#but in the interval time he became one of the most dangerous men in the world and decided it was his responsibility to create a ghost haven

[lazycranberrydoodles]

i think the barbie movie would have a profound psychological impact on hua cheng

prev comic / next comic / follow for still more hualian barbie movie content because i am not done

bonus angsty version 🎉 i hate love expressions just a couple tiny lines on the mouth and eyebrows and it goes from silly to sad

:(

[djarinsbeskar]

Interval - Boxer!Din AU

Definition - the short pause between rounds in a boxing match

A/N: A highly un-edited, stream of thought drabble because I woke up lazy in bed really early this morning (this damned heatwave) and fancied the same with Boxer would just be perfection.

Word Count: 1.2k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: Light SMUT! -> Some heavy petting.

Main Masterlist | Boxer Materlist

He was soft in the morning light.

Claws retracted and muscles relaxed, a stark contrast to the constant need he had to be on guard when awake. That honed instinct to anticipate attack and retaliate in kind melted with the gentle sunlight highlighting ochre tones in chocolate waves that fell messily across his forehead. It coated his face like a balm; smoothing out lines of age and the furrow of brows from a man who spent too much of his time scowling or glaring and made the rich tawny of his exposed chest and abdomen glow with a golden undertone. Gently parted lips tempted you beyond belief as chestnut eyes remained closed and the shadow of lashes stretched far down his cheeks, his face turning towards where you had been on the pillow beside him, seeking your touch, your smell.

You lay on your side watching him, mesmerized by the transformation sleep brought over your boxer. A vulnerable peace you never saw in the fiery dominance and unapproachable presence he exuded in the waking world. An intimidating bulk of muscle – inked with tattoos of his clan heightened that instant wariness most had around him – became a pillow of heat and protection you remember being stirred with when he banded strong arms around you in the middle of the night, rasps of sleepy growls inviting rather than dissuading, muffled into your neck and hair.

It was still early, too early to be awake for how long he kept you awake the night before. The daylight was only a few dozen minutes old as it filtered in through dark curtains and pulled you from sleep as the world remained quiet and unmoving.

Another night spent in his bed and still that same flare of attraction the moment you laid eyes on him rose in you.

Still naked – the sheets kicked off you in sleep – your eyes dragged down over his arm tossed lazily over his stomach, down the dusting of a happy trail that came to the beginning of a thatch of dark hair, covered by a pair of grey sweats he must have pulled on when he got up hours before to use the bathroom. The hung low – dangerously low, exposing the arch of hips and the mouth-watering dip of bone and muscle directed towards his crotch.

He was beautiful. Beautiful in the way a lightning storm or a wild tiger was; dangerous, wild and completely untouchable, but breath-taking to witness in person. Yet here you were, fingers dancing feather light over skin that should shock you with the voltage of a lightning strike and finding only the pleasant thrum of heat and muscle beneath your fingers, a tiger pacified.

Your fingers met the hem of the sweats, teasing the material—preening under the knowledge of what lay inches from your fingers, that virile passion that he usually directed towards boxing, channeled into you instead. Opponents turned to lovers and punch cues turned to the brutal thrust of his cock into your welcome heat, where cries of victory turned into shattered moans of ecstasy.

He embodied passion, embodied resilience, and an awe inspiring candor in his every action and word.

The world wasn’t built for men like Din. It was too fragile—too coddled in placations and gentility for his rough tempered morality so it shied away, made him villainous—made him the man people avoided instead of looking to.

Maybe you were too fragile for him as well. But the fury of him, the rawness of his edges called not for gentle hands, but strong ones. Hands that could melt those sharp edges and give him a reprieve from the difficulties of navigating the violent underbelly of the world where he felt most at home.

Eyes still slow with sleep dropped with a flurry of primal awareness to the heavy length of him lying over his thigh, hidden beneath his sweatpants, half hard and thick and perfectly outlined under the fabric from where it strained over him—an invitation too tempting to ignore.

A rumble of noise, deep and low, sounded from his chest when you ran a hand slowly over his concealed length, the twitch of awareness you inspired making you bite your lip on a smile as he swelled under your touch. You shifted down the bed, the rustle of sheets not pulling him from sleep even as a large hand fisted in them subconsciously when you rolled the heavy fullness of his balls slowly.

Fuck… but he was big all over.

It still baffled you that he hadn’t broken you in two yet.

Din groaned again, his mouth falling open with a rasp of unbridled pleasure—not unlike the way he sounded as you worked knots from tense muscles, when he couldn’t stop himself from vocalizing the bliss your hands could wring from him. The same could be said for everywhere you touched.

You stroked him languidly over the sweatpants, the rigid steel of his cock not lessened by the soft fabric that hid him and arousal pooled between your legs immediately, trickling slow between your folds and making you shiver as the cool air touched it. You didn’t even try to stop yourself from dropping a kiss to the outline of the head, the radiating heat enticing you to leave another and another and another along his length until you were mouthing along him with soft mewls of satisfaction as he twitched in sensitivity under the teasing inferno of your tongue.

The material had turned dark where your tongue had left wet patches of saliva on his cock when fingers speared through your hair and coaxed your eyes up his body, your mouth still working lazily over him—fingers still fondling his heavy sacs.

You were met with half-lidded pools of syrupy umber, the last vestiges of vulnerability clinging to the warmth in that sleepy gaze before consciousness finally dragged him back. Claws and fangs returned with a tight curl of his fingers in your hair to grip your head, and the twist of his lips into a snarling smirk when he brought your mouth back down to his throbbing, concealed cock. The shutters of hardened armor fell back around him instantly and your stomach lurched in anticipation,

“Needy little thing…” he rasped thickly, voice rough hewn from sleep and the moans you had pulled from him last night. His free hand hooked at the hem of his sweats already ridden low on his hips to pull them down further,

“Get to work, sweetheart.”

You grinned cheekily at his words, innocently pretending it hadn’t been your fault he ended up painfully hard when he woke up. Instead, you basked in the hitch of his breath, the darkening of lust clouding his eyes when you replaced his hand with your teeth to tug his sweatpants down the remaining few inches to free his straining cock.

He was soft in the morning light…mostly.

Taglist:

@geannad @ayamenimthiriel @sarahjkl82-blog @gracie7209 @nova646 @theflightytemptressadventure @wantingtobekorra @computeringturtle @slayerette26 @kesskirata @greatcircle79 @boxdyeblonde @fangirl-316 @niiight-dreamerrrr @tanzthompson @theamuz @the-scandalorian @gallowsjoker @helmet-comes-off @jesfreedark @amyk-37 @altarsw @feminist-violinist @spideysimpossiblegirl @lazybeeches @shameless-h @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @mamacitapascal @the-ginger-hedge-witch @disgruntledspacedad @asta-lily @aesnawan @frannyzooey @gaiuswrites @beskarboobs @honestly-shite @sherala007 @cats-are-a-girls-bestfriend @missminkylove @pedros-mustache @headinthestarz @leannawithacapitala @sharkbait77 @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @day-off-inkyoto @danidrabbles @magpie-to-the-morning @mandocrasis @pedro4ever @juletheghoul @javierpinme @voteforpedro09 @theorganasolo @aprilqueen84 @Prostitute-robot-from-the-future @wanderlustmags @darnitdraco @castleamc @outlawedmando @lawfulgranola @jaime1110 @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @taticalsparkles @heartsofbeskar @yespolkadotkitty

[satan-ruler-of-hells]

The Only Exception

Am I capable of writing anything fluffy without angst? No I don’t believe I am. Anyway here’s some Ushijima love! A big thank you to Noodles and Pies whom without this story would never have left drafts. You guys have no idea how much I appreciate you.

Warnings: Mentions of cheating, this isn’t exactly fluffy so prepare yourself and I hope you enjoy!

You'd sworn to yourself at an early age that you'd never fall in love. After watching your mother and father fight for years until the birth of your sister and your father having an affair every 2 years or so, you had decided it wasn't worth it. Then you’d met her and she made you think maybe love could be something more, something beautiful. But you were vividly reminded why you kept those walls up, why you guarded your heart so closely. 

You were reminded again a few years later, after finding out that all those late nights that kept your father at “work” and all those odd jobs were actually another affair. It wasn’t the first time, not by a long shot but you were old enough now to realize not only what he had done to your mother but to you as well. While he was out “living his life” and “working late” you were left at home to raise your sister. A position you’d been forced to take that was met with resistance and hatred from the very one you’d done your best to take care of while still being a kid yourself.      

Your mother, who had been working the graveyard shift, had done her best with what she had, but at her age pulling all nighters wasn't exactly an easy feat. You didn't blame her, you couldn’t. Not when you'd seen her and held her as she cried when she felt she had failed you as a parent and the guilt when she had to take a nap just so she could function. Your heart ached for her and raged at him. You’d seen what love could do to someone first hand and decided with renowned resolution that you wanted nothing to do with it.

That’s why starting at Shiratorizawa on a cheerleading scholarship, didn’t worry you. While your team would gush and rave about all the attractive men on the boys volleyball team you couldn't care less. Nice to look at, yet dangerous to touch, like a fire, give it the chance and it would burn you alive.

That didn't stop you from making friends though, you quickly found peace with Tendou Satori, the infamous “Guess-Monster” whose most monstrous trait in your opinion was that he loved too hard. Despite what meeting the red head led to, which at the start was the worst thing that could ever happen, you'd thank him for this one day. He introduced you to his best friend and dorm mate Ushijima Wakatoshi, who before getting close to Tendou was just another member of the volleyball team. 

You enjoyed his company, where Tendou was as loud and bright as the sun, Ushijima was quiet and calm like the moon. A perfect balance of excitement and security, spontaneity and familiarity. You would grow just as close to Ushijima as you had Tendou, if not closer. Slowly you’d let them in, not fully, but not at arms length either, within the year, they became people you relied on, your chosen family. The next year only furthered those feelings, cementing them a place in your life for better or for worse.

One night as the three of you had a sleepover, which was pretty much a weekly occurrence since the middle of second year, you and Ushijima stayed up for hours. The usually quiet and stoic man opened up to you, telling you his story. How he watched his parents slowly fall out of love, the way that had altered his views on life at a young age, and how his mother had wanted to change his left handedness, but at his fathers insistence, ultimately relented and the story his father had told him that shaped him into the player, and man he was today. 

In turn you told him everything you had kept to yourself for so long. From the way you'd grown up, to the grand reveal your father had given you, the truth on how everything had actually affected you. How you had become your family's backbone, that while your mother and sister broke down, you had held strong, giving them the time to grieve that you'd never had. Emptying your soul to him in a way you never thought yourself capable of, but you know what they say about conversations after midnight.

You two never brought up what you’d spoken of that night but something in your relationship had immeasurably shifted. You’d find yourself seeking his presence, even when you were surrounded by your friends and team. You, of course still spent most of your free time with Tendou, who’d become your brother in all ways but one, which usually meant Ushijima as well, but you found yourself having more alone time with him. Not that either of you minded, you typically used this time to finish your homework in peace ( you loved Tendou, truly, but he had nothing that even resembled an attention span for anything other than volleyball and the latest edition of Shonen Jump). 

On the weekends you two would find yourselves just walking around the city, you talking about everything that had gone on in the past week and him listening intently chiming in at the appropriate intervals, occasionally providing advice or just a different perspective on any predicaments you may have ended up in. These sessions ended as they usually did, with a hug but you didn’t notice, not consciously anyway, that they would linger longer and longer as time went on, and that saying goodnight was harder. If you did, you would just brush the thought aside because of course it sucked that he had to go, he was one of your closest friends, it was only natural. 

You probably could’ve lived in your little bubble of denial the rest of your life if not for Tendou who, bless his heart, was just trying to help. 

“When were you going to tell me about you and Ushijima?” he’d asked one day out of the blue.

“What do you mean?” You looked over at him from your place on the floor, eyes borrowed in confusion.

“I mean like when were you going to tell me you liked him?”

You laughed, ignoring the way your chest tightened, “You’re seeing things Tendou, nothing is going on between me and Ushi. we’re friends just like you and me, like we've always been.” The red head looked at you for a moment, almost like he was contemplating something.

“Y/N, I love you darling, truly I do, but you are full of shit. Either tell him how you feel or let him go, you’re my friend but so is he. Neither of you deserve to have your heart broken.”

“You can’t break something that was never whole to begin with, besides, like I told you, there's nothing going on.” You changed the subject quickly after that trying to ignore the nagging voice in your head that agreed with Tendou. But the door had already been opened, and deep down, you knew he was right.

It was like a switch flipped in your mind, the late night calls and texts, the sleepless nights you spent helping him study and practicing with him. The way your heart would flutter when his hand would accidentally brush yours and the way you’d found yourself melting into his embrace when he would hug you. For a fleeting moment you were elated, but just as quickly it was replaced with dread, anxiety, and fear. You couldn’t- no you wouldn’t allow yourself to admit it. 

You would like to convince yourself that you were not ignoring Ushijima, that you were just busy. Exams were coming up so you had to study, and if it just so happened that you remember this fact every time he entered the room well it was just a coincidence. You started avoiding Tendou as well, the look in his eyes, a feeling you couldn’t, and frankly didn't want to name made you feel worse and there was nothing he could say that would change your mind. 

Everything was going perfectly according to plan, ignore Ushijima and Tendou until graduation and then you’d be off the college, Tendou to Paris and Ushijima would be a pro volleyball player like he had always wanted. The distance would hurt, but the alternative in your mind was much, much worse. At least for about a week, you should've known your luck wouldn't hold out as when you got back to your dorm, Ushijima was waiting for you.

And there you have it folks! And yes there will be a part 2 so please don’t come for me with pitchforks and torches.

Taglist: @pies-writes-and-more @thisnoodlewritesao3

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Tokyo Love Story (End) Star Hearts and White Roses

Thank you for reading. 

*quietly lays down a bouquet*

The rain is an unrelenting downpour over Tokyo. Large drops pound on your head and run down your face as you stagger through the empty fields that surround a large industrial park. The square warehouses and expansive parking lots are lit only by basic utility street lamps. The city lights in the distance beckon you, but you have to be at least 5 miles away.

The wet grass pulls against your bare feet, wraps around your toes, hides dips and rises. Your dress pulls at your legs. The white and red fabric is dark with mud and Chance’s dried blood. You pant and gasp in frustration and kneel down. The bronze deadpool claw knife flashes and tears through the fabric. The fine fabric pulls apart as easily as tissue paper. The sound of the ripping cloth is satisfying. Your legs are free but you’re in no hurry to rise.

You gather the torn fabric in your hands. It’s clear that Chisei was not pursuing you. There is not a soul in sight. The world was completely empty and quiet. There’s nothing but rolling fields and desolate service roads in all four directions. And at the center of this emptiness, you sit, alone in the darkness and the rain, abandoned by the world.

The dress had been so beautiful and you finally felt beautiful. You felt happy and excited. Chance was so handsome. His arms were so warm, as warm as the water running down your cheeks now as you squeezed the torn fabric in your hands and raised your face to the sky.

You didn’t allow yourself to cry if you could help it but your body didn’t ask permission. You cry as though newly born, eyes squeezed shut, limbs shuddering, body flushed, screaming. You bury your face into the torn fabric in your hands, pressing it hard against your eyes, unable to breathe.

You couldn’t stop asking why, you couldn’t believe how much it hurt, you couldn’t understand how Chisei could do that to him -- do that to you. Why didn’t he wait? Why didn’t he believe you? You were sorry, so sorry, that you weren’t strong enough to be a match for Chisei, that you froze instead of protecting the berserking Chance.

But you were unaccustomed to crying. While you still whimpered and sobs forced their way through your trembling lips, you stopped. You had to walk. You had to keep going. 

A shadow passes over your head, obscuring the clouds. You look up into the metal ribs of a black umbrella. Z is standing next to you in his suit, a large umbrella in one hand, shielding you from the rain, a bouquet of bright white roses tucked under his arm. “Is this what love is? Making promises you know you can’t keep?”

You bitterly conclude that the question was rhetorical and decide not to answer.

“If it is… that’s a problem. Because I always keep my word.” He looked down at you, but there was nothing mocking or condescending in his eyes.

“Z… you knew I had so little time left. Why did you save me and not leave me in Black Swan Bay?” You ask.

"Surely I have a plan right?" He replies.

“That plan couldn't have included him?” You turn your pale face up to him.

“No. I can’t save everyone. I told you my power is limited. I’m using most of it on you. You mean that much to me.” He produces a handkerchief and gently cleans your face. The last of the remaining makeup, the tears and the rainwater washes off.

“I know Caesar makes big claims about keeping you alive… but I’ve known how to do that from the very start. It’s okay to tell him about what’s in that folder, but as you do… remember, I’ve always been by your side.”

The yellow folder was wrinkled, wet and spattered with blood but you’d kept it with you, tucked in your torn dress.

“I’ve called a car for you to take you home. Wash up, and rest and don’t forget to log your star-hearts.”

The mention of star-hearts sprouts fresh tears. “Chance…”

Z shakes his head in confusion. “I don’t understand… you hardly knew him. You didn’t even know his real name.”

“I don’t know your real name!” You snap back.

“Touche.” Z smiles slightly.

“I didn’t have to know him. He was … so much like me. I wanted him to live...” You chew your lip and squeeze your hands together to stop crying.

“I see.” Z rubbed his chin. “If he did live, would you have married him in Hokkaido? Because I guarantee you wouldn’t have lived long enough to raise his children. The key to your survival is here in Tokyo. That’s all I’ll say for now.”

He offers you his hand and helps you stand and you lean on his arm as he supports you to the service road. You stand in the pool of light under a street lamp while Z stays in the shadows. “The car will be here soon.” He hands you the bouquet of white flowers.

“Thank you, Z.”

He pats your arm and smiles. “Just a little longer…”

You look down the road and see the headlights ahead, and like that, Z is gone.

You get into a ride-share vehicle. It’s already warm and there’s a blanket. There’s even a package of food, ramen from a local place, but you don’t have the stomach to eat. The vibrant nightlife of Tokyo is suppressed by the torrential rain. The sidewalks are empty. The street vendors are closed.

At Club Takamagahara, it’s past midnight. When you slide open the door, the men aren’t here. It doesn’t look like they’ve been here since they left for the Kabuki theater. You slowly pile the wood in the stove and light it, sniffling at intervals. You fill the barrel with water. 

You take Renata’s picture from the yellow folder and carefully hang it in your closet, over your bed, clipped to one of the shelves. Then you hang Chance’s gold chains next to it. Then you put the bouquet of white roses under them both. Sorrow fills your chest and your vision blurs. But you don’t cry again. You just sit silent while the water heats.

You open the cigar box and pick out one of Caesar’s best cigars and you tilt it in the arms of the buddha statuette he liked to use as an ashtray. You light the tip and it starts to burn, filling the room with the sweet smoke of tobacco. You place the bloodstained folder on the table stand next to the TV and strip down to nothing. You take the beautiful period-style hanfu and throw it into the stove to burn. You settle into the warm bath and stare blankly at the wall. With the smell of tobacco, you don’t feel so lonely.

You stay in the bath until you hear footsteps down the hall. The footsteps halt a bit away. No doubt Caesar smells his own tobacco and this is something strange. You assume he must be listening with his Scythe Itachi and decide to test him out. You speak very softly. “Wooo… It’s me. The ghost! I’m haunting your cigar…”

You’re rewarded with a laugh from Caesar. “What are you doing, MC? Have you taken up my habits now?”

The door slides open and Caesar abruptly halts, startled. Chu Zihang, not expecting Caesar to stop, runs into his back. Caesar shuts the door again. “MC!”

From behind the door, Chu Zihang quietly complains. 

“She’s bathing,” Caesar hisses.

You call them. “No, don’t mind me. I’ll kill the mood plenty if you have impure thoughts. Don’t worry.” 

The door slides open again. You’re sitting in the barrel with only your head above water, your hair fanning out behind you. You must have looked like you were crying because Caesar immediately became serious. You never cried at all. For you to cry this much, something truly terrible must have happened.

Caesar’s mind was probably jumping to a million conclusions, and all of them rape, so you say it bluntly. “Chance is dead. Chisei Gen killed him.” It hurts to say it. Your heart was twisting in your chest. Your lungs spasmed and you squeezed your hands under water.

Just as you promised, the men suddenly don’t care that you’re in the bath.  Caesar’s eyes are fiery. “Damn, that Tortoise found you?”

“He wasn’t looking for me. He was looking for Chance. And I just happened to be with him.”

“So he was the one sitting next to you in the theater then.” Chu Zihang said.

“He’s…” You close your eyes against a painful switch to past tense. “He was a member of the Devil Clan. Chisei called him a Code: Orange, Rank A hybrid. He was in the MC Romance Contest and reported to Kazama that we were here.” You run your hand through your hair.

Chu Zihang lowered his eyes. “You must have liked him. I’m sorry.”

“Not now please.” You whisper and point to the blood stained folder. “He gave me that. And told me I have only a year to live, probably less, before I end up like him.” 

Caesar moves to the folder and starts flipping through it. He notes the blood on the pages. “You’re not hurt.”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t the target.”

“This isn’t death servitor blood.”

You bite your lip hard as your throat constricts, the tears forming a sheen on your eyes. You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes forward.

Caesar doesn’t continue that line of questioning. “Who are these kids?”

“They’re the ones I knew in Black Swan Orphanage. They were all like me. At age 20, they would be euthanized as deadpool.”

Caesar takes a breath and puts the folder aside. “Ruri Kazama told us all about Black Swan Bay. My dear, you didn’t tell us half of all you went through. But it explains a lot about who you are.” He walked over to where you were using the cigar as an incense and picked it up, taking a deep drag before returning to the folder. He begins to read it carefully. “Chu… fill her in please.”

Chu Zihang nods dutifully. “It’s our decision that… for the best of the team, we need to get Lu Mingfei and the Uesugi Clan Chief out of Japan. What’s going to happen next will be extremely dangerous as we believe that both the Devil Clan and the Hydra Clan are both trying to awaken the White King. There is no power greater than the White King, so our likelihood of death is higher. Caesar wanted to give you the choice to stay or go.”

“I won’t leave Japan. I’ll stay.” You keep your eyes forward.

Chu Zihang looks at Caesar uncertainly but he’s absorbed in what he’s reading. He turns back to you. “Did Chance explain the play to you?”

“Yeah, we got up to the part where Yamata-no-Orochi was buried in the Takamagahara to hide the White King from Hybrid contact.”

“Correct. We believe that the person who sank the Lenin ship was trying to awaken the Yamata-no-Orochi. If the White King inside of it reaches maturity then the beast will turn into the White King. Our only hope of stopping it will be to kill it before it matures. You mentioned that you heard something big, moving around under Tokyo. You wouldn't happen to know it’s location would you?”

Chu Zihang started to remove his jacket and set his things down. 

“No, unfortunately, I didn’t listen long enough to do that. It was also very far away. Too far to be certain of location.” You speak robotically, not moving.

“There’s something else you need to know. Do you know the name Bondarev?”

You turn your head to Chu Zihang, eyes wide and dead. “Where did you hear that name?” You asked, your voice clipped and pointed.

Chu Zihang looks at you, calm and expressionless. “Ruri Kazama admitted that Bondarev is Masamune Tachibana.”

Your lips part in a look of silent indignation. “You can’t be serious.”

“That would explain his Russian accented Japanese wouldn’t it?” Caesar glances up from the folder he was reading.

“Bondarev killed Renata.” You turn back to the wall. You couldn’t believe you were sitting across from that guy, drinking tea at Genji Heavy Industries. The man with the blood of Renata and now Chance on his hands… and all of Chance's family!

Chu Zihang lifted his head and straightened his back. Caesar pressed his lips together and then glanced away from you, taking a deep breath. “Oh… yeah this just got really personal… I wasn’t going to leave Japan without that guy six feet under anyway but now?” His smile was frightening.

Chu Zihang nods. "As a witness you are invaluable.  If you couldn’t recognize Bondarev's disguise as Tachibana,  no one could."

"Bondarev was a handsome fellow. What was most notable about him was he was never affected by cold temperatures." You say.

"I feel bad smoking in front of you." Caesar says. "Are you sure you don't want one?"

"The cigar smells like you. So I lit it for comfort." You curve your arms around your knees.

Caesar's eyes widen and the cigar drops slightly in his lips. He gave a soft, shy chuckle. "My bad. Go on."

Chu Zihang continued. "Ruri Kazama told us that he was studying Deadpool and breeding it in the Genji Heavy Industries building.  He showed us photos. The beasts in that tank aren’t ancient people, but people of our era, turned into monsters. I fought a deadpool that knew Kendo. The one with the swords. I was wondering how an ancient creature would know Kendo. Now I know."

You nod. "I saw the tank with my own eyes. My elevator malfunctioned. Remember.  It took me down to the lower basement where I saw the beasts. "

"Why didn’t you tell us?" Caesar asked.

"It didn't seem relevant." You shrugged.

Caesar continued to stare at the photos. "Vera seems really young."

"Yes, she was a sweet girl. She could barely speak because of a stutter." You chuckle. "But she boldly asked me to dance the Christmas Ball with her. When I didn't answer right away,  she said, 'I'll take that as a yes!'"

"She looks … ten."

You stay quiet for a moment. "Yes. But she still would have turned into deadpool in the ten years after that photo was taken.  So even if she wasn't killed then, she'd still be dead by now."

"Masamune Tachibana isn't the only one creating Deadpool. The leader of the Devil Clan, the so-called General King, performed human experiments on hybrids here using the same methods. King General and Tachibana appear to have the same goals." Chu Zihang said. "You mentioned that you might not have been the only one who survived Black Swan."

"The General King must be Dr. Herzog then. I have to correct you. They're not survivors. They're the ones who blew it up. But they were killing before then. I personally witnessed Herzog and Bondarev kill Anton,  a young man Herzog had raised as a son. Once I reached the end of my useful life… Herzog would have shot me too. Even though I considered him my father." You whisper.

Tears burned your eyes as you're struck with a sudden epiphany.  "It really makes sense now. Chance was at the end of his useful life when he was offered the suicide pill… the purple vial. I convinced him to not take it. When he didn't take it, an assassin tried to kill him but, when the assassin failed, Chisei killed him. None of these deaths were natural. Tachibana specifically sent Chisei there, and even Chisei mentioned that he had experienced similar circumstances before.  He even anticipated the assassination! But he was too stubborn to listen to me! So he again served as a weapon to kill an innocent man!"

"If the King General created Chance, he could also monitor him. Chance died just like Anton. Chance fought hard to survive but no…" Your voice catches, as you laugh. "Chance didn’t have a chance did he?...Shit."

The ripples from tears spread into the bath. "We had no way to escape. Chisei said if Chance lived quietly he would monitor him in a safe house in Hokkaido.  Chance never would have made it. Either Bondarev or Herzog would have had him killed before he left Tokyo."

You draw your arm across your eyes. "What's more, he has to be monitoring me! I was sitting right across from the so-called Tachibana drinking tea. Do you think he wouldn't recognize me? His precious research subject? My file is not in that folder. He probably pulled it. When Bondarev or Herzog knows I'm about to die, when I'm no longer useful for research, he will come to kill me."

Chu Zihang nods. "Remarkable.  Even though you did not hear Ruri Kazama’s words, your words echo and corroborate his testimony. It's clear the men from Black Swan Bay and the men running affairs in Japan are the same."

Chu Zihang turned to Caesar who was still reading the file.

"Whoever wrote this file seemed to have a lust for Khorkina." He muttered. "This is so unprofessional."

"Not surprising.  Khorkina had the biggest chest, but she also had a pretty terrible personality." You smirk a bit. "Do you like her?"

Caesar shut the folder. "Not my type."

"Then why are you reading all that?" You turn and look at him.

Caesar averts his eyes from your body in the bath. "Because you've been carrying the burdens of their deaths this whole time alone. This is the most you've ever talked about them. Now that I've committed their files to memory, you don't have to carry it alone any more."

You slump against the back of the barrel and rest your head against the hardwood. You laugh,  but your eyes and nose run, your pretty face creased with pain. "I bet you say that to all the girls." 

Chu Zihang hands you a towel and you wipe your face of tears and snot. "Now is the worst time to talk about these things, but we have to discuss them. I believe your testimony is enough for us to act against both Yakuza organizations in the name of Cassell College and join Ruri Kazama as an ally."

Caesar said. "I would agree with that as well. I'm not sure if Ruri Kazama and the Devil Clan will be accepted by Cassell officially as they don't allow for hybrids of his type to join, but if they can help us prevent the awakening of the White King, then that will be an incentive for them to forgive them."

You blink. "Doesn't that mean I'm against school rules too?"

"He mentioned that."  Chu Zihang nodded. 

Caesar chuckled. "I think Kazama likes you. He outed our faces to reporters as leverage for cooperation.  But not yours."

You wrinkle your nose and then stare blankly at the wall as grief turns to numbness. "Well, if he likes me, he'll need to be satisfied with what's left of me." You say. "Part of me is in the Arctic sea, the other part is on a train to get married in Hokkaido. If he doesn't mind fighting the other lion for the remainder, he can have me."

The computer game system logged the star-heart winners for the night. Ruri Kazama with one for giving you Renata’s picture, Z with one for giving you white roses to mourn. Chance, however, had three. One for his fight against Herzog’s poison pill, one for his fight against Bondarev’s assassins, including Chisei, and one, for the fight against his own blood.

[petulantskeptic]

Death of the calorie

For more than a century we’ve counted on calories to tell us what will make us fat. Peter Wilson says it’s time to bury the world’s most misleading measure BY PETER WILSON The first time that Salvador Camacho thought he was going to die he was sitting in his father’s Chrysler sedan with a friend listening to music. The 22-year-old engineering student was parked near his home in the central Mexican city of Toluca and in the fading evening light he didn’t notice two tattooed men approach. Tori Amos’s hit, “Bliss”, had just started playing when the gang members pointed guns at the young men. So began a 24-hour ordeal. Strong willed and solidly built, Camacho was singled out as the more stubborn of the pair. He was blindfolded and beaten. One robber eventually threw him to the ground, put a gun to the back of his head and told him it was time to die. He passed out, waking in a field with his hands tied behind his back, almost naked. Camacho survived but, traumatised, he sank into depression. Soon he was drinking heavily and binge eating. His weight ballooned from a trim 70kg to 103kg. That led to his second near-death experience, eight years later, in 2007. He remembers waking up and blinking at bright lights: he was being wheeled on a stretcher into a hospital emergency ward, with an attack of severe arrhythmia, or irregular heart beat. “A cardiologist told me that if I didn’t lose weight and get my health under control I would be dead in five years,” he says. That second crisis forced Camacho belatedly to deal with the trauma of the first. To help with what he now understands was post-traumatic stress disorder, he started having counselling and taking anti-depressants and anti-anxiety drugs. To address his physical health, he tried to lose weight. This effort propelled him to the centre of one of the most fraught scientific debates of our age: the calorie wars, a fierce disagreement about diet and weight control. Today, more than a decade after his cardiologist’s stark warning, Camacho lives in the Swiss city of Basel. He is relaxed and confident, except when two topics come up. When he recounts his kidnapping his gaze drops, his smile vanishes and he becomes noticeably quieter, although he says his panic attacks have virtually disappeared. The other touchy topic is weight control, which causes him to shake his head in anger at what he and millions of other dieters have gone through. “It’s just ridiculous,” he says with exasperation and a touch of venom. “People are living with real pain and guilt and all they get is advice that is confused or just plain wrong.” The guidance that Camacho’s doctors gave him, along with a string of nutritionists and his own online research, was unanimous. It would be familiar to the millions of people who have ever tried to diet. “Everybody tells you that to lose weight you have to eat less and move more,” he says, “and the way to do that is to count your calories.” At his heaviest, Camacho’s body-mass index – the ratio of his height to his weight – reached 35.6, well above the 30 mark that doctors define as clinically obese. Most government guidelines indicated that, as a man, he needed 2,500 calories a day to maintain his weight (the target for women is 2,000). Nutritionists told Camacho that if he ate fewer than 2,000 calories a day, a weekly “deficit” of 3,500 would mean that he would lose 0.5kg a week. With a desk job as a planning engineer in a Mexican hospital, he knew it would take real discipline to trim his pudgy frame. But as his kidnappers had quickly realised, he is an unusually determined character. He began getting up before dawn each day to run 10km. He also started accounting for every morsel of food he consumed. “I filled in Excel spreadsheets every night, every week and every month listing everything I ate. It became a real obsession for me,” says Camacho. Out went the Burger King Whoppers, fried tacos packed with pork and cheese, and tortas (Mexican sandwiches filled with meat, refried beans, avocado and peppers). Out too went his usual steady flow of beer and wine. In came carefully measured low-fat cheese and turkey sandwiches, salads, canned peach juice, Gatorade and Coke Zero, with three Special-K low-calorie diet bars a day. “I was always tired and hungry and I would get really moody and distracted,” he says. “I was thinking about food all the time.” He was constantly told that if he got the maths right – consuming fewer calories than he burned each day – the results would soon show. “I really did everything you are supposed to do,” he insists with the tone of a schoolboy who completed his homework yet still failed a big test. He bought a battery of exercise monitoring devices to measure how many calories he was expending on his runs. “I was told to exercise for at least 45 minutes at least four or five times a week. I actually ran for more than an hour every day.” He kept to low-fat, low-calorie food for three years. It simply didn’t work. At one point he lost about 10kg but his weight rebounded, though he still restricted his calories. Dieters the world over will be familiar with Camacho’s frustrations. Most studies show that more than 80% of people regain any lost weight in the long term. And like him, when we fail, most of us assume that we are too lazy or greedy – that we are at fault. As a general rule it is true that if you eat vastly fewer calories than you burn, you’ll get slimmer (and if you consume far more, you’ll get fatter). But the myriad faddy diets flogged to us each year belie the simplicity of the formula that Camacho was given. The calorie as a scientific measurement is not in dispute. But calculating the exact calorific content of food is far harder than the confidently precise numbers displayed on food packets suggest. Two items of food with identical calorific values may be digested in very different ways. Each body processes calories differently. Even for a single individual, the time of day that you eat matters. The more we probe, the more we realise that tallying calories will do little to help us control our weight or even maintain a healthy diet: the beguiling simplicity of counting calories in and calories out is dangerously flawed. The calorie is ubiquitous in daily life. It takes top billing on the information label of most packaged food and drinks. Ever more restaurants list the number of calories in each dish on their menus. Counting the calories we expend has become just as standard. Gym equipment, fitness devices around our wrists, even our phones tell us how many calories we have supposedly burned in a single exercise session or over the course of a day. It wasn’t always thus. For centuries, scientists assumed that it was the mass of food consumed that was significant. In the late 16th century an Italian physician named Santorio Sanctorius invented a “weighing chair”, dangling from a giant scale, in which he sat at regular intervals to weigh himself, everything he ate and drank, and all the faeces and urine he produced. Despite 30 years of compulsive chair dangling, Sanctorius answered few of his own questions about the impact that his consumption had on his body. Only later did the focus shift to the energy different foodstuffs contained. In the 18th century Antoine Lavoisier, a French aristocrat, worked out that burning a candle required a gas from the air – which he named oxygen – to fuel the flame and release heat and other gases. He applied the same principle to food, concluding that it fuels the body like a slow-burning fire. He built a calorimeter, a device big enough to hold a guinea pig, and measured the heat the creature generated to estimate how much energy it was producing. Unfortunately the French revolution – specifically the guillotine – cut short his thinking on the subject. But he had started something. Other scientists later constructed “bomb calori­meters” in which they burned food to measure the heat – and thus the potential energy – released from it. The calorie – which comes from “calor”, the Latin for “heat” – was originally used to measure the efficiency of steam engines: one calorie is the energy required to heat 1kg of water by one degree Celsius. Only in the 1860s did German scientists begin using it to calculate the energy in food. It was an American agricultural chemist, Wilbur Atwater, who popularised the idea that it could be used to measure both the energy contained in food and the energy the body expended on things like muscular work, tissue repair and powering the organs. In 1887, after a trip to Germany, he wrote a series of wildly popular articles in Century, an American magazine, suggesting that “food is to the body what fuel is to the fire.” He introduced the public to the notion of “macronutrients” – carbohydrates, protein and fat – so called because the body needs a lot of them. Today many of us want to monitor our calorie consumption in order to lose or maintain our weight. Atwater, the son of a Methodist minister, was motivated by the opposite concern: at a time when malnutrition was widespread, he sought to help poor people find the most cost-effective items to fill themselves up. To see how much energy different macronutrients provided to the body, he fed samples of an “average” American diet of that era – which he believed to be heavy in molasses cookies, barley meal and chicken gizzards – to a group of male students in a basement at Wesleyan University in Middletown, Connecticut. For up to 12 days at a time a volunteer would eat, sleep and lift weights while sealed inside a six-foot-high chamber measuring four feet wide by seven feet deep. The energy in each meal was calculated by burning identical foods in a bomb calorimeter. The walls were filled with water, and changes in its temperature allowed Atwater to calculate how much energy the students’ bodies were generating. His team collected the students’ faeces and burned that too, to see how much energy had been left in the body in the digestion process. This was pioneering stuff for the 1890s. Atwater eventually concluded that a gram of either carbohydrate or protein made an average of four calories of energy available to the body, and a gram of fat offered an average of 8.9 calories, a figure later rounded up to nine calories for convenience. We now know far more about the workings of the human body: Atwater was right that some of a meal’s potential energy was excreted, but had no idea that some was also used to digest the meal itself, and that the body expends different amounts of energy depending on the food. Yet more than a century after igniting the faeces of Wesleyan students, the numbers Atwater calculated for each macro­nutrient remain the standard for measuring the calories in any given food stuff. Those experiments were the basis of Salvador Camacho’s daily calorific arithmetic. Atwater transformed the way the public thought about food, with his simple belief that “a calorie is a calorie”. He counselled the poor against eating too many leafy green vegetables because they weren’t sufficiently dense in energy. By his account, it made no difference whether calories came from chocolate or spinach: if the body absorbed more energy than it used, then it would store the excess as body fat, causing you to put on weight. That idea captured the public imagination. In 1918 the first book was published in America based on the notion that a healthy diet was no more complicated than the simple addition and subtraction of calories. “You may eat just what you like – candy, pie, cake, fat meat, butter, cream but count your calories!” wrote Lulu Hunt Peters in “Diet and Health”. “Now that you know you can have the things you like, proceed to make your menus containing very little of them.” The book sold millions. By the 1930s the calorie had become entrenched in both the public mind and government policy. Its exclusive focus on the energy content of food, rather than its vitamin content, say, went virtually unchallenged. Rising incomes and greater female participation in the workforce meant that by the 1960s people were eating out more often or buying prepared food, so they wanted more information about what they were consuming. Nutritional information on foodstuffs was widespread but haphazard; many items carried outlandish claims about their health benefits. Labelling became standardised and mandatory in America only in 1990. The emphasis and use of this information shifted too. By the late 1960s, obesity was becoming a pressing health concern as people became more sedentary and started eating highly processed foods and lots of sugar. As the number of people who needed to lose weight grew, changing diets became the focus of attention. So began the war on fat, in which Atwater’s calorie calculations were an unwitting ally. Because counting calories was seen as an objective arbiter of the health qualities of a foodstuff, it seemed logical that the most calorie-laden part of any food item – fat – must be bad for you. By this measure, dishes low in calories, but rich in sugar and carbohydrates, seemed healthier. People were increasingly willing to blame fat for many of the health ills of modern life, helped along by the sugar lobby: in 2016, a researcher at the University of California uncovered documents from 1967 showing that sugar companies secretly funded studies at Harvard University designed to blame fat for the growing obesity epidemic. That the dietary “fat” found in olive oil, bacon and butter is branded with the same word as the unwanted flesh around our middles made it all the easier to demonise. A us Senate committee report in 1977 recommended a low-fat, low-cholesterol diet for all, and other governments followed suit. The food industry responded with enthusiasm, removing fat, the most calorie-dense of macronutrients, from food items and replacing it with sugar, starch and salt. As a bonus, the thousands of new cheap and tasty “low-cal” and “low-fat” products which Camacho used to diet tended to have longer shelf lives and higher profit margins. But this didn’t lead to the expected improvements in public health. Instead, it coincided almost exactly with the most dramatic rise in obesity in human history. Between 1975 and 2016 obesity almost tripled worldwide, according to the World Health Organisation (who): nearly 40% of over-18s – some 1.9bn adults – are now overweight. That contributed to a rapid rise in cardiovascular diseases (mainly heart disease and stroke) which became the leading cause of death worldwide. Rates of type-2 diabetes, which is often linked to lifestyle and diet, have more than doubled since 1980. It wasn’t only wealthy countries that saw such trends. In Mexico, middle-class urban families such as Camacho’s got fatter too. As a child Camacho was fit and loved playing football. But at the age of ten, in 1988, he was one of many young Mexicans who started stacking on weight as increasing trade with America saw cheap sweets and fizzy drinks flood the shops, a process known as the “Coca-colonisation” of Mexico. “There were suddenly all these flavours you had never tasted, with chocolates, candies and Dr Pepper,” Camacho remembers: “Overnight I got fat.” When his uncles teased him about his bulging waistline, he cut back on sweets and stayed in good shape until his kidnapping 12 years later. Other Mexicans just kept bulking up. In 2013 Mexico overtook America as the most obese country in the world. To combat this trend, governments worldwide have enshrined calorie-counting in policy. The who attributes the “fundamental cause” of obesity worldwide to “an energy imbalance between calories consumed and calories expended”. Governments the world over persist in offering the same advice: count and cut calories. This has infiltrated ever more areas of life. In 2018 the American government ordered food chains and vending machines to provide calorie details on their menus, to help consumers make “informed and healthful decisions”. Australia and Britain are headed in similar directions. Government bodies advise dieters to record their meals in a calorie journal to lose weight. The experimental efforts of a 19th-century scientist stand barely changed – and are barely questioned. Millions of dieters give up when their calorie-counting is unsuccessful. Camacho was more stubborn than most. He took photos of his meals to record his intake more accurately, and would log into his calorie spreadsheets from his phone. He thought about every morsel he ate. And he bought a proliferation of gadgets to track his calorie output. But he still didn’t lose much weight. One problem was that his sums were based on the idea that calorie counts are accurate. Food producers give impressively specific readings: a slice of Camacho’s favourite Domino’s double pepperoni pizza is supposedly 248 calories (not 247 nor 249). Yet the number of calories listed on food packets and menus are routinely wrong. Susan Roberts, a nutritionist at Tufts University in Boston, has found that labels on American packaged foods miss their true calorie counts by an average of 8%. American government regulations allow such labels to understate calories by up to 20% (to ensure that consumers are not short-changed in terms of how much nutrition they receive). The information on some processed frozen foods misstates their calorific content by as much as 70%. That isn’t the only problem. Calorie counts are based on how much heat a foodstuff gives off when it burns in an oven. But the human body is far more complex than an oven. When food is burned in a laboratory it surrenders its calories within seconds. By contrast, the real-life journey from dinner plate to toilet bowl takes on average about a day, but can range from eight to 80 hours depending on the person. A calorie of carbohydrate and a calorie of protein both have the same amount of stored energy, so they perform identically in an oven. But put those calories into real bodies and they behave quite differently. And we are still learning new insights: American researchers discovered last year that, for more than a century, we’ve been exaggerating by about 20% the number of calories we absorb from almonds. The process of storing fat – the “weight” many people seek to lose – is influenced by dozens of other factors. Apart from calories, our genes, the trillions of bacteria that live in our gut, food preparation and sleep affect how we process food. Academic discussions of food and nutrition are littered with references to huge bodies of research that still need to be conducted. “No other field of science or medicine sees such a lack of rigorous studies,” says Tim Spector, a professor of genetic epidemiology at Kings College in London. “We can create synthetic dna and clone animals but we still know incredibly little about the stuff that keeps us alive.” What we do know, however, suggests that counting calories is very crude and often misleading. Think of a burger, the kind of food that Camacho eschewed during his early efforts to lose weight. Take a bite and the saliva in your mouth starts to break it down, a process that continues when you swallow, transporting the morsel towards your stomach and beyond to be churned further. The digestive process transforms the protein, carbohydrates and fat in the burger into their basic compounds so that they are tiny enough to be absorbed into the bloodstream via the small intestine to fuel and repair the trillions of cells in the body. But the basic molecules from each macronutrient play very different roles within the body. All carbohydrates break down into sugars, which are the body’s main fuel source. But the speed at which your body gets its fuel from food can be as important as the amount of fuel. Simple carbohydrates are swiftly absorbed into the bloodstream, providing a fast shot of energy: the body absorbs the sugar from a can of fizzy drink at a rate of 30 calories a minute, compared with two calories a minute from complex carbohydrates such as potatoes or rice. That matters, because a sudden hit of sugar prompts the rapid release of insulin, a hormone that carries the sugar out of the bloodstream and into the body’s cells. Problems arise when there is too much sugar in the blood. The liver can store some of the excess, but any that remains is stashed as fat. So consuming large quantities of sugar is the fastest way to create body fat. And, once the insulin has done its work, blood-sugar levels slump, which tends to leave you hungry, as well as plumper. Getting fat is a consequence of civilisation. Our ancestors would have enjoyed a heavy hit of sugar perhaps four times a year, when a new season produced fresh fruit. Many now enjoy that kind of sugar kick every day. The average person in the developed world consumes 20 times as much sugar as people did even during Atwater’s time. But it is a different story when you eat complex carbohydrates such as cereals. These are strung together from simple carbohydrates, so they also break down into sugar, but because they do so more slowly, your blood-sugar levels remain steadier. The fruit juices that Camacho was encouraged to drink contained fewer calories than one of his wholegrain buns but the bread delivered less of a sugar hit and left him feeling satiated for longer. Other macronutrients have different functions. Protein, the dominant component of meat, fish and dairy products, acts as the main building block for bone, skin, hair and other body tissues. In the absence of sufficient quantities of carbohydrates it can also serve as fuel for the body. But since it is broken down more slowly than carbohydrates, protein is less likely to be converted to body fat. Fat is a different matter again. It should leave you feeling fuller for longer, because your body splits it into tiny fatty acids more slowly than it processes carbohydrates or protein. We all need fat to make hormones and to protect our nerves (a bit like plastic coating protects an electric wire). Over millennia, fat has also been a crucial way for humans to store energy, allowing us to survive periods of famine. Nowadays, even without the risk of starvation, our bodies are programmed to store excess fuel in case we run out of food. No wonder a single measure – the energy content – can’t capture such complexity. Our fixation with counting calories assumes both that all calories are equal and that all bodies respond to calories in identical ways: Camacho was told that, since he was a man, he needed 2,500 calories a day to maintain his weight. Yet a growing body of research shows that when different people consume the same meal, the impact on each person’s blood sugar and fat formation will vary according to their genes, lifestyles and unique mix of gut bacteria. Research published this year showed that a certain set of genes is found more often in overweight people than in skinny ones, suggesting that some people have to work harder than others to stay thin (a fact that many of us already felt intuitively to be true). Differences in gut microbiomes can alter how people process food. A study of 800 Israelis in 2015 found that the rise in their blood-sugar levels varied by a factor of four in response to identical food. Some people’s intestines are 50% longer than others: those with shorter ones absorb fewer calories, which means that they excrete more of the energy in food, putting on less weight. The response of your own body may also change depending on when you eat. Lose weight and your body will try to regain it, slowing down your metabolism and even reducing the energy you spend on fidgeting and twitching your muscles. Even your eating and sleeping schedules can be important. Going without a full night’s sleep may spur your body to create more fatty tissue, which casts a grim light on Camacho’s years of early-morning exertion. You may put on more weight eating small amounts over 12-15 hours than eating the same food in three distinct meals over a shorter period. There’s a further weakness in the calorie-counting system: the amount of energy we absorb from food depends on how we prepare it. Chopping and grinding food essentially does part of the work of digestion, making more calories available to your body by ripping apart cell walls before you eat it. That effect is magnified when you add heat: cooking increases the proportion of food digested in the stomach and small intestine, from 50% to 95%. The digestible calories in beef rises by 15% on cooking, and in sweet potato some 40% (the exact change depends on whether it is boiled, roasted or microwaved). So significant is this impact that Richard Wrangham, a primatologist at Harvard University, reckons that cooking was necessary for human evolution. It enabled the neurological expansion that created Homo sapiens: powering the brain consumes about a fifth of a person’s metabolic energy each day (cooking also means we didn’t need to spend all day chewing, unlike chimps). The difficulty in counting accurately doesn’t stop there. The calorie load of carbohydrate-heavy items such as rice, pasta, bread and potatoes can be slashed simply by cooking, chilling and reheating them. As starch molecules cool they form new structures that are harder to digest. You absorb fewer calories eating toast that has been left to go cold, or leftover spaghetti, than if they were freshly made. Scientists in Sri Lanka discovered in 2015 that they could more than halve the calories potentially absorbed from rice by adding coconut oil during cooking and then cooling the rice. This made the starch less digestible so the body may take on fewer calories (they have yet to test on human beings the precise effects of rice cooked in this way). That’s a bad thing if you’re malnourished, but a boon if you’re trying to lose weight. Different parts of a vegetable or fruit may be absorbed differently too: older leaves are tougher, for example. The starchy interior of sweetcorn kernels is easily digested but the cellulose husk is impossible to break down and passes through the body untouched. Just think about that moment when you look into the toilet bowl after eating sweetcorn. As with so many dieters, Camacho’s efforts to accurately track his calories “in” were doomed. But so too were his attempts to track his calories “out”. The message from many public authorities and food producers, especially fast-food companies that sponsor sports events, is that even the unhealthiest foods will not make you fat if you do your part by taking plenty of exercise. Exercise does, of course, have clear health benefits. But unless you’re a professional athlete, it plays a smaller part in weight control than most people believe. As much as 75% of the average person’s daily energy expenditure comes not through exercise but from ordinary daily activities and from keeping your body functioning by digesting food, powering organs and maintaining a regular body temperature. Even drinking iced water – which delivers no energy – forces the body to burn calories to maintain its preferred temperature, making it the only known case of consuming something with “negative” calories. A popular expression in English tells us not to “compare apples and oranges” and assume them to be the same: yet calories put pizzas and oranges, or apples and ice cream, on the same scale, and deems them equal. After three years of dedicated calorie-counting Camacho changed tack. While recovering from running the 2010 marathon in San Diego he took up Crossfit training, an exercise regime that includes high-intensity training and weightlifting. There he met people using a very different method to control their weight. Like him, they exercised regularly. But rather than limiting their calories, they ate natural foods, what Camacho calls “stuff from a real plant, not an industrial plant”. Fed up with feeling like a hungry failure, he decided to give it a go. He ditched his heavily processed low-calorie products and focused on the quality of his food rather than quantity. He stopped feeling ravenous all the time. “It sounds simple but I decided to listen to my body and eat whenever I was hungry but only when I was hungry, and to eat real food, not food ‘products’,” he says. He went back to items that he’d long banned himself from eating. He had his first rasher of bacon in three years and enjoyed cheese, whole-fat milk and steaks. He immediately felt less hungry and happier. More surprising, he quickly began to lose his extra fat. “I was sleeping so much better and within a couple of months I stopped the depression and anxiety medication,” he says. “I went from always feeling guilty and angry and afraid to feeling in control of myself and actually proud of my own body. Suddenly I could enjoy eating and drinking again.” The weight stayed off and in 2012 he moved to Heidelberg in Germany, a world away from the hectic streets of Mexico, to study for a masters degree in public health. “The idea hit me that I could combine my own experience with academic work to try to help other people overcome these various barriers that I had found.” After his masters he embarked on a doctorate on how to tackle obesity in Mexico. Today he is married to a German scholar, Erica Gunther, who has studied food systems around the world. Their diet includes things he used to shun, such as egg yolks, olive oil and nuts. Two days a week the couple stick to vegetarian meals but otherwise he devours steak, kidneys, liver and some of his favourite Mexican dishes – barbacoa (lamb), carnitas (pork) and tacos with grilled meat. His wife enjoys making a traditional Mexican sweet pastry called pan de muerto (bread of death). “Before I would have run an extra two hours to compensate for eating that but now I don’t care, I just make sure it is a treat, not an everyday thing.” Having spent years trying to forgo alcohol, he has a glass or two of wine several times a week, and goes for a beer with friends from his gym. Sweating through three or four workouts a week, he is as well-muscled as a professional rugby player. A stable 80kg, he has very little body fat, though he is still considered overweight by the body-mass-index charts, which rate many beefed-up professional athletes as too heavy. The only relapse of anxiety he suffers nowadays happens when he hears Tori Amos singing “Bliss” – the song playing when he was kidnapped – which he says “is a real pity because it’s a great song”. Today Camacho could be described as a calorie dissident, one of a small but growing number of academics and scientists who say that the persistence of calorie-counting compounds the obesity epidemic, rather than remedying it. Counting calories has disrupted our ability to eat the right amount of food, he says, and has steered us towards poor choices. In 2017 he wrote an academic paper that was one of the most savage attacks on the calorie system published in a peer-reviewed journal. “I’m actually embarrassed at what I used to believe,” he says. “I was doing everything I could to follow the official advice but it was totally wrong and I feel stupid for never even questioning it.” Given the vast evidence that calorie-counting is imprecise at best, and contributes to rising obesity at worst, why has it persisted? The simplicity of calorie-counting explains its appeal. Metrics that tell consumers the extent to which foods have been processed, or whether they will suppress hunger, are harder to understand. Faced with the calorie juggernaut, none has gained wide acceptance. The scientific and health establishment knows that the current system is flawed. A senior adviser to the un’s Food and Agriculture Organisation warned in 2002 that the Atwater “factors” of 4-4-9 at the heart of the calorie-counting system were “a gross oversimplification” and so inaccurate that they could mislead consumers into choosing unhealthy products because they understate the calories in some carbohydrates. The organisation said it would give “further consideration” to overhauling the system but 17 years later there is little momentum for change. It even rejected the idea of harmonising the many methods that are used in different countries – a label in Australia can give a different count from one in America for the same product. Officials at the who also acknowledge the problems of the current system, but say it is so entrenched in consumer behaviour, public policy and industry standards that it would be too expensive and disruptive to make big changes. The experiments that Atwater conducted a century ago, without calculators or computers, have never been repeated even though our understanding of how our bodies work is vastly improved. There is little funding or enthusiasm for such work. As Susan Roberts at Tufts University says, collecting and analysing faeces “is the worst research job in the world”. The calorie system, says Camacho, lets food producers off the hook: “They can say, ‘We’re not responsible for the unhealthy products we sell, we just have to list the calories and leave it to you to manage your own weight’.” Camacho and other calorie dissidents argue that sugar and highly processed carbohydrates play havoc with people’s hormonal systems. Higher insulin levels mean more energy is converted into fat tissues leaving less available to fuel the rest of the body. That in turn drives hunger and overeating. In other words the constant hunger and fatigue suffered by Camacho and other dieters may be symptoms of being overweight, rather than the cause of the problem. Yet much of the food industry defends the status quo too. To change how we assess the energy and health values of food would undermine the business model of many companies. The only major organisation to shift the emphasis beyond calories is one dedicated to helping its customers slim down: Weight Watchers. In 2001 the world’s best-known dieting firm introduced a points system that moved away from focusing exclusively on calories to also classifying foods according to their sugar and saturated fat content, and their impact on appetite. Chris Stirk, the firm’s general manager in Britain, says the organisation made the change because relying on calories to lose weight is “outdated”: “Science evolves daily, monthly, yearly, let alone since the 1800s.” Many of us know instinctively that not all calories are the same. A lollipop and an apple may contain similar numbers of calories but the apple is clearly better for us. But after a lifetime of hearing about the calorie and its role in supposedly foolproof diet advice we could be forgiven for being confused about how best to eat. It’s time to lay it to rest.

[science-lings]

Crazy AU maybe? Tony is a King who keeps pissing off his court by not having an actual heir, just adopting multiple poor orphan kids and making them princes/princesses. The more the court complains, the more kids he accumulates

Okay so, first of all, this ended up a lot longer and a lot off prompt than I originally planned, second, it’s important to note that this is in my already established fantasy AU world. Honestly, I just wanted a reason to write more for it. I actually tried to write it in the Tumblr reply box thing but it kept on getting deleted. Those were the more on prompt drafts so I apologize for not making the prompt my complete priority. However, I think you’ll like what’s in store anyway.

 The prompt was just so much already part of the original AU itself that I had to just continue with it.  I hope you guys enjoy! the rest of the AU can be found HERE

Lord Anthony Stark had always been a strange but brilliant man. Even when he was just a squire he was too intelligent and inventive to be wasted as a knight. His father, Lord Howard Stark was a retired knight of the king. Given countless sacks of gold and his own section of the kingdom to rule over so that the lazy king wouldn’t have to do it himself. 

Anthony grew up like a prince. A clever and envied boy that was much more than his parents ever saw him as. He was trained to fight, even if he wouldn’t be a knight. He made a friend of the son of a farmer, who would eventually become Anthony’s greatest ally. 

Before he was old enough to be coronated, his parents were killed by men sent by the king. The king had grown tired of Lord Howard’s greed and lacking of loyalty and hoped that his only son would do better. He had never met the boy but if he was smart, he would stay out of the king's way. 

So, Anthony Stark became a Lord and molded his little section of the kingdom into what he thought was best rather than what his father would’ve wanted. However, the king's eyes were always on the young lord, in the form of a large man named Sir Obadiah Stane. He too was a knight too old to fight, but he didn’t want land like his old friend, he wanted to bide his time to gain all he could from the golden goose that was the last Stark. He made himself the Lord's advisor with only the word that he worked with the boy's father.

When the boy became too much for the old knight, Sir Stane decided to get rid of him. He gave the Lords gold to a group of notorious bandits to attack the man while he was out traveling. Little did he know that the last Stark was much more than a beautiful prince. 

Anthony Stark came back with not only his life but with an infant scarlet and golden dragon gripping onto his shoulder and several mystical eggs in his bag. Stark had cared for the baby dragon until it could help him out of his prison with its breath of fire. 

Lord Stark imprisoned Sir Stane and everyone lived happily ever after. 

The End

Lady Virginia Potts finished her story as she rocked her baby in her arms. 

“You’re boring her my lady.” Her husband whispered from the doorway, the only light being a candle he was holding. 

“She loves dreaming of dragons and hellfire my lord.” Virginia smiled as Lord Stark approached her. 

“Just like her mother.” Anthony leaned down and their lips met for a brief sweet moment. 

“Is everyone else settled? It would be a miracle to herd them all to rest.” Virginia said as Anthony took their child from her mother and set her in her crib, knowing that her godmother Margret would be but a room away. 

“I handled it. It turns out that convincing squires who have been training all-day to have exotic pastries was not too difficult. I’m mostly sure that they’re at least preparing for bed now.” Anthony said as he took his wife's hand and walked with her in the castle halls. 

“Are you going to be stationed outside of Peter’s room again, in case he has another nightmare?” 

“I’m planning on being nearby, as you said, just in case.” He admitted. 

“I admire your intentions but you need sleep too-” Lady Virginia was interrupted by a servant stumbling towards them. He had the kings crest of a gold fist surrounded in violet. Sir Rhodes and a female guard followed loosely behind.

“I apologize, my lord and lady, I’ve been sent by the king.” The young man stumbled. The Lord and Lady shared a look and looked at the king's servant, knowing that their lives were likely about to get more complicated. 

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

In the morning, they all set off for the king’s castle. Their horses were clearly marked in the gold and scarlet cloth embroidered with dragons, signifying their adopted family brand. Only little Morgan was left at the castle, with dozens of maidservants at her side as well as all of the lord's dragons. 

The eldest member of their odd family was sat straight on her horse, Margret’s graying hair still immaculate in the early dawn. Harley and Riri leaned heavily into their steeds and yawned at increasing intervals.  Peter was more used to strange sleeping schedules so he seemed fine but he led the group with the knowledge that his magic could predict the worst before his words could warn them. 

It took two nights of travel to get to the king's castle. Two long nights of storytelling and playing with magic so that they didn’t die of boredom. Two very long days and nights of slowly getting more and more sick of sitting on the back of their horses. 

They were almost relieved when they got to the king's castle. Almost. The king was an asshole so they weren’t that excited. 

The king's daughters were waiting outside of the castle in dark purple dresses trimmed in gold. Princess Gamora had long dark hair in gold ribbons and darker skin than what was common in the region. Her adopted sister Princess Nebula had no hair at all and odd blue tattoos on her pale skin. They both had stone-cold expressions and neither of them looked comfortable in extravagant dresses. 

“Your highnesses,” The lord greeted with the mask of a charming smile. 

“Lord Stark. It is a pleasure to meet you and your ward. The king is waiting.” Princess Gamora said. Anthony saw something more behind her eyes, he knew she was hiding something. 

“I suppose we shouldn’t keep him waiting then.” Lord Stark suggested as he dismounted from his horse. He helped his wife off of her horse and watched as Harley tried to help Riri and almost fell to the ground. Margret rejected Peter’s offer of help and hopped off of her own horse with no trouble at all. 

The king’s guards accompanied the group into the towering castle. Anthony noticed Gamora’s eyes wandering around nervously before snapping back in front of them. She walked by Lady Virginia and at one point discreetly slipped something into her palm. The lord didn’t make a scene and only placed the information at the back of his mind. He was about to introduce his whole family to the most dangerous person in all the kingdoms after all.

The throne room was a little dramatic, even through Anthony’s eyes. There was no lack of gold in intricate designs and decorations. Violet cloth and colorful jewels were placed everywhere they could fit. Images of the king completing his conquests decorated the walls like a proud pharaoh. A single glorious throne sat at the end of the room. In it, was the king, in his large armored glory. 

King Thanos was larger than any normal man, many people thought him half giant. No one would dare say it out loud as there would be consequences for slander against the king. Scars adorned his face like he had gotten into an altercation with a lion. He had no hair but his head was covered by a gaudy crown with jewels every color of the rainbow. 

“Lord Stark! I was beginning to lose hope that you were coming. I was looking forward to meeting your ward. You do have… quite the assortment.” Thanos said, his booming voice filling the room easily. His tone suggested polite friendliness but Anthony knew better than to trust the king. 

“I could say the same about you my liege, it’s a pleasure to be invited back.” Lord Stark forced out. “However, I don’t think you invited me over just to meet my family…”

“You’re right. I invited you here to take your family. You’ve become a problem.” Doors slammed closed and the dozen guards and the princesses all pointed their weapons at the visitors. The Stark’s mostly stood unwavering. Anthony, Riri, and Harley all drew their swords in an instant while Lady Virginia held a small knife that none of them recognized. Margret pulled out a small handheld automatic crossbow wielding poison darts and paralyzing toxins. Peter stood weaponless in the center, knowing that revealing his magic would be a death sentence if they couldn’t beat the king’s forces. The king wasn’t one to throw away anything he could use, he would keep them alive if they gave him any sort of advantage. A man who could sooth a raging dragon was an advantage. 

Lord Stark stood unafraid with a fiery look behind his eyes, full of rage at the sheer audacity of the king to threaten his family. Actually, he was afraid. He couldn’t stand his makeshift family being in danger. But he did know that they were a force to be reckoned with. Even without dragons. 

There was a moment of tense silence. Those on the kings side waiting for orders and the Stark’s were not going to start the fight, even though the fight was inevitable. The king seemed to enjoy the fact that the Stark’s were completely surrounded, outnumbered, and moments away from permanent captivity. 

“I let you get away with so much, I refuse to be any more lenient. You should be grateful, I’m keeping you alive, you’re still useful to me. Your children however… will only stay alive if you behave. I do not want to waste dungeon space on them…” the king said in that infuriatingly condescending way. 

“We surrender. Just don’t hurt them.” Lady Virginia dropped her knife and made momentary eye contact with Princess Gamora before looking straight at the cruel king with the same steely expression as her husband. 

Lord Anthony dropped his sword, hoping that he was making the right decision. He would do anything to keep his children safe. The Stark’s surrendered. Even Margret grumbled as she put down her handheld crossbow. She muttered something about being able to take them. 

And just like that, the Stark’s were defeated. For now. It wouldn’t last very long. 

_______

Peter sat in his cell with his eyes closed. He was trying something. It wasn’t working. The elders in his village would do this thing where they could remove their spirits from their bodies and contact the other clans of magic users in the land. But there were no more elders and no more village and Peter had no idea what he was doing. He had never done anything like this before and he didn’t know if he even could. 

He wished he could talk to the dead. Talk to his parents or his aunt and uncle, the elders, just someone who could help him. He wasn’t that kind of magic user though. There were necromancers out there that could but Peter wasn’t born with that kind of magic. He didn’t have any help. That made everything a whole lot harder. 

After what felt like the thousandth time of trying, he got a little frustrated. It’s not like he couldn’t get out of the cell, he totally could do that easily. But right outside his cell was way too many guards that he wasn’t sure he could beat with his current energy level. It turned out sleeping on the ground for a few days and trying to nap on a horse wasn’t the best way to get enough energy for a big fight. 

He could barely see Lady Stark and Harley through the little windows in the side of his cell. Everyone else was too far away. He tried to think of a way to get them out of there, but the slight sluggishness of his mind made it almost painful to try. He was tired of putting all of his energy somewhere that bore no fruit.

Peter slumped down against the rough stone wall in exhaustion and found himself dozing off. His head hurt and he was only alive because the king thought it would motivate Lord Stark to do something for him. He wished he had stayed back at their own palace with Morgan. Then he could at least bring the dragons to the rescue. He had only just barely gotten them to trust him and they were still weary of the servants and anyone that wasn’t a Stark. 

He fell into a momentary sleep against the wall until a loud noise woke him up. This loud noise ended up being a guard yelling for him to wake up. He scrambled to his feet before actually being able to perceive the situation. 

The princess stood outside of the bars that kept him in. Instead of a dress, she wore dark leather and had her long dark hair down in perfect waves. She looked just as cold as before as she spoke. 

“The king has asked for you Peter. I’m here to escort you to him.” Gamora said calmly. “If you try anything, I have been ordered to kill you.” 

“I understand,” Peter gulped nervously. The door to his cell opened and a guard yanked him out. 

“Are you sure you want to take him alone Princess?” The guard asked. 

“I can handle a child. Do you doubt me?”

“Of course not your highness.” 

“Good. I will take him to my father now. I would keep my mouth shut if I were you.” The princess hissed and grabbed Peter’s arm. As she led him away, he looked back to see his everyone except Lady Virginia looking alarmed. Lord Stark was grasping the bars of his cell like he was willing the metal to bend for him. Everyone else looked like they were trying, and failing, to hide their worry. Peter smiled a little in an attempt to ease their worry but he was sure that they were right to fear for his safety. The king was known for his hatred of magic. If they knew he had magic than he was likely headed to his death. Fun. 

Princess Gamora led Peter through the endless halls of the castle, but not towards the throne room. The princess avoided the guards to a point of pressing him against the wall and using her body to casually hide his when they went by. This was when he realized that she may actually be helping him. 

She snuck him up the tallest steeple of the castle and led him to a dusty room that she unlocked with a rusty strange key. Peter was shocked when he recognized what the room contained. There were crystal balls and magical artifacts thought to be lost in the destruction of the king. Weapons that could only be used by people with magic in their veins and even a full alchemy setup. He had never seen one so complete. Even Uncle Ben only had a partial set. 

“Why are you helping me?” Peter turned to the princess. 

“I want the king dead. I want to live in a way that I do not have to fear for my sister’s life and I am sick of seeing the destruction he brings. I want to be free.” 

“Then I am glad to be of service. I’ll do my best to repay my debt to you.” Peter smiled as he saw a small relic. He recognized it immediately. It was an orb of contact. It was used to contact the sorcerer supreme and the leaders of each tribe of hidden magicians. Needless to say, he grabbed it immediately. 

The room around him disappeared and he felt completely weightless. A well-lit table appeared in front of him and each seat had a symbol that mirrored the tribe whose leader sat there. Peter stayed at the head of the table. At the other end, he appeared. The sorcerer supreme. A tall angular man with a black goatee and streaks of white in his hair. He wore a large scarlet cloak and an eye amulet around his neck. 

One by one, they began to appear. The strongest magic users that Peter had only heard about. This was when he started to get nervous. Maybe this was not as urgent… fuck it, he was in the kings castle, the king who enjoyed commiting mass genocide on people with magic and as far as he knew, was the last survivor of his magic tribe. He needed some help from these people. 

The famed Scarlet Witch sat in the seat representing the tribe Mutae, A woman wearing purple robes and massive bright red hair sat in the seat representing the tribe of the Inhumans, An asian woman with scars all over her face and simple clothes sat in the seat for the tribe of the Kree, Captain Marvel, not a leader but a powerful magic user sat in one of the seats, Freya of the Asguardian tribe, and a dozen more sorcerers that Peter couldn’t even name. 

Every seat was taken except for his tribes. Conforming to him that he was the last one left. He looked up at the most powerful people in the world and straightened his back. 

“I am Peter Stark. The last survivor of the Tribe Arachne, and I need a little help.” 

_________

Gamora shut the door to the witch's quarters. It wouldn’t be long until her father found out what she did. Someone would notice. She just hoped that she could give the kid enough time. She didn’t know what he was doing but she knew that it was time for a new king. She kept her palm on her sword’s hilt and casually strolled down the spiral staircase. 

On the way, she ran into her sister. Nebula looked at her sister expectantly. 

“Do you have the kid?” 

“Does it look like I have the kid?” 

“You know what I mean.” Nebula hissed. “The Black Order noticed that he’s gone. I think they’re onto us.” 

“I’ll get them off our tail, just make sure they don’t get to the kid.” Gamora ordered, receiving a quick nod from her sister. 

Nebula ran up to where the boy was and found him floating in the air and looking up at the ceiling with his eyes glowing gold. He was also holding a strange colorful glass sphere that had a strange white glow to it. She had seen the object before but it had never glowed. Moments later, the kid gently landed on the ground and his eyes faded a little. Now only his iris’ glowed. He smiled at her in that kind of optimistic way that somehow lightly eased the sense of dread she had ever since they came up with the plan. 

“What do you have?” She asked. 

“I have help.” Peter held out the hand that didn’t have the orb. In it was a glowing orange stone. Peter looked around the room before picking up a golden jeweled staff, He put the gem into the end of the staff and it started to glow with the same energy. 

“What is it going to do?”

“It’s going to send the king somewhere where we will never have to worry about him ever again. Can you help me get to him?”

“Yes. Stay behind me, don’t do anything stupid.” She ordered. Peter just shrugged. It took a little bit of waiting before he could actually do something, but now that he could, he was nervously ecstatic. 

While he was talking to the sorcerer supreme, he asked what it would mean for the kingdom if he were to reveal his magic and if his pseudo father took the throne. The man had just smiled at him and said that with the dragon king on the throne, they would be free. He said that he had seen what would happen to the kingdom with the Stark’s on the throne and reassured him that everything would be okay. 

All he had to do was defeat King Thanos. 

Piece of cake… 

_________

After Peter was taken away, Lord Stark felt sick to his stomach. What were they going to do to him? Did they know he had magic? Is he going to come back? Anthony was not a stranger to overthinking but this was a little excessive. He may have been spiraling. 

When Princess Gamora came back down without his kid, he only got more worried. He obviously wasn’t the only one by the sound of Harley and Riri’s frantic whispering. It was Margret who spoke first though. It was actually more of a demand. 

“Where is Peter! Where did you take my grandson!” Gamora looked at her calmly with a tiny hint of a smile behind her eyes. 

“Leave us! I have some words from the king for the Starks.” The heavily armed guards looked at each other before bowing to their princess and leaving the room. 

“Peter is safe, I’m getting you out.” She said when the king's guards were out of earshot. She took out a ring of keys and started to unlock Lord Stark’s cell. 

“Why are you helping us?” Margret asked. 

“Because… the king… stole me from my family and killed my parents in front of me. I never thought I would meet someone as powerful as him. And then I heard about the son of a knight that rose from the fire of dragons. And the rumor came to light that he made a horse grow wings and leave an entire camp of bandits dead on the ground.” Gamora started to unlock the other cells. 

“So you want us to kill the king?” Harley questioned as he was released. 

“No, I want him to.” Gamora turned to Anthony. 

_________

Thanos was in the throne room waiting for them. No visible guards and no weapons even though he clearly knew they were coming. Naturally, Lord Stark was pretty cautious. The king must have something up his sleeve. He would never just stay out in the open like that unless he genuinely didn’t know he was coming. Peter thought that was unlikely. 

The king was incredibly intelligent but as proud as the king of everything could be. The king had conquered everything. He had conquered everyone. Everyone except the Starks. No one could conquer the clan of dragons. At least not with Anthony as the head. 

The king was proud. He believed he knew what was best for everyone and was the ultimate authority. He believed himself to be a god. Everyone else was under him, either for him to crush or to force into compliance. He feared magic because there was a chance that people who had it could become more powerful than him. 

The king had the largest army of magic hating barbarians in the history of the kingdoms that forced those with magic to completely go into hiding. The initial massacre was massive and successfully make every magician fear the king. Even the Sorcerer Supreme disappeared. They got used to living in the shadows and never being safe. The genocide of Peter’s tribe was only another reminder that they were never safe from the king.    

After all of that, Peter stood in the throne room with only the king's youngest daughter behind him and a new powerful weapon that Peter barely knew the extent of. He didn’t know if Gamora was coming back or if Thanos’ personal guards were on their way.

It didn’t matter. Peter had so much rage pumping through his veins just seeing the king that it made his fear slip to the back of his mind. It took a moment to realize that it wasn’t all his rage. It was the rage from the stone. The Sorcerer Supreme called it the ‘Soul Stone’ so Peter felt that the rage came from the souls of the magic users that Thanos had killed without mercy. He had never felt such fire in his soul. It was like the mind-numbing fear he felt when he watched all he had ever known burn to the ground was replaced with pure anger. 

Peter was never a destructive person but at that moment, looking into the king's soulless eyes, all he wanted to do was burn the castle to the ground and hope Thanos was burnt to a crisp in the process. His body felt too small for the unwavering rage inside of him. 

“Welcome back child, I was wondering who would be first to escape. You Stark’s, are quite… stubborn.”

“I think you messed with the wrong people. My people.” Peter growled. “And I think, it’s time for a change. A change in power.” 

Peter’s eyes glowed with the fury of every soul the king had destroyed. Every witch he had burned, every person defeated in battle, every civilian of every village he had set ablaze. Peter felt all of them. They were all with him in the little glowing stone. There was a lot of power in not being alone. There was a lot of power in so much pain. Peter was born from pain as all the Stark’s were. 

Golden ribbons of light sprouted from Peter’s skin. The energy swirled in the air and created an image around him. Lines of warm yellow power outlined a massive reptilian head in front of his own. Small curled horns grew from the forehead of the light creature and the rest of its body emerged from the base of its skull. Around Peter was the body of an adolescent dragon made out of magic. In a flash of light, the dragon gained scarlet and blue flesh and its golden eyes faded to reveal Peter’s warm brown ones.  

Dragon Peter roared and for a slim moment, he saw fear in the king's eyes. 

_______________

Once everyone got their weapons back, Lord Stark and Princess Gamora led the group up the stairs, heading towards the tower, where she last left Peter. Servants and maids hid behind doors and pressed themselves against the wall. But they weren’t afraid, they didn’t intervene. They didn’t tell any guards and only sent curious glances their way. 

Everything was tense but calm until there was the muffled sound of a screaming roar that Tony knew better than any person in the kingdoms. It was the roar of a dragon. He had no idea how a dragon got there and the slight shake of the grounds made his heart jump. 

“The boy-” Princess Nebula sprinted towards the group. “He went to confront Thanos.” 

“By himself?” Harley exclaimed. 

“That’s not exactly out of character for him,” Riri muttered. 

“A dragon is a little bit dramatic don’t you think?” Lady Virginia suggested. 

“He’s been hanging around us, what did you expect?” Anthony shrugged as they walked quickly to the large doorway leading to the throne room, which was more of a titanic hall than a room. It was large enough to hold a dragon pretty comfortably anyway. 

Gamora opened the door quickly to the sight of the back of a dragon the colors of Peter’s favorite outfit. Red and deep blue with a little bit of gold. The dragon whipped its head towards them and Lord Anthony got a glimpse of its eyes. They were brown and human. No dragon had brown eyes. No dragon had slitted pupils. This wasn’t just a dragon, it was Peter. 

“Kid?” The lord muttered as the dragon nodded. Dragon Peter then turned back to Thanos and roared again. The king himself had gotten a hold of a massive stone-crushing double-bladed sword and he held it in front of his stupid bald head as some sort of sheild from Peter’s burst of white-hot flames.

________

King Anthony Stark was not just a great man, but a great king. The kingdom sighed in relief when the previous king was confirmed dead and his daughters released from their torment. The specifications of which the tyrant king was defeated were only known to those who had laid eyes on the event. 

Followers of Thanos crept into the darkness and were sure to return but for the moment, the Starks were alive and at the center of the kingdom. The new royalty were mostly accepted among the people. The new king didn’t threaten them harshly if they questioned his questionable law. The new king had several advisors and was planning to have a group of qualified individuals at his side to help protect his kingdom. 

Witch hunters went out of business in a flash as the most aggressive magic hater was out of the picture. The new king spent a mountain of his fortune on keeping as many magic users safe as he could and banned hate crimes towards them as a whole. 

The deep violet and the golden fist that decorated the castle was replaced with rich scarlet and images of dragons. The fear that was gripping everyone under the king’s rule had eased and it was like the sun had risen for the first time in decades after everyone had gotten used to the constant darkness. 

Of course, just because the king was dethroned didn’t mean that all the evil was defeated. The black order had vanished and there were still plenty of allies of the old king that were hiding across the ends of the land. They would be back, the new king was sure of it, but they would bide their time. The Starks were powerful enough together that approching them now would be suicide. They defeated the single most powerful man in the land without the dragons they were known for. 

For now however, they were safe. Gamora had packed all of her things and was determined to find an adventure. She said goodbye to her sister before setting off on the dangerous roads towards the lands of Asgard. 

Nebula had nowhere to go and she wasn’t planning on following her sister wherever she was heading. King Stark was happy to let her stay until she decided on what she wanted. Unlike with Thanos, she had a choice. It meant more to her than the man who gave it to her would ever understand. 

Anthony didn’t expect to become the king when he left his castle, in fact, the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind until well after Thanos was defeated. He only wanted his family to be safe. Becoming king was not exactly part of his plan but with neither of the princesses wanting the throne and Lord Stark being part of the previous king’s assassination, was the obvious choice for the role. 

Of course, the Lord accepted, if not for the fact that anyone would be a better ruler than Thanos, but because he was wise enough not to rule alone. Anthony was aware that he would never know what was best for everyone. There were things that he didn’t understand. Things that he would never fully understand. Because of that, he had the idea of making a team, a ‘knights of the round table’ kind of team. He wanted to get the best of everyone and they would help him protect his kingdom. 

King Anthony Stark sent out the wax-sealed invitation letters only a day after being crowned King by Princess Nebula herself. No one else was qualified and it implied a peaceful transition of power even though Thanos wasn’t exactly dethroned peacefully. 

And so, the reign of the titan king was ended and the dragon kings began. As long as the dragon king sat upon the throne, there would be light.

[usavafan]

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frequent the urge to avoid things that trigger anxiety

Several types of anxiety disorderStress due to medical conditionsGeneralized anxiety disorderSeparation anxiety disorderSocial anxiety disorderSpecific phobiasSubstance-induced anxietyOther specific anxiety disorderWhen to use XanaxYou should buy Xanax online and use it when;Fear and worry is upsetting to you and confusing to controlWhen feeling too much concern which is interfering your work, relations and other parts of lifeWhen anxiety became a problem for your physical healthSense of suicidal thoughts and behavior.Panic disorderIt is also a type of anxiety disorder. Panic disorder causes panic attacks, which are sudden feelings of fear when there is not any actual danger. Patients may feel that they are losing control. Some physical symptoms may also possible due to panic disorder.

Symptoms may include;Breathing difficultyFast heartbeatWeakness or dizzinessSweatingFeeling hot or a cold chillStomach or chest painTingly or numb handsPanic attacks can occur at any time, anywhere, without any warning. Patients may live in terror of another attack and may avoid places where they have or had a seizure. In some cases, fear takes over patients’ minds, and he cannot leave their home.This disorder most commonly seems in women more than men. Panic disorder usually starts from the adult age.Xanax dosageFor anxiety disorderInitial dosage: 0.25 mg to 0.5 mg given three times daily Dosage adjustment: You may increase your daily dosage by not more than 1 mg at the interval of 3 to 4 days Maximum dosage: 4 mgFor panic disorderInitial dosage: 0.5 mg given three times daily Dosage adjustment: You may increase your daily dosage by not more than 1 mg at the interval of 3 to 4 days Maximum dosage: 10 mg

[noisepollutionnyc]

Noise Pollution in NYC : Final Project Research Submission #2

BACKGROUND INFORMATION + HUMAN / TECHNOLOGY ASPECT: Health Effects

What is Noise Pollution?

Human Disease Caused by Noise Pollution

Whether we realize we are subjected to it or not, noise pollution can be hazardous to our health in various ways.

Hypertension is, in this case, a direct result of noise pollution caused elevated blood levels for a longer period of time.

Hearing loss can be directly caused by noise pollution, whether listening to loud music in your headphones or being exposed to loud drilling noises at work, heavy air or land traffic, or separate incidents in which noise levels reach dangerous intervals, such as around 140 dB for adult or 120 dB for children.

Sleep disturbances are usually caused by constant air or land traffic at night, and they are a serious condition in that they can affect everyday performance and lead to serious diseases.

Child development. Children appear to be more sensitive to noise pollution, and a number of noise-pollution-related diseases and dysfunctions are known to affect children, from hearing impairment to psychological and physical effects. Also, children who regularly use music players at high volumes are at risk of developing hearing dysfunctions. In 2001, it was estimated that 12.5% of American children between the ages of 6 to 19 years had impaired hearing in one or both ears

Various cardiovascular dysfunctions. Elevated blood pressure caused by noise pollution, especially during the night, can lead to various cardiovascular diseases.

Dementia isn’t necessarily caused by noise pollution, but its onset can be favored or compounded by noise pollution.

Psychological dysfunctions and noise annoyance. Noise annoyance is, in fact, a recognized name for an emotional reaction that can have an immediate impact.

Modern Technologies

“Recreational activities that can put you at risk for NIHL include target shooting and hunting, snowmobile riding, listening to MP3 players at high volume through earbuds or headphones, playing in a band, and attending loud concerts. Harmful noises at home may come from sources including lawnmowers, leaf blowers, and woodworking tools.

Sound is measured in units called decibels. Sounds of less than 75 decibels, even after long exposure, are unlikely to cause hearing loss.

However, long or repeated exposure to sounds at or above 85 decibels can cause hearing loss. The louder the sound, the shorter the amount of time it takes for NIHL to happen. Here are the average decibel ratings of some familiar sounds:

The humming of a refrigerator: 45 decibels

Normal conversation: 60 decibels

Noise from heavy city traffic: 85 decibels

Motorcycles: 95 decibels

An MP3 player at maximum volume: 105 decibels

Sirens: 120 decibels

Firecrackers and firearms: 150 decibels

Impact of Noise on Hearing: Noise Induced Hearing Loss (NIHL)

Noise Level Charts / Decibel Charts

Causes:

NIHL can be caused by a one-time exposure to an intense “impulse” sound, such as an explosion, or by continuous exposure to loud sounds over an extended period of time, such as noise generated in a woodworking shop.

Recreational activities that can put you at risk for NIHL include target shooting and hunting, snowmobile riding, listening to MP3 players at high volume through earbuds or headphones, playing in a band, and attending loud concerts. Harmful noises at home may come from sources including lawnmowers, leaf blowers, and woodworking tools.

Sound is measured in units called decibels. Sounds of less than 75 decibels, even after long exposure, are unlikely to cause hearing loss. However, long or repeated exposure to sounds at or above 85 decibels can cause hearing loss. The louder the sound, the shorter the amount of time it takes for NIHL to happen.

Your distance from the source of the sound and the length of time you are exposed to the sound are also important factors in protecting your hearing. A good rule of thumb is to avoid noises that are too loud, too close, or last too long.

Effects & Signs:

When you are exposed to loud noise over a long period of time, you may slowly start to lose your hearing. Because the damage from noise exposure is usually gradual, you might not notice it, or you might ignore the signs of hearing loss until they become more pronounced. Over time, sounds may become distorted or muffled, and you might find it difficult to understand other people when they talk or have to turn up the volume on the television. The damage from NIHL, combined with aging, can lead to hearing loss severe enough that you need hearing aids to magnify the sounds around you to help you hear, communicate, and participate more fully in daily activities.

NIHL can also be caused by extremely loud bursts of sound, such as gunshots or explosions, which can rupture the eardrum or damage the bones in the middle ear. This kind of NIHL can be immediate and permanent.Loud noise exposure can also cause tinnitus—a ringing, buzzing, or roaring in the ears or head.Tinnitus may subside over time, but can sometimes continue constantly or occasionally throughout a person’s life. Hearing loss and tinnitus can occur in one or both ears.

Sometimes exposure to impulse or continuous loud noise causes a temporary hearing loss that disappears 16 to 48 hours later. Recent research suggests, however, that although the loss of hearing seems to disappear, there may be residual long-term damage to your hearing.

Important Points:

Sound range: 0-190 db

Maximum safe level limit for humans: 85 db

Loudness (volume), irritation level, sound references

10 mill Americans have noise-induced hearing loss (NIHL)

NIHL occurs gradually overtime, difficult to detect until the damage is done

Factors at Play affecting NIHL (Not all about sound level: 

Sound level/intensity - how loud it is

Proximity - how close your ears are to the source of sound

Exposure time - how long you’re exposed to the sound

The louder the sound, the faster it will damage hearing

The closer you are  to the source the quicker it will damage hearing.

Minimize these factors! → solutions

Your distance from the source of the sound and the length of time you are exposed to the sound are also important factors in protecting your hearing. A good rule of thumb is to avoid noises that are too loud, too close, or last too long.”

Prevention + Solutions:

NIHL is the only type of hearing loss that is completely preventable. If you understand the hazards of noise and how to practice good hearing health, you can protect your hearing for life. Here’s how:

Know which noises can cause damage (those at or above 85 decibels).

Wear earplugs or other protective devices when involved in a loud activity (activity-specific earplugs and earmuffs are available at hardware and sporting goods stores).

If you can’t reduce the noise or protect yourself from it, move away from it.

Be alert to hazardous noises in the environment.

Protect the ears of children who are too young to protect their own.

Make family, friends, and colleagues aware of the hazards of noise.

Have your hearing tested if you think you might have hearing loss.

The best way to prevent NIHL is to reduce the noise if possible, and if not wear earplugs or other protective devices to protect your hearing. If you can’t do either of these, move away from the noise.

How loud is too loud? Measuring noise levels with apps

So, all the decibel charts and decibel scale charts presented so far give ideas as to how loud sound at a certain decibel may be. For example, 70 dB could be about as loud as city traffic or 140 dB may be as loud as a jet taking off. However, different cities will have traffic with different noise levels and different jets may emit noise at different intensities when taking off. In other words, decibels are hard to gauge. It’s certainly not as easily as estimating a pound of chicken or 10 inches of rope.

Tips for Avoiding noise pollution/solutions:

Wear earplugs whenever exposed to elevated noise levels

Maintain a level of around 35 dB in your bedroom at night, and around 40 dB in your house during the day

If possible, choose your residential area as far removed from heavy traffic as you can

Avoid prolonged use of earphones, especially at elevated sound levels

If possible, avoid jobs with regular exposure to elevated sound levels

ENVIRONMENTAL ASPECT: Impact on Central Park Birds

NYC Central Park

The park is frequented by various migratory birds during their spring and fall migration on the Atlantic Flyway. Over a quarter of all the bird species found in the United States have been seen in Central Park. One of these species is the red-tailed hawk, which re-established a presence in the park when a male hawk known as Pale Male for his light coloration, nested on a building on Fifth Avenue, across the street from the park in 1991. He became a local media celebrity and a prolific breeder.

an urban park in Manhattan, New York City. It is located between the Upper West Side and Upper East Side,

most visited urban park in the United States, with 40 million visitors in 2013, and one of the most filmed locations in the world. In terms of area, Central Park is the fifth-largest park in New York City, covering 843 acres (341 ha).

Birds:

The first official list of birds observed in Central Park, numbering 235 species,

The Central Park Effect HBO

https://www.sheknows.com/entertainment/articles/954215/hbo-feels-the-central-park-effect/

The documentary, set for a television premiere this summer, focuses on the relationships between the men, women and birds of Central Park.

“Even though it’s set in the middle of New York City, this is a story about people’s connection to nature. It’s important for us to realize that, as the world becomes more urbanized, nature doesn’t have to entirely disappear from cities.”

Sources

https://boomspeaker.com/noise-level-chart-db-level-chart/

https://www.environmentalpollutioncenters.org/noise-pollution/

https://www.ingentaconnect.com/contentone/ince/incecp/2016/00000252/00000001/art00006

[wenqtranslations]

Mo Dao Zu Shi 魔道祖师 - Chapter 4

魔道祖师 Translation Project by 杨文秋 （为了学读中文） 

Slowing down the pace for a bit ^-^ uni’s getting busier. Another long one!

Chapter 4

For the youths, it was their first time meeting a demonic being of this calibre. They appeared nervous. But they stood their ground, maintained their principles, and were determined to protect the Mo household. They plastered the house inside out with talismans. If disciples of GuSuLan, upon meeting a spirit, will turn tail and run themselves -- they’d not only lose face, but their clan would become laughing stock, and they themselves would be ashamed to face other people.

A-Tong was carried into the house, Lan SiZhui’s left hand clutched his pulse, right hand pushing Mo Mistress’s underclothes, but his ministrations came too late. A-Tong suddenly crawled up from the floor.

A-Ding cried out, “Ah---!” and said happily, “A-Tong! You’re awake!”

She had not yet finished expressing her joy, when A-Tong raised his left hand and squeezed his own neck.

Upon seeing this, Lan SiZhui hit his acupuncture points thrice. This method would make anyone’s hands go limp and void of strength. But A-Tong behaved as if unaware. His grip grew tighter and tighter, his expression pained and fierce. Lan JingYi pulled at his left hand, and it was as if he was pulling a metal wart. It would not budge. Suddenly -- with a “ka” sound, A-Tong’s head swayed, his hand loosened. His neck was already broken.

In front of all these staring people, he choked himself to death!

It was an extraordinary scene. Everyone who didn’t faint plain away were struck by the same thought.

“A monster! A malicious devil, an invisible devil is here. It made A-Tong choke himself to death!”

It was the exact opposite. Wei WuXian judged: this isn’t the doing of a malicious devil. He saw the talisman these youths chose. They were all for the same type of spirit, and they stuck it on so many surfaces in the East Hall that not even a breeze could whisper through. If it were a malicious devil, upon entering the East Hall, the talismans would immediately alight with green fire, but the hall was quiet.

It’s not that they reacted slowly, but the perpetrator was too fierce and acted too fast. What the sect calls a “malicious devil” has strict rules and standards – it must kill one person a month, haunting for 3 months -- then one can class it a “malicious devil”. This standard was determined by Wei WuXian himself, and was used by people to this day. It was the being on which he had the most expertise. Of those he’d seen, one death a week counted as a particularly frequent killer.

This thing killed three people in quick succession, and the interval separating the deaths was very short. He was afraid not even renowned cultivators would be able to think of a counter strategy in a hurry, especially not a just graduated disciple.

He was just thinking this, when the fire flickered and a dark wind slipped through.

All the lamps and candle fire -- in both the Gardens and East Hall -- were extinguished.

As soon as the candles were out, a shrill scream arose. Each rose above the other, men and women pushing and pulling, running and falling. Lan JingYi commanded, “Stand aside! Don’t run around madly! Whoever runs, whoever’s caught!”

These were not empty threats. The nature of the spirit was to commit crimes in the dark – like finding fish in murky water. Crying and agitated running would bring it on oneself unknowingly. To be alone, is a very dangerous thing. If everyone’s spirit flees, how can you hear clearly, hear what’s close? Soon, the East Hall quietened. Apart from the soft sound of breathing was only heavy panting. They feared that only a few people were left.

In the darkness, a fire mysteriously lit. Lan SiZhui had activated a fire talisman. Talisman fire could not be blown out by the black wind accompanying the spirit. He used this flame to relight the candles. The remaining disciple was comforting the people. Under the firelight, Wei WuXian checked his wrist – one of the cuts had healed.

Seeing this, he realised the numbers were off.

Originally, his left and right wrist both had two cuts. Mo ZiYuan died, one healed; Mo ZiYuan’s father died, another healed; A-Tong died, another healed. It should be 3 cuts healed, with only the deepest cut remaining, the cut that carried the most hatred.

However, his wrist was unmarred. Not a single cut remained.

Wei WuXian thought hard. Mo XuanYu’s vengeance could not have missed the Mo Mistress. The longest and deepest cut was hers. Yet, it had somehow vanished.

For Mo XuanYu to have a late epiphany and gave up his resentment would’ve been near impossible. His spirit was long gone, traded away to pay the price for Wei WuXian’s summoning. Unless the Mo Mistress was dead…

He lifted his head, suddenly alert. Hemmed in by people, her face chalky white, was the Mo Mistress.

Unless she is already a dead person.

He was afraid there was already something attached to the Mo Mistress. If this thing wasn’t a spirit, then what was it?

Suddenly, A-Ding cried out. “Hand… his hand, A-Tong’s left hand!”

Lan SiZhui moved the candle flame above A-Tong’s corpse. His left hand had vanished.

Left hand!

Like a jolt of lightning, Wei WuXian’s vision blinded snow white. The haunting spirit, the vanished hand, the strange happenings … he connected them together. He suddenly burst into laughter. Lan JingYi angrily said, “This idiot, how can he laugh in this situation!” Then he reconsidered. What was he lecturing a fool for?

Wei WuXian grabbed his sleeve, rocking his head said: “Not that! Not that!”

Lan JingYi yanked his sleeve back in annoyance. “Not what? Stop clowning around! No-one has time for you.”

Wei WuXian pointed at the Mo Father and A-Tong’s body on the floor, ignoring him. “This isn’t them!”

Lan SiZhui, who was about to admonish Lan JingYi, stopped and asked, “Speak – what do you mean it isn’t them?”

Wei WuXian lowered his voice and said mysteriously, “This isn’t Mo ZiYuan’s father. This --- isn’t A-Tong.”  

Those words whispered in the wavering candle light made them a little shaky with fear.

Lan SiZhui said, “How can you tell?”

Wei WuXian gesticulated with his left hand. “It’s the hand, it’s the hand. A-Tong and Mo ZiYuan’s father aren’t left-handed. Well, as far as I know, they always hit me with their right hand.”

Lan JingYi spat. “What are you strutting around for! Look at your arrogance!” But Lan SiZhui had been frightened into a light sweat.

A-Tong had choked himself to death. He’d used his left hand. And when the Mo Father pushed his wife, he’d also used his left hand.

But, during the day, when Mo XuanYu was causing the ruckus in the East Hall, they’d habitually used their right hand to catch him and chase him away. Surely it could not mean that -- once at deaths door -- they inexplicably became left-handed!

Though they couldn’t fathom a reason, they at least wanted to find out what the culprit was, who would use the left hand to do the devil’s work. Lan SiZhui understood. Feeling somewhat bewildered, he gave Wei WuXian a considering look: what he said all of a sudden… it sounds intentional.

Wei WuXian concerned himself with maintaining an ashamed, bashful smile, inwardly thinking he really did point this out too deliberately.

Lan SiZhui pondered. “Regardless, this Mo son has warned us. He shouldn’t have bad intentions.” His attention moved away, swept past a sobbing A-Ding, and landed on the Mo Mistress’s body.

His gaze wandered from her face, down her body, until it touched upon her two hands. Her arms dangled evenly from her sides, mostly hidden in her sleeves. Only the tips of her fingers peeked out.

The fingers of her right hand were slender and pale: the hands of a noblewoman who’d never worked a day in her life.

However, the fingers of her left hand were longer and thicker. The joints were bent into an arthritic claw. It looked full of strength.

This was hardly a woman’s hand – it clearly belonged to a man!

Lan SiZhui shouted, “Restrain her!”

Some youths turned and started towards the Mo Mistress.

Lan SiZhui called, “That’s the culprit!” He flipped out a talisman and was about to slap it down – when the Mo Mistress’s left hand bent at an impossible angle, scuttled up and lunged at his throat.

No living person’s hand could contort in this shape, unless the bones were broken. It was extremely fast, going straight for the collar. At this moment, Lan JingYi gave a yelp of pain, sprawled in front of Lan SiZhui and blocked the hand.

A flash of fire. The hand had just grabbed Lan JingYi’s shoulder. Green flames began sizzling. It immediately let go. Lan SiZhui escaped by the skin of his teeth. He was just about to thank Lan JingYi’s for selflessly putting his body between them, when he noticed that half of his robes had been burnt to ashes. Back-exposed and red faced, Lan JingYi took off the remaining half of his clothes and cussed over his shoulder. “What did you kick me for, you dead lunatic, you trying to kill me?”

Wei WuXian covered his head, cowering. “It wasn’t me!”

It was him. The Lan family’s outer robe, the inner lining was densely embroidered with magic incantations that had protective properties. But against this kind of damage, it could only last once. In a moment of desperation, he could only kick Lan JingYi into the demonic hand’s trajectory, protecting Lan SiZhui’s neck. Lan JingYi was still angry. The Mo Mistress fell to the ground, the flesh and blood on her face sucked dry, leaving only a layer of skin adhered to a skull. That man’s hand detached from her shoulder, the five fingers waving in their own volition, as if it were stretching muscle and tendons. A pulse jumped in its blood vessels. *

This thing was the demonic being summoned by the Shade Summoning Flag.

The hand appeared human, amputated from someone, indicated this person been mutilated at death. Dismemberment was the posterchild of a wretched death, though compared to Wei WuXian’s own death, was slightly more dignified.

The limbs of a dismembered corpse could become infused with resentful energy, a keen desire to reunite with the whole body. It would think of ways to find the rest of its body parts. Upon finding them, it may be content and at peace, or perhaps would become an evil spirit. And if the original body were not found, it would settle for another.

What if another can’t be found?

Make do with a living person.

Like this hand: it ate the person’s left hand, replaced it, then sucked dry the life, discarded the body, found another host… until it found the remaining body parts of its original.

Its first container was Mo ZiYuan. The second container was Mo ZiYuan’s father.

As soon as this hand attached to the body, it would kill the host immediately. But before the body is exhausted, it would be under its control, as if it were alive as normal. When Mo Mistress told her husband to leave, he uncharacteristically retaliated. Wei WuXian originally thought it was because he grieved his son’s death or was tired of his wife’s hatred. But now, giving it more thought, that wasn’t the expression of a father who’d lost his son. It wasn’t the despairing look of a broken heart, but was the blank mask of death, the still silence of the deceased.

The third container was A-Tong. The fourth was the Mo Mistress. Just then when the candles went out, the demonic hand had moved onto her body. With the Mo Mistress dead, the final cut on Wei WuXian’s wrist disappeared.

The Lan family youths seeing that their talismans were useless, but their clothes were useful, shrugged off their outer layer and flung it over the left hand. Layer upon layer, folds upon folds, the fabric wrapped around it like a thick cocoon. After a moment, the ball of white clothing burst into flame. Green flames streamed towards the sky. They were scared the clothes would burn up soon and the hand would emerge from the embers. Wei WuXian backed away, taking advantage of everyone’s distraction, ran towards the West Hall.

The walking dead the Lan family had captured were standing rigidly on the Garden grounds. There were ten of them. Wei WuXian stepped into into the runic patterns drawn on the ground, destroying the magic that restrained the corpses. He clapped twice. The undead quivered as if awoken by a crack of thunder, their eyes rolled into whites.

Wei WuXian told them, “Get up. Get to work!”

Puppeteering the corpses didn’t need some complex incantation, he simply needed a clear command. The corpses standing before him shuddered and struggled a few steps, but, as soon as they approached Wei WuXian, were so scared their legs turned to jelly, and they collapsed to the ground.

The more malicious the demon, the more Wei WuXian could control it, the easier it was to handle. These walking dead had not received his training. They could not endure his direct control. He had no materials to work with, could not soothe them. He glanced at the fading green flame in the sky above the East Garden. Suddenly, Wei WuXian brightened.

He wanted an extremely resentful spirit, a powerful and malicious corpse, but he hardly needed to search?!

There was one inside the East Hall, and not just one!

He ran back to the East Gardens. Lan SiZhui had taken their swords from their backs, sticking them into the ground to form a barrier. The demonic hand was slamming it erratically. They pressed hard on their sword handles, sparing no effort in maintaining the barrier, so had no attention to spare the person who kept coming and going. Wei WuXian stepped into the East Hall again, glanced left and right, then gently lifted the Mo Mistress and Mo ZiYuan, and sneered. “Still not awake!” *

Urgently, the spirit returns with but a single call!

Mo Mistress and Mo ZiYuan’s eyes rolled back, from their mouths emitted the peculiar hissing whistle of a returned demonic spirit. Then, a rattle joined the low and high-pitched whistling in the background, as the other body climbed to its feet. A low, weak sound followed -- this was the Mo husband.

The calls were loud enough, resentful energy sufficiently infused. Wei WuXian, satisfied, gave the corpses a gentle smile. “Do you recognise that hand outside?”

“Tear it apart,” he commanded.

The three Mo family members transformed into three black gales and rushed outside.  

That demonic left arm finally broke free. Immediately -- three undead, all missing their left arm -- sprung on it.

Aside from not daring to resist Wei WuXian’s command, those three of the Mo family felt an intense loathing towards their killer. They loosed their resentment on the demonic hand. The main advance was headed by the Mo Mistress -- her hair splayed, the whites of her eyes webbed with spidery vessels, her nails several times its original length, the corners of her mouth foaming. Shrill screaming raised the roof. Mo ZiYuan kept close to his mother, accompanying her shrieks with his own bites. His father followed the two, covering them from behind. The onlookers watched, mouths hanging open.

They’d only heard rumours or read in the history books about this sort of savage battle between undead. It was their first time seeing it in person. They stared – rivetted, tongue tied. They could not tear their eyes away. They thought how amazing it was to see, how entertaining!

The three bodies and one hand fought savagely. Mo ZiYuan hissed keenly and dodged. His abdomen had been torn by that hand. Intestines spilled out. Mo Mistress, upon seeing this, roared. She pushed her son behind her, her attacks increasing in ferocity. Her nails flashed, cutting the air like a knife. Wei WuXian could see that this could not last.

Three newly murdered dead somehow could not suppress a single hand!

Wei WuXian watched the battle with rapt attention. A whistle pushed against his lips. He was unsure whether to sound it. Whistling would arouse the surrounding corpses into greater ferocity, potentially turning the situation in his favour. But then his identity would be quickly exposed. Suddenly, that hand flashed like lightning, squeezed, and fractured the Mo Mistress’s neck.

Seeing the Mo family pushed back bit by bit, Wei WuXian caved, and was about to let loose that long whistle, when, from the sky, reverberated the sound of two plucked chords.

These two sounds were casually played, crisp and pure, carried with it the sound of rushing water and a cold autumn wind blowing through a bank of pine trees. Even the hand froze, its rampage ended.

The Lan disciples were still strenuously supporting the barrier. Their eyes lit up. Lan SiZhui lifted a hand and wiped off the blood off his face, raised his gaze to the sky and called joyfully, “Han Guang Jun!” *

As soon as he heard those two guqin sounds, Wei WuXian turned on his heel and left.

What a coincidence -- the person who came was from the Lan family; he wanted to drop dead -- of all the possibilities the person who came was Lan WangJi!

Another plucked string, this time higher pitched, piercing through the clouds. An austere sound. The three undead shrunk away, covering an ear with their remaining right hand.

However, the resonating sound could not be blocked. The undead backed away a few steps, their heads throbbing with a humongous pressure – threatening to rupture.

The hand, upon hearing the sound, flopped bonelessly to the ground. Though the fingers still twitched, the hand could not get up.

In the short peace afterwards, a loud cheer arose.

The hoorah was like rebuilding after a disaster. Their hearts had been shaken to the core, but the night had somehow passed – help finally arrived. It didn’t matter if they were punished afterwards for causing such a “shameful, discourteous ruckus”. In the celebration, Lan SiZhui suddenly noticed somebody was missing.

He tugged at Lan JingYi. “Where is he?”

Lan JingYi was still busy celebrating. “Who? Which one?”

Lan SiZhui said: “That son of the Mo family.”

Lan JingYi scoffed, “What are you looking for that lunatic for? He’s probably too scared I’ll hit him and ran away somewhere.”

“…” Lan SiZhui knew Lan JingYi’s was characteristically inattentive, didn’t think carefully through situations, and was not overly sceptical. He thought: it’s best to wait to meet up with HanGuangJun first. I’ll tell him everything that happened.

The Mo household slept peacefully, but was it a true peace?

After all, it was in their East and West gardens that the bloody brawl had occurred. Who would climb from their beds in the wee hours to see the spectacle? One should be picky with their choice of entertainment, after all. The sort that featured hair-raising screams was fine to miss.

Wei WuXian rubbed off the final traces of his wounds from the “body offering sorcery”. He hurriedly began searching for a mount. He passed by a courtyard. Inside was a big millstone. The millstone was harnessed to a mottled donkey,  messily chewing something. Upon seeing him, it bounded enthusiastically over, giving him an astonished look. It looked at him with a side-long glance, appearing almost human. Wei WuXian eyed it for a while and was struck by the disdain in its eyes.

He started forwards, using the rope to haul the animal. The donkey protested with an aggravated trumpeting cry. Wei WuXian coaxed it and pulled it, flattered it and cursed it, until he finally managed to trick him onto the road. Under the bleak gray-white sky of the early morning, the two trotted off down the road.  

 *this part is so badass. The original is 还不醒！which literally means “still not waking” but in a really icy, evil commanding tone.

*君 [Jun] means, roughly, “lord” while 含光 [Han Guang] is roughly “light keeper”

*a type of traditional Chinese instrument – like the guzheng, but smaller and has a lower timbre.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

Democracy, Politics and Reform.

IN CAPITALIST DEMOCRACY IN BRITAIN Ralph Miliband draws attention to the "permanent and fundamental contradiction or tension'' which exists in capitalist society "between the promise of popular power, enshrined in universal suffrage,'' and "the curbing or denial of that promise in practice.''  Democratic institutions and practices have provided "means of expression and representation to the working class, organized labour, political parties and groups, and other such forms of pressure and challenge from below," but "the context provided by capitalism" has always required that these pressures from below be as far as possible contained and weakened. It is also clear that in certain places and at certain times (during crises, for example) efforts to weaken these pressures have greatly intensified, leading even to the limiting of democratic practices and the demolition of democratic institutions. [see Ralph Miliband, Capitalist Democracy in Britain (Oxford  1982), 1-2]

Only democracy, narrowly defined, is considered here, the definition of a parliamentary democracy offered by Raymond Williams in "Democracy and Parliament," in Raymond Williams, Resources of Hope (London 1989), 258, being adopted: "a system in which the whole government of a society is by a representative assembly, elected in secret ballot by all adult member» of the society, at stated and regular intervals, for which any adult member of the society may be an open and equal candidate." In the period covered here, Newfoundland still fell short of being a full parliamentary democracy, but so did Britain and the United States, according to Goran Therbom, "The Rule of Capital and the Rise of Democracy," New Left Review,103 (1977), 3-41.

The vigour with which franchise extensions historically have been opposed and democracy has been denounced clearly testifies to the fact that democracy has been seen as a dangerous threat to class privilege by many conservatives and liberals. John Stuart Mill, for example, thought that the masses should and would be given the vote but he was doubtful whether they would exercise their political rights in a responsible fashion. [R. Eccleshall, "The Identity of English Liberalism," Politics and Society, 9 (1979).1-32;  F. Rosen, Jeremy Bentham and Representative Democracy (Oxford  1983), 183-99; J.S. Mill, Considerations on Representative Government (London 1905), 103-24.]

What Mill in Considerations most feared was that the poor majority, armed with the vote, might pass "class legislation" and even hold the rich to ransom. This was one reason why he consistently urged that paupers should not have the vote, arguing from "first principles'' that people who failed to support themselves should have no say in how the money of others should be spent.

As the franchise was extended concerns about the effects of extending political rights to a mass of ignorant and relatively poor people became widely circulated. Would the first task of such people be to "create a 'poor man's paradise'', as poor men are apt to fancy that Paradise"? Would "Vox Populi" become "Vox diaboli"? These fears intensified with the emergence of working class political organizations and parties. The threat of popular political power could, in some cases, provide a powerful and persuasive argument for action to deal with grievances.

In the period following the 1914-18 war, when many countries were for the first time achieving something close to universal adult suffrage, anti-democratic sentiment and disillusionment with democracy was widespread? Earlier fears had in many cases turned into hysterical attacks on democracy, attacks given a sharp edge by the revolution in Russia. In Canada, support for "strong man" governments grew substantially in the period as it did in Britain and elsewhere. [See for example, Liu-Rose Betcherman, The Swastika and the Maple Leaf (Toronto: 1975).]

The labouring classes have engaged in a long and often bitter struggle to improve their conditions of life under capitalism. At least from the Chartists on, many subscribed to the idea that the path to social reform and greater equality lay in the gaining of political power by the people. Obtaining the vote and using it to elect representatives of "the people" has been seen as one crucial step on this path. The hope and the expectation was that die negative effects of capitalism could be limited by constitutional means. Perhaps the capitalist class system might even be transformed in this way. 

While arguing against the latter possibility, Marx, Lenin and Trotsky, very clearly recognized the importance of democracy for the working class and the possibilities for gaining concessions by constitutional means under some circumstances. The concessions they have gained have been far from illusory. Writing in 1949, for example, T.J.L. Marshall argued that the extending of social and political rights to the labouring classes was one of the key factors "altering the pattern of social inequality in capitalist society." [ T. J. L. Marshall, Class, Citizenship, and Social Development (New York 1968), 71-134, esp. 127.]

The economic crisis which has developed since the 1970s has seen what Claus Offe calls "the renaissance of conservative theories of crisis." [C. Offe, "'Ungovernability': The Renaissance of Conservative Theories of Crisis,*' in C. Offe, Contradictions of the Welfare State (Cambridge, Mass.1984), 65-87.] 

Opposition to cuts in state spending in a number of key areas has led many neo-conservatives to argue that democracies have become "ungovernable." In the writings of Milton Friedman and others there is much talk about "the crisis of democracy" and "the crisis of govemability.” [See M. Friedman, Capitalism and Freedom (Chicago 1962); MJ. Crazier, S.P. Huntington and J. Watanuki, The Crisis of Democracy: Report on the Govemability of Democracies to the Trilateral Commission (New York 197S); S. Biitum. The Future that Doesn't Work Social Democracy's Failure in Britain (New York 1977); W. Simon, A Time for Truth (New York 1978). These writers offer a virulent attack on democratic politics and the welfare state. The themes taken up and even the language (the talk of "parasites," for example) is strikingly reminiscent of the anti-democratic talk of the early 1930s in Newfoundland.]   

The need for a major reduction in demand for state services is recognized and democracy is seen as an obstacle to this reduction. More and more we are being told that democracy is out of control, that the revolution of rising entitlements must be ended and that the key to this is the "insulation of the key activities of govement from democratic pressures." [A. Cawson, Corporatism and Welfare:Social Policy and Stale Intervention in Britain (London 1982), 9. For a discussion of the extent to which such ideas have recently become part of commonsense thinking about the future of the state in many circles, see Simon Clarke, "Capitalist Crisis and the Rise of Monetarism," in R. Miliband and J. Saville, eds.. The Socialist Register 1987 (London, 1987), 393-4. It is significant that Newfoundland's recent Royal Commission on Employment and Unemployment, Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Building on Our Strengths: Report of the Royal Commission on Employment and Unemployment (St John's 1986), 24, 77, 314 talks easily about the limits of the welfare state while promoting "realism." For a critique, see J. Overton, "Building on Our Failures," New Maritimes, 5 (1987), 6-7. ]

Such arguments show the extent to which the area of political rights is still contested terrain.”

- James Overton, “Economic Crisis and the End of Democracy: Politics in Newfoundland  During the Great Depression,” Labour/Le Travail, 26 (1990): pp. 86-88. .

[keywestlou]

HAPPY MOTHERS DAY!

My mother has been dead many years. I seem to miss her more each day. Sounds strange, I know. However she pops into my head one or more times a day.

Seems we both got closer as we got older. I would stop to see her on my way home most evenings. We would sit at the kitchen table. She had a bottle of Beefeater, glass and ice cubes ready.

She was not a drinker at all. However she did not mind me having one with as we talked.

We chatted about everything. From my work, to the kids, what was new, etc.

Our relationship became deeper as the years progressed.

Her death killed me!

Do not think our relationship was that good in my formative years. My mother was a disciplinarian. Born in the old country. Many the large pasta bowl or large wooden spoon she broke over my head.

She viewed me as a bad boy and I never understood. I was the best of kids.

In my adult years, I discovered in conversations with other Italian boys that their mothers did the same thing. An ethnic trait I guess.

I do not recall my sister ever being punished. Girls could do no wrong.

I am 85. Soon to be 86. An interesting time. Age makes you an historian of sorts. Some experiences were had in the past many years ago. They repeat themselves. The result not always the same, however.

George Will is the Washington Post columnist. A true conservatist. A black hearted Republican.

I always thought he was too conservatist. As my years have added up however, I find many of my thoughts coincide with his. I was a liberal. Age has made me conservative in any respects. Today I consider myself a right leaning liberal. Will never changed. Conservative and remained so.

Will just turned 80. He shared his thoughts about reaching 80 in a Washington Post opinion piece published May 7.

I want to share some of his thoughts, feelings, etc. re reaching 80.  Note I am 85. It is surprising how many of our today thoughts run along the same lines.

The opinion piece is titled: What My 80 Years Have Taught Me.” I am selecting some of his thoughts and sharing them with you as well of those of some ancient philosophers. I do not identify the philosophers. This portion of the blog would never end if I did.

Comments contained in the article.

Will begins with an Alan Bennett quote. Already I am deviating from my plan not to mention others. Hopefully Bennett will be the last: “At eighty things do not occur; they recur.”

Will writes the benefit of being 80 is “You’re well beyond the danger of dying young.” Also, “you have more  brain cells to devote to other things worth noticing and trying.”

How about there is “no cure for birth and death, save to enjoy the interval.”

As to the evening martini before dinner, he recommends suspending them and instead drinking Manhattans.

An interesting and very true observation: You “are not intimidated by busy body physicians.”

Another, “age imprints more wrinkles in the mind than it does on the face.”

Some aging facts.

In 1941, life expectancy was 64.8 years Today, 77.85 years. Only 6.8 percent of the population lived beyond 65 years, whereas today 16 percent.

Sixty three percent of households did not have telephones. More of the population older than 25 years had no high school diploma. Today, 90 percent do. Homosexual sex was a crime in all 48 states.

“By percentage, the nation’s most rapidly growing age cohort consists of those 85 and older.”

“To be 80 years old in this republic is to have lived through exactly one third of its life.”

An epic event occurred on this day in 1960. One that would change the lives of women forever. The FDA approved the birth control pill.

The pill made women equal to men regarding sex. Provided them with a freedom they never knew before.

I suspected up to 1960, females feared getting pregnant were they to have sex outside marriage. Perhaps the worst that could happen to a woman.

Now the ladies were equal to men. They could enjoy sex as freely as men. The danger of pregnancy would not be a problem if the woman was on the pill.

I find this amusing in a respectful sense. Having been educated in Catholic schools through college, I thought the ladies were reluctant to have sex for religious reasons.

Was I wrong!

The pill also seems to have become the beginning of a woman’s ascendancy in every day life. They went on to smoke, wear pants, become high level executives and professionals. All the while having children. Women proved they could run the house and work at the same time. Men lack the capacity to multi-task.

I went out last night. Whoopee! Had a good time.

I was scheduled to meet my lesbian wives Donna and Terri at 7 at the Red Shoe Island Bistro on Petronia between Duval and Whitehead. A relatively new restaurant.

I parked in the Rams Head lot. Previously the Blue Macaw. One of my pre-pandemic haunts.

A handful of cars in the lot. Surprising. Went into the bar and restaurant. No more than 10 customers. Staff all new. I knew none of them.

Since I was early for Donna and Terri, I had a drink at the Rams Head Bar. Following which I walked down to the Red Shoe Island Bistro. A mere 1 1/2 blocks away.

I started wobbling. Could not understand why. Then it dawned on me. I had forgotten my cane in the car!

I decided to get to the restaurant and worry about the return trip later.

We had dinner at a table set on the sidewalk. Lovely table cloth, napkins and silver wear. A limited menu. Reasonable. Food excellent. The specialty yellow tail. The menu captioned with “Ain’t No Tail As Tasty As Yellow Tail.”

Donna, Terri and I have not seen each other in more than a year. It was like seeing family that you had not seen in quite a while.

Rob manages the restaurant. Ron was our waiter.

We discussed everything. We agreed the political situation in reality was a black/white war. The blacks moving towards a majority in the land and the white Republicans fearful of what might happen.

We talked about new restaurants. One Donna and Terri enjoy is Mary Lins. The old Finnegan’s Wake and Dirty  Pig.

Work discussed. Not enough help available. Workers have left because of pandemic and/or high cost of living in Key West.

Restaurants and bars still hurting. Entertainers are being required to work for tips. The tips are minimal and performing is like working for nothing.

We talked about the cost of the new and old high end restaurants. Astronomical!

Hotel rooms came into play. I mentioned the Miami Herald piece that said Key West rooms were as high as $1,100. The piece also indicated Key West was now the most expensive place in the world for a hotel room.

Before we left the subject, I learned that during Spring Break and Easter week, even the cheaper hotels on the Boulevard had some rooms at $1,000.

Ridiculous! Key West is going to kill the goose that lays the golden egg.

One hotel on the Boulevard actually rented out rooms during those times as high as $1,280 a night.

The walk back to my car was difficult. The cane!

On the way home, I drove through Bahama Village and down Duval. Not many people.

Enjoy your Sunday! Enjoy your Mom if you are lucky to still have her. If not, I know you will think of her.

    HAPPY MOTHERS DAY! was originally published on Key West Lou

[doctorsloth33-blog]

“Doc” Destan Loche, Autbio Part III

We were given two days notice before the Dominion attacked Hegathe. A “merchant” vessel (whose captain was a well-known smuggler) spotted the black sails on the horizon and used his small, swift craft to gain the day on them and raise the alarm. One day for them to reach the shore, and one day to land and organize. That was all the time we had to face a foe that, by the Captains account, was at least ten times superior to ours.

The first sentiment that swirled through the camp was to flee. Damn the Crowns and damn the Forebears, let them defend the homes they fight so bitterly over. But Hammerfell remained in the Empire, and these notions were squashed with prejudice. There was no feasible way for our divided Legion to fend off such a large force, and becoming trapped behind city walls would merely prolong our deaths and strain the patience of Hegathe. The orders came down that we were to engage the enemy army at the gates, then break out and lead them on a chase, giving the Redguards time to secure and fortify their city. Decius would not be trapped behind stone walls with no hope of reinforcement or resupply. It was a dangerous gamble, but one he firmly believed was necessary. Lead the Thalmor away, then break off and make for the High Rock border.

Preparations were feverish. Master Lorrick and I spent the bulk of our time securing every ingredient, potion, medicine, instrument and reference book we could lay hands on. Of our fifty Healers, only twenty-five were within the city and we turned them out to retrieve anything that could be made into a bandage. Sheets, head wraps, robes, cloaks, any piece of cloth that could be cut into strips was borrowed, begged for or outright stolen. I donned the robe given to me on graduation and tested the enchantment. The magic flowed through me as easily as breath and taxed me very little. I tied on my belt, secured my mace and slung my pack which was full of poultices, potions, and bandages already prepared for the coming battle.

The worst part of violence is the waiting. Once battle commences, there are a thousand tasks at hand to keep your mind and body occupied. You can set aside your fear and focus simply on doing one thing after another. But the waiting, the threat of impending carnage, is maddening. I didn't sleep a wink the night before the battle, imaging that every noise was the sound of a trumpet call, or a spell smashing into the city's walls. It seems foolish to me now, how hard I listened for the slightest noise. War is a cacophony, and there's no mistaking it for a bump in the night.

Master Lorrick, five Healers, and fifteen spearmen loaded up the medical cart and waited for the caravan to begin moving. Lorrick cursed his old age and frail bones and cursed the Thalmor for not coming twenty years before. “What will I tell my ancestors in Sovengarde? Will I stand beyond the gates and cry, ‘But I was too old Grandfather! Ysgramor, have pity! I would have stood as mighty as your Companions had battle found me in my youth!’” He spat in disgust, “Piss on them, damned elves. If I cannot enter Sovengarde for bravery then I will enter with cleverness. Go now, Destan, go and bloody your mace.” I gave the old master the first salute I'd ever given him. He returned a less polite gesture. I headed for the main gate.

I have trouble remembering the overall flow of the battle, but I remember vividly certain moments. I do know that the Legionaries bottled the Thalmor up just inside the main gate in an attempt to negate their superior numerical advantage, and I recall it working for a time. My friend Lucius was there, waving the standard and shouting encouragement, singing at the top of his lungs as well. The men answered him and above the din of the fighting one could hear old Legion war songs erupting from hundreds of strong bellies. I was treating a soldier who'd taken an arrow to his gut when a blast of hot air, as if from a huge blacksmith's bellows, smashed into us and the world went insane.

A massive fireball, likely the collaborative effort of several Thalmor magi, had smashed completely through the line at the gate and the tall golden elves poured in like dancing gods of death. I struggled to lift the man I'd been treating, unable to tear my eyes away from the carnage of the blast. He was completely limp and when I finally looked at him I saw a massive piece of metal had split his head in half. I let him drop to the ground and drew my mace, conjuring a spark in my offhand. I looked around, desperate to find something to do. Should I run for the caravan? Should I try to find wounded and help them? Should I turn and fight? A tall figure robed in black trotted directly in front of me and without thinking I swung my mace. The Altmer had begun to look in my direction and the big, ugly iron head caught him full in the face. He crumpled silently and his leg twisted unnaturally beneath him. His head was an unrecognizable lump of mashed flesh, blood, bone and several teeth that had cut their way through his lips. I stared for a moment, thinking how easy it had been to kill him when his body twitched. The mace came down, again and again, a blind rage and desperate terror fueling my blows. I ceased when the iron skipped off the hard stone of the road and I realized there was no head left to strike. I blinked and ran a hand over my face. I felt something gritty and wet and held my hand before my eyes. Bits of gore and bone covered my glove. I retched for a few moments.

   There was a flurry of activity all at once. So much happened so swiftly that I was unable to process it, I simply reacted. I simply survived. I became aware that we were in danger of letting the Thalmor break into the city and that nothing short of a miracle will save us. I hurl fire and lightning at the black shapes of the Dominion locked in mortal struggle with the red shapes of Legionnaires. A big brute of an Orc off to my left, having lost his weapon somehow, ripped off the helmet of an Altmer and used it to smash the elf’s head in. An Imperial staggered past me, his pace unhurried and his path meandering. His face was pale, and a bit confused, but otherwise he seemed unperturbed by the fact that his arm ended in a stump at the elbow. I gently led him to a quiet corner and sat him down. He made small talk as if my frantic and blood-slick work was a simple routine check-up. I gave him a distilled potion to dull the pain and revitalize his spirit and then summoned a slow flame to sear the stump shut. I had neither the time nor the energy to close the flesh with healing magic, and I’m sure that I caused him great pain and discomfort soon after. But he was alive and ambulatory, so I sent the shocked soldier on a mission to find Master Lorrick and return with some bandages, knowing full well that Lorrick would put the man out as soon as he saw him. He was happy to help and set off with a purpose, no longer stumbling or confused.

The battle began to reach a fever-pitch when I returned, and I soon found myself engulfed by the melee. This is another part that is unclear in my memory. Blood and steel, bones crushed and flesh opened, terror and outrage poured from my entire being. I remember feeling as though my arm would fall off from fatigue but still somehow gathering the strength to strike again. I found myself in a sudden lull when a hand grasped me desperately by the elbow. I spun with weapon raised and met the gaze of a Redguard in local attire. The man began pleading with me and pulling me away from the fighting, apparently recognizing that my robes marked me as a healer.

“My brother, Master, come quickly. He's dying, his fear was palpable. I followed him around a corner and into an alleyway where he had dragged his wounded brother. Much to my surprise, the bloody form lying on the cobblestones was wearing the heavy steel armor of the Legion. On his chest was a bloody, smoking hole that looked as though it went all the way through. “Help him, please. Please don't let him die, please Master Healer. Please,” the local man was near hysterical with terror and grief, eyes welling up with water. I drew my knife and offered it to him, handle first. “Cut that armor off, quickly.” His eyes dried and he leapt into action, slicing at straps with swift, deft motions. I rolled up my sleeves and cleaned my arms off as best I could. A dozen knicks and cuts leaked fresh blood but I managed to get most of the grime and gore off. The brother yanked hard on the cuirass and tossed it to the side. I knelt down and began working.

The man’s chest rose weakly and I could see bright red blood oozing from his wound at irregular intervals. I checked his wrist and found his pulse. Weak, erratic, just as I had feared.

“You'll want to look away friend,” I said softly to the brother without turning. He hesitated, then threw his hands over his head and walked to the end of the alley. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When I opened my eyes, I pushed my hand into the dying man's chest through his open wound. His ribs, broken and jagged, gouged my wrist. I wiggled my hand deeper and deeper until I was nearly to my elbow before my hand clasped around his heart. I felt it pump, but there was no rhythm. The pattern was wild and erratic as if something it couldn't understand was happening and it was in a panic. I searched the outside of the pulsing mass with my fingers until I finally found it. A hole, no bigger than my thumb torn in the side of his heart, blood gushing from it. I plugged it and began to concentrate intensely. Sweat beaded on my brow and my free hand began to shake with the effort. I put every ounce of will and power into my hand, into the thumb plugging the hole, into the heart trying to pump itself to destruction. Slowly at first, and then all at once the hole sealed. Without pause I grasped the entire heart in my palm and began massaging it, trying to match it’s beating with my own. I could hear mine pounding clearly in my head and felt near to exhaustion. After a few moments, I stopped and held it in my palm, feeling for the pulse. I let out a sigh of relief that it held and collapsed.

After coming to a few moments later I, with the help of the brother who was weeping and alternating between thanking me and all of the Divines, cleaned and bandaged the man's wounds. Together we made a makeshift stretcher out of a few broken spears and my own cloak, and I decided to help carry the wounded man to the rear. I was nearing total exhaustion and planned on gathering a few restorative concoctions from Master Lorrick. We hoisted him as gently as possible onto the stretcher, lifted him and cautiously made our way to the mouth of the alleyway. I peered out towards the gate and, much to my dismay saw that a swarm of black armored forms poured in. The remaining Legionaries had formed a half circle to block the entrance but were being pressed hard. It would not be long before the Thalmor broke through and entered the city. So distracted was I that I only barely noticed the sudden rumbling beneath my feet. I looked the other way after finally taking notice, and my heart leapt up into my chest. Pounding down the main thoroughfare, I witnessed the General leading the entire cavalry detachment in tight formation. He stood in the saddle and called out to the others, half turning to look at them. Then with a flourish, he drew his sword and signaled the charge. Cries arose from two hundred throats as they thundered forward to aid the beleaguered troops. I heard the terrible sound as thousands of pounds of angry flesh and steel crashed, the screams of the wounded and the shocked, the triumphant yells of the desperate Legionaries. I saw an Altmer sail above the heads of his comrades and watched as he landed in a sickening heap. I looked to the brother, whose face was a mirror of my own awe at such a terrific sight, and without speaking we both agreed to make our escape immediately.

My heart pumped poison that burned my limbs. My legs had become solid lead, and I could taste copper in my mouth. Something was doing its best to drive my shoulder blades apart and the only way I knew I hadn't dropped the stretcher was the insufferable weight tugging at my numb arms. We ran through abandoned streets, doors barred shut and windows locked tight. I could feel eyes that peered out through cracked shades on my back. The city was quiet as a grave save for the dull noises of battle behind us. The silence was oppressive, and my ears rang so loudly I feared I was going deaf. Occasionally a soldier would sprint past us, carrying some urgent communique to the waiting caravan, or a horseman would blaze towards the fighting. We trudged on, our gait made awkward by our cargo. A creeping terror spread across my chest that I would collapse, but the thought of failing the man I'd saved so close to the end galvanized my spirit. I gritted my teeth and trudged on.

When we arrived at the rear, an apprentice I didn't recognize ran over and called to some nearby soldiers for aid. I eased the wounded man down, gave his brother a nod and then turned to walk towards our wagon when everything went dark and the ground swelled up beneath me. I awoke briefly several times. Once Master Lorrick held a foul tasting potion to my lips and bade me drink, before waving his hand over my head and muttering an incantation. Again, much later, the cart was moving and I stared up at the night sky. Too exhausted to question it, and feeling pleasantly warm and floaty from whatever Lorrick gave me, I allowed myself to slip back into sleep.

I awoke on the first full day of the terrible event now known as the March of Thirst. It was one of the most trying times of my life.

End Part III

[jghouse-asia-pacific]

New Post has been published on https://www.jg-house.com/2020/08/06/ch-6-pt-1-the-white-boat-xi-ming/

Ch. 6, Pt. 1: The White Boat - Xi Ming

The seat behind the steering wheel was empty. The driver stood in the sand next to an old man in a white robe. As I walked up the aisle toward the front door of the bus, I looked out the window at the two men. The white robe covering the torso, arms, and legs of the old man was a stark contrast with the black skin of his face and hands. Each time the white-robed man made a comment, he flashed a broad smile at the younger man, who not long before had brought the bus to a halt on a flat, sandy lot near Podor’s principal tourist attraction, a 19th century French fort. The trip, which had begun in St. Louis 120 miles to the south, had lasted five hours due to detours on narrow, often bumpy, sometimes unpaved roads. But it was done.

I stopped at the top of the stairwell leading down to the open door and the arid landscape. As I looked at the sandy ground, I could feel the heat rising. I glanced at my digital watch. 6:47PM. I became aware of a fatigue in my head, neck, and shoulders.

Lomax remained sitting in his seat in the fifth row of the bus, bent over his laptop. I shifted my gaze back to the open door, looking into the twilight. The last rays of a setting sun, I hoped, would give way to a cooler darkness.

The two African men standing in the sand began talking louder, making gestures with their hands. The older man was giving advice, I thought, to the younger man, who looked not only tired but also irritated.

Behind the men at the edge of the river, I could see the large boat, the Bou el Mogdad, a 200-foot-long vessel which had five levels featuring an indoor restaurant, outdoor lounge, two bars, a massage room, and a pool.

I carried my backpack in one hand and, in the other, an iPhone, with which I had just finished sending text messages to Washington, D.C., and Accra, Ghana. Macky with assistance from two crew members from the Bou el Mogdad already had moved the large luggage from bus to boat. All of the tour-group members, with the exception of Lomax, Hercule, and Delphine, had boarded the boat.

Lomax closed the laptop, stood up, and inserted his computer and camera into a large backpack. I noticed the white Styrofoam box, which now held 12 empty bottles of beer, occupying a seat in the row behind him. The Fulani man who worked as the day-shift manager at Hôtel de La Résidence had told us to leave the box with empty bottles on the bus. He would pick them up when the driver returned to Rue Blaise Diagne in the French colonial quarter.

“I just finished organizing all of the images I took on the way here,” Lomax said, adjusting the straps of his backpack. “I noticed two photos of the Chinese man at the airport and one of him at the Lampsar Lodge.”

Bou el Mogdad

Lomax glanced back at Hercule, who was asleep in his seat on the aisle in the fourth row. In the seat next to him, Delphine was turning the page of a paper-back book. She looked up, glancing from Lomax to me.

“I have a feeling we’ll see him again,” Lomax added, referring to the Chinese man while glancing out the open door at the two Africans standing in the twilight. The two men were staring back at us. They wanted to know what we were still doing on the bus. Only then did I realize the driver was waiting for us to leave so he himself could leave.

Suddenly, Hercule opened his eyes, jerking his head up. He looked at his wife, who closed her book and put it into a bag on the floor next to her feet.

“Shall we step down from the bus and get on the boat now?” Delphine asked in French, placing a hand on Hercule’s arm. “I wanted to let you sleep,” she said. “I knew you were tired and needed the rest.” Hercule broke into a wide grin when he noticed Lomax and me.

“Go on ahead,” Delphine said in English, looking at Lomax and me also. “We’ll join you on the boat soon.”

Outside the hot, dry air of the desert night enveloped everyone. I set my backpack down in the sand in front of the two African men, removed a 1,000-CFA-franc bill from the pouch hanging from my neck, and handed the bill to the younger man. Lomax, too, following closely, extended a bill toward the driver. It was he, not the old man, who flashed a broad smile.

“Hurry up!” a voice shouted in English. “Dinner in 45 minutes!”

I looked up. Madeleine stood on the top level of the boat, looking down. She had a cocktail in one hand. With her other hand, she grasped a white, metal railing. Next to Madeleine stood Sylvie, who also had a cocktail in one hand. Sylvie, though, was looking over her shoulder. She appeared to be talking with someone behind her I couldn’t see.

Lomax and I stepped onto the narrow ramp connecting the sandy wharf to the large boat. Macky waited, one foot on the edge of the boat, the other on the ramp.

“Follow me,” Macky said in English, turning into a passageway which was open to the desert air and extended the length of the first level of the boat. He started to go up a staircase to a second level. He paused, though, seemingly struggling to find the words he wanted. Finally, switching to French, he said, “I already placed your luggage in your room.”

“Where’s your room?” Madeline shouted, still looking down. “Come to the bar on the top deck and have a lemon and gin cocktail!”

Two Men

But Lomax and I already had crossed the ramp and started following Macky up the wooden staircase. The light from the setting sun still illuminated the orange, pink, and blue pastels of the colonial buildings facing the wharf, though, revealing a stark contrast with the deep green of the river and the light green of a lone palm tree here and there along the river bank.

“Your room is on the third level overlooking the pool,” Macky said, glancing over his shoulder and smiling. It was clear he approved of our choice of accommodation. Of course, as I knew, the room was assigned to us by accident.

“It’s hot, Macky,” Lomax replied. “We’ll just put our packs down in the room, and then you can show us the bar on the top deck.” Lomax paused, looking to his left at the flat, sandy field where the bus had been parked not even a minute before. It was gone. It seemed almost impossible. The driver, apparently, had moved the bus silently away from the wharf and somewhere near the old fort, which was now a museum.

At the top of the stairs, Macky turned right onto the second level of the boat, and Lomax and I followed him down another passageway which also was open to the desert air and extended the length of the boat. When we reached the end of the passageway, we encountered another set of stairs, this one of made of steel and painted white.

“Your room is right there,” Macky said, pointing to the top of the white stairs and starting to move up them. The young man, who was no older than 20 but who could have been as young as 17, glanced over his shoulder and smiled at us again.

I took the key to the room from Macky, slipped it into the lock on the door made of beautifully polished wood, and pushed open the door. I stepped into the room. I felt Macky by my side. But Lomax was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared down the narrow passageway in the direction of another set of stairs, which, I assumed, led to the bar on the top deck, open to the night air.

I understood immediately the reason Lomax had pushed ahead to the bar on the top deck, where Madeleine and Sylvie drank lemon and gin cocktails in the cooler night air. Inside the room, it was hotter than hell. The two beds, though, with their light red satin covers and their white sheets and pillow cases, appeared freshly laundered, almost elegant in the soft light of the dying day. The state room, called the front luxury suite by the river-boat company, was spacious and attractive, unlike the musty, run-down room at our previous resting place, Hôtel de La Résidence, in St. Louis.

No one had turned on the air conditioning, and heat from the desert sun, beating down all day long, had filled the room. I flipped a switch by the door. A whirling sound started up. It came from a large AC unit in one corner of the room. Immediately, a blast of cold air pierced the layers of hot air. Macky opened his mouth, clapped his hands, and bowed from the waist.

Suite, Bou el Mogdad

I put two bills in Macky’s hand, turned around, and exited the room, following in Lomax’s footsteps and leaving the room on the 3rd level of the boat under the young porter’s supervision.

Hurrying up the stairs and looking down to my right at the sandy wharf and a narrow strip of two-story, faded-yellow buildings outlined in the dim, dusty light, I slipped on the 2nd step from the top and banged my shin and nearly fell to my knees. At the top of the stairs looking down at me and standing just in front of Madeleine was a medium-sized black man with closely cropped hair and a round face who reached down and with surprising strength pulled me upright again in one motion.

Embarrassed by my mistake and shocked by a sharp pain, I hurriedly stood up on the deck, allowing myself to be distracted by the view before me: a beautifully restored, white boat on a tranquil, green river next to a golden, desert town.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Madeleine asked in a soft voice. “These metal stairs are slippery at times. They can be dangerous.”

“No, I didn’t hurt myself,” I replied, realizing I was on the verge of collapsing in pain but attempting to ignore the pain and minimize the accident to Madeleine and any other witness to the event.

I examined the face of the black man, who guided me to a chair at a table next to a bar. The entire area was lit up by small, yellow light bulbs attached at intervals to the waist-high white railing enclosing the top deck. I recognized the man who now began talking to me.

“Something cold to drink?” asked Baaba Maal, the most famous musician in West Africa. His English was not bad. “Cocktail with fruit juice and ice? Beer?”

Over Baaba Maal’s shoulder I could see Madeleine wearing a sleek white dress with patterns of crimson and gold. Behind Madeleine and towering over her, Sylvie, her dark face displaying an expression of concern, stared at my leg. When I looked down at my right leg, I saw a patch of blood expanding across the fabric of my pants below my knee. Then I felt the pain.

“Let’s take a look,” said Sylvie, a doctor in Combs-la-Ville, a suburb of Paris. She squatted in front of me and lifted the nylon fabric of my right pants’ leg up to my knee. “The cut is about half an inch deep and three inches long, causing a rather large flow of blood,” she commented, accepting a towel from the bartender, who had rushed over upon seeing Baaba Maal and Sylvie bent over me. “You need to lie down,” she added, looking into my face for a moment before glancing to one side of the deck and pointing at a couch next to the railing, “and we need to elevate your leg on that couch.”

Sylvie picked me up and carried me toward the couch on which the Chinese couple sat holding glasses of red wine. The thought occurred to me that beyond the couch on the other side of the railing lay the river 30 feet below. It would be a long drop if I accidentally rolled off the couch and tumbled through the railing. The moon, I noticed, was rising in the east over its reflection on the water.

Top Deck, Bou el Mogdad

Sylvie—her athleticism was obvious—carried me to the couch in two strides.

“Merci,” Sylvie said as the Chinese woman and Chinese man quickly stood up from the couch, stepped away from it, and stood watching. Then Sylvie, lowering me gently onto the couch, uttered a statement in Mandarin. She must have thought she was back in Beijing during her adolescence as she addressed the Chinese couple and, at the same time, a rapidly growing sense of urgency.

The Chinese woman and the Chinese man looked at each other in surprise, and the man spoke words in Mandarin to the woman. She responded with her own words in Mandarin, and then she shrugged.

“I’m a doctor,” the Chinese woman said, now lapsing into French for addressing Sylvie. The Chinese doctor had turned her head to address Sylvie. Now she turned it back to address the Chinese man. “My assistant, Mr. Huang, and I will clean your friend’s leg, and I will sew up the wound. If I give you a syringe and some morphine, can you inject him?”

Sylvie responded in Mandarin to the Chinese couple before switching to French.

“I don’t have my medical bag with me,” Sylvie said to Madeleine. “It’s in our room,” she continued, removing a key from her pocket and handing it to her friend. “Can you send Macky to bring the bag to me?”

Madeleine tossed the key to Macky, standing next to the bartender a few feet from the couch.

“There’s no time,” the Chinese woman said in English, coming close to me and looking into my face. “He is going into shock. We have our medical bag with us. You don’t need your bag.”

I was losing consciousness.

“Do you want a shot for the pain?” the Chinese woman asked, still speaking in English and looking into my face. I couldn’t focus on what she said. I didn’t reply. Although I tried to speak, I couldn’t.

The Chinese man stepped forward.

“My colleague, Xi Ming, is a surgeon,” the man said, using English. “Also a major in the People’s Liberation Army. She has performed thousands of operations and has enjoyed great success.” He repeated his words, this time speaking in French.

I felt cold. My vision grew dim.

“Here is our medical bag,” the Chinese man said in English, placing a thick leather valise into the hands of the Chinese woman. “I’m trained in trauma care as well. I carry all of our medical supplies in this bag.”

The Chinese woman, a short, slender person, took the bag, opened it, and pulled out a roll of gauze and a vial of antiseptic. She gave the items to the Chinese man, and he started to clean my leg after rolling up the pants leg above my knee. Then she took out a syringe and a vial from the leather bag and handed them to Sylvie.

French Woman

“You can give him a shot of morphine,” the Chinese woman said to Sylvie, who started to fill the syringe. “I will prepare to sew up his wound,” added the Chinese doctor, who had taken a needle from the medical bag and started threading it in the dim light. Out of nowhere she produced a small but powerful light and attached it to her forehead with an elastic band. “I can work under any conditions,” she said, “even here.”

At that moment, a short, overweight woman wearing a large, floppy-brimmed hat and diamond rings, stepped into the circle of light.

“I’m a massage therapist,” the woman announced in English. “I agree the doctor from China is the best person to sew up the leg of the American. But I also suggest he should place himself under my supervision for the next few days. I’m an expert in Rolfing and other physical therapies. I guarantee the full recovery of the American. He will re-gain the use of his leg within three days under my care.”

Ricardo, standing behind Sylvie and next to Madeleine, studied the splash of bourbon in his glass for a moment and then, with mouth open, stared at the woman appearing out of nowhere.

“Jesus,” Ricardo said, “Who is she?”

Madeleine started to laugh then caught herself.

“Her dress looks like she slept in it,” Madeleine said.

Sylvie injected the morphine into my arm. My body relaxed; I unclenched my jaw, and I could see again.

A few feet from the bar stood Baaba Maal and Sofi, the apprentice designer. To one side was Raphael, his round eyeglasses glinting in the light cast by the small bulbs hanging from the canvas awning. Directly above me, in a gap between two pieces of the canvas, I could see the first stars of the night in the black sky.

But I focused my gaze on the head of the Chinese doctor, who was bent over my leg intent on sewing up the wound. She was working furiously, but I couldn’t see or feel what she was doing. I could see, though, that my right leg was bent at the knee, with my right foot planted flat on the couch.

The Chinese doctor hovered over my leg, focusing on the stitches she was inserting and periodically straightening the leg. She was confirming the stitches were secure while loosening the muscles in my leg so she could sew up the wound faster. The Chinese man bent over her, almost touching her head with his head, wiping with antiseptic the same areas on which she operated with her tools. They worked in concert, four hands together, seemingly controlled by one consciousness.

To one side of me, I was aware of Hercule, who was talking with his wife, Delphine, about the dinner menu they had seen. Also I heard Madeleine saying to Sylvie that Baaba Maal, Sofi, and her cousin would be performing after dinner. Now I was worried about how I would get down to the restaurant on the bottom deck of the boat for dinner. And afterward how could I get back up to the top deck again to hear the music? I doubted Sylvie would be able to carry me down each level of the boat and then back up again.

Meeting

When the Chinese doctor finished stitching up my leg, she sat up straight and peeled off the light attached to her head. The Chinese man, standing up, took the needle, inserted it into a small pouch, and placed the pouch back inside the black leather bag.

“C’est fini,” the doctor announced. Immediately, Sylvie leaned over me, lifted me into her arms, and carried me toward the same slick, metal stairs on which I had tripped and fallen. She started down the stairs.

“Don’t worry,” Sylvie remarked. “I got you.” She paused. “I won’t stumble or trip, but you have to relax and stay still.” She paused again, looking into my face. “You know, you’re not very heavy.”

We passed the third level of the boat. Sylvie asked if I needed to stop at my cabin. I shook my head. I wanted to go to dinner. Finally, we arrived in the dining room, located on the bottom deck, a large space with polished wood paneling on all of the walls and with large windows open to the side passageways, the white rectangular railings, and the blue-green waters of the river just beyond the railings.

Sylvie placed me in a chair at a round table set with ornate silver eating utensils and large curved glasses, some filled with wine—a Burgundy from Alsace-Lorraine, according to the menu—and others filled with ice water. She took a seat to my right. We sat with our backs to a window which opened onto the wharf and, in the middle ground, a series of two-story colonial buildings.

Following Sylvie and me into the room, Madeleine settled into a chair on my left. Hercule and Delphine, also entering the room at that moment, sat down in another pair of chairs at our table.

I was in bad need of a drink. I picked up the glass of Burgundy before me and drank its contents in two gulps. Then I reached over, picked up a glass of red wine in front of Madeleine, and drained its contents too. It was obvious I was nervous. After the Chinese doctor had stitched me up and after Sylvie had carried me down the stairs to the dining room, I felt I had used up all of my luck in a matter of minutes. My leg was numb. I was afraid to reach down and run my fingers over the row of stitches. But I almost couldn’t control myself. I was upset, and I wanted to understand more clearly what had happened to me.

When the Chinese doctor and her assistant arrived in the dining room, Sylvie summoned an attendant and instructed the young African man to seat the two Chinese at our table. Lomax, who had slipped into another seat at the table unnoticed, poured two glasses of Burgundy for the Chinese doctor and her assistant before re-filling the glasses in front of Madeleine and me.

“No more wine for him,” Madeleine said, giving me a sharp look as I drank a third glass of wine just as quickly as the previous two.

Dining Room, Bou el Mogdad

I felt dizzy.

The short, chubby woman with the big hat and diamond rings entered the room, asked the attendant to bring her a chair, and instructed him to set a place for her between the Chinese doctor and her assistant, directly across the table from me.

Ricardo, who was passing behind me as he approached another, smaller table close by, laughed.

“That woman is pretty aggressive,” he said.

“Don’t talk so loud,” Madeleine said, taking a large swallow of Burgundy. Sylvie, listening, just smiled and extended her wine glass, prompting Madeleine to fill it with red wine from the bottle.

“Let’s make a toast,” Sylvie announced in French, looking at the Chinese woman. Everyone picked up a glass. “To a surgeon who can work in the dark,” Sylvie proclaimed in a raised voice.

After setting my wine glass back down on the table, I heard a noise through the open window behind me and turned to see Macky on the wharf with a zip-up dress case hanging from a baggage rack. Several silk dresses in different colors were visible through the transparent material of the suitcase.

Baaba Maal stood up from his table a few feet from ours and leaned through the open window. Holding a bottle of orange Fanta in one hand, he shouted at Macky, who was standing on the wharf, and then at Sofi, who had just appeared behind Macky. But evidently neither Macky, staring back at Baaba Maal with his mouth open, nor Sofi, shouting a question, understood what the musician wanted.

“What’s he saying to Macky and Sofi?” I asked, looking at Sylvie.

“How should I know?” Sylvie replied. “I don’t speak Pulaar. Ask Raphael.”

Raphael, who was sitting at Baaba Maal’s table, overheard my question to Sylvie.

“Baaba Maal is trying to tell Sofi what dress to wear for the performance after dinner,” Raphael said in English.

Ricardo, then, stood up from his table and leaned through the window.

“Wear the yellow dress,” Ricardo shouted in Wolof, the other principal native language spoken by the peoples of northeastern Senegal.

Sofi ducked behind the fabrics hanging from the rack.

Baaba Maal, laughing at Ricardo, sat back down in his seat, finished the orange soda in his hand, and picked up a piece of bread.

“Sofi understands,” Ricardo explained, leaning over Sylvie’s shoulder. “My language teacher at Gaston Berger University knows Sofi well.”

Now Sofi stood in front of the clothes rack and held up two yellow dresses, one in each hand. Macky, who had come to Sofi’s side, gave a thumbs-up signal in return.

Macky took the two dresses from Sofi with one hand, gestured to the ramp leading to the Bou el Mogdad with his other hand, and jumped onto the ramp. Then, with his free hand, Macky beckoned to Sofi to follow him onto the ramp, and the two of them disappeared out of sight crossing the ramp.

I gazed in the direction of the French colonial buildings about 50 feet behind the place where Macky and Sofi had been standing and noticed the buildings had become a ghostly white in the deepening darkness. The picturesque buildings, rising out of the sand behind the wharf, suggested an ancient motif. I expected a memorable performance from Baaba Maal, Sofi, and her cousin in a few minutes.

**

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