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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 4 years

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Cracked

(Hayffie ❤️. After rereading the first half of Mockingjay, I recognize book-Haymitch in 13 as the saddest, most tragic muffin in this or any universe, and he needs so much more of Effie there than the three District 13 fics I wrote in the summer. So here’s another one for my sweethearts.)

“People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end this hunger for justice!” Plutarch had been the one to compose the line on the card in Effie’s hands. Less than a year before, she’d held other cards, on which she’d inserted Capitol propaganda into the children’s Victory Tour speeches. That kind of writing was within her skill set. Creating propaganda for a rebellion — correction, a revolution — was not.

That said, Effie was confident in her ability to coach anyone entrusted with presenting content to a public audience. ...Well, almost anyone. Historically, Katniss had been hopelessly uncoachable. Even still, even out of her element, Effie was determined do her best to guide her girl into embodying Cinna’s vision of the Mockingjay.

Effie stood in the studio, rehearsing the line in her mind as she experimented with different body positions and different speeds of the circular fans which were brought in to simulate wind.

“Let’s have her start down on one knee then stand up and wave the flag, symbolically pledging to the people of Panem and rising with them into battle.” Plutarch announced from the sound booth. “By the way, Haymitch has been discharged from the detox unit. He’s scheduled to be here later when we shoot the propo.”

Effie shifted into uncharacteristic silence. She hadn’t seen Haymitch since before she was brusquely ushered onto a hovercraft and taken to 13. That was weeks ago. Against her will now, her heart beat into her throat. For an instant, she brushed her lips with her fingertips, remembering the night before the Quell.

“This is good news,” Plutarch said, “He’ll be able to anticipate how far Katniss can be pushed without breaking.”

“Good news...” Effie echoed the words but they didn’t register because she was still caught up in the ones he’d said just before.

She fiddled with the edge of the cloth covering her hair, with the frame of her sunglasses, with the neckline of her shirt, with the bracelet on her wrist. Her hands refused to stop moving.

Plutarch noticed her restlessness and let it go on without mention. “It’s probably best if one of us brings him up to speed beforehand.”

“I’ll do it.” As soon as she said it, Effie chastised herself for her eagerness. “The prep team is working to build Katniss up now from Beauty Base Zero. With that tragic scar on her arm and the lack of proper resources in this cavern, she will not be camera ready for some time.”

“Fine. He’s been issued Compartment 307, vacated by the Everdeens. According to his schedule, he’s there now ‘acclimating.’”

“Well, that is convenient.” Effie relentlessly folded and unfolded and refolded the cue card in her hand. She steadied her voice. “...I suppose I shall go do that now.”

“I think that would be best,” Plutarch agreed, “Before you’ve folded Katniss’s lines into an origami crane or perhaps... a valentine?”

Effie glared in the direction of the sound booth, irritated with Plutarch for perceiving more than a *decent* person should. His chuckle brought her to her senses. She slipped the cue card into her pocket and made her way to Compartment 307 with deliberate slowness.

She took the stairs partway, sliding her fingers along the cold metal rails as she walked. Their yellow paint was one of the few bright colors in this cement and steel dungeon. She’d developed an appreciation for the handrails for no other reason than because they were something besides dingy gray or lackluster white.

She paused outside his door. Awash with self-doubt, she checked her intentions. Her eagerness to see Haymitch had nothing to do with the propo, of course, and everything to do with curiosity and concern about his mile-deep drop into forced sobriety. She knocked with the feeling of wild bird in her chest.

“He isn’t home!” Haymitch hollered in a hoarse voice, “The purple crap on his arm says he’s ACCLIMATING.”

“Haymitch... it’s me.”

Effie. Her voice was without its usual trill, like a canary in a coal mine singing softly at the edge of stopping. The *air* must be okay enough, because here she was at his door.

He slid it open and took in the sight of her dressed all in gray with a turban on her head and a pair of sunglasses covering her eyes. Not a speck of sunlight would reach this place, except the glimmer that squeezed through the cracks in him just then and lit him up. For the first time in weeks, months, years maybe... he laughed. The laughter was so genuine that it moved through his body like a stranger.

She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips in annoyance. “I think I liked you better before you were sober!” She huffed.

“It’s good to see you too, sweetheart. Do you want to come in? This sure as hell ain’t the penthouse.”

She slid the dark glasses down the bridge of her nose and tucked them into her pocket with the cue card. That was when she really saw him. The fine details of his face tugged the flapping bird from her heart into her gut. She sucked in a breath and held it.

Weeks before, his body had been strong, prepared for battle. The muscles he’d built up during the months in between the Victory Tour and the Quell had wasted away during his stint in detox. She stepped into the room and caressed his yellowed cheek. Then she breathed again. “What have they done to you?”

He closed the door behind her. “If I said torture would you believe me?”

She heard teasing in his voice and a sharp edge of truth. “Yes,” she answered without hesitation. She brushed her fingers over his jaw and down his neck. It was the path tears might take if she ever saw him cry. She smoothed the collar of the shirt that 13 had issued him.

He refused to call it HIS shirt even while it was on his body. For a moment Effie made him forget that the collar choked him and that the walls were closing in. Her touch felt so good that he joked a bit in order to hold onto reality. “I got the standard District 13 makeover for a drunk. I had my own prep team and everything. That explains the unparalleled beauty you see before you.”

Then her arms were around him, and the sensations of her were filling him up. She smelled different. No coffee or cinnamon gum. No vanilla perfume or orange shampoo. ...Just Effie, so slight with no 5-inch heels, no layers of chiffon, almost no makeup, no corset...

He held her loosely with his hands on the small of her back. He said nothing else and asked her no questions. He slowly lifted the tail of her shirt, learning again the feeling of her skin as he slid his palms up to the strap of the bra she wore. It was probably no more hers than their government-issued everything else.

He wanted it off. He wanted to get rid of everything unrecognizable.

As if reading his mind, she pulled off the knitted hat he was wearing, and she ran her fingers up the nape of his neck into his hair. Her nails were short, and he felt the tips of her fingers naked along his scalp, sending warm shivers to each appendage of his body.

“What are you doing to me?” His voice was ragged as if cut by a serrated knife.

“Plutarch suggested I bring you up to speed.”

“Plutarch authorized this, did he?”

“I had to see for myself.”

“See what?”

Effie had closed her eyes as she held him, but she opened them again and pulled back far enough to see the dark circles below his. So much gray. “I needed to see what your *prep team* did to you.” She masked her sympathy, knowing he would detest it. She plucked a kiss at the corner of his chapped lips.

It was the kind of kiss he’d seen her give a thousand times in the Capitol. The kind that meant nothing. Only it didn’t feel like nothing. Her mouth was naked too, warm and wet like a bottle of something that could slip inside him and burn on the way down.

She brushed her fingertips across his forehead, sweeping the hair away from his eyes. Her breath lingered at the corner of his mouth. “I just... I need—“

“Oh, hell—“ He caught her lips and drank her in. The feeling of her spead through him like wildfire. When they’d kissed weeks ago in comfort, it hadn’t been like this. Yet here this was.

“Ohh...” Surprised by the suddenness of arousal, she was drinking him in too. “Oh, my God.”

He perceived *need* as a dangerous thing. If he didn’t need anyone, then he hurt less when he lost them — and he always lost them. He felt it then with Effie, that dangerous thing creeping up on him. He heard it too in the sound that came from the back of her throat. A whimper, almost pleading.

He yanked his hands out from under her shirt and stepped backward, catching his breath. “I shouldn’t be bringing you into this.”

“Why ever not? And what do you mean by THIS?” She knew what this was for her, and she wanted his answer.

“I don’t know. ...I just know you need to leave.”

“But the propo...”

“I’ll wing it.”

She held her ground, searching his face, trying to understand.

He focused on the concrete between their feet. He didn’t dare look at her eyes. In his mind, he saw them filling with tears. He was barely holding himself together, and if he saw her like that, then he’d be gone... and so would their clothes.

“Get out of here, Effie.” He refrained from screaming, refusing to make this degenerate into something resembling a nightmare. “...Just go.”

In all the years of moments that came before this one, he’d never looked so afraid. He was right in front of her, but he’d retreated to a place within himself that she wasn’t sure how to reach.

She pulled the repeatedly folded cue card from her pocket, slapped it against his chest, and let go. He caught it before it fell to the floor. “Consider yourself *brought up to speed!*”

She slid the door open. “And by the way, you did not BRING me into this. Push me away all you want, but I’m IN this. I’ve been in this longer than you probably realize. And that will NOT be changing!”

He looked up, and her eyes were dry, like sapphires set in bone.

“If you want me out of this, honey, you’re going to have to kill me yourself, so consider carefully what you want.” Before sliding the door shut, she added, “I’ll see you in the studio when you’re done... ‘acclimating.’”

He stared in shock at the door slammed in his face. Then laughter erupted again from those cracks in him where she’d slipped inside and lit him up. Maybe the *psych ward* had misjudged his readiness to handle this place without liquor. But there was no way he was going back down now, not with Effie up here making him feel alive again.

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sleepynegress · 3 years

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Spoiler-Filled Reaction to the 1st Ep of TFATWS: ‘New World Order’ ...

Okay, so I may switch up and do weekly recaps via audio. Either way, I’m getting something out before the weekend is up... Still!... It’s a been a few days, so I can go a bit more in depth with my thoughts on that pilot ep.

~ So, that opening was quiet and down-to-earth. For me, it was hammering home not only the humbleness of Sam (despite the bravado, the man is naive in his optimism and *not* superpowered), but being stuck in his initial thoughts about the shield. ...That it didn’t feel like it belonged to him. Sam’s personality, has been established as super-loyal and almost childlike in his feelings that things will work out and doing the right thing because it’s right (which is why he didn’t get paid enough BTW naive pride).

-which comes into play w/ his conflict w/ his sister later... I’ll come back to that.

~ We jump into a dangerous mission that shows off Falcon’s personality. He’s gonna get it done with style and optimism even when working with equipment that needs a few updates. The stunt coordination here was fantastic! I legit whewed! aloud at Balroc paragliding into *multiple* helicopters... Sam’s hair-pin turns milimeters from canyon rock, propellers, and rockets... ~ I *loved* Torres’ fanboying. It felt like a parallel to Sam fanboying Cap, in CA:WS and evoked the well-established superhero trope of a person *marveling* aloud at what you’re doing making it so. much. cooler. (as an oldhead, the random black dude emoting about Superman’s suit after he comes out of a phonebooth, in the Reeves movie, is my earliest memory of this trope). ~ Then we see the Tunisia titlecard, which yea! it didn’t just say Africa, but ehh, once again “yellow tint” is code for “exotic” country full of brown people. It did cut through the typically more alt-right-tinged military propaganda w/ the Tunisian man thanking Sam for saving his wife, the bare minimum of humanization... but it saved the scene from just “backdropping” the people/culture w/o any humanity, at all, as is typical... That and the way these two BIPOC spoke to one another (there is a certain kind of rapport we non-white folk have w/ each other) was my first hint...that this showrunner ain’t a white dude. The joking about him knowing Arabic...like cheering/teasing when we show our range to one another. Mainly, this interaction was to show that Sam is to Torres what Steve was to Sam in some ways...with a bit more “brazen kid” on Torres’ part, along w/ introing the idea of the Flagsmashers. ~ Then, naive Sam decides to donate the shield to the Smithsonian...because he doesn’t feel like he’s earned it and because in his mind it still belongs to Cap and because he’s out here trusting this governement even after all the B.S. he’s done lived through. Even Rhodey was having his doubts... Maybe being around during the blip makes a person more savvy and cynical, IDK. ~ So, then we see Buck in therapy and since I’ve been through trauma, I know that mindset. Sticking to routine is a big “win”. Not really caring about anything beyond the bare essentials (yall saw that man’s apartment). And the feeling of being displaced would be amplified by the fact that this man is more so than anyone who has existed(!). ~ I noticed that Seb leaned into his Rom-Merican accent, which was a great acting choice, it evokes his sense of having traveled without a solid sense of self in a place, because he was essentially, asleep all those decades, while the brainwashed aspect of himself was enslaved to Hydra. I LOVE his therapist. Fannishness for a cute guy, means a lot of people don’t like her being “mean” to him... But I’mma tell you, as someone who actually has been in therapy for a good bit, you *need* someone who will call you on your bullshit so you can properly work on it. I love that she’s also a vet and there’s nothing cutesy and coddling in a male-gazey sexy or motherly way. She’s doing her fucking job and not letting his ass slide. To me, that read as a hat-tip to a woman drecting this. So, we see Buck manifest his trauma w/ profound discomfort in his own skin. He doesn’t know how to interact anymore, how to swagger in this strange time and place (because dude had all kinds of 1940′s swagger and juice back in CA:TFA) So, he’s just awkwardly honest, and beating himself up for that. But... he’s still alive, so he totally perked up in the presence of this attractive server and Yori notices and like so many old people, just busted his chops and skipped all the what he wasn’t gonna do and did it for him, w/ Leah’s confidant acceptance -ahhh, I luv her!- as an assist. ~ Then we flip back to Sam in Delacroix and we meet his sister and his nephews and his community(!) which really nails down Sam the man, the person, the human apart from his underwritten assists to the Avengers. We see that Sarah knows and loves this naively optimistic ‘I will find a way to fix it because it’s the right thing to do’ hard-headed brother.... but good-God! he doesn’t know shit about real-world day-to-day struggle... If you’ve seen Anthony Mackie in The Hurt Locker... one of the big themes explored, is how tough it is for vets who have been through explosions and firefights in another country... to adjust to day-to-day struggle in “normal life”. THAT is what Buck’s therapist was calling out when she said BULLSHIT to him saying he wanted peace (lol, no he doesn’t, like Sam he wants that righeous kind of adrenalin only being in action for “good” gives) and what Sarah is frustrated w/ is regarding him not understanding or respecting the kind of struggle she had to deal w/. ~ As an aside I *loved* her *nose-scratch* “Can I talk to you for a minute??” Whew! That is a black-ass way to let you know someone is pissed w/ you and wants to hash all the shit out. That’s why Sam avoided it, lol... ~ So, the date with Leah, who does all the right things...Goes terribly, because Buck is still too deep in his trauma focus on anything about how great she is. Note, that just about everything that happened on that date reminded him of aspects of his trauma to the point where Buck, (being an absolute dick!) just fucking, walks out on her!! I NEED her to chew his ass out for that and I need him to *not* be able to make it up to her (and I’d also love some fanfic, where Buck actually does *ahem* treat her well... I know Asian women be shorted in fanfic too!) ~ So, he goes to Yori’s apartment and stares like an obvious knucklehead (still dealing w/ being stuck in his trauma) at the alter to the man who was just in the way of that brainwashed aspect of himself, pays for the lunch and walks off...AND, NOTE!! YORI DID NOTICE ALL THIS. So, this will eventually come to a head...yikes! ~ Then we’re back to Sam, and Sarah who tries to have that talk, but old boy ain’t trying to hear it. Insisting that he’s the man to swoop in and save the boat and the business *sigh* by some magic (hanging with magical beings...will do that, I guess). And Sarah smartly is just frustrated and skeptical, but lets him go on and try and fail in the same ways she already did so. many. times... in those five years. ~ And then we see bb Torres being brazen kid stupid amateur spy w/ the Flagsmashers. I honestly thought old masked dude stomped him to death, at first... The camera pan showed the cliched dead-man pose, after all. I guess he pulled that (super!)stomp, which means... Flagsmashers aren’t the lethal villians here IMO. I think they escaped from the *real* villian. ~ And then comes some real world racist bullshit... This scene at the bank *nails* a particular kind of frustratingly infuriating racism that is common. Where they will act like they are doing you a favor because they like and want something from you... but still won’t serve you in the same way they would a white person. It’s this strange willfullly “I like you negroes, you entertain me! -but fuck you -but I still like you!” patronizing thing that we know all too well. *whew!* That was real. And then that heartbreaking scene where after Sarah rightly told-ya-so’s. -Sam is working on that mess of an engine and reality *finally* sets in when the key didn’t even attempt to turnover.

~ Then Torres messages Sam (and he’s alive!) and we all know Sam knows these Flasgsmashers got super-serum, but isn’t saying. Even TORRES knows (bless his heart). ~ And from there we go straight to the U.S. government rubbing salty dirt in Sam’s wound with the new/fake Cap holding the shield aloft and winking like “It’s mine now, bitch!”. ---And the credits, I won’t get into except to say if you want ALL the spoilers in the credits, watch that linked video, I posted earlier. But they are SIGNIFICANT spoilers.

#okay just about #finished #tfatws #meta #recap

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victorsandvanquishers · 4 years

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I love your fics! For prompts, maybe 'Bodyguard' with Yuno and Asta? Platonic or romantic, either is fine!!

Hello, Anon! Thank you for requesting this prompt with Yuno and Asta, as I’ve been itching to explore their emotions related to the current events in the manga. Their relationship is platonic in this fic, and there is some slight Asta/Liebe in the background because I enjoy spreading propaganda. It is canon-compliant until the end. Please enjoy this sadfic with gusto! (͡ ͡° ͜ つ ͡͡°)

Asta seeks him out the night before they're due to leave for the invasion. It's a knee-jerk reaction. One minute he's writing a letter to Father Orsi and the family back home while Liebe naps on their bed, and the next moment, he's pulling a blanket over his demon companion before making haste to Yuno's room down the hall. He forgets to knock.

He finds Yuno reading.

There are dark circles underneath his eyes, but they're not from the remnants of late nights and too much stress. These are different. They remind him of Nero's eyes, a mixture of exhaustion and dread, coupled with the usual stress, a sprinkle of agony, and a whole lot of self-loathing.

It's not like he's forgotten about Yuno's pain. He knows it all too well, and yet, he can't help but frown at the the wall between them, the one that's erected itself over the past few days. One one side is Yuno's thirst for vengeance, while the other has Asta striving for vindication. They're only a few months from becoming adults under the eyes of the law, and when that happens, he knows the wall will only stretch taller and wider. Soon they'll be on opposite sides and walking away from each other, because that's what happens when you grow up. It's what happens you grow apart.

But Asta persists.

He doesn't bother asking, just walks over, pulls the sitting man into a hug, and holds on.

Asta will always admit that there isn't much going on in his brain. It's not a self-deprecating thought, merely an observation that also happens to be one of the key factors behind why he does what he does. In the hierarchy of talents, there's mana, then there's scholarly intellect, and finally brute strength. Asta knows that if you have all three, you're as good as king.

Captain Fuegoleon has all three. Yuno has two, and Asta doesn't doubt he'll get his biceps eventually, but Asta only has one.

In a way, there's only ever been three ways to go – to stay home and become a farmer, to leave and become a domestic worker, or the third option, to reject every social norm instilled into his community, and work towards a different, even better future.

Asta chose the third option, and that's why he's holding Yuno now. Because there isn't much in his head, and there's no mana in his core, so his brute strength will have to do. His strength will have to ground Yuno, will have to steady and hold him in place before something bad happens. His strength will have to persist, because this wall can't win. It can't tear them apart like it's torn apart Nacht and his family apart, like it's tore Mr. Finral and his younger brother apart.

Asta won't let it – and he won't let Yuno lose himself in the process.

“You're suffocating me,” Yuno says, voice muffled by Asta's well-built chest.

“Hmph!” He enunciates, and tightens his hold. Yuno gets the hint this time, maneuvers his head so his cheek is flat against Asta's chest, and broods silently as Asta grips him even tighter.

They stay that way for almost five minutes, Yuno brooding against Asta's chest, eyes watching nothing and everything at the same time, while Asta focuses on holding Yuno, focuses on the bright lamp on Yuno's table, the book on magic theory turned to a chapter on manifesting spirits. It's only after Yuno's shoulders slacken and his breathing becomes even that Asta finally starts to loosen his hold. They stay that way for another five minutes, both their breaths even and steady, their spines languid, and their voices silent.

“The Father won't like it if you go in angry,” Asta says after a long while. “You won't be able to think clearly. You'll make mistakes, then get angrier, and make even more mistakes.”

“And since when have you ever listened to the Father?” Yuno whispers, scathingly soft.

Asta doesn't flinch. There's a lot of steel where there should be mana. “Yeah, but you've never disobeyed him.”

“And this isn't just cause?” Yuno challenges.

“It's just for you to wanna rescue your captain... but it's not just for you to go in with hatred in your heart.”

The brute strength Asta knows Yuno has hidden beneath the folds of his uniform finally makes an appearance when Yuno shoves Asta away.

Asta only stumbles back a few steps, but those few steps may as well be a mile. He's in awe, of course, and hurt. He's seen Yuno this angry before, but anger had been mixed with anguish and helplessness that night Asta got the shit kicked out of him by the drunken thief. This time, Yuno's anger bubbles with shame and disgust.

It's written all over his face. The dark circles, the hollow look in his eyes, the disheveled hair and crumpled uniform – it's unlike the Yuno he's grown up with, and yet, it's still him

“Get out,” Yuno tells him, deadly soft.

It's not a request; it's a demand. There's a lot Asta doesn't understand, and he accepts that he'll never understand those things, but this isn't one of them. Asta understands rage. He understands helplessness. He understands what shame can do when unchecked. He's had over a decade to build a backbone and grow thick enough skin to take abuse of any kind with a smile. Because Asta knows – hatred doesn't answer a single question. It fuels nothing but itself. It doesn't resolve conflict, and it doesn't leave a good taste in anyone's mouth.

Asta knows, because he's spent his entire life reminding himself that being angry is the most useless thing this world has to offer.

“I can't send Father Orsi my letter until I know you're OK,” Asta tells him, his face stretching into a big smile. “So I'll send it after we're back – after we've rescued our captains.”

“How can you pretend like it's all gonna be OK when your life is on the line?” Yuno seethes, his voice rising with every word, incredulity etched on his face like a badly drawn picture. “This doesn't end with Spade, Asta. It doesn't end even when we get back! There's still that bloody messenger sitting at our church with our Father and our Sister, and then there's that demon who's sleeping in your bed, and your arm! Have you looked in the fucking mirror, Asta? Do you think this ends just because you say so?”

Yuno's burning with rage, alive with the kind of insidiousness Asta remembers seeing in Mars, in Patolli, in Liebe.

“Yeah,” he tells his friend, his family. “Because I say so.”

Yuno closes his mouth and clenches his teeth, and just then, Belle appears in front of Asta and looks him dead in the eye.

“Leave,” she tells him.

“Just a minute,” Asta says politely, because this is Belle, Yuno's elemental companion, and he'll treat her with the respect she deserves, even if she hates him.

He shifts his head so that he's looking at Yuno again, who's still burning bright with his hatred. His grimoire floats next to him, ready to use, as if Asta's the enemy.

Asta can't but keep smiling, eyes brimming with warmth and love and all the little things that still matter. “I'll be there by your side every step of the way. I won't let you do anything stupid, Yuno; I promise you. I'll bring you home so that I won't even have to send a letter. We can just go straight home after we rescue them. We ca-”

“What you can do is respect that I outrank you, and leave before I make you leave.”

And Yuno means it, because Belle has flown to his side and merged with his body, a sickly shade of green pulsating with raw, unfiltered mana.

“I'll be right beside you,” Asta promises again, before turning around, and exiting the room.

Liebe counts his heartbeats while Asta counts the ceiling beams. It's late, and they should be sleeping, but they're not. Liebe counts his heart beats, while Asta counts the beams, Liebe's head against Asta's chest, Asta's eyes on the dark wood up above, Liebe's arm draped over Asta's torso, while Asta has one hand underneath his head while the other holds Liebe close.

Liebe doesn't say anything, but he listens intently, taps one sharp claw against Asta's shirt with every beat of his heart, while Asta stares up, counts the beams, thinks about Yuno.

“You can't stop him,” Liebe says finally. “He's gonna do what he's gonna do.”

“He's my best friend, and I'll be by his side the entire way. I'm not gonna let him fall.”

Liebe sighs. “It's not about falling; it's about accepting. People change, and sometimes, not in the direction we hope for.”

“But it's not about change,” Asta argues. “It's about our values, what the Father taught us. It's not... worth it. To get caught up in negative feelings – I can't accept it.”

Liebe stiffens but doesn't stop tapping his claw, doesn't stop counting Asta's heartbeats. Instead, he just laughs, dry and hollow. “I'll be there when you do,” he hums, snuggling closer to Asta's chest.

“I won't,” Asta sniffs with a pout before kissing the top of Liebe's head and finally drifting off to sleep.

When they arrive at the Spade monarchs' castle the following morning, it's Asta who turns back on his word, it's Asta who turns the wall into a prison, a prison that cages him and separates him from everyone else, including Yuno. It's Asta who forgets his values, because it's Asta who charges for Dante with his sword brandished, his mouth in a snarl, his hatred pulsating throughout his core as Yami Sukehiro's head rots on a wooden pike at the entrance of the castle.

It's Asta who has to see it to believe it.

Yuno's right, it doesn't end.

And it never will.

#Black Clover #Asta #yuno #asta x liebe #avafanfics

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snarkybluechristian · 3 years

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Hazbin Hotel: Yandere Alastor x Vaggie Chapter 47

After a long day of therapy with only breaks to use the bathroom or eat and a break before lunch to work out on a cycling machine, Angel finally was allowed to go to bed.

Angel had spent the whole day pretending to watch porn. Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been considered a good day, but since Angel had spent the whole day thinking, he was relieved to finally get to rest his brain.

Of course, Doctor Red was there to make sure Angel complied to all his rules, including what he had to wear to bed.

Just as before, Angel complied to all the rules. Once he had brushed his teeth, dressed in his white undershirt and gray boxers, taken a sleeping pill, and used the bathroom a final time, Angel let the gargoyle demon to strap him to his bed, cover him with heavy blankets to keep him warm in the cold room, and pull up a stool next to his bed so that he could brainwash him with a final bedtime story.

Angel felt exhausted and beyond humiliated. All day and all evening, Doctor Red had been infantilizing him in every way imaginable as a “way to make up for the attention his father never gave him.”

The spider demon had complied the best he could, but the effort it took for him to hold his tongue and keep a straight face while he planned was draining, even with the medicine inside him to keep him calm.

It was Angel could do to keep a straight face while Doctor Red read him his disturbing anti-gay propaganda.

“And the gay witch burned at the stake and all her victims lived happily ever after,” Dr. Red read, before dramatically closing his book. “The End!”

Angel let out pretend moan of pain to gain the doctor’s sympathy.

“Oh, Anthony, what’s the matter? Why so blue?” Dr. Red said, gently rubbing his stony fingers through Angel’s hair. “You won’t be burned at the stake. You’re going to be straight in no time. You’ll see.”

Angel merely replied with another fake moan.

“Just have faith, my good boy,” Dr. Red replied just as he looked down at his watch. “Oh, it’s getting late. It’s almost 8:30. It’s time for me to eat dinner with your father and time for you to go to sleep.”

The gargoyle smiled, ruffling Angel’s hair a final time before picking up his stool and carrying it out of the room.

Angel remained still and expertly maintained his catatonic expression.

“Alright, Anthony,” Dr. Red said as he pulled the blankets more evenly over Angel’s restrained body. “Your sleeping pill should take effect in an hour. Sleep tight. I’ll be back for you in the morning…”

Kiss.

Dr. Red kissed Angel on his forehead. It felt like he was a toddler getting tucked into bed.

Angel was so surprised he almost lost his composure, but the gargoyle made his way back to the door and turned out the light without missing a beat.

“Goodnight, Anthony,” Dr. Red said softly with his ruby eyes sparkling to reflect the light outside the room. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, doctor,” Angel replied as emotionlessly as he could muster.

The good doctor shut the bedroom door, made his way up the stone stairs, and exited the basement.

No sooner had Dr. Red left the basement than did Angel unleash his third pair of arms and vigorously wipe the kiss away.

Angel sighed and laid back on the bed, basking in the irony. He was rejecting kisses from men. Maybe he was becoming straight after all.

Angel breathed another deep sigh and settled back under his covers to enjoy a long night of sleep.

He relaxed that way for a few minutes until the air conditioner shut off.

Then Angel heard a familiar voice echoing through the vent, “You call this shit food?! Why don’t ya let me outta here so I can really give ya something to feast on…Oh, yeah?! If ya fuckin’ hurt Angel, I’m gonna come after ya after I finish off Sir Pentious tomorrow!”

Angel knew that sassy voice anywhere.

“Cherri!” Angel practically screamed.

In less than a minute, Angel loosened all his straps and ran over to the vent grating.

“Cherri!” Angel called through the vent with a smile of relief. “Cherri, are you there?!”

“Angie?!” Cherri asked from the other side of the vent. “Angie, is that you?!”

“Yeah,” Angel said with a sigh of relief. “Thank God! I thought they would have sent ya back to Sir Pentious already.”

“That ain’t happenin’ till tomorrow,” Cherri replied. “I’ve been here since last night. But never mind me, how are you?! Are you okay?! I thought I heard ya screamin’ earlier. What have they done to ya?”

“They gave me electroshock therapy earlier when I was putting up a fight, but besides that, not too much,” Angel said with a slight chuckle. “They gave me drugs and made me watch porn after that. Then, after he strapped me into bed, Doctor Red read me a bizarre homophobic bedtime story. They’re doing everything they can to turn me straight.

“Holy fuck, Angel,” Cherri replied anxiously. “How can you be so calm about this? They’re really tryin’ to mess you up.”

“Blame the anti-anxiety medication Doctor Red made me take,” Angel replied. “What has been happening with you? My Dad and brother told me what happened between you guys, Charlie, Alastor, and them, but they wouldn’t tell me what happened after that.”

“After your Dad dropped off Alastor and Vaggie at his mansion, he drove to Molly’s apartment and forced her out of the car. She was furious. The poor thing tried to chase down the car, but your Dad drove like a bat out of hell and lost her pretty easily,” Cherri explained. “I would have helped, but I was restrained with a straitjacket and your unconscious body…”

“Sorry about that,” Angel interrupted.

“No problem,” Cherri replied before continuing. “Your family brought me here, removed the straitjacket, and shoved me in this stupid room with its stupid bombproof doors, windows, and walls. They’ve kept me here all day and have only entered the room to give me plates of food and water bottles at gunpoint. Apparently, Sir Pentious isn’t going to be ready for me until tomorrow.”

“Goddammit, Cherri,” Angel said with angry tears at the corner of his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It ain’t your fault, Angie,” Cherri said sarcastically. “Besides keeping me locked in an empty guest room with only a mattress on the floor and giving me plates of food and water bottles at gunpoint, they’ve been pretty nice to me. Except for your brother. He offered me freedom in exchange for certain favors.”

Angel busted out laughing and replied, “My libido-less brother tried to get you to sleep with him?!”

“I swear to God. I’m being completely serious, Angie,” Cherri said with a chuckle. “After they tossed me in here, your brother showed up around an hour later wearing heavy cologne and holding a bottle of champagne and asked me if I’d like to spend some time with him in exchange for freedom…”

“And?” Angel asked curiously.

“I threw a smoke bomb in his face,” Cherri said with a proud smirk in her voice. “That got him out of my hair really quick.”

Angel chuckled out loud and said, “That little shit. I’m so sorry, Cher.”

“Don’t be, dude,” Cherri said reassuringly. “This room ain’t all bad. It has a bathroom with magazines in it. I got to have a bath and wash my underwear and sock. Your Dad said this was a guest room they had renovated and hadn’t moved the furniture into yet, but that is bullshit. What kind of guestroom has bombproof walls, windows, and doors?”

“You’d be surprised with our line of work,” Angel replied. “But besides that, they’ve been treating you well?”

“Yeah, but never mind about me, Angie,” Cherri said, her tone shifting back to serious. “What about you? They’ve been trying to brainwash you all day to turn you straight! Jesus, man, that is really fucked up!”

“Yep, my therapist Doctor Red is a real piece of work, too,” Angel said. “God sent him to Hell for for doing this shit to other people and he thinks it was because he failed to convert anyone. He's gullible as hell though.”

“What do ya mean by that?” Cherri asked.

“Let me put it this way,” Angel explained. “Doctor Red thinks he can fix me, and I’m just playing him into my hands.”

“I gotcha,” Cherri replied.

“The plan was to have a meal with my father and brother before they went to Alastor’s wedding if I behave for the week,” Angel explained. “Then, when the end of the week comes, I take the opportunity to bust outta here and run to the wedding to save Vaggie. That was the plan anyway. Now, I gotta help you.”

“Aw, you don’t need to worry about me, Angie,” Cherri said. “I can break out of Edgelord’s place easily.”

“Cherri, I ain’t leaving you with Sir Pentious,” Angel protested.

“Angie, you don’t need to worry about…” Cherri tried to protest back.

Angel quickly cut her off, “Cherri, listen to me! Sir Pentious is an over-ambitious, incompetent simp, but you and I both know he is still strong enough, smart enough, and dangerous enough to be a threat to you and most other demons. If Sir Pentious didn’t take you right away, that means he is setting up something special to deal with ya. You couldn’t take him on alone before and I doubt you’d be able to this time. I am not letting that happen and that’s final.”

Cherri sighed loudly and said, “I know there’s no changing your mind, ya overprotective nut, but what are we gonna do? Sir Pentious will be here to take me tomorrow, you’re gonna be tortured in the basement, and I’ll have to fight a legion of your family members alone. I don’t even have a hope of breaking out of here before then with this fucking bombproof room. God, I should have just said yes to your brother. If your Dad thought we were a couple, I would have been allowed to stay.”

A lightbulb went off in Angel’s head.

“That’s it,” Angel said.

“What?” Cherri asked. “What’s your plan, Angie?”

Angel sighed deeply and said, “I know you ain’t gonna like this, but how about we get married?”

“What?!” Cherri asked incredulously.

“Hear me out,” Angel explained. “If I pretend that I’m madly in love with ya, Dr. Red and my family will be inclined to keep you around to spend time with me to aid in turning me straight. Then when I’m finally let outta here to spend time with my family, they’ll let you out, too. Understand?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Cherri said with a smile in her voice.

“All you gotta do is pretend to like me back,” Angel added. “Do you think you can do that?”

“Ugh,” Cherri groaned. “You’re like my older brother. This is gonna be so weird.”

“Cherri…” Angel pleaded.

“Alright,” Cherri agreed with another groan. “I ain’t no actor like you are, but I’ll try my best.”

“Just follow my lead, baby girl…” Angel said just as a sudden noise got his attention.

It was the sound of the cellar door opening.

“Shit,” Angel muttered to himself.

“Angie, what’s the matter?” Cherri asked in concern.

“The doc’s back, gotta go!” Angel replied in a rush.

Without waiting for a reply, Angel quickly hopped back into his bed and reshackled himself. He then made his third pair of arms disappear and shut his eyes.

Thankfully, the doctor reached the bottom of the stairs without taking any notice of any noise.

As soon as Dr. Red walked past his door, Angel tossed and turned as loudly as he could while keeping his eyes shut and began calling Cherri’s name.

“Cherri!” Angel called out while dramatically tossing himself to one side of the bed and then the other. “Cherri!”

Angel heard Doctor Red opening the door to his room and asking himself, “What in the world is this?”

Angel smiled internally and kept up his performance.

“Cherri! Cherri! Cherri! Cherri! Cherri!”

Angel kept his eyes shut and continued calling Cherri’s name repeatedly while Doctor Red took notes on his note pad.

“Interesting,” Doctor Red muttered in a pleased tone.

Suddenly, another voice called out from the top of the stairs.

“Hey, doc!” Arackniss’s voice called. “Have you found your notes yet? The Don’s waiting for ya! What’s goin’ on?”

“An interesting development,” Dr. Red said gleefully. “You must come and see!”

Angel didn’t hear a response over his own cries, but he heard his brother walk down the stone stairs.

“What’s going on?” Arackniss asked. “What’s Anthony doing?”

“He’s calling a woman’s name in his sleep,” Dr. Red said excitedly. “Please observe.”

The pair were silent while Angel continued pretending to sleep and call Cherri’s name.

Arackniss scoffed and said, “Oh, he’s calling for his gal pal, Cherri Bomb.”

“Cherri Bomb?” Dr. Red asked. “Oh, right! The kingpin who tried to help Anthony and Alastor’s fiancée run away.”

At this point, Angel ceased yelling Cherri’s name and pretended to settle back down so that he could listen to the conversation.

“The very one,” Arackniss replied. “She’s locked in the guest room on the first floor. We’re selling her to her rival Sir Pentious tomorrow in exchange for weapons. Anthony hasn’t seen her since that night, so he’s probably just worried about her.”

“Interesting,” Dr. Red said writing more notes in his notebook. “Have they known each other long?”

“Anthony’s helped her with her turf wars for about 40 years from what I’ve gathered,” Arackniss said. “From what I’ve heard, they’re pretty close.”

“Interesting,” Dr. Red said. “40 years is more than long enough to develop a romantic attraction. It seems that the treatment is working faster than we thought. My scientific opinion is that Anthony is developing a longing for this demoness.”

Arackniss snickered under his breath and said, “After only a day of therapy? There’s no way. She and Anthony are only friends.”

“Don’t be so sure, Arackniss,” Dr. Red said confidently. “Perhaps your brother and Cherri were only friends, but I’ve found that often in pursuing homosexual relations a patient might be suppressing desire for a heterosexual partner. Now that we’re pushing away the homosexual attractions, the suppressed attraction to his female friend. Oh, this is so exciting. I must get this demoness involved in the therapy.”

“How do ya plan on doing that?” Arackniss asked.

“Gradually, of course,” Dr. Red replied. “We mustn’t throw Anthony into it. We must ease him into the heterosexual relationship like a glove.”

“I still don’t know about your theory but easing Anthony into a heterosexual doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Arackniss said, making a puffing noise that let Angel know that he was puffing on a cigarette. “So, what do we do first?”

“First, we must discuss this with your father,” Dr. Red replied.

Arackniss and Dr. Red then shut the door and headed upstairs. Angel waited until the moment he heard them both shut the door to the basement before he unstrapped himself and dashed back to the vent.

Angel reached the vent and said, “Cherri?!”

“Angie?! What happened?!” Cherri replied concernedly.

“Dr. Red came down to retrieve his notes, so I started crying out your name,” Angel said with a smirk. “He came in to watch me, called my brother down, and now, they’re going to talk to my Dad to get you integrated into my therapy.”

“Hot damn, Angel Dust,” Cherri Bomb said with a proud scoff. “How’d you pull it off?”

“Thank my 50 years of acting, sugar tits,” Angel bragged. “Dr. Red is now convinced that you’re my repressed crush. My brother ain’t convinced, but it doesn’t matter. Either way, you ain’t going nowhere.”

“Holy shit,” Cherri said. “You never cease to amaze me, Angel. I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it, Cher,” Angel said. “Now, we just gotta act our way out of here.”

“Oh, God,” Cherri said in a sudden panic.

“What’s the matter?” Angel asked.

“Do you think they’ll make us have sex while they watch?” Cherri asked.

Angel paused for a moment and said, “Oh, God. I didn’t think of that.”

Just then, Cherri heard some hands fiddling with the locks outside her door.

“Angie, they’re here, talk to ya later,” Cherri muttered out in a hurry before she zipped back to her mattress and curled up into a fetal position, pretending to be asleep.

Arackniss pushed open the door, and Dr. Red flicked on the lights and entered the room.

“Doc, what are you doing? You’re gonna wake her up,” Arackniss protested in a whisper. “We put her in the bombproof room for a reason, you know.”

Dr. Red ignored Arackniss and continued to look around the room and grimace at the conditions.

“Doc,” Arackniss whispered again.

“I heard you the first time, Arackniss,” Dr. Red said. “I know very well what Miss Cherri Bomb is capable of. I do not intend to wake her. I only intend to make observations...”

Dr. Red took a moment to look at Cherri and continued, “Cherri Bomb is a scrawny little thing, but she is pretty. She looks cold and hungry though. You must improve these conditions. A man who falls in love must be comfortable.”

Arackniss sighed out his cigarette smoke and said, “I suppose we can add some blankets in here.”

“That’s not enough, Arackniss,” Dr. Red chided. “You need to furnish the room, give her proper beauty products, give her books to read, and clothes to change into. You need to feed her better as well. Women are delicate creatures, Arackniss. You need to take care of them.”

“If you’re sure,” Arackniss replied skeptically.

“Of course, I’m sure,” Dr. Red retorted. “I used to give courting advice, you know. Now, we must go speak to your father, but for tonight, fetch Miss Cherri Bomb some blankets to put her in a more pleased mood.”

Arackniss grumbled, “Very well.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Dr. Red asked. “Hop to it.”

“Hey,” Arackniss protested. “Watch your tone, doc. We’re employing you.”

“And your father told you to do whatever I asked,” Dr. Red quipped. “Now, go.”

Arackniss silently stewed for a moment before he rolled his eyes and left the room to find the blankets.

While Arackniss was looking for the blankets, Dr. Red sat down on the mattress next to Cherri’s sleeping form. Cherri felt him sit down next to her, but she managed to maintain her relaxed composure.

That was until Dr. Red started stroking her hip.

Cherri made a yelp of dislike and twitched her leg away.

“Oh, dear,” Dr. Red said apologetically taking his hand away. “I’m so sorry, love. I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

Cherri turned over to the side of the mattress facing away from the doctor and pretended to try to go back to sleep.

Fortunately, just then, Arackniss entered the room with a stack of blankets and a pillow.

“I’m back,” Arackniss announced.

“Good,” Dr. Red replied taking the pillow out of his hands. “Now, let’s get her more comfortable.”

Dr. Red gently lifted Cherri’s head and placed a pillow under it while Arackniss covered her body with the blankets.

Once the blankets covered her form, Cherri pretended to relax in her pretend sleep.

As Dr. Red shut out the lights and left the room, he said, “She’s a good one. I can tell. Miss Cherri Bomb is extremely sensitive to the touch of a man.”

Arackniss groaned jealously as he left the room and shut and locked the door behind him.

Once she was sure they had gone, Cherri zipped back to the vent to explain what had happened to an anxiously waiting Angel.

The pair shared a few laughs and discussed some more details of their plan before they finally parted for the night and went to sleep.

#hazbin hotel #hazbinhotel angeldust #cherri bomb

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murdochmysteriesimagines · 5 years

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The Rose of Texas

Request: Female S/O and George writing love letters to each other please.

A/N: What was asked of me and what I provided are completely different. I had an idea and it snowballed into a product not only longer than intended but something I plan to work on further. In the end I wrote something that I wanted to write. I hope you enjoy it.

__________________________________________

12/02/1910

My Sweetest George

I assume its too late to say Merry Christmas while I’m writing to you, no doubt when you finally receive it. If it manages to get through whatever blockade is set up for the Red Cross Couriers. I should have written to you when I first departed. That night I left it felt like I hadn’t said enough to you, now I can barely think of any words that could explain the world I find myself in. But like you say George, its best to start from the beginning. What I ask myself is what is the true beginning of this? I suppose your start would be me sneaking off in the middle of the night. I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I said to you that evening, or to be more accurate, to say what I yelled at you in blind anger. All the trouble I’m going through seems to be an appropriate punishment for my sins, but I still feel guilty for it. I guess I’m not as heartless as you think. Kidding aside I am truly sorry for what I said about you George, you are one of the best men I know. No man I’ve met can hold a candle to you, such a man does not deserve to be branded a coward because he refuses to follow every whim I have like a trained dog. Regardless of what you believe me to be, just know I deeply regret what I said to you. I love you George, do not ever think otherwise.

To most Canadians this ugly situation would have officially started back in ‘01’, when McKinley was shot dead and our beloved Roosevelt ascended to the Oval office, to the rank of self-appointed King. Another Caesar stabbed in the senate house with an opportunistic Augustus looking to forge his throne from the blood of the opposition. For every Pure Food and Drug Act making headlines, there was a coal miners strike repressed by federal troops. For every shining railroad built off the labour of the Southern states in his so-called relief camps, political opponents arrested and shipped out west. Corruption in the government pulled out like a weed and replaced with a loyal lap dog. Any man could see Roosevelt moved against anyone who dare opposed him with a vengeance, quickly and decisively. The press would say it was all in the name of stability and security; those journalists untouched by the Bears Claws at the cost of singing him endless praise and justifying every sin they could not cover up. The press in Canada more than happy to parrot their kin who looked up to the ever kind, ever present presidential king. How many truly knew the light of democracy that all sources held on the highest pedestal was being snuffed out. Fuel to the flame being cut by a tyrant who would stop at nothing to consolidate power around himself. Roosevelt’s party switch in the ‘04’ election should have been the wake-up call to the world, yet most remained ignorant. From the Republicans to the newly founded Progressive Party of America. The medias favourite figurehead as the acting chair; old officials sent to replace the ‘corrupt’ surprisingly changing sides to the governing party. The ignorant sang their praise at the man, no longer was America a two-party country, surely liberty and prosperity would follow us into the new century. The naïve and unenlightened will maintain that rhetoric, those paid to believe that it was the ungrateful south that opposed our King who kindly kept us under the federal government’s thumb. I guess we should be grateful to Roosevelt George: he had generously allowed our suffering to continue rather than slaughter the disgruntled southern population entirely, although even his media sources would have a rough time justifying that atrocity.

To me George, this started all the way back in ‘65’ with the end of the civil war. I’ve heard the cries that we are nothing more than a second coming of the Confederacy, succession is the last thing on our minds George. Instead of state and property rights; our cause is against tyranny and for a liberation of our enslavement. Only Lincoln wanted to reintegrate the confederates into the union. When he died so did any hope of unification. They liberated the slaves only to create a new breed to replace what was lost. While the new states in the west would thrive, we were kept in limbo, we were added back to the boarder but treated like foreigners, a conquered population, an enemy. P.O.W’s were sent home branded as traitors, permanently disfigured, or not at all. Their labour was used to rebuild the country they supposedly destroyed. If they refused: beatings would be felt, if they persisted: executed. All vailed as righteous punishment for a war that was spouted to end such treatment. When the work force gradually trickled back to their impoverished states the federal government still needed bodies for their factories, to build their rails, roads, to work for starvation wages. They have been stealing our men since the war’s conclusion, leave it to the Bear to expand upon a profitable idea. The men before him content with only conscripting the innocent for a camp or costly war abroad.

I remember the stories Pa would tell me of his time in the labour camps, whips, a hot iron and chains placed onto the worst offending farmers and militia men, not one rich enough to own a slave. That fact still true when they passed reforms for meager wages to be paid after years of free imprisonment. He’ll never tell us the full story of how he made it back to Texas. Just whispers about riots and hard choices being made. You’ve seen photos of him back when I was a youngling. It’s hard to imagine that moustache wearing the skin of an old gray back bludgeoning a guard for his freedom. He wore the uniform so his sons and daughters could wear suits and dresses. That fantasy gave way to reality when the Bear took the office. We all know now that was the turning point, the final act calm before the storms return.

When that French self-proclaimed Marxist revolutionary tried to rob Roosevelt of his life outside the senate building last September, we all knew there would be no turning back. A final push for greater political power while he was still in the hospital; forced eradication of opposing political parties, arresting any figure suspected of discontent towards the Bear, tightening the reigns on labour camps; all in the name of security and stability. Just short of a throne and crown for the new set appointed Royal and his noblemen. That revolutionary expected to trigger an uprising of the workers of America. Perhaps the French immigrant will be disappointed he mistook the civil discontent for an overthrow of the upper class. Maybe he’s in such a state with the provider answers given to him from outside that cell, upset that the only revolution to come is for the fate of our democracy rather than his ideology.

They call us Confederates, slaver, traitors: we are no such thing George. We didn’t betray the constitution, our foundations of the Republic. Our police forces haven’t arrested innocent diplomats and citizens for imagined crimes. The re-emerging National Unity Party did not crown a king. The Federalists fight for the Progressive Party and their oligarchies own interests. The Union States Of America fight for a greater purpose than self improvement; we fight for our republic, our constitution, our freedom. That is why I went home George, to save my country, not destroy it. The territory of an old enemy along with states tired of Washington’s rule now harbor the government they once opposed.

When we departed from Toronto, I expected the worst, years of training and work in hospitals as a nurse has filled my mind with standards for the dead and injured. All were surpassed when we arrived. Medical tents filled with victims of the Bull Run offensive executed by the federalist along the Virginian boarder. Such audacity does not surprise me: expecting us to falter at a single push into the Tennessee mountain ranges and entrenched divisions. Their hastily assembled army under Pershing has failed to end this war in the one fell swoop that the Bear has promised. As the winter snows began to set in November, we all knew this would be another long war.

However, we are determined to fight until our flag flies over Washington. The problems of the old war are gone. Allies from South America and Europe not blinded by the Tyrants propaganda rally behind us, bringing with them the newest toys of war. Self loading rifles from Mexico, artillery and generals from Germany, raw materials from Chile; manpower from all. I’m curious if it was more surprised to hear the Kaiser’s finest were getting involved rather than the United States got caught in another war. The old guards of Europe stay neutral for the time, I doubt the British will stand idle if an ally to the Germans were to set up south of their biggest dominion, not while world tensions are on the rise. I pray that this war stays contained to a single country. Perhaps with some luck the Germans, Unionists and British can unite against the tyrants of the North.

It must have been a field day for the parliament and press when the German Kaiserliche Marine flying the new flag of free America appeared off the eastern coastline. We don’t always get the best information of their front, rumours of skirmishes between the two fleets at best. It’s ironic: after the Spanish American war the federalist tried to bring their armada into the modern age. Their expensive steel monsters laying at the bottom of the Atlantic or under siege in harbour to another European power; neutralized, useless. Unable to halt the merchants and never-ending convoys bringing supplies into the bastion of freedom that will be their undoing. The southern men they conscripted as canon fodder returning home with knowledge of war. Liberated slave labour taught the craft of large-scale production under the threat of death now building our infrastructure from the rubble it was left in. All in due time George, we will rebuild our homes into a flourish state.

The war was quiet for most of December; everyone was busy drawing lines on maps to lay claim to whatever they could get their hands on. When the dead and wounded came down to what the regulars call “acceptable levels”, the medical staff finally got some rest. I got word from my older brother; he’s been stationed in loyal Missouri as a mechanic. Apparently, he learned a few more tricks with a wrench while interned in Wisconsin last year. He’s still not pleased I moved up to Canada, it’s not my fault there was no work in Texas. He’s a stubborn man, stuck in his own mind most of the time. He really is a spitting image of my Ma at times.

He did tell me something wonderful. Since the actual constitution was re-enacted after our schism the original voting laws have been put in place. Any citizen who owns property has a formal vote in government affairs. My brother wrote to me and informed me that after I left Pa added my name to the family homestead. I was able to vote George; man or woman, gender and race made irrelevant in a single move. Now I know they say a man’s vote is his own business, but I won’t pretend I’m not pleased with President Wilson being sworn in as the true leader American republic. God willing, he’ll be able to see us through these trying times.

In more personal news George, I have an update. I received a promotion of sorts, although I’m sure you would have a less glamorous title for it. Back in January our medical unit got assigned to the 12th Union Division near the Missouri, Illinois boarder. We were near the front providing what we could to soldiers on rotation to reserves when our dressing station was attacked by the federalists. Apparently, they exploited a breach the line and rushed into gain land. We were doctors and nurses being targeted, fresh faced recruits and wounded apparently a grave threat.

Pa always said I had the best shot in the family, hunting rabbits in my youth to avoid starvation has paid off. I managed to organize what soldiers remained and we held the federalists off, long enough for the reserves to come in. I’ll spare you the details George, but shooting an animal isn’t much different than a man. Not here at least.

We managed to push them back to the starting line of trenches before they gave up. In the heat of the moment no one noticed or cared about a nurse with a rifle and ammo pouch along side them. It came to a marksman battle between the two trenches cut short by an artillery barrage. When the explosions and flying dirt came back down to earth the Boots finally noticed the out of place skirt.

I received a medal for my work. “For outstanding bravery in service of the American Republic, her citizens or sons of war in the daunting presence of the enemy.” Words inscribed on the back of a silver wolves head now pinned to my new uniform. The same animal that occupies our flag. The red and white stripes guarded by a ferocious beast.

I expected to be chewed out for stepping out of line. Instead, punishment gave way to practicality and I was given the ability to be more than a subject for propaganda. I agreed to become a Lance Corporal for the first company in the division. A hybrid of marksman and field medic, whatever the situation calls for. I’m happy to serve my country however I can, even if the task has become more deadly. I will answer the call, even if I maybe one of the only woman on the battlefield of this war. I know I still have to earn the respect of the men around me, citizen soldier or foreign volunteer. I know I can rise to the challenge George. I know I can prove myself to be a model soldier, perhaps an officer if I get lucky. I know I can be the strong woman you believe in. I know that together our united effort from around the globe can crush the tyrants of the North.

I don’t expect you to forgive me for what I’ve sin to you George. I want nothing more than to be back by your side. To be held in your arms that seem to protect me from the horrors of the world. We might be in for a lengthy war, but I have eternal confidence, our armies, our allies, our mission for freedom for all Americans; not just those in the Bears preferred party. Our armies will march north until we reach the Canadian boarder, crushing all resistance in our path. Then George, perhaps we can be together once again.

Lance Corporal y/n Crabtree.

#murdoch mysteries fanfiction #murdoch mysteries imagine #murdoch mysteries #reader insert #imagine #fanfiction #george crabtree #george crabtree imagine #george crabtree x reader

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darkpoisonouslove · 4 years

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“The Heart Wants What It Was Promised by the Stars”

Summary: Griffin fell in love with Valtor under the stars but now she has to watch him get executed in broad daylight for an act of terrorism he most certainly committed. She knows that, knows his guilty, but still can't accept the fate of their love. Did the stars only lead her to him so that she'd suffer?

This was an experiment on my part to complete a writing challenge I came across on tumblr. The goal was to write a piece in which one of the characters is royalty (+ bonus points if it involved an execution) with length between 200 and 1000 words. You can tell how well that last part went. We get a new AU, though!

Griffin stepped on the terrace on her mother’s left, the noise from the crowd like an angry sea splashing all around her but she remained untouched by it, her gaze focused on him as he walked towards his execution. He was still as beautiful as the night she’d met him even now that the title of terrorist had ripped off the mask of gentleness and well-intentioned power flowing from him. He’d been anything but that, and she hadn’t seen it until it’d been too late. The people, her people, were rightfully outraged and crazed in their desire for justice, for he’d dragged them into the war with the Council by executing a strike against members of it on their land, and yet, she couldn’t hear their cries of vengeance over those of her own heart that had been bleeding and tearing itself apart from the moment he’d gotten caught as he’d come back to her because he hadn’t wanted to leave her with the wrong impression. As if there’d been anything right about him. And she had to shut up the feelings she still let him awaken in her.

“Quiet your heart, Griffin,” her mother had told her when she’d come to get her for the execution. She had to be there and oversee the punishment of the man who’d dared hurt the people she was a princess to by putting them in the line of political fire. But she couldn’t stand the thought when she was no longer the ruler of her own heart. “You already let him make enough noise with it,” her mother had said, scolded her, almost hissed at her, in a tone that wasn’t typical for her. It had scared her with all the change he’d brought in their lives just like that. Because she’d allowed him. He’d told her he wanted to change the world and she’d eaten every word, letting him poison her with his sweet promises and nothing could’ve saved her from him. Not even her mother with her will of iron. Not when she’d gladly surrendered herself to his pretty face and his touch of magic.

She’d met him at a party, a distant cousin of Icy, the crown princess of the kingdom of frost, and he’d entered her life so smoothly she never would’ve guessed how hard and jarring the fallout would be. She’d given him a dance, and then another one, and then the whole night that they’d spent talking and laughing and flirting under the stars. Harmlessly, she’d thought, even when she’d known he’d been nothing but danger, her heart skipping beats and rushing as if to leave her chest and go to him. And she’d given it. She’d given him her heart, her love and what was worst of all for a woman of her status – her virginity.

She had to stay proper and chaste so that they could marry her off to a self-righteous, self-absorbed spoiled brat of a prince from a kingdom with light magic that the Council would pick for her and she would have no choice but to accept and let them kill her spirit by making her a tamed wife if she didn’t want to get her kingdom and her mother in trouble. And even if she could keep her crown and not have her kingdom annexed, she would lose all her power and agency. So she’d let him be the first to touch her body, truly touch it with his voice and hands, and soul, and she’d wanted him to be the last to do so. She still did. She was all his. And he was on death row. And her heart was writhing in pain, wailing its sorrow to all who’d listen but there was no one there for her. They were all gathered to witness his death, and as their princess she was obliged to be happy when her people were.

It was a happy day for them, for the whole magical dimension. A dark magic kingdom had caught a dark magic terrorist–though, those were the only kind, or at least so the Council told them–and they were “finally” joining the side of light and securing the alliance between dark and light magic by doing good. It would all be forgotten the minute another kingdom refused to bow to the obvious discrimination of their kind and it wouldn’t matter one bit what they’d done when the Council came out with their propaganda and tried to pit them against each other, most certainly with the very fact that they were hunting down their own and executing them.

If it had truly been an alliance they’d sought, there would be light magic users with them now and Faragonda would be standing at her side but she couldn’t even have the support of her best friend, for all light magic users had been forbidden from attending. To shine the spotlight where it needed to be, the Council had said. It was to assure that the blame for any death couldn’t be thrown their way. And she’d begged her mother not to do it, to let the Council handle the whole thing, but she’d told her she couldn’t. They wouldn’t let her, wouldn’t risk angering anyone by getting their hands dirty. They were just happy to pull the strings behind the curtains and get the royals at each other’s throats. And they let them, each wrapped in their own problems and refusing to help the others stand together against the real monster. It was painful and enraging.

She could feel Ediltrude and Zarathustra’s quiet presence behind her, her adopted sisters offering all the support they could silently through their magical bond, for they knew her tragedy. They didn’t understand it–no one could because no one understood him–but they loved her more than was healthy for them and she knew she could count on them. Always. The knowledge had brought her comfort in her darkest hours but she didn’t know what to do when the light was shining in her eyes, hurtful and threatening, promising a period of thriving for their enemies.

Her fists clenched tighter, her nails sinking in her palms and she only put more force into it, aiming to draw blood. Both to keep herself grounded and as a rebellion. If she had to suffer it would be on her own terms, her torture would be one of her own design and she would bow to no one. Just like she’d chosen to walk into love with a dark wizard with powerful magic and promises too good to be true. She’d known that as she’d opened her heart for him–she wasn’t stupid–but it hadn’t stopped her. If anything, it’d made her want to love him more, cut her heart open and pour out all of her love in the blood spilling from the split organ. It would’ve been a sacrifice she was willing to make, for no one dictated her fate. No one had the right to tell her how to live her life and how to love her wizard when they’d kept telling her her magic was unnatural when it’d come from the Great Dragon just like its light counterpart. And he had the fire of the Dragon, all woven in him and making him burn, making her want to burn with him, and she would. She would burn away when her love perished.

Her mother’s hand covered hers and the gentle touch had her muscles relax. It was an instinct she couldn’t fight. Her mother had always been her light, the one who’d taught her how to fight for herself and be independent. And it was what pained her so much when she watched her getting trampled by the Council but she had no choice if she wanted to keep her daughters safe, if she wanted to keep her people safe. A burden that would befall Griffin with her mother’s death the inevitability of which she shoved out of her mind with indescribable force–it was too painful on the background of her father’s untimely demise and the current situation threatening to take away the love of her life–and clutched tighter at her hand to ground herself in the present where at least that tragedy hadn’t happened yet.

She didn’t want that, any of it, didn’t want anyone’s death. The Great Dragon had created all life so they had to be able to get along and coexist peacefully. But the Council was spreading death sneakily and so was he, only he was doing it openly. And loving him would bring more of it, had brought more of it, for he’d come back to her when he should have fled, yet she couldn’t help her feelings, circling around him like he was the sun of her planet.

He looked up at her, as if he’d read her thoughts, and maybe the crowd quited down, or it was the pulse pounding in her ears and the slipping of her mind when her emotions took a hold of her being but she couldn’t hear anything when he couldn’t speak to her, just the echoes of the words he’d spoken in the past coming back to haunt her with the knowledge she couldn’t find it in herself to doubt them even when it’d turned out he was a skillful liar. He looked at her and smiled at her, his eyes meeting hers from all that distance away as if there were no other people, as if he wasn’t headed to a certain death, wasn’t kneeling at its threshold ready to tumble in when his head rolled on the ground, and she forgot sense itself even when it had been her companion ever since she could remember. All she could remember currently were his lips tracing kisses on her skin and murmuring declarations of love in her ears between her strained moans that she’d tried to hold back both for their safety and so that she could hear the elusive words and his fingers caressing her curves, those of her body and those of her thoughts as he’d listened to her, holding her hand to encourage her to venture further into her dreams and dare to want more, dare to want a better future for their kind and for herself. And it would all die with him.

Her pulse sped up, her heart rising high in her throat just like the blade made of magic that was ready to execute him. It was sort of a special treatment that Griffin had never seen before. Granted, there hadn’t been many executions in their kingdom, her mother a respected but kind ruler even though she could be fearsome, and even her father’s death hadn’t changed that as she hadn’t let it darken her heart despite the suspicious circumstances, and she’d also done her best to keep Griffin and her sisters away from the bloodshed.

It was different this time, though. They had to be there whether they liked it or not. Though, Griffin knew she would’ve gone even if she hadn’t had to, she couldn’t have missed seeing him one last time if that was all they’d get. And considering his crimes and his magic, he was not only chained in magical cuffs that would suppress his powers and keep him from using them to escape, but also getting executed by a special blade that was supposed to cut through any magic in his being trying to resist it and destroy his soul too. He was too powerful and they had doubts he’d be able to build himself a new body if they let his soul roam still after his death. So her mother and her councilors who were also her coven had combined their magic into forging a blade that would tear his soul to shreds even the Dragon Fire wouldn’t be able to revive the moment it sank into his skin. It would be agonizing and terrifying, and–according to the consensus–exactly what he deserved. And she knew there was no way of escaping it, even if he had his magic at his disposal, for he stood no chance against her mother and her convergence with her coven. They were the most powerful witches in the kingdom and their synchronized magic was a weapon their enemies were lucky not to know.

The blade of magic sank down and Griffin’s heart did the same, dizziness filling her mind as the memories flashed in front of her eyes and she thought she’d fall as everything inside her felt empty only for a burst of energy to fill her until it was painful, tearing at her flesh like lightning and a loud crack sending her heart in panic. The thought she’d broken in half under the intensity of the emotions quickly lent its place to shock as she realized it wasn’t her that was the victim of it.

The black crystal of magic that was supposed to take his life was crumbling into dust under a greenish violet vortex of power that looked so familiar to her it felt like she was looking into a mirror. It was her magic demolishing the dreadful presence of the thing that threatened to take him away from her and she took a step back, fear of it draining her to feed itself and its mad force trying to fill her but there was no place for it among the emotions already running through her and erupting into a flow that only fueled the magic at work until there was nothing left of the black doom her mother and her sister witches had taken so much effort to forge.

The surge of power relented a bit then, letting her pull it back and inside herself where it slid under her skin and remained there, ready for a battle she could feel coming in the deadly silence only broken by the mad, triumphant beating of her heart when she’d protected the love it sheltered. And the sound of magically reinforced metal cracking and hitting the ground.

Valtor was free, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his wrists for a moment but not wasting too much time on that as he let his magic burst out of him and reach for hers, the two tangling deeply and truly like they’d never done before. They’d been too wary, only letting their magic barely on the surface and feeling the other’s like a ghost touching their own ghost. It was all they–or at least she–had dared to go for, crippled by the fear of the pain her actions could bring her people. And it had been a good thing because their union was so potent that a pulse of magic came off of their joined powers as they sank into each other and wove themselves into one, the energy bursting from that bond sending the crowd to the ground. And not just the crowd.

Her mother’s hand wasn’t in her own anymore–though, that might have happened earlier but she’d been too full of feelings for him cutting her off from everything else to tell–and her sisters’ calming presence was drowned out by his power floating all around her like a moon circling its planet. She had nothing tying her to her life and everything tying her to him.

Valtor seemed to have had the same realization as he tapped into their entangled magic and drew enough power to rise into the air and fly up to her. He came closer, almost drawing her to fly off the terrace and meet him halfway with the self-assured, confident energy coming off of him that had seemed arrogant at first but she’d come to love when it’d given her the strength to imagine a life for herself where she wasn’t always coordinating all of her actions with what the Council wanted and it had inspired her to reach for that life. And their joint magic felt just like freedom with how effortlessly it flowed around them and the endless feeling she got from it, the only thing holding her back from taking her place at his side being the unconscious people all around and, most importantly, her family. She couldn’t leave them just like that.

“What happened?” Griffin forced herself to turn to her logical side and demand an explanation before she allowed herself to fall into the softness of his being that she could feel through the edge of angry magic coming off of him and reach to stroke his face. That would be the death of every rationality and that was what had gotten them in the whole mess in the first place. She couldn’t allow the intoxicating feeling of shared magic and emotions take over her brain when it was her last saving grace with how hopelessly in love with him she was.

“Don’t you know, Griffin?” Valtor spoke, his tone mocking as it usually was but the obvious sense of superiority retreated when it was her name in his mouth. Just like the malicious and taunting shade left his gaze every time he looked at her. “Love is the most powerful magic of all,” he said, letting the word ring through the quietness around them now that it was just the two of them. But it always was just the two of them when he was with her and nothing else existed, and her world was beautiful with the freedom he gave her when he dragged her to the depths of her emotions where no rays of light could reach and scorch her and his flames painted beautiful pictures for her in the darkness, making it their own, making it her home that was safe from an outside invasion.

Griffin swallowed, a frightening realization creeping up her spine and waiting for the right moment to snap it in half and leave her paralyzed. “You were using me?” she asked, allowed herself to give him the opportunity to lie to her and weave her in his net once more. All she was praying for was that he’d want to do it, that he’d still deem her useful and wouldn’t toss her aside now that he’d gotten what he needed from her. It made sense, of course, why he’d gone after her. Who better to manipulate than the princess, the daughter of the woman who would have the task to execute him? The blood relation made her mother’s magic vulnerable to attacks from her own and, combined with the power she’d gotten from her heart, had been the end of the weapon meant to send him into oblivion.

Valtor gave a small smile with a hint of sadness woven in it and it had her heart jumping to help him get the mirth back in it but she pushed it down as it’d already caused enough trouble. “Even I can’t fake such a pure bond,” he said, his eyes on hers still, locking the rest of the world away where it couldn’t disturb them while he got the chance to convince her in his feelings. “You feel it, don’t you? The tangle of our powers?” he raised a hand and buried his fingers in her hair as if to illustrate what was happening to them on a magical level and she leaned into his touch readily. “That’s not something that can be forged.” The ice of his gaze looked so pleading, begging her to give it soft light from her own golden eyes that wouldn’t turn it into a hostile ocean for him to drown in. “I love you, Griffin,” he said, the words making their way inside her and wrapping her heart into a softness unlike even the finest silk her fingers had ever touched, and it made her want to cry, the tears filling her eyes to fall and soothe any wounds the burn of her judgment might have left on his soul.

They froze in their place when she sensed another presence invading their bubble and forcing her senses to start perceiving the world again and everything that came from outside. Her mother.

“I warned her to stay away from you,” she said, her gaze focused on Valtor when Griffin turned to look at her, forcing Valtor’s hand out of her hair, but to her surprise there was no threat in it. There was anger, of course, but beneath those flames there was worry that had always flown from her mother’s heart when it came to her or her sisters as she only scolded them for their own good. Griffin had never doubted that. “Now I can’t protect her anymore,” she spoke, the sound like a slap in Griffin’s face with the truth it forced in her head.

She’d saved his life in front of the whole kingdom which put her on an equal level with him now. She’d opposed the Council’s decision that he had to die and she’d be claimed a terrorist as well. And even her title of princess wouldn’t be able to outweigh that. Not even her mother’s title of queen would be able to do it. They’d be out for her head now too, and she hadn’t even for a moment stopped to think what that would cause her mother and her sisters, and Faragonda, and her people. She’d been blinded by her feelings and it was too late now. Her heart had let her down again and she was safe in his hands but what about all the people she had responsibility for?

“You’ll have to do it for me,” her mother spoke again, startling her once more, for she’d been so opposed to the whole relationship with Valtor from the very beginning and she’d never fallen for Griffin’s reassurances that it was innocent and just a friendship. She’d known what fire burned there and she’d been afraid it would turn on all of them, and rightfully so. So Griffin had expected that her mother would try to hunt Valtor down and finish the execution she’d interrupted but instead she was... entrusting her to him? Her heart swayed in confused happiness, for she didn’t want to fight her mother.

“Of course, Queen Emalyn,” Valtor said, bowing his head slightly with respect. “You have my word,” he said, striking Griffin with the promise contained in that statement. She’d seen the skillful deception he’d woven around them all unfold but she knew that when he gave his word, he kept to it. He’d never told her anything that wasn’t true even if he’d withheld a lot of information from her while they’d been working side by side on their shared project and falling in love. And if she with her distrustful nature could believe him, she hoped her mother could be convinced as well.

Her mother kept her gaze on him until she’d made sure of his honesty and even Griffin had started feeling uncomfortable before moving her gaze to her daughter. “Griffin, I wanted to save you from being persecuted, my darling daughter,” she said as she placed her hands on Griffin’s shoulders, her grip so light, so loving and gentle that it made Griffin’s eyes fill with the tears that had retreated once again when her love for her mom spilled from her heart as well. “It seems that I couldn’t save you from your love, though, and perhaps that is a good thing despite all the danger it puts you into,” her mother said, her own eyes filling with tears now. “You have a path written in the stars, darling, and they’ll guide you down it whether either one of us likes it or not,” her mother said, expressing distrust in the stars for the first time in Griffin’s life since she’d always taught her to trust them and their light, and the magic coming from a sky full of stars. It only spoke of her mother’s worry for her and she wished to comfort her but she had no idea how to do it when it was true her fate was uncertain now.

“I can promise you nothing will harm your daughter as long as I have the power of our love flowing through my veins and charging my flames,” Valtor cut in, perhaps not in the right moment but Griffin still felt profound gratitude at his attempt to soothe her mother’s pain even when she wasn’t certain how successful any endeavor towards that cause could be, for she’d always worried for her daughters, and that instinct had most certainly been reinforced right now that the danger was more real and palpable than ever and making it hard for Griffin to believe she would ever have the chance to be a mother herself, or even get to live past next Tuesday.

Emalyn looked at him, the hard gaze of the queen befalling him like it rarely did any of her subjects and it always scared anyone who’d fallen victim to it with the criticism it harbored in it but Valtor didn’t budge and the emotion in his own eyes didn’t harden in an attempt to resist the attack until the look in her mother’s eyes softened. Just a tad but it was almost tangible as the pressure drained from the atmosphere and melted away, allowing Valtor’s flames that had proven truthful to her to warm the air around them with the promise he was giving her mother.

“This isn’t how I imagined giving my daughter away,” she spoke, making Griffin’s heart jump once again, leaving her with the feeling that it hadn’t landed in the right place, that it hadn’t landed at all and was reeling freely in space, uncaring even of the danger looming over their heads when it was full of happiness. “I don’t support any part of how this all happened, least of all the one that put my daughter in grave danger,” she said, her gaze full of ice needles all directed at Valtor and her voice lacking the sweetness it usually carried when she spoke in her honey-soft manner, “but I don’t have anything else to do other than let you protect her because I certainly can’t do it now. Perhaps I should have taken action earlier to ensure your union wouldn’t be overshadowed by all the ugliness it is accompanied by now. And while I understand your desire for a change in our unfair world, you are going about it the wrong way and I am imploring you to stop before you’ve made my daughter pay the price, if it isn’t too late for that already.”

Her words seemed to hit Valtor hard, making his head bow and his mouth fall open to release the air that had gotten trapped inside him but he quickly seemed to come to his senses and looked her in the eyes. “Queen-”

Emalyn interrupted him before he could say anything. “I know what a love like yours is which is why I’m not trying to stop it,” she said, looking him dead in the eyes and Griffin felt a crushing emptiness inside her now that her mother mentioned the absence at her side. “I lost my husband and I don’t want you going through the same pain. But most of all, I don’t want to lose my daughter,” she said, the firmness of her voice nowhere to be found now that it almost broke just at the thought. And Griffin herself didn’t want to think of what it would be like for her mother to have her greatest fear come true. Even if it was still happening in a sense as she needed to flee from her birth palace and from her family and friends, and there was no telling when–if–she’d see them again, which especially hurt now that she couldn’t even say goodbye to her sisters who were still unconscious from the pulse of their shared magic like most everyone else except for her mother and a few of her covenmates who were standing a respectable distance away and giving them their privacy, loyal to their queen and princess.

Valtor’s own gaze softened at her mother’s confession of selfishness that she never really allowed herself but he seemed to understand. “I don’t want to lose her either so I’ll make sure neither of us will have to go through that torture,” he said and offered his hand and it was such a powerful gesture, for he’d kept away from contact with anyone and especially her mother while he’d been planning his scheme but something had changed now and he was ready to let go of anything that could put Griffin in danger and form an alliance with her mom the purpose of which was to protect her.

Griffin felt her mother’s fingers closing around hers and bringing her hand up, placing it into Valtor’s awaiting palm and the contact with his warm skin washed over her like an elixir for her soul that had been ripped apart by misery ever since she’d seen him being dragged to the dungeons, defeated by her mother’s magic and that of her coven. It was so overwhelming she felt the tears fall, landing on her mother’s hand and chasing it away from hers but only so that she could wipe them from her cheeks.

She looked at her mom and the teary smile she got practically had her falling into her arms and wrapping her free one around her while she never let go of Valtor’s hand, not wanting to feel him slip away even for a second after what they’d just been through and what still awaited them in the very near future. It was a hug that lasted seconds but they still felt like decades when she had all the warmth of her mother spilling into her body and trying to tangle itself into her and follow her wherever she’d go and she wanted to soak up as much of it as she could, for she’d have Valtor’s flames from now on but it wasn’t the same. It was the support she’d thought she didn’t have but had always been there and she would miss greatly now that she had to part with it and leave her mom behind. But she had to do it not only for herself, but for her kingdom too. They could eventually come to see Valtor as something other than a threat and accept him as her choice of a husband but the Council would never forgive the treason and she couldn’t drag her people deeper into that hole than she already had.

“I don’t think you deserve her,” Emalyn said when she disentangled herself from Griffin and looked at Valtor, “but she already gave you her heart so that doesn’t matter. Make sure to take care of her, though, because if you don’t, you’ll wish her love had never saved you from this execution,” she said, her voice low and so menacing like Griffin had never heard it before. And she didn’t dare protest because she could see in her mother’s clenched jaw and rigid posture, her back slightly bent over under the invisible load they’d piled on her shoulders without thinking, that she had her own emotions to deal with and she had every right to feel the way she did. So she didn’t speak a word of it.

“I will,” Valtor said, only pulling her closer when her mother released her and wrapping her in his arms protectively, only affected positively by her mother’s words it seemed as he wished to prove he deserved the trust she was giving him. “I will make sure she’s happy and that all the trouble I caused all of you was worth it,” he said and Griffin could feel the determination burning in his heart as she placed her palm on top of it. It was so warm she could cry, but not from pain. “We need to go,” Valtor said, to her mother who nodded before he turned to look at her.

“Where are we going?” Griffin asked as she looked at him, terror trying to creep in her voice when she remembered all that was waiting for them, all the danger and obstacles. There was no way the Council would just leave them be and she already felt tired from the fight she knew was coming, for she’d been in it ever since she’d been born. But it all retreated when Valtor’s hand cupped her cheek, the touch protective and making her lean into it and the safety it provided as it shielded her from the worry with the reminder of the shared power they could yield. It changed everything, for she wasn’t alone anymore, and she knew they would face what was coming for them head on like she’d wanted to for so long.

“Home,” Valtor said, the word filling her whole being with happiness that burned with its intensity and the promise of a place she could call her own made all the better by the knowledge that that was his heart. She lived there now and they had the power to change the world to fit their visions now that they sheltered each other inside their souls and could combine their powers.

#winx club #winx griffin #winx valtor #griffin x valtor #covenshipping #emalyn sylvane #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing #promised by the stars

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whiteterrorists · 5 years

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Macabre Video of Fake Trump Shooting Media and Critics Is Shown at His Resort

By Michael S. Schmidt and Maggie Haberman

Published Oct. 13, 2019 Updated Oct. 14, 2019, 12:03 a.m. ET

A video depicting a macabre scene of a fake President Trump shooting, stabbing and brutally assaulting members of the news media and his political opponents was shown at a conference for his supporters at his Miami resort last week, according to footage obtained by The New York Times.

Several of Mr. Trump’s top surrogates — including his son Donald Trump Jr., his former spokeswoman Sarah Huckabee Sanders and the governor of Florida, Ron DeSantis — were scheduled to speak at the three-day conference, which was held by a pro-Trump group, American Priority, at Trump National Doral Miami. Ms. Sanders and a person close to Mr. Trump’s son said on Sunday that they did not see the video at the conference.

The video, which includes the logo for Mr. Trump’s 2020 re-election campaign, comprises a series of internet memes. The most violent clip shows Mr. Trump’s head superimposed on the body of a man opening fire inside the “Church of Fake News” on parishioners who have the faces of his critics or the logos of media organizations superimposed on their bodies. It appears to be an edited scene of a church massacre from the 2014 dark comedy film “Kingsman: The Secret Service.”

The disclosure that the video was played shows how Mr. Trump’s anti-media language has influenced his supporters and bled into their own propaganda. Mr. Trump has made attacks on the news media a mainstay of his presidency, and he tweeted a similar — but far less violent video — in 2017. In recent weeks as he has confronted impeachment proceedings, he has ramped up his attacks on the news media, repeatedly calling it the “enemy of the people.”

A person who attended the conference last week took a video of the clip on his phone and had an intermediary send it to a reporter for The Times. Parts of the video were posted on YouTube in 2018 by a user with a history of creating pro-Trump mash-ups.

The organizer of the event said in a statement on Sunday that the clip had been played at the conference, saying it was part of a “meme exhibit.” He denounced the video and said his organization was looking into how it was shown at the event.

“Content was submitted by third parties and was not associated with or endorsed by the conference in any official capacity,” said the organizer, Alex Phillips. “American Priority rejects all political violence and aims to promote a healthy dialogue about the preservation of free speech. This matter is under review.”

Organizers declined to say exactly where at Mr. Trump’s resort the video was shown.

A person close to Mr. Trump’s son said he was unaware that the video had been played at the conference. Ms. Sanders said she was unaware of the video’s existence until a Times reporter contacted her.

“I was there to speak at a prayer breakfast, where I spoke about unity and bringing the country together,” Ms. Sanders said. “I wasn’t aware of any video, nor do I support violence of any kind against anyone.”

A spokesman for Mr. Trump’s campaign said he knew nothing about the video.

“That video was not produced by the campaign, and we do not condone violence,” said Tim Murtaugh, the spokesman.

A DeSantis spokeswoman did not respond to an email seeking comment.

The video depicts a scene inside the “Church of Fake News,” where parishioners rise as Mr. Trump — dressed in a black pinstripe suit and tie — walks down the aisle. Many parishioners’ faces have been replaced with the logos of news media organizations, including PBS, NPR, Politico, The Washington Post and NBC.

Mr. Trump stops in the middle of the church, pulls a gun out of his suit jacket pocket and begins a graphic rampage. As the parishioners try to flee, the president fires at them. He shoots Black Lives Matter in the head, and also shoots Vice News.

Some of those in the church try to apprehend Mr. Trump. He fends them off and makes his way toward the altar, knocking over several pews. He wrestles a parishioner with a Vice News logo as a face to the ground and then shoots the person at point blank range. In the background, the former F.B.I. director, James B. Comey, is seen trying to get away.

From there, Mr. Trump attacks a range of his critics. He strikes the late Arizona senator John McCain in the back of the neck. He hits the television personality Rosie O’Donnell in the face and then stabs her in the head. He strikes Representative Maxine Waters, Democrat of California. He lights the head of Senator Bernie Sanders, a Democratic presidential rival, on fire.

He takes Senator Mitt Romney, Republican of Utah, hostage before throwing him to the ground. Then he strikes former President Barack Obama in the back and throws him against a wall.

Others shown in the video include Mika Brzezinski of MSNBC; former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton; former President Bill Clinton; the film producer Harvey Weinstein; and Representative Adam B. Schiff, the California Democrat who as chairman of the House Intelligence Committee is overseeing an impeachment inquiry of Mr. Trump.

The clip ends with Mr. Trump putting a stake into the head of a person with a CNN logo for a face. Mr. Trump then stands on the altar, admiring his rampage, and smiles.

The video is similar in style to one Mr. Trump tweeted in July 2017, in which he is shown at a wrestling match body slamming CNN’s logo and beating it up. The president was roundly criticized for encouraging violence against journalists by posting that clip, but his supporters enjoyed it, and helped make the tweet viral.

Throughout his 2016 campaign and presidency, Mr. Trump has sought to demonize the news media, partly out of frustration about the coverage of his administration and partly because he likes to have an opponent to target. Mr. Trump has also sought to undermine confidence in the mainstream media, some of his advisers acknowledge privately, to make people doubt the accuracy of less favorable accounts of what goes on in his administration.

The president said at a rally on Friday that there was an “unholy alliance of corrupt Democrat politicians, deep-state bureaucrats and the fake news media.”

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legobiwan · 6 years

Note

If you're still in need/want of prompts - "The Republic is dead, Senator. Picking fights with those who lawfully chose to leave? Endorsing slavery in the name of self-preservation? The Republic has been dead a long time. You're just only now noticing the corpse." I'd personally love a bitter Obi-Wan flinging these words at someone, but make of it what you will. ;)

Man, I had to think about this one because I didn’t want to go the old “Obi-wan is turning” route. At least, not exactly. Then I had one idea that involved Anakin and Ahsoka and it just didn’t…work (after 1300 words *sobsobsob*) but then this kind of fell out of my fingers after abandoning the other idea….

———-

“What do I think Dooku would say?” Obi-wan’s voice jumped an octave at the unexpected question. “I beg your pardon, but why should I, or any other Jedi for that matter, be an expert on the Count’s deviant psychology?”

“Well, Master Kenobi, first of all, I assume that you and the Council have studied this as a way of ensuring it won’t happen again. And furthermore, you are of his teaching lineage, are you not?”

Obi-wan scowled. How in all the Corellian hells had the journalist discovered that information?

It wasn’t that the Jedi histories were a secret, per se, but neither did the Order go out of their way to publicize their inner workings. Most non-Jedi had to petition the “Archivist Liaison to the Republic” to access all but a few pre-approved records and histories. And while it was no secret that Obi-wan Kenobi had been the student of Qui-gon Jinn, his connection to Dooku was a fact that surprised many even within the Jedi Order itself.

“So is Master Yoda, but I don’t see you asking him this question,” Obi-wan shot back, cursing his lack of control. This was supposed to be a public relations assignment, a way to make the Jedi more approachable, to assure the people that they weren’t a rogue organization of deadly mages with laser swords bent on governmental control.

Not for the first time that afternoon, he thanked the Force this wasn’t on camera.

“Now, now, Master Kenobi, I’m sure Mr. Khlarven meant no disrespect. But, as a representative of one of the systems that was ravaged by Separatist invasion, I’m sure you understand many of us non-Jedi have certain…questions about the Count, considering the extent of the damage he and his extremist movement has done to the Republic and our constituents.”

Of course, not only had Obi-wan been railroaded into accepting this public relations assignment by the Council, but then the Senate had gone ahead and sent a representative from the Public Relations Committee to be present for the interview. And Zinn Paulness was not a being that held the Jedi in high esteem.

“What I’m trying to get at, Master Kenobi,” the young Rodian journalist interrupted, his lips pressed together in a tremulous frown, “is this. The people of the Republic want to know why. What baffles everyone, myself included, is why those who left would attack a legitimate government whose only goal was to take care of their people, and even more so, why a Jedi - who is above all, supposed to serve the Republic - would leave the Order and lead an insurgent organization.”

“Dooku isn’t a Jedi,” Obi-wan countered, his pulse picking up a few beats. He dearly wished someone else had been chosen for this - someone less high-profile, someone who hadn’t just returned from Mandalore, where his worst nightmares had sprung to life in horrifying, bloody spectacle; someone who wasn’t tiptoeing around his former Padawan because he still held a grudge over an ill-conceived mission that involved his temporary death and an endless mountain of lies and deceits he could, even now, barely find his way out of.

No, anyone would have been better than Obi-wan Kenobi for this assignment.

But he couldn’t say so. He couldn’t even tell the Council what had happened with Maul, as he officially had never gone to give unauthorized aid. Couldn’t beg them to do something about Anakin, about his own feelings regarding the Hardeen debacle as that would be attachment.

And so Obi-wan Kenobi pulled his shields tight around his Force presence, banishing any misguided, indulgent thoughts of resenment, of revenge, of strangling the other two occupants of the room.

Breathe in, breathe out. Release it all into the Force.

“But Dooku was a Jedi. What’s to stop another Jedi from doing the same? How do we know that the mindset which festered in the traitor is not pervasive inside your very Temple? Already, there are representatives in our own government who feel that the Republic is failing, that our Supreme Chancellor requires oppressive oversight even as he works tirelessly to maintain the foundations of our democracy,” the journalist pressed, eyes shining with the zeal of one who has only recently discovered “the Truth.”

To put it lightly, The Republic Weekly was not known for being the most liberal of holonews sources. Undoubtedly this was exactly why Yoda and Mace had agreed to this sham of an interview, the contents of which were causing Obi-wan’s teeth to itch. This was supposed to be a kind of diplomatic outreach to the more recalcitrant, hawkish portion of Coruscant’s populace, whose voices were gaining traction not only in public forums, but also in the lower branches of the pan-galactic government.

Personally, Obi-wan doubted this would do any good in the end. Transparency, at this point, would do nothing for the Jedi, as they would then be accused of covering up past ills, of rebranding in light of a more serious, hidden scandal. But not all Jedi duties, and not all Council duties, were made up of swinging a lightsaber and attending at faraway royal courts. Obi-wan detested this kind of gamesmanship, which was all the worse as he was also quite talented in it, leading to a number of unsavory assignments by the Council under the excuse of “ you’re our only hope.”

Obi-wan crossed one leg over the other, setting shin over knee. He played at the frayed edges of his leather boots, considering the best answer.

“Dooku,” he began after a moment, “was not a Jedi when he joined the Separatists. What happened between his leaving the Order and his resurgence as the leader of a rebel faction is unknown, even to us. I can assure you, as a member of the High Jedi Council, that we are loyal servants of the Republic, and will do everything in our power to restore peace and stability to the Republic at large.”

The words slid off Obi-wan’s tongue, oily and rancid. The Jedi swallowed, once, twice, raking teeth over tongue in an effort to wipe away the fetid residue of his statement. It wasn’t that he was lying, not really. The Jedi, officially and in accordance to Republic legislation dating back hundreds of years, served the Republic and were charged with acting in its best interest.

It was just that Obi-wan couldn’t quite reconcile that and the plights of so many systems whose calls for aid had gone unanswered, not out of necessity, but political expediency. (“Mandalore is a neutral system,” his own bitter voice taunted.) It was the fact that the clones, who he considered friends, were impressed into service, bred for war - not given any other choice for the often short and brutal lives they led. It was the fact that he had been called on to lie, to deceive, to hurt in the name of a government rife with corruption, whose representatives often cared more for their art collection than the well-being of thousands of sentients under their care. And the Jedi went along with this, with so many other wrongs, because they must.

“But what do you think, Master Obi-wan?” Senator Paulness asked. “After all, we feel the people have a right to know.”

What do I think? Images flashed across Obi-wan’s mind - Anakin, raising his lightsaber with deadly intent, avenging his Master’s death. Savage Oppress, hauling the limp corpse of the Toydarian king over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, red saber throwing a grotesque shadow over his too-familiar features. Satine, hovering inches off the ground, grasping at her throat, begging Obi-wan with her final words to stay true to his ideals, to not turn, before she was rammed through with an ancient weapon better left undiscovered.

What do I think? Crimson soaked his vision, red bleeding into blue. The world turning violet, then sanguineous, all brightness being sucked into the dark, gaping coagulation at the center of his chest.

What I think is that the Republic is *dead,* Senator. Picking fights with those who lawfully chose to leave? Endorsing slavery in the name of self-preservation? The Republic has been dead a long time. You’re just only now noticing the corpse.

“Master Kenobi?”

Reality crashed into his senses, endless darkness (endless power) giving way to the bright lights of the Senate office - the garish orange chairs, the insufferable journalist, whose wide, trembling eyes and white-knuckled grip indicated he believed he was half a second away from being Force choked to death.

Obi-wan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“My apologies, I was distracted for a moment,” he said, wiping beaded sweat off his brow with a shudder of his hand. “You were asking?” He gave the young Rodian the blandest, most polite smile he could muster.

“Um - about Dooku and his thoughts?” The boy’s voice squeaked at the last word of the question.

That he’s right, Obi-wan thought darkly. He shook his head. No, not right. Never right, just, it was…

Obi-wan sighed, pulling a hand over his face until it came to rest on his beard.

It was complicated. More so than the war, more so than the desires of a young, indoctrinated journalist landing his first big interview for what was essentially a propaganda machine of the Chancellor’s office; more so than the nearly palpable avarice and ill-will radiating from the dishonorable Senator leering at him with gleaming eyes.

Obi-wan took a grounding breath, centering himself in the Force, reaching out for the calm, cool peace that connected every living thing, the energy that was the foundation, the connective tissue of their very universe.

“I think, my friend, Dooku has more or less said enough about that himself in his rather verbose broadcasts. I could recommend a few of my favorites to you, if you would like,” Obi-wan replied with a wry smile.

The journalist twittered, twisting in his chair. “Ah, that’s why they call you the Negotiator, Master Kenobi,” he chuckled.

“Indeed,” replied Obi-wan, trying to not think about the fact that where he had sought the azure peace of the Unifying Force, he had only found a ragged, gaping void.

#angelqueen04 #hello there #ask legobiwan #writing #i am a little obsessed with the inner politics/pr battles with teh republic and the jedi #i love this crap #obi wan kenobi #gods all my extra characters are always rodian its jsut too easy #i need an non-human sentient! i say to myself #oh i know! a rodian!#hahahaha #oh boy #send prompts! send prompts!#now to get to part 3 of the qui gon lives au

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hotelconcierge · 6 years

Text

THE FALSE NEGATIVES

In The Company Of Men (1997) opens in an airport where two middle management guys have just arrived: a bespectacled seborrheic named Howard, and an ex-jock good ol’ boy named...Chad.

Howard walks out of the bathroom. He’s been hit, by a woman, just for asking the time—like, Mountain or Central. “Wait, wait. You're telling me about some sort of unprovoked assault here?” Chad says, “Did she give you the time at least?”

Howard doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even seem to recognize it as a joke. And therein lies the problem, for him and everyone else.

The two men are in town a few weeks to work at a branch office. They exchange complaints. This place blows. The job sucks. Coworkers are vultures. Can’t trust anyone. Howard just got dumped by his fiancée. Chad says he just got dumped too.

CHAD: I'm standing there, no note...not a “thanks for four years of a roof over my bleached-blonde head”...nothing. You know? And it comes to me...the truth. I do not give a shit, not about anybody. A family member, a job, none of it. I couldn't care less.

HOWARD: Geez.

CHAD: Don't get me wrong. We're pals.

HOWARD: Same college.

CHAD: Exactly, and that means something. But these other folks...You know, jump on while the going's good? No, that will not do.

“Circle the date on this one, big guy,” Chad says, “We keep playing along with this 'pick up the check,' 'can't a girl change her mind' crap...and we can't even tell a joke in the workplace? There's going to be hell to pay down the line, no doubt about it.”

They move to the hotel bar.

youtube

CHAD: I don't want to shock you. It's just a thought. It's the same crap we played in school, only better, because we get a payback on this messy relationship shit we're dealing with.

HOWARD: No, right, it's funny, it is. it's just...way out there.

CHAD: I think it would be refreshing, I really do...and very therapeutic coming off the women we just have.

HOWARD: Well, just for instance, who would it be?

CHAD: No idea. But she’s out there, I know it. Just waiting for us to find her.

Let’s start here.

They say guilt is omniscient; that doesn’t mean you can’t throw sand in its eyes. Unlike shame, guilt is universal, at some level everyone knows that violating the NAP makes you a dick. But suppose you like, really want to. How do you get from Crime and Punishment to Crimes and Misdemeanors?

The above scene is demonstrative. First, replace the human object with an idea. Hurting an innocent woman is obviously evil—plus, why would you do that? Women are soft, thoughtful, have nice voices, etc. But hurting “women” in general? “Women,” who smile right past you and say “that’s so funny!” instead of laughing and sing along to vapid breakup songs like they could ever know the pain of a sensitive incel? God knows “they” want to hurt “men.”

Second, remove the subject: you aren’t going to do anything. A passive process, inevitable given the laws of thermodynamics, is going to occur. You remember that one scene in Glengarry Glen Ross? “Somebody should stand up and strike back. Somebody should do something to them.” Deus vult.

But that explanation doesn’t do justice to Chad’s cunning. He alternates between 1) “big guy”-ing Howard re: office politics and romantic troubles, and 2) brutal, frequent, almost compulsive misogyny. These are twin strategies in the same campaign. When Chad says, “some corn-fed bitch who'd mess her pants if you sharpen a pencil for her,” Howard gives a single snort of laughter. I know that one. It’s a social laugh, slave morality coming straight from the spinal cord, brain playing catch-up, “oh, it’s funny because it was a joke.” Like all the nice construction workers asking ladies to smile, Chad wants to be a friend. It would be rude not to laugh at the joke of a friend. But when your ego endorses a perspective your superego rejects, you build up a debt of guilt. The heavier your debt, the more you have to borrow from the abstraction of ideal over real. The more you suspend judgment, the more you have to rely on the judgment of others. The more crimes you share with an accomplice, the deeper you enmesh yourself in conspiracy. So a few hours later and a little drunk:

HOWARD: What'd she say?

CHAD: "I don't trust anything that bleeds for a week and doesn't die."

(Both laugh)

CHAD: So you in?

HOWARD: Aw, shit man...yeah, I’m in.

CHAD: Alright, let’s do it. Let’s hurt somebody.

Somebody shows up the next day.

The object is a deaf woman named Christine. Reads lips, self-conscious about this so wears headphones so coworkers will have to attract her attention. A copy-editor or something, 90 words per minute. Brunette and pale, short hair, slender neck, narrow frame, Améliesexual, Forever 21.

When a male coworker informs Chad of her disability, Chad does an imitation “dolphin voice” and gets a big laugh. Then he goes and introduces himself.

CHAD: You're new here, aren't you? Don't be embarrassed. We're all new sometime, right? (Pause) That's a lovely blouse.

“A, E, I, O, U and sometimes Y is like the Holy Grail to this poor wretch,” Chad tells Howard. Howard, sitting down to urinate, gives an ambiguous response. Chad: “You're not pussing out on this, are you, Howie?”

HOWARD: All I mean is, I think everything's a business, whatever you go into. Your typing there or my opportunity directing this project. Doesn't matter. Every walk of life's an industry...from child care right on up.

HOWARD: So, on a personal level, that's what I'm doing here. I was walking by, saw you, figured, "What the hell," you know? You probably have a boyfriend, but you gotta take your chance, right? And who knows? It might turn out to be mutually advantageous. So, that's really just a long-winded way of saying...I'd like to go out sometime. Maybe get a drink? My name's Howard, by the way. I'm free this weekend.

Act III shows the two Lotharios in parallel. Howard’s dating sim begins with a motorized tour cart ride at the zoo. Howard arrives late, blames this on having to “ream out” some employees, has to define “ream,” clarifies that, no, you don’t have to feel bad for them, like, it was no big deal. Then he backtracks and admits he was lying—none of that happened, he ran back to the hotel to change his shirt. “I get so used to saying what I think people want to hear...I forget they might just want the truth sometimes,” Howard says. “It’s all right,” Christine says, “Just remember: I can't hear you when you're lying.”

Cut to:

CHAD: I have to face this. My job ends here in a few weeks, and...I want you to know that whatever you do is all right with me. I don't care about your dating other guys...and if we're apart for a while or...

CHAD: Well, I just want you to know that, whatever happens, I trust you. Okay? Oh, boy, this is really hard. I like you. There, I said it. It's out. I'll eat better now. It's true. I look at you, and I see...good, nice, kind. I am very happy with you, and I want our relationship—you feel this could be a relationship, right? I want to nurture it and just see us blossom.

Christine then proceeds to eyelash flutter like Chad said he cried listening to Carrie & Lowell. We have the power of camera angles, but even without them—this is so, so, so obviously bullshit, right? Like a Markov chatbot trying to simulate “boyfriend”? But hold up. Under oath: can you point out the lie?

Chad’s branch office job does end in a few weeks. He really does see Christine as good/nice/kind, trusts her, doesn’t care if she dates other guys, wants the relationship to blossom (at least in the short term). Contrast with Howard’s “ream out” anecdote, which, objectively: Fake News, Not An Argument, Myth Busted. And yet if Howard hadn’t confessed the plot would have moved on without a missed beat—to you, the viewer, it rings exaggerated, but not intuitively false.

And you’d be right, because truth cannot be extracted from individual words. Here’s the 2x2 for all y’all Ribbonfarmers: factual-truth = math; factual-lie = lie of omission; counterfactual-truth = metaphor; counterfactual-lie = I’ve got a bridge to sell you. I’m not pulling a po-mo fast one. Objective truth is great, it gave us Youtube and stuff. But words are imprecise no matter how many footnotes: since they compress preverbal desire, they always contain a lie of omission. And metaphors, though annotated with “citation needed, does not actually look like a summer’s day,” sometimes reveal crucial and unspeakable truths about the algorithm that creates them.

Point: lies cannot be proved or disproved by geometry. Counterpoint: still, being lied to is a distinct subjective experience. Example: when a minor fall to major lift makes you spit rage, it’s never because the song is particularly bad, no one actually enjoys math rock but no one gets mad at it either. The anger is instead a response to perceived manipulation. People get mad at rap/country/Bieber because these genres lean heavily on identity; the artist is, from the first guitar twang/phat beat/“baby,” trying to convince you of something about him/her/yourself. “Well, doesn’t everyone do that?” Extremely duh, but note that if you accept the artist’s claim as true or false then the nausea doesn’t occur. You can’t be manipulated if you’ve made up your mind, a sufficiently bad lie stops being one, see also, camp.

That’s the horror of the middle-place: if you just let yourself slide, if you just stopped being you, you would like it. Times Square neon makes me vomit blood but Casablanca is charming despite the same level of weapons-grade ideology. The former might persuade me to drink Suntory, the latter has zero chance of getting me to enter World War II. The propaganda of the past—the art of the past—will always be better than that of the present, not just because of selection bias but because it doesn’t feel manipulative, and it doesn’t feel manipulative because it’s not talking to you.

Ergo: we feel lied to = when we can tell + that we are being told + what we want to hear. And this is why Howard’s anecdote doesn’t feel like a lie: it wasn’t. Sure, the words were bullshit, and maybe he fooled Christine, but what he communicated to you—“I want to be seen as a man despite my multiple and obvious failings”—was 100% genuine.

Why can’t Howard tell a fib? One possibility is that he learned about girls from hentai and Roosh V and so thinks that women are attracted to toughness rather than the conquest of toughness. But more likely is that he doesn’t want to: he’s more interested in having Christine see him a certain way than in giving the Good End answers. So Howard, like you, tries to work Million Dollar Extreme references into his Tinder convos, which makes him a narcissist and a tool but not a liar. Proof of the pudding is that it doesn’t work.

Contra Chad: how come it’s so obvious that he’s lying? But of course: the words weren’t meant for you. Chad has self, not self-image, and so no compunctions about roleplaying to get what he wants. For us, his dialogue falls in an uncanny valley. But if you’re the target audience...

“Did she give you the time at least?” Howard never laughs at Chad’s deadpan because it’s too on the nose, it’s exactly what a friend should say, fact check = TRUE, bleep bloop. Howard social-laughs at Chad’s misogyny because it’s so absurd, he must be joking, fact check = FALSE, bzzzt. Christine makes the same mistake: Chad speaks the language of romance, she agrees to see him as such, and she stops asking questions. They outsource their superego to the etiquette of conversation, and who can blame them, their fantasies are coming true. Only you have the outside view, or so it seems: perfect etiquette masking irony, irony masking anger, anger masking unspeakable sociopathy: that even the anger is fake. But if you see that, then he was talking to you, that was the whole point, to give a winking apology to a fellow conspirator—“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

And therein lies the problem, for you and everyone else.

In The Company of Men does not have a happy ending.

Chad sleeps with Christine. (“God, I am just so taken with you. I just...”) Howard sees them at lunch together and gets worried. He pulls some work levers to get Chad out of town, refurbishes his ex-fiancee’s ring, and invites her to dinner.

HOWARD: Maybe this isn't the perfect time...but I care about you, Christine. I want you to know I like you a lot. I need—I just don't want to lose you.

Christine cuts him off. She’s made a horrible mistake by letting things get this far: she’s in love with Chad.

CHRISTINE: It’s all my fault...You both should have known about this...When you don't date for a while...you wonder...if you're attractive...or interesting to someone. You let things get out of hand first chance you get. That's what I did.

Pause.

HOWARD: We did know.

“Chad? He doesn't like you. He loathes you. He detests you and your pathetic retard voice. That's what he calls it. Christine, you bought that shit?”

Christine freaks out and screams that’s not true, stop it, but Howard keeps going, spilling the beans about the game, apologizing and begging:

HOWARD: Can't you see I'm the good guy? I'm the good person here. I can't alter what we've done, and I'm a fuck...and a bastard and everything else on your list, but I'm here. I'm here, and I'm telling you...I love you.

He brings out the ring.

HOWARD: It's not a game to me anymore. Take it.

Christine doesn’t, and Howard promptly explodes that she’s “fucking handicapped,” “you think you can choose, men falling at your feet?” and so on.

The standard take on this type of (very common) story is that even though [beta male] loved [manic pixie] more than [Chad], the beta male’s complaisance to the patriarchy makes him “just as bad.” Fair enough, consequentialism ftw, but it’s suspicious that the narrator of these tales is often the beta male protagonist himself. No one self-flagellates unless they get off on it, and the above take hides an assumption: that (e.g.) Howard really was in love with Christine.

Was he? There’s no doubt he had some of the relevant chemicals floating around. Yet it’s very possible for abusers to love their victims and cheaters to love their cuckolded spouses. It’s very possible to love each and every other member of the orgy. Hell, I know some meditators who can connect with the astral rhythms of life itself—and they aren’t bullshitting, they really feel it. But drugs are cheap. What does your oxytocin rush mean for anyone besides you?

I’ll tell you why Howard thought that he was in love: he went through the motions. Just as Howard decided that Chad was his friend because that was the role he played, he decided that Christine was marriage material because...she was there. They had nothing in common, they had zero chemistry, but she was there. You gotta serve somebody. “I need—I just don’t want to lose you.” Love as manifest in the material plane requires sacrifice, is sacrifice, of opportunity if nothing else. Howard’s love is meaningless because it costs him nothing. Maybe Uber-Howard would still care about Christine, but not only is it impossible for Christine to know that, Howard himself doesn’t know. Power doesn’t corrupt, power reveals that you were corrupt all along. “Can’t you see I’m the good guy?” See what?

The next day, Howard gets demoted at work. Something went wrong with a fax machine and the copy came out too light; yeah, like a symbol. Chad sees Christine one last time. She confronts him. Chad tries to keep a straight face and then breaks out grinning: “Fuck it. Surprise.”

CHAD: So how does it feel? I mean right now. This instant. How do you feel inside, knowing what you know?

Christine slaps him and begins to sob.

A few days later, Howard shows up at Chad’s place. He’s distraught. Chad jokes around about the contest, then gestures to the other room, where his old girlfriend is sleeping in his king-sized bed. “What the hell? I mean, when did she crawl back?” Howard says. “She never left, Howie,” Chad says, “She’s always been right there.” “Then...why? Why, Chad?”

Good question. The first clue is when Howard runs into Chad and Christine on a date: “Howard and I have the same alma mater. He graduates a semester ahead of me, and now he's my boss,” Chad says, and for once the bitterness creeps in. The second is when Howard, blaming the higher-ups, sends Chad out of town:

CHAD: The real injustice here is if I could throw a curveball—you know, a really good one—just that, nothing else, no education, nothing—none of this would matter. Play in the big leagues for ten years, retire to Oahu.

Chad is handsome, confident, clever, and quite possibly a representation of The Great Deceiver himself. And yet, to get laid, Chad has to contort himself into a puppy. To get paid, he has to kiss ass to Windows 95 robots who wear beige and drink decaf. He spends the day humoring people who won’t acknowledge the joke—that if he could just play stupid arbitrary baseball, he wouldn’t have to. He’s powerless: no matter how well Chad tells his lies, the system determines the signifiers into which these lies fit.

But Howard—Howard believes in the system. He’s exactly the sort of person who created the phatics that Chad has to obey, who follows even the most vacuous rules with moral seriousness, clings to them all the harder as they turn him into a self-loathing nebbish. Chad’s revenge is to turn the rules against him, to show that no matter how oppressive social protocols get, they will always oppress Chad less, since he’ll say whatever bullshit is required while you’re stuttering your feelings on Whitman. The more checkboxes you demand checked, the more you favor the liar. Chad is bound by the rules of the game, but these rules are what gives him relative power: they make people trust him. “Because I could,” Chad says. “See you Monday.”

There’s a practical lesson here. Every day ambulances scream into the ED carrying young men who moan and complain that they are bedeviled by wine-loving dog moms, fluent in sarcasm, and yet for some reason they can’t get the time of day from those goth chicks who have tongues stuck out and eyes rolled up at all times. I’m not here to kinkshame, send pics if you’re a goth chick with your tongue stuck out and eyes rolled up at all times. But please be aware that lusting after a mannequin is a surefire way to get [extremely Taleb voice] fooled by randomness: the more detailed the script, the more you favor the actor.

I’m not saying you can’t have a type, but the person willing to sacrifice that last ounce of selfhood will always be closest to your 21st century ideal of bimboification. “There are smart women, but I don’t know many women with truly original ideas,” says the cerebral young man who needs four search operators to find adequate porn. Don’t worry—this process is dehumanizing for the fetishized person, but it’s dehumanizing in the other direction as well: only someone who doesn’t care what you think about them, about their real self, would consent to play a fake.

The problem with fetishization is that it prizes symbol above reality, and unfortunately for Christine, dating is systematized fetishization. Not a diss—this is how dating is supposed to work. If our intuition for love is inculcated by Disney, dating replaces the hero’s journey with its symbols: clothes and music as proxy for backstory; movie or pub crawl as proxy for adventure; astrology, Myers-Briggs, and 36 Questions as a proxy for intimacy. Dick pics and nudes test sexual potency without costing the two drink minimum, text and emoji idiosyncrasies reveal more about class and education than a brunch and a half. Dating is an attempt to economize romance, it’s unsurprising that the term was coined in the wake of the Industrial Revolution.

“You know that birds sing, right?” Sure, but nobody has any illusions about what the birds are looking for. I’m not knocking ritual, just ritual that pretends it’s something deeper. If milord sends milady twelve roses, a thoroughbred, a fiefdom, and a bard playing D’Angelo, this courtship is not taken as evidence of good character. It is judged on its own merits, i.e. this guy is either really interested or thirsty af.

This would be common sense except that every force in modern society is opposed to it. Since women are valued as approximations of fetish, they a) lose points for wearing the wrong symbols, and b) lose points if a partner doesn’t fit the brand. So now the first date Scantrons become radiant with their own fascination, because even if they have no meaning except “went through the motions,” everyone on Facebook is acting like they do, and “he seemed nice” is no excuse for dating a Trump supporter or a black guy. And now that privacy has moved public, the list of checkboxes lengthens as men try to gerrymander pussy (which again, always favors Chad) and Cosmopolitan feminists generate new metrics by which women can fall short.

These bureaucrats may have been hurt themselves, they may have the best of intentions. Perhaps that’s why their regulations are never phrased as hostile takeover. Instead, they take the form of advice, #lifehacks, and laugh-tracked satire at a third party’s expense. That’s how it always is, a friendly voice lends you a superego and all you have to do is pay interest on shame. The system wins when its values become your own.

However strong this force was historically, it’s stronger now that society consists of, let me check my phone, everyone. Just as metropolises are now made up of showrooms and gift shops, the demands of 7.442 billion potential tourists outweighing a pittance of locals, the citizens shape themselves into fungible, neon-dyed tchotchkes, while being tormented by the possibility that they have fallen short in this important moral task. The end-game of dating is the targeted ad.

Before you start in on “swipe culture,” let’s be clear: no one has met cute through friends since the second war in Iraq, and Tinder, whatever faults it may have, at least requires the sacred fumbling of getting to know a stranger. OKCupid is a better example of modern anti-romance, with its careful sorting of partners by politics and caste, with its swamp of information bias that disguises—encourages—lying on the internet. But of course a Yelped bar or bookstore offers the same anonymity, the same curated selection who respond to the same empty lines until you start to hate them for it, like how dare you force me to lie, how dare you be so predictable, and this weakness makes them human which isn’t what you wanted anyway. No doubt they feel the same.

If this sounds bad, it gets worse: the above process is directly responsible for the most modern misandry and misogyny. Please note that the Women Are From Venus stereotypes have largely disappeared, even among misogynists. Please further note that #blackpilled misogynists rarely objectify women; in fact many of these men intentionally desexualize the “female race” and substitute, say, male crossdressers. The catcalling misogyny of the past came from a position of power: internet death threat misogyny comes from desperation. The twist is that the same transition has occurred among women—that despite every metric claiming that women are better off than before, women have moved from Men Are From Mars to a nagging suspicion that anything with a phallus should die.

Why would both sexes feel more powerless? Not discussed in polite society, but heavily discussed by misogynists, is the apparent epidemic of transactional sex: paypig/findommes, camgirls, sugar babies, and omnipresent Amazon wishlists. Sorta kitschy, free country, whatever. I’m sure part of this is mere technological transition, the gyration of the strip club from analog to digital, and Kanye informs me that there have always been implicit gold digging arrangements. But think about what happens when these private arrangements go public. First, some guy starts to associate “hot girl” with “:P spoil me”, and FYI, anger and lust, both performed with a closed fist, are exactly zero degrees apart on the axis of masturbation. And now that our guy has this (maybe unconscious) association, women have to rise to the occasion, e.g. make snotty demands for Venmo donations, because even though this makes him howl with rage, if it’s not there, he assumes the girl’s not that hot.

Everyone loses: women learn that they have to put on an act to get attention, except that half of men think they should die for this act and the other half—even the ones looking for a Serious Relationship—seem to lose interest if it’s ever turned off. Meanwhile the guy grows increasingly lonely/desperate/bitter as he tautologizes that every single girl he likes is an “attention whore." Our guy doesn’t know who he is or what he wants outside of anger and its aesthetics. Maybe he’d hit it off great with one of those women; maybe he should choose a different set of superficialities to pursue; maybe people lie on the internet; regardless, OKCupid gives them a compatibility of 43%.

And meanwhile women are wondering the same thing: how can you know?

There’s one more crucial scene In The Company of Men. Howard arrives at an airport and sees Christine working at a desk. He walks over to her and says, “Listen.” She doesn’t respond. So he says it again, “Listen,” and again, and again, screaming now and—

—but what could he say? Even if his intentions were pure to the utmost, what could he possibly say or do that wouldn’t be perceived as an act? What could any man do that wouldn’t be perceived in the same way? “I asked her what time it was. You know, Mountain, Central.” No wonder she hit you.

This is how society arrives at an absence of faith. It’s no coincidence that Chad executed his scheme as a tourist: that meant there were no witnesses to his character. It’s no coincidence that he picked a nervous brown-eyed waif—someone with too much self-doubt to trust her instincts, someone who draped herself in the trappings of goodness, someone too inexperienced to know that perfect is always a trap. But Christine was chosen because she was deaf. She couldn’t hear voices, she could only see the words. Now the words are gone. The question is what remains.

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bleedingcoffee42 · 7 years

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Prompt: Beach

Drabble Prompt: Royai for #20: Beach

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“Can I get you a refill on your coffee?”

Roy tried to not appear too eager or look like he was staring at her, but having Riza hovering over him with a smile on his face made his heart beat faster and his mouth go dry. He looked up at her, bright beautiful brown eyes and a warm smile directed at him...yet not him. She didn't recognize him at all but he wasn't going to dwell on that. “Yes, please.”

She carefully poured another cup of coffee for her customer and then checked his cream and sugar to make sure he was well stocked. “What else can I get for you? Have you decided?”

He realized that he hadn't even looked at the menu yet. “Uh...”

“I'm sorry, I can't help but think you look familiar.” Riza studied his face as he looked up at her. He was cute...no he was downright gorgeous. This had to sound like some kind of pick up line, but she felt like she knew his face.

Roy's heart skipped a beat. Hoping that seeing him had brought back a rush of memories.

“Oh...you look like that guy in that movie.” Riza said and put the coffee pot down on the table as it was starting to get too hot to hold. “The Flame Alchemist movie.”

And Roy's heart sank. She was mistaking him for the actor who played him in that damned propaganda film?

“Have you seen it?” Riza asked. “I've seen it a few times, the special effects and story is are good.”

“I don't watch war movies.” Roy said simply. He should have been excited she was compelled to see that damned film, maybe she felt it was familiar in some way, but he just was heartbroken that she had no idea who he was.

Riza looked at him, specifically the uniform he was wearing. Oh god. He was a soldier and from the veterans she had serves here she knew that war movies were not something they watched for fun. “Oh...my god...I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to...”

“It's fine.” Roy said quickly and gave her a cheesy smile to brighten the mood. She must have mistook his expression for one of disgust with the notion of watching the film, not some damned actor being who she thought of when she saw Roy Mustang on screen. “I'd love to hear about it if you liked it that much. Perhaps when you get off work?”

Riza blushed. Sure customers asked her out a lot, but there was something about him that seemed genuine. Not like the gross older men who came by every day. “I'm afraid I'm not a great conversationalist.”

Roy tried to act casual, but he was nervous he'd scare her off and risk losing her again. He forced himself to smile despite his nerves. “I'm enjoying this conversation.”

She bit her lip. “Why, are you avoid work or something?”

He gave her a genuine smile. “We are allowed lunch breaks, you know.”

“Speaking of, are you going to order something or not?” She asked. “My boss is going to wonder why I'm not taking care of other customers.”

“Will you let me take you to lunch?” Roy asked. “Perhaps you can take a break? Looks like business is dying down a little.”

“It will be if I leave and go eat somewhere else.” She said and picked up her coffee pot.

She was getting ready to leave. Dammit. Roy quickly said, “I'll pay for the most expensive thing on the menu, your boss can keep the food. I'd very much like to try the food vendor over by the beach and would like to continue this conversation over where we aren't being watched and in danger of reprimand.”

“Well....”

Roy knew when he was going to be shot down, especially by her. He quickly added, “I have a dog. He had to stay outside and I hate leaving him out there.”

Riza paused and then looked through the window to see an adorable Shiba Inu with his paws on the glass staring in at her. She smiled. “I love dogs.”

Roy felt the warmth in his heart again and pulled his wallet out. He placed a handful of Cenz on the table and moved to drink his coffee quickly.

“Ok.” She said and wrote up a bill and took his money to put in the till. She took off her apron and walked over to he cafe owner, “Can I take a break?”

“Mmmm.” The owner said and looked the military officer up and down and grinned. A “Break”. “Sure. Will 15 minutes be enough?”

Riza huffed. She wished she could find a job somewhere else but that was hard without an ID or even knowledge of who she was. This place paid her under the table and she was at least able to afford to rent a small room and eat here for free. “I'll be back in 15.”

“Enjoy.”

Roy waited for her outside and Hayate was a bundle of energy, it was the first time he had seen his Mom in three months. Three months of Riza missing and finally Ed and Al had found her in this resort town. They had strict instructions to gather intel and report back to him and he was amazed they obeyed. Where Hawkeye was concerned they always obeyed. He turned as she came out of the cafe with her purse and a smile on her face. It was so good to see her again and before he could bask in the glow of her smile, Hayate stole her attention away.

“He's adorable!!” Riza said as she bent down and the black dog almost jumped in her arms. “Is he always so happy to meet new people?”

“He's a military dog...” Roy said softly as he watched Hayate jump up on Riza until she scooped him up in her arms and held him. The dog had waited by the door for her to come home for three months while he slept on the couch waiting to hear his tail thump as an announcement of her arrival. In the office, he sat by her desk and watched the door. Now he was acting like her puppy again and he was jealous that he was able to run up to her and nuzzle her like that. “He's usually well behaved.”

Riza smiled. “He's such a good boy!”

“His name is Black Hayate.” Roy couldn't help but smile. Hayate looked at him and just dared him to tell her to put him down. “Well, shall we get lunch?”

Riza felt the dog lean into her as she went to put him down and thought better of it. He seemed to be enjoying the attention and she doubted his owner carried him around everywhere so she took the opportunity to spoil him a little. They crossed the street and walked to the boardwalk where vendors were selling food. Once they were there she put him down and while she was petting him the gentleman she was dining with placed an order for both of them. She realized she knew the dogs name but not the man she was going on this lunch date with. She was slightly embarrassed by that but when she stood up to walk over to him, something caught her eye.

There had been instances where she would see something and it would cause her to focus on it and struggle to remember why she would find it important. She didn't know why that movie she kept going to see meant so much to her or why that man over on the bench made her feel tense. Since her arrival here three months ago she had struggled to find out who she was and if she was missed by someone, but had no choice other than to settle in to a temporary life to keep herself housed and fed. So when things struck a nerve she tried so damned hard to not get frustrated with herself for not understanding why.

However that man on the bench reading the newspaper....he was dangerous. She knew that somehow. She pick up the dog and walked over to the officer who she came here with. “I can't tell you why, but I think that man over on the bench is planning to do something bad and...we have to stop him.”

Roy put his food down and tried to not look in the man's direction. “What's he doing?”

“Watching.”

“Us?”

“No.” She said and looked at the suspicious man's eyes. He wasn't reading the paper, he was looking over it to the beach. “He's looking out at someone on the beach.”

Roy looked up and scanned the beach for familiar faces. Then he saw them, General Hakuro's family. Of course! Bald's gang never gave up going after the man and Hakuro's last vacation had been ruined so he replanned it. He picked up the food he bought and turned to Riza, even if she didn't know who she was she couldn't stop being herself. “Does it look like he has a gun?”

“I can't tell.” She said and looked under the bench. Her heart rate escalated. “He has a bomb!”

Roy dropped the food as Riza ran over to the bell on the boardwalk used to alert the lifeguards to drowning victims. This beach was popular, but many city dwellers had no experience swimming and often found themselves in trouble. Using local citizens to help spot struggling people saved a lot of lives. She struck the bell with one hand and held Hayate in the other, jumping to action without waiting on him.

“BOMB! Clear the Boardwalk! Clear the beach!! BOMB!”

Roy almost lost visual of her as people started to run everywhere, including their suspect. He was more concerned about clearing the area, getting them somewhere safe he could figure out a way to use alchemy to keep the impact of the bomb minimal. She ran over to her, grabbed her by the waist and they dashed towards a bathhouse as the bomb went off.

Riza's ears were ringing as her soldier threw her into the bathhouse. The building took the brunt of the explosion but tiles came loose and fell on top of them...no him. He was hunched over her, protecting her. She still held onto his dog until the debris stopped falling. Then he was up and spinning back towards the door, taking something out of his pocket. She set the dog down and tapped his shoulder and pointed to his gun. She needed it...and didn't even know why.

Roy handed it to her without question and put his gloves on. He held up a finger signifying she needed to wait on him and then pointed forward when the dust settled. Together the emerged from the bathhouse to a shattered boardwalk and utter devastation in the blast radius. He held his hand up, ready to attack if needed.

The gloves he wore....were from the movie. The Flame Alchemist movie. Was this guy for real or was he just a joke? No...his actions said he was real, this was not a situation anyone could easily play a part in. This wasn't an act. Riza looked around and saw the casualties. People walking by, some crying...some in shock and walking away with debris lodged in their bodies. She held up the gun and her hearing got better. This wasn't a situation anyone could play a part in, this wasn't an act for her either. She knew what to do. “We need a medic. We need to get these people help.”

“We need to make sure the area is cleared before we bring in first responders.” Roy said.

Riza tasted the sulfur in the air, from the bomb. She looked around and felt like this was familiar....not the location but the act of destruction. She looked at a man with a wood splinter from a bench in leg and didn't flinch. Then she looked at the gun she had in her hand and the man beside her who had given it to her like he knew her. “You know who I am.”

“Yes.” Roy replied.

“Am I good or bad?” She asked. This knowledge she had, the feelings he had when she saw something wrong about to happen....it could go either way. She had no idea what kind of person she was.

“It's not a movie, Riza. It's more complicated than the hero and the villain.” Roy said. “You're my hero though and we are trying to do some good in this world.”

She felt her hand shake a little. There was something in the way he said that that made her move closer to him, want to protect him. She felt safe by him. “Why are you here? To find me or that man?”

“To find you.” Roy said and they walked closer to the obliterated food cart where they were standing a few minutes earlier. Help was arriving. Local police and paramedics were filtering in. “You disappeared on a mission. You went undercover. I've been looking for you for three months.”

“Was I here to find this man with the bomb?”

“No.” Roy said and looked down at the empty beach and the people trying to help each other in the aftermath of this attack. “This event is entirely unrelated. You're over a hundred miles from where you should have been. “

“Who am I?”

“Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye.” Roy said and finally looked at her. “You're in that movie about me. The movie about the Flame Alchemist. The movie however is a load of propaganda and bullshit that is meant to glorify a war we were definitely not the good guys in and that movie has stirred up a lot of bad sentiments that had been laid to rest. So this attack, is one of many in this region.”

“What happened that I can't remember?” She asked.

“I don't know.” He whispered. “And I don't care because you're alive and back with me.”

“COLONEL!”

Roy sighed. It was like Ed was drawn to destruction like a magnet. He was running over to the boardwalk and about to interrupt them. “Yes Fullmetal?”

Ed and Al scampered up and stared at Hawkeye, afraid to ask. Ed finally just blurted out, “Can we do anything?”

“Did you chase after the bomber?”Roy asked.

“How the hell was I supposed to know there was a bomber?” Ed snapped.

“Did you offer to protect General Hakuro and his family?” was Roy's next question.

“What!? That idiot is taking another vacation in a town that hates him?” Ed put his hands on his hips. “Maybe you should let them have him, he's a horrible General.”

Roy sighed. “Help with the casualties.”

“I don't have medical training!” Ed replied.

“Lieutenant?” Al asked and touched Hawkeye's shoulder to signify he was addressing her. “Are you Ok?”

Riza nodded and wondered why there was a boy inside a suit of armor. Then she looked at the dewy eyes of the short one and to the dog sitting beside her. Who were these kids? “I don't remember anything. I'm sure it will pass. We need to help these people, there is nothing that can be done for me right now.”

“Roy!”

Roy cringed. Hughes was here. How was Hughes here?

“Yo! Roy!” Maes made his way over, though the destruction and past a few gurneys being rolled out with injured people. “Hakuro is safe. Armstrong got the bomber.”

“What are you doing here?” Roy hissed and Maes came up and smiled at him.

“Hakuro makes terrible decisions. I figured he'd end up the subject of another assassination attempt.” Maes shrugged. “How the hell that guy made general with such terrible situation awareness is beyond me.”

“I know, right?” Ed said and glanced over at Hawkeye who seemed interested and not annoyed. He was worried.

“Good to see you Lieutenant!” Hughes smiled at Hawkeye and she just gave him a weak smile. “You had these boys worried! I told them you could handle yourself, but you know them....”

“Hughes.” Roy hissed.

“Especially this one.” Maes wrapped his arm around his best friend. “So any memories coming back yet? Ed reported you didn't recognize him when you served him last week. That the hospital said you were found in a box car and listed you as a transient.”

“No....” Riza remembered waking up in the hospital, scared. She remembered this boy having a sandwich at the cafe last week.

“You should kiss her and see if she remembers that.” Hughes shoved Roy towards her. “Works in the fairy tales. I'm reading one to Elicia now that works just like that! Handsome prince kissing the sleeping princess....we cut out pictures of you two and glued them in her picture book.”

Riza blushed. There was no way this man could be real military. Then she looked at the expression on Roy's face and it said embarrassment. It said this was something he couldn't believe was being vocalized. She couldn't believe it either and felt....irritated.

Ed's jaw dropped and Al leaned over and nudged him. “I told you so. You owe me 500 cenz.”

“No way.” Ed said and threw his hands up. “There is no way the Lieutenant has such low standards.”

“Wanna bet?” Hughes asked and Al put out his hand.

“He already did and needs to pay up!” Al said.

Riza looked around, the boardwalk had been cleared of casualties and it was just them...having this highly inappropriate discussion in public. There was a General around somewhere. Suddenly her panic of how wrong and dangerous this was made her snap. “Gentleman, please remember where you are and how damaging this talk could be to the Colonel's career.”

“Oh?” Hughes said and put his hand against Roy's back to shove him closer to his protector. “Sure you don't need mouth memory resuscitation?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Colonel Hughes.” Riza said and glared at him. “You're out of line.”

Hughes ruffled up Roy's hair and then tugged on Ed's cape to make the kid follow him to the sidewalk where the police were gathering. Ed was stammering, trying to put together a sentence to ask if he was serious or if he was just pulling some psychological crap or....what the hell was that? Al lingered a second and then followed them, still asking to be paid.

Riza closed her eyes and then took a deep breath. Things were fuzzy, but she at least recognized the people in her life now. When she opened her eyes Roy was staring at her. “Sir, if you continue to look at me like that we're not going to be able to crush these rumors Hughes is spreading.”

“What does he know?” Roy said quietly. “He thinks you're the princess that needs to be kissed and saved and we both know you're the Queen who saves me.”

“Not helping.” She said and smiled at him. “I don't remember what happened to me....but at least I remember you. That's what's important.”

Roy smiled. She bent down to pick up her dog so he didn't step on any debris.

“I also remember my dog being ten pounds lighter.” She said and gave him disapproving look which was met with a smirk. “Stop feeding him steak.”

“Don't leave me unsupervised.” Roy said and smiled. “I'm willing to explore that kiss theory though.”

“I know you are.” She said and hugged her dog and hid her smile in his fur. “I want to see Elicia's book collection.”

“Fucking Hughes.” Roy sighed. “Push me to the top I told him, not push me on top of you.”

She laughed and put her dog down as they reached the sidewalk. It appeared casualties were minimal thanks to her clearing the area. The man with the splinter in his leg was walking. There were only a few bandages here and there and no ambulances had left to go to the hospital.

“You saved a lot of lives, Lieutenant.” Roy said loudly. “Well done.”

And things were back to normal.

#royai #drabble prompts #fic

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bountyofbeads · 5 years

Text

Macabre Video of Fake Trump Shooting Media and Critics Is Shown at His Resort https://www.nytimes.com/2019/10/13/us/politics/trump-video.html

Donald Trump and his minions have continued promoting violence against news organizations, journalists and politicians endangering their lives. SHAME. SHAME. SHAME.

Macabre Video of Fake Trump Shooting Media and Critics Is Shown at His Resort

By Michael S. Schmidt and Maggie Haberman | Published Oct. 13, 2019 Updated Oct. 14, 2019, 9:59 a.m. ET | New York Times | Posted October 14, 2019 10:20 AM ET |

WASHINGTON — A video depicting a macabre scene of a fake President Trump shooting, stabbing and brutally assaulting members of the news media and his political opponents was shown at a conference for his supporters at his Miami resort last week, according to footage obtained by The New York Times.

Stephanie Grisham, the White House press secretary, said on Twitter Monday that while Mr. Trump has not seen the video, “based upon everything he has heard, he strongly condemns” it.

Stephanie Grisham ✔@PressSec

Re: the video played over the weekend: The @POTUS @realDonaldTrump has not yet seen the video, he will see it shortly, but based upon everything he has heard, he strongly condemns this video.

8:26 AM - Oct 14, 2019

Organizers declined to say exactly where at Mr. Trump’s resort the video was shown.

A spokesman for Mr. Trump’s campaign said he knew nothing about the video.

“That video was not produced by the campaign, and we do not condone violence,” said Tim Murtaugh, the spokesman.

A DeSantis spokeswoman did not respond to an email seeking comment.

He takes Senator Mitt Romney, Republican of Utah, hostage before throwing him to the ground. Then he strikes former President Barack Obama in the back and throws him against a wall.

The clip ends with Mr. Trump putting a stake into the head of a person with a CNN logo for a face. Mr. Trump then stands on the altar, admiring his rampage, and smiles.

The president said at a rally on Friday that there was an “unholy alliance of corrupt Democrat politicians, deep-state bureaucrats and the fake news media.”

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