#Before they face the huge ethical/moral quandaries that the others do | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

heartslogos · 3 years

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newfragile yellows [940]

"Ellana, you know we're going to have to take you in, right?"

“Will the policies I’ve implemented continue to stay in effect?” Ellana asks. “You know I’ve got to ask.”

Evelyn sighs. “Since you did them under false pretenses under assumed identity you know they wont. Ellana, you know the answer to these questions.”

“This is not how a hero villain stand off is supposed to go,” Sera says. “This is like, way too cas.”

“Cas?”

“Short for casual, old timer,” Max explains to Evelyn. “It’s probably because none of us are using our handles and are like, you know. Just being pretty chill about the fact that Ellana captured the CEO of one of the biggest companies in the world, kept him in a basement, created a wicked cool disguise to pass off as him, and started implementing — what most would consider radical, but they’re really just average and the most basic of moral and ethic —business practices greatly improving employee morale and upping the standard for the whole business.”

“Sometimes,” Sera begins, shaking her head at Maxwell, “Sometimes I can’t stand to look at you because you’re like a fuckin’ poster boy for Andrastian male goodness. And then you say shit like that and I remember you’re a drop out from Templar school or whatever because you think people with super powers are still people. And then I remember you have a membership to a golf club and I get this endless loop of psychic damage. I hate it.”

“We’re still friends though, right?” Max asks.

Sera looks away from him, plucking at her bow string. “Look, if this isn’t gonna be an actual fight let me know so I can unstring this. These things look cool but they’re actually not supposed to be like this all the time. There’s reason they pack away, you know? Also unlike some of you I’ve got a real job and I gotta you know. Put some hours and effort into that.”

Everyone turns to look at Sera.

“Why do you have another job on top of this one?” Ellana asks. “It seems like spreading your resources a little thin, doesn’t it?”

“It’s for the enrichment,” Sera replies. “Cuz Maker fuckin’ knows it isn’t for the pay or benefits.”

“Which are?” Evelyn prompts.

“Pay? Meh. Benefits? Blah.”

“The Inquisition pays you and gives you benefits,” Max points out.

“Yeah, but like. Listen. I’m not going around advertising that I’m one of the Red Jennies, infamous super hero slash vigilante that’s everywhere all the time, you know? So I need the other job as something of a cover story when I talk to people. And also because like. Listen. It’s a good way to get information and hear about rumors and also meet people who are kind of normal.” Sera shakes her head. “Hold on. We’re not here to talk about how I have two jobs. We’re here because crazy over there locked up a guy in one of her evil person basements and stole his identity for like three months.”

“And then proceeded to implement extremely good policies that many would consider leftists but in actuality are what most would consider to be moderate in a non-polarized — “

Sera flips her middle finger at Max and then points the finger at her own head. “Psychic. Damage. Shut up.”

Maxwell puts his hands up before miming zipping his mouth closed.

“Okay, so maybe I did some unlawful detainment,” Ellana says. “But look at my results! It’s only been three months and already there’s been an ecological shift, a definite economical shift moving towards trending upwards growth, and a huge attitude turn around in the industry due to the pressure I’ve been putting on the business model as a whole. I’m doing great things here.”

“Yes, but you’re doing them under false pretenses and it doesn’t cancel out. So while I do admire the change you’ve brought and the positive direction you’re taking things in — you know I can’t just let it slide.”

“If you give me just one more week I can have half of the major corporations locked into an iron-clad environment saving contract for the next fifty years.”

“Look, I can see you hesitating ‘Quizitor,” Sera says. “I am also a huge fan of what’s happening here. But facts facts. She held a guy hostage in a basement.”

“It was a very nice basement,” Max mutters. “Better than most prisons on this side of the sea.”

“Thank you,” Ellana says. “Sorry. I’ve got sharp hearing. Elf ears and all that stuff.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going easy on her because she’s Ethos’ twin sister. Or because The Iron Bull’s got a huge crush on her.”

“He does?”

“He does?” Max gapes at Sera. “Sera, you just outed the Iron Bull like that?”

“Uh. Hello? Everyone knows it? It’s not like he’s hiding it. He flat out said it.” Sera looks around the other three. “Are you guys dense or what?”

“Yes. I know he said it, but we don’t know if he’s said it to her,” Evelyn replies. “And ideally the first person she hears it from isn’t us it’s him.”

“Actually, the first person I heard it from was Mahanon, but I couldn’t tell if he was being dramatic or not,” Ellana claps her hands together. “Oh my gosh. Really? Wow. Evelyn, I abducted you for almost an entire three days and you don’t have a crush on me. Wow. I only had him in my evil clutches for ten hours.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we? I should think that’s a major win for you,” Evelyn relies dryly. “Having one of the world’s top ranked super heroes on your holiday card list when you’re one of the world’s top ranked super villains has got to be some kind of accomplishment.”

“Oh for sure, for sure, for sure. But. This? Wow!” Ellana sighs. Dreamily.

Sera gags. Maxwell covers his face with his hands. Evelyn closes her eyes and does her best to ignore the foreboding feeling that something terrible is going to happen because of this.

“I mean. He’s really cute. And some of his arguments on philosophical quandaries? So choice. We spent a whole three hours discussing the ship puzzle. I’m glad I have it recorded because those three hours bring some light to my life.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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green-blooded · 4 years

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So I watched Into Darkness and wrote out my reactions to it... Again, it's going to be negative, so if that'd bother you, please don't read! All Star Trek fans are legit, even if this is a portion of the canon I don't like.

A brief summary of my reaction:

And it's a Star Wars opening. This is a scene from a Star Wars film. The sound effects even sound like Star Wars. LIKE. I love Star Wars, but this isn't supposed to be Star Wars please stop.

I mean why should we give Uhura any characterization other than liking Spock. That would take effort or something.

I'll admit that I like Spock hanging out in a volcano wearing a disco suit. It's where he belongs. It is his home now that they blew up Vulcan. ('Cause it's a volcano, get it.)

Hey, hey omg they are almost doing a philosophical thing with Spock being willing to die for the needs of the many and McCoy yelling at him, then telling Kirk that if the situation were reversed, Spock would let him die. It's almost a Star Trek!

They're letting McCoy have lines. Wooow. I don't expect it to last.

Um... suddenly I'm in an episode of Black Mirror or something? I don't... wait holy shit that's Mickey? Who gives a shit about Sherlock, that's MICKEY. I didn't know he was in this!

Oh good, Kirk is having a threesome with alien twins. Cool. Love this. Love it. Great characterization.

OH GOOD more bickering between Spock and Kirk that is absolutely the worst and I hate it. :)

I just want McCoy in scenes. :( I just want Uhura with her own story. :( I just want to not look at Sherlock's face. :( Oh look, Mickey's already dead. :(

I don't... get Spock's characterization in these movies. I don't get what Kirk and Spock's friendship is. I don't... feel anything about it. I actually really love Kirk and Spock's friendship, and not having it work for me is a huge void, right up there with McCoy having lost his role in the trio.

So much of the sound design is Star Wars-y. It's really, really bugging me.

Chris Pine is such a likable guy. I really do enjoy when he's on screen. I don't like some of the characterization that he's been saddled with, but I like the character just fine outside of him being called Kirk.

... The conflict that made Kirk not the captain of the Enterprise and Spock not the first officer lasted for like five minutes and had no consequences wow.

OH MCCOY IS GRACING MY SCENE AND HAVING MORE INTERESTING INTERACTIONS THAN ANYONE ELSE AGAIN WOW THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR EXISTING. I really do enjoy him fretting over Kirk. It is really cute.

Ugh, please stop having Kirk take the place of McCoy in the arguments with Spock. I hate it. It does not work, especially with McCoy not taking Kirk's role of being mediator. It's just bicker bicker bicker but without actual ethics really being brought in because?????? WHO KNOWS. Why'd they have to mess up the trio? That was the easiest thing not to mess up.

Here's what it is. The conflict between Kirk and Spock in AOS is a pissing contest with the standard TWO MEN CAN'T JUST BE FRIENDS THEY HAVE TO BE COMPETITIVE. While the conflict between Spock and McCoy in TOS is ethical and moral differences with a core of (admittedly complex) friendship. Just. Let men be friends and have real disagreements instead of just trying to play Alpha Male.

As I'm typing this, they're doing the same with Kirk and SCOTT of all people????????????? This is so not Star Trek ugh. Let people be nice to each other what the hell. Kirk is such a nice person. Let him be NICE. Let Spock be NICE. They only one they made nice is McCoy, and they only managed it giving him 0% of his edge. He's just cranky instead of a super intelligent and philosophical guy who is also Real Southern and ready to argue.

... He just made Chekov his chief of engineering? What... are... who... why is everyone on this ship twelve.

Is it just me or do they write Spock as an android instead of a Vulcan? Like... he knows how Humans work. And yeah, he sometimes plays up being non-Human on TOS, but... it just seems so overdone. Maybe I'm being too picky idk.

I continue to hate the Spock/Uhura stuff wow.

Take McCoy On Away Missions He Has No Business Going On Like Real Star Trek!!!

Oh my god even the shuttles are fucking huge. Why are all these ships so big inside? It makes everything feel much more sterile and difficult to believe.

The McCoy and Sulu interactions are A+.

Oh good, now Uhura is having a McCoy argument with Spock. Don't let McCoy have any role in this whole movie, that's fine. I mean the Bread and Circuses talk about Spock wanting to die was way better and took less screentime, but that's fine. That's fine. Let's just bluntly talk directly about Spock's Feelings instead of any kind of subtlety. God I really hate the writing.

Wow, we almost had one (badly written) conversation without an action scene. Phew, they fixed that.

Why does every iteration of Star Trek feel the need to completely redo Klingons from scratch?

Oh no, they almost have diplomacy where Uhura got to show off her skills, couldn't have that. Time for an action scene!

Every interaction Kirk or Spock has with another man in this whole fucking movie is aggressive for no reason. And even in this alternate universe, McCoy refuses the toxic masculinity. This is why I love him. He just wants to be everyone's mom friend.

DID THIS MOVIE JUST IMPLY THAT KIRK FUCKED CHRISTINE CHAPEL I FUCKING WHAT THE FUCKING WHAT WHAT WHAT NO STOP SHE IS NOT A NAME DROP FOR YOU TO MAKE THE FANS HAPPY SHE IS A CHARACTER THAT I LOVE AND I DEMAND RESPECT BE PUT ON HER NAME AND SHE AND KIRK DID NOT FUCK AND IF THEY DID HE WOULD REMEMBER IT

Oh hey they did send McCoy on an away-- what? Did he just... flippantly refer to a Gorn? That's... they didn't... whatever. McCoy demanding to be left behind to die for the good of someone else just flies by unnoticed but it was a big deal for Spock. Okay.

Ok, the reveal that this is about Khan is more than an hour into the movie. Which is a reveal everyone knew before the movie came out and also a character that we're all familiar with. So I just kinda feel like every minute of the movie so far was just wasted on backstory. Again!

(McCoy should be in this scene where they confront Khan but whatever.)

Hey, AOS? We already know that Khan is a fucking monster, so trying to get us to feel sorry for him as if we don't know this is weird as hell. Like, these ethical quandaries it's trying to bring up are not working for me at all, because... if you're going to base this on TOS, you can't just pretend nothing in TOS happened!

Also love these reveals where I'm supposed to care what ship just showed up, but they're shining lights in my eyes so I can't even see what it is!

Nimoy was on my screen time to start paying attention again. I definitely kind of zoned out for a while there. I think I missed like five consecutive action scenes.

Again, why are we getting a reveal about Khan being evil? We... we know this. Even people who don't watch Star Trek know he's a bad guy. Why do we need Nimoy to tell us this? We're an hour and a half into the movie and still getting reveals that we should have known before the movie started!

~ This Is Dumb ~

Oh my gosh Khan betrayed them wow i didn't see that coming

Wow look at this disaster that shows why a huge fucking ship with endlessly huge corridors is maybe a bad idea because we're in space and gravity failures means everyone would fucking die. I hate this pointlessly large interior oh man.

How long do I have to watch the Enterprise fall apart before something new happens? This movie could be like half an hour long if we just cut the pointless action scenes.

Okay, time for the only actual reveal in the whole film; Kirk "dies" instead of Spock. It might be good if it didn't go on too long and make the Sad Music swell. They did hire good actors, so you'd think they'd let them use their Acting Skills instead of making it sappy and dumb with bad cinematography and overwhelming music.

So, for one thing, McCoy should be getting to Engineering to see to Kirk when he gets out, not Spock. For another thing, there is no history between this Kirk and Spock that makes this moment meaningful. Maybe it would be kinda, if you don't have Wrath of Khan (which I don't even like!) to compare it to where we have three seasons and two movies of history between two people who are actually friends! Kirk's actual friend in these movies is McCoy, WHO SHOULD BE THE ONE CALLED DOWN HERE THIS IS A MEDICAL SITUATION.

Like, it's great that you're feeling, Spock, but I'm sure not. This is so dumb.

NOW UHURA'S HERE. WHERE IS MCCOY? THE MEDICAL OFFICER AND FUCKING FRIEND OF KIRK?

Oh god did he just yell khan no this is so dumb this is so dumb now i AM crying this is so dumb

Love that they took the Khan storyline and drained it of any relevance by not really getting into the whole eugenics aspect.

Oh now I get to see someone who actually was Kirk's friend reacting to hsi death. Thanks for finally getting to something meaningful, movie. Oh man, I almost felt something, because Urban is a pretty good actor and McCoy's friendship with Kirk is the only relationship I care about in the AOS, but then there was a tribble and ruined it, so.

This fight between Khan and Spock is dumb, just. Dumb. It's dumb. This is dumb. Why does every action sequence go on SO LONG.

Spock's rage toward Khan makes no sense. He and Kirk barely tolerate each other in these movies, I don't get it.

McCoy and Kirk are really cute in these movies. That's all I have. Of course, we can't let McCoy talk too much, because this is the Kirk and Spock show.

OH GOD THE TRANSITION TO THE OPENING SPEECH WAS SO BAD I'M LAUGHING SO HARD.

Oh thank goodness, this movie is over. I am hoping I'll like Beyond, because people have said this one might not be awful. Probably going to wait until tomorrow because it's nearly midnight and I want to be in a better mood when I watch it.

#negativity #the funny thing is i think i might write more fanfic in aos-verse but #not because i love it like i love the other star treks #but because there are some good things that i want to explore which they do not explore

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teratoscope · 5 years

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Vichama Incubator

You remember liking this village, and the people here liking you. One day you’ll reflect on what you’re seeing here today and think about the specifics, names and faces, what went on behind the reed walls and out on the lake, the things that made you think to yourself that one day, when things were at a lull, you’d come back. See how things were going. Catch up with people. When that day comes you’ll drink yourself to sleep. But that day’s a long way away. Now you’re here, where there is no village anymore. The houses of woven reeds still stand. Fires burn in their pits. Fish drying on their racks. But there’s no village. There’s just this thing. It’s built a bit like an ape. Long, powerful limbs with strong, stubby digits. Hands that could wrap around your shoulders. A forward-slouching pose borne up on its huge knuckles. The skin is patchwork: scorched steel plating and ceramic shell, slabs of worked stone, joints sealed over with synthetic fibers here and hand-woven covers there. A long tentacular appendage snakes from its chest, ending in a six-inch spike that gleams clean and sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. Its head is a flip-top dome covering a circular maw lined with inward-turning teeth, lips of vulcanized rubber slick with gore. It necks down the last of a tattooed arm. It’s not alone. There are kids milling around. Kids with nice clean guns and filthy hand axes. They all have the exact same face. HD 5 MV 180’ AC 17 AT powerful robot arms x2 (10’ reach, d10 kinetic, target immobilized if attack roll exceeds target’s Strength, Smash 12 each) or by weapon Special neural spike, plug and play

Neural spike—if an organic combatant is reduced to 0 hp within a Vichama Incubator’s movement range and reach, it will forgo all other action to close the distance, secure the target, and cease attacks to deploy its neural spike, penetrating the target’s cranium and beginning a process of destructive transcription. While the neural spike is engaged, the Incubator deals 1d6 Intelligence damage to the victim at the beginning of each round; while engaged this way the Incubator can only move during its position in the round, and will not disengage unless it is forcibly separated from its payload, brought to half its starting hit points or less, or the victim is brought to 0 Int, at which point it discards the body, having obtained the victim’s engram. A Vichama Incubator may maintain one saved engram for every 8 max hp it has; each uncorrupted engram confers its original owner’s full set of skills and knowledge-based abilities on the Incubator, and the Incubator may pass these on to its offspring.

Plug and play—Vichama Incubators are designed to be extremely adaptable and repair themselves using materials acquired in the field, with an assist from a self-sustaining swarm of nanoassemblers. With a full exploration turn of labor, they may jury-rig replacement limbs and chassis modifications, though they cannot devise new functions for themselves without human input.

Not every attempt to preserve terrestrial life inside the gravity well was quite so short-sighted as the Mirabeau project. The unusual abundance of human indigenes on post-Contact Earth is testament to that. For the longest time we wondered where they all came from, and why they seemed so drastically different from the humans that were left behind in the final days before the long, silent stalemate. Not just culturally, but physiologically. Alien tinkering was our default answer; in some cases that was correct. But the Enluss don’t really care about humanity enough to be hands-on about modifying us, the Reptons have enough trouble messing with their own genome, the Herlog-ban are only interested in splicing the human germline onto their own, the Occulters have a very specific M.O. when it comes to making mutants, and the Tetrons don’t seem to be interested in living things at all. That leaves a lot of unaccounted for humanoid clades out there.

But you spend enough time around the locals and you start to pick up on commonalities. Little touchstones in their myth-cycles and organizational structures that all point in the same direction. Headless, lamprey-mouthed mother-goddesses. A recurring theological interest in the notion of worthiness, and in the question of how a failed or rejected people continues to live. A powerful fear of and respect for robots of all kinds.

These were bafflingly uniform trappings—baffling, until the first encounter in the field with the Incubators.

They’re hard to find. They live eternally on the move, hunting, eating, scavenging, and making new children, never slowing down for more than a day or so. Their groups stay small; one to three Incubators and a dozen or so children, usually two generations deep with a couple of outlier elders and infants.

They were made to be people factories. They gather and process engrams and biomass, tinkering with gene sets, optimizing personality patterns, milling out children from rows of heavily armored synthetic wombs. Every wave is the seed of a new human civilization, the next most optimal replacement for us. Whoever built the Incubators wasn’t enamored with humanity as it came out of the box.

Their standards are arcane. They discard and cast out experiments after two to three generations of field testing, moving on to the next new thing, the version of humanity ahead of the arms race they were built to win. It is entirely possible they weren’t meant to last this long. It is equally possible they are working exactly as planned. We don’t know.

We don’t know because they’re not ours. This was not a Forward Escape project. No record of it persists.

And that’s especially worrying because the tech behind them is both physically very old—older than the machines that sent the Freestars up—and substantially ahead of a lot of our designs. Whatever geniuses came up with these things, they’re either gone or they’re better at not being found than anybody else in the whole damn war. Both of which are deeply concerning prospects.

The one thing we do know is a name, printed in very small letters at the base of every unit’s sensor cluster: VICHAMA, followed by a serial number.

Vichama, as far as we know, was an Incan death-god who took vengeance on his sibling-god Pacha Kamaq by turning his children—the first humans—to stone before giving birth to his own humans in three separate eggs: one for the nobility, one for their wives, and one for the peasantry.

If at all possible, do not fuck with them. They aren’t friendly, and their methods raise even bigger ethical quandaries than our own, but in the grand scheme of things we’re on the same side. Even if they weren’t, an Incubator and its family make for a lethal fighting unit with borderline unbreakable morale, and they don’t need more of an excuse to wreck your shit, scan your brain, and blend the rest of you into hamburger. From their perspective, we’re woefully obsolete.

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alberteamllc · 7 years

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Fancy That!

So there I was, your ever-humble narrator, enjoying a pint of something kind of fancy and minding my own business in one of the most chi-chi establishments on the Smallfellow main drag when who should blunder in one but one of those schmucks from the palace where I used to run that hobo operation. Of course he wasn’t in his dopey palace livery, he had on rags practically, which, like, was pretty racist-- this is a nice bar, wine and tapas and everything, look around you buddy, everybody in here but you is a halfling and nobody here has spent less than five silver pieces on their shoes alone, what, do you think all halflings walk around barefoot and eat ten breakfasts a day and live in pastoral squalor? Get real and try educating yourself for a change.

Anyhoo, he ambles up like he’s being sneaky and slips me this envelope. I guess after Prince Whoever had his big temper tantrum last time I went to collect what he owed me (it was embarrassing for him, but even more embarrassing for Ewer-- that moron got his adam’s apple turned to apple sauce that night!) they decided to try the “subtle” approach. Still pathetic. Strictly amateur hour. So I look him in the eye and loudly say “SORRY BUDDY I’M BY ENGAGEMENT ONLY THESE DAYS. IF YOU WANT THE FRANCIS FLIEG EXPERIMENT (my new nom du stage--like it?) I’VE GOT A SET AT THE BELL & WHISTLE FROM SEVEN TO NINE EVERY DAY THIS WEEK. NO ENCORES” but then just for the sake of appearances I take a little peak inside this envelope and holy st. merriwether dear reader did I like what I saw! Never let it be said I’m too stubborn to be receptive to a sudden change of heart. So I treat the bar to a round of the second cheapest champagne the place has and say hey look I’ve got this dry sense of humor sometimes, I really think we can work out a way to do business.

So I decide to indulge in some of that old-school Francis Flisk chicanery and dine and dash just to see what this stuffed shirt does about it. Squat. Good sign-- because I feel like his boss needs me for something illegal, and in most cases dirty money’s easier to get than clean money. Anyway we wind up at this apartment not far away, right on the edge of that human neighborhood, I forget the name, where all the hip young second sons and first daughters who can’t hack it in the dynasty game go to drink expensive coffee and become priests and priestesses of that tacky fucking bank. It’s one of those digs that you know the cops or the government keeps decorated in the most blandly tasteful and lifeless way possible to use for stake-outs and deniability stuff like this.

It turns out this job is my worst nightmare. It’s extremely hard work and barely illegal. Out of the shadows steps this cop. I know the guy. He’s crooked as the road to Schockonote, pardon a folksy halfling saying, the human audiences eat that shit up and it’s become a force of habit. Caowulf Cutty. A real bastard but he’d looked the other way for me plenty of times during my days with the Handsome Lads in exchange for modest kickbacks. But now-- what the hell?-- he’s acting like he’s never met me before and he’s got me pinned to the wall with his elbow at my throat and my feet dangling in the air, calling me criminal scum and this and that. Ok, sure, like he can talk. They make like they’ve got me in some kind of sting-- like, they caught me running tundra tar or something and if I don’t do what they say I’ll blah blah blah but I’m all like, yeah? Prove it. I’m clean, pigs (I’m not). After a while we work out a deal. I’ll keep 10% of the money in that envelope and they’ll stop hassling me about this alleged tundra tar business I did/didn’t do.

It’s like this-- once in awhile when I’m really hard up I’ll do a job for this guy Salomon Six-Fingers. He has a little tavern by the docks, slings this truly appalling sodfish stew but he’s a nice guy, honest, and somehow he’s managed to make a little name for himself running jobs under the nose of the Quiet Guild without getting killed despite being nice and honest. Mostly stuff the Guild couldn’t care about or fail to make overcomplicated because of course. And people work for him because obviously the guild doesn’t get a cut.. Or because they get off on pretending to have morals or professional ethics or whatever. Anyway one of the big things people go to him for is salvage jobs. Old ruins. Humans are too stupid to go into them because they think their precious mediators will pop out and say BOO at them and they’ll piss their britches so it’s good work for us halflings if we can get it.

All this time the dipshit from the palace hasn’t said who he’s working for. Like I don’t know. It rhymes with Rinse Cranselm Brinsatsi. But what they want me to do is they’re gonna leak Six-Fingers word of a ripe little abandoned mine called Sweetroll Hill and say the only thing keeping people out of that sweet ore is the fact that the place is overrun with the infamous Handsome Lads. Ok, yeah, “infamous,” big scary halflings running around with sticks and empty quivers. But I’ll get to that in a second. A little team is assembled-- including yours truly as the thief and the guy who knows the gang, knows the mine (which, I do and do, but again-- presumptuous and racist)-- and then we go and clear it out. But here’s the tricky part. All the way there I’m making little signals, leaving a little trail, and behind me, the fuzz. And on our way out, the triumphant heroes are caught red-handed with armfuls of stolen loot and a pile of dead halflings in their wake. I get off scot-free, the suckers who know about the place are in jail where they can’t blab about the location, and the “mysterious employer” gets to swoop in and take whatever he wants down there. Which sounds like a lot of work but again they wouldn’t drop this tundra tar thing. Oh well. The mine isn’t far and it’s run by a bunch of D-listers. Big-Stud Broly, who’s no Huge Hunk Haglund to say the least, and a snot-nosed little wannabe called Leander Hawthorne. If you want to know how vast and capacious the barrel they’re scraping the bottom of is, they’ve even got a goblin in their crew. I also get to help pick the team.

So obviously I’m presented with a moral quandary. I’m picking people for what’s essentially a suicide run. This is the end of the line for them one way or the other-- if they don’t die on the job (not impossible) or when the cops get rough with them (not unlikely), then they’re headed to prison for a long time. So I think and I think loooong about who I hate enough in this business to make this whole thing really hysterical and satisfying instead of just pretty hysterical and satisfying. I come up with a wish-list:

1. Davey Driftwood: This schmuck shot me with a crossbow once when he was guarding a caravan that me and the boys were trying to get our meat mitts on. He definitely doesn’t remember this but I know he kind of remembers my face because he always gives me this little nod and smile when we’re both at Salomon’s or that little place that gnome runs by the bazaar with the good bread. Couldn’t wait to wipe that goody two-shoes smirk off his face. He’s also some local celebrity upriver in the boonies because he knocked off some nobody bandit a few years ago. Occasionally some hick recognizes him at the bar and buys him one of those watery pee beers trash humans drink. I hate humble guys like that who don’t capitalize on a good thing. And I especially hate people who get famous for doing the cops’ jobs for them and then have the nerve to act like we can still be pals. DEFINITELY on the list.

2. Bloody Bonnie: B l o o d y F u c k i n B o n n i e. Ever meet someone who thinks they’re funny? That’s Bonnie. Some land pirate. Dumb term and anyway gnomes invented it. Yeah yeah, gnomes and halflings, different species, and I’d rather cut my own head off than kiss a gnome, but we little guys have to stick together and I hate it when humans bite our rackets. Speaking of which, right, she thinks she’s so funny. I’ve heard all the halfling jokes before and I’ve heard them all again another three dozen times from her. Wouldn’t kick her out of bed though. Had a brief idea about tipping her off before the bust and seeing how puny she thought I was after that.

3. Paolo the Exile: First off, what a joke. Who calls themselves “the Anything.” Can’t stand that bit. Second of all, I hate dwarves. I’ve only met the one but I hate stories about dwarves and I hate Paolo. Too quiet and I don’t like anybody who won’t show their face.

4. Roxan McClintock: People call her “Flinty” but she’s a Roxan through and through. You know these guys, these McClintocks? No, that’s McBEAM idiot, I mean the McCLINTOCKS. But don’t get me started on fucking McBeam. RIght, so-- I was born poor. My dad-- Moldew-- and my ma-- Instke-- they were both poor too. They grew up in tall grass over their heads and they worked until they died from it, because they were stupid. I’m smart. I knew I had to do whatever it took to have a roof over my head, with a chandelier on it, and a bed with eight pillows on it and a girl on each. And look, I’m young, and two out of four ain’t bad! The roof doesn’t leak and the pillows ain’t too shabby themselves! But yeah-- that’s why I degrade myself with these fucking jobs. Because I need to. That’s why I crawl through the dirt and show stupid tourist humans how to get through the swamps. For the money that I DON’T. HAVE. Roxan does all this shit because she “wants to.” Because “she ain’t no high class broad.” Yeah, stick a paintbrush down my throat already. She’s all “hey y’all” and “yeehaw” but Roooooooxaaaaaaaannnn is pure Smallfellow, get it? Her dad’s a university professor, her ugly brothers are university professors, they eat caviar and pear jelly with rich humans all day and wipe their asses with silk hankies. She should know her place and marry some rich tailor and cook fiddlehead fry every night and have a million dumbshit babies who marry rich tailors and so on and so on until they fucking choke on their gold pieces and die. If she wants to bark with the big dogs so much she can go bark in the kennel.

5. Huxley Swallowtail: This guy’s just awful. Just atrocious. Big hat with a feather on it. Pantaloons with stripes. Just the worst. The worst. Opposite problem as McClintock really. He acts like he’s some Seven Fingers of Sin gentleman thief but he’s really just alley trash who made his bones breaking arms for loan sharks and beating up younger kids for their lunch money. You can’t smother trash stink with fancy cologne.

But unfortunately I can’t pick all of these clowns so I write down DAVEY DRIFTWOOD in big block letters on the top of my little sheet of paper and then I roll a dice for the other two. Paolo and Roxan it is. To make a long story short the job goes fine. It gets dicey for a minute because I’m saddled with three incompetents. McClintock makes friends with some revolting hermit and comes back waving around some magic stick and later on they tip off the entire camp somehow and wind up cowering behind boulders. But it works out fine in the end. McClintock is shipped off to Fort Stolas to crack open rocks for the rest of her life-- priceless-- and Davey gets to have his precious reputation dragged through the muck. The best part is the dwarf-- he makes this pitiful “don’t worry about me, run, I’ll hold them off” martyr complex speech and just as they put a dozen windows in his stupid body he can see his friends getting hogtied and hauled away! God I wish he didn’t wear that fucking helmet so I could see his face when he realized he died for literally nothing. Exile, right, exile from reason maybe.

For a few days I’m walking on air. I have money in my pocket, shows booked, and I get to go to sleep dreaming of McClintock and Driftwood toiling away in their cute little prison pajamas. But then that guy the Octopus shows up at my door. I’d heard stories but the first time I met him actually was the bust at the mine. He was in charge. I didn’t like him. His face didn’t change the entire time-- just straight lines. Before I know it I’m on the ground, can’t move a finger, and he’s telling me I’m coming with him. Well, not much I can do about it. So off we go and I realize we’re rolling up to the palace. I’m terrified. I mean, I’m cooking up a dozen escape plans but I’m a little scared, I’ll admit it. In we go and I’m trying to play it cool and he shoves me in this huge room with a fireplace and portraits of rich humans who look like they have permanent constipation and holy moley it’s the prince himself! Again. The first time I was kind of in awe of him. He knew how to run a good racket. But this time-- well…. I don’t know. On the one hand… I was scared. He didn’t… look right. Something lifeless about him. About his eyes. And that tiara or whatever, which, and I mean I didn’t get a good look, but looked like it was made for an elf head or an especially fat gnome head, it was… on him. Let me back up. It was on him but it shouldn’t have been. It shouldn’t have fit. It… there wasn’t blood but… I don’t… I can’t explain it. I… I was shaking, friend. But on the other hand it was kind of sad. This wasn’t the guy I’d seen knock the smirk right off of Elias Ewer’s face. This was somebody who didn’t know where he was going. You get a sense for that kind of thing in the circles I used to run in. People taking stupid risks and picking pointless fights because they’re just running out their time on this stupid planet and are trying to speed up the process. That was him. He looked exhausted.

But, you know, I tipped back over into scared pretty damn quick because-- oh, hey, this is off the record, right? Ok, good. Right. I tipped back over into scared pretty quick because he bares his teeth just like a dog and he’s on me with a fancy saber, just bludgeoning away with the pommel. I’m on my back with the first hit, because I’m fucking shocked, and then he’s got his legs on either side of me just going to town. I’m-- I’m blubbering like a baby, trying to wave my hands, say no no, get off me, and he’s got me by the lapels slamming me into the floor saying “Leave the McClintocks out of this, leave the McClintocks out of this, you filth, you worm, do not touch them, do not bring them into this” or something like that. Which-- what? Really? They’re well-off by halfling standards but what does he care about a pack of three foot tall hypernerds? But one way or the other he’s practically foaming. It takes that scrawny bodyguard of his to pull him off me. The guy dusts me off himself and walks me outside. He apologizes! He apologizes right to my face. I forget what I say. I don’t remember the rest of the night really. I got drunk. I got really really drunk.

But now he’s dead. Funny how that happens to people who cross me. And McClintock’s out of jail. Look, I can’t get revenge on the prince, because the idiot got to himself first. But when you mess with me and there’s something important to you, I’m going to do what I can to break that thing. And when you’re giving me a concussion while drooling some nobody poser’s name into my face, I don’t forget that name. And she’s not gonna forget mine.

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deniscollins · 5 years

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A ‘Moral Dilemma�� After Las Vegas Massacre: Sell the Gunman’s Weapons, or Destroy Them

Stephen Paddock killed 58 people at an outdoor Las Vegas country music festival. He owned 50 guns and other equipment worth about $62,340 and has an estate valued at $1.4 million. If you were the lawyer overseeing Paddock’s estate would you: (1) sell the firearms to raise as much money as possible for the 58 bereaved families, or (2) destroy the guns in an emblematic rejection of the kind of violence that Mr. Paddock carried out? Why? What are the ethics underlying your decision?

When the gunman in the Las Vegas mass shooting died, he left behind a hoard of guns and firearm accessories in his two Nevada homes and the hotel suite he used as a perch for his attack.

All told, the gunman, Stephen Paddock, owned 50 guns, from pistols to high-powered long arms, and almost 40 firearm components including scopes, a red dot sight, bi-pods and rifle cases. A special administrator appointed by a state court judge to determine the value of Mr. Paddock’s estate said in a recent report that the guns and equipment were worth about $62,340.

Now, the main lawyer involved in passing on Mr. Paddock’s nearly $1.4 million estate to the families of the 58 people he slaughtered at an outdoor country music festival is facing a quandary. Should the firearms be sold to raise as much money as possible for the bereaved, or would it be more appropriate to destroy the guns in an emblematic rejection of the kind of violence that Mr. Paddock carried out?

“The money that would come from selling the guns is not a huge amount, but it would help to make a difference in peoples’ lives,” said Alice Denton, the lawyer for the special administrator in the estate case.

On the other hand, Ms. Denton added, “Destroying the guns would send more of a symbolic message to the world that weapons like these should not be sold at any price if death or harm to innocent people cannot be prevented.”

She said the estate would solicit feedback from the families of those killed and review applicable laws before a decision would be made on how to proceed. In the meantime, the guns and accessories are in the possession of the F.B.I.

In an email message, a spokeswoman for the bureau’s Las Vegas field office, Sandra Breault, declined to comment on whether the F.B.I. would return some or all of the weapons to the estate. “This part of the investigation is still ongoing,” she wrote.

Mr. Paddock died without a will. Lawyers for the victims encouraged Mr. Paddock’s mother — who, under Nevada law, became the heir by default — to give his assets to the estates of the 58 people killed by her son. The mother, Irene Hudson, transferred her right to inherit the estate in March of last year.

In addition to those killed, hundreds of others were injured in the shooting. However, lawyers say the compensation should go to the loved ones of the dead rather than the injured, saying the money would have greater impact on their lives than if the large number of people hurt in the rampage were also beneficiaries.

The conundrum over what to do with Mr. Paddock’s firearms underscores the increasingly complex and delicate considerations that have arisen for victims and their relatives as mass shootings have become a more frequent part of American life today.

The case also comes as an unparalleled number of gun control laws were passed in states around the country in the 15 months since the Las Vegas shooting on Oct. 1, 2017.

Mynda Smith, 43, whose older sister was fatally shot by Mr. Paddock, said she saw no point in destroying the guns he owned.

“My initial reaction is that destroying them is not going to change anything and it won’t bring any goodness,” Ms. Smith said. “But if some good can come out of selling them, I am for it.”

For Kyle Taylor, 32, whose father died in the massacre, deciding on the best use of Mr. Paddock’s weapons was “a moral dilemma.”

“The more money you could raise to help the families is great,” Mr. Taylor said. “But the idea of receiving money from equipment that was used by someone who took so many lives is creepy and unsettling.”

In the special administrator’s inventory of the estate, 23 rifles and a revolver were listed as having been found in Mr. Paddock’s room at the Mandalay Bay Resort and Casino. They were given a total value of $41,050.

At Mr. Paddock’s home in Mesquite, Nev., $18,439 worth of guns and accessories — seven rifles, seven shotguns and five handguns — were found. And two shotguns and five handguns, with a combined value of just over $2,800, were collected from his Reno house, the inventory report showed.

Overall, each of the 58 families would receive about $24,000 once Mr. Paddock’s estate is divided up equally. Included in that figure would be a payout of close to $1,100 per family if the firearms were to be sold.

The cache of guns that belonged to Mr. Paddock — who attained significant wealth through high-stakes gambling and modest real estate deals before he lost much of it — is just one piece of his estate. It also includes a pair of houses, both in scenic retirement communities, an investment property and bank accounts.

Among the other items in the estate are two gaming vouchers, totaling more than $30,000, from the Mandalay Bay. It was from an upper floor room in the hotel that Mr. Paddock started firing at concertgoers on the Vegas Strip, in what was the worst mass shooting in modern American history. He then took his own life.

The inventory of Mr. Paddock’s estate also showed that he had $455,758 in 13 bank and brokerage accounts.

The situation with the Paddock weapons is not unprecedented. When the federal government sought to hold an internet auction of personal items belonging to Theodore J. Kaczynski, who was sentenced to life in prison for the Unabomber crimes, several victims pursuing restitution from him were initially reluctant to agree to such a sale.

Although the money from the sale of Mr. Kaczynski’s writings, sunglasses, clothing and other possessions would go to them, the victims feared that the auction would bring Mr. Kaczynski more publicity and further expose their suffering. One victim who was not seeking restitution said he hoped that Mr. Kaczynski’s property would be destroyed or sealed for at least a century and then made available to “scholars of depravity.”

The auction went ahead in 2011 and raised more than $232,000 for the victims. Mr. Kaczynski carried out 16 mail bombings from 1978 to 1995 that killed three people and injured 28.

Though the matter of how best to handle Mr. Paddock’s guns remains unresolved, the estate has made progress in other areas. On Thursday, the judge overseeing the estate case approved the sale of Mr. Paddock’s Mesquite home to an Oregon couple for $425,000.

His residence in Reno is still on the market for $374,900, a reduction from the original listing price of $399,000 in July.

Bernadette Jones, who, with her husband, Daniel, bought the Mesquite home, said in an interview that the property met their criteria and that they were not spooked by the fact that it had belonged to one of America’s most notorious mass murderers, who stored many of his guns there.

“There is room to build a pool, it is a nice clean house that has hardly been lived in and there are nice neighbors who have been through a lot,” Ms. Jones said.

She added: “We feel that our discernment is very good, and if we felt that things were not right, we would have walked away. If he had any personal items in there, buying would have been out of the question.”

The Joneses, who are in their 60s, had been looking to relocate to the area since the summer of 2017 to escape the dreary weather of Albany, Ore.

Ms. Denton, the lawyer, said that the 58 families would not see any money raised by the estate for at least another year to give creditors time to file any claims.

Although lawyers for many of the surviving victims have said their clients will not sue the estate, in order to preserve it, Ms. Denton pointed out that “the agreements are not in writing and they can change their minds at any time.”

“We would then have an insolvent estate and nobody would get anything,” she said.

#Guns

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