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[peoples-insight]

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[architectureandfilmblog]

"Settlement" housing surveys and dominates the landscape, West Bank, Palestine

THE ARCHITECTURE OF VIOLENCE (2014)

It feels like an important time to revisit this short documentary. Part of the Rebel Architecture series, the film examines, clearly and concisely, the use of design as a weapon of intimidation and subjugation within the Palestine Israel conflict.  One element it focuses on is Palestine's 'architecture of occupation': the way the built environment, even in the form of suburban 'settlement' housing (in which tracts of Israeli homes have been built in occupied territories like the West Bank), has been deliberately shaped to intimidate, surveil, segregate, and even dehumanise.

"Settlements are built on hilltops, overlooking Palestinian valleys, to dominate. They're laid out to create a suburban-scale optical device that can survey the territory. The bright red roofs of the houses are mandated by law... to allow military to understand what's friend and foe: where to bomb and where not to."

"...When you put Israeli colonies on highways, you accelerate Israeli movement through the space. In the same way, with every twist and turn of terrain, Palestinians encounter a checkpoint, a border, a fence, a valley they cannot cross..."

It's important for architects and urban designers everywhere to understand that our craft has the potential to be weaponised. It's important that, no matter whom the client, we think about how a project will impact everyone whose life it touches.  But sadly, as essential as these considerations are, they're of no immediate help to civilians from both sides who are suffering in Gaza and the rest of Palestine and Israel right now. So, it seems worth sharing:

Some ways that we can help:

1. Speak up. Send an email to your elected representative. Sign petitions. Stand up in any forum you can against human rights violations, and against both islamaphobic and antisemitic behaviour.

2. Contribute to a trusted aid organisation working in Gaza, such as Unicef or the British Red Cross. Sites like  charitynavigator and charitychecker can be used to check it's a group who'll use it well.

3. Understand the context. Short videos here and here provide a clear introduction/overview.

4. Boycott companies that are directly profiting from the illegal occupation, and from human rights violations.

(Images: Ronen Zvulun/Reuters via Guardian, Léopold Lambert/Funambulist)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Greedflation, but for prisoners

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me TOMORROW (Apr 21) in TORINO, then Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

Today in "Capitalists Hate Capitalism" news: The Appeal has published the first-ever survey of national prison commissary prices, revealing just how badly the prison profiteer system gouges American's all-time, world-record-beating prison population:

https://theappeal.org/locked-in-priced-out-how-much-prison-commissary-prices/

Like every aspect of the prison contracting system, prison commissaries – the stores where prisoners are able to buy food, sundries, toiletries and other items – are dominated by private equity funds that have bought out all the smaller players. Private equity deals always involve gigantic amounts of debt (typically, the first thing PE companies do after acquiring a company is to borrow heavily against it and then pay themselves a hefty dividend).

The need to service this debt drives PE companies to cut quality, squeeze suppliers, and raise prices. That's why PE loves to buy up the kinds of businesses you must spend your money at: dialysis clinics, long-term care facilities, funeral homes, and prison services.

Prisoners, after all, are a literal captive market. Unlike capitalist ventures, which involve the risk that a customer will take their business elsewhere, prison commissary providers have the most airtight of monopolies over prisoners' shopping.

Not that prisoners have a lot of money to spend. The 13th Amendment specifically allows for the enslavement of convicted criminals, and so even though many prisoners are subject to forced labor, they aren't necessarily paid for it:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/02/captive-customers/#guillotine-watch

Six states ban paying prisoners anything. North Carolina caps prisoners' pay at one dollar per day. Nationally, prisoners earn $0.52/hour, while producing $11b/year in goods and services:

https://www.dollarsandsense.org/archives/2024/0324bowman.html

So there's a double cruelty to prison commissary price-gouging. Prisoners earn far less than any other kind of worker, and they pay vastly inflated prices for the necessities of life. There's also a triple cruelty: prisoners' families – deprived of an incarcerated breadwinner's earnings – are called upon to make up the difference for jacked up commissary prices out of their own strained finances.

So what does prison profiteering look like, in dollars and sense? Here's the first-of-its-kind database tracking the costs of food, hygiene items and religious items in 46 states:

https://theappeal.org/commissary-database/

Prisoners rely heavily on commissaries for food. Prisons serve spoiled, inedible food, and often there isn't enough to go around – prisoners who rely on the food provided by their institutions literally starve. This is worst in prisons where private equity funds have taken over the cafeteria, which is inevitable accompanied by swingeing cuts to food quality and portions:

https://theappeal.org/prison-food-virginia-fluvanna-correctional-center/

So you have one private equity fund starving prisoners, and another that's gouging them on food. Or sometimes it's the same company. Keefe Group, owned by HIG Capital, provides commissaries to prisons whose cafeterias are managed by other HIG Capital portfolio companies like Trinity Services Group. HIG also owns the prison health-care company Wellpath – so if they give you food poisoning, they get paid twice.

Wellpath delivers "grossly inadequate healthcare":

https://theappeal.org/massachusetts-prisons-wellpath-dentures-teeth/

And Trinity serves "meager portions of inedible food":

https://theappeal.org/clayton-county-jail-sheriff-election/

When prison commissaries gouge on food, no part of the inventory is spared, even the cheapest items. In Florida, a packet of ramen costs $1.06, 300% more inside the prison than it does at the Target down the street:

https://www.documentcloud.org/documents/24444312-fl_doc_combined_commissary_lists#document/p6/a2444049

America's prisoners aren't just hungry, they're also hot. The climate emergency is sending temperatures in America's largely un-air-conditioned prisons soaring to dangerous levels. Commissaries capitalize on this, too: an 8" fan costs $40 in Delaware's Sussex Correctional Institution. In Georgia, that fan goes for $32 (but prisoners are not paid for their labor in Georgia pens). And in scorching Texas, the commissary raised the price of water by 50% last summer:

https://www.tpr.org/criminal-justice/2023-07-20/texas-charges-prisoners-50-more-for-water-for-as-heat-wave-continues

Toiletries are also sold at prices that would make an airport gift-shop blush. Need denture adhesive? That's $12.28 in an Idaho pen, triple the retail price. 15% of America's prisoners are over 55. The Keefe Group – sister company to the "grossly inadequate" healthcare company Wellpath – operates that commissary. In Oregon, the commissary charges a 200% markup on hearing-aid batteries. Vermont charges a 500% markup on reading glasses. Imagine spending decades in prison: toothless, blind, and deaf.

Then there's the religious items. Bibles and Christmas cards are surprisingly reasonable, but a Qaran will run you $26 in Vermont, where a Bible is a mere $4.55. Kufi caps – which cost $3 or less in the free world – go for $12 in Indiana prisons. A Virginia prisoner needs to work for 8 hours to earn enough to buy a commissary Ramadan card (you can buy a Christmas card after three hours' labor).

Prison price-gougers are finally facing a comeuppance. California's new BASIC Act caps prison commissary markups at 35% (California commissaries used to charge 63-200% markups):

https://theappeal.org/price-gouging-in-california-prisons-newsom-signature/

Last year, Nevada banned any markup on hygiene items:

https://www.leg.state.nv.us/App/NELIS/REL/82nd2023/Bill/10425/Overview

And prison tech monopolist Securus has been driven to the brink of bankruptcy, thanks to the activism of Worth Rises and its coalition partners:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/08/money-talks/

When someone tells you who they are, believe them the first time. Prisons show us how businesses would treat us if they could get away with it.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/20/captive-market/#locked-in

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[livingforthewhump]

could you pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaassseeeeeee continue the villain tortured livestreamed thing??

sequel to this

—

Hero surveyed their team, ensuring everything was properly in place. Of course, they’d already checked a dozen different times, but there wasn’t much else to do with their anxiety other than put it to good use. There was one area, probably the most important, that they lacked the expertise to check well.

“Medic?” They asked, trying not to let their anxiety seep into their words. They knew Villain would be in desperate need of medical care. How could they not know? After all, Supervillain had gone to great lengths to make them all aware of that fact. Hero was frustrated beyond all words that the thing Villain would need the most was not something they could provide them. Hero was terrible with anything to do with health, which was really a large part of the reason why they had been elected the leader. Process of elimination: they simply weren’t good at anything else.

Medic raised an eyebrow. “Everything is ready, Hero. Including you. You should sit down; You’re going to wear yourself down before you’re even out on the field.”

A shake of their head. “Can’t. Hacker is going to send the signal any moment now, and I need to be ready.”

And just like clockwork, a steady pinging noise hit Hero’s wristband, letting them know that the blackout of Supervillain’s cameras was about to begin. Hero was on the move instantly, hopping lightly out of the back of their camouflaged van with just a jerk of their head to tell Teammate to follow. As they walked they powered off their wristband. Their earpiece was left behind in the van—the electronic blackout was total, and any technology used by them would be like a foghorn in a cathedral: utterly out of place and infinitely noticeable. They knew without looking that Teammate was copying them.

The plan was simple: Hacker had gotten into their camera system from the van, locating where Villain was being held and copying down a map to it. They needed more controls to do a full camera blackout, so they froze a few frames in the security system while they went ahead of the company and took control of the security room. From there they would orchestrate a blackout that would last approximately ten minutes before someone noticed and fixed it. In the meantime they would be loading Supervillain’s files onto their own computer while Hero and Teammate went to get Villain. Five minutes in, five minutes out.

And the clock was already ticking.

The door creaked open in front of Hero, the lock having been disabled by Hacker just moments before. Without sparing more than a glance around to make sure no one was waiting in ambush, Hero took off at a sprint down the hall. The door they’d entered through was on a lower level equivalent to a basement, they supposed. Supervillain’s base was built on a slope, allowing for easy access to several different levels.

Hero hooked turns and opened doors without any hesitation. They had studied the map Hacker had made for them so many times they were certain they wouldn’t forget it as long as they’d lived. Without knowing what state Villain was in and if they were going to have to carry them out, Hero wanted as much of their time to be budgeted for their exit as possible. Teammate’s footsteps thudded just behind them, constant and reassuring.

Once they got to the door that Hero knew was Villain’s, they skidded to a halt. No one had intercepted them on their way in, which was ideal, but…unrealistic. They knew they had to be prepared for a trap. Hero took a split second to catch their breath and toss a look over their shoulder to Teammate, who gave a nod and pulled out their weapon, holding it at the ready.

Hero pulled a small kit out of their pocket, slotting a tiny explosive into the space between the door and the frame just over where the doorknob was. A small press of a button and a cautious step back later, a tiny explosion of various acids and chemicals corroded and broke through the lock much faster than Hero could have. Hero pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was easily recognizable as the one the ransom video had been recorded in. The concrete walls were the same, the same chair was set up in the center with knotted rope neatly coiled in its seat as though it were just waiting to be used again, even the camera was still set up on a tall tripod a few feet away from the chair. One wall was covered in knNives and grotesque tools for torture. Dark blood puddled on the floor, some dried and flaky, and some still pooling in the grim light.

In the opposite corner huddled a small form—Villain. They were not easily recognizable as the same one in the ransom video, the same one who came to Hero with a defiant scheme to take down Supervillain and spent late nights researching and planning and brought them coffee in the morning when neither of them had slept. No. This couldn’t be the same one.

But it was.

Their hair was lanky, falling over their face and hiding their eyes in shadow. Or maybe it was just bruising so dark that Hero couldn’t tell the difference. Their knees were tucked up to their bare chest protectively, arms wrapped around their legs and face buried down. Even from here Hero was struck by how loosely their pants hung, how scrawny and thin their arms looked compared to how they used to be. Slightly bloodied cuffs were holding their wrists together, and their arms were covered in mottling bruises and purposeful cuts and what looked like cigarette burns. Hero took a step forward, trying to shake themself out of their horrified stupor, and the small figure that they knew was Villain cowered back, eyes flicking up to them. Hero couldn’t see their eyes well enough to tell if there was any recognition or hope in them, or just fear.

They crossed the room quickly so they could kneel down next to Villain.

“Villain, it’s me, Hero,” they said quietly, eyes moving over Villain’s form without thinking. “You look awful.” Apparently their mouth also moved without thinking.

It was true, though. Up close, even more so. Now Hero could see that some of the cuts on their arms spelled out words, crudely carved into the captive villain.

“Are you here to break me out?” Villain’s voice came out hoarsely like they hadn’t used it properly in weeks. Still, there was a sardonic edge to their voice, a slight glint in their eyes telling Hero to stay focused and remember their mission. Hero was in awe of that strength that remained after they had been put through all hell.

“Of course,” Hero scoffed. It should have been obvious.

Villain’s face darkened. “But…Youngest. Supervillain said—”

“Can you walk?” Hero interrupted.

“Um,” Villain hummed noncommittally, face screwing up while they shifted their legs. They tried to stifle a whimper in their throat, but Hero heard it loud and clear. “Supervillain kind of, um. Broke my leg with a mallet?”

“They what?” Hero hissed, rage spiking red through their vision. They took a long, controlled breath. “Okay. I can carry you. We just need to get out of here.”

Without waiting another second they scooped their arms underneath Villain and stood. They were much lighter than they should have been. They tried their best to ignore that and just start walking. Hero met Teammate’s eyes as they exited the God-forsaken room with Villain in tow. Teammate’s face was blank, but there was a tightness around their eyes and mouth that spoke volumes to Hero about just how bad Villain looked now that they weren’t folded over themself against a wall.

Villain’s bound arms now lay demurely over their lap, by Hero’s chest. This close, it was hard not to look at the words etched into them with a lazy and sadistic hand.

Coward.

Traitor.

Mutt.

Hero swallowed bile and started jogging. Villain cried out under their breath at the jostling it required, but Hero just went faster. If they didn’t get out of there they couldn’t promise that they weren’t going to turn around and find Supervillain just so they could make them pay for each one of those marks.

They didn’t remember getting back to the van, but suddenly they were there, and Teammate and Medic were lifting Villain from Hero’s arms and onto a small gurney strapped in place in the back of the van. It was a slightly makeshift setup.

Hero made themself climb into the van just so they could get closer to Villain, to make sure they were okay. Medic had them laying down and was cutting through their pants so they could get to the broken bone to set it. Villain’s head tilted wearily to the side, seeking out Hero. Their hand reached out and Hero caught it easily, letting them squeeze while Medic reset the bone. Before Villain’s yell had even died down, Hacker had the engine revved and was driving away.

Villain was passed completely out by the time they reached their base, and Hero wasn’t far from it. They insisted they carry Villain inside, now swathed in bandages and cleaned as best as they could manage with the supplies they’d brought. They were frightfully thin, ribs poking out like knuckles through their battered skin. A deep red burn slashed down their chest, drawing attention to the bright and inflamed skin around it compared to the ombre of bruises and scabbed cuts covering them. Supervillain had even signed their name on them, like they were a damned canvas.

Time wasn’t really making sense to Hero when they set Villain down in the medwing. They noticed it was dark outside when they left the van, and the full moon was bright overhead, but they didn’t know the time. They remembered Hacker remarking something about being surprised that Youngest wasn’t waiting up for them, and the tired laughter that went around the group. They remembered the color of Villain’s skin against the clean white sheet, and the weariness in Medic’s eyes as they went to fetch their charts and IVs. They remembered being pushed into a nearby bed, but they weren’t sure who it was that pushed them there.

Then they felt sunlight hitting their eyelids as their consciousness swam back into awareness.

“How is Villain?” Hero was asking before their eyes were even fully open. Hacker sat in a seat beside Villain’s bed, computer open on their lap.

Hacker’s lips twitched slightly. “Good morning to you too. I slept great.” A beat of silence let their joke fall flat, and they sighed. “Villain’s doing fine. Malnourished and dehydrated and very weak, but stable. They still haven’t woken up. They needed the rest.” Their appraising eyes went back to Hero. “You did too. Medic made some coffee before I threatened them into going to rest. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Hero stood, swaying just slightly as they made their way to Medic’s office and the coffee machine on their desk. “Where’s Sidekick?”

Hacker shrugged. “I haven’t seen them. They’re probably taking advantage of having those training halls all to themself.”

“Find anything in those files yet?”

A heavy sigh filled the air with the cadence of something done many times already. “I have them loaded up, but they’re heavily encrypted, and the decoding has taken me hours. I think I just about have it, though.”

Hero had poured themself a mug and was seated in a chair opposite Hacker when they let out a triumphant shout that just about made Hero spill their coffee.

“I got it!” Hacker grinned, gesturing Hero over. Before they even got to Hacker’s side, their smile was dropping. The only folder on the drive was one titled “I hope you enjoy your trade :)”

Hero’s stomach dropped. The file was filled with pictures and videos of Villain, during their captivity, displaying in horrible detail everything that was done to them.

Except, at the very end, was a link.

Hacker clicked it, fearing the worst.

Youngest’s teary face filled the screen.

—

hero/villain taglist (and those who wanted to be tagged in the continuation): @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @twistedcaretaker @lonesome--hunter @poppys-writing @endless-whump @multifandoms-multishipper @shadowylemon @utopian819 @whumpkitty @journey-the-panda @freefallingup13 @prettyboysinpain @1becky1 @temporary-whump-sideblog @chartreusephoenix @thelazywitchphotographer @onestopheroxvillain @smolxhero @mylifeisonthebookshelf @broadwaybabe18 @grizzlie70 @sunflower1000 @digitalart-dwa @tobeornottobeateacher @wolfeyedwitch @canigetanamenforbritney @ladygwennn @onlywhump @suspicious-whumping-egg @classicplesiosaur @lemongrass404 @defectiveangel13 @alainayumira @spiccykels @jadeocean46910 @icarusinstatic @will-ruadh @pumpkin-spice-whump @michelleswhumpyreblogs @cyberneticfire @tinyreadinglifelight @savagelysarcasticsilence @void-fireworks @dead-whispers @strawberryglitterball @writing-with-olive @rose-pinkie @didieatyourdog @corvid-voidbur @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @princess-poopsicle @hollowgast1 @naturallyathief @equestrianwritingsstuff @yells-in-lowercase @antmeisteronion @ace-caz

[scotianostra]

On September 23rd 1880, John Boyd Orr, Nobel Peace prize winner, was born in Kilmaurs, Ayrshire.

John Boyd Orr's pioneering research led to millions of children across the UK being given free school milk from 1946 to 1971 when Margaret Thatcher, then education secretary, cut provision giving her the mick name Thatcher, "Thatcher, Thatcher, milk snatcher”

Boyd Orr was born in Ayrshire into a religious and highly literate family, and it was perhaps inevitable that he should be destined for a career in teaching after studying theology. However, his studies at Glasgow University also opened up new avenues for him. He became interested in the theories of Darwin, and this led to a fascination with zoology.

When he graduated with his MA in 1902, he was assigned to a teaching position in the Glasgow slums to fulfil the obligations required by his scholarship. He lasted only a few days before resigning and going back home to Ayrshire where he was reassigned to a school in Saltcoats. There he completed his teaching but left as soon as he could, saying: "though I liked the children, I hated teaching them”.

Boyd Orr returned to university to study biology and medicine, and he graduated with a BSc in 1910 and MB ChB two years later. He only practised for one month before returning to university to undertake nutritional research. His MD thesis in 1914 was awarded the Bellahouston Gold Medal for the most distinguished thesis of the year.

On the recommendation of his supervisor, he was asked to be the first director of a new research institute in Aberdeen, which would later become the world renowned Rowett Institute. At the time of his appointment, it did not exist, but he would spend the next twenty-five years raising both funds and the profile of nutritional research to make it a reality.

The initial work to build the institute was, however, interrupted by the outbreak of war. Boyd Orr enlisted in the RAMC and saw active service on the Western Front where he was awarded both the Military Cross and the Distinguished Service Order. Later he would never wear the medals saying that the truly brave men had all died.

In the interwar years, he travelled widely and published extensively, emerging as one of the country’s leading experts in nutrition. He first came to national attention in 1936 with the publication of Food, Health and Income, a report of a dietary survey by income group, which revealed that the cost of a diet meeting basic nutritional needs was beyond the means of half the British population.

This led to similar studies being conducted in nineteen other countries and prompted the creation of a Commission of the League of Nations, which tried to formulate a global food policy. It became the forerunner of the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO). Boyd Orr would become the Director General of the FAO from 1945-48. These were important years because the predicted European post-war famine was averted in part by policies put forward by the organisation.

Boyd Orr was no stranger to the challenges of developing and implementing food policies, many of which are still with us today. He spent his later career trying to persuade governments and presidents, organisations and companies to rethink the way they did things. However, he would often bemoan the fact that while he could persuade farmers of the importance of the nutrition of their animals, he could not stir their interest “in the food of their ain bairns, far less in the bairns of ither folks”.

His was a life filled with honours and awards, from Gold medals at University to military decorations to honorary degrees and more. He was elected Rector of Glasgow University and subsequently became its Chancellor. He was briefly a British Member of Parliament, and in 1935 he was knighted for his services to agriculture. In 1949, after he was awarded the Nobel Prize, Prime Minister Clement Attlee ennobled him as Baron Boyd Orr of Brechin Mearns.

Reading of Boyd Orr’s long career it seems he had a series of false starts and perhaps even failures. But he was no dilettante. He combined a powerful intellect with an admirable work ethic to achieve a mastery in everything he tried. That he chose to move from a career in teaching to medical practice, to research, to politics and then to governance and policy making was not evidence of mere restlessness but of a constant desire to do meaningful work.

Boyd Orr was at heart a man with an ambitious vision for the world, and he firmly believed that real peace and prosperity would only ever be achieved when no one was hungry.

The citation for the 1949 Nobel Peace Prize read: “for his lifelong effort to conquer hunger and want, thereby helping to remove a major cause of military conflict and war”.

[misfitwashere]

Friends,

Trump called attention to the discrepancy between his height (reportedly 6-foot-3) and Kamala Harris’s (5-7½ in heels), insisting that no accommodation be made to appear closer in size.

“No boxes or artificial lifts will be allowed to stand on during my upcoming debate with Comrade Kamala Harris,” he wrote, adding that such accommodations would be “a form of cheating.” There’s no evidence Harris has sought such things. 

Nicholas Rule, a psychology professor at the University of Toronto who researches social perception and cognition, said Harris’s shorter height will be irrelevant tonight because she exudes “Tall Energy,” which he defined as “the confidence that comes from being above average height.”

I am 4-feet-10. At my highest, I was 4-feet-11. I doubt I have “Tall energy.” But if I were on the stage tonight with Donald Trump, I’d demolish him. 

To be sure, when it comes to choosing leaders, our society is exceptionally heightist. 

When I ran for the Democratic nomination for governor of Massachusetts in 2002, it seemed that the only attribute reporters wanted to cover was my height. Regardless of what I said in my speeches, the Boston Globe ran photos of me standing on boxes so I could see over the podium. The right-wing Boston Herald ran a headline on its front page charging “Short People Are Furious with Reich” because I had joked about my height on the campaign trail. 

None of it helped me with that election. But I didn’t lose because of my height. I lost because I was a lousy campaigner.

Research shows that voters do prefer taller candidates. A paper published in 2013 by psychologists at the University of Groningen in the Netherlands analyzed the results of American presidential elections dating back to 1789. They found that taller candidates received more votes than shorter ones in roughly two-thirds of all elections. And the taller the candidates were relative to their opponents, the greater the average margin of their victory. 

Among presidents who have sought a second term, winners have been two inches taller, on average, than losers. The authors conclude that height may explain as much as 15 percent of the variation in election outcomes. 

It’s similar in the private sector. A survey of the heights of CEOs of Fortune 500 companies showed they were on average six feet tall -- about 2.5 inches taller than the average American man.

Why are we so heightist? Probably because of some genetic trigger in our brain that told early humans they needed the protection of very big men. Other things being equal, large males are more to be feared and they live longer. An impulse to defer to them, or prefer them as mates, makes evolutionary sense.

In Size Matters, Stephen S. Hall writes that in the eighteenth-century Frederick William of Prussia paid huge sums to recruit giant soldiers from around the world, thereby giving tangible value to matters of inches, and revealing “the desirability of height for the first time in a large, post-medieval society.”

But hey, I’m okay with giant soldiers, big security guards, and massive CEOs. I don’t care if I lack “Tall energy.” I’m fortunate to have grown up (or at least grown upward) in a society that values brains at least as much as brawn.

Kamala will win tonight, and she’ll go on to win the election in 55 days — not because of her “Tall energy,” but because she’s smarter, tougher, and better in every way than her large, stupid, decrepit opponent. 

[silluuuu]

La petite robe noire

salut mes ami(e)s et welcome to Reverb 2024, La petite robe noire! i've had so much fun putting together this story with my artist partner @jadedkappa. it's been such a treat to hang out with you over these past couple of months, even with our crazy décalage horaire de 9 heures !!!

pls enjoy this very silly Art School AU, featuring a Death the Kid POV (a very fun experiment for me haha), lots of shenanigans, and of course, a sprinkle of Soul/Maka. big love to @toweroftunes for betaing and to the @reverbmod team for hosting and reviving this event! check out the beginning of the story below!! <3

If there's one thing Death the Kid hates, it's chaos.

Bound to one of his kitchen barstools, he taps a foot impatiently as he stares down at his phone, the crease between his brows forming a trench of Mariana depths as yet another message lights up his notifications.

He doesn't hate group projects, in theory. In practice, however, he is forced to remember the company he keeps, his hailstorm of a cohort of classmates and the inevitable chaos they incite at every turn. He wants to rip his hair out - though he knows this would disturb both his haircut and his perfect dye job, so he refrains. Sporting an off-kilter coiffe feels like he's breaking some kind of art school law. The rule of thirds for the scalp, as it were.

Ping, ping, ping! He reaches across the kitchen island to silence the phone, fingers clenched around a lukewarm cup of coffee that is doing nothing to combat his frazzled nerves. His screen continues to betray him with a whack-a-mole assortment of pop-ups, new windows appearing faster than he can close them.

It's not even technically a group project - he'd elected to bring his friends into this, though he's the only one getting a grade. As a fashion design student, he needs to be able to 'play nice with others', as his father had so cheerfully suggested throughout his youth. Over the years, he had mostly succeeded in fine-tuning his people-averse personality to make that happen. In this particular instance, the handsome compensation he'd offered them had certainly helped to grease the wheels.

The true chaos had started with the unfortunate development of this group chat. As much as this project is his brainchild, that had not been his idea.

It'll be easier to keep in touch with people! Liz had said. We can be creative together! Patty had said. You can stay organized, Liz had added at his continued reticence and, forever beholden to the concept of organization, this argument had been compelling enough for him to cave.

The chat is decidedly disorganized. Black Star has been sending them byte after byte of explosion noises with no end in sight, for seemingly no reason at all. Liz drops Instagram makeup tutorials every ten minutes - most of which seem suspiciously targeted at her own makeup needs instead of their project, but he digresses. Patty has been sending eyeshadow swatches, which she's been practicing on everything skin-like in the house - a definition that, he'd recently discovered, can differ greatly from person to person. In entirely related news, he must now deep-clean all of his silicone muffin tins after this project is done.

He's wading through chaos, up to the waist of his perfectly-pressed pants. He feels like a puzzle with pieces scattered every which way, and the most important ones are still lying under the table, invisible to the eye and impossible to meld with the others.

Choose a classic piece of clothing, and promote it through a printed poster and a video advertisement. This is the task he has been set, and while he's assembled a qualified team for both the poster and the ad, he's still lacking in both article and model for said piece. Without those two things, he's a sitting duck in his little chaos-pond.

At this moment, Liz walks in, surveys him in his state of many discomforts, and offers him a metaphorical hand.

"Do you want me to show you how to turn off notifications?" she says, expression deadpan.

Read the rest on AO3 :D