#biomass is poetic actually

[bees-with-swords]

"Do you ever dream of land?" The whale asks the tuna.

"No." Says the tuna, "Do you?"

"I have never seen it." Says the whale, "but deep in my body, I remember it."

"Why do you care," says the tuna, "if you will never see it."

"There are bones in my body built to walk through the forests and the mountains." Says the whale.

"They will disappear." Says the tuna, "one day, your body will forget the forests and the mountains."

"Maybe I don't want to forget," Says the whale, "The forests were once my home."

"I have seen the forests." Whispers the salmon, almost to itself.

"Tell me what you have seen," says the whale.

"The forests spawned me." Says the salmon. "They sent me to the ocean to grow. When I am fat with the bounty of the ocean, I will bring it home."

"Why would the forests seek the bounty of the oceans?" Asks the whale. "They have bounty of their own."

"You forget," says the salmon, "That the oceans were once their home."

[land-of-brains-and-chocolate]

fic for @bakageta, who made a VERY generous charity donation request for more meditations on human/symbiote differences! i always want to write about language and relationships, so i made eddie and the symbiote read poetry together. it’s set some time before the hunger. i hope it Scratches the Itch.

Wind roars through the streets. With desperate anger, it tears at clothes, sends litter flying. Rain beats down relentlessly. It claws at exposed skin, sharp and cold. Desperate, but directionless.

This isn’t the kind of rain that was sent in a biblical flood, terrible, but purifying, divine in strength and purpose. This rain smells foul. It can do nothing but rise from filth and return to filth, over and over, and the storm screams it for everyone to hear, but no one to listen. No one but Eddie, anyway.

Eddie lets it lash out against him, back to the wall. He can taste it, vaguely metallic, when he licks his lips. If it was the kind of rain that carries out a calling, it’d drown him, him and the rest of the rats scurrying through the gutters, but all it can do is run down his face, dripping from his chin.

Protest, at the back of his mind, as he watches water stream down the street. Nothing could drown them. 

Of course not, Eddie thinks. He does have more effective protection from the elements than the traditional bundle of newspapers. 

The rain doesn’t bother said protection - or rather, protector. It doesn’t need to be kept cool and wet, but it likes to be. It produces an excess of heat, and it has no skin to stop it from directly absorbing the water it needs.

Thunder is another matter. Far off, at first, an approaching rumble, and the mild anxiety it caused hardly registered. Coming in close, now, echoing in ways no one else can sense, crashing against the symbiote's exposed body. A wince, each time. Then, with another clap of thunder, a seizing of muscles, a grimace. 

“You’re right,” Eddie says, strained, in response to an unvoiced plea. “We should… We should go.”

He sits there. The next nearby lightning strike feels like it’s hit its target, the symbiote rippling across his skin. Resistant to any impact, but easily disturbed at the cellular level by sound and heat.

Eddie groans. “Right,” he says, again. Slowly, he pushes himself onto his feet. He’d probably slip and eat pavement if it weren’t for the symbiote’s grip. Been feeling kind of tired, lately. Can’t have been more than three days since he slept, either.

Eddie drags himself down the alley, gritting his teeth whenever thunder digs into their flesh with hot fingers. The symbiote hurries him along, taking on half the effort of moving. It's not injured, of course. Just uncomfortable. 

Memories burn through their body, prolonged exposure, dissolving biomass. 

“Alright,” Eddie mumbles. No need to remind him. He can feel it, too.

Soon enough, the symbiote stops them. The mental nudge goes unnoticed, but the tendril that wraps around the door handle yanks him back with stumbling steps.

It’s a public library. Quiet, warm, dry. Many qualities the sewers do not possess. 

Libraries have been a place of refuge to him throughout his life. One of the few places he could go to get out of the house without neglecting his work, back then. Now, one of the few places he can inhabit as an imposing, penniless, unwashed man talking to himself. Or growling to himself, admittedly, when they’re there to do research on some wretched waste of life's wrongdoings.

Most places, that doesn’t go over too well. A public disturbance, that's what they call someone trying to do some good. Tells you a lot about what the public's like, left undisturbed. Exactly why Eddie doesn’t like to face it, doesn’t want it to face him.

Fine, Eddie thinks. Fine. Just for a little while.

He opens the door. The foyer’s got some carpets to drip on, some people to get the stink-eye from. They’re far from the only ones seeking shelter from the storm. 

Eddie pushes past them. They don't need a fancy seating area, they only need some privacy. Try as they might, though, it’s impossible to escape humanity in here. It’s not just the students, writers, readers. They can avoid those by heading into the poetry section, practically abandoned at this time of year. No, it's that they’re still surrounded by culture, art, science, wherever they go. Things that used to mean something to him.

Still do, maybe.

It’s hard to tell, sometimes. 

Hard to tell what they’re here for, if not this, and not these people.

Not that he’s doubting their mission. It’s more that he’s underestimated how it would escalate, how far the rot has spread, how precious little there is left to protect. It’s them against the world, at this point. Bound in purpose, he thinks, and the sentiment echoes, drained of its satisfaction. Bound in purpose, still. Bound in purpose, at least.

Eddie stops walking, slowly, and leans against a bookshelf. Closes his eyes. Sweeps away the hair clinging to his forehead, then places his hand on the shelf, fingers catching on the edge. Stands there and breathes, and thinks, and knows that something’s wrong.

“We haven’t changed,” he says, tongue heavy. “The world has.”

But it feels like it. It feels like something’s changed between them. If Venom used to be a song they belted out together, joyful and sure, then now, it’s only background noise, easily ignored.

“Maybe,” he says, and swallows. He opens his eyes, takes a quick breath. “Maybe we should…” 

Talk. Connect. Take a break. It’s been rough, he won’t deny that. They’ve been working as one, too preoccupied with trying to survive to even try to make a difference. Tirelessly treading onward, even in the face of loss and failure.

Wistfulness, in response. Memories of when they first met, when they were foreign to each other, explored each other, discovered each other - and themselves. When he would focus on it, feverishly, and every thought drew it deeper into him. Into itself, given form by his attention. Into them.

It had so much to learn. He had so much to teach.

“We haven’t run out yet,” Eddie says, softly.

He walks among the shelves. “I used to have a penchant for poetry,” he says, out loud, just to be certain that it knows these thoughts are directed at it. “It wasn’t relevant to anything I had to do, but that made it… special."

In his journalism major, a flair for poetic language was largely considered inappropriate. Complex, ambiguous, emotional, opposed to reporting the facts. A small-minded view, in Eddie’s opinion. Any story is only as big as the words used to tell it.

Regardless, that disconnect could be liberating. Poetry was a reprieve, the one thing he didn't force himself to excel in, the one intellectual pursuit he took for inspiration, for escapism, for enjoyment, for what it was. He'd known that poetry was antithetical to everything his father stood for, that neither he nor his peers ever would’ve approved of that particular interest, so he never had to hope. It'd been liberating, doing something for himself. It'd limited the time he spent on it, of course. But it'd been liberating.

There's an undercurrent of care to these memories, and he recognises it as the symbiote’s interest, approval, affection, carrying them along. Eddie smiles. 

He’d bring a book home, now and then. Wrap up in a blanket with it, feel a little less lonely, or a lot more lonely, depending. And eventually, he even found someone to share it with. Someone to whisper to, curled up in his arms...

The current cuts off. It doesn't seem intentional, not like the warmth leaving him, but like the warmth leaving it. There’s no explanation offered.

Eddie clears his throat. "Well," he says. “That was then. This is now.” He forms a thought, hesitantly. "Would you like to… read something? While we're already here, I mean."

It pushes his own feelings back at him. Seems like it'd make him happy.

"Right."

The symbiote doesn't actually care for poetry much. Conceptually, it feels like it's developed out of limitations it doesn't experience. Something it transcends. It needs no words to express itself.

"You could appreciate it," he says, as he examines the line-up, "from a place of pity, at least." He thinks of writers it might enjoy, in subject matter, maybe in structure. Maybe-

Eddie's hand comes to rest on a book's spine. "This one," he says, "this one reminds me of you."

That seems to pique its interest. It probes at the nature of the association. 

“In a good way, of course,” he says, flipping through the book. “E.E. Cummings. The way he handles language has a certain… boundary-breaking character, but only in the service of truth, and love, and hate. As if the enormity of it cannot be contained, and he’s setting it free.”

In his mind, Eddie draws parallels to their bond. The symbiote follows each of them like it's being led through the dark, one hand warm in another. 

“He’s known for doing strange and untoward things to syntax. Very accessible, at the same time. Nothing like what I would write, but I appreciate…”

Eddie trails off, eyes drawn to a gap between shelves, where a woman stands some distance away, expression blank, lips slightly parted, and seems to be listening in. For a moment, they feel horribly exposed, and whatever shows in their face sends her off with hurried steps.

���I appreciate it,” he says, book in hand.

The symbiote, discreetly, raises a tendril from Eddie's sleeve, pointing at a page in the book. Let's read this one, it suggests.

Eddie blinks down at it. He does know that one. If they’re going to try to reinspire some faith in humanity, then he supposes they could do worse. 

They look around for a spot they'll hopefully be left alone in, some nook or cranny between shelves. They settle down, and the symbiote spreads out, cushioning him. Surrounded on all sides but one, they manage to stop feeling out of place by turning inward.

i-

Wrong, the symbiote balks.

"Wrong?"

Wrong! The I-letter is capitalised, always. The first letter is capitalised, always. If it turns out that those rules cancel each other out, it's going to throw itself into the nearest furnace.

“No, no,” Eddie says, amused. “This is what I meant. Boundary-breaking. Rule-breaking. Poetry gets to do that.”

And everyone still understands?

“Of course.”

Then what was the point in the first place?

“Well,” Eddie says, knees drawn up to his chest. “Rules do make things more understandable… More standardised. That’s just not the purpose of poetry. Well-tread ground needs to be dug up to be made fertile.”

The symbiote hardly follows. It's too busy experiencing visions of the book torn to pieces between its teeth, paper shreds flitting through the air.

“Alright, just listen,” Eddie says, undeterred, “or whatever it is you do.”

i thank You God

The symbiote is directly linked into his conscious and subconscious thought processes, so he’s doing the work of translation for it. There's the effect. The speaker, "i", small, insignificant, deferring. The addressee, "You", “God", standing tall and singular.

How is this supposed to feel? Comforting? Intimidating? Denigrating? 

Something about awe, Eddie thinks. But it’s up to you.

i thank You God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes

Natural-Infinite-Yes. That’s the closest he could come to transcribing the way it communicates emotions. It speaks to a web of associations, all the potential of the underlying concepts, disregarding the prescribed use of these words. 

The symbiote wonders: What about the spirits? Are they creatures he’s imagining, carrying his own joy?

“That’s… not bad,” Eddie says, head tilted. “Spirits are complicated. But you’re right to assume that it says more about his own than theirs.” He blows a strand of hair out of his face. “He just really likes trees.”

(i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay great happening illimitably earth)

The symbiote understands the what of it, if not the how. It’s swept up in the feeling of union, reunion. It can hardly imagine anything else it might mean.

That’s the thing about poetry, Eddie muses. It speaks to your personal experiences. Someone from a different background might take something completely different away from it. The writer certainly intended something else.

The symbiote grows pensive, faced with the uncertainty of human communication. One of them has to make signs from meaning, the other has to make meaning from signs. No direct exchange at all, no guarantee that their sign-meanings match up. They may not even want them to.  

Eddie hums. “Countless theories of communication start from that line of thought. Remind me to introduce you to Stuart Hall someday.”

That only spurs it on, digging deeper into his understanding of language. What Eddie thinks of as a ‘medium’, sound, writing, image, is actually something that encases and constricts, everything that stands between them in their permanent state of separation. How can they just accept it? How does any human cope with it, being unreachable?

It takes Eddie a second to respond, surprised by how easily he finds himself lost in the way the symbiote weaves an argument, as fluidly and formlessly as it moves. In response, it traces the shape of his own thoughts, edged and curved around the boundaries that words lay around concepts in his mind. They missed this, they realise.

Eddie runs his thumb along the page. “I suppose you understand why some of us resort to poetry, now.” If not for their bond, he might’ve been among them. But then- No. He would be dead.

how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any--lifted from the no of allnothing--human merely being doubt unimaginable You?

Though no human being, the symbiote can see itself in the speaker’s position, easily. Lifted from the no of allnothing, made real in an act of creation: Perceiving and being perceived. Given form, name, purpose. Someone to be. Brought into a richness of experience, a depth of feeling that can only carry the truth.

(now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

The kind of worship described here, though, seems intent on reducing the worshipper. Their worship never elevated one of them above the other. It elevated them above the world.

Eddie swallows.

At that moment, it’s not a connection to someone else he’s struggling for, but a connection to himself. There’s a feeling that should be available to him, but isn’t. Not quite. Like watching a lit fireplace, but finding it cold to the touch.

Well. What is poetry for, if not that?

Eddie flips through the book. Looking for something, this time. He finds it, and with it, a flash of warmth, recalling the words and the place they hold in his life. The symbiote seems almost taken aback.

He doesn’t even need to read this one to share it. It made him ache, but it was an ache for possibility, not absence. One soul, irreversibly marked by another, inescapably tied to it, and yet, unashamedly so, without regret or reservation. 

With something like a laugh, Eddie rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Tries not to let the tightness between them distract him, or the odd dryness of his skin, or the strange taste in his mouth. 

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)

Eddie’s throat seizes, hot and heavy, and for all its lack of regard for words, the symbiote curls around my dear, my darling like a wounded animal hiding its underbelly, even the sound of it suddenly seeming sweet instead of clunky. It’s okay, Eddie thinks, it’s okay. Me, too.

They use those metaphors a lot, has it noticed? Someone running through their veins, carrying them under their skin, letting them inside their heart? Humanity may fear it, use it, scorn it, but unknowingly, without prejudice, they dedicate love songs to it.

i fear no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you

The structure, the seamless transition from thought to thought, with concepts simply being available instead of being repeatedly reproduced to be put into sentences... Needless to say, that’s a lot like the symbiote, too. Beautiful, in an alien way.

Eddie blinks away tears. He realises, suddenly, that they aren’t his, and they aren’t the product of overwhelming emotionality. They’re tears of grief. Grief that reaches down deep enough to make him retch. What’s wrong, he thinks, what’s wrong, it’s you, it’s for you, listen.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

Something in the symbiote snaps.

It rises with a rumble threatening to turn into a roar, sharp-edged as if sketched in a hurry, with a set of talons that swallows his chest with ease. Eddie can hardly begin to worry about drawing attention before he’s paralysed by pained confusion. 

Why would he do this? It knows it doesn’t bring him any satisfaction to taunt it. Nothing seems to. They’re no longer what they were, when they were everything it ever wanted, and now he involves it in his imagination, his reminiscence, his lyricising? 

Eddie can hardly untangle the mess of emotions, and the symbiote hardly seems to slow down for him. He suppresses, just barely, the urge to tell it to shut up, get away, just until he knows what’s going on, and… 

You broke up with me and now you’re making me read romantic poetry.

Is that it?

That’s not…

That’s not true.

They stare at each other, dumbly. The symbiote deflates into something more like its usual form, letting Eddie push himself back up from where his neck was uncomfortably craned against an Emily Dickinson collection.

Approaching footsteps interrupt them, and the symbiote melts back into his clothes as if it was never there at all. A man comes around the corner, looking down the shelves to see… nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the man sitting on the floor.

“And what’re you looking at?” Eddie snaps.

The man looks him up and down, suspicious. Inspects the books for damage.

“This is a library,” he says.

“This is a patron,” Eddie replies, gesturing down at himself.

“Well, as such…”

“We’ll be quiet.”

The man stands there for a moment more, confused, then nods to himself, clearly wanting nothing more than to leave. Eddie mutters an insult under his breath.

Their mind feels like prickly static. Eddie looks over at where the book's fallen from his hand, still open on the same page, and sighs, deeply. He picks it up, rests it against one raised knee. He offers his hand, as if asking someone to dance - or to join him, rejoin him - and waits.

The symbiote begins bubbling forth from beneath the skin, then slides between his fingers, settling into a delicate, clawed hand. The imagery isn’t lost on it, nor the associated memories, and Eddie raises it to his mouth, slowly.

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

It churns with it, conflicted. Still?

“Of course,” Eddie says, brows furrowed. “If not anymore, I’d at least... tell you.”

The symbiote’s mass extends into an arm, a shoulder, enough of a torso to crowd him against the wall, and it thinks, very decisively: No. Those are words.

Words aren’t what makes a relationship. They can designate it, but they can’t create it. A relationship is real. It has a smell, a taste.

It’s a state of being. It’s who you are, together. 

If that changes, he can’t just tell it that it hasn’t.

Eddie’s expression grows dark. "So it's my fault," he says, and his hand clenches, dissolving the symbiote's mass between his fingers. "I'm not good enough for you, is that it? Not anymore?" His lip curls, eyes cast downwards. "You, of all people."

They sit in silence. 

No, it thinks. It’s not him. It’s the world. The rottenness of the world.

They were angry before, but it was anger that stoked, anger that drove. Now, after being beaten down time and time again, it’s anger that drains. Anger that drains him of love, leaking from him like a physical thing until there’s nothing left for it.

“Love’s more than that,” Eddie says, voice rough. “I know I love you. I swear, I- I love you in ways that make it seem senseless to even say it, to try to...” He tenses up, looking for the words, then releases. “It’d have to be poetry.”

Guilt washes the symbiote’s other emotions away, wave after wave. It soothes, settling back into him, around him. Pulls back his hair and drapes around his neck. Eddie nuzzles into his shoulder as it takes on the soft, fluffy texture of a scarf, hidden in plain sight.

“You know what a relationship is?” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “It’s a promise. It doesn’t end until that promise is broken.”

What promise?

Eddie exhales, half a laugh, half a grin. “You know,” he says, half desperate. “‘Til death do us part.”

[selenelavellan]

a song like you would never tell me the truth

Dirthamen, Sylaise, June, Haninan, and the various Evanuris mentioned are all @feynites​

It's an old contract, in truth.

Selene knows she's being given the assignment to keep her occupied, more than because it needs doing. A 'real' job after giving too many freebies to the Red Jennies. What she did in her free time didn't used to be an issue, back when they were just a quiet group made up largely of gossiping kitchen hands and laundry maids accompanied by a few heavy hitters to handle the bloody work. But there's been a change in Jennies recently, and the new girl is...well...

She likes to make statements.

(Selene maintains stealing all the breeches was a stroke of poetic genius, but it's not her mothers sort of humor, and that's where the problem started.)

Anyu is just trying to keep Selene safe, however relative a term that might be in their line of work. Selene knows this, and doesn't begrudge her for it. Keeping their heads down and their noses out of politics is how to stay alive, after all. If things get personal, things get sloppy.

It's a cleaner business when you're detached from the person whose head you're trading in for a check.

The research comes first. Learning the marks habits; where they eat, what their schedule is like, who they surround themselves with. Her new target is fairly young, only a few years older than she is (and with how old the contract is, she wonders how much he really could have pissed someone off, or if he's just an unfortunate caught in someone elses fight), but still a fairly well known elf throughout Thedas. A young architect with interesting ideas and more than a few innovations under his belt.

The easiest opening to get to him is going to be his wife.

A shrewd lawyer with a very particular palate. She likes to be surrounded by trend makers, sophistication, and beautiful things.

It's an easy role to slip into.

One from her veritable catalog of aliases; a famous fashion blogger, with a name and job shared between herself and a few others in her actual line of work for occasions like this one. An invitation to the party is simple to acquire, and once inside it's almost too easy to find the woman she's looking for; there is already a small crowd gathered to listen to her opinions.

A few subtle name drops and a few not-so-subtle compliments, and she finds herself easily ingratiated to the womans side, where she spends much of the evening. Selene is kind, and radiant, forcing a confidence she's grown to wear like a mask, dabbled with appropriate blushes at crude jokes for an endearing sign of innocence.

It doesn't take long before Sylaise is cooing over the fabric of her dress and summoning her husband to take a look (and it doesn't escape Selenes notice that they're using the contact as an excuse to touch her hips, either).

It's strange, seeing her mark this close already.

If she weren't going for subtlety, she could probably just kill him now, she thinks while he shares a look with his wife.

But her knives are at home, along with her mask. Tonight is not about making the kill; it's about establishing herself to them. The mark is too well known to dispose of anonymously. She has to make herself a part of their lives, however briefly. A face for them to know, to not stand out on security cameras, to have a regular place on their call logs.

No, tonight is about laying groundwork, so that they will seek her out, instead.

Her mark (June, she supposes she should get used to calling him, however inconvenient) is listing off the buildings in the area he's built in what she has to assume is his own way of flirting. It's more bearable when he breaks off into some of his recent breakthroughs in solar and alternative biomass energy, because she can hold a more interesting conversation about it with her own interests, however limited her actual knowledge might be. Sylaise seems to be losing interest as it drags on, and when Selene turns to try to draw her back in, her eyes catch on something in the corner instead.

Someone.

Someone who is staring at her.

“Who is that?” She asks quietly, eyes darting to the form in the corner and back to Sylaise.

Sylaise follows her gaze and tsks.

“That's my brother,” She sighs. “I keep inviting him hoping he might get more accustomed to being out, but it's just been a lost cause so far. He just hides in corners until he can leave, and the man dresses like he's allergic to colors.”

“His tie is blue,” Selene notes.

“Barely,” Sylaise scoffs.

Selene hums and resumes her role, brushing her arm lightly over Sylaise' own. Another hour passes, and Selene manages to decline an invitation to follow them home, instead opting for an afternoon lunch in a week.

It's no good if they decide to be done with her so quickly, after all.

Still, she lingers. Interest piqued by...something, in the brother. Something worth investigating.

He is standing awkwardly at the fringes of a circle of other well-tailored elves when she steps in.

“Sorry,” She smiles, looping her arm through his. “I just need to borrow Dirthamen for a moment, if it's no trouble.”

The elves wave dismissively as she escorts him towards a balcony; he looks like someone in desperate need of fresh air.

“You know my name?” He asks, once she pulls her arm back to herself.

“Your sister told me,” She hums, leaning back on the railing. “Does that bother you?”

“Only in that I do not know your name in return,” he admits.

“My name is Somnivar,” She offers.

“You mean your pen name,” He points out.

The corner of her mouth curves up slightly. “The name I'm willing to give.”

He seems to accept that, at least.

“I am surprised you did not go home with my sister and her husband,” He finally says, shifting around and radiating nerves. “They seemed quite taken with you.”

“Do you always expect people to immediately sleep with those who are taken with them?”

“It is not an uncommon occurrence.”

“Been 'taken' many times yourself then I'd assume?”

“Not as such, no.”

Selene frowns, shifting around. “Really? But you're so...” She gestures vaguely to him, her facade falling for a moment.

“I am not a sought after individual in those regards. I do not mind.”

“That can't be right,” She snorts.

Dirthamen blinks at her curiously. “You seem...different. Are you inebriated?”

“Did you see me drink anything?” She asks, knowing the answer.

He shakes his head.

“Then inebriation would be quite a feat.”

He smiles slightly at that. She asks him about his work, and he informs her that he handles accounts and financials for the family business, which leads into further questions and discussions into mathematical fields, and their actual interests and it's like a breath of fresh air to discuss things that she is into, rather than Somnivars interests.

It's not...wise, to fraternize so comfortably with someone so closely connected to a mark.

By the time the chill in the air is starting to set into her skin, the party has long ended. The hall is devoid of people, only remnants of the buffet table and scattered empty glasses remain. Waiting for the morning cleaning crew she supposes.

She laces her fingers through his, as they step back inside of the building, and spins around to face him.

“How would you feel if I told you I were 'taken' with you?” she hums.

The tips of his ears turn a darker shade of red, this time from something other than a late night wind as he seems to struggle to find words.

“I...would be curious where you would take me.” he says, tongue darting absently over his top lip.

Selene grins, her other hand looping through his tie as she pulls him down the hall and into one of the emptied rooms, the doors swinging inward behind her.

“This seems as good a place as any,” She murmurs as the back of her knees make contact with a mattress, pulling him down with her as she falls backwards onto it.

His mouth opens with a gasp at the sudden change in direction, his balance failing him as he nearly topples onto her. But Selene is used to far worse in her partners, and takes advantage of the moment to cover his mouth with her own, her tongue grazing over his while she swallows his gasp and he braces himself with his arms in enough time to keep from knocking the wind out of her. She grins against him in approval, releasing his hand from her grip to untuck the bottom of his shirt. He groans as her fingers make contact with bare skin, and it doesn't take long from there for her to realize this will work better if she takes charge.

Tie still in her fist, she pushes him back to standing, spinning the two of them until their positions are reversed, and releasing the satin leash in time to gently nudge him back onto the bed.

She goes back to the kissing, because he seems to enjoy it and she certainly has no complaints. It's much easier to unbutton his shirt from the position, and she pulls her mouth from his once she's successfully revealed a large swath of skin to explore.

He shivers with each touch, each graze of her nails, each taste from her tongue, and it doesn't take long for him to be shuddering just from the brush of her hair against the soft skin of his stomach.

She hums, taking the button of his pants between her teeth, belt long forgotten and lost to the limited lighting of their room. She pulls down on the zipper slowly, purposely, eyes holding contact with his own until she's completed her task, hands cupping his calves tenderly to tug off the rest of the pants.

She giggles despite herself, at the sight revealed.

“Your drawers are pink,” She grins.

He blushes, a sight only enhanced by his newly revealed and straining underclothes.

“Is that strange?”

“No,” She assures him, hand grasping at the tented section in a way that only makes him gasp again. “I think it's wonderful.”

Wonderful enough she actually leaves them on when she takes him in her mouth, savoring his moans and gasps and the way he twists with each motion. She enjoys it enough she almost regrets that he doesn't have her real name when he comes, breathing out her alias instead.

She doesn't stay for their private after party; it's already too late, and she's already far too fond of him.

Still.

She slips one of her work cell numbers into his hand with a final, parting kiss. Just in case he'd like to do something like this again.

And he does, it turns out.

She has to contain her smile when at the next event they both attend, he wears a different tie; one as pink as his drawers had been that night.

The rest of the party is still spent with June and Sylaise of course; it's still her job, and that has to take priority. But it's a simple matter to book a room at a nearby hotel, and to text him the information if he'd like to join her.

They pass nearly eight events that way.

They don't always make it to the hotel. Sometimes all they can manage is a few fleeting touches or stolen moments in closets and empty hallways that leave him aching for their next encounter before she has to return.

She's fairly certain he almost likes those better.

Sylaise notices her brothers change in demeanor, as well as the recent colorful additions to his wardrobe.

“I'm not sure what's changed,” She muses between sips of her wine. “But something certainly has. Not that I'm complaining! It's marvelous to finally have a sibling I can take out without being embarrassed. You wouldn't happen to know, would you Somnivar?”

Selene blinks innocently, taking a small sip of her own cranberry and tonic water. “How would I know about something like that?”

“Because he's asked about you,” Sylaise grins. “He's practically eager for events, if he knows you'll be present. I'd say he's got a crush, if he weren't quite so hopeless about it. Not that he could do much even if he weren't...”

“Why's that?” Selene asks, still pretending to be barely interested.

“The other brother,” June mutters. “They're both assholes, but his brothers even worse, somehow.”

“And very possessive of Dirthamen's time and attentions,” Sylaise nods. “Always has been.”

“That sounds unfortunate.”

“It is,” Sylaise continues with a dramatic sigh “Sometimes I wonder if Dirthamen might have been happy, if Falon'din weren't constantly attacking him.”

“...Physically?” Selene asks while mentally reminding herself to stay in character.

Sylaise and June both nod with features that suggest it is not an uncommon occurrence, either.

“That sounds very unfortunate.” Selene nods back, recalling the bruises she'd found on Dirthamen in the past and brushed over.

Sloppy, on her part.

Maybe she could manage one more free job without kicking up a fuss...

--

It's another month before their mother appears at one of the events.

Selene nearly spits out the drink in her mouth when they are introduced.

Mythal Evanuris (Flemeth, according to the contract papers in her desk drawer) raises an eyebrow, perfectly manicured nails pulling back slightly in distaste.

“...Charmed.” The older woman greets.

Selene apologizes, slipping quickly back into character as Somnivar and attempting to charm her way back into the womans good graces.

The woman who definitely put out the hit on June in the first place.

The woman who will be signing the check when Selenes job is done.

The woman who does not know that she knows.

Selene has never had to stand directly between the mark and the contractor before.

She doesn't think she'd like to do it again.

...It does clear quite a few things up for her, though.

--

Later in the evening, she lingers in the hotel bed with Dirthamen.

“Is it easier for you this way?” She tries, fumbling awkwardly through the words, remnants of her dress straps broken in her hands.

Dirthamen blinks up at her in confusion. “The...sex?”

“No, not the sex. I mean, not just the sex-I mean...Our...” she hesitates, struggling not to use the word relationship.

“...us.” she finishes lamely.

“Oh.” He says, sitting up, blankets falling away from his chest as he leans back against the headboards. She's left a mark on accident, but he doesn't seem bothered by it in the least. “I do not mind it. I think I would enjoy a date, if possible. You always leave as soon as you feel it is necessary, so I had thought that perhaps you disliked me outside of a sexual context.”

She leans into his side, puffing out one side of her cheek as she contemplates her options. “I wouldn't do this with you if I only liked you in a sexual context. Certainly not as often as we have been.”

He hums in pleasure against the side of her head, and she feels his lips curving into a smile at her reassurance. It makes her feel warm in a pleasantly fuzzy way, still sated from their last round.

Shouldn't have gotten so close, she berates herself. Now it's gone and gotten complicated.

“If I could...” She hesitates for a moment, wondering how subtle she should be about things before deciding to toss it out the window the way he had tossed her stockings earlier. “If I could get rid of the main obstacles to us being together publicly...would you like that?”

“Which obstacles do you think those would be?”

“Your brother,” She waits a beat and adds. “And your mother, though that's for an entirely different reason.”

“What do you know of my brother?”

“I know he's hurt you-and don't defend him!-I know he's hurt you, and I know you worry, and if I could fix things...”

“I do not want him to hurt you.”

“He won't,” Selene assures him, resisting the urge to laugh at the concept.

“But you-”

“Can handle myself. I promise.”

Dirthamen sighs, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He always ends up extra cuddly when he's stressed, she's noticed.

“I am not ashamed of being with you,” He assures her. “If you would like to make our relationship public, I would not be against that.”

Selene nods, feeling a blush of her own crawling slowly up her chest as the warmth from earlier begins to spread.

“Well. Good then. I'll...get to work on things.”

--

Selene has been to June and Sylaises home before. For dinner and drinks and other private affairs, though she has always made a point to leave before events could turn to more...intimate interactions.

But today Sylaise is at work, and June is home alone. Selene knows this when she knocks, before he tells her, before she asks to come inside anyways.

Before she opens her bag, and takes out the folder with his contract in it.

“Is everything alright Somnivar...?” He asks, staring at the folder while she positions herself on the edge of his kitchen counters

She lets out a breath.

“Ok. First things first; my name isn't Somnivar. That was a lie; I actually only approached you and Sylaise in the first place because I'm being paid to kill you.”

June reaches for the nearest kitchen knife and Selene waves her hand dismissively. “Calm down hotshot, if I were going through with it, I wouldn't be here with an offer for you instead.”

June hesitates, some of the tension falling out of his shoulders before he asks her to continue. 

Kitchen knife still in hand.

“I like Dirthamen,” She admits. “A lot. Like..a lot. We've been together for a little while now, and I want to be with him publicly. From what I understand, I may need a little help to manage that. Which is where you come in. You've already met with his family, you've been a part of it for years, and I need an in. Sylaise is probably going to strongly dislike me when she finds out I've been lying, so that won't be great for me right away. You can ease that over time, I'm sure. Explain that it’s an extra head at the table to take your side in arguments, to help with...I don't know. Whatever you end up needing, I guess. I do like you two, in the way someone in my position in life can like people with your positions, enough that I'd like to keep that alliance, if its all the same to you. Anyway, to cut to the chase; I'm willing to write off your contract, in exchange for your help.”

“If you think I can help you win favor in this family, you've come to the wrong person,” June scoffs. “They all hate me, except for Sylaise.”

“Oh I know Mythal hates you,” Selene nods, licking her thumb and paging through the folder. “That is abundantly clear.”

June frowns, reaching out for the folder before Selene raises it high above her head and out of his reach.

“Ah ah ah,” She teases. “For my eyes only. I can't breach confidentiality by showing you these. I assume mother-in-law didn't approve of the marriage? My guess is it got re-pinged when you and Sylaise started playing the 'possible grandchildren' card every time you needed something with Elgar'nan. Sloppy sloppy you two.”

“Do you think Dirthamen is going to approve of you blackmailing your way into a relationship with him?” June accuses.

Selene raises an eyebrow, head tilting to the side slightly.  “Is this the part where I pretend not to know that blackmailing is a large portion of his own job description? Honestly, if the blackmail ranks higher than the 'I kill people for a living' issue, we'll probably have a lot of long talks to deal with down the line. But he took the news ok last night when I told him my real name. I think we'll be alright. He's probably digging into a bunch of my sealed files already, while I'm here with you. We're getting off topic though; are you going to help me or not?”

“I don't know what you expect me to do,” June reiterates. “Even if I can somehow help you curry favor with Elgar'nan or Mythal, I don't have any idea what to do about Falon'din.”

“Well, I was just going to kill him,” Selene shrugs. “I mean, I'll give him the option to leave of his own accord. But I've been digging through his history and so far I'm leaning pretty hard towards killing him. I'll probably need your help with that, too. An alibi, at the very least.”

“Or I could just report you,” June threatens. “What makes you think I wouldn't just turn you in?”

“Because they let just about anyone volunteer at Saint Ebris Hospital these days.”

She waits and watches while the realization and threat of her words wash over him. 

His grip tightens on the kitchen knife again.

“If you lay a hand on my father-”

“I'm sure that won't be necessary,” She assures him, letting his own mind do the wandering. 

In truth, she's already visited Haninan on a few occasions, and its one of the reasons she's decided to offer June a way out of the contract. All she had actually done was sneak him a few extra snacks and discussed the books on his nightstand with him, but it's usually better to let the threat marinate in the mystery in situations like these. Saying 'yeah he wants my chicken recipe' might make them sound a bit...hollow, otherwise.

“So...” She says, fanning herself lightly with the folder. “You in?”

[mikeo56]

I wish to respond to the eco-industrialists who, in the attempt to “save the planet,” have gotten into bed with bankers, billionaires, industrialists, and their foundations, in other words, with capitalism itself. Their paradigm, their status quo of losing the battle against planetary ecological collapse, is threatened by the massive success of one little film for free on YouTube — and they have been on a crazy rampage against it. And all they really have to say in their defense — their key attack against our well-researched examination of their failures to save this planet — is that our film has “old data” in it! That, simply, is a lie. “Planet of the Humans” is a story — a nonfiction story. Stories take place over time. Stories reveal higher truths than data alone—like what questions we are even supposed to be asking. That said, if I made a film with nothing but “data” from this week, our “critics” would still be attacking it as “old data” and throwing out the next shiny object of technological progress to distract us. Also, to say a documentary has “old footage” as if that’s taboo, either means this person doesn’t watch many documentaries, or they are trying to create a red herring and get the reader to believe they should be upset about something — anything! It’s like crying foul that a story uses photos from the past in order to illustrate the present. That said, our data is up to date, and everything you see in the film is accurate. The data in “Planet of the Humans,” in charts, graphs and interviews with experts and activists, runs all the way to the present — up to and including 2019 and 2020. The film taking place over time is a strength; for instance, in two scenes that bookend the film, history repeats itself. I visited a solar festival that actually used biodiesel generators to power itself, and another a decade later that is still trying to fool us with the exact same lie, just on a larger stage. Even scenes early in my quest, like the solar array in my home state of Michigan where the tour guide says his solar panels are about “8% efficient,” are not outdated. First, that solar array and others like it, are still in operation at 8% efficiency and will be for years. Secondly, that happens to be a “thin-film” type solar array, which are cheaper, flexible, and easier to install than traditional “glass” solar arrays. Just this year a solar industry analyst came across a shipment of thin-film Tesla rooftop solar panels and calculated their efficiency at between 4% to 10%! Certainly there are more efficient commercially available glass panels averaging 17% – 19%. Even then there are trade-offs as a higher purchase price represents more technology and more impact. What the eco-industrial complex wants to steer you away from is the reality that all of their “ever-improving, better, more advanced” technologies now, in the past, and in the future will depend on a giant, planet-wrecking industrial civilization. They will require mining, smelting, air pollution, water pollution, and the exploitation of humans around the planet. Even recycling, when you can recycle, say aluminum or steel, will still require vast amounts of energy and create greenhouse gases, toxic pollution, and waste. Just search online for “recycling pollution” and up comes stories of humans and the environment suffering. And every round of recycling produces a degradation in the quality of materials. Already, even without building over a million and a half square miles of solar panels and wind turbines in an attempt to run the world on “green” energy, mining accounts for 10% of global greenhouse gas energy emissions, and 10% percent of deforestation in the Amazon. Another early scene in “Planet of the Humans” is the roll-out of the Chevy Volt where the utility company representative tells us that the grid charging the Volt is about “95% coal.” Disturbing. But how have things changed in Michigan since the Volt was introduced? According to the Department of Energy’s most recent figures, in Michigan an electric car is still being charged on a grid with less than 6% solar and wind. Yes, the portion of coal has dropped, but natural gas has increased, just as we reveal in “Planet of the Humans.” But 94% of our Michigan electricity production remains non-wind and solar. About 5% is wind, 4% biomass burning, and solar is barely above zero—and this is in the context of Michigan having the 15th best wind resource in the nation. And if you look at all energy consumption in Michigan, not just electricity, there is three times more biomass and biofuels as “renewable” energy than solar and wind. So what was true in Michigan at the beginning of my journey in “Planet of the Humans” is still true now upon the film’s release in 2020. If I began filming right now in my home state, little would have changed—the Lansing solar array would still be 8% efficient, and a new Tesla in Michigan would be charging off a grid that is 94% non-solar/wind. Are there different options available? Sure. But again that misses the point that solar, wind, and electric technologies are not something separate from a giant fossil-fuel based industrial civilization; they are one and the same. These “green capitalists” who head up a number of environmental organizations — and who have gone apoplectic over the truths we’ve exposed — wax poetic about “new” solar panels and wind turbines in 2020. They hope the rest of us, the members of these groups, the citizen activists and environmentalists like the three of us from Flint who made this movie, will just look the other way and not think about any of this, not have our conscience be encumbered with the knowledge that it’s the slave labor in a far away land that lets us all feel so warm and cozy and “green.” Any movement or organization that does not invite self-reflection and instead tries to choke it to death — like the eco-industrial complex is attempting to do to us — is doomed. Unfortunately the stakes are too high to let them get away with it.

Jeff Gibbs is the writer, director, and producer of Planet of the Humans.