#of course there are counter-arguments that I'm more than willing to hear

[rawliverandgoronspice]

Ok, so since you're in gamedev, I'm curious about your perspective on patenting gameplay mechanics, like how the Ascend mechanic was patented prior to ToTK's release. I know Nintendo aren't the only ones doing this, but how common of a practice is that in general? And do you think there's any merit to it or no?

Heyyy sorry I was having a very busy week/weekend, so I kind of left this ask to the side given this is a pretty complicated subject, but here we go!!

So... Basically, my opinion is that it's mostly a bullying method for big corporations, and what seems like a tentative to protect one's work for smaller individuals/entities that they can't realistically enforce anyway. To me, and many devs, it's considered poor etiquette at the very least, especially given the highly iterative nature of gamedev and the extremely specific application of any given idea. The fact that the boundaries of tolerance and how aggressive a company will be at protecting what they feel they own (and here something as nebulous as an intellectual concept and context-less execution) will generally be blurry at best, especially since it's super hard to parse what could be considered inspiration VS what is derivative in a game mechanic, it tends to merely discourage innovation from smaller studios in that specific field, while still having bigger companies perhaps risking a lawsuit because they have already assessed they could cushion the consequences if it does come to that.

As often with copyright laws, but perhaps even moreso here, it dabbles in the corporate justice system, and it is a system that will always disproportionately protect the wealthy, the influencial and the powerful, while leaving people without resources extremely vulnerable. Imagine being a small studio trying to patent your cool mechanic, and then a giant like Riot Games waltz along and decides to steal your mechanic anyway. Can you afford the money to stay lawyered-up for years? Can you tolerate the stress of this David and Goliath situation, or existing in the public eye, or the potential smear campaigns, etc? And if you don't want to enforce your rights due to a lack of resources, your rights may as well not exist.

So I am personnally pretty much against the practice on this basis alone, even discounting how that approach runs counter to the very community-based spirit of game design and game studies. The goal of any self-respecting game designer should be to craft the best possible experience for players. It's good to protect yourself, your living, your place in history of course, but freezing the course of that history for little more than greed... It's not really well considered by a lot of devs that I know.

[zablife]

Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwiches

Summary: Even though you've promised to marry him, you still feel as though you might not be what Elvis needs. An argument over dinner proves the perfect time for him to set you straight.

A/N: I've never written for Elvis before, but something came to me I couldn't resist!

"Get up 'ere and tell me whatsa matter with you!" Elvis demanded, obviously displeased by the way you'd stormed away to the kitchen.

You pursed your lips into a defiant pout, arms crossed over your chest as you heaved for breath. He'd knocked the wind out of you when he picked you up and slammed you down onto the counter. The gasp you'd stifled was proof of it.

"I don't got anything to say to you," you retorted, averting your gaze and staring down at his dark suede shoes.

He was a gentleman at heart, but his temper often got the best of him. You heard him huff, watching him stuff his hands in his pockets to keep from manhandling you further. It was clear he only wanted to know what was wrong and he paced silently as he waited for an answer.

You were stubborn too though and often tested his patience by being deliberately willful. If he didn't know what he'd done this time, you certainly weren't going to tell him. He could figure that out for himself, you thought as you let him stew.

A moment more of shoes squeaking against the linoleum and Elvis snapped. Charging back toward you, he captured your jaw in one enormous palm forcing your eyes to meet his penetrating stare.

"Said I was sorry, didn't I?" he demanded and you could only gulp in reply. He hadn't been kind about your efforts cooking dinner and the jokes he made to the mafia eroded what little confidence you had left.

Your lip quivered despite your best efforts and hot tears welled at your lash line. Of course he noticed the change in you instantly, reaching up to catch the first tear as it fell.

“Don’t do that darlin’,” he pleaded, voice dripping in honeyed concern.

You sniffed back emotion so as not to show weakness and he chuckled slightly. "Always a brave little soldier, ain't ya?" he teased.

"M not, tho," you admitted. "I don't think I can do this," you whispered, pitching forward to press your foreheads together. You breathed in his comforting scent, allowing the waves of calm to wash over you before you continued. "I'm sorry, but I can't be your wife," you confessed. You knew it to be true, unable to keep house or cook meals for him perfectly the way his mama did for him when she was alive. You didn't have the same experience and it was killing you to know how you were failing him.

Elvis breathed deeply as his large hand came to cradle the back of your head, making you feel safe and secure as only he knew how. You could feel him smirking against you and you held your breath waiting for whatever reply he'd give to dismiss your concerns.

However, he surprised you when his voice rumbled low and sincere from deep within his chest. "You're gonna make the most wonderful wife, sweetheart. I know it cause you're kind and gentle..." He paused to gather his thoughts, fingers twisting in your hair as he added softly, "but most of all cause you love me like I love you."

Your heart nearly skipped a beat as he spoke the words of affirmation you'd longed to hear so many months now living with him at Graceland. However, your old insecurities ate at you faster than he could banish them. Your head shook softly against his broad shoulder, tears dripping down his shirt front as you proclaimed, "Tonight you said I couldn't do nothin' right. Maybe it's true." Then you gave in to the melancholy, hiccuped sobs leaving your parted lips.

You felt his chest puff out against you, ready to deny the accusation before he thought better of it. He looked back toward the dining room where a dozen witnesses could easily corroborate his sharp criticism. With you tugging at his heart strings now, he realized his mistake.

"Look, baby, I don't care you can't cook," he swore to you. As you looked up into his sapphire eyes, you knew he was telling the truth. Searching your tear stained face for forgiveness he added, "I'll hire us a chef and you don't ever have to worry again, alright?"

"You won't think less of me?" you asked, wiping at your ruined mascara.

A wide grin spread over his face as he thought for a moment, the devilish glint returning to his eyes as he answered, "Not as long as you learn to make me a peanut butter and banana sandwich. I can't go on a two week honeymoon with no help and nobody to make it f'me," he chuckled.

You hit his chest playfully, a giggle escaping your lips. "And how am I gonna do that?" you teased back, biting your cheek in anticipation.

Elvis' broad hands came to rest at your waist, raising you from your perch with ease. With controlled precision he placed you onto the ground beside him, pulling you into his side. "What if I teach ya?" he asked in complete seriousness.

Hands resting against his firm chest, you looked up at him expectantly, wanting to please him more than anything in the world. "I reckon I could learn."

"Yeah?" he asked, lips twitching into a tentative smile at your willingness.

"Mm-hmm," you confirmed with a quick nod.

Elvis took you by the hand and drug you toward the pantry as you furrowed your brow in confusion. "R-right now?" you stuttered, unable to believe he'd forsake his guests waiting for a proper meal in the next room.

"Ain't no time like the present, sweetheart," he declared, shutting them all out to spend time with you.

[myfairkatiecat]

i hear the katria bug is catching? well i'm going. to make it worse.

presenting to your askboxes (this is a dual pov fic and a version of this has gone out to stria too), with worldbuilding inspired by "the other woman" (other woman anon if you're out there know that i'm thinking about your fic.....) this fic! (wording is a bit clunkier in stria's version sorry)

note that this is au to real life keepblr events and their chronology. for the most part. (matters for this version more because katie's response to the rant precedes most of the posts cited here in real life. whatever. for the sake of katria deal with it.)

~~~

Agree to Disagree (Katie's Version) [Part One]

Tumblr user the-way-astray, otherwise known as Stria Sixteen: Katie's new acquaintance from the Keeper Forum. It was funny how you met the most interesting sorts of people when you walked around alone. Katie remembered her vaguely from her lurking days too. It had been good to see her talking to people and proclaiming her opinions, and she'd been a good conversationalist—analysis-minded, passionate, and willing, evidently, to swap Tumblrs.

Katie, of course, being charmed and fascinated by such an individual, decided to check out her blog. Which, she realised when she clicked open the read-more to her pinned post, had been somewhat of a mistake.

For right there, in front of her, readily available to read through, was a veritable wall of Stria's anti-Keefe posts.

Now, Katie was by and large a quite tolerant person. That she hadn't met as many passionate Keefe haters as she'd (regrettably) met passionate Fitz haters, was more to do with the composition of the fandom itself rather than with her trying to avoid haters. But here was one: a Keefe hater with posts labelled things like "keefe rant" and "thoughts on the relationship between keefe's trauma and actions" and "sokeefe, from a writing standpoint, reeks of insecurity". Many things, even from the title itself, Katie agreed with! Keefe was insecure, definitely! Thinking about the relationship between Keefe's trauma and actions was one of her favorite things! In fact, she was the one who always found herself reminding people that Keefe was her flawed pookie, not her perfect pookie who had done nothing wrong, ever. But she could hardly imagine someone using the same things which endeared Keefe to her so as a reason for hating him.

She opened the rant in a new tab—now, she had to know.

She was hit with a great wall of disclaimers.

The first thing Katie noticed was the emphasis on it being subjective. Stria—Stria who had seemed firmly opinionated to Katie even just meeting her for the first time—naturally had subjective opinions on Keefe. She hated his humor subjectively, and emphasized over and over that the rant was a rant. Katie found it—along with the rant's frankly terrifying length—intriguing.

She'd never felt like she'd met her match before. Her love of Keefe vs. Stria's hatred. Both, no doubt, interesting.

And her bold declaration, "Feel free to pick fights with me or tell me that I'm not being fair. Feel free to counter every single one of my arguments," was practically a dare to Katie's inner debater.

She typed out a response in the replies, and waited.

A minute later, Stria's response came:

"lmfao that's fine. debate away.

Katie grinned. Debate away she would.

And when she did, neither Stria, nor anyone else, would be ready.

~~~

and thus begins the tale of the duel spirit mutuals. i'll make a part two if you would like one :)

anything quoted from stria's rant/pinned post/blog can be found @the-way-astray at the time of sending this ask in every referenced post (so rant disclaimer and pinned post). credit for that is stria's.

the way my heart stopped when i realized this was about my response to her post cause the layers of "i know you said this isn't your argument but I'm both claiming that it secretly is and also refuting it" that my caffeine-fueled brain attempted to transmit to stria before i posted that are actively obscuring the point lmao

that being said this is very well written. It's almost reading like my cognate's work, tbh, though she isn't online. I'm... intruiged by the next part but also very, very, very scared. I want to see stria's version

@the-way-astray

[geneeste]

Ooh, can I ask about the Jack & Jacob fic?

I'm so glad you did! I love this one. Since I talk to some length about this one in @justagirl-purplejellosg1's ask, I'll give you part of a scene from from the WIP!

Keep in mind that this is very WIP-y and that anything might change. ;)

-----

It takes Jack a few days to work up the courage to even sit outside of Carter's house. And still, it's late when he finally pulls up, half-hoping the late hour would find her house still and dark, forestalling any conversation they could have had.

Alas, the universe seems intent on this happening, because he can see a dim light through the blinds of her living room, probably from her kitchen.

He can practically hear Jacob's voice in his head. 

She deserves better than this from you.

It's time, he knows that. Past time, if he's being honest with himself. They should have talked about this years ago. 

So he gets out of his truck, appreciating the cool, dry Colorado air against his face as he makes the short trek to her front door. He takes one final deep breath, then knocks.

It's a long moment before he hears the click of the locks on her door, long enough for his heartbeat to pick up in the silent darkness of her stoop.

Her brow is furrowed when she opens the door. "Sir. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," he says, and he's surprised to hear some of the nerves he feels in his own voice. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket for lack of something else to do with them. "Can I come in?"

Her head tilts at him. "Of course," she says, stepping back to let him step in past her. 

He hears her close the door, and then she moves past him back towards the kitchen. "Do you want some coffee?"

Her follows her into the kitchen to see a pot's already made, with an empty cup sitting on the counter, ready to be filled. 

"Sure," he says, even though he really doesn't need it and probably won't finish it. 

But it gives him some time to study her, and he realizes how worn she looks. She's in her pajamas, a light blue tank top and baggy, comfortable-looking flannel pants and bare feet, like she'd been either asleep or ready to be. 

She's been a night owl for as long as he's known her, and a workaholic on top of that, but he doesn't see her computer or even any other telltale sign that she's been working. The weariness in her movements, the tightness around her eyes seems to say that maybe she was trying to sleep, and couldn't.

"Are you okay?" he asks, taking the mug she holds out.

Her face smooths out, a bland and polite expression replacing the weariness. "Fine. Just couldn't sleep."

He hates that it's so obviously a lie, and more that she won't --or can't--tell him the truth. But then that's why he's here, isn't it?

"Right," he says, glancing over at her living room. "Do you want to sit down?"

An eyebrow goes up, but she seems willing to humor him. "Okay."

He lets her go first again, and instead of settling next to her on the couch, he elects instead to sit across from her on her coffee table, setting his mug next to him on its surface, coffee untouched. 

When he turns back to face her, her eyes are wide, clearly starting to clue into the fact that something's up. "What's going on, sir?"

He'd really like her to stop calling him that. "I had a chat with Dad while we were on [planet designation]."

She sits up a little straighter, and when she speaks there's a note of alarm in her voice. "About what?"

Here goes nothing. "About when we were mistaken for zat'arcs. He knows about us."

"There is no us," she says, but it comes out half-strangled.

"Yeah, believe me, I tried that argument. But seeing as the machine apparently recorded everything, that’s not exactly going to work anymore, is it?"

She presses her hands to her face. "Oh my god." The words are muffled, so he can't tell if she's mortified or angry.

"Carter-"

He stops talking when she gets up, walks around to the back of the couch, and starts pacing. He still can't get a good look at her face when she demands, "What did he say, exactly?"

Well, at least she's not calling him sir anymore. "Oh, just that he knew we had feelings for each other. And then he basically called me a coward."

She stops short at that, turning toward him, face flushed. "I'm so sorry. That was incredibly out of line," she says, resuming her pacing. "I'll talk to him the next time he's on Earth and get him to apologize and promise never to-"

"Carter, he was right."

She halts again, practically gapes at him. If they were talking about anything else, he might laugh at the fact that, for once, he'd confounded her. "We need to talk about this."

She sucked in a breath. "I don't know how to talk about this with you."

Hearing that hurts a little, because it’s a reminder of the damage the silence between them has done. "Don't you think that's a problem?"

"It's never been before!" And that might have hurt more if not for the tremor in her voice, and for some reason that calms him.

"Carter–Sam. Come sit down." And because he didn't want it to sound like an order, he added, "please."

She stands for another moment, staring at him, until finally she reaches out and puts a hand on the back of the couch and taps it, like she needs something tangible to ground her. Then she comes back around the couch to sit across from him again, leaning back against the cushions. 

"Okay," she says, smoothing her palms down her thighs in a nervous gesture.

-----

It might be a little evil to leave it there, but then I'm an evil person.

[currentlyfckingurmom]

Her Song part 13

"I needed to talk to you," I reply steadily. She stands from her makeup chair and leans against the counter, facing me.

"So talk," she says with a defensive shrug. Her guard is up—that much is obvious.

"I, God, I don't even know where to start," I pause, laughing breathlessly. "Why are you so mad at me?"

She scoffs, shaking her head at me. "You seriously don't know? You go on a date with some girl, don't answer my texts and then start ignoring me. You're so hot and cold, Y/N. So, sorry if I needed to step back for a minute," she snaps angrily.

"Okay, first of all, it's none of your business if I went on a date. Second, I answered your texts as soon as I saw them. And then you didn't answer me. And I'm not ignoring you, Florence! God, did you even listen to the voicemail I left you?"

"What, so I'm the bad guy for not wanting to think about you getting in another girl's pants? I can't believe you right now. Just, for a second, can you try to think about how I feel?"

"That is exactly what I said when I called you! And, once again, you didn't answer. Besides, you don't get to be jealous when you're the one with a boyfriend. This isn't easy for me either, Florence."

My soaking wet clothes are sticking uncomfortably to my body, water dripping down my face. I can't tell if I'm shaking from the cold or from the tension of our argument, but either way my heart is racing in my chest.

"So why now? Hm? Why show up on set just to start a fight? You couldn't just text?" she shrugs, shaking her head bitterly.

I pace back and forth in front of her, scoffing as I shake my head. "No, I couldn't just text."

"Why not?" she shouts in disbelief.

"Because your boyfriend is a douchebag," I spit.

"You don't get to say that. I get that this is a messy situation but don't take it out on him. He didn't do anything to you," she says coldly, effectively stopping my pacing.

"Oh really? How would you know if he did? It's not like he would tell you," I state flatly.

"What the hell are you saying, Y/N? You can't just throw accusations at someone I- someone I care about."

"I left you a voicemail, Florence. I'm beginning to think you didn't hear it."

"You didn't leave me a voicemail. I would've listened to it if you had."

I pause, my eyebrows furrowing. "Of course you didn't hear it," I realize. "Because Zach heard it first and deleted it. Before he came to the shop," I declare quietly, more to myself than anything.

"He went to your shop? Why? What did he say?" she asks, pushing herself off the vanity and walking closer to me.

"He told me that he heard the voicemail I left you. And to stay away from you."

She swallows thickly, her eyes darting between mine as she clenches her jaw. "Is that it?"

"No."

"What else?"

"It doesn't matter, Florence. I'm here to talk to you. I won't spend forever chasing someone who won't even talk to me."

"What did the voicemail say?" she whispers.

"I really like you, Florence. A lot. And I know this is hard for you, so I'll give you space if that's what you need. But that's not what I need. I know what I want, and I'm willing to wait for it—boyfriend or not."

"What is it that you want?" she rasps, stepping even closer, to the point where only a few inches separate our desperate lips and pounding chests.

"We both know the answer to that, Florence."

"I want to hear you say it," she demands, eyes locked intently on mine, only wavering to briefly glance at my waiting lips.

"You. I want you."

She runs her hand up my arm before fisting the front of my soaked-through shirt. She pulls me closer, and I can feel her breath fanning across my lips. Her pupils are blown, the black lust devouring the hazel innocence.

I run my fingers through her blonde hair, pulling her face even closer to mine. Our lips haven't even brushed yet, but the close proximity of our desires sends electric jolts through my body. She closes her eyes and I follow suit. Just as we begin to lean in, I come to my senses and pull away, resting my forehead against hers, breathing deeply.

"I told you I'd wait, Flo. I meant it. I can't do this when you have a boyfriend. I'll be here when you figure things out," I tell her softly.

I gently kiss her forehead before turning and leaving the makeup room. Scarlett is waiting outside, and gives me a wide-eyed 'what happened' look when I exit.

"How did it go?" she questions eagerly as I lead the way back to the parking lot.

"Honestly? I have no goddamn idea."

She grabs my arm, stopping me as I go to leave through the back door we used on the way in. "Are you okay?" Scarlett asks sincerely, a worried crease forming between her eyebrows.

"I just wanna go home, please," I mumble defeatedly.�� I'm so exhausted. Drained. My only wish is to go home and put on some warm pajamas, then curl up in a ball and sleep until this all goes away.

She nods and walks me outside to the SUV that drove us here. "I'll have them drive you home. Lizzie and I need to stay here. Text us, okay? We're here for you, whatever you need."

I nod, giving her a small thank you before the driver takes off. It could've gone worse, I guess. But we didn't exactly solve anything either. We just argued...and then almost kissed.

Oh my god. I almost kissed Florence Pugh.

~ I'm holding onto pieces of us that I just can't let go. I know this is a desperate kind of love, but it feels like it's home.

[bllsbailey]

Does the New DOJ Go After the Three Stooges?

So, I'm thinking about the new DOJ and what it might resemble after a few months when Pam Bondi (presumably) clears out the DEI's and the Democrat Party loyalists. Those folks have got to go; it's not even a question.

But the question bouncing around between my ears is, "Should the new DOJ go after Mayorkas, Milley, and Biden?" Now, I'm not sure if they can go after Milley as that might be an Army matter, but either way, an argument can be made that he should be tried for treason. Could you imagine, in February 1944, George Marshall calling up Erwin Rommel to say, "If Roosevelt decides to breach your Atlantic Wall, I'll give you a heads up." You just can't have your military commanders doing stuff like that. You just can't.

Mayorkas lied repeatedly to congressional oversight when he told them the border was secure. It wasn't, and it isn't...yet. His only defense is to say that the programs they had in place, while they let people come over the border, were lawful because they were fleeing oppression, and releasing them into the country was ok because they were given court dates to hear their amnesty requests....which would be some years in the future.

Now, this is transparent nonsense because millions and millions of unvetted people came over or were flown in by DHS, and just because the government gives it a euphemism, they still destroyed immigration law and violated it every which way that they could. And if what Mayorkas did was not a violation of immigration law, then what does such a violation look like? It's ridiculous. This is like the thief who gets caught, and pleads Not Guilty because he didn't steal the case of beer. He simply "liberated" it.

And if you've ever seen those police videos of sovereign citizens getting pulled over for expired plates and then telling the cop that they are not violating any law because they were not driving but rather traveling, then you understand how stupid such an argument actually is. The difference is that Sovereign Citizen #1 will go to jail, and Mayorkas will not.

I think the DOJ should investigate this and charge him with willful violation of the law (if that's even a criminal act...maybe Bondi can come up with a suitable euphemism that will give them a case since the Left likes those kinds of terms.) It would really be interesting to see the examinations in a courtroom when Alejandro takes the stand.

"Mr. Majorkas, was it your idea to let all of these millions of people enter the United States illegally?" Not willing to take the fall, he turns on Biden and says, "He told me to do it." And, of course, he did. No supervisor on the planet would let a subordinate do something of this magnitude for four years if it countered his wishes.

Biden Continues to Act Like an Angry Child, Extends Protections for 800,000 Immigrants in Poke at Trump

Trump Reportedly Has a Radical Plan for Accountability on Afghanistan, and the Press Are Seeing Red

Should the DOJ now consider bringing charges against Biden for treason? Possibly. Criminal negligence? Surely. And maybe even try him for accessory to homicide since, under his practices, lots of people have been killed by "migrants" that he let in. I don't know. Maybe any lawyers on here could be more specific than that, but it seems to me that what Biden has done must have have violated some laws rather than just simply being a rotten thing to do to us.

I believe it is very important to prosecute when laws have been broken, particularly when they have been broken at the highest levels of leadership. If you don't hold these people responsible, then why the hell should anybody else follow laws? Holding these guys accountable is also going to have some sort of effect on others who might try to skate in the future. As an example, Donald Trump did not prosecute Hillary Clinton for her criminal behavior, possibly out of a sense of magnanimity, and then she turned right around and bit his hand. Maybe he should have had her thrown in jail as he commented during one of their 2016 debates.

The Left is never grateful for overtures like that; they seem to liken them to weakness, I guess. So if the Three Stooges mentioned above don't get any repercussions for the country we're going to have for decades — and didn't ask for — then others with the same mindset will just come in and do more of the same thing. I mean, why not? There's nothing to be afraid of and no punishment.

On that note, we then have the predictable response of the Left. They will, without question, try to skewer Donald Trump for being petty, vindictive, and authoritarian. "Look! We said he'd go after his political enemies! That he'd throw all the LGBTQs in gulags! He's Hitler! We told you so!"

Well they're all going to say that no matter what Trump does, so there's no reason for him to let up on the gas. He's going to take a beating regardless, so he might as well have the DOJ prosecute these guys anyway. And besides, I think they deserve it. Milley gets recalled and then busted down to private and loses his pension, Mayorkas gets to go into the DC Gulag as the January 6th guys are coming out, and Biden...well, I don't know what they do with him. They'll say he's too old or too far gone and will have no recollection of what he did. And maybe they'll be right. But the least they could do is shame him with an ankle monitor and put him on probation. 

If they try him like they tried Trump and expose this whole immigration-invasion mess, then if his legacy isn't crap by now, it will be by then.

[ofgods]

   SHE WATCHES HIM CAREFULLY, HEAD TILTED slightly. the kindled warmth in her chest is quickly growing into an inferno and it doesn't take long before she needs to look away to hide her shyness. one hand raises to slightly cover her face, a quiet giggle slipping through the cheesy grin. it's a move she's done plenty of times over their years together, never growing used to having an audience to her experience on cloud nine. she has to remind herself that it's not a place she deserves to visit so soon, but she refuses to ruin the moment. her shield drops before amber eyes are brought back to the subject of her affection, the same smile still on her lips,  ❝  you're gonna give me a big head if you don't quit. i'm still going to work hard, though.  ❞   translation: because i still want to spend them with you. i love you.

   a slow nod in agreement comes eventually, already of the belief that he―and the rest of the bake my day team, but she's ( extremely ) biased―could make anything and the city would still flock to try them. she chuckles,   ❝  i'm more inclined to believe you're just doing the marcus thing where you don't really consider anything except that you'll do what you must to make a thing come to fruition because you want to do said thing for someone,  ❞   it's one of the many things she admires about him,   ❝  but i also believe that if you were a witch, you'd definitely be a kitchen one, so you're probably right about it not being that complicated for you.  ❞   for her, everything he made was complicated. that's why she made it a point to watch him from her perch on the counter whenever he baked at home... well, that and she just liked cashing in on any excuse to be with him.

   ❝  wait. wait, time,  ❞   she makes a quick t-shape with her hands.   ❝  first, i need to preface this by saying that it makes me really, really happy to know you consider them sweet dreams,  ❞   she would completely understand if he felt they only emphasized the hurt she left behind,   ❝  but you can't just say that and not tell me what those different little details are? you know i'm a curious cat!  ❞   she leans in, eating away the majority of the distance between them. her words are spoken as if they were sharing secrets,   ❝  you tell me yours, i'll tell you mine?  ❞   she was always willing to play fair if it was with him... unless nerf guns or mario kart were involved, but isn't that true for everyone? she straightens herself and flicks a stray curl from her forehead, flashing a smile,  ❝  only if you want to, of course.  ❞   at his next comment, she makes a mental note to take her phone off silent mode, that way she'll be able to recognise if it's him who's calling. the last thing she wants to do is miss it.

   she laughs,   ❝  i suppose it'd depend on the errand, but i've got an even more compelling argument if you'd like to hear it.  ❞   she doesn't give him any time to give an actual response, quickly saying,   ❝  please stay.  ❞   she tries to ignore the irritation she feels at herself for not doing just that eight months ago, but there's no way of knowing what their future will look like once they've had time to talk, so she does the selfish thing.   ❝  we can put both of your bouquets in the cool room, that way you won't have to hold them and they'll stay perfectly fresh for when you leave, so stay as long as you want. i've only got an hour or so left anyway.  ❞   she knows she should admit she wants him to stay rather than hoping he'll be able to hear it hidden in her words. given the way things were left between them, it would make sense if he questioned his own judgement when it came to her and how well he knew her, yet it's a truth she swallows with the lump brought on by his own admission. her own feelings are tabled momentarily, focusing on the topic of his mother first as she begins to pull flowers best suited for a cute thinking of you arrangement, using her memories with the woman to pick ones audi thinks she'll like.   ❝  i'm glad to hear she's good.  ❞   she motions for him to follow her deeper into the shop, that way they can continue chatting over the noise of the wrapping paper. it's important that he hears the response she finally provides,   ❝  and i know it's probably wrong of me to admit, but i've missed it too, marcus. i've missed you.  ❞   it's not a lot, but it's all she can offer for now.

He couldn't help but wonder if she was still included among the people who loved him so well. Prior to seeing her again and talking like they once did, he would've assumed she wasn't, but now he wasn't so sure anymore. Marcus was aware they were talking about birthdays, but he had the urge to tell her she was still his number one in general. No one could ever replace her in the special space she took up in his heart. "If I was, it wasn't intentional." A soft laugh followed his words. "I think it's safe to say that number one spot is taken by a birthday spent with you. If it wasn't, for some bizarre reason, you wouldn't have to work that hard for it." Just being around her was enough for him.

"I mean, they're not the most popular, but I'm sure there's a decent number of people who would also be interested in trying them." He was sure with the right amount of enthusiasm and optimism, he could make a semi-convincing argument when he brought the idea up to his boss. "I'm sure we'll have plenty of everything I'd need to make them, so it's really not too much trouble. Plus I don't think they'll be that complicated to make." Even if it did end up being a little more work than he was envisioning, he still would've gone out of his way to make them just for her. He never minded doing things like that for any of the people in his life, thinking they were more than deserving of small gestures like that. He was going to playfully inform her that she would just have a lot of shortbread cookies on her hands if no one else bought them, but she beat him to it. "You really don't have to do that," laughter escaped in between his words, "but I'll be sure to let her know, just in case." He was sure he could rope a few co-workers into really pushing the cookie with him to avoid the problem entirely. Any plan he was starting to form in regards to the matter was quickly cut off when he felt her hand on his arm, the action earning her a look from him that would surely be accompanied by tiny hearts floating above his head if he was a cartoon character.

The look remained on his face as she flirted with him. "Too, huh?" There was probably an argument to be made against him getting so caught up in the moment considering he was left in silence for eight months. However, it was so much more natural to fall back on old habits and behave as if not much had change than it was to put up some sort of wall. "Some of the details might be a little different, but I'd be lying if I said I haven't had some similar sweet dreams." Predictably so, he would describe any dream he had of her as sweet, even when they all ended with reality sinking back in a few short moments after waking up. "I'll keep that in mind." At this rate, there was a solid chance he'd end up calling her later tonight.

He was sure Audi was right seeing as though he made it a point to make it known how much he cherished the people in his life on a regular basis. That, and he was sure that said people were used to him occasionally putting his foot in his mouth whenever it moved faster than his brain. "Even if you did put me to work, I doubt it would be more boring than any errand I run." Largely thanks to her company. He wasn't one to sit still or in silence too often, but around her he could do so comfortably without the desire to find something to occupy him. "So really, I'm just hearing a compelling argument to abandon my errands for the day." He lost count of how many times he laughed and lit up once they got pass the awkwardness that was present when they first started speaking. It wasn't all too surprising though, it was still hard not to feel like he was walking on clouds in her presence. "It's nice being with you too, I've missed it." As someone who wore his heart on his sleeve, he could only keep the statement to himself for so long before it slipped out. "But yeah, she's doing well. I don't think she has anything new going on lately, at least not that I know of." He quickly added on, almost as if he was a little worried the previous sentiment wouldn't be reciprocated.

[scoutdoesstuff]

i have been tagged in a thing!! thank you @casenergies​ for the tag!!

rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you and I’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it. and then tag as many people as you have WIPs

(i will probaby definitely break the rules on this one so apologizing for that ahead of time)

1. Dean Bean and Jack Attack (working title) (supernatural)- this was supposed to be a super short, super cute timestamp set during the begining of season 13 in the time between Cas' death and his return that has turned into a 10k fic that won't stop growing!!

2. bloodied feet across the hollowed ground (supernatural)- season sixteen fix it fic based around the chuck won premise. darker than my usual stuff tbh but i'm kind of into it

3. three's company (ted lasso) -- smutty, season two adjacent get together fic between keeley and roy and jamie

4. a dragon's den in rock (atla) -- that post about how lu ten was secretly an earth bender and didn't die at bai sing se but instead went into hiding in the city gave me brainworms of the political thriller season two AU variety.

also because i owe rosa a sneaky peak for my sort of kidfic (Dean Bean and Jack Attack), have some words upfront:

Jack appears next to Dean. “Daddy!” he says again, more insistently, and grabs Dean’s hand. “Daddy! I have clothes now! That means we have to make pancakes.”

Dean looks back over to Sam, wide eyed.

Daddy? Dean’s Daddy?

Sam pulls an answer out of the kid while Dean lets Jack “help” with making pancakes. (Jack is adorable, but not actually helpful in any way, for the record. Though he does demonstrate good enough aim to get the sprinkles in the pancake batter, so it could be worse).

“Ok, so get this, Jack,” Sam says, while Dean wrangles both Jack and pancakes. “Dads are ….” Sam pauses, and Dean can almost hear the old dial up whine that his brother’s brain is emitting right now. “Ok, so,” Sam starts again. Dean has to admire his brother’s tenacity. Trying to convince a six year old to change their mind is not for the weak willed.

Jack gives Sam an unimpressed stare from where he’s stationed next to Dean on a stepping stool deliberately placed to keep Jack from being able to actually touch the range.

“Sammy, you’re being weird again,” Jack says, brutally matter of fact in a way that only six year olds can be.

“Well, it’s just that most people only have two parents — a mommy and a daddy,” Sam says. He’s dug in at this point and Dean’s learned in his thirty plus years around his brother that sometimes it’s just easier to let Sam have his argument. Except, well.

“Sometimes they have two mommies or two daddies, though,” Dean says, pointedly not looking up from the pancakes on the stove.

“Well, yes, of course,” Sam says, hasty to correct himself and keep that good ally card he likes to hold in his back pocket. Sometimes, Dean wonders if Sam knows about Dean’s alternative tastes. Sam doesn’t ask about so much it’s hard to tell what he’s letting lie and what he just doesn’t know.

“Some people only have two parents?” Jack wails, slapping his hands down on the counter and leaning in closer to Sam in outrage. “They should have more, Sammy! I have three!”

Dean makes sure that Jack is steady on his stool and then laughs quietly to himself as he scoops pancakes onto a plate. He sneaks a glace over at Sam as subtly as he can. Sam’s mouth works a few times as he tries to come up with a response to Jack.

“Sammy,” Jack says, eyes going dewey and lower lip wobbling dangerously, “Sammy, do I have to give up a parent because other people don’t have as many?”

Dean meets Sam’s eyes over the kid’s head and shakes his head.

“Of — of course not” Sam says, eyes a little wild now that he’s been confronted with a crying child. “You had, um, three?” Jack nods. “You have three dads! A Daddy and a Papa and a um,” Sam stutters, visibly gathering himself, “and a Sammy.”

Jack sniffs, mollified, and nods to himself. “I have three daddies.”

"Yeah, dude," Sam says softly, it finally sinking in for him that Jack's also chosen him as a parent, too. "You have three daddies."

So, that’s settled then.

Jack loves the pancakes, even if they have to sit him on top of several magazines and newspapers in order for him to reach the table.

Dean quietly watches his child hoover the leftover sprinkles off his plate, marveling at the fact that the kid chose him and Sam as parents alongside Cas. Dean fluffs Jack’s hair away from his face when the kid smashes his plate against his face to lick it clean and lets himself love the kid as his own.

[goodlucktai]

Since yu're accepting fic prompts, protective strawhats? I just re-read all your op fic for the umpteenth time and I'm still crying, so more please? (I love your writing so much omigosh, it's so goddam beautiful I can't function)

thank you so much for your patience, i’ve made you wait so long for this kllahgljhd sorry!! and i hope you enjoy!! 

a continuation of the smile again au !

x

It’s been a slow shift at the Baratie, and at two a.m. Sanji is one of the handful of kitchen staff left for the night. He’s covering for the pâtissier during her maternity leave on top of his regular duties. It means longer hours for Sanji, but the head chef doesn’t mind having him around after his scheduled shift ends.

Nami assured him it was fine. Brook works at home between gigs, and Chopper’s classes won’t start for another two weeks. Zoro has been taking time off. There’s always someone home.

Still, a pit sits in his stomach when he’s not there to make dinner.

He scowls down at the half-empty pastry kitchen inventory, willing it to finish itself. It’s almost a relief when the server leans over the expo counter and calls back to him.

“Sanji? Your brother is here to see you.”

Four years ago, a statement like that would have filled him with dread.

Tonight, he doesn’t hesitate to abandon his station and head for the swinging kitchen door, pushing it open and scanning the warmly lit dining room for a familiar face.

And right away he finds Luffy, sitting by himself at one of the small, two-seat tables beside the wide front window. He hasn’t seen Sanji; his head is turned to face the street, neon city lights washing over his skin and hair and hands. Sanji backtracks to the kitchen with his heart in his throat.

It’s the work of about three minutes, putting together a quick serving tray. A mug of heated milk, cocoa, sugar, salt and cinnamon stirred in by eye, a generous slice of the mousse cake Sanji made earlier this morning, a fork and a cloth napkin. A quick text to Nami, to let her know their wayward Luffy’s whereabouts. And then Sanji is out the door again.

The bartender catches his eye and he nods to her, a silent thank you for sending the less busy server to find him.

Luffy looks up when he draws near and smiles with a happy “Hi, Sanji!”

“Hi, yourself,” Sanji replies, without moving yet to join him. “You know I’m gonna ask.”

“Uh-huh.” Luffy’s smile dims a little. “Sorry it’s so late.”

Not for the first time in his life, and certainly not for the last, Sanji is torn between the polar opposite desires of either hugging the brown-eyed menace or shaking him senseless. Tray balanced in one hand, Sanji rubs his eyes with the other.

He doesn’t care how late it is. Once upon a time Luffy slept and rose with the sun, but his sleeping pattern has been been skewed beyond repair lately, and it’s no wonder why.

The edges of an ugly scar peek out from under the low collar of his shirt, a reminder, just in case Sanji managed to forget.

Sanji sets the tray down gently, and takes a seat in the only other chair. “Don’t be,” he says mildly, taking the safer route. “You saved me from a bunch of paperwork. I was going crazy back there.”

Luffy’s grin blooms right back, and only widens when Sanji slides the mug and mousse cake in front of him. He makes a delighted noise that sounds more like a verbal exclamation point than anything else and tucks right in.

“You made this, didn’t you? I can tell,” Luffy says, mouth full. “It’s amazing!”

It’s been years now, and words like that still fill Sanji with an impossible warmth. It probably always will. He only has to think of growing up in his father’s house, the scorn and mockery his every attempt in the kitchen was subject to, and Sanji knows he won’t ever take his friends’ praise for granted, even if it makes him feel too much like the earnest child he used to be.

He itches for a cigarette. He settles for a bite of Luffy’s cake.

On nights like this it’s wrong to pry. They’ve learned patience, learned the ins and outs of this grief, even half a year later, when it leads Luffy to do reckless, unpredictable things – like wander into the dark of early morning by himself, when he should have been safely asleep in the comfortable dog-pile of Surume and Sunny and Laboon.

So Sanji waits, leaning back in his chair. The nutty taste of rich chocolate lingering in his mouth, the sound of conversation at the bar a low hum on the other side of the room, the server unobtrusively stacking chairs on cleaned tables to sweep the floor, and Luffy, who doesn’t look at him when he finally speaks.

“I had a dream,” he tells Sanji, “about the pirates.”

That’s not what he expected. He sits forward, blinking past his surprise.

Luffy has had these pirate dreams for as long as Sanji has known him. Nami keeps threatening to write them into an epic tale, and Sanji will be the first to read it if she ever does. Tales of daring and foolishness and heartache. Luffy used to regale them with stories almost every morning at the breakfast table, waving his fork grandly and filling the room with a particular type of sunshine only those close to him will ever know.

He hasn’t told them any of his pirate stories lately, and Sanji thinks he knows why. The dream he had after Usopp’s dog Merry died, of a viking funeral for the funny little ramhead ship of his dreams, brought even stalwart Robin to tears.

With an icy apprehension, Sanji wonders what Luffy’s dreams have been about since his brother died. He’s not sure he’s prepared to hear it.

“You were getting married!” Luffy says a moment later, and Sanji is once again thrown for a loop.

“Married?” he says dumbly. The server, passing by with a broom, bites down on the edges of her smile. “To who?”

“Pudding,” comes the prompt reply. “She wasn’t a good person, but your dad wanted to be friends with her mom, so he was making you marry her.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He’s not a good person, either,” Luffy says frankly, meeting Sanji’s eyes squarely – very pointedly talking about his real father in the real world now, and Sanji can only soften and nod, helpless, as always, in face of this boy’s fiercely protective nature.

“He’s really not.”

Luffy nods, and looks back down at his cake. It’s only half-finished at this point, and Sanji feels a spike of alarm.

“He was making you get married, and the rest of us – we didn’t know why you were leaving, you wouldn’t say. I think you were trying to protect us, because you said a lot of awful stuff to make us leave you alone. I tried to make you stay, but I couldn’t.” He drags his fork through the raspberry sauce, metal tines scratching faintly against the porcelaine. “And then you left.”

And then Luffy woke up, and left the house without pausing even just to put on a jacket, and took a fifteen minute bus ride in the dead of night to where he knew Sanji was, and for a moment Sanji can’t breathe through this borrowed hurt.

He reaches out, dropping a hand on unruly black hair, and ruffles through it with his fingers until Luffy looks up at him.

“You woke up before the end,” Sanji says with a lightness he doesn’t feel. Some of the sad uncertainty in those round brown eyes across from him edges out to make way for a curiosity that sits much more at home there.

“The end?”

“Mmhm. I don’t know this Captain Luffy as well as you do, but I’m pretty sure an argument or a fight wouldn’t be enough to keep him from saving one of his nakama.”

“Saving?” Luffy perks up a little bit. “Do you think you were in some kind of danger?”

“I must have been,” Sanji says, as reasonably as if it’s real life they’re discussing, and not some survivor’s guilt-warped fantasy. “You said yourself, Sanji didn’t want to go. You could tell, right? So there must have been a really good reason for him to have gone anyway.”

There’s a shine in Luffy’s eyes that wasn’t there when he said hello, and he balls his hands into fists, leaning on them to lean over the table and exclaim, “You’re right! I’ll go back to sleep when I get home and save you!”

Sanji can’t help smiling, but anything he might have said was cut off by the heavy fist landing on the crown of his head.

“I pay you to work,” Zeff says gruffly, and Sanji rubs the sore spot on his head as he turns to face the older blond.

“I’m off the clock, geezer,” Sanji gripes back, “and I have company, show a little class.”

Zeff eyes Luffy without comment, taking in, Sanji is sure, the shadows under his eyes and the thinness of his face. Thankfully Zeff is capable of something like subtlety, because all he says is, “Have this brat of mine bring you lot in for dinner sometime, Luffy, on the house. I’ve got a few new dishes I wanna pilot with a good group of taste-testers. Drinks and desserts, too.”

Luffy brightens at the idea, thrumming with enthusiasm, and Sanji can almost bring himself to regret the chocolate and sugar he just loaded him with.

“Sure! But Zoro is doing a really good job at his meetings, so make sure not to offer him any alcohol, okay? Not even his favorite.”

“‘Course not, kid. Sanji, head home for the night. I can finish up.”

Sanji dips his head in a nod, grateful for the excuse not to send Luffy home by himself. It would have been transparent to anyone but Luffy, who just says, “That’s nice of him! Thanks, old man!”

It’s cold outside, their breath misting as Sanji hails a cab. He piles into the backseat with Luffy, who leans up on the middle console to make conversation with the driver, and Sanji hides a smile behind a cigarette as the driver warms to Luffy completely in the short time he knows him.

Nami is awake when they come in, sleepless and short-tempered with worry, and Luffy sinks onto the couch during her scoldings, nodding solemnly as he gathers Surume into his lap and lets his head sink over onto Usopp’s shoulder, and Nami gives up within a few moments. Throwing her hands up, exasperated, and then grabbing the throw blanket off the back of the armchair and covering her little brothers with it, temper notwithstanding.

Sanji brushes a hand through Luffy’s hair, then Usopp’s in the name of fairness, and says goodnight to the room at large. He’s been on his feet for fourteen hours and he’s in desperate need of a shower and his bed.

Before he can make it down the hall, Luffy’s voice drifts out to him. He stops where he is and turns, all the time in the world for the brown eyes reaching for his across the short space between them.

“I’ll finish dreaming it, Sanji,” Luffy says with certainty. “And I’ll bring you home for sure.”

“I know you will,” Sanji tells him, heart full of something he can’t rightly name.

[delicatelythoughtfulpatrol]

I'm Still Tortured by What I Saw in Iraq

By Matthew Alexander. Sunday, November 30, 2008

I should have felt triumphant when I returned from Iraq in August 2006. Instead, I was worried and exhausted. My team of interrogators had successfully hunted down one of the most notorious mass murderers of our generation, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the leader of al-Qaeda in Iraq and the mastermind of the campaign of suicide bombings that had helped plunge Iraq into civil war. But instead of celebrating our success, my mind was consumed with the unfinished business of our mission: fixing the deeply flawed, ineffective and un-American way the U.S. military conducts interrogations in Iraq. I'm still alarmed about that today.

I'm not some ivory-tower type; I served for 14 years in the U.S. Air Force, began my career as a Special Operations pilot flying helicopters, saw combat in Bosnia and Kosovo, became an Air Force counterintelligence agent, then volunteered to go to Iraq to work as a senior interrogator. What I saw in Iraq still rattles me -- both because it betrays our traditions and because it just doesn't work.

Violence was at its peak during my five-month tour in Iraq. In February 2006, the month before I arrived, Zarqawi's forces (members of Iraq's Sunni minority) blew up the golden-domed Askariya mosque in Samarra, a shrine revered by Iraq's majority Shiites, and unleashed a wave of sectarian bloodshed. Reprisal killings became a daily occurrence, and suicide bombings were as common as car accidents. It felt as if the whole country was being blown to bits.

Amid the chaos, four other Air Force criminal investigators and I joined an elite team of interrogators attempting to locate Zarqawi. What I soon discovered about our methods astonished me. The Army was still conducting interrogations according to the Guantanamo Bay model: Interrogators were nominally using the methods outlined in the U.S. Army Field Manual, the interrogators' bible, but they were pushing in every way possible to bend the rules -- and often break them. I don't have to belabor the point; dozens of newspaper articles and books have been written about the misconduct that resulted. These interrogations were based on fear and control; they often resulted in torture and abuse.

I refused to participate in such practices, and a month later, I extended that prohibition to the team of interrogators I was assigned to lead. I taught the members of my unit a new methodology -- one based on building rapport with suspects, showing cultural understanding and using good old-fashioned brainpower to tease out information. I personally conducted more than 300 interrogations, and I supervised more than 1,000. The methods my team used are not classified (they're listed in the unclassified Field Manual), but the way we used them was, I like to think, unique. We got to know our enemies, we learned to negotiate with them, and we adapted criminal investigative techniques to our work (something that the Field Manual permits, under the concept of "ruses and trickery"). It worked. Our efforts started a chain of successes that ultimately led to Zarqawi.

Over the course of this renaissance in interrogation tactics, our attitudes changed. We no longer saw our prisoners as the stereotypical al-Qaeda evildoers we had been repeatedly briefed to expect; we saw them as Sunni Iraqis, often family men protecting themselves from Shiite militias and trying to ensure that their fellow Sunnis would still have some access to wealth and power in the new Iraq. Most surprisingly, they turned out to despise al-Qaeda in Iraq as much as they despised us, but Zarqawi and his thugs were willing to provide them with arms and money. I pointed this out to Gen. George Casey, the former top U.S. commander in Iraq, when he visited my prison in the summer of 2006. He did not respond.

Perhaps he should have. It turns out that my team was right to think that many disgruntled Sunnis could be peeled away from Zarqawi. A year later, Gen. David Petraeus helped boost the so-called Anbar Awakening, in which tens of thousands of Sunnis turned against al-Qaeda in Iraq and signed up with U.S. forces, cutting violence in the country dramatically.

Our new interrogation methods led to one of the war's biggest breakthroughs: We convinced one of Zarqawi's associates to give up the al-Qaeda in Iraq leader's location. On June 8, 2006, U.S. warplanes dropped two 500-pound bombs on a house where Zarqawi was meeting with other insurgent leaders.

But Zarqawi's death wasn't enough to convince the joint Special Operations task force for which I worked to change its attitude toward interrogations. The old methods continued. I came home from Iraq feeling as if my mission was far from accomplished. Soon after my return, the public learned that another part of our government, the CIA, had repeatedly used waterboarding to try to get information out of detainees.

I know the counter-argument well -- that we need the rough stuff for the truly hard cases, such as battle-hardened core leaders of al-Qaeda, not just run-of-the-mill Iraqi insurgents. But that's not always true: We turned several hard cases, including some foreign fighters, by using our new techniques. A few of them never abandoned the jihadist cause but still gave up critical information. One actually told me, "I thought you would torture me, and when you didn't, I decided that everything I was told about Americans was wrong. That's why I decided to cooperate."

Torture and abuse are against my moral fabric. The cliche still bears repeating: Such outrages are inconsistent with American principles. And then there's the pragmatic side: Torture and abuse cost American lives.

I learned in Iraq that the No. 1 reason foreign fighters flocked there to fight were the abuses carried out at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo. Our policy of torture was directly and swiftly recruiting fighters for al-Qaeda in Iraq. The large majority of suicide bombings in Iraq are still carried out by these foreigners. They are also involved in most of the attacks on U.S. and coalition forces in Iraq. It's no exaggeration to say that at least half of our losses and casualties in that country have come at the hands of foreigners who joined the fray because of our program of detainee abuse. The number of U.S. soldiers who have died because of our torture policy will never be definitively known, but it is fair to say that it is close to the number of lives lost on Sept. 11, 2001. How anyone can say that torture keeps Americans safe is beyond me -- unless you don't count American soldiers as Americans.

After my return from Iraq, I began to write about my experiences because I felt obliged, as a military officer, not only to point out the broken wheel but to try to fix it. When I submitted the manuscript of my book about my Iraq experiences to the Defense Department for a standard review to ensure that it did not contain classified information, I got a nasty shock. Pentagon officials delayed the review past the first printing date and then redacted an extraordinary amount of unclassified material -- including passages copied verbatim from the Army's unclassified Field Manual on interrogations and material vibrantly displayed on the Army's own Web site. I sued, first to get the review completed and later to appeal the redactions. Apparently, some members of the military command are not only unconvinced by the arguments against torture; they don't even want the public to hear them.

My experiences have landed me in the middle of another war -- one even more important than the Iraq conflict. The war after the war is a fight about who we are as Americans. Murderers like Zarqawi can kill us, but they can't force us to change who we are. We can only do that to ourselves. One day, when my grandkids sit on my knee and ask me about the war, I'll say to them, "Which one?"

Americans, including officers like myself, must fight to protect our values not only from al-Qaeda but also from those within our own country who would erode them. Other interrogators are also speaking out, including some former members of the military, the FBI and the CIA who met last summer to condemn torture and have spoken before Congress -- at considerable personal risk.

We're told that our only options are to persist in carrying out torture or to face another terrorist attack. But there truly is a better way to carry out interrogations -- and a way to get out of this false choice between torture and terror.

I'm actually quite optimistic these days, in no small measure because President-elect Barack Obama has promised to outlaw the practice of torture throughout our government. But until we renounce the sorts of abuses that have stained our national honor, al-Qaeda will be winning. Zarqawi is dead, but he has still forced us to show the world that we do not adhere to the principles we say we cherish. We're better than that. We're smarter, too.

howtobreakaterrorist@gmail.com

Matthew Alexander led an interrogations team assigned to a Special Operations task force in Iraq in 2006. He is the author of "How to Break a Terrorist: The U.S. Interrogators Who Used Brains, Not Brutality, to Take Down the Deadliest Man in Iraq." He is writing under a pseudonym for security reasons.