#Agent Tumult

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Genius is nothing other than the ability to retrieve childhood at will.

Charles Baudelaire

Is this all there is to art? A kind of solipsism? An inability to get past the egoism of infancy?

In Fellini’s masterpiece 8+1/2 the answer seems to lie with unraveling the mysterious phrase ‘Asa Miso Nasa’. Up front I will admit the film is not easy to follow as it doesn't really have a great plot and it does feel like episodic that gives it a disjointed look. But that doesn't mean there are no grand narratives underpinning it because there is.

The film, released in 1963, is about a movie director named Guido. His latest project has stalled before filming has even begun. Played by the incomparable Marcello Mastroianni, Guido is suffering from anxiety and creative block. It’s no wonder. He has sown chaos in his love life, and his creative indecision is producing near-mutinous levels of angst among actors, agents and crew. But all of this is mere surface tumult. Guido is haunted by something deeper. Something to do with . . . what? His parents, his childhood, the Catholic church? Feelings of shame and bliss? Death? All he has to answer his question is the phrase 'Asa Miso Nasa' to unlock answers but something he doesn't quite get.

In many ways ‘Asa Miso Nasa’ is a red herring, a sort of wild goose chase to nowhere. Like "Rosebud" in Orson Welles' Citizen Kane, or the madeleine in Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time, "Asa Nisi Masa" is a Hitchcockian ‘MacGuffin’ - a convenient object upon which the plot turns. In Fellini’s film it’s used as a gateway to crucial memories of the central character - even though it is itself peripheral to the central story.

Fellini’s answer is, I think, with his apprehension that the urge to make art is connected to a time in our lives when we were lifted and carried about, lowered into baths, tucked into bed; when we first used our lips to suck and to kiss; when we flapped our arms and kicked our legs; or when we danced without unrestrained joy. In other words, when we felt ourselves to be unique in our childhood.

Why should that be so? James Fenton, the great poet and critic, provided a plausible answer, even if he was writing about something else.

“Because,” wrote Fenton - and here comes the part that Guido, the anxious, grown-up filmmaker, must reckon with - “there follows the primal erasure, when we forget all those early experiences, and it is rather as if there is some mercy in this, since if we could remember the intensity of such pleasure it might spoil us for anything else. We forget what happened exactly, but we know that there was something, something to do with music and praise and everyone talking, something to do with flying through the air, something to do with dance.”

Something Fellini-esque, you might say.

Art is more than a pathetic desire to revert to childhood bliss. It’s true that the self-centredness of great artists - and by no means just male artists - is bound up with their desire to find again the treasure in the corner of the childhood bedroom, and the only sound is the children’s chant: “Asa Nisi Masa.” But what do all artists want if not to be understood.

But here we run into a problem. For all the attention artists seek, there is a kind of shame for them in being “understood.” Being “explained” is never more than an inch from being “explained away,” rendered redundant, losing the vital quality that makes one unique. Their egos can't handle that. So we can never judge beauty in art if we limit ourselves to just the life and meaning of an artist. If anyone ever says they don't like this art because of this artist was not nice or was abusive or held questionable beliefs then they are either illiterate fools or as shallow as the unfunny Hannah Gadsby is about Picasso.

There is much, much more to art, which, at its best, is always about transcending solipsism and reaching for beauty.

For Roger Scruton, the great philosopher of aesthetics, “Beauty is an ultimate value - something that we pursue for its own sake, and for the pursuit of which no further reason need be given. Beauty should therefore be compared to truth and goodness, one member of a trio of ultimate values which justify our rational inclinations,” Scruton developed a largely metaphysical aspect to understanding standards of art and beauty. For Scruton, the purpose of art is to save the sacred - the beautiful.

For Scruton, beauty is wrapped up in his view of the sacred. The sacred begins with the fundamental nature of man as an end, not merely a means - here childhood memories are a means not an end. Scruton then, is able to apply this concept of ends to beauty. The ability to place meaning on things is what gives man his sacredness and makes him an end unto himself. The sacred gives us a glimpse into eternity, and provides man with the cure to his temporal misery. In a manner almost Platonic, Scruton describes the sacred as pulling man out of the world of things and into the transcendental realm. It is an attempt not so much to find a glimpse of our childhood so much as to find Eden again, even if only in a finite temporal way, and to “prefigure our eternal home.”

Thus, it is this sacred nature of ends, not means, that Scruton puts forth in his understanding of beauty. In this Scruton echoes those philosophers of that past. Some like the Greek philosopher, Plotinus, beauty is seen as an ultimate value, pursued for its own sake, and the way in which the “divine unity makes itself known to the soul.”

Beauty is the glue that holds cultures together. It transcends individual places and ages. Light shining through stained glass in the Notre-Dame Cathedral, the face of Mary in Michelangelo’s La Pietà, a Bach orchestral suite, or a Frederico Fellini film (and none more so than the playful but sublime 8+1/2). Our experiences of these things connect us to the experiences of so many others over the decades and centuries since their creation. The beauty links us with a sense of profoundness and awe.

#baudelaire #charles baudelaire #quote #fellini #film #cinema #movie #art #aesthetics #beauty #childhood #memory #platonic #roger scruton #scruton #plotinus #eden #sacred #james fenton #frederico fellini #italian cinema #hannah gadsby is not funny #arts #culture

[dailyanarchistposts]

The 1979 Revolution

In 1977, after years of political stifling, dissent began building that would soon pierce the wall. In May, a number of prominent judges, intellectuals and liberal opposition figures began publishing a series of open letters to high level ministers decrying problems in society, highlighting violations of the 1906 constitution. A month later, and again in August, the government attempted to forcefully evacuate the shantytowns of Tehran. On both occasions, the fierce resistance of residents forced the government to call off their plans. In October, writers and poets organized a series of readings at the Goethe Institute in Tehran. Over ten days the readings continued to grow, taking on a definite political character. At their peak these readings drew crowds of up to fifteen thousand, with some nights ending in clashes with the police.[17]

That year the Shah made an official visit to Washington, with much fanfare from the Carter administration. The event at the White House was met outside by a large student demonstration. Confrontations between pro- and anti-Shah demonstrators turned violent. While the Shah and Carter were meeting with guests, teargas deployed by police wafted onto the lawn of the White House. Guests wiped their eyes amid the tumult outside, in full view of the media.

Back in Iran, student strikes and demonstrations on university campuses were increasing in momentum and frequency, so much so that by the end of 1977 almost all of the universities had been shut down or were unable to properly function. Strikes in various industries were increasing, but at this point still centered on economic demands concerning particular grievances, rather than more general political demands. In spite of all of these events, it was still not clear to most observers that the regime was in severe crisis, or that the country stood on the verge of a revolution. On New Year’s Eve 1977, President Carter came to Iran, where he was treated to a lavish dinner hosted by the Shah and televised across the nation. Carter offered a toast to the Shah, declaring Iran to be “an island of stability in one of the more troubled areas of the world.”

In January 1978, a semi-official newspaper published a scandalous article accusing Khomeini (who was still exiled in Iraq) of being a British agent, among other things. Seminarians and theology students responded with mass demonstrations in Qom. The demonstrations turned violent, and a number of demonstrators were killed by troops, instigating a further wave of demonstrations led by the clergy after the traditional forty-day cycle of mourning. Each time a demonstrator was killed, after the forty days was up, their death would be marked with another demonstration; if during that demonstration another demonstrator was killed, there would be another demonstration after forty days, and so on. This dynamic helped push the religious opposition to the forefront of the struggle.

On February 18th, 1978 a mass demonstration in Tabriz descended into a riot. Government buildings and other symbols of the regime were attacked, marking a definite escalation on the part of the popular opposition. Within a month, mass demonstrations and riots had spread to over fifty cities. Attempting to appease the protesters, the Shah promised free elections and appointed a new prime minister pledging more reforms.

Meanwhile, in response to these events, workers’ strikes began to take on a more political character. In August, a strike wave broke out in solidarity with the struggles taking place across the country. Many important industrial centers took part, and the wave rapidly gained momentum, eventually becoming a mass strike that would encompass the whole country. Attempting to quell the strikes, the government promised pay raises, benefits, and revisions to the labor law, but the situation had swelled past the point of return. The demonstrations continued to spread geographically, increasing in scale.

Finally, on September 7, 1978, martial law was declared in Tehran and eleven other cities. In violation of the order, a demonstration took place in Tehran’s Jaleh Square the following day. Troops opened fire on the demonstrators, and over eighty people were killed. The day became known as “Black Friday,” and marked another dramatic turning point for the revolution. However, instead of being intimidated, opposition to the regime only increased. The following day strikes spread to the oil industry, the linchpin of the Iranian economy. This entry of the oil workers into the strike wave was a severe blow to the state. Over the course of September, industrial action spread from refinery to refinery, as well as to other factories and industries. By the end of the month, the rolling waves of mass strikes had coalesced into a general strike, and the entire economy had been brought to a standstill.

In the hopes of restoring order, in November the Shah appointed a new military government, whose soldiers attempted to force the oil workers back to work. This worked for a brief moment, although those forced back to work by the barrel of a gun still succeeded in slowing down and sabotaging the works. Ultimately, however, the force of the army was no match for the collective refusal of the working class, and in December, the military government collapsed.

Next, the Shah attempted to form a civilian government with Shapour Bakhtiar — a leader of the National Front, longtime opposition activist, and former political prisoner — at its head. Bakhtiar accepted the proposal, and was immediately expelled from the National Front, who at this point had thrown their support behind Khomeini.

By this point, demonstrators numbered in the millions, and troops had begun crossing over to the other side, many of them being conscripts from poor families. The military leaders were finding it increasingly difficult to shore up obedience and maintain morale.

Finally, on January 16, 1979, Muhammad Reza Pahlavi, the Shah of Iran, fled the country for the second time, hoping that the military and Bakhtiar’s government would be able to restore order. But history does not often repeat itself, and events would not play out as they had in 1953.

When Ayatollah Khomeini returned from exile on February 1, 1979, he was greeted by massive crowds. He declared the Bakhtiar government illegitimate and appointed a provisional government consisting of members of the liberal nationalist opposition.[18] At this point, the country was in a situation of dual power: there was the government of Bakhtiar, and that of Bazargan. Ayatollah Khomeini now appeared as the de facto leader of the revolution.

On February 9, 1979, after more than a year of demonstrations, strikes, and riots, a full-scale insurrection broke out. The spark was provided by a mutiny at the air force base in Tehran, when cadets declared their support for the revolution against their commanding officers. The elite Imperial Guard, the famous “Immortals,” quickly attacked the base, attempting to restore order. Word spread, and guerilla groups sprung into action, rushing to fight the Imperial Guard. The action spread into the neighboring town and to other cities. Police stations and military barracks were raided, their weapons distributed to the people. As the police and military units were successively defeated, barricades were erected throughout the city. Government buildings, television and radio stations were all occupied. Prisons were attacked, and political prisoners carried out like heroes on the shoulders of crowds. Seeing that Bakhtiar’s government was a lost cause, the top military generals declared their neutrality, asking those soldiers still loyal to them to return to their barracks. On February 11, 1979, Tehran radio announced the victory of the revolution.

#1979 Revolution #anarchism #resistance #prison abolition #acab #jail #prisoners #autonomy #revolution #community building #practical anarchism #anarchist society #practical #practical anarchy #anarchy #daily posts #communism #anti capitalist #anti capitalism #late stage capitalism #organization #grassroots #grass roots #anarchists #libraries #leftism #social issues #economics #anarchy works #environmentalism

[the-bar-sinister]

In Justice We Trust (126233 words) by thesavagesabretooth

catch up here.

With Simon Blackquill and Athena Cykes assigned as their psychologists, the Phantom and Fulbright must grapple with their identity, their deeds, their future, and their love for the twisted samurai whom they betrayed.

All the while, Edgeworth and Wright find their relationship tested as they walk the narrow path between pursuing real justice, and the dark age of the law.

-

December 25, 12:55 pm

It was Apollo Justice. 

He was wearing a long red coat that she vaguely remembered shoving in his suitcase, and a black shirt and vest. He absolutely radiated anger– but the quiet kind– like the low warmth of the dying embers of a once roaring fire.

Athena sunk into her chair with the intention to vanish into a ball before he could see her, the simmering anger flickering through her own emotions and leaving her feeling coiled and nervy as Edgeworth. 

"Well, you've found me," Edgeworth nodded. He sighed deeply. "I was hoping to speak with you today. Frankly– I was hoping to speak with you yesterday. But things happened the way they happened. I won't make excuses. Would you like me to dismiss Ms. Cykes?"

"Huh?" Apollo's attention abruptly snapped to her– he hadn't noticed her before. "Oh. Hey. Athena."

She stifled the keening sound she wanted to make, before putting on her mask’s best smile “Hey Apollo! You look..”

She looked him over, again. “Love the new look! Haha..” she was still half scrunched in the chair. 

"Thanks for packing for me," he said dully. He took off the coat and threw it over as he sat down at the table. "She can stay– assuming you want to talk, Athena."

Athena’s smile took on a nervous grimace, her fingers digging into the cloth of her pants…pants still smudged with ashes from the scene of the crime.

“You’re welcome, hah…su-sure. I’ll stay. I’m great at talking, you know that!” 

"One of the best." Apollo smiled tightly. His emotions were an intense tangle behind the coals of his anger. He took a breath. "Alright, so. Anything you want to say, Mr. Edgeworth? Cause I've got a hell of a lot I'd like to say."

Edgeworth took his glasses off and set them on the table. Sadness and anxiety were written in his tone. "Absolutely yes, Mr. Justice. The first thing I'd like to say is I'm sorry. Deeply sorry. My failure to keeping you in the loop of information was inexcusable."

Athena took a deep breath as she shifted back up in her seat and folded her hands on her lap. At the very least…maybe she could direct the emotions of the room towards a better end than if she was gone. 

"Yeah," Apollo huffed. He took another steadying breath, as Athena felt the tumult in his heart roil again. "I'll say it was pretty damned inexcusable. –thank you for apologizing at least, I guess."

"I owe you a great deal more than an apology," Edgeworth murmured. "But it's all that I can offer right now– aside from answering your questions and bringing you into the loop now."

"Good because there's a lot of points I'm real unclear on."

There was something odd about Apollo's tone. Maybe it was just how angry he was– how angry he'd been– all the grief and anguish that still flashed back and forth within him, but it wasn't sitting right with Athena.

Athena frowned…and quietly turned Widget’s display onto the mood matrix. For the moment, she didn’t interrupt, only listening…at least until she knew how to start. 

"I imagine so," Edgeworth nodded. "I'm told you had an altercation in the dining hall this morning– I assume because you discovered that the espionage agent formerly known as Bobby Fulbright was there."

"Yeah. I sure did." He took another breath. "I got… pretty upset about it. I'm sorry to say."

The mood matrix was registering– a lot, really. Practically every emotion except happiness. But they kept juttering up and down.

Athena’s brow knit, but she kept her emotions steady as she looked up at Apollo again.

She’d known Apollo for a little while by that point, and his emotions had never been like this. Grief was one thing…but this was something else entirely.

Something she only saw in the strongest discord…or in the erratic not-so-final confrontation only a few days ago.

"I can understand you getting upset. It's upsetting. I had wanted to tell you in private, but things got away from me. That's my fault, and I harmed you by it," Edgeworth acknowledged. He was quite the diplomat– it was clear why he'd been made chief prosecutor.

"Thanks, Mr. Edgeworth, for acknowledging that." There was a flicker of a positive emotion on the mood matrix chart– relief, satisfaction?-- but it was immediately swallowed up by another one of anger. It was like his emotions were pingponging back and forth.

"It must have been a shock. Since the Phantom was reported dead. Unfortunately– that was part of our own espionage operation of a sort. With the intent to chase down the man's former organization."

"I get that but–" he started plaintively, but abruptly his tone, and the whole direction of his sentence changed. "So because you need him, you just let him have his job back? A murderer? The guy who killed–" He stopped, biting back the rest of whatever he was going to say.

Athena was getting a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. This abrupt, violent shaking back and forth of emotions….the sudden shifts in tone and direction…the way he seemed almost at war with his own emotions, stopping his own sentences and veering off elsewhere…

It was familiar.

She’d seen it recently in a different form.

“Apollo…” 

He didn't respond quite immediately– as if it took him a moment to remember to.

He turned toward her. "Yeah, Athena?"

She took a deep breath. 

“I know you’re upset…but would you mind if I suggested a little therapy?” 

Apollo looked uncomfortable, and she could see his emotions warring back and forth with themselves on the screen.

Finally he shrugged. "If I say no, then you're going to think I really need therapy, aren't you?" He sighed. "You're right– I am upset. I feel like I have a right to be."

“Of course you do. He took something from you that you can never get back…” She tapped the screen to focus in on him.

“And here he is, back in his old job. It’s got to be difficult..right?” Even if she didn’t feel the same way– even if she couldn’t be angry at him– even if she found herself understanding and understood by the self-described ‘abyss’ who was anything but…

She knew the usual instinct of the human psyche was anger and hurt in the face of grief and death.

“But the problem is you’re…” she took a deep breath. “you’re of two minds about it, Apollo. Or rather…you have multiple distinct emotional threads running concurrently and butting up against one another…the evidence is there, how you keep interrupting yourself…and how you keep rapidly changing tracks of conversation. You did the same thing when I had to physically get in your way to stop you from hitting the detective.” 

Edgeworth was letting the two of them talk. The chief prosecutor sat back, watching and listening, reminding Athena a little of the judge in court.

"I'm of two minds about it," Apollo repeated. She watched his emotions flicker and flash again. "Yeah, okay. I'm not going to deny that. Feelings are complicated."

“Very complicated, Apollo,” Athena said carefully. “but the mood matrix is registering a lot of erratic discord. So…how about you tell me what’s on your mind? How do you feel about Halblicht’s presence here? The guy who killed….” she gestured. “Lay it all out.” 

"I don't…" he shifted uncomfortably. "I don't really want to talk about it. I'm.. upset. I'm hurt. I'm– I'm really fucking pissed about it, okay?"

Athena’s eyes stayed on the mood matrix “You’re my friend, Apollo.” she said quietly “I won’t pry if you really, really don’t want me to. You just seem like you’re struggling.”

‘Struggling alone’ was in debate at the moment. 

"Yeah," he admitted, hanging his head. "I don't know what to do, Athena. I don't– I feel like my whole life's been thrown into chaos, Athena. Like I don't even know up from down any more. One minute I'm angry, the next I'm crying. And the next I'm just…. fine. Like usual. I'm just– I'm falling apart. I'm sorry, Mr. Edgeworth, I know you wanted to count on me but I feel like I'm clinging onto a cliff by my fingernails, trying not to get sucked into hell."

Miles held up his hands. "Please, Apollo, don't apologize to me. I'm the one who should apologize to you– and even more profusely than before."

The mood matrix reflected Apollo's words. He was truthful about his feelings.But they were all over the place. And underlying them was a strong current of anxiety that he had yet to acknowledge at all.

“It’s been a destabilizing few days, Apollo…I know that, I’m dealing with all the memories of the night my mother died…” She smiled at him despite the air of turmoil. “It’s natural to feel confused, lost and adrift in your own emotions. But you’ve got people who’ll keep you from falling into hell. Promise…”

She took a deep breath “on that note, there’s something else… a strong note of anxiety that pervades everything you’re saying…”

The anxiety flicked higher– his eyes widened and he looked for a brief moment like a cornered animal before he composed himself. 

He looked over at Edgeworth. "Sir, I– I have more I want to talk to you about. More questions– but could you give me a moment alone with Athena?"

The prosecutor nodded gravely, and gathered up his papers, shutting them in his briefcase. "Of course, Apollo. Again, I'm so sorry to have asked so much of you, and to have wronged you the way I did. Please come see me in my room and I'll explain all the details, and answer any questions you have."

Apollo managed a shaky smile, but there was no joy in it. "Sure, see you in a few."

He nodded, and headed toward the exit. "Ms. Cykes– there's nothing more I needed to say that's so urgent it can't wait til tomorrow, but my door is open to you, too, if you need anything."

Athena gave Miles a timid smile, nodding her head. “Of course…we’ll finish catching up soon , sir. Thanks for the talk.”

With that, she typed a few commands into the mood matrix and prepared herself. 

Edgeworth quietly saw himself out of the room and closed the door behind him. Apollo's hands were shaking on the tabletop, and he took deep, slow breaths that didn't seem to calm him down any. His leg was restlessly bouncing up and down under the table– a nervous tic she'd never seen him do before, until a few days prior.

It was another piece of data she added to the mood matrix, the sinking pit in her stomach opening all the wider.

“Apollo…?” 

He snapped his gaze back up to her, and took one more breath. "Yeah. So… you asked about that anxiety…"

“Yeah, I did…it’s been pretty constant since I started analyzing your emotions.” 

He swallowed, laying his shaking hands flat on the table. 

"Athena– I'm worried I'm going crazy. Like– like really actually crazy. I keep– I keep hearing his voice. And sometimes it feels like he's the one doing things and I'm just watching. And he's so angry…"

Athena listened carefully, glancing down at the mood matrix, before looking up at Apollo again.

“You hear his voice? And sometimes it’s like he’s in control, and you’re the passenger?”

Apollo looked away. "Sorry. I shouldn't say things like that. I mean, not literally. It's just the grief talking."

The mood matrix was suddenly blasted with distortion.

“Ahh!” Athena quickly tapped at it. “Apollo…”

She took a deep breath before she leaned forward. “I believe you. And I don’t think you’re crazy…I think it might be more than just grief. I’ve seen this recently, something very similar at least.”

He looked back toward her cautiously. His eyes were dark, and stormy. "What do you mean?"

“This sort of emotional response. This sort of division…and ah, this sort of ‘hearing a dead man’s voice in your head’.” she brushed her fingers over the mood matrix. “Whatever the source of it, it’s no less real as far as your experiences, and the data does line up…look at the way your mood matrix splits…” 

He scooted his chair over, and looked at the data. "It's weird looking at my own mood matrix like that– makes me feel like I'm a suspect or something."

His emotions shifted and shuttered on the screen even as he spoke and watched.

Athena chuckled softly. “No, she’s in custody right now. you missed the show.” She bumped his shoulder against his with a gentle smile “but look at it…see what I mean? It’s not the same as when we see discord in the courtroom.” 

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry about that, missing it. I– I went to talk to Klavier. I wish I could say it helped. But– yeah. I see what you mean."

“Oh yeah…he’s here for a commercial.” She rubbed her neck in an unconscious mirror of his own movements. “Anyway, it’s alright. I’ll fill you in later, it’s…a lot. It actually has some to do with some of the stuff I’ve been meaning to tell you about …about Halblicht.”

She shook her head. “but a-anyway! I’ve seen this sort of division before…and it turned out in that case to really be the presence of two distinct personas in one mind.” 

He jerked backwards. "Athena, I know I said I felt like I was going crazy but I was really hoping you wouldn't confirm it!"

“It could be a ghost?” Athena offered with a lopsided smile. “...but in all seriousness, even if it was something cognitive it doesn’t make you ‘crazy’. It’s just a thing that is. The real issue is his anger…it’s driving you to violence and erratic decisions, so we’d have to find a way to soothe it and bring some harmony to your mental state. Ease the discord.” 

"A ghost– hah– you're the second person who said that to me," he said, looking at the table. "Trucy said Pearl thought I was possessed…."

“It is a legal precedent, admittedly. We’ve both like, met the girl who’s trial it was in. Personally.” 

"That's… true," he said slowly. "But– not to be mean but– they're kind of religious fanatics, you know? I won't speak to the legal precedent but, it's a lot to swallow. Even if I want to believe it."

“I think Miss Iris is lapsed…” she paused for a moment to rub her chin “lapsed…can you lapse at being a spirit medium? Either way I wouldn’t call her a fanatic…and they got footage of it in the archives!”

She shook her head. “But all of that’s not the point…maybe it is real…maybe it’s not. You can talk to Pearl about it I’m sure. But either way there’s clearly something happening , Apollo. If you’re hearing Clay…I believe you. But you need to address this, or his anger’s going to tear you apart. Okay?” 

He nodded, and his hair fell over his eyes. "I know. It's hard because he wants to be angry. He feels justified in being angry, and I.. I feel angry on his behalf too. But it's so much. I don't want to lash out and hurt people….. he's quiet now. I think talking about it scares him."

“I promise I’m not trying to banish him or anything like that.” Athena promised “...I just want to help. He’s justified in being angry, I believe he’s angry…It’s…just complicated.” 

"If I'm honest, he was kind of pissed you defended the Phantom this morning. I'm just… confused, Athena. I'm really confused. And I think that's why it's easy to let him make decisions. Because I don't feel like I know what the hell is going on."

Athena ran her hand through her hair with a subtle frown. “

...he can be pissed at me if he wants, but I wouldn’t change my decision..” she shook her head. “...you feel lost, and he’s got his anger, so it’s easier to let him make decisions. It makes sense..” She bit her lip ‘would it help if I explained some of what’s been happening with me? For context on what happened this morning.” 

"Maybe? I mean, I want to know. It just seems so insane to me. He– he killed your mom, Athena. I know it was a long time ago, but, if somebody did something like that to me, I don't think I could ever forgive them."

Athena twisted her ponytail around her hand. 

“It’s not like I’m not upset…or that the grief is any further away. I didn’t remember any of it until a few days ago, and I can see it clear as day when I close my eyes.”

She watched Apollo’s mood matrix instead of his face. “I just can’t find it in my heart to be angry at Robert for it. It doesn’t register…especially now that I understand..” she paused, omitting her admission that she understood the phantom and replacing it– “where he came from.” 

"Where did he come from?" Apollo asked earnestly. She could see the anger burbling up in his mood matrix, despite it being hidden in his voice. "What could possibly be enough to override all that– everything he did, Athena?"

Athena noted the shift in tone and word choice with a tap on the Mood Matrix.

She took a deep breath. If Apollo was going to be her co-counsel, he had to know. “The organization that the phantom and our new custody..our client, Number 24…the girl who’d killed and replaced Agent Kelso, are from, didn’t hire them. It made them.”

She brushed her fingers together in a nervous gesture, frowning as she did. Widget flashed a deep blue upon her chest before she spoke again. “The Phantom was a child in a training facility that did all it could to beat the personality and emotion out of their assets, and turn them into the sorts of people who could wear any face, anywhere, for their purposes. They weren’t allowed to have names, or preferences, or opinions. They turned humans into tools, Apollo. Expendable. 

The Phantom didn’t have any malice when he killed my mother, or Clay…he didn’t want to, but he never had a choice in anything his whole life until now.”

"That's…" Apollo stammered. "You're kidding– right? That's just a lie? That can't be true."

On the mood matrix his emotions were going haywire again.

Athena watched the emotions carefully. 

“It’s true, Apollo. I’ve had extensive interviews with him and I’m comfortable saying it’s the truth. Not only that…but ‘Number 24’, our client, mirrors him in a lot of ways. I’m certain we’ll get a similar story out of her.”

She placed her hand on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him “that’s the sort of organization we’re hunting.” 

"But that's… no. He's– he's evil James Bond," Apollo faltered and Athena watched his emotions war with one another, sadness and anxiety spiking, then anger, then back again. "It's spy business isn't it? Not spy slavery! Who would come up with something like that? That can't be–"

“Apollo…Clay?” Athena bit her lip. “You saw his emotional matrix at the trial, didn’t you? It wasn’t as if he had no emotions. It wasn’t a natural state. They were there, but beaten down into something the organization could use. Everything in my therapy sessions has been consistent with this, and I believe him when he tells me about his past.”

She took a deep breath. “But evidence is everything, right? If our client can be convinced to talk, would you accept her testimony? You have no personal stake with her, no grudge because of an unfair death, and she has no reason to lie.”

Apollo– or probably Clay– shuddered bodily, like an involuntary spasm and gripped the table. He took a heaving breath. "Alright– alright. Yeah. Evidence. If the… client… confirms it the I– I'm not going to forgive him, but I won't. –I don't think I can be angry about it if it was something like that."

“Good…” Athena smiled gently. “I’ll see if we can arrange a talk with her…she’s under supervision right now by Interpol b-because she attempted to execute herself the moment she was caught.”

She felt the prickle of anxiety and horror up her back as she remembered the spiking emotions and the gun once more.

“But I think we’ll be allowed…and if it helps your anger, good. You don’t need to forgive him, neither of you. You just–I just want everyone to understand what we’re dealing with here.” 

He leaned backward, and crossed his arms– more like he was putting them around himself again like she'd seen before. "She tried to kill herself? That's… some dedication…"

Hugging himself, or…something similar. It made sense if what she had gleaned from his emotional state was right.

“Immediately. When they tried to tell her to stand down, she told us that Halblicht knew it wasn’t an option…she felt something for the first time I’d known her, intense fear and despair, and then she put the gun to her head.”

She bit her lip. “Detective Halblicht…’the Phantom’ saved her life by jumping in the way and knocking the gun away. She was the one who shot him, Justice. Back at the courtroom, and he still saved her life. She was trying to do the same thing to herself, just as her handlers probably demanded.” 

"She was the one who shot him. And he tried to save her life," he repeated. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "You've given me a lot to think about, Athena. As usual."

Athena put her hand on his shoulder again and gave it a firm squeeze. 

“I know…I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you, Apollo. It’s been…it’s been a heck of a few days.” She gave him a smile. “Think it through, okay? And when you’re ready, let me know. But you know I’m always there for you, right? If you need me, just ask.” 

He leaned into her hand and nodded. "Thanks, Athena. Thanks a lot."

December 25, 1:25 pm

Miles had his paperwork spread out over the desk in his hotel room, and rocked the chair gently back and forth on its hinge as he looked his papers over. Gumshoe was out– working with Badd, he was pretty certain– and he was alone with himself and his thoughts.

He was doing his best not to dwell on his mistakes. To move forward and make certain he didn't make any more. But it was hard– and that was why the words on the page were glazing over when he managed to look at them, probably.

At least he'd gotten some sleep last night. Thank lady justice.

There was a sharp knock at the door, and he immediately answered "Come in."

To his surprise, not who he'd been expecting.

It was Phoenix. He didn't look entirely pleased.

"Phoenix," Miles greeted, taking off his largely pointless now reading glasses. "I was expecting Apollo Justice."

"Really? Good to know, because I came to talk about Apollo Justice."

Miles grimaced. He'd been afraid of that

"Yes, that's not surprising. Come on, sit down, Wright– go ahead and lay into me about it."

With his hands on his knees, he waited for Phoenix to start in on him.

There was a long, silent moment where the two men stared at each other. Phoenix was still standing by the door.

Finally he spoke.

"Well, Edgeworth, it sounds like you already know you fucked up."

Miles took a deep breath, his hands tightening on his knees. "Obviously. It's one of my worse blunders. It's… thrown my judgment into question in my mind."

"Then I'm not going to repeat what you already know, Miles. I'm not going to make you explain yourself to me, or justify your behavior, or beg my forgiveness. Though I hope that you will or have done so with Apollo at least."

Phoenix's tone was rough. It was hard to listen to. Miles wished that he had maliciously withheld the information from Apollo instead of simply forgetting to tell him.

A sin was forgivable. A mistake, never.

He reminded himself that Phoenix Wright was not Manfred Von Karma.

"Mr. Justice and I just spoke on it," Miles explained. "I intend to explain myself further, but he's currently having a session with Ms. Cykes, which is probably for the best."

Phoenix finally came and sat down on the bed. "Athena's talking to him? Good. She's holding up to this thing you've put on them a damned lot better than Apollo is."

"I know." Edgeworth sagged. "I spoke to her, too. Part of the problem is that unshakable front that Justice puts up. I suppose I let myself buy into the idea that he would be fine."

"And he's not fine."

"He is so not fine, Wright. He reminds me of myself after I lost my father. He's older, but–"

"Yeah," Phoenix sighed. "I wasn't there, but I think I can understand what you mean.:"

Miles leaned forward toward him in the chair, his shoulders slumped. "Obviously I don't know him as well as you do, but he seems… lost, Phoenix. I feel responsible."

"For not telling him? We all make mistakes, Miles. This was a pretty bad one, but–"

"For that," Miles cut him off, "but for… more than that, too."

Phoenix's expression shifted from tense irritation– to concern. He cocked his head at Miles and reached out to him. "Hey, come here. Sit with me."

Stiffly, Miles lurched up and came and sat on the bed, slumping halfway across Phoenix's body.

"What's up, Miles?" he asked, brushing his hand across his cheek.

Miles leaned into him, drawing some comfort from the touch, despite his worry in bringing up the topic. "I– Phoenix– I worry that it's my fault that Apollo's friend died in the first place. That his death is on my hands."

"What?" 

Miles felt Phoenix stiffen, and the reaction made him wince. He closed his eyes.

"You know my office had been trying to flush out the Phantom this whole last year. That's why I had Blackquill start prosecuting cases again. And all this time he was right under our noses but– but that's not the point."

"What is the point, Miles?" Phoenix asked slowly. His touch softened again, and he gave him a look of probing concern.

"The point is that I knew that the Phantom might show up. I knew there was a solid chance that he would," Miles' voice croaked out of his throat. "I could have done anything, absolutely anything to make the HAT-2 mission safer for the participants. I could have told them to beef of security. I could have told them to scrub the launch. I could have fucking warned Starbuck and Terran about the possibility. But I didn't do that, Phoenix. I didn't do any of that. I was so focused on catching the Phantom, that I gambled with their lives– I traded Clay Terran's life as the price for catching the Phantom."

Miles fell against Phoenix's chest as a sudden rush of emotion heaved out of him, and he felt tears on his cheeks. Slowly, Phoenix put his arms around him, and squeezed him.

"I… never thought about that, Miles."

"Well I have!" he choked. "It isn't the Phantom that Apollo should be furious with, Phoenix. He's more tool than he is man. It's me that deserves his ire, if anyone. And I don't– I don't know what to do about that, Phoenix. I think I've been making terrible mistakes ever since I started as Chief Prosector. I don't think I deserve to be here."

Phoenix's grip on him became tighter. "Well you'd better damned well not go anywhere without taking me," he hissed. "Have you got that, Edegworth? No rash decisions. No 'Miles Edgeworth chooses death'. Do you understand that?"

Miles shuddered against Wright's chest. He knew he still hadn't been forgiven for that. He didn't expect to be. He had hurt Phoenix deeply– hurt everyone close to him deeply, when he'd done that.

"I understand." He nodded against his chest.

"Good." Phoenix ran his fingers through Miles' hair. "I'm glad we've got that cleared up. The rest, we can figure out together, okay."

"I don't know how," Miles murmured. "Politics, law enforcement– at the level that I'm at it all feels like playing with people's lives like they were pawns on a chess board, Phoenix. I don't want that– it's not who I want to be– but it's so easy to fall into that kind of thinking. Until you hurt someone."

"You're worried you might become another Damon Gant?" Phoenix said softly.

"Or worse," Miles said. He stared blankly at the fibers of Phoenix's jacket.

"Well you won't," he promised firmly. "One way or another you won't. Because if I start to see it happening, I'll pull you out of there."

"I think I'd resign today if there was anyone I trusted to do the job, Phoenix," Miles said. "That's the worst thing, is that even when I'm worried about failing utterly, I worry that anyone else would be worse. That it's a sin I have to bear until it corrupts me."

Phoenix squeezed him tight. "Lady justice, you are melodramatic as hell right now, Miles."

He looked up at him. "Phoenix, I'm serious!"

Wright touched his face again, and sighed. "I know. But you're still melodramatic. Look. You fucked up, yes. Were there things that you could have done better? Also yes. But you can't let your mistakes destroy you. You have to pick yourself up and do better. Be better. For the sake of the people that you've hurt, if nobody else."

Miles bit his lip, listening as Phoenix spoke.

"You're right, MIles, right now, this position that you're in has a lot of power. And people say that power can corrupt. But I trust you, Miles. I believe in you. If you've made mistakes it's not because there's some kind of evil growing at your heart, it's because everybody makes mistakes. And you have the responsibility, as long as you're in this position, to learn from those mistakes and use them to do better. For everybody else, but especially for yourself."

Miles wiped his face, looking up at Phoenix in half disbelief. "Since when did you get so wise, Wright?"

He smirked. "It was probably the whole raising a daughter thing. Oh and all those Spider-Man comics I read while I was disbarred."

Edgeworth laughed a sharp, pained laugh, and buried his head against Phoenix's shoulder. "Comic book wisdom. I should have known."

"Hey, as if you get to talk," Phoenix grinned. "Come on, what would the Steel Samurai do in your position?"

"Probably… try to exile himself for his sins, and then come back stronger after a pep talk from his spiritual mentor, actually," Miles mused.

"Well, for the purposes of this, you can consider me that spiritual mentor, Miles. Get back up and come back stronger."

Miles looked up at him. "Spiritual mentors are supposed to be old and wise, not handsome and smart mouthed."

"I can stop shaving again, if that will help."

Miles grabbed his jaw and pulled him into a kiss. "Don't."

Maybe Phoenix was right. Maybe mistakes couldn't be forgiven, but he had a responsibility to learn from them, instead of let them break him.

#miles edgeworth #apollo justice #phoenix wright #athena cykes #bobby fulbright #simon blackquill #ema skye #trucy wright #pearl fey #blackbright #phantomquill #ace attorney #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #archive of our own #ao3 #fic: in justice we trust #narumitsu

[chokememaximoff]

Shattered Allegiance V

Natasha Romanoff x Reader series

Abstract:Natasha Romanoff finds herself on a mission to track down a former Avenger turned rogue after being kidnapped and brainwashed by Hydra. As she delves into the heart of Tokyo's criminal underworld, she uncovers the dark and twisted path that led her friend down this destructive road. Amidst intense action, psychological turmoil, and unexpected alliances, Natasha must confront her own past and the harsh realities of betrayal.

Tw:violence,abuse,trauma,panic attacks,detailed descriptions on injuries all throughout the story

The next day brought with it a fragile sense of tranquility to the safehouse. Natasha had ventured out to gather groceries for their lunch, leaving Y/N to her own thoughts within the sanctuary. As the hours passed, Natasha's mind was a whirlwind of reflections on their shared journey, the steps they had taken towards healing, and the bonds they were forging anew.

When Natasha returned with the groceries, her heart clenched at the sight that greeted her – Y/N standing frozen before a pile of files, the remnants of Hydra's insidious manipulation. The room seemed to hold its breath, as if it recognized the weight of the memories that those files contained – memories that were a twisted reflection of Y/N's past.

Setting the groceries down with care, Natasha approached Y/N with cautious steps, her voice a gentle anchor in the silence. "Hey, Y/N. It's okay. Those files don't define you."

Y/N's voice trembled, her eyes fixed on the documents that had held her history hostage. "I... I killed them. My friends. I'm a monster."

Natasha's touch was soothing as she cupped Y/N's cheeks, her voice a steady reminder of truth. "Y/N, listen to me. You're not a monster. Hydra manipulated your mind, forced you to do things that were against your will. None of this was your fault."

Tears glistened in Y/N's eyes as Natasha's words broke through the haze of self-blame. Natasha's conviction echoed in her voice as she repeated, "It was Hydra's doing, Y/N. They're the monsters here, not you."

Y/N's trance seemed unbreakable, her gaze locked onto the files that held a distorted version of her past. Her voice was a fragile whisper. "I can't escape it. I can't escape what I've done."

Natasha's fingers wiped away the tears that fell, her touch a gentle anchor amidst the storm. Unexpectedly, Natasha's lips met Y/N's in a kiss that was both tender and laden with a promise. Y/N's breath hitched, but she responded with a mixture of longing and a desperate need for connection.

In that stolen moment, the weight of their traumas seemed to lessen, replaced by the warmth of their shared humanity. As the kiss deepened, Natasha held Y/N close, their bodies pressed together in a silent affirmation that they were not alone.

When they finally parted, their breaths mingling in the air, Y/N's voice trembled, a hint of surprise in her eyes. "I... I needed that."

Natasha's voice was a gentle reassurance, a lifeline amidst the tumult of emotions. "I'm here, Y/N. We're here for each other."

Their hands found each other, fingers intertwining in a gesture of unity. Y/N's voice held a mix of determination and vulnerability. "I need you to distract me, Natasha. I need to get out of my own head."So Natasha did exactly that, worshipping every part of the younger girls scarred body making her forget her pain through pleasure.

In the final stages of their mission, Natasha and Y/N found themselves in the heart of a Hydra base, a culmination of their efforts to dismantle the organization's grip on Tokyo. They navigated through the dimly lit corridors, their determination a palpable force in the air. The tension was electric as they encountered Hydra agents one by one, their skills honed through their shared journey guiding them through the confrontation.

As the clash of metal against metal echoed around them, Y/N felt a surge of adrenaline. She fought alongside Natasha, each strike a declaration of their defiance against the darkness that had once enslaved her mind. The battle was fierce, the walls reverberating with the sounds of combat.

Amidst the chaos, Y/N faced off against a Hydra agent who seemed to hold a cruel glint in his eyes. As they fought, his taunting words cut through the chaos, twisting her thoughts. "Y/N, you're one of us. There's no changing that. You're Hydra. A monster."

Y/N's steps faltered, her mind a battlefield of memories and self-doubt. The agent's words wormed their way into her consciousness, the weight of her past bearing down on her. She felt frozen, trapped within the clutches of her own history.

And then, like a lifeline, Natasha was there. She stepped forward, her presence commanding and protective. She met Y/N's gaze, a silent promise of support, of shared strength. "Y/N, don't listen to him. You're not defined by them."

Y/N's breaths were ragged, her chest tightening as the battle raged on around them. Natasha's touch was grounding, her voice an anchor amidst the chaos. "You're stronger than their lies, Y/N. You're not alone."

The agent's words seemed to lose their power as Y/N focused on Natasha's unwavering support. She met Natasha's eyes, determination replacing the uncertainty that had gripped her. With a renewed sense of purpose, she fought back, each strike a testament to her resilience.

As the battle came to an end and the Hydra base crumbled around them, Natasha and Y/N stood amidst the wreckage, their breaths mingling with the dust in the air. The victory was not just against Hydra, but against their own demons. They had overcome their shared pain, rewriting the narrative that had once held them captive.

Leaving Japan behind, Natasha and Y/N returned to the Avengers compound. Y/N's nerves were palpable, her steps hesitant as they entered familiar territory. Doubts and fears swirled within her – a fear that she would be rejected, deemed irredeemable for the past that had been forced upon her.

But Natasha was by her side, her presence a constant reminder of the connection they had forged. She turned to Y/N, her voice soft yet resolute. "Y/N, don't be afraid. You're not defined by Hydra anymore."

As they entered the compound, their teammates gathered around, their eyes reflecting a mixture of relief and respect. Without hesitation, Natasha enveloped Y/N in a hug, a gesture of solidarity that spoke volumes. She pulled back, her voice carrying the weight of sincerity. "No one hates you for what you were made to do. You're not alone, Y/N. We're here for you."

Amidst the embraces and welcoming smiles, Y/N felt a weight lift off her shoulders. The journey had been long and arduous, but she had found redemption, support, and love where she least expected it. As Natasha's lips met hers in a tender kiss, Y/N knew that her past did not define her – her strength, resilience, and the bonds she had forged were a testament to her true identity.

Their story came to an end, not with finality, but with the promise of a new chapter – one where Natasha and Y/N stood united, ready to face the future with unwavering courage, unbreakable bonds, and hearts filled with hope.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #mcu #marvel #marvel mcu

[joachimnapoleon]

Fouché evading back-to-back arrest attempts right before Napoleon’s return to Paris:

Actually, then, on March 16, 1815, at eleven o’clock in the morning, policemen surround the Duke of Otranto’s carriage when he is out for an airing on the boulevards, and declare him under arrest, in conformity with Bourrienne’s command. Fouché, who never loses his presence of mind, smiles disdainfully, saying: “An ex-minister, an ex-senator, cannot be thus arrested in the public street.” Then, before the police agents, who for so long were his own subordinates, have recovered from their surprise, he orders his coachman to whip up the horses and to drive home at full speed. Open-mouthed the policemen stand there, breathing in the dust raised by the departing wheels.

(…)

When the policemen report to their chief that Fouché has eluded them, Bourrienne is pricked into sharper action. Now it behooves him to maintain his authority, and to show that no one can make fun of him. He promptly has the house in the Rue Cerutti surrounded, and the door kept under close observation, while a file of armed men mount the steps and enter the house in order to seize the fugitive. But Fouché has another jest to play, one of those unique masterstrokes that come to him always in the most difficult situations. We have seen again and again that when he is in imminent danger he is seized by a lust for amusing himself at people’s expense and for leading them a dance. This adept in the art of mystification therefore receives with extreme courtesy those who have come to arrest him, and asks to be shown the warrant. Yes, it appears to be in order, and he is the person nominated therein. It would be needless for him to say that he has no thought of resisting His Majesty’s command. Perhaps his visitors will be good enough to sit down for a moment while he attends to a few trifling matters, and then he will come with them. With these polite assurances, Fouché withdraws into the next room. The others wait respectfully while he is arranging his toilet. After all, a senator, a sometime minister of State and court dignitary, must not be collared like a pickpocket and dragged off in handcuffs. They wait respectfully; they wait for a good long time; they wait so long that at length their suspicions are aroused. Then, since he still does not return, they too go into the next room, to discover there—a scene of true comedy amid the political tumult—that Fouché has slipped through their fingers. This man of fifty-six, as if he had been an actor for the cinema to be invented almost a century later, going out into the garden, has placed a ladder against the wall, and, while the police are waiting for him respectfully in the drawing room, has with remarkable agility climbed over into the adjoining garden of Queen Hortense’s house, and has thence made good his escape.

—Stefan Zweig, Joseph Fouché: Portrait of a Politician

#Joseph Fouché #just Fouché things #1815

[jerek]

i live to make you free

After his conversation with Sabellian, Wrathion addresses his champion.

“And… champion?”

When he turned to her, Midha saw the same desperate, furious fire. But the furrows crinkled differently, turning a maelstrom into candle-flame.

“I suppose you’ll be glad to hear you can have your freedom, and my company.”

She smiled, try as she might to moderate it, widely. It was all she could do to avert her gaze.

He sighed, and began again, more falteringly: “It hasn’t escaped my notice that other agents of mine have received a sort of reward I never gave you… in truth, I meant to. I never found the proper specimen, or… the right time.”

She looked back up at him, at the cabochon doll-eyes. He smiled back.

She had never cared for a void-touched whelp, it was true. The tumult that surrounded her… could anything thrive there, if even she hadn’t?

“But I know you,” Wrathion assured her, lifting the shadow of his brow, “A guiding hand. A true believer. A daughter of seafaring Kul Tirans and skyfaring Wildhammer.”

Before he could stop himself, he pressed an item into her hand. “I believe this will suit you.”

She wasn’t sure what it was, at first. It was wrapped loosely in dampened cloth of gold, a sash that…

“What is it?” Sabellian said, putting a hand on Midha’s shoulder as he formed the third side of their triangle.

Wrathion did not answer. His shoulders bunched beneath his finery, though a smirk still tugged his mouth.

The cloth began to shift.

She caught a glimpse of sand-gray. A single mahogany eye peered out. She drew back the edge of the cloth, and now there were two wet eyes, two nubbin horns, and a pouting, egg-toothed beak.

Then it moved again, and she saw a flipper.

“A turtle?” Sabellian asked.

Now it was Midha’s turn for silence. She looked, to Sabellian, as if she were quietly delighted. Or as if an idea were dawning upon her.

Wrathion broke the silence, quiet as he was. “A sea-dragon. From the brood of Shen-zin Su.

This is how I trust you, champion.”

#seeds of renewal spoilers #wrathion #midfic

[wishesofeternity]

“Harkha Bai, now Maryam-uz-Zamani and queen mother of the empire, is a prodigiously wealthy woman with her own ship, who controls her finances and trades under her own name. Indeed, many of the Mughal noblewomen, since the time of Akbar, have become independently wealthy as the Mughal empire has flourished. In addition to their monthly allowances, Mughal noblewomen are given expensive gifts by courtiers, own property, and further increase their wealth through trade. Of all the Mughal nobles who conduct trade, fully half of the names documented are that of women. Akbar had prodigiously increased the wealth of the Mughal empire and the Mughal noblewomen became consequently immeasurably wealthy. When Akbar dies, according to a Flemish visitor’s calculations, his gemstones alone, ‘his diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, pearls and other jewels’ will be valued at 60,520,521 rupees.

... Maryam-uz-Zamani’s favoured status at Jahangir’s court is reflected in the fact that she is one of only four members of the court (one of whom is Jahangir himself) and the only woman to have the high rank of 12,000 cavalry, and she is known to receive a jewel from every single nobleman at court ‘according to his estate’ every year on the occasion of the new year’s festival. But what Maryam-uz-Zamani is most interested in, what she invests her money in and actively participates in, is trade.

...It is from the hustling, garrulous town of Surat, where a scattershot of languages ricochets off the lanes while the merchants work, that Harkha Bai trades through the enormous ship that sails under her colours, the Rahimi. Harkha Bai, like the other Mughal noblewomen, cannot trade directly with the merchants and so the zenana employs a huge number of agents, middlemen and financial advisers, ‘mirroring in miniature the emperor’s own finance ministry’. The women send out their personal servants to bargain and negotiate with the Europeans at the court and gifts and favours are exchanged. The Rahimi is one of the largest vessels of any kind to sail the Indian seas. Her capacity is upwards of 1,500 tons and the ship has room for a load of 1,500 passengers. In 1613, the Rahimi is transporting goods worth 100,000 pounds equivalent to, in today’s currency, half a billion rupees. But the Rahimi, like Gulbadan’s Salimi and Ilahi thirty years previously, is also a Hajj ship. The Rahimi trades in Hindustan’s major exports—indigo, cotton and silks, but also leather, metal, carpets, spices, opium and jewels. In return, it brings back goods of particular interest to the noblewomen—gold, silver, ivory, pearls, amber, perfumes, wines, brocade, cutlery and glassware. But it also carries passengers to and from Mecca, for the sacred Hajj pilgrimage. Indeed the Rahimi is famous amongst the Europeans for being ‘the great pilgrimage ship’. Which is why the outrageous and scandalous piratical attacks by the Portuguese against the Rahimi in 1612 and 1613 will be considered so grave as to bring about a complete reversal of fortunes, both for the Portuguese and, incidentally, for the newly arrived English.

When the Rahimi is seized by the Portuguese in the autumn of 1613, just after the end of the monsoon season, and carried off to Goa, the tumult and outcry at the Mughal court is unprecedented. Everyone knows the Rahimi is Maryam-uz-Zamani’s ship, and she carries the requisite and loathed Portuguese pass, with its sacrilegious image of the Virgin Mary. The English are aghast at this action and describe the Rahimi as being ‘verye richly laden’, and even more provocatively, not only do the Portuguese seize the ship and its goods ‘but took also 700 persons of all sorts with them to Goa; which deeds of theirs is now grown so odious that it is like to bee the utter undoing of the Portungales in their parts’. So the Portuguese, in seizing the goods and passengers of a Hajj pilgrim ship filled with pilgrims, have carefully gauged the freight of their action and this is not only an act of piracy, but an act of religious persecution against the Mughal empire. It is clearly intended to be both a rebuke and a scathing warning to Jahangir, to dissuade any further contact and trade with the recently arrived English adventurers. But the Portuguese have miscalculated their hand. Jahangir is furious.

When it becomes clear to Jahangir and the court that the Portuguese are not going to return the Rahimi immediately, the emperor acts with crackling speed. Jahangir orders the halt of all traffic through Surat and this immediately paralyses the lucrative trade which has made the fortune of this city. He further shuts down the Jesuit church in Agra, which had been built under Akbar, and suspends all allowances to Portuguese priests living in Mughal India. Jahangir also sends his agent, Mukarrab Khan, to lay siege to the Portuguese town of Daman. These extreme actions taken by Jahangir are unusual, for the Mughal court has become used to the rapacious brutality of the Portuguese and has usually reacted by ignoring it or accommodating it if possible. But this is the Rahimi which has been seized by the Portuguese, Maryam-uz-Zamani’s flagship pilgrim ship, and the queen mother demands retribution. This is an altogether unusual situation, demonstrating the great cultural upheavals and the tectonic changes that are shaping the Mughal empire—this is a Hindu queen’s Muslim ship, carrying Hajj pilgrims in Christian waters patrolled by the Portuguese armada. This fraught situation lasts a long time, with neither side willing to concede defeat. But the age of Portuguese dominance in Indian waters has effectively been ended. ‘The Great Mogul’s mother was a great adventurer,’ writes an English agent succinctly, ‘which caused the Great Mogul to drive the Portingals out of the place.’

The capture of the Rahimi, and the insult it is perceived to be to the queen mother of the Mughal empire, precipitates the decline of Portuguese fortunes. Already in 1612, an EIC fleet under Captain Thomas Best had decisively defeated a Goa armada off Surat and had shown the Portuguese to be less than invincible. Jahangir even writes about the ‘good news’ of Portugal’s defeat at English hands with satisfaction in his Jahangirnama. ‘Battle had taken place’, he writes, between the English and the Portuguese, ‘most of whose ships were burned up by English fire’. This is the only incident involving the ‘firangis’ that Jahangir ever writes about in the Jahangirnama. Now, after the perfidious actions of the Portuguese, Jahangir is increasingly inclined to negotiate trade agreements with the English and in the next few years the English will slowly replace the Portuguese as the primary foreign power at the Mughal court. Harkha Bai lives another ten years, dying at the very respectable age of eighty-one in 1623. She never will get back the Rahimi, but this daughter of the desert, who has never seen the ocean, will have the satisfaction of knowing that she has been part of the process that evicts the great naval force of the Portuguese from Indian shores.”

- Ira Mukhoty, “Daughters of the Sun: Empresses, Queens and Begums of the Mughal Empire”

#history #historicwomendaily #indian history #india tag #mughal empire #mughal era #harkha bai #maryam-uz-zamani #mine #queue

[canmom]

Animation Night 162: Nimona

I'm back~

Hey everyone. Last week Animation Night had its second week off in just over three years. A shameful lapse; the perpetrators have been... dealt with, and you can trust it won't happen again.

So tonight! I figured we'd watch Nimona, since it just came out and all. This is actually sorta related to Annecy ('Annecy related stuff' will be a theme for a good few weeks), insofar as it premiered there. But I didn't see that premiere, so instead I gotta talk about some other stuff...

(please forgive the big ugly stickers, this is the only high-res version of the cover I could find)

So. We're in the era where the people who were big in webcomics back in the 2010s are now making animated films. A few months ago we talked Lackadaisy; now it's Nimona's turn.

If you're old by Tumblr standards, you might well remember that time ten years ago when Nate Stevenson was one of us poor sods drawing pictures on Tumblr as gingerhaze (he just came back in fact!), and Nimona was a popular webcomic. But not one you can find online anymore; Nimona came out on paper, and this in turn launched Stevenson's gradual rise through comics and into animation. Perhaps you are more likely to know of his work from She-Ra and the Princesses of Power. More on that shortly...

Nimona follows a shapeshifting girl in a fantasy world and her friendship with one Ballister Blackheart, a 'villain' in the roles of this setting but very much one with a heart of gold, at odds with the 'Institute' and his counterpart/rival/secret boyfriend Ambrosious Goldenloin. In contrast with the uptight Blackheart, Nimona is a kind of prickly traumagirl chaos agent, an archetype that we would meet again in She-Ra's Catra; the story involves many sciencefictional turns but her tumultous relationship with Blackheart is at its heart - along with the question of what sort of person Nimona is when you get down to it, which even she struggles to decide...

It's tricky to know how to characterise Nimona, 10 years on. At the time I was certainly into it; looking back I feel like it's definitely a first longform work sort of thing, where sometimes the plotting feels a bit haphazard - but regardless, it's absolutely a solid read. And for a Tumblr craving that #representation it was exactly what the doctor ordered. The great success of this comic led to more comics, primarily the Lumberjanes series about a group of girl scouts having various wacky supernatural escapades; all this comic work in turn got Stevenson an in at Disney, working on Craig McCracken's series Wander over Yonder as a writer, before finally getting a chance to run his own show...

That show was the 2018 Netflix reboot of the 80s cartoon She-Ra: Princess of Power, animated at Dreamworks. (At about the same time, Stevenson married Molly Ostertag, author of Strong Female Protagonist and writer for The Owl House). This one was very popular with the lesbians on here, odds are pretty good that you've seen it, I actually ended up watching it as it came out with housemates... but let's talk a little about it, why not.

So. Princesses is the original She-Ra by way of Avatar: The Last Airbender, taking a lot of AtlA's general approach to pacing, humour and drama alike - the first season finds it hard to step out of Avatar's shadow, but gradually it figured out a bit more of its own identity.

She-Ra is ostensibly the story of Adora, who has defected from the evil empire and gained the power to transform into magical girl supersoldier 'She-Ra', along with her two friends Glimmer and Bo from the good two shoes kingdom. These protagonists have their conflicts - Adora trying to fill the big shoes of She-Ra, Glimmer's tense relationship with her royal mother - but it is absolutely far more interested in antagonist Catra, who is the Nimona/Zuko figure of this story, as well as Adora's long-term will they or won't they love interest. Catra consistently steals the show, and most of its big drama comes from the question of whether Catra will follow Adora in defecting from the 'Horde' - or rather, why she does not, and continues to make all the worst choices possible. The intermediate season finales with their time travel and fantasy worlds are honestly pretty solid sci-fi melodrama - the final season, which really rushes to tie everything up neatly, sadly drops that ball.

Besides AtlA, it's a show that will wear its anime influences on its sleeve (with some really overt Utena nods). The animation is in an odd place where it is clearly leaning on anime drawing styles but with an American Toonboom-era inflection, where everything is pushed into simple shapes just a little too much; it has its moments (the 'Fright Zone' backgrounds are rather good, and there are some charming moments of character interaction) but struggles with space and perspective in a way that's not great for an action-driven show.

But whatever I might have to say about its flaws, She-Ra was a hit, successful enough for Netflix to fund it for four seasons - making a much larger splash than Powerhouse's concurrent He-Man series which took a much more traditional approach. And I suppose that led them to look at what other ND Stevenson related properties they might be able to sell...

As all this was happening, the Nimona film was brewing. It had a rather troubled production; in 2015 Fox bought the rights, planning to make it at Blue Sky (best known for Ice Age). The project got cancelled when Disney digested Fox, with Disney feeling a little nervy about all the gay/trans shit in this movie. (Not that that stopped them having a float at London Pride yesterday lmao. Cunts.)

But that wasn't the end of the story, and Netflix and Annapurna swooped in, pulling in directors Nick Bruno and Troy Quane who had been at Blue Sky before its demise and worked on the previous version of the film. The animation ended up being finished at the visual effects company DNEG and premiered at Annecy a couple of weeks ago - I could have met Stevenson and got a signed copy of the comic lol. Now at last it's here for streaming.

So after that messy story what sort of film is it? The story takes a similar premise to the comic, and keeps the core character relationships pretty much as they were: Blackheart is a good man unjustly framed as a villain, Nimona is a shapeshifter who pushes him to escalate, Goldenloin as the official pursuing Blackheart, and his boyfriend before the shit went down. But the plot looks like it will end up diverging quite a bit. Visually, it's CG with a 2D celshading inflection - most likely unrelated to Spiderverse given the timeline, but it's definitely belonging within that new flavour of CG film. It's a style that really pushes and exaggerates the expressions, and I can't really say how well it will work - but let's find out! The critics seem pretty excited.

I think I said that Animation Night would start at a reasonable time today. Well, my best laid plans ganged aglee, but there is time I think to check out Nimona - so if you'd like to join me, I'll be live shortly at twitch.tv/canmom and I hope to see you there ^^

#animation night #this might well be copyright strike number 2

[beardedmrbean]

Nov. 16 (UPI) -- German authorities raided dozens of Islamic sites and facilities across the country on Thursday as part of a sting targeting proxies and other radicalized supporters of the militant group Hezbollah.

The investigation centered on the Islamic Center in Hamburg as the focal point of an operation to smoke out domestic insurgents who were aiming to subvert the country's "constitutional order," the interior ministry said, while accusing the center of serving as a mouthpiece for the Iranian government.

Before dawn Thursday, federal agents launched simultaneous raids on 54 properties across seven states, targeting not only the Hamburg group but also five other associated entities that haven't been named yet by authorities.

Aside from Hamburg, the federal sweep also targeted suspected outposts in Lower Saxony, Hesse, Baden-Wurttemberg, Bavaria, Berlin and North Rhine-Westphalia.

The government did not identify any specific threats leading up to the raids, but indicated that the Hamburg center was suspected of rallying support for the Lebanese terrorist organization Hezbollah, which is banned in Germany.

The German government banned Hezbollah in 2020 when it declared the Iran-backed group a terrorist organization.

The interior ministry called the Hamburg center a propaganda machine for Tehran which was spreading revolutionary concepts, particularly those opposing Israel, to deepen divisions and incite extremism amid the Israel-Hamas war, which has continued for nearly six weeks without any signs of a ceasefire.

The ministry noted that the organization wielded "great influence on certain mosques and clubs, including complete control" over its associates, while promoting "a clear antisemitic and anti-Israel attitude."

"The suspicions against the 'Islamic Center Hamburg' are serious," German Interior Minister Nancy Faeser said after the massive operation. "It has long been monitored by the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution and classified as Islamist."

Fraeser also highlighted recent tumult throughout Germany amid the Middle East conflict.

"We have the Islamist scene in our sights," she said. "Especially now, at a time when many Jews feel particularly threatened, we generally do not tolerate Islamist propaganda or antisemitic and anti-Israel incitement."

Meanwhile, Germany's interior ministry did not disclose whether any suspects were arrested during Thursday's siege, nor whether any weapons, contraband, or properties were seized.

#nunyas news

[parknights]

Parknight imagines, miscellany 30: untamed

She's sure she's seen this scene play out a dozen times before.

In defense of his best friend. In his confusion over his ex-wife. In the tumult over his old flame popping up in the middle of a case. Whenever his blood family gets involved…and countless times, whenever they, his NCIS family, are on the line.

Knight's seen this unbridled fury of Parker's maybe a time too many, but—in a way—she understands it. She understands it, because there's a fiery part of her that wants to act first and think about the consequences later, too. They've got this in common.

Luckily for Parker, Knight has more practice at reining hers in, as well as seeing his spark to life, and she gets close but doesn't step between when Parker lunges for Agent Colfax. Colfax may be gloating (and being a huge jerk about it, given Torres' precarious situation), but he's not worth losing a badge over.

"Parker, Parker, hey, c'mon," she says, and her hands on his arm help still him, help keep him from doing something he wouldn't regret in the moment but would absolutely regret when Colfax took action. Knight leads Parker back to their car, turning him away from Colfax's sneer, telling Parker that they've got to get back to headquarters and follow up on what the FBI agent just spilled, to see if it's all legit.

They sit in the car for a minute, and Parker…maybe heard half of what she said. "…sorry," he mumbles, and he turns the engine over, although they sit there for another beat.

"Colfax is just someone who likes to get off on getting under people's skin." Knight studies his profile and, seeing his anger ebb in the way the lines of his face relax, she gives him a smile and risks a little humor. "…but I don't blame you. He does have a very punchable face."

He snorts. Just the one, but then Parker genuinely laughs and shakes his head. He glances at her, his own smile small, and he sighs. "I don't like others messing with my people." After a moment, Parker adds, "…I don't like the thought of them touching you."

Her breath hitches. Her brain says that's the collective "you" he means, the team "you"…but all the time she spends out in the field with Parker, all the moments where he chooses to lean on her when he claims he doesn't lean on anyone—that makes her skin flush, and Knight awkwardly nods, desperately trying to focus on the more important things at hand as they drive back to base.

-follow for more imagines & Parknight fanworks & content-

#ncis #parknight #knight x parker #parker x knight #jessica knight #alden parker #imagine #s21e1

[ninasbookshelf]

Book Recs Based on Taylor Swift Albums

'Tis the damn season of Taylor Swift's Eras Tour! In celebration I have put together reading recommendations based on each of Taylor’s albums.

Some of Taylor's songs are (seemingly) inspired directly by specific books or media, so I tried to stray from those and recommend something different. Also, I aimed for books that I think capture the theme/feeling of the entire album, rather than books that follow the story of one particular song. 

...Ready for it? Here goes.

(Also I’m tired, so there may be some minor book spoilers… no promises.) 

Taylor Swift (Debut)- I’ll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson

I’ll Give You the Sun captures the vibrancy of Taylor’s self-titled debut album, and delves into the challenges of youth and the journey to finding where we belong in the world. Both the album and book showcase the loneliness and betrayals that happen during adolescence. They also look at love and what it means to love someone. This isn’t just romantic love either; there are friendships, familial love… and ok, there’s romance too. 

Fearless - Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

Hear me out. Wuthering Heights is dark, yes, but it is mainly a story of passion; powerful, lively moments, both positive and negative. It’s a story full of life, and so is Fearless. In both there are love stories and there are fights, there are betrayals and misunderstandings, and in Wuthering Heights the characters are, mostly, physically very near each other… just on The Other Side of the Door. Both Fearless and Wuthering Heights are rollercoasters charting the ups and downs of their protagonists’ relationships. Someday I’ll write an essay dedicated to comparing the two in more detail, but for now I’ll stop here.

Speak Now - Seven Faceless Saints (SFS) by M.K. Lobb

Ok, I might be reaching here because I just read this and want to talk about it, but watch me make it work. Roz and Damian (the main characters of SFS) dated for years before Damian was drafted, and since his return to Ombrazia there has been tension between the two due to both personal vendettas and political differences. As they’re forced to work together, they begin to understand each other, they grapple with their pasts, the things that haunt them, the things that make them push for revenge… they build a relationship again, they reflect on the way their lives used to be and the tumult that caused the breakdown. The victory in SFS is a bit darker in tone than Long Live, but I think it still works. 

Red - If I Had Your Face by Frances Cha

This one is a given for me. Both Red and If I Had Your Face capture the turbulence and confusion of being a woman in your twenties (give or take). They show both the magic and madness of romantic relationships. They show the pain of being older and wiser, how we can look at other women who are still full of hope and see how everything could go wrong. Heartbreak, power, and female friendship; it’s all there.

1989 - The Sun Is Also a Star by Nicola Yoon

Welcome to New York! The Sun Is Also a Star follows two teens, Natasha and Daniel, through an event- and emotion-filled day in NYC. It’s romantic and silly and magical, until very suddenly… the pain of reality returns. This one’s YA, but I think it fits really well with 1989. 

Reputation - The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid

I love love this comparison. Secret relationships, crimes and getaway cars, breakups and betrayals and finally, eventually, realizing that the people we surround ourselves with are what really matters in life… yeah.

Lover - Book Lovers by Emily Henry

It’s only fitting that Lover gets a romance novel (and I promise I didn’t just pick this particular book because it has “lover” in the title). Book Lovers features a literary agent named Nora who is determined to go above and beyond for her clients. If she were a man, she’d be the man. It’s a realistic romance, complete with a cruel summer and characters who find comfort in each other after many failed relationships… but can it last?  

folklore - Little Women by Louisa May Alcott or Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason

There’s a lot going on in folklore; it showcases Taylor’s storytelling skills in an achingly beautiful light. There are several different stories happening on the album, some of which are intertwined. I can’t pass up recommending Little Women, because the relationships these women share with each other, and their romances throughout the different stages of their life, are represented thoroughly in folklore’s tracklist. There are hard feelings and mistakes, heartache and the harshness of reality, and the realization that sometimes things aren’t meant to be, no matter how much we might want them to be. 

However, as someone who has spent too much not enough time watching Jo and Laurie x folklore compilations on Youtube, I feel like folklore/Little Women is a commonly made connection… (or maybe I’m way too deep into that rabbit hole). SO, to add some variety, I wanted to share a second recommendation that I think also fits with the general feeling folklore creates. 

Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason particularly fits with the more mature stories on the album. It involves  characters looking back on their pasts and seeing the connections and divisions in their relationships, and grappling with how things are vs what could’ve been. The book focuses heavily on mental health and how it affects our relationships with ourselves and the people we care about. 

I’ll share one of my favorite quotes: “Martha, no marriage makes sense. Especially not to the outside world. A marriage is its own world.” Just like in folklore, Sorrow and Bliss includes a deep dive into the protagonist’s personal relationships and how those relationships can grow and change over time.

evermore - I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith

Set in a crumbling castle in rural England, I Capture the Castle shares the mystique and pining encapsulated in Taylor Swift’s evermore. There’s unrequited love, secret devotions, and the ache left by empty promises and tainted relationships. And of course, everything is happening surrounded by overwhelming pastoral beauty. It’s the perfect matchup to evermore.

Midnights - Daisy Jones and the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid

A second TJR feature! I feel like there’s a song here for every major event in DJATS. The madness of relationships; the idolization of celebrities vs what they were actually going through; parties, affairs, love and questions; loss and betrayal and reflections on the past… It’s all there. 

And that’s all ten! I got tired near the end, so I apologize if any of this is confusing. If you have questions or comments about any of these book recs, please reach out to me! I’d love to talk more about them. 

I’m thinking of doing more in-depth book recommendations for Taylor's discography, where I pick one book for each of her songs. I’d do these on an album-by-album basis. If you're interested, let me know! 

#taylor swift #booklr #book recs #tjr #emily henry #bibliophile #books and reading #taylor swift eras #taylor swift debut #taylor swift red #1989 #fearless #evermore #folklore #midnights #speak now #taylor swift lover #reputation

[buriedabove]

@untodeath TO CONDOR ONE. AFFECTIONATE ACTION PROMPTS.

( embrace ) : sender gently hugs receiver.

                            Ashes and flames swirling in their parlous pirouettes,  but it wasn’t sulphur’s relentless acerbity biting at the reddened corners of his eyes,  coating them with a glazed layer brought forward by nostalgia.  Familiar,  not harrowing to any degree.  A blink.  That was all it took for him to start forgetting about the blazing chaos and despair closing in on him.  His own arms embraced Sherry,  only at this moment feeling how much he was shaking.  Quivering hands moderately became more tranquil and stabilised as they rested tenderly on her back;  a few comforting pats,  then a reassuring squeeze on her shoulder.  In fact,  perhaps he needed to reassure himself in the first place that she was right there,  right next to him.  As much as it struck him with relief,  disquiet was just as present,  bellowing at the bottom of his chest.  Wishing they could have at least such a modicum of serenity amidst the spreading tumult.  Something he would not allow the time to steal from them.                             “  Sherry…  You’re okay?  ”  Leaning away ever so languidly,  utmost fragility hiding under calloused palms fell upon her arms.  Haltingly,  for a split second,  eyebrows floated into an expression reflecting his deeply rooted concern.  And it wasn’t strictly about now.  From that day,  the agent was always worried for her.  But come what may,  hesitance would never drive him away from jumping straight into the crossfire to protect her life with his.  Endless questions racing around his scattered mind,  soon shoved off to the side by cognisance far more crucial breaking through the surface.  Might’ve appeared out of the blue,  though he felt like he wasn’t saying it to her often enough,  “  I’m always here for you,  remember.  ”

#sorry to barge in like this. ❯ answered. #untodeath #whomst've ordered some tears.....

[emc2beans]

Hi! I’m Bean and I play ffxiv on the Leviathan server (NA data center). Here is a lineup of my ffxiv WoLs and some related ocs. Goes from left to right.

Gwynedd [Gwyn-ed] Skaenblyss Grufud

-Age: 27   -Pronouns: She/her   -Sexuality: Very Gay 

-Race: Roegadyn -Height: 7ft 3in  -Weight: ~300 lbs 

-Nameday: 28th day of the 3rd Astral Moon (May 28)

-Occupation: Sailor (prev), (the) Warrior of Light, Scion of the Seventh Dawn

-Abilities: Warrior training, The Echo/Light’s Blessing

-Extra: Middle name means “Beautiful Blossom” because she was born in the spring and she hates it.

-Family: Llewellyn Grufud (brother), Rhodri Grufud (father, 46), Angharad Grufud (mother, 45), Assorted adopted younger siblings

Gwynedd is, quite literally, a natural-born sailor. That is to say that she was delivered while her parents were at sea, below deck on The Hullripper, a once-pirate-now-mercantile ship captained by her mother Angharad and her first mate/husband Rhodri. In her mid-20s, Gwynedd developed a desire to see more of the world, which meant leaving her life at sea behind in favor of becoming an adventurer. Seeking fame, fortune, and the company of beautiful women, she would instead find herself fighting for the very existence of the star she called home. 

Llewellyn [Lew-el-in] Guldaren Grufud 

-Age: 17  -Pronouns: He/him   -Sexuality: Gay 

-Race: Roegadyn -Height: 6ft 6in  -Weight: ~210 lbs 

-Nameday: 30th day of the 5th Umbral Moon (Oct. 30)

-Occupation: Sailor, Scion of the Seventh Dawn (unofficial)

-Abilities: Lancer/Dragoon training, oceanic navigation, fishing

-Extra: Middle name means “Gold Harvest” because he was born in the autumn.

-Family: Gwynedd Grufud (sister), Rhodri Grufud (father, 46), Angharad Grufud (mother, 45), Assorted adopted younger siblings

It’s safe to say that Llewellyn’s birth was unexpected. Born slightly early and far smaller than the average Roegadyn infant, the Grufud family was forced to take an extended shore leave in Gridania to ensure ready access to healing. Growing up, Llewellyn was often bullied for his smaller size and sickly nature. Even as he grew into a teenager and his health improved, he continued to be much scrawnier than average for his race, leading to much insecurity on his part. When he hears of his elder sister’s exploits as the vaunted champion of Eorzea, Llewellyn wants nothing more than to join her, but leaving the rest of his family behind is a difficult thing to do.

Syden

16, Viera (rava), He/him, gay

Gunbreaker + Bard

Is the third of five brothers.

Knows which plants will get you high, fuck you up, heal you, or kill you. 

Riveaux

16, Elezen (wildwood), He/him, gay

Machinist + Bard

Lives primarily with his father in Gridania, but spends a few weeks each summer in Ishgard with his mother.

His mother was an Ishgardian noblewoman who ran off to Gridania with a stable boy, whom she married and had a child with. However, she soon discovered that being “poor” (more like lower-middle class) sucked and went back to Ishgard, divorcing Riveaux’s father and leaving a young Riveaux behind. 

Dire 

16, Elezen (duskwight), They/them

Astrologian + Bard

Has two mothers, one duskwight Elezen (biological) and one Garlean. 

Calls their Elezen mother ‘Mum’ and her Garlean mother ‘Mutti’

Her Garlean mom defected while stationed at Baelsar's Wall and met their Elezen mom after running afoul of the Shroud’s wildlife.

A’Mina

16, Miqo’te (seeker), She/her, bisexual but prefers girls

Rogue + Bard

Lives with her single mother, who left their tribe to escape an abusive nuhn.

Gothic lolita enthusiast

Isolde [Ee-solde] Tumult 

- Age: 24-30 (depends on who’s asking)  -Pronouns: She/her 

-Race: Hyur -Sexuality: Bi? Pan? Straight? Yes.  -Height: 5ft 5in 

-Weight: ~180 lbs

-Occupation: Artist, Warrior of Light (reluctantly),‘Free Agent’ (self-proclaimed), Scion of the Seventh Dawn (when it suits her), PR Nightmare

-Abilities: Rogue/Ninja training, The Echo/Light’s Blessing, proficiency with some Allagan technology 

-Extra: Extreme reaction to Echo, activates on contact not proximity, causes intense pain. 

Allag was an empire of incredible technology. From airborne research facilities to teleportation, nothing was beyond the reach of their greatest minds. But, one of these great minds Isolde was not, which made the fact that she was cloned all the more confusing. Worse still was that she’d managed to miss the end of the world, or at least the fall of Allag and everything she’d ever known. Her memories consisted of little more than her name, some vague scenes, and blurry faces. Fortunately, she still knew how to wield a pair of daggers, providing her with a means of defending herself against whatever lurked outside that deactivated cloning facility. 

#ffxiv oc stuff #ffxiv oc #ffxiv wol #my art stuff #So yeah! You can ask me about these characters in the future! Ill pin this post. #Pls forgive my inconsistent formatting lol #all the teens here are Llewellyn’s friend group they don’t become involved in the story until after EW #They join Llew and the twins in Garlemald

[baubeautyandthegeek]

And, I believe, the winged strife//And tumult of the headlong air//Have nestled in my very hair. – Tamerlane Usher/Verna

A/N: Day 11, part 2 for @fluffbruary

“I am sorry… my Dove.” Soft lips find her ear, arms around her waist. The Goldbug launch nearly fails, nearly falters. Tamerlane salvages it, of course, somehow. Verna, who until that night had planned to follow her premise to the proper end. “I am sorry, my dove. My poor Dove. Sleep is not easy, is it?” “No… It… it might be now. With Goldbug out but I… I can never… really sleep.” Verna’s sigh is soft, an apology whispered even as she presses her lips to a bare shoulder, taking in Tamerlane’s eyes, her softness and shyness, her need for love and care. “Perhaps, my Dove… you might do better with company?” “After Bill… after Bill I don’t… I don’t know… how to… how to do that.” “Can we try?” A choice, a chance, Verna dares, fleetingly, to hope. Tamerlane sighs, nods just the once then half-laughs. “Sweet like Candy… the name suits.” She’s quiet when they settle, Verna’s arm around her waist, soft lips brushing her ear, a whisper of ‘Sleep my Dove’ rewarded with a yawn. Verna’s nose nestles into soft copper hair, her smile soft when she feels Tamerlane relax under her arm. She is, finally, asleep. Robbed of life for a while, an Usher no longer. Verna works quickly then, changes time, changes fate, pulls Tamerlane from the family line, makes the girl her own, the last name Crain echoes as a choice, then Berlingame. Verna settles, at last, on Dove. Her Dove. Tamerlane Dove lives, even as Tamerlane Usher dies, the blood in the woman’s body changed by her choices, by Verna’s love, an apology, at last, from an agent of chaos.

#verna #verna the fall of the house of usher #verna tfothou #fluffbruary #fluffbruary2024 #fluffbruary 2024 #tfothou #fall of the house of usher #the fall of the house of usher #tamerlane usher #tamerlane/verna #verna/tamerlane

[liminalh-creations]

this ain’t no place for no hero this ain’t no place for no better man

just some fun headcanon sketches of the Most Normal Family, the Akai-Sera houehold. not pictured are Mary’s younger sister, and also James Black who’s basically the pleasant confirmed bachelor of an uncle

more headcanons below the cut (most of which are pretty specific to my canon divergent fanfiction lmao);

backstory nonsense!

-how does an ostensiblity japanese man join the british secret service? easy, Tsutomu ‘Thomas’ Akai was born in london into a mixed british (japanese & british-caribbean) household. he usually just asks people to call him Tom to make things easier. -Mary Sera’s birth name is Marianne Serafim. she’s from the west midlands in the UK, and comes from a fairly well-off prestigious family (much to the resentment of her younger sister, again not pictured) - Tom and Mary met at basic training after being recruited for MI6 (him, off the streets of petty criminality & her, right out of a PPE degree at King’s). - their relationship was tumultous from the start, between the easy-going Tom who had a very relaxed view on ‘laws’ and ‘rules’, and the high-strung Mary whose entire life had been ‘laws’ and ‘rules’. obviously, they were perfect for each other lmao - when it comes to kids, they tried to “collect” as many nationalities as possible. they made a point of their first being born in Hawaii, for that sweet US citizenship, and their second scraped a Canadian citizenship in much the same way. unfortunately by the time the third was born, this cute goal had kinda been forgotten. - ON THAT NOTE! after tom akai officially went MIA during a job (TM) in december 1993, mary went into Paranoid Secret Agent Lockdown mode. she changed all their names, moved the family several times, and used her vast resources to spy on everything she percieved a threat to her kids, including those same kids. it got pretty unbearable for a while, since she somehow managed to do this while heavily pregnant and then with a newborn on her arm.

the “kids”

- Shuichi (31 at the start of the story, born december 1978) is the ice-cold loose cannon who left home at age 16 and didn’t return for 5-6 years, having already committed several heinous crimes against humanity as part of his, uhh, normal job as a cia agent. dw he eventually got kicked out of the CIA for being a fucking menace. much like his parents, he went into foreign intelligence work. he also makes a point of using his dad’s surname in an ill-advised attempt to draw out people who knew his tom akai (and possibly were involved in his disappearance). he is a violently attractive man, violently attracted to violence. - Shukichi (28, born november 1982) is the Perfect Son: intelligent, charismatic, good-looking, and above all kind. he stayed home and took care of the family even when his older brother ran off, at behest of his mother got himself ‘adopted’ by another family, and eventually went to cambridge (Japanese Studies & Classical Poetry). he now regularly competes in international shogi tournaments. he’s the only one who regularly uses his ‘english’ name, Keith. his siblings often call him ‘kitsch’. - Masumi (16, born march 1994) is the precious baby who can get away with actual murder because everyone loves her. (shuichi suspects this is because she looks the most like their dad.) at the start of the story, she’s about to start sixth form in the UK! for her A-levels she’s taking english lit, psychology, and history; with philosophy and french as AS-levels. (she took her japanese a-level when she was 13, thinking it would be an easy A*. she didn’t study for the exam, and got a B. everyone was aghast.)

dynamics: - shu & kitsch are fairly close in age, so they were kind of each other’s best friends growing up (shu had like no other friends tbh). both liked watching wrestling with their dad, too. between the two, shu always got them in trouble and kichi always talked them out of it. after tom formally “vanished”, their relationship kind of shattered because shuichi went off the deep end and eventually ran away from home. kichi resented him for the longest time, and even now, - mas & kichi grew very close: until she was like 7, he was the only brother she knew, and even afterwards he was the most consistently ‘there’ sibling. more than anything, he’s the one who taught her the native japanese their dad spoke. favourite hobby nowadays is teasing their shuichi for not knowing any pop culture references. they’ve made a game out of it. the loser is ALWAYS shu because he has no idea what “may the fourth be with you” means - shu & mas share a troublemaking and roughhousing streak. masumi fucking WORSHIPS her oldest brother, having first ‘met’ him when she was 7 (after he returned from running away), only to discover he’s “a secret agent??? wtf he’s so cool?!” whenever she sees him nowadays she uses him to get into films she’s technically too young to see. (also she sends him videos of her beating up school bullies so he can teach her jeet kune do. he’s dubiously proud of her)

#detective conan fanart #shuichi akai #shuichi akai headcanon #akai family #mary sera #tsutomu akai #masumi sera #shukichi haneda

[sisterspooky1013]

More Than A Feeling, Chapter 3

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

The sun sits high in a cloudless sky just before noon, the murmur of hundreds of voices seeping through the chain link fence that surrounds the fairgrounds as crowds gather in wait of opening day. The rides stand still and proud, each bolt and screw carefully installed, inspected, and tested by the crew, who sip ginger ale to calm their agitated bellies. The oil in the deep fryers is hot, the long curls of fries carved from impossibly large potatoes standing at the ready for their bath, while plain white sugar waits for its chance to be spun and dyed electric pink or baby blue. Each joint booth has been carefully hung with plush that sticks out into the Midway so it catches the eye of awestruck children and haughty teenagers, the agents ready with aprons full of change and the ability to tell a mark from a rube from an honest customer who’s just looking for a good time. Everything is ready; all they have left to do is open the front gates.

Mulder sits on an overturned milk crate, pulling deep breaths in through his nose and pushing them out through his mouth as he steals glances at Scully. She’s leaning against the side of the ticket booth, talking and laughing with Summer and Picker, her coveralls half undone and tied around her hips as the full heat of the day presses down on her bare shoulders around her tank top. She is, unsurprisingly, unaffected by the spin of the Music Fest or the swing of the Viking, and he has half a mind to tell her to put some sunscreen on that lily white skin, if not for the tumult in his gut and the fact that she’d probably tell him to fuck off just to keep their cover.

Tami steps out of what she calls her office, which is a small trailer towed by a pickup truck, and claps her hands, then rubs them together like she’s up to something devious. Jean stands from her seat in the shade of a joint booth and cups her hands around her mouth.

“SHOWTIME!” she hollers impressively loudly, and everyone scrambles to their feet or away from wherever they’d been leaning, gathering around the main entrance.

Mulder follows the lead of the other staff, lining the entryway to the park on either side to create a human tunnel that customers will walk through as they enter, corralling them towards either the ticket booth or the midway. Tami steps into the ticket booth and fidgets with the sound system until the familiar opening chords of “More Than a Feeling” tinkle through the monstrous speakers that are aimed at the entrance. She then runs out to the front gate, pulling it open and stepping aside as streams of smiling and excited customers push into the human tunnel and line up at the ticket booth or set out on the midway. Mulder mirrors what he sees others doing: welcoming people to the show, waving at beaming children, and tossing out empty recommendations like, “You gotta try the elephant ears,” or, “You look like you’d be able to stomach the Ring of Fire.” There is an air of excitement and promise, and the unadulterated joy of a once-a-year opportunity to eat junk and then get so sick you throw it all up, and walk out the door with a comically large teddy bear under your arm. The first wave of customers starts to thin out, and the ride jocks make their way back to their dog houses, ready to take tickets and dodge puke.

“First show?” asks the man beside him, who is taller even than he with weathered ochre skin and black square-rimmed glasses.

“Is it that obvious?” Mulder replies with a nervous smile, and the man nods knowingly.

“You look a little green,” the man says.

“Just started yesterday,” Mulder says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

“No, I mean sick. You don’t have to test the rides if you don’t have the stomach for it, son.”

Mulder feels his cheeks warm and nods gratefully. “Luke,” he says, extending his hand.

“Lenny,” the man says as he clutches Mulder’s hand and then pats him on the back with his other one. “I’m in charge of the joints. That’s what we call the games.”

“Any other advice you can offer a newbie?” Mulder asks.

“Yeah,” Lenny says, beginning to walk away. “If anyone asks you to find the key to the midway, tell ‘em to piss up a rope.”

Mulder doesn’t understand what that means, but he nods anyway, and then heads back to the cook trailer.

-

Within fifteen minutes of the gates opening, Scully’s walkie-talkie squawks and a warbled voice reports that the Chump Churner is making a weird noise.

“Mother fuck,” Summer says through her teeth, kicking the leg of a picnic table and cocking her head in indication that Scully should follow her as she takes off into the crowd.

“What’s a Chump Churner?” Scully asks as they weave through customers to take the quickest route to the back of the show.

“The Ferris Wheel,” Summer answers. “There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just friction between the bearings and the spindle, but anything making a noise scares customers. We greased the shit out of that son of a bitch this morning but apparently it wasn’t enough.”

By the time they arrive at the ferris wheel, a long line of customers is grumbling at the “out of order” sign hung at the entrance, and the ride jock, Mickey, is practically shooting daggers out of his eyes.

“Do not fucking look at me like that, Mickey,” Summer warns him with a finger pointed at his face, and he bristles.

Summer goes straight to the main support of the ride, which hosts a criss-cross of metal bars that double as a ladder, and starts climbing towards the spindle at the center of the wheel. Scully looks around self-consciously at her large audience, the music pumping from the speaker mounted on the spindle vibrating her eardrums, and feels a sudden wave of nervousness. She’s used to death-defying stunts, but not with so many eyes on her.

“Time’s a wastin, Penny,” Summer calls down, and despite her nerves Scully begins to climb.

Within ten minutes, they’ve applied “enough axle grease to drown a hooker,” in Summer’s words, and are back on the ground so Mickey can start up the ride and verify that the concerning noise has been eliminated. Mickey pulls the “out of order” sign off the gate and the line cheers enthusiastically as Summer and Scully head back to the maintenance trailer.

“Is that pretty typical?” Scully asks, and Summer casts her an amused smirk.

“It happens enough that it keeps us employed full time,” she says, and Scully accepts this with a shrug.

“Sometimes we get a quiet day where things seem to go right, and then we get to fuck around a bit, but that usually only happens when it…” Summer stops walking and looks around, then steps close and brings her lips to Scully’s ear. “When it rains,” she says conspiratorially, then moves away and starts walking again. “Don’t ever let Tami or Jean hear you say the R word,” she cautions. “They think it’s bad luck to even talk about it.”

“Any other rules I should know about?” Scully asks.

“Aside from shit that should be obvious like not being drunk or high while the show is open, don’t let Tami hear a single note of a song that wasn’t released between 1970 and 1979,” Summer says with no trace of sarcasm.

“Oh,” Scully remarks with a mix of surprise and realization. “It’s by design that every song I’ve heard here is from the seventies?”

“Tami’s grand design, yes. She firmly believes that all other music is, and I quote, ‘tone-deaf garbage.’”

“Well, there was a lot of good music in the seventies, at least,” Scully says optimistically, and Summer barks a humorless laugh.

“See if you still feel that way when you’ve been here a full season,” she quips.

Before they’ve made it back to the maintenance trailer, they are called to look at a bumper car that’s sitting motionless in the middle of the rink.

-

“You got things under control here, Buddy Boy?”

Mulder lifts his head to see Madge leaning heavily against the door of the cook trailer, one eye squeezed shut.

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” he answers, looking around at the colossal mess he’s made working on dinner prep.

“Good, good. I’m gonna go lie down for a few minutes, okay? I’ll be back soon,” she says, her breathing labored.

“You okay?” he asks with genuine concern, and she waves her hand dismissively.

“I’m fine, just a spell. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

She slowly makes her way toward the boneyard, and Mulder sticks his head out of the cook trailer door to watch her until she disappears into her camper. Satisfied that she made it safely, he turns back to the list she made for him and realizes he’s finished, aside from cleanup. He pokes his head out again to see if anyone is sitting at the picnic tables and, seeing no one, he pulls the door to the trailer closed.

He begins opening drawers and cupboards, not quite sure what he’s looking for. He finds every cooking and serving utensil imaginable, pots, pans, and small appliances. Near the front of the trailer where it narrows above the tow hitch, he finds a drawer full of miscellaneous odds and ends: pens, scraps of paper, receipts from grocery stores and gas stations. There are lighters, cigarettes, nail clippers, sunscreen, and time-worn sheets of carbon paper detailing oil changes on Madge’s truck and maintenance done on the trailer. Underneath all the junk, he finds a photograph of a much younger Madge standing beside a young man with shaggy brown hair and a patchy mustache. Madge has her arm wrapped around his waist and she’s smiling broadly, while the young man looks wan and gaunt, his cheeks drawn and his skin pock-marked. He doesn’t look well.

The door to the trailer snaps open, and he shoves the photograph back into the drawer and closes it quickly, scurrying towards the prep area as Tami heaves an overflowing paper sack up and onto the floor.

“Here’s those condiments you asked for, Ma—” she starts, but then sees that it’s not Madge she’s addressing. “Sorry, what was your name again?” she asks with an apologetic cringe.

“Luke,” Mulder says with a smile, his heart rate slowing as he concludes that she hadn’t noticed nor wondered what he was doing when she walked in.

“Luke, right,” Tami repeats. “Glad to have you with us.”

-

Monday is the final night of their week in St. Joseph, and the crowd pops at 6:00 pm after parents get off work and agree to bring the kids out one last time before they lose the opportunity for a full year. At midnight, the music cuts and the flashing lights dim to nothing, only the glaring safety lights left to guide customers back to their cars. Agents begin to pack up their plush and everyone takes a break before the back-breaking and nonstop work of slough commences, and then the jump to Kansas City.

Scully is already waiting on the grassy knoll when Mulder makes his way over, lying on her back with her hands folded over her belly and her eyes on the starry night sky. He sits heavy beside her and she pushes up onto her elbows, looking curiously at the plate in his hands.

“Whatcha got there?” she asks with a hungry look in her eye, and he moves the plate away a bit.

“Madge asked me,” he says, and then pauses to clear his throat and affect an impersonation of Madge’s lopsided husk, “does that little lady of yours like peanut butter, Buddy Boy?”

“She does,” Scully says with an edge of irritation. “Hand it over.”

“Now hold on, Penny, I need you to know that I told Madge that the little lady does like peanut butter, but only creamy.”

“And?” Scully asks, her eyes ready to roll.

“Peanut butter and jelly pie sticks. Creamy,” he says with a flourish, moving the plate close enough for her to pluck one of the lolly-pop-esque treats off the plate with child-like wonder.

She takes a big bite and then closes her eyes and hums with satisfaction. Mulder watches her, gratified by her enjoyment of his cooking, which is an unexpected upside to this assignment.

“You know I’m going to make you cook things like this for me after we go home, right?” she tells him, wiping a bit of jelly off the corner of her mouth.

“I’m not sure I can produce the same results without Madge’s oversight, but I’ll give it my best shot. Looks like that might be tomorrow, huh?” he says, taking a bite out of his own little pie on a stick.

“Looks like it,” she agrees.

They haven’t gotten any indication either way regarding their continued employment, and with tonight being the last in St. Joseph it’s looking like they will receive their pay for the week and fly home to Washington with nothing to show. Chris, Damian and themselves are all alive and well, and while there are many gruff characters working for the carnival, none have demonstrated a proclivity towards homicidal tendencies, at least not that Scully and Mulder have been able to garner in the stolen moments between the real, hard work they’ve been performing.

A twenty something blonde woman struts by and winks at Mulder before shooting Scully a dirty look, to which Scully scoffs.

“Friend of yours?” she asks, and Mulder turns to look at her incredulously.

“Becky? The kissing booth girl? Is it anti-feminist to say I’m not interested in a woman who kisses strangers for a fin?” he asks reticently, using one of the many “carny cant” terms they’ve learned, this one representing five dollars.

Scully shakes her head dismissively. “Summer said that joint is gaffed, no one actually wins a kiss.”

“I’ve definitely seen her kissing a customer,” Mulder retorts.

“It’s always the same guy, that agent from the bottle game. He just knows how to get around the gaff and make it look like he won so the customers don’t get pissed,” Scully explains, and Mulder considers this.

“Would you kiss a stranger for a fin?” he asks, and she balks.

“I wouldn’t kiss a stranger for a double,” she says emphatically, “or even a half yard.”

“A yard?” he asks, upping the ante to one-hundred dollars.

Scully considers this. “Is he cute?”

“Who?” Mulder asks.

“The stranger,” she replies.

“It’s a hypothetical question, Penny. He doesn’t exist,” he says dryly.

Scully shrugs. “I guess it depends. If he’s cute…maybe for a yard.”

Mulder shakes his head, which she interprets as judgment.

“You wouldn’t? For a yard?” she asks.

“Oh, I’d do it for a fin,” he quips, and she slaps his arm.

Jean approaches, breathless and carrying a large flashlight.

“Hey lovebirds,” she teases, though by now they’ve become used to people commenting on what reads as a romantic connection between them that they’ve neither bothered to confirm nor deny. “Tami’s looking for ya, head on over to her office soon, okay?”

“Roger that, Jean,” Mulder says as he collects both he and Scully’s pie sticks and stands, then tows her up to stand as well.

They walk side by side across the darkened grounds, the buzz of the flood lights ringing in their ears. The constant noise from the rides, games, and customers starts to become unnoticeable after a few days, and it’s only when they stop that she realizes you can hear the chirp of crickets and the hush of highway traffic. A skinny yellow lab gallops up to them, and Mulder gives him a few pats on the head before telling him to go on. Summer told her they see a lot of strays hanging around no matter where they go, and figures they must follow the smell of the food until they end up at the fairgrounds.

When they enter Tami’s office, they find Chris and Damian already waiting in the two available chairs, so they stand awkwardly in the doorway of the small space. Tami is behind the desk, her hair wrapped up in a silk bonnet, and a Carhartt coat that is at least two sizes too big hangs from her shoulders.

“Okay, everybody’s here,” Tami says, collecting a stack of pre-filled checks in her hands. “Chris, Damian, you’ve done good, hard work this week. I thank you for your time, but we won’t be needing your services after tonight. You can clear out your bunks and head on home.”

Damian looks disappointed while Chris looks relieved, and they accept the proffered checks before leaving the trailer. Mulder and Scully remain standing, ready to take their own checks and go, but Tami gestures to the empty seats until they drop into them and look at her expectantly.

“Penelope and Luke, I hear great things from Summer and Madge. You’ve both got a lot of potential, and if you’re interested I’d like to invite you to go on with us to Kansas City. This isn’t a guarantee of full-season employment, but as long as you keep doing good work you should have the opportunity to stay on through September, if you’d like to.”

There is a beat of silence, and Tami narrows her eyes while a smile plays on her mouth, trying to discern whether they are pleasantly or unpleasantly surprised. Finally, Mulder speaks.

“Absolutely, Tami, thank you for the opportunity. I’d love to stay on,” he says.

“Me too,” Scully pipes in, remembering that this is the desired outcome. “That sounds great, thank you.”

“Perfect,” Tami says triumphantly. “This means you’ll help with slough. Nobody sleeps until we get the show loaded up and on the road to Kansas City. Penny, you’ll have to drive your trailer over there but Luke should be able to get some shut eye on the ride at least.”

“I can ride with Penny so we can drive in shifts,” Mulder offers, and Scully shoots him a look that tells him it was a too-familiar offer–Mulder speaking, not Luke. “If you want, I mean. Your call,” he adds, feigning disinterest.

“We’ll see,” Scully says, seeming similarly uninvested.

“It's only an hour to KC from here,” Tami comments, confused by the tension in the conversation. “Now that you’re regular crew, you’ll get a day off each week after we set up for opening at the new spot. If you need something to get you through slough, Picker is flush with beanies. Just don’t overdo it and get wiggy on me.”

They both nod, mutually understanding that whatever beanies are, they don’t want them.

“That’s it, get outta here and get to sloughin’,” Tami says with a wave of her arms, and they exit into the cool night.

On their way back towards the maintenance shed, in search of Summer and some direction regarding how they might go about assisting with slough, Scully sees the Princess Doraldina fortune teller machine sitting on a hand truck.

“Oh, have you seen this?” she says to Mulder, uncoiling the cord from the side of the machine and plugging it into a nearby power strip.

Mulder shoots her a skeptical look. “Have you gone to the dark side, Penny?” he asks, and she rolls her eyes.

“You know I don’t believe in it, it’s just fun. Do you have a nickel?”

Mulder fishes one out of his pocket and pops it into the machine, and they watch Doraldina begin to turn her head and wave her arm, her lifelike breathing making Mulder stick out his lower lip in a show of being impressed. The card pops out of the bottom and he reaches down to retrieve it.

“What does it say?” Scully asks, but as he opens his mouth to answer, Summer yells at them from several yards away.

“No, no no no, Penny, what are you doing?!” Summer says angrily, and they both turn to watch as she yanks the cord out of the power strip and moves to stand between Mulder and Doraldina.

“I was just showing him the fortune teller,” Scully explains, confused by Summer’s demeanor.

“I told you I don’t like just anyone touching her,” Summer says indignantly, leveling a glare on Mulder. “I don’t fucking know this guy.”

“I’m Luke, we’ve met several times,” Mulder says, confused.

“He’s my friend, Summer, it’s okay. He won’t do anything to her,” Scully elaborates, anthropomorphizing the machine as she’s heard Summer do.

“Did you put a nickel in?” Summer asks Mulder, and he nods, holding up the fortune.

“Cool. Don’t touch my shit again,” Summer spits at him, then strides off.

“I thought you said she seems even-keeled,” Mulder says to Scully as they watch Summer fade into the dark of night, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“She did,” Scully defends. “Until now.”

-

Twelve long hours later, the trucks are fully loaded and on the road to Kansas City. They, along with the crew in their personal vehicles, follow the directional arrows Jean left along the way when she set out hours ago to plot out the new site and clear the last of the permits needed for the show. Mulder sits behind the wheel of Scully’s pickup truck, the radio on low though he suspects not even a marching band in the seat beside her could wake her right now. Somewhere around 4:00 am they started to understand why beanies, or amphetamines, are a standard part of slough as the bone deep tired of a full day and then a full night of manual labor hit them. He being the one who fares better on lack of sleep made him the obvious choice for the one-hour drive to Kansas City, and Scully was asleep before they got to the highway.

He glances over at her, pink-cheeked from too much sun with remnants of grease still streaking her cheeks as she hasn’t yet showered and won’t have the chance to until the bunkhouse is set up at the new site. While the feeling he should have had when learning that they’d be staying on with the show is accomplishment for a job well done, he found that he was mostly just happy to get to continue seeing her this way: unpolished, dirty, rough around the edges. Some version of herself that he still hasn’t pinpointed as playing a part or just fully letting her guard down. Their midnight meetings on the grassy knoll quickly became his favorite part of the day, and the relentless teasing from other staff over their alleged budding romance made his heart swell as Scully blushed demurely. He feels like he doesn’t have to be so careful here, careful about what he says and does in her presence, how he touches her. He feels like he can just let his instincts drive, and those instincts tell him to soak up every second of her time he can manage, but not for any reason other than the joy of being near her.

She pulls in a deep breath, adjusting her head on the makeshift pillow she’s created out of a balled up sweatshirt and crammed against the door jam. He plucks the card he got from the fortune teller machine out of his breast pocket and taps it against the steering wheel, considering its meaning for at least the hundredth time since he got it.

True happiness lies on the other side of a leap of faith—if you are willing to risk the fall.

He puts the card back in his pocket, rolling his neck side to side for the stretch. The thing is, he’s willing to risk just about anything for a chance at something more with her, but he’s afraid that the one thing he isn’t willing to risk is the exact thing he’ll lose if he does take that leap. Her friendship, her trust, her presence in his life. He’s never understood the meaning of a catch 22 more than now, as he looks down the double barrel of this particular gun. One chamber holds the potential of getting to love Scully the way he truly wants to, and the other holds losing her altogether. The only way to find out which barrel will fire is to pull the trigger, to leap.

He knows he’ll do it, he has to. It’s become clear that it’s only a matter of when.

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #txf #x files fanfic #dana scully #fox mulder #xf fanfic #x files #the x-files #xfiles #case fic #case file