#also in true Pride fashion - we added the flags

[salmonwentmissing]

What if Lance went on tour after the war by himself, but Keith joined and they started a routine together?

Based on this from 2017

[holykillercake]

Hazy Justice - 03

01 02 03

🇨‌🇴‌🇵‌!🇸‌🇲‌🇴‌🇰‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇽‌ 🇲‌🇮‌🇱‌🇮‌🇹‌🇦���🇷‌🇾‌🇩‌🇴‌🇨‌🇹‌🇴‌🇷‌!🇷‌🇪‌🇦‌🇩‌🇪‌🇷‌

word count: 2.5k

summary: After eight years serving your country in a war, you returned to your hometown as the new head of Trauma Surgery in one of the best hospitals in the country. You were expecting a calmer life now, but suddenly you see yourself choosing between your brain and your heart, light and dark, justice and evil.

highlight: ¨You looked like millions of dollars, and you felt like millions of dollars.¨

warning:  Use sunglasses. Too bright.

notes: .Dear comrades, it has been a while but it's finally here! With new characters and lots and lots of threads.

🇱‌🇪‌🇦‌🇻‌🇪‌ 🇨‌🇴‌🇲‌🇲‌🇪‌🇳‌🇹‌🇸‌, 🇭‌🇪‌🇦‌🇷‌🇹‌🇸‌, 🇦‌🇳‌🇩‌ 🇱‌🇴‌🇻‌🇪‌!

¨Hello...¨ you were instantly greeted by the tingling doorbells that let the owner know whenever a client entered the establishment. 

Your eyes traveled to the half-moon bar where the slim and tall woman leaned casually, cigarette adorning her elegant fingers. Her eyebrows raised as she took in your figure, double-checking if you were not someone else.

¨Oh! Y/N-chan, is that you?¨

¨Shakky!¨ she made her way out of the bar to hug you ¨It´s so good to see you! You haven´t changed at all!¨

Her kind chuckle made you feel like a kid again, and you couldn´t stop yourself from tearing with the nostalgic feeling.

 ¨Thanks, Baby. Now you,¨ she put her hands on your shoulders and opened a distance, eyes examining you like a mother hawk ¨you look tired. Eight years in war made you no good.¨

You nodded and laughed ¨I guess we can put it that way.¨

¨Come, treat is on the house.¨ 

Clapping your hands, you followed the lady towards the bar. ¨So, where´s Rayleigh-san?¨ 

¨He just left, but it shouldn´t take long. He´ll be happy to see you, Y/N-chan.¨

The circumstances that connect you to Shakky and Rayleigh go way back to decades ago when your parents were still alive. By that time, all you knew was that they were friends, people you could trust. You were not allowed to ask more questions about their jobs, and you couldn´t find a suitable answer with the information you had. 

They were always on the road, visiting only once in a while. They would bring incredible gifts from various countries and discuss ¨adult matters¨ with your parents while Crocodile helped you with homework. 

Whenever you brought up your curiosities to your brother, he would say that they talked about the war, and you were too young to hear such things. Crocodile was also not allowed in the room, but he´d always peer into the conversation through the ventilation ducts. 

If he´s saying, it must be true.  

Since your dad was a Lieutenant Colonel, there was always the possibility of his unit being requested to offer back up or engage actively. You never minded it, though. He had already been sent to a lot of dangerous missions, and he came back every single time. He was strong and invincible. He would always return to his family. 

Well, that was true until the day you found your mother in the kitchen, breaking in tears, holding a smudged letter in her hands, together with your father´s dog tag. 

You stared at her and your brother, blinking in the hope of seeing what was wrong. The woman at the kitchen table did not look like your mother. She had no sparkle in her eyes or pride in her chest.

On the contrary, thick and dark tears fell from her eyes, blurred from the makeup that always accentuated her piercing gaze. Her lips were not curved in the tender smile she used to carry. Instead, she bit her lower lip so hard that you could almost see blood staining her pink lipstick.

¨Dad´s not coming home.¨ was all Crocodile said.

That was not the time when things got completely off track, but it was a significant change in your family's life. The government offered a military pension and a country flag for the services provided by your father. However, you had to be transferred to the Commercial District, where your mother worked as an archivist at the Ohara Institute of Historical Research. 

¨Y/N?¨ you heard a male voice call, making you turn. 

Your eyes shifted between the two male figures standing at the door. ¨Rayleigh-san!¨ you shouted like a kid seeing Santa Claus at the shopping mall ¨Smoker!?¨ this one came out more like a question. 

¨You have grown, little one!¨ he patted your head like old times. ¨Maybe my white hair makes sense. I´ve aged!¨ he laughed cheerfully, and Smoker tilted his head. 

¨Finer than wine!¨ you giggled, then turned to the other white-haired man, cheeks blushing ¨This is, uhm... I swear I´m not following you.¨ 

¨Oh, you two know each other?¨ Shakky asked, adding two more old-fashioned glasses on the counter. 

¨We´re neighbors!¨ 

¨That´s great! Come, we have a lot to talk! Today is on the house!¨ Rayleigh shouted similar words as his wife. You wondered if that was the synchronization of personalities or if the alcohol he had prior was impairing his judgment. 

Shakky decided to close for the day, wanting to spend as much time as possible in your company. The clock seemed to have stopped while you were drinking, eating snacks, and catching up on years of conversation. 

It was funny how sometimes it felt like a ping pong game between you and Rayleigh. Every so often, the conversation would turn into matches of him serving shots of military-wise improper questions and you backhanding with ¨That´s classified information, Rayleigh-san.¨.

Did he have a poor memory or all those years of scotch and cigars in your father´s office taught him nothing? Either way, you were having too good of a time at that table to worry about his faulty memory. 

¨Are you sure you´re neighbors?¨ Shakky asked with a playful grin ¨You seem to know nothing about each other.¨

¨I would say that´s a pretty sharp point.¨ you answered in the same lighted tone. 

¨Tight schedules, I´d say.¨ Smoker added, shifting on the couch.

¨But it looks like you´re free today. How about dinner? Four of us, our house, like old times Y/N.¨ Rayleigh seemed too keen on this, and you wondered if he was trying to set you up on a date. 

¨Well, as much as I would love that, I´ve got plans for tonight.¨ 

¨Let me guess,¨ Rayleigh created a tension ¨classified information?¨ 

You laughed loudly at his stupid joke. It was a predictable Ray-san ice breaker, but you couldn't help yourself. This man was a blissful delight. 

¨Much to your content, tonight´s plan I´ll be able to spill.¨ you teased him ¨I´m having dinner with Crocodile tonight!¨ 

What happened after you pronounced those words would have gone unnoticed by someone inattentive. It felt like a slight change in the air, like those quiet moments before a bomb exploded, when the clock stopped ticking. 

You didn´t have the chance to question before Shakky took the wheel. 

¨That´s great, Y/N!¨ her elegant hands embraced yours, affectionate and caring ¨Did you see how much he´s changed?¨ 

¨Uhm, actually,¨ you blinked, focusing back on the conversation ¨it´s the first I meet him in... eight years.¨ 

The tightness you felt in your chest almost made you tear, and the woman saw it. Her eyes carried a hint of compassion... or pity. 

¨You miss him a great deal, right, Baby?¨ 

¨Yeah...¨ you shrugged ¨he was out of town when I arrived, so I only got the chance now. But how´s he doing? Did he change a lot?¨

¨Oh, baby, it´s been a while since we met. He´s a busy man, you know.¨ 

Your brows raised, then furrowed, and you had a perplexed smile hanging on your lips. You would not have believed those words if they hadn´t come directly from them. 

¨Oh, wha- well, I´ll¨ a nervous laugh left your mouth ¨I´ll drag him by the hair, then! Busy man, bullshit! He used to bug mom and dad all the time, asking why you guys couldn´t live with us!¨

¨Don´t stress yourself over that, Y/N.¨ Rayleigh said with his gentle smile.  ¨He runs a lot of businesses, I´m sure he would drop by more if he could.¨ 

Shakky nodded¨And, it´s your first time in the Light District, right? Was that the only district you haven´t lived in yet?¨

¨That and the Noble District, obviously.¨ you rolled your eyes.

¨You lived in all other districts?¨ Smoker asked after a silent moment in the conversation.

¨Yeah, long story and not that interesting. You´d be bored, trust me.¨ 

¨It´s rather difficult to find someone who lived in more than two districts, so I´d like to hear that.¨ 

¨Alright, but don´t say I didn´t warn you.¨ 

You peeked at your wristwatch, running some basic math in your head and deciding that it was time to go if you didn´t want to be late for dinner. Your lips twisted in a pout, and your expression dropped a little for having to leave this fantastic moment.  

Surprisingly enough, leaving them was not as difficult as you imagined. Maybe because they reminded you that you could visit them anytime now, or because you did not want to act like a crybaby on Smoker´s car. 

He said it was also about time for him to leave and offered you a ride back home. You would not have to take the subway and would get the chance to know him better.

 A win-win situation. 

The first minutes were a bit silent, but after you asked him if he should be driving since he had quite a lot to drink, he responded with an awkward stuttering that was rather charming. The conversation that followed was smooth as you realized he was way easier to talk to than you imagined. 

Smoker was respectful, always making sure that it was ok for you to talk about your past while sharing some things about his life as well. Inside of that car, he almost seemed like a different person. His brows were not furrowed ad his voice sounded relaxed. 

The ride ended too fast for your liking, and you saw yourself waving goodbye when deep down you wanted to ask him to stay for a coffee. Unfortunately, you couldn´t, maybe some other day. Now you had to make yourself presentable to meet your other half, your brother. 

                                                            ...

The Light District was nothing like you had seen before. The entrance was marked by a gigantic golden arch, which carried an equally shining bell.

Tall palm trees swayed in the cool breeze, tinged with orange by the sunset. Luxurious establishments, whose signs began to be lit, occupied both sides of the clear sidewalk. 

From a distance, you could see the tip of the Ferris wheel of the Sora park. It did not spin due to the recess, but the lights remained on. The roller coaster that had been the cause of the accident was surrounded by tall metal poles, being repaired for the reopening of the place.

The driver Crocodile sent to pick you up lowered the window so you could enjoy the view to the fullest. Your hair started to fly in the wind, and a delicious smell of butter invaded your nose. The restaurants had already begun to heat up the pots to receive their customers.

The Light District was projected to offer convenience to the ones who were willing to pay the price. Therefore, all that was best was located in Eldorado Avenue, the main passage that extended for kilometers like a luxurious and soft red carpet. 

¨We are approaching the hotel, miss Y/N. Sir Crocodile awaits for you.¨

¨Uh...¨ you murmured, amazed by the view. 

You squinted when something reflected in your eyes, catching your attention, and a gasp got stuck in your throat when you spotted the famous Hotel Verde.

 Well, it was impossible not to notice it. 

First of all, it did not look like a hotel. It resembled more a small town. Even taller palm trees guided the way towards the entrance, both sides occupied by ponds and tropical plants. The building stood tall like a lighthouse and at the top rested an enormous golden statue of the reptile that represented its owner.  

You did not wait for Daz, the man your brother chose to escort you, to get out when the car stopped. You put yourself out as soon as the limo parked in front of the main stairway. After so many years without putting on a heel, maybe you would accept a hand to go up the stairs.

Your hands smoothed the dark green silk dress that dragged on a short tail, courtesy of Crocodile, along with shoes and jewelry. You looked like millions of dollars, and you felt like millions of dollars.

When the valet took the car somewhere else, Daz put himself beside you, offering you his arm. Your heart pounded like the Ox Bell at every step, and you breathed through your mouth, trying to keep your cool. 

You saw various types of people coming in and out of the hotel, all of them embellished with jewels and shiny tackles like Christmas trees. Each and every one exalted wealth and power, with their nonchalant glares and pointed noses. Your gut twisted, remembering Shakky and Rayleigh´s words, wishing Crocodile hadn´t turned into someone like them. 

The long stairway was divided in the middle by a golden rail, separating who went up from who went down. That might have been the reason why the man coming down your way caught your attention. Or perhaps it was the weight of his gaze, hidden by the reddish specs. His blonde hair and skin seemed like gold, the pink suit looked orange-ish due to the sunset, and his wide grin made you quiver. 

He walked with two men by his side, freeing the way for him. At some point, no one dared to come close to the stairs. It was only the five of you. 

¨Daz!¨ the man, who seemed more familiar now, exclaimed ¨I wonder who´s the person that would make you leave your boss´back.¨

He approached you, hungry gaze brimming on his tongue. He was tall and seemed even more as he closed the distance. 

¨Not even the luxury dolls get to be escorted.¨ he gently took your hand and kissed your knuckles with delicacy. 

You weren´t convinced by his gesture. If anything, you felt bothered to see him disrespecting the house´s rules, as if that disrespected you directly. ¨Tell me, dear, what is your name?¨

¨If you wish to know something from someone, it is more appropriate to introduce yourself first.¨ your voice came out indifferent and a vein popped on his forehead before breaking into laughter.

¨Fufufu I can´t say you are wrong!¨ he leaned back, large hand on his stomach. ¨I´m Donquixote Doflamingo. It surprised me that you couldn't put that together. Now tell me, doll, what do they call you?¨

You sighed and looked around, spotting a figure at the top of the stairs that lifted your mood and gave you all the strength and confidence you needed to end the conversation. A smile grew on your lips as you turned to Doflamingo, eyeing him with nothing but the will to leave. 

¨They call me Lieutenant-Colonel Y/N L/N, Division Surgeon of the Army. Or just LT Colonel L/N if you prefer.¨ you offered him a respectful nod before turning your attention to the man who waited for you with a smile on his face. ¨Now, if you excuse me, Mr. Donquixote.¨

[violetwolfraven]

Peace and Joy

@spot-king-of-brooklyn I’m your secret Santa! @newsies-secretsanta

You said your favorite ships are sprace and/or javid and you’re good with pretty much anything so I’m gonna write two separate vaguely holiday-related oneshots in the reincarnation AU. Don’t worry though nothing heavy, just fluff. No COVID because I’ve had enough of that dude and I say so. Enjoy! Happy Holidays!

Tw: referenced past period-typical homophobia.

...

Spot couldn’t remember being this happy... ever. Not in the early 1900s or in the early 2000s.

Well, the closest he could think of was 1902, when he and Race moved on from being newsies and from being leaders of their respective boroughs and rented that old apartment in Brooklyn together. But that had been muted by the need to be careful. They couldn’t be normal young people in love because they always had to hide.

And that was fine at the time because it was expected. It was them doing whatever it took to be together not knowing they’d ever get the chance to do it another way.

Now, in the bright, beautiful, forward-thinking 21st century, they could be safe. They could be in love without fear of the consequences. They could go out Christmas shopping together, and Spot didn’t know if that counted as a date, but it kind of felt like one as he watched his boyfriend bop a little to Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas Is You as he looked around.

He ended up having to look away before he started blushing too hard. Even if he wasn’t the King of Brooklyn this time, he still had a bit of a reputation as a stone cold badass. For all he knew, one or more of their more mischievous friends could be spying on them right now. And besides, this thrift store probably had stuff he could get the few Brooklyn kids who’d come back, too.

He was still deciding if Hotshot would think it was funny if he got him a tank top that said ‘hot stuff’ on it. The others would find it funny, but Spot honestly wasn’t sure if it would make his former second uncomfortable.

“Hey, Spottie, ya think my little brother would like this?”

Spot turned back to see Race holding up a bright purple worm on a string, but a giant version of one. One that was big enough to be a scarf.

“Knowin’ your family,” he admitted, “I think any of ‘em would be happy to get one of those.”

It was true. Honestly, the most sensible Larkin brother was the second-oldest, Crutchie, but Spot could still see him proudly wearing a worm-on-a-string-scarf to school after winter break ended.

Besides him, Medda, Race’s mom, tended to embrace whatever unique fashion choice she could find. And Jack, of course, didn’t let being the oldest of four stop him from being a theatrical little shit who liked drawing attention to himself.

And Romeo was somehow even more eccentric than Race, so he would definitely like that thing.

Race grinned, “I’m gonna get Ro a worm scarf for Christmas.”

“Your family is ridiculous.”

“Thank you. So, what’re ya gettin’ for Denton?”

Oh, shit. Spot had completely forgotten about getting anything for Denton.

He really should get something for him. After all, the teacher hadn’t even known Spot when Jack asked if he could stay with him. All he’d needed to know was that Spot needed a place to hide from his terrible parents and couldn’t stay with the Larkins, mostly because Medda had a strict rule about her boys’ partners sleeping over unless it was absolutely necessary. (it was also because Spot couldn’t think of anyone he’d want to live with less than Jack Kelly, but Denton didn’t really need to know that, did he?)

So far, Spot’s parents hadn’t shown any signs of missing him, and Spot couldn’t decide if that hurt or not, but it barely mattered anymore.

Because Denton didn’t really have any rules beyond ‘do your homework’, ‘take a shower occassionally’, and ‘if you leave the house, let me know where you’re going.’ He helped Spot pick out a Halloween costume, let him spend Thanksgiving with Race, and gave him money for Christmas shopping. He was fine with Spot being gay and having a boyfriend, even if there was an added rule with that of ‘you can’t have the door closed if you’re alone in your room with Race.’

He gave Spot space, but also made it clear that he could come to him for anything he needed help with. He never hit him, never pushed when Spot wanted to be alone, never even raised his voice unless they were in an already-loud room and he needed to get his attention.

In short, in only a few months, he’d become the best adult Spot had ever had in his life. He wasn’t his father, but he was closest thing Spot had ever gotten to a dad.

The Denton they’d known in their last life had been kind of like that, too. He’d helped as best he could whenever one of the newsies got into trouble, always being there for anyone who needed him since Kath first introduced her new reporter friend to her newsie friends. Of course, Spot hadn’t been living with Denton then, so he’d never really thought about it.

“What do you even get a middle-aged man for Christmas?”

Race shrugged, “Power tools?”

The idea of getting Denton power tools was so ridiculous that they both laughed.

“Uh... he’s a writer,” Race pointed out, “So... fancy pens?”

“Fancy pens? We’re at a thrift store, Racer.”

“Well we don’t gotta stay here forever. There’s a Barnes and Noble across the street.”

He wasn’t wrong about that, but Spot wasn’t sure about the whole ‘fancy pen’ thing. It seemed a little generic.

“Yooooo! Spot, check this out for Jack!”

He was holding up a bright blue sketchbook that said ‘Sketchy Bitch’ on the cover.

“Oh yeah, ya definitely have to get that for Cowboy.”

Spotting (no pun intended) something else on the shelf behind him, Spot grinned.

He had the perfect thing to get for the man who’d taken him in.

...

“This is gonna be so fuckin’ awesome.”

Davey snorted, “You’re way too excited ‘bout this, Jackie.”

He loved his boyfriend, but he had a tendency to get overenthusiastic about things.

Well, he loved that about Jack, too. And he loved being able to call him his boyfriend, now. That they didn’t need to hide this time.

He and Sarah had both been a little worried about their parents’ reaction, but it had turned out to be for nothing. They’d each gotten a t-shirt with their respective pride flag for the first night of Hanukkah, and Jack and Kath were always welcome to come over as long as at least one parent was home.

Davey loved Jack just as much in this lifetime as he had in his first, but it was different, not having to hide it. It was good different, but definitely different. Being able to be who they were and be in love and knowing that it was generally frowned upon to be homophobic now, at least where they lived.

And being able to do random shit that was romantic and fun as hell, but not something would even occur to most people to do.

After a sleepy conversation once Crutchie, Race, and Romeo had fallen asleep watching White Christmas (which Davey appreciated for the choreography in the dance numbers) one time about how there weren’t really any Hanukkah movies, Jack had collaborated with Kath to write a lesbian Hanukkah musical romcom to post to YouTube.

Objectively, it wasn’t that great. It was good for a movie made by a bunch of high school juniors, but they couldn’t afford good cameras or microphones or anything. Plus, it was appealing to a very niche audience, so Davey doubted this movie would get more than twenty views.

Still, it meant a lot that Jack was so excited about it, that he was working so hard on props and editing in the lighting and music for it so Kath and Saz could play Jewish lesbians fake-dating at a holiday party who fall in love. It was cute.

“It ain’t gonna win any awards,” Jack admitted, “But I think we’s got somethin’ good here!”

“We do,” Davey agreed.

Was he actually talking about the romcom starring his sister and her girlfriend? Partially. It was a pretty good movie for something produced by teenagers.

But they had something good there that wasn’t on the screen of Jack’s laptop, too.

Jack seemed to share those thoughts, with the way he was smiling.

“What’s with the look, mi amor?”

Davey rolled his eyes as the other boy put his arm around his waist.

“Like you don’t know, love,” he chuckled, “Remember the last time we did somethin’ like this? And by ‘we’ I mean ‘you.’”

“Shh,” Jack shook his head, “Nope. We don’t talk about the latkes incident.”

“You mean when you almost burned down our tiny little kitchen trying to—“

“We don’t talk about it!”

Davey laughed. It was funny, how Jack couldn’t, in any lifetime, cook anything more complicated than like... chili or stew. While he could make something edible, he couldn’t make anything that was really considered good.

“Davey, love, luz de mi vida, it was literally over a hundred years ago, so stop. Bringin’. Up. The. Latkes. Incident!”

He punctuated the sentence by hitting Davey with one of his mom’s throw pillows.

“Okay, Jackie, I get it! Stop hitting me!”

“Fine,” Jack grinned, “I ain’t almost burned down a kitchen in over a century, babe. I thinks that’s a good record to have.”

“Most people never almost burn down a kitchen,” Davey pointed out, “I know I—wait, did you just call me ‘babe’?”

Jack was definitely not meeting his eyes to try to hide how he was blushing, “Uh... is that okay?”

Davey smirked. Jack didn’t get flustered that often, but it was adorable when he did.

And even if he had almost burned down their apartment, it had been cute back then, how he’d tried so hard to try to do something nice for Davey for the holiday season. It was cute now, too.

That was one thing that hadn’t changed through the decades, he guessed.

“It’s definitely okay, babe.”

...

“Spot, is this a... ‘Best Dad In The World’ mug?”

“...if you cry, I’m outta here.”

[perish-the-creator]

Promotion

Continuation of Rodorah Stockholm:

Part 1

Part 2

Rodan looked around the room that morning as Ghidorah got himself dressed. Each head heavily focused on making sure not a wrinkle was in sight. Rodan was curious as to where Ghidorah went all day. What did they do? How did they get money to buy everything? Kevin saw Rodan starring with curiosity and winked at him. 

“If you want to shower you can.” He explains, feeling a bit bad for having Rodan’s only means of cleaning himself being a bucket of lukewarm water and a small bar of useless soap. Rodan gets out of the bed and starts to go into the bathroom but stops midway.

“Which towel-”

“Just grab any of them,” Ichi responds without turning to look at him. He was too busy making sure his tie was nice and even. “Just remember to hang it up when you’re done.”

“Oh okay.” The Latino bird nods and steps inside the bathroom. It felt almost alien to be inside the pristine white presence of the room. The smooth tile floor with the clear glass of the shower. There was also a huge tub; like an indoor hot tub. 

Rodan lifted the blue shirt over his head but stopped when he heard the small snicker of Ghidorah behind him. 

“Don’t mind us,” Ichi speaks with a voice that’s smooth like lava. “Just here if you need help.”

“I know how to use a shower.” Rodan joked as he threw the shirt on the ground. He hadn’t realized how cold it felt in there. Had his skin allowed it he would’ve had goosebumps. He steps into the walk-in shower before taking off his underwear. Luckily the shower had a wall that hid the lower part of one’s body from those who’d enter the bathroom. 

He turns on the water and a moan of relief and bliss leaves him at the sensation of the hot water. Oh, how he missed this. He kind of stands down running his hands up and down his body to soak in the joy of the heat. He completely forgot he was bathing in the presence of Ghidorah. But the three-headed being didn’t mind. Watching the beautiful creature get lost in fulfillment was a treat. It made them want to take off their suit and join him, but they held themselves back. They prided themselves on being gentlemen after all. Sure, they murder and steal and kidnap, but they were gentlemen through and through. Besides, if they force themselves upon Rodan there was a chance he’d likely lose all that trust they spend months gaining.

Rodan realized he had forgotten to get a towel but luckily Ghidorah threw him one. Rodan thanked him and began to bathe himself. The soap was unlike the cheap stuff he used to buy. It felt like soothing hands massaging him the entire time. And the smell was sweet yet not overpowering. 

Ghidorah decides to leave him be and gather some clothes up for him. Maybe begin writing a list of orders for him as well.

When he finishes cleaning himself, Rodan leaned forward and let the water run down his back. He slowly thinks of those awkward times in his teens. The mistake of sharing that bath with...

He throws it out, his heart beating hard again. No need to think of that fool. He broke his heart. The water is turned off and Rodan steps out of the shower, grabbing the towel neatly placed for him. He dries himself off before looking in the mirror. His reflection stared back at him with such an odd look in its eyes. Fear, confusion, desperation, love, and hope all glared at him before Rodan rushed out the bathroom. 

On the bed were the clothes laid out for him. A light red tank top with some greyish basketball shorts. He blushed a little at the Mexican flag decorated underwear. But still, the gesture was the kindness he had expected from Ghidorah. 

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

Ghidorah stood in the kitchen with each head consuming something different. While Ichi drank coffee, Ni was busy sipping on tea and Kevin helped himself to some orange juice. Rodan stepped into the area cautiously. He hadn’t been in a real kitchen for a while.

“I wrote down a list on the table for you,” Ichi tells him and guides him there. “We’ve decided that you’re allowed to stay up here from now on, but, you have to be a good boy and do some chores.” 

“What kind of chores?” Rodan asked with a raised eyebrow. He caught glimpse of those three sets of eyes roaming his body as if he wouldn’t notice. But he was slightly flattered by it.

“Nothing too major. Just cook. Clean a bit. And not answering the door unless it’s us.” Kevin spoke but made sure to add a threatening growl for the last part. His brothers side-eyed him. Kevin’s been starting to lose his cool all too easy now. Too quick to threaten straight out rather than slowly scare his victims like the other two. 

Rodan gulped a little and picked up the paper. Simple enough. Sweep the floor; wipe the counters, cook them dinner, don’t open the door or let anyone know he was here. Simple enough. Though he was curious as to why the last part. 

Eventually, Ghidorah left and Rodan tried to watch him through the windows, but again they were extremely tinted. Sighing, Rodan went to go look through the cabinets to see what he could possibly prepare. 

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

“Do you want your lungs to become punching bags, punk!?” Kevin snarled, saliva dripping from his snarl. The poor target whimpered and shook his head. Ichi and Ni watched at the utter unprofessionalism of it, but they’d address it afterward. 

“My brother’s threat will come true if you do not hand over those $500 to us at this moment,” Ichi responded calmly. “I’d hate to have my suit covered in such low-level blood.”

The man shook his head and fumbled to pull out his wallet. This is the last time he takes out money from and atm in public.  After he hands it over he is beaten senselessly. His nose was busted, eyes blackened,  and a few bones broken.

As they walked away, Kevin scolded his brothers. 

“You softies. What the fuck happened to you too. Don’t give me that gentleman bullshit I-”

“Do you not love Rodan?” Ichi asked, making Kevin pause. “Because if the feeling in our chest is all the same then you’d understand why we must not be complete brutes. When you get your own body go on and spill all the mindless bodies you want, but remember ever mess you make attracts the authorities. And what then? Well, we’d be imprisoned and our house raided. And who will those officers find in our house, hm?”

Kevin huffed and looked away. Yes, deeper and deeper he fell into those beautiful eyes of that sweet firebird. He wanted nothing more than to rule over his place with their precious love beside them. But god he missed the rough days. The bloodshed. Even before Rodan came into the picture his brothers began calling themselves “proper men” and how they must be more elegant with how they go about killing and robbing. What does it matter how you do it? In court just because you slit one guy’s throat and decapitated another won’t change the fact that you killed folks; murder is murder damnit! At least let him have some fun with it.

But he doesn’t protest and they go about the rest of their day of stealing and killing with a “proper” fashion. 

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

Rodan was proud of himself as he tasted the sauce. The ground meat was seasoned just right and the beans were boiled to perfection. He used to make this all the time.

Just on time, the door opens and Ghidorah enters. Rodan smiles and starts to set up their plates. He excitedly sets the table, pours them some drinks, and put together their food. 

Ghidorah ignored him at first, walking down to the basement in an almost angry way. Rodan felt a bit of dread overcome him for a brief second. And the dread grew when Ghidorah held some of his older clothes to him with an offbeat expression. 

“I-”

“Do you like these clothes?” Ichi asked. Rodan shook his head no. With a grunt, Ghidorah stomped towards the bedroom. Rodan just at the table, not taking any bites of his food until Ghidorah settled down. 

What he didn’t realize was that Ghidorah was up in arms because of him. They had seen missing posters and ads litter parts of the town. Clearly, the people looking for him haven’t given up. So, Ghidorah needed to make them lose hope. Perhaps destroy and scatter his clothes will make it seem like he’s been murdered. Yeah, that’ll make them stop looking. 

[pbpress]

Untitled

By Katie Langlitz

It was a regular weekday school night.  Mom was on the couch, watching whatever reality TV show or true crime documentary that had her attention at the moment, waiting for dinner to finish, and I was pacing the kitchen tiles, without much intent, my attention bouncing from her show, to my phone, back to her show.  This particular program followed the lives of rich Southern millenials—and the scandals that come with a precious family legacy to preserve.   As the cast idled around their mansion’s halls, the camera panned over a portrait of a man, most likely some ancestor of theirs.  It held my attention.  I had seen it before.  I knew I had, but I didn’t have time to deliberate.

My mom switches the program, flickering through until she lands on a news channel.  She lingers for a moment.

“Hey, have you heard about this?” My mother waves the remote at the screen: a water crisis in Flint, Michigan.  Apparently, children throughout the city were suffering from mysterious illnesses and rashes, possibly linked to untreated tap water.  No, I hadn’t.

The portrait forgotten, moments later I was on my laptop, beginning my descent into the tragedy in Flint:

In April of 2014, Flint switched from water purchased from Detroit to water pumped through the Flint River that runs through the city to save money while officials waited for a new pipeline from Lake Huron.  Law-mandated chemicals controlling lead erosion had not been added to Flint’s pipes when the city switched to Flint River water, causing lead to break off, traveling through pipes into families’ homes.  The Michigan Department of Environmental Quality, as it was called at the time, told Flint officials that anti-corrosives were unnecessary, and a decision on whether the water was safe to drink could wait for another year.  In essence Flint residents could drink possibly unsafe water for a whole year before officials were even willing to evaluate the situation.  The result: in addition to disease-causing bacteria and carcinogens, which can cause cancer, Flint’s drinking water was flooded with lead.  Brown, filmy water smelling like sewer and mysterious rashes breaking out on children’s skin soon brought Flint residents to town hall meetings with grievance.  

Lead is an irreversible neurotoxin; no amount of it is safe.  There is a lead-crime hypothesis that argues lead exposure triggers impulsivity, social aggression and even attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) in children and thus causes delinquency and violent crime.  Despite data collected by a concerned, local pediatrician revealing children in Flint were experiencing high levels of blood lead, authorities didn’t act.  They accused her of fabricating reports to create baseless hysteria.  It was not until outside researchers from Virginia Tech. conducted intensive research on the city’s water that the state admitted there was a problem, over a year later.  In early 2016 the then Governor of Michigan, Rick Snyder, announced 87 cases of Legionnaires Disease, a type of pneumonia caused by bacteria, and 10 deaths linked to the water crisis in Flint.

I was stunned.  This violation of human rights in Flint and the lethargy of government officials—it was comic book level villainy.  How did something like this happen, in America, with something as essential to life as water?  That seemed to be what everyone was asking.  The EPA, United States Environmental Protection Agency, blames state officials for not following protocol mandating anti-corrosives, and the state blames the EPA for not enforcing federal policy.  While politicians continue to point fingers at each other, a larger crisis sits at the center of the Flint water tragedy: racial bias, which is really a euphemism for systematic racism.  

Wait.  Before anyone rolls their eyes and pulls up their blinders, some historical context:  Flint shadows the place it used to be.  It used to bustle with a wealthy, urban core, booming with motor industries, but like many other Midwestern cities, was ravaged by abandonment.  During the 1960’s General Motors, which was worshiped like religion by locals, relocated, and the city suffered subsequent economic depressions.  Today, the population is lower than it has ever been since the 1920’s.  Flint is also 57% black, 4% Latino and only 37% white.  40% of residents live below the poverty line, and although Flint is not quite as segregated as other cities like Detroit or Chicago, the black and Latino population suffer this poverty disproportionately.  To compare, the United States is 77% white, 13% black and 18% Hispanic or Latino, and only 12% live in poverty, according to censuses from 2018.  

Now this crisis doesn’t seem so mysterious; the reason why I’d never heard of it isn’t as elusive.  The NAACP, or National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, spoke on this issue.  The NAACP is the civil rights organization that championed black empowerment throughout the 1900’s, accredited for winning the 1954 Supreme Court Case Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka that ruled racial segregation “inherently unequal” and overturned previous decisions disenfranchising blacks after the Civil War.  According to a CNN article, in 2016 the NAACP said of Flint, “Would more have been done, and at a much faster pace, if nearly 40 percent of Flint residents were not living below the poverty line? The answer is unequivocally yes.”  We all know it, too.  If the same lead-laced water threatened a predominantly white, above the poverty line—not even upper class—community, there wouldn’t have even been a crisis.  The issue would have been resolved before it reached the home of children, before it would kill innocent residents and sicken dozens more.

The injustice seen in Flint is occurring everywhere, everyday across America in less televised but just as obscene ways.  Look at death row statistics.  Account for variables like the number of victims, murder brutality, and we’re still more likely to convict someone for murdering a white person than a black person.  Young black, American males are at same risk for gun homicide as nations with the highest murder rates in the world.  Blacks with a college degree are more likely to be unemployed than similarly educated whites.  When they are employed, blacks with a college degree are more likely than their whites to be underemployed for their skill level.  Then, inflating these issues, Congress has decreased anti-discrimination agency funding over the years, such as the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, which was established under the Civil Rights Act of 1964, one of the iconic civil rights bills Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. got passed through his nonviolent protests.  According to the US Census Bureau, “none of the 10 states with the highest percentage of Black residents provide these agencies with annual funding of more than 70 cents per resident per year… In some states… more taxpayer dollars are spent on the governor’s salary than on protecting millions of residents from employment discrimination.”  

After bingeing articles and documentaries on Flint, I felt slimy.  The violation of human rights in that city was perpetuated by racism.  Not the kind of racism we can see or hear; no N-words or confederate flags caused this.  (Though, ironically, Confederate flags are popular home decor amongst white residents of Flint.)  Systematic racism—the implicit and unconscious bias to value some people’s live more than others—did.  It’s a filthy realization to come to, full of shame and guilt, and we do all we can to blunt it.  Accepting systematic racism’s mere existence would admit our role—however small—in tragedies like Flint.  That’s why we’re defensive when we hear people talk of ideas like “systematic racism.”  Most of us pride ourselves on not being racist, on being better than our misguided ancestors so discovering we could be part of a system that perpetuates racism, being told we’re morally in the wrong, of course we want to deny it.  

And we do.  Even with disasters like Flint, we drown the guilt and hide behind those perky success stories, the ones you see on daytime talk shows and on college pamphlets, but they only dilute the truth.  Just because a youth choir from Detroit makes it to 2nd place on a national talent show doesn’t help the thousands—47%—of children who live in poverty in that same city, but it does sedate our conscience.  These stories tell us black poverty isn’t that bad: look at this one going to college, that one recovering from addiction.  

It’s the epitome of cognitive dissonance—the uncomfortable feeling when conflicting beliefs or behaviors collide.  In this case we are confronted with two realities of America: the one that upholds our founding fathers’ ideas of freedom and equality and the other that perpetuates injustice and hardship.  In true cognitive dissonant fashion we alter one of these realities to fit the other.  We ignore racial injustice—and deny ourselves a truly equal nation.  It’s ironic; to preserve the idea we have of America, we stop it from ever becoming that.  

However, the fact that TV programs exist solely to perpetuate these fairy tales of black empowerment reveal that this problem isn’t our fault.  Not entirely, anyways: “groups tend to be more immoral than individuals”—Martin Luther King Jr. writes in his “Letter from a Birmingham Jail”—, and this is a system, schemed with intent.  A system that encourages us to stay apathetic about racial injustice, that allows children to die from lead poisoning in the 21st century.  That’s the tricky thing about systematic racism: it’s perpetuated by apathy, by inaction.  That’s why it seems elusive.  Unlike with racism we can see or hear, we don’t know who to blame.  When someone slips the N-word or chuckles out a derogatory joke, we know who to point fingers at.  With systematic racism because it is not an individual person or isolated event, we have no one to attack.  It’s a system, and who do we blame for that?

That’s when I remembered the portrait from my mother’s reality TV show, the one about the wealthy Southerners.  John C. Calhoun.  If we ever charged someone with systematic racism, it’d be him.  He was our 7th Vice President, second to the infamously tyrannical and racist Andrew Jackson.  Amidst rising momentum for abolitionism in antebellum America, Calhoun performed his infamous “positive good” speech.  Rejecting the previous justification for slavery as a “necessary evil,” Calhoun defended his “peculiar institution” as a morally righteous crusade rehabilitating the devolved black race.  For example, he wrote, “in the course of a few generations it [the black race] has grown up under the fostering care of our institutions… to its present comparative civilized condition.”  To Calhoun slavery, thus, was an honorable institution founded on good will and charity that Southerners should defend against the treasonous Northerners with pride and dignity.  

He is the embodiment of systematic racism—and shows us why apathy is so dangerous.  Calhoun’s descendants, the kids on that TV show, didn’t seem like racists.  Privileged, sure, but not inherently evil people.  No one was waving Confederate flags or marching for white pride, yet their very existence preserves the legacy—the wealth accumulated, the hierarchy instituted—of slavery.  Emancipating blacks, establishing legal equality, founding empowerment agencies, although great feats, didn’t eradicate centuries of racism.  It didn’t dethrone the Southern oligarch.  A little slap on the wrist, a few elections diverted, and Calhoun’s fortune was allowed to survive—no, to thrive.  His still-wealthy lineage are proof that there are people in this 21st century that, despite not being racist, benefit from slavery.  If that sounds harsh, that’s because it is.  They didn’t chose their ancestors, sure, but they also don’t seem too ashamed of it either.  The man’s portrait is displayed in their home on national television for everyone to see.  Not to mention that they actually kept the family name, “Calhoun,” despite its connotations; ask anyone who’s studied American history what they think of when they hear “Calhoun,” they’re going to tell you one of two things: states rights, slavery or both.  Thus, his ancestors are ignoring the filthy implications of their family name.  Either that, or they’re blatant, white supremacy level racists, which not too many people are nowadays.  They stay ignorant and apathetic, and it’s apathy that protects the legacy of slavery, not racism.  Well, not overt, N-word, confederate flag racism—rather, systematic racism.

Despite how nonexistent it may seem in our everyday lives, how elusive it makes itself, because this is a system, it doesn’t matter where you live; you exist as part of it, and within this system, like all systems, there are two forces: the force that drives and the force that resists—the engine and the friction—, and because of the nature of systematic racism, simple apathy and inaction qualify as driving forces.  By not being an active counter force, you surrender your choice to be anything but the driving force spurring this institution of injustice forward.

Your ancestors probably didn’t single-handedly marshal the defense for slavery.  You’re probably not an active member of the Aryan Brotherhood, but just because you don’t have an obvious connection to slavery, doesn’t mean you get a moral freebie.  Martin Luther King Jr. wrote a letter to a group of 8 clergymen who contested that the battle against racial injustice should be fought solely in the courts, not the streets, denouncing King’s nonviolent protest.  To this King was compelled to write his famous “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.”  Throughout the letter King necessitates direct action as a means to racial justice.  Paralleling fundamental beliefs our founding fathers built this nation on, King writes, “One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws… “An unjust law is no law at all.””  In the context of systematic racism, we are not necessarily talking about statues, however, this same principle applies.  We—as in, the ordinary people living in this country—must, with a diligent moral compass, sift through the status quo to determine what is just and what is unjust.  Once we find injustice, we have a moral obligation to resist it—actively.  However, we cannot resist a system without first knowing it exists; admitting our role in systematic racism is uncomfortable at best, but that’s okay.  To quote King again, “constructive, nonviolent tension which is necessary for growth,” which he says his protests aim to create, “will help men rise from the dark depths of prejudice and racism to the majestic heights of understanding and brotherhood.”   We need tension in our conscience to realize, sometimes, what is right and what is not.  To confront a situation as it is, not as we wish it to be—even if it’s a little uncomfortable.

In the 21st century to be this active counter force which King calls for doesn’t necessarily mean you’re launching the NAACP 2.0.  It can begin by owning up to our cognitive dissonance, by accepting systematic racism as it is, by educating ourselves, by not being silent and by no longer staying apathetic. 

[hannahchronism]

i can do this tho!!

lo and behold, the origins of the Desert Deaths crew, before they were the desert deaths and before i even had a name for the desert deaths

this is absolutely focused on Tech because i was technically writing it for her and i was gonna post it but we all know i never finish anything, so, this is as far as it got (uneditted and posted for ur eyes to try and make sense of)

reminder this was like, mid 2014 so like, this some old shit in its first draft, don’t be rude about it

also this is where i stole foxtrot’s name from myself even though the characters are obviously not even slightly the same character

           The first thing she knew was a low rumble that rattled her bones like dice in a cup.

            She likened the feeling to a particularly awful hangover; she couldn’t even move or open her eyes.  She was, for the moment, relying on her ears to spell out the situation. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. Not only was there the rumble to fight with, but a pattern of pings and clunks periodically, as well as something else that added to the general din. It was like trying to hear something on a static radio channel. Eventually, her head cleared and whispers separated themselves from the white noise, but remained wholly unintelligible. If nothing else, she could identify four individual voices. That produced a very strong feeling of wrong. She lived alone, and none of the voices were in the least bit familiar to her. The rumble was still there, but as she listened, it dimmed to seem no more ominous or bone-shaking than a semi-distant background noise. She fretted over the presented facts, attempting to order them in some way that made sense. The rumble, the voices, and the stale atmosphere of the room she was in- none of it seemed to add up.

           With painful suddenness, she was jolted off and back down onto the ground, and thus provided a detailed map of every damaged inch of her body. She was littered with cuts from eyebrow to ankle, and dappled with just as many bruises and sore spots besides. She groaned loudly. Two of the whispers ceased immediately, the closer two, and a red flag was added to the growing barricade of them that she had begun collecting since reaching consciousness.

           “Ah- she lives,” an amused voice, none of the former whispers, sounded gently over her. With her head pounding away she thanked god it was velvet soft, with the added bonus of being thickened into caramel by a slight Hispanic accent  This sound brought with it the realization that her head was cradled in another’s lap, as if she had simply been sleeping. Had she been sleeping? If so, perhaps this was just the aftermath of a binge, presenting itself as a hellish hangover. She groaned again, cracking an eyelid to catch a look at the owner of the caramel sweet voice. Blurring into focus at a close proximity was a young man of around twenty with black hair, skin to match his voice, and a soft smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. He was handsome despite being marred by a distinctive scar that ran three vertical lines from the left side of his chin, over his lips, across his eye, and on to make three pale tracks through his left eyebrow. Her first thought was a Smiler had nabbed him, though the fact he still had use of his left eye (she assumed, as it was open and lacked any visible damage or discoloration) suggested a shallower blow that would be uncommon from a run in with the mutated beasts. Best guess said whatever had injured him had snared him by the chin and ripped upward, accounting for the way the lines were wider at his chin and close together, nearly touching, as they faded into his hairline. A splash of crimson in his dark hair, offset by the dull grey of the roof above him, marked him down as a killjoy and ally. “The others were betting you’d never open your eyes from your little dirt nap, Chiquita.”

           “I’m...startin’ t’wish I hadn’t...” she rasped. Dirt nap indeed. In comparison to his voice, hers sounded as if she had been gargling gravel recently. It seemed to her like she had been gargling gravel, as her mouth was dry and gritty, begging for a sip of something, anything, to relieve it.

           The young man hummed what sounded like an agreement, then, “Not gonna lie, hermana, I’m wishin’ ya hadn’t either.”  Rather than voice a response, she simply gave him a confused and questioning look, hoping to receive explanation. He leaned in closer, prompting her to turn her face away slightly, mildly unnerved. “I had a bet goin’,” he whispered, “that your eyes were blue.” Her first reaction was to roll her eyes, to scoff, and then she discovered that her ribs hurt when she laughed.

           As rapidly as it was inspired, her mirth subsided and was replaced with a grim sense of reality. Likewise, the smile on the young killjoy’s face vanished into a stormy sobriety. She didn’t have to ask to know where she was, to know what was happening. It was like her brain was still coming to terms with being conscious and the puzzle pieces were blurry- they could come together, but it had taken time.

            The nervous whispers, the rumble that surrounded them, the cornucopia of bruises on her own body and –now that she was looking for them- the neck and face of the young man who hovered over her all pointed at the truth. Still, she wanted, needed to be completely certain. She had every intention to press the subject, but for the moment she postponed the inevitable, opting for a lighter, more hopeful air. Without hope there was nothing.

           “Got a name a lady can call you?” she asked quietly, peering up at someone she now viewed in a whole new light. He was young, yes, and rough around the edges as made obvious by the scratches on his face and the stubble beginning to dust his chin and neck, but he had chosen, in this place and setting, to offer her a touch of comfort by cradling her head like she was someone close. She watched him, thinking all this, as he pondered her question, looking at something across from him that she couldn’t see. He was debating whether or not it was worth it, she could tell. It likely wouldn’t matter what his chosen call sign was in a matter of hours, and he had to decide whether to perpetuate the false sense of hope or address the frightening reality.

           “..Nathan.” he muttered in an undertone she almost missed, and she watched the duo of syllables drain him dry and turn his dark cheeks ashen. A name to condemn. It made her want to cry. She had to take a steadying breath before she could continue.

           “Nathan.” She repeated the name in a husky whisper. “And…and we’re-”

           “In the back of a collection van.” He answered her question before she could ask, his voice flat. And thus he dashed her hopes. In a single fell blow, he had erased what measure of illusion she had thus far managed to maintain. She had known the truth, indeed her arms were not immobile due to injury but held fast by cuffs that drummed against the floor, and yet it crushed her still. Like one who can see the ground rush up to greet them as they fall from some great height, knowing relieved none of the pain produced on impact.

            Her next breath entered as a wheeze and exited in reedy shakes, paired with an impassible lump in her throat and the impending threat of tears. In true desperate fashion, her distress only served to frustrate her. Her helplessness drove her to tears, and the tears merely distressed her further, as they served no helpful or useful purpose.  Thankfully, her wounded pride didn’t suffer in needless excess, for Nathan paid no more mind to her tears than he had the rusty quality of her voice. It was an act of mercy, she knew, the way he acted as though she had remained as tough and emotionless as the steel around both their wrists. Like a mercy killing, he spared her the undue agony.

           “What about you, mm?” he asked, staring again at something she couldn’t see, across from him and to her left.

           “Wha- What about me?” she responded once she had again found her voice. She would have wiped the moisture from her cheeks if her hands weren’t trapped at her back.

           “Got a name a gentleman can call you?” She couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. Merciful and well intended as he was, the question he asked was –in light of his own answer and thus expected response- difficult to face. She threw her gaze where he had pointed his, to her left, and found herself looking at a pair of wiry young girls huddling close to each other, faces tearstained and terrified. In retrospect, they were likely the owners of the nearby whispers that her waking groan had silenced. They were young little things. If she had to guess she would have said fourteen, but in all likelihood they were younger than that. The desert had a way of making the young look older and vice versa. In them, she saw the selfsame desperation she felt reflected and multiplied. They were all three trapped little girls with no clever means of escape, no savior on the way, and no discernible reason for hope. Staring across at her and Nathan with such fear they might as well have been roaring their misfortune at the top of their lungs, they gave her the heartache to hope and be strong where none in their rational mind would.

           “I’m Tech,” she practically sang, a victory chant clear as the chime of a bell, “and I’m always Tech.” She looked up just as Nathan looked down at her in shock, and she dared him to contradict her with her eyes. “So why don’t you tell me who you really are.” More command than request, Tech watched Nathan, challenging him with every breath that passed in and out of her bruised chest. He stared at her for a long time, struggling with his thoughts so visibly he might as well have written them down for her to read. Tech stared him down from below, hardly even blinking as she awaited his answer.

           Her pride blossomed as she watched.

           Every second he puzzled over her choice, the choice to ignore the desolation that coated the van like bile, the light Tech had watched drain out of him flickered back to life and grew. It grew in his cheeks, in his posture, but most obvious of all in his eyes, so that they gleamed under heavy brow with newfound resilience. He might not have known he still had so much to give if she chosen to dampen her own flame, and if hope was life she had just resurrected someone.

           “I’m Phantom.”

           She wanted to laugh. She had resurrected a ghost.

           “Riddle me this, Phantom,” she grunted as she struggled to adjust her position, “how, exactly, did I end up using you as a pillow?” Tech couldn’t imagine any patrol member had done her the kindness. In fact, if her complaining hip was anything to go off of, she had been tossed in the van like a cadaver.

           “I’m good with my feet.” He quipped, and Tech halted mid shift to raise an eyebrow at him. He offered only a grin, though the way he smiled matched less with an ill-humored joke and more with a thank you. She did him the favor of accepting it by saying nothing and using his shoulder to help push herself up into a seated position. The movement again had her taking an involuntary stock of her injuries. Safe to say, they were numerous and painful. She had to pause a moment to breathe, resting her head against the wall. Eyes closed once more, it occurred to her the two other whispers could still be heard, but then again, they weren’t whispers, just muffled voices. Muffled by the door that separated patrol from captive. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

           “S ‘not just Phantom is it?”

           “Hm?”            “Your name,” Tech was aware of the time crunch. She didn’t know how long they’d been in the van, and didn’t know how much longer until they wouldn’t be.

           “Desert Phantom.”

           “Desert Phantom?” Tech snorted, rolling her head to look at him dubiously.

           “What?”

           Tech shook her head, then let her eyes travel throughout the van. Aside from herself, Phantom, and the two girls, there were three others. Two men, both clearly older than any of the others, and a woman slouched in the far corner, hunched so that her hair covered her face. She was either unconscious or-            An alternative Tech didn’t want to explore. Neither did anyone else, evidently, for the area immediately around the woman was empty. All the others had crowded together towards the front of the van, away from the prone form. And yet, even as they were all clustered, there were obvious boundaries between allies. The girls across from Tech and Phantom had isolated themselves by turning in, pressing their shoulders together, and Phantom had created a sense of unity between himself and Tech when he had made the decision to hold her head. Each of the grown men was isolated separately, self contained and eyes downcast but ears no doubt listening to everything. It was not in killjoy nature to ignore their surroundings.

           Time pressed on without waiting for consent, burning minutes.

           No matter how many times Tech looked away, at the seams of the van or the other killjoys, her eye kept returning to the two girls. One was a touch fairer than the other, with a spattering of freckles and strawberry-blonde hair. She glanced up from time to time, but mainly kept her gaze confined to the floor. Tech got the impression that if the girl’s hands were free, her nails would be at her mouth. The other, who had cinnamon brushed skin and sun-lightened honey hair, had locked her amber eyes on Tech with an intensity to envy. Aware of the growing stretch of silence within the van, Tech made the conscious decision to lock gazes with the girl, an unspoken staring contest commencing. At first it seemed idle, like some way to pass the time, but there was just enough malice, enough of a slow burn in the girl’s eyes, that Tech felt the gravity of the competition increase as time passed. It became quite clear to Tech that this girl was issuing a challenge.

           The reason for the challenge remained unclear; however the rules were more than obvious. Whoever looked away submitted. Like wolves determining dominance without ever raising a paw, if Tech looked away she would be resigned to hopelessness, and if the girl turned away she would entertain whatever sliver of desperate denial that Tech had ignited in Phantom. Tech found that it was almost like looking in a mirror, holding this girl’s eyes. For a flash, she even pictured that it was herself she had matched gazes with, albeit a slightly younger version of herself. It was gone as quickly as she saw it, a flash of auburn hair and fair freckled skin, but it was all she needed to see to be steeled in her thoughts.

           As she held her contest with the young girl, Tech could feel eyes on her. Phantom and the other men looked on steadily, and the strawberry blonde girl’s eyes jumped from Tech to her contender and back regularly. The girl’s lips flattened, and in way of a response Tech lifted her chin while holding her eyes. Phantom tensed next to Tech. At a length Tech would be hard pressed to judge the accurate span of, the other girl’s lower lip trembled, then she clenched her jaw and submitted. Her gaze hit the ground as a ton of bricks, the tension dropping with it, and her head bowed. Tech swiveled her head, meeting gazes around the van. All looked away immediately, save Phantom who held her gaze for a handful of seconds. When Tech refused to look away he inhaled sharply, his chest filling and his shoulders straightening, but he just as quickly exhaled and gave the smallest incline of his head before blinking and lowering his eyes.

           Thank god. She almost sighed with relief, but that could wait.

           “What of the rest of you?” They all looked up. “Who’s got names I want to hear?”

           “Desert Dusk.” The honey haired girl led the ring of answers, and after her they came in order, circling the van. The names were shared openly, not strictly addressed to Tech but more of a circular introduction; if they were in whatever this was together, it would only benefit to know each other’s names, and if half of them were completely doomed, the other half had the chance to live and remember.            “Desert Dawn,” the strawberry blonde. She was fragile looking, more so than Dusk, though not wholly un-similar from her nightly counterpart. More than likely, the pair were sisters, sharing whatever mixed heritage had led to the creamy coffee color of skin they shared shades of. She had wide dinner-plate eyes, and seemed to be a sheltered type. No doubt she had redeemable qualities, honesty, loyalty, but those were less than helpful in the present situation.

           “Rhythm Reaper,” one of the men, closest to the unconscious woman. He had dusty chestnut hair and skin only a touch lighter than Tech’s own, though he laid no claim to freckles, only a small mole on his collar bone. He also possessed sleepy-looking powder blue eyes, and an overall lethargic posture, but the condition of his physique told Tech that the presentation was not to be trusted. This was not a dull individual, just one apt at pretending to be. If his aged appearance of at least his mid thirties was anything to go off of, it was a tactic that had served him well.

           “Garish Foxtrot,” the man directly to Phantom’s left, older than Reaper by any number of years, his hair beginning to silver in contrast to his nearly obsidian-dark skin. He was stout and sturdily built, with wide shoulders and heavy hands. With any luck, the glint of the chain she could see around his neck had dog tags attached that labeled him as pre-war military. Pre-war military were some of the first to defect when everything had gone to hell, and by whatever god you chose were they tough.

           “Desert Phantom.” He re-introduced himself, and –notably- completed a trio of matching names. Tech couldn’t help but wonder if there were more like them, who not only banded together but subsequently became one in even their titles. It meant they had a family, a close knit bond with as many as twenty people or as few as just the three of them; either way linked names meant security. However, it also meant Phantom would value the girls before the rest. An admirable devotion, but one that hindered any of the ideas of escape Tech had thus far concocted.

           “Techno Havoc.” She introduced herself with a nod of thanks.

           No sooner had the last consonant passed her lips than –to everyone’s shock- the woman in the corner stirred, lifting her face into the light. Dawn gave a short scream of horror, and Tech briefly acknowledged that the muffled voices on the other side of the door cut off, but the thought passed largely unregistered as she recognized the face in the opposite corner of the van from her.

           “Tess!” Tech exclaimed, and the woman smiled a full, brilliant smile as her name was spoken. A measure of relief bolstered Tech’s spirits. Despite knowing that little could even be attempted from this side of the van’s walls and it was likely that they all rode to death and worse, being with someone you knew was a comfort. You wish the best for your friends outwardly, but you secretly wish they’ll go down with you, even if you won’t admit it.

           “I thought that might be you,” Tess’s words echoed her smile, warm and honeyed with affection as well as a spiraling Hispanic accent, “but you can’t blame a girl for making sure she’s among friends.” She winked at Tech. God knew how long she’d been lying still like that. It might’ve been since being collected, or maybe only a matter of minutes, but either way it provided a key insight into Tess’s smarts and choice strategies. Deception was the female feline’s game. No sooner than Tech had beamed and opened her mouth to respond than the door to the front of the van slid open.

           Instantly, all eyes jumped to the door and the young draculoid standing in it. He looked back wide-eyed, a deer in headlights. Tech could hardly blame him- outnumbered by around a half dozen individuals commonly referred to as little more than wild animals, he was the odd one out with only a single gun and a police style baton to prevent him from being overwhelmed. Certainly, he was the only one armed to such a degree (Tech had no doubts someone had a weapon of some kind overlooked by the officer in charge) but arming only aided one so far. What they lacked in weaponry, they more than made up for in determination, desperation, and overall disposition of displeasure, and that’s without the advantage of numbers. One man with one gun could kill maybe three of seven if rushed, assuming he was of average capability with said gun. He wouldn’t even have time to reach for the baton…

           “What’s the noise then, eh boy?” The driver, still on the other side of the divider, called brusquely. Of the two draculoids, he was clearly the veteran and the one in charge. With seven sets of eyes boring into him, the young man’s training appeared to have fluttered right out of his ear, for he stood as still and silently stupid as a post, mouth slightly agape in a stupid expression.

((((((and then that’s literally where it ends. i have no idea why i dropped it here, but I do know the rest was going to see Reaper be either injured or killed, and Tess & Gar escape, which was how news of Tech getting picked up got out to Jack & crew. from there Phantom & Des & Dawn eventually evolved into the characters I have of them now, and obvi tech is still tech and always is her cringey pain in the ass self)))))))

[unspokenwords101]

Cultural and National Identity

“I am a Filipino born to freedom,

and I shall not rest until freedom

shall have been added unto my inheritance—

for myself and my children

and my children’s children—forever.”

Three hundred years of Spanish colonization, forty years of being under the control of the Americans, and another three years under Japanese occupation, we, Filipinos, lost our identity. And when one loses his identity, he cannot live freely. Knowing who you really are is the first step to becoming free. When we think about the Japanese people, innovation comes to mind. When we think about the Americans, what comes to mind is freedom. America is the land of opportunity where everyone is free to pursue their own dreams. But when we think about the Filipinos, I cannot think of a single word to describe us. Hopefully, it’s not the widespread corruption, poverty, or conflict in Mindanao that describes us. More than three hundred years of being under the control of other nations robbed us of our identity. Until now, we are still struggling to find that identity. Even our sense of nationalism is very shallow. Our Pinoy Pride is limited to Manny Pacquiao, beauty pageants, competitions (Weren’t you proud of El Gamma Penumbra?), and recognitions abroad. But when you think about it deeply, what does it really mean to be a Filipino?

We have become a copycat nation. It’s not because we lack originality, but because we lack identity in the first place. Our identity is somewhat in our colonial mentality because we have been told for more than three hundred years that we are an inferior race, that other nations’ products are better than ours. Colonial mentality has been deeply ingrained in our culture—from the products we patronize to how we do our work. When given a choice, we would choose an American product over a Filipino product. At work, a certification from a local body is nothing compared to a certification from a foreign firm. Big Filipino companies hire foreign consultants when there are also Filipino consultants who can probably offer the same advice. But honestly, it’s not our fault either. Most mainstream Filipino products, TV shows, and movies are made by those who settle for “pwwede na ‘yan” or mediocrity. Another thing about our Filipino culture. We keep on creating second-rate imitations of American or foreign products. Side by side with the original, which would you prefer to buy as a consumer?

Would you rather watch Gagamboy who has the same powers as Spider-man or the real thing? How about Lastikman which came out after the success of Spider-man? By the way, the plot of Lastikman was pretty much the same as the first Spider-man movie with Tobey Maguire. Most Filipinos live up to their “second-class” citizens stamp.

Don’t get me wrong. There are Filipinos who do amazing jobs. There are Filipino products, movies, and even services that are very much original and so much better than foreign products, movies, and services. The independent movies. The locally-made shoes from Marikina. Many Filipino products, services, and people are original and world-class. But, they are not mainstream. They do not get the attention they deserve because they get associated with the poor “Made in the Philippines” label—cheap, second-rate imitations. Most of the time, they get our attention and, more importantly, our support only when they get recognized abroad—another sad thing about our colonial mentality. Colonial mentality is also deeply ingrained in the Filipino youth. Most of the youth’s dreams are geared towards working overseas or in large foreign companies. Maybe our colonial mentality is simply an effect of falling so far behind in terms of culture, technology, or creativity. Maybe we patronize foreign products and services because we cannot do them yet. Maybe we need to learn from others’ best practices first before we create our own original versions or find our own way.

But, we are not in any way an inferior race. We are not second-class citizens.

Now, more than ever, we need to find our identity in order for us to progress together as a nation. In an increasingly connected and global world, we need to find our identity—an identity to unite us, an identity to differentiate ourselves from other nationalities, an identity to strengthen us in the face of global pressures, and an identity to contribute to globalization.

Maybe we do not value freedom (or make the most of our freedom) as much as the Americans do. For us, Independence Day seems like just another holiday. Maybe we are not as innovative as the Japanese. Maybe we are not as efficient as our Asian neighbors. But, what sets us, Filipinos, apart? I read a comment somewhere that Filipinos are overly dramatic. At first, I got offended. But then, I realized that there is some truth to it.

And maybe there’s also a bright side to it.

Maybe Filipinos are overly dramatic. But, it’s because we have a big heart. Remember our #puso campaign during the FIBA games? We were so close to beating the giants like Argentina and Croatia with just the sheer amount of heart of our players. They played with a lot of desire. We like to have a deep, emotional reason for everything we do. We like everything we do to be meaningful, to be based on love, to be based on our values. And maybe that love, together with our ideals and values, is our identity. We are defined by our immense capacity to love, conservatism, respect, humility, and resiliency. We are the only nation with a word for collective effort towards a single goal, even if most of those who exert effort do not benefit at all—bayanihan. Also, there must be a reason why Jose Rizal is our national hero, not Andres Bonifacio. Maybe it’s because of his ideals.

Unfortunately, in this day and age where progress is measured by Gross Domestic Product (GDP) growth rate, production, and consumption, our identity seems impractical. After all, love, conservatism, respect, humility, and resiliency are not really helpful in producing a good or a service. Therefore, they are not helpful to achieving a higher GDP growth rate. We discount our identity because our values and ideals cannot feed an empty stomach. Worse, we are totally forgetting our identity because of social pressures, widespread poverty and corruption, hopelessness, and globalization. My point is, in the face of poverty, social pressures, getting ahead, and globalization, it’s easier to compromise than to exert a tremendous (unrealistic and impractical) amount of effort to uphold our values and ideals. Sadly, now is the time we need our identity the most, yet now is the time we are losing it.

Our country is an archipelago of 7,107 islands and our nation has as many dialects. No, not really. But, we are a diverse nation. We have our manileños, cebuanos, kapampangans, bisaya, ilocanos, ilonggos, and so on. Each group has its own characteristics, language, and even stereotypes. Even our Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) seem to have characteristics of their own. Yet, no matter how diverse we are, we are united in our ideals and old-fashioned values. These ideals and values are the things we share in common.

The real challenge for us, Filipinos, is to remain true to our identity in this fast-paced world full of compromises. We also need to go back to our values and ideals and integrate our identity in our daily lives once again. And we need to do it together. We need to be united in hoping for our country. We need to be united in making individual sacrifices for our country. Collectively, our sacrifices will go a long way. We need to be united in upholding our values. We need to be united showing our bayanihan spirit once again.

One of my favorite scenes in the first Avengers movie is when Captain America asked Agent Phil Coulson what he thought about his costume:

Captain America: The uniform? Aren't the stars and stripes a little old-fashioned?

Agent Phil Coulson: With everything that's happening, the things that are about to come to light, people might just need a little old-fashioned.

In this age of globalization, loss of culture and identity, gross inequality in the distribution of wealth, and excessive consumerism, the world needs a little old-fashioned. And maybe this is a chance for us, Filipinos, to share with the world our old-fashioned ideals and values. This is a chance for us to integrate our identity in our products, our services, the way we do our work, the way we do business, and the way we interact and deal with other nationalities (and even with our fellow Filipinos). In everything we do, we can show our genuine love, respect for others, and our no-one-left-behind bayanihan spirit. In every product we make, we don’t need a Philippine flag stamped or a “Made in the Philippines” label to make it nationalistic or patriotic. We just need to pour our hearts out in every product we create.

Our identity—our ideals and values—is our greatest contribution to globalization. We have inspired the world many times before especially through our resilience. It’s time to inspire them again with our old-fashioned values. Apparently, our being overly dramatic in everything we do makes us original. It is our passion that makes us unique. And maybe that will help us come up with original products—not copycat ones.

And maybe, just maybe, the world needs just that.

[jacknicholson1963]

HMS Queen Elizabeth – are aircraft carriers too expensive?

The arrival of HMS Queen Elizabeth in Portsmouth was a day for celebration and pride. Beyond the flag waving and excitement, there are many critical voices who question the whole carrier project. Here we address some of the issues about the financial impact of restoring the Royal Navy’s aircraft carrier capability.

There are some serious defence journalists such as Deborah Haynes at the Times and Jonathan Beale of the BBC who are broadly supportive of the navy but, as is rightly their job, are asking hard questions about the future shape of the navy and the funding shortfalls in the equipment plan. HMS Queen Elizabeth is arriving in the fleet just as the MoD lurches into yet another major funding crisis. The Commons Public Accounts Committee has identified a £10Bn shortfall in funding for the equipment plan on top of £10Bn of cuts and economies the MoD is already attempting to find. Analysts at PwC estimate the total “black hole” could even be as much as £30Bn over the next decade. To compound the financial problems, the post-Brexit devaluation of the Sterling potentially adds 30% to the cost of purchase of major items such as F-35 Lightning and P-8 Poseidon aircraft from the US. Inevitably in this climate, big ticket items such as aircraft carriers come in for greater scrutiny and unfair criticism.

Cost and context

A frequent complaint is that the cost of aircraft carriers has created an imbalance, draining the defence budget. RUSI Research Fellow, Dr Peter Roberts moans that “They have stripped out the rest of defence in order to get these two new behemoths.” It is certainly true that defence has been “stripped out” far beyond what could have been imagined when the decision to build the carriers was made in 1998. At that time there was an affordable plan to build a balanced fleet centred around the two carriers at a time when the RN still had 32 escort ships. Unfortunately, Britain’s engagements in Iraq and Afghanistan had very negative implications for the RN. Much of the MoD equipment budget of the early 2000s was raided to finance these campaigns and we are still suffering the hangover. A good example are the planned 12 Type 45 destroyers which were cut to 6 ships, sacrificed to pay for these ill-fated counter-insurgencies. While this lost decade is being partially redressed now, critics, especially from the Army, vociferously complain the about expenditure on RN equipment.

While Blair and Brown embarked on a major public spending spree on health, education and welfare, during the economic ‘good times’ when in office, this did not extend to defence. In the wake of the 2008 financial crisis, when the Tory-Lib Dem coalition began to address the ballooning public debt, this was forgotten and defence was unfairly expected to shoulder a heavy burden of cuts. The RN was slashed in 2010 with the escort fleet cut down to 19 ships. The magic number of 19 ships is now all the RN is allowed to plan for. (Should the Type 31 programme produce more than 5 frigates, it offers the prospect of numbers on day rising above 19, but this is very vague aspiration for more ships is spun as evidence of a “growing Royal Navy”). It is therefore not the fault of the carriers that the RN has been cut to the bone, rather a reflection of misguided government priorities. Major navies recognise their aircraft carriers as the centrepiece of their fleet and removing them relegates you to a very limited force.

When you buy a house you do not complain it’s too expensive because has a roof.

Economy of scale and value for money

Putting an exact price of the full cost of every element of CEPP (Carrier Enabled Power Projection) is very difficult. We can be sure it runs into billions of pounds and will continue to demand a significant portion of the defence budget. However unlike Trident for example, which has a single and precisely defined purpose, CEPP is multifaceted and the people, ships, aircraft and weapons involve may be used to protect British interests in a myriad of different ways, either acting independently or as part of the carrier strike group. Even if we were crazy enough to abandon the carriers, we would still be funding much of the supporting cast, the frigates, the people and the RAF would probably be getting F-35.

The specific cost of constructing the 2 ships can be pinned down to around £6.2 billion. These are well-founded ships that should last for up to 50 years. Even allowing for the £1.5Bn added to the price tag by deliberate government-induced delays to the programme, they represent good value. Manpower is the biggest single overhead for the RN and the QEC are exceptionally lean-manned with a ship’s company of just 700. Embodying a highly innovative design, they have enormous potential to evolve over time to respond to both developments in aircraft technology, and new threats. Their upkeep and refitting costs will be significant but you cannot obtain such powerful strategic conventional effect on the cheap.

Some say we should have built cheaper “pocket carriers” similar to the Invincible class. Over the life of the vessels, this proves to be a false economy and reduces their capability. A carrier 50% the size of the QEC would be more than 50% of the cost and deliver less than 50% of the capability. As steel is relatively cheap it makes sense to build a larger, more efficient platform that can deliver a better aircraft sortie rate with lots of room to be modernised over its 50-year lifespan. With great improvisation, the RN achieved remarkable things with the Invincible class but they could not deliver strategic impact comparable to the QEC. They were cramped, lasted about 30 years and could not be significantly upgraded.

Many critics talk as if the billions of pounds spent on CEPP as if the money has vanished from our economy forever. The carrier project has employed thousands of people around the country, supporting skilled manufacturing jobs. It is maintaining sovereign industries that need continuity of work to keep supplying the RN in future. Britain has a 15% work share in every single F-35 built for the MoD and customers worldwide supporting 24,000 UK jobs. There is evidence the carrier project has also helped businesses invest and expand. The tender to build the Antarctic Research Ship RRS Ernest Shackleton was won in open competition by Cammel Laird. Carrier work has been a factor in helping CL and other yards begin a modest revival of commercial shipbuilding in the UK. This is good for the UK economy and strategically beneficial for the future needs of the RN. Large defence projects do not just maintain jobs and and support apprenticeships, but also return a large proportion of the money spent to the Treasury in VAT, corporate and income taxes.

The Admirals are fools, I read it on the internet

There exists a caricature of the RN as old fashioned, run by too many admirals, smug about their shiny new carriers and out of touch with evolving threats. This is far from the truth and some very sharp minds are focussed on the future. No doubt frustrated by inadequate funding, RN leaders are attempting to wring every penny of value from their resources. During Exercise Unmanned Warrior (October 2016) the RN partnered with industry to test the potential of a variety of autonomous systems. Exercise Information warrior (March 2017) explored cyber, AI and big data in a naval context. Although small steps, it demonstrates the RN mindset is not about “re-fighting the last war” but is alive to new possibilities. The MoD launched its own Defence Innovation Initiative in 2016. £800m has been allocated for research over the coming decade. 1.2% of the entire MoD budget is now spent on defence research, science and development of new technologies.

Lazy critics who blame the carriers for every woe of the navy should look at the bigger picture. Apparently, every problem, from the Type 45s propulsion to the Astute submarine delays, is the fault of these “2 big ships”. There is no doubt the RN is suffering, but it is a matter of systemic underfunding and chronic procurement mismanagement, rather than just cost of CEPP.

Critics who lambast the RN for buying large carriers at the expense of smaller, supposedly more ‘relevant’ ships have missed a point about the battle for the long-term survival of the RN constantly being fought out in Whitehall. If the carriers had been cancelled it would be much more likely the RN would have been run down into a very modest force of a few frigates and OPVs. Possessing the carriers, instead, the RN is now in a “pull” position better able to draw in the resource to see the project through, properly equipped and protected and able to make a strategic impact at the government’s bidding. Without the carriers, the RN would be in a weaker “push” position, somewhat sidelined and constantly having beg for scraps. This might be viewed as cynical empire-building, but if we had politicians and a Civil Service who really understood the benefits of maritime power and supported it accordingly, such considerations would not matter.

The very considerable investment being made in the ships and their aircraft is the sensible choice for a nation that has been a major maritime power for centuries. Aircraft carriers have served Britain since before the second world war and proved to be flexible, powerful and constantly in demand. When carrier capability was “gapped” in 2010 it was just a temporary financial expediency but the plan was always that carrier capability would be restored. Fortunately, BAE Systems was sensible enough to lock the MoD into a contract that made cancelling construction uneconomical, otherwise George Osbourne would have blithely axed them in 2010. Amazingly, within just four years, David Cameron had begun to recognise the value of carriers and reversed the decision to mothball or sell HMS Prince of Wales. The The QEC is really just a modern iteration of a an enduring concept. The money being spent is not some sudden new excess on the part of the Navy, just part of an ongoing commitment to ensuring Britain’s security and natural place in the world as a naval power.

In the next article, we will address claims that aircraft carriers are too vulnerable and incompatible with modern threats.

  Related articles

UK Defence: addressing a funding challenge bigger than twice the size of Wales (PWC Public Sector Matters Blog)

from Save the Royal Navy http://www.savetheroyalnavy.org/hms-queen-elizabeth-are-aircraft-carriers-too-expensive/

[juliandmouton30]

"Mies' Mansion House Square is the greatest public space never to have been built in London"

Mies van der Rohe's unbuilt London tower would have been more than a modernist icon, it would have created the only useable space for protest in the City of London, says Jack Self in this Opinion column.

For the first time in more than 30 years, Mies van der Rohe's only UK project is being presented to the public – in both a forthcoming exhibition at the RIBA and, if it is successful, a book funded through Kickstarter by the REAL foundation.

Alternatively referred to by Prince Charles as "a giant glass stump" and Richard Rogers as "the culmination of a master architect's life work", Mies' unbuilt Mansion House Square remains highly controversial, even 50 years after its conception. The project's failure to be realised is often blamed on a massive mood swing in the UK concerning how the public viewed modernist architecture.

It is true that when the scheme was finally cancelled in the mid 1980s, it was right at the moment when historical pastiche and an obsession with preservation overthrew the postwar, predominantly brutalist paradigm – one that was increasingly associated with social dystopias, not social democracy.

But is that myth actually true? Did the British really come to hate modernism generally and corporate modernist towers specifically? If so, how can we explain the explosion of precisely this type of building in the subsequent decades all around the City, from Lloyd's of London to the Gherkin or Cheesegrater? Was there perhaps another quality about Mies' project, aside from its modernist aesthetic, that made it politically impossible to build?

Mies took a scrambled, dangerous street pattern and rationalised it with a perfect grid

A key element to the scheme was the creation of a large public square to the east of the site, adjacent to the City Mayor's residence Mansion House. In some respects, this space was the greatest genius of the scheme. Mies took a scrambled, dangerous street pattern surrounding the Bank of England and (apparently effortlessly) rationalised it with a perfect grid.

This move carved out a serene ceremonial area directly in front of one of London's most important seats of power, which remains rather claustrophobically oppressed by its neighbours to this day. Such a generous civic gesture was not flagged as problematic when planning was granted in the mid 1960s, precisely because it was such an unquestionably positive addition to London. However, by the mid 1980s this public space had become a real source of panic for both the City and the British government.

The 1980s were a famously tumultuous decade for the UK, as Thatcherite reforms radically transformed the structure of employment and basic fabric of society. Strikes and civil unrest in London were common, from dockworker and printers' union disputes in the east to violent race riots in Brixton and deadly anti-government protests in Trafalgar Square. Thrown into this mix were IRA bomb attacks, which at their worst point occurred almost every month (one of my earliest memories is being caught up in a blast at John Lewis on Oxford Street).

Large crowds – whether gathered out of civic pride or civil disobedience – were no longer universally desirable in the city. Public space had become dangerous.

This public space became a real source of panic for both the City and the British government

It is important to keep in mind that, by the mid 1980s, powerful components of neoliberal ideology had embedded themselves within the internal logic of governance. Some of these principles were that there was no such thing as society; that there was no alternative to deregulated free markets; that the state was an inherently wasteful, inefficient and unprofitable entity; and, therefore, its scope should be reduced by privatisation and corporatisation wherever possible.

Although Margaret Thatcher was extremely popular, she was also extremely divisive, and the large minority of people that opposed her were restive and vocal. There was a widespread belief amongst those in power that the basic functions of the nation faced existential threats from the protest, dissidence and unrest.

The responses by urban policy-makers to these problems of civic security were twofold. They prevented the formation of new public spaces wherever they could, often through blocking new development on ground of "historical merit", and they installed various devices in existing spaces to limit their capacity and control their crowds. Mies' project, Mansion House Square, may have been simply too generous, and more than the City could accept.

Related story

Mies van der Rohe's London tower design revealed in detail for first time

In 1848, during a comparable period of social upheaval in Britain, London's authorities had installed two massive fountains into Trafalgar Square, to halve the number of people that could congregate there. Some time later, crude chains were added. Then the adjacent roads were redirected in such a way as to make the square into a kind of traffic island. These innovations became the basis for most anti-protest, anti-terror strategies that – until today – remain central to the governance of London's public spaces.

The mechanisms are as diverse as they are ingenious. There are simple barriers, railings and gates. There are tools that rely on social norms (taking advantage of the British tendency toward polite obedience), such as excessive signage, road and pavement markings, or brass plugs in the pavement delineating private ownership. And then there are the urban tactics that coerce and influence in an unseen way: sophisticated anti-bomb bollards disguised as benches, water features like moats and fountains, lanes of traffic that encircle crowds like sheepdogs herding a flock.

We are told that these measures are necessary for our own protection. However, in broader historical terms it is not the public that really has to worry about terrorism. It is the authorities that must manage the risk of civil disobedience.

If Mies' square had been completed it would have been an ideal locus for Occupy

The current state of public space, particularly in the City of London, bears testament to this fear. In October 2011 I joined a Facebook group calling itself Occupy London, and a few days later – when it announced a march – I fashioned the wittiest anti-capitalist sign I could think of and went down to the Stock Exchange.

As the crowd twisted along its route I found myself progressively shuffled towards the front, and as we arrived at our destination I was nearly cheek-to-cheek with a phalanx of anti-riot police. The London Stock Exchange (LSX), which at that time was majority controlled by Toshiba, is located opposite St Paul's Cathedral, in a privately owned complex called Pater Noster Square. Because of this there was no way to "occupy" LSX and we were halted short of the target.

In fact, there was no way to occupy anything else in the City either – within a few days the City issued a memo advising companies to regularly check any nearby vacant properties for squatters, and instructed them to block access to all corporately controlled, publicly accessible spaces until further notice. The only exception was St Paul's Churchyard, over which they did not hold such direct control. So Occupy claimed sanctuary there. We established a tent city, a library, a "university." I even spent a night camping on the steps before the cathedral authorities were eventually pressured by the City to evict the protesters and dismantle the camp.

In a post-Trump, post-Brexit reality, public space and its occupation have never seemed so relevant

If Mies' square had been completed it would have been an ideal locus for Occupy, which as a civic function is without doubt a positive contribution to the health of British democracy. But more importantly, for the overwhelming majority of the time when people are not setting up soup kitchens or hand-stitching banners, it would have been a wonderful public amenity.

Mies' Mansion House Square scheme is the greatest public space never to have been built in London.

This is precisely why I have been so motivated to make the project available to the public. Me and the REAL foundation have spent almost two years working closely with the building's commissioner, Lord Palumbo, as well as the RIBA (who are planning an exhibition on Mansion House Square and James Stirling's One Poultry to open in March) with the aim of publishing a wide variety of project documents.

In a post-Trump, post-Brexit reality, public space and its occupation have never seemed so relevant. It is my strong hope that, by shining more light onto Mies' attempted intervention in London, we can contribute to a renewed debate about what type of cities we want to live in today.

Jack Self (1987) is an architect and writer based in London. He is director of the REAL foundation and editor-in-chief of the Real Review. In 2016, Jack curated the British Pavilion at the Venice Architecture Biennale. He is also contributing editor for the Architectural Review and was previously associate editor at Strelka Press.

The post "Mies' Mansion House Square is the greatest public space never to have been built in London" appeared first on Dezeen.

from ifttt-furniture https://www.dezeen.com/2017/02/07/jack-self-opinion-mies-van-der-rohe-mansion-house-square-greatest-public-space-city-london/

[jeniferdlanceau]

"Mies' Mansion House Square is the greatest public space never to have been built in London"

Mies van der Rohe's unbuilt London tower would have been more than a modernist icon, it would have created the only useable space for protest in the City of London, says Jack Self in this Opinion column.

For the first time in more than 30 years, Mies van der Rohe's only UK project is being presented to the public – in both a forthcoming exhibition at the RIBA and, if it is successful, a book funded through Kickstarter by the REAL foundation.

Alternatively referred to by Prince Charles as "a giant glass stump" and Richard Rogers as "the culmination of a master architect's life work", Mies' unbuilt Mansion House Square remains highly controversial, even 50 years after its conception. The project's failure to be realised is often blamed on a massive mood swing in the UK concerning how the public viewed modernist architecture.

It is true that when the scheme was finally cancelled in the mid 1980s, it was right at the moment when historical pastiche and an obsession with preservation overthrew the postwar, predominantly brutalist paradigm – one that was increasingly associated with social dystopias, not social democracy.

But is that myth actually true? Did the British really come to hate modernism generally and corporate modernist towers specifically? If so, how can we explain the explosion of precisely this type of building in the subsequent decades all around the City, from Lloyd's of London to the Gherkin or Cheesegrater? Was there perhaps another quality about Mies' project, aside from its modernist aesthetic, that made it politically impossible to build?

Mies took a scrambled, dangerous street pattern and rationalised it with a perfect grid

A key element to the scheme was the creation of a large public square to the east of the site, adjacent to the City Mayor's residence Mansion House. In some respects, this space was the greatest genius of the scheme. Mies took a scrambled, dangerous street pattern surrounding the Bank of England and (apparently effortlessly) rationalised it with a perfect grid.

This move carved out a serene ceremonial area directly in front of one of London's most important seats of power, which remains rather claustrophobically oppressed by its neighbours to this day. Such a generous civic gesture was not flagged as problematic when planning was granted in the mid 1960s, precisely because it was such an unquestionably positive addition to London. However, by the mid 1980s this public space had become a real source of panic for both the City and the British government.

The 1980s were a famously tumultuous decade for the UK, as Thatcherite reforms radically transformed the structure of employment and basic fabric of society. Strikes and civil unrest in London were common, from dockworker and printers' union disputes in the east to violent race riots in Brixton and deadly anti-government protests in Trafalgar Square. Thrown into this mix were IRA bomb attacks, which at their worst point occurred almost every month (one of my earliest memories is being caught up in a blast at John Lewis on Oxford Street).

Large crowds – whether gathered out of civic pride or civil disobedience – were no longer universally desirable in the city. Public space had become dangerous.

This public space became a real source of panic for both the City and the British government

It is important to keep in mind that, by the mid 1980s, powerful components of neoliberal ideology had embedded themselves within the internal logic of governance. Some of these principles were that there was no such thing as society; that there was no alternative to deregulated free markets; that the state was an inherently wasteful, inefficient and unprofitable entity; and, therefore, its scope should be reduced by privatisation and corporatisation wherever possible.

Although Margaret Thatcher was extremely popular, she was also extremely divisive, and the large minority of people that opposed her were restive and vocal. There was a widespread belief amongst those in power that the basic functions of the nation faced existential threats from the protest, dissidence and unrest.

The responses by urban policy-makers to these problems of civic security were twofold. They prevented the formation of new public spaces wherever they could, often through blocking new development on ground of "historical merit", and they installed various devices in existing spaces to limit their capacity and control their crowds. Mies' project, Mansion House Square, may have been simply too generous, and more than the City could accept.

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In 1848, during a comparable period of social upheaval in Britain, London's authorities had installed two massive fountains into Trafalgar Square, to halve the number of people that could congregate there. Some time later, crude chains were added. Then the adjacent roads were redirected in such a way as to make the square into a kind of traffic island. These innovations became the basis for most anti-protest, anti-terror strategies that – until today – remain central to the governance of London's public spaces.

The mechanisms are as diverse as they are ingenious. There are simple barriers, railings and gates. There are tools that rely on social norms (taking advantage of the British tendency toward polite obedience), such as excessive signage, road and pavement markings, or brass plugs in the pavement delineating private ownership. And then there are the urban tactics that coerce and influence in an unseen way: sophisticated anti-bomb bollards disguised as benches, water features like moats and fountains, lanes of traffic that encircle crowds like sheepdogs herding a flock.

We are told that these measures are necessary for our own protection. However, in broader historical terms it is not the public that really has to worry about terrorism. It is the authorities that must manage the risk of civil disobedience.

If Mies' square had been completed it would have been an ideal locus for Occupy

The current state of public space, particularly in the City of London, bears testament to this fear. In October 2011 I joined a Facebook group calling itself Occupy London, and a few days later – when it announced a march – I fashioned the wittiest anti-capitalist sign I could think of and went down to the Stock Exchange.

As the crowd twisted along its route I found myself progressively shuffled towards the front, and as we arrived at our destination I was nearly cheek-to-cheek with a phalanx of anti-riot police. The London Stock Exchange (LSX), which at that time was majority controlled by Toshiba, is located opposite St Paul's Cathedral, in a privately owned complex called Pater Noster Square. Because of this there was no way to "occupy" LSX and we were halted short of the target.

In fact, there was no way to occupy anything else in the City either – within a few days the City issued a memo advising companies to regularly check any nearby vacant properties for squatters, and instructed them to block access to all corporately controlled, publicly accessible spaces until further notice. The only exception was St Paul's Churchyard, over which they did not hold such direct control. So Occupy claimed sanctuary there. We established a tent city, a library, a "university." I even spent a night camping on the steps before the cathedral authorities were eventually pressured by the City to evict the protesters and dismantle the camp.

In a post-Trump, post-Brexit reality, public space and its occupation have never seemed so relevant

If Mies' square had been completed it would have been an ideal locus for Occupy, which as a civic function is without doubt a positive contribution to the health of British democracy. But more importantly, for the overwhelming majority of the time when people are not setting up soup kitchens or hand-stitching banners, it would have been a wonderful public amenity.

Mies' Mansion House Square scheme is the greatest public space never to have been built in London.

This is precisely why I have been so motivated to make the project available to the public. Me and the REAL foundation have spent almost two years working closely with the building's commissioner, Lord Palumbo, as well as the RIBA (who are planning an exhibition on Mansion House Square and James Stirling's One Poultry to open in March) with the aim of publishing a wide variety of project documents.

In a post-Trump, post-Brexit reality, public space and its occupation have never seemed so relevant. It is my strong hope that, by shining more light onto Mies' attempted intervention in London, we can contribute to a renewed debate about what type of cities we want to live in today.

Jack Self (1987) is an architect and writer based in London. He is director of the REAL foundation and editor-in-chief of the Real Review. In 2016, Jack curated the British Pavilion at the Venice Architecture Biennale. He is also contributing editor for the Architectural Review and was previously associate editor at Strelka Press.

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