#automatically believe them despite what evidence we might have to the contrary. & like when it comes to deciphering what

[brittlebutch]

Desperately trying to make sense of Alex's motivations in Season Two and you know, I do eventually have to wonder if maybe Alex wasn't actually lying in the majority of those tapes.

Like, we tend to assume that Alex's motivations have been a consistent throughline since the college years, but do we actually know that that's the case? Do we know for sure that Alex was acting in deliberate, calculated ways in 2006; or could it be that he's telling the Truth on those olds tapes when he says he's blacking out and can't remember what's happening to anyone? After all, if we're assuming that Season 2 Alex's motivations are the exact same as his motives in Season 3, then it doesn't make any sense at all that he spend months working with Jay to try to find Amy; Season 3 Alex would have attempted to kill Jay like, on sight just to get things over with as quickly as possible and contain the spread of contamination as best as he could.

But, maybe, if Alex really had been separated from Amy after the events of the 04-04-10 tape, and if he really doesn't know where she is, then maybe that could make things start to make more sense. Maybe he really had been watching Jay's channel, and seeing Jay start going through the same things he went through in college without things devolving into violence and disappearances, and wondered if things maybe could play out differently this time. Maybe he really did send that tape to Jay to ask him for help, maybe he really was just trying to find Amy.

But then, instead of actually being helpful, Jay makes it extremely clear that he's a lot more interested in stalking Alex than he is in finding Amy. Alex asked for help, and instead there's a bunch of masked dudes on Jay's heels that keep attacking him, Jay is breaking into his house, stealing his things, leading the Operator right to him all over again, keeps trying to get other people (namely: Jessica -- if Alex is being honest when he says that his call reassuring her that Amy had been found was an effort to make Sure she stayed away from everything that was happening) involved; and instead of anything getting better, instead of anyone finding Amy, things are just getting worse all over again.

It's not until after the incident at the tunnel that things seem to start rapidly devolving. Rather than a calculated attempt to finally follow through with his need to curb the spread of contamination, this is very clearly an outburst of rage and terror. Alex's "I told you not to follow me" line in conjunction with Jay speculating that Alex didn't know who that guy was, to me, pretty firmly seems to speak to Alex having mistaken that stranger for Jay. From his point of view, Alex knows that Jay and totheark know where he live, have broken in before, he suspects that Jay stole a key to make it easier to get into his house, and he's been followed on the daily for months -- Alex is sitting at the tunnel because he doesn't know where else he can go without being constantly surveilled, hunted, and assaulted. And instead of getting a moment by himself to breathe, Jay followed him out there all over again (it feels like Alex looks directly at the camera in Jay's footage of him from this day; he knew for a fact that Jay was there), and then to make matters worse now 'Jay' won't even keep his distance anymore.

So Alex lashes out. And it's not until afterwards that he looks down and finally recognizes that this wasn't Jay -- it was someone completely innocent. Things have finally reached the low point he was at in college all over again; maybe even worse this time. If Alex doesn't remember attacking anyone in college, but he was at least partially conscious of it this time, then things have reached an entirely new rock bottom, they've reached an absolute point of no return.

He has no idea what happened to Amy, and he's spent months trying to find her with no hint of where she could be; he doesn't know where Jay actually is or what additional trouble he could be causing at this point; he does know that now innocent people are getting caught in the crossfire (in regards to the stranger in the tunnel, and also Jessica now that Jay has her phone number, and the untold number of people Jay got involved when he started posting videos to the Marble Hornets channel); things are spiraling out of control and there's no one left to ask for help. The situation isn't getting better, it's getting worse; things aren't getting easier to handle, they're just getting more out of hand; the negative impact is spreading and who knows how much further it can still go?

So, Alex decides to go scorched earth. He disfigures the body with the rock either to hide evidence or to make sure the guy would actually stay dead and not just get back up to start his own cycle of contamination in a few years. He tries to give Jay one last chance to back off, and Jay instead admits he's been talking to Jessica, acts obstinate and lies about not having Alex's spare key, and then breaks into Alex's house a second time (minimum). If Alex doesn't stop him now, who will? Alex met with Jay planning to kill the others, and then himself, so he could put a stop to this once and for all and keep things from getting any worse than they already were.

Maybe it makes a lot more sense if, rather than being a strangely incomprehensible detour on what should have been a straight path, the events of Season Two were the breaking point that put Alex on that path to begin with.

[emospritelet]

Manifesto - chapter 10

It's been 84 years...

Last time, Sutherland convinced Belle to join in with a Government consultation. Cue snark and UST

[AO3]

-

Belle stared at Sutherland, her pulse thumping at the base of her throat as she met his eyes. He had that tiny smile on his face, his eyes glinting, and she licked her lips nervously.

“I - I didn’t think you’d be here,” she said lamely, and he pushed upright.

“Well, it is my house,” he said. “After a fashion.”

“No, I didn’t mean…” She closed her eyes, swallowed, and opened them again. “I just meant I didn’t think you’d concern yourself with a consultation, that’s all. I - I thought it might be one of your Ministers.”

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t,” he agreed, reaching for the coffee. “But we’ve decided to give this policy more priority, and given that it’s a cross-government initiative, I thought I’d show face.”

“Right,” she said weakly. “Great.”

“Oh, I won’t be here for the whole thing,” he added. “I suspect I’ll leave after lunch. Coffee?”

“Thank you.”

Belle looked around the table, spying pieces of folded card printed with names marking each place. She read over the names, trying to find her own.

“You’re here,” said Sutherland, placing both hands on the back of one of the chairs and pulling it out. “Please. Take a seat.”

For a moment she was frozen in place, but then she lifted her chin, stalking around the table and sitting down. He pushed her chair in, and she murmured her thanks, squeezing her thighs together as he reached over her shoulder and grasped a cup and saucer between thumb and forefinger, slowly pulling it over until it was in front of her. Belle watched the movement of his hand: long, tanned fingers above a perfectly white shirt cuff, and wanted to sigh. Nope. Still fancy him. Dammit!

“I trust your journey here wasn’t too tiring,” he said, crossing to the chair opposite the door and taking a seat.

“It was fine,” she said automatically.

“And the accommodation?” he went on. “I’m sure Anna arranged something suitable.”

“Yes, it’s - uh - lovely.”

He nodded, reaching for his own coffee, and Belle glanced down at the table. There was a folder of documents in front of her, a close-up picture of a smiling multiracial group of people with their arms around each other in front of a gleaming modern building of steel and glass. Shaping a Stronger Society was written in yellow font on a dark blue background. Belle opened the folder to reveal a sheaf of documents, the day’s agenda lying uppermost.

“I’m afraid it’s going to be a long day,” said Sutherland, making her jump. “We’ll do our best to keep you lubricated. There’s plenty more coffee, if you need it.”

Belle automatically took a sip of her own coffee, and was spared the ordeal of making conversation by the door opening to reveal Anna. She was followed by several men and women in suits, and there was a buzz of conversation as introductions were made and seating places indicated. Belle smiled at the man who was directed to sit next to her. He looked a little out of place in his tweed jacket with elbow patches, glasses perched on his nose and red hair curling back from a high forehead. Belle read his nameplate.

“Dr Archibald Hopper,” she said. “Are you an academic?”

“Oh, Archie, please,” he said, with a warm smile. “And yes, I was a practising psychiatrist for many years. More recently I’ve been teaching at Cambridge, so that and research take up most of my time.”

Belle sat up excitedly.

“Oh! I studied at Cambridge,” she said happily. “So of course I have to say there’s no finer university for you to be teaching at.”

“Well, I certainly won’t argue with that,” he said with a smile. “And everyone knows who you are. A modern day freedom fighter for literacy, which is an excellent cause. Miss French, I believe.”

“Belle’s fine,” said Belle, with a grin. “What’s your interest in this?”

“I’ve been studying the psychological impact of poverty and deprivation and its links to poor health and other life chances,” he said earnestly. “I think your interests and mine probably overlap.”

“I should think they probably do,” said Belle. “Although I imagine your credentials are somewhat more impressive than mine.”

“On the contrary,” said Archie. “You have experience in the field, as it were. I’d certainly be interested in hearing your perspective on the literacy programmes you’ve introduced.”

“You heard about that?” she asked, surprised, and he smiled.

“There were a number of pieces in the press after your - ah - meeting with the Prime Minister,” he said. “I understand you’ve created a useful community resource built around literacy for all ages.”

Belle opened her mouth to explain what she was doing, but was cut off by Sutherland clearing his throat.

“Right, well, good morning everyone,” he said, leaning on the table and glancing around at the occupants. “We have a full schedule, and I’m sure you all want to make the most of it, so I won’t be doing the creeping death of introductions around the table, as you’re no doubt relieved to hear. We can save the obligatory networking for the tea breaks.”

There was an appreciative chuckle from the attendees.

“You all have a pack of documents in front of you,” he went on. “This contains information on everyone here, including interests and expertise. I’m pleased to see such a range of talent around this table, and I’m excited to see what we can achieve together. I know you all take the development of this policy as seriously as I do.”

Belle found herself nodding along with the others. Sutherland certainly knew how to command attention.

“The documents also set out some of the initial research provided by the government departments leading on this policy,” he said. “Of course you all have your own experience, and no doubt your own sources to bring to the table. I fully expect this to be a challenging session with a lot of strong opinions being aired, but I’m confident that we can avoid too much bloodshed.”

There was a ripple of laughter, but Sutherland’s eyes lingered on Belle a little longer than the others. She met his gaze steadily, hoping she wouldn’t blush.

“You might well be wondering why I’m here,” he added, looking around. “The Shaping a Stronger Society policy will fulfil several key campaign pledges and lay the groundwork for lasting change. I thought it right that I give it the high profile it deserves, particularly when it cuts across so many Government departments. We need to be presenting a united front on this.”

“I’m sure the fact that it’s election year is a happy coincidence,” remarked a woman with a white-blonde bob over dark roots. Belle read her nameplate: Ella Deville-Waters. Sutherland grinned.

“Well, you know what they say, Ella,” he said. “Politics is eighty percent timing, ten percent luck—”

“And ten percent knowing how to lie with a straight face,” drawled Ella, making everyone chuckle.

“Thought that was at least sixty percent,” muttered Belle, and Archie laughed and managed to turn it into a cough.

“Let’s get started,” said Sutherland, glancing at Belle again. “I know there are a few of you with presentations to give on your own areas of interest, and I’m assured the technology is working, so I’ll hand things over to each of you. Anna, could you help Miss French set up the first presentation?”

Belle blinked rapidly.

“Me?” she said weakly, and Sutherland smiled.

“Gets it out of the way, hmm?”

She supposed it would.

-

Standing up in front of a sea of expectant faces turned towards her, Belle momentarily wanted to run from the room. Once she started speaking and concentrated on her passion for the subject, however, she forgot that she was presenting to a bunch of politicians and academics in Downing Street. The fifteen minutes she had been allotted went by more quickly than she thought possible, and prompted a number of questions that she was able to answer easily. She sat down with a thump next to Archie afterwards, feeling an odd mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration, and he sent her a reassuring smile before turning his attention to the next speaker, Ella Deville-Waters. It turned out that she was Undersecretary for Education, and she spoke eloquently about the importance of early years learning.

There were other presentations, each followed by an opportunity for questions, the final talk being given by Archie. Belle scribbled notes as he spoke, and made a note of the papers he referenced; they sounded like something she would be interested in reading at a later date. When the questions were finished, Sutherland announced that they would break for coffee, and Belle felt herself sigh in relief. She was surprised to see that it was eleven-thirty already; the morning was almost over.

The rest of the day went reasonably well and the group generated some robust discussion; despite Sutherland having said he would be leaving after lunch, he showed no sign of doing so, and took the lead in steering the conversation. There was general agreement on the merits of expanding opportunities for all, and the desired outcome of the policy. Disagreements arose when it came to discussing how to get there. There was a frank exchange of views between Belle, Ella, and the brusque Sir George King, who worked for the Treasury. He seemed to take any suggestion that money would have to be spent as a personal affront. Anna had to step in and smooth things over more than once, and Belle could feel her patience draining away as the day drew towards evening. The draft call for evidence that was produced was the last straw.

“This doesn’t go nearly far enough,” she said bluntly, lifting the paper and dropping it on the table. “The questions skirt around the real issues, and there’s no meat on the bones of this thing. Whatever responses you get won’t address what we’ve been talking about all day. It’s papering over the cracks at best.”

“This is merely a scoping document,” said Sutherland mildly. “And a first draft at that. You can’t expect the policy to be fully-formed at this stage.”

“No, but if this is the direction we’re being nudged in, the whole thing is pointless,” she said. “How can you expect us to even start to make a difference if you refuse to fund it properly?”

Sutherland took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We’ve been over this, Miss French,” he said, sounding weary. “Budget constraints—”

“Yes we have been over this, and as I’ve said, budget constraints only ever seem to apply to policies that benefit the many over the few,” she said tartly. “Your Government may have managed to sweep the whole Pennine Consortium debacle under the rug a couple of years ago, but I remember the reports about the amount of public money that was being poured into that project, and it turned out to be going into the back pockets of the Home Secretary’s relatives!”

“Paying out according to contractual agreements is normal practice in business, I believe,” he said, in a bored voice. “The matter was investigated and the Home Secretary was cleared of all wrongdoing, as I’m sure you’re aware. ”

“My point is that billions were paid out for defence contracts with no questions being raised about whether they were affordable.”

“Clearly you didn’t watch the Select Committee hearings,” he remarked. His voice was a flat drawl that was doing nothing to stop her rising irritation.

“They were held after the money had been spent, not before, that’s my point!”

“And of course the purchase of tanks is entirely analogous to the development of literacy programmes.”

“I’d argue that the purchase of tanks is of decidedly lower value, actually,” she said.

“Then it’s a good thing you don’t have to make these decisions, isn’t it?”

Anna cleared her throat.

“Perhaps we can get back to the matter at hand?” she suggested. “Ella, what were you saying about school opening hours?”

“Oh, we can talk about that later,” said Ella cheerfully, waving a hand. “I’d much rather listen to this argument.”

“No one’s arguing,” said Sutherland coolly. “Miss French has a passionate nature, it seems.”

“Thanks, that’s not at all patronising,” said Belle, in a dry tone.

“Passion for public service is to be commended,” he said, matching her tone. “I thought I was giving you a compliment.”

“No you didn’t.”

Sutherland fixed her with a dark-eyed stare, his mouth flat. It was strangely arousing, and she could feel her breathing quicken. She told herself it was irritation.

“Your input here is valued, Miss French,” he said, his jaw a little clenched. “But I’d be grateful if you would allow us to guide you through this process, given that you know nothing about the way Government works.”

“No, I don’t,” she agreed, losing the last of her patience. “I don’t know about policy-making and contract negotiation and tendering and public procurement. And likewise I’d say you and most of the people that work for you don’t know what it’s like to worry about where the next meal is coming from.”

“Which is why we’re seeking the input of a wide range of stakeholders such as yourself.” He was trying for a smooth tone, but his eyes were flashing, and she could sense he was getting as annoyed as she.

“If you’re not prepared to listen to us, then it’s all empty gestures, isn’t it?” she protested.

“Wanting your input and allowing you to set the parameters of this thing are two entirely different things,” he said coldly. “I’m sorry if your expectations are out of step with reality.”

“There’s a lot of that going around.”

“Right!” said Anna briskly, slapping the table and making everyone jump. “That seems like a good place to break until tomorrow. It’s been a long day and I’m sure everyone could do with some fresh air.”

“Could do with a stiff drink, I don’t know about the rest of you,” said Ella, and there were appreciative murmurs from the others.

Belle sat back in her seat, listening with half an ear as chairs scraped back and papers were gathered up. Sutherland had already gone, stalking out of the room, and the others were throwing curious glances at her as they pulled on coats and drained cups.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Belle,” said Archie, tucking his folder of papers into a battered brown leather bag. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right about the scope being too narrow.”

She gave him a grateful look, and a smile, and he ducked his head a little and sauntered out. Belle sighed, toying with the cold cup of tea in front of her as the others began to file out. She felt drained, wrung out. Was this what it was like every day for politicians? She wondered how they coped. Maybe it was why so many seemed to go grey so quickly.

“You settling in for the night?”

Anna’s voice made her look up, and Belle realised they were alone.

“Sorry, I was miles away,” she said. “I feel as though my brain’s been scrambled and stuffed back in my head all wrong.”

“Welcome to Whitehall,” said Anna, in a deadpan tone, and Belle giggled.

“Sorry for letting my temper get the better of me at the end,” she said. “I’m not cut out for politics, it seems.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Anna. “You have the ability to see to the heart of things. He wasn’t joking when he said your input is valued, you know.”

Belle sighed, running her hands over her face.

“It just - it feels like I’m wasting my time here,” she said. “I know I don’t have much longer before the library has to close, and - and yet I’m down here in London, in what seems like a hopeless uphill battle! Maybe I should just go back to Avonleigh and try to do what little good I can.”

“You may have longer than you think,” said Anna, gathering up some papers. “The Prime Minister approved a scheme for local authorities a few days ago. It offers grants to support providers of breakfast clubs and after-school learning.”

Belle sat up.

“Like the library?” she asked, and Anna shrugged.

“Seems likely, doesn’t it?” she said. “Oh, we’ve made sure that local authorities have to use it for the intended purpose, by the way. The scheme is due to launch next week. I’d keep my eyes peeled to the website, if I were you.”

She put the papers in a leather satchel and took out another folder before slinging the satchel over one shoulder. Belle was smiling, her heart swelling with what felt like hope for the first time in months.

“A reprieve for the library?” she said. “And it was his idea?”

“Like I said.” Anna hitched the satchel on her shoulder. “He does listen. You might not think so, but he does.”

“Listening’s all very well,” said Belle. “It’s the choices that are made that are the issue.”

“There isn’t always a choice,” said Anna firmly. “Or at least, not one a Prime Minister can make.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Difficult decisions have to be made,” she added. “Sometimes hundreds each day. Everything’s urgent, everything has an impact, and he tries his best to make the right call based on the information given by people he trusts. He doesn’t always get it right. No one could.”

“Maybe not, but—”

“He has to balance fifty competing interests with almost every decision he makes,” she went on. “The papers turn on a dime and whoever’s lauded one week gets pilloried the next. Everyone around him is looking to him to lead and half of them are willing him to fail so that they can step into the spotlight. I won’t let that happen if I can help it.”

She picked up the folder of papers, turning on her heel.

“I’ll show you out,” she said over her shoulder. “I expect you’ll want an early night after today. Or a large drink. Or both.”

“You care about him,” said Belle, and Anna stopped dead before slowly turning back to face her.

“Yes,” she said simply. “He’s a good friend. And whether or not you believe it, Miss French, he’s a good man.”

Belle was silent for a moment.

“I haven’t made up my mind on that score,” she said eventually.

“Oh, I didn’t say he wasn’t a stubborn bloody pain in the arse at times,” added Anna. “He’s definitely that.”

Belle couldn’t help giggling.

“Well, bearing all that in mind, and in the interests of cooperation,” she said. “I suppose I really ought to apologise for snapping at him.”

Something in Anna seemed to relax at her words, and she smiled again.

“He’s used to being snapped at,” she said dismissively. “He gets far worse in the Commons, let’s face it. But an apology would probably make him more inclined to listen to you, so I certainly won’t stand in your way.”

Belle nodded agreement, and Anna jerked her head towards the door.

“I was going to take these reports to him before I head off,” she said, holding up the folder. “If you felt like going there now, I’d be happy to tell him you want to have a word.”

Belle hesitated, but nodded, and Anna smiled briefly and headed for the door. The interior of Downing Street was busier than Belle had expected at that time in the evening, aides hurrying with laptops and drinks and phones clasped to their ears. Anna led her down a wide, thickly-carpeted corridor and paused outside a heavy office door, where two Special Branch officers nodded to Anna and eyed Belle suspiciously before stepping aside. Anna rapped smartly on the door, and Belle heard a muffled bid to enter from behind it. She could feel her heart thumping in trepidation, and when the door opened she could see a room with a high ceiling, dark green carpet and a dresser in dark, polished wood where several cut crystal decanters sat, their contents gleaming in shades of amber and ruby. There were two leather armchairs and a couch around a coffee table in the same dark wood. Bookshelves stretched around two walls of the room, and Sutherland was sitting behind a heavy desk opposite the door, scribbling something. His eyes narrowed as they met Belle’s, but Anna walked forward, cutting off his view.

“Brought you those updates on the infrastructure options,” she said breezily, holding up the files. “If you want to go through them later let me know. I thought I’d go and get something to eat.”

“So I know why you’re in my office,” he said evenly, sitting back and putting down his pen. “Not too clear on the presence of Miss French. Unless she thought of something else she wanted to call me.”

“Actually I’m here to apologise,” said Belle, making his brows lift in surprise. “So I’m not about to insult you unless you start something.”

Sutherland’s mouth worked, as though he was trying not to laugh.

“Uh - thank you, Anna,” he said, glancing away. “Yes, go and get some dinner. I think Miss French and I can have a conversation without it coming to blows.”

“Good,” said Anna. “Behave.”

Belle was unsure who that last comment was directed at, but Anna left the room before she could ask, shutting the door behind her with a click. She turned slowly on her toes to face Sutherland, who was leaning back in his chair and tapping his papers with a pen, staring at her.

“Anna told me about the local authority grants for educational services,” she said. “That should help a lot more libraries stay open.”

“That’s the idea,” he said, with a shrug.

“Providing librarians know it’s available, of course,” she added.

“There’ll be an announcement when it’s launched,” he said. “Of course there’s nothing to stop you contacting your peers and explaining the process.”

“I guess not.” She fiddled with a button on her jacket before smoothing her hand against her skirt. “What made you change the policy on local grants?”

“I didn’t,” he said abruptly. “Just provided - clarification around eligibility.”

Belle took a step forward, until she was almost touching the desk.

“Well, that clarification should mean I won’t be closing the library doors this year,” she said. “Lucky for me, hmm?”

“Surprising as it may seem,” he remarked. “I do actually take into account the views of interested parties when making decisions. Where I can.”

“Hmm.” Belle leaned on the desk, pursing her lips. “Well, I’m sorry for yelling at you. I don’t like losing my temper and I try not to if I can help it.”

There was a tiny, amused grin on his face.

“A pity,” he said. “It was rather refreshing.”

“Yeah, well it wasn’t all that satisfying from my perspective,” she said. “Dealing with politicians is making me more cynical than I’d like to be.”

He gave her a twisted little smile.

“Well, that’s no bad thing,” he said. “The moment you start wanting to be cynical it’s probably time to run screaming for the hills.”

“At nine this morning I almost did run screaming,” she admitted, and he chuckled.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said. “I enjoyed your presentation. It was delivered with your usual passion, and I think you may have brought some of the others on board.”

“I think Sir George King would rather I’d stayed at home,” she said, and Sutherland shrugged.

“If it was up to him we wouldn’t spend any money at all,” he said. “On the whole, today went rather well, I thought. No physical blows were exchanged, and there was almost no profanity. One of the more sedate policy meetings I’ve attended, truth be told.”

Belle smiled.

“We’re all here for the common good, I suppose,” she said. “Although in some cases I’m not sure how much common good they’re really interested in doing.”

“First rule of policy-making,” he said. “Try not to kill off half your contributors in a fit of righteous anger. Tempting though it is.”

“Hmm.” She was amused. “I don’t remember reading that one in the welcome pack.”

“Unwritten rule,” he corrected, raising a finger. “I think the pack said some bollocks about understanding motivation and managing expectations.”

Belle bit back a grin.

“I guess I’m not cut out for a career in diplomacy,” she said, and he smiled.

“Gets easier the more you do it.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Well, thank goodness you’ll believe one thing that comes out of my mouth.”

It was said in a dry tone, but he was still grinning, and she returned the smile. There was a moment of silence, and he pushed up from the desk, crossing to the dresser.

“I was going to have a drink,” he said. “May I offer you one? There’s whisky, port, brandy… If that’s not to your taste I could easily have something brought in.”

“Uh - okay.” Belle was beginning to feel as though she had stepped into a strange parallel universe, where small town librarians sat and drank with the leaders of nations as a matter of course. “Thank you. I’ll take a brandy.”

“Excellent choice,” he said vaguely, and opened one of the doors of the dresser, taking out two brandy glasses.

Belle watched as he reached for one of the decanters and poured two small measures. His suit pants fitted him very well, skimming his rear as he moved. She shook her head, telling herself to stop ogling the man. Sutherland turned, glasses in hand, and nodded towards the armchairs.

“Take a seat,” he said.

Still feeling as though she was dreaming, Belle took the glass he held out and sat down, crossing her legs and watching as he put down his glass and lowered himself into the seat opposite. She took a sip of her brandy to take her mind off how good he looked, and how much better he might look if he lost the tie and unfastened the first few buttons of that crisp white shirt. The brandy was very good, far better than she was used to, and she licked her lips, enjoying the taste of caramel and spice and the pleasant heat on her tongue. Sutherland took a drink, sucking in his cheeks and setting down his glass on the coffee table. He looked tired.

“Are your work days usually this long?” she asked, and his eyebrows flicked upwards.

“It’s barely six-thirty,” he said. “I still have a few hours left in me.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a work-life balance,” she observed. Sutherland pulled a face.

“Gets a little quieter at recess, but no, I don’t suppose it is,” he said.

“Are you married?” she asked, and Sutherland shook his head.

“Divorced.”

“Oh,” said Belle. “I’m sorry.”

“No no, it’s fine,” he said, sitting back. “It was amicable. We’re still friends.”

“Oh.”

“She’s engaged to a High Court judge now,” he added. “I wish her every happiness.”

“Oh.” For God’s sake, Belle, say something intelligent. “You have kids?”

“A daughter,” he said. “Grown up now. Early twenties.”

“Oh.”

Sutherland took a drink, seeming to savour the taste of brandy on his tongue before swallowing. His gaze was steady, his eyes dark, and she could feel faint stirrings of desire in her lower abdomen. She looked down into her brandy glass, watching the ripples in the amber liquid and telling herself to snap out of her crush.

“What about you?” he asked then, making her look up. “You married? Children?”

“You mean you didn’t have me checked out?” she asked dryly, and he shrugged.

“Maybe you’re good at hiding things,” he said. “Or, as is more likely, Anna told me and I forgot about it.”

Belle bit back a smile.

“Well, hiding a husband and children would be beyond me,” she said. “Luckily I have no need. No family. Well, there’s my dad back in Melbourne, but apart from that I’m on my own.”

“No large, intimidating boyfriend?” he asked. “Or maybe a girlfriend, what do I know?”

“Neither,” she said. “Last relationship was pretty crappy, to be honest. Made me want to take a break for a while.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “I understand.”

“I thought you said you were on good terms with your ex.”

“Well…” He waved a hand. “I vaguely remember what it was like to be young. Aeons ago.”

She scoffed.

“Come on, you’re not that old.”

“Bloody feels like it, sometimes,” he grumbled.

“Well, that’s what comes from running the country,” she said pertly. “It’s why I stick to running a library.”

“No doubt that comes with its own stresses.”

“Only when I’m threatened with closure by arrogant, shortsighted politicians,” she quipped, and he snorted in amusement.

“Well, thank fuck there aren’t many of those around.”

Belle giggled before catching herself, and he was grinning as he leaned further back in his chair. His eyes gleamed when he smiled, and she couldn’t decide whether it was more or less arousing than when he was angry. A dangerous path for your thoughts to take, Belle.

“Did you say your daughter was in her twenties?” she said, trying to steer the conversation onto a safe topic. “Is she at university?”

“No no, she’s finished studying,” he said. “She’s started work in the City. Not in politics, thank God.”

“You wouldn’t want her to go into politics?” she asked, and he wrinkled his nose.

“I don’t think she’d be happy,” he said. “It can be a lonely, painful existence, and you make as many enemies as friends. Probably more, if I’m honest. She has a gentle heart, and I wouldn’t want to see her harden it to survive.”

“It seems a shame that people have to,” said Belle. “I think politicians could stand to be more compassionate, not less.”

Sutherland took another sip of his drink, eyeing her as he licked an amber bead of brandy from his lower lip.

“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “Alas, we have to deal with the world as it is, not as we might want it to be.”

“So why did you decide it was what you wanted to do?” she asked. “Did you always want to end up running the country?”

“No, I can’t say it was a childhood dream,” he admitted. “I started out as a barrister. The politician wasn’t born until I was in my late thirties.”

“So why politics?” she asked. “I’m guessing it wasn’t for the money.”

Sutherland pulled a wry face, taking another drink.

“I was earning more at the bar, certainly,” he said. “Far better work-life balance, as well.”

“Ego, then?” she suggested, and he grinned.

“That was certainly part of it.”

Belle waited, and he sighed, turning the brandy glass between his hands.

“Would you believe me if I said I thought I could make things better?” he asked.

“My new-found cynicism wouldn’t,” she remarked, and he chuckled.

“To the tragic death of innocence.”

He raised his glass in a mock toast, and Belle grinned, raising her own before sipping her brandy. The drink was almost gone, and she found herself regretting having drunk it so quickly. She would have to leave as soon as it was done, and to her great surprise she was enjoying their conversation.

“Do you think you have?” she asked. “Made things better?”

Sutherland hesitated, turning the glass between his fingers.

“I suppose it’s a work in progress,” he said. “But I’m trying. Perhaps not in the ways you would want me to.”

“I don’t suppose what I think matters,” she said, and he shook his head.

“You might be surprised at what matters to me, Miss French.”

He took another sip of his brandy, his eyes fixed on hers, and she could feel herself shiver. She drained her glass, setting it down on the table with a loud clink.

“Well,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I should go. I feel as though I’ve been wrung dry and turned inside out, and I could really use some sleep before I have to do it all again tomorrow.”

He smiled at that, setting his glass beside hers.

“In that case, I’ll show you out. Anna will expect me to have read those papers by the time she gets back.”

“She seems very committed to her job,” observed Belle, and he grinned.

“Couldn’t do my own without her,” he said. “I need someone to keep me in line.”

“I won’t argue with that,” she remarked, and he chuckled, a deep laugh that made her belly clench.

“I can see why she likes you,” he said, and strode to the door, opening it up and nodding to the Special Branch officers outside. “Good evening, Miss French. It’s a pleasure to be working with you.”

Belle nodded, slipping from the room and heading back along the corridor. A smiling woman with a dark ponytail and a brisk manner showed her out, and she stepped into the street with a sigh of relief. The press pack had gone, and she walked down towards the gates, smiling thanks to the police officer that let her out into the street beyond. It had been a long day, there was another to come, and her crush on the Prime Minister was developing into full-blown lust.

[randomoranges]

sometimes fights happen. the last of the relationship arch and technically the first. would come before Jello and Relationship Status: conjoint you don’t need to have read the others.

Apology [Accepted]

20XX

They’re out and about, Étienne bringing him on his usual whirlwind visit of the city, not wanting him to miss out on anything going on during his time here. It’s been an overall pleasant day and they’ve taken a small break to enjoy a treat on one of the many terasses the city has to offer. They’re sitting close, Étienne having no real notion of what personal space is, and Edward finds he doesn’t mind. It’s nice and he likes that Étienne hasn’t put up his usual guard. His boyfriend has been regaling him with some bodacious tale, when he is interrupted, halfway through, when another person comes up to them.

 “Étienne?!” The person says, astounded and surprised to find him here.

 Étienne automatically puts some space between them, as if suddenly aware of where he is and Edward watches as his boyfriend’s eyes grow wide and a grin etches itself on his face, “Oh mon Dieu, Malik, allô! Ça fait longtemps!”

 There’s the usual exchange of kisses on cheeks and pats on the back, followed by catching up on the latest. Edward watches, from the corner of his eyes, as Étienne once more seems to know everyone he runs into and something starts stirring inside of him that he can’t quite name.

 “Aye, scuse, j’avais pas vu qu’t’étais avec quelqu’un.” Malik says and both of them turn towards him and Edward offers a polite smile and wave.

 “Oui, c’est mon ami, Édouard, yé-t-en visite pour encore une semaine!” Étienne beams and Edward – Edward stills, that one word ringing and repeating itself over and over and over again as an ugly, long forgotten voice returns to whisper fears in his mind, feeding off the feeling from before.

 He tries to ignore it, makes polite chit-chat with Malik until they leave, but the word festers and colours his mood. He remains quiet as Étienne picks up their previous conversation and his mood only sours as the rest of the afternoon progresses.

 He thought – he had dared to think that things were different now.

 He supposes he’d been very wrong.

 Étienne would never change. He isn’t sure why he’s surprised.

 Of course, despite everything Étienne had told him – the confessions and the promises and the affirmations – it had meant nothing. They were only words. Étienne didn’t really like him. They were only words to make him feel better. To dupe him into a lie. He was and is just Some Friend. Some idiot Étienne keeps around for when he’s bored. A simple ami. Not a boyfriend. Not even a vulgar chum.

 Un ami. A friend. Nothing fucking more.

 Étienne probably is ashamed of him. Humours him by having him over. Even now, after all these years. He doesn’t know why he thought otherwise – why he believed Étienne when he’d told him the contrary.

 How stupid of him. How utterly naïve.

 He deserves this, really. Deserves to be mocked when the signs had all been there, really. Everyone had told him that Étienne only played games. He’d been blind to them is all.

 Eventually, Étienne quiets down himself, realising that Edward’s enthusiasm has withered and the rest of the afternoon is a quiet sullen thing. They head back to Étienne’s place afterwards and Étienne lets him be for a moment, while he tends to Mercury and it’s only later, that he goes out of his way to find him and sits beside him.

 “Alright, are you going to tell me what’s eating you or are you going to be a miserable old sack for the rest of the evening?” Étienne sounds a little annoyed and Edward thinks it’s a good thing. He wants him to be annoyed. Wants him to stew and be miserable. Just like he feels now.

 “It’s fine. It’s nothing you should concern yourself with. I’m just a friend, after all. No one important.”

 Étienne gives him a look as though he’s been slapped in the face, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Hell, he even sounds insulted.

 Edward sighs, annoyed and frustrated because why would Étienne have the decency of understanding? “I don’t know, you tell me!”

 Étienne blinks, clearly confused, “What are you talking about?”

 “Can’t believe I have to spell it out for you, but then again, I suppose I also shouldn’t be surprised about this either. After all, you’re the one who dismissed me as your friend earlier, when your friend came to chat you up.”

 “You mean Malik? What the hell else was I supposed to call you? Was that too much?” Now, even Étienne sounds annoyed and it’s evident from the way his eyebrows are knit close together and the tightness of his mouth.

 “Your boyfriend! Or are you that ashamed of me?!” He finally near yells.

 Étienne looks at him, surprised. He remains quiet and simply looks. Edward is a little unnerved, but even more so when Étienne lets out a dark and bitter sounding laugh.

 “Oh this is fucking rich coming from you, Murphy.”

 “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

 “You’ve gotta be kidding me, clearly. How the fuck was I supposed to know I could call you that to others when you’ve spent decades avoiding anyone seeing us even walk down a street together in broad daylight!”

 There’s a small voice – very small and very annoying – at the back of his head that tells him Étienne has a point, however Edward ignores it and instead charges on, politeness be damned.

 “Well maybe if you had given me some inkling of a sign that you were into me I would have let you!”

 “Please, you were so far buried into your closet that even your precious Gretzky coming out and fucking you wouldn’t have been enough.”

 He’s aware they’re both going for where it hurts. That they’re using their own deep and buried hurt as a weapon and that they should stop. However, there is something raw that has been unearthed and there seems to be no going back at this point.

 “Of course it’s my fucking fault! You’re too perfect and self-centered to have any flaws.”

 “What does that have to do with the fact that I didn’t know you were okay with me telling people you’re my boyfriend? You never let me know! You’re still not comfortable with PDA! I was trying to be nice, for Christ’s sake!”

 “Yeah, well, it looked more like you were ashamed to be seen in public with me!”

 Étienne scoffs loudly and rolls his eyes at him, “Me? Ashamed of you? Please, it’s always felt like the other way around! I’ve been trying to reach out for you for decades. You’re the one who pushed back and would swat my hand away. And I figured, fine, you weren’t out, whatever. So I kept my hands to myself and didn’t say anything. And even now. I don’t know what you’re comfortable with, so excuse me for fucking wanting to give you space and not knowing what the fuck was actually going on in your head.” Étienne makes to get up and most likely get some air, but Edward isn’t done. He’s not letting Étienne walk away.

 “What the hell?! You can’t honestly believe I was ashamed of you! Why the fuck else would I keep coming back here to see you?”

 “Because I was convenient! An easy escape! You said so yourself! It was easy for you to come here and be whomever. I could have been literally anyone else and it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

 Edward wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all and nearly does. “Of course it was convenient,” He starts and cuts Étienne off before he can go on again, “You were-are my friend so it made it easier. But not because of the reasons you believe.”

 They both fall quiet and stare at each other, an impasse being more or less reached. Eventually, Étienne runs a hand over his face, after removing his glasses and cleans them off his shirt before putting them back on. He takes a deep breath and then sags a little against the couch.

 “So, are you telling me that we both got worked up over some giant misunderstanding and you actually don’t mind me telling people you’re my boyfriend now?” He sounds a little tired, as if this issues has been plaguing his mind for years and Edward feels, for the first time since this whole debacle has started, that they might finally be back on the same page.

 “Something like that... And yes, I don’t mind. I should have told you.” He says a little quieter, a little calmer.

 “And I should’ve asked.”

 They look at each other, hazel meeting green, and it’s a timid understanding that is reached. One formed over embarrassment and apology.

 “I think there are still things we need to discuss.” He doesn’t want this to happen again. For as much as he doesn’t mind clearing the air, he also doesn’t want to hurt Étienne.

 “You mean there are still issues we’re carrying around that could blow up at any time in some toxic way and threaten the foundation of what we have?” Étienne says, mock surprised as he brings a hand to his chest, feigning shock. Edward lets out a puff of air that forms into a little laugh.

 “Yeah, something like that.” He reaches over for Étienne’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “I was never ashamed of you. Honestly and I’m sorry if you thought that.”

 Étienne twines their fingers together and if his grip is a little tight, Edward doesn’t mention it.

 “I know. Logically, I know that. I guess, hearing you say that woke up some old fear inside of me... an old insecurity. We do need to discuss this. I’m sorry – for what I said and hurting your feelings. I’m not ashamed of you. I’ve never been ashamed of you either.” Étienne tentatively scoots closer and Edward carefully places an arm around him, letting Étienne put his head down on his shoulder. He notices a bit of tension ebb away from Étienne’s face and finally, he feels that this too will come to be solved with time.

 FIN

[hanadoesstuffbadly]

‘Online’ ch I - RS&t7D University AU

Hello, I was looking for Red Shoes fanfiction when I discovered that there are little to no Modern AUs being written. So i figured, screw it, I’ll do it myself because I love modern AUs.

This is the first chapter and it is very long, so if you don’t feel like reading it, fair enough. I’m planning to write the whole thing anyway because I also love writing and it’s good practise.

Small warning if you do want to read this: Merlin is British. I am British. British people are very sarcastic and very moody all of the time. This entire first chapter is from Merlin’s perspective so there are a lot of British phrases and idioms used. If you are fortunate enough to not be an eternally grumpy Brit, don’t worry, the next chapter will be a very bad written impersonation of an American!!

Also, this is my first ever fanfiction so please don’t judge me too harshly, I am but a young peasant girl.

Sooooooooo.... Summary.

Merlin is a twenty year old student at Southend University. To combat his detrimental narcissism, his counsellor suggests online gaming. Merlin tries to cheat by using an ancient game called Fairytale Island, which designs your avatar to match a photograph. This plan falls apart when his laptop explodes, turning his avatar tiny and green. He ploughs on regardless, sure that he will encounter nobody. Little does he know, that a newly moved student from the States is coming online the very same night. :)

(It’s kinda switched so Merlin is the last of the F7 to get his attitude set right.)

With that done... I hope you don’t hate it!

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Merlin couldn’t stand mornings, especially Friday mornings. Because for the duration of his first year of Uni, Friday’s lessons had always begun at the reasonable hour of 2 o’clock in the afternoon. This left Merlin a good half hour to be awake, out of the door and on his bike, zipping past the crowded Southend beaches. In short, Merlin hated Friday mornings because he had not seen one in fifteen months. Needless to say, it was not a welcome reunion.

Approximately twelve minutes prior to commencing with today’s zipping -at the unlawful hour of nine in the morning- Merlin had been idly stirring shredded wheat into a depressing gruel (much to the disgust of the ever-vigilant, ever-attentive, red-haired cook,) basking in his own tardiness. 

Had he asked for counselling? No. 

Did he need counselling? None of their business.

Did he want to be dragged out of bed at half-eight by six overbearing housemates who apparently believed it was "necessary" or "overdue"; to be packed off to the Resource Centre so that they could “Evaluate any and all emotional or psychological issues which may have arisen for you, as a student whom we have identified as being at risk, before the beginning of this new academic term”? No, he did not!

Contrary to a promising forecast, the sky was a sapphire pool overhead. Thus, the fantasy of motorbiking down empty seafront roads, the brassy drumming of thunder and the gurgle of saltwater smothering his roaring engine (Hans called him a madcap but personally, Merlin preferred the term Raptor-trainer) was squashed. And given that a motorbike charging down the road in the wee hours of the morning was frowned upon, Merlin was forced to content himself with walking at a purposefully counter-productive pace to the bus stop down the hill. Stubbornly, he insisted on himself that he wore a cobalt-blue, long-sleeved shirt with grey trousers; dressing not for the weather he had, but the weather he wanted. This was a stupid idea and the sleeves were rolled up before he reached sea-level. He had to restrain himself from missing a bus entirely. It wasn’t crowded, because of course it wasn’t. Everyone else in Southend had better things to be doing. 

Like sleeping. 

The bus didn’t even go all the way to the college, stopping at least a dozen yards from the entrance like a noncommittal shrug. It took everything in Merlin to not  keep his butt planted securely in his seat; let the busyness of British public transport whisk him away to the Leigh on Sea station; catch a train to Fenchurch street; disappear into Central London; never be seen or heard from again, especially by Dr- as a student whom we have identified as being at risk- LeFey; then inevitably die from water pollution at a ripe old age of thirty-five. It took everything in him, but he walked down to the building, through glass-doors ornamented by a million sweaty fingerprints, and into a waiting room that smelt of Sellotape.

Unsurprisingly, the stately woman at the desk gave him barely a passing glance, handing him a form to fill in with the enthusiasm of an automatic door sliding open. Also unsurprisingly, the assistant behind her paused in rearranging a filing cabinet to brush a couple of sandy hairs behind her ear and chew the end of a pen like it was made of liquorice. She even wandered aimlessly away from her task altogether, sidling up to the front desk most inconspicuously.

Merlin's mood brightened. While he leant down to scribble his name and address on the paper, he winked discreetly in her direction.  In spite of definitely not looking at him, her cheeks turned beetroot crimson and what might have been a giggle or the beginnings of a small heart attack escaped her lips. 

Against all of the shoddiness of his day so far, Merlin grinned inwardly, sizing her up with half of his attention. Tall, slender, twenty-one, twenty-two most likely. Stray blonde curls framed a thickly tanned face, the rest piled atop her head in a bun. In all, not a bad picture, although her wardrobe did leave something to be desired: Bell-bottomed jeans and a T-shirt reading "Darth Vader was framed", betraying that 

A. She still thought that bell-bottomed anything was a good look, and 

B. That she had never paid more than six quid for a shirt. 

However, her figure and the hang of her hair more than made up for those discrepancies. Perhaps he could get something out of this counselling after all. With this in mind, he cleared his throat loudly,

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss," he waved the form vaguely in front of his face, "but I have a small problem."

Perhaps knowing exactly what he was doing and being used to it by this point, the woman, Ms Marion- who had decided that underneath a lace cardigan was the place for a name tag- ignored him completely, leaving miss bell-bottoms to round the edge of the counter and come to stand by his side over the offending form.

"What's the matter?" She asked, sincerely.

"Y'see," Merlin began, fixing her with a smile that even Jack admitted made anyone weak at the knees, "right here it's asking me for something that I just don't really get." He pointed accordingly, and bell-bottoms leant in closer. To get a really good look at the text, of course.

"We need your mobile number."

"Oh, I see, now here's the thing." Wearing a look of utter helplessness, he faced bell-bottoms completely. She appeared confused, her face becoming redder by the second. "I don't have one of those."

"What?"

"A mobile number." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You wouldn't mind terribly giving me yours, would you?"

If he squinted, Merlin was fairly certain he would see her bell-bottomed soul leaving her body and fluttering out of the window. He took her lack of reaction as an invitation,

"Lin Pendragon." He extended one hand, still cloaked in a fingerless glove the colour of wet bark. Despite his housemates deciding otherwise, Merlin was in fact not his actual name, and he would sooner be caught dead than introducing himself with it to an attractive young woman such as this. "Part time Ancient Historian, full time Romantic."

Bell-bottoms took the hand and shook it with unexpected firmness,

"Gowlle Delocks. Part time assistant, full time, um..." She seemed a little lost, floundering like a GCSE English paper "Full time-"

"Doctor Morgan LeFey. Part time tolerator of tardiness. This is not one of those times Mister Pendragon."

Spinning on his heel and effectively knocking the form onto the floor, Merlin faced the speaker, who stood in the doorway of a side-office like a disgruntled flamingo.

One thing came to mind when Merlin looked at the counsellor and that was the smell created when someone burns popcorn in a microwave. Forehead too small; nose too large, a hairy wart taking up most of it; everything that should end in a curve ending in an acute, needle-like point. She looked like a bad imitation of a Picasso painting come to life. Yellow hair that might have been blonde hung from her scalp, which he could almost see for how thin the stuff was; and her olive skin was definitely closer to a pale, sickly green from where Merlin was standing. The murky, sky-blue gown that would have looked excessive in the nineteenth century certainly didn't help. Summed up, she looked like a creature one would throw something at if it approached them on a dark night. Merlin felt his nose wrinkle in disgust.

So, he had been forced into counselling by a literal witch. Today was just going swimmingly wasn't it.

Dr Lefey's "office" was exactly what Merlin expected. Save of course for a cauldron,  broomstick and small children in display cases. Indigo curtains rather than blinds hung at each side of a wide picture window that looked out on a garden peppered by horrendous little gnomes. Their China faces were stained green by years of mildew build-up. Her wooden floor she had covered with gaudy, knitted rugs, and the sides of her desk had glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to them. On the off-white walls hung various, tasteless frames of all sorts and colours, each depicting a photograph taken by somebody who was evidently not a professional photographer. One such picture especially caught his eye.

"This you, Miss… Lefty?" The question was stupid, of course it was her, every other human being on the planet had at least managed to look like one. The photo showed the woman sitting in a cluster of children underneath a cobbled-together shack, a paper tiara on her head and a wand made out of several plastic straws. "The fairy princess in the mauve cardigan?"

"First," She answered, pushing the door shut behind her with her pointy hip, "It's Doctor Lefey, but you will call me Morgan in these sessions." Merlin couldn't help but smirk internally when she assumed there would be more than one of these nightmares. "Second, yes, that is me in the photograph, November, four years ago, Uganda, a recycling activity. And third," The slam of a hefty file being dropped unceremoniously on to a desk made Merlin jump. "I was the fairy Queen."

"Well, your majesty," he ducked his head in a mock bow, "you've aged..." At first, he searched for an adverb but then realised, he didn't particularly need one.

Morgan gave Merlin that pinched smile that he'd seen Arthur's girlfriend, Gwen, give customers at The Golden Goose Cafe when they told her she had no idea who she was dealing with. Also called the 'booting-you-into-next-Thursday-would-cost-twenty-pounds-an-hour-but-i-am-legitimately-considering-it' face. Merlin ignored her easily. He'd had years of practise doing so.

He plopped himself down onto a teal green sofa with a ketchup stain running up one arm. It wasn't a comfortable seat, but the garish pixie cushion did help somewhat. Morgan paid him no attention, leafing through the thick file which she had retrieved moments before. She paid him no attention for a little too long.

As aforementioned, Merlin was fine with ignoring people. Even enjoyed it sometimes. Unattractive waitresses, bin-collectors, overweight people at the gym, pedestrians. Being ignored, however, was a far less comfortable experience. Probably because it was such a rare one. He coughed into the pasty silence.

"Those your medical records?" The room was quiet enough to facilitate a pin drop sounding like a bowling ball being dropped. A long, controlled intake of breath was easily made out. “Cosmetic surgery?” 

"No." She said shortly, continuing with her browsing, "but they are yours." Merlin quickly stopped ignoring her. "And your birth records and your parents birth records and every other detail of your stimulating life story, Merlin." He short-circuited momentarily.

"That's not my-"

"No, it isn't your given name, but it's what your roommates call you and according to them, the one you prefer going by." Alright, those googly snitches were going to pay later. He recovered from his surprise gracefully as always, but that left him no less indignant.

"I- I wasn't aware that you'd have access to that information."

"Several reliable sources have identified you as being at risk, Merlin, everything in this folder is strictly need-to-know." A smile that could have been genuine spread across her features, and it may have been nice if it weren't so nauseating to look at. He crossed his arms and sunk lower into the sofa, muttering to himself,

"You hardly 'need-to-know' about the name though."

"Obviously, anything said in this session doesn't leave this room and the values and standards of Southend University are to be observed at all times." With quick strides on legs like skipping ropes, Morgan left her desk and placed herself gracelessly on a trademark shrink chair. 

The ‘So, Merlin.’ Was audible on her spindly lips before they left them.

"So, Merlin. First, I'd like you to relax," Difficult, I'm sitting across from a gorgon, I'm a man moments from death, "and tell me about your background, where you're from, your family." He gave her a blank look.

"You just told me that you have a massive file telling you that stuff."

"Yes, but I'd like to know that you also know that stuff. Reviewing your case will prove very difficult if we aren't on the same page. Now, if you please." With an exasperated puff of air into his cheeks, Merlin leant forward so that his elbows braced against his knees and his hands clasped together.

"Fine. I was born in Seoul, South Korea; my parents died in a car accident when I was three. I was brought to England to live with an aunt in Ipswich."

"And you were comfortable with this change?" The interruption caused Merlin to blank for a second.

"Wha- I was three. I was comfortable sitting in a tumble dryer with knickers on my head!" This retort was not appreciated, judging by the tapping of Morgan's pencil against a green clipboard that had seemingly materialised out of thin air.

"These are regulation questions, try not to overthink your answers." With this she returned to drawing writing utensils from the ether apparently, a silent signal for him to continue. Already, Merlin's mind was going through fantasies of sprinting down the hill, across the high street and off the end of Southend pier.

"Alright then, the aunt was arrested when I was six-"

"Why was she arrested?"

"Are shrinks meant to interrupt their patients?"

"I'm not a shrink, I'm a University counsellor, why was your aunt arrested?" Nothing about this experience was relaxing. Getting a Frostino with Miss Delocks, the part-time-assistant would have been relaxing.

"Possession of illegal firearms. Just a taser. Five years in prison under the law of the United Kingdom. Happy?"

"Yes, this is very helpful. So, your guardian was arrested and…"

"I went into care, obviously. Seven foster homes over six years. Adopted after my eleventh birthday by Igraine Pendragon and her husband. I moved into their home in York, Summered in Cumbria; went to school with their son. Igraine died when I was fifteen, Uther when I was seventeen. Arthur and I moved out to one of the cottages we own in Leigh two years ago. It was all perfectly fine and now here I am at Southend University in a counselling session I didn't ask for with a counsellor that I'm certain nobody has ever asked for." Okay, the last bit slipped out half unwarranted, but he might as well be honest.

Long, mole-flecked fingers curled and tightened around the edges of her clipboard, leaving dents in the malleable green cork like it was plasticine.

"Right." Came a snarled response from between smiling teeth. "Now, on to some more current information: Who do you live with during your time at the University?"

"Igraine’s son, Arthur, and the five student tenants who rent out rooms." That felt weird to say. For some reason, whenever Merlin thought about the six other occupants of Stanrocc cottage, it was hard to remember that they weren’t all related in one way or another.

“Right, and are you comfortable with these living arrangements?”

“I’m a University student who gets to live in a fully catered house free of charge, what do you think?” The pinched ‘threaten-to-speak-to-my-manager-again-and-I-will-hit-you-with-a-shoe’ smile returned.

“Okay then.” A rustling of paper signalled that the background questions were mercifully coming to a close, as, Merlin hoped, was this entire experience. Unfortunately, the next words out of the witches’ mouth weren’t, ‘thank you for your time, Mister Pendragon, I hope you and Miss Delocks have a splendid afternoon.’ Instead she intertwined her grotesque fingers and looked him in the eye. The fact that he didn’t turn to stone was a shock.

“Now, Merlin, I’d like to know what features you look for when meeting new people.” Alright, not what he’d wanted or expected to hear.

“Is this a personal interview-”

“Just-” Morgan closed her eyes and pressed her lips together until they completely disappeared into her face. “Answer the question, Merlin.”

“I look for the same things anyone looks for. Do they look approachable? Would I want to be seen with them out and about? Those kinds of things.” He darted his eyes from Morgan’s varicose ankles to her sloping forehead. 

“So, you base the value of other people’s company solely upon their outward appearance and draw any and all judgements from those assets?” There were too many words in that sentence, was all Merlin could think in response. When he did finally puzzle out what the question actually was, he gave the woman a jovial nod. Finally, they were on the same wavelength.

“Of course I do, how a person looks tells you a lot about who they are, doesn’t it?” 

Morgan must have been writing something down, but it still felt as though her eyes had not left Merlin for a second. An intake of breath through her wide nostrils filled the room.

“To some extent, maybe.” She shifted on her chair and the look in her eye of a person who had gotten exactly what they wanted was unnerving. “Merlin, do you think you feel this way about other people because these mentalities could have been forced on you in the past?” Her nasal voice had become one of understanding and professionalism, the Northern accent thinning considerably. Merlin didn’t like it at all. “Maybe you feel as though you personally are liked or disliked for nothing besides how you look?”

Throughout this entire, stupid session, Merlin had been wanting to avoid answering questions. Now all he wanted to do was say something so devastating yet so on point that it would shut this witch up for the rest of her career. And yet his tongue remained still, rooted to the floor of his mouth.

“I see.” The counsellor stood and shook out her skirts with the smug air of a woman victorious. Merlin wanted to throw something at her. Like a shoe. She went around to the back of her desk and retrieved a post-it-note shaped like a unicorn. “I’m giving until the beginning of the new term to combat this problem that we seem to have here." In one motion she ripped away the post it note and was making her way back towards him, brandishing it like a literal curse rather than simply the figurative one that it clearly was. She handed it to him unforgivingly.

"I'd like you to try a social activity that is purely audio based. Interactions with others that don't allow them to see your appearance." The urge to crumple the note into a ball was strong. “I’ll schedule another session three weeks from now.”

"And what if I'm perfectly happy with the way things are? I don't need to change anything." Merlin shot back, and control of the situation brushed his fingertips before Morgan's condescending smile dragged it out of reach again.

"Tell me, Merlin, how many reports do you think I received from your professors and peers of this self-important, judgemental behaviour?" Merlin was already standing as he milled the question over for a full couple of seconds.

"One or two, I'd imagine." He finally mumbled. The witch drummed her pencil against her crossed arms and shook her head. "Well," Merlin started, "it can't have been-"

"Twenty-four." She didn't look victorious now, just a little sorry. That was so much worse. "Twenty-four different people, who you have known for only a year or so. Still think you don't need to change anything?"

Merlin didn't want to look around at her ridiculous face again. He didn't think he even knew twenty-four people well enough for them to report him. Her voice carried on no matter how much he wanted it not to.

"If I don’t see improvement three weeks from now, regardless of how you feel about it, I won't have anything to present against a decision to remove you from your course entirely."

The facts stung like poisonous, green smoke in Merlin's head. He pulled at the ornamented door handle, dismissing himself. Then a question came into his mind and forced itself to be asked.

"What activities would you suggest, then?"

"Start an interactive podcast; volunteer for a University chat-line; Online gaming." Merlin's humourless scoff punctuated her list.

"Yeah, no. I'm not an ‘over the phone’ kind of guy." He stepped out into the hallway and noticed Miss Delocks' head spin in his direction. The last ten minutes had dampened any mood he might have been in for going out, but that didn't mean he couldn't at least try to cheer himself up. He heard one last reply from the witch before he strode off in the assistant’s direction,

"Keep that attitude up and you won't be a "Part-time Ancient Historian" either."

-

In case the presence of a pale pink fiesta with mermaid stickers running along the doors wasn’t indicative enough, the loud guffaws and scattered shouts told Merlin that his housemates had company. This was before he even reached the top of the hill. Night was creeping across the sky already. Merlin would have liked to stay out longer, but the witches’ words had stuck a little too keenly to him, and a college bar surrounded by five beautiful young ladies was not, it seemed, the best place to process things.

Stanrocc cottage was one of a kind really. It was called a cottage because it managed to be too small to be a villa but also too pretty to be a house. The walls were brick, covered in an artsy kind of cement stuff with shells mixed into it, then painted white. Kingfisher blue window frames peeked out from beneath an overgrowth of marble-like gladioli and ballet-slipper foxgloves. The diminutive front garden was mostly taken up by the wild-cherry tree that had looked hurricanes and landfalls in the face, released a string of angry expletives and stayed precisely where it was with zero intention of ever going away. Around its ankles sprung up Snowdrops every Winter, but right now, in the twilight of August, the space was taken up by a hoard of decaying daffodil corpses.

Through one of the windows, a blonde head was just visible. It stood up haphazardly and came to the door when Merlin knocked. Jack appeared in the doorway, but he’d barely laid eyes on Merlin before he was leaning back inside and shouting into the noisy fray, his accent thick, probably from laughing,

“Ee’s back!” With that he left the door hanging open. Merlin entered, a little disgruntled at the lack of welcome, until he got inside and found out why. Seated on the various beanbags, chairs, and sofas, were their usual six occupants, but with them were four less usual ones. Alright, not that unusual, three of them Merlin knew he recognised.

First was Arthur’s fiancée, Gwen. She was a common recurring visitor. Whenever Arthur wasn’t following her around the café, she was following him around the cottage. The other two present were less clearly defined by engagement rings or Facebook relationship status’. 

Upon sitting back down on his very expensive armchair, Jack had one-hundred-and-fifty centimetres of pink-leggings wearing, ashen skinned vegetarian seating herself comfortably on his lap. That one was Viviane… Or Niniane. Merlin never actually paid attention when Jack gushed about her, but he was almost sure her name was one of those. She was Jack’s “study partner'', both of them being up and coming chemists. Funny, because to Merlin’s knowledge, studying didn’t usually involve reclining on each other’s laps; playing with each other’s hair (or her playing with his, at least) and going out on spa trips together. If they weren’t together, Merlin couldn’t blame Jack. All spread-out, round eyes and large lips, she did look a little like a fish with legs.

Lastly there was Briar. Nobody actually knew what Briar was. Was she Hans’ friend? His girlfriend? A kind of omnivorous goat? It was a mystery. Altogether they knew seven things about her: Like Hans, she was German; she took fencing lessons; her wardrobe consisted entirely of ankle-length, floaty skirts and a special talent of hers was tripping over literal air. She slept with a baseball bat, wore purple contacts in her eyes and, while you wouldn’t imagine so from her physique, she had the appetite of a full grown horse. They didn’t even know what she was doing at the Uni. With her legs folded in front of her, she leant on her maybe-boyfriend-maybe-friend’s signature bean bag chair, one hand holding a row of scrabble pieces. The other was surreptitiously burrowing through Hans’ homemade bag of steak flavoured crisps, which famously tasted like dog food to everyone but those two. The curly-headed bag-holder didn’t seem to mind at all.

There was one other girl with them, seated on a folding chair between Briar’s feet and Arthur’s elbow. Merlin gave her barely a passing glance however, taking in a round figure, cherry-pink shorts, and shoulder-length brown hair before he lost interest. 

Maybe you feel as though you personally are liked or disliked for nothing besides how you look.

The counsellor’s stupid voice drove through his thoughts unbidden like an off-rail train. He shook his head and shoved them back down into his subconscious where they belonged, ready to be forgotten. 

The ringing of the words, however, was replaced by his stomach gurgling irritably. A muffin and a salted-caramel hot chocolate were not enough to go on for a whole afternoon. His eyes fell on the Chinese food containers strewn about the coffee table and surrounding floor. A takeaway was a rare occasion in Stanrocc cottage. In the entire county of Essex, there were exactly four fast-food establishments that Hans trusted and respected, and thus, would allow them to purchase from. Two of these were fish-and-chip shops; one- Merlin’s particular favourite- did flame-grilled kebabs; and the last one was the Jade Dragon Restaurant. Very expensive- meaning Jack was probably to thank for it- and very, very good Chinese food. It dawned on Merlin a little late that this uncharacteristic treat might have been meant to make him feel better, judging by the sizeable stack of barbecue kebab boxes that could be seen just inside the kitchen door. Nobody else liked barbecue kebabs.

But he was too tired and too hungry to feel bad for not coming back. He’d been busy.

 The energetic game of scrabble had come to a standstill when his arrival was announced. Now ten pairs of eyes were on him and six of them were concerned. Merlin made for the kitchen, the multitude of expectant faces making his chest knot.

 “Don’t worry about me,” he insisted, half-heartedly when he noticed both Arthur and Hans shifting as if to get up. “I’m going to bed.”

 Noki, the second of the triplets, swept up a container filled with Prawn crackers and extended them in Merlin’s direction. He waved them away dismissively.

 “Really, it’s fine, I’ll grab something from the fridge.” And with that he left the room.

 Much to his dismay, the fridge was a sorry sight, being mostly bare save for half a watermelon and an empty milk carton. It was a Friday, he soon remembered, which meant Hans would be grocery shopping tomorrow. Also, Briar was there.

 Footsteps came thudding along the short passage between the living room and the kitchen. Merlin didn’t have to look up to know that an orange vest with arms was blocking the door.

 “What do you want, Arthur?” Even in the fridge, Merlin could feel the glare in the back of his head. Crossed arms also wouldn’t be a surprise.

 “I want to know where you’ve been, and why you didn’t feel the need to tell us you weren’t coming back?” Merlin finally selected a yogurt cowering at the very back with a best-before date of yesterday. He shut the fridge door with his foot, searching for a clean spoon on the draining board.

 “You know you aren’t actually my dad, right?” He plunged the end of the spoon through the paper covering and started ripping the excess away. “I can go where I want.”

 “No.” Arthur had now moved completely into the room. “But you’re still one of us, mate, and we were all worried. The triplets almost got in the truck to come pull you out of whatever ditch you’d fallen into.” Merlin actually looked him in the face this time. He was scratching his ghost of a goatee the way he always did when he felt in deep water. “You didn’t exactly leave in great spirits this morning.”

 “Lurrk, uum fyrn.” Merlin said through a mouthful of yogurt. The stuff was absolutely repulsive, but it was the best conversation avoidance technique he had without a book to hand. He manoeuvred around Arthur, trying desperately to keep from openly weeping at the foul stuff. The best-before date ought to have been the may-not-kill-you-before date. 

“Yeah,” Arthur sighed behind him. “I can see that. But you’re-“ Merlin dashed up the stairs, discarding the yogurt discreetly in the kitchen bin as he passed it.

Arthur had changed since meeting Gwen. It was like something had been plucked out of him. The thing that had made Merlin feel close to him while everything was happening: The adoption, losing both their parents. It was like Arthur had grown up, changed somehow. And had left Merlin behind.

 And from what he had seen in the other room, Arthur wasn't the only one.

 Merlin emptied the yogurt out of his mouth and gargled mouthwash to get rid of the lingering flavour of overripe strawberries. A knock at his bedroom door interrupted him.

 “What did the counsellor say?” It was Arthur again. Merlin had honestly had enough of today. Why couldn’t everyone just leave him be? He wasn’t hurting anyone.

He poked his head out, startling his friend who still had his fist raised to knock again.

 “She suggested I take up gaming.”

-*-

Hours later, Merlin turned over his pillow again, trying his absolute hardest to fall asleep. He’d tried relaying a movie in his head, but thinking about the ending just made him sad. He’d tried reading his new book, but Neil Gaiman wasn't particularly relaxing. At last he had just shut his eyes and told himself to sleep, with real authority and gumption. That just made him more awake because his brain hated him.

Eventually he sat up and tugged the string on his lamp. The clock on his desk told him it was 2:26. Merlin’s bones told him that he was actually in a void in which time was a construct of society, and he felt much more inclined to believe the latter. Seeing as somebody, probably Hans, had left a plate of reheated kebabs in front of his door, Merlin hadn’t starved, so he couldn’t explain the hollow discomfort that was plaguing him now.

Actually, he could, he just didn’t want to.

Twenty-four people thought he was a self-important, narcissistic idiot.

Walking around his room to clear his head quickly turned into walking downstairs and into the kitchen to get some shreddies. There were still a few chocolate ones left, them mercifully being the one cereal that Briar didn’t love more than life itself.

As he dejectedly spooned the stuff into his mouth, green smoke came unfiltered through his head again, spelling out: I won't have anything to present against a decision to remove you from your course entirely. Merlin groaned and pulled at his bark coloured hair.

Ancient and Medieval History, while not a popular course, was still difficult to get into. Only twelve or so universities in the country even offered it. And even then, Southend alone offered the module on folklore and mythologies. So many essays, so many projects, so much time spent reading about the sordid love-lives of ancient deities. For nothing apparently. All because some people he didn’t know thought he was self-obsessed.

Nothing added up.

And gaming? Really. Podcasts and chat-lines were an instant nope, but gaming. In his entire twenty years, Merlin had played one game and one game alone. And well, that one was…

Next thing he knew, Merlin had left the congealed cereal lonely on the sink and was fighting his way through a wall of cobwebs into the storage room. The lights hadn’t worked in there for years, so Merlin clasped a battery powered torch from Colchester castle like a lifeline.

With his finger and thumb he gingerly shifted bicycles, boxes of DVDs and even a taxidermy rabbit that had gone to holes, until he saw it. The shiny, green corner of a laptop-games-console-hybrid emerged from the darkness. And then was immediately plunged back into it when the torch exploded in Merlin’s hand, the light flickering away with a puff of smoke. Merlin had expected this, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing the game and high-tailing it out of the storage room before the shadows could grab his ankles and eat him. Safe in his own bedroom again, Merlin intrepidly opened the game.

Fairytale Island was created by Avalon Games nine years ago. In its entire run, localised in Southern England, it sold about three-hundred consoles. These consoles were box-like laptops, but a more accurate comparison would be an oversized Nintendo DS. The keyboard-space was taken up by the controls, while the screen was above. Graphics-wise, it was surprisingly ahead of its time. What you did was you uploaded a full body photograph of yourself, lined up the limbs and head, and voila, you had your avatar!

This particular console had been bought by an incredible woman named Igraine, for the eleven year old boy whom she had fearlessly rescued. Merlin ran a finger gently over the sticker, feeling the scratchy remnants of its glitter-glue border. On it was a simple little message, rounded off with a clumsy smiley face and the letter I, in wide swirling print.

For the most handsome Prince on Fairytale Island!!!

Obviously his avatar had to change, lest he wanted to continue with the slenderman-esque creature created by his imaginative twelve-year-old self.

Merlin had to stand on his bed to get himself into the frame of his plug-in webcam. Not really knowing what to do with his arms, he did the only rational thing and T-posed. In his pyjamas. In front of a game for preteens. At twenty past two in the morning. 

If one of his housemates came in now he would kill them and dissolve the body in acid.

The screen counted down, readying the camera.

Three… Two… O-ghlowhfsajfhlsdkhlhdsjfh…………….Error………...rebooting, thank you for your patience.

Well. That seemed fair.

Hopping down as quietly as possible, Merlin watched the static clear from the screen like ghost lightning. He should have expected it. Motorcyclists had long said that ‘Love is when you like someone as much as your motorbike.” Merlin was inclined to disagree, because his bike was the one piece of mechanical equipment that didn’t figure it should explode whenever he dared breathe nearby. No bond would ever be able to trump that kind of loyalty.

Reservedly, he fiddled with a Rubix cube until the screen returned to normal. Nothing seemed that wrong with it.

Until his avatar loaded again.

A brief visit to the bathroom mirror was made so that Merlin could examine both his eyes, but when he came back they found the same sight.

Where there should have been a tall, thin, carrot-shaped, Merlinish mage character, there now resided a tiny, stout- if still Merlinish- one. And it was green. Not even a nice green, like fern or emerald or sage. This was a green that reminded a person of snot and nothing else… Except maybe a dehydrated basil plant.

Merlin bashed his head against the edge of his desk. What had that witch done to him? Why was he concerned about this? 

Giving up on answering that question, he looked up to face the diminutive monster that bobbed in place like an excitable pea with legs. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, he tried to reason. If he didn’t focus, it almost looked like an obese, unwell Gollum. But hey, maybe the other players will like that kind of thing?

Without realising it, Merlin scoffed out loud at himself.

Other players? This game had a range of a thousand kilometres squared and was being handled by a technopollyon (a word that was not a word until Merlin discovered there was no term for a person who inadvertently breaks technology, but there were a multitude of Greek words that he could misuse in its place.)

The chances of another pathetic Englishman within his third of Essex being in possession of and online on Fairytale Island at two-thirty that night, were not worth thinking about. Because they were nonexistant.

With that in mind, Merlin took one last bitter look at his avatar, and continued resolutely on to game.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wow! Thanks for reading that!!! I hope you enjoyed it!

(Btw, Gwen, Viviane and Briar are my headcannons for the end credit characters and Morgan LeFey is the fairy princess)

Again, thanks so much. I’m putting the next chapter up at some point, this one from Snow’s perspective.

[bigskydreaming]

I saw you're old post on JayKyle and like I had a quick question: Ignoring that Jason's love life is embarrassingly bad, do you ever think that he'd might swallow his pride and go to Dick for advice? Because Jason focused on revenge for so long, his social skills (especially when romance is involved) are a little rusty when he's trying to be honest, and he would remember Dick being in a relationship before he died and stuff (also what advice do you think Dick would give to him?)

Absolutely.

See, this is one of those things where I think its key to remember that these characters - no matter how well established or fleshed out they might be - are ultimately still just fictional characters. The choices they make will never be anything other than the choices they’re assigned to make by the writer.

Which means that ultimately, execution always matters more in individual character choices than premise.

Because people are complicated, and good characters are too. People do contradictory things, they do inexplicable things, there’s very rarely anything where there’s just NO situation that could result in characters doing a certain thing. And so yeah, in premise, as I’ve talked about “oh Dick goes around killing people without a care in the world”.....not really plausible. Doesn’t really fit his character. But in execution, “the murderer of Dick’s brother taunts him with his brother’s death and Dick kills him”....not only plausible, it happened and was completely in character.

There’s very very little that can’t be done with just about any character....but you gotta do the math. Put the work in to explain WHY its not out of character, what about THIS specific scenario and execution of character choices and actions adds up to something that’s believable....even if nine out of ten times, it wouldn’t be, just on the surface. 

To bring all this back to your question....I think its not really an issue of WOULD Jason ever go to Dick for romantic advice, but rather....could a case be made for Jason plausibly ever going to Dick for romantic advice.

And before getting into that, I wanna raise a question of my own:

If not Dick....who WOULD Jason ever go to for romantic advice? Bruce? Not likely, just as like, even if they are on good terms at the time, how often do people usually go to their parents for romantic advice as their first choice...especially if that parent doesn’t exactly have much in the way of longterm relationships themselves? Alfred? Ditto - Alfred’s like Jason’s grandfather, and do you usually think “oh, I’ll go ask Grandpa” when thinking hey who is the best person to ask for dating advice? Especially when you’ve never seen them in a relationship either? 

Or how about Tim.....is it really at all MORE likely for someone like Jason to go to a YOUNGER sibling for romantic advice than an older one, even IF we were to ignore (as fandom usually does) that its actually Tim that Jason’s canon issues most commonly crop up with, rather than Dick the way fanon likes to invert that just to enable The Jason and Tim Show? (Sorry, letting my bitterness leak in there, lol, I’m just never not gonna be annoyed that so many fics handwave away the literal bad blood between Jason and Tim - which hey, everyone’s more than welcome to do, especially in the name of family unity - but WHILE at the exact same time inventing bad blood between Dick and Jason where it literally didn’t exist, just to have DISHARMONY in the family, but that’s specifically the fault of one person and one person only, that Dick. But where was I...)

I mean, that basically leaves Babs, which again, you certainly can go with, but the reality is they were never all that close in canon, and if Dick and Jason didn’t have a ton of in-canon bonding moments, he and Babs had even less, so again....

The question is: Given that Jason is mostly associated with just the Batfam, particularly pre-Reboot (and with his Reboot associations usually as often BEING his romantic counterparts as being someone he might feasibly go to for advice with romantic counterparts)....

Who else, other than Dick, really even EXISTS as a MORE plausible option for Jason to go to for dating tips?

(With again, the reality being that just as you can make a case for Dick being someone Jason goes to, you CAN make a case for him going to others.....with the point here being just that there’s really no one else out there that’s somehow MORE plausible for him to turn to here, and thus no reason Dick should be seen as a particularly IMplausible option here).

Whereas, if you strip away the fanon interference between Dick and Jason having any kind of decent sibling relationship, certain actual canon truths start to become more evident....

Like the fact that Jason was excited, in canon, to be Robin SPECIFICALLY. Not Robin as in Batman’s partner, but Robin as in ROBIN. Jason, contrary to popular opinion, looked up to Dick. He respected the older man. He was HONORED to walk in his shoes. Its why despite the machismo he’s usually written with, he never once in canon (okay at least pre-Reboot) talked shit about the Robin costume or wanted to change it. Its why in all of his ACTUAL canon interactions with Dick, he clearly wanted to impress him. He valued Dick’s opinion and insights. He always has.

Or the fact that compared to the relative lack of longterm relationships among the other significant figures in Jason’s life, pre his death, Dick was in a happy, committed relationship with Kory for the literal entire time Jason was Robin and knew him. Like, despite the fanon that Dick is a disaster in relationships, or that he’s had a billion of them, or that they always end because he doesn’t know how to actually be in one....none of this could be further from the truth, all his relationships end as much due to external plot wtf-ery as having ANYTHING to do with his inability to handle intimacy or romantic entanglements, and he’s literally the one and only major figure in Jason’s life that Jason can look at and cite memories of seeing him actually SUCCESSFULLY in a happy romantic relationship....which is again, something you tend to look for in a person you ask for romantic advice.

And so on along similar lines, with the point being....this, like so much else to do with Dick and Jason’s dynamic and even just Jason’s character individually.....is actually FAR more plausible than kneejerk fanon or fanfic impressions I think would make it out to be....and in fact, this is a far more plausible dynamic to exist between Jason and Dick in specific, than Jason and anyone else. Like, I really don’t know who else you would have him turn to for this specific issue, without having to invent the reasoning for that wholesale, having to put even MORE work into making credible than just building upon the idea that Jason goes to his older brother for advice in this department (even if he only does so with a lot of reluctance and awkwardness and “you better not laugh about this” threats, like......again, its all about the execution, and I’m not saying Jason would be GRACEFUL about going to Dick for help here, just that there’s waaaaaaaaaay more groundwork to build off of here than there is anywhere else).

And in conclusion, this also brings me back to my popular refrain of how - due to the fact that Dick is linked and pivotal to SO much of the Batfam’s interpersonal history and dynamics - the more you reduce even just him to one note, the more you constrain his dynamics with his family members to being just one thing and one thing only, and so often that one thing being a negative - the more you actually hurt and limit all the characters around him too, inadvertently. 

Such as Jason. Who innately becomes limited in how well and how believably he can engage in romantic storylines in general, due to not just to his own relative lack of history and experience there....but because the ONE character who is actually MOST ideally situated to be the best person for Jason to turn to for help there, for advice, to fill in the gaps where his lack of history and experience makes him reticent to even TRY dating.....that one person is automatically discounted as not a possibility simply because so many people don’t WANT him to be a possibility. Because they’d rather Dick be the villain of Jason’s stories than an actual positive, supportive older brother helping him to have nice things.

But when you take away those kneejerk assumptions as to why Jason would NEVER go to Dick for help here, with almost all of them stemming from fanon assumptions that Jason neither respects Dick or trusts or values his opinion, nor is he willing to allow himself to ever be vulnerable around Dick......or else stemming from fanon assumptions that Dick doesn’t like, trust or value Jason enough to be helpful or encouraging, or to not take advantage of his vulnerability or fail to respect the effort being vulnerable asks of Jason......

Suddenly, without those largely fan-formed obstacles in the way.....there’s little to no ACTUAL reasons why Jason wouldn’t or couldn’t ever go to Dick for help or advice with dating or romantic relationships.

[leiascully]

Fic:  Disaster Preparedness and Your Family

2000 words; pg for some glossed-over kissing; disaster has always been a family affair

When the pandemic came, they were prepared.  Of course they were prepared.  They'd been on a hair-trigger edge for decades.  Even in their apartments, they'd had stockpiles of canned goods, of bottled water, of toilet paper.  They'd had go-bags stashed in their cars and in their parents' houses.  Every sneeze had startled them.  Every car backfiring had been the beginning of the next civil war.  They were exhausted by their diligence by the time the real thing happened.  

It had been easier, before, when they were young, before they had Jackson and the baby to consider.  Before they had graves to tend.  They were prepared no, after all these years of screwing their courage to the sticking place, but they weren't ready.  

They spent hours whispering in the dark about what to do, tucked up under the covers.  

"We should leave," Mulder says.  "Get out of the city."

"Back to your country estate?" Scully asks, a wry tone in her voice.  "That isn't far enough.  Not if this gets as bad as we've always imagined."

"I still have contacts," Mulder told her.  "And the Gunmen's contacts.  We could get farther away."

"Remember that cabin?" Scully said wistfully.  "God, that was the middle of nowhere.  We didn't see another soul unless we went into town."

"That place was perfect," Mulder said.  And it had been.  Self-contained, just like the two of them.  Supplies laid in against an endless winter that might come without warning.  They'd rebuilt themselves there after months on the road.  

"It was," Scully agreed.  "For the two of us.  Not for the four of us."

"No, not for the four of us," he said.  

"I'm not leaving," she said.  "Jackson - he just came back to us.  If we try to take him somewhere, he might disappear again."

"He could do it, too," Mulder mused.  "We still don't understand all he can do."

"He can hide from his parents," Scully murmured.  "He can do what every teenager longs to be able to do."  

"You're right," Mulder said.  "We can't take him away."

"And we can't leave him," she said, and paused.  "And I'm a doctor.  They'll need me."

"We need you," Mulder said.  

"I know."  She shifted toward him, rucking the sheet up over her shoulder.  "But what am I supposed to do, Mulder.  I pledged my life to this.  I didn't become a doctor to sit idly by while the world goes up in flames."

"I know," he said.  He put his arm over her and pulled her even closer.  She settled herself against his chest, tucking herself under his chin.  "Besides, it would be hypocritical of me to keep you from the cause you've devoted your entire career to just because it's potentially deadly."

"You said it, not me," she said, the words muffled against his skin.  "I'm scared, Mulder, but I can't let that stop me."

"We'll be careful," Mulder said.  

"We're always careful," she said, in the face of all truth.  They didn't talk about the black oil and their potential immunities to viruses alien and terrestrial.  Neither of them had gotten sick much since her miracle cure, since his resurrection.  Aside from the occasional mild flu, they were perfectly healthy.  They didn't talk about her promised immortality.  But he thought about it, quietly, as if to avoid attracting the notice of a god he didn't believe in.  All their yesterdays would catch up, some tomorrow.  He could only hope it wasn't this one.

His lips sought hers in the dark, and met halfway.  They clung to each other, wringing all the comfort they could out of the moment.

At breakfast the next morning, Mulder was feeding the baby, whose name was Grace, although they exclusively called her The Nugget, an invention of Jackson's.  The Nugget was in high spirits, refusing the plastic-coated spoon of scrambled egg with a grin and a shake of her head.  Jackson slouched in and poured himself a cup of coffee.  Scully exchanged glances with Mulder over the top of The Nugget's coppery head.  

"Jackson," Scully said, trying to keep the emotional lilt out of her voice.  

"Mom," he said, collapsing into a chair at the table.  

"Your father and I have talked about it," she said.  "Our plan is to stay here, as long as we can."

"I figured," he said.  

"We didn't think you'd enjoy the country," Mulder said, making airplane zooms with the spoon, which made The Nugget giggle, but didn't convince her to eat.  "And it's easier to get supplies here, for now."

"I can watch the house here if you guys do decide to leave," Jackson suggested, the height of casual.

"Nice try," Mulder said.  He finally managed to maneuver the spoon into The Nugget's open mouth.  She cackled through a mouth full of egg.  

"I'm taking a leave of absence from the FBI to work in a local hospital," Scully said.

"Obviously," Jackson said, sipping his black coffee.  He almost managed not to wince.

"Obviously?" Scully asked.

Jackson rolled his eyes halfway, a gesture that managed to look like mockery and prayer all at once.  "Mom, I don't know why Dad hasn't told you this, but you're, like, basically the biggest do-gooder of all time.  There's no way you weren't going to do something like this."

Scully's jaw dropped.  Mulder grinned at her and she closed her mouth and frowned at him.  "I'm not the biggest do-gooder of all time."

"You kind of are," Jackson said.

"I held a federal agent at gunpoint," she protested.  "More than once."

"Probably for some do-gooder reason," Jackson said.  "What did they do, kidnap Dad?"

Mulder toasted him with The Nugget's spoon as he tried to tempt her with some more egg.  "You know it."

"See," Jackson said.  "Anyway, that's fine.  I want to come with you."

"You can't come with me," Scully said automatically.  "I don't want you to get sick."

"You're going to be exposed," Jackson pointed out.  "That means basically all of us are going to be exposed."

"I'll take precautions," Scully said.  "I know how to protect myself.  I'll sleep on the couch, or at the hospital if things get that bad."

"The Nugget's not going to understand why you can't play with her," Jackson pointed out.  "The hospital's not going to have a place for you to sleep if it gets that bad, and you're not going to quarantine yourself in our house.  Not with The Nugget around.  I can wash my hands for twenty seconds.  Maybe even thirty if I'm feeling really virtuous.  I can wear a mask."

"Where's this coming from?" Mulder asked.  "No offense, Jack, but I didn't think you inherited your mom's do-goodness."

"I didn't," Jackson said.  "But this is the end of the goddamn world."

"Language," Scully said automatically.

"It's the end of the goddamn world, Scully," Mulder said, his grin crooked.  "Again.  Let the boy swear.  It's his first apocalypse."

"I can help people," Jackson said.  "I know I haven't really done that a lot in the past, but I can give people some peace.  Help them see what they want to see."

"Even if we both do the best we can," Scully said, "that's still exponentially increasing the chances that we'll transmit it to someone else."

"So Dad takes The Nugget to the backwoods," Jackson said with a shrug.  "You and I live it up in the big plague-ridden city.  Nobody else gets exposed unless we have to get groceries."

Mulder and Scully looked at each other.  

"Da!  Poom!" demanded The Nugget, less excited about the eggs than frustrated about losing Mulder's attention.  He sent the spoon into figure eights.  She grabbed it and crammed a fistful of egg against her mouth.  Mulder set the dish on the tray of her high chair and she mashed her fingers into it.    

"It's a good idea," Scully said slowly.

"That must be why I don't like it," Mulder said with a wry grimace.  

"I want to be clear," Scully said to Jackson.  "I don't like it either.  But you're old enough to make this decision, and you and I both know you're going to do what you want whether I give you permission or not."

He favored her with Mulder's grin and her heart stuttered.  "Sorry, Mom.  Turns out being an asshole is a dominant trait.  That's just genetics."

"You are your father's son," she murmured.

"I don't want to be away from you," Mulder said, wiping The Nugget's egg-smeared face with the edge of her bib.  She banged on her tray.  "Either of you.  And I don't want to take her away from you either.  But it's probably the best option in terms of keeping us safe while you two are saving the world."

"I'll feel better knowing we're not endangering you," she said.  

"I'm going to let the two of you work this out," Jackson said.  "Come on, Nuglet."  He unbuckled his sister from her high chair and extracted her.  "Let's go rot your little baby brain with unauthorized screen time."  The Nugget giggled and patted egg on the shoulder of his t-shirt.  

"You know he's right," Mulder said.  

"I do," Scully told him.  She managed to smile.  "Another annoying trait he inherited from  you."  

"I'm proud of him," Mulder said.  "He hasn't had a life that's lent itself to selfless acts.  But this - it's pretty much pure philanthropy.  He's got talents.  He wants to help."

"He's come a long way from Ghouli," Scully said, with more than a touch of pride in her voice.

"He has," Mulder said, scooting his chair toward hers.  He put his arms around her and buried his nose in her hair.  "The kid's all right."

She clutched to him.  "It's the right answer.  It's just not the one I wanted to hear."  She sighed.  "Even after everything we've endured, I still can't stop myself hoping that we'll find the perfect answers, despite all evidence to the contrary.  I mean, we've been living in crisis so long, I feel like disaster is my hometown."

"You and I have been through worse," Mulder consoled her.  He paused and then tilted his head.  "Probably."

"I know that," she told him.  "That doesn't make it easy."   

"I don't think it ever will be easy," Mulder said.  "But we beat on, right?"

"We always do," she said, and rested against him. 

"I'll pack this afternoon," he said.  "She's going to need a bigger suitcase than I do."

"Make sure," Scully said, and then her voice caught.  She cleared her throat and tried again.  "Make sure you take her 2T stuff, just in case."

"I was just going to let her run naked if she outgrew all her clothes," Mulder said, elaborately casual as Scully dabbed at her eyes.  "See if I could raise myself a Jersey Devil."

"I should have let you name her Virginia," Scully said.  "It seemed a little on the nose, at the time."

"Virginia Grace Nugget Devil," Mulder said.  "You know she's going to miss you."

"I know," she said. 

"We're both going to miss you," he told her, tightening his arms around her.  

"I'll miss you both," she said.  "We'll miss you both."  She took a shaky breath.  "Mulder, tell me this is the right thing to do."

"You don't need me to tell you," he said.  "You always know the right thing to do.  It's embedded in you."

"Like a microchip of unknown origin," she teased.  Her eyes were still watery.  "You'll be all right?"

"We'll be all right," Mulder promised.  "I'll take the baby aspirin and the humidifier.  By the time you come find us, we'll probably be raising chickens and goats and spending half our day gardening.  You'll never drag us back to city life."  

"You going feral was pretty much inevitable," she said. 

"It was," he agreed.  "Pandemic or not."  He kissed the top of her head.  "Let's have one last good day together before you go save the world."

"Every day with you has been good," she murmured.  "Even the terrible ones."

He coaxed her into his lap and they sat in the sunny kitchen, wrapped up in each other, putting up one last sweet memory against the lean months ahead.  

[mbti-notes]

(1/8) Yayy, I love Fleabag and I love your blog and everything you write, so I hope you're up for a discussion of your typings (and I hope all the asks come through). Agree about Fleabag, the Godmother and Harry's (his frequent breakups with Fleabag seemed INFJ door slams, but his endgame points to Si) typings. Boo and Fleabag seemed to have been the sort of BFFs who matched because their personalities were quite similar... What made you conclude ESFP rather than ENFP? Same goes for Martin...

Boo’s interests are all concrete, her thinking is always immediate and short-term, Ni grip was apparent in her hasty death.

Same goes for Martin. While I see signs of tertiary Fe in his deliberate manipulation of Claire and pleasure at bringing Fleabag down, and also the overall recklessness of unhealthy EPs, I couldn’t be sure whether he was Se or Ne dom.

I see no evidence of dominant Ne nor inferior Si but many vulgarities and desires that are indicative of unhealthy Se.

What about the Bank Manager? My memory of series one is fuzzy, but he makes an effort to work things out with Fleabag (and women in general) even if he judges too quickly, which could point at aux/tert Te-Fi, I guess.

He is honest and straightforward, no pretension, but severely limited in his perspective. His moral reasoning ability is rather rudimentary, which makes F unlikely. His life is in a deep rut and he is drawn to Fleabag because she is his opposite and helps spark his lower function development. She comes to symbolize the key to understanding his failures and frustrations (both in terms of how he treats women and his lack of function development), therefore, helping her succeed is also helping himself find his own way. He’s reconciling who he is by reckoning with his past mistakes through Fleabag.

The Father clearly struggles with expressing his feelings. He wants to communicate better with Fleabag, but he understands and prefers Claire (a T), so probably IxTx, perhaps Ti-Fe if we consider the main issues presented in the story plus the fact that he quickly fell for Godmother, a Fe dom? I’d like to know your reasoning for him. Anyway, I’d typed Claire and the Priest as ISTJ and ENFJ respectively, and these ones I was sure to have gotten right. xSTJ was clear for Claire, and episode 203 was the one that cemented her as ISTJ for me. She is constantly anxious and full of routines and rituals and micromanages everything, from actions to looks to even jokes, implying a lot of overthinking (I); she clashes with Fleabag because she’s insecure about the possibility of not being as interesting and funny as Fleabag (tertiary Fi). Also, she tries to pretend that she enjoyed the night, that her marriage is going well and that she thinks Fleabag kissed Martin rather than the opposite because of Si’s need to maintain security and stability and not lose what she’s conquered. By accepting her individuality, her feelings and the possibility of something better for herself, she takes action to improve her life, which implied much needed extraverted development. Also, most ESTJs I’ve met, despite being control freaks privately, are more adaptable and relaxed as well, especially in public (higher Te-Ne).

The show centers around Fleabag’s dysfunction. In Si grip, Fleabag tries to pinpoint Boo’s death (and her own hand in causing it) as the “point of origin” but her problems go far deeper than that, all the way back to her family relationships. Everyone in the family is equally messed up despite appearances. The show doesn’t go very far into the historical causes of their collective dysfunction, but it does a good job of illustrating the dysfunctional patterns as they exist in the present. The characters are largely products of old family patterns, therefore, it’s hard to understand each member individually without the context of their collective family dynamic.

A very common family dynamic involves projecting all of the family’s history of dysfunction onto the “weakest link”, aka, the black sheep. The black sheep is usually “chosen” according to their so-called inferiority for failing to live up to the family’s unspoken values, then they are routinely criticized and shamed for being something that is perceived as contrary to the family’s survival and well-being. Over time, this dynamic places an unspoken duty/expectation onto the black sheep, namely that they should always be “the one that ruins everything” whenever the family requires a scapegoat to deflect responsibility for dysfunctional behavior. Fleabag is obviously the black sheep, so everyone uses her as the punchline (for easing tension), the punching bag (for displacing their frustration), and the punch down (for a cheap win during power struggles).

As a defense mechanism, Fleabag believes that she is actually the superior member of the family because she’s “clever” enough to see through people’s fakery or hypocrisy. Despite the concrete proof of her own life being a total mess, she likes to think of herself as being more self-aware than others, i.e., she implicitly blames her life failures on the fact that she can’t fake it or lie to herself like everyone else. However, she doesn’t realize that playing the black sheep role is her form of self-deception. She is deeply caught up in a logical contradiction of knowing she is less than but also believing herself better than, and we see this over and over again in her asides to the audience. By exercising crude power in exposing other people’s fakery, she doesn’t have to look at her own and expose herself, and this plays perfectly into the family pattern that always ends up ricocheting back onto her. Whenever she exposes anything resembling the truth of the family’s dysfunction, regardless of whether she does it kindly or maliciously, she is roundly blamed for “acting out”, being “cruel”, “screwing up”, “ruining everything”, etc etc. The family immediately comes together to activate the scapegoating pattern and, in the end, nothing changes and the pattern repeats the next time they get together. Her twisted way of “caring” for her family is to play the black sheep, and their twisted way of “bonding” is to collectively reinforce their status as not the black sheep.

When people treat you like a black sheep long enough, you believe it and it becomes your identity, and playing this role so well leads her to blow up all of her relationships outside of the family. In accumulating many failed relationships, it’s very easy to slide into settling for less or settling for what you think you deserve, and she has been trained over a lifetime to feel less than deserving. As a defense mechanism, she’s romantically attracted to people who aren’t capable of knowing who she really is, which in turn gives her justification for blowing up each relationship as they are always shallow and meaningless anyway. But this automatic and destructive pattern hits rock bottom when she destroys the only person who’s managed to really know her. She then gradually becomes more aware that she’s repeating unconscious conditioning and could perhaps choose otherwise, but ingrained patterns are hard to change without help and guidance, which eventually invites the influence of the priest.

You might think that their father bears the brunt of the blame for the family being so dysfunctional, but he has plenty of his own unresolved issues that make him more like a child than a parent. The show does not offer any explanation for him but everyone has a history. It seems that he has always been emotionally absent and socially inept in that he allowed their mother to do all of the parenting and caregiving. He is not aggressive, obsessive, or controlling as you would expect for unhealthy TJs, rather, he is detached, distant, avoidant, and indifferent. When you talk to him face-to-face, there is some natural warmth there, but once you are out of his sight, you are out of his mind. You know that he loves you in his way, you know that he tries to empathize, but you also know that he utterly fails to understand anything about you no matter how hard either side tries to bridge the gap. It’s hard to fault him for what is clearly a “disability”? Because of his ineptitude, he traps himself in a codependent relationship with his shadow opposite type, a narcissistic person who calls all the shots in the relationship so that he never has to lift a finger, i.e., he never ever has to bear moral responsibility for anything, and taken to an absurd conclusion, he lives in a pitiful state of learned helplessness. You never have to feel bad if you never do anything, right? Wrong, he is still guilty of sins of omission, and for that he’s never able to truly be at ease no matter what he does to shed away every difficulty. Ideally, a good stepmom takes care of the step-kids, but he was not lucky enough to snag one, so he must accede to the bad stepmom’s judgment or else, heaven forbid, he loses his easy life by having to take responsibility for the girls on his own.

Unhealthy TPs need uptight Js to help them keep life in order, but they often prefer Ps for their amusing company. The father does not “prefer” Claire for what/who she is, rather, he merely appreciates that she doesn’t make any trouble for him, which he wants to believe absolves him of blame. He can say, “See, I have one good daughter, so it’s not my fault that the other one is bad”. There are many parallels between Claire and her father in how they approach relationships very passively and helplessly. Deep down, his heart actually prefers Fleabag for the fact that she more closely resembles her mother and the fact that she is braver than him and challenges him (to be better). He wishes to have a better relationship with her, similar to what he must’ve had with her mother, but he’s unfortunately incapable of containing the dysfunction that bad parenting and unresolved grief has wrought upon her.

You say that Claire should be more flexible if tertiary Ne, but why would you expect her to have any healthy functions? She clearly suffers inferior grip quite often and thus cannot use any of her functions optimally. Every SJ with unhealthy Si-Ne uses micromanagement of routines/rituals as a crutch, so this is true for both dominant and auxiliary Si - your claim here only proves SJ. She’s just as fucked up as Fleabag is, only she is better at repressing her feelings, and for this alone, ISTJ is very unlikely. ISTJs are introverts and they prefer to give up and be at peace rather than double and triple down on stupid behavior in the manner that Claire often does. Her main problem in life is that everything she does to “manage” situations results in her betraying herself in some way, which is strongly indicative of infantile Fi. I disagree that stubbornness is her fatal flaw ala Si-Fi loop; if that were the case, she’d be more than happy to give up everything to Fi loop and disappear into the background. She would also never ever go near Fleabag nor trust her with anything due to the fact that she has already encountered countless past experiences of Fleabag blowing up situations in awful and unpredictable ways. ISTJs are at their least forgiving and never forget whenever it comes to delegating important tasks.

I argue that what gets Claire truly upset is not being unprepared for “all negative possibilities in the abstract” but rather the possibility of LOSING FACE, i.e., being publicly humiliated and exposed as the uncool simpering hypocrite that she is, which is indicative of deep-seated fear of Fi (she envies Fleabag for her “cool” factor for this reason). Unhealthy Te doms, falling apart internally, are still capable of maintaining functionality in external life far longer than other types. She suffers from serious grip problems but still manages to perform her duties at home and at work, which simply wouldn’t be possible for Ne grip. With Fi grip, she instantly switches to very ugly self-pity and irrationally self-protective behavior when threatened by anything. Her instinct upon feeling the vulnerability of exposure is to go on and on and on about how “successful” she is, which usually includes a few rounds of punching down at everyone in an attempt to disown her bad decision making. ISTJs are rarely capable of bullshitting themselves to that extreme; they are more likely to react with humility and even resignation when presented with incontrovertible proof of their failures (see: Bank Manager).

Claire was probably expected to be “the responsible one” (aka elder/caregiver sibling archetype) because there was no one else to take responsibility. However, at this point in her life, she has achieved enough career success to be independent from the family. The fact that she can’t help herself from enacting her old role speaks to the lack of self-insight that is characteristic of inferior Fi, i.e., as much as she complains about hating the pressures and headaches of being “the responsible one”, she unconsciously LOVES it because it grants her a superior position in the family. She’s not willing to give up the pain because she’s not willing to give up the payoff, and this internal love-hate contradiction is what makes her relationship with Fleabag dysfunctional despite the love and affection they have for each other. I don’t think ISTJs are able to bear such obvious internal contradiction and still manage to claim integrity. ISTJs find it much more painful, if not impossible, to pretend and posture for the sake of appearances, because they are supremely stubborn people when it comes to preserving their subjective sense of integrity. By contrast, inferior Fi makes it very easy to ignore subjective integrity and choose destructive methods of obtaining feelings of power and superiority, hence she ends up betraying her own well-being all the time.

As for the Priest, we both agree on him being a Fe dom. What made me choose Ni rather than Si is that he admitted to have been quite a different person in the past by alluding to his many sexual experiences, probably a hint of Se as well. But then he met God and everything took a 180 for him (N, not S), implying that he was uncomfortably adrift for a while and needed a sense of meaning and a clear vision of his path ahead to feel whole (Ni). Also, PWB has said that Fleabag was drawn to the Priest because he has an established sense of purpose, which she’s been looking for, which highlights their P vs J and Ne vs Ni differences. You could argue that he was drawn to her because of tertiary Ne, but I don’t see signs of Si’s typical grounded outlook (he uses a lot of abstractions to explain his ideas) or typical adherence to traditions (the path to his faith wasn’t primarily through this motivation as it happens to many) or typical narrow-mindedness (quite the opposite, he used to be quite open to experiences due to Fe+Se). Oh, and I forgot to mention, the Priest can read and understand Fleabag so well that he even gets to enter her internal world and listen to her personal thoughts. To be able to understand people with this level of depth is, of course, more natural for xNFJs rather than xSFJs, who help people on a more practical level (Fe+Ni v Fe+Si).

I think your understanding of Si is still quite stereotypical. ESFJs have a common pattern of using Ne to “find themselves” only to end up lost because what they’re really doing is Ne loop. ESFJs tend to grow up feeling very pressured to be rule abiders and it is common for them to go through a rebellious stage a bit later in life compared to other types, once the pressure finally reaches a breaking point. After swinging from the painful oppression of “rule observant” behavior in youth to the painful failures of “rule breaking” behavior in young adulthood, they eventually boomerang back to old touchstones, i.e., they ground themselves by rediscovering comfort in the known. IIRC, the priest felt lost and eventually revisited religion for guidance, he made the beliefs his own rather than blindly following dogma, and he chose to commit his life to doing good because HE genuinely wanted to, not because family/society told him to. A healthy ESFJ establishes a stronger sense of self once they reconcile with the past and make “rule following” more palatable by turning it into a personal choice (rather than feeling obligated to constantly self-sacrifice). I disagree that he “transformed” from one person into a completely different one, I think it’s more accurate to say that he had no idea who he was and got increasingly lost until he discovered himself by looking backward and making sense of his past experience. 

Religion is an abstract concept, there’s no avoiding abstract discussions about religious beliefs when you’re debating a non-believer, especially when that non-believer is Ne dom. Ne is tertiary and people often use tertiary functions for relief, therefore, ESFJs tend to enjoy abstract discussions, especially of the Ne variety that is full of humor and playfulness, exactly like the kind that he gets with Fleabag. I dare you to try joking around with a “true believer” ENFJ. Their beliefs are deadly serious to them, so they show far less patience for sacrilegious play (unless, for some reason, they have developed an irrational fear of being criticized as dogmatic and pretend to be open-minded). Also, why would an *N*FJ be shocked and alarmed or seem resistant to using intuition to “read” people? Why would their intuition seem so painfully accidental? NFJs generally LIKE using intuition and do it naturally as part of who they are, they embrace it and feel more confident the more they are in touch with it.

Ns tend to speak in abstractions but not everyone who speaks in abstractions is N, similarly, every NJ needs a sense of purpose but not everyone who seeks a purpose is NJ -> beware this logical fallacy: “every cat has four legs but not every four-legged creature is a cat”. NJs need a purpose for materializing their personal potential, SJs seek a purpose for the sake of grounding themselves in something unshakable within - you point out the behavior without grasping the true motivation. When ESFJs develop Si well, they recognize that what makes them happy is to be of service, to be a positive contributor to their community, to be a reliable source of help and comfort to those in need. He is not a charismatic and boastful preacher of the ENFJ sort, rather, he sees himself as a humble servant who uses reliable traditional beliefs to help ground people who feel lost in hectic modern life, using his own past experience as the starting point. The fact that he has the strength to end the relationship with Fleabag before it becomes negative and destructive is a testament to Si steadfastness and how strongly the rules matter to him (Ns are very masterful at rationalizing that the rules don’t apply to them, and that’s often how they end up in bad places). Why would you expect him to display all sorts of negative signs of Si if he is meant to be the positive moral guidance for the show? And wouldn’t it make sense for him to use his well-developed Si to reveal to Fleabag the true extent of her dysfunctional Si? Would an ENFJ instinctively know better than an ESFJ how to remedy Si specific identity dysfunction?

Can you please allow us to submit things to you? In the case of long asks like mine, it helps to avoid any part not getting sent.

I have considered this before but I’m not sure I want to do that.

[ageless-aislynn]

Title: “Conditioned” Author:  @ageless-aislynn​ Characters/fandom: Caitlin Snow/Harrison Wells|Eobard Thawne (ReverseSnow), The Flash Summary: Caitlin just wants to wash her hair. For Snowells Week 2019, Day 1, prompt: Time Loop Rating:  PG Length:   1,698 Spoilers/warnings: None Disclaimer: Definitely not mine but I do enjoy borrowing them just for a bit! ;) A/N: Yay, another Snowells Week, one of my favorite times of the year when I get to legit make time to spend with Caitlin and Eobard, lol! \o/ I love writing them so much. They're my happy place, what can I say? :D (And right now, I'm writing this in the literal middle of house repairs, where sawing is going on on all sides of me, so I definitely needed my happy place! O_O ) If you read, I hope you enjoy! :D ♥

As soon as she stepped into the shower, Caitlin spotted the upside-down bottle of conditioner, signaling it was empty, and groaned softly in frustration. She'd forgotten to replace it after her last shower.

Maybe I have an extra under the sink? she thought hopefully, taking the bottle with her.

Padding unselfconsciously naked in front of the open doorway into her bedroom, she tossed the bottle into the small trash can then bent to rummage with decreasing hope beneath the sink.

I can't believe I forgot to buy conditioner. Well, I'm going to have to just deal with a bad hair day, I suppose, she mused, making her way back.

As soon as she stepped into the shower, Caitlin spotted the upside-down bottle of conditioner, signaling it was empty, and groaned softly in frustration. She'd forgotten to replace it after her last shower.

Maybe I have an extra under the sink? she thought hopefully, taking the bottle with her.

Padding unselfconsciously naked in front of the open doorway into her bedroom, she tossed the bottle into the small trash can then bent to rummage with decreasing hope beneath the sink.

I can't believe I forgot to buy conditioner. Well, I'm going to have to just deal with a bad hair day, I suppose, she mused, making her way back.

As soon as she stepped into the shower, Caitlin spotted the upside-down bottle of conditioner, signaling that it was empty, and groaned softly in frustration. She'd forgotten to replace it after her last shower.

Maybe I have an extra under the sink? she thought hopefully, taking the empty bottle with her.

Padding naked in front of the doorway, she paused, feeling inexplicably like she wasn't alone. She grabbed a bath towel and wrapped it around herself before walking to the doorway.

"Is anybody there?" she asked but when she tried to peer into the other room, an unseen force prevented any part of her from going through. Even the empty bottle in her hand came to a sudden stop as if there were a thick pane of pane of glass blocking the way.

There came the familiar sound of a speedster in motion and she sighed in relief, opening her mouth to call Barry's name.

As soon as she stepped into the shower, Caitlin spotted the upside-down bottle of conditioner. "What the--?" she muttered, snatching up the empty bottle and stepping out of the shower without intending to, as if her body was moving on automatic.

"You seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of a predicament, haven't you, Dr. Snow?"

The distorted voice made her shriek and she instinctively pitched the bottle at the man in the yellow suit lounging in her bathroom doorway. It hit an invisible barrier and clattered noisily to the floor.

She grabbed a towel and hastily tucked it around herself. "What are you doing here?"

Despite his blurred face, his grin was evident. "When you're sensitive to the Speed Force, you feel any sort of time disruption like an itch you can't scratch. Thought I'd see what was going on."

"Nothing that's any of your business," she snapped, picking up the conditioner and throwing it in the trash.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Oh, well, if you're enjoying being in a time loop, who am I to interrupt?"

As soon as she stepped into the shower, Caitlin stumbled to a halt with a muttered curse, though wasn't able to keep from picking up the empty conditioner bottle. She quickly wrapped a towel around herself as she stepped out of the shower and glowered at the man smiling at her.

"This isn't funny," she said, throwing the bottle in the trash can hard enough it bounced back out onto the floor. She left it.

"No, this is actually Trattenburg's Theory but with accelerated tachyons, isn't it?" His tone became wistful as he stopped vibrating. "We were going to try this one together."

He had a lot of nerve sounding hurt. "It's not like I..." she scrambled for an appropriate metaphor "...binge-watched a series without you. You've deceived me -- us -- for years. You're evil. I don't owe you anything."

His blue eyes looked surprisingly sad in his mask now that they had stopped glowing red. "Loop," he said softly.

"What?" she was saying as she stepped into the shower. Without pausing, she grabbed the empty bottle and donned the towel again.

"So, do you know how to break a time loop?" she asked, swiftly introducing the bottle to the trash can.

His melancholy demeanor faded. Good, the last thing she needed right now was the Reverse Flash moping because she'd hurt his feelings.

"It's simple with the right ingredients."

"Which are?"

He removed his gloves with twin flourishes. "You need physical contact with someone outside of the loop," he said, pulling back his mask and ruffling his hair.

"Excuse me?" she said flatly.

He shrugged. "I don't make the rules." He walked deliberately through the barrier in the doorway as soon as she stepped into the shower.

She growled. Bottle, towel, trash can, in quick succession until she stood before him with her hands on her hips. The towel slipped and she hastily tucked it around herself again.

He gazed back, unfazed by her thunderous expression. "You can always think about it for a few more cycles of the loop," he offered. "Might be interesting to see how far you can stretch it, how inevitable some things are and how malleable others can be made to--"

She made her choice in a rush, not wanting to have to wash, rinse, repeat yet again. And maybe, just maybe, there was a bit of worry that if she thought about it too much, she'd never get the nerve to do it.

Striding forward, she reached up and pulled him down to her level, kissing him squarely on the mouth. He went still, surprised, and that made her falter back.

"Fascinating that your mind went straight to here," he murmured, his gaze heavy-lidded. "Just a hand-clasp would've sufficed."

Her cheeks burned scarlet. "Then what was all... that about?" She gave a vague flutter of her fingers at where he'd been standing a few moments ago.

"Theatricality. You know I have more than a little tendency to be overly dramatic." His eyes were going from hers to her mouth and back again. When he gently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, she instinctively leaned into his hand. He smiled.

"I'm also an opportunist," he continued and the next thing she knew, he'd picked her up around the waist and was kissing her with the kind of enthusiasm she'd only ever seen him have for amazing scientific breakthroughs.

He walked them backwards through the doorway into the bedroom and her ears popped as if she'd changed altitude.

"That break the time loop?" she muttered and he leaned back, looking thoughtful.

"Yep," he proclaimed, hopping her up onto her dresser and resuming the kiss.

She put her hands up -- surely to push him away, right? Reverse Flash, evil guy who'd impersonated her friend and mentor for all these years? No, she couldn't possibly be kissing him back and putting her hands in his hair and there was no way that she had her legs hooked over his hips because that would just be ridiculous, now, wouldn't it? It had to just be because he looked so familiar--

 --though he'd been "confined" to a wheelchair for years now and she hadn't seen him standing in a long while and certainly not while wearing such an infamous yellow outfit--

--it was just triggering some ingrained, conditioned response--

--not that in all this time they'd ever been more than colleagues, had they? Things had always been professional between them, no matter how many times thoughts to the contrary had tried to creep in. He'd been Harrison Wells, her boss, and there were lines that she could not cross with him--

--but he wasn't really Harrison Wells and, for the first time, she realized that that meant the restrictions she'd mentally put on him as Harrison Wells no longer applied. And he was a really good kisser--

 --one might even say exceptional, even--

--and there was a small part of herself that seemed to be thawing--

 --or freezing over into a brand new configuration--

--and things that didn't seem possible before now seemed very possible, indeed.

He broke the kiss with a sigh, leaning his forehead against hers. "Seems that someone has finally tardily tracked down the source of the time loop. You ever want to try Trattenburg's Theory again, give me a call."

He presented an actual business card printed on ridiculously high card stock with a phone number on it and no name.

"You're giving me your card?" she asked, arching a brow.

He grinned broadly. "Be interesting to see if you turn it over to the rest of Team Flash to try and track me down or if you keep it to yourself, hm?" His eyebrows waggled, then he rather impishly kissed the tip of her nose. "See you around, Dr. Snow. Oh and by the way, you've lost your towel."

"Wha--? Oh!" She slid down from the dresser to retrieve the towel from where it had puddled to the floor at some point -- How did I not notice that? -- and hastily tied it around herself once more. By the time she looked up again, he was gone.

Almost immediately, her doorbell rang and she opened the door to find Barry in his Flash suit.

"Cait, you okay? There was some weird thing going on with the Speed Force and Cisco and I finally pinpointed it to here."

"Yeah, um, let me just get dressed and I'll tell you about it," she said, inviting him in.

"Oh, and is this yours? It was on your doorstep..."

He held up a new bottle of conditioner -- her brand, but of course -- and she had to bite her lip to hold down a smile she couldn't explain.

"Yeah, that's mine," she confirmed and when she went to put it up, she also took the opportunity to hide the business card.

[dailytechnologynews]

The world is utterly unprepared for artificial intelligence in the near-term: "Media Synthesis", the phenomenon which includes deepfakes, is further along than almost anyone realizes and is prepared for, and this will result in a lot of fun and angst come the 2020s

I run the /r/MediaSynthesis subreddit, collecting links and discussions surrounding this technology. The other day, I asked /r/MachineLearning about a topic that I've been tossing about my head for almost a full decade now: when will we be able to use style transfer on audio reliably?

In the simplest possible terms, "style transfer" is when you make one thing like another using machine learning. You upload a picture of a sunny day as an input, upload a bunch of pictures of night time as variables, and then get the original picture but now it's night time. The algorithm didn't fetch a picture of the scene at a different time of day. It altered the very pixels, turning day into night.

Here's a few examples:

Color transfer

Video transfer, turning a street scene with trees into one with buildings or more trees, among other things

Musical transfer, changing instruments and genres.

All of which are from 2017 or 2018.

There's a lot more, and this includes deepfakes which I'm sure plenty of people are aware of. The potential of this technology over the next 5 years— and yes, I'm saying five years, not fifteen or twenty five or fifty— is going to lead to people with no skill in machine learning or artistry to be able to alter existing media almost completely as well as generate some kinds of new media.

Back specifically on the topic of audio style transfer, this includes being able to take a song, any song, and altering at your leisure in a variety of different ways ranging from adding or subtracting instruments, swapping the vocalist or removing them entirely, and perhaps even extending the song in an "intelligent" manner— meaning the algorithm can actually generate more sections of that song that didn't previously exist (within reason). You could turn any top 40 pop song into a 20-minute-long pop epic.

My classic desire is taking TLC's Waterfalls and turning it into a barbershop quartet, complete with the mustachioed men singing in tune with all the 1920s graininess you'd expect. Did you like Bohemian Rhapsody but could do without the heavy guitars? Why not transfer it into a polka song? That's indeed very possible. Covering songs in a different style is obviously a thing that you can already find on YouTube and "X Goes Pop" compilations whatnot, but that involves actual musicians and artists putting in the time and effort. We're not far away from having a theoretical "Audacity 2.0" where you could do the same thing with a few clicks of your mouse.

One of my more esoteric desires goes a step further, and it's also very much on the horizon. I love Witchfinder General, but they've always been a bit too amateurish. They were almost a great band, if only a few lyrics were changed and some instruments were tightened up. In the future, I could be able to "correct" these "mistakes", going in to change the lyrics myself so that Zeeb Parkes is singing something a bit different over a band that's even slower and doomier than they actually were. In some cases, that means adding lines where there weren't originally.

It would obviously still be a laborious process because vocals in songs can be complex and heavily individualized.

But that was only ever a problem for the old era of digital software, where things had to be cut up and easily able to fit into bits and pieces and then essentially standardized as if you're playing something on a synth. This new era is something entirely different and infinitely more capable. You couldn't replicate Bob Dylan's soul if you had his voice in a voice synthesis software program as might exist today.

There's no style nor soul that'll be beyond my fingers with the right neural networks.

For someone like me, who loves creating entire musical scenes and movements from playlists and imagination, that's a godsend. For an actual musician or any creative who prides themselves on their humanity, it sounds like the worst dystopia.

I'm not overselling this either. Audio is, fundamentally, a bunch of waves. If you can edit those waveforms, you can create any audio you wish. It's just that the way we edit those waveforms is usually by hitting drums, strumming guitars, pressing keyboards, and singing.

Of course, there are much darker applications of this technology. The very first thing to come to mind is putting words in someone else's mouth for political purposes, as can be demonstrated here:

Deepfakes on Obama, Putin, and others

Making Trump say new things

If the latter sounds too robotic, don't fret/relax. Making voices sound audiorealistic is just a matter of parameters and data, of which the likes of Google, Baidu, Facebook, OpenAI, and many others have no shortage. The crappy free text-to-speech programs you might find with a Google search or in a PDF file is as representative of the state of the art as a bottle rocket is of the military's explosive ordinance.

And that's literally just the tip of the iceberg. Just because I'm focusing on audio doesn't mean there's nothing for images and video, obviously. Just the opposite— everyone is so focused on deepfakes and image synthesis that we're overlooking audio synthesis.

It's not coming in stages, nor is it arriving slowly and at easily digestible and tolerable speeds as might be written in a shlock cyberpunk novel. We're not going to struggle with image synthesis for 20 years, then struggle with audio synthesis for 20 years, and so on until we reach a point in the distant future where you can't trust anything you see. We're developing them all simultaneously and seeing progress come at breakneck speeds, and we'll be well within that future this time next decade.

In fact, this time next decade we'll have entirely different zeitgeists when it comes to art, entertainment, and the news. There's no refuge in cartoons. Neural networks are in the early stages of learning how to do caricatures and exaggerations— the fundamental root of cartooning. Others can generate short animations from text alone. Even more can be used to remaster old video games and create games from scratch.

And no, you can't find refuge in writing either. Scarily enough, it's the text synthesis network that shows the most signs of general intelligence. It's not AGI by far, but it's most general AI ever created and it isn't even a very complex machine at that. But it's apparently too dangerous to be released.

If you have a passion for all of this and create art for art's sake or are willing to accept fewer (but likely much higher paid) commissions rather than a "career" as we understand it to be, you're fine. If you're someone who wants to become a career artist/model/voice actor/musician/animator/writer/comic artist/newscaster and expect to find consistent work for the next 50 years, (first, good luck regardless) make these next five to ten years count and/or try considering jumping into the former category.

We don't need AGI for any of this either, so don't think that we have to wait until we "solve intelligence" to see any of this. Nor should you expect it to cost a fortune to use. We only need GANs and most of this tech is open source.

The final and most sobering realization of all this is the cold fact that, ironically contrary to all those predictions of how automation would unfold, entertainment and the arts will be the first field to go. Everyone said that all the drudgery of the world would be automated first, freeing up workers to pursue the arts because "a machine could never write a poem, pen a song, or paint a work of art".

This is something so stupefyingly far from public conscious that there is virtually nothing being done or said about it. You might initially think that it doesn't warrant much discussion until it actually arrives, but when you really start looking at this in-depth, you have a tendency to grow a bit fatalistic. One of my future-shock angsts is about schooling and how public and private schools in their current form are utterly unable to prepare children for the future into which they will graduate (a future in which school itself may become obsolete because there will be little point for it besides social functions and raw education, which isn't what American schooling is for). This is related, but a bit different.

We have a technology that didn't exist 10 years ago and yet will almost certainly upend the entire entertainment industry within 10 years from now. Photoshops and photo manipulation, "dumbfakes" if you will, weren't even a pre-meal mint, let alone the appetizer. We ought to be having a dialog on this, but we aren't.

Many of us refuse to believe it exists at all, that it's just some schizophrenic pipe dreams found on /r/Futurology and /r/Singularity. Others so desperately want to leave a place for humans that they will deny that machines will be able to do these things competently despite being shown the evidence. And those who accept it can only say "So what?" Even though I eagerly await a world where I could generate a multimedia franchise (and the global reaction) in my bedroom on my laptop, there are still pertinent risks.

As /u/ksblur said:

Strange how we live in a world of trust-based security. It would be relatively easy for cryptography to solve that issue (your phone could automatically reject calls without proper signatures or encryption), but people grew up "trusting" the systems so there's not a lot of incentive to change it.

Could you imagine inventing the telephone in 2019 and either A) not encrypting the data (landlines) or B) using weak 64bit A5/1 encryption (GSM)?*

TLDR Skynet wants to become a singer and artist, and Dad (i.e. Humans) doesn't realize it yet.

[skepticraven]

Does Trump have Narcissistic Personality Disorder?

In my opinion, yes, yes. A thousand times, yes. However I want to be clear about something before going any further. I am not a psychiatrist. This is entirely my opinion BUT there are a number of doctors who agree with me such as Harvard psychoanalyst Lance Dodes, psychiatrist Dr. Robert Jay Lifton; and   professor of psychiatry at Johns Hopkins University  Dr. John Gartner; and many more. I also don’t want anyone to be under the impression that because Donald Trump seems to be the world’s clearest cut case of NPD (Narcissistic Personality Disorder), that this somehow absolves him of responsibility for his actions. It doesn’t. He is not legally insane- even if his actions often seem irrational to most of us. Narcissistic Personality disorder is in the  DSM–5 (a.k.a. the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders Fifth Edition) and it is technically a mental illness. HOWEVER, there is a significant and distinct difference between narcissistic personality disorder and other types of mental illnesses like Schizophrenia or Bipolar Disorder. First, let’s get a general definition of what personality disorders are and aren’t.

Psychology Today defines personality disorders as: “deeply ingrained ways of thinking and behaving that are inflexible and generally lead to impaired relationships with others.” Mental health professionals formally recognize 10 personality disorders that fall into three clusters.  Cluster A includes the ddd or eccentric disorders. Cluster B includes the dramatic or erratic disorders.  (Narcissistic Personality Disorder falls in Cluster B). And Cluster C which includes Anxious or fearful disorders.”

One might say that narcissistic personality disorder is essentially just an abnormal personality. Like with all personalities, biological factors as well as environment and early life experiences form who a person becomes. People with narcissistic personality disorder just possess personalities that are so outside the norm, and so problematic (for the individual and/or for society) that it has been identified as a mental disorder. With mental illnesses like Bipolar Disorder, the primary treatment is medication to treat that chemical imbalance. You could counsel someone with Bipolar Disorder to the ends of the earth, but unless you treat the imbalance with medication, you won’t get much of anywhere. In many cases, if the Bipolar patient find the right meds, it will generally control all or most symptoms. (It can be a struggle finding that right mix though since its essentially trial-and-error). With Narcissistic Personality Disorder, the primary treatment is psychotherapy. Occasionally meds can be used to treat underlying anxiety or depression but no pill can achieve a total 180 degree turn on personality traits that become ingrained over a person’s lifetime. You can’t re-route a narcissists worldview and patterns of interaction with a pill. That would take therapy. Unfortunately NPD has a low recovery rate because it takes someone who is truly willing to heed the perceptions of other people and someone who highly motivated to change narcissistic behaviors. As I go into some of the signs of NPD and how Trump displays them, you will begin to see why most narcissists lack the willingness and motivation to recover. 

Symptoms:

1) People with NPD have an inflated sense of their own importance and so CLEARLY does Trump. For example, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Donald Trump claimed he had the largest inauguration crowd in history. He also incorrectly claimed that he had and I quote, “the biggest electoral college win since Ronald Reagan." The reality is that almost every President since Ronald Reagan  won more electoral college votes than Donald Trump. 

2) People with NPD have a deep need for admiration. Trump went on a “thank you tour” after winning the election and has continued to campaign after inauguration. (See video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAQnXnQQCCI) Why is he doing these things? Trump wants, no needs, to be surrounded by his base who will scream and cheer and stroke his ego. 

3) People with NPD lack of empathy for others. A good example of this would be when Trump belittled the parents of a deceased Muslim-American soldier (Captain Humayun Khan). Trump lacks the ability to imagine the pain of losing a child in service to this country. Its the same reason he made that “I prefer people who weren’t captured” remark about John McCain. He has no ability to empathize with someone who spent nearly six years in a North Vietnamese prison. Even if you disagree with someone politically, an empathetic person would still show respect and gratitude for American heroes. This next example speaks both Trump’s need for admiration and his lack of empathy: Trump’s strangely chipper attitude about Hurricane Harvey’s devastation. When speaking to some supporters at a firehouse in Corpus Christi, Trump just couldn’t help himself and he exclaimed, "What a crowd, what a turnout." And if anyone else made this next comment, I’d think nothing of it but since it was Trump? Houston, we have a problem. Trump said in tweets, “ HISTORIC rainfall in Houston, and all over Texas. Floods are unprecedented, and more rain coming... Going to a Cabinet Meeting at 11:00 A.M. on #Harvey. Even experts have said they've never seen one like this!....  Wow - Now experts are calling #Harvey a once in 500 year flood!.... Many people are now saying that this is the worst storm/hurricane they have ever seen.” See the problem is Trump is so transparent and I know where this was going before it went there. Of course Trump would ramble about this was the biggest and the best flood because everything with him is automatically the biggest, record breaking thing that ever happened and he is going to turn this around to talk about how awesome he and his team are. And he does exactly that, “ Great coordination between agencies at all levels of government. Continuing rains and flash floods are being dealt with. Thousands rescued.....  Wonderful coordination between Federal, State and Local Governments in the Great State of Texas - TEAMWORK! Record setting rainfall. “  (；一_一) Harvey is just another episode of the Trump show. Everything somehow is about Trump and his sheer tremendousness at (fill in the blank).

4) People with NPD have a mask of ultra-confidence but behind the mask lies a fragile self-esteem that's vulnerable to the slightest criticism. For example, Trump sued Bill Maher over a joke. Maher got fed up with Trump constantly harping on the Obama birtherism nonsense, so Maher said Trump needs to prove that he isn’t the byproduct of his mother and orangutan. Then Trump threatened to sue The Onion (which in case you don’t know is probably the most famous satirical newspaper currently in print) which published a fake opinion piece pretending to be authored by Trump. It was titled, “When You’re Feeling Low, Just Remember I’ll Be Dead in About 15 or 20 Years.” Trump is the definition of a snowflake.

5) Narcissists are preoccupied with fantasies of success, power, or beauty. His obsession with success and power seem pretty clear. If you haven’t picked up on that, you have been living under a rock. His obsession with beauty is fascinating since its definitely not directed inwards. He seems immune to the reality of his own laughable appearance. However, Trump is obsessed surrounding himself with beautiful women. So obsessed that he keeps replacing his romantic partners will the younger model. Back when George Bush Sr. was President, Trump literally told Esquire magazine: "You know, it doesn't really matter what they (meaning the media) write, as long as you've got a young and beautiful piece of ass." And he isn’t just obsessed with his romantic partner’s level of attractiveness. Its everyone around him as well, including his daughters. When Tiffany was 2, Trump made this terrifyingly creepy comment  “I think that she’s got a lot of Marla. She’s really a beautiful baby. She’s got Marla’s legs. We don’t know whether or not she’s got this part (referring to her chest) yet but time will tell.” He held his hands in front of his chest to represent breasts when he said that. During an interview with Howard Stern in 2003, Trump said this about his then 22-year-old daughter Ivanka: "You know who's one of the great beauties of the world, according to everybody? And I helped create her. Ivanka. My daughter, Ivanka. She's 6 feet tall, she's got the best body. She made a lot money as a model—a tremendous amount."  Three years later on a separate visit to the Howard Stern Show, Trump referred to Ivanka as “voluptuous.” That same year on The View, Trump said this about Ivanka, “If Ivanka weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her.” Honestly, who talks about their daughter like that? Trump has carried this vanity straight into the white house. He has often referred to members of his team as coming from "central casting." Its well know that Chris Christie’s weight had a lot to do with the fact that he was not offered a position in Trump’s cabinet.

6) People with NPD are entitled, meaning they believe themselves  to be inherently deserving of privileges or special treatment. A good example of this Trump’s 5th military deferment for bone spurs. (He’d received 4 prior deferments for being in college. As tough as he talks, you’d think he’d be itching to go fight for his country). Trump had a perfect bill of health less than two years prior to these supposed bone spurs being used as an excuse to dodge the draft. That previous physical did not disqualify him for service as we can tell from his 1-A classification in July 1968. But this new physical that supposedly turned up bone spurs conveniently placed him squarely at the bottom of any call-up list, meaning he would only be drafted if there were some of complete and total military catastrophe. Funny, how those bone spurs didn’t impede Trump’s ability to play baseball, tennis and squash in college? He had only just recently graduated when he got the bone spurs deferment so there is weeks- maybe a couple months tops- in between his athletic college activities and this bone spur deferment. (；一_一) Politifact reports, “ Trump failed to mention his medical deferment when he told ABC News on July 19, 2015, that he was never drafted because the draft lottery went into effect and his birthday came with a high number.” Wrong. He got an extremely high number because of a medical deferment. Fun fact, only 5 percent of people with spurs have any pain at all. It would’ve been an extremely rare case to be debilitated by a spur at age 22.” And even more rare, to miraculously recover so quickly and completely- after the war ended of course- not that we ever saw any actually evidence of physical disability. Since people started bringing this up, Trump has magically remembered the bone spurs... sort of. Except, he couldn’t remember which foot or if it was both... Come on. Unless you are an idiot, you know Trump had his daddy pay of a doctor to make up an excuse to get him out of the draft. Then on top of, Trump has the audacity to say John McCain isn’t a war hero and insult the parents of a dead muslim-American soldier who did fight for this country. That ladies and gentleman, is called entitlement. 

7) Narcissists takes advantage of others to reach his or her own goals. Trump has a long, long history of not paying contractors and other employees- lots of them. To quote USA Today, “ During the Atlantic City casino boom in the 1980s, Philadelphia cabinet-builder Edward Friel Jr. landed a contract to build the bases for slot machines, registration desks, bars and other cabinets at Harrah's at Trump Plaza. They finished their work in 1984 and submitted its final bill to the general contractor for the Trump Organization. Edward’s son, Paul, who was the firm’s accountant, still remembers the amount of that bill more than 30 years later: $83,600. The reason: the money never came. A USA TODAY NETWORK analysis found Trump has been involved in more than 3,500 lawsuits over the past 3 decades — and a large number of those involve ordinary Americans, like the Friels, who say Trump or his companies have refused to pay them. At least 60 lawsuits, not including the hundreds of liens, judgments, and other government filings  who have accused Trump and his businesses of failing to pay them. Among them: a dishwasher in Florida. A glass company in New Jersey. A carpet company. A plumber. Painters. Forty-eight waiters. Dozens of bartenders and other hourly workers at his resorts and clubs, coast to coast. Real estate brokers who sold his properties. And, ironically, several law firms that once represented him in these suits and others.Trump’s companies have also been cited for 24 violations of the Fair Labor Standards Act since 2005 for failing to pay overtime or minimum wage, according to U.S. Department of Labor data. That includes 21 citations against the defunct Trump Plaza in Atlantic City and three against the also out-of-business Trump Mortgage LLC in New York. There were  more than 200 mechanic’s liens — filed by contractors and employees against Trump, his companies or his properties claiming they were owed money for their work. The liens range from a $75,000 claim by a Plainview, N.Y. air conditioning and heating company to a $1 million claim from the president of a New York City real estate banking firm. “ If you’d like to read the full USA Today article: https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/politics/elections/2016/06/09/donald-trump-unpaid-bills-republican-president-laswuits/85297274/

8) Narcissists apologize extremely rarely and if they do apologize, it’s for self serving reasons, rather than out of remorse. About as close to an apology as Trump has gotten is after the Access Hollywood tapes leaked but it was half assed, at best. He mostly just deflected by bringing up Bill Clinton’s misdeeds and complaining about how long ago this conversation occurred. He tossed in an “I said it, I regret it. I pledge to be a better man tomorrow.” and then didn’t change his attitude towards women an iota. The Access Hollywood tape came out on October 7, 2016 and he issued that bullshit apology the same day. Then 5 days later, after Natasha Stoynoff came out to accuse Trump of doing exactly what he said he does in that video (also known as sexual assault), Trump responds by insinuating she isn’t attractive enough for him to bother assaulting her. Because all innocent people say that.... (See video of Trump’s “deeply remorseful” behavior: www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/donald-trump-sexual-assault_us_57ffc493e4b0162c043aa2a3

9) Narcissists often have unreasonable expectations of favorable treatment. For example, when Trump asked James Comey to pledge his loyalty,  "lift the cloud" around him and his administration involving Russia, and essentially wanted Trump to let Flynn go. Same thing when Trump got upset at Jeff Sessions recusing himself in a situation he was ethically obligated to do so. Trump expects people to not do their job and not abide by the law and ethical guidelines- for him. 

10) Many narcissists care little about rules and boundaries so they may engage in behaviors that others find morally objectionable. An example of Trump’s objectionable business decisions, was creating Trump University which engaged in a variety of illegal business practices, ranging from false claims to racketeering. Trump was obviously eventually sued for that, as he should be. The plaintiffs alleged that they paid up to $35,000 in tuition for very little in return. Trump has agreed to pay $25 million to settle lawsuits after claiming he’d never settle because he was “innocent.” The settlement includes a $1 million penalty paid to New York state for violating the state’s education laws by calling the program a “university” despite offering no degrees or traditional education. The worst part is, business settlements are fully tax deductible. An example of an objectionable personal choice was pardoning Sheriff Joe  Arpaio, a man who violated the civil rights of Americans but having his officers actively target anyone who “looked hispanic” including people who hadn’t done so much as a a traffic violation which violates the equal protection clause of the constitution and the 4th amendment which protects against unreasonable search and seizure. Then Arpaio ignored a judge’s order to cease those violations. He also did things like, making male prisoners wear pink underwear and housing them in an outdoor tent city in the Arizona desert where it got so hot that the inmates’ shoes melted. Why did Trump do it? He’d say because Arpaio battled illegal immigration but the truth is, its because Arpaio stroked Trump’s ego by supporting him during the election. Due process goes out the window because he was nice to Trump.  (；一_一)

This person is mentally unfit to lead. Trump has no business with his finger on the nuclear launch code.

[oumakokichi]

(1/2) How about this- Tsumugi was able to cosplay the characters in the audition videos because at that point, those identities didn't exist anymore and they've become fictional. That might explain why Saihara's name was censored out, because that connects him to a real person. And as for why she didn't cosplay the V3 during the trial to prove their fictional nature, wouldn't that make them cast doubt on the videos' veracity, which Tsumugi wanted them to believe 100%?

It’s definitely a possible theory! But while there’s plentyof evidence to suggest they were kidnapped in the first part of the prologue, Ithink it’s also true that there’s too much evidence to dismiss all of Tsumugi’sclaims entirely. If ndrv3 is a game about separating truth from lies, then thatmeans there has to be at least some truth in her speech in Chapter 6, as wellas plenty of lies (and we know for a fact that she was definitely lying aboutsome things, like Momota’s illness).

I also think that if Tsumugi really had been able to cosplayany of the ndrv3 cast, it would have needed to be foreshadowed and alluded to.But all the evidence we’re given in-game suggests that it was absolutelyimpossible for her. The one time she tries cosplaying Kaede, she breaks out inhives, trembles, and looks absolutely disgusted. Whenever she’s accused ofdressing up as any of the other ndrv3 characters, she firmly denies it thewhole way throughout the game, saying it was totally impossible for her. Sheavoids cosplaying any of them like the plague in the middle of the Chapter 6trial, even though doing so would probably have broken their spiritscompletely.

This is more of a minor nitpick too, but despite Tsumugi’scosplays being a “perfect imitation” of the real thing, it’s still very easy totell when she’s cosplaying—because of the inevitable “v3” in the eyes. We’renever shown Tsumugi cosplaying a single character without the v3 present,suggesting that it’s always there as a tip-off. Neither Saihara, Kaede, orMomota have the v3 at all in the audition videos, again implying that it’s notTsumugi. If it were her, I feel that that’s too big a clue for Kodaka to haveleft out or overlooked.

If there were any way for her to cosplay them after all,evidence would’ve had to be presented, or else it’s not really fair from amystery standpoint. But all the proof we have points to the contrary,suggesting that it really was totally impossible for her to have dressed uplike them. Even if those identities “don’t exist” anymore, they would still bereal identities and real people—the point Tsumugi tries to drive home inChapter 6 after all is that their in-game personas are fictional, and theirpre-game personas were very real anddid have real families, loved ones, homes, etc., but they can never go back tobeing those people anymore.

Their pre-game personas no longer existing doesn’t mean thatthey automatically become fictional. If anything, it’s more like they’ve died.I don’t think Tsumugi would be able to cosplay any real-life people justbecause they’ve died and technically no longer exist—at least not withoutseveral layers of myth and legend stemming between their death and the present.

Plus, we have no way of knowing when the audition videos were filmed precisely. It seems unlikelyTsumugi had enough time to film them herself between Chapters 5 and 6. While weknow there are video cameras within the school, there don’t seem to be anycapable of standing on a tripod or filming without someone else holding them.The camera Ouma and Momota used in Chapter 5 required one of them to hold it inorder to film the other one at all times. Since we’re never shown any othercameras or evidence that it was possible to film without someone else’sassistance, it seems unlikely Tsumugi could’ve filmed herself without help—whichwould mean the audition videos were most likely shot before the game.

But again, if that’s the case, then that would be beforeSaihara and the others “became fictional.” Their pre-game selves still existedprior to the game, and would undeniably have existed as very real people at thetime. So if that’s the case, Tsumugi really wouldn’t have been able to cosplayany of them at all.

My personal guess is that it all ties back to Tsumugi’s “copycatcriminal” scheme, in one way or another. Even if the audition videos were real,that doesn’t mean that they auditioned for Tsumugi’skilling game specifically.

In the prologue and in Chapter 6, there’s plenty of evidenceto suggest that Tsumugi was imitating someone else’s game, or that she snatchedthe reins and sort of took over the original game herself somehow or other.Amami in the prologue tries to ask the Monokumerz “why they’re doing thisridiculous copycat routine,” before they quickly change the subject and starttalking over him. Just before her death, Tsumugi says that as a “SHSL Cosplayer(Copycat Criminal),” it’s okay for her to go out with her head held high.

This means that it’s possible for both the audition videosand the kidnapping to be real. Assuming Saihara and the others auditioned forsomeone else’s game, that would mean those videos weren’t actually applicableto the game Tsumugi was running, but that she wanted them to think so. It wouldalso explain why they were kidnapped at the start of the game, and why theyseemed so shaken up and surprised—if the kidnapping was unrelated to the showthat they actually auditioned for, then it makes sense that they’d have no ideawhat was going on or who was pulling the strings, but why they seemed familiarwith things Tsumugi’s show was trying to “imitate,” like the Monokumerz.

Of course, needless to say, all of this is speculation fornow. We have no way of knowing anything for sure until Kodaka decides toprovide some more solid information, but it really is fun to speculate until thatpoint. It could very well turn out that the answer is unrelated to any of thethings I’ve mentioned, but for now I like trying to imagine the ways in whichTsumugi could’ve been lying and telling the truth during her speech in Chapter6. This was a really fun point to theorize about, anon—thank you for asking!

[lessonsinkindness-blog]

the banality of evil.

10 years ago next Thursday, Sophie Lancaster died from sustained head injuries, and a coma that she never woke up from, following a gang of five teenage boys repeatedly jumping up and down on her head, kicking her face and stamping on her body. At the time, Sophie had been trying to protect her boyfriend, who had already been beaten to the point of unconsciousness.

When police eventually arrived at the scene, after the pair had been left for dead, both victims' faces were so swollen that it was impossible to tell which of the couple was the male and which the female.

Whilst Sophie's boyfriend Robert Maltby survived, Sophie was pronounced dead an agonising 13 days later, at the age of 20.

And the motive?

She was a "mosher". 

Sophie could have been anyone from the alternative scene back in the mid 2000s. That could have been me, my brother, or many of my friends who at the time dressed similarly to Sophie. 

And the perpetrators could be any teenage boys in any regular town. 

Only a few years prior to the attack against Sophie, there were many similarities between us. I was into the gothic/alternative scene. I had facial piercings. I listened to music that wasn't popular with the mainstream kids in my school or college. I was lucky enough not to experience a great deal of prejudice about this, aside from the few odd comments, but people I know spent almost their entire time at school being harassed for something as simple as what colour they chose to die their hair, or a piece of metal around their neck. It seems absolutely absurd to look back on it now, yet I know at the time it was no laughing matter. People I dearly loved were being maliciously bullied, threatened and goaded because of something as mundane as their dress sense. I saw an extremely close family member's entire childhood pulled apart by the mentality of conformity and the sheer determination people have to crush any individuality into submission. 

And the emphasis was always on the so-called misfits to find ways to "fit in" and not "draw attention" to themselves. To not be so "stubborn" in their outlook on life. To try to mold into the cookie cutter template. To not respond when being threatened. To be "the bigger person" even if that meant sacrificing their entire belief system, and physical safety. Never once in any of these instances was it suggested that the onus might be on the parents of the perpetrators to bring their kids up to be decent human beings. Never once did the school take any accountability for tackling its bullying culture, or for imposing repercussions. I never heard one person in authority reinforce my relative's right to be themselves, or promote the lesson of acceptance. The bottom line was: if you don't fit in with the rest of us, don't expect us to help when it all kicks off.

 When I was at university, I studied the Sociology of Terror, which  was a module on political conflicts and acts of terrorism across history. When studying about the persecution of Jews in the second world war, we were taught about Hannah Arendt's theory of the "banality of evil". Arendt was a political theorist who argued that evil acts and atrocities as horrific as the Holocaust happened, and will continue to happen, not as the result of radicalism in fringe populations of extremists, as might be assumed, but rather as:

 "simply a function of thoughtlessness, a tendency of ordinary people to obey orders and conform to mass opinion without a critical evaluation of the consequences of their actions and inaction" 

In other words, as a consequence of the incremental permissions we give ourselves to look the other way. 

Over time, I have come to strongly believe in this theory as the basis on which many supposedly "everyday" people allow themselves to do unspeakable things to others, seemingly without remorse, or recourse.

 When we do nothing, when we spread gossip, when we "go along with the joke", when we roll our eyes...

 ...when we say "kids will be kids", when we refuse to believe our little angels are capable of anything but bounty and light when there is evidence to the contrary, when we give weight to superficialities, when we congratulate conventionality, when we take the easy road... 

...when we conflate eccentricity with subhuman scum.

 I'm lucky I was brought up kind, loving Mum, who taught us to do the right thing, not the easy thing. And to judge people on their character, not their appearance. Because of this, despite my many failings and weaknesses, one strength I am grateful for is that I have never deferred or kowtowed to popularity. I have always been far more interested in the misfits and the geeks than I ever have been in the queen bees and the narcissists. I surround myself with people who are happy and proud to be who they are, rather than what society tells them they are supposed to be, and who are fundamentally kind people. I don't have time for the bullshit that comes along with arrogance and ignorance. It's one of the reasons why I will automatically feel myself glaze over in the presence of snobbery, conceitedness, or attention seeking. I just don't want those kind of people in my life, and I've had to learn that the hard way at times. 

My hair is no longer jet black. My piercings are now gone, replaced with tiny faint dimples which make me smile when I remember about the memories I associate with that time. These days I blend in a little more. There are times, even now, when I look away. And when I kick myself for not speaking out. I try hard every day not to be that person, but I know that even I have the propensity to succumb to convenient truths if I allow myself to. 

Let's not let deaths like Sophie's be in vain. Let's not be complacent.

[we-future-first]

The world is utterly unprepared for artificial intelligence in the near-term: "Media Synthesis", the phenomenon which includes deepfakes, is further along than almost anyone realizes and is prepared for, and this will result in a lot of fun and angst come the 2020s

I run the /r/MediaSynthesis subreddit, collecting links and discussions surrounding this technology. The other day, I asked /r/MachineLearning about a topic that I've been tossing about my head for almost a full decade now: when will we be able to use style transfer on audio reliably?

In the simplest possible terms, "style transfer" is when you make one thing like another using machine learning. You upload a picture of a sunny day as an input, upload a bunch of pictures of night time as variables, and then get the original picture but now it's night time. The algorithm didn't fetch a picture of the scene at a different time of day. It altered the very pixels, turning day into night.

Here's a few examples:

Color transfer

Video transfer, turning a street scene with trees into one with buildings or more trees, among other things

Musical transfer, changing instruments and genres.

All of which are from 2017 or 2018.

There's a lot more, and this includes deepfakes which I'm sure plenty of people are aware of. The potential of this technology over the next 5 years— and yes, I'm saying five years, not fifteen or twenty five or fifty— is going to lead to people with no skill in machine learning or artistry to be able to alter existing media almost completely as well as generate some kinds of new media.

Back specifically on the topic of audio style transfer, this includes being able to take a song, any song, and altering at your leisure in a variety of different ways ranging from adding or subtracting instruments, swapping the vocalist or removing them entirely, and perhaps even extending the song in an "intelligent" manner— meaning the algorithm can actually generate more sections of that song that didn't previously exist (within reason). You could turn any top 40 pop song into a 20-minute-long pop epic.

My classic desire is taking TLC's Waterfalls and turning it into a barbershop quartet, complete with the mustachioed men singing in tune with all the 1920s graininess you'd expect. Did you like Bohemian Rhapsody but could do without the heavy guitars? Why not transfer it into a polka song? That's indeed very possible. Covering songs in a different style is obviously a thing that you can already find on YouTube and "X Goes Pop" compilations whatnot, but that involves actual musicians and artists putting in the time and effort. We're not far away from having a theoretical "Audacity 2.0" where you could do the same thing with a few clicks of your mouse.

One of my more esoteric desires goes a step further, and it's also very much on the horizon. I love Witchfinder General, but they've always been a bit too amateurish. They were almost a great band, if only a few lyrics were changed and some instruments were tightened up. In the future, I could be able to "correct" these "mistakes", going in to change the lyrics myself so that Zeeb Parkes is singing something a bit different over a band that's even slower and doomier than they actually were. In some cases, that means adding lines where there weren't originally.

It would obviously still be a laborious process because vocals in songs can be complex and heavily individualized.

But that was only ever a problem for the old era of digital software, where things had to be cut up and easily able to fit into bits and pieces and then essentially standardized as if you're playing something on a synth. This new era is something entirely different and infinitely more capable. You couldn't replicate Bob Dylan's soul if you had his voice in a voice synthesis software program as might exist today.

There's no style nor soul that'll be beyond my fingers with the right neural networks.

For someone like me, who loves creating entire musical scenes and movements from playlists and imagination, that's a godsend. For an actual musician or any creative who prides themselves on their humanity, it sounds like the worst dystopia.

I'm not overselling this either. Audio is, fundamentally, a bunch of waves. If you can edit those waveforms, you can create any audio you wish. It's just that the way we edit those waveforms is usually by hitting drums, strumming guitars, pressing keyboards, and singing.

Of course, there are much darker applications of this technology. The very first thing to come to mind is putting words in someone else's mouth for political purposes, as can be demonstrated here:

Deepfakes on Obama, Putin, and others

Making Trump say new things

If the latter sounds too robotic, don't fret/relax. Making voices sound audiorealistic is just a matter of parameters and data, of which the likes of Google, Baidu, Facebook, OpenAI, and many others have no shortage. The crappy free text-to-speech programs you might find with a Google search or in a PDF file is as representative of the state of the art as a bottle rocket is of the military's explosive ordinance.

And that's literally just the tip of the iceberg. Just because I'm focusing on audio doesn't mean there's nothing for images and video, obviously. Just the opposite— everyone is so focused on deepfakes and image synthesis that we're overlooking audio synthesis.

It's not coming in stages, nor is it arriving slowly and at easily digestible and tolerable speeds as might be written in a shlock cyberpunk novel. We're not going to struggle with image synthesis for 20 years, then struggle with audio synthesis for 20 years, and so on until we reach a point in the distant future where you can't trust anything you see. We're developing them all simultaneously and seeing progress come at breakneck speeds, and we'll be well within that future this time next decade.

In fact, this time next decade we'll have entirely different zeitgeists when it comes to art, entertainment, and the news. There's no refuge in cartoons. Neural networks are in the early stages of learning how to do caricatures and exaggerations— the fundamental root of cartooning. Others can generate short animations from text alone. Even more can be used to remaster old video games and create games from scratch.

And no, you can't find refuge in writing either. Scarily enough, it's the text synthesis network that shows the most signs of general intelligence. It's not AGI by far, but it's most general AI ever created and it isn't even a very complex machine at that. But it's apparently too dangerous to be released.

If you have a passion for all of this and create art for art's sake or are willing to accept fewer (but likely much higher paid) commissions rather than a "career" as we understand it to be, you're fine. If you're someone who wants to become a career artist/model/voice actor/musician/animator/writer/comic artist/newscaster and expect to find consistent work for the next 50 years, (first, good luck regardless) make these next five to ten years count and/or try considering jumping into the former category.

We don't need AGI for any of this either, so don't think that we have to wait until we "solve intelligence" to see any of this. Nor should you expect it to cost a fortune to use. We only need GANs and most of this tech is open source.

The final and most sobering realization of all this is the cold fact that, ironically contrary to all those predictions of how automation would unfold, entertainment and the arts will be the first field to go. Everyone said that all the drudgery of the world would be automated first, freeing up workers to pursue the arts because "a machine could never write a poem, pen a song, or paint a work of art".

This is something so stupefyingly far from public conscious that there is virtually nothing being done or said about it. You might initially think that it doesn't warrant much discussion until it actually arrives, but when you really start looking at this in-depth, you have a tendency to grow a bit fatalistic. One of my future-shock angsts is about schooling and how public and private schools in their current form are utterly unable to prepare children for the future into which they will graduate (a future in which school itself may become obsolete because there will be little point for it besides social functions and raw education, which isn't what American schooling is for). This is related, but a bit different.

We have a technology that didn't exist 10 years ago and yet will almost certainly upend the entire entertainment industry within 10 years from now. Photoshops and photo manipulation, "dumbfakes" if you will, weren't even a pre-meal mint, let alone the appetizer. We ought to be having a dialog on this, but we aren't.

Many of us refuse to believe it exists at all, that it's just some schizophrenic pipe dreams found on /r/Futurology and /r/Singularity. Others so desperately want to leave a place for humans that they will deny that machines will be able to do these things competently despite being shown the evidence. And those who accept it can only say "So what?" Even though I eagerly await a world where I could generate a multimedia franchise (and the global reaction) in my bedroom on my laptop, there are still pertinent risks.

As /u/ksblur said:

Strange how we live in a world of trust-based security. It would be relatively easy for cryptography to solve that issue (your phone could automatically reject calls without proper signatures or encryption), but people grew up "trusting" the systems so there's not a lot of incentive to change it.

Could you imagine inventing the telephone in 2019 and either A) not encrypting the data (landlines) or B) using weak 64bit A5/1 encryption (GSM)?*

TLDR Skynet wants to become a singer and artist, and Dad (i.e. Humans) doesn't realize it yet.

submitted by /u/Yuli-Ban [link] [comments] source https://www.reddit.com/r/Futurology/comments/b2wv71/the_world_is_utterly_unprepared_for_artificial/

[its-a-lark-blog]

Neurotypicals & Innate Variables

And How it Affects Game Dev

I won't refer to these as 'qualities' as there are no qualitative factors to them, quite to the contrary. I mean, if I were to tell you that the games industry was quite the Penis Empire, you'd be more than likely to have some kind of kneejerk reaction, eh? You'd spit out some blimmin' utter nonsense acronym or phrase that was programmed into you, like 'SJW' or 'virtue signalling,' as you're unwittingly an easily hacked robot.

Still, a lot of the video games industry is a sausage fest that doesn't really involve women -- this is true on all echelons of it from indie right up to the very top tiers of triple-A, it's why the industry still has a sexism problem no matter how hard it tries. And the reason for this is the assumption -- which neurotypicals can't get away from -- that you're automatically going to understand everything.

Neurotypicals have a perverse belief in their own omniscience, so they don't need to ask anything, they just know. How do they know? A lack of introspection seems to be the only answer I can come up with.

I don't know if this is just down to a very extraverted world, but in my life I've only met a handful of people who're capable of actual, honest-to-goodness introspection. Instead of running with an assumption based solely upon flawed data, they'll ask 'is this actually the case?' in order to arrive at a more probablistic truth backed by proof and evidence. Neurotypicals can't do that.

I'd even say that there are some autistic people who can't, too, but I do wonder about misdiagnosis, there. I weigh the strength of someone's autism on their capacity for introspection, to question rather than assume. My partner and I are both exceedingly autistic and we value when questions are asked, even if they shake the very foundations of something that we've always believed. In truth, especially then. It's thrilling! Neurotypicals hate that.

I sometimes wonder why bad science has become so commonplace, I think it's the shift from it being mostly autistic individuals doing the science though often being taken advantage of by neurotypicals (Edison abusing Tesla's trust, et al) who're all too capable of being sociopathic sharks without a shred of empathy, to neurotypicals playing scientist themselves. Badly.

This is why we have dark gravity, now. I'll always shake my head at that. I mean, we have things we should be investigating, right? There's pilot wave gravity, emergent gravity, and the very real possibility that a number of our assumptions about gravity and the mass of other galaxies is simply wrong. I'll tell you, it makes my head spin that the recent discovery of just how wrong we were about the mass of Andromeda didn't even shake the belief in dark gravity.

Dark gravity is like a neurotypical religion that's parading as science.

This is pervasive, too. This lack of introspection that neurotypicals always have; It can be found in every field. For example -- it's as easily measured in PhD's as well as students that people in the psych field never ask autistic people for opinions. They believe they have an absolute knowledge of autism despite their neurotypical brains being completely incapable of grasping it -- which leads to them having incredibly, horrifyingly wrong ideas about autism.

I'll sometimes watch people on sites like Quora and StackExchange try to figure out something about autism -- and I'm just sitting here, being me, and wondering why they don't just ask an autistic person? That, however, takes a level of awareness that neurotypicals have never possessed. A shame, but a truth.

An example of this?

Theory of Mind. Neurotypicals, for the longest time, believed that autistic people couldn't read emotions and had impaired empathy. All this came from the astounding realisation that they'd never even bothered to interview autistic people to find out if that was true, at all. It took decades, and the Internet, for them to finally realise in their slow, reptilian, cold blooded brains that perhaps they could ask?

I think we all have morbid fascinations. I remember neurotypicals watching 9/11, unable to look away as people were begging for anyone to save them, waving to be noticed as the building was burning and crashing. I couldn't watch it, I was told about all of this by those who'd watched, who couldn't stop watching. I would watch them watching, seemingly devoid of empathy for the people on screen.

As an autistic person, I can't stand to see people suffer. Neurotypicals seem thrilled by it, though? Being autistic, I naturally decided the best course of action was to interview them to find out why they're so attracted to watching people suffer. The answer I got was that it was exciting for them, they couldn't stop watching because witnessing mortality so brazenly put on display was thrilling.

They felt powerful and privileged that they were chosen to live.

Ultimately, though, the most I could get out of it was that even though they knew it was wrong, and sick, it was thrilling to watch people suffer.

Now, my autistic brain will never understand that. Too much empathy.

I accept that I'll never fully grasp that, though. All I can do is try to get neurotypicals to try to explain it to me as best they can. This is quite the commonplace thing, though. I'll try to understand neurotypicals, whereas neurotypicals will assume they already know everything and therefore there's nothing for them to understand. What I could grasp about the why of this is that neurotypical culture has a sociopathic quotient to it, it's killer shark-y, so they need to be manipulative, pretending to know more than they do???

How awful! And how terrible for science.

Similarly, I see birds, dogs, and other animals trying their best to communicate with neurotypicals. Often, neurotypicals won't give them the time of day, there's this bizarre narcissistic weight in their mind that harks back to the fetish for their own species they have -- where it is the burden of the lesser species to put in all the work. If birds can't learn English, then they're too stupid to bother with. Why aren't we trying to understand their methods of communication??? They're clearly trying to understand ours.

If this doesn't seem relatable to you? You're probably autistic. I mean, I see people who're obsessed with bugs or birds as their special interest (which is very autistic in the first place), and they absolutely are trying to learn how to communicate. So for them this might seem alienating. Sorry to be the one to tell you, but you're very likely autistic. You might want to investigate that for yourself.

This all brings me back to the point of autistic empathy.

Turns out that we don't lack empathy. Turns out that we don't lack Theory of Mind, either. Turns out, in fact, that according to brain scans and other evidence we actually have more innate empathy than any neurotypical alive. Turns out that what's actually happening is that we have difficulty expressing empathetic responses. Turns out, of course, that we could've told neurotypicals this at any time had they asked.

They don't ask, though, they never do. They don't ask, they don't enquire, they don't investigate, they don't like it whena another asks a question of them. They don't like that at all. And worst of all? They don't ever ask questions of themselves, they don't internally interrogate themselves to learn.

It was startling to learn that.

So I did a study of my own. Unofficial, of course. I asked as many neurotypical people as I could whether, when presented with a topic tehy know nothing about, do they rely on possibly fallible memories and opt for assumptions or do they spend time questioning themself in order to ascertain how much they actually know? In each case, when I could get them to be honest about it, they admitted that they didn't ask themself -- they just opted for assumptions.

Assumptions are an innately neurotypical problem. Which leads to kneejerk reactions when presented with contrary information, it also leads to very incorrect ideas about how to approach problems.

This brings me to game development. If your game dev team is made up of mostly men, and you don't have any women in an advisory role? What's going to happen is that the men will assume that they know all about feminism and women, so they'll do what's right for women and include that in their game. They know best, right?

This is why you'll see white, healthy, able-bodied men speaking for women, other ethnicites, and the disabled because naturally they know best. I don't know whether it's just this subconscious, animal fear they have in their cold-blooded reptile brains, but they're terrified of the very idea that they might not know something.

To have advisors on board would admit that. Can't do that.

This leads me to wonder just how autistic Ubisoft is. I mean, I can't say I like many of their games, you know? I don't. Sorry, Ubisoft! You don't make bad games, at all. No, no no no. You just don't make games I necessarily want to play; They're too grounded in reality for me, not nearly fantastic enough, and in the case of Assassin's Creed they revolve around lots of murder.

I want to see Ubisoft develop an open world thiefy simulator. Similar to what was attempted with the recent Thief reboot (THAIF), but... um... actually interesting and competent. The THAIF thing is interesting, though. Can I talk about that?

Initially the Thief reboot was called THI4F. A lot of people assumed that EIDOS didn't understand how the numbering thing worked, how it was L33T-SP34K where numbers replaced letters. I entertained that idea, but i also asked other questions. Such as -- Is thiaf actually a word?

Being as autistic as I am (which is as autistic AF, naturally, loves), I found out that thiaf is indeed a thing! It was proto-Germanic, Saxon in nature. I began to wonder to myself whether this meant that Thief was going to have a proto-Germanic setting, with all the trappings thereof, as opposed to the usual thief fare. I began to imagine how this would work, how they'd set up the location and the lore. It was fascinating, putting together this anachronistic representation of a forgotten Germany, pulling on history, folklore, and fantasy to do so.

After Deus Ex: Human Revolution, I gave them the benefit of the doubt. I wondered if Eidos could actually pull this off. They created such an autistic intellectual property (which was actually intellectual) with their first Deus Ex game that I believed, for a moment, that this was their intent. They weren't failing to understand L33T-SP34K, they were being incredibly clever and hinting at what their upcoming game was about! Suffice it to say, I was excited.

I was then disappointed.

Turned out that they just didn't know how L33T-SP34K works. Sad.

No, really, a big bloody shame there as another culture other than Britain could've been explored as a setting. I'm British! I find it quite belaboured how everything that isn't modern day is generally British. Even the Elder Scrolls can do better than that, and that's not exactly a high bar (unless we're talking about Online, as that one tends to occasionally surprise me with how intelligent it can be).

Which brings me back to Ubisoft. Ubisoft enjoys having advisors and exploring other cultures; I'd love it if they were more fantastic and less murdery, but that's just what they want to do and I won't begrudge them that. They're not games made for me, but they are truly exemplary games. I'm not saying that to be political either and to try and look like a better person than the next because I'm invested in some sort of sociopathic, manipulative social game. No, no, no. Absolutely none of that. I hate that. No, I respect them.

I don't enjoy their games, for the most part. I buy some of them. I enjoy bits of them (being a pirate, Google conspiracy, the discovery tour mode, hacking), but in general the whole package doesn't click with me. My head is too in the clouds, and Ubisoft's offerings are too grounded. This is why I'm very excited about Beyond Good & Evil 2 as they might, finally, be making a Ubisoft game I want to play. The first was about lefty underground progressive journalism AND alien invasions. God yes. My god yes. Of course, my god has scales but the sentiment of my words likely isn't lost on you. I'm excited! Oh, yes.

Perhaps not Night in the Woods excited, but excited.

Note to self: You need to write about Night in the Woods and how the assumption that anthropomorphic characters are always meant either for children or bloody, violent, aggressive, mutilative games because you can't appeal to Teh Furreez. And how Night in the Woods just overturns that assumption with flawless gusto. Talk about that.

Sigh. Neurotypical assumptions.

This all brings me back to the Penis Empire thing. Yeah, a bit tongue-in-cheek. I've tongue-in-cheek trolled people before, in different places, with different names, just to try and snap them out of their assumption-laden stupour. And always it's the kneejerk reaction instead of wondering what's meant by it and questioning whether there's perhaps a shred of truth behind its statement that games development is a sausage fest where assumptions are made for women who're never allowed to speak for themselves.

That's why Ubisoft stands out to me, really. It's a company where women are allowed to speak. Usually, games development has very toxic ideas about women, even if women are allowed to work on developing games. It's almost every other day, now, you hear about harassment in some video game dev house or other.

I wouldn't call it surprising, but I would call it new.

In the '90s, it was entirely acceptable for a woman to lead a development team and create games which were sensitive to women. This was because, at the time, it seemed like a lot of the people using computers were autistic/introverted nerds. The neurotypicals just couldn't figure out those computer things, at all, so there was no market ther efor them until later on, when things had been dumbed down enough to be accessible to the neurotypical mainstream.

In the '90s, people were sensitive to sexism and racism more than today. It was the audience. If you had a scantily clad woman, or racist epithet, it'd leave your audience feeling distinctly uncomfortable. It was a different time, one where even furries could openly work on developing games. Then we were flooded with neurotypicals and the industry changed, it went from being one of questions to one of assumptions.

So instead of Laverne, Laura Bow, and Elaine Marley, we had faceless femme fatales or submissive sex objects meant for neurotypical males to lust after. It was a sad, sad, sad time. And whereas women-lead development was fairly common in the '90s, today it's almost unheard of. Thanks to neurotypicals, we went from a more equitable games industry to one that's truly a Penis Empire.

And it's not okay to call it that because it challenges the assumptions of neurotypicals. Assumptions that they know everything, that they never do wrong, and that everything is okay. I want to see women leading development again, and other ethnicities, and disabled people; I want to see developers taking this seriously and including advisors on their team whom they ask questions of and actually listen to.

What I don't want is to play a game and be hit with an autistic slur, only to see the garbage person responsible defend it by saying that 'people in reality can be nasty, too.' That's not the point, mendicant. You should be setting an example with your work. Yes, people can be bad, but in reality you'd have someone speak up against the slur in defence of the person being attacked. Which never happened in Dreamfall Chapters (the fell game responsible), did it?

Neurotypicals have been ruining game dev for the longest time, now. It's why I've fallen out of love with it. I mean, I look at the figures I used to love and I see people who're as autistic as hell. Tim Schafer, Ron Gilbert, the Coles, among others. I mean, I'm sorry if that's offensive to them but an autistic person can always spot another, it's not hard. I'm open to being proved wrong, of course, but I'm not basing my belief upon base assumptions. A life of researching neurotypicals? I've learned both how they are, and how they are not.

I'm open to being wrong, always, but since I bother to actually research things I'm more often correct than not. And I'm also sad. I'm sad that game dev used to be more progressive. It wasn't scared of anthros, animal people, and friendly dragons; It wasn't scared of ethnicities; It wasn't scared of strong, independent women; It wasn't scared about actually learning about the topics involved in its own games. I miss that. I miss that dearly.

I miss a games industry that wasn't afraid to ask questions, and wasn't afraid that the answer might not align with what they believe. This is why when I speak of game dev, if I want to see women in games I'm not saying "Hey, hire me!" but "Hey, hire women similar to the character you're trying to depict and ask them how accurate it is!" instead. This isn't some popularity contest, this is just one bloody ancient Welshman on the Internet longing for more diverse, interesting, and better games.

Hire more women, more ethnicities, more disabled folks, more autistic people, and give them a chance to have their voice heard as it once was in game dev. We've heard all that we can hear from white, healthy, cis-gendered dudes. Let's hear some new voices.

Like we used to.

Of course, I am intrigued by Shadow of War. I hear it's about a sociopath (the pompous arsehole of an elf), his enablers (such as the idiot ranger who's more compelled by his position on the social ladder than with petty little concerns like ethics and empathy), and how herd mentality can allow atrocities to come to pass with very little challenge since neurotypicals prefer to idolise the charming sociopath rather than recognise the genuinely terrible things they might be doing right in front of them (such as torture and slavery).

I heard of a scene where apparently Mr. Sociopath Elf is yelling about the orcs just being savage monsters, not noble men. Better nod along with that because he's just so handsome, charming, and in control!

That's kind of how Nazi Germany happened, right? The neurotypical herd idolising the sociopathic Hitler, treating him like some kind of adonis-esque godhead and ignoring the whole Holocaust thing. I mean, I've been watching that bit of ach-y-fi life theatre my entire life. Interesting to hear of a game tackling it.

I need to play that game, though it might be preaching to the choir.

More like that. More intelligence. More diversity. Come on, games industry. Do better.

[shannaraisles]

Her Beacon And Her Shield - Chapter 14

Sunlight lingered longer up here in the mountains, making a mockery of any attempt to sleep before the sun had set behind the peaks. And even if Amelia had tried, she was too nervous to sleep yet. What if he didn't come? As midnight drew ever nearer, it seemed more and more likely that Cullen had forgotten his agreement to sleep beside her tonight. Had she spoken too soon? Had he changed his mind? Had some emergency reared its head to keep him at his desk far longer than was good for him? But no, she'd said if he wasn't here by midnight, she'd go looking for him. And midnight was still an hour away when she heard a knock at her door.

She raised her head from the book she had been failing to read since retiring to her quarters, listening as the door below opened tentatively.

"Amelia?"

Relief washed through her at the sound of Cullen's soft call. He was obviously worried about waking her if she had already fallen asleep. "There's a bench by the door," she called back lightly. "You know the drill."

She wasn't surprised to hear him chuckle in response, the gentle creak of the door closing covering his low mutter. Probably something about how some things never changed. It had been one of the few things she had absolutely insisted upon in Kirkwall - boots came off as soon as he entered their rooms, and were left beneath the bench by the door. He'd always seemed oblivious to just how much dust and dirt came home with him each evening, but it would be no different here. Right now, anyone visiting her quarters had to walk through a building site; she wasn't having all that tracked through the rugs everyone had taken such pains to procure for her.

A few minutes later, she felt, more than saw, his arrival at the top of the stairs, carefully marking her place in the book before looking over at him. He seemed surprisingly nervous, lingering by the railing as he swept his gaze over the room in search of her, an armor stand tucked under one arm. All he could see of her was head and shoulders, the rest concealed by the high back of the couch she had curled up on, but his expression relaxed when he found her watching him.

"I had thought you might already be sleeping," he offered uncertainly, glancing toward the bed. He seemed almost disappointed that she wasn't.

Amelia shook her head. "Too nervous to sleep," she admitted honestly. "It's a good kind of nervous ... although I wasn't sure you'd come."

"Neither was I," he confessed, another chuckle escaping his lips. "The nightmares ... you have so little chance for undisturbed sleep. I have no wish to rob you of it."

"You aren't the only one who doesn't sleep peacefully, Cul," she answered in a gentle tone, setting her book aside to rise and join him.

As she rounded the couch, she saw his gaze drop down to her bare legs, lingering to admire for a moment too long before he dragged his eyes away with a self-conscious cough. "That's ... less than I was expecting," he croaked, his face flushing at whatever devious thoughts were running through his mind as he gestured to the sleep shirt she wore without even glancing again in her direction - a shirt that hung loose on her frame but only just skimmed her thighs.

"You were expecting me to sleep in my armor?" she asked almost playfully, knocking one knuckle on his cuirass. "I promise your virtue is safe tonight, commander. You can disarm in safety."

His warm eyes shot back to hers, the color of fine spirits at the first sip, and reluctantly, a smile relaxed his features. "And here I was, expecting to be ravished," he answered in kind. "I shall just have to live with the disappointment."

Her lips parted in a fond smile, glad to see his tension ease. He really could get embarrassed enough for the both of them. "That's better." Her gaze dropped as she took the stand from under his arm, suddenly noting the state of his socks. Both big toes were poking free from decidedly threadbare wool. "Have you still not learned to darn socks?"

His head lowered sharply to look at the offending clothing, snapping back up to meet her grin as he sought an answer for her. "I'm not going to grace that with an answer," was what he eventually came up with.

She laughed, shaking her head at his hopeless inability to look after himself. "Get ready for bed, Cullen." Still chuckling, she moved to set up the stand beside her own armor, automatically adjusting it to suit his preference.

When she turned back, he had removed his fur mantle and wide belt, his sword propped against a chair, and had assumed the awkwardly graceless twist of everyone attempting to undo buckles placed directly behind their own armpits. The edge of one pauldron dug into his cheek as he struggled, scowling with fierce concentration. It was such a familiar sight that she found herself staring, smiling as she recalled the many times she had watched him do just this of an evening. At first, it had utterly fascinated her - the sheltered mage discovering that a templar's armor was not made formidable by means of magic, but by means of the myriad overlapping pieces that were a struggle to put on and take off. Fascination had turned to curiosity, but he had never allowed her to help him back then, still too wary to trust a mage's hands on his first and last line of defense. But it was different now, wasn't it?

"Let me," she told him, batting his hand away to pull the buckle loose. If he objected, he didn't say a word, focusing his attention on his couters and vambraces as she worked on the buckles securing the front and back plates of his cuirass. "This is better armor than you used to have," she commented curiously as they divested him of the different pieces that guarded his form from attack.

"Cassandra insisted," Cullen told her with a low sigh. "I didn't need it replaced."

"You're not a templar anymore," Amelia murmured, setting the cuirass to one side. "You shouldn't wear their symbol."

"Until you declare me free from lyrium, I am still leashed as they are," he said impatiently, pulling the rust-stained padded shirt over his head as he spoke. "When are you going to reduce the dose again?"

She glanced up at him, distracted momentarily by the glimpse of his treasure trail before his undershirt dropped back into place once more. "Never," she answered his question, addressing his knees as she undid the buckles of his greaves. "You haven't taken any lyrium for almost a month now. Dorian didn't want to be the one to tell you, so he's been dosing you with that potion we made to help with the headaches."

Cullen stilled, staring down at her. "No lyrium?" he asked, his tone utterly disbelieving. But why would she lie about this? It had all been her idea in the first place.

"No lyrium," she confirmed, rising to her feet before him. "I'm sorry, I should have told you -"

Whatever further apology she had was abruptly cut off by tender lips on hers, expressing with a single kiss what words would struggle to make clear. Her soft sound of surprise died in her throat as she opened her lips to him, surrendering easily as he drew her close. No armor this time to shield her from the heat of his body against her own, or the hands that smoothed knowingly to her neck and into the dip of her back. She breathed him in, that heady scent she had missed so much, her own hands almost shy as her palms skimmed his sides, as her braid unraveled at his touch. Her feet shifted as he pressed into her, each one plundering the other's lips like a dying man thirsting for life.

The sudden shock of the bed post at her back startled them both, breaking the dizzying contact with gasps that had little to do with needing air. Breath mingling with each heave of their chests, they clung together in the stillness.

"I'm sorry," Cullen breathed, the whiskey tone of his eyes dark with longing. "I shouldn't have -"

It was his turn to be cut off, her trembling fingers resting lightly over his mouth. "You should," she whispered to him, breathless from the thrill of a single kiss. "Whenever you like."

His fingers combed through her hair, his gaze searching hers for any sign that he had overstepped the mark. "I've been wanting to do that for far too long," he admitted ruefully. "It never seemed the right time."

"If we keep waiting for the right time, it will never come," she murmured, lifting onto her toes to brush a softer kiss to the scar she had left on his lip back in Kirkwall. "I never asked," she heard herself say. "Why didn't you have that Healed?"

A wry grin touched his face, that scar giving him the roguish look that made it so very hard to concentrate. "It was all I had left of you," he conceded in a teasingly mournful tone. "Perhaps it was foolish, but I could not bear the thought of ever forgetting you."

She smiled, touched by the sweet sentimentality. "You should have come to Ostwick," she couldn't help reprimanding him a little. "I would have gone with you."

"Your last words to me were to wish we had never met," he reminded her in a gentle voice. "I thought I was protecting you from regretting us."

"I was an idiot," she informed him succinctly, glad to see him smile along with her at her blunt assessment of her own past behavior. But when she moved to kiss him again, he gently drew back, releasing her from his grasp.

"I don't dare, Ame, not here," he told her, softly apologetic but firm in his conviction, despite his body's evidence to the contrary. "You're right. We're not ready to go farther than this, not yet. I never want to force you."

"You never will." Yet she knew what he meant. Kisses were welcome, a long denied form of affection they had starved themselves of needlessly. But kisses right now, with the temptation of the bed so close and a guarantee of no interruptions ... it would be too easy to throw caution to the wind and rush ahead into an intimacy neither one believed they had earned. They had too many regrets together; she didn't want to add another one. "You look exhausted," she told him tenderly. "Get into bed. I'll stow your armor."

The rumple of her shirt under his hand as he pulled away without argument sent an electric current sweeping over her skin to earth as bubbling, liquid heat somewhere deep inside. But she held firm, pointedly telling her libido to play dead as she gathered the discarded pieces of his armor, and his sword, to set them securely on the stand. By the time she turned back, he was already beneath the blankets in his linen undershirt and small clothes, propped on his side to watch her with a fond smirk playing over his face.

She raised her brows in challenge, gesturing to the stand. "Well? How did I do, master and commander?"

Cullen laughed, a short burst of mirth that brightened his entire being. "Very well done," he complimented her, patting the bed beside him. "Now come here."

Preening inwardly at the praise, Amelia paused only briefly, sending out tendrils of ice to extinguish the lamps and bank the fire, before sliding herself between the sheets. She absently noted that he had claimed the side nearest the stairs, still protecting her without needing to think about it. Aware of the heat of him so close, she settled onto her back, lacing her fingers together over her stomach. They lay together in silence for what felt like a small age, until finally Cullen spoke, unable to sleep just yet.

"I can hardly believe I'm free of it," he said softly into the dimly-lit dark. "It barely seems weeks since you forced that philter down my throat."

"Someone had to do it," she defended her bullying tactics mildly. "Straight withdrawal was killing you."

"The headaches still come," he confessed, staring straight up toward the canopy over them. "But I can predict them, avoid the worst of them. I never could before."

"I'll make sure we always have some of the potion to deal with the pain," she promised, feeling herself relax as they lay together and simply talked. It wasn't pillow talk, per se, but it had always been easier to talk to him like this than face to face in the sunlight.

"I keep wondering ... could we have done this for Samson?" Cullen asked, barely more than a whisper in the darkness. "Could I have prevented him from taking his path?"

She closed her eyes, hating the guilt that suffused his voice. "Where he is now is not your fault," she told him, twisting until she lay facing him, reaching for his hand as she studied his profile in the gloom. "I've wondered myself. But Samson is not the man you are, Cul. He doesn't have your strength; he never did."

"But - "

"No." She wasn't going to let him torture himself with this. "Listen to me. Six months ago, you would rather have died than take lyrium again. Samson never even tried to deny his addiction. He risked everything, everyone, to keep his supply constant. He didn't care who got hurt because of it. You would never do that."

"I should have kept trying," he argued gently. "I should have kept you out of it."

"How could we possibly have sent him lyrium if Meredith hadn't thought it was meant for me?" she countered, just as gently. "I knew the risk. I still took it."

"And you were punished for it," he said from between clenched teeth, gathering her hand to his chest. "I can never forgive him for how careless he was with your life."

She was silent for a long moment, remembering that punishment only too vividly. Samson had boasted to his associates where his lyrium was coming from, naming only her, and one of them had sold the information to the templars. Meredith's "mercy" had shown itself in a whipping that had almost killed her - a mercy only in that the alternative would have seen her made Tranquil. No one had dared to speak out, not even Cullen, but that was the last day Samson received any lyrium from his former friend.

"You cannot help someone who will not help himself," she said finally. "It's Samson's own weakness that had brought him to Corypheus. You did more than anyone for him."

"And yet here I am, free, while he is in service to the oldest evil in the world." Cullen sighed softly. He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to her knuckles. "Forgive me, I do not mean to cast blame. The past seems so easy to correct from this viewpoint."

"I suppose we simply have to learn from those mistakes," she murmured, reclaiming her hand only to slither closer, laying her head on his shoulder as his arm curled about her form, strong and protective. They were still for a while longer, each lost in their thoughts until she spoke again. "I feel as though I should warn you," she mused softly. "Cassandra is a huge fan of The Gallows Bride."

She felt his sudden laughter vibrating through his chest, the huff of his breath the only audible clue to his intense amusement. "That goes a long way to explaining why Cole keeps inquiring after my bulging manhood," he told her in an almost joyful tone. "And Dorian's insistence on giving me seduction tips."

"Oh no, Cole, too?" she asked, though it was far less mortifying here with Cullen than it had been in the courtyard.

"He seems utterly fascinated," her husband informed her, and she could hear his grin in the darkness.

"This isn't funny, Cullen," she protested laughingly. "I have to share a tent with Cassandra. And she wants to know how much of it is true."

"Oh, all of it," he teased, catching her hand before she could thump him. "Particularly Emily's perky orbs of fecund delight."

"I'm going to kill that dwarf," Amelia promised, though they both knew she didn't mean a word of it. A little embarrassment was a small price to pay for peace among the inner circle.

"Kill him tomorrow," Cullen suggested, tucking her close against his side as he kissed her brow. "Go to sleep, Ame. I'm right here."

She sighed, more soothed by the sensation of him wrapped around her than she was prepared to admit. Nestling close, she pressed a kiss of her own to his throat, letting the reassuring curl of his arms guide her into sleep. Perhaps tonight she would walk the Fade free from demons, but if not, she would wake in Cullen's arms. That was worth all the nightmares Corypheus could conjure. No darkspawn magister was going to take this away from her, not now she had it back. Some things really were too precious to lose.