#and also. clearly. having a much less serious toll on the cast members.

[aq2003]

hate it so bad when i see takes that make me want to put on armor and defend white man from my dnd show #3 but i truly dont believe anybody can come away from trw thinking it's ruined bc matt is boring unless they go in primed and ready to hate the whole season just bc the critical role man is there

[irreplaceable-spark]

Missives of Appalling Idiocy and Envy Embarrassing to Behold

So many messages of the type alluded to by the title of this article crossed my desk in the last fortnight that I found myself in the rare position of having too much content to easily record and communicate with pen and paper—a writer’s dream, if that content did not also simultaneously indicate both the tolling of the proverbial bell, and the fact that I am one of those for whom the death knell sounds.

I have observed the colleges and universities of the Western world devour themselves in a myriad of fatal errors over the last two decades, and take little pleasure in seeing what I knew was inevitably coming manifest itself in an increasingly comprehensive manner. It is of course a self-destructive and unfortunate tendency of human reason, with all its limitations—as well as ego, with all its pretensions—to wish or otherwise agree to serve as Cassandra, and to derive a certain satisfaction in watching the ship whose demise was foretold breach its hull on rocks hidden from all other observers. The self-righteous pleasure of “I told you so,” is, however, of little comfort when the icy water wends its way around ankle, knee and thigh, threatening to swamp everything still retaining its incalculable and unlikely value, even if it simultaneously makes short shrift of the ignorance and willful blindness that is frequently part and parcel of the death of something once great.

It is also necessary to note that the catastrophic failures of process and aim which I am about to relate were by no means hidden from the public view by the persons and institutions in question. They were instead positively trumpeted to all by multiple attempts to harness the powers of social media and announced, more traditionally, in press releases designed to indicate the success of some great and laudable moral striving. It is nothing less than a dire day when the proud revelation of vices of deadly and multifarious seriousness serve to substitute for announcements of genuine and valuable achievement, but that is where we are at—make no mistake about it.

The first story emerges at Brock University, in combination with the scientific journal Angewandte Chemie—the former an educational institution of moderate reputability; the latter a prestigious place of scientific publication among chemists. It is no easy matter to find a permanent tenured faculty position at such a university, or to publish research findings or literature reviews/summaries in a peer-reviewed scientific journal. The process generally requires several years and multiple resubmissions and rounds of editing by a minimum of three colleagues per submission with expertise in the field as well as approval by the editor. Angewandte has a rejection rate of 80%—and it should be noted that that rejection rate only takes into account papers that the submitting researcher felt were of sufficient quality to be considered by a journal of high standards. Dr. Tomas Hudlicky of Brock submitted an essay memorializing and updating a piece written thirty years ago, which has been widely recognized as powerfully influencing the direction of the chemistry subfield in question (organic synthesis).

Now, the first thing that must be understood about Dr. Hudlicky is that he holds a prestigious Canada Research Chair, a position funded by part of a large federal initiative devoting approximately 300 million dollars per year in the attempt to attract to Canada (or to encourage to stay in Canada) researchers who are of particular promise, as evidenced most fundamentally by their research productivity. That promise or productivity, in turn, can be measured with reasonable accuracy with metrics such as number of peer-reviewed articles in relevant scientific journals (more than 400 in Hudlicky’s case), by noting how many times such articles are cited by other authors over the years subsequent to publication (Hudlicky: 13300) and, finally, by a metric known as the h-index, which provides a measure of how many publications have received a variable minimum number of citations (and which therefore combines in a single number some information about publications per se and some about citations). A researcher with an h-index of 10 has published 10 papers with 10 or more citations; a researcher with an h-index of 57 (Hudlicky’s score) has published 57 papers with 57 or more citations. Hudlicky’s research productivity is admirable and rare. The mere fact that he was hired as a Canada Research Chair meant that his department, as well as the federal governmental agency tasked with funding the attraction or retention of extreme talent, both determined in the relatively recent past that he was a fish well worth landing. Something about this needs to be clarified: the universities that hire those researchers competent enough to be competitive in a Canada Research Chair competition are not doing them a favor by offering them a position; rather, it is an honor for the university (and the students, both undergraduate and graduate, that attend the institution) to be chosen by the researcher in question. No serious academic disputes this, although some may quibble about the precise metrics used for identification of the serious talent. This is particularly true of an institution such as Brock, which is an university of reasonable but not exceptional quality, and which genuinely needs highly productive faculty members to help it ratchet itself up the very competitive academic ladder.

Hudlicky’s paper in Angewandte Chemie was peer-reviewed positively, judged as desirable by the relevant editorial staff, and published. This meant that it managed the difficult job of passing through the eye of a needle, and entering the kingdom of heaven, at least as far as research chemists might be concerned. But some of Dr. Hudlicky’s surmises with regard to the discipline of organic synthesis raised the ire of a Twitter mob (https://twitter.com/fxcoudert/status/1268920299833233416?s=20). This is not a difficult feat, in my opinion, as Twitter seems to exist primarily for the purpose of generating mobs—composed primarily of individuals who are hungry for the opportunity to taste blood and bask in the joys of reasonably risk-free reputation destruction, revenge and self-righteousness. Furthermore, as far as Twitter mobs go, those who complained about the Angewandte Chemie publication were not particularly numerous. No matter: once the complaints emerged, the editor of the journal in charge of Dr. Hudlicky’s work—one Dr. Neville Compton—removed the paper from the journal’s website, and offered an abject apology for daring to have published it in the first place. Furthermore, he reported the “suspension” of two of the journal’s editors (indicating precisely how much trust those individuals should have placed initially in his judgement) and cast aspersions on Hudlicky’s ethics, stating that his essay did not properly reflect fairness, trustworthiness and social awareness, while implying that the now-pilloried author and his peer reviewers and editors were discriminatory, unjust and inequitable in practice. It should be noted, by the way, that the position of editor for a scientific journal is general one filled by volunteers, who donate their time for the greater good of the scientific enterprise, rather than for any monetary gain. So Compton fired generous volunteers to ensure that his good name would not be irredeemably sullied by any association with the now-demonized professor Hudlicky and his ne’er-do-well compatriots (none of whom likely knew each other except in passing).

What was Hudlicky’s sin? His 12-page document (approximating 4000 words) dealt with issues he believed were affecting organic synthesis research and communication, and covered topics such as the range of research options available, integrity and trustworthiness of the relevant literature, transference of skills from mentor to trainee, impact of information technology, the corporatization of the university environment, the effect of new technology, the diversity of the available work force, and the competition for resources among researchers—all topics that people of putative good will and competence (such as the author and his reviewers and editors) could agree had a demonstrable effect on the quality of research currently conducted. However, Hudlicky voiced a smattering of opinions that were deemed unacceptable by a small number of people who both read his submission and were somewhat active on Twitter. Here are the sentences constituting his sins, which fall into two of the categories Hudlicky identified as relevant for analysis of research productivity. I have paraphrased them very slightly for length:

Under Diversity of Workforce: “In the last two decades many groups have been designated with “preferential status” (despite substantive increases in the recruitment of women and minorities). Preferential treatment of one group leads inexorably to disadvantages for another. Each candidate should have an equal opportunity to secure a position, regardless of personal identification/ categorization. Hiring practices that aim at equality of outcome is counter-productive if it results in discrimination against the most meritorious candidates. Such practice has also led to the emergence of mandatory “training workshops” on gender equity, inclusion, diversity, and discrimination.”

So those apparently objectional words constitute 90 of 4000—a small proportion of the total content of the essay, and the proffering of an opinion that insists “if”: not that diversity, inclusivity and equality provisions necessarily produce prejudicial hiring practices (although the research evidence suggests that they clearly do [1])) then they may have a detrimental effect on research productivity. It is also important to note that these opinions paraphrase very closely a decision reached and publicized by a German court in 2007, at least according to a supporter of Hudlicky who dared express an opinion supporting his colleague.

The Twitter mob trolls who objected to this opinion reacted as if what Dr. Hudlicky said was that efforts to “diversify” hiring and student selection were definitively harmful, while what he truly did was only raise the possibilities that such actions could become counterproductive if they resulted in the exclusion of qualified candidates. No one can object to this opinion, reasonably—unless they assume, as did Hudlicky’s critics, that all claims to objectivity in hiring and selection are inextricably bound up with the systemic prejudice hypothetically characterizing all hierarchies of specialization.

Under Transference of Skills: “The training and mentoring of new generations of professionals must be attended to by proper relationships of “masters and apprentices” without dilution of standards. Hudlicky described two conditions under which the successful transfer of skills can occur: first, if the skill is not transferred within three generations, it is lost forever, and second, there must be “an unconditional submission of the apprentice to his/her master.” This applies not only in the sciences but also in art, music, and martial arts…. Submission to one’s mentor is rarely attainable today. Many students are unwilling to submit to any level of hard work demanded by professors. The university does not support professors in this endeavor as it views students as financial assets and hence protects them from any undue hardships that may be demanded by the “masters.” This situation, coupled with the fact that professors have less and less time to mentor students in the laboratory, cannot provide for a productive transfer of skills, especially the maintenance of standards and integrity of research.”

This is an additional 170 words/4000, and paraphrases an opinion most famously put forward by Michael Polanyi, a Hungarian-English polymath of genius level, who made contributions to chemistry, philosophy and economics, and who delineated the importance of “tacit knowledge” (that is, knowledge that was acted out but not necessarily articulated) in the transmission of specialized technical ability across the generations. Hudlicky was therefore criticized and pilloried by individuals on Twitter who appeared to know nothing of M. Polanyi’s work on tacit knowledge (for whom such ignorance was perhaps justifiable) but also by the editor of Angewandte, for whom such ignorance (voluntary or otherwise) was most certainly not. Acquisition of this knowledge required precisely the unfreedom recommended by Hudlicky—followed, of course (with the acquisition of the aptly named Master’s degree) by autonomy in thought and action that was increased beyond what it would have been capable of achieving without the devoted apprenticeship in question. Such a process can only be undertaken by a pupil capable of regarding his or her teacher as a true mentor, and by a mentor bent on producing a pupil more capable than him or herself, after an intensive period of training. None of that, according to Hudlicky (and this is not obviously an unreasonable hypothesis in this day of age) is possible in the university as it is currently constituted, even in the departments that still teach hard sciences. Not only is it not possible, he implies, but it is no longer posited even as an acceptable possibility. In a properly functioning institute of training, however, it might be argued that disciplined and contractually-mediated temporary subjugation to higher authority is eminently desirable, despite the limited sacrifice of casual autonomy that might require, if the person or persons to whom the subjugation is made are true experts. It is the willingness to undertake this apprenticeship, as well as the capability of superseding it, that makes up the master in “Master’s degree”—a designation that I notice Brock still grants, despite potentially colonial overtones at least as damning as those that characterized Hudlicky’s writing (if we are going to go down that absurd route).

That is the sum total of Hudlicky’s academic crimes. He has faced severe retaliation on no less than seven separate fronts for his hypothetically unforgivable thoughts—the two we have already discussed, and five more, including, third, the cancelation of an entire issue of the journal Synthesis (published by Thieme), which was to be dedicated to his 70th birthday and for which invitations had already been sent to more than forty prominent scientists; fourth, the elimination of any mention of his work in yet another journal, Highlights in Chemistry; fifth, a statement by the Norwegian Chemical Society (not as of yet made public) hypothetically critiquing his ongoing collaborations with three Norwegian researchers; and sixth, his transformation into whipping boy by his own faithless professional colleagues at the administrative level at Brock University. Dr. Greg Finn, Provost and VP Academic at that institution, saw nothing wrong with stabbing one of his university’s most esteemed scientists in the back at the first sign of trouble. The provost wrote a painfully cringing apologetic “open letter to the public,” claiming, of course, that Hudlicky’s opinions, if in the least controversial, were in no possible manner representative of Brock University as a whole, and essentially hanging that institution’s hypothetically valued top chemist out to dry. Finn states that Hudlicky’s article “…contains descriptions of the graduate supervisor-graduate student relationship that connote disrespect and subservience. These statements could be alarming to students and others who have the reasonable expectation of respectful and supportive mentorship…. [The statements in this paper] do not reflect the principles of inclusivity, diversity and equity included in the University’s mission, vision and values as approved by our Senate and Board of Trustees.” Only an individual accustomed to dining on very thin gruel or simply spoiled meat would find any nourishment in statements with such content and of that quality.

An admirable university, secure in its worth, would have determined very quickly that one Dr. Hudlicky was, conservatively, worth a hundred Dr. Finn’s, and acted accordingly. But research prowess is no longer as important as willingness to mouth the appalling commonplaces of political correctness in the hallowed corridors of academe. And what that essentially means is that resentful and underqualified pretenders to the role of useful intellectual can now exercise the upper hand in apparent scientific worthiness, so far as it has been reduced to a simple political power game. And the list of consequences for Dr. Hudlicky I have outlined so far does not by any means exhaust the description of his punishment. He is (was (?)) apparently a scientist of sufficient merit, as his Canada Research Chair should have clearly and decisively indicated, to have had an entire upcoming issue of another journal, Synthesis, devoted to a retrospective of his work, complete with invited commentary—and now the existence of that tribute has become highly doubtful.

Three other events worth of note that came to my attention over the last two weeks, when I have been communicating with academics concerned with this sequence of happenings, drive these points home. A highly cited professor of physics, who I cannot name, at a university I cannot name either (suffice it to say that the former has garnered 100+ publications and 7000+ citations in a highly technical field) had his standard Canadian Federal grant application rejected because (or so the reviewers claimed) he had not sufficiently detailed his plans to ensure diversity, inclusivity and equity (DIE) practices while conducting his scientific inquiry. It is now standard practice for university hiring boards to insist that their faculty job applicants submit a DIE plan with their curriculum vitae—a terribly dangerous occurrence of its own. I believe that the fundamental reason such plans are required, particularly of those who practice in the so-called “hard” STEM fields (science, technology, engineering and mathematics) is so that those who could not hope to assess the quality of research endeavours in those specialties as a consequence of their own ability or prowess, can be made into judges by enforcing the adoption of standards of attitude and behavior that have nothing to do with the fields in question. I am no arithmetical genius, for example, myself. It is almost certain that a Master’s degree, to say nothing of a Ph.D. or professorship in mathematics, would have been beyond me, even in my younger years, when such talent is most likely to manifest itself. I would never dream of attempting to review a grant application in a specialized subfield of chemistry, engineering or physics—even of biology, which is nearer my bailiwick. But if it became possible to adopt the position of judge because of my colleagues’ attitude toward student selection and staffing, then—presto! Those who are applying for such funding are no longer painfully more intelligent than me. They are merely and reprehensibly in error in their basic political opinions. There is nothing but victory in that for me, in precise proportion to my degree of resentment for my unfortunate and rather incurable stupidity.

Consider, in addition, the current landing page for the Department of Physics at McGill University. It is difficult to provide a purely objective analysis of the significance of the different elements of this page, at least concerning their relative size or prominence (and, therefore, their implicit importance), because there is wide variation in resolution of the various screens that users may employ to access it. Suffice it to say, however, that at a resolution of 2048 by 1536, which is higher than average (and therefore allows more of the available visual content to be presented to the viewer simultaneously) the second-most visually evident active link is the “McGill Physics Community Statement Against Racism”—and, if this is not sufficient proof of the upstanding moral quality of that “community” there is also an active link to an “Equity Diversity and Inclusion” page in the center of the main menu bar of the page.

It does not seem merely picayune to note (1) that the proper role of such a page is to convey information pertaining to physics to those who might be applying to that department at McGill and not about the political or sociological attitudes of its faculty, administrators and students. It is also perhaps not out of place (2) to voice a certain skepticism with regard to the timing of this oh-so-very-properly-moral statement and note that if it required the unfortunate death of one George Floyd to motivate its appearance it is either inexcusably opportunistic or a classic case of closing the barn door once the cattle had already made their disappearance. To make it even clearer, if that is necessary: if the McGill physics community is so unrepentantly racist that it required someone’s death to draw its existence to the surface, a mere banner statement is by no means sufficient atonement. If it is not racist to that notable extreme, then mere humility might have led to the conclusion that now was not the appropriate time to trumpet the assumption of moral superiority necessary to formulate the anti-racist and pro-diversity claims that are being made, front and center, regardless of the fact that this page exists to provide information about physics and not sociology at the august institution of McGill University.

I would also like to point out, just for the sake of completeness, that the two rather egregious moral errors in page construction do not constitute the entire universe of deception characterizing the page. It is apparent that the McGill Physics Department has decided that live classes of the classic sort are unlikely to take place in the fall of 2020 and is now offering its students (who are certainly being regarded as far stupider than most of the physics majors I have met) the opportunity to “implement modern, evidence-based teaching techniques & technologies” and the “unprecedented chance for students to shape their own education, and how science is taught at McGill.” Clearly, what might appear to the uneducated observer as somewhat of a catastrophe for new undergraduate attendees at McGill (that is, the impossibility of attending live university classes) is actually—as those in the know clearly realize—a new and special opportunity for them to be educated in an even finer manner than those who were unfortunate enough to embark upon their education before the blessing of the COVID-19 virus. I mention this only to point out that virtually nothing presented as content on this departmental page, political or not, has escaped the spirit of deception that is arguably its central and most appalling feature, whether it is political (as in the case of objection 1 and 2) and designed to signal a particular brand of ideological morality, or a consequence of third-rate marketing tactics (objection 3), which are more simply characterized as lies.

And, in case you are not convinced by the stories I just told, which do lack somewhat for detail, because of the current necessity for confidentiality, consider this: a group of three professors at Concordia were awarded a New Frontiers in Research Grant (announced in late 2019) aimed at  “engaging Indigenous understanding and involving Indigenous communities in the co-creation of knowledge, the project aims to decolonize contemporary physics research and attract Indigenous students.” The head researcher, one Dr. Tanja Tajmel, “questioned the colonial assumptions made in the way Western science evaluates light and what it considers knowledge.” Dr. Louellyn White, associate professor in First Peoples Studies, added that “Indigenous ways of knowing have been suppressed and marginalized throughout academic history and we are finally gaining momentum in elevating Indigenous knowledges as equally valid to Western science… If we, as an institution, do not embody the Territorial Acknowledgement by recognizing and affirming the expertise of our Elders as Knowledge Keepers, the acknowledgement becomes nothing but empty platitudes.” Dr. Ingo Salzmann, the last of the three principal investigators to whom the funds were awarded, says, ““The culture of physics certainly changes with diverse people involved,” he argues. “Therefore, decolonizing science involves challenging the underlying hierarchies.”

The refusal of the research grant application specifically requesting funding for what must now apparently be regarded as “colonialized (or colonized (?) physics” and the success of the application that had the magical mention of “indigenous knowledge” should alert those who know of both and who are attending to the increasing politicization of the university that the STEM fields comprise the next frontier for the politically correct. Qualified and expert researchers in such fields are already in great danger of being pushed aside by politically correct activists who will happily and self-righteously displace them by merely refusing to admit to the existence of anything approximating an objective truth against which claims to competence might be assessed. The rest of us will pay in the longer run, when we no longer have the will or the capacity to make use of the rare talents that make people highly competent and productive as scientists, technological innovators, engineers or mathematicians.

We might also note that the politically-correct micro-tyrants beating the drum for diversity, inclusivity and equity are pursuing two goals which exist in logical contradiction to one another. Those who occupy a field like physics can only be racists if the fundamental claims to transcendental or ontological truth of that discipline are accepted: if physics describes the world, in a manner that is objectively true, then it is possible for whatever group that currently holds positions of power in that discipline to be prejudiced, perhaps by sex or race, and exclude qualified individuals who differ unacceptably along those dimensions to suffer unfair exclusion. But to make this case requires acceptance of the idea of the universality of the truth being pursued. Alternatively, there are multiple valuable forms of physics, shall we say, indicating that multicultural approaches are required—but the absence of those multiple forms are not so much racist as opportunistic or even merely isolated from the larger world (as each individual group can only be expected to pursue its values in an environment where there is no objective truth, but only group values). Which is it? The answer is quite simple: either, or both—depending on where the largest degree of guilt can be attributed. Convenient as this might be, it is not a good long-term solution to the problem: the internal contradictions inherent in such claims will results in within-group deterioration of solidarity in very short order. If classic physics is nothing but Eurocentric power-maneuvering, who cares if non-Caucasians are excluded? They are perfectly free to pursue their own power-centered physics. If there is an objective reality to that physics, then it is possible, at least in principle, to use objective tests of competence to rank-order candidates, and the problem of potential discrimination vanishes, at least to the degree that is possible.

I have suspected for years that the STEM fields posed the most dangerous threat possible to the unopposed dominance of politically correct sociological idiocy over the entirety of the university environment, basing their claim to validity on recognition of something approximating a universally accessible objective reality. That claim is too powerful to go unchallenged in today’s climate of moral self-flagellating among those, particularly common in the ranks of university administrators, who want all the advantages of the power high-ranking hierarchical positions provide, but none of the hypothetical moral baggage that are part and parcel of the prejudicial and patriarchal structure that gave rise to those positions. The proper solution? Continual apology for the sins of others who occupy equivalent or superior positions, conjoined with a willingness to damage the reputation of those miscreants, and to force them into an apologetic stance—or even to apologize for their own unearned privilege, as long as that does not result in any true sacrifice of power, income or authority. This is particular evident, in the stories I have related, in the case of the Brock University Provost.

The George Floyd incident has emboldened those who are shamelessly using crooked faux-moral means to stake a moral claim in the so-called patriarchal structure that makes up the academic world. They are certainly able and willing to use the unfortunate death of an individual who had enough of the attributes of a systemically oppressed person to serve as poster boy for the self-serving political claims that are now being made on his behalf. This tendency, unchecked, poses a direct danger to the integrity of precisely those STEM fields that have so far remained essentially immune to the embarrassments and blandishments of the politically correct movement. But, make no mistake about it, scientists, technologists, engineers and mathematicians: your famous immunity to political concerns will not protect you against what is coming fast over the next five or so years: wake up, pay attention, or perish, along with your legacy. Whatever you might offer the broader culture in terms of general value will be swept aside with little caution by those who regard the very axioms of your field as intolerable truly because of the difficulty in comprehending them and considered publicly as unacceptably exclusionary, unitary and unconcerned with sociological “realities.”

Jordan Peterson, June 16, 2020, https://www.jordanbpeterson.com/political-correctness/the-missive/

[darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts]

Denying Desire

Next up... @nyktoon-in-otomeland

Kennyo / historical / #12 / fluff

#12: Honey, I’m good – Andy Grammer

WARNING: One bothersome friend

---

Denying Desire

When the message came, he had been sitting in a long-forgotten hunter’s hut in the forest sheltering from the elements for the night. A knock on its rotting wood frame had him reaching for his staff before opening the door. The metal rings chimed in the silence reminding him of the past whilst reassuring him of the present.

The door creaked on its rusted joints and a silent figure handed him a small scroll. No words had passed between them and as soon as the stranger had completed their delivery they seemed to melt into the trees and vanished. Becoming just another moving shadow in the darkness surrounding him.

*

Standing in the street looking up at the unassuming building in front of him he couldn’t help but sigh. The carefree atmosphere of the day he had spent in town amongst the unsuspecting town's inhabitants was gone. Drifting away like the trapped heat in the earth under his feet as it was kissed by the chilled caress of nightfall.

“I always thought you would end up spending your final days in a place such as this but I had hoped as a friend you would see the error of your ways and be proved wrong.” Kennyo spoke softly to the wind before taking a few steps inside the building and meeting the proprietress.

“Good Evening. Can I help you?” a smiling middle-aged woman in an elaborately designed kimono spoke from behind a small counter. Various small items on display near her made it look as if it was some sort of festival stall.

“I received a message directing me here from an acquaintance.” His voice was calm and dispassionate.

“Ah! You must be the friend of that charming man we have had the pleasure of entertaining.” The proprietress’s face contorted as her eyes crinkled happily. Truth be told it made him want to recoil but he held his ground.

“If by charming you mean incorrigible then yes you are probably right. Which room might he be in?”

“Third on right. I shall let the girls know to expect another guest.” The unnerving smile didn’t leave her face as she pulled on a silk cord on the wall behind her.

“Girls?” He almost stumbled as the movement of his feet stalled along with his mind that was catching up to what he had just been told. Nothing about this sounded anyway close to what he was told in that message. Cursing his own lack of foresight when it came to how blindsided his friend made him, he continued down the hallway.

He found the room and the door slid back before he could even knock. An attractive young lady smiled up at him, her pale-yellow kimono was pushed away from her neck revealing a scandalous amount of bare flesh and the notable fact that she did not appear to be wearing a juban.

“Welcome we’ve been expecting you.” She ushered him into the room. A sickeningly sweet smell permeated the air, clawing at his nose and lungs. Music was being played from the corner of the room and a group of women were dancing at its centre. Bare legs flashed from beneath loose garments, long hair flowing free swaying with their movements. He couldn’t help but feel that this was like walking into a test of his control. He had spent many years in temple gaining his focus, maintaining his mental grip over such things. And here was his friend lounging around at the centre of it all.

“Well if it isn’t Kennyo”

“What is the meaning of this?” Kennyo made no attempt to move further into the room. The dancers stopped their movements and retreated to the walls freeing up the floor for the exchange between the two male guests.

“Is something the matter? You really shouldn’t frown so much you know it ages you.” Shingen brought his large hand to his own brow and tapped it. The women draped over him like a haori removed themselves and became very busy and focused on the removal of the empty sake bottles and plates.

“Your message said you were dying.”

“I am. I was dying to see my friend again for a drink. It’s been too long Kennyo, you know you don’t make it easy to find you?” Shingen opened his arms up in an exaggerated gesture as he acted out a show of being upset.

“Shingen. I can’t believe you summoned me like—No actually I can. I’m leaving.” Kennyo huffed and spun on his heel ready to slam open the door and leave the room. At least that was what he wanted to do but a strong grip latched onto his shoulder from behind and held him in place.

“Now, now. Don’t be so grumpy. Have a drink with me.” Shingen could move fast when he wanted too and had apparently pounced like a tiger to prevent Kennyo from leaving. His words were friendly enough but the strength in his grip showed he was serious about not letting the other man leave just yet.

“I have no desire to remain in this establishment surrounded by your trained distractions and risk my own life.”

“When did you get to be such a wet blanket? You never used to be like this you know?” Shingen chuckled sending the musicians and dancers away with a lordly sweep of his hand and beckoned a couple of his haori girls from before back to his side to pour for them. “You really think I would poison you?”

“These are dark times we live in. A friend can easily become an enemy as much as a family member can.”

“True. I cannot deny the logic in that but I also cannot say it doesn’t hurt to think that my oldest and dearest friend would think that I would stoop that low.”

They drank in near silence for a while. The girls in the room eventually left in an effort to find more profitable ways of spending their evening. Now alone with the gentle warming embrace of the alcohol taking effect the austere Monk found himself changing.

“Sorry.” Kennyo reluctantly accepted the sake cup and muttered his apology. He was willing to blame the alcohol for what he was feeling but he also knew it was probably also part of a small nagging idea that he might at some point also hurt his dear friend.

“Do my ears deceive me? You never apologise. Have all those mantras you’ve been muttering since sitting down finally taken their toll on your mind? Or maybe it was something more basic but no less divine.”

“What are you babbling about now?” Kennyo set down his cup content to not have another drink for the time being. It was dangerous enough to be around Shingen Takeda sober but drunk? He might as well be signing his own confession.

“A little bird tells me you found something in the market earlier today.” Shingen had that all-knowing smirk on his face.

“You find lots of things in the market that is rather the point.” Kennyo answered the enquiry appearing bored.

“Ah yes but you don’t always find a Goddess. Certainly not one that smiles as sweetly to men such as us as she would at an innocent child or animal. Someone so guileless… what else could you call her but a Goddess?”

This was the real reason he had been summoned and really didn’t wish to be sucked into one of the Tiger’s traps. And yet he found his lightly intoxicated mind wandering back to the market. How he had bumped into the unlucky girl that had been claimed by the devil king. He had marvelled at her ability to remain untainted by Oda and his men.

He had seen her several times since their fated encounter in the woods at the burning temple. He had distrusted her and felt angry at her ability to lie and act so innocent. That was until he realised none of it was an act. She was nothing more than a normal girl trapped in an extraordinary circumstance and Gods help him if he didn’t find him mind wandering down that path of desire the closer, he got to her. She made him feel things he thought he had cast aside in his pursuit for revenge. She made him feel like a man again, a good man.

“… an angel.” The words slipped past his lips before he could catch them.

“What was that?” Shingen’s smile grew. His eyes flashed clearly enjoying watching whatever emotions were playing out on the monk’s face as he reminisced.

“Nothing. I think this sake is getting to me.” Kennyo was aware he was not being completely honest but he was more willing to blame the alcohol than to admit to anything further.

“Say what you like but you are only lying to yourself you know? For all that higher calling spiel you spout you are ignoring your own heart.” Shingen spoke like he was giving lessons to a vassal, pouring himself another cup of sake.

“What is that supposed to mean? I have no need for such things. My only desire is to see Nobunaga Oda die by my hand.” Kennyo’s voice rose in agitation.

“Are you sure about that? Seems to me you still have some desires left that extend further than that.”

“I’ve had enough I really am leaving.” Rising to his feet he straightened out his robes and made for the door. This time he was not stopped and managed to make it into the hall.

“Have it your way. Send the girls back in on your way out would you?” Shingen called out from behind him through the open door.

“I shall have no hand in assisting you in the continued corruption of the women here. you want them, summon them yourself.”

*

The night air was even more chilled against his alcohol flushed skin as he walked the street to return to the path that would take him to the cabin. It was late but there were still some people moving around the town. His mind was still swaying back and forth in a daze between the market that morning and the area as it was now when the image of the girl lined up and matched perfectly with the silhouette of a figure moving in front of him.

She was walking in the direction of the castle. The sky blue kimono she wore seemed to pick up the dim lighting as she moved past the lanterns and it gave her a glow that looked heavenly. A clattering sound broke the spell he was under and he noticed she was crouched down attempting to pick up something from the floor. His stride naturally lengthened and he was by her side in seconds, his hand reaching out to help her gather up the fallen contents from her coin purse.

“Oh!” Her head snapped up and looked at him her clear doe eyes riveted him in place.

“It is rather late for a lady to be walking the streets without a chaperone.” He spoke hoping his voice didn’t sound as harsh as he thought it did.

“I was delivering a commission and got talked into staying to have a cup of tea. Before I knew it, it had gotten dark.” She stood back up and glanced around a little looking all the world like one of the woodland creatures he saw on his travels.

“Ah yes I remember you did say you were a seamstress. Still, it is dangerous to be walking around at night.” Kennyo nodded collecting the last of the coins and holding them out to her. She cupped her hands to receive them.

“Thank you for your concern. Erm…” Her eyes wavered for a moment after looking at his before glancing off to the side. Her small hands were gripping the coins so tight he was a little worried she would hurt herself.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for helping me. I was actually just thinking I should try to get something to eat before I return as I’ve most likely missed a meal now. Would you care to join me?” Her voice was quiet and kind. That familiar soft expression she seemed to have made his heart give a hard thump in his chest.

“You wish to eat with a demon?” He queried raising his brow quizzically. She knew who he was, knew what he was doing and still was able to ask such a thing? The words from earlier ran through his mind. Who else but a Goddess would smile upon a man such as him?

“Well you keep telling me I live with a devil I can’t see eating with you would be a bad thing.” Her attempt at humour caused her to laugh, a sound that shattered his resistance.

“You really are the most…” His words trailed off as his black eyes took in every inch of the young woman before him in complete wonder.

“Yes?” She inclined her head. Her hair tumbled over her nape with the motion and he found his fingers twitched with a desire to reach out and push it back. He clenched his traitorous hand on his staff pushing that thought aside.

“Nothing. I shall join you and then walk you back to the castle as far as I can go.”

“Yay! Ok then let’s go I got the perfect place in mind.”

If he thought her expression was light before it was positively blinding in the darkness now. She was like a spirit, taking him by the hand and leading him happily along to an alley where tea houses operated late into the night. He wasn’t certain how long he was going to be able to keep up the act of suppressing what he felt. But he was certain of one thing that night. He was in the presence of one of the most bothersome girls he’d ever met, and he didn’t mind that in the slightest.

---

[thedistantstorm]

A Steelponcho Dawning - Part 12

A Dawning romance featuring the Commander and the Clan Steward, their feelings for each other coming to a head during the first Dawning celebration following the Red War, featuring Lord Saladin, city food, eventual smut, and a whole lot of pining. Continues from: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11.

Cayde returns the Clan Steward to Zavala’s office not long after the Commander and Ikora arrive. The worktable is still covered in Dawning gifts and the bushels of cards from what seems like an eternity ago to the full-bellied woman who is feeling even more drowsy now with a belly full of the Ramen Shop’s house special.

Cayde pats her shoulder - she’s recovered enough to be over his clingy personality, needing her space and flinching away awkwardly. She does thank him for putting both their meals on his tab though. He’s almost bashful over being recognized for his good deeds, but then he manages to come up with a mild snark about her being able to repay him by doing some paperwork for him next time they’re on strikes together. She lets him have it, it’s unspoken that she always does paperwork when they run strikes together(usually in this office).

She pulls out her new tablet and sets out to answering messages, ignoring the mild pull of exhaustion, the in and out of focus of her vision as her eyes droop. She catches herself twice before she thinks any of them notice, but Zavala is always two steps ahead. He waits for her to reluctantly meet his gaze before casting his eyes over at the small couch on the far side of the office and back, pointedly.

Suraya shakes her head just a fraction. His eyes narrow in response. She refocuses down at her tablet intently while Ikora continues on beside her about potential restructuring options they could explore. The Warlock happened to have attended the last meeting on a whim and had some ideas of potential relocation areas for the displaced people of the Farm. Cayde remains mostly quiet, loitering against the wall between large windows, interjecting when necessary.

They don’t actually know the full number of people who will need to relocate. They won’t for a while, the current numbers just growing estimates that induce more and more anxiety. It will depend on what rebuilding efforts look like at the Farm, and what is the quicker, more advantageous solution for all parties involved. In short, until they go and get an idea of the damage for themselves, there is no way that they will be able to do anything of use besides plot and plan. And even that can’t be done fully without knowing the full specifications the resulting efforts will require.

Zavala’s tablet beeps and blinks at him with a message from Devrim that pulls him out of Ikora’s soft spoken discussion of available sectors. The EDZ scout is messaging him with a standard update. Updated death toll, estimated displaced - unofficially set at a couple thousand and rising. Considering there are still thirty thousand City-folk living at the Farm, it's a staggering number.

The Commander frowns, looking up at Hawthorne, who has clearly also received the update without the audio alert. She sighs and sets her tablet on the edge of his desk after typing a reply expressing her thanks, blatant concern, and asking if there’s anything she can do.

Devrim replies for her to take care of herself, because they need her. She swipes the tablet back reluctantly from the desk and replies that he needs to be safe, too and something about a good salve for a burn that he can make with plants that grow in the area.

With a typed out laugh, Dev replied to the group message that he'd taught her that one, if she recalled and he would be just fine. He'd already made some in his few minutes of downtime yesterday.

Ikora is just about finished talking ten minutes later when Suraya tips her head back and rubs her fingers into her forehead. Her head is pounding from trying to stay focused amid her exhaustion. Around her, Ikora looks at Cayde and then Zavala, with a quick dart of gold-toned eyes toward the Clan Steward and back.

“Suraya,” Zavala finally says, ignoring both of his Fireteam members’ weird looks at his lack of formality. There's no need to be formal right now. Certainly both of them know they spend time together. She blinks up at him, eyes bleary. “Take the couch. I'll wake you if something happens.” Gently, he affirms, “I promise.”

Cayde lets out a mote of sound as if he's going to second the idea and jump on the bandwagon when she protests, but the woman simply slides her tablet across the desktop so it comes to rest on the Commander's side. “Just for a few minutes,” She acquiesces. “Get me if Dev or Marc call, even if it's not an emergency. Please.”

“Of course,” Zavala agrees easily. He's sure both men would argue against just that, but he's not about to start a fight since she's agreeing.

When she settles in on the couch, crochet blanket pulled down over herself, Cayde plops into the recently vacated seat. “Well, that was way easier than I expected.”

“Quiet,” Ikora reprimands tersely. “Let’s not disturb her if we can help it.” And then, even softer, “I cannot imagine what she saw. The reports my hidden have given me are… disturbing. It’s a civilian staging area, barely a warfront. For this to occur...” Ikora has a difficult time empathizing, though she is not without feeling.

Cayde's optics are serious. “She, ah, told me a little bit, when we were waiting for our meal. Burning isn’t fun. We’ve all spent enough time in Shaxx’s Mayhem to know what a solar genade feels like on the receiving end.” He makes a weird little halfway gesture with his hands, uncomfortable. “Kinda worries me, her being like this. We should keep an eye on her.”

Zavala doesn’t quite roll his eyes, having a bit too much decorum for that, but he does gruff out, “I am.”

There’s a quiet scoff across from him. “Clearly.” Ikora glances over her shoulder at the woman on the couch, her eyes returning to bore into Zavala’s luminescent ones, as if to say she suspects Hawthorne’s agreeable demeanor to his instruction is no happy accident. Ikora was also the second or third person at most consensus meetings(after Zavala, or Zavala and Hawthorne together), and one of the last to leave. She’s seen them together, knows they’re a bit closer than colleagues, and more than likely in the territory of friends.

“Obviously,” Cayde says, as if he's led the discussion up to this point, then winces at his own volume, dialing it down a notch. “I just mean that, y'know, if there’s anything we can do, let us know.” Ikora looks mildly uncomfortable. She's aloof by nature and Hawthorne isn't exactly in her circle of friends - not many hold such an esteemed title - though they are amiable, of course. She manages a stiff nod to Cayde's statement.

Zavala nods, and their impromptu meeting is adjourned. He doesn't plan on taking either of them up on it, strike operations are on hold with very few exceptions in the EDZ, and whatever Farm restructuring plan will be best handled by the two of them, even with Ikora's well-meaning advice. Ikora and Cayde are excellent at managing operations abroad with their wide reach and ease of access. He's content to leave their usual work to them without adding extra. Besides, Suraya would surely be embarrassed to hear that Cayde essentially offered himself up to act as a babysitter.

-/

The sounds of quiet discussion - low, rolling voices, like waves in the sea - bring her drifting closer to wakefulness. It's dark, she doesn't need to open her eyes to tell, the afternoon light long gone on the other side of her eyelids. She shifts and feels the distinct chill in the air of an open window. The quietest of chitters echoes from across the room and precursors a laugh that's deep and purposely dampened, likely by hand or fist.

“He likes attention, I see,” Suraya recognizes the voice immediately. Saladin.

There is a little chirp, the scuffle of talons on what she's guessing is the plasteel of Zavala's gauntlet. She focuses, wants to hear this.

Zavala hums. It sounds affectionate. Her chest blooms with warmth despite the ache of grief and bite of returning stress threatening to overwhelm her. “Louis is an interesting falcon. Certainly full of personality,” The Commander admits. She knows his sounds, her bird certainly agrees.

“Much like his handler,” Saladin replies.

The sound of something sliding captures her attention. Zavala speaks again. “Select what you'd like. I'll have it delivered here.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps she would-”

“I'll wake her when it comes, if the smell doesn't first.”

She assumes he's stroking Louis in that way he does, down his chest with his fingertips, the way she always said would get him nipped but her partner for some reason allows. She also guesses he's ordered Indian, and the thought of warm naan and malai reminds her that she needs to catch up on meals, too. She hasn't been very good about taking care of herself in light of recent events, and ramen isn't an incredibly filling meal for someone who hasn't eaten properly in days.

However, she's warm under the blankets, Louis is incapable hands, and the couch is comfortable enough. Even the silence that settles over the two Titans is soothing. She is safe to let herself doze a while longer. It'll be another hour before the food will be delivered, if she knows anything about the delivery systems around here(and she does).

It's slightly less time than that when the food does arrive, and she's coaxed awake with fingertips against her cheek and a whisper in her ear. She must have been in the upswing of a REM cycle because she comes to a bit disoriented, feeling like it's morning and not late evening, panicking over something she doesn't remember until it all hits her again, all at once. Zavala has her fingers wrapped around a mug of tea nearly instantly, his eyes gentle, body blocking his mentor's view.

She's grateful for that. His gaze is a steady anchor, and she smells notes of jasmine in the tea. He knows her well. When he steps away, she sees the steaming containers of food and knows the little tick of his brow means for her to join them when she's gathered her bearings. She hears a soft flutter from the window by his desk and knows Louis is waiting for her, too.

Saladin sighs. “I'd like to come,” He tells Zavala. “When you go to the Farm, to survey-” Suraya gets over herself quickly, on her feet and padding silently across the office without her boots, tea placed beside Zavala's similar mug, hers red and his blue. Saladin's is yellow, but looks to be coffee instead of tea.

The Iron Lord's gaze follows her all the way over to the open window, where Louis is perched. “Hey Bird,” She says, and the raptor cries out, the sound shrill. Concerned. She thumbs the ruffled feathers of his head. “I'm fine,” She assures him quietly. Behind her, Saladin drops his volume and continues speaking, but she knows the ice-water feel of eyes on her back. “I'm sorry I haven't been around. Gonna be that way for a little bit longer.” He nips her, hard enough to chastise but not to break skin. Makes eye contact. Cheeps a few times and pushes into the hand that smooths against his feathers.

“He will be fine, Suraya,” Saladin addresses loud enough to break her concentration, a few moments of doting later. “The Commander here spoiled him with treats while you were resting.”

Zavala harrumphs at being caught. Suraya always yells at him for fattening up her bird. (“He's a falcon, not a turkey, Zavala.”)

“He’s less spoiled and more like a con artist,” She replies instead, surprising Titan who’s preparing for a reprimand. Louis nips more affectionately now, and she cracks the window a bit more, indicating it's okay for him to take to the sky. He does, and she watches his wings beat once, twice against the cold air as he flies away. “When did he drop in?” She asks as she shuts the window behind him. Her memory recalls waking up earlier but she has no idea how long she's been out.

“A few hours ago. Come eat,” The Iron Lord commands. Her stomach rumbles in answer as she joins them, and she nurses some of her tea first. Sitting between them, she watches both of them glance at her as if to assure themselves she’s alright.

“Did you pick the day?” She asks Zavala, referring to the topic Saladin had been on when she rose from the couch. “And did I miss anything?” Hawthorne forces herself to eat slowly, realizing that she is positively famished.

Zavala nods. “It's on your calendar. Two days time.” He pauses to take a bite of chicken tikka. “Devrim sends his regards-”

Furious - no, he knows her better now. Anxious dark eyes, like soil and earth turn to him as she sets down her utensil. “I told you to-”

“He only messaged you.” Zavala lays a palm on her shoulder when she bristles. She’s incredibly tense. “I called him for an update.”

“Is he okay?” The surge of protectiveness is not missed by either man.

The Commander nods. “He was getting off his shift for the evening. He wanted you to know they have plenty of help and the Clans are helping admirably, and not to fret about him. I believe he said that is Marc’s specialty.”

“He doesn’t get a choice,” The Clan Steward says, stabbing a piece of meat with force, though her rage has significantly receded. “I’ll worry if I want to.” It’s almost a pout.

Zavala shakes his head at her reaction, eyes lighting up in a way that Saladin does not miss, his eyes silently dancing from the woman and back to his former pupil. Zavala's eyebrows raise in a questioning arch that subsides when Suraya reaches between them for a piece of warm naan, still wrapped in paper and foil.

“Is there something I’m missing?” She asks skeptically when both their expressions school themselves into something less expressive. Her eyes are dark and she still looks tired, but far better than she had before. Her mind felt clearer with every bite, and that meant she was well over being coddled or treated like an invalid. “You two are making weird faces.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Uh huh,” She looks at Saladin instead of Zavala. Her eyes narrow, and Zavala winces at the knowing look she gives him. His stomach flops and his heart beats loud in his chest.

Lord Saladin has absolutely talked to Suraya. His mentor has absolutely said something to her. Something personal, if that look is any indication. Insecurity washes over him like a cold shower. Did he say something to her about his feelings? Or worse, her own?

After a moment, Suraya drops her gaze to her meal and they both continue eating, letting it go. Zavala finds that he can’t take another bite.

[sweetsmellosuccess]

Sundance 2019: Day 6

Number of Films: 3 Best Movie of the Day: Official Secrets

Official Secrets: As festivals often tend to do, when you see enough movies, eventually certain topics or themes emerge. This year, with the release of both this film and The Report, (not to mention last year’s Vice) it’s clear that for filmmakers, it’s finally open the Bush/Cheney era. Where The Report took them to task for their illegal policy of “Enhanced Interrogation Techniques,” this film shows the effect of their trumped up fake-WMD war against Iraq with the U.S. number one ally, England. Katherine Gun (Keira Knightley) is a low-level staffer at Britain intelligence. When she comes across an extraordinary memo from the NSA, asking her division to spy on UN member nations whose vote towards the war appears negative. With this intel, the thought was that the U.S. and G.B. could essentially blackmail those countries into voting for the war. Disturbed by what she sees, Katharine copies the memo and leaks it to an anti-war activist, who in turn takes it to the Guardian, where journalist Martin Bright (Matt Smith) runs with the story. The film portrays Katharine as a justified moral objector, much in the manner of Edward Snowden, in seeing their country perform a knowingly illegal act, and acting out of their conscience. Undeterred by the UN’s negative vote, of course, Bush/Cheney/Blair’s war went on anyway, causing thousands of deaths to little appreciable value, but Katharine, unlike Snowden (at this point), was ultimately viewed as an uncompromising and brave woman, putting her life and career at risk to hold her own government accountable. Slickly shot by director Gavin Hood, the film moves at a brisk, but believable pace. Less dry and procedural than The Report, it pays a bit more attention to dramatic tension — after charges are brought against her, Katharine enlists the aid of a legal team lead by Ben Emmerson (Ralph Fiennes) — without sacrificing any of its gravitas. It doesn’t do the war dead any good now, but for the rest of us, it at least it puts the travesty on full display.

Clemency: By the time the film opens, Bernadine (Alfre Woodard) has been a prison warden in a death penalty state for many years. In that time, she’s put a dozen men to death, a burden she used to be able to reconcile, but it’s clearly taking a serious toll on her soul. She can’t sleep; she drinks too much; she can’t bring herself to reconnect with her doting husband (Wendell Pierce). In her weariness, she is not alone: the prison chaplain (Michael O’Neill) is also coming to the end of the line, as is Marty (Richard Schiff), the lawyer for a convicted cop killer Anthony Woods (Aldis Hodge), a seemingly docile man stuck on death row for 15 years as the appeals process grinds along. They are all exhausted physically and morally, having to endure the misery of the capital punishment system. Forget moralizing, at least alone, the film suggests: The system is rotten in all sorts of ways. When Bernadine finds herself questioning the outcome of Woods’ ordeal, it becomes more and more difficult for her to maintain her dispassionate facade. Chinonye Chukwu‘s film is appropriately heavy, given the nature of the material, but it’s also sludgy, both cinematographically speaking, where scenes are dim and too dark, and in script, with many conversations too thick for their purpose, and a propensity for expository dialogue (and worse news broadcasts). Woodard is commendable, and there are times when Chukwu‘s slow-rhythm style works very well (a scene where Woods waits in vain for his family to visit is a necessary elongation), but too often the material just feels stretched. It’s far from a polemic, in fact, Chukwu commendably avoids making hard and fast moral point, other than to say the death penalty claims a lot more than one convict’s life, but it’s still a little too murky to connect the way it longs to.

Wounds: Because of my undying love for Under the Shadows, let me first talk about Babak Anvari’s new film in positive terms. Set in New Orleans, the Iranian Anvari, whose debut feature was shot in and around Tehran and Jordan, spends a commendable amount of energy letting his film soak in the vibe of its locale. There’s nothing flashy, or touristy, about his appraisal of the city – it feels decidedly lived in, from the bar where budding alcoholic Will (Armie Hammer) works, to the small-house apartment he shares with his live-in girlfriend, Carrie (Dakota Johnson). It’s not an easy city to capture, beyond the obvious, and Anvari does it admirably. The opening scene is also a knock-out, with a rising tension between patrons at the rundown bar where Will works: Alicia (Zazie Beetz), a woman Will has a serious thing for, strolls in with a new boyfriend, Jeffrey (Karl Glusman); a wild-eyed, active-duty vet (Brad William Henke) comes down from his upstairs apartment and starts throwing ‘em down; while a small group of young, pasty-looking college students come and sit at a dank table to drink generic beers. When Eric’s equally crazed crew come in to shoot pool, it’s not long before things get out of hand and suddenly a melee ensues. It’s expertly shot, and strongly written, the kind of scene that portends to an equally fascinating narrative. Alas, that is not quite to be, however: When the fight breaks out, the college students flee, one of them leaving their cell phone behind. Will finds it, brings it home, and figures out how to open it in order to return it, but comes across a series of disturbing photos, and, eventually, a phone call with what sounds like a pack of demons on the other side. From that point, he changes, turns dark and inward, hallucinates freely, and becomes more and more unglued. Stalking around the darkness of the city, drinking indiscriminately, he splinters his life as he gets closer to total immersion. Anvari populates the film with all sorts of horror props – including a inspired use of cockroaches – but despite the quality filmmaking, and the efforts of a strong cast, he can’t sufficiently raise the stakes enough from the premise to make a truly satisfying horror film. It’s not a disaster by any means, and there’s certainly enough promise here to look forward to his next film, but this one isn’t quite there.

Tomorrow: On the last full day of the festival, I go see the lauded This isn’t Berlin; finally get to see Jennifer Kent’s The Nightingale; and

Into the frigid climes and rarefied thin air of the spectacular Utah Mountains, I've arrived in order to document some of the sense and senselessness of the 2019 Sundance Film Festival. Over the next week, armed with little more than a heavy parka and a bevy of blank reporter's notebooks, I'll endeavor to watch as many movies as I can and report my findings.

[rfassholes]

A headcanon where MC is Rika's little sister (like she's 20-23 years old) and the RFA has to tell her the terrible things that Rika did (Mint Eye). Adding the fact that they are all in love with MC and that MC really admired Rika.

I’m so sorry that this one will probably be short, as well. I couldn’t think all too clearly for this one, but I’d definitely redo it for you if it’s not good enough. (Thanks for only having it be the rfa, too. It gets a bit difficult writing for everyone, because I want everything to be semi-decent) I didn’t really know how to time this, but I’m going to write this on the basis that ///spoilers/// V is alive, Rika’s been dead for  a year, and V told them the truth. Also, for Yoosung’s, it will be platonic, because I don’t particularly like incest whatsoever. I know that there are loopholes with the “cousin” thing, but I’m just going to keep his platonic.

Yoosung:

It hurt him deeply when he found out what Rika had done and he was only her cousin

He couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to tell you

During all the chatrooms before the party, everyone tried to skirt around the topic

Yoosung knew that everything she did would cut you to pieces considering how much you idolized her

He’s seen you trailing behind her at family functions and staying by her side even if someone else interested you more

While it may be a bit obsessive, he was also conscious of how he acted after her death

A few days after you hosted the party, Yoosung wanted you to come to his campus for what he played off as a casual visit

Knowing that his conversation about Rika he wanted to have with you, he tried his best to make the dorm comfortable and safe

When you had gotten there, you were taken slightly aback by how serious he was acting

There was no way that this was the kid who drank cartons upon cartons of chocolate milk so he wouldn’t pass out

“Yoosung, are you alright? You didn’t have to play this as just me seeing your school. If something is wrong, you can always tell me.” “Don’t worry, MC. I trust you with everything I have. I trusted you more than Rika which is saying…a lot. Well, speaking of Rika, that’s why I wanted you to come here”

You thought this was all oddly suspicious considering how fidgety he was being

He cared for Rika a lot, but you were different

Towards Rika, it was more obsessive

With you, it was closer to happy cousins, how it should’ve been with you and your sister

“So, I’m not quite sure where to start, MC, but I wanted to let you know that your sister wasn’t how she acted. I know-I know this sounds like a bad soap opera, but that’s why nobody could talk about her. Rika did some really bad things. She, well, she brainwashed people into an organization she was the head of, Mint Eye. That’s where the hacker came from that Seven was watchful of. I’m sorry that I couldn’t bring myself to tell you earlier”

You grabbed the back of the chair to stay standing up

As dramatic as it sounded, you were unable to speak then and there

To know your sister was just an act

That she was involved with such awful things

It made you not trust anyone for a bit

You excused yourself from his dorm because it felt like it was going to suffocate you

Especially that framed picture on his desk

Yoosung walked around to find you for about half an hour before seeing you sitting at an outdoor table

You looked like you weren’t properly there just staring and drifting your fingers over the table to make invisible patterns

He knew it was going to break you

But everyone has to break

Everyone has to hurt

He thought that Rika’s death was that for him

Turns out, it was seeing you unable to register whatever he was going to say, what anyone was going to say, for the next week(I’m so sorry that this turned out like a bad angsty highschool au fanfic)

Zen:

Everyone in the chat made a silent agreement to not bring up your sister’s past

Yeah, Seven could still send his phot of when he cross-dressed, but no words of what Rika did

Zen thought all of it was bullshit and that you had the right to know regardless of what the other members said

So when you came over to stay at his home when he got hurt

He prepared to tell you everything

Even put some pictures and writings together to show you everything he could about Mint Eye

Also got anything that you mentioned in the chat that makes you feel better just in case

Awkwardly paced around with his cast until you were able to get there

He asked you to sit down on the couch even with your protests of telling him to do such

After all, you were still under the pretense that this was to help him out if his leg was hurting

“MC, please just sit down so that I can get this over with”

That spiked your anxiety so you just complied, waiting to hear what he was to say

Zen sat down next to you and grabbed the collection of Mint Eye records off the table and gestured for you to take it

“I know that you’re here to help me, but I also wanted to help you. Seven and Yoosung and Jumin and Jaehee and V and I haven’t been completely transparent with you about your sister. Rika was the head of an organization that hurt people really badly. All the evidence of its existence that Seven could find are in that folder”

You were confused to say the least

Well, if Seven was involved, it was bound to be a joke

“Yeah, and you’re unattractive, Zen”

Wait, that wasn’t supposed to come out choppy and anxiously

“Just please read through everything. The organization is, well, was called Mint Eye. There’s some pictures in there, and I think Seven got some camera footage”

You looked through everything, hoping to find something that confirmed that it was just a prank

But some of the evidence was going strongly against that

You set the folder back on the coffee table gingerly and stood to get up

“I-I promise that I’ll be back soon. I’m just going to go down the block. Please don’t follow me either. You’re not in the condition, and I’ve my phone anyways”

He simply nodded

As much as he wanted to fling himself to your waist and ask you to not leave, he respected your wishes

You came back that evening and looked a lost wreck

Zen asked if you’d stay and keep him company

He just wanted to make sure that you were going to be alright

If this made Yoosung lose himself, it was doing worse on you

Would hold you if you allowed it just so he could make sure you felt safe and comfortable

You ended up falling asleep with the droning of the television

Once he knew you were out, he brought you to his room and got you situated before kissing your hairline softly “I love you, you know. I just want you to stay safe and aware”

The next morning after you realized where you were, you could’ve sworn you had some weird dream

Jaehee: (Really really small mention of general self-harm in the 18th bullet point)

Even though she’s had to give reports that were unsatisfactory and presentations that she knew people wouldn’t agree with, this gave her so much more anxiety

She decided to plan every single thing out

This took her multiple nights and a notebook for planning to make sure everything was accounted for

Meticulously gathered anything she could from Luciel because she had to make sure you had any bit of evidence you wanted

Jaehee wanted to take you out for a day and was acting really sweet

Don’t get me wrong, she’s always really nice to you, but she seemed to be buttering you up

And then you got home after dinner and she asked if she could talk to you while hanging up her coat

Her face was calm but you could see that she was still nervous to say something

She had you go into your room and sat on the bed next to you with a stack of papers

Jaehee kept everything together to explain it to you

“Rika did something horrible before she died. Nobody spoke about it around you because we knew it would hurt you. I don’t want to see you hurt, but I also can’t keep something like this from you either”

You stayed quiet as she went over every paper even though you felt like shouting

How could your own sister be so vile?

How come nobody had the guts to tell you?

How didn’t Jaehee tell you any sooner?

As soon as she finished, she left the stacks of paper on the bed and asked if you were alright

You nearly did begin shouting what you weren’t a few minutes ago but she started to speak again

“Please, MC, I know that this is really bad right now, but do not be cross with me. I thought I was protecting you from Rika and doing as V asked, but I see that isn’t the case. I know what I’m about to say doesn’t take back that I hid it, but I love you so very much, MC. Please don’t hurt yourself, and please-please don’t yell at me”

Well, shit

Your thoughts were already a storm but she paused it all

Turning towards her, you hugged her tightly

“Thank you for telling me eventually”

You got off the bed and said that you needed some time but paused at the door

“I love you, too, Jaehee”

Seven: (This is also before Saeran moves in and MC doesn’t quite know about him)

Oh god, he knew this was going to take a toll

Even though he knew everything as information came in, he just didn’t want to tell you about it

He knew that someone else would if he couldn’t, though, so he sucked it up to tell you

He didn’t try to make it any less worse because he knew it’d just end up artificial

It wasn’t some special day either, Saeyoung was just thinking about it too much and he decided he had to tell you

Called you to see how you were doing so he could gauge if it was a bad time then came to the apartment after you both agreed on it

Saeyoung knew that this was going to be awful though and kept checking on you through the cameras while he was driving there

Once he got inside, he straight up brought it up when you were both sitting at the kitchen counter

You knew something was off as soon as he walked through that door

This wasn’t memelord 707, this was someone far more serious

“MC, this is going to be not so great, but I need you to understand that I’m telling you this, because you need to know”

You thought he was going to drop the façade and say something hilarious but he continued on

“Your sister kept being skirted around in conversation, and I’d like to tell you why. Rika ran this thing called Mint Eye, and she hurt people like V and like my brother. I know that it’s hard to family not be very good, and I’m so so sorry that I couldn’t tell you sooner. If you need time, I can go”

“No, I’d like you stay here if you could. I don’t think I can, well, think”

Saeyoung silently moved over to hug you if you seemed to want to and let you go blank for a few minutes

“You have a brother?” “Yeah, he’s my twin actually” “Is he okay now?” “Not really, he’s adjusting drastically, but I really hope he’ll get okay” “I do, too”

Answered every question he could because if you had felt that numb, he at least had to fulfill your inquiries

“Do you wanna do anything? I don’t want you to feel lonely or anything. In all seriousness, I just want you to be okay, because you deserve to. If we couldn’t tell you, I wouldn’t be able to stand myself anymore than I barely do. MC, I’m really really sor-” “Saeyoung, may I kiss you?

well

He didn’t want you to regret anything once your emotions were back in place but he also couldn’t deny you on the chance that you didn’t

Saeyoung nodded quickly and leaned in to kiss you with  as many unspoken apologies as he could that you returned with unspoken gratitude

You both pulled back and he started apologizing again when you kept repeating that it was all fine

Both of you ended up staying in the apartment playing video games off the old console in the living room

You were spent from the emotional rollercoaster and nearly fell asleep with a controller in your hand but Saeyoung had you go to the bed while he offered to take the couch

“You can come with me if you want to, Saeyoung” “No, really I wouldn’t want to imp-” “C’mon, what if I feel lonel-” “We’re going to bed!”

Both of you tried to be cheesy and tell each other you loved them at the same time

Saeyoung nearly fell off the bed giggling and it had made you feel so much lighter after the day

Jumin:

Alright, he couldn’t approach this like a meeting whatsoever because he knew how much you had loved your sister

He recognized that this exceeded Yoosung levels and was really worried if Seven or Zen would accidentally say something

Well, it was one of the nights you were staying at his apartment and he was about to take your phone since the conversation in the messenger was heading downhill

Jumin knocked on the door of the room you were staying in then walked in to see you typing back interestedly

“MC? Could we talk in the living room when you’d like? Preferably sooner if you could. I’d like to talk about your sister for a few minutes, since I was reading the chat”

It dully hurt to think about Rika, but you figured that a real, verbal conversation would be more fulfilling than typed words and said goodbye before leaving the chatroom

You walked into the living room where Jumin was muttering to Elizabeth while petting her seemingly slightly anxiously

“Jumin? Do you still want to talk?” “Of course, MC. Could you please sit down?”

You took a seat in the chair near him and waited to hear what he wanted to say

After all, there was probably something found about Rika if he brought it up

Jumin was thinking about his slight feelings towards Rika were trumped by your unfathomable sisterly love and how all of his words were to effect you

“As I said, this is about your sister. I thought that you should be told about this in person rather than over messaging. Rika lived a life in which she chose to harm people. She changed them and twisted their minds into things they were not through Mint Eye. Even though she said she loved him, she was the one to hurt V’s eyes. Your sister led a life that was kept away from RFA and I presume from you, as well. I’m not completely certain how this will effect you, but I took it as this was the best way to bring it across.”

You nodded in thanks and stayed silent, rethinking how your childhood was, who Rika was friends with, how she got so much more secretive

While watching your face change with the turmoil, Jumin placed Elizabeth on the chair arm

Knowing that by allowing you to pet the cat you were very much trusted and cared for, you gently took her in your arms to pet her while still thinking everything over

“MC? If you would like to do anything, please do. I can replace anything you want to break or leave you alone if that’s what you wish. I do not like seeing you like this, because it’s hurting me to watch you like this”

You nodded again and scooped up Elizabeth while taking a few steps near him “Can I just sit by you?” “Absolutely”

“I can get you any professional he-” “Could-can you please just stay quiet. Only for a few moments. I want to stay like this for a few minutes”

Both of you plus the cat stayed sitting in the quiet for nearly half an hour with you petting the cat and his arm around your shoulders

“Thank you, Jumin” “You just needed to know, MC” “I understand, but I still want to thank you”

It took him a while to realize that you fell asleep after talking so he moved you to your bed then went to his where he layed there thinking about what else he could do to help

It hurts to care for people, but it’s worth it for some of them

I’m so very sorry that 99% of this was a shitty angsty mess, but I can rewrite in in the future. This will be the first request for today, and I’m sorry that they’re taking me so long. I hope you all have or have had good days!