#insubordinati

[aitan]

Dio benedica i disertori di tutte le guerre!

(Incluso i migranti, sia quelli che fuggono da guerre vere che quelli che fuggono da battaglie perse contro la fame, lo sfruttamento e le conseguenze delle colonizzazioni.)

Dio li benedica.

(E benedica gli insubordinati e i dissenzienti. Quelli che non si lasciano convincere dai dettami dei potenti. Quelli che non si fanno incantare dai suonatori della banda e dai colori svolazzanti delle bandiere. Quelli che non si lasciano bloccare dalla paura di essere fuori dal branco o dalle minacce dei capi, dei capò e dei caporali. Quelli che continuano a pensare al di fuori dall’ordine costituito ed hanno gambe buone per uscire fuori dal mucchio. Quelli che ora piangono la terra perduta. Ma non rimpiangono il gregge, il pastore, i suoi cani ed il branco.)

______

Da dio-benedica-i-disertori-di-tutte-le-guerre

#disertore #diserzione #guerra #migranti #migrazioni #insubordinati #aitan #dissenzienti #caporali

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 52: The Maestro's Correction

Prev > Masterlist

tw: mind control, body control, burns, hand whump, whipping, blindness, abuse, blood drinking

October 1925

Alexander stood and bowed low as the Maestro entered the music room, trailed by Oliver in eerily perfect synchronization. "Good evening, sire. I hope you are well."

"I also hope I am well. That depends largely on your hospitality, I'm afraid," he said. "Let us begin by examining your new acquisition in more detail."

"Certainly, sire."

No, no, no -- it took all of Oliver's self-control to not fight as the Maestro sat down on the padded bench and forced him into a submissive kneel. The hook and eye on his dress was undone, and Oliver's dread rose. What did he mean by examining in more detail…?

It was somewhat of a relief when those stony eyes focused on the brand on his chest. "Slipshod. The edges are clearly uneven. The symbol will hardly be readable." The Maestro looked up. "It's obviously your work, Alexander. If you had coerced Lily into fulfilling your obligation, as you were no doubt tempted to do, it wouldn't be in such a sorry state."

"Yes, sire."

"Your thrall is permanently marred, the results of your task an abject disappointment, and all you have to say in response is 'yes, sire'," said the Maestro, his tone like a knife pressed against Alexander's neck. "When I attended the ballet, your thrall informed me that you are allowing him a great deal of freedom, as well, are you not?"

"Yes, sire."

Oliver couldn't turn around, but he could hear the despondence in Alexander's voice. This had been his fault, hadn't it? He should have covered for his master. But Alexander had warned him in no uncertain terms to be honest. What was the correct action? Was there even a correct action?

"Because your thrall is otherwise so obedient, I feel inclined to only impose a light punishment this time."

"Thank you, sire."

The Maestro indicated a fat candle sitting on the end table, its flames providing the only cheer and warmth in the room. "Place your hand in the candle's flame until I am satisifed."

"Yes, sire."

"No!" The choked cry came from Oliver's mouth before he could stop himself. He wrenched his head out of the Maestro's grasp just enough to see Alexander's shock, his hand hovering dangerously near the flames.

"Oh?" Oliver's head was snapped back to look in the Maestro's eyes, filled with a cold fury. "You disagree with my judgement?"

"No, no, sir, I don't --"

The Maestro slapped him across the face hard. "You disagree with my judgement and then you lie to compound it," he said, rage in every note of his musical voice. "You do this out of loyalty, no doubt. My misguided children seek companionship among humankind, and value loyalty over obedience. A flaw I have not yet burned out of them."

Oliver trembled as the Maestro took his right hand. The vampire's hands were colder than ice and smooth as porcelain. He ran his finger's down Oliver's palm in a way that might have been tender in other circumstances. "Do you play any instruments, child?"

He was thinking of burning Oliver's hands, wasn't he? Oliver desperately wished he could answer yes to that question, in the hopes that he would be spared, but the blossoming bruise on his cheek warned him otherwise. "No, sir."

"Are you clever with your hands?"

Oliver thought back to the many evenings he'd spent repairing the bindings of antique books and mending his worn clothes. "I believe so, sir."

"I see." The Maestro turned over Oliver's hands in his own. "Human hands can be permanently damaged. A shame, truly. Mutilating your hands before you've been given the opportunity to prove yourself useful would be a waste at this time, as would any corrective action that spills excessive blood."

Oliver wasn't sure if he should be relieved by that. "…Thank you, sir?"

"You have an obedient soul. I'm not wrong about such matters," said the Maestro. "It is your master's lack of discipline that is to blame for your insubordination. Therefore, I will not punish you."

"You won't, sir?" Oliver would have found this mercy difficult to believe even if he didn't notice Alexander tensing.

"You don't want to watch your master's punishment, do you?"

"No, sir."

"Then look into my eyes, child. Deep, deep into my eyes."

He didn't have a choice, as the Maestro's power drew his gaze upwards and locked it there before he fully realized what was happening.

"Deeper. Lose yourself."

There was a disconcerted ticking noise in Oliver's head, as though his ear were pressed to a clock, and he realized in terror that he was being enthralled, the power like chains wrapping around his mind. Despite Alexander's many warnings and his own resolve to be obedient and avoid trouble, Oliver couldn't help the urge to pull against it. It was bad enough to have to give over his body. The idea of this cruel vampire invading his mind was too much to bear.

But it was already too late. Oliver was already trapped in his eyes. As the ticking of the clock gradually slowed like a mechanical toy winding down, his thoughts slowed too, his vision engulfed by the cold oblivion of the Maestro's gaze.

"Close your eyes down. Tight. As tight as they can."

"Yes, sir." Oliver's eyes obediently shut, sparing him the weight of that gaze, but doing nothing to free his mind.

"I am placing lead weights on each one. Weights that are far too heavy to allow you to open your eyes on your own." A cold finger tapped each of Oliver's eyelids. "Only I can move these weights. You will not open your eyes again until I allow it."

"Yes, sir."

"Wake."

That crisp snap sounded next to Oliver's ear, and he felt the chains on his mind lift, but he did not open his eyes. Could not. Oliver couldn't help but be confused. The Maestro had full control of his body. Why go through the trouble just to make him shut his eyes?

There was one obvious, awful possibility: because he did not intend for Oliver to open his eyes ever again.

"Now that that's settled, you may take your punishment, Alexander," the Maestro said.

Oliver was forced back into a kneeling position and the Maestro placed one hand atop his head. He heard several steps across the wood floor, and then absolute silence.

Was his master actually burning his hand in the candle's flame? There was no sound at all, no cries of pain from Alexander, not even the sound of breathing. The only thing tethering Oliver to the world was that hand on top of his head. As much as Oliver would hate to see or hear his master in pain, the deathly silence and darkness and suspense made it so much worse.

And just as Oliver thought he couldn't take it any more, he smelled what he desperately hoped was not the scent of charred flesh. His spirit cried out to do something, anything, to help his master, but blinded and bound as he was, there was nothing he could do.

"Enough," said the Maestro, after what seemed like an eternity. "I grow weary of watching you disappoint me. Alexander, play."

Play? Alexander's sire couldn't possibly expect him to play an instrument with a ruined hand. Yet Oliver could hear Alexander sit down at the piano bench and begin to play a piece which obviously involved a great deal of intricate fingerwork. Perhaps his hand was not that damaged after all -- but the smell in the air said otherwise.

He didn't have long to sit and enjoy the music (as much as he could under the circumstances) because the Maestro stood and pulled Oliver up, leading him in a dance. Oliver couldn't see and didn't know the steps, but he didn't have to, as his body was once again puppeted without his input, gliding across the room with a grace that was not his own, his trembling hand trapped in that cold porcelain grasp.

"One," intoned the Maestro. "Two." Several beats of music. "Three."

Oliver didn't know what it meant. Swirling around the music room with his eyes shut tight, his anxiety was reaching a fever pitch, making it difficult for him to relax enough to allow his body to sink into the control.

"Four. Five."

He was counting the mistakes, Oliver realized. Every moment his concentration broke, his body was fighting just the smallest bit against the unwanted intrusion. Each time that happened, he would slightly miss a step, or pull against the Maestro's grip.

"Eleven. Twelve."

He couldn't focus. He couldn't follow. He couldn't stop his treacherous body from rebelling against being made the plaything of the implacable vampire in front of him. And the number was climbing.

"Twenty-two." The Maestro released his grip on Oliver, who reeled backwards. "You may stop now, Alexander. Do you see now what I was talking about? He has obedience, but lacks discipline."

"Yes, sire." Alexander sounded as dead inside as he was metaphysically.

"Try not to spill blood unnecessarily when you administer the punishment. I finally find myself with an appetite."

"Yes, sire."

Oliver didn't have to wait long to know what the punishment was. Once more, he was kneeling, and he felt a sharp blow from a thin implement sting his back. It was followed by another, and another, and although Oliver was being kept from movement, he couldn't help but cry. The anticipation of each blow was as bad as the pain, and his back felt like it was on fire.

"That's twenty-two, sire."

"Your hand was light," said the Maestro. "No matter. You had three mistakes in your playing."

He heard Alexander kneeling beside him. The blows the Maestro delivered to Alexander's back rang out through the music room, unmistakable.

"Now that that unfortunate business has been taken care of," said the Maestro as casually as though he'd been discussing an unpleasant chore, "I will take my meal."

Oliver felt every muscle in his body tense, despite the control holding him. It was wrong, wrong, wrong for anyone but his master to drink his blood, but everything about this evening had been wrong.

And it was made even worse by the fact that Oliver couldn't see what the Maestro was doing, when the bite was coming for him. All he could feel was a hand on his head and a thick vampiric aura enveloping his mind. It felt strangely empty. Not like desire or hunger or pleasure, like Oliver had always felt with his master. No, the Maestro's aura was purely about control and practicality, freezing him in position so that he could be fed from. Oliver couldn't even tilt his neck as he'd been trained.

At least a feeding wouldn't be so bad, compared to everything that had happened so far, Oliver reasoned. Miss Lily had instilled in him the craving to provide for a vampire, and the feedings he'd experienced so far had been pleasant, even euphoric. He'd been dreading it previously, but now it actually be a relief.

At least, it seemed like a relief until the Maestro's slender fangs sunk into the flesh of his neck.

Oliver gasped in surprise and pain. It hurt, agony radiating from the bite, and the sensation of teeth in his muscles was deeply violating, not to mention the uncomfortable suction of his blood being consumed. His world narrowed down to nothing but the awful, aching wound, his body spasming with the need to escape from the predator, frozen in place by unnatural means.

It hurt, of course it hurt. He should have known better than to think this might be a relief. Alexander always put him under a gentle spell of sleep and submission and pleasure as he fed, a spell that kept Oliver from feeling any of the pain that would naturally accompany his neck being bitten. Of course the Maestro would not do that, would instead relish his suffering.

As his master's sire drank his blood, his thoughts began to overpower Oliver's own, and he found…

Nothingness.

A pitch black sky with no stars or moon or clouds. An empty field devoid of life as far as the eye could see. A bitter chill sapping the strength and cheer from his very marrow.

Order. Solitude. Misery.

The inky sky rushed to meet him, to swallow him in oblivion, and Oliver thought he might be dying.

"Oliver?"

He was floating back up through the darkness, tethered by his master's voice.

"Oliver? Oliver, please wake up."

"I'm awake, sir," he said, trying to open his eyes and finding that he couldn't, the memories of what had transpired rushing back to him. He couldn't open his eyes at all, the imaginary lead weights keeping them firmly shut. He could tell that he was laid out on the padded bench, cradled gently in what he hoped was his master's arms. His back hurt and his cheek stung and the wound on his neck was intensely uncomfortable… but he was alive. "I can't…" he said, panic rising. "I can't open my eyes, sir. Is he still here? Is it over?"

"He's gone. He probably won't trouble us for some time," Alexander said. "You were brilliant, Oliver. A picture perfect thrall. I wish you didn't have to go through any of that, but you handled it all so well."

Praise from his master cut through some of Oliver's fear and pain. "Will I be able to open my eyes again, sir?"

"Yes, you will, I promise. Hypnotic commands usually fade away on their own if they're not reinforced."

"How long will that take, sir?" said Oliver. Despite the welcome reassurance that this wouldn't be forever, his mind was already filling with anxiety over how he would be able to live. How could he find his way around the expansive manor while blinded? How long would he have to go without reading?

"Well… my sire's very powerful, as I'm sure you know, and you're…"

"Weak, sir?"

"I wasn't going to say weak. You take to enthrallment very well, which has nothing to do with mental weakness, believe it or not. And it's a trait I find endearing, but unfortunately in this case it might be a problem. It could last a month, maybe more…"

Oliver's heart clenched at the idea of weeks in the dark. How could he even take care of himself? Would he be able to cook or bathe? Would he need his master to help him do all of those things? Would Alexander help him?

"…but don't worry!" said Alexander hastily, running a hand through Oliver's hair. "I'll take you to see Lily first thing tomorrow night. She can usually undo things like that, especially considering the grip she has on your mind already."

Oliver never thought he'd be so grateful for Miss Lily. "Thank you, sir. I hope it isn't too much trouble."

"It's no trouble at all. You endured all of this for me. Helping undo my sire's damage is the least I can do. Speaking of which, I've already bandaged your neck, but I should tend to the wounds on your back and make sure they aren't too serious. I could get some ice from the icebox for your face, as well."

"But what about your hand, sir? Did you actually…"

"Yes. It will heal on its own, and I can clean and bandage it later. You don't need to concern yourself with it. I wish to tend to you."

Blinded and in pain, Oliver couldn't bring himself to argue with that. "Thank you, sir."

"I can't easily undo my sire's work, but I can help ease your pain with my song. Would you like that?"

"Yes, very much, sir."

His master began to sing, and his voice was like a lifeline in the dark, soothing and relaxing him and making him feel like everything would be okay, even if it very much wasn't.

Prev > Masterlist

Thanks for reading. Next week: happier days with Fitz.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping

#whump #whump writing #vampires #mind control #blood drinking #burns #vampire whumper #vampire whumpee #alexander #oliver #maestro

[la-novellista]

Fatta di tempeste e insubordinati desideri!

#Cheste' #Me

[canesenzafissadimora]

Ho due gambe

Due piedi

Per correre

Saltare

Salpare

Ostacoli

Maree,

Scogli,

Degli organi

Sani

Vivaci,

Virtuosi amanti,

Pronti a vivere

Ridere

Generare

Quanto vi è di indicibile

Nei pigli

Di incroci

Umani.

Sono un belvedere

Di cosmi e spazi

Insubordinati

Da sfiorare

Come mani

Con numeri

Primi.

Sono il soccorso

Di un sorso

Nell’astuccio feroce

Di un morso.

Ho due gambe

Due piedi

Quelli di una donna

Che domina

Ferventi

Oggi

E domani.

Sono il clamore

La curva e lo spessore

Di uno tsunami.

#lasartoriadicarta

[alronzioselvatico]

Kris ed Elena

… Di gioia o dolore io con te piango sempre, sarà sempre così?>> tornò a guardargli gli occhi. Gli occhi… in alcune persone dicono molto, in altre sono muti, i suoi sapevano dirti tutto, anche senza il suo consenso… due occhi meravigliosamente insubordinati che t’imprigionavano semplicemente con quel che raccontavano… il dolore, la gioia… anche in quel momento di felicità continuavano a parlarti del dolore,

<<Dove hai preso i tuoi occhi?>> la guardò e capì il senso di quella strana domanda, le sorrise e con due dita le abbassò le palpebre,

<<Guarda nel buio>> anche lei capì il senso di quella strana risposta, gli baciò gli occhi e si celò tra le sue braccia …

#alronzioselvaticodellemoschesporche #books #citazione libro #letteratura #frase libro #letture consigliate #lettureconsigliate #lettureinteressanti #libro #scrittura

[insubordinatie]

Do you have a cement truck? 'cause that's what it's gonna take to fill up the hole that you left I always knew how much space you took up I knew how much you added to my life I guess I just didn't realise how much was gonna be gone when you left there's a big hole now and I don't know how to fill it I hope I can figure it out soon 'cause there's no replacing you love you always will

#insubordinatie

[holly-fixation]

Ink Clouds: Chapter 18

Summary so far: Cloud is sent back in time by the calamity, and is now half squid that constantly spews ink that carries Geostigma. Tifa, Cloud, and Zack have all been interrogated separately about their time with the creature and why they’ve committed the stunts that they have. The last respondent is Sephiroth, but instead of the interrogators that wouldn’t be able to read his emotionless nature, it’s the only person he can’t control his emotions around: Hojo.

Based on the prompt by @im-totally-not-an-alien

Please Enjoy!

Chapter 18: Glass

"No." Sephiroth didn't realize he voiced his thought allowed until the scientist gave a short, mocking laugh in reply.

"Still acting childish, are you?" He asked with a sick grin.

The silver general stared daggers into him and silenced.

This interrogator was enjoying it too much.

"Apparently so." Hojo held the back of his chair for a moment before pulling it back and gesturing to the open one near the silver haired man. "Have a seat."

Sephiroth only crossed his arms. He did not move or say anything. His blood boiled as he gripped his biceps for a semblance of self control.

"Come on," He taunted, "for old time's sake?"

"What do you want?" Sephiroth seethed, every ounce of his being poisoning the room.

Hojo laughed again. "Before you break something, let's talk like civilized people."

"Why. Are you. Here."

"Oh please," He scoffed. "Trained or not, those interrogators don't have what it takes to understand you in one conversation."

Because they're rightfully afraid of me. "And yet, they didn't need this field."

"I have a proposition for you," Hojo ignored his previous statement and took his seat.

Sephiroth's brow twitched in confusion and frustration.

The snake leaned back in his chair. "You want investigation clearance for the Nibelhiem reactor and the central mountains of the west, correct?"

His inhuman eyes narrowed, his thin pupils barely visible slits.

"And now, with that girl breaking in and that troop identical to the creature, the board has to accept my request for research."

"Congratulations," the general spat with so much sarcasm its venom was tangible.

"We'll need escorts." Now he had the general's attention. "And the monsters there are too much for low class SOLDIERS."

"...what do you gain from this?" Sephiroth questioned skeptically.

"I am a man of my work," He stated like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "If an escort is my biggest inconvenience, I am living every scientists' dream."

"Even working with SOLDIER?"

He waved his hand at the inclination. "A bit more learning could do the lot of you some good. We'll give you access to the files we have on the creature, as well as whatever you find in the destinations."

He paused as he considered the deal. "...On one condition." He saw the 'scientist's' eyes brighten with satisfaction, even behind the black glasses. "We have as much access as we please to information we find in either location. Your team gives us the slightest suggestion to stop our investigation, we leave."

Hojo grinned. "Then, I believe we have a deal."

"And I believe we're done here," Sephiroth barely took a step away while speaking.

"Ah-ah-ah," The snake scolded. "You still have questions to answer." He could feel the fire in Sephiroth's returned eyes. "This is an interrogation after all."

Suddenly behind the chair again, Sephiroth's grip on the back caused a loud crunch to shoot through the room. This was it; the same as before: poked and prodded to Hojo's content as his underlings watched from one way mirrors, only watching, always ignoring the pain as they took notes in observation as it increased with each test.

"I'd say 'have a seat' if you didn't break the chair."

He glanced down at his hands. Sure enough, the supporting bar for the back cushion was crushed, buckled under his strength. That didn't matter though, he needed a way out of this situation, but he couldn't find one. All of SOLDIER was on the line for his insubordination; he needed to swallow his hatred and pride to protect his comrades, his friends. Any other investigator would have been fine, but it had to be him, right here, right now.

"Ask your questions," Sephiroth spat. Gods he was tired of seeing that monster's teeth.

But Hojo couldn't control his grin as he leaned forward and clamped his hands in front of him. "What are you and the creature hearing?"

His eyes widened for a millisecond and instantly returned to his angry gaze. Most people wouldn't see it because of its subtle and quick difference.

"Don't lie to me," Hojo demanded as if he could read the silver general's mind, just like before: poked and prodded to his heart's content.

"What I hear, is what the creature says," he started.

"Most of it," Hojo finished for him. Anyone else wouldn't make such an assumption, but Hojo could see through the silver haired boy like window glass since birth.

Any other investigator would have bought his answer. But Hojo knew more.

"Perhaps only part of it," Hojo realized as he observed Sephiroth’s reactions. "So, again, what do you hear?"

"You have to be more specific." He instantly regretted the words that left his mouth.

Hojo's smirk curled in vile curiosity.

That means more questions.

"Let's start with the first one that caused a reaction. 'Forgive'."

Crap, he's in a corner. His lies and half truths were caught instantly. He had no choice but to inevitably tell the truth, like the corner he protected himself in when they came in to start experiments, the child locked away in an examination room with no escape.

"You'll have to ask for a new one," He spat. "You can check your records for that."

"So you've told the creature what you hear?"

He nodded, but the slight glance away of his eyes was noticed.

"Not everything, though."

He let go of the chair before it shattered, clenching his fists at his sides.

Hojo gestured with his hand. "Go on. Tell me about ‘Forget’."

There was a pause, but it didn’t hold the same tension as the pauses when he tried to think of a lie. How long could he delay the inevitable? “It was nearly the same.”

“What did you hear?”

Another corner. He crossed his arms as he tried to think. His interrogator sighed and sat back.

“The faster you answer, the less time you spend here,” The ‘scientist’ reminded, nearly mocking.

“‘This time you won’t forget’,” He spoke with no emotion. Maybe he can get away with just one half truth.

“All of it,” Hojo corrected, and he could practically hear the curses going through the silver general’s head, reduced to the little lab rat was born as.

It wasn’t worth fighting anymore. He looked to the wall above the snake. He needed to avoid the bastard’s reactions or he would destroy everything in the room out of spite, just to delay progress on the only project R&D was permitted, but it was a project he needed to save his friend. “‘Is this the pain you felt before, Cloud? Let me remind you. This time you won't forget’.”

He could hear the breath of a smirk in response as the scientist brought his connected hands to his mouth. “And ‘Cherish’?”

“‘Tell me what you cherish most. Give me the pleasure of taking it away’.” Sephiroth had absolutely no emotion, and absolutely no eye contact. Even for him, it was off.

“And last: ‘Future’?”

Another hesitation. Another pause.

“All I need is an answer,” Hojo mentioned with a barely noticeable tilt of his head in eagerness. “Only one more question after this, and you’re free to go.”

He would take his chances at sounding insane if it meant even a second less in this godforsaken room. “‘And one day we’ll find a new planet, and on its soil we’ll create a shining future’.”

Sephiroth didn’t hear a response beyond a slight breath. He forced his gaze to lock straight ahead. He couldn’t move his eyes from the wall behind his tormentor.

“Why did you do what you did last time?”

“I don’t know.” There was a pause, but he kept his eyes steady and repeated. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what you did?” Hojo questioned.

Like glass.

“Would you like to find out?”

Sephiroth couldn’t stop himself from looking to the scientist in disbelief.

Hojo, with his slimy grin, slid an open tablet through the field.

And Sephiroth, like a dog spotting food fall from its master’s table, immediately grabbed it and hit the large play button on the security video, pushing the broken chair out of his way. The camera was in the far back corner away from the exit to this section of the lab. Sephiroth didn’t focus on that fact.

First, it was exactly as he remembered. The creature on his back, Zack a small but cautious distance away as they both questioned the creature. There was no audio in the recording, which was probably for the best.

Then the creature started yelling, and Zack immediately tried to stop it. But there were too many tentacles for the creature to work with to keep the First-in-training away. He was frozen for three seconds, then ripped the creature in front of him by its arm with his left hand. Then he used both of his hands to choke it, saying something as he did.

Zack unsheathed his sword and swung, probably to scrape his arm as a warning. But his right hand shot off of the creature to the wrist of his apprentice. Zack yelled his name. He responded with something, before letting go of the creature and grabbing Zack’s shoulder. Zack tried to break free. Then he turned Zack’s wrist until he cut his apprentice’s left arm.

The creature moved to him but he couldn’t tell what the goal was. He kicked it so hard it flew across the room to the corner wall of the exit and the tank. Then he looked to Zack, spoke again, and disarmed and took his apprentice’s sword before throwing them next to the creature. Then he threw the sword. It cut Zack’s left arm too as it jammed into the wall. Zack had barely dodged the direct strike.

Then he yelled ‘stop’ and grabbed his head. Zack pulled the sword out of the wall and used healing materia on the creature first. The creature nodded to Zack before looking at him with curiosity. Zack healed himself, but held his arm to check on wounds, but the materia worked.

Zack ordered them both and they both obeyed. Once they left the room, the video stopped.

His eyes didn’t leave the screen after the video ended. He just stared at the play button that appeared for seconds.

Hojo’s grin was ear to ear, but he made no comment, only the mocking lilt in his voice. “Thank you for your time. You’re all dismissed. My assistant will inform the rest of your little party.”

Sephiroth froze to process his words, then escaped through the now open door without another word.

.

.

.

.

Thanks for reading!

#zack fair #ff7 #sephiroth #ffvii #final fantasy vii #final fantasy 7 #jenova #thanks for reading!! hope you enjoy!! #these two were Very difficult to write together #technically another recap chapter but i legitimately tried to add new information #its been like 3 chapters so you finally get to know what Zacks been hiding #zack therapy is a lot better than hojo therapy obviously #I just added previous and next chapter links so if they don’t work please let me know #if they dont I have a masterlist pinned so that should help #almost at 100 pages in my doc! #im working on getting an ao3! I’ll post when its ready! It'll be about two weeks #thanks for reading the tags! and thank you for your support! #ink clouds

[toscanoirriverente]

Pane e disinformazione - Il finto pacifista che una mattina si è svegliato e ha spiegato la complessità dell’invasor

Il neutralista segue una dieta mediatica rigida per negare la realtà. Legge gli articoli in cui si scrive che a Bucha non c’è stato un massacro perché non c’erano i bossoli, guarda solo i talk show che definiscono Zelensky un nazista, e se la figlia chiede perché i bambini muoiono sotto le bombe, le dice che la situazione è complessa

Ore 7,00: il Pacifista si sveglia. Ha dormito poco. È stato su fino a tardi, a informarsi sui progressi della denazificazione e a solidarizzare con la dissidenza pacifista obbligata a lavorare gratis.

Ore 7,30: il Pacifista fa le abluzioni. Canta Bella Ciao, perché lui non ci sta sotto schiaffo, con quelli che gli fanno le pulci perché s’è ingarbugliato un po’ sulle resistenze che van bene e quelle che no. E anzi – pensa tutto tremante – lui al 25 aprile della pace ci andrà tanto più orgogliosamente, e con rinnovate iniziative di pace: basta sassaiole solo sulla Brigata Ebraica, anche un po’ contro l’ambasciata ucraina.

Ore 8,00: il Pacifista legge i giornali. Non si sente solo, dopotutto. Sì, d’accordo, ci sono i trafficanti d’armi occidentali che tengono bordone alle attrici travestite da donne incinte e ai nani nazisti camuffati da bambini, e purtroppo guadagnano qualche posizione: ma vivaddio c’è spazio anche per chi denuncia il degrado morale della dirigenza ucraina. E per fortuna resiste il giornalismo d’inchiesta, quello che a Bucha non c’erano i bossoli.

Ore 8,30: il Pacifista esce per andare al lavoro.

Ore 8,31: il Pacifista rientra.

Ore 12,00 (nel mezzo un po’ di relax con le agenzie russe): il Pacifista torna in trincea, cioè davanti alla Tv. Niente frittatona di cipolle né Peroni ghiacciata: la giudiziosa mogliettina ha preparato etnico, il cous cous di Cassia Nord, scodelle Ikea in sospetto di cospirazione anti-glocal ma vabbè. «Shhhht!!!! Famme sentì, amò, c’è il compagno sindacalista che dice bisogna processare Zelensky per crimini de guera».

Ore 14,00: il Pacifista va al pc. Profilo Twitter aperto il 24 Febbraio: prima, quando c’erano centocinquantamila russi al confine del regno nazista, non serviva ancora. Dopo, davanti all’improntitudine degli insubordinati al dovere della resa, diventava imperativo impegnarsi. E alè: «No a tutte le guerre! Né con le stuprate né con la Nato!». Clic. Andrà bene? Un controllo veloce sul Fatto Quotidiano e si rassicura: è stato un po’ cauto, ma migliorerà.

Ore 18,00 (s’era appisolato, nella deliquescenza indotta dai talk pomeridiani che invitano alla cautela sugli asili sventrati, magari erano scuole di teatro): il Pacifista si è perso le ultime sul missile che ha fatto strage in stazione, porca puttana! Ma non gli serve molto per recuperare il bandolo: stavano caricandoli sui vagoni piombati, e il missile ha fermato il crimine nazista.

Ore 20,00: il Pacifista, a tavola, pensa anche ai suoi doveri di padre: – Papà, dice la maestra che ci sono tanti profughi. – Lo so, amore mio, ma è la disinformazione: non sanno che vivere sotto una dittatura è meglio. – Ma papà, quelli gli tirano le bombe! – E ridaje con la disinformazione! Quelli sono costretti a tirargli le bombe perché l’Europa dà le armi a Zelensky che non si arrende e cià la villa in Versilia e poi dove lo metti il Vietnam e anche Israele occupa i territori e vogliono la legge del profitto e poi c’è il precariato e l’acqua pubblica va difesa e l’Atac è il punto di riferimento fortissimo della pace no anzi quella è l’ANPI… Sì insomma ci siamo capiti. – Ma papà, io non è che ho capito proprio bene. – Lo so, tesoro, è un po’ complesso.

Ore 21,00: ora il Pacifista è esausto, la settimana è stata dura. E domani si va a messa.

#pacifinti #sinistra de noatri #destra de noantri #Ucraina #Putin #Russia

[hopelesswandererm]

Tag 9 (ish) people you want to know better/catch up with.

Last song: achillis come down - gang of youths

Last film: Enola holmes

Currently watching: rewatching once upon a time and waithing for the chilling adventures of sabrina.

Reading: between animals and roses (tussen de beesten en wilde rozen) - ashley poston

Craving: Camping in the woods. I crave silence and peace. And i would like to read all day. 😊 (im sounding like an old lady)

Thanks for tagging me @pulltopush & @sonechkaandthedynamos

I tag@the-raven-that-refused-to-sing ,@loonzzzzsblog , @insubordinatie @ntoneverland , @altijd-onzeker , @darcythelunatic , @onmogelijk ,

@radicalcupcakemassacre and @eekhoornnn

[ghlawstudent]

I was tagged by @katrienstudies, @siristudies and @magical-study-space

Rules: answer 20 questions, then tag ~20 bloggers you want to get know better.

1. Name : Esmée

2. Nicknames : Smeetje

3. Zodiac Sign : pisces

4. Height :1m65

5. Languages Spoken : Dutch, English and a little bit of French

6. Nationality : Belgian

7. Favorite Season : Autumn

8. Favorite Flower : Sunflower

9. Favorite Scent : Coffee beans

10. Favorite Color : Green

11. Favorite Animal : Wolf

12. Favorite Fictional Character: This is too difficult :O 

13. Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate : Coffee

14. Average Sleep Hours : 9 hours

15. Dog or cat person : Dogs

16. Number of Blankets you sleep with : 2, sometimes 3

17. Dream Trip : Road trip through South America

18. Blog Established: 16.06.2019

19. Followers : 5.581 ;D

20. Random Fact: I work as a student at a coffee bar 

People I tag: @diaryofastemstudent @gingerspicestudies @gldsm @insubordinatie @geschiedenis-en-talen @froy @studiies-psych @byologee @stardustrosee @procrastinicte @accioinsp @sonderstudy @studiesing @a-study-in-letters @piscesstudies @studyandhaveahealthylife @productivebuddy @graylawstudies @lawyerd @lawschoolstudying @lawandcaffeine @lawlawland @lawsbianblr

[aitan]

Io su questi fatti di Russia ci sto capendo poco o nulla, e ho come l’impressione che ci capiscano nulla o poco anche i sedicenti esperti che ne parlano sui giornali, in tivvù e ancora più quassù (quaggiù) nel magma caotico della rete Internet.

Epperò una cosa mi sembra un chiaro segno dei tempi: il più vasto Paese del mondo, la federazione di Stati nata dalla dissoluzione dell’impero socialista sovietico, si serve di una serie di eserciti mercenari per le sue guerre esterne e forse anche per tenere a bada gli insubordinati interni.

La privatizzazione della violenza e dell’oppressione.

[...]

#Prigozhin #Putin #privatizzazioni

[jeboefje]

Top 5 blogs

1. @that-staff

2. @twanorde

3. @can-i-lick-it-yes-you-can

4. @stressreliefslut

5. @insubordinatie

I love your blogs 😊

#ask

[shinoasuna]

Cercai di immaginarlo,

di rappresentare con i colori ogni singola cosa:

la postura la immaginavo tendente alla terraferma, al basso,

come se nelle spalle portasse un peso eccessivo e non fosse in grado di liberarsene per poi osservare il cosmo e rimanerne ammaliato.

Camminava celermente, speditamente, prontamente, nascosto nella sua infinita e interminabile felpa nera, senza soffermarsi ad ammirare ciò che da sempre lo circondava.

Nel suo solito incamminarsi velocemente teneva la testa china, 

come se il mondo visto da lì fosse migliore di come si osservava di consuetudine.

Le labbra colorate erano piegate da un lato come a formare un lieve e tenue sorriso.

Il capo era coperto da un berretto che rappresentava il suo scudo e la sua salvezza dal mondo ma anche il suo limite e il suo margine dal raccontarsi.

I ricci, che spuntavano lievemente, erano ribelli, insubordinati e ostinati a muoversi in tutte le possibili direzioni,

a differenza dei suoi occhi scuri, stanchi e tediati, quasi consumati, che non volevano osservare verità alcuna se non la propria, presente e viva nella sua mente,

e che si illuminavano, in modo impercettibile dagli altri, ad ogni singola parola di quella travolgente canzone che risuonava nelle sue cuffie nere a tutto volume.

Smisi di immaginarlo per il timore che disegnandolo a mio modo lo avrei soltanto rovinato.

                                                                                   -Amane.

[sproetenkind]

I hardly see porn :( Do the questions turn you on?

You just need to follow the right blogs. Very nice blogs I can recommend are @insubordinatie @twanorde @50shades-of-impregnation (if you like it rough)

#ask

[aaibaar]

⋆✮TAG GAME✮⋆

zowel @kleinetwijfelaar / @ghentlawstudent als @insubordinatie hebben me enkele dagen geleden getagd hiervoor, dus het werd misschien wel eens tijd!

Rules: Answer 17 questions and tag twenty-one blogs.

Nickname: Bollie, (opper)bol (omdat ik mensen die bijnaam altijd geef hehe), Spaghetti, ...

Star sign: Weegschaaal

Height: 1m61,5

Last Film I Watched: Oei, da’s precies al heel lang geleden. Volgens mij was dat “Always be my maybe” op Netflix!

Favorite Musician: Dit soort vragen zijn zo moeilijk. :( Al blijven Imagine Dragons mijn all time faves! Maar voor de rest is het best een heel lange lijst

Song Stuck in my Head: You & I van Barns Courtney

Other blog: Heb ik niet!

Do I get asks: Af en toe, maar nu niet superveel ofzo vind of denk ik?

Blogs following: 660

What am I wearing: Een legging, wit t-shirt en een golf

Dream Job: Momenteel lijkt een communicatiebureau of iets in die aard me wel heel leuk. 

Dream Trip: Overal! New York, maar dat is wat cliché. Ik zou ook nog heel graag naar Kroatië willen gaan.

Play any instruments?: Nee, daar ben ik te onhandig voor. :p

Languages: Nederlands, Engels en Frans, met een beetje passieve kennis Duits en Italiaans.

Favorite food: P A S T A for lifeeeee! Maar churros zijn ook superlekker, of pannenkoeken, hamburgers, pizza,... Als ik met vriendinnen ga eten, kan ik nooit kiezen wat of waar, dus deze vraag is echt de hel.

Favorite song: Riptide van Vance Joy is bae, maar net zoals bij artiesten kan ik écht onmogelijk maar één nummer kiezen. Dit was nu het eerste waar ik aan dacht.

Random fact: Ik ben linkshandig!

Ik tagggg @littlemissdracula @wantrouwen @your-glorious-mess @vallendesterren @zonnegroet @galaxycarm @onbestaand en voor de rest iedereen die deze tag ook graag zou willen doen!

#doeei #about me

[egheneto]

APOCALYPSE NOW: Un viaggio nel dilemma morale attraverso la guerra del vietnam

Alla fine degli anni ’60 John Milius scrive una sceneggiatura su un gruppo di soldati americani che a bordo di una barca raggiungono la giungla cambogiana durante la guerra del Vietnam e la affida al regista Francis Ford Coppola, il quale decide di riscriverla unendola al romanzo di Conrad, Heart of Darkness. Nel 1979 verrà rilasciato il film con il titolo di Apocalypse Now.

Considerato il film di guerra più celebre di sempre, Apocalypse Now non presenta la Guerra del Vietnam attraverso una raffigurazione realistica dei combattimenti, ma la carica di significati ben più profondi. Ciò che mostra è l’ipocrisia che caratterizza la morale e la cultura occidentale, che nasconde dietro a motivazioni nobili i motivi dell’interesse e del potere, oltre che l’inutilità di una guerra combattuta in nome di principi quali democrazia e libertà ma nella quale il senso etico viene meno. Sorge il dilemma morale che ogni conflitto porta con sé, la lotta eterna tra bene e male.

Coppola è in grado di tracciare un’eccellente interpretazione del proprio tempo, proponendo un atto di accusa verso la Guerra del Vietnam e ciò che tale conflitto comporta. Allo stesso tempo, la storia può essere considerata come la rappresentazione di un viaggio psicologico nei meandri dell’animo umano e di quella contraddizione morale che caratterizza la cultura occidentale.

Vede, Willard, in questa guerra, là fuori, le cose si confondono. Il potere, gli ideali, i vecchi codici morali, le concrete necessità militari. [...] Perché in ogni cuore umano c’è un conflitto fra il razionale e l’irrazionale, fra il bene e il male. E il bene non sempre trionfa.

Ciò che maggiormente mi ha colpito è la validità universale della riflessione proposta dal film: l’uomo è in grado di conferire liceità ad ogni sorta di nefandezza, che siano guerre, genocidi, colonizzazioni. La barbarie umana è il prodotto della civiltà stessa, che perde i propri ideali e la propria umanità.

Coppola ambienta Apocalypse Now nel 1969, anno nel quale la Guerra del Vietnam è al suo culmine. Il film si pone l’obiettivo di evidenziare l’ipocrisia di una guerra condotta dalle autorità americane in nome di principi quali democrazia e libertà, ma che risulta essere ben altro.

La Guerra del Vietnam è, infatti, fin dalle prime scene descritta come una tragica buffonata.

La guerra veniva combattuta agli ordini di un gruppo di clown a quattro stelle che avrebbero finito per dar via tutto il circo.

La missione stessa che viene affidata a Willard al principio del film è un chiaro esempio di ipocrisia: in uno scenario di guerra, dove morte e distruzione sono all’ordine del giorno, la priorità del governo statunitense è ricercare Kurtz, condannato a morte per aver ucciso due persone che lavoravano contro gli Stati Uniti.

Accusare qualcuno di omicidio in quel posto era come fare multe per eccesso di velocità alla 500 miglia di Indianapolis.

Il colonnello Kilgore che obbliga i soldati a praticare surf nel bel mezzo di una battaglia, la troupe televisiva (con lo stesso Coppola alla regia) presente sul campo, lo spettacolo per i soldati sponsorizzato dalla rivista Playboy: la critica di Coppola sta in questa impostazione ipocrita di una guerra-vacanza, tra surf, Playboy e finta compassione. Una guerra-vacanza, tuttavia, che si rivela un massacro per decine di migliaia di americani e non solo.

Ma a Willard e compagni non resta che andare avanti, perché quello che rimane è il viaggio nel profondo delle tenebre per toccare il fondo e sperare di ritornare alla superficie della coscienza.

Apocalypse Now accompagna Willard nella sua risalita lungo il fiume Nung: il viaggio mostra la graduale trasformazione del protagonista, che con il procedere della storia si espone sempre più all’oscurità morale che lo circonda. Già dall’inizio del film, Willard si mostra allo spettatore come un uomo abituato all���orrore attorno a lui. La sequenza iniziale della pellicola rivela il capitano in una camera d’hotel di Saigon: è la sua stessa voce fuori campo, in un primo piano che mostra il suo volto coperto da una barba corta e ispida, ad anticipare quello che accadrà poi nella giungla.

Saigon...sono ancora soltanto a Saigon. Ogni volta penso di svegliarmi nella giungla [...] Tutto quello a cui riesco a pensare è di tornare nella giungla.

Più avanti nella narrazione Coppola presenta, in una sequenza di fotogrammi, Willard in preda alle urla e al pianto, mentre frantuma in mille pezzi uno specchio di fronte a lui. La lotta di Willard contro lo specchio rappresenta la lotta contro il doppio, contro l’altro se stesso, contro l’ambiguità costitutiva dell’uomo sospeso tra bene e male.

Il rapporto con il male, tuttavia, è in particolar modo incarnato dalla figura ambivalente e demoniaca di Kurtz: ciò che in lui a prima vista disgusta, in realtà affascina e attrae profondamente Willard. Costretto ad allinearsi con la burocrazia militare ipocrita o con Kurtz apertamente malevolo, diventa sempre più evidente che scegliere un’alternativa è complicato. Gli americani non riescono a spiegarsi il comportamento di Kurtz e lo tacciano di follia, come se avesse perso la razionalità regredendo alla barbarie, motivo per cui deve essere ucciso. La sua persona, posta alla fine del viaggio di Willard, dimostra che in fondo all’uomo c’è solo una cosa: the horror, l’orrore, il disumano. Emblematico è il discorso finale di Kurtz:

Ho visto degli orrori, orrori che ha visto anche lei. Ma non avete il diritto di chiamarmi assassino,  avete il diritto di uccidermi, questo sì. Avete il diritto di farlo, ma non avete il diritto di giudicarmi. Non esistono parole per descrivere lo stretto necessario,  a coloro che non sanno cosa significhi l’ orrore. L’ orrore. L’ orrore ha un volto e bisogna essere amici dell’ orrore. L’orrore e il terrore morale ci sono amici, in caso contrario allora diventano nemici da temere. Sono i veri nemici. Ricordo quando ero nelle forze speciali, sembra siano passati mille secoli. Siamo andati in un accampamento per vaccinare dei bambini; andati via dal campo, dopo averli vaccinati tutti contro la polio,  un vecchio in lacrime ci raggiunge correndo, non riusciva a parlare. Allora tornammo al campo, quegli uomini erano tornati e avevano mutilato a tutti quei bambini il braccio vaccinato. Stavano lì ammucchiate, un mucchio di piccole braccia,  e, mi ricordo che ho pianto, io…ho pianto come… come una povera nonna. Avrei voluto cavarmi tutti i denti. Non sapevo nemmeno io cosa volevo fare, ma voglio ricordarmelo, non voglio dimenticarlo mai, non voglio  dimenticarlo mai. E a un certo punto ho capito, come se mi avessero sparato, mi avessero sparato un diamante, e un diamante mi si fosse conficcato nella fronte,  e mi sono detto: oddio, che genio c’era in quell’atto, che genio, la volontà di compiere quel gesto. Perfetto, genuino, completo, cristallino, puro. Allora ho realizzato che loro erano più forti di noi perchè riuscivano a sopportarlo. Non erano mostri, erano uomini, squadre addestrate; questi uomini avevano un cuore, avevano famiglia, avevano bambini: erano colmi d’amore ma avevano avuto la forza…  la forza di farlo. Se avessi avuto 10 divisioni di uomini così, i nostri problemi sarebbero finiti da tempo. C’è bisogno di uomini con un senso morale e allo stesso tempo capaci di utilizzare il loro primordiale istinto di uccidere senza sentimenti, senza passione, senza giudizio…Senza giudizio! Perché è il giudizio che ci indebolisce

Kurtz parla degli orrori che ha visto pressi i nativi, gli incivili. Eppure lungo tutto il film abbiamo potuto osservare gli orrori americani. Coppola smentisce il suo personaggio: l’orrore è comune a tutti.

Emblematica è anche la colonna sonora del film. In apertura dell’opera risuonano le note della canzone The End dei The Doors, introdotta dal suono rallentato e riverberato delle pale di un elicottero. Il brano fa riferimento alla filosofia di Friedrich Nietzsche, ed esplicita quello che è il reale messaggio di Coppola.

Il pensiero di Nietzsche risulta caratterizzato dalla messa in discussione della civiltà e del sistema valoriale sul quale si è costruito l’Occidente. La critica di Coppola colpisce la cultura occidentale moderna nella sua pretesa insensata di onnipotenza, volta a incatenare l’uomo in regole e principi etici e morali. E’ un processo che conduce alla delineazione di un nuovo tipo di umanità, tratteggiata nell’immagine dell’übermensch. Il personaggio di Kurtz rappresenta colui che è andato al di là del bene e del male, ha lasciato l’ipocrita morale occidentale per fondare e incarnare una sua personale etica. Kurtz diserta, abbandona il proprio ruolo nell’esercito americano, e si pone a capo di una legione di insubordinati nella foresta della Cambogia. Ma questo avrebbe fatto di lui, comunque, una divinità, un nuovo  Dio, dal momento in cui come tale viene considerato dagli insorti. Come dirà il generale che affida a Willard la sua missione,

Può capitare che, in determinate circostanze, un uomo finisca col credersi Dio.

L’immagine di Dio racchiude tutte le credenze metafisiche e religiose elaborate dall’uomo attraverso i millenni per dare un senso e un ordine alla vita. Secondo il filosofo, l’immagine di un cosmo ordinato e benefico è soltanto una costruzione della nostra mente, realizzata ai fini di sopportare la durezza dell’esistenza. Metafisiche e religioni si palesano quindi per ciò che realmente sono, ovvero bugie di sopravvivenza. La morte di Dio è il venir meno delle certezze e dei punti di riferimento assoluti sui quali l’Occidente ha costruito la propria morale. Segue un senso di vertigine, di smarrimento, uno spazio vuoto. Per reggere la morte di Dio l’uomo, quindi, deve farsi oltreuomo, divenire egli stesso un Dio, rendersi consapevole del tramontare di un senso ultimo e assoluto. La morte di Dio coincide dunque con l’atto di nascita dell’oltreuomo, così come il rifiuto della vita occidentale da parte di Kurtz segna la nascita di una nuova morale. Kurtz è colui che è in grado di accettare la dimensione tragica dell’esistenza, di reggere la morte di Dio e la perdita delle certezze assolute e di emanciparsi dalla morale, ponendosi come volontà di potenza. Ma la volontà di potenza, in quanto affermazione e potenziamento del proprio essere, implica offesa, sopraffazione, imposizioni di propri valori a discapito di altri e quindi subordinazione. Così come dimostra Kurtz, che esercita un dominio, rispetto agli insubordinati, basato sul culto della propria persona.

Il film si conclude sulle note in crescendo della canzone The End come sottofondo alla scena, forse, più emblematica dell’intera pellicola: la morte di Kurtz. Uno dei temi fondamentali della canzone dei The Doors è il mito di Edipo: nel lungo pezzo parlato Jim Morrison afferma:

Father? / Yes son? / I want kill you ./ Mother, I want to...

La morte di Kurtz avviene per mano di Willard e rappresenta, in un certo senso, la tragedia edipica, l’uccisione di Laio da parte di Edipo. Willard compie la volontà di Kurtz e lo uccide, e da quel momento viene venerato dagli indigeni diventando lui stesso un nuovo Dio, senza, però, accettare la sua nuova condizione.

Willard non fa altro che rivelare che la vera “tenebra” è quella del mondo occidentale che si nasconde dietro la falsa morale del portare progresso e civiltà per distruggere e sfruttare le altre culture. Ponendo fine all’esistenza di Kurtz, ormai superuomo, la cultura occidentale può finalmente liberarsi dalle proprie preoccupazioni: il figlio ribelle è morto e la coscienza può tornare pulita.

#film