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peepingtoad · 4 years

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|| @dokuhebi:-

War was approaching, Konoha’s farms were struggling to keep up with the demands of the citizens, even though the population was declining in size, even though fewer mouths were in need of being fed, and more families were without the right income to cater to those needs of hunger. The assignments being handed out were of more dangerous ranks, the shinobi placed on those assignments suddenly younger and younger in age. But all of that, and so much more, is practically ignored by the child. They have a more pressing affair to deal with. It’s their friends birthday, and they have just heard his mother wouldn’t be making it home in time this year to visit. Had she even managed to send a letter? Or had that gotten swept up in the conflict as well? They can’t be sure. What they are sure about however, is that it is up to them and Tsunade to mitigate this colossal disaster of their teammates empty celebration. Their little apartment, dreary as it usually is, will be the perfect grounds for staging a surprise. With no one there to meddle with the two childrens affairs. Allowing for the young serpent and princess to modify it to the desired effect. Far more vibrant and ghost-free now. A few decorations strung from cupboards and ceilings, window frames and doorways. The small counter space along with the even smaller side table is used for gifts and snacks, an assortment of foods that the two knew Jiraiya liked. Gifts are all wrapped, messily so, but serving the purpose. An orphan such as them hardly had the means for elaborate gift giving. But Jiraiya didn’t have to know that Tsunade had helped chip in for theirs, nor did he, or the Senju for that matter, need to know that the rest of the money for the present was acquired through pawning off items they stole here and there. Deciding it was well within their moral compass to do so, because it was for a good cause, and they had only robbed those who the child decided deserved a good lesson. For telling them off harsher than necessary, for being too obnoxious or loud a neighbour, for looking at them the wrong way because of their status in society. So perhaps his mother wasn’t there for the celebration of the young boy, perhaps he would have no blood family around on the special day. But he would have a different family there, when Orochimaru, thinking themself very clever and subtle, lures him back to their apartment after training, feigning that they didn’t want to walk home alone, only to bring him in to the abode and announce the surprise. Where all three could spend the day, afternoon and night celebrating together. Now at nineteen years old, his mother would miss his birthday again. Only this time, it would be well known she would miss all the rest to follow it. Her passing had struck him violently, unable to ever forget the look on his face when they walked in. When they watched the last piece of his already shaky foundation crumble from beneath his feet. So perhaps that was why it became important to have a redo of the same little party they had done as children. A reminder he still had family, a distraction from an empty home, no matter how rarely she was ever there to begin with. The serpent offers up their apartment again, but not without a healthy dose of rules and warnings. Certainly not without hiding a few items for the sake of that precious research being preserved and out of harms way. After all, the innocent little snack table has been repurposed for some drinks instead. Only one year until the trio is twenty and legally allowed alcohol, for now, Orochimaru does what they do best: ignoring Hiruzen’s laws outright, and doing whatever the hell they wanted anyway. And once more, Orochimaru is the one to lure Jiraiya back to the apartment. This time however, their tact is worth their own praise, as they let the man think the truly are forgetful and negligent of the day. While Tsunade and Dan set up at the serpents abode, Orochimaru keeps the ignorant guest of honor doing trivial tasks. Making him help them in the Hokage’s office, pretending that the right amount of stress and duties had made them forget the celebratory day - and with their hardworking nature, it wasn’t hard to convince anyone of that possibility. There is perhaps, a bit of fun to be had, waiting to exasperate Jiraiya a little that his day off became a handful before telling him they needed help with one last thing. Only for a light smirk to reflect on their lips and give the game up the moment they push open their door and let him enter. A bit of fair warning to expect something. Less juvenile decorations, less sloppy furniture arrangements, the table showcasing various gifts, surrounded by various bottles of sake and whiskey for overindulgence, and a pickled and deep fried based menu of party food. Whenever Jiraiya’s glass empties, Tsunade, Orochimaru or Dan were quick to top it up, an agreement between them that it would take any edge off from the morbid memory of who wasn’t able to attend. The night would continue well in to the morning, until Tsunade and Dan need to get back, or more so, until Dan decides for her sake, Tsunade may need to find herself in her own bed with some welcoming home comforts come her hangover in the morning. Eventually, leaving only Jiraiya and Orochimaru there for the remainder of the night, the buzz of drinking leaving a spell of calm, as the two sit on the small but pleasant balcony. At some point, deciding it might be fun to teach Jiraiya some of their erhu, but being too controlling - even drunk - to properly let him touch and tamper with the delicate item. More of a demonstration, than a lesson then. A moment of playful banter and jabs, until Orochimaru has brought out a small gift from their sleeve, and offered it to him. Deciding to retire for the night, and drunkenly placing a kiss to the top of his head, and a small pat of his shoulder as they move inside and leave him to unwrap the gift by himself on the balcony, “there’s room for two on the bed, don’t let me catch you sleeping on the couch come morning on your own birthday,” they say, or perhaps order, in parting. This time, Orochimaru could afford their own gift for him. Mostly ethically earned. A Kiseru and tobacco pouch, crafted in Kumogakure, the golden metal bind that winds up the long pipe carved in to by the intricate patterns of serpents weaving through lily pads. A note with a short ‘think of me on your journeys’ splashed with ink on a small card. Wrapped far more neatly than from the past. And perhaps the note is as much in support of his wanderings and passions, in support of his mothers legacy, as it is a possessive little trick. That if he found himself smoking at some bathhouse, in the company of some little she-devil that wasn’t them, one glance at the serpents on his kiseru would put the bastards work of flirting him up to waste, as they steal his thoughts from countries away.

It didn’t really bother him when it occurred that Orochimaru and Tsunade had probably forgotten about this day. That wasn’t to say that he’d been so wrapped up in his moping that he was dead set on being indulgently miserable for it—after all, every extra year one survived in this world was a worthy cause for celebration—but there was no denying that he was in a funk. That his shoulders seemed to be just that little bit heavier than before. That behind every buoyant smile, he was deflated inside. So it wasn’t that he didn’t care, but he wasn’t bothered by it either.

It was all just… grey.

Having said all that, what actually was irksome to him was that a day that should have been spent getting hammered in that one seedy bar that was willing to serve them (largely in thanks to Jiraiya’s sheer height and broad build that screamed ‘fully grown man’, enough to give him a pass), was instead being gradually frittered away on annoying little tasks. Orochimaru was dead set on doing everything necessary to keep themself firmly in their sensei’s mind as his natural successor; Jiraiya knew this, and they were exceptionally diligent with it.

So why, then, was he roped into helping them to suck up to the old man instead of falling into blissful drunken stupor? How annoying. And yet he still doesn’t refuse to help.

This ultimately leads to him being rather moody and pouty as they finally finish for the day, an early evening sun warming the dull dirt path to gold as they stroll along, Jiraiya with a sour expression and hands shoved just a little aggressively deep into his pockets. With the sudden mention of a seemingly-just-remembered ‘one last thing’ by the time they reach their apartment door, he’s all but ready to give them the most linguistically colourful of refusals, only for the mischievous little flash over their features to stop him dead in his tracks.

Raised eyebrows and a slightly more curious kind of pout signal his own realisation and intrigue, progressing into a look of heartfelt wonder as the door is opened, and he is very suddenly presented with the more grown up version of a similar trick from… when was it, seven years ago? Eight?

The first time his birthday had ever been so distinctly without her.

He can’t even be agitated that the intimate them-ness of this little home-made party is slightly skewed by the presence of Dan. After all, the guy had clearly gone to a load of effort in helping Tsunade to set it all up, and at least this way there was an extra person to help fill the void left by a distinctly missing one. Good food and drink, too—that which he’d been craving all day and which Orochimaru had cleverly worked up an even greater appetite for—saw in the hours to follow sadness being replaced by merriment, and that grey feeling exchanged for a far more celebratory mood. Celebrating his ascent to the next year of his life, sure, but also that they were all here. That they were all together.

Until Dan has to take Tsunade home, anyway. Not that it even registers to Jiraiya, who at this point is so away with the fairies he could have entertained himself for hours and probably not realised it. Besides, he has Orochimaru, and watching them equally as intoxicated as himself, seeing how they come out of their shell a little more and show off their more frivolous skills, delights him in such a way that he sees practically nothing else. The erhu ‘lesson’ really makes him wish he’d swung by his place for his shamisen, but he settles for makeshift percussion by way of random surfaces and his palms, and even a poor attempt at atmospheric singing at points—a treat for their neighbours, no doubt. Eventually their activities take them to the balcony where they continue chatting, until the mystery gift brings upon them a shroud of silence.

It hadn’t actually occurred to him that there might be any more gifts. The evening, yes, along with the company and the free pass to make a real mess of the place without them biting his head off, were great enough gifts in themselves… but this slender box seems to hold quite a gravity about it, if not by the fact it’s been left until the very last, with only the two of them here, then because of the affection pouring so freely from them as they retire, leaving him with a tender kiss and touch, a mysterious gift to open, and a suggestion… no, an expectation of what should follow.

That confidence of theirs really is something… and ‘misplaced’ is not that something.

Jiraiya opens the gift in bated silence, his expression oddly neutral but wide-eyed as he reveals the elegant kiseru, with its design that feels very much deliberately chosen to contain an element of themself, but of him too. The pouch is also filled with tobacco which he opens and inhales the scent of, a blend that smells so fine that even a relative novice like him can tell it’s the good stuff.

Dammit, you trying to make me into an old man here? ‘Oh, that’s the good stuff!’ So old mannish…

He thinks that, but only with the giddiest of smiles that blooms suddenly, not a hint of disappointment to be seen—not at the gift itself, and certainly not at the validation contained in that one little message that came with it. A message that he knew for a fact he’d admire every brushstroke of whenever he found himself missing them from afar.

Needless to say, he doesn’t quite catch on to any possessive undertones that may lie in wait between the lines like serpents in the grass; so overwhelmed is he by the pure, soft sentiment of it, furthered by his current state no doubt, that thick tears slide down his cheeks without him even realising they were brimming to begin with. Only a few, before he pats them away with his sleeve and returns inside, carefully placing the gift on the bottle-strewn table but not lingering there himself.

Even drunk, he knows there’s no way they’d have fallen asleep already. Hell, they’d said with no measure of subtlety that they wanted him in their bed tonight, so it’s only natural for him to take that as simply as it sounded: as an invitation.

Now, to what capacity they wanted him, he can’t say. But given the physical closeness that came so naturally between the three, ever since they were little (as much as a certain princess would deny it), there would be nothing untoward in sneaking through the door of their bedroom, nor in stalking up their bed on all fours, nor in gathering them immediately into his arms to give them a tight and gratitude-laden embrace that seems to involve every one of his clumsy, drunk limbs.

“Oro…” He sighs, brows twitching a little as he realises what a useless phrase a mere ‘thank you’ really is. Like making him feel like this, so loved and appreciated, during one of the roughest points of his life thus far, can be returned with mere words of thanks. When he withdraws from the embrace, it is only to put the most minimal distance between them, still close enough that his vision swims hazily with alabaster skin that even the night can’t swallow completely, the ever-present glow of yellow irises, the void-like negative space where ebony hair seems to sever throat from shoulders and drip down their chest like rivers of shadow. They’re so beautiful it snatches his breath away, leaving him very much aware of the thundering of his heartbeat.

… This is one of those moments, isn’t it? Those moments of opportunity, where the options were divided between safety and risk, change or stagnation, control or release.

Concepts that are all far too complex in this particular moment, and so Jiraiya does only what he feels in his bones is right given the close entanglement they’ve found themselves in, with limbs curling around each other and fingers ensnared in each other’s hair. He holds their jaw within his heated palm, and gives one quivering caress of their lips with his thumb before replacing that uncertain touch with the far more definitive press of his mouth.

It’s hard to really quantify how long they stay like that, exchanging kiss after kiss between soft sighs and humid pauses for breath and the amazing feel of them—of this—filling his brain with the most blissful static, but there comes a moment where their foreheads are pressed together that he finally remembers his point, and gazes blearily at them with a smile that’s somehow both bashful and truly self-assured at the same time.

“I will.”

#dokuhebi #sorry this one was a little late!#as you can see i had to ramble and so... haha.#very indulgent #{birthdaywishes}#{summons(submissions)}#submission #{long post}#{fragments | dokuhebi | inseparable}#{verse:inseparable | dokuhebi}#{fragments | dokuhebi}#{thread:understanding}

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willoughbytv · 7 years

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"Fake News" & Real Robots Pose The Latest Threats to Journalism

By Brian Donlon

These are trying times for journalism and journalists.

Between “fake news” and “alternative facts” and trying to develop editorial plans that reflect the news habits of 21st Century consumers, the state of journalism and journalists has never felt to be in more peril.

“Real” reporters before the dawn of “fake news” covering the Dan Rather vs then Vice President Bush clash with author Brian Donlon second from right.

Most journalists I know – even those of a more seasoned vintage – are hard pressed to remember a time where the leader of the nation and the free world singled out reporters, editors, producers and anchors as “enemies.” Now journalists are just as prone to navel gazing as the next guy who can indulge in excessive contemplation of ourselves and our self-interests. These declarations though have made us look not only inward but outward – on air, in print and online as exemplified here is a recent edition of Closing Bell.

Ir increased newwspaper subscriptions, raised television news ratings, lifted traffic on digital news sites. In general the public seems to be more involved and aware of issues – and that is a positive development.

Still, journalists and journalism remains under siege. Yes the economic model of news and been tossed on its ear and financial budgets are now just as important as news budgets. The encroachment of technology however is no longer just about digital media vs traditional media vs social media vs virtual reality vs whatever the next great buzz is. No, the threat is no longer about displacing or re-positioning content, the threat is to the human factor of news.

About 18 months ago, Derek Thompson of The Atlantic wrote a piece “The World Without Work” which should be mandatory reading for everyone, but especially those who reside in Washington D.C. In his piece Thompson detailed the technological changes past, present and what is coming in the future. He noted that with each technological transformation, new industries and services were created.

However, for the digital age Thompson warned that “throughout these reshufflings, the total number of jobs has always increased. What may be looming is something different: an era of technological unemployment, in which computer scientists and software engineers essentially invent us out of work, and the total number of jobs declines steadily and permanently.Thompson is not referring to coal miners and auto workers here. There is hardly a sector that will remain untouched – including journalists!

Read that again . . . “the total number of jobs declines steadily and permanently.” It is a subject that Closing Bell tackled recently -- and one that deserves more coverage.For more than two centuries the process of journalism has not dramatically changed. The delivery systems have certainly progressed. The Founding Fathers never could have envisioned the inky printed paper delivered to their doorsteps would be replaced by the immediacy of digital publishing on the Internet or non-stop news via something called cable.

Through the decades, no matter the technological shifts, the practices and procedures of news gathering have remained by and large intact. Even with all of today’s technology a reporter still researches, interviews and analyzes the facts (and non-facts). Then arranges words to create a compelling story. It is a process that when boiled down is truly awe inspiring. The late media theorist Neil Postman offered a unique insight on why the gathering of news and newspapers have survived. “Unlike television or the computer, language appears to be not an extension of our powers but simply a natural expression of who and what we are. This is the great secret of language. Because it comes from inside us, we believe it to be a direct, unedited, unbiased apolitical expression of how the world is.”

Those great powers Postman praised, that seem so essentially human, that seemingly made journalists special are now facing the robot age. The “great secret of language” that personal expression is being targeted by computer programmers and cost-cutting news managers. Consider:

More than 1,500 newspapers have access to corporate earnings business stories from the Associated Press which are now “written” by software programs.

Fox Sports auto-generates some sports recaps that appear on its Big Ten Network web site and presents game predictions under the banner of “Whatifsports,” a company Fox parent NewsCorp, acquired in 2005.

An algorithm is being utilized by the Los Angeles Times to offer stories about earthquakes in California.

A more sanguine chronicler of journalistic developments might shrug off these developments as rote content that features nothing but numbers, offers little writing or creativity and does not threaten the essence of reporting.

Maybe.

But take the case of the LA Times. The quake coverage/data collection proved so successful that it is now using another algorithm in its coverage in reporting homicides. The days of a “cub reporter” working his way up on the “police blotter” will soon be a reference in old black and white journalism movies like Humphrey Bogart’s great Deadline, USA.

Two companies -- Narrative Science and Automated Insights -- are leading the charge into newsrooms with these robotic journalists. Both provide names for their products that aim to kindle thoughts of newspaper luminaries such as newspaper publisher and founding father Alexander Hamilton and noted writing stylist E.B White, (and any self-respecting journalist still has a copy of his Elements of Style sitting on a desk).

Narrative Science’s non-human journalist is named “Quill” while Automated Insights’ competitor has the moniker “Wordsmith.” Neither company or robotic journalist seems content at stopping at offering game scores or financial reports.

Wordsmith is working with the National Football League -- America’s most popular sport – to offer coverage of games. Automated Insights plans is to place tiny sensors under players’ shoulder pads and these devices will allow for Wordsmith to receive instant data that can measure tackles, fumbles yardage etc., which in turn it could create live blogs and “first person” -- or is it “first robot”? -- reports from the field.

It’s not just reporters that are at risk. Robots are also infiltrating some of the tasks performed by editors. The work of an editor at most outlets has long been in the wise hands of a newspaper veteran known for superior editorial judgment. An editor is also the individual who bridges the gap between a reporter’s raw information and what the public finally sees. Despite experience and knowledge that can only come by daily “journalism” practiced day in and day out, these positions are being usurped by tech as well.

Social media platforms Twitter and Facebook are selecting stories for consumers with user “newsfeeds.” Who needs an editor to select and place the best stories when a “bot” can search Facebook and deliver what a user wants – even if what the reader receives is “fake” as we saw with Facebook during the 2016 election.

Not to be outdone by its social media rival, Twitter’s “Moments” tool is designed to aggregate information, images, and live video from its users to produce a steady flow of content around real-time events and news stories.”

These personal news bots and news feeds may allow consumers to “select” their news, but if a generation of digital newsreaders prefer information about the Kardashians over the facts behind Islamic Fundamentalism or write off presidential politics what kind of democracy does our future hold?

Years ago I had a discussion about what is news with the late great Reuven Frank. The two-time president of NBC News was pushing for harder news coverage of, well, just about everything. I argued that daily coverage of the inner working of Capitol Hill were not going to generate large viewership number and Reuven waved me off. “My boy, our job isn’t just to tell them what they want to know, our job is to tell them what they need to know – even if they don’t know it.”

It would be interesting to hear what Reuven would say about today’s journalistic processes. One can certainly argue that “feeds,” “bots” and algorithms are about personal preferences and hence about freedom. But to some extent they diminish journalism.

These seemingly rudimentary programs cannot rival shoe-leather investigative reporting that human journalists have excelled at for decades. The role of the watchdog on big business and the sentinel who keeps eye over the matters of government cannot be emulated by an artificial intelligence. Or can they?

David Caswell, a fellow at the Donald W Reynolds Journalism Institute at the University of Missouri told The Guardian last year, “If no one had detected the break-in at the Watergate Hotel, and in the election, the committee to re-elect the president had used information they’d gleaned, an algorithm could look at the series of events and say ‘these people had secret knowledge somehow.”

Artificial intelligence beating Woodward and Bernstein to the story? No secret sources like “Deep Throat” who turned out to be FBI agent Mark Felt risking life and career to preserve democracy?

Sorry. I saw Terminator 3: The Rise of the Machines. That version of the future where AI rules wasn’t very appealing. Nor did HAL seem to have a handle on reality in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Would HAL have the ability to not just absorb Society of Professional Journalists’ Code of Ethics, but to maneuver the nuances of them such as being “vigilant and courageous about holding those with power accountable” and giving “voice to the voiceless” or “Boldly tell the story of the diversity and magnitude of the human experience,” ?

Before there was “fake news” and AI and the internet, Humphrey Bogart’s crusading newspaper editor in Deadline, USA dealt with different threats to journalism. Still, his warning in the 1954 film holds true today, “A free press, like a free life, sir, is always in danger.”

With all the marvels of technology, we sometimes forget that.

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#journalism #donlon #fake news #robots

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