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blackjackkent · 2 months

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As we start drawing close to the pool, things start going VERY bad. Everyone's struck with the Mindbroken effect and this time it doesn't wear off. The brain's words are constant now, resonating through everyone. It's actually incredibly unsettling.

"My mind... it's being drained..." Hector groans. "Must be close... my head is pounding..."

With every two or three steps forward the party gets stunned again, and again, and again. The pain grows in Hector's head, blinding, overwhelming, shattering him apart from within--

And then, suddenly... an empty, hollow stillness...

Narrator: Deathly silence, the air stale and putrid.

"It's close..." the Emperor hisses inside Hector's tortured brain. "Have the stones ready."

The stones. Yes...

Narrator: Your blood slows, your senses strung so tight they could snap in an instant.

Hector fumbles in his pack, gripping the small, rough gems and pulling them free. As he does so - perhaps sensing the nearness of the crown - they glow with an inner light, and heat surges through his palm. Commanded by some external force, they rip themselves from his grasp and draw together into a combined form that hovers in the air before him.

And then-- WHAM! Another blow. The ground under his feet surges and the water of the pool rocks with an impact from beneath. And the brain... the brain rises before him, closer than it has ever been before...

The slow thump of pain begins in his mind again as the horrible creature rumbles:

"--interruption-- --anomaly-- --found----- FOCUSED-- -END-- NOW--"

And then there is a slight lessening, a focusing - the pain does not ease but seems to attune itself deeper to resonate with his thoughts.

"YOU THINK YOU KNOW WHY YOU ARE HERE. YOU THINK THAT BY KILLING THE CHOSEN AND TAKING THE NETHERSTONES YOU CAN DESTROY ME."

"YOU ARE WRONG."

A wave of psychic energy shoots through him, nearly knocking him backwards off his feet. He hears Karlach shout something but it's lost in the buffeting of the great gusts of power surging off the brain, like a sea storm breaking against land.

But he holds strong, forces himself to inner stillness, to calm.

He opens his eyes, finds himself in a new and terrifying - but familiar - landscape.

The undulating abyss of sky around him, like the astral plane or the shadowfell but tinged the color of blood. He remembers this from his encounter with the Absolute within the walls of Moonrise. But instead of either the brain itself or the strange mass of tentacles with which it represented itself the last time, he now sees its true conception of itself - a mind flayer monstrosity, an illithid being but at tremendous scale, a beast of a mental ferocity he cannot begin to comprehend. Its eyes are pitch black and seem to stare through him like twin daggers.

"Oh..." Hector whispers, and for a moment he feels his courage flicker. He has never felt smaller and more terrified than he does at this moment - not fighting Ansur, not falling from the nautiloid, not even facing down Orin.

"It's messing with your mind!" the Emperor snaps at him. "Don't listen to it. Use the stones!"

Shut up, you bastard, Hector thinks wearily. Had he not lost all faith in the Emperor long since, perhaps this call to action would stir some greater fervor in him. But it is his friends, instead, whose shouts behind him give him strength, steady him against the terrifying visage staring him down.

"Strike, Hector! Do not wait - do it now!" Lae'zel bellows.

Jaheira's voice joins her. "There is no time. Hold strong, cub! Do not let the moment slip!"

And Karlach's - always the rock against which he can brace himself, even in the darkest moment: "Go, Hec! Fuck that bastard up! We're with you!"(*)

He draws his head back, half-closes his eyes, focusing on the strange, heavy warmth of the netherstones pressing down against his hand. Center. Calm. A quick breath in, a heavy exhale. Peace.

[INTELLIGENCE] Your mind is yours to command - block out all possibility of failure and compel the brain to submit.

They face down an intellect of such monumental power that he cannot conceive of it - but his mind is his greatest asset too, the strongest part of him even beyond his physical training. He focuses every bit of himself through his mind, through the stones, out into their foe--

Power lances out from his fingertips, amplified by the stones-- it bursts across the creature's great skull, seems to find purchase for a moment... then fizzles to nothingness.

The brain seems to laugh.

"BY ELIMINATING KETHERIC, ORIN, AND GORTASH, YOU HAVE SIMPLY UNBOUND ME. EXACTLY AS I INTENDED. THE CROWN IS NOW MINE TO COMMAND. MINE ALONE!"

"Don't listen to it!" the Emperor cries. "FOCUS ON THE CROWN!"

[WISDOM] A first attempt is just that. Iteration is key. Aim for the Crown and try again.

He struggles his thoughts back into order, into disciplined control. He focuses, he grounds himself, he lashes out again through the power of the stones--

(A/N: EXACTLY 25 on a DC25, eesh. Having heart palpitations over here.)

Again he lashes out - again pain blazes through his head and his hand as the power is deflected, knocked back with enough force to almost take him off his feet.

The brain's thundering tone becomes mocking, dismissive.

"THE CROWN IS NOT MY WEAKNESS. IT IS WHAT MADE ME WHAT I AM. I NEEDED THE CROWN TO BUILD AN ARMY. I NEEDED THE CHOSEN TO BRING IT TO ME."

A heavy tentacle swipes across the platform, brushes near to Hector's head, forcing him a step backwards.

"THEY WOULD NOT HAVE SURRENDERED IT FREELY, SO I GAVE THEM WHAT THEY WANTED. POWER. JUST ENOUGH THAT THEY WOULD PLAY THEIR PART IN MY DESIGN."

The enormous, cold black eyes narrow in what can only be triumph, even in such an alien face.

"THEIR PART HAS ENDED. THE NEXT ORDERS WILL BE MINE!"

"I WON'T ALLOW IT!" the Emperor howls within him. "AGAIN! DOMINATE IT!"

The fear is starting to eclipse everything else - the sudden certainty that perhaps this was always beyond his abilities, that he has failed, that there is no hope after all. And yet he can't turn away, can't let himself surrender to that fear, not yet. He has come so far beyond it, grown so much; he will not let this creature take him and those he loves without a fight.

[INTELLIGENCE] It may not be easy but it was always supposed to be possible. Do it again.

(A/N: DC30 - fundamentally an impossible check. Tempted to blow inspirations hoping for a miracle Nat20 but I think we'll probably have more need of them later. )

Again he lashes out, with every ounce of energy he can muster... again the blast falls short, not even reaching the crown this time.

"AND YOU..."

The brain leans closer to him, taunting, implacable.

"YOU HAD YOUR ROLE TO PLAY TOO. WHO DO YOU THINK TOLD THE CHOSEN ABOUT THE ASTRAL PRISM? WHO DO YOU THINK PLANTED THE KNOWLEDGE OF ORPHEUS' POWER, AND THE FEAR OF WHAT IT COULD DO? WHEN THE CHOSEN SENT MY THRALLS TO RETRIEVE THE PRISM, WHO DO YOU THINK LET THE 'EMPEROR' SLIP ITS LEASH, KNOWING IT WOULD BE THE ONE TO BRING YOU TO ME?"

Hector feels a wave of cold dread start to seep through him, like a prey animal in the moment before the jaws of the predator close around it. His heart begins to thump in his ears and he feels the urge to flee, to run desperately from this place - but how, where? Where can he go? Nowhere is safe.

Panic chokes him and it feels for a moment as if everything has been for naught, that he is still the same frightened man screaming in terror on the beach among the nautiloid debris, and he has learned nothing at all.

"We were part of its plan..." the Emperor whispers, horrified. Hector has never heard it sound so lost; for the first time its unbreakable confidence is shattered.

"I ONLY NEEDED ONE NETHERSTONE LOOSENED FROM THE CHOSEN'S GRASP TO GUARANTEE MY FREEDOM. YOU BROUGHT ALL THREE BACK TO ME. IN DOING SO, YOU HAVE LIBERATED ME."

The brain's voice keens with elation, resonating through Hector like a struck gong.

"THIS WAS YOUR ROLE AND IT IS COMPLETE. NOW YOU WILL WITNESS THE GRAND DESIGN!"

"Shit! NO!" Karlach screams desperately. And he hears an echo of his own panic in her voice, a silent plea. Gods, please, do not let it all have been for nothing. "It's all been leading to this - we stop the brain! NOW!"

He feels so afraid, but there is nothing he can do but try again, and again, and again until all the strength has bled out of him and he dies empty in this terrible alien place. There is no thought in him anymore, not really, just the panicked furious battering of his fists against an immovable wall.

[STRENGTH] DOMINATE THE BRAIN.

(A/N: Impossible. DC99. No idea what happens with a Nat20, but let's be real - the story is better this way.)

He lashes out, every fiber of his body lending itself as a conduit to the power of the stones, and a hoarse scream tears itself from his mouth as the energy blazes out of him--

And deflects away from the brain as if it were shooing away a gnat.

He collapses to his knees, utterly spent, lost. Hopeless.

The brain seems to gather itself, and he feels a hoarse, gleeful laugh resonate through his mind. And then a new burst of energy cracks through him, the brain lashing out in its turn to knock him aside, to obliterate him--

He is caught suddenly by another force behind him; the Emperor, emerging abruptly from its cocoon of astral energy.

It barely even acknowledges Hector, but waves a hand, sending him flying further backwards through the portal of cool blue light.

"This is not over," he hears it growl up towards the brain before the portal consumes him. He's dimly aware of the plane transit, of hitting the ground on one of the floating islands of the Astral Sea. Then blissful unconsciousness takes him and he falls into blackness.

-----

(*) Companion lines are artistic license; only the Emperor actually spoke here but lbr Hector isn't listening to him really anymore. XD

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #holy long post batman #another one that was a struggle to get under thirty images #and ohhhhhhh boy hector is not in a good place at the moment #this is the real nadir #the hopeless point before the heroic climax #or at least one hopes ;)#maybe we just die here but i doubt it #this was super epic #awesome scene holy shit

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pieground · 1 year

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The Story of Nothingness and Time

⏳️ ╎Comte x Narrator

☄️╎AU, inspired by Comte's route chapter 23-ish, short story. I HIGHLY suggest listening to Claire De Lune while reading for better immersion.

Darkness. All I see is nothing but darkness in all directions

At some point, I asked, shouldn't there be something in here? Anything?

So I started looking with no certainty of what I'm looking for until I spotted something bright from a distance. I went to it.

A pebble? That's certainly not what I was expecting, but then again, it was something. I reached for it and watched in awe as the pebble grew shinier and brighter, then it was luminescent and as clear as ice. And inside was a universe with tiny specks of dust and swirls of colorful smoke, dots revolved around each other and some even crashed; forming antimatter, a black hole where there is nothingness.

Am I in a black hole? After all, all I have been seeing in this place was darkness. But if I am in one, then it wouldn't be true to say that a black hole is where there is nothingness. I am here, and I found something here.

Shouldn't there be anyone else in this darkness? I couldn't be the only one in here… it feels.. it feels lonely in here.

So I wandered once again into the darkness with a universe in the palm of my hands, the only light that I had. I walked tirelessly for I don't know how long. It seemed like time only moved where I was. However, I felt no exhaustion, I only have this feeling that I should be looking for something, like something is waiting for me to find it… and when I find it, time will continue running, the void will be filled with space, and in the space, I will place the universe then I wait for the end and go and go back to the beginning.

For now, I need to look for something more.

In the darkness, I do not know if I reached the end or if I went back to where I originally was. I trusted the universe to lead me, so patiently, I searched and sure enough, it did lead me to something.

A door.

The closer I got, the slower I was. The universe, however, remained in its own phase.

So I went inside.

Huh?

It is a maelstrom, light, and darkness swirl towards each other, attracting and pushing each other. The wind was malevolent and unforgiving, I held the pebble to my chest and as I went to look over it, I saw the universe move in erratic paces then it slows before running anarchic. I looked back to where the door once was, but as I did, it gradually disintegrated into smaller matters, to sand, to atoms… and then back to nothing.

I'm inside the chaos.

For the first time since I found myself in the dark, I felt scared for myself and for the little pebble where my universe was. I'm afraid to even move. Just who knows what's in this seething mass? What if… something is out there to take my universe away? What would I do?

"I've been waiting for you, Time." A voice said.

I looked up to see someone had been standing in front of me. He wore a smile, he looked happy. And life burned brightly in his irises that reminded me of the yellow stars I found in my universe, however, they aren't just the stars, his eyes held galaxies upon galaxies, comets, and clouds… his aureate eyes held the universe. But more than anything, I saw me; all inside his eyes.

"Time?" I asked him.

"That's your name." He answered, "You told me that a long time ago."

"I did?"

"Yes."

"Have I met you before?" I asked once again, "My mind tells me no but my heart tells me otherwise."

"Do you truly not remember?" He took a step closer, "I can show you."

He closed the gap between us, leaning down, and our foreheads touched. I closed my eyes and felt the chaos calm down and surrounded us with pleasant warmth and the harsh wind became a gentle zephyr as it kissed both our skins. Slowly we descended, our feets touching the softness of the grasses. I opened my eyes once again, I saw his face illuminated by the bowing sun and the breeze playing with his golden hair. He leaned into my touch as my hand went to caress his cheek. And there, familiarity came showering me and everything else scattered and made sense.

"Abel."

He hummed, his face painted with relief. "See? Even time can not erase me from you."

"I took too long, didn't I?" I smiled sheepishly at him.

I only stayed in the chaos for a short time, but it was long enough to make me realize just how scary that place was. It made my universe run turbulent. I couldn't begin to imagine what it is like to be stuck in there for so long, waiting for me.

"It only feels like yesterday. Do not worry." He said, leaning down once again, "However, if you want to make it up to me, a kiss will—"

I pressed my mouth against his. A smile graced his soft mellow lips as they move with mine, dancing gracefully as if we were back in the times when we danced ceaselessly in the dark. I cradled his neck while his hands held me firmly by the waist. And just like that, we'd fallen right back in place as if I'd never been gone. His touch felt so familiar. How could I ever forgotten? We must have had millions of these encounters before. How else could it feel so natural?

Abel said his name meant "nothingness". But Abel is wonderful, especially to me. He holds the planets and the stars, the antimatter and fire that make up the universes of which I visited every time. He probably wouldn't understand right away, but me, who wandered through his darkness, have seen countless shiny pebbles; all enough to create universe of our own. Abel is so much more than he could see, and as Time, I will continue running towards him to remind him that.

"I'm always with you."

When Abel woke up, Time was gone. He was once again alone in the memories. A sad but hopeful smile on his lips, which his fingers subconsciously touched, reminiscing how Time's kisses felt.

He sighed.

Time must be wandering in darkness again…

It's okay. After all, Time promised. And that promise is always true—no matter how lonely it is to wander in the dark, Time will always come back to me.

☄️

In the beginning, there was only nothingness and time. The two co-exist, interchange, and orbit each other. Until space is filled nothingness and matter are born. Gradually, Nothingness disappeared and Time could do nothing but run through the universes in search of him. In the end, Time comes across a singularity in which a new universe is born and time wanders the darkness once again.

#The Story of Nothingness and Time #ikevamp le comte #le comte de saint germain #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp fanfic #comte x Narrator #comte x reader #universe

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thateldribitch · 2 years

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The Beginning of the End

So on @zarinosa 's stream, chat went a little nuts. Two chat members, Pink Boba and Another Existing Being, started anime fighting in the chat.

I decided to narrate.

And then I decided to make it into a short fic because why not.

I promise we'll get back to our regular angst shortly xDD The next idea I have should be fun.

@autisticrandomart and another person I can't remember the tag for were also there, sorry but I'm tired. XD

Anyway enjoy this unedited chaos.

***

It starts with a single slap in a normal Starbucks.

“Boba. Your simping needs to stop,” Aeb stares the sentient drink in its nebulous orbs. “Mei won’t love you back.”

“I am a highly recommended bubble drink. I’ll do what I want.” Boba stirs itself, pompously.

“You ‘boutta be highly recommended to a hospital.”

“How. Dare. Youuuuuuu!” The battle shriek rings across the Starbucks, the city, the world. The colored tea bursts from the plastic cup, infinitely spilling forth to form a mighty body. He tries to punch Aeb. His fist slams into Aeb’s waiting palm.

“I dare, you strawless bitch!” The gray figure smirks.

“Strawless—? I have the hardest straw in the cup city!” Boba shrieks. Then pauses. The bubbles within its mass jiggle. “...That didn’t come out right.”

“Ha!” Sure of its victory, the grey figure takes a step back and folds its arms. “I win this time!”

“No….” Boba stares at the ground. Tea drips from its vague arms. “Never. I’ll shoot you with my boba balls!”

“Ohohoho. I don’t think you quite understand….” Aeb chuckled. “I AM THE MULTIVERSE!” From nowhere, epic music begins to play. The ground shakes under Aeb’s feet.

“I am….” Boba laughs. Its bubbles crack open to reveal a multitude of eyes that would rival a biblical angel. All the eyes begin to glow. “EYES OF HEAVEN!” Brilliant light bursts out of Boba’s eyes. It’s a disco ball of destruction. Earth explodes…. The two beings float in space. The moon orbits them. Creation warps around them. And yet Aeb simply laughs. Because for a moment? All is quiet. Boba’s cup floats in space, its spilled tea a floating mess amongst the stars.

“I spent the last ten years doing writing as a hobby. I learned the ways of RP Fighting and overall god-like power…. You have been defeated since the start!” The stars blur. The moon crushes into powder. The black of space warps into streaks of color, all circling around this one point of true chaos. But then… a voice erupts from the tea. It isn’t dead; it never was….

Boba was storing power.

“I have spent the last fifty years learning the art of boba….” The cup begins to twirl, righting itself in the directionless void of space. Bodiless laughter echoes throughout reality. “How could I be defeated so fast?” Reality warps for one purpose: to make the ultimate Starbucks drink.

The blackness of space: the tea.

The remnants of moons: the sugar.

The stars themselves: the boba.

Its old cup crushes into plastic, then atoms, and the remnants explode. For Boba no longer needs such a pitiful vessel…. Its new cup is the confines of the universe itself. The tea can no longer be spilled. Everything. Is. Tea. Boba cackles, and its voice rings across its new, infinite form. “I am THE recommended beverage!!” The tea-niverse surges forth, converging on Aeb. “I will defeat you, and nothing shall remain!! DROWN IN MY TEA!”

The universal tea begins to boil Aeb alive….

But it’s Aeb’s turn to laugh. “I always come back. Because I got my own back, Sucka!!” With a snap of its fingers, the universe cracks like an egg. Light spills out. The multiverse shines beyond what was once our existence. Multiple Aebs, in all shapes, colors, and sizes burst from the various entrances to other universes. It is an entire army versus a galaxy cup… that giggles maniacally.

“As I said, nothing shall remain, not even the multiverses!” The tea cackles as it consumes infinity. The multiverse becomes its bobas…. Nothing is safe. The cup expands.

“I don’t breathe, you can’t drown me!” Aeb and its alternates scoff in unison. It’s a discordant choir against the boba void that is all existences that ever were….. But the invincible army stands strong against the infinite tide. Every molecule is tea. Every atom is tea. It’s. All. Tea. Everything goes white….

Distantly, there’s an echo of, “YOU DO NOT BREATHE, BUT YOU DO NOT HAVE PROTECTION FROM MY BOBA!” The alternates become bobas. But the original stands strong…. Maybe there’s a response from Aeb. We’ll never know. The two combatants stand before each other, as existence restarts. The force of their fight creates the next Big Bang. The universes restart….

And the fight between Aeb and Boba continues on into eternity.

An apocalyptic Starbucks argument that that happens every millenia for us… but every second for them.

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nierly-amazing · 3 years

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NieR: Theatrical Orchestra 12020--Automata dramatic reading transcript

Alt title: THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO FUCKING MUCH IT HURTS

Art and transcript provided by @shirl_geem on twitter! Follow her, her art’s great!

NieR:Theatrical Orchestra 12020

NieR:Automata

Investigative Operation Overview

New machine-lifeform signatures detected in a previously neutralized enemy base. Said base is a large-scale facility located in the Pacific Ocean.

Communication from the squad stationed there was ceased, making the situation impossible to ascertain. Satellite photography is also impossible due to the base's location on the sea floor.

The Council of Humanity is making preparations to retake the base, but understands it may be a trap created with a new type of enemy weapon.

For this reason, the Council of Humanity has decided to send a small team as an advance scout force.

The task of investigating the base and ascertaining the safety of its personnel has been assigned to YoRHa units 2B and 9S.

--Operation Name: Uranus

Advance Force Registered:

YoRHa units 2B and 9S

Specifications:

Modified flight units (underwater-use)

Close-combat assault armor

Type-3 swords, pressure-resistant suits, anti-icing coating

12 modified canaries, salvageable backup memory storage, reactive barriers

--Escort Unit Details:

Lead escort duties to be carried out by Hunter units K1 and K2

K1 unit overview: 8 flight units, 1 transport unit

K2 unit overview: 4 flight units, 1 Hummingbird aircraft carrier

Defensive radius: From 8,000 meters above the objective to the ocean's surface.

--Status of the Target Area:

Depth: 1,200 meters

Water temperature: 3 degrees centigrade

Machine lifeform energy: 3,200 units

Estimated machine lifeform count: 32 individuals

Communication status: Unknown

--Supplementary Information:

Target is 32 km north of the hostile submerged facility that was destroyed on August 13th. According to the deep-sea patrol unit, there is no relation between that facility and the target.

However, as there remains the possibility of attack by escaped machine lifeforms or rogue androids, all information pertaining to Operation Atlantis is to be disclosed beforehand.

Time to Arrival at Objective: *10 second timer appears on the screen*

This operation has been placed under direct control of the Council of Humanity. Any recording or other archival action is strictly forbidden.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

2B: So this is the machine lifeforms' advance base...

9S (narrating): The base we infiltrated was an expansive underground space with countless, intertwining support pillars.

2B: Temperatures are low... Pod, scan the periphery.

Pod 042: No machine lifeforms detected. No signals found on sensors or canary system.

2B: Is that... a dead android? Pod!

Pod 042: Affiliation unknown. Possibly a member of the unit stationed here. Fusion reactor non-functional. Heat analysis indicates it was destroyed more than 48 hours ago. No external wounding detected.

2B: No external wounding? Could it have been an EMP blast?

Pod 042: Negative. No characteristics of EMP damage detected in circuits.

9S (narrating): As we looked around, we found more androids strewn across the room like a child's forgotten toys.

2B: What on earth happened here...?

9S (narrating): The machine lifeforms that supposedly destroyed these units were nowhere to be found. All that remained was a chill, an eerie silence, and an android mass grave.

2B: Access the Bunker database.

Pod 042: Negative. Bunker communication is not possible.

2B: Keep scanning the periphery and let me know if you find any irregularities.

Pod 042: Affirmative.

9S (narrating): It was a gloomy place, untouched by the sun. The ceiling was a mass of cables tangled around interlocking steel. It was like being inside some kind of massive creature...

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Record Archivist: Pod 153

Analysis: Stationed friendly squad consisted of 36 individuals. Only eight individuals were confirmed in the target area.

Hypotheses for the other 28 individuals: Abduction. Predation. Desertion. Rebellion.

Proposal: Commence preparations for close combat.

Record Archivist: Pod 153

Analysis: Target base consists of four strata

Current location: First stratum

Area: 32,000 square meters

Temperature: 2 degrees centigrade

Humidity: 88%

Scans indicate a high probability that this area is a hangar for machine lifeforms.

Record Archivist: Pod 153

Alert: Examination of target's first stratum complete. Cause of androids' cease in function remains unclear. There is a high probability that neglecting to investigate this factor may cause impediments to the main force that follows us.

Proposal: Investigate the target's second stratum.

Alert: Target's second stratum reached.

Alert: Android bodily fluids detected on nearby wall. The residual shape appears to form sequences of letters.

Hypothesis: They are warning messages left by androids while still alive.

Analysis: The messages are as follows:

"The Bunker will fall"

"Destroy Command"

"Run"

"They must be killed"

"Help" "Help" "Help"

"Help"

Hypothesis: Thought circuitry of corresponding androids underwent some manner of attack.

Analysis: There exists a weapon in the base that can cause a logic infection.

Proposal: Hack the central cortex of the base.

Alert: Enemy thought center reached.

Analysis: Protection of YoRHa unit 9S is top priority.

Alert: Deploying virtual canary.

Proposal: Encrypt channels to long-term memory areas.

Proposal: Increase speed of thought-analysis region.

Alert: Central memory space located. 82 hostile defense layers and 1,343 attack-type security systems detected.

Alert: Virus employed by enemy defense layers. Executing sustained vaccine deployment.

Commencing Assault

Analysis: Defensive layers of central memory space infiltrated.

Data recovery and decoding complete.

Initializing visualization and extraction of records.

Visualization: 20%

Visualization: 40%

Visualization: 80%

Visualization complete.

Extracting...

Stratagem Information 111029E

Analysis of intercepted communications from the human army over a period of time has yielded the following data:

The majority of cargo bound for the human server on the moon consists of empty containers camouflaged as supplies.

Specific sequence patterns have been identified in video communications from the Council of Humanity.

Stratagem Information 111029E

Multiple models of supposition have been created based on the results of the above analysis.

Of these, the most probably conclusions are as follows:

The existence of the Council of Humanity is a pretense.

Humans are already extinct.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

9S: The Council of Humanity on the moon... So mankind... doesn't exist? No, this is a trap. The enemy is trying to make us second-guess ourselves. Pod, use laser measuring to reveal the structure of the enemy base.

Pod 153: Affirmative.

9S: 2B, I think there's a good chance this base is some kind of tra... 2B? Huh? Where'd she go?

Pod 153: Analysis complete. Displaying base structure.

9S: First we should figure out where 2B... Wait, this base is weird. There's one massive core at the center with a network of pathways for energy conveyance. It's almost like it's one big machine lifeform...

Pod 153: Alert: High-frequency vibrations detected in lower levels.

9S: High fre-- Agh!

2B (narrating): As 9S's vision fades out, a mysterious sound grows around him. crunch... Crunch... CRUNCH... The sound gets louder every time.

9S turns toward the sound to see an android's corpse.

A dark shadow sits atop it, its hands clamped around the android's thin, white neck.

9S: No...

2B (narrating): The shadow is 9S, and the corpse he's strangling-- with its slender fingers, black eye covering, all-too-familiar dress, and white hair-- is none other than...

9S: 2B...

2B (narrating): The sight playing out before 9S was one of his own twisted desires.

9S's deepest desires are laid bare. He wanted to kill her. Destroy her. Mutilate her.

9S: No! That's not true! I don't want that at all! Wait, I get it... It's the infection. This is what the enemy's infection does.

2B (narrating): Using thoughts of denial as an opening, the curse spreads. He knew. He was aware she was trying to kill him. He concealed. He hid away his intimate, innermost desires. And there, in the never-ending spiral of massacre... filled with false hopes and prayers... was the pleasure of despair.

9S (screams and cries): Please stop... 2B, I... I...

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Record Archivist: Pod 153 Alert: Vital signs declining for YoRHa unit 9S.

Alert: Reverse-hacking by enemy machine lifeform detected.

Alert: Defect detected in memory area.

Alert: Shifting to consciousness-protection mode.

Analysis: Increase in offensive enemy activity confirmed.

Analysis: Maintaining consciousness-defense form is impossible.

Due to the instability of YoRHa unit 9S's consciousness, executing the recommended counterattack is impossible.

Report: The decisions that follow constitute unauthorized support.

Declaration: Commencing rescue of YoRHa unit 9S.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"January 30, 11,942 (4:25 AM) YoRHa unit 9S enters service.

Analysis: This pod initiated recording of pre-determined monitoring subjects 9S and 2B.

Analysis: In the midst of collecting great volumes of data, this Pod ascertained that 9S is repeatedly destroyed by 2B.

Analysis: These acts were not delineated in any Project YoRHa implementation plans this Pod was informed of.

Analysis: Intervention in above acts is impossible for this Pod, as they are delineated processes for the core program of Project YoRHa.

However, this unit, in its continued recording of the activities of YoRHa unit 9S through a repeated cycle of combat and death, ultimately gained a sort of knowledge.

It is an internal command akin to emotion, far beyond any support assignment. The closest human analog would be the feeling called "maternity."

As such, reporting unit Pod 153 will abandon self-defense protocols and shift to launching an offensive against the enemy.

...I am glad to have met you, YoRHa unit 9S.

Farewell."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

9S: Ugh... Okay... I set the trap in the central system, and the camouflage repair on the enemy barrier is complete.

Pod 153 (narrating): The remains of Pod 153-- its circuits thoroughly fried- lie at his feet.

9S: My pod... saved me, huh?

Pod 153 (narrating): 9S hears a sound. He looks up to see 2B standing before him with a calm expression.

9S: Oh, 2B! Glad you're safe. I was just putting a logic virus in the enemy's central--

Pod 153 (narrating): 9S realizes something.

2B: Say, 9S...

Pod 153 (narrating): Her eye covering is gone.

2B: It's cold here, so...

Pod 153 (narrating): She holds a weapon in her hand.

2B: I want you to warm me.

Pod 153 (narrating): And her eyes... are crimson.

9S: She's infected!?

Pod 153 (narrating): Her white blade crashes down on 9S with the swiftness of lightning. 9S blocks the blow with his scabbard.

9S: Damn it! How could this happen?

2B: YoRHa's existence in this world has no meaning.

9S: Requesting access to 2B's motor system! Administer emergency vaccine!

Pod 153 (narrating): His request is denied. 2B swings her sword again, continuing her frenzied dance.

2B: We must stop the tragedy that recurs without end in this meaningless world.

9S: 2B, stop!

2B: Tell me, 9S...

Pod 153 (narrating): With the smallest of openings, 2B's blade finds its mark.

2B: Wouldn't it be wonderful to fade away together?

Pod 153 (narrating): The blade cuts into 9S's armor. A bright red message appears in 9S's vision:

Proposal: Destroy YoRHa unit 2B.

9S: I could never do that!

Pod 153 (narrating): 2B's sword swiftly pierces through the left side of 9S's chest. 2B's blood-red eyes draw close to his face. With defeat so close, 9S plays his final gambit... He places his right hand on 2B's cheek.

9S: ...Commencing hack.

Analysis: Commencing salvage of 2B's consciousness data from the infected area.

"The memories I have left aren't all bad. Wind rolling through ruins. Light flickering on water. The sound of swaying trees. I cherish everything we saw together. This isn't a curse. I... decided to be with her. I made a choice."

2B's infection had spread to the deepest portions of her memory unit. It's a troublesome virus-- and an elegant trap.

For if the infected section is removed, the individual becomes unable to maintain a consciousness.

As 2B's consciousness grows more infected, 9S readies his final, desperate plan.

...It was the only way she could be saved.

9S: Hey, 2B? The time we spent together holds eternal value for me. Heh. I'm serious, you know. I'm swapping your infected area with my memory storage.

"In a sea of collapsing emotions, I saw 2B's light. Even if I've lost everything, I have no regrets. Because I chose to live... for her sake."

--Texts on the screen appear--

9S: You're 2B, right? 9S: My name's 9S. I'm here to provide support.

2B: 9S... the time I was able to spend with you... 2B: It was like memories of pure light... 2B: Thank you... Nine...s.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

2B: ...Gya!

Pod 153: YoRHa unit 2B activation verified. Good morning, 2B.

2B: Pod... Where's 9S!?

9S: Nnngh...

2B: 9S! Are you all right?

9S: 2B... I'm glad you're okay.

2B: We're withdrawing. Pod, administer emergency maintenance to 9S and tell the Bunker--

9S: No. I can't go back. If the infection spreads, I may end up attacking you.

2B: Stop talking nonsense, 9S!

9S: Commencing... self-reformatting...

2B: Stop!

--2B and Pod 153 at the same time as their voices start fading away.--

2B: Please! Please don't die on me! I'm the one who should die! What's the point of my staying in this world? Please don't save me, 9S...

Pod 153: Alert: Infection critical in YoRHa unit 9S. Sensor signals lost. Black box defensive standby-mode activation failed. Temperature rising. Proposal: Cool body and cerebral unit immediately.

9S: Auditory sensors... down.

My temperature regulators are at their limit...

It's so quiet...

So this is how it all ends...

It's sad that I'll lose everything, but...

the curse of my sins will disappear as well...

The time I spent with 2B was precious to me.

There isn't a single detail I don't remember.

...Heh. I bet I sound so stupid right now.

You know... I'd really like to...

go back there with you again... 2B...

2B: Our prayers were never heard.

9S: Our future was closed off.

2B: Despite it all, the fact we'd fought together...

9S: ...was a miracle that shined brightly.

9S: You were always with me...

--9S and 2B at the same time.--

2B: Thank you, Nines.

9S: Thank you, 2B.

#nier #nier automata #nier concert #9s2b #2b9s #supplementary materials #-2B voice- I want you to warm me

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phoebosacerales · 3 years

Text

The 6th house in Astrology

I thought I'd just share this excerpt from "The Plague", which feels like a whole lesson on the 6th house, while also being very relevant in these times of covid-19. It says a lot more than I could ever try to say and explain about the joy of Mars.

"The word 'plague' had just been uttered for the first time. At this stage of the narrative, with Dr. Bernard Rieux standing at his window, the narrator may, perhaps, be allowed to justify the doctor's uncertainty and surprise, since, with very slight differences, his reaction was the same as that of the great majority of our townsfolk. Everybody knows that pestilences have a way of recurring in the world; yet somehow we find it hard to believe in ones that crash down on our heads from a blue sky. There have been as many plagues as wars in history; yet always plagues and wars take people equally by surprise.

In fact, like our fellow citizens, Rieux was caught off his guard, and we should understand his hesitations in the light of this fact; and similarly understand how he was torn between conflicting fears and confidence. When a war breaks out, people say: 'It's too stupid; it can't last long.' But though a war may well be 'too stupid', that doesn't prevent its lasting. Stupidity has a knack of getting its way; as we should see if we were not always so much wrapped up in ourselves.

In this respect our townsfolk were like everybody else, wrapped up in themselves; in other words they were humanists: they disbelieved in pestilences.

A pestilence isn't a thing made to man's measure; therefore we tell ourselves that pestilence is a mere bogy of the mind, a bad dream that will pass away. But it doesn't always pass away and, from one bad dream to another, it is men who pass away, and the humanists first of all, because they haven't taken their precautions.

Our townsfolk were not more to blame than others; they forgot to be modest, that was all, and thought that everything still was possible for them; which presupposed that pestilences were impossible. They went on doing business, arranged for journeys, and formed views. How should they have given a thought to anything like plague, which rules out any future, cancels journeys, silences the exchange of views. They fancied themselves free, and no one will ever be free so long as there are pestilences.

Indeed, even after Dr. Rieux had admitted in his friend's company that a handful of persons, scattered about the town, had without warning died of plague, the danger still remained fantastically unreal. For the simple reason that, when a man is a doctor, he comes to have his own ideas of physical suffering, and to acquire somewhat more imagination than the average. Looking from his window at the town, outwardly quite unchanged, the doctor felt little more than a faint qualm for the future, a vague unease.

He tried to recall what he had read about the disease. Figures floated across his memory, and he recalled that some thirty or so great plagues known to history had accounted for nearly a hundred million deaths. But what are a hundred million deaths? When one has served in a war, one hardly knows what a dead man is, after a while. And since a dead man has no substance unless one has actually seen him dead, a hundred million corpses broadcast through history are no more than a puff of smoke in the imagination. The doctor remembered the plague at Constantinople that, according to Procopius, caused ten thousand deaths in a single day. Ten thousand dead made about five times the audience in a biggish cinema. Yes, that was how it should be done. You should collect the people at the exits of five picture-houses, you should lead them to a city square and make them die in heaps if you wanted to get a clear notion of what it means. Then at least you could add some familiar faces to the anonymous mass. But naturally that was impossible to put into practice; moreover, what man knows ten thousand faces? In any case the figures of those old historians, like Procopius, weren't to be relied on; that was common knowledge. Seventy years ago, at Canton, forty thousand rats died of plague before the disease spread to the inhabitants. But, again, in the Canton epidemic there was no reliable way of counting up the rats. A very rough estimate was all that could be made, with, obviously, a wide margin for error.

'Let's see,' the doctor murmured to himself, "supposing the length of a rat to be ten inches, forty thousand rats placed end to end would make a line of...'

He pulled himself up sharply. He was letting his imagination play pranks, the last thing wanted just now. A few cases, he told himself, don't make an epidemic; they merely call for serious precautions. He must fix his mind, first of all, on the observed facts: stupor and extreme prostration, buboes, intense thirst, delirium, dark blotches on the body, internal dilatation, and, in conclusion... In conclusion, some words came back to the doctor's mind; aptly enough, the concluding sentence of the description of the symptoms given in his medical handbook: 'The pulse becomes fluttering, dicrotic, and intermittent, and death ensues as the result of the slightest movement.' Yes, in conclusion, the patient's life hung on a thread, and three people out of four (he remembered the exact figures) were too impatient not to make the very slight movement that snapped the thread.

The doctor was still looking out of the window. Beyond it lay the tranquil radiance of a cool spring sky; inside the room a word was echoing still, the word 'plague'. A word that conjured up in the doctor's mind not only what science chose to put into it, but a whole series of fantastic possibilities utterly out of keeping with that gray and yellow town under his eyes, from which were rising the sounds of mild activity characteristic of the hour; a drone rather than a bustling, the noises of a happy town, in short, if it's possible to be at once so dull and happy. A tranquillity so casual and thoughtless seemed almost effortlessly to give the lie to those old pictures of the plague: Athens, a charnel-house reeking to heaven and deserted even by the birds; Chinese towns cluttered up with victims silent in their agony; the convicts at Marseille piling rotting corpses into pits; the building of the Great Wall in Provence to fend off the furious plague-wind; the damp, putrefying pallets stuck to the mud floor at the Constantinople lazar-house, where the patients were hauled up from their beds with hooks; the carnival of masked doctors at the Black Death; men and women copulating in the cemeteries of Milan; cartloads of dead bodies rumbling through London's ghoul-haunted darkness, nights and days filled always, everywhere, with the eternal cry of human pain. No, all those horrors were not near enough as yet even to ruffle the equanimity of that spring afternoon. The clang of an unseen streetcar came through the window, briskly refuting cruelty and pain. Only the sea, murmurous behind the dingy checkerboard of houses, told of the unrest, the precariousness, of all things in this world. And, gazing in the direction of the bay, Dr. Rieux called to mind the plague-fires of which Lucretius tells, which the Athenians kindled on the seashore. The dead were brought there after nightfall, but there was not room enough, and the living fought one another with torches for a space where to lay those who had been dear to them; for they had rather engage in bloody conflicts than abandon their dead to the waves. A picture rose before him of the red glow of the pyres mirrored on a wine-dark, slumbrous sea, battling torches whirling sparks across the darkness, and thick, fetid smoke rising toward the watchful sky. Yes, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility....

But these extravagant forebodings dwindled in the light of reason. True, the word 'plague had been uttered; true, at this very moment one or two victims were being seized and laid low by the disease. Still, that could stop, or be stopped. It was only a matter of lucidly recognizing what had to be recognized; of dispelling extraneous shadows and doing what needed to be done. Then the plague would come to an end, because it was unthinkable, or, rather, because one thought of it on misleading lines. If, as was most likely, it died out, all would be well. If not, one would know it anyhow for what it was and what steps should be taken for coping with and finally overcoming it.

The doctor opened the window, and at once the noises of the town grew louder.

The brief, intermittent sibilance of a machine-saw came from a near-by workshop.

Rieux pulled himself together. There lay certitude; there, in the daily round.

All the rest hung on mere threads and trivial contingencies; you couldn't waste your time on it. The thing was to do your job as it should be done."

"The Plague", by Albert Camus.

#the plague #albert camus #hellenistic astrology #astrology #mars #6th house #traditional astrology #covid-19

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rodeoxqueen · 3 years

Text

AWAS

CHAPTER ZERO: GENESIS

Summary: Your origin was mysterious and heart-breaking as you started your existence a witness to great evils outside of your control.

Tags/Warnings: Explicit Content, Mentions of Death, Infanticide, and Murder, Part Of Reader’s Backstory, Prologue, Unreliable Narrator

This poor woman, existing at the beginning of written history, had seen and heard of the other women who had made the same fault as she. They birthed giants and died horribly. She understood that this was what she had to face upon the ninth month.

She knew, she had witnessed, and she was scared.

God knew, God had witnessed, and God was angry.

The guilty winged beings, his own flesh and blood, had fallen on their knees and begged for forgiveness from their creator. With not even a single movement, they turned to ash upon God’s golden stare. The others, still obedient to their father, watched with bated breath as he turned to look down at humanity.

The half-blood children had grown into giants that brought upon great power. They had his strength and his intelligence, but also greedy eyes and blood-thirsty hands. God did not want this for humanity and for his own kin. The angels were to protect humans, their powerful nature not to dabble in the mortals’ penchant for evils. The giant children, although born innocent, had remained as evidence to his messengers’ betrayals.

The half-bloods were next. They had struck a good fight as God came down from the mountains. A voice like thunder rang through the air. Many humans wondered if this death rattle meant it was the end. They knew what was to happen, after all it was taboo to create such powerful children. The men had turned on their own women and tore their newborns from their families’ grasp, fearing if any were to grow into giants and bring upon their destruction.

The aforementioned woman in that village, felt her round stomach and knew the impending doom had arrived. She wanted to run away, wishing to have her child live despite their cursed blood. Her village had heard of the wrath of the higher being and the buzz of a possible mass-infanticide haunted her. She knew her child was in danger and prayed the local threats of killing all the new children would go away by the time she had delivered.

Instead, her supposed nine months had turned to eight. Her muted cries were not of pain, but fear for her child and her life. She knew she would pass, and was surprised when she did not. Her child, swaddled in her hands, lay unaware of their damnation. She knew it was time to go. To chase a chance of escape.

Fate did everything to turn the crimson tides against her.

It was that very night when her village had torn itself apart. On a stolen horse, she had set off to raise her half-child somewhere over the horizon. In the fiery chaos and violence, no one had noticed she had left. No one but one man, who then followed her.

Their mother did her best to carry on, even with her own weakening body. She had found that she was frailer after birthing her child, a frailty that felt like her breath was leaving her faster than she could inhale. She did her best to pay it no mind.

God watched the humans tear themselves apart. Women screamed for mercy as the men did unspeakable things. The giants had protected themselves well from the puny humans and dyed their own palms in ochre red. Children cried tears that remain unwitnessed.

God decided that no one was to survive this event, knowing that no one would walk out of this undamaged. He came down from the sky and brought down death once more. Hands lit with golden energy, the angels watched from above as a flash of light brought upon the final darkness for many.

God appeared above the now-uninhabited homes in his true form, an indescribable demonic mass. His arms covered the expanse of the village and with a swipe of his hands, the ground sunk and the buildings were quickly flattened. He knew that the humans would eventually repopulate the now-level rubble and learn from what atrocities happened here.

The sun had risen when the nightmare was over. God looked over to the horizon and saw an orb-like beam of light that stood apart from the emerging sun. He left the village to discover what had strayed away from the night’s event.

The deceased form of a woman shone in the sun, hair fanned out like a halo as her face was serene. The knife on the ground remained steel-colored and unbloodied, the woman falling gently to a slower and less brutal death from birthing the half-child. In her curled-up arms held the said offspring.

The child glowed beyond the light of the sun and held a sheen of white energy. Born human and angel, they were a runt of their kind and spared their mother an immediate death.

God changed his form, now taking on the appearance of a dark-skinned male with hair like black wool. He padded the earthen ground and made his way to the bawling babe.

God’s hands, once clenched with violence, softened to hold the baby in their raggedy swaddle. The baby’s soft and wrinkled face relaxed and their tiny eyes opened, exposing colored irises that contrasted from their full-grown brothers’ beady black ones. His finger lightly stroked the babe’s face, watching as the orphaned creature’s fragile and ever-so-small hand wrapped around his first knuckle.

The light surrounding the baby amplified and their eyes flashed golden like his own. God stopped. If he needed to breathe he would have held his following breath. The baby closed their eyes and laid at rest again, small chest moving up and down.

God held the child closer and made his choice.

“I will spare one.” He softly whispered

God made his way back up the mountains to his remaining angels. When he had returned to their home in his human form, their true winged-forms circled around him in curiosity.

“Father, father, what have you brought with you?” They cried out in airy words.

God gently held out his new foundling. They obediently turned into their own human-like forms, coming closer to see the runt.

“Your new sibling. They are not quite like you all, but I shall raise them as my own. To become a messenger to humanity.”

The angels buzzed with uncertainty of God’s change of heart but unanimously agreed to his plan.

The child slept unknowing of their destiny, the truce from angelic downfall and human uprising.

And with death, came Genesis.

#awas #prologue #no dante and vergil yet #series #tw: death #tw: murder #tw: violence #dante x reader #vergil x reader #rodeo revises and reposts

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kedreeva · 3 years

Note

3, 7, and 13 for the end of year fic asks if you haven't done them already

3 was answered already but!

7- What’s your favourite piece of description or narration?

It’s a toss up between a description of Crowley’s true form in Momentum Deferred and a description of layered time in Siren’s Song.

Here’s the bit from Momentum Deferred:

Still, it took Aziraphale a distressingly long time to find the snake-eyed demon with crumpled black wings, and too many mouths, and a core the color of molten lava. It squirmed and swelled and collapsed upon itself like a roiling mass of snakes, eldritch and damaged and furious. He had hoped, until the very second he landed, that Beelzebub had been wrong and Crowley would recognize him, but he had to dance away backward to avoid the gnashing maw of a wolverine head and the snap of a viper's jaw as Crowley attempted to attack him.

"It's me!" Aziraphale said, over the wailing of damned souls around them. This place was deafening, nothing at all like the chill, open emptiness of Heaven. No wonder demons were so different.

He watched as one of Crowley's long crocodile jaws split into dozens more and slammed shut on a fleeing soul. It writhed in the grasp of his teeth, but there was no death here. There was only Crowley's endlessy snapping jaws, the void of his throat, the hellfire burning upon the hardened shell of his core. Aziraphale watched helplessly as the soul was torn apart, and tried to tell himself that whoever it had once been, they had done something to deserve to be here.

And here’s the bit from Siren’s Song:

“Imagine a pipe,” Crowley says, “with water flowing through it. That’s the way time goes from the start of things to the end of them. But if you toss the pipe in the ocean, that’s how things were, once. Time didn’t go anywhere- it was just everywhere, and going on all at once. And it’s still doing that here. Look, really look.”

He points out to the city, and Aziraphale follows the gesture. At first he knows that Aziraphale does not understand, does not know what he is looking at, but after a minute, the color fades from his face, and Crowley finally looks too.

The garden they are in is overgrown, crumbled into ruins, its walls toppled, but they also stand tall and proud and new around a pristine garden whose trees have only just been planted. Beyond the garden wall, the city’s spires reach for a sky that doesn’t really exist, and they are fallen as well, toppled with the ages and lying like the bones of a long-lost civilization. If he looks for long enough, he can feel the echo of its inhabitants, going about their lives, and long since gone, and yet to come settle in the first place. There is rain upon his skin, and snow, and sun, and wind, and utter, unrelenting stillness.

He blinks, slowly, and the vision clears, and they are alone in a dying garden once more.

There isn’t a #13, so I’m guessing you meant 10, which is: What, if anything, are you going to try to do differently in your writing in the new year?

Maybe not so much IN my writing, but I really want to try to work on something original. I don’t know how it would go, but I want to find out. The positive response to the hard copy of siren’s song was really neat and even though I didn’t make anything on it, and probably would not actually make money on something original, it was so cool to hold a printed copy of something I wrote in my hands.

#memes #asks #siren's song #momentum deferred #my writing #calico-fiction

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anonymouse-thoughts · 4 years

Text

@starlit-winter @luluthorn I’ve been thinking about all the potential unexplored lore of kwamis in ML and since since the world is shit right now I made a small thing while trying to avoid real life. I figured y’all may enjoy diving back into headcanons if life is rough on your end as well. If I end up writing more little blurbs, you’ll get to meet the narrator of this little history. I think you’d like him though. He’s a real hoot and he loves jelly beans~

[In the beginning...] [Those three were the first...]

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

If these words confuse you, be kind and grant some allowances as explaining things that existed before existence itself is a difficult matter. They’re meant to recount events in the way you will be most likely to understand, but even so you will need to listen closely and with an open mind. Your language limits the depth of this narrative and many parts are simply beyond what you or any human, regardless of how educated they are on such topics, could possibly hope to comprehend. Therefore, you must accept what you hear and trust that the things that seem contrary to what you have previously believed are as they are told. Interpret any inconsistencies as due either to your own limitations as a being of only four dimensions, or to explanations that are too detailed and off-topic to bother with at this time. If you feel something crucial has been left out, you may ask. And if an adequate response is possible and appropriate, you will be answered. But hold your tongue, at least until the end, and try to trust my judgment about what it is you should hear. These are my words, after all. With that being said, let us begin at the Beginning.

In the Beginning there was Nothing. This Nothing was not the black void humans typically envision, however. Instead, it was a bright, luminous Nothing. It was empty of any substance, but it was filled with raw energy. The white expanse was simultaneously everywhere and nowhere as space had not yet formed – or at the very least not in a manner that could be defined. Similarly, time existed in a paradoxical state of both being and not being. For either of these to exist in full, there needed to be something that served as a reference point. Something that relative distance could be measured against, that could anchor time and thus allow it progress. And, eventually, that something came to be. From the vast energy came a speck. This speck was energy that had slowed and condensed. This speck was mass. This speck was matter. This speck was everything. This speck was Everything.

The Nothing and the Everything existed and evolved. They were separate from one another, yet they grew closer and closer still. The Everything was dense and dark, emitting no light but rather taking it all in from the Nothing. The Nothing enveloped the Everything, gravitating towards it and feeding into it as it orbited around the speck. The Everything and Nothing became intertwined, giving part of themselves to the other. From these interactions arose two beings. One was a consciousness of the Nothing imbued with the three foundational properties of the Everything: space, mass, and time. This consciousness came to be known as Null. The other, an avatar of the speck that had been the Everything, now held the attributes that made up the Nothing. These are harder to describe as they are attributes of the immaterial – abstract tendencies for how energy behaves and influences matter. Two can be referred to as enthalpy and entropy. These terms are not exact but they come close enough. Simplified, the former is the tendency for matter to seek out its lowest energy state. The latter is the tendency for matter to exist in the state which gives it the greatest possibilities – the most chaos. The third is an amalgamation of the other two; it’s the reaction process itself and the matter’s state of being. Again, it’s difficult to describe. This second consciousness did not receive a name as it was not around for the rise of names. Over time, it’s been called Essence, All, Full, and Higgs; it’s been given titles such as The First and The Nameless One… But none of these were its true name. Its true name faded along with its consciousness during the Great Spark.

The Great Spark. That too lacks a proper name. It was an event – the event. It was the true start of the universe, its birth per se. Everything before that was merely its conception.

Null and All – for simplicity’s sake, The Nameless One shall be referred to as All – were aware. They were aware of themselves and of each other. Null still orbited All, being content with simply basking in the other’s presence. But All sought for there to be more. All was everything that was left from the initial Everything, but it was so… small. Every universe that now exists was contained within it. And, although Null was content to hover just out of reach, All desperately wished for real contact with its match. The two knew things would change if that happened though. Through some instinctual premonition, they could tell that the moment they were truly united they would never be together again. Null feared this and thus kept a distance, but All beckoned until the former gave in. Each consciousness learned the nature of the other, found the pieces of itself the other had held, gave itself to the other. The moment they touched had been both infinite and instantaneous. A great surge of energy rippled outwards as all matter was freed. And then the consciousness of All was gone.

Fragments of All’s consciousness were scattered through all that now existed, spanning through various dimensions and connecting the universe. In All’s place, three distinct beings were left. These were the parts of Null that had been held by All and which were now, once again, in the former’s domain. Null cared for these three and kept them safe. In Null’s presence, they grew until they too became aware. These were beings of energy and light, but they could manipulate matter and pass through different dimensional planes. They were the manifestations of the abstract tendencies that had been released by All. The first to awaken was the avatar of Creation, the one who embodied the very existence of matter. The other two gained awareness at roughly the same time, but in very different ways. Having remained in passive stasis, the avatar of Destruction had grown larger than Creation. On the other hand, the avatar of Chaos had phased through all its possible forms during its incubation and thus emerged smaller and more loosely bound than the others.

These were the first kwamis. And like all things perfect, they came in three.

#ml lore au #ml au

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theauthorandtheartist · 4 years

Text

Cliches

This goes along with the Dannymay day 7 prompt: 2nd chances

I don’t know where I came up with this. I just started writing and didn’t stop. I tried to do a story without using dialogue, and I think I succeeded. I had to write this for a school assignment, so I had to explain the Danny Phantom world a bit because my teacher had no idea what it is.

Cliches are a wonderful thing. We cling to them like lifelines, hoping for a good "happily ever after" to make everything better. In fact, I'm sure you were expecting a "Once upon a time" to start off the story now weren't you.

Yeah, you were.

Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, but here, there are no cliches. No long-lived and well-loved story arcs to follow, no "good guys" or "bad guys" or save the world scenarios. Here, the princess rescues the prince and the dragon is locked in the tower. Here, the evil stepfather can't get the upper hand over his rebellious teen son. Here, the protagonists are monsters and the villains are heroes.

Probably the only cliche in the whole story is the existence of myself, the narrator, who will shamelessly add my own thoughts and commentary to the story as I please; simply because I can.

Pleased to meet you.

Now, with hasty introductions out of the way, let’s get down to business. I am here to tell you a story, though I’m sure you already knew that. It is my job as narrator, to lovingly guide you through the history, lore, and thrilling storyline that the author has painstakingly crafted for you to enjoy. You’re welcome.

Let’s just jump straight into it shall we? I’m sure you already know everything there is to know about Amnity Park, and you don’t need me to tell you about their slightly paranormal pest problem. Surely you don’t need me to inform you about the daily ghost attacks, or the ghostly superhero known as Phantom who repeatedly confronts the angry spirit and either persuades them or forces them back across the veil. Assuredly, you know all about Phantom’s tragic backstory, of how he was caught in the veil between dimensions, and was officially turned into Schrödinger’s boy -both living and dead simultaneously. Of course you already know about the struggles of being both a hero and a high school student, missing class and skipping sleep in order to keep his city (and his secret) safe. I don’t need to tell you about the ghost hunters in town, who relentlessly hunt and attack Phantom without warning, oblivious that he is their son.

No, you already knew all of that.

Still, it is quite tragic to see a family pitted against one another, even if it is due to ignorance. Danny Phantom is nowhere near being ready to confide in his parents, but progress always starts with a first step. This story is that first step.

Let’s meet our protagonist, shall we?

Daniel James Fenton -or Danny, as he prefers to be called- is a good looking kid. Tall and muscular, without the air of privilege or haughtiness that often surrounds such people. His messy black hair and sparkling blue eyes are enough to make any girl swoon, though he does not seek out such attention, preferring instead to mess around with his two best friends. While most boys his age spend their nights drinking or partying, Danny spends his stargazing (or more recently, ghost fighting). He truly is the ideal high school boyfriend -but don’t let him hear me say that, he’s a flustered dork most of the time. He does his best to avoid the limelight, even letting the other kids bully him if it means that he won’t be looked at twice.

Danny Phantom however, has no qualms with spotlights. In fact, he doesn’t mind them at all as long as they don’t get in the way or result in other people getting hurt. His ghostly form does not look dissimilar to Fenton, swapping black hair for blinding white and blue eyes for toxic green. His normal T-shirt and jeans shift into a full body, black HAZMAT suit with white gloves and the trademark DP logo on the front. It is rather easy to spot, especially when he’s flying around and glowing.

To hide his alternate identity, Danny created two different personas for his two halves, slipping seamlessly into character whenever it is needed. Phantom is brash and hot-headed, a master at distracting his enemies with witty banter and endless puns. Fenton is cowardly and shy, infamous for being too clumsy to handle glassware. Fenton is terrified of ghosts, Phantom hunts them. Phantom is willing to sacrifice his own safety and wellbeing for others, Fenton gets misty-eyed over papercuts. This way, even if someone had thought that a ghost and a human could be the same, no one would ever suspect the two to be connected.

It was crucial that the two were never suspected. If the world knew that half-ghosts existed, Danny’s identity as a human would be overshadowed by his identity as a ghost. Ghosts don’t have rights, therefore Danny wouldn’t have rights. There would be nothing to stop anyone from marching down and kidnapping him for use in loads of painful and most likely unethical experiments. After all, the popular opinion on ghosts was that they were evil, semi-sentient projections who could feel no pain. That doesn’t do much to help his case.

The people need to be convinced that Phantom was a hero, and that process starts with his parents. The Fentons are the leading ghost hunters in Amnity, and they have dedicated their life to catching and researching ghosts, even if they aren’t very good at it. They are a perfect team. Maddie is thin and slender, and her blue HAZMAT suit does nothing to hide her curves, but she is not weak in the slightest. Her proficiency in martial arts and science is renowned throughout the city, and every thug knows not to mess with the red-haired mother. Jack, however, has the dexterity of a brick wall and the mass to rival an elephant. He looms menacingly over all who approach him, but his childish nature and agreeable personality make it easy for him to interact with others -even if he is a little too passionate about his profession.

The Fentons are stubborn, but not bullheaded. They can see reason when they need to, and unfortunately, with the infamous Phantom of Amnity Park bleeding out on their doorstep, they need to reevaluate their theories.

Phantom lay slumped against the porch railing, eyelids fluttering as he struggled to remain awake. It was a rather gruesome sight, and if Maddie didn’t know that he was a ghost, then she would be furious at whoever dared do this to a child. His right arm pressed hard against his wounded side, soaking the white glove in acid-green, ectoplasmic blood. A nasty gash on his forehead leaked the same vile liquid into his snowy white hair, plastering it against his sweaty, pale skin. In all honesty, he looked like he had brought a toothpick to a knife fight.

The Fentons frowned at each other, debating their next move. They knew how this happened, news of Phantom’s latest battle against the hunter ghost known as Skulker had been broadcasted on every television for the past three hours, what they didn’t know, and couldn’t figure out, was why Phantom had come here. They were his enemies, for all intents and purposes, they were very loud about their threats to rip him apart. But here he was, bleeding out on their porch, and Maddie found herself fighting between her hunter’s curiosity and her motherly worry.

Phantom didn’t look older than her own son, Danny. She hadn’t noticed that before, but now it was painfully obvious how young he was. It also struck her that he was a ghost, which means at some point or another Phantom had been alive. She couldn’t imagine losing Danny, and this ghost didn’t look older than seventeen.

She sighed, and scooped the hero up into her arms. The hunting could wait. It was against the hunter’s code to kill anything that you hadn’t weakened yourself, anyways, best to fix him up and let him be on his way. She could chase him down again later.

Now I know you’re thinking, “but Mr. Narrator, isn’t the hunter nursing the huntee back to health and becoming friends a huge cliche?” And to that I say, yes. However, that is not what we’re doing here. They do not become friends and instantly trust each other because of this little incident. This is a first step, nothing more.

After calming her husband’s fears, and assuring him that she was fine, Maddie cleared off the dining room table and laid the ghost on top. He had lost consciousness at some point while she moved him, and his head lolled back as she set him down. She frowned at the ghost, listening to his labored breaths. Ghosts didn’t need to breathe, but Phantom had always insisted. She never knew why.

Jack walked up the stairs from the lab, carrying a spool of glowing green thread. Phantom’s wounds would need stitches, and the special thread wouldn’t fall out when he used his power of intangibility. Silently, she stitched up his side, flinching at his whimpers he made every time the needle made contact. She had to remind herself that he was a ghost, and therefore couldn’t feel pain. Any reaction he gave was just part of an elaborate ruse.

You and I both know that wasn’t true.

She nodded as Jack brought her some bandages, holding his head upright in order for her to wrap them around his ectoplasm-stained hair. A neon green stain spread out on the tabletop, seeping into the wood. This was fine, she would just have to clean it later so the ectoplasm didn’t bring any food to life.

Satisfied that there were no other major lacerations, she once again scooped up the teenaged hero and moved him slowly to the couch. His unnecessary breathing had evened out, and she could feel a faint, slow, rhythmic thump against the fingers pressed on the base of his neck. It couldn’t be a heartbeat. Ghosts don’t have heartbeats. It must’ve been her imagination.

As you can see, Maddie is not very receptive to new ideas.

Laying him on the couch, she expertly ignored the slight hiss he made as his stitches stretched. He began to softly snore. She left the room. Jack was not much help when she explained what she’d felt, merely parroting her feelings back to her with a few insults directed at the ghostly species thrown in. “Ectoplasmic scum” was a popular one, along with “spook” and “monster.” Maddie didn’t know why she didn’t agree with those insults anymore.

A soft groan echoed from the other room, and Jack jumped to his feet to grab weapons. Maddie stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Phantom was no threat now, maybe she could get some answers out of him. A strangled, frightened yelp called from the living room, along with a loud thump and a groan. Upon investigation, she found Phantom on the living room carpet, curled up into a ball and shaking. A small pool of his green blood had soaked through the bandages and was now leaving little polka-dots on the rug.

Phantom apologized for the carpet.

At first, Maddie was taken aback. Phantom was hurt. Phantom had nearly died. Again. And he was apologizing about the stains on her rug. She didn’t expect most humans to be that selfless, much less a ghost. Nevertheless, Phantom was apologizing for the carpet, as a thin line of green dribbled down from the corner of his mouth.

She sighed and drew closer, eyes softening as Phantom flinched and tried to back away. She continued to advance, slower this time, and murmured words of encouragement as she approached. The ghosts glowing eyes held suspicion, but he did not flinch away this time. His usual witty banter was gone, much to Maddie’s worry, replaced by the soft pleas of a frightened child. A child faced with death, who did not want to die.

She called Jack into the room, and asked him to grab some bedding from the storage closet. She had made up her mind. Phantom was not a threat. Jack warily nodded and left to do as she asked, and Maddie gently took Phantom up in her arms again, wiping the green liquid from his face. He stiffened at the contact, but made no move to escape.

Soon enough, Jack returned with a feather comforter and several pillows. With Phantom’s telekinetic help, they made a soft nest and placed him gently inside. Maddie fussed over him as Jack stood to the side suspiciously.

Needless to say, Phantom was very confused. Why was his parents helping him? They hate Phantom. Did they see him change back into human form? Is that why they're being so nice? No, Maddie kept calling him “Phantom,” if she knew, she would call him “Danny” or “Sweety.” His secret was safe for now.

That still begged the question of why they were helping him, and when he asked, their only reply was along the lines of “you’re not a threat,” which really did more harm than good when it came to calming his nerves.

Nevertheless, they had saved him, and so when Maddie asked for an interview, Phantom didn’t decline. Their questions were standard, if a bit rude. They were nothing he hadn’t answered before, and he only had to lie twice, when their questions got a little too personal. He refused to answer how he died. They didn’t need to know that.

His healing factor had kicked in, rapidly knitting the skin back together and repairing the damage to his muscles. The room had gotten progressively more relaxed as time went on, and Jack was no longer shooting glares at him from across the room. Instead, he was questioning him with just as much zeal as Maddie. However, Phantom could feel his time here drawing to a close. Danny Fenton needed to be back home before curfew, and he couldn’t do that if Danny Phantom was in the living room.

Hastily making an excuse to leave, he said goodbye to his parents and phased through the door before they could catch him. His head, which had been overtaken by an awful headache, protested as he flew down the street and into an alley, but he paid it no mind. Unwinding the bandages around his head, Phantom felt his transformation overtake him.

His heartbeat sped up, his temperature rose, and his breathing grew more frequent. Granted, his heartbeat and breathing still weren’t exactly fast, and his temperature wasn’t exactly warm, but he could pass as human and that’s all that mattered. Seconds later, Danny Fenton exited the alley and headed home, walking carefully as not to disturb the stitched side under his shirt.

When he arrived home, his parents were whispering in hushed voices, glancing over at the couch occasionally. They greeted him excitedly as he walked inside, before running downstairs to the lab to go over what Phantom had told them. What Danny had told them.

He sighed and scaled the steps, making a beeline for the door to his room. He should start his homework, but then again, chances are the ghosts aren’t going to let him sleep tonight, so he should take a nap while he can. Not bothering to change clothes, Danny flopped onto his mattress, asleep before he hit the covers.

In the later weeks, the Fentons would continue to search for Phantom. However, now it was for conversational purposes instead of experimental ones. He even visited on his own time once or twice for a chat. The overall acceptance of Phantom increased as well, because if the ghost hunters thought he was okay, then the rest of the people would follow. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than before, and that’s all Danny could really ask for.

Who knew it took nearly dying to repair broken relationships?

Well, I did, for one, but I don’t count. I already know how Danny’s story ends. I know how his secret is revealed, and how his parents react. I know who will hurt him, who will betray him, and who will make amends. I know lots of things, including this: Danny will not live happily ever after. He just won't. There will always be more ghosts to fight, more threats to his friends and family, and he will not live happily ever after. His life will be filled with struggle and pain, and there’s nothing I can do to stop that.

His afterlife however...well, that’s another story.

I should tell you sometime.

#danny phantom #phic #danny phantom fanfiction #phandom #phan phic #phanfiction #danny fenton #maddie fenton #jack fenton #ghost #dannymay2020 #dannymay #day 7 #dannymay day 7 #second chances

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pierceson-mapes24 · 3 years

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Rhetoric as a Narrative

In this entry, I will examine the critical question(s): What is a narrative that is important to me or U.S. culture? What truths does it promote? What truths does it limit or ignore? What are the societal/ethical advantages and the disadvantages of this narrative?

To investigate these questions, I examined the article Slavery Gave America a Fear of Black People and a Taste for Violent Punishment. Both Still Define our Criminal-Justice system. As my rhetorical artifact. (Which is an excerpt from the 1619 Project) Stevenson uses a series of themes to present on counter-narrative to our public memory about slavery in order to illuminate that slavery did not end with the 13th amendment but that it evolved into a harmful criminal justice system. This is overall productive for society because it calls for the people of the United States to stop romanticizing the past and create a more equitable future.

Slavery Gave America a Fear of Black People and a Taste for Violent Punishment. Both Still Define our Criminal-Justice system. By Bryan Stevenson is an excerpt from Nikole Hannah-Jones “The 1619 Project” published by The New York Times in August 2019. Before I elaborate on Stevenson’s article, I feel the need to give a brief description of “The 1619 Project” as a hole. “The 1619 Project” was created with the intention to reframe American history placing Black American contributions and long-term effects of slavery at the center of the American narrative, illuminating truths that are so widely withheld from U.S. history curriculums. Following the central theme of “The 1619 Project” Bryan Stevenson shines light on the history of the criminal justice system, illuminating the ways our criminal “justice” system has historically preserved and evolved slavery since its “abolishment” in 1865. Stevenson begins his article with a narrative centered around his law offices fight for the release of a black man named Mathew, who was condemned to life in prison at age 16 for a nonhomicide charge. Stevenson stops his story to give a well-crafted history lesson on the mass incarceration of black people and the brutal nature of its history. After completion of his well-crafted look into some defining moments in U.S. history, he moves the story to more modern times, focusing on the inequality and systemic racism that still plagues our society today.

Narratives or stories exist in every facet of life, from books to TV shows to Movies to Speeches to lectures to recounts of family, the point is narratives are everywhere. Narratives are spoken or written accounts of connected events or experiences, fictional or non-fictional, that embody events, lessons, information, ideology, and tradition ETC… Narratives are a way to connect and reflect on past events personal or public. Narratives are comprised of two differing types of memory, public and private. Public memory, which is described as “a particular type of collective memory that combines the memories of the dominant culture and fragments of marginalized groups, memories, and enables a public to make sense of the past, present, and future.” (Palczewski, Pg.120) Palczewski’s definition of public memory is key to understanding narratives that are central to U.S. history; looking deeper into this definition, dominant culture stands out, providing a face for the narratives narrator, as well as an assumed tone of events, based on dominant cultural traits and truths. G. Thomas Goodnight states “As an inventional resource, collective memory resides in an uneven, heterogeneous region where specific recollections are sometimes contiguous and sometimes fragmented.” (Goodnight, pg. 609), just as Palczewski noted, the shortcoming of public memory is public memory frames narratives from the eyes of the dominant group. This short coming allows for glorification of events and fragmented truths to be told.

One of the narrative evident in Slavery Gave America a Fear of Black People and a Taste for Violent Punishment. Both Still Define our Criminal-Justice system. Is that the U.S. criminal justice system gave slavery a new face, Stevenson frames the U.S. Criminal justice system as a means for slavery to take new form, justified through the creation of the black criminal ideology. In Stevenson history lesson he notions to the loophole within the 13th Amendment stating “After emancipation, black people, once seen as less than fully human ‘‘slaves,’’ were seen as less than fully human ‘‘criminals.’’(Stevenson) he includes this quote suggesting that after emancipation posed criminality took place of forced slavery, which can be seen as the first step in the evolution of slavery. Stevenson connects this shortcoming of the 13th amendment to the start of mass incarceration of black people, he states, “’Laws governing slavery were replaced with Black Codes governing free black people — making the criminal-justice system central to new strategies of racial control.” (Stevenson) Seemingly unsatisfied by merely suggesting that incarceration of black people was a legally justified version of slavery, Stevenson includes, “The imprisoned were then ‘‘leased’’ to businesses and farms, where they labored under brutal conditions.” (Stevenson). Traditionally when using the term leased it is in reference to property or things, once again black people have been reduced to things, showcasing the true intent behind black codes and the creation of black criminal ideology. The narrative that Stevenson shares is one often hidden from U.S. history curriculum; the true story of slavery is one of devious and malicious intent aimed at an already marginalized group. The 13th Amendment may have emancipated slaves, but it did not halt slavery. The notion of black people seen as less than fully human “slaves” before emancipation and after emancipation seen as less than fully human “criminals” can be assumed as a tactic to sustain the racial hierarchy that white men profited off for so long. Overall Stevenson’s narrative is productive, it shares truths about our harmful criminal justice system, countering the tradition narrative told by Americas dominant group.

Another narrative evident in Slavery Gave America a Fear of Black People and a Taste for Violent Punishment. Both Still Define our Criminal-Justice system. Is the history of normalized brutality of black people. Stevenson frames this normalization using public records describing laws allowing for brutal physical punishment of slaves, along with homicide justified by nothing more than race. Stevens states “By 1729, Maryland law authorized punishments of enslaved people including ‘‘to have the right hand cut off . . . the head severed from the body, the body divided into four quarters, and head and quarters set up in the most public places of the county.’’(Stevenson) the public display of quartered slaves is the first case of brutality offered in Stevenson’s counter-narrative, as well as the first step in normalization of brutality. If that wasn’t proof enough Stevenson states “An 1887 report in Mississippi found that six months after 204 prisoners were leased to a white man named McDonald, dozens were dead or dying, the prison hospital filled with men whose bodies bore ‘‘marks of the most inhuman and brutal treatment . . . so poor and emaciated that their bones almost come through the skin.’’” Stevenson’s inclusion of this quote in his narrative suggests in the eyes of the dominant culture (white men) black prisoners where still seen as slaves justifying the brutal treatment of incarcerated black people. While Stevenson did not address if McDonald was punished for his actions, it can be assumed that no actions were taken against McDonald; only furthering the collective memory of normalized brutality. Stevenson, driving his point home states “In 1904, in Mississippi, a black man was accused of shooting a white landowner who had attacked him. A white mob captured him and the woman with him, cut off their ears and fingers, drilled corkscrews into their flesh and then burned them alive — while hundreds of white spectators enjoyed deviled eggs and lemonade” (Stevenson). Stevenson’s use of the word accused suggests that the white mob did not hesitate to inflict brutal punishment on this black man and the woman he was with, inclusion of the refreshments enjoyed by white viewers suggests the aspect of a party or celebration. Overall, these quotes build Stevenson display of normalized brutality of black people, suggesting that the murder justified by race was widely practiced and celebrated. Such grotesque actions were made into events for public display. Stevenson narrative is productive, in that it points to historical actions that provide a footing for race-based violence in todays time.

This narrative is ultimately productive, the nature of this counter-narrative is one that focuses on truths commonly withheld from public memory. These truths are productive for fostering a better tomorrow, as George Santayana once said, those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it, without an impartial narrative about slavery and our harmful criminal justice system, it is easy to look over the truth that slavery has evolved. Overall, this narrative has no disadvantages, being that these truths are important to understanding unfiltered U.S. history.

In conclusion Stevenson use of counter-narrative displays grotesque truths about U.S. history, focused on shifting public memory from the dominant groups recollection to events seen from the marginalized groups point of view. Throughout his narrative Stevenson sheds light on the brutalization of black people, and the birth of ethical corruption in our criminal justice system fostered through the creation of the black-criminal ideology and black codes. Stevenson narrative is productive in that it brings truths widely withheld from U.S. history curriculum to light.

References:

“DISCOURSE 2: COLLECTIVE MEMORIES OF WAR AND RACE” Shared Power, Foreign Policy, And Haiti, By G. THOMAS GOODNIGHT AND KATHRYN M. OLSON, pp. 605-608.

LeBlanc, CJ, et al. “Angola Prisoners Say: ‘This Is a War – and We're in It.’” HARD CRACKERS, 21 Apr. 2020, hardcrackers.com/angola-prisoners-say-war/.

“Narratives .” Rhetoric in Civic Life, by Catherine Helen Palczewski et al., Strata Pub., State College, PA, 2012, pp. 117–141.

“Slavery Gave America a Fear of Black People and a Taste for Violent Punishment. Both Still Define our Criminal-Justice system” The 1619 project, by Bryan Stevenson, The New York Times Magazine,2019.

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jyndor · 3 years

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so I was talking to my friend @timelordthirteen about some shit and I decided to just share with you all about the importance of actually explaining shit instead of just saying it. the Left, I am looking at you bitch (ily bitch but)

lol would put a read more but tumblr's being a petty little bitch today ❤

shitposting is fun. dunking on asshat right wingers is fun. you know what is not fun? seeing people not understand the basic terminology that we use in the ~discourse*

but. if we are going to use terminology, if we are going to inject regular old laypeople conversations with (imo) unneccessary amounts of academic terms, then we should try to use them correctly** because in many cases misusing them means we as leftists do not have a full understanding of what the fuck we're on about. this dilutes both the meanings of these terms and their purposes. I know I am wordy as fuck and can be hard to understand sometimes (thanks adhd) so what I am about to say is a little ironic, but clarity is fucking important when it comes to strategy and organizing.

so I am going to examine some commonly misused concepts and terms today. yay.

1. THEORY, PRAXIS AND FRAMEWORKS FOR ANALYSIS weeee yes I am fun at parties tyvm

what is a framework? a structure, in this case, for analyzing some bullshit we deal with irl. that's it lol but I use it a lot so I figured I'd define it here. examples of frameworks are: intersectionality, marxism, queer theory. seriously, if you can think it, it has already been analyzed through the queer lens.

what is theory? ideas, knowledge in the abstract based on looking at shit happen and analyzing that shit. it is useful because it can help us articulate what we are going through in our shitty lives. this is why I often recommend people learn about chomsky's manufacturing consent (theory of why we get the info we get from the media tl;dr), not because I think chomsky is the ultimate leftist grandpa but because this site needs some media literacy lmao. and btw, this clip narrated by amy goodman is a great, trippy little 4:30 min long video that explains the basics of manufacturing consent so you don't have to open a book or use drugs!

theory can help serve as a framework to understand what the fuck is happening to us irl, but imo is kind of an incomplete understanding of shit without lived experience (aka - theory v praxis). this is one reason why we should listen to marginalized groups on their own shit and not talk over them - because all of the research and theory in the world does not make me a Black woman living in Flint (aka - ground up organizing v technocracy). it is not about being nice, or politically correct, although we should be nice and we should care about people just because they're people. if you understand the why of listening to marginalized groups, you understand that it is mainly about communities knowing their own problems best and therefore having the best solutions for those problems.

2. MARXISM, CAPITALISM AND OTHER BUZZWORDS (and leftists need hobbies)

so marxism is a framework for socioeconomic analysis observed by mr kpop himself, karl marx (and his sugar daddy friedrich engels). because leftists love to argue, there are so many kinds of marxism, and if you ever feel like you are shouting into the void too much, just look up some arguments between stalinists and trotskyists. it's just... magical. no, I am not defining tankie here.

as many people smarter than I am have said (read: kwame ture seriously watch this video it's iconic), karl marx did not discover socialism or invent it or whatever, he observed capitalism and saw how shitty it is, like any other sane person would do. the point of marxism is not karl marx (which he would say) or tankies or fuckin guillotines***

things that marxism is:

- an analytical tool for looking at the world

- a theory which was used to develop the basis of different kinds of post-capitalist economic systems like communism and socialism

things that marxism is not:

- a system of economics or government lmao marx did not govern dick

- scary

marx looked at capitalism and said "this is definitely gonna fail someday because it's clearly unsustainable, I mean the proletariat is bigger than the bourgeoisie who owns everything uh yeah so I can do basic fucking math. if I have one capitalist and fifteen hundred workers, eventually that capitalist is gonna lose his damn head because he is gonna hoard all that wealth and his workers are gonna get pissed that they don't have their basic fucking needs met. lmao now put on some kpop, freddy" or something. idk that might not be a direct quote.

what is capitalism? (besides horseshit) a system of economics where industry is privately owned. and yes, this includes publically traded corporations because they are still owned by individuals (shareholders) even if they aren't privately owned by one person or a group of partners. truly a nightmare to live in, and we hate to see it.

what is the proletariat? well, the working class. and the bourgeoisie is the owner class, the capitalist class. the rich.

and this is something else that we need to discuss, tumblr. if you are going to say "eat the rich" please understand who you are talking about. we're not talking about random actors or musicians, or doctors or lawyers, even if they make better than a liveable wage. even if they often have zero class consciousness, meaning they don't ~see class, like colorblind racism for classism.

anyone who has to sell their labor for wages and is not part of the owner class is working class. this includes people who cannot work for any multitude of reasons (disability, can't find work, caretaker, etc) and also white collar workers who might be well off in relatively high paying jobs because they don't own the means of production, or capital that is used to produce shit. so yes, that rich actor who is a part of a union is actually part of the working class in marxist theory. when we say eat the rich, we mean jeff bezos, not john boyega. jeff bezos owns the means of production. john boyega is a working actor who is in a union.

this is important not because we shouldn't get pissed off when actors and celebrities do tone deaf shit like singing about imagining no possessions in their mansions while people starve during a pandemic. they need to put their money to good use, have some class consciousness, instead of asking fans to donate to causes that they could fund. but they are not the bourgeoisie until they start owning the means of production. and there is no doubt that many of them do, which is why we might eat gwyneth paltrow but we won't eat john boyega.

and by the way, eating the rich is metaphorical, a reference to french revolution-era philosopher jean-jacques rousseau's quote: "when the people shall have nothing more to eat, they will eat the rich." obviously I don't even need to explain it but I will anyway. basically, the people will forcibly redistribute the wealth of the rich if they have nothing else. this is why there are some very smart capitalists who are in favor of reforms and raising taxes, because they recognize the danger to their necks in not providing for basic needs of the working class. no, "eat the rich" does not mean be pro-cannibalism. but there are many capitalists who would prefer to die than lose their hoard so

oh, and one last thing. "no ethical consumption in capitalism" is tossed around a lot and it's a million percent true, but I need all of us to understand that it is not an excuse to support harmful practices but it is also not meant to shame consumers. it is rather an understanding that we as consumers are not responsible for the monstrous impact of capitalism. we live in it, we have no choice but to consume, and sometimes (most of the time) that means we have to buy shit that was produced in unethical ways. unfortunately supply chains being what they are, all consumption causes harm in some way.

it is a reminder that individual actions are not going to have the impact of collection actions. this is why plastic bag bans, though well-meaning, are not going to have the same impact on climate catastrophe as, say, banning fossil fuels would.

I am a vegetarian and I can recognize that I am doing a whole lot of nothing by not supporting factory farms, and when I was a vegan I wasn't doing much either. boycotts without mass support don't have much evidence of working. this is why bds exists - boycott divestment and sanctions. boycott, meaning don't support goods from various conpanies connected to something, divestment, meaning get companies/countries/institutions to remove their money from something, and sanctions, meaning getting countries to penalize a country for their bad behavior until they comply.

this is what the anti-apartheid south africa movement did and what palestinian rights organizers support for israeli apartheid.

do not allow legislators to put the burden of fixing the ills of society that capitalism created on consumers' shoulders.

3. INTERSECTIONALITY (because it deserves its own section)

I don't have as much to say on this as I did the last bit because holy shit capitalism, man.

intersectionality, a term that was coined by law professor kimberlé crenshaw in the late 80s to serve as a framework for people to critically assess how legal structures impact Black women differently due to class, race and gender. it is not incompatible with marxism (in fact marxism has been argued to be a form of intersectionality).

intersectionality can and should be used to examine why the Black queer experience is unique, for example. I also want to acknowledge that professor crenshaw isn't the only person to come up with intersectionality; sojourner truth spoke about it even if she didn't coin the term, for example. patricia hill collins, another influential af Black feminist academic****, created frameworks for viewing intersectionality. also you can read her book black feminist thought here for free.

intersectionality has been used - improperly - by liberal feminists***** to excuse bad behavior from leaders who pretend to care about women while creating and enforcing legislation that harms women. anyone who stans politicians at all needs help. it has also been misrepresented as essentialism, which it is also not (essentialism is the idea that everything has some assets that are necessary to its identity) because intersectionality isn't saying that every Black queer woman has the same experience, just that Black queer women might experience similar issues because of a system that negatively views them as Black and queer and women.

intersectionality does not excuse kamala harris for prosecuting poor moms of truant kids.

okay if you guys have things to add please do because I want us to educate each other instead of always talking shit. both is good.

* I am not calling out people for not being academic enough or not speaking english or not reading enough theory because LOL I am a 2x neurodivergent college dropout who radicalized by working retail and not by hearing karl marx talk dirty to me. also, not everyone speaks english like, I am truly not shitting on people.

** I recognize that language is fluid and ever changing, and that is a good thing. But diluting terms that serve specific purposes is not ever going to be good.

*** and I don't want to dismiss intra-leftist theory discourse (🤢) because I know how annoying it is to hear bernie sanders lumped in with liz warren, or bernie sanders lumping himself in with post-capitalists lmao of course I get it. but twitter discourse is not dismantling capitalism so ANYWAY

**** actually crenshaw built on collins' work (black feminist thought) and the collins built on crenshaw' work we love to see it.

***** I should go ahead and define liberal feminism as well as rad fem and terf and shit because people use them all very very loosely, especially terf (not every transphobe is a terf but every terf is a transphobe, it's like the rectangle/square thing). but I am exhausted with this so next time.

#marxism #word vom #intersectionality #kpop idol karl #truly apologize for my mess

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alxndre-0001 · 4 years

Text

Black Mirror Episode Impressions

So I got into watching the series a little before classes begun and here are some thoughts:

Warning: If you don’t like a non-rainbow image of people,then do not proceed.

THE NATIONAL ANTHEM

Fascination over other people’s misery

Aka social voyeurism, our tendency to find satisfaction in other people’s scandal. I feel like the sex with the pig wasn’t the voyeuristic act itself, it is a stand-in for something far more insidious and cruel, our tendency to fascinate over the humiliation of other people.

On how public opinion shapes political and personal events

Note how PM Callow was forced to fuck the pig not because of any apparent security reasons to save the princess but it was ultimately the social pressure, which changed overwhelmingly after the finger was cut, that drove him on. The social pressure which was misinformed since the netizens who clamored for it did not really understand the problem behind closed lines. They merely relied on media which was twisted to cater to sensationalism and people’s natural love for anything scandalous. In effect, PM Callow fucked the pig.

But it wasn’t only that event which was shaped by public opinion, I think the suicide of the artist/ kidnapper was also egged on by public opinion that is if we assume that he did all of that to prove a point, like a social experiment that people will forget about the kidnapping if they are presented with something as horrendous as fucking a pig. His point having been proven, his predictions were confirmed that people are truly fucking terrible. And it depressed him so bad enough to kill himself. But this theory backfires if we assume that he planned everything out and knew what was going to happen down to the very last detail. The other reason for his suicide, for me, and which I think is more far fetched is that upon seeing the pig fucking on the telly, he actually participated in the hypocrisy of the masses which he dared to expose. The artist, if I remember correctly, actually sat and watched Callow as he fucked the pig, if he did know his plan was going to work anyway, why sit and revel in the disgusting horrowshow? Perhaps he found himself fascinated by the scandal as well? I don’t know but the artist’s suicide is the most baffling angle in the episode for me.

Public opinion causes movement both on a social and personal scale.

Our words have an impact to shape reality, if Callow was not pressured to fuck the pig, he wouldn’t have had. But one cut finger later, and the tides of the masses changed.

But there is also an interesting angle about the performance art of the artist. If the whole pig fucking thing was meant to be taken as an art work, then the artist’s statement makes a lot of sense. Often in art, even in literature, art works with controversial value (think Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov, Egon Schiele’s artworks, Balthus with Therese, Dreaming) often become sensational because of the controversy they generate. The masses no longer see the whole point of the artwork. In Lolita for example, the people pounced on the pedophilia and incest plot of the book when all Nabokov really wanted to portray was something else entirely, that Humbert was a bad man and that he hopes readers should not be easily taken in by the poetic words of a madman and essentially an unreliable narrator. But the merit of Lolita as an artwork was reduced to its shock value, the entertainment which people consume.

Similarly, in this episode, the artist wanted to send the message: Look beyond the entertainment to see something far more important (i.e look beyond Callow’s sex with a pig to see that the Princess was indeed freed). But of course, humanity being the disappointing lot that we are, glued our eyes to the pig fucking. I started to realize what a truly fantastic show BM is from this point on because it did not only criticque the people who watched the pig fucking and literally dropped everything they were doing to do just that. It also criticqued US, the audience that watched the episode itself. I admit that while the pig fucking was going on, I wasn’t even thinking about the princess and whether she was alive. I was only absorbed by the scandalous thing happening right before me. Who am I to criticize the citizens when I am just like them? This is the self-awareness that sets apart this episode from the others, I guess. It was like watching a microcosm of real life, the ultimate Black fucking Mirror – like looking at yourself in a mirror only to find that your image has been darkened by so much filth, our darkest tendencies being handed to us in one show. Great first episode, by the way, Brooker.

The fact that two months after the pig fucking, the whole thing was forgotten, people moved on with their lives which scares me tbh. This only goes to show that we have become desensitized with the sensationalism and violence that goes on in the real world as it is shown almost daily whether in newspapers or television. Reminds me of what Susan Sontag said in her work, “Regarding the Pain of Others” where she cites the influx of violence and brutality in television as having altered the way we empathize about real people and real world events. The word is desensitization. And it is true, when we reduce real events into mere forms of entertainment, we dilute their gravity as events with consequences on real people.

It was believed by the French Enlightenment thinkers that distance ( a child from UK may not empathize with an enslaved child in a Boko Haram situation because of geographical constraints) and time (zeitgest, generational gap) delays our moral response. The distance in this episode and in real life as well is the technology. The screens in our televisions and computers, create a distance which delays and frustrates our ability to protest to morally objectionable acts and to truly connect with each other. Or we may protest, but it is fleeting or hollow – we may protest that there is child slavery in Nigeria but it stops there, we move on. Take the people at the pub for example, the ones holding their mugs of beer anticipating Callow’s humiliation, acting as if what was about to happen was the fucking Superbowl, they look as if Callow was not a person, like Callow was not even one of them. Nobody really thought about the humiliation Callow could be feeling at that very instant. They did, however manage to feel some form of sympathy for him midway but sympathy is not empathy much less compassion. Someone even said feeling sorry for somebody can be a mere recognition of the fact that you’re doing so much better than the other person.

WHITE CHRISTMAS

Does existence need to have a body? Or is it the mind that gives existence to a person?

Are the cookies an extension of the person or are they a different entity from the person himself herself? I find it odd because they can be given punishment although they do not cause any effect to the original as in Joe’s case. If the purpose was to punish then necessarily, the cookie should have been considered a different entity but still an extension of the original, forming part of the original, even if it feels like a simulation of the real us.

Is it just the real person who can be punished? Who knows in the future, a simulation of us can also be punished. Akin to our social media selves, in a sense the persona we have in social media are mirrors, mere shadows of our real selves, just like cookies, they are a fragment of ourselves. Our online personas or cookies can be punished as well despite them just abstracts of us when we are subject to online humiliation, criticism, our online selves can be manipulated as well by companies who profit from it, like Smartintelligence.

In the very last scene, the people gave Joe’s cookie an existence enough to consider its confession as legally binding to convict a person. They did not treat it as mere evidence but something that could speak for itself, one woman even saying in the effect that Joe need not talk as the cookie already talked for him. Also the part where Joe’s cookie was subjected to repeated punishment. If it was considered as punishment, then necessarily, one must consider his cookie as existent in the first place? No one can punish a non existence after all.

Matt’s ending was fitting, like “a taste of his own medicine” kind of thing, pretty ironic in my opinion because in the first scene with the cookie of the woman, he controlled the cookie, forcing it to submit to whatever he wanted. But in the ending scene, he was deprived of his own existence, he was made invisible because he was basically a non-person, as if he does not really exist. It’s also kind of snarky how in the first few scenes, he said that people did not want to feel invisible and yet that was exactly what happened to him. In a sense, he is just like the cookie of the woman, he is deprived an existence of his own through the conditions imposed on his freedom by the prison authorities. Notice that in both cases, their existence are conditional, the woman’s cookie to the whims of Matt, Matt is totally blocked from anyone through the whims of the the prison officials or whatever they are called. Since they have no freedom on their own, we can say they are tools, they do not exist.

Which also reminds me of one idea which goes like this: a self cannot be created without others. Does Matt still exist when others are totally effaced in/from his life? How can he have a self(existence) when he could no longer jnteract with others? I feel like Matt’s punishment is even more cruel that that of Joe’s

Torture can also be of different forms

Will it be ethical if we create versions of ourselves in the future without giving them the same rights as we do have? Are copies of us considered as humans?

The similarity in White Bear where there was some sort of a cycle of punishment. I find it interesting, the repetitive nature of punishments to highlight their meaninglessness and banality.

WHITE BEAR

Public persecution through social media or the internet.

Our particular inclination to fascinate on other people’s misery.

“Are the sound waves making them behave like that?”

“Maybe they’ve always been that way, they just needed the rules to change.”

Well, interesting to note because technology (the white bear radio waves) are mere enablers of our innate tendencies to enjoy other people’s misery, be it in social media or otherwise.

Using the excuse of serving justice as a veil for such tendencies, when in truth we become even more brutal than the people we condemn. Ironic that we condemn rapists, murderers, terrorists, people who dehumanize others but in our condemnation, we have dehumanized such people as well.

Social media to ventilate social outrage which becomes quite easily disproportionate. It becomes a place to condemn people.

Shockingly unfair that Victoria did not know what she was being accused of, yet people do not really point this out. Her lack of knowledge about her alleged crimes or the fact that she was an accused in the first place makes this episode almost Kafkaesque ala The Trial, although later on we do know what she is accused of. Is it ethical in the first place to condemn a woman who has no idea what she is being accused of? Is justice merely carrying out the punishment or does it also concern giving a fair trial to a person?

The performative nature of social media in expressing social outrage, in fact everything in this episode feels like a performance. The participation of the viewers, the whole structure of the show hinges on performance, the value of entertainment even to the detriment and humiliation of very real people. Our humiliation becomes a commodity for people to consume.

On the punishment of Victoria It is cruel because she is made to relive the humiliation several times and yet her memory is erased every single time. If the point of the punishment is to reform Victoria (assuming it really is) then why not let her reform on her own and understand the consequences of her actions? This is where the intent of the punishment is revealed— the punishment means nothing, it is not meant to reform any criminal or prevent any form of future criminality, it is merely a performance after all. It is absolutely meaningless. I wonder if our criminal justice system operates on the same principle – the meaninglessness of punishment which is fundamentally cruel because it completely dehumanizes the accused.

FIFTEEN MILLION MERITS

The myth of meritocracy

Notice how the bikers are basically given the false hope that they could escape their monotonous daily lives if they could only earn enough credits to buy a ticket to enter Hot Shot and have a chance to elevate their status in society. One finally gets the credits, buys a ticket to HotShot, however this is where the myth falls apart. Notice how Abi, basically within the first few minutes that she got in the rehearsal room was already asked to go on stage, on the ground, as we later learn that she was attractive. She did not even get to sing in the rehearsal room the judges barely considered her singing voice despite her having the best voice thus far in the competition or something like that according to one judge. One of the girls in the rehearsal room was practically complaining that dhe had been singing for a week yet Abi gets scouted first, the girl who just stepped inside the room like five minutes ago. Notice also that Bing was scouted on the basis that he looked “ethnic”. Both Abi and Bing’s talents, merits or what have yous flew off the window the moment their physical qualities became the basis for letting them go on stage. What happened to good old talent and skill?

On the “ethnic” comment, I find it quite racist, as it feels like it referenced how white people exoticize Black people.

Meritocracy is a lie because in this episode, one’s hardwork and talents did not become the reason for how Abi and Bing escaped the bike room. Abi got out because she was hot and perfect for porn, her singing was discarded. Bing on the other hand, got out because he sold out. It wasnt his talent that made him leave the biking room, it was the shock value of his dissent which appealed to the judges and the masses and not his prepared dance.

Bing is a tragic anti hero because unlike Abi who had compliance juice which coerced her to porn, Bing had none and consented fully to his own exploitation. He was adamant about the hypocrisy of consumerism, the endemic classism in that world, capitalism and so on. However, the moment he benefited from the system that actively exploits others including himself, he sold out. He took the benefit and forgot the cause. This is not very different from people who are fully aware how a system creates inequality to others, but because of the advantage they acquire from such system, they refuse to question the status quo. In Bing’s case, he pretends to criticque the system with his shard of glass, but it is a hollow dissent, it’s all just fashion, there is no conviction or real belief to it, at least no longer.

On the nature of exploitation

The reason Bing went to the show was his rage against the exploitation that the system were committing against basically everyone. But he eventually played by the system which he used to critique. Which brings the question, is Bing still exploited? He who has actively consented to the exploitation of the system just so he could live a better life? Will his consent erase the exploitative nature of the deal he got?

An example: are employees who are basically treated like slaves, no wages, no rights no nothing, any different from a class of employees who are given high bonuses, plenty of benefits but are not allowed to unionize or bargain with their employers although they willingly disregard such abuses because of the benefits they receive? I think they’re both exploited just on different levels. Just because one receives benefits from an exploitative system, does not mean they are no longer exploited, exploitation does not need to be total for it to be exploitation. Just because something is wrapped in something pretty, does not mean it is good.

Similarly, Bing’s participation in that very same system, makes him exploited despite his better life and richer status. He only got out of s smaller box to go to a bigger box, and yet the reality of the exploitation still remains, the system still fucks him over, he hasnt really gotten out. In fact, this time it’s worse, the system has profited from his outrage, the only thing which sustained him and which remained real and authentic to him. He laments during his performance that the system makes everything real into the artificial shit it sells to the masses. But that’s exactly what he became in the end, he was a COMMODITY, his individuality as a person was reduced to nothing but consumption for the audience. And this is why he is an anti hero. Imo

Which makes the ending even sadder. Bing looks out on a seemingly real landscape view, drinks a fresh juice from a jug very different from the vending machine crap he used to get before, and despite the debate on whether the view was real or simulated, one wonders still that Bing got his new, “authentic” lifestyle from reducing his individuality as a commodity, from bare exploitation of the system which he now participates, so are they real, afterall? One musician said, is something beautiful if it came from ugliness? Is something authentic if it came from exploitation?

Commentary on how capitalism exploits what is authentic and real to something that can be consumed or basically, a product. Capitalism operates on taking advantage of other people as well as anything real and genuine in this world, making a product out of all of them. In this way, capitalism objectifies people ( as in the way Abi was reduced to her beauty and entertainment value for porn), it is a system that slowly dehumanizes the worth of a person. And yet, the masses love it,we love objectifying people for our benefit, to entertain us etcetera etcetera. I feel like the reference in the episode to reality talent shows was not very accurate but still a good one. I would have liked it if the producers used a more relevant kind of reality show which operates on other people’s drama (Keeping up with the Kardashians, Jersey Shore and basically other shows that thrive on scandal) because it much likely depicts our tendency to make entertainment of other people’s lives. Where does one draw the line? Reality tv has been such a part of us and though I don’t particularly enjoy them because of the sheer and blatant script behind their “real” interactions, but I also don’t know. Television and the internet has become such a ubiquitous media form that people can hardly be blamed for failing to assess the kind of entertainment they consume. But just a quick snarky comment, the Kardashians are just like Bing, they play by the system,of course they have amassed an empire out of it, but still doesnt change the reality that they are a product of the system, the system that thrives on this exploitation.

Again, what an interesting episode. I love episodes that analyze our relationship with media and the entertainment we consume because as much as we’d like to believe television and media are just for fun, they aren’t. In fact, I think media has the most insidious kind of influence on anyone, and also most subtle because some references and statements can be jacketed into harmless, good fun. Again this echoes, at least for me, the message in The National Anthem , that through media and television we create a distance between one another, delaying our moral response to things which may be otherwise exploitative.

SHUT UP AND DANCE

The hypocrisy of vigilante justice. The people in Shut Up and Dance had their own brand of justice which involves taking the law into their own hands. But in doing so they resort to highly questionable methods such as coercing the criminals into various other crimes. I feel like this kind of meting out a penalty in the name of “justice” is fatal for several reasons. One, this encourages a sort of moral superiority exercised without individual responsibility. Note that the hackers were the ones who can determine who were the criminals to be punished and for what punishment they should be given in relation to the seriousness of their crimes, what then was the basis for their standard of someone committing a wrong? When justice is determined by a select few, it becomes no justice at all and opens the gates for abuses. The hackers could easily base the misdeeds of their victims on purely arbitrary grounds and subject anyone, even on the flimsiest misconducts into excessive punishments.

Conscience as the best judge The hackers code of justice seems not to be based on the law, the hackers did not after all say Kenny and the rest committed violations of the law, instead they operate by relying on the pressure created by personal conscience. Note that the hackers mainly blackmailed the victims to a release of the incriminating videos or whatever, however the victims were driven with fear knowing that what they did had moral consequences whether to their reputation or families.

The hackers were clever not because they laid out almost unexpected traps but because they force the victims to face their own conscience, to take individual responsibility for their actions, that which they believed they were protected from because all their crimes or misdeeds were done in anonymity, in secrecy. The conscience being a powerful motivator, the hackers were very subtle in their coercion, as they did not even have to directly present the horrific effects in the even the videos or objects get leaked to the public.

Excessive punishments

This episode together with White Bear, White Christmas and Hated in a Nation all deal with how punishments are given and considered. Note how the structure of the narrative are different for White Bear, White Christmas, Shut Up and Dance. In these episodes, the audience is hidden from the fact that the main protagonists are criminals convicted for some crimes ( Victoria with child murder, Kenny for child porn, Joe with murder???). In fact, the stories are told in a way as if to humanize the criminals as they were later on subjected to horrific punishment after the audience is made privy that they indeed committed some horrible thing. Unlike in Hated in a Nation, the narrative was pretty upfront that the targeted individuals were somehow already publicly condemned albeit for very slight misconducts and or misinterpreted, blown out of proportion statements.

I suspect there is one very good reason for doing so. In all these episodes, a very crucial theme presented was the question of whether excessive punishment even for the worst criminals (Victoria, Kenny) was ethical. Note that social punishment being one of the main premise, the writers of Black Mirror must have realized that for us to look at punishment as immoral and inhuman, we need to look at it objectively without the crimes committed by Kenny and Victoria being factored in. Black Mirror seems to be saying this kind of excessive punishment is immoral and inhuman and cruel in all instances whether done upon a guilty or innocent person. Suppose in the very beginning of White Bear, we already learned that Victoria helped and watched on as a child was being murdered by her boyfriend, would that have changed the way we looked at how she was basically maltreated the entire time? Knowing our tendency to believe that the very worst criminals deserve the worse treatment, I bet many people would say Victoria being tortured in such manner was justified. In fact, there was a survey online about whether she deserved her lot and unsurprisingly, majority believed she truly had it coming (compare it if Victoria was perfectly innocent). For them, it was justified because she’s an absolute scum from the lowest depths of misery and so she must be horribly treated. But because the narrative was structured in a way that we see Victoria and Kenny as humans first before criminals, we were forced to reconsider the torture and social humiliation done upon their person. We think, “Wait up, was it really right, what they did to these two?”. If we knew them as criminals first, we would have responded differently, that Victoria and Kenny deserve even more beating and cruelty. But such thinking is deeply flawed. THIS KIND OF PUNISHMENT IS WRONG IN ALL INSTANCES WHETHER DONE UPON A GUILTY OR INNOCENT PERSON. Black Mirror is saying to judge the wrongness of an act, we must look at the act itself and not the person who committed the act. The wrongness of an act does not change just because it is being done upon a terrible person. To think otherwise, to believe that the wrongness of an act is relative to the person who did it means to have a partial idea of justice, that justice is kinder only to those who are infallible, those who have never done any mistake, those who possess no flaws. Criminals after all, have rights and in no way I am saying they should be exempt from the law. By all means, jail those menaces but give them their due.

See how narrative structure can be so powerful? In the beginning, we are fooled that Kenny and Victoria are perfectly fine individuals who were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Tabula rasas, no stains. Of course, the audience would have a deep sense of injustice, I dont know about anyone, but I did with Kenny, because I wrongfully believed he was a minor ( lol the actor looked so young) and looked utterly horrified for something so innocent such as jacking off in-front of a camera, like big fucking deal, right? It isn’t a crime, surely. And yet when the plot twist was subtly but beautifully delivered at the end, I was forced to face the moral ambiguity of the whole situation. Was it wrong to coerce Kenny to commit more crimes and kill another person? Was it wrong for the hackers to release the video and not have kept the end of the deal? Or was it perfectly justified because Kenny was a fucking pedophile and just imagine the children in those photos who are fucking jacked off by some person? And this is the true gift of Black Mirror, to place us at morally ambiguous points about our use of technology to justify our transgressions against other people. Moral ambiguity is the best way to present satire and commentary without the show becoming preachy about some moral code, Black Mirror allows for the audience to think for what they may but first consider the consequences.

I see this all the time especially with criminals of heinous crimes, social media outrage pours on, often wishing ill to such people. And though I understand and empathize with the outrage, and though social media outrage has no substantial effect to the meting out of the final punishment, we cannot deny that we are guilty to the thinking that cruel acts are justified when done to cruel persons. We have the tendency to view justice as some sort of a thing which can be deserved only by good people and not those who have failed morally or otherwise, in some way. That’s why we have right to due process, why we still give fair trial to an accused even if his case is so damning, precisely because we recognize that justice is for everyone.

Having said that, I think Kenny needs to go to jail and FAST however he did not deserve all the psychological torture and manipulation. Aside from those other acts he did unwillingly, his punishment should only concern that for the child porn however he was driven to commit robbery and even had to undergo having to kill someone. The punishment was severely disproportionate from the crime he was supposedly being judged for. We live in a society with such a flawed sense of justice.

Black Mirror as a whole

And yet the most persistent message so far by Black Mirror, is that try as we may to criticize the people in their universe, we are very much part of that world. The ridiculous people of the UK, the audience in Hot Shot, hell, by watching the show itself – which is in an entertainment form, we can become complicit to the exploitation in media. In fact, I noticed how many BM episodes, show the very performative side of the internet and essentially of humanity– everything is a performance, there is an actor, and there is the audience who benefits from the show.

Shut up and Dance for example reminds me of a puppeteer show, Kenny and Hector and several others, dance to the music of the hackers, their actions are controlled as if with strings in a puppet show. Also the title itself shut up and dance, maybe it’s a song, but we know someone else is shutting them up, making them mere puppets of the show. Also, the ending music which was truly haunting and disturbing, was one of-my favorite songs during high school. It is called Exit Music by Radiohead which was supposedly to be used in a Romeo and Juliette movie, the one with Leo DiCaprio and Claire Danes, a story based on a play.

In Nosedive, Lacie was unhealthily obsessed with putting up a show for everyone to give her the social approval and validation she needed to hike up her ratings. The technology in their world also exploits this need to feel seen, to feel important, to feel that one matters despite it being provisional, the rating system system presents a very classist way of categorizing people based on the social ratings given by just about anybody.

In White Bear, Victoria was subjected to a series of humiliations and brutal attacks only to realize that what she went through was a simulation of the kidnapping and murder to a child she committed with her boyfriend. She was revealed into an audience, who enjoyed each and every instance of her suffering and I believe they even paid for the show? Though she is a criminal, was it really justified, the performance derived from someone’s misery?

Some people said it was an amusement park, like a carnival. In fact, now that I think about it, Victoria does feel like a caged animal, the whole town is her whole cage. The people who take pictures of her down the road resemble onlookers in a carnival show where because of an attraction’s grotesque nature, they are fascinated to take pictures of it. She is subjected to multiple tricks, just like a lion in a carnival, where she expected to bring out a most pleasing experience for the crowd. The fact that she is a tamed animal made for performance is brought down by the fact that each day she has to forget the previous events, otherwise her horror, her suffering and her utter ignorance for the cause of it all which is the selling point of the show would be lost and the show would become uninteresting to the public.

White Bear is so interesting to me as a manifestation of the performative capacities of technology and of men because we already see it happening right now. In Twitter for example, a man who by sheer amount of fake news or misinformation can quite easily become the hunted in a public persecution. Granted Victoria is a whole different situation because she is actually a criminal, however, sometimes we mask our love for entertainment regardless of who suffers in a sense of social outrage, justice, horror to moral violations but the truth of it all is our hypocrisy. We don’t really want justice to be served, we just want a stage to present that we are morally superior than other people. And I deeply lament that. There is a thin line between expressing opinions on social injustices or crimes and enjoyment over other people’s misery. Regardless of whether the person is criminal or an innocent person, this kind of social performance and dark pleasure is unjustified.

This is really no different from public executions all through out history. I always wondered about the appeal of such events which bring hordes of onlookers as if putting a person in the guillotine was so entertaining. Some people say it was to deter crimes by showing a horrific picture of what can happen as a punishment. If it’s really about that that brought the audience, they why go to witness an execution, the knowledge itself that the guillotine is where criminals end is enough to scare some people. But I think it is more than that, maybe it’s also about social voyeurism, a dark fascinating picture of another person’s suffering, the “thank god it’s not me” mentality. The audience from the public executions in France is really no different from the people in Hated in A Nation or White Bear. We just look because something suffering can be entertaining especially if done on people we particularly dislike, we do nothing until we become the hunted and see how exactly that feels like. There’s a word psychology gives to it: SCHADENFREUDE, or the feeling of pleasure one gets from the misery of others.

and so on...

HATED IN THE NATION

The excess of call out culture — the plot revolved around personas who mysteriously die one by one until it was discovered that they were actually attacked online days prior for some unpopular remarks. The cause of death? Bees or ADIs supposedly made to function like real bees who can cross pollinate flowers. The episode, for me, examined the effects and ignorance of call out culture which can escalate from genuine offense at someone’s statement or action to a witch hunt of some sorts, sometimes even leading to death threats. The journalist, the rapper and the random lady all did something very minor and not even illegal to warrant them becoming the victims of the DeathTo hashtag. It’s also quite obvious why the producers used bees to represent as the attackers, hives of bees = hive mentality.

Individual responsibility — the hacker, upon his manifesto being found out, laments that the people who participated in the DeathTo hashtag were irresponsible, that they refused to consider the consequences of their actions or to take individual responsibility for their participation. I also wonder why the internet seems to dilute our understanding of individual responsibility.

Which reminds me, of one activity we did in Philo class in college, our professor asked what if we all had a cloak of invisibility like Harry Potter, what would be the first thing we’d do? A lot of us, unsurprisingly answered robbing a bank or retaliating on someone who had wronged us in the past. Either way, all the answers were more or less conventionally wrong. She asked us to participate in that activity either before or after she showed us the White Bear episode. It was only after a few years that I realized the crucial question she wanted us to explore: Why does anonymity (both in social media and in terms of hiding behind the cloak) increase our propensity to do wrong? The obvious answer is people are often only encouraged to do good because others are looking. That is not to say it is wrong but for me there is also another reason and which I wondered many times — anonymity shields us from personal responsibility. The internet, anonymity gives us a reprieve from the reality that our freedom goes in two ways, our actions have consequences

#black mirror

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justfinishedreading · 4 years

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Remainder by Tom McCarthy

I read this book about two or three months ago, it’s the sort of book I can say is really good, in a literary sense, but ask me if I enjoyed it and my answer is definitely no. The blurb describes it as “a darkly comic meditation on memory, identity and history”. I take a less romantic view and say it’s a disturbing -and occasionally comic story- about white male privilege, the abuse of wealth and power, the danger of diminishment of responsibility, and the importance of post-trauma therapy.

Before the story commences, the protagonist has already suffered an accident; an object dropped from a flying plane and nearly killed him. Part of his brain was damaged, and he could no longer walk or move. He had to re-learn every basic physical movement from scratch, starting with the simple act of picking up a small object. The part of his brain dedicated to movement was gone and to learn moment anew meant psychologically rewiring his thought-process. He learnt about the mechanics of his muscles, his bones, every change that occurs to make possible that simple act of picking something up. Over and over again these mechanics had to be thought out before action could be taken. As a consequence, when we meet our protagonist all his actions are slow, every detail must be thought through. Repetition and routine are key.

The unnamed airline company has offered him eight and a half million pounds to settle the case out of court, under the condition that he never talks about this publicly or privately. He accepts. And this is where the story begins.

One day, our unnamed protagonist, remembers a particular memory. His memories were gone when he woke up hospitalized, but they’ve been coming back slowly and in random bits. He sees a crack in a bathroom wall and is instantly reminded of a similar crack in an unknown apartment. He remembers looking out of the window and seeing black cats walking on the roof of the building opposite, he remembers leaving the apartment and walking down the internal staircase, he remembers the smell of someone cooking liver and someone playing piano, and he remembers feeling happy, feeling himself, feeling real and at one with everything around him.

He is struck by this memory of feeling natural, because since his accident all his movements, all his actions, seem rehearsed, studied, or as he puts it “second-hand”. Instead of trying to find out where this apartment is, why he was there, and what was going on at that time that brought him a form of peace, he decides instead to recreate the memory; the building and the people, to “re-enact” the scene from his memory, over and over again. Ironically experiencing the feeling of that memory second-hand…

From the point of view of the audience it is quite tedious to read about the unfolding of this plan, to us it seems obvious that this is doomed to fail, that manufacturing a feeling is counter-productive to feeling authentic. For me, I just wanted the book to end, I have never wanted more for a book to just… please, please… END.

The protagonist spends a lot of money, time and effort in finding a correct-looking building, paying off everyone that lives there to move out, hiring contractors to strip down the interior, recreate the look and feel of his memory building (which includes, amongst many other things, the wearing and sanding down of materials to look aged), and hiring people to be live-in actors, 24/7 on call, repeating the same actions over and over again: frying liver, playing the piano, taking out the rubbish etc.

Now we might say yes these actions, this way of spending money seems utterly pointless, but if he feels comforted by these actions and he has the money and it is his to do with as he pleases, what is wrong with that? What does it matter if we don’t approve? These actions are deeply important to him.

Now this is where white male privilege comes in, and also the power that comes with wealth. Speaking as a woman from a working-class background, of emigrant parents, I could never make someone go through what he puts his employees through. Here’s an example; in his memory, there’s the smell of someone pan-frying liver. To recreate this smell, he and his team found that they have to put about fours pans on the go for the smell to drift from downstairs up to his new apartment. His employees would fry liver all day, every day, for months on end, even when he wasn’t in the building, he still wants that to take place. The constant frying of liver meant that the air vents were frequently clogging up with huge amounts of fat. Imagine living there? The smell of liver every single day, all day, how nauseating it must be for those people. We may say that money can make monsters out of anyone, but the sense of entitlement the protagonist feels, in so short a space of time, is astounding, and I argue that he had some existing feelings of entitlement to bounce off of.

Another example; he hired a middle-aged pianist to re-enact the pianist from his memory, the pianist would practice a music score on the piano, occasionally making mistakes (intentionally “accidently” making mistakes). He would repeat the problem passage, then continue practicing, again make mistakes, repeat problem passage, over and over again, every day, the same score of music, but with no intention of it ever being played in public, with no end goal except to fake practicing. Imagine what that would do to a person psychologically.

We are never told what these people feel, because the protagonist, who is also the narrator, simply does not care. Whenever someone questions his motives, the protagonist replies with just one word: “whatever”. He never takes the time to explain his thought-process, he has no need for social approval or connection. In this respect the novel is remarkable, characters with these traits are usually portrayed as psychopaths in thrillers and horror stories, so it’s interesting to see that character outside the cliché box. And make no mistakes about it he is a psychopath; the team recreate the memory of black cats walking on roofs by acquiring black cats and everyday pushing them out onto the roof. Unfortunately, the roof is unnatural and artificially made, there’s nowhere for the cats to go or escape, they end up slipping and falling off and dying on impact with the ground. The protagonist is aware of this and is unmoved.

Surprisingly the protagonist does start to experience some pleasure from these re-enactments, in fact he becomes addicted to them. But the ‘high’ he gets from the control and repetition lessens as time goes on, soon he seeks out new and more problematic scenarios to re-enact, more potentially dangerous ways to feel elated. I won’t spoil the rest of the book or discuss the ending except to mention that a lot of people who read Remainder get dazzled by the ending and the various interpretations of the “truth” of what happens. We know for a fact that the narrator is highly unreliable because he withholds information, changes details and, in one occasion at least, told a story that at the end he admits was completely made up. Some readers get excited about possibilities like is he perhaps still in a coma and is this all a weird dream? Is he actually dead and this is purgatory or hell? Sort of a Third Policeman type thing. Me, I take it at face value; I think the main structure of the story is true, certain details certainly were changed, and things exaggerated, the man is a liar for sure, and the end does not tell us the full ending of what happened, but the rest we can guess ourselves.

The final thing I want to talk about is relationships, the importance of social relationships and human connection. At the start of the story the protagonist has two friends; a man about the same age as him (late twenties / early thirties) and who is a bit of a douchebag (the protagonist tells us that before the accident he used to find his friend’s humour funny, I take that as proof that the protagonist was already a wanker before the accident). There’s also a long-distance female friend, who is visiting. Now these two are taken out of the picture quite quickly, the woman continues her travels, and the protagonist stops answering his mate’s calls. No family is ever mentioned, which is really weird considering he’s been recovering from serious injuries -unless the protagonist is an orphan, but even then surely he has more people in his life? We never find out. What this means is there is no one to hold him accountable for his actions, there is no one to call him out on his bullshit, everyone he is now in contact with is an employee.

The second most significant character, after the protagonist, is Nazrul Vyas. When the protagonist first sets out to make his replica building he has a very hard time getting people to understand what he wants. The organizational aspect of this project doesn’t faze him but it’s the endless questions posed by contractors that he finds irritating to deal with. His lawyer suggests a company that specializes in management for rich clients, they facilitate any requests a client may make. Think personal assistant but with a huge network of contacts, resources and personnel. That’s where “Naz” comes in, he’s intelligent and patient and quietly relishes a challenge, the bigger and more complex, the better. The protagonist often describes him as machine-like, alluring to him having a computer for a brain. Naz is our main hope of someone being able to reach the protagonist… but a character described a robot, with the sole aspiration of materializing a client’s dreams, does not inspire much optimism… Commentary on the evils of blindly following orders, ay?

So in conclusion, yes Remainder is an interesting book; it’s literally studied in modern literature courses… Pick it up if you want something more original and challenging than your average mass-market best-seller. But for me, I’m just happy it’s finally over.

Review by Book Hamster

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benedicto-sinfiel · 4 years

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Black Seas and Lagoons under American Highways

What is a progressive city that houses tens of thousands of houseless people dying of hunger and curable diseases? In a city like Austin, Texas – “the capital of weird” – the mentally ill hungrily roam the streets together with the beautiful criminals and the miserably dispossessed. In front of the world-renowned University lie a scientology church, gringo mass chain taqueria, and a visible sea of houseless folks, manufactured beggars, thirsty alcoholics. It is important to remember the difference between the weird and the eerie and its implication to understand the phantasmagoria of contemporary American cities designed in the image of the ghosts of empire pasts. Our imaginaries are as colonized by the past as they are haunted by phantasms, ghosts, aliens. Recently, I have been attempting to construct a map of our world – the world of ghosts. A map that charts the city through its zones of decay, erosion, and ruinification. We know that the city is but the enemies’ cities. Sometime in the 1940’s, amidst the death stench of world war 2, Anaïs Nin wrote in her diary: “I am tired of being a ghost. I am tired of being a mystery. I want to take form, to appear, and one only gains visibility by action.” Reading these lines gave me the confidence to rob a bank, an ambition I’d had for over a decade. Actually, that’s complete bullshit, but you probably knew that. Why would I ever read such a thing? The deeds of the footloose, solitary ghosts are what inspire such people to write, is it not? Their stories are not the product of their imaginations, they are but the narration of our exploits. Is it true that the homeless and the criminals resemble ghosts? I heard that once in a Hollywood gangster film. If memory serves me right, it was said by a savage detective in a southern gothic noir when a janitor appeared to him and reminded him of a ghost, a pale, frail, angelic ghost. He failed to recognize the cause of his unconscious impulse: janitors have also, along with the immigrants and the homeless and the criminals, learned the art of shadows, the science of ghosts. There is no other way to survive for us. You pass by our cities yet you fail to see us. Your apathy also effectively converts us into ghosts, invisible, shadow, dangerous ghosts. We live under American highways, those roads you ride everyday to and fro work, your daily tribute to the Gods – whose Gods? It took you excluding us from your world for us to see it for what it truly is and you for who you really are and we for who we now are. We built a continuum of ant colonies without Queens: we have also killed the Kings. There is no chaos or irrationality besides the one that organizes your society. We are not animals. We are fighting against animals, savages, barbarians. We are fighting against your world. We have many ways to fight against your world. We rob banks because the second we enter a palace of commodities we stop being ghosts and our fleshy messy reality is restored: we are seen! Cameras, yes, but also the eye of the beholder. Nevertheless, we are seen confusedly, or rather disgustingly, and at that moment we again remember the reality of your world. We used to await for the barbarians but they were us, they are you. Kill the one in your head. Destroy your job, your highways, your cities – there are beaches beneath the streets.

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rodeoxqueen · 3 years

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The Angel With A Shotgun- Chapter Zero: Genesis

This is the first installment of my new series "The Angel With A Shotgun.” Genesis is mainly the reader's backstory from an unreliable narrator since I need that spicy "mysterious and un-explained" origin lore to tie into the next few chapters. You will see the sexy dumb himbos (I mean Dante and Vergil) that we love in the next chapter!

Chapter Zero: Genesis

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of death and infanticide

Your origin was mysterious and heart-breaking as you started your existence a witness to great evils outside of your control.

Part 1 of The Angel With A Shotgun

Read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27718706

Like, comment, and follow: It’s like crack and it keeps me goin’!

They were to be born in the hot desert, a child of unholy creation. The woman who was to birth them was aware of their descent and how they would be damned upon their entrance to the world. She knew, and yet she persisted in growing the life within her. This poor woman, created in the beginning of time, had seen the other women who had made unknowingly made the same fault she had. They birthed giants and died horribly. She knew that this was what she had to face upon the ninth month. She knew, she had witnessed, and she was scared.

God had remembered what some of his messengers had done. How they came down from above to partake in humanity’s greed of gold, women, and power. How they had stemmed their blood into humanities, creating creatures of unforeseen magnitude. The humans were walking the earth for some time and God had just created his own children. God knew, God had witnessed, and God was angry.

The half-blood children had grown into giants that brought upon humanity great power. They had his strength and his intelligence. God did not want this for humanity and for his own. They were to protect humanity, despite their powerful nature, not dabble in their evil. The giant children, as innocent as they were, had remained as evidence to his messenger’s betrayal.

The half-bloods were next. They had struck a good fight as God came down from the mountains and a blinding light had many humans wondering if it were the end. The humans knew what was to happen, knowing it was taboo to create such powerful children. The men had turned on their own women and tore their newborns from their families' grasp, fearing it were to grow into a giant and bring upon their destruction.

Instead, her supposed nine months had turned to eight. Her muted cries were not of pain, but fear for her child and her life. She knew she would pass, and was surprised when she did not. Her child, swaddled in her hands, slept unaware of their damnation. She knew it was time to go.

It was night when her village had torn itself apart. On a stolen horse, she had set off to raise her half-child somewhere over the horizon. In the fiery chaos and violence, no one had noticed she had left. No one but one forgotten man, who then followed her.

God watched the humans tear themselves apart. Women screamed for their babe as the men did unspeakable things. The giants had protected themselves well from the puny humans and dyed their own hands in ochre red. Children cried tears that remain unwitnessed. God decided that no one was to survive this event, knowing that no one would walk out of this undamaged. He came down from the sky and brought down death once more. Hands lit with golden energy, the angels watched from above as a flash of light brought upon the final darkness for many.

Humans were small beings that could not resist the powers of God and he smote them with little difficulty. The village had fallen silent, the bodies laying on the beaten ground as if they were at rest. The giants had turned to a dust, just like their creators. The wind blew upon the dirt and the failed spawn of the holy winged beings were carried off with it. God as he floated above the now uninhabited homes in his true form, an indescribable demonic form. His arms covered the expanse of the village and with a swipe of his hands, the ground sunk and the buildings were quickly flattened. He knew that the humans would eventually repopulate the now-level rubble and never know what atrocities happened here.

What lay displayed on the earth was death and life. God’s eyes glanced at the body of the man who fell down a great distance of rocks, likely shoved to his end. He was forgotten just like the rest of his people. The fallen form of a woman shone in the sun, hair fanned out like a halo as her face was serene. The knife that more belonged to the man remained steel colored and unbloodied, the woman falling gently to a slower and less brutal death from birthing the half-child. In her curled up arms held the said offspring. The child glowed beyond the light of the sun and instead held a sheen of white energy. The child, both human and angel, was a runt of its kind and spared their mother an immediate death.

God changed his form, now taking on the appearance of a dark-skinned male with black hair like wool. He padded the earthen ground and made his way to the bawling babe. He held the runt, amazed by how light they were.

God’s hands, once colored with violence, softened to hold the baby in their raggedy swaddle. The baby’s soft and wrinkled face relaxed and their tiny eyes opened, exposing colored irises that contrasted from their full-grown brothers’ beady black ones. His finger lightly stroked the babe’s face, watching as the orphaned creature’s frail and ever-so-small hand wrapped around his first knuckle. The light surrounding the baby amplified and their eyes flashed golden like his own. God stopped, if he needed to breathe he would have held his following breath. The baby closed their eyes and laid at rest again, a small chest moving up and down.

God held the child closer and made his choice.

“I will spare one.” He softly whispered

God made his way back to his remaining angels, a. When he himself had returned to their home in his human form, the angels with their true forms circled around their creator in curiosity.

Father, father, what have you brought with you?

They cried out in airy words.

God gently held out his new foundling. They obediently turned into their own human-like forms.

“This is your new sibling. They are not quite like you all. But I shall raise them as my own.” The angels buzzed with uncertainty of God’s change of heart but unanimously agreed to his plan.

And with death, came Genesis.

#genesis #dmc imagines #the angel with a shotgun #ao3fic #gender neutral reader #dante x reader #vergil x reader #series

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