#lest i suffer consequences down the road!!!

[rosesloveletters]

muse.

Pairing: 1971 Willy Wonka x Reader

Word Count: 2,137

Warnings: No major content warnings apply.

Summary: Reader is suffering from writer's block and Wonka surprises them with their very own writing room to help inspire their creativity.

Author's Note: As a writer, this fic is extremely important to me. Also, the photo of Wonka I used for this one is one of my favorites look at him <333

Edited.

divider created by @/saradika on Tumblr.

The sun began to set, casting a radiant glow across the landscape and saturating the horizon in the warm hues of lingering twilight as it transitioned into the blue hour. The dewy grass in the courtyard below appeared to sparkle with every movement of the wind, as if it were covered in thousands of tiny, glistening diamonds that reflected the palate of colors in the sky. 

You stepped out onto your balcony to take in the subtle beauty of serene night. 

As a poet, you were often inspired by the natural beauty that surrounded you. 

You had a passion for words and a love for language and expression. Your pen was your key to the world and it unlocked possibilities unknown to others and, sometimes, even to yourself. Your writings were an expression of your soul, of your deepest feelings and private, inner thoughts. 

You shared your heart in ink and crafted words that would encapsulate your very essence.

When it came as naturally as the setting sun, you could see the beauty and nuance of life through the lens of poetry, capturing your thoughts in ways as brilliant and as dazzling as light itself. 

Your dreams were just as bright and left streaks of color across the page every time your dared to pick up a pen, even though you could be highly critical of yourself and of your writing; your prose was background noise to your everyday thoughts, but to others, it was the crescendo of consequence, the resonant tones that were so often felt, but rarely put into the right words.

This time, however, you were struggling as anyone else would be, to find the correct words for how you felt. 

You were uninspired and, though you had time to collect your thoughts and clear your mind to make room for new ideas, it seemed hopeless as you were at a loss for where to begin. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind you startled you and you turned, coming face to face with Wonka who was respectfully removing his hat as he stepped out onto the balcony to greet you. 

“I see you’re still experiencing a bit of difficulty coming up with an idea of what to write about,” he said, voice as soft as rain as it blanketed and clung to you like a warm summer drizzle. 

You nodded; you were a bit troubled by the fact that you had been suffering from writer’s block for weeks now. 

Typically, when you wanted to write, you were able to, but right now no such case had been made. You were struggling to find the motivation to create, a debilitating scenario Wonka had found himself fallen victim to numerous times in his life, and one he did not wish to see you suffer through alone. 

His large, warm hand rested on the small of your back as he stood beside you on the balcony he had installed off the back of the factory, unseen by passersby on the main road out front. It afforded the two of you the opportunity to be outside and to enjoy the fresh air without being swarmed by the public. It was risky enough to go down to the courtyard; with Wonka’s worldwide renown, he did best to stay out of the public eye as much as possible, lest anyone decide to sneak onto the property for one reason or another, putting both of you at risk of harm. 

If staying inside of his beloved factory while the rest of the world waited on his doorstep kept him and yourself safe, he would have locked the door and thrown away the key (again.) 

Still, it was nice to have a way of escape from the sometimes-oppressive feeling of being inside all the time and so you often came out here when you felt that you needed more space. 

Privacy was deeply important to the both of you, but it was difficult to come by these days. 

Wonka gazed out across the sprawling complex of his factory.

He had built an empire that stretched several blocks. 

It was an impressive sight, but nothing quite like the way his pupils expanded in the waning light, robin’s egg blue irises spiraling with shimmering, springtime whimsy. 

A small smile spread across your face; if you could not be swayed by the natural beauty of the world around you, then perhaps you should cast your eyes upon the man who had become your whole world and let yourself become delighted by his elegant beauty.

Wonka turned to you and the look in his eye indicated that he had not expected to see you smiling at him, yet without missing a beat, he returned your grin with his own, “you know, I’ve got just the thing that might help you.”

This was unexpected. 

It was not unusual for Wonka to do his best to help you through any tough or difficult situations, especially where and when creativity was involved. 

However, when he offered you anything, you always kept up your guard at first. 

As much as you loved him, Wonka was and always had been somewhat unpredictable. 

“Willy,” you began with uncertainty, “I don’t know if it’s any one thing that might help me, rather than inspiration as a whole.”

Your intent was to discourage him from anything extravagant. 

He was already turning away from the balcony railing and making his way inside. He paused in the doorway and looked at you with a mischievous glint in his sharp blue eyes, “perhaps what I have to give you will spark that very inspiration that you seek.”

He had a point, though you were still unsure, but what choice did you have?

You trusted him perhaps more than you trusted yourself and that was saying something.

Without another thought against the matter, you turned and followed him. 

Wonka led you back through your private living quarters and down the hall, past the library and to a little room at the end of the hall that he had kept you out of under the guise of it being nothing but extra storage space. You had never questioned him on this. After all, this was his space and though you had recently become a permanent resident, you had yet found a reason to explore this particular room and therefore what secrets it held were unknown to you. 

 He paused with his hand on the knob; he was beaming from ear to ear like he was about to tell you the punchline of a joke. 

“Are you ready, my dear?” he could barely contain his excitement. 

His energy was infectious and you found yourself on the edge of your seat in terms of anticipation as you nodded and waited for him to open the door. 

He turned the knob and pushed the door inward. As it swung open, you let out a little gasp at the sight you beheld: it was a perfect, quaint and quiet little space with hardwood floors and several rugs of various colors and styles that were perfect accent pieces someone like Wonka would have acquired at one point or another in his life. There was a bookcase against the right wall, fully stocked with reading materials, writing guides, poetry collections, anthologies and dictionaries. 

Several small shelves had been installed which housed candles of various shapes, sizes, colors and scents as well as a few succulents and houseplants, one of which you noticed was a string of pearls with strands stretching near to the floor. A plush-looking armchair took up residency in the left corner near the door, along with a modest little end table and a lamp that looked like it had been brought straight from the nineteenth century. 

What caught your eye much more than any of the décor, however, was the writing desk which sat against the far wall in front of a large picture window overlooking half the Wonka factory complex and half of the city it occupied. 

The desk itself was unobtrusive and plain, wooden, with a small hutch above for storing papers and documents. It seemed almost like a schoolteacher’s desk and perhaps it had been at one time, yet the most noticeable aspect of its structure was that the desk appeared to have been sawed in half. 

All the air left your lungs…could it be?

As if he could hear your thoughts, Wonka spoke up, “I knew I had kept the other half of my desk, but I couldn’t remember where I had put it. The Oompa Loompas were clearing out one of our storage rooms when they discovered it. So, in the greatest of secrecy, I had them help me bring it in and design the perfect writing room for you. Now, you have your own quiet space to work and perhaps a little inspiration could be born from this new environment.”

You were utterly speechless, yet your mind was a trove of questions and curiosities as your eyes scanned the room; you tried to take in everything at once, but there was far too much in your immediate line of sight everywhere you looked that it was impossible to focus. 

How had he managed to do all this right under your nose, without you having ever been the wiser? 

That was, perhaps, what made him who he was. 

Wonka was a mystery, a whimsical force of nature who did as he pleased and laughed in the face of any nay-sayer. He could achieve any impossibility, regardless of impracticality.

He was also a diligent worker and was devoted to his ideas and whims. When he decided to do something, somehow, it always got done. 

Knowing that the Oompa Loompas had helped with this project warmed your heart. 

The sweet little elfin creatures who ran Wonka’s factory were more like family than mere workers and you could tell that they had lovingly created a space that would feel safe and cozy for you to work. Your mind was already buzzing with ideas of how to properly thank them for their contributions. 

“So, do you like it, my dear?”

Wonka’s gentle voice garnered your attention and your loving gaze landed on him for the first time since you had entered the room. A smile as bright and as warm as the sun split across your face, “oh, I love it! It’s perfect! I can’t thank you enough, Willy. How can I ever repay you?” 

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” Wonka amicably placed a hand on your shoulder, “your joy is payment enough. I sincerely hope that this will help spark some creativity, since you’ve had a bit of trouble lately.”

“I know it will,” your tone spoke of reassurance, for him and for yourself. 

You were certain you would feel inspired here, not just within this room, but inside the entire Wonka factory. 

You had perhaps put too much pressure on yourself to get inspired out of your own desire to create when there was a whole little world here in which you could draw inspiration from, if not from the factory itself, from the man who had made it all a reality. 

Wonka was truly magnificent in many ways, yet you were the most enamored by just one: he loved you so much that he would do something so simple, yet so profound, for the sake of helping and to bring you happiness, never asking for anything in return or making you feel guilty for accepting the help and gesture of kindness.

As a small child, your dreams of romance included the most basic of needs being met, but also of someone, a nameless, faceless partner to be filled in at a later date, showing deeper interest in you beyond that which was surface level, born not out of selfish motivations, but rather of a deeper desire for connection and an interest in who you were. 

Someone with no familial connection or obligation, who wanted to love you because they chose to, despite everything that you felt made you unappealing and undesirable. 

Wonka made you feel seen in ways you hadn’t known were possible until he enlightened you and now.

He was much more than what you yearned for in the past; he replaced your idea of romance with a real one.  

You were finally chosen. 

Never had you been so grateful to have such a unique existence. 

“And I know exactly what I’m going to write about first.”

Wonka looked at you with a hint of surprise on his face, “is that right?”

You nodded. 

“And what might your subject be?”

You looked at him lovingly, heart practically beating out of your chest as you uttered, “Us.”

How different things might have been had you known that this entire time, you were waiting for him. 

[veggiesforpresident]

i seriously dont understand how anyone has the goddamn time and energy to do all the things necessary to staying in some semblance of good health

[whimsicalfay]

Adrien, the true main character of Miraculous Ladybug. (And the reasons why this show doesn't work anymore).

Yes, I'm going to write a whole dissertation on this and no one is going to stop me. No, I don't like Marinette, but not because she's a creepy and annoying character, but because she's bland a boring. Yes, I'll elaborate on that, but firstly lest talk about what makes a good protagonist!

1.They have a problem that needs solving. What does this mean? That your protagonist needs to have some sort of conflict going on, it can be internal or external, but it has to matter to them and it has to drive them to act. It has to be personal. The protagonist has to be central to the story and to the conflict, it has to revolve around them.

2.A protagonist needs to take action. This means that they move the plot forward, because the conflict of the story is about them so every decision they make and every action they take ends up affecting the whole course of things.

3.A protagonists needs to have reasons to take action. This is and point two come hand in hand. The conflict needs to be of importance to the protagonist so they can have believable reasons to take action.

4.The protagonist has something to lose. If things go wrong, or even if they go well, something has to be a stake. That little thing that's a stake has to be the motivation, the reason, to take action. It has to be important enough to force the protagonist to take risks that otherwise they wouldn't even consider, because they can't afford to lose that something.

5.The protagonist has something to gain. Again we have things a stake here. If they do the things right they'll get a reward, something to look forward to. Without something to gain for the protagonist, why even bother to try, right?

6.A good protagonist has the capacity to change. A MC needs to learn along the way, they need to grow and show development. They need to learn from their experiences, otherwise they'll be making the same mistakes over and over again and that's not engaging.

7.A good protagonist has to have compelling personality traits and flaws. The MC needs to have something that makes the audience loves them, but also a trait that needs improvement because otherwise they wouldn't have the capacity to change.

8.A good protagonist has a secret and a very good reason to keep that secret.

9.A good protagonist has a good antagonist. The villain has to be of importance to the protagonist. Why are they enemies? Why the MC needs to stop the villain? Why does it matter?

10.A good protagonist knows that they want and makes the story happen.

And based on those characteristics we can start crafting our MC, that one person that we will have to follow throughout the whole story, the character we have to root for and relate to. The one who makes us care about the events of the story. And once we have crafted our main character we start crafting our story around them, usually following the three art structure or the hero's journey structure. Since this is a superheros show, it makes more sense to use the hero's journey, right? So let's write down this structure following both Adrien and Marinette's stories.

Marinette.

●The ordinary world: This is the original world of the hero, which "suffers from a symbolic deficiency." The hero is lacking something, or something is taken from them.

We get to experience Marinette ordinary world the first episode. We watch her interact with her parents, parents that absolutely adore her and support her on everything. We learn her family has a bakery shop and that it's the best of Paris. She isn't lacking anything, nothing has been taken from her. Her life is perfect and normal. She has a best friend, she has a wonderful part time job as a babysitter for a famous reporter, she has loving parents and goes to a good school. She lives good and nothing of that is in danger. She doesn't lack anything. She is presented as this perfect girl with an amazing life. A little bit silly, yes, but that's actually a good trait because isn't she adorable? Oh, she's lacking a love life I guess.

●The call to adventure: The hero is given a challenge, problem, or adventure. Often it appears as a blunder, or chance. This stage establishes the goal of the hero.

Marinette gets the chance to become Ladybug. Why her? Because she was a nice citizen that helped an old man and that's enough. Why does it matter if she becomes a superhero? Is that a blunder or a chance? Why? We already established that a good protagonist needs to have a conflict to solve, and usually the call to adventure is the first step the MC takes to solve that problem. Does the MC wants to become rich to help their poor family? Well, their call to adventure, the inciting incident, would be getting the opportunity to participate in a poker tournament where the winner gets 20M dollars. That is their call to adventure. But what's Marinette's call to adventure? In the ordinary world we learned that she isn't lacking anything, that nothing was taken from her. Refusing to become Ladybug wouldn't have changed anything for her. Yeah, she is a nice person and wanted to fight crime because she's that noble, but that's hardly personal. It doesn't have weight and the audience won't care.

●THE REFUSAL OF THE CALL: The (often) reluctant hero has to be set along the correct path. They must weigh the consequences and be excited by a stronger motivation to proceed further.

Well, she had a moment of doubt before accepting to become Ladybug, but I didn't see the strong motivation that made her to proceed further. Remember that the motivation has to be personal and it has to matter. If it doesn't matter to the MC then it'll matter less for the audience.

●MEETING WITH THE MENTOR: The hero encounters a wise figure who prepares them for the journey. This figure (or item) gives advice, guidance, or an item, but cannot go with the hero.

Nothing to add here because it's pretty obvious that the mentor is that old man (forgot his name) and the item she gets is Tikki.

●CROSSING THE THRESHOLD: The hero has committed to his task, and enters the special world. Often he is met by a threshold guardian.

Nothing to add here either. Crossing the threshold for Marinette was turning into Ladybug for the first time and deciding it's what she wanted to do. Although her reasond to want it to do it are none existent.

●TESTS, ALLIES, AND ENEMIES: In the special world, the hero learns the new rules by meeting people and obtaining new information. There is often a "local watering hole" component. This is where the true characteristics of the hero are revealed.

She meets Chat Noir, she also learns about her enemy Hawk Moth, we see her making new friends and frenemies and what not. The thing is nothing of that feels important because she doesn't have a reason to be doing all that. There's no inner conflict, no goal other than to chase after Adrien. Yes, little problems raise for here here and there, but are not relevant to the big scheme of things. Her goals are momentary and achieved by the end of each chapter.

Now will get to a part that hasn't happened yet, but we can guess.

●APPROACH TO THE INNERMOST CAVE: Now our hero, and often his allies, have come to the edge of the dangerous place where the "object of the quest" is hidden. This stage often is the land of the dead.

This doesn't matter because, again, Marinette has nothing to lose or gain (nothing important at least, only short lived goals with no relation to the plot). She has no reason to be doing all that other than just to be a good citizen and that isn't interesting.

●THE SUPREME ORDEAL: The hero faces danger, often a life-or-death moment that is either physical or psychological.

Again, why should we care if Marinette faces danger when we know she doesn't even has a reason of weight to be there in the first place? How we, as the audience, are supposed to root for her when she doesn't have anything to lose or gain from that supreme ordeal?

●REWARD, OR SEIZING THE SWORD: After surviving, our hero takes possession of the object, typically a treasure, weapon, knowledge, token, or reconciliation.

It doesn't matter. If Marinette wins why should we feel like it all finally paid off when she didn't even have a reason to be there or something she wanted to gain? It's just silly. Unless that reward is Adrien's love, which would be pathetic and boring because this is not supposed to be a love story.

●THE ROAD BACK: The hero must now deal with the consequences of their actions. They may be pursued by remaining forces. They now face the decision to return to the ordinary world.

●RESURRECTION: One final test is required for the purification and rebirth of the hero. Alternatively, it may be a miraculous transformation.

●RETURN WITH THE ELIXIR: The triumphant hero returns to the ordinary world bearing the elixir. Common elixirs are treasure, love, freedom, wisdom, or knowledge. A defeated hero is doomed to repeat the lesson.

I didn't add anything to the last three points because I would just be repeating myself for like the fourth time. Why should we care about the consequences of Marinette defeating Hawk Moth? Why should we care if she goes back to her ordinary world when she didn't even have a reason to leave it? And that's justs makes the two other points unimportant.

That's Marinette's hero's journey. If we can call that a journey, because so far we haven't seen her face trials and dangers, and with this what I want to say is that she hasn't faced anything that threatens what she holds dear, not for real at least. When she faced the possibility of her best friend getting angry at her because she messed with something that was important to her? Oh, that was no biggie! After all Alya knew that would end up happening and was prepared for that, silly Marinette for even worrying! When she literally commits a crime and steals her crush's phone? Why she should worry? She even go rewarded by getting invited to the movies!

Marinette has no flaws (at least to the writers' eyes) to fix, nothing to gain (besides Adrien) because she already has everything, nothing to lose because everyone adores her and because she's so perfect she could never do anything wrong. That's a boring MC. Yes, she's quirky and pretty but that's no enough to make her MC material. She has the characterization of a support character at best. That's awful.

Now let's see Adrien's journey, shall we?

●THE ORDINARY WORLD: We learn that Adrien is a famous model with a rich father and absent mother (we later learn that she "disappeared"). His life is heavily controlled by his father and his assistant, to the point he can't even go to school like a normal kid or make friends, all because he has a reputation to maintain, after all he's a famous model. He's not happy with his life, he would like to experience normal teenager's experiences like going out with friends or attending school. That's his ordinary world. What he lacks is freedom, autonomy and love, and what was taken from him was his mother. There you have inner conflict, a problem that needs to be solved.

●THE CALL TO ADVENTURE: Adrien receives the opportunity to become a hero. It'd be a challenge, a problem and an adventure all at once for him. A challenge because he'll have to find ways to get away from his controlling father without getting caught, which can cause him problems, but is also the adventure he has waiting for, the opportunity to be free, that little thing he was lacking in his life. He decides to become Chat Noir because is the right thing, but also because it'll give him something that he always wanted: the opportunity to be himself. For him it's personal. And hey, maybe later on he could use his new cool superpowers to find out about his mom, right?

●THE REFUSAL OF THE CALL: He could get in so much troubles with his father for accepting this opportunity, it could also damage his career as a model. He has every reason to say no, but also every reason to say yes because he'll get to be what he always wanted. Is an opportunity he can't let go and he knows it.

●MEETING WITH THE MENTOR: Just like in Marinette's case his mentor is that old man. It's basically the same here.

●CROSSING THE THRESHOLD: This point is also similar to Marinette's. He also crossed the threshold the first time he transformed into Chat Noir, the only difference is that for him it matters and we know exactly why. It matters because he'll get the opportunity to be himself, to be free, to escape his real life.

●TESTS, ALLIES, AND ENEMIES: Also similar to Marinette's. He meets Ladybug, he starts to attend school so he makes new friends/allies, he meets his enemy Hawk Moth. We also learn a lot more about him watching his interactions with his new allies and watching him go through his tests. And most importantly, we learn that Hawk Moth is his father.

The next points haven't happened yet, but we can guess. We'll ignore the travesty they did to his character in season 4 and we'll just keep following the hero's journey like the writers should have done.

●APPROACH TO THE INNERMOST CAVE: He's getting closer to the enemy, but the closer he gets the dangerous it gets. Not only for Chat Noir, but for Adrien too, because let's remember that his father is Hawk Moth and that he knows, or suspects at least, that his son might be Chat Noir. He also did something creepy to his wife, the mother Adrien adores and misses so much. There's so much to lose, so much at stake.

●THE SUPREME ORDEAL: Adrien faces his father, Hawk Moth. He finds out the truth and that for sure will be the hardest thing ever for him. Imagine learning that your father is the one responsible for all the bad things happening in Paris, that he is the big evil you so badly wanted to defeat. His father was not perfect, but it was still his father and now he has to make a choice. What's more important to him? Family or duty? Can Chat Noir take down Adrien's father? If Chat Noir takes him down, would Adrien be able to forgive himself? Could he live with that?

●REWARD, OR SEIZING THE SWORD: He either fight his father or they talk, get to some sort of agreement/reconciliation or bails out. What will he do? And depending on his choice, how is his road back going to be?

●THE ROAD BACK: He'll have to deal with the consequences of the choice taken in the previous point. Did he fight his father? Now he'll have to learn to live with it, maybe he'll feel guilty, maybe angry. Did they talk and got to an agreement? Maybe he was able to resolve things in a peaceful way, but now he resents his father. Did he bail out? Maybe it was to difficult for him to go against his father and decided to run away, and now he feels guilty and like a failure. So many possibilities.

●RESURRECTION: His last test. He'll have to learn how to live with the consequences of his actions and make something positive out of it. It'll be hard, but it can be done.

●RETURN WITH THE ELIXIR: After coming to terms with the things that happened he gets his reward. Maybe his mother comes back. Maybe he finally gets the freedom he so much wanted without having to hide behind Chat Noir's identity. Maybe he gets the girl. Maybe he gets the three of them.

See the difference between Marinette and Adrien's journey? Adrien has reasons, goals, things to lose and/or gain, there's so much at stake for him. He could lose what is left of his family, the life he has known, his reputation, his career, his money (although I don't see him particularly caring about wealth, it'd make an impact on him to lose it all), everything. His father is the main villain, how more personal could it get!

Adrien is the main character we deserved, his journey is the one we should be following. He had so much potential it makes me sad that is being wasted like this. He was the deuteragonist, now in season four he's just a side character.

So that brings me to the reasons why I can't keep watching this show:

Firstly, if you want to keep your audience engaged with your show the worst mistake you can make is making your MC perfect from the get go, because that lefts no room for growth. And what is the hero's journey? A journey of growth, but if your MC already has it all, then why bother? Marinette bores me to death and I can't keep watching the show just to see Adrien (one of the very few well written characters that actually made the show entertaining) appear like for two seconds.

Secondly, you don't assassinate your own characters for the sake of uplifting your MC. That's bad writing. That's character derailment and you should avoid doing that like the plague. I'm sorry, but if you have to make your characters act OOC just to uplift your MC and make her look like she finally is having some development after four seasons of static personality, then she hasn't has development at all, because it's not Marinette who changed, the ones who changed are the characters around her. They all became more incompetent than her, more annoying than her, more boring than her (when that wasn't the case before) and now she looks like she's finally growing, but it's just because the writers had to downgrade the other characters. I absolutely detest when writers do that.

I hate the constant addition of new characters that literally bring nothing to the table? But I mean, I kinda understand why they keep adding characters. When your MC is so bland that following her nonexistent journey would make the plot stall, then you have to add new characters to keep the audience entertained and advance the plot a little, because the MC can't do it for herself.

I just can't keep watching only for two or three characters. Thomas and his love for Marinette are literally ruining the show. He loves the character he created so much he refuses to make her go through anything remotely negative and he hates the other characters so much because they're not Marinette, that he destroys the their arcs. His childish and he ruined a show that had so much potential.

Sorry if you're a Marinette fan, but the truth needed to be told.

[iamanartichoke]

I started typing this in the tags of this post, and it got too long, and then I was going to just reblog the post with this as an addition but that got too long too, and I've been meaning to make a post addressing free will vs. predestination since the premiere anyway, so - here we go. Spoilers, obviously.

Cut for length and spoilers. Please blacklist #loki tv series spoilers, #loki series spoilers, and #loki spoilers.

This is kinda rough and I'm not sure it actually makes any sense but I'm posting it anyway.

I realize that the post is a joke, obviously (and it is hilarious) but I started thinking about the implications and couldn't stop because it's honestly a goldmine of existential reflection and an inevitable crisis or three.

Let's look at a scenario.

Say you're late to work for reasons totally beyond your control: your neighbor stopped you to ask a question on your way out the door; you swung through the drive-thru for a quick coffee but the person in front of you is ordering a full continental breakfast ffs (this happened to me this morning); there was an explosion and then the Winter Soldier randomly dropped from the sky and landed on the hood of your car. Whatever. Shit happens.

So you're late, but on this particular day, your lateness somehow has consequences that lead to and create a nexus event and the next thing you know, you're being arrested, tried, convicted of time crimes and ultimately (a version of you is) erased from existence.

And this is if it's not even your fault you're late.

Now say that you're late and it is your fault. You took a new route on a whim and drove a little more slowly because you passed a particularly pretty meadow; you hit the brakes at a yellow light instead of speeding through bc you wanted the quick chance to check your email; you sat in your car for a few extra minutes in the parking lot, because maybe your job sucks and you really needed those extra minutes today to psyche yourself up into getting out of the car and going inside and clocking in.

These little choices are you exercising your free will. Because to me, free will is all or nothing - it doesn't just apply to the big decisions.

On the other hand, predestination means that regardless of the choices you make or if it's a big decision or not, everything you do is ultimately going to lead you to a set point or position or place (your destiny).

And I can kind of look at it like a GPS - that is, there are a number of "insignificant" choices you could make and they will still lead you to where you're predestined to go. Like how a GPS will reconfigure your route if you miss your exit on the highway. It doesn't matter if you took Route A or Route B, you're still going to end up at your destination.

But say sometimes the route does matter. Say that there are certain scenarios in which there's only one road (for example, 14 million losses vs 1 win) and you can only get on it by following a specific series of events and what determines the ultimate outcome is whether or not you're late to work that day.

If you decide to wait those extra five minutes in the parking lot, that means that you weren't in your cubicle at 9:03 when Stanley from Accounting wandered by with his giant stack of papers, and when Mary Sue said hello to him, he got distracted and tried to wave and ended up dropping those papers. Had you been at your cubicle, you'd have swooped down to help him but since you weren't there, Stanley is crouched on the floor alone and doesn't notice Joe coming at him with a paper trolley so when he stands up, he and Joe collide and Stanley loses his balance and goes face-first toward the trolley and breaks his nose when he hits the metal handle on his way down.

Now Stanley has to go to the hospital to get his nose set because you wanted to sit in your car and spend five extra minutes hating your life that morning.

If the sacred timeline says that Stanley is supposed to be in that ER at that specific time on that specific day, and no other set of circumstances would get him there, because this will ultimately take Stanley down the road to whatever greater journey he's supposed to go on, then it has to happen. But say you exercise your free will and decide not to wait those five minutes, because the free will applies to every choice you make, even the tiny, insignificant ones. You chose to put on your big person pants and took a deep breath and just head inside - and because you chose to do that and because you were at your cubicle to help Stanley with his papers, Stanley never ends up in the ER and the timeline that's supposed to happen is suddenly at risk and the TVA has to get involved (I assume).

So having free will introduces way, way too many variables into a fixed timeline to ever keep track, because you're taking these tiny, seemingly insignificant choices that people are making every minute of every day, and you're multiplying them by trillions of sentient beings in the universe, and you're saying the fate of the timeline and reality itself depends on all of these beings either always making the choice they're supposed to make or constantly sending the TVA out whenever they don't.

It's fair to conclude, then, that both free will and a fixed, single timeline can't exist at the same time. Either you adhere to the fixed timeline and everyone does exactly what they're supposed to do every second of every minute of existence, or you have free will and autonomy over all of your decisions, no matter how big or small, and those decisions can result in a number of outcomes, ultimately leading you to one of several possible destinations.

Case in point: Tony didn't have to snap his fingers in Endgame. He chose to. Had he not, Thanos would have won. It doesn't matter if there was one way to victory or 14 million ways to failure; the timeline could ultimately only go one of two ways and the choice Tony willingly made determined that Thanos lost. It wasn't predetermined because if Tony had not chosen to snap his fingers, the timeline would have gone the other way.

My personal belief - and this isn't necessarily for the MCU, but in general - is that we do possess free will and the future is ever shifting and changing because nothing is written in stone. It holds up against most, if not all, of the world's belief systems. For example, if you believe that people have guardian angels, the rule is generally that your guardian angels can help you but you have to ask them; they can't decide to intervene without your permission because to do so would infringe upon your free will.

Similarly, you can go on etsy and pay $5 for a funsies psychic reading or pay a lot more money for an in-depth, specific tarot reading and both will tell you that the outcomes may change depending on the paths you take, and that their ultimate advice is for you to keep your focus on your goals and your own self so that you can be subconsciously manifesting the best possible future for yourself. (Not that I know this from experience. It was one time. It was a few times. My point stands, and also stop judging me.)

To get back to the MCU, though - if you determine that both a single, fixed timeline and free will can't simultaneously exist, and your ultimate purpose is upholding said timeline and not letting anyone fuck it up, lest it break off into lots of different branches, then it poses a pretty serious moral and/or ethical question of - who decides what choices we make and what paths we're destined for? The time lizards? Who gave them that authority? Did anyone, or did they just manifest themselves into existence one day, create the universe, and then decide all of the rules (and, if so, where does that leave the norns and the gods and other super powerful beings who are generally thought to be in charge of things)?

If free will doesn't exist and everyone is acting based on what has been predetermined for them by some higher being (or, in this case, time lizards), it takes away our autonomy, and if everything we do and every single tiny step we take is decided for us, what makes us any different than cogs in a machine just following orders? What separates us from robots?

Speaking of robots, it's interesting to me that the TVA's screening process (if you can call it that) has a failsafe against robots specifically. Any robot that might come through is destroyed immediately and in this case, “not a robot” is defined, more or less, as a sentient being that possesses a soul. What does the TVA have against robots if their ultimate goal is ensuring that the robotic machinations of the time lizards are consistently carried out to protect the sacred timeline?

A soul makes you human; the energy of the soul is what you, at the core, are. It can be assumed that having a soul also means that you have some sort of moral and ethical code by which you live your life but, if you don't also have free will, then what is the point of possessing a soul and a moral and ethical code?

Loki is a villain and he's told by Mobius, the TVA, Odin, and pretty much everyone who ever meets him that the only thing he's good for - the only reason he exists - is to cause pain and suffering and death. This has been predetermined for him; this is not his fault and he did not choose it. And every single choice he makes has either already been destined as the choice he was supposed to make, or will be pruned so it won't grow into the wrong timeline. Ultimately Loki can change neither his final destination, nor the purpose and meaning of his existence.

Which leads me to the theory that the several Loki variants that the TVA keeps coming across are the result of Loki consistently resisting against his predetermined path; he's trying to find the timeline where he is able to latch onto and keep his own free will in defiance of the timekeepers but, so far, he hasn't been successful. This could segue into why the current Variant is now going scorched earth and just obliterating the main timeline completely - because if there is no sacred timeline, there's nothing dictating who or what Loki can be, and free will is regained. If there's a multiverse that branches and branches beyond anyone's control, then there must be a branch in there, somewhere, where Loki can exist on his own terms and decide how his own story goes.

This also might be a theory for why Loki is already setting his sights on taking over the TVA (assuming that's not just something he told the variant for reasons). But my original point in delving into all this is to ask: if Loki is predestined to always be a villain whose story plays out exactly the same way because that's what's supposed to happen, then how can anyone ever hold his misdeeds against him? He's literally just existing as the timekeepers decided he would exist and everyone is blaming him for it.

And this leads me to ask, as well, if one's soul is generally good, and one possesses more good traits than bad, what is the logic in making them exist only for pain and destruction? If it's for a greater good, then it stands to reason Loki is not the only one predestined for misery, and what greater good could come from all that suffering?

Conclusion: the existence of the TVA as an organization means that there is one fixed, sacred timeline but the existence of said timeline is immoral and unethical because it means no one actually has any free will at all in the MCU. The very notion of heroes and villains is pointless because it has nothing to do with your own qualities or morality, it's literally the luck of the draw. In order to have free will, the sacred timeline has to be destroyed, and so my prediction is that the Big Bad of the Loki series is not the TVA and not the time keepers but the actual timeline itself, and the entire fate of the MCU rests on whether or not Loki can ultimately succeed.

Also, don't be late for work.

[descentivity]

Depression, Trauma, (and Most Importantly,) My Thoughts on Hello Charlotte EP1 & 2

Eating has been difficult for me for as long as I remember. It started off as an aversion to food, in favour of spending my time more efficiently on what my dumb little mind viewed as more important: Homework, video games.

Over time, it turned into anorexia. I had already gotten used to eating just under 500 calories a day, and my depression took my poor habits and twisted them into a cowardly and slow attempt at suicide.

On my road to recovery, I’ve found that years of poor eating choices have lead to my body struggling to process food. I have to eat at a painstakingly slow pace lest my stomach turns against me, and the smell of food is sometimes enough to diminish my appetite altogether. My bowel movements are, for lack of a better word, a shitshow.

This brings me to today, the 10th of August, 2021. 6 or so years of barely eating enough to survive later, I’m setting the world record for the slowest consumption of a fillet o’ fish in the history of mankind. 

In my absolute boredom and unfathomable stomach pain, ManlyBadassHero’s playthrough of some random horror game (I can’t remember the name) appears in my YouTube recommended, and I’m reminded of a horror game I bought on sale on Steam, the last of a trilogy. In all honesty, I only bought the game because it was dirt cheap and one of my sisters’ names is Charlotte. I was too horrified at the time to process the story nor play the previous two games, so I did a quick achievement run and left it at that. I was certainly very confused as I had no idea who any of the characters or what any of the concepts were, but the gore had me too mortified to go and find out myself. 

A year later, I’m looking the trilogy up on ManlyBadassHero’s YouTube channel, and decide to start from the beginning of his Hello Charlotte journey, in 2016.

Hello Charlotte EP1

I’m going to be completely honest with you, the first game really didn’t resonate with me too well. It was a cute, quirky, RPG Maker horror game, with two loveable main characters and an interesting world. However, with context from the third game, the events felt too self-isolated and inconsequential. Felix and Charlotte are in a little self-contained TV world created by a fictional race called Pythia - creatures with 3 or 4 eyes that can create miniature dimensions, once brought into a hivemind by an “Oracle,” which seems to be some sort of god. They all seem to be falling apart and have taken a horrific turn as most of the Pythia have been “executed,” and those who haven’t have either gone mad or into hiding in their own bubbles of (albeit temporary) safety.

The ending of the game is somewhat misleading, too. Once Charlotte and Felix escape the TV world by having Charlotte merge with the Oracle itself, the game almost plays off the previous events like they were all a story made up by a young and imaginative Charlotte. Did they happen at all? Is she a reliable narrator or point of view to begin with? (Spoiler alert, she is not.) The explanation for it all seems to be that Charlotte herself is a schizophrenic, though the legitimacy of this is brought into question in the third game, which I will talk about later. Altogether, the game didn’t bring out many strong emotions in me, and I was starting to zone out as I moved on to the second game’s playthrough.

Hello Charlotte EP2

What struck me as odd in the second game is that while the first game seemed to bring Charlotte out of her own strange, black-and-white world and back into reality, we’ve found out that she’s right back where we started last game. A black-and-white world, inhabited by her imaginary friends. Aliens, gods, and the like. However, Charlotte’s seemingly made-up world feels more alive this time. I’m not sure if this is the consequence of the game developer improving their skills or an intentional detail, but even more characters are introduced, and previously shallow tenants of Charlotte’s home are given more depth. The hazmat-suit wearing aliens have faces, personalities and whole backstories attached to them, now. Charlotte has a best friend at school named Anri, who has a obsessive crush on her. She’s friends with a bullying victim named C with horrible germaphobia, who has almost identical struggles to her (more on those struggles later.)

What also surprised me is the continuity between the first and second game. For some reason, I thought that this Charlotte would be starting from scratch, completely oblivious to the fate of the first game’s iteration. However, this concept only seems to be used in the third game, so I guess I was simply mislead. This game, in fact, takes place 3 years after the first, and the Oracle still lives on within Charlotte’s conscious. However, it’s a dying god, on its last leg. It had already been dying during the time of the last few Pythia, but it had used the last of its strength to free Felix and Charlotte from their world. As the Oracle’s health declines, so does Charlotte’s mortal body.

Unlike the first game, most of the themes in this game hit way too close to home. The feeling of second-hand helplessness when someone you barely knew ends their own life. Anri’s obsessive and outright manipulative lesbian crush on Charlotte, bordering on bullying. The schooltime harrassment and trauma Charlotte underwent. The fear and dangers of social interaction. Feeling unlawfully punished by your school teachers for seemingly nothing at all. Depression, self harm, and the primal urge to escape from it. Getting roped into others’ mental health, until both of your issues converge into a disgusting amalgamation of the need but severe lack of therapy and a break from it all. Delusions of what could’ve been and the possible, yet near impossible future ahead. Looking back on everything you’ve ever done and regretting every second of it.

While I ticked off the trauma presented to me on a silver platter in the form of a fucking RPG Maker game like a twisted bucket list, I found myself relating more and more to not only Charlotte, but the students around her. Scarlett, whose life was so perfect that nobody had even thought about her possible mental issues until it was far too late. Anri, who would lay down her life for a girl who simply doesn’t feel the same way. C, who desperately wanted to escape from reality by any means possible.

An interesting fact about Hello Charlotte is that there are numerous omnipotent beings amongst its cast. They aren’t shy about providing very in-depth character analysis to Charlotte, and in turn, to the puppeteer (I suppose now is a good time to inform those who are unfamiliar with the series that the puppeteer refers to a species, character, and the player, all at once. Charlotte has a puppeteer controlling her by the name of Seth. You are/are controlling Seth as the player. Capiche? Capiche.)

What this meant for me watching Manly’s playthrough was the feeling of two gods (in this game, at least) peering right into my soul, analysing characters that reflected my exact experiences and even my personality during my school days. I learned and realised things about myself that I simply hadn’t known before. Just like Charlotte, I’m simply looking for direction in life, and I’m too afraid to act without instructions. I found myself bullied, manipulated and abandoned by someone who simply wanted my affections, and only learned to miss them when they were gone. Like Anri, my desperation for love and approval from an individual in turn lead to anger and resentment for them. Like both Charlotte and C, I eventually turned to hurting myself to make all the pain go away, refusing help from others and developing a shell of false optimism and naivety to forget about the damage I had dealt to my body, personality and relationships.

As much as I hate to admit it on my little obscure Tumblr blog with 0 followers and 0 traction, I still struggle with these things. I have no direction in life, and wander aimlessly, hoping for one of my offshot attempts at content creation to take off. I find myself missing the girl who emotionally abused me to hell and back every day. I resent another girl for never feeling the same way I felt about her. I still don’t take care of myself, and spend every day in a state of denial about my physical decline and sickliness. I’m so incompetent emotionally that I spend days ignoring my own boyfriend, starving him of the proper relationship that he deserves all because of how broken, fragmented and distant my own mind is.

Hello Charlotte EP2 has four endings. All four of them, in my eyes, are bad.

In the first, C and Charlotte overdose together, leaving their mortal realm to become gods. They choose to ignore and forget the pains of their mortal lives, and live the rest of their godly lives in ignorant bliss. Do I want to forget about my depression and trauma? Learn nothing, and forget about everything that made me who I am today? Or worse even, do I dare take the plunge into “godhood,” and leave this mortal plane to end my suffering altogether?

In the second, Charlotte discovers that C isn’t who she thinks he is, and she finds him without a soul. Alive, but empty. Charlotte could not save him. Consumed by grief, she ascends and becomes a god, consuming the entire world around her. After all is said and done, she realizes her mistake. All of her friends are gone, C is still empty and unresponsive, and now she is alone. Sometimes, I feel as though I’ve already gone through this ending, many times over. Countless times I’ve let my depression become all-consuming and take over my life. I’ve pushed so many people away and hurt so many more, and for what? I have nothing to gain from every fit of depression, and the consequences make it seem nothing more but a selfish attempt to make myself feel better.

In the third, Charlotte is the only one who dies. In her last moments, the Oracle comforts her, like a mother cradling her child. They embrace, and say goodbye to each other, as Charlotte’s own life was the only thing keeping the dying god alive. At this point, I’ve started to draw parallels between the Oracle and depression. Depression isn’t always a horrible thing that beats you down and keeps you from being truly happy. Sometimes, wallowing in my own sadness and depression would be the only thing that keeps you sane, stable, and calm. The feeling of hopelessness really is bittersweet, and in desperate times, goes hand-in-hand with acceptance of one’s circumstance. Oftentimes, I find that this is the most realistic way I’ll go out. One day, I may just accept depression, and succomb to it. There may not be a struggle at all. Rather, a quiet, submissive hum, which will fade away into silence.

In the fourth and final ending, Charlotte and C die alongside each other. After her death, Charlotte confronts the Oracle, and wishes to save everyone, and for everyone to be unhappy. Of course, this is where the classic saying: “Be careful what you wish for” comes in. Because of her wish, everyone’s soul, what makes them individual and unique, is erased. After all, no one can suffer if they cannot think at all. In some ways, emptiness is pure bliss. This once again goes back to the bittersweetness of depression. The sheer emptiness it may bring on, at times, is bliss. Feeling nothing isn’t always a bad thing. It’s a way to cope with the horrors of the world. To remember nothing at all is such a tempting yet unattainable solution that I can’t say I haven’t longed for in the near or distant past. Charlotte, of course, is distraught that her friends are all gone, their identities and souls lost forever. Following this, she has one request to make of another god, the observer. She wishes to be killed, as all of her actions have lead to nothing but pain for others and herself. The observer, however, refuses this offer. Instead, he comforts her and takes her hand. They go on a journey together. He suggests that one day, she’ll learn to control her power, and she can recreate the world and her friends. As they leave, Charlotte reflects on her hopes and dreams for the journey. She hopes to learn to be kind, and not hurt others. She wants to change her ways, and become an honest, good person. Charlotte, slowly but surely, is on the road to recovery.

Putting the unsettling sequel to this game aside, maybe I could learn a little bit from Charlotte.

[mnictasbcl]

Life’s beauty

For #dbhcolorsofdeviancy, prompt:

June 9th: The feeling of being alive @connor-sent-by-cyberlife

Rating: Teen

Characters: Connor, Hank Anderson

Relationships: Connor & Hank Anderson

Additional Tags: Fluff, Break, Swearing, Cabin, Woods, no not a cabin in the woods this is fluff lads, Beauty of nature, Fishing, Sensory detail,

Summary: After the Revolution, Connor had done nothing but work. Hank decides to take him away to the beauty of nature, to truly realise the feeling of being alive.

Story below! Or, read it on AO3

The androids fought, they won, they became free. In the weeks proceeding the revolution, Jericho’s sole goal was getting sorted the rights of androids so that deviants could truly be as human as they wanted to. Connor was involved in some of the proceedings, helping Markus word and practice his speeches, aiding North with logistical things and tasks to help with the thousands of homeless deviants seeking shelter. But as soon as the right was agreed that androids could work and earn a salary as humans do, Connor was right back at Hank’s side, working at the DPD. After all, whilst his help was needed in Jericho, he could be of much more use on the police force, especially given the rising numbers of hate crimes towards androids following the revolution.

Besides, it was nice to get back into a familiar routine, minus the all-seeing, all-knowing control of Cyberlife hanging over his head.

So, the months progressed. Connor worked as partners with Hank at the DPD, and the two were an unstoppable force, what given their bond and skills around deviancy. More rights were being fought for them in the background. Soon, androids were almost treated, at least by law, as equally as humans. They could not be discriminated against, not hurt, they could work, they could buy property, they could start families- everything. Months after the revolution, and things were looking bright on the horizon.

This didn’t mean that the hatred against androids all out stopped. However, crimes were slowly but surely falling, what with the consequences for committing them becoming stronger by the day. This left slightly less work for the DPD to sort out.

However, when Hank woke up one morning and decided he wanted some time off, Connor was still a little confused.

“Are you quite alright, Lieutenant?”

Hank groaned. “For the last time, it’s… never mind.” He paused, placing his coffee mug back on the kitchen table. “Why’d you ask, though?”

Connor shrugged. “I just wondered whether you needed the time off to rest, or recuperate, perhaps—”

The man shook his head. “You don’t always need a reason to take some time off, Connor. It’s been pretty hectic these past few months at the DPD and I just thought it was time for some change around here. Sumo’s barely seen us.”

“Alright.” He nodded, “But I will have to arrange with Fowler what partner I will be assigned whilst you are away.”

“Whoa whoa, who said you couldn’t use a break too?”

“I do not require breaks. I perform stasis every night and—”

“Don’t you just want to… to be out there?” Hank questioned, rather vaguely, Connor thought with a furrow of his brows. “Go out and do things. I mean, now that Markus and crew have got all those fancy rights for you all, I thought you’d want to go and experience them.”

Connor straightened his tie. “I already am, Lieutenant. Captain Fowler is paying me above minimum wage, and last week, Gavin managed to restrain himself from insulting me.”

Hank smirked. “Oh boy. Not exactly what I meant. Look- I’m not going to force you, but I’m offering: we take a week or so off work, I’ll show you some sights, or we can just stay at home and spoil Sumo, whatever you want. I just want to see you have fun, kid.”

Connor blinked. His LED briefly flashed yellow, processing. Eventually, he nodded. Perhaps the Lieutenant’s words had some reason to them. Aside from a couple of weeks after the revolution, he hadn’t done much outside of work. Of course, it hadn’t struck him as odd. Even with his new status as deviant, which came with its differences, such as emotions and connections with other people, he’d been used to constantly working, following orders, completing tasks, completing the mission. But maybe he could now benefit from not having anything to do other than… what was it… Be out there, as Hank had put it.

“Okay.” He agreed, LED circling back to blue. “Perhaps some time away from the precinct would be optimal. However,” Connor added, glancing to the clock, “we had better get going for work today, lest Fowler relieve us of duty for good.”

Hank cursed, chugging back the rest of his coffee. But even with the time limit now imposed on their morning, Connor noticed he was a lot less grumpy about the rush to work.

 ___________________

  Luckily, Fowler had allowed them the week off work, and the time between then was spent planning what activities they’d get done.

Connor was pleased to hear that it wouldn’t be full of travelling and going a multitude of different places. Whilst he was excited (excited? Yes, he supposed he felt a rush of happiness every time he thought about their trip) about seeing the world, he didn’t really feel up to seeing everything at once, and, besides, travelling for long amounts of time bored him. There was nothing to do but listen to the tinny radio on Hank’s car, playing either jazz or heavy metal rock music, and flick his coin back and forth between his hands (at least for a short amount of time, until it was confiscated from him for being ‘loud as fuck, Jesus Connor’).

Instead, they’d decided upon going to a cabin Hank had managed to rent for a fairly cheap price, somewhere in a wooded, natural area. It wasn’t so out of civilisation that they would struggle to get supplies lest they need them, but it was far enough away from the traffic of the city and the hustle and bustle of busy daily life.

Sadly, the journey was still fairly long, a couple of hours out. Luckily, though, Connor had brought five US quarters with him, each one stored in a different place on his outfit.

Hank looked long-suffering by the time he’d taken away the third coin.

“You’ve got another one, haven’t you.” It was less of a question, and more of a statement.

“Affirmative, Lieutenant. You advised me to pack the essentials.”

“Like clothes. Food. Water. Ah ah ah—don’t you get cocky with me and say they’re not essential for you. I know.” He sighed. Connor smirked. He could tell that Hank was mildly annoyed but not angry with him. He tried his best not to antagonise his fellow occupant in the car, but he just couldn’t help it—since deviating, something in him had changed whenever he had to sit in a long car journey.

Boredom, his mind supplied.

boredom /ˈbɔːdəm/

noun          the state of feeling bored.

Connor chuckled softly at the definition his mind supplied. Firstly, it was… incredibly unhelpful. Secondly, he must be bored if he was subconsciously searching the definition of boredom itself.

He decided he would need to find a way to occupy his mind on the journey. For now, he didn’t think getting out his fourth coin to play with would be a good idea, since Hank was a bit on edge, and he needed some coins for the journey back. So, laying back in his seat, he took to looking out the window. It wasn’t too long before they arrived, he deduced from a scan of his surroundings. Things were changing vastly now. There were no tall and looming buildings like those in the city, no cars shooting by, horns blaring, people running up the streets, late to work. The city was alive, kind of beautiful in its own way, but nature, he began to notice, had its own sense of beauty. What with the trees lined up along the landscape, varying in shape and height, and in density of leaves and branches. The skies almost seemed clearer, more vibrantly blue and interspersed with soft white clouds. It was aesthetically pleasing, he noted, even if not sharing the geometry of lines and symmetry that the city held.

He whiled away the rest of the journey watching the sights go by, managing to stay stiller than he had the first half of the journey. It was awfully serene. Still, when they reached their destination, car pulling up on a dusty road, the cabin sitting by a pond in the distance, Connor was eager to leave the vehicle.

Connor helped eagerly with the bags, carrying a couple in each hand and waving off Hank’s requests to take some off him.

“I can manage, Lieutenant.”

“Show off.”

“I could also carry the two you have, if that would be of help.” He added, teasingly, to which the man flipped him off. Which then caused him to drop a bag with the change in hand positioning.

Connor couldn’t help it. He started to laugh, which wasn’t a good idea when he was holding four bags. His side started to ache a little, and he eventually had to drop a couple of the bags onto the floor in order to supress the stitch.

“That’s it, we’re going back home.” Hank made to walk back to the car, trying to act serious, but the fact that the android was still sniggering didn’t help things. “You’re a little shit, you know that, right?”

“I believe… I… believe you have referred to me as that multiple… times…” Connor got out between chuckles, before taking a few deep breaths, getting a hold of himself.

“Well, here’s one more to add to the list.” Hank remarked, reaching down to pick back up the bags, following after Connor as he headed towards the cabin.

There was a moment of confusion as they tried to figure how to get the front door unlocked, what with all the bags, until they realised it was already unlocked, Connor leaning against it and finding it swing open.

“That’s safe.”

“I do not detect any beings inside the residence.” Connor informed him after a quick scan of the cabin.

“You sure? No pigeons or squirrels made a little home for themselves up in the attic?”

Connor began to walk inside, glancing around in case his scans hadn’t been accurate, but shook his head upon reaching the living area. “I believe not. There is no attic.”

He heard a slight thud of a bag being dropped onto the floor, and snorted.

 ___________________

 The first late afternoon and evening at the cabin was spent getting everything unpacked and homely in the cabin, and Connor cooking a healthy meal for Hank (“There’s no takeaway service out here, Lieutenant”).

After that, however, Connor awoke them bright and early the next morning, coming out of status around 7.30am and pulling open the curtains.

“As per our schedule, Lie—”

“Jesus Christ, Connor.” Hank groaned, a phrase the android had become accustomed to hearing. He cringed. Perhaps he’d forgotten that coming out of human rest was different to coming out of stasis. He pulled the curtains slightly to, so that it wasn’t blinding early morning sunlight streaming into room. This time only a small slither of it.

“Apologies… Hank. I may have been too prompt. I’m just…”

Rubbing his eyes, Hank looked him over, seeing the android fully dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt with an image of a cartoon Saint Bernard on it, and some loose-fitting pants.

“Excited.” The man finished for him. “Well, that’s what I get for letting you organise a schedule for the week… If you get me some coffee, I might forgive you.”

Connor swiftly made his way into the kitchen and came back approximately 3 minutes later with a mug of coffee.

 And so, that’s how the morning went on. Hank might’ve complained, used to this side of the android from how he liked to get the tasks done swiftly and properly at work, but he was fond to see Connor moving about and happy to do something other than work.

It wasn’t much later into the day that they were sitting out by the side of the lake, situated to the right side of the cabin. It stretched out a fair distance beside the residence, its waters calm and silvery on the surface. Just reaching midday, there were chirps of wildlife buzzing around them, but nothing too loud and overbearing.

Hank had decided one thing he wanted to introduce Connor to was fishing. He could remember going on to a lake not dissimilar to this one in his youth, being taught how to fish. Maybe he could pass that skill, or at least the experience, down onto the android.

After making sure he wouldn’t cheat and download a step-by-step guide on fishing in his ‘brain-computer-thingy’, as the man eloquently put it, Hank entrusted him with his fishing rod he’d brought along. It was a little rusty with disuse and he had little in the way of lures, but it didn’t seem like Connor wanted to harm the fish anyway, given from his reluctance upon seeing the sharp metal hook of the rod.

“I doubt they’ll actually bite,” he shrugged, guiding the fishing rod into the android’s hands. “But if they do, you can just release them back in. A little different to how I’ve done it, but…”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” He stepped back a little, eyes squinting as he concentrated, focusing on flicking back the rod and casting the line as Hank had just shown him how to do. It was a few moments before he managed to precisely replicate the movement, and soon his line was bobbing in and out of the water.

After a few moments, though, he tilted his head, confused. “What now?”

“You wait.” Hank supplied, sitting back on a deck chair he’d brought with them, cracking open the ice box he’d brought with him. “Hey—where did all the beers go?”

The man was looking at him, holding out the can of lemonade. “It’s a much better alternative, Lieutenant. I did… I left a few beers in the bottom of the box, however I’d much rather you left those for later.”

Hank groaned, but complied, and Connor refocused his attention on the waters in front of him. The goal of the task was to catch a fish, and then reposit it back in the waters. But he was meant to wait for that to happen—

He shook his head. That wasn’t the goal. He supposed, from what he’d learnt from his short months of being human, was that there wasn’t really a goal to be attained with every action and thing he did. There were outcomes, but maybe the true aim of this ‘fishing’ wasn’t to catch the fish at all.

Not with the still waters, glistening on the surface, calm movements every now and then as something beneath rippled the current in its movements. Not with the calm hum of nature, the trees lightly dancing back and forth in the breeze. Not with the soft click of the lemonade can opening, Hank’s breathing, the warmth of companionship.

It was about the moment, he noted. The build up of planning their excursion, the anticipation in the car ride over, and now it was the moment he’d thought about. A break from modern day life, a chance to fully enjoy being human. Not working, not thinking constantly about android rights, having things to get done. That moment gave him a chance to reflect, as his eyes cast over the waters, line bobbing as something began to lightly tug on the end of it. To reflect truly on what had happened the past few months.

Because it was a lot. It was being created, being a machine, hunting deviants, meeting Hank… realising that there was more to life than following orders and completing the mission. Taking those orders and throwing them away, meeting the leader of the deviants, of their people, and finally becoming himself.

And now, he was realising what it truly was to be himself… it was freedom. Freedom was being able to have family, to move in with Hank and Sumo, to be free to choose his career path, choose what he wants to do with his life. Choose to take a break away from it all and immerse themselves in nature.

Nature, with all its beauty, all its life—

Standing there, realising this all, feeling the fresh breeze of air tickle his cheeks, the warmth of sun, shining soft yellow light, Hank teaching him to fish. He could do what he wanted. And it wasn’t a task; there was no mission. He could just have… fun.

“Connor? I think you caught one.”

He snapped back to reality. Hank was right. The line was tugging in his hands, and he moved swiftly to reel it in. A fish dangled from the edge of the line. He gathered it up in his hands, carefully, then crouched down, letting his hands hover partway through the water.

It was gentle, and the fish tickled as it moved in his hands, burrowing deeper into the water it could find. He laughed. It reminded him of the fish he caught back in the Tower, that one day, so far away. Connor let it back into the lake.

He watched it swim further away, down and down, deeper into the water. A pause. “Hank, is… is this what it feels like to…” he paused again. LED swirling in thought. “To be alive?”

Hank stood beside him, hand patting his shoulder. “This, and a lot of other things, kid.”

Connor thought it over for a moment. “I think I like it.” Being alive seemed to bring its downs, but even the hostage situation would bring the fish struggling on the floor to be saved. It would bring choices, choices he could make his own decisions on, and moments like this which he wouldn’t trade for the world.

“Great. Now, where were those beers you hid again?”

[anciientboosh]

If you're still accepting drabbles, love to see what you can do with #83!

83. "Enough with the sass!" (So this ended up taking a slightly cheekier route than I originally intended, but what can I say, these boys sometimes run a bit rampant in my brain! I also want to severely apologise if the standard is a bit terrible, I'm writing drabbles at 2am because my insomnia holds me hostage. Thank you so much @kateyboosh for the prompt - I had a lot of fun playing with this one!)

It’s a deliciously warm spring morning, birds tittering gleefully outside of the window, and for once Vince is actually awake to see it. Howard has left him spread amongst their sheets; splayed like a marionette with his strings cut. His skin is touched softly by the light of the sun peeking through their bedroom curtains, seeping into his bones and heating him from the inside out. 

He could get up. Could even make himself useful while his partner is gone, off to the shop down the road to get his morning paper and some fresh milk for their tea. Were Vince a different kind of person he may just have dragged himself from his nest and laid out their mugs ready for his return. 

Thankfully for him and his penchant for a lie in, Vince is in fact just Vince. Who chooses to use this time sunning himself like a cat in the small patch of direct sunlight he could find. It's not like Howard would even mind, he certainly won't expect Vince to do anything but lay prone until well after noon. 

The sound of their door swinging open downstairs breaks him from his light doze; Vince has never been good at telling time but he's almost certain that Howard could not have made it all the way to the shop and back already. 

That much is confirmed when the man himself pushes into their bedroom, face flushed with exertion and hurriedly slams the door shut behind him. 

For a frantic moment Vince fears something terrible has happened, it wouldn't be the first time an incredibly innocent task turned misadventure on them. He starts gathering the sheet about himself, scrambling for his abandoned clothes. He freezes with his pyjama bottoms halfway up his legs, though, Howard having turned on him with his face painted crimson and an accusing finger outstretched. 

“You!” He snaps. “You little tart.” 

Vince is about to object, about to demand who exactly Howard thinks he is. That is until he catches on to the problem a lot faster than some would give him credit for. 

“Oh my god.” He breathes around a giggle. One hand slapping to his mouth to stop the snickering lest it annoy his partner further. 

Too late for that though. “Laugh it up now, giggly stevens.” He rumbles. “It won’t be so funny in a minute.” 

“I highly doubt that.” Vince says, muffled by his own palm. Howard crosses to the full length mirror mounted on the door to their wardrobe. Tilts his head to examine the damage. Vince can’t believe it. “The one day you don’t wear a rollneck, Howard.” 

He can’t stop it any longer, he bursts into full blown cackles as Howard pokes hesitantly at the darkened lovebite on his throat like it might just bite him back. 

“Look at this, Vince!” The prodding of the offending mark continues. “What are you fifteen?”

“C’mon,” Vince goads when he can finally pull enough air into his lungs to reply. “You’re asking for it with all them clothes that come up to your chin. Perfect coverup that is.” 

Howard spins on his heel to face him. “Evidently not!” He starts, voice raised in aggravation, but as he goes on he seems to lose momentum. Lands somewhere closer to embarrassment. “Got halfway to the shop before I even noticed. People were staring, you know, looking at me like I was some sort of northern pervert. Women covering their kid's eyes and one bloke- One bloke must have thought it was an invitation cause he winked at me Vince. Winked at me in a way nobody should ever wink at a stranger."

Fighting it only goes so far; another bout of laughter tears from Vince's throat. 

“You better stop that giggling, little man, or I’ll come at you.” 

This has the opposite of the desired effect. “It’s not that bad, Howard.” 

“Not that bad?” Howard frowns. “I’m a respectable and distinguished man, Vince, I don’t get hickeys.” 

“You’re really making a big deal out of nothing.” He insists. 

“Easy for you to say.” 

Affronted, Vince crosses his arms over his chest. “What does that mean!”

“Well look at you,” Howard waves a hand in his direction, barely managing to conceal his own smirk. Vince decides this is probably a good point to finish pulling his pyjamas on. “No one would bat an eye if you were the dishevelled one.” 

Vince scoffs, high pitched with disbelief. “Well that’s rude.” 

“Not as rude as walking around with the evidence of our-…" Adorably, Howard cuts himself off. He looks around the room as if expecting someone other than the two of them to be there to hear all about his indiscretions. "Our lovemaking on my neck.” 

Honestly, Vince wholly believes he could combust from how much he loves this man sometimes, his awkward tendencies and all. “You can call it sex, Howard.” 

“I’m going to start calling it banned in a minute.” 

"Enough of the sass!" He declares, amazed at his own ability to mix up a cocktail of mild irritation and heavy entertainment in his tone. "I'm tryin' to help you out here."

"Funny way of helping," Howard grumbles. "Standing there looking pretty while I suffer the consequences of your mouth."

And with that any trace of Vince's annoyance is wiped away. He's a sucker for a compliment even if it is arguably a backhanded one. "Well I have to suffer the consequences of yours anytime you start talking so it seems only fair." 

He doesn't give him time to argue back. Grabbing gently for his elbow and leading him to sit on the bed. He knows how easily they can get lost in this; the back and forth of their banter. Howard once likened it to verbal sparring. Said it kept his mind fresh and active, like chatting with Vince was some kind of mental exercise. 

Right now, though, he needs to fix Howard's neck. Partly for his sake and mostly so he can alleviate some of his own guilt for putting the other man in an awkward position. If there's anything Howard hates more than being thrust into the centre of attention unexpectedly, it's when that attention is inherently negative. Even if he hadn't meant it - that's exactly where Vince had put him. 

"I can cover it no problem.” He promises, digging around in his vanity table for his makeup bag. 

It's the work of five minutes really, what with the kind of professional standard makeup Vince keeps lying around for his everyday use. A spot of concealer and some blending and it's good as new.

Stepping back to admire his work, he directs Howard to the mirror. “See, nothing a little makeup can’t fix.” 

“Thank god for Vince Noir and his makeup collection.” Howard deadpans. 

“Do you mind?” Vince huffs playfully. “I just fixed your problem for you.”

“A problem you created.” Howard reminds him, but the edges of his annoyance seem to be softening. 

Vince grins at him in the reflection. 

“Don’t think I’m going to let you get away with doing that all the time just because you know how to cover it up.” Howard warns. “I’ve got a reputation to protect.” 

“What, the untouched virgin?” 

Howard narrows his eyes. “Now who’s being sassy.” 

Vince catches his tongue between his canines. Smirks a little sinful at him. “You gonna come at me now?” 

Howard's lupine smile seems to say it all. He steps closer, tender finger reaching out to brush strands of uncombed hair away from his forehead. Vince holds his breath, tilts his head back to stare up at Howard expectantly. The other man starts to dip his head, Vince let's his lids droop half closed - and then there's a gust of air as Howard takes one large step back with his lanky giraffe legs. 

He snorts inelegantly and heads straight for the bedroom door. “I’ve got to go and get the milk.”

Then he's gone.

[shiros-boyfriends-are-pretty]

It was the beginning of the summer months of 1814, a simultaneously eventful and uneventful year for the house in Kent.

The Davis estate stood down a winding, unpaved road, hidden by trees. Its grandeur had been glimpsed by few, largely because no one dared to venture in, lest some misfortune befall them.

But the house and its inhabitants suffered not for the lack of local society. Sunlight filtered slowly through high windows just as it did on any other day, landing on old floorboards and intricate wall carvings- and a door. It looked to be elderly in its own right (the door) with carefully placed stained glass in the center panel, surrounded by more heavy wood. However, its age was soon no consideration, as a tall, sprightly young man swung it wide open, waiting on neither servant nor maid to attend to him.

"You cannot be serious, Madam, I know the man and his family are fed and taken care of; they do not need your hospitality."

The old woman, in contrast, merely stepped inside. She paused, and let her attendants remove her shawl, hat, and gloves from her form, speaking passively as they flitted about.

"Laurie you were quite entirely present; the Jennings' will stay here in this house."

"John works for the cobbler down the street! The only one in town. He is paid well enough!! Even his wife works as a seamstress under the Boyles!!"

"I will not hear another word on the matter, Laurie."

"They are lying to you."

"Laurie."

"But it's absurd!"

"Laurie. "

Her change in composure was brief lived, but he turned to face her nonetheless. Laurie attempted to speak but found himself unable to utter another word. He brought his hand to his mouth instead, gazing about the foyer in pure frustration.

Laurie sighed, turning away. His hands bracing against the table beneath him.

"These people- villagers! They gossip, slander your good name, speculate the validity of your fortune and your right to own it. They cannot stand to see a woman be rich without a man, and yet you grin and bear it! You have funded their church luncheons and school supplies and their opinions remain the same. They see you as someone from whom to leech! To fund their every desire until you are as ragged as they are."

If she registered his vexation at all it barely affected her. Madam Davis simply walked by him, into the sitting room. She arranged her skirts to facilitate her sitting, and called for a cup of tea. From her right pocket she retrieved a small tin of lemongrass hand cream, which she massaged into her deep brown hands. She was neither frail nor able bodied, neither short nor tall, and forever wore an expression akin to neither frown nor smile, a trait Laurie Elkins found most insufferable in times such as these. Nonetheless, as her maid brought forth the tea, she beckoned him to join her for a cup.

The two were so opposite in temperament at that very moment that you would have almost thought them siblings, despite the 40-year gap in age. His hair loose and wild, hers kept in a low bun; his collar undone slightly, her dress perfectly in place; his stance agitated, hers poised. They seemed two sides of the same coin.

The tea and time dwindled, and Laurie started again,

"I cannot understand why you care so much about any of them."

The lady set down her cup.

"Well, that much was clear."

"Then why do you care?"

The question hung in the air, finally asked properly.

"My dear Laurie, my mother raised me to believe I was nothing if not what I did for others, and I have lived my life continuing that selfish delusion."

Laurie's face contorted, confused.

"Selfish? I'd call you anything but!"

"Is it not selfish to find joy in being a conduit of happiness? To strive so wholly to be what people rely on to keep the world turning? To be praised and well liked for being nice? God does not make everyone happy because He is selfless. I, on the other hand, chose to love everyone for my own selfish gain, make no mistake. To love others is a narcissism most grave indeed."

"But is it not a moral obligation to others that drives kindness? Most treat it a burden."

The woman smiled a small smile.

"The most selfless thing that can be done is to leave others alone and care not about them. Actions have consequences regardless, and caring often hurts before it helps."

That response would not satisfy, but then again neither would tea, so the lady called to ask when the meal would be ready, and to discuss the plans for the Jennings' arrival.

The sun had moved to grace the tea set, but otherwise nothing had really changed. Outside, birds prepared for the night to come, feeding their nearly grown children. The winding road that lead away from the Davis estate remained unpaved, the woods still obscuring each end of it from the other. It was an ordinary summer day, in 1814. Uneventful and eventful all at once.

Happy are the things that never change. As such, quite little is truly happy.

[luckystarchild]

Not really a theory but a headcanon:I think NQK has a mild form of Xenophobia (fear of the unknown) or Metathisiophobia (fear of change). I think because she knows what the future is supposed to look like, that when things change unexpectedly, especially when it's bad or drastic, she doesn't know how things are going to turn out so she panics and breaks down. She's so set on making it to the 'correct' ending she fear when she loses control of the plot everything will go to ruin. Just a thought.

I get where you’re coming from, Anon—but I think we need tobe careful about using medical terms like “phobia” in this instance, lest weuse those terms too frivolously.

Armchair diagnosing fictional characters can negatively impact how certain mental health diagnoses are perceived in real life and in real people. Phobias are serious medical conditions. We should be very, very careful when using medical language because of this.

I have mild OCD, for instance, and it impacts my daily life. When people who are just picky about things call themselves OCD, it furthers the public misconception that OCD people are just “picky” or “particular,” which undermines how people treat me when I reveal my condition. People will laugh when I say I have OCD and jokingly ask me if I need to turn the lights on and off a hundred times—an OCD impulse that movies and TV have sensationalized. It’s the casual and incorrect misuse of medical terms that contributes to the perpetuation of this misconception. 

Since NQK is based on me and my personality, as she is a self-insert, there’s an added wrinkle that in trying to diagnose NQK, you are in a somewhat indirect way making assumptions about my mental health. The barrier between NQK and me isn’t terribly thick; she has my ticks and quirks and we worry about things at the same level. Obviously we aren’t exactly the same (she’s living a different life than I am and therefore faces challenges I don’t that have shaped her character), but since I know me better than anyone, I think I’m within my rights to put my foot down when it comes to me or my avatar facing an armchair diagnosis from a stranger. I don’t think you were intending to put forth a formal diagnosis, necessarily, but the use of medical language necessitates treating the above ask as such.

I’m going to go into why I think NQK does not have a phobia below the “read more” cut, and I’m going to hide my feelings about it beneath said cut in case someone doesn’t want to read them. I am not a medical professional, but I am basing my thoughts on the criteria in the DSM-V (not to mention my therapist’s observations about my behavior). Sorry for the errors I have inevitably made. I just think it’s very important we are accurate when we talk about medical conditions, so this bears some discussing. Thank you.

“Specific phobias,” which are serious medical conditions and a subset of anxiety disorders, are defined in the DSM-V as “extreme or irrationalfears, often persistent, that compel sufferers to avoid the object or situationto which their fear is connected.” Parts of the diagnostic criteria are “theindividual suffers from a persistent fear that is either unreasonable, irrational orexcessive” and “the symptoms cannot be attributed to another mental condition,such as generalized anxiety disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder or post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Keiko’s fears aren’t irrational. Kurama’s motheralmost died because of her presence and Hiei lost his DT match because of herpresence; Keiko’s fears that her presence will change fate are not unfounded,which means her fears about the YYH canon changing aren’t unreasonable. Her fears are based in reality. Shemight react to changes in canon with more stress than you think you would in her shoes, but herfears themselves aren’t irrational. Furthermore, I’ve been diagnosed withGAD (plus PTSD and, most recently, mild OCD) and these conditions much morereadily account for NQK’s panic attacks and other symptoms than does a specificphobia. Since her behavior can be attributed to something besides a phobia, I don’t think it’s a phobia.

Metathisiophobia is “the persistent, abnormal, and unwarranted fear of change.” But, as mentioned above, NQK’s fear that changes to the YYH canon could have negative consequences has been proven warranted, and thus I can’t in good conscience condone labeling her with that medical condition.

Her actions within the story also don’t fit with thediagnosis of a phobia of change or the unknown. She doesn’t avoidchange. NQK gets unexpected haircuts, takes new classes, embraces friendships with characters she shouldn’t be friends with, and often does thingsshe’s not comfortable with. She often runs directly toward changes that happen in her life andseeks out the unknown on purpose (willingly outing herself to Kurama to savehis mother; willingly meeting Genkai ahead of schedule; purposefully seekingout powers to change herself, with results she can’t predict). In light of her desire to induce certain changes that could have unknown consequences, I can’t say she fears change or the unknown in a phobic way. She only fears change when changes negatively impact the lives of her friends and loved ones. She cares much less about change when it impacts her alone. It’s her friends she wants to protect from negative change, and that isn’t a phobic impulse: It is one most people experience when their loved ones are in potential danger.

Another reason I hesitate to condone even a cursory diagnosis of a phobia is because one diagnostic criteria for a phobia is that the person with the phobia “actively avoids the phobic object or situation.” When things go badly, NQK throws herself headlong into fixing things, and when positive changes happen, she’s not all that bothered beyond wondering if the in-the-moment “good” change will have down-the-road negative impact. If she truly had a phobia (a serious medical condition, I will repeat) she wouldn’t be as accepting of the positive changes and she wouldn’t be able to get close enough to the negative changes to fix them.

If NQK was truly phobic, I think she’d 100% follow OG!Keiko’s script and never, ever step out of line for fear of causing a change or venturing into the unknown. If she had a phobia, she’d stick to the known, which in this case is OG!Keiko’s script. Instead, however, she has done the opposite. She remains true to herself (which invites unknown changes to canon) and tries to address and fix negative changes when they happen. Yes, she is extremely stressed and anxious about any negative impact she has on her new loved ones, but since this can be attributed to my anxiety disorder, I think that’s the best diagnosis we can stick with.

I apologize if it sounds like I’m shitting all over your headcanon or splitting hairs, anon, or just badgering you about using “phobia” too casually. That truly isn’t my intention. I think Kei does have FEARs of the unknown and of certain very specific changes (specifically of changes to YYH canon and YYH characters) but I don’t think she meets the criteria of having a medical phobia. Fear and phobia aren’t the same thing. Most people, after all, have a hard time with big changes in their lives, and since phobias are serious medical conditions, I don’t think it’s wise for us to throw around the term “phobia” recklessly. Keiko is based on me, and since that is the case, I think it’s best we stick to the diagnoses we can confirm I have—diagnoses made by my therapist, who has never diagnosed me with a phobia.

[angstmonsterwrites]

Commentary on "Black Sun" by Rebecca Roanhorse

Black Sun is...a lot to digest. By "a lot" I don't mean that it was packed with filler that distracted from the story itself and should have been cut. It's an apocalyptic high fantasy tale-which alone calls for it to be a bit heavy- with a distinct Indigenous American flavor where a sense of belonging or pride in one's people and their struggles played a big part. For me, as someone three generations removed from my Irish/German ancestors who came over to the US just prior to WWI, and who doesn't assign any particular personal value to ideas of heritage or tradition, that meant I had to slow down and think critically from a cultural standpoint, lest I make any serious erroneous background assumptions. But it was a fascinating, emotional read and not a slog by any means.

This story is also a bit complicated to explain at length without giving blatant spoilers, but what stood out to me was that all three main characters suffered from a sharp sense of alienation from their people, and the consequences of that alienation was a central theme.

There's Xiala, a reckless-but-resourceful alcoholic rogue Teek sailor who's estranged and exiled from her people, which places her at an extremely rough disadvantage because of the bigoted and superstitious ideas that other clans have about the Teek and supposed magical properties of their bones. It's even revealed that she's sold off a finger segment or two to escape a couple of dire rough patches. However, the Teek also have a special relationship with the sea, and as such tend to be valued as navigators or even sea captains, which gives her some wiggle room to make a living, even if she has to sleep with one eye open. It is while playing this role that Xiala comes to meet Serapio, an apparent pilgrim who she has been hired to ferry to Tova, the city that stands as the religious/spiritual center in this world, in time for a holy event marked by an eclipse known as Convergence. Her conversations with him reveal her to be someone who harbors a great deal of homesickness and resentment, and they connect along those feelings of non-belonging.

Serapio's arc is what truly drives the narrative. He was born to a cultist mother who conceived him with a vengeful agenda. She was of the Carrion Crow clan, a people who'd been subject to scapegoating and genocidal action by the ruling priesthood. The cult, the Odohaa, hold that the time is nigh for the rebirth of the Odo Sedoh, or Grandfather Crow, one of the clan's old gods from before the dominion of the Sun. They prophesied that he will return to Tova to avenge the Carrion Crow, toppling the hegemony of the Celestial Tower and killing off the Sun Priest to bring in a new era of divine power. It is immediately clear at the start of the book that Serapio's mother seems to believe that her son is meant to fulfill this prophecy, and for this purpose births him far away from their clan. Between rituals she performs on him that render him intentionally disabled, and the grueling, cruel path of training he must suffer afterward, Serapio experiences alienation not only from his own family and kin, but from any other 'normal' person he meets. As a result, Serapio is character who runs hot and cold between extremes of cruelty and compassion, is extraordinarily patient and stoic most of the time, and finds a sort of fanaticism of his own in the duty that his mother left at his feet. To become what she has charged him to be is his way home, in a manner of speaking.

Lastly, there is Naranpa, the most recently appointed Sun Priest. Although originally from a destitute Dry Earth background growing up in Tova's Coyote Maw--a sort of slum built along narrow cliffside roads and into deep caverns--Naranpa exceeded expectations (and to many, her welcome) when the previous Sun Priest appointed her as his successor. Though not uncommon for Dry Earth peoples to act as servants and dedicants, it was unheard of for anyone not of the wealthier and influential Sky Made clans to ascend to the priesthood, much less be appointed the Sun Priest. Her low stature lineage earns her a great deal of political strife and betrayal from her colleagues in the priesthood, while the long time she'd already spent in the Celestial Tower has estranged her from her birth family. As the story moves along, she becomes increasingly isolated, regretful, and finds that she must ultimately treat nearly everyone she knows as though they may have a knife prepared for her back.

The story ends with incomplete apocalyptic happenings in progress, and is somwhat ambiguous about who survived what, but each character's implicit or explicit role was complete, save Naranpa's. This seems to be by design, however, as there's a sequel being released in April called "Fevered Star". I am very much looking forward to a second helping of these complexity-rich characters and world.

[southeastasianists]

After nearly a year of political deadlock following the 2017 parliamentary elections, on 12 May Timor-Leste’s citizens elected a new government, with Xanana Gusmao the likely new prime minister. The parliamentary power his Change for Progress Alliance coalition might wield is little different from the power it was prohibited from wielding under the previous government.

After the 2017 polls, the Fretilin party—having bested Xanana’s CNRT by a few fractions of a percentage point—ultimately refused to convene parliament to face a majority Xanana cobbled together from smaller parties, claiming that because Fretilin received the largest number of votes for any single party, it possessed the “majority”. By this logic parliamentarians exercising their authority would be undertaking a coup d’état. It remains to be seen whether this same illogic will emerge again. Xanana, for his part, surely has promises to keep, and we can anticipate new ministries so that coalition partners might be rewarded. In the near term we can anticipate so many overseas “study tour” junkets that they may necessitate a brand new ministry to organise them.

This is all grist to the mill for many a Timor-watcher who has consigned the country to an “arc of instability” alongside Papua New Guinea, Vanuatu, and the Solomon Islands. The picture painted is one of a failed state, according to Foreign Affairs, or a still-failing one, according to a La Trobe University lecturer, with the long-exasperated neighbour Australia at any moment exposed to the fallout of potential collapse in the form of civil conflict or irregular migration.

Except, of course, that it’s not true.

The view from Dili

After Timor-Leste’s independence in 2002, the United Nations Temporary Administration in East Timor (UNTAET) built Timor-Leste’s institutions of government, but political violence resulted in another peacekeeping mission in 2006. Since 2013, the country has achieved stability through petroleum revenue-funded “reconciliation” between political elites.

Certainly, viewing Timor-Leste through a political economy lens and then extrapolating that view across the multiplicity of sectors and layers that constitute local government and public service delivery makes for dark viewing. In recent years, while conducting field research on service delivery in the country, I heard the dire pronouncements of many a Dili-based NGO or donor representative, or a Timorese health, education, or other line ministry official, and these coalesced around a key assumption: a lack of civil servant capacity in remote and inaccessible hinterlands results in low health, education, and other human development indicator measurements which set the stage for another generation of development assistance. This is usually followed by a melancholy “we are a new country” caveat. Hearing enough of this in Dili, one can be forgiven for assuming that everyone in the countryside is uneducated, hungry and dying. This perception surely underlies Singapore’s objection to Timor-Leste’s membership of ASEAN.

But this dark view evaporates as soon as one leaves Dili. Let’s begin with bromides concerning low human resource capacity outside of a few towns. Across Timor-Leste’s rural areas where the majority of Timorese reside, civil servants can be found at their posts and doing their jobs in a challenging environment—one in which little attention is received from the centre. Decentralisation has in some imperfect manner occurred, with schools functioning autonomously and health services improvising to provide services. These civil servants may often be under-qualified—the teachers may only have high school diplomas—but they are there. Anecdotally, service standards are higher in rural Timor-Leste than in much of remote eastern Indonesia.

“Remote” is also relative in Timor-Leste. Iliomar, often mentioned as one of the most remote areas of the country, can be reached in nine hours from Dili by car, with a nearly uninterrupted 3G phone signal across the entire journey; by no standard of measurement is this remote, especially compared to areas of nearby Indonesian Papua that are up to a week’s walk from a road, with complete network absence. No area of Timor-Leste that I am aware of suffers a lack of services and corresponding ill health, high mortality, low school attendance and student performance due to remoteness. Claiming that geography inhibits service delivery is disingenuous.

State failures, but not a failed state

Timor-Leste’s problems are bureaucratic, not geographic. The biggest obstacle rural civil servants identify is not “remoteness” or “human resource capacity”: it is “Dili”, an often insular centre that lacks understanding of, and experience in, the rural areas where most Timorese live.

The new state’s problems are many, but they are surmountable, and they are concentrated in Dili. They involve ineffective logistics, haphazard supply chains, a lack of facilities standardisation and maintenance, top-down budgeting that takes no account of local conditions, lengthy delays in payments and financial acquittals, and so on. This in turn stems from less-than-competent senior management and politically-driven appointments. While the centre does host committed and effective senior technocrats, they are exceptions.

Centralisation of fiscal policy and procurement is justified by an alleged lack of capacity in the countryside. But the way such matters are handled in the capital would be laughable if it wasn’t so harmful. For example: Government tenders for vehicle maintenance are awarded where all repairs are done in Dili only. Repairs can take over a year, and work can be shoddy: in Lospalos, an ambulance repaired a year after delivery broke down on the drive back. Fuel provision contracts are awarded in such a way that vehicles must drive to Dili to fill up their tanks. To cope with this absurdity, sub-national administrators utilise other budgets to purchase fuel locally. Some ministries have such a bad reputation among potential private service providers with regard to delayed payments that only the worst contractors bid for their tenders. Most damagingly, civil servant salaries can be collected only in municipal capitals. This takes administrative post health, education, and other officials out of their posts for two days to a week every month.

Individual civil servants, including those in Dili, strive to distinguish themselves from the Indonesian state structure they replaced. However, they are disempowered from acting independently, and are hobbled by the focus of the bureaucracy on paperwork and “accountability”—such as the requirement of undue amounts of signatures for the release of funds, one of the worst aspects of New Public Management superimposed by UNTAET. Middle managers defer decisions upwards; they receive few rewards for good performance and face fewer consequences for poor performance. A lack of managerial accountability is found throughout: for example, a preventable death from an obstetric emergency will result in no investigation or administrative sanction to the civil servants responsible for a particular shortage or lack of maintenance that led to the death. A junior civil servant may be dismissed for absenteeism, but their manager will not be dismissed for failing to provide the supporting structure that made it impossible for that civil servant to do their job in the first place.

These problems are hardly unique to Timor-Leste. They are found across the developing and developed world. And yet Timor-Leste is described as at risk of collapse, even though it lacks the violence, insurgency, and debilitating corruption of other failed and failing areas: as though it possesses the political equivalent of a genetic predisposition. But contemporary observable conditions in the countryside fly in the face of the dire pronouncements of the centre, mostly backed by old data. Most current human development indicators available from donor and agency sources demonstrate improvements in the last 10 years but even these might be unduly pessimistic.

Invented problems

So why does this image of failure persist? The root cause is that national-level civil servants and development workers speak for a grassroots that they don’t understand. Also to blame is the repetition of biases and application of expired heuristics across decades. In the 1970s, Timorese diaspora opponents of Indonesia’s invasion, and their threadbare foreign supporters, spoke of the tragedy of an invasion of a nation already left behind by hundreds of years of Portuguese neglect, then subjected to horrendous levels of violence and social engineering schemes, dying from neglect or from intention.

Much of this message was encapsulated in the imagery of emaciated children in relocation camps, and that image has never left us. It is implanted in the minds of government and NGO staff who easily absorb those images and aid in their recycling. The unthinking continuity of this image supports the unthinking elements of the development industry; it is the reason why many a salary is drawn (including the salaries of underpaid local enumerators who are expected to feed doom up the line to their superiors) and many a study tour and per diem is taken. Local government and NGO workers I’ve spoken to across Timor-Leste offer numerous examples of enumerators filling in household surveys with exactly the results they expect to find.

Another cause is that many government and NGO workers in Timor-Leste have never worked elsewhere. It’s easy to believe conditions in Timor-Leste are the same as Afghanistan or the Congo if one knows absolutely nothing about those failed states.

Some of Timor-Leste’s problems seem to be invented. For example: the small stature of many Timorese is often classified by donors and NGOs as “stunting”, childhood malnutrition which can result in diminutive size, cognitive deficiency, and ill health. Undoubtedly the diminutive stature of many Timorese is caused by childhood malnutrition; some foreign-funded nutrition projects are needed, and welcomed, but all too many of them assumed that the problem is a lack of food, which they then attempted to address through food distribution.

But malnutrition in Timor-Leste is not caused by a lack of food so much as it is caused by a lack of knowledge—of nutrition, of breastfeeding and supplemental feeding, of sanitation and food storage. And also, some people are just shorter than others. The articulation of stunting comes with a laundry list of negative physical and mental outcomes offered as though they are inevitable to all Timorese below a certain height. This is insulting and racist: diminutive stature does not mean that one is stupid, but the small stature of many a Timorese is re-cast as a dire epidemic of mental imbecility and physical frailty —a problem from the worst excesses of the Indonesian occupation, reinvented in order to open a funding line and respond to something that cannot be defeated because it mostly doesn’t exist.

Timor-Leste has enough palpable problems; one need not resort to the past or one’s imagination. Youth unemployment is high, economic opportunity is lacking, education is sub-par, maternal and child mortality are high, and malnutrition is prevalent. Violence against women and children is unacceptable at any level, much less the level found in Timor-Leste. The government’s political decisions impede policies to improve the lot of the majority of Timorese in favour of expenditures such as the Oecussi Special Economic Zone, the Tasi Mane petroleum corridor, exorbitant pensions to insurgent veterans and their offspring, and so on. These short-sighted expenditures are often funded by Petroleum Fund draw-downs which impact that fund’s Estimated Sustainable Income levels.

Government employment is an erroneous form of social protection. Even the official status of Portuguese is wasteful, with local civil servants dependent on the translations of Portuguese “advisors”. Most importantly, Timor-Leste has the highest birth rate in Asia: this will degrade all human development progress made in the near term. Family planning underpins nearly all positive outcomes in maternal and child health and family health in general—physical, economic, and so on. It is foundational to gender equality.

Building on what’s there

Despite myriad problems, it is worth repeating: things aren’t so bad. In rural Timor-Leste civil servants are struggling to provide services with little support; children are in school, being taught by teachers who are mostly present; health posts are open and relatively clean, and pharmacies have stocks of some medicines. Civil servants know what their duties are, feel obligated to undertake them, and understand the support they need to execute those duties optimally. They freely offer prescient criticisms and suggest solutions.

The countryside is direly under-developed in terms of infrastructure, but the government has responded through the National Program for Village Development; communities select and action their own infrastructure needs, and the results and impact are impressive. That program—one of the most successful implemented by the state—reveals the capacity that exists in ordinary Timorese. And the bonds of reciprocity found across the multiplicity of Timorese cultures which constitute society become apparent in discussions with everyone from volunteer teachers to ambulance crew members. Yes, conflict and violence exist, but this is still a society made cohesive by shared experience of occupation and resistance: a transcendent sense of membership, even amongst those in conflict with one another, exists.

Timor-Leste’s most pressing issues are as tedious as they are solvable. The imagery of boatloads of stunted Timorese washing ashore in Australia’s Northern Territory as the country burns like a Yule Log so big it can be seen from space is a delusion. Timorese won’t kill one another in large enough numbers to touch off such a crisis. They don’t even have enough boats. Approaching a country from the perspective of its impending demise likely doesn’t lead to good assistance. A new paradigm by which to approach development in Timor-Leste is needed: one that builds upon the solid foundations one can find if only one manages to look and listen beyond the capital. Timor-Leste has a new government, and with it arrives new opportunities.

[misfxts]

File 000 || Iris Drabble

She hated this part of her annual trip to her family’s home. She hated it so much, but it was necessary, and it wasn’t like she had much say in the matter either.

Iris watched as buildings flew past the car window that she gazed out of. Silently counting down to when they would arrive at the lab, which wouldn’t be too long now. 

God, how she wishes there was construction, a mudslide, hell-- even a car accident! Anything to block the road, anything to delay the inevitable. Even if it was just for a few minutes, she would give anything to make that happen. Oh please, oh please just let something block the road!

“We’ve arrived, Miss Adelaide.”

Arno’s voice cuts through her thoughts, and visibly catches her off-guard as she flinches. Staring at Arno and reminding herself that she’s in a car, and that car is sitting in-front of her parents laboratory.

“...R-right, of course, T...thank you, Mister Arno.”

Climbing out of the vehicle, Iris followed her helpers as they greeted the secretary and entered the elevator. Hitting the button to go down then waiting in silence.

“...Miss Adelaide...your hood..” Molly notes.

A small whine is heard from Iris as she slowly unzips the hood and pulls it off her head, suddenly the ground is very interesting.

“I know you don’t like taking it off, but it’s necessary, you know this.”

Iris only nods in response. A small part of her wants to respond sarcastically, but this is not the time or place, Molly is just doing her job. She shouldn’t be patronized for doing what she’s being paid to do.

The silver doors slide open, revealing an open white space with people in lab-coats running about with people or animals in tow. Busy as little worker bees in a pristine hive.

Iris, Molly, and Arno enter the room. Placing their bags in a bin as they proceeded further into the room, parting ways as Iris went into the patient changing room and her helpers waited outside.

Wearing the proper gown, Iris enters the photo room. Only for the gown to be taken off for photos. Arms go up, eyes face forward and the first flash stings her eyes. She turns to the side, her back, and her other side. All accompanied by their own flashes from the camera.

The gown goes back on, and Iris is whisked away to the next set of rooms; Testing her eyesight, fitness, and whatever else they felt like poking Iris with today. She stopped paying attention to what test they wanted her to do, just going through the motions, waiting for all of this to be over.

The employees voices are sweet and soft, knowing that Iris was never a fan of her annual check-up. As kind as they are, their eyes still drill into her head relentlessly.

They always do. 

They always save the worst for last, don’t they?

Blood tests, how Iris loathes them. Everyone in the lab knows this, and they also know that she hates being held down just as much.

Held down by one employee to prevent her arms from flailing about. Iris chokes back a screech as she feels the feeling of the needle being pushed into her arm to extract her blood. She feels like an animal, and they’re certainly treating her like one.

“Well, if you just chilled out, it wouldn’t have to be this way.” The employee remarks under his breath.

Iris heard him, but doesn’t say anything. He’s not the enemy because he told the truth, he had a very good point.

Why couldn’t she just relax?

“Hello Iris, how are you?” Her father spoke, gesturing to the seat in-front of his desk so she could sit as he rummaged about a filing cabinet.

“I-I’m g...good Papa..” Iris nods slowly as she sits down. “H...How are you..?”

“I’m doing just fine, thank you Iris.” Edward replies, pulling out a single file from the top, it was torn at the edges and looked like it had been in use for a while. “Your mother is doing a house call, so she couldn’t be here to look over your results with me.”

Iris nods and her father nods back. Placing the file down on the desk and pulling a few papers to his side, then opening the file and comparing what was written to the other papers on his desk in silence. 

The file was hers, Iris could tell because a picture of her was paper-clipped to the papers inside of the file. She had to have been...about 5 or 6 at the time. She could also tell by the file number, it was a special number. Only the best for the daughter of the two most respected geneticists in the field, Iris could infer. It was a number that would never grace the eyes of investors, Lest her parents suffer the consequences.

File 000.  

She could see her own eyes looking up at her from the picture. If Iris had a bold bone in her body, she’d jump up onto the desk and swipe a pen from the pen cup to scratch the eyes in the picture out. But she doesn’t, so she sits and stews as her Father stares at the papers, gut twisting every time his eyes so much as glance over the picture.

“There doesn’t seem to be much improvement this time..” He remarks, his eyes slowly working their way down the paper. “Everything seems normal..”

“I-If everything is normal..” Iris speaks, wringing her hands. “T...then why do we do this..? I-If nothing chan--”

“--Don’t give me that.” Edward’s voice is stern and cuts right through Iris. “These tests are for your own good, Iris. I love you as much as any father loves their child, your mother loves you as much as any other mother would love their offspring. Are you saying it’s wrong for us to be worried about your health? Would you rather if we didn’t care at all, and left you to grow cancer?”

“N-No..”

“See? You’re being silly again Iris.” Edward smiles. “We love you, despite having interests in such...worthless topics. Even if you grow tired of these daily tests, you have to understand. This is just your mother and I’s way of showing you how much we care about you. You’re so much different than any child your age. Who knows what could happen to you when you grow up because of these differences? We want you to live a long prosperous life, which is what every parent wants for their child.”

Iris thinks on her father’s words, staring at her hands. “Y...you’re right, I’m s-sorry for doubting you Papa. I love you too..”

“Wonderful.” Edward smiles, putting the file folder together and standing up with the intent to put it back in it’s place. “That’s all for now, you can take that gown off and go with your helpers. I’ll tell your mother you said hi. Goodbye Iris.”

Iris nods, rising to her feet and exits the office without another word.

[fear-god-shun-evil]

Getting Good Job Doesn’t Depend on Diploma But God’s Arrangement

By Dingding

“Are you like me, who work hard silently in sweat under the sun? Are you like me, who will not give up pursuing the desired life even when faced with cold shoulders? …” Every time this familiar melody resounds in my ears, my thoughts will go back to the past …

I Studied Hard for a Diploma

In 2011, I failed the college entrance examination, and met my Waterloo for the first time. Unwilling to admit defeat, I resolutely went to study in a highly-academic high school of the neighboring county for another year. During that period, I got up at 6 a.m. and would continue to study under the covers with a flashlight after the evening study session. I finished my workbooks one after another and I read my Chinese Politics textbook so often that it was completely dog-eared. … Although study was very boring and tiring, I firmly believed that one day my hard work would surely pay off.

In the college entrance examination of 2012, I got 564, a good mark that was 2 points higher than the cutoff score of the key university. I was very happy, and thought: All my hard work is not in vain after all! With this high score I am surely able to enter a good university, and so find a good job after graduation. With full confidence I applied for admission to a well-known university, which was my first choice. However, I had never expected that the entry score of that university was 565! Only because of one point margin, I missed the university I had always dreamed of attending. At the moment, my heart was full of disappointment and unwillingness. Comparing my hard study and great effort in the past with the present result, I was disappointed and remorseful in my heart.

After the examination, my mother led me to believe in God. However, I didn’t take belief in God seriously, nor did I attend gatherings regularly. In my heart, I still wanted to change my fate by my ability. Afterward, I chose a local mediocre university, yet I was not reconciled to such a humble life. I thought that as long as I was willing to pay the price, I would surely get a payback. During my college years, I was nearly always the one who got up earliest and listened in class most attentively among all my classmates. When my teachers taught professional knowledge, I made careful notes of it and turned it over in my mind. In addition, I often read extracurricular books in the library to enrich myself. In order to improve my overall assessment score, I joined the students’ union of my faculty, actively undertook all sorts of activities in cooperation with the faculty; I also organized teams to take part in social activities in summer holiday, received a first prize for it in the university, and the essay I wrote about it was published in the campus newspaper. In my junior year, to improve my professional equipment, I spent my summer holiday going to a training organization that was quite far from my home to attend vocational skills training every day. I hoped, with my own efforts to enrich my life experience, I could get more scores to build a strong foundation for finding a good job in the future. My efforts produced corresponding returns—I won the first and second scholarship in the university many times. For this, I was confident that relying on my efforts, I would surely find a good job and have a beautiful future.

Relying on Myself, I Always Ran Into Walls

Time was transient. Soon I would graduate and so had to find a job. I wrote all my experiences and prizes on my resume and confidently attended more than ten recruitment road shows and sent out my resume to the large famous enterprises that offered jobs related to my major. Unexpectedly, my resume was either refused on the spot, or received without further reply. I couldn’t help but feel perplexed: Are all my efforts of these years in vain? Are my university diploma and all my prizes not enough for me to get a good job?

In a gathering, I poured out my frustrations of hunting for a job to the brothers and sisters. A sister fellowshiped with me: “Our prospect and fate are in the hands of God. What job you will take up in the future has long ago been predestined by God. It’s not determined by our experience or diploma. So we should rely more on God to find a job.” Having heard her words of comfort, I agreed with my mouth but wasn’t convinced in my heart. I thought: It is obvious that knowledge can change man’s fate and that our destiny is in our own hands, but you said man’s fate is in the hands of God. I believe, relying on my strength I am surely able to find a satisfactory job.

After returning to school, I continued sending out my resumes everywhere and attended large job fairs. I firmly believed that I was surely able to find a job fitting in with my major. However, after a period of time, I still came up against walls. Either the jobs weren’t suited to my major, or the companies didn’t employ average university students. … The crushing defeat made me a little downhearted and puzzled about my future. But when I looked at my diploma and the various certificates in my hands, I steeled myself: Now that I cannot find a job fitting in with my major, I can choose the one that is out of my field. I believe, relying on my ability, I can definitely find a good job. Consequently, I started to send out my resumes to other companies. One time, I got an interview with a small information technology company. When I went for the interview, I encountered a graduate from a famous university and I was very surprised: How come she also applies for the job here? Could it be that she has a higher diploma but is also incapable of finding a good job? I couldn’t help sinking into thoughts: Why can’t I find a good job even though I have made great efforts? Am I really unable to control my own fate?

Finding the Root, My Heart Was Released

Until the coming of the New Year holiday, I still hadn’t found a suitable job. During the whole Spring Festival, I was very anxious. Every day, I focused on my phone to browse job-search websites, and constantly refreshed the web pages lest I might miss any good job. I didn’t dare to visit my relatives or friends, because I was afraid that they would ask about my work. I was worried about my work all day long. When I had no other option, I was forced to come before God and prayed to Him: “God! I have looked for a job for so long but I still can’t find a suitable one. Now, I am very puzzled and helpless. I don’t know why I always run into walls. May You enlighten and guide me.” After the prayer, I suddenly remembered God’s words the sister had fellowshiped with me before. God’s words say: “The fate of man is controlled by the hands of God. You are incapable of controlling yourself: Despite always rushing and busying about for himself, man remains incapable of controlling himself. If you could know your own prospects, if you could control your own fate, would you still be a creature?” Then, I saw another passage of God’s words: “For one sees that when one does not comprehend fate, when one does not understand God’s sovereignty, when one gropes forward willfully, staggering and tottering, through the fog, the journey is too difficult, too heartbreaking. So when people recognize God’s sovereignty over human fate, the smart ones choose to know it and accept it, to bid farewell to the painful days when they tried to build a good life with their own two hands, instead of continuing to struggle against fate and pursue their so-called life goals in their own manner.”

Having read God’s words, I had a deeply-felt understanding of them. After failing the college entrance examination, with the unwillingness to give in to fate, I chose to repeat a year of high school. However, after another year of hardship, I missed the opportunity again to enter the key university by only one point margin. At university, I strived to enrich myself, participated actively in all sorts of activities and vocational skills training. After graduation, I braved the wind and rain to attend many job fairs, but those recruiters did not even glance at my resume. … In retrospect, I started to have an awakening: Since I began my schooling, I have always lived by these thoughts and views, such as “One’s destiny is in his own hand” and “Man can create a bright future with his own two hands.” I thought that my fate was in my own hands, that as long as I made efforts and had a good diploma, I would surely be able to find a good job. To think I should have come up against walls. I spent all my university days striving to learn. Because of studying day and night, not only has my health broken down, but also much time has been missed which I should have spent with my friends. However, for the sake of my future and my dream, I made persistent efforts. When I succeeded academically and owned the “passport” to a good job, I always wanted to get a position in high enterprise by relying on my diploma and certificates. When my efforts didn’t pay off, I didn’t submit to the arrangement of fate but always wanted to cast off God’s sovereignty. As a result, I lived in suffering and struggled bitterly. God did not have the heart to see me being afflicted by Satan. Through the sister’s fellowship, I knew that God’s will was for me to rely on Him and obey His sovereignty and arrangements. But I had been profoundly deceived by Satan’s lies, so even though I had heard God’s words, I still didn’t believe them. On the contrary, I was led around on a leash by Satan, attempted in vain to rely on myself to change my fate, and ended up living in pain hopelessly. Now I know that the thoughts and viewpoints that I relied upon for existence are all means for Satan to corrupt and fool humanity, all negative things for me to betray God and stray from God, and are all despised by God. If I continued holding such a view of resisting God, then I would only live in pain.

Afterward, I saw God’s words say: “When you repeatedly investigate and carefully dissect the various goals of life that people pursue and their various different ways of living, you will find that not one of them fits the Creator’s original intention when He created humanity. All of them draw people away from the Creator’s sovereignty and care; they are all pits into which humanity falls, and which lead them to hell. After you recognize this, your task is to lay aside your old view of life, stay far from various traps, let God take charge of your life and make arrangements for you, try only to submit to God’s orchestrations and guidance, to have no choice, and to become a person who worships God.” When I did not know God’s sovereignty, I always wanted to create a good life and to rewrite my fate with my own hands, only to live in Satan’s deception and affliction and in great distress. Now, God’s words point out to me the right way and direction of practice: putting aside my previous, wrong views of pursuit and no longer living by those satanic philosophies. What occupation we will take up and how much wealth we can possess are all determined by God’s mastery and predestination. They are decided neither by ourselves, nor by our diploma or work experience. I am a creature and I should let God take charge of my life. Only by obeying the sovereignty and arrangements of the Creator can I get rid of the suffering of my hard struggle, receive God’s blessings, and live easily and happily!

My Dream Came True by Relying on God

Subsequently, I no longer relied on my own ability to look for a job but learned to rely on God and obey His sovereignty and arrangements. I prayed to God: “God! My future and fate are in Your hands. What job I can find is also controlled by Your hands. I am willing to submit to Your orchestration and arrangement and go by Your words.” When I truly entrusted all things to God, I saw God’s marvelous deeds.

After the Spring Festival holiday, I sent out a resume on the Internet. Then, I received an offer for an interview from a company and passed it successfully. This company is very close to my home, so I could believe in God and perform my duty while I worked there. Later on, I heard that since our company had never employed graduating students, I was the first one. And in that interview, there was the other candidate who graduated from a famous university, but I was actually employed. Having learned about these, I was deeply moved. This made me truly see God’s almightiness and sovereignty. When I was willing to obey God’s sovereignty, I saw His blessings.

After I worked for a year, our company accepted a project in another area, and intended me to take a three-day business trip there per week. It was very far and would take me a whole day to travel to and back. In that case, I could not attend meetings regularly; meanwhile, my family also worried that it was not safe for me, a girl, to rush about outside, so they all disagreed with my continuing working there. Facing the present environment, I felt very conflicted in my heart: It’s not easy for me to find this satisfactory job. If I resign, could I find another good job like this? But if I don’t resign, I cannot stand such a long journey for a long term and I cannot attend gatherings regularly. What should I do?

As I was hesitating, I saw God’s words that say: “That you can submit to each day’s environment that God prepares and each day of life He gives you, letting Him lead you, that you can most happily and peacefully live in His presence, allow Him to lead you, and are able to submit to His sovereignty. If you have this kind of attitude, you will then come to see without conscious effort that all this is under God’s command.” Pondering the words of God, I understood that although I didn’t know what would happen after giving up this job, I should truly rely on God, committing to God the matter whether I could find a suitable job in the future, and letting Him rule over and arrange it. If God had predestined me to have a good job, I could find one; if not, it couldn’t be forced and I was only willing to obey Him. So, I came before God and prayed: “God! My fate is in Your hands. I am just willing to entrust my job to Your hands. May You lead me. No matter what job I will find, I’m willing to submit to Your orchestration and arrangement.” So, I resigned.

A few days later, I saw God’s love again. The next day after I sent out my resume, I got an interview from another famous enterprise. I attended the interview with the attitude of giving it a try, and I didn’t expect that right in the afternoon of the same day, I was told that I was hired. Favorably, this company has two-day weekend, so I am able to attend gatherings on a regular basis. After I was employed, my leader told me: “Generally, we only employ men, and in that interview there was a male candidate, but we have hired you anyway. So you should work hard….”

In my experience, I saw that it is God who actually rules over all things. My leader’s thoughts are in God’s hands; that I could find a job is also ruled and arranged by God. Thank God for His opening up a way out for me, and letting me find a suitable job and taste the sweetness of obeying His sovereignty.

[beeblackburn]

Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter Six

I feel weighed enough by the chains of procrastination that I wish I got a couple of breakers to smash it all down! Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

Chapter Title: The Breakers Point-of-View: Vick dan Teufel

“What sort of a name is Vick, anyway?”

“Short for Victarine.”

“Very fucking fancy,” sneered Grise. Vick hadn’t known her long, but she was already getting tired of her. “Daresay you’ve got a fucking ‘dan’ in your name, too, eh, your ladyship?”

It’s okay, Vick, I’ve just known Grise two sentences and I’m already tired of her. 

That being said, Vick doesn’t beat around the bush in her voice, does she. And this short exchange already suggests, along with the chapter title, that the Breakers aren’t as monolithic in character as the first trilogy’s peasant rebellion was, an evolution of the old of the peasantry through the ones of nobility to the new status of giving voice to the commonfolk.

Also, hell’s yeah. More working-class voices! After fantasy’s gout of prioritizing noble or royalty voices (or commonfolk who turn out to be royalty by royal blood), this is super welcome. I’m all for more eyes into the anger and wrath of the common men!

She held Grise’s eye. “I did have a ‘dan’ in my name, once. My father was Master of the Royal Mints. Had a great big apartment in the Agriont.” And Vick nodded towards her best idea of where the fortress was, though the points of the compass were hard to tell apart in a mouldy cellar. “Right next to the palace. Big enough for a statue of Harod the Great in the hall. Life fucking size.”

Grise had quite the frown on her round face now, light flickering across it as boots, and hoofs, and cartwheels clattered past the little windows high up near the ceiling. “You grew up in the Agriont?”

“You weren’t listening. My father had an apartment there. But when I was eight years old, he trod on the wrong toes and the Inquisition took him. I hear it was Old Sticks himself who asked the questions.”

Master of the Royal Mints... who... wait... Sepp dan Teufel? The guy whose finger joints Glokta chopped off near The Blade Itself’s start? Damn, that’s one hell of a deep dive! He’s not exactly a character of importance, being only in one chapter, and all we knew of him is that he was kind of a blowhard using his position and connections to try and get out of Glokta’s tender care.

Why bring the Teufel connection into this then...?

“My father was innocent. Of what they accused him of, anyway. But once Old Sticks got started…” Vick slapped the table with a bang, Tallow jumping so high he nearly hit the ceiling. “He leaked confessions like a broken drain. High Treason. They sent him to Angland. To the camps right up North.” Vick didn’t feel much like it, but she grinned. “And no one likes to split up a happy family. So they sent my ma with him. My ma, and my brother, and my sisters, and me. The camps, Grise. That’s where I grew up. So don’t question my commitment to the cause. Not ever.”

Oh damn. That’s why. For every man Glokta ruined and forced into confession, there were others connected to each body. Sepp dan Teufel himself doesn’t matter, it’s what Glokta did to Vick’s entire family is what matters. She's the consequences of the first trilogy’s actions writ small, the collateral bodies that ended up in misery and suffering because of what Glokta’s done, regardless of guilt or innocence, but sheer political expediency.

Sepp dan Teufel being a relative no-name actually works better than if it was a bigger name Glokta tortured, because he was swept aside rather quick in the greater narrative of the first trilogy... but Vick’s here, reminding us that most actions Glokta undertook had a terrible cost attached, damaging more than the men he chopped flesh off of. It’s just an extension of how monstrous Glokta’s actions really were, detached of his more wry, humorous, self-pitying narrative.

And, on a character note, that forced smile makes me think of Savine’s performance, except with greater bitterness. Whereas Savine performs to gain leverage and points over people, Vick... there’s just this feeling of negative space. This feeling that there’s nothing inside her, no joy or mirth or humor, because the camps hollowed those things out of her and all she can express is what she forces herself. It’s a greater effort, emotionally, for Vick.

You could hear the ill squelch as Tallow swallowed. “What are the camps like?”

“You get by.”

Oh, the filth, pain, hunger, death, injustice and betrayal that she buried in that phrase. The black chill of the mines, the searing glow of the furnaces, the gnashing rage and sobbing desperation, the bodies in the snow. Vick forced her face to stay blank, pressed down the past like you might press down the lid on a box full of maggots.

“You get by,” she said, firmer. When you tell a lie, you have to sound like you believe it. Goes double for the ones you tell yourself.

Oh, Vick. The fact that you can consciously recall all that misery, yet you still have to lie to yourself that “you get by” in that hellscape? It reads off as an trauma reaction, a victim rationally recalling what was done to her, but has to emotionally suppress the horrors of what was done, lest it overwhelm her all over.

My heart.

And, you know what strikes me about Vick’s general character? She feels like a refinement of Cathil, way back in Before They Are Hanged. Now, Cathil herself was a blatant device to give more insight into West and the Dogman, thanks to Abercrombie’s mishandling of his female characters, but when you think about it, she’s another survivor of the camps, even right down to the camps being from Angland. Someone who had to surrender her pride and shame, in order to get by, just like Vick.

Someone hollowed out by the camps, just like Vick...

She grabbed hold of West’s arm as he turned away. “It’s no easy ride here.” Her voice was a surprise. Soft, smooth, educated. “Cathil is my name. I can work.” West looked down at her, ready to shake his arm free, but her expression reminded him of something. Painless. Fearless. Empty eyes, flat, like a corpse.

—Before They Are Hanged, Small Crimes

... Except the Cathil figure here gets to have the POV to herself, instead of being the prop to a guy’s storyline, only to be discarded later after her use is run out.  Vick, here, gets to deal with her own turmoils and tragedies and struggles, being our lens into the Breakers as a woman actively part of the rough-and-tumble of it. I could be wrong, and Abercrombie could horribly disappoint me by killing off Vick early, but she absolutely feels like a deliberate second chance with Cathil. And, you know what? I’m all for it. Vick’s hardened in a way that the earlier POVs just aren’t and that’s equal parts intriguing and tragic.

Grise spun around as the door squealed open, but it was only Sibalt come at last, Moor big and dour at his shoulder. He planted his fists on the table and took a heavy breath, that noble face of his sadly sagging.

“What is it?” asked Tallow, in a tiny voice.

“They hanged Reed,” said Sibalt. “They hanged Cudber. They hanged his daughter.”

Grise stared at him. “She was fifteen.”

The Breakers from Orso’s chapter. You know how I said that this Breakers plotline feels different from the Tanner plotline back then? This is why. Abercrombie doesn’t let us forget that the commonfolk victims have personhood and names. They were people and not checklists to note off a coming-of-age heroic quest list. This is what happens when you give vent and voice to the working class people such royalty-homogenized stories use to prop up a king-in-the-making.

What happens when you take off the royalty lens and put a commonfolk lens onto a fantasy story. You’re pressed against all the injustices the royalty’s tools have perpetuated, committed, all for the status quo to stay.

Also, dang, even Grise is horrified that they hung a child. Not as hard as she thinks she is, huh.

“What for?” asked Tallow.

“Just for talking.” Sibalt put his hand on the boy’s thin shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Just for organising. Just for trying to get workers to stand together and speak with one voice. That’s treason now.”

D’awww, Sibalt.

Part of why I don’t particularly like privileged royal twats is that when you compare the hardships of them to the very real threat of death, just for wanting social advancement and a bit more rights that the royalty and nobility enjoy effortlessly, that commonfolk face, my sympathy generally runs drier for those twats when common children are getting hanged for wanting better. Hence, why I loved that moment in The Blade Itself where Ardee tears into Jezal for being a giant baby about having to work hard for once.

But yes, let too much dissent like that thrive, and you allow such rebellious thoughts build up. You don’t put out the fires of revolution swift enough, and it spreads too fast and much for you to smother down the road. So, you stomp it out as soon as possible. You make examples out of the dissidents, so you put the fear into the rest of the common people.

“Then the time for talk’s fucking past!” snarled Grise.

But, at some point, you don’t engender fear so much as deep anger.

Vick was angry as anyone. But she’d learned in the camps that every feeling is a weakness. You have to lock your hurt away, and think about what comes next. “Who did they know about?” she asked.

There’s a very workmanlike quality to how Vick operates. There’s a no-frills attitude that pervades her entire POV, few details on the environment she’s in, just the important details of people’s actions and what’s said between the Breakers there. She’s very no-nonsense, allowing for her anger, but refusing to have it define her actions. Not if it overrides her thinking and plotting capabilities. In that sense, she very much reminds me of the practicality of Logen and Glokta from the first trilogy.

You have to be realistic.

Vick looked from her fist to her eye. “Whatever names they knew, they’ll have given up.”

“Not Cudber. He wouldn’t.”

“Not even when they put the irons to his daughter?” Grise had nothing to say to that, shock gradually wiping the anger off her face. “Whatever names they knew, they’ll have given up. Lots of other names, too, ’cause once you run out of truth, you start spilling lies.”

Moor shook his big lump of a head. “Not Reed.”

“Yes, Reed, Cudber, his daughter, yes, you or me or anyone. The Inquisition’ll come for whoever they knew about, and soon. So who did they know about?”

There’s a lot to be said about how much torture doesn’t work as a method of gaining information. And Abercrombie’s pretty clear-eyed about it as a tool that Glokta mainly uses it as a method of gaining confessions, rather than truth. Not to mention how much Glokta spoke of his own experiences in truth and how much, after he ran out of truth, he lied out of his ass and got nowhere. And, for most Inquisitors, the amount of bodies they make without substantial gain makes a greater point that Abercrombie really doesn’t believe torture necessarily works.

... There can be a point of criticism that Abercrombie still has Glokta capable of extracting truth out of his victims for plot reasons, thus still validating a sense of torture working, and I can see that as a problem. Which is partly why I love this acknowledgement that torture will not work and you can easily get a mixture of lies along with the truth, depending on what the victims think the captors want to hear. It’s a very stripped-down, sober look at torture as an institutional tool of the government from the side of those who might be next under the knife.

And no amount of willpower can prepare you for the very real and visceral reality of systematic disfigurement. The slow and sure breakdown of one’s body and spirit and mental strength. Anyone can break.

“Who the fuck are you to give orders?” Grise leaned down over her with a stabbing finger. “You’re newest here!”

“So maybe I’m thinking most clearly.” Vick let her hand lie on her belt buckle where her brass knuckles were hidden. She didn’t rate Grise much of a threat, for all her bulk. People who shout a lot tend to take a while working up to more. But Vick was ready to put her down if she had to. And when Vick put someone down, she made sure they went down hard.

And that’s what makes Vick so dangerous in this world, just like Logen:

Logen shrugged. Hard words are for fools and cowards. Calder might have been both, but Logen was neither. If you mean to kill, you’re better getting right to it than talking about it. Talk only makes the other man ready, and that’s the last thing you want. So Logen said nothing. Calder could take that for weakness if he pleased, and so much the better. Fights might find Logen depressingly often, but he was long, long past looking for them.

—The Blade Itself, First of the Magi

Both hardened and knowing not to give away their weaknesses, knowing when to put someone down for good. Just a fascinating contrast to the more naive and young charges of past chapters, Vick is.

Lucky for Grise, Sibalt laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and eased her back. “Vick’s right. I have to get out of Adua. Just as soon as we strike our blow.” And Moor slid out a dirty paper and unrolled it across the table. A map of the city. Sibalt tapped a spot in the Three Farms. Not far from where they’d started building that new canal. “The Hill Street Foundry.”

“Though Hill Street’s gone,” said Moor, in that plodding way he had, “since they pulled it down to build the Foundry.”

“They’re fitting new engines there,” said Sibalt.

Tallow nodded. “I passed ’em on the way. Engines that’ll put two hundred men and women out of work, I hear.”

I’ve read about how new technologies are going to replace some workers, leaving them out of a job. Now, of course, it makes perfect sense for companies to seek out new improvements that net them more profits, but without the social conscience and the consideration that you can train those old employees to work the new tools, you’re just left with money as the only bottom line, leaving countless souls helpless and scrambling without the job security that held up their families, their mental health, their very survival.

Industrial or contemporary age, human nature and greed really doesn’t change.

“We’re going to blow the lot to hell,” said Grise. “With Gurkish Fire.”

More signs of technological progression, what with Gurkish Fire being more commonplace nowadays since the ol’ days of the last Union-Gurkish War. Coming off The Heroes’ death tubes, this isn’t a surprise, but it’s definitely a nice continuity of Bayaz’s experiments with gunpowder.

I wonder if those death tubes got better... you’d think they’d be a leg-up, technologically, against Monza’s army, yet Terez said that didn’t go well...

“Well, you can stop worrying, ’cause it comes straight from Valbeck,” said Grise, smug as a king’s tailor. “Straight from the Weaver himself—”

“Shush,” hissed Sibalt. “Best if no one knows more than they have to. Don’t worry, the powder’s good.”

Grise slapped her fist into her palm. “A blow for the common man, eh, brothers?”

“Aye,” said Moor, slowly nodding his big head. “We’ll strike a spark.”

“And the spark’ll start a fire,” said Sibalt.

Vick sat forward. “If we do this, people get hurt. People get killed.”

“Only those that deserve it,” said Grise.

“Once the killing starts, it rarely sticks to those who deserve it.”

(arches an eyebrow) The Weaver? Aw, shit, is this like the Tanner all over again? Is Bayaz pulling the strings of another peasant rebellion, just to give a decisive victory to the royals? I like Jezal, and I don’t even hate Orso that much, but this will right piss me off if that happens.

I hope Yoru Sulfur, if he’s doing the Tanner bit under a different title, gets blown up by Gurkish Fire instead.

... And that last exchange is ultimately the sticking point. Revolutions are messy, messy business, and, as much as you want to keep the deaths solely on those who’ll deserve it, collateral damage is inevitable. Everyone who participates in one can die, and die ignobly.

Ultimately, I believe that revolutions are necessary, it’s what happens when you push around oppressed people so much their corpses pile up high as mountains and they cannot bear to be silent, and I refuse to wag my finger at them. Just because there’ll be blood to be had in revolutions doesn’t mean the status quo isn’t supported by gears and cogs, rusty with blood. Sometimes, inaction is a greater crime than wanting blood against those who operate the great machines.

That being said, I am all for everyone in a revolution being aware of the potential costs and trying not spill more blood than needed. But, well... easier said than done, right?

“You scared?”

“If you’re not scared, you’re mad or stupid, and there’s no place for either on a task like this. We need to plan every detail.”

As Logen would tell you:

The Northman chuckled. “Fearlessness is a fool’s boast, to my mind. The only men with no fear in them are the dead, or the soon to be dead, maybe. Fear teaches you caution, and respect for your enemy, and to avoid sharp edges used in anger. All good things in their place, believe me. Fear can bring you out alive, and that’s the very best anyone can hope for from any fight. Every man who’s worth a damn feels fear. It’s the use you make of it that counts.”

—Before They Are Hanged, Fear

Courage or strength isn’t defined by the absence of fear, it’s acting in spite of it. It’s using fear to work for you, carrying you to survive through sharpening your mind, your senses, and using it to your advantage.

Grise sneered her disgust. “All you ever fucking talk about is the risks!”

“Someone needs to. This has to be something we choose, not something we blunder into ’cause we’re sore and can’t think of anything better to do with ourselves.” She looked around those four faces, strange in the flickering light of the cellar. “This is what you all want, is it?”

Honestly, she’s right. Vick’s the one there pointing out that you can’t be a bunch of angry children playing with matches. She’s the only one right now speaking how to be mindful of starting a revolution, blessings and curses. If the Breakers are meant to be the spark to a great fire, to be a movement that’s meant to endure, they have to intend this and plan accordingly.

And they have to commit to it. All of it. No backing down.

“It’s what I fucking want,” said Grise.

“It’s what I want,” said Sibalt.

“Aye,” rumbled Moor.

Heh. I love how economic to their characters these responses are. Grise’s the heated, angry one who wants to fight back, no caution, Sibalt’s more measured and calm about how the cause needs to move and operate, and Moor’s just the big, slower musclehead. In fact, I generally like how this chapter gets across the different attitudes of the respective Breakers there. They all have skin in the game, but they’re different people with separate thoughts and input in going about breaking things.

She looked at Tallow last. He couldn’t be older than fifteen himself, and might only have had three good meals in that whole stretch. Reminded her of her brother, a little. Those skinny wrists sticking from frayed sleeves just a touch too short. Trying to put a hard face on but beaming fears and doubts out like a lighthouse through those big damp eyes.

“There’s a Great Change coming,” he said, finally. “That’s what I want.”

Is that a crack in the armor, Vick? Harder to suppress your feelings when reminders are right before your eyes. And, man, Tallow’s a brave little boy who shouldn’t have to commit to a fight that might kill him without remorse, given he found out about Cudber’s daughter’s hanging just a short while ago.

I hope he survives, but Abercrombie isn’t so gentle. So it goes, with hopes.

Vick smiled a grim smile. “Well, if I learned one thing in the camps, it’s that talking isn’t enough.” She realised she’d closed her fingers to make a fist. “You want a thing, you have to fight for it.”

Not as hard as you make yourself out to be, huh, Vick. Not as empty as you make yourself out to be, if even you’re getting carried away by the spirit of revolution. Other than that, damn straight. There’s a time for talk, and there’s a time for a fight.

She stayed straddling him for a while afterwards, his chest pressed against hers with each snatched breath. Kissing at his lip. Biting at it. Then with a grunt, she slid off him, rolled onto her side next to him on the narrow bed, dragging the blankets up over her bare shoulder. It felt chill now they were done, frost showing in the smudges of lamplight at the corners of the little window.

Wow, this book is just way more hornier than The Blade Itself. I mean, I don’t really mind, especially since this reads as more wholesome and sex for wanting it, rather than more abusive, like the first trilogy’s sex scenes, but wow.

Finally, he turned towards her. “Sorry I couldn’t step in with Grise—”

“I can look after myself.”

Sibalt snorted. “No one better. I’m not sorry ’cause I think you need my help. I’m sorry I can’t give it. Better if they don’t know we’re…” He slipped his hand up onto her ribs, rubbing at that old burn on her side with his thumb, trying to dig up the right word for what they were. “Together.”

“In here, we’re together.” She jerked her head towards the warped door in the warped frame. “Out there…” Out there, everyone stood on their own.

Whole swathes of Vick’s mindset just leaches so much warmth out of me. It’s such a cold, and dispassionate “everyone out for themselves” mindset that the camps instilled into her, but this? I’m glad Vick has some measure of happiness in her life, having someone by her side, at least.

He frowned at the little gap of coarse sheet between them as if it was a great divide that could never be crossed. “Sorry I can’t tell you where the Gurkish Fire comes from.”

“Best if no one knows more than they have to.”

“It’ll work.”

“I believe you,” she said. “I trust you.” Vick trusted no one. She’d learned that in the camps, along with how to lie. Learned to lie so well, she could take one tiny sliver of truth and beat it out, like the goldsmiths beating a nugget of gold into leaf, till it could cover a whole field of lies. Sibalt didn’t doubt her for a moment.

(arches an eyebrow) I’m reminded of Ferro’s belief of the word trust here:

“Stay with us. Give it a few days. If you don’t change your mind, well, I’ll help you pack. You can trust me.” Trust was a word for fools. It was a word people used when they meant to betray you. If he moved forward a finger’s width she would sweep the sword out and take his head off. She was ready.

—Before They Are Hanged, The Thing About Trust  

But why would Vick betray Sibalt? Isn’t she just as committed to the Breakers cause as he is? Who would she betray him to? Is Sibalt a Breaker rogue element that someone asked Vick to watch after? If so, who? She can’t go to the Inquisition, considering her history with the camps, so maybe a Breaker higher-up Sibalt doesn’t answer to?

In any case, so much for happiness, Vick. And poor Sibalt, if Vick's going to betray him. He’s so sweet to her and respects her so...

“I wish I’d met you sooner,” he said. “Things might be different.”

“You didn’t and they’re not. So let’s take what we can get, eh?”

“By the Fates, you’re a hard case, Vick.”

“We’re none of us hard as we seem.” She slipped her hand around the back of his head, through the dark hair scattered with grey, held it firm, looked him in the eye and asked one more time. “You’re sure, Collem? You’re sure this is what you want?”

(jaw drops) Oh my god. Yeah, this puts the nail on the idea that Vick = Improved Cathil wasn’t intentional. Another Collem and another victim of the Angland camps. Except this Collem doesn’t treat her like a vessel for his own issues, unlike West did. Oh, Collem, you already met Vick once sooner, in the pages of Before They Are Hanged instead. Except, now, it’s flipped, with Vick as the POV, and Collem as the love interest as a reflection of her character.

I LOVE HOW MUCH ABERCROMBIE REMIXES HIS OLD SHIT BETTER, YES!

“Don’t really matter what we want, does it? Bigger things than our future to consider. We can strike a spark that’ll set a fire burning. One day, there’ll be a Great Change, Vick. And folk like you and me will get our say.”

“A Great Change,” she said, trying to sound like she believed it.

Sibalt’s a true believer to the core, but Vick? She’s been beaten too badly by the camps to necessarily buy into the shiny ideals of that wholesale. She’s endured Inquisition care too long to think this will be as glorious as what Sibalt thinks. She believes in the cause, but she’s got a more cynical head about it, wearier and sadder for it.

“You should come with me.”

She should’ve kept silent on that, too. Instead, she found she’d asked, “Where would we go?”

A grin spread across his face. Seeing it made her smile. Her first in a while. Hardly felt like her mouth should bend that way.

There’s so much of Vick that feels so... hollow or restrained that glimpses and cracks in her voice like this really stuck out. And I think she actually loves Sibalt beyond the confines of taking him along, only to betray him. Just that made her smile bit. Like she didn’t intend to, but couldn’t help herself. She has so few opportunities for happiness, I sense.

Few of the characters in this series do.

The frame groaned as he reached down beside the bed and came back up with a battered old book. The Life of Dab Sweet by Marin Glanhorm.

“This again?” asked Vick.

“Aye, this.” It fell open at an etching across both pages. As though it was often opened there. A rider alone, staring out across a sweep of endless grass and endless sky. Sibalt held that drawing at arm’s length as if it was a view spread out in front of them, whispered the words like a magic spell. “The Far Country, Vick.”

“I know,” she grunted. “It says under the picture.”

“Grass for ever.” He was half-joking. But that made him half-serious. “A place where you can go as far as your dreams can take you. A place where you can make yourself anew. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Hah! The biography Sworbreck derided!

On a more somber note, there’s something to be said about how even a fantasy, a falsehood, can inspire us. Dab Sweet himself pointed out that his exploits were blown up beyond his capacity and he ended up having to live with the weight of all that he never did, but just because we know things to be false doesn’t mean we can’t want for better and more, right? It’s part of why we dream and yearn beyond our reaches. Abercrombie once talked about how you have to hit upon truth to impact your readers, well, the truth is, a fantasy can propel us to action, to want for better for ourselves and others.

“Aye, I guess.” She realised she’d reached towards that drawing with one hand, as if she might touch anything there but paper, and snatched it back. “But it’s a made-up drawing in a book full o’ lies, Collem.”

“I know,” he said, with a sad smile, like thinking about it was a fun game to play, but just a game. He flipped the book shut and tossed it back down on the boards. “Guess there comes a time you have to give up on what you want and make the best of what you’re given.”

Wanting that life too, Vick, no matter how much you consciously shut it down? But they have to make the best out of reality, no matter how tempting the fantasy is.

You two are going to make me cry, damn it.

“When we strike that spark,” he murmured, voice loud in her ear, “it’ll change everything.”

“No doubt,” said Vick.

Another silence. “It’ll change everything between us.”

“No doubt,” said Vick, and she slipped her fingers through his and pressed his hand tight to her chest. “So let’s take what we can get. If I learned one thing in the camps, it’s that you shouldn’t look too far ahead.”

Chances are you’ll see nothing good there.

Ouch. Full-blown pessimism from a childhood in the camps. No hope enters, no conscious dreams, because all they do is invite misery and broken optimism.

Just. Damn.

As a chapter, The Breakers is a set-up one. Going into the details of future events and dropping intriguing seeds like what the deal with the Weaver and the Vick/Sibalt. But, at the same time, it’s a first lens into the common people, and how much they’re varied in character and thoughts and are thinking through (or not) the consequences of revolution. In short, it’s putting faces and a name to the Breakers, extending to even the victims of those hangings in Orso’s chapter, which is why it makes sense to put this right after that one. It’s definitely a chapter that isn’t self-contained, but it’s interesting and a refreshing glimpse into the working class folk.

As a character, Vick is... depressing. In an intended way, of course, but there’s a hardness to her that the younger POVs thus far just don’t possess, a weariness that the younger generation will gain once they’ve been through enough hardship like she had. In a way, I come back to this idea of Vick being negative space. Whereas the other POVs so far have had the coddled and pampered upbringings to whine and laugh, and take joys in comforts, both small and large, and have parents who care about them... Vick got stripped of all that in the camps long ago, and this is the kind of person that comes out of those circumstances. Hollowed out. She makes for an intriguing contrast to the other characters, and while I can’t say she’s more interesting than Savine and, maybe, Orso, she’s a necessary lens into the revolutionary end of the Breakers, while possessing a practicality that calls back to the first trilogy’s adults and a vulnerability in the cracks of her POV, that makes her rather refreshing to read about.

And, as a re-do of a first trilogy female vessel character? Yeah, it’s very appreciated. Thanks, Abercrombie!

PART I

Chapter One: Blessings and Curses Chapter Two: Where the Fight’s Hottest Chapter Three: Guilt Is a Luxury Chapter Four: Keeping Score Chapter Five:  A Little Public Hanging Chapter Six: The Breakers Chapter Seven: The Answer to Your Tears Chapter Eight: Young Heroes Chapter Nine: The Moment

[tomerasange]

Chapter 10: Wyvern Tor

“Your punishment for the actions taken today will be significant and swift. You are hereby banned from the arena, and you will be expelled from the walls of this city.” “Damn your consequences! I am here for victory, and you have stolen it from me!” “We have rules you must abide by.” “I will have my justice and vengeance. I swear my life on this.”

As I awoke, the words of a memory reeling in my head, I could see my effects in the room sustained by the morning air. The night hung on my conscious person, and I arose to greet the day.

My hair was starting to fray and crosshatch from its standard curtain of poise, and my personal opinion was the sooner I could find a measure of peace, the sooner I could attend to my appearance once more. Somehow never to know peace in the traditional sense again, I heard a clatter and a boom from below my location. I could only guess to the reason, and I dressed and descended.

In the tavern’s main room, Urnig had awoken and in a fit of action was eyeing up a half-orc, who was acting in earnest. In a ceremonial beating of the chest, Urnig challenged the half-orc to a contest of might. They had locked arms in a test of strength, only for Urnig to find himself clocked upside the head and driven into the floor. Epide and Artemis sat off to the side with breakfast cheering on the scrum as Fardahr dug into his plate of humble meats. The barkeep was in a row over this impromptu melee, crying out, “Why must you have this dispute in my bar? Can’t this be held outside?”

In a moment of lucidity, I decided against involving myself with the hoi polloi, lest I suffer a deck against the cheek. I walked towards the front of the inn and tried to redirect the poor barkeep’s attention with a nonemotional response. “Just allow them to have this moment, darling. Now, onto breakfast. I think a coffee and... perhaps a light serving of bread.”

The barkeep only shook his head in disbelief, and turned to his work. As I proceeded to survey the ongoing fight, Urnig went for another attack. The half-orc blocked heartily again, and ended it with a punctuated blow. Both Epide and Artemis were stunned that Urnig, the mountainous sorcerer whose violence met no quarter, was fell by this newcomer. I walked over, silver tongue at the ready, to engage with our guest.

“My, my. Quite the showing, there. Absolutely powerful. The name is Tomera Sange. And what might your name be?” “Rokk” “Pleasure to meet you, kind sir. I must ask, however... why did you choose to fight our friend?” “Challenged me” “I see, I see. I must ask, out of sheer curiosity, what your purpose is in Phandalin.” “Lord’s Alliance sent me. I’m your backup.”

A chill and sudden flattening of mood swept though me in a perhaps comedic sense. While I did find another ally in our party perfectly acceptable, to think the Alliance was growing tired of our supposed lack of results. Perhaps they were worried that Glasstaff’s betrayal might occur once more. Perhaps they were still concerned about the safety of Gundren, whose location still evaded us. Perhaps Sildar had been so concerned with other incidents that his report read in listed form cut down to only needed details, like the events of a warfront, and failed to acknowledge we might have no need for backup.

I kept a diplomatic face. “Ah, yes. The Lord’s Alliance! Wonderful, darling. As a representative, I will see fit that you are acquainted well into our group.”

Rokk only nodded in curt acknowledgement and sat down with Artemis and Epide. Urnig, still reeling from the fight, stood up and dusted himself off, content with the results. At this time, Aurora joined us downstairs. With the group rejoined, we greeted our newest company member:

ROKK, the Half-Orc Fighter. He wielded a wooden club with a measure of unbridled confidence, and possessed a fighting style quite unlike mine. A brutish and physically taxing art, he seemed more adept at taking blows than most of my compatriots, let alone my own frame. While we were deciding towards our day’s itinerary, Artemis took a vested interest in talking with him, wanting to know of his exploits.

We sought out the decision for our next exploit. Given we weren’t any closer to discovering the location of Wave Echo Cave, and a travel towards Thundertree seemed like it could wait for us, we agreed that clearing the Triboar Trail would do us and Phandalin the most good. The seasons were turning a colder sorts, and soon winter would come to the continent.

As I examined a map of the Sword Coast, I realized this would be quite advantageous for my reputation. Clearing the Triboar Trail would allow supplies to flow between the North and East and Neverwinter, and in addition give the chieftain of Triboar more weight in the continent’s economy by superseding the high and low Dessarin Valley and Long Trail via the town of Beliard, another frontier town even smaller than Phandalin. Having convened with Triboar’s leader, this would give me a great reputation of one who secured the trade routes.

We set off for town and upon closer examination of the distance to travel, it would take roughly a half day’s travel to the settlement of Wyvern Tor, where most activity was occurring on the trail.

Aurora made the initial suggestion. “Perhaps it would be a boon for our purposes to rent a team of horses and cart for travel. If we come across a lode or treasure.” “So, a visit to Barthen’s Provisions before we leave?” “Would be in our favor.”

As we approached the storehouse, the workers were hard pressed at work unloading supplies for the town, having no more concern for raids by the Redbrands. Barthen was in his store when we arrived. “Aye, welcome back! I’d like to thank you again for your work on the town. You’ve given me and a great deal of people a good boost of confidence. Now, what will you be needin’ today?” Aurora handled the transaction. “We are in the need of a team of horses and a cart to pull. Off to Wyvern Tor to halt the orc raids, and we might happen across some interesting pieces. At the very least, we’ll be given transportation.” “Smart on you to do that. I’ll have the lads hitch a team for you, and that’d run you... twenty gold to rent. In addition, I’d expect additional fees in the case of damages to the cart or horses. Bottom line and all that.” “Of course.” Aurora looked back to me with a knowing stare, and it occurred to me we were in the most advantageous position financially to rent the cart. We payed our share, and awaited outside for the cart.

The midday sun hung high above the town as we set off North. At the helm was Fardahr, driving the horses. Urnig and Rokk took to covering the sides of the cart. Epide, Artemis, Aurora, and I sat in back. I thought back to my first travels toward Phandalin, nearly a week’s time removed from my current situation. And yet, the ease of the ride brought back a similar fondness. The sun and peace let me rest my eyes for a moment.

As we neared the Wyvern Tor, the cart jolted to a halt. I was awoken to the sight of Fardahr looking off in the distance. “What’s the matter, Fardahr?” “Can’t tell. I’m seeing odd movement up ahead.”

I readied my sword in preparation, only to be nearly thrown from the cart as the horses bucked. Something terrified the creatures and the cart took off. Fardahr still at the helm, I had to make a quick decision, and in the confusion I jumped from the wagon. Thinking the wooded area would have a measure of soft loam, I was immediately hoist by my hubris as the ground gave way to a hardened soil. My shoulder hit the ground with a thud and I tried to gingerly ascend to my feet. As I tried to scan for what Fardahr had detected, I could see in the tree line to the left of the road that weapons had been drawn.

As I ran ahead, rapier drawn, I could see Urnig and Artemis pinned in a swarm of vile creatures. They appeared as giant insects, flying and encircling with rapidly beating wings and bodies filled with claret, a long and sharp proboscis the instrument of torture. Aurora had taken her harp from her side and dipped behind a covering in preparation to unleash her magic. Seeing me, she exclaimed, “What a situation we’ve found ourselves in!” I couldn’t agree more, as several of the vermin flew into our vicinity.

From behind, Fardahr wielded his crossbow and attempted to catch one of them before it collided with us. The bowstring snapped with authority, but the arrow soared wide, as the insects continued on our trajectory. Aurora met one in combat, but was quickly stabbed through the arm.

As I set my eyes on one of the smaller blights, the creature lost its height and collapsed to the ground. Turning about, I could see a familiar figure standing no more than six inches tall, floating in a bag of detritus and odors. Epide had cast a spell of sleep on the local fauna, making our task that much easier. Unfortunately, this had the added consequence of putting Fardahr immediately out of commission. This matter would have to be attended to before our eventual conquest against the orc population.

Having seen another of the flying creatures darting into my vision, I stuck the rapier through its carapace, instantly dispatching the creature. It was in this sudden attempt at skewering my foe I remembered the creature was filled to the brim with the blood and sinew of local creatures, and my blade was immediately coated with the viscous red. Gently, I set about removing the still twitching corpse from its perch, which proved simple given the base anatomy of this particular specimen. Still, the effort was disgusting, and I would need to clean my blade in the aftermath.

As the fight progressed, I could see Rokk pulling his measure of the fight. With a unheard-of measure of dexterity, he plucked one of the insects from mid-air and proceeded to bash it into a nearby tree. The resulting mess caused that portion of the field to be drenched in claret.

In this moment, I sought to help Aurora with the creature that had stabbed her through, but before I could react, she had used her rapier to silence the creature. With a taut and simple “No”, acknowledging the corpse that lay at her feet, she rose, ready to dive back into the fray. 

Urnig, seeing his sparring partner take the opportunity to destroy one of the insects with brute force, thought it fair to in turn unleash his magic savagery on one of the insects that had flown into his range. With a fist that rivaled my own skull in size, he grabbed the creature, and cast a blast of magic, slamming the beast over his knee and producing a similar explosion of blood that coated his entire body. Perhaps my time with Urnig had dulled my senses to abhorrent violence, or perhaps I was allowed predisposition, as such from my history of battle, but a peculiar sense of calm washed over my person knowing his simple savagery might win us the day.

Our halfling companion Artemis sought out one of the insects in the swarm she was entangled in and with a further brutal showing used her own rapier to cleave one of them in twain. This was further compiled upon as she used her boot to grind the body into the ground, effectively rendering any postmortem movement silent.

With most of the assault dispersed, Epide took this time to attempt to wake the sleeping Fardahr. The dwarf slept fitfully, a loud commotion coming from his person. A few slaps across the face proved incapable of rousing the man, so Epide, in a fit of complete madness from my perspective, dumped his floating bag of water, his method of transport and container of various corpse trophies, onto the sleeping victim. Fardahr arose from his sleep and immediately at the presence of the stench retched his breakfast twice over.

Epide was not complete with his effort of madness, as he began to run about, leaping onto one of the already dispatched insect and ripping its nose off in an effort to find a suitable weapon. This nose was, in essence, a shortsword to Epide, and I applaud his improvisation, but still condemn his method.

Having now reduced our quarry to two remaining foes, one of which remained asleep from Epide’s spell, I stepped toward the tree line and wielded my blade with a flourish to run the insect through. A costly mistake, as the blade fail to land the killing blow. Rokk, at this point next to my own person, to his chance to land the blow to conclude this fight. Unceremoniously, he missed the swing of his club, and we were both stunned in silence. Which gave way to a tirade of both Rokk and I unsure why this creature was not dead. Artemis, for her part, began rolling on the ground peeling with laughter at our misfortune. While I don’t recall what was said between Rokk and I, the resulting commotion might have been the triggering incident to cause what came next.

As Artemis lie in tears of joy over this sight of incompetence and Urnig dispatched another of the insects for good measure by slamming it into the same tree Rokk had previously used, a sudden rumble from the ground arose. In the woods to my left, the sound of a roar shook the air. It filled me with an oncoming sense of horror, as the very structure of my body was suddenly shaking with the reverberations of the air.

I turned to see a massive form rise out of the wood. I only had to notice the creature’s face to know what matter of violent beast had been summoned by the commotion. This was an owlbear, a creature born of the fiery imagination of lore and reality, a great beast that many knights of yore have slain and few have tamed. To now come upon its form was a measure of daunting I was not prepared to witness.

With a grown sense of immediacy, Fardahr loosed a bolt from his crossbow, only to see the projectile snap against the beak of the owlbear, doing no damage to the beast. If any result occurred, it was the owlbear’s humor becoming perturbed, and I found myself face to face with the creature.

Before I could make my attack against it, the owlbear reared back its claw and swung, connecting with my body. The two entry wounds where I had been impaled with javelins days earlier immediately opened, and as I was thrown against a tree, I could see my blood began to pool on my attire, the red staining my white under attire through. It took all of my fortitude to remain awake in this sense, as I saw the others begin to take their measures in retaliation.

Epide, though small in stature, raised his hands in defiance. Again, a vibration shook the area, as the ground turned in on itself. Below the owlbear, the earth became near impossible terrain, and Epide jumped for joy at the sight of the temporarily confused creature. Taking advantage of this distraction, Rokk took the chance to summon a well of energy and his eyes became a visage of death. With the fighting spirit of a whole regiment, he unleashed a vicious assault on the owlbear, yet the creature held firm.

As I roused myself to wake, I found myself cornered by the last of the insects, with the owlbear’s back turned. Were I to choose a target, it would have to be one that did not pose immediate threat to my wellbeing upon a strike. I lunged in desperation at the insect, as it dodged frightfully out of my grasp. I was beset by fear, violent and tremendous, and I stabbed further still at the owlbear. Again, no luck, and I felt my arm give way to intense pain. The only measure that remained was to flee from the melee in an act of desperation. As I ran in self-preservation, I felt the warm breath of the owlbear on my back, and was met with a stab of pain as the beak wrought itself into my back.

I was safe and away for the time being, but it was clear that I would by on death’s door if struck again. I collapsed to the ground, blood now seeping throughout my clothing. From afar, I only had time to see the hand of Aurora rise up through half-closed eyes, and I felt a burst of magic run through my person. One of assurance and protection, no doubt, but inherently still my being had been compromised. All i heard in my head, ringing like the bells of a cathedral.

I am a coward

I am a coward

I am a coward

I saw Aurora raise her hand again, this time in the direction of the owlbear. With a pluck of the strings, the beast burst into a conflagration. I could not appreciate this move fully, only feel the burning sear of the flames and the rancid smell of flesh and fur alight, only further choking my senses.

Fardahr dove beside me, and with a tuck and roll let loose another bolt towards the owlbear. Striking dead center in the face, the resulting spray of bodily fluids mingled with the flames, setting the face in a permanent shriek as the body collapsed and lay still. I hadn’t the will to cheer or whoop in excitement. Aurora immediately extinguished the fire and set about the body along with Epide. He later gathered the corpses of the insects for his vile machinations.

As I lay there, blood still pooling about me, I felt the warm touch of a guiding hand. I was not unconscious but still beyond any measure of good health, and the divine spell Fardahr cast on me aroused me from my state. My blood began to retreat back into my person, and my wounds were sealed in a process that despite its effect did not hurt or cut with pain. I sat up, with Fardahr holding my shoulder. “You gave me a scare, young man. Are you okay?”

I shook my head awake, my hair a tangled mess getting into my eyes. “I am now. Thank you, Fardahr.” I stood up, groggy and unstable, but better still. Patting his shoulder in acknowledgment of service, I stood up and made my way back to the horse cart. Only to hear further retching from behind me.

Aurora was beside herself with joy at the sight of an intact owlbear. I could see her eyes alight with glee at the prospect of the clothes this pelt would divine. The feathers adorning the arms and legs were still in beautiful condition as adornments. Even the teeth could be split, separated, dried, and crafted into ivory jewelry of untold wealth. I am only keen to this as Aurora began listing these elements shortly after we loaded its corpse into the horse cart, a bit of mania overtaking her eyes in anticipation for its dissection. We were slower going, and it only aided my situation as I still felt a measure of pain while walking. At some point, we halted and I was loaded onto the driver’s perch with Fardahr, allowed to rest and recoup. It was still fitful, having to sleep some time next to the creature that nearly ended my corporeal existence.

The Wyvern Tor itself is a crevasse in the hills of the Triboar Trail, and despite utilizing this route in the tour towards Neverwinter, my caravan had stayed north of the locale, having been alerted previously by members of Triboar of the orc camp. The natural feature has held many different hosts of fauna, given it’s advantageous position when seen from the trail. As we neared the location of the tor, I first smelled the telltale signs of a campfire. We could hear two orcs posted as guards towards the mouth of a cave, with others still in the open. I received in my mind a flash of the goblin outcropping that began our time in service.

By the time the cart stopped some distance away, my injuries had been attended to, as had Aurora and Urnig. While I was clearly in better health, I couldn’t shake the feeling of horror the owlbear had beset upon me. I had never seen a beast as large nor as powerful in combat. I was deemed only useful in duels of honor and fairness. Surely, I had realize the world did not allow for such contests consistently. Surely. Yet, in the deepest hole of my mind, I felt betrayed by this turn of events and fearful still for my life.

We huddled in planning, and agreed Artemis would take the first stab at the orcs, in both a figurative and literal sense. Her size and speed combined with precision would allow a swift attack and retreat back into our party’s numbers. We lie in wait, preparing our methods of war, as Artemis clutched her daggers with pause. Then, she was off.

Across the field she tore through the grass, faster than anyone had anticipated. Rounding the circumference of the open field against the trees, she rounded the final corner and went for the orc guard on the right. In a flash, she slammed headfirst into it and cut the throat, an instant and painless death. Further still, she marked the other guard and again tore into it, a bass cry of pain ringing through the air. With a dash back, she had given us the element of surprise.

With a ravenous want, Epide saw the corpse and began to run towards it across the ground. The blood that had sprayed from the orc’s body apparently was enough to distract him, as he bathed in it like a duck bathes in a lake. Despite this horrid distraction, he still summoned the wherewithal to again form the ground anew, creating a pitfall that trapped one of the orcs.

Fardahr, having reconstituted himself from retching, began to channel a spell with a mischievous look on his face. A form of light took shape on front of him, but suddenly a look of frustration came across his demeanor. Having resigned himself, almost as if the god of his dominion came to warn against a cruel prank, he concentrated further and produced an iron brand, still wielding with an air of confidence. I was confused by the sight, but was quickly made aware of the power of a holy weapon as Fardahr hurled it towards a nearby orc, striking it clean.

Artemis, having set herself once more towards the orcs, struck the trapped orc and produced a rude gesture in its direction. Against the field, I could see more and more a chaotic, ramshackle fighting. I was still in pain. I was still terrified of the scene before me. But again, I felt magic turn to me, as Aurora cast a spell against me. I was grateful for her art, and only wished I could repay in kind her help. I grasped my bow and arrow and took aim at an orc, but my hand slipped in disorientation, ricocheting off the brand. I was lost.

Artemis again was engaged in combat, dodging and weaving with precision, all strikes against her missed. 

I’m back where I started.

Fardahr took a shot and found his mark.

Five years alone, talent wasted.

Rokk, without mercy, decapitated an orc and let a war cry.

I’ll just hope to fire my bow from afar and not get hit. This accursed weapon. It’s brought me nothing but strife.

As it looked like my group of fellow travelers were on the cusp of turning the fight and seizing victory, we were stunned to silence as a mighty roar escaped the cave. From inside, only darkness permeated. Only dank and must. Only sound escaped the cave.

And then it came.

[frederickwiddowson]

Genesis 3:2-8 comments: Satan’s ‘con’ game

3:2  And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden: 3 But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die. 4  And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die: 5  For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.

Satan makes the woman, whom we later know as Eve, part of his deception, his con-game. We learn in verse 6 that Adam is with her, even though it is often told by preachers that Adam could not possibly have stood by and watched his wife get sucked into the con but later we also see that Adam is quick to blame even God for his actions. Adam is not tricked here, as we understand by what Paul said in a letter to Timothy. He stands by and watches what his wife is being pulled into.

1Timothy 2:14  And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression.

           Eve acknowledges that she and Adam are permitted to eat of every tree but one. In fact, she goes beyond what God actually said, in neither shall ye touch it. We often do that with doctrine. God ordains a thing and we go beyond what He said to satisfy our own imaginings, making our new-improved rule God’s standard, when in reality, we have played the part of Eve.

Here, then, Satan makes a shocking statement, calling God a liar or calling into question what God meant by what He said. This is one of the most profound examples of wickedness in history, repeated by every drunk and drug addict before they take their first drink or shoot-up the first time, every sexually immoral person considering their lust, every teenaged boy with a heavy foot on the gas pedal, and every hot-tempered man of violence. Ye shall not surely die. Oh yes, you will, Sparky.

Some people might claim that Satan is telling Eve that they have misunderstood what God meant by what He said but what God said was so clear as to not be uncertain at all. Satan simply denies that what God said was true.

Satan basically tells them that God has tricked them and what He is doing is preventing them from being as gods themselves, having a knowledge of good and evil. Their eyes would be opened. But, while what he is suggesting seems desirable, being as gods, knowing good and evil comes at a price too horrible to contemplate, for death is at the end of that road. To disobey God when there was only one thing you could do on earth that constituted disobedience and the consequence of that one thing was too high a price to pay for such knowledge was the great tragedy of history.

We believe that we must have what we want and to get it we are willing to either deny that what God says will happen will actually happen, or as in the following passage, we simply justify it in our mind.

3:6 ¶  And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat. 7  And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons. 8  And they heard the voice of the LORD God walking in the garden in the cool of the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the LORD God amongst the trees of the garden.

The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil had three qualities that presented themselves to Eve. It could satisfy hunger, was nice to look at, and, at Satan’s suggestion she and her husband would be God-like, being able to discern the secret of good and evil. However, this was a trick, a con-job. Adam and Eve had no lack of food. Food was abundant most likely and delicious. The tree was beautiful as probably many other trees were beautiful. These things drew her like a moth to a flame. But the most important line Satan used was that they would know the secret of good and evil, like God. This was the trick. Good is obedience to God, believing what He says. Evil is disobedience to God in this context, denying Him and His sovereignty over you.

There are warnings and examples regarding lusting for food and not being patient and satisfied with what God has provided, not waiting on and trusting in the Lord God, and there were warnings and examples about worshipping things pleasant to the eyes.

Numbers 11:4 ¶  And the mixt multitude that was among them fell a lusting: and the children of Israel also wept again, and said, Who shall give us flesh to eat? 5  We remember the fish, which we did eat in Egypt freely; the cucumbers, and the melons, and the leeks, and the onions, and the garlick: 6 But now our soul is dried away: there is nothing at all, beside this manna, before our eyes.

 Here, food represented dissatisfaction with what God had provided and a longing for the delights of the time before you were pulled out of a world in rebellion against their Creator as in, I wish I could drink a case of beer on a hot day again. What is enough is far too often not enough to satisfy our lusts.

There were things that were pleasant to the eyes to mankind that he grew to worship in place of God.

Exodus 20:4  Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth: 5  Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me; 6  And shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments.

 Numbers 33:52   Then ye shall drive out all the inhabitants of the land from before you, and destroy all their pictures, and destroy all their molten images, and quite pluck down all their high places:

 In the following we see that this worship of things that our eyes see and admire is the very reason why God unleashed so many sexual perversions on our society today which were commonplace in the ancient world but had been forbidden and pushed into the dark corners of society by the Christian faith.

 Romans 1:19 ¶  Because that which may be known of God is manifest in them; for God hath shewed it unto them. 20  For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are

clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse: 21 Because that, when they knew God, they

glorified him not as God, neither were thankful; but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened. 22 Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools, 23  And changed the glory of the uncorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and fourfooted beasts, and creeping things. 24 Wherefore God also gave them up to uncleanness through the lusts of their own hearts, to dishonour their own bodies between themselves: 25  Who changed the truth of God into a lie, and worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator, who is blessed for ever. Amen. 26  For this cause God gave them up unto vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature: 27  And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another; men with men working that which is unseemly, and receiving in themselves that recompence of their error which was meet. 28  And even as they did not like to retain God in their knowledge, God gave them over to a reprobate mind, to do those things which are not convenient; 29  Being filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity; whisperers, 30  Backbiters, haters of God, despiteful, proud, boasters, inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents, 31  Without understanding, covenantbreakers, without natural affection, implacable, unmerciful: 32  Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them.

Knowledge is a two-edged sword. Solomon said;

Ecclesiastes 1:18   For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.

What Adam and Eve faced and what they did we often have faced and done. Many a young person has not heeded the knowledge given to them by others to not touch the hot stove but has gained the painful knowledge that comes from being burnt in disbelief and disobedience.

Man would have done well to obey God rather than sought out the proof of what God said by painful experience. Many a life has been shattered, diminished, ruined, or lost by man’s sin nature.

True knowledge, though, is different.

Proverbs 1:7   The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge: but fools despise wisdom and instruction.

Adam and Eve sought knowledge of the first kind. Satan lied to them. They learned the tragic consequences of disobeying God. This is not knowledge we should seek if we are wise. Our trouble is so many false preachers and teachers making up what God said and speaking falsely for Him that drives so many young people away from church fellowship. Hatred of and contempt for women, bigotry, paranoia, domination and control, and masochistic self-hatred are not of God and get in the way of our obedience to Him.

In any event we are called to obey Him, not test the limits of disobedience to see what happens, dancing on the edge of the abyss to see how close we can get before we fall into it

Adam and Eve chose disobedience and all of creation has suffered for it so that God could redeem us Himself and that mankind in eternity would know that they did not do it themselves but that it was God alone who saved them.

Adam and Eve gained knowledge by disobedience to God and judgment rather than gaining knowledge by obedience to Him and the joys of a personal relationship with their Creator.

Eve gave the fruit to her husband, Adam, who was with her, and he also disobeyed God. At that moment they realized their disgrace, as conscience was revealed and the bitter vision of knowing that they were undone, without honor, overcame them. As we are wont to do, if indeed we have a conscience at all, they tried to hide their shame and human frailty that had been exposed. Gone were the happy, careless times of joy in God’s garden, the first couple enjoying each other and creation without care or doubt. We mistake this time in our lives for attaining adulthood, becoming a man or a woman, when, all too often, it simply reflects a loss of who we were or could have been. When we follow the world, which is Satan’s bailiwick (2Corinthians 4:4), with our desire to place self-gratification and self-glorification above God and make it a sort of rite of passage into full admission to the world we must take on that shame and self-doubt, that uncertainty and, if you would, low self-esteem, we take steps downward. Often, with each action after that we feel less and less that sense of ‘all is possible’ for us and our choices become more and more limited and less and less satisfying. Shame becomes a constant nagging companion and if we become so hardened that we cannot feel it we just become numb and can only feel a sense of disgust at who we are.

Some will try to hide in an entertainment as an escape, some in a hobby or an employment or some other activity, even hiding from God in church, while others drink or take drugs to numb the pain of their existence. Some will become defiant and proud of their sin, claiming it as a badge of distinction and self-justification, thumbing their nose at God, so to speak. But, that point comes for almost all people who are actually able to acknowledge it, that point when they feel that they have lost something. It is a vague and uncertain pain or it may be a great sense of grief. But it is a sense of loss nonetheless. The only real cure is to trust Christ, to know that He loves you, to acknowledge both your love for Him and His for you, and to depend on His righteousness and not your own for peace with God and peace in your own soul.

They heard God, the pre-incarnate Christ, the visible image of the invisible God, the express image of His person as pointed out in the study on chapter 1, verse 3, with whom they had known such sweet fellowship, walking in the garden, calling out to them as He often did apparently. But, this time they hid from His presence. When we sin we often forgo our prayer, talking to God, and reading the Bible, God talking to us, and hide from Him, because, if we are indeed believers, we feel great shame and that we have let Him down. The more we continue to do wrong the more we try to cut off His counsel and fellowship with Him until we are the most miserable of persons.