#while not caring about historical accuracy whatsoever

[theghostbunnie]

Since you already talked about your Harrison and Nerris hcs (which I love wholeheartedly <3), I wanted to ask if you have any specific Preston hcs?

AAAA SO SORRY I'VE LET MY ASKS IN MY INBOX COLLECT SO MUCH DUST/GEN

Also tysm I'm so happy you enjoyed them 💓

CW: death mentions, mentions of loss.

I was having a conversation with @redheadedratt when I absorbed some of their's and thought of some of these !!

They told me they HC both of Preston's parents are dead, his father before he was old enough to remember him well and his mother years after fell ill but they were deeply in love and she spoke very fondly of him.

I can't explain it but him being raised by his mother and grandma in his formative years makes alot of sense to me he has those vibes.

I was being withheld information/jjj thought this was funny asked 2 share, anyways

When his mother passes death is still an odd thing he's too young to fully grasp so he became infatuated with depictions of not only loss, but romance, reuniting ect based around his grief and love for hisown parents being gone and their love story. It was his way of coping with it all while being too young to understand. Like he had a big love for theater before this but this had an effect on his art.

He has an infatuation with death in what I perceive as almost a strictly artistic way all throughout the show, obviously with his play "Romeo and Juliet 2: Love resurrected" but also in the commercial he makes in the fundraiser episode his immediate go-to for grabbing viewer's attention is to talk about the potential death of children. Yes I know the whole point to begin with was they were trying to guilt trip an audience but he wrote and directed this project himself surrounding death as his personal go-to.

• Not much of a HC as it is an observation but I love how fluid his exspression is, he's had the most drastic and plentiful outfit changes throughout the series from the football gear, to the leather jacket and backwards cap, to the historical looking full makeup and gown.

Which kinda slips me into this next HC • I think he loves history but has no care for historical accuracy like whatsoever as that "stunts his creative flow" but simultaneously would absolutely pick and choose when to call out historical inaccuracies in other people's work. (proofreads Neil's fanfictions without permission probs lol)

I think Max, Neil, Nerris and Preston all have varying control issues but in very different ways and Preston's is more he'll accidentally overstep a boundary without realizing and try advising people, but mostly keeps his perfectism and temper around things not going as he planned to hisown plans. Like, he only has controlling issues with things agreed he had the biggest say in. It ties into his want to be a director and writer and often stuck with peers who are terrible with following said direction and being a child himself he's not gonna handle it with maturity, he's gonna throw a fit.

Again this is really only strictly tied to things he think he should be in charge of and doesn't just extend to his everyday interactions with people too much.

• Can't tell if this is more observation or HC but he'd pick being a screenwriter or director over being an actor and if he ever got an acting role in someone else's play he'd be trying left and right to make suggestions to it and his character and really overstep without realizing it.

• I don't think he can read a room or have a filter on for the life of him not only would he openly talk about any dark or uncomfortable topics it'd be in the form of out of pocket as hell comments in a really dramatic voice too

[aleator]

day 09 - royalty au (thor/tony)

Once every ten years, Ironfell hosts a grand tournament, and knights come from all over the kingdom to get a chance to face off against one another. It is a great honor to simply compete in this tournament, but for the lucky and talented knight who wins, he is permitted one wish he may ask the king to grant him.

Most winners wish to be granted a position in the royal guard, while others wish for a title and a plot of land, or for some fair lady’s hand in marriage. Tony has only presided over this tournament once, a few years into his reign as king, but he witnessed it several times prior under the rule of his father, King Howard.

Now it’s Tony’s turn again ten years later and the whole city is a flurry of activity and excitement. The tournament lasts for a week and many people come from far off to watch as well, not just to compete.

Which leaves Tony a very busy man in the weeks leading up to the tournament. Thankfully he has his council and advisors to help, but most importantly he has Thor, his favorite knight. Not that he plays favorites with the royal guard, of course. That wouldn’t look good for him and his attempt to be a fair and just ruler.

“You should have worn the red cloak,” Thor says first thing upon seeing Tony the morning of the start of the tournament. “Makes you look more regal.”

“Good morning to you too,” Tony replies, tugging at the clasp on his dark blue cloak. “How’s the crowd out there?”

“Excitable. It’s been a long year. The people could use some proper entertainment.”

Tony adjusts his clasp again, frowning at his reflection in a nearby mirror. “Then we’ll have to keep them entertained.”

Thor reaches out and gently takes Tony’s hand away from his cloak, then adjusts the clasp for him. Tony stands still while Thor does that, then looks at himself in the mirror again.

“Thank you.”

“Still would be better in red.”

Tony laughs and motions for Thor to follow him down to the main hall so they can get the celebration started.

The king traditionally gives a speech at the opening ceremony, so Tony opens the first day of the tournament with a rousing speech about honor and good fortune and courage, all the usual stuff the crowd likes to hear before they watch people do fancy tricks and hit each other with sticks. Then he’s led to his special box seat at the arena. With both parents now passed away, it’s just him and the head of his guard, Sir James, in the royal box with a few important dignitaries from neighboring kingdoms.

The tournament begins with much cheering and fanfare as the knights are introduced to Tony and the crowd. Some he knows are from nearby, others are from the outer edges of the kingdom, but there’s one knight he doesn’t recognize at all, a man in red armor on a pure white horse, whose only name given is the Lionheart.

The crowd is instantly abuzz with speculation on the secret identity of this mysterious knight, but the tournament does not stop even for gossip. The first day of challenges are mostly archery displays, with knights showing off tricks and skills more suited for showmanship than battle.

A feast for all ends each day of the tournament, so by the end of the first day the crowd is well enthused for its continuation. Tony does his duty as host in the main hall of the castle, though he can’t help looking around for the mysterious Lionheart, who does not seem to be in attendance.

“Who could this Lionheart be, do you think?” Tony asks Thor as his knight walks with him through the halls of the castle up to his chambers after the feast. “He seems skilled with the bow, but I’ve never heard of him before.”

“Perhaps he is foreign,” Thor offers, and Tony hums thoughtfully. While there is no rule banning foreign competitors, the few foreign knights who do join usually announce their presence, not hide behind a mask and a false name.

“He must not have a noble patron backing him,” Tony decides after a few moments consideration. “Why else would he not share such information?”

“Perhaps,” Thor says again, though Tony remains too caught up in his thoughts to pay him much mind.

“I suppose we will see how he does in the rest of the tournament,” Tony says at last. He nods to Thor as they reach the door to his chambers, and Thor nods back. “Good night, Thor.”

“Sleep well, Your Majesty,” Thor says, as he always says every night before Tony retires for bed.

The next few days were reserved for jousting matches, both individual performances against wooden dummies and one-on-one matches between knights. The real winner of the tournament would be the knight who triumphed in the melee on the last day, but lesser prizes would be given out to those who performed well in the jousts.

Despite the impressive display of skill from all involved, Tony can’t help being mesmerized by the red knight’s performance. Like with his archery, his talents on horseback and skill with the javelin and lance are seemingly unmatched. Much of the crowd seems taken with this mysterious knight, and Tony wonders if he’ll be the one to win the tournament overall.

“I would have thought your favor would be with Sir Steven,” Thor replies when Tony says as much the evening before the final day of competition. “He is one of your own knights.”

“Of course,” Tony says with a flippant wave of his hand. “But he’s curious, is he not? He disappears before every feast and only reappears at the start of the next day’s tournament. Why not join in the celebration?”

“Keeping his identity a secret must be more important,” Thor suggests.

“Well, if he does win the tournament, he’ll have to reveal himself,” Tony says with an un-kingly huff. Just one more reason he’s maybe secretly hoping that the red knight wins.

The next morning, as the knights prepare for the grand melee, Tony decides to hell with it and puts on his red cloak. Yet Thor is nowhere to be seen, and Tony walks down to the main hall alone that morning.

For the final day of the tournament, all the knights battle it out in the arena on foot with their preferred choice in weapon. Though it’s a free-for-all, the rules of chivalry still stand, and all weapons must be modified to prevent fatalities. Knights who have been defeated must bow out until there is only one man remaining--the true tournament victor.

The red knight strides into the ring with a simple war hammer in hand, which is a curious choice, in Tony’s opinion. A war hammer can do a lot of damage in battle, but it’s small and unimpressive for such a spectacle as this.

That doesn’t seem to slow the red knight down at all, for as soon as the battle begins he takes down his first opponent with ease. As the knights clash against one another and the crowd cheers, Tony only has eyes for the red knight, hands gripping the arms of his chair tightly with each close call the red knight has.

When the dust clears at the end of the battle, the last man remaining is none other than the red knight, Lionheart.

The crowd goes wild, everyone thoroughly taken by this mysterious challenger who appeared out of nowhere and swept the tournament. Tony stands and approaches the railing of his box as the red knight crosses the arena to kneel in the dirt before Tony.

“Rise, Lionheart, for you have proven yourself worthy on this day,” Tony says imperiously for all to hear. “Remove your helm and speak what you wish bestowed upon you as a prize.”

The red knight does not stand, nor does he remove his helmet. Instead, in his deep voice he says,

“I wish for your hand in marriage, Your Majesty.”

The sudden murmur of the crowd is so loud that Tony almost doesn’t think he heard the request right. Nobody has ever asked for anything like this before. It’s not as if he’s some poor nobleman’s daughter to be offered up in exchange for good standing. He’s a king! Such impertinence from someone who refuses to even share his real name.

Frowning, he motions for the knight to remove his helmet once more. “If that is your wish, then I bid you again, reveal yourself.”

This time the knight does stand, and the crowd seems to collectively hold its breath as he reaches up to remove his helmet. Instead of the mysterious red knight, now only Thor stands in his place, knight of the Ironfell royal guard.

“I told you red’s your color,” Thor says to him, and Tony lets out a surprised exclamation, gripping the railing of the royal box before he collapses from shock.

“I fear you might be right,” Tony replies, his laughter disbelieving but his smile wide. “I hope it’s your color too, since you’ll be wearing it a lot more soon.”

“Your Majesty?” Thor says, looking hopefully up at him.

“You won the tournament fair and square, and thus your wish will be granted.”

In yet another unkingly move, Tony hops the short railing of his spectator box and jumps down from the low platform his box sits upon, stumbling a bit on the landing. As is chivalrous, Thor immediately drops his helmet and hammer to go and catch Tony before he falls in the dirt. Then, somewhat less chivalrously, Thor kisses him soundly, all of the background noise of the tournament fading away as Tony loops his arms around Thor’s neck and kisses him back.

Perhaps, Tony thinks, the final day’s feast can double as a wedding.

[akitokihojo]

Monster - Chapter 1

And, here we go. Chapter 1 of this monstrosity (no pun intended) is now up and running below, on AO3, and on FF.net.

I'm going to be completely and 100% honest with everyone before you start reading, so please heed this warning! This first chapter is rough in the sense where it contains a bit of brutality and the death of a child. So far, this is the only gruesome chapter, and while the gore is NOT detailed, I still want my more sensitive readers to be wary.

This is the most action-packed fic I've ever written, and also the most expansive world I've ever built (in my humble opinion). With that being said, while the setting is a bit more on the historical side, there are plenty of modern references. For instance, not in this chapter but in future ones, a bathroom is just a bathroom. I don't mention plumbing or the lack thereof. My attention and energy was on more important things and I just didn't care about those details, lol. Additionally, a lot of slang, jokes, and references are fairly modern. Don't @ me (but also do). All-in-all, what I'm trying to say is I built my own damn world where there is no historical accuracy, so don't go looking for it, lol.

Unless otherwise stated, I plan to post each new chapter every Friday. So, yeah... I think that's all I've got to say.... have fun! Enjoy! Thank you for reading! Ily! Bon Voyage! Don't hate me!

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The responsibility is ours.

Kagome gasped as her feet slid in the mud, the small decline of the path she and her younger brother hurried down gradually becoming more slippery as the rain began to pour harder. Through the noise of the droplets and the sloshing of their boots, she heard a slight commotion; horses’ huffs, heavy feet, and boisterous men barking orders. Initially, she’d figured it was the village men ushering their families indoors, their livestock into barns, their carts and tools under shelter, and their firewood into a dry place as the storm reared its ugly head. The sunset sky was shadowed in gloom, thunder making it’s entrance in the far distance as it was bound to be banging on their doors and windows in no time. But, at the tug of her arm by her sibling, her attention was shifted to the actual cause of it all: Naraku’s henchmen.

“Again?” She shuddered resentfully.

“Third time this month.” Sota confirmed, clenching his jaw as he slightly tugged his sister behind his smaller frame. He was perfectly aware that he was only twelve, well in the know that he stood no taller than her shoulders, but he’d be damned if he did nothing because of it.

This time, there wasn’t a hoard of them. No, there were merely four, all of which were already off of their horses on the main path through their little village, making demands and threatening anyone who got in the way of their objective.

Throughout the last four and a half years since Naraku rose as a fearsome demon that easily brought down peaceful powers and attempted to control the world Kagome knew, she’d become more than familiar with this procedure. It wasn’t until just recently that they’d started coming more often than a monthly visit, though. And, it was no secret what, or who, they were after.

Her.

Anyone of her kind, really.

She was different. She was hunted. Those like her were supposedly powerful, but matters being what they were had caused anyone who shared a similar fate to subdue their abilities to the point of total lack of recognition of their true potential. At least, that’s how it was in most cases. Because, if they were found out, they were killed on sight. The reason for it was entirely unknown. Naraku didn’t just target them, though; he made everyone’s lives hell, especially if they stood out in a supernatural manner. So, while she figured there had to be a yet-to-be-identified reason, she felt it was safe to assume it was also just because he could. Maybe he didn’t like the threat of other, similar forces that could collide against him. Maybe he was egotistical enough to think he was the only deserving being. Whatever the case, he was cruel.

Kagome’s kind had several names through the decades - so many, she hardly knew the correct term for herself. At one point, ages ago, they were called banshees. The title didn’t make sense whatsoever, given their powers and what a banshee actually was, and the story was so old that she didn’t know where the justification even stemmed from, but it caused them to be feared, and for that, she honestly wouldn’t have totally minded if the name stuck around. They were called priestesses, but then it sounded too peaceful, too practiced, and it painted them as “good.” They were called witches, mages, sorceresses, but they committed no typical magic of that sort. Kagome didn’t know a single spell, nor did she have nearly enough time in the day to pack an array of herbs, spices, and what have you into jars that were sealed with candle wax - though she had caught wind that there were some older women of her kind with the ability to curse. Now, they were called conjurers. Their abilities were that of the spirit, aiding with protection, purifying dark forces - passively or forcefully, bringing forth light, and more she was sure.

In Kagome’s unpopular opinion, given what they could do and what they supposedly stood for, priestess was more suitable a term, but she also understood that there was nothing holy about the world they lived in.

There was no birthmark of the conjurer. There was no dead giveaway of their kind. The powers were gifted at random, as far as she knew, not passed down through lineage. The only thing Naraku and his followers seemingly had to go off of was that conjurers were born female.

Sometimes, they’d conduct their mission by way of senseless inspections. They’d rip apart the insides of homes looking for all the wrong things in all the wrong places. Truthfully, with how absurd they carried themselves, it was obvious they didn’t know the telltale signs they were looking for and were wasting their time. Which was what made it clear that for them to be so clueless, even Naraku didn’t know all there was that made up a conjurer. They were ignorant and they were blind, but they were also relentless and ruthless.

The days where they singled women out were the worst. Kagome, so far, was spared that cruelty, but that didn’t make it any better. It was usually the more mature, the elderly, that received the short end of the stick.

More often than anything, they’d line up every woman and girl in town and go down the rows one-by-one, stimulating their nerves in one way or another to see if they could get a “conjurer’s reaction.” Kagome could only guess that meant a sudden surge of purification power. It was the main trait conjurers were known for; but they were going about it wrong. Screaming in their faces, threatening everyone, or jostling them around a bit wasn’t going to get the demons purified, no matter how much she wanted to toss something their way. Of course, she wasn’t going to be the one to tell them that.

Every so often, they’d come in a pack and create havoc with violence. They said it was their way to pressure people into giving up any information they might have, but in all honesty, the smiles some of the brute demons wore said they were bored and simply wanted a little entertainment. Apparently, screaming and pleading were equivalent to a musical number in their bloodlust eyes.

Their own little group of demon slayers that resided in the village helped prevent this from happening when they could, which was why the henchmen came in numbers. The demon slayers fought for a sense of control, not to kill. They would only allow so much, but belligerent violence was not an option. It was obvious that, as of late, their village was a targeted spot, one that got a little more attention than neighboring towns, and for what reason, no one knew. They didn’t have the fighting power to win that sort of fight, though, and the leader of the group of slayers was sensible enough to understand this and explain it to the masses that questioned them. They were made up of a handful of men with rigorous combat skills they didn’t learn from home, refused to take recruits below a certain age, and could only train so many at a time. As much as they’d all love to retaliate and end things for good, intuition was telling them not to in that manner. Even Kagome felt that. Deep in her gut, she knew that even if they could, killing them would only put the people of the village in a worse position. This wasn’t something that would stop by taking out the underlings. Not at all. Far from it. Anyone who was paying attention could see that they’d need to exterminate the head honcho in order for any positive difference to be made.

Unfortunately for them this time around, their little pack of demon slayers had left on a request to take care of a troublesome demon a little ways off just that morning. And, listening to the henchmen now, seeing them in their dark leather, their cloaks, feeling their dangerous energies wafting through the streets of their little town, Kagome could tell that they were going to do whatever they wanted tonight, despite the fact that it was just the four of them. It wouldn’t be horrible, and would most likely be a lineup, but they were definitely going to take their sweet time and see who they could break.

“There’s still time. They haven’t noticed you. We can hide you.” Her younger brother said, his tone more on the convicted side as opposed to suggestive. He should have known she wouldn’t have gone for it, though. So long as every other woman and girl had to stand in front of their villainous promises and vile breath, so long as her mother had to keep a straight face, Kagome would always stand there with them. She’d made a promise to her brother, her older cousin, and especially her mom that she’d never willingly out herself for no reason, but she just couldn’t bring herself to hide when everyone else had to stand through their harassment. She swore that if the demons were ever convinced an innocent was a conjurer, that was the reason to give herself over.

Never would Kagome allow another to mistakenly go down in her stead.

No one but her family knew of her powers, and until necessary, it would stay that way. According to her cousin, the more people that knew, the increased danger she was in.

“Let’s just get this over with.” She shook her head, minding her steps through the small slope of mud as she gently pulled her arm out of Sota’s grip.

“Miroku would say the same thing if he were with us.” He argued.

“Yeah, well he’s not. In fact, he’s probably getting himself into trouble by picking a fight with one of those goons.”

“Kagome, I have a bad feeling about this. Come on, just listen for once.”

“Okay,” She stopped, turning around to challenge his look. “Say something bad is going to happen. Knowing these assholes, you really think my absence will stop that?”

“No, but -“

“Right. They’re going to do something no matter what, correct?”

“Kagome -“

“And then what?”

“And then they’re wrong, but they didn’t get you.”

“How is that fair to the person they might hurt?”

“That person isn’t my sister.”

“What if it’s mom?”

Sota’s eyes slighted to the side, a heated huff leaving his lips just before he begrudgingly sealed them. His jaw clenched minutely as his head gave a little shake, brown eyes once more meeting his sibling’s. “Miroku and I will protect her.”

Kagome gave a fed up smile, sighing, rolling her eyes, and turning back on her heel to continue toward the main path. Families came out of their homes dressed in cloaks as they prepared to, once more, be harassed until Naraku’s men exhausted themselves, husbands and male relatives holding resentful expressions as they guarded their female family members until they couldn’t any longer.

“Kagome!”

“Sota, quit it. The louder you are, the more suspicious we become.” She quietly warned. Kagome heard her brother’s aggravated grumble before he jogged forward to catch up, his demeanor holding much like every other male in the village.

No one’s feet rushed toward the excitement. The tension of the town was up so dramatically that Kagome could physically feel the crushing weight of it all, the anxiety as they made their way closer to their disgusting visitors was causing her stomach to bubble and waver, and her throat constricted nervously as she and Sota finally met up with the crowd, her brown eyes scouring over shoulders to scout out her family. Sota’s hand encircled her wrist firmly, tugging her to the right as he found them and guided her over. Miroku stood tall in front of their mother, brows noticeably creased and indigo eyes straight ahead until he’d caught their movement in his peripheral vision. Immediately, his posture squared further, as if enlarging his shoulders so that he’d be able to successfully hide both Kagome and his aunt behind his frame. Her mother held out her hand for Kagome to take as soon as they were close enough, a peaceful smile unsurprisingly gracing her lips while she pulled her in, shoulder-to-shoulder. Somehow, no matter the circumstances, she always did her best to calm Kagome’s nerves with the simplest of sweet gestures. Sota took his spot before them, influenced by Miroku’s stature as he replicated it.

Allowing herself a brief moment, Kagome bowed her head further, bracing it on her older cousin’s shoulder. She shut her eyes, inhaling slowly, deeply, attempting to release her trepidation with a long and heated exhale before composing herself and straightening out.

“- But this is too much! Why the hell are you back again!? There’s no conjurer in our village! Don’t you fucking get that by now!?” A man shouted, livid, and it was evident she and her brother had missed the beginning of the argument playing out in the center of the uneven circle created by people.

“Get the fuck out of the way!” One of Naraku’s men yelled back.

“Not until you tell us why you’re back for the third time!”

“Would you rather we made ourselves at home!?” Silence from the opposing man answered his question clearly. “That’s what I fucking thought.” He spewed, and Kagome could hear the spittle fly out as he cursed. His attention returned to the general public, his tone shifting from vicious to gruff as he made his command. “Only girls ranging from ages five to twenty, line up! Now!”

Increased unsettlement coursed through the crowd, mothers and fathers clinging to their young daughters, little girls’ fearful whimpers polluting the air as they hid their faces in their parents’ legs, and even Kagome’s own mother’s hand tightened her grip as a breathy gasp left her lips - understanding that this meant her eighteen year old daughter was being sent into the fire without her. They were narrowing down, slimming the numbers, and the small smiles on the villains’ faces made Kagome assume that something last time may have tipped them off to lessen the demographic.

“What do I do?” Kagome whispered to her cousin, failing in her attempt to hide the sudden panic striking her.

“Nothing. You do nothing.” He urged quietly, shifting his head to look into his younger relative’s eyes. “Listen, Kagome, treat this like routine -“

“This isn’t routine.”

“Treat it like it is. Keep your head down.”

“If they -“

“No.”

“But, they’ll -“

“Kagome, no. You made us a promise.” Miroku reminded firmly, knowing exactly where her mind was traveling. In the case of an incident, which there seemed to be a higher chance of this time around, she may need to intercede.

She took a deep breath, straightening her face as much as possible so Naraku’s men wouldn’t grow suspicious as they impatiently yelled again for the girls to gather before them. “If this means they suspect something -“

“It may just be a tactic they’re using. For all we know, they have nothing and could leave here with the same. So, treat it like routine. Okay?”

“Promise.” Sota insisted during Kagome’s silence. The mens’ barking got louder, more demanding, as did the crying of little girls being pulled away from their parents. With the building weight in her chest, like a liquid filling her lungs quickly, the density making it almost impossible to take full breaths of air or move without falling forward, all she could muster was a meager nod before forcing herself to walk out. Miroku and Sota both leaned to opposite sides to part their shoulders for her to move through, her mother’s soft hand still lightly holding her own until she was far enough for their fingers to slide away from each other’s.

At most, there were about twenty girls in that age range to offer, and Kagome’s brown eyes drifted over the uneven row of heads as she approached, finding her friend in the mix trying to calm the little girl beside her. Sango glanced her way, as if feeling Kagome’s eyes on her, giving an apprehensive grin and waving her over.

“Ready?” Kagome asked, though it was completely rhetorical. It was just habit for these things. It was unavoidable, unexpected, and overall, impossible to be ready for. But, when they bounced the question off of each other, it was like one final reminder to stone.

Sango knew. Sango and her family were the one exception to the familial rule. She was Kagome’s closest friend and Miroku’s significant other. She was more than trustworthy. And, more importantly, had known since Kagome accidentally found out, herself, as a kid. Because, that’s how it was being a conjurer. You weren’t born knowing. You didn’t have an outward appearance that proclaimed your status much like demons did. It was always an accidental happenstance; in her case where she put a little too much oomph into her bow and arrow lessons and purified the evil - and life - right out of a passing crow demon after missing her target.

She remembered the feeling of total surprise, then tremendous fear because she thought she’d be in a lot of trouble. Kagome had literally thrown her bow to the ground like the thing, itself, was the culprit of the power. Miroku was gawking, Sango was covering her mouth with both hands, and their dad’s shared an identical, tight-lipped expression. Her papa was motionless for an overwhelmingly-tense sixty seconds before shifting his wide, curious eyes to her.

“Did you know you could do that?” He’d asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, daddy.” Kagome innocently answered, but she could feel the red, hot heat in her face from her lie. She was awful at those when it came to the people she was close to. Still was to this day. Give her a stranger and she could keep it straight, but in the face of friends and family, she cracked almost too easily. It was a guilt thing.

But then he’d laughed, ruffling his little girl’s hair before reassuring her that it was okay. He said they’d just have to go about her training a little differently from that point on to make sure accidents like that didn’t keep happening, and it was only because of him, his adventurism, his accessibility to knowledge from his travels, that she even discovered what she was in the first place.

Back then, though it wasn’t quite as dangerous to exist as a conjurer, her papa had still suggested they keep her abilities under wraps. She distinctly remembered binding that with a pinky promise after Sango’s dad had a private discussion with her own. Maybe it was because Sango’s dad was even more educated with the world, and knew the potential hardships that could come her way, being the leader of the demon slayers that he was - and still is. Honestly, the reasoning was hard to determine now because she didn’t put much thought into it when she could and should have. Being the young, spunky, loyal girl that she was, if her dad wanted her to keep a secret and held out his pinky to her, that was all the reason Kagome needed, and nothing pleased her more than making her papa proud. And, when he and her uncle were fatally wounded in a demon attack on their village, even though Naraku’s name had never once yet been muttered near her ears, he still made her do one final pinky promise to him saying, “Protect yourself for me, my little bird. Keep it in its cage. I love you so much, Kagome.”

She wasn’t even a teenager when that had happened. There was a part of her that wondered here and there if he was secretly clairvoyant, or if he merely studied the patterns throughout history of people of her kind and wanted nothing more than to keep her safe and make her life as easy as possible, given the reputation they had, their ever-changing titles, and the ignorance others had of their nature. If only he knew where she was now. Would he still ask his little bird to stay in the cage while the door was wide open?

“Ready. You?” Sango returned, standing straight and allowing the little girl to cling to her leg.

“Ready.” Kagome breathed.

Those not lined up hesitantly backed away, creating space and growing agonizingly silent as they seemingly held their breaths for those that were chosen. Kagome hated when they did that. It was like she could physically feel the onlookers’ anxiety, and it was the last thing she needed on top of that of those actually subjected and her own.

The four men walked back and forth, up and down the two rows of girls, criminal eyes taunting them with silent threats and menacing grins. It was creepy, but no longer was it fear-inducing. Kagome had a bad habit of not shying away anymore. Sure, she was nervous beyond belief, but the last thing she was afraid of were their snarls, scarred and dirty flesh, and crooked teeth. That, of all things, was the least intimidating factor for those who were calloused to the routine.

But, when an abrupt instruction was given by the leader, her already-loose expectations of “routine” fell apart completely.

“Hold out your left hands, palms up!”

Confusion soared through every individual, and Kagome met Sango’s brief side glance, minutely comforted by the fact that she wasn’t the only one without a clue as to what was going on. Questions weren’t allowed though, and even the little ones were well aware of that, so as the small group of men demanded everyone shut up and do it, all outward bafflement dissipated.

Slowly, Kagome raised her left palm, her arm outstretched, swallowing as she willed the slight trembling to cease. Brown eyes searched quickly as she waited for whatever to begin, weeding through the crowd and finding Miroku already pinning her with a stare. It was wary, but hard, his jaw visibly tense.

The sound of an unsheathing blade was unmistakable, and immediately Kagome’s attention bounced to her left where the leader danced the grip of a knife in his fingers, his lips curved downward into a permanent frown. The first girl in line couldn’t have been any older than fifteen, noticeably shaking as her anxious stare bounced from the man to the blade.

A man in the crowd began shouting, stirring, pushing forward through the heap of villagers to reach the forefront, “Hey! No! What are you going to do!? That’s my daughter; what are you going to do!? Don’t you dare touch -“ Abruptly silenced by a defensive elbow to the diaphragm, gifted by an all-too-fast demon.

The young teenager shuddered, not sure what to worry about first as the leader gave her no moment to react, grabbed her hand, extended it further, and gave a small slice with the tip of his knife to the center of her palm. She winced, a whimper easily escaping her mouth from the sharp pain, tears leaking from her eyes quicker than the blood that seeped from her laceration. And then he grabbed her hand in his, sealing their palms together as he stared her in the eyes for a moment. She was utterly terrified, wanting to pull away while knowing she shouldn’t, but as nothing else happened, the man released her, murmuring to stay in line as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his blade, his hand, then moved onto the next.

Kagome’s attention snapped back to Miroku as it dawned on her, his eyes holding the same idea as he gave a steady but stern shake of his head in retort. They were looking for the untrained conjurers. The conjurers who weren’t skilled in holding back. Everyone was already scared, and the wound inflicted a heightened sense of fight-or-flight. Then their hands gripping the victims’ - their demon hands against the victims’… they were working to spark a purification reaction, and they were going about it right this time. It wouldn’t be strong enough to kill them, nothing that small or unsuspecting would be, but it would hurt - much like the notorious fairytale of a vampire taking a quick step into the sunlight before swiftly turning around and heading back inside. And, that was all they needed.

Unbeknownst to everyone but Sango and Miroku, Kagome wasn’t completely helpless. Not only was she well-versed in subduing her powers, but alternatively speaking, she could knock a guy completely on his ass. She’d practiced. She’d practiced for hours at a time for several years now to see what she could do, what sort of strength she possessed, all on the far outskirts of the village, hiding near caves with only her friend and cousin who'd agreed, despite promises and secrets, that they all should try to be prepared for anything. By no means was she an expert, but she could handle her own for the most part and a situation like this was something she’d been well-conditioned for, for quite some time now.

Especially since she’d first received that message in a dream.

The responsibility is ours.

Whatever it meant, no matter how bleak it felt, it was a no-brainer that Kagome couldn’t go on without some sort of knowledge of her own potential.

She took a shallow breath, diverting her gaze to the goon before her as he happily took out his own blade, the other two following suit as they set out to narrow the time this was going to take. He stepped forward, grasping the wrist of the frightened and resistant girl beside Sango, who Sango had to hush into calming, telling her it would be done quickly. When nothing gratifying came from the occurrence, the man moved on to Sango, pinning her with a glare that she challenged right back. She hardly flinched at the slice of her skin, brown eyes never leaving the demonic ones of her assailant. When she shrugged a brow as he clasped their hands together, Kagome could practically see the heat rising in the man’s body language, quickly fuming from how audacious Sango was acting - which Kagome couldn’t help but respect, not knowing if the chuckle she forcefully swallowed was one of matched humor or nervousness.

The man threw Sango’s hand to the side, merely wiping her blood from his palm and blade on his pants before vehemently grabbing Kagome’s and extending her arm completely, bringing an inadvertent gasp to escape her throat. As the tip of his knife pierced her palm, dragging slowly to create a burning gash - one larger than Sango’s, so she suspected her nonchalant pass of amusement wasn’t as admissible as she’d thought - Kagome couldn’t stop the hiss that slid off her tongue, her brows creasing and jaw dropping as crimson dripped from her hand to the mud. With a clap, he pressed his palm to hers, fingers squeezing her small hand with unmitigated pressure. She felt a flurry in her abdomen, her diaphragm, her chest, warmth that drove her power, and that was her cue to hold her breath, to pretend everything was fine, to tell herself she was safe and trick her mind when she really wasn’t. She pretended she was holding Sota’s hand - the first person that came to mind, and the least intimidating one that she knew. Sota as an adult whose hand was finally bigger than hers. She couldn’t help but feel this was a huge insult to her younger brother, so she subconsciously apologized as she continued her visualization. It was like a lump built in her throat, the kind that grew too difficult to swallow, but she also felt completely in control, returning the man’s stare before he dropped her hand and moved onto the girl beside her.

“Shh,” Sango gently hushed the small child. “Everything’s fine now, but you have to stay quiet. Give me your hand.”

Kagome slowly let out her captive breath, the air she sucked in to replace it cold and not the least bit comforting despite the danger she’d evaded. She kept her palm face up but closer to her heart, cradling it for a moment as she tried to ignore the searing pain, diverting her attention to Sango and the kid. Her best friend was already looking up at her, using the long sleeve of her shirt to clean the blood from the girl’s hand and apply pressure so it’d stop bleeding, never minding the bleeding of her own palm. Thankfully, it only looked to be a little knick, and Kagome wondered if the creep of a demon that had handled them secretly had a soft spot for children.

“You okay?” Sango silently mouthed to Kagome. She nodded in reply, picking up the bottom hem of her own shirt and pressing it to her wound.

A sudden, deep, and broken yell punched through the air as one of the demons stumbled away, his hand yanked back, fingers furled in offense, and face twisted in rage. A little girl shrieked as he lunged forward, grabbing her by the collar of her cloak and pulling her out of the line, her feet stumbling to keep up as she cried apology after apology.

No. Conjurers weren’t common; now more than ever. How could there be two in one village? Especially one as small as theirs? How could there be more than one not even miles apart? How did Kagome not know? Didn’t conjurers have the ability to sense one another? She’d only assumed that was the case because of the seemingly-prophetic dreams she’d been having; because of the woman that had been coming to her in those very dreams. It was a weak hypothesis to go off of, but it was the only answer that made sense to Kagome. But, now there was a child being dragged into the center of where the town congregated, begging and pleading for her life while her mother screamed from the sidelines where she was being held at bay, and Kagome was none the wiser to her existence.

She wanted to yell that they were wrong, but how could they have been? It was a physical test. The accidental reaction of her powers was a dead giveaway. They couldn’t even lie their way out of this, or pretend the allegation was false. She was a conjurer. And they were about to kill her.

Kagome’s heart twisted and bunched painfully, that hard lump once more building in her throat, a murmured, “no,” barely leaving her parted lips, and her brown eyes caught a pleased grin on the approaching leader’s face that, just moments ago, seemed stuck in a scowl. He twirled his dagger in his fingers before kneeling down in front of the weeping girl.

“Found you.” He snickered, plunging the blade into her abdomen.

“No!” Kagome gasped, slapping her hands over her mouth in shock. The village was alight with terror, screams, cries, the rumble of defeat, the wailing of a grieving mother striking over all other sounds. Still, she was withheld from her little girl, reaching for her over the shoulder of the unforgiving demon who kept her away.

The knife was yanked free of the girl’s gut and she fell to her knees, her hands braced before her stomach as crimson crawled out, staining the front of her rain-soaked dress. Small hands weakly pressed into her abdomen, the wide look of horror, of pain, of fear etched into every inch of her expression as she gasped tremblingly. All too easily, the leader stood and walked away, not an ounce of remorse displayed.

“She was… she was just a kid.” A sympathetic village man stated morosely. “She wasn’t even ten yet.”

“She wasn’t dangerous!” Another testified.

“Would you like to be next?” A demon threatened, thinking his raised voice would retain order.

Kagome could hardly breathe, tears burning and brimming at her lower lid. All she could think to do was try to stop the bleeding, try to save the child, her feet moving on their own accord as she rushed out of line. Beyond the anger building in the crowd, the yelling growing louder, and the intense disturbance increasing rapidly and overwhelmingly, Kagome heard her name called multiple times. But, she couldn’t bring herself to listen, to stop, as she skidded to her knees in the mud, her arms catching the little girl as she fell forward. Her mother was finally freed, racing over and falling to the ground at her child’s side, helping through her weeping to lay her on her back.

“It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s here.” She soothed as best as she could, hovering over her daughter's face so the rain wouldn’t hit it, shaking fingers pushing sopping hair from her cheeks.

Kagome grabbed the length from the girl’s cloak that stuck out on her side, bunching it and pressing firmly into the wound. The choked gasp that came from the kid was agonizing, and Kagome apologized profusely, blinking away her own tears as she whipped her head around to take in the rousing group of people, fury evident in their tones, in their bodies, as they returned threats with the offending demons.

“Where’s the doctor!?” Kagome asked as loudly as she could, her soaked, dark hair whipping her in the face as she spun her head around to try and find their town's self-proclaimed physician. “Help! We need help!”

“He isn’t here; he left for herbs yesterday.” Sango informed as she dropped down beside Kagome.

“And he still isn’t back!?”

“The storm must have delayed him.” Sango shook her head in response, her brows creased together as she glanced over her shoulder to quickly mind the budding commotion before turning her worried expression back toward the crying child. “What can I do? How can I help?”

“I don’t - I don’t know.” Kagome stammered, her breathing growing heavier as she panicked, noticing the blood was barely halting, the stain in the girl’s dress expanding and absorbing through the cloth she pressed against the wound.

“Apply pressure!” Miroku instructed when he slid to his knees in the mud on their opposite side, careful of the girl’s mother.

“I am!” Kagome cried.

“Stay with me, baby! Stay with me! I’m right here, look at me!” The woman coo’d, sniffling and gasping with her tremors while the comforting smile never left her lips.

“Hey! Leave her! Let her die, or we’ll kill you too!” One of the vile men demanded, though his shouts went ignored, easily drowned out by the encroaching, enraged men who finally appeared fueled enough to physically challenge them. Kagome could only hope they’d hold the demons back so they’d have the chance to save her.

“Here, let me see!” Miroku pushed Kagome’s shaking hands away, pulling aside the cloth of the cloak to take a peek at the wound in her stomach. Kagome had to look away then, the sight of the thick blood seeping through too much to handle. Instead, she focused her attention on the little girl, crawling up to hold her cold, bleeding hand.

Scared, pained, blue eyes focused on Kagome as she took shuddering breaths, her chest convulsing slightly as her small voice broke with her cries. Little fingers softly gripped her hand in return, and the tiniest of smiles curved her lips upward, light beginning to dim from her irises.

“Miroku!” Kagome urged. She glanced back at him and noticed the hopeless expression on his face. One that claimed there was nothing anyone could do. Her heart dropped, a nauseating weight filling her stomach. Quickly, she turned back to the little girl, leaning an inch closer. “Kikyo and the other conjurers, they’re gonna win, okay? We’re gonna win. I promise.”

“Who’s…”

“You! What did you just say!?” Heavy steps sloshed in the mud toward them, his voice low, growling, dangerous.

Kagome had spoken up to be sure the girl had heard her over the yelling, but she hadn’t realized that it could have been heard by anyone else. She didn’t think about the ramifications. She didn’t think. She’d just wanted to fill the child with some form of final hope. What was wrong with that? Was it the fact that she’d said Naraku would fall?

She’d hardly had enough time to turn and react before she was grabbed by the hair and lifted to her feet, yelping as she was dragged back and away.

“You mentioned Kikyo!” He exclaimed, giving a forceful yank as Kagome loudly gasped from her constant stumbling, the pain on her scalp, the fear racing through her. In the thick of it, she’d forgotten Kikyo wasn’t a person who was widely known. She’d forgotten Kikyo was a secret beacon of hope to the surviving conjurers, who appeared in dreams and spoke in riddles.

“No!” Was all she could manage to reply, screamed brokenly, heard clearly throughout the number of villagers around as the action died down and all attention was on them.

“How do you know her!?”

She yelped again, forcefully pulled backward and released to only trip and fall over some tools.

“Tell me, wench!” He demanded, picking Kagome up by her throat and slamming her back against the wall of a home.

“I don’t!” She adamantly swore, still able to speak. His grip was there, but not choking.

“Liar!” He said, slapping her hard across the face. “How do you know Kikyo!?”

“I heard of her in passing!” Kagome cried, wincing from the sting before she was forced to look at him again.

“I find that hard to believe.” He growled, inching closer to her face. His hold on her throat tightened, cutting off air, thick fingers pinching painfully into the sides of her neck. “Where is she?”

“I - I don’t know.” She sputtered, wheezed, her tears hot as they glided down her face. The rain was nothing but a drizzle now, though the distant sound of thunder roared angrily. She was both cold and hot, her lungs begging for air as his hand pushed further against her windpipe.

“Stop it! Let her go!” Miroku barked, and his presence was just enough to distract Naraku’s henchman and cause him to release some tension from her throat. Kagome greedily sucked in as much air as she could, though he still constricted his fingers against her. It was like breathing through a straw.

Her cousin stood there, dark hair sticking to his temples, bloodied hands braced before him as if to reason. “She doesn’t know anything; she just told you!”

“Oh, another tough guy?” A demon behind him chuckled. “A little scrawny for that, don’t you think?”

“You have me wrong, I don’t want to fight. Release my cousin, and we’ll back away peacefully. She meant no harm.”

“The harm was done when she stepped out of place to save the girl!”

“She was a child!”

“She’s a conjurer! She has no place in this world!”

“She did! She did have a place in this world, and we all know it!”

“You best shut the fuck up, boy.” The leader said from the sidelines. “Word may carry that you’re on their side. Now, you wouldn’t want that. Would you?”

“Tell him to let go of her.” Miroku sternly ordered.

“Back off.”

“Let her go!”

“Suit yourself. Have some fun.” Their leader flicked a finger at the two other demons, allowing them to do as they pleased.

Miroku hissed a low, “Fuck,” before dodging a hit from one of the two demons enclosing in on him. He was able to throw one of his own, nailing an ugly bastard in the face before he was grabbed from behind, bulky arms wrapping under and over his shoulders to hold him in place. The other demon was eager while he arrogantly approached in front of him, smiling as he punched Miroku in the stomach.

“Stop! Miroku!” Kagome squirmed against her own offender’s grasp, her instincts beginning to kick in as she felt a wild sensation build in her veins. Something righteous whispered the power she held in her ear, told her to use her abilities to save her cousin, further fueling the heat that made her forget about the nip in the air.

“Kagome, don’t!” Miroku coughed, pinning her with his indigo gaze before his eyes pinched shut from a swift hit to his diaphragm, blood dribbling over his bottom lip and down his chin.

Control sucked Kagome back to the present, the earnest crackle of Miroku’s voice ringing in her ears and overpowering the one that told her to fight. The grip against her throat tightened again, closing off her air passage as red eyes turned back to her, the lines of his frown deep.

“Don’t, what?”

Kagome wasn’t sure if he actually expected an answer or not, but he’d made it physically impossible. She clawed her nails along the thick skin of his large hand, trying to pry him away so she could breathe. It was dire that she didn’t use her powers; she understood this. But, as the adrenaline raced violently through her body, it was growing increasingly harder to keep it subdued. She’d be killed in a heartbeat; she’d already witnessed their unforgiving lack of hesitation. Her mother and younger brother would have to watch. Her cousin, too. She’d promised everyone she would protect herself, and she'd promised herself that she would protect them. Above all that, a different, deeper, more rational voice spoke to her, drowning out the one that told her to take action just a moment ago, telling her that her fight was meant for somewhere else. Something bigger. She could practically feel the breath hitting her ear, urging her of the importance. It told her to swallow it, hold it at bay, keep it buried no matter how badly it burned for release at the underside of her flesh. Keep it in its cage.

Finally, the demon released his tight hold on her neck, opting to firmly grip the front of her shirt. His upper lip twitched in disdain while Kagome sputtered, and coughed, and gasped for air to fill her lungs.

“Don’t, what?” Naraku’s henchman repeated, this time a little lighter, and it was impossible to miss that he was visibly analyzing for any sort of body language that could tip him off.

“Fight.” Kagome attempted to say, though her voice came out incredibly raspy and broken.

“Like I’d be worried about what a girl as small as you could possibly do to me. Unless,” He cocked a brow. “I’d have a reason to worry. Unless, you’re a conjurer.”

She shook her head, scared to look away from him, hyperaware of any movement she made in that moment. She was absolutely terrified of letting him know she was lying, but what if her stiffness was what told him the truth? What if the vehemence behind her objection was exactly what he needed to convict her? Where was the happy medium? Was there one? Kagome’s bottom lip quivered, resisting the impulse to glance Miroku’s way when he continuously coughed, the sound slightly gurgled, scared the shift in her eyes would be mistaken for something else.

“How else would you know who Kikyo is?”

“I - I h-heard of her in p-passing.” Kagome said, still unable to use her voice, and she wondered if the strangulation was enough to damage her vocal cords or if her anxiety was the cause of it. “I-In a nearby town. By - by the r-river.”

The demon yanked her forward and slammed her back against the wall, the back of her head smacking the wood painfully. “Are you a fucking conjurer, wench!?”

“No!” Kagome wheezed, releasing her own hold on his fist to emphatically present the blunt cut on her palm to him before she repeatedly smacked it against his forearm, smearing hers and the little girl’s blood, showing him the exact reaction - or lack thereof - they were looking for in coming today in the first place.

“Let - let her go.” Miroku was on his knees, breathing impaired, holding his side with one hand while the other braced his weight in the mud. “She’s not a conjurer. She’s not. She can hardly even hunt. I have to take her everywhere. There’s no way anyone that knows her would believe she’s one of them.”

“Being a conjurer doesn’t have anything to do with hunting, boy!” One of them spit.

“Well, how the hell would anyone know!?” Sango shouted from the side, still seated on her knees beside the child. Her cheeks were flushed furiously, and her hands were held out inches from her chest, palms up, covered in blood that she was afraid would never wash off. Their attempts were in vain and the mother wept, clinging to her little girl, her face buried in her daughter’s still chest. “Conjurers are practically going extinct; you’re all winning! We don’t know what they can do! They probably don’t know what they can do! Conjurers either have to hide to save their lives, or they don’t even know they are one yet!”

For a brief second, Kagome allowed herself to glance beyond Sango’s head, finding her family. Her mother’s hands were cupped in front of her mouth, trembling as she never removed her eyes from her daughter. Her brow was creased deeply, concern etched so thick you’d think an artist may have been too heavy with their pen. Kagome couldn’t tell if her mom was breathing slowly, or if she was holding her breath. She couldn’t tell if her mom was saying a silent prayer, or if words could barely form in her mind as she had no choice but to watch the scene unfold. Her mother had to witness a daughter torn away from another; a daughter who held the same, supernatural fate as her own. Kagome could only imagine the stress that currently laced her mom’s system.

Before her stood both her brother and Sango’s, Sota bearing a wide expression, neck tense and lips parted uncertainly, and Kohaku wearing a more cautious grimace, watching apprehensively. Knowing her onlookers were nervous, worried, should have been the very thing to cause Kagome to proceed carefully, but instead it served as the switch that flicked on in her head. She was tired of living like this, done with the dreadful thought that this was their normal. This wasn’t going to continue.

She’d been waiting for a sign, waiting for her cue. Bags were packed and weapons were stored in a hiding place where they’d been training outside of the village. Miroku, Sango, and she had discussed a while ago that they were going to eventually leave together and find the called-upon conjurers, and join Kikyo to fight against Naraku. It was their - the conjurers’ - responsibility. As much as she wanted to know why, pleaded with the apparition of this seemingly all-powerful conjurer time and time again for an answer, at this point it was no longer deemed necessary. Not anymore. Kagome figured she’d hear this magical invitation telling her when and where - which was farfetched but a fair assumption given she barely had anything to go off of. She even thought she might have to wait a while longer until she was stronger, more trained in her capabilities, before Kikyo gave her some form of clear signal instead of these ominous, detail-lacking prophecies in her subconscience that she was currently getting every other night. But now a tick in her core, an itch in her chest, a steady deepening in her resolve told her the time was now. Screw waiting, screw messages, screw rolling over, screw self-pity, and screw Naraku. If he wanted a fight, if this was his initiation all along, his declaration of war, then he was finally going to get one.

“If that’s the case, bitch, then what were you telling the girl?” The demon holding her collar jerked her slightly to demand her attention, receiving it with vexation.

“I,” Kagome took as stable a breath as she could, her throat aching and voice pathetically weak, clearly evident now that it was due to the ruthless strangling she’d received. “I told her Kikyo would kill Naraku.”

“And, why the fuck would you say that?” He asked, almost surprised at her bold statement.

“I wanted her to go with hope, not fear.”

He guffawed, his chest pumping. “You don’t actually believe that!”

Without hesitation, as straight as she could manage while she halted his laughter, Kagome replied, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

His smile faded quickly, humor replaced with anger as his fists bunched tighter and he heatedly pulled Kagome away from the wall and threw her to the floor. Kagome landed on her front, quickly pressing herself to her hands and knees just before he pushed her belly down, her wrists sliding and giving out so the side of her face planted in the mud.

“Kagome -“ Her cousin called, stumblingly crawling her way before another demon kicked him in the side he’d been clutching, a tiny crunch being heard just as Miroku choked in pain.

“Miroku, stop! I’m fine!” She attempted to say clearly, a foot braced on her back.

“Enough.” The leader stated. “Everyone back in line. We haven’t finished yet.”

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” A man asked disbelievingly. “You don’t think you’ve done enough damage already!? Get the fuck out!”

“Yeah, get out of here!” Other villagers began to call out, joining in. “You aren’t welcome here! You’re only taking advantage because our demon slayers are gone!”

“You think that matters?” The leader chuckled. “Go ahead. Revolt. Fight back. Make us leave. See how quickly your entire village will be wasted the next time around. You see four of us and think you stand a chance. You see a large group of us and think you’re safe because you’ve got a little pack of demon slayers protecting you. Funny, that’s never stopped our inspections before, so I don’t see why you think that’d stop us now. Either way, not a single one of you would be left alive if we brought a fraction of the wild demons under Naraku’s control, and he wouldn’t bat an eye if we borrowed them to kill you all. In fact, that’s already in the plan if we don’t check in. You kill us all, congratulations, but you’ll be worse off. Compared to him, we’re the most compassionate monsters you’ll ever meet, and I suggest you learn to appreciate that. Now, get your girls back in line.”

“It’s okay, papa.” An older girl spoke. Kagome couldn’t see from where she lay, but she recognized the seventeen year-old’s voice. Ayumi. She was soft-spoken normally, but also fairly brave and kind. The only child of a widowed father, and a girl, like the rest of them, forced to grow up too soon.

Ayumi walked forward, having backed away from the rowdiness with the majority of the girls who hadn’t run back to the safety of their parents. Notching her chin upward, she raised her left palm, “Let them finish. They won’t seem so big forever.”

“Bold girl.” The demon complimented.

“Yeah. The more I find myself hoping the conjurers win, the bolder I feel.”

“Careful, now. You’ll wind up getting yourself killed.”

“Looks like being female might just get me killed, anyway. So, I might as well go down confident that Naraku is the true evil here, and evil never wins.”

“What a disgusting cliche.” He groaned. “Grow a brain and come up with something original before you spew that sort of shit. It’s embarrassing. Look, I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but as the chick over there stated, we already are. We’re winning. Now, I won’t argue that we’re the bad guys here, but at this point in time, that doesn’t really matter.”

Ayumi swallowed thickly, eyes faltering downward for the smallest moment before she rose them to meet the red eyes of Naraku’s henchman. As sickeningly as that notion sat in her esophagus, Ayumi felt it would be worse if she’d sunken her shoulders at the validity of their power. By no means was she strong, and by no means was she actually all that courageous. Ayumi, true to heart, was a daydreamer, was a fantasy-enthusiast, was a soft, sweet, and hopeful wisher, was tired, was passive. So, while she could admit her stare wasn’t striking, her irises would never be vivid with the passionate heroism she dreamed about, her lips would never curve with a compelling and threatening snarl, she could also admit that just the act of matching his gaze was all she needed to do to defy defeat. With chapped lips parting, not a waver traveling over her tongue, she spoke. “Yes, it does.”

“Yes, it does.” Another girl agreed, approaching to stand beside Ayumi.

“The world hasn’t always been this way. Naraku only grew large less than five years ago.” A woman said, a mother, holding her fearful daughter in her arms. Several more girls got back in line, their shoulders a little more broadened than before. “I find it appalling how arrogant you all have gotten in such a short time. I assure you, conjurer, demon, human, or anything in between, I’d give them my trust sooner than I’d yield to the idea of life staying like this. Good and evil, the difference will always matter. So, yes. Yes, it does.”

“Inspirational.” One of Naraku’s demons remarked sarcastically, cringing.

“Hey, whatever blows your skirt up, lady.” The leader shrugged. “You can believe whatever you want. No sweat off my back. Funny enough, I’d put down all the money in my pockets right now to bet not a single one of them would return that trust, nor would they risk their lives to save you. I mean, not to play devil’s advocate or anything, but look at the twisted circumstances. What the fuck have you done to help them? Human’s are selfish; only looking out for themselves. You hate us showing up because you don’t want us to hurt you. It doesn’t have a damn thing to do with us hunting down conjurers, and it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with that little girl on the ground over there. If it did, you would have never watched it happen. If it did and it was just the ‘shock factor’ holding you back, you still would have done a little more than yell at us about how unfair it was. Oh, cry me a fucking river.” He grinned, stepping over to the first girl in the newly-formed line. There were less than half left that hadn’t been tested, and he got straight to work, unforgivingly slashing at the pre-teen’s palm and slapping his own to hers as he continued his heartless speech. “Even better, there’s two of your own on the floor, both of them getting quite the beating, and not a single fucking one of you did a damn thing to help. I understand the lad; that’s his - er - sister? Cousin? And, I mean, at least the chick tried to help the conjurer survive. I’ll give them kudos, but I think I speak for all of us non-humans when I say fuck the rest of you egotistical pricks. Oh no, my child might have a scar on her hand. Oh no, more trauma.” The leader mocked, his tone high and whiney. “Yeah, well, at least they’re not dead in the mud like little Suzie over there.”

There was a collective gasp from the audience at the harsh and morbid insensitivity. Still, no one challenged him. Someone should have, and no one said a thing.

Kagome tasted bile on the back of her tongue from the disgusting sentiments plaguing the thick, electric air. How cruel. She wanted to open her mouth and beg him to stop and just finish his job already, force her broken voice out to demolish his train of thought and hope he doesn’t mention the death for the remainder of his stay. The only thing stopping her was Miroku’s steady stare on her. It held more power than an order from his mouth to stay quiet ever could. With a foot on her back as a warning for more damage, the impending threat that he would easily be hurt again, and the fact that she’d said enough as it was, no matter how bold she felt in the face of this evil, she knew she was meant to face the source. She could only do that alive. So, begrudgingly, she obliged to his logical demand.

If they wanted them to finish, they needed to stop fighting. They needed to shut up. A double-edged sword. Like bowing their heads to the abuse. Enabling it. Allowing it so it ends quicker.

Kagome could feel her palms burning in the mud, a sense of humiliating defeat flooding her chest, making her feel sick to her stomach. She kept her eyes on Miroku, he kept his eyes on her. She tried to raise the volume of her thoughts, no matter how negative they were, to tune out the gasps and muffled cries of the young girls as they received the cut to their palms for testing.

How could she hold any form of power, yet still feel so powerless? How could she have the privilege of a voice, but feel so irrevocably silenced? She wanted to believe she could save everyone there if she just untied the knots concealing her abilities, but it physically pained her to understand that it was the wrong thing to do. It would be counterintuitive. It would wind up getting them all killed later. She could fight, but she also couldn’t.

“And, there you have it.” The leader finished by wiping his knife clean and slipping it back into the little holster on his hip, the hint of pride and sarcasm on his tongue. “Thank you so much for your cooperation and understanding. We’ll be seeing you.”

The demon holding Kagome down applied a small kick of pressure as he lifted off of her, chuckling as his dirty boots stuck in the mud with each step away.

There was an eerie silence, one that grew more deafening as the henchmen took their horses and disappeared from the village. It was heavy, thick, like sludge. Weighted with failure and death. Even the cries from the mother were muted. For a moment, Kagome thought that instead of drowning out the pained noises with her own thoughts, her brain had responded late to her distress by completely disabling her sense of hearing instead. But, she could hear the stickiness of the mud as she peeled herself from the ground to sit on her knees. She could hear feet slowly walking - most likely children rejoining their families. She could hear the thunder threatening them of the next onslaught of rain to come. The silence that captivated them was one that couldn’t be lifted with a simple, “Thank god that’s over.” No one could make it dissipate by asking if everyone was okay. Because, it didn’t matter.

And, that was something everyone, even the young, could recognize.

The small talk that would eventually come when everyone was back in their homes, the whispers, the crying, and maybe even tiny chuckles from people trying to find the little joys to get them through this, they would all be irrelevant. Because, outside there would be a blanket of despair thicker than the friction-inducing clouds hanging over them at this very moment, and it promised them there that it would stick around as long as it needed to.

“Hey,” A soft voice spoke in Kagome’s ear, a gentle, cold hand brushing her arm, and it was only when she gasped and jerked upright that she realized she’d been hanging her head, sights stuck on her hands on her thighs. “Sh, sh. It’s just me.” Her mother reassured, kneeling beside her and using her sleeve to try and wipe her face clean of some clumpy mud. “Are you alright, honey?”

Out of sheer reaction, she gave a meager nod.

“Look at me, Kagome. Look at me. Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.” Kagome said as convincingly as possible. When Miroku groaned, catching her mother’s attention and even her own, she was happy to have the focus off of her. Kohaku and Sango were beside him, trying to sit him up, freezing as he struggled.

“Come on, boy. Let’s get you home.” A couple, larger village men came over, better suited to help. One of them firmly clasped his hand in Miroku’s, quickly pulling him up to his feet so the pain wouldn’t be dragged out. Her cousin hissed at the shock, clenching his throat to try and swallow his grumble, and the two men supported him by pulling his arms over their shoulders.

“Can you stand?” Kagome’s mother asked.

“Yeah.” She whispered, not wanting to irritate her throat further and finding no real need to speak up right now. “I’m fine, mama. Don’t worry about me. Miroku needs your attention more.”

“Even if that were true, he’s kind of surrounded. I don’t think I’m needed there, love.” She replied, grabbing her by her elbow to support her as they stood together. “Sota, take her other side, please. Just in case.”

“Wait.” A broken voice called to them, trembling but by no means weak.

They all stopped just two steps in, looking over to the mother on the ground. Her daughter’s body, from head to toe, was covered by a long cloak belonging to one of the villagers beside her now, attempting to give comfort.

“Kikyo? Is that what you’d said? Kikyo?” She asked Kagome.

As clearly as she could, with a little nod of her head as she processed the question, Kagome said, “Yes.”

“Who is that?”

Kagome could feel the tension in her brow falter as the sympathetic, concerned curve in them wilted away to change more into dubiousness. “You - you don’t…” She didn’t know who Kikyo was. Even her own mother knew who Kikyo was. Her mom was the first to hear about her dreams before she started discussing them with the rest of her family. Had her daughter not had the same messages coming to her? Or, was she so confused, so distraught from them all, that she chose secrecy over being seen as insane?

“She’s a conjurer.” Kagome answered.

“Is she - is she a strong conjurer?”

“I think so.”

“I’m sorry, did your daughter never mention anything about Kikyo?” Sango carefully asked.

“N-no. Why would she?”

“We were just under the impression that she may have been sending survivors telepathic signals of sorts.” She said.

“That’s preposterous.” A man scoffed.

“Maybe. We heard it in passing. From an old man, no less.” Miroku said, discomfort laced in his tone.

“What - what could she possibly have had to say to a little girl?” The mother asked, her bottom lip quivering while her hand rested on her daughter’s chest.

“I’m sorry. I wish I knew.” The words were painful to speak. Not from her throat, but from the fact that she had to lie to a woman who’d had her everything stolen from her. A woman who, more than anyone, deserved the truth.

When she’d said what she’d said about Kikyo before, the little girl had muttered something in return before the demon tore Kagome away. It seemed like she was about to ask who Kikyo was. Kagome was sure now that the kid didn’t know. She hadn’t had the dreams, the premonitions, the one-sided conversations, nothing. She hadn’t had any communication with Kikyo, whatsoever. Maybe Kikyo was kind to exclude the young, and only spoke to the older, potentially more conditioned conjurers.

Or, maybe there was a possibility that Kagome was the only one.

And, it terrified her.

“Will she win? Kikyo? Will she defeat Naraku?” The crying mother asked.

Kagome was finding it hard to reply, to communicate. Her throat was tightening up as she watched the woman’s body begin to crumble once more toward her little girl’s; like she needed to be connected with her to prevent her from going cold. She could feel her eyes stinging, tears brimming, her fingers quaking and legs growing weak. Her cheeks felt hot and her chest wouldn’t allow a full breath of air - only unsteady, unmatched, quick puffs that burned. A hot hand slid into her right, her brother’s fingers tightening their grip, but she couldn’t control her body enough to grab it back.

“I refuse to believe otherwise.” Sango answered confidently.

The mother now sobbed, nodding in acknowledgment as she weeped over the covered body of her daughter. “Thank you.”

Kagome wanted to apologize profusely. For failing to protect her. For failing to try to protect her. For her loss. For the chance she was never given to learn to defend herself. For the silence she had to keep. The guilt was so heavy on her shoulders, she was ready to give in in front of them all, but the hand in hers pulled her back, made her move.

More villagers were moving toward the mother and child to help comfort while they removed the body, and that was the prime opportunity to get Kagome out of there. Sota could tell from the moment it started that she was going to break down, maybe even panic. He knew his sister, he knew the signs, he understood the stress she was under, and he wanted nothing more than to get her away and help her as best as he could. So, he disregarded everyone else and began pulling Kagome ahead. Miroku would have to move at a slower pace, Sango and Kohaku would stick by him and the men that helped, and he figured their mom would respect that they needed a moment of peace where they weren’t under more eyes than necessary.

Sota ignored the broken utterances of his name that came from his sister, he ignored the threatening weather, and he ignored anything that could potentially get in his way. He directed Kagome around their house, to the back, and toward the tree line of the woods. Three trees in past the shrubbery bush, on the opposite side of the trunk, Sota found the rope ladder to the treehouse their dad had built them hanging. Holding it steady, he released Kagome’s hand.

“Come on. Climb.”

-> | next chapter |

[theunreliablereviewer]

Swashbuckling adventures with two assassins, which is an oxymoron because pirates are obnoxiously loud while assassins are supposed to be stealthy. Story

I honestly stopped caring about the narrative after Assassin’s Creed 3 since Desmond’s story ended there and I see no reason to care for the rest anymore. I only bought this because it’s two games for the price of one.

Gameplay

I feel like I’m the wrong person to talk about this game because I literally go all-out crazy with combat instead of playing the game stealthily as intended. So all I can say is, if you enjoy these things;

Murdering people with an array of weaponry in all sorts of stylish manner

Commit mass genocide by ramming your pirate ship into other ships then boarding them

Scuba-diving among terrifying sea creatures Dear God please save me, I have a phobia of deep waters.

Parkour & Treasure Hunting (Collectibles Completionist will feel right at home but I personally can’t seem to be bothered by them)

Then it could definitely be the right game for you. All-in-all I actually don’t have much interest in this title and feel a slight bit of regret in purchasing it. But hey, maybe I’ll change my mind once I revisit this after clearing my backlog.

Graphics

Despite being released originally on the seventh-generation consoles, the graphics hold up really well by today’s standard. This is further enhanced by the Switch Lite’s smaller screen which removed all the jagged edges present on the original releases. For a handheld game, this is pretty impressive.

Performance

I got no complains whatsoever. No performance dip, slowdowns or such. Loading times are pretty fast too so that’s all I have to say here.

Play If -

You want to know what it’s like to be a pirate or an assassin.

A history enthusiast I guess? I’m not entirely sure of the historical accuracy here but you could try to write the events of these games as factual and see how your lecturer reacts on your History assignments.

Don’t Play If -

You’re not a fan of the Assassin’s Creed series.

You’re an impulse buyer of games on sale like me because this game goes on sale on a monthly basis and it might be super tempting to just spend that extra bit of cash left when you could’ve been more financially responsible like your mom told you to be.

[lanonima]

10 Reasons I like Chinese dramas better than American shows

I'm actually only going to be talking about fantasy shows because that's what I like. The only "modern style" shows I tend to like are mystery shows, but I've only seen one mystery show from China so I can't actually talk about that yet.

That being said, these are reasons why I've come to really appreciate Chinese military, historical, and fantasy dramas. I'm not putting this under a read more, because it doesn't deserve to be hidden.

1) Absolutely amazing female characters. There are so many female characters, so many, and they're always fantastic. Not only fantastic but different. These are female characters who are huge breakaways from American stereotypes (although there are archetypes in Chinese media and they're great, like the overbearing and unyielding badass lady warrior who uses a whip. Excellent archetype, I really love it). They're so much better written and so much more enjoyable. They almost always seen like real people, you know, how women are real people with diverse personalities, interests, and goals? Even on the more comedic side where they’re not as realistic, they're still so much more diverse. Also they can be super badass, and usually don't become not badass as soon as a dude enters the picture.

With the exception of Guardian which was based on a BL series, I haven't found a single drama with bland or boring female characters, and even that one had some interesting lady characters.

2) The costume design is absolutely incredible. Traditional Chinese clothing is so pretty and I just love looking at it. While period shows made in America and Europe can be interesting, they usually use costumes from periods of time where I think the outfits were honestly pretty boring. I’m much more into folk outfits and traditional clothing so watching Chinese dramas for that reason, you can't ever go wrong. Because the source material is so interesting, their fantasy takes on it are also interesting and beautiful.

3) The backgrounds and set designs are gorgeous. I wanted to talk about clothing specifically, but it should be mentioned that Chinese dramas just look good. The country itself is gorgeous and so they have so many places where they can film, and traditional Chinese architecture and aesthetics are beautiful in a completely different way from traditional Western looks. Basically from an aesthetic standpoint Chinese dramas are amazing.

4) Dramas are a single season which tells a contained story. While they may have between 50 to 80 episodes usually, they're all filmed at once, released at once, and are a contained story, one with possibly many subplots but one overarching plot. There may occasionally be a sequel, and there are still some issues with pacing and filler depending on the show (like Lingjian Mountain, which is based on long source material and so it has a very abrupt ending when they decide to stop telling the story), but they don't drag on for years and years and years like American shows do. For that reason they seem much tighter and well-written, and I always appreciate a story that is actually planned and not the writers making shit up as they go along.

5) A lot of them are based on books. This is really cool, because it allows stories to be told from many different writers and sources. A lot of them are based on published novels, and a lot of them are based on popular web novels, so things don't get stagnated and bogged down. It also kind of goes along with something that I wish Americans would do which is really embrace the miniseries as opposed to movies as far as book adaptations are concerned. Also it gives me lots of new things that I want to read in the future.

6) Chinese dramas based on gay source material are better than American shows that are gay. Yes, censorship is an issue in China and it probably will be for the foreseeable future. However the people making the shows (at least now) care so much and try so hard. The relationships are still very obvious to a Western audience, and so much effort is put into portraying them in the best way possible that they come off as so much more sincere than queer media here, which I almost always dislike.

7) Honestly even straight relationships in Chinese dramas are better. While I don't dislike sexual content, it's way oversaturated in the American market. People seem to think that a show can't be for adults unless there is sexual content, and a romance isn't complete without it. Comparing something like Game of Thrones (which I hate anyway but you know) or the Witcher (which I love) to something like the Story of Yanxi Palace, or the Untamed, or the show I'm watching now the Legends… There is no comparison. I think the reason why the censored gay relationships still work in Chinese media is because even the straight relationships are very tame. They take a long time to build up, which gives them ample time for chemistry to develop, before any sexual content happens or is alluded to. Basically! If you like yearning, and pining, and slow burn, watch Chinese dramas. If you don't like overly sexual shows, watch Chinese dramas. You will not be disappointed.

8) The cheesiness of their special-effects is constantly entertaining (to me). When it comes to 3D animated shows, China is way ahead of the curve and their animation is fantastic. But when it comes to their live-action shows they don't usually seem to devote a lot of budget to it. But every obviously fake weapon, and piece of foam armor, every line of red paint to indicate an injury, every weird CGI monster, they all fill me with such delight. I understand that this is not for everyone but I personally love it.

9) They're not held back by a fake idea of "historical accuracy”. We all know that Western fantasy is bogged down by stupid ideas of "the way things were back then" which are actually not true, but people refuse to think in any depth about the past whatsoever. And they refuse to take advantage of the fantasy genre to make their own rules. How can a fantasy story be historically accurate? Don't ask me, ask a lazy white male writer who does not care about thinking.

In Chinese dramas anything goes. Do you want there to be more women in fantasy, women with agency? Watch Chinese fantasy dramas. Do you want historical dramas that include really strong interesting female characters? Watch Chinese historical dramas. Same goes for queer characters as mentioned above. Do you want historical and fantasy stories wherein sexual assault is not a constant factor for female characters? Watch Chinese dramas. I won't say it never happens, but they do so many more interesting things and the times were does happen actually seem important to the plot. Chinese history is so long and interesting, but they also don't seem to care about historical accuracy a lot of the time. And that is so refreshing. Even though in doing so, they probably are being more historically accurate, but compared to the idea of “historical accuracy” that is wedged in the American subconscious, it's such a breath of fresh air.

10) The dialogue is amazing. If there's one thing that I really wish I could take away from the books and dramas that I'm consuming, it would be how to write dialogue like a Chinese author. God damn. What the fuck. There are so many lines that I remember Word for Word because they're just that good. There are lines that make me literally yell. There are lines of dialogue that I think about on a daily basis. I want to be able to write like this!!

BONUS ROUND: Xianxia is an incredibly unique genre. It's exactly what I was missing in fantasy, and this doesn't only apply to shows and movies but books and the entire Western fantasy genre as well. Actually when I started reading it, I realized that a lot of ways that I conceptualize magic in my work is kind of proto-xianxia. The history that led up to this genre, the tropes that it has, the character archetypes, the kinds of stories that are told… They're all so interesting and unique. It's a whole new world to explore, and I really wish people would give it a chance because it's absolutely full of interesting, hilarious, wild, and downright bizarre things. For anyone who wants to be a writer you should always try and expand your horizons and this is a great way to do it.

[thenarator]

ok so it’s not the temeraire madoka au i asked you guys about but i wrote some temeraire modern-au, reincarnation-au, soulmates-au stuff and i thought i’d see what you thought of it.

“Any monkey can walk upright; just because they can assume a human form does not mean they deserve human-”

Iskierka closed the laptop with a click, cutting off the recording of the opposition’s political rally they had been watching, and for this Temeraire was grateful. He had not realized, until he saw the care with which she handled the screen, how close he had come to slamming it down. Watching Arthur Lords’ speeches always riled him up, but he had even less patience for it tonight. He sat back in his desk chair and took a deep, steadying breath, trying to get himself under control.

“Vile man,” Iskierka spat.

“He is rather, isn’t he,” Temeraire said. It wasn’t a question.

Iskierka hummed in agreement, flipping her long red hair over one slim shoulder. She was perched on the edge of the large mahogany desk in Temeraire’s study, a place she had long established as her own no matter how many comfortable chairs Temeraire packed into the room. She preferred to position herself as inconveniently as possible for everyone involved, the better to make everyone pay attention to her. He had long since stopped putting things in her way.

“Two hundred years I’ve been fighting for our rights,” Temeraire continued heatedly, “and two hundred years we’ve been proving that we can be valuable to society. He acts as though dragons being anything besides organic war machines is some desperately untried scheme that will assuredly end in chaos.”

“He will make no progress on that front,” Iskierka assured him offhandedly. “You and I alone have too much of a stranglehold on the business world; if the government tried to take us down, they’d bring down England’s economy with us.”

“He can still make life difficult for us,” Temeraire argued. “According to the latest polls he’s got 27% of the British populace believing that reincarnation is a myth, and the dragon-captain bond is manufactured in order for dragons to steal human children.”

Iskierka huffed dismissively, not even liking to dignify such a position with a response. She, like Temeraire, had funded several studies that proved, unequivocally, what all dragons already knew: a dragon could always tell when their captain had been reincarnated, and with only a small amount of exposure to people, places and things they had known in their previous incarnations captains could remember the details of their pasts lives with amazing accuracy. Of course, these studies had been accused of being doctored to suit the needs of those funding them, so even though the majority of the public believed them, they did the dragons very little legal good.

There were no studies proving that the opposing position, that these memories were falsely implanted by dragons who had made themselves parts of their young captains’ lives, had any merit whatsoever, but that did the dragons very little legal good either.

Temeraire knew that dragon rights had made great strides in the last two hundred years. They were citizens, with the right to vote, attend universities, own property and hold positions in government. Some had opted to remain in the military, even after the advent of the aeroplane, but many had chosen to adopt other professions and the vast majority had accumulated significant wealth over the last two centuries. Humans had, at first, balked at the idea that reincarnation was a reality, but now it was generally considered a high honor to have a family member who was a reincarnated captain, and especially lucky for the parents of such a child who now did not have to worry about their future. Many dragons were able to simply gain custody of their infant captains straight away, or insert themselves into the captain’s family while they were young.

There were still, however, people like Arthur Lords. People who believed dragons were devils, sent to subjugate humanity with the advantage of immortality and the ability to shapeshift between human and dragon form. People who believed dragons had to be subjugated themselves, for the preservation of the humans who rightfully deserved the position of power. People who could gain little traction in denying dragons their rights, and so instead made nuisances of themselves by advocating for “parents’ rights,” the right of those to whom reincarnated captains were born to deny them their birthright. People who advocated for the chance to keep the captain away from their dragon, even going so far as to lie to them through childhood and even, if certain laws were passed, well into adulthood.

It did not help matters that the most recent reincarnation of Laurence, Temeraire’s beloved captain and historically another great proponent of dragon rights, was Arthur Lords’ only son.

“He is a wretched man,” was all Temeraire said. He felt that if he went any further than that he might actually do something, and that would not end well.

“You’ll find no arguments here,” Iskierka said dryly. “After he hired that lawyer to help my Granby’s new parents get a restraining order against me, and a gag order so I could not even tell the press, so he could not even hear about me through word of mouth-”

Temeraire sighed loudly, cutting her off. He did not feel up to listening to her complain about her situation with Granby’s latest reincarnation. He knew he ought to have more sympathy for her, but he did not have the energy tonight.

“What’s the matter with you?” Iskierka sniffed. “Usually you’re all too happy to talk about the sins of those anti-dragon zealots.”

Temeraire looked away. “It is Laurence,” he said quietly. “He is . . . close, tonight. His father must have taken him into the city for some reason, but he has been so far away for so long that he feels as though he is on the property.”

Iskierka opened her mouth, a haughty expression on her face for some unfathomable reason, when suddenly the intercom on Temeraire’s desk crackled to life.

“Mr. Tien,” came the voice of Temeraire’s personal assistant Natalie, “there’s been a disturbance near the south gate. Security has asked us to stay inside until they apprehend the intruder.”

Temeraire’s heart skipped a beat. He looked up at Iskierka, to a see a look of surprised speculation on her face. Clearly the thought that had occurred to Temeraire, the one making his skin prickle and his blood race, had occurred to her as well.

“Tell security I will see to it myself,” Temeraire replied, then leaped from his chair. He could feel Iskierka’s presence behind him as he moved through the mansion at breakneck speed. Dimly he heard Natalie calling after him but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

It probably wasn’t. In all likelihood it was not. But what if it might be? What if it was?

It seemed an eternity and no time at all passed between the revelation and reaching the south gate, but Temeraire immediately saw the disturbance Natalie had been speaking of. Two of his security team, burly men in kevlar, were clutching at a small boy of maybe twelve years of age. His blond hair flopped wildly side to side as he struggled, and his blue eyes shone in the dark.

“Let him go!” Temeraire croaked. He was surprised by how his voice sounded, rough as though from disuse.

The two men immediately jumped apart, leaving the young boy staggering to keep his feet. He stumbled a few steps forward, toward Temeraire, then paused. He looked pale and angry, but when he caught sight of Temeraire his expression shifted into one of confusion and uncertainty. Despite this, Temeraire thought he spied a glimmer of hope in the boy’s eyes.

“Laurence?” Temeraire asked. He did not need to ask. He knew perfectly well it was Laurence.

Laurence continued to stare at him, unmoving.

“No,” Temeraire shook his head, “it’s Alex, isn’t it? In this lifetime? Your name is Alex.”

Laurence hesitated a moment, then said, “Are you Xiang Tien?”

Temeraire smiled. “Properly my Chinese name is Lung Tien Xiang, but Xiang Tien is the name I use in England. You, however, may call me Temeraire.”

“So it’s true,” Laurence said, wonderingly. “I am . . . we are . . .”

“Yes,” Temeraire nodded slowly. He did not know how Laurence had found out, having been kept famously isolated from the highly public custody battle, but it was plain that he had somehow learned of their bond against his father’s wishes. “We are.”

Laurence took a halting step forward. Immediately Temeraire dropped to his knees, arms outspread to receive him. He had never wanted to hold Laurence more in his life, even when the only form his could assume was that of a 20 ton dragon. Twelve years of separation was long enough. But he would not force it.

“Come to me,” he begged. “Dear Laurence, please, come to me.”

Laurence came. Stumbling at first, his quick strides ate up the distance between them and then he was throwing himself into Temeraire’s arms. Temeraire grasped him tightly, holding him as close as he dared. He did not want to frighten Laurence, deprived as he had been of all reminders of his past lives, but he needed the contact so very much. He could feel his strength returning, feel the weakness that had come with Laurence’s long absence ebbing away. Suddenly he felt like he could take off and fly without even shifting into a form with wings.

Eventually Laurence began to squirm, and Temeraire let him go. He knew he had missed the Rapid Eye Movement that had come with the first of Laurence’s memories; Iskierka had probably seen it, standing behind him, but that was unimportant. What was important was what came next. Would Laurence remember the words? The ones they had said to each other in each and every one of Laurence’s lifetimes so far?

“I will not make you stay,” Temeraire said carefully, looking deep into Laurence’s clear blue eyes.

Laurence smiled, eyes bright and oh so achingly familiar. “No, my dear,” he said, reaching out to touch Temeraire’s face, “I would rather have you than any ship in the Navy.”

“Oh Laurence!” Temeraire cried, tugging the little boy back into his embrace. He laughed against Laurence’s hair, feeling more than hearing Laurence’s answering laugh against his skin. He felt Laurence’s skinny arms clutching at him, and he stood, lifting his captain up and spinning him around.

“Temeraire,” Laurence said, still laughing slightly, “Temeraire put me down!”

“No,” Temeraire argued, “I do not want to! I have only just gotten you back, I will carry you around for a few days yet, I think.”

With his renewed strength he tossed Laurence into the air a little, then quickly scooped him out of his fall so that one of his arms was beneath Laurence’s knees and the other supporting his back. He felt lighter than air, like he could carry the boy in his arms around for a week without getting tired, even in this shape. He had Laurence back. Finally.

“Temeraire!” Laurence laughed, louder now. “Temeraire, you can’t-”

“I’m very sure I can,” Temeraire insisted, and Laurence put his arms around Temeraire neck, still laughing.

“Ahem,” said a testy voice behind Temeraire, making him turn with Laurence still in his arms. Iskierka was still standing a little ways back, tapping her foot on the garden path. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Unless Mr. Lords is hiding just outside that gate, ready to sign over custody, then Alexander Lords has run away from home and Xiang Tien is in violation of his restraining order.”

“He didn’t violate it!” protested Laurence, “I came to him!”

“I do not think the law will see it that way, if your father has anything to say about it,” Iskierka pointed out.

Immediately Temeraire’s brain went into overdrive. He could not give Laurence back. Not now, not ever. He could not let Laurence stay in the mansion either; that would surely be the first place the police would look for him, and if he did stay he would have to be kept a secret until he was 18 at the very least. He would not be able to go outside. That would not do. They could not stay here then, and nowhere in England would be any better. Temeraire was too high profile, his movements too closely watched. Anywhere he took Laurence they would be found.

Anywhere in England.

“Natalie,” Temeraire said sharply, as she came panting down the garden path to come up short behind Iskierka, “have the jet prepped and get a car outside to take us to the airstrip.”

“When sir?” Natalie said, straightening and pulling out her phone.

“Now,” Temeraire said. He began walking quickly back toward the house, Laurence still clutched in his arms and Iskierka and Natalie trailing after him.

“What will the destination for the jet be?” Natalie asked, already dialing. “And how many passengers?”

“Two,” said Temeraire, holding Laurence a little tighter. “And we are going to China.”

“China?” Laurence demanded, squirming in Temeraire’s grip. “No seriously, put me down. We can’t go to China.”

“I’m very sure we can,” Temeraire informed him, very reluctantly setting Laurence back on his feet. He immediately seized his hand and began dragging him back towards the house.

“But why?” Laurence asked, letting himself be dragged. “What good will that do?”

“In China the law is different,” Temeraire said. “It is considered best for everyone if dragons and their companions are not kept separated, once they are known to each other, so no one will try and take you away. I have citizenship there and once I establish that you are my captain you will too.”

“But,” Laurence protested, “we can’t just leave England. What about my family?”

“Your family tried to keep you from me,” Temeraire said disdainfully. “I do not at all see why they should enter into my calculations.”

They reached the house, and Temeraire towed Laurence into the study. With difficulty he forced himself to let go of Laurence’s hand and begin rummaging around for the things he would need. His laptop went into his briefcase, along with two flash drives containing the details no one but himself knew about the running of his company and his long term plans for dragon rights in England. The safe behind a painting of himself and Laurence in their first lifetime together held the copy of Laurence’s passport and birth certificate he had clandestinely acquired years ago, as well as his own passport and the shining golden and ruby collar that marked him as a Celestial in human form. No one in China would look twice at their passports once they saw him wearing that.

“But we’ll never make it out of the country,” Laurence continued as Temeraire fastened the collar around his own neck. “They’ll stop us, won’t they?”

“No one knows you are here yet,” Temeraire pointed out, “and you may rely upon the discretion of my staff. We will leave by private jet, and we will be in French airspace within the hour. Once we are out of England no one will be inclined to stop us. Even after 200 years, we are still quite well liked in most of Eurasia.”

Laurence colored a little, no doubt embarrassed by being given credit for something he’d done in a past life. Some things never changed. With a sudden burst of fondness Temeraire knelt before him and kissed his forehead, cradling the back of Laurence’s head in his hand.

“You do wish to stay with me, do you not?” Temeraire asked urgently, once he had drawn back. “They were not just our words, earlier. I will not make you stay if you wish to return to your father.”

“No,” Laurence shook his head forcefully. “I don’t want to go back. I want to stay with you. I’m starting to remember, and to remember that I remembered before. I had this imaginary friend when I was a child; it was a dragon, a big black dragon, like you. My father punished me for it.”

Temeraire fought the urge to snarl. It was common, among reincarnated captains who were not immediately reunited with their dragons, to have their residual memories manifest as pretend-play. That Laurence had been punished for this perfectly natural phenomenon made Temeraire’s blood boil.

“He will not punish you anymore,” Temeraire said, straightening. “I will not allow it. Do you have any other objections?”

“No,” Laurence shook his head. He looked perfectly sure of himself.

“Then we are going,” Temeraire said, and took Laurence’s hand once again.

The nondescript black car picked Laurence and Temeraire up just outside the door to the mansion, well within the property line and away from prying eyes. The heavily tinted windows protected them from view, but Temeraire still held Laurence close to his side, afraid that the glare of a streetlamp might allow someone to see him if he sat upright. Laurence bore it without complaint, resting his head against Temeraire.

“What’s China like?” Laurence asked, cuddling closer to Temeraire’s side.

Temeraire smiled, stroking Laurence’s hair. “What do you remember of it?”

Laurence frowned. “I think my memories are mostly of my first lifetime,” he admitted. “I can feel that there are more recent ones, but the impression I’m getting is from earlier.”

“And what is that impression?” Temeraire wondered.

Laurence wrinkled his nose. “I remember feeling embarrassed,” he admitted.

Temeraire laughed softly. “It is always a little embarrassing, when you do not know a language well.”

“I don’t know any Chinese!” Laurence realized, nearly sitting bolt upright.

“You do,” Temeraire pulled him back down, “you just don’t remember that you do. It will come back to you, I promise.”

They spent the rest of the ride practicing Chinese. While in contact with Temeraire Laurence’s memory returned more easily, and he had used Chinese in all of his previous lives. He remembered most clearly the archaic forms of address to the Emperor and the crown prince, useless now but encouragingly accurate. Temeraire reminded him of some more modern greetings and Laurence picked them up with ease. It soothed Temeraire’s nerves, having Laurence so close and watching him remember so well, and it made the perilous car ride pass more swiftly.

Laurence was just mastering the pronunciation of a few newer Chinese words when abruptly a police siren erupted behind them. Temeraire’s heart nearly stopped, and Laurence jerked in his seat, then craned his head around to look out the back window. Immediately Temeraire pulled him back and pushed his head down.

“Keep driving,” he instructed his chauffer, a steady man named Oliver who had been with him nearly four years.

“They want us to pull over sir,” came the reply.

“I’m aware,” Temeraire said tesitly. “Lose them.”

Not for nothing had Temeraire hand picked every member of his personal staff. Without further instruction Oliver made a hairpin turn down a side street. The police car whizzed past the road they had taken, not being fast enough to make the turn, but Temeraire knew there would be more.

“How did they know I was with you?” Laurence demanded. “How did they find us?”

“Finding you gone your father will have assumed I took you,” Temeraire told him, “or that you came to me. I imagine we left the house just before the police arrived. Someone must have seen the car leaving.”

Laurence opened his mouth to reply, but another sharp turn brought them out onto a main road again, the police car nowhere in sight.

“Do not worry,” Temeraire told him quietly, “we are nearly there.”

Once they had reached the private airstrip Temeraire shared with several other notable dragons, including Iskierka and her seven vintage planes, the police sirens were audible in the distance once more. Cursing under his breath Temeraire realized they must have guessed his plan. Somewhere above them a helicopter whirred in the dark.

“C’mon!” Laurence slid out of the car first, Temeraire close behind him. “We’ve got to hurry!”

The sleek black jet sat ready on the runway, like a dragon preparing to leap aloft. The door was open, the build-in set of stairs leading down to the tarmac. As Temeraire ushered Laurence up them, one hand on his back, a police car screeched into view.

“Halt!” cried a deep voice behind them, amplified by a megaphone, but Temeraire merely turned and hissed.

Once he and Laurence were inside he crossed to his usual seat and pressed the button to connect him to the cockpit.

“We are ready,” he said urgently, “put up the stairs and go!”

The policeman was still yelling over the megaphone as the hatch closed, but once the door was sealed there was silence. Laurence buckled himself into the seat across from Temeraire, looking pale but determined. Temeraire watched him, hating the police, hating Arthur Lords for putting them in this position.

“Do not be afraid,” Temeraire consoled gently, “we will-”

“Sir,” came the pilot’s voice from the speaker over Temeraire’s head. “We can’t take off.”

“Ignore the helicopter,” Temeraire instructed. “It will get out of the way.”

“It’s not that sir,” said the pilot evenly. “There’s someone on the runway. He’s not in uniform, he looks to be in a suit.”

Temeraire growled, realizing immediately who it was. Arthur Lords had not obstructed him enough; now he was going to physically put himself in their way.

“I don’t care!” Temeraire snarled. “Run him down if you have to, just get us in the air!”

“Wait!” Laurence cried, his eyes wide and distressed.

“Belay that,” Temeraire amended immediately, then let go of the button that activated the speaker. “Laurence, he will take you from me if we do not-”

“I know,” said Laurence, and his expression was pained. “You still can’t do it. You can’t become a murderer over me.”

“I have killed before,” Temeraire told him, “many men in battle, and men who tried to take you away before.”

“That’s one thing,” Laurence shook his head, “this is another. If you do this, here, now, you’ll be a murderer in the eyes of the law. Your political career will be over.”

“Humans have short memories,” Temeraire insisted. “By the time I must return her for your next incarnation they will have forgotten-”

“And what will dragon rights look like in the meantime?” Laurence demanded. “People will use this incident against your cause. All the dragons in Britain will suffer!”

Laurence shook his head, staring at Temeraire with pain and longing in his eyes.

“I won’t be the cause of your ruin, or the ruin of what you’ve achieved. I can’t, Temeraire.”

Involuntarily Temeraire let out a long, low keen. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to take Laurence and fly away, to gather him in and keep him close. To keep him safe. But Laurence did not want to be kept safe. He wanted to protect Temeraire, as he always had. He wanted to protect all of dragon kind, and he was willing to suffer for it. That kind of devotion was humbling, and Temeraire felt suddenly smaller than his human shape in the face of Laurence’s consideration.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly, knowing perfectly well the answer would not change.

Laurence looked aside sadly, then back at Temeraire. “I’m sure.”

Temeraire hung his head and pressed the button to activate the speaker. “Turn off the engine and open the door. We are staying.”

[poor-cromwell]

Philippa Gregory and the Virgin-Whore Dichotomy

I like historical fiction. As a historian, I enjoy reading period pieces because they bring to life characters that I spend lots of time with. As a result, I’m usually willing to forgive the genre it’s many shortcomings, yet I have had a particularly difficult time digesting a certain author. With any Philippa Gregory novel, I have found lots and lots of issues to unpack, dissect, and despise. From subpar prose to unfocused plots and especially to the gigantic fallacies in her portrayal of history, specifically because she claims to aim for total historically accuracy. Still, it’s not her ineptness to interpret historical data with any degree of conformity to historiographical consensus that irks me the most. Philippa Gregory writes stories about women for women, they’re (for better or for worse, “chick lit”). And yet the portrayal of the main characters in her two most popular novels, The Other Boleyn Girl and The Boleyn Inheritance make forgiving her for historical inaccuracy for the sake of guilty pleasure nearly impossible.

It’s not just that Gregory ignores facts in favor of her own interpretation, and thus is forced to portray women like Anne Boleyn in ways that conform to said interpretation, but that her characterization of her leads – completely turning away from historical fact – follow several problematic tropes that detract from their actual characters. This in and of itself follows a trope in adaptation wherein women with balanced, fleshed out characters have everything taken away from them so that they can fit into the neat little virgin-whore dichotomy that sadly is seen even in today’s most popular media. So, instead of giving Anne and Mary Boleyn in The Other Boleyn Girl and Anne of Cleves and Catherine Howard in The Boleyn Inheritance their dues as fascinating historical figures, she neatly consigns each of them to one of her little boxes: Mary Boleyn and Anne of Cleves as virgins, Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard as whores. 

Mary Boleyn, who was sent from the French court after serving for a time as the King of France’s mistress for her “unseemly behavior,” and came to England and became Henry’s mistress despite her family’s embarrassment and consternation, is inexplicably portrayed in The Other Boleyn Girl as a naïve, sexually innocent girl who is forced into her affair with Henry by her ambitious family. She is consistently portrayed as the victim of her father’s and uncle’s, and later her sister’s schemes, ousted from the Henry’s affection by the ambitious Anne who wants power and glory (I’ll address Anne’s storyline in more detail below). And despite this being her story, from her point of view, she has no real autonomy, despite historically being one of very few women who clearly were in control and enjoyed their sexuality and didn’t care about seeming virginal. The only thing she does is get married against her family wishes, which is the action that ultimately saved her from being implicated in the coup against the Boleyns in 1536. Additionally, Gregory does this weird thing where she makes Mary the youngest of the Boleyn, born in 1508, even though overwhelming scholarly evidence proves that Mary was the eldest child, born in 1499/1500, which does nothing but further Mary’s infantilization. There is no reason to do any of this but to vilify Anne and make Mary, again, this story’s hero, fit with Anglo-Christian morality so the outcome of her story is justified – which I’ll explain in more detail later.

Anne of Cleves, who most likely died a virgin as she never married and was a devout Lutheran, did not have have a sexual autonomy to be taken away in order for her to be the virginal protagonist to counterbalance Catherine Howard. However, Gregory - for no perceivable reason- invents a history of abuse in the Cleves family (we’re treated to a drawn out scene of Anne being whipped by her mother while her brother watches in the shadows) and Anne’s father being mentally ill. This despite the fact that Anne’s father did not suffer a mental illness, and Anne was known to be the favorite of both her mother and her brother and having a happy family life. Anne of Cleves and Mary Boleyn both have invented abuse and bullying from their family, because according to Philippa Gregory, you can’t like a character unless she’s suffered incredible childhood trauma and has no sexual autonomy, as shown by her portrayal of Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard.

Anne Boleyn, a highly pious woman who initially rebuffed King Henry’s offer of being his mistress because of said piety, is portrayed in The Other Boleyn Girl as being so power hungry and ruthless that she sells out her sister to pursue her man and has sex with her own brother in order to make and keep herself as Henry’s queen. This isn’t to say that Anne wasn’t ambitious, she most certainly was. But Gregory goes about her ambition in the wrong way. Anne doesn’t pursue power in a vacuum (she also does it after Mary’s affair with Henry had ended) but in part because of her convictions and in part because she knows that she must yield to Henry and tries to make the best out of her situation. Anne took care of Mary and her children, securing a pension for Mary after her husband died and left her in debt, and making sure her son got a good education. Most importantly, unlike the portrayal of the book and the films of the events of 1536, Anne wasn’t executed because Jane Boleyn made a silly report implicating George and Anne in an affair (historians actually believe Jane had very little if anything to do with her husband and sister-in-law’s downfall, which makes sense if you think about it). She was in part executed because she had lost two children and in part because councilors like Thomas Cromwell didn’t like her butting into their work and criticizing their immorality. The charges of incest served the purpose of weakening the Boleyns farther and scrubbing the court of their influence. She was completely innocent of the charges.

Catherine Howard was not. This is another case in Gregory’s novels where she didn’t have to invent a “crime” because Catherine was “guilty” of having sex with both Francis Dereham and Thomas Culpeper. Most historians, however, give Catherine a pass for her mistake, while being aware of what happened to her cousin, citing her youth and the fact that she was way in over her head at the time to know what she was doing. But Gregory couldn’t possibly let that play out without adding her particular flavor of awful. Catherine is a vapid, empty headed, superficial and annoying character, and even though despite these flaws I still found myself sympathizing with her, I don’t know if Gregory intended me to. She is shown in every bad light, from making fun of Anne of Cleves’ dresses to being utterly fake and more or less the pawn of Uncle Norfolk and his desire for power. Of course, she has her affair with Culpeper not just because she’s infatuated with him, but because her uncle tells her to in order for her to get pregnant, even though the intention of getting pregnant to dupe Henry has no historical grounds whatsoever.

Now, you might be wondering, why would Philippa Gregory go through such pains and take all this criticism when she could have easily just written what actually happened historically. Isn’t it much easier, especially when you already have an interesting plot write for you, to fill in the blanks? Possibly, but I think the answer to this question lies in the fate of the respective characters. Our “virgin” characters, Anne of Cleves and Mary Boleyn get happily ever afters. They outlive their tormentors in peace and fulfillment, and lead contented lives. Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, on the other hand, are both executed. Gregory conforms the life to the outcome so that all seems justified in the end. At least, this is the implication of how she chose to tell these stories. By making Anne and Catherine “guilty” of ambition and sexual autonomy, we’re meant feel satisfied in their demise because this is what bad women get. Conversely, if you’re a good, “pure” woman, you get a long and happy life. 

This is nothing new in the world of fiction, but it is a terrible trope that informed by gender roles in our society. Essentially, if you’re a woman and you have agency, your head’s going to get cut off. We as women are told this over and over again in many different ways across every genre, from the scream queen getting killed while having sex with her boyfriend to the countless times on TV that the Strong Female Character has been sexually assaulted as a plot point. And Philippa Gregory definitely helps perpetuate this. And that is why, among other reasons, I do not like her novels.

[foursproutwealth-blog]

Making Sense Of America's Empire Of Chaos

New Post has been published on http://foursprout.com/wealth/making-sense-of-americas-empire-of-chaos/

Making Sense Of America's Empire Of Chaos

Via TomDispatch.com,

Mark Karlin: How much money has gone to the U.S. war on terror and what has been the impact of this expenditure?

Tom Engelhardt: The best figure I’ve seen on this comes from the Watson Institute’s Costs of War Project at Brown University and it’s a staggering $5.6 trillion, including certain future costs to care for this country’s war vets. President Trump himself, with his usual sense of accuracy, has inflated that number even more, regularly speaking of $7 trillion being lost somewhere in our never-ending wars in the Greater Middle East. One of these days, he’s going to turn out to be right.

As for the impact of such an expenditure in the regions where these wars continue to be fought, largely nonstop, since they were launched against a tiny group of jihadis just after September 11, 2001, it would certainly include: the spread of terror outfits across the Middle East, parts of Asia, and Africa; the creation — in a region previously autocratic but relatively calm — of a striking range of failed or failing states, of major cities that have been turned into absolute rubble (with no money in sight for serious reconstruction), of internally displacedpeople and waves of refugees at levels that now match the moment after World War II, when significant parts of the planet were in ruins; and that’s just to start down a list of the true costs of our wars.

At home, in a far quieter way, the impact has been similar. Just imagine, for instance, what our American world would have been like if any significant part of the funds that went into our fruitless, still spreading, now nameless conflicts had been spent on America’s crumbling infrastructure, instead of on the rise of the national security state as the unofficial fourth branch of government. (At TomDispatch, Pentagon expert William Hartung has estimatedthat approximately $1 trillion annually goes into that security state and, in the age of Trump, that figure is again on the rise.)

Part of the trouble assessing the “impact” here in the U.S. is that, in this era of public demobilization in terms of our wars, people are encouraged not to think about them at all and they’ve gotten remarkably little attention. So sorting out exactly how they’ve come home — other than completely obvious developments like the militarization of the police, the flying of surveillance drones in our airspace, and so on — is hard. Most people, for instance, don’t grasp something I’ve long written about at TomDispatch: that Donald Trump would have been inconceivable as president without those disastrous wars, those trillions squandered on them and on the military that’s fought them, and that certainly qualifies as “impact” enough.

What makes the U.S. pretension to empire different from previous empires?

As a start, it’s worth mentioning that Americans generally don’t even think of ourselves as an “empire.” Yes, since the Soviet Union imploded in 1991, our politicians and pundits have proudly called this country the “last” or “lone” superpower and the world’s most “exceptional” or “indispensable” nation, but an empire? No. You need to go someplace off the mainstream grid — Truthout or TomDispatch, for instance — to find anyone talking about us in those terms.

That said, I think that two things have made us different, imperially speaking. The first was that post-1991 sense of ourselves as the ultimate winner of a vast imperial contest, a kind of arms race of many that had gone on since European ships armed with cannon had first broken into the world in perhaps the fifteenth century and began to conquer much of it. In that post-Soviet moment of triumphalism, of what seemed to the top dogs in Washington like the ultimate win, a forever victory, there was indeed a sense that there had never been and never would be a power like us. That inflated sense of our imperial self was what sent the geopolitical dreamers of the George W. Bush administration off to, in essence, create a Pax Americana first in the Greater Middle East and then perhaps the world in a fashion never before imagined, one that, they were convinced, would put the Roman and British imperial moments to shame. And we all know, with the invasion of Iraq, just where that’s ended up.

In the years since they launched that ultimate imperial venture in a cloud of hubris, the most striking difference I can see with previous empires is that never has a great power still in something close to its imperial prime proven quite so incapable of applying its military and political might in a way that would successfully advance its aims. It has instead found itself overmatched by underwhelming enemy forces and incapable of producing any results other than destruction and further fragmentation across staggeringly large parts of the planet.

Finally, of course, there’s climate change — that is, for the first time in the history of empires, the very well-being of the planet itself is at stake. The game has, so to speak, changed, even if relatively few here have noticed.

Why do you refer to the U.S. as an “empire of chaos”?

This answer follows directly from the last two. The United States is now visibly a force for chaos across significant parts of the planet. Just look, for instance, at the cities — from Marawi in the Philippines to Mosul and Ramadi in Iraq, Raqqa and Aleppo in Syria, Sirte in Libya, and so on — that have literally been — a word I want to bring into the language — rubblized, largely by American bombing (though with a helping hand recently from the bomb makers of the Islamic State). Historically, in the imperial ages that preceded this one, such power, while regularly applied brutally and devastatingly, could also be a way of imposing a grim version of order on conquered and colonized areas. No longer, it seems. We’re now on a planet that simply doesn’t accept military-first conquest and occupation, no matter the guise under which it arrives (including the spread of “democracy”). So beware the unleashing modern military power. It turns out to contain within it striking disintegrative forces on a planet that can ill afford such chaos.

You also refer to Washington D.C. as a “permanent war capital” with the generals in ascension under Trump. What does that represent for the war footing of the U.S.?

Well, it’s obvious in a way. Washington is now indeed a war capital because the Bush administration launched not just a local response to a relatively small group of jihadis in the wake of the 9/11 attacks, but what its top officials called a “Global War on Terror” — creating possibly the worst acronym in history: GWOT. And then they instantly began insisting that it could be applied to at least 60 countries supposedly harboring terror groups. That was 2001 and, of course, though the name and acronym were dropped, the war they launched has never ended. In those years, the military, the country’s (count ‘em) 17 major intelligence agencies, and the warrior corporations of the military-industrial complex have achieved a kind of clout never before seen in the nation’s capital. Their rise has really been a bipartisan affair in a city otherwise riven by politics as each party tries to outdo the other in promoting the financing of the national security state. At a moment when putting money into just about anything else that would provide security to Americans (think health care) is always a desperate struggle, funding the Pentagon and the rest of the national security state continues to be a given. That’s what it means to be in a “permanent war capital.”

In addition, with Donald Trump, the generals of America’s losing wars have gained a kind of prominence in Washington that was unknown in a previously civilian capital. The head of the Defense Department, the White House chief of staff, and (until recently when he was succeeded by an even more militaristic civilian) the national security advisor were all generals of those wars — positions that, in the past, with rare exceptions, were considered civilian ones. In this sense, Donald Trump was less making history with the men he liked to refer to as “my generals” than channeling it.

What is the role of bombing in the U.S. war-making machine?

It’s worth remembering, as I’ve written in the past, that from the beginning the war on terror has been, above all (and despite full-scale invasions and occupations using hundreds of thousands of U.S. ground troops), an air war. It started that way. On September 11, 2001, after all, al-Qaeda sent its air force (four hijacked passenger jets) and its precision weaponry (19 suicidal hijackers) against a set of iconic buildings in the U.S. Those strikes — only one of them failed when the passengers on a single jet fought back and it crashed in a field in Pennsylvania — may represent the most successful use of strategic bombing (that is, air power aimed at the civilian population of, and morale in, an enemy country) in history. At the cost of a mere $400,000 to $500,000, Osama bin Laden began an air war of provocation that has never ended.

The U.S. has been bombing, missiling, and drone-assassinatingever since. Last year, for instance, U.S. planes dropped an estimated 20,000 bombs just on the Syrian city of Raqqa, the former “capital” of the Islamic State, leaving next to nothing standing. Since the first American planes began dropping bombs (and cluster munitions) in Afghanistan in October 2001, the U.S. Air Force has been in the skies ceaselessly — skies by the way over countries and groups that lack any defenses against air attacks whatsoever. And, of course, it’s been a kind of rolling disaster of destruction that has left the equivalent of World Trade Center tower after tower of dead civilians in those lands. In other words, though no one in Washington would ever say such a thing, U.S. air power has functionally been doing Osama bin Laden’s job for him, conducting not so much a war on terror as a strange kind of war for terror, one that only promotes the conditions in which it thrives best.

What role did the end of the draft play in enabling an unrestrained U.S. empire of war?

It may have been the crucial moment in the whole process. It was, of course, the decision of then-president Richard Nixon in January 1973, in response to a country swept by a powerful antiwar movement and a military in near rebellion as the Vietnam War began to wind down. The draft was ended, the all-volunteer military begun, and the American people were largely separated from the wars being fought in their name. They were, as I said above, demobilized. Though at the time, the U.S. military high command was doubtful about the move, it proved highly successful in freeing them to fight the endless wars of the twenty-first century, now being referred to by some in the Pentagon (according to the Washington Post) not as “permanent wars” or even, as General David Petraeus put it, a “generational struggle,” but as “infinite war.”

I’ve lived through two periods of public war mobilization in my lifetime: the World War II era, in which I was born and in which the American people mobilized to support a global war against fascism in every way imaginable, and the Vietnam War, in which Americans (like me as a young man) mobilized against an American war. But who in those years ever imagined that Americans might fight their wars (unsuccessfully) to the end of time without most citizens paying the slightest attention? That’s why I’ve called the losing generals of our endless war on terror (and, in a sense, the rest of us as well) “Nixon’s children.”

*  *  *

Tom Engelhardt is a co-founder of the American Empire Project and the author of The United States of Fear as well as a history of the Cold War, The End of Victory Culture. He is a fellow of the Nation Institute and runs TomDispatch.com. His sixth and latest book, just published, is A Nation Unmade by War (Dispatch Books).

[hassank82-blog]

Machine learning beginning to shape data center  infrastructure

The terms AI (artificial intelligence) and ML (machine  learning) have become common technology buzzwords. Simply defined, AI is  applying traits of human intelligence to computers. ML is a subset of AI,  where inputs are mapped to outputs to derive meaningful patterns. Businesses  and analysts alike are touting how transformative AI and ML can be, fueled by  massive amounts of data from the always increasing IoT (internet of things)  ecosystem. While other buzzwords have come and gone without much of a  tangible impact, AI doesn’t seem to fit into that category. AI is reaching  far and wide, from manufacturing floors to supply chain management, and even  to the operation of data centers themselves. Many enterprises are still  planning and piloting different AI applications to understand how it can  transform their businesses, but data centers are already providing an early  use case of a successful AI application.

 Google use case

 Starting in 2015, Google began applying ML in its data centers  to help them operate more efficiently. Devan Adams, Senior Analyst on the IHS  Markit Cloud and Data Center Research Practice outlines some of the practices  and results, “Google’s DeepMind researchers and its DC team began by taking  historical data collected by thousands of sensors within its DCs, including  temperature, power, water pump speeds, and set-points, then analyzed the data  within deep neural networks to focus on lowering PUE (Power Usage  Effectiveness), the ratio of total building energy usage to IT energy usage.  In the end, they achieved up to 40% energy reduction for cooling and 15%  reduction in overall PUE, the lowest the site had ever experienced. Google  plans to roll out its system and share more details about it in an official  publication so other DC and industrial system operators can benefit from its  results.”

 This Google use case is a unique and relatively mature example  of ML in data center operations. Google’s existing cloud infrastructure,  access to large amounts of data and significant in house expertise allowed  for Google to become an early adopter of ML. For enterprises and colocation  data centers operators who lack those benefits, deploying ML in their data  centers may seem like a daunting task, with significant cost and knowledge  barriers to overcome.  However, data center infrastructure suppliers are  stepping in to bring ML integrated cooling, power, and remote management  capabilities to these data centers.

 Data center cooling

 Cooling has become the primary place to start applying ML to  data center infrastructure. The reason for this is cooling consumes around  25% of power a data center uses. Therefore, improving cooling efficiency  translates into serious savings, but this isn’t an easy task. Data centers  are dynamic environments, with changing IT loads, fluctuating internal and  external temperatures, variable fan and pump speeds and different sensor  locations. DCIM (data center infrastructure management) tools have been  helpful in collecting, managing and providing data visualizations, but are  still only tools to inform human operated data center decisions. Even with  all the data one could need, humans are prone to errors. ML brings data  inspired, real time automation to cooling, and the benefits are clear,  according to vXchange colocation provider Chief Marketing and Business  Development Officer, Ernest Sampera, “Data center cooling integrated with  machine learning is a no brainer – it has helped us reduce human errors, and  overall power and costs associated with cooling. Our on-site technicians can  spend more time on our customers instead of being focused on tuning cooling  efficiencies.”

 Power and energy storage

 Power distribution and backup power systems (UPS’) have  limited AI in them today. They currently can utilize firmware to make basic  decisions based on a sensor’s input and pre-programmed, desired outputs.  However, they are not programmed to learn from changing inputs and outputs as  cooling integrated with ML currently is. For UPS’, integrating ML has a  different end goal than cooling. UPS’ integrated with ML will be focused on  preventing downtime, through predicting failures and preventative  maintenance, either self-performed or by alerting engineers of a specific  problem. There is also likely to be some minor efficiency gains in UPS’ based  on ML automation. Where AI and ML is not currently integrated is backup  energy storage . That story, a much more interesting one, beings with  lithium-ion batteries.

 Lithium-ion batteries continue to see growing adoption in data  centers. Prices for lithium-ion batteries continue to decrease and concerns  over safety issues are easing, the argument to keep using VRLA (valve  regulated lead acid) batteries is becoming more difficult. As lithium-ion  batteries grow in data center applications, this opens new possibilities due  to the nature of their chemistry allowing for more frequent charge cycles,  healthy operation below full charge, no coup de fouet effect and no need for  a controlled battery room environment. 

 The combination of lithium-ion battery benefits and ML  capabilities has led to CUI Inc and VPS (Virtual Power Systems) integrating  the two into a new energy storage solution. “Whether a data center is at the  edge, a colocation, or large hyperscale, they all have power infrastructure  optimization issues.” Mark Adams, Senior Vice President of CUI Inc explains.  “With Software Defined Power, CUI Inc and Virtual Power Systems provides a  dynamically intelligent solution to capture currently overprovisioned  infrastructures, and gain greater capitalization of the footprint. Machine  learning algorithms allow for the solution to analyze, predict, and react to  the changes through a combination of hardware energy storage and software.”

 Distributed IT architectures: Edge and  Hybrid data center deployments

 The next generation of data center deployments is coming in a  more distributed approach, often utilizing a combination of cloud and  colocation services, on-premises compute and edge data center deployments.  This will commonly require several “lights-out” data centers, needing to be  managed and operated remotely. ML will play a critical role in the automation  and management of these data centers. Specifically, ML will enable these  “lights-out” data centers to run efficiently, with predicative failure and  preventative maintenance alerts to reduce downtime, while also reducing the  resources required to manage such a footprint.

 Conclusion

 Artificial intelligence and machine learning are touching many  aspects of the data center. They are bringing efficiency gains, increased  reliability and automation to data center physical infrastructure. On top of  that, it will allow for significantly improved remote management of  distributed data center footprints. However, while AI and ML will  revolutionize how a data center is operated, and could even enable fully  autonomous operation of data centers, a human presence in data centers will  remain critical in data center operations over the next decade.

 The human ability to hear, smell, and possess a general  intuition for when something is wrong, is yet to be matched by current AI and  ML capabilities. So, while it may be time to start bringing ML based  infrastructure into the data centers, it’s not time to start shipping the  humans out.

 For more information, please contact:

Lucas Beran

Senior Research Analyst, Cloud and Data Centers

lucas.beran@ihsmarkit.com

+1 512 813 6290

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