#i know nothing about construction but does it cost more to make the same structure but to put half of it into empty walls? guess it does

[sir-fluffbutts]

i somehow feel like most public bathrooms probably use the floor toilets bc they're... probably cheaper....

i pondered about it for a bit so here are my offerings

#ask #askart #i don't think someone has to manualy clean the poo like the old days and theres a powerhose system that can sweep it down a connected drain #yes i think about these 24/7 im actually crazy #i know nothing about construction but does it cost more to make the same structure but to put half of it into empty walls? guess it does #but i belive in fluffverse tax dollars are used in these things as tax money is intended

[ravynfyre]

Hi! This may be too vague of a question, but what do firefighters *do*? I thought they just worked with fire safety, but when researching I keep finding things that makes them seem more like hospital workers, and they seem like they’re called in for literally every kind of problem. Why are the firefighters taking people to the hospital instead of the ambulance? Are all firefighters superhuman heroes that can do literally anything? Because that’s the impression I get!

Not too vague of a question at all!

So, the answer to this varies based on location. In some places, firefighters pretty much only fight fires and rescue people from automobile accidents and other disaster type scenarios. But in other places... they have to do pretty much everything. Putting it all under a cut because this will be a LOOOONG answer!

My department in a state capital in the midwest, for example: not only does everyone on the job have to become certified to fight fires - which includes a LOT of different skills, including understanding building construction, hydrodynamics, smoke reading, a LOT of math because of how water pressures are figured when actually pumping water from the rig, and a whole host of other things - but everyone is required to be, at the minimum, a Basic EMT. The reason for that is because at any one time, there are 6-9 ambulances on duty in town, while there are at least 15 fire trucks available, scattered all over the city. When you call 911 for a medical emergency, 9 times out of 10, the fire department will arrive before an ambulance will, despite being dispatched at the same time. So that means medical care gets to the patient quicker, as long as everyone on the firetruck is trained in at least a Basic level.

Now, in my town, the fire department doesn't *transport* patients, because the ambulances are privately owned companies. But in cities like New York, the fire department actually runs the ambulances, and so *they* transport. That really just depends on the city. A lot of times, especially in larger cities, the fire department will have the ambulances because they can afford to put more of them on the street, and it streamlines patient care. It's not necessarily better care, as in most places where private companies own the ambulances, the medics get paid absolute *crap*, so those folks are doing the job for the love of the work, not to make a comfortable living. But having the same "company" treat you *and* transport you does make it easier to get patients to the hospital and without having to transfer care along the way, so it just makes it a little bit quicker and easier.

But that isn't the end of the jobs that we have to know on my department. We all also have to understand the basics in dealing with a hazardous materials spill. Now, some of us will go on and become specialized in dealing with them, and then be placed on a Hazmat Team because of that... but all of us have to be able to identify, evacuate, and protect against a spill, as well as have the knowledge and skills to assist in those of us who have gone on to learn how to mitigate and clean up hazardous materials.

We all also have to understand how vehicles are put together, and how to take them apart safely. In a car wreck, especially bad ones, we don't remove patients from the vehicle... we remove the vehicle from the patient. It sounds like semantics, but it really isn't. When we have to get someone out of a wrecked vehicle, if something has to give, it needs to be the vehicle, and not the patient. The goal is to protect and fix the patient, not hurt them worse getting them out. And that means that every time someone comes up with new things for vehicles - think electric cars, and hydrogen fuel cars and such - we have to go take special training to see what is different and how to deal with the changes. And we have to practice cutting up cars and trucks of all types throughout the year, because physics can be fucky sometimes.

But cutting up cars is only *part* of the stuff we can do to "extricate" a patient - to remove them from a dangerous situation. We also have to understand how to remove patients from broken *buildings* and from things like grain elevators and farm equipment and construction equipment. If there is a way for someone to become entangled or trapped in something, we have to understand how to get them back out of it again. So that means learning a lot of basic steps that we can put together in a bunch of different ways, kind of like building blocks, to build the systems we need to get people to safety.

And one of those systems is also High Angle Rescue - ropes and heights, basically. Yeah, we all have to have the basics down on how to rappel and build rope systems for raising and lowering people safely. Some go on to become pretty expert at more advanced systems, just like how some folks go on to become Hazmat experts. Those High Angle Technicians end up on their own special team that is called in for specialized things, just like the Hazmat folks are. That was one of the things I actually did - high angle work. If it can be done with a rope and a knot? I probably know it. ;)

BUT! There's still more! My city is on a lake. So some of the guys went out and learned how to SCUBA dive. And then they went on and got advanced certifications on how to do blackwater (where you can't see anything) and entrapment diving. I did this for a while, too, until the wives of the guys on the dive team threw a fit about a woman being in a state of undress around their husbands, and I was kindly asked to find another special team to participate in. As if we don't live with each other for 24 hours at a shot as it is. But I digress.

That was part of the reason I went on to become a K9 handler. The main reason, though, is that I just like dogs better than people anyway. LOL. But on my department, we don't actually have a K9 component. I did K9 search and rescue on a volunteer basis, and on my own time, to fill a need in my area. Also, I had hoped to eventually become skilled enough in enough things, that I could be accepted onto a FEMA disaster task force. (Spoiler alert: I did) HOWEVER, once I actually *had* become a K9 handler, and got my partner and I certified to the most advanced level in the US FEMA system, my department was all too happy to call us in to work for them when they needed us. We worked a couple of tornadoes because of that. (Basically, my department was overjoyed to have the resource, but not have to actually PAY to get it, until they needed to USE it... and that's because Fire Service across the country is criminally underfunded as it is)

Part of my FEMA training, however, made me eligible for a spot on my department's Technical Rescue Team, because I also had to learn how to become proficient at mitigating structure collapses and affecting trench rescues. Basically, if it's something that can fall down and kill a person - whether that is a building, or a wall of dirt from a hole in the ground - I had to know how to deal with it and get the patient out safely.

So in a way, you are right - firefighters really 8do* have to know how to do pretty much ANYTHING to help people who are having one of the worst days of their life. Whether that means slapping on some bandaids, or digging through 15 stories of collapsed building in Florida, or cutting a car away to get them to the hospital, or rescuing them from a flash flood, if it's an emergency, firefighters have to know how to deal with it. In larger departments, that means that everyone gets a basic education on pretty much everything (and sometimes, that basic education can be nothing more than "how do we not make this worse"), and then different folks on the department will go on and become experts in different fields, until everything is covered, so that SOMEONE knows how to bring the situation to the best conclusion. On the REALLY BIG departments, like New York City, they get enough of those specialty types of calls that some folks get put on those special teams, and *that is all they do*. BUT, they do it for the WHOLE CITY, instead of just the area that their station would normally cover.

Of course, on small departments - like MOST of the United States, actually, which is predominately covered by UNPAID VOLUNTEERS - Everyone gets as much training on as many things as they can, and goes out to get whatever extra training on specialty things that they can afford to do on their own, or have interest in, BUT, since in most departments, that means that only one or two people will know more than the basics on special things, they count on other departments around them to help fill in the gaps. What I mean is this: all the little towns within the county my department was in, they couldn't afford to train a whole bunch of guys how to do dive rescue, or trench rescue, or high angle stuff, or building collapse stuff. So they concentrated on the special things that they would run into most - things like farmers getting caught in their grain bins, or getting sucked into their farm equipment - and knew that if something weird hit them - like a tornado that levels their town, or a train derailment with hazardous materials spill - they could call on MY department's special teams to come and help them out, no strings attached. It might mean having to drive for half and hour or more to get there, so it wouldn't be as quick as if they had their own special team, BUT! They didn't have to come up with enough folks who wanted to learn all those extra things, using equipment that they couldn't afford to buy to keep on hand, to have around all the time. MY department took care of those costs, and just knew that if we were needed, we'd be called.

In places where there are NO larger departments like mine, and EVERYONE in the county is small and unpaid (a situation that is WAY MORE common than you would think) then a lot of times what will happen is that all those little departments' Chiefs will get together and decide which department will take what specialty, and then promise each other that if THEIR specialty is needed by ANYONE, then they will come to help. So, like Department A does Hazmat, and Department B does High Angle, and Department C does Trench, and Department D does Dive and so on. And when Department A needs Dive, then Department D will send their Dive folks to help, knowing that if THEY need Hazmat, Department A will return the favor. That way, specialty rescue stuff is covered, but no one department is getting socked with the costs of the equipment and training for EVERYTHING.

All in all, at least in the United States, if it is a dangerous, emergency type situation, where people need help, firefighters have been tasked with knowing how to deal with it. In some places - like the mountains, for example - there will be other volunteer teams that pick up the slack for really specialty things, like Search and Rescue. In my area, if a hunter went missing, or someone fell off a boat and is thought to have drowned but their body hadn't popped up to the surface or whatever, then the local fire department or the local police department would call in a search and rescue team. That was one of the things I did, and it was almost totally unpaid and volunteer work, because that is something that is used *often*, however, uses a lot more manpower for a lot longer period of time than a typical rescue, and most fire departments or police departments just couldn't *afford* to be able to let their folks take off for that long of a time, and leave the rest of the city to deal with not having them available.

All of this, however, isn't to say that firefighters really *are* "firefighters superhuman heroes that can do literally anything"... Firefighters are expected to know and be able to do a LOT. Basically, fix *any* kind of emergency situation, or at least make it *safER* until the next best expert can come along and fix it for good. BUT no one person can do it all. So they specialize in their respective departments, and hopefully cover all the bases. And sometimes... they either just don't have enough bodies to fill all the roles, or don't have folks who *want* to do certain things, or they just can't *afford* to do what needs to be done. They're expected to know a LOT, but they don't have to learn it all overnight. It takes *years* to finally learn enough of all the skills needed to be proficient, just like in any other job. It's just that in the US, the modern firefighter is expected to be that 100 function swiss army knife, and yet, still be able to fit into your pocket. So in that respect? Yeah, they are, as a TYPE, a little superhuman. But individually, they're just people who feel the same things you do, and have the same sorts of worries and concerns and fears as the average person does. As *individuals*, they're just folks who want to do the best they can to serve their communities and make things safe...

And maybe get a bit of an adrenaline high while doing so.

I hope that this helped! If you have any other questions, just ask!

#AMA fireighters

[theculturedmarxist]

@expatiating​

>Literally anyone who lived in a communist or socialist regime: it was terrible..... 16 year old white girl on tumblr: yeah but that wasn’t real communism :///

You mean anyone like this, you stupid fucking asshole?

Oppressive and grey? No, growing up under communism was the happiest time of my life

When people ask me what it was like growing up behind the Iron Curtain in Hungary in the Seventies and Eighties, most expect to hear tales of secret police, bread queues and other nasty manifestations of life in a one-party state.

They are invariably disappointed when I explain that the reality was quite different, and communist Hungary, far from being hell on earth, was in fact, rather a fun place to live.

The communists provided everyone with guaranteed employment, good education and free healthcare. Violent crime was virtually non-existent.

But perhaps the best thing of all was the overriding sense of camaraderie, a spirit lacking in my adopted Britain and, indeed, whenever I go back to Hungary today. People trusted one another, and what we had we shared.

Learn from Cuba, Says World Bank

The island's economy, which suffered devastating losses in production after the Soviet Union withdrew its aid, especially its oil supplies, a decade ago, has yet to fully recover. Annual economic growth, fuelled in part by a growing tourism industry and limited foreign investment, has been halting and, for the most part, anaemic.

Moreover, its economic policies are generally anathema to the Bank. The government controls virtually the entire economy, permitting private entrepreneurs the tiniest of spaces. It heavily subsidises virtually all staples and commodities; its currency is not convertible to anything.  It retains tight control over all foreign investment, and often changes the rules abruptly and for political reasons.

At the same time, however, its record of social achievement has not only been sustained; it's been enhanced, according to the WDI.

It has reduced its infant mortality rate from 11 per 1,000 births in 1990 to seven in 1999, which places it firmly in the ranks of the western industrialised nations. It now stands at six, according to Jo Ritzen, the Bank's Vice President for Development Policy who visited Cuba privately several months ago to see for himself.

By comparison, the infant mortality rate for Argentina stood at 18 in 1999; Chile's was down to ten; and Costa Rica, 12. For the entire Latin American and Caribbean region as a whole, the average was 30 in 1999.

Similarly, the mortality rate for children under five in Cuba has fallen from 13 to eight per thousand over the decade. That figure is 50 percent lower than the rate in Chile, the Latin American country closest to Cuba's achievement. For the region as a whole, the average was 38 in 1999.

"Six for every 1,000 in infant mortality - the same level as Spain - is just unbelievable," according to Ritzen, a former education minister in the Netherlands. "You observe it, and so you see that Cuba has done exceedingly well in the human development area."

Indeed, in Ritzen's own field the figures tell much the same story. Net primary enrolment for both girls and boys reached 100 percent in 1997, up from 92 percent in 1990. That was as high as most developed nations, higher even than the US rate and well above 80-90 percent rates achieved by the most advanced Latin American countries.

"Even in education performance, Cuba's is very much in tune with the developed world, and much higher than schools in, say, Argentina, Brazil, or Chile."

It is no wonder, in some ways. Public spending on education in Cuba amounts to about 6.7 percent of gross national income, twice the proportion in other Latin America and Caribbean countries and even Singapore.

There were 12 primary pupils for every Cuban teacher in 1997, a ratio that ranked with Sweden, rather than any other developing country. The Latin American and East Asian average was twice as high at 25 to one.

The average youth (ages 15-24) illiteracy rate in Latin America and the Caribbean stands at seven percent. In Cuba, the rate is zero. In Latin America, where the average is seven percent, only Uruguay approaches that achievement, with one percent youth illiteracy.

"Cuba managed to reduce illiteracy from 40 percent to zero within ten years," said Ritzen. "If Cuba shows that it is possible, it shifts the burden of proof to those who say it's not possible."

Similarly, Cuba devoted 9.1 percent of its gross domestic product (GDP) during the 1990s to health care, roughly equivalent to Canada's rate.  Its ratio of 5.3 doctors per 1,000 people was the highest in the world.

The question that these statistics pose, of course, is whether the Cuban experience can be replicated. The answer given here is probably not.

"What does it is the incredible dedication," according to Wayne Smith, who was head of the US Interests Section in Havana in the late 1970s and early 1980s and has travelled to the island many times since.  "Doctors in Cuba can make more driving cabs and working in hotels, but they don't.  They're just very dedicated," he said.

This amazing video and documentary, produced by Neighbor Democracy, details the evolving communal organs within the Rojava Revolution, from security to health care.

This 40 minute video is an in-depth look into the inner workings of the commune system of Rojava and how they work in practice. Rojava is the colloquial name for the Democratic Federation of Northern Syria (DFNS), a multi-ethnic, pluralist, women’s liberationist, and radically democratic autonomous zone that has grown out of the context of the Syrian Civil War. While there is frequent and thorough reporting on the military aspects of the Revolution in Rojava, especially their fight against Daesh (ISIS) and the Turkish State, the social revolution as it relates to the everyday lives of the people living there is rarely given anything more than a cursory overview, even in radical circles.

This video is one attempt to make up for that gap in easily digestible information about the way the day-to-day autonomous organizing affects daily life in Rojava. It also closes with a call for people in the US and elsewhere to build communes along similar lines, while discussing some possible contextual considerations specific to North America.

The communes in the DFNS are birthed out of tireless organizing by everyday people, predominately Kurdish women, in an effort that started clandestinely in the days of the Regime, but has since led to structures that could fill the power vacuum left in the war. The people of the DFNS are working out in practice through trial-and-error the culmination of 40 years of theoretical and practical knowledge built through the Kurdish struggle, and most thoroughly laid out by the imprisoned PKK leader, Abdullah Ocalan.

The communes have many similarities to the neighborhood assemblies that were the focus of the late American communalist Murray Bookchin, who was an inspiration for Ocalan. There are an estimated 4,000 communes in Rojava today, run through direct democracy of all the residents (50-150 families). The work of the commune is divided up into committees which anyone can join. The most common committees are explored in-depth in this video, and their timestamps can be found below. Each committee covered in the video can be found in its own short clip on the Neighbor Democracy channel so that these short, easy-to-digest videos can me shared in discussions about specific topics relating to communal approaches to various aspects of life.

Marinaleda: Will 'free homes' solve Spain's evictions crisis? 

In the wake of Spain's property crash, hundreds of thousands of homes have been repossessed. While one regional government says it will seize repossessed properties from the banks, a little town is doing away with mortgages altogether.

In Marinaleda, residents like 42-year-old father-of-three, David Gonzalez Molina, are building their own homes.

While he burrows with a pneumatic drill into the earth, David nonchalantly says it "should take a couple of years".

However, when his new house is finished he will have paid "absolutely nothing".

Free bricks and mortar

The town hall in this small, aesthetically unremarkable town an hour-and-a-bit east of Seville, has given David 190 sq m (2,000 sq ft) of land.

He and others are only eligible after they have been registered residents of Marinaleda for at least two years.

The bricks and mortar are also a gift, this time from the regional government of Andalusia.

Only once his home is finished will he start paying 15 euros (£13) a month, to the regional government, to refund the cost of other building materials.

Of course, most people do not know how to build a house, so the town hall in Marinaleda throws in some expertise.

It employs several professional builders and plumbers, a couple of whom work alongside David, to help him construct his house.

HOMAGE TO CATALONIA 

This was in late December 1936, less than seven months ago as I write, and yet it is a period that has already receded into enormous distance. Later events have obliterated it much more completely than they have obliterated 1935, or 1905, for that matter. I had come to Spain with some notion of writing newspaper articles, but I had joined the militia almost immediately, because at that time and in that atmosphere it seemed the only conceivable thing to do. The Anarchists were still in virtual control of Catalonia and the revolution was still in full swing. To anyone who had been there since the beginning it probably seemed even in December or January that the revolutionary period was ending; but when one came straight from England the aspect of Barcelona was something startling and overwhelming. It was the first time that I had ever been in a town where the working class was in the saddle. Practically every building of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with the red and black flag of the Anarchists; every wall was scrawled with the hammer and sickle and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost every church had been gutted and its images burnt. Churches here and there were being systematically demolished by gangs of workmen. Every shop and café had an inscription saying that it had been collectivized; even the bootblacks had been collectivized and their boxes painted red and black. Waiters and shop-walkers looked you in the face and treated you as an equal. Servile and even ceremonial forms of speech had temporarily disappeared. Nobody said ‘Señior’ or ‘Don’ or even ‘Usted’; everyone called everyone else ‘Comrade’ and ‘Thou’, and said ‘Salud!’ instead of ‘Buenos dias’. Tipping was forbidden by law; almost my first experience was receiving a lecture from a hotel manager for trying to tip a lift-boy. There were no private motor-cars, they had all been commandeered, and all the trams and taxis and much of the other transport were painted red and black. The revolutionary posters were everywhere, flaming from the walls in clean reds and blues that made the few remaining advertisements look like daubs of mud. Down the Ramblas, the wide central artery of the town where crowds of people streamed constantly to and fro, the loudspeakers were bellowing revolutionary songs all day and far into the night. And it was the aspect of the crowds that was the queerest thing of all. In outward appearance it was a town in which the wealthy classes had practically ceased to exist. Except for a small number of women and foreigners there were no ‘well-dressed’ people at all. Practically everyone wore rough working-class clothes, or blue overalls, or some variant of the militia uniform. All this was queer and moving. There was much in it that I did not understand, in some ways I did not even like it, but I recognized it immediately as a state of affairs worth fighting for. Also I believed that things were as they appeared, that this was really a workers' State and that the entire bourgeoisie had either fled, been killed, or voluntarily come over to the workers' side; I did not realize that great numbers of well-to-do bourgeois were simply lying low and disguising themselves as proletarians for the time being.

Together with all this there was something of the evil atmosphere of war. The town had a gaunt untidy look, roads and buildings were in poor repair, the streets at night were dimly lit for fear of air-raids, the shops were mostly shabby and half-empty. Meat was scarce and milk practically unobtainable, there was a shortage of coal, sugar, and petrol, and a really serious shortage of bread. Even at this period the bread-queues were often hundreds of yards long. Yet so far as one could judge the people were contented and hopeful. There was no unemployment, and the price of living was still extremely low; you saw very few conspicuously destitute people, and no beggars except the gipsies. Above all, there was a belief in the revolution and the future, a feeling of having suddenly emerged into an era of equality and freedom. Human beings were trying to behave as human beings and not as cogs in the capitalist machine. In the barbers' shops were Anarchist notices (the barbers were mostly Anarchists) solemnly explaining that barbers were no longer slaves. In the streets were coloured posters appealing to prostitutes to stop being prostitutes. To anyone from the hard-boiled, sneering civilization of the English-speaking races there was something rather pathetic in the literalness with which these idealistic Spaniards took the hackneyed phrases of revolution. At that time revolutionary ballads of the naivest kind, all about proletarian brotherhood and the wickedness of Mussolini, were being sold on the streets for a few centimes each. I have often seen an illiterate militiaman buy one of these ballads, laboriously spell out the words, and then, when he had got the hang of it, begin singing it to an appropriate tune.

Feel free to unfuck yourself you class cuck.

#communism #socialism #anarchism #you're a fucking moron and should shut your fucking mouth

[inventsuperiorityamazon]

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#amazon

[brokenjardaantech]

rk1700 december day 3: vulnerable

written for @rk1700december. day 3: vulnerable

again, female connor is called rhea. rk900 is called cronos.

also on ao3

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‘Do you trust me, Cronos?’

It is such a loaded question, Cronos thinks as he finds himself in an impromptu staring match with his handler. Anchor is still in her work clothes, her modified uniform serving as an underarmour at all times despite the archives being one of the less significant and thus, less of a priority for the rare few people who both know and don't like what the Alliance is doing. ‘You never know what will hit you next,’ is the human’s motto, and Cronos has to agree.

‘The Administrator entrusted both of us to you,’ Cronos replies. ‘If there is someone who has the experience in androids and the power to resist her, you are the only person I can trust in this system.’

Anchor snorts at his words. ‘“This system,” huh?’

‘I know my… connections are limited compared to you, but -’

‘You want me to look at her now, or can you wait for tomorrow after I’ve got everything set up properly?’

It’s surprisingly considerate on the human’s part considering her track record of being the most ruthless leader among the Council right after the Administrator herself. No time for emotional connections, no time for goodbyes, no time for even letting her family know that she is alive somewhere in the solar system. He expected her to simply contact the Administrator and let her deal with Rhea which, given the Administrator’s alleged deeper history with androids, is reasonable, but he has learnt not to look at a gift horse in the mouth, and he does have Rhea’s best interest in mind; no use waking her up now after he spent so much time sorting and cleaning up her system just to allow her to sleep more than five hours.

‘Tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I don’t wish to wake her up just for a few tests.’

Anchor nods, a small smile glazing her face, and the rings in her eyes glows more prominent, inhuman and threatening. ‘You’ll be surprised by how much we can learn from something simple.’ She hits a key on the holographic keyboard and ejects a flash drive, pressing the delicate component directly into Cronos’ palm. ‘Here. A compilation of all theories I’ve come up with concerning Rhea’s condition. I doubt anyone or anything can calculate the exact probability of all these,’ Cronos already lets his skin recede to interface with the drive, ‘but I think it’ll be nice to know what to expect.’

Cronos has to blink rapidly to clear all the notifications and alerts in his HUD before formulating a response. ‘I could have used them sooner.’

‘My slow-arse computer just finished sorting all this shit out,’ Anchor says as she puts her computer to sleep. ‘Now shoo. I’ve got a fucking lab to prepare.’

And so Cronos returns to Rhea’s side and holds her through the night, not breaking their interface even once in order to chase off shapeless nightmares and locked-up memories threatening to resurface while her guard is down. Even if it means he cannot operate with maximum efficiency the day after. 

But being the most advanced prototype in the solar system (he has no way to confirm it, but he trusts Anchor on this matter) does have its perks, and when the sky finally turns from the blue of dawn to red, he manages to coax Rhea out of bed and helps her drink her morning thirium before escorting her to a lab he didn’t know existed before today. 

‘I’m not surprised that you don’t remember,’ Anchor explains as she makes the final preparations. Cronos eases Rhea into a pod suspended off the ground by a mass effect field and resists the urge to climb in with her. ‘This room is where the Administrator remotely completed your construction with my help. She thought it would be fine if I dragged you out of the pod directly right here, but if she really thinks you’re a human, it means a humane treatment, and that means not waking you up in a glass coffin still plugged into the system.’

So that’s why he remembers waking up in a bed. ‘Did she approve?’

‘She was too busy to care.’ Anchor creates a floating chair out of her biotics and, with a kick of her foot, floats towards a device on the other end of the room. ‘She wanted you out of the pod, I got you out of the pod - simple.’

‘Could’ve been simpler.’

A flash of blue, and Anchor is suddenly standing dangerously close to him, his pre-construction programme activating automatically and taking away all the colours in his world, but the glow of the human’s biotics shrouding her eyes can be seen even without colours, the rings of her cybernetic implants on her iris dark, focused circles against a backdrop of blue; intimidating despite her being shorter than Cronos for 10 centimetres. She doesn’t seem to notice Rhea’s flinch and whine of fear. 

‘I’m going to state it clearly here, right now,’ she pokes the android’s chest with a biotic-shrouded finger, and he nearly topples over from the surprising force. ‘All the others you see in the archives are people of the Alliance formally. They’re paid, they went through the training, they passed all the tests, they swore their oath to protect humanity at all cost. They know the score, they are within the ranked structure, and as their commander, I’ll do whatever I can to make sure of it. The two of you, on the other hand,’ she backs off, ‘made no such promise. The Administrator thrusted you into this environment without telling you everything about what you should expect and I have explicit orders not to tell you too much, so the least I can do is to make sure that both of you are comfortable and don’t have to face one hundredth of the shit people like me are dealing with on a daily basis!’

The air charges with static electricity but Anchor manages to keep her biotics in check and damages nothing in the end. Taking a deep breath to retract whatever stray energy she set loose, the next time she speaks is much calmer. ‘Let’s get on with this, shall we? I’ve wasted enough time.’

They both go back to Rhea’s side, Cronos holding her hand up against his cheek and kissing her knuckles, Anchor to… place a hand on Rhea’s shoulder before removing it and calling up a hologram of a human figure, an empty shell waiting to be filled with information. 

Anchor makes a few more adjustments and curses. ‘The pod will have to be closed in order for this to work.’

Rhea’s breath hitches, the skin on her hand falling away at the same time as Cronos’ to initiate an interface. I don’t want to -

We might have to. Then to the human, ‘Is there no other way?’

Anchor shrugs. ‘I can plug Rhea into the system to disable her faculties before opening her chassis up. That not only takes a lot of energy - which I doubt she has right now - and also much more dangerous than a thorough scan considering that I’ll need to rummage around in her biocomponents.’ Her fingers dig into the edge of the still-open pod, and her eyes meet Cronos’. ‘I don’t recommend nor do I have the confidence to do it.’

‘There’s no other way?’

It’s alright, Cronos.

Cronos looks downward at Rhea and notes how her lips tremble and her eyes waters. Her breath hitches, and she wriggles her hand to tell him that she wants him to let go as tears fall; even without the interface, he knows that she is terrified, of being alone, of being trapped in the pod, of a past that she has no concrete recollection of, but he still closes the lid of the pod, trying not to feel like he is burying Rhea. 

‘It’s just a few hours,’ Anchor adds as if sensing his thoughts. ‘If you want to, you can maintain a shallow interface with her through the pod. It’s not as deep as a direct one but…’

Cronos would have given her a hug if she hadn’t moved away to make some more adjustments. Placing both hands on the lid of the pod with his skin retracted, he opens his mind to its system and there Rhea is, her signal the weakest he has ever experienced, but at least he can be with her and she knows it. Their eyes meet through the glass, and he gives her a small smile despite the circumstances. I’ll be with you the whole time, he tells her. I won’t leave you.

A vague wave of comfort and happiness washes over his processors before slowing into a trickle of no more than a few lines of code at a time. Overwhelmed by the sudden silence, Cronos snaps his gaze towards Anchor whose arms are swathed in a pair of omni-tools. ‘Things are unexpectedly slow from the large amount of data stored in her,’ she says as she waves her arm to move on to the next step. ‘Hang on, I think she can feel you.’

In the pod, Rhea places her hand flat against the other side of the glass directly below where Cronos’ hand is, but it drops back down when the signal suddenly spikes and then dies down once more, and that is her last movement before her eyes slip shut as well and she lies as still as a corpse. The stream of data is still there, though, so does it mean -

‘Don’t disconnect. She needs you.’

And Cronos obeys.

#rk17cember #rk1700 #dbh connor #dbh rk900 #oc: anchor/anna #detroit: become human #groom lake aftermath

[blankdblank]

Next Caller pt 4

Through the short drive you watched the city change to a green suburb filled with tiny caves in little clusters that spaced out the larger they got. A final turn through the quaint suburb with the neighbors waving and nodding to the passing car from the pebble lined walkways on either side of the winding street scattered with large trees littered about casting shade onto the street and paths leading to each grass or clover covered cave carved Dwobbit Hole.

A forest green door was on the house Gloin parked outside of on the street. Climbing out of the car you three walked towards the gated front walk as Gloin said, “Garage is in the back by the greenhouse,” pointing out the driveway path that was fenced off making the square of land between the walkway and the driveway had been used as a garden before now grown over by clover. “Used to have a garden here with a bench below the oak there.”

Once unlocked and opened for you internally you felt a click as if your body was saying you were home finally. Room by room you went looking over each and every detail following the flow of the home with Gloin naming each. “Entrance hall, oak hall, smoking room,” Looking around you eyed it finding it the perfect set up for your library with the high ceiling and built in shelves you could easily add onto.

Next was the a lovely little bedroom with its own small bath attached. “Spare room,” Through the oak hall again he said in the large empty first of the five pantries, “pantry, there are two more under your feet both naturally chilled and two more in the kitchen. Back through those doors are the twin cellars.”

Attached to that was the large storage room linking it to the West Hall, from there the back room and guest room were linked. Also linked to the hall was the hall leading to the back door, mudroom which stemmed out to the greenhouse now empty and in need of digging and tearing back some weeds. The moss and vine coated structure however halting you in your tracks at the stone pillars with arched widows with metal designs on each looking more like an overgrown church left to its own whims for decades than a greenhouse all but sealing your interest in the house. All remaining space in the cave taken up by this switched blend of Hobbit and Dwarf style, all stone to cultivate the flora within to perfection with the domed enchanted glass filling it all with warming golden light coating every inch.

Back inside you found the master bedroom complete with huge bathroom and walk in closet. The study through a jaw dropping swing out bookshelf, making you squeak and the Dwarves chuckle, was a hidden study also emptying into the atrium you froze in. Staring upwards you eyed the shadows of leaves from the oak tree halfway covering the domed stained glass ceiling of this room dancing across the glass.

Across from the large pantry was the dining room feeding into the kitchen that emptied out the parlor and East Hall leaving just another small bedroom and two half baths on either side of it. The laundry was off in the two car garage and the two acre lot gave you ample space to what you liked outside if you wished.

“This is, incredible, wouldn’t you say, Miss Pear?” Gimli asked and you turned with a grin.

“You’re saying I could afford this place?”

Gloin chuckled and said, “Rent alone would save you over 500 a month. Most of the heating and cooling is all natural due to the cave around the wooden shell around us, with fireplaces and a cooling system if needed. Lighting is solar powered with solar crystal lanterns and chandeliers throughout, and you have your own well for water so there’s little to no utilities. There is a home owners committee that does take a fee to keep up with the streets and walkways for a hundred a month but they’re pretty lenient on garden features out front as long as nothing is too ghastly or explosive with the pollen. Five bee keepers live down the block so plants in the open have ample help with pollinating and their shop has a discount in the suburb market square a few streets over by the parks for the bairns.”

“Wow…” you murmured in a closer inspection of the chandelier in the study you had looped back to when Gimli had remembered about the storm shutter system to protect the glass.

Gloin asked, “Interested, or would you like to keep looking?”

When your eyes met you said, “I am, how much would it cost for the paperwork and all to get started?”

Gloin grinned wider saying, “Let’s get you back to the office and get started on the paperwork. I’ll give the owners a call and see how swiftly we can move this along.”

.

Not even a half hour later you were being guided through the papers and in a pause to look over a fuller list of the town activities you eyed Gloin in the hall grinning while he paced talking to the owners. Steadily you could feel your knuckles fighting to clench just assuming the worst that the first check for 5000 from your first week on the air was going to go out in smoke to get yourself in this home. The fearful thought never leaving your mind since first climbing into that car this morning. You would lose that savings and promptly be bumped off the air and be back to emptying trash buckets, shuffling leaflets from personnel and bringing the new star of your slot coffee falling back to oblivion to scrimp and scrape forever.

Entering the office again his grin deepened and he said, “Great news, since it’s so close to the first and they just want to take the plunge in settling with their new home the owners agreed to waive any down payment and such and will be down within the hour to sign the papers.”

“Ok, so, I just, wait here?”

Gloin shook his head, “No, not at all, we’ve handled your paperwork and they will come down to sign theirs leaving information for a bank account you can direct deposit the rent to monthly that will mail you receipts in return. I’ll bring all the information on the house, interim deed included when you move in. As soon as you like, when is your next day off?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, good, we’ll roundup the guys and come to help you move in and I can talk you through everything. Now so you are certain, in case anything breaks or, let’s say you want to remodel, paint and such, it is your house, merely a person to person mortgage, if you will. So repairs and upkeep are on you with merely a financial tie to the former owner. With the option to pay it off sooner anytime if you wish. Their email will be included if you ever do find the savings to take off a larger chunk of the amount.”

Before he could blink his arms were raised as yours circled his neck in a tight hug he grinned and patted your back through while Gimli smiled trying not to snicker at your mumbling, “Thank you so much.” You pulled back and his grin flinched a moment seeing you sniffle and wipe your cheek with your bunched up sleeve and weakly chuckle out a grin saying, “You have no idea what this means to me.”

His hand reached out to pat your arm, “You deserve a home. We reached out to the Findis Clan and you have worked tirelessly for them for over a decade. I know you will settle in nicely.”

A chime from your pocket had your brows furrow in pulling out your phone to see a message from the station owner’s assistant to come in making you mumble, “My second job..”

Gloin, “Something wrong?”

You shrugged, “But it’s never something casual like you forgot your coat.”

Again he chuckled and said, “I’ll drop you off. Planned on surprising the Missus anyways.”

“Thank you, again.”

Gimli followed after saying, “You’re the one we should thank, been on the market for years that lot. Owners have been getting restless, and it does seem perfect for you to grow into.”

“Not due for much more growing, maybe a couple inches in the next decade but past that pretty much where I’m gonna stay.”

Gloin, “Not a bad height. Just nearly the same as my Gorgo.” The rest of the drive came with their chatting to one another about which would be the best place to take her to help calm her down after another day of fruitless searching she had been following up on between replays of the show recordings to help bolster her hope the author was still out there.

With a wave and another thank you the pair watched you trot into the building’s front entrance past the gawking construction crew still lazing about through the remodel on the front signage and mounts between the new arches to hold up the awning the owner wanted to make the place look snazzier. Past the front desk you made your way to the lift another worker equally as flustered for the sudden call in adjusting his shirt he’d just realized was on backwards. Through the doors Mal trotted and came to a stop beside you and the bag in her arms drew your eye and the snort coming from inside the poles blanket there. Fighting a giggle you asked, “Hey Mal, whatcha got there?”

Your eyes taking in the striped and mohawked tiny baby boar struggling against the cast on its back leg to climb out of the bag to get to the bottle in Mal’s hand. “You can see what he is.”

After a giggle broke free you said, “Yes, I can but I would really like to see if you know who you’ve got there.”

Shifting in her feet she said as you reached the floor under yours, “He’s a teacup piglet,” again you giggled and her brows furrowed a moment as the man behind you smirked in a knowing glance over her shoulder knowing better himself. “It’s not funny, the guys found him this morning on the side of the road, they were going to kill him at the shelter just because they said he was a runt with a bad fracture in his leg. I’ve named him BamBam. I’m gonna nurse him back to health.”

Shaking your head you cleared your throat and said while stepping out into the hall, “No, you’re right it’s not funny. Only he’s not a pig.”

With a scoff she stomped into the hall with you, “Well what is he then?! A wombat?!” She said tilting the bottle in her hand to start feeding him in steadying her pace to calm and quiet him down at the growing number of people around you.

Locking your eyes on hers in waiting to file into the banquet hall sized room where everyone was going for whatever this was you replied, “BamBam is a Mortar Boar. Give him a few months and he won’t fit through that door. They grow over five feet you know. Maybe four for him but it looks like he’s too young to be sold yet, not even weaned must have been separated. No doubt if mom wants him back she’ll be in the news in a rampage.”

Mal inhaled sharply wondering how she’d keep him in her flat then said, “Well I’m keeping him, at least till I can patch him up and find him a good home.”

Smirking at her you said, “Shouldn’t be too hard in Dwarf territory. They love a good boar. Maybe your guys would have room for him.”

She sighed, “Doubt it, or the time they’re on a pit crew with their uncle. Travel a lot.”

“You’ll figure it out,” you said entering the hall with her after you smirking in following you to your choice of seat.

“What about you, anything, or anyone new in your life?”

“Well I just bought a house.”

She gasped, “Details! Why didn’t you say we could have gone looking together if I knew you were moving! How long have you been up to this?! I haven’t been that distracted with the guys! Have I?”

Giggling to yourself you replied, “Just today, found out yesterday they’re tearing down my town. Apparently all of Beryl is getting the boot.”

“Wait up, you live in Beryl?! For how long?!”

“What is wrong with Beryl, everyone seems so up in arms to hear I’ve lived there.”

“Hello! Trolls live in Beryl!”

Your brow arched up in a glance at her when you lowered into your seats and she adjusted the bag on her lap, “Ya, and they aren’t half as bad as others make them out to be. Most of my building is trolls. It’s the Goblins and Easterlings you have to watch out for.”

“How did you end up in Beryl?” She asked lower in a more concerned tone, “You could have moved in with me.”

“I’ve lived there for nearly three centuries Mal, I’ve known you for not even two years. And not everyone has a family based in pottery to have anonymity to start on your own. Had to change my name to move and work here and still the black ooze seeps out from time to time. It was just chance I got a deal in the house at all. Thought I’d be back to a closet sized apartment here if anything.”

“Well when are you moving? I’m helping.”

“Tomorrow,” her mouth dropped open and you patted her leg, “I know you work don’t worry, got a group of guys who said they would help with the truck and all that. Hardest part is the stairs.”

“You don’t have a lift?”

“I’m on the 17th floor,” she nodded, “The loft goes to 15.” She scoffed and you giggled turning to face the assistant up at the podium readying the projector screen making you all groan lowly to yourselves knowing you would have your day off wasted with another nonsense presentation from ownership on things that didn’t concern any of you.

Her lips pursed a moment and she asked, “So where is your new abode?”

“Cerulean circle.” She let out a soft squeak, “Why?”

She shook her head leaning over to softly whisper in the dimming of the lights, “So you’ll be within walking distance of your barista friend?”

You rolled your eyes, “Yes. What of it?”

“Nothing. You just could happen to pass him by more frequently and happen to invite him to a warming party.”

“His cousin’s the realtor who helped me move,” deepening Mal’s plotting smirk, “He said he’ll help with the guys and truck for my move. Apparently Beryl is so bad in his mind that he had to jump into action 24 hours after I mentioned where I live to get me out of the city…do I just look that helpless?”

You glanced at her and she said, “We’re just small. It’s concerning. Trolls are huge and that city’s so tough to live in. No one works there.”

“And yet we all have two to three jobs in my building just to live there.” Her eyes flinched over you then back to the speaker coming up to the podium.

“At least here’s a plus,” you stole another glance at her from the corner of your eye, “Batista man will know where you live.”

“Comforting thought.”

She shrugged, “Who knows, might just pop by with flowers one day. Or, you might just happen to get a secret admirer with gifts and tokens left outside.” Again you rolled your eyes.

Muttering back, “Doubtful.”

“We’re throwing a party.”

“Takes more than two to constitute a party, who else are we inviting, Hmm?”

“I’ll invite my guys and you invite your barista.”

“Cuz that won’t be awkward, you three necking in the lounge while me and him awkwardly small talk over tea.”

“We don’t neck,” at that she sighed, “I wish we had. We went out yesterday but they had to call it early for some press thing today.”

“Don’t you mind a party for me. Just focus on getting those boys alone for a night off, better use of your plotting mind.” Making her smirk as her mind dipped into daydream mode while you mentally traced through each inch of your place to plan how to pack the non essentials tonight to be ready for when the grump and his crew would show up.

.

For an hour you listened to the assistant sharing that there would be a new owner to the station instantly punched you in the gut assuming that this would mean bad things for your new place in this station. ‘I knew it’ replaying over and over again until you eyed the man walking out to introduce himself. Glorfindel, a good friend you had met through the Greenleaf family, who had been promising they would talk to a friend of their own to see if he could help you get a leg up at the station that was long overdue. The slump in airtime and drop in listeners before your show no doubt eased the deal and it seemed he had swooped in right in time as you heard the sale was final two weeks prior with their people focusing on the paperwork side of hinges before showing their faces and stirring things up.

“I want to assure each and every one of you that your positions are not in danger. All contracts per the switch for those on air will be re-signed to have the new owners listed for our paperwork.” His eyes shifted to you and he added, “You have nothing to worry about.”

Mal glanced at you and asked in a whisper, “Do you know him?”

“Friend of a friend.”

Once again information was given on the basic changes, including the acronym for the station you would name behind the station number while the building would be left as the Lonely Mountain to ease the list of changes. When the others were filing out Mal’s hand on your arm kept you in your seats and she said with a grin, “We should meet our new owner.”

It seemed he caught on as he stepped off the platform and crossed his hands in front of him waiting for enough people to get out of the way to come and share what he was planning for you. When he did get to you he lowered onto the seat in front of you sideways, resting his arm on the back and said, “5000 a week is pathetic.” Your brow inched up and he said, “Ecthellion will be here day after tomorrow to give you a more fitting deal, since the now biggest pulling show is linked to your spot, a usual dead air time, it’s yours, no one else can really compete. Also he’s drafted up copyright papers for your show and characters for you to own your tales none can touch or profit off of. Perhaps we can try to build a better following to grease the publishing companies to give you a shot they can’t pass up.”

“How long have you been after the station?”

“Not long, but we heard Turdiq has been dipping his foot into radio. Wanted to make certain he didn’t catch wind of you. I doubt he would ever cross into Dwarf territory but you never know since the beheading. Your Naneth is well?”

You nodded, “Cirdan’s taking great care of her. Girls are nearly in school.”

His grin eased out hearing your half sisters were well, “That’s great to hear. Perhaps we could work out a vacation time for you to head out and visit them. You’ll certainly be able to afford it soon enough.”

With a weak giggle you said, “Have to find a way to get off my other job too first.”

His eyes looked you over and he wet his lips showing signs that he was going to share what he was reluctant to start out with. “I wanted to say, about Beryl,”

Mal grinned saying, “Oh, she knows, just bought a house today!”

His brows inched up, “Did you now? I had hoped you weren’t in the dark completely but I am curious to know how you managed a house so soon.”

“I got a deal with a barista, he pays me a 20 for posting reviews of special drinks he wants to try for a few days now. And he heard yesterday where I lived and he called his cousin who’s a realtor that helped me find a place. Turns out one of his relatives married into the Findis clan and since I’ve worked 12 years with them that was worth enough respect to not dig deep for a clan check.”

Grinning again he asked, “What sort of place?”

“Cerulean Circle, a Dwobbit suburb. Bigger Hobbit style homes.”

Glorfindel couldn’t help but laugh, “You always did love to burrow, Jackrabbit. I do hope you like it better than Beryl.”

Mal scoffed, “Did you know she’s on the 17th floor,” his brow inched up in confusion, “The lift stops at the 15th. Madness.”

Again you giggled and he stood patting your shoulder, “Enjoy your days off, I am off to see if I can get something done about the front entrance, should have been done weeks ago.” Turning to head out making you smirk and stand as Mal did.

With a grin she said, “Well look at you all successful and finally flashing your furry self. You know, we should celebrate by getting our nails done.”

“What about BamBam?”

She said, “It’s a Hobbit shop you know they have puppies and such in all the time. Bound to be a spare chair he can nap in.” Your eyes dropped to the sleeping boar you shifted the blanket to cover his side stirring a snoozing grunt from him. “He’s so cute, come on they can’t say no to him.”

“Fine, but it’s on your head.” Walking out you made your way back down to the street and turned for the nail shop not far away.

.

Another coating of green was spread across your nails and thankfully due to the sea of Hobbits and Dams clambering to see BamBam you got a relatively quiet manicure experience. The ride home was more of the same, lingering silence until a buzzing of phones had your head turn at one of the half Troll men from the building across from yours showed you his phone translating the runes you couldn’t quite read etched across the screen, “They’re closing our building! I thought it was just a rumor! Had you gotten any notices?”

You shook your head, “No, but a new friend mentioned his cousin in real estate had heard that they were planning to evict everyone in Beryl to do it over.”

The man scoffed glaring at his screen, “No wonder half my building is gone. Just says clear out and leave the keys in an envelope through the office mail slot when we move out. Nothing else. I know most of your building is gone.”

“Ya, just the top couple floors left. Been kind of eerie.”

The woman beside him said, “You’ve been here forever though, my gran said you were here before she moved in and that was 70 years back, so you have a place to go?”

You nodded, “Just found one today.”

She let out a sigh of relief, “Good, the lot of our building pitched in for a hotel chain in the outskirts of Orcarni. Cottages and such we can all run together while we fix it up in search for new places to sell off and split the profits.”

“That sounds like a great plan. When are you off?”

“Oh we’ve moved most of our stuff already in just staying tonight to get a package my pop sent here that got delayed by weather. Then I’m off in the morning on the next train.”

The man nodded saying, “My girls have one more day of school then we’re getting their transcripts to start them down there on Monday.”

The woman asked, “Are you moving with family?”

You shook your head, “No, they’re out in Lindon. Been out of the nest a few centuries now.”

To which she replied, “Never seems to get easier does it?”

Wryly you chuckled and replied, “Not really, no.”

The man muttered to himself with a smirk, “Least the goblins get what they wanted, the place to themselves. Let them handle the anvil crash on their own. Them and those damn Easterlings.”

Another half Uruk-hai man added, “Morgoth knows they’ve never once aided us, especially since the fall of Cirith Ungul.” Adjusting his napping toddler against his chest patting her bottom to halt her grumble at being moved.

Joining the others in allowing silence to drop again once it was confirmed everyone on the train had in fact had a place to go and wouldn’t be stuck alone in this. Silently though you were grateful more so to Thorin for having alerted you otherwise you would have been the only idiot in the block who didn’t know.

Pt 5

@himoverflowers​, @theincaprincess​, @aspiringtranslator​, @sweeticedtea​, @ggbbhehe4455​, @thegreyberet​, @patanghill17​, @jesgisborne​, @curvestrology​, @alishlieb​, @jogregor​, @armitageadoration​, @fizzyxcustard​, @here2have-fun​, @lilith15000​, @marvels-ghost​, @catthefearless​, @imjusthereforthereads​, @c-s-stars​, @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore​, @mariannetora​, @shesakillerkween

Hobbit/LotR – @abiwim​, @jotink78​, @pastelhexmaniac

#Thorin x Reader OC #Hobbit #lotr

[kh-arch]

Urban Planning & The Tucker Torpedo

The fine folks from Silicon Valley are finally turning their attention to issues of urban planning and affordability. They waited until they’ve built monuments to themselves in the form of suburban office parks or amorphous urban blobs that obstruct the urban fabric. However, at least the warning light has come on and they are now paying attention. This is good.

It puts adherents of New Urbanism, like me, in an awkward but familiar position. I’ll first try to explain that most people are trying to treat the symptoms and not the disease. They’ll ask, rightfully, well what’s your solution? Then off I go to spread the good news of proper urban form. That it can and has lasted throughout the centuries because it creates wonderful human habitats. To this day people still flock to these wonderful places because they were designed for people.

Presentation over and now for the dreaded question.

If New Urbanism is the answer then why, after almost 30 years, hasn’t it taken off?

If you’re a New Urbanist you hear this question frequently. The answers in the guide book range from poor implementation, zoning delays or the referenced projects not actually being “real NU”. These responses suggest an undue amount of fragility surrounding NU.

Is this actually the case? The successful NU projects are actually wildly successful. They’ve even managed, over time, to grow and molt. Which, of course, is the hallmark of proper urban design.

So, if New Urbanism has so many successes then why isn’t it the default form of urban design today?

Well, there is some merit to the responses above. NU has been stymied at every turn by entrenched interests. The fact that plenty of projects have been built around the country and around the world is a testament to the practitioners and the town founders who have taken up the fight.

Yes, as per the title of this post, I feel the entrenched interests have tried to stifle NU in a way similar to how Preston Tucker and his Tucker Torpedo were squelched by the auto industry. The powers that be in the auto industry used every tool in their box, including government influence, to shut him down. In a similar manner, the threat of New Urbanism to conventional suburb developers was such that they made traditional neighborhood development illegal. Thanks to their efforts, cities with existing urban fabric require an overlay zoning code  because nothing that is already built there meets the current zoning code.

Before 1945 the default method of planning in the US was very similar in approach to New Urbanism. It’s part of what inspired New Urbanism in the first place. Now that very same form of development, the kind that was so wonderfully represented in the movie Back to the Future (irony alert), and that inspired Walt Disney’s Main Street, is illegal. In its place was installed a completely foreign form of development, originally conceived in Europe and then implemented in the US as a way of streamlining development processes. This new pattern was deemed necessary to contend with the massive growth of post-war America.

While this new form was very effective in meeting the incredible demand, what it created was a pattern of urbanism that wasn’t self sustaining, required huge subsidies and therefore was – and still is – dependent upon revenues from future development to remain solvent.

While this multi-ring suburb pattern of development has spread across the continent, certain cities have been able to resist. Places like New York City and its boroughs, as well as San Francisco and the bay area, have great urban DNA which is financially self-sustaining and therefore has allowed them to curtail development because they are not dependent on those revenues to remain solvent. The result is increased demand without enough supply.

Towers aren't the solution. If you disagree then show me your math.

How much should each unit cost based on your definition of affordable?

How many square feet should each unit be, on average, to be livable?

What is the current cost per square foot to build new in your zip code?

How much will it cost to demolish and remove the existing structure?

What is the land cost per lot in your zip code?

If parking issues were not a concern and zoning restrictions were eliminated, how many units would you need to build on that lot in order to get down to your predefined cost target for affordability?

Since that’s impossible, what height limit would you impose?

How many floors does that yield?

What is the cost per unit?

If you were to subsidize the development, how much would you need to subsidize each unit to make it affordable?

How many affordable units are needed in your zip code?

Considering the cost per subsidy calculated above, how much money is needed to subsidize the number of affordable units required?

How much money in property taxes would need to be raised in order to pay for these subsidies?

Assuming a 20 year bond issue, what is the tax increase per year per unit in your zip code required to pay for the subsidies?

What if land prices were cut in half?

What if construction prices were cut in half?

Considering 50% of the cost of construction is labor costs, are you willing to pay the workers 50% less? If not, then you need the cost of materials to be free to reduce costs by 50%.

How else would you reduce the cost of construction without shortchanging the labor force?

The above is an extremely short list of the questions that need to be answered to implement an affordable housing subsidy program in areas with extremely high demand.

It’s not San Francisco’s fault that they offer greater economic opportunity than surrounding cities. The issue isn’t that San Francisco or New York City or Boston are doing things wrong. It’s that other cities aren’t doing things right.

The city of Austin, Texas, for instance, is doing more to increase housing affordability in San Francisco than San Francisco can hope to do. This, oddly enough, has a lot to do with Silicon Valley based tech companies increasing their presence in Austin. It’s by increasing economic opportunity throughout the US that we can alleviate the upward pressure on housing prices in areas experiencing great demand.

If you do the little math exercise up above you will see that even if we replaced many great residential neighborhoods in San Francisco with 10 story buildings we would not be able to bring the price point down to anything a sane person would consider affordable. Further, with the current tastes of the architectural profession tending toward dystopian post apocalyptic container trash, the resulting designs would be inhumane. San Francisco would have lost tons of its character and charm while doing nothing to ameliorate housing prices.

I don’t need to guess about the future. I’m living it. I know what happens when high-rise living is promoted above all other typologies. 👈 Click that link and see what the future holds for unit size and affordability.

Then go watch Stewart Brand’s documentary on How Buildings Learn. Read some Jane Jacobs. Then go to Paris before people who dream of high rises ruin it forever.

#archictecture #urbanism

[yellowroseanddreamstorm]

Prologue: The World We Know

It was the year 1947 when the first contact ever between aliens and humans was ever made. A freak accident as many say but it was one that brought good things to the planet. 

Knowledge, technology, resources and advancements to new heights in time no one had ever thought possible.

Earth became much bigger after that fateful day. The years to follow… what a time to be alive. New species coming in and out, technological booms every decade, nothing but good news. 

Good news… Two words we rarely hear next to each other these days.

While Earth becoming part of the Intergalactic Union brought many good things to the planet, it sadly also brought in bad things as well. Especially in recent years.

In particular… the attention of the power hungry Ecliptic Claw. A group of rogue aliens who want nothing more than to expand their power, territory and show their dominance. We thought we could take them when they came. We thought it would be easy. That they would stand no chance against the forces we had on Earth. Sadly, it took no more than a month before they declared victory over the planet.

And that's how it's been for the past two decades. 

There are those of us who still fight back but we have yet to find success. We'll still keep fighting though to our very last breath 

For as long as the spirit and courage to fight back lives on, so does our hope.

The hope that one day, our home will be ours once more.

oooooo

Chapter 1: The Man in the Lion Mask

“Get back to work!”

“Any slackers will be punished severely by Ecliptic Claw Law!”

The young worker flinched as they heard the crack of a whip in the air. It was mainly for show. Everyone knew that. On occasion it might hit someone but for the most part, it was just to create noise to scare people. The real punishment came from the blasters the guards carried with them on their holsters.

After all… Ecliptic Claw Law states that those who dare defy orders will pay in pain that would make one beg for death… or… in the case of more serious defiances, immediate death.

The worker shuddered, getting back to their chores. This was all they had ever known. Work, fear and just trying to survive to the next day. How they missed the days of living in one of the cities. Sure, it wasn’t exactly much better with having to be very careful with how one acted or said in public under the grip of the Ecliptic Claw but it was better than being worked to the bone like they were now.

But when one falls into poverty, what choice does one have?

They sighed, picking up a sack of metal and making their way for the refinery at the center of the work camp.

There was always work to be done for the Ecliptic Claw. Work that they didn’t like getting their hands dirty with. Work they found very suitable to be done by captives on the planets they dominated. 

For those of Earth, there were five main jobs. 

The most desirable was being a servant in the court of Kedaaron, the leader of the forces of the Ecliptic Claw on Earth. He was a fierce leader, such as to be expected of someone of the Pantherian race. He was not one to be challenged, along with his commanders. Being a servant to him meant undying loyalty no matter the cost but one could live in comfort and have some form of protection from his army. 

The other four jobs were not so desirable. These jobs being the following: 

A scavenger, a construction worker, an energy worker or… the worst of them all, a snitch. 

Some didn’t care if they were a snitch but many did. It was a traitorous job. Willing to turn others over for the sake of being able to live another day. To have food and some shelter. The Ecliptic Claw was good at sniffing out rebellion on their own but having other resources for finding out information that would slip through the cracks was something that they valued enough to have workers for those who were not of their kind. 

And yet, rebellion is still something that threatens them. Whether they want to admit it or not.

The worker dumped the metal onto the conveyor belt, watching it move down towards the forge till they saw it engulfed by the molten flames of the furnace. They looked upwards towards the sky… or what one would assume was the sky if they didn’t know better. 

It was just a simulation of one, created by a dome that encapsulated the work camps and the city nearby. It was a dreary colored “sky” full of clouds and plenty different hues of grey and black. No one was really sure what the outside world looked like anymore. Many feared it would look the same as it did in the domes. It was frightening to think about sometimes.

The only people who knew what was outside the many domed cities and work camps, were those who had chosen to fight back. Least, that’s what rumors had told. 

A group of fighters who had supposedly taken back one of the cities and declared war with Kedaaron known as The Dawn. Not many believed it but some did… especially when they heard the story of a warrior who helped give The Dawn their footing to start their rebellion properly. 

A warrior who wore a helmet that resembled the head of a lion.

A warrior whose fighting style was like that of Pantherians yet he wasn’t even one himself.

A warrior, who had struck down one of Kedaaron’s best generals in combat to make a statement to all who were watching.

The one who called himself Leonideas. 

What an inspiring thing to hear… yet hard to believe for those still stuck in dreary states of mind. For many, it was mainly something to give them hope and push forward. To hope one day that they would be set free by this legendary warrior and The Dawn. Others, they would rather not think about such things. If there really was a rebellion and a warrior that could take out the Ecliptic Claw then why hadn’t they come here yet?

Something I ask everyday.

The worker made their way back to the field, beginning to gather up metal once more. Their mind went numb as they went on with their task. Just another day…

They were snapped out of their trance however as a huge explosion was heard from the entrance of the work camp. Alarms started blaring as soldiers ran about, orders from the commander being yelled over the intercom system. 

The worker looked to the entrance, eyes widening at the sight of seeing it being slowly engulfed in flames. They ran closer to the entrance, trying to see exactly what was going on. 

They could see dead guards lying about the entrance as humans and aliens of many kinds rushed past them into the camp, all dressed in armor that was white with violet and gold colored accents and armed with various weapons. From guns to energy charged sabers. 

The worker kept out of sight, watching as the battle between the troops of the camp and the invaders unfolded. It was unlike anything they had ever seen before in their life. 

Only something they had ever heard in stories.

“Necromas!”

The worker’s head snapped up towards the source of a booming voice. It had come from the top of the burning entrance of the work camp. All workers were looking towards it, in awe at what they beheld. 

Perched on the highest spire of the entrance was a man, dressed in armor with purple glowing designs that was covered partially with a cloak and a helmet that resembled a lion’s head. He outstretched a hand, his laser generated claws glistening against the fire.

“Show thyself and face me in battle!” He shouted. 

Other workers gathered around where the young worker was, all whispering to each other.

“Is that…?”

“Yeah…” the young worker whispered.

Leonideas. 

oooooo 

“Sir! The Dawn is breaching our defenses!”

Necromas growled at the chaos going on below the observation deck. 

How did this even happen? Our security is as tight as they get!

“Ward them off! Their numbers are smaller than ours! Crush them!” He hissed.

“Yes Sir!”

Necromas’ tail bristled as he saw The Dawn’s troops make their way further into the camp. Some were injured and some were shot down but they just kept coming in, taking out more of his troops in the process. 

“What are you idiots doing!?” Necromas shouted over the intercom system. “Stop them this instant!”

“We’re trying, Sir!” A soldier said over the communication system. 

“Trying isn't good enough!” Necromas snarled. “Crush them now or Lord Kedaaron will not hesitate to crush us if we make it through this!”

“Necromas!”

Necromas’ head snapped up as he heard his name called out to him. He looked to the source, seeing it was coming from someone who was perched at the top of a spire at the burning entrance of a camp. Someone he had heard plenty of stories about from his fellow commanders. Someone who even Kedaaron considered a more viable threat than The Dawn. 

“Show thyself and face me in battle!” They shouted.

“Sir, who is that?” a soldier on the observation deck asked.

Necromas narrowed his eyes.

“A thorn in Lord Kedaaron’s side.” Necromas clenched his fists. “Have the troops push back as hard as they can against The Dawn soldiers and keep them away from the entrance area of that camp.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Do as I say, soldier.” Necromas hissed. 

The soldier gulped.

“Y-Yes Sir.”

Necromas left the observation deck without another word. He donned his laser generated claws as he descended down the structure to the entrance area of the camp. As he approached, the person who had been on the spire had already made their way down to the ground.. 

Their laser claws were drawn and ready, down in a battle ready stance. While their face was obscured with the mask they wore, Necromas could still see fire burning in the glowing eyes of the lion head. 

He chuckled as he came closer.

“So… The legendary Leonideas.” He started. “I’ve heard of you from my fellow commanders and Lord Kedaaron. The man who mocks our kind with the mask he wears yet shows utter respect when it comes to our fighting style and traditions.”

Leonideas scoffed a bit

“The mask isn’t a mockery, it’s a way to get your attention. After all,” he grinned, “It's a mask that resembles the king of the Pantherian race. Someone who has more dignity than any you of The Ecliptic Claw could ever dream of having.”

Necromas’ fur and tail bristled at this.

“Dignity? Tch, that foolish Pantherian who dares call himself king is nothing in comparison to our Lord Kedaaron. Something he will learn soon enough once we have enough power to overthrow him.”

Leonideas shook his head.

“That’s what I hear you all say yet you still haven’t gotten him. You all sound like you’re trying to make up for something. A bruised ego, perhaps?”

Necromas growled, readying his claws.

“I think we’ve talked long enough. Let’s settle this with our claws.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Leonideas readied himself. “Victor is the new ruler of the territory, as stated by Ecliptic Claw Law and by tradition of the Pantherians. Loser, will meet their fate by the claws of their opponent.”

“And it shall be honored… Now…” Necromas narrowed his eyes. “Let’s see what you got, Cub.”

Leonideas chuckled.

“Alright, you asked for it.”

The two charged each other, roars escaping both of them as they locked claws with each other. Glares were exchanged as they struggled before they broke off, jumping back and skidding a bit. 

They began to circle, waiting for the right moment to strike. Necromas was bristling with rage while Leonideas kept his composure but had fire in the eyes of his lion mask.

The circling ceased as Leonideas charged forward, managing to tackle Necromas into a spire. Necromas hissed, clawing at the warrior’s back. Leonideas cried out, pulling back, slashing at Necromas’ chest in the process. 

Necromas yowled before attempting to tackle Leonideas, missing him barely as he flipped away from him. 

Leonideas panted but kept his stance strong, ignoring the burning complaints of his back.

“That all you got?” he asked, readying his claws once more. 

“Oh, I have so much more.” Necromas hissed before charging him again.

The two swiped claws at each other, managing to knick the other here and there in various areas but no fatal blows. It was a spectacle to say the least. 

Soldiers, workers and rebels alike were gathered around the battle, all watching with anticipation. The raid was completely forgotten, all that mattered was who the victor of this duel was going to be.

Leonideas threw Necromas off balance with a swipe of his claws, sending him to the ground with a hard kick to the chest. Necromas gasped as the wind was knocked out of him, the Pantherian skidding across the ground and coming to a rolling stop.

Leonideas didn’t give him a minute to recover as he pounced on him, keeping him pinned to the ground, his claws being held right at Necromas throat. 

All the spectators around them were quiet, waiting for the final bow to be struck.

Necromas looked up at Leonideas with a glare, no sense of fear present in his features.

“What are you waiting for?” He rasped. “Do it.”

Leonideas kept his claws close to Necromas neck, moving his face in closer so he was right up in his.

“I would… if I completely honored the ways of the Ecliptic Claw. However, I honor the ways of Pantherias. And the way their duels work is the loser will face humiliation over death. The only time I ever honored your ways was with the death of Commander Kanova. And I will do the same when I duel with Kedaaron.” 

Leonideas retracted his claws before grabbing Necromas by his head and slamming it into the ground, knocking him out instantly. 

Leonideas removed Necromas’ laser generated claws, slicing them into pieces with his own before throwing them to the ground, looking to the spectators around him.

“This territory no longer belongs to Ecliptic Claw.” He started, circling around. “If any of you who were under Commander Necromas have any sense of dignity left in you, you will respect the duel that has been won here and surrender immediately or answer to my claws.” Leonideas looked to the workers and rebels. “As for those who were oppressed by Commander Necromoas, you are now free to take back this place that is rightfully your home alongside The Dawn. Treat it well and with respect.”

Leonideas went back to Necromas, picking the Pantherian up by his mane. With a quick swipe of his claw, the mane was shortened, the limp Pantherian falling to the ground with a loud thud. His soldiers either backed away and ran, being chased by Dawn members or bowed down, admitting defeat.

Leonideas let the hair of the mane in his hand be carried away by the wind before letting out a loud roar that rang through the air for all to hear. 

It was complete silence all around as he departed from the camp. 

As he disappeared from sight, Dawn members got to work helping workers and apprehending Necromas’ troops. 

While all were focused, none of them could shake the chills of what they had just witnessed. 

#leonideas: warrior of earth #xross altair #original writing #writeblr #writblr #indie writer #writing #preview chapter #story preview #science fiction #aileen rose #yellow rose productions

[gracythomas]

TEN THINGS TO KNOW ABOUT WORKING WITH AN AD AGENCY

There are a lot of good ad agencies out there. A lot of good clients too. But as you’re looking for that perfect agency, remember how important you are to the project’s success.

From selecting the correct ad agency, to briefing them, to reviewing work, giving feedback, handling production and dealing with the costs, there are a few things to know to get the most out of your ad agency engagement.

1) Honesty is Everything

Be honest about what you know and what you don’t know. Be honest about the budget, your internal structure, office politics, the approval process, how you’ll be judged etc. Be honest because that’s how you’ll get the most out of your ad agency relationship. Your ad agency team doesn’t know your business. You don’t want them pretending and bullshitting. You want them to ask questions and learn from you. If you do the same, you’ll have a great relationship, which in turn improves your ad spend’s performance.

How do you find a perfect ad agency?

2) Start with a paid project

Don’t waste time trying to get a lot of free thinking from a lot of agencies. Find a few you like (just look at their past work, and ask for case studies and a credentials presentation). Then give one or two a paid project. Reward the one you like with more work. The money you spend on a couple of paid projects will be far more valuable than wasting time with RFPs and pretend assignments.

Once you have an ad agency, how do you brief them?

3) Remember, nothing is more complicated than simplicity.

Ask for something simple and you’ll get something great. Ask for something complicated and you’ll get a steamy pile of poop. Make sure your brief contains any research, past work, past findings, testimonials etc. And put them all in one Google Drive or Dropbox. If you have the time and budget for a kickoff workshop, do it. Then it’s the agency’s job to distill everything down into a cohesive story. Once they do that...

4) Don’t “Ya, but. . .”

So when the agency boils the strategy down into one sentence, don’t say, “Yes, but we need to remember the secondary target and retail sales channel support blah blah blah.” The job of the ad agency is to boil it down to one message.

What’s the best way to measure success?

5) Have one clear project goal. Yep, one.

You can measure awareness pre and post, or track site visits, downloads, click-throughs, sales in one market vs another. But the overall goal needs to be singular. And it can be as simple as, “Get people to our website.” Or “Increase brand awareness.” Or, “Get people to read our blog posts down to point number 5.” Of course, each piece of an integrated campaign has a different role to play. But each piece of communication down the funnel, whatever it’s doing, should be in service to the one, clear project goal.

How do I judge the work?

6) React like a consumer, not a client.

Advertising interrupts people who don’t care what you have to say. Whether it’s a social post or pre-roll video or TV spot. Try to judge an idea like it’s interrupting something you’d rather be seeing.

Who should I run decisions by?

7) More opinions do not equal more help.

Your opinion matters. So does your CEO’s and your head of sales. But don’t ask your friend who studied marketing in college to weigh in. And don’t ask your spouse. The more people you consult, the more opinions you’ll get and the more fear people will instill in you. “Hmmm, I like it, but I just worry what (insert group of people here) might think.” Worry and fear create bad advertising.

How do I keep criticism constructive?

8) Compliment before you criticize.

Always start your feedback with what you like. Toss in the word “brilliant” and your creative team will work their tails off for you. (No matter what you say next.) We don’t suggest this just to be nice, though it is a decent thing to do. If you’re positive and encouraging, the team will be more engaged and more receptive to your changes.

How do we avoid mediocrity?

9) Great work has to yield great results

Ask your agency to push you to do something breakthrough. Demand the unexpected, the unique and different. You can always do additional executions, alternative media and more conservative pieces to support the campaign and shape it to sell like crazy.

Can you prove a campaign will be successful with data?

10) There is no algorithm for great work.

Every startup wants to use data to break the advertising code. If there was a formula, we’d all be using it. (And half of the startups wouldn’t fail.) So if you want to get the most out of your agency because you love their work and their results, consider trying it their way.

Now, go hire the best Ad Agency.

#adagencies #advertisingagencies #adworld #digitalagency

[pi-cat000]

MSA time travel idea (part 31)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24, 25  Lewis POV 3,  Mystery POV , Vivi POV 3, 29, Lewis POV 4

Part 32: here

.

Why? Why couldn't he have just stayed dead? WHY? All he has done is make things worse! So much worse. Sure, Lewis is alive, but at what cost…and for how much longer?  How much more can he lose? Actually, no, he doesn’t want an answer to that question. Arthur used to think nothing could top being murdered by his best friend in terms of terrible experiences and, oh boy, has he been proven wrong.

“Hey…”

Wrapped in his carefully constructed cocoon of self-loathing and mourning, Arthur ignores the irritatingly cheerful voice. He is beginning to hate the sensation of sound vibrating in his chest.

“HEY!”

Of course, the demon can’t take a hint and leave him to suffer in silence.

‘What,’ Arthur projects sullenly, pulling his attention forward. As much as he would rather drown in despair, he doesn’t want the bastard to start threatening Lewis’s family again. After failing a few more times at crashing the van- Arthur doesn’t even get the merger satisfaction of freezing his body for a millisecond now the demon is on alert- this really is the very least he can do.

“We’re here. I thought you might appreciate being coherent for the visit.”

Begrudgingly, Arthur finds the motivation needed to focus on their shared soundings. Surprise, surprise, there is a lot of flat desert. However, now the expanse is broken by a single structure; Kingman Mechanics, sign dark, sitting directly ahead of them. It is the same half red-brick, half corrugated iron building it has always been, yet the exterior is cold and uninviting. It looks like one of his frozen memories, drained of all colour and lifeless. Arthur watches with mounting discontent while the demon parks and strolls up to the front door.

Wind throws dust at their eyes, forcing the demon to squint in shared discomfort. The gusts are stronger than usual, and, if Arthur were to hazard a guess based on the darkening clouds, he’d say there was a storm coming in. Overhead, grey blackens, the day begining to transition into night. Lines of police tap, positioned across the closed garage door have been pulled free and are waving about like demented hands. No sign of police, though.

“Hello! I’m home,” The demon sings out, flinging open the unlocked door, “Oh wait…I forgot. There’s no one here…”

Arthur knows the sentence is meant to upset him and hates the stab grief, which immediately shoots through his chest. The fact that he’ll never see Lance come ambling out of the side door to greet him and welcome back is painful.

“At least…There should be no one here,” The demon continues, examining the space with a more critical eye, glancing back at the open door, “That was definitely locked when I left.”

Arthur is too busy drowning in another wave to depression to care much about the reception desk, which has been pulled apart and emptied across the ground. Usually, around this time of day, Lance would either be working late or packing up, grumbling about the low lighting and his poor vision.

Casually, the demon meanders over, examining the mess left scattered on the floor. Loose paper rustles underfoot, disturbed by their approach.

“So someone’s been through here…I don’t suppose you get a lot of thieves around these parts?”

When he doesn’t respond right away, the demon prompts with a more impatient, “Are you with me back there? ”

‘No...No thieves,’ He musters, mulishly compelling his attention onto the room. Neither he nor his Uncle had been particularly vigilant about locking doors, and they’d never had an issue. Why does it even bother asking when It has all Arthur’s memories? The demon knows everything he does.

A loud snort of amusement. They move further into the building. The door to the hall is open, revealing the narrow passage leading to the equally narrow stairs. Empty and dark.

“Please, I didn’t bother keeping even half the crap you had stored up here. You think I want a few hundred hours’ worth of pathetic pining after dumb friends, or re-runs of the same repetitive daily routines, over and over and over? Trust me, I chucked that shit right out.”

They pause at the entrance to his Uncle’s small, cramped office. Like the reception, the space is a mess. Someone has turned this room as well.

“I just keep the useful and really juicy stuff. Sides, it’s not like you’re going anywhere if I ever need a refresher.”

His Uncle’s shotgun is missing. Okay, that catches his attention. That shotgun had been a fixture of the office for almost as long as Arthur can remember. The reason why the door had been religiously locked during his childhood and teen years. It’s weird to see it missing. Are the two shots kept handy in the desk drawer also missing?   Had his Uncle used them?

Of course, no sooner has he thought it, the demon is checking the draws for the shots. They are, indeed, missing.

“Now, who would come all the way out here just to steal some old gun?”

Arthur has no idea why, but, apparently, this question is rhetorical because the demon has started prowling the space, peering into filing-cabinet and at misplaced, scattered files. A patch of rustic discolouration marking the inside of the door catches their eye. Arthur feels that disconcerting predatory interest return as it picks out several other, similar, splotches. The demon reaches forward, running a finger over the nearest patch, bringing the hand up to its mouth. Arthur gets a flash of phantom nausea at the metallic taste. Blood. What he wouldn’t give to be able to throw up right now.

“Hm…” An irritated sigh, “and this is why I hate loose ends.”

The demon wipes the hand clean on Arthur’s pants. Obviously, the blood meant something more to it than to Arthur. Whoever had been here had either hurt themselves searching the room or had some pre-existing injury. Also, this had to be at least a day old, meaning the person was probably gone.

“Yes, most likely,” The demon answers his unvoiced question unprompted, “Suppose I haven’t killed as many people as I thought...How inconvenient. And here I was hoping to hit the road before sunrise, but it looks like I’ll be hunting around for this moron.”

‘If this road trip so important we should just go right now.’ He throws in half-heartedly, because damnit if a small part of him still hopes that he can stop this.

“Ha. I like the enthusiasm, but it really is nothing urgent.”

One last frown is directed at the bloodstain before they spin to head back into the hall and up the narrow stairs.

“A lot has changed in the last hundred years, and I’ve got a little catching up to do which requires a bit of travel. And then there’s this time-travel mystery to sort out. Lucky us, with a double-strength soul, this body isn’t going to burn out not nearly as fast as it should. It’ll give me the time I need to make this little partnership permeant.”

‘...,’

“The hassle I go through, I swear. Humans don’t even live that long to begin with but, all to often, you idiots just pass on for no good reason. Half the time, I’m not even siphoning that much energy. So weak.”

With the sky coved, there is bearly any natural light coming through Arthur’s bedroom window, making the room gloomy like the rest of the building. Undeterred, the demon starts to rifle through the narrow wardrobe pressed against the opposite wall, putting an end to their ‘conversation.’ While his body goes about chucking clothes onto the bed and sorting them into piles, Arthur just stares. ‘Make this little partnership permeant’…He expects the words to make him sad, sadder, or angry, but he only feels numb.

“Ugh. Your fashion sense is terrible. This baggy orange stuff is about as unflattering as clothes can get.” 

Arthur watches his body spin and pose in front of the dusty full-length mirror he has jammed into the back on his wardrobe, having spent a good half hour trying on various combinations. Black seems to be the colour of choice. No surprises there. The black shirt, dark blue jeans, and black jacket are all old and worn down. He hasn’t worn this stuff in years, meaning the clothes are a whole lot tighter than Arthur really likes. 

“I suppose this will have to do.” The demon examins a lime green scarf, and Arthur can feel the contempt directed at the only green coloured thing he owns. A gift from someone, he can’t remember who. 

“At least it’s not the ugly orange life vest.”

They make eye contact in the mirror, and Arthur mentality winces, wishing he could look away.

“You know, I bet we’d look pretty good with a proper body maintenance routine and some nice clothes. I’ve definitely had more unfortunate hosts.”

“Something to do later. Can’t be killing people 24/7 after all.”

They pack up one of the clothing piles in an old school backpack, slinging it over a shoulder before strolling across the landing into his uncle’s room. 

The demon moves with purpose, knowing exactly what it wants. Lance’s hidden stash of cash which he keeps for emergencies and his wallet. Unlike the reception and the office, both their bedrooms seem relatively intact. If the ‘thief’ had been through, they hadn’t done much to disturb anything. Maybe, if Arthur could find the motivation to care, the inconsistency would be interesting or cause for investigation. He doesn’t care.

The demon frisks the room, mentally tallying up the cash it finds. While it counts the money, Arthur’s attention is drawn to the crumpled up photo, the corner of which is poking out from Lance’s wallet. It’s of him and his uncle standing before a beat-up van. His van. This photo was taken on his eighteenth birthday. The van had been a gift. Numbly, he watches.  

The demon flips through Lance’s assorted business cards in loose motions, pulling out the photo alongside them. Money is left in the wallet, and anything deemed unimportant is dropped to the floor.

‘Wait,’ Arthur objects suddenly when they come to the photo.

“Hmm?” The demon hums, continuing to sort.

‘Keep it…please,”

A pause. “Keep what? This?”

Their vision centres on the photo. The demon pinches a corner, pulling it free, scanning it with minor interest.

‘Yeah,’ Weird how quiet he sounds, considering he isn’t actually speaking out loud.

Humour and mild exasperation follow.

“Sentiment. Thought we’d decided not to get too attached to things.”

Arthur’s not really game for another round of verbal bashing and beratement, so he doesn’t bother responding. He really wants the photo. He wants it so badly it's painful, but he’s not going to beg. Not for something like this. Some of his longings must be filtering through because the demon roles its eyes in an exaggerated movement.

“You know what? Sure. Whatever,” It shoves the photo back into the wallet, flipping it shut and shoving it into their back pocket, “We’ll keep it. Don’t say I never did anything nice though.”

Arthur reframes from voicing his opinion-nice what a joke- too relieved about having something of his Uncle’s. A reminder. 

The relief doesn’t last long.

“Speaking of sentiment. I think it’s time we go kill Lewis’s cute little family,” A fist pump and they head down out to the stairs. Fear, frustration and panic, quickly case away all other emotion. It’s his Uncle all over again. Not again. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked for the photo. No. Arthur’s sure it wouldn’t have mattered…

‘I can’t help that I care,’ He whispers miserably, a small part of him wishing desperately that he didn’t and hating himself for it. 

“Oh, I know.” They walk back out the door, slamming it shut, heading towards the van. The gravel crunches. The landscape is almost black, the invisible sun having finished setting. 

“Say bye…we’re not coming back to this dump.”

Gusts of wind rip at the newly acquired jacket. 

‘…’

“Oh, right. Haha, you can’t speak. Well, it’s the thought that counts.”

.

NOTE: HELLO! Just want to take a second to thank the aprox 20-30 return readers for this fic. I have definitely noticed u (like 30 parts in and it would be hard not to). I want to say that I am always pleased to see u return to like/reblog updates. Very motivating. This fic has been spinning its wheels while I attempt to build tension so I hope u enjoy the payoff.   

Also! thanks to the people who drop in every now and then to bulk like/reblog all the parts they missed. It never fails to catch me off guard (in a good way) when I sign in and see 10+ notes from one person. 

Part 32: here

#MSA #mystery skulls animated #fanfiction #fanfic #arthur kingsmen #the demon? #depression #angst #suicidal thoughts #asehole demon is an ashole #sad arthur is sad #Arthur bad times continue #possession

[princess-sora]

Review: Phantasy Star IV

Some History

Phantasy Star's a series that's been near and dear to me for over half my life. I first got into it via the Phantasy Star Collection for Gameboy Advance, a 2002 collection of the first 3 out of the original 4 games. 1 and 2 were good games for their time, and while they were mechanically rather archaic, their aggressive combination of fantasy and sci-fi captured my 13-year-old imagination something fierce. I'd never seen a setting like it. 3, though... some of its ideas were interesting to me, but not only was it mostly fantasy and very little sci-fi for most of its story, it just plain wasn't very good. I largely left it alone. I never beat any of the games, but they left a massive impression on me.

It wasn't until several years later that I'd discover that I was missing something. They'd cut Phantasy Star 4 out of the collection, presumably for cartridge space/budget reasons... and in doing so, I've since learned, deprived my young self of an incredible experience. When I first learned about Phantasy Star 4, I no longer had the ability to focus on an RPG long enough to complete one. Over multiple tries at it, I only ever got about a third into the game before drifting away. But, now that I can focus on things again, I decided to give it another attempt.

The Review

At its core, Phantasy Star IV is a traditional JRPG, with random encounters, turn-based battles, and a storyline with essentially zero player choice or agency. But it's an exemplar of the genre. Scenario design is overall very well-paced and conveyed; at no point did I feel like I wasn't advancing, or didn't know what to do or where to go. Aside from one specific point near the end of the first third, I didn't feel like grinding was ever necessary--if I felt like I hit a wall, there was some sort of side content to check out that'd get me back on track.

On the subject of side content, Phantasy Star 4 has plenty. The Hunter's Guild has a list of sidequests that open up as the plot progresses, which are a source of money more than anything, as not all of them involve combat. The Hunter's Guild quests are probably one of my bigger quibbles, actually. Like in a lot of RPGs, money ends up being essentially meaningless near the end, so it can be a bit of a gamble to tell whether you'll get anything worthwhile (read: experience or equipment) from the experience.

On top of that, a few of them have remarkably unsatisfying conclusions--off the top of my head, one ends up costing you exactly the amount you later get paid as a reward, and another gives you no money at all, though it does involve a boss battle. I still recommend doing them, however; there's a story to every one, sometimes amusing, and it all serves to make the world feel more lived-in and real.

There are a fair few side dungeons, too, beyond the one or two you visit as part of guild quests. They're optional as well, but almost always worthwhile, giving lore, good equipment, new skills for your Android characters, and often, challenging and lucrative boss fights.

Dungeons, on the whole, are very well-designed. They're generally a bit mazeish, but dead-end branches generally have something interesting at the end of them, and they're never particularly long. Where they really shine, though, is in their structure. The way that they're built gives a sense of place, that despite their gameplay-oriented layouts, they are actually the sort of structure thy claim to be. Caves and some underground dungeons don't quite fit this as well, but for the most part, it's a very strong point. One of the midgame dungeons--an ancient castle built on crumbling, deteriorating foundations--is my favorite example of this. The winding halls feel, in some way, like they were once the grand halls of their ruler. There are dead ends that are simply overlooks from the castle walls, or areas that would present paths if not for the ground crumbling away. They don't have anything at the end, but they aren't long enough to be annoying; it feels like they're just there for versimilitude, to add to the idea that this is a place, something more than a construct for the sake of gameplay.

The game's presentation is top-notch, as well. Sprites on the overworld are clear and well-animated, with cute little touches like every character's walk cycle being a different speed based on height or bulk, and in battle, backgrounds and sprites are *beautifully* detailed, with both party members and enemies having various different animations depending on what they're doing.

The sound design is especially excellent. The sounds of battle are satisfying and impactful, and along with the animations, this gives fights a fantastic "game-feel" that helps keep encounters from becoming stale. That's to say nothing of the music. This is some of the best music to come out of the Genesis' sound hardware, hands-down. It's (mostly) a far cry from the "electro-farts" some people describe the Genesis' sound as, and when it is, it's with a very clear purpose. The compositions are musically complex and fun to listen to, particularly the dungeon and battle themes, whose catchy, interesting tunes do a lot to make up for the fact that you'll be hearing them a lot.

The battle system is presented in a fairly standard style--you see your party members from behind, facing down the enemies, you queue up all of your actions, and the turn progresses roughly in order of agility. Your characters have a wide variety of abilities available to them, divided into two categories, Techs and Skills, both learned as characters level up. Techs draw from a character's pool of TP (basically MP), and are essentially this game's version of magic. Skills are a bit different--with a couple of exceptions, each character's skills are unique, with their own effects or gimmicks, but with the caveat that each one only has a certain number of uses until your next visit to an inn. The game itself, regrettably, doesn’t tell you what techs/skills do what (I suspect that’s in the manual), so don’t be afraid to look them up online.

There's a "macro" system in place, too, allowing you to set up specific sequences of actions for your characters to carry out during a round of battle. At first blush, it'd seem like a more complex version of the genre-standard auto-battle system, but there's another purpose: combination attacks. Certain techs and skills, cast in the right order without enemy interruption, can combine into a more powerful move. As an example, three characters casting the basic fire, ice, and lightning techs together on the same turn will combine to cast "Tri-Blaster," which does higher damage to all enemies. They need to be cast together without being interrupted by enemies, however, meaning you need to keep your characters' agility stats in mind when building and sequencing your macros. There are 14 combo attacks, total, and the game doesn't tell you any of them, so don't be afraid to look those up, either.

The story is fantastic--probably one of the best out of any game I can think of. It was meant from the start to be the end of the story, and it's a tribute and a love letter to the franchise's legacy, while still managing to be accessible and engaging for an unfamiliar player. It deals with death in a way that's rarely been matched, and it raises the stakes from 'investigating monster attacks' at the start to 'destroying ultimate evil' by the end in a way that feels about as natural as you can make that kind of escalation. The protagonist grows visibly over the course of the story, and while most of his his companions are somewhat shallower, there was hardly anyone among the cast I didn't care about, by the ending. The setting feels lived-in and even a bit alive, thanks to guild quests, incidental dialogue that's actually interesting, and various other worldbuilding touches throughout.

The Conclusion

I'm not gonna give this a number. But I will say that Phantasy Star IV is the first RPG I've actually felt driven to beat in years, and I recommend it with absolutely no reservations. In fact, it's on Steam for $1 USD. Buy it. Play it. You won't regret it, I promise.

#review #phantasy star iv #end of the millennium #retro #phantasy star #phantasy star 4 #rpg #genesis #megadrive #jrpg

[loversandantiheroes]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: F/M Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford Characters: Cullen Rutherford, Female Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Lyrium Withdrawal, Lyrium Addiction, visual and auditory hallucinations, Mild Gore, Hurt/Comfort, first comes the hurt, then comes the comfort, I swear there will be comfort

The threat of Adamant looms, and the cracks begin to show.  Big, huge, and many thanks to @songofproserpine, @aloy-sobek, and @juliannos for beta reading this chapter.  I’ve spent a lot of time on this trying to get it right.  Here’s hoping I succeeded.

---------------------------------

Adamant.

“Read it again,” Cullen said, stone-faced, praying he had heard wrong

Josephine sat behind her desk, eyes wide with that same alarmed disbelief he felt, but she nodded just the same, cleared her throat, and began to read.

The Wardens are compromised.  A Magister of the Venatori, Livius Erimond has infiltrated their ranks and convinced them their only chance of ensuring an end to the Blights before the Calling consumes them is to raise a demon army and march upon the Deep Roads and kill the Old Gods before they can be corrupted.  What we stumbled upon appears to have been the first attempt at the binding ritual.  Erimond instructed a small group of Warden mages to each kill one of their fellows, some sort of blood magic ritual to draw and bind a demon.  More concerning: while the ritual places the demon in the thrall of the mage that bound it, it also binds the mage to Corypheus.  The familiarity of this is not lost on me, I remember Redcliffe too well.  We have dispatched the ‘test group’, but Erimond has escaped.  Hawke and Stroud have scouted west on Stroud’s hunch and have found the Wardens occupying an ancient stronghold called Adamant.  I do not know the name, but I imagine at least one of you does, and Stroud’s face when he spoke of it tells me more than I wish to know.   We return for Skyhold at once.  We must plan, and we must plan quickly.

Josephine laid the missive down gingerly.  “This is...dire.”

“Adamant has been unbreachable for centuries,” Leliana said, her voice cold and hushed like a dagger in the dark..

“Centuries ago they did not have trebuchets,” Cullen said, striving for a confidence he did not in any way feel.  “We need sappers.”

“I believe one of Bull’s Chargers is a sapper,” Leliana suggested.  “And we have Dagna.  That is at least a start.  I will do some digging, see who else we have that may be of use.”

Josephine began rifling through papers on her desk.  “I believe I may be able to call in a favor for siege equipment.  Not all nobles deal purely in coin and gossip.”

“That just leaves us with enthralled Wardens and demons,” Leliana muttered darkly.  “They could house over a thousand men there.”

The pain in Cullen’s head flared, a sharp pulse at his temples.  “Our Templars should be prepared.  Our people should be prepared.”

“The Inquisitor returns with haste,” Josephine said.  “Two weeks by horse relay, perhaps less.  That gives us some time to prepare.”

Cullen scowled.  “Another five to make the march back out there with enforcements, and that’s on top of preparations.  Andraste preserve us, Erimond could fill Adamant in that time if he has enough mages among the Wardens.”

“How many of your remaining Templars are at Skyhold, Commander?” Leliana asked.

“Nowhere near enough.  I will send word, recall as many as possible to Skyhold.”  He turned on his heel, gripping the hilt of his sword, and made for his office.

Unbreachable.  Maker, if only the walls were their only worry.

* * *

Preparations had to be made, even before the Inquisitor’s return.  Cullen sent dozens of letters, ordering an immediate return to base for every Templar they had in the field.  The numbers were considerably less than he cared for, barely over fifty all told, with perhaps a half dozen veterans among them.  A rueful little voice nattered in his ear, reminding him if they had only gone to the Templars, if he had the full force of the Order at his disposal….  But of course, he didn’t.  The choice had been made.  And given the actions of the demon Krem said had been impersonating the Lord Seeker, sending the Herald into Therinfal Redoubt would have been like driving a lamb into a slaughtering pen.  It was not the alliance he regretted, it was the loss.

And so the week went, a flurry of activity and too-little sleep.  The headache persisted and brought with it a faint, charred smell that followed him as he went about his duties, craning his neck to search for signs of smoke.  The itch came soon after, bone-deep and low, something that made him want to twist and squirm in his own skin.  Cullen was too disciplined for that, too stubborn.  

But he moved, and he kept moving.  He paced constantly.  Inspections doubled.  A sand pit was hastily constructed near the practice yard to give the men some idea of what they might face if the fight took them outside of the fortress walls.  The time he spent in the sparring ring jumped dramatically.  And even there he was restless, moving and rolling and driving aside the less practiced with an alarming ferocity.  None were injured, but more than a few soldiers left the ring with their practice weapons cracked and their heads hung in exhausted defeat.

His soldiers bore his agitation.  The staff on the other hand were less equipped to handle it.  He was short with them, an irritation that grew steadily worse as the week wore on, until it was a fight to keep his fool mouth shut before he berated some poor maid for doing their job too close to him, or a runner for slamming doors they swore they had not touched.  Overworked was the polite whisper.  Arsehole was the less polite version, and he couldn’t claim it was unearned.  His behavior was regrettably noted.  None seemed to mark the reason behind it, save for Cassandra who kept a wary, albeit distant, eye on him, but said nothing.

The thirst returned soon after.  A familiar addition, and one he considered to be no great concern.  Cullen had long since learned to ration his water.  And if his tongue worried restlessly over too-dry lips and his throat ached with the need for something colder, cleaner, bluer - well, what of that?  Pain was pain, and he could take it.  And he did.  More and more each day.  Until the headaches were inescapable and his joints felt like fire and broken glass.  The remedies helped, when good sense came to him in the grounding guise of Aadhlei’s voice and overrode his pride, urging him to finally send slips to the infirmary for the potions that would dull the pain, or settle his stomach enough to keep half a hurried meal down, or to sleep for longer than an hour at night without jerking awake to the muffled sounds of phantom explosions.

And so he endured.  He had little choice else.  The cost of failure was far too high.  It was a well-worn slog, horrible but at the very least predictable, until the ninth day.

Morning found him pulling on his armor, hair combed but face unshaven, fighting to still the tremors in his hands enough to buckle on his breastplate.  A missive had arrived by raven the night before declaring the Inquisitor had just passed Halamshiral.  Four days left, three if she kept up the relay.  There had been no direct letters since she had left the Western Approach, and he could not claim that he did not feel their absence, or hers.  It had been well over a month since she had left Skyhold with Hawke and Stroud in tow. He realized with a glum sort of wistfulness that this was almost certainly the longest they had spent apart since they had met.  

Yet the relief he expected with the news of her return was nowhere to be found.  Instead all he felt was a cold, creeping dread that snaked its way through his gut like a wire.  She would return, and she would look to him with trust in those soft green eyes that had shaken him free of so many nightmares, and she would expect him to give council.  And what did he have?  A migraine and a rather impressive case of the shits.  Fine council, indeed.

Idiot boy.

Cullen froze.  The voice was clear and harsh, a mocking sneer.  And Maker, it sounded close.  Close enough that Cullen fancied if he turned he would see the Knight-Commander’s eyes, steel shot through with red, mere inches from his own.

“You’re dead,” he said, voice taut.  He pulled his gorget over his head and set to fastening it down.  “At least have the decency to be silent.”

You called me mad.  My own Knight-Captain stood against me.  And for what?  To protect blood mages.  And now here they stand again.  Weak and foolish Wardens turning to blood magic to save their own skins.  They will paint Thedas red in blood and lyrium and it will be on your head.

And then the room was gone.  All around was chaos; the steel-on-steel clash of combat, the sizzling crack and pull of magic, but even that was drowned out by the sounds of pure panic and carnage.

The choice was yours, Knight-Captain.  Blessed are those that stand before the wicked and do not falter.  And when have you done anything but falter?

Cullen pushed his fists against his eyes.  Skyhold.  Not Kirkwall.  Look up.

Cullen lifted his head, desperate, searching for the skylight that was - should be there.  It wasn’t.  Above him hung a slate-grey sky, thick with smoke and storm clouds, tinged red where the fires burned highest.  Kirkwall was burning.  Again?  Still?  Maker, did it even matter?  Kirkwall burned and he had let it happen.  Had, in point of fact, helped build the pyre.

The world flickered like a candle flame in a sudden draft and Kirkwall was gone.  High stone walls surrounded him, a sprawl of putrid, pulsing flesh climbing up it like diseased ivy.  He could smell it, the sweetness of its rancidity almost enough to mask the old-copper scent of blood.  And the blood was everywhere.  Bodies lay in mutilated piles around him, some mangled beyond recognition, but others were still painfully familiar.  Farris’s head regarded him with bland, slack-jawed terror from the end of a spike, one eye rolled up to the ceiling.  A few feet away, from the base of a pile protruded an arm, surprisingly whole, with smooth skin broken by a long pink scar that stopped near the elbow.  ‘A bandit with a broken dagger,’ Annalise would tell anyone that listened, but the reality of it had been a clumsy fall into a stack of pottery.  

Cullen’s stomach twisted, gorge rising.  He saw all of it through a shimmering haze of violet, a barrier, a prison.  They had stuck him here to watch the slaughter.  How many had been cut down before his eyes?  How many torn apart?  How many left broken and begging for death for hours before their pleas were granted?

He felt a spasm wrack his body, making him shake and rattle in his armor like a specter in a ghost story.  Lyrium withdrawal, his first true taste of it, etched into his mind with blood and screaming.

You couldn’t save them, Meredith spoke up in a voice like ice.  What makes you think you can protect the men that serve you now, or that posturing maleficarum that calls herself Inquisitor?  You were a failure even with the lyrium in your veins, you are a fool to think you could be more without it.  You lead them into death, boy.  That’s all you know how to do.

“NO!” he roared, fists lashing out to strike the barrier and finding only empty air and darkness.

Skyhold, he told himself desperately.  Not Kirkwall, not Kinloch!  Damn your eyes, Rutherford, look up!  Find it!

Again he craned his neck up, conjuring the image of the window in his mind.  Greens and browns and blues, tall trees and running dogs and the sky beyond it.  On its heels came the afterthought of Aadhlei standing beneath it, the sunlight in her hair and the light touch of her fingers on the inside of his wrist, a scent of herbs clinging to her hair and faint lilac on her skin.

One moment there was only darkness above him, thick, black, and endless. The next moment he was staring up at the skylight above his bed, glinting prettily in the first pale gold of morning.

Cullen crumpled to his knees on the floor of his bedroom, hung his head, and wept.

* * *

The wind cut cold across Skyhold’s battlements, chilling the sweat that stood out stark against Cullen’s face as he caught sight of the line of horses speeding toward the front gate.  He wavered, swaying on his feet, the pounding in his head increasing threefold.  Aadhlei rode at the forefront, he recognized her not by her mount but by the shade of her cloak and the staff strapped to her back.  He had held out some shred of hope that the sight of her might bolster the last cracking remains of his resolve, that he might find strength enough to endure for her sake, if not for his.  Maker, he had hoped….

Meredith’s voice rang out in his head, cold and sharp as a surgeon’s blade.  Your pride will be the death of her.

It was in his head.  It was only in his head this time, and he knew it.  But even that could not stop the twisting in his chest.  There was no comfort here.  No comfort anywhere.  A small sound, weak and defeated, escaped his lips in a rush of white vapor.

I can’t.

Though his knees felt hot and loose and ready to buckle, they bore him swiftly enough down the stairs towards the place where the Seeker stood, testing a fresh blade.  “A word please, Lady Cassandra.  I require your...opinion on a matter.”

She regarded him coolly, casting a brief glance to the gate as shouts of the Inquisitor’s approach rang out.  “I don’t suppose I need to ask what this is about.”

“In private,” he half-snarled, jerking his head toward the door of the smithy.  “Please.”

Cassandra gave him an assessing look, then nodded grimly.  “As you say.”

Cullen strode ahead, shoving the door open with enough force to startle one of Harritt’s apprentices into dropping the sword he was grinding.

“Out,” Cullen said, pointing at the far door.

“Begging your pardon, Commander?” Harritt said, his eyebrows hovering about halfway up his bald head in his surprise.  “All due respect, ser, but this is my-”

“Out!”

The apprentices were out the door before Harritt had even the chance to toss the half-forged steel back in the embers.  He followed, begrudgingly, bitching under his breath as he went.

As the door shut behind him, Cassandra spoke.  “The answer is no.”

Cullen turned on his heel, wobbling.  “Do I have no say in this at all?”

“If I thought it necessary, Cullen, I would have relieved you of your command already.  That I have not should be the only answer you need.”

“Maker’s breath, will you just listen to me?”

She folded her arms, scowling.  “Very well, Commander.  I am listening.”

“I,” he faltered almost immediately, pride again taking control of his tongue.  He set to pacing in front of the forge, sweat pouring down the sides of his face to pool under his armor.  Maker how could he sweat, he was bloody freezing.  Slowly the words ground out of him.  “I cannot do this.”

He began to unpack it, or at least he tried to, giving a halting index of symptoms and incidents.  Try as he might, he couldn’t quite find the words to explain the worst of it, dancing around the visions and voices and memories with all the care of a wounded animal trying to hide a lame and mangled leg.  When he had finished as best he could he turned again to Cassandra, breathing a little too raggedly, hoping to see some shift in her face, some sign she understood.

“I do not believe your concerns to be unfounded, Commander,” she began.

“Thank you.” “However, I do not believe it warrants your resignation or replacement.”

“What?” he spat, incredulous.

“We face our first true test of battle as a unified force against Corypheus soon.  It is understandable that you might begin to doubt-”

“This is beyond doubt, Seeker.  If I am made to lead our people into battle in this condition we will fail.  Our people will die.  The Inquisitor will- I cannot let that happen!  I will not!”

Cassandra’s scowl deepened.  “You asked for my opinion and I’ve given it.  What more do you expect of me?”

“I expect you to keep your word,” Cullen sneered, rubbing at another sudden spike at his temples.  “It’s relentless, I can’t-”

“You give yourself too little credit,” she said.  

Another time he might’ve seen it for what it was - a compliment, a confidence in his abilities.  But he was too fogged with pain and the nattering of too-close memories.  The sweat was in his eyes, stinging, and the smell of fire and steel lit up his nerves.

“If I’m unable to fulfill what vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this.  Would you rather save face than admit-”

The door behind him swung open quietly, the faintest squeak of a hinge, and he wheeled at the sound.  “I said get OUT!” he roared.

And then his eyes cleared, and all his fire died.  Standing in the doorway, wind-chapped and exhausted in her stained travelling clothes, was Aadhlei.  She stared at him for a long beat, too shocked to speak.  Coward that he was, he couldn’t bear the thought of what she might say when her voice returned.  Cullen hung his head and stalked out the door, too ashamed to look at her, mumbling in a low and ragged voice: “Forgive me.”

Part of him was sure she wouldn’t.  Another part of him, small and painfully bitter, was sure she would.  He could not say which was worse.

#da:i fanfic #cullen rutherford #cullen x lavellan #cullavellan #oc: aadhlei #da:i #this was terrifying to write y'all #I just want you to know that #so anyway here's the hurt #the comfort is still being edited #but heyyy #for like the two of you waiting for this: it's here

[quillheart-blog]

So Goemon, Right...

As a character, he doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, and given his lack of screen time over all in the last 50 years, I don’t think he does to anyone else, either.  And that’s not to diss him, but rather to say that from a character construction standpoint, he’s not very well-rounded.

In fact, I find a lot of points about him contradictory, and not in a purposeful way.  For instance, there’s the running gag that nothing is worth sullying his sword over. But the dude comes from a line of disreputable types, so why would he care? He’s constantly dousing himself under water, presumably because he doesn’t have enough self control, but he has the most self control of anyone in the group. Is this ever explored from his point of view? Nope. He’s supposed to be “every samurai trope rolled into one,” but even that lacks a savory juice; it’s out of place and underutilized, because it never interacts with the other characters’ supposed Japanese sides.  It would be the perfect vehicle to address “levels of Japanese-ness,” if there is such a thing, or at least the other characters’ familiarity with the culture/country.  But never is this brought up. This lack of cohesion makes him very hard for me to write, despite really wanting to.  

So instead, I wanted to share with you what I find works for Goemon. 

I find that it works much better to imagine him as coming from a reputable family, but something went wrong, and so now he has to be a ronin working for disreputable types.  His inner conflict comes from his moral need to serve a master properly, even when that master is bad.  Therefore, in my fan theory of “he bills Lupin by the swing, thus why he doesn’t do very much” (a nice, hand-wavey way to deal with the fact that he’s overpowered in otherwise realistic combat), it’s easier to construe that billing process as a way to keep Lupin under control as a negative force, when his position relative to Lupin wouldn’t normally allow it (even by Goemon’s own standards).  But then again, putting money to his services at all sullies his reputation in his own mind, so he ends up getting rich off his misdeeds, and of course requires further meditation to deal with it.

I also personally enjoy these ideas:

+ Goemon as older than Lupin by a few years, but younger than Jigen by about the same amount, thus giving him some struggles with Lupin’s age, when viewed through the traditional Japanese social hierarchy. (But some delicious looking-up to Jigen-sempai shoot me for using that term you can never unread it.)

+ Goemon being secretly fascinated by how Jigen can be so similarly principled as a warrior even though he uses the “dirty shortcut” of a gun

+ Goemon being an outcast from his greater family structure, with some sort of upper-crust political intrigue going on.  Probably with an old and mean matriarchal gangster leader just because I love them because those women are always boss even if they’re villains you’re supposed to hate. + His family mansion is hella haunted and that’s what they blame the family misfortune on. Lupin will probably learn the secret of it someday, helping lift the curse. + Viewing the other characters’ partial Japanese heritage through Goemon’s old-money purebred one.  Where he struggles with the old fashioned ideals that would normally make these people outcast and “unworthy,” but finding in himself a better man as he guides them to spiritually connect with that part of themselves they may never have gotten the chance to fully know. (Assuming Lupin and Jigen never grew up in Japan, in that scenario.)  In so doing, he also learns more about his own identity and place, which he was estranged from because of his ongoing family issues.  [chime] The more you know~ + Goemon seeing Fujiko as “the boss’s woman” and all that seedy goodness ala black-and-white samurai movies

(In this scenario, a more Green-jacket dark-and-shady Koike-type, Fujiko is an equal part of the team, but that causes him struggle, because he’s been trained that you have to protect the boss’s woman at all costs to save face for the group--and not get your ass handed to you by said boss.  So he always goes in thinking he’s gonna protect her, but she ends up saving him when he inevitably screws up her rhythm, and they agree to not talk about it.  But of course Fujiko tells Lupin, and, shady character he is, he gets this pleased, smoldering leer in his eye whenever he sees Goemon after one of these escapades, and when asked just wanders away with an “oh nothing~” and poor Goemon thinks Lupin’s got ideas in his head about Goemon that are that way. And well this fanfic about samurai being uber traditional so maybe why not eh? Since Jigen Sempai hasn’t noticed him yet, not in the way he wants)

I said it again okay shoot me in each knee I guess

Anyway. Just some fun food for the fanfic thought.  Thanks for reading!

#Goemon Ishikawa XIII #lupin iii #fan theory #ideas #fanfic

[the-truth-behind-redacted]

Red light; Blue light

I shall be treating my writings as an official documentation of events that have happened and those that will. Therefore, I will be writing as if I was reporting information to someone then that of a regular journal. If I make it out of this place, it will be easier and much simpler to turn in this journal than give a full mouth recount. Not only will it be more accurate as I'm writing things down as they happen but it will save time. If I'm to die before I can make it, at least people will have an easy account to read as it was already formatted with the expectation that someone will read it if ever found.

Dear Locket, Entry 1

When I awoke today everything seemed the same but I'm sure it wasn't what it was before. All I can see around me is a vast empty black space as I lay on a solitary purple path. I searched through the assortment of items in a bag attached to my waist with a familiar but unknown language inscribed onto it but I found nothing of use. On my body, I wear a set of crystalline armor of unknown make or build with no marking to suggest who or what made it, where, and how. I've looked through this very journal I write in and found 32 pages worth or writings that I can no longer read or recognize that I know were written by me. What I write now is in the form of strange runic symbols which I do not know how I know or how I can read and speak it. Something had changed, most likely for the worst.

I wracked myself on what happened before I arrived at this void and what I remember only compounds the mystery. The last thing I remember was entering what seemed to be a "castle" constructed from the flesh of the dead and damned. The screams of agony and writhing faces of those just consumed were clear as day as me and a group of soldier I no longer recognize entered. Creatures that looked like a mix of real-world animals and misshapen lumps of gore and teeth bombarded us as we slowly gain ground. The smell of rancid meat, the constant blood dripping from the ceiling, the sound of the shifting flesh, and the stress of the never-ending attack made the experience, and the recollection, terrible.

When we entered well over two hundred of us were together. When we reached the throne about 15 of us remained. Much unlike the rest of the "castle", the throne was something, bearable. Constructed of what seemed like grey marble, great pillars climbed up hundreds of feet. The entire surface of the room was entangled with a red string that reaches the very peak of the room and twisted together to form a massive chandler.  A palpitating chamber loosely hung from the chandler with an amber liquid dripping. At the very back of the room sat a dainty man in a formal black shirt. His pants were a solid black with black shoes. Compared to the solid fleshy red and pink from before, the change to completely black ignoring the strings was a pleasant shift. The relief was short lived.

The enigmatic being spoke at the time gibberish I now know, "I apologize for the bleak chamber. I had little time to prepare this abode. I'm simply here for the final curtain but I did grow weary of the wait. Mind to provide a prelude?" After his words were spoken, the palpitating sack bust and a flood of the amber liquid come down. A small slab of flesh fell and violently flopped on the ground. 12 of us 15 let down our guard while the man spoke and this cost dearly. The flab stopped flopping then quickly expanding letting our more of the red string to go forward. The three of us ready turned on our shields which burned the tentacles that tried to grab us.

Those who weren't on guard were instantly disemboweled and assembled into the slab. The substance those bodies provided created our final challenge for what it was worth. At first, the slab consumed and expanded into a weird ball of flesh, bone, and the metal of the people's armor and weapons then began to take form. Two appendages launched forward and stilted the ball balancing it's unstable "body." It elongated and randomly reorganized it's shape until it favored something. The stilts thickened and plasma claws encased in metal formed at their ends. The clawed flesh lifted the mass up and allowed two more extensions to form underneath the main mass.

The legs coiled and then split 1/4 it's total length to the ground, about a meter. The front part split again and form two hoofed looking feet. The backs at first looked the be just another hoof but a massive metal talon formed at the very back. The to be "arms" positioned themselves properly. The metallic parts at the surface of the unformed mass sunk underneath and a bulk of flesh became the surface. The back then had bone burst out which quickly got covered by flesh and muscle and formed two more outward extensions. Metal then come around and formed a funnel that plasma energy blasted from at first then sealed. As the body finished its shifting it had broad shoulders with an open center. Its center was very dense in muscle and tendons. The flesh moved to a wide open space at its center. A weird jelly looking liquid rushed and filled the core of the tendons and a singular eye with a messy pupil color formed. Plating then quickly covered its body with a strange hatch being created to protect the eye.

An abnormal bone structure came from the top which, as everything before, was then covered in muscles, flesh, then metal. With what little flesh that hadn't found a final form, a head was created. The rushing bone was molded to create first a jaw. It bent upwards allowing an empty space then encased over the top. At the top antlers looking extension went up and created a jagged crown. The flesh moved and finished its head. No eyes or nose were noticeable on the head. It had two mouths, one near its neck and the other as the majority of its face. The one nearest to the neck had jacked outcropping teeth. A long slender bladed tongue loosely hung out. The face mouth caved in with hooks. As it straightened itself on its abnormal legs the lower mouth let out a cackle as the other widen and expanded showing a great funnel with teeth squirming attempting to drag whatever gets caught inside to the stomach.

The admonition stood around a towering 10 meters. While not quite as horrific as the things outside and not even the tallest, it would certainly be the strongest with our own technology against us, it seemed. The person to my right quickly charged the monster and was dispatched quickly. The man in his charge winded his hand axe to his back and ready a large ark. Responding quicker than what you would think possible of it, the beast jumped back as the man reached rang and swung his axe down. I could catch the quick moment of horror on his face realizing his mistake.

The beast crashed its claws downwards, flaying his armor and sending him to the ground. Then in an unexpected move, one of the two funnels on it's back, flipping at a joint and pointed down at the center of the man. The sound of the man's gasp was cut short as his midsection got blasted in two by a contracted beam of plasma. Picking up the upper half of his body it dropped it into the face mouth. The hatch on the stomach opened and focused on us.

I fired at the eye but the hatch sealed before I pull the trigger. The beast was sent down from the force and let out a manic cry. The other person now moved forward but didn't rush it. Lifting itself using its arm the monster regained footing and attempted opening the hatch. At first, it seemed as if it was going to move but it failed. Already distressed the monster let out a crazed call as the blade from the other guy removed one of its thin legs. While the other guy backed away from the spazzing arms I aimed a shot at its head killing it. While it appeared scary, it was body form was impractical making it very vulnerable.

I then heard the sounds of a person in pain and turned to see the other man was being hailed in a torrent of blazing hot needles seemingly from the ether. As his life was snuffed out the man in the back spoke again.

"It was as I feared it appears. The base didn't have enough time to mature. The liquid was still amber. The construction was retarded." I looked at him, aimed and fired. The recoil pushed back on my arms and a stream of light burst forward. A flash blinded me and the sound of marble being destroyed filled my ears. Over in an instant, I regained vision only to see the man was unharmed and a hole had been blasted into the wall on his left side. I aimed once more and kept firing until my gun was near overheating. He had to be the source of the hell, he had to die.

"It's all so primitive. You're not even free of your form. What hope do you have against us transcendent? Here, let me something you could never believe." From there I felt my lungs flood with something. A crushing force pushed against all my body and an unspeakable agony flared inside me. All air left me and my vision blurred. I desperately fought to stay conscious but the more I tried to breathe the more pain I felt and the more my vision loss.

"Tell me what you saw. Once we meet again, of course." Then everything went black and I awoke in this strange world. If there is anything I can draw relief from, it is that I already know what to expect from a world by that being's making. Though, honestly, I'm not sure how much comfort that does give as I never want to see another one of those damned things ever again. The silence is welcomed despite everything. Anything is better than the flexing of flesh.

                                                        ...

Dear Locket, Entry 2

I am unsure of the time here. Some kind of cycle exists as it's far brighter now than what it was when I first awoke. Of course, that may all be a farse due to the increase of paths I can see. At the current moment, 52 different paths are noticeable though I can't tell for how long they go, and more importantly, where. It feels as if I wonder a labyrinth, but instead of a giant room with countless walls, it's an entire dimension of walkways. I'd almost wish it was a dimension of winding walls instead of open paths. At any moment a creature can come at me from any angle and who knows what they can do? It doesn't even seem that the strange man from that hell knows. This leads me to some things that have been bothering me.

That man said that "...what hope do you have against us transcendent." If he can send me to this place why does he want me to tell him, "What I saw," when we meet again? He had to be the one who summoned those red needles so why didn't he kill me? What was it exactly he did to me that made me feel all that pain? He mentioned that the monster we killed in his throne formation was retarded because it was underdeveloped, so, what would it have been if it was fully formed? He seems to have control over those monstrosities but looked normal himself. Why is that? Was it magic he was using to deflect my shots and if it was, how did he learn a dead art that has been forgotten? What does he mean that he was merely there for the "final curtain?" Why was he so human despite everything else around him? Finally, I remember looking directly at his face but I can't remember a single detail beside one dead glossy eye with no feeling or expression inside.

Needless to say, there are many questions that need to be answered and that is only from that moment. I've also come to remember more about the castle. There were too many oddities and question to list that that "castle" gave. It wasn't entirely constructed of flesh as there were rooms that seemed to be constructed to relate to some of our feelings, memories, and fates. The material to create the rooms varied from basic metals, woods, and dense weaves of plants. Some showed a person's darkest secrets, other showed a minimized version of how they are to die, and others were simply there to mess with their heads. While anomalous, we came to appreciate them.

The castle was large and enigmatic about its size, like everything else there, and it took what felt like weeks to actually get through. However, the terrors that lived in almost all of the castle didn't dare enter the rooms nor send anything inside meaning we had a safe space to rest and create a plan to get through the next floor. There was about one of them per floor and we entered I'd say around thirty. At first, we moved through the floors quickly, well rested and armed to the teeth. This didn't last long as the deeper we got the more there was and the longer we went on the slower we got. The semi-final floor was when everything came to head with the monster merging with one another because there simply wasn't enough space despite how massive everything was for the beasts to move.

The final floor was an oddity, even among this inexplicable place. Everything was dead, metaphorically. All the flesh the floor was made out of stopped squirming. Not a single scream or moan from the damned assimilated to the walls. No blood dripped from the ceiling, and not a single monster to be seen. All there was was the vast open rooms and a single feminine voice recounting a story in the language I no longer understand. There are three words I could recognize. These words are "Fall," "Child," and "hero." While I do not write them in their regular transcript but the words that share their meaning of this language I now know, it's still effectively the same.

As for when I write these entries. I have no need to use basic facilities anymore. The feelings for sleep, food, or restroom are lost on me. Nor the effects of exhaustion or fatigue. The weight of the equipment I carry is surely hefty. With my armor being made of a pure crystal substance, weapon, and other equipment such as writing utensils, it would only make sense me feeling the effect of having them. However, as I can tell they aren't weightless, their push against me feels that of a feather dropping onto a hand. Without any means to inspect me, with the armor having no obvious way to get it off without destroying it, I have no way of knowing if I'm still the same old me that I've always been.

I don't feel like I've been here for long but between the endless walking and the writing of these entries, I must have been here for a few days at least. I can't help but wonder what has happened to my home. For now, all I can do is ask "what if's" and that'll get me a momentous nowhere. I have nowhere else to be or go so I guess I'll just have to keep walking. I fear that I've already got bored of walking in this strange place. Though I know to be careful of what you wish for, especially since all that's happened, but I hope I encounter something other than endless roads. Sadly, there is no wood to knock on.

                                                        ...

Dear Locket, Entry 3

There's still been a lot of nothing but I still have a few things to note. The first and most obvious is that the amount of paths has increased massively. Some of these paths are beginning to get uncomfortably close to one another. There have been a few instances where I've had to climb over another path and jump down back onto the one I'm currently walking to move on. With everything I'm wearing it's asinine to try and go under as if I get caught between two, I have no one to help me out. Of course, I have all the time in the where ever the fuck I am to get out but I'm not sure I would like to get stuck now that I know I'm not alone.

While I haven't directly seen anything I have heard plenty. The horrific cries of a thing(s) that sound like a pack of rabid demons. I honestly can't tell if it's one or many things that are making that cry because, for all I know, it might be one thing with a thousand heads. It sounded angry and I did hear the sound of distant explosions meaning that it might have been attacking something. Of course, it might be the only other thing in here that's gone mad but I for some reason highly doubt I'm that lucky. If you can call being put in this situation lucky, anyway.

Another terrifying thought to haunt decided to grace me as I jumped over another colliding path. What happens if I fall off the trail. It seems almost mandatory to fly to get anywhere of substance in this place so, what if I fall into the void below. I have no wings. I can't be too sure that there's any kind of ground and how far down would it be. Gravity seems to be in effect or else I would've floated off somewhere in the deep black above. The only light I've encountered are the paths themselves and if the black has a ground then why the paths that clearly aren't a help in finding the way here. A labyrinth this is.

As for theories to where I am. As crazy as this may seem but I feel that this is some kind of purgatory. With the pain, I felt before awakening here, I can't help but think I died. To why the strange man sent me here instead of assimilating me to the castle I don't know. There is clearly great importance in him telling me to tell him what I saw. He seemed to speak only in past tense which I can't help but think a bit strange. Almost as if he's feigning ignorance. If he is feigning ignorance, however, why make it so obvious? It's like I'm trapped in some kind of game or story but that can't be right...right?

An odd thought just came to me. What if that odd man originates from this world. If he really is feigning ignorance then he already knows what's in this place and it would fit with this weird game like the setup. The castle could represent the struggle of life. The death, if that is what it was, shows that I lived through all of life. All the struggles, actions of others, pain and joy. Of course, this doesn't fit with everything of the castle but right now this is the best I got.

Where I am now is purgatory or the journey to the afterlife. The in-between of mortality and eternity. Maybe the long expanse I'm wondering is allowing me to relive all the time of my life, remembering everything back from the end to beginning. Once I've gone the distance I'll end up in my final judgment which I can't help but think will be Hell. There I will re-meet that strange man and I'll be cast to torment for the rest of time. This all sounds crazy! Completely and totally. All this time to myself can't be good.

If my theory is correct that would make that man the Devil himself. That would kind of explain his odd demeanor, why this would be like a game to him and the hellish place he exited. It could also cover what he means by being there for the "Final Curtain." The Rapture. What if the story the female voice told was the tale of Jesus. Maybe Adam and Eve would fit the roles a bit more than Jesus. Maybe not. I have lost my mind, clearly.

Just as the last touch on this me forgetting everything and then slowly remembering is me having my life flash before me. Though I wouldn't exactly call this a "flash", more like a slow and equally drawn out recollection of my life in real time. I wonder if I will remember things that I've forgotten. This raises the somewhat obvious question, how can I be sure what I'm remembering is correct or, if it is, how do I know if I'd forgotten it? Will I be aware that I had forgotten it when I remember. I mean, I'm aware that the castle's events are recent unless that's a lie too? I guess I can add this to the tally of questions.

#Purple #Writing #First entry #Story #Update #Story Tag: New born Essence #Story Tag: Beginnings of Rapture #Story Tag: Locket account #Time tag: Uncertain #Area Tag: ?!? #Chapter 1: You were better off not knowing #The casting wires #Echo echo #Am I who I think I am #Impurity #Devil? #Understanding Chaos #Life passage #Purgatory

[thurisazsalail]

i was having such fun dreams

i forget how it started out- one of those things that shift into other dreams as you go along, and you forget the first sequence was ever there somehow i was younger, an alternate life. never got married, wasn’t living out of my car. tiny apartment to myself, working a regular job, running the pagan shop, had a car that ran without needing major repairs all the time. much less anxiety. wasn’t sick all the time or battling the disability things. a better life in a lot of ways. and i’d gotten work on this reality show as a supplier. i got cut out as a consultant really quick because i would provide actual historic info and... that’s not what they’re going for. -ish. 

so this reality show, it’s kind of like ghost hunters or whatever?? but not quite. it was something about ‘living a magical life’ in suburbia, not too close to the city but not too far out of it either. the kind of outskirts of the suburbs. and ‘strange happenings’ were documented all over the ‘neighbourhood’ (it was one house, but y’know, reality tv). my job is to be able to drop everything and deliver whatever they needed for a filming (shooting, which is a word that in my neighbourhood means something very different heh). they need an orange candle and two shells at 3am? wake your ass up and have it there in 20 minutes. That kind of job. but it paid really well, and sometimes an extra or an actor or whoever would want to shop my shop, which was neatly contained at all times in the back of my car for the show. some chick in her early 20s was one of the ‘stars’ doing magic in this house. in one bedroom, the symbol for fire (a big triangle maybe a foot and a half high) was painted on the wall. the show did get something right; even birthday candles are useful for ritual magic. she was .... how can i describe it. ‘spiritually muddy’, does that make sense?? not ‘dirty’, but clouded. unsure beliefs, no real structure, everywhere all at one and yet not thinking anything specific. Just this idea that she wanted magic to be real, to make things happen... and wouldn’t it be better if she could get real results, for something scary or powerful to happen?  ::sighs:: at some point, i come on set with some things in blues and blacks, water stuff. there’s this... black thing that looks remarkably like someone’s blackened, severed calf (like, lower part of a leg, minus the foot) on the floor. with some weird blistery beige stuff embedded.  apparently for the show, they did a segment about some ancient ritual from the cyprus area (this part, complete fantasy, but who knows). mixing hair shaved from a sick person (must specifically be from the head, if possible), with a grain/honey mixture rubbed onto their skin and then scraped off. mix it with volcanic ash and ash from ... now that I’m awake, I forget. a precious resin, maybe? mix this with the hair and the honey/oat mixture and bake it, hardened. the blisters that form from the honey/grains will tell if the person gets better. i told them not to be doing any ‘old magic’. i told them. i supplied them with tv-friendly ‘modern magic’, spell-poems mixed with modern, accessible ideas about colour magic and such for a reason, with just a line here or there about something ‘old’ or ancient, something rendered harmless. ‘old magic’ means ‘old gods’, ‘old spirits’. they have no business messing with that.  you know how you shouldn’t mix milk with meats? and if you want, say, almond milk with a beef knish, you should put an almond sliver or something to float in the glass so it doesn’t appear that you are breaking rules? being near the thing was like this. the drive to pick it up and dispose of it, but the sound magical warning not to, but i cannot transport it by using paper or sticks or something else because of the act like picking it up.  they just couldn’t help themselves, could they. 

the need for something ‘old’ to come. something real. something scary. makes good tv.

so something old came. making the delivery, she’s messing with small candles- on the bed??? reading wax drippings or somesuch on the fabric. something nearby on paper, parchment-looking. i stay out of sight of the cameras. they edit out some sounds later, but why make more work?

they leave. she’s finishing up. i forget what she’s chattering about. like the sound editors, i also edit out what most people say and stay noncommital<--->friendly to actors. no one keeps their job by being ‘unfriendly’, uncooperative. i’m about to leave when i feel the air shift, like a vacuum, less of a scream and more of a rumble of dis-ease. actress chick is scared of something. of what? i can sense she isn’t alone in that room anymore. i didn’t see anyone walk in. 

i go back to the room, past a camera crew discussing the next scenes, order of events, etc. there’s a guy who reminds me of gordon ramsay talking about what costs more- just leaving the cameras to roll or stop-starting. was i imagining it?? or were they acting like actual strange things were starting to happen in this house? i could see that. psychic energy stirred up, like a poltergeist. too much energy, too much expectance in one small place. buzzing like a hive. people might even start seeing things that aren’t there, psychosis of expecting. 

i call her a girl, but she’s fucking grown and should know better already. do i put much stock in every wind shift or odd creak in a house? no. i put about as much stock in most superstitions as i do in The Craft being a documentary. even something being old or antique has about the same power; everything was contemporary, once. doesn’t mean much. but there are some things, beyond human memory, beyond our stories that we can’t touch. why every human has a terrible, unspeakable reaction to the pale thing with dark eyes, long teeth, and a red mouth in the dark? why every human thinks of the dense trees as whispering, alive at night when walking. every human “remembers” a world before humans had power, populace like this. some of us remember better than others. there are some things... some things, they call up memories of lives we never had. of people we cannot name, and once actively trying to recall, we forgot what the image ever was.

i open her door. there’s less than a quarter inch of a candle on the bed. she keeps trying to light it before giving up. she has a small desk with a bookshelf hutch over it. i said something to her, about this being ineffective, and that charred block needs to be out of here. it isn’t a prop anymore. but what would I know? something like a strange tear, not like smoke but more like old velvet, then linen appears, forming a two-faced human-like old man, yellowish, aged skin covered in liver spots, pockmarks. long tunic-like garment. like janus, one face on each side. something that i thought i might have the hebrew word for, but it was older than hebrew ever was, and it was never a “jewish” demon by any means. these ran the place before hebrew people ever reached that land. something from near where the honey/ash/grain spell came from. the closest thing i can think of in my quiet horror is ‘shedim’. or shed? two faces- does that make it shed or shedim? if I ask a rabbi, i might have three answers. 

shedim hasn’t noticed me- in english, that grammar makes most sense. two functioning as one. it only speaks to her. the other face speaks to itself. it is a language i’ve never heard, one that i suspect goes back before humans had names. i hear english, intent. the energy has intent, regardless of language. layered sounds not really spoken but heard regardless. she is horrified, paralyzed. not by shedim, but by realization that she got what she wanted. isn’t this what she wanted?

people think of two-faced creatures as such that are game-like for clever humans, one telling truth and one telling lies. we don’t like to think of them as both telling the truth in two perspectives, two opinions. we don’t like this- it’s uncomfortable. i told her a truth: this is her own fault. she called. something old came. did she know better? yes and no. no one, not any of us, could prepare for the shedim advancing on her. but was she warned? yes. i warned her. all of them. that this wasn’t right. to some extent, this space will become Real. a construct. and if they don’t use the energy... someone who wants it will come. 

this shedim was of the sort where one face spoke and wanted conversation. it could weave conversation like a net, like a snare. be careful what you say. what you don’t say. it is safest to answer nothing. like dealing with the american police- invoking the 5th amendment, the right to silence, requires specifically speaking to invoke the 5th amendment. the other is all about implementing, in doing. it isn’t “all talk”, as if the two are separate. and they aren’t. they are two faces on one entity. like a lawyer, i know that verbal agreements are also a ‘physical’ thing, tangible to those who agree to them. she asks me for help, to lock it up, to just... do a spell! for banishment! but i can’t. i don’t know what kind of thing this is to banish. and he is more real than your magic. you called. you brought him here. them. aren’t i afraid? i can’t tell if she asks me or if the shedim who Does Things had asked. papery, whisper-weak voices. of course i’m afraid. it’s energy is spider-like, creeping, spreading the way decaying flesh bloats and then sags, revealing the bruises and veins of a corpse post-mortem. but i say there is and isn’t anything to fear. neutral as possible, vague as i can manage. “but he’s a monster! a demon!” and a hurricane is a storm. what is your point? you called, they came. they were here before humans had names. they are not unnatural, any more than we are. they are as they are created. can’t you have some respect?

“what if it kills you?” so what if it does. if i die, i die. i’ll be just as dead from a shedim than as from a volcano, or a hurricane, or anything else. i cannot stop him, or control him. i have no want to. it’s nothing personal.

shedim who Does Things looks at me from the side of is face, the other still fixed on the girl pressing herself closer to the wall. it must be hard for him to look at us when i’m at a 90 degree angle from her. its eyes look like they might have been humanoid once. maybe? or they were always animal-like, the way we impress human features on others being a sign of our own species’ arrogance, or our desire to find common ground. it’s eyes shine like black milky glass set into bruised sockets, mottled to look like all one dark space. i lean into the doorframe so that it might get a better look at me and nod to it before also staring at her. i’ve tuned out her blustering again. she’s sinking to the floor. i meant it, shedim. if i die, i die. i can’t really stop you. i hope my death isn’t protracted or painful, but eh. it’ll be what it is.  i don’t know if i left? I think i did. but i know i woke up with a kitten on my face, tapping at my head madly before bouncing off my bed at a high speed

[patrick-weeks]

Dear Family, You’re Being Manipulated

PREFACE: If you are a family member I IMPLORE you to read this in its entirety. Yes, I know it’s long, but I think if you have the time to release your relentless judgement on my mother, you have ten minutes to listen to the other side. You don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. Period.  I want you to read this in order to LISTEN, and COMPREHEND—NOT so you can figure out how to rebut. If you are a friend, this will be a bit TMI for you, but I can’t stop you from reading it. Continue with discretion if you decide to read.

I was going to hold off making this post until after the holidays to spare any family reading this from negative emotions during a supposedly happy time of the year, but when Abby, my TEN YEAR OLD sister is sobbing in the bathroom because her grandmother texted her and called her a “nasty little girl” on Christmas Eve, that’s not something I feel is possible anymore.

SHORT VERSION OF PART I and II: (again, if you are a family member, PLEASE read the full parts).

Tommy has been abusive to my mother, my sister, and I for as long as I can remember. He is a manipulative narcissist. He used money to manipulate us, and the household was always extremely toxic. After the divorce, he claimed he wanted to rebuild our relationship. I foolishly bought into it, but it was all insincere and manipulative, I later found out.

SHORT VERSION OF PART III:

I moved out/was kicked out of the house due to a verbal altercation between Tommy and I, where he admitted he didn’t believe he did anything wrong, proving his attempt to rebuild a relationship was founded on lies. My mother and her fiancé came to pick me and Abby up, and we left that night.

PART I: Background

As many of you know, my mother (Julie) separated from Tommy Weeks in July, causing quite a stir within both sides of the family, and within my sister and I. My mother had been realizing the necessity of this split for years, but wasn’t financially stable enough to do so and was in perpetual denial . However, after acquiring a new job and some soul searching, she made the decision.

I was immediately happy about this decision. I have had a terrible relationship with Tommy for my entire life. He has been physically, verbally, and emotionally abusive to me for all of my childhood and adolescence. This includes, but is NOT limited to:

- constant screaming, name calling, and degradation all throughout childhood (Age 4-18)

- several instances of aggressively striking my face, usually more than once at a time (Age 6-13)

- sitting me down to tell me directly “I don’t like you” (Age 9)

- multiple instances of degrading me about my weight in ways that were NOT constructive(Age 11-13)

- telling me during a car ride that “I’m not important” (Age 15)

- choking/strangling me against a wall to the point of light-headedness (Age 15)

- body slamming me onto hard wood flooring after a long physical struggle due to a verbal altercation that escalated into violence (Age 16).

These are only the most significant things I can remember off the top of my head that have stuck with me into adulthood. The abuse was chronic, and is PERFECTLY described by this post entitled “The narcissist playbook.” Read if you would like to further understand the kind of emotional and psychological abuse, manipulation, and degradation that occurred in the household:

https://www.reddit.com/r/raisedbynarcissists/comments/a916w9/the_narcissist_playbook/

The environment of the house was always one structured in fear. We had to walk on eggshells in order to never upset him. Him being upset meant verbal degradation and physical pain. You could never critique any action of his or he would get mad. He would combat any critique of his actions or character by reciting how much he does for us.  He used gifts and money to manipulate us. He would make us feel like a monetary burden, and would constantly guilt us of how much we cost him. If you had any problem with him, you were unappreciative for what he does for you or what he’s bought you. Money was always his biggest manipulative tool.

Now that that’s out of the way, I hope you can understand how toxic this household was. If he was like this to his son, you can only imagine what he was like towards his wife. I don’t believe there were any instances of physical abuse between the two, but there were absolutely years and years of verbal and emotional abuse towards my mother (again, perfectly described in the link above). I would not wish the amount of suffering she’s been through on anyone. But, due to everyone’s immature lack of understanding that there ARE two sides to EVERY story, my mom was judged relentlessly for her decision to divorce. Especially by her close family members who turned their back on her, again, without knowing what goes on behind closed doors.

PART II: The Divorce and Rebuilding

After the separation, Tommy broke down the next time I saw him and sobbed in my lap, apologizing profusely. He admitted “he really fucked up.” He BEGGED me to let him fix our relationship. This was really hard to immediately come to terms with, due to the life I just previously described. After what must have been two hours of this, I gave in. I decided that I would give him that second chance at our relationship. He started going to therapy for his anger management problems. I would visit him across the street, where he was staying, every two or three days to have hour-long conversations with him. I was stunned. I felt like a relationship was actually developing. I felt he truly meant the kind things he was saying to me.

Then, I went to college. My first semester were the absolute best months of my life. However, I also had a lot of time to think and consider my relationship with Tommy. He would call me often, and usually always end up trying to talk about the divorce. Eventually all talk on the phone turned VERY anti-Julie, and I began to realize I was being manipulated yet again. This was very off putting, and I began to ignore some of his texts and calls, not wanting that daily dose of negativity he tried to give me. He would always call or text me about my mother, trying to get me on his side. This was a slow realization, but it finally came to fruition when he told me “When your mother gets hurt and hits rock bottom, I’m not gonna be there when she comes crawling back.” I was extremely taken aback. I explained how it’s cruel that he wants and is expecting that to happen. I told him I couldn’t be in support of that mindset. This led the conversation to me telling him how I had this creeping feeling that none of relationship building he had done was genuine. He insured me this was not the case. I was still very suspicious, but I did not completely abandon hope at that point. There started to be more instances of aggression, including a phone call where he screamed at the top of his lungs at me while I was eating in the dining hall, because I was upset with him because he betrayed my trust (long story, not worth it). This was when I had the feeling my suspicions were correct, considering he had promised to never scream at me again a few months prior.

Winter break arrived, and he came to pick me up. I didn’t put up any walls, and I didn’t fake any feelings. I was stern and short in my interactions with him because I was upset by his recent actions, and he noticed. He could tell I was slipping from his manipulative grip.

PART III: Moving Out

On December 20, 2018, I moved out/was kicked out of my childhood home (I say moved out/kicked out, because I was told to leave and to get out, but I was happy to do so and put up no resistance.).

That night when Tommy came home, he attempted to make conversation with me in my room. I did not want to make conversation with him, as all of these thoughts about manipulation and betrayal were at the forefront of my mind, considering I was supposed to go to Florida with him and my sister for a week, starting Dec 26. I was dreading this trip, as I knew it was just a way to get us on “his side.” Keep in mind, this was also Abby’s birthday present, and he promised he would take her.

When I came down to eat dinner, it was just him and I at the table. He asked me if something was wrong, and I said no. He said it seemed like I was mad at him. I said I wasn’t, I was just miserable whenever I came home because of the negative energy due to the divorce. He proceeded to be highly, personally offended by this statement, and rambled for a few minutes, and then proceeded to bring up almost every single past major argument we’ve ever had, all of which have been previously resolved. He was looking for a fight. Then when we were talking about the reason our relationship is bad and the reasons for the divorce he said, very dramatically, “You know what Patrick? I did nothing wrong.” Smile on his face. No remorse. He blatantly admitted that every single thing he had shoved down my throat for the past six months about being sorry and wanting to change and accepting responsibility was a lie. My true feelings came out. I told him pretty much everything I said in Part I of this post. He was screaming and I was battling to be heard. I called him out on lying to me for months and he responded with “You know what? Fine.  Go live with your mother. Leave. I’m done with you. I’ll see you on the other side.” Abby obviously heard this altercation and called Mom, who called the police to come and make sure nothing violent happened. Mom asked me if  I wanted to go with her and Abby, and I said yes. I left that night, and only returned the next day to retrieve all of my belongings from the house. I am now living with Abby and my mother in her apartment.

That same night I moved out, Tommy texted my mother:

So, clearly, he intended to break his promise to Abby in this moment, and go without her.

Also, the next day, he revoked his co-signer signature from my student loan, took my phone off the phone plan, and asked me to return the key to the house and the key to my car. I feel these are natural consequences of ending my relationship with Tommy, but I figured I’d include it for details’ sake. He also said Mom could have custody of Abby.

PART IV: Christmas Weekend

Two days later, I overheard Tommy facetiming Abby, asking if “Mommy had said anything about letting you come over for Christmas?” This was highly confusing as he had just claimed he was going to Florida without Abby for Christmas (this was unbeknownst to Abby at this point). My mother texted Tommy a direct quote of what he said: “You can have Patrick and Abby for Christmas. I’m going to FL.” He responded:

Two days later, he found out his leave wasn’t cancelled:

He facetimed her and told her they were now going, making her extremely excited, as she’s been looking forward to Harry Potter World for months. However, this was clearly EXTREMELY manipulative. In good conscience, we could not let Abby make the decision to go without knowing the full truth of how Tommy originally planned to go without her. We showed her the first text where Tommy stated he would go to FL without Abby. She read the text, and immediately stormed out of the room, crying. She locked herself in the bathroom, and I attempted to talk to her from outside the door. After calming her down, she let me in, and showed me that she texted Tommy.

He then adamantly attempt to FaceTime her, and she adamantly declined.

Notice the gaslighting: “You’re mad at me for no reason.”

Tommy’s mother then texted me:

Notice the lie: “She told your dad that your Mother said he was using her.” I have provided all screenshots, you can see clearly that Abby tells Tommy he used her on her own accord, she does NOT say “Mom told me you used me,” she says “You used me.” And, when she said those things to Tommy, she was locked in the bathroom, alone.

Notice the monetary manipulation (seems familiar).

Notice the strawmanning: “I’ll let Uncle Eddie and them know you don’t want anything to do with them either.”

Notice the self-victimization: “You two have hurt us and We do not deserve this!”

and then she texted my mother:

Notice the listing of material objects. Gift/monetary manipulation.

Tommy then texted my mother throughout the day:

Notice the blaming: “Are you going to let me take her to FL or not.” He places the blame on Mom because it’s impossible for him to admit that Abby doesn’t want to go because of him. It HAS to be someone else manipulating her or us forcing her to stay here, because he can’t possibly be at fault.

My mother then responded to Tommy:

Notice the blame-shifting: “You have lied to her.”, “It is you who is using this child.”

Then Tommy’s mother texted Abby:

These are the most infuriating screenshots of the whole post. How cold does your heart have to be to insult your ten-year-old granddaughter. Absolutely disgusting and vile.

Notice the monetary/gift manipulation.

This is Abby’s grandmother. Abby is ten years old. This speaks for itself. Abby ran into the bathroom sobbing. Just a reminder that this is Christmas Eve.

My mother then texted Tommy:

Notice the removal of blame and backpedalling: “I didn’t know what I was going to be able to do.” “I didn’t know if I was going to be able to come down.”

Notice the blame-shifting: “[you] started manipulating her yet again.” “You were just waiting…to make her upset”.

Then he defends his mother, rather than his ten year old daughter who was just insulted by her grown family member:

“The only reason Abby is being nasty is because of you.” She WASN’T “being nasty.” All she did was say no. But this middle-aged man can’t take no for an answer. I do not have an ounce of sympathy for Tommy. Just complete pity.

My mom sent her final response to Tommy:

The last texts sent, as of right now, were from Tommy’s mother to my mother. They were more attempts an intimidation, and more attempts to get a reaction. Mom did not respond.

And that’s it. We are going to have a wonderful, peaceful Christmas without Tommy.

I hope this post has highlighted how EXCELLENT Tommy is at manipulating. He has a LOT of family members wrapped around is finger through his manipulation and lies. I hope, after reading this, you realize that he is being deceitful, and that you are being blinded by his cunning ability.

After reading this, I honestly can not comprehend how you can be “on Tommy’s side,” or endorse any of his actions. He was a depressive weight that has been lifted off all of our shoulders. All of us are exponentially happier without him. Keep in mind, I was willing to give him a second chance. I was in support of his therapy for his anger management issues and genuinely thought he could change. I genuinely believed he was changing. I was fooled. Shame on me.

Happy Holidays,

Patrick Weeks