#how many other civilians have been killed in this manner? will they ever see justice?

[oveliagirlhaditright]

Lie to Me

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33943738

Summary: In an AU where L wins the Kira case and Light goes to prison instead of being executed, L gets it into his head that Light should become an executor: because that would see his need for justice and killing done.

Author’s Note: This is actually the first idea I had and first thing I started writing after I finished watching Death Note.I wasn’t sure I was comfortable sharing it with you guys. But I guess I am:)

L’s PoV

L was heading towards… a certain place after the Kira case had been closed for quite some time.

And why he was heading there, he wasn’t entirely sure. It wasn’t as if he owed Yagami Light anything…

Perhaps, L thought, as he now walked into the prison that housed the mass murderer, he was doing this because he wanted to believe if he ever got locked up, someone with his mind would be given a chance like this… or something much better than this idea.

But whatever the reason was, L was walking towards Light’s cell now, to offer him a deal: a deal that had been playing in the back of L’s mind for a long time, even while he’d also been trying to come up with any and all evidence to incarcerate Light.

Finally—after all sunlight faded away and the last seagull silenced itself—L was being led through the massive metal door that would lead him to Light. And L would be facing him by himself. Something that Watari and everyone at Wammy’s House had loudly protested, but L knew that to even get a twenty-seven percent chance that Light would listen to any of this, he would have to go it alone.

L had reassured everyone, of course, that Yagami Light wasn’t one for killing people without his favorite magical notebook. And he knew that he’d be watched on any and all available monitors like a hawk, which was fine.

The Wammy’s boys (Near, Mello, and Matt—perhaps Matt and Mello in particular) had tried to convince L to bring a bomb in with him—one that Light wouldn’t be able to activate on L quickly enough, if he got it away from him, because it was made out of new technologies that Light hadn’t had the benefit of seeing—that he could throw at Light if the man pulled a fast one on him, and then make a run for the door.

But as L thought that there was a thirty-seven percent chance that that would actually cause more harm for him than good, he’d decided to use his intellect here as he always did… and pray to any god that might exist that Light was off his game after these few years (even though that would make this incredibly boring).

L pushed the door open, and was met with the sight of a lot of orange, brown, and grays: dull, fall colors, that had lost any and all shine. Honestly, what had he even been expecting? Perhaps this had been a mistake…

“Well, if I haven’t earned a visit from the one and only Ryuzaki,” Light sang, looking up from the Bible he’d been reading, the moment L crossed over the threshold. And it didn’t escape L’s notice that Light didn’t call him “L”, which clearly meant that he wasn’t seeing this as a victory against him—as it clearly wasn’t that—but it also meant that Light was beyond bitter here. L wondered how that would make the rest of their interaction play out, as he crossed the room and sat in the table across from Light. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Are you here to finally tell me how good orange looks on me?” In some ways, he was perceptive as always, L supposed.

“While I would, perhaps, love to rub it in your face again, that I beat you—because yours surely was the best case that I have yet won,” and here L locked eyes with Light to remind him that he had won, and it would be foolish to think that he could try and turn the tables right now, “once of doing that was more than enough. Not everyone is as narcissistic as you are, Light. No… I’m here for… sympathetic reasons, oddly enough. And you don’t have to believe me about that, but it is the truth.” And it was clear Light must not have believed it for a second, because he’d scooched his chair back from L’s furiously, the moment the words had left his lips.

He’d moved the seat back, but hadn’t gone to stand up. And that was smart on his part—Light had always been so smart—because if he had, L had no doubt that, quite ironically, all sorts of police and guardsmen would be spilling in this very moment to be giving Light a lethal injection.

So, it seemed that even in prison—where so much was ripped away from one—of course, Yagami Light had found a way to hold onto his careful reactions. This was very good.

L could respect that.

“I don’t believe you!” Light hissed, as some of the old fire returned to the young man. And his pupils dilated, and there was certainly a maniac look to them, but no red.

And L was taken aback to find that he somehow missed the red.

“All you ever wanted was to solve the Kira case more than anything else! It was just another trophy to add to your case! The most impressive one of all, in fact! And you didn’t care who you had to throw under the bus to get there, or if you had to act like Kira himself to achieve your goals. So, why would you start caring now? Odds say that you don’t.”

L could have said something to that, like, “How funny it is, that you now start talking about odds, when I always thought that that was my forte,” he knew. But the truth was… he didn’t have the time for their game, even though it had once been his favorite one of all.

A new technology had just been unveiled that could recognize faces with seventy-five percent accuracy one-hundred thousand miles away. And L just knew that it was at once going to be nuclear warfare, if he didn’t get out there and explain why seventy-five percent still wasn’t accurate enough and would leave too many innocent civilians murdered in cold blood and destitute. So, if Light wasn’t going to be interested in the deal L had to offer him here, he really couldn’t care less.

As it was, he was missing tea time right now, anyway, and he quite liked tea time.

Examining his nails in a very bored manner, L continued on with, “Like I said, Yagami Light, you don’t have to believe me. But I have an idea… since we both once loved our game with each other so much, how about we play another one together right now? Give me one good reason as to why I should give you an opportunity, and shouldn’t leave you to rot her for eternity, like you so rightly deserve?”

Light seemed to withdraw into himself at that… and he looked so very small. And as he did, L found that maybe he was finally truly feeling the sympathy he’d told Light that he had from the onset here.

It must not have been easy, L imagined, dealing with the world’s greatest ice queen in the world, who lived behind such an impenetrable fortress.

Nor must it have been easy to try and look like you had something to gamble with, when everything had been taken away from you.

The gears were clearly turning in Yagami Light’s head now. And L wondered if when they were done spinning, if he would actually hear some sort of fantastical truth from the man, or another lie. Surely the latter, since if there was one thing Yagami Light didn’t do, it was tell the truth.

Finally, Light looked up at L with sorrowful eyes. And L imagined that everyone who was watching this scene unfold with him right now, was also waiting with bated breath to see what the serial killer would have to say.

“Did you know my father once tried to kill my cat, L?” Light asked.

And there was his name, “L”, again. So, Light clearly must have thought he could win this one. And L thought he must have been lying, since he was speaking of something so traumatic far too matter-of-factly right now.

But, then again… Light was calling Soichiro “father” as opposed to “dad” for once. And sometimes trauma victims did speak matter-of-factly to try and keep their emotions at bay.

Hmm… L tried not to give anything away here, but Light definitely have L wondering if he’d missed something important in the Kira investigation. And L didn’t know if that was good or not. He had asked for this—and perhaps had even wanted a battle he had chosen, as opposed to the one he now had to partake in for necessity—but was it really a good idea to have a battle of wills with Yagami Light again?

No matter what he thought, L knew the best thing was to try and play it all off, of course. “No, I was not aware of that, Kira. It didn’t come up in anything I researched about you in our time together. If this is true, I assume your family kept it under wraps to protect your father’s reputation? Do tell me about it.”

“Yep. That’s exactly it,” Light allowed, and he was looking at his forearms that rested on the table now, as if he was lost in thought. Lost in his memories, maybe more accurately. So, perhaps, there was some truth to all of this, after all.

L truly hadn’t come here expecting to feel anything for Yagami Light today, but he found he was doing exactly that, and he hated himself for it.

He would not again be the man on a rooftop, looking at who he believed to be his future killer with regret, as he heard bells ring in the distance. He would not.

“It was late one night… Dad was tired. And maybe a little drunk… This was the only cat we ever had, by the way. An orange furball that Sayu had begged that Mom and Father let us have. Eventually, they relented. Anything, for cute Sayu, of course. And I felt the same way. But… it had stomach problems, and hairballs all the time. Mom cleaned it up as best she could. I helped, too. But Father hated this about the thing.

“One night… I guess the stress of everything became too much for him, and he was chasing Aki, the cat, through the house, saying he was going to kill her, and was throwing coat-hangers at her… until Sayu and I intervened. But mainly it was me. I don’t know if it would have gone further than the coat-hangers, if Father’s two little kids hadn’t tried to stop him then, but…

“Anyway, Dad never had a psychotic break like that ever again, so we all just dropped it...”

The way Light had told the story… it mostly seemed true to L. And he hated that after once having said that there was never a time that Light told the truth, that he would now ven entertain that notion.

He also despised that he now thought it made some sense, then, that Yagami Light would go serial killer, since he’d had the trauma of seeing his father attack an animal… and seeing as how he couldn’t really get any help, as mental illness was so stigmatized in Japan.

But Light did not need to know any of these things from L, of course. All he needed to know was that he had passed the test.

And for Yagami Light, who had only ever wanted to get the best grades and be society’s greatest being—and to be a “god”—surely that would be enough.

“Light… what if we put your desire for justice—and death, to an extent—to practical use? What if you became an executor, instead of wasting away here?”

And the moment the words had left his mouth, L wished he could take them back. Because certainly Kira would object that he wasn’t a killer and never had been.

But instead, Light just dabbed at his eyes some—had he started crying?—and shook his head as if he were truly lost, “…If you think that’s the best thing for me to do… I guess I’ll do it. Clearly, I don’t know what’s right, and you’re wiser than I could ever be. So, when do I start?”

L meant to fill Light in then, that it wouldn’t be right away.

No. Some trust would have to be built first, before they let Kira anywhere near lethal ingredients or people he would put in the electric chair, of course.

But L couldn’t find the words.

He was, one, feeling too much guilt, somehow, by what had just transpired….

And two, finding himself almost aroused at the idea of Light wielding such power, but using it rightly this time.

“Watari will get you the information. He’ll be in touch.”

And L headed back through the large metal door, without another look towards Yagami Light.

He had once thought it held Light’s fate… but he was starting to realize that perhaps it held his own, too.

And if he was intelligent, he would never see the man again.

But had he ever truly been intelligent?

L had to ponder that now, when he knew without a shadow of a doubt… he would be seeing Kira again.

#death note #lawlight #fanfiction #au #alternate universe #mine #my work #my writing #shanna writes

[ranmanjuu]

hi! can you do a gen z mc who got injured at the protests and have them elaborate on what the protests were about to the oda forces? i got tear gassed at a protest so your writing is actually helping me feel better!

tw : injuries from police br*tality, heavy r*cism

first of all i hope you’re okay!! i’m so sorry for taking so long i hope you’re still here reading this ehhh,,. i personally don’t know much of ‘getting injured in protests’ other than rubber bullets and tear gassing—and for anyone out there protesting (also considering recent things that have happened in my country,,,), please be safe out there!

ᅠᅠ

—nobunaga:

the first encounter you had, he didn’t really notice it. he had a lot of things on his plate, mostly about his assassination attempt, you know, the usual. 

it’s only when he invites you to his tenshu to know more about his most interesting chatelaine. after all, the moment his life was out of danger, the immediate groan out of you raised a brow.

in your defense, going back from a protest then just sent back 500 years in the past did put you in a pissy mood. the injustice was enough bullshit, you didn’t want to deal with this right after.

and,,, your response was probably too snarky for a man in power like him. but that’s what compelled him to bring you to the castle. maybe it was spite, or just dangerous curiosity. no one’s spoken to him in such,,, rude manners before.

being all past the whole, chasing-you-down-just-for-you-to-come-to-my-sickass-castle, the dragged-500-years-into-the-warring-states-period, constant-wars-everywhere, and everything in between, you’ve managed to,, calm down decently, at least. you’re just really confused as to why he called you in. 

through your slippery tounge, you accidentally let it slip that you’re from the future; great job! mission one from sasuke already failed. but—you’ve dug your grave, now you have to lie in it.

upon listening to the rest of your explanation, naturally, nobunaga starts asking questions.

after a series of them, mostly about general stuff like technology, etc., he hits you with a curveball. “what is that?” he asks, observing the small patch of reddened skin.

you’ve been shot by a rubber bullet prior to the time traveling. you wager that they were aiming for the neck—a highly fatal area to hit, even with a rubber bullet, mind you—but you were lucky enough to only be hit near the collar bone. still—to say it’s inexcusable is an understatement.

“huh—?” you follow his eyes, then trail your fingers on the edge as you show more of your injury, “. . .got injured a while back. asshole cops think they can just. . .fuckin’. . .”

your sentence turns too faint for him to hear clearly, he only knows that you feel anger from your tone. all he does is gaze passively as the steam comes out of your, slowly.

“what happened exactly?”

and with that one question, he’s in for quite the story. you start off in the beginning; what triggered it all. the injustice brought by those who are said to protect the people, the same ones that shed blood because they knew they could get away with it. then, the protests done by the ones who wanted justice, equality, something that should just be the norm at this point.

and then, the horrible attacks the cops’ve done to hose who protested,,, the mere thought gets your blood boiling, really. no one poised any kind of harm, it was a peaceful protest—and yet they still hurted, perhaps even killed. and they get away with it.

“. . .and i sure as hell ain’t gonna die to some bullshit system. i’ll keep on going at it until people can stop dying so. . .needlessly like that.”

he pauses after hearing you. his eyes have a vague sense of scrutinize, but certainly not at you. "and you still continue to go, even if it results in injuries for you?”

you look back at him, determination burning like a passion, “as long as less people will die of discrimination; as long as our cause is heard in the end—i’ll sacrifice anything for it. for equality.”

the silence rings for minutes.

but the hand on your shoulder quickly strays your mind back to him. to your surprise, a daring smile, almost a smirk, pulled his lips, “you are braver than many men that i’ve met. fiery and passionate also. i do believe you’ll be quite the addition here.”

and while you raise an eyebrow to that, your heart settles as he ends it with one final thing, “you’ve earned my utmost respect.”

ᅠᅠ

—hideyoshi:

he would have been highly alerted in your presence—had it not been the fact that your eye was bruised and injured. it was fresh, the patch of skin having not turn purple or black yet, but it was enough to signal that it could be a fatal wound.

medics were sent your way by his command, and given the opportunity, he checked in on you frequently. the culprit of the attempted assassination was yet to be found—so he just assumed that you were a poor civilian caught in the crossfire.

you were rather crude to him, but he brushed it all off. you must’ve been some sort of stressed out after just saving his lord, so he gave you space and went to do other things.

it’s when they reconvene under nobunaga’s order did he find out about the decision for your fate.

“my lord, are you sure we should bring them back to azuchi? perhaps they have a place in a town around here.”

“—not really.” hideyoshi’s eyes filled with surprise and concern as a small response came out of you, with eyes looking away from everyone in the tent with lips bitten anxiously and brows stitched together.

so it ended on you going to azuchi along with them. because really, even if you didn’t want to, what were you to do? you had no place in the sengoku, and you’ve forgotten all about your scouts lessons back in middle school to survive in the forest.

and while you insist on working rather than just be royalty basically, hideyoshi is the one who persuades you to at least rest first. with a sigh, you agree.

from then on, you find him visiting you quite often between his breaks. most of the time, asking how you’ve been, making light conversations over tea, and sometimes fussing over the smallest things. it’s a gradual change you’ll get used to—from the failed assassination to the weird, home-y feeling he brings.

it didn’t take long for his curiosity to push him. one day, with the usual cup of tea, the silence passes for quite the moment until he spoke up, “if i may ask, where exactly,,, did you get that?”

he doesn’t quite point to it, but you know what he’s talking about. half your vision is covered now, from ieyasu’s work on trying to make it better. you stare in the cup, swishing the tea around, “. . .my town had, uhhh, ‘problems’.”

he listened intently as you reworded the current real life events. just change the cops to guard, the bullets to blunt sticks(?), etc. the core of it you kept the same, the discrimination, the unruly deaths and wounds of the innocent.

all the while, hideyoshi looks at you with slightly parted lips and eyes that spell a bit of disbelief. such compassion don’t exist in a lot of people—much less a majority of civillians from a town. he thought he’d’ve heard about it, but you did say it was quite the small one, far away.

as you finish your long explanation, your face was scrunched up in a scowl, remembering the scene at the time. the cops came, a highly dangerous situation; but you weren’t leaving just like that. not until you got hit by a bullet did you go back home—and look where you are now.

“—.” hideyoshi calls out your name, snapping you to reality. you dart your attention to him, his face filled with concern, worry—but also slight anger and a distant sense of fondness.

“. . .when nobunaga unites the country, we’ll be sure to aid you. we’ll stop them from hurting anyone else. so until then, please stay with us.”

the sentiment brought warmth to your heart, but you knew the truth. he wouldn’t be able to, the wormhole was a big separation in that. even so, you shook your head, “i don’t,,, uhh, think i can stay for that long.”

his brows stitch together in confusion, “and why is that?”

“. . .i want to go back as soon as i can. and—i only have one chance to do such a thing, and never again.” upon your answer, his eyes widened a bit. no further questions were asked about that, as your own expression said you didn’t want to talk about it.

“but—you could be in danger if you go back.”

“i don’t care.” the tea is cold as you set it down, “. . .i don’t wanna,,, just escape and turn a blind eye to it, i think. it may be safer for me here, but—i still want to help back there. whether or not i’m injured is,,, a means to an end, for me.”

that’s when every suspicion he could’ve had about you dissolved. the determination and righteousness that burned so brightly in your voice was irreplaceable. along with that, was a very deep respect for you. he serves nobunaga because he believed in equality among everyone, and it seems so do you. even if you’re willing to sacrifice yourself—to see a better world where everyone is happy.

a beat passes. two. with a sigh, hideyoshi’s hardened gaze relents back into the strange warmness, hid hand reaching out to ruffle your hair. “well, i don’t think i agree with you diving into potential danger, but just so you know. if you ever need help, you can always reach to us, alright?”

you breath out a chuckle, “. . .of course.”

ᅠᅠ

—mitsuhide:

your whole entire body was sore even before the wormhole sent you back. not to mention, just after that, you had to carry a full-armored man out of a burning building with someone trying to kill said man.

so to say you were disoriented was quite an understatement.

you didn’t even feel it until days have passed. and at this point, you’ve gone under mitsuhide’s tutoring. being sat down for a long time made it painfully obvious that your body was still healing—but you’ve sang this song a million times before. in which the soreness lingered for a while, and then it’d disappear. you can bear with it.

that is, until he started training you in battle.

the tanegashima practice was fine, if a bit triggering by the gunshots. but you saw it the same as archery. however, sparring on the other hand,,,

yeah. the first break you took, you already felt every single part of you reeling. mitsuhide wasn’t ruthless with you, but you figure he wasn’t being soft either.

in truth, prior to arriving in the sengoku period, your body had taken a hit in a protest. you didn’t get caught in the tear-gassing crossfire, or got shot by a rubber bullet. rather, a police car had arrived at the scene and begun to drive forward into the crowd. it didn’t become a car crash site, no deaths occurred to your knowledge (thankfully).

but you were one of the ones in the front row seats, you fell to the ground and took some damage in a number of places. they were more of inconveniences than anything.

still—forcing your body to fight a trained swordsman was not a good idea.

and the fox has an eye for these things, sensing when his enemies are weak. at least it proves to be a disadvantage if you really are dangerous. his eyes linger on you as you rub your sore spots with the occasional groan. 

“the little mouse seems to be wounded.” he says. it’s clear he’s trying to extract some kind of information about the person who just popped out one day, “pray tell, what might be the cause of such?”

“i got, uhhh,” you can’t say car, those don’t exist yet— “knocked down by a horse.” admittedly, a horse is probably more dangerous than a car—but you deal with what you have.

“is that so.” with the smile and narrowed eyes of his, you knew that he didn’t buy it. but to your defense, your state clearly proves it in some way—so he deduced that you weren’t telling the complete truth.

and he welcomes it. it’d be his absolute pleasure to unravel the mystery.

eventually, he does. in promise to keep your secret away from others, you keep his. 

“so, little mouse,” the night has yet to pass, but you wish it did. your stuff was spilled in front of you, all evidence of you coming from the future, “was that cover-up story about the horse a lie?”

it’s a rhetorical question; he knew the answer already. still, you roll your eyes, “of course, we rarely use those in the future. a police car hit a crowd, and i was caught in it.”

promptly realizing he doesn’t know anything, a lengthy explanation ensued.

“oh my. and you said this, ‘car’ drove into a crowd? that’s highly dangerous, is it not?”

“it is!” your calm words slowly dissolve, your hands now waving in gestures, “and guess what, it’s the cops that do it! uhh—guards in old terms, i guess. y’know the people who’re said to supposedly protect us? yeah, hit us with a car.”

mitsuhide isn’t the most curious about the future. but he is a bit confused about the context.

and so you continue, explaining everything. from the start, to where you were, along with what your thoughts are on the whole situation

through all that, he stays silent, not commenting until you were thoroughly finished. you can’t read his expression—so you stare at him, waiting for even a word.

suddenly, he smiles, “well, looks like our little mouse is quite the something, aren’t you?” before you could respond with anything, he pats you on the head with a strange sense of softness, “pureness and ideals like you are rare in this world.”

in truth, he agrees. he’s someone who’s faced discrimination head on from being in the lower class—and he fights for a world that his lord would like to see. even if he’ll remain in the dark, for his stained, dark hands would only corrupt the purity. at least, so he thinks.

you look back with pursed lips and a slight frown, “then i’ll help make it more common. if it results in people being treated as people, i’ll do it.”

you don’t hear it, but he draws in a sharp breath. his eyes are muddled—with what, you don’t know—but you drop the thought as he lifts the hand off of your head with a chuckle, “i will say, i didn’t quite expect this.” 

they say eyes are the window of the soul. while he had his closed most of the time—you managed to peek in a small bit of warmth and fondness in them.

ᅠᅠ

—masamune:

you came to the sengoku period with a sprained ankle. which, in a time where war was rampant, probably wasn’t a good thing to have. especially when you’re being dragged into battle just for the fun of it.

although you admit you made yourself seem tougher than you were (with you being used to injuries like this before, so you’ve grown used to gritting your teeth), you still curse masamune to hell and back. no, you do not care if you’re on a horse or just in camp, your foot hurt like shit either way.

naturally, you wouldn’t take that for long.

thus the next time he planned to take you along (you could already see the glint in his eye), you snapped at him. well—much less ‘snap’ and more of ‘telling him off rather harshly ft. a sprinkle of swearing’.

“listen, assfart, my ankle’s been killing me, and if i’m going by that analogy, you’re practically desecrating it’s corpse and grave. so for the love of god, stop dragging me into battles!”

an expression of surprise went on his face for a moment, before it morphed to his usual grin, “is that so? seems like out kitten likes to run around and ended up hurting themselves.”

“not my fault they shot me in the fuckin’ ankle. . .” you mutter without a second thought under your breath, which he, unfortunately, heard.

“they shot you, lass?”

seeing his ever so slightly widened eye, you pursed your lips, “yeah. nothing too serious.”

even so, you see the way his eyes narrow with a glint—more so of excitement than anything else, “still though lassie, with you being under nobunaga, i doubt they’ll get away with hurtin’ ya.”

“what does that mean?”

fingers comb through your hair in a wild pat, accompanied with a fanged grin, “they won’t be alive for hurtin’ the lord’s precious lucky charm.”

your lips pursed as a frown pulls upon your brows, “i don’t want them to get away solely for me being nobunaga’s ‘lucky charm’.”

“and why is that, kitten?”

his eyes slightly lit up at your hardened and serious aura as you closed your eyes with a sigh. “the same people who hurt me are the same ones who’ve hurt many others, on the basis that they believe they’re above them; over a stupid thing like race. and i won’t be just letting it slide, even if i can’t fight or anything.”

the flame in your eyes are ones that masamune has grown to recognize; the anger and bitterness as you look back on a memory, only to fill up your heart with passion.

“i’ll die if it means that they’ll be punished and everyone is treated the same.”

silence rings past, the wind slowly becomes a solid aura in the air. stunned, he leaves a small chuckle and pats your head,

“the lord made a wonderful decision to bring ya here, lass.”

—ieyasu:

going by his usual self, he didn’t care much when you arrived, other than you were someone nobunaga picked up from his failed assassination. however, him being an expert in things health related, some things didn’t go by with him.

first of all, your eyes were a slight fade of red. at first he figured it was a leftover from honno-ji’s smokes, but as the days tick by, its persistence is now rather worrying. they should’ve faded away by now, so he thought.

and it became more and more painfully obvious, at least to him. the way you rubbed your eyes sometimes, them tearing up at random intervals—and even you squinting at rare occasions that, unless you had an eye problem like mitsunari, shouldn’t be there.

a seed of worry was planted, although he never expressed it. after all, you were being dragged into battle, where dust and more smoke can easily go into your already bugged eyes.

therefore one day, wordlessly, he took you to his workplace. at first, you were confused; ieyasu hasn’t exactly talked to you a lot.

he picks up a small bottle, along with a cup-like lid, “use this, and wash your eyes with it. and by that i mean just tilt it up and blink when it goes into your eyes.”

you just blinked a few times, stunned more than anything. “,,,, why?”

“you think i don’t notice?” he scoffs, “you’ve been rubbing your eyes like crazy, and it’s past the point where your eyes should even be red since the honno-ji incident. either your eyes have been having problems way before, or you’re just dumber and clumsier than i thought.”

“hey! it’s not my fault, for any of the incidents!”

“so there are multiple instances?”

the judgemental look sent your way was something that your stubborn mind won’t back out from, even if it mean having to somewhat explain your situation.

“w, well, there have been several uhm.... arson crimes in my town, i can’t help but be in the vicinity.”

if arson crimes translated to tear gassings, yes, there were many.

“arson crimes? your town is,,, jeez.”

“it’s not the citizens’ fault, look to the fuckin’ guards of our village for that.” the tone had immediately shifted from a kind of flustered banter, to immediate bitter undertones.

immediately, the silence rang on. ieyasu sat there, looking into you as much as he could, with his bare bones knowledge of you. the pieces were there, and it wasn’t hard to put them together. for a moment, he wondered if you were more than the unfortunate one to be pulled into this mess. but if your town was as much a mess as that. . . perhaps it was for the better.

“. . .then you’re planning to stay here, right?” he had his own opinions and thoughts of someone taking advantage of a high-powered lord taking them in, but eh, he thinks, people will do what they have to do to survive—

“not really. assuming nobunaga would even let me go in the first place.”

ieyasu stood there, stunned, “. . .you’re planning to go back to your own town? even from all the danger there?”

“yeah.” you look at him with a slight imbalanced expression, “i don’t have anywhere else to go, other than there, so. . .”

“but why not stay here? it’s safer, you do know that right?”

“of course,” you sigh, “but it’s still my home, all things considered. yeah, there’s a whole lot of corrupt things going on but, they’re still humans, the people i live with. i don’t wanna run away from it, i’d just. . .i’d like to try and help them also.:

ieyasu stays silent as you lean back to the wall, looking out the door with a fond and melancholic gaze, “the,,, guards in my town are doing this just cause of their stupid beliefs and whatever. superiority complex and whatnot. and people are dying because of it, only for things that they can’t control and. . . it’s just so bullshit.”

you turn back to him, with a strong light blaring in your eyes; filled with hope and determination, “wouldn’t you want to go back and help them? even if i get injured, as long as people will be treated the same and won’t face death for something miniscule, i consider it worth it.”

you’ve never seen him surprised at you; at least not in this sense. usually it’d be surprise at some mistake you did, making an offhand crude comment to it but here. . .here it’s partnered with the smallest bit of sparkle. like a hidden respect for you behind his uncaring persona.

you only look as he slowly stands up, his shadow befalling on you. with the same, yet subtle, amount of shine in his eyes as in yours, he sighs softly and takes your hand,

“at least if you’re gonna go into that kind of battlefield, let me teach your ditzy self how to take care of injuries first.”

—mitsunari:

your sudden arrival already aroused questions, as you’d appeared before nobunaga sporting a bloodied cut on your cheek. at the time, they took the assumption that the assassin did it to you.

and although it was fussed for a bit, it was quickly covered up with some cloth fitting for the period. and then, everything went as normal.

taking up job as mitsunari’s personal caretaker wasn’t one you’d reject, because really, how bad could it be? but the man himself kept insisting that you don’t, added that not only were you a special charm of nobunaga’s, you were also injured from the night of honno-ji. he couldn’t do that to you; not after such a stressful night.

and yet you were stubborn as well. with the final decision being up to nobunaga, which you accepted wholeheartedly, of course, you now had the role to take care of mitsunari.

although his. . .clumsy nature was one that you should be worried for, you find it that he often checks up on you, apologizing each time he could’ve potentially hurt you. and each time, you waved it off and assured him that yes, you were fine.

but you can see it in his eyes, the tint of guilt and worry that lingers on before he succumbs to his reading trance. truth is, the injury is just a mild inconvinience of pain, so there really wasn’t much to fuss over.

in his eyes, your degree has gotten much higher than before. whether your wound would’ve affected your job didn’t matter to him; it was the fact that you were hurt in the first place. you shouldn’t have to take care of him when you needed to take care of yourself! or so is what he thinks to himself.

and so he tries to make it up to you. you need reading lessons? he’ll try to squeeze it in his schedule! or maybe it’s time for a break, he’ll tour you around in the bustling city of azuchi. it feels like whenever you need something, he’s always there next to you, and you can’t help but feel charmed by it.

mitsunari isn’t one to notice details about a person if it isn’t in a situation like in battle. but he’s gotten very sharp at seeing the slight reactions and how you’re doing; and here’s what he’s picked up on:

other than the wound on your cheek, your stomach area seems to be bruised or something close to that. you might’ve not told anyone about it, cause he hasn’t heard a peep of that anywhere, not even when he kept asking politely (or bugging, in the man’s eyes) for ieyasu’s information.

so fuck it, he just decides to ask you one day.

“why do you have an injury on your stomach area?”

it was a lesson hour, you didn’t expect him to throw,,,that curveball. maybe more of, what does this character mean? or how do you write this word? but. . .

“uhm—an incident that happened before the whole honno-ji thing.”

“and you never told anyone, even lord ieyasu?”

“n, no, kinda.”

he’s serious than before, and yet there’s something in his eyes that’s very inviting, inviting you to tell your feelings and story, inviting you to a hug of warmth and safety.

and you succumb.

“. . . things have been happening in my town before i came here.” then what was once a lesson sessioin, turned into you explaining what you and the world was going through before coming to the sengoku, with many phrasings replaced of course.

“is that so. . .” he mutters, “i haven’t heard a case like this, although i don’t doubt there aren’t any. . .i should do some reasearches.. .”

“i-it’s fine, really. . .!”

you managed to convince him that it’s fiiine, he shouldn’t read up on it and just focus on his works (since it would render your story false pretty quickly,,).

“but you still haven’t explained how you got the injury.”

“oh yeah. i got kicked down by one of the guards and then i got this as a result.” you pointed at the covered up wound, now probably just a scar, on your cheek. mitsunari goes silent, then a slow and silent hum resonates in him.

you’ve never quite seen the look in his eyes as you did. they were sharper, even if you weren’t situated in a battlefield, and you could see the gears turn in his brain. for what, you’re not quite sure.

“mitsu,,,?”

and with just your voice, his clouded eyes clear up, and he sends his angelic smile your way, “it’s fine now, lady—” his voice rings gently like bells, “you’re now safer. .even if you want to go back there. but i’ll be here by your side to protect you always, so please remember.”

“. . .heh, alright. of course i will.”

#ikesen #ikemen sengoku #cyikemen #ikesen nobunaga #ikesen hideyoshi #ikesen mitsuhide #ikesen masamune #ikesen ieyasu #ikesen mitsunari #oda forces #ikesen oda forces #ikesen hc #*requests #HOOOLLYYYYYY SHITTTTTT #this took so long #anon i'm so sorry i took so long hsalf #the topic was heavy in the first place and i wanted it to be more like #yk #than others #but yeah i kind of am active question mark #not really but #i am Occasionally trying #and Nothing else #i still have more it's just #dear lorddddd this took me so long #also if you see that one character has way more words than the others no you didn't <3 #sighhh i finished the first half in a bit #and then took like months for the second half lol #exxageration probably but #hhnnnnnnh

[evabellasworld]

Written in the Stars

For @thecl0wnwars, this is my gift for you as past of the @starwarssecretsanta event. Thank you to @lilhawkeye3 for organising this event. I really enjoyed it so far.

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Summary: Bly and Aayla were stargazing after a brutal battle while longing for the war to end

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Laying on top of the soft, emerald grass, Bly rested his head on top of his arms and focused on the night sky, which was encrusted with sparkling stars and an illuminating sapphire moon.

Two, four, six, eight, he muttered to himself, pointing his finger slightly towards the horizon. The clone commander of the 327th Battalion wondered the exact number of stars that he's gazing at this moment.

With only the crickets chirping in his surroundings and the rest of his men asleep in their tents, Bly thanked the Maker that he gets to spend his alone time counting all the stars in the sky, since he hardly had the privilege to do so.

Though he wished that his Jedi General was laying beside him, instead of resting after a long day at the battlefield, with bodies of his dead brothers and sisters laying cold on the ground and an orchestra of blasters and explosions deafening Bly, who was an unwilling actor in this play, along with his troops.

It was his duty to fight for freedom and justice so that one day, the people of the Galactic Republic will live in peace and prosperity. And yet, Bly finds himself doubting whether the war was worth the lives that were lost during the brutal battle.

Moments ago, Aayla was leading him and his troops to fight against the Separatist invasion on Reza, which was a planet known for exporting corn. The prairie land, with a barren grassland and a small town nearby, was engulfed in flames along with the sea of cornfields.

With the screams of the civilians that were caught in between, Bly could never forgive himself for watching as a child got shot by the battle droids and not being able to save him from the Grim Reaper.

But Aayla, on the other hand, had it worse. As a Jedi, she not only sensed their emotion but absorbed the pain that the villagers had to suffer. It got to the point that a fellow Jedi Knight, Eva Bella Young, suffered a seizure from the intense emotion.

He pines as he glanced at the mesmerizing painting that the Maker has blessed him in the sky. He has travelled from planet to planet and yet, he took the beauty of the universe for granted. 

Growing up in Kamino, the only thing that Bly was taught was to fight until you die. Nothing more, nothing less. It wasn't until he was assigned to Aayla that he learned to appreciate everything before it was gone forever in his life. His brothers, his sisters, his best friends, and Aayla.

Like the blue moon, he finds her attractive. With blue skin and luscious lips, Bly was struck by her looks, and his feeling for her was more intense when he saw how she treated his brothers and sisters, especially Ahri.

Whenever Bly wanted to speak to Aayla alone, his vod’ika, Ahri, would always be asking her stupid questions, like how to find a book in the library or how to strike a conversation with a woman she met at the bar.

He envies them for trying to steal her attention from time to time, but he knows that jealousy would do no good except poisoning his own heart. He knows that having a sense of entitlement is not the way to have around a woman like Aayla. But yet, he watches most romance movies that his batchmate, Ares recommended to him and he noticed that the characters were constantly pining for each other’s love, ignoring the people around them.

He thought those couples in the movies were selfish and had little chemistry with each other. From what Odd Eye told him, relationships take years to build and seconds to crumble. The thought of losing Aayla in the war scares him as if he has enough of seeing his own troops dying and suffering in pain.

“Bly?” he heard a familiar voice calling him. “Are you alright?” 

The commander turned around and saw Aayla standing behind him, her Jedi robes wrapped with her cloak. Bly glanced at her with awe as her beauty shone underneath the blue moon. Her eyes sparkled as her gentle smile warms his heart, making him unsure of his words towards her. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not really,” she answered honestly as she sat beside him, turning his cheeks deep red. “I’ve been thinking about the battle today. It was horrifying to see the villagers suffer in the middle of the battle.”

“Yeah, it was awful,” Bly let out a sorrowful sigh. “They don’t deserve to be caught in the middle of the battle.”

“Unfortunately, that is the cost of the war. It’s always the good ones that had to die first, and all because we want peace in the galaxy.”

Bly hates to agree with that statement that Aayla but she has a point, even if it hurts him personally. "People don't seem to understand what we have to go through, and yet, here we are."

"That is true, though people have a point about the war. All it does is take lives after lives until there are no more to take. Even the ones that survived aren't the same anymore."

That also rings true to him. Bly himself had gone through so many battles. Day by day, he wished that the Reaper would visit him instead of his brothers and sisters. He felt sick to the stomach whenever he had to list down every clone trooper who perished in his report. They may be engineered to kill droids but deep down, those men and women have feelings as well. All those wishes that they made within themselves, were never accomplished.

“Aayla,” he stuttered. “Do you ever wish that you could turn back time and save everyone you loved from dying?”

“Sometimes I do,” Aayla admitted. “I sometimes wished that I could save my friends from death, but in the end, there was nothing we could do except to mourn for them and move on with our lives. It’s not good if you often dwell with your own grief.”

“I see, but do you always blame yourself for watching them die without being able to do anything at all?”

Through the Force, the Twi’lek Jedi sensed turmoil within Bly. His questions about wanting to save his brothers and sisters alarmed her, though, not in a severe manner. She understood the weight he had to carry as the commander of the 327th Battalion. As a Jedi General and peacekeeper, she felt the same burden as well, even without training in leading an army. 

“Bly, if something is bothering you, you can always talk to me,” she assured him, brushing her hand with his, much to his surprise.

“I’m alright, general,” he cleared his throat and sat up straight, letting go of her soft palms. “It’s just….”

“You don’t have to say it if you don’t feel comfortable about it.”

“No, general,” he shook his head. “You’ve made a good point about moving on.”

Aayla shifted her gaze towards the sky, which were painted with the stars and galaxy by the Makers. She was thankful that she was wide awake in the gloomy night to see the wonders of the universe. With the war raging in the galaxy, Aayla felt like a youngling who was counting stars until she decided to go to bed.

She remembered a time when there was only peace in the galaxy. A time when the only thing she was sad was when an elderly Jedi Master became one with the Force. A time when children were running around in the hallways of the Jedi Temple instead of leading an army of soldiers. 

Aayla wonders if suffering and pain was worth it to achieve peace in the galaxy. She heard a million times that the war would end someday, but that someday doesn’t seem to come any faster as it goes on and on, claiming lives after lives. But for now, she just wants to enjoy the everlasting sight that is laying beside her, counting every star in the sky. “So, how many of them did you manage to count?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Bly asked, clueless. 

“The stars, silly,” she chuckled. “How many stars did you manage to count?”

The clone commander blushed, feeling like an idiot for not paying enough attention to her. “Well, I counted around a thousand stars in the sky.”

“Really?” her eyes widened. “That’s amazing. I’m impressed with your mathematics skills.”

“To be honest with you, Aayla, I was only guessing. I didn’t get to count past 20 stars, actually.”

“Well, it’s still impressive, though,” she shrugged. “At least it’s better than not counting at all.”

Bly beamed, tightening his lips. “H-hey Aayla, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Bly. What is it that you want to ask me about?”

“What kind of advice would you give yourself if you could go back to the past?” he wondered, glancing deeply at her eyes. 

“Well, that is a good question,” she said, moving her eyelids upwards, thinking what kind of answer would she give to him. “My only advice to my younger self is to not be overly attached with everyone you loved, as it is unhealthy and it leads to obsession.”

He nodded at her statement. “Did you have an unhealthy attachment with someone before?”

“I used to have intense emotion with my friend Kit, but he doesn't feel the same way for me. So I had to let him go and respect his feelings towards me.”

Bly couldn't help seeing green whenever he saw Aayla and Kit Fisto interacting with each other. Then again, he also felt the same way when Ahri stole her attention away from him. He knows that he doesn't own Aayla, but he felt that he should stop being jealous towards everyone who talks to her, especially his vod'ika, Ahri.

“Are you and Kit still friends?”

“We are,” she nodded. “He is my best friend and I won’t have it any other way.”

“That’s good to hear,” he gleamed. “It’s no good getting your lustrous feelings in the way of friendship anyways. Imagine what it does to your friendship with Kit.”

“Yes, there would be horrible consequences,” she answered, taking a deep breath of the fresh air in her surroundings. “Has that ever happened to you before, Bly?”

He has to be completely honest with Aayla, especially when it comes to his feelings towards and resentment towards Ahri. “My sister and I have been close with each other since the Battle of Geonosis. And then one day, when we were assigned to one of the most beautiful Jedi General, who is also smart and cautious during wartime.”

Aayla could only blush as she knew what Bly was telling her, and who is the particular person that he was referring to.

“And guess what, my feelings towards the general grew as we fought with each other, side-by-side, and we even began to understand each other as well. So imagine my surprise when I found out that my sister also has feelings for the general as well. I didn’t take it well and I ended up lashing out at her.”

He paused for a moment, before he decided to continue his story towards her. “She ended up crying and retreated to her quarters. I felt terrible. She was my closest sister in the 327th Battalion and I made her cry. I guess envy and possessiveness has grown inside my heart without realizing it, but that doesn’t excuse my behaviour towards her.”

“Later, I knocked on her barrack and I apologize for making her feel this way. She forgave me, but I still felt bad for making her miserable, so we talked and talked for hours, and we strengthened our friendship, without letting our pride and ego get in the way.”

Aayla looked at him in a proud manner, placing her hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad that you and Ahri worked on the issue between the both of you. Bly, I understand that you love me very much but sometimes, we can’t be too attached to each other. Otherwise, our relationship would lead to obsession, which is unhealthy for the both of us.”

“I know, Aayla, and I’m ashamed for thinking this way,” he frowned, avoiding her glance. “I just wished that we’re both allowed to be open about our love towards each other. I’m just sick and tired of keeping this a secret.”

“I know,” she caressed his face as she leaned her forehead onto his. “But as long as we have each other, then you have nothing to worry about.”

Bly wrapped his arms around her waist as he felt his heart pounding gently, his eyes closed. Their love may be forbidden and scandalous towards everyone, but he and Aayla surrendered their fate to the Maker of the galaxy. After all, their love story is written in the stars for their children and their grandchildren to read someday.

#star wars #star wars ocs #clone trooper #clone trooper ocs #clone ocs #female clone trooper #commander bly #aayla secura #blyla #bly x aayla #stargazing #emotional intimacy #intimacy #swsecretsanta2020 #love story #fluff #angst

[96thdayofrage]

Chris Hedges: The Price of Conscience

Drone warfare whistleblower sentenced to 45 months in prison for telling the American people the truth.

Daniel Hale, a former intelligence analyst in the drone program for the Air Force who as a private contractor in 2013 leaked some 17 classified documents about drone strikes to the press, was sentenced today to 45 months in prison.

The documents, published by The Intercept on October 15, 2015, exposed that between January 2012 and February 2013, US special operations airstrikes killed more than 200 people. Of those, only 35 were the intended targets. For one five-month period of the operation, according to the documents, nearly 90 percent of the people killed in airstrikes were not the intended targets. The civilian dead, usually innocent bystanders, were routinely classified as “enemies killed in action.”

The Justice Department coerced Hale, who was deployed to Afghanistan in 2012, on March 31 to plead guilty to one count of violating the Espionage Act, a law passed in 1917 designed to prosecute those who passed on state secrets to a hostile power, not those who expose to the public government lies and crimes. Hale admitted as part of the plea deal to “retention and transmission of national security information” and leaking 11 classified documents to a journalist. If he had refused the plea deal, he could have spent 50 years in prison.

Hale, in a handwritten letter to Judge Liam O’Grady on July 18, explained why he leaked classified information, writing that the drone attacks and the war in Afghanistan “had little to do with preventing terror from coming into the United States and a lot more to do with protecting the profits of weapons manufacturers and so-called defense contractors.”

At the top of the ten-page letter Hale quoted US Navy Admiral Gene LaRocque, speaking to a reporter in 1995: “We now kill people without ever seeing them. Now you push a button thousands of miles away … Since it’s all done by remote control, there’s no remorse … and then we come home in triumph.”

“In my capacity as a signals intelligence analyst stationed at Bagram Airbase, I was made to track down the geographic location of handset cellphone devices believed to be in the possession of so-called enemy combatants,” Hale explained to the judge. “To accomplish this mission required access to a complex chain of globe-spanning satellites capable of maintaining an unbroken connection with remotely piloted aircraft, commonly referred to as drones. Once a steady connection is made and a targeted cell phone device is acquired, an imagery analyst in the U.S., in coordination with a drone pilot and camera operator, would take over using information I provided to surveil everything that occurred within the drone’s field of vision. This was done, most often, to document the day-to-day lives of suspected militants. Sometimes, under the right conditions, an attempt at capture would be made. Other times, a decision to strike and kill them where they stood would be weighed.”

He recalled the first time he witnessed a drone strike, a few days after he arrived in Afghanistan.

“Early that morning, before dawn, a group of men had gathered together in the mountain ranges of Patika province around a campfire carrying weapons and brewing tea,” he wrote. “That they carried weapons with them would not have been considered out of the ordinary in the place I grew up, much less within the virtually lawless tribal territories outside the control of the Afghan authorities. Except that among them was a suspected member of the Taliban, given away by the targeted cell phone device in his pocket. As for the remaining individuals, to be armed, of military age, and sitting in the presence of an alleged enemy combatant was enough evidence to place them under suspicion as well. Despite having peacefully assembled, posing no threat, the fate of the now tea drinking men had all but been fulfilled. I could only look on as I sat by and watched through a computer monitor when a sudden, terrifying flurry of hellfire missiles came crashing down, splattering, purple-colored crystal guts on the side of the morning mountain.”

This was his first experience with “scenes of graphic violence carried out from the cold comfort of a computer chair.” There would be many more.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t question the justification for my actions,” he wrote. “By the rules of engagement, it may have been permissible for me to have helped to kill those men — whose language I did not speak, customs I did not understand, and crimes I could not identify — in the gruesome manner that I did. Watch them die. But how could it be considered honorable of me to continuously have laid in wait for the next opportunity to kill unsuspecting persons, who, more often than not, are posing no danger to me or any other person at the time. Never mind honorable, how could it be that any thinking person continued to believe that it was necessary for the protection of the United States of America to be in Afghanistan and killing people, not one of whom present was responsible for the September 11th attacks on our nation. Notwithstanding, in 2012, a full year after the demise of Osama bin Laden in Pakistan, I was a part of killing misguided young men who were but mere children on the day of 9/11.”

He and other service members were confronted with the privatization of war where “contract mercenaries outnumbered uniform wearing soldiers 2 to 1 and earned as much as 10 times their salary.”

“Meanwhile, it did not matter whether it was, as I had seen, an Afghan farmer blown in half, yet miraculously conscious and pointlessly trying to scoop his insides off the ground, or whether it was an American flag-draped coffin lowered into Arlington National Cemetery to the sound of a 21-gun salute,” he wrote. “Bang, bang, bang. Both served to justify the easy flow of capital at the cost of blood — theirs and ours. When I think about this, I am grief-stricken and ashamed of myself for the things I’ve done to support it.”

He described to the judge “the most harrowing day of my life” that took place a few months into his deployment “when a routine surveillance mission turned into disaster.”

“For weeks we had been tracking the movements of a ring of car bomb manufacturers living around Jalalabad,” he wrote. “Car bombs directed at US bases had become an increasingly frequent and deadly problem that summer, so much effort was put into stopping them. It was a windy and clouded afternoon when one of the suspects had been discovered headed eastbound, driving at a high rate of speed. This alarmed my superiors who believe he might be attempting to escape across the border into Pakistan.”

Now, whenever I encounter an individual who thinks that drone warfare is justified and reliably keeps America safe, I remember that time and ask myself how could I possibly continue to believe that I am a good person, deserving of my life and the right to pursue happiness.

— Daniel Hale, of learning about children killed by indiscriminate US drone attacks he participated in.

“A drone strike was our only chance and already it began lining up to take the shot,” he continued. “But the less advanced predator drone found it difficult to see through clouds and compete against strong headwinds. The single payload MQ-1 failed to connect with its target, instead missing by a few meters. The vehicle, damaged, but still driveable, continued on ahead after narrowly avoiding destruction. Eventually, once the concern of another incoming missile subsided, the driver stopped, got out of the car, and checked himself as though he could not believe he was still alive. Out of the passenger side came a woman wearing an unmistakable burka. As astounding as it was to have just learned there had been a woman, possibly his wife, there with the man we intended to kill moments ago, I did not have the chance to see what happened next before the drone diverted its camera when she began frantically to pull out something from the back of the car.”

He learned a few days later from his commanding officer what next took place.

“There indeed had been the suspect’s wife with him in the car,” he wrote. “And in the back were their two young daughters, ages 5 and 3 years old. A cadre of Afghan soldiers were sent to investigate where the car had stopped the following day. It was there they found them placed in the dumpster nearby. The eldest was found dead due to unspecified wounds caused by shrapnel that pierced her body. Her younger sister was alive but severely dehydrated. As my commanding officer relayed this information to us, she seemed to express disgust, not for the fact that we had errantly fired on a man and his family, having killed one of his daughters; but for the suspected bomb maker having ordered his wife to dump the bodies of their daughters in the trash, so that the two of them could more quickly escape across the border. Now, whenever I encounter an individual who thinks that drone warfare is justified and reliably keeps America safe, I remember that time and ask myself how could I possibly continue to believe that I am a good person, deserving of my life and the right to pursue happiness.”

“One year later, at a farewell gathering for those of us who would soon be leaving military service, I sat alone, transfixed by the television, while others reminisced together,” he continued. “On television was breaking news of the president giving his first public remarks about the policy surrounding the use of drone technology in warfare. His remarks were made to reassure the public of reports scrutinizing the death of civilians in drone strikes and the targeting of American citizens. The president said that a high standard of ‘near certainty’ needed to be met in order to ensure that no civilians were present. But from what I knew, of the instances where civilians plausibly could have been present, those killed were nearly always designated enemies killed in action unless proven otherwise. Nonetheless, I continued to heed his words as the president went on to explain how a drone could be used to eliminate someone who posed an ‘imminent threat’ to the United States. Using the analogy of taking out a sniper, with his sights set on an unassuming crowd of people, the president likened the use of drones to prevent a would-be terrorist from carrying out his evil plot. But, as I understood it to be, the unassuming crowd had been those who lived in fear and the terror of drones in their skies and the sniper in this scenario had been me. I came to believe that the policy of drone assassination was being used to mislead the public that it keeps us safe, and when I finally left the military, still processing what I’d been a part of, I began to speak out, believing my participation in the drone program to have been deeply wrong.”

Hale threw himself into anti-war activism when he left the military, speaking out about the indiscriminate killing of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of noncombatants, including children in drone strikes. He took part in a peace conference held in Washington, D.C. in November 2013. The Yemeni Fazil bin Ali Jaber spoke at the conference about the drone strike that killed his brother, Salem bin Ali Jaber, and their cousin Waleed. Waleed was a policeman. Salem was an Imam who was an outspoken critic of the armed attacks carried out by radical jihadists.

“One day in August 2012, local members of Al Qaeda traveling through Fazil’s village in a car spotted Salem in the shade, pulled up towards him, and beckoned him to come over and speak to them,” Hale wrote. “Not one to miss an opportunity to evangelize to the youth, Salem proceeded cautiously with Waleed by his side. Fazil and other villagers began looking on from afar. Farther still was an ever present reaper drone looking too.”

“As Fazil recounted what happened next, I felt myself transported back in time to where I had been on that day, 2012,” Hale told the judge. “Unbeknownst to Fazil and those of his village at the time was that they had not been the only watching Salem approach the jihadist in the car. From Afghanistan, I and everyone on duty paused their work to witness the carnage that was about to unfold. At the press of a button from thousands of miles away, two hellfire missiles screeched out of the sky, followed by two more. Showing no signs of remorse, I, and those around me, clapped and cheered triumphantly. In front of a speechless auditorium, Fazil wept.”

A week after the conference Hale was offered a job as a government contractor.  Desperate for money and steady employment, hoping to go to college, he took the job, which paid $ 80,000 a year.  But by then he was disgusted by the drone program.

“For a long time, I was uncomfortable with myself over the thought of taking advantage of my military background to land a cushy desk job,” he wrote. “During that time, I was still processing what I had been through, and I was starting to wonder if I was contributing again to the problem of money and war by accepting to return as a defense contractor. Worse was my growing apprehension that everyone around me was also taking part in a collective delusion and denial that was used to justify our exorbitant salaries, for comparatively easy labor. The thing I feared most at the time was the temptation not to question it.”

“Then it came to be that one day after work I stuck around to socialize with a pair of co-workers whose talented work I had come to greatly admire,” he wrote. “They made me feel welcomed, and I was happy to have earned their approval. But then, to my dismay, our brand-new friendship took an unexpectedly dark turn. They elected that we should take a moment and view together some archived footage of past drone strikes. Such bonding ceremonies around a computer to watch so-called “war porn” had not been new to me. I partook in them all the time while deployed to Afghanistan. But on that day, years after the fact, my new friends gaped and sneered, just as my old one’s had, at the sight of faceless men in the final moments of their lives. I sat by watching too; said nothing and felt my heart breaking into pieces.”

“Your Honor,” Hale wrote to the judge, “the truest truism that I’ve come to understand about the nature of war is that war is trauma. I believe that any person either called-upon or coerced to participate in war against their fellow man is promised to be exposed to some form of trauma. In that way, no soldier blessed to have returned home from war does so uninjured. The crux of PTSD is that it is a moral conundrum that afflicts invisible wounds on the psyche of a person made to burden the weight of experience after surviving a traumatic event. How PTSD manifests depends on the circumstances of the event. So how is the drone operator to process this? The victorious rifleman, unquestioningly remorseful, at least keeps his honor intact by having faced off against his enemy on the battlefield. The determined fighter pilot has the luxury of not having to witness the gruesome aftermath. But what possibly could I have done to cope with the undeniable cruelties that I perpetuated?”

“My conscience, once held at bay, came roaring back to life,” he wrote. “At first, I tried to ignore it. Wishing instead that someone, better placed than I, should come along to take this cup from me. But this too was folly. Left to decide whether to act, I only could do that which I ought to do before God and my own conscience. The answer came to me, that to stop the cycle of violence, I ought to sacrifice my own life and not that of another person. So, I contacted an investigative reporter, with whom I had had an established prior relationship, and told him that I had something the American people needed to know.”

Hale, who has admitted to being suicidal and depressed, said in the letter he, like many veterans, struggles with the crippling effects of post-traumatic stress disorder, aggravated by an impoverished and turbulent childhood.

“Depression is a constant,” he told the judge. “Though stress, particularly stress caused by war, can manifest itself at different times and in different ways. The tell-tale signs of a person afflicted by PTSD and depression can often be outwardly observed and are practically universally recognizable. Hard lines about the face and jaw. Eyes, once bright and wide, now deep-set, and fearful. And an inexplicably sudden loss of interest in things that used to spark joy. These are the noticeable changes in my demeanor marked by those who knew me before and after military service. To say that the period of my life spent serving in the United States Air Force had an impression on me would be an understatement. It is more accurate to say that it irreversibly transformed my identity as an American. Having forever altered the thread of my life’s story, weaved into the fabric of our nation’s history.”

Feature photo | People carry the shrouded casket of a villager killed by a US drone attack on the Afghanistan border in Bannu. Ijaz Muhammad | AP

Chris Hedges is a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist who was a foreign correspondent for fifteen years for The New York Times, where he served as the Middle East Bureau Chief and Balkan Bureau Chief for the paper. He previously worked overseas for The Dallas Morning News, The Christian Science Monitor, and NPR. He is the host of the Emmy Award-nominated RT America show On Contact.

[elmidol]

Corrosive Sentiment :: Unsealed Fate

Three Blind Tooke Part One Resistance is Futile

Read on AO3

Warnings: mind control, selfharm, noncon, dubcon, very end has nsfw

Three Blind Tooke Part One: Resistance is Futile Chapter Nineteen: Corrosive Sentiment :: Unsealed Fate

You made me harm the ones I love, Then asked me why I hated you. Isn’t it obvious that what you did, Was the worst thing ever to do?

You could not help but stare at both of your hands, namely at the two tattoos of your captor’s names. The moment the shuttle had landed on the planet, Kylo Ren had taken control over your every action. You could not remember anything that had occurred. And though both General Hux and Kylo Ren assured you that you were made only to quietly enter the hotel at which you were currently staying, you doubted this. Your mind was wandering over all worst-case scenarios. Whether someone had recognized you and you had been made to be rude to them. Or if you were already forced to badmouth your mother. You frowned deeply, despising the position you were in.

General Hux set a plate of food on a foldout tray that had previously been placed beside your bed. You eyed everything there. It did look tasty, and yet you found that you had no appetite. The redhead continued past you, his own plate of food still in his hand, and took a seat on the edge of his bed. He set his plate down on the mattress, picked up his datapad, and started to scroll through his messages. Your eyes wandered about his messy hair. He looked the part of a civilian in terms of attire, however his posture bespoke of his true upbringing.

Your attention then shifted to Kylo Ren. He was no longer wearing his helmet, and the man was busily nudging at his food with his fork. Inspecting it with a furrowed brow. Perhaps trying to discern whether or not he would like it before taking a bite. He at last stabbed the prongs of his fork into a piece, slipping the bite into his mouth a moment later.

While watching both Hux and Ren slowly eating their food, you reluctantly lifted up the first bite to your mouth and began to nibble. General Hux soon set aside his datapad and focused completely on consuming his food. Your mind was having a difficult time wrapping around the fact that these men were still your enemies. They were acting too…human. Tame. You popped a bite of bread into your mouth, chewing and narrowing your eyes whilst observing Ren. He finished his meal then rose from his seat. You dropped your gaze to your lap.

The Force user lifted up a bag of clothing prior to heading for the refresher. You had previously wondered how he would be disguised. His normal attire drew too much attention. Yet why he had to pick out clothing from Naboo, you were uncertain. You shook your head, inwardly cursing his choice. You did understand that the Naboo attire would match your own outfits quite well; it was the best way to prevent anyone from making a connection between Kylo Ren and the First Order. On that note, you wondered if he was going to assume another name for the time being. Or perhaps he would simply go by a title.

“Bored, tooka?” The man’s voice caused your attention to shift to him. You blinked at General Hux, shrugging your shoulders the next moment. “It was stated at the front desk that a holochess set is available should we wish to play at all.”

“I… I would like that,” you replied. Anything to help keep your mind off of what was really occurring on the planet. The fact that you were helpless to stop it, had no true freewill.

The ginger general nodded prior to pressing a button on the commlink in the room. He spoke briefly with the individual on the other line, informing them of the wish to have the holochess set delivered to the room, and then ended the connection. You sat quietly on the bed, your hands folded in your lap, and waited for the set to be delivered. In the meanwhile, Kylo Ren emerged from the refresher. Your breath caught. Eyes widening, you stared at him in surprise. He could have passed for a native of Naboo. Quickly averting your gaze to avoid memories of home, you looked instead at the redhead.

“Will you also be dressing in this manner?” you asked, gesturing down the length of your body with a hand. General Hux chuckled and informed you that no, he would not. You wound your arms around your midsection and pursed your lips. “I suppose the intention is for them to see you. As far as Ren is considered…that would give too intimidating a presence, his robes and mask.”

As it is, he’s dressed so… Your eyes darted to him then back to the redhead’s face. He is descended from Naboo royalty…and here he is, making a mockery of our politics.

“You will not be made to contradict your mother’s views so early in our visit, tooke.” You released a noise that nearly caught in your throat. A groan of sorts; his words hardly lessened the frustration you were feeling. Kylo Ren walked over to the end of your bed. You stared at him, allowing yourself time to take in his appearance. The men your age wore such clothes. A number of the boys you had grown up with had started to dress in such a manner shortly before you had left Naboo to join the Resistance.

There was a knock on the door, which you suspected was the holochess being delivered. General Hux rose from the other bed, moving over to the door so that he could answer it. Before opening the room, he checked to see who was on the other side. While the redhead did these things, Kylo Ren climbed onto the bed with you. You lifted a hand, placing it on his chest when the man started to press his face towards yours. A frown tugged at his features.

“I don’t understand it…after seeing your Master. I don’t understand how you could possibly have been lured to the Dark side. How can you believe any of this—what you’re to do to me—is justice?”

“Tooke, there are many stages when it comes to paving the way for justice.”

“So, what? The ends justify the means?”

“How many have died fighting for the Resistance? How many have you killed—have your allies killed?” You lowered your hand back to your lap, and Kylo Ren rested his forehead against yours. “The choices may have been limited, but they were there.”

“I am being forced to hurt those I care for. What sort of choices are those?”

There was no answer to your question. General Hux set up the holochess set where you and he could play against one another. Ren, meanwhile, remained seated near you. You felt his gaze on you the majority of the time you played. This you were able to ignore. Playing against the General of the First Order reminded you much of the time you had spent in his personal quarters. The many conversations you had had with him. You wondered briefly how Millicent was doing, yet did not bring yourself to ask the question aloud.

“For a fast learner, you still have yet to master the fine art of holochess,” General Hux quipped when he defeated you. You huffed out a sigh, rolling your eyes the next moment. “Or perhaps you’re distracted?”

“I was…thinking of my father.”

“Your father,” he murmured, and there was something in his tone that drew your attention. You stared at him, however the man said nothing further. His lips were pinched together, yet from that you could discern nothing other than the fact that fathers held something of significance for the man. Judging by the way Kylo Ren had frowned, you assumed it was the same for him.

You trailed a finger along the edge of the table upon which the chess set had been placed. “My father will be disappointed…when you force me to do…those things.”

“Those things,” General Hux repeated, his lips quirking, nearly twitching into a sardonic smile. “Normally you are more eloquent, and yet now you are…hesitant for reasons I cannot fathom. As though we are ignorant to what those things are.”

“Disrespecting my mother as you will have me do,” you hissed out. “Do you plan on having me attack her with more personal—“

“It is all political, tooka,” General Hux stated passively. He reset the board then gestured to it. “Another round?” You answered in the negative, moving away from the table. “Ren?” The Force user took the place you had previously occupied. “Your father did not allow you to be blinded by the veil of peace the New Republic claimed to uphold, did he?”

“No,” you whispered. “Never. I did not understand it completely as a child. I sometimes believed it was only due to my mother’s political affiliations.”

“Mm… Was your father a fighter of the Rebellion then?”

“Not exactly.”

“A contact?”

“That would be…more accurate. Things changed once the revelation of General Organa’s parentage hit us. Even if some have forgiven her for keeping it a secret, they are not any less disenchanted. Not to mention the other incidents. The assassination… There have been many things.”

“You must be relieved that your mother herself is not a senator,” the redhead said, his eyes trained on Kylo Ren, as they had been ever since you had brought up the man’s mother.

“In certain respects she is in just as much danger.” You cocked your head to the side. “You’re targeting her after all.” That sardonic grin at last saw the light of day. “I don’t understand how anyone can be so spiteful.”

“Spite has nothing to do with it,” the ginger general said whilst taking out one of Ren’s pieces. “This is a part of politics. Perhaps you should have taken some lessons from your mother before wandering off to join the Resistance.”

“Disgusting.” He chortled at your words, and you balled your hands into fists. “The two of you get off on being insulted, don’t you?” Kylo Ren turned his head, smirking at you; no doubt he remembered well that time in the woods, the first time he had gotten hard, when he had forced your mouth on him and had nearly raped you. General Hux ran his tongue along his lips, his eyes darting to your lap. His words from earlier filtered into your brain: You submit perfectly fine if it means your cunt is filled. “You claim to not be ruled by sexual desires, and yet look at the both of you.”

“Don’t worry, tooka,” Hux said with a sneer, likely insulted by the implication of your words. “I prefer partners who don’t cry.”

“That’s a low blow,” you growled out.

“I don’t believe in holding back my punches,” he said, tilting his head back and staring down his nose at you. “Are you saying you cannot handle it?”

“Oh, I can handle it just fine,” you hissed, pushing off the bed and marching away from him and towards the refresher. “And, by the way, I am not running away! I have to pee!”

“Very well. It is always pleasant being kept up to date with your bodily functions.”

“And here I thought Ren was the snarky little shit,” you shot back, slamming the door and marching over to the toilet. You ran a hand through your hair as you urinated, swearing under your breath. In certain respects, you quite enjoyed bickering with the general. It felt almost normal, arguing with someone. With them being out of uniform, it furthered the illusion that you were not with the enemy. Not that you ever forgot, not completely.

After you finished using the toilet, you started to wash your hands. You raised your eyes to the mirror, taking in your reflection. How regal you looked, you thought with a sneer. Compared to the clothing you had been given ever since your capture, you appeared equivalent to a queen. Perhaps even an empress.

Your mind returned to the manner in which Kylo Ren was dressed. There was a clenching in your stomach that you could identify solely as homesickness. You placed your hand atop your belly. All the while your eyes were glued to your reflection. You were imagining those of your homeworld, the boys you had grown with, standing at your side. Wearing clothing identical to Ren’s. How sickening it would be, if he were to stand there with them. Acting as though he were a docile creature rather than a monster of the battlefield. Likewise, you were no different. Perhaps not quite as terrible, and yet—you could not help but acknowledge your own cruel actions, no matter how necessary you found them.

Your lips in a thin line of distaste, you exited the refresher. Kylo Ren and General Hux were engaged in their holochess match. Both were more calculating with one another than they were with others. It bespoke of their close working relationship, of their deviousness and skill. And how harmless they nearly appeared, their outward appearances giving them the exact façade they worked so hard at putting on.

“How long will I be kept here?”

“As long as necessary—you needn’t waste your time with foolish questions,” the redhead drawled. He straightened from his former hunched posture and rested his left forearm on his thigh. “What is the real question your mind is currently preoccupied with?”

“How long before you put me in the position where I remember nothing of the remainder of this…visit.” This time it was Kylo Ren who adjusted his posture. The taller of the two men did not turn his gaze to you; those brown orbs were glued to the pieces on the board. “It’s soon, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” You stared at the back of his head. One thing was for certain; Kylo Ren had never held his punches with you either. “Tomorrow morning…after breakfast.”

You shook your head. “It would be better if you did it now.”

“Obstinate tooke.” You ground your teeth together. In truth, this situation, to you, was worse than being chained and muzzled. At least with the other, you had a chance at defying them in some manner. Here? Like this? Your only option was to attempt them harm before your freewill was fully stolen. Kylo Ren waved his hand in an arc. “Climb on the bed with me.”

You crawled onto the bed, sliding your legs forward until you were behind him, at which point you wrapped your arms around him from behind and rested your forehead along his spine. You flinched when your mind was once more your own. A pressure grew in your throat, the urge to scream in frustration and outrage. You unwound your arms from him, straightening yourself to find that General Hux was watching you. His expression was completely unreadable. You pulled at the edges of your sleeves, setting the silk-like material against your face. A sob wracked your body. You despised that tears were welling up in your eyes.

You knew why he had done it; your eye had caught on a number of items within the room that you could use in an attempt to harm them. To kill them.

Should I die, they cannot use me, you thought. Should I die, I will never escape.

You crawled up the length of the bed, set your hands upon the pillows, and splayed open your fingers. Those damned tattoos. You scrunched up your face and glared at the two marked digits. A dead man was no threat to you, and so you ignored the finger that held the name Ben Solo. The one marked Kylo Ren, on the other hand, you lifted and slipped into your mouth. Just as your teeth were descending upon the finger, Kylo Ren whipped around and lunged for you.

His body hit into yours, knocking you forward, and yet you refused to relinquish the digit. You sunk your teeth into it. Flinching, you forced yourself to press on, drawing blood. Kylo Ren seized your wrist, holding so tightly that you screamed, and wrenched your hand out of your mouth. He pinned you down on the bed, your hand up high and out of reach of your teeth. You curled your tongue within your mouth, spitting in his face. The man hardly reacted, his pupils full blown as he stared down at you. You clawed at his wrist with your free hand. Thrashing underneath him, you bucked up your hips in an attempt to throw him off of you. The man continued to straddle you without issue.

In your peripheral, you noticed that General Hux had stood from the other bed. His hand met your ankle, which caused you to tense up further underneath Ren. “Do it, Ren. It’s necessary.” The dark-haired man scowled, an expression that matched your own.

You stared up into the man’s face. That mask of Kylo Ren. How deeply was it that Ben Solo had been buried? Six feet under, perhaps, or more. Nearly unreachable. “It’s a terrible lie, what you marked on me. I’m not yours, other than being your prisoner.”

“You fight such pointless battles, tooke.” He lowered his face closer to yours; Kylo Ren had yet to wipe away the spit, and your eyes were glued to that spot. “You made your choice. So many choices, tooke, and they led you here. Do you truly believe you could survive away from me?”

“What?” you croaked weakly. “What the fuck…what are you even asking? I’m meant to kill you. That’s my mission. It will always be my mission. Prevent the First Order from achieving their goals…you’re standing in my way. And maybe I do pity you, Ren. And perhaps at this moment in time, you are in a position above me. But I am not yours, and I will find the strength to fulfill my mission no matter what. At the expense of my own life—you’re right; that was my choice. That still is my choice.

“The things you will force me to do: I despise you for it all. What anger had ebbed away, it’s coming back. I hate you so deeply. I pity you so thoroughly. A part of me will miss you once you are brought down. But I can accept that. I can accept that far more than I could ever fathom watching the First Order seize control. You did break me, Ren. You broke me…but I am mending. And when this is all done, I’ll make you sorry that you did not allow me to die—when your saber pierced me, and when my system could not handle the overdose. If I die a third time, that will be your only reprieve.”

“Such bold words, tooke.” With the hand that was not holding tight on your wrist, Kylo Ren cupped your jaw, holding you in place, though you thrashed against him, as he covered your mouth with his. His lips still against yours, he spoke: “You live for me. In this way, I will always own you.”

“Enough games, Ren,” the redhead spat. Kylo Ren exhaled deeply, shifted his hand, and spoke softly to you.

Your mother spoke your name with a hint of ire. You paused midstep, refusing to look over your shoulder at her. Refusing to turn around to face her. “You could do so much more good if only you listened. Become an intern… War is not the answer. The Resistance…perhaps they claim to have good intentions, however… This is a time of peace. The recent events have already shaken the foundation of the Galactic Senate. Don’t worsen things.”

“Mother, I…” Many thoughts flashed through your head in that moment. You had already changed your name, had the paperwork to prove it. She did not know this. Was unaware that you had been in contact with the Resistance, that you had been accepted. “I don’t want to do anything to hurt you. That isn’t what this is about. There is so little… Nearly nothing I can do to help…becoming an intern…what help can I provide? That is not a position wherein I can uphold the peace. I won’t do anything to hurt you, mother.”

“Then your mind is already set.”

“I’m…not sorry. I do feel bad if you’re upset, but… I’m not sorry that I’m doing this.”

“Come here.” This time you did turn around, and found yourself being pulled into a tight embrace. You lifted your arms, encircling her as well and squeezing your eyes closed. “This isn’t the life I want for you. The war was fought, the Empire taken down…so that you, your generation, wouldn’t have to do this. There are other ways.”

“Sometimes there aren’t.”

You were breathing heavily, a weight upon you. A shifting weight, you noted. Something moving against you, inside of you. As the fog slowly lifted from your mind, you stared up into the face of the man who was watching you. Kylo Ren did not stop thrusting in and out of you, nor did he alter his pace, yet he did whisper your name as though he was acknowledging that you were present in all senses. You balled your hands up into fists against the sheets. Turning your head, you allowed him to fuck you without protest. How many times had he done this, you wondered; had his way with you while you had no control over yourself. Perhaps he transformed you into an active participant. He readjusted his angle at last, brushing against your clit with every minor shift of his body. In little time, you were panting again. Arching your back as the tears gathered in your eyes, as they spilled down the sides of your face and onto the pillow below.

“I’m some body to you.” You lifted your head, looking down between your bodies. “No longer somebody.” He grunted above you, the noise escaping him due to his actions rather than your words. “Where is the general?”

“We’re on the ship, tooke.” You sniffled, shook your head, and managed a hoarse No. “You served your purpose well.” A more strained NO! and your hands were on his chest, your nails raking dow—there were rubber tips on them, which connected to a binding on your wrists. You ran your tongue along your teeth. Caps. How you had missed these facts, you were uncertain. Above you, Kylo Ren sighed again. “You will be taught how to behave in my absence.” He then swore, his cum filling you.

“You made me tear her down… How she must have looked on me with such hate. I will never behave, creature.”

“Back to that again.” Kylo Ren pulled out of you and dropped his hand between your legs. He used both your juices and his semen, smearing them against your clit and rubbing you. Your body responded to his touch, the treacherous thing it was. “You should give up hope. The map to Skywalker…we’ve located it. And once it is obtained, your Resistance will have nothing left to hope for.” You despised him all the more for making you cum to such words.

“You can’t destroy hope no matter how much you try!” you screamed, jerking your legs closed and rolling onto your side away from him. There was a collar on your neck, a chain attaching you to the bed. “You treat me like an animal. A beast. You sick fuck. How many times are you going to ruin me?” His hand met the small of your back, his lips on the back of your shoulder. “I don’t want to miss you this time.” His hand slid up the length of your body, down your arm, and rested atop your hand. “Just a fix for you… I want you to break, Kylo Ren. I don’t want to fix you.”

“I care nothing for your wishes.”

“A disgusting lie. I wish it were true. Does it hurt you as much as it hurts me?” You met his eye. “It’s corrosive, this thing that’s between us.”

“You’ll break first, tooke.”

“I’ll do my damnedest to not.” His mouth twitched at the sides, his lips curling upwards in a smile that caused you to tremble. “You won’t get to Skywalker. I believe Fate won’t allow that. The galaxy has had enough of tyrannical ways. You will lose, Ren.”

“We’ll see, tooke.”

Bound against the bed, you watched as Kylo Ren slipped into a shroud of darkness. His clothing swallowing him up. When he put on his mask, you turned your eyes up to the ceiling. You wondered how thoroughly he had destroyed your mother through you. And now the map to Skywalker… The galaxy won’t allow it. Force, please. You hesitated at that thought then pressed forward with it. Force, don’t let him. There has to be something greater planned. Let someone—anyone—stop him.

[Though you did not see her often—perhaps because you did not see her often—you cherished the moments you would lie on the ground with your mother and stare at the sky. Such a vast thing, the sky. “It was all worth it,” your mother said. “Because you’re free to choose your own fate now.”]

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren smut #kylo ren imagine #three blind tooke #kylo x reader #resistance is futile #elmidolfanfic

[theplaxiscure]

BLACK LIVES MATTER

George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery (along with MANY other black citizens) were WRONGFULLY SLAUGHTERED by the people that were supposed to PROTECT them. This isn't even close to the first time an incident like this (a black civilian murdered by a white person in power) happened, and I highly doubt that it will be the last. The murderers responsible for the deaths of innocent POC should be arrested and charged with AT LEAST SECOND DEGREE MURDER, because that is exactly the crime they committed.

(First-degree murder: Any intentional murder that is willful and premeditated with malice aforethought. Felony murder, a charge that may be filed against a defendant who is involved in a dangerous crime where a death results from the crime, is typically first-degree.

Second-degree murder: Any intentional murder with malice aforethought, but is not premeditated or planned in advance.

See https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murder_(United_States_law) for these official definitions)

Let's take George Floyd's situation, for example. In video evidence, George Floyd was calmly in the back seat of a police car while at least 1 of 4 cops were beating him while he did nothing to resist them or deserve this treatment. 1 of those 4 cops stood and watched as this took place, not doing anything to help Floyd. Later, also in video evidence, a cop, Derek M. Chauvin, knelt on George Floyd's neck, suffocating him, causing him immense pain, and later killing him (all the while bystanders pleaded and demanded that Chauvin stop kneeling on Floyd's neck). While Chauvin knelt on Floyd's neck, Floyd was handcuffed and again, was peaceful and not resisting. In the first few minutes of this situation, Floyd pleaded that he couldn't breathe, to which Chauvin AND the cop standing next to them did not acknowledge. Chauvin was recently arrested and charged with THIRD DEGREE murder. Chauvin BRUTALLY MURDERED a PEACEFUL CIVILAN, who had only ALLEGEDLY written a false check (Floyd was known as a "Gentle Giant" among his community, standing at 6'6" and always exhibiting kindness. No one who knew him would ever believe that he would try to write a false check. It is highly unlikely that he committed any crime that couldn't be let off with a warning, much less a crime deserving of serious physical restraint). Chauvin and the other cops involved in this incident should be charged with AT LEAST SECOND DEGREE MURDER.

About the Black Lives Matter campaigns and movements, I fully support them. If I had the money to donate, I would. I'm very disappointed and unhappy that I don't have the means to donate. George Floyd's funeral funding would be the first thing I would donate to if I could. I grieve his death alongside his family. I wholeheartedly wish the best for them.

Now, concerning the riots that are shaking the country right now. I have mixed feelings on this subject. On one hand, I dislike the use of property damage as a means of protest, but on the other hand, I agree that the time for peace is OVER. For decades, people have been peacefully protesting against racism and mistreatment of POC, but the people in power (primarily PREJUDICED WHITE MEN) HAVE NOT LISTENED.

The only reason the protests have turned violent in the first place, is because the POLICE REACTED VIOLENTLY TO THE PEACEFUL PROTESTS. The cops in Minneapolis showed up to a peaceful protest in riot gear and started using WATER CANNONS, followed by TEAR GAS AND RUBBER BULLETS. They are using non-lethal weapons in a lethal manner, shooting these rubber bullets into people's heads. There is plenty of photo evidence of protestors with BLEEDING HEAD WOUNDS. It is also highly suspected that undercover cops are the ones starting the riots. There are multiple eyewitnesses that can confirm that there were undercover cops pretending to be violent protestors who were throwing rocks at the police. The cops also LIED about protestors being armed and throwing rocks. So if the cops are going to react this way to a PEACEFUL PROTEST, then they're asking for riots.

And while I think these riots are justified at this point, I beg anyone participating in any kind of protest in these times to PLEASE BE CAREFUL. HIDE YOUR IDENTITIES. The police WILL TRACK YOU. There have been SNIPERS spotted on rooftops in some areas (one area of which is very close to where I live). WEAR PROTECTIVE CLOTHING/EQUIPMENT. Tear gas works by actively attacking the moisture in and on your body, so avoid wearing things like lotion, makeup, contact lenses, etc to any protest you go to. Cover your airways and protect your eyes. Cover as much of your body as you can. Do research on how to be as safe as possible during these times. PLEASE BE CAREFUL. YOUR SAFETY IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING RIGHT NOW.

JUSTICE FOR GEORGE FLOYD.

JUSTICE FOR AHMAUD ARBERY.

JUSTICE FOR BREONNA TAYLOR.

JUSTICE FOR WRONGFULLY MURDERED PEOPLE OF COLOUR.

BLACK LIVES MATTER

#blacklivesmatter #justiceforgeorgefloyd #racialjustice #racialinjustice #silencespeaksvolumes

[averagemarvelbitch]

Pride and Joy / PART SIX

Guess who decided to write more! Previous chapter can be read on AO3

---

7 years later.

“This is actually pretty good”.

“What’s yours?”

“Chicken”.

“Hum. Let me try”.

Clint offered Natasha his shawarma, letting her take a big bite out of it. “Yours is better. I want a chicken one”.

“Yeah, sure, go crazy, the billionaire is paying”, Tony complained half-heartedly. He still looked pretty shaken, more so than everyone else. Natasha guessed taking a nuclear bomb into space with no intention of coming back would do that to someone. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Tony Stark was a civilian. He hadn’t been trained for the worse like Nat or Clint had. Hell, even Thor and Steve. Being a warrior prince from another world had probably prepared him for a battle like the one they had just had. And Steve, well, he was a soldier. And this, this had been just another war. A different war, sure, but a war nonetheless.

Tony, though, wasn’t a soldier, like he himself had said so many times. He wasn’t a trained agent or a warrior god from another realm. He was just a man who witnessed firsthand how fucked up the world really was and decided to change that. Much like Natasha, he had made bad choices in his life and, when given the opportunity, decided to change, to help. She could respect that. Choosing to do good... Well, let’s just say being a heartless assassin was much easier.

Natasha was brought back from her thoughts by the engineers voice.

“Then don’t go back to SHIELD right now. Call Captain One Eye and tell him you’re sleeping over today”.

“Captain One Eye?” Steve asked, amused.

“Well, I can’t call him Captain Hook. He doesn’t have a hook”, Tony explained, exasperated.

“That you know of”, Clint whispered, taking a sip from his Coke.

“I’m just saying, Loki is in custody and New York is, well, in pieces. They could use us here. You know, to clean up”, the engineer said, looking down at his empty plate.

Suddenly, Natasha understood.

“Starks right”, she said, looking around the table, “people died today and a big part of New York is destroyed. The first responders might need help and it would be good PR for SHIELD and for Stark Industries to show that we care”.

“Hold on, none of that was our fault! We were trying to save those people, Loki was the one hurting them”.

“Loki and the chitauri”, added Thor, somberly.

“Clint, think about it. Loki is going back to Asgard, to face justice there. People are busy now thanking their Gods for surviving this, but soon enough that’ll pass. They’ll bury their dead and look at what once was their place of work, their stores and restaurants, and they will be sad. They’ll be angry. They will want someone to blame. The government will want someone to blame too. Loki won’t be here, but we will. We will become their escape goat”.

“Then we must act”, Thor said after a moment of silence, “we will tell these people Loki is to blame and he is receiving a most harsh punishment for his crimes. And we will tell them about their government and how, if not for our friend Man of Iron here”, at this, he slapped his hand on Tony’s back, making the brunette go slightly forward, “this city would be decimated”.

“We can’t tell them that”, Tony replied, sitting back at his chair, “if we tell the people the government wanted to nuke the city we’re going to have a way bigger problem in our hands, thunder thighs”.

“Right. So we need to make this right ourselves. We’ll sleep at the tower tonight and offer our help to the first responders tomorrow”, Natasha said, in a tone that didn’t leave much room for disagreement.

Interestingly enough, Steve remained silent, merely nodding after Natasha as he finished his own shawarma.

---

It was four in the morning and Natasha couldn’t sleep. The bed was very comfortable; in fact, it was the most comfortable thing she had ever slept on. The pillows were soft and smelled faintly of lavender, the temperature of the room was absolutely perfect and there was absolutely no noise to keep her up. Still, sleep evaded her.

She stayed on her bed for some time, just staring at the ceiling, thinking about her mission from two years ago. When Fury asked her to infiltrate Stark Industries and collect information on Stark she had been a bit… apprehensive. Fury knew why, of course. It was difficult to look at Stark and not remember Anastasia. A soft laugh escaped her. Anastasia, the lost princess indeed. Apparently, the Red Room had a sense of humor. A dark one, sure, but a sense of humor nonetheless.

Natasha closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Remembering Anastasia meant remembering Budapest. She did not want to remember Budapest. Ever. Even the mention of it made her sick to her stomach. It had been for a good cause. She’d needed to know if Clint was really all back or still stuck in his head with Loki’s paw all over his brain. But still. Speaking of it in such a light manner had really messed her up.

She sat on her bed, looking around the room. There was no way she would be able to fall back to sleep.

“JARVIS?”, she called in a soft tone.

Yes, agent Romanoff?, he responded promptly.

“Is anyone awake?”

He hesitated for a second before answering. Sir is at the communal lounge area. I’m sure he would appreciate the company, even if he says otherwise.

Natasha smiled and got out of bed, putting on a robe she had found earlier in the bathroom and taking the elevator straight up to what Tony was calling the communal floor.

She could see him lying down on the couch as soon as she stepped out of the elevator.

“Come to join the insomniac club?” he called out still looking at the TV in front of him.

“Something like that, yeah”, she replied, walking over to him and throwing herself on the same couch he was.

“I can’t sleep”.

“Me neither”.

They looked at each other and in that moment Natasha could see the gratitude clear in his eyes. Thanks for agreeing with me even though you knew the whole ‘they might need us’ excuse was bullshit, he seemed to say, thanks for understanding that I just couldn’t be alone tonight, but still not using that moment of weakness against me.

She smiled at him. Thanks for giving me a chance even though I lie to you.

In that moment, she thought about telling him the truth. She could tell him everything. About how she had found a recording in the Red Room that proved that his daughter hadn’t died at birth. About how his daughter was raised in a place so cold and unforgiving it almost destroyed her very soul. About Obadiah Stane and how he had taken her away, sold her to Red Room, to be tortured and stripped of all personality, to become nothing more than just a puppet, ready to kill even her own father if given the order. She could tell him. But what good would that bring?

Let him think she felt no pain. Let him think she died in his arms rather than the truth.

Natasha turned her eyes to the TV, images of Budapest invading her mind in full force. She saw herself desperately hugging the unrecognizable body of the girl she had fought so hard to protect all those years. She felt again all the pain, all the sorrow, all the uncontrollable sadness that had filled her that day as she cried over Anastasia’s body. How could she ever tell Tony that his daughter had lived a life of torture, only to burn alive years later because of Natasha’s mistake? She could never.

So she stayed quiet as they both watched some silly Disney movie. They didn’t take their eyes off the TV, not even when Thor and Clint showed up, the first sitting down on the couch next to them while the second was sprawled on the carpeted floor. They didn’t blink when Steve showed up, wrapped around a heavy blanket even though the temperature of the room was perfect, and they didn’t bat an eye when Bruce came, sitting down next to Natasha, whispering I love this movie as he hugged his pillow.

Eventually, the Avengers all fell asleep, the soft humming of the TV on the background. Little did they know this, right here, would become a very special tradition in what would soon become the Avengers Tower.

---

Meanwhile, somewhere far away from New York, a girl who could be no more than nineteen finally cracked the encrypted files she had been working so hard on. She had spent years trying to find the file and then weeks to decrypt it, but finally her hard work had paid off.

There was so much. All the assassinations, all the strategically placed politicians and… SHIELD. Agents in the lowest levels, agents in the highest levels. So many. But why, why would the Red Room do this? World domination wasn’t really their goal, so why would they bother to infiltrate all these governments, all these agencies? It made no sense.

Suddenly, her eyes flickered to the one folder she was looking for.

The Lost Princess Protocol

Natalia always joked with her. You need to train harder, little lost princess, she would say with mirth in her eyes. The girl took a deep breath before clicking on it.

And then she couldn’t breathe. The documents, the birth certificate. Mother, deceased. Father, alive until he grew out of his usefulness. The plan: should Obadiah Stane not cooperate, he would be eliminated, and Anastasia ― no, not Anastasia, Abigail ―, the long lost daughter of Tony Stark, would return and take his place as head of Stark Industries. A weapons manufacturer. Why would the Red Room need that? They worked in secrecy and no weapon was greater than a little spider. They had always told her that. She couldn’t understand.

And then there was an audio file. She listened to it. Two men talking. Stane and Pierce. Pierce, the man whose name she had seen before. A councilman in something called the World Security Council. And then, she heard the words. She had heard those words before, whispered in fear amongst the older spiders. She felt a chill run down her body as they echoed in the room.

Hail Hydra.

---

On the next chapter: SHIELD is falling, Natasha comes clean and a certain little spider has a very interesting conversation with the director of SHIELD.

#tony stark #stony #stevetony #superhusbands #natasha romanoff #iron man #black widow #captain america #steve rogers #bruce banner #hulk #thor #clint barton #hawkeye

[douxreviews]

Gotham - ‘Ruin’ Review

Zsasz: "I did not make that building go boom Jim!"

After two sufficient episodes, and one jerry-built episode, 'Ruin' delivers easily the best chapter so far of Season 5's no man's land arc, jam-packing all of Gotham's best qualities on the front lines.

Last week, an unknown assailant bombed Haven, the refuge taken over by the GCPD to protect the civilians still trapped within the city. Gordon has no suspect at the moment, but an act as broad as this means it could really be anybody. And very understandably, Gordon's redundant speeches are not enough this time to quell the survivors' fear and rage. But at long last, Season 5 continues to give me glimpses of a more valiant and sympathetic side to Gordon as he struggles to keep the morale of his fellow officers intact, and works urgently to protect as many individuals as he can in the immediate wake of Haven's bombing.

Though 'Ruin' is still split into two separate subplots like previous episodes, the narrative of 'Ruin' has a more orderly flow to it, simply because Gotham is taking advantage of one of its most prominent gifts - its cast. Rather than having each character more allocated to their individual stories (or even worse a crime, just not having them show up at all), they are all in some way or another either involved in the search for the Haven bomber, or they're involved in the continuing pursuit of Jeremiah Valeska. Characters that have felt neglected lately, such as Nygma, Lucius, Alfred and Jeremiah, now all get at least one opportunity to be dubbed 'scene-stealer' in 'Ruin'.

Because he lost men in the bombing too, Oswald proposes a truce with Gordon so that they may combine resources and bring the bomber to justice. Since the premiere of Season 5, I've felt that Oswald should have started off this year from the get-go working alongside the GCPD. And the reason for that is because Season 4 made it a point to establish that Oswald, by comparison to other rouges, possesses a more sane and logical approach to his criminal activity. Oswald simply needs order and structure to run a prosperous criminal empire. The chaotic antics orchestrated by the Valeska brothers in Season 4 that upset the established order of Gotham's municipal formation goes very much against Oswald's rule of thumb, which was why he was so quick to turn on Jerome too. But since this alliance was likely an inevitably anyway, it's a mere nitpick for me. (That being said, it was a really dumb move for Oswald to give away his and the GCPD's position through a bullhorn when they were pursuing their suspect. Even Tony Stark, the guy who gave his home address out in a video threat to a terrorist, would see that and shake his head in stupefaction.)

Oswald and the GCPD follow up on a tip given by Barbara which leads them to none other than Victor Zsasz. Of all the characters that could flourish in no man's land, I've been especially curious this season to see the shenanigans of the gunslinger Zsasz. Anthony Carrigan's comedic take on Zsasz, reinterpreting the character more as a fusion between Deadpool and the Man with No Name, has made him one of the series' best guest-appearance characters. That being said, after Season 3 and his consistent failures to assassinate Gordon per Carmine Falcone's decree despite talking up a storm about how no one ever sees him coming, I can't say I buy Zsasz's gloating in the precinct when he assures Gordon and Bullock he didn't bomb Haven; Zsasz's reasoning is that if it was him, there'd be no survivors. I'm sure a shopping cart with one bad wheel is more fruitful than Zsasz with a firearm.

Oswald remains vengeful towards Zsasz for selling him out to Sofia Falcone last year and believes that Zsasz's denial means nothing, and that the blatherskite should be executed, a decision that is met with unanimous approval from Haven's survivors in the style of a kangaroo court (one reminiscent of Scarecrow's own hearings from The Dark Knight Rises). I always appreciate these tiny callbacks like Oswald still bitter towards Zsasz, or a desecrated 'Make Gotham Safe Again' campaign poster from Season 3 appearing in the streets, because it keeps each season from feeling disjointed from the others, and given how many writers Gotham has had staffed over the years, that feature comes up time and again. But because one does not simply kill Victor Zsasz, Gordon decides the 'innocent until proven guilty' doctrine still needs to be upheld, and frees Zsasz. Whether it's to repay the favor, or maybe because he realizes Gordon is essential to Gotham's rebuilding, Zsasz chooses afterwards to not kill off Gordon either. Because Zsasz routinely comes and goes throughout the series, this may be the very last we see of him, and so I felt it was a nice way for him and Gordon to part there - both have come quite a ways since the days of Season 1 where Zsasz was always aiming something lethal at Gordon's head.

Meanwhile, Ed Nygma continues meager efforts to understand the nature of his blackouts. For weeks, I had given up wondering if Gotham was going to give us any hints at all about Nygma's arc this season, and instead decided that maybe his story was appropriately meant to be a riddle itself. We finally get some answers to Nygma in 'Ruin' that completely revolutionize the way we'll look at all of Season 5. In his quest to follow up on a clue he had left himself, Nygma is bargained with by Lucius Fox to help him and the GCPD understand the nature of Haven's bombing. Nygma agrees, and before long, the two concur that the assailant used a rocket launcher from the outside to ignite the initial explosion within Haven. We haven't seen Fox and Nygma interact with each other since Season 3's 'How The Riddler Got His Name', and I very much enjoy their energy and possibly even dormant affinity for each other. I suspect that in another timeline where Nygma never went down a path of crime and corruption, he and Fox would have probably worked well alongside each other within the GCPD.

Also contrary to what I thought might have been Nygma's shtick this season, he actually doesn't play up the 'I've-lost-my-marbles' mindset at all this episode, instead returning to the traits of egoism and lacing riddles throughout his speech, a pleasant blend almost between the old Ed and Riddler. Following his and Fox's teamup, Nygma examines the rooftop Haven's bomber must have fired from, and notices an old lady watching him from her apartment across the street. From her, Nygma is horrified to learn that he himself is Haven's bomber (and most likely the one who also fired upon the Wayne Enterprises chopper back in the season premiere). Why Nygma is routinely shifting between alternate consciousnesses we don't know yet, but I would definitely chalk this twist up to one of Gotham's best. If not for Season 5 preparing to introduce Bane, as well as keeping Jeremiah Valeska in the spotlight, I would raise my hopes much higher for the possibility that Riddler in fact is Season 5's main antagonist. It would keep in line with the showrunners' claim that the 'Zero Year' comic inspires much of Season 5, and I personally feel we haven't really seen Riddler yet as a force to be reckoned with, at least not since the end of Season 3.

The other subplot of 'Ruin' is Bruce and Alfred pursuing Selina, simply because Bruce believes if she kills Jeremiah, it may change her for the worse. It's another amusing detail for me that this is where Bruce draws the line in regards to Selina's internal metamorphoses, yet had no problem giving her a plant with atrocious side effects Ivy advertised quite clearly. Though Bruce and Alfred both get past goons working for Jeremiah, in a manner much like how Batman will ambush his foes in the future, they are too late to stop Selina from fatally stabbing Jeremiah. Or so it would seem.

This was the most irking feature of 'Ruin' for me, and it's not even a fault of the episode - it's a fault of the marketing. Early trailers and promos for Season 5 have clearly shown additional footage of Jeremiah that we haven't gotten to yet in this season, so I don't know why Gotham suddenly thinks they can pull the wool over our eyes, and try to convince us Jeremiah is as deceased as a girlfriend of Spider-Man's who took too hard a fall off the George Washington Bridge. Personally, my money is on Clayface actually being the one Selina made quick work of. He's been absent from the series since Season 3 as well, and would also be a welcome character to see return to the final season.

Right now, I'm still skeptical if the series can follow-up with an episode that lives up to the momentum that was 'Ruin', but I don't say that as if it's a difficult thing for Gotham to accomplish. You have an incredibly talented cast and array of characters that you understand in and out Gotham - savor that while you still can, because it's a fortunate feature for any show to have.

Other Thoughts:

• Gordon tackling Zsasz head-on is a pretty amusing visual, but also another quick and snappy showcase of his increasingly appealing valor.

• Will we ever get to hear Jeremiah laugh? We all know Cameron Monaghan is very capable of the deed, it's a talent that needs to be made the most out of. It'd be like a movie casting James Spader for a role that doesn't require him to talk - indefensible!

• 'Ruin' ends with a sudden cliffhanger showing renewed romantic interest between Gordon and Barbara. Not sure why these two suddenly have the hots for each other again, but with the revelation that Barbara will have some major news for Gordon in one of the oncoming episodes, I guess it's fair that the show needed to pave the road to Barbara Gordon/Batgirl somehow. I don't quite think showing a stork deliver her to Gordon's doorstep in a basket is going to cut it for viewers.

Aaron Studer loves spending his time reading, writing and defending the existence of cryptids because they can’t do it themselves.

#Gotham #Bruce Wayne #James Gordon #Oswald Cobblepot #Selina Kyle #Harvey Bullock #Edward Nygma #DC Comics #Batman #Gotham Reviews #Doux Reviews #TV Reviews

[sayedhusaini]

Hedges: The Price of Conscience

by Moderator

Daniel Hale, a former intelligence analyst in the drone program for the Air Force who as a private contractor in 2013 leaked some 17 classified documents about drone strikes to the press, was sentenced today to 45 months in prison.

The documents, published by The Intercept on October 15, 2015, exposed that between January 2012 and February 2013, US special operations airstrikes killed more than 200 people. Of those, only 35 were the intended targets. For one five-month period of the operation, according to the documents, nearly 90 percent of the people killed in airstrikes were not the intended targets. The civilian dead, usually innocent bystanders, were routinely classified as “enemies killed in action.”

The Justice Department coerced Hale, who was deployed to Afghanistan in 2012, on March 31 to plead guilty to one count of violating the Espionage Act, a law passed in 1917 designed to prosecute those who passed on state secrets to a hostile power, not those who expose to the public government lies and crimes. Hale admitted as part of the plea deal to “retention and transmission of national security information” and leaking 11 classified documents to a journalist. If he had refused the plea deal, he could have spent 50 years in prison. 

The sentencing of Hale is one more potentially mortal blow to the freedom of the press.  It follows in the wake of the prosecutions and imprisonment of other whistleblowers under the Espionage Act including Chelsea Manning, Jeffrey Sterling, Thomas Drake and John Kiriakou, who spent two-and-a-half years in prison for exposing the routine torture of suspects held in black sites.  Those charged under the act are treated as if they were spies.  They are barred from explaining motivations and intent to the court. They cannot provide evidence to the court of the government lawlessness and war crimes they exposed.  Prominent human rights organizations, such as the ACLU and PEN, along with mainstream publications, such as The New York Times and CNN, have largely remained silent about the prosecution of Hale. The group Stand with Daniel Hale has called on President Biden to pardon Hale and end the use of the Espionage Act to punish whistleblowers. It is also collecting donations for Hale’s legal fund. The bipartisan onslaught against the press — Barack Obama used the Espionage Act eight times against whistleblowers, more than all other previous administrations combined — by criminalizing those within the system who seek to inform the public is ominous for our democracy.  It is effectively extinguishing all investigations into the inner workings of power.

Hale, in a handwritten letter to Judge Liam O’Grady on July 18, explained why he leaked classified information, writing that the drone attacks and the war in Afghanistan “had little to do with preventing terror from coming into the United States and a lot more to do with protecting the profits of weapons manufacturers and so-called defense contractors.”

At the top of the 11-page letter Hale quoted US Navy Admiral Gene LaRocque, speaking to a reporter in 1995: “We now kill people without ever seeing them. Now you push a button thousands of miles away ... Since it’s all done by remote control, there’s no remorse ... and then we come home in triumph.”

“In my capacity as a signals intelligence analyst stationed at Bagram Airbase, I was made to track down the geographic location of handset cellphone devices believed to be in the possession of so-called enemy combatants,” Hale explained to the judge. “To accomplish this mission required access to a complex chain of globe-spanning satellites capable of maintaining an unbroken connection with remotely piloted aircraft, commonly referred to as drones. Once a steady connection is made and a targeted cell phone device is acquired, an imagery analyst in the U.S., in coordination with a drone pilot and camera operator, would take over using information I provided to surveil everything that occurred within the drone’s field of vision. This was done, most often, to document the day-to-day lives of suspected militants. Sometimes, under the right conditions, an attempt at capture would be made. Other times, a decision to strike and kill them where they stood would be weighed.”

He recalled the first time he witnessed a drone strike, a few days after he arrived in Afghanistan.

“Early that morning, before dawn, a group of men had gathered together in the mountain ranges of Patika province around a campfire carrying weapons and brewing tea,” he wrote. “That they carried weapons with them would not have been considered out of the ordinary in the place I grew up, much less within the virtually lawless tribal territories outside the control of the Afghan authorities. Except that among them was a suspected member of the Taliban, given away by the targeted cell phone device in his pocket. As for the remaining individuals, to be armed, of military age, and sitting in the presence of an alleged enemy combatant was enough evidence to place them under suspicion as well. Despite having peacefully assembled, posing no threat, the fate of the now tea drinking men had all but been fulfilled. I could only look on as I sat by and watched through a computer monitor when a sudden, terrifying flurry of hellfire missiles came crashing down, splattering, purple-colored crystal guts on the side of the morning mountain.”

This was his first experience with “scenes of graphic violence carried out from the cold comfort of a computer chair.” There would be many more.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t question the justification for my actions,” he wrote. “By the rules of engagement, it may have been permissible for me to have helped to kill those men — whose language I did not speak, customs I did not understand, and crimes I could not identify — in the gruesome manner that I did. Watch them die. But how could it be considered honorable of me to continuously have laid in wait for the next opportunity to kill unsuspecting persons, who, more often than not, are posing no danger to me or any other person at the time. Never mind honorable, how could it be that any thinking person continued to believe that it was necessary for the protection of the United States of America to be in Afghanistan and killing people, not one of whom present was responsible for the September 11th attacks on our nation. Notwithstanding, in 2012, a full year after the demise of Osama bin Laden in Pakistan, I was a part of killing misguided young men who were but mere children on the day of 9/11.” 

He and other service members were confronted with the privatization of war where “contract mercenaries outnumbered uniform wearing soldiers 2 to 1 and earned as much as 10 times their salary.”

“Meanwhile, it did not matter whether it was, as I had seen, an Afghan farmer blown in half, yet miraculously conscious and pointlessly trying to scoop his insides off the ground, or whether it was an American flag-draped coffin lowered into Arlington National Cemetery to the sound of a 21-gun salute,” he wrote. “Bang, bang, bang. Both served to justify the easy flow of capital at the cost of blood — theirs and ours. When I think about this, I am grief-stricken and ashamed of myself for the things I’ve done to support it.”

He described to the judge “the most harrowing day of my life” that took place a few months into his deployment “when a routine surveillance mission turned into disaster.” 

“For weeks we had been tracking the movements of a ring of car bomb manufacturers living around Jalalabad,” he wrote. “Car bombs directed at US bases had become an increasingly frequent and deadly problem that summer, so much effort was put into stopping them. It was a windy and clouded afternoon when one of the suspects had been discovered headed eastbound, driving at a high rate of speed. This alarmed my superiors who believe he might be attempting to escape across the border into Pakistan.”

Now, whenever I encounter an individual who thinks that drone warfare is justified and reliably keeps America safe, I remember that time and ask myself how could I possibly continue to believe that I am a good person, deserving of my life and the right to pursue happiness.

“A drone strike was our only chance and already it began lining up to take the shot,” he continued. “But the less advanced predator drone found it difficult to see through clouds and compete against strong headwinds. The single payload MQ-1 failed to connect with its target, instead missing by a few meters. The vehicle, damaged, but still driveable, continued on ahead after narrowly avoiding destruction. Eventually, once the concern of another incoming missile subsided, the driver stopped, got out of the car, and checked himself as though he could not believe he was still alive. Out of the passenger side came a woman wearing an unmistakable burka. As astounding as it was to have just learned there had been a woman, possibly his wife, there with the man we intended to kill moments ago, I did not have the chance to see what happened next before the drone diverted its camera when she began frantically to pull out something from the back of the car.”

He learned a few days later from his commanding officer what next took place. 

“There indeed had been the suspect’s wife with him in the car,” he wrote. “And in the back were their two young daughters, ages 5 and 3 years old. A cadre of Afghan soldiers were sent to investigate where the car had stopped the following day. It was there they found them placed in the dumpster nearby. The eldest was found dead due to unspecified wounds caused by shrapnel that pierced her body. Her younger sister was alive but severely dehydrated. As my commanding officer relayed this information to us, she seemed to express disgust, not for the fact that we had errantly fired on a man and his family, having killed one of his daughters; but for the suspected bomb maker having ordered his wife to dump the bodies of their daughters in the trash, so that the two of them could more quickly escape across the border. Now, whenever I encounter an individual who thinks that drone warfare is justified and reliably keeps America safe, I remember that time and ask myself how could I possibly continue to believe that I am a good person, deserving of my life and the right to pursue happiness.”

“One year later, at a farewell gathering for those of us who would soon be leaving military service, I sat alone, transfixed by the television, while others reminisced together,” he continued. “On television was breaking news of the president giving his first public remarks about the policy surrounding the use of drone technology in warfare. His remarks were made to reassure the public of reports scrutinizing the death of civilians in drone strikes and the targeting of American citizens. The president said that a high standard of ‘near certainty’ needed to be met in order to ensure that no civilians were present. But from what I knew, of the instances where civilians plausibly could have been present, those killed were nearly always designated enemies killed in action unless proven otherwise. Nonetheless, I continued to heed his words as the president went on to explain how a drone could be used to eliminate someone who posed an ‘imminent threat’ to the United States. Using the analogy of taking out a sniper, with his sights set on an unassuming crowd of people, the president likened the use of drones to prevent a would-be terrorist from carrying out his evil plot. But, as I understood it to be, the unassuming crowd had been those who lived in fear and the terror of drones in their skies and the sniper in this scenario had been me. I came to believe that the policy of drone assassination was being used to mislead the public that it keeps us safe, and when I finally left the military, still processing what I’d been a part of, I began to speak out, believing my participation in the drone program to have been deeply wrong.”

Hale threw himself into anti-war activism when he left the military, speaking out about the indiscriminate killing of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of noncombatants, including children in drone strikes. He took part in a peace conference held in Washington, D.C. in November 2013. The Yemeni Fazil bin Ali Jaber spoke at the conference about the drone strike that killed his brother, Salem bin Ali Jaber, and their cousin Waleed. Waleed was a policeman. Salem was an Imam who was an outspoken critic of the armed attacks carried out by radical jihadists.

“One day in August 2012, local members of Al Qaeda traveling through Fazil’s village in a car spotted Salem in the shade, pulled up towards him, and beckoned him to come over and speak to them,” Hale wrote. “Not one to miss an opportunity to evangelize to the youth, Salem proceeded cautiously with Waleed by his side. Fazil and other villagers began looking on from afar. Farther still was an ever present reaper drone looking too.”

“As Fazil recounted what happened next, I felt myself transported back in time to where I had been on that day, 2012,” Hale told the judge. “Unbeknownst to Fazil and those of his village at the time was that they had not been the only watching Salem approach the jihadist in the car. From Afghanistan, I and everyone on duty paused their work to witness the carnage that was about to unfold. At the press of a button from thousands of miles away, two hellfire missiles screeched out of the sky, followed by two more. Showing no signs of remorse, I, and those around me, clapped and cheered triumphantly. In front of a speechless auditorium, Fazil wept.”

A week after the conference Hale was offered a job as a government contractor.  Desperate for money and steady employment, hoping to go to college, he took the job, which paid $ 80,000 a year.  But by then he was disgusted by the drone program.

“For a long time, I was uncomfortable with myself over the thought of taking advantage of my military background to land a cushy desk job,” he wrote. “During that time, I was still processing what I had been through, and I was starting to wonder if I was contributing again to the problem of money and war by accepting to return as a defense contractor. Worse was my growing apprehension that everyone around me was also taking part in a collective delusion and denial that was used to justify our exorbitant salaries, for comparatively easy labor. The thing I feared most at the time was the temptation not to question it.”

“Then it came to be that one day after work I stuck around to socialize with a pair of co-workers whose talented work I had come to greatly admire,” he wrote. “They made me feel welcomed, and I was happy to have earned their approval. But then, to my dismay, our brand-new friendship took an unexpectedly dark turn. They elected that we should take a moment and view together some archived footage of past drone strikes. Such bonding ceremonies around a computer to watch so-called “war porn” had not been new to me. I partook in them all the time while deployed to Afghanistan. But on that day, years after the fact, my new friends gaped and sneered, just as my old one’s had, at the sight of faceless men in the final moments of their lives. I sat by watching too; said nothing and felt my heart breaking into pieces.”

“Your Honor,” Hale wrote to the judge, “the truest truism that I’ve come to understand about the nature of war is that war is trauma. I believe that any person either called-upon or coerced to participate in war against their fellow man is promised to be exposed to some form of trauma. In that way, no soldier blessed to have returned home from war does so uninjured. The crux of PTSD is that it is a moral conundrum that afflicts invisible wounds on the psyche of a person made to burden the weight of experience after surviving a traumatic event. How PTSD manifests depends on the circumstances of the event. So how is the drone operator to process this? The victorious rifleman, unquestioningly remorseful, at least keeps his honor intact by having faced off against his enemy on the battlefield. The determined fighter pilot has the luxury of not having to witness the gruesome aftermath. But what possibly could I have done to cope with the undeniable cruelties that I perpetuated?”

“My conscience, once held at bay, came roaring back to life,” he wrote. “At first, I tried to ignore it. Wishing instead that someone, better placed than I, should come along to take this cup from me. But this too was folly. Left to decide whether to act, I only could do that which I ought to do before God and my own conscience. The answer came to me, that to stop the cycle of violence, I ought to sacrifice my own life and not that of another person. So, I contacted an investigative reporter, with whom I had had an established prior relationship, and told him that I had something the American people needed to know.”

Hale, who has admitted to being suicidal and depressed, said in the letter he, like many veterans, struggles with the crippling effects of post-traumatic stress disorder, aggravated by an impoverished and turbulent childhood.

“Depression is a constant,” he told the judge. “Though stress, particularly stress caused by war, can manifest itself at different times and in different ways. The tell-tale signs of a person afflicted by PTSD and depression can often be outwardly observed and are practically universally recognizable. Hard lines about the face and jaw. Eyes, once bright and wide, now deep-set, and fearful. And an inexplicably sudden loss of interest in things that used to spark joy. These are the noticeable changes in my demeanor marked by those who knew me before and after military service. To say that the period of my life spent serving in the United States Air Force had an impression on me would be an understatement. It is more accurate to say that it irreversibly transformed my identity as an American. Having forever altered the thread of my life’s story, weaved into the fabric of our nation’s history.”

To read more about Daniel Hale and his crucial role as a whistleblower, see Chris Hedges' July 12 article, "Bless the Traitors."

Chris Hedges is a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist who was a foreign correspondent for fifteen years for The New York Times, where he served as the Middle East Bureau Chief and Balkan Bureau Chief for the paper. He previously worked overseas for The Dallas Morning News, The Christian Science Monitor, and NPR. He is the host of the Emmy Award-nominated RT America show On Contact. 

[sheriffcobbvanth-blog]

It’s Great That You Realize There’s a Problem, Now Go and Do Something About It: On Bardan Jusik, wasted potential, and generally why he sucks.

So I’m just going to start with this by saying that, as he was written in RepCom and LoTF, I really hate Bardan Jusik. He’s smug, preachy, holier-than-thou, and always framed by the author as being a paragon of virtue despite the fact that he’s actually a useless, hypocritical lump who sucks. He’s also, like many of Traviss’s characters, a neglected gold mine of potential.

The thing that really grates me about Bardan Jusik is that he is treated as being morally superior to every other Jedi in the Order for seeing what’s wrong with the Jedi Order and the use of the clone army, despite the fact that he does nothing to even try to stop it. That’s ridiculous -- sympathy without action is meaningless.

And Jusik’s sympathy is entirely without action: he didn’t  do anything to help the clones outside of his little clique, or try and change the Senate or the Order’s mind and convince them that they were wrong. He just left and that was it. The only clones who benefited from his departure was Skirata’s little Cartel. Nothing changed for any of the others.

I could understand if he had left after doing everything in his power to try to assist the clones -- which should have been more than lecturing Padawans, most of whom are literally children and all of whom more powerless than he is about the situation -- and just couldn’t stomach the repeated rejections and failures as he tried to sway the Council and the Senate to his side. I still wouldn’t agree with it, but I’d understand. But that isn’t what happened -- if Bardan made any efforts to change attitudes towards clones on a large scale, we were never shown them. He just up and left, leaving the situation as he found it. His departure accomplished possibly worse than nothing.

I honestly think that he was wrong to leave the Jedi Order: a Jedi Knight who turns his back on the Order has no sway over anything. They’re basically just ordinary civilians in terms of social influence, but possibly worse than that because hey, if a Jedi leaves the Order then there must be something wrong with them, right? However, if he had remained with the Order, he might have had something of a platform to speak from and possibly affect change.

And more than that, having Bardan stay with the Order would have been more interesting, narratively speaking. Just take a second to picture this characterization of Bardan instead of the one he got: as he’s working with clone troopers, Bardan realizes that the Order is doing something terrible and that he needs to stop it. So he resolves to never lead troops into battle again. At first Zey is like “no, absolutely not; the Order is stretched thin and you’re needed at the front. You have duties and responsibilities that you can’t back out of and you need to fulfill your obligations as a Jedi Knight,” and so Jusik is just like “Fine, I’ll go study to be a healer because they have the option of staying at the temple and serving as non-combatants,” and then he goes out and finds a slightly eccentric Jedi willing to tutor him in the healing arts (because honestly that shit  takes time and guidance – why else would Anakin have turned to the Sith to learn how to heal if it was something a Jedi could easily and randomly pick up -- seriously, did we ever even get and explanation for how he learned healing? I don’t remember one). So he trains at the temple and in the meantime uses both his position as a Jedi Knight and the fact that he’s basically stationed in Coruscant to petition both the senate and the Council on why using an army of slaves is wrong and basically serving as an advocate for clone rights.

And he has different reactions from different people. Some senators hate his guts and will literally slam doors in his face or threaten to have their guards shoot him if he shows up at their office. Others hear him out but disagree with him on a fundamental level, engaging him in an even-keeled manner and the audience gets to see the issue from a new perspective with no bias from the author – like, I’d love to see him engage in a conversation with a Pantoran or Twi’Lek or other non-human senator who is in support of using the clone army because they believe that a civilian draft unfairly tilted in favor of humans would be instated in its absence, and their people would suffer as a result. They may not be right, but they’re justified in their own mind.

Others, however, might agree with him whole-heartedly – I know that this is kind of left-field, but I’d love to see him interact with Padmé: I could see her privately confiding in him that she agrees with him 100% but can’t say anything on the matter publicly because she’s already considered something of a maverick and making such a bold assertion might end her ability to serve as an effective politician. However, she agrees to examine his ten-year retirement plan and bring it to the floor while also attempting to de-escalate the conflict and trying to open negotiations with the Seperatists. 

And because, obviously, his efforts aren’t going to be successful, his involvement with the political world could be used by the Empire in the days of the purges as evidence that the Jedi weren’t neutral and subservient, the way they claimed to be – like, look at the way this Master Jusik guy was actively undermining the Republic war effort! Those schemers on the Council probably put him up to it.

And the Jedi would probably have different reactions to his cause as well – some might agree with him, but don’t want to sow discord or believe that they have an obligation to obey the orders of the Senate because the word of the Senate is an extension of the will of the people. Others might disagree with him, claiming that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about because he’s a healer who’s never been on the front. Maybe some people agree with him, but then take things too far -- hello, Dark Siders!

And how would the different clone troopers react? I’d imagine that some might be glad that someone’s looking out for them but think that he’s just a little too extreme. Some might be offended – like what, are we not good enough for him? Some might agree with him whole-heartedly, and Bardan might just be making Palpatine’s plans for Order 66 a lot easier.

So Bardan faces a lot of resistance, but he decides that no matter what others think of him and his message, he’s not going to stop spreading it. He can’t. As a Jedi, he’s obligated to serve the Light and ensure justice, even if it means going against the Order. He has to keep going because it’s the will of the Force.

And when Kal encourages him to leave the Order and offers to adopt him, Bardan just looks him dead in the eyes and says “I’m not leaving unless if every clone in the galaxy is free to come with me.”

But then there’s also a bunch of fun ways this could end for Bardan, and a lot of potential plots that this could drive. Maybe there’s a bounty placed on his head by a political rival, or maybe the Chancellor wants him taken out – while he might not be a political juggernaut, he’s out there placing the seeds of doubt in people’s minds and it’s always best to be on the safe side. Someone could find out and then head to Coruscant to rescue him – or he could just die under mysterious circumstances, leading the commandos to investigate and reach a dead end (because Palpatine is not sloppy). 

Or maybe that never happens, and Bardan is at a med center when Order 66 goes down. Maybe he’s shot down with the rest of the Jedi, leaving his friends to wonder how it could have happened. 

Or maybe he escapes. Maybe he lives. But he’s a wreck. He couldn’t help the clone troopers, who are still being mass-produced by the Empire, which treats them worse than the Republic ever did, and he couldn’t stop the Order from falling. And now he’s the last of his kind and for all he knows Order 66 and the things that followed were his fault – maybe if he’d just come to his senses a little earlier, or tried a little harder, he could have prevented everything. So when the Empire falls and the Jedi rise again, he throws in, offering to train people in healing and what he remembers of the Jedi way.Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t think he’s worthy of helping to rebuild the new Order of Jedi after he allowed the last one to fall. So he stays on Mandalore, not out of delusions of moral superiority, but out of shame and despair. And maybe, when Jaina comes to Mandalore to learn about tracking individuals or to improve Jedi-Mandalorian relations or something (the canon reason she went to Mandalore was stupid, why would you train with a Mandaolrian to beat a Sith that doesn’t make any fucking sense), she meets him and inspires him to come back to the Jedi.

But I think that the best ending for this au is that he was on Corruscant during Order 66, and he’s the one who dies during the evacuation instead of Etain, because there was an indiscriminate kill Order on Jedi and that included Jusik, even though he did nothing to deserve it.

Even in the book itself, I think Jusik should have died during Order 66 instead of Etain, even without the alternate characterization I came up with for him -- it avoids the women-in-refrigerators trope, matches with the  tone of the PT, he’s dead, and it could cause some really interesting moral conflict. It would have highlighted what a tragedy Order 66 was -- because it was genocide, and that’s not any sort of victory or resolution. The destruction of a culture or religion is never something to be celebrated.

But he doesn’t die by jumping in front of a lightsaber because that’s stupid. He should get killed by clone troopers. And when one of the nulls or commandos points out that hey, that was my friend Bardan Jusik, he stood up for us when no one else would, he cared about us when no one else did, he was one of the good Jedi, his little brother says “The only good Jedi is a dead Jedi,” and then the other clones try to kill the nulls, commandos, and Kal for aiding a traitor.

Like, really. I need someone to explain Bardan’s existing characterization. All of these options, and Karen decides to make him a preachy hypocrite who never lifts a finger to help anyone outside of Kal’s immediate circle. She goes with the lamest characterization that causes the least anguish and conflict. Why? Because the idea of a guy in Mandalorian armor wielding a lightsaber was just too cool to resist? Because her characters are cool enough to be smarter than everyone else and definitely too cool to try to help other people outside of their little clique? Because she’s a shit writer who’s too cowardly to even think about adding legitimate conflict and the inclusion of multiple equally-viable perspectives on moral conflicts into her plots? WHY?

#in which i rant

[deathbyvalentine]

Prompt drabbles

“When he first plucked a rose.” - Empire

The garden could have been paradise itself. The sun shining down into the courtyard, the birds brave enough to enter, singing. It was peaceful. She was something approaching happy. It was a rare emotion - it felt foreign within her. Perhaps it was the fact her father was at a battle. Perhaps it was the fact only yeofolk moved about the garden, not disturbing her. Perhaps it was the scent of flowers and buzzing of bees.

Realistically, it was probably him. They sat on the bench made of bones, fingers not quite touching, gazes not quite meeting. Her heart seemed to be racing. This, this is what stories were written about. This is what poets dreamed about. This is what had avoided her thus far, what she had been too cautious to look for. Always the logical one, never letting her heart run away with itself. Always the dutiful. Always saying “I can’t.” And now, for one shining moment, she was allowing herself to think “maybe we could.” He turned to the flowers behind him, and removed his dagger from his belt, fiddling where she couldn’t see for a moment. And when he turned back, in his hands, a pink rose. But oh, the petals were tipped with the richest red. This was a beginning. She accepted the rose, tilting her head so he couldn’t see her expression. She was smiling. 

Two of your characters meeting. - ODC/Princess

Atlockus sat. This is mostly what he did, nowadays. Though, in this abstract space, sitting was rather an abstract term. If you let your mind slip enough, you lost track of what exactly was your body, and what was your surroundings. But if you wanted to sit, you sat, and if you were too warm you’d find yourself cooler, and so on and so forth in the usual way. The in-between provided. Provided pretty much everything but a sense of time, and perhaps that was a blessing too. 

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had died a second time, or how long he had left to wait. But wait he would. Like a loyal dog, he thought, with a wry smile. Hephaestion was off showing someone to their underworld at the moment, though he was usual constant company. Very tolerant company too. He only occasionally became annoyed at the consistent stream of babbling. 

There was a ripple in front of him, that sent him scrabbling to his feet and cursing. Of course someone showed up when the psychopomp wasn’t around. That was pretty much his luck. 

And uh, that someone was clearly a weirdo. Tall to the point of being gangly, silver studding his nose and ears. His clothes were odd, the trousers skin-tight, his normal looking white shirt with a blue silky layer on top that only covered his back and sides. Scarves were tied around his waist in an almost persian manner, but the rest of his clothes were like nothing he had seen before. And there was something on his belt where a dagger would be, but instead it was a chunky metal block with no sharp edges. It still looked dangerous. 

A heavy pause lay between them.  “What the fuck.” The stranger finally stated. “Two things, first. Where am I, and why are you wearing a bedsheet?” “It’s not a bedsheet. It’s a chiton.”

“That still doesn’t answer the first question.” “Oh. Um. You’re dead. Sorry?” The stranger seemingly took some time to mull this over. But there were no tears, no yells, not even a whimper. He ran a hand through his hair though, compulsively, over and over. Atlockus tilted his head, observing him. With a little focusing, you could see where the fatal point fell. There was a smudging just above his hip, a bit where reality and death clashed. “What’s your name?” The stranger looked across. “Knight. With a k, not with a n. Yours?”

“Atlockus.”

“What is that, some Ancient Greek shit?”

“Uh, yes actually. I’m Greek. And I guess I’m ancient. And like, my friend will take you to an underworld soon, but I’m really not qualified to do that. So you might as well sit.” He sat down himself, and patted the bit of void next to him. Knight sat after a moment of suspicion. He rummaged in his pockets and produced a packet of tobacco. He lit up, the smoke curling up and away, disappearing. 

“I guess there’s no point in worrying about my health now.”

“‘Fraid not.”

“That’s almost a relief.” Pensive silence. “So. Underworld. Can I choose to go to the one where - “

“Where your loved ones are? Yeah. I mean, they might have chosen to go to separate ones though.”

“They wouldn’t have. I know them. They would have stuck together.” Atlockus thought desperately about what Hephaestion would say. Something kind, probably. Something reassuring. Atlockus was never very good at that. He was a harsh truths kinda guy. Instead, he rested his hands on his crossed knees and asked 

“What were they like?” And Knight told him. Told him about his three lovers who had drowned, civilians in a war they did not sign up to be a part of. How he had always been a little confused about how he had lived when three parts of him had died. About how, now, finally this seemed right. Atlockus did not share his ache, even when so much resounded. His story was not important to these people, nor should it be. 

A ripple, on the invisible horizon. The psychopomp returning. 

Bad News Delivered Sub Optimally - Empire

She was dying. She knew it to be true as soon as she was told. The fire in her veins made sense, the way the world seemed to ripple and twist at the edge of her vision. The wound in her chest still hadn’t closed, and the blood kept trickling down to the line of her skirt. 

It was unfair. It was monumentally unfair. She had only just started. She wasn’t done yet. She had slaves to free, wars to wage, changes to make. People had just started listening to her. The injustice was enough to choke her. Hot, angry tears came to her eyes, and all she could do was walk away. 

Betrayal - Pandemonium

She always was so quiet, always a little teased, a little overlooked. A healer in training with shaky hands in a family full of warriors. Her parents - dead, shredded by minions of the enemy.  Her wife was the only thing that had ever been hers alone. She was so brave, so beautiful, so clever. She was more precious than victory, worth fighting for. She was something special.

They had met when she had slipped in training, her wife’s mouth full of joy as she helped her to her feet. She had fallen in love quicker than she had hit the ground. It was the only fearless thing she had ever done in her life. She made it easy to be brave.  *  The whispering had been deafening. She could feel the fingerprints of the archons pressing against all the soft parts of her soul, taining it, dirtying it, ripping it into shreds with careful claws. It robbed her of sleep, and she walked around in a daze. She was weak - something she had always know. 

She stabbed her sister in the back, in broad daylight as the war began. Dragged the knife down until blood slipped out of her like a waterfall. She didn’t feel sad. She didn’t feel anything. She watched the body fall. And then she started running. She was caught, of course, and those brave shining warriors, the pure, the uncorrupted, surrounded her. And her wife killed them all, and helped her to her feet.

* 

Her wife knelt in the center of that circle. And she couldn’t help. She was restrained as she screamed for mercy, for help, for safety. The heroes did not listen. They cut down her lying wife. Lying to save her. They had come here sick of bloodshed, of war not only with the others, but with themselves. They wanted a home. They did not find one, not even the one they were offered. Promises meant as little here as they did to the Ollath. There was no love here, not from Gods and certainly not from the Tanelim. 

She died over her wife’s body.

Dedication - Empire

Out of all the Virtues she thought she would be dedicated to, she never thought Courage would be the one ultimately chosen. Somewhere, her Ambitious parents would be bustling about, her Vigilant brother interned in his room, not knowing she was dying. She had a little thrill - she finally had a part of her life that was just hers. Hers alone. 

Part of her knew she didn’t deserve this. In her chest, her failing heart beat for Justice. If anybody knew the force that had driven her for two seasons now, she would be called heretical, likely executed. But well, what did it matter now? Poison flowed through her veins, and soon it wouldn’t matter which Virtue she followed, except for what she carried into her next life.

Courage, apparently. 

Ellie’s face was beautiful, full of terror and reverence. Of course it was her. Who else but the singing priest who carried the weight of chains on her back as Ada did? Who had showed nothing but bravery over and over again, when it would have been easier to give up, be nothing. Ada found she was crying as Ellie clasped her hands. 

She had so much left to do, and no time to do it in. 

But what was a legacy? People would carry on fighting, and some would even go on fighting in her name. 

The Candleflame Burns Still

In the window, the candle flickered as though a draft had entered the room behind it. If you could look closer, you’d see that the door to the nursery was shut tight, and the leaves resting in the fireplace did not stir an inch. Outside the window, the snow fell, thick and smothering. The candle seemed to mock the flakes, its staunch declaration of warmth never once faltering.

A few flakes tumbled down the chimney and rested in the grate. 

Once, this house was bustling. Servants and nobles filled every room. Guests were welcomed, not merely tolerated. And more oddly still for the age, love seemed to permeate the walls. The madams of the house had such adoration for each other, many visiting couples went away envious, considering their spouses a little more resentfully. And their children - oh their children. There had never been a pair more cherished, more doted on. 

The eldest was a serious boy of twelve. He had dark, dark eyes and an observant disposition. He spoke rarely, and laughed even less so. This did not mean he was miserable - far from it in fact. He was a happy child, just with a natural leaning towards silence. He took a great deal of satisfaction in his lessons, and in the pride his mothers showed when he did well.

The youngest was an unserious girl of eight. She had bright bright eyes and a laughing mouth. She was a chatterbox, her nanny often declared, and a handful  to boot. She loved getting dirty, whether that was through plunging into muddy flowerbeds or crawling through dusty crawlspaces. She liked nothing better than insects and things that chittered. 

The middle child was dead and had been for many years. The youngest had been only a gurgling baby when they had perished. It was not an uncommon occurrence - a fit of coughing had claimed them in the night, their bedsheets splattered with scarlet lifeblood. Their mothers had taken their last photographs, and buried them within a week, and promptly forgotten about them. But still they were present between the two other children, if unseen. 

They remained still now, in the house, though the rest of the family had fled like swifts. They had fled to follow their happiness. Too many memories in the walls, they had said, though perhaps it was really too many debt-collectors. They had left an unlit candle resting in the window.

“I don’t want redemption, I just want to help.”

The angel knelt, it’s robes gathering dirt from the filthy ground. It’s knees ached, and it thought, absently, that that was new, if not entirely pleasant. The church was old, by human standards, it’s floors a dark oak, the beams overhead stained by smoke from censers past. It had seen more years than some of the trees growing outside, and certainly more than the nearby houses. It had housed births, deaths and weddings. In the angel’s opinion, it was much of an altar to the emotions of humans than to their god. 

Perhaps it was thoughts like that that got them exiled. 

Exile was not the same as damnation, exclusion was not the same as condemnation. But here they were, kneeling, forgiveness just within their grasp. If they put their hands together, and atoned, and apologised, the gates would reopen and they would be back home, welcomed with open arms.

And yet.

In their months away from home, they had seen much. Mostly suffering, with spots of joy as bright as the sun filtering through storm clouds. And they had helped. They had volunteered, they had healed, they had donated. They had little, but they had their health and they had their faith. No longer in the skies above, or their father, but themselves certainly. When they were home they had watched from their ivory tower unable to influence the people below in the slightest. Their jurisdiction was too small, their sphere of influence minor.

They pulled their hands apart. They didn’t want the forgiveness that would sweep them away. They wanted to make a difference.

“I don’t want redemption, I just want to help.”  - DuD

Sainthood was not redemption. It was not absolution. It did not mean they were free from sin, it did not mean they would not sin again. All it meant was that the God Emperor had saw fit to grant you a power and a mission. At least, this is how Cal saw it.

The road they were on did not wipe away the sins of their past. It did not cleanse their blood (only fire could do such a thing, and only in death). What it did do was fill them with holy purpose, give them guidance they had always been lacking, and shape them into a holy image, their poisoned body nothing more than a vessel for their holy light. 

What was their purpose? Well, that was easy. The Imperium had lost their way. They had started thinking of their own interests rather than the will of their Emperor. They would heal the mind, body and spirits of those who were true to the Emperor and burn the rest. They would heal the Imperium. It was sick, and it would be fixed with fire or with light.

“Out in the desert where the small gods live.”

The sky was bluer than blue. The blue you pictured when you remembered childhood summers, the one that could almost make your eyes ache from brightness or nostalgia, one of them. And then there was the sand below it, not quite yellow, more gold, more dust. It’s colour was not what boggled the mind, but the scale. It ran out towards the horizon, and stretched out in every direction once there. She felt very, very small. 

In this dream, she did not feel the heat, but her skin still shone with sweat. Her bag sat between her shoulders, and she clasped the straps tightly, knowing somehow that her cargo was precious. 

She thought he was a mirage at first. A shimmering at the very edge of her vision, promising water. But as she drew closer his form became more solid. As she approached, he tilted his head, curious, bird-like. He was as brilliant as the desert that surrounded him, one eye the colour of the sky, one eye the colour of the sand. He did not have any pupils. He looked as if he had grown here, or perhaps, eroded here like the sand beneath his bare feet. She couldn’t understand how it didn’t burn him, or how his unclothed chest was not marred by sweat. 

This was him she realised. This entire place. She was intruding, some creature from another land attempting to leave footprints, a mark. The dry air caught in her throat suddenly, making it feel rough and sore. If she could have walked back, she would have, but of course the desert stretched out behind her too, showing no sign of an exit door.

The line between imagination and reality became a blur and she realised she didn’t mind.

Alice missed the golden days of summer. She missed cats with grins weaving around her ankles. She missed sleeping close to rivers made of her tears. She missed talking rabbits, mirrors more like doorways, chattering chess pieces... She did not recall these things as childhood fancies. No, they were more like precious memories, preserved like pressed flowers between the sheets of adulthood. 

At university she found her attention robbed by the windows by her desk. The spring winds sending blossoms tumbling down, the gentle spates of rain, the friendly flickering of birds from hedge to hedge. As beautiful as the scene was, her mind couldn’t help filling in the perceived blanks - the mundane had started to bore her, the real life wasn’t enough. She wished for oddly coloured skies, objects with personality, excitement. She could just picture the blossoms forming princesses, the rain pouring until it made a castle of the frigid water, the birds with tiny scrolls clutched tight in their beaks. 

When she finally saw them, she only smiled.

#prompts #prose #larp #drabbles

[madokasoratsugu]

/poses/ after a million years...i finally bring to u...a proper update to mafia au, this time with the adults !!! there’s more hints to the plot here so like. nice. some ended up way longer bc i rambled aha;;

check out the rest of the mafia au here /  ways to support me if you enjoyed this 

Sanzaemon is the former head of the Nakiri family, now retired (?). Passed the position to Erina, although it was originally supposed to have been taken over by Azami (the plan went to scrambles after Erina’s mother died, Azami abandoned the family and slaughtered any and all who got in his way, taking prized blueprints and tactician plans on the way out). Was initially still watching over Erina as an advisor in the main mansion until Azami personally came back to try and assassinate him. Heavily wounded, he now resides in a hideout with Dojima as his main link/informant as to what the family is up to nowadays. Back when he was a boss and even now, he helps Jouichirou with trying to find the murderer of his wife. Using his position as a boss and influential member of the mafia, has attained some of the most valuable leads Jouichirou currently has. Now that he's retired, he's been putting more time into this area of research, and is beginning to get a sickening suspicion that things are more than they seem, and Azami may have been much more underhanded than anyone could ever believe.

Shinomiya is one of the most successful bosses, having strong ties and alliances with families in both France and Japan. Also known as one of the most unforgiving and sadistic due to a past incident of nearly executing half his own family. It was a matter of the past when he’d just assumed his own position, yet found himself under heavy attacks/info leaks all of a sudden - immensely stressed and unable to trust anyone, he began witch hunting any and all suspicious members and executing them. Doujima and Souma were the ones who curbed his killing spree, albeit with much effort and investigation. Hinako was the one who properly stopped him, with a vicious slap to the face and cold demand for him to get a hold of himself, and live up to the name of the Shinomiya (and soon to be Inui) family. All family members who survived the incident deeply understand and know how badly it affected Shinomiya (esp mentally), and have sworn to never allow Shinomiya have a reason to doubt their loyalty again. As such, the Shinomiya family is also one of the most tight knit and loyal; spies and moles fear their family, so much so that it’s become common knowledge that to accept an infiltration job into their family means a fate worse than death. (funfact: Shinomiya knew of Souma through a job of hiring him to stalk and assassinate one of the suspicious members, and Souma got a lot more involved+talkative with the boss than necessary, resulting in their friendship. Shinomiya taught Souma quick firing techniques and sleight of hand. He has also quietly hinted that Souma is under his protection once, and if anyone fucks with him they won’t get away with it. Megumi, as his doctor, is also under Shinomiya’s protection.)

Hinako is a delicate and gentle flower of an internationally recognised tea shop, who is also a full time yakuza boss of the Inui family. She runs the family like a good tea ceremony; methodical, careful and (rather) unforgiving for mistakes. A calm and collected boss who always has a smile on her face (there’s only minute differences to that smile, and you better learn to tell what they are, and fast), and an excellent tactician who never takes more than necessary from her enemies. Has a good eye for hidden talents and polishing said talents. Marries into the Koujirou family after the “ascension massacre” (the underworld’s selfdub for Shinomiya’s incident), many hold her in high regard for that (although it’s partly bc of her that so many were killed - since Hinako and Shinomiya were seeing each other at that time, Shinomiya’s paranoia that someone would go after her too killed hundreds). Enjoys using poison to kill, though her favourite weapon is a traditional katana, handed down from generations through her family. Knows Mizuhara from functions between Japanese yakuza meetings, and was the one who introduced Shinomiya and Mizuhara, that lead to their families’ alliance being formed.

Mizuhara was initially from an influential Japanese yazuka group, but she moved to Italy to get away from her family as she wanted no part to do with them, considering how her brother was already set on becoming the next head and she didn’t want to complicate matters (sibling with different mothers, rivalry abound. her bro doesn’t rly care for this Drama bc he trusts and loves her v much but the mothers are a whole other story.). But mafia members recognised her, and she got into some trouble with the Italian mob, whom she thoroughly schooled. The mob was a small faction under Takumi and Isami, who met with Mizuhara and got chewed out for disorganisation within their family. After learning about the mess their family was in at that time (this happened around after Aldini papa’s death and Takumi’s ascension), Mizuhara contacted her family back in Japan who were more than happy to agree with her plan of including the Aldini family as one of their allies. She now works on extending her family’s alliances from overseas, and is also working with Takumi and Isami in managing Italy’s underground (but in terms of hierarchy she’s higher up). Plus partially helping out w the Aldini family’s management/organisational matters, as well as looking into dragging Shinomiya into Erina’s alliance at some point.

Soe was the previous head of the information branch, but is now travelling all over the world in an attempt to refresh the Nakiri family’s old alliances on Erina’s request, as well as collecting information from all these families about Azami. Cool headed (unless his family is threatened), charismatic and suave, is extremely sleuthy and able to hook information out of almost anyone. Pretty much the walking infobank of the Nakiri family, his life is constantly targeted so he isn't able to be with his family as much as he'd like. Due to this, he's also incredibly skilled in both close and long range combat, considering how he never knows how people are gonna try and target him next. He's the one who taught Alice her knife skills, and fav weapon is a rifle. Didn’t initially have many plans to join the mafia; he was well on his way to becoming a world renowned scientist and researcher when his sister died and Azami abandoned the family, prompting an immediate return back. Although he blames no one for his impromptu return to the mafia, to this day he holds a deep regret of not being able to fully give Leonora (and Alice) a life without bloodshed like he had promised.

Leonora is a weaponry expert/researcher, and is currently looking into combining poisons and various weapons in a much more efficient manner, plus inventing a few of her own weapons (she designed Ryou’s dagger and Alice’s favourite butterfly knife, and gave Hayama’s rifle an insane upgrade). Works in a lab in Denmark near a hideout, and is in constant contact with Alice and Soe. Born into a wealthy business family with many mafia connections, her love for experiments and Science was cultivated well ever since she was a child. Met Soe at one of the many mafia networking parties, and he fell in love with the young genius at first sight. Had little to no qualms about entering the mafia world since she grew up with the mafia integrated partially into her life. Quick witted, making a great conversationalist and negotiator. An expert at guns, has no preference. Knew of Azami and Erina’s mother ever since they were engaged, feels a deep sense of loss and sadness for them, but at the same time is unforgiving towards Azami for causing so much pain to her niece and daughter.

Chapelle used to be a spy who would work exclusively in France, now one of the most sought after informants by all mafia members alike. Typically uses go betweens to deal with his information exchange, very rarely shows up himself in public. As such, little is known about him by mafia members, except that no one has seen him (or doublecrossed him) and lived to tell the tale. Skilled with bombs and guns, good at killing swiftly and silently. Back as a spy, his allegiance leaned towards Sanzaemon (and to an extension, the Nakiri family), so despite his position as a neutral ally in the upcoming power struggle, he favours Erina’s alliance/side more so than Azami’s. His favourite and best go between is Ryoko, and no one but Isshiki and Fumio knows that Megumi’s landlord who likes going to the Polar Star Bar every other night is a famed (and heavily wanted) spy.

Hisanao is top of the mafia AU’s INTERPOL. Famously known among the underworld as the man who can and will singlehandedly tear apart an entire family, starting from the bottom. The mafia don’t really bother the public, but when they do, Hisanao is there to wreck havoc on them. Works closely with the mafia government (this AU’s version of WGO) to ensure that the fine line between the mafia and the general public is not crossed. Strong sense of justice and honour, has been awarded numerous awards for his service yet has accepted minimal. Does not believe in completely wiping out the mafia as that is an incredulous and silly thought. Sharpshooter whose skills rival Hayama’s, favourite weapon is his trusty police gun. Always carries a pair of handcuffs with him. Acquainted with Sanzaemon due to a past dispute that dragged in a civilian, and has his own information network running through the underworld. He’s keeping a close eye on the upcoming power struggle - it’d be a huge blow to the police force if the past were to repeat itself, after all.

#shokugeki no soma #food wars #nakiri sanzaemon #shinomiya kojirou #hinako inui #mizuhara fuyumi #nakiri soe #nakiri leonora #roland chapelle #hisanao kageura #mafia cooking kids #long post

[olaluwe]

On May 29, 2019, Nigeria’s democracy clocked 20 unbroken years. It also marked the takeoff of the second term in office of the President, Muhammadu Buhari and an array of other elects across the length and breadth of the country. It is the fifth successful handing over since the democratic experience began in 1999.

The inaugural ceremony was indeed low-keyed in line with an earlier press briefing to that effect by the then former minister of information Al-haji Lai Mohammed. He had disclosed that Nigeria will host a befitting democracy celebration on June 12, 2019, which is now the nation’s official democracy day.

As such it didn’t come many as a surprise that the president, therefore, did not deliver an inaugural speech which is a break from existing tradition and protocols.

Despite being in the know, some people including a section of the foreign media still found it convenient to make an issue out it.

Do we need to celebrate at all? We need to celebrate this mileage because this is not the first time Nigeria is experimenting with the democratic rule but have always not gone far.

For the record, Nigeria actually cut its democratic teeth in 1960 as a new autonomous state smarting from the British colonial rule but it was short-lived when the military adventurists garbed as revolutionaries struck on 15th, Jan. 1966.

The second was in 1979 and was equally terminated in 1983 incidentally in a coup d’état spearhead by the incumbent president Muhammadu Buhari.

The historic point of departure here was signaled by the presidential election of June 12, 1993. But it was subsequently annulled, though, is the fairest and the freest in the history of the country.

However, the seeming hopelessness of that incident did not deter the fearless democrats across the country, as they regrouped and gallantly battled the military to a halt.

After years of continuous guerilla-like pressuring, the expected buckle did come.  On May 29, 1999, the military junta headed by General Abdul Salam Abu-Bakr having completed perhaps the shortest transition program ever handed over power to a new civilian administration of President Olusegun Obasanjo. As you can see, it was not on the platter.

How pleasing then it was for the principal actors and friends of that struggle that at the end of the day June 12 has been accorded its rightful recognition in the annals of some of the most significant days in Nigeria.

Unlike before, this democratic journey has been an unbroken one. However, the road could be said to have been a rough one. It has had it highs and lows. And why not, if not? I’m so sure only those who engage in daydreaming would’ve thought it would be otherwise.

Indeed, the country has encountered some of the worst political ogres imaginable on the road to building a virile and enduring democracy. And today, just as it was, in the

beginning, some of them are still with us and multiplying.

But the kernel of the political roughness still remains miss-governance or corruption if you like which the government of the day has frontally taken by the horn. But critics of the government have called it diversionary, selective, and a witch-hunt of the opposition figures.

Not forgetting that corruption that we’re talking about here has been rampant in spawning under-development and myriads of social vices like Boko Haram, Banditry, Cattle rustling, drug trafficking, human trafficking, under-age marriage, ritual killings, cultism, armed robbery, kidnapping, militancy, killer herdsmen, unemployment, internet fraud, and religious intolerance. I could go on and on and on….

Yes, Nigeria may not be anywhere near the expected Eldorado. And so it is quite easy for the mischief makers aided by the fact that we all see, hear or read, memorize, and remembered differently to always attempt to thin down on the clearly visible gains of the journey so far.

I think they do because they are unable to see a parallel here with the Biblical account in the Exodus. The Egyptian taskmasters didn’t want the Israelites to go because of so many reasons. The chief of which is that they have for so long be the cheap instrument of their economic prosperity.

Even when they eventually did, the journey was not only long it was characterized by all manner of challenges. There was thirst, hunger, wars, division, disgruntlement and disobedience, and deaths. In the end, not everybody saw the promised land, not even Moses who led them out of their captivity.

Today, there is an undue fixation by some of our folks on disease, deaths and mourning, lack and want; poverty and ignorance; so much that they consciously and unconsciously watered down on the progressive beams of Nigeria’s existential moonshine. So much that they willfully bye-passed the big picture of what is to come.

I know there have been dashed hopes and unmet aspirations around exceedingly high social, cultural, religious, economic, and political bench-marking for the successive civilian administration since 1999.

But they are not enough reasons to give up on fatherland going through its own challenges as an evolving nation just like other countries we are so quick to reference as measuring standards.

Even China doesn’t compare itself to the US and it’s not being modest. This, it leaders have emphasized again and again that it is not in a competition with any country. Each of them has their strength and weaknesses. No one nation has it all. What each does is built on their comparative advantage.     

Nigeria and its democratic experience these past twenty years has got its moonshine despite its many challenges. I won’t stop believing like some of our western friends have long known that we are a country of amazing people doing amazing things.

Those keeping us down are from us, though, they may have the insidious and wily attributes of enemies from without. The strife, divisions, and deaths you see all around are induced to create a feeling of an overwhelming chasm in our collective commonality for their own selfish ends.

I remember also that despite apprehension in some quarters, it would be recalled that the country successfully transitioned along different party line when the opposition defeated the incumbent in 2015. It has never happened before in the country.

And military officers and men, from those that I’ve personally interacted with in the last twenty years, do enthusiastically confess that the best time to be in the military is now and under the civilian administration.   The same view has been echoed by the current Chief of Army Staff, Lt. Gen. Tukur Buratai just like his predecessors.

More often than not, action and inaction of the military authorities have recently become justiciable and aggrieved military personnel have gotten justice which was unthinkable before.

Who cannot forget the case of the soldiers who were unlawfully detained and dismissed after protesting the nonpayment of their peacekeeping monies by the military authorities in 2008 at Akure? I can vividly recollect that it was Femi Falana who took up their case pro bono and make sure justice was served.  

Today, Nigerians can now have their say across different media and by so doing contributing to deepening the democratic process and culture. The political space is also so broad that there’s always a platform for everyone no matter their political ideology.

Going forward, the electors must be willing to take ownership of the democratic process and institutions for the enthronement of good governance; shared prosperity, unity, peace, and progress in the country.

They must be willing to openly, freely, and fearlessly discuss the issues of the country’s destiny like they have done especially in the last two general elections. And every attempt to divide and rule them must be passively resisted. It is not going to be easy, but it is doable.

Today, no doubt, to borrow the words of American Martin Dies, ‘Our hands are full both as electors and the elects with the task of rescuing and preserving this republic from of its enemies within’. And how well we collectively respond to this important charge will determine how far we go as a nation.

#IFTTT #Blogger

[karinaaajayy-blog]

Slavery.

When discussing issues that pertain to Race, Crime, and Punishment, it is inevitable to discuss slavery, and the way it has shaped the United States as we know it today. This atrocious act began when white people created the idea that the color of their skin meant that they were more superior than any other human being on earth. Furthermore, their own beliefs gave them the authorization to decide how to keep themselves in power, and maintain dominance over any one who did not look like them. One of the first ways we see this is when white Europeans traveled across the sea to steal and colonize America. In order to ensure the land remained theirs, they murdered thousands of Native American people. Shortly after this, they brought people over from Africa, to serve and be sold as slaves on their new land. Their servitude would help build America into the great nation they dreamed of it to be, however, they would keep black and brown people as slaves even when the foundation was built. Eventually, slavery became completely normalized despite how gruesome and inhumane slaves were being treated. One of the reasons why white people felt the need to enslave black people and keep them under their control was, they created the notion that black people were monstrous and barbaric by nature. However, the reality was that white people were truly the monsters because they found a way to enslave an entire population and cross them over seas to serve them, and because of the way these people were treated once they were slaves. Slaves were tortured, beaten, whipped, and killed on a daily basis. White people treated them like property, because in their minds, they were just objects who did not know pain. One prominent case of slavery that highlights the horror of forced servitude in America was that of the murder of one of Arthur William Hodge slaves. Hodge was a West Indian Slave plantation owner in the 1800s, and he brutally murdered one of his slaves by the name of Prosper, because he had eaten a mango that fell from one of his trees and did not pay for it. Hodge wanted Prosper to pay for the fruit, but he did not have enough. This angered him so he ordered his other slaves to hold Prosper face down on his belly, while he endured a beastly whipping. This continued for about an hour, until Hodge decided that it was not enough. He made his slaves carry Prosper up a hill and tie him to a tree. He was beat over and over again, and left overnight against the tree. The next day, he was whipped again however, Prosper had fainted during it. A couple of days after the assault, Prosper had passed away from the injuries he had received from it. It was not until three years after the incident hat Hodge was criminally charged for the murder of Prosper. After the court found him guilty, Hodge still found the means to flee The story of Prosper clearly shows us a common theme that was discussed throughout race, crime, and punishment and it was that white people have brutalized and dehumanized black people far more than they ever could. There was a belief that black people were savages and needed to be controlled, however, it was white people that should have been guided differently. During slavery, slave owners constantly mistreated and abused their slaves in private and in public. Not only did slavery become normalized, but so did violence against black people. A film that also exemplifies that the notion that white people were truly barbaric, and heinous in the way they treated black people can also be seen in 12 Years A Slave. To be specific, this is clearly demonstrated in scene were Patsey is tied around a tree, forced to strip out of her dress, and face away from owner, Epps, to be whipped. Epps does this not only in front of his wife, but Solomon, a friend of Patsey as well. As Solomon tries to look away from the harsh whipping, Epps wants him to watch the entire thing or he threatens to whip him as well. Due to the fact that Solomon cannot bear to watch it, he makes him whip Patsey instead. Although Solomon tries to be gentle, Epps continues to threaten him with more violence if he does not whip her with more force. His fear and distress forces him to truly inflict gruesome pain on Patsey. Despite the fact that Epps is not the one who finishes the whipping, it was barbaric in the sense that he forced someone close to Patsey to harm her. This if anything, makes the matters worse because Patsey understands that he had to do it in order to spare himself but at the cost of someone he loves. There is something truly sinister behind Epps’ act of violence towards Patsey, and it demonstrates how cruel and brutal white people have always been. During this time period, there were no laws or an official system to protect slaves and their rights as human beings. Slavery set the precedent for abuse that black people would continuously endure for centuries after. White people in positions of power have been able to get away mistreating and dehumanizing black people for far too long. This is seen not only during slavery, but in our modern day lives as we have seen many white police officers murdering and injuring black civilians. Just like slave owners, their crimes and brutality were unaccounted for and justice was never served. Slavery was clearly a crime against all black people, and it specifically targeted this race. It set the foundation for the years of suffering even after slavery came to an end, because this time period devastated this race so heavily. White people recognized how much they were benefiting off the exploitation of black people and wanted it to stay that way. Therefore, even when slavery came to a legal end, they were still able to keep black people under their control by finding new legal ways to do so. Both the cases of Prosper and Patsey demonstrate the savagery behind slavery and the manners in which slave owners behaved. Since way back in time, white people have truly maintained the idea that they are superior to all mankind because of the color of their skin, and they must perpetuate this power by keeping everyone else in oppressed classes. Everything about the slavery era is ultimately wrong, the true monsters were not black people, they were and have continued to be white people in positions of power. Prosper and Patsey have showed us that it began with slave owners, but these same slave owners remained alive through the generations after them and these people are now our law enforcement officials, senators, governors, and the list goes on. Despite what white people may have believed back then about the nature of black people, the history they are allowing to repeat itself will never allow black people to prosper. Resources: http://theconversation.com/american-slavery-separating-fact-from-myth-79620 http://slaveryandremembrance.org/articles/article/?id=A0011 http://www.pbs.org/black-culture/explore/slavery-in-america/

#TheRealMonstersAreInPower HowWillWeEverProsper?

[clubofinfo]

Expert: We have blind men, one-eyed men, squint-eyed men, men with long sight, short sight, clear sight, dim sight, [and] weak sight. All that is a faithful enough image of our understanding; but we are barely acquainted with [men of] false sight. — Voltaire, The Philosophical Dictionary, 1924. Knopf, NY. [M]ost establishment…journalists tend to be like their writing, and so, duly warned by the tinkle of so many leper-bells, one avoids their company. — Gore Vidal, The Last Empire: Essays 1992-2001, Abacus, 2001. I heard the news today, oh boy…! — John Lennon and Paul McCartney, “A Day in the Life”, 1968. Brief: The gulf dividing established institutions—governments, political parties, academia, the judiciary, legislature, bureaucracies, the national security state, think-tanks, lobby groups, and especially the mainstream media—and those within and across the broader body politic, particularly those who’d challenge the chokehold such institutions seek to impose on the information and knowledge that forms the foundation of our political discourse as well as that of the official historical record, is expanding at a rate of knots. With a focus on one man who saw it all coming, it’s time to reflect on the backstory of this bourgeoning, perilous impasse, and what the implications might be for geopolitical stability and security, and indeed, the future of humanity. Living in a Fog of Historical Myth With an attendant lack of transparency and accountability, the Fourth Estate routinely subordinates the basic tenets of ethical reportage in the public interest to the interests, demands, and expectations of what we now refer to as the ‘deep state’. This is largely driven by the failure or refusal of the corporate media to live up to its basic remit in holding the ‘deep staters’ in turn responsible for their decisions and actions. This palpable, vicious circle, downward spiral reality is especially evident in matters of war and peace. Sadly, as we’ll see it was ever thus. Trump going all wobbly on America To underscore such sentiments and prepare the ground as it were, accounts of two recent newspaper pieces should do the trick. A Washington Examiner report by one Tom Rogan called on the Kiev regime to bomb the just completed Crimean Bridge. Even given the anti-Russian fervour in the West at present, the unreserved call by any purportedly responsible media outlet of what is after all an unprovoked act of war against that nuclear-armed country might’ve once been unthinkable. In the Salem-like milieu that beclouds the Beltway, though, for British analyst Neil Clark such ‘hate-filled incitement, masquerading as “commentary”’ is now evidently ‘thinkable’. More to the point, it perfectly showcases one of our key premises: the propensity for the MSM to act as cheerleaders for the war mongering ‘deep staters’. We’ll return to the theme of the warmongering press in due course. But a quite different report—as surreal as that of the Examiner, but which also serves to highlight another of the motifs reflected in the opening—appeared via the New York Times. The erstwhile Secretary of State Rex Tillerson was quoted expressing deep distress on behalf of America’s democracy, saying amongst things there was a ‘crisis of ethics and integrity’ therein. Let’s place to one side the fact he was using the occasion to have a none-too-subtle dig or three at his old boss Donald Trump over the Oval One’s obvious shortcomings in this respect. Ditto for the reality that as the former CEO of Exxon-Mobil, he was presumably never troubled by shareholder anxiety over him prioritising corporate social responsibility (“ethics” and “integrity” being key components thereof) ahead of their pecuniary interests. We might then marvel at why it took Tillerson so long to imbibe this reality and then share such disquiet with his fellow Americans. After advancing a scenario wherein we ‘allow our leaders to conceal the truth’, and/or ‘become accepting of alternative realities that are no longer grounded in facts’, Tillerson went on to say, ‘we as American citizens are on a pathway to relinquishing our freedom.’ For the ex-oilman, ‘even small falsehoods and exaggerations are problematic…[W]hen we…as a free people, go wobbly on the truth even on what may seem the most trivial matters, we go wobbly on America’. Now space herein limits a thorough unpacking of Tillerson’s profound insights. Suffice to say all manner of pundits would have a field day if invited to do so. Judging by what Tillerson himself doubtless views are heart-felt ruminations on the body politic, he sees this as a recent development. Yet contrary to his remarks, this scenario did not arise with Trump; as Chris Hedges and many others have noted, Number 45 is more a product of the malaise Tillerson described than he is a precursor. As it is, said “malaise” has been a work in progress for some time, with British historian David Andress observing that its roots run ‘deep into our history’. Declares Andress in his recent book Cultural Amnesia: How the West has Lost its History, and Risks losing everything Else, there’s now ‘a crippling void at the core of politics’, most notably in the historically leading nations in the West [Britain, France, the US]. He further says of this “void”: ‘[There is] an absence of reflection so profound it is hard for conventional commentary even to perceive it…[P]olitical perceptions are breaking dangerously free from a mooring in history.’ [My emphasis]. Central to that “malaise” or “void”, of course, is the corporate media, and herein we include the increasingly powerful—and insidious—social media forums such as Facebook, Twitter and the like. We might for good measure throw in Hollywood, Amazon, and the public relations industry as well. In juxtaposing dichotomous themes of trust and suspicion, truth and lies, facts and propaganda, reality and perception, acceptance and denial, reason and unreason, justice and injustice, democracy and autocracy, and to no lesser extent, war and peace, amongst our literary icons it was perhaps George Orwell who captured all this best. This is strikingly evident with regard to the mindset we as ‘consumers’ receive, process, and act on, knowledge about our history and from there, do same with information regarding the more contemporary events propelled by our political, media and bureaucratic elites and their paymasters. Of course, Orwell has been name checked to within an inch of his not insubstantial repute. But to paraphrase one of the English language’s other great wordsmiths Samuel Johnson, the man’s observations about the core rationale behind modern political psychopathy have touched little that haven’t adorned our day-to-day reality. These embrace the hidden motives that propel it into the public sphere, the ‘substance’ of the discourse that frames it, along with the amount of people reached and thus influenced by it. The outcome of this rationale as it’s applied doesn’t just suborn our history; by extension, it dilutes our memory and devalues our understanding of it. That it continues to do so is self-evident. At least it is if we allow the ‘evidence’ some ‘breathing space’. As for Orwell’s insights, what’s not to like about the following, each of which is pertinent in some way to our narrative and authored over 75 years ago?: ‘Who controls the past controls the future…Who controls the present controls the past’; ‘In our time political speech and writing are largely the defence of the indefensible’; ‘Such concepts as justice, liberty and objective truth are still believed in….[T]hey may be illusions, but they are very powerful illusions’; ‘Journalism is printing what someone else does not want printed: everything else is public relations’;…and last but not least, that perennial family favourite, ‘Big Brother is Watching You!’ There are many others on Orwell’s menu to be sure, but this will do for starters. From there, Orwell also sought to reveal how “Big Brother” and his siblings endeavour to disparage, marginalise, and then disenfranchise (or worse) those who might offer conflicting analyses outside their own tightly scripted ‘Newspeak’, ‘doublethink’ purview. A diverse range of folks from William Binney, Julian Assange, Coleen Rowley, John Kiriakou, Jesselyn Radack, Jeffrey Sterling, Karen Kwiatkowski, Chelsea Manning, and Edward Snowden amongst others would, one suspects, provide ample testament to that reality. One of the most (ahem) memorable of plot devices in his novel 1984 was the concept of the memory hole. This was a process allowing for the modification or destruction of troublesome or awkward information in order to alter history and people’s memory of it or create the impression that something never happened. Two recent examples of the memory hole in action are worth mentioning briefly, both involving incidentally the West’s current bete noir Russia. The first is the recent documentary film Remembrance – Rewriting history: Red Army’s role in liberating Europe censored in the West, the title leaving one with no uncertainty as to what the narrative is all about. Suffice to say: Much of today’s generation is of the belief it was the US who did most of the heavy lifting in World War II, as ‘that’s what their textbooks tell them’. Yet as the historical record tells it, compared to American deaths in the European theatre (around 300,000), the Soviets suffered around 27 million or more including millions of massacred civilians; further their country was trashed, whilst America and its inhabitants remained largely untouched by the conflict. Put simply, the US got off light! Moreover, the Red Army fighting on its own turf killed over four times as many Germans as the US and its allies did on the Western Front. In fact, the D-Day invasion, belatedly opened the second front in Europe in June 1944 after being delayed several times over two years prior largely due to prevarications by the then UK PM Winston Churchill, much to Soviet leader Joseph Stalin’s justifiable chagrin. By this time, it was clear the Soviets could accomplish complete victory over the Nazis on their own, but by no means did this mean the allies were going to let them claim bragging rights to such an outcome. In any event, it appears this narrative has been quietly ‘memory-holed’. One is tempted to ask: To what end is this being done? It is straight out of the Orwell playbook. (The recent revival of the long dormant accusation the Russians were responsible for the downing of the MH-17 passenger plane over eastern Ukraine in 2014 is no coincidence. Again it provides further evidence that the West’s march to war with Russia remains very much on the agenda, with my own country Australia being amongst the most vocal in pointing the finger, sans it would appear anything resembling convincing new evidence.) And the second “memory hole” exemplar was an extraordinary interview with Mikhail Poltoranin, former Head of the Government Committee on the Declassification of KGB Archives. He revealed that in 1950, the U.S. Air Force actually attacked Soviet bases just outside Vladivostok and destroyed over 100 aircraft. Poltoranin further disclosed that Stalin himself was poisoned; ‘Uncle Joe’ didn’t die of natural causes! This assassination operation was carried out on Churchill’s instructions by British intelligence, themselves assisted by ‘some internal forces’ of the Soviet ruling elite, of which Stalin’s later successor Nikita Khrushchev was ‘certainly one’. On any number of levels this latter revelation is highly credible. Churchill himself was one of the earliest cheerleaders of the as yet unnamed Cold War with his hysterical 1946 “Iron Curtain” tirade thereby inaugurating one of history’s most consequential of self-fulfilling of prophecies. As well there was no love lost between these two former WWII allies, a reality laid bare in Susan Butler’s masterful 2015 book Roosevelt and Stalin: Portrait of a Partnership. It is further noteworthy that when, during the course of this astonishing exchange, the interviewer expressed disbelief at his revelations, Poltoranin responded with a comment very pertinent to our narrative: ‘We hid a lot of things. Actually, we live in a fog of historical myth…’ The “we” here doubtless included the West! All Wars are Media Wars (Lest we Forget) To be sure if Orwell were to be somehow resurrected today and allowed at his leisure to take in the zeitgeist, even he’d be at pains to appreciate how insightful his prognosis was; how much he’d misjudged the power elites predisposition for orchestrated groupthink, perfidy, malevolence, disinformation, thought control, surveillance, censorship, manipulation, and oppression; and the degree to which the mass of ‘proles’ (that’s us cupcakes!) seem all too willing as it were, to ‘suck it all up’. This is despite the knowledge and information we supposedly have available today via the internet and especially social media, not least ironically the author’s own prescient admonitions via his writing or vicariously through others in the alternative media who are clued up on what’s happening! We might easily imagine the T-shirt cum bumper-sticker adage doing the rounds at present, to wit: ‘Memo to power elites: 1984 was not an instruction manual!’ would likely leave the fabled wordsmith at a loss for, well, words! You’ve read the book, seen the movie, now get the T-Shirt! All of the above insights into the psychopathologies of the human condition (to say little about the societies and polities that emerge from the way in which they’re permitted to manifest themselves over time), are interconnected, of course. Some of these will become evident throughout. Many others are self-evident. Let’s continue with another Orwellian maxim not included above, but still nonetheless crucial to our main leitmotif: ‘War against a foreign country only happens when the moneyed classes think they are going to profit from it’. With this in mind, in my own study and experience of history and the human drama and utterly avoidable tragedy at its core, I cannot recall a more precipitously dangerous time for humanity than the here and now. More to the point, when any of us spend time thinking about those who previously served, suffered or died for the noble cause (or the ‘noble lie’ whichever one prefers), even if they’d done so fighting for freedom, democracy, peace, love, understanding and the pursuit of happiness against the oppression, tyranny, and evil intent of the ‘bad guys’ (the de rigueur cover story for the “noble cause”/“noble lie”), they’d be, one imagines, furiously spinning in their eternally designated plots of terra firma at what is now unfolding. Put another way, what would they think of us allowing it all to happen déjà vu like all over again, especially given what we now know about how previous conflagrations unfolded and the real reasons why? To be sure, for its part “fake news” is now the new “conspiracy theory”: It is the political, economic, business, and financial power elites’ and assorted ruling classes’ preferred weapon of choice in their defence against those ‘heretics’ who challenge the official narratives of western capitalist governments and all those who seek via a range of tools (from cognitive infiltration, false consciousness to cultural hegemony and so many others not excluding plain old school, garden variety bullshit), to perpetuate the status quo. In the final analysis, fake or real, so much of today’s news becomes tomorrow’s history. For their part, the mainstream media mavens and their assorted paymasters cum patrons have adopted this ‘best form of defence is attack’ modus operandi for any number of reasons, not least of which is aimed to claw back the public’s trust and rebuild their credibility. With the more recent being those in the former Yugoslavia, Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Syria, and Ukraine, so many conflicts have been feverishly championed by the major media outlets with few, if any, mea culpas forthcoming in the pear-shaped aftermath. Indeed, if anything, they have doubled down. It is largely because of this they’ve squandered whatever trust, integrity, and credibility upon which they might’ve once claimed bragging rights. The very things, of course, that animated Tillerson’s earlier comments. Yet whilst the road back up on to the high moral ground is invariably a rocky one even for the most redemptively minded, any attempt by the MSM to return there is likely to be little more than a ‘one-step forward, two steps back’ endeavour. And there’d be nothing remotely “moral” about the mission; its end-game will be all about perception management (their stock-in-trade after all), and rehabilitating their generic brand. Which is to say, their fundamental goal is the same as it ever was: a) to create and sustain believable, acceptable establishment narratives by which its elites might justify its policy decisions and thereby solicit public support for their often hidden, self-serving, progressively more dangerous, irrational agendas; b) to provide crucial camouflage for those individuals and institutions (including their very own) they seek to safeguard from public scrutiny regarding their true motives and [thereafter] impunity from legal accountability, and/or ethical and moral responsibility for their actions; c) to preserve and bolster these illusory narratives as well as to burnish the reputations, then solidify the legacies, of those who fashioned the mythologies and deceits that underpin the narratives in the first instance; and lastly, d) to establish an unassailable, yet still bogus, frame of reference (historical, political, educational, economic, psychological, social, intellectual, cultural) allowing for successive generations of elites to perpetuate then ‘recycle’ these “mythologies and deceits” to their own ends. If all this sounds like a purpose built, vicious-cycle, ‘keep ’em in the dark and feed ’em on bullshit’, perpetual motion construct for history repeating itself, then that’s possibly because it is difficult to view it as anything but. With the possible exception of wealth and poverty (issues themselves which I hope to similarly address in a follow-up, companion essay), in few other matters concerning the human condition and its oft presumed progressive betterment, the history of human endeavour, and the contemporary body politic is this more evident—or of greater import—than those to do with war and peace. For most reasonably informed observers of history and how the media works, if attended by an appreciation of the contemporary political landscape in general, they will immediately recognise it for what it is. Pope Gregory XV (1554-1623). ‘La Papa’ recognised the importance of a good PR arm. It’s worth noting here that the origin of the word “propaganda”—a concept that in its variant forms is a recurring motif herein—derives from the era of Pope Gregory XV. In 1622, the then Vatican (ahem) ‘commander-in-chief’ directed his cardinals responsible for foreign evangelical missions to establish the congregatio de propaganda fide, aka ‘congregation for propagation of the faith’, an organisation whose raison d’être should be self-explanatory. For some this is perhaps fitting if not surprising. Viewed another way, it’s the Catholic Church (the original “deep state” perhaps?), which might lay claim to having conceived the first ‘psy-ops’ gambit, a Holy See enterprise that around 400 years later is apparently still ‘Johnny Walker’! It is further notable that British philosopher John Gray in his compelling Black Mass: Apocalyptic Religion and the Death of Utopia, opened with the following: Modern politics is a chapter in the history of religion. The greatest of the revolutionary upheavals that have shaped so much of the history of the past two centuries were episodes in the history of faith—moments in the long dissolution of Christianity and the rise of modern political religion. And when it comes to the subject of propaganda, per se, although he deserves a ‘chapter’ all on his ‘Pat Malone’, we cannot, of course, not at least name-check Edward Bernays—Sigmund Freud’s nephew—the man generally acknowledged as the father of modern public relations. Which brings us once again back to fake news. The descriptor might have only recently entered into political discourse and popular vernacular; but as the Scottish authors and bloggers Gerry Docherty and Jim Macgregor observe, it has ‘a long history’. It’s propaganda frocked up in a different guise. Gerry Docherty and Jim Macgregor Via their website and their two published books (see here and here), Docherty and Macgregor’s excursions into the historical terrain of the most consequential event of the twentieth century—that being the Great War—have not just provided us with possibly the most compelling, far-reaching insight into the causes and conduct of this catastrophic inferno, but its, well, consequences. They’ve also delivered us a crucial understanding of how perfidious Albion (i.e. Great Britain) inveigled the rest of the world into fighting this war. With the ancien regime doing everything in its power to provoke Russia into war at present, this observation should not go unnoticed. (Those who think the British Empire as such had passed its UBD by 1945 haven’t been paying attention, need to get out more, or require a check up from the neck-up.) Now doubtless many folks will be having a “say wha?” moment at this point, to wit: Wasn’t it the Germans who provoked the First World War? Not so, according to Docherty and Macgregor. Even more than that, for our purposes herein, they’ve provided us with a telling insight into the key role the media mavens of the era knowingly played in facilitating the grand schemes of the ruling classes (termed the Secret Elites by the authors). The campaign to ‘sell the war’ to the British public and to the rest of the world began in earnest at least ten years prior to its outbreak. Although many abound, one example will suffice. This was the dogged manner in which various members of the Secret Elites coerced, cajoled and curried favour in the pre-war years with the various dominions and colonies specifically amongst their respective media outlets and leading politicians of the day—Australia, India, New Zealand, Canada to name the obvious ones—to ensure that once war began, there would be unstinting loyalty from all and sundry to the noble cause. It was all up, of course, an astonishing political, diplomatic and propaganda achievement, yet one we can now safely say, came at great cost for all those dominions and colonies, with little or nothing to show for it. To be sure, one of history’s greatest snow jobs perpetrated in the cause of perpetuating empire. This was Great Britain’s great propaganda machine at work, ‘an ‘infernal engine created in war…’ as described by author Richard Milton in his Best of Enemies: Britain and Germany: 100 years of Truth and Lies….‘…[b]ut impossible to switch off in peace….The indelible memory of atrocity stories that had taken place only in the imaginations of British propaganda agents proved to be stronger and more persistent than any facts. This curious discovery, the power of myths over facts, was the real legacy of the First World War.’ [My emphasis]. History Down the Memory Hole Now although it’s been rightly noted that “all wars are bankers’ wars” (underscored by the preceding Orwellian maxim about the “moneyed classes”), few could argue that the “bankers” would’ve had great difficulty selling their wars on their own; a pliant, subservient, gung-ho media is by definition crucial at the outset in mobilising the populace at large and from there manufacturing the collective consent needed to do so. Docherty and Macgregor’s follow-up tome—Prolonging the Agony: How International Bankers and their Political Partners Deliberately Extended World War 1, the title clearly underscoring what we’ve just observed—drives home the point. Which is to say, the war against Germany wasn’t just ‘sold’ to the world, with the establishment media at the time leading the charge and indispensible to this propaganda effort. The same media then played their own part in prolonging the war by ensuring the public did not lose their patriotic fervour. Moreover, the British political establishment—incestuously intertwined with not just each other, but with the press of the era, academia, business and finance, and the broader Western intellectual diaspora as well—ensured that through their control over the higher learning and research institutions and the education bureaucracy, they gave enduring, inviolable substance to Winston Churchill’s infamous maxim, ‘history is written by the victors’. (Along with being one of official history’s most acclaimed authors—whose genre specialty we might now say was historical fiction—Churchill himself, of course, was a ‘Secret Elitist’.) So effective was this propaganda exercise that the false narrative still stands today as the official version. It’s embraced by just about everyone from our politicians, our mainstream media, our academics, our military leaders, our veterans’ associations, and [to] our school curriculum writers and even those folks who end up teaching the fake history. Those rare folk who’d question this let alone decry it find themselves at best on the outside looking in. Herein, Docherty and Macgregor unambiguously lay out their stall: Lies masquerading as news are as old as news itself, with royalty, governments, public figures and the mainstream media purveying it to manipulate public opinion. In an Orwellian twist those very same groups now employ it as a pejorative term against the alternative media, truth writers and bloggers as a way of dismissing inconvenient truths and crushing dissent. We should all be aware of the state as keeper of ‘the truth’. “Fake History” is another powerful weapon that has long been used by those in authority to retain that power and keep the masses in the dark. Of course, we can travel further back in time to the Boer War (1899-1902) and the “splendid” Spanish American War (1898) to find examples of Western MSM perfidy in sounding the battle cry for freedom as a cover for highly dubious state-sponsored wars of aggression, conquest, dominion, plunder and oppression. Docherty and Macgregor cite the former as primarily a dress rehearsal for the Big One to follow, a war championed by the British establishment press of the era, whose prime objective was laying claim to the huge Transvaal gold mines. Less ‘White Man’s Burden’ then than ‘White Man’s Booty’ then!’ As they note: ‘Their ambition overrode humanity, and the consequences of their actions have been minimised, ignored or denied in official histories.’ Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst in their heyday. And though opinion remains divided as to the impact the media played in the US declaring war on Spain, there can be little doubt it was decisive. The ensuing conflict has since been classified as the first “Media War”, with the two most notable press barons of the era William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer going toe to toe and above and beyond the call of journalistic duty in their efforts to inflame U.S. public sentiment against the Spanish and incite an otherwise indifferent populace to man the barricades. The propaganda onslaught included dodgy stories of atrocities allegedly committed by the Spanish against the Cubans—fortified by a conveniently timed false flag attack on the U.S. Navy ship the USS Maine anchored in Havana harbor thereby providing the pretext for the subsequent declaration of war—with then Assistant Secretary of the Navy, budding imperialist, and future POTUS Teddy “the Rough Rider” Roosevelt being amongst the most hot-to-trot of the leading politicians. If the U.S. emerged from the nineteenth century as a leading world power after this war there can be little doubt Hearst and Pulitzer had done their bit to bring this about as great American patriots might’ve been expected to. As a consequence the centuries-old blood-soaked Spanish empire was finally ‘deep-sixed’ for good with the U.S. taking control of Cuba and full possession of the Philippines, Puerto Rico, and Guam, themselves the first baby steps towards expanding its own already considerably “blood-soaked” empire outside of its own territory. For any aspiring hegemonist, this had to be seen as both a good start and an excellent return on their piddling investment, which doubtless contributed in no small measure to its fabled designation as that “splendid little war”. That Hearst and Pulitzer sold a shit load of newspapers into the bargain—in an age when doing so actually meant something—and cemented their reputations as media monopolists and political power players to be reckoned with was, of course, neither here nor there. But they had in a sense pioneered a prototype of the more au courant phenomenon of fake news, in those days called “yellow journalism”. It is perhaps one of the supreme Orwellian ironies permeating the polity that the most sought after award in journalism, the Pulitzer Prize, is named after one of its most ruthless, opportunistic, and unethical of practitioners. Whether by accident or design, they’d moreover done their bit to inculcate firmly into the collective psycho-pathology and historical memory of the ruling classes and power elites in America an incipient, and from there an abiding, sense of ‘exceptionalism’ and manifest destiny, the essence of which has been sustained by and large through propaganda. With only occasional lapses, this has framed and underpinned political discourse in U.S. foreign policy, and been a key driver of its interventionist approach ever since. It set the template for the future manner in which the Western media mavens embraced their responsibilities insofar as they were expected to act in the public interest or guide civic opinion for the common good. Another example that is instructive herein, of course—one which Docherty and Macgregor again provide key insights into—is the way in which the British government, once it found the pretext to declare war on Germany in 1914, then persuaded the U.S. to join in the melee. Here again, the media’s role herein was decisive. The First World War was a pivotal point in the way in which news and information began to be more formally and precisely, albeit covertly, manipulated—and indeed frequently contrived—to serve the interests of those seeking to mould public opinion towards a certain consensual view. In this it is instructive to note it was the Great War that, if it did not quite give provenance to one of the great truisms in the history of conflict, that being, ‘Truth is the first casualty of war’, it facilitated from there its popular usage. Thus was the age of public relations born, and it was from there that Bernays and his ilk never looked back. At its most basic “public relations” was/is “fake news”; indeed PR became the new terminology designed to replace the increasingly repellent phrase “propaganda”. Such was the decisive impact of this new mode of communication, it’s difficult to see how Americans might’ve been convinced to enter the war on the side of Britain, and by extrapolation, how Britain and its allies could have avoided defeat at the hands of the Germans. Fake News Good, Real News Bad As the mainstream media—as deservedly much-maligned as it is malignant—descends further and further into deceptive arrogance and dangerous incoherence, it increasingly seeks, in indirect proportion it seems and with an equal mix of hubris, dishonesty, chutzpah, and hypocrisy, to double down in its attempts to preserve and maintain its façade of credibility and integrity. Western political, intellectual and media elites are veritably hyperventilating at the prospect that their own “fake news” is being viewed for what it is: a desperate attempt to paper over the cracks in the wall of a crumbling Anglo-American-Zionist empire. It’s instructive here to consider a few of the recent, most preposterous narratives that have been—or are being—breathlessly promulgated. These stories are ones amongst many that no serious media outlet claiming a modicum of integrity or credibility should be touching with the proverbial forty-foot barge pole. That is, of course, unless it’s to refute the generally always evidence-free claims that frequently attend them and ridicule then discredit the person(s) making them. Here are just three of the ‘greatest hits’ as it were, currently topping the MSM charts: a) the farcical, transparently duplicitous anti-Russian propaganda onslaught emanating from Britain and America that seeks amongst countless other high crimes and dastardly deeds to blame that country and its leader for constant interference in the affairs of other countries, whilst ignoring their own respective, and destructive track records in this regard; b) the illegal seven-year old, seemingly endless war currently being waged by Britain, America, and Israel against Syria and president Bashar al-Assad, one which he’s successfully fought with all the resources at his disposal despite the combined forces of the empire pulling out all stops to malign him and then terminate him with extreme prejudice; and, last but not least, c) the increasingly deranged Israeli despot Benjamin Netanyahu reprising once again his tried and true dog and pony show to sell-out audiences advocating war on Iran because he claims they’ve not adhered to the 2016 agreement not to build any nukes, whilst refusing point-blank to answer questions about his own country’s nuclear program. Whether in the U.S., Britain, Australia or anywhere else in the West for that matter, few of us should be under any illusions that the monolithic Fourth Estate remains steadfastly devoted to the ongoing betrayal of its purported brief by supporting the hidden—and not so hidden—agendas of those to whom it is, and indeed has always been, beholden. It’s notable that one of the U.S. establishment media’s flagship marques the ‘venerable’ Washington Post—whose high-minded, yet pedestrian positioning statement, “Democracy Dies in Darkness” is so positively Orwellian one suspects its authors were wearing ‘Freudian slips’ at its moment of conception—was given a deliciously outsized serve of ridicule recently by the media watch organisation Fairness and Accuracy in Reporting (FAIR). And rightly so we might opine. The article, by Adam Johnson, chronicles the Wash-Post’s ‘top ten’ columns that he’s characterised as “sociopathic” in tone and temper. For ‘casually threatening economic ruin, inciting violence against entire populations, pushing for bombing faceless Muslims, or downplaying racism and child rape, there’s no better outlet’ Johnson says of the Post, ‘than [this] long-time echo chamber of power-serving conventional wisdom...’ ‘In the pages of the Post’s opinion section, you can say the most sociopathic things and get away with it, because you are, by definition, Serious People offering Serious Solutions in a Serious Paper. The human cost of these extreme, reactionary opinions is of little matter; what matters is packaging calls for violence, sexism and racism in a nice, official-sounding tone.’ Along with ‘pointing the bone’ at the paper’s editorial board itself for its own track record of sociopathic sensibilities when opining about the Big Issues, Johnson name-checks several of their high profile ‘by-liners’ past and present for special attention. These include Joshua Muravchik, John Bolton (now the White House’s Chief Chicken-hawk-in-Residence), and Richard Cohen amongst others. For Johnson, if there’s “one thing” the Post opinion editors love—and which is highly pertinent to the here and now along with being instructive in respect of our narrative—‘it’s columns threatening, plotting and advocating war against Iran. It’s the little black dress of foreign policy punditry—[it] never goes out of style’. To bolster his assertion, Johnson showcases a piece written in 2015 by Muravchik, a fellow at the Foreign Policy Institute of Johns Hopkins University’s School of Advanced International Studies. Muravchik’s op-ed piece was titled “War With Iran Is Probably Our Best Option”. Johnson responded with the following: [Muravchik]…argued nonchalantly that launching a war of aggression against Iran was “probably” “our” best “option.” He doesn’t explain who “our” refers to, or why a military attack was even an “option” to begin with….He [Muravchik] then asserts that Iran is uniquely irrational and cannot be compelled with material needs, asserting that “ideology is the raison d’etre of Iran’s regime” and concluding, as if he were settling on a Thai food order, that a bombing campaign that would kill tens of thousands is the “best option.” From this above ‘catalogue’ of dodgy Post reportage we might draw the following conclusion: It is in matters of war and peace that perhaps the MSM is most at conflict with the now decidedly old school journalistic canons, these being, of course: accuracy, fairness, accountability, objectivity, truthfulness, and impartiality. The current state of geopolitical affairs and international relations—as existentially precarious as it is—should be ample testament to this reality. The mainstream mastheads are not—and have never been known for being—bastions for the promotion of peace, love and understanding amongst nations, anymore than they have been known for their adherence to truthfulness, accuracy or any of the other “canons” cited earlier. As anyone who’s delved into the real (unofficial) backstory behind virtually all of the major wars and conflicts over the years knows, the “noble cause” is never, ever the real reason, the “noble lie” never, ever justified. And the “cause” will never be the real reason—or the “lie” rationally justified—whilst we as a species continue to tolerate those within our midst whose congenital and moral defects push them towards these ends. It’s critical for this reason alone then we all disabuse ourselves of the notion that what’s happening now has anything to do with making the world safe for democracy and freedom; enforcing the tenets of international law in the cause of human rights; ridding the world of evil men with evil ambitions as if inspired by some vague quasi-Manichean apocalyptically-minded desire to make the world a better place; or some other such transparently fatuous nonsense. The only thing we’re making the world safe (or better) for is an entrenched, ruthless plutocracy. The reality, though, is this: We should all try to open our eyes to how we as ordinary people allow our political, financial, intellectual, media, and corporate ‘elites’ hoodwink then railroad us into supporting—mostly without question as if collectively driven by some inner, yet inexplicable, Pavlovian suicidal impulse—their grandiose, self-serving, and wholly disastrous schemes. Such “schemes”—political, military, financial, economic, psychological, social, cultural, educational—are engineered entirely for the preservation of their own personal material fiefdoms and the collective fiefdoms that were then, and remain, those of power, ambition, wealth, control, dominion, and above all, empire. And in this “empire”, as in all, the benefits are few for the many and many for the few, with “power” (as noted again by Orwell) an end in itself, not a means. In the process, this ‘deep state’ cabal—whom Voltaire might’ve referred to as “tyrants of the soul”—have embraced ever more cunning, manipulative and (in every sense of the word) violent intrigues—and let’s not shy away from it, out and out gambits of the conspiratorial kind to cover their respective and collective asses—making them increasingly less transparent in their motives and therefore increasingly less accountable, before, during, or even well after the fact, for their actions. As a distinct corollary to this, they’ve sought—ever so successfully and as noted, with our increasing acquiescence—to exercise ever-greater control, influence and power over us, at the expense of not just our privacy, but our social, economic, and political security. This is evident not least in the backlash that is taking place against those folks and groups who dare to challenge the conventional wisdom, or more aptly, the conventional lunacy! ***** In order to bring things to a close, it is both prudent and relevant to name check the esteemed and courageous Israeli historian Ilan Pappe. As he frames it in his tellingly titled book Ten Myths about Israel—the nation that arguably best embodies and reflects the Orwellian verities we’ve visited herein along with being the one nation to which the deference of the mainstream media seems to recognise few limits: …history lies at the core of every conflict. A true, unbiased understanding of the past offers the possibility of peace…[T]he distortion or manipulation of history…will only sow disaster…. Of course, Pappe herein is referring to Israel’s occupation of Palestine, along with the subjugation—and what amounts to the ethnic cleansing—of its original, long-time inhabitants. ‘Historical disinformation’ he continues, ‘even of the most recent past, can do tremendous harm. This wilful misunderstanding of history can promote oppression…’ It is not surprising, therefore, that policies of disinformation and distortion continue to the present and play an important part in perpetuating [the occupation of Palestine], leaving very little hope for the future. Constructed fallacies about the past and the present…hinder us from understanding the origins of the conflict. Meanwhile, the constant manipulation of the relevant facts works against the interests of all those victimized by the ongoing bloodshed and violence. [My emphasis]. Pappe could, of course, be referencing any current ‘work-in-progress’ conflict, such as that which is brewing now, for example, between Israel, the U.S. and Iran; the U.S., Great Britain, and Russia; or the never-ending Anglo-American-Zionist campaign of regime change against Syria, whose allies are, of course, Russia and Iran. Anyone of these ‘hotspots’ could trigger a larger geopolitical conflict, and if it so happens this way, it will be largely because of “policies of disinformation and distortion”, especially those which have been facilitated by the Fourth Estate. In his seminal book Voltaire’s Bastards: The Dictatorship of Reason in the West, Canadian author John Ralston Saul noted that ‘[R]eason is a narrow system swollen into an ideology. With time and power it has become a dogma, devoid of direction and disguised as disinterested inquiry. Like most religions, [it] presents itself as the solution to the problems it has created.’ Now whilst it’s reasonable (no pun intended) to assume our corporate media elites and those to whom they are most beholden would be reluctant to view themselves in any such light, from this writer’s vantage point, it seems like a pretty good ‘fit’ to me. Put another way, if this is truly what defines “reason” today, then we are ‘mos def’ in big trouble! http://clubof.info/

[neveragainmovement-blog]

Never Again.

Imagine being only 15 years old, shaking in fear, in the corner of a classroom with 20 other students. Hearing gunshots in the hallway. Crying. Texting your parents “I love you” for maybe the last time. This is what many children have been put through in the last few months. These unforgivable events will emotionally scar them for the rest of their lives. After being through such a tragic event, would you be so accepting of the lack of gun control in this country? Most likely not.

About 200 Americans go to emergency rooms everyday with gunshot wounds. There have already been 17 school shootings where someone was hurt or killed. That averages out to 1.4 shootings per week since January 1st, 2018. So how can we, as a community, help save lives and strengthen the trust in this country. Maybe, just maybe, after 17 school shootings in America in just 106 days of 2018 the Congress might want to consider common-sense gun safety legislation and save innocent lives.

The amount of deaths in America caused by guns is outrageous.  There were 464,033 total gun deaths between 1999 and 2013. “Firearms were the 12th leading cause of all deaths, representing 1.3% of total deaths topping liver disease, hypertension, and Parkinson’s disease, as well as deaths from fires, drowning, and machinery accidents.” (Procon.org). As a community we need to ensure the safety for ourselves and others. As a teenager myself, it's difficult to feel safe knowing that American children under the age of 15 are nine times more likely to die of a gun accident than children in other wealthy countries. US Supreme Court majority opinion, Justice Antonin Scalia wrote,

"Like most rights, the right secured by the Second Amendment is not unlimited. From Blackstone through the 19th-Century cases, commentators and courts routinely explained that the right was not a right to keep and carry any weapon whatsoever in any manner whatsoever and for whatever purpose… nothing in our opinion should be taken to cast doubt on longstanding prohibitions on the possession of firearms by felons and the mentally ill, or laws forbidding the carrying of firearms in sensitive places such as schools and government buildings, or laws imposing conditions and qualifications on the commercial sale of arms."

This meaning that even though civilians do continue to carry guns throughout the public, its limited to the law and is illegal. Our communities are not taking proper precautions in ways that can only protect and save us from violent attacks. The lethargic acts by the state governments are not aiding the civilians with any care, and that needs to change.

There are many safety hazards regarding civilians owning guns, even when used to protect themselves. There comes many feelings of insecurity and anxiety with the lack of precautions taken to protect those who are unarmed. If the state itself is unable to give civilians a safe environment, then maybe no civilians should own guns. No one knows the background of  strangers and their mental health status. It’s hard to walk the streets being unaware of the hidden dangers around you. Legal officials should be the only kind of civilians that can carry guns in the public. At a meeting with survivors and victims families from the shooting in Parkland, Florida, President Donald Trump suggested that America might begin arming some of its teachers with handguns in an effort to protect their students. A day earlier he ordered his justice department to propose the regulation of bump stocks—attachments that enable legal semi-automatic firearms to shoot bullets at rates equal to those of illegal machine guns. This astonishes me because of the lack of consideration our country's president took for those who would feel unsafe with the addition of more guns. Leading with his argument, yes teachers and students would be more protected if there were a possible armed intruder. Will this really stop mass shootings though? If anything, it will increase them. The situations can be so dangerous to the point where a teacher with a handgun cannot stop the attack most likely. If our country supplied all schools throughout all states with an improved security rate, the only people that would need to be involved in any possible violent attacks, is legal government officials. Civilians should not have to have this burden of fear and need of protection on them constantly. They should not be the people dealing with the illegal problems acted out by other violent people. Legally registered government officials should. Our trust should be within them.

The opinionated article, “Respect First, Then Gun Control” by David Brooks posted on New York Times, introduces a possible solution opposing the recent gun control protests. The author suggests that its not enough to vent and march to stop school shootings. The author is not looking at the reasoning behind these protests. These protests spread awareness for the cruel situations these fellow families and survivors witnessed. The author states that it’s necessary to let people of Red America lead the way. But how can we expect those heartbroken families and scared children to sit still and wait for change? We can not.

Some argue that most assault weapons are already illegal and there's nothing we can do to change people from illegally purchasing them. But we can prevent these people from threatening us with these weapons. We can take more security precautions in sensitive public places. Also handguns take a big part in violent shootings. Is it really necessary to allow civilians to own handguns? We can’t ever know if a stranger next to us is carrying a small handgun on them. These dangers are frightening for us Americans to not know what to expect. The only people who should use guns to protect us against the enemy is legally trained officials.

This country has become so injured due to the violence and its frequency and the little political action taken. It's no coincidence that this country has a murder rate vastly higher than of any other wealthy country. Together as a community, we need to prevent these violent tragedies from repeating themselves. Not only should killing guns be taken away from known mentally ill people, but everyone. After the recent deaths of 17 people at a school in Parkland, Florida, on February 14th, might this time be different? We can stop mass shooting throughout this country if we all start to see ways that can make our country safe and trustworthy. This country together has to look at what is important and everyone needs to put their personal opinions aside and put the lives of the citizens first.

#neveragain stopmassshooting savelives peace