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courtorderedcake · 4 years

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Majestically Too Far Beyond : CSSNS 2020

It’s finally here! Yaaaay! Here’s my @cssns for 2020, Majestically Too Far Beyond, title based on the Poem written by Komal Kapoor. You can read my explanation of how this mess all got started Here. Art is by @kmomof4 and I threw in some too for fun.

Summary : Emma Swan has never been that type of girl, you know, the one that cries and sinks into a pint of ice cream after a break-up. She's never ever cared about anyone other than completely out of survival, but then came Neal, and then came the final big break up with someone maybe she sort of kind of loved. So now she is one of those girls who are homeless, living with her adopted brother and his wife at their farm in a long abandoned Victorian keeper's home, desperately trying to save to get her own place while working her difficult government job and as a merc witch on the side. When a desperate Witch calls on her to do a spell, it's all bad news - but then said Witch revealed a mountain of gold coins, and whimpered that Emma is her only hope. How can she not be a bad ass magic savior for this poor soul? All seems to be well, until the consequences are suddenly very real. Killian may be a Demon, a fallen Angel that now delights in the practice of revenge, but first and foremost he's a gentleman. Sort of. Especially when his ruddy Angel brother is focused on bureaucracy and keeping mankind out of chaos, while Killian barely keeps his denizens as safe as he can in a world that wants Demons dead. Witches and Warlocks use them for parts, Werewolves see them as a threat, Angels mostly still hold on to the ancient feud regardless of their treatise, Fae stay chaotic neutral, Vampires don't care for others affairs - it's a perilous world where hate crimes happen without consequence. When Killian goes above to plead for more safety laws in the metropolis of Hyperion Hills, the city that lies over a major portal to hell, he does not expect to meet a council that the elemental five sit on. He especially doesn't expect that the council would ever take him seriously in his campaign for demon safety. Regina, Snow, Ariel, Elsa, and Belle seem dead set on making it their pet project - each for their own very different reasons. Especially when they bring up hiring a tempestuous security consultant, Emma Swan. When they adjourn, he can say that he is optimistically apprehensive. An optimistic Demon never leads to good things, unless by good things you mean throwing back rum while chasing a pretty woman for plundering. He's unsure of what to expect when challenged to do shot for shot by a mysterious blonde Witch, who didn't care who (or what) he is, but he does like a challenge. Too much in fact, the challenge raising the stakes, because from there on it becomes a blur, and yeah, he's bloody well in it now. The idea of a contract sounds fantastic when they stumbled into the strange tower, half naked and wanting. It's the ritual she does instead that he should have been paying attention to. So, maybe now he's missing a hand, and has only the vaguest idea of what happened from the mess of blood he's woken up to, his and someone else's, a mirror's accursed magic the only thing to tell him what took place: he's a prisoner until someone lets him free… And a woman that he’s positive did not exist in his life yesterday, who just happens to not only be a Witch but a complete stranger, is pregnant with his child.

Rated E, but really falls in at more of a M. Fluffy angst with some adult themes and hinted undertones. READ ON AO3 HERE.

Chapter 1 - Long ago, eclipses were feared as well:

To say that the Jones 'Brothers' had been fighting since time began, was not an understatement, but also not exactly truthful. They had actually been fighting before recorded time, and before there was even a concept of the perception of anything besides the aether or eternity.

That's why he'd fallen, actually. Loss was a powerful motivation, enough even to question the utmost Authority - and the Authority despised questioning. Fighting was in the nature of the divine Celestials, as it seemed, and in Her infinite curiosity that She defined as 'Wisdom', God had let Lucifer burn too brightly. Their war was a lover's jealous quarrel turned violent.

Although Liam was created moments before Killian, they were brothers (as it were) even amongst a host of angels, and they were close regardless of their stubborn spats. They fought over the world and its workings, Liam given a flaming sword while Killian was given books. They fought over knowledge of the divine arts, arguing whether humans were worthy of the Arcane. They fought over Killian's love of a mortal woman, and his questioning of commandments.

They fought over Killian standing behind Lucifer, and Liam fought Killian right before he fell. In some ways, it was Liam's own hand that pushed Killian, but in his last angelic act, Killian forgave his brother.

While Earthborne and some remnant Angels believed Demons were not capable of love, they were of course wrong. Demons loved, lost, and forgave just as any others. Even after the schism, even after years of passive aggressive pettiness between both sides, Demons were still seen as wayward, dark, demented creatures. Angels had done little to fight this stereotype, instead reveling in their continued status as goodwill ambassadors.

Even their name amongst mortals was a cosmic joke, the Creator and her lover-made-antagonist too long gone to bother with proper names. They were Angels or Demons to some cultures as humans grew on God's abandoned project, while others called them by their new names.

The Angel Diana was called a Goddess alongside Hecate, Freya, Gabriel, Uriel, and many others. The Demons Zeus, Odin, Loki, Hades, and Poseidon happily took on roles that suited their carnal needs. Angels mixed with mortals along with Demons, God's secret seeds of elemental magics taking life along beside them as Druids, Fae, and Elementals. Some of the Celestials even birthed life as their lost parents had, Demons begetting Demons, Angels begetting Angels, and everything or anything in between.

Humans gained magical prowess as the world changed, Witches, Druids, Warlocks, Mortismals, and Mesmerels becoming the norm for human bloodlines.

Still, Demons were given less, all because God had cursed them irrevocably before disappearing with Lucifer into the abyss. They were cellularly different now than any of the Angels they had once been, a yoke around their neck that they could be forced to obey. Like Angels, they could be worshipped, called, trapped, or contracted even as their powers and bodies twisted into the curse stained strangeness God graced them with. They were looked on with disgust, pity, horror, and anger for it despite their best attempts.

Which was why his sodding Ponce of a brother working as an Angel ambassador for a Prince of Hell was so important - and so bloody frustrating.

It wasn't as if being a Prince of Hell wasn't stressful enough - his people always under siege or afraid of some Witch summoning them to place a brand, then using them as a charcuterie board - no. It was that his brother was a baked potato when it came to convincing the public they were not what millennia of ingrained hatred had established Demons as.

Bosch had died before Killian could uppercut him, regardless of his depiction of Liam as a trumpeting ferret bird or the even less flattering version of Killian. Dante had been another great PR stunt his brother had botched miserably. The Rings of Hell weren't even used, Lucifer gone before he could put God's plans for punishment into place. Now as a museum and reenactment park, it was a popular attraction that helped generate funds for the denizens that lived in the spacial plane that surrounded it, but Dante's review had been swayed by Liam taking him into The Kingdom right after. How could Hell ever live up to the paradise God herself had planned for humans? Only Cedar Point, Busch Gardens, Disney, or Universal Studios could come close as far as themed parks. It was a complete disaster.

This newest idea of Killian sitting on the board of Hyperion Heights to work with the world's premier intersectional coven, 'StoryBrooke', was another terrible idea in the making, and Killian had no qualms letting his brother know it.

"This is absolutely ridiculous Liam," Killian gritted out, itching under the glamor that made him look mortal. Being confined in a skin suit had his molecules vibrating so loudly he could hear his canines, starlight and cosmic fire sending pinpricks of goose flesh down the dark hairs of his arms and legs. Wearing this was torture enough without Liam staring at him in disdain, his own heavenly image unblemished. Even his halo was a polished gold around his fat head. "While I am a dashing rapscallion in my original skin, don't you think it's bad form for them to see me like this instead of how I actually look? Isn't the point of this to show that even if we're not as pretty as your lot, we're still beings that deserve respect?"

Liam grunted, rolling his eyes. Blue fire from explosions of stars and galaxies lit in mirrors of Killian's own, but framed by rosy cheeks and tawny curls instead of moving shadow, a ghoulish pallor, and dark hair the color of ink or raven's feather. The Angelic glamor contained the haze of darkness that moved like smoke around him, the length of his fingers and claws, and made his flesh look pale but not tinted the color of the universe's light. It did not hide his horns (remnants of shattered halo) or his twitching tail if someone chose to leave eyes on him too long, but that was another Demonic burden to bear.

"First impressions, little brother. Even the most progressive Witch is still a Witch. I'd rather them see you like this instead of wondering if you truly need all your giblets."

Killian swallowed hard, nodding once before grumbling, "Younger brother. Younger."

"Go over your notes again. You'll need to be your nauseatingly charming self for this, especially if they bring the males in their midst," Liam asked of him, and Killian looked out the dark windows of the car as his tail moved in agitation.

"Regina. Head of the Coven, Witch and Mortismal that inherited her throne from her mother. Began the integration method and broke away from the Misthaven Coven to create the StoryBrooke one," Killian intoned.

"Right. She's a tough nut too, and her ghosts do the most of her dirty work. She's not someone to cross unless you want your chairs stacked to the ceiling every morning by some bloody poltergeist."

"Aw, well, I'm unfortunately haunted by you already, I doubt a poltergeist could do more damage." Killian slanted a look at his brother, who gave an annoyed huff as his pure white feathers ruffled. Killian was thankful in part that he did not have wings at all times, even if the trade off was painful. "While Regina is the head of the Coven, the head of the Council is Elsa Frost of the Frost twins. She's a direct descendant of the Giant Ice Sorceresses with powerful magic, but her passion is creating legislation for Hyperion Heights. Her sister Anna is the family's public relations face, and runs their fashion empire, Arendelle Designs with her Druid husband."

"Good. Good, tell me about Ariel Poisson."

"Siren and Mermaid, with four years on the council. Made history as the first water Elemental to sit on the council, beating the long seated Witch, Ursula, by a large margin. Opponents argue that her father's position as King of the seas and his dominion over fair weather and fishing made voters nervous to not cast ballots for her. Her campaign slogan was 'Part of your World', which could be beneficial to my campaign."

"Right. Snow Blanchard?"

"Would-be heir to the Misthaven Coven who ended its elitist reign by breaking tradition and leaving, sending them into chaos." Killian smirked. "She sounds like someone who I could get along with."

"She gets along with everyone except her family, which is more than normal it would seem," Liam replied back, and Killian snorted out a chuckle.

"Druid, Elf, and Green Witch. Runs a high profile herbal apothecary chain Enchanted Forest Supplies, focused on holistic medicinals, herbs, and spices. Nolan Farms is a subsidiary that sells produce to the Heights, which is her husband's 'pet' project."

"Watch yourself, brother," Liam warned. "While you might get away with that if it's just the Witches, if David and Ruby sit in today you'll find that will not stand."

"Ah, yes. Ruby Reddings and David 'Charming' Nolan. You only circled that they are Werewolves in red ink everywhere you could. David is Snow's husband, and her lead farm hand. Ruby is Snow's cousin who introduced the two. Ruby is currently in a high profile relationship with your colleague, Inspector Wolfe, and they both are very active in pack politics. Many are betting they will create their own pack if the current Alphas do not abandon some of the more ancient doctrines. Nothing new there."

"Don't forget Livre and Fa."

"Belle Livre, Witch turned Vampire, runs a community literacy foundation and bookstore chain. Known ally to Demon rights. Soft spoken but brutally intelligent. Introduced a synthetic blood that allows for daytime living via plant cells collaborating with Enchanted Forest, which made history 6 years ago," Killian listed. "Mulan Fa, Vampire. Cultural Development head of the Heights, and curator of The Hyperion Heights Museum of Art, History, Science, and Culture. Teaches part time at Hyperion Heights University as an adjunct professor. Fa is married to a Fae Elf, Merida Ursa."

"Good. That's as far as we know besides the whole Swan fiasco, which is not to be brought up."

"What Swan fiasco?"

"Oh, little brother. If you had done your research outside of the profiles I gave you, you would know all about the criminal history of the black and heartless sheep within the Misthaven and StoryBrooke covens. It's better off that you don't know."

"Er. Well. Alright. I didn't look into them because I don't bloody well care about their lots as long as we get protection. There was another slaying this weekend. A Lower Demon."

"I'm aware. Did you know her?"

"Not really, but that's not enough either. I owe my people more. The other Lords of Hell are fine telling Demons to stay below and never use their name, which is fine for the new blood. It's the old, the weak, and the abused that are at risk."

"Careful, Killian. Your lust for vengeance will never be welcomed by mortals."

"I'm well aware Liam. They like my kind for an entirely different kind of lust."

"Could you please not." Liam sighed, sitting back against the seat. After a moment, his brother spoke quietly. "There was another attack as well, this time in broad daylight in Camelot Town. The Anti-Integration Movement has claimed responsibility."

"Of bloody course they have!" Killian hissed, clenching his fists. He pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing. "Brilliant. Just absolutely marvelous -"

"They were going to run a story in the Times. I managed to block it for now, but we need a sympathetic writer on the inside, or we risk them running another story with their bias."

"I have a guy. I'll reach out, he's an old school Warlock who I've worked with in the past on push back. What's their excuse this time?"

"They said that the Succubus was, quote, 'asking for it by the way she was dressed'."

Nausea rose in Killian's throat, and he swallowed it down with bitter practice. "I wasn't aware that how someone dressed meant their lives were not only void, but taking pieces of them was fine as well."

"We know they're being funded well, and we will get arrests as soon as possible. This won't be forever, Killian."

"That's easy for you to promise when this has been my - our forever." Killian bit out, glaring at his feet.

The car came to a stop, the driver opening the door to let them out. Killian moved briskly up the steps of the council building, as Liam followed behind. They moved through the lobby with an easy flash of Liam's ID that Killian scoffed at, moving into the elevator.

"After that display, I'm going drinking after this," Killian gritted through his teeth.

Liam blinked, straightening his tie in the door's polished reflection. "What display? They were nice."

"Exactly. If I came here alone, I would have been in that security line for an hour."

Liam rolled his eyes, taking down his halo to polish the golden ring. "You absolutely exaggerate how you're treated. Not everyone is out to get you, especially when you look like this. Give others a break."

"I'll give myself a break after this with as much rum as I can safely consume, instead."

The doors pinged open to reveal a small atrium, dark wood flooring in stark contrast to the birch tree covered walls. A secretary stood behind a rounded desk against the far wall, motioning for them to sit.

"They'll be with you in a moment," she offered, glancing at them with a thin smile. Killian could practically taste her distrust as he scratched behind his ear. Liam swatted at him lightly in a bid to get him to stop, both of them tense when the doors finally opened to reveal a petite woman dressed in a powder blue skirt and blazer.

"Come in gentleman. The council will see you now." She smiled icily. His brother stood, his feathers slightly puffed in an indication of his own nervousness.

Killian followed a second later, walking with them as they made forced, but pleasant conversation all the way into the boardroom.

Women sat at a long table that curved slightly, facing their own small table similar to a courtroom. He was reminded of the tribunals in the old days when law had begun, but the courtiers were far different than the strange group of women scrutinizing them.

To his surprise, the majority of them seemed actually curious instead of repulsed or bored.

"The council recognizes Liam Jones and Killian… Jones. These are your chosen surnames, correct? And you identify as… brothers?"

"Yes," Liam stated firmly with a curt nod. Killian watched from his peripheral as his shoulder muscles twitched, his wings held stiffly upright to keep them from the floor.

Killian nodded, careful to keep his tail curled around his legs. The skin suit itched as it clung to him, not abated by his attempt to sit more casually.

"Interesting," remarked the dark haired witch at the far right. A nameplate sat in front of her, marking her as Regina. He wondered idly if her stare was due to the blood on his hands only an eternal existence could bring.

"You are here to ask for help in creating safety measures and a potential council commitment to Demon rights, correct?" Ariel, a fiery haired lass with a heart face, asked.

"Our major point of concern is the influx of hate groups that seem to fall in line with smuggling operations and planned violence," Killian said slowly. Attention snapped to him, and he brought up the slide presentation he had prepared. "We have had some luck stopping shipments and arresting bit players, but we can't find the heads of these operations."

"You can't find them, or you are barred from digging deeper?" Mulan asked, and he chuckled darkly.

"The latter, I'm afraid. We have consistently come to the same dead end again and again. I'm sure I don't have to explain to you ladies how difficult a foe powerful covens behind corporate entities are." He let a grimace creep onto his face, and saw the majority of the women nod in acknowledgement.

"This could make many enemies for us, if approached in the wrong way." Belle stated quietly. "Specifically with our good friends in the Storybrooke Coven."

Snow nodded, exchanging a bitter look with her. "We may need a professional from our coven, but she's unable to get clearance without special notation."

"Oh? Who is this?" Liam asked.

Elsa and the rest of the coven smiled in varying degrees of fondness. "The best in the business, and in my Coven. If you need to find someone, Emma Swan can always find them, and she's good at criminal magical activities. She knows the system, knows how and where to hide, and where to seek."

They'd found what the coven wanted, and their stake in the venture. Killian caught Liam's face falling, his eyes narrowing into slits.

"You can't be serious. Involving Swan in this after -"

"That was all a misunderstanding, and was blown completely out of proportion. We have long held up our end of the blame and accountability, while Misthaven has shirked theirs in the name of slandering her." Elsa steepled her fingers. "If you desire the best, which I assume is why you are here, you need to rehab not only Demons’ image, but hers as well. She should be sitting here with us."

Liam tried in vain to tip the scale back in their favor, his face going red. "We'll consider this as part of our negotiations."

"Negotiations? Liam, you are a detective. You should have deduced by now that you have no leverage. You have only decisions to make." Regina closed her planner, regarding them with her dark gaze. "So, make them quickly, before our patience wanes."

Killian bit back a laugh at Liam’s sudden blustered stuttering. These witches were good, and as the meeting ran on for hours he realized just how much liquor he would need to recover.

"Well that went well."

Liam’s sour expression and slumped shoulders were just visible in his peripheral, even as his feathers were still quite literally ruffled. He huffed out a noise of disapproval, too vexed to even reply back.

"Aye to that, brother." Licking his lips, they stepped into the cool dusk air. "I'm going for that drink, are you…?" Killian glanced at Liam, who shook his head with annoyance.

"Seriously? You really -"

"Really shouldn't what Liam?" Killian smiled, venom leaking into his tone. "Go get drunk in a town that would rather pretend I don't exist or sell me in a fine powder to the nearest bidder? I think I'll be okay, although the concern is duly noted."

He turned on his heel, his glamor falling away in a puff of smoke. The air hit his itchy, overheated skin, his tail whipping around in sharp, agitated flicks.

"Take care of yourself, little brother! No need to be a self destructive bastard. We lost a battle, not the war!" Liam called after him, stepping into his sleek car. Killian snorted.

Hailing a cab with some difficulty, the driver asked where he was headed with the same slight resignation he was used to for his kind.

"A bar, Demon friendly please. Some place without swill."

The driver nodded, dropping him at a dimly lit corner of the city. A red neon sign spread crimson light along the sidewalk, soft light also spilling out the doors accompanied by loud guitar. Looking up, the looping, swirled lettering made him smirk. 'The Jealous Flask' was as good a place as any in his neck of the underworld woods.

The inside was smoky, deep red damask wallpaper paired with dark, pitch stained wood panels, booths, and bartop. The liquor selection was displayed neatly, unlike the few early patrons sitting scattered around. The jukebox played warbly rock music, some punchy chords and an easy to memorize refrain.

'one two three four, can I have a little more, five six seven eight nine ten, I love you'

The bar stools were empty, and Killian slung himself onto one, the bartender nodding his head by way of a greeting.

"Rum, neat," Killian stated, pointing to his preferred vice. The bartender did not stop polishing the glass in his hand, but the bottle floated down gently, pouring itself into a tumbler before the glass set itself down in front of Killian. "Thanks, mate."

The bartender nodded again, continuing his work with the aid of his magic. People began to trickle in as the time ticked forward, a witch or two eyeing him suspiciously, vampires playing pool in the front, a group of young werewolves forcing change into the jukebox to get edgier music playing through the speaker system. The Clash crooned out words against the Fae Queen ruling over greater Eld, the pack jumping around excitedly and thrashing their heads back and forth. By this time Killian had moved to the far curve of the bar, his glass refilled to the point of the bottle sitting next to him like a patient date. There were still no other Demons in his presence. It shouldn't have surprised him, shouldn't have even made him angry with the amount of violence they were privy to, but he burned away the emotions with the alcohol flowing down his throat.

A soft touch on his shoulder caught his attention, and he turned with a growl. It died in his throat when large eyes met his, blonde curls falling in front of her eyes in loose tendrils.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to bother you," she stammered, biting her lip. Pointing to a drink that was clearly not his, umbrella and all, she continued. "I was trying to reach my drink. It’s gotten crowded and I thought, I mean, I am sorry I wasn't trying to -"

"Aye." He nodded, throwing back his drink. "S'alright lass. I'm sorry, I s'pose I'm just a bit out of place here."

She smiled, blushing. "Yeah, I uh, I get that. I haven't seen you around before."

"First time here. I was in the neighborhood for business." He poured himself more, and to his surprise she pushed and elbowed her way to sit next to him.

"Business?" Her eyes were curious while her fingers toyed with the umbrella in her drink. "Should I be concerned?"

It was clearly teasing, and Killian felt himself loosening up around her. She seemed to read him well, or at least the alcohol was working. "Not any of the good kind, I'm afraid." He grinned with a wink.

"Ah, so we're just ships passing in the night?" She leaned in and he could smell the floral and herbal scent of her, her eyelashes batting coquettishly as she sipped her drink in his space.

"Passing closely, I hope," he murmured. His heart raced; it had been ages since any mortal had shown interest in him that was mutual.

His head spun as she met him drink for drink, hand unsubtly creeping higher up his hip.

"Would you be opposed to… Maybe, I don't know… getting out of here?"

"Are you saying you would fancy a nightcap, lass?" She smiled from under her lashes while biting her lip, and his heated blood grew hotter.

"Perhaps." She stood with grace as she extended a hand to him. "My place is a quick and easy teleportation spell away from here, and my bed doesn't require any sort of magic outside of what I can do with my tongue."

Killian hesitated, her golden hair in the glow of the lights making her seem to shimmer. "I don't even know your name -"

"Eloise. It's Eloise." She pulled him up, letting him stumble into her body. Her lips met his, and soon he was pulling her closer as their mouths slanted across one another's in hunger. She bit his lip and he felt the tightness that had bloomed in his belly spread fire down his spine.

"Lead the way, love," he whispered huskily, grinding into her.

She smiled broadly, the world shifting until he was in her dimly lit home. A lone window twinkled starlight, moon huge outside as it hung in the sky. Her tongue slid past his lips, the bitter herbal taste overwhelming while the world shifted again, this time pulling him apart.

In a perfect world, Emma Swan would not be doing anything remotely close to what she was currently debating doing. It truly wasn't her fault; it fell on Neal and his stupid family if anyone was to blame, and his stupid coven with their stupid leader. She should have known back then it had been a set up, should have known that Neal was a fucking liar. How many times did the same drawn out plot have to play out? Apparently, too many, considering she had still warmed his bed until a week ago.

This time it was final. Emma wouldn't accept him back when Neal slithered out from under the rock he had his affair in. She wouldn't be charmed by his smooth talking silver tongue, and if he so much as breathed near her, she would take another five years for breaking his smarmy Fae nose. Final. It had to be final.

But finality meant certain conditions had to be met, especially if she was to ward him away. For one, the beautiful loft that belonged to Neal in the Heights downtown could definitely not be her base of operations any more. Neither could the various in between places she found where Emma could grieve until he took her back, damaged goods and all. No more hotel rooms, no more abandoned apartments, no more warehouses, vacation rentals, or quiet empty offices. She had to get her own place, and it had to be able to handle her particularly finicky magic. Neal's place wasn't great for her particular practice, but the view had been killer enough to ignore it. Neal's fortune had meant she didn't need to work, and with her record (or, as his coven would sneer, 'notoriety') that was just as well.

Working added a wrinkle to her life; she would have to find somewhere that allowed her enough space for her magic to keep her employed. That would require a hefty chunk of gold - if she was lucky. The prices in the downtown area were steep, only high profile Witches, Warlocks, Fae, and Celestials could afford accommodation that close to the capitol buildings and Ley Lines. Initially when Emma had glanced through the apartment listings on the bulletin board, she had almost had a panic attack at the amount of gold they demanded.

Her brother David, blessings be, had been her knight in shining armor. There was a large Victorian home that lay in shambles at the edge of their farm lands, its beautiful scalloped details in need of paint, and the gutters growing weeds as thick as her forearm. But, it was within her budget if she could get the down payment placed before the scheduled demolition. She put what she had down to stall as much as she could, but it was not enough in the least.

One big job was all she needed. One big job that she could cash out on. A dip of her toes back into the waters of peddling illegal magic, just quickly in and out without a splash.

She didn't need any more jail time, that was for certain.

Putting out the word she was available in the whisper market was always dangerous, but listening in was free and without a snag if you were smart.

Emma heard tell of a desperate woman willing to give a truckload full of gold to the right Witch who could perform delicate, esoteric, deeply Arcane and forbidden magics. Luckily for both of them, that's what Emma excelled at.

She had always been good at her craft, and her magical workings were beyond powerful. She could do things that other practitioners only dared to dream of, if they could even conceive it. It was why Neal had kept her around, and why his coven's dislike would melt away if she said she would consider joining.

(If she did that around Yulesmas for better gifts, was it really so bad?)

The request itself was intriguing, the woman herself a Witch that could not do the spell alone. She wanted an equivalent exchange of unbreakable magical bonds, which while tricky, was not forbidden in most circumstances. The offer was too good to pass up on, but Emma didn't like leaving things to complete chance.

Cue her sister-in-law, Snow. If anyone could throw runes, read the winds, divine from the mundane, and not keep any of it a fucking secret, it was Snow.

Emma knocked on their cheery red door in the early morning, which must have been a surprise to Snow considering she was half dressed in business wear. She pulled up her stockings in a one footed hop, motioning for Emma to come in as she balanced the phone receiver against her neck. The coiled cord spun around her, and she groaned loudly.

"Yes, Regina, I know. I'll be there, I'm literally - it's 2 hours away. I will be there in thirty minutes at latest, but - Well, yes, Emma just walked in." Snow gestured at a chair, and Emma sat, looking at her with an eyebrow raised. "Yes, I know it's early for her. I know. Uh huh. Yes. We will definitely put her on the table; it's absurd not to, considering - yes, I would love to talk to you about this in person as I've said - alright. Yes. Okay then, buh-bye."

Sighing, Snow twirled, untwisting herself from the phone cord. She smoothed down her pencil skirt and blouse before looking straight at Emma with a curious stare. Her mouth twitched with annoyance as she spoke.

"Now. To what do I owe the pleasure? I have a meeting with Celestials shortly, so." She waved a hand indicating the clock in the background. Turning to the counter, she opened up a cookie jar and removed a rolled cannabis cigarette, putting it between her lips and lighting it.

Emma swallowed, watching the petite woman slide the purple lighter back in its space on their counter. "I just need you to divine something for me. A situation, with a woman who wants me to… to uh, do something."

Snow rolled her eyes, narrowing them to glare at Emma. "We are bringing you up as collateral in our meeting today, trying to get you a seat where you belong - on the council," Snow hissed. She pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a breath.

"Please?" Emma asked innocently, batting her eyelashes for good measure.

Snow sighed. "Alright. Picture the situation and the woman."

Emma focused on the description, the spellwork requested, the woman's pleas. She could feel Snow's magic engulf her, and the fuzziness that came with it as she wove threads out into the natural universe, time and space sending her back answers.

A moment passed, and the feeling abruptly stopped as Snow shook her head.

"This doesn't feel right," Snow said, taking a drag of her blunt. She exhaled, the thick smoke swirling into the shape of birds that dove through the air. Emma coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. "That woman… I don't know. She feels off."

Emma frowned, petulant that the answer was negative. "She's a Witch, and in trouble."

"Have you rolled your runes?" Snow began to pull on her loafers, gathering her things.

Emma chewed her lip. She had divined, or tried to, but had not found a concrete result. "Yeah, and they said it's… Questionable, but the end result leaves all parties happy. Tarot said basically the same thing."

Snow let out a little twittering laugh, pulling her purse up on her shoulder. "And how does Neal feel about it?"

"Neal doesn't need to feel any way about it. I… We… I broke it off." Emma looked at her shoes, then idly inspected the counters formica. "Forever this time."

"Oh. Is that why you're here so early?" Snow's eyes went wide, a hand covering her mouth. "Oh, Emma, honey. I'm so sorry, I've just been under so much stress with Regina and this council. Wait, where are you staying? Oh no - are you homeless!? You mean it, you're never going back to that creep?"

"Never," Emma said firmly, even as her voice caught. "I'll find a place though, Snow. Don't worry."

"So you are homeless, oh Emma, if I wasn't late - no. No. You know, I'll call Regina and cancel it, you need me more than -"

"No, well, I mean -" Emma shook her head. "No. I'll stay here tonight if I have to, but you need to get to your meeting. I don't need Regina's wrath on top of everything else."

"You know you can stay here with us as long as you need, oh, Emma, I wish you had told me -"

"I don't want to stay here. I can't work here, and I love you guys but you both are gross with your lovey dovey hippie -"

"I get it, I get it." Snow grimaced.

"So yeah, I need the money. I can't stay here, I need my own place… I put a tiny deposit on that Victorian down the road, but I need the full down payment to keep it." Emma shrugged.

"The house at the --- Emma, that place is a breeze away from being condemned!"

"No it's not," Emma groaned, rubbing her temple. "It's got good bones, and character. It just needs some… help."

"Well. I mean…" Snow hesitated, heading towards the door, as Emma followed. "Alright then. I'm just warning you, I get a terrible vibe from that woman and I could cancel this today, we could work out a plan. We have the money from the harvest. You could work for us or with David and help us with the roll outs in exchange for a loan. I'm organized, but the help would be appreciated if you're living so close… especially since I'm making sure that house is safely remodeled for you. I don't want you to end up with the roof falling on you or some gas line exploding."

"You worry way too much, Snow."

"I hear the future through nature, and it's generally terrifying. Nature is terrifying. Excuse me for being cautious, and wanting to help you out."

Emma laughed as they walked out the door together, Snow rummaging in her bag for lipstick which she quickly applied. "Yeah well, you're also smoking weed so potent it could put an elephant to sleep. I don't want a loan from you."

"I'm not an elephant, Em. I'm an Elf. It'll take more than this to knock me on my ass." She smiled, extending a hand to squeeze Emma's shoulder. "Be careful, okay? No repeats."

"That wasn't -" Emma protested, but Snow cut her off with a sharp look. "Yeah, alright.

"Good. I'll see you tonight, you're coming for dinner. No buts." Snow grinned, before disappearing with a puff of periwinkle smoke.

Emma groaned, kicking dirt as she stalked away towards her new potential home.

In the final days before moving from the small basement apartment Emma rented, the dingy, unused, bare studio finally found some decoration in chalk outlines, herbs, and a large bubbling cauldron. It hadn't ever been a home or remotely close to one when Neal presented a better option, the bed untouched and unmade. It reminded Emma more of her prison cell than anything else, which offered a strange duality of comfort mixed with dread. It was fitting that she would meet to do this ritual here.

Gothel arrived promptly for their 10 am arranged meeting in a well worn taupe cloak. She looked as desperate as the correspondences between them indicated, but Emma resolved to get this over with as quickly as possible. They shared a nod in the form of hellos, then Emma pointed to the cauldron.

"Let's begin, shall we?" Emma asked, and Gothel drew back her cloak to reveal her tired and gaunt looking face.

"Yes. Let's. Your payment, with more upon completion." Gothel dropped a large purse on the counter, Emma immediately grabbing it and checking the contents. It was real, her heart soaring as she shoved it in her bag.

"So, you are to give me a token of your will, usually blood, an animal you raised, or something that's valuable to you . Something you care about, that you are tied to that a severing will make you -"

"I give you the life of my first child," Gothel interrupted.

Emma's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh." Biting her lip, she brushed back her braid. "That's… That's super Illegal. I…"

"You wanted something heavy, you got it. There's a reason why I came to you; you have a reputation for doing things quietly. The reason you chose me is because you need the coin. Now, my terms. I know you provide healing. I want to keep myself young and strong - youthful immortality. Grant me this." The grin on her face unsettled Emma, Snow's warning in her mind. Nevertheless, the satchel of gold meant a secured home.

"Um. Alright. Are you sure, the life of your firstborn? That's a ways off, and the strength won't happen until -"

"Do it. Do it now, I know the spell will be enacted when payment is due. I'm well studied - Breaking a bond with a child, specifically your first, will grant me the power I need. I know that I can't do this spell myself either, so here I am."

Emma gulped. "Okay. Let me get the texts."

Emma returned with her copper cauldron, pile of books, and spell components. Gothel's grin grew wider, her eyes gleaming at the sight of the tongues, eyes, crushed butterflies, and other more macabre ingredients the spell required.

Feeling a low tug in her gut that something was wrong, Emma backed away from the altar. The other Witch seemed to shimmer, slightly in alarm, a glamor of some sort possibly covering her skin. Feeling even more unsettled, Emma shook her head.

"I can't do this, listen -"

"Please. Please you must, I need this to escape a curse. It's blood magic, almost unbreakable and impossible to escape on my own. Please." Emma heard no lies in her speech. "I admit that I have not been entirely truthful. While I was able to send you the gold easily, I am trapped, held against my will. I can only project myself to you. I was afraid to tell you, because I am desperate to rid myself of this curse." When no lies continued to register, Emma felt a deep sense of pity for the other witch. A blood magic binding was no joke; someone truly must have hated the poor woman.

"Fine," Emma said, throwing her hands up. Gothel perked up slightly, hope in her eyes. Throwing the ingredients in the cauldron, a shimmering mist roiled over the edge as she spoke ancient words and stirred in the shape of long unused runes. Adding bones that melted in soapy bubbles and stirring with a long Pegasus feather that gradually turned to ash, she looked up at Gothel, who was wringing her hands anxiously.

"Your tokens?" Emma asked.

Gothel waved a hand over the stained cloth; several of the woman's teeth, a long braid of her hair, and a large chunk of skin fell into the cauldron. The cauldron's contents began to boil, smoke curling in darkened serpentine tangles.

Emma began the words, Latin, Arameric, the old tongue of the Pagans, Celtic, remnants of Gaul, flowing them together until speaking plainly to her own magic.

"Blood of one that is two, child, mother,

Blood of my own, tear them asunder,

Thicker than wine, thicker than water,

Ties that bind, bound to another,

The womb that grows life,

Kin cared for in kind,

A payment for power,

Remake the ties, lift, and unbind."

Scraping her hand against a dagger, Emma let her blood drop slowly into the brew, the words flowing out in the crimson rivulets. As she pulled away the wound closed from her own healing energy.

"Cradle of moon within flesh,

Remake that which is to be made,

Your reflection removed,

Mine in its stead.

Your burden is mine,

Carried and held as your first,

Blood of the two, child, mother,

As they are born, you are cursed."

She looked at Gothel, who was still wringing her hands, long nails cutting into her palms. This magic was hopefully worth the price the woman had so freely paid. Breaking an infant and mother's bond to give to another was a great sacrifice, the magic comparable to true love, if not greater. The power the Witch would receive would hopefully free her from the curse, but also give her the strength she desired.

"It's done. You must cast your brand over the cauldron, and when you, you know," Emma turned around, holding herself tightly. Caught up in the thought of what she, Emma Swan, would even do with a child, she was unaware of the other Witch behind her scrambling to the cauldron or her deep disregard for anything she was saying. "Get pregnant, let me know. I'll handle that - Wait, what are you -"

Gothel chuckled lowly, her brand in its arcane circle around the cauldron, neon lines of electricity like power that sparked and crackled. Emma felt her hair stand on end, small pebbles lifting off the stone floor as the cauldron shook. Smoke rose in heavy plumes, purple and a noxious mauve that made the air feel sticky, her lungs not able to fill all the way. Gothel's chuckle had turned into a wild cackle, her braided and matted hair like vines or a visage of Medusa.

Gothel's voice was crazed, shrill as she pointed a gnarled finger at Emma. "This is it. This is it! I've done it, I'm free! Oh, you silly, stupid girl. Now nothing will ever stop me again!"

Her laugh grew into a shriek of triumph as magic swirled around them, Emma watching as the woman in front of her disappeared. Gaping at what happened, Emma checked herself for any signs of curses or hexes, unsure of what had just taken place.

To her surprise, no sign of magic lay on her that she could see. She wasn't cursed, the room wasn't jinxed, and the second payment… Emma quickly checked her purse, finding the large satchel of gold easily. The second sat where Gothel had discarded it without looking twice, and she picked it up hesitantly. It was heavy in her hands as she checked it again and again, realizing that for once in her life, everything was going right.

Three hours later, she owned the Victorian home down the road from her brother's farm, the first home she had ever truly called hers.

Living near her brother's home had its perks, and disadvantages, as Snow had hinted. For one, Snow was cooking for her every day, and Emma was positive she was going to gain several dress sizes if she didn't stop gorging on various pasta dishes while pouring her magic into restoring the wooden floor.

A major downside was having her brother constantly fixing her house without her being aware. She'd been woken by him cleaning the gutters, fixing her porch, and of all things, roofing. It had only been a few days, but between his insistence on the outside being presentable and her own work inside, the house was coming along faster than she ever dreamed. It was frightening, and David kept her on edge with his very obvious attempts at snooping around.

"So, you're done with Neal for good," he said, startling her as she sat out on a newly hung porch swing. She wrinkled her nose at him in protest, and he grinned. "And… You're making doors again."

She froze, panic gripping her.

"It's alright, I'm not mad. I'm just - just be careful. I trust you, but I know that before -"

"I made a mistake. I know it, you know it, the Coven knows it, and so does everyone else in the Heights that saw me fall from grace." Emma curled her arms around her knees, bitterly forcing out words. "I won't make the same mistake again. I am on the straight and narrow; these doors are for commuting and hunting skips only."

David laughed, poking her in the side. "Back to hunting skips, huh? Damn. Don't you ever settle down and enjoy the simple life?"

Emma laughed, shaking her head. "What the hell is the simple life? Nothing is simple."

"Well, yeah, but… I mean the simple life." He brushed a hand through his hair, looking at her with a gentleness that she instantly felt uneasy with. "House, a pet maybe, hobbies, a partner, kids -"

"If you are trying to set me up again -"

"Not me," David raised his hands defensively. "No, I was just -"

"I don't deserve that life," Emma stated, shrugging. The sun was sinking lower, crickets singing in the cool air. "That life isn't for me. That life is for people like you and Snow, people that are worth something."

"Oh, Emma. You know that's not -"

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Emma snapped, standing with a start. David looked at her with a hurt expression, and she felt pure rage. "Goodnight."

She stepped back into the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.

"Emma, come on," David called from the porch, but Emma wasn't listening to him as she fought the immediate urge to be ill. The sudden nausea ripped through her, and despite her attempts, vomit burst from her throat.

She panted, holding on to the wall with one hand. The other hand gripped her side, fierce cramping making her double over in a scream of agony. She lurched forward, unable to breathe as pressure rose in her stomach. To her terror, her skin grew taut and she seemed to bloat, the pain of it ripping through her.

David splintered the door, his arms around her as she lost consciousness.

She woke in an ambulance, David holding her hand like he'd done when they were children. He was always the best big brother she could have asked for, always protective of her, and always pushing her to be better. He had convinced her to trust Ruth, convinced her to take a chance with the older woman who was willing to adopt both of them, and they had found another home together. When she was scared or sick, he was right there to hold her hand. Even now as pain ripped through her, he was there. She tried to understand, but her body burned until the flame became too much to bear.

She woke again to the beeping of machines and David's yelling, her body aching but no longer in the same searing pain. Lifting herself up to try and hear what David was saying, she struggled to make out more than just fragments.

"I'm not leaving, that's my sister ---- How did -- she wasn't, she --- I don't know, she never said anything ----- A WHAT? No! I'm --- not leaving!"

Emma's stomach lurched, and she shifted to get out of bed. The sheets slid from her middle, and she gasped. Her middle was rounded, as if she was pregnant. But that was impossible, that was absolutely and completely impossible.

A knock sounded, a petite woman entering.

"I'm Doctor Mullins, Emma. I know that this may take some time to fully process, but… you're pregnant."

Emma hissed out a breath into a hysterical laugh. "What? No. No. This is not how babies work, or pregnancy, or even - I haven't even had sex since - "

"I know, and I understand that you must be frightened." The doctor attempted to console her, but Emma could not stop her rising panic. She touched the rounded skin of her stomach, the firm smoothness lined with stretch marks. Letting out a low wail, the doctor tried to speak over her still. "It's some ancient and dark magic, but it's very real. We have an inspector on the way to take your statement, and we performed a few tests -"

"No. No, this is a bad dream, this isn't real, this isn't happening to me!" Emma closed her eyes, trying to focus.

" - most concerning of which is the results on paternity, which indicate that the father has non-human presenting DNA. Normally that's not terribly unusual, but this is clearly not a planned pregnancy considering your… your conception being, well, this, and the genomic markers show that the parentage is half Celestial. I need to ask, have you had any relationships with an Angel?"

Emma shook her head, trying to understand what the doctor was asking.

"Alright, what about anyone with proximity to dark, Arcane, or Demonic magics? Anyone who associates with Demons? Do you associate with them?" The doctor eyed her curiously, and Emma shook her head again.

"I don't know any Demons, Angels, or Celestials." Emma bit her lip, frustrated at the question. Rolling it between her teeth, she murmured a thought out loud. "I did recently perform a ritual that was older. It didn't call for this though, I don't know anything about this…"

"Well, it doesn't just happen." Emma looked at the doctor with enough venom in her stare to curdle milk. The doctor laughed nervously. "I mean, it did but -"

"This cannot be happening," Emma moaned, throwing her head back against the hospital bed's pillow. "This has to be a bad dream."

"I'm afraid it is all very real. Considering the circumstances, an inspector of magical law will be assigned to question you regarding the situation. Because of the issues of legality, you may not leave or have visitors until then." The doctor stood, brushing her hands on her slacks. "Baby looks healthy despite wanting to grow at an accelerated rate, and we have slowed that as much as we can. Welcome to motherhood Miss Swan, and, er… Congratulations." Giving a last placid smile, she left the room, leaving Emma alone.

Emma sat stunned, unable to do anything but focus on her steady breathing.

(Fuck)

The single word came to mind again and again, escaping from her lips as her breath finally began to turn into sobs.

"Fuck."

52 notes · View notes

wherepoetswentodie · 4 years

Text

This is a thing I’m working on that will not see the light of day for ages because I feel guilty for being bad at updating and also this seems to be the only thing my brain likes to write at the minute so

----

Connor McKinley did not see the point in health class, virtual baby dolls (that might have been possessed by Satan himself, or at least a close friend) and going to BYU in the fall. What he was going to do, however, was go to health class, look after a virtual baby doll (that might have been possessed by Satan himself, or at least a close friend) and pretend he was going to BYU when (if) his parents asked, but actually get into the University of Michigan.

But as he sat in health class - a class of six people, so he wasn’t sure it could even be called a class - he was beginning to think that maybe he’d prefer to be at BYU. Which may or may not have been a death sentence for him. He had never quite worked out how homophobic it really was and hoped that he never would have to.

“Do you think this teacher is ever going to turn up?” Nabulungi, his best friend and ‘girlfriend’ when his aunties were curious, asked.

“I hope not,” Connor sighed, “I don’t trust babies,”

“They’re not real babies,”

“Somehow that makes it worse,”

He glanced around the class, trying to remember if anyone there had ever thrown homophobic abuse his way. Chris Thomas and James Church definitely hadn’t, considering they were his best friends and Chris was practically sat in James’ lap. He looked towards the back of the room and immediately groaned, shocked that he hadn’t heard Arnold Cunningham before he’d seen him. Or maybe his best friend, and unfortunately attractive republican, Kevin Price had finally worked out how to keep him quiet.

Connor might have actually tried to talk to him if it weren’t for the fact that his dad was the (incredibly homophobic) Governor of Utah

“Arnold Cunningham is in this class,” Connor muttered to Nabulungi who immediately brightened up and turned around to grin at him.

“He’s cute,” she whispered.

“No.” Connor said, “Nabulungi. No. Don’t. No. Don’t even look at me. I can’t believe - him? You think he’s cute?”

Nabulungi rolled her eyes and suddenly had a coughing fit that sounded an awful lot like “Steve Blade,”. Connor tutted and turned back to the front of class, if not just so he could pretend that his best friend didn’t have a crush on Arnold Cunningham of all people. He thought that he’d be able to deal with her liking Kevin, and that would probably come with a healthy dosage of hate crimes for all involved.

“You know if the teacher doesn’t turn up in 15 minutes we’re legally allowed to leave,” Arnold piped up.

Connor rolled his eyes and Nabulungi had the nerve to laugh and turn around to talk to him. Deciding that he should try and stop her before things got too serious, Connor turned around, only to lock eyes with Kevin who was looking between Nabulungi and Arnold like he’d never seen them before. Or maybe he was just shocked that someone was actually showing interest in Arnold. Perhaps he was just glad to find someone who might take Arnold off his hands. Connor had never really understood why the two of them were friends.

“You know Naba likes Arnold?” Connor whispered to Chris and James.

James frowned at him, “Who do you think she was out with when she couldn’t come out with us last weekend?”

Connor gaped at him, “Seriously? Are they - Are they dating?”

“I hate you,” Chris said, “Do you ever listen to any of us? That was their first date!”

“I thought she was joking,” Connor muttered, slumping in his seat and trying to block out the sounds of his best friend flirting with someone who dressed up as Luke Skywalker when he went to Comic-Con.

God, he hoped that Nabulungi wasn’t going to start going to Comic-Con with him. He was pretty sure that he’d have to stage an intervention. A little bit like the one that she had staged for Chris after his sugar addiction had stopped being a cute personality trait and had become a genuine health concern.

“Did you ask me to take this class because of Arnold?” Connor asked quietly.

“No, I asked you because someone needed another class to graduate or someone won’t be tap dancing around Michigan next year,”

“Are you going to Michigan, buddy? So’s Kevin!” Arnold said excitedly.

Connor froze and turned around to look at Kevin, who’s eyes were also wide, “University of Michigan or Michigan State?”

“University of Michigan,” Kevin said quietly, “You?”

“Same,” Connor mumbled, “I’m guessing you’re not doing musical theatre?”

“Probably economics. Or business. Or whatever else it is republicans do,” Chris said, “Oppress minorities?”

Before Kevin could argue back, presumably to tell them that he wasn’t going to be majoring in oppressing minorities because Connor didn’t think that was a valid major (if it was, he was definitely going to the wrong university), the door opened and their teacher, Mr. Name-Connor-Couldn’t- Be -Bothered- To- Learn walked in.

And even though Connor wasn’t going to bother to learn his name, he was thankful that he was their teacher. He was old, and retiring that year, which meant that he was long passed caring about actually teaching and would most likely pass them all without even looking over any of their work. They had basically signed up for another free period, and Connor was already planning on using this hour to work on his book and maybe even convince James to take some new headshots for him. Surely looking after a fake baby doll wasn’t going to be that hard. There was probably an off button that Connor was more than prepared to utilise.

“Get in pairs,” the teacher grumbled at them, “I don’t care who,”

Connor turned to Nabulungi with the intent to ask if she would grant him the honour of being the mother of his baby, just as she turned to Arnold to ask if he would be the father of her baby. He watched in horror as Arnold gleefully nodded his head and proceeded to stand behind Connor’s chair in a way that he understood meant ‘Please move’.

“Chris,” Connor said quickly, “Wanna-”

“No can do, buddy!” Chris said brightly, “Price needs a partner though,”

“I hate you both,” Connor told them before sitting in the seat that Arnold had previously.

The fact that Kevin didn’t seem all too excited about their predicament didn’t make Connor feel much better. Sure, he didn’t want to partnered with Kevin, but that was because he didn’t want to work with a raging homophobe and Kevin probably didn’t want to be partnered with him because he didn’t want to work with a raging homosexual.

Not that Connor really thought that he was a raging homosexual, but he had long since learned that homophobic republicans (Governor Price sprang to mind), didn’t see a difference between the tiny pride pin that Connor dared pin to his jackets and the Drag Queens that worked in gay bars. It was oddly progressive, in a way.

“Can you at least pretend to not hate me?” Kevin asked, “It’s not my fault Arnold’s dating your best friend,”

Connor rolled his eyes, “Can you actually not hate me? It’s not my fault I’m gay,”

Kevin glared at him for a second before he stood up to go and grab a baby off Mr. What's-His-Face’s desk. He completely bypassed the lone ginger baby in favour of one with dark hair, which Connor took as the first hate crime of the project. Perhaps he could do a second, smaller project on the side where he kept a tally of how many hate crimes Kevin committed over the next week.

And when Mr. Name-Connor-Really-Should-Learn told them that they would have to stay over at each other's houses in an attempt to really drive home the experience of parenthood, Connor predicted that the final total of hate crimes would be a lot.

“Sir?” Kevin said, sticking his hand in the air, “Why do we have to stay at each other's houses?”

“Because, Callum, we don’t want to encourage single parenthood,”

“My names Kevin,” he said impatiently, “But you’ll encourage gay parenthood?”

“He didn’t mean it like that!” Arnold said quickly, turning around to glare furiously at his best friend, “He just - He meant...He meant from like a Mormon point of view,”

“So still a homophobic point of view?” James asked lightly, “I’m not gonna sit and listen to him whilst he constantly attacks who I am!”

“I wasn’t attacking you,” Kevin snapped, “I’m just - my dad would-”

“-kill us all given the chance?” Chris said.

“My dad wouldn’t like it if he knew!” Kevin said quickly.

“Don’t tell him, Corey. What do you think he’s gonna do? Kill you?” Mr. Connor-Wanted-To-Say-Brown said, “You’re practically an adult, sort it out yourself,”

Connor sighed and slumped in his chair, glaring down at his desk. He wasn’t sure what was worse; spending a week with Kevin at his own house with his homophobic parents, or spending a week with Kevin and his homophobic parents at their house. Both seemed equally as bad and a very good excuse to throw himself in front of the school bus.

“You’re not staying at my house,” Kevin said quickly.

“Cute that you think I want to stay there,” Connor said, “I’ll give you a ride home,”

“I’m at swim practice after school so I’ll meet you there,”

“I have rehearsal,” Connor said, “I’ll meet you at my car. It’s the-”

“I know what your car is,”

“Oh,” Connor said with a frown, “Oh. Okay. Well, I’ll...I’ll see you later,”

--------

“Do you think I could steal this dress once we’re done?” Nabulungi asked, twirling around in her Belle dress.

“When are you ever gonna wear a bright yellow ball gown again?”

Nabulungi shrugged, “Target?”

Connor snorted and turned to stare at himself in the mirror. Playing the Beast was fun, but the costume certainly wasn’t. He blew some fur out of his mouth and turned to glower at Nabulungi, as though his quite terrible costume was all her fault.

“I’m uncomfortable,” he said, taking the mask off and dropping it onto a chair, “It’s really annoying that I can’t turn into the Prince halfway through instead,”

“That defeats the point of the show though. She falls in love with him when he’s a beast, not when he’s a Prince,”

Connor scrunched his face up, “That feels illegal,”

“It’s not real,” she reminded him.

“Never realised that, thanks,” he muttered, eyes darting around the room until they came to stop where they always did: on Steve Blade.

When talking to any of his friends, Connor assured him that he was very much over Steve Blade and was not at all bitter about the way that everything ended. In reality, he was very much not over Steve Blade and was extremely bitter about the way everything ended. It made playing the Beast opposite his Gaston extremely easy; their fight scene never felt forced and Connor felt like he didn’t need claws to rip his head off. Spite was enough.

Nabulungi tutted when she saw where he was looking and punched his arm.

“No.” she said, “Stop thinking about Steve Blade!”

“I’m not!” Connor exclaimed before very casually adding, “He text me last night,”

“If you text him back-“

“I didn’t,” Connor said, lying effortlessly, “I ignored him. I’m not gonna go back to him,”

Nabulungi huffed a little, “Good. He got what he wanted from you,”

“My virginity?”

“Yes,” Nabulungi said bluntly.

Connor sighed and turned away from Steve, thankful that he hadn’t done anything that suggested they had been talking for most of the previous night. Though that might have been because he was terrified of Nabulungi, Chris and James and didn’t want to get on the wrong side of them. (Again).

Not that Connor himself wasn’t scared of his friends, sometimes. Especially where Steve Blade was concerned. Still, there was nothing quite as terrifying as an extremely irate Stage Manager in the form of Chris Thomas. The only person he hadn’t shouted at all day was James, even though he was extremely behind in his set painting duties. Connor had gotten one entrance wrong and Chris had described, in great detail, how he was gonna murder him.

“Oh my god,” Nabulungi said in a hushed voice, “Did you know Elizabeth was still choreographing?”

“Huh?” Connor said, “I thought someone else had taken over. Chris said she was too ill,”

“Well, she's here,”

Connor glanced over at the door and unintentionally winced as Chris wheeled his twin sister in. She looked worse than the last time he had seen her, and even then he had found it too difficult to look at her.

The school had invited her back to choreograph the show (an unspoken “one last time” hanging in the air), and she had gotten through the first two weeks of rehearsal before she had to leave. Now, with only one week to go before their first performance, having her come back seemed pointless. As he thought about it, Connor realised it only seemed pointless to him because he (hopefully) had more shows in his future. It was very unlikely she had any.

“Hey, Liz!” Connor said cheerfully as Chris wheeled her over, “How are you?”

“Dying,” she said bluntly.

Connor froze, immediately looking up to Chris for some help. Elizabeth laughed and rolled her eyes.

“It was a joke,” she said, “Sort of. How are you finding the choreography?”

“Fine,” Connor said quickly, happy to steer the conversation away from death, “Yeah, fine,”

“‘Fine’ unless we’re talking about Tale as Old as Time,” Nabulungi said, “Which is really all he needs to do,”

“Drop me in it, why don’t you?” Connor muttered.

Admittedly, Connor was terrible at ballroom dancing. If he wasn’t tripping over his own feet, he was tripping over Nabulungi’s feet and if he wasn’t tripping over Nabulungi’s feet he was tripping over her dress. It only served as a reminder that he probably shouldn’t have been playing the Beast. He would have been more than happy with the ensemble, or maybe LeFou at a stretch, but Nabulungi had convinced him to audition for the lead, just because they’d probably never have a chance to play opposite each other again.

“I prefer tap dancing,” Connor said after Nabulungi had finished explaining that the rather large bruise on her thigh was a result of Connor falling right on top of her when he had tried to pick her up.

“Come on, then,” Elizabeth sighed, slowing getting to her feet, “I’ll help you,”

“Uh, what are you doing?” Chris asked.

“Teaching Connor how to dance, why?” she asked, taking Connor’s hand.

“You can’t! The Doctor said that-“

“-I still have 6 months,” she reminded him, “What’s one ballroom dance going to do?”

“Drop her, and I’ll kill you,” Chris snapped, before rushing off to snap at the poor lighting techs.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at the back of Chris’ head as she placed Connor’s hand on her waist and began counting him through the steps. It was a lot easier, being taught by someone who actually knew what they were doing (the new choreographer had not offered much help outside of ‘smile!’).

“You are good at this,” she told him once the song had ended, “All you need is more confidence in yourself,”

“I don’t think ballroom dancing is my thing,” Connor sighed, “and also not dressed like this,”

“Dancing is your thing, Connor,” she said firmly, holding onto his arm as she, if possible, grew paler, “By the time you finish college, you’ll be top of your game,”

Connor smiled and helped her back to her chair, hoping that Chris wasn’t going to commit a crime because he had tired her out. Not that Connor could blame him for being so overprotective; he couldn’t imagine watching his siblings slowly die, and he didn’t even like them that much.

“You didn’t have to be here,” Connor said, sitting next to her and watching a run through of Gaston.

“I know, but Christopher can’t say no to me anymore,” she said, “and he always drives me to McDonalds afterwards. Plus-“ she broke off suddenly, frowning, “I can hear a baby crying,”

“Wha - oh, shit,”

Connor jumped to his feet and hurried underneath the bleachers. He had hidden Brigham the baby underneath there in the hopes that he wouldn’t be too loud. Kevin had point blank refused to take him to swim practice, and Connor was starting to think that he would be learning what it was going to be like to be a single dad.

“Sorry,” Connor said, awkwardly rocking the doll, “It’s my baby,”

“Health class?” she asked.

“Yep,” Connor said miserably, “He’s called Brigham,”

“Who’s your partner? Naba?”

Connor scoffed, “I wish. No, it’s Kevin Price,”

“The Governor's son?”

“Yeah...”

She stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter, “I’m sorry. I know it’s not funny but - oh, sweetie. Are they still doing the thing where you have to stay with your partner?”

Connor sighed and nodded, “I’m not going over to his house. Lord knows I don’t need to meet Governor Price,”

“So...he’s going to yours?” she asked in a small voice.

“It’ll be fine,” Connor said hurriedly, “My parents don’t need to know,”

When Connor finally got out of rehearsal and spotted Kevin awkwardly hovering by his car, he thought that his parents probably wouldn’t be too angry if Kevin was the boy he brought home. As this thought crossed his mind, he remembered exactly who his parents were and what they expected of him. They’d probably get angry if Joseph Smith himself was the boy he brought home.

Not that Connor would want to bring Joseph Smith home. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to deal with the whole Prophet thing.

“How are we gonna bring him home?” Kevin asked.

“I don’t know. He’s a doll. We’ll just put him in the back,”

Kevin tutted, “You can’t drive a baby home like that! I’ll hold him,”

“You know he’s not a real baby, right?” Connor asked slowly.

“I’ve never failed a class in my life, and you’re not about to make me,” Kevin snapped, taking Brigham into his arms.

“Alright, chill,” Connor muttered, “It’s not that deep,”

Kevin spent the majority of the car journey to Connor’s house glowering out of the window, Brigham held tightly in his arms. If it weren’t for the fact that Kevin was also male, it might have been the closest that Connor ever got to being straight. He had lost count of the amount of couples he had seen (mainly at Church), who so obviously resented each other but had had a child together so that they could live up to the Mormon standard.

It was probably the life that Kevin was going to live, and Connor felt sorry for him until he realised that he was homophobic and suddenly couldn’t care less.

As soon as Connor pulled up outside of his house, his mouth went dry and his palms became sweaty. This was not at all unusual, but it was even worse with Kevin being there with him.

Taking a deep breath, Connor got out of the car and waited for Kevin to do the same. He was taking an awfully long time, holding Brigham close to his chest as he carefully got out, and Connor wasn’t sure he could last a whole week without committing a felony. Or if Kevin could last a whole week without committing a hate crime.

“Are you gonna come in?” Kevin asked.

Connor’s neck snapped up to face Kevin, who was standing on the front porch.

“Get off there!” Connor hissed, lurching forward to grab his arm and yank him backwards.

“Watch the baby!” Kevin yelled.

“Shush!” Connor whispered, glancing up at the house and dragging Kevin around the side of the house when he saw someone inside - probably his mom - start to pull the curtains back, “Don’t yell!”

Kevin frowned at him, “What the heck is your problem, McKinley?”

“How long have you got?” Connor muttered.

He walked around the back of the house to where the basement door was, quickly unlocking it and shoving Kevin through it before one of his parents made an appearance in the back garden. And he couldn’t help but curse his best friends, because it would have been beyond easier to have just moved in with Naba or Chris for a week.

Kevin stood awkwardly in the middle of the middle room and it suddenly occurred to Connor that he was probably used to places that were more...grand.

“Is there a reason we’re in your basement?” Kevin asked, “Are you going to murder me?”

Connor tutted and walked over to his makeshift kitchen (a mini-fridge, kettle, toaster, microwave and mini-grill on top of his chest of drawers), beginning to make his usual after school snack of two Poptarts and a can of Redbull. If this was also occasionally his dinner, no one needed to know.

“Do you want anything?” Connor asked.

Kevin shook his head as he gently laid Brigham on Connor’s bed, “I brought something,”

“You don’t trust my cooking?”

“I follow a strict diet,” Kevin said, “I’m a swimmer, remember?”

“Oh, yeah...” Connor muttered, dropping down onto one of the beanbags that Mr and Mrs Thomas were kind enough to donate to him, “There’s an airbed for you. I’ll blow it up later,”

Kevin nodded and perched on the edge of Connor’s bed, his eyes darting around the room. Connor picked at his Poptart, feeling increasingly awkward. He would suggest that Kevin stay at his own house and lie to Mr. Teacher-That-Connor-Would-Probably-Never-Know-The-Name-Of, but he had a feeling that Kevin was not one to ever break the rules.

“Why are we actually in the basement?” Kevin asked, “Shouldn’t you tell your parents your home? And that I’m here?”

“No,” Connor said, “If it were up to them, I wouldn’t be in the house,”

“Um...”

“I’m gay, they don’t like it, they moved me into the basement because it makes them feel less guilty than if they actually kicked me out,” Connor shrugged, “on the rare occasion that I do actually see them, they remind me that once I’ve left for college, that’s it. I’m out, for good,”

Kevin stared at him, his mouth hanging open. Connor clenched his jaw and looked back down at his Poptarts, wondering if there was a worst person to have this conversation with. He didn’t even like talking about it to his friends, never mind someone he barely knew and who definitely hated him in the same way that his parents did.

Thankfully, Brigham started wailing and Kevin was too distracted to ask Connor anymore questions.

It was definitely going to be the longest week of his life.

#fun fact: I don't realy know what governors do but I am going to find that out before I publish this #I feel like America has too many political offices #Like calm down #For the sake of most of the world #and my fanfiction #kevin price #connor mckinley #elder price #elder mckinley #my writing #tbom #tbom musical #bom #arnold cunningham #elder cunningham #nabulungi hatimbi #arnaba #churchtarts

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just-dreaming-marvel · 4 years

Text

EIGHTY SIX - MY WORST FEAR

LEGACY: A Tony Stark Daughter Story

MASTERLIST

< previous

Word Count: 2,600ish

Summary: Bailey’s worst fear begins to come true.

The next few weeks were full of talking to my guidance counselor at Columbia, Tony’s protective tendencies, Thanksgiving, Christmas shopping, more of Tony’s protective tendencies, reading up on my majors and deciding which routes that I wanted to take with them, avoiding the press, getting use to living on my own once again, and, of course, even more of Tony’s protective tendencies. What do I mean by protective tendencies? I mean non-stop calls and texts, reminders from SARAH (sometimes even FRIDAY), Spider-Man continually swinging past my windows, and random, out-of-the-blue visits. It was nice, but it was a bit suffocating at times. For his sake, I agreed to a lunch date with him once a week and every Sunday we would have family dinner at the penthouse. Even though the family dinner usually turned into Tony and I eating in his lab as he showed off the progress he had made with his projects, it was still nice and I could feel that he enjoyed every minute of it. Pepper would sometimes work on paper work on a desk set aside for her in the lab or enjoy the time away from Tony, she really needed it some days. As much as Tony could annoy me, I knew that she got his annoying tendencies worse. I, honestly, don’t know how she does it. That man is a handful and that woman is a saint for willingly putting up with everything.

And for a saint, Pepper was amazingly easy to Christmas shop for. Well, it wasn’t exactly shopping. I came up with the idea to gift her with official adoption papers so that she is officially my mother. I didn’t mentioned it to Tony and I wasn’t planning on it. It might as well be a present for him too because, what do you get the man who has everything? As I was wondering what to get him, I had just finished picking up the official papers for Pepper and was on my way back to my apartment. I loved the city, especially in the winter. It was beautiful. I fixed my beanie, zipped up my coat, and made sure that the papers were safely tucked away in my backpack before I walked out of the building and onto the snowy sidewalk. I was about half way to my apartment when a car pulled up beside me and the window rolled down just enough for a man to speak.

“Get in the car or I will kill the next ten civilians that walk pass.” The man's voice was familiar, causing me to instantly stop in my tracks.

I turned towards the black car to see the all windows rolled up and a door opened and waiting for me. I was terrified. So terrified, that I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to get out of this one. I slowly slid into the car and squeezed my eyes shut, fearing that who I thought was in the seat next to me was actually there.

“Oh, Bailey,” the man said, “sweetheart, don’t be scared.” He caressed my cheek as he spoke, causing me to flinch. “I’m just here to check on you.”

“Why?” My voice was quiet and I was obviously scared. I still kept my eyes closed, praying that this was just my mind playing tricks on me.

“You look very healthy. Much better than the last time I was with you. And your powers, they’re stronger. I’m glad our little mind games didn’t mess with them.”

“What mind games?”

“Don’t you remember? All those nightmares that I was in. We found a way into your brain and let’s just say that I had a little too much fun with it.”

“This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This cannot be real,” I kept repeating to myself. “What do you want?” My voice was still quiet as a spoke out loud, failing me when I needed it the most.

“I just want to make sure that you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Ready to come back, to continue our work.”

“Never.” The man grabbed my face, forcing me to face him. The sudden movement caused me to open my eyes. My fear was true and Dr. Montgomery was sitting beside me, holding onto my face.

“You will come or your whole family will die. We have eyes and ears everywhere, ready to strike on my signal. Even as we speak.” Tears began to stream down my face. “Stark, Potts, Hogan, Rhodes, Parker, and even that android, Vision. They will all be gone, dead, if you don’t come with me.”

My mind raced as worry and fear laced my whole being. I knew he was serious. But I had to give myself time, to either figure out a way out of this or to say goodbye to my family. I took a deep breath as I came to my conclusion.

“I will come with you,” I began. His face lit up and excitement ran through him, he knew he had won. “But not until after Christmas. Let me say goodbye and then I’m all yours.”

“You don’t get—“

“After Christmas and I won’t put up a fight. I will willingly comply, do whatever you need… Just give me until then.”

He took a moment to think about it before replying. “You have until the 26th. That gives you almost a week. I’ll let you know the details of when and where to met.”

“Understood.”

“If you’re late or if you try to run before then, your family is the price you pay.”

“Understood.” He leaned towards me and planted a kissed on the side of my face.

“This is going to be so much fun, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ll see you soon.”

As soon as those words left his mouth, I rushed out of the car. Looking around frantically, I realized that Dr. M had had us driven to my apartment building. I ran to the elevator, holding in all of my emotions the best I could. Once the elevator doors opened, I couldn’t get into my apartment fast enough. I slammed the door shut and leaned up against it, slowly sliding down it as I tried to catch my breath and stop the panic that was bubbling up from inside.

“Miss,” SARAH started, “it seems that you are beginning to panic. I have informed Mr. Stark.”

“No…” I breathed out. “Please… don’t—”

“Bailey!” I heard Tony’s panicked voice over the speakers in my apartment. “What’s wrong? I’m on my way.”

“No…” I struggled to get out. “I’m fine…”

“You don’t sound fine, hun… I’m almost there. Just hang on.”

What was I going to say to him? I couldn’t say anything or I would lose all of the people I care about and be forced to go with Dr. M anyway. I slowly tried to stand up, but my legs failed me so I began crawling over to the couch. I had made it over to it but not onto it when Tony burst through the door.

“I’m here, sweetheart!” He said, running over to my side. I whimpered at the nickname, trying to keep myself together. “I’m right here.” He wrapped his arms around me and held me close to his chest. I began to sob. “Shh… it’s okay… I’m right here.”

I wrapped my arms around him, holding him tight. I needed to hold him close, knowing that it could possibly be one of the last times I would ever be able do so. Tony didn’t ask questions while I sobbed into his chest. I knew he wanted to but he also wanted to wait until I had calmed down. Which took me a while. By the time I had stopped crying, I could barely keep my eyes open and Tony had to carry me to bed. He set me carefully down before he pulled the blankets over me. He pulled a chair up to my bedside and held my hand as I slept. He called Pepper once he was sure that I was sound asleep.

“Hey, Tony,” Pepper answered, “what’s up?”

“I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be coming home tonight,” he said quietly into the phone as he gently rubbed his thumb over the top of my hand. “I’m going to be staying at B’s.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I really don’t know… I was working on some paperwork when SARAH informed me that she was having a panic attack. When I got to her place… Pep, it wasn’t good. She was struggling to breathe, once I got to her she started crying, and she wouldn’t talk… Something happened, I don’t know what it was, and I’m worried.”

“How’s she doing right now?”

“She practically passed out in my arms after crying so much. I’m currently watching her sleep in her bed… Pep, what am I going to do?”

“I’m going to cancel my last few meetings and I’ll be over there with dinner soon. Honey, we’re going to figure it out. She’ll be honest with us. It probably wasn’t anything big. She was probably just triggered by something.”

“You’re right… Okay, thanks honey. I love you.”

“I love you too. I’ll be there soon,” she said before hanging up.

Pepper arrived at the apartment with food about two hours later, and I still hadn’t woken up. I was exhausted and terrified, sleep was a welcome friend. And, much to my surprise, my sleep wasn’t filled with the horrors of my life. Pepper let herself into the apartment and began to get dinner situated. Tony heard her and quickly went to the kitchen to meet her.

“Hey,” Tony greeted before giving her a kiss.

“Hey,” Pepper replied. “Anything changed?”

Tony shook his head. “No. She hasn’t woken up yet.”

“How about you gently wake her and tell her that dinner is ready?”

“Okay.”

Tony slowly made his way back to my bedroom. He stood there, watching me for a few more minutes, before sitting on my bed to wake me up.

“Bailey,” he said as he gently shook my shoulder. “Time to wake up. Pepper brought dinner.” I groaned as I stretched out and opened my eyes. “Hey there, kid.”

“Hi,” I sleepily got out. “How long was I out?” I pushed myself up and leaned back against the headboard.

“A few hours. But that’s okay. You obviously needed it.” He stood up, throwing the blankets off of me as he did. “Now, come on, dinner is waiting.” He held out his hand toward me.

I gave a small chuckle as I set my hand in his. He pulled me up and led us to the kitchen. Pepper was at the island, plates already set out with lasagna on them. She was cutting the garlic bread when we entered.

“Hey sweetheart,” she greeted with a warm smile. I flinched, causing Tony to glance at me worryingly before looking back at Pepper. Who was still smiling, though her worry shown through her eyes. “Ready for dinner?”

“Yeah,” I answered as I slipped onto a bar stool. “I didn’t have lunch so I’m starving.”

“I’m going to need to set up reminders for you to eat,” Tony said.

“If I have to have reminders, then you do too.” I poked his arm as I replied.

As we ate, we talked about Stark Industries. I was okay talking about anything that didn’t have to do with what happened earlier that day. When dinner was over, Tony and Pepper moved over to the couch as I did the dishes. I could feel their uneasiness and their want to ask me what caused my panic. I needed to make up an excuse, and fast.

“Just ask,” I spoke up, not being able to take the silence and their feelings anymore. “I know you both want to.”

“Okay then, B,” Tony said, putting his arm over the edge of the couch and turning around. “What happened?”

“I was walking home from doing some Christmas shopping and I just…” I kept my eyes on the dishes in the sink that I was working on cleaning. “I just saw someone that looked like someone I had seen from HYDRA.” So that wasn’t exactly a lie. “I got scared. I realize now that it was stupid and that they weren’t HYDRA.” I set the final dish on the drying rack and grabbed a rag to wipe off my hands. I turned around and leaned back against the counter. “I over reacted. I’m sorry that I scared you.”

I finally looked at Tony. He didn’t believe me. He knew I was hiding something but there was absolutely no way that I could tell him the truth. The chance of him doing something rash and me losing everyone was too great and I wasn’t about to let him risk his life. Not for me. Not again.

“Dad, I know what you’re thinking without even having to read your mind. Why don’t you believe me?”

He stood up and began to make his way around the couch to me. “Because you were doing so good. At least I thought you were… What, or even who, could have possibly gotten that kind of reaction out of you?” He reached me and grabbed my hands. “I need you to be honest with me, sweet—“ I inhaled loudly as he began to say the nickname, not helping my case at all. “Honey, what really happened today?”

“I am being honest with you.” I harshly pulled my hands out of his grip. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I do, B, I really do. But I can also tell when something is up… You’re trying to protect us from something, what is it?” He needed to stop pressing or this wasn’t going to end well.

I shook my head. “I’m not! I over reacted, just drop it! Please.”

“Bailey,” Pepper spoke up from her spot on the couch. “We’re just worried.”

“I know you guys are. But, please, drop it. It was nothing.” If they weren’t going to drop this, then I was going to have to force them to. And I really didn’t want to have to do that. I quickly grabbed one of Tony’s hands. “I was overthinking. My mind got the best of me, please believe me. I hate it when you don’t… Don’t you trust me?” I forced tears into my eyes, trying to get him to let this all go before I had to enter theirs minds and force them to.

“Honey,” he embraced me quickly. “I do trust you. I just worry. You know me. I think of the worst possible scenarios… If it was really nothing, I will drop it. I’m sorry for making you upset. I just hate seeing you like that kiddo.”

“I know,” I whispered into his neck. “I’m sorry too.”

After the effort it took to get him to stand down, I was surprised at how willing him and Pepper were to leave an hour or so later. Once they had left and I knew that they were on the road back to their penthouse, I went into my office and began recoding SARAH. If I was going to sneak away, I needed her not to snitch on me as soon as I left. I stopped her from telling Tony any information on my health and scheduled that 12 hours after I had left she could inform Tony. I filmed a video explaining what was going on and scheduled to have it sent to Tony after I had left.

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killingeveperspectives · 4 years

Text

Perspective: Eve Polastri and the invisibility of women’s pain

“[A woman] has to know how to love

know how to suffer her love

and be all forgiveness”

These are the final verses of the poem “Sonnet of the ideal woman” written by the acclaimed Brazilian poet Vinicius de Moraes, same guy that brought you Girl from Ipanema®. (Don’t start hum… too late). I remember reading this sonnet only once, but its last verses became branded in my mind like a curse. Society’s view of ideal womanhood is perfectly encapsulated in these three haunting lines. That is women’s purpose, not only for men but for humanity, her suffering frivolous in the face of the redemption to be brought forth through her selflessness. Anything else is egoistical, evil, and dangerous… for everyone. From Pandora in ancient Greece, to biblical Eve, to Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, to 90% of all horror movies ever, women are constantly warned of the dangers of curiosity and desire, which lead to destruction and death. Her redemption is to be a vehicle of someone else’s redemption, just like Virgin Mary redeemed biblical Eve by being the vehicle of humankind’s salvation. This narrative is so ingrained in our collective unconscious that it requires an immense effort to not let it slip into its familiar nest within our minds.

The biblical story of Eve’s fall from grace is arguably the most pervasive patriarchal myth to shape our patriarchal society, but if we unwrap its millennia of projections of male anxieties, the myth holds a kernel of universal truth: The flesh is weak. We are dangerously inclined to act on desire over reason by force so strong it is symbolized by the Devil: it possesses the mind. These impulses are irrational, reckless, primal and compelling. While Freud constructed much of his theory on the fascination of unconscious drives, I believe no one has said it better than W.H. Auden: “We are lived by powers we pretend to understand”. Our lives and livelihood depend on striking a fine balance between restriction and satisfaction of impulse, and to those who have ever fell in passion with someone or something, passion can be one of the most disruptive experiences of a lifetime. Thus, Eve’s myth carries layers of meaning both as we understand our nature and also as to how we project these anxieties onto womanhood.

Eve Polastri is not just Eve, she is Eve, she is the proverbial woman. She is morbidly curious, tempted by desire, gives in, and destroys the world around her. But Killing Eve is no cautionary tale, Eve Polastri Is not committing a forbidden sin against a narrative moral code which commands an imposed narrative punishment. Thus, Eve Polastri embodies and transgresses the biblical myth: she is the woman exploring her own impulses in her own story and becoming authentic through it– which makes her a remarkable character in her own right. At the core, the character is also us, a regular person urging to become whole, that sees in the metaphorical abyss of Villanelle’s indulgence a reflection of what she yearns: liberation. There is a courage to Eve, and we watch her entranced, because, whether we want to admit or not, we all fantasize about playing with fire. However, there can be a tacit perverted satisfaction in this story: we want Eve to fall from grace but when she does, we want to punish her for it, thus sublimating and reprimanding our own impulse, and falling back in the old narratives about womanhood.

In Season 1, Eve seemed to have been taken as a surrogate for the audience quite unproblematically, nevertheless when desire starts to show its ugly face in Season 2, part of the audience started to feel alienated from the character, and even antagonistic. Which is unfortunate, because her face off with Villanelle in the finale was arguably the most victorious, honest and cathartic moment of the character so far. Season 3 opens with a recluse Eve licking her wounds, trying to pull herself together any way she can, after all she suffered and all she learned. She changed and change is painful – in an abstract sense, violent as well. Her initial isolation was self-imposed by the character but as the season progresses Eve becomes more and more distant, which creates a parallel to how women’s suffering is perceived in real life.

Ironically, when Eve is shutting down from the world around her in the beginning of the season, she is more open to us than she will ever be in the remainder of the episodes. We are allowed to exist with the character through her painfully dull, mundane day-to-day, as the extent of her suffering manifests in the blunt messiness of her exterior life and her valiant effort to keep it together with the help of a budding alcohol and cigarette addiction. Eve is not a strong woman; she is a woman that claimed herself at a great cost. This cost was depicted with frustrating realism, just like in real life, once the thrill of the battle is over, it’s time to tend to the wounded, drag the corpses and count the dead. It’s inglorious. No wonder Eve literally and metaphorically hid, she burned the bridges with the world around her. How could she possibly explain what she went through and how could an outsider possibly understand? A question that mirrors the feeling of many a person, especially women, that entangled themselves in violent dynamics: Alienation and loneliness.

Initially, the character continues the apophatic self-definition, Eve says no a lot, symbolizing her efforts to reassert control over her life. From Villanelle, to Carolyn, to her job, Eve is trying to play by her rules and her truth, she knows what she wants not, but the interesting question posed at the end of Season 2 is “Now that Eve reclaimed herself, what will she do of what she has become?” – Sartre style. However, there is a major shift in Eve’s character after her interactions with Villanelle in episodes 3 and 4. The character’s arc becomes centered towards admitting her feelings for Villanelle as the source of conflict, however one could argue that the main source of conflict is the existence of these feelings itself. Therefore, merely admitting them shouldn’t solve the main conflict, on the contrary, due to their inherent contradictory nature it should exacerbate it.

This sleight of hand not only impoverishes the character’s emotional landscape, motivations and general arc, but also echoes the verse: ”A woman must know how to suffer love”. Like countless women before, Eve’s story is subtly telling us that the misery comes from her rejection of a phagic “love” and the metaphorical self-annihilation intrinsic to the experience, instead of the authentic ambivalence and paradoxes of the character’s inner self. Eve’s conflict should be at its core about herself not about Villanelle – who serves as a symbolic element. In the end, good women are expected to erase themselves and to become vessels of God and of others. Coincidentally, Eve’s character becomes oddly redeemed when she becomes a vessel for Villanelle’s need to belong.

Here is where the writers quite painfully abandon an once intriguing and compelling character. Eve doesn’t find nothing new to say about herself, no new path nor synthesis of her desires, and identity – which could and should have given Eve agency in renegotiating her dynamic with Villanelle, especially if it was to bring them closer. Eve ceases to be defined by her own inner conflict and becomes defined by her attraction to Villanelle alone. As Eve obsessively seeks Villanelle, who is in turn occupied with a story of her own, at no point the audience is asked to care about Eve’s suffering nor does the writers bother to interrogate the character about it, let alone let the character process it. Eve is deprived from exploring herself and facing her own pain, almost as if Eve was so devoid of individuality that the character itself is alienated from the obvious pain and conflict it should be experiencing. But nor Eve, nor any other character and, most importantly, nor the audience is asked to care. In the emblematic scene where Eve jumps into a dumpster to literally look for scrapes of Villanelle’s supposed affection as a way of reconnecting with her, no effort is made to reframe it or question the length at which the character lost itself, because no one cares. When in the finale, Eve, who is oblivious to Villanelle’s change of heart, is interrogated with a relevant question “Did I ruin your life? Do you think I am a monster?”, the character straightforwardly reassures the anti-hero at the expense of the rich internal conflict that should have been derived and fleshed out from these points, because no one cares.

Eve believes in Villanelle unconditionally, despite all conceivable lines being crossed, despite the destruction and conflict this relationship has brought her, because Eve is doing precisely what her character is supposed to be doing: erasing her individuality, enduring her pain in the name of this love, forgiving no matter what they do to her so that they can be redeemed through her. “A woman has to know how to suffer her love and be all forgiveness”. Thus, Eve as a character becomes a device in Villanelle’s story arc occupying the same restricted space female characters were always allowed to inhabit. Villanelle goes on a somewhat muddled character growth arc, filled with redemption elements which traditionally involves the presence of a source of acceptance and love, generally in the form of a love interest, that will be granted to the hero at the end of the journey. Eve’s function in the story is not as a compelling protagonist with universal struggles, but as both enabler and trophy in Villanelle’s story. The narrative finds itself trapped in the old tales ingrained in our collective unconscious, in a jarring contrast with the previous seasons’ transgression and uniqueness.

Paradoxically, this precise abandonment gives the season the richest opportunity for the audience to interrogate the place of women’s pain. Eve’s abandonment mirrors the invisibility of the suffering of countless women, who painfully sacrifice their livelihoods in the name of their loved ones, be it Nicos, or Villanelles, or family, or friends, or their communities. Who, day in and out, are responsible for caring and supporting others through their struggles while left stranded with their own conflicts. After all, when so much depends on their self-sacrifice their pain is unimportant, even an expected part of this glorified martyrdom. Are we keen on looking at these women who inhabit these confined roles and acknowledge without judgement the enormous burden they carry? Are we ready to empathize with them when they rebel, when they fail and break, and even more so when they acquiesce? Having a queer twist on this narrative is not enough to claim it transgressive, as this cultural recipe perpetuates itself also into homoromantic relationships, as women often see themselves trapped in this dynamic with their female partners as well. Women are no less oppressed by patriarchal ideas of womanhood if these ideas are perpetuated through their relationships with other women.

Akin to Eve’s biblical story, the erasure of female pain is also layered, as we all crave unconditional love, and its redemption, so we can be at peace with ourselves – completely satisfied, accepted and safe – which is naturally symbolized by “The mother”. Therefore, it is easy to impose these fantasies in the ideal of womanhood, as easy as it is to relate to Villanelle and romanticize the role Eve plays in her development, her acceptance of Villanelle’s character being a powerful cathartic release for our own need and fantasies of belonging.

In this context, hidden in Season 3’s oblivious narrative, lays an interesting invitation to evaluate how we individually, and as a society, negotiate our urge to be nurtured and the necessity to nurture others and how these roles are culturally and socially informed by patriarchal ideas we collectively and individually carry about womanhood, and to what extent we are ready to challenge them.

#killing eve #killingeve #killing eve analysis #ke s3 #ke #Eve Polastri #eve polastri retcon #killingeveperspectives #killinge #eve polastri analysis

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momo-de-avis · 4 years

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1, 3, 10, 15, 20, 21 and 25?

hello friend!

1. Tell us about your current project(s) – what’s it about, how’s progress, what do you love most about it?

Currently, what I am just wrapping up is the thing I want to narrate on voice (yeah... imagine that) that I had locked up for AGES because I knew where I was going and got stuck mid-way unsure how the hell how I was getting there. It’s sort of light horror magical realism about dealing with trauma and recovery, and I’m happy because JUST recently I passed the checkpoint of THIS WAS THE PART I COULDN’T GET THROUGH! I GOT IT! I REACHED DENOUEMENT BITCH!

Also, it was really hard to write, I won’t lie. And it reached the point of weird. Not fantastical weird, but weird to me. I hope I manage to capture that with my voice 🥴

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

Honestly? I don’t think there really is one... anymore. I do everything chronologically. Unfortunately, I can’t do that thing writers often advise, to leave blanks to fill in later. If I do that, this damn ADHD brain will NEVER AGAIN bother itself to do it. If I don’t have the motivation to do it now, it will never happen. I have also learned to trust my instincts: if it’s too boring to write, don’t write it at all. If it’s too boring to write, it will feel too boring to read. Just straight up skip it, nobody cares. Reduce it to a sentence, that’s it. So I end up getting to the exciting-scenes-I-really-want-to-do pretty fast.

Also, like... I love experimenting with so many genres I don’t think there’s one I REALLY would like to try but never did? I would like to do better, much better, but never actually dipped my pen in it? I don’t know, man, I don’t think there’s one big ass scene I haven’t tried that I can think of.

10. How would you describe your writing process?

Re-read what I last wrote. Always. This works as both a quick revision of my last writing and a way to get in the mood and also to remind myself of what last happened, because I forget everything except the head God gave me and which I carry on my shoulders.

Set the music, or the ambient sound.

Stare at the blinking cursor for five minutes.

Start writing.

Erase a whole paragraph.

Write another 3 paragraphs.

Stop for 10 to 25 minutes to check if the correct usage in this context should be “white-out”, “liquid corrector” or simply “corrector”, and then it turns out I don’t even use the goddamn thing anyway.

Write another 3 pages.

Coffee and cigarette break.

5h have passed. Time is an illusion.

Oooooh, Discord messages! Everyone is talking shit about their relatives, why not make another 40 minute break for the chance of some juicy gossiping?

What do you MEAN, 1h has passed?

You have another hour before dinnertime. Why not get furiously in the mood and just miraculously gain every goddamn inspiration point lost in the previous 7h you were trying to fish for brain cells in the atmosphere? So furiously type out 10 pages that, once you revise in about 3h later, are full of typos, missing a THOUSAND words, and good luck understanding what the hell you meant with all those broken sentences and so many goddamn commas and M dashes.

But ah, completion.

15. Which is harder: titles or summaries (or tags)?

Gonna be real honest here. Summaries. I’m not so bad with titles. Mostly because I use the same principle for them that I did with academic papers: only bother myself with those after everything is done by pulling a sentence or an idea straight out of the text of the source of inspiration. But ask me to SUMMARIZE THE DAMN THING? It’s an hour and a half of me stammering bullshit punctuated with a million “AND THEN--” and nobody understands a damn thing.

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

I do a LOT of repetitions I don’t think people pick up on. I mean, literal transliterations of chunks of texts, either from a previous page to the end, or from an existing source to my text as like, an homage I guess. With this one I’ve been working on, I literally repeat entire passages but they’re so far apart they’re hard to tell (at least for people like me, who Have No Braincells), but there’s a reason it happens and it also has to do with the narrative too.

This is completely irrelevant but I am going to say anyway, for Wordtober, for the Prompt uhhhhhh I think it was Legend I did this story about a bunch of pirates who go after the legend of Lover’s Cove and it’s from the perspective of a pirate named Largo. That’s actually a character from something major I’ve been developing, and at the very end he meets a fiery-red-haired woman who happens to be Anne Bonny, I just thought it would be funny to explain how they meet, and also, Largo is a reference to Largo La Grande from Monkey Island because that guy is so funny and I love Monkey Island to death. Nobody cares but this matters to me 😔

21. What other medium do you think your story would work well as? (film, webcomic, animated series?)

I’m boring, so none. I’ve worked on film before, did a couple of music videos (yes...), and right now I’ve been attempting illustration but LOL. Right now I’m stuck with writing only

25. What part of writing is the most fun?

Definitely the process of creating. Even the revision part is fun for me. I don’t know this process is fun, but I love it. Just... birthing something from scratch and shaping it into something real, whole, complete, is immensely enjoyable. These days, is the only way I manage to get out of the world and feel something akin to... peace, quiet, you know. I don’t even particularly enjoy the researching part, though I very easily get way too lost in it, don’t get me wrong, but the creation part is just so compelling man...

#thank you friend and sorry this got long 😔#Anonymous

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katy-l-wood · 5 years

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Welcome!

Hello new friends!

Well, I was GONNA make this welcome post once I crossed 4,000 followers, but then y’all fell in love with the Corner Bed and pushed me from 4,000 to 4,300+ in a couple of days. So. Slightly later in the scheme of things than intended, but I’m certainly not objecting!

As you probably guessed my name is Katy. I am a...25? Yeah, 25-year-old ace author and illustrator out of Colorado. Before switching to just using my real name I was known as Katara-Alchemist and spent most of my time on deviantART, so if you’re thinking “hmm, this weirdo seems familiar” that is probably why. Also spent a ton of time in the Shadowhunters (books) fandom and wrote a shit ton of Malec fanfiction. Still love them but I just haven’t been able to get into the recent books so I’ve fallen out of the fandom. As for other fandoms I’m not hugely into anything in particular right now. Bits and bobs of different ones will crop up on this blog from time to time, but mostly it’ll just be random nonsense around these parts. That said, I am always down to talk about stuff! I love Good Omens, Stranger Things, The 100 (though I haven’t seen the newest season yet), horror, YA, comics, Wynonna Earp, Avatar The Last Airbender, Korra, and a bunch of other stuff.

Also, I spend a lot of time in the woods. A lot. I have a large sharp stick, a chainsaw, and a lot of ground to cover. Recently I found a very mysterious, unguarded, government tower in those woods so if I suddenly vanish in a black helicopter that is why. Just. Ya know. FYI.

I do my best to tag things well on this blog, including trigger warnings, but if I ever miss something please don’t hesitate to let me know! My ask box is always on, including anon most of the time. Also feel free to send me any sort of non tag question, or just drop in to say hi or say something funny!

Here’s some of my major tags and projects:

#Glory is Poison:

Glory is Poison is my in progress post-post-apocolyptic three novel series. 5/6 of the main characters are queer, including a train robbing ace-couple. Follows Shae Lockwood and her older brother Dustin as they clash over their sibling ties in a world that one wants to destroy and one wants to save. Includes vampires, train robberies, and a grumpy mountain woman named Vivian who is everyone’s favorite character so far. The first book is releasing in...probably May/June 2020. Haven’t set a solid date yet. But soon!

#Gunpowder and Pine:

The ongoing prequel comic to Glory is Poison. Chapter 1 is complete and can be viewed on the tag, and Chapter 2 is starting NEXT WEEK! (I’ll make a more formal post about Chapter 2 before it starts posting.) The comic is the story of how Dustin and Vivian met. It involves a very fluffy puppy and a near drowning.

#Pretty Lady Series:

The Pretty Lady Series is an illustration project involving drawing pretty ladies. I’ve always had a problem of getting WAY too bogged down in backstory when drawing which really slows me down, so I’ve set myself a challenge of drawing 15 ladies without giving them ANY backstory, or even a name. I’ll be doing 15 pieces of them just standing on a solid color background, then another illustration of each one in some sort of scene. Eventually all 30 illustrations will be collected in an art book and maybe a coloring book too.

#My Art:

The place to see all my illustrations and such! Lots of random stuff from other projects in there.

#Inadvisable Life decisions:

This is the tag where I stick all my weird true life stories. Like that time one of my cousins went at a deer with a kitchen knife because it was not as dead as they thought when they put it in the back of their truck. Or that time I chased a bear with my dad when I was three.

I haven’t shared many stories lately, but I do have a new one finished that I need to remember to put up, so keep an eye on this tag! The new story involves lightning, coyotes, and bad decisions involving oatmeal and empty fields.

#Real Estate:

My ongoing search for an eventual house, during which I have discovered a lot of WEIRD shit.

#Rumble and Rebel:

My cats. Very important. Very fluffy. The large gray one is named Rumble because she likes to meow at thunderstorms and looks like a tiny, angry cloud. The black one is named Rebel because she is very bitey.

Wait. Where did that useful little divider line go? WHERE DID YOU TAKE MY DIVIDER LINE, TUMBLR? I WANT IT BACK.

Whatever. That’s the end of the tags section.

If you like my art, stories, and general nonsense there’s a few ways you can support this blog! I have a Redbubble, Ko-Fi, and Gumroad!

The Gumroad is a bit empty right now, but I’ve got some more stuff that’ll be going up there over the next few months. Tutorials, brush packs, coloring pages, etc. If there’s some sort of art or writing resource you’d like me to put on there, please let me know!

Also, if you like my work please consider giving it a reblog along with a like. With tumblr’s weirdness reblogs really help bring attention to original content.

So...yeah. Welcome! Enjoy your stay.

#About Me #Welcome #Welcome Post

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carolynpetit · 5 years

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Reason to Play, a Journal--Entry One: Fortnite, MGSV, and Finding Ourselves in the Act of Play

Hi.

This is the first entry in what I hope will be an ongoing journal of play. I wanted to start by explaining my thinking behind this project.

Right now, I’m looking for a reason to play. I’m always wary of games that seem to offer nothing beyond a mildly pleasant occupation of my time, and right now, I find such games downright inadequate. Unworthy. These are horrifying times, and yet, like so many of us, I find myself exhausted by it all. Unable to maintain the levels of rage and resistance that the actions of the current administration demand. I see it all becoming normalized and I feel powerless to stop it. And as the days and weeks and months go by, I feel as if this numbness accrues. I become increasingly detached, not just from the horrors of the moment but from myself. I start to wonder where the person I believed myself to be has gone.

I believe that art is most vital in times like this. I love this quote from Kafka:

“I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us. If the book we're reading doesn't wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for?...We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.”

If a game isn’t going to be the axe for the frozen sea inside me, if it isn’t going to cut through the numbness, shake me up, break my heart, fuck me up, do something to rehumanize me, it is not worthy of this moment.

But I might find what I’m looking for anywhere. I’m not talking just about games that explicitly comment on fascism or racial injustice or economic inequality. Yes, I think it’s essential that we have art, including games, that confronts these things directly, but it’s also true that a game can have the noblest aims and leave me cold, while a throwaway moment in a big-budget mainstream game of the sort that certain gamers like to call “apolitical” can crack my heart wide open.

Like most of my writing about games, this journal will be a place where I fully embrace the subjectivity of my own experience with the games that I play.

Okay. Here we go.

Testin’ My Mind, Shakin’ My Body in Fortnite

Yeah, okay, Fortnite’s a Battle Royale. That’s just a fact. If you’re playing solo, which I almost always am--I’m uncomfortable teaming up with random players, though on occasion I’ll play duos with a friend, which makes for a completely different, really exciting dynamic--you drop onto the island with close to a hundred other players, and the way you win is by being the last player standing. Now, I encourage conversations about the violence inherent to the format, as well as about all the other aspects of Fortnite that people rightly raise concerns about--the way in which it’s monetized, Epic’s pattern of repeatedly profiting off of dances associated with artists and communities of color without compensating the artists or communities that created them. All of it. But if we’re gonna go to the mat with Fortnite on these aspects (and we should), let’s also at least have a full, multifaceted conversation about why we play Fortnite, how it feels, and the moments that can emerge from a fully invested experience of the game.

Did you know that earlier this year, a massive beast that had been frozen in ice under Polar Peak broke free, that huge footprints showed it had made its way to the sea, where it’s occasionally been spotted, roaming the waters around the island? Did you know that right now, a towering robot is being built in the remnants of the volcano? It seems inevitable that soon, a massive Pacific Rim-style fight between them will take place, almost certainly resulting in a new wave of major changes to the island. Indeed, the island is always a place in flux, changing in big and small ways. It’s alive in ways that I’ve always wanted my game worlds to be alive. Landing near Loot Lake a few weeks ago, I was excited to see that the massive power cable that runs through the area was shredded and sparking, as if perhaps the monster had taken a bite.

But the life of the environment wouldn’t mean much if it weren’t for my encounters with the lives of other players. The other day, I was trying to complete a challenge that required me to get a certain score on a balloon board at one of the numerous little beach party setups that currently dot the map. Jumping from the bus, I swooped down to a spot in the desert, opened a chest, grabbed the weapon, and made my way over to the nearby board. Another player got there just before me, and I stood still, hoping to indicate that I didn’t want to stop them from completing the challenge. They froze for a moment, but then proceeded, and when they hit the necessary score, a little celebratory explosion of confetti occurred, and I got credit for the challenge, too.

Basking in the glow of our shared little moment, I wanted to walk away then, wishing them nothing but the best in the match ahead. But then they took a shot at me. In that instant, a sinking feeling ran through my whole body, a physical expression of “Aw, why’d you have to go and do that?” and in an instant, I obliterated them. It wasn’t a victory. It was more like putting someone down. I didn’t feel good about it, but it sure was a real feeling. Something surprising and immediate that emerged from my encounter with another living person. And that’s what I’m here for.

Yes, Fortnite is a Battle Royale, but so much of the experience of Fortnite is about unexpected occurrences like this, and about the things we do in the stolen moments between the shootouts and build battles. The other day, I got so caught up in playing a silly memory game I stumbled upon that I wound up getting caught in the storm. Not long before that, I danced with John Wick to raise a disco ball in an abandoned lair so we could snag a fortbyte, one of this season’s collectibles. These are the things I really remember, not my win-loss ratio or all the times I’m eliminated by players much better than I am before I quickly hit play and hop on the battle bus all over again.

I’m eager to return to the island because the island itself feels vibrant and alive, emanating a kind of Spielbergian Americana and optimism, but also because of the vigorous bodies and exuberant identities I get to inhabit while I’m there. The mix-and-match nature of Fortnite’s customization means that one round I might be a sprightly female wizard with a sleek laptop on her back, and the next a nerdy, purple-haired gamer girl with a satchel full of potions and spellbooks. “Fun” may be overemphasized in some of our conversations around games, but it certainly has its place, and playing as these colorful characters, well, it’s just fun.

Every character in Fortnite plays exactly the same, but they don’t all feel the same to me. I just unlocked a black variant of the character Sentinel, a robot or power suit that looks like it might have appeared on Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers, and I think it looks kinda cool, but I sure don’t want to be it. On the other hand, playing as Elmira (pictured above) feels good. And oh, do I love the way that some emotes make me feel. Tweeting recently about an emote called the Laid Back Shuffle, I wrote:

I’m almost always pretty uncomfortable in my body, for a number of reasons related to my appearance and my transness and things. The easygoing physical exuberance of this emote, the way that the avatar performing it, whatever avatar that might be at any given moment, appears to feel so loose and free in their own body, makes it really appealing to me, like a virtual experience/expression of a sensation that I’ve never known IRL. I think emotes have some kind of power beyond whatever power we often think of them having, perhaps particularly for those of us who never really feel comfortable in our own skin.

And all the kids playing Fortnite that we’re so worried about, let’s remember that their experience of this game isn’t as simple as just trying to slaughter everyone else on the island. Setting aside whatever value there may be in the particular type of complex thinking and skill-building that it requires to try to simultaneously outbuild and outgun your opponent, there’s also the fact that they, too, are experiencing the life of Fortnite’s island, having encounters with other players that play out in unexpected ways, and experimenting with self-expression. Yes, their opportunities for that exploration and expression are gated by money, and that’s a real issue, but that doesn’t change the fact that a young person finding that they feel particularly cool when playing as a woman in red with a bionic arm is valid, and maybe even valuable.

II. MGSV and What I Know Is True

I set The Phantom Pain aside for a few years after hitting a mission that I found maddeningly difficult, but something called me back to it. Now I’ve powered through the mission that gave me so much trouble, and I’m making progress again. I enjoy the geographical roughness of its environments, and the way you really have to deal with that roughness, often lying flat and crawling along the ground. The truth is that I spend far too much time alone in my apartment, and though it’s no substitute at all for the real, natural world, when I take my time being rooted in one spot to scout out locations and tag enemies before making any dangerous moves, I feel the shape of the space around me in a way that I rarely do in games.

The other day I fought a grueling boss battle and then, finally, when it was over, hopped onto the helicopter to return to base, exhausted by the ordeal. Just as we were about to lift off, Quiet hopped on, hanging off of the side of the chopper as the rotors above her head spun faster until we lurched up and away from the ground. She held my gaze the whole time. I think a lot of games look at the player too much. They want you to feel like the center of the universe, the only person who really matters. But that wasn’t the feeling I got from this moment. I’d just fought for my life, and the way she looked at me, without malice or sympathy for what I’d just been through or anything, made me feel like I was being sized up. Looked at in a real way. Seen.

Do you know that feeling--Does this happen to everyone or just me?--that feeling where, for a moment, your awareness kind of spreads beyond yourself and you’re suddenly very aware that what you’re experiencing is something real that is happening in physical, three-dimensional space at this exact moment in time? It’s a feeling I get sometimes when I’m in a moment that I wish I could make last, or that I really want to remember. Sharing a last drink with a friend before they move away, that sort of thing. This feeling of momentarily being very much rooted in myself but also outside of myself and acknowledging, This is real. This is something that happened. That moment where Quiet was looking at me in the wake of the momentous battle I’d just fought felt something like that.

It didn’t happen in real, physical space, but virtual space is a valid space, too, a space where real things happen. Sometimes when I’m playing Fortnite I’ll see the hillside where a friend and I once sped away from attackers on a Quadcrasher, bullets whizzing past our heads, and I’ll think, We were there. That happened. These moments become part of my relationship with the ever-changing island, just as my memories of San Francisco become part of my relationship with the city.

On another recent mission, I was sneaking my way through an enemy outpost when, from a nearby building, I heard the familiar sounds of Spandau Ballet’s “True.” To be honest, I never liked “True” much. The Phantom Pain takes place in 1984, and as a kid in the suburbs of Chicago in that year who sometimes saw the video on MTV, the song felt too airy and ethereal to move me. But recontextualized in The Phantom Pain, I heard it differently. That precise ethereal quality made it such an effective contrast to the grim military seriousness and the tactile terrain that my heart began to ache.

The presence of 80s pop songs in the isolated military outposts of the game is politically fascinating to me. It says something about how American and British cultural exports are absorbed by the entire world, but it’s largely a one-way street. A Pakistani friend of mine in high school had grown up with Sting, Bruce Springsteen, Elvis, but I’d never heard Pakistani music in my life. I don’t understand why so many players are so intent on not considering all the political dimensions of a game like this. They only make the experience infinitely more fascinating, even if and when they reveal the game’s failures.

The songs also allow for the creation of some great moments. I snuck into the building where the song was playing just so I could snag the tape, and the next time I was in the helicopter, I played it, and as the opening notes of “True” played, I panned the camera slowly around Big Boss, creating a very short music video that I honestly found exciting.

I tweeted the clip, jokingly commenting that I’d “won Metal Gear Solid V by creating this beautiful moment,” but it had really felt this way to me. Creating this moment had been as fun and rewarding to me as anything else the game offered. Playing MGSV isn’t just sneaking and shooting, or at least for me it isn’t. This, too, is play. So obviously, I get frustrated with the “Git Gud” players, those who feel that games are at their best when they’re perfectly calibrated tests of raw skill, that the only thing that matters is having an awesome KDR, or earning the highest possible rating on missions, or whatever.

But the truth is that it’s not just hardcore gamers who set limits on our notions of play by talking about games like this. A lot of us do it, even a lot of us who consider ourselves emphatically opposed to the “Git Gud’ brigade. We do it when we look at a game like Fortnite and see it only as one simple thing, a struggle to be the last remaining survivor, without at least acknowledging all the other things a player might go to the game for. We do it when we deny the possibility for moments of strange beauty to emerge from even a grim, ugly, grossly misogynistic game like MGSV. We do it whenever we, ourselves, adopt a limited, conventional understanding of what it means to really play a game, rather than fully engaging with all the different ways that we can find ourselves and each other in the spaces that games create.

-----

I’m currently looking for work. If you enjoy my writing and are in a position to do so, please consider supporting me on ko-fi.

#MGSV #Fortnite #Reason to Play

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otakween · 5 years

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Parasite Eve (The Novel) - Review

And now, for something completely different. I realized that with my main Project Alpha (watching all anime in alphabetical order) I would be missing out on somethings that don’t have anime but are still otaku related. Therefore, I will be doing two side projects for A. video games that don’t have anime and B. manga that don’t have anime. I’ll probably add other projects as I go.

First game alphabetically on my list for video games is Parasite Eve (thanks to 3rd Birthday). Turns out, the game is actually a sequel to a novel. Instead of reading it and then writing a review, I decided to review as-I-go so this post will be pretty lengthy.

Thoughts:

Part 1 Prologue & Development)

-The vibes I’m getting from this are Frankenstein combined with Junji Ito (yes, I know he adapted that recently). The mysterious heat thing feels distinctly J-horror. Maybe because they’re so into body horror?

-I’m still not sure if “Parasite Eve” is supposed to refer to a woman or an event. Maybe that’s the point?

-So main “villain” is kind of omnipresent microorganism who can control minds? I hope they explain how it works eventually

-Holy research, Batman! All of the medical and scientific scenes are really impressive to me. They feel like they were written by a real doctor. I want a “making of” feature lol.

-Creepiest bits so far are the opening car accident (reminded me of Bird Box a little) and the extremely in-depth surgery descriptions definitely had me feeling squeamish

-The characters already feel well-developed and distinct. I can tell because I’m having no trouble remembering their names lol

-I know it’s all medical necessity but the transplant scenes did feel very violating. It was also creepy that the author chose to describe a braindead woman’s body in vaguely sexual terms

-The politics about braindead bodies in Japan vs. America adds a really interesting layer to the story. Also, the feelings of people who experience failed transplants. These are both things I had never really considered. It’s attention to detail like this that makes this story feel more realistic and immersive.

-I’m wondering how the “villain” will manifest herself? Is it going to be like Tomie where she grows put of the organs? Is she going to possess the donors or become a clone of Kiyomi. We’ll see!

Part 2 (Symbiosis)

-Okay, now I have a much better idea of how “Eve” works. The descriptions of her taking over her host’s body and mind were nice and creepy. The horror of the situation is that it’s not really something you could report or ask for help without seeming crazy and being locked up or put on drugs.

-I said the first part reminded me of Junji Ito and Frankenstein. This second part reminded me of Get Out, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and Saya no Uta. I guess I could throw in Brain on Fire as well with all the memory lapses.

-I much prefer the subtle horror of the novel to the monster-attack style horror. I found the scene where Asakura is attacked by Eve just felt really cheesy. It was one of those horror scenes where the victim is being attacked by a very slow moving creature and they probably could have escaped like a million times. Her immediately kneeling down on a mug she shattered also felt pretty silly.

-So Eve is mitochondria? I guess? And she’s existed since the beginning of time but needed science to progress to where it is today to help her evolve. That’s creative but pretty out there. It’s confusing because she obviously has to be more than one mitochondrion at once and she also refers to other mitochondrion as her sisters even though they both came from Kiyomi. I guess I’ll just try not to overthink things…

-Things suddenly got very sexual at the end of part 2 and I cannot unsee certain things D: I’m not really sure what Eve’s end goal is here. Is it just to be all yandere for Toshiaki or does she want to take over the world as a new species or something?

-I really enjoy how much insight we’re getting into Mariko and Kiyomi’s characters. Horror is always more effective when you care about the characters and understand who they were before everything went wrong.

-Pretty stupid of Mariko to not take her pills, it’s kinda hard to see her side of things on that one. It’s interesting to see her dad and the doctor grappling with this trouble child.When they called her behavior “autistic” it was kind of jarring though. Not sure how I feel about that.

Part 3 (Evolution)

-Oh…OH. Okay. I was warned that this book is trippy and this is where stuff starts to go DOWN. Where’s my brain bleach…

-F’real though, the 3rd part was basically nonstop madness and body horror. I was on the edge of my seat but also cringing throughout the whole thing. I must have been quite the sight reading this on the train, I could just feel my eyes widening at some of the more out-there scenes.

-So it gets extremely sexual and there’s some rape going on which of course is always hard to read. It makes sense for the plot tho so I was ok with it. Logically, Eve 1 would need to “evolve” through reproducing. Some of the descriptions made me kind of side-eye the author tho like “Are you enjoying this a little too much?” I dunno. it was just a lot.

-Really intense body horror. The descriptions of people slowly dying by fire were especially lovingly crafted (lol). I liked that they explained the logic behind mitochondria having that ability and compared it to spontaneous human combustion

-Team Toshiaki was pretty badass at the end there, working together to save Mariko. I’d be on the next plane out of the country lol

-I’m glad Toshiaki was redeemed in the end. It’s not like he really did anything wrong since he was basically brainwashed.

-I wonder if any book characters will appear in the games? I don’t know how far apart the stories are but it would be fun to get some cameos. I wanna see Mariko come back for revenge lol

-What crazy person thought this would make a good video game??? I mean, good for them, but if I didn’t know already about the franchise I would not be reading this thinking “mm yeah. Awesome game material right here.” It’s mainly science and practically all-powerful mitochondria monsters. And you fight those with guns or something? Okaaay…

Epilogue

-Dang! Major jealousy feels. I wish I was graduating grad school rn (but 6 years…damn. I could never be a research student).

-Of course it ends with a super complicated scientific explanation. I’m really glad it did though. I didn’t really understand what was going on with the male-female thing.

-Typical horror movie sting foreshadowing sequels at the end. Creeeeepy.

-It’s pretty hilarious how Asakura is like “man, what a year amirite??” YOU CAUGHT FIRE AND WERE ATTACKED BY A MITOCHONDRIA BLOB THAT KILLED YOUR MENTOR!

-Oh snap. The book has a bibliography. Mad props to the author who of course has his PhD in pharmacology. It’s always great when super smart people create something like this for us plebes.

I’m super glad I read this! I don’t read a ton of horror (even though I’m a big horror movie fan) and this was a great re-introduction into the genre. Although I found it a little over-the-top at times (borderline cheesy) it was super smartly written and refreshingly original. I can’t wait to see what the rest of the franchise has in store for me!

I give Parasite Eve a 8.5 out of 10

#parasite eve #novel #review #books

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projectpowerapornetmozi1080p · 4 years

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[HD:VIDEA] Teljes Project Power: A por ereje Film Magyar 4K Online 2020

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Film making has now become a popular industry throughout the world, where feature films are always awaited by cinProject Power: A por erejes. Films are made in two main ways. The first is through shooting and recording techniques through film cameras. This method is done by photographing images or objects. The second uses traditional animation techniques. This method is done through computer graphic animation or CGI techniques. Both can also be combined with other techniques and visual effects. Filming usually takes a relatively long time. It also requires a job desk each, starting from the director, producer, editor, wardrobe, visual effects and others. Image for post Definition and Definition of Film / Movie While the players who play a role in the film are referred to as actors (men) or actresses (women). There is also the term extras that are used as supporting characters with few roles in the film. This is different from the main actors who have bigger and more roles. Being an actor and an actress must be dProject Power: A por erejended to have good acting talent, which is in accordance with the theme of the film he is starring in. In certain scenes, the actor’s role can be replaced by a stuntman or a stuntman. The existence of a stuntman is important to replace the actors doing scenes that are difficult and extreme, which are usually found in action action films. Films can also be used to convey certain messages from the filmmaker. Some industries also use film to convey and represent their symbols and culture. Filmmaking is also a form of expression, thoughts, ideas, concepts, feelings and moods of a human being visualized in film. The film itself is mostly a fiction, although some are based on fact true stories or based on a true story. There are also documentaries with original and real pictures, or biographical films that tell the story of a character. There are many other popular genre films, ranging from action films, horror films, comedy films, romantic films, fantasy films, thriller films, drama films, science fiction films, crime films, documentaries and others. That’s a little information about the definition of film or movie. The information was quoted from various sources and references. Hope it can be useful. ❍❍❍ TV MOVIE ❍❍❍ The first television shows were experimental, sporadic broadcasts viewable only within a very short range from the broadcast tower starting in the 1930s. Televised events such as the 1936 Summer Olympics in Germany, the 19340 coronation of King George VI in the UK, and David Sarnoff’s famous introduction at the 1939 New York World’s Fair in the US spurred a growth in the medium, but World War II put a halt to development until after the war. The 19440 World MOVIE inspired many Americans to buy their first television set and then in 1948, the popular radio show Texaco Star Theater made the move and became the first weekly televised variety show, earning host Milton Berle the name “”Mr Television”” and demonstrating that the medium was a stable, modern form of entertainment which could attract advertisers. The first national live television broadcast in the US took place on September 4, 1951 when President Harry Truman’s speech at the Japanese Peace Treaty Conference in San Francisco was transmitted over AT&T’s transcontinental cable and microwave radio relay system to broadcast stations in local markets. The first national color broadcast (the 1954 Tournament of Roses Parade) in the US occurred on January 1, 1954. During the following ten years most network broadcasts, and nearly all local programming, continued to be in black-and-white. A color transition was announced for the fall of 1965, during which over half of all network prime-time programming would be broadcast in color. The first all-color prime-time season came just one year later. In 19402, the last holdout among daytime network shows converted to color, resulting in the first completely all-color network season. ❍❍❍ Formats and Genres ❍❍❍ See also: List of genres § Film and television formats and genres Television shows are more varied than most other forms of media due to the wide variety of formats and genres that can be presented. A show may be fictional (as in comedies and dramas), or non-fictional (as in documentary, news, and reality television). It may be topical (as in the case of a local newscast and some made-for-television films), or historical (as in the case of many documentaries and fictional MOVIE). They could be primarily instructional or educational, or entertaining as is the case in situation comedy and game shows.[citation needed] A drama program usually features a set of actors playing characters in a historical or contemporary setting. The program follows their lives and adventures. Before the 1980s, shows (except for soap opera-type serials) typically rProject Power: A por erejeined static without story arcs, and the main characters and premise changed little.[citation needed] If some change happened to the characters’ lives during the episode, it was usually undone by the end. Because of this, the episodes could be broadcast in any order.[citation needed] Since the 1980s, many MOVIE feature progressive change in the plot, the characters, or both. For instance, Hill Street Blues and St. Elsewhere were two of the first American prime time drama television MOVIE to have this kind of dramatic structure,[4][better source needed] while the later MOVIE Babylon 5 further exemplifies such structure in that it had a predetermined story running over its intendevd five-season run.[citvatio””&n needed] In 2007, it was reported that television was growing into a larger component of major media companies’ revenues than film.[5] Some also noted the increase in quality of some television programs. In 2007, Academy-Award-winning film director Steven Soderbergh, commenting on ambiguity and complexity of character and narrative, stated: “”I think those qualities are now being seen on television and that people who want to see stories that have those kinds of qualities are watching television. ❍❍❍ Thank’s For All And Happy Watching❍❍❍ Find all the movies that you can stream online, including those that were screened this week. If you are wondering what you can watch on this website, then you should know that it covers genres that include crime, Science, Fi-Fi, action, romance, thriller, Comedy, drama and Anime Movie. Thank you very much. We tell everyone who is happy to receive us as news or information about this year’s film schedule and how you watch your favorite films. Hopefully we can become the best partner for you in finding recommendations for your favorite movies. That’s all from us, greetings! Thanks for watching The Video Today. I hope you enjoy the videos that I share. Give a thumbs up, like, or share if you enjoy what we’ve shared so that we more excited. Sprinkle cheerful smile so that the world back in a variety of colors.

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studydreamrepeat · 7 years

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I’m a very goal driven person. Without a clear goal in mind I begin to flounder and struggle, uncertain of where I should redirect my efforts. So, as I reconsider my career goals and relationship with academic research, I thought some reflection might be useful.

I entered college with a very specific career goal in mind. I wanted to be a pharmaceutical researcher, working for a (large, well-paying) corporation on developing drugs for clinical trials and/or consumer use. Chemistry and biology were my favorite subjects in high school; lab experiments were my favorite part. I had an amazing experience during HS where I spent a year doing community outreach for a grassroots air quality organization. The experience had been so amazing because they were actually measuring the levels of air pollutants in the air with the help of graduate students at a local university, and I got to help them measure the levels of nitrous oxides in the air. I reported my results to city officials and even presented at a youth conference in DC, where I spoke to my local and state representatives as well as EPA officials. Doing real-world lab techniques, learning about the chemistry and the biological effects, and seeing my results be used in real life outreach and legislation had enraptured me. I was sold. I wanted to do something similar with my life, but in pharmaceutical research I saw a better connection to my interest in disease, better pay/job security, and more real-life influence by developing medications. It seemed perfect. Three years later, I have no idea where that enthusiasm went–but it’s totally gone. I’m now changing my major. Again. A B.S. in Biology is what I’m switching to, making it my third chance. I entered college pursuing a B.S. in Biochemistry & Biophysics, as there was no plain biochemistry degree (which seemed ideal, with biology and chemistry being my favorite subjects)–but switched out within the year. Following a poor first term (C’s across the board, with the exception of a history course), my adviser scared me out of the program by convincing me that I would never survive the rigor of the remaining calculus and advanced chemistry classes I would have to take. If I couldn’t excel in general chemistry right out the gate, how would I survive the school’s advanced physical chemistry series where straight-A students were known to struggle for passing grades? That seemed like a fair criticism. I switched majors that spring. I aced the rest of my self-written gen chem labs and went on to ace organic chemistry as well, driven by pettiness to deliver a subtle “fuck you” to that particular adviser.

There were other, more valid reasons for my leaving the department, but the success I forced myself towards out of sheer bitterness has always entertained me. I switched to a unique degree after biochemistry, pursuing a B.S. in Biological Research. I loved the department, adviser, and coursework. I got to customize the classes I was taking and elected to focus on toxicology. The other great thing about the degree was that it required nearly 20 credits of thesis research experience. I tacked on a chemistry minor and a certificate in medical humanities, thinking I was set for the next three years.

Within two weeks of joining the department, my adviser had been contacted by a doctoral candidate looking for an undergraduate to work with him. He was a program alumni needing extra hands for his natural resource isolation research in a pharmaceutical sciences lab. On paper it seemed like a great fit. I jumped on board even though natural resource isolation wasn’t my real interest. I was willing to learn about anything, and for the first few weeks natural curiosity carried me. I’d heard horror stories of how difficult it was to get a proper thesis project, and was relieved to have it seemingly handed to me. In person, it was more of a disaster.

Of the four other undergraduates already affiliated with the lab, three of which were also women, I was the only one who regularly came in. It didn’t take long to find out why. A majority of the researchers (not that there were many) came from cultures that are known for poor treatment of women. I was, after a few months when I finally thought to ask, told it had been quite some time since there had been a post-doctoral or other faculty researcher in the lab, and that the last one had not stayed particularly long. I consider myself a friendly person–I make eye contact, smile, and exchange pleasantries when it seems opportune. I was now in a setting where I was actively ignored. I was largely expected to learn by just doing what I was told. Questions were rarely answered, and trust me–when you’re holding a bottle with a giant label declaring CARCINOGEN for the first time, you’re going to have questions about how to proceed.

I was isolated from everyone but the other undergrads and my mentor–when he was gone, I could occasionally convince one of our post-docs to help me find the right compounds, before he would return to his bench where he would scroll through FB for a majority of the day. My PI rarely spoke to me, and he was often gone from the country for weeks at a time. With only general chemistry under my belt, I didn’t know enough to really appreciate what I was doing. I struggled. Things got better and I started to understand, only to get lost again when our project shifted in another direction, then back, then back again. My mentor was surprisingly patient through all of my confusion–far and away, he is the only reason I even survived a year in that lab.

Paperwork caught up with me. My depression returned, worse than ever. This time I struggled with anxiety symptoms that I had somehow evaded in all my previous experiences with mental illness. My grades started looking like the long end of a bell curve. I gave up part of my Christmas break to stay in town to work in the lab, only to spend those days working on an unrelated project.

Halfway through the school year, I was casually told my thesis project would be changed to something involving gene operons. I would be working with a lot of bacteria, rather than the genetically modified yeast cultures I had been working on in my resource isolation. I hadn’t taken general microbiology yet, much less bacterial genetics or any other relevant class. I was just starting a class in cellular biology and barely knew what a gene operon was. My opinion had never once been asked through this process. It was never once suggested that my mentor and PI had been thinking of switching my project. They decided without me or any input from me, and when I was told it hadn’t been a proposition or question–they were very honest in telling me the decision had, somehow, already been made. Had they asked me, I would have been happy to go along with it. That my opinion on what I would be spending the next two years working on was regarded as unimportant was very frustrating.

I was starting from square one again. To this day, I still don’t understand a lot of the techniques I used or data I generated. The only thing I understood was that I was getting damn good at electrophoresis. I had no funding, so I continued to put in my hours without pay. For most of the year my efforts were considered null even though I was in the lab logging more hours and generating more data than many of the paid researchers. It seemed I had gotten my acknowledgement when funding finally came that June, nine months after I had started. It turned out that the grant had actually been secured for me by my adviser who knew I was staying in town for the summer to continue my research. Now four months into this new project, I still didn’t understand the basis for most of my experiments, didn’t understand how to analyze whatever data I was continuously generating, and generally didn’t know what was happening. The lab was becoming emptier. On occasions I would arrive and find the lab was just closed for the day, lights off and doors locked. My mentor was busy with his prelims. There was no support or acknowledgement of my frustrations. I remember one day where I repeatedly asked for clarification, followed the directions I was given, and was then told I had done it incorrectly and had to redo it. I messed it up again because the numbers I had been given was wrong. I remember tearing up in the lab and managed to excuse myself for the evening, then crying out of sheer frustration in the women’s bathroom.

I wasn’t the only one frustrated. One of the other undergrads left the lab, citing the lack of support and poor treatment, including some degree of sexism, from the professional researchers. The lab was falling apart at the seams. Water occasionally dripped from pipelines running above our workbenches. The equipment was all older than I was, and the bigger equipment was twice my age. Our fridges wouldn’t maintain their temperatures. Experiments would frequently be delayed for a day or two while my mentor tinkered with equipment, trying to fix things that someone else had broken. Someone had broken a rubber ring on the fermenter and tried to replace it with a ring of parafilm. We had two HPLCs, and one of them was broken the entire year I was there. When questioned, I was told fixing it would be pointless because if we had a second working one then someone would break it knowing there was still the second. When we started having weekly lab group presentations, sharing our data and progress, it devolved immediately. One person would present, and the rest would sit around the table finding the most useless and particular questions to ask in an attempt to one-up the presentation. We stopped having meetings again as our PI flew in and out of the US. The problem with the lab wasn’t that we were complacent or poked fun at each other and each other’s research, or asked legitimate questions to encourage growth. It was openly hostile. Asking for help accomplished nothing. Undergraduates were not encouraged to ask questions in the lab or ask for help. We also weren’t allowed to work without someone else in the lab, because it was well understood that we didn’t know what we were doing and were a danger to ourselves.

There’s no way of explaining how exhausted or ill working in that specific setting had made me. It was a collection of small things. The inherent frustration of research–constant failure and constant redesign–barely registered through the entire experience. The frustration of not being able to express myself, being isolated, lacking financial/intellectual/mental support, and not having working equipment built up to become hair-pulling. I stopped wanting to come to lab. Then I stopped wanting to go to school. For a while I entertained just dropping out completely and fulfilling my life’s dream of becoming a subsistence potato farmer in rural Idaho. My partner patiently reminded me my life goals were bigger than potatoes. My friends reminded me my life goals were more than potatoes. My family wanted me to have more than potatoes. Everyone severely underestimates potatoes. All the meanwhile my family life devolved in the background. There were three months where at any given point I had a family member in a hospital. I was constantly on the edge of a mental breakdown.

I left at the end of August for a week’s vacation, which extended into a month because of a medical emergency. Away from the lab–even with other major stresses–my anxiety receded. I was coping better with my depression. I resolved not to go back and I didn’t. I withdrew from the lab, citing family responsibilities and health problems. I was, and am, completely disenchanted with lab-based research. My career goals had been decimated because I don’t believe I have the discipline or willpower to pursue a PhD. I am skeptical of the quality of any letter of recommendation or reference I could get from that lab because of how my PI rarely interacted with me and the way I suddenly made my exit, abandoning a lot of responsibilities. Exhausted by research, never mind a full thesis, I am switching majors to a good and simple Biology degree and taking my minor and certificate with me. I’m not sure what my new career goal will be. MD, PharmD, JD focusing in health law, or maybe a MS or PhD in a different field.

Despite the frustrations and discrimination my peers and I dealt with in that lab, I learned so so so much and am very grateful to have gotten the opportunity. I learned a lot of lab techniques and shortcuts. I learned how to present and communicate my research, how to interact with vendors, how to get funding (alternatively: how not to get grants), and saw a lot about graduate school and what it really took to get a lab-based research degree at the doctoral level. I saw my mentor’s frustrations, even with his decade of experience, and how it was shaping his career and effecting his family life. My scientific writing improved. I pushed myself to new limits and, optimistically, I’d like to say I grew as a person. I also learned some things that I’m glad I haven’t taken for granted, which is what I don’t want to do with my life. I learned how to put myself and my health first, even if it means giving up on amazing opportunities. I learned how to tell when something was becoming too much for me to handle or deal with. I learned where my breaking point was, which is at an 18 credit term with 20 hours a week of research (orgo chem, physics, cell bio, and tech writing made for a pretty brutal term).

Even with the disastrous experience I went through with academic pharma research, I still want to have more research experience–just in a completely different field. I’m going to pick research that I am interested in and because it’s what I want to learn more about, not because I need research experience to fill a requirement or to bolster my resume (although that’s a bonus). I’m looking at PIs who are focused in health literacy, or quantifying legislative effects, or nanotoxicology.

If you want to do research, it ought to be something you genuinely care about or are interested in. Sure, you can do it if you’re indifferent or if you’ve scrounged up some everyday curiosity for it, but after a couple hundred hours you’ll be pretty goddamn miserable. No matter what it is you’re doing, if you’re going to put hundreds of hours into something, make sure you care about it. Those are hours you will never get back. Even in labs where there is support and people act like decent human beings, research is still not an easy task. I’d like to think we call it research because you have to constantly be searching for reasons to continue.

There are reasons worth continuing. There are reasons to keep pushing forward and hunting down the answers to your questions. Your discoveries may be small at first. History is made by small discoveries and a random spattering of luck. But your discoveries, no matter how revolutionary or mundane, are still discoveries. Your work can lead to a cure. To a difference in the way we interact with other species. To a difference in the way we interact with each other. You can change the way we use certain materials, or the way we use the world. You can change the world.

#this took a much more autobiographical turn than i was intending it to #idk man i just wish i had someone who had told me this when i was starting as an eager young stem major #proofreading your own post is for the weak #it's nearly 2am i'm going to bed guys #studydreamrepeat #long read more is long

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captusmomentum · 7 years

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@feynites @theladypirate

Here’s Part 1 of the “Worst Honeymoon Ever” or “Cleaning Up Falon’din’s Mess”

I figured I’d post the part I had that wasn’t fighting with me since it’s a good length and who knows when they other bit will wanna play nice.

So enjoy some more Tanzanite Trio arranged marriage au stuff!

Uthvir and Thenvunin (mentioned) are feynites!

No one was under the illusion that renovating Falon’Din’s lands and holdings would be easy. Everywhere his influence had touched some kind of nightmarish element to it and removing those while trying to maintain the structure and not interfere with his former victims lives was slow difficult work. The project was in a odd nebulous place, it was aesthetic in someways and so not a priority, but his tastes were so morbid and unappealing and his memory so unsavory that stripping everything so people could live there comfortably and safely was a high priority.

Which is how it ended up being put on Inanallas’s desk as her major task in this…whatever it was but how it also ended up wildly understaffed, consisting of just her and a few small crews of workers from various clans. The idea is that his palaces will be converted into something more akin to embassies or as needed housing for the clans and the rest of the renovations will create a blank slate for the people living there to decorate as desired. The people most likely to live there were Alhanin and themself along with their spouses, but Alhanin had more than enough to do and Inanallas was already the political middle man, so they were the “best choice”.

Inan had been uncomfortable with requesting workers from the imperial elves, it was too uncomfortable knowing how little choice the workers would have in it and everything was simply too horrible to force on people, so they’d just made a very loud request through the clans and some people can forward and here they were.

Inan had also maybe made very desperate plea full of sad puppy looks to Haninan to help them, though only once the brunt of the removal was done or if they ran into a major problem. He had made a very big and very hammy display of being put upon but resigned to helping a foolish child with their lessons.

The project meets almost immediately with a problem, the question of where should Inanallas and their new spouses live during this. The logical choice would be on or near the site but it there was no way Inan would subject them to this horror show. Maybe when they had at least half of the main palace stripped bare Inan would consider it, since there’d then be a reasonable about of Non-Horrible space to move around in. But they also can’t not have them nearish without a very good reason and they can’t just say “your brother/son was a monster and his design choices were a sadist’s fever dream made real” when asked about it. Especially since there’s no clear timeline for how long this will take, years certainly. It’s a lot of land to cover but how many? The longer they’re apart from their spouses the worse it will be in the long run for negotiations and all that political stuff. And cultural too they suppose, since people from each side will likely see it as a failure and blame it on the other.

But on the other hand they do have a good point when it comes to holding them off for a time. There is a lot of work to be done to make this place livable, and they’re going to need quarters here which will have to get renovated at some point. Logically their rooms should be at minimum demolished and cleaned out before the two consider moving there. As a bonus for the political end they can call it a wedding gift or something and you know, not just basic decency, which seems to be the pattern with the imperial types. Why be decent all the time when you can withhold it and then be heralded as a hero for not kicking someone in the head? Still…someone will still probably want them in sooner so they’re close to Inanallas regardless of all that…

Eventually after a lot of brooding, pacing and discussion with some of their friends in the Dreaming they decide to leave it up to their spouses to decide what they want to do. They’ll explain the renovation situation, and tell them their plan to prioritize renovating their quarters first. That by no means do they have to move in immediately or even after more of the palace renovations are done, but they’ll at least have their own quarters ready for them to personalize or transition into as at their own pace.

Thenvunin’s reaction is unsurprising. He’s intensely relieved despite his obvious attempts not to show it and they don’t blame him, they don’t want to be there either. He thanks them politely for considering him in the process and thinks he will begin to prepare himself to move once his quarters are stripped and redone but first he must confer with Mythal on the matter for her opinion. They respond with equal politeness that it was no problem and that he could take as much time as he needed and he was always welcome to call on them if he so desired.

Uthvir’s is a bit surprising. At first they bristle, clearly very against the idea of living there— again, the only correct reaction, but then there’s a lot of questions, generally about things like “how much is being destroyed?” and “how would they be doing it?”. They seem to become more thoughtful then, once it’s clear there’s going to be a complete gut job. They’re surprised when they agree to come with them later to start the whole process but they don’t question it. Andruil must be worse than they thought, or something else is going on they’re unaware of.

Uthvir doesn’t seem to have much in terms of personal effects outside of equipment which they guess makes sense, they can’t imagine the Evanuris actually let people keep things. They help them move it all into the aravel Inan has been living in during all this, the two of them will live there until they get their own quarters in the building livable. They start early the next day, Inanallas accompanying Uthvir to pick out both their quarters and Thenvunin’s future one.

Inan had already decided sight unseen that Falon’din’s former apartments were completely off limits to everyone for any reason. The first thing they had done when they’d visited here months earlier was to quarantine and lock off the whole floor and the floor under it on top of the various stasis spells and warding their colleagues had done, just to be safe. They were not looking forward to dealing with that later…

It’s not pleasant picking out their new living spaces what with everything still looking like a psychopath’s wet dream, even so Uthvir seems even more uncomfortable than they do. They’re tempted to ask if they’re okay but decide against it, not sure how to even broach that with the hunter. It doesn’t take too long for the two to pick for themselves, neither of them are exactly fancy or picky, but Thenvunin’s takes a little longer. It has to be reasonably close to both of theirs but also be Thenvunin-y, which is something Inan is relying heavily on Uthvir to find. They managed it before long, finding three apartments in the corner of a floor 2/3rds up the building. Inanallas taking the smallest and the largest would be Thenvunin’s.

Inan marked the doors with bright Xs in paint so they could find them again then told Uthvir they could start working on their own rooms while they went to give orders to the work crews for here and to those crews being sent out.

When they get back Uthvir’s door is open and they’re working like a demon, systematically ripping the place apart. They talk briefly before Inan leaves them to it and starts on their own. Eventually someone comes and hands them some food which the two of them pick at occasionally while they work, more interested in getting done then anything else at the time. It’s well into the night when they’re done and Inan is genuinely surprised by their progress, their rooms are both completely bare down to the baseboards. Of course they’d managed that speed because neither of them was being particularly careful, there was an absolute trash yard in the hall outside, and they had both exhausted themselves and were now covered in grime and sweat. So… not exactly a great method to do the rest of the Palace with…

Inan looks morosely at the pile. They should really do something about that now, they think, even though they really wanted to just go to bed and sleep for 50 years. It’d just be a hassle tomorrow if they left it there…

Mournfully Inan tells Uthvir they can go back and sleep if they want while Inan deals with the rubble but the hunter just brushes it off, with a look ad a grunt and sets to helping them break the wood and furniture into fuel for the crews’ fires then taking that, the stone and any other detritus down to the designated spaces. The two go through the motions in the silence of determined exhaustion, violently hating very second of it and themselves for being so disgustingly responsible. Or at least that’s Inanallas’s feeling which they are completely projecting. When the two finally make it back to the aravel there’s the grim realization that there’s more between them and rest.

There’s no way Inan can get to sleep this filthy and they bet it’s about the same for Uthvir—maybe worse since they wore armor the entire time.

“There should be a bathhouse somewhere in the Palace.” Uthvir offers, voice a little hoarse from tired.

“Any idea where it is?” They reply with weak hope.

“No.”

Inan groans. “I don’t wanna wander around there in the middle of the night looking for jack shit.” They sigh and grab a couple of large buckets outside of the aravel. “Gimme a minute, I’ll be back.”

Uthvir debates their options. They don’t like the idea of stripping in range of a near stranger (or anyone really) but Fear’s hackles raise even further at the idea of bathing — no matter how quickly — alone and in any secluded place outside in Falon’Din’s former lands. Too dangerous, it hisses and Uthvir can’t help but agree. They knew being here would be hard, but the opportunity to obliterate all traces of Falon’Din was worth it for the most part. Or it would be, in the end.

They consider if they can tolerate it until they can find the baths, but they’re so coated with dried sweat, dust and debris that had somehow gotten under their armor they cannot stand themselves. They consider if they can wait until Inanallas is asleep but then they run the risk of the little wild elf asking questions which they too tired to deal with deflecting right now.

Eventually they settle on washing now and begin taking off their armor. Uthvir is halfway through when Inanallas returns with buckets full of water, a spell for heating crawling across them. They pause in divesting themselves to collect a change of clothing and towel from inside the aravel as Inanallas does the same. Oonce back outside Inanallas begins to strip immediately looking as desperate as they feel to be clean, but Uthvir does not speed up their pace to match. They take stock of the sheer amount of tattoo work on Inanallas with great interest, particularly the 4 concentric rings and magical writing on their back. Hm. That certainly explains some of their power…

They also take note of their form but are frankly, too tired to care much past basic observation. Petite, well muscled, with broad shoulders and slim hips, scars, and a sea of freckles all over. Not bad… it seems at least Uthvir has lucked out and been saddled with two very attractive spouses. Uthvir washes their hair first before they’re completely undressed and by the time they’re ready to move on to their body Inan is groaning in reluctance and begrudgingly pulling down her disastrous braided bun.

Uthvir’s plan as worked perfectly, Inan’s vision is completely obscured by their long mop of hair, completely unable to see anything as Uthvir briskly cleans themselves with furious efficiency. They’re dried and dressed and Inan is still powering through their hair muttering curses the entire time. They decide to take pity and help them with rinsing and managing it as they haphazardly comb and braid it. Their lips twitch, almost into a smirk as they imagine Thenvunin’s reaction to this poor display.

Now clean and barely conscious two stumble blearily into their lodgings and promptly collapse.

Inanallas has nightmares.

A rough pattern emerges as they move into the swing of things, they eat with the rest of the workers then get to work tearing out everything that’s not necessary to the building’s integrity. The majority of the work is being done in the public areas and Uthvir slowly gains some authority over the workers as Inanallas leaves them in charge when they have to travel to check on the other work crews spread throughout the territory. When they can swing it, they visit Thenvunin —sometimes together, sometimes separately— to give him updates and spend time with him. He himself only visits when strictly necessary, the more time they spend wading through Falon’din’s aftermath the more and more glad the other two are he comes so rarely. After work all the workers including Inanallas and Uthvir, generally eat together then do whatever they wish until the next day. The two have mutually decided to not live in the palace for as long as possible, it barely required more then a look for that to get settled.

They can see Inanallas degrading with each day the strange elf is here.

Uthvir has asked them about it after the other had a straight week of nightmares and began plastering the aravel with increasingly more spells, wards and charms. Inanallas had explained their abilities somewhat and how the area was not mixing well with them, but did not wish to go too deeply into it. They aren’t sure if the vagueness is from a lack of accurate description, their usual poor speech impaired by exhaustion or an intentional if sloppy dodge but they don’t press the issue. They didn’t need to cause them more discomfort or try to decipher their babbling to understand how toxic this place was, it was wearing at them too.

Fear was riding high constantly now and their joint maelstrom of negavity was draining. Every minute here is like having an old wound opened and forced to stay so, they despise every second of it so intensely they can taste it. It’s not difficult to see how it’d be even more damaging to someone significantly more open to the Dreaming and all that entails. At least for Uthvir there is some deep satisfaction in smashing in the head of every statue of that monster, and hearing the wild elves cheer at their destruction is a lovely icing to their revenge. For Inanallas however, it’s just work. Hard, seemingly endless, torturous work. There’s little they can do to aid them past taking some of the responsibility and make sure they do not over exert themselves. They try when Inan is asleep to help soothe them, but Fear can only do so much, Inanallas has many fears —most contradictory somehow— but they’re not exactly scared of this place, they dread it but they’re not afraid. Fear soothes what it can as Uthvir watches them and wonders what is going on in that odd little head.

Despite all that —or perhaps because of it— Inanallas made the call to finally do the first sweep of Falon’Din’s chambers. There’s several offers to assist them but Inanallas shouts them all down, even Uthvir, claiming that there’s no need for them all to drop everything to do this. It’s unspoken that what they’re really saying is “I won’t make anyone else be exposed to whatever horrors are in there”. They don’t admit to it but Uthvir is quietly relieved they don’t have to go up there, regardless if it means Inanallas is going in alone.

They take the reins of the workers again but keep an eye out for Inanallas that day. First they see her not too long after she’s begun working on Falon’din’s apartments returning from the aravel with more clothing on, including some sort of tight head covering, not too unlike a fitted scarf, that obscured their nose and mouth. The stone of dread that had been heavy in their stomach since the morning grew larger, they do not ask why.

The second time is when they come to talk quietly with some of the other clan elves— the ones with the highest constitutions they suspect— and pulls them away to help them with whatever they’ve found. Again they do not ask.

The third time is when they and their assistants begin bringing down boxes that can only be makeshift coffins they’re using to transport the remains of Falon’din’s final victims. Uthvir turns and does not watch as they go.

“We have to tear this entire thing down.”

It comes out of the blue but it’s not a new thought.

Inanallas declares it shortly after Falon’din’s apartments are opened. The overall mood has been muted since then but this halts it completely as the severity of that unspoken thought finally being said out loud washes over them.

“The entire place has too much that needs to be removed and trying to do so while keeping things in tact is more time and effort than rebuilding completely. And the Dreaming connected to this place is ruined and corrupted, we have to tear it all down and start from fixing that, otherwise this place will aways be a horror regardless of what we do. Do a final sweep for anything that should be removed from the building then seal it. I’m going to go to Arlathan to talk to the Elders and Evanuris about this.”

There’s general muttering of agreement as people bring their breakfasts to a quick end and get moving early to condemn the place. Inanallas prepares for their trip and before they go, Uthvir catches their arm, they’re not sure why nor do they have anything to say but Inan places a hand of their’s for a brief moment, then removes it and goes.

#arranged tanzanite au #tanzanite trio #sup I'm cap mo and i'm a fucking downer #i don't write ships i write tragedies #frankly i'm still not even completely sure if uthvir would even /go/ but i went w/ it bc 1. Plot and 2. it /would/ be satisfying #to help set all trace of FD on fire #and get the fuck away from andruil who u KNOW has gotten WORSE on the whole sooooo #at least they're both miserable :D #don't worry thenvunin will more screen time later and take charge #also tuck them both in and tut at them for taking such poor care of themselves

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crystaluki · 5 years

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Dear Reader,

Stocks around the world were up at the start of this week after Commerce Secretary Wilbur Ross said trade talks with China are “making good progress.”

But I advise you not to take these comments too seriously.

The fact is the U.S.-China trade dispute is largely irreconcilable unless one side is willing to make major concessions.

Talking is certainly better than not talking and much better than fighting. But intellectual property, to use one example, is a major sticking point.

Trump is adamant that China be stopped from further stealing of U.S. intellectual property. But China cannot give up its theft of U.S. intellectual property because it depends on that theft to propel growth.

Meanwhile, China cannot amend its internal laws to provide enforceability of any agreement because that involves a major loss of face and erodes Xi Jinping’s power.

China is using trade talks to essentially bargain for time.

As far as Trump goes, he cannot let the Chinese trade surplus with the U.S. persist because it’s a major drag on U.S. growth and it steals U.S. jobs. Trump was always serious about the trade war, and that has not changed.

He will, however, talk up a possible trade deal because it’s good for the stock market. He’s depending on a healthy stock market going into next year’s election.

So despite the temporary optimism, the market will realise sooner rather than later that trade talks are just part of China’s strategy of delay and Trump’s strategy of propping up the stock market.

None of the big issues is any closer to a solution, and that state of affairs may last for years.

But the U.S.-China dispute also goes far beyond trade. Trade is actually just one part of a much larger confrontation.

Cold War II

This larger confrontation includes China’s claims to the entire South China Sea (disputed by the U.S. and six other countries), China’s development of anti-satellite and hypersonic weapons (against which the U.S. has no current defenses), cyberwarfare and much more.

This broader perspective was captured in a speech last October by Vice President Mike Pence that has been labeled the Pence Doctrine.

This new doctrine suggests a Cold War II-style engagement with China.

Now, the U.S. secretary of the Navy, Richard Spencer, is embracing Pence’s view and recently called for an “all government” approach to the struggle with China.

This means that the response to China would not be limited to trade but would include a stronger defence, limitations on Chinese investment in the U.S., banning of Huawei’s 5G communications systems, financial warfare, freedom-of-the-seas operations in the South China Sea, encouraging U.S. companies to move manufacturing operations out of China and other tactics reminiscent of the U.S.-Soviet confrontation during the original Cold War.

So investors looking for an easy way out based on a possible U.S.-China trade deal will be disappointed that the deal may either fail or be nothing more than a Band-Aid on a fatal wound.

Also, China’s economy is a house of cards and even government figures are beginning to show that’s true; the real figures are worse.

China’s Potemkin Village Economy

China’s growth figures are almost certainly overstated. About 45% of Chinese GDP is “investment” (compared with about 25% for a developed economy), but 50% of that investment is wasted on white elephant projects and ghost cities that will not earn returns.

If that wasted investment were subtracted from GDP, China’s actual growth rate would be substantially beneath the 6% official number.

China is losing the trade wars and losing the public relations wars because of its actions against protesters in Hong Kong.

Beijing is using water cannons, tear gas, rubber bullets (and sometimes real bullets), truncheons, arrests and even murder (dismembered bodies of protestors have turned up in the waters around Hong Kong).

The cracks are beginning to show in the foundation.

**********

China’s best case is a possible recession and its worst case is a full-blown financial panic. It’s past time to start selling Chinese stocks and avoid further investment in China.

But now I want to address another, more fundamental reason to shun all investment in China.

China’s Human Rights Abuses

That’s because the trade war debate with China misses a much larger and more brutal reality. We can discuss tariffs, intellectual property, and direct foreign investment all day long.

But what about the murder of Catholics, Falun Gong members and Muslim Uighurs? What about the burning and destruction of churches and temples? What about millions locked into concentration camps undergoing brainwashing (at best) or torture (at worst).

What's going on in China today is as bad or worse than the Soviet Gulag system that resulted in the deaths of millions of dissenters against the Soviet dictatorship. China is seeking nothing less than totalitarian thought control, total censorship of the internet and hegemonic control first of the Western Pacific and eventually the entire world.

One of China’s most egregious human rights violations involves organ harvesting.

Organ transplants are a miracle of modern science. Those who are declared dead and have made a donor election before death can provide kidneys, hearts and other vital organs to those in need.

The procedures for organ removal, preservation and quick delivery to patients waiting for a transplant are well established in the U.S. and elsewhere around the world.

But what if the “donation” is not voluntary but rather coerced by state power? What if the “donor” isn’t dead when the organs are removed? What if the organs are removed from still-living victims without the use of anesthetic?

That’s exactly what’s going on in China today.

The Worst Atrocity of the 21st Century

China is targeting religious minorities for this horrific treatment. Uighur Muslims, members of Falun Gong and Catholics have all been targeted.

First, they are sent to concentration camps for political reeducation. Those who are not fully brainwashed are singled out for much worse treatment, including forced organ removal.

These organs feed a multibillion-dollar business in “transplant tourism” that thrives in China.

Once the victim’s organs are removed, the body is cremated in industrial-scale crematoria, exactly as the Nazis did to Holocaust victims in the 1940s.

There’s no denying it: Chinese harvesting of organs from living victims is probably the worst human rights atrocity of the 21st century.

This horror is not just a matter of speculation. It has been documented by the International Coalition to End Transplant Abuse in China chaired by Queen's Counsel Sir Geoffrey Nice.

Every effort must be made to end this practice starting with a prohibition on Americans going to China to receive organs. But this merely begs the question of why American companies do business with China at all and why Americans consume any goods from China.

Why are we doing business with China at all?

Get out of China

The U.S. did almost no business with the Soviet Union during the Cold War (1946–1991). Not until after the fall of the Berlin Wall (1989) and the dissolution of the Soviet Union (1991) did a significant amount of direct foreign investment flow from the U.S. to Russia.

U.S. companies should pull out of China now. New investment in China should be prohibited. Chinese investment in the U.S. should be banned. Trade should be limited to basic commodities such as wheat and soybeans.

This economic wall should stay in place until China ends the abuse and recognises basic human rights even if they are less than a full-fledged liberal democracy.

Investors would be wise to trim Chinese investments from their portfolios before a coming flood as disinvestment becomes mandatory.

There are certainly viable alternatives for manufacturing and production in Vietnam, Malaysia, Indonesia and other low-cost countries in Asia that do not engage in atrocities.

This story is one of many reasons why the so-called “trade war” with China is more than just a trade war.

It’s a clash of civilisations and will persist for years and decades to come.

All the best,

Jim Rickards

#uighur muslims #falun gong #catholics #organ harvesting

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kristinsimmons · 5 years

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Statistical Certainty: Less is More

By ANISH KOKA MD

The day after NBC releases a story on a ‘ground-breaking’ observational study demonstrating caramel macchiatas reduce the risk of death, everyone expects physicians to be experts on the subject. The truth is that most of us hope John Mandrola has written a smart blog on the topic so we know intelligent things to tell patients and family members.

A minority of physicians actually read the original study, and of those who read the study, even fewer have any real idea of the statistical ingredients used to make the study. Imagine not knowing whether the sausage you just ate contained rat droppings. At least there is some hope the tongue may provide some objective measure of the horror within.

Data that emerges from statistical black boxes typically have no neutral arbiter of truth. The process is designed to reveal from complex data sets, that which cannot be readily seen. The crisis created is self-evident: With no objective way of recognizing reality, it is entirely possible and inevitable for illusions to proliferate.

This tension has always defined scientific progress over the centuries as new theories overturned old ones. The difference more recently is that modern scientific methodology believes it possible to trade in theories for certainty. The path to certainty was paved by the simple p value. No matter the question asked, how complex the data set was, observational or randomized, p values < .05 mean truth.

But even a poor student of epistemology recognizes that all may not be well in Denmark with regards to the pursuit of truth in this manner. Is a p value of .06 really something utterly different from a p value of .05? Are researchers bending to the pressures of academic advancement or financial inducements to consciously or unconsciously design trials that give us p values <.05?

The slow realization the system may not be working comes from efforts to replicate studies. Methodologist guru Brian Nosek convinced 270 of his psychology colleagues in 2015 to attempt to replicate 100 prior published trials. Only 36% of the studies gave the same result as the original. Imagine the consternation if an apple detaching from a tree only fell to the ground 36% of the time.

Why this is happening is a fascinating question that forms the subject of Nosek’s most recent published paper that focuses on the statistical black box data is fed into.

29 statistical teams aggregated via Twitter were given one complex dataset and tasked with finding out if football player skin tone had anything to do with referees awarding red cards. The goal was to put the statistical methods to the test. If you give the same question and data to 29 different teams, does the analysis result in the same answer?

In the forest plot summarizing the findings, the results of the 29 teams do not, at first glance, appear to be remarkably different. The majority of teams get the same qualitative answer by being on the ‘right’ side of the magical p of 0.05 threshold, though I imagine the vast number of consumers of medical evidence would be surprised to find that depending on the statistical model employed, the likelihood of the sky being blue is ~70%. More discriminating readers will ignore the artificial cliff dividing blue from not blue to point out the wide overlap in confidence intervals that suggest the same basic answer was arrived at with minimal beating around the bush.

But a review of the meticulous steps taken by the project managers of the study demonstrate the convergence of the results is somewhat of an engineered phenomenon. After collection of the data set and dissemination of the data to the statistical teams, the initial approaches the teams took were shared among the group. Each team then received feedback on their statistical approach and had the opportunity to adjust their analytic strategy. Feedback incorporated, the teams ran the data through their selected strategies, and the results produced were again shared among all the teams.

The idea of the various steps taken, of course, was not to purposefully fashion similar outputs for the trial, but to simulate a statistically rigorous peer review that I’m told is rare for most journals. Despite all the feedback, collaboration and discussion, 29 teams ended up using 21 unique combinations of co-variates. Apparently statisticians choosing analytic methods are more Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, less HAL. Sometimes the black pants go with that sequin top, other nights only the feather boa completes the outfit.

The findings were boring to most statisticians, but titillating to most clinicians. The statistical criticism is a little unfair. It is certainly true that the problem of analysis-contingent results isn’t completely novel. Simonsohn et. al. use the phrase p-hacking to describe unethical researchers throwing line after line into a dataset to find statistically significant associations.

Gelman and Lokens argue this is a simplistic frame that describes the minority of researchers. What they believe to be far more common and concerning are researchers embarking on projects with strong pre-existing biases consciously or unconsciously choosing analytic paths that end up confirming their biases. This problem has been attractively described as the garden of forking paths.

The current project fits into neither one of these buckets. The researchers had no incentive to get a statistically significant result because publishing wasn’t dependent on getting a p < .05. And this particular data set had a limited number of forking paths to traverse because the question asked of the data set was specific – red cards and skin tone. The teams couldn’t choose to look at the interaction of yellow cards and GDP of player home countries, for instance. And perhaps most importantly, the teams were not particularly motivated to arrive at an answer as confirmed by a survey completed at the start of the trial.

Implications of this study loom especially large for healthcare, where policy making has so far been the provenance of enlightened academics who believe a centrally managed well-functioning technocracy is the best way to manage the health needs of the nation.

The only problem is that the technocrats have so far excelled mostly at failing spectacularly. Public reporting of cardiovascular outcomes was supposed to penalize poor performers, and reward those that excelled. Instead, it resulted in risk aversion by physicians which meant fewer chances for the sickest patients who most needed help. The Hospital Readmission Reduction Program (HRRP) was supposed to focus the health system on preventable readmissions. The health system responded by decreasing readmissions at the expense of higher mortality.

One of the problems with most health policy research – highlighted in a recent NEJM perspective – is that it largely rests on analyses of observational data sets of questionable quality. What isn’t mentioned is that the conclusions made about policy can depend on who you ask.

This won’t surprise Andrew Gelman or Brian Nosek, but the health policy researchers responsible for devising the HRRP program publishes repeatedly in support of their stance that reduced admissions as a consequence of the program is not correlated with higher heart failure mortality, while cardiologists who take care of heart failure patients produce data that traces heart failure mortality to initiation of the HRRP program. Who to believe?

In their NEJM perspective, Bhatt, and Wadhera don’t mention this divide, but do call for better research that will migrate the health care landscape from “idea based policy” to “evidence based policy”. The solutions lie in natural randomized trials, and where the data sets won’t comply, use the $1 billion/year budget of the Center for Medicare and Medicaid Innovations (CMMI) to run mandatory policy RCTs in small groups before broad rollout of policy to the public. This perspective is as admirable as it is short sighted and devoid of context.

Randomized control trials are difficult to do in this space. But even if RCTs could be done, would it end debate? RCTs may account for covariates but, as discussed, this is just one source of variation when analyzing data. Last I checked, cardiologists with the benefit of thousands of patients worth of RCTs continue to argue about statins, fish oil, and coronary stents, and these areas are completely devoid of political considerations.

The Oregon experiment, one of the largest, most rigorous RCTs of Medicaid expansion, hasn’t ended debate between conservatives and liberals on whether the nation should expand health coverage in this fashion. And nor should it. Both sides may want to stop pretending that the evidence will tell us anything definitively. Science can tell us the earth isn’t flat, it won’t tell us if we should expand Medicaid.

Evidence has its limits. Health care policy research for now remains the playground of motivated researchers who consciously, or unconsciously produce research confirming their biases. Indeed, the mistake that has powered a thousand ProPublica articles on conflict of interest isn’t that financial conflicts aren’t important, it’s that concentrating on only one bias is really dumb.

And Nosek’s team clearly demonstrates that even devoid of bias, a buffet of results are bound to be produced with something palatable for every ideology. The path forward suggested by some in the methodologist community involves crowd-sourcing all analysis where possible. While palate pleasing, this seems an inefficient, resource heavy enterprise that still leaves one with an uncertain answer.

I’d settle for less hubris on the part of researchers who would seem to think an answer lives in every data set. Of the 2,053 total players in Nosek’s football study, photographs were only available for 1500 players. No information was available on referee skin tone – a seemingly relevant piece of data when trying to assess racial bias.

Perhaps the best approach to certain research questions is to not try to answer them. There is no way to parse mortality in US hospitals on the basis of physician gender, but someone will surely try and, remarkably, feel confident enough to attach a number to the thousands of lived saved if there were no male physicians.

If the point of applying empiricism to the social sciences was to defeat ideology with a statistically powered truth machine, empiricism has fallen well short. Paradoxically, salvation of the research enterprise may lie in doing less research and in imbuing much of what’s published with the uncertainty it well deserves.

Anish Koka is a cardiologist in private practice in Philadelphia. He can be followed on Twitter @anish_koka. This post originally appeared here on The Accad & Koka Report.

Statistical Certainty: Less is More published first on https://wittooth.tumblr.com/

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