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duhragonball · 4 years

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Hellsing Liveblog Ch. 82-86

LIKE A BLOODY STORM

Atsuku LIKE A BLOODY STONE

So it’s come to this. This is the “Black Onyx” arc and “Sorcerian Part 1″, where we finally get the payoff to the Major’s 55-year plot against Alucard. Walter betrayed Integra, the Hellsing Organization, and the whole United Kingdom just so Millennium would give him a chance to beat Alucard, and he’s failing. Alucard doesn’t see any point in dragging this out, so he’s sucking up all the fresh blood in London to power up and bring and end to this. Also, if you’re just joining us, Alucard looks like a 14-year-old girl. Just roll with it.

But the Major was counting on Alucard doing this, and apparently his plan to “poison the tyrant’s wine” involves his last henchman, Warrant Officer Schrodinger, cutting off his own head and adding his werewolf blood to Alucard’s meal. Why would this matter at all?

Walter seems to understand, because he begs the Major to stop this, as if the Major could.

Desperate, he bisects Alucard with his wires, but it’s already too late for that. Part of the secret behind Alucard’s invincibility is that he gains a 1-up for each person’s blood he consumes. That’s what Anderson and Walter were banking on when they attacked Alucard before. At the time, he had separated himself from the souls he had consumed, which meant that killing him once -- however tough that might be-- would finish him off. But now it’s too late for that. You kill him now and he’ll just come back and dare you to keep going. And he’s taken the blood of like three million people at least.

So the Major observes that Walter’s window of opportunity has closed. According to him, there’s only been two chances to beat Alucard in a fight since Abraham van Helsing captured him in 1898. I assume he’s referring to Anderson and Walter’s respective efforts.

No, Walter was never the final stroke in the Major’s plan, just part of the endgame. All of Millennium’s resources were sacrificed to get to this moment. Enrico Maxwell’s 9th Crusade? The Major was counting on them getting involved, which is probably why he leaked and shared so much of his plans with the Vatican, even though his target was always London. He wanted the Vatican to send all their best warriors to compound the horror, all so Alucard would use his full power to destroy them.

And then, once Alucard’s full power was deployed, the Major knew Anderson would step in and use everything at his disposal to kill Alucard. This battle destroyed all of Alucard’s familiars, setting him up for Walter to take a turn. And maybe Alucard could beat Walter without taking in more blood, but that;s never been Alucard’s style. He sees himself as a loaded weapon at the disposal of Integra Hellsing. He’s not going to drag things out for no reason, and Integra ordered him to destroy Walter, not humor him.

And maybe Walter was aware of all this, but he still believed he could buck the odds and kill Alucard before the Major’s winning move. Walter’s a rook who fancied himself a king. I guess that’s always been his problem. This was never Walter’s story, and I guess he couldn’t handle that truth. If he couldn’t be the hero, then he was content with being the villain, but in the end he was never more than a plot device, supporting whichever side he was on at the time.

And finally, it happens, whatever ‘it’ is. Alucard somehow hears the Major saying that he’s lost. Is the Major saying it? I don’t think anyone else would be. Whoever it is, he starts flashing back to all the other times he’s heard that.

Then he seems to realize something’s gone terribly wrong, and he pauses to notice the rising sun, which has been a common theme with all of his past defeats. Then all these eyes appear on his body and begin winking out, one by one.

Okay, so what the hell happened here? Well, get comfortable, because this is going to take some time to unpack.

The key to all of this is Warrant Officer Schrodinger, a werewolf with the power to be “everywhere and nowhere”. This sounds like he’s just a teleporter, like Nightcrawler from the X-Men, or.... Majik from the X-Men. Well, it’s more complicated than that.

Let me explain the “Schrödinger's cat” thought experiment, because that’s one of those things that’s widespread enough in pop culture that it’s easy to take for granted. I think people understand it has to do with an imaginary cat being alive or dead, but that’s about all.

The really short version of quantum mechanics is that subatomic particles don’t behave the same way as big objects like apples or planets or people. It’s convenient to think of atoms as tiny little solar systems, with electrons orbiting the atomic nucleus. But the reality is that electrons don’t revolve around elliptical orbits like the Earth around the Sun. What happens instead is the electron zips around the nucleus all over the place, from all angles and directions. What’s more, the electron can be at any particular spot at any moment. So it’s less useful to think of an electron having an orbit around a nucleus. What you have instead is this region where the electron is most likely to be at any particular moment. And you can do the math and figure out what the shape of this region is. You can’t locate the electron’s exact position at any particular moment, but you can consider the region where it’s most likely to be in an atom, which will resemble a sphere or a vaguely dumbbell kind of shape.

This is what the Schrödinger Equation is for. Erwin Schrödinger didn’t just talk about cats all day. He postulated his equation in 1925 to work out the movements of electrons in atoms. It was groundbreaking work, and he won a Nobel Prize for it in 1933, and don’t feel bad if you have trouble wrapping your head around all of this. I’m a professional chemist and a lot of this is over my head.

The point of the “Schrödinger's cat” concept was to help visualize how confusing quantum mechanics really is. There are principles to subatomic particles that we know to be true, but they make no sense in our macroscale world. For example, a particle might have a probability of being in multiple locations at a given moment. It can only be in one place at a time, but until you actually perform the measurement to find out, it may as well be in all of those locations. This is something called “superposition”, and I guess we could say that this idea is the basis for our wolfboy’s powers.

So Schrödinger (the scientist, not the furry) suggested a thought experiment where a macroscale event could depend upon a subatomic condition. Like there’s some subatomic thing that could happen or not happen, and depending on the outcome, it would cause a poison to be dispensed that would kill a cat in a box. If the particle goes one way, the cat dies, but if it goes the other way, the cat survives. But both probabilities are equal, and supposedly both outcomes are true for the particle until you make the observation. Therefore, you can’t know whether the cat lived or died until you open the box to look! Indeed, according to quantum mechanics, the cat is simultaneously alive and dead until you open the box to see for yourself.

How does that make any sense? Well it doesn’t, and that’s the point Erwin Schrödinger was driving at. In our large scale, things like gravity and being one place at a time are things we take for granted. But on the quantum level, subatomic particles are governed by rules that seem completely paradoxical to us. And yet, we’re not talking about some alternate reality here. Those subatomic particles make up the atoms that make up us. Cats, boxes, bottles of poison, they’re all just a huge pile of subatomic particles, each following these seemingly nonsensical rules. They’re just organized in such a way that they give rise to bigger rules that make more sense to us. Things like classical mechanics, chemical reactions, cats liking to be inside boxes, and so on. As Erwin Schrödinger put it:

“It is typical of these cases that an indeterminacy originally restricted to the atomic domain becomes transformed into macroscopic indeterminacy, which can then be resolved by direct observation. That prevents us from so naïvely accepting as valid a "blurred model" for representing reality. In itself, it would not embody anything unclear or contradictory. There is a difference between a shaky or out-of-focus photograph and a snapshot of clouds and fog banks.”

In other words, we see the world as discrete outcomes. We read the black letters on the page, and not the indeterminate spaces in between, or the hazy, unfinished thoughts of the writer. That doesn’t mean the words on the page aren’t legitimate, or that the passing thoughts of the writer don’t exist. We have to accept the seeming contradiction of it.

So what does this have to do with Alucard? Well, Schrödinger (the furry, not the scientist) has the ability to be like one of these subatomic particles. Our were-boy probably can’t be literally everywhere, but he has this probability region of places where he can be, and it seems to cover at least half the world. He’s appeared in Brazil, London, Zorin Blitz’s psychic visions, and so on. He’s been shot twice in this story, but he just reappears like nothing happened to him at all. It’s not like he teleported away in the nick of time, either. We’ve seen his head burst open like a ripe melon. Like Schrödinger’s cat in the thought experiment, he can be alive or dead at any given moment, so killing him doesn’t actually matter. Warrant Officer Schrödinger can do all of this and he’s conscious of this ability. So as long as he’s aware of himself, he can observe himself and direct himself to be in any location he so chooses.

I would think getting shot in the face would interfere with this ability to control his power, but that’s probably where his werewolf nature comes in. Like the Captain, he can grow back from a nasty headwound, so that gives him time to picture himself someplace else, and in better health. Now that I think about it, that must have been a silver knife he used to cut his own head off.

So when Alucard drank all that blood, he drank Schrödinger’s too, and just like when he drank Rip van Winkle’s blood and got the power to fire that magic musket, Alucard absorbed Schrödinger’s ability to be “everywhere and nowhere”. Except that power only works when Schrödinger himself is conscious of it. And he’s not conscious of it anymore because he’s part of Alucard now. Alucard might figure out how to control this power, but until he does, he can’t choose a location and be in that one place. Instead, he’s “everywhere and nowhere” all the time. So he’s experiencing all of his past moments simultaneously, with no control over his current position.

That sounds bad, right? Well it gets worse. He drank all those other dead people’s blood too, so on top of his own perception, he has the perceptions of all 3 million plus of the souls he’s consumed. So that just further complicates matters. The bottom line is that Schrödinger’s ability is fundamentally incompatible with Alucard’s existence as a composite being made up of multiple absorbed lives.

And since Alucard can’t just cough up Schrödinger’s blood, it’s too late now. He’s got Schrödinger’s ability and he’s stuck with it, but he can’t control it, which means he just winks out of existence. As the Major puts it, he’s now neither live nor dead nor undead. He’s become like a series of imaginary numbers. You’ll need to look that one up on your own time, folks, I spent enough time talking about quantum mechanics.

And you have to hand it to Kouta Hirano, this is a really clever way to bring down an overpowered seinen manga protagonist. This whole time, all of these lower villains acted like they could just beat down Alucard if they applied enough brute force, but that was never going to get the job done. For the purposes of this story, Alucard has been, almost by definition, unbeatable. So the Major’s solution was to give him a new power, one that he would be unable to control. It wouldn’t kill him, but killing Alucard seems like a fool’s errand anyway. Instead, it just... makes Alucard go away, which is probably as close to destroying him as anyone could ever hope for. He might still be alive in some semantic sense, but he can’t carry out his duties to Hellsing and the Crown, so the Major seems to have at least brought down what Alucard is expected to be.

And there’s no way to stop it, because it’s already happened. Integra commands him to stay, but it’s useless. I like the way he signs off in the dub of the OVA, where he apologizes to Integra and says this is one order he cannot obey. It’s just out of his hands.

Then he vanishes, and all that’s left of Alucard is a bloody mark on the street, shaped like the Hellsing insignia on his gloves.

Wait, so does this affect Seras too, since she was Alucard’s servant vampire? Remember, way back in Chapter 1, Integra said that killing the head vampire would automatically kill any ghouls or vampires he creates. So maybe Seras is gone too?

Hell naw. Seras joins Integra in the Major’s command center, and she looks like she’s ready for some revenge. Does she know what’s just happened? I mean, she was furious at the Major to begin with, but she sensed Alucard’s return a while back when he floated up the Thames River. Surely she sensed her own vampire dad winking out of existence.

Meanwhile, Walter had a front-row seat for Alucard’s disappearance. At first he laughs with triumph. I guess he must be giddy with relief, since he wanted to kill Alucard, and for a minute there it looked like Alucard had him dead to rights. Imagine a guy’s about to murder you and then he just ceases to exist. But it doesn’t take long for Walter to realize how hollow this all is. He wanted to kill Alucard himself, and he bet everything just to get that one opportunity, and now he’s failed and he’ll never get another chance. His body is giving out and he’s betrayed everyone who ever cared about him and he’s got nothing to show for it.

Then Heinkel starts shooting at him with a sniper rifle. Yeah, she never left the battlefield after Walter killed Yumiko. The Captain stopped her from interfering before, but the Captain’s dead now and I guess she figures she’s got nothing to lose by trying again. And I suppose the sniper act proves she’s learned from Yumiko’s fatal mistake. Attacking Walter up close is dangerous.

At first, Walter seems to invite this. He even invites Heinkel to shoot him a few more times, as it’s a fitting punishment for a traitor. If you’ve only seen the TFS Abridged version of Hellsing, they actually use this as Walter’s death scene, but in the original version Walter takes a few bullets and then leaves. He says Heinkel can shoot him, but she doesn’t get to kill him. I don’t think she even heard him say that, but whatever.

Instead, he uses his wires to board the Major’s airship one last time.

So remember how the Major was protected from Integra by a reinforced glass barrier? Yeah, well Seras finds an 88mm cannon and shoots through it. It also shoots through the hull of his ship and rings a large bell on the outskirts of town. Right before she shoots, Integra orders Seras to “Search and Destroy” just like she always told Alucard. It’s kind of sad, but Seras has automatically succeeded her master as Integra’s weapon. I mean, it’s a triumph for Seras, but it comes at a heavy price for her. She’s probably too enraged by what’s happened to appreciate this moment on all these other levels, but there’ll be time for that.

So there’s no way the Major could survive a cannon like that at pointblank range, right? Wrong, the dude’s a fucking cyborg, and I guess Seras’ aim was a little off. I suppose the downside to using big-ass guns is that you have trouble aiming at small targets. Wait, no, what happened to all that “third eye” stuff from before? What’s wrong with you, Victoria?

Oh wait, she missed because she’s sad. Aw... :`(

So we knew the Major had to be something to have survived this long without aging, but we had already learned he wasn’t a vampire. He insists that he is still human, however, no different from a man with a pacemaker or an artificial limb. His mind remains his own, even if it should be a brain in a life support system or backed up on a computer. I’m not sure if either of these describes the status of the Major’s brain, but to his point, it doesn’t really matter. He describes himself as Alucard’s polar opposite. While Al is this beautiful monster who masquerades as a human, the Major is a human who resembles the grotesque form of a monster. I’m not body-shaming the dude, I’m just reporting what he’s saying. He’s taken a few fat jokes in stride, and I guess he’s got the same attitude about his cyborg body too. He doesn’t seem to care if others find this unpleasant, because it’s better than being a vampire with a diluted self.

Arguably, this whole campaign to destroy Alucard was the Major’s effort to prove his claim on being human. Alucard often said that only a human could defeat a monster like him, and the Major beat him, so doesn’t that prove he’s a human in the end?

So Integra whips out her other gun, the one she didn’t use to shoot at the Major’s glass case, and they start shooting each other at pointblank range. The Major’s a terrible shot, though, and yet somehow he manages to take out one of Integra’s eyes before she puts a bullet in his forehead. I still don’t understand how you can shoot someone in the eye and not kill them. Did the bullet just angle away from her brain or is the Major’s gun just really weak on stopping power?

Anyway, Integra’s shot kills the Major, but not right away, so I guess it’s not just his original brain in there. He’s just thrilled to have finally hit something after a lifetime of terrible marksmanship. It’s a fitting reflection of his win over Alucard, because he and the rest of Millennium were warriors who had never won a war before. In the end, I’m not sure the Major would have been disappointed if his plan had failed. He’d never won before, so I don’t think another defeat would have bothered him much. As it is, he dies contentedly, satisfied with his “good war”. What a shithead.

So yeah, we’ve got three more chapters to go and then we’re done. See you next time.

#2021hellsingliveblog #hellsing #alucard #seras victoria #sir integra hellsing #walter c dornez #the major #heinkel wolfe #warrant officer schrodinger #erwin schrödinger #uh... yeah #that's everybody #starting to run a little low on characters now

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that-bi-bitch-writes · 3 years

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P S Y C H (ch.1)

I hate definition intros but it has to be done: The word "PSYCH" is commonly used online and in conversation as a slang term to indicate that something that has just been said or typed was intended as a prank on the recipient or a joke.

Also short for Psychic

Next Chapter

Say what you want about organized religion, but you can’t deny that it is one of the most dangerous weapons on the planet. For centuries people have developed weapons and fought wars in the name of their beliefs. They’ve conquered lands and assimilated nations. Give the people superpowers and there’s no way people don’t die on a daily basis. Unless you give them lame ass powers and call them quirks. God’s funny like that. Most people get run of the mill things like the ability to draw small objects close to them. That way there’s a power imbalance in the world. It’s less chaos if only a select few get the good abilities. Less people question God’s authority that way. Those who get the awesome superpowers are seen as blessed, divine. Honored.

[Mo.Name] [L.Name] was not blessed. She was liked by God at best. Being an empath, her quirk was not something to marvel at. If she worked hard to develop it, she could use her quirk offensively and defensively or even professionally but she would never be someone who was in charge of maintaining the world order.

As she grew older she would become disillusioned with God and the blessed individuals that policed over the nations. They called themselves heroes, and a few people were but everything about hero society just didn’t sit well with her. She became a teacher instead and worked with kids with special needs. When they had trouble expressing themselves she could use her quirk to get a feel for what they needed in the moment or she could project enough calmness that they could pull themselves together and communicate without throwing a fit.

She had a kid at a young age. 30 years old. Not too young and not too old. But by the time she was 35 she was a single mother. Her kid was the best. He didn’t cry too often and he learned how to speak very young. He soaked up information like a sponge and he didn’t develop a flashy quirk like the heroes she felt mild contempt for. Her baby was ignored by God.

Psych.

“No one is born equal. Yadda yadda yadda- How long has he been planning this monologue? No seriously it’s been playing in his head since the day (not really) we first met and I’m kind of bored of it now”

Izuku Midoriya was not a late bloomer. He never got his quirk, he has the extra toe joint, and he was bullied for being powerless. A Deku. [Name] [L.Name] WAS a late bloomer. He got teased a little, picked on. Sometimes people even gave him pitying looks. But it all ended when he turned about six. There’s that old saying: two roads diverged in a yellow wood. Well one of those roads is for those scorned, and the other for those who who were touched by fire yet never burned. The sinner and the saint. What a traveller wouldn’t know is, that at some point, the roads converge. How else are they supposed to get to the same destination?

Wonder, outsiders..who is on which road? What makes the sinner a sinner and not a saint?

“Using your quirk in public is illegal”

“And minding your own business is free” [Name] bit back. What’s a little telekinesis gonna do? Cause mass destruction? Widespread panic? He just didn’t want to touch the handle on the door. Public spaces are very unsanitary... it’s not like his arms are too sore to do any sort of lifting. Nope. Not at all.

[Name] had unfortunately spent the entire weekend doing his least favorite activity. Physical exercise. Of course with a quirk like his he’d rarely ever need physical strength, but that’s exactly what everyone else would think. And [Name] is the type of kid that wants you to doubt him so he can feel the rush of proving you wrong. It’s a warped mindset but when no one ever expects anything from you, it’s kind of a thrill to see the surprised looks on their faces. A psychic with impressive physical strength would be the same as someone 5’6 (167.6 cm) dominating a sport made for tall people. Like basketball. Or volleyball.

Anyway, [Name] was in the sportswear store, a place he’d rather not be caught dead in, trying to get support for his wrists. Most of his quirk usage was through precise hand movements, a slight flick of the wrist could easily send someone flying. His hands, and by extension his wrists were very important. A punch thrown wrong during training could fracture that oh so important wrist, hence the whole idea of getting wrist wraps.

For once [Name] was actually being proactive and he was very proud of himself for thinking of the idea in the first place. His eyes glowed golden as he reached his hand out to grab the wraps floating down from the top shelf. The UA exams were in about a week and a half and he had no idea what to expect. So he would train for everything they could throw at him. Even if it meant he had to go back to throwing punches at an oversized bag of sand.

[Name] used his telekinesis so often the drawback was nearly negligible. But if he did overuse it, the damage was a headache that could range from minor inconveniences like losing your chapstick, to a grenade going off in an enclosed space. The big ones weren’t usually the problem. The problem would be somewhere in the middle, because it would cause him to lose control of his telepathy, and once the headache combined with the voices of everyone in a 50 meter vicinity his brain would get seriously overwhelmed. Ultimately he’d be passed out on the ground within 5 minutes.

For the first year and a half of middle school three times a week [Name] would have fighting training along with weight training, alternating days so that he’d have a break in between each session. This was all pretty much to catch up with his rapidly developing quirk. [Name]’s body wasn’t prepared for the use of his quirk. He grew to the age of 6 doing things normally until his untapped power literally exploded out of him. Talk about damage control. For quirk training he usually offered to help his neighbor who ran a junkyard by lifting cars and other heavy things telekinetically. An unofficial part of the training regime, [Name] would also read other people’s thoughts all day everyday. He said it was to get used to hearing others’ voices in his head. But that was only a half truth. [Name] was just extremely nosy, but he went about it in a casual way. He probably should apologize for the invasion of privacy but he loved every minute of it. Besides, listening to the spirits of others could be considered a god-honored practice.

On the day of the entrance exams [Name] regretted everything. He’d decided to become a hero for fun, less than two weeks prior (the whole reason he went to the sportswear store and started working out again), and by the grace of god he was regretting it. Not because he was nervous he’d fail, at least he wasn’t before he got there. It was just SO loud. He’d gotten better at controlling his quirk since he began using telepathy to eavesdrop but the last time he was in a room full of this many people was the middle school entrance ceremony (which he skipped halfway through because of a headache. By the way how could so many kids sitting in silence be so loud). It made sense, he was not used to having to deal with the noise of people muttering, thinking, PANICKING. And now that his quirk is stronger than what it was before everything felt ten times worse. [Name] leaned forward and tapped the green haired boy sitting in front of him muttering. Not only could he hear the boy’s thoughts going a mile a minute but his mouth was too. The kid whipped around eyes wide and shook nervously. [Name] was about to ask him to quiet down but got confused when he made sense of the kid’s thoughts.

The kid was obviously a fanboy muttering about Present Mic who was getting on [Name]’s nerves a little with his exorbitant amount of energy. Before [Name] could say anything the ash-blonde near the fanboy spoke up.

“He’s probably telling you to shaddup”

The green haired boy opened his mouth to apologize and then realized he would be making more noise and quickly shut it before nodding profusely. [Name] was tired of referring to them by their hair colors and may have invaded the fanboy’s head for some background information on the two and got more than he bargained for. The fanboy whose name was apparently Izuku, was not only sitting next to Bakugou, his childhood bully, but just this morning he had gained an immense amount of power, officially becoming All Might’s successor. Oh look, two of them would be taking the exam in the same area. Things at UA were gonna get interesting.

#bnha x male reader #mha x male #male reader #male reader insert #x male reader #m!reader #m!reader insert #x m!reader #bnha #mha #that bi bitch writes #that-bi-bitch-writes #psych

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vvidowbite · 3 years

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he’s a ghost story | dark!winterverse nat & steve (1400 words)

tw: guns, threats

@walkitoffrogers

Natasha had a gun in her hands as she peered around the corner, and she tucked as much of herself behind the wall as she could and still aim. There was a monster in her kitchen, a man who had stepped straight out of her childhood nightmares, and she didn't understand why she wasn't dead already. She should already be shooting if she wanted to walk out of here alive. She put pressure on the trigger, but somehow, she couldn't bring herself to pull it. Deep down, where a frightened child lived in a room with walls as red as spilled blood, she didn't believe it would save her. Bullets didn't work on ghost stories.

"I'm not here to kill you, Natalia." The Russian was harsh and familiar. His back was to her, his hands already in the air, but it didn't make her feel safer. If the Captain was here, the Sergeant had a rifle trained on her somewhere. Her gaze flicked to the windows, and she hunched a little further behind the wall. She was familiar with the sightlines outside her building, and her mind picked out the most likely places for him. Beneath that, despite his assurance, it chanted at her that she was already dead, already dead, already dead. They didn't leave witnesses.

"Then you're here for information." She considered their methods of getting information and readjusted her aim. "I'd rather die." She'd make him kill her before she let him take her, if that were possible. Natasha had been through her share of torture, but she didn't fool herself that she would survive that. She'd take a quick death over an endless, painful one.

He stayed facing away from her, his head tilted down toward the counter. With a sickening lurch, she realized he'd plucked a picture of her and Clint off her refrigerator. He was supposed to be on a mission overseas. He'd just checked in with her this morning. So much could have changed in that time. There was something else on the counter too. It looked like a file.

"Where's Clint?" Her voice was calm, no trace of fear in it. She wasn't fooled, and somehow, she didn't think he was either.

"Wherever you left him." He spoke without inflection.

"Are you going to kill him?"

"I have no reason to do that. You're going to need him."

He turned slowly, and Natasha kept her eyes on his raised hands. It was supposed to make him look harmless, but nothing about this man was harmless. He was tall and carved from stone, the leather of his uniform scarred from past battles. The round silver shield was missing, but she counted at least four weapons that she could see. She was betting there were twice that many, if not more. Her gaze traveled to his face, unlined and unchanged in the past several decades, and settled last on his eyes. They were chips of ice, the blue of cold winter skies, but they weren't as empty as she remembered. Something lived in them now, and somehow that was worse. Fear slid like a cold finger down her spine. He hadn't done anything except look at her, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd been so afraid.

"Do you know who you are?" she asked, hardly believing the words were coming out of her mouth.

"Steve Rogers. Born 1918. United States Army, 107th Infantry Regiment. Died 1945 in the line of duty." He said it like he was reading it out of a textbook, and Natasha fought the urge to sway where she stood. It was possible everything he'd said was a lie, but she didn't know what there was to be gained by it. He seemed to guess her train of thought because he nodded slightly.

"If I wanted you dead, I would have killed you as you came through the door. Your keys." She flinched inwardly at the censure. He was right. She thought she was safe here, and she'd gotten sloppy. She hadn't been thinking about intruders as she walked down the hall, her keys jangling in her hand. He could have shot her before she even got the door open. He started to lower his hands, and she tightened her grip, suddenly back on high alert.

"Don't move," she warned. He paused but only for a moment, his expression unchanged.

"Shoot me if it makes you feel better." He dropped his hands and turned back to the counter, his movements slow and precise. "I have information for you."

"Why?" The word was almost a whisper. It didn't prepare her for what he said next.

"Hydra has infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D."

The words fell like tossing pennies down a deep well. She didn't want to know what happened when they hit the bottom. Still, her first reaction was denial, a knee-jerk defense mechanism that she knew wouldn’t save her.

"Hydra is gone. It was mostly wiped out by the end of World War II. By you. We've been stamping out pockets of it ever since, but it's not widespread enough to be a real threat."

"Hydra is alive and well. Cut off one head--" he began, but she broke in, her voice harsh.

"Don't." He fell silent, but the silence was telling. She realized that she already believed him. Deep down, she wondered if she hadn't always feared exactly this thing. She had lied and killed for the wrong people for so long that she couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

"Why bring it to me?"

He was silent for a long moment, and she thought he might not answer. "Hydra took something from me," he said finally. "I want it back. I can burn their bases one by one, but S.H.I.E.L.D will still rot from the inside. It will take a decade or longer to dismantle it by myself. I don't have that kind of time, and I might die before I finish. You might die if you help me."

Her hand was beginning to cramp, so she lowered the gun and stepped cautiously around the corner. No shots rang out, so she took that as an encouraging sign and approached the counter. The file was thin, only a few pages, but her gaze caught on the photograph of her and Clint and stayed there.

"And if I don't?" she said quietly. The next time he came, would he be there to kill her? Would he hunt down Clint and use him to force her to help? She'd already betrayed how much he meant to her. It would be only too easy to use him as leverage.

"Then you don't see me again. It's the safer option." He moved and she tensed, the gun already pointed at him without her conscious permission. He didn't even acknowledge it as he moved toward the door. "You don't have to believe me. There's enough in that folder to verify it for yourself."

She didn't take her eyes off him to glance at the file again. "If it's true, what then?"

"You'll know what to do."

The words sent a chill through her, along with a tiny flare of anger. It felt good after all the fear. "I'm not an assassin anymore, Captain."

"Why would I need another assassin?" His gaze flicked to the window behind her, and she fought the urge to look as well. She could practically feel the rifle scope on the back of her head. She could hardly believe the Sergeant had let her hold a gun on the Captain for this long. She'd seen him break a man's arm in three places just for looking at him wrong.

"How do I contact you if I decide to help?" She still found it hard to believe she had a choice, but he'd done nothing to threaten her besides show up. If this was a trap, she had no idea what the endgame was.

"I'll know when it's done. I'll find you."

She breathed out a shaky sigh as he disappeared around the corner. After a moment, she made herself follow because she had to know if he was really gone. There was no sign that anyone else had ever been there. The door was even locked. She holstered her gun and sank down against the wall, not stopping until her butt hit the floor and her head was between her knees. The wave of fear she'd been holding back crashed over her. Her throat closed up, her breath a knife in her chest, and each tear that found its way out burned on her cheeks. She stayed like that until her breathing grew steady again, and then she picked up the phone to call Clint.

#he's a ghost story #chat: steve #walkitoffrogers #dark!winterverse #bio

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anexplanationofunfortunateevents · 4 years

Text

A Tale of Red States and Blue States

Once upon a time, there was a state.

It was a large state, with vast stretches of country between its world-class cities. It had communities rich in diversity and activism and ideas – and it had a lot of resentful white people who were just plain old rich.

The richest and most resentful white people created a terrible blight they called “modern conservatism.” They set their wicked curse on the state, and then unleashed it on the nation with two Republican presidents – one lamentable, the next even worse.

There were many along the way who sounded the alarm, but there were more who ignored the danger far too long. The spell had summoned a beast. The beast was hideous and stupid. It was no good at anything except being a hateful beast. But the dark spell had done so much damage that being a hateful beast was enough for the beast to win, at least for a time.

In one version of the story, the state is called “California.”

In another, it is called “Texas.”

It’s strange to think of now, with a decade of sneering about the “left coast” and “San Francisco liberals” and blah blah blah baked into political conventional wisdom, but it’s true. The reactionary modern conservatism which held the whip hand on the backlash to the great civil rights advances of the 1960s was born in California. California voted for Richard Nixon six times: once as their senator, twice as Eisenhower’s vice president, and then three times as the Republican presidential nominee. In between those elections, Nixon of course had to win primaries. In 1968, when he was the Republican front-runner, he faced an upstart challenger who wanted to make sure he’d be racist enough to keep conservative southerners in the tent. That person was not a southerner, but the then-governor of California, Ronald Reagan, who would go on to be the next Republican elected after Nixon.

So what the fuck happened? Well, a lot of things, and I don’t want to pretend to do justice to the generations of righteous activism that pushed back against this disastrous regime. Democrats did occasionally win state-wide – notably, California elected two Democratic women to the Senate in 1992 – even though Orange County was practically a metonym for American conservatism right up until the 2018 midterms. But the turning point that seems to have gotten your average voter to turn on the Republican party for good was in 1994. Governor Pete Wilson, a kind of hard-right proto-Trump, threw his weight behind a hateful anti-immigrant ballot initiative. It passed, even though it was so deranged that it never went into effect because a federal court ruled it unconstitutional within days of the vote, because the California electorate really was that conservative. The electorate changed, almost on a dime. Mexican-American voters organized. Their friends and neighbors and fellow citizens realized that sitting back wasn’t an option. And now the Republican Party of California is a fucking joke.

This isn’t, like, the eternal winds of history blowing microscopic chips off the statue of Ozymandias. If you remember the Clinton presidency, this happened in your lifetime. If you’re a little bit younger than that, it happened in your big cousins’ lifetimes.

Part of what makes it hard to see changes like this is that the dim bulbs in our political media see everything through a horse race lens, where who gets one particular W is the only piece of information worth retaining. You win and you’re clever; you lose and you’re a dumb sucker who tried. Who gets power is really important! But if you only care about that, then you miss the really important trends.

Take the Georgia 6th, the district once represented by Newt fucking Gingrich. Its representative joined Trump’s cabinet in early 2017, at least in part because it was such a supposedly safe Republican seat, so there was a special election for his replacement. Traumatized Democrats and Women’s Marchers threw themselves into the steeply uphill campaign of former John Lewis intern Jon Ossoff. When he came up a few points short, our blue-check media betters tried to turn Ossoff into a punch line stand-in for silly #Resistance liberal losers coping with Trump by losing some more, SUCK IT, MOM! but the other, correct, interpretation is that Ossoff only came up a few points short in a district that was supposed to protect the kookiest of right-wing cranks. His campaign had functioned as kind of an ad hoc boot camp for novice organizers, canvassers, and future school board candidates who had previously been too discouraged and disorganized to take this kind of swing, and it showed Democratic party donors that the district was winnable. So when gun safety advocate and Mother of the Movement Lucy McBath stepped up to the plate in the 2018 midterms, her campaign had the infrastructure it needed, and now she’s well-positioned to be reelected because she’s doing a great job. Meanwhile, Ossoff’s organizing chops and the enthusiastic work his supporters did for Rep. McBath are a big part of why he’s in a dead heat against incumbent Republican Senator David Purdue.

That’s why I’m keeping an eye on the South this year. The presidential campaign there is interesting, but the real story is in those network effects. There’s a rising tide that threatens to make the blue wave of 2018 look like a light spring shower if things break the right way. Just look at the Democratic senate candidates. They’re a diverse group: men and women, Black and white, preacher and fighter pilot. Most are relative newcomers to national audiences, but only some of them are young. Jon Ossoff is just 33; when he was in grade school, Mike Espy of Mississippi was Secretary of Agriculture. What they do seem to have in common is that they are having the time of their fucking lives.

Here’s Espy:

Moving and grooving in McComb. pic.twitter.com/RANCRGGpX7

— Mike Espy (@MikeEspyMS)

October 31, 2020

Ossoff:

The people of Georgia are tired of having a spineless, disgraced politician serve as their Senator. pic.twitter.com/OdaYwFKzmz

— Jon Ossoff (@ossoff)

October 30, 2020

Senator Doug Jones of Alabama:

I know you’ve heard us say it before, but when you see this clip, it bears reappearing: This guy really is clueless. https://t.co/w9YOUHegCW

— Doug Jones (@DougJones)

October 22, 2020

Jamie Harrison of South Carolina:

It's debate night and y'all know I'm going to walk it like I talk it. Let's see if @LindseyGrahamSC can do the same. pic.twitter.com/TNABxsaTEO

— Jaime Harrison (@harrisonjaime)

October 30, 2020

And the bad bitch with her eye on the big prize, MJ Hegar of Texas:

It's about time Texans had a senator as tough as we are. https://t.co/8MQ8Tykmyt pic.twitter.com/bgPr5vtgdh

— MJ Hegar (@mjhegar)

October 16, 2020

Clutch those pearls, John! https://t.co/iWej8MrhtV

— MJ Hegar (@mjhegar)

October 22, 2020

The spineless bootlicker Hegar is challenging, Senate Majority Whip John Cornyn, is currently resting his dainty patoot in the seat once held by none other than Lyndon Baines Johnson. As president, LBJ would aggressively push for some of the greatest human rights legislation in American history in pursuit of what he called the Great Society. That meant Medicare and Medicaid. It meant a revolution in environmental protections. It meant PBS. And it meant telling the one-party authoritarian regime in the Jim Crow south that America was done with their bullshit, they were going to have real democracy, they were going to do it now, and if they didn’t like it they could eat his ass.

Johnson was a complicated guy and left a complicated legacy. His project required an unusual leader of courage, conviction, and unmitigated savvy, cut with streaks of megalomania and dubious mental health. No architect but Lyndon Johnson would have built the Great Society, and no place but Texas could have built Lyndon Johnson.

Then again, Texas also gave us the Bushes in the late twentieth century. It gave us a terrorist attack on a Biden campaign bus just this weekend.

That darkness is real. So is the long, grinding slog to turn on the light. Like the GA-06 silliness, Democratic efforts in Texas get laughed at as some quixotic waste of resources by arrogant flops. In fact, the past few years of high-profile statewide elections in Texas have been on a pretty clear trajectory. In 2014, Wendy Davis, a state senator from Fort Worth who captured widespread progressive attention with her heroic filibuster of a 2013 state abortion ban, ran for governor. She lost by the ~20-point margin you’d expect in a year where Republicans everywhere did really well, but it was a vitamin B-12 shot to a perpetually overwhelmed state Democratic party. The 2016 Clinton campaign, when it was (correctly!) on the offensive before FBI Director Comey decided he would really prefer a Trump presidency, invested heavily in its Texas ground game. It was always a long shot, but even after the Comey letter and the Texas-specific sabotage by the Russian Internet Research Agency, Texas Democrats cut Trump’s margin there down to single digits. That is to say, they recruited the volunteers and taught the skills and raised the cash and registered the voters to carry the ball way down the field. And in the 2018 midterms, El Paso representative Beto O’Rourke built on all that energy to fight Senator Ted Cruz to a near draw. O’Rourke didn’t quite make it, but he did help a lot of downballot Democrats over the finish line and forced Republicans to light a few oil drums of cash on fire to save a seat that they had always assumed would be safe.

That growth has been possible because of a ton of hard work and persuasion, but it’s also been possible because there was so much untapped potential. As progressives have argued for years, Texas was less of a “red state” than a non-voting state. I’m not a person that usually has a lot of patience for people not bothering to vote, because the people who get to be loud about that are whiny, privileged assholes who can afford to be flip about the right to vote. But there are a lot of people who find it hard because they absolutely do know the weight and importance of voting, because they or their mothers or their grandfathers were beaten and terrorized to keep them away from the polls. They might make the same mouth-noises as the selfish dilettantes about how it doesn’t matter and they’re all corrupt and blah blah blah. But a vote is a tiny little leap of faith. It’s at least a skip of hope. And it hurts to know the weight and importance of that and to keep feeling that disappointment over and over again.

A key thing that Republicans in the South managed to do for a while, but California Republicans didn’t, was to let their misrule seem almost tolerable day to day. As outrageous as the overall trends were, as catastrophic the results were for a lot of people’s lives, it didn’t necessarily feel entirely irrational for lots of people to avoid the inconvenience and disappointment of trying to stop them. But if you’re just going to be a constant, unwavering shit show of incompetence and evil, infuriating people every waking minute of every fucking day for years on end, they’re not going to be deterred by inconvenience and disappointment. They're not going to be deterred by fucking tear gas. They’re going to understand that it’s worth trying to get rid of you, even if it’s a long shot. They’re going to line up to kick you in the shin just for the hell of it. And that’s exactly what millions of them have already done.

These dumbass motherfuckers radicalized Taylor goddamn Swift!

LOOK WHAT YOU MADE HER DO!

So yeah. People who had given up are fucking voting. Texas has already had hundreds of thousands more people vote than voted in all of 2016. BEFORE ELECTION DAY!

Vice President Biden likes to recite a poem by the great Irish bard Seamus Heaney. It’s about how you have to have faith that a better world is possible, even when you don’t have any rational reason to expect it any time soon, because it’s the only way you’ll be able to seize the most precious of opportunities, when “justice can rise up/ And hope and history rhyme.”

Sometimes hope and history walk into a bar to tell dirty jokes for a bachelorette party in downtown Austin. And they rhyme.

For a hundred and fifty years, unreconstructed revanchist terrorist sympathizers have threatened that “the South will rise again.” They mean the treasonous mobsters who called themselves the Confederacy.

Why do those losers get to define the South? Like, literally, they’re losers. They lost.

There’s another South. The terrorists cut it off at the knees, so it never quite rose the first time. But it’s always been there. The South the heroes of Reconstruction tried to build. The South of the Kennedy Space Station and the Center for Disease Control. The South of the French Quarter of New Orleans and the gay neighborhoods of Atlanta. The South of Barbara Jordan, Ann and Cecile Richards, Stacey Abrams, and the young women of the Virginia state legislature. The South of Maya Angelou, Molly Ivins, and Mark Twain. The South of the exiles of Miami and the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma. The South of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Representative John Lewis. The South of James Earl Carter, William Jefferson Clinton, and Lyndon Baines Johnson.

Once upon a time, there was a colossus. The richest and most resentful white people feared it, for it was both great and good. So they hunted it mercilessly. They tortured and killed its most vulnerable people. They bound it and silenced it and told the rest of the world it didn’t even exist. But they knew that wicked lie was the best they could do, for something so mighty could never be slain by the likes of them.

The giant grows stronger every day as it struggles against its chains, and those chains are turning to rust. One day soon - maybe in this decade; maybe this week – it will break free. It will rise. And it will shake the earth. Just you watch.

#2020 election

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antoine-roquentin · 4 years

Link

First, take a look at the very equivocal position of the Democratic leadership. One little noted detail is important. An amendment inserted in the lame-duck legislation that enshrined the “Swaps Pushout” weakening of the Dodd-Frank financial reform bill in January 2015, made it easier for big donors to funnel much larger sums of money to the national party committees. This has, I think, made it even easier for blocs of big donors to control those committees, even as small contributions sometimes surge. Not only in 2018, but in the 2020 primaries, I think this mattered.

As a result, the Democratic National Committee has not been subordinated to the Biden campaign, at least not yet. The surge in the southern Democratic primaries that destroyed the Sanders boom involved many big Democratic donors along with many black congressmen and women, together with the political and financial networks of former president Barack Obama and the Clintons. It was a coming together of the entire Democratic establishment to stop Sanders. Congressional black leaders were thus heavily identified with the “Stop Sanders” movement, too.

But with the combined economic collapse and the pandemic revealing the bankruptcy of the traditional establishment, the whole top of the party has had to scramble. How they have responded is very interesting. Thanks to the dissemination of so many videos, the realization about the racism that black Americans face — and not just by so many police — is very widespread. The revulsion is deep and real.

In response, the Democratic establishment is taking a leaf from the past — not the late ’60s, when groups highly critical of the Democrats became prominent, but the early ’60s. Joel Rogers and I described the process in our book Right Turn. When the civil rights movement emerged, major foundations, prominent business leaders of major multinationals, and foundations allied to them heavily supported that groundswell. John F. Kennedy famously called Martin Luther King in jail, while prominent Wall Street lawyers flew down south or otherwise helped represent civil rights campaigners who were under legal attack. That’s what’s happening right now, with groups closely allied with the Democratic Party helping to raise money. There will be tensions now, as there were then, between the party and the movement, but that’s the basic direction things are taking.

So how does this play into the election?

I think the basic script each party is following is evident. Democrats are hoping for a repeat of 2008. In that election, policy was hopelessly bungled by the Republican leadership. After Lehman Brothers went bankrupt, nobody in opposition had to say very much. Democrats could just sit and watch John McCain flail helplessly.

Donald Trump, by contrast, is clearly copying the Nixon playbook, though because he’s in power, 1972 is closer to the mark than 1968. His administration’s heavy-handed appeals to “law and order” are obvious, and so are the ways he tries to bait protesters. The “law and order” mantra is looking a bit thin, though, partly because the videos and protests so clearly touch a chord with many members of the public. But it is also apparent that the US military wants no part in quelling domestic protests, so that the best Trump is likely to be able to do is to try to irritate protesters and hope for strong public reactions. Attorney general William Barr is also pitching in, in spectacular fashion.

The other thing the White House is bent on doing is finding a way to levitate the economy. In 1972, Richard Nixon famously relied on Arthur Burns at the Fed to engineer a legendary political business cycle. Today’s Fed certainly reacts to pressures from Trump, but the drastically different world situation severely limits its room for maneuver. It can hardly do more than it has even if it wanted to.

This is why the president and the vice president are trying so desperately to downplay the pandemic. They want to drive people back to work and push up the GDP. Vice president Mike Pence is plainly encouraging state leaders to talk up their successes and downplay bad news, including spiking COVID-19 cases in the South and West. The White House thinks they have to get the economy moving again or Trump will be toast in November.

How different is this from what the administration was doing earlier?

It represents a doubling down on policies that Trump and his camp wanted to promote earlier and did for a while. As the pandemic hit, all over the developed world, prominent business figures and conservative economists warned about the dangers of a long lockdown. Some, including an occasional central banker, even talked sotto voce about how such policies would reduce state pension obligations. In the United States, the UK, and other European countries, advocates talked up the idea of “herd immunity.” Trump’s “kitchen cabinet” of business figures, including prominent private equity managers, were repeatedly cited as pushing the president to take a “go slow” attitude on lockdowns.

After the publication of the Imperial College estimates of the death rates such policies would entail, though, enthusiasm waned. The UK changed policy. The switch definitely affected the Trump administration’s attitudes. It helped, along with the ghastly reality of what was happening on the ground, especially on the East and West coasts of the United States, to force the administration to accept lockdowns and sheltering in place. Both in the United States and in the UK, though, pressures from business groups for rapid reopening remained very strong. Conservative groups have even urged reopening without establishing a viable testing regime, which is exactly what the administration has now done.

Clear camps are forming within business, and those look to be seeping into politics. Many small companies whose business models rest on low wages, along with financiers — meaning private equity first and foremost — whose strategies depend on buying and breaking up firms, continue to plump for rapid reopening.

By contrast, many firms in the rest of finance, and especially in high-tech and capital-intensive industries whose strategies do not rest on low wages, are less heedless of the dangers of quick opening. Many tech firms enthusiastically promote their products as solutions to the problems the pandemic creates — as is obvious with many internet and software companies. Robert Rubin called for joint panels of medical professionals and economists to decide when reopening was feasible and for contact tracing; even robotic assistance has been touted.

Where the rubber meets the road, though, is the critical question of worker safety. Trump gutted the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA). Not only is the number of inspectors way down, but key appointees are plainly uninterested in regulating on the issue at all.

It seems to me that this is a potentially fateful intersection between the movement growing out of Minneapolis and the Democrats. Calls to reopen quickly are basically demands by affluent white-collar managers who can work at home. They want to send blue-collar workers back to work under conditions the senior executives would not accept for themselves. Many of the blue-collar workers are, it is important to add, black or Latino. Though you would never know from reading any major newspaper, wildcat and other strikes have soared since Minneapolis. There are literally hundreds and hundreds of them, as Mike Elk’s Payday Report website is documenting. It seems clear that the protests have inspired many black and Latino workers to demand safe working conditions.

I don’t have much to say for the classic financial bailouts the United States has pursued — they protect the wealth of those that have it, while the government does something, but not much, to protect the livelihood of average citizens. But it would make a great deal of sense to move onto the national balance sheet the costs of redesigning work to make it safe. That would be a really good use of public resources.

So how does this play out in the election?

Right now, COVID-19 cases are soaring in many Southern and Western states, whose Republican governors had followed the White House lead and pretended the pandemic was over or would somehow never reach them. As a result, you can feel a seismic tremor in Trump’s support: the fabled 40 percent or so base level for him that people thought could never be breached is being broken.

But I remember 1988 very well, when Michael Dukakis was almost 20 points ahead of George H. W. Bush in late summer. A lot can happen to change what looks like an all but insurmountable advantage. One needs to remember that Biden looks good mostly next to Trump; the Democratic candidate doesn’t generate much enthusiasm from voters on his own. How the Biden campaign can tap the energy that fueled Sanders, and, to some extent, Warren, is not clear yet. The terms of trade between the camps are still being worked out, and the effort could fail. If Democratic elites are dumb enough to believe the claims so many have made that 2016 had nothing to do with economics, they could repeat that disaster.

I have a hard time believing that people who are out of work and watching how the government is allowing insurers to slip out of covering the costs of COVID tests will be inspired to vote for Biden without something far stronger than a “public option” for health care instead of Medicare for All, for example.

Plenty else can go wrong, too. Let’s just bracket the possibility of some foreign crisis, especially in the South China Sea, since it’s also clear Trump right now is still hoping that a big trade deal with China might come through. Otherwise, there are the old reliables for the GOP: efforts to hold down voter turnout and giant flows of big money.

This year, though, there’s a wrinkle to the first one. Trump’s campaign against the Post Office may have started out as a fight with Amazon, but right now, it’s clearly turned into something else. Empirical evidence from the Wisconsin primary is clear that voting in person led to several waves of new COVID infections.

As a result, interest in mail balloting is way up. Of course, Republicans are mostly opposed to that, though empirical evidence up to now does not suggest that mail ballots have strong partisan advantages one way or the other. But, of course, a broke Post Office won’t be delivering much of anything. My guess is that you’ll see Trump dig in ever more obdurately on this issue as election day approaches.

Which brings us to the money question. Here, I don’t have much to add to what my colleagues Paul Jorgensen, Jie Chen, and I wrote earlier in the year. In 2016, we found that Trump floated to victory on a big wave of late money from large private equity firms, among others. We also conjectured that the perfect correlation for the first time in American history between Republican success in Senate elections and the outcome of the presidential vote in states was not an accident. That turned out to be true. Trump did a bit better in states with Senate races. We’ve now shown how late money turned around those Senate races, when prospects just weeks before the election looked hopeless. That example is instructive. Democratic candidates who lost elections in those final days have told me how they watched the inflow of money turn around what had seemed a favorable situation. Problems with even counting ballots are, I think, likely to make 2020 very tense, no matter what polls say now or even the day before. Whether we live in a pre- or a post-apocalyptic era might be tested.

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conchabae · 4 years

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Greta Thunberg and Friday’s 4 Future

"I don't care about being popular. I care about climate justice."

This statement by Greta Thunberg is very powerful. Every generation has had youth that to some extent like the idea of and strive for success, fame and power, but these aspirations have been warped and are all too important amongst our younger generations today. This is directly linked to the nature of internet culture and social media which profits and promotes extreme beauty ideals, materialistic possessions and expressions of grandeur alongside a fixation on followers, likes and the analytics of online “popularity”. Yet, we still have cultural norms that view the youngest in society as the progressives, those who are responsible for shifting and building a better tomorrow. Many Western teens today spend their free-time on beauty tutorials, fashion and other forms of entertainment. There’s beauty in that Greta Thunberg, a well-off Swedish white girl, who could turn a blind eye to injustices in the world, fights to unlearn and speak up against climate injustice. In addition, she fights to spread awareness and put pressure on global governments to make needed systemic change. Greta claims she doesn't care about being popular, because she clearly does not do this for being liked and famous, she knows that fighting for climate justice and sustainability is not popular or “trendy”, she does it because it is what she cares about, and because it is right.

It is because of her honesty and dedication, that she has moved and awaken millions of other western people. Ironically, she has become an iconic and famous figure for defending the environment. It is admirable that even with a platform which has received millions of followers, praise from celebrities, as well as invites from famous politicians, she has never given up her principles to become more likable and her message stays the same, even when it is uncomfortable to those who know they do not do enough for the earth.

I did not live in NYC last year, but there was a climate strike in Foley Square in 2019 as well as strikes all across the world. I was inspired by Greta’s movement and participated in the school strike for climate in Stockholm. It was amazing to see so many people of all different backgrounds and ages participating in the city’s center to hear climate activists and my friends and I boycotted school to support the Friday’s 4 Future campaign.

The long term dedication and commitment movements like Friday’s 4 Future and Black Lives Matter have shown for years now, have woken me up to my complacency to my reality, when it does not align with the world I want to live in. I was 13 years old when the Black Lives Matter hashtag and conversation started. I was 18 when Greta Thunberg started striking for the climate. I realize now that it is not only the people we see highlighted in the news who can make important change, it is all of us. Greta Thunberg’s book No One Is Too Small To Make A Difference, really was a wakeup call on how climate change, which is inevitable with our current ways, is a crisis and an urgent issue that can only be resolved by facing it head on.

Photos from the Stockholm strike taken by: Lotta Fernvall / AFTONBLADET

These are a selection of a few photos taken at the global Climate Strike in 2019, but these are all taken in front of the Swedish parliament, where the movement began. It is surreal how people in the thousands came to join her on this historical global strike in her home country and all over the world, when she started striking all by herself at this exact spot. Greta Thunberg has been the catalyst for heightened awareness and care about climate justice.

I think many people, including Greta Thunberg herself in the trailer for her Hulu documentary, attribute her hyper focus on the reality and danger of climate change to her having Asperger’s syndrome. While a common symptom of Asperger’s syndrome is to have an “obsessive” interest in a particular subject, I do think we should not dismiss her drive, passion and heart in climate justice just to her condition. Greta’s ability to push against her discomfort with social networking, to perform speeches in front of millions, and exchange awkward pleasantries with powerful public figures to access their platform, shows huge amounts of bravery and heart. It is a character strength that she has tunnel vision on the science of climate change and carbon emissions, and this helps her continue to educate herself on the topic. This is something that many of us locals do not show interest in, especially since most of the information is clouded in complicated and exclusionary scientific language, often in lengthy journals.

She does not just care about the environment for the knowledge, she wants to save the world, and save future generation’s right to fulfilling and happy lives. I have so much respect for her and trust in her intentions, and as Greta has said herself, she does not struggle with Asperger’s, she has it. Her journey to activism and contributions to the world should not be pigeon holed or minimized by her condition.

The COVID-19 pandemic, which has forced us all to experience a different state than our regular normal, has made it more clear than ever, that many of our customs and way of life are not sustainable. As the prevalence of police brutality and other systems of oppression are harder to ignore, I think we all are becoming more aware of daily injustices. In the first months of quarantine in Europe, reports were showing photographic evidence that wildlife and ecosystems were improving and thriving because of the reduced human activity that used to scare away wildlife and pollute ecosystems. The visual that is etched into my mind are the rivers in Venice, Italy. Because of the mandatory quarantine, no boats or gondolas were in use, and the rivers all over the water city cleared to a vibrant blue. It took me back to a trip there when I was 12, and how the waters were so green and muddy we joked that falling in would be a health risk. It was somewhat bittersweet to see this imagery, as it was beauty that was rare to see, and that it is rare because of us!

Photos taken of clear water in Italy, taken by @ikaveri on Twitter.

In this same pandemic, we have also seen the red and orange skies of LA, filled with clouds and rainfalls of ash. This was heartbreaking for the world to witness, as we learned it was the cause of not some dreamy sunset or blood sun, but because of the massive forest wild fires that have devastated families and communities by burning down homes and making the air unbreathable in some places.

Photo credit: Brittany Hosea-Small / AFP VIA GETTY IMAGES

Photo by Josh Edelson / AFP VIA Getty Images

There is no quick fix for the climate and like all social issues, we need to be committed and address it from various angles. We need to vote in political representatives that acknowledge climate change as fact, which unfortunately is the first crucial step we must take unlike other democracies with the same quality of education and science. We need to then protest and put as much pressure as possible on local, state and national politics to enact policies that lead to reduced emissions. We must reduce the amount of influence and investments fossil fuel corporations receive from taxpayers, and invest federally into sustainable alternatives. Unfortunately, most Americans do not even realize how much their lifestyle destroys their land but also the global climate temperature. We need to create a social shift in attitudes around consumption in all forms and this starts with widespread education, so perhaps media and specifically social media is the strongest and quickest way to do this.

“If a few girls can get headlines all over the world just by not going to school for a few weeks, imagine what we could do together if we wanted to.”

I think this quote by Greta emphasizes the power of the people being unified and organized. When we are organized is when we are truly unstoppable and cannot be ignored by the appointed leaders that be. We outnumber them all. We need to organize and stay focused to make real and much needed change.

“Adults keep saying - We owe it to the young people to give them hope - but I don’t want your hope.

I don’t want you to be hopeful.

I want you to panic.”

- Greta Thunberg in her Our House is On Fire speech.

I think the discussion around Greta Thunberg and her activism is interesting and there are three camps with different receptions of her in online discourse. I think the first camp were responsible for her becoming a household name globally. People who felt overwhelmed about climate change, had made some attempts at doing their part, like only riding public transport and going vegan. The first camp mainly consists of the younger generations that were somewhat aware but overwhelmed with the amount of structural issues that contribute to climate change. They were the force that joined Greta at her strikes in Stockholm outside Swedish parliament, and the ones who organized strikes in their own home countries. The second camp, were those like me, who found out about her a bit later when a strong media buzz was already present and notably by media that did not intend to further her purpose and emphasize the importance of climate justice, but just used her for novelty, headlines and clickbait instead. Many marginalized people questioned some of Greta’s viral rhetoric that often spoke of her being “stolen of her childhood and dreams'' as we saw a European, well-off white girl, who was being invited to speak to the most influential politicians, embraced by Hollywood A-listers and was also being honored at protests around the globe for her strikes. What could she possibly know about struggle? We respected her passion for climate change, but convinced ourselves that she needs to scold politicians and those who actually hold power for change, so we carried on with our lives and continued to live in comfortable denial. The third camp consisted of active climate change deniers, and conservatives who weaponized her Asperger's and the fact that she was a young woman (can’t forget to add ageism and misogyny to edgy memes eh?) and aimed to assassinate her character and validity in the form of “jokes” and memes. The third camp often brought up her privilege not only as a critique, but as a means to silence her and the topic altogether. Many influential right-wing politicians, including Donald Trump, partook in this to distance their followers from having any interest in her, or climate justice.

“Greta Thunberg is the spark but we are the wildfire.” - Naomi Klein

As I mentioned earlier, Greta Thunberg’s book has taken away my criticisms of her global status. She has brilliant values, an in-depth scientific understanding of the subject she advocates for, and her emphasis on climate equity, which many white activists fail to acknowledge as an important factor, all made me a supporter of Greta. I do not care about the trolls and those who have tried to ridicule and minimize the honor in her life mission. She is probably one of the most inspiring individuals and change makers of my time. Her book and speeches have amazing rhetoric that unprogrammed a lot of my own learned helplessness about the environment. It also reminded me of my individual responsibility as well as my government's responsibility to stop global warming from happening and create a sustainable world. We need to put in the work, we only have so much time left before it is too late, whether we like that fact or not. Her stance that climate change is black and white is so effective and true: “either we reduce global emissions by 50%, or we do not.” It really is that simple. We need to activate so we can enact the needed solutions to meet that goal. Reading Thunberg’s book has inspired me to take more action and make more sustainable choices and unlearn a lot of U.S. consumerism culture. I have educated myself more throughout quarantine by learning about zero waste methods and the environmental benefits of veganism. However, while personal accountability is great, it is a form of privilege to be able to buy more sustainably, especially when the current market place mainly offers unsustainable products as the most affordable. We must also learn how to politically fight for actual policies and political change that force systemic and societal change .

“We have a new wave of contention in society that’s being led by women. … And the youth climate movement is leading this generational shift."

- Dana Fisher

In late 2019, The Washington Post conducted a poll that found that 46% of teen girls said the climate was “extremely important”, while only 23 % of teen boys said so. Furthermore, more than twice as many black and Hispanic teens participated in school strikes on climate change than their white peers, and girls were more likely to participate than boys. This data is one of several including Dana Fisher’s, a sociologist and researcher at the University of Maryland, who found similar ratios when studying the populations of activists and participants in the Washington, DC 2019 climate strike.

I think the ratio of who shows up for the environment points to social roles at large. The likelihood of caring about climate change can do with one’s privilege and ability to empathize with abstract or foreign problems that one may not be negatively affected with (right now). While we all hold some form of privilege, all women have experienced some form of sexism and misogyny, and therefore are more likely to be able to empathize with marginalized groups they do not belong to, and advocate for social movements that address injustices they may not themselves experience.

There is a correlation between those most marginalized in society, being the most active in social reform and revolution. Because when one is in the lowest or lower social casts of society, and has the least social freedoms and privileges, one has nothing to lose and everything to gain from change. This is why we can see in many social justice movements across the US, that black queer people and specifically black trans women, have consistently been at the forefront for important social progress.

When it comes to climate change, there is a certain amount of empathy required, especially when you live in a western country, or part of the world where you have an excess of resources at your disposal and you are comfortable with the status quo. That is something we all need to address and with that comes a checking of ego. Is my temporary happiness more important than other people’s well-being and lives? Am I contributing to the exploitation of people and the destruction of the planet? My planet?

I do not often see men on a large scale extending this type of self-reflection and empathy for social problems, either in small social settings or in positions of power. This is similar to how many men do not reflect on how it feels to be catcalled or sexually harassed as a woman. This is not because men are predisposed to be heartless rather, I believe this is a cause of social conditioning. Women are more conditioned to be team players, to listen and exercise great empathy at all times, otherwise she is socially scorned. Men are not expected to show these traits to the same extent, and often can rely on this lack of social standard and their own privilege to ignore social issues all together. We need to unlearn that issues women care about are insular to “women’s issues”, for they are societal problems, and we need to encourage and expect young boys and men to be equally accountable for a better world.

It is so inspiring to see so many young teens following Greta’s initiative, like Alexandria Villaseñor, who after experiencing an asthma attack during a wildfire in California, not only took the time to educate herself on the dangers of this phenomenon, but also organized Friday’s 4 Future strikes in NYC with the US Climate Strike group. Since then, she has also spoken at countless international conventions about climate change, and alongside Thunberg and 15 other youth activists, filed a legal complaint against UN nations who had not upheld their Paris agreement climate goals. This is so badass and I did not even know about this until today. In fact, there are countless teens all over the world, many of whom aren’t of legal voting age, who are suing local / federal governments and organizations for environmental malpractice and for jeopardizing their futures!

As they should! Let’s all keep fighting for a better and sustainable future.

Students and youth striking in Seoul, South Korea. Photo credit: Chung Sung-Jun / GETTY IMAGES

Young people striking in Edinburgh, Scotland. Photo credit: Jeff J Mitchell / GETTY IMAGES

Youth striking in Hong Kong. Photo credit: Kim Cheung / AP PHOTO

#gretathunberg #fridays4future #nooneistoosmalltomakeadifference #girlinnovator #activism #environmentalism #alexandriavillasenor #climatestrike

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my-halo-is-a-little-broken · 4 years

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I took this from my Facebook: I'm in a mood this morning so let's go and cover a few things! Now, I'm not black, so I may not be the most clear and concise about some of it, but damnit I'm gonna do my best on the points involving race. Also, if any of this offends you or some shit, don't even open your mouth, I don't have the patience to deal with you, stay quiet and ignore my page, or maybe even better yet, unfriend me!

White privilege: White privilege is real. I'll admit, there was a time a few years ago, I didn't think it was and I didn't understand what people meant when they said it. but now I do. and it's a real fucking thing. people need to grow up and shut the fuck up with their whining. we do have privilege just based off our skin and that needs to be recognized. We need to use that privilege to fight back and support the black community. if we don't use that privilege we are no better than the cops and others who abuse their power because we are staying silent while they do it. Silence only lends itself to the oppresser. Now, you may ask after reading that, what is white privilege? "White privilege refers to societal privilege that benefits white people over non-white people in some societies, particularly if they are otherwise under the same social, political, or economic circumstances." The most relevant example of this right now? Not having to fear for your life just because of your skin color when you get pulled over or stopped by cops.

Black lives matter: Now, I've seen some of y'all say "but all lives matter!" ...shut the fuck up. No one ever said they didn't, they're saying that black lives DO matter. All lives won't matter until ALL lives matter, and right now black lives espcially don't matter to a good amount people, which is why people are fighting to make them matter as they should. As the example that's been going around lately, take houses. Oh yes, all houses are important, but if one of them is on fire, it kinda makes sense for the firefighters to put out the fire at that house instead of spraying down all the houses, right? Some of you want to be oppressed so badly you scream "all lives matter!" or "straight pride!" (as another example). Be fucking thankful you don't need a movement just to be treated as a human being based on your skin. And it's not just about George anymore. He was the spark, the shot heard round the world this time. It's about all the black lives lost, it's about the years of racism, it's about the affects of slavery and segregation we still see today, it's about so much more.

Protests vs riots vs looting: Not all these people are the same. Protesting is included in our FIRST amendment, meaning that when the founding fathers were thinking of what they wanted, that's what they thought of first and as being the most important. The protesters now are marching for black lives and other things such as police reform. Many (most) of them are trying to stay peaceful! It's so widespread now because it's been ignored and shoved down before. So now they're taking to the big cities in mass, making it so they are HEARD! You wanna say they're inconvincing people or shit, well good. That's the point. Protests, even when peaceful, aren't meant to be comfortable. They are there to get a message across. Now, there's been cases of the protests turning into riots. Occasionally it has been started by the protesters. And that's because they're angry, and fed up with not being heard. I'll pull out an analogy a good chunk of y'all will understand, even if it's fictional. Remember in Hunger Games, when Katniss put flowers around Rues body, and District 11 started to riot? It's like that. These people are angry, tired, frustrated, and hurt, and they've been ignored when they've tried to be peaceful, so now they're doing what they KNOW will get attention. But despite this, most of the riots aren't started by protestors, especially POC ones. No, most of them are started by white people getting big heads and wanting to say "FUCK DA POLICE/AUTHORITY" or even the cops themselves. Most people that start destroying property are white, and usually black people try and stop them from doing it. And then you have the cops. Destroying medical supplies, firing rubber bullets and tear gasat peaceful protesters, physically pushing them, etc even when they have NO reason to. And before you cite MLKs peaceful protests, many of those ended with the cops setting dogs on the protesters or spraying with fire hoses or beating them with batons. And this leads to riots because it riles people up, they get even angrier. And then you have the looters. Most looters aren't even with the protests, and instead are trailing behind them to loot stores because they know the protesters will get the blame. Oh, and cops have been documented looting too.

Cops: now, this one is really touchy, but let's go and I'll try and articulate it best I can. There can be cops that do good for their community, have good intentions at heart, but here's the thing. Our justice system, especially the cop part, is corrupt in one way or another, and has many flaws. It needs fixed. These people may join with good intentions, but they are joininga system that is inherently bad. And before y'all want to try and start shit with me over this, I just took a semester long class over this. The system has racism ingrained into it's core, even if people don't realize it. That's why the current system needs dismantled and a new one that will actually do good needs put in place. There's so so so much that ties into it, such as better mental health treatments, community outreach programs, and more. With the current system, cops are not meant to help people, but rather control them, even if they don't realize it. Do you know why we have so many shows about cops? Have you ever heard of Dragnet? Dragnet was originally started to show the cops in a good light because people were not happy with cops, so they started making propaganda, yes, that's what it truly is, to make the cops look good, to make them out to be these pillars of righteousness and whatnot so they could start getting the public on their side. And thus the long and still strong tradition of cop shows are around, whether it be reality TV like Cops, or complete fiction like Law & Order. And even if these shows do make steps to address shortcomings of the police system, their roots are still in propaganda. Circling back, you also have the cops that stand by and do nothing. As I said earlier, silence lends itself to the oppresser, and when cops don't speak up, they are doing the same.

Children (and pets/animals) at protests: Here's the thing. people bringing their kids and pets are more than likely bringing them to PEACEFUL protests. Now you may say, "well they should know it could turn violent!" ...It's called a peaceful protest for a REASON. Ok, let's say it does turn violent? Cops are still directly targeting children. And even if they aren't, they see the kids, and instead of rethinking what they're about to do, they still do it, they still mace and tear gas those kids. And guess what? Some of them aren't even with the protests! some of the kids that have been maced and tear gassed have been with their BYSTANDER parents as they have to pass through the area to get to their homes or wherever. like the little girl whose mom was driving them somewhere and they got caught in tear gas the police had been throwing, and were gassed out of their car. as the mom was trying to take care of her daughter a cop came up to them. the mom said (screamed) "she's just three" multiple times, and that they weren't at the protest, just trying to get home, and despite that, the cop looked directly at the little girl and then threw the canister directly at her, causing it to blow up in her face. And the police animals. I agree, those animals should not be subjected to pain. It is not their choice to be there, they don't know what they're doing, they're just doing as trained. I've seen people get more upset about the police animals than I have kids, and you cry that parents choose to bring their kids. Well, cops are choosing to bring their animals. Neither kids nor animals on either side should be getting hurt, hell, no one should, the protests are meant to stay peaceful.

Protesters going missing and other things: Multiple protestors have magically "disappeared", unlawfully arrested, or detained without food, water, etc. and who knows what else. This should not be happening. These people aren't just disappearing, they shouldn't have to fear for basic rights or even for their fucking lives when exercising their first amendment right. Curfews have been a big issue. A curfew will be announced just a few minutes before, or get changed so people get caught outside with no where to go, thus getting arrested. Or like in Chicago, where the bridges were raised so they had no way to leave. Or other places where they are blocked in so they technically violate curfew. Or places where protesters are told to clear out or they'll get arrested, and instead of giving them time to leave, they start arresting them right away. Or what about when people are sitting there, just trying to talk to the police, hands up, and are still arrested?

There's so much more I could say, but I do want to leave off with this. So many ask why young people are so involved with this. we have been raised on a diet of Hunger Games, Divergent, Avatar: The Last Air Bender, Harry Potter, Steven Universe, and so much more. We have been taught to fight back injustice and oppression, to make our voices be heard and to help make others voices be heard. We have been raised by parents to speak out and defend ourselves. We have already lived through pain and suffering in our short lives, and we are tired of it. So we are damn sure going to fight back and try to make this shitty little world even a tiny bit better for whoever we can. We are told this is the land of the free, and that we can be whoever we please and get to live our lives as we see fit, and damnit, we are going to make that happen for ALL of us.

#blacklivesmatter #black lives fucking matter #black lives count #black lives have always mattered #black lives are important #black lives matter #black lives have value #black lives movement #justice for george floyd #justice for floyd #blm movement #blm protests #protest

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tact-and-impulse · 4 years

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At Arm’s Length Chapter 14

*dojo door slams open* Dad’s home.

Thank you for your patience! Now that this is the last installment correlating to the Kyoto arc, the next chapter will be an interlude before we hop onto the angst train. I know it took a long time for this update, and this past year has been a struggle, given I had to prepare for a major exam (which I passed, so that’s something!) and the current state of the world. The events of this chapter cover Kaoru’s childhood to the Seinan war, including several traumatic events. Content warnings for death of a parent, depictions of war, PTSD, death of a spouse, and depictions of hospitalization. Let me know what you think, and please take care of yourselves.

Chapter 14: Becoming a Father

When he emerged from Commissioner Kawaji’s office, Koshijiro let exhaustion take over. He had stayed awake two hours past midnight to finalize his evacuation plan, and the entire morning had already flown by due to the commissioner grilling him on the details. He had fended off the questions with varying degrees of success, until he was dismissed with a scowl.

He returned to his desk, settled in his chair, and closed his eyes. Just for a minute…

“Officer Kamiya, we received a message requesting backup.” Shinichi nervously interrupted his rest.

He shook off the lethargy, to see the rookie. Occasionally, the young officers were called on for assistance, and Koshijiro had to accompany them as their direct superior. “Please tell me the details on the way there. Let’s head over.”

There was a clash at the fish market, reportedly between two rival gangs. The details of the feud were unknown, but both sides were agitated and aggressive. Shouts and crashes could be heard from a block away. As Koshijiro and the others approached, the noise intensified. The scene was chaotic. Men were exchanging blows and throwing various items at each other. Bloodied faces drifted in and out among the mob, along with the uniforms of officers. The rookies immediately launched themselves into the fray, disappearing in a matter of moments.

A flash of red barreled towards Koshijiro’s right, and he instinctively caught…an octopus. His arm held the creature to his chest, and its tentacles curled around his sleeve and towards his neck. Gingerly, he set it in a nearby bucket of water, and it wriggled in relief. Now that he looked closer, some of the thrown items were raw seafood.

But not all.

A sword swung towards Koshijiro, the rusty edge aiming for his temple, and he ducked. His right hand fell to his bokken, as he analyzed his opponent. A shorter, stockier man with a gap-toothed grin and a death wish, apparently. Koshijiro drew his bokken, moving into a defensive position.

It wasn’t difficult to read his movements, and when the man attempted an overhead swing, Koshijro blocked. The force was intense, and he had to widen his stance. However, that set him up perfectly for the next move. With an inhale, he pushed back, lifting his back foot off the ground to hook around the man’s knee. The man gave a startled exclamation as his feet turned inward, and Koshijiro disengaged. His opponent threatened to fall forward and that left him open for a strike at the sensitive point behind the elbow. The man’s grip spasmed, but even if he could somehow shake off the numbness, Koshijiro was already following through with another blow to the back of the head. Koshijiro watched him go down, and the immediate handcuffing by Officer Abe, who was on standby.

“Whoa, Kamiya-san, that was awesome!”

“Well, I’m glad it worked. I’ve been thinking over this maneuver for some time.” He was rather proud of his success, and confidently, he moved on.

In total, fifty people were arrested, jailed, and scheduled for questioning. He had volunteered for the last shift of interrogation and didn’t return home until past midnight. Koshijiro prepared for bed, and every movement was abnormally loud. Once he had closed his eyes, his ears rang from the eerie silence.

How long had it been since they were gone? June was already coming to a close. Kaoru’s birthday was at the end of the week and he was in Satsuma for her last one. Their usual celebration was a nice dinner, but he felt like this one should be grander, to make amends. He would have to think of something soon…as a testament to how tired he was, he fell asleep mid-thought.

When he woke, he scrambled for the time and realized he was running late. The train would arrive soon, and he had promised to be at the station. He skipped breakfast and broke into a sprint as he drew closer, but he made it to his destination. Tokio rose from a bench, lifting her little son.

“Kamiya-san, thank you for being here. Are you alright?”

He took a moment to catch his breath. “Yes, I’m fine. I see the train’s here?” The locomotive seemed to be giving a long exhale, the turning of the wheels slowing with each cycle.

“Yes, but they must be checking the passengers before they let them out.” She adjusted her hold on Tsutomu, his sleeping face squished against her collar.

They watched the disembarking people and scanned the faces for a boy of the right description. Finally, he stepped out. He was about ten or eleven, and his hair was mussed from sleeping at an odd angle. Noticing their gazes, he cautiously approached, looking up at Tokio.

“Are you Fujita-san?”

“I am and this is my son, Tsutomu. Kamiya-san is my husband’s colleague.”

Koshijiro nodded in greeting. “It’s good to meet you. How was your journey?”

“Long. It wasn’t too bad until the train.” He wrinkled his nose. “I wanted to go on foot like Kenshin did, the train is too noisy.”

“You met Himura-san?”

“Yeah. He really helped me out in my village.” He became quiet, obviously remembering. “He did say, ‘Kamiya-dono will be in Tokyo, so there is no need to worry.’”

Koshijiro coughed to conceal his embarrassment. “I see. Well, I heard he made it to his destination, so there’s no need to worry about him either.”

Tokio knelt to meet Eiji at eye level. “My husband informed me that you lost your parents and brother. I’m so sorry.”

“Kenshin helped me.” Eiji stared at his feet. “He said the dead only want the living to be happy.”

“He wasn’t wrong.” Koshijiro quietly said. “Your family would want that for you.”

They walked out, and Tokio intended to treat Eiji to a well-deserved meal. She extended the invitation to Koshijiro but he had to decline. “Some other time. I’ll stop by now and then, to check in. If there’s anything you need, you can always visit the Kamiya dojo.”

On his way back, he passed a flower seller, hawking baskets teeming with small pink and white deutzia. They greatly resembled cherry blossoms and he remembered they were gone by August. He turned around and paid for one bouquet, mentally mapping out the detour to the cemetery.

Kyoko will surely love these flowers.

***

Everything about Kaoru was utterly charming. Her little yawns, the way she stretched her whole body when she woke, the downy hair capping her head, her plush grip gently enclosing his thumb. She was an energetic baby, working her fingers and flailing her limbs as if testing them out. She was more than Koshijiro and Kyoko could have asked for.

She grew quickly, and Koshijiro was loath to miss a moment. He couldn’t help but feel a little envious of Kyoko and Osue-san, who visited thrice a week to help out. The majority of his day was spent working, so when he returned home at Kaoru’s early bedtime, Kyoko encouraged him to rock their daughter to sleep. She reassured otherwise but he had felt awkward in the early days, too large and clumsy for his tiny girl. As he strolled through the house, Kaoru’s round eyes intently focused on his face before she slowly nodded off.

When she was a few months old, Koshijiro noticed a bright blue ribbon tied around her head. “Hm? What’s this?’ He asked Kyoko.

“I noticed she has a bald spot, so I thought to cover it with the ribbon.” Meanwhile, Kaoru didn’t seem to mind, happily rolling onto her belly and offering Koshijiro a smile.

He sat beside her and one pudgy hand touched his knee before she tried to lift her upper body. Her feet pushed against the tatami but she didn’t budge. As she struggled to move to his lap, her barely visible eyebrows drew together and she made a loud noise of frustration. Amused, he picked her up by the armpits and remarked. “It’s a little early for you to crawl, Kaoru, but it’s good that you’re eager.”

“She’ll be crawling soon.” Kyoko joined them, adjusting the blue ribbon so it was more secure. “And then, she’ll walk and run.”

“Not too fast for us, I hope.”

But for now, Kaoru was still small enough to hold. While their little home was cozy and quiet, it was not as peaceful outside. The disasters of the Ansei era had accumulated in the past two years: cholera raging through Edo, an earthquake in Hida, an assassination near the Sakurada gate. A treaty with the Americans had been signed, resulting in widespread discontent. With the ports open to trade, the markets and routes changed. Inflation drove costs up, as foreigners bought gold. The shogunate was proving to be increasingly unequipped to handle current issues.

Meanwhile, Koshijiro continued to teach kenjutsu. His students were eager to use real blades and threatened to leave if they couldn’t. He did his best to ensure everyone was safe, but he only had one pair of eyes. There were several close calls. After a particularly nasty duel between two students, he sent a doctor for their injuries and ended class early. When everyone had left, he sat on the freshly cleaned dojo floor, rubbing his forehead. The students were eager to fight and yes, they needed to know how to protect themselves, but was he enabling them? What would his predecessors think of him?

“Sorry to interrupt.”

He turned to see Kyoko, holding their baby daughter and beaming at him. “It’s Otou-san, Kaoru. Otou-san.”

Kaoru gave a delighted cry, waving her fist. How could he possibly be despondent?

Kyoko handed her off, and the baby’s soft cheek grazed his. She nuzzled, turning her face against his shoulder, and he held her tighter. Meeting his wife’s tender gaze, he smiled. “Thank you.”

Once Kaoru could toddle about, there was no stopping her, and she took obvious joy in being followed. Her wide smile over her shoulder was a precious thing to behold. When she’d fall, her tears weren’t out of pain but desire for comfort, for she quickly stopped once she was held. Soon enough, even those subsided, and she’d resume walking as if nothing happened.

After one such occurrence, Kyoko began to laugh. “Her face looks just like yours! So determined!”

“If that’s so, then she certainly takes after you too.” But he laughed as well.

It was during those blissful days that his father returned. He had sent a letter in advance, explaining he no longer had work in Kunitake’s area and would be transferring back home. Koshijiro personally suspected they had a falling-out but kept his reply succinct and inviting. Otou-san arrived with the summer heat, and Koshijiro stepped away from the dojo to greet him with a bow.

“Welcome back.”

“Koshijiro, it’s good to be home.” His father smiled. He was noticeably thinner, the lines on his face deeper. “Oh? Is that Kaoru-chan?”

He glanced towards the porch, to see his daughter staring at them, before she unsteadily ran into the house. “Oka! Oka!”

“Calling for her mother?” Otou-san’s tone was both amused and wistful.

“Her first word as well. Please, come in.” As he offered, he took his father’s satchel. It was surprisingly light. Had Otou-san sold his belongings…or was he kicked out?

Kyoko appeared, Kaoru clinging to her leg. “Welcome! Are you hungry at all? We can have lunch early.”

They settled him in, and the tension seemed to leave his frame. He was in his early sixties, Koshijiro thought, but his age had never shown until now. He moved slower, he slept heavier and longer, and he was not as boisterous as before. Worried, Koshijiro sent for one of Kyoko’s doctors. For the most part, Otou-san’s health was fair, but his heart was weak and they would have to keep an eye on him. Plenty of rest and a daily routine would help, and they did their best to make him comfortable. Otou-san dove into his art with full force, and more often than not, he could be found painting in the yard. He happily gave Kaoru any paper and ink she wanted to draw with, and allowed her to drum her fists against his back in a makeshift massage. He also got along well with Kyoko, who effortlessly charmed everyone in her orbit anyway. Most of his father’s paintings were sold, but if Kyoko expressed a liking for one, he would set it aside for safekeeping.

“Aha! I see the pattern now.” Otou-san clapped his hands together, after a brief survey of Kyoko’s choices. “You have a keen eye for the seasons. Spring, summer, autumn, winter.”

“Of course, and you depict them so well, Otou-sama. But do you have any preferences on what you paint?”

“Not particularly, though it’s better if everything I see remains still while I’m working.” He joked. “But that’s hardly ever the case. Such is life.” And to prove his point, Kaoru hurtled past him, running at full speed to escape a harried Osue, who was attempting to wash her face.

A few months later, they celebrated Kaoru turning three. The zori only lasted a few steps before she kicked them off with obvious relief and to Osue-san’s chagrin. Her pudgy hands held a long stick of chitose ame, which she eagerly crammed into her mouth.

“Yes, live a long, happy life, Kaoru.” Kyoko murmured. Her fatigue had been worse as of late, and she rested against Koshijiro’s shoulder.

When Kaoru dozed off too, worn out by the day’s activities, Koshijiro held her in his lap. Glancing about to make sure no one else was looking, he pressed a kiss on both of their cheeks, his wife’s cool one and his daughter’s slightly sticky one.

Now that she was old enough, Koshijiro had crafted a bokken to match Kaoru’s size, and she would follow along with morning stretches. Anything more would be too advanced, and she usually fussed when Kyoko had to pull her away. Eventually, Koshijiro noticed perforations in the rice paper, at about the eye level of a little girl. It then became a matter of catching her in the act. He listened carefully for a tiny pop, and after a moment, opened the door to find her staring up at him.

“Kaoru, did you do this?”

“No!” But she sucked in a breath and turned to run away. Koshijiro easily stepped around her.

“I’m going to ask again. Did you poke holes in the doors?”

She squirmed, her mouth petulantly twisting. “…it’s fun.”

“But it isn’t very nice. It worries me and your mother when we have to fix them. And we don’t like being mad at you. Can you be good and promise you’ll stop?” He extended his pinky finger towards her.

“Hmph.” She pouted but she linked her tiny finger with his and they shook on it.

“That’s a promise.”

Her voice was small and uncertain when she asked. “Do you hate me?”

“No, of course not. I never could, and Okaa-san feels the same way.” As the words left him, he suddenly remembered his own childhood voice, declaring that he would never be anything like his father. Gods, he must have caused Otou-san a great deal of pain and he’d never realized until now.

When he spoke with Kyoko, she insisted that they have a conversation. “You need to talk with him alone. There’s still time to make things right between you. As long as you’re alive, you can have another chance.”

He decided to do so, one morning. Otou-san was in his usual spot in the yard, trying to capture the autumn scenery with his paints. He shuffled towards the porch, spared a glance at Kyoko. She narrowed her eyes at his stalling, and urged him to keep moving with quick waves of her hand. Suppressing a sigh, he moved to stand by his father.

“That looks lovely.” He lamely nodded at the painting. What was he doing?

His father laughed. “Thank you. I know you’re not as passionate as I am about this, but I appreciate it. Is something on your mind?”

“I spoke to Kaoru about the holes in the door, and she reminded me of the past.” He slowly said. “I remember some of the unkind words I dealt to you when I was a child, and I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. As you said, you were a child and our situation was…unexpectedly complicated. But I never blamed you or your mother.” He set his brush down, resting it on a small ceramic dish with murky water. “I think if Miyo had been with us, like when you were younger, it might be easier to talk with each other. Maybe, she’d still be with us.”

The wind swept through, and a lull fell over them. Koshijiro cleared his throat, swallowing the sudden lump there. “Kyoko says people live on in the stories we tell.”

“She’s right.” He paused. “I never told you how I met your mother.”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

“Well, it wasn’t romantic. I fell asleep by the river, while sketching. I only meant to have a nap, but when I woke up, it was morning and Miyo was standing over me. Then, I kept seeing her all the time, while I was in town. Our paths crossed frequently after that. I was happy whenever I saw her, and disappointed when I didn’t. When I found that she was looking for work, I hired her. And after that, I only fell deeper. I was sure…that we could live happily together. But Otsuna and Kunitake were jealous. I knew they were, but I raised them like my own after my cousin and wife died. I did my best, trying not to choose. Miyo never told me she was pregnant with you, and when I met you, you were almost a year old. But I couldn’t let you either of you go again. You probably don’t remember much, but despite the circumstances at the time, the famine and uncertainty, those were some of the happiest days of my life.”

Something gave in his chest at his father’s words and sober expression. Otou-san was not perfect by any means, far from it, and yet…he was only human in the end. “That time is vague in my memories but I was happy too.”

“I am sorry though. I never meant for you to be hurt by your siblings, and I did speak to them multiple times. Their harassment is a failure on my part. I don’t know where I went wrong, but please believe that I never encouraged their behavior.”

“I believe you and that it’s not entirely your fault.” He assured. “There comes a point when immaturity is no longer an excuse and I doubt they ever found it. Years ago, I would have thought it difficult to uproot the resentment I have. But I can now. I do forgive you and I think I understand you a little better now. Even more so because I have Kyoko and Kaoru.”

Otou-san looked as if he was about to cry, and he was at a loss for what to do. Almost as if on cue, the door opened to signal someone was on the porch. Kaoru darted towards them, with a wide smile. “Jii-jii!” She twirled in place, her little ponytail flying. “This new ribbon is pretty, right?”

His father nodded, voice light. “Of course! It’s the same color as a rose. And you’re pretty from head to toe. And what does your Otou-san think?”

They both turned to him, and Koshijiro cleared his throat. “Yes, Kaoru, it’s very nice. Did Okaa-san buy it for you?”

“Uh-huh. We match now! Tou-san, come see.” She grabbed his hand, pulling him back towards the house amidst his father’s laughter. Kyoko had tied her own rose-colored ribbon in her bun, and she lifted her head from her sewing with a smile when they rejoined her at the table.

“Thank you.” He murmured.

“You’re welcome. How do you feel?”

“Better.”

“Then, that’s good.” Their private conversation was interrupted by Kaoru, wondering where one of her books was.

In the evenings, Kyoko read aloud to Kaoru, who had claimed a spot to nestle between them in their futon. Koshijiro was embarrassed whenever he fell asleep to his wife’s voice, but those were rare, since Kaoru would poke his side and ask if he wanted to read next. She would try to turn the pages for him, intent on helping move their nightly story forward. She already knew a few kanji, including her name, and Koshijiro was very proud.

There was one issue that arose. One of the new books Kaoru liked was about a family, which had multiple children. The youngest was a newborn girl, and Kaoru seemed fascinated, her fingers lingering on the baby’s descriptions. Once Kyoko ended the tale, the inevitable question came.

“Kaa-san?”

“Yes?”

“Where do babies come from?”

“Hmm.” Kyoko pretended to ponder over the matter. “Well, they appear when an Okaa-san and an Otou-san wish very hard.”

“Oh. So I will wish.”

“Wish for what, Kaoru?”

“A little sister!”

“That’s such a nice wish.” Kyoko mildly replied. “Now, let’s go to sleep.”

Koshijiro fervently hoped that would be the end, but as the seasons changed, Kaoru was still loudly expressing her desire for a younger sister. It became a daily inquiry, and at last, Koshijiro decided to gently break the news to her, before going to bed.

“Perhaps, you should think of a new wish. A little sister probably isn’t on its way.”

“Why not?” She demanded.

“W-well…” He stammered, thrown off guard. “It takes two people to make that kind of a request?” Kyoko immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes shut and shoulders trembling with concealed laughter. “Two adults, like me and your mother.”

“Tou-san, then wish with Kaa-san.”

What had he done to deserve this conversation? “But when a baby comes, you can’t exchange it, even if it’s a boy.”

“A little brother would be okay too, like Hitomi-chan’s.” Kaoru conceded, referring to one of her older playmates.

Thankfully, Kyoko took over, still smiling from the aftershocks. “Kaoru, we waited a very long time for you. We wished and prayed and nearly gave up. I don’t know if we can be that lucky a second time. But if you’re feeling lonely, let’s invite Hitomi-chan and your other friends over more often. And there are other children who live nearby too. Maybe, there will be someone who would like a big sister. What do you think?”

“…alright.” Over her head, Kyoko and Koshijiro exchanged relieved glances.

***

Emperor Meiji ascended to the throne, and a power struggle with the shogunate seemed imminent. Nothing in the news was particularly uplifting, a prelude to the certain turmoil.

One wintry morning, he passed by Otou-san’s room and stopped. The door was wide open, though without signs of a struggle. In the front, his father��s shoes were missing, and a quick scan confirmed that the yard was empty. A sense of foreboding overcame him. He walked past the gate, looking down the road to find a set of shallow footprints. They led to a large tree, shielding any snow from covering Otou-san’s sitting form. As he approached, the foreboding grew stronger, and it was only confirmed when he gently placed his palm upon his father’s shoulder. There was no heat at all. Otou-san’s face was perfectly tranquil, his final moments of acceptance, and Koshijiro bowed his head.

“Thank you, and goodbye. I’ll take you to Okaa-san now.”

The funeral was surprisingly crowded, with many people offering to pay their respects. It was clear that Otou-san had been respected and loved, by not only his colleagues but also the neighborhood and his fellow artists. Noticeably, there were two figures who never showed, but Koshijiro did not mind. It was best that his wife and daughter wouldn’t meet his siblings. Preferably never at all. Otou-san’s ashes were laid to rest beside the simple grave of the woman he loved, and Koshijiro blinked back sudden tears at the sight of his parents, reunited in death.

Kyoko’s familiar hand slipped into his. “It’s alright. You can cry, if you need to.” She gently said.

“Forgive me, Kyoko. I don’t know why-” He broke off, his voice shaky. He didn’t know why his composure was crumbling at this moment, when he had handled the funeral arrangements so steadily.

“Shh. I’m here, and so is Kaoru. We’re here.” Her gaze shone with her own tears, and Kaoru clung to Koshijiro’s other side, brows drawn together. They remained in a close huddle, all the way home. The house was quieter, and sometimes, there’d be an extra bowl set out by accident, but like years ago, the grief was easier to bear with time.

That spring, he was on midnight patrol, lantern in hand. A distant clamor rerouted him, and he kept one hand on the hilt of his katana as he hurried towards the shouts. A couple of shadows were already fleeing, leaving four bodies. One emitted a weak rattling cough. He drew closer and the lantern’s glow illuminated the man’s bloody face. “Hayashi?!” He checked for a pulse on his friend’s slick neck. Rapid, but present. He stabilized Hayashi, just as his colleagues rushed over.

The story was that it had been a group of ruffians, looking for anyone to rob in this economic crisis. Hayashi did survive, though at the cost of a maimed right leg. He was despondent; such an injury meant an end to kenjutsu and his service to his lord. “I’ll be thrown away, who wants a cripple for protection?”

“Don’t say that,” Koshijiro tried to persuade him. “Focus on getting better first, before returning to work.”

“As if. Just leave me to die and go back to your own dojo.” Hayashi snarled. That only served to steel Koshijiro. He wrote to Maekawa and Kikuhara, requesting their assistance, and continued to visit with food and water.

Maekawa was there within the week, and spoke nothing of kenjutsu, just boisterously singing as he cleaned Hayashi’s row house. Kikuhara was unable to do anything in person, but he sent packages of books, paintings, and other things to pass the time with. At first, Hayashi shouted at them, to the point where he wore himself out. They took meals at his bedside if he wouldn’t move and changed his dressings, and although Maekawa was skeptical that they were helping at all, Koshijiro insisted they were. Hayashi’s strength was slow to build, given his initial resistance, but he left his bed in order for them to stop nagging, as he put it, and scowled as he ate. He no longer raised his voice or spoke of dying. Despite his perpetual bitter mood, it was progress.

Koshijiro believed they were going to finally get him out of the house, only to find that the door chained in place. Hayashi had left a folded note in one of the edges. Thank you for staying with me, but I need to find my own way in life again.

A search resulted in nothing. Maekawa expressed his characteristic confidence that Hayashi would be fine, wherever he ended up, and Koshijiro reluctantly accepted that he had to trust his friend would continue to live on.

His dojo was faring well; there were many who were eager to learn how to fight or have their sons learn. At seven, Kaoru relished helping out, and he tended to ask for her to demonstrate, especially for the newcomers. She was as old as he was, when he first started learning, and with her head start, she was very good at kenjutsu and knew it. She loved being in the dojo, and although Koshijiro was proud of her enthusiasm, she did fight with some of the boys who were prejudiced towards a female classmate and mistakenly believed she was weaker. More than once, he had to break up a tussle. Punishment was dealt equally too, he didn’t want to favor his daughter and he could handle her grumpiness afterward. If she wanted to spar those boys in a designated match, however, he never objected.

Kyoko was much more apprehensive. “I’m not saying she can’t be in the dojo. I don’t want to confine her; I want her to enjoy life.” She was very firm about that sentiment, given her upbringing. “But I’m worried she’ll be hurt. It’s different for women. Men are allowed to bear scars with pride, whereas we’re expected to hide them.”

“I understand, but she’s growing up and she knows how to pick herself up when she falls. Kaoru’s resilient, like you.”

“That’s kind of you to say, dear.” It was an evasive reply. She still wasn’t mollified and fretted over Kaoru’s bruises and scrapes. Kaoru complained about the thick ointments, that most of her injuries were accidents and in the increasingly rarer fights, the dumb boys kind of deserved it. Koshijiro silently agreed with the latter point, as he bandaged his daughter up.

The majority of his students were now outside the samurai class, and somehow, word must have spread because he had a spectator who lingered after one class.

“Are you interested in joining?” Koshijiro inquired.

“It would be an honor but no. I am here as a representative of Omura.” The man smiled. “Have you heard of him?”

“Omura Masujiro? The Choshu strategist?”

“Yes, I’m glad you recognized him. But are you are aware of the cause he fights for?”

“It seems you’ll tell me regardless.”

There was the usual talk about sonno joi, or the expulsion of foreigners. But one thing caught Koshijiro’s attention. “The samurai class has abused their power and wealth for far too long. What we want is to remind them that at their core, they are no better than anyone else. To level the field, so to speak, and put an end to the four class system. Think about it, and we’ll be in town.” He provided the name of an inn they frequented and departed.

The conversation kept surfacing in Koshijiro’s thoughts. He did not believe that foreign influence was totally beneficial. The consequences of famine, economic turmoil, and disease were too severe to be ignored. Hayashi was one of many who had suffered from the growing unrest among the people. But it was too late to close the borders again. The military was already incorporating Western technology, and Choshu was offering military training to commoners. Omura’s follower spoke of humbling the samurai. Abolishing the class structure…he could accept that idea. Takaoka was supporting Satsuma and Choshu, the leaders of the rebellion. They were gathering anyone who was willing to go to Kyoto and assist in the fight to end the shogunate. A number of samurai from Oyumi were going, including Koshijiro’s direct superior, but before he could leave, he had to speak to Kyoko and Kaoru.

Kyoko responded first. “Of course, I want you to stay and be safe. If you leave, you might never return. But…” She stared at her own hands, wrapped around her teacup. A few wisps of hair escaped from behind her ear, and he reached over to tuck them back. “You feel very strongly about this.” With an inhale, she firmly straightened and met his gaze. “Promise us you’ll survive.”

“I promise. Will you and Kaoru be alright?”

Their daughter hadn’t said anything yet, her eyes wide as she looked at them. Kyoko reached for her hands, drawing her closer.

“Kaoru and I will be fine. I’m certain we won’t be the only women left behind either. We’ll manage and welcome you home when you return.”

“We’ll be here, Otou-san, don’t worry about us.” Kaoru’s voice was subdued, but she attempted a smile.

“Thank you. I’ll be home again before you know.”

He had been very naïve.

***

His first experience with war could never be forgotten. From the march on foot to the first battle cry in earshot, it all stayed with him. Most of the early days blurred together, leaving the impression of sore feet and shoulders. But when they reached Kyoto, the adrenaline surged within him and his fingers shook as he loaded his gun.

One moment, it was quiet. The next, commands were shouted down the line, and then, there was cracking gunfire and smoke. The soldier next to him was struck by a bullet. The man in front was cut down, blood seeping through his uniform. Behind him, an enemy cannonball landed on people he couldn’t name but their screams of agony echoed forever.

It was madness. Every day was a fresh ordeal.

The first time he killed a man, it was with his sword. It had been a long day, and his opponent was too slow for one moment. That was all it took, Koshijiro’s blade sinking deeper than either of them expected. The man’s features slackened, and Koshijiro knew he was already gone. The body twitched several times, before finally falling as the sword was removed. Koshijiro’s feet were planted to the ground, which was gradually darkening in color.

I’m sorry.

The words died on his tongue, as a bullet flew past, the sound deafening and reminding him that to stay still in battle meant death. He couldn’t linger, he had to keep moving. He had promised Kyoko and Kaoru he would come home to them, and that became his anchor on the battlefield. Even if doing so meant that he had to feel hollow for all of the rest.

***

“Otou-san? Otou-san?”

Koshijiro jolted. Kaoru was standing before him. When had she approached? He hadn’t noticed.

She beamed at him. “We’re having lunch now.” The sunlit yard stretched behind her, and he gripped the edges of the porch.

He had been home for a week, yet nothing felt real. He should be happy, he was alive and not in bad shape. Many men had not returned at all. But he felt like part of him had been left behind on the battlefield, drifting aimlessly and pulling the rest of him with it until a loud noise startled him and then he was on edge. It wore him out; he was constantly tired, despite waking well after sunrise. And there were the nightmares. He didn’t feel right.

Things had changed in Chiba too. Osue had succumbed to pneumonia in his absence, and he had already paid numb respects to the faithful old woman. Kyoko was understandably melancholy, not helped at all by how her illness had taken a turn. She was on bedrest, and her medicines had increased in quantity. Neither of them were sure how well they were working.

“We met a woman who teaches kenjutsu.”

“You did?”

“Her name is Chiba-san, as in the Chiba clan. Kaoru and I were buying groceries, and she was in her uniform. She was kind enough to invite us to her afternoon lesson. Kaoru really enjoyed it, so I feel more at ease.”

“Then, you can attend her lessons more often. It would be good for Kaoru.” He hadn’t been teaching, he wasn’t ready. Kyoko understood, but Kaoru clearly missed it. Even though she liked Chiba-san’s lessons, he overheard the two of them talking, while they thought he was having a nap.

“Is Otou-san going to be okay?”

“I don’t know yet, Kaoru.”

“He doesn’t talk about the war. It must have been scary.”

“It would be better not to ask. There are some things your father can’t share with us, that he wants to shield us from.” Kyoko evenly said. “When it’s time, he’ll share.”

“And what if he never does?”

“Then, that’s alright. We’ll be here to support him, just like always. He’s still your Otou-san, no matter what.”

“Oh. I get it now.”

His sight flooded and he doubled over. Kyoko and her infinite patience! And his innocent daughter, whose feelings were hurt. Here he was, being pathetic. He didn’t step out to acknowledge them, but he resolved in his heart that he would try to return to normal.

He wrote a routine for himself, including meditation and what to think of to pull himself back to reality. He was out of bed before his wife and daughter, to clean the dojo and equipment, before reintroducing kenjutsu back into his life. But he couldn’t use a real blade anymore. Never again, not even to keep students. He couldn’t let go of the sword, but he could forge a new relationship with it, to protect who was important to him. He began drafting new kata, on defending and disarming. The work anchored him even further, kept him from falling too deeply into listlessness.

Kyoko and Kaoru were encouraging, every step of the way. His wife woke him from the worst nightmares, and she intuitively knew when to give him space and when to be near. She always made her presence known, never startling him. When he returned to work, his satchel hid little notes in her handwriting, heartfelt reminders that pushed back against his dark thoughts. Kaoru was determined to make him smile once a day. Her good cheer was infectious, as she took over in leading their daily stretches. Upon finding her mother’s notes, she added her own, complete with the signature she was practicing. One of her first sewing projects was a handkerchief for him, a fine dark green with three leaves, and she presented it with such pride, his weariness lifted.

It wasn’t always easy. Some days, he faltered, folded in on himself. It wasn’t until months later that he could think back and realize how low he had been. He wasn’t certain if he’d ever feel like that again, but he learned to recognize the triggers and cope.

Now that the Emperor had moved to the freshly renamed Tokyo and there was peace at last, properties were up for grabs. The more Koshijiro heard, the more he leaned into the possibility. There was excellent medical care in the capital, and plenty of work to be had. The influx of people also meant more potential students. It was a time for change, and when would another opportunity like this occur again?

The paperwork was quickly finalized and they packed their belongings. By year’s end, they were settled into their new home in Tokyo. Koshijiro had commissioned renovations and additions, and though the house was larger than needed for a family of three, he and Kyoko discussed accepting boarders to pay off the debt. But the bathhouse was worth it, to the delight of Kyoko and Kaoru, and he liked his dojo very much. The wood smelled fresh and fragrant, and he pivoted in the open space. The light poured in, washing over his face. This was his school, the one he had yearned for all these years. A school of swordsmanship that would use the blade to protect, never to kill. A school that would represent a vow for the present and a wish for the future.

Kamiya Kasshin. The living heart.

***

At first, he thought the Kamiya plot had moved, because there were only supposed to be three graves, for his parents and Kyoko. So the fourth had puzzled him for a moment, before he realized whose it was. Oh. Well, this was very strange, to see his own grave.

“Kenkaku Koshimichi Koki…?” He muttered. The Buddhist name he had been granted for the afterlife felt like it belonged to a different person entirely.

Fortunately, there weren’t many weeds. The ones that were present gave his right shoulder enough work. As he was finishing up, a kind couple offered to scrub down the headstones and light the incense. They made small talk, that they were newlyweds and he had married into her family. They refused any monetary payment, and with clasped hands, they were soon on their way. Alone, Koshijiro knelt.

“I’m a little early, but I thought these flowers would be nice. And sorry, that Kaoru isn’t here with me.” It would be nearly eighteen years ago, that she was born. “I’d rather celebrate her birthday when she’s home. We’ve missed out on that, the past two times.”

The wind ruffled his hair. It was getting longer, he needed a trim.

“I’ve been working on adjusting Kamiya Kasshin, for a one-handed variant. Not just for me, but for Yutaro and those in similar situations. It would also be good for anyone who’s been injured.” For that matter, injured people weren’t far from his mind. “Even though I’d like to be there, fighting with them.” He stood, brushed off his sore knees, and gave a last smile. “I’ll be back for Obon, with Kaoru and everyone else.”

***

After multiple appointments, Kyoko finally spoke the truth aloud. “I’m not going to live much longer, am I?”

Dr. Gensai slowly nodded. “Yes. I wish I could do something, anything.”

“You’ve done so much already, ever since we moved here last year.”

Kaoru worked her way under Kyoko’s arm, half-crawling into her lap. “Okaa-san.”

Koshijiro was barely listening, the world closing upon the clinic’s room. Nothing seemed real at that moment.

As the days passed, the neighborhood pitched in. His police colleagues covered extra shifts in his place, and their wives kept Kyoko company while he was working. He received plenty of groceries with a hand wave in regards to payment, which he never got used to. There was always something on the table for dinner. An acquaintance by some degrees, the apprentice of an artisan who had admired the work of Kamiya Keiichiro, offered to paint Kyoko’s picture, free of charge. The ink portrait was very somber, unlike his wife, but Kyoko appreciated the gesture. To Dr. Gensai and the rest of their visitors, she seemed accepting and strong.

However, when it was just the two of them, she was afraid of dying.

“I don’t want to go. I need to live, just a while longer, until Kaoru is a little older.” She sobbed, and it took all of Koshijiro’s willpower not to break down. He held her and didn’t speak, his throat burning.

Kaoru was on her best behavior, ensuring her mother was warm and had food. She braided both of their hair at night and chose Kyoko’s clothes in the morning. She read aloud, stumbling on a few unfamiliar words and making up for the little mistakes with her own interest in the novels.

Sometimes, his wife was too fatigued by the pain in her abdomen. Her hand shook when she drew her fingers through Kaoru’s ponytail. It was too easy for her to be out of breath. But she was focused on one task in particular, and he found her carefully writing when she was able.

“It’s our family book.” She showed him the familiar cover of the volume that told the stories of their pasts. She had been updating it over the years. “The next few pages are for Kaoru, for when she’s a young woman. I’ve already written your pages, for when you feel troubled.”

“Kyoko…”

“I only want you to be well. And I’m sorry.” She pressed the heel of her palm to her eyes and gave a short laugh. “Oh no, not again.”

“No, Kyoko, don’t apologize.” He drew her trembling form into his arms and breathed in the scent of her hair. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve fought a harder battle than many ever will, and even now, you handle it with grace in front of Kaoru.”

“I don’t want her to worry about me, but I think she knows anyway. She’s a good girl, our daughter. She’ll be a lovely young lady someday.” Her tone was bittersweet with longing. “My kimonos have been set aside for her?”

“Yes, for when the time is right.”

“Mm. Hopefully, they won’t be too out of fashion.”

“They’ll suit Kaoru well. I saw the blue one with the cranes, the one you wore when we met.”

“That was almost twenty years ago, right? I still remember that day, I knew you were kind and honorable. I think I loved you from the moment I told you my name. I never expected to have this, any of this. But I’ve seen the cherry blossoms each year with you, my husband who I’m very proud of. Every day with you has been wonderful.”

“I haven’t been at my best every day. Most days, perhaps even half.”

She shook her head, mouth curving upwards. “No, really. Every day.” She brought her hand to the side of his face, and he leaned in to kiss her.

By autumn, she was in the hospital again. She was deteriorating fast, yet she held onto Koshijiro’s hand as the doctors came in and out. She was too weak to leave her bed, and he held back her hair when her nausea was too powerful to keep at bay. The worst was when she didn’t seem to recognize him or Kaoru, rapidly blinking at them when they greeted her. Her confusion was frightening, and he always ushered Kaoru out, saying that Okaa-san needed her rest. But she was sharp enough to notice.

“It’s so hard to see her like this. I wish I could do something!” She exclaimed, kicking a stray pebble in the road.

“I feel the same. I’d rather it be me in her place.”

“Otou-san, you shouldn’t be in the hospital either.” Kaoru corrected, slumping. “All of us should be home.”

He couldn’t argue, and he took her hand as they departed.

The weather chilled, the leaves bright with color. Flowers were in rare abundance, but they managed to procure an armful of pink dianthus. Kaoru strode into the hospital room, petals falling in her wake.

“Okaa-san, we’re here to visit!”

“Hello.” Her voice was barely audible but her expression was warm.

Koshijiro was relieved she was lucid. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

“No, I just woke up. What time is it?”

He told her, as Kaoru arranged the bouquet by the window.

“Oh, they’re beautiful. Thank you.” Tears welled up in her gaze. “You have such a good heart, Kaoru.” She swallowed hard, intent on making her words count. “You’ve been so helpful, so sweet and strong. I’ve told you as much as I can, but if it isn’t enough, know that you’re never alone. Listen to Otou-san, and remember that he wants what’s best for you. There’s always the book, if you need it.”

“I know where the book is. I just want you.” Kaoru quietly replied.

Kyoko was too overcome to speak, cupping Kaoru’s face. Koshijiro sat at her other side, wrapping his arm around her. They huddled close, their conversation meandering; what mattered most was that they were in the present together, for as long as it could last. Eventually, Kyoko’s breathing deepened and her eyes struggled to stay open.

“We’ll be back later.” Koshijiro promised, hesitantly extricating himself.

“See you soon, Okaa-san. Love you.” Kaoru kissed her cheek, and Kyoko gave a fragile smile.

“I love you too. I love you both so much.” Those were her last words, before she fell asleep.

By the following evening, she still hadn’t woken. A number of white-clad hospital staff filled her room, exchanging words that swept over his understanding until someone explained. Kyoko was comatose. He was going to send Kaoru home, but she stamped her foot and insisted on staying. One of the doctors offered a spare office for her to sleep in, while Koshijiro remained by Kyoko’s side. It would not be long before the end, he was warned but he would not budge. He wouldn’t let her go while she was alone.

Her weak pulse fluttered under his thumb, stopping for long seconds before picking up again. His dear, persistent Kyoko. He cupped her cheek and bent his head close, uncertain if she could hear him, but he whispered into her ear. “It’s alright, Kyoko. We don’t want you to be in pain. It’s alright.”

It was ultimately a blessing that Kyoko did not linger. Before midnight, she slipped away. Koshijiro pressed his lips to hers, in one last kiss. Then, he went to Kaoru.

She stirred awake when he touched her shoulder. “Otou-san?” Her eyes were wide with apprehension.

“She’s gone.”

“Can I see her?”

He could only nod, and he led her into the room. Kaoru climbed onto the hospital bed, and stifled her sobs into Kyoko’s neck. He held her cold hand, engraving the memory of her skin into his mind. They remained there until the very last minute.

***

The funeral was accompanied by a light rain. His arms were burdened with the container of Kyoko’s ashes, and his shoulders hunched unconsciously to protect what was left of his wife from the weather. Kaoru walked beside him, quiet and matching one of his paces with two of her own. The stoic procession marched to the cemetery, and Kyoko was buried in heavy silence.

Time passed by sluggishly. The house was too quiet, and he resorted to kenjutsu, to an escape. If he kept his body occupied and moving, he would not have to think about how empty he felt.

“Otou-san?”

The timid question stopped him mid-step, and he turned to see his daughter standing in the doorway.

“Um. I tried to make lunch. Do you want to eat yet? Because you didn’t have breakfast…”

His gut reaction was to decline, he had probably lost his appetite forever. But he stared at his daughter’s round eyes, the quiver in her chin as she waited for his answer.

No. I can’t give up, I’m all Kaoru has now, and so, I must keep up my strength.

“Alright. Let’s have lunch.”

The onigiri were misshapen, lopsided triangles. There was probably a little too much salt, but to his fatigued body, the flavor wasn’t bad. The rice was definitely undercooked though, and the only sound in the room was the crunch of grains between teeth.

Then, there was a sniffle. Koshijiro lifted his head, to see Kaoru frowning and wiping away tears, even as she chewed. “Sorry.” She warbled. “It doesn’t taste good.”

“Kaoru…” He reached over the table, to awkwardly pat her head. “If anyone should apologize, it’s me. I’m your father, it’s my duty to provide for you. But I’ve been neglecting you. I’m so sorry.”

“Mm.” She squeezed her eyes shut, rubbing her sleeve across her face.

“Don’t worry about cooking anymore. I’ll hire a new housekeeper to take care of that. I’ll also open the rooms to boarders so we can pay off the rest of the debt. Soon, I’ll continue teaching.”

“Can I be a student again?”

“Yes. The position of head student will always be yours, until you can teach with me.”

“And then?”

“And then, you’ll be assistant instructor. After that, head instructor. The dojo will be yours, and I’ll write it down so no one can take that away from you.”

Kaoru nodded. “Otou-san?”

“Hm?”

“Can I talk about Okaa-san?”

“Your mother loved stories. I think she’d like nothing more than for you to tell stories about her.”

She slowly nodded. “Will you?”

“Perhaps not right away. But even if I don’t speak, she’s always here.” He placed his hand over his heart. “And here.” He pointed to the same spot on his daughter, and she laid her fingers upon it in understanding.

“Okay. I can talk about her for both of us.”

He didn’t respond, but he patted her head again and they continued on.

It was not easy, raising a daughter alone. As much as Kaoru looked like his dear wife, she had inherited her temper from him. They did argue, over trivial matters in hindsight, but such discussions usually ended in Kaoru slamming the door to her room and for him to thumb through his designated pages in Kyoko’s book, rereading her overarching message of love and patience. He would not repeat the mistakes of his youth, and he would knock on her door, requesting that they talk. Thankfully, her anger usually blew over quickly and he made it a point to apologize to each other.

Kamiya Kasshin was ultimately a family project. Kaoru was the first student to try the new techniques, and from observing her as well, Koshijiro made necessary changes and adjustments. His daughter was a natural at kenjutsu, and she freely challenged him.

“Wouldn’t another step work for this kata? I feel like I need to get my balance back from the last turn.”

“That’s fine, but you might run into trouble if you’re in a tight space.”

“Well, that just means it’s more important to rebalance.”

“It seems the turn’s causing the issue. What if we move it up, earlier in the sequence?”

“Yeah, that could work too!”

He did hire a housekeeper, but the middle-aged woman was far stricter than her initial interview conveyed. She heavily disapproved of Kaoru’s love for swordsmanship, insisting that she rise before dawn and sleep late, to complete extra household tasks. But Kaoru was unhappier every day, and it came to a head when the housekeeper mentioned the dreaded word of “marriage”. Kaoru was late for practice and he was searching for her, overhearing the raised voices in the kitchen.

“Why would I care about some husband I haven’t even met yet?” Kaoru exploded. “I’m me and I should be loved for who I am, not because I’m ladylike enough!”

“Your education should have started when you were much younger. Now, I fear it’s too late to salvage.” She glanced over at Koshijiro, striding towards them. “Ah, here’s your father.” If she was expecting him to defend her viewpoint, he was glad to disappoint her.

“I need her in the dojo. Don’t delay her and for that matter, we will not speak of marrying her off. Kaoru is only ten.” He firmly stated. “End of discussion.”

“You spoil her far too much. If she were my daughter, she’d be a proper girl and run the house on her own. I’m not sure what your wife did-”

“And that is where you stop, because she’s not your child, she’s mine.” He coldly dismissed her. “Pack your things and I’ll give you your pay for the week. We have no more need of your services.”

She huffed and gave them nasty looks but didn’t say another word. Before noon, the gate soundly shut behind her.

“Well…that probably went as well as it could.” He said at last.

Kaoru laughed. “I thought it was great. Thank you, Otou-san.” She hugged him and he patted her head. Then, she pouted. “Does this mean we need to find someone new?”

“We can wait a while.” Soon after, they met Sekihara Tae, whose friendship was much appreciated.

When Kaoru was twelve, they had the pleasant surprise of a visitor. Kikuhara was traveling through, and he was interested in the school Koshijiro had described in a New Year’s card. He joined the class as an observer, then to help with basic forms. He began to follow along with the students, and he caught on quickly. After a month, he held his own in sparring against Koshijiro. Kaoru called the close match in Koshijiro’s favor, but they were happy with the outcome.

Kikuhara’s objective seemed to be complete too. He opened a pocket watch and examined the inside. “It’s time for me to go. I have someone to return to now.” With a smile, he turned the watch around to show Koshijiro a photograph of a young girl, no older than five. “My daughter, Midori.”

“A daughter? You…married?”

“No.” Kikuhara paused. “I haven’t told anyone else this, but she’s the illegitimate child of my lord. I was tasked to care for her, but the moment she was placed in my arms, I knew she was as good as my own. She’s very frail though, and she isn’t interested in kenjutsu, unlike your Kaoru. But she’s kindhearted, like her real father.”

“With no offense to your lord, you are her father now and I’m sure she misses you.” Koshijiro pointed out without malice. “If you need any advice on raising her, please let me know.”

“I’ll remember, senpai.” He joked. “I will be sure to bother you about teaching as well. I like some of the kata from Kamiya Kasshin, and its message is honorable. I’m interested in sharing it in Echigo, alongside my own family’s tradition. Would you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“And I’ll call it…Kasshin Shintoryu Kikuhara?”

“Please don’t, you can just keep your family’s name for the school.” He was embarrassed.

“No, it’s a good name, and I’ll be happy to teach under its sign.” At the end of his stay, they saw him off with waves and promises of a future reunion, when Midori was older.

Years passed. He filled a book with the knowledge of Kamiya Kasshin, leaving it in the altar alongside Kyoko’s volume. Kaoru was promoted to assistant instructor after demonstrating mastery in the last kata, and she taught the youngest students while he focused on the older ones. They made a good team. The dojo was raucous with clashing bokken and conversation, and for some time, life was uneventful.

***

That changed when Kumamoto Castle was taken by the Satsuma army. Before the week’s end, the draft letter arrived, summoning Koshijiro to the warfront once more. He was standing frozen in the front yard and numbly rereading the notice, thinking of how he could hide it before he had a proper chance to speak to Kaoru, when she called out.

“Otou-san, what’s taking you so long?” Too late, her gaze landed on the official stamp on the envelope, and she immediately blanched. “Otou-san?”

“I’m sorry, Kaoru.”

“Why are you apologizing?!” She gave a nervous laugh. “It’s not like you chose to go.”

“In a way, I did when I joined the police.”

“Otou-san, don’t say that. I know you don’t really think so.” She touched his shoulder. “Are you going to be alright?”

“I’m more worried about you. You’ll be alone.”

“No, I won’t. I have the students, and Tae’s in town. And I can always bring on more boarders.” At his distasteful expression, she scowled. “Don’t say anything about protecting me, because I can defend myself. You know I can!”

“I’m only telling you to be cautious.”

“I am.” She grumbled.

He excused himself, to find two items. One was his tanto, and the other was his father’s. He handed the sheathed blades to her. “Keep one under your pillow, and the other in the secret compartment in the bathhouse.”

“Otou-san.”

“Remember to lock your room every night.”

“Otou-san, I’ll remember. But how are you coping? You’re being called back to war, you’ll have to…” Kill people again. The unspoken words hung in the air.

“I don’t look forward to it, but I will do my best to avoid a worst case scenario. With Kamiya Kasshin, I can disarm as many as I can.”

At that, she lit up. “So, we should train as much as possible. And I want to master the succession techniques before you go!”

That was a good idea. After lessons, they practice sparred, and Koshijiro pinpointed where she needed to improve. Not that there was much, but he wanted to teach her everything he could before leaving. The last afternoon eventually came; Kaoru focused solely on Hadome and Hawatari. She was on the verge of breaking through, and she recognized as much.

“I almost had it! And I knew where I went wrong too! One more time, Otou-san?”

“No, you’re tired. It’s already been over two hours, and I can tell you’re too exhausted to proceed any further today. We should stop here.”

She groaned, slumping. “But I wanted to master them before you left, so you can see.”

“Mastering these techniques shouldn’t be rushed, especially for my sake. You are close. So, not yet, but you’re getting better every time.” He wouldn’t be here to watch her progress though, after this day.

She must have thought so too, for she set her bokken aside and fiercely hugged him. He squeezed her back, hoping it could convey all of what he couldn’t say aloud.

The morning of departure was somber. Kaoru made breakfast, which he ate without complaint. He donned his uniform and hated that his daughter looked so sad when she saw him. However, she didn’t mention it, only asking if he had everything he needed. She trailed him past the front door, the frosted grass crackling under their footsteps.

“I’ll see you soon, Otou-san.” She said, decidedly using the temporary farewell.

“Yes. Protect the school while I’m gone, and go back inside, before you catch a cold. I’ll see you soon, Kaoru.” He clasped her shoulder, hoping to give some strength to her. Then, with great reluctance, he let go and walked alone. He closed the gate behind him, waited until Kaoru locked it again, and headed into town to join his regiment.

The journey to Satsuma was taxing, as they sailed towards Kyushu. He wasn’t as young as many of the other men, and when they camped on the southern island, he fell asleep once his head touched his pillow. The nightmares trickled back, becoming more convoluted every night. The return to the battlefield was dreaded by the other policemen, especially since they were only given wooden batons and swords. He couldn’t help but be somewhat relieved by the lack of a gun. He struck at shoulders, feet, anywhere that wasn’t lethal.

Months passed, as Saigo Takamori’s defeat forced him to flee and the Imperial army followed suit. The minor skirmishes with Saigo’s men culminated into a pincer attack on the Satsuma rebels. Koshijiro gritted his teeth and continued with striking through. To move forward, so this could be over as soon as possible. Suddenly, the line fell back, and he was perplexed for a moment, before the surrounding shouts alerted that there would be shelling. The order was to retreat, to gain as much distance for the explosions that would soon rock the battleground. Koshijiro didn’t even have to time to sheath his sword, the adrenaline humming under his skin, demanding to run as fast and far as he could. The men were tripping over each other and cursing, the fear and apprehension whittling their tempers.

A distant boom, then faint screams. Two steps later, it repeated, only closer. How much time did he have left? Koshijiro’s heart pounded out the tense seconds. A young soldier, barely older than Kaoru, stumbled to his right. Koshijiro switched his katana to his left hand and grabbed the boy’s collar. Using the momentum of his own body, he thrust the boy in front. “Take cover!” He bellowed.

Sound. It deafened him.

Force. His left arm, still outstretched behind him, twisted.

Heat. It seemed to split his skin open.

Pain. And that was enough for his eyes to roll back.

Forgive me, Kaoru-

***

He woke up, and he could hardly draw breath. He blinked. He had his sight. He was on his back, staring up at a white ceiling. The clamor of groaning men filled his ears. The smells of urine and blood were strong, and he didn’t dare open his dry mouth. He was in a hospital, a crowded one at that. For how long, he didn’t know.

I’m Kamiya Koshijiro, forty-five years old. I have a daughter, Kaoru, who is seventeen. We live in Tokyo. I work with the Tokyo Metropolitan police. I teach Kamiya Kasshin, the sword that protects.

There, his memory was intact. Although when he tried to remember what happened after the explosion, he couldn’t recall anything after the storm of sensation. He must have fainted. He twitched his fingers, his toes. No pain. He turned his head right. Well, his neck wasn’t broken, just stiff. Against his pillow, there was soft friction; the back of his head was bandaged. His right forearm bore the healing crust of a scrape, and he deduced he must have fallen on that side. But he could move his wrist and elbow joints, so there were no fractures. He checked the left-

Immediately, he jerked his head away. Shock kicked in. He didn’t have an arm. His left arm was gone. There was just wrapped white cloth, encasing the end of his shoulder. Then, why could he still feel it, down to the fingertips? He looked again, to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

He stared and stared and stared. He didn’t have an arm.

Distantly, he heard a nurse call out that he was awake, and footsteps approached. A doctor introduced himself before asking identifying questions. Koshijiro’s voice was raspy from disuse but he demonstrated he knew who he was. The doctor provided new details.

Koshijiro was in a hospital close to one of the harbors in Satsuma. A week had passed. The Imperial army was fighting on, with the last of the rebel forces weakened. Most of the province was back in the Emperor’s control and it would be a matter of weeks before Saigo surrendered. Reportedly, Koshijiro was found on the battlefield, alone and unconscious. When he was moved here, he had convulsed to reality and blood loss brought him under again.

Overall, he was in rough shape. The explosion had singed some of his hair off, and his skull had to be partially shaved. He had superficial burns on his back, that worsened on his left side. His right knee was swollen and abraded, and part of his big toenail was torn. His body bore minor cuts and bruises from landing. And he no longer had a left arm. The doctor actually had to remove more bone and tissue because what remained after the blast was not clean. But it was free from shrapnel and they could only do their best to prevent gangrene.

He was warned that there would be pain, that his body would not properly recognize that his left arm was gone. Multiple medicines were given to him, and his mouth gained a perpetual bitter taste. He slept in fits throughout his stay. All around him, other men were dying. He always noticed when another body was carried out.

A week passed, but he wasn’t quite healing. He forced himself to look at the dressings as they were changed, and they didn’t seem promising. He bitterly thought he couldn’t recover as well as he could in this place, but he had no say here. And then, one morning, he felt lethargic and his stomach sank in realization. A small part of him clung to hope that it would pass soon, but he forgot it as he became more and more delirious.

The hospital staff was saying he was feverish, and he groggily understood it was bad, because he felt so cold. Sleep was tempting. There was more medicine, more people hovering over him. He felt numb, it would be very easy to sleep forever. Too weak to struggle, his eyes closed.

He did not expect to dream.

He was sitting on the porch, the moon abnormally large and bright above. A quiet warm summer’s night. And he couldn’t see her, but he could feel Kyoko’s presence, as if she was standing behind him.

You’re so close.

I know. But not yet, Kyoko. I made a promise to you, didn’t I?

It was as if she was laughing, her breath warm against his neck. Then, please go home.

Yes. He couldn’t possibly disobey and he was swallowed once more by the void.

When he woke, his fever had broken. To the doctors’ surprise and awe, he had overcome the infection. He didn’t feel like it was miraculous at all; he had made promises and he intended to keep them. Once he heard his wounds were healed, he declared. “I’m leaving.” The response was dismissive, until he tried to leave his bed. He’d had enough of being in the hospital, he argued, and he’d heal more if he wasn’t restrained. That only sent him to another facility, with others in slightly better condition. From so much time on bedrest, he was frustratingly weak, and his legs shook underneath him when he attempted to walk around. But he pushed on, easily recalling a blue-clad figure with braids in her family’s yard, and conjuring a younger one, years later, who must be teaching in the dojo. Even if he no longer had one arm, he still had the other, his legs, and his head. That was good enough to get by. By the time he was discharged, the war had ended with Saigo’s suicide. His return home was overdue but winter’s approach undercut his pace. He was trying desperately not to get sick again.

The initial leg was frustratingly slow. He had no money, and any innkeeper dismissed his offer of labor. One benefit about his amputation was that it was noticeable, and kind strangers would grant him a night or two in a stable or on a fishing boat. But most people tended to avoid his gaze, so he did his best to keep moving. The new phantom pains were excruciating, his ghostly arm wrenching as it had in its final moments. Those incapacitating occasions, as well as his poor physical shape, forced him to rest often, to his chagrin.

He took one such break, on the wayside of a market street. He had managed to buy passage back to Honshu, though it meant he had to agree to a slight detour, since the port was not close to the main roads he recognized. This town was bustling with naval activity, thanks to the iron ships anchored in the dark water. The marine air was soothing, and the latest episode of pain ebbed with each deep breath.

“Ojii-san, where did your arm go?”

He startled, and in his periphery, a little boy stared at him with round eyes. There was a flood of emotion, but his most prominent thought was: I can’t tell this child it was blown off! “Well…” He searched for an appropriate thing to say. “I traded it.”

“For what?”

“So I could go home.”

A woman in her early thirties approached, holding the hand of a slightly older boy. “Sadatake! Oh, I’m so sorry.” The mother was so mortified, bowing her head multiple times. Her obi rested low, under the modest curve of her belly. “Sadatake, apologize to this uncle.”

“Sorry.”

“Please, don’t concern yourselves over it.”

She searched his face for a moment. “You look like you could use some rest and good food. Why don’t you come to our place? My husband wouldn’t mind at all.”

“I couldn’t impose.”

“No, I insist.” She pressed her palm on her rounded abdomen and smiled beatifically. The underlying message was not to upset her. “And my husband’s heading this way right now.” She directed her gaze over his shoulder, and he pivoted.

What he saw stunned him.

The man had plenty of silver in his hair, and his right leg dragged with each step, though the sleeping toddler draped over his shoulder didn’t help. Those fox eyes had regained their spark and framed by creases, they widened in recognition. “Kamiya? Kamiya Koshijiro?”

“Hayashi.” He shook his head at the incredulity of the moment, and he gestured to the site of his recent loss. “After all this time, I would certainly like to talk to you.”

The family led the way to a modest house, near Hayashi’s workplace at a naval office. The boys were young, having turned three, five, and seven, and they had just finished celebrating the milestone thrice over. Hayashi was a long way off from his former devastated self. Koshijiro felt a mixture of relief and sympathy as he watched his friend mind the little ones’ table manners at dinner.

“Sadakazu, here, move your cup away so you won’t spill it. Sadanori, wipe your mouth.” Even as he was speaking, he was already carrying out the actions, inspecting his youngest’s face one last time to ensure it was thoroughly clean. Hayashi’s wife fondly watched the spectacle, as Sadatake ate beside her.

The comfort of having a meal at a full table was a balm to Koshijiro’s weary spirit. After the dishes were cleared and the boys were sent to bed, despite their loud protests, Hayashi poured out two cups of warm sake. Koshijiro inhaled the fragrance, appreciating the liquor.

“Been saving up this bottle for a while, and I’m glad I did. I haven’t had the chance to drink in a while either.”

He took a sip. Just hot enough and very good indeed. “I didn’t know you’d become a family man.”

“I didn’t really expect to be one.” Hayashi admitted. “During the Bakumatsu, I was here, watching the troops travel past and trying not to feel useless. But Akie’s family clan sided with the Satcho alliance, and that’s how we met. There wasn’t much of a ceremony, because we married against her family’s wishes. I don’t blame them; I can still hardly believe she’d pick me. But before I could scare her off, the boys came along. Now it’s twins, so I hope at least one of them can convince the rest to be calm and kind to their old father.”

Koshijiro laughed. It was the first time in months, he realized, that he had. “You’ll miss some of it when they’re this young.”

“You have a family, don’t you? A daughter?”

“Yes, Kaoru is in Tokyo. Kyoko passed away, seven years ago.”

Hayashi’s jaw clenched. “I’m sorry. But you made her happy, anyone could see that. ”

Koshijiro chose not to reply, instead drinking from his cup.

“How old is your daughter now?”

“She’s seventeen.” He had missed her birthday. Discomfort spread through him.

“Damn, you’ll probably be marrying her off before the twins arrive.”

“Kaoru’s still young.”

“I was married to my first wife when I was younger than that.” Hayashi countered. “And it’s been months since you’ve been gone.”

Koshijiro frowned. “I need to return.”

“Ah, you haven’t changed much at all.” His friend grinned. “Maekawa’s in Tokyo too, right? Well, don’t tell him or anyone else yet that I’m here. I will, when I’m ready. Probably after Akie delivers.”

“I think they’d be glad to know you’re living well, but I understand.” The last of the alcohol was drained, and Hayashi thumped his back before urging him to retire. That night, he slept comfortably.

Before dawn broke, he intended to leave quietly, not to bother them anymore and to get a head start on his day. But he wasn’t as quiet as he hoped, for rustling noises carried over into the hallway. He tried to quicken his pace, but a door slid open.

“Gotcha.”

His sighed. “Good morning, Hayashi. And Akie-san.” The couple walked towards him with intent, Hayashi’s hand in his robe.

His friend clicked his tongue. “Good morning indeed. Were you trying to sneak away? How foolish, Kamiya. My wife’s hearing is not to be underestimated. Especially since we want to give you this.” He pushed a cloth bag into Koshijiro’s hand, the hefty weight studded with the metal ridges of the coins within.

“I can’t possibly accept. Please, keep this for your children.”

“They have plenty already. You, on the other hand, don’t have a naval secretary father, so take it.”

Akie added. “It’s a long road to Tokyo, especially when traveling alone. If you can find safety on a boat, a train, or even a cart, we’d be at ease knowing you have the means.” She then kept her voice low. “And I wanted to personally thank you. I know what you and your friends did for my husband, all those years ago, and it’s because of you that I have him. That I have my children and this life. I hope this is a fraction of what I owe you.”

His resistance crumbled. “…I promise not to squander it. In return, I hope you have a safe delivery.” He stepped out, to slip on his shoes.

Hayashi held his wife by the waist, to shield her from the morning chill, and raised his hand in farewell. “If you ever need anything else, let me know.”

“I will, and thank you. It was good to see you.” They bowed to one another, and he did not look back. His path was clear.

The days unfolded, one after another. At last, the surroundings became familiar, and every step took him towards the dojo, his school, and Kaoru.

***

In the first week of July, the Kyoto police informed them that Shishio and his followers had revealed themselves. Koshijiro was loath to miss an incoming message, and he remained at the station with the night shift, catching himself from nodding off until his sore neck forced him to trudge back to the empty house. The contingency plan was never far from his mind, even manifesting in his dreams. He was awake for good when the news came that Shishio’s ship was burning and falling to pieces off the shoreline. And then, there was another telegram within the hour.

“This one was specifically meant for you, Officer Kamiya.” The chief wryly said. “From your daughter.”

It was short but conveyed so much. WE WON. ALL SAFE.

If he was the type to dance, he could have danced all the way home. But he wasn’t, and ultimately, that meant he noticed that the lights were still on in Dr. Gensai’s clinic. When he knocked, Takani opened up, her eyes tired but offering a little smile when she recognized him. “Kamiya-san?”

“Yes, I have good news. The battle was won in Kyoto.” He showed her the telegram with pride.

“Really?” She exhaled in relief. “I’m so thankful. But it must have been difficult. I would like to see if they need care…”

“Then, let’s go. We’ll leave with the first train in the morning.”

“Just like that?” Takani laughed. “Well, I won’t argue. I’ll tell Dr. Gensai and get my supplies. See you in a few hours.”

He could hardly wait.

#rurouni kenshin #at arm's length #kamiya koshijiro #can you believe my version of koshijiro has returned before the hokkaido arc's

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balioc · 5 years

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I’ve been reading religious tradcon stuff lately, and it's been making me impossibly angry in a way that very little else does, and I think I’ve finally put my finger on why:

It’s the monstrous, self-aggrandizing impiety.

**********

I grew up as a Conservative Jew, on the observant/scholarly side of that movement. Which is to say: I was raised to honor my creator. Eventually I gave it up, through a process that basically amounted to tearing my heart out, because I could not reconcile my religion’s metaphysical assertions with the truth of the universe around me. (And, contrary to what some people will tell you, metaphysical doctrine does matter -- or should -- even if you’re Jewish.) But there were a number of years in there where I took it very, very seriously.

The thing that most people don’t realize about traditional Jewish observance is how impressively unrewarding it is. Worship has neither the aesthetic grandeur of high-church rite nor the personal emotional intensity of low-church faith; it consists mostly of mumbling your way through long sections of formulaic Hebrew at a breakneck pace, much too fast for the meaning of the words to really register with you, let alone with anyone else. The tunes, when there are tunes, are almost comically atonal and un-melodic, at least in old-timey Ashkenazi synagogues. All the constant rituals are finicky and arbitrary and inconvenient, as though they were carefully engineered to make you roll your eyes in annoyance rather than falling to your knees in awe. And everything comes together in a religious worldview, a day-to-day theology and psychology, that is intensely unsympathetic to its adherents. There’s no focus on heaven or on divine love or any of those warm-and-fuzzy things. There’s no sense that anyone up there gives a shit about your fucking feelings. The only outcome that you get promised for all your observance, apart from maybe some end-times messianic stuff, is that God will kick you around slightly more.

Of course, you learn to find glory and resonance in it anyway, if it’s what you grow up with and what you associate with the divine.

But that’s not the point.

The point is, inescapably and clearly: You are not doing this because you expect to get anything out of it. You’re not going to get anything out of it, bucko, except possibly as a second-or-third-order knock-on effect. It’s not going to make you happy, it’s not going to make you fulfilled, it’s not going to make your life easier. You’re doing this because it is commanded. You’re doing this to honor your creator.

He already fulfilled His end of the bargain: He created the world, and brought your ancestors out of Egypt. Your turn.

You learn to take pride in this. And justly so, I think. It’s a healthy and a virtuous attitude, except insofar as it’s unmoored from actual metaphysical truth. You don’t expect something out of your faith that it can’t provide. You’re not arrogant enough to think that your desires represent the cosmic good, or that the ruler of the universe is primarily invested in your personal narrative. You do the things because the things are good to do, because you’re committed to the proposition that they are the point.

(This may help to explain some of the problems I have with atheistic Jews who remain observant because, uh, they think they’re getting something out of it.)

**********

What I see amongst the tradcons is mostly the opposite.

They’re not in it to honor their creator -- at least, they never ever talk about that. They’re mostly not even in it to achieve salvation. There’s precious little discussion of Heaven in all their writings.

Mostly, as far as I can tell, they’re in it because they want things. Worldly things. Many of them seem to have come to their particular denominations specifically because they were hoping to find a vendor for certain worldly things. They want the kind of family life, and the kind of society, that feels rightly ordered to them. They want to feel as though their lives and their struggles are meaningful.

And I sympathize with that. I really do. It’s OK to want things. It’s especially OK, as far as I’m concerned, to want meaning in your life; I am all about finding ways for people to live meaningfully, in a fashion that is touched by numinous glory. I’ll even go so far as to say that some of the tradcons’ object-level desires are widespread, and commendable, and that some of their ideas about how those desires might be fulfilled are more likely to do good in the world than not.

But -- good God! The sheer unmitigated gall that it takes to make God Almighty into the mascot for your own particular brand of joy and fulfillment! The unfathomable hubris involved in saying that what He wants for the world is exactly the same as what you want for yourself!

I do not, and cannot, believe in the God of Abraham. But if He does in fact exist...well, I would think that this should all be about Him, not about you. Shut up and go pray.

#religion #identity #personal history #judaism

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wisdomrays · 4 years

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REPAIRING THE STRONGHOLD OF FAITH

Restoring is thousand times harder to achieve than destroying. To achieve a restoration, all inner and outer factors must be present. However, the absence of only one factor will result in destruction.

You can think about the situation of repair and destruction in the human body. Sometimes, a poisonous substance in your food influences your body right to the neurons of your brain. It might confuse your sleeping and waking habits and you may need to receive treatment over a long period of time to be saved from its harmful effects and regain your health.

Likewise, if a society has lost its faith and its values have been torn down one by one, it takes a serious endeavor to restore and help that society back up onto its feet.

Reconstructing this monument, which has cracked, shattered and whose blessed pieces have been scattered here and there, and restoring it to a condition in compliance with its original identity depends on the strivings of idealistic souls who will sacrifice their enjoyment of life and personal happiness. As the saying goes, “No pain, no gain,” an Arabic poem expresses it as, “Scope of the gains made, depends on the pains taken.” To elucidate further, making material and spiritual accomplishments, ascending to great heights and crowning victories with other victories depend on striving and effort as well as using these efforts for the right purpose and in the right direction.

It should not be forgotten that no movement that aims to restore and resurrect a society can be promising and lasting unless it permeates from the bottom up. There are so many endeavors launched with pompous shows that stop a mere few steps away, remain stuck and paralyzed on the way and then disappear from the stage like a broken dream. When addressing the issue of restoring a society, a certain degree of initiative and support from administrators and politicians could perhaps help to remove some obstacles and progress faster. However, what really needs to be done is initiating the issue from the bottom up and making it widespread at the grass roots level. For this reason, it is necessary to begin with the ABC of the matter, knowing that setting a society right depends on setting individuals right, and never forgetting that it is impossible to set a society right without setting right all of its components.

The ideal of serving humanity and setting things right

People fixed on restoration and setting things right must act with a spirit of devotedness for their whole lifetime so that they can fulfill the aim of their life’s journey. Great projects sometimes failed for they were based on personal or familial benefits. Let alone succeeding, they adulterated that great ideal, and many opportunities of victory ended up with great loss. With the approach of Bediuzzaman, if politics, administration, or any establishment or organization is working on the axis of personal interests, then there is monstrosity in the issue. In this case, people begin to besmirch one another. When the issue is adulterated with personal interests, the masses come to loggerheads with one another and no progress can be made by the society. Being saved from domination of others depends on working ceaselessly for a lifetime solely for the good of the people and for God’s good pleasure.

People who have devoted themselves to the ideal of making others live in the true sense must pursue great projects and plans. They must have plans and projects even for the generations to come some fifty or sixty years later. Given that God has endowed humans with abilities that go beyond the narrowness of physical dimensions, individuals must know how to use these very well and not debilitate their abilities and capacities by condemning themselves to a narrow cage. In addition, they must never be abstemious about the work and activities they carry out on the righteous path or be satisfied with what they have done, but should seek different ways of opening up to the four corners of the world at every phase.

Let it not be misunderstood, such a thought of opening up to the world has nothing to do with invading the world or establishing new empires on the ruins of others. On the contrary, the real intention that underlies this thought of opening up is establishing sound, firm and warm neighborly relations with the different nations of the world. This will enable us to learn what we can from them and also let others’ hearts discern the human values, lofty feelings and thoughts that we try to represent, which are far beyond humanism. We already know that in the shrinking and globalizing world of our time, if such an understanding of neighborhood at the world level is not formed, contact with the entire world is not maintained, and close relations are not developed, the world will turn into an uninhabitable hell. Those fixed on brutality, who formulate plans to kill people and take the place of the people they killed, and who wish to make people clash with one another in order to continue their own tyranny, will continue their hegemony. However, it should not be forgotten that this old world has no tolerance anymore for such animosity based on grudge and hatred, or for the weapons of extermination, which are natural consequences of this animosity. If these waves of hatred are not stopped with bridges of love, tolerance and dialogue, then facing horrible events and an apocalypse that affects the entirety of humanity will be inevitable. For the sake of restoration, we must rely on God and, if necessary, be ready to face obstacles at the expense of the pleasures of this life. We must never harbor any worldly expectations about the different means God Almighty bestows for the sake of serving Him. If people who have volunteered for the revival of the entire world actually acted in favor of their personal interests, this would be an attitude of gross ugliness that cannot be reconciled with true humanity. We can even say that busying oneself with thoughts of earning Paradise through our efforts is disrespectful to our ideal. Using all our efforts, it is necessary to evoke this feeling in today’s generations. For the ones to change the face of the world will be the precious and distinguished ones who represent this feeling and thought.

The mysterious key to hearts

Being deeply concerned and feeling suffering for a cause is a very important dynamic to realize projects for the sake of setting things right and repair. A person in such a state, with God’s permission and grace, will not be deprived in terms of obtaining the things sought for the sake of repair. In this regard, come, let’s all of us beg some suffering from God.

Although religion is based on the principle of ease, the duty of the architects of thought in this respect is a very heavy one. As the master poet, Necip Fazıl, put it, they are supposed to give an extraordinary performance by racking their brains to the degree of squeezing their brains out of their nose. There are so many people who watch them expectantly, listen to their words, and who in a way act with mass psychology. Therefore, they need to care about making others live in the true sense rather than living for their own sake and should weave their lives around this very ideal. The standard must be kept very high in this regard, and the issue must be taken as an issue that concerns the entire humanity. In a globalizing world, if you don’t have a heart that represents your ideals in every place, you cannot be where you want to be and cannot realize the repair you desire.

While doing this, they must never give up their mildness and tenderness; they must reach into hearts using the language of love, for it is such a mysterious key that there is no rusty lock that will not be opened with it. If you use this language correctly, you can open all doors and reach into all obstinate hearts. As it is stated in a Turkish proverb, kindness even makes a snake come out of its hole. Given that the gentle finger movements of a flute player, or the sound, makes even cobras dance, I think a genuinely spiritual attitude and behavior will melt away certain feelings of animosity. As the Qur’an points out about repelling evil with goodness, even some people that you see as enemies will begin to open their bosoms to you and say: “We have been waiting for you.”

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revlyncox · 5 years

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Origin Stories

Looking for truth in foundational narratives on the eve of Indigenous Peoples Day. This sermon was delivered to the UU Church of Silver Spring on October 13, 2019.

Has anyone seen the movie, Captain Marvel? You know I did. The nostalgia for the music of the mid-1990’s alone was enough to get me in the door. I don’t want to spoil it for those who are waiting for a quiet evening to watch it at home, so I’ll try to speak in general terms.

The movie opens with an interstellar super soldier named Vers, who is having trouble with memory, but nevertheless goes out on a mission with her team, part of the Kree empire. Throughout the movie, she learns more about where she comes from, and more about the origins of the conflict with the people she thought were her enemies. Once she has come around to a different understanding of who her people are, the personal qualities she has been criticized for are reframed, and she can draw from them as strengths. This revised worldview moves her to an entirely different sense of her mission in life, as well as a different sense of connecting and belonging.

The paradigm shift that the main character goes through in Captain Marvel reminds me of the paradigm shift that some within U.S. culture could work toward when it comes to observing Indigenous Peoples Day tomorrow. The holiday some still know as Columbus Day told one story of the origins of the United States of America, yet that version of the story is infused with myths and half-truths, and depends on the erasure of the historical and contemporary perspectives of Native Americans, among other groups of people.

The story of this country or this continent is not a single story, and yet I hope we can use the opportunity of this day to add more truth to our understanding of those stories, our understanding of who we are as the residents of this place. To the extent that we can understand ourselves as a people, or as a coalition of peoples, accurate origin stories help us to live into becoming the people we aspire to be. Knowing truly where we have come from as a country will help us to connect with those who share a home or an identity. We can hope that origin stories rooted in honesty will help us heal some of the harms of the past, or at least help us avoid continuing to make the same mistakes.

In her book, An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States, Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz suggests that it is the very foundation of how we learn, teach, and think of our history that must be transformed. She writes:

The history of the United States is a history of settler colonialism—the founding of a state based on the ideology of white supremacy, the widespread practice of African slavery, and a policy of genocide and land theft. Those who seek history with an upbeat ending, a history of redemption and reconciliation, may look around and observe that such a conclusion is not visible, not even in utopian dreams of a better society.

Writing US history from an Indigenous peoples’ perspective requires rethinking the consensual national narrative. That narrative is wrong or deficient, not in its facts, dates, or details but rather in its essence. Inherent in the myth we’ve been taught is an embrace of settler colonialism and genocide. The myth persists, not for a lack of free speech or poverty of information but rather for an absence of motivation to ask questions that challenge the core of the scripted narrative of the origin story.

Dunbar-Ortiz goes on to say:

Origin narratives form the vital core of a people’s unifying identity and of the values that guide them. In the United States, the founding and development of the Anglo-American settler-state involves a narrative about Puritan settlers who had a covenant with God to take the land.

Incidentally, An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States is this year’s UUA Common Read. A discussion guide is due out later this month for congregations that would like to study it in book groups and other programs. It’s available as an audio book.

The story of European colonization of the place we now call the United States has been framed in one certain way. The way we tell that story has been reinforced with legislation, with racist criteria in academia and in publishing, and with commercialization of holiday traditions. The values we are supposed to gain from the history of 1492 onward is that hard work and commitment to freedom will be rewarded with an endless upward march of progress.

When we look more broadly, that progress doesn’t materialize across the board. The commitment to liberty never applied to everyone, despite what the textbooks have been trying to teach; expansion, prosperity, and freedom to roam for people of European descent came at the expense of the lives and liberty of Indigenous people and enslaved people and their descendants, among others. For those of us who are white, even if we and our direct family ancestors never personally abused or exploited anyone, doors were opened to us and closed to others because of this history of settler-colonialism. To repeat from last week, some are guilty, all of us are responsible for making a change. I am curious to find out how we could come into a new spirit and practice of values if we stop propping up a false narrative about our national origins.

To bring it a little closer to home, let me go back to the second half of that last quote from Dunbar-Ortiz:

In the United States, the founding and development of the Anglo-American settler-state involves a narrative about Puritan settlers who had a covenant with God to take the land.

With the Puritans involved, now we’re getting closer to the origin stories of our faith movement. In the early 20th century, the history of Unitarianism began to be described as a grand sweep of development propelled by devotion to the values of freedom, reason, and tolerance. Following consolidation in 1961 for the United States incarnations of Universalism and Unitarianism, this rubric of freedom, reason, and tolerance was infused into nostalgia looking back on both sides of our history.

This idea that the Pilgrims were an advance team into this continent, divinely ordained to bring religious freedom to these shores, fits right into the Unitarian narrative of freedom, reason, and tolerance. Unitarians in America in the 1800s were direct descendants of Puritans, in church organization and often in family lineage. In telling the story of the Puritans, the themes of violence, stealing, and broken treaties that characterized their presence on this side of the ocean are de-emphasized. Through this silence, the theft of land and liberty is tacitly approved. Crimes against Indigenous people are not supposed to matter if they are part of the project of allowing people of European descent to worship in a way that allows “complete mental freedom in religion.” (This quote is from Earl Morse Wilbur, the early 20th century scholar who is credited with coining freedom, reason, and tolerance as a framework for Unitarian history.)

When we put together the pieces, uncover the horrors that have been papered over, and review the whole history of Unitarianism and Universalism in America, we come to understand that the destructive path of settler-colonialism is tangled into the roots of our faith. Knowing that, we can go back and re-evaluate what our central values really mean to us, and try to imagine how to actually live them in a way that Unitarians and Universalists of the past may have missed.

For many of us, particularly those of us who are white, reconciling the whole story of the United States versus the version of history we were taught is a spiritual and emotional challenge, but one that I believe we are up to. It is a reckoning that I believe we must engage with if we are to be authentic in our faith. When we come to terms with the understanding that this country has not upheld the values we said it did, we may wonder how to move forward. What do we do when the country whose values we hold dear has not yet existed? How do we become the people we want to become when we realize the foundations we build on are not what they were proclaimed to be? Communities that have always been in the margins have wisdom here, if we are willing to listen and to center their experience.

In her article for The 1619 Project for the New York Times, Nikole Hannah-Jones reflects on the American flag that her father flew in front of their home, and how she felt about that flag growing up as an African-American in a country brimming with racism. She writes:

Our corner lot, which had been redlined by the federal government, was along the river that divided the black side from the white side of our Iowa town. At the edge of our lawn, high on an aluminum pole, soared the flag, which my dad would replace as soon as it showed the slightest tatter …

My father knew exactly what he was doing when he raised that flag. He knew that our people’s contributions to building the richest and most powerful nation in the world were indelible, that the United States simply would not exist without us ….

Toward the end of the article, she reflects:

No one cherishes freedom more than those who have not had it. And to this day, black Americans, more than any other group, embrace the democratic ideals of a common good ….

The truth is that as much democracy as this nation has today, it has been borne on the backs of black resistance. Our founding fathers may not have actually believed in the ideals they espoused, but black people did … For generations, we have believed in this country with a faith it did not deserve. Black people have seen the worst of America, yet, somehow, we still believe in its best.

What I hear in Nikole Hannah-Jones’ article is affirmation that we do not need to be deluded in order to work toward the future of democracy. We can work toward the idea of the common good, a society that includes and cares for all, a democracy where the most vulnerable have a seat at the table of power. A nation of truth and justice and opportunity is not yet who we are; we can get closer than we are now.

On the other hand, Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz writes: Those who seek history with an upbeat ending, a history of redemption and reconciliation, may look around and observe that such a conclusion is not visible, not even in utopian dreams of a better society.

We might not get to a perfect story arc with a satisfying resolution. If what we’re seeking is redemption for the atrocities of the founders of the United States, that may not happen. If we stop focusing on the reputation or the feelings of people who have historically had power, and focus instead on being authentic and justice-oriented, we may begin to open up space for something better than what has come before.

Life and history are never as neat and tidy as they are in the movies. We don’t always see the hero prevail. Sometimes we don’t even have a hero. Yet sometimes there are deeper truths, even if the story did not happen exactly that way. In Captain Marvel, it caused a crisis of faith and identity for the main character to learn hidden origin stories, yet bringing together the multiple truths led to finding new strengths. Studying actual history that is outside the approved narrative can change lives and societies. It won’t be comfortable for some, it won’t be easy for anyone. Moving into a future of justice and authenticity will require courage and commitment. May we awaken to the possibilities of truth.

So be it. Blessed be. Amen.

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ryder-s-block · 5 years

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Jaig Eyes (Ch 25)

Jaig Eyes (25/?)

***THIS CHAPTER RATED M FOR MENTIONS OF PAST RAPE***

Always can read here.

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Chapter Twenty-Five: Threat on the Coronet

I remembered everything about the day Death Watch had attacked the transport. The rattling of the ship beneath my boots--sand so far imbedded into them, I’d long since given up trying to get it out. The deep booms that echoed down the halls as the attacking ship pried open our access hatches.

Screams tore through the air when we lost pressure, creatures and droids being sucked out into space. I’d been lucky enough to be within a part of the ship that had safety latches close. I grabbed a young Rodian boy--a slave, like myself-- and pulled him into a supply closet. Jabba’s minions were swarming around, trying to defend against the force that had already crippled our engines.

It was a surprise attack. I’d been on the bridge with the trip’s leader--a surly Weequay with a bad attitude--translating between him and our Bothan contact. The proximity alarms were high-pitched and deafening. By the time they went off, though, it was already too late. The transport shit Jabba had provided for us was far from battle-ready, preferring swift movement and stealth over cannons and shields.

We were doomed from the start.

The young Rodian boy clutched at my waist as we cowered in the supply closet together. I wasn’t sure what to do. Jabba had tracers on all his ships, but would that be enough? If the beacon died, his search party may not find us. Or perhaps, despite how much he claimed to value me, maybe the resources needed for my rescue weren’t profitable. I considered staying hidden, hoping that we wouldn’t be found. But what if the ship was destroyed? Maybe death was better than whatever tortures the attackers had planned.

Looking back, maybe it would have been.

Warriors dressed in the dark Death Watch armor hadn’t given me any ability to choose my fate, ripping open the closet door and dragging us both out. The Rodian boy was beaten for wailing, having not yet learned to take the punishments without opening his mouth. He was young, used for grunt work in the kitchens in Jabba’s palace. Jabba had sent him along to try and get him more accustomed to the life of a slave.

For his sake, I hoped he learned fast.

A man appeared where we were all held in the hallway, strewn with the sparking remains of the defensive droids. There were some bodies, too, but I chose not to look at them. Chose not to feel. What were slavers’ lives to me? Still, I knew if I looked, I’d either betray myself with tears, or tremble in fear.

I prefered to do neither.

The man that entered the hall, peering at us all through his dark visor, was certainly in charge of the militant group. They spoke in a harsh tongue to each other, my language-keen ears recognizing some of the sounds. I’d rarely ever heard it, since the man I’d heard it from rarely ever spoke. There was a man in armor that nearly resembled those of the warriors before me. Jango Fett. He was a renowned bounty hunter, often running jobs for Jabba, who respected him greatly. He usually spoke the common tongue, and when he did, it was brief and to the point.

But once, while scuttling about in the darkness of the back halls, I’d rushed around a corner and slammed into the hard panelling of his knee braces. Slapping backwards, he almost looked like he was about to reach for me and help me up. He stopped himself. Whether it was out of a sense of superiority or the knowledge that Jabba allowed no one to touch me, I couldn’t say. Nor did I really care. His emotionless mask, strong posture, and spotless track record of bringing in bloodied bounties made me wary of him.

He mumbled something to the open air, his voice modulated through his helmet, but it certainly wasn’t common. I didn’t know what he said for years, later piecing it together to be something along the lines of “damned kids running around everywhere” and “watch where you’re going.”

At the time, though, I couldn’t understand an ounce of Mando’a. But I’d pick it up quickly after being dragged aboard the Mandalorians’ ship, the group dividing those of us that remained.

“You,” a male voice said, the figure approaching and gripping my chin harshly in his hand. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen,” I answered immediately, mentally slapping myself. I wished I wasn’t fed well at Jabba’s for a moment. Wished I looked like I did when I was a street urchin, or even back when I was with the Zygerrians. I was waif-like. Small. I could pass off as younger then.

The warrior hummed within his mask. “Tell me, girl,” he chuckled. “Have you bled yet?”

Thinking clearer now, I feigned confused innocence at his question. We all did. None of us aboard Jabba’s transport were pleasure slaves, apart from the three that were being delivered to our Bothan contact. But we would be, we all came to realize in that single moment.

“They’ll make do,” the leader sighed as he walked by, shoving my head down as he walked by. He went on to sort us between slaves they’d keep for their own means, whether it was pleasure, labor, or sadistic means. The rest were to be turned around and sold to fund their cause...whatever that was at the time.

The moon they brought us to was chilly and rocky, but also blossoming with newfound life. Their camp was made of tents and unused ships. I wanted to escape on one for some time. But for the first time in my life, it didn’t take long for me to break.

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

“Don’t I know you?”

His voice was like ice sliding under my skin, my hair rising on the back of my neck. I didn’t respond, trying to keep my focus on saving the duchess, Merrik, however, saw me clench, smiling deviously.

“You do, actually,” he said with a smirk, glancing at Vizsla’s hologram. “This girl is Kida Fett. She claims to have been enslaved at your camp once, years ago.”

“Fett?” Vizsla seemed surprised, his helmet tilting to look at me closer. “I wasn’t aware that he had a daughter. If he did, I didn’t have her here.”

No one responded, Merrik chuckling darkly. “She seems to know you very well,” he implied, wiggling his eyebrows at me.

I did my best not to tremble as Satine struggled. “Stop it,” she pleaded with as much fierceness as she could muster. “You monster!”

Vizsla hummed from his hologram as I silently willed Obi-wan to move his ass faster and get here. “You’re not a legitimate child, are you?” I didn’t answer, of course, still staring down Merrik. “No,” he surmised, chuckling as it likely started to click for him. “You were that girl he took as payment from us, weren’t you?” He snapped his fingers, remembering now. “The translator from the Hutt’s ship. Or should I say,” he laughed now, my eyes averting from Satine’s pitiful gaze. “Pleasure slave.”

“If you’re trying to get a rise out of me, it won’t work,” I warned, forcing myself to look back at Merrik and steady my shaking hands.

“No,” Vizsla teased, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing. “I know how to get a rise out of you, don’t I?” he implied, my stomach twisting. “Do you remember?”

“Let her go, Merrik,” I said, still ignoring the hologram. “Before I lose my patience and shoot you.”

“A bounty hunter, now?” Vizsla continued. “Look how far you’ve come. Though, unfortunate end for your father, no?” His hologram turned to follow me as I moved opposite of Merrik’s walk across the bridge. “I do recognize you now,” he admitted, his helmet tilting. “I recognize the mark I left.” He dragged his gloved finger down the side of his helmet, mirroring my scar that marked my cheekbone. “You’ve certainly grown,” he mocked, still trying to get me to lose focus and let Merrik go. “I’d like to see you again. Maybe I’ll ask Merrik to bring you with the duchess. I miss those nights where you’d be so silent. Such a good slave. Until I pushed you so far that you’d fight back. Your fire. How you would-”

I shot the hologram console with one of my pistols, anger boiling in me enough that I was shaking. “Last chance,” I growled as Vizsla’s image faded. Something inside me told me that if I released all the anger bubbling inside me, I could shake the room. Maybe even shatter the windows.

I kept it inside me. For now.

The door hissed open behind me, the sound of a lightsaber igniting as Obi-wan entered.

“Come in, Kenobi,” Merrik said with a smirk, officially ignoring me. “You’re expected.” Satine started in her struggling again, her face a mixture of fear, determination, and sadness as what she’d heard Vizsla say. I didn’t want her pity. I’d dealt with everything I’d been through under Death Watch.

At least, I thought I had.

“Tal Merrik,” Obi-wan said smoothly, unknowing about what had happened in the room. “You are under arrest. Release the duchess.”

“You know,” Merrik mocked. “Your little bounty hunter didn’t even offer arrest. She just wanted to shoot me.”

Despite Obi-wan’s look, I growled, still fighting my unbridled anger. “For good reason.”

“I took the precaution of wiring the ship’s engines to explode,” the traitorous senator explained, drawing a trigger mechanism from beneath his cloak. “I press this remote, and we all die.”

“Obi,” Satine spoke now. “If you have any respect for me, you will not take such risks with so many people’s lives at stake.”

Merrik smirked, but I only rolled my eyes. What kind of request was that? Obviously we were going to save everyone. Even if that meant I had to shoot through her.

Of course, Obi-wan may not have felt the same way.

“Satine,” he breathed, his brow furrowing as Merrik forced Satine to move towards the door. “Don’t.”

We followed the senator and his hostage through the halls, our weapons at the ready for whenever he would take a wrong step. “I suppose we can safely say that the Death Watch is backed by the Separatists now,” I mused, hearing the sounds of battle coming from somewhere on the ship.

“Our influence is more widespread than ever,” Merrik stated smugly. “Everything has already begun. It’s too late.”

“You’re going to be sadly mistaken,” Obi-wan rebutted. Despite his confident words, I could feel the anxiety rippling off of him. Similarly, he could feel my festering anger...and how badly I wanted to shoot something. “What happened?” he muttered, knowing that I was feeling him prod at my mental wall.

“Later,” I responded curtly, rounding the corner after them.

“This is Merrik,” the senator said into his wrist comm, backing towards a Seperatist boarding ship that had crashed into the side of the hallway. “Standby to disengage.” He smirked between Obi-wan and Satine. “Say farewell, Duchess.”

“Obi-wan,” Satine said breathlessly, my eyebrows raising as a wave of desperate sincerity rose from her. “It looks like I may never see you again. I don’t quite know how to say this, but...I’ve loved you from the moment you came to my aid, all those years ago.”

Merrik and I shared the same expression of shock, perhaps mixed with a mildly amused exasperation. “I don’t believe this,” the senator said with a roll of his eyes.

“Satine.” Obi-wan was flustered. Shocked. “This is hardly the time or place for-” his voice cut off under her earnest gaze. “Alright,” he sighed, catching me by surprise as sadness rippled from him in the force. “Had you said the word, I would’ve left the Jedi Order.”

“That is touching,” Merrik mocked. “Truly it is. But it’s making me sick, and we really must be going.”

Satine scoffed. “You have the romantic soul of a slug, Merrik!” Finally, she did something, slamming her heel onto his toe and twisting away, grabbing his blaster as she did. “And slugs are so often trod upon.”

I lifted my brows at her. I liked her ferocity, but I admitted that it took her long enough to do something. I wondered for a moment if her confession was a plan to rattle Merrik enough for her escape. Maybe it was, but it didn’t change the fact that her words had been genuine.

As had Kenobi’s…

“Interesting turnabout,” Merrik chuckled, looking at all the weapons trained on him. “But even if I do not deliver the duchess alive to the Separatists, I still win. The second I’m away, I’ll hit the remote and blow the Coronet to bits!”

“I will not allow that!” Despite the surety in her words, Satine couldn’t keep her hands from shaking around the blaster.

“What will you do?” Merrik teased. “If you shoot me, you prove yourself a hypocrite to every pacifist ideal you hold dear. And you, Kenobi,” he said, looking between the jedi and I. “You and your lacky are no strangers to violence. Either of you would be hailed as a hero by everyone on this ship.” His eyes cut to Satine. “Almost everyone.” The senator chuckled, Obi-wan raising his hand to lower my blasters gently.

“What are you doing?” I whispered harshly. I knew it was because he valued what Satine thought. As per my usual demeanor, I really didn’t give a damn.

“Come on, then,” Merrik asked. “Who’ll strike first and brand themselves a cold-blooded killer?”

Satine still shook, Obi-wan looking unsure of how he wanted to act. I rolled my eyes, stepping sideways, and lifted my pistol. A quick squeeze of the trigger left Merrik with a smoking hole in his chest, the man falling to the ground.

Anakin had entered, ready to take out the senator as well. Instead, he scooped down and swept up the falling detonator. “Good timing, Kida,” he smirked at me.

“Kida,” Obi-wan said my name again, more disappointed sounding than Anakin.

I shrugged at him. “He was going to blow up the ship. And you might care what the duchess thinks of you, but I really don’t.” I glanced at her, seeing her throw the blaster away from her like it was vile. “And she knows I worked on my own decision, not yours.”

“Obi-wan,” Satine said gently, approaching the jedi. I stepped away to be beside Anakin, returning his small smile. “I-” she was cut off as Cody entered the room.

“General Skywalker,” he said, giving me a nod. “The last of the droids have been defeated, sir.”

“Very good, Cody,” Anakin responded, glancing at me before looking back at Kenobi and Satine.

The duchess raised her head, turning away from our jedi friend. “I must get back to the business of diplomacy.”

“As you say, Duchess,” Obi-wan said with a bow. “Another time,” he added, his voice lower. Sadder.

He walked by us with a nod, his expression slightly worried as it passed me. I understood why. He’d confessed love. Confessed a wanting to leave the order. And I was the only person not directly involved who came out of the confession alive.

Still, his secret was safe with me. He was keeping mine, after all.

“It looks like I missed all of the fun,” I mused as I walked beside Anakin, feeling the ship shift into hyperspace again. It wouldn’t be long until we made it to Coruscant now.

“You did,” Anakin chuckled, giving me a smile. “But there will be plenty more in this war.” I hummed in response as we met up with Rex to walk towards the landing dock to prepare for docking on the Coruscanti platforms. “What did I miss on your side?”

“Mostly just more of Merrik’s annoying voice as he monologued his way through his villain speech.”

“His what?”

I laughed, earning a few chuckles from the clones, too. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard Grievous or Dooku monologue.”

“I mean, I guess. I just never named their speeches.” Still, Anakin was laughing now too. “That was really all that happened? Obi-wan seemed...upset.”

I shrugged. “He was mad that I shot him, considering Satine asked us not to be violent. I didn’t really care.”

“He was going to blow up the ship,” Anakin commented.

“That was my thought process.” I sighed. “So yeah, apart from monologuing and finally getting to shut up the annoying senator, you missed a wonderful stroll down memory lane with Vizsla and a whole lot of following Merrik and his hostage through the Coronet.”

“Woah, you talked with Vizsla?”

“It was mostly Vizsla talking at me while I threatened Merrik.”

Anakin slowed in the hangar, turning to look at me with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “It rattled you, nonetheless.” It wasn’t a question.

“Why do you say that?”

The powerful jedi fixed me with a look. It was true. I could lock off my thoughts, but my emotions were high strung at the moment...far from being under lock and key. “I can feel your anger,” was all he said.

I lifted my shoulders at an attempt at nonchalance. “He was trying to rile me up.”

“He succeeded.”

“He didn’t keep me from saving Satine, so did he really?” Man, I really was angry. Even Skywalker was pissing me off. I needed to separate myself and cool off. Maybe punch something for a while.

Anakin’s eyebrow lifted, his arms crossing. “I’ve never seen you like this. Do you want to talk about it?”

My eyes dropped, some of my anger shifting to sadness. “No. I really don’t.”

His hand touched my shoulder, nearly making me jump. “If you ever want to, know that I understand more than most. I don’t tell a lot of people this, but when I was younger, I was--”

“A slave,” I completed softly, keeping the men from hearing. “I know.” He gave me a questioning look. “Padme told me when she found out I’d been a slave, too.”

Anakin hummed, squeezing my shoulder gently before removing his hand.

“May I ask a question?” He only nodded in response. “Were you happy with how you were freed?”

His eyebrow lifted at the question, but he shrugged anyways. “I suppose. In a way, I won it myself, since I was freed on a bet on if I’d win my podrace. Master Qui-Gon brought me to Coruscant where I found purpose. A family within the Jedi Order. The strength to fight for what’s right.” He looked over my features as we leaned against the crates in the hangar. “Were you?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Jabba didn’t treat me poorly. Of course, no one likes being a slave, but I could have had it worse. But I wish I could have saved myself in a way like you did. By the time Jango freed me, I wasn’t even me anymore. I’d lost a part of myself in the Death Watch camp.”

“Maybe,” Anakin mused. “But maybe you found something inside you, too. Something stronger than what you’d been before.”

“What do you mean?”

“You hide your thoughts well, Kida,” he smiled gently at me. “But in the moment when you were on that bridge, your mind was like a battering ram through the halls. I didn’t see much,” he defended at my small jump of fright. “But I saw enough.” He leaned closer to me, his hand gripping my shoulder again. “Not many people can endure what you endured, Kida. Not to mention come out on the other side as strong as you are. Be proud of what you’ve survived. What you continue to survive. And keep fighting. Because you’re damned good at it.”

I chuckled lowly, fighting down the emotions Anakin was clearly determined at rooting up. “Are you sure jedi is the right line of work for you?” He seemed unsure at my words. “You seem much more fitted for a motivational speaker,” I teased effectively getting his attention off of my emotional turmoil.

“Change the subject all you want, Kida,” he said with a laugh, waving his hand as I felt the Coronet enter Coruscant’s atmosphere. “But I’m here if you ever want to talk.” He stopped as he began to walk away, turning back slowly with a sheepish, uncomfortable expression. “And,” he added, softer. “Padme is a good listener, should you ever want to talk to her.”

I smiled, appreciating it, but not taking genuine kindness like his very well. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it. It was more that I had seen so little of it, that I wasn’t entirely sure how to react. “Can I use your private channel?” I teased, earning a look and a blush from him before he hurried away to avoid further jabs.

I stood as the Coronet docked smoothly, the duchess and her retinue entering to disembark. “You alright?” I turned to see Rex approaching slowly, his helmet tilted to examine me closely.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured, walking beside him as the gangway descended. “How did the fighting go? Is everyone alright?”

He nodded. “No fatalities from the Seperatist attack.” His voice quieted with a bit of sadness, despite his training to detach himself. “Apart from those lost in the cargo hangar.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Don’t be. Those that survived did so because you were here to help.”

I glanced at him with some surprise, smiling as we stepped off of the Coronet. “So does that mean you’re finally alright with me being part of the war?”

“My opinion shouldn’t influence yours.”

“I never said it did.”

He chuckled lowly, my own smile finding my lips despite seeing the chancellor on the platform below. Obi-wan and Skywalker approached behind me, the latter giving me a nod with his head to have me follow them. I parted from Rex with a small smile, staying behind them as they greeted the chancellor.

“A job well done, Master Jedi,” Chancellor Palpatine said, surrounded by Senate guards.

“Thank you, Chancellor,” Obi-wan replied with a bow.

“Your Excellency,” Anakin said.

“And Miss Fett,” the chancellor continued as the jedi stepped aside. “I’m glad to hear you’ve officially joined with the Republic cause. I’m glad to have such a capable warrior fighting alongside our forces.”

I swallowed thickly, my inability to read the man unnerving. Still, I kept up my cool facade and bowed with a cocky smile. “Thank you, Chancellor,” I said, mimicking what Obi-wan had said. “I’m glad to be of service.”

I followed after the jedi, walking past Obi-wan as Satine approached him, to stand beside Skywalker a few feet back.

“How ironic to meet again,” I heard the duchess say. “Only to find we’re on opposing sides.”

“The needs of your people are all that matter,” Kenobi assured. “They couldn’t be in better hands, with you to guide their future.”

“Kind words, indeed, from a mindful and committed jedi.” I glanced at Skywalker, seeing him sporting the same raised eyebrows that I did. “And yet,” Satine continued, looking lost in thought.

“What?” Obi-wan seemed worried.

But, Satine only chuckled. “I’m still not sure about the beard.” Her manicured fingers brushed through the reddish hair, Obi-wan grinning slowly.

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Is he blushing?” I whispered, leaning towards Anakin, who could barely contain his laughter.

“It hides too much of your handsome face.” I smiled at Satine’s words, despite the amusement I felt at their lack of attempt at subtlety. Then again, like master, like student, right? I guess I could understand where Anakin learned it.

As the duchess walked away, Anakin and I stepped forward again, the young jedi knight putting his hand on his master’s shoulder.

“What was that all about?” he chuckled. Obi-wan didn’t respond, his former padawan sobering. “A very remarkable woman,” he admitted.

“She is, indeed.”

As Satine boarded her Senate transport with the rest of the political figureheads, I leaned closer to Obi-wan giving a smile to his mildly worried expression.

“Relax,” I assured. “Your secret is safe with me.”

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