#you expect to see a life of crime punished in this type of print

[clove-pinks]

'A smuggler shown at different stages and points of his chosen profession', 19th century coloured etching (Wellcome Collection).

Odd choice to depict "The Smuggler's Death" at bottom centre followed by "The Smuggler's Return," when reading left to right. No matter what direction you go, death is but a temporary obstacle in his career.

[mystorytellerstuff]

Searching Truth

Batman Fanfiction

Searching Truth

Chapter One: Fired!

The room was buzzing that chilling morning. Men and women speaking softly about what they were writing about, but as not in too much details so nothing could ever get stolen. Clicking of keyboards echoed in the rather large room, taping of feet walking around to get where they are going, ringing of phones everywhere. It was a busy day, their due almost coming causing them to work a little bit harder. Oh, how she wish she was among them all. She rather be out there stressing unnecessarily than being seated in her bosses’, Mr. Derby, office with him jumping down her throat for yet another article that she did recently.

Her eyes stay glued out through the window, watching all her coworkers running around franticly. Listening to all the muffled sounds that came from the closed door. Besides that, the room was filled with a man’s grievance of needing to keep this business a float. Mr. Derby ranted for fifteen minutes about her negligence of popular media streams and that she needed to get a better story than the ones she’s been doing since she got here. But what was the point if she couldn’t print out all that happens in the night? The people that lurk out only causing chaos to other people. 

“We need more viewers to our brand, Laynie. No one doesn’t need you playing detective.” He told her harshly, his voice deep and gruf. He sat in his chair, leaned against the old desk. The light from both the window and the light in the ceiling caused a glare in his glass. A glow bouncing off his dark skin. Laynie rolled her eyes at his words, feeling her blood boil with anger. She knew red was creeping across her face, she didn’t have to look in a mirror to know this. 

“People deserve to know the truth, boss.” She responded just as harshly to him, turning her head to him with cold eyes. “And I’ll keep giving them what they need to know to keep them safe.” He heaved a tired sigh. This response was not new, but weighing its annoyance heavily on his shoulders. The old man had took his glasses off, rubbing his eyes a bit hard. Uncomfortable, Laynie thought to herself while watching him start to lose more patients with her. She could tell that he was at his wits end of her putting out the crime reporting and digging up activity that happened in certain areas of Gotham.

Mr. Derby stood up from behind the wooden desk adjusting the worn suit a bit before proceeding move around it. Placing himself a bit closer to her as he sat on top of the large desk that was littered with papers and folders.

“What they need is a peace of mind. Uncovering the things that this Batman does in the night doesn’t give them that.” He spoke to her a bit more softly. Hope in his voice that she understood him. Hoping that she would listen to him to keep herself alive. Especially since there’s not a lot to know about the mask vigilante, other than he fights the criminals during the night. He didn’t need her involve in something that he couldn’t very well trust or understand.

Laynie had heard her father’s words echoing in her mind. ‘You can’t find peace until you know there are problems to begin with.’ Of course she had thought it was silly when she was a child. Now though, now that she dug up more of every gang and criminal in this city, there no such thing like peace here. There never will be if people keep ignoring it, or being naïve that there isn’t a problem at all.

Laynie held his stare for a bit longer, not wanting to back down from this. She couldn’t agree with him at all. There was no peace in this city that she loves, and barely anyone who wasn’t living in the dumps had no idea what was going on in the dark. And barely any news cast covered it. She felt that the people had to know what else that was going on. Everything she could find and put out there.

The noise outside grew louder some, a bit of an argument circling among a few people. It didn’t take long for it to settle down. More typing, banging on metal desk now occurring amongst the crowd outside. The

“I disagree, boss.” Her voice went colder then before. Another minute of silence from both of them. His eyes drawing in disappointment at the reply she gave. He knew she would say that, knew her all too well. God have mercy on him moving forward with this. The solemn gaze to her way brought confusion to her.

“Then Laynie. You given no chose now.” With that said, he stood on his feet. Back straight, arms crossed. The suit now showing just how much he worn it. The bit of threads popping out, the material looked it was ready to collapse on itself any given moment. She brought her head up, narrowing her eyes with suspicions. What was Mr. Derby planning now? “If you don’t do this interview, I will have to let you go.” He warned her.

Laynie froze at this, honestly she didn’t see this coming at all. “You’ll fire me?” She spoke breathlessly. It hurt. Having a man she knew since she was a kid tell her this. “What the hell?” In a fit of hot blood temper, she also stood. Shoulders stiff with that anticipation he set out. Heart racing with worry, eyes spiking suddenly. Mr. Derby had placed a hand on her shoulder to her reaction. Wanting her to calm down.

“I’ve told you time and time again. You know your place here. And I am expecting no less than that. If you refuse, than I’m sorry. I have to fire you.” His voice assertive, but in a soothing tone. One she use to hear at a young age. Use to it was because she would run up and down the hallways, almost running into people in the process. Her father of course got on to her, but it was Mr. Derby’s stern eyes and assertive voice that caused her to listen. She felt like a child again, and she hated every moment of it. 

Laynie took in a deep breath then. Soon, she was looking away from him. A bit of bitterness towards this old man now that he was punishing for what she was passionate about. A few people started to leave for their lunch through the window. She really longed to go with them right now. Having to pull on her hair when writers block came, drinking ten cans of red bull to stay up through the night to finish her article or investigating a new lead for her life’s work. Having him threaten her only income just stung so bad. 

Finally, after moments of trying to keep from crying a bit and losing her temper, she faced him. Heaving a sigh, “Alright fine. I’ll do this damn interview.” Her boss smiled at her. It made her stomach twist unpleasantly. “Who am I interviewing?” She questioned him.

“Ah!” He went back around his desk, taking a seat in the big rolling chair. Doing a small dance of success that she was finally listening to him. Opposite of what she felt in that moment. Laynie stayed where she stood, folding her arms rather tightly. This was not what she wanted at all. It felt wrong. Laynie felt a little betrayed in that small moment. What happened to the man that wanted her to live out what she was passionate about doing? Now, all she saw was a stranger before her.

Mr., Derby heaved a sigh, leaning back like any old men out there. “You’ll be interviewing Bruce Wayne.” The answer was not what she wanted. It was bad enough that she was doing a stupid worthless interview. But with that guy? Laynie knew there was enough information and gossip about that guy. Whether they were true or not.

She groaned lightly, rolling her eyes to show her displeasure at the situation he put her in. “Don’t you think there’s enough 'peace of mind’ about that guy?” She questioned again, annoyed. The reaction causing him to grin gleefully.

“No.” He put it simply. Of course he wouldn’t, she thought. “You’ll be at his office tomorrow at 12.” Laynie nodded her head to him before leaving the small area. Mr. Derby had started typing away on his computer. She stopped in her tracks once the door closed behind her, glazing over people’s heads with a heavy heart. They were busy, like every day. Lucky them for not having to deal what she had to deal with. Her thoughts ran a bit wild while at what she needed to interview him. Her boss never told her what she needed to question him about.

That was when a grin appeared on her face. The mischievous glint in her eyes. Maybe she could take some creative liberties for her old boss. She almost felt like laughing evilly to herself at her plan. Laynie walked off to her little cuticle, cracking her knuckles as she went off in the internet to research Bruce Wayne. 

End of Chapter One

[mst3kproject]

Jungle Moon Men

The title of this movie is a fucking trick.  There are no moon men at all, just a tribe who worship a moon goddess who will die if she goes out in the sun, like the albino Sumerians from The Mole People.  Deeply disappointing.  It was produced by Sam Katzman, who made an enormous number of incredibly bad movies including Teen-Age Crime Wave, and features Myron Healey from The Incredible Melting Man.  There’s also quite a lot of material that is very unfortunately reminiscent of Jungle Goddess.  I already know I’m going to hate this movie, but I’m watching it anyway because I have a blog.

Our Hero, Johnny Weismuller, and his buddy Kimba the Chimp are hired by adventurous archaeologist Ellen Marsten to take her deep into the jungle, or at least the Spahn Ranch, on a quest for an ancient civilization who worshipped the sun god Ra.  Instead, they find a tribe of little people who are ruled by a moon goddess called Oma, the last survivor of an ancient civilization who were swallowed by the Earth after Ra became angry that they’d discovered the secret of eternal life. Nobody is allowed to leave the lost city of Baku, but Johnny and Marsten have to get out somehow, or they’ll be fed to the sacred lions.  Maybe they can take some of those diamonds from the temple with them when they go.

Not only are there no moon men in this movie, there’s not even any jungle.  Most of the movie was shot in the open scrubland of Corriganville, California, without even an attempt to make it look jungle-ish.  The people making the movie knew this, too, because all their animal stock footage is of the savannah.  I think the ‘Jungle Trading Post’ building that appears in the background of one shot is actually a zoo gift shop.  I can’t entirely blame the film-makers for this, since it’s clear that their budget did not remotely extend to going anywhere jungle-ish, but they didn’t even try.  They couldn’t shoot in the woods?  They couldn’t even hang a couple of vines?

There are definitely no black people in this movie, except for maybe some of the stock footage when you really can’t see anybody’s face well enough to tell.  All the ‘Africans’ are played by white guys who aren’t even wearing any makeup.  The Aribi people, whose chief Nolimo wants revenge on Oma for the death of his son Maro, are a bunch of guys in culturally insensitive costumes which, were it not for the leopard print, could have equally well allowed them to be background ‘Indians’ in some terrible budget Western.  They even talk in the same forced broken English. The Moon Men are a bunch of short people in shitty Ewok cosplay.

There’s some Egyptian-type iconography in the city of Baku.  A lot of it looks like the kind of thing you’d get if you asked a bunch of sixth-graders to paint something Egyptian without looking at any references.  They weren’t even talented sixth-graders.  Most of the ‘hieroglyphics’ are just squiggly lines, and everything Marsten says about ancient Egypt is transparently, infuriatingly wrong.  She talks about a ‘white civilization’ that flourished there long ago, and how the Egyptians had lost wisdom that would tell us why there are different races and why there are tall people and short people.  I’m truly shocked she never mentioned aliens.

The actual story is surprisingly engaging at points.  Jungle Moon Men is not a long movie, only sixty-five minutes including the credits, but there’s quite a bit going on in it.  Aribi chief Nolimo is seeking his revenge, although he gets entirely forgotten about for most of the movie because even fake black people aren’t allowed to do anything in these movies.  An unscrupulous guy named Santo wants to steal the moon men’s diamonds.  Marsten keeps finding ‘archaeology’ and spouting off ‘ancient legends.’  When it actually gets going, Jungle Moon Men steams along quite nicely and makes us want to know what happens next.

Yet the movie still manages to spend an awful lot of time dallying around doing nothing.  There is, for example, the whole opening sequence – first a narrating voice drones on about the Law of the Jungle over a selection of animal stock footage in an attempt to establish that, despite all evidence to the contrary, this story is set in Africa.  Then we get a useless sequence in which Kimba the Chimp is fishing, and Johnny swims down to tug on his line just to tease him.  Kimba’s supposedly humourous antics fill up quite a bit of the movie, and they’re almost always irrelevant except at the climax, when he sneaks in and unties everybody before the Moon Men’s pet lions can eat them.  He’s also badly-dubbed, with loud chimp noises playing over scenes in which Kimba’s mouth isn’t even open.

There’s an extended funeral sequence for Maro, which does nothing at all except show us a bunch of embarrassed extras in skeletal makeup bouncing in a circle.  The worst thing in the movie, however, is the part where Marsten and her friend Prentiss go hunting with bows and arrows, ultimately killing two pigs and an out-of-place puma… and I’m not entirely sure but it looks like these three animals were actually killed, just for this movie!  The scene establishes that they’re good shots but that wasn’t necessary because shooting things with arrows is never important to the plot. This movie killed three animals for no reason.

The Moon Men themselves, such as they are, are at once supposed to be threatening bad guys and objects of fun.  Their mastery of poisons and accuracy with their blow darts makes them sinister enough, but their costumes are absurd and other scenes show them struggling to open the door to the lion cage, or the useless bit where one of them tries to steal a jeep but cannot control it and just drives it into a ditch.  Sometimes the punch line is lol, they’re short! and sometimes it’s lol, they’re stupid primitives! and either way it’s obnoxious and offensive.  The only joke that works is when they sneak into the tall people’s camp disguised as shrubs, which is funny mostly because of the better movies it reminds me of.

There is kind of a theme to the movie, though – it’s about where information comes from, and what biases people bring to it. First there’s the fate of Maro. In the mind of his father he was kidnapped and murdered, while the Moon Men say he was chosen by the goddess herself for the great honour of being Oma’s high priest, and had to be punished for his senseless betrayal.  Marsten and Prentiss are friends but tell very different stories about how romantic that friendship might be.  When Oma catches Santo and Johnny fighting, with stolen diamonds all around them, each blames the other until she gets tired of the whole thing and throws them both to the lions.  Oma tells her guests that the Moon Men love her and serve her willingly, but after her death they celebrate because they are no longer slaves.

Oma herself is a pretty blonde woman, much like Greta from Jungle Goddess, but she really is some kind of immortal being who holds herself up as a goddess, rather than being a lost heiress whom the natives just assume was divine because she was paler than them.  I guess that’s better… maybe… the movie still holds whiteness up as being nearer to godliness.  She’s also fully dressed, though her white gown looks nothing like the Ewok costumes the Moon Men wear, and is never treated as a sex object.  There is no implication that her high priest is expected to sleep with her, and neither Prentiss nor Johnny fall in love with her, or she with them.  That’s definitely an improvement.  There is, furthermore, one really nice moment when she demonstrates that she’s way more afraid of the sunshine than she is of the lions – the latter are just cats, while the former is the incarnation of a god who has sworn to punish her.

Ellen Marsten is never a sex object, either. She spends the whole movie fully clothed and is never in any peril that the men aren’t in with her.  Everything she says is stupid but within the world of the film she’s clearly supposed to be an expert in her field.  Prentiss is in love with her but respects her enough to remain friends despite the fact that she doesn’t return his feelings, and at the end of the movie Marsten herself is not ‘with’ either him or Johnny. She is a character, not a love interest, so that’s refreshing, too.

None of that’s enough to save the movie, though.  It’s a cheap, shoddy, racist train wreck with a side of animal cruelty.  It’s also a ripoff, having stolen a lot of its major plot points from H. Rider Haggard’s She.  I could talk about that in more detail, but I haven’t actually read She, only seen other movies based on it, and I honestly don’t care.  I don’t hate Jungle Moon Men as much as I did Jungle Goddess or Black Dragons, but it’s pretty damned bad.

[hungarianrhapsodyof1986]

I am Number 39 (Hardzzello fic based on an AU I made)

Chapter 1: The Beginning

Before the Citadel came into being, there was a war so great it tore apart each nation with the uncontrollable power of fear and pride. Countries big and small in size engaged in conflicts against one another; innocent souls of men, women and children claimed all too early as the violence that spread like a disease consumed the entire world. Thousands died everyday, and it seemed there would be no end to this war; a war greater and more dire than the first two... until the Forefathers came with their promise of a paradise for those who wished it.

Tired of the fighting and the unbearable pain, the people of the Old Earth accepted the Forefathers’ offer of Utopia. In exchange however of that great blessing, microchips were embedded in the people’s bodies - through a simple and noninvasive manoeuvre, really - and they, as promised, took away the pain of... everything. The remaining few; imbeciles, as I like to call them, refused and were forced to stay outside the Citadel. They now remain in Outside; nothing but an absolute wreckage of the world that used to be.

All that happened 263 years ago.

Now, we have a fully organised community with people (now known as Residents) who live in proper houses, have jobs just suited for them, Partners that match them perfectly and enough nutritious food and drink. Not forgetting, of course, the Academy where everyone has the opportunity to be educated formally.

Seriously, who wouldn’t want that?

The Youth can grow to become Scientists who make scientific breakthroughs that further improve the state of the Citadel. They can become Matchmakers in charge of Matching two Residents together. They can also become Agriculturists trained in the art of agriculture. Deliverers who deliver Morning and Evening Meals to their Assigned Residency, too. Or they could become Builders who build new Residencies. Manufacturers who craft devices and microchips, Nurses who care for the Newborns or -

“For the Job Assignment of Sentinel we have...” call the mighty members of the Sovranty in unison.

Yes, Sentinels.

Sentinels are the ones Assigned to protect Residents from threats to the community such as Abductors from Outside. Ever since the beginning of the Citadel, the Outsiders have been finding ways to take away what has been built by our Forefathers. Out of spite or out of jealousy, I don’t know, but what matters is that our Sentinels are there to protect us from those threats.

There are two types of Sentinels: Inner and Active. Inner Sentinels guard the Citadel from inside, doing their best to capture Abductors. Active Sentinels are sent to Outside where they discover the plans of the Outsiders and prevent attacks from occurring in the Citadel.

“Number 35, Inner. Number 24, Inner. Number 16, Active. Number 28, Inner. Number 30, Inner... and Number 39...”

I perk up when Number 39 is called, because that’s me.

I’m Number 39.

“Active Sentinel.”

Me, Number 39, Active Sentinel. It’s... amusing, actually. I know I did well during my Placement Examination, but I never expected this. I am but seven years old, and I know it’ll be many years before I’m finally sent to Outside, but the training will be a new experience.

I hardly blink as I stare ahead, everyone in the Atrium clapping their hands together in polite applause.

***

***20 years later, Year 283, the Citadel***

The bright rays of the morning sun is filtering through my white curtains as I wake up and check my bedside alarm clock. Printed digitally on its screen is ‘6.00 am’.

As punctual as always.

Sitting up in bed, I wait for -

Ding dong!

Never mind.

I pad my feet on the white-tiled floor for a moment before rushing to the lavatory to wash my face and tidy my hair. When I arrive, I splash some cold water onto my face then wipe it with a towel. After that, I look closely at myself in the mirror, grabbing a comb from atop the white sink and tidying my hair, styled in an undercut. I then study every feature, attempt to smile and to frown, furrow my brows, marvelling at how expressive my pale green eyes turn out to be. Perhaps that’s one reason why I was Assigned the Job Active Sentinel.

I didn’t honestly expect much when I was first called to be a Sentinel. I didn’t expect anything at all, actually. All I cared about was that I do my Job and I do it well. That’s what the Sovranty expects of us, and I believe that’s exactly what we were born to do. Serve the Sovranty. After all, they did save our lives from the harsh world of Outside.

Turns out, the training was more arduous than told to be. I, along with Number 16, was taught to be perceptive, to know how to act when appropriate. We were taught to express what they at the Training Centre called ‘emotions’. Emotions. What a waste of time. We were taught how to laugh and how to cry. To scream and to cower in fear. We were taught to analyse another’s emotions and sympathise with them. It was a drag, but that was what I needed to do.

For the sake of the Citadel.

Once I’ve made sure I look presentable, I proceed down the stairs carefully, holding the metal railing tightly in order to avoid slipping. The walls are hardly decorated; in fact, they’re as good as plain. The white of the concrete makes the whole place look almost blinding to the eyes, but that’s the standard set by the Sovranty, and it’s a standard the Builders must meet. The plainness of everything doesn’t bother me. All I really care about is that I have a home to live in just like the rest of the Residents in the Citadel. I doubt I’ll even have one where I’m going.

The pictures shown of Outside in my history holo-books and holo-pads depict a land of wreckages; bits of metal, concrete, and glass strewn about in an empty wasteland. It’s quite hard to believe it’s actually habitable there, but the Outsiders have found a way to survive, unfortunately, and that’s what’s important here.

The Outsiders are threats; constantly sneaking into the Citadel despite the efforts made by both the Inner and Active Sentinels to prevent them from doing so. They abduct our people, and who knows what happens to those they successfully do. They never come back.

Once I reach the bottom of the stairs, I open the door and see my Deliverer standing right before me; Number 23. I recognise Number 23 from my days in the Academy. I watched as he performed in the Placement Examination. The man was horrible at agriculture, crafting, physical activity and sciences, but he was pretty proficient in direction. It was only right he’d become a Deliverer.

I barely know him since we talk only little, but sometimes a small chat would be livening.

“Greetings, 39,” 23 tells me as he salutes. “Final day today?”

“Yeah. I’ll be going to Outside tomorrow,” I reply. “What’s today’s Morning Meal?”

“Cereal. I don’t know how it tastes, really, but I’ll find out soon enough.” He sets down his now-empty bag.

Trying to hold out the conversation a little longer, I ask “anything of interest happening today?”

“The only thing I know’s the public executing of Outsider Number 436. You’ll be watching it, of course. An alarm’s set for the event. First time watching?” 23 replies.

“Yeah.”

“Strange.”

“True.”

“Third time for me. It’s quite an... intriguing experience. I won’t talk to you about it just for the sake of not spoiling the entire thing, but all I could say is you wouldn’t want to miss it.” He checks his watch, huffing. “Anyway, don’t wanna be late. Gotta go.”

I nod. “Won’t be seeing you again, 23.”

With a final salute, 23 slings his bag on his shoulders and heads to his bicycle. I don’t know to whom he will be Assigned to deliver next after I’m gone, but the Sovranty will no doubt have a plan for him. The Sovranty cares for their Residents, arranging everything from our Daily Meals to mangaging the entire Citadel, and all it asks in return is effieciency and loyalty. It’s not much to ask for, so we must be thankful.

Bringing the metal box to the dining table, my bare feet remain cold as they step on the frigid tile. Implanted on the wall facing the street are large windows that allow me to glance outside and see the Residencies - they all look the same - across mine. I will remember the sight of plain houses when I see the wreckage of Outside and maybe even long for it again, but this is my Job. This was what I was created to do.

When I sit down after grabbing my utensils, the alarm atop my television sounds. The execution 23 was talking about must be starting now. I wish to see the fruit of my Job, see what happens when I achieve, so I decide to watch.

“Television, on.”

In a flash the television comes to life. I’ve used it once before; it was nothing but a try at it. I remember tapping on the screen and searching for both a button and a remote but finding none. Then came the brilliant idea to consult my holo-pad. Apparently, all I needed to do was say ‘television on’. I merely shrugged off the matter afterwards.

What, or rather who, appears on the television is nobody I recognise. It was earlier in the week when O436 - who is dressed as one of us - was caught in the act of an Abduction. No one knows whether O436 was acting alone, and while I think it’s about time the Sovranty put an end to that problem, I believe they have a plan, as they always do.

O436’s complexion comprises of a stubbed nose, dark brown eyes, pale skin and blond hair. O436 is a male, and he wears an expression I identify as indignation. What I don’t understand is why he believes he has a reason to be indignant. He’s the one committing the crime here. Whatever he will say or do, he deserves the punishment he’s to receive. However, if the Sovranty’s merciful enough to give leniency to him and offer a chance to be part of the Community, then let it be so.

The members of the Sovranty start speaking in unison.

“Were you alone in committing this offence against the Residents of the Citadel?” they ask.

“If you think I’m going to answer that, you’re gravely mistaken,” O436 replies. The audacity, I think, stopping mid-chew.

I continue to eat, although I register how I nearly drop my spoon onto the table due to how much my focus is being driven into the spectacle happening before me. “You must answer, otherwise no mercy shall be given,” the Sovranty says meanwhile.

“I don’t need your mercy,” O436 spits out, nostrils flaring as his face grows a brighter red. “You keep these poor people confined in this - this hellhole, and all you care about is progress when what should matter are their lives! You only want power when you have enough, and now you’re torturing these poor people for your benefit! I don’t need your mercy, and if you’re gonna kill me, that’s alright. I did my job, and I did it for the sake of what’s right.”

The Sovranty remains quiet for a short while before one woman speaks up from the row, saying “is that all you shall say, O436?”

“The name’s Devotion,” O436 says. “But all I wish to say now is goodbye... to my wife, Joy, and my son, Joseph.”

“Very well,” says the woman once more. “Bring in Doctor 54.”

An elderly man wearing a full white attire emerges from the doorway. The Sovranty’s centre is connected to one of the Hospitals in the Citadel for the members of the Sovranty’s easy access to healthcare lest one of them need it. Elder Doctors are in charge of caring for the Sovranty’s members; they have been in the industry for years by then and are specialists, so they offer only the best services. He walks in front of the row of seats where the members of the Sovranty are seated then takes a bow.

The Sovranty nods in acknowledgment of his greeting.

After the men and women of the Sovranty recognise him, 54 walks to the centre of the Atrium, bringing along with him a white suitcase. It’s a mystery to me; what’s inside the suitcase, but I’ll find out soon enough. After all, 54’s already made his way to O436’s side.

54 opens the suitcase and therefore reveals a small syringe and a set of phials. The phials are filled with a strange, clear liquid, and I realise what the Doctor’s intent is: he’s going to administer into O436 a lethal poison.

54 opens one of the phials and dips the needle into it, pushing the plunger. The barrel is filled with poison, and 54 recaps the phial and returns it into the suitcase.

O436 makes yet another show of bravery by staring at Death right in the face: as the needle of the poison-filled syringe is inserted into the skin of his arm, he looks at it intently, never blinking. Whatever belief the Outsiders have, it seems almost cult-like; the way they would sacrifice their lives for a belief that isn’t even remotely true.

O436 says nothing to calm him; in fact, he looks pretty serene now. It’s almost as if he isn’t about to die.

Nothing seems to be happening for a matter of minutes until suddenly O436 starts scratching at where the needle was inserted into him, the skin of his arm growing red with his efforts. The redness then spreads to the rest of his skin; to his face, his hands, wherever visible. There’s no doubt it has also spread to his legs and his arms, and even his bare feet have turned red.

After a while, O436 loses consciousness, his head dropping, his chin touching his chest. He would have collapsed were it not for the restraints that clasp his hands to the chair’s arms and legs to the chair’s, well... legs.

“Has he perished?” asks one man from the Sovranty.

54 places his stethoscope to the O436’s chest, to the left of his head where his heart lies. 54 says nothing; just raises a hand, implying that no, O436 is still breathing.

A minute or two passes, then 54 puts down his hand.

O436 is dead.

Everyone in the Atrium claps their hands together, then the television is switched off, indicating the end of the event.

I hardly bat an eye.

If I do my job well, there will be more to execute and less Outsiders to trouble us, so as I finish my cereal, I prepare myself for my Sending Out tomorrow; an unimposing ceremony but a great one nonetheless, readying myself for what’s to come.

***

“You are about to be Sent Out,” Head Sentinel 74 - a middle-aged man with whitened hair on the sides of his scalp and beard - says. “Remember, you’re not doing this for glory nor for the esteem of the Residents, but rather for their safety and the Sovranty’s.”

“Yes, sir,” I reply.

“You’re not being Sent Out to become one of them and if you ever betray us, we have the right to execute you. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

It’s now the day, but it feels like any other. I had no time for a Morning Meal, for I was expected to be at the Training Centre before the sun rose. The alarm came in handy. I woke up at 3 o’clock.

I wore my shoes and took my bike and cycled on through the dimly lit streets of the Citadel, the white of my clothes glaring under the streetlights. My Residence was built to be near the Training Centre for my convenience, so the journey wasn’t long. I arrived after 5 minutes.

I spent most of my day yesterday at the built-in gymnasium in my Residence, training. There wasn’t much to do, truthfully, and it was better I use my time for something productive than laze around. That wasn’t what I was trained to do. I was trained to strain myself; go past my limits for service to the Sovranty and the Residents of the Citadel. I was trained to maim, to kill, to prevent Abductions. I was trained to sacrifice my freedom, my everything for the sake of the greater good.

When I arrived at the Training Centre, the Head Sentinel was at the gates. I greeted him with a salute as is proper before parking my bicycle where it belongs. It will be disposed of; thrown to Outside, but I can’t bring myself to care. I was then brought to the gates of the Citadel; large barriers of a thick, unbreakable glass, and that’s when I first caught sight of Outside.

As pictures had shown me earlier on during my Training, Outside was nothing but a land of wreckages and death. Giant remains of tanks and buildings protruded from the ground, and although it seems empty, I know the City where the Outsiders life must be way farther beyond the borders of the Citadel. I still don’t see how anyone can survive this environment, however.

“The Outsiders’ City is farther north from here. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to provide you with transportation past the borders of the Citadel for fear of detection, but I promise you the journey won’t be long. Now, come. If you’re to appear as if you’ve escaped this place, you need to look roughed up.”

Head Sentinel 74 smears mud on my face, hands, shoes, clothes and hair, messing it up. I look positively haggard afterwards, but that’s all part of the job. It’s dirty work, figuratively and literally, and it’s my mission in life.

“You be careful,” Head Sentinel 74 tells me. “We don’t wanna hear you’ve been caught few months into the job.” He hands me a transmitter. “This is for when we contact you, or when you need to contact us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When we contact you, it will buzz. Best you go somewhere private so nobody notices you.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, keeping the transmitter in my pocket. It’s no bigger than my palm and can fit in anywhere easily.

“The others have gone and we presume they’ve been killed by the Leaders. They’re savages, and we don’t know how they handle things there, so do your best not to get caught. We’re all counting on you, Sentinel 39. The fate of the Residents and the Sovranty rests in your hands.”

“Understood, sir,” I say, saluting.

“Now, let’s move while the day’s still young.”

We board a hovercraft and rapidly move away from the gates noiselessly. I sit down and buckle up as Head Sentinel 74 stands near the front, gripping the handle and steering us away from the Citadel. I’ll never be seeing it again, but I feel nothing. I’ve been trained in the art of imitating emotions, but I never felt them.

The sun is still down, and there’s nothing to be seen save for the path illuminated by the lights of the hovercraft. The land is parched and cracked, nothing able to grow from the dead soil. However, as we travel further away, the soil appears richer, spots of grass growing from the ground. I remain vigilant all throughout the trip, just in case there are Outsiders lurking about, suspecting.

Soon, I see a yellow, glowing light in the distance. That must be the Outsiders’ City Centre.

“Is that truly...?” I ask.

“Your intuition has not failed you yet, Sentinel 39. Indeed, that’s the City Centre. It’s much like our District 1, but... primitive. If you gain the favour of at least one of the Leaders, you’ll be able to live there. I suggest that you do. From what I’ve heard, the outer parts of the City are nasty places. Just nasty.” He sniffs. “Anyway, this is where we say goodbye.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt and salute. “It was an honour training with you, sir,” I say.

Head Sentinel 74 merely nods. Then he tells me to go, turning the hovercraft around and zooming away from where I stand.

That’s when I start running.

It’ll be soon when I’ll need to get my act together; to fool the Outsiders into thinking I have escaped the Citadel, but for now... it’s time to keep going.

For the Sovranty.

***

“Help!” I cry out as I near the Outskirts of the City. More mud smears my white shoes (which are now battered due to the long run) as I run upon grass and soil. I sound absolutely terrified, and I can see from the corners of my eyes how lights are lit and people are awakened by my shouting. I mind them not as I proceed to the City Centre, hoping to get the attention of one of the Leaders there.

As I rush across muddy roads, more people are roused from their slumber, and I see children and elders alike, looking at me with horror plain on their faces. “Help!” I continue to shout, and I can hear murmurs from the crowd that begins to follow me as I carry on to the centre.

“Someone help that poor man,” I hear a woman say.

The lights grow brighter as I near the Centre, and suddenly I bump into someone, ultimately stopping my run. The person falls down when I do, but they rise quickly as I pretend to be dazed.

“Hey, are you alright?” the person asks. Male. Fairly young.

“Where am I? Where the hell am I?” I ask, the panic a part of my act.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” the man tells me. “You’re Outside now. You’re saved. Now let me help you up.”

He grabs my arm gently and pulls me up as carefully as he can. “Who are you?” he asks me quietly. I’m aware of the spectacle I’ve created as well as the huge crowd of people gathered around us, but all I care about’s the man who helped me up. Is he a Leader?

“I - I - I don’t know,” I reply.

“You’re from the Citadel?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. What was your Number, then?”

“39.”

The man pauses in his steps, and he looks at me. His hazel eyes seem to gleam with something even I can’t put a name to, but it lasts all but a while. I just notice then how I’m an inch taller than him, but I decide that information is useless.

“Well, we can’t have that here,” the man says, smiling. “You’re now Ben. And now that you’ve got a name, it’s time to introduce myself. My name’s Joseph, but you can call me Joe. Another name of mine’s Love, and that’s ‘cause I’m a Leader of this place. You’ll love it here, I’ll promise you that, but first, it’s time to get you cleaned up. Come with me.”

As I’m brought to who-knows-where, I formulate a plan to befriend this ‘Joe’. Maybe he’ll be my key to knowing every plan they’ve made. Maybe he’ll be the one to bring me victory.

*************************

So, that’s the end of the first part! What are your thoughts so far? Confused about this AU? Don’t worry! I’ve made a post about it! Just check it out on my page if you need a reference. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading the first part, and if you have any title suggestions (‘cause I can’t decide djeoendodk), just tell me! Till the next part!

[bravevulnerability]

A/N: Insert for Trading Heartbeats (in which Beckett is the writer and Castle is the detective), set during chapter 10 while Beckett is away in LA. 

Inspired by the screenshot tweet above that was sent to me by @obsessivevirtualtrash and @trilbychild. Thank you so much for sharing this idea with me and I hope you enjoy the outcome. :)

-

In chapter 10 of Trading Heartbeats:

After the Candela’s case had been closed, Beckett had worked a few more cases alongside him and the boys before informing him that she had to fly out to Los Angeles the following week for a round of publicity gatherings and an important meeting with the head of Black Pawn. The book was in its final stages, the story nearly complete from what Kate’s told him, but he knows her agent, Jonathan, had been hounding her recently, complaining about her lack of time in the papers and on TV screens.

“I’ll be back in a week,” she had sighed the night of her flight, standing with him in the break room with the door only partially open and the blinds drawn. “Call me if any interesting cases pop up?”

“Sure thing, Beckett,” he had chuckled. “Call me if Jonathan drives you to commit a murder of your own?”

“Of course, no one I would trust more to help me hide the body,” she had quipped, wriggling her eyebrows at him. “Though, we should probably bring Lanie along.”

“Smart thinking,” Castle had praised, knowing he was making her late, but not wanting her to go and hating himself for it. It was one thing to tolerate having her around, but another to want her there, to loathe the idea of her leaving for seven short days. “Call me when you land too?”

The smirk had curled along the corners of her mouth, so enticing and maddening all at once. “Awful sweet of you wanting me to check in with you at one in the morning, Detective.”

“Shut up and go catch your flight, Kate.”

She had chuckled and swayed towards him, her eyes darting towards the cracked doorway before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “See you in a week, Castle.”

Calling him at night, after she had completed her responsibilities for the day, had become a habit he had grown to look forward to, answering her from his desk when the bullpen had cleared or from his bedroom while he slid beneath the cold sheets at the end of a long night. Discussing murder one moment and the absurdities of her job in the next, laughing over the boys’ antics or one of her run-ins with a fan, talking with her about everything and nothing late into the night had become far too important to him. It crossed lines and boundaries he himself had drawn, but he couldn’t help it.

Kate Beckett made him too damn happy.

-

Castle checks over his shoulder as he eases the door to the break room shut. It’s late in the morning, Ryan and and Esposito are out dumpster diving for evidence, something he should be helping with, but Kate’s supposed to be on this morning show at seven-thirty LA time and, like an idiot, he promised he would be tuning in. 

Rick shuffles to the farthest corner of the room, taking a seat at the table with his back to the wall and the screen of his phone hidden from any prying eyes. 

He follows the link to the livestream she sent him last night, teasing him about how she knew he wouldn’t tune in, but just in case he did…

The screen buffers before coming to life on a pretty blonde (a host named Christina? Candace maybe? Something with a C…) with a smile that’s a little too nauseatingly happy for his taste. The woman is already talking so he turns his volume up, just high enough for him to hear, too low for anyone outside the room to catch.

“And here to talk with us today is the author of the well-known Collette Stryker series. Hopefully, she’ll give us some insight into why she chose to end such a successful series and what she’s up to next. Please welcome, Katherine Beckett.”

His heart flutters at the sight of her striding out from behind the stage and he almost wants to press his hand to his chest, smother it in punishment. She looks good, always looks good, her hair in loose curls and her body long and lean in dark jeans and a tan blazer, a leopard print scarf around her neck and ridiculously high heels adorning her feet. 

The host - he’s going with Candace - stands from the couch in the middle of the stage to embrace Kate, pecking her on both cheeks before laughing at something Beckett must have said. Probably some charming (or wry) remark that the host is obligated to smile for. 

After they take their seats and Beckett waves to the crowd, winking at the camera on her face like she knows he’s watching. Does she know? Does she already have him so figured out that she predicted he would succumb to the internal urge to see her after four days of her absence?

Does she know he misses her?

“Ms. Beckett, it’s so great to have you here with us today,” Candace greets, beaming at Kate with a smile that must blind in person. “You flew out from New York, correct?”

Kate crosses her legs, the cuff of her jeans sliding to reveal the sharp stiletto of her heel. She’s wearing her favorite pair and he hates himself a little for knowing that. 

“I did,” she confirms, her own smile rivaling the TV host’s. “New York is my home, but it’s always a pleasure to visit Los Angeles.”

Candace drags Kate through a list of questions about her writing, about her former golden goose of Collette Stryker, how New York provides her with inspiration for what comes next.

“Speaking of inspiration…” The host’s smile grows mischievous as she tilts her head to the screen behind them. “It’s rumored that the character of your upcoming book, Derrick Storm, is based on this hunk of a real life detective.”

Mortification swirls through his guts as a picture of him and Kate walking side by side to a crime scene appears on the screen behind the women. Audible gasps and murmurs of intrigue arise from the audience and he notices Kate lose a hint of her color.

Ah, so this was unplanned. 

At least Beckett’s publicist, Jonathan, will have a field day attempting to sue them. 

“What can you tell us about this new man in your life?” Candace inquires at Beckett’s lack of response, but Kate is quick to counter.

“I can tell you that your implication is all wrong,” Kate chuckles, playing it off as if she was prepared for this stunt all along. “The NYPD has been kind enough to let me shadow their detectives over these last few months and the man in the photo is in fact an officer of the law.”

“Is that all?” Candace asks, narrowing her eyes on Kate as if they’re about to share a secret on live television. “I mean, how perfect would it be for a writer to fall for her muse? And not just that, but isn’t it inevitable? Spending so much time with someone like that, not just in person, but on the page?”

Kate’s smile turns placating. “Candace, I have nothing but respect for the man in this photo, but I won’t demean his or any other NYPD officer’s hard work by playing into the rumor of a romantic connection. My work with the police has been insightful, but completely professional.”

Castle scoffs. Yeah, making out in empty interrogation rooms is the epitome of professionalism. 

Her answer is perfect, though, exactly the kind of response he would have hoped for if he would have had any idea he and their relationship would be a topic of conversation on national television.

So why does he suddenly feel so bitter?

“All right, all right, I can take a hint,” Candace sighs dramatically. “But do tell me, does that mean the ruggedly handsome cop is on the market?”

Kate’s fist clenches over her knee, an undetectable response to an audience, but he knows her, knows her body, can read the signs. 

Rick’s eyebrows rise. Interesting. 

He watches her throat bob before her chest expands with a quick breath, reinforcing that strained smile across her lips. Little tells of her uneases, unnoticeable to Candace, the annoyingly bubbly TV host or her obnoxious audience, but he catches every single one.

“That’s not for me to say,” Kate answers. 

Oh, but it is.

Because as long as he has Kate Beckett weaseling her way into his job and embedding herself into his life, how could he ever even look at another woman and feel anything close to what he feels to the one currently on his screen?

He wants her. 

Candace begins to close with information about Kate’s previous work, a tentative date to look forward to for Derrick Storm’s release, and then she’s rising to shake Beckett’s hand.

Kate shakes it without a hint of warmth. Yeah, he doesn’t blame her. 

Castle exits out of the livestream once he’s sure her segment is over and returns to the home screen of his phone. He hesitates for only a moment before opening his text messages, his conversation with Kate. 

Completely professional, huh?

He only has to wait a beat.

Shut up.

He laughs, starts to type once more, but another text comes through before he can finish his.

But I’m touched that you tuned in.

He rolls his eyes, but he knows that she means it. That she probably didn’t expect him to honor his word and actually watch. 

Are you still flying back on Friday?

She types back too fast, doesn’t give him enough time to compose himself, to think about what he wants to say, what’s enough and what’s too much. 

Eager to engage in some acts of professionalism? 

He almost lets himself be honest (god yes), but begins to delete the words before he can type past three letters. 

Ryan and Espo are a mess without you.

No, that’s not good either. Too much subtext to what he really means (I miss you), too obvious. 

Oh, screw it.

Yes.

He sucks in a breath, watches the ‘delivered’ sign flash. 

Every second it takes her to reply, his heart beats louder in his chest.

Don’t tempt me to catch a flight out sooner.

He grins, almost tells her to do it, offers to pay the difference. 

God, is he that desperate?

Just come back safe he decides on, hitting send and standing from the chair. Ryan and Esposito are probably wondering where he is and he’s spent enough time tucked away in the break room to arise suspicion by now. 

Miss you too, Rick.

His lips quirk, feels his heart flicker with pleasant warmth, eager for her to come home. 

[cameoamalthea]

Drawn Child Pornography?: When is ‘Enjoying Garbage’ Illegal?

This post is academic in nature and does not constitute legal advice. This blog does not offer legal advice.

I explained in a previous post that fictional depictions if minors engaged in sexual activity are not legally the same as child porn, and not illegal in the United States. Simply put, there is no such thing as ‘drawn child pornography’ because the highest Court has decided that drawings and cartoons aren’t comparable to child porn. 

However, any adult material may be found to be obscene. Obscenity laws are complicated to explain, because even the Court has found it a bit tricky to pin down what makes something obscene.

“I shall not today attempt further to define the kinds of material I understand to be embraced within that shorthand description [“hard-core pornography”], and perhaps I could never succeed in intelligibly doing so. But I know it when I see it, and the motion picture involved in this case is not that.”

Since, “I know it when I see it” isn’t really a testable legal standard (and we can’t expect Judges to look at every bit of porn in the world to figure out what goes too far) the Court came up with “The Miller Test”.

Whether “the average person, applying contemporary community standards”, would find that the work, taken as a whole, appeals to the prurient interest,

Whether the work depicts or describes, in a patently offensive way, sexual conduct or excretory functions[3] specifically defined by applicable state law,

Whether the work, taken as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value.[4]

18 U.S. Code § 1466A pretty much reiterates The Miller Test’s standard; but notes that obscenity laws apply to cartoon images of minors.

This law really doesn’t change anything, as something obscene would count as obscene regardless of whether it’s of a minor or not.

Ashcroft v. Free Speech Coalition

Established that drawn images of minors are not child porn, but it didn’t create not create an exception where any porn can be  found obscene unless it’s about minors. Drawn porn involving minors is treated the same as all other porn (except real child pornography which is banned), which is to say - it can be illegal if it’s found to be obscene. 

All 18 U.S. Code § 1466A does is make it clear that just because something is drawn or sculpted, it’s not exempt from being found to be obscene under the same standards as everything else.

So would porn of underage anime characters be illegal? Well obscenity is also complicated because it’s not a national standard or even a State by State thing. 

It’s a ‘contemporary community standards’ thing.

So the standards of the exact community where you live…

So those standards can vary in the same state. The community standards in Miami may be different than the standards in a small, conservative town in North Florida.

For example in Texas, (conservative community, could only appeal to the conservative 4th Circuit) a man was charged with Obscenity for manga that didn’t have images of minors, they just weren’t for kids. In Texas v. Costilla a clerk in a comic book store convicted on obscenity charges for selling 18+ manga about adults to adults.

The Prosecution argued “I don’t care what type of evidence or what type of testimony is out there; use your rationality; use your common sense.  Comic books, traditionally what we think of, are for kids. … This is in a store directly across from an elementary school and it is put in a medium, in a forum, to directly appeal to kids. That is why we are here, ladies and gentlemen. We’re here to get this off the shelf.”

That’s community standards. Any cartoon or comic book that’s not children should be considered obscene because cartoons and comics are for kids.

So anything can be found obscene depending on the community. But let’s look at some cases that involved drawn images of children. 

In United States v. Whorley – A reader is convicted for viewing and printing manga of a sexual nature on a public computer

It was lolicon, but it was also a public library. He was looking at graphic porn at a public library (which are frequented by teens and children who could probably notice what he was looking at on his computer) and printing it out.

Even if it wasn’t lolicon, that still wouldn’t have been socially acceptable. Legally, the community standards applied would be that of the local library. He also wasn’t reading manga, he was just printing out the porn bits.

The article @sourcethatshit linked about the case also notes: “ Whorley used a VEC computer on two earlier dates in March 2004 to receive digital photographs of children engaging in sexually explicit conduct, the U.S. attorney’s office said. The 20 obscene e-mail messages described, among other things, parents sexually molesting their children.”

So despite the Header “A 53-year-old Richmond man yesterday became the first person convicted under a 2003 federal statute that makes obscene cartoon drawings as well as photographs an illegal form of child pornography” which leads with obscene cartoon drawings, this “as well as photographs” is the important bit here.

(And while this case is the sort I hate reading unless I have to - reading graphic criminal cases and bloody personal injury cases are the worst, I’m going to actually read the case).

Ok - so this is not a case of Man arrested and charged for having child porn because of cartoons. It’s a case of man who was charged with having actual live action child porn and also obscene cartoons. He was also clearly a sexual predator from his search history. So not the ideal candidate for a Civil Liberties group to use to fight about whether the loli/shota porn should have counted as obscene.

This was a sexual predator who belonged in jail, so the appellate Court (which is a conservative Court, this arrest happened in Alabama) didn’t see reason for to reverse.

“Whorley’s history of downloading child pornography, which was not represented in the recommended Guidelines calculation because, except for the 1999 conviction, the prior conduct had not resulted in Whorley’s prosecution and conviction.   The court also noted Whorley’s repeated failure to abide by the terms of supervised release from his prior conviction, including continuing to access computers without the probation officer’s approval, numerous false statements concerning attempts to obtain employment, failure to obtain employment, failure to report to the Department of Rehabilitation Services, failure to report to the Offender Aid and Restoration Program, and most disturbingly, his presence at local malls and public libraries frequented by children in direct disobedience of his probation officer’s instructions.”

The dissent recognizes the some of the charges are “bullshit” and should be reversed, but the majority of the Court and the Supreme Court don’t really want to wage a war over freedom of speech in a case that would give an actual sexual predator less jail time.

I recommend checking out the dissent for a good explanation of what artistic value might mean legally. The arguments made in the dissent would probably more compelling if it was just a man charged with doing dirty role plays with other adults or buying bad cartoons. 

This was a child sexual predator, a repeat offender in fact, and they wanted to throw the book at him. (Seriously, fuck Whorley) 

The other case @sourcethatshit mentioned has a misleading title “Manga Collection Ruled “Child Pornography” by US Court” 

In Handley, he pleaded guilty. 

The Court didn’t rule on anything. The prosecution accused him of something and he pled guilty. There wasn’t any deliberation or ruling. There was man backed into a corner agreeing to be punished rather than to fight for his constitutional rights. 

The thing about rights and what’s illegal is just because you have rights doesn’t mean the police and prosecution will respect them, just because you haven’t done anything illegal doesn’t mean you won’t be arrested. 

Many people accused of crimes that did not commit plead guilty because fighting it is costly and can mean spending a long time awaiting trial before getting on with their life. Additionally, prosecution often uses the threat of harsher sentences to convince the accused to plead guilty. According to the Comicbook Defense League

“When Handley awaited trial, prosecutors did not distinguish between manga and obscene material. They prohibited him from viewing or accessing any manga or anime on the Internet, ordering anime video or written material, or engaging in Internet chat, the latter harming his ability to prepare his defense.

When Handley awaited trial, prosecutors did not distinguish between manga and obscene material. They prohibited him from viewing or accessing any manga or anime on the Internet, ordering anime video or written material, or engaging in Internet chat, the latter harming his ability to prepare his defense.

Handley was also forced to undergo mental health counseling.

…the government assumed an aggressive posture towards Handley, and ultimately he chose to plead guilty rather than face a mandatory minimum sentence of 5 years in prison.’

Given the Texas case was never successfully appealed and a man was sent to jail just for selling comic books that were 18 + I can see the logic in not fighting. The Handley case, to me, seems more of a case of a innocent man pleading guilty of a crime he didn’t commit rather than fighting for his Freedom of Speech while waiting in a jail cell for the case to be appealed. 

 I stand with the Comic Book Defense League in my belief that:

“Art is not child pornography. Art provides a safe place for individuals to explore culture, identity and ideas. Prosecuting individuals for possession of comics does not prevent or punish the sexual abuse of real people.

Manga and comic books are realms of legitimate speech that are protected by the First Amendment.” 

[gwenore]

Dies Illa. Chapter 3.

Chapter 3: Father Gold shows Belle his library.

Synopsis: Father Gold has spent most of his time as part of the clergy to amass power to the point even the new king and queen should take care not to cross the archbishop. He has already started to think about how to spin the tension in the kingdom to his advantage. But then one day… he sees her. The girl with those blue eyes that can be nothing less than divine.

Father Gold had done a bit of investigation since the Wednesday of the confession. Since then he had learned that the lady’s name was Belle French, the daughter of a rich merchant named Maurice French.

Belle… no name could be more fitting for someone like her.

He also found out who her fiancé was. A Gaston LeGume… he was the type of noble that the archbishop could not stand. To be fair, he could not stand most nobles… but he was the worst kind. Having no worth to society, now not even having money or power, only a name. Those types were no worse than parasites.

Then again…

To have such men arrested and hung for a crime is easy… they certainly had made enough during their time.

It had only been enough to send a note to the inquisitors. Those damn vultures would take any chance to feast on the carcass of someone like him, ripping apart everything he had left of value. Then either kill him or sentence him to some degrading punishment for several years. Gold hardly doubted that anyone would stick their neck out for a man such as that.

And… if he heard talk about that a meeting with the head of the inquisition would make certain he never saw the light again. Especially if that meeting were followed by a donation.

The inquisition like everyone was not that hard to buy.

It had taken some days and each day, Belle had done as he suggested. She would come to the cathedral and pray.

How she graced the halls with her beauty.

He would always watch her, from a safe distance. He did not dare get too close.

However… one day there were no one else in the cathedral. Marked day. People had other things to concern themselves with.

But she was there. The archbishop noticed a sort of relieved look upon her face. Well… the news of the arrest should be known by now.

Slowly he walked up to her, when she spotted him she let out a slight gasp before she bent her head. He smiled at her, pretending to be the kind priest who cared for his flock… an act he had not really bothered to put on for a very long time.

“Ah, my child, you look… relieved,” he told her, smiling gently. Belle nodded her head slightly.

“Um… though I confess that it may be sinful for me to feel relieved,” she muttered as her gaze fell to the floor.

“Oh?” he asked, it taking everything in his power to keep a smirk from coming upon her lips. She remained silent for a while, clearly unsure if she should continue.

“Do not worry, you may speak to me. Words spoken to a man of god is no to leave the church, and you do seem like you could have a need for speaking about it,” he told her sitting himself down on the church bench before the massive gilded alter.

Belle nervously took a seat next to him.

“Well… you see… the man I were to marry were arrested… I do not know the charge, but it seems to be pretty grim. I am not going to marry him anymore and… I am relieved,” she looked into her hands as she spoke.

Father Gold held back a chuckle, but smiled and nodded.

“Well… the inquisition never tells even the accused what the charge is. Makes them confess to things they don’t yet know about. Makes them dig the whole they are in very large in most cases,” he explained to her.

“That sounds… rather terrifying…” Belle whispered.

“I suppose… I have never been interrogated by them, so I wouldn’t know. But it certainly is not sinful for a decent lady such as yourself to have her fate tied to such a man. His crime is his own, and will not taint your life. So being relieved and happy… that is only justified,” he assured her. With that she dared to give him a smile.

“Thank you your eminence, I have been worried. While I wish no harm on anyone… to be married to him would be a fate worse than death for me. Perhaps you will find this inappropriate for a woman of my standing, but… I do enjoy reading. Gaston was known for his disdain for books… especially for woman to read… how could I be happy with such a man?” she was opening up… clearly having no one else to speak of with that. Father Gold allowed himself to let out a soft chuckle.

“Several men like him holds that view. Claiming that books are dangerous. I would not ever wish to spend time around such people myself. They never tend to be very interesting nor hold a conversation about anything more exciting than the weather,” he cocked his head. The heavenly creature let out a slight laugh at this… the most beautiful sound that he had heard and caused his heart to flutter.

“And weather is actually he best topic you can hope for,” she giggled. Father Gold looked at her. To see her smile…

The archbishop did not know that anything could make this being look more beautiful… but her smile… her smile did it.

He wanted to see her smile as he swore it light up this dark cathedral. A smile came upon his features he thought of something.

“Lady French… do you have a moment?” he then asked as he stood up. Belle was really confused, furrowing her brow, but nodded her head.

“Yes Father,” she told him. He started to lead her to the back of the cathedral, unlocking the door before opening it, letting her inside.

“Where are we going your eminence?” Belle asked him.

“Oh…” he smiled softly. “It is something I am certain will delight you.”

With that he light a candle and lead her through the corridors which connected the cathedral to the buildings behind. Belle honestly felt really disoriented as she attempted to follow the shimmering robes of the archbishop.

They then arrived at the massive mansion behind it, Belle looking astonished at the statues and frescos on the wall.

“This is… this is beautiful…” she whispered.

“Well, the quarters were not what I wished to show you… but I suppose it is rather… decorative,” Father Gold had long since become used to this place… not that he was usually impressed by such things…

Instead he turned towards the two big doors under the split stairwell, opening them and mentioned her inside.

Belle glanced over at him… he could see curiosity on her face before she slowly stepped inside and he could hear her let out a stunned gasp.

Never before had she seen a library this large and with such splendor. Slowly she walked along the walls which held great volumes from all over the world.

“Some of these… some of these are centuries old…” Belle murmured as she ran her fingers over the spine of the massive volumes.

“Are these… handwritten?” she asked stunned.

“Some…” the archbishop replied. “They were created long before the printing press after all. Most are more recent and printed though.”

He watched her open one of them, her supple fingers running across the parchment. Her blue eyes then looked toward him again.

“Why would you show me this?” she asked breathlessly.

“Well… it seemed to me that you wanted to see it… and from what I can tell… I was not wrong in this assumption,” he gave her a gentle smiled from the chair that he had sat himself down in. Belle swallowed, but nodded her head.

“I cannot believe such a place existed in this town…” she was clearly still in awe as her voice did not raise above a whisper.

“Well... this old cathedral does have some secrets.. or well… this is rather behind it, but… oh well…” Gold shrugged his shoulders.

“The cathedral is absolutely stunning… it is really so old…” she continued to wander down the wall, her eyes eagerly gliding over the spines, reading the titles. Most of them were in Latin. She knew a bit of Latin, but nothing more than she had learned as a child.

“More than five hundred years old…” he shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you know its story?” she asked, he could hear the curiosity in her voice.

“Hm… it was built upon a catacomb,” he told her. He watched her over at him, not expecting this.

“That is not usual… I know people get buried in cathedrals… but…”

“Well… there was this warrior… no one knows his name… but he died and would not remain at rest, not within the catacombs. The people would see him walk around, not as a ghost but a walking carcass. Apparently he had sold his soul to the devil and as his work was not done… he was not allowed to rest. So to keep him in they built the cathedral above it so that he would never be able to escape to do the devil’s work. God’s house built on the devil’s graveyard… pretty fitting in a sense,” he told her the old legend, riveted with how she hang at his words.

“And… you believe this to be… true?” she whispered, moving towards him. He had to force himself to remain calm. She was close now… nothing separating them as she sat upon the table beside him. The archbishop smiled softly before he shrugged.

“I do not know. But there is a catacomb under the cathedral, that part is true. It is never used though… hardly would be wise,” he then smiled before he walked over and wandered among the walls for a bit before he grabbed a book and handed it to her.

“Here… this tells of the local legends,” He told her. “You may borrow it and decide for yourself if you think that it is true.”

Belle took the book as if it was made of pure gold, when it was just a dusty little thing, before clutching it to her chest.

“I will be sure to return it quickly. Thank you, you have lifted my spirits greatly, your eminence!” She smiled. He nodded his head as they proceeded to walk out towards the cathedral again.

“I hope to speak with you again soon Lady French, and hope to see you return to the cathedral. Know that you are always welcome,” he said as he lead her once more through the corridors.

At the cathedral he watched her walk down the aisle before vanishing into that busy street outside.

His heart had been racing the entire time… even if he had tried to seem calm. He wanted so much to hold her… to touch her.

How could he tell her that he wanted to give her everything?

The priest turned away and walked into the darkness. He needed to think… as not even he knew what he would do next…

[chiseler]

Jack Black Gets One Year

After near eleven months on the lam, late in the year 1912, Jack Black was on his way back inside. Despite his official protest at the Alberta, Canada, province jail, another protest at the Canadian border, and yet another in the States, he was remanded into custody by Canadian and American officials who had colluded extralegally to bring him back to justice in California. Jack called it “as raw a job of kidnapping as ever was done.” He knew the law; they knew the law. Yet here he was, cuffed again.

By way of train across the border and through Montana and Washington state, then finally into California, Jack prayed for either a snatched gun with which to kill himself or a fatal derailment into a ditch and get it over for he knew as well as he ever knew anything in his life that if he was taken back to Folsom prison to serve his twenty-five-year sentence he’d be dead within a year or two. He’d do anything not to see the inside again. He saw himself a loser all the way around.

Against some odds, not only did the escorting officers treat him civilly over the entire trip back to the States, giving him no chance to do away with himself, but instead of to the dreaded Folsom they brought him right back to the San Francisco city jail from where he’d escaped and begun this latest adventure underground.

There was a sort of bright side, as Jack saw it. Though he was back where he started he was a bit healthier (he had gained weight on the run) and most important he had kicked his opium habit. Legally too he found himself in shallower water than he thought he’d had below him. Although following his escape the district attorney had requested the court dismiss everything concerning his case, the special considerations and whatnot, which was done, what counsel did not know is that Black’s initial appeal on his case, the one he had applied for before the great 1906 fire that wiped out his records, was still pending, after all these years. (An intermediate court of appeals was set up for just this purpose in the post-fire years, so when the DA went to the state supreme court to make requests on Jack Black’s case, the denials for appeals reflected the prisoner’s stature at Ingleside jail, not the twenty-five-year sentence handed down in 1904 being appealed; Jack and his lawyer knew this, of course, but kept mum about it for the time being. Such were the idiosyncratic legal shenanigans at court that was part and parcel of the citywide chaos following for many years in the wake of the disastrous earthquake and fire.)

The big wheel newspaperman Fremont Older, tireless champ of the city's underdogs, came almost immediately to see Blacky in jail when he heard the news he was back in. Jack was afraid Older would hold it against him that he’d escaped when he, Older, was trying all he could to help him. But the fighting editor understood that it was going against Black and said he thought Jack had a right to do what he did. “It was the only way out for you,” Older told Black then. “I would probably have done the same thing myself.” These two very different men were trying hard to understand each other and were succeeding.

Older, a big man with a big hat, remarked on Jack’s healthy aspect and Black was pleased to tell him he’d kicked the hop. Then Older said he’d see what could be done now for him, believing he thought it possible, on account of the complications of the case, that an amended sentence could be worked out if Jack would stop his fighting and plead guilty. Jack admitted to his new friend of having little hope that any such thing could be done but even so he readily agreed to give it a try.

When a man from the city district attorney’s office (deputy district attorney Maxwell McNutt) came to see him, Jack repeated what he’d said to Older about escaping because he’d felt he had no choice at the time. The man told him he’d spoken to Older and Jack’s lawyer too and it was believed by them all that he’d done nearly enough time as it is. Jack was dumbstruck to hear this. In all his considerable experience he’d never heard a representative of the law say he thought a criminal had served enough time. Then McNutt told Jack that if he’d dismiss all matters with regard to his case before the court and plead guilty, as Older had suggested as well, the DA would ask for a sentence of no more than two years.

Naturally this started Jack to thinking what kind of double cross they were trying to hand him. He’d never gotten any leniency in any court and it was simply unbelievable to him. He spoke once again to both his lawyer and Mr. Older. They tried hard to convince him that he was to be dealt fairly with. Jack confessed freely that this was quite a revelation to him. He hadn’t expected it at all. “It was the first time I ever got any better than the worst of it,” he said. He saw himself getting out from under that twenty-five-year death sentence and he found it difficult suddenly to keep from hoping for the best.

Jack was tired. His feet were on the downward path. He was fed up with waiting for the courts. If he could take a plea for a certain reduced sentence well okay then. He wanted to quit the life, all right, but it had seemed so far away it wasn’t worth the while to get it. He’d seen nothing ahead of him but more of the same, a violent life that would inevitably come to a violent end. And the sooner the better, it was all the same to him. Of a sudden he had a friend in the court. He realized that people were taking a chance on him and as a consequence it was up to him to make good of it,  “to square myself,” when he came out of it. He said to himself he’d even be willing to go to work.

He didn’t mention this to anybody, of course. He hated to hear a guy say he’d do this, do that when he was in jail. It just doesn’t look right for a fellow to whine and repent saying he’d never go wrong again when he got out. Jack was not the type to put the talk on work and reformation, no sir. If he made the promise to himself, well that was enough. He didn’t have to broadcast anything.

It was a tight context, though. “My views had not changed a bit about stealing,” he felt compelled to state later. “It was only that I had got into a hole where in order to play square with men that had been friends to me I had to quit.” He meant Mr. Older and, later, Judge Dunne. “However, I would not claim credit for this, as though it was a sacrifice on my part.” Hell, he said to himself again, by now he wanted to quit the life.

Fremont Older suggested to Jack that he give a little talk in court on the day of his case being heard in the way of offering his experiences in the life of a criminal as a kind of instruction to those in a position perhaps to help others who would find themselves in the circumstances he had. Older had listened to Black talk enough to know he had plenty to impart. Jack was reluctant initially but he thought that, yes, he supposed he could offer something, for he had after all many experiences outside the law and if what he had to say was of any use to just one person then it was all right. He wrote out about 300 words, according to Older, but then decided he would rather just get up in court and ramble. He saved it for after his sentence was read, however, ever sensitive that it not appear as if he were falsely caterwauling to a softer term.

On December 24, Christmas Eve, 1912, Jack Black was re-sentenced by Judge Frank Dunne to a term of one year for the highway robbery crime committed more than eight years earlier, the most of which he’d spent in jails in the city of San Francisco. This was even more than he could have hoped. One year! He looked at Judge Dunne, who had suddenly given him this last chance, just at the point when he’d all but given up. He’d always liked to watch people and wonder why they did the things they do. He’d had lots of time to think things over in jail in the past eight years and more. Well, he thought now, it isn’t asking much of a man to try and stay out of jail, and in return for such kindness and trust as he was shown here today, he ought to do so.

“I would not make this statement if I ever expected to appear in court again as a defendant,” Jack pronounced with the stoutest of hearts, and he went on to detail at length (close to an hour, per a court reporter’s report!) his prison experiences as well as attitudes regarding the criminal life and the life of brutality, on the run from the law and from himself. He confessed his despair and near defeat right up to the moment of reprieve, which impressed him as nothing else ever had. In closing, pale and stoop shouldered, Jack made a heartfelt declaration, and it is worth repeating in full: “I have promised myself, and I promise the court, that when I finish this sentence I shall look for the best instead of the worst, that I shall look for kindness instead of cruelty, and that I shall look for the good instead of the bad, and when I find them I shall return them with interest. I am confident when I promise the court this that I will not fail. I imagine I have enough character left as a foundation on which to build a reformed life. If I had no character, no will power, no determination, I would have been broken long ago by the years of imprisonment and punishment; and I would have been useless and harmless and helpless, a force for neither good nor bad.”

A reporter from the San Francisco Bulletin was in the courtroom that day and he took down what Jack said and had it printed (in several parts, beginning that afternoon, December 24, 1912), which was editor Older’s intention. The headline read: “John Black, Who Broke Prison, in Dramatic Scene.” The newspaper, at the time attempting to influence the state penal system, included this final word from Jack’s long statement, which he declined to print in his remarkable autobiography You Can’t Win years later: “This marks the close of my statement, and there may be something wrong in my philosophy. I have picked it up in jail and outside in worse places, and if there is any error in it, or in my logic, I would be glad to have them pointed out to me now, so that I might write [sic] them.” This last I believe is the reporter’s error in transcription, as it seems to me Jack meant “right” though it would not be long before “write,” unpredictably enough, would also be operable.

The judge was duly impressed, and he admitted aloud that “few men who have passed through what you have seem to realize and feel their work of redemption lies largely in themselves and that their future is in their own hands...I believe there is still hope for you.” Dunne had helped Jack grasp his own future, and with that chance on this prisoner it gave Jack Black the opportunity not only to change his life but to write his life, and for that we can thank Judge Dunne deeply as Black had.

Finally, oddly enough, Dunne asked Black if he had any choice of prisons. He said he preferred San Quentin because he’d already been in every other prison in the state of California. What he meant of course was that he would never again set foot in the only other state pen, Folsom, if ever he could help it. He got what he wanted and he walked out of court that day with the greatest Christmas gift he’d ever received, or would ever receive.

by Don Kennison

[murderincrp]

PROFILE LOADED...「KIM JONGIN」「UNAFFILIATED」「TWENTY-ONE」

“Twenty-one-year-old STUDENT, UNDERGROUND RACER and VIGILANTE that goes by the alias ‘KAI’. No known allies.”

✘ THREAT LEVEL HIGH. PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION...

WARNING: BODY HORROR, MURDER, ANIMAL CRUELTY, PARENTAL MISGUIDANCE.

[ BACKGROUND... ]

          deification, interrupted.

this upturned ocean tells him to go south, where the bullets rattle they turn into milk teeth. blue-bled, but in the goblet of urban wars, the saltwater wears red robes, bloodied to the point where he cannot recognize the face of a father anymore.

                                                                 i.

appa is a flesh of atrocity. acknowledges it since the very beginning: there’s no genesis without understandings, for to live in this world means to be prepared to maim, to maul. to kill. every single footfall echoed across the hall spills a tale about a boyhood cusped in the hands of the beloved, the beloved being a curse of catharsis. each bang, bang, bang. bleeding, spitting. under this dome, appa sits on the throne, and he’s sitting on appa’s lap. each wave of appa’s hand results in another chaotic intent, with battles murmured between alleyways a partiture listened to in the room full with deicide.

comprehends this, as a son: birthed among the aligned stars, he’s a memory of umma, soft features inherent. in his marrows, however, everything that appa has been fighting for is infused, rotting according to the blackening skies that fill their firmaments. implications: an adobe for a crowned prince, ripening with specters of a queen hanging from his shoulders.

& a king he will become, a king just like his father.

                   king for the godless men, what does that make him?

                                                                     ( a god. )

                             ii.

the rupture in the history of a madman speaks with a knife pointed upwards, towards the nebula that ripples alongside the moon. he’s a boy that grows with stalactites for teeth, his palate painted in the color of transparence. why, you ask? for with this, his massacre is not contained in any walls. does it in the open, how he fissures the gossamer cocoon of a childhood with a flask of vermillion on his hand. just a stray animal, he would think. just a thing that no one would miss.

in the end, there’s no care towards missing anymore. the more they’re missed, the better. the more they’re missed, the weaker. weaknesses are introduced later on, in the lessons that appa streaks so beautifully. it feels like punishments, at first, how appa turns every single thing that he loves into soot. but then, it feels more like liberation. appa teaches him on love and loss.

                                                           do you ever miss umma?

there’s no case of missing. it’s an incisor that they both will be buried without — to miss is to feel. & to feel is to indulge in a privilege that they aren’t granted with.

                   the right answer: no. null. never.

                                                                                                   iii.

it is a climb. slow, but a climb nonetheless. his first murder is a mess, but isn’t every first murder? the process is, after all, the pinnacle of satisfaction — as he grabs her by the foot, as he stabs her right in the crux. remembers it all in the holy times, praying for the memento to never fade.

it’s an ecstasy, each reminiscence. ensures that each killing floor has distinctive brands, a wall of his bedroom an altar of polaroids. he’s a cathedral of emptied bodies, their drained veins a commemoration for the man that he’s become. like appa, like the king.

& one day, he will overthrow the man that’s been claiming the throne for too long.

                                                 in this empire, only one king may reign.

                   he’s been prepared for it, from limb to limb.

but it’s not enough, never enough. in his sleep, appa is a ghost of nightmares, cloaking him around the neck with his crooked fingers. nails dig deep, leaving crescents into his skin he doesn’t know if it’s contained in his sleep anymore. maybe it is what it truly means, to live in this world. to maim, to maul. to kill.

will he kill appa? will appa kill him?

                                                                             is a prince just another casualty after all?  

iv.

digs deep into himself, however, and finds the answer: love and loss. appa wasn’t the one teaching him — he was the one teaching appa. robbed appa of the only person he’d ever come to love so deeply his crux bruised purple, before dimming into charred colors at the son’s birth. a son for a curse. perhaps he was never a prince, after all. more like a price.

but at least he’s a shape of appa’s deiform; in the playground of hell, he’s become a hellhound of his own brand. kids whispered in the hallways, echoed with their ricocheting fear. rumor had it that he grew too many thorns inward, printed on the texture of his red. even the school yard was filled with mirrored respect for the king-to-be. for them, he was king.

( proved it with his knuckles painted in teeth marks. )

                   & he thinks, he thinks until his mind hemorrhages,

about puncturing appa’s lungs with a stake.

he thinks, he thinks until none of it comes true.

                                                                           v.

he’s never liked the boy he’s become, with hands splintered with the needles of crime. sixteen, three kills, and he runs, runs, runs until his ankles twist from the escape. his grandparents are kind strangers that take him in, his features reminding them of his mother’s. seoul is a metroscape against his palate, bittersweet.

& under the stark ceiling of their penthouse at nights, thinks of how umma might sound like, enunciating words that he’s come to familiarize himself with. he’s a substitute of a child for two strangers that slowly mold into relatives. their titles gradually dissolve on the tip of his tongue like mint, and in years he locates himself in their cruxes as much as they hold onto umma.

perhaps this is fate, after all, to exit the stage prior to the son’s murder.

every single piece of the puzzle falls into place, until it starts disintegrating once again. this time, halmeoni, robbed off his hands in the midst of an open fire. they come to the scene too late, her life a wisp of smokes that dissipates into the night skies.

he swears he will not stop until he digs his nails deep into their throats.

                             vi.

youth turns oxblood with the weight of vengeance.

& he does not care anymore; paints his hands with the lacquer, this time under the name of justice, except the cloak of integrity does not suit him all that much. instead, he dons an entire attire that puts revenge as the brand, all black like the stains that cripple his humanity.

                                                           ( not that he has it whole to begin with. )

he likes it, being a body of darkness. he likes the man that he’s become, turning into a murderer under the disguise of reprisal. in here, his atonement. in here, his resentment.

he eventually becomes everything that appa wanted him to be: an apple does not fall away from its tree, after all. and in here, eden, bruised with the burnt edges of apocalypse.

summary: born and raised by a high-levelled assassin for a father, he was exposed to various circumstances other kids wouldn’t have upon having his boyhood. his mother was never present in his life, died upon giving birth to him, that there was no other influence in his life but his father. the harsh treatment that he received as a child, as well as paradoxes of lessons that his father inflicted on him ( ranging from making him learn that people would miss their beloved, but teaching him how to use that to their advantages, basically trying to numb the boy ) caused him to suffer from detachment. while he was not exactly like his father, who might have suffered from various mental disorders, he became a mold of his father’s dictation, rendering him unable to comprehend the right from wrong in the right way. he started with killing animals, before eventually resorting to killing homeless people, knowing too well that the “cleaners” that had worked for his father would do the same for him. his goal as a child, and eventually youth, was to make his father proud, and that might have resulted in problematic behaviors exhibited in various occasions. in school, he did not get along with kids, for his objective was to make them fear him instead — he got into various fights that caused them to “follow” him, and he was deemed as a bully, although that was a part that he’d never cared about. at sixteen, the realization that he’d never wanted to be a tool eventually dawned on him, and with the help of people he’d known from the business, he ran away from london to seoul, where his grandparents from mother’s side resided. he lived a slightly more normal life from there onwards, softening towards his grandparents the way they did towards him as well, until his grandmother was killed in an open fire. at that, he swore that he would bring justice for his grandmother, as well as others. he became kai, a masked vigilante, although he wouldn’t adjust himself according to the laws. he still kills when he deems necessary, and he still performs various crimes as a civilian. the latter ranges from underground racing to occasional pickpocketing for fun. he currently attends school in the computer science program as well, hoping to become a talented hacker to help him trace the criminals better.

[ BEHAVIOR... ]

         exhibit a.

as jongin, he exhibits various types of personality, but he’s mostly fluid, his traits adjusting to the mold given by the people around him. considering that he was raised to fulfill expectations, that’s what he’s become: a mirror. he provides people with what they would like to see in him, causing some of those who are perceptive to think of him as either a hypocrite or simply a chameleon. the majority of people, however, cannot see through his lies, rendering them to find him rather pleasant as a company.

he’s mostly a loyal friend, and it’s effortless to win his platonic attention. it’s not, however, genuine attention, given that he doesn’t really care for most people. he’s selfish, and most of the time, survival centric. but when he’s come to care about someone, he invests a lot of thoughts into them, which is why he does not truly like having his sympathy captured. he’s also quite patient as a person, angering him needing quite an effort but it doesn’t mean it’s impossible. he can be easily aggravated over small things, having a lot of pet peeves, but wrath is another matter entirely — it’s usually saved for rare circumstances that set him off.

         exhibit b.

as kai, his traits are more upfront, more honest. he often displays bluntness without a lot of thoughts given for the recipient, and most of it is accounted towards the fact that he’s basically a masked vigilante, remaining anonymous under the nickname. he’s more frontal and offensive as he cannot afford to care for anyone as kai, and so, while most of the time he breaks the barrier between jongin and kai, he tries not to do it often, especially for his own sanity. nevertheless, he cannot stop caring for his civilian identity’s friends, and sometimes still strives to protect them when he can.

he doesn’t put a lot of efforts into following the rules in the society as the vigilante. he has his own set of morals, and that makes him dangerous, as well as wanted by the police. he’s inevitably regarded as a common enemy between the criminals and law enforcements, considering that he acts against the both of them.