#attempt at an academic and authoritative tone

[anemone161]

The End of Symbolic Resistance

An Eco-Nihilist Argument For Violent Insurrection

Disclaimer

            I've been having this conversation with my family, in one form or another, for several years now. We take the argument back and forth, but there never seems to be enough time to address the whole thing. It returns to the surface after particularly bad nights and when we feel hopeless about the trends of our current situation. The conversation has become so fractured and frustrated sometimes I thought it would make sense to set down my positions into a concrete medium. That way I can point to this little document and say that. That is what I believe.

            The context is important so that this is not confused for a halfhearted academic project or any attempt to be objective or authoritative. This essay is written for myself and for a few in particular with whom I share many beliefs and experiences. It is primarily a piece of rhetoric intended for those already familiar with our struggle. I'm not trying to prove that anything exists so much as to point at the things we already know a thousand times over and ask why we have not addressed their painfully obvious implications.

            As much as I wrote this for some specific individuals, I can't believe that we are the only ones who feel this way. I think it will make sense to the sort of people it was written for, and to others it will seem extreme or unreasonable. I wouldn't even disagree with that. It is my belief that our circumstances now call for action that is legitimately extreme as it is unreasonable.

            Last disclaimer is for some of the language and tone that I use. At times I will drift into "we must..." language, make predictions, or speak with a confidence of purpose that could be misread as expertise. I am only a person with the particular experience that I have, which becomes more difficult to communicate precisely the further from my circles that the reader is. For reasons that will become obvious I'm not going to clarify anything about who I am or what experience I have or where. When I make any decision I rely on the collective knowledge of my extended family, and as such I am not going to be a last source for anything. This is an argument I have that seems to me to be self-evident. It is not by any means an objective assessment. Trust yourself and trust your community before you trust in anything I have to say here.

1. Introduction

            We are so very familiar with our problems. The names of our enemies are not a mystery. We understand their motivations and methods. It doesn't make sense to ask why one atrocious act or another has been committed because we already know why. Capitalism requires truce between its victims and their oppressor. This truce requires bloodshed to self-maintain. We recognize the processes that are killing us. We know how and why they function, and we understand their many solutions that we will never be allowed to explore.

            Capitalism cannot function without white supremacy and imperialism. It cannot function without patriarchy, and patriarchy is antithetical to all kinds of queerness and human autonomy. Conversely, these evils listed and their ilk could not survive without their entanglement with domineering power structures such as Capitalism, or its earlier forms of subjugation i.e. Monarchy or Absolute Theocracy. These are all of one and thus cannot be destroyed independently of their symbiotes.

            Having identified our enemies and their methods it should be simple to destroy them. We have our countless theories of how to replace society. There are mountains of written theory concerning the many facets of oppression. Somewhere among these and the living discourse we have our paths forward. If only they could leave the realms of the hypothetical it will be simple to iterate them and to learn how to live our lives well. This is the crux of our dilemma. The choke point to liberation that we're all so familiar with. Considering how Capitalism will never allow itself to be replaced, and humanity cannot coexist with the death machine, the solution is very simple. Incredibly difficult, but also very simple.

2. We Must Destroy The Death Machine

            That is all. It is a zero-sum equation. Either Capitalism is destroyed and forgotten or its fist will continue to tighten until humanity is exterminated. We can hope that the resource instability brought on by climate change will cause the machine to self-destruct. More likely is that Capitalism will evolve as its ecosystem does. This is a conversation about survival and nothing else. We know that it is too late to stop or reverse climate change. A worldwide revolution launched today, completely synchronous with total victory and ideological cohesion on this point could only maybe create a future without environmental collapse. This is the least likely scenario among everything and it would still not be certain to save us.

            Environmental collapse is a fact of our present day. It will be exacerbated every year that we are alive. It is not a question of whether we will face this, it is a matter of how. Extreme weather claims lives every day, and every one of these deaths is preventable with proper treatment and planning. We know that the summers will be too hot to survive outside. We know that the winters will be too cold. Adequate shelter is a first defense against the elements and we know that Capitalism requires a vacant surplus of housing. Every death from exposure could be prevented if the laws of Capitalism did not require them to self-sustain.

            Mutual aid groups do everything they can to reduce suffering and death among houseless communities. The sharing of resources and DIY first aid is invaluable, but it cannot compare to the benefits of stable housing, professional medical care, unrestricted mental health resources, and regular access to nutritious foods and clean water. Artificial scarcity is alive in every part of our world and Capitalism could not survive without it. There are plenty of homes, plenty of medicine, such a surplus of food and water that nobody should live in poverty. It would be physically and logistically simple to expropriate and redistribute these resources if their squander did not represent the beating heart of Capitalism. It is necessary that people die preventable deaths to keep the system operational.

3. We Will Not Be Allowed To Save Ourselves

            The laws of Capitalism ensure that the game is played as intended. The Capitalist's wealth should always accumulate and the poor should become increasingly desperate. Any other application of the law is an unintended loophole, or anachronicity left in to camouflage the system's purpose. Any activity that moves economic freedom away from the Capitalist and into the hands of the impoverished is swiftly illegalized and brutally repressed. Such as it is now it will continue during this rising period of displacement and resource scarcity. Stealing food or water, trespassing, defying zoning laws, defying curfew or practicing illegal medicine will attract harsher punishments as they become life-saving practices. We are living through the intersection of multiple attempted genocides, rendered obscure by a Capitalist media cycle and the distorted Amerikan world-view. These genocides are enacted because they are useful for the Capitalist and, as such, to resist them in any way will be rendered illegal. We are always at war with the police, the death machine's best guarantor of compliance. We can decide the circumstances of confrontation, or they will be decided for us at our lowest points.

            We have already left the prologue to conflagration. Ideological war is alive in the streets and it claims its victims. Amerika has gone past where it can maintain the facade of unity. Fascist paramilitary groups multiply themselves out of sight. They choose to fight where they are many and they prey on the unaware. Their greatest strength so far is their cryptic alliance with the Capitalist, and the multiplication of force it allows them. On opposing street corners there are two militant groups, say twenty of each. Twenty of our people, twenty of theirs. Down the street between and around the corners there is a magnified police presence, forty or sixty officers controlling the area. Twenty of our people, eighty of theirs. Any one of those could fight or kill with impunity during the interaction. Our people will be lucky to leave to leave the place alive. Victory is almost out of the question unless it will be pyrrhic.

            The alliance leads them to act with undue confidence. If the street were empty, if it were just the two sets of twenty, there would be a different story. It's easy to draw a crowd when there is already a crowd, especially one armed and equipped by the State. It's easy to face an enemy that you know will be outnumbered 4:1, whose hands are tied by disproportionate legal scrutiny. Our people have never once fought with these assurances. If the little war between our groups were allowed to find its natural conclusion, there would be no war to speak of. The question would have settled itself long before it became relevant to national politics. The solution was always trivial, and completely impossible to enact.

            It is never a question of how to solve the problem. The only question is how to solve the problem without bringing the police to your door. We try to be clever, to outmaneuver their interference, but whenever they catch hold of our projects it is often the undoing of whatever progress was made. Every plague of the modern world can be traced to Capitalism's interference, with only a few degrees of separation to the more obscure. Capitalism is a system of force that insists itself into every corner of the world. It was never adopted by popular consent. A free world would have removed this malignant growth as soon as it was considered. Capitalism can only survive while it carries the endless promise of violence. Were this capacity revoked, the system would become instantaneously abolished.

4. The Death Machine Will Fail When Police Are Extinct

            The destruction of the immune system will lead to the destruction of the body. So long as it is capable of defending itself, there will be no permanent victories, especially among the battles fought in the imperial core. Every community or network we build is intimately vulnerable so long as they are built within the reach of the Capitalist engine. So long as it lives, the death machine will strive to encompass all the physical world and will infect our every day. We cannot escape to a parallel experience while Capitalism remains ubiquitous and powerful. We can choose the time and place to fight or we will be hunted. Whatever resources we need to survive, it can be assumed that Capitalism will have already claimed ownership. We can choose to resist, or submit to defeat as inevitable. We can choose to ignore the question until it becomes unavoidable and thus seal our fate as reactionary combatants and to failure.

            A landscape without police will instinctively reject Capitalism. Total abolition then is our primary goal, as it will naturally accomplish every other goal by cascade. After the end is decided then we determine our means. This is not a new project. It is, however, a confused project that has failed to learn from its practice. Years pass with the same questions, the same uncertain answers, and we do not adjust our technique. There are many excuses for this, many distractions and limiting factors. We have been exhausted and beleaguered during the seasons of riots, seasons of economic instability, and turbulence in our personal lives. It is easy to do what we have done before because that is how we learned. It is difficult to take apart our methods and consider how they do or do not function toward achieving our ends. Considering the world's current trajectory, it will never be easier than it is today to reassess our strategy.

            The logic is simple. If we know the point we want to reach, that is most of the work done. Next we consider the results of our actions past. Which of our tactics moved us toward that end? Which resulted in a holding pattern, a waste of energy to accomplish nothing, or worse, resulted in a "loss of ground" to the enemy? This can and should be applied to every decision we make, theoretically in advance and retrospectively. Every failure is opportunity to learn, but a failure not interrogated is an opportunity to make the same mistake again and again.

5. A Protest Is An Act Of Surrender

            There is no tactic more heavily associated with liberation struggle than the protest. The mass gathering, the rally, the riot, the demonstration. There is no tactic more misguided. We have always played these roles as long as we have been engaged with the fight for liberation and the return is always negligible, even negative. Something terrible happens in Amerika, something terrible within the scope of its imperial territories, and our response is something scripted. A flier goes out with time and place, we get into costume and march. Some nights draw police attention, others we yell at civilians or into the empty air. Occasionally it evolves into something else entirely, the spectacle of riot that is so alluring.

            The protest is a regressive tactic, a willful destruction of resources and energy that conflates progress with catharsis. At its most practical, the protest is a dramatic propaganda without direction. Constantly attempting to swell its own ranks so that it might return tomorrow to more efficiently swell its ranks. We know that political fervor without a tangible outlet will always be captured by electoralism, or else dissipate. The effective tools of protest are in advertisement and the crowd's implicit capacity for violence. We proselytize bystanders and threaten our enemies into silence. We know that the State will never agree to disarm itself, therefore any play with electoralism becomes net loss. In its best light, the protest is when we meet together to ask the Amerikan empire to commit suicide. There are other ingredients and effects to the experience of protest we can consider, but the core of the act is a fallacy. The ongoing decision to protest is a confession that we just don't know what else to do.

6. The Five Bystanders

            The bystander is a recipient to the tactic of protest. They can be sorted into five crude varieties according to their relationship with liberation struggle and the character of their interaction with the protest.

            First are the indifferent, who we pass in the street with little engagement. The apathetic liberal or the uninterested who may pretend at sympathy when confronted but will never follow through of their own accord. They do not believe that the struggle for liberation is relevant to their daily lives, or they continue with a deferential faith in the electoral system. There is no amount of encouragement that will bring them to choose the discomfort of revolt. Attempts to sway them will be inconsistent, frustrating and wasteful. This subset should be disregarded, walked past without acknowledgment as we approach our goal.

            The complication of the first type is how they can seem indistinguishable in behavior from the second: the sympathetic bystander. Those who have already become or are in the process of being radicalized. Among the most legitimate arguments for protest is how it can provide these fledgling insurgents a venue to find community and test their capacities. It comes against the same faltering point as the other reason, that political disturbances without concrete goal or mechanism can only become indirect fuel toward electoralism. If we do not use our resources wisely, it does not matter how many or how few of us there are. Alternatively, I believe that an effective insurgency campaign with careful attention paid to limited communique would vastly outpace the protest as a meaningful tool for recruitment.

            The third bystander is, circuitously, the self. The sense of importance and empowerment, the sense of community to be found provide the consistent reasons to return night after night. You break the window for the imagined ripple effect against your enemies, for the catharsis it can give, and also to demonstrate to yourself that it is something you are capable of. We find our community and share ideas around. Occasionally our actions obtain more or less radical coverage and those feelings of community and empowerment are broadcast to comrades who could not attend the event. The protest is a balm for the disenfranchised heart. It is also a place to discover and decide what you are capable of. All of these are necessary to our emotional survival and explain well why the protest continues as a primary tactic when its application has been so inconsistent and costly. It is completely necessary that we meet these needs somehow, but none of them are a means toward our total goal. It is not possible to repeat and build these into any meaningful progress. The protest has some limited value as a venue for these particular ends, but at the same time it carries unlimited opportunities to forget our purpose against myopic habits and catharsis.

            The antagonistic bystander is another: police, politicians, aggravated liberals or civilian fascists, or any kind of unsympathetic news coverage. Our demands from these types are relatively consistent, though the method and its effectiveness will vary by encounter. Whatever these groups or individuals do is in service of empire and domination. Their way of life that feels threatened is a product of the Amerikan death machine. Our success fundamentally requires that they lose access to what makes them feel so comfortable. We are enemies, and the interaction will reflect this. It will simplify to either a physical/verbal conflict, a retreat by either party, or, least likely, a genuine change of heart. The last is so rare it is no a function worth planning around. A retreat from conflict has unpredictable results: it can embolden the aggressor or build resentment in the opponent. Neither of these are likely to change the beliefs of either party or constitute a step toward our goals. The same can be said of a conflict which escalates. A fight can make you feel strong, especially if you win, but we are not going to physically attack every fascist or bigot in the country. We don't have the resources to accomplish that on a meaningful scale, and the method is doubly unrealistic when police are like to intervene and punish the attempt. Street fighting can have some useful effects on the individual level, but as a tactic it is only another propaganda to say that we are strong. It is only catharsis, and catharsis is just illusion. We don't need more propaganda. We need a winning strategy.

            The last and least significant bystander is the Capitalist. Least significant because we are least able to catch their attention or effect a change in their perspective. The broken window does not matter to the corporation when it can be used as a propaganda back against us and then repaired at little cost. We break the window to show our community that it is possible to strike back, but we seem hesitant to acknowledge that the broken window itself is not an act of resistance. The building of a movement is not inherently meaningful if there is never a meaningful application of its energy. Several times over we have built a mass base, and several times over it has simply dissipated. We know that electoralism is a stalling tactic, but still we seem unprepared to explore the alternatives.

7. The Hunt For Catharsis Blinds Us

            Under the right conditions a protest will transform into a riot. Where marching and shouting behave as propaganda, the riot is an expression of pure catharsis. For a short time, a few moments even, we invest our energy together to dissolve the State from this particular place and experience. We defy the police, defy property and time to create a few seconds of positive freedom. We don't like to talk about it but there is a common, implicit belief that this microbe of freedom can be induced to spread and consume the structure of empire from within. There is no amount of property damage that will destroy or even erode Capitalism.

            Whether riot is understood as an end to itself, or misunderstood as a method toward lasting freedom, its truest nature remains the expression of repressed anguish. Our lives do not allow us to strike against empire in their day to day, so these unfocused eruptions allow us to survive a little longer in our shackles. Having tasted freedom once we become addicted and return to the riot wherever it appears. It gives us something to look forward to, and briefly produces the illusion of escape.

            When we feel as if we have accomplished something and in actuality we have accomplished nothing at the expense of considerable resources, that is the death of our potential. The microbe of freedom, the riot, is always dissipated. The autonomous zone in Amerika is always reconquered. The flames are put out and the damage is repaired. It doesn't matter how long it takes for these processes to occur. Empire is not an animal that dies from its wounds, it only grows around them. Conversely, whoever draws blood from the beast will be repaid. The riot is an attack against the public peace, and the State cannot forgive any public transgressions. There is no amount of property destruction that provides a favorable exchange against months or years imprisoned. In these terms it is not possible to hurt the state worse than it can respond.

            Other nights it may occur that everyone escapes from the riot anonymous. If your bloc is good, and your friends are smart, then everyone gets to go to work the next day. It becomes routine: where your days prepare you for the night, and your nights are invested with revolt. An advertisement for revolt. Maybe no one gets arrested because you stay lucky, but you are wearing down faster than you can ever damage the state. A window broken is always just a window, like a building destroyed is only one building among the multitude. Their attack can be understood as a gesture symbolic of the rejection of Capitalism, but there is no real value to be found in symbolic resistance.

            We must create a kind of damage that will continue. A wound that will multiply itself after it has been inflicted. When we restrict ourselves to public resistance, we are contained by the limitations of that form. The riot is reminiscent of combat. We tell ourselves this as we are beaten and chased, as the chemicals and fire surround us. When we push against the line of cops we imagine that we can overwhelm them. The sour reality is that we wouldn't know what to do after their ranks broke. The police are not a phantom conjured by order. They cannot vanish. Whenever we get the upper hand it is like we become children again. A multiple murderer in uniform gets his comeuppance by humiliation. A kick or a shove or something thrown. Nobody would think to do more, not with the cameras or the dozens of police nearby. Is this why we have suffered so much injury to fight? To respond with just a shadow of the violence brought against us?

            The combat of a riot is pantomime. We pretend that we want to win. It's more exciting that way because the consequences are less than if we actually did the math. We know that we can't vote the police away. We know that our resources are incomparably meager. They will always outlast our commitment, if only because the State's benefaction allows them to weather any attrition. Our future becomes exceedingly bleak without drastic change, and change will remain impossible while the State has power to prevent it. We know all of this, have long known and been unwilling to put the pieces together. If we decide that we do want to win, actually, then the option has made itself obvious. Our peaceful solutions have long exhausted themselves, and our time is running out.

8. Police Will Become Extinct When We Kill Them

            We are solving this problem from both ends, working backward and forward from the information we know is certain. We know our history as best we can and we are familiar with the complexities of our current situation. We can close our eyes to imagine a best potential future and it becomes obvious which is the last step we will need to take before that is possible. The death machine of Amerikan Capital will never relinquish control unless it is killed. It cannot be killed peacefully. We know that blood will be shed and, roughly, we know the form that this will take. The Amerikan military is larger and better equipped than any other military force there has ever been. The same can be said of its police force. Our only viable option is the guerrilla approach, adapted to our cities and circumstances. We are several steps back from this still, but it provides a framework to the work that lies in front of us.

            It becomes important to clarify my purpose. This is not a revolutionary plan, though it does resemble one. Call it convergent evolution. It is not much of an exaggeration to call this the end of the world. We will not be saved. We also will not be forgotten. Capitalism prefers control to the survival of anything. As this world is driven into the abyss, it becomes a painfully optimistic vision to think we can find reprieve outside the realm of empire. Civilization will retreat as the world becomes completely unlivable and not before. The failing zones at the edge of empire will be more heavily policed than those in the core. Zones of discontent have always attracted greater repression. This will not be different as we enter the time of collapse.

            There will be no revolutionary future because there is no future left to take control of. My only aim is to sew self-determination in the age of collapse. If the methods I advocate for were carried to their full effect, the Amerikan government would probably still exist in some form. My ideal version of events puts the empire in a defensive state, struggling to control its territories against secession and wilderness. If the empire is sufficiently weakened it may allow us to discover and fortify some liminal spaces to survive as well as we can manage.

            A destabilization of the imperial core would have a profound cascade effect upon the global political story. Many of the world's authoritarian states are propped up by Amerikan interventionism, whose disappearance or sudden reduction would drastically change the odds of future international insurgencies. This country is already straining at its seams. My optimistic guess is that we won't have to contend much with the Amerikan military, at least not primarily, because any real conflict between the military and a civilian group is likely to ignite the country's vast network of tensions. If it comes to that I don't think it will be long before we see mass desertion and infighting, as well as a secession attempt that leads to the sort of Balkanization that works in our favor. This current state of affairs is being held in place by a single hand which, if removed, would create a chaotic ripple effect with unpredictable results. We know that chaos at any scale will benefit our project at the same time it deteriorates our enemy's capacity to function.

            We can only survive well if we are able to contend with our problems without Capitalist interference. We can only be left alone to our survival if Amerika becomes too incapacitated to pursue us past its fractured territory. The destruction of empire is a necessary component to basic subsistence among the failure of our planet's ecosystems. This can only be accomplished via destruction of the police, or destruction of the capacity of police to enforce the laws of Capital. There is no way to accomplish either of these without killing a significant percentage of the police officers who currently exist.

9. Start Small, Reconsider Everything

            We must be everywhere, doing everything. We must be unpredictable, invisible, unstoppable, powerful and prolific. We aim to accomplish something that is popularly considered impossible, that has never been done before on this scale. Police are everywhere so there should be many of us. There should become uncountably many instances of our tactic, endlessly adapted to particular circumstances. We must be perfect or we will be killed forever. This is not a reasonable stance. It is not reasonable to hope to survive when you were born and live in the thralls of the omnicidal project. It is not reasonable to want to live well.

            We should eventually be many, but we must always be and must always have been rigorous in the application of our technique. The capture or destruction of one determined combatant will always be devastating when our enemy is so vast and repairable. It takes a few years to become a cop, but it takes a lifetime to develop an insurrectionary capable of attacking the empire.

            To begin, we should imagine success. We start with the conclusion and then work our way backward. A world with capacity for self-determination requires the absence of police. The absence of police requires their mass destabilization, which can only be achieved via war. Guerrilla warfare is the only technique available to a civilian populace attacking its government. A mass guerrilla insurgency cannot be created instantaneously, it is an organism that develops as it is fed and inspired. There is plenty of literature and knowledge regarding the operation of guerrilla tactics. What remains is the instigation to accept them. What seems impossible can be proven otherwise by its accomplishment, and it becomes in time a trivial part of the lives that we live. There are things we do today that once we could never imagine ourselves capable of. This can happen many times again, and the impossible becomes commonplace.

            Imagine to yourself the sort of project that could successfully destabilize the empire. We have so many examples to draw from. Imagine the tools at their disposal and the techniques by which they create success. To begin, we should create the smallest possible version of that successful insurgency, a prototype to represent all future endeavors in the microcosm. Every skill or method that will be necessary we should shrink into an innocuous prototype and practice until it is completely perfect. This version of our activity will form a DNA that, once established, can be expanded, multiplied, and adapted against the fractalized battlefields in our upcoming conflict. When it happens that we understand the tools we use so completely that they are a part of us, then we will add a single layer of magnification to every aspect of this prototype. The propaganda element, the training, the sabotage, the live practice, the reflection, all of it will become slightly more. Again we practice with these tools until their application is consistent and effective. The most powerful tool available to us is the control of time. It will become war long before our enemy recognizes it as such, and we can decide how many of their capacities to erase before, or concurrently with, the submitting of that declaration. We can never move backward once it is begun. We can never allow ourselves to have mistakes. Whenever are imperfect we must study ourselves and the circumstance until it will never be repeated. Our enemy must never become comfortable, or we have lost already.

10. Twenty Twenty

            The failure of our recent uprising has been analyzed and discussed incessantly since it receded from the public imagination. It has become my opinion that the organic transformation from protest and riots to attempted insurgency was always a doomed prospect. The most vital aspects for a guerrilla effort are its beginning and the one of its escalation. In fighting against the police we hoped to accumulate a destabilizing effect that would spread through the empire. Half of the failure is how our momentum was subsumed into electoralism, local and far, and the other is how we were not prepared to follow through with our convictions.

            The most spectacular escalation of our campaign occurred with the burning of Minneapolis's third precinct. This event, which occurred right at the beginning of the uprising, was already a component of its impending failure. It marked the limit to our imagination. The fight escalated so quickly before we could decide our intentions and, once we had an understanding of the revolutionary potential, we were too exhausted and confused to escalate any further. It didn't take long for the police to recognize which lines we could not cross. We became predictable, manageable. As our threats of escalation lost credibility, the momentum left our movement and it wasted away.

            This is what we should learn from that year. When we allow the circumstances to dictate our tactics, it destroys all capacity for agency and surprise. There is a strict place where the riot becomes insurrection, and it cannot be overcome without total confidence. There was a point at which we failed to abandon the protest form and it ruined us. We have to trust each other completely if we are going to kill, and it is not possible to form that trust suddenly in the midst of the ongoing riot. We cannot be strangers to each other. We cannot hesitate. We cannot be guided to making this or any decision. If our tactics repeat, or ever reduce in their scale, that is retreat. We invite our enemy to hunt and corral us, and we are playing to their greatest strengths. If we are going to fight we must be prepared to follow it through until the end. That must be decided from the beginning. If we are going to fight, we should fight to win. Otherwise, we shouldn't even bother.

11. Microcosm

            We know where we need to carry this. We know the abstract of how to get started. What remains is to fill out the blank spaces as best as can be done theoretically, and then to simply begin the work. I can recommend my thoughts and observations, but the reality of guerrilla practice will be completely informed by your environment at hand. You take your first step through a book or a few books, then you practice the techniques as best you can in a controlled environment, and the rest you will have to learn as you interact with the world and discover its many permeable boundaries.

            There are some simple components to begin with. The animal of a guerrilla insurgency is composed from a vast entanglement of autonomous cells. In order for the macrocosm to function, its many aspects must be distilled across the private competency of its uncountable microcosms. A guerrilla unit will generally consist of four or five individuals working independently from any network, but will remain capable of identifying and collaborating with other units when it will benefit the struggle.

            To begin, you should assemble a unit to attempt your projects with. It should only be as many people as can fit in one car, as can begin to fully trust and know each other in time. Fewer is more stable, but also incapable of attempting the more complicated projects that will develop as you gain experience. It is up to you and your circumstances to know how many or how few are right to work with. It is completely vital that you are careful as you approach potential collaborators, as careful as if you were pulling a trigger every time you discuss the project. An incautious beginning could damn it all  before you find opportunity to become truly dangerous.

12. Research And Iteration

            Assuming your unit is compiled now, it is time for comprehensive research and conversation. Every word I can say on the practical operation of a guerrilla unit will be plagiarized from sources who are infinitely more qualified to speak on these matters. You have to learn and internalize as much as you can safely access before moving on, and discuss ideas and the whole potential operations with your group. It is vital that you are thorough, and at the same time it will be tempting to linger here indefinitely before moving on to the work that requires your hands. Read between yourselves each a few relevant books, study and discuss them while you are discussing the many other decisions that will remain. Your research must continue as the project develops, and will become more dynamic in the midst of its realistic application and adjustment to particular circumstances.

            I can make my suggestions, but it will be your responsibility to predict the course of your struggle. Guerrilla work is improvisation, and it is an alliance built with you environment. You should exhaustively discuss this with your collaborators, list all the skills and ideas that might be useful along your journey and begin to practice them covertly.

            Some concepts will be invaluable to every group: camping, shooting, situational awareness, unarmed combat, analog land navigation, the construction and use of improvised weaponry, learning to move through your environment without detection, the basics of sabotage, military first aid, and a discussion of the value of propaganda. It is especially important to overlap these practices together as that will help you to perform them under pressure. There are many, many other skills that you should familiarize yourself with. The study of tactical manuals from our predecessors and our enemy will reveal them to you, and further research will uncover the tools you can use to sharpen your competency with them.

            You should complete your studies as efficiently as possible, then begin to practice. Practice everything as well as you can without drawing any attention to yourself. To the best extent you can manage, it will be helpful to keep your activities legal or insubstantial during the first and second stages of your development.

            You can prepare yourself to destroy a building with fire by learning the more basic techniques of attacking or exploring a property. Study urban exploration, interact with vacant buildings, climb onto roofs, disable the alarms or cameras without actually attacking the building, disable the utilities, break a window and damage the inside of a building, or attack a vehicle if this is an easier prospect. Practice everything you can to familiarize yourself with the methods and to desensitize yourself.

            As much as it is necessary to develop your skills, it is more important that you become familiar with your group. Learn about your strengths and weaknesses, your personalities and hopes and desires. There is nothing so demanding as going to war against the entire world, and these are the people that you will be with for the duration of that. These are your family.

            At the same time as you practice, you should begin to carve the trajectory of your struggle. Attack often, and escalate. If every week you climb on top of a building then go home, you have only learned how to climb buildings. Learn to be familiar with the discomfort of the unknown. Learn to improvise and analyze from within that discomfort. Once it is begun you will never be safe, so you must learn to act with confidence while your future is always uncertain. Consider every decision. Study yourself and your environment, all of your allies and your enemies. A successful technique may never be practical again, and you should understand the value of your tools well enough to avoid succumbing to habit. Take advantage of everything that you can, everything you know and everything your enemy knows.

13. Exploit and Manufacture Distraction Events

            A practical tactic to begin with is the re-appropriation of the protest. There is no polemic I can write that will erase the protest from our cultural imagination. Even five participants less it will continue the same, and draw the same attention from news and police it would otherwise. There will come riots to rival our history, and though they will likely follow the same useless pattern that our uprising did, the State will not ignore them. The media and civilians will take such notice that it provides opportunity.

            The Panopticon can only function if you don't know where your jailer's attention is focused. It is possible with some effort to learn the habits of your local police department. Which neighborhoods are heavily surveilled? Which neighborhoods are most remote from a request for backup? An officer patrolling a remote suburb, far from the center of disturbance, is an exceptionally soft target for ambush.

            A useful supplementary approach can be to compile a list of targets and practiced techniques and save these for a time when the police are suddenly, temporarily distracted. If you have already done your scouting and decided the plan in advance, this can allow you to execute complex attack with short notice and the flexibility afforded by wealth of options. An otherwise well defended objective may become unsupervised, or else neglected in the panic to secure another district of the city.

            You can create these situations. There are emergency calls that are not an emergency, that will not draw much concerted response, and these can be taken advantage of to isolate your target. Which retail stores have alarm systems that will summon the police? Which neighborhoods are likely to call 911 about someone loitering or for minor property damage? Something innocuous that can be fabricated as a lure. Even a disconnected cell phone can dial for emergency services.

            There are very many ways to outmaneuver a bureaucracy like this enemy. You should learn their rules. Read their handbook. Watch how they react and set traps in their path. Police are not very smart and they are not very brave. There are only very many of them and their funding and perceived invulnerability allow them to make mistakes often and without consequence. If we only invent some consequences for their ineptitude, the police might take an active role in their own elimination.

14. Twenty Twenty Four, An Aside

            Of course we reject electoralism, but this shadow theater remains the central focus of Amerikan political culture. A culture that becomes more strained and erratic all the time. Considering the unimpressive performance of our current president, 2024 is likely to see him replaced by one or another of the fascist pedagogues vying for control. Whatever the result of this election, it is sure to represent a new zenith for national volatility. If we truly intend to eradicate the Amerikan empire, this seems like a perfect season for multiplication of our potential. If we utilize it well, this opportunity is a three to six months wherein our every act will cast a longer shadow, and it may become possible to redirect the strength of the empire against itself. This is a chemical reaction that is already happening, we only need to harness the energy created and find where it will carry us.

            If we plan to attack in the shadow of the election, it is imperative that we create the foundations for this capacity today. Time is already short and diminishing.

15. A Legitimate Propaganda

            As it stands today some massive percentage of our activity is dedicated to self-advertisement. Our banners and graffiti, our mythologies about past conflict. At protest we gather together and announce the principles of our philosophy, but we do very little in physical service of those beliefs. How many times do we actually hunt and attack nazis compared to the breath we spend to fruitlessly advocating that? The statement of intent, without tangible demonstration, becomes unimpressive over time.

            Imagine the dichotomy reversed. If we hardly ever announced our intentions, but always accomplished ten times more than we advertised. Instead of protesting Chase Bank for whatever offense was documented this week, simply burn it to the ground. Find an untraceable channel to communicate why this happened and, very loosely, who did it and how. Advertise the effectiveness of your technique by live demonstration, and then advertise the means to follow suit.

            I do not mean that you should incriminate yourself, but that the echoes of the attack can carry a small piece of information very far. If you are incredibly careful it is possible to send out a very particular message to everyone who is sympathetic to its content, and also to keep your fingerprints off the transmission. We must always be careful, and always on the offensive. Once it is begun in earnest our enemy should become completely surrounded and under siege before he understands what has happened.

            It is important to pick apart the tangible effects of your every tactical decision. You can turn any success into propaganda, but most propaganda you cannot turn into success. An action is only valuable if it draws us closer to our ends. There is no such thing as a symbolic victory. We have either reduced our enemies ability to fight, or increased our capacity, or we have wasted both our time and effort. The State has an unlimited capacity to outlast us if we decide to be patient. Our units will constantly expend their resources that are difficult to replace, while the State is in possession of all the industries of Amerika. If we are not constantly fighting and winning, then we are constantly approaching defeat.

            Propaganda cannot be dispensed with entirely, because it is not possible for a unit of five to destroy the Amerikan system of police. There must be a recruiting effort, a multiplication of the fronts in this war. We should maintain a cautious relationship with the aboveground communities because they will sometimes be able to provide us with resources, or act in concert toward some multidimensional projects.

            The nature of the resource disparity between our units and the police department means that we cannot afford to be inefficient. The most efficient method by far to recruit allies is to demonstrate commitment, and to demonstrate the total effectiveness of your technique. Demonstrate that you win more often than you lose, disseminate guides on how to imitate your insurgency, and you will find yourself becoming many.

16. Symbolic Resistance

            This has been written out of a liminal space. There is a subtext to every conversation lately that our methods have become hopelessly obsolete. We're losing confidence because we have been treading water. We've tied our hands to innovation because we're afraid of what we might invent. We know that we are becoming reactionary.

            When I first read Che Guevara, years ago, it felt so simple. I couldn't understand why we were forming rank and fighting with our fists against an overwhelming military force when this tactic and solution had already been charted improved across decades. I thought it was too simple, there must've been something that I didn't understand. I have been trying to find that missing piece since and without success.

            That fruitless search brought me to my current understanding. There is a vast cognitive dissonance among everyone who lives invested in this struggle. We want to fight, especially as the world is closing in on us, but we are afraid to learn what winning might entail. We are afraid of what it might require of us. Whether we know it or not, many of us have decided that it is better living half a life inside the domain of Capital than to actually seek freedom. For our pride and our sense of self, we can't help but resist. To push back in small, manageable ways that let of steam but can never truly change our circumstances.

            There are comrades in prison for ten years, twenty years or life. We have been killed for comparatively innocuous crimes: trespassing, arson, assault of an officer, etc. Crimes that did not advance our cause by an inch have led to so many senseless deaths among our community. The police use violence to keep us contained. They use it randomly and without justification so that we are always afraid. There is a disconnect between the severity of our offenses and the repression they draw. It's obvious to anyone you talk to, but we never seem to analyze the purpose. So many of us continue to believe that we can avoid the worst of our government's violence by remaining underground, by performative citizenship in public. These are contradictory beliefs.

            We like to mock the leftists who spend all their time arguing online. We say that we are out in the streets, doing the real work while they argue themselves in circles. How can we consider ourselves so legitimate when our actions are so often the same useless posturing. Direct Action that accomplishes nothing, is nothing. A slogan painted on a wall is no more effective than one posted on Twitter. You want to feel like you are fighting, more than you actually want to fight.

            Every living insurrectionary should be an open front behind enemy lines. The war should be happening in every room, in every breath that our enemy takes. We should haunt them in their dreams and be as ungraspable as the specter of those nightmares.

            It gets more simple when you decide that you are in a war. You think of your enemy as the army that they are, as they think of themselves. What does an army require to maintain itself and fight? It is not difficult to find these answers and they are an easy guide to follow. Of course they need the soldiers more than anything, but also they require lines of communication, means of transportation, weapons, uniforms, pay, housing, etc. For less than twenty dollars you can build a hundred caltrops. Where do they get the tires for their vehicles? Where do they keep their gasoline? Who delivers their equipment, and which day and time do those deliveries come through? There are a thousand little openings where you can bleed the enemy weak. The police would never admit this, but they can't be everywhere at once. Sometimes they are asleep, sometimes they are unaware. Do you know how many police are employed in your city?

            This is not a reason to underestimate their capacity for violence, but we do already know a great deal about the psychology of the average police officer. He is deeply afraid in the course of his work, deeply paranoid. He talks a big game but he would never willingly risk his life, not without overwhelming fire-support from his fellow officers. He is an animal that only feels confident among his fellows, otherwise he becomes an opportunist and a scavenger. Can you imagine the effect on his morale when the first officer is ambushed in the dark? When another is found dead on patrol, his squad car burned and his gun stolen? They're so confident that they're invulnerable, it won't take much to destroy that illusion. And then what becomes of the little man, employed to patrol a city that truly, truly hates him?

Conclusion / Sign Off

            Genocide has come to our doorstep now so many times over. It is difficult to keep track of the clothes that it wears. Against the cultural suppression from the Amerikan zeitgeist, it feels like resistance to merely acknowledge these genocides as such. It is not.

            My friends and family prepare themselves to fight. They become ready in their cities. The war is approaching us from several directions so it is difficult to keep track of our present. Many fail to consider the impossibility of creating a fortified position inside of an enemy stronghold. We have only placed ourselves doubly under siege.

            There is no passive means to escape from this predicament. We have allowed ourselves to become reactionary and, if we do not correct this trend, we will die. One by one, slowly, then all at once. It doesn't so much matter how this happened. The past is gone, but our future is still being written.

            I have no intention to wait in line for my own extermination. That life is not worth living. I'm sick of acknowledging all that is wrong with the world and pretending that we cannot intervene. I don't want to pretend myself another bystander when the war is already here, was here before I was born, so thoroughly that I don't know anything else.

            It is already war, and we can only decide now whether to be civilian casualties or active combatants. There is no defense of our lives that will not be labeled as extremist agitation. There is no chance for us to come out of this as saints, unless that we are killed for our innocence.

            I hope that this writing will find its receptive audience. I hope that these convictions will not die as mere words like so many before them. I hope that we are able to live, and to someday live well.

Stay Safe,

And Stay Dangerous,

And Stay Dangerous.

end

[charybdiaa]

Progress Sneak Peak for 10k

(A little section of chapter 21 of Miles Edgeworth the Ace Attorney, as a treat for getting me 10k hits haha. There’s only 14k out of 20k, so we’ve still got a while. Thank you for the support!)

Sincerely, Phoenix Wright

   Phoenix flipped the page of the thick book timidly. The paper rustled as it turned, each page somehow more complicated than the last… He could feel Manfred’s cold gaze glued to the top of his head as he prepared for them to move on. The old clock on the wall of Manfred’s office ticked loudly above them, an awful distraction in the horribly tense environment. Phoenix gulped and fiddled with the corner of the page, unwilling to look up at his teacher.

   “I’d like you to read that page aloud to me,” Manfred instructed lowly, a heavy ink pen propped up lazily in his right hand. Almost caught unaware, Phoenix looked down at the page he had turned to. Uh… he opened his mouth, but his voice caught in the back of his throat for a moment. Come on Phoenix, just read the first paragraph… 

   “Introduction to Basic Legal Citati--” Phoenix began, but he was cut off by the sudden sound of a heavy ink pen dropping against the desk.

   “Just read the passage, boy,” Manfred instructed, struggling to hide the contempt in his tone. Phoenix mumbled a ‘yes sir’ and glanced down at the meat of the page… he could feel anxiety building in his throat, his fingers seemed to tense around the heavy book. 

   “Whenever a specific passage of work speaks… directly and…” Phoenix blinked and looked down at the next word in confusion. Too big. Ugh, I hate this. “Authora… Authorativly.. A--”

   “Authoritatively.” Manfred corrected with a low growl. Phoenix winced at that. Focus, Phoenix, focus… you speak English you idiot, stop pretending this is so hard. He withheld an anxious sigh and attempted to continue.

   “... authoritatively,” Phoenix mumbled. “To the point for which you should cite it, the… the critical language should be quoted.” He was processing none of this. None of the words that were coming out of his mouth made sense… He’s going to get mad at me, I can feel it. Despite the fear brewing in his gut, he continued. “Indeed, rules of… ah… um…” I don’t even know where to start with that one. 

   “Appellate.” Manfred ground out. Phoenix blinked. What does that even mean… 

   “Apple-ate…” He could feel Manfred grimace at his butcher pronunciation. “Pro- uh.” Phoenix squinted at the word in an attempt to decipher it. “Procede--”

   “Stop.” Manfred bellowed. Phoenix’s mouth clicked shut immediately. He glanced at the man on the other side of the desk timidly, the man looked down at him with scrutiny and shame.

   “...” Phoenix’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry sir--”

   “You are 12 years of age, is that correct?” Manfred spoke clearly.

   “... I’m 13, sir.” Phoenix corrected him timidly. I don’t think that helps. I’m 13 and I can’t even read like a normal person. 

   “By the time Franziska is your age, she will already be a licensed Prosecutor.” Phoenix’s eyes landed on the floor. He could still feel Manfred’s gaze glued to him, watching his every shuffle with disgust. “Did you know that, boy?” 

   “... No, sir.” Phoenix whispered.

   “Based on your current level of academics, you would have been lucky to graduate from a Public High School.” Manfred continued. “And yet you look at me like your inability is somehow my own fault?”

   “I would never say that, sir--”

   “Then I expect you to act like it.” Manfred leaned forward slightly in his chair and brought his tone down to a low, venomous hiss. The office was enveloped in silence for a single beat. Phoenix found himself staring down at the page of his open book, trying not to cry. “I go out of my way to purchase books in your language, and you struggle to comprehend the most basic vocabulary. I did not choose to graciously adopt an illiterate infant, correct?”

   “That is correct, sir.” Phoenix mumbled. His vision blurred with budding tears. I’m not an illiterate infant, I’m not-- 

   “You have not shown me proof of that.” Manfred finalized. He picked his ink pen up from the surface of the desk and set it carefully into one of the drawers, his attention no longer glued to Phoenix. The man took a moment to haul himself up before he spoke up. “You are dismissed.” 

   Phoenix’s joints complained as he hauled himself up from his seat. Phoenix briefly wiped his eyes off on the cuff of his sleeve and left as fast as he could, now walking down the hall toward his bedroom. I need to be alone.

[a-dorin]

tempestuous | darth maul

word count: 5.043k 

warnings: nsfw, 18+, professor/student relationship, sexual tension, smut,  nudity, sexual innuendos, dominance kink, age gap, cursing 

a/n: hello everyone! due to the response i received, this is the second chapter in the professor!maul au! i am so happy with the overwhelming comments of kindness. you guys rock :’) thank you for keeping me sane during quarantine. as always, the first chapter is linked below. enjoy :)) 

ardor

summary: weeks have flown by, and you find yourself under immense amounts of pressures with midterm quickly approaching. not only are you stressed with the academics, but you can’t seem to shake a certain professor out of your head.

“(y/n), did you have rough night?” barriss chuckled, handing ahsoka an iced coffee before sliding into her own spot, “here, i got you a little pick-me-up.” 

wrapping your hand around the cup, you swirled your straw around, “thank you, barriss. i guess i’m just a little stressed out with midterms approaching.”

“a little?” ahsoka giggled, covering her mouth, “(y/n), we love you, but you look like you’ve been hit by a truck. is everything okay?”

you rubbed your temple, a dull aching seeping into your skull, “i’ve been pulling some all nighters lately.”

“well if you ever want to study for with us, you’re always welcome,” barriss’ blue depths shone, her lips curved into an encouraging smile, “ahsoka and i are a little nervous about the midterm as well, especially for this class. professor maul hasn’t given us any sort of notion on what the exam may be.”

“i hope it’s something simple,” you grumbled, taking a sip of the matcha latte, “again, thank you for the matcha, barriss. i appreciate it.”

barriss laid a gentle hand on your shoulder, “anything for you, (y/n). after all, you’re our new best friend.”

“she’s very right,” ahsoka shot you a wink, prodding you with her elbow, “you should come to the library with us tomorrow night! i know, it’s lame, but it’s pretty empty on the weekend. we have a good chance at snagging one of those study rooms. and if we get our homework done friday, we can always meet up before that party saturday night!” 

“you guys party?” you arched a curious brow. 

barriss and ahsoka rolled their eyes simultaneously, the togruta letting out a huff, “we know how to have fun too, (y/n). after all, they say that the bookworms know how to let loose.”

“whatever,” you couldn’t help but laugh, pulling out your laptop. 

it was now about halfway through the semester, with midterms approaching on the horizon. the looming fact that you had about five exams, along with working extra hours with your internship, were beginning to take their toll on you. the internship at the hospital was running smoothly, and you were performing so well that you were offered extra hours. of course, you couldn’t help but accept the offer. 

yet, it came with a cost. although it was only two nights a week, they asked if you could stay a few hours later than normal. so, every tuesday and wednesday, you strolled into your apartment well past one in the morning. 

rex helped in every way he possibly could. whether it was cooking you dinner, making you coffee, tending to your laundry, as well as keeping the apartment tidy, he was adamant about making things easier for you. which, you greatly appreciated. there were even times he charged your laptop and made runs to the printer. last night was one of those nights where you didn’t get back till late, so to say you were exhausted was an understatement. 

although it was your first class of the day, and 9:56 a.m., sleep still hung heavy in your mind. the comfy clothes hanging on your frame weren’t much help either, the coziness of the fabric lulling you to sleep. a university of coruscant hoodie, a few sizes too big, was almost like a blanket. and the grey sweats were comforting. shaking your head, you attempted to focus. 

the class fell silent as he entered the room, causing you to perk up in your seat. today, he was clad in a pair of black slacks, the color of his button up and blazer corresponding with his pants. his shoes were freshly polished, glossy in the sterile light. the monochromatic outfit brought out the color of his crimson skin, his amber orbs nearly glowing. as usual, the silver chain hung from his neck, this time, settled on bare skin, as a button or two was left undone. 

you nearly choked on your matcha, as you drank in the sight of him. maker, was he gorgeous. mind buzzing, you mustered all of your strength to not admire for a moment too long. it was already embarrassing enough the sheer amount of instances you saw him on campus. 

now that you were enrolled in his class, you saw him everywhere. whether it was grabbing a meal to-go in the dining hall, bumping into him at the gym, or mumbling a greeting as you passed him in the halls of the psychology wing. it was odd, yet you paid no mind. a part of you yearned to see him, to just admire his features. 

professor maul didn’t seem to mind the encounters either. every time, he would chirp a greeting, his tone smooth and cordial. even though he was formal, you couldn’t help but notice a gleam in the golden pools as he spoke. it was almost as if his eyes were roaming your body, glittering with lust. 

just the mere thought of his lips on yours sent a faint blush painted across your cheeks. shifting in your seat, the realization that class began washed over you. letting out a quiet sigh, you typed notes as he spoke, his voice clear, thick with authority as it rang through the lecture hall. 

“now,” he cleared his throat, backtracking to the pedestal to the left of the space, “i compiled a list of terms and parameters of your midterm exam.”

groans of frustration erupted like a volcano, maul’s eyes blazing with amusement, “may i discuss the exam with you first or are you all going to complain?”

“i hate him,” ahsoka muttered under her breath. 

“you don’t mean that,” you whispered, teasing, “what if the exam is a breeze?”

“the midterm will be no walk in the park,” maul announced, gathering a thick stack of papers in his hands.

 your eyes wandered to his hands, and how they sprawled over the stack with ease, how they were would fit so well over your breasts. a shiver ran down your spine as you pondered of his hands all over your body, relishing every inch of your skin. his voice snapped you out of your fantasy, his gaze settling on you, a smirk creeping onto his lips. 

“for the exam, i ask that you research an individual or authoritative figure who is a ‘monster’ in our society. once you conduct your research, you will give me a brief presentation. the presentation will be done orally, through a video format. the deadline is printed on the assignment sheet. there are no exceptions, so plan accordingly.”

biting your lip, your cheeks reddened under the eye contact. however, his attention was taken away from you, eyes flickering towards a student near the top of the lecture hall. 

“does this mean we can talk about president palpatine? he’s a tyrant!” 

“i can’t believe he almost banned the frats!” another complaint rose from a classmate.

“if that’s who you would like to report on,” a bubbly, lighthearted laugh escaped his lips, the sound flowing like sweet honey into your ears, “you might have your work cut out for you. that is my boss after all, so i am not sure how biased i can be.”

the rest of the class droned on, ahsoka and barriss lost in their note-taking, their stares fixed to their laptop screens. meanwhile, you found yourself getting lost, daydreaming. maker, did you ache to experience just one kiss. to trace the tattoos all over his chest and shoulders as you unbuttoned the article of clothing. gnawing on your cheek, shame burned through you as you realized that you were beginning to feel a sensation in your core. the mere thought of maul had your folds slick, wet and desperate for him. 

soon, class was over, students herded to the doors. you followed ahsoka and barriss, conversing about tomorrow’s plans. you were anticipating the study session tomorrow, as you needed it.

after all, you weren’t paying much attention in class these days. 

*******

“so, are we wrapped up for the night?” ahsoka yawned, her eyes bleary with sleep. 

a rumble in the distance shook the library, a thunderstorm wreaking its havoc over coruscant. you, barriss, and ahsoka were finishing up, the building nearing closing time. it was 10:32 p.m., the three of you hunkering down in a study room for the past two and a half hours. however, the session was helpful, the three of you passing notes, sharing what you did and didn’t have. you were all caught up, thanks to them. 

“i believe so,” barriss nodded, shoving a notebook into her bag, “(y/n), would you like us to walk with you to your apartment? we can share an umbrella and give you one.”

“i’ll be fine,” you shrugged, glancing at your phone, “i think i might wait out the storm for a few more minutes. besides, my roommate has a girl over. i don’t want to impose on them.”

“you sure?” concern flashed across ahsoka’s face, “it’s not a problem to us.”

“you guys can go,” you teased, winking, “i can handle myself. besides, there’s no one in here besides the twi’lek at the front desk.”

“whatever you say,” barriss huffed, adjusting her hijab, “see you tomorrow!”

“see ya,” you waved to the two girls as they left the room, “text me when you guys want to meet up!” 

“we will,” ahsoka called, giving you one last grin before they disappeared from your field of vision. 

exhaling, you rose to your feet, slinging your bag over your shoulder. strolling out of the study room, the lights of the library were dimmed, a few students lingering, milling around the front desk or nose deep in textbooks, scrambling to finish their work. 

eventually, you made your way to the lobby, leaning against the brick wall. rex promised that he would text you when his friend was on her way, yet there were no message on your screen. no missed calls. nothing. frustration welled up inside of you, creeping into your thoughts. surely the girl wasn’t staying the night. rex didn’t mention anything about it to you earlier. 

“hey there,” an all too familiar voice rumbled, “do you need a lift?”

turning ever so slightly, your eyes widened at the figure before you. maul stood in the doorway, donned in a pair of grey joggers, a university hoodie on his top half. the hoodie was black, which was a prominent color in the zabrak’s wardrobe. you picked up on that the third day of class. his brows were furrowed, lips pursed. it was almost as if he was concerned. 

“i’m fine,” you muttered, “just waiting on my roommate to give me the all clear.”

“i remember those days,” maul mused, “savage used to have all sorts of women over when we rented an apartment together for grad school. it was downright horrid.”

“i bet,” you sucked in a breath, anxiety swirling as you read the time once more. it was 10:48 now, more and more students filing out of the exit. 

“you all right?” he inquired, his voice low, “if your apartment isn’t too far from here, i can give you a ride. it’s storming pretty bad out there.”

“isn’t that illegal?” you snorted, a glimmer of hope rising as rex’s called id lit up your phone, “hang on, i gotta take this.”

“heyyyy,” immediately, you sensed that rex was walking on eggshells, “do you have a place to stay for the night?”

“rex, i thought we talked about this.”

“well,” he mumbled, “she wants to stay the night. i’ll do all of your laundry tomorrow if you say yes.”

“rex this isn’t the right time to bargain with me,” tears brimmed your eyes as the horror crept in. you had nowhere to go. 

“please?” his voice was sickeningly sweet, “pretty please?”

“fine,” you caved, “i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“thank you-” rex began, but you hung up before he got the chance to finish. 

storming out of the library, tears streamed down your cheeks, mixing effortlessly with the icy rain as it cascaded down, piercing through your clothes. you sobbed, your cries deafened by the thunder. maker, you were so furious. how could rex do that to you? especially so last minute? the only place you could go was your car, and you didn’t even have a fresh change of clothes. 

“(y/n),” through the roar of the thunder, you heard his voice. 

“oh great!” sobs racked your body, “now i have to deal with you too-”

his hands grasped your cheeks, pulling you in. lips collided with yours, his touch warm, as you crumpled completely. fingers tangled into your wet locks, desperate to bring you closer to him, to feel your lips mold so effortlessly with his. the kiss was fiery, burning with a passion. a desire for you. it was exhilarating, intoxicating, your mind buzzing, losing any sort of coherent thought as the rain pounded against the cement, lightning illuminating your surroundings. 

“now,” he pulled away, leaving you breathless, “do you need a ride?”

“i don’t have anywhere to go,” you could barely string the words together.

“you’re welcome to stay at my place.”

“are you sure?” you wiped your tears, yet the effort was fruitless. your clothes were soaked, you were chilled to the bone.

“yes,” he took your hands, “come on, let’s get out of here.”

“what if someone sees us?” anxiety bubbled within you. 

“my hood is up,” he began to make his way towards the parking lot, clicking a button on his car keys, “besides, i’m wearing black and so are you.”

“i guess you’re right,” you muttered, a shiver rippling through your being.

as he approached the vehicle, he opened the passenger door for you as the rain pattered against the pavement. slipping off his sweatshirt, he shoved it into your hands, “here, put this on.”

“i-i’m not wearing a shirt underneath,” the words were a stutter.

“and i’m not fifteen,” maul scoffed, ducking so that he could slide into the driver’s seat, “you’re going to get sick out here and mine is somewhat dryer than yours.”

hesitantly, you made your way into the passenger seat, your eyes widening as you noticed the interior, “this is a tesla.”

in the darkness, you picked out the brightness of his grin, his incisors flashed, poking against his lips, “indeed. my apartment isn’t too far from here. i need to let savage know that we’re no longer having drunkfest.”

“drunkfest?” you couldn’t help but giggle. 

“drunkfest,” maul affirmed, his thumbs dancing across his phone, “we get absolutely wasted every friday night to forget about the awful moments of the work week.”

“interesting,” you settled into maul’s hoodie, grateful for the slightly drier fabric. his scent flooded your nostrils. it was a strong scent, with traces of leatherwood, spices, and bergamot. it was heavenly, with just the right amount of cologne. 

“it is interesting,” his eyes focused on the road, the lights of the city whirring by as he drove, “even though i’ve gotten completely trashed every single time, i can’t seem to shake you off my mind.”

blush flooded your cheeks, your breath hitching in your throat, “i see.”

within minutes, maul pulled into a parking garage, turning off the engine. he helped out of the passenger seat, “let me carry your bookbag for you. the textbooks probably need to sit out for a few hours. i’m sure you don’t want to pay for new ones.”

“i don’t,” you sucked in a breath. 

the zabrak slung your bag over his shoulder with ease, locking the car behind you. the two of you entered the elevator on the level, and maul pushed his desired designation. a wave of silence crashed over you, but it wasn’t unnerving. it was more relaxed, maul humming a tune as the elevator whirred. 

eventually, you were standing outside his door, the zabrak shoving the key into the lock. pushing the door open, you couldn’t help but marvel at the decor, furniture, as well as the viewports. the apartment was luxurious, screaming wealth. yet, maul remained humble, not uttering a single word. 

the floor was a flint concrete, glossed over with a polish. in the den, there was a massive patterned rug, intricate patterns of black, white, and crimson woven together. the couch was a sectional, a dark grey. the shelving and tables were black, paired with subtle hints of scarlet or grey decor. there wasn’t much wall decor, besides some vintage posters from the old days of coruscant. framed photos of zabraki were scattered, and you inferred that they were feral and savage, maul’s younger brothers. 

“there’s a hall leading to the refresher. it’s on your right, i’m going to set out your books to dry. before you shower, leave your clothes in a pile by the door. i’ll throw them in the wash for you. and if i pop in, don’t scream. i’m going to lend you some of my clothes,” the zabrak murmured, “take your time in the shower. i don’t want you getting sick.”

“what if i need help getting the right water temperature?” you arched a brow. 

his eyes narrowed, gleaming, “i think you’ll be fine, princess. call me if you need anything.”

your cheeks reddened, “okay. i’ll be in the shower.”

maul mumbled something incoherent, and you wandered through the den, discovering the hall that he mentioned. once you found the refresher, you peeled the damp clothing off your body, grateful that there was a towel hanging outside the shower. exhaling, you tossed your clothes outside the door, turning on the water. after adjusting the temperature to your liking, you stood underneath the stream, grateful for the warmth as it seeped into your skin. 

the shower was just as elegant as the apartment, with glass doors and a steel shower head in the shape of a square. it was far better than the shower in your own apartment, as you didn’t have to worry about wasting hot water or any spiders. steam billowed into the space, hugging the doors of the shower, droplets of water condensing on the glass. 

“i’m coming in to drop off some clothes,” the zabrak’s voice entered the room, “holy fuck do you always have the water this hot?”

“do you not?” you chuckled. 

“it feels like a sauna in here,” he chuckled, teasing, “anyways, i’ll leave you be.”

letting out a content sigh, you turned the water off once he left. opening the door, your eyes scanned the space for the light switch. after a few seconds, you found it, flipping on the vent. hopefully that would help with the amount of steam that clung to every single item in the refresher. 

on the counter, there was a black turtleneck, along with a pair of briefs. patting yourself dry, you slipped on the briefs first, then slid the turtleneck over your head. it was getting late, the clock on the counter reading 11:36 p.m. yawning, you pushed open the door, padding into the hall. 

maul was nowhere to be found, a frown forming on your lips. where could he had run off to? surely he would’ve mentioned something to you. yet, your curiosity crept in, urging you to explore. holding your breath, you noticed a door, inferring that it was maul’s bedroom.

the door creaked as you tapped it, the draft pulling it open. inside, the floor was the same as it was, a king-sized bed in the middle, pushed against the wall, supported by a black wooden bed frame. there was a dresser, along with a walk-in closet. the most breathtaking aspect were the viewports, acting as a wall. the lights of coruscant glowed, the room overlooking the city. rain flowed down the viewports as thunder rumbled. you felt drawn to them, awestruck by the beauty of the sprawling city.

“you like the view?” your heart nearly leapt out of your chest. 

“don’t scare me like that!” you pouted, folding your arms across your chest.

“don’t go snooping around,” maul smirked, matching your energy.

your heart thudded as his eyes drank in the sight of you, in his turtleneck. the sweater was a little large, hanging loosely in some areas. the briefs hugged your thighs, leaving nothing to the imagination. your nipples poked through the fabric of the sweater, the cool air sending a shiver running down your spine. 

“gods,” he breathed, licking his lips, “i-i don’t know what to say.”

“i’m sorry for wandering off,” you mumbled, your cheeks hot as shame burned through you, “i didn’t mean to-”

“just stop,” maul shook his head, taking a step towards you, “just fucking stop. you have no need to apologize.”

the air in room crackled like the lightning outside as he took another step forward, an old t-shirt clinging to his torso, the same pair of grey joggers hanging loosely on his hips. your throat tightened as you noticed the way his chest rose and fell, the zabrak’s breathing ragged. 

“it seems as if i can’t shake you off my mind,” he panted as the space between you dissolved, “lately, all of my thoughts have revolved about you.”

“what do you think about?” you swallowed thickly. 

“do you want the hear the answer?” his face was merely centimeters away from yours, “or would you rather experience it?” 

“i want both.”

his hand reached out, gently grasping your jaw. the touch was light, feathery as his fingers traced your heated skin. you melted, nearly collapsing to the floor. 

the zabrak’s eyes glowed, the amber now hardened into a deep honey hue, almost a chestnut brown, “can i kiss you?”

you nodded, almost a little too quickly, “yes.”

a low, guttural growl dripped from his lips, “i couldn’t resist you before. but fuck as soon as i saw you in my clothes, i just can’t fucking take it any longer.”

the kiss was hungry, an open-mouth, lustful kiss. his lips crashed into yours, yearning to explore the taste of your mouth. the zabrak’s hands laced into your hair, tugging at the roots, gripping tightly. a whine echoed through the room as he sucked on your bottom lip, his tongue delving into your mouth. a hand slid down, resting on the nape of your neck, holding you steady as the kisses grew hungrier and hungrier. 

“get on the bed,” he commanded, his tone thick with authority, a hand untangling itself from your hair and tugging on the hem of the turtleneck, “and take this off.”

the way the words rolled of his tongue struck you to your core, your folds growing slick as the anticipation grew. fingers wrapping around the hem, you tugged it off, your breasts bouncing. the zabrak practically groaned as he admired your exposed body, a hand palming his cock as it hardened, the outline prominent in the light. 

obeying his order, you laid on the bed, your back hitting the soft comforter. maul slipped off the t-shirt, almost pouncing on top of you. pinning you down, his mouth connected with your neck, trailing sloppy kisses down, onto your collarbone.

“if only i could leave my mark on you,” his breath was hot, coming out in pants, “i would paint you like a canvas.”

“you can,” the words were a broken moan as his tongue dragged across your collarbone. 

“oh?” you could feel his lip curved into a smile, “you want me to?”

“ye-” the reply was shortened as maul’s lips wrapped around nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive area. 

his tongue drifted from your nipple to your flesh, nipping and sucking, a satisfied purr erupting from the zabrak as a rich burgundy mark appeared, “i hope you’re aware that you’re the most beautiful woman i have ever met.”

“i don’t think so.”

within seconds, his mouth was hovering over the waistband of the briefs, “you better fucking believe you are, (y/n).”

“i- oh my god,” the tearing of fabric rang off the walls as maul ripped the briefs off your frame. 

“usually i take my time with this,” maul murmured, his gaze burning with lust, “but fuck i need you. i need to feel you take my cock.”

“please,” you whimpered, squirming as he parted your thighs.

“holy fuck. how are you so fucking wet? you’re soaking and i haven’t even touched you.”

the zabrak was appalled, a flash of awe painted across features as he took in the sight of your dripping core, your pussy aching. desire burned through your being, threatening to consume you whole. maker, you never knew you wanted someone this badly. exhilaration rushed through you with every touch, his fingers slipping between your folds. 

“i’ve thought about you like this,” maul was enticed, almost in a trace as your juices coated his fingers, “i’ve thought about the way your body would be underneath mine, your eyes begging for me to fuck you till you can’t take it anymore.”

“i’ve thought about you in class.”

“in class?” his voice faltered, “(y/n), that’s sinful.”

“it’s not as sinful as how i’ve wanted you to fuck me for weeks,” your cheeks were flushed,. 

“oh gods,” maul groaned as a finger entered you, “i’m going to make you mine.”

“please,” your hips bucked forward, his finger plunging further into you, “i want to be yours.”

“you’re going to be mine princess,” he purred, “i promise i’ll give you what you’ve been yearning for.” 

hastily, the zabrak tugged his sweats off, kicking them to the floor. your nearly choked on your spit when his member sprang free from the constraint of the fabric. his cock was massive, the largest you had ever seen. yet, it wasn’t too large that you couldn’t take it. crimson and black patterns wove all around it, his shaft ribbed, precum dribbling down his length. 

“tell me how much you need me,” his voice shifted from a coo to a growl as fingers wrapped around your throat, “tell me how badly you need professor maul to fuck you senseless.”

“i need you to fuck me,” the words were a broken whine. 

“louder,” his grip tightened, “say it louder. i need to hear you.”

“i need professor maul to fuck me,” the words were enough to bring the zabrak to the edge, to make him unfold. 

“good girl,” his tone oozed with praise, low and husky. 

he lined his tip at your entrance, slowly inserting himself into you. maul’s hand loosened from your throat, gripping the headboard for leverage. your moans were breathy, laced with bliss as your walls expanded, wrapping around his cock.

“that’s such a good fucking girl,” maul leaned in, nipping at your ear, “you take my cock.”

the zabrak thrust into you, his tip brushing against your g-spot. throwing your head against the pillow, your body almost went limp, collapsing. the pleasure was overwhelming, burning through you like a fire. but maker, did you want more. you needed more. 

maul watched as he fucked you, one hand steady on the headboard, the other on the mattress, gripping the sheets. he was plowing into you now, showing no mercy. the moans bouncing off the walls were rich and so loud, fueling his desire to keep going. the zabrak lost all inhibitions minutes ago, his thoughts blurred, eyes glossed over. 

the way you felt was heavenly, every single thrust euphoric. 

maker, was he losing control. 

tightening his grip on the headboard, his knuckles were almost white. he was completely feral, unhinged, detached. 

a horrid cracking filled the zabrak’s ears, and he glanced up towards the headboard. the wood split into two, a lengthy, crack down the middle, stemming from his hand. 

“oh shit,” you gasped. 

“look what you made me do, angel,” a smirk stretched across his lips, “you’re going to fucking pay for that.”

your nails dug into his shoulder blades as he slammed into you, balls slapping against skin. his cock throbbed, swelling. with every throb, your walls tightened, the pleasure building in your belly. eyes squeezing shut, you felt every inch of him buried in your soaking pussy, balls deep in you now. 

“maul,” the zabrak nearly unfolded right there, “i’m going to cum.”

“let go baby,” his lips brushed against yours, “you can cum. cum for me.”

the orgasm racked your body, maul’s mouth connected with yours, the moans muffled. your thighs trembled, stars bursting in your vision, the pleasure almost blinding. 

with no strength left, your body went limp, collapsing into the mattress. 

his thrusts were more languid, sloppy with every stroke. maul came moments later, filling you up with it all. 

“fuck,” he cursed under his breath, a sheen of sweat clinging to his body, “are you all right?”

“i’m fine,” your inner thighs buzzed, soreness creeping into the muscle. 

every inch of skin the zabrak touched tingled, as if your body was savoring the memory.

maul cleared his throat, his cock still inside of you, “i kinda lost control.”

“kinda?”

“a little bit,” he chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead, “it’s been so long since i’ve last had sex. it doesn’t help that i’m in heat, either.”

“you’re in heat?” you pressed, brows furrowing. 

“perhaps,” the color of his eyes returned to their normal hue, amber flowing into crimson, “let’s get you cleaned up. it’s late.”

“is it past the professor’s bedtime?” your tone was snarky. 

“don’t tempt me to fuck you again. because we both know damn well that i will.”

glancing up, you noticed the broken headboard, “how much is that going to cost?”

the zabrak let out a huff as his cock slid out of you, drenched with a mixture of juices, “i don’t know. it’s the least of my concerns at the moment. stay here, and don’t move a muscle.”

swinging his legs over the mattress, maul strolled towards the refresher, retrieving a rag to clean up the mess that you made. you sunk into the bed, questions ringing through your mind. 

yet, you couldn’t help but notice a prominent feature. in the light, the tattooed skin glowed. but there was something different about the way his thighs transitioned from flesh to an ashen metal. 

maul’s legs were cybernetic. 

and your curiosity about the zabrak, your professor, skyrocketed.

***

tagged: @sapphicstars , @maulieber , @starflyer-104 , @alwayshappysith , @doobiwankenooku , @magicalkitkat12 , @dartheldur , @princessayveke , @multifandombtch , @spaghetti-666 , @lis-ard , @swimmingsloths , @sithmando​ , @mother-0f-monsters​

[heartofholland]

bitter - p.p.

summary: you worked your whole life for this, and peter parker took it away without a single second thought.

word count: 2.5k

warnings: a bit of swearing but for comedic effect i swear

authors note: this is my first (and most likely last) time writing. if its not good blame my C in english <3. this idea randomly came to me in the middle of the night and i though i’d give it a shot. shoutout @hollanderheart​ for not only motivating me to write and post this but also being my own personal hype woman at all times. enjoy!!

---

You had never had a solid reason to hate Peter Parker. He was smart, quiet, and always kind to you and everyone around him. You thought he was a nice boy, and never had a problem with him. Until now.

Until Peter fucking Parker stole your internship.

The news was initially broken to you through hallway gossip. Not believing the story, you went straight to the only person who you knew wouldn’t feed you bullshit, MJ.

“Did Peter get the Stark internship?” You practically screamed. MJ turned, stunned from your sudden close proximity and your wide, questioning eyes. Closing her locker after grabbing the books she needed for her next class, she answered, “Yeah, he’s had it for like a week, why?”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Your back hit the lockers and you rubbed your face in frustration.

“Well, I didn’t know you were so invested in Peter’s business all the sudden,” she quipped, not realizing you weren’t in the mood based on the death glare you returned.

“You realize I’ve been working on getting that internship for like, my whole life right?” You scoffed and let your head fall back and hit the locker.

“It must’ve slipped my mind, my bad.” she replied coolly.

You groaned, “I can’t believe Peter Parker just destroyed my future.”

“I’m gonna sit this breakdown out, I have to study for my Calc test.”  She gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before making her way to the library.

There you stayed, leaning on the lockers frozen with solitude, or was it anger? You couldn’t quite tell.

The rest of the morning passes with a breeze, just going through the motions of your daily routine without even thinking. Everything just felt numb. The final bell rang, allowing you to get away from the possibility of making any contact with Peter. The hatred you held for that boy was unimaginable.

The internship at hand was a once in a lifetime experience. The September Foundation Internship. One high school junior, hand picked by Tony Stark himself, was hired to work alongside the mastermind for an entire year. Rumors claim that if you’re cool enough, he lets you try on the suit. Others claim that if you stay late enough, you can see the Avengers in their daily lives. But no one has ever been able to verify them. Now meeting the Avengers would be cool and all but that's not why you wanted this internship. By featuring this on your applications, it was basically one way ticket to acceptance.

To any school. Anywhere.

Though your resume may be long winded, having the internship on there puts you ahead of any other student there. And if you were trying to get into MIT, it definitely wouldn’t hurt to be friends with an alumni. A very prevalent alumni who donates large sums of money each year.

What irked you the most was that you didn’t even get a letter of rejection. You had to find out through gossip. Like really? How long does it take to write an email?

Hey sorry you sucked so much that you didn’t get the internship. Better luck next time!

XOXO Iron Man :)

Sure, Peter Parker was a hard worker with a big brain but there was no way he was more qualified for that job. You had hundreds of hours of community service, a spotless report card, professional relationships with many prominent authoritative figures, and you participated in extracurriculars that Peter hadn’t even heard of. So how did he get in over you? Sure he has marching band, academic decathlon and robotics but in no way could that ever put you a step above him. It’s not like he’s some sort of superhero saving lives.

The fact that you couldn’t come up with a single thing that could make him stand out over you annoyed you to no end. The internal conflict occupied your brain for almost a week until you decided to confront Peter.

You spotted him in the cafeteria, laughing with Ned acting like he did absolutely nothing wrong.

Oh boy did he have it coming.

“So how’d you do it?” you accused, slamming your lunch tray down and sitting down across from him. Ned scootched away suddenly uncomfortable with your closeness and accusatory voice. Since becoming official with Betty, he knew how women’s emotions worked (to an extent) and he knew that tone did not mean sunshine and rainbows.

“W-What are you talking about?” he squeaked, confusion written all over his face. His eyes bouncing all over your features as if it would help predict what you were going to say to him.

“The September Foundation Internship,” you started with a calmer tone, “How’d you beat out all 5000 candidates, including yours truly?” You smiled innocently, but Peter knew that look meant anything but.

He looked around for a second, coming up with absolutely any excuse to satisfy your jealousy, “I did- I didn’t ask Mr. Stark so- so I really don’t know.” He turned to Ned widening his eyes as if sending a telepathic call for help. Ned frantically shook his head, not wanting any part of his problem. He deals with enough angry teenage girls as it is, he wouldn’t voluntarily put up with any more than he needed.

Peter panicked, spouting out the first thing that came to mind, “Well in my application I-I mentioned that I like to build LEGOS, so I guess Mr. Stark assumed I’m good with my hands?” uncertainty prevalent in his voice. He visibly winced at that poor excuse of reasoning.

You were surprised, “Oh, ok. Thanks Peter,” getting up to move towards your typical spot in the cafeteria.

“Real smooth, bet you really fooled her there,” Ned teased his friend, noticing the concern on his face, “What was I supposed to do? Just casually mention I’m Spider-man? She wouldn’t believe me!” Peter weighed.

LEGOs.

A toy that was meant for children beat you out. Embarrassed was an understatement. You played with Barbies and Polly Pockets! You even played with the sexist “girly” version of LEGOs! Granted you probably haven’t picked up a toy in maybe 10 years but still! That just isn’t fair.

---

“Mr. S-Stark could I have some advice?” Peter was quite literally shitting his pants with nervousness.

Tony looked up from his blasters he was tinkering with, “I mean you can ask but I can’t guarantee I can be your Dalai Lama” he taunted.

“Um okay well,” Peter gulped, “This really pretty girl at my school is mad at me and I don’t know what to do”

Tony was stunned, “Girls talk to you? And you hold a conversation? Congrats kid you’re growing up!”

Peter was embarrassed, “Well, not exactly. You know that internship you host every year?” His hands were shaking from nervousness, so he dropped his web shooters and clasped them in his lap so Tony wouldn’t notice. But of course he did, setting down his blasters and turning his chair to put his complete focus on Peter.

Well that totally makes this conversation easier!

“Of course. But I’m not giving it to you. I spend enough time with you already as it is.”  

That helped ease his stress, “Well to cover for Spider-Man I just tell everyone I do the Stark internship, forgetting that there is a real internship. So this girl applied for the September Foundation Internship and is mad because she thinks I took it from her. But that's crazy because she's like the nicest person and worked so hard for this internship and there is no one I know that is more deserving of the spot and-,” Tony cuts him off, knowing the boy could ramble for days.

“What’s her name?” He questions, “Y/N Y/L/N, But I’m not asking you to like give it to her because that’s not fair, just give her a tour of the tower or something for her to finally realize I’m not that important around here,” Peter justifies.

“I’ll see what I can do.” With that, he walked out of the lab.

---

You’ve accepted the fact that you didn’t get the position and have continued to build your resume, filling in the space you left for the internship.

“Mr. Harrington? Flash isn’t here today so do you want me to do the lab alone?” You asked, grateful your annoying lab partner isn’t there attempting every pick up line in existence on you. Each one followed up with a denial and you completed the lab on your own.

“No,” Mr. Harrington said. “Ned’s partner isn’t here either so you can pair up with him.”  

Begrudgingly, you stood up to join Ned at his lab table. Curious you ask, “Who is your partner?”, Ned hesitates in his answer, “Oh, Peter is busy with the Stark internship.”

Nevermind. Any progress of acceptance you thought you’d made was gone.

“Oh, okay.” You ended the conversation knowing you couldn’t handle dwelling on your failures any longer.

You would’ve been able to juggle the internship and school. Peter can’t even stay a whole day of school without leaving. This was just another reason why you were more qualified than him.

-

Peter was just arriving at Avengers tower to talk to Mr. Stark about how he altered his web shooters to increase the output of webs. He took the elevator up, assuming he would just be in the lab like he always is. And he was there, just not alone. He catches their attention when walking in, embarrassed to be seen so caught off guard.

“Ah Peter! So good to see you! I want you to meet our newest intern, Y/N Y/L/N!” Tony smirks at the boy whose eyes are blown wide staring at the girl in front of her.

“H-Hi Y/N. C-congrats on the internship.”

“Thank you Peter.”

“Well I have to go check on Cap, he gets angry when he doesn’t have his green smoothie. You guys get comfortable with each other! But not too comfortable, I don’t need to see any angsty teenager lovers in my presence.” Tony winked at Peter before he left the lab.

“Well that's awkward,” the girl begins, “I think I just stole your job.”

“Wh-what?” his eyebrows knitted together.

“Well you’re always gone for the Stark Internship so I just assumed it was the September Foundation Internship?” Now they’re both confused, clearly Mr. Stark wasn’t clear on Peter’s affiliation with him.

“N-no I just do a different intern job for Mr. Stark. I-I just clean up the lab.”

He has really gotta pick up his excuse game.

“So you’re a janitor?” She frowns.

“N-no I just make sure it’s tidy for Mr. Stark, organize the supplies and order more when he needs,” Peter stuttered.”

Ok now he's improving with his justification skills.

“Oh ok? Well I have to go, I have a charity thing.” You made a solid attempt at cutting the tension between you both..

---

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

Tony spins his chair, spotting Peter at the entrance. “Well I reviewed her application and you were right, she does deserve it. Plus, I know how you struggle with the ladies, so in a way I was throwing you a bone, whilst still getting a prodigy by my side.”

His jaw set, “I’ll have you know I am perfectly good with the ladies and don’t need your help,” Peter stormed out of the lab like a toddler.

“That’s not what you said in the lab the other day!” He calls after him, knowing full well he was out of earshot.

---

Peter has never felt so relieved than when the quinjet touched down on the top of the building. The mission was a complete disaster. If he had to explain the definition of “abort mission” he’d probably start with that.

After stepping off the quinjet, Peter made a beeline for the kitchen. His throat scratched every time he swallowed, probably from yelling into the coms trying to navigate through the pure chaos.

Passing by Wanda, he could tell by her facial expression he wasn’t in good shape. He could feel the dried blood stuck to his skin and the smell of sweat was unavoidable from even 10 feet away.

After his five minute walk, which would be better described as a limp, he made it to just get a glass of water. Finally, the rush of moisture runs through his whole body. Whilst peacefully chugging his entire cup of water he hears the sound of glass shattering, followed by the words,

“What. The. Fuck.”

He knows the voice from anywhere. Hell, he hears it on the morning announcements with Betty every goddamn morning. Frozen, he doesn’t know what his next move is. Does he run and act like it never happened? Does he just accept it and brush it off like no big deal? His rough draft of an explanation is slowly being put together in his head when you move in front of him.

“You’re not an intern. You’re fucking Spider-man.”

“O-oh hey Y/N, didn’t see you there”

Real smooth Parker. Why don’t you talk about your LEGO skills again. Just try and see if you can make this conversation any more awkward than it needs to be.

“Cut the bullshit. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She always knows how to get straight to the point. Something he always admired about her.

“I-I-I didn’t think it was important?” The apprehension isn’t helping his persuasion skills in the slightest.

“Oh being an Avenger is just a common occurrence nowadays?” You push, determined to get a real answer and not a half assed excuse.

“I mean if you live around here yeah everyone is some kind of super hu-”

“Peter.” You cut him off, annoyance obvious in your tone.

He sighed, “Yes. I am Spider-man. The only people who know are Ned, Aunt May, and the rest of the Avengers. And now you.” Distress was obvious on his face

You began to feel guilty once you saw the panic on his face, “I won’t tell anyone,” you squeak, the first drop of sympathy Peter has ever received from you.

“Thank you, I’m sorry for not telling you. You’re part of the team and deserve a real confession, not finding out by accident.”

The guilt train is on a two way track tonight!

“No, it was your secret. You deserve your privacy.” A small smile tugged at the edges of your lips.

“Thank you for being so understanding. Now that the secret is out maybe we could work together on my suit sometime?”

Peter is nervous. Why is he nervous? Did he just accidentally ask her on a date. Oh god what if she isn’t interested?

“I’d love to Peter! It's a date!” Your smile beaming gave Peter a surge of confidence, and he reached around your waist to pull you into a hug. You were both ecstatic to have finally started to see each other as friends, and even a little more than that.

Your trances were broken when you finally spoke up, “Maybe you should take a shower first,” as you finally realized the stench in your close proximity.

A flush creeping up his face when he realized. “Let me go shower then we can continue this,” he beams.

“See you then Spider-man!”

[thesublemon]

on reviewing

Watched a documentary on Pauline Kael a couple nights ago. It clarified for me why I always find her reviewing refreshing and frustrating by turns. Refreshing because she doesn’t tend to treat genre or subject matter as something sacred. She will watch many kinds of movies with the same degree of curiosity and judgment. Her instincts about whether a movie is working, or lying, or doing something new are also often very on point.

But she falls prey to the two big things that I think make reviewing a flawed, sometimes maybe even useless endeavor. Especially if the goal is to accurately describe what a work is.

1) An inability, or disinterest, in modeling why artistic choices work or don’t. For instance, at one point in the documentary she complains about artists and critics equating repetition with lyricism, and states that repetition in movies simply annoys her because it feels like belaboring a point that she’s already gotten. But that complaint misses out on an opportunity to explore why people would think that repetition is lyrical, or why an artist would reach for it as a choice. And whether, once you’ve modeled what the goal of repetition actually is, maybe there are good and bad versions. If it were me, I would argue that when repetition is good, it doesn’t actually feel like repetition. It feels like riffing. The artistic impact comes not from reiteration, but from reframing—and if it does feel like reiteration, then it’s probably weak repetition. If I were to make a similar complaint about a movie, I might instead complain that a motif did not add or gain complexity each time it appeared. Or I might complain that an attempt to convey monotony by unchanging repetition did not feel worth it, because I didn’t find the underlying point insightful enough to justify the experience of slog. Whatever my exact argument though, the point is that there would be a curiosity and emphasis on what the artist was trying to accomplish. And a generosity about what they could accomplish. As well as a self-awareness about my own values (like “density” and “coherence”) and the fact that I judge works by those values. Without this sort of meta-level mindset, reviews seem to quickly descend into authoritative subjectivity. Kael was good at viciously panning things, but how can a pan help the artist make better work unless it’s accompanied by some sort of model or rationale? Why would an artist listen to your opinion unless you first prove that you understand what they were trying to do? Without a level that exists outside of the reviewer, a review runs the risk of simply being an exhortation to appeal to that reviewer’s taste.

2) A love of saying things that sound good, regardless of whether they’re actually meaningful. At one point in the documentary, Renata Adler, another writer, attempts a takedown of Kael. But ends up making the exact mistake that Kael does.

RENATA ADLER: [Kael] has, in principle, four things she likes: frissons of horror; physical violence depicted in explicit detail; sex scenes, so long as they have an ingredient of cruelty and involve partners who know each other either casually or under perverse circumstances; and fantasies of invasion by, or subjugation of or by, apes, pods, teens, bodysnatchers, and extraterrestrials.

Compare to Kael’s own style of evisceration. Here’s her on The Sound of Music.

PAULINE KAEL: What is it that makes millions of people buy and like THE SOUND OF MUSIC—a tribute to "freshness" that is so mechanically engineered, so shrewdly calculated that the background music rises, the already soft focus blurs and melts, and, upon the instant, you can hear all those noses blowing in the theatre? […] And the phenomenon at the center of the monetary phenomenon? Julie Andrews, with the clean, scrubbed look and the unyieldingly high spirits; the good sport who makes the best of everything; the girl who's so unquestionably good that she carries this one dimension like a shield. […] Wasn't there perhaps one little Von Trapp who didn't want to sing his head off, or who screamed that he wouldn't act out little glockenspiel routines for Papa's party guests, or who got nervous and threw up if he had to get on a stage?

Having read both pieces, I think both writers identify something true about their subject (Adler even makes remarks similar to what I’ve already said). But are the pieces useful? Or accurate in a more total sort of way? Kael had particular kinds of movies she loved, it’s true, and tended to be bad at self-criticism about whether her preferences actually indicated any sort of objective reality. But Adler’s criticism of Kael is no more interested in modeling than Kael’s reviews are. It isn’t interested in an evenhanded consideration of what Kael gets right and wrong and why. What unites Adler’s takedown of Kael and Kael’s takedown of The Sound of Music is that they want to be takedowns. They want to be stylistically rollicking reads that create the aesthetic experience of nailing something to a wall. But the thing about wanting too badly to make an argument “aesthetic” is that it becomes tempting to gloss over anything that would ruin the aesthetic flow. Adler devotes a long paragraph to identifying all of Kael’s tics, and the wall of text is certainly rhetorically effective at making you feel like Kael is some sort of dirty-minded one trick pony. But at the end of the day, it’s rhetoric. Not really argument. Similarly, Kael is so delighted to be able to use phrases like “glockenspiel routines”, that it gets in the way of saying anything more considered. Which isn’t to imply that I think the writers don’t actually believe what they’re saying. On the contrary, I think they hold their opinions powerfully and sincerely, and are trying to identify something wrong in their culture by singling out and drilling down on the sins of one thing in particular. But nonetheless, by caring so much about being good bits of writing—and they are good bits of writing; there’s something juicy and relentless about Kael that sticks with you—they end up empty on the level of argument.

These two failure modes highlight the central problem of reviewing, I think. Which is that reviews tend to be three things at once: ekphrasis, analysis and evaluation (which implies some sort of rubric of quality, whether personal, cultural, or “objective”). This is partly understandable, given that art is an abstract, experiential thing and therefore difficult to evaluate or analyze without some degree of ekphrastic description. It if was easy to say what a work was doing, the artist wouldn’t have needed to make art of it in the first place. So it makes sense that the process of making a work legible enough to opine on would have to trade in artistry itself. It makes sense that in order to show an audience what a work feels like, a review would have to poetically reproduce that feeling. Similar to the way that the translator of a poem needs to be a good poet themselves in order to make the meaning and experience of a poem accessible to an audience in a different language.

The problem is that ekphrasis, being expressive, is also necessarily subjective, and not primarily concerned with logic. Which on its own, is perfectly fine. I’ve written a ton of ekphrasis on this blog. I’m pretty pro-ekphrasis. When it’s done right, there isn’t much like a bulls-eye poetic description of a work to make you feel like you get it on a level you didn’t before. But when that sort of writing is also trying to say whether or not a work is “good”, the expressiveness frequently gets in the way. It’s easy to state or promote an opinion expressively. It’s harder to defend an opinion that way. In good faith, anyhow. Which results in all of these reviews that succeed in observing true or true-feeling things about art, and do so in a sometimes deliciously readable way, but don’t leave me with the feeling that the writer has any consistent or defensible take on how art works. I can’t help thinking that I much prefer reading writing about art that keeps its purpose siloed. So either a piece that tries to poetically explain how a work affected them, or an academic work that tries to argue for an interpretation, or something more philosophical that puts forth a theory of what makes things good and bad and explain why a work does or doesn’t live up to that. I don’t want this to be the case. I think writing that can blend those three modes together is some of the best possible writing about art. But the average reviewer is not really up to the task, despite the fact that the review is probably the most common and widely-read type of writing about art.

(None of which is to say that I’m free of sin these regards. One of the reasons I try to keep the tone of this blog casual is because I want to be able to be able to play with these different modes of writing about art. And see where and when and how I can get away with blending them. It’s a practice space.)

[grandhotelabyss]

I don’t recommend this article as such—STEM welfare? no thanks!—it was just the most recent I saw on the “elite overproduction” thesis. And because I am such an overproduced elite, I have to resort to pointing out that I wrote some stories early in the last decade about this subject before the term was popularized. Just as my 2014-written and twice-published story “White Girl” presaged the Age of ACAB, so did my stories “Terminal Girls” and “They Are in the Truth” herald our current divergent Ages of the downwardly mobile metropolitan.[*] 

In “Terminal Girls,” we find the Age of OnlyFans avant la lettre. The story, also written around 2013 or 2014, is about an adjunct professor with a terminal fetish (I made this up)—

One day, trawling a website that served as a clearinghouse for many varieties of fetish porn video clips, he noticed a new category of fetish promoted by the site amid all the wearingly familiar toe-sucking and ball-busting, squirting and scatology. The category was TERMINAL. He clicked through. Terminal Girls: Their Final Days…Your Finest Pleasures proclaimed the site’s top banner. The most prominent clips displayed for sale featured girls, usually young, under thirty, at the moment when they first experience a symptom or notice a sign of what they will later learn is a terminal illness.

—who dies and comes back to life—

With his distended fingertips, the skin around the nails suppurating greenly, he stroked Mrs. Lazarino’s hair. She had finally fallen asleep with a balled-up Kleenex loose in her hand and the laptop at her side, open to the Facebook page where message after message continued to appear; everyone wanted in on the event of Professor Lazarino’s death, the most interesting thing that happened that week. Slowly she woke, her lips curling involuntarily into an expression of disgust. His dead stench filled up the room. She blinked up at him and said, “Oh fuck.”

—and who then becomes a pornographic performer himself, since his partially decomposed state is a paraphiliac asset. Finally, he is elegized by his co-star, a budding poet:

She stood with him as the old dirty white bus wheezed to a stop, and she watched him climb on, holding the rails like an old man, even though he was not yet forty. The silhouettes in the bus window moved as if scripted: he sat, and the people around him got up and sat further from him. The whole scene blurred in her eyes.

In “They Are in the Truth,” written in 2014 or 2015, we find The Age of OnlyFans’s obverse, The Age of Trad, when everyone who can afford it leaves the cities for a simpler, soberer life. Here a poor adjunct professor, reflecting in a cafe on his alienation from the professional-managerial class’s emergent consensus—

I reacted to them with unaccountable repulsion, seeing in them something like junior Red Guards, with a dunce cap in the frail one’s purse to crown my intellectual arrogance, and a red brick in the other’s to cave in my skull in the event that the pedagogy of humiliation should fail. There was something else, though, something in the way the dominant one talked. Young people should believe that they know better than their elders, should be entirely and gnostically certain that the world would be more just and give more pleasure if they were allowed to control it. But this girl had the bearing of one already in power. Her tone was that of a polite but brisk administrator; in her mouth, wisdom torn from straitjacketed poetesses and exiled philosophers became the authoritative and standardized formulations of a bureaucracy staffed by those who had never really suffered. Was this what I had fought for in my protracted education? 

—is requisitioned by a canny and disruptive businessman to leave his meaningless life behind and serve as a replacement husband for his recently widowed old high-school classmate—

“But we figured if you were a genius, we’d have heard about it already,” LeBon said. “You like to think you might be. You like to hang around in a genius-type atmosphere, because you’re too good for any other. But what—I mean, really—what the fuck are you doing with your life?”

—a fate he decides he can endure:

In my former life, I did everything with the goal of evading time. I read books, and I wanted to write books, and what is a book but an attempt to preserve all those thoughts and feelings that would otherwise be carried away, first by the days and then by the years? So I avoided all those realities that submit themselves to time, that cannot be protected from it: the love of bodies, the concern for generation, the respect for profit. All of these will decay; all have to be maintained within time. With none are you permitted to forfeit the race. 

I once knew someone who styled himself “a surrealist poet.” I told this to another friend, and he replied, “That’s not really something you can say about yourself. You need to wait until someone says it about you.” Yet to have to congratulate myself on my own website for my prescience about academe’s contingent online diaspora going into sex work or exiling itself from Babylon is to exemplify these stories’ main theme. As Walter Benjamin said of the streetwalker in Baudelaire’s Paris who was “saleswoman and wares in one,” so it is with today’s glutted intelligentsia.

____________________

[*] Why two stories with girl in the title, by the way? Marketing, I assume. It was the Age of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Age of Gone Girl, and it was the editor’s idea in both cases. My original title for “Terminal Girls” was “The Rise of Professor Lazarino,” and my original title for “White Girl” was “An Unsigned Confession.” A fun fact to cap this post: one candidate title for my novel Portraits and Ashes, written around the same time as these stories, and which I had a hard time naming, was The Decaying Bourgeoisie.

[zoequeenz]

Extreme Aggressor (Part 3)

MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Persephone Chase’s POV

Derek is trying to get into the laptop. He’s been trying for a while, nothing is working so he brought in another laptop to try to get into Richard’s. I hear footsteps and I turn around, Gideon, Elle, Hotch, and Spencer enter the room.

“Okay, here we go.” Derek says.

The laptop hums and the login screen pops back up.

“What’s the number six at the bottom of the screen?” Elle asked Derek.

“Number of password attempts before the program wipes the hard drive.” Derek answers.

“There could be an email or a journal in the computer, something that tells us where Heather is. Do you think you can break in?” Elle asks.

“In six tries?” Derek says in disbelief scoffing and shaking his head.

“Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” Gideon says.

Derek doesn’t know what that means and looks at Spencer.

“Samuel Beckett.” Spencer answers with a nod.

Then Derek answers back with.

“Try not. Do. Or do not.”

Before Spencer could answer I say…

“Yoda.”

Spencer looked at me in shock. I smirked at him. If he can’t recall every Saturday night we have movie marathon sleepovers. We watch movie series and he answers all of my questions. Gideon turns and looks at a small shelf on the wall. He reaches out and grabs a book. He looks at it for a second, it is called “Journal of Applied Criminal Psychology”. He flips through the pages and finds a newspaper clipping. The headline reads “-BLAST KILLS SIX”. The photo under it pictures Gideon and another man. It was back six months ago, when six agents died. Spencer finally looks over at it, Gideon and Spencer look at each other and Gideon says…

“I wanna talk to him.”

He closes the book and walks out of the room. After he leaves Derek and Elle look up from the laptop.

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Jason Gideon’s POV

I walk into the kitchen and throw the book down on the table. I taken the seat across from him.

“You read my paper. Learn anything?” I ask Richard.

“Heirens said a man living inside of his head was the one who committed the murders. You said he was lying, that there’d never been an actual case of multiple personalities.” Richard answers.

“You have an academic interest in dissociative identity disorder, or you just planning your defense?” I ask.

He chuckles in response. I pull out the newspaper clipping and show Richard.

“You a fan of Adrien Baal’s work?” I ask him

“No. I’m a fan of yours,” He says leaning forward.

“You know...they never give you the real facts about CPR...that outside of a hospital, it’s only effective 7% of the time. Your friend had a 93% certainty of dying, but you kept trying...even after you’d broken his ribs, even after his blood was all over your hands.”

“Why don’t you tell us where Heather Woodland is?” I ask him ignoring what he just said and keeping eye contact.

“Woodland...isn’t she the girl who went missing a couple days ago?” Slessman asks sitting back in his chair not showing any emotion on his face.

I just nod in response. I look around the room, I see a sign that says “Good little boys are like sunshine.” then a cookie jar that reads “Cookies for Good Boys Only.”

“Get him out of here.” I demand in a whisper like voice.

I walk out of the kitchen and past Hotch giving him a look that says follow me. He walks out and meets me at the side of the house. I am trying to calm myself but it is not working.

“Hey.” Hotch says to grab my attention and I turn to him.

“He said “isn’t she the girl…”. If he’d already killed her, he would have said--.” before I can finish Hotch cuts me off.

“Wasn’t she the girl…”

“She’s alive. We don’t know for how long.” I tell him.

“Is it true what he said about CPR? I mean, I didn’t know.” Hotch tells me.

“You want statistics on CPR, ask Reid.” I snap.

“I wanna know if you’re okay.” he fires back.

“I’m fine.” I say.

“Are you?” he questions.

“Think I can’t do the job?” I ask.

“I think you can’t be two different people at once.” he tells me.

I look away and smile realizing something. “What is it?” Hotch asks me.

“Conflicts in the profile.” I answer.

In my mind I remember the interview; the victim board with Heather on it; other victims crime scene photos; the second dump site; the unsub near the body, turning then running away; the messages; the message that matched the “Lipstick Killer”; the funeral; the child who looked at me; people walking on the sidewalk; the first victim with the belt around her neck; odd photos; a close up of an eye; a map that was labeled and stickered; Slessman walking down the stairs; and lastly sitting across from me.

“Two different behaviors.” Hotch says for me.

“Two different people. There’s a second killer.” I say.

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Elle Greenaway’s POV

Hotch, Gideon, and I are at a government building.I walk behind them as we walk down stairs, god why do they have to be so freakin fast.

“A second Unsub?” I ask surprised.

“It’s not unusual. Remember Lawrence Bittaker and Roy Norris?” Gideon answers.

“1979. They outfitted a van to rape and murder girls in California.” I say.

“We’re looking for someone who fits a similar relationship.” Hotch says.

“They’re not equals. Slessman’s smart, but he is a submissive personality.” Gideon tells us. “So number two is the dominant.” I clarify.

“Authoritative, arrogant.” Gideon adds in.

“Probably not as smart as Slessman.’ Hotch brings to the table.

“He’s like the schoolyard bully recruiting a good underling--he’ll be protective of Richard. He’ll make him feel like he owes him.” Gideon says.

“If Richard’s been up in the attic fantasizing about being an extreme aggressor, this guy showed him how to do it.” Hotch informs.

“He helped him take the first step.” Gideon pushes.

“I think we should interview him, us this as pressure.” I suggest.

Gideon stops and looks at me.

“No, no. We need leverage. A name.” Gideon says.

“ From the suspect list?” I ask.

“That’ll take too long. There’s gotta be a faster way.” Gideon wonders.

“There is.” Hotch says.

He leads us into the lobby. Richard’s grandma is waiting there, I can’t help but feel a bit bad for her. She just found out that her grandson is a suspect in murders and she can barely breathe on her own. She looks for fragile, so tiny.

Hotch comes in with a cup of coffee.

“Here. This might be a little hot.” He warns her.

“Mrs. Slessman, I don’t think we’ve got the right guy. I think the person we’re looking for might be a friend of Richard’s.” Hotch tells her.

“Richard never had many friends.” she tells him.

“You sure? There’s gotta be someone.” Hotch responds.

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Persephone Chase’s POV

We still can’t get into the laptop, we’ve been here for hours and even boy genius can’t get it. Spencer walked out of the room a long time ago and I haven’t seen him since. I miss him, it’s weird not having him around.On cases we go everywhere together, we maybe in the same house but I have absolutely no idea which room he is currently located. I look over at Derek and see him pull out his phone. I already know he is calling Penny a.k.a Penelope Garcia. She is the Technical Analyst for our team.

“You’ve reached Penelope Garcia in the FBI’s ‘Office of Supreme Genius’. Penny greets.

“Hey, it’s Morgan. Need you to work some magic here. I got a program called Deadblot Defense and a girl with only a couple of hours to live, so what do you know?” Derek asks Penny.

“Then you’ve got a problem. Deadbolot’s the number one password crack-resistant software out there. You’re gonna have to get inside this guy’s head to get the password.” Penny tells him.

“I thought I was calling the ‘Office of Supreme Genius’” Derek says in a disappointed tone.

“Well, gorgeous, you’ve been rerouted to the office of ‘Too Friggin’ Bad’” Penny told him.

“Thanks anyway.” Derek says about to hang up but then he does the unthinkable.

“Babygirl it seems as if boy genius and little one are fighting.” Derek tells her.

I look at him with a glare that would put him six feet under. He looks my way and laughs. This is some big game to him. Plus Spencer and I are not fighting, he held my hand when I got nervous. But then again he did that back when we got in a fight a while back he still held my hand because I’m always in need of comfort from my best friend. He puts her on speaker phone.

“Wait, what?!?! Fighting but they are meant to be.” Penny cries.

“I know right, they are in separate rooms at the moment. They can’t stare at each other anymore then look away when the other looks at them.” Derek says dramatically.

“Alright, alright I get it we are “perfect” together. But there is no romantic feelings between us.” I tell them.

Of course I’m lying. I have always had feelings for Spencer. He has always been there for me, even when we are fighting he still is there. Everyone thinks we would be cute together but I think he only thinks of me as sister. I love the boy but he doesn’t love me.

“Haha very funny little one but there is totally some romance between you two, you just can’t see it.” Derek laughs.

“Yeah Sweetheart it doesn’t take a profiler to see that you two are meant to be.” Penny says in a serious tone.

“Whatever, I don’t care how much you believe there is nothing between us.” I say.

“Okay, believe what you want little one, bye babygirl.” Derek says hanging up the phone.

“REALLY?!?!” I scream at Derek.

“Little One, come on everyone knows there is some feelings there. Why are you getting so mad.” Derek asks.

I just roll my eyes and walk out of the room. I love Derek like a brother but sometimes he can get on my nerves. Kinda wish that I went with Elle, Gideon, and Hotch. Where is Spencer? This house isn’t even that big, where could he be? I walk outside, I need to think…

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Jason Gideon’s POV

Hotch was interviewing Mrs. Slessman. We needed some information about Richard that he didn’t plan on telling us.

“Well, there was...there was this one young man. I think his name was Charlie.” Mrs. Slessman told Hotch.

“Cross-reference Charlie for the second Unsub.” I told Elle and she begins typing.

“Charlie is probably Charles Linder. He was Slessman’s cellmate and received a dishonorable discharge from the military.” Elle says pointing to the screen.

“He’s bigger, tougher. He could have protected Richard in prison. Where were they incarcerated?” I ask her after explaining that he is the dominant one in the relationship.

“Cascadia. Less than a mile from here.” Elle says with a smile on her face.

“Let’s go.” I say walking out of the office.

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Persephone Chase’s POV

I follow Derek into the bathroom after my failed attempt of looking for Spencer. When I look back at Derek I see him open the mirror. He pulls out a bottle and shows it to me.

“My name is Richard Slessman, and I have trouble sleeping.” Derek says out loud to no one.

We then walk into Richard’s room. I think I know what’s going on here. Derek is putting himself in Richard’s shoes. Derek lays flat on Richard’s bed and sighs.

“Okay. What do I do when I’m trying to sleep.” Derek asks again to no one.

He reaches up into a cubbyhole above Richard’s bed. He pulls out a lot of CDs; he then finds a portable CD player and headphones. He looks for a CD in the player but there is none. He then looks my way and notices I’m standing next to a CD rack. Oh joy we get to go through that now. Yippe. He then walks over to me.

“Persephone, guys, a little help. We’re going through everyone of these Cds--scratches, wear and tear. I wanna know which CD he plays the most. Let’s go.”He commands.

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Spencer Reid’s POV

Hotch has me looking for an address for Linder. I hear footsteps and I already know it’s Hotch.

“We get an address on Linder?” Hotch asks.

“It’s coming right now.” I answer.

I look at the fax printout while Hotch hands something to the agent sitting at the desk.

“Does senior management want a field assessment on Gideon?” I ask.

“Don’t worry about it.” Hotch tells me quietly.

“Are they nervous about him being in charge?” I ask Hotch.

“Aren’t you on your way back to Slessman’s house to help Morgan and Chase?” He asks me.

He then turns to walk away but before he can get far I ask…

“Do you know why he always introduces me as Dr. Reid?”

He then comes towards me.

“Because he knows that people see you as a kid, and he wants to make sure that they respect you. What’s the address?” Hotch asks with a sympathetic look on his face.

“Don’t think it matters anymore.” I say showing him the paper which causes him to sigh.

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Elle Greenaway’s POV

Gideon and I went to the prison. We are on the lookout for someone who may know Slessman or Linder.

“Winston Churchill said, “The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you will see.”

Gideon and I walk up to the warden to see if he can give us any information. Just as I get a phone call from Hotch.

“Anyone who can tell us more about Slessman?” Gideon asks.

“Tim Vogel was the security guard covering Slessman’s block. That’s him over there. I’ll get him for you.”the wardens says walking in Vogel’s direction.

“That was Hotch. Linder’s name came up on a police report.” I tell Gideon.

“And?”He asks waiting for me to finish.

“He’s dead--car accident, two months ago.” I finish.

“Linder is dead.” I say to clarify.

We then head down to talk to Vogel.

“Too bad you guys came here for nothing. I mean, talk about scum. I can’t remember how many times I put Linder in solitary for causing trouble with us.” Vogel says while taking out his keys and opening the door.

“You’d think the inmates would try to stay on our good side, right? Especially since half our job is protecting them from each other.” he says in a kind of annoyed tone.

“You protect them?” Gideon asks in a curious tone.

“If you’re a little white guy? Especially in a prison like this.” Vogel says making a point.

“Linder’s 6’4”. You talking about Slessman?” Gideon asks.

“Oh, yeah.” Vogel says nodding.

Gideon and I share a look.

“Thanks for your help.” Gideon says ending the conversation.

“We look at Vogel and notice when he uses his key to unlock and open doors. It took us awhile but we eventually got out of the prison.

“He befriended Richard, protected him, made him feel like he owed him.” Gideon speaks.

“He fits the profile. And did you see them?” I ask.

“The keys.” Gideon answers.

(Time Skip)

We are in the car waiting for Vogel when all of a sudden a red Datsun Z comes out of the parking lot. I take after the car and Gideon gets on the phone to call Hotch. “Hotch, I just found your leverage. His name is Timothy Vogel.”

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Aaron Hotchner’s POV

I enter the observation room or the room on the other side of the one way glass and lower the room’s temperature.

“What’s he doing?” asked the male agent.

“Lowering the temp. The cold puts them on edge.” the female agent responded.

“Okay, so I want SPD, and I want a Seattle agent in the room. I want him to see that we’ve got every department working on this. And I need some file boxes. Fill them. I don’t care if the paper’s blank. And I want you to write the name on the sides.” I command leaving the room but not before I hear the male agent ask…

“Whose name?”

I enter the interview room carrying the fake file box. Other agents follow me inside also carrying file boxes.

“Four months of investigative work, one file, and guess what, Richard. It’s not your file. See, we don’t care about you.” I say pushing the box towards Richard.

He looks at it and reads Vogel’s name. He looks shocked and scared, we got him.

“It’s Vogel we want.”

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Persephone Chase’s POV

Spencer was finally back from wherever he went and he came to help Derek and I. Spencer and I are currently in Richard’s room looking through the CDs. Spencer is sitting crossed legged and my head is on his left leg. We have been looking through CD cases for hours and I am so bored but it’s my job I don’t have a choice. Spencer picks up a CD fiddles with it as he thinks. Then he gets that cute little look on his face telling me he figured something out. He pats my arm to tell me to move. I pull my head off his leg and he stands up. He begins to head out the door but not before he gives me the “you coming” look, I get up and follow him to wherever he is going. I follow him to the attic where Morgan is pacing and muttering to himself.

“Aw, c’mon. I need a password. I need a password.” he pauses then looks around.

“What could I possibly be looking for?” he asks himself.

Spencer then enters the attic with me following behind. Carrying an open paper clip. Derek sits down then sighs.

“I’ve been thinking about the CDs.” Spencer tells him.

“Oh, Reid,come on. We tried the CDs. We searched,sifted, and sorted through everyone of this guy’s head-banging heavy metal collection. We gotta find something, of this girl is dead.” Derek says in an aggravated tone.

“Derek why don’t you let him explain then judge what ever happens.” I say trying to show that Spencer may have a good idea.

All the while Spencer was getting to work with the paper clip and fiddling with the laptop.

“Think we may have missed the obvious.” Spencer tells us.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks.

Spencer pulls out the CD holder and finds a Metallica CD inside.

“Reid, what made you think of this?” Derek asks in an impressed tone.

“It was the only empty case.” he says showing Derek the case. “All right. I’m an insomniac who listens to Metallica to go to sleep at night. What song could possibly speak to me?” Derek asks us.

“Enter Sandman.” Spencer says getting up and walking over to me.

“I’m proud to call you my best friend Spency.” I say while throwing my arm over his shoulder.

“Me too, Percy.” he smiles.

“Okay, I think you too are cute but come on Spency and Percy?” Derek laughs. I roll my eyes and sit down somewhere away from Derek; Spencer came over.

“How did you come up with Spency?” he asks me. “I’m not really sure. When you were frying your brain figuring out what to do before we came up here I thought of nicknames and liked Spency the best.” I say.

He just smiles at me. But when he smiled I got butterflies in my stomach. I guess my feelings were stronger than I thought because I’ve never felt this way towards any guy I’ve ever dated of course they were all douches but not Spencer.

NEXT CHAPTER 

[anonthenullifier]

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 10

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter Title: In which the lovers descend into hell. 

Chapter Summary: Ultron's plan begins to clarify as Vision pays the price for his closeness to Stark.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/42603071

AN: A warning for this chapter: The interactions between Ultron and Wanda are depicted with behaviors common of abusive relationships. If this is something you do not want to read, I wanted to let you know up front.

There is a particular way some doomed men walk, a rigid hold on their shoulders, their muscles taut so as not to let their necks droop, and their faces blank, minus a light sheen of defiance. She’s seen it many times in her career and it’s usually heartening to witness the spirit of humanity thrum so strongly in the face of a bleak eternity. Except now, when she doesn’t want the man to be doomed.

Vision, if not for the slight limp in his long strides, has remained steadfastly silent and unemotive, head held high and breath painfully even despite the tempest in his mind. There’s not even a flinch or blink of surprise or sharp intake of breath when they enter the cavernous warehouse that serves as the base of Ultron’s operation. The main floor is a fairly ordinary pot and pan manufacturing company, bodies scurrying around, steps punctuated by the pounding of machines and loud, menacing screeches of gears in need of oil. Yet the deeper they get, moving from the cacophony of the main cavern and into the sparsely decorated maze of hallways and rooms, the taller Vision stands.

Wanda, for her part, is petrified, though she tries to mimic Vision’s stance and combine it with Ultron’s unmitigated sense of victory, understanding she has to successfully play the part of her former self to get out of this alive.

They reach the inner retreat, the area where only Ultron and his favorite disciples ever get to go...well and the people who are brought in here and leave in a burlap shroud. Compared to the rest of the building, this is a sanctuary, carmine couches and finely polished cherry tables illuminated by a hanging, tiered gas-powered chandelier, the windows to the outside inlaid with patterns of blooming marigolds. There are small rooms along the perimeter, shadowy, uncomfortably sized spaces where questions are asked and the answers thread the loom of fate. Wanda does her best to remain outwardly unperturbed when Ultron leads them to one of the rooms on the left wall.

“Mr. Vision, was it?”

The, “Yes,” is hollow, uptight, and mildly dismissive, the epitome of a well-trained butler.

Ultron grins, the scars on his face puckering into a grisly mask. “Wonderful. Are you good with riddles?”

For the first time, Vision slips up in his painstakingly constructed apathy, brow furrowing as he tries not to glance at her for guidance. “I believe so.”

“Perfect, this one had been bothering me for years.” The tone is light, peppy even, the words winding easily between friendly and threatening. “What do you call a man who is both alive and dead at the same time?”

There is a long pause as Vision tries in earnest to come up with a solution, mind calming into a focused consideration while his eyes finally turn somewhere other than straight ahead, instead studying the stained glass near the ceiling. Eventually he offers a skeptical, “Dr. Frankenstein’s monster?”

Ultron snorts followed by an unsettling chortle. “Well-read man, I see. I admire that.” The glee is executed promptly, the smirk descending into a scowl, “But wrong, try again.”

If Wanda knew the answer, she’d send it into his mind to stop whatever tactic Ultron is utilizing, instead all she can do is silently watch as Vision’s head moves in a slow, confused shake. “I do not know.”

“A liar, Mr. Williams.” The mask of indifference falls from the butler’s face, shattering at his feet while his eyes widen and he glances briefly at her. Wanda wants to comfort him, wants to reach out to his shoulder, whisper to him she never shared this information, but she knows her every action is being watched, so she holds back, deciding to stare at Ultron instead.  The man rolls his eyes, voice nudging Vision’s attention back to him. “Oh please don’t give her any credit for this.” The acquittal of deceit should lighten the weight on her shoulders, not add to it. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to figure out who Victor Williams is? I mean his name is mentioned six times in the Stark Industry by-laws on corporate succession despite the fact an obituary states he died over five years ago.”

The explanation stalls, Ultron waiting on Vision for some sort of response, likely an admission of his cunning at figuring out the butler’s identity or a denial so he can bathe himself in the glee of dismantling the lie further. Vision offers only stony silence. “If it were me,” Ultron shrugs, voice growing patronizing, “I’d have also forged a death certificate, makes it a bit more convincing, you know. Stark’s not the best at following through though.”

“That would have been an excellent idea.” Vision’s attestation is dry, the shock and terror shoved deep into his mind.

“Maybe next time.” Wanda flinches at the off-handed comment, stepping back, hands tingling with pent up energy at the casual sway of Ultron’s body as he thinks, his actions often unpredictable. His head cocks to the side at the spark of scarlet that ekes out of her pinky, a smarmy arc forming on his face. “I suppose I was lying earlier,” a wink in her direction and Wanda’s fingernails dig into her palms to extinguish her powers. “Wanda was instrumental in my revelation,” her heart drops at the stoop of Vision’s shoulders, “if she hadn’t told Jocasta about your prowess with the Iron Man, I don’t think I would have connected the dots for a little while longer.”

“What do you want?”

Had she even contemplated the possibility of this meeting happening, Wanda would have prepped Vision for how to interact with Ultron. This affront to his power, this attempt to change the direction of the conversation, to deflect from his past life, is dangerous. Ultron frowns, motioning to the woman in white to help peel the glove from his right hand. “How rude of me to not introduce myself, I’m Ultron.” He extends his arm and grins at Vision, following the butler’s eyes as he takes in the thin steel fingers, hinged for gripping objects, and the aesthetic choice of a perforated floral design in the metal plate that makes up the palmA, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Exquisite.” The answer is honest, empathetic in a way she prays Ultron is ignorant of.

Vision goes to shake the hand and is met with a stern rebuke, “This is not a forum for discourtesy, Mr. Williams.”  

A moment of confusion morphs into understanding, Vision gently sliding the glove from his own hand, eyes taking in his bare skin before reaching out and gripping the metal fingers still hovering in the air. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ultron.”

Ultron isn’t listening to the empty civility, instead studying the raised scars and discoloration of the butler’s hand. “You really were in that fire.”

“I was.” Vision tries to deflect again, twisting their gripped hands several degrees to the left, “Who manufactured this?”

The prosthetic is yanked away, amusement flickering in Ultron’s eyes the same way the fire danced in Tony’s memory. “I’ve been informed you know the Iron Man quite well.”

“I do.”

At least her claim is substantiated, a minor protection for their current well-being. Ultron, almost point for point the same as Tony this morning, slings his arm clumsily around Vision’s shoulders, only this time the two men are roughly equal in height and so the only discomfort comes from the tension in Vision’s jaw. “How are your drawing skills?”

They step into the room, too small to house more than the two men, leaving Wanda to remain useless in the doorway, eyes straining to simultaneously watch the room and the woman in white who stands a respectable distance away. “I…” Ultron guides Vision into a chair, his metal hand never leaving the butler’s shoulder. There’s a stack of parchment on the rickety table, an inkwell, and a polished, engraved pen. Vision runs his fingers over the pen before commencing in a staring contest with the paper. “I am afraid in my current state it would take me days to draw an accurately detailed plan set of the Iron Man.”

This sort of blanket refusal is typically met with acridity, yet Ultron seems to weigh the man’s words judiciously. “What if you simply drew the arc reactor?”

Another long gaze at the parchment, “Currently,” and then he looks to his trembling hands, “it would likely take five, maybe six hours for me to steady my hand enough to produce a passable drawing.”  It’s usually unwise to make weaknesses known to men such as Ultron, an admission like this opens the door to a slew of unpleasantries that can be leveraged against you, but the characteristic honesty with which Vision presents his own failings seems to steer Ultron away from exploitation. For now, anyway.

“And if your body was relieved of this burden?”

Genuine surprise and academic contemplation wrinkle Vision’s forehead, the right half of his torso moving in a shrug that tosses away the hard-set rules of anatomical functioning to allow the whimsy of hypotheticals. “I would say two hours.” Vision pauses, palm coming to rest on the fresh-faced paper, “Three if you wish it to be fully annotated.”

Vision’s strategy of survival seems remarkably simple: acquiesce to all questions and demands calmly and unhesitantly. Each acquiescence blows out the fuse of the bomb known as Ultron. Logically it makes sense, if the fuse can’t stay lit, it can’t harm them. If only she could convince herself it will work because she’s seen the smile drawn on Ultron’s face far too many times to feel any sort of hope. “Wonderful. Wanda?”

“Yes?” Her voice somehow comes out at a normal volume and even has a somewhat authoritative heft.

Both men turn to her and, in the best interest of everyone in the room, she only acknowledges the storm grey irises of Ultron. “Do you remember how helpful you were to that banker, the one who had such a long day?”

The number of individuals she has seen come in and out of these rooms is far too large to count, their faces mingling and morphing into vague outlines of despair and agony. This banker, however, is different. She hadn’t thought of him for a long time, likely due to the wonders of repression, but now that his memory is stirred, she can’t unsee the blood dripping down his face, the way his left eye was swollen shut, and the unnatural bend to his left leg. Ultron had summoned her in the middle of the night, wrapped his arm around her waist, guided her closer to the man, and asked if there was some way she could help him not be so tired, his body shutting down and fulgurating between life and death. “I do.”

“Why don’t you show Mr. Williams here how we like to help with the betterment of our clients.”

Ultron runs his hand along her back as he walks out of the room, arms crossing while he intently watches her approach the table. “Vision.” Cerulean eyes turn to her, his mouth set in a grim, partial smile, and it’s the first time she’s gotten to make direct eye contact with him since the steamboat. There is still intense emotion in his gaze, only now it skews far more negatively. “I’m going to help you.” Whether Ultron remembers the fact she doesn’t need to touch her marks to fulfill her task is inconsequential, her desire to bring some level of comfort to Vision far outweighing the risk of being caught, so she reaches out, laying her hand over his. Smartly he doesn’t respond beyond a slight flinch of his fingers. “I’m not going to hurt you.”  

Wanda has no idea if his “I know,” is whispered or if he is projecting it into her mind, but she latches on to this steadfast trust as scarlet dances around their hands. The banker needed to be kept awake, still refusing to give Ultron information on the financials of Stark, therefore Wanda took from him the weight of his torture, the anguish of his injuries, leaving him no choice but to be alert. Now she does the same to Vision, locating the uncountable points of pain in his joints, fused into his bones, rippling in his muscles, and she clusters it all together, drawing it up his torso and down his arm until she can gently pry it from his hand. In the air between them it spins, the manifestation of his daily struggle, every slightly rusty edge of every rivet combining with his lack of sleep into a glistening, lively ball of red.

The change in his posture is immediate, eyes breaking from her gaze to study the peculiar calm of his fingers, his arms lifting as he bends his knuckles to test this newfound normalcy. Her heart constricts at the experimental shrug of his shoulders, at the stretching of his legs, at the borderline rapture filling each pain-free movement. “Mr. Williams, how are you feeling now?”

“I feel,” he grips the pen in his right hand, automatically using his left to hold his wrist, and then he removes the support, fingers lightly grasping the metal cylinder without any issue, “invigorated.”

Ultron’s gold plated teeth flash in a wide, pleased smile, “Fantastic. You have an hour and a half to draw me the arc reactor.” Before Vision can counter back at the decreased time, their captor has moved on, “Wanda, leave him be.” Reluctantly she steps out of the room, casting one last look at Vision before the woman in white shuts the door and stands in front of it. “Wanda,” Ultron’s voice echoes off the walls, “come along.”

Each step away from the room is harder than the one before, the orb of Vision’s pain weighing down her body, wrists starting to ache at the effort it takes to simply deal with its existence. How he is able to do this day in and day out is beyond her. “Wanda.” Ultron’s voice is harsher now, impatience seeping into his tone and it kick starts her feet into action, carrying her the rest of the way to the couches in the middle of the room. “Have a seat.” Following Vision’s strategy, she acquiesces, lowering herself down onto the plush couch, not caring about the way the bodice digs into her hips or how the hoop skirt is ballooning out due to the angle of her body. “Put that down.”

She stares at the scarlet bundle still in her palms, the only connection she has to Vision right now. “I can hold it.”

“Under love’s heavy burden does she sinkB.” The orb drops to the table, her cheeks stinging at the lash of his words and the daggers imbedded in his challenging stare. “You must be hungry, moja mala vještice.” Food sounds wholly unappetizing right now but what comes of refusing Ultron’s goodwill is far more nauseating. Wanda remains silently affirmative. “Jocasta,” the woman leaves her post, “why don’t you grab Wanda here some refreshments and also send Gideon over to encourage Mr. Williams to stay on task.”

“Of course.”

The woman leaves and Wanda waits, eyes never leaving the man across from her, the deep creases of his face even more pronounced in the dimming light of dusk, the shadows from the chandelier filling his scars in with a malevolent tint, and his hands rest calmly on his crossed legs, the intricate metal hand cupping the roughly carved wood of his other prosthetic. The first time she saw him sit like this, so open about the hardships of his life, she felt a kinship, a sympathy for his troubles, and an acknowledgement that this man understands pain. Only now she has seen what he has done with his own torment, directing it outwards with the philosophy that what he suffered, those around him should suffer tenfold. “She isn’t exactly a facsimile of you,” rancorous tenderness drips from his tongue, “but her loyalty and conscientiousness are welcomed after your unexpected exodus.”  

“I left to pursue a lead on the reactor,” a lie she needs to maintain, having rehearsed this conversation countless times in her relatively sleepless nights since they first arrived for the Exhibition, “and then I came back.”

A man dressed in gray slacks, off-white shirt, and a navy waistcoat saunters in, his face familiar, and it’s only in the cocky tilt of his head towards Ultron that she recognizes him as the man she spoke to in the tent. No words are exchanged as he enters the room adjacent to Vision’s, the door slamming shut, sending reverberations around the room. “What’s he doing?”

Ultron blinks, a frown ruining his relatively jovial mood, “He’s lighting a fire under his feet,” just as quickly a smile returns to his face, body leaning back into the armchair with a self-satisfied air. “Escaping the eternal flames of hell is a relatively strong motivator.” His head quirks to the side, eyes narrowing to scrutinize her confused reaction, “You’ve clearly been away too long to be asking such naïve questions.”

Footsteps interrupt them, the woman in white returning, a silver tray balanced delicately in her hands containing two cream-colored porcelain mugs and a plate of assorted meats from the butcher located next door. “Wanda,” when she meets his eyes there is mischief and power waltzing arm-in-arm, “did you know Jocasta was created just for you, a perfect defense to a perfect weapon?” The woman seems unbothered at being treated like a novelty lamp or a glass sugar bowl carved like a diamond, an empty, placating curve fastened to her rose-colored lips. “Why don’t you show her.”

A nod and the woman reaches up, fingers curling into her hair. In a smooth, automatic movement, she removes it, the wig flopping limply in her hands. Wanda barely registers the discarded blonde strands, eyes fixated on the metal plates riveted to the woman���s scalp. It’s almost identical to the metalwork on Vision’s back, only this seems to not only be screwed into her skull but melded to her skin, puffed, reddish-brown scarring lining each plate. “Try to read her mind.”

Three times today Wanda hadn’t noticed the woman, three times she’d never registered her in the sweep of the crowd. Even now, with her pristine dress practically in arm’s reach, Wanda can’t feel her. “Why?”

Vision’s struggle to recover still sends ripples into his everyday life, his body, with the highest quality materials and, from what she has gathered, the best medical minds available, is unable to cope with what was done. Staring at the horrifying jigsaw puzzle on the woman’s head causes a shattering sense of loss to overcome Wanda, starting in her feet and sloshing up her body. Ultron, on the other hand, sits in awe, the look on his face similar to what is seen on the faces of people staring at paintings or Grecian statues or the dome of the Crystal Palace. “If you are going to unleash a mind reader into the world, you need a failsafe in case she goes rogue.” He sends a nod to the woman, dismissing her back to the role of a sentinel at Vision’s door, her hands expertly placing the wig back in place. “Don’t worry, Wanda,” the wink that accompanies his words sends her stomach turning and when he moves to sit next to her, his hand clumsily landing somewhere near her knee, her stomach plummets, “you haven’t been replaced yet.”  When she doesn’t respond, he leans closer, hand rising to trace the curve of her cheek, “you will always be my favorite, my promised one.”

This affection needs to be abated lest her powers erupt and tear his hand off, “Now that I’m back, what’s next?” Wanda swallows her disgust and turns towards him, opening her shoulders for conversation. “Are we finally destroying Stark for good?”

“You know what I have missed most, moja mala vještice?” The words are spoken softly into her ear, his breath stirring the stray hair Vision knocked loose while they were tangled on the couch. “The joy of watching you partake of your spiritualism,” an activity he utilized as a cover for interrogations, inviting wealthy men into the hallowed halls of their operation, wooing them with strong brandy, and then placing them in the company of, he always said so proudly, the ethereal beauty of the Scarlet Witch.  “Jocasta,” Wanda stares at the unguarded door, tempted to reach out just enough to feel Vision’s mind, but she knows she’d be signing his death certificate if she interfered now. “Will you please retrieve some tarot cards for Wanda here?”

“I have my own.”

“The best spiritualists need to be adaptable.” The best spiritualists never use someone else’s materials, otherwise they would lose the carefully placed manipulations in their own cards or crystal balls. Thankfully Wanda’s hidden tool is not so easily replaced.

He hands her the deck once it is retrieved. The backs of the cards shimmer with tiny gilded stars that mimic the appearance of the night sky in winter, when the cold seems to make everything crisper. “Is this reading for you?”

Ultron shakes his head, scooting closer to her so that he has to lean into her body to see where the cards will be laid on the table. “No, the fortune teller must tell her own future from time to time.”

There are rituals to using a deck of tarot, careful steps to align oneself with the energies, some suggest laying it in the sun, others putting it in a box with quartz, Wanda has never abided by said rules, always allowing the mind of the person she’s reading to guide her loose interpretations of fate. Only now, as she holds the deck in her hands, does she feel a need to cleanse the cards from the unholy touch of their owner. Carefully she shuffles the deck, eight times, a number she doesn’t think is spiritual, but one the elderly soothsayer who taught her insisted is best for randomizing the cards.

Whenever she conducts a reading, she informs the person to consider the complication or problem for which they are seeking guidance. Given it is herself, her mind focuses on Ultron, on the pestilence his presence has been and on how she can be rid of him. The problem clear in her mind, she fixes the three rings Natasha approved for her outfit, the only part of her attire that feels like home. “The Past.” Wanda flips the first card and swallows, the spire rising from the mountain a memorable scene, and this deck enhances the meaning with golden outlines of two bodies plummeting from the height of the structure. “The Tower, upheaval from a great loss.”

“Your parents and your brother.”  

Usually no one else is allowed to interpret the cards, the argument typically that it throws off the flow of the reading. She doesn’t dare tell Ultron to still his tongue since he is one of the few people who knows of the falsity of her spiritualistic endeavors. “The Present.” As she lays the card, she first notes it is upside down and then she makes out the old man holding a lantern aloft. “The Hermit, reversed.”

A prickle alights along her spine as Ultron continues his role as backseat fortune teller, his voice level, yet almost a touch mournful, “A descent into seclusion, a deep dive into the mind that lurks with hidden, self-imposed horror. A dangerous crossroads, one that may either drag you farther into the abyss or send you catapulting into redemption.”

Nothing is wrong in his statement and if not for the fact she had carefully shuffled the cards, she would suspect a trick, but there is not enough proof yet. So, she forges on, treating his interruptions much the same as Natasha’s earlier, get it over with and move on with her life. Wanda turns the last card over as she speaks, “The Future.” The scales of justice tip in the hands of a robed king, the sword of truth held aloft. It means fairness and equitability, that the wrongs of the past will be righted, that all will resolve as it should. Whatever that means is unclear to her even now, the future murky and increasingly unpromising. “Justice will be had.” Wanda collects the cards, removing the numbingly honest read of her life.

“Shuffle them again,” it is an order and she hates herself for following it so readily. “Now tell Mr. Williams’ fortune.”

This time she shuffles the deck twelve times, even turning it over once to fan through the cards to make sure all seventy-two options are there, and then she mixes them together again. “The Fool.”

“How fitting.”

It is, her mind filled with the image of a young engineering student, naïvely approaching a mansion, partially in search of a job and partially there as a spy, mind distracted by boundless possibilities ahead of him. She moves on, wanting his reading to be done even faster than her own. The next card has two people, trapped in a passionate embrace and there has to be some way Ultron is controlling these cards. “The,” Wanda takes a breath, shoving the growing alarm down to keep it out of her voice, “Lovers.”

She goes to flip the next card, but is stopped by a wooden hand. “Have I mentioned how proud I am,” a light pressure pushes her hand down into her lap, trapped beneath his touch, “that you finally embraced my suggestion of utilizing,” Ultron pauses, head coming to rest on her shoulder, “the entirety of yourself to accomplish a job.”

Never in her life, not even with Tony Stark holding her hand, has she wanted to jagC someone so badly. “It did prove very successful.”

“Tell me, Wanda,” his voice fills her mind, so close and so stifling, inescapable no matter how far she runs. She shuts her eyes for a second, steadying the frantic beat of her powers in her chest. “When he saw you did the web fly and float wide, did the mirror crack from side to sideD?” Confusion is a common tactic, the utterance of nonsense draped in the delivery of intellectualism is meant to catch his marks off guard. Wanda remains silent, uncertain what to say. “You may continue, brave Lancelot.”

She swallows her rage, hands growing restless under this roundabout and unhelpful torture. “His future.” The card is practically thrown onto the table, her hand burning at the image of a man tied by the foot to a cross, only the card is upside down, the man appearing to stand instead of hang. In this position, the Hanged Man has a specific meaning with very little room for interpretation. In Vision’s future is a sacrifice that gains him nothing, that solves nothing for his life, a loss that he may not recover from.  “How are you doing this?” The question is accusatory and foolhardy, exactly what Ultron wants to see, enough to confirm she isn’t fully impartial. “Don’t you dare sell me a dogE.”

“‘The curse has come upon me,’ cried, the butler of Tony Stark.”

Scarlet bursts from her arms as she stands, removing herself from the toxic contact with Ultron, able to stare down at the seedy smile on his face, at the coarse fabric he wears as if it is the finest silk known to man, at the unadulterated hatred in his eyes that never rests, that never dims, that merely changes who it is directed at. “What are you planning?”

A wooden groan tears her attention from his unctuous stare, Gideon approaching them, his waistcoat gone, sleeves rolled up, shirt unbuttoned halfway, and hair matted with sweat. “‘e’s almost done.”

Ultron doesn’t seem excited by the information. “How is he faring?”

“Surprisingly well, ya know, even with being all-fired. Lost the ‘at, gloves, vest, tie early on,” the man sounds truly impressed, bestowing an honor on Vision usually reserved for those who maintained their silence even into death. “Won’t unbutton anything though, sorry t’ say.”

Aggravation falls as a heavy sigh and a roll of Ultron’s eyes, “Can you make it hotter?”

Slowly Wanda is piecing together what is happening, recalling the installation of furnaces and pipes between the rooms around the time she vacated her position, a new way of interrogating people inspired by a particularly balmy summer and a steel room. Gideon, like herself, is horrified at Ultron’s request. “No ‘fense, but I’m ‘bout to pass out in me own room. Plus, not like ‘e’s not completin’ the task.”

“Insubordination is the fruit that banished Adam and Eve from Eden, my dear Gideon.”

The sweaty man tosses his arms in the air, muttering under his breath as he returns to the small room. Wanda swivels back to Ultron, “Are you trying to kill him?”

“God is in the details, my dear,” his arms spread out to the side, a gesture meant to make him appear jocular and witty, though it only serves to make him look more like a snake, “What better way to spur a man towards God than to introduce him to hell?”

Answers are never direct, always a convoluted journey to the outskirts of truth and she’s weary of it. Wanda braces herself as she willingly enters Ultron’s path of destruction, prepared to demand answers instead of being strung along like a puppet. “Just tell me what the plan is.”

His face sets into lines of unwavering resolve as he stands, even the limp created by having only one good leg doesn’t lessen the threat inherit in his swagger. “I’ve already informed you of how to get it,” he reaches down and shoves her hand towards his face, “you have to take it from me.” The last time she touched his mind it was filled with destruction, with annihilation, a terrifying, deafening scream of rage that still echoes around her late at night. Wanda shakes her head and then hates herself for betraying her weakness. “Down in the real world, we are faced with ugly choices, Wanda. You can’t expect to simply be given everything you want, sometimes you have to take it for yourself.” Revulsion and disappointment swell in the syllables he spits out, “Have I taught you nothing? You were given to me to supplant me, to carry on the legacy, you and I were meant to take down Stark.”

She believed this once, embraced it, coddled it, allowed it to convince her to tear apart the minds of lesser people, of those who were sympathetic to Stark, to governments that worked with Stark, to innocent people who happened to manage the bank where Stark kept his money. All of their blood runs through her veins, seeping out as scarlet energy when she can’t control the guilt. Ultron’s not wrong, sometimes the choices we make have to be ugly, have to disgust us. Wanda steps forward, gripping Ultron’s face as her powers ignite, diving deep into the mire of his thoughts. Laughter fills the air around her, his glee at her intrusion disheartening, only intensifying her anger as she navigates the innumerous plans he has, the people he intends to torture. Then she finds the center of his hatred, the glowing arc reactor that represents Stark. And she cries out at the hell-scape she encounters, the monstrosity of his intentions so hot it sears her palms and sends her backwards, severing her connection from his mind as she pants.

“You’re a monster.”

The sneer on his face confirms this, one often found in the murals of sinners painted on cathedral ceilings. “Hansel and Gretel were the true monsters, just like the industrialists, taking and taking everything from the witch before killing her. Someone has to control the vermin.”

“Um, sir?” Gideon is back, rocking anxiously on his heels, no doubt ruminating about his outburst from before and what it means for his increasingly short life.

“What?”

A cough and a thumb thrown over his shoulder explains the intrusion. “Drawing’s done. Should I let him out?”

Ultron waves the woman in white over, directs her to fix the bowler hat Wanda knocked askew in reading his mind. “Please.”

When Vision walks out, Wanda has to stop from gaping, the only other time she’s seen him appear so undone was when they came in from the storm, even then, his hair wasn’t as flat, his shirt as drenched as it is now, sticking to his body like a second skin, and she knows if he were to take off his coat, they’d all be able to see the outlines of metal. In his outstretched hand is a sheet of parchment containing a detailed drawing. “Here is your plan set.”

The woman in white collects the sheet and brings it to Ultron, holding it up for him to inspect, his frown upending into pleasure at what he sees. “Well done, Mr. Williams. Your invaluable contribution to the betterment of the world will be remembered with fondness.” The eulogic tone blanches Vision’s face and sends her own heart into a frantic beat. “Jocasta, shoot him in the head please.”

A pistol is drawn from the drapes of her skirt and Wanda immediately wraps the weapon in scarlet, rushing to stand between Vision and the others. “No.”

“Wanda.”

Warnings are useless now, her need to protect overriding the selfish instincts that pester her with thoughts of just letting this happen and finally being free of everything, escaping on the next train and following the lines to the other side of the country. She’s not that person anymore. “You kill him, Stark is going to institute a manhunt. Do you want police crawling all over this place? Do you want the Black Widow to find you?” Ultron holds up his hand to Jocasta, instructing her to lower the gun. “If you let him go back, I can control him, he won’t tell anyone what happened, I swear.”

Satisfaction oozes from Ultron and she realizes how easily she flew right into his web, trapping herself to be at his mercy once again. “A reasonable suggestion. But you know we can’t just let him walk out of here.” Vision hasn’t looked away from the ground, his chest rising and falling noticeably as he struggles to maintain some sort of composure. “Gideon?”

“Aye, sir?”

Ultron adds a touch of manufactured concern to his voice, “Are you tired?”  The man nods, fanning himself with his cap as the acknowledgment of his exhaustion pulls his limbs down. “Wanda, why don’t you take that from him and give it to Mr. Williams?”

“I-”

“And make sure to give Mr. Williams what you took earlier, can’t have that sitting around ruining my table.” She glances at the orb still shimmering next to the tarot reading. “And actually, my workers have been toiling all day, please, help them by giving their fatigue to Mr. Williams here, as a reminder of my generosity in sparing his life.”

Wanda nods, throat constricting at the request, her hands remembering what it feels like to do this, a strategy they’ve only used twice before. Briefly she considers faking it, sending a rush of scarlet at Vision and instructions on how to act, but all it would take is one person in the operation to complain of a sore ankle or a mild headache and Ultron would kill them both without a second thought. She closes her eyes as she reaches out to the sixty or so minds around them, fingers waving through the air as she struggles to tie it all together into one manageable bundle.

Eight halting steps bring her closer to Vision. His eyes are no longer on the floor, locked now onto the rotating ball between her palms. For the first time since he was introduced to her power, there’s fear in his eyes, an acknowledgment of the harm she can cause and an understanding of the harm she has done to others, the actions he so nobly never seemed concerned with before. Except now he is staring at the possibilities and his face is not much different from all the others streaming through her memory.

She waits for him to look at her. “I’m sorry.” It’s a silent apology, mouthed to him as she begins sending the red into his body, and for what’s it worth, she thinks she sees him respond with an “It’s all right.”  Unlike all the others, he never breaks eye contact with her—not when his legs buckle (her own hands shaking at the feel of his body giving out), not when his arms collapse (her muscles screaming in sympathy), not when a pained cry (which she mimics) comes out as the last sound he makes. He stares at her all the way until he tumbles face first to the ground.

Wanda steps as calmly as she can to his body, kneels down and immediately checks for a pulse. It is faint but present, a mild relief. Carefully she laces scarlet around his body, lifting him up so that she can bring his arm over her shoulders and then wrap her arm around his waist, the proper grip Stark showed her the night of the séance. It takes an enormous effort to turn them both to face the delighted Ultron. “I’m leaving now.”

“A terrifying beauty to behold.” She ignores him, moving at a stilted pace towards the back door. “Wanda, one more inquiry.” This time she doesn’t turn, worried if she does that she won’t have the strength to reorient their bodies again. “Rumor has it Stark has some precious metal walking around, I assumed it would be the Iron Man, but it wasn’t. If you see it, please let me know. It is of the utmost interest.”  

She leaves without acknowledging him, understanding now the disappointment he had when Vision wouldn’t bare his body. Just one more fact she assumed Ultron hadn’t pieced together. It’s clear now she has grossly underestimated his tendency to be a step (or ten) ahead. That’s not important right now, it can’t be, all that matters is getting Vision away from Ultron.

Once they are out of the warehouse and on the street, the humid breeze refreshing on her face, she chances talking. “Vizh?”

A groan is all she gets. It’s better than nothing.

Her voice fractures as she talks, unable to keep up the façade of strength she managed in the warehouse. “Vizh, come on. I just need you to keep moving, okay?” Another groan and she realizes he needs more than just support, tendrils of scarlet loop around his ankles, easing his feet forward one after the other.

They continue like this down the sidewalk, the only saving grace at the moment is the fact night has descended, their pathway illuminated by the moon and the sputter of lamps along the street, allowing her to act as if he had a bit too much smash at the Exhibition. “Come on, Vision.” Five more steps and even her powers are strained, forcing them to stop, his back against the brick of a building and hers pressed against him to keep him upright. To anyone in the distance it must look like an indecorous meeting of lovers. If only that were the case. “You’re really heavy.”

A slurred, “Sorry” incites a strained laugh. At least his politeness remains even when he’s barely cognizant.

“What the hell are you two doing?” The admonishment in Natasha’s hushed voice is a blessing, a prayer answered, and the punishment, whatever it may be, is worth it.

Wanda steps away from Vision, her hand still braced on his chest to keep him steady. “Please,” suddenly the last stronghold of her resilience breaks, fat tears crashing from her eyes as her lungs spasm, the feel of Ultron’s mind, of his touch, overwhelming, but not nearly as much as the way Vision’s body folded beneath her hands. “Help us.”

“Shit.” Clint’s the first one to actually look at Vision, his hands gripping the butler’s cheeks as he studies his fluttering eyes. “We need to get back to Stark.”

Her mind sobers, even if her tears don’t stop, and a threat of scarlet sparks from her fingers. “No.” They can’t go back to the tower. Stark can’t see Vision like this, not again. “We’re not going back tonight.”

Disbelief exudes from Clint, her refusal stunning him into silence. “Okay.” The gentle, non-judgmental way Natasha concedes loosens the noose that’s made its home around her lungs. “I know someone around here.” The woman approaches her like you would a stray dog on the street whose mouth may or may not be foaming. “It’s safe, I swear.” Wanda nods and moves back to collect Vision.

Together she and Clint carry Vision, his feet barely moving as his shoes scrape against the stones, probably ruining the finish on them forever. Natasha leads the way, ducking into alleyways that connect to other streets and Wanda thinks they move in several circles. She assumes it meant to shake any of Ultron’s lackeys who might be trailing them.

After what must be the twentieth alleyway, they arrive at a two-story stone building, the door unassuming in its unfinished wood and iron handle. Natasha knocks five times, a distinct pattern to the way she taps out their arrival, and then the door opens to reveal a tall, muscular man, with gentle eyes and a fierce stance. “Nat?”

“Hey Steve, have room for some guests?”

The man glances past Natasha, lips falling when he sees Vision’s bowed head. “Come on in.”  He steps back from the door, welcoming them inside. They immediately encounter a table where a brunette woman and a dark-skinned man sit conversing. “This is Sam,” the man smiles at them, producing a friendly wave, “and PeggyF.”

Peggy stands, face serious and forehead wrinkling as she steps up to Vision. “What happened?”

All attention turns to Wanda and she does her best to stutter out some sort of explanation. “He was tortured.” It’s not entirely false, in fact, it is likely the most accurate way to describe what she did to him and it is far easier to say than magically imbuing him with the pain and exhaustion of sixty people.

Peggy reaches out to touch the butler’s face, “He’s burning up, we need to cool him down.” The lull of her accent is similar to Vision’s, something that shouldn’t instill Wanda with the sense of safety she feels right now, but if Natasha trusts these people, so will she. “Bring him in here.” They’re led into a tiny spare room, big enough just for a mattress and a three-legged stool. “Will it be okay for him to sleep?”

Wanda has never actually stayed to watch someone recover from her mental assassination. Sleep can’t hurt, she thinks. “That’s probably the best thing for him.”

A nod and a friendly touch of her hand to Wanda’s wrist continues to work as a salve. “I’ll grab one of Steve’s nightshirts.”

Before the woman is out of the room, Clint guides Vision to sit on the bed and begins peeling off his jacket. “He’s soaking wet.” The observation only intensifies her guilt as she reckons with the knowledge Vision would be so much safer if not for her presence in his life. “Vision, I’m trying to help.”

The comment draws her back and she watches as Vision’s hand flops against Clint’s wrist each time he tries to undo the buttons of the butler’s shirt. Since she clearly can’t protect him, she can at least provide him some level of comfort. “Clint,” the fight over the buttons stops, “he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since breakfast, could you grab him something?”

“But I-”

“I can help him.”

Clint draws in a loud, annoyed breath, his eyes never leaving her face as he considers her command. “I’ll be back.”

As the man leaves, Peggy returns, handing Wanda a folded up nightshirt and then the woman steps back out. Wanda shuts the door, pulling the stool until it is under the handle, providing at least enough resistance to give them warning if anyone tries to enter. “Can I help you?” The little resistance he showed towards Clint melts away, arms falling to his side as she undoes the buttons of his shirt. He helps a bit, mainly in taking his arms out and then sliding on the night shirt.

A knock and she leaves Vision sitting on the bed, opening the door just enough to grab the plate and cup from Clint and then she turns back to find Vision with his head in his hands. Wanda places the food down and sits next to him, hand hovering behind his back, uncertain if he wants to be touched, especially by her. “Vizh.” He doesn’t look up but his body sags to the side enough that their shoulders meet, providing some level of permission to run her hand along his upper back. “You need to sleep,” a nod and his body begins to lay back prematurely. “Vizh.” Her hand stops him from continuing. “We should um,” every time she’s fantasized of this moment, she had it playing out very differently in her mind. “I um,” her voice grows more and more timid with each word, “I need to get your um, gas pipes off, let them dry out.”

“I can do it.”

Wanda nudges his chin up so that he can see her incredulity. What she hopes to find is one of his small smiles--the boyish, embarrassed tilt of his mouth--but his expression is empty, devoid of any marker that might help establish his thoughts. “I won’t look, I promise.” This garners an infinitesimal lift to the right corner of his mouth that she interprets as his acceptance of her offer.

“Okay,” she stands and wraps her arms around him, hefting him up onto his feet, “hold on to me.” Weakly he folds his arms around her shoulders, his head resting on top of hers as her hands dive beneath the nightshirt to unfasten the four buttons of his fly and then she helps ease the garment over his hips, not missing the bump of rivets against her skin as she goes. Wanda removes her hands from under his shirt and lets gravity do the rest of the work, her palm against his chest pushing him back down onto the bed so she can remove his shoes, socks, and pants. It’s not lost on her the way the lone lamp reflects off the metal that exists even on his feet, a stirrup fastened on either side of his ankle that joins together in the arch of his foot.

“Thank you.”

She tips his face up so she can look at him, examine the creases of exhaustion shooting from his mouth and the distant, barely there look in his eyes. “Do you want me to try and help?” Gently her hand moves to his cheek, scarlet beginning to grow.

He flinches and his cheek becomes an active steam pipe, her palm blistering as it flies away.

“Wanda,” his arms encase her waist, tugging her closer so that he can bury his face in her dress, his voice distraught as it croaks out, “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no,” she cups the back of his head, not wanting him to pull back and see the tears glistening on her cheeks, “no, Vizh, it’s,” dozens of words stream through her mind, veering from equally apologetic to guilt-ridden to merely pacifying, “it’s fine.” She bends to kiss the disarray of his usually well-kept hair. “You need to sleep now.”

“Okay.”

Wanda eases him down, helping him swing his legs onto the bed, and he’s too tall, feet hanging off the edge, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. After she covers him loosely with a sheet, in case anyone else enters the room, she kisses his brow, hoping he can feel her remorse. And then she leaves.

“How’s he doing?” Peggy asks the question the second Wanda closes the door behind her.

The only open seat is between Natasha and Peggy, a position that is oddly soothing and helps her breathe just a little bit easier. “He’s sleeping.”

This seems an acceptable answer, Natasha returning their conversation to idle chatter, “So Sam, I thought you were moving to Saratoga?”

Sam’s easy shrug goes along with his amicable explanation, “A houseG sounded nice but I felt like what Steve and Peggy are doing is a bit more important than owning some land, you know?”

Someone responds but the contents of the words don’t particularly matter to her, something about military operations, a railroad, Virginia, hidden closets, and daring escapes. Her mind isn’t at the table, it’s stuck in the spare room, her fingers itching to reach out and check Vision’s mind. But the carte blanche invitation has been revoked. One flinch and the cracks have formed, the damage too fresh to assess, and it is gnawing at her. When she can wrestle her mind away from the man in bed, her thoughts swing to Ultron, to every misstep and miscalculation she made. Of course he wouldn’t have followed a schedule, of course he would have bombarded them, she herself had been the agent of bombardment on numerous occasions. How could she have been so blind to his game? Even more, why did she assume he was ignorant, that he didn’t know exactly what he wanted or what she had. It doesn’t matter now, he has the arc reactor plans. The first part of his plot is complete. Wanda shivers at the inferno of his mind, at the deranged glee twisting with each path and step of the plan. From here she just needs to stop the rest.

“Wanda?”

When she looks up, the table is empty save for Natasha. “What?”

“Why did you break from the plan?” Anger wavers in between the syllables yet it never takes hold or moves into accusation, remaining merely a harsh curiosity. “We had a deal, why did you go against it?”

They did. They had a plan, one that was well thought out, one that would have mitigated the risk Wanda and Vision took in going alone, one that would have ended differently. Had Natasha and Clint been lurking within sight, Ultron likely wouldn’t have descended. All Wanda has left is honesty, too tired to try and come up with some partial lie to save face. “We just wanted time alone.”

“You could have asked us.” It’s what Vision had suggested as well. “I would have gladly helped you get some time alone back at the tower.” The mask of espionage is removed to reveal a sympathetic sheen to the woman’s eyes as she probes further. “What happened to him?”

Wanda’s lungs spasm, a guttural cry puncturing the silence of the slumbering house and she begins crying again, doesn’t even try to shrug off the arm Natasha curls around her. “They were going to kill him,” another sob shakes her body as she relives once again the feel of sending him to the floor, “the only way to get him out alive was if I-” her voice fails before she can finish.

A hand brushes over her hair, Natasha’s voice barely a whisper. “He’ll be fine, Wanda.”

“You don’t know that.”

Laughter isn’t commonly found with sorrow, but Natasha chuckles, running her hand through Wanda’s hair again. “It was a bad lie.” What is supposed to be a laugh comes out of Wanda’s mouth more as a strangled hiccup. “Will he recover?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” The spy sits back, removing her physical comfort while maintaining it in her voice. “I know what it’s like to run from an,” she winces, “unsavory past.” Wanda can’t seem to stare anywhere other than her hands, fascinated at the thud of her rings against the table as her fingers tremble. “The transition from being a weapon to a person is difficult.” The tap of her rings cease when Natasha grips her hand, “I promise you though, you don’t have to be defined by the red in your ledger.” Now Wanda looks to the woman, is momentarily frozen at the bare sincerity in her expression. “You have people willing to support you,” she stops and glances towards the closed door, “willing to love you. Don’t run from that,” a squeeze goes along with her plaintive, “please.”

Wanda rubs the tears from her face, nodding silently at the request, unable to commit to it now but willing to consider it. “I’m really tired.”

Whatever closeness grew between them dissipates. “Me too.” Natasha stands to grab a pile from the hearth. “Here, Peggy thought you’d be more comfortable in these.”

“Thanks.” The clothes sit awkwardly in her hands while she stares at the house. “Where am I staying?”

According to society, Natasha should insist Wanda stay with her, instead the spy smirks, head inclining towards Vision’s room. “I convinced Clint it would be okay just for tonight.” The woman turns and walks up the stairs with a “Sleep well,” and not a single care given to her complacency in shirking the rules of appropriate courtship.

As quietly as possible Wanda enters the room, endeavoring to remain silent as she shuts the door and struggles to get the offensively tight bodice off, resorting to using her powers to manipulate the fabric off of her body. For the first time all day, she breathes freely, a small, unnecessarily amazing moment of peace.

Even if she hates the dress, all that fabric will make for a decent bed. Wanda checks on Vision, mainly to confirm he is breathing, and then lowers herself to the ground, fluffing the skirt until it forms a pillow and changing position until she’s comfortable.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

In the dark she can’t make out anything from the bed, the silence stretching out long enough she assumes he fell back asleep. “Wanda,” she sits up at the summons, squinting into the darkness, “you can sleep in the bed.”

She wants desperately to be able to rest her head on his chest if only to listen to his heartbeat throughout the night, wants to believe he actually desires her closeness, but it is more likely his politeness dictating the offer. “If the roles were reversed you know you’d be insisting on sleeping on the floor.”

Quiet befalls again, elongating into an uncomfortable eternity, and she thinks he may be going in and out of consciousness, making his ability to stay on topic impressive. She wonders if that skill is part of Robert Robert’s guidelines. “And you would insist I join you in the bed.”

He’s not wrong and the logic behind their impasse actually brings a smile to her face. “You win.” Fabric rustles as she stands up, a swift kick to the skirt to get it off her foot far too satisfying, and then she assesses how exactly to join him. The bed isn’t necessarily small, but Vision is sprawled in the middle of it, leaving only the edges for her. “You’re taking up the whole bed, Vision.”

Embarrassment thickens the air and she is tempted to light her hand to see his face, then remembers the way he recoiled earlier and deems the dark just a small obstacle to deal with. “My body seems unable to move.”

Detachment of the mind and body is one of the side effects she’s seen in people affected by her power, at least at the trials they had her complete while she and Pietro were still at the research facility. “It’s okay.” She settles along his side, experimentally draping her arm over his waist, waiting several seconds for any sign of dissent. When there is none, she allows her muscles to relax, cheek coming to rest over his heart, “See, I’m good.”

Her arm rises and falls with his breathing, a soothing, albeit shallow rhythm that she latches onto, her own inhales and exhales synchronizing with his. In the solitude and serenity of night she finally feels a relative safeness.

“Wanda?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you work for him?” They’ve covered this before, briefly, and at that time Ultron was an abstraction, a nameless, faceless boss for whom she regretted working. Now Vision has a name, has a face, has abhorrent memories that will no doubt haunt him the way they will haunt her.

Confessions in the dark always seem to hold the most weight, a lack of visual information freeing her tongue to be wholly honest. “Because when he found me all I wanted was to kill Stark.” She can’t remember if she’s ever been this blunt, usually erring for words like destroy or ruin, death far too polarizing. “That’s all Ultron wanted as well and I was able to justify every horrible action by convincing myself it was a necessary step to my goal.”

What is likely seconds of silence feels like an hour. “What made you leave?”

“There was a job we had been planning, a burglary of Stark’s Manhattan factory.” Excitement had thrummed through the entire organization at finally being able to attack Stark where it may actually hurt him. “Ultron seemed particularly distant and his orders were vague, it made me suspicious.” She remembers bringing a bottle of sparkling CatawbaH to Ultron’s room, his lips looser when inebriated though it also made his hands even more eager, a scale weighing how willing she was to be uncomfortable and how much she wanted the information tipping towards the latter. “I looked into his head that night and saw what he actually had planned.”

“What was it?”

She’d been ten years old when she watched her parents die in the inferno of the factory, could never, even after more than a decade, shake the sight of the dancing, ravenous flames or forget the heat that made the winter feel like spring. That night with Ultron, she experienced it again. “He was going to set the factory on fire, during the evening shift, barricade the workers inside, and force Stark to live through another public tragedy.” A sniffle fills her ear. She reaches out her hand to touch his cheek and meets a river. “I couldn’t-” now she joins him, his response allowing her to mourn anew, pulling his body closer and burying her face in the nightshirt to muffle her sob.

They lay like this until her throat is hoarse and her tears slow. Vision hesitantly furthers the conversation, providing his inquiry as a statement. “Mr. Stark received an anonymous tip about a plot against his factory.”

He did. She went to a random street vendor, asked if they could write, and had them make the note. Then she delivered it and hopped on a train north, only a small bag of clothes and a few mementos coming with her. “Yes, I couldn’t let that happen again”

Absolution is unwarranted, forgiveness is questionable, all she can truly hope for is some level of understanding. “Thank you.” Wanda has no idea if he is thanking her for sharing, for being honest, for saving the lives of the workers, and she isn’t going to ask for clarity because he owes her nothing after what she’s done.

“You should sleep.”  Like a true witch, her words act as a spell, putting him into a slumber, his breathing deepening as his body sinks deeper into the straw mattress.

By the time the sun streams through the cream-colored curtains, his heart has beat twenty-four thousand times, give or take. When she realized that sleep was never going to befriend her, Wanda decided the best way to keep her intrusive thoughts at bay was to count the hum of his life, the task both comforting and distracting. As his heart beats on towards the next thousandth benchmark, the door cracks open, Natasha’s face coming into view. “We need to head out soon.”

“Okay.” The door shuts and Wanda extricates herself from the bed, careful to remove her arm from his waist in a way that won’t stir him, wanting him to get as much sleep as possible. With the sun illuminating the surroundings, she discovers a small mirror in the corner, her reflection mildly terrifying, coaxing her hands to fix the mess of frizzy braids, half of them falling down towards her shoulders and the other half either in place or jutting out to the side. Once her hair is somewhat presentable, she inspects the clothing Peggy provided, a quartz colored blouse not unlike the one Wanda usually wears (though this one is far nicer and had been well-pressed based on the stiffness of the sleeve cuffs) and a chestnut skirt that is a snugger fit than is typical of women’s fashion. It’s far preferable to the other outfit, which Wanda intends to accidentally forget on the floor.

Vision, when she turns back to him, lays in a peaceful state, face lacking the tension of the night before, his hair still wild but it adds to the serenity. She hates that she has to wake him up. Haltingly she walks back to the bed, easing herself to sit next to him, and then gingerly she shakes his shoulder with a quiet, “Vision.” Light sleeping must also be a hallmark requirement of a good butler, his eyes shooting open then immediately tightening into a cringe. Wanda’s nose scrunches in empathy, her fingers combing through his hair as he brings a palm to his face and cringes again. “How are you feeling?”

True to his nature, he contemplates the answer before speaking, likely assessing each part of his body to give a full picture. “Have you ever had a loose cog fall on your head and split it open?” Her finger runs along his hairline in search of the scar she discovered the day before, guessing this might be its etiology.

“I have not.”

“Oh,” his eyes haven’t opened since the first attempt, “it is like that only infinitely worse.” A muted thankfulness wraps around her at the knowledge he can’t see the guilt stitched into her expression. “I also just feel,” he stops, hand lifting into the air before plummeting back onto his face, “dense, like my bones have been filled with lead.”

Wanda considers apologizing again. Really, she feels as if she could apologize every minute of every day for the rest of her life and it would never actually help her eschew the shame she wears. “We have to head back to the tower,” she allows a few seconds for some sort of response, continuing when he doesn’t move, hand still affixed to his face, “I can help you get dressed.”

This lowers his hand and opens his eyes, his irises dim, like clouds invading the sky on a sunny day. “I would like to do it myself.”

“Vizh-”

“Wanda, please,” he grips her hand, his fingers bungling the action so that only half her hand is encased within his own, “I need to do it.”

Need is a strong word, want is likely better, until she remembers watching him in the calm of the morning tying a perfect knot, the joy on his face and the pride in his eyes at being able to complete the small action. Sometimes what one person perceives as a preference, another considers a lifeline.  If he needs to prove his autonomy, particularly after last night, it is only to himself, and that, she reckons, is a good enough reason to let him do it. “I’ll just step out and find out what’s happening. Will you-”

“I will inform you if I need help.”

Outside the room, Natasha and Clint are eating at the table while Steve and Peggy stand near the hearth, his hand lightly on her lower back as he watches her pour out a drink. Wanda slinks over to the table, sliding into the seat next to Natasha.

“Well good morning, Wanda.” Clint’s cheeriness is a bit grating. “Sleep well?”

A plate is placed in front of her, nothing showy like at Stark’s, just a hunk of bread and some cheese. “Thank you.” Steve smiles at her and returns to Peggy, leaving Wanda to answer Clint’s question. “No. When are we leaving?”

Natasha sips her coffee before responding, not nearly as chipper as Clint, which is preferable. “As soon as Vision is ready. Steve’s set up transportation for us.”

“Well, Sam’s setting it up now,” the blonde-haired man shrugs as he corrects the comment, crossing his arms while he talks, “Is, um, Vision,” his voice slides up when he reaches the n and Wanda nods to confirm he’s correct, “okay with enclosed spaces? Figured you all might want to use some underground transport in case of prying eyes.”

This isn’t information she’s ever gathered from Vision, the topic not one that seems easy to slip into conversation. What she does know is that he utilizes the somewhat claustrophobic secret passages in Stark’s homes on a daily basis. “I think he’ll be fine with it.”

“Good.” There is something about the man’s smile, it’s charming but not in a romantic way or in Stark’s narcissistic way. It provides a fact about his life that, like many others in the room, he has seen nightmares brought to life and consciously decides each day to remain positive. That’s it, there is a purposeful, non-manipulative kindness to his smile. “Then once Vision’s all set, I’ll get you all home.”

As she nibbles on her breakfast, Wanda can sense the anxious way the others are holding themselves—tapping fingers, restless legs, eyes bouncing to each other—a plan having been set and all of them simply waiting to enact it. “I’ll go check on him.” The chair scratches against the floor as she stands and she tries not to look back when she opens the door, sure everyone is watching her.

Inside Vision is mostly dressed, pants on and shirt three-quarters of the way buttoned, though it’s not tucked in. His hands move in a tired frenzy, each one holding an end of the bow tie, looping, pulling, and then dropping to his side in dismay, the knot existing but lacking the bow. “Vision?” He turns defeated eyes towards her and it breaks her heart to see him like this. “We need to go.”

A tug undoes the sloppy knot and he shoves the offending fabric into his pocket, bending (with a grunt) to grab his coat, shrugging it on with his eyes still closed, and then he looks down at the loose laces of his shoes. “Would you be willing to help with my shoes? It will take me at least ten minutes more if I do it on my own.”

“Of course.”

He sits on the bed and she bends down, making quick work of the laces. “Thank you.” It is a nicety laced with vitriol not at her, but at himself, even his eyes glaring at his hands for betraying him.

Wanda does her best to ignore his tone, refusing to stoke the fire of self-hatred. “Come on,” she offers him her hand and he takes it, standing with a slight wobble that she corrects with an arm around his waist. Then she removes the support. “Do you want help?”

The shoes seem to act as the first domino, tipping forward and leading to the next fall of his resistance, “Please.” Her arm returns to his waist and he in turn drapes his arm over her shoulders as they walk (with a bit of sideways maneuvering) through the door.

“There he is!” Clint is still enthusiastic, leaping to his feet with a wide grin and outstretched arms.

Attention is not at all what Vision desires, his body shriveling at the sudden onset of four pairs of eyes. Wanda tightens her hold and encourages him into the room. Eventually he acclimates to the environment and responds with a brief, “Thank you.” The words are meant for everyone; mostly, however, they land on the shoulders of Steve and Peggy, both of whom act as if nothing unusual occurred.

“We were happy to let you all stay,” Steve’s voice contains both authenticity and conviction. “Friends of Nat’s are friends of ours.”

“Plus, it’s nice to hear a familiar accent around here.” This is Peggy, lips spread into a friendly smile and the effect of her comment is instantaneous, Vision’s muscles losing a touch of tension. “Northern London?”

Vision’s face finally breaks from its gloom for a moment, “Hertfordshire.”

“Ah, a farm boy,” Peggy grins wider, voice slightly teasing, “always was jealous of the idyllic life.”

“Only in my youth. And you?”

“London proper, military family though, moved around a lot.” The conversation feels as if it is only beginning, yet the somewhat impatient stance of Steve cuts it short. “If you ever want to commiserate over the horrid tea here,” Vision chuckles, the only one who seems to find it amusing, “come back when you’re feeling better.”

Natasha stands which leads to Clint following suit. “Thank you again, for everything.”

Nothing more is said beyond general checks to make sure everyone is ready, and then they move to a room in the back. A large tapestry hangs on the wall and when it is removed they find a doorway. One by one (or two, when Wanda and Vision enter) they enter a dank, lightless tunnel, Steve’s voice instructing them to touch the sides if they need guidance. This is far worse than the passageways at the manor, at least there Vision has set up lamps to light the way. It seems inconvenient for Wanda to learn right now of her strong dislike of closed spaces, the only saving grace is the feel of Vision against her, his presence helping remind her why they are doing this. When they reach the end, they come out another door, stepping into a small church, one that appears to not have the most active or wealth congregation, the pews rotting, the crucifix slanted, and the stained-glass windows in desperate need of a cleaning.

They also find Sam, sitting in the back pew, “Ready for round two?” I

At this point Steve leaves them, returning to the tunnel, and Sam leads them out the back of the church and into a wagon, the sides and top covered with a heavy brown tarp, though at least in this setting some sunlight streams through the seams. No one speaks as they bump up and down with the cobblestones, the sound of other carriages and the shouts of vendors providing little information on where exactly they are at the moment. And then the movement stops. A creak comes from ahead of them, likely Sam getting down from his seat, his voice reaching them as he informs someone, “Got a delivery for Stark.”

Happy’s face is contorted in bewilderment when he lifts the tarp to find the four of them, confusion tugging his eyebrows down and his lips up into a thoughtful pucker. “You know we have a carriage, right?”

“We know.” Natasha exits first, brushing the butler aside, and helps the rest of them out, her arm bumping Wanda’s as they steady Vision’s descent.

It appears they are behind the tower, in a back alleyway Wanda assumes is meant for use by servants and delivery carriages. Wanda checks over her shoulder, finding the only sight lines the lone opening to the alley and rooftops of the buildings adjoining the tower. From here, there doesn’t appear to be anyone watching them.

Happy corrals them towards the back door of the tower, Natasha staying behind for a couple minutes to talk with Sam while the rest follow the increasingly nervous, curly-haired butler towards the main seating room. Throughout the trip, Vision has to stop multiple times, gather his breath and composure, and re-set Wanda’s arms to better support him, each turn and each step slows him down, only the continued promise of “Just a bit farther and you can sit,” coaxing him along.

When they reach the main room, Happy lets out a “Huh,” and leaves them, searching for something that is apparently lost. Moments later, however, it is found, Tony Stark stomping into view, his eyes set on one person and one person only. “Vision, where the hell have you been?” Per his usual conversational methods, he’s not actually wanting an answer, using the question to dive into a rant that has clearly been simmering overnight. “One, do you know how long I’ve been waiting in that chair?” An angry finger points to a chair that is usually in Stark’s study, a leather-backed seat that swivelsJ depending on the movements of the person sitting in it. “All I wanted was to have a big dramatic turn around to accuse you of being a horrible butler, but no, you can’t even give me that. Instead you take forever and I get hungry.” This seems trivial and a bit mean, if Wanda had any say, which she does not and will not intervene beyond squeezing Vision’s waist in even intervals as his muscles continue to tense under Tony’s anger. The ranting man holds up two fingers as he continues, “Two, since you clearly forgot about setting up a meeting that was meant solely for your well-being, I met with Cho and Palmer alone this morning.” Vision almost loses his balance at this information. “Guess what, it was a lovely time and Cho even brought her entire damn display from the Exhibition to show you. But apparently you sipK one third-class spiritualist and suddenly your commitments mean nothing. That’s something to expect from me,” Tony’s eyebrows lift as his fingers tap his chest in a moment of clarity and honesty, “not you. You’re the responsible one in this household. And three,” another finger is added to his gesticulating, “why didn’t you-,” it’s only now that Tony seems to actually look at Vision, take in the untucked shirt, the messy hair, the utter exhaustion of his face, and his ire shifts just a smidgen. “I swear to God, Vision, you better look like this because she’s been bagpipingL you all night.”

Silent horror is the most apt way to describe the response of the group. No one is going to respond other than Vision, his the only word Stark cares to hear. “Vision, why aren’t you doing the whole ‘Please sir’ or gasping with a ‘Mr. Stark!’?” Tony approaches the butler, his hands grabbing his shoulders so he can stare him in the eyes, forcing Wanda to move away to give him space. The fury of before—one she recognizes as being birthed from concern and unconditional love, Stark’s intonations almost matching her own father’s the one time she and Pietro were caught playing amongst the active furnaces at the factory—gives out the longer they stare at each other and morphs into a dangerous, wild animal seeking some new outlet of blame. Tony steps away from Vision and swings his glare to the rest of them. “Can someone please, for the love of God, tell me what the hell is going on. What happened to him?”

“Tony,” Natasha says his name in the soothing sing-song often used on tantruming toddlers, “we should sit down.”

This is not what he wants to hear. “No. You all have been sneaking around for days.” He pauses and then re-emphasizes the timeframe, “Days. Tell me what is going on, right now.” The way he says it implies a threat, an unfinished or so help me, I will ruin you.

“Mr. Stark,” Vision finally manages some words, voice weak, the syllables a bit muddled compared to his typically crystalline pronunciation. “I would really like to sit down.”

A frustrated, incomprehensible sound comes from Stark’s throat, but he acquiesces, blocking Wanda from touching Vision and helping the butler over to the couch himself. The two men whisper to each other, too low for anyone to understand what they are saying. Whatever passes between them seems to allay Stark enough that his face is back to a frigid confidence when he sits down. “Tell me what’s going on.”

They all default to staring at Natasha and she graciously accepts the baton of authority they hand her. “A very credible threat is targeting the arc reactor.”

“Who isn’t these days?”

“Tony,” she continues with gravitas, “we have every reason to believe this is an actual threat. The people wanting it have already infiltrated the guest list for your exhibition,” knowledge Wanda suspected but had no idea had been confirmed, “they have been staking out you, Vision, and Pepper since you walked off the boat,” Stark’s goatee sinks at the information, “and they kidnapped Vision last night,” it sinks even deeper into a menacing scowl.

Wanda hasn’t been completely open with everything from the night before, not because she was attempting to conceal, but because her mind hasn’t been focused on Stark. It’s imperative they all know the truth. “And they have the plans for the arc reactor.”

“Excuse me?” Even Natasha’s face mimic’s Tony’s complete inability to fathom the stupidity of what she just said.

Vision, his face in his hands, provides more detail, “I was forced to draw the plans for them.” He grimaces as he looks up at Tony, “So I drew them the original plans for the arc reactor.”

“What did you just say?” Dubiousness still resides in his voice undercut by an unusual uptick that might be hope.

“I drew them the original plans, the ones you first showed me.”

Tony is out of his chair in seconds, three and a half steps bring him to Vision’s knees. In one swift movement he bends down, grabs Vision’s face, and lays a heartfelt, smacking kiss to the man’s forehead. “You are the most brilliant, cunning, fantastic person I have ever met,” another kiss and Stark drops the butler’s face, standing tall, “just don’t tell Pepper I said that, okay?”

A minuscule tilt forms on Vision’s lips, “Your secret is, as always, safe with me.”

“So,” Clint, who is lounging in an armchair with his boots on the glass table, asks the question on Wanda’s mind, “can you maybe explain why that’s so good?”

Tony laughs, tossing an affectionate look at Vision, and then sits back down, body freer, more laid back, and his hands bounce as he explains. “The original plans for the reactor had the wires wrong. It boggled me for years. I could never get the damn thing to work and then this angel,” he waves his hands towards the blonde-haired not-wholly-angelic-looking-at-the-moment angel on the couch, “comes up to me and is all like ‘Mr. Stark, sir, I beg your pardon, but your diagram is wrong.’ Turns out I’d had the wiring backwards.” Stark is beaming, voice matter-of-factly stating, in the most aggrandizing way, “So what he gave to these assholes won’t ever work.”  

This should be enlightening, should be happy and fortuitous news, except once Ultron realizes this flaw it means the target on Vision’s back will be branded into him until he finds his way into a body bag. “That doesn’t change anything,” Wanda hopes her voice conveys the peril they are in, that this one positive development is meaningless. “He is coming for the arc reactor, even with the plans, he is still going to do everything in his power to get the one you are showing in three days.”

“And how, pray tell, do you know this, Wanda?” Stark’s fingers steeple, likely how he intended them to be for his dramatic swivel that never happened.

Wanda can’t stop her hands from rising, her fingers from curling in frustration at dealing with this condescending man. “Because he doesn’t stop. He never, ever stops. Once he wants something, he will do anything, and go through anyone to get it.”

The click of Tony’s tongue sounds like the cock of a gun, his eyes finding hers as he aims, “I noticed it was phrased as Vision was kidnapped, not Wanda and Vision were kidnapped despite the fact you were the only one with that juicy little tidbit about the drawing.”

“Sir.”

“Vision,” Stark says the name as a warning: speak again and all good will is gone. “How did he end up like this and you are unscathed?”

Sometimes Wanda wishes instead of reading minds and manipulating matter, she had the power to just sink through the floor and disappear. Sadly, she doesn’t, so she sits up straight, squaring her shoulders, trying to match Stark’s confidence under the weight of the curious stares around the room. “Because I did it to him.” Tony’s face contorts into a hellish rage, mouth opening to speak, though she refuses to let that happen, continuing until she can provide context. “Ultron gave me a choice, either Vision gets shot in the head or I incapacitate him. I chose for him to live.”

“Did you say Ultron?” The rage pales, giving way to a troubling edginess. Wanda nods in affirmation. “Is that his God given name, by any chance?”

For a man with a butler named Vision, it seems an odd question. “No.”

Tony stands, hands rubbing together. “Vision.” He claps loudly, walking to the butler and offering his hand, “Come on, you look like hell.” Not only does Vision accept the help up, he also graciously accepts Tony’s support, leaning into the shorter man’s frame as they walk away. “We’ll all chat later, okay?”

An eerie silence descends, confusion cozying up with apprehension, the stakes suddenly elevated if Tony Stark is this terrified of a name. Compounding this new development is the sickening feeling Wanda gets watching Vision be led away, a premonition of sorts, a sign of a future where he’s always just out of reach, always with his back to her, where the fractures from yesterday are irreparable, and the only person she has to blame for this bleak fortune is herself.

Victorian Language and Culture decoder:

A

Over on AO3 there is a link to a picture of a real Victorian prosthetic used as inspiration.

B

Slightly amended quote from Romeo and Juliet

C

Jag: the desire to use a knife on someone

D

Referencing Tennyson’s “Lady of Shalott” poem.

E

Don’t sell me a dog: Don’t lie to me

F

Fun fact, Peggy was a nickname for Margaret by this point! I was worried it didn’t come into existence until the 1900s, but nope, around the mid-1700s it was recorded as a common use nickname.

G

In the early 1850s, Saratoga Springs was the first place in New York that allowed Blacks to own land. The reason behind it was to draw in more people to work in the stables, Saratoga being famous for their horse races.

H

In 1842, in Ohio, the first successful winery existed in the U.S., where they grew Catawba grapes and accidentally created a pinkish, sweet champagne when the grapes fermented for a second time.

I

In case it is not clear, Steve and Peggy are part of the underground railroad. Sam came up through the railroad from Virginia and decided to stay and help them instead of moving on north. There is a lot more to their background than that, but that’s all that’s needed for the story.

J

The swivel chair was created by Thomas Jefferson and supposedly he was sitting in his swivel chair when he signed the Declaration of Independence in 1776.

K

Sip: synonym for kiss.

L

Bagpiping: In Victorian times this term meant fellatio. Today it has a very different sexual meaning, which you are welcome to look up if you want to.

[stevelcsharpe]

What’s in a Name?

In Academic Circles, "Hebrew Bible” is the term most commonly used to refer to the "Old Testament" for scholastic purposes. This term gained widespread use in Academic Circles after the Holocaust, to address the perceived anti-Jewish tone of the term "Old Testament”.

Why is the term "Old Testament" deemed anti-Jewish?

The term “"Old Testament"” is a Christian term that contrasts the Canon with the New Testament. The term first found usage with Bishop Melito of Sardis (190 CE) in his reference to “Books of the Old Covenant”, drawing a contrast with the New Testament and the New Covenant found in Christ. The Anti-Jewish tone arises from the fact that the terms “Old” and “New Testament” imply supersession i.e. that the Sacred Scripture of Judaism is obsolete. The term “New” in this context is not just temporal but also evaluative. For example, if applied by Christians in strict accordance with the Book of Hebrews, it is clearly evaluative: (Hebrews 10:9 “He (God) abolishes the first in order to establish the second” and Hebrews 8:13 “in speaking of the New Testament He (God) has made the old obsolete”. A position taught by Marcion in the 2nd Century CE, for which he was branded a heretic by the early Christian Church, which to a greater or lesser extent through to modern times continues to embrace the "Old Testament" Canon as Sacred Scripture.

How accurate is the term "Hebrew Bible" when used as a replacement for "Old Testament" in Academic Study?

It is not surprising, that in order not to offend, a more sensitive term should be sought by the Academic community: Hence the adoption of the term "Hebrew Bible". Whilst less offensive, there are a number of issues pertaining to the term "Hebrew Bible", that render it less than accurate if one attempts to use it as a replacement for the term "Old Testament".

The "Hebrew Bible", is in its own right is the Canon regarded as forming the Sacred Scriptures of Judaism and written in Hebrew. The official Rabbinic version is based upon the Masoretic Text (the “MT”) established by the Ben Asher family in Tiberias, Galillee and found in the Aleppo CODEX in the early 10th Century CE. The Christian "Old Testament", by contrast, is based upon the Greek (Septuagint/LXX) and Latin (Vulgate) translations of source material, which while generally consistent with the MT show certain differences in terms of:

- the order of those Books common to each;

- the length of certain Books common to each;

- the inclusion of additional Books in the Greek

and Latin versions, not included in the MT.

Language

If one is using the term “Hebrew” as a denominator of Language rather than of Nationality, the inaccuracy arises from the fact that not all of the "Hebrew Bible" is written in Hebrew. Sections of Daniel and all of Ezra are written in Aramaic. Whilst Aramaic may use the same script as Hebrew, there is considerable evidence to show that they were distinct Semitic languages in their own right. Purely from a language perspective, therefore, the "Hebrew Bible" would more accurately be called the Hebrew & Aramaic Bible.

Canonical Constitution

The order of the Books differs between the MT and the "Old Testament". The Latter Prophets of the MT are moved to the end of the "Old Testament" Canon and importantly, include the Apocalyptic Book of Daniel, so as to point towards the New Testament.

Whilst differing in order, apart from re-grouping and splitting a number of books into two (i.e. 1 and 2 Kings), the content of the Protestant "Old Testament" is generally consistent with the MT.

However, as one considers the other branches of Christianity, the differences widen. The Roman Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Eastern Christian and Ethiopian Canons to differing degrees, not only include Books that are not included in the MT but also additional passages in certain Books. The additional Books making up the largest of the Canons, the Ethiopian Canon, are referred to as the “Apocrypha” in the Protestant Church and to the extent not included in the Roman Catholic Canon, as “Deuterocanonical” in the Roman Catholic Church.

The interchangeability of the Terms "Old Testament" and "Hebrew Bible" becomes more problematic, when one considers that certain additional Books that form part of Christian "Old Testament", may have never existed in Hebrew or Aramaic at all. Indeed, it is generally accepted that the Wisdom of Solomon never existed in Hebrew, but was written in Greek in its original form.

Consequently, scholars are not only interested in the MT, but are equally interested in the Greek (Septuagint/LXX) and Latin (Vulgate) translations. Indeed, the majority of the work undertaken by scholars is on the Greek and Latin translations.

So which is authoritative - The MT or the Greek Bible?

From an Academic perspective source authority generally follows the “earliest is best” principle. It had long been held that the official Hebrew version was de facto the oldest. This does not take into account, however, the fact that there were many versions of the Hebrew text in circulation in the 3rd, 2nd and 1st C BCE and that the text adopted as the "Hebrew Bible" by the Rabbinic authorities, may not be the oldest. A theory that parts of the Greek Translation (Septuagint / LXX) might actually be based on an older Hebrew Text gained credence in 1947 with the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, portions of which were found to be more closely aligned to the LXX than the official "Hebrew Bible". For example, Jeremiah, Job and the Story of David and Goliath are shorter in the LXX than in the official Hebrew Text.

Given that one cannot be certain as to which of the Hebrew source texts are the oldest, for the purposes of Academic Study the Biblical Scholar needs to consider the Hebrew, Greek and Latin versions, as each may point to older traditions than the official Hebrew Text endorsed as Sacred Scripture in Judaism. There is no doubt that archeological discoveries will continue to add to our awareness of contemporary or earlier source materials, as has been illustrated by the discovery of large parts of Tobit or Sirach (Ecclesiasticus), hitherto thought to have either been lost or non-existent in Hebrew.

Conclusion

Although perhaps misleading from a linguistic perspective, the term "Hebrew Bible" is significant in that it acknowledges that texts written in this ancient Semitic Language existed in their own right, before becoming part of the Sacred Scriptures of the Christian Church.

The Term “Early Christian Writings” is certainly less controversial than “Old Testament”, but doesn’t convey the significance of a fixed Canon.

The Terms “First” and “Second Testament” are perhaps less blatantly supersessionist than “Old” and “New” but don’t really make sense if one is abandoning the concept of Covenant.

Similarly, collectively referring to the Old and New Testaments as simply “the Bible”, fails to acknowledge the significance of Christ and the New Covenant that he embodied.

On balance, and whilst it may be of far greater significance for Christian Churches than Academic Circles, the term "Hebrew Bible" would seem to be more appropriate than other alternatives, particularly if one interprets the word Hebrew to refer to a Nation of people rather than a language.

SLCS

References:

Barton, John: The Hebrew Bible a Critical Companion

Collins, John J.: Introduction to the Hebrew Bible

[anemone161]

The End of Symbolic Resistance

Disclaimer

            I've been having this conversation with my family, in one form or another, for several years now. We take the argument back and forth, but there never seems to be enough time to address the whole thing. It returns to the surface after particularly bad nights and when we feel hopeless about the trends of our current situation. The conversation has become so fractured and frustrated sometimes I thought it would make sense to set down my positions into a concrete medium. That way I can point to this little document and say that. That is what I believe.

            The context is important so that this is not confused for a halfhearted academic project or any attempt to be objective or authoritative. This essay is written for myself and for a few in particular with whom I share many beliefs and experiences. It is primarily a piece of rhetoric intended for those already familiar with our struggle. I'm not trying to prove that anything exists so much as to point at the things we already know a thousand times over and ask why we have not addressed their painfully obvious implications.

            As much as I wrote this for some specific individuals, I can't believe that we are the only ones who feel this way. I think it will make sense to the sort of people it was written for, and to others it will seem extreme or unreasonable. I wouldn't even disagree with that. It is my belief that our circumstances now call for action that is legitimately extreme as it is unreasonable.

            Last disclaimer is for some of the language and tone that I use. At times I will drift into "we must..." language, make predictions, or speak with a confidence of purpose that could be misread as expertise. I am only a person with the particular experience that I have, which becomes more difficult to communicate precisely the further from my circles that the reader is. For reasons that will become obvious I'm not going to clarify anything about who I am or what experience I have or where. When I make any decision I rely on the collective knowledge of my extended family, and as such I am not going to be a last source for anything. This is an argument I have that seems to me to be self-evident. It is not by any means an objective assessment. Trust yourself and trust your community before you trust in anything I have to say here.

first part

[darereport426]

best essay writing service

About me

Creative Writing

Creative Writing Most writers will only take a day or a number of hours to begin. Whether you would receive factors off for using a conjunction is completely depending on the instructor's grading system. Technically, conjunctions are intended to hitch two sentences collectively; due to this fact, utilizing a conjunction to start a sentence isn't grammatically right. However, we use this format all the time in talking and you'll usually see it in all types of writing as well. Is this really one thing that’s worth complaining about? The important problem is to write one of the best essay you can, not the length of words. If you’re focus in solely on the phrases and never what you’ve written, your writing is never going to be good. Focus on what’s important, not on issues like this. There are instances when you’re given an project, not by word depend, but assigned by the number of pages. Throwing yourself headlong at a 1,000-word essay and writing until you reach the word count might appear to be the straightforward possibility, but it isn’t. Planning your essay so that it begins with an introduction, highlights crucial factors you need to make after which wraps every little thing up right into a conclusion truly saves you time. Sometimes, essay directions will inform you how to construction the piece, so learn them carefully and extract any data you need to use to information your essay’s structure. My teacher advised me that I wanted to write down an essay that had 2500 phrases. Unless you might be buying an essay on your private revision functions, always ensure that you utilize custom essay writing providers from respected platforms such as Grade Bees. Also, always keep in mind to maintain your transactions non-public and nameless. As we said, the answer as to whether Turnitin can detect papers purchased on-line depends on where you purchased it. For example, “Write a paper four pages lengthy.” If you get an project to put in writing four pages, one of many first questions that will doubtless come to mind is, “How many words are in four pages? ” If you need to work out words per web page, you should use a phrases per web page calculator. When students used to write down on typewriters, it was widespread for lecturers to assign essays in number of pages. With the adoption of computers within the classroom, academics switched from pages to work depend as a result of it was too simple for the computer systems to control the font size and page measurement. By assigning a word depend, lecturers get a more correct size of essay than they'd if they assigned homework by pages. In my opinion, hours which are introduced here a partially true. It could take about an hor to write 300 word essay however enhancing also takes a while. So on averege, I rely the time to write the piece itself + time edit everything. If that is appropriate to convey your which means, then you need to use it. On the opposite hand, in case you are attempting to create a doc which makes you sound authoritative, you should keep away from that development. The easy answer to your query is that you have to ask your instructor about their requirements on this problem. It begins training you to consider how your ideas relate to at least one another and helps you to write essays which are deeper, more linked and logical. If you've got found this system useful, or in case you have another sentence beginning method, please add your comments below to assist out different writers. I received marks off for not writing an essay with exactly 2500 words. That’s completely ridiculous but my instructor refuse to reinstate the purpose she took off because she said 2500 words and not 2498 phrases. I might’ve just said that my was 2500 words and she would’ve by no means known the distinction. I don’t perceive why I’m being punished for being trustworthy. The cause that academics don’t assign numerous pages anymore is because it’s too straightforward to manipulate pages. I discourage my college students from using this sentence type in essays as a result of they have an inclination to overuse it, and because most of them have to apply writing in a more skilled method. What is most essential is that you understand that using a conjunction to begin a sentence offers your writing a extra informal, informal tone.

[madam-mess]

Philosophy Pt. 1

Fandom: Overwatch

Pairing: Doomfist/ Lucio

Summary: When Akande is assigned as the professor for an introduction to philosophy class, the last thing he expects is to find a man he’s been sleeping with in the front row.

Notes: Here is the obligatory Teacher/Student Au that only I asked for :D I’m going to be trying my hand at a multi chapter fic. The chapters will be pretty short so I can update a few times a week. This is in the same universe as “Surprises” so I’ve linked it as a prequel. 

Rating: Teen (Explicit chapters later on)

Part: Prequel(explicit)  1 2 3(explicit) 4(explicit) 5 6 7 8 9(explicit) 10(explicit) 11 12 13(end)

Akande was used to this. The second he walks into his classroom the chatter that had been going on quickly stops. All eyes are on him as he makes his way to the front of the the lecture hall. He knew he had a presence about him. He bordered on seven feet tall, was built like a professional weightlifter, and had a resting face that could scare off anyone he met. “Good afternoon, class,” he begins, setting a stack of papers down on the podium, “Welcome to Introduction to Philosophy. I am Professor Ogundimu.” His voice is low and has an authoritative tone to every word, leaving his students silent and staring.

He looks over the class of students, likely all freshmen or sophomores. “Are there any philosophy majors here? Please raise your hand.” As expected, more staring from his students with not a single hand raised. He feels slightly annoyed. It was a difficult subject to teach, even more so when the students were not interested in the material. “Minors?” He asks, his hopes being only slightly alleviated when a girl in the third row raises her hand. “Only one person,” he muses with a hard frown. One hundred and twenty people in a class and only one person with the slightest interest. He loathed teaching introductory classes.

“No matter,” he starts up again, taking a moment to pull up a PowerPoint slide on the projector at the front before picking up the stack of syllabi to hand them out. “This is a copy of your syllabus. Please take one and pass it down the row. On it will be a schedule of my office hours, your final grade breakdown, testing policies, and the university’s academic honesty agreement.”

Akande approaches the first row, not paying much attention as he hands several papers from the stack to the student on the side closest to him. A familiar voice draws his attention with an almost playful sounding, “Thank you professor.” It causes his stomach to drop as his eyes lock onto the young man in front of him.

Lucio had not payed attention to the instructor entering the room, but as soon as he heard the man's voice he couldn't help but grin. It was one that the sophomore had grown quite used to in the past few months, though usually in a much different setting.

He met Akande in a bar almost three months ago. Since then, the two men had been meeting fairly regularly. It was not anything serious. The two would usually go to dinner, or sometimes straight to one of their apartments, spend the night together, then be on their separate ways the next morning. Lucio wouldn't exactly call it dating, more so they were friends who liked to have casual sex, but it was exclusive as far as the young man knew.

Lucio stares up at his professor with a grin that only gets larger at the slightly shocked expression on Akande's face. The older man had never told Lucio what he did for a living, and the student realizes now it was likely because he knew where Lucio went to school.

Akande clears his throat, tearing his eyes from Lucio as he attempts to regain his composure and conduct class. “I understand that many of you were looking forward to having class with Zenyatta Tekhartha, but unfortunately professor Tekhartha has had a death in the family and is taking a semester off. So I have taken over this class.” Akande had only gotten the news from the Dean a week ago that he would be teaching Zenyatta’s class. It was a bit comical to him really. Zenyatta was a student favorite in the philosophy department and almost the opposite of Akande. He was young, kind, and approachable, making him a perfect candidate to teach lower division classes.

“I want you all to understand that I am not professor Tekhartha. I will not be curving your assignments. You will have three 1,000 word essays throughout the semester, a midterm, and a final that will make up the entirety of your grade. My teaching assistant Mr. Shimada can schedule any review sessions that he sees fit,” he says, glancing to the front room at the green haired teen who seems to be doodling in a notebook. At the mention of his name, he looks up, giving a brief wave to the class.

He lets out a quiet sigh, walking back to the front of the class and standing at the podium once again. “There will be no extra credit assignments in this course. Do not show up at my office at the end of the semester asking for a higher grade,” he says sternly, trying to ignore the short young man on the front row who is grinning at him despite his serious tone, “In my class, you get what you get.”

[bakechochin]

The Book Ramblings of June and July 2019

In place of book reviews, I will be writing these ‘book ramblings’. A lot of the texts I’ve been reading (or plan to read) in recent times are well-known classics, meaning I can’t really write book reviews as I’m used to. I’m reading books that either have already been read by everyone else (and so any attempt to give novel or insightful criticisms would be a tad pointless), or are so convoluted and odd that they defy being analysed as I would do a simpler text. These ramblings are pretty unorganised and hardly anything revolutionary, but I felt the need to write something review-related. I’ll upload a rambling compiling all my read books on a monthly basis. Well, not really monthly, but you know what I mean.

The Late Mr Shakespeare - Robert Nye I felt a further hankering for this sort of content after finishing Falstaff, and I had relative faith that this book would deliver. My feelings, however, were slightly mixed when considering what was different than Nye’s first book. Unlike Falstaff, this text isn’t written from the perspective of the text’s focus; we instead get a mediator in the form of Pickleherring, who gives us a retrospective and mythologised account of Shakespeare as told through anecdotes and spurious half-remembered tales. Without wanting to just quote huge chunks of the text’s postulating on the subject of men being shaped by the stories that are told about them, I’ll simply say that it’s all fucking great stuff, for while the book does come across as something of a cock-and-bull story with the amount of backtracking and reiterating and rewording of the same points, all of the reiterating and rewording is fantastically eloquent. What I enjoyed about Falstaff is still here, in that a fun larger-than-life world is evoked through a multitude of story snippets and accounts of events that border on folk tales, all, within the context of this book, meticulously stored away in a hundred black boxes over the years, and now shared with us as a testament to the multitude of stories told (in the context of the story) about the famous playwright, and as a big satisfied middle finger towards historical accuracy and the accounts of fuddy-duddies. This is in many ways a book for Shakespeare scholars; there’s a lot of the sort of shit in here that you’d learn as a Shakespeare academic, from attribution studies to dogmatic arguments about Shakespeare’s life and play participation (given undeserved credence here by the authoritative voice of one who knew him personally), and I’m not sure if this at all contributes to making the book good, given both my preexisting dislike for such nonsense (compared to the actual content of Shakespeare’s work) and the fact that not much is done with the information within this book. Nye seems to be reciting facts, slotting them in wherever he can, just to prove that he knows them, and in many cases his statements about Shakespeare’s life seem to all be along the lines of ’this thing was fleetingly referenced in one of his plays, and thereby it must have been contributory to one of his formative experiences'. (Plus, Shakespeare studies is, surprisingly, still a burgeoning field and a victim to changing times, and thus some of the assertions about Shakespeare and his works in this book are undermined by more recent contradictory research). No, this book’s compelling content lies elsewhere. When I first started reading I was concerned as to how compelling our narrator Pickleherring would be; he’s not so old as to be a doddering fool (which would have least given his narration some spice), and not so interesting a character archetype to be able to stand alongside Shakespeare and friends, and despite his assertions that he is a merry prankster full of mirth, this tends to only surface in the occasional moments of weird, sometimes crass erotica. This shit came up in Falstaff as well, again missing the point of sex within the context of farce or country peasant comedy by playing it entirely straight, and thus I am left with no choice but to assume that Nye has got a thing for such shite. Like Falstaff, this book’s blurb purports to answer a number of as-yet-unanswered questions about its titular character, and just fucking like Falstaff, what is revealed is not even that interesting. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: PROBABLY, YEAH, BUT ONLY IF YOU’RE LIKE, REALLY INTO SHAKESPEARE

My Papa and the Maid of Orleans and The Unruly Bridal Bed and Other Grotesques - Mynona I was fully geared up to return to the topic of over-intellectualising, a topic I haven’t touched since Kharms, when I caught a glimpse at the introduction to the first of these books that I read. My introduction to Mynona was the two of his stories featured in Tales of the German Imagination, little snippets of madness that seemed right up my alley, and yet, like Kharms, I’d be hard-pressed to state in scholarly terms exactly what it is that makes these stories work, or indeed if their success even has a scholarly explanation. I skimmed over the introductions in each of my tiny (and stupidly overpriced) books, and concluded that I would probably be alright for the most part. The tentative swipes that the introductory passages make in the direction of academia seem to just be quantifying what a grotesque is in terms of Mynona’s writings, which is all interesting shit. At its worst, the nonsense that the introductions spout about the inherent messages of Mynona’s own ‘creative indifference’ philosophies can be happily ignored in favour of simply enjoying the stories as odd and occasionally morbid little tales. Truthfully there really isn’t too much to say about these stories; the two collections that I have are the third and fourth of such that Mynona produced, meaning they’re not exactly his collected best works and the stories can be a tad hit or miss, but overall they’re very enjoyable quick reads. Both the blurb(s) and the attempts made to describe the events of the stories make them seem a lot darker than they actually are, for they often deal with bizarre or taboo themes, but this seems to me like false advertising, for when you’re reading said stories you don’t stop for a second to consider the fucked-up nature of some of the stories’ content. The tone carries it in such a way as to negate critical study, and thus I beseech anyone who tries. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: YES, IF YOU’VE GOT A DAY TO KILL AND CAN FIND THE STORIES FOR CHEAPER THAN THE NINE FUCKING QUID I PAID FOR EACH OF THEM

The Moving Toyshop - Edmund Crispin Many a time have I walked into Waterstone’s and spared a fleeting glance at the frankly ridiculous quantity of crime books there, stopping only to briefly laugh at some of the more on-the-nose titles (my favourite of which will always be Fielden’s A Quarter Past Dead). Golden Age crime fiction has always been a possibility of a genre I might want to delve into, but never an especially pressing one. My purchase of this book was something of an impulse buy in the Folio Society summer sale, and indeed my decision to purchase this book was dependant mostly on the assertions that the book was unlike other crime fiction texts. To elaborate, this is a very funny book, and I’ve been led to believe that it’s rather difficult to slot humour into a serious crime novel about murder and whatnot. It does so with a cast of eccentric and incredibly memorable characters, a plot driven mostly by chance and farce, and a fantastic aversion to seriousness, with characters often getting drunk and passing the time with such games as ‘naming unreadable books’ before venturing forth to the next slapstick shenanigans. Without wanting to, yet again, go off on a tangent about how I always seem to read ‘book B inspired by book A’ before I’ve read ‘book A’, this book is very much in the vein of Adams' Dirk Gently (with the eccentric intellectual types pursuing investigations way out of their jurisdiction) and Fforde's Thursday Next series (with rapidly escalating storylines and fourth wall breaks and hilarious set pieces, right down to the protagonist’s needlessly flamboyant car). Everything seems to be very much entwined with the humour, be it the characters or the plot, and it has proven difficult for me to say exactly what else it is about this book that made it so enjoyable to read. I blazed through it so quickly that I didn’t think about it too strongly; ultimately, a lot of the books I’ve been reading lately are like this, which makes it increasingly difficult to write rambles about them, considering that these rambles were originally intended to allow for a bit of extra academic flexing. I’m not here to break down the components of farce or slapstick or the effectiveness of literary references when constructing a story or comedy. All I can really talk about is, how does this book compare to other crime fiction? We uncover the story’s mystery slowly throughout the course of the book, with new characters coming into the fray and bringing new light to the situation, but the book’s mystery is eventually revealed to be a tad too small and too restrictive to allow for any grand revelations as to who indeed dunnit. Every now and then the book displays some fun meta-knowledge of the genre when the characters are deciding what move they are going to make next, though this does lead to a rather anticlimactic twist at the end when a promising lead is revealed to be a red herring seemingly just because the genre demands one, and the characters shrugging their shoulders to say ‘well, that’s how these sort of things go’ wasn’t quite enough to offset the feeling that things didn’t really lead to anything. The final roundup of events, and eventual reveal of the one tiny detail that answers all other questions of the mystery, is of course not really dependent on anything exciting (as I’d probably expect from the genre), but I reckon that when it comes to revealing the small but significant detail that is the crux of everything, a lot of books have a more interesting crux than this book does. But perhaps I am merely nitpicking. In any case, my feelings towards the book upon completion were overwhelmingly positive, if not because of a wholly satisfying ending than certainly because I know I’ve got a shit load more of these books to be getting on with. Therefore, it seems unlikely that my attempts to breach this new genre will lead to any further exploration for a while yet; I’ve got to read all of Crispin’s stories first. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: HELL FUCKING YES

Nightmare Abbey and Crotchet Castle - Thomas Love Peacock I heard of Peacock some time ago in a romanticism lecture as a great and criminally underrated author, I picked up this book after skimming the blurb and introduction and learning that Peacock’s writing took inspiration from a superstar lineup of my sort of authors (Aristophanes, Rabelais and Voltaire to name a few), and started reading it recently because I was craving a Gormenghast fix but had sworn not to start any more giant fucking novels until I’d finished Barchester Towers. It makes sense that this book would be recommended to me by an old academic chap, because this seems to be a book mainly for old academic chaps; a Peacockian staple, as the introduction so refers to it as (I suspect as a means of justifying it), is that the narrative often stops dead to allocate large chunks of the story to men of various fields of academia discussing various smart affairs (in the words of Peacock himself, ‘discussing everything and settling nothing'), written in a form more resembling a drama text than prose. It’s fast and easy reading, and it’s fun to revel in the general vibe of Regency era learned men lounging in a club speaking listlessly on trifling matters over their booze. While there is humour to be found (both explicitly and quietly in Peacock’s writing style), and while I am not entirely ignorant on the era and characters within that this book is good-naturedly satirising, this book requires some background knowledge to get the most out of it. Nightmare Abbey parodies the ‘mordancy of contemporary literature’, with characters reflecting the romantic poets (all with absolutely fantastic Gormenghast-tier names) lolling around and bemoaning the times and customs and pontificating incomprehensibly on transcendental subjects and generally revelling in operating on various tiers of melodramatic morose being. The conversations that they have are often rather dense, and thus the humour tends to come from the ridiculous characters’ voices and attitudes (or occasionally the farcical antics that they get up to). Crotchet Castle is significantly more all over the shop, being a general clusterfuck of ideals and philosophies (the primary conflict being between common sense and rationality, with all the supernumerary other characters slotting in to lend their voices in pummelling the rationalist into the fucking dirt) pitted against each other; it is on occasion rather accessible, given the simplicity of the characters and their chosen philosophies to spout, but I’m really coming in on the bottom floor when it comes to rationality and political economy, so a lot of the nuance, while often enjoyable enough considering its delivery of light-hearted sarcasm, was totally fucking lost on me. Most of the characters are just mouthpieces for philosophies, some of the characters are parodies of pre-existing personages who I didn’t fucking know and didn’t care to learn about, and some of the characters are enjoyable enough because they slot into the story in other ways (such as in the trite but necessary romance subplots, forgotten about and reinstated as soon as a hackneyed conclusion is needed) or otherwise stand out on their own (such as Peacock’s stand-in, the Reverend Dr Folliott, who couldn’t give a blot about anything save his own dinner and booze, or indeed my aligned character, the deteriorationist and medieval buff Mr Chainmail, who remains ‘out of reach of [everyone’s] arguments’ from his own fortress of beef and ale (as the introduction describes), which I can fully relate to). The aforementioned romance subplots might give the reader of this ramble the impression that these stories are rather confused as to what they want to be, but the confusion (if confusion it be, and not just a juggling of ideas (hardly skilful juggling, but roll with it)) really only extends as far as the eclectic array of things within the novels. The overall intention of these pieces is to be escapism, or a conversation piece (given that much of the text is dominated by conversations), and in that regard it does its job well enough. I will say, however, that the aforementioned ‘inspiration’ that these texts take from such authors as Aristophanes and Rabelais is really just limited to occasionally quoting them, and considering that I don’t speak Greek or French, this became more of a pain in the arse than a pleasure, having to keep looking at the back for the necessary translations. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: YES TO NIGHTMARE, POSSIBLY TO CASTLE

Seven Men - Max Beerbohm I’m afraid that you’ll have to excuse the fact that I was only able to read about the titular seven men in this book, and not the promised ‘Two Others’ in the book’s re-release; I read this online on Gutenberg, dissatisfied with the prices and conditions of the physical copies of this book (as well as the fact that I couldn’t really be putting too many eggs in this basket, since I started this book on a whim after it was fleetingly mentioned in Crispin’s The Moving Toyshop), and subsequently my reading experience was a rather fragmented one, scrounging all of the individual stories in this publication together and reading them as one overall book. Let this book stand as another title in my guilty list of attempts to dip my toe into the pool of postmodernism, for the stories within it are less about seven men (well, technically six, since Beerbohm himself is the seventh) and more about stories told about them or stories that shape them. Men tell stories about themselves, find themselves shaped by their works or the rules of their works, are forgotten as soon as their works fade from public interest, etc., from everything to formally written pieces of dubious quality to spun yarns over dinner. Supernatural influences are occasionally added to facilitate some of the dafter ideas, but everything is played entirely straight, with our focal point Beerbohm, having interpolated himself into the stories, providing everything with a sense of… if not verisimilitude, than certainly seriousness. Characters find themselves entwined within their stories, sad that their works of writing will be all that remains of them (or deluded into thinking that such a legacy would be a thing to be proud of), ‘ghosts caught in a fiction solemnly protesting their reality’ to paraphrase a quote from Lawrence Danson’s 1982 piece. It all makes for a very fun read, with each story providing a different reading experience that keeps you guessing as to what to expect. Finding myself with not much else to say, permit me to give a special mention to my favourite story in the collection, ‘Savonarola Brown’. The word ‘story’ is a tad misleading, but just as I find myself calling this text a short story collection or novel for lack of a better term, a story ‘Savonarola Brown’ must be, when in reality it is mostly comprised of a deliberately atrocious farcical tragicomedy script, written, in the context of the story, by the titular Brown, who did so over the course of eight years by throwing himself into the character of his beloved Savonarola and writing the story as the characters within it determined it to be written, leading to a rambling and capriciously-changing text that never failed to make me (if only as a great fan of early modern theatre, however trite or shoddy) laugh my arse off. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: HELL YEAH

Other shit I read that I couldn’t be arsed to ramble about: The Pillowman by Martin McDonagh (an absolutely amazing and very McDonagh play that I bloody wish I could have seen and would recommend to everyone (especially if they like fucked-up shit), The Etymologicon by Mark Forsyth (a very entertaining and informative book (as to be expected from my favourite etymologist) that I resisted reading for a while because I figured that Forsyth was at his best when retelling historical events, and was pleasantly surprised to see that he manages to squeeze in a shit load of interesting history shit in here as well (my favourite example of which being the story of the two main faces behind the OED)), Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes (a fucking incredible book that I resisted writing a review on because a) it’s a rather serious book with some hard-hitting stuff that’s difficult to make funny and b) there are only so many ways that I can say ‘it’s good’), The Weird and the Eerie by Mark Fisher (a bloody amazing essay with some incredible content in it, made me very envious of Fisher for being able to contrive a means of writing about exactly what he wants to write about even when it is of passing or no relevance to the essay as a whole), and Swan Song by Edmund Crispin (another Crispin novel, so I didn’t bother rambling about it when it would just be the same points as my Moving Toyshop ramble, not as funny as Toyshop for the most part and focusing on a field of study that I know very little about but a very easy and enjoyable read nonetheless).

[rcc-redmarley]

Eduardo Paolozzi, Moonstrips Empire News

Presenting Paolozzi’s 1967 screen print series ‘Moonstrips Empire News’, our latest exhibition explores what happens when mass-media culture collides with high art icons in a myriad of day-glo electric tones. In this blog post, the exhibition curator Jenny Lance reflects on the work of Eduardo Paolozzi and the role of ‘curator as editor’.

Eduardo Paolozzi, Moonstrips Empire News

Image Credit: Patrick Dandy

Eduardo Paolozzi (1924-2005) was among the most influential British artists of the twentieth century. His diverse and prolific output spanning sculpture, screenprint, collage and textiles, pushed the boundaries of the art establishment and frequently earnt him accolades as a great innovator and pioneer.

Paolozzi’s experimentation makes his work difficult to pin down. Often associated with Pop Art, due to his 1950s and 1960s incorporation of bright colour and collaging of popular imagery, Paolozzi defined himself as a Surrealist and his works as explorations of the uncanny and hidden forces in twentieth-century consumer society.

Eduardo Paolozzi, Moonstrips Empire News

Image Credit: Patrick Dandy

Taking popular culture and the contemporary as his subject matter long before Pop Art transformed this into the status quo, the artist gathered the disposable and often undesirable detritus of everyday life to reorder, reassemble and create new works from the pieces. In this way collage, through cutting, sticking and the compulsive amalgamation of forms, is at the heart of Paolozzi’s lifelong art practice irrespective of the material medium used for individual works.

It is the artist’s innovative use of screenprint, particularly the combination of images and text, which is the focus of the current exhibition. Created from collaged source material brought together during his formative years in the 1940s and 1950s, Moonstrips Empire News was created as a kind of unbound book, intended, in true Surrealist fashion, to be ordered and reordered at the whim of the viewer. Instantly appealing for its exuberant irreverence and wit, the glamourous visual language of Moonstrips Empire News is not without a sting in its tail. The optical irresistibility thinly veils a cynical undertone that is decidedly darker than the repeated references to Disney, children’s toys and candy-fluoro pigments might suggest. 

Eduardo Paolozzi, Moonstrips Empire News

Image Credit: Patrick Dandy

The process of curating an exhibition is by nature editorial in approach; which information to highlight or discount, artworks to include or exclude, are highly constructed interpretations, neatly hidden behind the scenes of the exhibition-making process.

Eduardo Paolozzi’s Moonstrips Empire News, a work intended to be reordered by each viewer in the role of editor, presents a unique set of curatorial challenges. By imparting onto the works a system of classification, the curator’s chosen order is inevitably presented as the authoritative or ‘correct’ one. But what can be done to reinstate the Surrealist strategies of randomness and uncanny assemblage at the heart of Moonstrips and the way that it was intended to be consumed?

Curator as Editor: Jenny Lance & Eduardo Paolozzi, Moonstrips Empire News

Image Credit: Patrick Dandy

Firstly, the role of the curator is here self-consciously exposed. The ordering of the works in this exhibition was made through a series of very specific and individual decisions. The usual methodologies of thematic groupings around interpretation were abandoned in an attempt to resist neat reductions of art-historical classification. Instead, the approach was one of subconscious, aesthetic and formalist instinct; a feeling or desire that images ‘worked well’ together or spoke to each other; a strategy it is hoped that Paolozzi would find fitting for his intentions with this work.

Accelerationism and Eduardo Paolozzi event: MA student Niall Gallen discussing the possible accelerationism present within Eduardo Paolozzi’s work. 

Secondly, through an active collaborative programme of events and  ‘re-readings’ of the series, the curatorial authority inherent in exhibition-making will be further challenged as new assemblages, orders and understandings are formulated. Events will be delivered by a range of speakers including artists, academics, students and designers who will also be invited to leave a physical trace of their own reading of the series. Through these strategies, the gallery will act as a generative and productive space, creating proliferating layers of texts and new ways of reading Moonstrips Empire News as a lasting archive of the exhibition.

The participatory space: how visitors would edit Paolozzi’s screenprint series

Image Credit: Patrick Dandy

About the exhibition

When? 28th January - 17th May 2019, Mon-Fri, 9-5 

Where? Rotunda Gallery, Aston Webb Building (first floor) 

Admission: Free

Events: We are hosting a number of exciting events through which you can learn more about the exhibition and the works of Eduardo Paolozzi. To find out more and to book, please visit our events page. 

[nest-raider]

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When you're exploring your competitors or finding hyperlink opportunities, the SEOquake toolbar may come in very handy. Nonetheless, numerous organizations deliberately avoid implementing any kind of SEO strategies because of one particular constant fear- the data present more than the Internet channels is huge and no one really understands the way the actual SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION optimization would happen for sites. For further detailed details on the use of key phrases on the website visit SEOcious exactly where you will discover many some other important factors involved in obtaining your web site in the best 10 listings on Google. In general, SEO has been created as being a method of enhancing websites' search engine ranking outcomes. It will end up being difficult part for just about any SEO man to implement the necessary ways in getting on search outcomes trough voice. Jooxie is already seeing content strategies changeover away from keyword-stuffing, and I'd personally be prepared to see lots of SEOs going through their content in order to reevaluate just how much worth it actually holds for the particular user. Google's algorithm keeps a track associated with pages and sites that fulfill the user so this requires to be a primary worry for SEOs going forwards. Don't forget to write us in the comments section if you like our article on SEO trends in 2018 or have any questions regarding them. Google blogs have an tremendous advantage over any other SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION blog because, not only may they go directly to the original source, in most practical ways, these people ARE the source. A slow web site is bad not only for your end-user, it is also poor for SEO (search engine optimization), so we share some essential ways by which you may make your site load extremely fast. These types of SEO tactics could boomerang upon you and affect your rank on Google. We're the particular main one Stop for almost all your 2018 SEO marketing attempts, so get in touch along with one of our experienced specialists today and let's plan regarding a brighter future for the particular company. Even more significantly, the tool should give a person enough data points, guidance, plus recommendations to verify whether or even not that particular keyword, or even a related keyword or lookup phrase, is an SEO fight worth fighting (and, if you do, exactly how to win). The methods that were the simplest (reciprocal links or directory submissions) perform not work anymore, so the particular SEOs spend a lot associated with time trying different approaches. In my above illustration, the keyword that I utilized is best SEO agency within Manila The trick here is usually to use the site: research operator plus the keyword -- e. g. site: best A in Y” to generate focused discussion pages.

For instance, pictures to show which you got best position on Google's first web page for high competitive keywords might definitely help to talk regarding google search optimization (SEO) tool. More significantly, you can track exactly just how much traffic, leads, and clients you are getting via Nearby SEO and organic search visitors. Rankwatchโ€ A simple SEO Management Platform with geo-specific results allowing users to optimize their local SEO. On-Page SEO is the particular practice of optimizing various internet pages for high rank plus earning more relevant traffic looking engines. In 2018, SEO's ought to answer this question: Would We be achieving this if search motors didn't exist? Google's mentioned mission has been to supply worth to users, and this furthermore lies at the core associated with great SEO. Showing up during these lookup features is critical for productive SEO in 2018. Businesses, therefore, ought to align their work frame plus campaigns that complement the most recent SEO updates If you are usually searching for optimizing your site that speaks the true vocabulary of internet marketing, call us We all will be there to support you.

When creating a web site for Google in 2018, a person really need to understand that will Google has a large associated with things it will mark websites down for, and that's generally old-school SEO tactics which are usually now classed as ‘webspam‘. White hat SEO's generally follow Google's quality guidelines. Google introduced local SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION as one of their methods some time back, but nevertheless many companies aren't embracing this particular requirement, meaning that they are usually losing out on valuable company on a daily basis. Using keyword-rich point SEO 2019 PDF for internal links is the clear sign of over-optimized site or overly SEOed, and this will look the same as this unpleasant smiley face. Voice search is a single of the latest SEO styles in 2018. Consumer experience for SEO will turn out to be even more important in 2018. This could mean hyperlink acquisition, building mentions, utilizing the PR agency, building your brand name off site to have the positive effect on your web sites SEO.

Unfortunately, SEO - plus search in general - is usually typically soloed into focusing upon The Google” and not actually considered for other tactics. SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION is all about providing proprietors with a positive content encounter in the right moment in their particular user journey across different systems and devices. Whichever SEO trends plus techniques you choose to make use of, it's important to keep within mind that whatever your SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION approach is the underlying objective is definitely an informative plus enjoyable user experience. For this to take place a variety of local SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION strategies, have to be applied to get the site rated on search engines like Search engines, business directories such as Yelp, Superpages, Google My Business position etc. But before we speak more about how they function, here's what SEOs mean whenever talking about links. SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION and SEM will continue in order to shift as major search motors like google are continually modifying their parameters for rankings. RankBrain is more associated with a ranking signal than a good SEO masterpiece, nevertheless, it will have some effects on SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION, and can be especially helpful if users don't know completely what they're looking for, or even simply can't find the correct words to use. SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION - Seo: the process associated with making your site better intended for search engines. Google announced last season that RankBrain had become their particular 3rd most important ranking aspect, and our SEO predictions recommend it will grow in significance for 2018. Creating and promoting linkable resources is an excellent way in order to transform your SEO through the obtain of backlinks. You can get SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION results by executing Pillar #1 and Pillar #2 well, yet backlinks are fuel on the particular fire. This way, a person and your SEO can make sure that your site is created to be search engine-friendly from your bottom up. However, a great SEO can also help enhance an existing site. These days, most people states, SEO is dead, but We believe, SEO could be the pillar associated with any online business and not really gonaa die. SEO shouldn't impact upon the time it takes in order to create good content. If you really want to improve local SEO and enhance your business's credibility, it has to be an on-going process. Primary on the more personalized user experience because the driving factor behind SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION strategy should make for a good interesting and exciting year within SEO. SEO solutions help in all growth trip to reach the goal on time and gather more traffic in order to the site with quality content composed and displayed on the site. One easy way, but mainly overlooked off-page SEO technique in constructing local links is creating specialized niche profiles. This way, as an SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION specialist, you could associated along with necessary changes and adjustments with regard to your tactics so that a person could preserve your present rating through not just Jagger, nevertheless for future updates as nicely. Google Research Console is, slowly but certainly, getting better Google's getting the much more aggressive about producing rank tracking more difficult (some rank tracking folks I'm pleasant with told me that Q4 2017 was particularly gut-punching), plus the SEO software field is usually way, way more densely loaded with competitors than ever prior to. In this post, all of us would be talking about On-Page SEO and some of the very effective ways of boosting your search positions on Search Engines. Some Webmasters will pay lots of money to a so-called professional SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION expert to have their Web sites on top within the ratings. Meta keywords would end up being the least priority in positioning factors in SEO. The SEO Trends associated with 2018 are turning in order to impact approach on various other professions related to Digital Marketing. These types of advanced SEO techniques might not really be the easiest to carry out - they actually require even more effort than basic keyword study and link building - yet they are incredibly effective.

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5 Quick Tips For SEO 2019

Colorado SEO Pros CEO Bob Rodgers talks search engine optimisation (SEO) strategy, artificial intelligence (AI), and why link building will be dangerous for companies. An SEO on-line marketing strategy is a extensive plan to get more individuals to your website through lookup engines. Several search optimizers try to cheat Google by using aggressive techniques that go beyond the simple SEO techniques. Subscribe to the particular Single Grain blog now regarding the latest content on SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION, PPC, paid social, and the particular future of internet marketing. SEO can furthermore stand for search engine optimizer. Like the rest of the particular digital landscape, SEO marketing is usually continuously evolving. Search Engine Book — Read information right after Moz's guide to solidify knowing regarding it of the basic elements of SEO. If a person do not have the period or have insufficient training upon web design or SEO, Appear for web design experts plus hire a professional SEO services agency to keep your web site and your good reputation usually you business may depend upon it. I ended with the website number 1, 228, 570, 060. This particular generates SEO anchor text, which usually helps you in improving your own search engine rankings. SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION marketing is focused on the keyword choice that will attract a excellent deal of unique visitors in order to your website. Perhaps you have ponder what will be the fresh changes and updates that many of us can experience in SEO one way links sphere in 2019? A Cisco research found that by 2019, eighty percent of all consumer Web traffic will be from Web video traffic. If you might have spent time online recently, you might have probably look at the term "SEO, inch or "Search Engine Optimization.

It helps your SEO attempts to ensure that your key phrases are added to the destinazione description and it will provide you a ranking boost when your specific terms are noticeable in this area. Moreover, a Google Penguin update drastically changed the position of backlinks on SEO, generating it more difficult to obtain link juice to a web site. Gone are the times of traditional SEO techniques, on the web content is changing. The cognitiveSEO Rank System offers accurate country, language plus city precision for all your own tracked keywords. Even if your URLs usually are pretty, ” if you no longer feel as though they're adversely impacting users and your company in general, don't change all of them to be more keyword concentrated for better SEO. ” In the event that you do need to alter your URL structure, make certain to make use of the proper (301 permanent) type of redirect. In this particular post, we've broken down the particular very best SEO techniques to assist you skyrocket your rankings plus boost your number of regular visitors. An accessible URL will be an important SEO ranking aspect. Heidi Cohen: To increase 2018 SEO results, marketers will keep on moving away from disposable, after and done content. They concentrate on SEO Internet marketing objectives and provide top search motor rank like Google and Askjeeve. Collectively, these developments are plus can continue to have the dramatic impact on the method in which we search optimize our websites in 2019 plus form the core of the newest SEO 2019 update briefing. This free marketing device is really a long-term technique and can be time rigorous but it will worth this. A good user experience is usually the key to satisfaction along with a powerful SEO. 1 SEO might target different kinds of lookup, including image search, video lookup, academic search, 2 news lookup, and industry-specific vertical search motors. We all are in the fourth 1 / 4 of 2018, it is the particular right time start thinking concerning the year ahead and fresh changes SEO realm might assume. We've long known that consumer opinions, input, and sentiment regarding a brand deeply impact SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION rankings, but we wanted the particular information to prove it. Off-page SEO means using action to build trust, power, social signals and inbound hyperlinks. How video affects SEO actually depends on your goals whenever using video in your advertising campaign and which video system you use. LSI is not really what most SEO professionals claim it to be. This is certainly not a idea that can be used simply by the average web designer or even webmaster to improve their research engine listings, and it is definitely not what many people, which includes myself, has written it in order to be. Nevertheless, first some history. This particular video walks you through the particular specific steps you should get increased rankings in 2018, including launching speed, technical SEO, content, hyperlinks, and more. Given that it is, all across this year agencies specializing in SEO were active recovering and finding new procedures to optimize the search motor even better than what their particular competitors were doing. It looks typically used in SEO as the general definition for the method that the mathematical detection associated with synonyms, and how certain terms are related to others in the piece of text, is used to the indexing of internet pages by search engines like search engines. So if you would end up being to write 5% for every keyword then your word SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION and Article will be within the content 75 times every. Like any good SEO company before concentrating on the info will do a proper hyperlink edit and fix all the particular error pages. Taking the energy to comprehend even the fundamentals of SEO can help your own site gain higher click-through prices, engagement, and of course, search positions. Kent Lewis, President and Founder of the particular Portland based performance firm, Anvil, predicts that both Amazon lookup Blog9T and voice search will end up being trends in 2019. MarketingVox warns towards getting tied to a "link farm" whose bad SEO practices could bring you down. Your web web pages must earn that high positioning with high-quality content and best-practice SEO. Content is the 2nd major SEO ranking factor, plus is just as important because links. Previously known since WordPress SEO by Yoast, Yoast SEO is one of the particular most quintessential WordPress plugins whenever it comes to search motor optimization. While SEOs need in order to understand it is not just about rankings, UX specialists require to admit that user knowledge kicks in even before making use of the website. You will find on-site and off site SEO techniques that you may use to higher your lookup engine ranking. Search engines regard metadata plus meta keywords as less essential than they used to, thanks a lot to many years of dark hat misuse, however the name of your page and the relevancy towards the content can always be a highly essential factor in SEO. SEO is important because this helps you get found simply by improving your ranking on the internet research results. Inorganic SEO is usually good for populating links regarding your website, even on additional websites which signed up intended for online ads to be demonstrated on their web pages. Of course, finding the period for you to write your own SEO articles daily can become difficult in light of the particular fact that you still possess a company to run. Social media provides its very own perks aside from SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION value. So when you think about it, SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION is really just a procedure of proving to find engines that will you are the best web site, probably the most authoritative, the most reliable, the most unique and fascinating site that they can provide to their customer - the particular searcher. SEO professionals employ the variety of different ways associated with make websites appear higher inside your list of results and create it much more likely that will you'll click on them in order to find what you're looking with regard to. SEO more usually talk regarding domain trust and domain specialist in line with the amount, type and quality of inbound links to a site. SEO entails attaining a higher ranking within search engines via changes in order to your site content and program code to make it more related and therefore more search motor compatible. The number 1 reason for using video upon your site to improve SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION is to increase the quantity of time users remain upon your site. Search engine optimization had been but still is fascinating in order to me. The SEO placement regarding any size business begins along with proper web site optimization, a good excellent link building strategy plus a well planned online marketing and advertising plan. One part of focus for better marketing and SEO performance within 2018 is the confluence associated with content, influence, and social. This can be advantageous for SEO, as it helps avoid search engine crawlers from getting confused by syntax or acceptance errors, and leads to even more accurate indexing. Stop thinking in terms associated with SEO vs. content marketing” plus start exploring how well they will perform together. (Give it a try tone of voice search using OK Google through your cell phone and enquire "What Is BlowFish SEO" ) In the event that all remains as it is definitely, Google will read out loud just about all about my company in the short to the point method, These cards are formatted in order to fit the screen of your own cell with no scrolling upward or down. Although SEO is really the time-consuming process but believes me personally, if you work well along with dedication and trendy techniques, the particular combined results of on-page plus off-page SEO holds you upon the top with rank #1 for a specific search outcome. Fairly lately, I've seen a resurgence associated with on-page SEO factors making the difference searching engine rankings. While her business, web traffic, and even customer base grow, Sue can require some outside support with regard to keeping her SEO on monitor so she can certainly still sell the particular best shoes on the obstruct. Whilst links continue to be essential and it's incredibly difficult in order to rank well without links through other websites, content and on-page SEO has become increasingly essential. For businesses searching to raise their search ranks, what this means is that will a comprehensive social media technique could be in order - within addition to all of the particular usual SEO tactics. Because of criteria changes and the trend in order to more local searches, it actually is no longer an huge cost to implement good SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION. Whether you're killing it along with SEO, or struggling to split the very first page, a good SEO audit may help give your own rankings a shot within the particular arm. According to web marketing experts, the impact associated with AI and Voice Browse SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION can be expected in 2019 after that. Gowns it. If you'd like in order to speak to us about a good SEO campaign, or even multilingual SEO marketing and keyword study then get in touch associated with just start a live conversation if we're around. Moreover, Google will carry on to elevate the importance associated with usability and technical SEO elements, like site security, page acceleration, mobile friendliness, and navigability. As a consultant, this individual has helped many different businesses—including, Lonely Planet, Zillow, Tower Information, and literally numerous medium plus small businesses—with SEO and online-marketing advice. There are usually lots of ways to discover keywords for SEO. SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION article writing guidelines number two. Keywords, they are little concealed subliminal messages within the composing which are to be within conjunction with the topic which usually is being written on. Key phrases are extremely important to the particular SEO article writing guidelines. SEO is often component of an overall internet marketing and advertising strategy and complements other strategies like social media marketing, articles marketing and more. The conference brought together thirty six speakers, 15 sponsors and above 1500 of the search industry's brightest and the best associated with search for a day involving actionable SEO advice and industry leading content. A principal benefit associated with SEO is its cost-effectiveness since there is no payment toward the search engine for becoming placed within it. This will be very important for the 'search head', high volume low purpose searches that are expensive within paid search. In 2019, I believe that will Google will continue to press paid search ads and state the majority of the over the fold organic SERP. Since, paying a search motor to put your business internet site at the top of the list doesn't come cheap, the particular next smartest thing one may do is to use lookup engine optimization or SEO methods to increase the clicks in the direction of the website and help this work its way up the particular search engine's results page. If you are nevertheless sticking with old SEO protocol strategies and searching optimized key word for the article, Sorry! User-generated content racks up serious SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION points by providing sites along with fresh content, bundles of inbound links, and sources for organically framing natural attributes. You'll find it right here Also really worth checking out there is Moz's Beginner's Explained SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION, ” which you'll find right here, and the SEO Success Pyramid from Small Business Search Marketing and advertising. Off-page SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION strategy refers to the impact of a change in some other websites in your search position. Bruce Clay-based set the standard for honest internet marketing by authoring the particular " SEO Code of Integrity, " now translated into eighteen languages, and it has already been a respected leader within the particular ever-changing research engine marketing industry since mil novecentos e noventa e seis. Website SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMISATION (including, content optimisation, meta optimization, the significance of links). A good SEO Specialist is someone which is an expert on the particular topic of search engine search engine optimization. Just due to the fact a proper On-page and Off-page SEO optimization work will provide a better Ranking to your own website in Search Engine Outcome Page (SERP). The largest SEO change and craze I realize already happening within 2018 is Google's switch in order to a mobile-first index, so when a site is not however mobile-friendly and optimized for this, it's critical to prioritize this particular as it is now basic for its SEO success. With good on-page SEO, lookup engines can easily index your own web pages, understand what your own site is about, and effortlessly navigate the structure and articles of your website, thus rank your site accordingly.

Off-page SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION concentrates on increasing the authority associated with your domain through the act associated with getting links from all some other websites. Regarding: Search Engine Journal's flagship meeting, SEJ Summit, is dedicated to providing SEO pros the actual require, with an agenda of unique, first-run presentations covering the newest SEO and PPC tactics through renowned experts, plus excellent network opportunities. SEO combines official lookup engine guidelines, empirical knowledge, plus theoretical knowledge from science documents or patents. This is definitely a half-day workshop at LeadsCon that will be designed to be able to give attendees an end-to-end watch of Search Engine Optimization (SEO), how it works, and touchable things they can do nowadays to improve their SEO overall performance. After the Search engines Panda algorithm appeared, SEO professionals realized just how much key word frequency and density matters. SEO means optimizing your posts so it shows up a great deal more often in search results. 33. With social media systems like Facebook diminishing visibility associated with companies and brands, SEO (as well as paid promotion) is usually becoming critically important for traveling traffic to your social stations. 2019 dates TBD. ). Why go to: One-track conference full of forward-thinking, tactical sessions in SEO, development marketing, the mobile landscape, analytics, content marketing and more. ” Don't miss the LeadsCon Meeting in Vegas, March 4-6, 2019.

This particular SEO model is called the "topic cluster, " and contemporary search engine algorithms rely upon them to connect users along with the information they're looking with regard to. Your own SEO strategy likely involves content material designed to be shared upon social media. Take this article with regard to example, if you search intended for reverse engineer Google, ” seo secrets, ” reverse engineering seo, ” this informative article is on the particular first page for every associated with those search terms. Social networking and SEO ought to be working together, sharing content material or utilizing engagement metrics because data for future article marketing and advertising. Simply put, SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION is marketing through an knowing of how search algorithms function combined with a knowledge associated with what human users might research for. The results furthermore underscore the value of creating new content with your SEO online marketing strategy. Whenever you create new content centered on your priority keywords, a person have several advantages with the SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION marketing strategy. Both SEO and content material marketing converge in lots of places; these people do not work in seclusion. Free to enroll in SearchLeeds covers everything from complex SEO and analytics, to PAGE RANK, content marketing, paid media plus more. Following technical mobile SEO greatest practices (e. g., image optimisation, redirects, JavaScript and CSS) is definitely a necessary barrier to access in today's digital world. Since it turns out, there's more in order to on-page SEO than optimizing regarding keywords. Search engines motor optimization (organic SEO) describes the particular methods used to obtain the high placement (or ranking) upon a search engine results web page in unpaid, algorithm-driven results upon the given search engine. Also, videos have got a lot of untapped possible - great for SEO and even make for good user proposal. The quite best SEO expert 2019 may tell you for High-End mobile devices, we're seeing more format changes to focus, provide the better experience, search results. Social SEO is especially helpful for online reputation administration. It isn't just the approach that Google ranks optimized written content, but the way that they will rank poorly constructed or taboo content that will push your own ranking to where it really need to be in 2019. Ray Cheselka, SEO & Ppc Manager at SEO and style agency, webFEAT Complete, predicts that will sites with over a 2 second load time will become penalized, and search intent is usually going to always grow within importance. SEO consists of ordering the site's architecture and hyperlinks to make pages inside the particular website easier to find plus navigate. In contrast, articles that no one is humming about have minimal effect upon social SEO. They are usually generally knowledgeable within the are usually of both SEO and content material marketing. When it arrives to reviews, customers work as a good army of link builders plus keyword writers so your SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION structure is shaped without a person having to lift a little finger. A great SEO service includes a great deal of research and lots associated with smart keywords application which will certainly period website at a increased notch and provide it the higher ranking in Google web search engine. Professional SEO content authors work on creating articles just after understanding the nature associated with your business, your industry, rivals and what kind of posts your business might most want for maximum benefits; in the particular short-term and the long-term. Linking to other webpages within your site, as well since linking to other sites plus getting other sites to url to yours, is a great method to improve your SEO. Influencer marketing doesn't seem in order to be slowing down anytime shortly, so it will probably obtain bigger in 2018 and actually bigger in 2019 when even more companies start to catch upon to this trend. Keeping within mind the last point, SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION agencies are fluent in navigating by way of a wide range of on-line marketing tools that helps raise the value of your marketing technique. Search Engine Optimization (SEO) is definitely a powerful process that may help make you and your own research more visible to lookup engines like Google and Search engines Scholar. I have simply no clue about SEO only several basics that is available just about all over the place and I actually feel this article must support as your other articles assisted me give some direction upon recovering my lost traffic plus generating more content as properly as repurposing old content. Here's a true statement you don't need to hear as often: Your SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION technique for 2018 shouldn't concentrate on keywords. (1888PressRelease) Stone Marketing, a Boston-based, full-service SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION and internet marketing firm today announces they have been rated as the number five SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION firm in the 2010 Advertising World Top ten SEO Firm Award initiative. According to Forrester Analysis, the number of global smart phone subscribers is expected to achieve 3. 5 billion by 2019, crossing the 50% mark intended for smartphone penetration by 2018, plus reaching 59% by 2019. On-page SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION ensures that your site can be read by both possible customers and search engine automated programs. In 2019, voice-search will become the dominant way that individuals search. But SEO is all regarding the organic” rankings, which show up in the middle of the particular search results page. The most important SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION factor for creating high-quality articles is doing good keyword study. Formula changes in 2018 seem in order to centre on reducing the efficiency of old-school SEO techniques, along with the May 2015 Google ‘Quality' criteria update bruisingly familiar. Keep in mind in SEO article writing recommendations you keywords have to create sense too. Domain Authority within SEO is a rank that will measures how popular and reliable search engines call at your own website. If the key phrases you might be hoping to rank with regard to don't show on the page, this will be much more tough to achieve your goals -- making on-page optimization a essential part of most SEO advertisments.

Ultimately, simply by the end of 2018 or even mid-2019, we'll see a golf swing back to natural” content created by real humans who may produce valuable content that in fact provides value. Hiring experienced SEO experts may ensure that your website climbs the search engine ranks with out using any illegal practices or even short cuts that could generate short-term spikes in the home page's ranking, but eventually lead in order to your website having to pay out penalties. Official Site Associated with BlowFish SEO - Professional Search Motor Optimization Services operated by Robert DiSalvo SEO Located in Hand Beach Gardens, Florida. The takeaway here is definitely that if you might have got LOTS of location pages providing A SINGLE business in a single location, then those are quite probably classed as some type of doorway pages, and possibly Ten Taboos About SEO 2019 You Should Never Share On Twitter old-school SEO techniques for these types of type of pages will discover them classed as lower-quality -- or even - spammy webpages. CRAWL this, like Google does, with (for example) Screaming Frog SEO spider, plus fix malformed links or items that result in server errors (500), broken links (400+) and unneeded redirects (300+). SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION gives you an attempt at rating for the terms which your own customers use, so you may do better business. The job of the SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION is to create high-quality content material then win the attention, the particular love as well as the particular link from a blogger or even editor. The keyword difficulty or even keyword SEO difficulty is the very useful metric for key word research.