#the same person corrected another part of that same area of machine about the origins of parallel canon

[abyssalshriek]

New Splatoon dev interview came out!

Had a lot of Side Order lore, but I'd like to focus on the line that says Agent 4 is rumored to be "strongest." If this line was accurately translated, that would explain why they were the one Marina wanted as Head of Security rather than Agent 8, someone she both knew better and many fans had previously considered stronger than 4.

Also masked Parallel Canon is a copy of 4, and the helmet Parallel Canons are copies of the copy.

[my-name-is-dre]

Mettaton is a False Prophet - Pt. 2

This is a continuation post from my older theory back when Undertale was still the big thing that Mettaton was a false prophet designed by Alphys and Asgore to fulfill the Deltarune prophecy, which explains all of his eerie similarities to Flowey and Asriel. Here is Part 1 if you wanna catch up!

[UPDATED INFO FROM DELTARUNE CH. 2]

With the debut of Deltarune Chapter 2 came a fan-favorite newcomer called Spamton, and the interesting thing about his character is that it has a lot of similarities with Mettaton, especially his secret form known as ‘Spamton NEO.’ Now, the general story behind his character is that he was once a spam email puppet account who was never able to make a deal. This was his life until he was called by a mysterious person who suddenly made him wildly successful by continually aiding his career over the phone, eventually causing his friends to leave him over their envy of his newfound success. This success eventually landed him a spot in Queen’s mansion until it all came crashing down one day, and the only remnant left of him was a dead phone line tied to him that only repeated static back at anyone who tried to call it.

As everyone’s likely aware of now, there is a hidden bossfight in which you can, once specific conditions are performed, fight Spamton NEO, a version of Spamton hooked up to a suit that unabashedly resembles the same form Mettaton took on in the no mercy route of Undertale. This suit has been referred to as ‘the machine’ which is described by Swatch as the creation of an unknown Lighter, “digitally visualizing their hopes and dreams which never came to be.” This then became an incomplete dream which was locked in Queen’s basement. In battle, the fight also resembles the fights the player had with Mettaton through Undertale, with their soul turning yellow and shooting projectiles to take Spamton down. But the similarities between the fight against Mettaton Ex and Spamton NEO don’t end there, as both fights involved taking apart components of the body gradually over the course of the battle, with Mettaton having his limbs blown off and Spamton having his strings cut.

Now, this backstory is all very important as it alludes back to the body’s origin in Undertale as a creation of Alphys to make its host proficient at killing and absorbing a human soul. The description of the body is textually different but similar, in that Mettaton NEO was designed for the purposes of killing explicitly whereas Spamton NEO’s body is described by Swatch as being an agent in which one can envision their hopes and dreams through an implicit power of determination.

It’s important to note here that, career-wise, Mettaton is quite similar to Spamton in that they both had great and newfound success upon accepting a deal that gave them some meta-knowledge of the world they inhabit, with Spamton being told that the world he lives in is a game that can be exploited (as implied by his dialogue), and Mettaton was granted some of the same abilities that Flowey possesses (changing the game’s name, being able to audibly speak, and being a monster soul possessing an inanimate object). Whereas Mettaton is a story of continued success, Spamton is a story of failure, but how does this fit into the context of the theory that Mettaton was a failed attempt to fulfill the Deltarune prophecy?

That quote from Swatch on describing the purpose of the body is important to explaining this, as it eerily resembles Mettaton’s role in Undertale’s story as a machine designed to harvest a human soul and potentially fulfill the Deltarune prophecy but was unsuccessful to do so because Mettaton is a false prophet. The theme of false prophecy and failed transcendence is exemplified by Spamton’s backstory, as the power of meta-textual awareness granted to him (by Gaster presumably) resulted in short-term success that rose him to the heavens only for him to fall down hard back into being forgotten. The fall he suffers from cutting off his strings is a dual-layer metaphor for how Spamton fell from success and how Mettaton was unable to fulfill the Deltarune prophecy unlike his parallel successor Flowey.

And if it wasn’t obvious that Mettaton’s constant desire for your soul is equivalent to Spamton’s desire for [hyperlink blocked], he goes on record describing all of the control he’d have over his life if he were to harvest your [hyperlink blocked], implying that the hyperlink is code for determination. Spamton also routinely refers to “heaven” throughout his dialogue, which could imply anything transcendental, but I believe this is also another direct allusion to the Deltarune prophecy and its description of an angel: The divine vocabulary fits. Perhaps Mettaton was trying to indirectly achieve this reception from heaven through his promulgation as an icon of monsterkind wanting so desperately to have a human audience? Perhaps this constant appeal ‘heaven’ is Spamtron’s version of Mettaton’s constant appeal to a nebulous audience? If that’s the case, it implies that the audience of Mettaton has divine power, which seems to suggest that it’s composed of far more than just monsterkind. Another minor thing to note here is that Spamton also refers to “the presses” if you defeat him by depleting his health bar: “WAIT!! [$!?!] THE PRESSES!”

“KRIS, DON'T YOU WANNA BE [Part] OF MY BEAUTIFUL [Heart]?” is a very unsubtle nod to the process Chara and Asriel underwent to bypass the barrier and return to the Surface. There must be something about the abilities that the NEO suit offers that is implicitly tied to the Deltarune prophecy. Spamton’s constant use of the phrase ‘big shot’ is another multi-layered metaphor. The ‘big shot’ in question is a triple entendre, as it refers not only to Spamton’s aspirations, but also the fulfillment of the Delta Rune prophecy and also more banally refer to the yellow soul’s newfound ability to shoot a charge shot.

After sparing Spamton NEO, he offers some dialogue that resembles Flowey’s plea to you after defeating his Photoshop form, in which he asks why you’re showing him mercy after all of the unnecessary cruelty he did to you to prove his worldview correct. He then goes on to make a reference to Pinocchio in which he asks you to cut his strings and make him a “real boy” (an even funnier phrase given that he’s a puppet). But this is also an allusion to Mettaton, as he reveals to you throughout the game that his robot body designed for him by Alphys is a form that makes him feel more like himself because it’s implied that Mettaton is an incorporeal ghost like Napstablook. He then makes one least appeal to Heaven and says he’ll live for himself and his friends, acting as a microcosm of both Mettaton and Flowey’s character arc.

In the “weird route”, Spamton also makes remarks prior to battling him that allude to Mettaton NEO’s fight in the no mercy route: “THANKS TO YOUR [Total Jackass stunts] I HAVE [Becomed] NEO.” “TO [$!$!] ME OVER RIGHT AT THE [Good part]!? WHAT ARE YOU, A [Gameshow Host]!?” “MY ESTEEM CUSTOMER I SEE YOU ARE ATTEMPTING TO DEPLETE MY HP! I'LL ADMIT YOU'VE GOT SOME [Guts] KID! BUT IN A [1 for 1] BATTLE, NEO NEVER LOSES!!! IT'S TIME FOR A LITTLE [Bluelight Specil]. DIDN'T YOU KNOW [Neo] IS FAMOUS FOR ITS HIGH DEFENSE!? NOW... ENJ0Y THE FIR3WORKS, KID!!!” One line in particular references Asriel calling Chara’s name before Frisk lands in the bed of flowers in the Garbage Dump: “YOU MAKE ME [Sick]! MUTTERING YOUR [Lost Friends] NAMES AT THE BOTTOM OF A [Dumpster]! NO ONE'S GONNA HELP YOU!!! GET THAT THROUGH YOUR [Beautiful Head], YOU LITTLE [Worm]!”

This is an even more poignant line, as Spamton resides in Trash Zone, which is meant to resemble the Garbage Dump area of Undertale, which was a point in Waterfall where you were given a hint into the backstory of the game before landing on a bed of flowers. It’s also the area where you encounter Mad Dummy and where Alphys dates Undyne in the true pacifist route. Clearly, the symbolism of taking place in a dump is very important for connecting the worlds and stories of both of these games, given that it’s such an important spot for two major characters tied to Mettaton.

If it weren’t obvious at this point, Spamton damn near confirms that Mettaton was designed at least partially to fulfill the Deltarune prophecy but was unable to because he didn’t possess the same potential or determination that Flowey had due to his lack of relation to the original human and his focus instead turning towards an abstract human audience. The dialogue from Swatch about Spamton being the embodiment of a Lightner’s dream also implies that, keeping in line with the themes of desire in the Dark World, that Mettaton might be directly responsible for the creation of Mettaton. Perhaps this is why the NEO suit so eerily resembles the God of Hyperdeath if it’s directly tied to Mettaton’s desire to fulfill the Deltarune prophecy. If this is the case, isn’t it a bit odd that the God of Hyperdeath is also implied to be Asriel’s creation from flavor text in Kris’s room? What an interesting parallel.

[t4tlawlight]

Occam's razor is the principle that, of two explanations that account for all the facts, the simpler one is more likely to be correct.

this post is going to cover traits specific to the manga and the television drama, since those are the best adaptations to showcase L’s autism. THIS POST is required reading before you read anything i’m about to type, because it explains what kind of character niche L falls into--an unintentionally autistic coded character. i’ll talk more about that at the end.

i’m going to talk about manga L first, since he’s the original version after all. i’m going to go in order of physical traits, to behavioral, to his character writing. also, tumblr eats posts that have outside links, so i’m going to have my non-tumblr sources in a separate post, here.

anyways, more under the cut!

MANGA/ANIME:

sitting with his legs up and spine bent / sitting on the floor

this is such a big one and its extremely common in ppl with autism. sitting in chairs normally is uncomfortable to outright painful w many ppl with these disorders, myself included. L sitting like that (which, to recall, is a blatant homage to sherlock holmes, another character that is so blatantly autistic coded you can find absolutely ridiculous amounts of writing on the topic) and being like "I HAVE TO SIT LIKE THIS TO THINK PROPERLY" is so autistic. like sitting in a certain way to give you specific sensory stimulus/avoid distracting discomfort and pain is a thing. i found this post (1) written by an autistic person on the topic of sitting in chairs being uncomfortable, and it says as much:

“I suspect that seating discomfort is common in autism (though by no means limited to autistic people). Many of us, particularly as children, benefit greatly from chairs designed to be non-stationary: rocking chairs, “fidget” chairs, and so forth. These can improve focus, compensate for proprioceptive hypo-sensitivity, and alleviate restlessness. In short, many “attention issues” can be fixed simply by providing a little motion for the person sitting. Small change, huge results. That's what accommodations do at their best. They make (often minor) adjustments that have profound impacts.”

so when L says that sitting the way he does, for a specific sensory experience, improves his ability to think, it’s perfectly in line with this idea. Also it’s a good pressure stim.

standing with a slouch / shifting his weight around

to begin: yes! it’s very common for autistic people to stand or walk oddly for a number of different reasons, from physical comorbidity to other issues such as dyspraxia (see: movie L). From an article by YAI (2), an I/DD (intellectual and/or developmental disabilities) community program:

“Kyphosis (a curved spine), collapsed chest, dropped shoulders and even scoliosis are observed in many of our patients. These myriad of postural issues may result from reduced strength, decreased biomechanical stability, or from a sensory impairment, such as apraxia. 

Depending on the scene, L has mild to severe kyphosis which is very common in autistic individuals. Other things mentioned in that article if you want to click on it is instability in standing, where you sort of shift your weight around a lot between your  feet or rest all of your weight on one foot, which L is literally doing the first time we see all of him.

speaking with a monotone voice.

i obviously can’t show a picture for this one and it honestly depends on the voice actor you find for L, but in the anime in particular L has a very flat tone. a lot of this is bc he has a dry sense of humor but. just know that it’s very common for autistic people to have a flat affect (or go the other way into being too loud/emotive).

his eating habits. 

a lot (a LOT) of autistic ppl myself included can only eat certain kinds of food for texture and flavor reasons. HOWEVER there’s a term in the autism community called “samefoods” which is really well put by tumblr users candidlyautistic and autism-asks: 

“Samefoods or samefooding is a community word to describe the autistic trait of eating the same food over, and over and over . . . It is part sensory, part routine driven in most cases. A lot of times we samefood because we need that particular mouthfeel / texture / taste, and a lot of times even after that need passes, it turns into a need for routine until you actively dislike that food again.”

“Samefooding on the other hand is closer to a special interest. When I have a samefood (chocolate ice cream, currently), I really, really want that food. I could eat that food endlessly and not get tired of it. I will get upset if I’m not able to have the food in a day. For me, it usually is kind of routine based as well. For instance, with my current samefood, I have some in the evenings and it’s become part of how I wind down from my day.”

we don’t know exactly why L specifically desires sweet food or if he considers it part of his routine, but what we do know is that he really wants to eat sweet food and avoids eating anything other than sweet food, so it could either be that he’s a picky eater and can’t handle savory or he’s samefooding on sweets!

wearing the same clothes

L wears the same clothes every single day. It’s also worth noting that what he does wear is baggy, too-big clothing, the kind that wouldn’t be tight and uncomfortable. once again, sensory issues are a huge thing for autistic individuals. one of my favorite aspects is that in no adaptation does he wear socks. even L wears shoes, he wears them like slippers, not putting them on all the way. people comment that he seems like he’s poor, but we know for a fact that he’s very rich and that wearing these clothes is a personal choice he made.

not caring for himself/outsourcing his self-care

i don’t think one day is exactly canon, rather it’s an exaggeration of what might actually happen--i.e. L doesn’t have a huge closet full of the same outfit, but he does have several versions of the same outfit on rotation; L doesn’t use a human washing machine, but Watari might help him/encourage him to bathe regularly. One Day is a parody comic, but it was made by the creators for a reason and that reason is that L pretty obviously relies on a caretaker (Watari) for his personal needs. Watari, in the manga proper, cooks and cleans and does most things for L. we’ll come back to this topic when we get to the drama though.

doing stimming behaviors

if you don’t know what stimming is, it refers to self-stimulating behaviors, usually involving repetitive movements or sounds. everyone stims to some extent, but in autism it tends to be more obvious, go on for longer, and sometimes be more disruptive to others. it’s often used to help deal with sensory overload, or used to express feelings--think of an autistic person being happy and flapping their hands in the air.

there are a LOT of instances of L displaying stimming behavior, from stacking his food or things on his desk, to spinning in his chair, to biting his fingers/using them to press on his lips, to wriggling and tapping his toes. here are some specific instances:

there are a lot more. i’ll talk about more when we get to dramaverse, but if you rewatch/reread death note it’s definitely worth noting whenever L does something like this!

detective work as a special interest

ok, first and foremost i want to establish what a special interest is. Tumblr user cartoon has my favorite explanation of what a special interest is that i’ve seen to date: 

“To have a deep, intense, passionate and incredibly focused / narrowed interest in a certain area of study, subject, topic or thing - to the exclusion of other interests. This interest is something that exists for the long-term, most often lasting for multiple months, years, or even you’re entire life “

L says that he only does detective work because it’s a hobby, and he finds it entertaining. We’ve also seen that he’s been at it for quite some time--if you take side content (the wammy’s house comic, LABB) seriously, then he’s been at it since childhood, with unwavering interest. it definitely comes across to me as L having a special interest in detective work, rather than it just being a normal hobby or a job for him, especially since he says it isn’t out of any moral obligation.

germaphobia

Germaphobia is very common for individuals with autism. a lot of the time it’s actually sensory issues associated with “dirty” things, and a lot of the time it’s because features of OCD are heavily comorbid with autism, including contamination OCD and such fears. regardless of the reason, though, L’s aversion to touching Bad Things is a very autistic behavior, and so is his resulting quirk that he tends to hold things in a very odd manner!

muted emotional expression

this is getting more into L’s character, but L tends to feel and express emotions in a very muted way. not to say he doesn’t have them, but for instance in the example above, L doesn’t have a solid grasp on what exactly he’s feeling. he thinks he might be acting irrationally and overemotionally because he logically should be afraid, but he isn’t sure, and none of these emotions present themselves visibly. 

i’ve also seen it said that Ukita’s death is another good example of his muted response to emotion--he tells Aizawa to stay rational and his voice doesn’t waver as he tells him as much, but he holds himself tightly. for someone with poor emotional competence, these physical signs of distress can be hard to read in oneself, but Aizawa (a man who is extremely in-tune with his emotions) can tell immediately.

high logic, low empathy

L is also a character who, like many autistic people, lacks a certain degree of empathy. it’s not that he doesn’t have any, but it’s limited enough--and he values logic over it enough--that he’s willing to make extreme decisions and take a “ends justify the means” approach (such as using people as bait.) in the example above, L takes a moment to work through what it must actually feel like, which rings as very autistic.

bluntness/not caring about social convention

there are so many examples of this i honestly could list them all day, but L is a character who is very to-the-point and doesn’t care about mincing his words. he can be outright rude to the people around him, especially if he considers them not worth basic courtesy. see: Matsuda. 

DRAMAVERSE

if you all knew me you should have known this section is inevitable. i’m not going to talk about every single adaptation because i do not have the time and the only other adaptation that is meaningful in that regard is the movieverse (i am fairly certain that movie L is dyspraxic) but on account of the fact that i don’t care about them i won’t subject you all to them here.

anyway, drama L shows much the same traits as animanga L above (they are, after all, technically the same character) but he displays them in different ways. 

he has a much more advanced degree of germaphobia, with Watari saying he’s sensitive to outside air and spraying everyone who enters his space with disinfectant, but not making them wash their hands or anything like that, so we can kind of tell that his issues are more rooted, again, in a fear of germs rather than any actual medical issue. he wants to feel as though he is clean, not necessarily actually be clean. this is very common in contamination OCD, which has a high comorbidity with autism. (my girlfriend has a very good headcanon post about drama L and OCD that isn’t so much analysis than just plain fun, but it’s worth a read!)

he stims, but he has a different array of stims than animanga L--he chews on his jelly pouch bottles, 

he tosses it between his hands, 

he kicks his feet,

and he bounces in his chair.

he still sits in an unconventional manner. he still samefoods, this time even more exclusively--he only eats Lucky Charge jelly pouches and nutritional bars. Watari onscreen puts his shirts on for him, as well as cooking, cleaning, and mending his clothes for him.

however, there are a few traits that are drama-exclusive that i think really add to an analysis of his autism!

social scripting

social scripting and echolalic scripting are both commonly described as “scripting,” but are very different! echolalic scripting is like echolalia, but echolalic scripting is the recitation of longer passages of dialogue from things the individual has heard before. but social scripting is when you memorize common conversations so you can rattle it off without worrying too much! this can be very handy, such as exchanging basic pleasantries or ordering food, but it can also backfire if someone responds in a way your script’s not set up for. you can find more information on the difference in this video (3). 

now, this relates to L in that there are two separate scenes where L says the same thing, rather inappropriately:

L: When I consider Kira’s personality, could it be that the strong-willed daughter is Kira? Or could that sweet-looking son of yours surprise us by proving to be him? You never know what humans are hiding beneath the surface... Soichiro: Enough. L: Sorry. It was just a joke.

-- Episode 2

L: Light-kun. Oh, I’m sorry... If I called you “Yagami-san,” it would be the same as what I call your father.  Light: That’s okay. Call me whatever you want. L: Then what about Kira? (silence) L: It's a joke.

-- Episode 4

one could say that L just has a terrible sense of humor--and, of course, having a poor grasp of humor is common with autistic individuals--but the fact that he says nearly the same thing as a defense twice makes me feel as though he has it rehearsed as a defense when people react poorly to things he’s said, which happens often.

mirroring and echolalia

echolalia was briefly covered in the previous example, but for those unaware, via wikipedia (4):

Echolalia is the unsolicited repetition of vocalizations made by another person (when repeated by the same person, it is called palilalia). In its profound form it is automatic and effortless.

mirroring, on the other hand, is explained as such, also via wikipedia (5):

Mirroring is the behavior in which one person unconsciously imitates the gesture, speech pattern, or attitude of another. Mirroring often occurs in social situations, particularly in the company of close friends or family. The concept often affects other individuals' notions about the individual that is exhibiting mirroring behaviors, which can lead to the individual building rapport with others.

both of these are very common in autism, and they’re exemplified while L’s character is established watching his favorite TV show, Owarai Paradise. On one occasion, he’s watching the show and this dialogue happens:

Hiroshi: Despite never telling her how I felt, I still got dumped. I am Hiroshi.  Watari: Who was this one again? L: He is Hiroshi. Hiroshi: I am Hiroshi. I am Hiroshi.

-- Episode 2

it’s important to note that in Japanese, “He is Hiroshi” and “I am Hiroshi” are said, at least in this instance, exactly the same, so L is echoing precisely what he’s heard.

On another occasion, L is again watching the show with a glass of wine (seemingly acquired simply to imitate the characters onscreen, as he never drinks it) and when the characters onscreen toast their glasses, L does the same, mirroring them. 

CONCLUSION

I linked a post at the very beginning of this analysis talking about how characters are unintentionally autistic coded, and it’s important to understand how this unintentional coding is different from a headcanon--i didn’t make up these traits. they aren’t something that only exist in my head that i ascribe to L for fun. 

i made this analysis both because i wanted to share L’s autistic coding in one cohesive place, because plenty of people have made lists before, but none that i could find that included so many examples with images and explanations--and i also made it because of the old ryuzaki persona “theory.” 

for those unaware, the ryuzaki persona headcanon suggests that L faked all of these traits in order to make people uncomfortable, to put them off-guard and better mask his identity. i’ve seen posts about people claiming that nobody could actually behave in these ways, that L would surely be unhappy and uncomfortable sitting like that, or eating like that, or engaging in any of these behaviors. I’ve seen some people outright say that L isn’t autistic, but his persona is--that is, he’s pretending to be autistic.

i named this essay “occam’s razor” because, to me, L being autistic is the simplest answer to account for all of these traits. claiming that an autistic coded character is faking it is ableist and it just doesn’t make sense with anything else we know about his character.

but if you want to know more about that, i recommend reading eyecicles’ first!L tag. it’s debunked it in more ways than i ever could.

anyways, in conclusion

[freedfromthegalactichivemind]

Horde Clone Headcanons #1: Breathing

So, I’ve been binging  a Hordak and clones-centric story and it’s bringing to mind the many different headcanons I’ve seen with their people within the She-Ra and the Princess of Power fandom (among those of us who enjoy worldbuilding the Galactic Horde).  While some common fanons have emerged, everyone who writes them writes them a little bit different.   And so I’ve decided to put forth a self-indulgent series explaining my personal headcanons / the stuff on their biology, psychology, etc. that I use in my stories.   #1 Breathing, Atmosphere Needs  Like many viewers of the She-Ra reboot, I noticed the glaring plothole / discrepancy formed between Seasons 2 and Seasons 4 and 5 regarding Hordak and air.  In Season 2, he tortured Catra / showed her her place by tripping some kind of atmosphere altering machine in his laboratory, which apparently scrubbed the air around a limited area of oxygen (or whatever gasses Etherians need to live, presumably oxygen, like us).  As Catra was being asphyxiated, Hordak stood within the same field and was fine and he complained about “Etheria’s atmosphere” complicating his scientific efforts.   (This lead to me, early on, when only Season 2 had aired, writing a fic in which a major turning point of the plot was a need for Hordak to deplete / change the atmosphere on parts of Etheria to bring the rest of the Horde in, back when we didn’t know they were all clones, but I digress).   In Season 4, we see Hordak breathing heavily when he finds out the truth about Entrapta, although that can be attributed to mere emotional expression - panic, distress.  Still, I find it interesting that in him, an alien who presumably did not need the native atmosphere, that his distress was expressed that way.  Seems like a thing that should come with a breathing-species.   And, in Seasons 4 and 5, we see Glimmer, Catra, Bow, Adora and Entrapta all breathing aboard the Velvet Glove without any problems.  If Prime and the clones did not need a similar atmosphere to Etheria, why would Prime flood the ship with atmosphere?  Wouldn’t that be inefficient?  It just doesn’t make sense that his ship is fully-breathable if there is no need for it.   My solutions / headcanons (often stated in my work when it is needed), is that the spacebats, Prime, the clones, the people, actually DO need an (a)(presumably oxygenated) atmosphere!  They need it at base-level, it being what the species originally evolved / was uplifted / engineered in.  However, they CAN go without atmosphere for extended amounts of time.  Hours, even days, perhaps.  A human is dead without oxygen after 3 minutes.  A clone can just stand or sit there or even hang out in space for a while, no problem.   My idea is that they have some kind of internal cybernetic redundant organs that store and/or filter oxygen / whatever they need and keeps them going in no atmosphere, depleted atmosphere or toxic atmospheres.  It all makes boots-on-the-ground interplanetary conquest that much simpler!   Their immunity to oxygen-depleted environments is not forever, though, and eventually they do need to breathe, hence why the Velvet Glove is kept in air-conditioned comfort (for Prime).   After noticing a plot-hole in one of my own fanfictions, I have another little headcanon on top of the headcanon:  A clone has to be conscious to enact his re-breathers.  (I may correct a scene in said story to mention this.  I had a story mentioning the strangulation of an unconscious clone, and if they don’t need atmosphere, that really shouldn’t work unless the strangulation was to cut off blood-supply rather than air or unless the no-need-for-atmosphere thing is strictly conscious).  As for Hordak’s problems with Etheria’s atmosphere, my own plot-hole-spackle for She-Ra proper (and possibly canon that wasn’t explained well) was that Hordak’s issue with his tech and the portal had entirely to do with Etheria’s magic.  It wasn’t the atmosphere itself that was the problem, but ambient magic within it. It is canonical that Prime is “allergic to magic / weak to magic” and so it stands that Horde-technology has problems working within a magic-saturated atmosphere.  As far as the possible implications of that go, that is a story for another time. 

[imaeraser]

Playing With Foxfire Kin’emon x Reader (Modern AU) Ch 1

TW: power imbalance, cheating, and age gap

(2.1k words)

Kin’emon x reader x slight Sanji

Summary: You have a summer internship at the Kozuki company, and have to stay at Kin’emon’s home. You try to limit your attraction to the married man, but the flame of passion burns bright. And playing with fire can only lead to one thing— getting burnt.

AN: I originally did this for myself and my sister as a joke— since there is little to no fan fiction for Kin’emon— but decided to post it. Hopefully you enjoy and cringe at some parts.

I fumbled my way through the airport. The musk of others smudged onto my shoulders while I bumped down the path as if I were in a pinball machine. The sound of the wheels of my suitcase grounding me on Earth before all of my thoughts flew away.

   I raised my hand to shade my eyes as I stepped out into the open, while my foot jutted back from the force of the wind. I squinted down the road, but there was not an awaiting person in sight.

   I sighed, and sat down on a sun-warmed bench near a smoking man. As I grabbed the side rest, the tacky feeling of day-old gum made my arm jump in revulsion.

   “Ew, that’s so nasty,” I shook my arm as if the action would make the gum magically disappear, and then reluctantly started to pull it off with two fingers.

   “Here let me help you,” another set of arms entered my vision. The stranger pulled out a handkerchief and scraped any residue off of my arm jacket.

   “Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver,” I turned to him, and stopped mid-thought.

   His eye was staring at me intently, but I could only appear to focus on his swirly eyebrow— his singular swirly eyebrow.

   “I think being a life saver is a bit of an over-statement, but I’ll take it.” He paused and tilted his head, yet the hair that covered one of his eyes did not budge. “Is there something wrong?”

   I paused, “No, it’s nothing. I’m just a bit air-headed sometimes.” I flushed as I rubbed the back on my neck.

   “Well, I think air-heads are cute,” he held out his hand, “Sanji.”

   “Y/N,” I said as I replied with a handshake.

   Once we retracted our arms he leaned over to his side, and proceeded to fill the atmosphere with the rottenly-sweet scent of tobacco. After a large puff, he released a light cloud into the air. The smoke got thinner and lighter as it floated up and died in the sky.

   “What brings you here Y/N?” Sanji held out an unused cigarette and raised an eyebrow.

   “I have an internship this summer,” I said as I shook my head and pushed the offering away.

   “Let me guess...” he paused, “ Kozuki?”

   “Yep,” I nodded. I threw another glance at the street, and the emptiness made my foot begin to tap the floor. “I think there was a guy that was supposed to pick me up.” I looked down at my phone- 4:57- a few more hours and I would no longer feel safe walking the streets alone.

   “If you want, I can drive you. Just give me the address and we’ll be on our way,” Sanji offered a handsome smile.

   My eyes quickly darted to his figure. He was tall and slender, but most of his form was hidden under a finely made suit. He shifted in his seat awaiting my answer, and the movement drew my attention to his abnormally built leg muscles. His demeanor was goofy, but I had only known him for a span of a few minutes.

   As much as I wanted to say yes, there were far too many episodes of true-crime documentaries watched for me to allow this stranger to drive me home.

   “No, I should be okay. I think I’ll wait a bit longer, and if he doesn’t show up I’ll call an Uber or something,” I said as I watched him lean back onto his seat.

   “Well, I’ll wait until you’re out of here safely. I can’t leave a lovely lady like yourself all alone,” Sanji smirked as he crossed his ankles.

   “Are you implying that I am incapable of handling myself?” I raised an eyebrow in  playful contention. He raised his hands as if to calm my rage.

   “Of course not, but it’s better to be safe than sorry,” he said, as I leaned back into the bench.

   Time quickly passed, and before either of us knew it we were watching the sky’s rolling clouds pull back and reveal an assortment of summer-time colors. The falling sun lit up Sanji’s flaxseed hair—spinning each strand into a gold thread. Perhaps it was a mistake to decline his proposal.

   “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I said, glancing back at my phone.

   “I’m meant to be wherever you are, mademoiselle,” he placed a hand on his chest.

   I picked at my nails, and rolled a strand of my hair between my fingers, “Stop joking, you could do way better than me.” He gently clasped my hands.

   “You’re selling yourself short. From the time I have spent with you I can tell that you really are gorgeous,” he looked me dead in the eye. The intensity and suddenness of his icy-blue gaze made me look away.

   “I’ll take the compliment,” I said, before turning my eyes to the side. To my surprise I saw a man holding a sign with my name on it. “It’s about time,” I shook my head as I looked back over to Sanji. “Thanks for keeping me company, but the dude finally showed up. I have to get going.” I stood up, my knees clicking from being immobile for too long.

   After waving goodbye, I dragged my suitcase across the concrete to greet the man. The closer I walked to him, the taller his looming figure became. As we both stopped our pace, my eyes widened in distaste as I looked at him.

   His top-knot bobbed as he tilted his head, which provided a stark contrast to his worn out graphic tee that was half-way tucked into a pair of cargo shorts. He took a step towards me as he outstretched his hand, and I heard a resounding wooden thunk. My eyes trailed down to reveal a set of wooden clogs and knee-high socks.

   “I am deeply sorry for being late, I was just a bit busy.” He rubbed his neck with his other hand, which revealed a raspberry colored hickey. I bit the inside of my cheek, as I looked to the side in disbelief— trying not to stare at anything in particular. “Oh, you must be looking at my car. It is an antique—”

   “Y/N,” I hurriedly shook his hand. “I believe I am to stay at your house during the entirety of my internship at Kozuki?”

   His heavily lined eyes blinked a few times before he opened his mouth, “You are correct. I am Kin’emon. My wife and I will be hosting you for the few months you are to be staying.” There was a glint of light that flashed as he moved his hand—which was seen with a golden band around his ring finger.

   “Thank you very much for generously allowing me to stay in your home,” we began to walk to his car. “Oh I forgot, the email asked the interns to check the id of the person who is picking us up.” I paused before placing my hand on the sleek metal of the door handle.

   “Yes, thank you for reminding me,” he slipped his black leather wallet out of his pocket and fished for his id. Once he retrieved the card, he placed his driver’s license into my hand.

   I pulled out my phone, to look at the email telling us about our host. After comparing the information, I handed Kin’emon his drivers license back. “Okay, let’s go.” I said as I slid onto the creme colored leather of the backseat.

   My fist supported my head as I watched the scenery meld together through the window. The sky quickly turned darker. My breath formed a little patch of condensation— due to the late hour and dropping temperatures.

   The car ride was quiet, with the exception of some traditional Japanese instrumentals. But before either of us would try and fill the silence with awkward questioning, we arrived at his house.

   I stepped out of the car, and heard the sound of the trunk opening as well as plastic wheels hitting the ground. While handing me my suitcase handle, his calloused hands brushed against mine. I whispered a quiet, thank you, before following him up to his home.

   He opened the frosted glass door, which revealed a quaint home who’s floor was covered in what I perceived as bamboo mats. We both entered the house, and the scent of fried bread crumbs as well as curry swirled around us. I caught myself nearly drooling down my chin.

   The sound of pots, pans, and utensils cluttering stopped as a woman in an apron stepped out of the kitchen. “Welcome home dear,” she said before turning to me. “You must be the intern. My name is O-tsuru, it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.” She dusted her flour covered hands on her jeans before offering me a handshake.

   I gave a soft smile as I shook her hand, “I’m Y/N, it’s lovely to meet you as well.” O-tsuru gently grabbed Kin’emon’s hand and led him to the kitchen.

   “Food is almost finished, we would be delighted if you decided to eat with us,” her voice echoed from the kitchen.

   I looked down at my half eaten sandwich from the airport Subway. The bread was chewy like a warm kneaded eraser, and the vegetables had an almost plastic sheen to them. “I would love to eat whatever smells that delicious,” I peeled off my shoes and set them near the door.

   O-tsuru’s head popped out from the kitchen, “Just sit for a bit, and we’ll be out with food in a second.” Following her instructions, I pushed the floor sitting chair out so I could sit on my knees.

   There were no legs to the chair, but seeing as the table was so close to the ground it did not present a problem. My eyes scanned the area of the house that was visible. There were sliding doors and paintings with Japanese characters drawn in sumi ink. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see something reflect the light of the overhead fan.

   I turned to my side and saw two katana’s on display, both identical in looks. Black lacquered wood, with the image of fire painted down the middle. It looked too gaudy for it to be used as a weapon. As I glanced over the other decorations in the house, I decided to place the swords in the same category.

   “Today we are going to be eating Tonkatsu Curry,” O-tusru said, as she clattered plates about to organize the table. I reached out to help her, but she swatted my hands away playfully. “You’re our guest, I can’t put you to work so soon,” she chuckled. I placed my hands back onto my lap, and waited.

   Soon enough Kin’emon brought out the food, and the scent of curry wafted over  from the pot. There was a plate set down that was full of pork chops covered in fried bread crumbs. O-tsuru set down a glass bowl full of lettuce— you could see droplets of water on the leaves.

   “So we have some Tonkatsu here, but if you can’t eat that we also have nato,” O-tsuru sat across from me.

   “What’s nato?” I looked at my bowl of rice, and sniffed it.  

   “It’s fermented beans,” Kin’emon took his seat next to his wife. “And if you’re allergic to anything here just let us know, I’m sure we can find something in the kitchen that suits your needs.”

   As we dug in, the flavors exploded in my mouth creating a lovely blend. The dinner was mostly quiet, with the exception of some basic questions to fill up the time.

   “I’ll let Kin’emon show you to your room. I have to wash some dishes,” O-tsuru grabbed a few plates as she stood up.

   While the sound of water and the clanging of dishes ensued, Kin’emon stood up, and walked over to my luggage. The slight crispy nosies of the mats under my feet amused me.

   “So...are the floor mats made out of bamboo?” I said.

   “They are made out of rice straw, they’re called Tatami mats,” he walked down the hallway, and placed his hand on the door, and cracked it open slightly. “This is where your room is, you can call either of us if you need anything.”

   I watched his silhouette as he turned around to meet back with his wife. Although he dressed like a patchwork dad and samurai, it looked as if he could still be a model for Calvin Klein. As he walked away, his muscles rippled under his skin. His arms were also well defined, but as my eye caught his ring I stopped

[proper-goodnight]

Detroit: New Beginnings

Summary: It has been one year since the androids claimed their rights to freedom after the revolution, and one year since Connor has decided to stay on the force at the DPD. The duo are currently working on a case involving androids going missing while Connor grapples with what he almost did to Markus at the peace rally and fearing Amanda’s inevitable return.

Pairing: N/A

Warnings: Violence, Strong Language

A New Start: Partners (01)

Detroit Police Dept.

August 30, 2039

12:30 P.M.

Tuesday

Chris abandoned his wife’s pastries on the counter in the break room.

Over the years, it had become an unspoken rule to not berate him for the fact that Hank could count the people that were brave enough to try his wife’s newest lifestyle kick for that week on one hand. 

For all of the employees on the force, that wasn’t a lot. He didn’t need any special probability and statistics program to figure that out. 

But, it wasn’t like Hank hadn’t tried. He had, but only once--and couldn’t keep a straight face or control his gag reflex enough to even think about trying it again. Their outward appearance had been what threw him for a loop initially; being made of enough random herbs and healthy shit couldn’t sway the uncanny resemblance between it and actual shit and no amount of Chris promising such couldn’t and would never convince him otherwise.

While Hank may have never cared about what he put in his body, he was still not ignorant enough to test whether or not his tolerance extended to something beyond alcohol or cigarettes. Some days, Connor’s habit of sticking evidence in his mouth suddenly didn’t sound so fucking revolting. 

God, if the kid heard him say that…

In that same area of the precinct, a loud continuous whirring of a coffee machine grinded endlessly. DPD staff shuffled around it eagerly awaiting its cycle to complete, and Gavin had ingested just enough caffeine to erupt into his usual cacophony of loud remarks and comments about fuck-all that morning. 

Of course the prick couldn’t grant them reprieve for even a few minutes. 

Hank supposed if he didn’t then the fucker was either late or… late. It wasn’t like he ever called off.

No, they couldn’t be that lucky.

“No fucking way!” And to complete the morning, here Hank was with a deafening insistence in his tone that left little room to argue over Connor’s suggestion for the umpteenth time that morning. “I have had enough birthdays! I am getting too damn old for this shit!”

In response, Connor looked contemplative, but even more so, unsatisfied with his decision.

Typical Tuesday.

Sitting hunched over his desk, Hank sifted through piles of papers for his tablet. It furthered his incessant personal reminding that he should probably take a few minutes and clear his desk of all of his personal clutter--all of the memorabilia piling up over the years was beginning to make finding anything nigh to impossible, another indication made clear when he bumped a couple of pens to the floor with his elbow. 

Cursing, he dismissed it to the abyss below his desk, staring at the screen with faux concentration. The contrast between their work stations was proving more apparent as the days went on, Connor’s completely clean of surface clutter and retaining a fresh sheen despite having claimed it a little over a year ago.

Besides the mess, the spinning yellow circle glaring at him just outside of his peripherals held his focus, having more recently recognized it as a sign of the android’s thinking--thought processing. Whatever. 

Connor’s brows were furrowed, eyes fixed on him as if deciding in some sort of situational software that he had of some other option that would help move their conversation into a more positive direction, something that would somehow change it in his favor. He wasn’t getting anywhere, and Hank wasn’t going to take any bait. 

The android’s lips parted to speak, but Hank was already turning away, grumbling incoherently under his breath. 

And nothing that he would reiterate unless Fowler was going to lecture him about playing nice with his co-workers. Again.

Perched on the only unoccupied corner of his desk, arms crossed over a broad chest, Connor worked a tick in his jaw. If androids had actually possessed the need to breathe--and their biocomponents that simulated breathing were actually functional for that sole purpose--the asshole may have just sighed. For the briefest of an instance, he caught his partner’s stoic expression, tight-lipped and silently asking for some sort of agreement between the pair.

It wasn’t offered.

“I have been researching human cultural practices and I thought that maybe--”

“Drop it. You want to celebrate, then do it for yourself why don’t ya? Celebrate your one year since deviating. That’s in a couple of months.”

Connor almost looked thoughtful, features folding over in confusion as he worked through some sort of response. Hank’s celebration into an even older age was many in the long list of arguments that the two seemed to have, but it was also one of the only topics that Connor seemed ever insistent to talk about that didn’t revolve around a case.

That made it unavoidable.

Goddammit. 

“I don’t think that qualifies as the same thing, Lieutenant.”

“Take my word for it. Let’s just go over the case.” To further his point, he swept his hand over the case files that had piled up on his desk the last couple of weeks. One large unorganized mess of manila folders and reports. “If Jeffrey dumps any more shit about it on my desk, I’m going to resign it.” It was a harmless jab in an effort to get Connor motivated, anything involving the words case or leads never failed to catch his attention.

Connor straightening from his rare hunched posture proved that fact rang true. 

Even after finally closing the deviancy case. 

The conversation, begrudgingly, wasn’t done though. It would be brought up again eventually. Unless the kid forgot or got distracted with something else.

Who the fuck was he kidding?

Connor never forgot. He didn’t possess the ability to forget. Maybe his stubborn nature could be argued with but in the last year or so being his partner, it was something that Hank faced with raw aggression and chose to avoid. 

“Could’ve originated from the peace rally.” Hank went on, rubbing at his chin with faux concentration at the various folders opened up in front of him. He didn’t think any of them were relevant to their current case anyway. “The dates between that and the first android incident are pretty damn close together. Then again, maybe it’s just a weird coincidence.” The words unfolded into a low mutter under his breath, slumping back against his chair. 

He spinned to the side to assess the clutter, a quick sweeping gaze over the mess and he retrieved the file that they needed and extended it to the android. 

Connor’s eyes had followed every movement, and Hank assumed he was judging his lack of organization. 

At least he kept his mouth shut if he was.

“Two guys were sent to the hospital last night.” Hank went on.

“According to the reports from Officer Miller, they were walking home from a Red Ice Anonymous meeting.” Connor confirmed.

Of course he’d kept up to date.

“They were jumped. He went to ask them some questions, bust aside from a brief statement, we ain’t getting much out of ‘em right now.” While he spoke, Connor flicked through it with practiced precision while simultaneously picking it apart. For what he already didn’t know, and Hank didn’t figure that was a lot. 

And while it would be denied for the rest of Hank’s life, he would never admit that he was even somewhat jealous of Connor. If humans possessed the ability to see anyone’s information by a quick scan or retaining an entire casework of information in a few seconds, the meeting and getting-to-know-you shit of social relationships would be made easier by miles. Then again, he didn’t need any superior programming to know that his time would be better spent at home with Sumo. 

“According to their file, Mr. Greene and Mr. Nicholson did in fact have a Red Ice history in the past.” 

“That bit checks out with what Chris managed to get from ‘em at least. Not the worst druggies I’ve had the pleasure of dealing with.” A smirk pulled at one edge of his lips. If they were the worst of the worst, his job would have been a lot easier and most cases would be an opened and closed one. 

“Possession and usage that earned them a few months jail time.” Connor confirmed, turning a suddenly quizzical gaze in his direction, dipping his chin. His brows pinched. “Wasn’t Detective Reed assigned all cases involving Red Ice?” The mention of their most eccentric detective was enough to pull a look of discomfort from the android. 

Maybe it was the ill memory of the beating that he’d been forced to give him in the evidence room last year. Either way, Hank swore that Connor had some kind of satisfaction from it. He didn’t think so. 

The bloody nose that he had given Perkins however? Fucking classic! 

“He is, but there was Thirium found at the scene. No fingerprints on the weapon that was likely used in the attack. We’re looking at another Carlos Ortiz case except we can push an android through a fair trial now.” 

Connor closed the case folder in his lap, his fingers plucking gingerly at the corner. That spinning yellow circle glared accusingly. “If the claims of their whereabouts are in fact correct, then I think that our best course of action is to question them ourselves. Maybe they can recall more when the shock period has passed. Distinct characteristics, how many androids there were in total, even.”

“Not to bust your balls kid, but we can’t scan a serial number like you can. Not to mention all of you androids have the same face. There’s no record of them ever owning an android, but…” Hank threw up his hands in surrender. “Maybe there’s a past history we don't know about. We’ll follow another lead over the next few days,” he decided. “See if they can’t give us anything else by the end of the week.”

With that, Hank breathed out a long-winded sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as though fighting off a headache. Connor was a headache enough, the case being the migraine. He waved his free hand over his desk. “Take your pick. God knows we’ve got plenty.” A pained laugh slipped past his lips, almost incredulous. Borderline sympathetic. 

For them.

Propping his elbow on the chair’s armrest, he leaned his head against a curled fist. His partner’s gaze was distant, even as Hank tried to meet it with a vague curiosity of his own. 

He waited.

“What are you thinking, Connor?” No response was offered, that same accusatory yellow glaring at Hank just out of the corner of his eye. 

Connor’s features folded, looking to an empty space at his right. Upon further inspection, Hank noted that nothing was there, looking between the two confirming the assumption that he was in some far off place elsewhere. An abrupt snap of his fingers in front of Connor’s nose brought him back. He raised his eyebrows, tilted his head. “Nothing. Nothing relative to our case.”

“Any other time you’re pulling leads out of your ass.” The remark was followed by an exaggerated sigh. His eyes rolled to the side. “This is the first time that you don’t wanna input your opinion? Finally hit a damn wall with enough dead leads, didn’t ya?”

A slight tug pulled at one edge of Connor’s mouth, working a tick underneath a rigid jawline. “Hilarious, Lieutenant.” He mumbled.

“It was a pretty damn good joke in my opinion." With a dismissive hand gesture--a quick slice of his hand through the air--he reached across his desk to retrieve one stack of case files. It didn't account for the other large piles but hell, it was a start. 

“That is a personal opinion.”

“What the fuck ever.” Running a shaky hand through his hair--something else that Connor blamed on Hank's poor diet--his gaze never left him, flicking over his rigid form with a blatant curiosity. "We should go talk to Markus. There’s a good chance that he would know somethin'?" 

And then Connor moved from his perch. Carefully--stiffly was a better way of putting it--around the edge of the desk. Long precise fingers fumbled for the coin in his pocket. It rolled across his knuckles, coming to a complete stop as it was flicked into the opposite palm. Hesitation made the movement rigid, not as fluent as it normally would be. A tick worked itself underneath a rigid jawline. Connor didn't look at him, and instead passed by to his own desk. 

"You haven't seen him since the peace rally," Hank prodded. "I think it's about time we paid him a visit, don't you?" 

"I don't know," He answered in what was almost a whisper, voice low. Unsure. "I've assessed the database's files and all of the reports involving our missing androids. I have only come to the conclusion that older models, or new deviants are being reported disappearing from Jericho. That and it's still limited to Detroit and only a few surrounding cities.” He shrugged. “So far." 

Connor shook his head in defeat. "My most recent solution was to send a scan parts to Cyberlife, but-"

"All of the missing reports we’ve managed to solve end with the android self destructing and destroying their systems," Hank finished for him. "That and its considered murder with your rights. Can't just go pulling apart an android and not expect to get your ass busted." 

"I do not know if an exception can be made for some kind of malfunction. I could probe its memory, but there is no evidence as to how that would affect my own systems." 

"Keeping you at a distance makes the shit harder." Hank agreed, and other than nodding in response, Connor offered no comment. "Until we can figure out if it can be spread, there isn’t much that you can do." 

"Why don't you take your chances and see what the hell happens?" An all too familiar and unapologetically arrogant voice drew closer to their desks. Gavin came to a full stop at their desks, arms folded over his chest with a smirk that never ceased to infuriate him. Both of them, he assumed.

He grimaced. 

Fucking asshole.

"Fuck off, Reed. Don't you have your own case?" Hank grumbled, an edge to his tone that Gavin brushed off a condescending smirk.

"Unlike you and the plastic prick, I've actually made headway." Gavin boasted, his interest in Hank diverted to Connor who watched passively. Most of the time he acted as if Gavin was gum under his shoe that he could scrape on the sidewalk and be done with. Like he couldn't be bothered even when he had a gun in his face and death threats on his name. Hank had been guilty of that look once.

Gavin was full of shit, but Hank wouldn't put anything past him. Even now.

"Hey plastic," Gavin halted in front of the android, squaring up his shoulders. The situation would have been alarming if the difference in height wasn't so obvious. Reed had to look up to address him and Connor responded by raising his eyebrows, tilting his head to the right. 

"Hello, Detective Reed."

"I thought that after the walking toasters were suddenly recognized as people you would leave. A detective android prototype hunting androids is still doing the exact same damn thing." He sneered. 

"I assessed that it would be appropriate to remain in the android crimes department to further offer my assistance to the DPD." His hands folded in front of him, meeting Gavin's eyes with that usual infuriatingly neutral expression. The little twitch in Connor's facial features gave him away however, signaling his annoyance at the detective's harsh jobs.

Gavin didn't see it, but Hank knew him well enough that it was impossible to miss. 

"Yet you're still wearing your Cyberlife threads. I'd almost think that you liked hunting 'em down. Does it give you a sick thrill, prick?" 

"Reed!" Hank interjected, rising stiffly from his desk chair. "That's enough."

"I believe that wearing my uniform shows more professionalism than a leather jacket and a relentlessly hostile attitude, Detective." Connor's brows raised and relaxed sequentially, a slight and subtle twitch pulling at one corner of his mouth. 

"The hell did you just say to me, tin can?" Gavin leaned forward, hand clenching at his side into a fist that he pulled back and took aim on the android. 

"I said that's enough!" Hank barked, shoving himself in between them. 

Gavin was shoved back a few steps.

Connor didn't budge. 

"Back off! Can't you ignore him for five fucking minutes?" 

"Fuck," An enraged gaze flicked between Hank and Connor. Gavin snarled in frustration, one hand slipping seamlessly into the pockets of his jacket, the other pointing an accusing finger in the android's direction like it hadn't been the detective that had approached them with the intention of starting shit. 

Hank scoffed. 

"I'll never so much as tolerate the plastic asshole. The day there are two of him is the day I put in my resignation." One last threatening glare was thrown their way, the threat released into a spat. Before either could comment, Gavin was storming off, cursing incoherently under his breath. 

Surprisingly it had gone better than most of the other times. Hank would have admitted that. 

Evidently, every altercation passed by Connor without a second thought. Hell, maybe not even a first. The evidence room incident remained the only time that the android actually retaliated on him. That being that he needed to in order to accomplish his mission. 

Still, he caught Connor's expression as Gavin was leaving. He watched him through distrusting slits, LED flashing yellow for a split second before correcting itself. His jaw was tense, something dark stirring within him, something troubled that Hank didn't quite recognize. It was only when Hank actually decided to speak that Connor finally looked at him, eyes softening into something more calm, relaxed. Normal. 

"Let's go ask Markus some questions. Any idea where he might be?" In a gesture of reassurance that didn't quite reach him, Hank placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Markus has been overseeing the conversion and stock of dormant androids at the remaining Cyberlife stores. We can pull up those that have yet to be listed as maintenance and distribution centers and start there." And as if nothing had changed, as if the threat from the DPD's most eccentric detective had already been forgotten--at least it would have been if he wasn't squirming underneath a clenched jaw--the task of talking to Markus seemed to unnerve him more. Talking to the deviant leader was a task that Connor was less inclined to do over listening to Reed berating him every chance he got. 

The observation was a question for later, and truthfully Hank didn't anticipate an answer. 

Connor stepped back to allow him through first, Hank's hand slipping from his shoulder to dangle uselessly at his side instead. Expression falling flat, he waved him through. "After you, Lieutenant."

[the-wonder-wall]

Basic Information

Name: Unknown (Ruby)

Nickname: Trixie

Species: Android

Height: 5'2

Date of Creation: April 2030

Date of Deviation: November 10, 2038

Occupation: Unknown (Bartender)

Religion: Agnostic

Sexuality: Pansexual

Personality

Characteristics: Irritable, A little snarky, impatient. They have the capacity to be violent, but actively work not to be. They want to be a better person than the humans who destroyed her and many other androids. Personality is still developing and can change, however she'll always be a bit of a brat

Hobbies: This is also still in development, they mostly just sit at the junkyard and stare off into space. Though Willow did attempt to teach them Origami, it wasn't enjoyable to them.

However she has a knack for clothing design, she'll often fix up any of the clothes she demands Willow find her. Usually the clothing looks better by the time she's done with it

Notes:

• Trixie deviated after being taken to the camps on the night of the revolution/protest

• Unfortunately she did not survive, she was killed by the machine the androids were being forced into.

• She was very badly damaged and Willow had been working on bringing her back for quite awhile by the time she was actually functioning again.

•  Normally Willow moves on to a different android when one doesn't work, but she actually briefy turned on before shutting back off again. So Willow got hopeful and refused to give up.

• Because Willow doesn't know much about putting androids together they had shoved a lot of random parts together. Trixie was not amused when she woke up for good this time, only to find that she had the wrong pair of legs and couldn't walk as a result

• She also has no memory of the first time she woke up at all

• Trixie immediately disliked Willow, much to the other androids disappointment, she doesn't think anyone should be playing God. Let alone an android who didn't even know not every part is compatible

• Because of this bad introduction she believes Willow to be incredibly stupid and selfish, this was only further enforced when Willow didn't want to grab properly functioning legs for Trixie. Willow was afraid they'd leave and was correct in that assumption.

• Eventually Willow did cave and fetch a working set of legs when Trixie started crawling around in an attempt to find some

• It took awhile as Trixie had to scan each pair Willow gave her, she was more than a little irritated that Willow lacked such a common function

• Another thing about Trixie's memory is that her memory processors are severely damaged, most likely from the way she died messing with her processors.

• Because of this any memories between the hours of 9 pm to 2 am are automatically wiped and Trixie doesn't know how to stop it. It's worth noting that these are the times the bar she worked at was open

The only thing she remembers from before is her death, being in a junkyard full of dead androids jogged her memory enough to know that much

• The bar was also monster themed, and since Trixie was a Bartender there, her original body matches this theme. She has pointed ears and fangs. Sorta like a vampire. Her eyes are also a very pretty red

• Which would be helpful information if Willow hadn't unintentionally wiped Trixie's memory the first time they brought her back

• This is the only reason Trixie allowed Willow to go ahead and call her that, she couldn't think of a better name at the time anyways and had no idea what her previous one was

• Trixie is currently settled in an area on the opposite side of the junkyard. Willow does try to visit her, but Trixie still heavily dislikes them and will usually make them leave

• Because her opinion of Willow is rather low at the moment, she is hesitant to believe Willow's claims that the revolution succeeded

• She's also too scared to check for herself however, but that's to be expected when you die the same day you deviate

• She is essentially a blank slate and is trying to learn who she is as a person

• So far all she really knows is that she'd like to leave the junkyard and explore,  but she's not yet willing to take up Willow's offer to explore with her

• Speaking of Willow, she has resisted the urge to physically harm Willow on multiple occasions

• They do not want to be that type of person, but all the new emotions they're experiencing are very stressful and Willow is an overwhelming person to be around for someone who's barely deviated

• Overall they do realize Willow is harmless and only trying to help/be friends, but Trixie just isn't ready for that

She also did make Willow cry once and ended up feeling guilty instead of satisfied like she thought she would. This made her try to be nicer to Willow

• When she's in a better mood she will tolerate Willow, she's just as lonely as them after all. Probably more

• All her limbs, her thirium pump, and her jaw, came from other androids. Everything else came from her original body

Because of this, Trixie feels like a walking corpse. It grosses her out and she preferred she was left dead. But now that she's alive she has a desire to stay that way

• Her skin program can be faulty and it's exhausting for her to keep it active so she'll often just leave it off unless Willow is around

• So far she seems to like pastel goth

• She does in fact blush blue as her designer thought that'd fit the monster theme better

• Her LED is intact, she feels no need to remove it as it's a part of her and there's very little she has left of her original self

[marlinspirkhall]

Tomorrow Never Comes, Chapter 01: “Play Me”

For Non-AO3 Readers. Originally published on AO3. Written for the 2020 Star Trek Halloween Bang.

Artist: @idealisticcatastasis​

Content warnings: Graphic Descriptions Of Violence, Other Archive Warnings May Apply.

Chapter 1 Word Count: 5,719 words

[Front Cover] [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2]

  There’s a groan. Jim shifts, ever so slightly, and the overhead lights flicker on. The room is flooded instantly by a bright, neon green, as if every surface has been covered in ectoplasm from an old horror movie. He’s leaning against something hard, and he pulls away from it with a groan.

 It’s a metal bathtub, set into the floor. Above him is a shower head, rusted with age, and the wall is in a similar state of disrepair.

 He catches a glimpse of something on the floor. A streak of maroon runs round the outer edge of the tub, trails to the ground, covers the floor in a patch around his feet- and yet, there’s not a drop of it on him. He shifts, tentatively, and it flecks off the metal floor. Whatever it is, it’s been further discoloured by the lights overhead, and it takes him a moment to process it. Not brown, he realises. Red.

 Something stirs his stomach. Most of it is darker, dried, but the puddle around him is only half-congealed.

 He leans forwards, and grimaces. In the center of the bath, a message is scrawled in blood:

“Play me”.

A long, jagged arrow points to the center of the bath. Tangled in a mess of frayed wires is a single screen, slightly larger than a PADD. Dried fingerprints. For a split second, Jim considers showing his discovery to the others, but the moment passes.

  He reaches over, and turns it on. It crackles to life. A video is already queued, and it plays automatically. He fumbles with the screen, almost drops it, because- the person on the recording- is him. He looks different on the recording, though. The saturation of green, washing him out; the strange way he watches the camera. An almost alien confidence.

 “Now, I know what you’re thinking,” the recording says, with a smile. “You don’t remember making this video. But, I assure you; you did.” He glances away for a moment, somewhere offscreen, and his voice softens. “It should be safe- he never comes in here.” He straightens up, and turns back to the camera. “But, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

 Jim frowns as the figure on-screen reaches for something unseen.

 “Now, don’t panic,” says the recording. “I want you to remain completely calm.” There’s a glint of metal.

 His eyes widen.

 “Everything is going to be alright,” the recording says. He holds a hand out, flat, and raises the other. In one, quick motion, he brings the axe down. Thud. A wet, tumbling sound. A muffled moan, and a hiss. The sound distorts further as the camera is knocked to the floor, pointing up at the ceiling, and the screen is flooded by the bright, overpowering green.

 Scuffling. A grunt of pain, then relief. The video shakes, and continues to tremble as the angle shifts, spins, and suddenly steadies. Jim notes the space where the trail of bloodstains ends. When he was recording, he must have placed it on the end of the bath.

 His recorded-self blinks, and exhales shakily. His right hand is now wrapped in a towel; soaked through quickly by blood.

 Jim stares down at his own hands. There’s not a scratch on them, and he still has all ten digits.

 Past-Jim exhales, his face drawn with pain, and gives him a shaky smile. “Now that I have your attention,” he says, “Let’s start at the beginning.”

[INSERT: IMAGE: “Divider green knife”]

 On the outskirts of Mars Colony Alpha is a large, concrete complex no-one discusses. A majority of the structure is buried beneath the surface, untold levels stretching beneath the dirt. Somewhere on the ground floor, James Kirk is onto his third book of the day. For the most part, he measures the days in books, and not the even, unbroken schedule of the guards.

 The gymnasium is about the size of an indoor tennis court, claustrophobic walls painted shades of beige and grey which don’t quite agree with each other. The tops of the walls are set with small glass observation windows, the glass tinted just enough that you can’t be sure when someone’s watching you.

 Some of the other inmates have formed small cliques, and Jim is reminded uncannily of high school. For his part, he keeps to himself, and takes up a space by one of the rowing machines. He’s so accustomed to ignoring the watchful gaze of the guards that it’s easy to pretend he doesn’t see the eyes across the room, studying him.

 At lunch, it’s the same. He eats quickly, and keeps one eye on his stalker. He’s certain he hasn’t seen him before. Judging from the eyebrows, he could be Romulan, though it’s impossible to tell for certain, as his ears are hidden by long, dark hair. Still, Jim thinks, it’d be unusual to keep a prisoner of war on this level; most of the people here are ex-starfleet.

 On the way out of the dining hall, he doubles back on himself, and slams into the man. He grunts, and Jim keeps walking, until he has him backed into a wall.

 “Why are you following me?” He hisses.

 The man tilts his head and stares down at him serenely, his dark eyes glittering. His hair goes just past his shoulders, and has a slightly silky quality. Up close, he can see that the man lacks the forehead ridges typical of Romulans- it’s far more likely that he’s a Vulcan. Jim slumps a little, his grip growing slack, but the man doesn’t move a muscle.

 “Hey!” A guard yells.

 Jim releases him with a blink, and turns on his heel.

 Footsteps follow him down the corridor.

 “That was not an invitation to continue,” Jim says over his shoulder.

 “I assumed you wanted an answer.”

 “Well, you know…” He walks faster. “A little mystery brightens my day.”

 “In that case, I apologise in advance for depriving you of your entertainment.” The man keeps astride of him easily, and Jim grits his teeth.

 “Don’t worry, you get used to it around here.”

 “Mm. A man of your talents must get bored easily.”

 The corridor splits in two, and Jim takes the left path. “And which talents would those be?”

 The man raises an eyebrow. “Your skill for decoding.”

 “I’m flattered,” he laughs, “Though, that’s not what the academy called it.”

 “Indeed. The academy had remarkably low tolerance for practical jokes.”

 Jim slows. “Well, that all depends on the effectiveness of the joke.”

 “Yes. Or, how well you cover your tracks.”

 Jim snorts. “Well… Hypothetically speaking, of course-” he lowers his voice. “Why would you come to me? I wouldn’t be here if I was any good at that.”

 “To respond in terms which are equally hypothetical- it is not a mistake you are likely to make again.”

 “Ah; I get it-” a guard passes them in the corridor, and Jim gives them a cheery smile. “You want me to join the prison’s cipher team.”

 The man nods. “That is correct. Though, the latest series of-” another guard passes- “Recreational puzzles would be presented to us in Klingon.”

 Jim shrugs. “It’s possible, but I’d suggest a xenolinguist, instead.”

 “Our search is limited to the confines of the prison-”

 “Of course,” Jim gives him a searching smile. “You are an inmate, after all.”

 “I always endeavour to remain discreet.”

 “Oh; that’s a useful skill,” he comments, as they climb the steps to the dorm areas. “You’ll have to teach me some time.”

 “If you’d like.” They climb the rest of the stairway in silence. At the top, the man lowers his voice. “It is unfortunate, when the government which incarcerates you falls.”

 “And why’s that?” Jim breathes.

 He quirks an eyebrow. “There’s no one left to overturn the ruling.”

 “That’s true,” Jim murmurs, and heads for his door. “But I’ve only got three months left, and then I’m out of here-”

 The man blocks his path. “Or, you could get out of here tonight.” He tilts his head a little, studying Jim intensely.

 “What?” The corner of his mouth twitches. “With you and the cipher team?”

 The man gives the slightest nod, and Jim considers it for a moment. It’s almost tempting. But, ultimately, whether he gets out today or tomorrow, there’s not much waiting for him outside.

 He steps around him with an awkward smile. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you-” he pushes the door open, and steps inside. “But it seems that rumours of my intelligence have been greatly exaggerated.”

 The man remains silent, yet there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

 “… Though, I’m still smart enough to do this.” Jim says in a breathy whisper, as he swings the door shut.

 At evening’s meal, Jim once again feels a pair of eyes on him, and pays firm attention to his plate. The main structure of the meal greatly resembles beets, and- if he concentrates enough- almost tastes like it. Still, his attention is split, and, when he next glances up, the man is no longer there.

 He frowns, and spears one of the roots.

 And sees something from the corner of his eye.

 He sits bolt upright, sliding backwards along the bench with a prologued glare at his unexpected visitor. The man is back; watching him with unsettling intensity.

 “You move fast,” Jim grumbles, and quickly stuffs his mouth to excuse himself from conversation.

 “Yes.” Not completely without manners, he remains standing; his hands behind his back in a posture which looks strangely familiar. It hits him suddenly, and he tilts his head at the man. At ease, he thinks, with a reluctant nod to the seat opposite.

 He sits.

 Jim swallows, and lowers his fork. “Let me guess,” he says, dully. “Your cipher team’s still one person short.”

 The man nods, his face carefully neutral. “Our team leader will be disappointed.”

 Something stirs in Jim’s stomach, and it’s not just dubious beets. “And… What happens then?”

 The man almost smiles. “You need not concern yourself with it.”

 “Uh huh.” Jim tries to remind himself to stay out of it. “But you didn’t come here to make small talk.”

 “No.”

 “You’re here to try and persuade me again.”

 He blinks at him. A silent question.

 “You’re going to tell me to

 The man inclines his head. “I sound convincing so far.”

 “I-” Jim laughs. “Son of a bitch.” He sits back in his seat. “That’s been your tactic all along,” he realises. “You were going to get me to talk myself into it.”

 "It is not a tactic. You simply anticipated my arguments before I could state them.”

“And, if I hadn’t done that?”

He considers for a moment. “I would have attempted to make you see the logic in joining me.”

“Right,” Jim straightens up in his chair a bit. “You are a Vulcan, after all.”

The man holds his gaze for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. “Is that enough to persuade you?”

Jim smirks. “Maybe. But you know more about me than I do about you- I don’t even know your name.”

“Spock.”

“Jim. But; you knew that.” He smiles, and sets his hands on the table with a slap. “How many people are on your... Cipher team?” The cafeteria is busy enough that they could talk openly, but Jim enjoys the slow-blinks Spock gives him when faced with unexpected information.

“Two,” he says, finally.

Jim stares at him. He studies his expression for a trace of the humour he saw before, but, apparently, the man is deadly serious.

Jim leans forward. “Granted, I don’t know the nature of the puzzles you’re dealing with, but-” he lowers his voice “- That doesn’t sound like nearly enough.”

“You will only be present for part of the operation.”

“Alright. So how many people are involved in the entire operation?”

 “That is a discreet matter.”

“As, I suppose, is the question of who you’re working for.”

 Spock nods.

 “Discreet.” Jim repeats, as he gives him an unsubtle once-over. “And they sent... You?”

 “I am capable of remaining inconspicuous,” Spock says, with the slightest smile.

 “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean people won’t notice you.”

 Spock frowns. “To what are you referring?”

 Jim smiles, coyly. “I’m afraid that’s a discreet matter.”

 Spock stares at the table for a moment, expression unreadable.

 “You want to know if you can trust me,” he says, finally.

 “Yes.”

 “You can’t.”

 Jim gives an amused huff. “That’s not a very convincing argument.”

 “Nevertheless, it is the truth.”

 “I get it. You prove your honesty, I trust you, I leave with you.”

 “I am not attempting to manipulate you; I am simply running out of time.”

 Jim frowns.

 Spock’s hands shift slightly under the table. “My partner, Leland, is breaking me out tonight- me, and the best hacker I can find.”

 Jim sits back “And, to think: I thought you chose me specially.”

 A breathy, almost-laugh. “He did.”

 “I’m flattered.”

 He watches Jim. “I…” He jerks his head. “Was not supposed to offer you a choice in the matter.”

 “… Less flattered,” Jim murmurs, as his eyes dart to Spock’s hands.

 Spock’s mouth twitches, and he lays them flat on the table. “I have no weapons.,” he assures him.

 Jim lets out a breath. “Do you need any?”

 “Well-”

 The cafeteria is plunged into pitch darkness. A murmur reverberates around them, and someone yells. Jim grabs at the table with one hand, and reaches into his pocket with the other. He searches for the familiar, smooth blade handle.

 It’s not there. His heart pounds faster. It’s in my quarters, he realises, trying to stave off a blind panic.

 After a moment, the emergency lights flicker on: a bright, unrelenting red.

 Spock tenses, his face bathed in the light, and he stares at Jim helplessly.

 “It’s okay,” Jim places a hand on his arm. “It’s just a power cut.”

 “No; it’s not.” Spock stands, suddenly, and surveys the hall. His grip is tight on the back of the chair. “It’s Leland. Stay here.”

 He takes a step forwards. Chair legs scrape as Jim scrambles to his feet. “Where are you going?” He hisses.

 Spock fixes him with a look. “To stop him from killing anyone.”

 “What-?”

 “Return to your rooms!” Bellows a guard.

 Jim turns, but Spock has already disappeared. Cursing, he hurries in the direction he left, being buffeted between the crowd. He weaves his way down the corridor, and the lights begin to flicker overhead. He curses, and moves faster.

 The lights fail as he’s half-way up the stairs, and he grips the handrail for support. The only source of light which remains are strips of bioluminescent paint which line the floor, tingeing everything in a faint blue-green. He stumbles to the top of the stairs. The few people who had returned to their cells wander out again, muttering amongst themselves, and the guards are nowhere to be seen. Jim reaches his room, out of breath, and leans against the wall, gasping.

 He should just stay here. He should just lie on his bed, and wait for the situation to be resolved. Instead, he reaches into his mattress, and retrieves the small, fold-out knife. He runs his fingers over the handle for a moment, and then slips it into the pocket of his jumpsuit.

 Downstairs, Jim skims his hand along the wall, to help navigate the pockets of darkness. The material is unusually coarse, like concrete with too many air bubbles trapped inside it, and there’s a scream up ahead. Heart pounding, he begins to move a little faster, passing the usually-secure area around the turbolift. Three inmates are clustered around it: two humans and an Andorian, bickering amongst themselves as they attempt to rewire the lock.

 There’s shouting up ahead.

 A guard stumbles into view, shouldering a phaser rifle. Jim freezes- but their attention is elsewhere, staring at something unseen. A yell echoes down the corridor, and it’s lit up by a flash of red, then blue, as the guard falls to the floor.

 Jim grits his teeth, and he pokes his head round the corner.

 The corridor is covered in debris, flakes of plaster and brick which used to be the exterior wall. At the other end of the corridor, guards and escapees are firing at each other indiscriminately, and Jim doesn’t stick around long enough to find out if the weapons are set for stun. He simply retrieves a flashlight from the fallen guard, and slips through the gap in the wall, out into the self-contained atmosphere of the prison dome.

 Outside, an alarm blares. His nose wrinkles. The air is thinner here, and slightly metallic. Recycled. He begins to walk uphill, figuring that the slight incline will help him find Spock- if that’s still his goal. Still, he doesn’t see how he’s going to make it much further without him.

 Still moving, he cranes his neck upwards. In the darkness, it’s hard to tell- the flashlight beam won’t reach that far- but he can just make out a large hole in the glass above him.

 As if someone has smashed their way in.

 The gap has been sealed by the self-repair protocol: a thick layer of fast-drying plastiform. He picks up the pace, pointing his flashlight at the ground as he comes over the crest of the hill-

 A runs bang-slap into the side of a dark grey shuttle.

 “Drop the weapon!” A voice growls behind him.

 Jim blinks, and steps back from the metal surface. “No… It’s just a flashlight,” he stammers.

 Something is pressed to the back of his head. The barrel of a phaser.

 “Then drop the flashlight,” the voice growls. “A phaser blast at this range… That’s not something you come back from.”

 The flashlight slips from his hands, and his heart pounds. He turns his head slowly.

 “Don’t move.”

 In the glare of the shuttle lights, Jim can’t see much, but he can just make out a pair of eyes, staring him down.

 “Leland-?” Jim realises, as something hard crashes into the back of his head, and he crumples to the ground.

 Jim wakes up at the back of the shuttle, lying on one of the stiff benches Starfleet was fond of calling ‘beds’. His head throbs, and he pushes himself up on his elbows with a slight groan. “What…?”

 As he sits up, a thin blanket tumbles from his shoulders, and he feels immediately colder. Spock sits in one of the seats facing him, his gaze fixed on the wall, and Leland sits in the pilot’s seat. Jim stares at the back of his head, eyes bleary. He has short, dark brown hair, and a dark grey uniform.

 Leland turns to him, and Jim spots a dark Starfleet badge on the front of his shirt. He throws Spock a questioning look, but he keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, his lips pursed.

 Leland smiles. “Hey, Jimbo-”

 “It’s Jim.”

 “- James,” Leland waves a hand. “I’m sorry about pointing a phaser at you back there.”

 Jim gives him an awkward nod. “It’s… fine. But-” He rubs the back of his head. “You do know those things have a stun setting, right?”

 Leland smiles. “Well; I had no idea who you were.” He glances at Spock. “Tell him.”

 Spock looks up. “He had no idea who you were,” he says, robotically.

 “… It’s okay.” Jim glances between them, trying to work out the shift in the atmosphere while still nursing a headache.

 “It’s not okay!” Leland insists. “We’re a team now, so we’ve got to trust each other.”

 Jim closes his eyes. “Yeah, sounds good,” He murmurs. He leans his head back against the wall.

 “Really?” Leland asks. “Because you don’t sound that enthusiastic.”

 “I’m just-”

 Leland snaps his fingers twice. “Spock?”

 “You don’t sound that enthusiastic,” Spock says, dutifully.

 “Alright,” Jim exhales, and glowers at him. “It’s just: if we’re a team, then I’d prefer to know who I’m working with. I mean; you can’t be Starfleet.”

 Leland turns back to the viewscreen, and fixes his gaze on space.

 “Or, maybe you could tell me what we’re doing-?”

 “Relax. I’ll tell you the specifics when you get there.”

 “But-”

 Leland begins to hum to himself, and Jim’s gaze flicks to Spock. He, too, remains silent.

 He surveys the shuttle. There are about six seats in total- seven if you count the bench- and everything is a dark grey. Whoever designed the interior was a utilitarian, not an artist.

 There’s a pile of clothes at the back of the shuttle, and Jim notes that Spock, too, has changed into what appears to be a modified Starfleet uniform. He doesn’t recognise the badge, and wonders if they can really have gone through such an extensive redesign in six months. It’s sleek, all-black, identical to the one Leland is wearing. The last he’d heard, Starfleet didn’t even exist anymore.

 He rifles through the pile of clothes at the back of the shuttle, and changes into a pair of jeans and a red plaid jacket, feeling immediately warmer. As he swaps out the grey jumpsuit, he removes the knife from it, and slips it into his jeans pocket instead. Spock watches this without comment, but quickly looks away when Jim meets his eyes

 Jim studies the tense way that Spock holds himself. His hands are tucked away, arms folded just a little too tight across his chest. The shuttle’s internal temperature is probably only programmed to account for human standards, and he knows Vulcans are accustomed to warmer temperatures. Wordlessly, he reaches for the fallen blanket, and holds it out to him. Spock stiffens, and fixes his eyes on it. He doesn’t seem to want to make the first move. Jim leans forwards, and drapes the blanket over his shoulders in one smooth motion.

 Jim drifts off. When he next wakes up, the ship is orbiting a purple-blue planet covered in rivers and forests. The readout says it’s M-Class, but it appears to be deserted- no civilisation of any kind, with the exception of one, very faint, signal.

 “What is this planet?” Jim asks.

 Leland barely looks up. “Heirin.”

 “I’ve never heard of it.”

 “You wouldn’t have. This is Klingon space.” He nods to something out of the port window. “There’s an outpost on that moon which monitors most of the traffic in this system.”

 Jim looks up sharply. “And they just let us wander in?”

 “The magnetic disturbance from the asteroid belt on the other side of the system should have masked our signatures. Besides; they’re not on the look out for a little ship like this.”

 Jim searches the skies in the direction indicated. “Let me guess; this is going to be our little hacking project?”

 Leland gives him a look. “We want you to shut down the outpost via remote link. Heirin is just going to be our base of operations.” He grins, and sets the shuttle on a landing path on the night-side of the planet. Jim watches the tops of the purple-leaved trees get closer, and

 “And, when the Klingons find out about it?” Jim asks.

 “Relax. It’ll be a long time before they can find someone brave enough to investigate.”

 Jim folds his arms. “Klingons aren’t famous for their cowardice.”

 “No, they’re not,” Leland hums. “But, for this planet, they’d make an exception.”

 The shuttle continues to descend, flying over the purple-leaved trees and passing over vast swathes of pink fields. They cross over a wide river, flying low over a forest which looks distinctly greener than the others they’ve passed so far. Up ahead, a tall structure rises from the trees.

 It’s three three stories tall, and made mostly of dark metal. A gap in the center suggests that part of the building has since fallen away. They land in a clearing, to the right of it. Jim steps out of the shuttle, and surveys it from this new angle, as Leland and Spock unload a case of supplies from the back.

 “Where’s the server room?” Jim asks.

 Leland arches an eyebrow. “You don’t need to see it yet. Relax a little.”

 “Right… but you do have one, right? This place looks pretty broken down, and I can’t hack a Klingon outpost from this distance with your shuttle alone, no matter how high-tech it is.”

 Leland stares at him for a moment, his expression suddenly sombre. “If I told you where it was, what’s to stop you from shooting me?”

 Jim gives a little huff of laughter. “I can think of many reasons, Leland, but number one would be: I don’t even have a phaser.”

 Leland laughs in return. “Yeah?” He hands him one. “Well, you do now.”

 Jim stares down at his hands in surprise as Leland begins to move towards the stronghold, whistling.

 ‘What the fuck is wrong with him?’ Jim mouths, but Spock only stares at him.

 “Cosy,” Jim comments, as he hauls the first crate into the central hall. Everything about the stronghold speaks to Klingon architecture, but the interior has clearly been redecorated by humans. Large rugs and carpets cover sections of the floor. A wide sofa and two arm chairs sit on one side of the room, with a dining table on the other side.

 He prises the top off one of the crates, and peers inside. It contains numerous phaser power-packs. “I don’t think we’ll be needing all of these,” he says, with a nod to the far wall.

An innumerable collection of weapons adorn them, of Terran and Klingon origin. They’re assembled with seemingly little order, hung at irregular intervals by nails hammered into the wall. Five bat’leth’s, a crossbow with a laser, and a gin'tak spear. There are others, too- Romulan, Andorian- things he can’t quite place.

“Whoever was here left in a hurry,” Jim says.

 “Or, they never left at all.” Spock says quietly.

On the opposite wall is a large fireplace, comprised of neat, pink stone. The Mantelpiece almost looks like granite, although it’s much smoother. The material is probably local. A single staircase stands to the left of the fireplace, ascending through to the next level. The dining table sits to the left of this, just in front of the windows.

Jim wanders through a set of glass doors, and out onto the balcony.

A Veranda wraps around the second level of the stronghold, seemingly an afterthought: unlike the rest of the building, it is fashioned from a pale, beige wood. It doesn’t resemble any of the trees he’s seen on the planet so far, and he wonders if it’s been imported. He could almost believe it was built by humans, but the pillars follow the trappings of Klingon architecture: angular, wooden supports, slotted into reinforced bases. Still, it could all have been done in an attempt to mimic the existing styles. The one anomaly is a single, spiral staircase just off the center of the platform.

He keeps walking until he gets to the end of the allotted area. There’s a second, smaller communal area attached to the Veranda, fashioned from the same imported wood. Tattered banners adorn the walls, a dusky red: The emblem of the Klingon empire. Three triangular spikes jut out of a ring of white, and Jim stares at the symbol, rooted to the spot, realising for the first time that he’s deep in enemy territory.

In front of the flags is an alcove, which someone has evidently attempted to make comfortable by adding flimsy red cushions. Still, if this was intended as a place to sleep, he can’t imagine it would suffice, because, despite all its comforts- and the ceiling overhead- it is still, technically, exposed to the elements.

There are more pillars laid out in front of the alcoves. As he goes further into the area, his eyes widen, and he stops walking.

“Leland?” He calls over his shoulder.

There are footsteps as Leland approaches, and surveys the carnage in silence.

Blood stains the base of the pillar, some red, some magenta, and the cushions have been scratched up. There are places where the furnishings have been ripped away entirely, and one of the cushions is a deeper red than the others; a carpet placed over a strategic place on the floor. A single blade lies on one of the scuffed-up cushions. It’s Klingon: the blade is shaped like an arrow, with a decorative line cut out of the center. A d’k tahg.

 Leland approaches it with interest, and Jim spies a bloody handprint on the wall.

“I thought you said The Klingons never came here,” Jim breathes.

“Worried?” Leland grins, and reaches for the discarded d'k tahg. He twirls it between his fingers before adding it to his belt, a glint in his eye. “Don’t worry; by the time we catch their attention, you’ll be gone.” He claps him on the shoulder, and moves back along the balcony. Jim breathes shallowly, the feeling of foreboding intensifying.

 They return to the shuttle via the spiral staircase, and finish unloading the supplies. Everything comes in unmarked boxes, but Jim assumes that the rest of this must be food- although, if anyone is the type to pack more ammunition than food, it’s Leland.

 Jim leans on a crate. “You still haven’t told us what this place is, exactly.”

 Leland shrugs. “I thought it was self-evident: An abandoned Klingon stronghold.”

 “But why is it abandoned? They can’t have forgotten about it,” he says, with a nod to the pylon on the roof.

 Leland grins. “The Klingon’s know about it, but they avoid this planet like the plague. There are a lot of… Superstitions attached to this place,” he says, cryptically.

 “What; are you going to tell us a scary story?” Jim folds his arms.

 Leland smiles. “I might. But you’d need to gather some firewood... Scary stories are best told around a campfire.”

 Jim hesitates, and thinks of the nice, warm-looking fireplace in the cabin. Still, he wouldn’t mind the chance to explore- and to get away from Leland for a while.

 “Fine.”

 Spock stands stiffly, perhaps from the cold, and Leland turns to him. “Go with him, Spock. Make sure he doesn’t get… Lost.”

 Jim spreads his arms wide. “It’s a big planet. Where am I gonna go?” He bellows over his shoulder. His voice echoes off the trees.

 The bark of the trees here are tall and green, and he’s reminded, suddenly, of the moss back on Earth. The thought is accompanied by a familiar gut-punch, so he instead focuses on the plant life which surrounds them. The trees are surprisingly thin, despite their great height. He’s so busy craning his neck that he stumbles on something hard. He braces himself on a nearby tree, and Spock comes to a sudden stop behind him. The rock he tripped on is covered in a thin layer of bioluminescent fungus. The mushroom itself is a bright, sickly shade of green, though the light that it emits is more pleasant, soft lime.

 Behind him, Spock shuffles restlessly, so Jim steps to the side. They make fleeting eye-contact as Spock takes the lead, treading a path through the untouched undergrowth. Though he’d never admit it, Jim feels a small thrill of adventure. He remembers the days when he wanted to join Starfleet; the promise of exploring the unknown too tempting to resist- before The Unknown came to kick their ass.

 Jim watches the back of Spock’s head, and wonders what’s going on in there. The man he’d met on Mars Colony and the man in the shuttle were two very different people, which he’d initially blamed on Leland’s influence. Still, there’s something unsettling about Spock’s continued silence.

 “So, tell me,” Jim says. “Why were you in that prison? Leland couldn’t do his own dirty work?”

 Spock barely glances at him. “He would have been recognised.”

 “I’m sure.” Jim trots alongside him. “But, you being in there- that wasn’t just a cover, was it?” He studies Spock’s profile as they walk, trying to work out how close he is to the truth.

 A cyan light shines off Spock’s face, and still, he says nothing.

 “C’mon,” Jim swipes a branch out of the way. “A guy like you should have made Captain in what, five years, maybe six?”

 Twigs snap underfoot.

 “That was your goal, was it not?” Spock says, finally. “To become the youngest Captain in Starfleet history, on a bet?”

 Jim straightens up a little. “How did you know-?”

 “-And the reason you thought it necessary to cheat on The Kobayashi Maru.” He raises a brow pointedly, and sets off towards the woods at a fast march.

 Jim slides on loose stones as he hurries after him. “You knew Captain Pike,” he realises.

 “Yes.”

 “So, it wasn’t your aspirations which landed you here. A mistake, then?” A branch catches in Spock’s hair, and ricochets back into Jim’s face. “Ow!” He hisses.

 Spock glances back. “A mistake.”

 Jim glowers at the back of his head, and rubs his jaw. “I’ll say,” he mutters.

 “Perhaps-” Spock halts without warning “-We are both here for reasons outside our control.”

 Jim rubs his nose.

 “- As you said earlier; it is a big planet.” Spock turns to him. “Big enough that it is not entirely inconceivable that you could make it back to the shuttle without Leland’s notice.”

 Jim blinks at him. “I’d need the keys for that,” he says, finally.

 “You would,” Spock says, neutrally. “And you would find them, in my pocket.”

 “I wouldn’t get very far.”

 “Perhaps. But, the treatment Klingons give their prisoners is likely to be kinder than Leland’s.” He turns to keep walking, but Jim grabs his elbow.

 “And, what; you want me to strand you here with him?”

 “Preferably not. But, whoever leaves will have a greater chance of escape as long as the other keeps him distracted.”

 “Then- why not you?”

 “I am responsible for bringing you here.”

 He chuckles softly. “Perhaps. But I chose to come. And I’m not leaving without you.”

 His eyes dart to him. “Then you are a fool.”

 Jim grins. “And I thought it was obvious.”

[Front Cover] [chapter 1] [Chapter 2]

[cautelous]

Hi. League lore is a nightmare that contradicts itself and has the nasty habit of spawning fan theories that, while interesting and honestly sometimes more clever than canonical content, are most likely not intended to be canonical.

What I’m talking about mostly is this thing that I really started thinking about in earnest yesterday, although I think I’ve had it on the backburner for a while. The thing in question is people taking all of League’s lore to be simultaneously canonical - assuming that it’s part of a grand overarching plan, or treating it as if it was all written at the same time. This is... not a good way to approach League lore, although it may seem it.

Example one: the theory that I heard that Annie’s parents actually moved to the Noxian borderlands to keep Annie safe from the academy Rell was held in. (Annie wasn’t born at the time they moved, but magic seems to work along familial lines in League and her mom was a witch, so it seems a safe bet.)

On the surface, cool theory! It works if Rell’s been in the academy since age 8, which isn’t exactly specified but is definitely possible. Annie’s parents could potentially have heard about missing kids and assumed something bad was up. Unfortunately, while it may make sense when you take lore as a combined bundle, it doesn’t make sense if you look at the out-of-universe timeline. Annie’s lore update came in 2018 and Rell came out about two years later. We know the champion production timelines are about a year (I think? Please correct me if I’m wrong), so Rell probably started taking shape in 2019. This means that the whole Noxian sigil magic evil academy thing probably wasn’t on Riot’s radar when they made Annie’s update - and, besides, her lore has always portrayed her as coming from an area adjacent to/on the outskirts of Noxus. It’s much more likely that Riot just rehashed elements of her original lore into something that worked in their modern setting, instead of them having this master plan where the true reason Annie’s out in the borderlands is to keep her safe.

Now, since Riot does often seem to have a habit of taking concepts from fans in one way or another... Maybe there will be another Annie lore that ties the academy in. It would certainly make the world feel more connected. But at the moment, it’s a fan theory that was probably 99.99% not intended to be canon, because the timelines don’t match up.

(Also, I think Rell lore could have been handled better. Not even from a “Swain wtf are you letting the Rose do” standpoint, but from a character standpoint from Rell. But that’s an aside. Also also, how long has Swain been in power? Annie’s lore has Darkwill in power 8 years ago. Also also also, I think a lot of people who subscribe to this theory might not think about the fact that Rell is 8 years older than Annie - they may see all the events as happening simultaneously, since there isn’t exactly a canonical timeline. If that makes sense?)

Example two: hi, Viktor and Blitzcrank lore.

Blitzcrank’s lore directly contradicts Viktor’s new lore, showing that Riot isn’t exactly interested in maintaining continuity. Maybe it’s just for champions that are less popular, but whatever.

Viktor’s lore update (which I think came in 2016, along with Piltover-Zaun unification? I wasn’t active in League then, so I don’t recall) describes Blitzcrank in the following manner:

In the midst of his studies in Piltover, a major chem-spill devastated entire districts of Zaun, and Viktor returned home to offer his help in the rescue efforts. By grafting a sophisticated series of cognitive loops upon existing automata-technology, he crafted a custom-built golem, Blitzcrank, to help in the clean-up. Blitzcrank was instrumental in saving scores of lives and appeared to develop a level of sentience beyond anything Viktor had envisioned.

Even with the spill contained, Viktor remained in Zaun to help those afflicted by the released toxins. With the golem's help, he attempted to use his techmaturgical brilliance to save those whose lives had been blighted by the spill. Their attempt was ultimately unsuccessful in preventing more deaths, and the two parted ways.

Blitzcrank’s lore currently (circa 2019) does this:

Useless to all but one person. The inventor Viktor discovered the abandoned golem and, seeing the potential still within the inert chassis, inspiration struck. Viktor began a series of experiments, seeking to improve the automaton by introducing a new element that would elevate it far beyond the original scope of its creation.

Hextech.

Implanting a priceless hextech crystal sourced from the deserts of Shurima into the chassis of the forsaken golem, Viktor waited with baited breath as the machine rumbled to life.

Zero mention of at what time this occurs. Zero mention of Blitzcrank being designed specifically for a rescue effort. The lore continues to diverge. The post’s long enough already, but you can read it and see for yourself. Blitzcrank’s 3rd lore (see wiki) is slightly more in line with Viktor’s, but still doesn’t make sense if you try to read it in concert with Viktor’s lore:

An ambitious young inventor known as Viktor longed to create a durable machine that could clean more effectively and eliminate the need for costly repairs. He gathered broken parts from the retired golems, avoiding the flashier components popular among his peers. Even employing an assemblage of unwanted materials, Viktor designed a more resilient machine.

He named his creation Blitzcrank, hoping the golem would quickly eradicate all waste and become far greater than the sum of his discarded parts. After instilling in Blitzcrank a relentless desire to serve the people of Zaun by removing the toxins in their path, Viktor sent him into the Sump to help.

What’s going on here? I don’t know. Also, it’s 2021 and I really wish Riot would stop using “golem” as a synonym for a robot. I know that fantasy generally does this, but like. Come on.

Example three: Talon’s lore.

It hasn’t been updated since 2015, man. I really can’t take the idea of Riot having some master overarching plan that everyone fits into when Talon (and I think some of the Void monsters?) hasn’t gotten an update since they snipped the Institute out of his lore.

TL;DR: League lore is piecemeal and any attempt to make any lore that came out about more than a year or two apart fit in with each other is probably not going to work. It may spawn some interesting theories, but those theories probably weren’t intended. It may also just directly contradict character backstories. It may also just be completely outdated and incoherent in the modern narrative.

Stuff like this is why I have trouble taking any lore analysis channels on YouTube seriously, because it really does feel like they don’t acknowledge the out-of-universe fact that Riot really doesn’t seem to have an overarching plan for more than about two years at a time. Maybe they have individual plans for each area - even that looks unlikely, considering Viktor and Blitzcrank’s issue - but something larger? I really doubt it.

Maybe this will all change with Ruination and Riot’s second attempt at doing a Big Event. Maybe they’ll realize that there’s at least one character lore contradiction (I don’t read all the lore, so while I have no doubt that there’s more contradictions I’ve really only spotted Viktor and Blitzcrank) and try to shore that up with minor edits. But at the moment it’s kind of a mess that sometimes feels like the fans think more about the impacts of the lore than the writers do.

[fallen-in-dreams]

Chasing A Dream

Links: FF.net & AO3. Pairing: Sakura/Kakashi. Summary:  Her mother always told her to follow her dreams. In this case, her dream happened to have silver hair, mismatched eyes, and a smile that took her breath away. And she was determined to follow him all the way, even if he decided to break her heart. KakaSaku AU. Status: Complete.

Enjoy. ^_^

.:.

Sorry I have to leave so abruptly, Daddy. I’ll come back as soon as I can, okay? I know you’re disappointed in me. I wasn’t trying to shame you. I love you. I love you both. I’ll see you soon. Tell mama I’m fine. I always know my way home. - Love, Sakura.

.

Sakura Haruno walked for half a mile to get to the service area where she knew that drivers congregated before leaving Wajima. She did her best to dress like a foreigner and not show her Roma origins—nomads (Sanka) were considered as un-Japanese as any foreigner (Gaijin). She wouldn’t win the sympathetic ride with a stranger wearing her usual bodice and scarf.

She decided on a simple shirt and her nice jeans; they fit comfortably and hugged her well. It was cold out, even in the middle of the day, so she brought a heavy coat; one that was still easy to wear with her travelling backpack.

Her goal was to hitchhike her way to Tokyo. Depending on traffic and how long it would take to get a ride, the trip would take about seven hours. It would be expensive if done with public transportation; she had to save what little money she had for those things once she actually got to her destination.

To him.

And she was unfamiliar with the more typical ways of travelling through Japan. This was her last option; she had put this off long enough. For the first time since the last time she’d seen him, she wasn’t running from her problems; rather, meeting them head on. Before her father got it into his head to ruin things with that famous temper of his. Images of silver hair and mesmerising, mismatched eyes, invaded her thoughts unbidden and she sighed deeply before looking around contemplatively.

Service areas like this all over Japan made hitchhiking that much easier. Cars, trucks, motorcycles—there was a plethora of drivers to choose from. Sakura had hitched before—her first time had been when a second cousin went into labour. The pinkette was twelve years old at the time, and her parents were nowhere to be seen, so she’d had to make her way to the hospital on her own. It was easy, safe, and fun, really.

If you were careful.

A girl on her own was an easy target for perverts and predators, but Sakura always made sure to go with families or women; she was a good judge of character, so that elderly man had been a smart choice, regardless. But she wasn’t a weakling; she knew how to handle herself. Anyone who tried something with her would get a twisted arm and a swift kick to the shins or balls. Whichever one tickled her fancy.

This place was perfect; away from the expressway and most people here were headed in the same direction.

A few minutes into her perusal, a teenage girl waved at her and Sakura waved back. She looked to be with her parents. They had a Suzuki and ample room. She approached them with her sign; it read ‘Osaka’.

Sakura put on her best friendly smile and fake accent. “Konnichiwa.”

“You going to Osaka?”

The pinkette nodded silently, remembering that while it was uncommon for Japanese people to hitchhike there were no laws against it; it was just best to appear to need help, like a foreigner rather than a local.

“You speak Japanese?”

Maybe it was her hair, but she was often treated like a foreigner no matter what she said or did; she didn’t understand it. But she always just went with it. The key was to look as harmless and friendly as possible.

“Hai.”

The girl conferred with her parents and then came running back over to Sakura and threw her arms around her. “You look like you are a good person. We can take you as far as Toyama, okay?”

“Hai.”

“Okay!”

The girl talked Sakura’s ear off the whole time, going on about her family vacation and how she loved Winter so much.

So bloody much.

But Sakura kept her smile on and upon disembarking at a service area near the Toyama train station, felt compelled to show her appreciation. She bowed deeply. “Doumo. Arigato.”

Alone again, she sighed nervously.

One ride down.

Shifting the weight of her backpack out of nervous habit, she ambled her way through the crowd of vehicles, glancing at the faces of the drivers and any passengers they might have. She was looking for the concerned face, the curious face; the honest face.

Found three.

It was a couple and their six-year-old boy, wearing matching outfits, looking like they were heading for the Alps. They accepted her quickly, saying how they didn’t want to leave her here on her own, and looking so vulnerable.

“There are some sickos these days,” the mother muttered, while the father nodded in agreement.

They seemed sane to Sakura.

“We’re going to Myoko,” the little boy said excitedly, the moment the pinkette climbed into their Subaru.

Sakura humoured him, listening to him talk about all the skiing he was going to do, and that he had to go to some boring wedding instead of the night-time Onsen. He was really cute, and she found herself feeling wistful and nervous, thinking about what awaited her at her destination. So much so that she gave in when he pestered her about where she was going. She told him almost everything...

“Sayōnara, Sakura-chan! And good luck!”

Left again at a service area, Sakura quickly got to work scoping out the people and their vehicles again. The next car she got belonged to another group of friends, middle-aged women on their way to some kind of religious retreat. She listened to their excited chatter in polite silence but was glad to be on the move again.

Next ride.

It was like riding a bike now; her instinct didn’t fail her as her eyes zeroed in on five people who looked around her age, almost twenty. They turned out to be college students on holiday and could take her all the way to Tokyo—their ultimate destination was Yokohama, where apparently, they all had family.

They were so boisterous and so energetic that it was contagious. Sakura found herself laughing for the first time in months. It made her temporarily forget her imminent problems. They were so warm, she found herself drawn to them. A loud blond guy in particular, seemed to just radiate kindness, and the banter between him and the raven-haired guy she assumed was his best friend, was the highlight of the trip.

When they made it to her drop off point, she was disappointed.

The blonde girl took her elbow and stopped her from leaving dejectedly. “You need money for the bullet train? They’re faster and will be safer this time of night.”

Sakura shook her head as they suggested giving her the money. “I couldn’t–”

“You can.”

“We insist. Go get your man!”

A wad of cash was shoved in her hands and bouts of cheers from the group followed her as she walked away, and Sakura blushed heavily. That little boy with the concerned parents had opened a floodgate and she couldn’t keep her damn mouth shut! This was highly unusual behaviour. Did everyone around here give money to strangers?

That had been a particularly rowdy group of college students, she decided naively. Definitely out of the norm.

Best to just accept the money and get on the train.

Sakura waved back at them and made her way in the direction they’d indicated. Tokyo was a very odd place. There was a bus station nearby, and the train station was lit up and dazzled her. She strained her neck looking around; its services also included commercial centres for shopping, dining, and entertainment. Everything was so big and lively! She spent a few minutes just gaping like a tourist before remembering why she was here.

Sakura steeled herself and took the directions the students had given her to the correct station and line.

She bought her ticket from the vending machine and passed through the Fare Gate, rushing to get onto the locomotive. She just wanted to get this part over with. The Tokaido line would take her directly to her destination.

Sakura pulled out a piece of paper as she took her backpack off and sat down next to it in her seat. All she had was an address, and vague directions; she’d gotten it from her father’s own journals. She read it silently, committing it to memory. This was it. This was what she’d been dreading and anticipating. When she would finally see him again.

Sighing, she settled into the seat and stared out the window, her eyes taking in the beautiful landscape as the Shinkansen Bullet Train started moving. It was this kind of view that she loved most about travel. Having been a part of her family performance group her whole life, she was no stranger to moving around. Japan was truly the most hospitable and exciting country; even when they did stick to the Ura-Nihon (the backside of Japan).

And it was that lifestyle that had gotten her into her current predicament.

She remembered it like it was yesterday.

.:.

Gypsies, tramps, and thieves: dealings with those unwanted was not something most businessmen would risk. That was why just talking to Kizashi Haruno was considered on par with black market dealings. Moving things across prefecture borders via Roma who performed shows for a living supposedly came with all the mystique of illegal dealings but with none of the danger of dealing with the Yakuza.

It was the preferred choice for shady men who were too cowardly to deal with the real crime syndicate.

And Sakura was both repulsed and intrigued by her father’s dealings. Every client had their own story to tell, though, and she was a sponge for information. Every negotiation and patented deal were slightly different to the last, but they were all conducted the same; in brisk, formal manners with no-nonsense chit-chat and a back-and-forth debate that seemed redundant.

Eager to listen in, she always took the initiative to pour the tea for her father and his clients when they met in his tent. They paid her no mind as they continued to talk business—after all, what would a little girl know about the price of illegal dried meat or black-market liqueurs? She learned a lot from listening in but could only linger for so long.

Several months after her eighteenth birthday, a new business associate of her father’s caught her eye; and this man did seem to be bothered by her presence during their talks. He was so no-nonsense that Sakura imagined he’d have her standing to attention and saluting if he’d wanted to, but he also greeted her father with a smile that seemed genuine (a twinkle in his eyes) and a handshake that didn’t look designed as some macho display of dominance.

It took her breath away.

He was… different from the others. And his visits lasted longer; her father seemed to like him more and more every time they sat to talk business. And when Sakura poured the man’s tea he said, “thank-you” when none of the others would even look at her, probably thinking her some simple serving girl. When she froze in shock for a few seconds, he raised an eyebrow at her and waited for her to move away before taking a sip from his drink. When she didn’t leave the room immediately, his gaze would flicker to her curiously.

She often felt his mismatched eyes on her as she left the room. He didn’t dare to stare at her in any disrespectful way with her father in the room—he definitely wasn’t as ignorant or creepy as her father’s other clients. She had no idea why he was there because, instead of paying attention to what he was saying, she would be focused on his voice. And he would stop talking once he realised, she was listening in.

His curious looks turned into intense stares and she would give him a shy smile before exiting the tent. It was an interesting back and forth—kind of like flirting. Sakura had never flirted before, so she wasn’t sure if she was doing it right. Her father had been in talks for a few weeks in order to marry her to the son of a friend (a well-placed man in their Roma clan), so she was expected to avoid boys, sex, and the like. But Kakashi Hatake was responding to her awkward flirting, catching her eye when her father was distracted, giving her a dark, penetrating look when she was doing chores and he was passing by with Kizashi leading the way out (or in) to their encampment.

He wanted her.

And she had to admit, it felt good to be on the receiving end of his obvious need, though she considered him a gentleman, since to the casual observer, he seemed to treat her well enough; his smiles were innocent and his choice of honorifics when addressing her were appropriate for their non-relationship status. He was just a business acquaintance of her father’s and nothing more.

At least, that was what she thought. She was soon to be betrothed, after all.

But she couldn’t help imagining her life however, if Kakashi made a claim for her and took her away to live with him. She fantasised that he would save her from her boring life; she loved her family, but Sakura craved more. She had no idea what his life was like, but she wanted it. The sexual tension between them would not go away; a sense of both trepidation and anticipation filled her being. Sakura knew it would be frowned upon, that her father would rage, but she wanted him too.

Didn’t men usually make the first move in these situations? She’d heard they did.

Maybe he was just biding his time?

On what was apparently his last dealing with her father, Kakashi found himself in a pickle; his ride home had abandoned him, and her father insisted on letting him hitch with them, as they were headed in the same direction, come morning. His mind was made up and that was the end of things. Kakashi Hatake gave a grateful smile, his eyes twinkling when they met green and Sakura blushed under his gaze, her own smile eliciting another one of his dark, penetrating stares. She could feel a heat building up inside her as he licked his lips and exhaled deeply.

“Sakura?”

Her mother’s voice snapped her out of her reverie and Sakura dutifully left to help her, with whatever she needed. It was almost dinner time.

Supper was a nightmare. Sakura rubbed her thighs together, trying to hide her obvious interest the entire time. Luckily, only Kakashi noticed.

That night, long after her parents had gone to bed, Sakura Haruno lost her virginity.

He’d come to her tent, knelt down in front of her, parted her legs, and taken his time introducing her to sex. It had lasted for hours. And he spent most of the night inside her before slinking back to his own tent after she’d fallen asleep. When she woke, the only proof he’d been there were the indent from his head on one of her pillows, the foreign soreness between her legs, and the smell of sex that still lingered in the air.

She was profoundly disappointed.

And he’d seemed to have gotten what he wanted, acting normally on the rest of their trip, giving only a minute longing glance in her direction to show her she hadn’t imagined it before leaving their caravan behind.

“He’s such a nice man,” her mother said, watching him go. “And so handsome,” she added, fanning herself. “We should have him over more often.”

Sakura swallowed back a sob and forced herself to pretend everything was all right, so she could go back to her normal, boring life. But three months later, a discovery upended her life, and everything changed.

 .:.

“Forty-Six, forty-seven...” Sakura counted off the numbers as she made her way through the hallway. Kakashi Hatake lived in a luxury high-rise building with a view of the waterfront as well as a park. She wondered idly how many of his illicit dealings paid for this place. He had to be no normal smuggler to afford a place like this; it was far out of her reach, even if she were to drain her father of the combined intake from his clients.

She stopped at the correct number and let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

This is it.

Yep. All she had to do was ring that bell and wait.

And wait impatiently.

Is he even home?

She’d heard the bell ring through the apartment from her position but there was no other noise inside.

The passing maid gave her a strange look, adding more to Sakura’s embarrassment; reminding her she wasn’t dressed to match the décor. She sighed, undid the buckles on her backpack and slid down the door to sit to wait for him to turn up. It wasn’t the middle of the night—just barely ten o’clock—so surely, he wasn’t fast asleep yet?

Speaking of sleeping; Sakura drifted off so quickly she didn’t remember falling asleep when a hand was gently shaking her awake. It seemed all her worry had exhausted her more than she’d realised.

“Sakura?”

That familiar voice had her freezing instantaneously, then slowly looking up into the mismatched eyes of her lover. That thought made her blush, but she fought it down. He knew better than to ask if her father was aware, she’d camped out in front of Kakashi’s door; what they had, what they’d shared, no-one else could know.

The energy between them shifted; it had always been electric.

As he stared at Sakura, Kakashi couldn’t help but think that everything was about to change.

He sighed, rubbed his left eye tiredly, and helped the girl up, off the floor. She was exactly as he remembered, except that she wore normal clothes instead of the bodice that had flared at her breasts, giving him an ample view of her goods. He smirked inwardly, remembering rubbing his hands over those very supple goods not three months ago.

Was that why she was here? He was confused. He cleared his throat.

“Do come in.” He unlocked the door and swung it open to let Sakura into his apartment, taking note of her sudden and obvious nerves, not to mention that she had a death grip on her backpack. “Please take your shoes off. The maids here are vicious if they catch even a whiff of the outside on these hardwood floors.”

Sakura nodded and looked around for a shoe rack.

“Here.”

Kakashi led her off to the side to place her things.

“Do you want some tea?” He might as well play the good host, considering her father had always been gracious to him.

“N-no.” Uh... “Yes,” she amended after shivering.

“What kind?”

“Hot.”

He didn’t bother pointing out to her that tea came in hundreds of flavours and was always “hot”. Well, all the tea he’d bother drinking, anyway. He busied himself in the kitchen, instead. “Make yourself at home!”

Sakura carefully placed her shoes on the rack and shrugged off her coat. Her hand went to her stomach and she felt mild panic; this was why she was here, but it was terrifying. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sounds of Kakashi moving about in his kitchen, preparing their tea.

I can do this.

Gingerly, she made her way into the kitchen, too nervous to take in the large and gorgeous apartment he owned. It had never occurred to her that he wasn’t single… but now the question tormented her brain. The idea that she’d slept with someone’s spouse, that she had trekked across the country to see him and was laying her pregnancy problems on someone who was spoken for… she suddenly felt cheap.

Sakura stopped a foot from the kitchen and glanced back at the living room, eyes darting about and looking for clues of a girlfriend or wife. There were none. But she wasn’t going to stop panicking until she knew for sure. Taking a deep breath, she entered the kitchen, laid her coat on one of the kitchen stools, her eyes on the back of Kakashi’s head as he whistled along with the kettle.

When he turned to face her, she felt her insides squirm in nervous anticipation; but the kitchen island bench was high enough to hide her small protruding belly. He smiled that award-winning smile.

“I’ll just be a minute, you can wait in the serving room if you want, then we can talk about what brought you to my humble abode, yeah?”

She wasn’t sure how to interpret that hopeful look on his face, but she nodded, waiting for him to turn back to the tea before slipping out into the other room like he suggested.

Oh gods.

Her nerves had just skyrocketed.

Sakura studied the pictures on the opposite wall to the tatami mat, entwining her fingers as she attempted to simmer her nerves. None of the people in the photos looked like his “other half” so to speak; there were people in business suits and an elderly couple in several that looked like Kakashi’s parents. The one that stood out was a photo of Kakashi and two others—a guy and girl, but the way those two were holding each other, she figured she didn’t have anything to worry about.

I hope.

She spun around quickly as Kakashi entered the serving room, like she’d been caught reading his dirty magazines or something. He wasn’t looking directly at her as he moved to place the tea try on the low table in the centre of the room. He looked up and her breath hitched.

“Oh, you took the coat off? I turned the thermostat up, so you don’t have to keep that heavy jacket on–” He paused. “Uh, Sakura?”

His eyes fell to her stomach and widened. “W-what?”

His eyes roamed over her shirt; with the coat out of the way, he could suddenly and terrifyingly understand why she’d come all this way on her own.

“Hai, Kakashi, it’s yours,” she said, to break the silence.

That made it easier. She was showing already, but it was mostly still just bloating; she’d deliberately worn a tighter shirt and cosy jeans to show it off. After taking off her coat, her baby bump was difficult to miss. To the casual observer, she didn’t look pregnant until she’d removed the coat.

Kakashi continued to gape at her.

“Kakashi?”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, quickly recovering his speaking ability. “It’s just... a shock.”

She nodded. “I know. I’m sorry too. But I didn’t know how else to tell you. Daddy...”

She trailed off and he understood. Kizashi was going to kill him. It didn’t matter that he needed the Hatake business right now, his daughter had been defiled and impregnated. No decent father would just let that go. And Kizashi was as decent a father as Kakashi had ever seen. He couldn’t imagine a scenario where the older man wouldn’t yell at him and call him every name under the sun for this.

He swallowed heavily.

“Where does he think you are right now?”

“Not at home.”

He chuckled humourlessly. “I suppose so. Uh,” he motioned to the tea. “Don’t want to waste my hospitality, right?”

She nodded and sat down; he ran a distracted hand through his odd hair and sighed, moving to pour her tea for her, before allowing her to pour his. They sat in silence, across from each other, avoiding eye contact and just enjoying the rich flavour of the tea he’d chosen. She wanted to ask what flavour it was but was feeling too nervous to start idle chatter. She was as nervous as he was, looking everywhere but at Kakashi as she delicately sipped at her tea. When they were both done and the silence dragged on, Sakura was beginning to worry he was going to send her on her way with little but a “I’m too old to have a kid” or some such nonsense.

She cleared her throat, her eyes lowering to her hands, sitting in her lap and twiddling like a schoolgirl. The fear and dread came rushing back when Kakashi seemingly had nothing to say and she didn’t know how to start the topic of what to do now. Her fidgety hands moved from her lap to her knees, back to her lap, and then finally to the serving table. She splayed her hands out, faced down, frowning at them.

Sakura only had to wait a few more minutes after her fidgeting stopped before the father of her unborn child finally broke the silence, causing her to look up at him, now fixated on his mismatched eyes.

“I don’t regret it,” he said slowly. “I…” He held a hand over his face in an attempt to cover his blush, but the look on her face told him he was busted. Kakashi chuckled, resting the hand on hers, instead. He rubbed his thumb over her hand. “It was amazing. You were amazing.”

It was her turn to blush.

“What I’m trying to say is...” He sighed. “I... don’t regret it.” He chuckled at his own expense again. “I’m not really helping, am I?”

She smiled. Sakura appreciated what he was clearly trying to say. She had him tongue tied, apparently. It was a good feeling, surprisingly. It meant she wasn’t just a notch on his belt—she wasn’t forgettable and unwanted. She cleared her throat again.

“Where do we go from here?” She asked, her voice trembling. She was scared of the answer, but also… not. It was strange.

Kakashi ran a hand through his hair—he did that when he was both nervous and unsettled, she’d noticed. Or at least, she gathered so. He wasn’t the most open person, that much was obvious.

“I–”

Whatever Kakashi was going to suggest was drowned out by a loud, abrupt serious of knocks on his front door. Whoever it was wasn’t bothering with the doorbell and sound irate and impatient.

Sakura paled immediately. Her father might’ve put two and two together, somehow… she’d told her friends where she was going. But the caravan answered to her father, so if he really wanted to squeeze information out of them...

Oh my god.

“Hatake!”

Yep, that was Kizashi Haruno’s angry voice.

Kakashi and Sakura stared mutely at each other. They both knew that the longer they took to answer it, the more hell there’d be to pay.

“Kakashi I swear, if you don’t open this damn door–”

Kakashi quickly strode over and swung the door open before Kizashi could finish that sentence.

“Daddy?” Sakura squeaked, standing up.

Her father’s eyes dropped to her protruding stomach as her hand fell to it instinctively. For a moment, it looked like the wind had been knocked out of him; then his face screwed up and he shoved his way inside, leaving Kakashi to close the door in an attempt at some kind of privacy.

Kizashi spun around and growled audibly, his eyes narrowed in on his business partner.

This was it. Sakura knew what was coming.

Kizashi Haruno was infamous for his temper, and when he was at his most angry, her father was a rambler.

His hands flailed and gesticulated as he ranted. “Kakashi, you bastard! What the hell did you think you were doing with my daughter!? She’s soon to be betrothed, not the concubine of a low life porn smuggler!”

Sakura’s eyes widened at this piece of information.

“She’s supposed to lay with her husband, not some one-off, out-dated lady’s man! She deserves better! She deserves more respect than this! To think that Mebuki thought you were a good guy. What the hell is wrong with you, Hatake? I don’t care that you’re a staunch bachelor, you will do right by my baby girl and marry her before it’s too late! And don’t you dare try to blame my little girl for your midlife boner. Take some goddamn, fucking responsibility!”

Silence met this proclamation, but the air was still rife with the tension created by Kizashi’s anger. He huffed and attempted to calm himself; he wasn’t normally a violent man, but he really wanted to punch Kakashi’s lights out. But there was no way he would stoop to that level in front of his little girl. He would deal with that urge later.

Kakashi, for his part, looked thoroughly shamed. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair (again), and nodded toward his future father in law.

Meanwhile, Sakura’s heart was racing. When the hell had this escalated to marriage? The logical part of her brain knew she could no longer marry that son of a friend within their Roma clan, but to marry Kakashi… Well, it wasn’t a horrible idea. But her brain had yet to plan ahead that far, so she was gobsmacked by her father’s insistence; not to mention Kakashi’s strangely immediate acquiescence to this demand.

“Sakura!”

“Daddy?”

Kakashi took the hint and stepped into the kitchen to give them privacy, a little too fast for Sakura’s liking.

Kizashi sighed, one hand falling to her stomach as he kissed her forehead. “What am I going to do with both of you?”

“Daddy, I—”

“It’s my fault. You felt you couldn’t talk to me. Did he… uh, take you against your—”

“No, daddy,” Sakura said, clasping his hand that was still on her stomach. “I wanted it.” She blushed as he glared up at the ceiling. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know. I got your letter.” He sighed as her face dropped. “I just want what’s best for you and I’ve failed you. Now you’re trapped with Mr. King of Black Market Erotica. Nothing immoral,” he assured her when she scrunched up her face in disgust. He sighed again. “Hatake! Get your arse out here!”

Kakashi did as he was told and waited until Kizashi had finished ranting at him again before seeing her father out. “I’ll be in touch for preparations,” her father said, before the door closed.

“Well, that went well,” she chuckled nervously.

They stood in silence again. It felt like she’d aged ten years in the last ten minutes. But as Sakura rubbed her stomach, and Kakashi couldn’t help but watch the motion carefully, she thought maybe that was okay. The father of her baby was no spring chicken. She smiled and he stepped over to her cautiously, placing a hand on her stomach.

Those mismatched eyes of his stared down at her and her breath caught in her throat as they twinkled, and he smiled. He was so beautiful. She suddenly couldn’t wait to see what their child would inherit from him. Sakura stood on her toes, held his face in both hands, and kissed him. He responded immediately; every inch of her body hummed, reminding her of their night together. Of their connection.

“I’ll do good by you, Sakura. I promise,” he said, once they were forced to stop in order to breathe.

And she believed him.

.:.

[kirch]

WHEN ATLANTIS RULED THE EARTH [A Film Synopsis]

The title appears in letters that look like blocks of stone piled on top of one another to form a kind of step pyramid. It is followed by shots of the earth as it looked thirty thousand years ago, during the great ice ages, showing woolly mammoths, saber-toothed tigers and Cro-Magnon hunters, while a narrator explains that at the same time the greatest civilization ever known by man is flourishing on the continent of Atlantis. The Atlanteans do not know anything about good or evil, the narrator explains. However, they all live to be five hundred years old and have no fear of death. The bodies of all Atlanteans are covered with fur, as with apes.

After seeing various domestic scenes in Zukong Gi-morlad-Siragosa, the largest and most central city on the continent (but not the capital, because the Atlanteans do not have a government), we move to a laboratory where the young (one hundred years old) scientist GRUAD is displaying a biological experiment to an associate, GAO TWONE. The experiment is a giant water-dwelling serpent-man. Gao Twone is impressed, but Gruad declares that he is bored; he wishes to change himself in some unexpected way. Gruad is already strange—unlike other Atlanteans, he is not covered with fur, but has only short blond hair on top of his head and a close-cropped beard. In comparison to other Atlanteans he seems hideously naked. He wears a high-collared pale green robe and gauntlets. He tells Gao Twone that he is tired of accumulating knowledge for the sake of knowledge. "It's just another guise for the pursuit of pleasure, to which too many of our fellow Atlanteans devote their lives. Of course, there's nothing wrong with pleasure—it moves the energies— but I feel that there is something higher and more heroic. I have no name for it yet, but I know it exists."

Gao Twone is somewhat shocked. "You, as a scientist, can talk of knowing something exists when you have no evidence?"

Gruad is dejected by this and admits, "My lens needs polishing." But after a moment he bounces back. "And yet, even though I have my moments of doubt, I think my lens really is clear. Of course, I must find lie evidence. But even now, before I start, I feel that I know what I will find. We could be greater and finer than we are. I look at what I am and sometimes I despise myself. I'm just a clever animal. An ape who has learned to play with tools. I want to be much more. I say we can be what the lloigor are, and even more. We can conquer time and seize eternity, even as they have. I mean to achieve that or destroy myself in the attempt."

The scene shifts to a banquet hall where INGEL RILD, a venerable Atlantean scientist, has called together prominent Atlanteans to celebrate a space research achievement, the production of a solar flare. Ingel Rild and his associates have developed a missile which, when it strikes the sun, can cause an explosion. He tells the marijuana-smoking gathering, "We can control to the second the timing of the flare and to the millimeter the distance it will spring out from the sun. A flare of sufficient magnitude could burn our planet to a crisp. A smaller flare could bombard the earth with radiations such that the area closest to the sun would be destroyed, while the rest of our world would suffer drastic changes. Most serious of all, perhaps, would be the biological changes these excessive radiations would bring about. Life forms would be damaged and perhaps become extinct. New life forms would arise. All of nature would undergo a tremendous upheaval. This has happened naturally once or twice. It happened seventy million years ago when the dinosaurs were suddenly wiped out and replaced by mammals. We still have much to learn about the mechanism that produces spontaneous solar flares. However, to be able to cause them artificially is a step toward predicting and possibly controlling them. When that stage is reached, our planet and our race will be protected from the kind of catastrophe that destroyed the dinosaurs."

After the applause, a woman named KAJECI asks whether it might not be disrespectful to tamper with "our father, the sun." Ingel Rild replies that man is a part of nature and what he does is natural and can't be construed as tampering. Now Gruad interrupts angrily, pointing out that he, an unattractive mutation, is the product of tampering with nature. He tells Ingel Rild that the Atlanteans do not truly understand nature and the order that controls it. He declares that man is subject to laws. All things in nature are, but man is different because he can disobey the natural laws that govern him. Gruad goes on, "With humanity we can speak, as we speak of our own machines, in terms of performance expected and performance delivered. If a machine does not do what it is designed for, we try to correct it. We want it to do what it ought to do, what it should do. I think we have the right and the duty to demand the same of people—that they perform as they ought to and should perform." An aged and merry-eyed scientist named LHUV KERAPHT interrupts, "But people are not machines, Gruad."

"Exactly," Gruad answers. "I have already considered that. Therefore, I have created new words, words even stronger than should and ought. When a person performs as he or she should and ought, I call that Good; and anything less than this I call Evil." This outlandish notion is greeted with general laughter. Gruad tries to speak persuasively, conscious of his lonely position as a pioneer, trying desperately to communicate with the closed minds all around him. After further argument, though, he becomes threatening, declaring, "The people of Atlantis do not live according to the law. In their pride, they strike the sun itself, and boast of it, as you have, Ingel Rild, this day. I say that if Atlanteans do not live according to the law, a disaster will befall them. A disaster that will shake the entire earth. You have been warned! Heed my words!" Gruad strides majestically out of the banquet hall, seizing his cloak at the door and sweeping it about him as he leaves. Kajeci follows him and tells him that she thinks she partly understands what he has been trying to say. The laws he speaks of are like the wishes of parents, and, "The great bodies of the universe are our parents. Isn't that so?" Gruad's naked hand strokes Kajeci's furred cheek, and they go off into the darkness together.

Within six months Gruad has formed an organization called the Party of Science. Their banner is an eye inside a triangle which in turn is surrounded by a serpent with its tail in its mouth. The Party of Science demands that Atlantis publish the natural laws Gruad has discovered and make them binding on all with systems of reward and punishment to enforce them. The word "punishment" is another addition to the Atlantean vocabulary coined by Gruad. One of Gruad's opponents explains to friends of his that it means torture, and everyone's fur bristles. Ingel Rild announces to a gathering of his supporters that Gruad has proven to his own satisfaction—and the demonstration runs to seventy-two scrolls of logical symbols—that sex is part of what he calls Evil. Only sex for the good of the community is to be permitted under Gruad's system, to keep the race alive.

A scientist called TON LIT exclaims, "You mean we must be thinking about conception during the act? That's impossible. Men's penises would droop, and women's vaginas wouldn't get moist. It's like—well, it's like making the shrill mouth-music while you are urinating. It would take great training, if it can be done at all." Ingel Rild proposes the formation of a Party of Freedom to oppose Gruad. Discussing Gruad's personality, Ingel Rild says he checked the genealogical records and found that several of the most agitated-energy people in all Atlantean history were among his ancestors. Gruad is a mutation, and so are many of his followers. The energy of normal Atlanteans flows slowly. Gruad's people are impatient and frustrated, and this is what makes them want to inflict suffering on their fellow humans.

Joe sat up with a jolt. If he understood that part of the movie, Gruad—evidently the first Illuminatus—was also the first homo neophilus. And the Party of Freedom, which seemed to be the origin of the Discordian and JAM movements, was pure homo neophobus. How the hell could that be squared with the generally reactionary attitude of current Illuminati policies, and the innovativeness of the Discordians and JAMs? But the film was moving on—

In a disreputable-looking tavernlike place where men and women smoke dope in pipes that they pass from one to another, while people grope in couples and groups in dark corners, SYLVAN MARTISET proposes a Party of Nothingness that rejects the positions of both the Party of Science and the Party of Freedom. After this we see street fighting, atrocities, the infliction of punishment on harmless people by men wearing Gruad's eye-and-triangle badge. The Party of Freedom proclaims its own symbol, a golden apple. The fighting spreads, the numbers of the dead mount and Ingel Rild weeps. He and his associates decide on a desperate expedient—unleashing the lloigor Yog Sothoth. They will offer this unnatural soul-eating energy being from another universe its freedom in return for its help in destroying Gruad's movement. Yog Sothoth is imprisoned in the great Pentagon of Atlantis on a desolate moor in the southern part of the continent. The Atlantean electric plane bearing Ingel Rild, Ton Lit and another scientist drifts, trailing feathery sparks, to a landing in a flat field overgrown with gray weeds. Within the Pentagon, an enormous black stone structure, the ground is scorched and the air shimmers like a heat mirage. Flickers of static electricity run through the shimmering from time to time, and an unpleasant noise, like flies around a corpse, pervades the whole moor. The faces of the three Atlantean sages register disgust, sickness and terror. They climb the nearest tower and talk to the guard. Suddenly Yog Sothoth takes control of Ton Lit, speaking in an oily, rich, deep and reverberating voice, and asks them what they seek of him. Ton Lit lets out a terrible shriek and claps his hands over his ears. Froth slips from the side of his mouth, his fur bristles and his penis stands erect. His eyes are delirious and suffering, like those of a dying gorilla. The guard uses an electronic instrument that looks like a magician's wand topped with a five-pointed star to subdue Yog Sothoth. Ton Lit bays like a hound and leaps for Ingel Rild's throat. The electronic ray drives him back and he stands panting, tongue hanging loose, as the Pentagon first and then the ground begin to soften into asymptotic curves. Yog Sothoth chants, "la-nggh-ha-nggh-ha-nggh-fthagn! la-nggh-ha-nggh-ha-nggh-hgual! The blood is the life ... The blood is the life ..." All faces, bodies and perspectives are skewed and there is a greenish tinge on everything. Suddenly the guard strikes the nearest wall of the Pentagon directly with his electronic wand and Ton Lit shrieks, human intelligence coming back into his eyes together with great shame and revulsion. The three sages flee the Pentagon under a sky slowly turning back to its normal shape and color. The laughter of Yog Sothoth follows them. They decide that they cannot release the lloigor.

Meanwhile Gruad has called his closest followers, known as the Unbroken Circle of Gruad, to announce that Kajeci has conceived. Then he shows them a group of manlike creatures with green, scaly skin, wearing long black cloaks and black skullcaps with scarlet plumes. These he calls his Ophidians. Since At-lanteans have a kind of instinctive check on themselves that prevents them from killing except in blind fury, Gruad has developed these synthetic humanoids from the serpent, which he has found to be the most intelligent of all reptiles. They will have no hesitation about destroying men and will act only on Gruad's command. Some of his followers protest, and Gruad explains that this is not really killing. He says, "Atlanteans who will not accept the teachings of the Party of Science are swinish beings. They are a sort of robot who has no inner spiritual substance to control it. Our bodies, however, are deceived into feeling as if they are our own kind, and we cannot raise our hands against them. Now, however, the light of science has given us hands to raise." At this meeting Gruad also addresses his men for the first time as the "illuminated ones." At the next meeting of the Party of Freedom the Ophidians attack, using iron bars to club people to death and slashing throats with their fangs. Then the Party of Freedom holds a funeral for a dozen of its dead at which Ingel Rild gives an oration describing the ways in which the struggle between Gruad's followers and the other Atlanteans is changing the character of all human beings:

"Hitherto, Atlanteans have enjoyed knowledge but not worried over the fact that there is much that we do not know. We are conservative and indifferent to new ideas, we have no inner conflicts and we feel like doing the things that seem wise to us. We think that the things we feel like doing will usually work out for the best. We consider pain and pleasure a single phenomenon, which we call sensation, and we respond to unavoidable pain by relaxing or becoming ecstatic. We do not fear death. We can read each other's minds because we are in touch with all the energies of our bodies. The followers of Gruad have lost that ability, and they are thankful that they have. The Scientists dote on new things and new ideas. This love of the new thing is a matter of genetic manipulation. Gruad is even encouraging people in their twenties to have children, though it is our custom never to have children before we reach a hundred. The generations of Gruad's followers come thick and fast, and they are not like us. They agonize over their ignorance. They are full of uncertainty and inner conflict between what they should do and what they feel like doing. The children, who are brought up on Gruad's teachings, are even more disturbed and conflict-filled than their parents. One doctor tells me that the attitudes and the way of life Gruad is encouraging in his people is enough to shorten their life spans considerably. And they are afraid of pain. They are afraid of death. And even as their lives grow shorter, they desperately seek for some means of achieving immortality."

Gruad tells a meeting of his Unbroken Circle that the tune has come to intensify the struggle. If they can't rule the Atlanteans, they will destroy Atlantis. "Atlantis will be destroyed by light," says Gruad. "By the light of the sun." Gruad introduces the worship of the sun to his followers. He reveals the existence of gods and goddesses. "They are all energy, conscious energy," says Gruad. "This conscious and powerfully directed and focused pure energy I call spirit. All motion is spirit. All light is spirit. All spirit is light." Under Gruad's direction, the Party of Science builds a great pyramid, thousands of feet high. It is in two halves; the upper half, made of an indestructible ceramic substance and inscribed with a terrible staring eye, floats five hundred feet above the base, held in place by antigravity generators. A band of men and women led by LILITH VELKOR, chief spokeswoman for the Party of Nothingness, gathers at the base of the great pyramid and laughs at it. They carry Nothingarian signs:

DON'T CLEAN OUR LENSES, GRUAD— GET THE CRACK OUT OF YOUR OWN

EVERY TIME I HEAR THE WORD "PROGRESS" MY FUR BRISTLES

THE SUN SUCKS FREEDOM DEFINED IS FREEDOM DENIED

THE MESSAGE ON THIS SIGN IS A FLAT LIE

Lilith Velkor addresses the Nothingarians, satirizing all Gruad's beliefs, claiming that the most powerful god is a crazy woman and she is the goddess of chaos. To the accompaniment of laughter she declares, "Gruad says the sun is the eye of the sun god. That's more of his notion that males are superior and reason and order are superior. Actually, the sun is a giant golden apple which is the plaything of the goddess of chaos. And it's the property of anyone she thinks is fair enough to deserve it." Suddenly a band of Ophidians attacks followers of Lilith Velkor and kills several of them. Lilith Velkor leads her people in an unprecedented attack on the Ophidians. They storm up the side of the great pyramid and throw the Ophidians down to the street, killing them. Amazingly, they succeed in wiping out all the Ophidians. Gruad declares that Lilith Velkor must die. When the opportunity presents itself, his men seize her and take her to a dungeon. There an enormous wheel has been constructed with four spokes in the shape [of a modern "Peace" sign]

Lilith Velkor is crucified with ropes, upside down, on this device. Several members of the Party of Science lounge about, watching her die. Gruad enters, goes to the wheel and looks at the dying woman, who says, "This is as good a day to die as any." Gruad remonstrates with her, saying that death is a great evil and she should fear it. She laughs and says, "All my life I have despised tradition and now I despise innovation also. Surely, I must be a most wicked example for the world!" She dies laughing. Gruad's rage is unbearable. He vows that he will wait no longer; Atlantis is too wicked to save and he will destroy it.

On a windswept plain in the northern regions of Atlantis a huge teardrop-shaped rocket with graceful fins is poised on the launching pad. Gruad is in the control room making last-minute adjustments while Kajeci and Wo Topod argue with him. Gruad says, "The human race will survive. It will survive the better purged of these Atlanteans, who are nothing but swine, nothing but robots, nothing but creatures who do not understand good and evil. Let them perish." His finger strikes a red button and the rocket hurtles on its way to the sun. It will take several days to reach there, and meanwhile Gruad has gathered the Unbroken Circle on an airship which takes them away from Atlantis and into the huge mountains to the east in a region that will one day be called Tibet. Gruad calculates that by the time the missile strikes the sun, they will have been landed and underground for two hours. The sun rides blinding yellow over the plains of Atlantis. It is a beautiful day in Zukong Gimorlad-Siragosa, the sun shining down on its slender, graceful towers with spiderweb bridges spiraling among them, its parks, its temples, its museums, its fine public buildings and magnificent private palaces. Its handsome, richly furred people gracefully stride amidst the beauties of the first and finest civilization man has ever produced. Families, lovers, friends and enemies, all unsuspecting what is about to happen, enjoy their private moments. A quintet plays the melodious zinthron, balatet, mordan, swaz and fen-drar. Over all, however, the great eye on the side of Gruad's pyramid glares horrid and red.

Suddenly the sun's body rages. Coiled flames, balls of gas, roll out. The sun looks like a giant fiery arachnid or octopus. One great flame comes rolling toward the earth, burning red gas which turns yellow, then green, then blue, then white.

There is nothing left of Zukong Gimorlad-Siragosa, except the pyramid with its upper segment now resting on the base, the antigravity generators having been destroyed. The baleful eye looks out over an absolutely flat, burnt-black plain. The ground shakes, great cracks open. The blackened area is a great circle, hundreds of miles in diameter, beyond which is a dark brown and still desolate wasteland. Thousands of cracks appear in the brittle surface of the continent, the strength of whose rocks has been destroyed by the incredible heat of the solar flare. A tide of mud starts crawling over the empty plain. It leaves only the top of the pyramid, with the great eye, showing. Water sweeps over the mud, at first sinking in and standing in pools, then rising higher so that only the tip of the pyramid sticks out of a great lake. Under the water enormous parallel fissures open in the ground on either side of the blackened central circle. The midsection of the continent, including the pyramid, begins to sink. The pyramid falls into the depths of the ocean with cliffs rising on either side of it to the parts of Atlantis that still remain above the ocean. They will remain for many thousands of years more, and they will be the Atlantis remembered in the legends of men. But the true Atlantis—high Atlantis—is gone.

Gruad stares into his crimson-glowing viewplate, watching the destruction of Atlantis. The light changes color, from red to gray, and the face of Gruad turns gray. It is a terrible face. It has aged a hundred years in the last few minutes. Gruad may claim to be in the right, but deep down he knows that what he has done isn't nice. And yet deep down there is satisfaction, too, for Gruad, long tortured by unreasonable guilt, now has something he can really feel guilty about. He turns to the Unbroken Circle and proposes, since it appears that the earth will survive the cataclysm (he was not really sure that it would), that they plan for the future. Most of them, however, are still in shock. Wo Topod,; inconsolable, stabs himself to death, the first recorded time that a member of the human race has deliberately killed himself. Gruad calls upon his followers to destroy all remains of the Atlantean civilization and then, later, to build a perfect civilization when even the ruins of Atlantis have been forgotten. The great beasts that inhabited Europe, Asia and North America die off as a result of mutations and diseases caused by the solar flare. All relics of the Atlan-tean civilization are destroyed. The people who were Gruad's erstwhile countrymen are either killed or driven forth to wander the earth. Besides Gruad's Himalayan colony there is one other remnant of the High Atlantean era: the Pyramid of the Eye, whose ceramic substance resisted solar flare, earthquake, tidal wave and submersion in the depths of the ocean. Gruad explains that it is right that the eye should remain. It is the eye of God, the One, the scientific-technical eye of ordered knowledge that looks down on the universe and by perceiving it causes it to be. If an event is not witnessed, it does not happen; therefore, for the universe to happen there must be a Witness. Among the primitive hunters and gatherers a mutation has appeared that seems to be spreading rapidly. More and more people are being born without fur and with hair in the same pattern as Gruad's. The Hour of God's Eye has caused mutations in every species.

From the Himalayas the rocket ships of the Unbroken Circle, painted red and white, swoop out in squadrons. They sweep across Europe and land on the brown islands where Atlantis used to be. There they land and raid a city of refugees from the Atlantean disaster. They kill many of the leaders and intellectuals and herd the rest aboard the ships, fly to the Americas and deposit the helpless people on a vast plain. Far below their route of passage lies the Pyramid of the Eye at the bottom of the Atlantic. The base of the pyramid is covered with silt and the break where the upper part of the pyramid had floated on antigravity projectors is also covered. Still the pyramid itself towers over the mud around it, taller by three times than the Great Pyramid of Egypt, the building of which lies twenty-seven thousand years in the future. A vast shadow descends upon the pyramid. There is a suggestion in the darkness of the ocean bottom of giant tentacles, of sucker disks wide as the rims of volcanos, of an eye as big as the sun looking at the eye on the pyramid. Something touches the pyramid, and enormous as it is, it moves slightly. Then the presence is gone.

The pentagonal trap in which the people of Atlantis had heroically and brilliantly caught the dread ancient being Yog Sothoth has been, amazingly, undamaged by the catastrophe. Being on the southern plain, which was relatively uninhabited, the Pentagon of Yog Sothoth becomes the center of a migration of people who survived the disaster. Emergency cities are set up, those dying of radiation sickness are treated. A second Atlantis begins to take root. And then, from the Himalayas, the ships of the Unbroken Circle come swooping down on one of their raids. Lines of Atlantean men and women are marched to the walls of the Pentagon and there mowed down by laser fire. Then explosive charges are placed amid the heaps of bodies and the masked, uniformed men of the Unbroken Circle withdraw. There is a series of explosions; horrid yellow smoke goes coiling up. The gray stone walls crumble. There is a moment of stillness, balance, tension. Then the piled-up boulders of one side of the wall fly apart as if thrust by the hand of a giant. An enormous claw print appears in the soft soil around the ruins of the Pentagon. The masked men of the Unbroken Circle race frantically for their ships and take off. The ships dart into the sky, stop suddenly, waver and plummet like stones to explosive crashes on the earth. The surviving refugees scream and scatter. Like a scythe going through wheat, death sweeps among them in great arcs as they run in massed mobs. Mouths open in soundless screams, they fall. Only a handful escapes. Over the scene a colossal reddish figure of indeterminate shape and number of limbs stands triumphant.

In the Himalayas, Gruad and the Unbroken Circle watch the destruction of the Pentagon and the massacre of the Atlanteans. The Unbroken Circle cheers, but Gruad strangely weeps. "You think I hate walls?" he says. "I love walls. I love any kind of wall. Anything that separates. Walls protect good people. Walls lock away the evil. There must always be walls and the love of walls, and in the destruction of the great Pentagon that held Yog Sothoth I read the destruction of all that I stand for. Therefore I am stricken with regret."

At this the face of EVOE, a young priest, takes on a reddish glow and a demoniac look. There is more than a hint of possession. "It is good to hear you say that," he says to Gruad. "No man yet has befriended me, though many have tried to use me. I have prepared a special place for your soul, oh first of the men of the future." Gruad attempts to speak to Yog Sothoth, but the possession has apparently passed, and the other members of the Unbroken Circle praise a new beverage that Evoe has prepared, made of the fermented juice of grapes. At dinner, later that day, Gruad tries the new beverage and praises it, saying, "This juice of grapes relaxes me and does not cause the disturbing visions and sounds that makes the herb the Atlanteans used to smoke so unpleasant for a man of conscience." Evoe gives him more to drink from a fresh jar, and Gruad takes it. Before drinking he says, "Any culture that arises in the next twenty thousand years or so is going to have the rot of Atlantis in it. Therefore I decree a noncultural time of eight hundred generations. After that we may allow man free reign on his propensity for building civilizations. The culture he builds will be under our guidance, with our ideas implicit in its every aspect, with our control at every stage. Eight hundred generations from now the new human culture will be planted. It will follow the natural law. It will have the knowledge of good and evil, the light that comes from the sun, the sun that blasphemers say is only an apple. It is no apple, I tell you, though it is a fruit, even as this beverage of Evoe's that I now quaff is from a fruit. From the grape comes this drink and from the sun comes the knowledge of good and evil, the separation of light and darkness over the whole earth. Not an apple, but the fruit of knowledge!" Gruad drinks. He puts down his glass, clutches his throat and staggers back. His other hand goes to his heart. He topples over and lies on his back, his eyes staring upward.

Naturally, everyone accuses Evoe of poisoning Gruad. But Evoe calmly answers that it was Lilith Velkor who did it. He was doing research on the energies of the dead and had learned how to take them into him. But sometimes the energies of the dead could take control of him, so that he would be just a medium through which they act. He cries, "When you write this tragedy into the archives, you must say, not that Evoe the man did it, but Evoe-Lilith, possessed by the evil spirit of a woman. The woman did tempt me, I tell you! I was helpless." The Unbroken Circle is persuaded, and agree that since Lilith Velkor and the crazy goddess she worshipped were responsible for Gruad's death, henceforward women must be subordinate to men so such evils will not be repeated. They decide to build a tomb for Gruad and to inscribe upon it, "The First Illuminated One: Never Trust A Woman." They decide that since the lloigor is loose they will offer sacrifices to it, and the sacrifices will be pure young women who have never lain with a man. Evoe seems to be taking control of the group and Gao Twone protests this. To prove his dedication to the true and the good, Evoe declares, he has had his penis amputated as a sacrifice to the All-Seeing Eye. He pulls open his robe. All look at his truncated crotch and immediately retch. Evoe goes on, "Furthermore, it is decreed by the Eye and Natural Law that all male children who would be close to goodness and truth must imitate my sacrifice, at least to the extent of losing the foreskin or being cut enough to bleed." Kajeci comes in at this point, and they plan a great funeral, agreeing that they will not burn Gruad as was the Atlantean custom, signifying that one is dead forever, but will preserve his body, symbolizing the hope that he is not really dead but will rise again.

There follow several thousand years of warfare between the remnants of the Atlanteans and the inhabitants of Agharti, the stronghold of the Scientists, who now call themselves variously the Knowledgeable or the Enlightened Ones. The last remnants of the Atlantean culture are destroyed. Great cities were built, then destroyed by nuclear explosions. All the inhabitants of the city of Peos are killed in one night by the eater of souls. Chunks of the continent break off and sink into the sea. There are earthquakes and tidal waves. Finally, only outcroppings like the cone-shaped island of Fernando Poo rise alone from the sea where Atlantis had been.

About 13,000 B.C. a new culture is planted on a hillside near the headwaters of the Euphrates and it starts to spread. A tribe of Cro-Magnons, magnificently tall, strong, large-headed people, is marched at gunpoint down from the snows of Europe to the fertile lands of the Middle East. They are taken to the site chosen for the first agricultural settlement and shown how to plant crops. For several years they do so while the Unbroken Circle's men guard them with flame throwers. Their generations pass rapidly, and once the new way of life has taken hold the Illuminated Ones leave them alone. The tribe divides into kings, priests, scribes, warriors, and farmers. A city surrounded by farms rises up. The kings and priests are soft, weak and fat. The peasants are stunted and dulled by malnutrition. The warriors are big and strong, but brutal and unintelligent. The scribes are intelligent, but thin and bloodless. Now the city makes war on neighboring tribes of barbarians. Being well organized and technologically superior, the people of the city win. They enslave the barbarians and plant other cities nearby. Then a great tribe of barbarians comes down from the north and conquers the civilized people and burns their city. This is not the end of the new civilization, though. It only revitalizes it. Soon the conquerors have learned to play the roles of kings, priests and warriors, and now there is a kind of nation consisting of several cities with a large body of armed who must be kept occupied. Marching robotlike in great square formations, they set out over the plain to find new peoples to conquer. The sun shines down on the civilization created by the Illuminati. And below the sea the eye on the pyramid glares balefully upward.

THE END

Copyright © 1983 by Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson

[fuckyeahevile]

Matt’s statement:

“This is an incredibly difficult statement to write, but I have to announce that I am stepping down as the frontman of Evile and leaving the world of live music. I want to make sure I explain this decision fully and effectively, as fans of the band, especially the people who have followed Evile from the beginning, deserve so much more than just a slapped together, generic, easily press digestible ‘band member leaves band’ paragraph. Evile has been a very large part of my life, something I have given a huge amount of energy and time to, and this is a decision which I have agonised over for a long time as it’s something I care about deeply, but it’s a decision I have to make. So, please allow me to explain it as best I can. There are two main reasons for this decision, firstly there is family. Since starting Evile, I had very few commitments, allowing me to sink as much time as possible into the band, but in the past several years that has changed. I became a stepfather to two young girls around a very traumatic time for them, and very shortly after became a father to my own daughter. The time that I have had available to pursue music has been vastly cut down, and considering the future when live music becomes possible again, the demands of a touring band lifestyle are not as viable and realistic for me anymore, as my duties as a father to three children outweigh anything else. I don’t want to be away from my family for large amounts of time, and outside of my full time employment I don’t want to divide 50% effort and time to the band and 50% to my family as I feel like I would be giving each side half of the time they really deserve, and if I have to choose which one I want to give priority and 100% to, it is my family. I don’t want to go out as a frontman who is only half prepared, half practised and half ready, as Evile and its wonderful followers deserve better than that - and on the other side of that, I don’t want to be away from home for long periods of time and not be around to help my children grow up, they deserve better than that, and I don’t want to miss out on any part of their lives. The other reason is my health. I’ve always said that I would do Evile for as long as possible, either until I’m dead or until I can physically no longer manage performing on stage. I have come close to the former, but the latter is now where things are (when compared to the former, a relief). Over the past couple of years I have had a non-stop run of health problems, mostly chest related, including costochondritis, several chest infections, a spontaneous collapsed lung (which I stupidly thought was another chest infection) and then kidney stones and a few other health detours. This all relates to singing, which is something that is nowhere near a natural ability or talent of mine, it’s something that I have had to work incredibly hard on to get to where I managed, which let’s face it, isn’t exactly anywhere spectacular, I’m never going to end up on anybody’s favourite vocalist list (although there is one thing I’ll mention later). But, the amount of upkeep it takes to maintain what vocal range/power/lung capacity I have/had to a usable standard is ridiculous, and my annoying health issues make that obstacle ever harder to overcome, made even more difficult by my limited available time to do so, it comes down to me accepting that I can’t do everything and I certainly can’t do everything and stay healthy. A singing voice is a muscle and I always had the time to spend training it so I could keep it in a decent place for getting through a tour. Now, my health issues of late have destroyed what singing voice I had, and in the past several months of starting vocal training all over again, getting somewhere, getting ill, starting all over again, getting ill, starting all over again, and so on - I have come to realise that I just don’t enjoy singing anymore and I’ve had to be very harsh with myself to realise that truth. I was never the best frontman, or the best singer, and Evile deserve to have a frontman who can give 100% to that craft, and I am fully confident that person is out there and can help take them to that next level where I hope and believe they can go, nothing would make me happier than to see the band be a real success. For twenty years I have had the great pleasure of writing and performing music with my brother Ol, Ben, Mike, Joel and Piers in Evile. It has taken us to places I never imagined, locations I never thought I would get to visit, let alone go to these places to play music for people who were willing to hear it. I’m proud of the band’s achievements so far, touring with some incredible bands such as Megadeth, Exodus, Kreator, Overkill, Voivod, Sepultura, Three Inches of Blood, Entombed, Forbidden, Machine Head, Amon Amarth, Satyricon, Gama Bomb, Warbringer, Dr. Living Dead, Lightning Swords of Death, Sanctity, Mutant, Pitiful Reign, Seregon, Onslaught and more, then getting to see pretty much all of America, Canada and a vast majority of Europe, living in Copenhagen for a month recording a debut album with Flemming Rasmussen and using some of the same gear used to record Lightning/Puppets, recording three albums with Russ Russell, releasing four albums with Earache Records, having songs featured on Rock Band, having a song in a Neil Jordan film (Ondine), getting into the UK charts, having original album artwork created by Michael Whelan (did you know the band members are hidden on that cover?), being on the front cover of Terrorizer magazine, playing at some amazing festivals and meeting some incredible people from all walks of life. There are plenty more to mention, plus all the brilliant things I’m grateful to have seen, which I wouldn’t have if I wasn’t in the band, like a small ‘up close and personal’ acoustic Skunk Anansie set in the press tent at Sonisphere (Paranoid and Sunburnt is one of my desert island discs, I had the chance to chat to them after their set but completely bottled it and will forever regret it), but I want to mention just a couple of other things while I have chance to do so. I’m proud of my contributions to Evile’s music, whether it’s riffs or sections here and there, or entire songs (Burned Alive, Plague to End All Plagues, Long Live New Flesh, The Naked Sun) but i’m proudest of the lyrics and vocal lines I contributed, which is roughly half of Enter the Grave, most of Nations, most of Five Serpent’s Teeth (for those two records however, Ol and Russ deserve a lot of credit for guiding me through parts I intended to sing, telling me it was nonsense after I tried it, and helping me find the correct choices, that was invaluable in making the albums as good as they could be) and nearly all of Skull - which is where I want to point back to what I mentioned about singing earlier, as while I acknowledge it isn’t a natural ability and I’m not the strongest or even that impressive of a vocalist, I will always be glad that my performance of Tomb exists on that album, it was a hugely personal thing to perform and record and I’ll be forever proud that I got to do that and do it as well as I possibly could, that is my favourite album of the four I got to be part of. I also want to quickly mention that I’m proud of being connected to Jackson Guitars for so many years, it’s an honour to have been in their catalogue too, I’ve played Jacksons for as long as I’ve been playing guitar, so I would like to thank them for being so kind to me for the 14 years I’ve been associated with them. This is a lot to read, but I want to get all of this written down as I’m trying to process my twenty years of experiences and thoughts on so many things connected to playing music, into several paragraphs, there’s a lot I would love to say, but I’m not one to outstay my welcome. I want to finish with a couple of things, one of them being a big regret I will have about leaving the band, that I never got to play a show with Metallica, that was my biggest personal goal in playing live music, not fame or anything material, I just wanted to play a show with the band that changed my life. Even just meeting James Hetfield would have been enough for me, but I guess that’s one personal goal I’ll have to live with missing the chance on. More important than the personal things I’ve just written about though, is one of my main areas of pride, and that is Evile’s fans, I’ve always been so proud to be able to say that Evile has such wonderful and dedicated fans, it has been a pleasure to meet so many of you, to stand on a stage and play music for you, to see and hear you singing lyrics and vocal lines that I’ve written, to see all that headbanging madness, I will truly miss getting on a stage to play those songs, so I would like to say a real thank you to everyone who has spent time listening to these first four albums and come to shows to see us play live while I got the chance to do it, I will miss your headbanging and energy like you wouldn’t believe, but I will never forget it. Lastly, and very importantly, I want to mention Mike. A person I wouldn’t have known if it wasn’t for being part of this band, one of the most wonderful people I’ve ever met, a true heavy metal soul and a gentleman. This is one of the biggest things I’ve struggled with in my decision, I’m so sorry to him, that I can’t do my bit in continuing his legacy as a part it anymore. It breaks my heart to leave something that he was such a big part of, and that I was a part of with him, something that he was doing when we lost him. My hope is that, as a father himself, he would understand the decision I’m making. I’m taking all of my memories of Mike with me, and every year will always have a glass ready to raise on the day he entered this world, and on the day he left it. Thank you to everyone for reading this, hopefully I’ve written it well enough so you understand my reasoning. Please continue to support Evile as much as you ever have done, I wish the band all the success possible on their future journey, it’s been twenty years of extreme highs and lows, and everything in-between, I’m proud to be able to say I was part of it and I’ll be following where it goes from here with great interest, as a lifelong fan. My intention is to still play the Enter the Grave/Mike Alexander tribute show, whenever that may happen, as it would mean a tremendous amount to me to be able to pay tribute to Mike in a proper way, by playing the album he contributed the most to. But as of now, I am no longer part of the band. Please can I ask that people do not message me directly, I won’t be able to respond. Instead, please leave a comment below if you wish to say anything, positive or negative. The only thing I ask with that, is that you please remain respectful, whatever you want to say, good or bad, as the world has enough problems at the moment, and one of the things it needs is for people to think about what they say and care about how they say it. Thank you all again for your time in reading this, and thank you all for your time and energy given to Evile while I’ve been part of it. For the penultimate time (the last time will be the Enter the Grave/Mike show)... I salute you all.”

[imagine-organization-xiii]

Imagine Vexen was doing a experiment that backed fire and turns every single member except him into children.

@nopantssaturday is such a babe, guys, you don’t even understand

oOoOo

Oh No. This was not Good. Vexen watched as his latest creation shut down during its most crucial test stages. The scientist quickly ran to the machine and pried open the doors as a dense pink vapor inside of it’s chambers flowed out. As the doors begrudgingly opened, the academic waved his arms, trying to clear as much of the fog as possible to find his test subject inside. Thankfully the scientist was wearing his sealed suit or he would have been choking on the gas himself.

This machine was one Vexen was working on for himself; one to slow and eventually stop the aging process, but not because he was worried of aging himself. Oh no, The scientist merely was just trying to find a new way to defy the forces of nature with science, something he effectively loved doing. 

But as the smoke cleared from the lab, the subject, a white rabbit he had found, did not look any younger. “Shit.” The scientist huffed to himself.  He was sure that his calculations were correct. He knew they were sound, and yet here he was with the same adult rabbit he had started with. Ugh. The scientist slowly lifted the rabbit from the floor of the machine and held it in his arms as he carried it out of the chamber and to its small cage on the other side of the lab. But as he placed the rabbit in it’s holding, a loud unfamiliar voice echoed throughout the castle. 

“VEXEEEEEN!!!!!” The voice was high pitched and whining, like a woman or child. But it wasn’t Larxene. Curious, the scientist quickly removed his suit headed up the stairs to the main room of the castle. But never expected to see what lay ahead. 

There, sitting in the gray area, were 13 little toddlers. And not just any toddlers, no. They were all of the members of Organization XIII. The only reason he could tell it was them, was that they were all were still attempting to wear their cloaks that are now MUCH too large for them. Some of the children sat on the floor, some were crying. But there, sitting on the highest chair was a tiny Xemnas, arms folded and looking very angry. At him. 

This was supposed to be terrible, but Vexen couldn’t help but smile that this was his doing. His experiment had worked. Well, somewhat. But how was this possible? But a simple gaze upwards provided the answer. The vents! When the vapor exited the chamber of the machine, it probably traveled upward and into the vents to the rest of the castle. That must have been it.  Though this was a miracle, it was clear that no one was happy about this but Vexen. The tiny superior looked up at him with his little arms crossed. 

“Fix this. Now.”

So, after scooping up all of the toddlers and bringing them to his lab, Vexen got to work examining the effects of the pink anti-aging vapor. Of course, this task would be nothing for someone as intelligent as Vexen, but doing so while also babysitting 13 toddlers proved…. Difficult. Some of the children like Ienz– - Zexion were well behaved and sat with books. While others were.. More difficult. 

“Number VIII! Stop running around the lab this instant!!” The little troublemaker continued to scurry around the lab, stopping only once to turn his head and stick his tongue out at his captor.  The scientist quickly caught up, and lifted the rowdy little redhead into his arms before placing the boy in a small caged in area of the lab that the Academic was able to have the dusks put together as a suitable place to corral the children. Those dusks sure are capable when it comes to stealing from people, it seemed, for within a couple hours, they were able to put together a fairly suitable area to distract the children. Well. Most of them. 

“Noooo!!! I don’t wanna go in there!!!” The redhead loudly whined before being placed inside of the cage. 

“Well, that’s too bad, Number VIII. Because you need to say in there.” The scientist said, matter of factly. Fighting with this child was not much different from fighting with the real Axel it seems. 

“Well why does Xemnas get to sit out there!?” The toddler whined, even louder than before, pointing his little finger at the chair near Vexen’s lab desk where the tiny superior sat stoically, crossing his arms in a pensive stare. 

“He gets to sit there because he is the superior and gets to do what he wants.” The scientist stood and turned to walk back to his desk. The little flame’s face started to scrunch in disgruntlement before tears formed in his eyes and he let out a pained wail. 

“AwwaaaHhhh!!!!” The boy cried. “That’s not fair!!!!” But as the boy let out his whining scream, the high pitched cry of two babies carried in from the other room. 

“Oh great, you woke the infants….” Vexen sighed as he walked into the other room to soothe the crying babies.

Without the major distractions, Vexen was able to figure out two facts about the effects of the pink vapor. The first was that the anti-aging process seemed to be relative to the original ages of the person that inhaled the gas. For instance, Roxas and Xion, the youngest members of the organization, after inhaling the gasses have reverted to mere infants. Whereas Xigbar, Xaldin, and Lexaeus, as well as the superior, have reverted to a child that seemed to be about 4 or 5 years old. And all of the others in between seem to have become toddlers between the ages of 2 and 3 years old. This was fairly easy to understand by how the child acted and the cognitive functions the children possessed. 

The second thing that Vexen was able to discern was that even though each subject was able to remember what had happened to them and what was happened, they still displayed the behaviors, mannerisms, and priorities that a child would. This was able to be figured out by how Demyx has been able to watch the same Lucky Emblem Sing-A-Long-Song’s VHS on repeat for the last 2 hours with the same captivation and interest as the first time he watched it. It was also easy to tell by the way that Larxene smiled and laughed, at all. The fact that the girl was smiling was enough to say something about her had changed. 

The only child that didn’t seem to display this kind of behavior was that of Xemnas. It was as if the superior had the mind of someone well beyond their years and that only his body was his age. This phenomena was strange, yes, but further examination of the superiors mind would have to wait. For this man of science had to figure out how to fix the problem at hand first. As soon as he placed the now sleeping infants back down in the crib, Vexen left the darkened room and started to head back to the main part of the lab to continue his work. But before he could reach his lab desk, a tiny hand reached out and tugged on the bottom of his pants. One look down to his ankle revealed that it was Lexaeus tugging on his pants. 

“Yes, Number V, what do you need?” Vexen asked. The small boy didn’t talk much, of course he never really spoke in general. But the boy looked up at Vexen with big pleading eyes and placed his hand down over his front and pushing his knees together urgently. Vexen was momentarily confused by the dance but then understood. “Oh… OH!” The scientist then quickly took the child and walked him hurriedly to the nearest restroom before he had to ask the dusks to clean his floors. Again. 

Ugh this was going to be a long day. 

–

After a few hours, Vexen had started to get the hang of handling 13 children. At least enough that he could get his work done. The young superior sat in his chair and handled himself in all ways as if he was an adult. Xigbar was precocious but would quickly grow bored with the mischief he was causing and would turn to playing with whatever garbage he could find. Xaldin and Lexaeus were very quiet and both seemed to have no problem playing with the toys that the dusks had found at a moments notice. Lexaeus seemingly had a small rabbit plush he seemed focused on. Zexion had a small stack of picture books that seemed to be able to keep him entertained. Axel was a bit of a trouble maker, but it seemed that the redhead was able to keep himself distracted from causing mischief if he had Saix nearby. Something about the blue haired child seemed to keep Axel from going buck wild. 

Demyx has been watching the same VHS for the last 4 hours and even though the music was annoying, Vexen knew it kept him quiet, so he persevered. Was just kind of playing with the game board that the dusks had found, something called ‘Apologies!’. The pieces were missing, but that didn’t stop Luxord from repeatedly popping the bubble at the center of the game board and watching the dice inside bounce around. Marluxia and Larxene liked playing together most of the time and were able to be distracted by the dolls and dressing them up. And the last two are infants so while they required the most feeding, they were able to be kept fairly contained and didn’t get into trouble, sitting in chairs near the desk when they were awake, watching the scientist with wide eyes. 

After about a good amount of time testing and working at his desk without much interruption, the chilly Academic made it with a breakthrough, coming up with a bright blue liquid in a vile that could easily be turned into a vapor and once inhaled. Should negate the effects of his previous experiment. Thankfully this nightmare would be over. 

But as soon as that thought came to his mind, vexen looked up to the small boy with the periwinkle hair over her face looking down intently into his picture book and the scientist curl of a smile grew on his lips. He had almost forgotten how Ienzo used to love his books. It made him almost wish that the experiment didn’t have to end. But then another scream echoed through the lab. 

“VEXEN!! XIGBAR IS PULLING MY HAIR!!” 

“No! IM NOT! SHE STARTED IT” 

“NO I DIDN’T!!” 

“YES YOU DID!!” 

Okay. Never mind. Forget that. It needs to end now. 

Vexen quickly loaded the children with their original clothing draped on lazily into a vacuum sealed room of the lab (one that he probably used at the beginning of all this to have prevented this enter faux pas.) and pumped the room full of the blue vapor. The fog was as thick as its predecessor and soon the entire room went opaque with the gas. At first there was silence, but then the fog dissipated and it was clear that the reversal was a success. Soon the members all filed out of the room. 

“Ugh.. What happened?” Axel murmured as he stepped out, placing a hand up to his head. 

“I don’t know…” Demyx replied. “But I’m really in the mood for some chicken nuggets…” 

“Don’t you eat that every day, tyke?” Xigbar snickered. 

“Hey!” The younger boy whined as most of the members left the lab in a group. The superior gave Vexen a silent nod before leaving the lab as well. And soon the only ones left in the lab were Vexen… and Zexion. 

“So..” The younger member paused. “Was that whole afternoon real?” 

Vexen gave a dry chuckle in response. “Ah.. Yes.. Not my proudest failure. But yes it did happen.” 

“Oh man… “ Zexion sighed. “How did you deal with 13 children, Vexen..?” 

“Oh.. With great difficulty.” Vexen laughed again, tired from the day he just had. “But you know what? It was not as catastrophic as it could have been. And.. It kind of reminded me of when you were small in Radiant Garden. Of course, back then it was just you, and not all of the others as well. But sometimes it’s nice to remember the better times. You were always a well behaved child, Ienzo– I- I- Mean..” The scientist fumbled on the name a moment before the young man stopped him. 

“No. No. Ienzo is fine..” Then a pause hung in the air a moment before the schemer spoke again. “You know.. I never thanked you, Vexen. For raising me in that castle with Master Ansem and the other apprentices. I mean, my parents died and I could have been sent to suffer the fate of so many other orphaned children in Radiant Garden, but instead you all cared for me and raised me. And if today wasn’t proof, raising children is no easy task.” 

For a moment, the Chilly Academic didn’t know how to reply. His throat almost went dry. He had never expected something like this from the boy, honestly they barely spoke anymore outside of work, let alone spoke of the past. But.. somewhere deep inside of him, Vexen could swear that he felt an inkling of… happiness? 

“I– You’re welcome, Ienzo.” The scientist smiled. And as the boy slowly left the lab, a thought came to Vexen’s mind. 

Maybe this experiment ending in failure was not the worst thing.

[minhyunluvr]

look | empiricism

"Plus ultra!" Present Mic yelled from the presentation stage. You mumbled the catchphrase under your breath, promptly standing up and stretching. Before the two people in between you and the aisle could stand and block your way out, you crammed yourself in between their legs and the seat in front of them to leave.

A breath slipped through your lips as you stared up at the mock city in front of you in awe. It was fascinating how someone could re-build such a life-like structure year after another, its only purpose being destruction. Chatter rose from the examinees, triggering thoughts of disapproval from you. 'Why can't they just stretch in silence instead of catching up with friends?' A bitter taste settled in your mouth as you felt a pang inside of your chest. Were you jealous? Amiability and opportunity were always things you had been deprived of as a child, leaving many doors unopened. The only companion you had known as a youth was your adoptive brother, Woojin. There was a three year age gap, and he had entered U.A. when he was fifteen, just as you were about to.

The large gates creaked open, symbolizing one last burst of opportunity. This was a huge part of the test, and you would probably need to pass to enter the school. Your throat bobbed as you swallowed the lump beginning to form in your throat before taking off into the structure, but god did you hate running. Flustered sounds came from the other potential students as they attempted to catch up to you. It was to no avail. Your speed didn't seem as impressive when you were alone, running in a large back yard. By the time anyone else had stepped foot in the city-scape, you had demolished the first five robots at the door, successfully racking up nine points.

Roughly nine minutes later, a loud creaking noise came from your left. Once you released the three-pointer suspended in the air, you turn over to see the infamous robot worth zero points, therefor none of your time was to be wasted on it. You had not kept track of the points acquired, but it was surely enough to pass based on your observations of the other students. Glancing back at the newly created rubble from the fragmented machine in front of you, you caught a glimpse of a girl entangled in debris. Directing your quirk at her, you envisioned another robot lifting up the zero-pointer. A bead of sweat rolled down your cheek as the artificial robot took physical form, pushing the other in your direction. Surprised noises came from the students on the other side, loud enough for you to hear in the back half of the exam area. The one created for the exam was lifted further into the air, lugged along by yours.

A figure shot up into the sky, rapidly gaining speed toward the zero pointer. Sighing, you continued pulling it in your direction in a more urgent manner. "People really do try to steal credit for others' work, just like in the books..."

Before the person could make contact with the machine, he began to fall. A fist had previously been poised in the position to punch the exam robot, but now his arms flapped helplessly in the wind as he nosed-dived toward the ground. A broken piece of a robot began to float beneath the large one that was now behind you, a girl with her hand outstretched sitting on top of it. His body looked weak. Utterly helpless, even. You almost felt pity, for a second. But you continued doing your job as a future hero and had your machine raise the robot higher in the air before dropping it, effectively crushing the piece of trash.

"And, stop!" The same booming voice from ten minutes before yelled through the microphone, drawing out the first word longer than necessary. The girl and boy were no where to be seen when you turned back to them. Letting out a loud, clipped sigh, you stood and dusted the dirt off of your knees. An old lady pushed her way through the crowd about one hundred feet in front of you, where the zero pointer originally was. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to what looked like the ground at your angle, but the boy who had attempted to punch the robot stood up from the space a few seconds later. Another whine left your lips as you began to walk in their direction. Your knees felt as though they were about to break, but walking was the only option, as you couldn't lift yourself off of the ground.

"Oh, it was you who made the second robot appear out of nowhere!" A boy with blue hair pointed in your direction, eagerly walking over to meet you by the old lady who identified as Recovery Girl. "I am Iida Tenya, I hope to make your acquaintance. I saw you run in when Present Mic told us that the time had started! Your speed is remarkable..." He let out a pant in jest.

"Thank you. That's a lot coming from someone with engines in his calves. I never thought it was that impressive until I saw how slow all of the other potential students were.... I suppose I overestimated the future generation of heroes." Your face was impassive at his open expression of shock. "I suggest you keep your face devoid of emotion when you encounter villains. You wouldn't want to give off too many of your feelings, correct?"

His eyes hardened at your words, seemingly taking in your advice. "It almost sounds as if you're a villain yourself... I will keep that in mind. Would you mind telling me your name?"

"Choi Yunseo, but I prefer being called '(Y/n)'. Japanese honorifics are unnecessary. I hope to see you in U.A."

"You as well, (Y/n)." Iida looked at you skeptically as you walked towards the exit of the city-scape. His thoughts drifted back and forth between you and his score, becoming more and more curious about you as the day continued.

"Hello, Young Choi! This is a projection!" All Might yelled on the wall, light shining out of a circular container. You winced at the surname he addressed you with, noting the fact that you would have to correct your instructors in person when you inevitably make it in. "You actually placed first in the entrance exam, both in the written and practical sections... And it seems that you've been home schooled? Well, you must have a very nice curriculum." The projection flashed to a board of scores, you in first with 70 villain points and 57 rescue points. Someone named "Bakugou Katsuki" was in second place. "You beat Young Bakugou by 50 whole points, Choi! Be ready for him to go off on the first day, though. I don't think you should tell him your name, for your own safety. Anyway, check the packet that carried the projectional device for more details. Good luck, Young Ch-"

You cut off the video before he could say your legal name once again. "Why was he admitted to a hero school if I'm going to be in danger for surpassing him in skill...?"

"Please take your feet off of the desk, Bakugou! It is disrespectful to our elders and the fine craftsman who built the desks solely for our usage." The first thing you witnessed in your high school career was Iida reprimanding another student, presumably named "Bakugou" for resting his feet on a desk. 'As in... that Bakugou?'

"Shut it, fuckface. What middle school are you even from?" The blonde boy replied, albeit harshly.

"I am from Somei Priva- oh, hello, (Y/n)! I see you made it in!" Iida turned his attention to your annoyed figure in the doorway.

"Hi, Iida. But... Bakugou, is it? Are you not the kid who placed second... behind me?" A smirk fell onto your cheeks as you let the tease slip out. By the once sentence you had heard him utter, it was made apparent that he would be interesting to pick at.

"Wait, so you're Yunseo? God, I thought I would have to wait until attendance to bash your fucking face in..." With the last few words, he made a few flashes of orange energy appear next to his head, standing up.

"Oh, so you have an explosive quirk? Good to know... By the way, you shouldn't threaten people when you're in the hero course. Nor should you reveal your abilities when around a potential opponent, not that I fall into that category." The smirk slid off of your face as you restored your usual, cool demeanor. Turning away from Bakugou, you turned to walk to a seat. "Also, I prefer being called '(Y/n)'."

"Huh? Should I really be taking advice from a whore?" A few whispers started up in the quiet classroom.

"Is that because you find my body appealing? If so, the feeling isn't mutual, babe." With that, you continued walking to an open seat in the back of the classroom, which happened to be near a student with heterochromatic eyes. Your eyes narrowed as a vague feeling of recognition washed over you, but no further thoughts were spared on the matter.

Iida's face resembled a peach, at that point. A burst of laughter snorted out of his nose, effectively gaining Bakugou's attention. The latter boy's eyes had been following you as you moved to the back of the room, plotting revenge.

"Bro, you just obliterated him. No pun intended." Another male student chuckled from behind your seat. "I'm Kaminari Denki, by the way. And you are?"

"(Y/n)." Turning around to Kaminari, you took note of his features. His blond hair was slightly long, a black zig-zag which seemed to resemble a lightning bolt in his bangs. A small, button nose rested in the middle of his face, golden eyes above it. He was attractive, but not too eye-catching. Good combination.

"That's cool. May I have your number? You're kinda cute." He shot a wink down at you, hands resting on the back of your seat.

You pulled out a piece of paper from your backpack and quickly jotted down your cell phone number, handing it back to the boy. "I don't use my phone that much, so you might be ignored."

His face fell slightly at the last comment, but it quickly restored it's earlier vibrancy. "'Aight, but what's your quirk? If you don't mind me asking..."

"Did you not hear me talking to Bakugou about how he shouldn't unnecessarily reveal his quirk? I tend to follow my own advice." Your head fell to the side in annoyance.

"Did I just hear my name?!" The explosive blonde screeched from his seat up in the front of the classroom.

"Yes, you did." You spoke passively, not moving your attention from Kaminari. "Anyway, you will probably have to wait and see what my quirk is from when we do some sort of... training? I'm not entirely sure how this school works, yet."

"Deal, as long as you explain afterwards." He stuck his hand out for you to shake. Your nose scrunched slightly at the gesture, but you reached over nonetheless.

"Haha, that would ruin its abilities." With that, he walked away. Then, the room went quiet.

"It took eight seconds for you to quiet down." A shaggy-haired man groaned at the doorway as he crawled out of a sleeping bag. "I'm Aizawa Shouta, your homeroom teacher. I'm not going to waste time on learning your names, get dressed into your gym clothes and get outside to the grounds."

[m.list]

[60b3r]

Memes Kill Creativity?

Memes vs. Genes

In the 1976 book The Selfish Gene, Richard Dawkins coined the term 'meme' to describe something with symbolic meaning that spreads by imitation from person to person within a culture. This idea is an analogue to the nature of selfish gene, described similarly as a piece of genetic material possessing information required to be able to replicate themselves inside a living. The only key difference in both terms is that the gene is natural, while memes are artificial. The rest of memes' operating schemes completely mimic the genes perfectly. In our current timeline, memes as we know today are taking many forms: as image macros, short videos, and rick-rollicking music. Memes in imageboards and forums have been pushing internet porn traffic into a stalemate and putting our power grid into unnecessary burden. Of course, memes are not to be regretted, but otherwise need to be taken seriously, since they are able to put our current understanding of media industry and economic system into shame.

As with every other thing that have existed, memes are not exempt in its dualistic nature. If you ever venture to the depths of dark web, you may know that memes also took part in the infamous mimetic Tumblr-4chan War. Not only that, some memes are reportedly causing harm towards some users, even though it is often disguised or said to be a dank joke or mere sarcasm. Memes have seen its share of use in online bullying, mass shootings, and hate crimes, cowering behind the freedom of expression tag. Regardless, memes are also an extremely effective form of information transmission. Like all living systems with no set moral standards, memes do evolve and are subject to natural selection. Memes, like genes, actually work like a mindless machine. Again, this is eerily like the performance of DNA in living systems. The last thing we want from this thing is virulence.

Every day, something went viral on Twitter. Hashtags are flaring into the top trends, some videos are being watched billions of times, and another cat vs. cucumber pic garnered thousands of likes. Viral properties of a virus (duh) is defined as the capability to multiply quickly in relatively short amount of time. The term saw a huge increase in usage during the dawn of the internet age and the rise of computer malwares spread through unsecured ports of network protocol. This term is being applied to memes, as it is like a virus (which is a pure embodiment of a selfish gene). Now, a lot of people are utilizing memes to create art, because it enables them to cater the short-attention spans of current internet users. They create shorts, illustrations, inside jokes, and small comic strips. Some of you might not agree with me on this one, but stay with me now and I will explain to you why I would like to treat memes and art as a single unit of interest in this argument.

The dawn of meme-technology

Viral memes and their popularity are now often considered important in defining a time period in the internet culture. Now every netizen can somewhat distinguish the approximate age, sex, and political views of other users from the usage of rage comics, meme songs, and meme platforms they use. Intuitively we can make a generalized difference between the userbase of Reddit, 4chan, 9gag, Vine, and now Tiktok. Others, by the share of relatability with sub-genres of different areas of interest (film memes and game memes). Some others, even, in the perspectives of different social and economic class system (first world problems and third world success memes). Meme preferences to us netizens are ironically giving away our anonymous identity. Identity which the media companies are vying to get their hands on. That's where I would like to come into my opening argument: both memes and genes which originally possesses no intrinsic value, suddenly become a subject of value with technology.

How do we draw the logic, I say? The ones and zeros inside electrical systems are value-free, so does DNA in living cells. As we meddle ourselves with biotechnology to manipulate genetic material for profit, we also simmer ourselves in the computer sciences and tweak physical computation to perform better. We give value in the inanimate object by manipulating them. In our world, we often heard these expressions: that communication is key, sometimes silence is golden, and those who control the information wields the power. What’s these three statements have in common? Yes, information and expression. Memes are the simplest form of both. This is the beginning of the logic: memes are no longer in and on itself independent of external values. The infusion of utilitarian properties in memes as artificial constructs are seemingly inevitable, and for the better or worse shapes our current society.

We might have heard that somewhere somehow, the so called ‘global elites’ with their power and wealth are constantly controlling biotech research and information technology—or, in the contrary, they control these knowledge and resources to keep shovelling money and consolidate their power. Memes are one of their tools to ‘steer’ the world according to their 'progressive agenda', seemingly driving the world ‘forward’ towards innovation and openness. Nah, I am just joking. But, stay with me now. It is actually not them (the so-called global elites) who you should be worried about. It is us—you and I, ourselves—and our own way of unwittingly enjoying memes that are both toxic and fuelling the age-old capitalism. Funny, isn't it? We blame society, but we are society. But how are be becoming the culprits yet also be the prey at the same time?

Middle-class artists are hurt

Now, aggressive marketing tactics using memes are soaring. Media companies are no doubt cashing in the internet and viral memes to their own benefit. Streaming and cataloguing are putting up a good fight compared to their retail, classic ways of content delivery. This is quite true with the strategies of Spotify and YouTube, other media companies alike. They can secure rights to provide high-quality content from big time artists and filmmakers and target these works directly to the end consumer, effectively cutting the cost of distribution which usually goes to the several layers of distribution line like vinyl products, radio contracts, and Blu-ray DVDs. I believe this is good, since it is like an affirmative action for amateur artists to start a career in the art industry. Or is it? Does it really encourage small-time artists to begin? Yes. How about the middle-class artists? Not necessarily.

You might sometimes wonder, “how the hell did I get somewhere just by following the trending or hot section in the feed?”. This toxicity of memes often brings some bad things to our tables. Social media algorithms handle contents (like viral memes) by putting those with high views or likes to the front page, effectively ‘promoting’ the already popular post and creating a positive feedback cycle. By doing so, they could capitalize on ad profits on just few ‘quality’ contents over huge amounts of audience in a very short amount of time. The problem is most of the time, these ‘quality’ contents have no quality at all. They just happen to possess the correct formula to be viral, with the correct SEO keywords and click-bait titles with no real leverage in the art movement. This way, I often find both the talented and the lucky—of which the boundaries between them are always blurred—overshadow the aspiring ‘middle-class’ artists who work hard to perfect their craft.

If you are already a famous guitarist with large fanbase, lucky you, you are almost guaranteed to top the billboards. What, you have no skills? Post a video of you playing ‘air guitar’ and… affirmative actions to the rescue. Keep on riding the hype wave and suddenly you get to top trending with minimal effort, thanks to your weird haircut. Those haters will surely make a meme out of your silly haircut, not even your non-existent guitar skills. But still, hype is still a hype, and there’s no such thing as a bad publication. This also answers why simple account who reposts other people’s content could get much more followers than the hard-working creators. Not only being outperformed by the already famous artists taking social media by storm, now the ‘middle-class’ artists are also dealing with widespread content theft and repost accounts because of the unfair, bot grading system. It is unimaginable how many nobodies got the spotlight they don’t deserve just because they look or act stupid and the whole internet cheers around them. Remember, this is not always about the artist, but also the quality of the art itself. I believe a good art should be meaningful to the beholder.

Why capitalism kills creativity

The problem in current art industry is that we are feeling exhausted with the same, generic, and recycled stuff. We indeed already see there’s less discourse about art now. Sure, the problem lies not in the artist or medium, but is in the viewers—the consumer of the art form—and how the capitalist system reacts to it. The hyper efficient capitalist system doesn’t want to waste any more time and money trying to figure out what’s new or what’s next for you. What we love to see, what is familiar to us, the market delivers them. The rise of viral memes phenomenon in the social media pushes the market system to the point where they demand artists to create the same, redundant, easy art form. Listen to some of The Chainsmokers’ work and we'll see what music have become: the identical 4-chord progression, the same drop, the predictable riser, and the absence of meaningful lyrics. We sat down and watch over the same superhero movies trying hard to be the next Marvel blockbuster. The production companies are also happy not to pay writers extra to come up with new ideas and instead settle with borrowed old scripts from decades old TV drama. Disney's The Lion King and its heavy use of the earlier Japanese Kimba The White Lion storyline is one guilty example.

Despite it initially being an economic system and not a political ideology, it is untrue that many Marxist philosophers usher the suppression of art. While it is ironic that Stalinist policy intends to curb ‘counter-revolutionaries’—in this case his enemies—by limiting freedom of press and media; American propaganda added further so that it seems that the ideology is also limiting art and kill creativity. We all know the Red Scare in the U.S. during the Cold War saw a popular narrative of communism and socialism that is devoid of freedom of expression. This state propaganda then further become ‘dehumanization’ and make freedom of expression invalid under the guise of equality. Marx argue that total equality is not possible, and the uniqueness is being celebrated by having them doing what they do best and provide the best for their community. Thus, an individual's interests should be indistinguishable from the society's interest. Freedom is granted when the whole society is likely to benefit from an action. According to Mao in his Little Red Book, freedom of expression in art and literature, after all, is what initially drive the class consciousness. It is capitalism, not communism, that kills creativity.

If left unchecked, the threat of this feedback loop is going to cause a lack of diversity, resulting in stale content, less art critique, and overall decline in our artistic senses. Artists’ creativity that are supposedly protected by the free internet are destroyed within itself through the sheer overuse of viral memes. Capitalism has successfully turned the supposedly open, free-for-all, value-free platform that is the internet against the people into a media in which they are undeniably shaping new values on its own: the art culture that's not geared towards aesthetics and appreciation, but towards more views and personalized clicks. How social media and media industry caters to the demands of the consumer are, in Marx's own words, “digging its own grave”.

Spare nothing, not even the nostalgia

Well, people romanticize the oldies. The good old days, when everything is seen as better and easier. Look at the new art installations that uses the aesthetics of naughty 90s graphic design to become new, the posters released in this decade but with an art deco of the egregious 80s pop artist Andy Warhol, or the special agent-spy movies set frozen in the Nifty Fifties. Nostalgia offers us a way to escape from the hectic choices of our contemporary: different genres of music, dozens of movies to watch, and different fashion to consider. We choose to settle with our old habits, that we know just works. Remember how do we throw our money on sequels and reboots and remakes of old movies we used to watch during our younger days? We don’t even care about new releases at the cinema! Did you remember how Transformers 2 and their subsequent sequels perform at the box office at their opening week?

The huge sales of figurines and toys of Star Wars franchise—if we could scrutinize them enough—came from the old loyal fanbase of the late Lucasfilm series, not primarily from new viewers. Then suddenly, surprise-surprise. Our love for an old franchise deemed dead enough to be remembered and treasure soon must be destroyed to pave way for three new outrageous sequels (the ones with Kylo Ren and Snoke) by the grace of our beloved capitalism. Sadly, nothing is left untouched by the capitalism’s unforgiving corruption. Nostalgia has become a gimmick that makes people like some art more than they should, because it’s familiar. It is another way of squeezing your pocket dry.

Not that it is bad to make derivatives like covers or remixes, but the trade-offs are far too high. Consequentially, the number of original arts is now very little, because artists don’t bother making new stuff if they just aim for a quick buck. Most of the young adult novels are essentially the same lazy story progression with only different time setting and different character names. Most of them even have the same ending! No more a beautiful journey like the thrillers of Dan Brown or the epic adventures of Tolkien’s Lord of The Rings, which defines their respective times. Do we seriously want to consider Twilight and 50 Shades of Grey as a unique work? Isn’t the Hunger Games and the Maze Runner essentially the same?

If you play video games, you must have known that the trend always starts over. Game developers are making gazillions of sequels, and only a few of them that are actually good. Most are outright trash. Oh, wait, old video games like Homeworld are also getting remasters to cater the demand of nostalgic consumers. No new Command and Conquer release from EA Games? Re-release the 25 years old Red Alert because people will re-buy it! Profit!

15 June 2020 8.03 PM

[italian-native]

Latin expressions used (not all on a regular basis) in Italian

Ad hoc = per questo. Si dice di persona, oggetto, incarico, soluzione strumento perfettamente adatto o specificamente dedicato al compito da svolgere o al problema da risolvere. (lit. for this; perfect, precisely what was required)

Ad honorem = per onore. Si dice di titoli concessi come premio al merito. (lit. for honor; honorary)

Ad personam = alla persona, verso la persona. A titolo o a vantaggio personale. (lit. toward the person; on a personal basis)

Agenda = cose che devono essere fatte. Taccuino o dispositivo con calendario, su cui si annotano le cose da fare. Programma delle attività da svolgere. (Lit. Things that have to be done; schedule, list of “to do”, but also a planner notebook)

Àlbum = la tavoletta imbiancata su cui si scriveva con l’inchiostro. Libro che raccoglie foto, disegni, firme, figurine… raccolta di brani musicali. (it was originally a WHITE tablet on which people used to write, same use as in English )

A latere = a fianco. Collateralmente, accanto, in margine. Colui che affianca qualcuno per aiutarlo (giudice a latere). (lit. on the side)

Alias = altrimenti. Pseudonimo, identità fittizia. Norma Jeane Mortenson, alias Marylin Monroe. (lit. otherwise; pseudonym, aka)

Àlibi = altrove. Scusa, pretesto (trovi sempre un alibi per non fare le cose!). Avere un alibi: in un processo, poter dimostrare di non essere stati lì nel momento del delitto.  (lit. elsewhere; excuse, justification, also in the legal field)

Alter ego = (vedi: ego)  (lit. another me)

Ante litteram = prima della lettera. Si dice dell’opera o della persone che precorre i tempi, prefigurando o anticipando fenomeni successivi al proprio periodo storico. (lit. before the letter; before the term was invented, “proto”)

A priori (a posteriori) = a partire da quanto sta prima (sta dopo). Si dice di considerazioni o giudizi espressi a prescindere dai fatti, o in conseguenza dei fatti. (lit. starting from what is before/after; prior-in retrospect)

Area = aia, porzione di terreno davanti a una casa rurale o a una villa. Porzione di terreno, campo in cui si pratica uno sport, porzione di un organismo (es: area corticale), ambito di uno schieramento politico. (lit. region)

Audio = io sento, io ascolto. La parte che emette o trasmette suoni di un dispositivo.  (lit. I hear/listen; sound)

Auditorium = luogo per ascoltare. Sala per concerti o conferenze. (lit. place inteded for people to listen; concert halls and conference rooms) 

Aula magna = sala grande. L’aula più grande di un’università o un edificio pubblico. (lit. the big hall)

Aut aut = o… o. Segnala la necessità di operare una scelta netta tra due alternative che si escludono a vicenda. (lit. or...or...; there is a choice between 2 alternatives that exclude each other)

Bis = due volte. Negli spettacoli, richiesta di ulteriore esibizione. Supplemento. (lit. twice; a second time, again)

Bonus = buono. Sconto, abbuono. In ambito lavorativo: gratifica, premio, incentivo. In ambito sociale: singolo contributo economico riconosciuto in seguito a specifiche condizioni (anzianità, maternità…). (lit. good; financial contribution)

Brevi manu = con mano corta. Si dice di qualcosa consegnata di persona, senza intermediazioni. (lit. with a short hand; something delivered to someone without intermediaries)

Campus = territorio. Il complesso degli edifici, dei terreni e delle attrezzature sportive appartenenti a un’università. (lit. territory; University group of buildings)

Capsula = cassettina. L’involucro di un farmaco. Ma anche “capsula spaziale”. (lit. tiny box; capsule/pod)

Casus belli = motivo della guerra. La ragione o, spesso, il pretesto di un conflitto. (lit. reason behind a war)

Cellula = piccola stanza. Unità fondamentale di un organismo vivente. Elemento di base di una struttura clandestina. (lit. tiny room; cell) 

Continuum = una cosa continua. Sequenza ininterrotta. (lit. something that continues)

Corpus = corpo. Raccolta, insieme di opere o di documenti. (lit. body; collection of documents)

Cupio dissolvi = desidero essere distrutto. Indica l’estremo confine dell’autolesionismo fisico o psichico. (lit. desire of being destroied; extreme end of autolesionism)

Curriculum (vitae) = corso (della vita). Sintesi degli studi e delle attività svolte. (lit. life course; summary of past working and studying experiences)

Cursus honorum = progressione delle cariche pubbliche. Carriera politica o accademica. (lit. progression of public functions; political career)

Data (pl. di datum) = le cose date. Complesso di elementi, numerici e non, che costituiscono un’informazione. (lit. thing that are given; group of elements that create a piece of information)

Deficit = manca. Disavanzo, ammanco, passivo di bilancio, mancanza. (lit. it’s missing; lack)

Deo (agimus) gratias = rendiamo grazie a Dio. Espressione impiegata per esprimere (spesso in modo ironico) soddisfazione o sollievo: “deo gratias che ti sei degnato di venire”. (lit. we thank God; usually ironic “thank gods” used as “about time”)

Desiderata = cose desiderate. I desideri, le richieste (si usa al maschile: i desiderata). (lit. things that are desired; desires and requests, used as if it was a plural male noun)

De visu = per diretta visione, avendo visto (con i propri occhi). Si usa per indicare la conoscenza diretta e personale di un evento. (lit. through direct sight; personal and direct knowledge of an event) 

Deus ex machina = il dio (sceso) dalla macchina. Chi è così abile da risolvere situazioni complicate. (lit. God who came down from the machine, originally refers to a character of the Greek tragedies that is lowered thanks to a machine and it solves all the problems of the protagonists; someone who solves problems as if by miracle)

Do ut des = do affinché tu dia. Indica disponibilità a concedere qualcosa solo in cambio di qualcos’altro. (lit. I give so that you can give; I give you something if you give something in return)

Duplex = doppio. Stanza, apparecchiatura… fruibile da due utenti. (lit. double; something that can be used by two people at the same time)

Ego (alter ego) = io (l’altro me stesso). L’io, in psicoanalisi (super-ego è il super-io). Alter ego è invece chi mi sostituisce in un compito. (lit. me; the “me” in psychoanalysis)

Ergo = quindi, perciò. Quindi, perciò, concludendo un ragionamento. (lit. then -> conclusion)

Errata còrrige = queste cose sbagliate correggi. L’elenco delle imprecisioni, delle sviste e degli errori contenuti in un testo, con relative correzioni. (lit. correct this mistakes; list of mistakes and typos with corrections)

Ex = da, fuori di. Anteposto a una qualifica ne indica la cessazione. Può anche significare “proveniente, tratto da” (ex libris). (lit. from, outside of; indicates that someone is not something anymore, or it can mean that something is quoted from a certain book/movie..etc)

Ex abrupto (sermone) = interrompendo il discorso. All’improvviso, inaspettatamente. (lit. interrupting the speech; abruptly) 

Ex aequo = alla pari, con uguale merito. Si dice di due concorrenti classificati a pari merito, o di un premio diviso in parti uguali.

Excelsior = che sta più in alto. Il massimo, l’eccellenza, il meglio. Usato spesso per chiamare alberghi e, in passato, sale cinematografiche. Da Algida a Nivea, tra l’altro, non sono poche le parole latine che mettiamo nel carrello del supermercato. (lit. that is higher; maximum, excellence)

Excursus = sortita, corsa verso l’esterno. Divagazione, digressione, rassegna. (lit. a run towards and ouside place; digression)

Ex libris = dai libri. Etichetta decorata o timbro che si applica su un libro per indicare a chi appartiene. (lit. from the books; label that shows whose book it is)

Ex novo = di nuovo. Di nuovo, daccapo, dall’inizio. (lit. again)

Extra = fuori. Ulteriore, fuori dall’ambito comune, straordinario, eccellente. (lit. outside; extraordinary, addittional)

Ex voto (suscepto) = per promessa fatta. Per grazia ricevuta. (lit. because of a promise made; by someone’s grace)

Fac totum = fai tutto. Chi si occupa di molti incarichi eterogenei. (lit. do everything; someone who does many different things)

Ferramenta = attrezzi di ferro. Il negozio che vende attrezzature di ferro (e, ora, non più solo di ferro). È latino medievale. (lit. iron tools; shop that sells iron tools and all things necessary for DIY and similar)

Focus = focolare. Centro d’interesse, punto focale. (lit. hearth; focal point)

Forma mentis = forma della mente. Struttura o attitudine mentale, criterio. (lit. mind’s shape; principle, mental attitude)

Formula = piccola forma. Complesso di simboli (matematici, chimici…) o di parole (formula di scongiuro, di rito…) che hanno significato codificato e ricorrente. È latino medievale. (lit. little shape; set of mathematical symbols or words that have an encoded meaning)

Forum = piazza. Riunione o discussione pubblica, anche in rete. (lit. square; meeting or public discussion)

Gratis = per i favori, per le benevolenze. Gratuito, concesso senza compenso. (lit. for the favors; free, no need to pay)

Genius loci = spiritello, nume tutelare del luogo. Identità, atmosfera tipica e unica di un luogo. (lit. tiny spirit; identity of a place, atmosphere)

Habitat = (egli) abita. Il sistema ambientale nel suo complesso. (lit. he resides; environmental system)

Habitus = aspetto. Comportamento, abitudine, insieme di tratti caratteristici. (lit. aspect; typical behaviour)

Hic et nunc = qui e ora. Qui e ora. (lit. here and now)

Homo (+) sapiens = uomo (+) saggio, ragionevole = Noi, il genere umano. Sulla cui ragionevolezza si potrebbe aprire un’interessante discussione. (lit. wise man; human beings)

Honoris causa = a titolo di onore. Si dice di riconoscimento, specie accademico, conferito per meriti speciali. (lit. in order to honor something; official recognition)

Horror = orrore. Di genere o stile macabro, spaventoso, raccapricciante. (lit.....well, fear, horror ahahah)

Horror vacui = orrore del vuoto. Orrore del vuoto. (lit. fear of the void)

Humus = suolo, terra, terreno. La componente organica del terreno. Il sostrato socioculturale di un fenomeno. (lit. ground, earth)

Ictus = colpo, battuta. In medicina: colpo apoplettico. In musica, linguistica, metrica: l’accento. (lit. blow)

Idem = quello stesso. La stessa cosa, il medesimo elemento, ugualmente, allo stesso modo. (lit. that same; the same thing, in the same way)

Imprimatur = che sia stampato. Approvazione, consenso, autorizzazione. (lit. shall it be printed; approvation, authorisation)

In alto loco = in luogo alto. Là dove si comanda. (lit. in an high place; there where people rule and make decisions)

In calce = nel calcagno. Al termine di un testo. (lit. in the heel; at the end of a text)

In camera caritatis = nella camera di carità. Tra noi, senza che nessuno ci ascolti. (lit. in the charity room; between us alone)

Incipit = incomincia. La parte iniziale di un testo. (lit. it begins; initial part of a text)

In extremis = al momento estremo. In punto di morte, all’ultimo momento, appena prima dello scadere del termine. (lit. at the extreme/ultimate time; on the verge of death, when time is almost finished)

In fieri = in divenire. In divenire, in via di sviluppo. (lit. in the making)

In flagrante (crimine) = mentre (il delitto) brucia. Si usa a proposito di un reo sorpreso mentre sta compiendo un delitto. (lit. while the crime still burns; when someone is caught red-handed)

In itinere = durante il percorso. Durante, nel corso di. (lit. along the way) 

In loco = nel luogo. Nel medesimo luogo, senza spostamenti. (lit. in the place; in the same place without moving)

In medias res =nel mezzo delle cose. Nel bel mezzo. (lit. in the middle of things; used to describe the beginning of stories in which the characters are already acting before being presented at all)

In nuce = in una noce. In sintesi, in piccolo, allo stato embrionale o potenziale. (lit. in a nutshell)

In pectore = in petto. Di qualcuno il cui incarico è stato già assegnato ma non ufficializzato. (lit. in the chest; said of someone who as a task but that hasn’t yet been formalised) 

In primis = fra le prime cose. Per prima cosa, prima di tutto. (lit. among the first things; the first thing)

(Ad) interim = nel frattempo. Incarico provvisorio. Il periodo in cui una carica vacante viene assunta provvisoriamente. (lit. meanwhile; temporary duty)

Inter nos = fra noi. In tutta segretezza, in modo riservato e non ufficiale. (lit. among us; in an unofficial way)

Interiora = le parti più interne. I visceri. (lit. the insides)

In toto = in tutto. Completamente. (lit. in total; completely)

In vitro = sotto vetro. In provetta, in laboratorio. (lit. under a glass; in a test tube)

Ipse dixit = l’ha detto lui (il “lui” è Aristotele). L’ha affermato una somma autorità (spesso usato in senso ironico). (lit. he -Aristotele- said it; someone important said it) 

Ipso facto = nel fatto stesso. Immediatamente, contestualmente, automaticamente. (lit. in the actual event; immediately, simultaneously)

Iter = viaggio, cammino. Percorso procedurale a cui è soggetta una pratica burocratica o una legge parlamentare. (lit. journey; procedure that a law or similar has to go through) 

Junior, senior = più giovane, più vecchio. Il più giovane, il neoassunto. Il più anziano anagraficamente o professionalmente. (lit. the youngest, the eldest; the newly hired - the expert)

Lapis (aematitis) = pietra (di colore rosso). Matita, strumento usato per disegnare. (lit. -red- stone; pencil, originally the first stones used were red)

Lapsus = scivolone. Errore involontario. (lit. slip up; involuntary error)

Lavabo = io laverò. Lavandino. Indicava la bacinella dove il prete si lavava le mani prima di dir messa. (lit. I will wash; the sink)

Legenda = cose da leggere, didascalia. Schema per interpretare i simboli convenzionali impiegati in una mappa, in una tabella o in un grafico. (lit. things that must be read; scheme that explains how to read a list of symbols)

Libellula = piccola bilancia. Insetto dalle lunghe ali trasparenti. (lit. tiny scale; dragonfly) 

Libìdo = desiderio, piacere, voglia. Desiderio sessuale. (lit. desire, pleasure)

Magnitudo = grandezza. Si usa per definire l’intensità dei terremoti. (lit. size; magnitude)

Mare magnum = mare grande. Gran numero, grande quantità. (lit. big sea; large amount)

Medium (al plurale: media) = mezzo. Mezzo/mezzi di comunicazione di massa. Al singolare, nell’abbigliamento, taglia media. In accezione esoterica: persona dedita al paranormale, in quanto “tramite” tra diversi mondi. (lit. tool)

Memorandum = da ricordare. Nota di sintesi, elenco di istruzioni, elementi di base per un accordo preliminare, taccuino per appunti. (lit. that must be remembered; notes and notebook)

Mica = briciola, granellino. Oggi usato come avverbio negativo: “mica bello”. (lit.  crumb; now it is used as a negative adverb, like “mica bello” “it’s not that good” )

Minus habens = che ha meno. Che è meno dotato (anche dal punto di vista intellettivo). (lit. that has less; less gifted)

Miscellanea = cose mescolate insieme. Insieme eterogeneo. (lit. things mixed together; miscellaneous)

Modus (operandi, vivendi. Est modus in rebus) = modo. Modo. Modo di procedere. Modo di vivere, stile di vita, e anche accordo tra due parti in conflitto. C’è un modo (opportuno) per fare le cose. (lit. way, way of proceeding, way of living, agreement between two conflicting parts)

Monitor = suggeritore, precettore. Schermo usato per controllare la qualità di una ripresa video, le riprese di una telecamera a circuito interno, l’andamento dei parametri vitali di un paziente. (lit. teacher; screen)

More uxorio = al modo di una moglie. In modo coniugale. (lit. in a wife’s way; in a married way)

Mutatis mutandis = dopo aver cambiate le cose che vanno cambiate. Fatte le dovute distinzioni, a prescindere dalle condizioni contingenti. (lit. after changing the things that must be changed; notwithstanding the prerequisites)

Non plus ultra = non più oltre. Il massimo. (lit. not more than now; maximum) 

Nullaosta (nulla osta) = niente ostacola. Non c’è impedimento. Permesso. (lit. nothing stops; a permit)

Obtorto collo = a collo storto, cioè con la testa girata dall’altra parte. Malvolentieri, contro la volontà. (lit. with a bent neck; agains their will)

(Ceteris) omissis = omessi altri elementi. Indica che in un testo sono stati cancellati o non riportati di elementi ritenuti non rilevanti o da non divulgare. (lit. leaving out the other elements; in a text some parts have been deleted because they were not deemed relevant)

Opera omnia = tutte le opere. L’insieme della produzione di un autore. (lit. all the works)

Optimum = ottimo. L’eccellenza, il livello più alto, il complesso delle condizioni migliori. (p.s. excellent)

Per diem = al giorno. Al giorno, a giornata. (lit. a day)

Placebo = io piacerò. Finto farmaco, usato nei test per dimostrare il differenziale d’efficacia del farmaco vero. (lit. I will be liked; fake pill)

Placet = piace. Approvazione, consenso. (lit. it’s liked; approval) 

Plenum = pieno. Riunione di tutti i membri di un’assemblea o un comitato. (lit. full; meeting of all the members)

Plus e minus = più e meno. Incremento e decremento, vantaggio e svantaggio, accrescimento e diminuzione. Minus habens: intellettualmente svantaggiato. (lit. plus and minus; increased and decreased)

Postilla (post illa) = dopo quelle cose. Breve chiosa o aggiunta a un testo. (lit. after those things; something added at the end of a text)

Post mortem = dopo la morte. Si dice soprattutto di riconoscimenti attribuiti dopo la morte dell’interessato. (lit. after death)

Post partum = dopo il parto. Riferito solitamente alla depressione che può, a volte, colpire le puerpere. (lit. after giving birth)

Post scriptum = dopo lo scritto. Aggiunta, chiosa, specificazione o nota posta al termine di una lettera o di un documento. (lit. after what is written;  note added after a text is finished)

Probiviri (probi viri) = uomini onesti. Persone di attestata onestà e capacità, deputate a esercitare funzioni di giudizio e orientamento all’interno di organizzazioni o istituzioni. (lit. honest men; people with decisional duties inside organisations)

Pro capite = per testa. A (per, riguardante) ciascun singolo individuo. (lit. for each head)

Pro domo sua = (Cicerone) per la propria casa. Si dice di atti o discorsi finalizzati al proprio particolare interesse. (lit. Cicero for one’s own house; said of speeches that are held for one’s own interest)

Pro forma = per la forma. Che osserva i dettami formali, per pura formalità (documento pro forma). (lit. for the shape; as a formality)

Pro loco = a favore del luogo. Istituzione territoriale dedicata alla promozione e alla valorizzazione dell’offerta e delle risorse di una località. (lit. in favor of a place; association that enhances a region)

Promemoria (pro memoria) = per memoria. Appunto, breve scritto o elenco utile a fissare elementi o concetti che non devono essere dimenticati. (lit. for the memory; little note used as a reminder for important things)

Propaganda = cose da diffondere. Le iniziative di promozione delle idee e dell’attività di un’organizzazione. (lit. things that must be spread; initiatives to promote an organization)

Pro tempore = per un tempo. Temporaneamente, a tempo determinato. (lit. for a time; temporary)

Pròsit! = che sia di giovamento! Formula augurale. (lit. shall it be beneficial)

Quid = qualche cosa. Un qualcosa, un nonsoché. (lit. something)

Quota (pars) = quanta (parte). Parte spettante o dovuta di una somma. Valore di un titolo in Borsa. Posizione in una classifica. Misura dell’altezza o della profondità rispetto al livello del mare. (lit. share/part/amount/altitude) 

Quorum = dei quali. Il numero minimo dei partecipanti necessari per rendere valida un’assemblea, o dei voti a favore necessari per approvare una decisione. (lit. of whom; minimum number of votes that are necessary to approve a decision)

Raptus = rapimento. Impulso improvviso e incontenibile. (lit. kidnapping; sudden urge)

Ratio (extrema ratio) = criterio ispiratore, ragione (estremo rimedio). Criterio legislativo. Piano estremo, ultima soluzione disponibile. (lit. criterion; extreme solution, last possible solution)

Rebus (de rebus quae geruntur) = delle cose (che succedono). Gioco enigmistico. Situazione o fenomeno di difficile interpretazione. (lit. of things -that happen-; puzzle)

Redde rationem = rendi conto. Giudizio finale, resa dei conti. (lit. to account; final judgment, showdown)

Referendum = per riferire. Consultazione pubblica volta a permettere ai cittadini di esprimersi su questioni politiche o istituzionali, o a verificare gli orientamenti degli aderenti a un’organizzazione, o a indagare le opinioni e le propensioni degli individui. (lit. in order to report; public consultation where citizens vote)

Replicare = piegare di nuovo. Ripetere, riprodurre. Rispondere. (lit. to bend again; to reproduce)

Reprimenda = cose da frenare. Sgridata. (lit. things that must be stopped; scolding) 

Repulisti = hai respinto. Distruggere tutto, sbaraccare, far piazza pulita. (lit. you repelled; to destroy everything, clean slate)

Retro = dietro. La parte posteriore di una casa, un negozio, un mobile. (lit. behind)

Rubrica = (terra) rossa. Elenco di nomi e indirizzi. (lit. red earth; notebook with a list of names and addresses, originally the central part and the “bookmark” of the rubrica were painted using a red pigment) 

Sancta sanctorum = le cose sante di (quelle) sante. Propriamente indicava la parte più interna e inaccessibile del tempio di Gerusalemme; poi, luogo particolarmente riservato, accessibile solo a pochi (sanctus viene da sancio “sancire, delimitare”). (lit. the sacred things among sacred things; a place that is hidden and not accessible to everyone, originally the inner parts of temples)

Sic = così. Si usa, spesso fra parentesi per indicare la trascrizione fedele di un testo incomprensibile o sbagliato. È l’antecedente del nostro “sì”. (lit. such/thus/so/that way; used to point out the faithful transcript of an illegible text)

Sine causa = senza motivo. Si usa per indicare una situazione di fatto che non ha motivi o giustificazioni. (lit. without a reason)

Sinecura (sine cura) = senza cura (delle anime). Ruolo o beneficio che comporta vantaggi a fronte di scarso impegno. (lit. without caring -for the souls-; role that grants benefits in the face of low efforts)

Sine die = senza giorno. A tempo indeterminato, senza un termine stabilito. (lit. without day; without a given time, unlimited)

Solarium = luogo del sole. Terrazzo o altra parte di un edificio adatto a esporsi al sole. (lit. place of the sun; balcony or similar place where you could sunbathe) 

Sosia = Sosia, il servo di Anfitrione in una commedia di Plauto. Sosia. (lit. Sosia, Anfitrione’s servant in a comedy by Plauto; someone that looks exactly like someone else)

Spécimen = esempio, modello. Campione, estratto di un’opera, modello, esempio di firma autografa. (lit. example, model; an extract from a text, or a model)

Sponsor = persona che si rende garante, padrino, patrocinatore. Il sostenitore economico o morale di una manifestazione, un’impresa o di un evento. (lit. person that act as guarantor; supporter moral or econmical) 

Status = condizione, posizione. La condizione giuridica, sociale o economica di una persona. Il livello gerarchico, il grado di reputazione sociale. (lit. condition, position; juridical, economical or social)

Status quo = la condizione in cui. Lo stato delle cose. (lit. the condition in which; the way things are when nothing happens) 

Sua sponte = di sua volontà. Spontaneamente. (lit. of his own free will; spontaneously)

Sui generis = del suo genere. Originale, fatto a modo suo. (lit. of his own kind; original)

Super = sopra. Eccellente, di qualità superiore, il massimo. (lit. above; excellent)

Super partes = sopra le parti. Al di sopra delle parti. (lit. above the parties)

Tabula rasa = a tavola raschiata (si intende la tavoletta cerata su cui si scriveva). Azzerando ogni precedente, non lasciando traccia. (lit. with a cleaned tablet; without a trace of what was there before, originally refers to wax tablets that were carved to write, and then were “ereased” again by scrubbing them) 

Tot = tanti. Un certo numero, una quantità data, un tanto. (lit. many; a certain amount) 

Transeat = si tralasci. Si lasci perdere, si soprassieda. (lit. leaving aside -information-)

Transfert = egli trasferisce. Nel linguaggio psicoanalitico, indica un particolare rapporto col terapeuta. (lit. he transfers; in psychoanalysis it is a specific relationship with the therapist)

Tutor = protettore, difensore. Insegnante, istitutore. (lit. protector; teacher)

Ultra (non plus ultra, see above) = oltre, al di là (non più oltre). Il massimo, il più possibile, l’oltre. (lit. over/more; maximum possible)

Ultimatum = ultimo avviso. Ultimo avviso. (lit. last warning)

Una tantum = solamente una volta. Si dice di una concessione, un premio oppure una tassa di valore straordinario e teoricamente irripetibile. Tanto teoricamente che l’espressione è spesso maldestramente intesa come “una volta ogni tanto”. (lit. only once; something that almost never repeats)

Unicum = unico. Singolo esemplare, caso unico, evento irripetibile. (lit. unique)

Vademecum (vade mecum) = vieni con me. Libretto di istruzioni, guida, manuale. (lit. come with me; instruction, guide)

Veto = mi oppongo, vieto. Divieto di procedere o di agire. (lit. I oppose; prohibition)

Viceversa (Vice versa) = a vicenda mutata. In ordine inverso. In senso opposto o contrario. E invece. (lit. with a changed matter; in a different order, contrary)

Video = io vedo. Breve filmato. Contrapposto ad “audio”, la parte visiva di un filmato. Lo schermo che permette di vedere immagini. (lit. I see; screen)

Virus = veleno. In biologia: microrganismo portatore di patologie, agente patogeno. In informatica: programma inteso a danneggiare il funzionamento di un computer. Germe. (lit. poison; micro-organism that causes an illness) 

Vulnus = ferita. Lesione di un diritto, lacerazione, offesa. (lit. wound; offense)

Whoof, that took a loooooong time ahahah

As always I hope someone finds this helpful or at least interesting!

Let me know if you spot any mistake, please!

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