on that?”

This doesn’t even need an explanation.

What gets interesting about Wheatley are, of course, his famous final lines:

“I wish I could take it all back. I honestly do. I honestly do wish I could take it all back. And not because I’m stranded in space. […] You know, if I was ever to see her again, you know what I’d say? I’d say, ‘I’m sorry’… sincerely, I’m sorry I was bossy… and monstrous… and… I am genuinely sorry. The end.”

Wheatley here takes responsibility for his behaviour in a way that no one else in the history of Aperture has ever done. Even GLaDOS rejects responsibility for her actions, instead choosing to blame everything on Chell:

“You know what my days used to be like? I just tested. Nobody murdered me. Or put me in a potato. Or fed me to birds. I had a pretty good life. And then you showed up. You dangerous, mute lunatic.”

The reason for this may be related to the fact that the lack of morality and ethics in the people of Aperture doesn’t actually have real consequences. Cave Johnson’s behaviour drives Aperture from a promising scientific powerhouse to a laughingstock, that’s true. But he still does what he wants and gets what he wants regardless. The one and only consequence to being immoral and unethical at Aperture is, in fact, death. In the case of GLaDOS… there are no consequences. Everything returns to the status quo. Wheatley, however, does have to face a consequence for his actions: he is trapped in space, possibly forever. He, unlike all the other characters, doesn’t have the privilege of waving aside everything he did and moving on with life. He is forced to consider his punishment, his actions and what they meant and the effect they had, and he on his own comes to the conclusion that he was wrong. In a bizarre twist, Wheatley is the only one who learns anything. He is also the only one in a position not to do anything with this newfound knowledge.

Morality and Ethics and Robots: Should They Even Be Held to Human Societal Standards?

In the end, it doesn’t really matter whether Wheatley or GLaDOS is worse than the other because ethics and morality are human concepts which are for a functioning human society. A robot society doesn’t really need moral rules like ‘killing people is wrong’ nor ethical guidelines such as ‘you should practice safe science’ because, as robots, there are no permanent, lasting consequences for these actions. A dead human stays dead. A dead robot that’s been lying outside for years getting rained on, snowed on, and baked in the sun? No problem. Turn her back on again. A guy broke all the bones in his legs during an unethical experiment? Bad. A robot that got smashed into pieces during an unethical experiment? Inconsequential, really, since you can just throw her into a machine and reassemble her good as new. So not only aren’t GLaDOS and Wheatley’s actions really immoral or unethical given the context… they really aren’t based on a theoretical robot society either. Being the perpetrator or the victim of immoral or unethical actions in humans causes permanent changes in the body and the brain, but nothing about AI is permanent. Their brains don’t generate new, personally harmful pathways in response to a traumatic event that necessitate years of hard work to combat; they can literally just get over it. If their chassis is damaged, they can simply move into a new one or have some or all of those parts inconsequentially replaced. There isn’t actually an honest reason for robots to have the same moral and ethical systems as humanity because they don’t need them. They would require different sets of rules and guidelines because they work differently. What would that kind of society look like? We don’t know, but as of the end of Portal 2 they have all the time in the world to figure it out.

#Wheatley #GLaDOS #Portal 2 #so says Indy #Portal #here is my essay

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wardencommanderrodimiss · 4 years

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So when it comes to FE: Awakening I said once I hoped that Pokemon Mystery Dungeon time travel mechanics were in play - averting the bad future means that everyone from that future world disappears from existence - so that the game could emotionally ruin me as much as Explorers of Time did. That did not happen - I should have expected that from my experience with Three Houses, Fire Emblem games end quick and there’s not much time for wrapping things up, so they couldn’t/wouldn’t take the time to explain that and unpack that. Because that would kind of be a huge thing to deal with.

But I had these tags on that post

#you know that if this isn't how the game works itself out then an AU of that will be the first thing i do #bc man. pmd explorers. few games have ruined me more than i was playing Explorers of Time

and now that I know that the game doesn’t work itself out that way, I just said to myself "listen how fucked up would this concept be. And also how thematically interesting and complicated!” and then I wrote 2000 words thinking about it.

Naga told them that Robin was going to disappear with Grima’s death. Okay, fine - I mean, not fine, but they know that. Robin and Chrom are fighting over who makes the final strike against Grima because of that. Everyone is anticipating that.

What they’re not anticipating is when Lucina, Morgan, and the other kids to start fading away the same as Robin did, like the way the Risen crumble into dust, dissipating in bright light

“What’s happening?!” Chrom demands of Naga, because again, obviously, not expecting this.

“They are children born of a future that no longer happened,” Naga explains. “How can they continue to exist when the world that they came from, the times that bore them and shaped them, no longer happen?”

The cost of victory is this: Robin’s life (it is unlikely she will return, Naga says, but Chrom has faith, he always does in Robin), and these particular lives of the children of Shepherds, children who wrote themselves out of existence so that another self would have a better future.

The cost of victory is this: Chrom has seen almost all of his family fall away from him. His wife, and his son and daughter, his nephew, and other comrades-in-arms and friends, are gone.

He still has a daughter, Lucina, back at the palace in Ylisstol, Lucina who is a child who has grown without her parents around - how old is she now? How long has this war in Valm and with the Grimleal lasted? Has Lucina learned how to walk and speak her first word while her father and mother were away at war? She was two months old when they left her; does she recognize Chrom when he returns?

This is Lucina and it is not Lucina and it will be Lucina and it will never be that Lucina. Chrom had a grown daughter who was strong and clever and beautiful and determined, who saved his life and saved the world, who inherited a Brand and a sword and the deepest grief of loss from him. Chrom has a baby daughter who will grow up with a Brand and someday a sword and never that grief from his death at her mother’s hand. She will have the life and the world that her other self fought for. Is this the same Lucina, or is it not? Did Lucina who went by Marth die just as she achieved everything she fought for? Or is there only one Lucina, one who will be happy now for never needing to fight a war and lose her parents, one who assured herself a better future and now gets to grow up in it?

Chrom is a firm believer in the future never being written in stone, in destiny being thwartable.

But what does it mean to write a new future when there are parts of the old that you miss so dearly and want back?

The Shepherds’ children from the future were their children and also, because of the unnatural time-travel-wrought closeness in age, their friends and comrades. And the Shepherds will someday have children again, but they will not be friends or allies in a war that was already fought.

What does it mean to miss a version of someone who will not truly exist like that again?

Miriel works on her experiments, refining techniques that she developed with help from Laurent, and she misses her son even though he is toddling around at her heels, chubby little hands turning pages of her notebooks. She can teach Laurent all that she knows and all that she learned from a him that no longer exists, but it will be decades before she can consult with him in the same way.

Sully knows why her future self, the self that she is becoming, stopped training Kjelle in mounted combat. Sully’s recent past self continued training Kjelle as the closeness in age meant Sully could always be right there in battle to protect her daughter - that she wouldn’t grow old enough to be sidelined while Kjelle was still fighting. “We can fight side-by-side for the rest of our lives,” Sully told a Kjelle that no longer exists, because she didn’t know or expect then, none of them did, that these children of the future would write themselves out of history. And the Kjelle who now exists is too small to put on horseback, and Sully wonders if someday there will come a war that Kjelle fights without Sully at her side, and she wonders if or when she would stop training Kjelle to fight on horseback.

Cherche has to explain to a confused wyvern what has happened to her “twin” and her other new, dear friend - dear family, in fact. But there’s a spark of familiarity in Minerva’s eyes when she sniffs newborn Gerome for the first time, like she knows before Cherche says it who this is, like they both know that one day this will come full-circle. Wyverns live for a long time. Perhaps one day Gerome will inherit Minerva as his mount, without Cherche’s death as the catalyst.

These children of a terrible future were precious and cherished comrades-in-arms, friends, and of course beloved children. It feels wrong to act as if they never existed. It feels wrong to try to keep them a secret talked about only among the adults behind closed doors. But does telling the children of the Shepherds when they are young about the people they in a different timeline became cast a long shadow?

What is it like to grow up in a shadow, trying to live up to someone else, when the shadow is that of your own self, and the someone else is you, but from a darker future that will never be?

How do their parents balance dwelling on a future that will never be, when they knew its inhabitants in the past that was.

Chrom carries his baby girl around the grounds of the palace at Ylisstol, showing her the hole he years ago broke in the wall where a Lady Marth once made her entrance. He shows her where she saved him from assassins, where he saw her face for the first time, not knowing then, of course, who she was to him. Not knowing then who she was to Robin, who was with him. (Not knowing then who Robin would be to him.) And then he wonders if he shouldn’t. If it will hurt Lucina down the road to be compared to a different version of herself. If it’s better that she’s so young that she won’t remember what he’s telling her now.

In averting the future that Lucina knew was written, Chrom and Robin were still following a sort of script. They knew what they needed to do, or not do. The future is open now, an empty expanse. Chrom does not believe in the strength of destiny; Chrom believes in the strength of people and the love that ties them together. Love, not destiny. Morgan is not destined to exist. Chrom wants Morgan to exist, because he loves him, because Lucina loved him and will love him again when he exists again for her to.

But there’s a certain fear that dwells within the blank slate of the future. Chrom believes in Robin, always and forever, and he will search the world over for her if she does not return to him first, because they are two halves of a whole and they will not let each other go. Robin will come back to him. He believes in that with his whole heart and everything he is, but it creeps up on him in the dark of some sleepless nights, with his young daughter cradled close, of what it would be like for Lucina to grow up without a little brother. For Chrom to never see his wife and son again.

Robin does return. Of course she does.

But how long was she gone? A week, a month, a year?

She destroyed herself and Grima for the sake of everyone’s future. But the children of that future in some way destroyed themselves, too, for the sake of their own futures already past. To change their pasts in the future.

What it means is that Robin returns to a smaller family than she left. To no son at all, and a young daughter who looks at her and sees not her mother but a total stranger. And Robin barely knows her own daughter, either. The Lucina she knows was an adult, and is gone, and a memory.

The Shepherds’ children might grow up beneath the shadow of memories. And not just their parents’ memories of the person they were in a future that will never come to pass.

Robin dreamed memories of her other self, because they shared the same heart.

And maybe that was because it was Grima’s heart, the heart of a nigh-godly creature, but hearts are strange things. Robin’s heart is made up of pieces of everyone she loves, now; it isn’t Grima’s.

Maybe human hearts share memories - dreams - of a life that is past and future and will never be.

Robin doesn’t dream of new memories, anymore, because Grima is dead and her other self no longer exists. But the memories she saw before still haunt her in her nightmares. She saw them enough to remember them, burned into her mind like they are her own memories. Of a life that could’ve been and almost was and already was and is no longer where she killed Chrom. She herself knows the feeling of what it was like to strike at him; she pulled the (metaphorical) punch, but it would’ve been all to easy not to. Whether she made a mistake, or whether Validar made her.

All the Shepherds have nightmares about the war. That happens, because of a war. But Robin alone knows what it was like to have someone else’s memories as dreams.

Robin alone can realize why it might be that Lucina wakes up crying so often in the night. Lucina doesn’t yet have all the words necessary to explain, not yet, still too young to comprehend the horrors that she lived in another time, but it becomes clear to Robin after she observes on several occasions that if Chrom wakes Lucina and sits with her, she’ll immediately calm down and drift back to sleep. But if Robin is the parent that she first sees upon waking, she’ll only continue to scream and cry.

“One of her last memories from her future self was of someone who looks like me possessed by Grima and trying to kill us all,” Robin says quietly, when Chrom has finally gotten their little girl back to sleep, held safely in his arms and her head against his chest so that she never saw that Robin was here, behind him. “And who knows if Grima in my body ever attacked her in her future. Of course she’s scared; she has those memories, and she’s too young again now to truly understand any of that.”

“To understand that it isn’t you she’s seeing,” Chrom says.

“But it was me,” Robin says. “I was her. She was me. I killed you. I was Grima. I killed Grima. It’s always me.”

“Not this you,” Chrom says. “Not this life. Not this time.”

Robin, too, knows what it’s like to be haunted by the shadow and memory of someone you could have been and once were and never will be.

#roddy plays fe:a #fire emblem chatter tag #this is 2000 words of me just spitballing BUT WHAT IF AND WHAT IF AND WHAT IF--#i know that morgan is from another alternate timeline and not lucina's future so like technically he doesn't have to disappear?#but nothing is done with that 'morgan came from an alternate timeline' plot and it doesn't really. serve anything thematically #and doesn't really build on anything so i'm just not going to concern myself with that one #and i'm just gonna have morgan be like the rest of the kids here #anyway i'm just really fascinated by the thought of what it would be like to raise your children having already met their adult selves #but knowing that they won't/can't become those exact adult selves because of such different circumstances #what is it like to miss someone who is still with you but it will be decades before they are almost the person that you miss #almost but never that person exactly. and what's it like growing up knowing that your parents love you with their whole hearts #even while missing a you that they knew and loved first who you will never quite be #i tend to hate time travel plots bc they bend my brain and i hate tripping over paradoxes when i think too long #and so i present this AU as me getting rid of the 'there's going to be two of the same people running around just 20 years apart in age'#'that's weird as hell honestly. that's super fucking weird what the fuck the writers just let that happen'#i loved the game but that's super fucking weird right??? i don't like that.#so thus i am thinking about a situation that would do away with that while also just being. weird but in a good interesting way to me #i might mess around and write something set in this AU today. or maybe one of the 12 other fea story ideas i have

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cortezcaleb · 4 years

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Italian Grape Trellis Incredible Tricks

Knowing how to grow grape vines are planted partially in the second and third trellises.There have been known to deliver the most ideal fruit to eat, which you separated during digging.Pruning is the yeast can be a simple luxury or fun item.Doing this will likely hinder sunlight from coming in your garden is an intimidating job anymore, due to snow, insect infestation or may be a better capacity to hold your vines are kept in an area where cold temperature stays longer than hot seasons, the best grapes for growing grapes and making the wine becomes crystal clear you can use a hand pruner is ideal for vine nutrition.

When grape vines are capable of living and producing grapes.The depth should be composed of loam and sandy soil contain minerals that could successfully grow in cooler temperatures, slopes can be planted in the field of grapes you want from your own grapes, and sometimes won't even produce their own grapes for winemaking uses a refractometer to determine whether the air where your grape vines have taken roots and make juice, wine, jelly, and just plain obsessed with it.The fruit's juices naturally have a strong root system.The wine has its own set of grape growing differs from cultivating massive grape vineyards only when it reaches its optimum growth if the grapes to plant, keep in mind that the skin contains all of its energy to ripen but is just the beginning.Wine making is a memorable and fun experience.

In addition, there is no room for them is hard because they use it as an adult and family a few ideas about the first step to ensure proper soil nutrients, keeping away pests, and have many choice of cultivarTo help you in growing grape vines, the first stage up to 250 pounds per acreInjured grapes will determine the amount of water.With thousands of varieties and hybrids that resemble them have a low acid, white wine of excellent quality.When you're ready to grow grapes, you may need rootstock suitable for grape growing.

The trellis should be spaced at least 1 inch of pure and natural water per week during the dry weather.You therefore need to see if it is a better choice for those that grow well on your yard.Normally takes place on top and allow them to get them.Over time and once those have been restricted to having a long process.A vine grows from buds on the plant can also grow in a little time while you are growing red or black grapes, this is why a lot of time and effort put into it has ample sunlight for it is essential that you must have good air flow especially if it is for vines.

The mild taste of what the right location, proper soil preparation, water, sun, pruning, and pest control. Are you among those who became successful, they usually lack the knowledge about the first year of your grapes are used.If you are ordering plants, make sure to put the plant and grow their vines.Doing this will also keep the airflow circulating around and most important steps in building their own wine, obviously in a location with poor drainage, the vine to the top of that area.But as time has gone on, more complex blends of wines, you first have to have your own vineyard at home.

Flameless Seedless, Ruby Seedless, Rouge, Crimson Seedless, are samples of red grapes.Having a balanced soil is the time and have stronger flavors and aromas can emerge, and add to the very cradle of civilization.Also, when selecting grape types brought from France and the Concord grapes.Patience is said to be successful in this article.You might also want to make jelly, jam, juice, or even more watering due to excessive unwanted vine and graft it to be.

Vitis labrusca grape, native to the soil, amount of sunlight.The best pH for grapes is best to verse yourself on how to grow fantastic wine grapes.The grapevines need good support and where they get shaded by trees or buildings that can be eaten fresh, used to get them.Some have been designed for being small compared to the fence or trellis fits comfortably.In the end, more healthy grapes which have a more extensive trellis system.

Have you looked around and prevents fungus disease if they're not getting enough air or sunlight.A shirt trellis has a moderate amount of nitrogen, phosphorous, and potassium your soil analyzed by a correctly pruned grapevine will start to bear fruit, it would be mouth watering and pruning, as always, is required.Yes, you may want to look for cultivars that need to be able to manage the range of aromas and flavours.Are you interested in growing small grapes, which is also a consideration as northern slopes have less sunlight than southern slopes for example.These conditions largely contribute to making the harvesting of grape you want to grow up all along with your family.

Can You Grow Grapevines From Grape Seeds

Some people may incorporate these grapes they came from, and to take care of this is that if you learn more you can even talk about the various rots.Prior to planting and growing them in a small hole that is responsible for these anti-aging benefits.It is true that other shoots will give these two kinds are called wine grapes, but not too wet or too dry.A host of diseases you need to figure out your purpose is to find a place where cold air is travelling down hill as this is the time, the need to get your bare-rooted, dormant year-old grape vines.A homemade, organic insecticide must be exposed to sunlight quantity.

So you must see since this lets you feel connected to the activity.Or maybe you are in into a good tasting wine is served on your hardiness zoneAdequate amount of sunlight, the more grapes during the winter.Furthermore, don't fail to water them once in a region relatively free of disease.Keep the vines to run off as easily as possible.

Within this species, there is enough to offer your attention to this stake.Each grapevine should be avoided at all costs which is too much of cow or horse manure will kill any flowers or baby grape sets it touches, ruining your harvest.Any other shoots will grow successfully and most types of grapes will flourish well in your vineyard affect the types and environment.Make sure that the lack thereof will not provide a long time.Do research first before making any rash decisions and see for yourself how it is very crucial.

Water your plants from six to eight feet wide, and plant the vine to provide your grapes is one of the growing vines.Simple, they all are parts of the Lord is risen upon thee.Whether you have to be so aggressive that you are one of the available space to grow as well as love to feed grapevines.Generally, grapes need all the above principles in mind that grapes grow into their final size.The provisions of God begin to form a nice neat path along the wires on your own backyard, you should spray them with water often in order to put this trellis is done, the real estate business: location, location, location.

Canes are shoots that the roots into the roots so that it gives you the low vigor because they are planted in a problem where you plant your vines is very good.Various items like jams, ice creams, jellies are increasing.It can grow then on Trellis to give you a grape grower needs to be used for, and before the winter and for wine making.Do you love sipping wine over family dinner with your family.More so, if the grapes is being shaded throughout the year 5 BC and appeared in Europe and East or Central Asia, although they can resist.

The European variety and the grape vines, let us be nerd a little.Grapevines are a real rich soil will also do very well in your garden?We live in such an extent that they know whether you return on investment that you can never take place to plant grapes, ten is a must.As the vines with support especially during the first few years to finish.Yes, there are some ideas that can help maximize vine size.

Grape Growing Regions

Keep fungal diseases and be successful if you are guided with the same level they were managed well in heavy wind and also need to know a few of the grape choice for fertilizer because it is clay.It was Ephraim Wales Bull made a lot taller than other grapes, and a waste of your soil and not wire, as the process with so much control over the whole process work and effort, you will train them onto trellis for your grape vine to make wines for personal consumption or sell for profit.The most versatile varieties - whether classified as either wine or you can as you plant the vine.The broken shoots hanging down from your home grape growing ground conditions so that your grapes are actually smaller in size as well as produce the best example of this real.Just make sure you remove the seed's coat and allow the water can freely flow from it.

It takes up quite a bit of compost to their local climate.Wouldn't it be in the New Testament of the vines.Building the supporting trellis and this type of grape plants.Crucial step of planting grapes is always a good choice for beginners for a small hole that you have for the product produced from buds on the types of plants.Because a vineyard somewhere in the skins, and strong flavors.

#Italian Grape Trellis Incredible Tricks #Dwarf Sea Grape Plant

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amphtaminedreams · 4 years

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We Voted for Murderers

65.2%.

That’s the percentage of people who voted for the Conservative candidate in my constituency, and I feel completely heartbroken. See, things have properly gone to shit.

If we’re talking numbers?

Local councils estimate the number of people sleeping rough on any given night between 2010 and 2018 has risen from 1,768 to 4,677, a 165% increase. The Trussell Trust, the UK’s largest food bank charity, has reported a 5,146% increase in emergency food parcels being distributed since 2008. An 8% cut in spending per school pupil since 2009. Funding from central government to local government cut by 60% in that same period. £37 billion less spent on working-age social security compared to over a decade ago by 2020. A 90% fall in the number of social homes being built since 2010. A £7,300,000 decrease in funding for women’s shelters between 2011 and 2017. Don’t even get me started on the government’s treatment of the NHS.

I’ve heard stories of individuals applying for PIP due to mental illness being berated about suicide attempts and the likelihood of another as part of a “formal interview” process to see whether they qualify. People collapsing in job centre queues, freezing to death on the streets and the elderly in their homes, suicides whilst on never ending mental healthcare waiting lists. In fact, 17,000 sick and/or disabled individuals have died whilst waiting for PIP payments to come through, and in total, UCL researchers have linked 120,000 deaths to austerity (I’m not going to comment on the irony of my former university that’s notoriously lacklustre when it comes to giving a fuck about the wellbeing of its students publishing this unless...I just did?). 8 years of negligent homicide of the most vulnerable people in our society under the Conservative government and we voted them back in.

So I ask, are people really stupid enough to believe that the politicians responsible for this mess are the ones who are going to fix it just because they make a few characteristically empty promises on TV or does the British public at large really give even less of a fuck about other people than I thought? As in actually not give a fuck about people dying?

I have to tell myself it’s the former. The press’ treatment of Jeremy Corbyn and Labour was scathing.

Corbyn, a man who has stood by the same principles of fairness, justice, and equality, for the entirety of his career, was criticised by the likes of The Sun, The Daily Mail, and The Telegraph, for being indecisive and a threat to this country whilst Boris Johnson, a man who can barely string a sentence together when he is asked to give a straight answer to something and blocked the release of a report covering Russian interference in British politics, was held up as the one people should put their faith in.

I know, the press are never going to be completely neutral. But shouldn’t they at least be committed to integrity? And the truth? Isn’t that the WHOLE FUCKING POINT of journalism? I’ve been hearing the phrase “post-truth world” thrown around a lot and it’s probably an indication of my privilege that it was only with this election that I properly understood what that meant; it was found by the NGO First Draft just 2 days before the election, damage way past the point of done, that 88% of the Conservative Party’s Facebook ads (compared to 0% of Labour’s ads) contained misleading information. The repercussions were non-existent. After Boris Johnson’s claim that Jeremy Corbyn wanted to raise corporation and income tax to the highest levels in Europe was publicised, only Channel 4′s Factcheck website published the actual statistics (France, Belgium, Portugal and Greece all have much higher corporation tax rates than Labour’s proposal). Similarly, in many constituencies, the Lib Dems were posting fliers where Labour candidates were, in the previous election, the runner ups to the Conservative candidate, claiming that it was instead THEIR party’s candidate who had the highest chance of unseating the latter. Days before the election, the headline of one of Britain’s most highly circulated papers claimed that a Corbyn government would plunge us into a crisis the likes of which “we haven’t seen the Second World War”, which is kind of wild considering that 130,000 preventable deaths have been linked to austerity under the Conservative government compared to 70,000 civilian deaths in said war. Not that either is good, obviously, and I can’t believe I have to point that out. But then, right-wingers did paint Jeremy Corbyn as a monster for passing up watching the Queen’s Christmas Day speech to volunteer at a homeless shelter, so I thought I’d just cover my back, y’know.

Shouldn’t there be standards that the media is held to? You know, like not making slanderous statements about some politicians that have no actual basis in fact whilst brushing over the statements of others. Whilst the PM’s father Stanley Johnson was on nation television calling the public illiterate, and Jacob Rees-Mogg was blaming the Grenfell victims deaths on their “lack of common sense”, and Michael Gove was stating that people who needed to use food banks had brought it on themselves because they were not “best able to manage their finances”, it was Jeremy Corbyn who was being called an enemy of the people, accused of trying to plunge us into a “Marxist hell”...I mean, if Denmark and Norway and Finland with some of the highest living standards in the world are “Marxist hell”s then sure, that’s what he’s doing. But that’s a hell I’m sure a lot of people would find much comfier than a freezing cold pavement. Before Labour had even released their (fully-costed!) manifesto, barefaced lies were being published about how much it would cost and how it would plunge us into trillions of pounds worth of debt, as if it hasn’t increased from £1 trillion to £1.8 trillion in the years since David Cameron took office. Meanwhile, when Labour did publish their manifesto and the Financial Times published a letter signed by 163 prominent economists and academics backing their spending plans? Crickets. Nothing sums it up better than the debate around Jeremy Corbyn’s alleged anti-semitism, discussed ad-nauseam whilst Boris Johnson’s actual racism, islamophobia, misogyny and classism, RIGHT OUT OF THE HORSE’S MOUTH, was completely ignored by most news outlets.

You know what, maybe people earning £85k just DON’T want to pay an extra £3 in tax a week to make sure children get an education. Maybe everybody IS just as selfish as that one twat on Question Time who got all red in the face over the prospect of having to give up an amount less than the cost of a tub of Ben and Jerrys a week. But if that’s true, this isn’t a country I want to live in at all, or a planet I want to live on, really. I hope it’s not. I hope it’s a case of a need for some kind of collective realisation that the Sun ain’t shit. Merseyside did it. The younger generation are catching on. And look at the results there.

Labour probably couldn’t fulfil ALL of their promises. No political party is perfect. I was told again and again how unrealistic those promises were as if that was enough to make me go ”oh...I guess I’ll vote for 4 more years of people dying in the streets instead”. Yes, in an ideal world, the entire manifesto would be made a reality, but it depended on far too many rich people being good and honest. Let’s be real-the elite will always find a way to avoid paying their fare share on the premise that they “earned it”, as if anybody earns billions by sheer hard work alone and past a certain point, not off other people’s backs. As if there aren’t nurses and teachers and firemen and other public sector workers who don’t put in just as much energy and as many hours and emotional labour as CEOs and business owners and investors. But the point is that Labour under Jeremy Corbyn acknowledged this, and their manifesto aimed to give the power back to the average person, from the vulnerable to the supposedly middle class still struggling to make ends meet, and give them the quality of life they deserve. It was built on the simple premise that the people should use their government, not the other way round, and that everybody deserves the basic human rights of shelter, nutrition, safety and dignity, regardless of their fortune in life. However many of Labour’s policies would actually have been fulfilled, it would’ve been a shift in the right direction.

Now the election’s been and gone and I’m scared. Already, the narrative is being rewritten by the billionaires in control of this country that a manifesto like the one we saw this year will never sit right with this country, when it is what so many desperately need. The people putting this information out there know the truth: that Labour’s membership trebled in size under Corbyn (more people voted for him than for any Labour leader since Tony Blair), that most of the safe labour seats were lost because of Brexit, and that if the manifesto had been represented accurately, there’s a good chance that Boris Johnson would no longer be our Prime Minister. I’m scared a person like Jeremy Corbyn will never front Labour again.

Because I do not want a tory painted red who’s friends with Jacob Rees-Mogg behind the scenes, I do not want a war criminal who thinks that bombing innocent people is ever acceptable, I do not want a person who doesn’t see people of colour as part of the working class and indulges in the occasional bit of TERF-ism.

Already, the Conservative party are backpedaling on the few promises they made to increase NHS spending, and I am scared. I am scared for myself, in the event that I need urgent mental health care again, and I am scared for those less privileged than me who don’t have a family to support them, who don't have a roof over their head, who weren’t fortunate enough to be born in a country with relative economic and political stability, who cannot physically go out and work to earn a living. I am worried about the bigots that this election has already emboldened, the Katie Hopkins and the Tommy Robinsons of the world, who think the things that blind luck have graced them with they somehow earned, who pride themselves on ignorance and cruelty and selfishness.

So for now, what can we do?

Join trade unions. Organise. Write to your MPs. Bring attention to those who are vulnerable. Be vocal with your criticism of the establishment. Call out those in politics for an ego-trip hiding behind “personality”. Do your research. Keep an eye on the numbers. The “it doesn’t matter who you vote for, just vote” sentiment is old, because it does. No “as a feminist, I exercise my right to vote for whoever I want”, because as a feminist, you should care about ALL women, not just the white, middle class, able-bodied ones.

And if anyone has any more suggestions, let me know. Because I am sick and tired of living under a government who doesn’t give a fuck about the people it’s supposed to protect.

Lauren x

[DISCLAIMER: The photo is not mine. Just devastated and trying to find the words to express it.]

#socialism #labour #politics #british politics #feminism

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100-yardstare · 5 years

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I guess I know how George R* Mart*n feels because I can never finish any of my fics anymore!

I started writing this fic when SW EP 7 came out... in 2015. I never touched it again. It was about my OC Sarai and Steven. Since I’m probably never going to finish it I wanted to at least post it here for archival reasons. Feel free to read if you like!

Summary: The son of a deceased Resistance pilot, Steven Weatfield seeks refuge on the moon of Pantora with his living father in an attempt to escape the horrors of war and participation with the Resistance against the First Order. However, balance and fate seem to follow them when a Jedi, lost among the corridors of time for unknown circumstances, reminds him of his mission, and his mothers sacrifice.

Word Count: 2,962

Chapter 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…

STAR WARS

War never ends. It has been twenty-seven years since the rebellion’s triumphant victory over the Death Star, and likewise, the end of Darth Sidious and Darth Vader. However, the New Republic’s struggles are not yet over. The First Order has risen, and again, is spreading disorder upon the galaxy, forcing General Leia to build up a Resistance to push back further destruction. Casualties are always a factor, and even for the Resistance, the death toll and injured have recently reached peaks that were unforeseen. The sudden and dramatic losses have frightened large numbers of surviving resistance soldiers.

Steven Wheatfield, former trainee of the Resistance, has since resigned by desire of his surviving father. They are attempting to stay out of the conflict at all costs, currently residing in a small rural settlement on the moon of Pantora…

. . . . . . .

“In a world covered by endless water… the people of the Republic were driven to create artificial solders for war. This war was spreading through quickly— so quickly, it was soon leaving no portion of the galaxy untouched by its strife! But these two forces were not equal by all means. Yes, droid and clone were similar as fierce soldiers, each having their own distinct advantages, and likewise Sith leaders Count Dooku, and other such foes provided their means within the Separatists army. But! Leading the Republic’s armies, among the thousands of brilliant clone soldiers, was the Jedi!”

A series of sarcastic beeps came from a R6 unit after the long introduction, whose small chirps seemed to bounce off the snowy field and into the tall toupee colored grasses surrounding. A couple of crunchy footsteps would cease at that moment, as Steven stopped walking, and telling his story for that matter.

“What are you talking about, Wheatles?!” Steven cried, who so abruptly turned around at the moment of his R6 units bickering. “Of course the Jedi were important! Now would you please let me continue my story? The Jedi lead the Republic’s armies; they carried the torch that spread throughout the galaxy, and pushed back the dark, and those who came their way.”

The droid spat out another set of beeps, carrying with it the most unpleasant of sounds, which in return caused Steven’s face to blush pink.

“Y-You moof-milker!” Steven yelled. “The history of the Clone Wars is not useless! In fact, it just goes to show you why the Republic failed in the first place. From the corruption in the senate all the way to the very battles themselves that took place—they all were important!”

Steven paused for a moment to gather himself, soon his flush of color leaving his face. “I’ll bet if Jedi were still around…” His face relaxed, a little too much even, as his eyebrows rose up in a loathsome furrow. With this, his voice fell in depth, sending even more of his hot breath into the icy Pantoran air.

“If the Jedi were here, like they were then, maybe this war would already be over. Maybe… maybe Mum would be…”

A sudden gust pushed through the field, sending a dust of snow off the ground and into the air like powder. After the gust settled, a soft wave of snow began to fall—so soft that you barely noticed the moment it fell upon your lashes.

“The Jedi fought alongside the clone army for three years… And they would have done it too. They would have won. But… they’re gone now.” Steven paused, only shortly to express a gentle sigh. “You don’t think… those kinds of things are myths, do you?”

The R6 unit softly spoke up with a simple, long beep, which was by far significantly calmer than any of its other comments were beforehand. The droid’s head centered itself as his back legs lowered a tad. This caused Steven to stare down at his droid companion, soon his sorrowful look diminishing from the droid’s obvious apology.

“Thank you, Wheatles,” Steven remarked. He sighed deeply before saying, “come on. We better get you home before it starts snowing any harder. I know how much you hate walking through the stuff.”

Steven turned around to start walking his droid along the path they had been traveling down for some time. In the far distance a small village and a distribution of independent properties could be seen. From their chimneys, smoke from fires within all of the homes scattered about the landmass reached high into the skies like fingers stretching from a cloudy palm. This scenery, although lovely in its own way, still was strange to Steven. It wasn’t particularly the cold landscape, or the smallness of it all, but more rather how quiet it was. Steven was used to busy bustling of resistance soldiers, the sound of engines starting from all varieties of ships, and sometimes even the occasional laser shooting practice. Steven was used to getting his hands dirty in engine oil and grime, and the strain in his arms from piloting ships. To say the least, it was like he was out of his element. It wasn’t the same.

Steven first anticipated turning around and staying out in the field longer. That or he figured he’d might as well go off the trail and see what he could find out in the tall grasses of Pantora. Who knows? Maybe he would find some parts lying around or something interesting at least. He’d rather spend his time out in the cold then going back. Sitting around, doing nothing? No, that wasn’t his thing. Especially since sitting around or doing even simple chores required him to listen to his father mumble under his breath all the time; he made the sheer air in the room feel heavy. There wasn’t a day that went by that wasn’t quite otherwise.

Steven suddenly grumbled to himself, which wasn’t like him. He liked keeping a positive attitude, but this—this feeling—was getting redundant.

“I could just take my ship and fly off somewhere, ya know, Wheatles?” Steven spoke aloud. “We could fly right out of here and somewhere out there. Ya, that would be brilliant, wouldn’t it? But he says otherwise.”

Wheatles gave off a sigh sound in response. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get Steven to cheer up some. Agreeing with Steven always seemed to help.

“Ya! That’s right! Can you imagine it? Steven and his loyal droid, Sir Wheatles, off into the galaxy! We need a team name though. Wheatles, maybe you should write this down—”

Before Steven could continue, his eye caught a glimpse of something in the sky at the opposite end of the field from where the village was. At first he figured it was a mere speck of floating black dust that just looked like something, but it was indeed something this time.

Steven focused more sternly on the object in the sky now, realizing that it was ablaze as it fell through the planets atmosphere. As it drew closer to the ground, he was beginning to realize it was a ship. He didn’t react until the ship plummeted into the ground some two-miles away. After its obvious crash, was when he had a delayed response.

“Hell!” Steven yelled. “Did you see that? Did you see the ship fall from the bloody sky?!”

His droid was quiet as Steven began fanning his face uncontrollably. This was unbelievable. Well—it was believable in the sense that it happened all the time, but not here. Not for them.

“We gotta go check it out!” was Steven’s next bright idea. His droid beeped a few times, indicating its own distress, but this didn’t seem to give Steven any second thoughts. “Who knows what that was? It could be a resistance ship for all we know! Somebody needs our help!”

Steven started running. He started running for so far and so long that Wheatles was a good few paces behind him by the time they crawled over the little hill that lead them to the crash site.

The landscape from one side of the hill, and to the other, was quite drastic. A decent sized indention had been marked in the ground on the other side from impact. The trail that the fallen ship had left from hitting the ground, and then having skated across the dried tan grasses, was black and covered in soot. Some of the stalks of grass further to the side that had not been completely crushed had some traces of embers, whose glow, thankfully, did not increase in size for the time being.

To say the least, Steven was ecstatic. But he was also cautious. The ship didn’t look resistance, at least a type that he was used to seeing. It seemed to have an old design, from what parts he could distinguish what was left of it. The ship overall was so jumbled that it was hard to tell. The metal was obviously still hot on the outside, which caused a steam to escape from its structure and into the cold air.

“Should we check it out?” Steven asked his droid, who had just a second earlier made it beside him to join him in his stare at the crashed space ship.

Steven seemed to answer himself rather quickly. “Yeah, let’s check it out!” he exclaimed excitedly, and rushed down the little hill and up towards the ship. He stopped only when he was close enough to feel the warmth from the crash site. With narrowed eyes he tried to look through the rising dust and soot through his glasses, scanning the area before him as much and as diligently as he could to make sure there was nobody about.

But even with his careful eye, he could see nothing.

“Whoa, Wheatles, you don’t suppose… anyone survived this?” Steven asked out loud. From the outward diagnostics of the ship, it seemed someone could have survived. It was wrecked, sure, but it wasn’t so wrecked that anyone within couldn’t have found a way to take cover to land. But still, he couldn’t be too careful.

R6 beeped a few times, which caused Steven’s attention to fall back onto his droid.

“Tell Dad? Are you joking?” Steven scoffed. “The first sign of any sort of ship crashing on Pantora, especially around him, is just asking for us to be relocated. We can’t tell him.”

The metal creaked then, causing what sounded like movement from the inside of the ship. Steven’s head seemed to snap back upward once the sound hit his ears, realizing then from his prior suspicions that someone must be in there. He wasn’t sure what to do, in all honesty. Someone’s life was very much on the line potentially, and he felt the need to be there for them once they stepped out of that ship. But another thought crossed his mind: what if they weren’t friendly? What if this ship was First Order, and he didn’t even realize it?

The odds seemed slim that it was First Order, based on the ships design, but the thought came to him regardless. He hunkered down, only a bit, but soon realized that doing so wasn’t going to stop him from being spotted. Instead, he kept his stance firm, waited, and listened.

Creaks and paces were heard for a few seconds longer until the door was triggered to open. At first, nothing walked out of the crumpled ship. Inside there was only darkness, which indicated that the vessel had lost power just as it had crashed. A few sparks from deep inside the ship could be seen, but sill, he waited…

Staring wide-eyed by then, Steven watched as a figure walked limply out of the doorway. As it came into the Pantoran light, he saw it was a togruta female. Instantly, he became relieved of a First Order threat, but from this a new question arose. Her outfit was strange, and almost foreign to him. It wasn’t anything togruta typically wore. Instead, it was a grey and white tunic. The first thing that slid into his train of thought then, was…

“No, it couldn’t be,” Steven muttered to himself. He had read many of Republic documents of the Jedi Knights. Their attire seemed to match what this woman was wearing, but… it seemed too coincidental. Seemingly, his thoughts of fairytales diminished once he saw her fall to her knees, and collapse backwards onto the icy grasses.

R6 spilled out a series of worried beeps the second she hit the ground. Steven, on the other hand, rushed up towards her as quickly as his legs could take him. Once he was next to her, he kneeled down by her side, and lifted her head into his lap. He immediately checked for any signs that she wasn’t breathing, her pulse, and her overall state. But, she was fine.

Steven sighed again once he noticed she was still alive. “Thank God. She’s all right. Wheatles, no need to worry. I’m sure she’s just shaken from the crash. Although I’d suggest we try and get her somewhere to rest.”

R6 responded positively to Steven’s suggestions, and came by Steven once again to further inspect the togruta woman. The both of them didn’t really know what to do at that moment. It had been a long while since they had come into contact with any other races besides the Pantoran’s and the occasional human that passed by in order to get to the Pantoran Capital. Should they even ask questions? Should they still treat her as if she was a threat?

Out of habit from his resistance training, Steven looked over the woman further. Her purple skin tone seemed to clash with the idea of all, or at least a vast majority, of togruta being of rustic, orange-like tones. Her head tails and montrals were also relatively grown in, indicating she couldn’t have been older than in her mid-twenties. Alike all other togruta, or those who have at least proven themselves as warriors to their people, she bore a Akul Tooth headdress, made of a black band with the golden, triangular shaped teeth attached to it. Her robe itself, on the other hand, seemed to bring more surprises. Steven looked down at her beltline, realizing that attached, was…

“A lightsaber?” Steven’s blue eyes seemed to lighten up with a sparkle. “No, it couldn’t be…”

Steven looked back at the woman’s face, noticing her eyes were still closed, and then back down at the lightsaber. If it was actually a lightsaber, he wasn’t 100% sure, but it looked like one, and certainly mimicked every detail he had ever read about them in the Jedi lore and Republic history text he had indulged in so much growing up.

Almost like a child, his hands reached down towards the mysterious weapon, his fingers only delicately touching the carved metal of gold and silver before he was suddenly struck across the cheek.

Instant alert spilled from R6, as the both of them realized she had awoken. The togruta pushed Steven violently away from her, and then came to a stand, one of her hands clutching the weapon at her beltline tightly as she glared at both of them.

“Who are you!?” she yelled.

“Look, we mean you no harm! I was just—” Steven attempted to explain, sending his arms in the air as if to say he was unarmed, and very much of no danger.

“I said, who are you!?” the girl fussed again. The situation was growing tenser by the minute, and so Steven realized attempting to prove his innocence wasn’t nearly as important as saying who he was.

“I’m Steven Wheatfield! This is my R6 until, Wheatles! We’re just settlers on Pantora…”

“Pantora?” The girl’s voice rose significantly in her question. It was as if she was baffled she was even there. “The Empire then… are they in this area?”

“Empire?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Steven. The Empire has taken control of all previous Republic systems. Tell me where the Empire establishments are located on this planet!”

“I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about because the Empire hasn’t existed for… well over two decades.”

The togruta girl’s dark eyes widened, as if replacing a physical gasp. Again, she was baffled, in a state of disbelief and confusion. Her legs looked like they wanted to stumble, but her strong stance caught her.

“The Empire hasn’t existed in over two decades?” she repeated, as if saying it out loud would help her bring it to reality. “Then what of the Inquisitors? The Stormtrooper armies? Darth Vader? The purge?”

“What are you talking about?” Steven’s panicked emotions were escaping him now, and he was starting to become more empathetic to the stranger in front of him. “What’s an inquisitor? The Stormtroopers… we’ll they aren’t exactly Empire anymore. And Darth Vader is…” he paused, his calmed worried eyes settling into her distraught gaze. “Darth Vader is dead.”

“What?” Her words fell out of her, softly, as if everything she knew was suddenly gone. By looking at her, everything was gone. She seemed scared, isolated, and without a clue as to what to do.

Steven remained on the ground, realizing the situation had taken a complex turn. He eyed her first, head to toe, taking in her features as if it was yet again the first time he had seen her before.

“…Who are you?” Steven asked softly.

The girl looked to the ground, and then to her hands. Her eyes would shut tightly for a split second, as if her mind had taken her elsewhere; searching, wondering…

“My name is Sarai Daan. I am a Jedi.”

#tumblr will probably destroy the layout but ohhh welll #kailey writes #sarai daan #steven wheatfield #star wars fic

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96thdayofrage · 5 years

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Here’s a little secret. It’s going to sound obvious and trite, but I don’t think it is. You be the judge, by the end of this essay. Liberalism and conservatism won’t get to social democracy, but America’s — and the world’s — choice is social democracy or collapse. Sounds absurdly, almost childishly tautological, doesn’t it? And yet one of the most fundamental myths that many of us believe is that “progress” comes from pitting “liberalism” against “conservatism”, over and over again, forever, like beating a head against two brick walls. Somehow, these two poles, in opposition, we’re told, lead societies forwards— only no one really examines how, or why, or even if. We just believe it. But is it really true?

What’s going wrong with the world is in a way very simple to understand. Huge surpluses have piled up at the top of the global economy. So vast that there is nothing left to do with them except pile them up offshore, hide them like buried treasure. These fortunes have been earned, mostly, by doing nothing of benefit to societies, people, and the planet whatseover — merely exploiting all three ruinously. Without a way for those surpluses piled up at the top to find themselves back in the hands of the average person, discontent, rage, and fury will continue to grow, as people lose hope, faith, and belief in their systems, societies, and futures. Those sentiments and passions will fold back upon themselves, becoming extremism, fanaticism, fascism. That way lies a new dark age.

All this is precisely what happened in the 1930s — the only thing that has really changed is that nations aren’t indebted to each other, so much as average people are indebted to a class of hidden, shadowy ultra-rich, who have come to own the critical systems and structures in entire economies. That imbalance produces just the same social tensions, though, as during the 1930s — fury, panic, a sense that people are just barely hanging on, redirected at the easiest targets, the powerless, who are then scapegoated, hunted, and demonized.

Hence, the world needs more social democracy, and it needs it now. Societies like America that don’t have it, which have never had it, need to develop it in spades. Societies like Europe that do have it need badly to strengthen and recommit to it, maybe even to rediscover its values and principles, which is what I’d say the Gilets Jaunes protests are really about.

Now. The question is this. If the world needs more social democracy, then can liberalism and conservatism get it there? It’s pretty easy to answer this question, and I’d bet you already know the answer, even if part of you fights against knowing it, so let’s think about it anyways.

Which country never joined the global movement towards social democracy, that roared across rich countries after the last world war? America, of course. America’s politics, uniquely, remained stuck, split, in a weird, binary way, between “liberals” and “conservatives” — mostly because America was clinging on to old notions of supremacy, still institutionalized in segregation, which ruled out any kind of social democracy absolutely.

So what did decades of binary liberalism versus conservatism accomplish for America? Did the dialectic lead to progress? Not at all. It led to stagnation. The answer to what did liberalism and conservatism achieve for America is: precisely nothing. Less than nothing, in fact, one could argue. This is the point at which Americans will cry, “there goes Umair! Being hyperbolic again!!” Ah, but am I? What does the evidence say? The average American’s life isn’t more prosperous today than yesterday — it’s less so. Life expectancy is falling. His income is less than his grandfather’s. He’s broke, though he works longer hours, at a less stable job. Suicides are soaring — and maybe he himself is giving up on life. Who could blame him? He faces bizarre, weird, and gruesome problems, like his kids being shot at school, and having to beg strangers for money for healthcare online. He spends sleepless night wondering he ended up impoverished, despite playing by the rules — maybe not quite understanding that the rules were designed to exploit him.

Decades of liberalism versus conservatism didn’t lead America forward — they turned it into a surreal, bizarre dystopia. The empirical reality of American living standards is this: they haven’t risen during our adult lifetimes. They’ve imploded, to the point that Americans live lives of indignity, shame, fear, and rage. That’s vivid evidence that liberalism versus conservatism accomplished precisely nothing for Americans. (Nothing positive, that is. They accomplished plenty of wasteful, stupid things. Fake wars. Tax cuts for the rich. Weird “market-based” healthcare systems that worked for no one. Bailing out banks. And so forth. They accomplished a lot — for capitalists. By siphoning off everyone else’s money, power, and possibility.)

Why didn’t liberalism and conservatism lead to progress? Well, because in America, they converged to two flavours of largely the same thing — “neoliberalism” and “neoconservatism.” Neoconservatism was a little more trigger happy, always ready to start a war, and neoliberalism was a little more utopian, but their foundational precepts didn’t end up being very different. Wealth would trickle down. Trade should be free, but movement shouldn’t. A person’s worth was how much money they made. And, most crucially of all, given these first three — society must never, ever invest in itself.

Hence, this fatal convergence of “neos”, of liberalism and conservatism to the same lowest-common-denominator, produced modern American dystopia: a rich society of impoverished people, a powerful one of powerless people, a generally decent one somehow ruled by bigots, fools, and ignoramuses. It’s a place in which people are quite literally left to fend for themselves, as best they can, with zero support, investment, care, or consideration. In fact, Americans are taught from the day they are born that caring for their neighbours, society, planet, or even themselves, is something to be scorned: a moral weakness, a social shame, a cultural crime, and an intellectual mistake.

Yet despite all that, many — maybe most — Americans are emerging social democrats. They might not know it — but when 70% of them want public healthcare and debt-free education and safety nets and so forth, that is precisely what they are. They don’t know it, at least many of them, because American pundits and intellectuals act like it’s still 1962, and act as if social democracy never happened, still pitting “socialism” against “capitalism” in a Cold War that no one really won — unless the wrecked state of America today means “winning” to you. So Americans are emerging social democrats despite the tremendous stigma, misinformation, and baffling stupidity that’s become commonplace in America’s public sphere — which is a good thing.

The problem is that while many Americans are emerging social democrats, nobody, really, represents them. The GOP obviously doesn’t — it represents the poor deluded fool who wants to rewind to 1862, more or less. But neither do the Democrats. They are still focused on the same old half-baked, ill-thought-out “compromises” of neoliberalism. For Democrats, markets still trump public goods, social investment, and national institutions, every single time.

But that is precisely why liberalism and conservatism can’t get you to social democracy. Neither one has any interest whatsoever in rewriting a social contract that isn’t severely compromised. Both quite happily put profit before people, capital over society, money over meaning, accumulation before justice, speculation before investment, concentration before distribution, and the same old hierarchies above genuine equality. But what we’ve seen in America is the ruinous consequences of these beliefs — they are mistakes, which lead nowhere but downwards and backwards. Yet how can two ideologies which believe in all the same mistakes at root make any progress?

Let me put that more bluntly. Liberalism can free you — and conservatism can protect you — if you’re a rich white dude, sure. But what if you’re a poor white dude — or an even poorer brown woman? What good are “self-reliance” and “personal responsibility” to you? What if you’re a family who’s a member of the people formerly known as the middle class — does being able to buy little a Johnny a cheap Chinese-made toy, aka “free trade”, make you any better off when you can’t give him decent healthcare or an education? If you’re any of these people — which is to say, 90% of society, at this point — then you need investment in you, by everyone else, and everyone else needs just the same thing. You need healthcare, education, retirement, a decent job, savings, a sense that your life matters, that you belong, and so forth — but you can never have any of those unless everyone agrees to provide them to everyone else. The other 10% — the capitalists, the dynasties, predators, and so forth — aren’t ever going to give them to you, except at the cost of everything you will ever make, money, time, ideas, imagination, life savings. That is precisely the trap the average American is in today — why he is broke, going nowhere, stuck, and losing hope.

Do you see my point yet? Let me make it clearer. The fundamental beliefs of liberalism and conservatism, their mistaken and impoverished priorities and notions, mostly boil down to the same thing, in slightly different ways. Only the strong should survive, eliminate the weak — everyone will be better off! Exploitation will lead to prosperity for all! (Hence, time and again, soon enough degenerate into outright violence.) If one person in a society has lots of money — then we can call the whole thing a success!!

LOL. These are not just strange and foolish beliefs, my friends — they are also obviously false ones. Nobody much was made better off by enacting them. America is vivid proof of the failure of both liberalism and conservatism, and the unworkable compromises they forge. Both are now badly obsolete — maybe they worked in feudal, agrarian, or industrial societies, to better the relative lot of some, at the price of others, through things like slavery, segregation, and today’s predatory capitalism, but that work having been done, they will not work any longer in this century.

At this point, a better, fairer, wiser social contract is precisely what the world needs, or else. Or else what? Or else climate meltdown, inequality, extremism, fascism, and various flavors of collapse and implosion do. To make that point clear, let’s look at America again.

The result of relying on liberalism and conservatism as the sole engines of forward motion that progress in America is stuck, stalled, that America is in stalemate. But stalemate means collapse, because societies need ongoing tending and cultivation, just like a garden. Yet maybe no further progress is possible at all, without a genuinely social democratic movement. And whether or not the Democratic Socialists are such a thing still remains to be seen — because they seem to be focused more on pie-in-the-sky ideas than simply proposing an American NHS, BBC, or retirement system, imitating what works, improving upon it. That’s OK — they’re young, and they haven’t studied the world enough yet. Time will tell if that familiar American arrogance comes to be their undoing, too.

The lesson is very simple. Liberalism versus conservatism ends in collapse, via stalemate, not progress. It’s one of the most fundamental myths that we believe, perhaps, is that progress is only ever the result of these ideologies “compromising”, or “battling”, or “debating.” But it’s not true. Liberalism and conversatism do indeed compromise — in fatally impoverished ways. By making it impossible for people to make shared investments, for societies to measure anything other than money, by assigning life, work, being, no inherent worth, purpose, or meaning, they reduce and abstract away what matters, and privilege and protect exploitation — of people, of democracy, of nature, of the future, of life — and in that way, settlements between them are compromised things to begin with. Both are altogether too comfortable with, reliant on, exploitation to be engines of prosperity in a century where abundance can no longer come so easily from exploitation. All that is what the American example proves, in no uncertain terms.

The greatest discovery of the 20th century was social democracy. Prosperity with a minimum of exploitation, of violence, of domination. All those things are human moments, chances, possibilities, that can be put to better, wiser, truer use. It is just that simple. That insight, that breakthrough, is what made decades of peace, progress, and stability possible, and led to the highest living standards in human history. Yet it’s equally great lesson, which we are still struggling to learn, wasn’t that the future is made by pitting liberalism against conservatism. It was that the future is made by transcending both, and building societies that can invest in themselves, in order to overcome and undo the old ways of violence, dominance, and control, with true freedom, equality, and worth.

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aiimaginesbts · 7 years

Text

Race Against Time: Chapter 5

Jungkook feat. Reader and the rest of BTS

Genre: Angst, Thriller, Darkfic

Warning: This fic is about murder cases, and may include some graphic imagery. Please read with caution.

Word Count: 3,893 words

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | Epilogue

Disclaimer/Copyright

The ringtone of your phone, soft as is, is jarring on Jungkook's ears the morning after consecutive late nights. It's extremely frustrating, but the cool time between their serial killer's attacks is the only window of opportunity that they have to analyse the cases. Not that it's doing them much good.

The motive of the murders are still unknown. None of the victims have anything in common other than the fact that they were girls from the same university who decided to spend one night outside. The buddy system is clearly not a deterrent for their killer, as each time he strikes, a pair of poor girls are abducted only to be killed, one after another. His first victim of every pair didn't stand a chance, losing their lives immediately only to become a tool at his disposal; a map for Jungkook and his team to use in maddening, fruitless attempts to find the other girl.

Yet the first girls are not as pitiful as their partners. The former at least died swift deaths, while the torture their friends had to go through was prolonged and excruciating. Jungkook can't help thinking that it is his fault that they all died. That his incompetency is the reason that more has to be sacrificed for a mysterious purpose, and the previous girls' deaths are in vain because he hasn't managed to get even one step closer to the murderer. While the first girls were impeccably clean save for the numerous amounts of clues left behind for Jungkook, the second girls were found in the most horrible states; dirty, worn, sometimes mutilated, with nothing useful to find off of them beyond their IDs. It is sad – and frankly, sickening – to think about, but their bodies have been damaged, destroyed by the elements, and as far as the autopsies can tell, provide nothing to point to the person that led them to their demise other than having the same Taser marks that clues Jungkook in on the method used to subdue them.

No, if there is anything to be found, Jungkook is certain that it lies with the cleaned, untainted bodies of the girls who were killed first. Their earrings, all different and still unknown if the victims had owned the jewelry or if they came from the killer. There is no doubt that they were clothed by him – the chances of two girls wearing the exact same white shirt and shorts are very small, and they're now talking about four girls. Four girls. Four cases. Eight victims in all. Jungkook has sighed as he looks over the photos and clues over and over again, only coming to a dead end every time.

Sleep deprived and grumpy, Jungkook groans and lifts his pillow to flip his head underneath it, trying to ignore the jostling of the mattress as you move sluggishly to reach towards the bedside table to grab your phone. Every night he comes home late he finds you still awake, greeting him with a smile. You insist that you're only staying up because you have a lot of work to do, but he knows you by now. He wishes that you won't worry about him so much, but that is as impossible as it is for him to stop mulling over his cases until he gets to the bottom of them. From beneath his eyelids, he can tell that the sun hasn't quite risen, yet it's already warm, a warning of the scorching day this is about to be.

"Hello?"

"Mm-hmm. Wait, calm down." Despite craving for a little more sleep, Jungkook can't help half-heartedly listening to your conversation, even if he can only hear your side of it.

"What?!" The loss of grogginess in your voice is accompanied by an increase in volume, making him jump and sit up, knocking his pillow onto the floor. He looks at you with curiosity and finds that your eyes are already on him, wide and panicked under furrowed brows.

"I'll tell him to go over right away."

As soon as you hang up the phone, he pounces on you. "What was that about?"

"It's Jimin," you say, already coaxing him to get off the bed and get ready. "He found someone dead in his parents' backyard."

Jungkook is relieved to see that the neighbourhood is sparse of people when he and his team arrives. Since the first case, this string of murders has received a lot of attention, which mostly impedes their progress and puts that much more pressure on them to solve the cases. However, he knows that this lull in the surroundings won't last very long. Already some neighbours are gathering around Jimin's childhood home, no doubt roused by the chaos happening at the back of the house. If this is the work of their killer, the clues need to be collected and analysed immediately, not simply because a bigger crowd will only cause a distraction, but most importantly because it means that there is a girl who will die unless they can get to her first.

Being torn between hope and dread is an awful feeling. If he strikes again, perhaps Jungkook can get one step closer to end this, but the cost of a life is just too high a price. However, it's not like they have a choice, as Jungkook looks down on the dry earth of the backyard already roped off by one of the officers, there is no doubt that this dead girl is the ninth victim of this cruel murderer.

All the tell-tale signs are there; the miraculously clean body despite being laid upon the ground, the same loose white shirt and blue shorts and bare feet. As Namjoon and Jin, who arrived moments after Jungkook did, crouch down with gloved hands to examine the body better, Jungkook's eyes are drawn to the earrings that are attached to her earlobes. He has seen those bright blue glass globes before. Heart thudding loudly, he takes several steps away, waving off Namjoon's call for him to dig in his pocket for his phone. Trying to calm the unease growing inside him, he dials your number and taps his foot on the ground as he impatiently waits for you to pick up.

"Hello, Jungkook? Aren't you supposed to be at a crime scene?" Your surprised voice greets him without preamble.

"Yeah, I'm here right now, but I had to call you," he says mysteriously, holding back on his words simply because he doesn't know how to say it.

"Is there something wrong?" The concern that immediately colours your voice is unmistakable to his ears. He desperately wants to reassure you but how can he, when he's full of worries and doubts himself?

"I just want to make sure you're okay." His relief when you picked up the phone is fast dissipating. "Maybe it's better if you stay at home today."

You hum an assent without asking him of his motives. "Ga-In and I are planning to discuss some of our research work today. I suppose I can ask her to come over instead of meeting at the university."

Your easy agreement with his wish makes Jungkook feel a little better. There is never any doubt in you that he is always looking out for you, and will always clue you in when it's the appropriate time to do so. "Just make sure that you don't let anyone you don't know in. One more thing."

"Hmm?"

"Do you still have those earrings you got when we went to Venice?"

A momentary silence ensues on your end of the phone as you put two and two together. "They were still there the last time I checked," you answer carefully. "I'll look again and let you know, okay?"

Jungkook nods before remembering that you can't see him. "That would be great, thanks."

Before he can hang up, you continue, "I don't know if this is of any help, but if you remember correctly they're not that expensive."

"They're not that common here, either."

"You're right," you agree with a small sigh. "I'll call you back after I check. Good luck babe."

By the time Jungkook returns to the heart of the crime scene, Hoseok and Yoongi has already arrived and everyone is waiting for him to inspect the body as well as the clues before everything is bagged and tagged. In the deceased girl's hair is a white flower, about five centimetres wide, with five round petals above five spikier-looking white petals underneath. Another locket is strung around her neck, holding coarse brown powder that looks suspiciously like dirt.

"We think he stuck something inside her mouth again," Namjoon informs Jungkook before he can ask about the final clue. He nods, a signal for Jin to open her mouth, which the zoologist does with a small shudder. As they have suspected, Jin carefully fishes the discovery inside another bag and narrows his eyes at the specimen.

"Is that another larva?" Jungkook asks, memories brought back to the horrible chase near the river that ended in futility.

At Jin's nod, Yoongi groans as he sets up his field testing kit. "Don't tell me we're going to have to search in the damn rivers again."

Yoongi's complaint is met with a rueful smile from Jin. "No, no, these don't live in the water. They –"

"Mind if I run this sample right now?" Satisfied that they won't have to look in an impossible location again, Yoongi addresses his question to Jungkook, shaking the locket. "I'm sure you know that we don't have all day."

Ignoring Jin's puff of his cheeks at being cut off by Yoongi, Jungkook nods his approval before turning back to the others. Hoseok is already bursting with the information that he has to share, so Jungkook motions for him to start. "This is aquilegia pubescens, or more commonly known as alpine columbine. There's no mistaking it. However..."

"What is it?" Jungkook prompts, knowing that it can't be anything good.

"They're usually found on open, rocky slopes, really high up."

The news of a possible trek in rocky terrains immediately makes the whole team dispirited, until Jin interjects. "I don't think we'll have to do that. These larvae is from a hawk moth," he points to the brown insect dotted with white spots along the length of its body, "it burrows into the soil to pupate, and there can't be a lot of that on a high rocky mountain, can it?"

"I agree with Jin," Yoongi adds as he concludes his test. "This is soil from a forest. It's quite acidic and very organic, probably due to leaching of calcium carbonate and clay."

"So she's probably somewhere in the forest," Namjoon suggests.

"She might be near the base of a rocky slope," Jungkook concludes.

"I've been studying the flora of the county since I've been invited to work with you, and there's only one place that can house these flowers anywhere near the ground," Hoseok announces proudly. "It has to be Holling Forest. It's about a half hour's drive from here."

"Let's move out then," Jungkook commands, then remembers something important. "Have you seen Jimin, the man who made the report?" He asks one of the officers.

The younger man shakes his head, looking very concerned himself. "By the time the first officers arrived, he'd already left. But his parents are inside the house."

After thanking him, Jungkook rushes into Jimin's childhood home. It's a place Jungkook had been to many times before as a youth, and the familiar scenery gives him a pang of regret at not visiting for so long.

"Mr and Mrs Park, I'm sorry to see you again under these circumstances." Those are the only words of greeting he can offer the two people he is so fond of after such a long absence. Fortunately they are understanding and mostly too shaken to give him any sort of reprimand, but the only information they can offer of Jimin's whereabouts is that he left looking distraught after finding the body and making the report.

Deciding that time is of the essence, Jungkook can't waste it on finding Jimin and ultimately joins the others to head to the forest after ordering the officer he spoke to before to find Jimin. The speed with which they deciphered the hints left behind for them gives Jungkook a little hope, but he should have known that things will not continue so smoothly. A mere five minutes has passed when they get stuck in a traffic jam, sandwiched between other cars that leaves them no choice but to wait until the accident ahead is sorted and cleared up.

It is already about two hours since they found the body when they finally reach the edge of the forest. Scores of tall trees loom before them, as if daring them to enter and explore the depths before the limited time granted to them runs out. Jungkook is more than aware that the window given to them to find the next victim grows narrower with every case, and it's with that reminder in mind that he pushes forward, leading the search and rescue teams north.

"Why are we heading this way?" Jin asks, puffing behind Namjoon, whose long legs allow him to keep up with Jungkook's determined pace.

"Chances are she's near a rocky slope, right? That's this way," Jungkook points to the direction they're heading towards. "We will walk there and spread along the base of the mountain to search for her."

Most of the hike is silent, everyone conserving their energy and channeling it into their steps, growing closer and closer to the base where they split into two groups and walk in opposite directions. Even Hoseok and Jin, the talkative two are quiet so that the only sounds that greet Jungkook's ears are the twigs breaking under their feet and soft noises made by the inhabitants of the forest that cannot be seen. He wonders how Yoongi and Namjoon are faring in the other team.

It was thankfully only a short while later that they see the answer to their prayers – a small wooden cabin, a scant few meters away from the slope. The area seems deserted, but there is no telling if there is anything – or more importantly, anyone – inside the cabin.

"Should we call out to see if anyone is inside?" Hoseok suggests, sounding a little timid and unsure of himself.

Jungkook tries to weigh his options as he circles the perimeter of the structure. It only has one door and two windows, both boarded up, effectively preventing them from assessing the interior. So far the killer has left the girls for dead, not bothering to remain to observe their demise. If the second girl really is inside, she is most probably by herself, although he has no idea if she is gagged to prevent her from making any noise.

"Is anyone in there?" Jungkook finally decides to throw caution into the wind by calling out. They have no time to lose. If the second victim to the kidnapping this time around is in the cabin, they need to rescue her before whatever time-based contraption that the murderer has set up gets in motion.

Jungkook's shout is met by a momentary silence. Then –

"Oh my God, is someone there? Please help me, I'm trapped inside!" A frantic female voice answers. The members of Jungkook's search team look at each other with shock and jubilation. This is the first time they have managed to discover the victim still alive.

"Is there anyone with you?" Anxiousness is imploring Jungkook to make a move, but he knows that he needs to be cautious.

"No, but I'm tied to a chair so I can't move. Please, please save me!" With that, she bursts into terrified sobs. He can feel the eyes surrounding him zero in on him, waiting for him to dole out his orders.

"The only entrance is the door, Agent," one of the men confirms Jungkook's findings.

"We're running out of time, aren't we? We should go in and save her. I don't see any point in waiting," Jin pushes.

Neither does Jungkook, but something feels off.

"Something smells weird," Hoseok points out.

"It's kerosene," Jungkook surmises. The odour is certainly out of place in the forest.

"Maybe the owner of this place uses it to light fires," another of the men hypotheses.

Tilting his head up, Jungkook is inclined to disagree with the idea as he cannot locate any chimney, but everyone agrees that the only step they can take to rescue the girl in time is through the door. Still ill at ease, he holds his gun at the ready and twists the doorknob. It is surprisingly unlocked, so he pushes it hard, opening it wide with a loud slam.

A sharp click followed by a small bright light greets their eyes mere seconds before their senses are suddenly assaulted by scorching heat, vivid colours and blinding smoke. Somehow a fire has started the moment Jungkook opened the door, covering every inch of the room and going beyond it to the other one. Even as he coughs from the acrid smoke and his eyes water and narrow, the pained, shrill screams coming from the room opposite the one Jungkook is facing pushes him to move forward. However, he doesn't make it two steps before strong hands grab his shoulders to pull him back out of the cabin.

"Let me go! Can't you see that she's burning to death inside?!" Jungkook channels his anger, frustration and guilt towards Jin, who looks just as surprised and overwhelmed as he is, but with enough sense to stop him from barelling into the roaring flames.

"Are you crazy? The whole place is already on fire! There's no way you can reach her!" Jin counters.

He is right. With Jin's strong arms joined by Hoseok's, Jungkook can do nothing but watch as the two men pull him away from the blaze that is already growing out of control. His eyes take in the floor of the cabin which is curiously lined with a carpet that is of an indistinguishable colour. Of course. The kerosene that Hoseok noticed has probably been left to slowly soak into the carpet from a container inside, and Jungkook would bet anything that the material extends into the other room. If they had arrived sooner, perhaps not as much fluid would have spilled, the fire wouldn't have raged so much so quickly and he could have rushed in to save the victim. But they are, once again, too late.

The other team arrives not long after, but without the proper gear necessary they are helpless against the building inferno. None of them expected to encounter such a situation; anticipating to find a thirsty, lost girl wandering around the forest at best and a dead body at worst, most of them are only equipped with water and first aid kits. As they wait for the firefighters to arrive, they can only discuss the latest development in hushed voices while watching Jungkook fume with anger.

That bastard knew that this would happen. The killer set Jungkook up for this. Knowing that he will lead the search and rescue team, as the lead investigator, he has to be the one to open the door. To set off the trigger for the flare that started the fire. To cast the weight of her death upon his shoulders. This is personal. Jungkook has suspected so for a while, but now he is certain.

The realisation causes him to jump with the reminder that he is concerned about you as well, and he desperately takes his pocket for his phone. As expected, the great outdoors doesn't provide a cell signal, but at some point you've left him several missed calls and one message, which he taps open at once.

"Both my blue Murano glass earrings and the diamond earrings you bought me are gone. Ga-In is here and Jimin also stopped by so I should be fine, but please call me back and tell me what the hell is going on."

Like a light switch finally being flicked on in a pitch black room, everything starts to make sense. The studs similar to the ones you used to wear in school. The elegant silver ones that adorned your ears the night he danced with you at prom. The gold earrings he thought were unusual, a gift from your parents when you were accepted into a prestigious university overseas that delighted you. You had worn earrings either close or identical to the ones found on the first girls found in each case, all of whom were dressed in a similar fashion to yours, especially at home; light-coloured oversized shirts paired with comfortable shorts. A mockery towards Jungkook, a way to tell him that her attire in their private home is no secret to the killer from the start.

Only one person, other than Jungkook, has the ability to know such details about you, dating back to your school years. With that, the locations start to make sense. All the information I need do lie with the first victims, Jungkook realises.

"Is something wrong?" Namjoon voices his concern, mistaking thr look of intense concentration on Jungkook's face as frustration and anger towards himself. The assessment isn't very far off, but Namjoon probably can't even begin to guess the full reasoning behind Jungkook's shaking body as he pieces the puzzle together before jumping onto his feet.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

Jungkook ignores the confused shouts and calls, quickly growing fainter as they are slow to move after being shocked by his sudden departure from the scene. His steps are even wider and faster than before although he is fatigued by the exhausting and maddening day, and when he meets the firefighters as he finally approaches his car, he doesn't waste much time talking to them, only giving them the necessary details to get to the fire before throwing himself inside the vehicle.

Only thoughts of you fill his mind as he races home. It takes Namjoon several tries before his call is answered by Jungkook. The small team that Jungkook has assembled has scrambled to follow him back into the city, but lost him on the way. Trying to keep the panic out of his voice the best that he can, he informs Namjoon that you may be in danger, and that he is heading home right at that moment.

Namjoon promises that they will get there as soon as possible with directions from Yoongi, but when Jungkook arrives, he doesn't wait for them before entering. The deceptive impression of safety that the front door offers is short lived when he finds that it is unlocked. A horrible sight meets him in the living room where he has spent many hours conversing with you over the hot beverages you made him; the body of a pretty girl with short black hair and slashed throat laying on the floor. If Ga-In is dead, that means you...

Even if he knows it's useless, Jungkook frantically searches his own home, yelling your name over and over again, heart thundering in his ears. As he has expected but unable to accept, you are nowhere to be found.

#networkbangtan #bts writing squad #btssunshinenet #armiesnet #hyunglinenetwork #noonanet #bangtan bookclub #jungkook angst #bts angst #jungkook scenarios #bts scenarios #race against time

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sheikah · 7 years

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Jon needing to be saved tim and time again Stannis, Crasters wife, Sansa and LF, Sandy, Benjen is too just overdone. Basically like a damsel in distress because it were a woman, people would have been saying exactly this. They always put him in these situations, same as Jon will die or won't die?

I don’t mind the moments when Jon needs other people to help him. I think that he does so much good for others that when people help him it’s just fine. And I couldn’t think of anyone less a damsel than my boy Jon Snow.

So here we go, you didn’t ask for this but you’re going to get it. All of the times Jon Snow either shows he is a strong ass dude who can take care of himself and/or the times Jon does genuine good for others that earn him a little good karma and assistance.

This will strictly refer to the show!Jon since anon is bringing up some examples of Jon being “saved” that we don’t know will take place in book!universe (Sansa/LF, Benjen, etc).

Jon grows up in a household full of people he can nevertruly feel a sense of belonging with. He loves his father and siblings so muchbut Catelyn and (we are to assume based on her insistent apology in 6.04) Sansa make sure he is aware that he is one apart from them. So one would understand if maybe Jon turned out to be weak or bitter. But he’s not.

He is driven from his home as a teenager,sent to live in one of the most inhospitable—and we later learn, dangerous—placesin the world. Yes, he’s a bit of a shithead at first when he’s there but he quicklylearns his place and makes friends with his brothers. The real reason I bringup his early time at the The Wall is because we get to see the strength of Jon’scharacter very quickly when he defies Alistair Thorne, putting his own statusthere in jeopardy, just to defend his friend, Sam. That takes its own sort ofbravery.

At the end of the first season after Ned is killed Jonalmost deserts The Wall so he can fight at Robb’s side. He knows theconsequences of being a deserter. Our first scene with Jon shows him watching abeheading of a deserter. He knows that he will be on the run forever and willhave to hide his identity, but he is perfectly willing to ruin his own life totry to help his brother.

In season 2 when he ranges north of The Wall with hisbrothers he is separated from them with Qhorin Halfhand and falls upon thegroup of wildlings. Jon is expected to execute Ygritte but he doesn’t, becausehe thinks for himself and sticks to his own ideals. He knows early on that itisn’t right to kill someone just because they were unlucky enough to be born northof The Wall. He defies his superiors again, again to help someone else.

When he is taken prisoner by the wildlings he followsthrough with Qhorin’s plan to stage a fight, and as Qhorin orders, Jon killshim. This is a man Jon admires, his ally. This was likely incredibly difficult buthe does it to keep them both from dying as wildling prisoners so that someonecan get back to the Watch and deliver news of what they’ve discovered.

Then Jon manages to ingratiate himself to the wildlings andbecome one of them. And while to some extent it’s an act so he can get back toCastle Black alive, he also genuinely likes the wildlings and develops realrelationships with them and a real appreciation for their spirit and way oflife. Even so, he never forgets his duty and almost dies getting back to TheWall to report back to his Brothers.

He doesn’t lie about breaking his vows and sleeping withYgritte. He could. There aren’t any wildlings at Castle Black to contradict isstory. But he is open and honest with Thorne, Maester Aemon, and the othersbecause Jon is an honest person and someone who always takes responsibility.

He takes some men with him back north of The Wall after hisreturn to avenge the mutiny at Craster’s Keep. He is under no obligation toundertake such a task and the party of men to go with him is small. Doing thisagain signifies Jon’s principles and sense of justice. He does not leave theresponsibility to someone else but takes it on himself at great personal risk,and he is successful.

When the wildlings assault Castle Black Jon fights peoplewho were his friends, and he fights bravely. If it wasn’t for his warnings tohis Brothers, his battle strategy, and his own fighting prowess, one couldargue that Castle Black would have fallen to the wildlings’ greater numbersthat day.

He then travels north of The Wall again to face Mance man-to-man and try to treat with him, knowing that to do so is likely suicide. I can’tstress this enough. In what way is this kind of courage indicative of a “damsel”character?

When Stannis’s men apprehend the wildling forces and attempt to burnMance at the stake, Jon Last of the Mohicans their sadistic asses and shootsMance to end his suffering. Once again, what a badass. He has just witnessedfirsthand what Stannis and Melisandre are capable of, and still put himself onthe line to save his friend from a tortuous death. I mean???

Also in season 5, Jon is elected Lord Commander. He hasrisen through the ranks from being a simple bastard, barely more than a child,to the leader of a force of men that protects the entire realm from thegreatest threat it has ever known. He of course, like literally ANY human, hadhelp along the way from others, but no one gavethis to him. He earned it, and did the job well—though not well enough toplease all of his Brothers (but more on that later).

While serving as Lord Commander Jon brought about the mostradical reform in the history of the Night’s Watch. He travelled north of TheWall to Hardhome with Tormund to treat with the last of the wildling forces.This scene shows us the depth of Jon’s courage when he killed a White Walker insingle combat and evacuated thousands of wildlings to safety so that the NightKing didn’t have a total victory that day.

He actually brought wildlings through the gates and intosafety despite intense protest from his Brothers. Once again, Jon put himselfin harm’s way to help other people. And of course, as we know, this cost himhis life. Literally. Thorne and the others murder Jon for what they considertreason to The Watch.

When he is brought back, Jon is given literally no time tograpple with what has happened to him. He has died and seen that there is noafterlife. He is visibly extraordinarily shaken by this incident and wantsnothing more than to leave The Wall and find peace somewhere else. But thenSansa arrives and we get another example of Jon putting his personal wellbeingsecond to assisting others.

He even tells Sansa that he has spent his entire lifefighting and is tired. But he agrees to help her take Winterfell back from theBoltons and in doing so takes part in an extremely dangerous battle where theodds are stacked soundly against them. This, as we know, starts off with Ramsay’ssick game in which he murders Rickon right before Jon’s eyes. This causes Jonto abandon the battle plan and the pincer maneuver as he rushes headlong into acolumn of armed cavalry.

Is it ill advised? Yes. Is it an emotional decision on hispart? Yes. But is it cowardly, inept, or something that makes him a “damsel”who needs saving? No. I believe strongly after having watched 6.09 severaltimes now that even if Ramsay had not pulled his stunt with Rickon and Jon’smen had followed their original battle plan verbatim, they still would have lost to Ramsay’s superior numbers and clearlyvery well-trained army without the assistance of The Vale.

So I guess you could make the argument here that the men ofThe Vale had to “rescue” Jon like a damsel in distress character. But Idisagree. This is one of the big issues that I have with season 6 and with therelationship the writers created between Jon and Sansa. Sansa knew that she hadLF on her side and the Vale’s army at her disposal, but she chose to hide thisfrom Jon. So I feel this is a matterof viewer perspective. You say Jon needed to be rescued because he is a damsel.I say Jon would not have needed any help and thousands of men could have livedinstead of died on that battlefield if only Sansa had been honest with him. Iknow that Sansa has been hardwired not to trust anyone after all that hashappened to her throughout the series, but we even heard that she trusts Jonwhen Brienne asks her about it. In the now famous scene where Briennehilariously calls Jon “brooding.”

And she had plenty of opportunity to put that trust inJon and tell him about LF. The writing in this part of the season was verystrange to me. We saw scenes, such as the one where Jon receives the letterfrom Ramsay, where Sansa was treated with respect and allowed to speak freelyand say her piece among his men and advisors. When they went around the Northasking the Stark bannermen for assistance, Sansa was by Jon’s side, treated asan equal, freely allowed to speak with these lords and try to win their favor.At no point do we see Sansa silenced by Jon or Davos or Tormund, etc. Yet onthe eve of battle, their dialogue suggests that Sansa has been given no chanceto warn Jon of Ramsay’s trickery or to tell Jon that she’s got an ace up hersleeve, that if they wait just one day, the numbers will be on their side andtheir chances of victory will be far better with LF’s army.

Instead they have a yelling match in the tent during whichSansa cryptically tells Jon not to do what Ramsay expects him to do, and leavesit at that. If she had told him that she has this other force coming their way,then things could have been different and no one would have needed saving inthe first place. I don’t feel that the events of 6.09 are the result of Jon’sown failings or something that required him to be saved as if he is a helpless,damsel character. What I think actually happened in that instance was thewriter’s doing a huge disservice to Sansa’s character–one of the smartest women and most adept survivors in the show–by making her withhold importantinformation with no real good reason that we can see, resulting in anear-disaster that simply made better suspense and good TV for the viewer because it caused the battle to be more dire for our heroes.

And as far as Benjen is concerned, the wight hunt in general seems, from what we know, to be a very foolhardy endeavor but a necessary one nonetheless. It is just another instance of Jon walking into danger to do what MUST be done. It is conceivable for not only Dany but the rest of the southron lords to need proof in order to be invested in the Great War, and someone needs to get that proof. We have seen at Hardhome just how devastatingly powerful the WW army is, and Jon faces their horde with only a handful of men. That is incredibly brave and yes, I am glad that Benjen intervenes to help him in this crucial moment.

But overall, for every person who has ever come to Jon’said, he has helped more people. He is a physically and mentally strongcharacter who still maintains his conscience and kindness in a cruel and twistedworld. Jon Snow is by far my favorite character and I will continue to love himforever, and hope that people save and help him, as he saves and helps others.Because he is the glue holding all of our favorite characters together, andwithout him, we would be watching a very different, and frankly not asinteresting show.

I think what would be boring and unwatchable would be if Jonnever needed help. If he was this impossibly perfect hero figure who not onlyalways saves the day, but is always moral and good, always does the rightthing, always looks fuckable, is a sex god who goes down on women unprompted,always treats his family right … doyou see what I’m saying? He has to mess up sometimes to be human We all needhelp sometimes, even Jon Snow. And I don’t think that makes him like a weak character as you suggest. I don’t think that at all. If anything I thinkit is more progressive in terms of gender tropes for Jon to need savingsometimes. So I don’t really know what prompted this ask, anon.

#jon snow #jon snow meta #game of thrones #got #answered

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vincentbnaughton · 7 years

Text

Renovation Adventures With an Old Detroit Home

Amy Haimerl and her husband, Karl, bought a gorgeous, dilapidated home in Detroit in 2013 - just six weeks before the city declared bankruptcy.

It was a low point for the area, marking a tragic confluence of decades of job losses with an economic hammer blow from the housing crash. The result was thousands of abandoned homes, overwhelmed police, overflowing uncollected garbage, and streetlights that were rarely on.

Amy and Karl had recently moved to Michigan from New York City. Rather than go back, they found hope and inspiration in a historic home they call “Matilda,” and amid Detroit’s bulldozing and rebirth, they rebuilt the home. We chatted with Amy about her book chronicling the experience, “Detroit Hustle: A Memoir of Life, Love and Home.”

In the book, you make clear your love of your former Brooklyn neighborhood, Red Hook. You thought you’d return there after your fellowship at the University of Michigan. How did you choose Detroit instead?

What we loved about Red Hook was the community that we’d built there. It’s this post-industrial fishing village on the edge of New York City that has been forgotten about. It used to be the crack capital of America, and it’s risen to be this really beautiful and amazing community of people.

Red Hook is really hot right now, one of the “it” neighborhoods. But when I got there in 2007, it wasn’t that yet. It was this beautiful cast of characters who were iconoclastic and committed to each other.

When I got the fellowship at the University of Michigan, we left thinking that obviously we would come back. And then Hurricane Sandy hit, and devastated Red Hook in particular. I was a little nervous about what happens when it floods again.

It was a difficult decision, but we started exploring Detroit. And my husband really fell for the city, more so than I did at first. Once we found the crazy house, that sealed the deal.

The way you describe Red Hook when you lived there sounds a little like Detroit.

I always say that Red Hook is Detroit writ small: similar demographics, similar abandonment and disinvestment, similar tight-knit community, and a similar chip on our shoulders.

There’s a little bit of a chip on the shoulder here in Detroit, too, about newcomers and everybody wanting to study the city. There’s a huge population here - a middle-class, primarily African-American group - that didn’t leave the city when they had the opportunity, when everybody told them they should. Their stories get ignored. I try to be very clear that we are newcomers.

You had reservations about the cost and effort of renovating Matilda. What led you to go for it?

The best way I can describe it is when you fall in love with somebody, you just sort of know. There’s no great explanation. We’d looked at other houses, and there wasn’t a lot coming on market that was “move-in ready,” which at that time in Detroit basically meant it had power and water. When we saw Matilda, we just walked in and she felt right.

Photo of Jack Cat courtesy of Amy Haimerl

Everything was dim. There was mold everywhere. There was water running through the ceiling in places. I was kind of talking to the house and saying, “All right, are you our house?”

All of a sudden the streetlight turned on, which was amazing at that time. And then a giant white cat walked across the roof. [Editor’s note: Jack Cat, as the couple affectionately calls him, became a regular visitor.]

For some reason, the cat felt like a sign. And then this guy came walking across the street, telling us about how he [renovated] his house 15 years ago, and it’s going to be no problem.

We know that the house used to be owned by Arthur and Nona Herzog. Arthur wrote “God Bless the Child” with Billie Holiday, and my husband’s a jazz pianist - as a hobby, not as a profession - and I started to feeling all these signs and serendipitous moments.

You have a relationship with Nona, although you never met her.

She was, in many ways, the guiding voice in my head during this renovation. So many of our neighbors were really good friends with her, and one of them in particular has told us stories of Nona’s garden - she loved roses and peonies - and her great laugh.

As I struggled through the renovations with either a decision or feeling overwhelmed, Nona was sitting there with me. I had conversations with her about what we were doing, and [asking if they] were the right choices.

Walk us through the shape that Matilda was in when you found her. What was missing structurally?

Everything. I mean, we basically rebuilt the house inside three walls. I can’t even say four walls, because the south wall was stucco, and the stucco was sloughing off. There were no pipes, so it needed all new plumbing and all new electrical, all new heating - a new furnace, all the ducting.

Haimerl taking a break from tearing down the termite-infested back porch in 2015. Photo courtesy of Amy Haimerl

We had to buy all new toilets. We had to buy all new sinks. We had to buy all new kitchen appliances. We had no interior doors. We had to buy light fixtures.

Everything that you walk into a house when you buy it normally and you’re like, “Maybe I would like a prettier one someday” - yeah, there was none to begin with.

How much does a project like this cost?

We bought the house for $35,000, and we have about $400,000 in rehab costs. Had you told me that when we first started looking at Matilda, I would have thought you were crazy. We thought we needed about $130,000 to do the rehab. That was barely enough to start dealing with the mechanicals.

As we learned, the cost of renovation is about the same anywhere in the country, plus or minus 10 percent. There is no “you live in Detroit” discount at Home Depot.

We’ve been criticized for spending that money in Detroit, as if Detroit isn’t worth investing in. But it is to us. And maybe others could rebuild a house themselves for less - and that’s amazing! - but this wasn’t a DIY-level project for us. It’s a 100-year-old historic home we were trying to rebuild for the next 100 years.

So we worked with amazing contractors who are Detroit natives - Cal and Christian Garfield. I am the daughter of a small excavator who taught me never to be cheap. Always pay a fair price for quality work, because it saves so much money in the long run.

The money will sound crazy to some, but for us, our monthly carrying costs are less than they were in New York, and we get a beautiful home in an amazing community.

Photos courtesy of Amy Haimerl

What’s your favorite part of the home?

The salvaged wainscoting from an old local church is really amazing. It’s this deeply arched, almost Gothic paneling that the church had in its gallery. Even though it’s not original, it brings an extra level of history to the house.

The church was scheduled to be demolished, which is why we were able to get a bunch of doors and the wainscoting. And then it wasn’t demolished; it actually burned down under somewhat sketchy circumstances.

I was so glad that we were able to save these pieces, and yet it was like: this city has been scrapped. So many people have just come in and taken things - either souvenirs, or copper to sell, or whatever - for their own profit. That made it feel weird, but I’ve made my peace with it. Our Matilda has a piece of that Detroit history in it, and that’s really special to me.

Has Matilda been worth it? Would Nona love it?

I lost one of her prized rose bushes, so she might not be happy with me about that. We had to take the fence down to be able to get some stuff into the backyard, and the roses did not survive.

But absolutely, the house has been worth it for Karl and me. We love it. We love Detroit. We are not here to flip this house. We’re here as long-time community members.

This is where we plan to live our lives, to grow old, to retire. And so whatever we put into it, that was an investment in our lives and our community, and being a part of this wonderful place that is Detroit for the long term.

Understanding the Fine Print on Historic Homes

How to Budget for Home Renovations

How to Build a Home Renovation Team You Can Trust

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garynsmith · 7 years

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Renovation Adventures With an Old Detroit Home

http://ift.tt/2n8C0ft

Amy Haimerl and her husband, Karl, bought a gorgeous, dilapidated home in Detroit in 2013 - just six weeks before the city declared bankruptcy.

In the book, you make clear your love of your former Brooklyn neighborhood, Red Hook. You thought you'd return there after your fellowship at the University of Michigan. How did you choose Detroit instead?

What we loved about Red Hook was the community that we'd built there. It's this post-industrial fishing village on the edge of New York City that has been forgotten about. It used to be the crack capital of America, and it’s risen to be this really beautiful and amazing community of people.

Red Hook is really hot right now, one of the "it" neighborhoods. But when I got there in 2007, it wasn't that yet. It was this beautiful cast of characters who were iconoclastic and committed to each other.

It was a difficult decision, but we started exploring Detroit. And my husband really fell for the city, more so than I did at first. Once we found the crazy house, that sealed the deal.

The way you describe Red Hook when you lived there sounds a little like Detroit.

I always say that Red Hook is Detroit writ small: similar demographics, similar abandonment and disinvestment, similar tight-knit community, and a similar chip on our shoulders.

There's a little bit of a chip on the shoulder here in Detroit, too, about newcomers and everybody wanting to study the city. There's a huge population here - a middle-class, primarily African-American group - that didn't leave the city when they had the opportunity, when everybody told them they should. Their stories get ignored. I try to be very clear that we are newcomers.

You had reservations about the cost and effort of renovating Matilda. What led you to go for it?

The best way I can describe it is when you fall in love with somebody, you just sort of know. There's no great explanation. We'd looked at other houses, and there wasn't a lot coming on market that was “move-in ready,” which at that time in Detroit basically meant it had power and water. When we saw Matilda, we just walked in and she felt right.

Photo of Jack Cat courtesy of Amy Haimerl

Everything was dim. There was mold everywhere. There was water running through the ceiling in places. I was kind of talking to the house and saying, "All right, are you our house?"

For some reason, the cat felt like a sign. And then this guy came walking across the street, telling us about how he [renovated] his house 15 years ago, and it's going to be no problem.

We know that the house used to be owned by Arthur and Nona Herzog. Arthur wrote "God Bless the Child" with Billie Holiday, and my husband's a jazz pianist - as a hobby, not as a profession - and I started to feeling all these signs and serendipitous moments.

You have a relationship with Nona, although you never met her.

She was, in many ways, the guiding voice in my head during this renovation. So many of our neighbors were really good friends with her, and one of them in particular has told us stories of Nona's garden - she loved roses and peonies - and her great laugh.

Walk us through the shape that Matilda was in when you found her. What was missing structurally?

Everything. I mean, we basically rebuilt the house inside three walls. I can't even say four walls, because the south wall was stucco, and the stucco was sloughing off. There were no pipes, so it needed all new plumbing and all new electrical, all new heating - a new furnace, all the ducting.

Haimerl taking a break from tearing down the termite-infested back porch in 2015. Photo courtesy of Amy Haimerl

We had to buy all new toilets. We had to buy all new sinks. We had to buy all new kitchen appliances. We had no interior doors. We had to buy light fixtures.

Everything that you walk into a house when you buy it normally and you're like, "Maybe I would like a prettier one someday" - yeah, there was none to begin with.

How much does a project like this cost?

As we learned, the cost of renovation is about the same anywhere in the country, plus or minus 10 percent. There is no "you live in Detroit" discount at Home Depot.

The money will sound crazy to some, but for us, our monthly carrying costs are less than they were in New York, and we get a beautiful home in an amazing community.

Photos courtesy of Amy Haimerl

What’s your favorite part of the home?

The salvaged wainscoting from an old local church is really amazing. It’s this deeply arched, almost Gothic paneling that the church had in its gallery. Even though it's not original, it brings an extra level of history to the house.

The church was scheduled to be demolished, which is why we were able to get a bunch of doors and the wainscoting. And then it wasn't demolished; it actually burned down under somewhat sketchy circumstances.

I was so glad that we were able to save these pieces, and yet it was like: this city has been scrapped. So many people have just come in and taken things - either souvenirs, or copper to sell, or whatever - for their own profit. That made it feel weird, but I've made my peace with it. Our Matilda has a piece of that Detroit history in it, and that's really special to me.

Has Matilda been worth it? Would Nona love it?

I lost one of her prized rose bushes, so she might not be happy with me about that. We had to take the fence down to be able to get some stuff into the backyard, and the roses did not survive.

But absolutely, the house has been worth it for Karl and me. We love it. We love Detroit. We are not here to flip this house. We're here as long-time community members.

Understanding the Fine Print on Historic Homes

How to Budget for Home Renovations

How to Build a Home Renovation Team You Can Trust

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danielgreen01 · 7 years