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gallavictorious · 3 years

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Gallavich Week Day 5: Fix-It / Rewrite

Right, so fix-its aren’t so much my jam, but there is this one weird, weird, weird thing that I’ve (so far) been unable to meta into any sort of sense. Namely, Mickey looking like that in season 11 while apparently not working out. It’s just… uh… he… what? At one point I hypothesized that he’s been bitten by a radioactive spider or the like, leaving him magically super buff, and to be honest, that’s still the most reasonable explanation I can think of, soooo…

Today I'm back at my nonsense to bring you, everyone and especially our dear @gallavichthings, 2,711 Very Serious words about Mickey being a secret superhero. Well. Except for the hero bit.

Read it below or on AO3.

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In Which Mickey Milkovich Does Not Save the World

Afterwards, he would always refer to it as the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell, but the truth is that Mickey never saw the thing that got him.

He was going about his business (namely poking around the Gallagher basement for any forgotten shit he could sell for beer money now that all the cash from the wedding had been surreptitiously replaced with I.O.U:s) when he felt a sudden, sharp pain just above his ankle. Cursing up a storm, he desperately waved his foot around and lost his balance and stumbled straight into one of the many piles of boxes that littered the basement. By the time he was back on his feet whatever creature that had dug its nasty little teeth/pincers/claws into his tender flesh had scurried off, leaving Mickey with a throbbing ache and a halfway impressive puncture wound on his left leg.

Muttering darkly about fucking Gallaghers being so used Frank they didn’t know how to keep goddamned monster vermin out of their shitty house Mickey limped up the stairs to pour some Jamison on the wound, and then pour some down his throat because he had the bottle out already so he might as well. He borrowed one of Franny’s colourful pirate-patterned band-aids, and when his nosy as fuck ex-EMT of a husband asked about it later that evening Mickey said he’d dropped a can on his foot, it’s just a scratch, man, no you don’t need to take a look at it, just put your fingers back in my ass, please.

Mickey didn’t make a habit of lying to Ian, but he figured that telling the truth would lead to all sorts of questions about why he was in the basement and having to come up with plausible explanation for that when he should just be focusing on getting railed wasn’t part of his plans for the evening. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to Ian, who’d been getting so worked up over money lately, to distract him with that sort of unimportant stuff while they were banging. Mickey was a considerate spouse.

Thankfully, Ian dropped the subject and proceeded to do his husbandly duty. Mickey went to sleep deeply satisfied.

He was almost as satisfied the next morning when he woke up to realize that the pain in his leg was gone, as were all traces of the wound itself. Mickey had always healed pretty fast, but this was quick enough to have him questioning whether or not he’d really been bitten/stung/whatever at all. Maybe he’d had more beers than he thought and imagined the whole thing… ?

It didn’t really matter, and if that had been the whole of it Mickey was likely to soon have forgotten all about the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell. However, in the next few weeks he started noticing stuff, weird stuff. For instance, it wasn’t just the (possibly imagined) bite/sting that healed far more quickly than normal; it was all the little cuts and scrapes he tended to acquire. A big bruise from running into the table while playing with Franny; faded to nothing the next morning. A cut from the razor; gone within the hour. For the first time he could remember, Mickey looked at his naked body in the mirror and saw not one single wound (though there were still scars aplenty). It wasn’t a bad thing, per se, but it was weird.

Then there was that thing with his muscles. Mickey had been in decent shape for most of his life and whenever he got locked up for extended periods of time he made a habit of hitting the gym on the regular. Really wasn’t much else to do in the joint, and having a decent bulk reminded the other inmates that you weren’t someone they could push around; letting people know that you could beat the shit out of them often meant you didn’t have to actually do it, which saved everyone a lot of time and energy and trips to the prison quack. But on the outside, exercise wasn’t very high on Mickey’s list of priorities, meaning he tended to slim down a bit after a while in freedom.

Not now, though. Almost a year after being out of prison, and he was still as built as ever; if anything he seemed to be developing more muscles, in spite rarely engaging in anything more taxing than vigorous fucking. (Okay, so there was a lot of vigorous fucking, but still. If anyone ought to be building their biceps from the sex they were having, it should be Ian.)

Mickey didn’t mind being inexplicably ripped, though. He felt great, looked great – and Ian seemed to be pretty into it, too. Then again, Ian seemed to be pretty into Mickey whether he wore dirty clothes, sported a beard, sported a dress, or hadn’t showered in a week, so maybe that wasn’t saying a lot.

But even given all that, maybe Mickey still wouldn’t have thought too much about it (he was, after all, very busy being on his honeymoon, which required lots of determined sleep-ins, dedicated beer-drinking, and – obviously – lots and lots of banging) if there hadn’t one day come a knock on the front door. At first he ignored itm in the hopes that someone else would get it, but when it became apparent that a, he was alone in the house, and b, whoever was at the door wasn’t giving up anytime soon, he grabbed the family baseball bat (even big soft ass Larry would react to Mickey opening the door with an extremely illegal gun in hand) and went to answer the insistent knocking.

Outside stood two women, looking an unsettling mix of sober and apprehensive and eager. One of them reminded him vaguely of Angie Zago; the other was taller and darker and quite possibly brooding.

“Can I help you?” he demanded, not quite as rudely as he might have. He didn’t think they were social workers, but one never knew; they’d been checking up on Debbie and Franny ever since Debbie pleaded guilty to statutory rape.

“Mr. Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich?” Not-Angie inquired in a polite sort of tremble.

“Who’s asking?” Mickey demanded, feeling a little thrown by the use of his full name. The only people who pulled that out was law enforcement, and neither of these ladies had that feel about them. Especially since they seemed to be… excited to meet him, which wasn’t a reaction Mickey was used to getting. Particularly not from ladies looking like they ought to be out collecting for the fucking Red Cross.

They better not be asking for donations for the Red Cross.

“I’m Tania and this is Dreamweaver,” Not-Angie said. “Can we come in? It’s really best if we talk in private.”

Mickey didn’t move. “Dreamweaver? You kick your mama too many times in the kidneys before you were born or something?”

The women glanced uncertainly at each other. “Mr. Milkovich,” the one improbably called Dreamweaver began, but Mickey cut her off:

“You with the police?”

They quickly shook their heads. “No, we— “

“You here to give me money?”

“No, you see, it’s— “

“Okay, thank you, bye.” But as he moved to close the door, Tania – displaying more spunk than he’d have given her credit for – took a step forward and blocked the entrance.

“Have you been experiencing any strange body phenomena lately, Mr. Milkovich?” she blurted. “Wounds healing very quickly, perhaps, or increased muscle mass?”

Mickey stilled, eyes darting between the two women. Small, small smiles on their faces now, as if they knew they had him. There was a hint of hunger to those smiles, making Mickey feel uncharacteristically uncomfortable. The urge to push Tania back and slam the door shut was strong, but…

“Fine,” he said at long last. “Come on in.”

They better not be fucking cannibals either.

---

They called themselves The Guardians, and they wanted him to save the world.

Mickey asked what numbers they were talking and, after getting bored of their uncomprehending stares, clarified: “How much is it gonna pay? What’s my cut?”

Dreamweaver frowned. “You mean… money? As in a… salary?”

“Yeah, sure. What’s my salary?”

“Mr. Milkovich, saving the world is a higher calling and a duty, it’s not something that– “

“Uh-huh. So, just to be clear, you’re not gonna pay me?”

They weren’t. Mickey laughed in their faces, stood from the couch, and told them bye and good luck with that and don’t let the door hit ya on the way out.

They reasoned with him. They pleaded. They explained, again and again, that after the evil society USCH destroyed The Guardian’s headquarters in a devastating attack, the two of them–and Mickey–was the only thing standing between the world and utter destruction. Surely, he must understand that it was nothing less than Fate that had brought the one remaining Bestower Bot into the Gallagher basement and his path? Admittedly, injecting Mickey with the bio enhancer might have been the result of a malfunction – Tania and Dreamweaver had found the bot dead down the street a couple of nights ago – but didn’t he see that he had been called to serve as a warrior in the fight against evil?

“Yeah, no thanks,” Mickey told them, and then he picked up the bat and waved it around until they took the hint and left.

When Ian returned home a few hours later, Mickey carefully didn’t mention the curious visit or any of what Tania and Dreamweaver had told him. Ian was pretty into saving people and had all these lame ideas about service and honor, and Mickey found it more likely than not that his husband would both be upset that Mickey, rather than Ian himself, had been called as a warrior (it’d be Lip and West Point all over again, Mickey just knew it), and demand that Mickey answer the call and run off like some loon to get himself killed by evil technomancers.

Mickey didn’t particularly feel like dying and he didn’t like the idea of hurting his husband’s feelings either, so he kept his mouth shut and skillfully derailed all of Ian’s attempts at asking about his day by giving him a blow job, teasing him about being a grunt, and allowing himself to be wrestled to the floor when Ian decided he’d had enough of teasing. It was a good evening.

As he lay in bed that night, back against Ian’s chest and with those strong arms wrapped around him, Mickey wondered if it would be worth risking Ian’s reaction by going public. Okay, Tania and Dreamweaver had mentioned how he’d probably gotten a pretty small dose of the bio-whatever-the-fuck, lending him nothing more exciting than enduring muscle mass and enhanced healing, but that should probably be enough to turn him into a cut above the rest, right? He could hire himself out to the highest bidder and make a fortune doing private security or collections or stuff like that. Fuck, he’d even consider taking on jobs for The Guardians, if they just agreed to pay him.

It was a fun thought to play with, but in the end a long life in the shadows made Mickey wary of putting himself out there like that. Besides, he’d seen enough movies to know that it’d probably wouldn’t be long before he mysteriously disappeared to some secret government facility to be experimented on. He’d had enough of the state’s hospitality to last him a lifetime, so thanks, but no fucking thanks.

And that could have been it. Should have been it, but of course Tania and Dreamweaver wouldn’t leave well enough alone. They started showing up at the Gallagher house at all hours, whenever they knew they could get Mickey alone. They accosted him on the way to the Alibi, they sat down next to him on the L, and they left him pictures of puppies with little notes saying stuff like “Only YOU can SAVE him from BURNING. Have a HEART”.

It was exhausting. Fearing the retribution of the cartel hadn’t anything on fearing seeing Tania and Dreamweaver’s disappointed-yet-still-somehow-hopeful-and-terribly-determined faces appear in a crowd, or round a corner, or on the porch when he went out for his evening smoke.

Mickey began to lose sleep. He’d spend the nights tossing and turning, which led to him staying in bed half the day to catch up on much needed rest, and he was often so tired he couldn’t bring himself to put on proper clothes or go outside the door the whole day.

Ian was on his ass about getting a job; he didn’t get that Mickey had a job, and that job was not getting lured into sacrificing his life for the greater good. If Ian didn’t like the prospects of being a prison widow, how offensive wouldn’t he find the prospect of being an actual widower, after his husband got blown to bits by some big bad villain?

It got to the point of Ian initiating a sex strike to force Mickey to get “a real job”, which struck Mickey as really fucking unfair, considering how all he was trying to do was make sure Ian even had a husband to refuse to fuck.

Enough was enough. Something had to be done. Fortunately for Mickey – and unfortunately for Tania and Dreamweaver – Mickey had a guy for everything. As annoying as The Guardians were, Mickey didn’t have the heart to see them killed, but he figured that having them kidnapped and shipped off to some sweatshop on the other side of the world would serve the same purpose. He felt a little bad about it, sure, but he had given them plenty of chances to fuck off. Not his fault they couldn’t respect a fucking boundary.

Mickey called Johnny, told him the score, and a few night later Johnny called Mickey to tell him it was done.

It was done. Over. Mickey would finally be able go about his life in peace again, giving all his attention to his husband and doing his outmost to make him the happiest man alive every single day, even when Ian was annoying as hell and started asking pointless fucking questions about how Mickey was in such great shape even though he never did as much as one single curl up.

I see. So… you’re telling me that you have secret superpowers.

Yeah. Except, not actually secret anymore. ‘Cause, you know, you told me we shouldn’t have secrets.

… yeah, that was three months ago.

Guess it must have slipped my mind, huh.

Must have. But let me get this straight: you couldn’t get a real job because you were busy dodging secret agents, and your muscles are the result of you getting bitten by some magic robot—

Radioactive motherfucker bug from hell.

—and not you sneaking down to the basement to do weights and cardio almost every day?

… oh.

Yeah, oh. Carl told me about it, asshole. He noticed you using some of the stuff down there. Don’t get why you’d wanna keep that a secret though?

…

Mick. We have to be honest with each other, remember?

Jesus Christ, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know.

Okay.

Guess the first time was back when you had that dip a couple of months after the wedding. Few times after that, if we had a fight or whatever and I needed to let off some steam. Then you started working and sometimes I got bored watching TV all day but you were all mopey about your shitty job and me not having any and you have this thing about your body—

I don’t have a thing about my body.

—so I didn’t really wanna rub your face in me having all that time to work out when you could barely squeeze in dozen push-ups in the evening. And I guess I didn’t really want anyone to know that I… cared, or whatever.

Cared? About what? Being healthy? Looking good? Being strong?

Whatever, man, I told I don’t fucking know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, ‘cause it was a radioactive motherfucker bug from hell that did it.

Of course it was. Come here. Show me what that bio enhanced body of yours can do.

---

Ahahahahahaha, would you look at that. I tried to meta it anyway. 😭😭😭

You might reasonably ask about Mickey’s visit to Kev Fit – how does that fit? WELL, I rather imagine that whatever Mickey does in that basement is enough to keep him fit but still not SUPER hardcore? So when he starts worrying about Ian thinking him weaker than, he decides to take it up a notch and do it properly in a real(ish) gym? And his comment about “not remembering how much working out sucks” is part of the whole “not wanting anyone to know this is something I care to do on the regular”… Yeah, it’s pretty weak. All in all, I’d say the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell is still our best bet. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

This is probably the last time I have one of them tell the other a story this week, but I make no promises. These little ficlets don’t tend to go as planned. (Ha! She said, as if there was a plan to begin with. Oh, well. I guess it’s working out so far.)

#gallavich #gallavich week 2021 #gw2021 #ficlet #my stuff

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themurphyzone · 3 years

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BatB AU: A Provincial Life

Summary: It’s an ordinary day in ACME Village for Pinky. Until it isn’t.

AN: This oneshot adapts the opening number ‘Belle’ and village scenes, up until Pinky sets off for the castle in search of his father, which leads into the entry Imprisoned.

AO3 Link

Pinky scooped a ladleful of oatmeal into a small, earthen bowl, humming dreamily as he added a dash of cinnamon and several apple slices into the mixture.

Today was a very special day for Papa, and Pinky wanted him to eat a healthy and nutritious meal before he went off to the fair with his invention. It would be a few days of travel, and Papa would need his strength for traveling there and back.

“Papa, I’m going out!” Pinky called as he carefully pushed a large woven basket of acorns outside. “Your breakfast is on the table, so make sure you eat it all!”

There was a sputter and cough of machinery and a trail of smoke from the small room that served as a makeshift workshop next to the kitchen, followed by a loud bang.

“Just getting ‘er warmed up for the final test!” Papa shouted. “C’mon, Madeleine! You may’ve fallen apart for the 264th time, but you can do it!”

Oh, Pinky had no doubt people were gonna love the woodcutting, ax-wielding, only occasionally threatening to take fingers off machine known as Madeleine. She was definitely gonna win that gorgeous blue ribbon at the fair! And even if she didn’t, they’d love her all the same anyway.

He opened the door and stepped into the beautiful autumn morning, taking in the cool, fresh air as he carefully maneuvered the basket of acorns into a red wagon. The leaves were varying hues of crimson and gold, dancing along a gentle breeze that ruffled Pinky’s fur. The sun was peeking over the horizon, slowly bathing the world in light as it rose.

Two songbirds flew merrily above him, their sweet morning song filling the air with beautiful music. Pinky reached up, and one of the songbirds briefly landed on his outstretched hand before flying after his partner, leaving a red feather behind.

“Thanks for the feather!” Pinky shouted to the sky as he tucked the feather behind his ear, where it fit perfectly.

He picked up the wagon handle and pulled it along, the wheels squeaking along behind him.

In the meadow beside their quaint little cottage, Pharfignewton chewed placidly on dew-covered grass. She neighed a greeting to Pinky, and Pinky cheerfully waved back. As much as he loved taking the beloved family horse into town for company, she needed her strength to lug Papa, Madeleine, and all their supplies later. So he had to let her rest.

Reeds and wildflowers of all sorts grew along the banks of the pond that separated the little cottage from the rest of ACME Village. A pair of ducks paddled along in the water, trailed by four adorable, fluffy yellow ducklings. Several tiny turtles sunbathed on an old log, while a large green frog sat on its lily pad and caught insects unlucky enough to stray in the path of a long, sticky tongue.

Pinky took his time crossing the cobblestone bridge over the pond, watching the wild animals go about their day without hustling, bustling, or rushing from place to place. Their lives were very different from their neighbors, despite living so close together.

Little animals, little pond, and little humans in their little town.

Or was everything just bigger than him? He was a mouse after all. It wasn’t hard to be bigger than a mouse, unless one happened to be an insect.

As Pinky crossed onto the other side, he spotted a smooth, pretty gray stone poking out of the reeds. He plucked it out of the damp soil, cleaning the dirt off with the inside of his apron.

It would be a perfect stone for his collection. And he didn’t have any that were this smooth. Most of the rocks he picked up were half-crushed or broken from city streets or well-worn paths. He tucked it into a pocket that he’d sewn on himself, because for some odd reason dresses never came with pockets.

Then he faced the little town, with all its timber and stone buildings lining a narrow cobbled street that quickly filled with half-asleep, half-awake people trying to get an early start on their sales and trades.

To think he and Papa had lived here for three years. While not the most exciting town in the world, Pinky was just happy they didn’t have to move again. He’d spent too much of his life being bustled from place to place since Mama died. The cottage was the loveliest place they’d ever owned.

And while the townsfolk had the same ol’ familiar routine every day, Pinky tried to vary his activities. From baking to horseback riding to volunteering for odd jobs around town, or just taking a day off to nap under a tree and roll down the hilly meadows while grass stains formed on his back.

Just a normal provincial life, yet Pinky often wondered what laid in the big blue yonder. Did the stars and sky look different elsewhere? Do the clouds form big, fluffy, and silly shapes in South America?

“Bonjour!” a man called out as he threw open his shutters.

“Good morning, Emile!” Pinky replied as he skipped past his window.

“Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour!” The echoing chant swept across rooftops and streets alike as a new day dawned upon ACME Village.

Everyone from chimney sweepers to merchants to coachmen responded with vigor and cheer, all of them satisfied with their occupations in life.

Pinky greeted everyone he passed, though not all returned the gesture. Everyone was staring at the feather tucked behind his ear, the bulge of the stone in his pocket, or the red wagon with the basket he pulled along. He didn’t think he was that strange-looking.

Unless he had a bit of cabbage stuck in his teeth again. But he flossed really well last night, so he didn’t think that was the case.

“Marie, hurry up with the baguettes!” the baker shouted as he carried several loaves of bread outside.

Pinky inhaled deeply. There was nothing quite like the scent and sound of fresh bread.

“Narrrrrrf! Smells just like heaven, Mr. Baker!” Pinky exclaimed.

The baker set his tray of bread on a windowsill, tapping his foot as he impatiently waited for Marie. “Morning, Pinky. You off somewhere this morning?” he asked, though he didn’t turn around.

“Yup! I’m delivering this basket of acorns to Slappy!” Pinky said, pointing to his basket of acorns. “She really likes the acorns near our cottage but doesn’t wanna make the trip herself. She says it’s too far for her aching joints and she can’t take Skippy along because she’s still trying to convince him that we’re not gonna be shot like Bumbie’s mom if we venture into the meadow, and-”

“Yes, yes, that’s all very nice,” the baker said, half-leaning into the open window. “Marie, I said hurry up with the baguettes! The morning rush is coming soon!”

“Well, if you’d bought the ingredients from Francois instead of Vincent like I suggested then maybe we wouldn’t be running behind, Pierre! But no, you always act like you know best!” Marie snapped.

Not wanting to get embroiled in yet another argument between the baker and his wife, Pinky followed the cobblestone path further into town, where the usual market sprung up, full of local farmers, tradesmen, and merchants.

Villagers bartered and argued and traded like always, and as Pinky stopped to admire a small yellow daisy poking out from the cracks of the street, he could feel eyes follow him closely in that looking-at-you-but-pretending-we’re-not sort of way.

“There goes the funny mouse again.”

“Gets distracted by the littlest things, I swear.”

“Does he even have a useful skill?”

“Besides being the village idiot? Doubtful.”

They’d made those comments ever since he and Papa had moved in. Everywhere they went, people asked Pinky for his trade, and Pinky always told them he took care of Papa and worked various odd jobs around the area for money.

But that wasn’t considered a useful role in society.

He didn’t mind helping Papa though.

Oh well though. He couldn’t delay getting these acorns to Slappy, so he hauled his wagon alongside a horse-drawn carriage that steadily cut through the crowded streets, clearing Pinky’s path.

“Bonjour!” the coachman called to a young woman walking down the street. His eyes were trained on the girl rather than the road, and his horse plowed straight into a farmer’s cart, knocking his produce into the road.

“MY CABBAGES!” the farmer screamed, tearing out his hair as several pigs devoured his vegetables.

The coachman let out a nervous laugh and flicked the reins, spurring his horse forward and blithely ignoring the despairing farmer’s demands for compensation.

“I need six eggs!” a woman cried as she tried to hold several fussing babies at once.

“That’s too expensive!” a man complained to someone selling pottery. “Twenty coins for a pile of cheap clay? Bah!”

Pinky and the carriage parted ways as the cobblestone street changed to an unpaved dirt path. The gossip and chatter of ACME Village faded to background noise.

Slappy had made her home in a hollow tree on the outskirts of town, close enough to get supplies but far enough to deter most from knocking on her door.

Pinky passed by many warning and danger signs that kept most people from bothering the old squirrel. There was a new post up today, right next to Slappy’s front door.

LAST WARNING

NO SELLING, NO PREACHING, NO TAX COLLECTING

KNOCK AT YOUR OWN RISK

Well, what was life without a little risk? Pinky knocked on the door anyway.

He was trying to decide if one of the clouds overhead was shaped more like a monkey or a strawberry when a small brown squirrel in a blue nightgown and cap opened the door. Despite the early morning, he was wide awake and hopping in place, his excitement only growing as he spotted the basket of acorns behind Pinky.

“Morning, Skippy! Got the basket of acorns your aunt wanted!” Pinky exclaimed.

Skippy grinned as he took the basket from the wagon. “Thanks, Pinky! Aunt Slappy will love these!”

He popped a few acorns into his mouth and loudly crunched the shells.

“Skippy, what’d I say about answering the door at this godforsaken hour in the morning?” a cranky voice yelled from upstairs.

“It’s just Pinky with the acorns, Aunt Slappy! No door to door salespeople, preachers, or tax collectors in sight!” Skippy shouted. Then he turned back to Pinky and pointed to his ear. “I like your feather, by the way.”

“Thanks! I like your nightcap!” Pinky said, returning the compliment with his own.

A few moments later, Slappy joined Pinky and Skippy downstairs. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, her long gray tail dragging behind her.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Slappy asked. She tossed several acorns into her mouth and nodded her approval. “Crunchy with a pinch of salt. This is gonna be a good topping for my world-renowned creamed spinach later.”

“SPEEWWWWWWWWW!” Skippy cried, sticking his tongue out in disgust.

Pinky just smiled politely. Slappy took a lot of pride in her creamed spinach recipe, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings by saying it tasted like soggy socks.

“Hey, when I was your age, I ate lots of creamed spinach for dinner. And now I have enough muscles to wield a hundred ton mallet,” Slappy retorted.

“Wow! Was that when dinosaurs roamed the earth?” Skippy asked.

Slappy gave him a light smack on the back of his head. “Little brat. Go grab a few coins from the bureau in my room. Gotta pay the mouse for lugging this stuff across town.”

Skippy blew a raspberry at her and ran up the stairs.

“Your tongue is never gonna go back in your mouth if you keep doing that!” Slappy yelled.

Funny how the Squirrels were his best neighbors, even though they lived on the opposite side of town. They’d helped out so much when Pinky and Papa first moved into the countryside cottage, from showing them all the best places to buy from and all the best trees to climb. Everyone else usually stared at them strangely for not knowing how to find a shop and moved on with their day.

Still, Pinky didn’t want to impose on them or anything. Collecting the acorns was no trouble at all. And he knew money could be a little tight in the village at times.

“You don’t have to pay me,” Pinky said. “Poit. I don’t mind the morning exercise.”

“You’re walkin’ outta here with those coins whether you like it or not,” Slappy said in a tone that invited no room for argument. “Don’t be one of ‘em honor before reason types. That sorta mindset is nothing but trouble.”

Slappy’s long tail flicked in irritation, accidentally knocking a framed painting askew on the wall next to her. She sighed and fixed the crooked painting so that it hung straight. “Can never keep this darn thing straight,’ she muttered.

Pinky had been inside the hollow tree many times, but he’d never seen this painting before. It contained a colorful cast of characters, from a carrot-munching gray rabbit to a crazy black duck to a short gunslinger with an enormous bright red mustache.

In the painting, a youthful Slappy with a manic grin on her face and giant firecracker in her hand was chasing a bald hunter. Her smile was brighter, and her eyes didn’t seem so world-weary there.

“Like it? Old pals sent it to me two weeks ago,” Slappy asked, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. “The Looney Tunes Troupe were a rascally bunch, that’s for sure. All the money for a detailed painting, and they can’t afford a better frame. Our shows were legendary back in the day, you know.”

“Never heard of them,” Pinky admitted.

“Course ya haven’t,” Slappy sighed. “Your generation doesn’t know good comedy when it hits them in the bum with a mallet. Troupe’s faded into obscurity now, but they’ve never stopped traveling and being annoying yet lovable nuisances to everyone from Albuquerque to Kalamazoo to Timbuktu.”

Pinky tilted his head. “But you don’t travel anymore.”

If the Squirrels needed something they couldn’t get in ACME Village, they usually asked Pinky to run the errand for them.

“Yeah, well, that’s life,” Slappy said. “Sometimes you’re a nomad with total freedom and other times you gotta flee with your nephew to a different country.”

Before Pinky could ask more questions, Skippy barreled downstairs with as many coins as he could carry. “I didn’t know how much to grab so I just took a handful,” Skippy said, dumping the currency onto a small side table.

Slappy picked up six coins from the pile and dropped them into a small drawstring bag, then tightened the strings and tossed the bag into Pinky’s wagon. “You can have these. I’ve got plenty more lying around,” she said.

“If you're sure then,” Pinky said, picking up his wagon handle and turning it around. “Love to stay, but Papa’s leaving for the fair soon and I gotta see him off!”

“Tell him we said hi!” Skippy shouted, and Pinky saluted back.

Slappy yawned, stretching her arms above her head. “And I’m hitting the hay again. It’s too damn early, and I’m too tired to censor my swearing in front of kids.”

o-o-o-o-o

After his visit to Slappy’s tree, Pinky decided to kill some time at ACME Village’s fountain, where he could enjoy the fine spray of water and run in circles along the stone rim. It was always fun seeing how fast he could go without tipping into the water.

“Sorry!” he shouted as he accidentally trod over freshly washed sheets that a woman had been folding next to the fountain. She made an indignant noise and carried her basket of laundry away, nose high in the air.

And the whispers started up again.

“That mouse may be a beauty, but he is way too peculiar for his own good.”

“You have to wonder if he’s feeling well.”

“Always a dreamy, far-off look on his face.”

On his tenth lap around the fountain, a flock of sheep strolled by, guided by a young shepherd from behind. Two fluffy ewes jumped onto the fountain rim next to Pinky and drank the water. Pinky smiled and stroked their soft wool, and the ewes bleated in contentment.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Pinky whispered into their ears. “Don’t go blabbing this to anyone now...but I believe Papa’s a shoo-in for that blue ribbon!”

One of the ewes turned and nibbled on his ear, and Pinky laughed as her blocky teeth tugged and tickled his fur. He gently pried her jaw open and his ear popped out of her mouth, dripping wet with sheep saliva.

As Pinky prepared to slide off the fountain rim and onto the small bag of money he’d gotten from Slappy, a regal fanfare went off in the distance, thundering hoofbeats growing ever closer.

A messenger in a white powdered wig blew his coronet and cleared his throat.

“HEAR YE! HEAR YE! MAKE WAY FOR HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, PRINCE SNOWBALL AND HIS HUNTING PARTY!”

The messenger’s declaration sent every man, woman, and child running towards the plaza, gathering in front of the entrance of the local tavern, the centerpoint of all social activities in ACME Village.

The hunting party rode in on their enormous horses, spearheaded by the ruler of the province, Prince Snowball. Though only a small hamster, he was famed by all for his keen mind and ability to get results on whatever he set out to accomplish.

Though dressed in only a simple red shirt and breeches for hunting, the only signs of his higher status being the golden crown upon his head and the expensive black horse he rode, his presence commanded respect and awe.

Behind him, a hunting party consisting of the best huntsmen and archers in the land dragged an enormous buck, two wild boars, and several pheasants into view.

“People of ACME Village, tonight we shall dine on these fine specimens of the animal kingdom!” Snowball announced as everyone bowed in fear of a noble’s anger. “Everyone’s presence is required, for I have a further declaration that shall lift this derelict province out of the ashes and into a glorious future!”

His pink eyes were sharp, but beneath that layer of intelligence, there was an undertone of something that didn’t feel right. Pinky couldn’t explain it, but he always just had this odd, icky feeling that crawled up his spine whenever he saw Snowball.

The crowd straightened up, cheering and clapping and praising Prince Snowball’s name for bringing them such good fortune with the promise of more to come.

Pinky’s ear twitched. There was a soft, desperate sound mixed in with the roars of the captivated audience.

And to the left side of the crowd, there was a tiny lamb whose back leg was tangled in a large fishing net. The mother ewe was both nuzzling the lamb in comfort and trying to pull the net off with her teeth, but to no avail.

The shepherd never noticed his sheep were in trouble, too caught up in hailing Prince Snowball to notice one of his charges was stuck.

Pinky hopped off the fountain and slowly walked over to the thrashing lamb and his mother, putting his hands up to show them he wasn’t a threat. The lamb bleated in panic, and the mother eyed Pinky warily.

“May I help? I’m good at untangling stuff,” Pinky asked. He’d gotten a lot of practice when Papa occasionally tangled himself up in threads and wires.

The ewe regarded him for a long moment, then nuzzled the back of her lamb’s head, letting him bury his head into her wool. The lamb’s trembling stopped, his back leg still.

It was a sweet gesture, one that seemed so familiar to him, even though his own mother had long passed. He remembered that feeling of warmth and safety from so long ago, the last time he felt like he was truly home.

Wiping a stray tear from his eye, Pinky untangled the mesh from the lamb’s leg, starting from the top and slowly moving down to the hoof.

“There you go, baby,” Pinky said once the leg was completely free. The lamb pulled his hoof out of the netting, gave it a good shake, then joyfully pranced and bleated around his mother and Pinky.

The mother gave Pinky a tiny nod, bleated to her little one, and together they rejoined their flock. The shepherd was still ignoring his flock in favor of Prince Snowball. Pinky couldn’t see him anymore from the ground.

Pinky picked up his wagon handle, ready to go home and help Papa hitch everything up to Pharfignewton.

Then he felt a pair of fingers pluck the feather he’d lovingly tucked behind his ear. Pinky turned to get his feather back, and jumped when Snowball was just inches from his face.

“Hello, Pinky,” Snowball said. He smiled, but it was more out of smugness than a real smile.

Pinky’s ears lowered, but then he remembered his manners. “Bonjour, Prince Snowball. May I have my feather please? A really nice bird gave that to me.”

Snowball frowned, holding the feather out of Pinky’s reach. The feather crinkled in his tight grip. “How could you possibly need this? It’s hardly good quality for even the cheapest quills.”

“Poit. It doesn’t need to be a quill to make me happy,” Pinky replied.

Snowball rolled his eyes, tossing the feather behind him. Pinky tried to grab it, but it was caught on a gust of wind and drifted to the ground. It landed in a mud puddle, soaking the barbs of the feather and staining it brown.

“Pinky, get your head out of the clouds and pay attention to important matters,” Snowball’s lip curled as he blocked Pinky from retrieving his feather. “Such as showing royals courtesy when they address a peasant like you.”

“Excuse me, Snowball,” Pinky said politely, going around the hamster to pick up his feather. The damage didn’t look too bad. Still, he tried to be careful when he cleaned it with his apron.

Snowball crossed his arms, and the town’s whispers started up again.

How dare he not show proper respect to Snowball, does he fancy himself higher than a prince, why would Snowball pay him any individual attention and not someone more deserving.

“That’s Prince Snowball to you.” Snowball’s fur bristled for a moment, but he took a deep breath and put his arms around Pinky’s shoulders instead. “The whole town's talking about you and your lack of...purpose. And we can’t have that, you realize. After all, a machine requires all of its cogs and gears to run smoothly, otherwise it won’t work.”

“Bet his crackpot father would know something about that!” one of Snowball’s men chortled.

Everyone laughed, even Snowball, who rarely did so. An unfamiliar feeling boiled in Pinky’s stomach.

“Don’t talk about my father that way!” Pinky snapped. His inventions were amazing and he was going to do well at the fair! They didn’t know how hard Papa worked on his inventions!

Snowball glared at his men. “Yes, don’t talk about his father that way, you fools!” he hissed like Pinky hadn’t heard him laughing just seconds ago.

“He’s not a crackpot! His invention’s gonna win the blue ribbon cause it was made with smarts and love, you’ll see!” Pinky declared, just as an explosion went off in the distance.

And he knew exactly where that explosion had come from.

“I have to go. Goodbye!” Pinky dragged his wagon behind him, setting off for the cottage he and Papa called home.

“It’s a pity and a sin,

He doesn’t quite fit in.

He really is a funny mouse,

A beauty but a funny mouse,

He really is a funny mouse,

THAT PIN-”

The sharp, high-pitched crack of a rifle interrupted the village’s song, and everyone ran for cover.

“WILL YA SHUT UP? SOME OF US ARE TRYIN’ TA SLEEP!” Slappy shouted from her tree, her screech blowing tiles and lumber from the roofs of buildings.

Just a provincial life in this little town. Pinky ran across the cobblestone bridge, wondering if he truly had the right to ask for something more than that.

o-o-o-o-o

He hurried over to the cellar, where smoke trailed from the gaps of the heavy wooden doors. Pinky opened the entrance, and a smoky cloud blew right in his face. He coughed and waved it away, hiding his nose in his dress as he hurried over to Papa, who’d been thrown onto his back. A pile of broken wooden planks covered him.

In the corner, Madeleine sputtered, her gears and dials spinning wildly before she finally quieted down, one loose spring sending a gear crashing into a wall.

“Dagnabbit, Madeleine!” Papa cursed, stumbling as he extracted himself from the pile of wooden planks. Pinky grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet, checking him over for any injuries. Luckily, there were no bruises or splinters to be found. “Don’t you stall out on me now!”

Pinky smiled. Papa’s string of random gibberish and mutterings of smart inventor words he couldn’t understand was something he’d been familiar with from a young age. No matter where they lived, it was just one of those things that came with home.

Papa huffed, untying his apron with all his tools and tossing it to the ground. “She’ll never work in time for the fair! What was I thinking?” he lamented. “It’s not too late. Maybe I can cobble something else together quickly! Yes, I’ll just take the doowhatzit out of Madeleine, combine it with the kaleidomajiggy from the old washer, and-”

“You always say that, Papa,” Pinky said, hugging his father around the shoulders. Papa rested his hands over Pinky’s with a sigh. “Don’t worry. I believe Madeleine will work, and she’ll win you that blue ribbon and help you become an inventor for the history books! Narf! Just like Benjamin Franklin, ‘cept without all the kite-flying.”

“You really think so?” Papa asked, his frown turning to a hopeful smile.

“Course I do,” Pinky grinned.

A determined look crossed Papa’s face, and he tied his apron around his waist, nearly tripping over it in the process.

“What are we waiting for then? Let’s fix ‘er up!” Papa said, laying down on a flat, low cart and pushing himself under the broken stove that made up Madeleine’s main body. “So how was your morning in town?”

“A little birdie gave me a feather. I found a pretty stone by the pond. And I delivered the acorns to the Squirrels. Did you know Slappy used to be a part of a traveling troupe? I didn’t.” Pinky recanted his morning to Papa as tools clinked and scratched against metal. “Oh, and I guess you’ll be missing Prince Snowball’s feast tonight. They’ll have venison and wild boar there.”

“A feast? That sounds nice. Much better than inn food,” Papa mused. As usual, only part of what Pinky said ever registered with him. “Are you going?”

“I don’t know yet,” Pinky admitted. “Don’t get me wrong, I love a good party...but Prince Snowball is-um, what’s a good word for him?”

“Rich? Smart? Confident?” Papa suggested. “He’s been talkin’ to you a lot lately.”

So everyone’s noticed, even Papa who spent much of his time in the cellar that doubled as a workshop.

“He has,” Pinky agreed. “And he says he can give me a purpose. But...I don’t know. I don’t think he’s right for me. Maybe I’m just as odd as they say I am.”

It was the same everywhere they settled. No matter what Pinky tried to do, the whispers always followed him. He noticed strange things, he wore strange clothes, he and Papa were always strangers in towns where everyone knew each other from birth.

Papa slid out from under Madeleine, wearing a silly helmet on his head that gave him huge, bug-like eyes.

“My son is odd?” Papa asked in disbelief, and Pinky laughed. The helmet always made Papa look silly. “Don’t know where these folks get their ideas from…anyway, I think Madeleine’s all ready to go. Care to give her a whirl?”

“Zort! Am I!” Pinky clapped his hands together. Papa pointed to a lever, which Pinky pulled with all his might.

Madeleine’s bells and whistles sounded, water steadily pumping through her system while steam filled her stove. Pulleys and gears turned along her sides, reaching the front. Her dials quivered until they reached the red zone, and the ax at her front swung down, scoring a deep cut in a block of firewood. The ax swung faster and faster, until one final split the firewood in half and sent one chunk flying.

Pinky and Papa ducked, and the chunk flew over their heads and landed perfectly on a pile of firewood against the wall.

“She works!” Pinky shouted in joy, kissing one of Madeleine’s wooden wheels. “You did it, Papa!”

“I did?” Papa murmured. “I did! 265th time’s the charm, Pinky! Look out fair, I’m on my way!”

o-o-o-o-o

Within the hour, Madeleine was wheeled out from the workshop, covered and tied up with a tarp, and hitched to Pharfignewton.

“Bye, Fig,” Pinky said, hugging his beloved horse’s muzzle. “Keep Papa on track to the fair, okay? You know how he likes taking shortcuts.”

Pharfignewton whinnied gently, planting a sloppy kiss on top of Pinky’s head.

Then Pinky embraced Papa, who returned the hug with the same enthusiasm. And he was reminded of how the mouse and horse he considered his home would be leaving for some time. He wished he could go with them, but someone had to keep house and he was the best one for the job. It wouldn’t be for long, but he’d miss them all the same.

A stray tear dropped. Just another reason he was considered odd. He cried so easily.

“Chin up, Pinky,” Papa murmured, rubbing a soothing circle into Pinky’s back. “I’ll win that blue ribbon along with the prize money, and we’ll begin our lives anew within the week.”

Through his tears, Pinky gave him a wobbly smile. Then he helped Papa onto Pharfignewton’s back.

“Take care!” Pinky called as Papa flicked the reins, and Pharfignewton trotted off at a steady pace, dragging Madeleine behind her. He watched them from atop the highest hill in the meadow, as they went further down the well-worn trail that merchants used for their travels.

Then they were nothing but specks in the distance, swallowed by the thick, twisted branches of the forest. It was an unusual forest, one where the trees lost their leaves in early autumn, making the trees look scarier than they actually were for half the year.

With nothing else to do outside, Pinky went back into the empty cottage. He’d had three years to become familiar with this house, full of odds and ends from Papa’s inventions alongside their meager belongings.

Mama’s cloak hung from a place of honor on a coat rack by the door, one of the few belongings Pinky could take along no matter where they lived.

Hours passed, and Pinky already missed the banging and exploding and sputtering of Papa’s inventions. It was just too quiet without them.

He cleaned the red feather and pretty stone, then added them to his collection. Feathers and rocks didn’t take up a lot of room, and like Mama’s cloak, they could easily be taken to new places as well. He was just very careful not to lose them.

The wagon was tucked away by the door, and the small bag of money was tucked inside a flower pot. It was how Papa always stored money, and Pinky had picked up the habit.

There wasn’t much to do. He’d cleaned the cottage several days ago, cellar notwithstanding. That was Papa’s territory, and he always had trouble finding tools when Pinky put them away.

Suppertime approached.

He could either cook dinner or go to the feast.

Didn’t matter what he chose. He would be lonely either way.

A sharp rap on the door startled him out of his thoughts. How strange. People only knocked at this time when there was an emergency.

“Sorry for taking so long. I wasn’t expecting-” Pinky opened the door, and he immediately stood face-to-face with Prince Snowball. They were so close that their noses nearly touched. “-to see you here, Snowball. Um, this is a surprise. Poit.”

Snowball’s pink eyes narrowed in annoyance, and Pinky remembered that Snowball preferred to be addressed with his full title. “Yes, it’s not often that someone of my standing chooses to grace a peasant’s home with their presence.”

Behind Snowball, there was an entourage of townsfolk. Many wore their Sunday best, which was still quite cheap compared to the royal finery that Snowball bore. A fine red coat, a decorative golden cape slung over one shoulder, and white dress pants. A shiny crown embedded with rubies and emeralds sat atop his head.

“I thought you were all at the tavern for the feast,” Pinky admitted.

Snowball laughed, but it was a joyless laugh. He stepped across the threshold without being invited in.

“Why, Pinky. Your hovel is positively primeval,” Snowball said, wrinkling his nose in disdain. He tugged Mama’s cloak off its hook, stared at it for a moment, then carelessly tossed it behind him. “If this is how you live, then it’s a truly auspicious time for me to come and offer you an opportunity out of this squalor.”

Before Pinky could ask what auspicious was, though he figured it had something to do with Austria, Snowball harshly dug his fingers into Pinky’s shoulders. Pinky tried to pry them off, but the fingers just burrowed further into the fabric of his dress.

“Not to worry, dear Pinky,” Snowball said. “Today is the day all your dreams come true.”

“You mean my dream to find a home and a porpoise? Because I don’t know if we have enough money to live by the ocean. Beachside properties get very pricey, you know,” Pinky asked.

Snowball waved off that concern. “You forget that finances are of no consequence for me. But I digress. For now, allow me to plant the image of a wonderful future in your vacant mind.”

“Okay, but I don’t know how you’re gonna water it,” Pinky said.

“Picture this,” Snowball demanded, leading Pinky around the cottage. “A magnificent castle. Two golden thrones, mine higher than the queen’s of course. A few summer homes to expand my sphere of influence. A court of other royals, lesser nobles, while the servants do all the menial work around the fires and kitchen. We’ll have...oh, six or seven.”

“Servants?” Pinky grinned nervously as Snowball leaned in with a chuckle.

“Castles, Pinky. How else would I showcase my power?” Snowball corrected. “And the townsfolk shall become our servants. It will save me the trouble of setting up a hiring process anyway. Besides, you’d appreciate having familiar faces around. Less of an adjustment period.”

Pinky freed himself from Snowball’s grip. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Snowball shrugged. “But in simplest terms, I require a queen. One who is good at smiling, waving, and entertainment.”

Wouldn’t that person become a princess rather than a queen though?

Snowball must’ve seen the question coming. He paused in front of the mirror to adjust his crown.

“There is but one title higher than a prince, Pinky,” Snowball said once he was finished. “In order to qualify for the kingship, it’s required of me to marry first. And do you know who that queen will be?”

“Elizabeth? Victoria?” Pinky wilted under Snowball’s intense stare. “Um...Cleopatra, final answer?”

Snowball shook his head. “It will be you, Pinky.”

A queen? He’d always just been the inventor’s son. An outcast no matter where he lived. How could he possibly be a queen?

“That’s a very generous offer, Snowball,” Pinky said, once he finally found his words again.

“Isn’t it, though?” Snowball said smugly. “You and your father will live in an extravagant new home as you perform your queenly duties, and I will be forever hailed as King Snowball. Both of us shall benefit.”

Maybe he and Papa could live in better conditions. Maybe they didn’t have to move around anymore. Maybe they could afford shoes for Pharfignewton. But at the same time…it wouldn’t be right.

It wouldn’t be home.

Smiling, waving, entertaining. Was that all he was good for? Was that all Snowball thought he could do?

“I thought...marriage was for love,” Pinky said softly. “That’s what Papa always said.”

Snowball rolled his eyes. “It’s a political marriage. It doesn’t have to be built on love.”

Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.

It was one of the earliest morals Pinky had learned.

Wish for a home, only for it to be a castle. Wish for a purpose, and it’s to be married without love as a foundation.

“Snowball...I’m speechless,” Pinky said, backing out the front door. He nearly tripped over the welcome mat, but regained his footing. “I...I really don’t know what to say.”

Not even a narf would help him out of this situation.

“Say that you’ll marry me, Pinky,” Snowball replied, and he stalked toward Pinky like a cunning predator, backing him against the edge of the porch. “And after you say yes, I will announce our engagement to the rest of ACME Village at the feast. Attendance is mandatory for a reason.”

“I’m really, really sorry, Snowball,” Pinky said. He’d backed up too far, and the heels of his feet dangled precariously over the edge. Instincts kicking in, Pinky grabbed Snowball’s shoulder to pull himself to safety, though he underestimated his strength. Snowball yelped as he was pulled over the edge, falling into the mud puddle by the staircase.

Oops.

“Sorry, Snowball! But I just don’t deserve you,” Pinky admitted.

The mud-covered crown slipped around Snowball’s head, covering his eyes until he took it off with an annoyed grunt.

Pinky slipped back into the house, grabbed a small towel, and handed it to one of Snowball’s men.

Claude, if he remembered right.

“He can have that one,” Pinky told Claude, who gingerly took the towel like it was a fragile item.

Snowball crawled out of the mud, his royal clothing covered in gunk and sticks. He stomped out of the mud, hands clenching against his sides.

Snowball’s brow lowered, his pink eyes hidden in humiliation and a quiet, seething fury.

Slowly, Pinky retreated into the cottage and hid behind the door. There was something about that look that terrified him. And it wasn’t the fun kind of fear, either.

“You will consider my offer, Pinky. Make no mistake about that,” Snowball spat, his scrutinizing gaze directly on Pinky, despite the door between them. “Claude, quit being daft and hand me that towel already!”

Pinky waited in the cottage until he could no longer hear their voices or footsteps. They must’ve gone back to the tavern for the feast.

He didn’t feel hungry though. Snowball’s proposal left a sour taste in his mouth, like he’d just sucked on a lemon.

“He asked me to marry him,” Pinky said to his mother’s cloak, which was still crumpled on the floor. He gently picked it up, brushed off the wrinkles, and put it on. The fabric was warm against his back, like being wrapped in a ginormous embrace. “But he doesn’t love me. Narf! You can’t have a marriage without love!”

He thought of all the married couples he knew in ACME Village. The baker couple, who were constantly at each other’s throats. Gerard the butcher was always making googly eyes at any woman who bought cuts of meat, much to his wife’s frustration. There was the stressed lady who had to drag her six kids around town while her husband played cards and darts at the tavern.

And Pinky thought of his parents. His mother had fallen in love with his father’s inventive streak when she was the daughter of a town official and Papa was just the crazy mouse whose inventions blew up a lot.

He tied the cloak tighter around himself. Unable to take the silence of the cottage and the stifling influence of the village much longer, he allowed his feet to carry him out of the cottage and to wherever they wanted to go.

He sprinted into the unknown. He wouldn’t be afraid of whatever he found there. The autumn wind blew golden, red, and brown leaves in whichever direction it wished as Pinky climbed the highest hill in the gorgeous flower-filled meadow.

The peak of the hill was his favorite spot, and he was surprised that nobody else came out here to enjoy the view with him. Trees lost their colorful leaves so they could sleep for the winter, the river splashed and babbled along its banks, and proud mountains with mysterious cloud-covered peaks rose high above the landscape.

What laid beyond villages and towns, he didn’t know.

There was something in that great wide somewhere for him. Just a feeling, an inkling, a hunch.

But could he truly go exploring it when his home was here?

Maybe he could convince Papa. Somehow. When Papa came back with the prize money, they could fit Pharfignewton with her shoes and they could all explore together!

Staring into the autumn landscape, Pinky sank to his knees, careful not to squish the daisies and dandelions around him.

Maybe that was home, but…

He didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. Would he ever figure that out?

He loved Papa, but he couldn’t really talk to him. And Slappy had her hands full with such an energetic nephew. Pinky didn’t want to impose. Everyone in the village gossiped about him, like he couldn’t understand.

But he did.

And it hurt.

“Would be nice to talk to someone. Anyone, really,” he whispered, and he blew on a cluster of dandelion puffs. His wish scattered along the wind.

Pinky picked up more dandelion puffs. If he blew more around, maybe his wish would come true. And dandelion flowers were very pretty.

Maybe they were considered weeds, but how could anyone call such a sunshine-y yellow flower a pest? He didn’t get it.

Then a distant, familiar neigh caught him off-guard.

Pinky thumped his hand against his ear. Maybe he was missing Pharfignewton so much that he heard her voice?

But he’d recognize her magnificent white coat and spirited blue eyes anywhere.

“Easy, Pharfignewton! It’s okay!” Pinky cried. He scrambled up Pharfignewton’s leg, avoided her flailing hoof, and held onto her muzzle as she bucked and reared in sheer panic. “Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay…”

Pharfignewton quieted down, her frantic neighs melting into soft, worried nickers as Pinky stroked her nose. She stopped kicking, though she was wide-eyed with fear.

Madeleine wasn’t hitched to Pharfignewton. Nor was she wasn’t the only one missing…

And Pinky suddenly understood his horse’s panic.

“Pharfignewton, where’s Papa?” Pinky asked. “Is he okay? How did you get separated? Did he try another shortcut when I told him not to do it?”

Pharfignewton’s hooves shuffled, and Pinky forced himself to take a deep breath. He was scaring her with all these questions, so he nuzzled her between the eyes in apology. Still, his heart raced with panic.

From the top of the hill, he saw thick, gray clouds rolling in from the mountains. The temperature was dropping fast.

An early winter would be upon them. They had to find Papa quickly.

“Please, Pharfignewton. We’ve gotta find him,” Pinky pleaded.

She whinnied in agreement, and galloped into the strange forest with all its dangerous, twisted branches before Pinky had a chance to settle in his usual spot at the base of her neck.

Don’t worry, Papa. I’m on my way.

End AN: Well, this is beast is complete (no pun intended).

Yeah, poor Pinky’s usual charm doesn’t really work here. Poor mouse.

Slappy is fun to write, not gonna lie. Love her cartoony antics. She’s also led quite the interesting life in this AU.

The reason Snowball didn’t show up sooner was because I wasn’t sure how to tweak the proposal scene to fit. Cause for one thing, Snowball is way smarter than Gaston, but just as arrogant to boot. So I changed Snowball’s motivation into marrying Pinky because it will help him gain a higher title than a prince. He doesn’t actually love Pinky in this AU, but he’s very annoyed at him for that stunt with the mud puddle (though it’s accidental on Pinky’s part rather than intentional like Belle’s).

The reason Snowball doesn’t go seeking a princess’s hand to gain the kingship is cause he tried that already. It was Billie of a nearby kingdom. It didn’t go well.

Also yes the village is named ACME Village because I’m lazy and can’t come up with anything better.

#pinky and the brain #patb snowball #beauty and the beast au #patb fanfiction

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sirsparklepants · 4 years

Text

Geralt walked into the bar just in time to watch his client take a half full solo cup to the face. Lucky for him, this wasn't a security gig, so he didn't have to do anything but settle in the corner by the stage.

The whole crowd booed as the client sputtered, moving his guitar away from himself as the drink cascaded down his face. "Well!" the man said. "Glad I could bring you all together like this!"

A Smirnoff Ice bottle flew at the stage this time, and the man caught it, shoving it into the front pocket of his skinny jeans. "Guess my set is over," he muttered, and scanned the crowd.

Geralt moved from where he was slumped against the wall, letting his white hair catch the dim light from the bar. His client brightened a little as he saw him.

"Geralt, right?" he asked. Geralt didn't answer - they'd already exchanged names and photos, though he'd forgotten the client's name already. Good thing he didn't try, though, because the other man was off and running.

"I'm so glad you're here early! I certainly didn't expect this kind of reception. People seem to like my recordings just fine, so perhaps it's my stage presence. What did you think, Geralt, is it my stage presence? Am I threatening to the heterosexual men of the world? Come on, you can tell me. Three words or less."

Geralt grunted. "Wouldn't know," he said. When Jaskier tilted his head, he added, "Just got here. Let's get your shit before someone takes it."

"Ah, yes, an excellent suggestion," the client said. He led Geralt back to the stage - unnecessarily, as it was barely five steps away - and began to pack up his more delicate equipment. This close, Geralt could smell the distinct tang of Natty Light in his hair, and wrinkled his nose.

"Did you park by the side door or the main?" the client asked, when everything was ready to go.

"Side," Geralt said. "Want to stay here with the rest of it so no one takes off with it before I come back?" he asked, nodding at the other half of the music equipment.

"Oh, no need!" the client said, hefting up the heavy speaker Geralt was sure he'd be schlepping. "I do most of my own fetching and carrying. I can't get it all, but I can certainly get it out to your car. That's the thing I'm missing, really."

Geralt grunted and started for the side door instead of talking.

He'd pulled out his tarp and ratchet straps when he'd gotten the client's email, so once they'd settled the speakers and other things in, he wrapped them up and tied them down. They didn't take up too much room in the bed of his old Ford Ranger, but it was enough he was glad to have moved his things to behind his seat. When he finished, he saw the client standing awkwardly by the passenger door, and he wondered if he'd forgotten to unlock the door before he went into the dive bar the client had been performing in.

"Sorry, it's just - do you want me to go back in and ask for a towel or something?" the client asked, gesturing at his wet face and hair. "It's a bit sticky, and I don't think your seats would get the same benefit from a beer rinse as my hair."

Geralt shrugged. "She's seen worse," he said. "Get in."

Normally, with clients, he fished a tape out of the shoebox he kept shoved under the seat. The musicians tended to sing along, though, so he pushed the fake tape that let him play from his phone into the tape deck and let the Coast to Coast AM rerun he'd been listening to on the way over keep playing.

The client seemed to enjoy it, only speaking up to give directions. He lived on the third floor of a run-down but not terrible apartment building, the kind that Geralt's brothers usually lived in when he saw them. The elevator was busted, so they had to haul everything up the stairs. Geralt was distinctly grateful this client did some of the work for himself.

When they had settled everything in the client's bedroom, Geralt turned to him. "Hundred orens, like you told me," he said.

The client bit his lip. "Well, you see, Geralt, my dear," he said, "I don't actually have a hundred orens." His hand settled on Geralt's arm, stroking up and down. Geralt suppressed the urge to flinch. "I was hoping we could settle up with an... alternative method of payment."

"I don't take bitcoin," Geralt said immediately. He'd had enough bad experiences with that.

The client laughed. "No, darling, I wouldn't do that to you! I'm suggesting something else entirely. My roommates are out for the night, after all. I put clean sheets on the bed. And I've been told I'm quite talented."

Geralt considered it for a moment. His client was pretty, with big blue eyes, long legs, and strong hands. He'd get a night of sleep in a real bed, instead of in the bed of his truck, out of it, and a shower, too. But the gas gage was nearly at empty, and there was shit for work in this town. He needed gas to move on.

"We exchanged emails, that's a written contract," he said instead. "If you can't come up with the money, you're in breach of it." He was bullshitting and he knew it, but hopefully the client didn't.

The other man's face fell. "I really don't have the money," he said. "Didn't even get paid tonight."

Geralt scowled and bared his teeth at him. "Lot of expensive equipment in here for someone who doesn't have the money," he said.

"Brought it with me when I left home, was all!" the client said, a little nervous. "Wait, wait, okay, I have an idea how we can get the money, alright?"

"An idea?" Geralt asked.

"Yes, an idea," the client said. "There's this commune on the edge of town, no one has ever been inside, but they say they're hiding from the government so they don't have to pay taxes on the big country mansions inside. We can sneak in and steal something from them! Be our own Robin Hoods, right? You can stay with me to make sure I don't run off on you, and if that doesn't work, you can come to the pawn shop with me tomorrow. I'll sell.... one of my amps to get the money I owe you, alright?"

It was a harebrained scheme, but at least the client had a backup plan. And in the likely case he chickened out, Geralt could still demand to sleep in his bed. "Alright," he said. "Let's go."

#gig economy au #my fic #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier

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matrixaffiliate · 4 years

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Bourne

Chapter Update! FFN and AO3

Chapter 18

Harry sat with his father as they went over the finances of the estate with the steward, but his attention was far from the books. It was drawn to a woman with captivating red hair and bright eyes.

"Harry, son, please pay attention." His dad's voice intruded on his daydreams of Miss Weasley.

"Sorry, I suppose I'm distracted today."

"Yes, she's a beautiful girl, you should speak to Mr. Weasley about her, now let's get back to this." Harry's father laughed at him but stabbed at the books with his finger as if to signal it was time for business and not pretty girls.

"Father," Harry shook his head, "Why must you tease me in this way?"

James frowned. "I wasn't quizzing you. You and Miss Weasley would get along well, I think. And her father is here for another five days. Ask her to marry you and then we'll work everything out with Mr. Weasley before he returns to Ottery."

"I suppose you'd suggest I marry her before her parents leave as well," Harry huffed.

"Not at all, I don't think it would be worth the money to make it happen, nor the stain to her character." James looked at the expense books. "But I do think you should discuss this matter with her more than myself. At present these figures demand our attention."

Harry nodded and forced his mind to focus on the task at hand. But his dad's words made it more difficult than it had been before the conversation. His initial response to his father's advice was to scoff. Proposing marriage after having known her for less than a fortnight and having had two lovely evenings together seemed absurd. But there was practicality in the idea. He would avoid the journey to Ottery for one. And it would allow her parents to celebrate with their daughter in her engagement. If he waited until they'd returned home, and Miss Weasley was living with her brother, they'd miss the opportunity to be a part of the initial experience.

Harry mulled the idea over in his mind throughout the day until Miss Weasley returned from the Grangers. When he saw her, he determined that perhaps the best way to solve this dilemma would be to involve the lady herself.

"Miss Weasley, a quick word if you wouldn't mind?"

She paused at the stairs and nodded as her mother stopped to wait. Miss Weasley walked to him and Harry resisted the urge to reach out and touch her.

"I was hoping to ask your opinion on a matter." He spoke quietly, hoping to not alert her mother to what he was attempting to do. "If a gentleman were to propose marriage to a lady of your caliber, would you think she would prefer to have her parents nearby so they might celebrate such a happy occasion with her?"

Miss Weasley's eyes grew to the size of saucers. "I, I would think that, that she would see the value of having her parents nearby. And perhaps also she would see the value in an engagement of a length of time long enough to adjust to her new environment."

Harry smiled, "Of course, and certainly, she would want to enjoy an opportunity to grow closer to her new sister."

"Yes," Miss Weasley's smile finally found her lips and Harry managed to breathe a sigh of relief.

"I won't keep you any longer, thank you for your advice. I shall apply it in good faith of your expertise." He bowed to her and smiled at her curtsey, watching as she moved up the stairs. She turned to smile at him at the top of the staircase before turning down the corridor and out of sight.

The time between their conversation by the stairs and when dinner had finally finished and their group had retired to the drawing room seemed to go on for decades, especially because Ron was with the Grangers for dinner, and so when Miss Weasley was engaged in conversation with the ladies or playing the pianoforte, he had to either involve himself in the conversation with his father and hers or read. But after this display of saintly patience, Harry finally found himself in a position to take his father's advice.

"Mr. Weasley," Harry came to stand next to him at the pianoforte as Miss Weasley finished the piece she had chosen to play. "I wonder if you would be so kind as to allow me a private moment with your daughter?"

The older man's face was momentarily taken aback before a large smile found his face. He extended his hand and took Harry's in his.

"I can think of no reason why not."

Miss Weasley looked up at Harry as he held out his hand and her smile was very nearly as grand as he'd seen it since making her acquaintance.

"Will you accompany me, Miss Weasley?"

She bit her lip and nodded, taking his hand. "Yes, Mr. Potter."

Harry tried to ignore the way the room had gone silent and simply led Miss Weasley from it, noting with some satisfaction that not a soul followed.

He walked them to one of the smaller sitting rooms on the floor and shut the door behind them. The closing of the door made his palms sweat and he suddenly felt a great deal of remorse for how he had teased Ron about proposing. But this beautiful lady was looking up at him with a smile that seemed to echo his own levels of excitement and nervousness, and Harry managed to pull some strength from it.

"Miss Weasley," he took both her hands in his. "I know that our time together has been short, and I have no intentions of rushing the date. But I must tell you that from the moment I saw you I felt you were the only real woman on the face of the Earth. You've enraptured me and I am left with nothing more than the desire to be by your side continually. In these few short days together, I believe I have come to love you, and I ask you to choose me, to spend every day with me, to be my companion, to be my wife." He lowered himself to one knee. "Miss Weasley, will you marry me?"

Her smile grew and she nodded as a small laugh escaped her lips. "Yes. Yes, Mr. Potter, a thousand times yes!" She laughed again and Harry let himself laugh with her before openly bringing her hands to his lips and kissing them.

"Shall we tell my parents the happy news?" She laughed again as he kissed her fingers.

"Yes," he stood, "though may I make one small request of you before we rejoin their company?"

She laughed again, "Already making demands of your betrothed? Why Mr. Potter, what does that say to the future of our marriage?"

"That perhaps you've agreed too quickly to my proposal, but do not fear, it's a small request, and one I do not believe you will find taxing."

"Out with it then."

Harry brought her hand up to kiss along her fingers as he spoke.

"Mr. Potter is a fine name, one I've carried proudly for some time now. But I would take it as the highest compliment if you would call me by my Christian name when it suits you. After all, there are several Mr. Potter's, but I would like to think I am the only one you'll call so closely."

"I think I could find space to call you Harry." Miss Weasley pulled their hands away from his lips to bring them to hers. "If you could find space to call me by my Christian name."

Harry wondered if a man had ever died from the effort to draw air while a lady was looking at him. He felt he very possibly could be the first.

"It would be my honor to do so, Ginevra."

"Harry," she stepped closer, "Ginevra is the name my mother uses when we're in the company of others. I much prefer Ginny."

"Ginny," Her name felt like honey on his lips. "I will happily call you such."

She kissed his hands once more, and then let him lead her from the room and back to their parents.

#Bourne #harry x ginny #regency au #regency england au #harry potter x ginny weasley #harry potter #ginny weasley #hinny #hinny fluff #references to jane austen #romance #period romance #fluff #muggle au #harry potter au #harry potter fanfiction

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angryhausfrau-writes · 3 years

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I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 13 - In Which Charles Vane Wanders Towards Domesticity Via Bareknuckle Boxing And Jack Feels Feelings

Charles has been... not ignoring Jack – he's never cold or brusque – brusquer than usual, anyway. But he is giving Jack space that he's never really given him before. Space that they've never really had, living in doorless squalid squats always in arms reach of each other and often closer. But it's fairly easy to stay out of each other's way in a house this big.

And Jack has been exerting plenty of effort to stay out of Charles's way. Unfortunately, Charles has noticed – how could he not, when Jack routinely followed him like a particularly persistent shadow. And damn Anne for pointing that fact out, for now Jack can't help but acknowledge the truth of his long infatuation – there, that's a good word for it – infatuation, not crush, no matter what Anne says.

Anyway, Jack's is pretty sure Charles thinks he's is mad at him when in fact the problem is that entirely the opposite is true – Jack is lovestruck and giddy in Charles's mere presence. Practically doodling little hearts with his and Charles's names written inside them in pink glitter gel pen like it's still the nineties and he's just discovered the magic of perfectly coiffed boy bands. Which Chaz would tease Jack mercilessly about if he ever found out – tease him for both his teenage taste in music and for his feelings for Charles.

So Jack has continued to cloister himself in his workroom with Christine to work on his next fashion show. An activity that isn't quite as much of a safe harbor after the conversation Anne had with her. Something about managing Jack when he gets in a “mood” - as if Jack has moods! And if he does, as a rich eccentric creative genius type person, he's more than entitled to whatever moods he cares to have. So there!

Charles has been out of the house more often than not over the past few weeks. Partly because Jack's been holed up with Christine, putting together another fashion show. And every time Charles has tried to butt in – to remind Jack to eat something, damn it, or to just take a break – he's been very summarily excused by Jack. And ok fine Jack's in a tizzy, what else is new? But it's not like he really wants to be around for that shit.

And. And. And he's got that itch under his skin that means he needs either a fight or a fuck.

Fucking's off the table, cuz he's Jack's pretend boyfriend and they're supposed to be monogamous. Not that he couldn't find someone reasonably discrete and reasonably removed from the world they're moving in now. The world of rich marks who think a night of slumming it means going to clubs that only have twenty pound cocktails on the menu rather than fifty. So he could find someone who'd never have a chance of encountering one of the rick fucks who'd know him as Jack's boy toy and not as a scourge of the streets.

Hell, he could go find a lower class prostitute who doesn't give half a fuck about anything about him other than that he's got cash to pay for their services. Christine may even have been amenable before Jack had driven her crazy with all his ridiculous demands. But he had and now she flees the house at the end of every day, desperate to be away from his shit. Or maybe she's got something to rush too, rather than away from – Charles doesn't know or really care to. Regardless, that's that plan scuppered.

Of course, there's always other fish in the sea. Or corner boys and girls looking for a John. Christine is just the most available. But there's another reason he doesn't go seek someone else out – another prostitute or even just someone looking for a casual fuck after a long day of being a boring corporate drone.

It's because Charles knows now, after months of collecting information and blackmail on various rich shitstains, just how far some of them are willing to go to see their enemies brought low. Hell, Flint's boyfriend – or husband or whatever their actual relationship is with one another – Thomas Hamilton's own father had him exiled. Left him homeless and destitute and unacknowledged simply because his relationship with Flint might someday be a liability to his business.

All the so-called civilized motherfuckers are so ready to toss aside anyone they think of as lesser and then climb the pile of corpses to even more wealth and power. And Charles refuses to hand any one of those sorry fucks any leverage against him or Jack or any one of their crew. Refuses to see their plans, everything they've worked for, thrown away for a quick fuck.

So Charles keeps himself company. And starts looking for a fight.

He's not so far separated from his days on the streets that he doesn't still remember how to find the underground bare knuckle boxing ring that floats through London's abandoned warehouses and highrises. The place where all the flotsam and jetsam of the criminal underbelly congregate to see a little blood spilt. Or to spill it.

And Charles is not so far separated from his days on the streets that the guy watching the door – some big hulking bearded fucker who dwarfs Charles – doesn't gape and stare but still let him in. In to the derelict parking garage that was meant to serve a set of luxury condominiums that were never built and so the land remained solely as a tax dodge for an absentee landlord to launder his actual business's shady money through.

Charles descends into the dank depths of the service corridors underneath the garage. And he stands face to face with a ghost.

Some fucking idiot, with more money than taste – not that Charles himself is a paragon of that, but some of Jack's obsessive rants about good design sense had to have rubbed off on him – some stupid fuck has installed a huge black door, mirror shiny, at the entrance to the illegal fighting ring. And it reflects his face from endless murky depths.

He looks like a dead man.

He looks like he did before. Before prison and before Jack taking over the crew and before Max and before playing pretend. Before dressing like a rich fuck almost too stupid and self obsessed to notice anything beyond his own reflection in the mirror.

He looks strong. He looks casually cruel – looks like a man whose only goal is to gather strength about himself and to crush out weakness. He looks ready to spill blood and have his own spilled.

Charles pushes open the stupid, ugly, ostentatious door.

His reflection may not look changed, but everyone there, all the hard fuckers, all the street trash, they know what happened to him. They know where he's been and what – who – he's been doing. So he gets a lot of shit on first walking in, shit for being a poof and a dandy. For moving out of the streets and into a house – a big posh house and not a crumbling council estate. But mostly he takes shit for him and Jack being bum buddies.

Cuz news like that's always going to travel right down to the lightless, scummy depths of the lowest places in London. Especially when it's about someone like him. Someone strong, since they see that as a weakness. Someone masculine, since they see that as inherently emasculating.

No one had been surprised about Jack swinging both ways, for instance. He looks like a poof and acts like a poof, no big mystery there. And him so unapologetically larger than life like he is, it's not like he kept it quiet. Although the street's acceptance of him might have had something to do with Anne always lurking at his shoulder, ready to slit an adversary's throat before they even knew it had been cut. And with Charles too backing Jack when he'd been in charge of the crew, making it known that if anyone fucked with him they'd have Charles Vane to deal with.

Charles himself, though. That is a surprise. One that ripples around the ring of fighters like the wave that pulls back before a tsunami is unleashed.

Charles steps into the center of the ring. A dare. A challenge.

And once he's knocked a few dozen heads together, knocks a few dozen teeth in. Once he's standing bloody and bruised but unbowed, with his vanquished enemies at his feet. Well, they all leave it alone after that.

Cuz he's still Charles fucking Vane.

And he feels that more clearly here than in the posh streets of Camden or the West End they now frequent. Feels it in the brutality of the fight for his place here, his life. Feels it in the friendlier sparring that replaces it once he's proved he's worthy to stand among them – sparring no less brutal than his earlier fights, but much more full of camaraderie and less full of a genuine desire to kill one another. And it's nice to feel like his old self, to know he's still him even after everything that's changed.

But that doesn't mean it's not nice to go home at the end of the night, bruised and bloody and with his blood finally cooled and settled under his skin. Nice to emerge from the dank underground into the grey miserable filthy dawn of London streets and know he's got a home to go to.

Jack... Well, he's not waiting up for Charles, because that would imply that he's anxious about where he's gone. And Charles is a grown man, more than capable of going wherever he'd like at whatever hour he'd like.

But he may admit to waking up a bit earlier than usual and, when he passes by Charles's room and finds his bed empty and unslept in, drinking his morning coffee in the sitting room that faces the street so that he can see Charles first thing when he arrives.

Not to be a nag or a mother hen or anything. But simply because he finds he's rather missed having Charles around – barging into his space and interrupting his work and generally making a nuisance of himself. And it's Jack's own fault Charles has started going out more. It's Jack who's been driving him away. But Jack misses him.

And Jack's going to nut up and tell Charles he's missed him. Because he doesn't want to keep going on this way. And his feelings aren't Charles's problem and Jack never should have made them be.

So he's going to fix this, he is...

And then he sees Charles coming up the street. At first, Jack thinks he's just drunk – or fucked up. He's moving a little strangely, like his legs won't quite carry him in a straight line. But as Charles gets closer, Jack can see that he's dead sober – and that he's been beaten to a pulp. His hair is stuck to his face with blood from the cut on his forehead and he's got one hell of a bruise blooming on his cheek and his knuckles are split all to hell.

He looks wrecked. He looks almost as bad as he had after he'd killed Albinus.

Jack runs out to him, where he's standing looking lost and alone out on the pavement.

Charles smiles at Jack as he approaches - Jack who must make a ridiculous figure, rushing outside in nothing but a silk robe and fuzzy slippers - and his teeth are stained red with blood and the smile is really more of a baring of teeth.

“Chaz.” And there Jack stops, because he's really not certain how to go on.

“Jack.” And Charles's voice is steady, even if his footsteps aren't.

Jack places an arm under Charles's and helps him towards the house, towards the hanging open front door and the warmth and safety beyond. “Charles, what the fuck happened?”

Charles slumps against the hallway wall while Jack turns to close the door. “Got in a fight.” And he's grinning up at Jack, looking absolutely fucking unrepentant.

Jack throws his hands up in exasperation. “Really Chaz? You got in a fight? I never would have guessed.”

Charles's grin just gets even more smug.

“Who, pray tell, were you fighting? And why?”

Charles moves further into the house, to the hallway bathroom, where he starts dabbing at his cuts with a delicate hand towel. And yeah, that stain's probably never coming out. But it wasn't his decision to buy white towels, Jack. “Just some street toughs. And as for why...” He shrugs. “Sometimes a man just wants a fight. You know how it is.”

Jack certainly does not know how it is. He's always had the philosophy that fights are to be avoided at all costs – he would never seek out a, a recreational skirmish.

And Charles seems to realize that, because he turns away from Jack and begins dabbing in earnest at the cut on his forehead with a now dampened – and frighteningly bloody - hand towel.

Jack purses his lips but squeezes into the bathroom alongside him. “Here, Charles. You'd better let me do that.”

#black sails #charles vane/jack rackham #anne bonny/max #i travel troubled oceans #chapter 13

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statistical-improbabilities · 4 years

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OCtober Day 2: Mercy

Thanks again to @oc-growth-and-development!

Ulla Teru is a siren with the power to conjure illusions to trick the five senses, but great power comes with a great price, and for Ulla this takes the form of headaches and hallucinations. She’s just recently taken over the siren kingdom and has made some interesting reforms as queen. She’s a charismatic leader, but a villain in the end, and well into an insanity arc that’s been pretty fun to write.

CW: emotional abuse, physical abuse (implied), hallucinations, fictional politics

Being a queen of a kingdom was a deceptively simple thing. It was being a queen of the people, Ulla had found, that was a challenge.

In an effort to convey her dedication to Kraseux to her citizens, one of her first measures enacted upon taking the throne was to hold open sessions for petitioners to come to the palace and air their grievances with the kingdom. The previous king had been absent frequently, and grossly out of touch with the people he dared call his, when in actuality, he had no clue what his subjects thought or demanded of him as a ruler.

Ulla would not rule like him. She would open her doors to her subjects, greet them from her throne with decorum and a charismatic smile as they knelt before her and poured out their hearts in hopes of some small mercy. And she would listen. She would promise nothing else, but she would listen, and often the illusion of a compassionate ear was enough, and they would go on their way feeling satisfied, approving of her methods and policy with unwavering loyalty. It was rather exhausting, but necessary.

The latest batch of petitioners were much like those from the day before, and every day before that: miserable, desperate, and forgettable. Each face blended into the next, an endless stream of flashing scales and tear-filled eyes as they begged for an extension on a loan payment, or an exemption from military service, or whatever else it was. Ulla listened attentively to each one, and had her attendants take note when it seemed appropriate. If she was feeling particularly generous, she might review the notes later that night before discarding them, but she wasn’t feeling generous often.

She called forward a Renegade who stood at the front of the line, noting the way he glanced back at the guards at the entrance to her throne room before kneeling. He looked as if he’d been turned shortly before becoming a grandfather, yet he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Ulla’s smile curled just a bit wider at that. She knew she looked young for a queen, even younger for a siren, but she commanded respect all the same. The illusion of maturity she wove over her true features only amplified it.

She let the silence hang in the air between them for a moment, then spoke in a soft tone, each word rippling with a smoothness like refined silk. “Rise, and state your business.”

The Renegade swallowed nervously, but drew himself up from his position. “Your Majesty, I’ve come to request compensation for an injury received while serving the kingdom. My superiors… they promised to file the request, but that was six months ago, and escalating the issue has done no good.”

Ulla raised a brow. “May I inquire as to the specifics of this… injury?” she questioned, leaning forward ever so slightly.

“The alignment in my tail is damaged,” he confessed, and indeed, Ulla could see where one fin lagged behind the other, even as he held himself in place. “I was hit by debris from the sinking of a human ship.”

A tense quiet persisted between them for a few moments, and Ulla tapped one finger against her chin in thought, flicking her own tail lazily. “Marianne,” she said, beckoning one of her attendants over, “please escort this gentleman to the proper offices in the military division to file his request and have it sent off.” The attendant hurried over and took the Renegade by the elbow, and Ulla’s demure smile briefly reappeared when he flinched. He was escorted away quickly, and she motioned for her scribe to record the details of their interaction before calling the next petitioner.

“Next.”

The black scales of a Deceptor came into view, and Ulla inclined her head ever so briefly as the woman knelt. She looked older than the Renegade before her, but no less respectful. The majority of Ulla’s own divining had been supportive of her reign since she was merely the Deceptor monarch, and they had reaped the rewards once she’d become queen. The days of Deceptors being reviled for their illusionary powers were soon coming to a close, and she was doing what she could to uplift their status as the superior divining of sirens. No longer would they be second-class citizens—not in Ulla’s Kraseux. “Rise,” she said.

“Your Majesty, I—I’ve noticed that more people in the capital are wearing Veritium jewelry,” the Deceptor woman began haltingly. Ulla sat up a little straighter, and conceded a small nod.

“Yes, I’ve noticed the same.” The cursed metal had fallen back into vogue when she’d assumed the role of queen, though Adonis had long since been a proponent of its illusion-breaking abilities. Not only did it stifle any Deceptor’s power who was too near to withstand it, it also bestowed adverse side effects that took any number of forms, depending on length and intensity of exposure. Ulla’s head began to ache just at the thought of it, even though her Deceptor guards strictly enforced her new policy forbidding the wearing of Veritium to these meetings.

The woman nodded vigorously. “I’ve heard tell that you plan on introducing legislation restricting the sale of Veritium in the capital. I came to request that you extend the boundary of that legislation to include the outskirts of the kingdom and the nearest colony as well. Some of my close friends find it hard to leave their homes without becoming ill. It’s harmful to our livelihoods. We can’t keep living like this, Your Majesty.”

“No,” Ulla mused, “you certainly can’t. Did you get that?” Her scribe paused to give her a short nod, then returned to writing frantically. Ulla smiled, watching the tension ease from the woman’s face as she received a tentative smile in return. “I’ll take that into consideration. You are dismissed.”

That woman’s obvious relief was quickly replaced as the next petitioner entered, an Auxilia man who appeared close to tears as he all but collapsed before her throne. Ulla’s smile vanished. “State your business.”

“Please, Your Majesty,” he begged, glancing fearfully at the guards, then back up to Ulla. He seemed quite intimidated. “The—the property taxes that you raised—I’ve been late on my rent for three months. If I can’t pay this time, I’ll get evicted—”

She held up one hand, and he fell silent. “Those taxes are necessary for repairing the infrastructure of our kingdom,” she said, exceedingly careful to keep her tone diplomatic and measured. “On the west end of the kingdom, correct? Your taxes have been raised to allow for maintenance of transportation currents in your area. Surely you knew this when you signed the contract for your lease?”

“I—I did, but… Your Majesty. It’s not just me. Other Auxilia in the area are struggling too, and—and Harmonia… we don’t need maintenance on transportation currents, we need to be able to live in our homes. I can’t make enough money to get by, there’s no jobs anywhere nearby because I don’t have the right qualifications. Please, Your Majesty—have mercy, or we’ll all be out on the streets, please have mercy…”

Ulla watched impassively as the Auxilia man worked in vain to conceal his desperation, his distress that was bringing him closer and closer to tears. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet the eyes of a guard, and inclined her head, motioning them over. To the man, she murmured, “Your concerns are not unwarranted, but rest assured, I and my fellow monarchs will find a solution for not just a few Auxilia, but the betterment of the entire kingdom. Now, if you would kindly compose yourself, I’ll have you escorted out.” She left no room for argument. It would do her public image no good for him to dissolve into a sobbing mess in her throne room.

Who was he to demand mercy from his queen?

She’d only heard a few more petitioners before closing requests for the afternoon, instructing her attendants to say that she had a great deal of work to attend to if anyone asked. They would assume that she’d taken many sirens’ requests to heart and was already beginning to process them, and she would allow them to think that for as long as they desired.

Ulla held no trust in her attendants. Only enough to know they would convey the message she told them to, nothing more, which was why she told no one the reason she’d retired to her rooms after the sessions was that a pounding headache was beginning to return. They were becoming easier to stave off now that Veritium was forbidden from most instances where it might come in close contact with her, but it was never completely avoidable. Adonis had always been paranoid, and some of the petitioners had worn scale implants that could not be removed for a short meeting. If her hallucinations were to arrive, Ulla wanted them to stay private.

The kingdom would never approve of a queen gone insane, no matter how much expertise she had taken in weaving her mask.

When Ulla reached her chambers, she locked the door behind her so no attendants could trail in her wake, then removed the crown that had sat upon her head and set it aside. There were no mirrors in her rooms, as there never had been. Her illusions could trick a mirror, but if the hallucinations so commanded it, the illusions could fall just as easily.

She drifted over to a window and clasped her hands behind her back. The Auxilia man was not yet out of sight, swimming far slower than the sirens around him due to his lack of a true tail. After a moment, she turned away from the window, but she could still hear his voice in the back of her mind, growing louder and more desperate until it filled the room.

“Please, have mercy… have mercy, or we’ll all be out on the streets… please have mercy…”

At some point, his voice had become her own. She wasn’t sure when.

Her father stood over her, the room distorted and rippling around them. Mercy, Ulla? he murmured, saccharine and dangerous, and she shrank away. Her tail was made of lead with the iridescent glint of Veritium, and it pulled her to the ground.

“No, please… I didn’t mean to, Father,” she whispered as her leaden tail gave way to leaden legs, short and spindly and unable to support the weight of her pleas. “I don’t—I don’t know what I did…”

Why, you’ve killed that man, the hallucination said with a wicked, sharp-toothed grin, and Ulla shook her head violently.

“I didn’t, it’s not my fault!”

Oh, but it is, her father said. You’ve killed that man as sure as you’ve killed your own mother. She’d be disgusted if she saw you like this—but she can’t, because she’s not alive to see it. The hallucination stepped closer, and Ulla shrank away again. It was no use crying for her mother—she never came when her father did. She’d died minutes after Ulla was born. Ulla’s mind could only conjure the dead she had known, because to be known was to never truly die.

Do you really wish to test me, Ulla? You look like your mother did at that age, you know. It would be a shame if you were to force me to change that.

“No, please,” she begged, loathing every word that fell from her tongue and yet being powerless to stop them. “Have mercy, please have mercy…”

The hallucination raised its ghostly hand, and the fingers elongated into jagged talons. Shadows around the edge of the room pressed in closer, piling heavy onto her chest and wrapping around her legs and arms and mouth. Her father brought his talons down. Ulla closed her eyes and screamed.

When Ulla opened her eyes, she was the only one in the room. The side of her face stung, but when she raised a shaking finger to probe for injury, nothing was there. A stream of bubbles rose up towards the ceiling, but no figures stood looming over her where she lay crumpled on her side on the floor.

Slowly, she sat up. The pain was an illusion, and it would go away when she regained control. She’d lost control for far too long that time. Her hallucinogenic episodes were lasting longer and becoming more frequent, but nobody had witnessed it. No one had been around when she’d lost control of her mind and her powers, and it would stay that way.

The streetlamps outside her window were beginning to glow, betraying the time that had passed. They’d be expecting her for a state dinner soon. Carefully, Ulla began to weave her illusions over her face once more, and only when the painstaking process was finished did she allow herself to breathe.

No one knew what happened when Ulla’s illusions fell.

A queen did not beg for mercy.

No one would ever know.

#oc-tober #my writing #original character #my ocs #ulla teru #sirens #tw abuse

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forsetti · 5 years

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On The Myth of American Individualism

In light of people completely, and sometimes arrogantly, defying public health recommendations to address a pandemic in the name of “Freedom” and “American Individualism, I thought I'd repost this article I wrote in 2012.

Recently, New York Times resident hack pundit, David Brooks, wrote an article arguing that Republicans are the party that “celebrates work and inflames enterprise”. The GOP come from a long lineage of hard working, God fearing individualists that can be traced back through American history from Mitt Romney to the first Pilgrim who stood, buckled shoed, atop Plymouth Rock. Here are his opening two paragraphs: “The American colonies were first settled by Protestant dissenters. These were people who refused to submit to the established religious authorities. They sought personal relationships with God. They moved to the frontier when life got too confining. They created an American creed, built, as the sociologist Seymour Martin Lipset put it, around liberty, individualism, equal opportunity, populism and laissez-faire.

This creed shaped America and evolved with the decades. Starting in the mid-20th century, there was a Southern and Western version of it, formed by ranching Republicans like Barry Goldwater, Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush. Their version drew on the traditional tenets: ordinary people are capable of greatness; individuals have the power to shape their destinies; they should be given maximum freedom to do so.”

For Brooks, America was built by hard working people who cowered from a smiting God, lived like Ted Kaczynski , didn’t accept handouts and loved the soft reach around from the Invisible Hand. From this great tradition sprouted great men who were the salt of the earth, ordinary men who lived off the fruits of the sweat of their brow. People like Mitt Romney and George W. Bush, two men who grew up in luxury, went to topflight prep schools and colleges, were able to walk into business with a long list of powerful, influential people already in their contact lists and didn’t fuck up and when they did, had other doors and opportunities open for them because of who they are and who they knew. I highly doubt that John Q. Colonialist could get a government bailout to safe his business (Romney) or have one failed business after another yet have people willing to throw money and opportunities at you over and over again (Bush).

On the claim that Republicans are the party of work and this tradition has been passed down from John Smith and Patrick Henry to Laura Ingalls Wilder and Belle Starr, I call “Bullshit!” This country was discovered, settled, expanded, progressed and rose to the world’s greatest economic power because of the community, not the individual. This love affair and worship of individualism in America is not based on its history or facts. It is a complete myth. A myth that has become a fundamental underlying principle of today’s Republican Party. A myth, that Jim Jones-like devotion to has resulted in horrible, often progress stifling, policies. It is an even more deeply rooted myth in conservative lore than Ronald Reagan being a tax cutting, small government, hard line hawk.

The first wave of immigrants that came to America came for economic, not religious reasons and they didn’t migrate to our shores to frolic in the Fountain of Laissez-Faire. They were employees, mostly indentured servants, of major trading companies who sent them here to harvest resources like timber and furs. They were “company men”, not individuals who were looking to forge a new life by braving the elements or testing their mettle. The manner in which they worked and lived was communal.

The next wave of people coming to America was the religious immigrants. For Brooks, this meant the hardworking, God fearing Protestants who sired America’s work ethic, loved the eight pound, six ounce baby Jesus and who planted the love and respect of individualism into the country’s psyche where it grew and flourished for three hundred plus years and can now be seen in the standard bearers for the Republican Party. Unfortunately, “There goes another wonderful theory about to be brutally murdered by a gang of facts.” (author unknown).

There certainly were groups of very devoutly religious people who came to America during this time. However, what Brooks conveniently omits are the multitude of the other groups that also made their way across the Atlantic to avoid the religious persecutions and heavy handed dogma in Europe. Atheists, Deists, Agnostics, etc., left Europe for the New World because of the religious environment in Europe. Being part of the religious wave didn’t mean you were religious, it meant you left because of religion. There were just as many, if not more, non-religious, non-fundamentalist immigrants to America during this period than the “Forebears of Freedom and Republican/American Greatness” as Brooks would have it. This group played as much a role in America’s formation as a country and culture, if not more, than the Puritans or Quakers. Some of the non-religious people who played a bit part in the formation of America include: Thomas Paine, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Benjamin Franklin, Adam Smith…

The fundamentally religious in early American history was not the dominant group and it was not individualists. They in fact were the opposite. They were communal socialists. In order to afford ship passage to America they often pooled their money together to ensure they could travel as a group. They formed settlements where they helped build each other’s homes, businesses and defenses. They had community storages and would mete out food and other resources as necessary. They didn’t cut off someone who was sick. Instead they would get together and, as a group, figure out the best way to address this or any other problem. What they didn’t do is as they were ascending the gangplank of the Mayflower wave to each other and say “Good luck! Maybe I’ll see you around.” They stayed together, worked together and helped each other. They didn’t abandon the sick and weak or withhold food or shelter. If you want to see the modern day version and descendants of the early religious settlers to America, visit the Amish community in Ontario Ohio or Lancaster Pennsylvania. The Amish, Mennonites and similar groups have been the ones to continue the traditions of the early settlers. One word that is never used in describing these groups or their members is ‘individualism’.

Not to mention that there were a lot of other settlers in the early America who were not the Protestant, white New Englanders yet had just as much impact on society and culture then and now. The Spain heavily influenced Florida, California and the American Southwest. France’s influence was felt all along the Mississippi River and Great Lakes areas. To ignore or deny these groups’ impact on American culture in favor of a tiny sliver of white, New England Protestants, is intellectually dishonest. Brooks takes a sliver of early America, ascribes general characteristics to it that were not true and then claims these traits are what made this country great.

Let’s fast forward a dozen score years or so to the early 1800’s and visit another group of people touted as the champions of The American Spirit of Individualism-The Pioneers. You know the salt of the earth, lovers of capitalism and all things holy, the people who settled the West and spread the seeds of rugged individualism like they were John Holmes at Burning Man. According to people like Brooks, the Pioneers were the hardworking, Bible toting, individualist progeny of John Smith, William Bradford and Adam Smith. Again I call “Bullshit!” Hardworking? Absolutely. It was pretty difficult to not have to work hard to survive during this time unless you were filthy rich. The technology at the time was better than it was in colonial times but it still wasn’t good enough to diminish the day-to-day demands of life in the 1800’s. Individualists? Hell no! I don’t even know where this idea came from. Even the most cursory look at this era shows quite the contrary.

Remember the stories and pictures of the Pioneers moving across the Great Plains along the Oregon Trail? Did they make this trek one wagon at a time, as individuals? No. There is a reason they were called wagon trains because they moved as groups. When they arrived at their intended destinations did they head off in different directions and go all Jeremiah Johnson? No. They either joined settlements already in progress or started their own, as a group. They moved as a group, built communities as a group, defended their properties and families as a group… I come from Pioneer stock. My genealogy tree has a branch that goes back directly to Brigham Young (of course with 56 kids from 16 of his 55 wives, you can’t swing a dead cat along the Wasatch Range of Utah without hitting someone who is related to Brigham). Every single aspect of Mormon history, from moving to and building up Nauvoo Illinois, to crossing the prairie, to Brigham leading the faithful into the Salt Lake Valley through Emigration Canyon and pronouncing “This is the place”, to building Salt Lake City was a group, not an individual activity. It was so communal and such a collective effort that Marx and Engels would have been “Whoa, lighten up a bit, let a brother get some alone time.”

One argument against my take is-“These groups had to band together for pragmatic reasons. There were extenuating circumstances and variables that forced them to operate as a group in order to survive.” My response to this critique is-“Yeah. Your point being what?” Either working together, spreading out risks and rewards works and yields positive results or it doesn’t. What the reasons are for doing so are irrelevant. It doesn’t and shouldn’t matter what the reasons are for opting for the group versus the individual approach. I fail to see how changing the reasons either changes the efficacy or the results. Another way of looking at it is to ask the question, “Do you think they could have achieved the same results via the individualism route?” There doesn’t seem to be any historical evidence to support that they could. I’m skeptical that the Pioneers didn’t know how to deal with the big issues they faced and followed the community approach to problem solving out of ignorance, stupidity or tradition. If you think they could have achieved the same or better results by acting as individuals, I would need to see some evidentiary support to back up this position.

The next defense of individualism is along the lines-“That was then, this in now. The world has changed so the need for the community approach has diminished in importance and has been replaced with the superior, individualism approach.” There are two main problems with this argument. First, Brooks and the defenders of individualism are not saying, “The community approach WAS the driving force behind early American exceptionalism but now it is the individual.” The view they hold to be innately true is that it WAS individualism that made America great. Individualism brought to this country by God fearing, religious freedom seeking, hardworking Europeans, passed down through the generations or absorbed by some sort of osmosis where the trait, like blond hair to Scandinavians, is dominant in conservatives. Brooks and company might admit that the community approach played a role, just not THE role in making America great. It was individualism that built that. Uh......., no.

Second, the “but the circumstances have changed and the individual plays a fundamentally more important rule” argument is also bullshit. Certainly the nature of the problems have changed. We don’t typically worry about packs of wolves, marauding Indians, small pox, the plague, dysentery, being snowed in an unable to get food for weeks in today’s society. We live in a much more technologically advanced world where these types of problems have adequately been addressed and dealt with. When it comes to many of the problems and situations that faced the early settlers, we will never face them. Why? Because are Founders and those that came after them, as communities, found solutions to those problems. But, just because those problems either don’t exist or are rare does not mean that we currently are sans problems. With the advancement of technologies, the world has expanded where people are not limited to living in a small area of the world most of their lives, where commerce and ideas travel around the world at an unbelievable speed. We’ve gone from regional to a world economy. While the small, regional problems of the past have been handled, there are larger often global problems that need our attention. I don’t see how, if individualism couldn’t properly deal with the small, regional problems, it can possibly take care of larger ones. If anything, the larger problems need a larger community.

Imagine a small town in Nebraska in the late 1800’s whose local bank is having a cash flow problem. The town needs the bank so they come together and as a group, deposit enough money to keep the bank going. Fast forward to September 2008 where the large banks and financial institutions in the U.S. who have branches across the country and all over the world and also have deep, financial ties to other countries’ banks. They have a serious cash flow problem. One of these banks was Bank of America. Imagine the B of A branch in Minden Nebraska, population 3000. It doesn’t matter how community minded and organized the kind citizens of Minden are, nothing they do can safe their local bank from collapse because it belongs to a much larger entity. So, in order to address the problem, the definition of community needs to expand. The financial problem was nationwide so it took the entire nation to adequately address the U.S. banking problem. The global financial problem took the global community to address and fix it. It is not that individuals have not made significant contributions but outside the arts, very few have had a big impact on the economy or culture of America. What makes America great and the advantage we have over just about every other country is our diversity. Homogeneous societies can accomplish a lot and often quickly because as a group, they think pretty much alike. Their greatest limitation is thinking outside their cultural box. America, with its wide diversity of cultures always has voices outside the box providing input. This is a major force behind our innovations and progress the past couple of hundred years.

Name a major economic event in America’s history that was the result of individualism. There might be some but the majority are ones undertaken by either groups or the government (group) for the betterment of its citizens (huge group). Louisiana Purchase, Seward’s Folly, Transcontinental Railroad, Interstate Highway System, Tennessee Valley Authority, Space Race, WWII, GI Bill, Erie Canal, St. Lawrence Seaway, Panama Canal, Hoover Dam…all were paid for by the group, built by groups and benifitted groups of the population.

Individuals who have been put on the pedestal of individualism didn’t accomplish what they did by themselves. Edison is thought to be one of America’s greatest inventors (Tesla was much better but Edison was a better marketer). Growing up, the image of Edison was him laboring long, arduous hours by himself in is laboratory. The reality is he had a very large team of some of the world’s top people working in his lab in Menlo Park and was heavily funded.

Individualism is important and certainly has played a role in America’s rise to power. But, individualism didn’t have the starring role in “Making America Great”. That role was played by a cast of thousands. Individualism was a bit player whose name wouldn’t come up in the end credits until half the audience had already left the theater.

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illuma-can-you-not-i · 5 years

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Every time Sojiro Sakura was the entire Phantom Thieves' Dad: Ryuji

It was a slow development, but it was just as awakening as well whenever all of the teenagers started calling Sojiro 'Dad' every now and then. He couldn't lie and say that he didn't enjoy it. He just didn't enjoy the fact that these kids had such hard lives that they relied on him for their emotional support and comfort. But they trusted Sakura enough to look for it from him. And he was grateful for that.

And today looks like it'll have one of those moments.

A Sakamoto entered LeBlanc, gaze fixated on the ground. Tear streaks were visible against the cold air of the late night. "...Hey Dad.", he muttered softly, holding his right hand tenderly as he continued to stare at the wooden floor, only occasionally glancing up. Sojiro knew that posture by now: he was ashamed of something. "What happened?", the man asked, already reaching for the first aid kit. "...I...messed up. I messed up bad.", was all he said before holding out his hand, which had blood coating the knuckles.

Sojiro guided him to a booth, where the teen took a seat while Sakura cleaned and bandaged the hand. It was scraped decently enough to continue bleeding and bruised pretty good. The room grew in silence as he worked. Ryuji avoided eye contact, wiping away his tear streaks with his other hand. "All done.", Sojiro announced, only getting a nod from Sakamoto in response. "So, I guess you should tell me what happened?", the man prompted, taking the boy's chin so that they would finally make eye contact.

Sojiro had never seen a teenaged boy look so broken.

The blonde jerked his head away, before finally speaking up. "He came back.", he muttered. Sojiro's eyes widened significantly, clearly displaying his sympathy before his expression morphed into one of disgust. Ryuji's biological father was a man he despised despite having never met him.

"He showed up at our doorstep, right at dinnertime, practically begging Mom to take him back. Despite the fact that, well, y'know, he was the one who left us. But he still was making all these empty promises about staying true and clean and sober and...hahaha.", the teen chuckled without humor. "We knew he was lying. It was plain as day that every word that he spoke was as much shit as he is. But the benefit of the doubt was still there. So Mom gave him a chance: she invited him to join us for dinner." Ryuji inhaled a shaky breath before drawing out a long sigh.

"He lasted an hour before demanding sake. And started shouting... unsavory things at Mom after she informed him that we've had a dry home since he moved out. He was about to hit her when I stood up for her.", the teen continued, looking off into the distance. "He got a hit on me before I punched him in the jaw." "And that's where your hand got hurt." Ryuji just nodded in conformation. "I pretty much pushed him out and locked the door. Didn't head towards here until I was pretty sure he had left."

Sojiro nodded in understanding, barely picking up Sakamoto muttering an "I'm sorry." The man tilted his head in confusion. "What for?"

The teen exhaled, hanging his head in shame. "I know I'm supposed to try to keep myself in check just like we talked about, use my head before my fists, I just--" Recalling the recent lesson that was taught after Ryuji had gotten into a fistfight because someone was dragging his friends into the dirt, Sojiro remembered what was taught and sighed, using it as an interruption. "Kid, you did the right thing. If I were in your shoes, I probably would have done worse to him."

The blonde teen's head perked up in surprise. "The right thing? But what about--" Sojiro stopped the train of thought with another interruption. "I know what I said. Let me take this moment to revise that lesson: some people aren't going to listen to advice or think about you being merciful before they come after you. Sometimes, you just need to be tough and show that you aren't going to take any shit from them. But the important thing is to maintain your control. You did the right thing by only hitting the poor excuse of a man once to pacify him before kicking him out instead of continuing to beat him until you were satisfied."

Ryuji took a moment to process the words before finally understanding the lesson they carried. "Ok, I think I get that makes sense.", he responded, spirit brightening up a little. Sojiro smiled fondly, running a hand through the boy's hair. Sakamoto seemed to melt into the affection, just as Sojiro knew he would. The poor boy was so touch starved, Sojiro recalled him nearly crying after their first hug. "Your dye's starting to wash out.", the man thought aloud as he noted the sight of black-haired roots underneath the blond hair. "Oh yeah. I haven't dyed it since last year. May leave it this time.", the teen muttered, eyes shut while enjoying the comfort.

Minutes passed before the two finally conceded to the fact that Ryuji was going to have to go back. "What if he's there? What if he's waiting for me? He'll be...pissed...", Ryuji thought aloud, working himself up with nerves. "He won't do anything if there's a witness.", Sakura suggested with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "W-what? Oh no, I couldn't possibly ask you to--you've done more than enough...I don't want to cause you any more trouble.", Ryuji stammered as he got up. "And I don't want to send you off with the danger of getting yourself more hurt because of a good-for-nothing not getting what he wants. I'm not asking. Let's go."

Sure enough, their walk and subway ride was fortunate enough to be greeted by a drunk, middle-aged man who was very near screaming at the entrance to be let in.

"Hey. Kusoyaro.", Ryuji called towards the very drunk man in the entryway. "Well, well, look who it is.", the man sneered, clearly looking for a fight. Ryuji just dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "Listen, it's been a long night, and I'm not known for patience, so I'm only gonna say this once."

Ryuji straightened up his posture for what looked like the first time, and his full height surpassed his father's by a near head. The teen straightened his shoulders, looking down on the man. "You get the FUCK off our property, you stay the HELL away from me and my mother, and if I catch you so much as glancing towards me, my friends, and my family, I will not be afraid to fight for them. Cause I know you can't go to the police, you lazy, tax-evading, sex offending, alcoholic money leech." The threat, which was made with an attitude Sojiro could only assume was the 'Skull' in him, was followed by the teen spitting on the shoe of the adult who had given him so much grief. "Get the fuck out of here.", Ryuji threatened in a dark tone, nodding his head towards the road.

After the man whimpered off, Ryuji huffed an exhale, returning to his familiar posture. The teen turned and smiled towards the Sojiro, before gently knocking on the door. "Mom?", he called out. The door couldn't have opened any faster.

Ryuji's mother, a tall, curved woman who wore her black straight hair in a ponytail, wrapped her son in the tightest hug possible. It was only after they pulled apart that she realized they weren't alone. "Oh! You must be Mr. Sakura.", she greeted. She carried an aura of kindness that seemed to radiate out of the house. Sojiro returned the smile and tipped his fedora towards her. "Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sakamoto."

"Oh, pleasure's all mine. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?", the rather beautiful mother offered, stepping aside to let the man in. Sojiro shook his head. "No thanks, I was just dropping him off." Ryuji glanced in between the conversating adults, before electing to go to his room. His mother's gaze followed her son until he shut his door. "I really appreciate what you're doing for him. This is the happiest I've seen him in years." Sojiro shrugged off the credit. "Well, it's not just me. His friends have likely helped more than I ever could."

"Well, how could I possibly repay you?", Ms. Sakamoto inquired, tapping her chin in thought. "Really, it's no trouble.", Sojiro responded with a slight shake of his head. "Oh, nonsense. Surely there must be something.", she insisted lightheartedly. "Really, just helping that boy out is more than enough.", the man tried to excuse, knowing full well at this point that it wouldn't work. She took the hint though, shrugging in resignation. "Ah well, I'll pay you back one day. Mark my words.", the mother remarked, making the two chuckle. "You have a nice one.", Sojiro called as he started to turn for his journey back. "You too!", she called back, waiting until he left the entryway before shutting the house door.

From his room, Ryuji eavesdropped on the entire conversation, before concluding that maybe his mom was hitting on Sojiro. But, out of all the prospects of a stepfather, Ryuji certainly wouldn't mind Sakura. Plus, he'd get a sister out of this. Even if that sister was Futaba. Maybe Futaba wouldn't mind having a stepmom.

Ryuji: Yo guys I just had the best idea.

#persona 5 #ryuji sakamoto #sojiro sakura #coffee dad #pure fluff #dawww #ryuji sakamoto mom #ryuji sakamoto dad #cursing #fatherson #platonic #affection

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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 years

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Pluralistic, your daily link-dose: 26 Feb 2020

Today’s links

Brave autolinks 404s to the Wayback Machine: The internet’s time-traveling, privacy respecting, ad-busting browser.

Clarence Thomas admits he blew it on Brand X: A very safe mea culpa from the man who helped kill Net Neutrality.

Medicare for All would be the biggest take-home pay increase in a generation: Even if my taxes went up by six figures (!), I’d still save money.

The Smithsonian publishes 2.8m hi-rez images into the public domain: Tired: “It belongs in a museum!” Wired: “It belongs to the world!”

McMansion Hell visits 1971: Before “lawyer foyers” there were “paralegal foyers.”

This day in history: 2005, 2015, 2019

Colophon: Recent publications, current writing projects, upcoming appearances, current reading

Brave autolinks 404s to the Wayback Machine (permalink)

A new feature in Brave’s excellent, privacy-centric browser: when you visit a dead page, it automagically checks to see if there’s a cached copy in the Internet Archive and directs you to that instead.

The Archive is crushing it. Working with Wikimedia, they’ve linked every book citation in Wikipedia to the relevant passage in a scanned book in their library section.

Brave’s plugin works on 404 (page not found) errors, and also for 408, 410, 451, 500, 502, 503, 504, 509, 520, 521, 523, 524, 525, and 526 errors (451 is “page censored!”).

https://www.theverge.com/2020/2/26/21154096/brave-browser-wayback-machine-404-internet-archive-lost-pages

Clarence Thomas admits he blew it on Brand X (permalink)

In 2005, Clarence Thomas wrote the majority opinion in Brand X, a case that ratified GW Bush’s FCC’s power to interpret both the statutes and jurisprudence of telcoms law however it wants, overriding judges.

https://www.law.cornell.edu/supct/html/04-277.ZS.html

That decision meant that GWB’s FCC could arrange telcoms rules to suit the Big Cable donors GWB relied on. It meant that Obama’s FCC could reverse those rules and impose net neutrality. It meant Trump’s FCC could reverse Obama’s FCC and kill net neutrality.

Now, Thomas has written a dissent in Baldwin, a new case published Monday, in which he admits that he blew it in Brand X, by giving political appointees from the administrative branch the power to overrule both Congress and the courts.

https://www.supremecourt.gov/opinions/19pdf/19-402_o75p.pdf

When the Ajit Pai decision to kill net neutrality was brought before a circuit judge, she called it “unhinged.” Then she upheld it, because Brand X tied her hands.

Unfortunately, Thomas is the sole dissent in Baldwin, whose appeal SCOTUS will not to hear, leaving Brand X unchallenged. Given Thomas’s historic cowardice when it comes to challenging the establishment, this is a nice safe way to mea culpa without risking wrath of plutes.

“Although I authored Brand X, it is never too late to ‘surrende[r] former views to a better considered position.’ Brand X appears to be inconsistent with the Constitution, the Administrative Procedure Act (APA), and traditional tools of statutory interpretation. Because I would revisit Brand X, I respectfully dissent from the denial of certiorari.” -C. Thomas.

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2020/02/clarence-thomas-regrets-ruling-that-ajit-pai-used-to-kill-net-neutrality/

Medicare for All would be the biggest take-home pay increase in a generation (permalink)

UC Berkeley economist Gabriel Zucman: “Because this is my lot in life, I will note again that Medicare for All would lead to the biggest take-home pay increase in a generation for working families, because it would replace private health insurance premiums (a huge privatized head tax) by taxes based on ability to pay.”

https://twitter.com/gabriel_zucman/status/1232295342185558018

We pay more than $2000/mo for gold-plated healthcare from Cigna through my wife’s blue-chip employer, where she is an exec. When my daughter broke a bone, our ER visit to the preferred hospital (across the street from corporate HQ) cost $2700 in excesses.

The kid didn’t even see a doc. $2700 in out-of-pockets was for a Tylenol, an X-ray, and a one-minute consult with a physician’s assistant, who referred us to an orthopedist. The ortho and ER initially refused to treat my daughter unless I signed a binding arbitration waiver.

Cigna also just declined a pain therapy course recommended by my specialist, head of a prominent university’s pain clinic whose papers on the therapy are the most-cited in the field: “It’s experimental.” It will cost me $52,000 in out of pockets if I want to proceed.

So, keeping track: we’re currently spending $24k/yr on health care, and about the same in out-of-pockets, and our care is being rationed. If I want the care the top specialist in the region recommends, that’s another $52k.

Our inadequate private care, literally the best we can buy, would cost us $100k this year if we got the care our doctors recommended; $50k if we decided to ignore their advice and not get that care.

That is to say: if Medicare For All raised our taxes by ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS, we’d be breaking even. And getting better care. I grew up with Canadian healthcare, then 13 years of NHS UK care. The US system, at the very highest tier, is so much worse than either.

The Smithsonian publishes 2.8m hi-rez images into the public domain (permalink)

The Smithsonian has released 2.8 million hi-rez images into the public domain!

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smithsonian-institution/smithsonian-releases-28-million-images-public-domain-180974263/

The images include reproductions of both 2D and 3D artifacts in the Smithsonian’s collection, from all 19 Smithsonian museums, hosted on an open access platform:

https://www.si.edu/openaccess

200,000 more images are slated for inclusion in 2020, and the scope of the whole project is to digitize all 155,000,000 images in the Smithsonian’s collections and dedicate them to the public domain for any use, including commercial use. It’s part of a “digital first” strategy that eschews hypothetical licensing revenue from art books and penny-postcards in favor of serving the public mission of a museum.

Here’s a crib from a keynote I gave about this to the first Museums and the Web Europe conference in Florence — museums have both an ethical and practical duty to serve the public rather than relying on plutes and licensing.

https://mwf2014.museumsandtheweb.com/paper/glam-and-the-free-world/

Tldr: the public will support you and demand your preservation when austerity-crazed governments want to de-fund you. Plutes won’t — they’ll just offer to buy your collection for their mansions.

Anyway, this is amazeballs. The possibilities for remix, fine art, new work, and computational historical research are endless. This is the Smithsonian we pay our taxes for. It’s a brave, principled move. Go, Smithsonian go!

McMansion Hell visits 1971 (permalink)

The luckiest people in the world have never heard of McMansion Hell because they get to discover Kate Wagner’s superb dunks on architectural excess, cynicism and ill-founded optimism for the very first time!

Lately, Wagner’s been doing a “Yearbook,” revisiting proto-McMansions from 1971 to trace the primitive ancestors of today’s hulking atrocities. The latest installment is a $1.2m, 5000sqft titan in Morris County, New Jersey.

https://mcmansionhell.com/post/610960530721636352/the-mcmansion-hell-yearbook-1971

This beast predates the modern “lawyer foyer” and instead sports a “paralegal foyer,” which ” lacks the transom window above the door that enables the entryway to be seen from the street.”

I could listen to Wagner riff on bad kitchen design ALL DAY.

The realtor’s just rendered a bunch of virtual furnishings into this empty room! Wagner: “Personally I’d love to have a copy of the software that lets you 3D decorate random real estate listings – it’s like the Sims but for realtors.”

Wagner signs off with a promise of a “Brutalism Post.” Swoon!

This day in history (permalink)

#15yrsago: Dismantling fear, uncertainty, and doubt, aimed at Wikipedia and other free knowledge resources https://web.archive.org/web/20050301003539/http://www.freesoftwaremagazine.com/free_issues/issue_02/fud_based_encyclopedia/

#15yrsago: HOWTO break HP printer cartridge DRM https://constitutionalcode.blogspot.com/2005/02/cartridge-expiration-date-workarounds.html

#15yrsago: @Aaronsw asks why Stanford professors include so few astrologers http://www.aaronsw.com/weblog/001588

#15yrsago: Why John Gilmore won’t show his ID at airports http://old.post-gazette.com/pg/05058/462446.stm

#5yrsago: World War 3 Illustrated: prescient outrage from the dawn of the Piketty apocalypse https://boingboing.net/2015/02/26/world-war-3-illustrated-presc.html

#1yrago: Youtube ignored repeated reports about explicit suicide instructions spliced into cartoons on Youtube Kids https://pedimom.com/youtube-kids-scare/

#1yrago: New Orleans reduced homelessness by 90% (and saved a fortune) by giving homeless people homes https://www.wbur.org/hereandnow/2019/02/19/new-orleans-reducing-homeless-hurricane-katrina

#1yrago: Trump made history: introducing tax cuts made him LESS popular https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2019/02/trump-choose-unpopular-president.html

#1yrago: How the payday loan industry laundered policy by paying academics to write papers that supported its positions https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/2019/02/25/how-payday-lending-industry-insider-tilted-academic-research-its-favor/?utm_term=.92930478ab59

Colophon (permalink)

Today’s top sources: Naked Capitalism (https://nakedcapitalism.com/”), Glenn Fleishman (https://twitter.com/glennf).

Hugo nominators! My story “Unauthorized Bread” is eligible in the Novella category and you can read it free on Ars Technica: https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2020/01/unauthorized-bread-a-near-future-tale-of-refugees-and-sinister-iot-appliances/

Upcoming appearances:

Canada Reads Kelowna: March 5, 6PM, Kelowna Library, 1380 Ellis Street, with CBC’s Sarah Penton https://www.eventbrite.ca/e/cbc-radio-presents-in-conversation-with-cory-doctorow-tickets-96154415445

Currently writing: I just finished a short story, “The Canadian Miracle,” for MIT Tech Review. It’s a story set in the world of my next novel, “The Lost Cause,” a post-GND novel about truth and reconciliation. I’m getting geared up to start work on the novel now, though the timing is going to depend on another pending commission (I’ve been solicited by an NGO) to write a short story set in the world’s prehistory.

Currently reading: Just started Lauren Beukes’s forthcoming Afterland: it’s Y the Last Man plus plus, and two chapters in, it’s amazeballs. Last week, I finished Andrea Bernstein’s “American Oligarchs” this week; it’s a magnificent history of the Kushner and Trump families, showing how they cheated, stole and lied their way into power. I’m getting really into Anna Weiner’s memoir about tech, “Uncanny Valley.” I just loaded Matt Stoller’s “Goliath” onto my underwater MP3 player and I’m listening to it as I swim laps.

Latest podcast: Gopher: When Adversarial Interoperability Burrowed Under the Gatekeepers’ Fortresses: https://craphound.com/podcast/2020/02/24/gopher-when-adversarial-interoperability-burrowed-under-the-gatekeepers-fortresses/

Upcoming books: “Poesy the Monster Slayer” (Jul 2020), a picture book about monsters, bedtime, gender, and kicking ass. Pre-order here: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781626723627?utm_source=socialmedia&utm_medium=socialpost&utm_term=na-poesycorypreorder&utm_content=na-preorder-buynow&utm_campaign=9781626723627

(we’re having a launch for it in Burbank on July 11 at Dark Delicacies and you can get me AND Poesy to sign it and Dark Del will ship it to the monster kids in your life in time for the release date).

“Attack Surface”: The third Little Brother book, Oct 20, 2020.

“Little Brother/Homeland”: A reissue omnibus edition with a very special, s00per s33kr1t intro.

15 notes · View notes

zukofenty · 5 years

Text

Day 4: bad decisions

➜ The one where Katara (might) be in love with the campus drug dealer.

“So why won’t you go out with me? Is it because I’m a drug dealer?” Zuko’s mad, twisting the rings on his fingers while impatiently waiting on her answer.

“Not exactly,” Katara quips, averting her eyes from his fiery gaze. “It’s mainly because you don’t tip when we go out to eat.”

➜ Genre: Modern!AU, humor, teeny bit of angst, DrugDealer!Zuko

➜ Words: 5.3k

➜ Warnings: I love DrugDealer!Zuko more than I love myself 😩

AO3, Zutara Month Playlist, @zutaramonth hi i love u!

➜ Notes: hehe listen to “Bad Decisions” by Miss Ari! life changing!

“Zuko’s dead? ” Katara nearly screams into the phone. She pulls on one of his hoodies and is scrambling to find her slides and keys.

Toph sighs. “We all knew this would happen. The sky’s blue, Beyonce needs to stop forcing her boyfriend on us. Basic facts. Get it together , Katara.”

“Toph, how does your disdain for Jay-Z make it into every conversation you have?” Suki wearily states. “All we know is that a dealer got shot near the frats today. So in conclusion, Zuko’s dead.”

“Donezo.”

“Bitch is gone .”

“God bless his beautiful ass.”

“A moment of silence for his fake Chanel blouses.”

Katara does her breathing exercises. “ Enough .” She hears a knock at the door, and immediately grabs her expandable baton. “Oh my god , someone’s at the door.” She whips out the baton to its full length.

Toph gasps. “Bitch, it’s 2 in the fucking morning. Are we getting a two for one deal tonight?”

Suki cheers. “I call dibs on her Fenty highlighters.”

“Oh hell fucking no ! You do not have the range for Trophy Wife, whore!” Toph shouts right into the microphone. Katara winces, and takes out an Airpod. She’s heaving, nervous at who could be at the door. Toph and Suki were trying to negotiate with each other on who was getting Katara’s brand new Hydrating Foundation when she takes an experimental glance out the peephole. Her gasp reverberates through the phone.

“She’s died, Suki! She’s died!” Toph wails, her screams nearly unintelligible.

“ Zuko? ” Katara screeches at the top of her lungs, launching herself at him so violently her other Airpod pops out.

He chuckles when she locks her legs around his waist, his arms coming out to support her from underneath her ass. It’s domestic, and he relishes in the attention. “Hello to you, too.” She’s smiling at him and it’s beautiful and soft and everything he wanted to see after the shitty night he’s had. Dealing in college was an easy route to Balenciaga and bitches. Everyone did it, it was as easy as catching HPV at your school. Yet, Zhao, the Kingpin of dealers, just had to get his side-chick pregnant and then just had to get shot by his girlfriend. Even if he did get shot up because he was a slut (#FreeZhao), the campus dean had called the cops and was in the process of launching an extensive campaign to fuck up any current dealers. Even if you possess the slightest hint of addy for your ADHD, you still had to haul your ass to the campus police station. It wasn’t fair though. Coke is what makes college campuses around the world run as smoothly as they do.

“You promised me you’d stop,” she’s murmuring in his ear, curled up beside him in her cramped twin bed. Her roommates went back home for the weekend, so it makes it just that much easier to pretend you two could be like this. Lost in the sheets, hopelessly in love with her head on his chest.

“If I didn’t, I probably wouldn’t have been able to get you this,” Zuko whispers in her hair. He slides a ring on her finger and she smiles lazily back at him, placing a tender kiss on his cheek. God, is this what love feels like? If she accidentally got pregnant with Zuko’s spawn she wouldn’t immediately reach for Plan B? The ring was a simple thing, just plain silver because she wanted one to be “edgy,” obsessed with rings after playing with the handful that adorn Zuko’s fingers. After making sure she was sound asleep, he lets himself smile. Finally , he’s getting somewhere with her.

Seemingly a too perfect, impenetrable forest, he’s finding himself finally being let into her world. As corny and lovesick it sounded, Zuko understood how easy it was to love someone when he laid eyes on you. All those damn John Green books were right, he begrudgingly admits ( Eat shit John Green.) She truly could not do one wrong thing in his eyes, her soft giggles as she attempted to explain commas and semicolons and gerunds or whatever the fuck he doesn’t quite remember because he was busy being infatuated and trying to make her laugh. They’d met freshman year, and have remained in this weird limbo ever since. Where he would call her to remind her to eat when she was stressed, and he could plant kisses in her hair when he’s showing up to her apartment at night, cuddling her without her pulling away because it always felt right. At the same time, Katara felt so unattainable, so out of reach. It’s never progressed past simple, flirtatious touches. Yet, being with her feels different than any other relationship he’s been in, as though his heart was permanently and solely hers.

It was easy to fall in love. Katara was so kind, yet so dead set in her ways. Never detracting her focus from school, she had no time for anything else in her life. Her older brother Sokka had raised her when their parents had disappeared shortly after producing the “accident” child. They handed Katara off to him, who hadn’t spoken to them in years. While Sokka was in college and attempting to care for Katara at the same time, he had struck gold with recording labels interested in his music producing work. Soon, he was making songs you could regularly hear on the radio and not just on Soundcloud, and the royalties were ensuring Katara got the best. The best schools, clothes, life. Even if her brother was obsessed with flexing his regular Bugatti purchases on Instagram, she wasn’t nearly as preoccupied. She was always in oversized hoodies that once upon a time ago belonged to Sokka before he decided on dressing like a 30 year old hypebeast Instagrammer still trying to hold onto their youth. Always volunteering her time and doing things rich people had time to do to make themselves feel good about their tax breaks.

It made Zuko feel jealous in a sense, with his uncle struggling to make ends meet his whole life. He ran a small fried chicken and tea shop (Iroh was convinced about this combo) in his neighborhood, and he hated to admit that he was ashamed. That he dreamed of shoving Chanel anything up his ass. He would take the perfume sample cards from the mall that said Givenchy , pinning it to his wall as inspiration for what he would buy in the future. It didn’t make sense to him, when Katara had all this money and couldn’t care less. She penny pinched when she didn’t need to, wore clothes from Forever 21, as though Sokka wouldn’t drop thousands for the Fendi boots she always talked about.

“Damnit, you’re dick sick, aren’t you?” Toph sends her a look that screamed pity. Katara tried to fix the frown, but her eyes always revealed everything. So she nods in agreement, and Toph wraps her up in her arms. Zuko had invited her and Toph to a quote unquote “exclusive party” thrown by the rich kids whose parents owned the university. The Olivia Jades of the world. Schmoney shmoney . It didn’t help that she felt so out of place, circling all throughout the frat house before settling on the cleanest couch near the one window that wasn’t broken. She wanted to be a part of Zuko’s world for a night, see where he was disappearing to on the weekends.

Although Toph spent the better part of the evening prepping her hoe fit, Katara stuck to an uneventful long t shirt (Zuko’s shirt, of course) paired with thigh high boots. She had planned on only staying half an hour, tops. She didn’t drink, smoke, it just wasn’t her thing. Her worst fear was contracting herpes from a wax pen. Even when she was a college freshman and people were busy coming back upchucking all over the communal dorm bathroom, she instead dutifully held hair back, and changed drunk girls’ clothes. She quickly learned the tricks of the trade after cleaning up Sokka’s messy weekend self during his quarter life crisis phase. Admittedly, she was boring . So, she reasoned 30 minutes gave her enough time to walk around the place and see Zuko schmoozing with rich kids, and then leave to have enough time to do her skincare before bed.

“More like sick. He deals coke now! Coke! That’s a prison drug, ma’am. The real deal,” she whimpers into her tits. She had caught Zuko in one of the trust fund babies’ enormous rooms in the frat house, daddy’s credit cards and student IDs out and about with lines of something she’d only seen in movies. Since all the dealers were on the low with the campus crackdown, and since it was midterms season, the demand amongst the student population was unbelievably high. Zuko was the only brave stupid enough to keep selling. Katara had burst into the room to alert Zuko that Toph and her were about to make a dramatic exit without him to go back to her place and watch John Tucker Must Die instead of studying.

She had expected a lot of things, hell even coke (maybe). What she didn’t anticipate was seeing a girl in Zuko’s lap, kissing up his neck, wearing practically nothing. He had an assertive hand on her thigh, massaging it, manhandling her like Katara wished he would do with her. He’s talking and acting like he belonged with the assholes of your school. Like he wasn’t the gentle guy who Katara always saw in sweats always talking about his half sister, or memories of his uncle’s restaurant. She had made eye contact with him and promptly shut the door, feeling as though her heart would burst any second now.

So Toph and Katara go back to her place, calling up Suki who Ubers over, ready to rag on her (sort of) mans. Both Toph and her were in Suki’s t shirts that she “gave” to the duo. Both girls ignore her protests when she shows up and demands for them back. “Hey, that is premium Aliexpress Yeezus Tour shirts! They don’t sell fakes like these anymore!”

Katara was eating Target generic brand ice cream out the container, her heartbreak palpable, especially to Toph. The two girls were best friends after becoming roommates freshman year. Katara’s a sweet thing, too sweet in Toph’s opinion. Always remembering little things, people’s birthdays or favorite brand of instant Udon packages. She was always the one defending Toph against those who found it too easy to take advantage of her. Toph, in turn, was always there to mend her big heart after no one remembered her birthday freshman year. In many ways, Katara won a permanent place in Toph’s heart. She was always the one showing up to her dance performances, even if they were a two hour bus ride away. Always making sure to take off her makeup after recitals when she was too tired to move. It hurt her to see Katara like this, in pain.

“All I’m saying is that he uses you to play house. It’s time to cut the cord. Don’t be Beyonce, don’t keep letting a man bring down your worth. Plus, you don’t have the range to come out with Lemonade in the middle of all this heartbreak and betrayal.”

She scoops Vanilla bean into her mouth, eyes downcast. “What do you mean? Just because he comes here and sleeps over all the time?” She settles her head in Toph’s lap when she sees Suki begin to straighten her back, prepping for the rant she was about to deliver.

“Katara, sweet, pure, virginal Katara.”

“Hey!” Katara yelps.

“I’m going to be honest with you, and it’s going to hurt. Like pap smear at the gyno hurt.” Katara nods, interest piqued. “Do you see you on his Instagram? Do you? Any posts, any tagging done when I know you took this photo of this overpriced matcha soy latte?” Suki tries her hardest not to break her tough girl role when she sees hersad fucking eyes. Why are they built like that? Like she could break her heart with just a watery glance? “Tell me, who do you see on Zuko’s Instagram and Snapchat?”

“Hotgirls,” she jumbles the words in her haste.

“Louder!” Suki shouts.

“ Hot. Girls. ” she admitted defeat. Toph strokes her hair gently to try to comfort her.

“That’s the thing with guys like Zuko, ok? They want the hottest girls on campus to suck and fuck, but they’re even more cruel with girls like you. Girls who are meant for dating to marry and cute gender reveal parties and pastels and shit. He knows that you guys aren’t meant to be together, the universe says so. But he’ll still play with your feelings because he likes pretending he deserves you. Pretending that in this world, girls like you and guys like him can be together and make it work.”

Katara’s jolting her head out of Toph’s lap in protest. “Well, what if I want to be a slut? What if I want to be the kind of girl that Zuko wants?” She was tired of being the cute girl who looks like she goes to volunteer at the community center regularly and is destined for some picket fence with a balding, accountant husband and loud, undisciplined kids. She wanted sex, hell she wanted to wear skimpy clothes without worrying what Zuko was going to think about how her tits looked, or if her pants showed enough of her ass to be considered hoe. Katara wanted the confidence of those girls Zuko would put on his social media, she wanted to be them. Being with Zuko felt like being with someone who got her, and she liked, hell loved the attention he gave her. As though she felt pretty, and not adorable. He was someone she just couldn’t get out of her head, someone that was so dangerous to her because she was feeling herself change for him. Is it wrong that she liked it? The way he called her gorgeous when he comes over, or how he lazily grinds against her ass when he’s half-asleep, hands on her hips grounding her.

Suki squeezes her chipmunk cheeks between her musty hands, and interrupts Katara’s protest about an acne breakout. “Even if you try changing everything about you to become exactly what he wants, do you really think he’s going to treat you the same when it isn’t on the down low?”

Ouch.

Suki’s honesty still stings, but it was the cold hard truth. She was willing to change herself, be someone for a guy promising her trips to Paris when he could never meet when the sun was up. Suki’s words hurt as bad as the dress Toph was squeezing you into. “You wanted slutty, I’m giving you waist trainer, Insta model slutty!” She had convinced Katara to go on a date with some guy who was “perfect” for her. Code for boring, she was sure of it. Probably an engineering major who didn’t know how Twitter worked.

Even with all of Toph’s efforts, Katara decided all the shapewear in the world wasn’t going to contain her “post depression ice cream for all three meals” belly. So, she decided to keep it simple with her “knock-off Ariana” outfit as she calls it. Pairing just a pair of thigh high boots with a long sweatshirt.

“Look, I know you secretly get off to the thrill of dating a lame drug dealer, knowing the cops could bust down your door and cause a scene at your apartment. I know you live for the drama. But I promise, this guy will be good for you. Let’s just have fun for one night. Please put the dress back on? I know you haven’t washed that hoodie in a week,” Toph pleads with Katara.

She just rolled her eyes while Toph reapplied a layer of gloss to Katara’s lips. Deep down, she just knew in her heart there was no getting over Zuko. At least immediately. But, it didn’t hurt that Jet was cute, harmless fun. He was taking her out to a diner near her apartment, frequented by students at their college deluded by the aesthetic photo ops, and not too concerned about how the restaurant was serving up microwaved Mac n cheese. He showed up looking exactly like his Instagram photos and in a well ironed H&M button up. She could feel Toph hiding behind her futon, snapping clandestine photos for Suki, who was in the bathroom with the Taco Bell shits.

“ How dare you?! ” Jet screeches, dropping a cold fry in disbelief. “You’ve never watched anime?”

“Ok, a scream was not what I was expecting. I just asked if Teen Titans counted. Sue me.” Katara’s laughing, and hates to admit that it was fun being with Jet. He’s nerdy and sweet and most importantly so, so tall. A good guy.

“It doesn’t! ” he huffs petulantly.

Katara juts out her lip. “How can you ever forgive me?”

“Hmm. I guess a second date. Maybe an anime sesh will have to do. Your place, and we’re pulling an all nighter.”

“Why not your place?” she questions.

“I live in a living room, and I don’t have a mattress. But why not? My place it is!” His aggressive thumbs up makes her laugh so hard it sends her into a choking fit.

“So, we’re watching Teen Titans first, right?” she teases, pounding at her chest to stop the coughs.

His smile reaches his eyes. “You know, I was kinda scared going out with you tonight. No offense, but you have, like, no pictures on your social media. All Toph promised me was ‘you’re really pretty and heartbroken as well. ’ And, not to try to win any brownie points on this date, but I have to agree, you’re really pretty.” Katara rolls her eyes, and he blushes.

“I was expecting something along the lines of ‘ Goddess like,’ but I guess ‘really pretty’ works, too.” She’s laughing along with his obnoxious giggles, and she feels almost lighthearted. Not quite ready to fall in love again, but considering the possibility. “Let me guess, she cheated on you?”

“Worse. Walked in on her with...drumroll please!” Katara lightly began drumming her fingers on the dining table. “You guessed it! My brother!” he sheepishly admits, bringing out the jazz hands and everything to emphasize his point.

She audibly gasps. “That’s some Kdrama shit right there! Please tell me you started a fist fight with him, kicked a nut or two.”

“Nah, I had an essay due. No time for that shit, you know? I just shut the door, banged out my paper, and haven’t spoken to either of them in about four months.”

She takes a sip of her milkshake. “That’s healthy!” Jet tilts his shake in Katara’s direction in agreement, before taking a long gulp from the cup.

He quirks a perfectly shaped brow towards her. “So, let me guess. Your guy saved his side chick’s name as Chick-fil-a in his phone, you found out and tried to strangle him with his belt, and he pressed charges?”

“Oddly specific, but sadly no. Let’s just say he had the biggest heart. Big enough for bitches on the side as well.” Jet makes a grunt in disapproval. “It wasn’t like I could be mad, anyways. We weren’t in anything official. But it felt like it could’ve been something, you know?”

It was like an unspoken agreement, an energy that the two felt when they met each other. A “my heart was just shattered into a billion pieces but hopefully a rebound will lessen the pain just for two hours tonight” kind of vibe. It felt good with Jet, like the two of you guys had known each other forever. He serves her with corny joke after joke, and she lets herself laugh. She hated being around men, and besides, Sokka threatened any that even made eye contact with her for longer than 20 seconds. Aside from Sokka, Zuko, and Aang, the kid she babysat, Katara was afraid to let any other men in her life. Three was already enough emotional labor.

They both go out for boba afterwards, and Jet makes sure to pay for their drinksand then drop his change into the tip jar. He knows that Katara swoons immediately. It always works. That’s why 30 minutes later, she’s slamming him into her futon. Soon after, he’s shirtless, pressing at her core with impatient fingers. She’s grinding helplessly in his lap, his moans egging her on. He insisted she keep the boots on.

“I was not raised to leave my shoes on in the house. That’s just vile ,” she protested. Jet silences her with a gentle kiss, and a press of his throbbing cock against her.

“Please, baby. Make an exception for me tonight,” he whispers against her lips. Her shorts and underwear are suddenly missing. When the fuck did he do that? She’s dizzy and horny and so full when he starts fingering her. His fingers so fucking long and is making her whimper and ready to have his kids. She closes her eyes because staring at Jet’s fucked out ones made her want to combust. She was focusing on the feeling of being stuffed while trying to tamp down on the fear of losing her virginity, because that seemed like the logical course of action with how the night was playing out. Damnit, what if it hurts like a pap smear ? She thinks pathetically. In the middle of all her inner monologues, she’s suddenly shoved off of Jet’s warm body, tumbling on the ground. She opens her eyes to see Zuko pummeling Jet to a pulp.

“Not the face, Zuko! Not the fucking face! He’s too pretty for this!” Katara yelps, shoving Zuko’s muscular frame off of Jet. Jet sends her a sad smile before slipping his shirt over his head and heading out the door.

She’s fuming, too angry, too confused. “What the fuck was that ?” She’s at maximum screech levels tonight, much to her neighbor’s dismay.

“You tell me!” Zuko cards his hands through his hair. “You’re fucking some other guy? Don’t know if you’ve forgotten, Katara. But this,” he gestures between the two of them. “Did you forget about us? Forget about me? What the fuck?”

“Hold up, Walter White.” She’s sticking a hand out in his face. “We are a situationship, at best. Don’t you dare accuse me of whoring around when we aren’t even official.”

“I thought what we had, what we were...I don’t know? It’s different,” Zuko rubs at his neck awkwardly. “Did you not feel the same way? Why do you care about all these labels all of a sudden? Why didn’t you fucking tell me you wanted us to make it official?”

“It’s because you’re supposed to know! You’re supposed to know that I hate what you do, that I hate loving you, because it hurts me.”

“So why won’t you go out with me? Is it because I’m a drug dealer?” Zuko’s mad, twisting the rings on his fingers while impatiently waiting on her answer.

“Not exactly,” Katara quips, averting her eyes from his fiery gaze. “It’s mainly because you don’t tip when we go out to eat.”

“Bullshit!” he howls.

“You need to tip at least 20%!”

“Katara.” He takes a deep breath in. “Why don’t we just make this official?”

She’s worrying at her lip. Trying desperately to remember the breathing exercises her therapist had recommended before she started crying and did something crazy like suck his dick because he looked hot when he was angry. “Zuko, as much as you’d like to keep pretending that we could ever be a thing, I can’t. I can’t keep holding onto this fucking unrealistic dream. These unrealistic expectations! What do you want me to do? Pray for the day you get bored of dealing or hanging out with the rich kids or making out with sorority girls so you could come back to me at night? Because I’m fucking pathetic and let you back every single time?”

She sees him spluttering, trying to desperately hold onto a solid response that could sway her decision. “Katara, you know how much I care about you. But you would never get it! You would never get someone like me!”

She scoffs. “Try me. What don’t I get about you, Zuko?”

“That being with those people, and dealing makes me feel like more than just a poor kid with no parents and no fucking future.” Zuko huffs out the confession as though he was holding it in for a millenium.

“I get it, ok I understand but-”

Zuko steps back from her, as though she’s slapped him straight across the face. “No, Katara. You don’t. You don’t fucking get it. You get to cosplay as poor. Pretend that you have to budget when Sokka could easily handle everything if things go wrong.”

Katara’s angry, angry at herself. For hurting Zuko with her careless words, for looking so fucking stupid. “Ok, fine. You’re right.” She surprises even herself at her confession. "I don’t get it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be fucking worried about you? That I’m terrified about what could go wrong? One wrong move and you could fucking die! You think the dean is going to let any of those rich assholes take the fall for anything? No, they’re going to blame it on the disposable kid on Financial Aid,” she wails at the top of her lungs.

She searches his eyes for any understanding, for any reaction to what she was saying. His jaw is set in a determined look, the kind of look she knew was unwavering, was unable to be changed no matter what. She sucks in a breath of air, praying for any sort of strength. “How about you do you, and I do me?”

“Yeah, sure,” Zuko squeezes out. He’s rushing out the door, slamming it on his way out.

“I knew I could smell the cock on you! You rode that dick like a stolen car, didn’t you?” Suki bellows, cackling.

“Please, I will fucking block you,” Katara wearily threatens, without any might behind it. She’s, predictably, in one of Zuko’s old t shirts from when he played soccer in high school, slapping on moisturizer before she could retire to bed. “Zuko stopped anything from happening when he came in and went 'New York after Hottie said she looked like Beyonce' on his ass.

Toph grunts over the line. “So what’s the deal with you guys? He’s dealing you drugs and dick now? You’re fucking the weed man for weed? Or are you fucking the dick man for dick? At least you’re not fucking the tweet man for tweets.”

Katara pauses in patting in the cream on her face. “How does this make any sense to you? Like do you not hear yourself speak?”

“It makes perfect sense to me, slut.”

Suki jumps in before low blows could be dealt and the girls start making fun of each others foundation not matching. “You know what, I bet Zuko’s selling whole ass cilantro and/or oregano and no one says anything because he’s fine.”

Katara pauses in applying her lip balm, a call from Zuko popping up threatening to end her call with her girls. “Zuko’s calling?” she questions.

“This late?” Toph is in between bites of her pepperoni Hot Pocket.

Suki sighs. “Listen, Katara. Girls don’t win when it comes to love, we never win. Maybe you should take a break from all this Zuko mess, and I don’t know. Pick up a hobby. Go back to therapy.”

But Katara knew something was wrong. She could sense it, just feel it inside her. Something was inherently wrong. As though the universe was whispering this to her, pleading with her to listen. “I’ll call you guys back, ok?”

“This is the future Stephanie Meyer wanted. For girls to be pathetically in love with pale, emo guys,” Toph miserably whimpers after Katara leaves their call.

Katara heart felt like it could fall out of her ass and then jump back in her mouth with how loudly it was beating. She’s running, clad in only the t shirt and her slides. They were threatening to slip off at any second from how fast her feet were forcing them to pound at the pavement. Word of the wise, don’t fucking run in slides.

“Don’t fucking hurt him!” She screams, expandable baton whipped out and ready to pummel any bitch dumb enough to hurt Zuko while she’s around. A few guys were standing around Zuko’s limp body, about to lay another painful blow against his bruised visage when she starts wildly beating them with her baton. She’s shrieking at the top of her lungs, scaring them enough for all of them to disperse. They all ran off before they had to deal with whatever the fuck Katara was doing. Crazy wasn’t in their agenda that night, only beating up good looking dealers.

“Oh, Zuko.” Katara immediately lets go of the weapon, dropping down to her knees to look at him.

Turns out, everyone wants a shot at the king.

She sits herself down and gently cradles Zuko’s head in between her hands before placing it in her lap. He closes his eyes and musters the strength to give her a small smile.

“Thank you, Katara.” She’s trying her best to hold back her tears. The gravel is scraping unforgivably against her legs, the cold causing her throat to begin to itch. She’s shivering as she types in “911.”

Zuko lifts a battered arm to swat quickly at her fingers. “Can we just Uber to the hospital? I don’t want to drop two racks on an ambulance.”

“Zuko!” Katara squeals. It works, he’s got her to smile in spite of all the drama, all the tears. It’s so easy for them to be like this together. Just enjoying the moment, just being themselves. “You know, I’m sorry for ever saying you look like an angry snake. You still do, but I’m sorry.”

“I hate you,” he says without any commitment to the spite.

“You don’t.”

“I know.” He lets her finish ordering the Uber before speaking again. “I love you.”

She runs her fingers in his hair. “I know.”

“Say it back, please?” He has the audacity to pout despite being beaten nearly half to death.

“I’m scared,” she can’t bring herself to break eye contact with his intense gaze.

“I know.”

“Zuko! What happened?” Iroh’s running as fast as he can, still clad in his sleepwear. He sees the pretty girl that the nurses warned has refused to leave the boy’s side for the past few hours, never letting go of his hand. She’s even had the gall to snap the nurses who would show up to their shift a few minutes late.

He sees his nephew rub comforting circles in the girls’ hand with his thumb, looking at her before he could make eye contact with his uncle. Right when he’s about to say something, he’s interrupted.

“He was protecting me. We were walking in a bad part of town because I really wanted to get ice cream, and...we got mugged.” She finishes lamely, whispering the last few words. “They hit him first and then were trying to steal my purse. They got even more mad when he started yelling ‘don’t hurt her!’ He jumped in front of me before they could do anything.”

The two share a look and a smile. Zuko’s grip on Katara’s hand grows impossibly tigther.

#zutara #zutara fanfiction #day 4 zutara month #katara #Zuko #zuko x katara #zutaramonth #zutarafic

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all-things-are-nothing-to-me · 5 years

Text

Communization: The senile decay of anarchy

Communization: The senile decay of anarchy (or re-inventing anarchy) – fragment of the unpublished pamphlet “FAI Reloaded” by the Conspiracy of Cells of Fire.

i) Frozen Marxism

Today’s era smells like engine oil, cheap labor sweat and naphthalene of the morality of voluntary obedience… We do not want to be defined by the culture of techno-industrial fascism, the white uniforms of scientists, the neckties of technocrats, the eager silences of ordinary people, the stupid smiles of consumers… We do not match with the aesthetics of the glass world of flat television screens, the digital imitation of the life of social media, the display windows of lifestyle, the lens of security cameras. We do not fit in the society of captivity, the police checks of our identification papers, the supervision of security guards, the laws of the judges, the locked doors of prisons. We do not settle for the average normality dictated by morality, we don’t amuse our boredom with psychotropic drugs, we aren’t covered by the coldness of empty relations, we don’t read… Marx.

Today we live to the rhythm of a generalized crisis. Our daily life is throttled from the tyranny of numbers. Our life resembles an accounting book, whose calculations always find it deficient and indebted. They overwhelm us with financial terms and definitions, one half of which are unknown and the other half of no interest to us. The wandering charlatans of all ideologies, roam from one financial conference to the other and bombard us with ramblings and often incomprehensible interviews-speeches, each of them presenting his own social antidote to the economic crisis. On the shelves of the ideological supermarket every faithful consumer will find the antidote that suits him, in all shades. There are “revolutionary” antidotes, even “anarchist” ones. In Greece, the neo-communists, ex-anarchists, mix in the cauldron of ideologies anarchist labels, with plenty of frozen Marxism, anti-imperialism and a pinch of disguised national liberation. The new tension of “serious” anarchy dresses itself in a formal way and launches the trend of anti-capitalist struggle on a red background. The rhetoric of the neo-communists – “anarchists” talks about everything. In an effort to build a social marketing of propaganda for the masses, it promotes generalizations sanctifying the “oppressed people” and “workers” who, obviously, for them are “not accountable” for their responsibilities and silences, uses covertly socially palatable national references, such as “the Greek people”, “our country” and promises “social salvation” with the coming of post-revolutionary society, preaching in the assemblies of the need for centralized-structures… It seems that some neo-communists already rehearse their future offices. Perhaps, this what they train themselves for now, selling hegemony, experience coming from age and the wisdom of a leader within the anarchist milieu.

There, then, where some see an opportunity, because of the economic crisis, we see a trap. A trap of sinking in the swamp of confusion, of fantasies about the social “good” deriving from Marxist analysis, of certainties about revolutionary subjects, of economism.

First of all, the global crisis we are experiencing today is not just a crisis of numbers, financial figures and mathematics, but part of the overall crisis of values and conscience in the world of authority. It is the cannibalistic crisis of western lifestyle which after it grew big consuming blood and oil from the “underdeveloped”, it now feeds from the flesh. Today, the “developed world” not only lives in the grip of economic tyranny, but also in the desert of spiritual and emotional bankruptcy.

Unlike the Marxists and their “anarchist” great-grandchildren, who want to interpret life with the rationality of mathematics, we seek our liberation inside the blasts of a permanent existential revolt of relations, situations, values, morals, and everyday life.

Even the economy, which is the center of the tedious analysis of the communists, for us it is not a series of ordered numbers leading to the equation of the class struggle. Instead, the economy is, first and foremost, a hierarchical social relationship that speaks the language of money. Money is a symbol of accumulated power. It is a property title that owns objects, land, time, admiration, relationships, people. The anarchist challenge, then, cannot be trapped in the demand for “better wages”, “lower taxes”, “economic equality”… One cannot destroy the morality of property by making it equal and uniform to all.

The experiment of communist totalitarian regimes spawned monsters, dictatorships of the proletariat and obedient subjects. One cannot exorcise ugliness with a new ugliness, simply by changing the name to something more “social” and imagining that through the “anti-imperialist struggle”, the country won’t become a “modern colony “.

Even if one removes money, authority will find new beads and mirrors to swap for the obedience of the natives. Besides, authority is older than capitalism and money. So we laugh, but also get bored from the analysis and the texts of the anarcho-marxist theoretical moles. They write and rewrite super-analysis, but their figures don’t add up, as they cannot understand that life does not fit in the labels they stick to it … “proletariat,” “class struggle,” “anti-imperialist struggle”… First of all, anti-imperialist struggle does not require an overall anti-state perception of the anarchist struggle. Anti-imperialist struggle is also being conducted by the bureaucratic fossil of KKE (Greek Communist Party). At the same time, reading behind the lines both in the texts of the ex-anarchist now communists, we see a deliberate crypto-patriotism. National references (our country, the Greek people, etc.), focusing on the “foreign capital” (as if capital has a nationality), combined with the complete absence of anti-state edges is at least suspicious. The neo-communists – ex-anarchists do not speak for a moment about the destruction of the state. Instead, they speak in a denunciatory, political way aiming for its wide consumption and present themselves as the far left of the left government, which they denounce, but without openly declaring war against it. The extra-parliamentary opposition to the leftist government of SY.RI.Z.A. has nothing to do with anarchy and freedom. We do not seek neither a reform of the system, nor its leftist grooming; all we want is its total destruction. However, we live in strange days and we have to rearm even the most fundamental parts of anarchy…

Authority, then, is not just ugly, sullen faces attached to miserable bodies decorated with suits and ties, in the same way anarchy is not “honest worker’s sweat” and “The reading of the complete works of Marx and Bakunin“… Surely the first ones must become ideal shooting targets for Kalashnikov bursts, but this is not enough…

Authority is a social relationship.

Authority is born even in our friendships, in our meetings, in our love, in our daily lives.

Again, we have to cast it out of our relations. Of course, this is done only through a belligerent/armed confrontation with the existent, as our searches are not a hippie inner meditation but practical wishes best expressed when our fingers fill magazines with bullets and our hands arm our weapons to “talk”…

ii) Overcoming revolutionary myths

The class of the poor, the oppressed, the “ones at the bottom”, the workers, is a faded label, which for us does not represent anything in itself . They are words that are lost in the void and their echo is immersed in a past that has been overcome. The working class is a massive forced social identity, which crushes the uniqueness and particularity of the individual, of every different man under its weight. The people is the fairytale that connects a variety of persons with completely different perceptions, habits, anxieties, thoughts, personalities, characteristics most of them regressing into confusion, homogenized in the mouths of politics experts with the name “the people”. The people, the society is the realm of contradictions. It is the common place of origin, and we who deny the ethics and values of society also come from it, but it leads to different options of destinations. Within the society reside slaves who want to look like their bosses, subjects who worship order, conservatives who defend normality, the petty bourgeois who worship property, the fascists who fear everything different, the good citizens who fall in love with the privacy of their home and the cleanliness of their furniture, the underclass that envy the ensconced, the ensconced who are indifferent, the poor who grumble but are afraid to act, immigrants, delinquents who admire the privileged… At the same time, within the same society, there are progressives, sensitive philanthropists, leftists, pacifists, communists, libertarians, anarchists, revolutionaries even the nihilists-negators of society.

What is called “the people”, “society” is all the above mosaic of relations between a fog of persons, some of them connected with an affinity of perceptions and experiences, others at a fierce war with each other.

The people is always seen in a positive way. The people are claimed by all, from the fascists and conservatives to leftists and anarchists. The people are “poor”, “honest”, “depressed”, “wronged” and of course “wise” when voting… The people and the working class, according to political experts, is eternally deluded, thus always in need of guidance. Marxists and their anarchist great-grandchildren are always willing to guide (in the name of “the people” of course) and offer the promised land, the post-revolutionary society. In their texts, posters and events, they always speak in plural, using the collective “we” of the people, the workers, the proletariat, considering that, presenting themselves as part of the proletariat, they will become more likeable and the take the people on their side. The funny thing is that, usually, the political representatives of the proletariat have no connection with it, as, to put it in a “class” way, they come from petty bourgeois or middle-class layers (eternal students, regulars and owners of coffeehouses, economically dependent from their parents etc. .).

As new messiahs–liberators , they address the motley mass of the working class, considering it as the ultimate revolutionary subject. But from within the working class comes the indifference of many, the misery of the petty bourgeoisie, the patriotic cannibalism, the 500,000 voters of the fascist Golden Dawn, law-abiding citizens, informants, the conservatives, the pious of the churches, the faithful TV-viewers, the zombies of the digital world and social media, the happy consumers…

What connects us as anarchists with all these people?… From the absolute nothing, until irreconcilable hostility. Anarchy and the labor movement followed two parallel lines and it is geometrically proven that parallel lines do not intersect. Why, then, should we acknowledge the oppressed in a general and vague way as “brothers” and talk about class war, along people with whom we do not have anything in common? Better to put forward the overall anarchist attack that eliminates all these illusions of the common front of the oppressed. Because right now, all that connects us with the oppressed is the economic condition we are required to live in. But the common coercive economic condition we experience as marginalized, along with the poor, the unemployed, workers, migrants is a forced condition and not a conscious choice. Except from all of us who consciously chose the social margin and refused material privileges, what most oppressed people desire is not to destroy the world of exploitation, but to move to their bosses’ mansions, wear their clothes, imitate their manners and, in turn, oppress all those under their authority. The slave who seeks rights without having a liberating conscience will soon seek to wear his master’s suit. One only needs to notice the accumulated micro-authority that oppressed ones bear inside them when they express it against all those they believe to be “weaker” than them; the native against the immigrant, the immigrant against his family, the “most experienced” workers against their new colleagues… This is the class of modern proletarians. A mix of mercenaries of misery and cannibalism, ready to offer their services to the highest bidder. Oppressed people with oppressed complexes, wanting to be like their bosses.

We don’t want, therefore, to seek comrades and allies inside coercive common conditions we did not choose, but through common choices.

We are neither tricked nor pleased by ephemeral alliances with those who fight for a better salary or rights and reforms of the existent’s misery. We may find ourselves next to them behind barricades or in conflicts with the cops, but we’ll never meet with them substantially unless they demolish their internal moral identity of the worker, the student, the unemployed, the demonstrator and unless they refuse the world of order and laws all together.

We don’t care about those who, having nothing to lose, go out in the streets, but about those willing to lose everything to regain their lives from the beginning…

Besides, among the first ones, you’ll find the biggest traitors, who, in the first hitch or in front of the lure of an economical promise, will desert you, squeal you or even turn against you…

In contrast, in the latter case, you’ll find some of your closest and most authentic comrades and accomplices… How many times have we not found ourselves in the middle of a stormy sea of confusion and contradictions? The same people with whom we were side by side, throwing rocks and Molotov cocktails at the cops and sharing times and moments behind flaming barricades, in the context of a corporatist claim of a “wild strike” for better salaries, returned fast to their daily routine and shielded themselves again with the uniform of the lawful citizen, voter, family man, TV-viewer right after their claim was either satisfied or rejected. From the “wild strike” of Chalybourgia, we ended up with the mobilization’s total control by the union adjacent to the Communist Party and the warm welcome of Golden Dawn’s MPs, who rushed to show their solidarity to the “Greek worker’s” struggle. From the barricades and the flaming nights in Keratea and the sabotage of the landfill facility installation in the area, we ended up with high election rates for the Golden Dawn in the same area.

But even the “wild youth” reciprocates in its contradictions. From student squats and attacks against cops it jumps without a second thought to pogroms against immigrants and panegyric fiestas of national pride (“athletic” successes of the national football team).

It is not enough, therefore, only to occasionally overcome the law by throwing a rock or a Molotov cocktail. This is surely a necessary step. However, along with the bank or the police vehicle which we’ll torch, we ought to torch all the authoritarian residues inside us, the moral preconceptions and the conservative stereotypes we inherited from this world.

Of course, as we hate criticism for the sake of criticism and the degradation of digital pseudo-nihilist dirge, that criticizes everything except from the deformed “super-ego”, our position is clear. As much as we want to want to crush the petty politics of the newly minted anarcho-marxists, we evenly want to demolish the ivory tower of the “ideologists’” theory of pure anarchy.

We analyze and decode the complex of society’s explosive contradictions, not to remain spectators and admire our “authority”, but to organize strategically our anarchist attack. There are the so-called intermediate social struggles, some of which (i.e. students’ squats) are interesting due to their composition and their diversion, which may trigger chaotic situations that are the ideal field of expression of our hatred for the system. Obviously, we’ll not be absent from these struggles, without forgetting, of course, that the “ideal” is blotted by reality and what’s left from the rose is the thorn.

However, as we don’t cage ourselves into demands and reformist notions, we maintain our characteristics and don’t lose ourselves in petty political discounts to become socially “liked”. Therefore, we invade as anarchists and don’t hide behind other social masks (unemployed, worker, demonstrator); in contrast, we wear the hood and attack, without fearing the pit of contradictions of the intermediate struggles.

So, if we want to destroy this world of organized exploitation and boredom, we must talk about the overcoming of classes and not wiggle the shroud of “class struggle” as a flag. Red anarchists that talk about class struggle have a corpse in their mouths which has begun to rot. In continuous anarchist insurrection, all classes are abolished. The individual, discovering in a liberating manner its conscious self, is in total rupture with the class of which it comes from, whether this is the proletarian one or the petty bourgeois. We refuse every class because it’s a result of fissions triggered by the system. Every class bears inside it the characteristics and ethics of the existent. The beloved child of red “anarchists”, the proletariat, carries inside it the ethics of labor, the pseudo-pride of patriotism, the worship of petty ownership, the remains of religious conservatism… This is the sad representation of the confusion which triumphs inside the intermediate reformist labor struggles that never overcome their myopic self to acquire an overall liberating perspective.

iii) About Black Anarchy

We renounce, therefore, any notion of “class struggle” which, in its most radical form, the Marxist variation, aims to the conquest of power through the dictatorship of the proletariat. We spit on the “experts” of revolution, the communist leadership, the veterans and the “anarchist” personas of public relations that compete with each other for the position of the greatest helmsman of revolution.

Besides, liberation will come when we smash the heads of our self-appointed “liberators”.

We refuse to wait for the objective conditions of mass uprising. The preparation of big masses as a precondition for the “revolution” against authority only triggers postponement.

We know we live in times of “crisis”. Some ex-anarchists chose to follow the Marxist rhetoric of pragmatism, economism, thinking that they speak the language of political realism. They could not stand as anarchists; they’ll prove to be incompetent as Marxists…

Their arguments already transform and lead to obsolete alliances with individuals and political milieus that define themselves in terms of political opposition. Anarchy no longer has anything to do with them…

We insist on anarchy’s blackness.

In chaos, disorder, living dangerously, nihilism of action, in the armed confrontation with the existent, in the fire of the continuous anarchist insurrection.

We reject all the idealized principles that revolutionary theories talking about the future liberation and social harmony promise. Life offers no guarantees. The time is now and the place is here…

Let’s be honest; we don’t know how a liberated tomorrow will be “functional”. That’s exactly why it’s liberated.

Because it’ll be full of possibilities, questions and doubts. Whoever seeks for certain answers and Marxist certainties will soon seek the guarantee of authority and priesthoods of red power.

We maintain our questions and black flag…

This is black anarchy.

Anarchy, however, demands the organization of the new anarchist urban guerrilla, if we don’t want it to degenerate into a meaningless poetic chatter, doomed to be followed by the alternative integration in the system. Concepts that are not armed, like anarchist individualism, nihilism end up being harmless words in the mouths of even more harmless individuals who confuse anarcho-nihilism with the subculture of “antisocial lifestyle”.

Anarcho-nihilism combines the propaganda of words with the propaganda of shootings, fire, dynamite. Its dynamics is forged on the anvil of actions where consciousness and experience meet in a never ending dance and not in the keyboards of the digital world of noting.

Therefore, the anarchist urban guerrilla has the possibility to carry anarchy from abstract theory to practice where our desires are armed and trigger our own reality.

The Conspiracy of Cells of Fire and FAI are the reflection of our desires. We promote the creation of an informal network of cells and groups of anarchist affinity with the aim to diffuse the practical theory and attacks. We weave our own spider web… We organize our attacks against the outposts of the world of organized exploitation and boredom. We hit the banks, the police stations, the courthouses, the prisons, the ministries, the party offices, the corporate empires and whatever guards and reproduces the values of this world. Of course, we don’t forget that new anarchist urban guerrilla’s target is not just the blowing up of things and execution of authority’s officers, but, simultaneously, the destruction of social relations that bear inside them the poison of power. Therefore, in parallel with the organization and diffusion of FAI and CCF via bullets and bombs, we desire to smash with our texts all these daily social conventions and slap the mentality of willing obedience that are half of the authority’s power…

We hate the hand that holds the whip as much as we hate the back of those who uncomplainingly accept its hits…

Don’t follow me… I’m not leading you…

Don’t walk ahead of me… I’ll not follow you…

Carve your own path… Become yourself…

WE ORGANIZE 10, 100, 1000 cells of Informal Anarchist Federation and Conspiracy of Cells of Fire

ATTACK FIRST AND ALWAYS FOR ANARCHY

Conspiracy of Cells of Fire – FAI/IRF

Imprisoned Members Cell

#Conspiracy of Cells of Fire #ccf #anarchy #communism #nihilism #post left anarchy #the invisible committee #tiqqun #anti tiqqun #fai #irf #attack #direct action

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basicsofislam · 5 years

Text

ISLAM 101: ISLAM AND OTHER RELIGIONS: DIALOGUE: Part 3

What are the examples of interreligious dialogue and tolerance shown to the members of other religions during the period of the Four Caliphs?: Part 3

d. Tolerance Shown in Bureaucracy It is noticed that Christians (in general non-Muslims) were not employed during the first periods of Islam although there was a need for them. However, it is known that beginning from the rule of Umayyads in Damascus where there was an intense Christian population, Christians were widely employed in government offices. In the state of Abbasids that was supported by large masses of people, Christians along with various groups were shown tolerance and employed in government offices. There were some people who could not bear this tolerance. One of the most important reasons why people were led to have wrong feelings is that they lacked tolerance education. It is thought that Caliphs preferred daily political solutions. Although non-Muslims were employed in bureaucracy due to the need for them, it is also regarded as a result of tolerance. In the Abbasid bureaucracy, many Christians were employed, including the post of ministry. As it is known al-Mawardi divides ministries into two main groups as decision-makers and appliers and states that non-Muslims can be employed as the ministers of application. However, during the applications in history, there were some non-Muslims who worked as decision-making ministers. Ministers of Christian origin existed beginning from the rule of Abbasids. However, a Christian was employed as a decision-maker minister by the Caliph al-Muttaqi Billah and by the Buwayhid dynast Adud ad-Dawlah. It is known that al-Khiraqi, one of the scholars during the reign of al-Muttaqi Billah, who lived about a century before al-Mawardi has a positive regarding this issue. It is noticeable that in a lot of states established by Muslims after those dates the employment of Christians as ministers continued. In many periods of the states established in the first five centuries of Islam, Christians were appointed as chiefs of villages, bankers, clerks, doctors, - though they were exempt from military service because they paid jizyah – soldiers in the Islamic army, chiefs of military centers, as special deputies, guards of sellers, administrators, police chiefs, etc. Apart from these posts, they were also employed as governors, measurement officials of the river Nile, administrators of government lands and even alms officials in the course of time. Due to their build-up and great talents they were employed in medicine and related issues as palace doctors or in the establishment of hospitals and they were shown respect. The activities of translation were started by them. They formed the basis for Bayt-ul Hikmah (House of Wisdom). Their social life has always been welcomed with tolerance. Especially the doctors who worked in the palace were regarded as members of the family, they could enter the rooms of the Caliph and his relatives without permission; they could worship both in their homes and in the palace easily. Their demands of permission to build churches on behalf of their congregations were received with tolerance. It is known that Ahtal, who had an important place in the Umayyad palace as a poet of the palace, took part in the palace meetings with his special clothes and cross on his neck; let alone being tolerated, he was treated with great respect because of his poems recited against Arab opposition members. A lot of Christian poets came to the palace and recited their poems and received rewards during the Abbasid period. Apart from supporting art, it should be regarded as more important to show respect and tolerance to the works of other cultures. e. Some Pictures from Social Life and Tolerance: Maybe one of the most striking examples of Islamic tolerance is the fact that non-Muslims were not isolated to live in certain districts like ghettos. It is known that the first period conquerors moved to the houses and streets where Christians lived and that Christians and Muslims lived in the same city for centuries. Throughout history, many states generally tried to change the cultures, beliefs, and values of the countries they ruled. It was recorded by historians that before Islam, the members of religions whose origins were the same often oppressed each other and even destroyed the worshipping places of people of other beliefs. It is seen that Islam closed the doors that could lead to such attitudes through the principles it emphasized and made it possible to live together based on the principles of respect and tolerance. Its distinguished examples were presented by the Messenger of Allah himself and the Four Caliphs. It can be said that in the periods after them the social life experienced together with Christians – if some mistakes that need to thought about and that lessons need to be drawn are left aside - is formed from a togetherness directed towards a mutual love and understanding based on the principles of tolerance and respect. Apart from that, many issues were regarded as natural rights and endeavors were made to apply them. Even today we can draw lessons from those approaches that are thought to be left in the ancient pages of history. We think that today we need to experience those nice examples and maintain them by increasing their number more than in the past. f. Legal Status of non-Muslims: The foundations of zimmah (covenant) are based on the applications of the Prophet (PBUH) depending on the verse of jizyah. The Messenger of Allah sent envoys to the People of the Book and made contracts with them on the order of the Quran that wanted the alternatives of war or jizyah to be presented to them. The status of zimmi was applied in the same way during the period of the Four Caliphs, who were his successors. Apart from the application of zimmi status for the People of the Book with whom contracts were made, Hazrat Umar applied the status of zimmi not prisoners of war for the people of the regions that were conquered as a result of wars and showed a great example of humanism to non-Muslims. So, those people that surrendered through contracts or wars were accepted as zimmis. The status of zimmi, in essence, depends on accepting the sovereignty of Islam by paying a certain amount of tax. Zimmis that preferred to live on the land of Islam by paying jizyah gained a legal status primarily. In return, they gained rights like the security of life and estate, freedom of religion and conscience, exemption from military service, return of jizyah if necessary, the possibility of applying their own laws and allocation from the treasury. They even paid less tax than Muslims. As Arnold mentions rightly, jizyah was not something taken to oppress Christians but to protect them. In return for it, zimmis were given the guarantee of protection. During the first conquest movements, when the Byzantines wanted to launch an attack in order to make Muslim armies withdraw, Muslims returned the taxes they had collected because they understood that they would not be able to protect zimmis; This attitude influenced the people of the region deeply. It will be useful to mention the following in defining the status of zimmis under the sovereignty of Islam. As it is known when zimmis got old they were allocated some money and they were looked after. The following words that Hazrat Umar said to an old zimmi are very famous: It won't be right to take jizyah from you when you are young and to leave you as you are when you are old. It is known that Hazrat Umar allocated some money from zakat (alms) income to the Christians of Jabiyah suffering from leprosy and that he helped them. It is seen that Hanafis regard non-Muslims as people of dar (a kind of citizens with a contract) due to that application and similar ones. g. Legal Problems and the Laws to be applied to Zimmis It is stated in the Quran that the religious communities living under the rule of Islam are free to apply their religious rule in all phases of their lives; it is also stated that Muslims are free to hear their cases if they apply to Muslims and that if Muslims prefer to hear their cases, Muslims will decide in accordance with the rules that Allah sent down to Muslims. h. Other Social Relations and some Information about the Social Life of Christians Marriages: According to the Quran there is no drawback in marrying the woman of the People of the Book. The effort to pave the way for more people to know Islam and see the reality of Islam should be sought in the base of this permission presented by Islam. It is generally thought that the values a man owns have a stronger influence on the culture of family and environment. In this regard, if it is considered that a Muslims being a good example to the people around him, which is also aimed by the Quran, will enhance the Islamization process, it will be seen that the best way to do it will be living together. Therefore the pursuit of such wisdom outweighs in marrying a woman of the People of the Book. Marriages with women of the People of the Book beginning from the first conquests should perhaps be regarded as the most original aspect of religious tolerance. If what lies on the basis of non-Muslim Muslim relationships is humane behavior and good treatment, our religion has no weaknesses regarding this issue, and actually, it is too tolerant. We get married to Jewish people and Christians, and we take them into our homes. In this case, Muslim man will show respect to the religious applications and culture of his wife, he will tolerate the issues that conflict his belief (for instance, bread and wine ritual, taking alcohol, eating pork and worshipping in the church). In the Islamic community, the best examples of tolerance and respect were experienced in the most vivid field of social life like trading with non-Muslims, lending and borrowing money. There are a lot of Muslims who borrow from the People of the Book. The fact that Jewish people and Christians prevail in trade and in some important sectors shows the tolerance, and there is no example showing that this right was withdrawn.

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