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gypsydanger01 · 4 years

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THE STORM - Part eleven

Fandom: The Boys (Amazon prime tv series)

Pairing: Black Noir x OC

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Boys, only my OC characters and certain pieces of au plot.

Comments, reviews, constructive criticism, and other requests are always more than welcome!

Posting new chapters on Wednesday and Friday!

Mallory

The following day started out cloudy but ultimately turned out to be a lovely day. Unfortunately, though, the pale sun in the sky gave little warmth, and Sarah trudged on towards the local park, hands stuffed in the pockets of her coat.

Waking up in a fairly good mood, she decided to go for a walk, and maybe make a trip to the local park. Children’s laughter grew louder and louder until she turned the corner, and there it was. To be honest, it wasn’t much of a park, run down and covered in graffiti, but children are quick to move past that. All that mattered to them was playing, running around, and having fun.

Sarah looked away and sat on a bench, legs crossed one over the other. She checked the time and flipped open the burner phone she kept for contacting Mallory. After five minutes, at precisely eleven o’clock, she selected the only registered number and called.

“Mommy, mommy, look—look at me, mommy,” a little girl called from the swings, her mother smiling and assuring that she, indeed, could see her.

It reminded Sarah so much of her younger self calling out to her mother, and it hurt. She'd visited the playground they used to go to before the Vought trials, but it had become abandoned, all grass and rusty edges. It was sad how it'd been left behind.

She waited for the other end to pick up.

“Hello?” a voice called out, and Sarah smiled lightly.

She paused and breathed out, “Hey Mal, how are you doing?”

Mallory chuckled on the other end, “Well these knees aren’t what they used to be, but I’m okay,” Sarah heard her plop onto the sofa, “More importantly, how are you?”

Sarah ran a hand through the curly tresses that had been blown into her face.

“I guess it’s decent, can’t really complain. I’m still working as a data analyst for the labs, in bioinformatics…,” she trailed off. “But I heard a slot is opening up for a researcher in the developmental biology labs, so I’m going to try and see if they’ll hire me.”

“Please, Sarah—just be careful, keep your eyes open,” she murmured, “always vigilant, alright?”

The young woman stared out at the children crawling over the playground’s castle, tumbling down the slides, running after each other and laughing out of pure, innocent joy.

“Where are you?”

“Neighborhood playground.”

“I thought I heard children. How’s school?”

“Well, actually well, I’ll be finished with my post doc soon enough. They hired me as an assistant professor a couple days ago, I’m teaching a microbiology class for some juniors.”

“That sounds interesting, it would be entertaining to see you teach. You’re a mix of patient and impatient—don’t really know what that would look like in the classroom.”

Sarah snorted lightly, “Fortunately, they seem to be good listeners, quiet and respectful—I don’t know what I’d do if they were a bunch of little arrogant rich kids.”

Mallory too started laughing, thinking back on the young woman’s training. She was proficient in using a great number of weapons and could easily hold her own without one. In an interrogation room, she was skillful in psychologically manipulating a suspect into confessing or giving up information. She spoke multiple languages and was a natural at reading body-language. She had a good eye for meaningful details that are often overlooked. She was the perfect field agent. Mallory had a hard time seeing her as a professor, calmly explaining a powerpoint to a bunch of students.

“I guess it’ll help you further develop that patience of yours,” Mallory surmised.

Sarah couldn’t help but agree.

“Hey, Mallory?” she asked tentatively.

The older woman stilled on the couch, “Yes dear?”

“Do you remember Dr. Roberts? The doctor I saw for my…” she trailed off, searching for a better word, “for my health problems?”

Mallory pursed her lips and stayed silent on the other end.

“I need to contact him—”

Mallory cut in, “What happened? Do you need to come home?”

Worry laced in her voice, the older woman couldn’t help the string of worst scenarios playing in her head. She knew the danger correlated with the young woman’s plan and felt helpless in being left out. If anything happened to the girl, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.

When the dust finally settled, there was nothing left but a crater and a little girl lying amid the smoke and ashes. That’s how they found her: curled in a ball, shivering with her skin covered in soot.

When the perimeter was deemed safe enough, Mallory and a team of experts approached the figure. Alive, yet on the brink of death, the little girl had slipped into a coma, and they were quick to have her internalized in a secured section of a local hospital. Only Mallory and few others had the security clearance to access the small room that held her.

Months passed and the room stayed quiet. Mallory went to gather updates from the doctors once a week. At the CIA they had many hypothesis but couldn’t seem to put together the disaster that had been the implosion of that Vought clinic. She had her underlying suspicions and didn’t trust the little girl who had survived. She had to be enhanced, she had to be a supe. There was no other explanation, no other alternative. And yet, she was the only link that would allow them to piece together the accident. The news had presented it as an explosion due to an accidental chemical explosion, but Mallory knew they were far from the truth.

It was an experimental factory for building little supes. And evidently, it had worked.

The proof of that was the little unknown girl lying in her white, pristine cot.

Mallory would look at her with detachment, knowing the child was probably a victim, and yet not feeling any remorse. She had leveled an entire building.

But then one day, as she watched a nurse report her vitals while tucking the little girl in, she opened her eyes. Afraid and trembling, she looked around wildly and fixated on the woman standing at the door.

With her height and professional attire, she was the epitome of rigidness. Blonde hair perfectly pinned back into a bun. Sharp light blue eyes guarded and alert. The two stared at each other, both with underlying dread and a sliver of fear.

And then something twisted in Mallory. Maybe it was the blatant fear in the young girls’ eyes, or maybe it was the innocent tears trailing down her cheeks.

“Where’s my mommy?”

Mallory moved forward, compelled by some unknown force.

She sat at the girl’s side, “She’s not here at the moment, okay?” she explained softly, tension visible in her rigid shoulders. She had no idea what the little one was capable of, and she didn’t want to find out.

The nurse gently took a hold of her bony wrist, taking her vitals once again. “How are you feeling?”

The little girl wiped at her face, “Sleepy.”

“Okay, and can you tell us your name sweetie?”

She looked up at the strict woman beside her, “Marianna,” she said matter-of-factly before adding, “my mommy calls me Mari.”

As the minutes passed, Mari seemed to grow livelier and more awake, her skin less pale and clammy than before.

The nurse pressed a button on the side of the bed, calling the assigned physician, Dr. Roberts.

“Marianna, I’m going to have to get a little bit of blood so we can have it tested and make sure you’re okay. Is that alright?”

The girl pulled her legs into a crisscrossed position and shrugged her shoulders.

“Okay,” she answered as if it were the most normal thing in the world. The nurse hurried to prepare the syringe and test tube, comparing her to the hundreds of kids who cry and scream in vicinity of a needle.

Marianna watched her sterilize the needle, then looked back at Mallory.

“Can I hold your hand?”

Mallory was left speechless and felt like she should distance herself before growing attached. Nevertheless, she nodded and let Marianna’s small fingers grip her own.

“Mallory?” Sarah called into the phone, suddenly worried.

The woman was brought out of her memories and focused on the task at hand.

“Why are you bringing this up now? I haven’t heard from Dr. Roberts in years.”

Sarah explained, reciting the story she’d come up with, “I know but I have some samples I took that need to be tested,” she explained. “Discreetly,” she stressed.

Mallory thought about it and let go of the tension in her shoulders, “Alright, I thought something happened with you.”

Sarah felt terrible for lying but couldn’t see any alternative. “No, I’m doing alright, I just need to contact him for these samples. I don’t know anyone else who would do it. And he’s trustworthy.”

Mallory nodded to herself, “Alright, I’ll look for his number and email—I’ll send you the info by tonight.”

“Great, thanks Mal.”

Mallory laughed lightly, “Please, you won’t let me get involved, this is the least I can do.”

They chatted for a few more minutes before saying their goodbyes with the usual promise of talking at the same time next Sunday.

Sarah stayed seated on the park bench for a little while longer, trying her best to recall details on Dr. Roberts. She’d met him only a few times at the hospital after she had woken up from the coma.

Mallory was seated on the edge of her cot, answering Marianna’s flood of questions. Mostly, she tried to avoid answering questions about her parents. Mallory’s heart squeezed tight every time the little one inquired about their whereabouts, and why they hadn’t still been to see her.

They were waiting for word on her final results, and when Dr. Roberts finally entered, they both fell silent.

“Good morning everyone,” he greeted, lively energy in his movements, “how are you doing today, Marianna?”

The little girl looked at Mallory and answered shyly, “M’okay”

“That sounds great,” he smiled, “I have your test results here and everything is looking good. Great, actually.”

He further explained certain details and made sure to indicate what medications she would need to take over the next few weeks.

Finally, he rose and excused himself to speak with Mallory. In the meantime, the little girl put on the clothes the woman had brought for her.

“She’s really doing fine, she must have some regenerative enhancement as well, because she’s healthier than what she should be.”

“And will the other enhancement manifest?”

“I don’t think so. It seems like it’s linked to the amygdala—the center for processing fear, stress, anxiety, and the likes—" he paused. “The accident took its toll, I think. And when she’ll remember, or you tell her, I think it’s going to effectively shut that part of her down.” He thought about it and added, “Think of it as an emotional wall.”

Mallory nodded, processing the information. The little one might have a chance at a semi-normal life.

“Just follow the instructions on the papers I gave you and you all should be fine. She just needs to be looked after and cared for. It’s going to be a shock when she finds out.”

Mallory agreed and her chest squeezed at the thought of the pain the girl would go through.

She thanked the doctor and headed back into the room.

“Are you ready to go, sweetie?”

She watched the little one scramble off the bed in fresh clothes, a small light blue backpack on her shoulders. It contained some items Mallory had brought her over the course of her stay at the clinic. There was a comb for her unruly hair, chap-stick, some crayons, and a small notebook.

“You remember what we talked about?”

The little girl nodded, “My name is Sarah now.”

Mallory smiled, her usually frigid expression melting away. She reminded her of her grandchildren at home.

“Come on, let’s go meet your new friends.”

Marianna, now officially named Sarah Burns, skipped along with her down a hallway and out of the building. As she climbed into the back of her car, Mallory scanned the premises for any watchful eyes. She slipped into the driver’s seat before looking back at Sarah.

“I was almost forgetting—I got you something,” she said reaching into her jacket pocket.

Sarah’s eyes widened at the Snickers bar she extracted. The little girl laughed and clapped her hands.

Sarah was pulled back into the present as a little girl ran past her—she felt the movement of air in waves. The woman stood and took her leave, heading back home.

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @ateliefloresdaprimaveraa @ellejo @dust-bun @coco724 @proximio-5 @damiminator @omegahighendpro @rpgluvr95 @sweetrabbitteamx

#the boys #the boys tv #black noir #the boys amazon #fanfiction #the boys season 2 #oc story #black noir x oc

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fleomae · 3 years

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MMS 194: JOURNAL

Beginning this journal with the ultimate art question of "What does art mean to you?"

I liked what Thomas McEvilley, professor of art history in Rice University said, "The last time I was in Houston, I went to a place called Media Center, where someone had set up posts as in a back yard with laundry hung all over. I immediately knew it was an artwork because of where it was. If I had seen it hanging in someone's yard, I would not have known whether it was art, though it might have been. It is art if it is called art, written about in an art magazine, exhibited in a museum or bought by a private collector.".

To continue with his point, "What's hard for people to accept is that issues of art are just as difficult as issues of molecular biology; you cannot expect to open up a page on molecular biology and understand it. This is the hard news about art that irritates the public. if people are going to be irritated by that, they just have to be irritated by that.".

Something I also find meaningful to this most asked question is perfectly worded by Arthur Danto from Art critic of The Nation, he says, "You can't say something's art or not art anymore. That's all finished. There used to be a time when you could pick out something perceptually the way you can recognize, say, tulips or giraffes. But the way things have evolved, art can look like anything, so you can't tell by looking. Criteria like the critic's good eye no longer apply. Art these days has very little to do with esthetic responses; it has more to do with intellectual responses. You have to project a hypothesis: Suppose it is a work of art? Then certain questions come into play -- what's it about, what does it mean, why was it made, when was it made and with respect to what social and artistic conversations does it make a contribution? If you get good answers to those questions, it's art. Otherwise it turned out just to be a hole in the ground."

And as a religious type of person I find this short saying from Robert Hughes striking. He says, "The Puritans thought of religious art as a form of idolatry, a luxury a distraction, morally questionable in its essence, compared to the written and spoken word.”.

From here you can see the art differences from Catholics, Orthodox, and the many many denominations of Protestantism. I guess growing up in the Philippines most art I experience is about the religious if not historical. It's always been my dream to visit France and Rome to come and see all the "art" people are identifying as but as society moves forward with nano technology, we can see many forms of Computational Art.

For example are the three below...

Digital illustrations, sounds cool right? Well, I was thinking of Digital Kinetic Art at first but I couldn't find an artist that purely does a digital version, so I had to look for other options until I finally found this amazing artist named Sean Charmatz. He was born on August 28, 1980, in San Diego, California. He is an animator of Spongebob Squarepants, LEGO Movie 2, and Trolls. He spent several years as a writer, artist, and storyboard director for the television show Nickelodeon. He also shared his digital art talents with the companies like Dreamworks and Disney.

He is making the mundane normal ordinary things as something worth looking at, with a story to portray from scratch!!! Looking into his art, I don't know if I have a bias reason because I grew up watching Spongebob and I really like the show and other types of cartoons too like "The Adventure Time", "Princess Sophia", "Barbie Movies", "Dora the Explorer", "The Amazing World of Gumball", and the like. It's something I find pleasurable as a younger child (actually until now, but I don't have the leisure time I used to have), and as I see his newest digital illustrations, I can't help but be in awe and smile with a childlike smirk. I might do something like this as he inspired me to make the mundane objects into something fun with a cool story to tell.

Especially now during pandemic, and everyone is asked to stay indoors and minimize social interactions at most. We should be creative to learn in entertaining ourselves and making the most of our everyday situations. He is truly inspiring, and maybe with the practice I'll do, I might be able to make cute short children's comics for the next generation.

Here are some of his recent digital illustrations,

Moving from visuals let's talk about our hearing, let's talk about Generative Music. Majority of my life I've been listening to Pop songs and classical ones, usually made the traditional way 100% human, learning about this algorithm or computer composed type of music is a bit odd for me because it feels technical and numbers complicated, in a way distant and out of touch. Computers are a recent invention by the human race, so we can understand why more and more innovations related to it are still growing everyday, a lot of people who doesn't see it's importance will be left behind and soon enough more and more generative music art will enter the music scene, digital divide will be inevitable.

This type of music scene is "experimental" as it's unknown to a lot of possibilities and very different from the traditional music producers and artists, we still don't know how will it click, is it a fad or here to stay? I'm not sure, but I think more types of sounds will be incorporated in music, specially in movies and other types of effects if it doesn't get popularity in the music industry.

Hatsune Miku, the first ever open-source singer is having popularity around people specially those who like anime and the things of its kind. Only this year I was able to discover this type of music scene and I never expected that Hatsune Miku Youtube music has millions and millions of viewers and subscribers. Music analysis software exists that can predict hits with increasing accuracy, and Google Labs have an ersatz neural network up and running that can make convincing music. Along with all the other jobs currently being destroyed by automation, it looks like the most human of all – music – is under threat.

To move forward let’s go back in 2017, I liked this guy from the College of Business Administration and he is one of those cool distant type of guy who gives this big mystery vibe, and what do you do when someone is mysterious? You stalk them online, so I did and that's how I found out about "hello poetry". I didn't know digital poetry actually has a term, a name but I knew it has a community online, which is cool because you can make an online library and records of all your poems easily accessible online if you're into this thing. I actually joined the platform "hello poetry" after reading a ton about my crush's online poems, in a way I was inspired. Once you join it's nice to see other poets about their works, what others are raving about, and sometimes judge inevitably although some are very beautiful others are also unconventionally short and seems like a tweet. This category of art can fall on art & literature which is something purely human, well as of now. Soon enough computers will be able to make their own poems, maybe there already is.

Here's a link to my first and only poem I published in the community, https://hellopoetry.com/fleomae/

#MMS194 artjournal computationalart #essay

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antecedentlypod · 3 years

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EPISODE 4 TRANSCRIPT

[OPENING MUSIC]

LORRIE

Fish is here today; gonna sit in while I read to make sure I’m like... drinking water and stuff? [a bit distantly] Say hi to the mic!

[FISH LAUGHS]

FISH

Huh? Oh--uh, hi! Um, I’m just kinda here to listen--if I’m paying attention. I’m probably going to be on my phone for most of it. But, um, if I do, I will provide some glowing commentary.

LORRIE

Ah yes, the noises of disgust and fear will be a lovely addition to the audiobook.

FISH

Well I mean, they’re, like, fairy tales, right? So, hopefully, there won’t be too much disgust if yo--Well okay I guess some of them are, like, pretty dark. But,[Lorrie snorts in the background] um, if I do have any gripes with it, it will provide a much-needed change of pace from whatever monotony this usually is.

LORRIE

Okay, well, rude, for one. And for two-- take one of “The Devil's Sooty Brother”, read by Lorrie Adams.

[SCENE CUT FOLLOWED BY FISH LAUGHING]

LORRIE (CONT)

[fond annoyance] Shut the fuck up. Shut up! Stop laughing!

FISH

[still laughing] I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It’s just--We’re on the fourth take and you keep messing up the same two words! I’m getting kinda concerned for you.

LORRIE

[splutters] Clearly you don’t appreciate that I’m dyslexic! It’s a--it’s a process!

FISH

Right, okay, sorry.

LORRIE

Take three of--

[SCENE CUT]

FISH

Mhm.

LORRIE

Fuck it--last take for the night. [Fish laughs] No--no! You stop that! You’re not helping with this process! Is there a specific reason you had to say that the devil’s brother was actually slutty and not sooty?

FISH

Well yeah because it sounded like you said “the devil’s slutty brother” which is like--objectively hilarious? And much better; so I think, legally, they need to change it.

LORRIE

[through giggles] Y'know what? Fuck it! This story is now called “The Devil’s Slutty Brother”. Literally everything else is the same, save for that one word.

FISH

UH, well how, uh, how much is the publishing company going to enjoy that? Are these for kids?

[LORRIE CUTS HER OFF WITH A GROAN]

LORRIE

I don’t, I don’t fucking know! But-- [sound of annoyance]. Take twelve of “The Devil’s Slutty Brother”, read by Lorrie Adams.

FISH

[through a laugh] Hey kids! [Lorrie begins to laugh] This is “The Devil’s Slutty Brother” Hope you like--hope you like it! Uh, fucking, Billie.

[LORRIE SHUSHES HER]

LORRIE

A discharged soldier—

FISH

[Cutting Lorrie off] After this we can throw the pigskin around!

LORRIE

Shut up!

FISH

Sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Okay, okay, go.

LORRIE (STORY)

A discharged soldier had nothing to live on and no longer knew what to do with his life.-

FISH

[in the background] Kin.

LORRIE (STORY)

-so he went out into the forest and after walking for a while, he met a little man who was actually the devil himself.

FISH

Most little men that I meet are actually the devil.

LORRIE

[through giggles] Not Danny DeVito!

FISH

Oh--I love Danny DeVito!

LORRIE (STORY)

I—[splutters]. “What’s the matter?” The little man said to him, “You look so gloomy.” “I’m hungry and have no money,” said the soldier. If you’re ho-

FISH

I really do kin this man. This man is me. This--This is a story about me. I am the devil’s slutty brother.

[BOTH LAUGH]

LORRIE (STORY)

[groans, but is amused] If you hire-

FISH

Maybe the real slutty brother was the friends we made along the way!

[BOTH LAUGH AGAIN]

LORRIE

Let me read the story! I’ve gotten like two paragraphs in!

FISH

I’m sorry, I’m sorry! But my commentary is just that good! I’m enhancing the experience! Whoever you send this to I am so sorry, get well soon.

LORRIE (STORY)

“If you hire yourself out to me and will be my servant,” The devil said, “You’ll have enough for the rest of your life but you’ve got to serve me for seven years, and after that, you will be free. There is just one other thing I’ve got to tell you. You’re not allowed to wash yourself, comb your hair, trim your beard, cut your nails or hair, or wipe your eyes”

LORRIE

That’s kinda gross.

FISH

Wha--wipe your eye--isn’t that when you get those fuckin little like crusty thi--oh no! How many, how many--seven years?

LORRIE

Seven years.-

FISH

Ew.

LORRIE

-In hell. Not even allowed to wipe the fuckin eye boogies out of his eyes.

FISH

I don’t that at-oh, ew--I don’t like that you call them eye boogies. Take that back right now. [lorrie laughs] Never speak to me again!

LORRIE (STORY)

“If that’s the way it must be then lets get on with it.” The soldier said and he went away with the little man, who led him straight to hell and told him what his chores were. He was to tend to the fires under the kettles in which the damned souls were sitting, sweep the house clean and carry the first out the door, and keep everything in order. However, he was never to peek into the kettles or things would go badly for him.

“I understand,” said the soldier. “I’ll take good care of everything.” So the old devil set out on his travels and the soldier began his duty. He put fuel in the fire, swept and carried the dirt out the door, and did everything just as he was ordered. When the old devil returned, he checked to see if everything had been done according to his instruction, nodded his approval, and went off again.

Now, for the first time, the soldier took a good look around hell. There were kettles all about and they were boiling and bubbling with tremendous fires underneath each one of them. He woul—

FISH

Can I make an educated guess; a prediction if you will. A hypothesis.

LORRIE

Go--go for it

FISH

He’s definitely gonna look in those pots. Is he gonna drink them? I don’t know what's in there but I hope he takes a--

LORRIE

[overlapping] I hope not! That sounds nasty!

FISH

Hope he takes a good long sip of whateher the fuck is in there [lorrie laughs quietlty] Maybe it’s like, um... I don’t think we’re allowed to mention Disney properties, nevermind [they laugh]

[LORRIE GROANS]

FISH (CONT)

I don’t wanna get sued.

LORRIE

Me neither!

LORRIE (STORY)

He would have given his life to know what was in them if the devil had not strictly forbidden it. Finally, he could no longer restrain himself; he lifted the lid of the first kettle a little and looked inside only to see his old sergeant-

[FISH GASPS]

FISH

[overlapping] I’m a genius!

LORRIE (STORY)

[are you done yet?] -sitting there.

LORRIE

It was— it was an obvious—

FISH

[overlapping] wait, what's sitting there?

LORRIE

-set up. It was an obvious set up.

FISH

yeah , yeah but--okay, shut up. I’m, no, I’m just smart. No, oh my god I’m like the children-

LORRIE

[overlapping] Okay, yes you’re a genius.

FISH

I’m like the children on Dora.

[LORRIE LAUGHS AND SHUSHES FISH]

LORRIE (STORY)

[triumphant] “Aha, you crumb!”

[FISH LAUGHS IN THE BACKGROUND]

LORRIE

[appalled] Wh-what the fuck does that mean?

FISH

[just as appalled] you what?? Wait, okay--what was in the pot?

LORRIE

Um, his old sergeant was sitting in the pot.

FISH

Oh, right, he’s a--he’s a soldier

LORRIE

He’s a soldier.

FISH

Okay th—

LORRIE (STORY)

[overlapping] Aha yo—

FISH

Is that an insult?

LORRIE

I... assume so? Given the context.

FISH

[overlapping] Wait, okay, hold up. Gimme a second I’m gonna look it up. You can keep reading. I'm just gonna interrupt and tell you what that means.

LORRIE (STORY)

“Aha, you crumb!” He said. “Fancy meeting you here. You used to step on me, but now I’ve got you under my foot.” He let the lid drop quickly, stirred the fire, and added fresh wood. After that, he moved to the second kettle, lifted the lid a little and peeked inside. There sat his lieutenant. “Aha you crumb!”

LORRIE

Why does he keep saying this?

FISH

Okay, ummmm, [lorrie hms] Apparently it means ‘a worthless person’

LORRIE

Oh.

FISH

Ouch.

LORRIE

Nasty.

FISH

Damn. He went for the throat on that one.

LORRIE (STORY)

[overlapping] “Aha you crumb times two!” He said, “Fancy meeting you here. You used to step on me but now I’ve got you under my foot.” He shut the lid again and added a little more log to the fire to make it really good and hot for him.

Now he wanted to see who was sitting in the third kettle, and it turned out to be his General.

LORRIE

Did these people just not treat him well? Jesus fuck.

FISH

[contemplative] I mean... I gue--well. [Lorrie snorts] Do you think that all sol--okay nevermind this isn’t gonna be a conversation we’re gonna have right now!

LORRIE

No, no, not right now.

FISH

I was like, that’s gonna get really dark. [she laughs]

LORRIE

Mmh, no!

LORRIE (STORY)

“Aha you crumb, times three! Fancy meeting you here, You used to step on me--step on me, but now I’ve got you under my foot.” He got out of bellows and pumped it until the fires of hell was blazing hot under him.

And so it was that he served out his seven years in hell. He never washed, comped himself, trimmed his beard, cut his nails or wiped his eyes. The seven years passed so quickly that he was convinced that only six months had gone by. When his time was completely up, the devil said; “Well Hans, what have you been doing all this time?”

“I’ve tended the fires under the kettles, and I’ve swept and carried the dirt out the door.”

“But you also peeked into the kettles. Well, you’re just lucky you added more wood into the fire because otherwise you would have forgot--forfeited your life.

LORRIE

Wow.

FISH

Oh, woah there.

LORRIE (STORY)

“Now, your time is up. Do you want to go back home?”

“Yes,” said the soldier, “I’d like to see how my father’s doing at home.”

“Alright, if you want your pro— [background noise]

LORRIE

[bewildered] Hello??

LORRIE (STORY)

“Alright, if you want to get your proper reward, you must go and fill your knapsack with the dirt you swept up and take it home with you; and you must also go unwashed and uncombed with long hair on your head and a long beard with uncut nails and with bleary eyes. And if anyone asks you where you’re coming from, you’ve got to say from hell. And if anyone asks—

FISH

[overlapping] He’s gotta smell like shit and look like Merlin.

LORRIE

Probably, after seven years? Like--fuck.

FISH

[overlapping] Yeah. [much quieter] Ew.

LORRIE (STORY)

“And if anyone asks where you’re coming from you’ve got to say from hell. And if anyone asks who you are, say ‘I am the devil’s slutty brother and my king is well.’

[FISH LAUGHS IN THE BACKGROUND, LORRIE LAUGHS SLIGHTLY AS HE CONTINUES]

LORRIE (STORY, CONT)

The soldier said nothing. Indeed, he carried out the devil’s instructions but he was not at all satisfied with the reward. As soon as he was out in the forest again, he took the knapsack and wanted to shake it out, but when he opened it he discovered that the dirt had turned into pure gold.

“Never in my life would I have imagined that,” said the soldier, who was delighted and went into the city. An in keeper wa—

FISH

[overlapping] wasn’t it like, um, [Lorrie hmms] to make--to make diamonds, don’t they compress like... some kinda rock or some shit?

LORRIE

I think it’s coal. I think they compress co--that might not be right.

FISH

So like... same dif, but with dirt an--nevermind, that's not how that works.

LORRIE

[decisively] Okay.

LORRIE (STORY)

An innkeeper was standing in front of his inn as Hans approached, and when he caught sight of Hans, the innkeeper was terrified because the soldier looked so dreadful, even more frightening than a scarecrow.

LORRIE

Scarecrows aren’t scary.

FISH

[in the background] I like scarecrows!

LORRIE

It’s not hard to be scarier than a scarecrow.

FISH

They’re friend shaped!

LORRIE

They are friend shaped--

FISH

[overlapping] I wanna give 'em a lil smooch.

LORRIE

[overlapping]--I agree.

LORRIE (STORY He called out to him and asked; “where are you coming from?”

“From hell!

“Who are you?”

“The devil’s slutty brother, and my king is well.” [Fish laughs] The innkeep did not want to let him inside, but when Hans showed him the gold he went and unlatched the door himself. Then hans ordered his—the best room and insisted on the finest service. He ate and drank his fill—

FISH

[chanting] I hate capitalists, I hate capitalists, I hate capitalists, I hate capitalists—

LORRIE

[amused] I—I know, I know. I know. I do too, it’s fine.

FISH

Consume the rich! Vore the rich!

LORRIE (STORY)

He ate and drank his fill, but did not wash or comb himself as the devil had instructed. Finally, he lay down to sleep but the innkeeper could not get the knapsack of gold out of his mind. Just the thought of it left him no peace. So, he crept into the room during the night and stole it. So when Hans got up—

FISH (BACKGROUND)

What a dick move.

LORRIE (STORY)

the next morning and went to pay the innkeeper before leaving, his knapsack was gone! [Lorrie and Fish both gasp loudly] However, he wasted no words and thought ‘it’s not your fault that this happened’, and he turned straight around and went straight back to hell, where he complained about his misfortune to the devil and asked for help.

“Sit down,” Said the devil, “I’m going to wash and comb you, trim your beard, cut your hair and nails and wash out your eyes.”

FISH

I was gonna say, really bold of him to complain about misfortune to Lucifer, but… [Lorrie begins to laugh in the background] He’s kinda a chill guy! It seems like he’s just vibin!

LORRIE

[overlapping] Uh, yeah he seems kinda cool!

FISH

He’s like “yeah, yeah I’ll give you money if you just, like, do some chores.” He’s basically my mom! [Lorrie snorts] And then he just gives him a little bath! Maybe they’re in love.

LORRIE

Yeah!

FISH

Oh—wait, no, they’re brothers. Is that incest? I mean I know they’re not like actually related but he calls himself his brother so question mark?

LORRIE

Okay, okay, we’re not going down this road.

FISH

[through giggles] I’m sorry!

LORRIE (STORY)

When he was finished with the soldier he gave him a knapsack full of dirt and said ; “Go there and tell the innkeeper to give you back your gold, otherwise I will come and fetch him, and he’ll have to tend the fires in your place.”

Hans went back up and said to the innkeeper “You stole my money, and if you don’t give it back you’ll go to hell in my place and look just as awful as I did.” The innkeeper gave him back the money and even more besides, then he begged him to be quiet about what had happened.

Now Hans was a rich man and set out on his way home, he bought himself a pair of rough linen overalls and wandered here and there playing music, for he had learned that from the Devil in hell.

LORRIE

Dude—Lucifer is just fucking vibing.

FISH

Yeah I’m really—I would maybe sign up to have- to be the devil's servant. He could give me some money and teach me how to play the fiddle, then I could go compete with a man in Georgia… [Lorrie snorts] And, I mean, all I would really have to deal with is looking like shit for a little bit but I already don’t take showers so it's fine!

LORRIE

We get it, you’re depressed.

FISH

[Through giggles] Shut up! Shut up!!

LORRIE (STORY)

Once he happened to play for an old king in a certain country and the king was so pleased that he promised Hans his oldest daughter’s hand in marriage. However, When he he—when she heard that she was supposed to marry a commoner in white overalls, she said “I’ll go drown myself in the deepest lake before I do that.” So the king gave Hans—

FISH

[overlapping] Nevermind, I kin this woman.

LORRIE (STORY)

[slowly and deliberately] His youngest daughter [A short pause followed by laughter] Who was willing to marry him out of love for her father.

FISH

[overlapping] Me too. I would rather drown myself than marry a man! Me too, queen!

[LORRIE AND FISH BOTH LAUGH]

LORRIE

Y’know what? That’s completely fair.

FISH

Yeah!

LORRIE (STORY)

So the devil’s slutty brother got the king's daughter, and when the old king died, he got the whole kingdom as well. [book page turns]

LORRIE

And that’s… the end of that.

FISH

That's the end?

LORRIE

That’s the—I guess he got a happy ending. Good for him.

FISH

I was expecting that to end in some kind of, like, horrifically karmic… I don’t know what the next word in that sentence was gonna be, but it was gonna be something. Um—

LORRIE

[overlapping] Retribution?

FISH

Retribution! There’s the word, thank you.

LORRIE

Yeah, of course.

FISH

Um, but—yeah! Honestly the devil just seems like a chill guy, I’m kinda down with him. Maybe he deserves rights. Also, since the beginning of this, like our commentary at the start of it I have been imagining him as Danny DeVito. So, [Lorrie laughs] I think that impacted how much I liked him.

LORRIE

Lucifer is now Danny DeVito. But, I am going to have to re-record this properly again later! But, y’know, this was really fun, I… I wanna do this more.

FISH

Awe! Sap.

LORRIE

[splutters] Sh-Shut up! I do need to read one more story today, so shoo Fishy! I need a proper recording space to get into the zone for it.

FISH

[playful mocking] oooohh… the zone.

LORRIE

[long-suffering sigh] sush!

FISH

Fucking lame, you’re such a dork. Okay, um, I mean I was having a good time.

LORRIE

Shoo, shoo, be gone, thot.

[FISH SCOFFS]

FISH

I’m not the devil’s brother. [Lorrie snorts] Okay, um, I will see you later, have fun.

LORRIE

Love you, bye.

FISH

Yeah, whatever.

LORRIE

[more tired sounding than before] Alright, [he clears his throat] This next story is [pages turning] where the fuck is it? [more page turning] A Tale of Parch and Flesh, take one-

[SCENE CUT]

Take six, A Tale of Parch and Flesh-

LORRIE (STORY)

Once upon a time, in a world of dust and nothing, there was war. Where once there had been great kingdoms, stood tall and proud with their many flags and castles, you will find a wasteland should you be unlucky enough to stumble upon it. It is all unforgiving heat and torrential downpours of dirt and waste, spurred on by humid wind. In this nuclear nation of ours, where we few left, are worth nothing more than the roaches that flood the streets. In the distance, rusted trumpets can be heard going through the notes of a tired battle cry, footsteps to the beat of angry drums and a choir of shots and shouts for as long as they stay distant anyway.

There are bodies strewn across this desert floor, almost fit to cover the sand completely. Those who brave going outside to step around, and between the stiffs on tiptoes, perhaps for fear that one might reach out and grab them. Or that they might join that carpet of corpses and rot. But folks like us? We stay inside, we fiddle with the buttons on the radio, sorting through static for the couple of stations left. One plays music we are too young to recognize, and the other queues up to our king. He is old, and greying, and tired; in a tower that hardly stands, and he is speaking into a busted microphone.

“It’s alright,” He tells us, “There is nothing to worry about.”

He says that war is just a word the enemy has invented to threaten us, that our kingdom will, of course, prevail. That he has sent his army out to protect us, that they are fighting nobly for a just cause. Those who would have known that cause by name died out long before you and I. There is no justice here. There is nothing but gore and the endless marching of mindless flesh. The dust fills our lungs, but can not state our stomachs, so we feed on roach and rodent, and each other as I’ve heard on occasion. Mothers pat their weeping children’s heads, hushing them through the thunder of bombs and anguished screams.

“It’s alright,” they say, “There is nothing to worry about.”

What a curse, I think, to bring a child into a place like this. One where they will know nothing but a desolate world full of desperate people. Now picture with me, reader, that you are on the front lines; you can feel the sun baking you through, can nearly feel your blood boiling beneath it. This is not what you signed up for. Your uniform is heavy and hot, and you can not tell if what cakes your face is paint, dirt, or the blood of the men you’ve gunned down. Your eyes are just as heavy, if not more, for you have not met sleep. You crawl, and you hide, and you cower. And you stay so quiet you sometimes forget to breathe, because maybe if you make yourself silent—make yourself small enough—you will simply cease to be. You are granted no such mercy.

When it is not hot, it is colder than anything, and you feel it in the core of you. From your weary feet to the unkempt hair under your helmet, you look around for solidarity from the soldiers at your side, but they stare ahead and do not blink and say nothing, like memorial statues in the making. You can’t recall if you’ve ever heard anything from them but cries to move, move, move. In fact, you can’t even remember their names, but you suppose you’ll read them on the plaques

You stare at the fox hole massive route and rock in front of you and watch the growing hive of bugs in and in and in, and not come back out. Your leader parrots the words of your king; you are fighting a just cause, you are doing what needs to be done. There are people to defend and a nation to make a name for. Those who stare down the barrel of your gun are not men, but beasts who must be tamed or put down. But you looked him in the eye when you shot, and he looked just like you. So,” I’m sorry,” you say, but only one of you can make it out of this place and you’ve been here too long for it to not be you.

And that's what you don’t know; that there is no out. There is hardly a before, and there will not be an after. All your feet know is how to step into line, your helmet has become a shell, whatever is packed on your face has dug its way into your pores beneath your skin and has made a home there. The medals and pins on your chest seem to pierce straight through your skin, and the dirt and dust in your lungs belongs there just as much as your blood and bone. Have your ears ever known not to ring? Have you ever spoken and felt your throat not to be hoarse? Are you any less a beast than those which you end?

But you are not on the front lines, are you? No. And you are nut huddled with me behind a rusted door, or letting your shaking mother smother your fries with false reassurances. You are safe in bed, perhaps driving to work, sitting at your desk finishing your dinner. But you have been brought into a desolate world full of desperate people, and it is not alright.

The end.

LORRIE

[struggling to find the right words] That was… unsettling. These stories just seem to get more and more and more unsettling as time goes on! Not to mention the headaches I’ve been getting while reading them. Like—what kind of story would be giving you a migraine! They’re all different stories, y’know, so it’s just a matter of—I dunno. Maybe my eyes are just getting tired or something. Maybe I’m getting sick too. Fish and I have both been feeling under the weather.

But… I think I should invest in some reading glasses. End recording.

[CLOSING MUSIC]

#antecedently #antecedentlypod #antecedently podcast #antecedently transcripts

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olympiansrpg1-blog · 7 years

Photo

BASICS

Name: Sebastian Alexander Montgomery Age: 32 Affiliation: Titans Occupation: Consigliere Faceclaim: Cillian Murphy Status: TAKEN by Jay

THE STORY

They call you Iapetus. You were born into wealth, raised for perfection, though all you really remember from your childhood is how badly your toes had hurt in those hard, leather shoes your mother had forced you to wear, the rough taps on your back reminding you to keep it straight. You still remember the day you broke - watching your mother’s body at the end of the staircase and belatedly realizing that it was you who’d pushed her. You don’t remember much after that, after you grabbed what you could and disappeared, barely leaving a trail behind and making a living selling weapons you created on the black market (you’ve always been brilliant at it, after all). But even you couldn’t hide behind anonymity forever - not when you began dealing with Atlas and they’d seen through your mask and recognized your brilliance. It’s strange, the way things have worked out, but you know this is exactly where you belong.

CONNECTIONS

ATLAS - People have always appreciated your mind, but no one has truly adored your madness as Atlas has. And you rarely trust people, because most people aren’t worth your time, but you’ve been around Atlas long enough to know they’ve got what it takes. It’s a mutual respect that’s shared between the two of you, and you do genuinely want them to succeed. For now.

CHIMERA - Chimera’s been with you for years - you found them bleeding out, beat nearly to death on the streets some years ago, and though you’d never believed in empathy, you took Chimera into your home and cared for them. They’re someone who’s wholly yours, someone who knows the real you. Someone who also happens to be your only weakness.

HEPHAESTUS - You do not like competition, and you hate seeing someone who is smaller than you, weaker than you try to outshine you. Hephaestus may be a local favorite, but they’re still inexperienced compared to you, still young and naive. It’s your ego getting the better of you again, but you can’t help but feel a little irritated every time their name is mentioned.

SUGGESTED FACECLAIMS

Mahershala Ali, Cillian Murphy, Ahn Jae Hyun, Jada Pinkett-Smith, Eva Green, Sarah Paulson

BIOGRAPHY

Trigger warnings: blood, death, homophobia.

Porcelain.

In your suit and your shoes with your hair slicked too tightly to your skull, your mother tells you that you look just like a porcelain doll. It is not affectionate, merely a statement of fact – you take it as affection, because for you, you take everything you can get. Perhaps it makes you naïve, but you can’t be bothered. She is your mother, with dark hair and sharp, pale eyes, and each cold look she casts your way warms your little heart because you don’t know any better. You believe this is affection. You have to.

You don’t know where your father is. You have never known him, never known the bite of strict reprimand spat through a thick moustache, or the comfort of a broad, warm hand on your shoulder after you picked a fight a little bigger than you can handle, congratulating you on your bravery after your mother’s reprimand. You have no reference on which to base yourself, no model of manhood to aspire to and your mother punishes you harshly for being effeminate, for enjoying the flow of a loose t-shirt to the violence jut of a suit coat’s shoulders, but what are you to do? She is your only example. You try your best to be a man, but you learn quickly that your best is not good enough.

Porcelain.

The teapot that sits on your headmaster’s desk must be worth thousands with that sort of intricacy painted on its porcelain walls – not that you care, of course. It simply provides you something to focus on as you await the arrival of your mother. You sit up as soon as you see her, a smile on your face. It does not strike you as odd that she does not acknowledge you or ruffle your hair in passing the way it bothers old Mr. Scott. Words like ‘gifted’ and ‘volatile’ get thrown around, paired with things like ‘unfocused’ and ‘dissociative,’ but you haven’t much of a mind to pay attention, your mind stuck in a heated deliberation with itself. The porcelain of the teapot would not have been the material of choice for a piece with that particular style of art – it’s counterfeit. You decide you won’t tell. Mother always says that a name is everything, she’d told you that as she shoved your tiny little feet into size-too-small Salvatore Ferragamo’s all those years ago, and you know if you were to ever tell her something may not be what she paid for, you’d earn a hand to the cheek. You’d hate to see Mr. Scott so upset.

You don’t understand why you are taken out of school. Mother tells you you’ll be homeschooled and you do your utmost to bottle your excitement. The idea of spending your days at home, where mother works, fills you with joy. She’ll teach you and from her you’ll learn.

You try your utmost to bottle your disappointment when on your first day she doesn’t so much as look up from her desk as she dismisses you to your tutor. That’s okay, you tell yourself, she only wants what’s best for me. You study vigorously, because what else are you to do with no one else around but your tutor and your own mind. You surpass all expectations. You tinker with toys on the side – the toys become parts, become electrics, and soon you’re branching into areas of life at sixteen that your tutor can’t guide you in at forty-three.

Porcelain.

Your first impression of that tutor when he was hired – when you were ten and he was thirty-seven – was that his skin was smooth as porcelain. Not nearly so pale – not like you and your mother – no, it was warm and inviting. You found him to be pleasant and friendly and, as you would find out only in hindsight, unconditionally loving. You have your moments – moments you do not remember. Sometimes they are violent, others – strokes of genius. But whether you come out with bloody knuckles or in search of documentation as to properly patent your newest discovery is not up to you – you don’t remember a damn thing. It happens as it happens and you let it, because you take what you can get.

Never had your tutor grown impatient with your episodes, reprimanded you for breaking pens or dismantling them in the middle of lessons to try and put together something better. You will learn, in hindsight, that he is the first man you will love.

You find your mind drifting as his material becomes lesser than the capacity of your learning – drifting to his porcelain smooth skin that highlights his slightly chapped lips, drifting to warm brown eyes and a strong brow. He’s just like the man your mother speaks of, that your mother looks for, and you wonder when you will find a man just so and as your mother does not return your affections easily, you begin to write letters to your tutor, alongside the letters you often leave for your mother.

You’re always writing, it seems. Letters, equations, prose, poetry, hypothesis, methods, blueprints. Your favorite are the letters, though – your heart poured out on paper. You hope they read them, the tutor and your mother. You never did get a response.

Porcelain.

You don’t understand, at first, why your mother keeps so many dolls, all lined up in a row, light reflecting off of well-polished porcelain cheeks, but as you get older you figure it was because she was always trying to look like one. As you offer her your arm you take a moment. Your Italian shoes are still not to your liking, but they don’t pinch nearly as bad as they once had and your Gucci suit with severe shoulders built into the coat gives you a silhouette to die for. She takes your arm to be lead down the stairs – you mistake this for affection, but you take what you can get.

Parties are common place to you in this house you never get to leave. Your mother is prominent – influential and you mingle with the best of them. You’re charming, you’ve been told, as long as no one gets you started on science. On your machines. You’ve learned to bite your tongue about those things – a man doesn’t like when his lover’s got too big of a mouth, you’d heard your mother say.

He’s six feet tall and he smells of cedar wood and when he smiles you notice that his front teeth are just a little crooked. You meet him at this party and he takes your breath away. He has the same warm skin tone of your tutor, but he is not far from you in age and much sharper in features. When you speak to him, he does not silence you when you accidentally stumble into a lecture on quantum mechanics, simply asks you if the conversation is better had over a dance. You can’t see how so, but you’re glad you accept – you speak to your hearts content and he listens and when he asks you if you’d like to get out of there your yes is uninhibited.

You’ve never had sex before you’ve had sex with him. You wonder, as he cleans the both of you up and lays himself beside you, if this is the kind of man his mother aspired to, if she would be pleased he had found one so quickly.

She is not.

As he scampers out the door the next morning, she yells. You’ve seen her angry many times, enough to flinch every time someone waves hello or goes for a pat on the back, but never like this. Words like ‘legacy’ and ‘children’ get thrown around and you, too, get thrown – down the stairs. You break your arm and your own heart because how could you have been so careless? Hurt her so badly?

You are determined from here on in that you will not further disappoint her. You hang up any sort of attachment, personal or otherwise. You dismiss your tutor, whom you love dearly. You apply to Harvard.

You are one of the youngest doctoral graduates Harvard has ever seen.

Porcelain.

Twenty-two years you have been a slave to this house and this woman and have not once noticed the small porcelain snail in the antiques case in the front hall. You notice now as you set your things down, knowing your mother is a very busy woman and forgiving her already for missing your graduation. You’ll take what you can get, you decide, as you mount the stairs to her study, degree in hand. You’ll show her the evidence for herself. You’ve finally done it – proved your worth.

She does not so much as look up from your desk as you smile and show her your degree.

You could have done better.

The words echo in your head, bounce around and fill every single cell with their dissonance. The diploma drops from your hands onto the smooth, wooden floor – the glass of the frame shatters. She’s yelling, but you turn away. You’re going to leave. You’re going to leave this hell. Twenty-two years you have lived victim to the whims of an uncaring, unaffectionate woman – you start for the stairs.

Your mother always wears Christian Louboutin shoes. You’ve always admired them - you hear them clattering behind you. It is the last thing you remember.

Porcelain.

The porcelain visage of a beautiful family in a beautiful house with beautiful intentions has been shattered. As you come out of your dissociative state, you look to see your mother slumped at the bottom of the stairs, see her blood on your own hand, on the banister just to your right. You always assumed one day you’d kill someone, but you’d always assumed it’d be by way of one of your inventions, not in strict cold blood.

You don’t regret it.

Covering up a woman of that importance is fairly simple. You have the tech - the weapons – at your disposal, in your name, to trade for protection. Your hell falls into your name as you fake tears at the reading of your mother’s will.

These days, it has become unrecognizable. A laboratory, a workspace – front of house, of course, is still presentable, but each room has its secrets, the question of which tile might hide a mine always lingering in the minds of visitors. Oh and do you have visitors. Male suitors – or whores, as you take what you can get – flow in and out of your home like a summer breeze. You’ve denied yourself so long in hopes of appeasing your mother.

But she’s dead and gone and you can suck dick if you want to.

The one thing that you’d always admired about your mother were her precious Christian Louboutins.

You have a pair now. The soft give of French soles far better suits you than the unforgiving pinch of Italian leather.

Besides. Blood can’t stain a soul that’s already red.

#iapetus #lsrpg #rp #crime rp #all #titan #taken #tw death #tw murder

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nancydhooper · 7 years

Text

We Interrupt This Grand Jury Lawsplainer For A Search Warrant Lawsplainer

You promised a second chapter of the federal grand jury lawsplainer!

i do what i want

That's fine. Because I want to ask about something else anyway.

You have the attention span of a fruit fly. What is it now?

Did you hear? FBI agents working with Special Counsel Robert Mueller raided the house of Paul Manafort, Trump's campaign manager!

Yes. That's . . . that's quite a thing, there.

What does it mean? What can we tell from it? What's a search warrant anyway?

Please try to calm down.

Okay, first. Have some skepticism about this story — and about any media story about the federal criminal justice system. Stories about federal criminal justice, even from respected publications, are often wrong in crucial ways — using legal terms they don't understand the wrong way, drawing incorrect conclusions about routine events, and so forth.

But we can believe that about everything else?

Yes, I assume that except for criminal justice and First Amendment law, I'm confident they're perfectly reliable.

Anyway, let's talk about this search warrant.

The Fourth Amendment requires the government to get a search warrant before they search your house, absent an unusual exception like "exigent circumstances." (So, for instance, the cops can run into your house and look around if a guy with a gun just ran in there.)

How do the feds get a search warrant?

In the federal system, federal agents present search warrant applications to United States Magistrate Judges for review. Magistrate Judges aren't nominated by the President and confirmed by Congress like United States District Court judges — they are appointed by other federal judges for set terms, and have a reduced level of authority and responsibility. They do a lot of the unglamorous day-to-day work of the federal judiciary.

The magistrate judge reviews the search warrant application and, almost always, signs the warrant approving it.

What's in a search warrant application?

State warrant applications are sometimes oral. Federal applications are almost always in writing. The bulk of the warrant application is the affidavit — a sworn statement by a federal agent setting forth the facts establishing probable cause. Then there's the draft warrant itself, which must specify the locations to be searched and the particular items to be seized.

So to search my house a federal agent has to show probable cause that I committed a crime?

No. Probable cause to search is different that probable cause to arrest.

To get a federal search warrant, you have to show probable cause that the location you want to search contains evidence of a federal crime — specifically, the items you list as things you want to seize in the search. You don't have to show that the homeowner or other person at the site committed a crime, just that items there are evidence of a crime.

It sounded like you were suggesting that magistrate judges sign off on search warrants no matter what.

Well, I think that magistrates can be a little rubber-stampy at times. But probable cause is a pretty low bar. And federal search warrant applications are generally much better than state search warrant applications, which are often so vague and scattered that you wonder why we bother at all.

Federal courts are somewhat better at policing bad warrants than state courts are. Federal courts, traditionally, have held warrants to a higher standard. And federal prosecutors typically review warrants and edit them before agents present them to magistrate judges, so there's an additional level of review to catch problems. That's why federal search warrant applications in complex cases are commonly dozens or even more than a hundred pages long.

What kind of problems to the prosecutors reviewing the warrants look for?

Prosecutors trying to assure a good warrant look for attribution — for language explaining how the agent knows what he or she is telling the magistrate. "I want to search the house because the homeowner buried a body in the back yard" is bad attribution; it's a conclusion. "I reviewed a report by FBI Special Agent Rex Strongchin. SA Strongchin wrote that he spoke to Sally Neighbor, who lives next door to the homeowner. Ms. Neighbor told SA Strongchin that on August 1st, whilst up in the middle of the night medicating her asthmatic cat, she looked out the bathroom neighbor and saw the homeowner in his back yard, pushing what appeared to be a body into a hole" is good attribution. It establishes every link in the chain to who knew what and how. That's part of establishing probable cause.

Another common problem is specificity in items to be seized. Warrants are supposed to be reasonably particular in describing what can be seized. The Fourth Amendment was actually designed to address the problem of "general warrants" letting officials just toss your house for everything and anything. A good warrant describes, as narrowly and specifically as possible, what can be seized and why those things are evidence of a crime.

Oh. So federal agents only seize what the warrant tells them to seize?

Ha, no.

Even the best-trained and most responsible federal agents — and I mean this with the utmost respect — tend to act like coked-up raccoons when you turn them loose with a search warrant. They seize stuff haphazardly, based on very odd internal definitions of what "evidence" is. This used to drive me absolutely bonkers as a prosecutor, because I would hector them in advance and review the items to be seized with them, and they'd come back with a box of randomly assembled documents as if I'd said "look, just grab everything with a 'q' on it."

Okay. I want to ask more about the search warrant at Manafort's house. The article said the raid was "pre-dawn." Is that unusual?

Well, first of all, take it with a grain of salt. "Pre-dawn raid" is a stock literary phrase, like "wine-dark sea" in Homer. Exercise some skepticism about whether it really was pre-dawn.

Federal search warrants are supposed to be served during "daytime hours," meaning between 6 a.m. and 10 p.m. But the magistrate judge can approve other hours. In drug cases, because Drugs Are Bad And Dangerous and Imperil Our Children, it's presumed magistrates can approve nighttime searches. Otherwise, magistrates are supposed to balance the citizen's right to privacy against government need.

Most often the asserted need has to do with perceived physical danger. But assuming that the feds didn't expect Manafort to show up on his porch in a flowered robe and a submachinegun saying "say hello to my little friend," I suspect that the feds told the magistrate that they were afraid that Manafort was imminently going to destroy evidence because he'd been quizzed by the staff of the Senate Intelligence Committee. They probably said they believed that based on what he was asked he learned new avenues of investigation and might destroy documents and so an immediate search was necessary. That's exactly the sort of prosecutorial hypothesis that magistrate judges tend to rubberstamp. They might have also offered some hand-wavey stuff about how searching during the day would result in a media shitstorm on the street impeding their investigation and so forth.

So it sounds as if we should read the search warrant affidavit if we want to know what Robert Mueller thinks about this investigation. Since it had to establish probable cause it should have lots of juicy details. Can we get it?

Absent a leak, no.

The search warrant affidavit isn't a publicly available document — at least not at this stage of the case. The agents only leave the warrant itself on the scene. The warrant states the place to be searched, the items that can be seized, and what the items are believed to be evidence of — that is, the specific federal criminal statutes at issue. So Manafort and his lawyers have that information, from which they can glean some information — you can draw conclusions based on what items the prosecutor is looking for and what crimes the prosecutor thinks have been committed. But generally the prosecution doesn't release the search warrant affidavit — the juicy stuff — until discovery in any resulting criminal prosecution.

Occasionally federal agents will accidentally leave the search warrant affidavit on the premises. Once a prosecutor asked me to make my client return the affidavit because it was confidential information. I laughed for a very long time.

What about what the FBI took from his house? Do we know that?

Well, Manafort knows that, obviously. And the FBI also leaves a sort of receipt — a list of the things they took. It tends to be very general, especially with regard to documents, like "one box of documents from hall closet." The federal agents return that to the magistrate judge, but it does not tend to be accessible to the public.

The article asserts that the FBI sized "various records." But be cautious about inferring anything about that. First of all, the only requirement is that there's probable cause to think those records are evidence of a crime, not evidence of a crime by Manafort. Second, as I said, FBI agents tend to be about as selective as a Golden Retriever thrust into a tennis ball pit. Third, law enforcement is not above seizing a bunch of shit just to make it look like their search was successful. In fact, they're not even above faking it. I represented a dude whose house was raided. The investigators tipped off the media to be there. They'd brought about a dozen prefab cardboard boxes to carry out documents they seized. But they found no documents. They didn't want to walk out empty-handed, so they assembled the cardboard boxes inside the house, put on the lids, and solemnly carried the empty boxes out to their raid van. The press obediently printed that many boxes of documents had been seized.

What do you think about Robert Mueller ordering the search in the first place? Is it unusual?

Yes, it is.

We know that Mueller has started using a grand jury actively. Generally federal prosecutors tend to issue search warrants at the end of white collar investigations, not at the beginning. Search warrant raids tend to put everyone on high alert and shut people down. Federal prosecutors generally like to use the grand jury to develop witnesses and evidence before that, and subpoenas demanding production of documents are more common in white collar investigations than search warrants.

There are a few reasons Mueller might have gone with the search warrant. He might have genuinely believed that Manafort couldn't be trusted to turn over documents in response to a subpoena. He might have thought that Manafort would hold documents back, or that he was even going to destroy documents. He might even have had some sort of intel suggesting that Manafort was already destroying documents. He might have used the search warrant as a shock-and-awe measure to scare other people in the investigation into cooperating or provoke them into doing dumb things. Whatever else he is, Robert Mueller is very experienced and professional. I'm sure he did it deliberately and with a plan.

Why would he want to provoke people?

Federal grand jury investigations can be like a Game of Thrones plotline. To finish you, federal prosecutors don't necessarily have to prove that you already committed a crime — they can simply play upon your human flaws and get you to finish yourself. High-profile defendants are routinely taken down not based on the initial crime they committed, but by their reckless response to the investigation — they're ended not by the crime, but by the ineffectual coverup. Mueller knows what he's doing, knows that he's dealing with unusually volatile personalities particularly unsuited to patient inaction, and is probably counting on people to react foolishly, self-destructively, and criminally to startling events like a search warrant.

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kennethmullins · 7 years

Text

We Interrupt This Grand Jury Lawsplainer For A Search Warrant Lawsplainer

You promised a second chapter of the federal grand jury lawsplainer!

i do what i want

That's fine. Because I want to ask about something else anyway.

You have the attention span of a fruit fly. What is it now?

Did you hear? FBI agents working with Special Counsel Robert Mueller raided the house of Paul Manafort, Trump's campaign manager!

Yes. That's . . . that's quite a thing, there.

What does it mean? What can we tell from it? What's a search warrant anyway?

Please try to calm down.

But we can believe that about everything else?

Yes, I assume that except for criminal justice and First Amendment law, I'm confident they're perfectly reliable.

Anyway, let's talk about this search warrant.

How do the feds get a search warrant?

The magistrate judge reviews the search warrant application and, almost always, signs the warrant approving it.

What's in a search warrant application?

So to search my house a federal agent has to show probable cause that I committed a crime?

No. Probable cause to search is different that probable cause to arrest.

It sounded like you were suggesting that magistrate judges sign off on search warrants no matter what.

What kind of problems to the prosecutors reviewing the warrants look for?

Oh. So federal agents only seize what the warrant tells them to seize?

Ha, no.

Okay. I want to ask more about the search warrant at Manafort's house. The article said the raid was "pre-dawn." Is that unusual?

Well, first of all, take it with a grain of salt. "Pre-dawn raid" is a stock literary phrase, like "wine-dark sea" in Homer. Exercise some skepticism about whether it really was pre-dawn.

Absent a leak, no.

What about what the FBI took from his house? Do we know that?

What do you think about Robert Mueller ordering the search in the first place? Is it unusual?

Yes, it is.

Why would he want to provoke people?

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