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uovoc · 3 years

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Murderbot privacy

“SecUnit is a very private person, it doesn’t like to talk about its feelings” made me do a double take because I was like, SecUnit, who’s listening to you right now? Since when has it cared about privacy? Because while MB is a secretive fucker, it sure doesn’t extend that courtesy to others. And what I could figure out so far to explain this apparent hypocrisy is some more-or-less coherent stuff.

Summary:

MB conflates personal, private, and secret because these categories could not exist separately under the regime of surveillance and objectification inflicted upon it in the CR. This meant that the development of MB’s sense of personal identity was limited to its internal self. As a result, MB has a good instinctive grasp of the right to privacy regarding one’s emotions and internal state. However, its lack of bodily autonomy and background as a cog in the CR surveillance state have led it to regard physical privacy as a personal privilege rather than a right.

2200 words below the cut. I think about Murderbot a normal amount

Terminology

For clarity, the terms personal, private, secret, and privacy will be defined basically by their Merriam-Webster definitions. Personal will be used to mean relating to an individual’s character, conduct, motives, or private affairs. Secret is defined as kept from knowledge or view; hidden. Private will be used to mean 1) intended for or restricted to the use of particular person, group, or class. Privacy will be defined as the quality or state of being apart from company or observation; freedom from unauthorized intrusion. These are not comprehensive definitions, but for clarity’s sake they’re the ones I will use here.

The connotations that they carry in this analysis are:

Things that are secret are actively concealed. If something is secret, people are not aware of its existence. Secrets carry the implication of potential harm if divulged.

Privacy and things that are private are generally kept as such by social norms rather than active enforcement. The existence of things that are private may be known, but the details are limited to a restricted (trusted) audience. For instance, to quote Beatrice-Otter, “the contents of my underwear drawer are private, but not secret.” If you’re at someone’s house, you could technically go look in someone’s underwear drawer – it’s not like they can stop you – but out of the mutually agreed-upon respect for privacy and definition of what qualifies as private, you don’t. Things kept private tend to be done so for personal-emotional reasons rather than practical reasons.

These are limited definitions and not mutually exclusive. For instance, privacy can be enforced by gates and barriers like secrets are. These definitions aren’t meant to be comprehensive, but just to establish the meanings and connotations that I’m working with.

Privacy in the CR versus Preservation

Murderbot’s approach to privacy reflects the attitudes of the Corporation Rim. Preservation regards privacy more like a personal right and establishes it through primarily through societal norms, while the Corporation Rim treats privacy more like a personal privilege which individuals are responsible for securing and maintaining. In Preservation, freedom from observation is the default, and surveillance is the exception. To MBs annoyance, unless a space is singled out for security reasons (cargo spaces and high-traffic zones on the station), it’s generally left unsurveilled (residential areas, pedestrian corridors, most of the planet that we see in NE). Preservation also has cultural expectations of certain types of spaces being private. MB doesn’t share these expectations, as it notes in NE when it admits that its eavesdropping habit is “a little incriminating with the whole listening to private conversations in secured spaces and personal dwellings thing.” The specificity of “secured spaces and personal dwellings” makes this sound like something someone else said to MB that it’s now repeating, especially since it doesn’t agree that what others consider private conversations or private spaces are inherently off-limits to observation.

Unlike Preservation, MB sees privacy as a privilege rather than an inherent right, because it’s more used to the attitude of the CR surveillance state. In the labor installations that MB was deployed on, everything people did was observed by SecSystem at all times. If you wanted privacy, you had to pay for it, as MB notes in ES when it’s complaining about the lack of cameras in the fancy hotel that it books when it arrives. Even then, you might not get what you pay for, and MB take steps to secure PresAux’s own camera network that they later set up. In the CR, privacy is closer in meeting to secrecy, something that must be actively enforced and secured against intrusion. Corporate entities in the CR are motivated to erode personal privacy for profit in the form of datamining and workforce control. Privacy is thus a personal responsibility, since the surrounding environment is one that seeks to undermine it. This is the attitude towards privacy that MB is working with, and part of why it feels entitled to constant surveillance of its humans. In contrast, privacy in Preservation is a right maintained by the collective expectations and policies of the larger community. Station Security doesn’t exactly approve of MB setting up its own surveillance network, but nor does it do regular drone removal sweeps. MB expects privacy to be actively secured, and sees Preservation’s easily breached systems as the equivalent of leaving your valuables out on the lawn. If you don’t want to be surveilled, don’t go around being surveillable.

Surveillance exemptions

Instances where MB appears to respect the notion of privacy are sex/bodily functions, proprietary data, and feelings talks. However, out of these 3 categories, feelings are the topic where MB’s motivations align most closely with the human understanding of privacy. MB’s aversion to sex is more of an ick factor thing, since it repeatedly states that it finds human bodily functions to be disgusting. (I think touch aversion is also part of the sex-repulsed thing, but touch aversion aligns more with ick factor and also with lack of bodily autonomy, discussed below.)

Proprietary data is another topic on which MB appears to be on the same page as humans regarding “private” as being restricted to a particular group: it doesn’t tell the Mensah parents about Amena’s creepy date, and it removes the audio when it shows Indah the video of Mensah complaining about another councilmember. In both of these cases, there’s the potential for harm if the information is divulged: Amena would get scolded and possibly grounded by her parents, and Mensah’s relationships with the Council and Senior Indah would be damaged by her lack of professionalism. In a business context, proprietary data is information kept within a company because it would give your competitors an advantage, or because your competitors could use it to put you at a disadvantage – pretty much the same results, in the game of capitalism. Although both of these examples deal with personal-emotional information, the concept of proprietary data is closer to secrecy in its potential for harm and complete concealment of the information’s existence.

The third type of situation where MB appears to be on the same page as humans regarding privacy is people talking about their feelings. After Arada gets back from the Barish-Estranza negotiations, MB pointedly does not watch her and Overse make up because of the high likelihood that “they were having sex and/or a relationship discussion (either of which I would prefer to stab myself in the face than see).” Sex falls under the ick factor, but there’s a number of reasons the fandom collective braincell has pointed out for MB not wanting to watch people talk about their feelings:

MB exercising the privilege of not having to care about human feelings, as a formerly enslaved person subjected to human whims.

Secondhand embarrassment because MB would never talk about its feelings.

Related to the above, MB reflexively recoiling out of empathy because if it was in their position, it wouldn’t want someone listening in on its feelings.

Actually, now that I think of it, MB doesn’t go into great detail on why it doesn’t like watching humans talk about their feelings, unlike how it explicitly expresses its disgust for anything involving human fluids. Which is why I’ve got the suspicion that when it comes to feelings, MB does have a strong instinctive understanding of what it means for something to be private and, as a result, gets uncomfortable observing a moment that is not meant for others to see. MB has an easier time understanding how privacy applies to feelings rather than acts because unlike its body, its feelings are strongly tied to its concept of what is personal.

MB’s internal and external self

To paraphrase this one MDZS meta, MB’s body is not its own. MB’s sense of what is personal to it, or its sense of unique identity, applies more its internal self than its external self because of its former nonperson status in the CR. This informs what MB considers to be inherently private. While in the CR, its appearance and configuration were decided by the company. To be fair, humans don’t get to choose our original bodies either, but our bodies and the modifications we make to them tell a story of our personal background. The history inscribed in MB’s body, down to the logos etched on its structure, is that of a mass-produced piece of corporate equipment. MB does not have a particular attachment to its external appearance (“standard human”) because its appearance reflects the company’s choices rather than its own. (This changes after it gains the freedom to choose its own clothes and gets tabletop surgery from ART, discussed at the end.) Although MB’s configuration is what makes it a SecUnit, and being a SecUnit is an essential part of its identity, it’s not an identity that’s unique to MB.

For most of its life, MB’s actions have also been extensions of the company. Its actions have either been dictated by its clients and governor module, or it has had to pretend to be controlled by those things, which means making decisions which could conceivably have been issued with the governor module’s approval. MB is also used to selling its body, since it’s expected to literally sacrifice pieces of itself to keep its clients safe (an expectation it continues to hold). MB has been ship-of-Theseus’d to hell and back. The lack of both bodily autonomy and bodily safety due to its nonperson status in the CR means that MB considered its body to be neither private (restricted to the use of only one person) nor entirely personal (pertaining to its unique character).

As a consequence, MB doesn’t consider its external self to have the right to privacy. Although it doesn’t like being looked at, it’s reaction is to hide rather than ask people to stop. (This is also because MB isn’t used to exercising its personal preferences regarding other people’s actions, but that’s a different angle.) It doesn’t like it when Mensah walks into the security ready room, or when its humans and ART’s crew are watching it come out of involuntary shutdown on the deck, but it doesn’t tell them to stop. In general, MB doesn’t like being looked at because if it’s falling apart, it’s in a vulnerable state, and if it’s not falling apart, then being paid attention to used to carry the threat of abuse/incoming orders/being clocked as a rogue. These reasons are more about safety than privacy.

However, MB specifically doesn’t like people looking at its face are because its face shows its emotions, and its emotions are a reflection of its internal state and, by extension, its internal self. MB considers its thoughts and emotions to have the right to privacy because they are the aspects of itself that it has been able to control, and thus has been able to make personal. When Gurathin reveals its name, it grates out, “That was private.” On one level, Murderbot’s name is an honest expression of what it thinks it is and all the associated self-loathing and guilt. MB does NOT want humans to know its name because then they know how it feels about a topic truly important to it. On another level, its name reveals its self-deprecating humor, something a ruthless killing machine is not supposed to have.

Everything that MB considers personal, it has also needed to keep secret, because in the CR, it’s not supposed to be a person the first place. Conversely, the only reason it’s been able to have personal opinions and emotions is because it has been able to keep these things secret. Anything MB would have wanted to be private – restricted to a trusted audience – would have also needed to be secret because of the pervasive surveillance present in the CR, the nonperson status of constructs, and the fact that it had no trusted audience with which it could share private information.

Conclusions

MB conflates the categories of personal, private, and secret because these concepts could not exist separately under the regime of surveillance and objectification inflicted upon it in the CR. Anything in one category had to be able to fit into the others, which limited the development of MB’s sense of personal identity to its internal self. Although MB has good instinctive grasp of the right to privacy regarding one’s internal state, MB’s lack of bodily autonomy and its background as a cog in the CR surveillance state have led it to regard physical privacy as a personal privilege rather than a right.

Now that MB’s in a safer place (kidnappings by giant asshole research transports aside), it’s beginning to separate out those concepts a bit and allow things to be personal and private but not secret (its desire to be with ART, its affection towards Mensah). It’s also starting to allow things that are neither secret nor private to be personal (expressing preferences in its hairstyle, clothing, and aversion to physical touch), which can also be considered MB reclaiming its external self/body.

#murderbot

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sapropel · 3 years

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The main things that turned me off of conversion for now were

1. I have alot of shit on my plate and am low income as a result so finding a place that will help might be hard because locally there really aren't any synagogues around

2. The synagogue I did find locally was uhhh...... Hhhhh. Their web page had a huge section about Israel in a positive light..

I love the religion, I love certain values it holds however I refuse to align with anyone who justifies colonialism and bloodshed against another group of people while ignoring past bloodshed done onto themselves. It makes 0 sense to me and is highly hypocritical.

Hypocrisy was one of the reasons I hated Christianity so much. Constantly causing bloodshed, huge present and past history of colonialism, huge present day history of wanting people like me who are gay or trans dead and in the ground.

the difference with Christianity is that there isn't even a present day persecution or justified worry of safety despite the fact that I've seen jack chick esque evangelical fuckers unironically act like they're holocaust survivors whenever a pride parade happens within 1 mile of them.

It makes me sad, I don't see the point in colonizing or maiming a group of people who should be your equals.

It's racist at best, dangerous and actively contributing to more death and violence at worst.

The thing is there isn't really a "point." It creates its own point. Real actionable Zionist sentiment was basically non-existent until the rise of European nationalism. It's literally the exact same brand of nationalism that gave birth to fascist Italy and other great failures of modernity. And when "Israel" was a proto-state basically its entire existence was contingent upon its continued usefulness to Britain as a tool of control over India through the Suez. Zionist claims to the land are super shaky at best and straight up revisionist at worst. Post-facto Israel has tried to give itself legitimacy through fearmongering, genocide, and forging alliances with other imperialist powers. It's doing what America did (and is doing) but it's happening in the age of mass media and we are all watching colonial revisionism happen in real time.

If you are letting the prevalence of Zionism keep you from Judaism, I would say you should keep thinking about it. If you treat Judaism as too thoroughly engulfed in Zionism, you do the work of Zionists for them--you legitimize their claim that Judaism is Zionism is Israel. You legitimize the idea that anti-Zionism is antisemitism which is incidentally exactly how my local rabbis have been fucking me over since June. You are of course totally within your rights not to convert to a religion that doesn't work for you, but I hope you rethink the implication that converting to Judaism is akin to aligning with Zionism.

And yeah, Zionist hypocrisy is a systematic issue within American Jewish institutions in a feedback loop with Jewish populations. Any institutional apparatus is going to have systematic issues that reflect the dominant discourse of the greater cultural framework--mainstream Jewish institutions are going to, both by the nature of maintaining relevancy in America and by the natures of fearmongering and cultural amnesia, have a vested interest in participating in capitalism, imperialism, racism... You are not going to find mainstream insitutions that don't perpetuate them. That's why they're dominant. You are no more aligning yourself with Zionism by going to a synagogue than you are aligning yourself with capitalism by shopping at Wal-Mart. Anything you meaningfully do in public is in some way going to be "problematic" on some level because public space is designed to keep itself alive by those values.

It's exhausting to make yourself never come close to anyone or anything bad at all--refusing to associate with anyone with a problematic ideology is a doomed enterprise. I've been there. A lot of Zionist sentiment is implanted in people's minds with lifelong propaganda and destructive mind control techniques, and it's important to recognize that. That doesn't mean Zionist adults don't have a responsibility to unlearn it, but I think it's possible to have compassion for people who do try to do their best with improving themselves. Most people you meet want to be good and don't want to be willfully ignorant. I try to think about how difficult it is to convince the average well-meaning white American of the merits of decolonization/land back. Most well-meaning Zionist Jews are going to feel the same way about Israel--actual systematic justice and decolonization are not in their lexicons. Decolonization is hidden behind thought-stopping techniques that they have been inundated with from day 1. But most people do have a basic sense of goodness and are willing to sacrifice something for it. Most people are willing to give ground for the sake of human decency. The only way I can survive talking to people I know are Zionists is by understanding that we both want the world to be a better place and if I dwell on the specifics of how I perceive them to be evil, the possibility of us having a working relationship and any hope at productive dialogue drops to zero.

You don't have to be patient with Zionists or Zionist institutions. You don't have to forgive them. You don't even have to be compassionate. But you do need to understand, intellectually, that imposed cognitive dissonance is a very powerful tool of mind control (and I'm not talking about woo-woo shit I'm extrapolating from cult research and personal experience) and that the pathos of Zionism isn't supposed to be logical. Fear trumps hypocrisy. Fatigue trumps informed consent. Charisma trumps logic. Any bigoted ideology is going to fall apart under logical scrutiny, and that's why the only battleground for maintaining bigotry is necessarily charismatic and emotional.

We haven't yet, of course, acknowledged that there are also tons of anti-Zionist Jews and that the concept isn't absurd or fringe, no matter what the dominant Zionist discourse says. It's important for us not to let Zionists be the stewards of Judaism--Zionists do not OWN Judaism. Just like the most Orthodox of Jews also don't OWN Judaism. Judaism is only what you make it to be, and if you leave it alone because you are too worried about Zionism, that is all Judaism is ever going to be for you. Of course, you still have to contend with Zionism, and if you actually are interested in being a Jew, you would have to find a way not to let it kill your Judaism. I've come close (ish) to giving up on Judaism a couple of times because of Israel and Zionism, but I'm glad I haven't. I've stuck it out long enough to give myself to tools I need to separate the two and see the situation with more clarity.

#j tag

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neuxue · 4 years

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I love how you write about Nynaeve (I have not read books 12-14) and she was amazing in 11, and I love her but also, she has bad things that I don't like to think about her. I feel like she's a hypocrite shaming the PoV guy and making Lan lead troops even though he hates when men die & its his responsibility. Also she thinks Masema's right & her dress is male gaze, but she yells at him to make him feel guilty to get her a ship. And maybe she's a gold digger? Would you mind reassuring me?

Oh man. So first, foremost, and always: you do not need anyone’s permission to like (or dislike) a fictional character. You do not need good reasons to like (or dislike) a fictional character. You can like a character despite their flaws. You can like a character because of their flaws. You can dislike a character who has never done anything wrong in their life. You can like (or dislike) a character without justifying yourself for doing so.

All of the negative things you mention about Nynaeve are arguably accurate to some degree (I mean, I’m not entirely sure where gold digger is coming from, but aside from that). But this is where I get so frustrated with the trend in parts of fandom right now of ‘you’re only allowed to like things that are 100% pure and unproblematic’ because a character having flaws shouldn’t make someone feel like they can’t like them. (Again, it’s absolutely fine if those flaws make that character unlikeable for you; your lines in the sand are your own. But you shouldn’t be made to feel guilty or uncertain about liking a character just because they — gasp! — have some flaws).

Yes, Nynaeve has flaws. She’s loyal, brave, determined, empathetic almost to a fault. She’s also hypocritical, insecure, judgemental, and painfully un-self-aware. She’s complicated, she’s messy, she’s flawed, she’s human.

And at least for me, that’s a part of why I do like her as a character. These aren’t just little token quirks masquerading as flaws, edges sanded down to make them palatable, brushed aside as soon as she needs a heroic moment. Instead these are fundamental parts of her, just as her better qualities are. It’s part of what makes her character development and growth so interesting, because these are some very real things she has to actually work through and with and around. And some of these, she doesn’t completely solve (at least by book 11), which again makes her arc feel richer, to me. Because it’s not just about ticking a series of ‘overcame this flaw’ boxes.

Like, take her hypocrisy. Yes, it’s definitely an aspect of her character, but it stems largely — as I think it does in a lot of people — not from malice or arrogance but from insecurity. It’s so easy to, when you dislike or are afraid of something in yourself, project it onto others instead, notice those qualities in them, and dislike or judge them for it. It’s a method of denial, of distancing yourself from that thing you don’t want to face, of... confronting it externally to shield yourself from a similar attack being levelled against this vulnerable part of yourself. And so for Nynaeve, it’s about gradually acknowledging some of those insecurities, and recognising her own fears, and learning herself, and coming to terms with what she sees. That’s what gives us moments like her breaking her block — it’s beautiful in part because there’s so much that builds up to it, and a lot of that comes from letting those flaws have their place.

As for the whole Golden Crane thing she sets up with Lan... this one’s complicated, which is probably a large part of why I personally like it so much. It plays right into a whole tangle of questions of agency and autonomy: if Lan has the right to choose to ride alone to his death, do those who Nynaeve recruits not also have the right to choose to ride alongside him? And what is permitted, when the purpose is to save a life? Lan is functionally suicidal but at least part of that is due to the effects of the Warder bond breaking (and another part due to being conditioned since childhood to see his own life as meaningless beyond giving it for his fallen nation), so Nynaeve’s now in the position of choosing between: preventing Lan from going at all (impinging on his autonomy and causing him further pain and distress), letting him go alone as he wishes (which would likely result in his death), or letting him go but providing him as much assistance as she can (involving some trickery and circumventing part of his wishes). What’s the right choice, then? Is there one? (Tangentially, we actually play in this space a fair bit in WoT — Elayne’s bonding of Birgitte is another good example. Is it the ethical choice, given the circumstances? Up to you!). These are some complicated questions of ethics, in a pretty high-stakes situation! And you can decide for yourself whether she’s right or wrong to do as she did, but I will say for her that her intentions are good.

I don’t have much to say on the Masema thing, honestly — I personally deal with it by just... accepting that I’m not always going to agree with the characters or the narrative on everything relating to gender, which is fine. But I also think it’s another thing that plays into some of Nynaeve’s insecurities: she’s trying to find her place in the world, and some of that includes how she relates to her own femininity. She comes from a place with certain attitudes and values, and she felt like she had to express (or not express) that aspect of herself in a particular way, and part of finding her place in this much wider world is figuring out what she actually wants there, and there’s some discomfort as she adjusts to that, because some of it feels shameful when it comes up against those attitudes and values she was raised with. It’s again about insecurity and becoming more comfortable with who she is, but it’s not exactly a smooth path. Also that whole conversation with Masema is just Extremely Stressful, and Nynaeve deals with stress by being stubborn and angry at the world, so.

Anyway, specifics aside, my point very much remains: it’s okay to like flawed characters! The flaws can be a large part of what makes them interesting — not just their existence, but the way that character deals with or learns from or grows past or around those flaws. Ultimately it’s up to you whether the things you don’t like outweigh the things you do, and it’s okay to have to think through that and decide what you’re comfortable with, but I really cannot emphasise enough: it’s okay to like flawed characters. I mean, we’re all flawed people, right?

#i hope this helps!#do you know how hard it was #to not turn this whole thing into an angry essay #on the policing of what people get to like in fandom #(not angry at you anon! at that part of fandom! just to be clear!)#asks #anon #wheel of time #nynaeve al'meara #long post #suicide mention cw

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boncorner · 4 years

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ADHD Mic Headcanons

Mic stims!!! Especially by making sounds. He will whistle and hum to himself, tap his foot and sometimes just put a sing-song tune to whatever he is saying because it makes him Feel Good. Yelling is also a Big Good.

Wild gestures with his hands and arms? You recognise that he’s not just posing when he moves around, but he repeatedly does the 👈👈 gesture. That’s it. That’s a stim. He’ll wave his arms sometimes too and rock back and forth on the balls of his heels.

He’s restless. When he’s somewhere too still, too monotone or watching something that just doesn’t Interest Him Enough to keep his attention, he will lose his patience entirely. He’ll jump out of his seat and Make it interesting if he has to!

So impulsive! He will shout out things out of nowhere, interject on conversations, and sometimes do things just because he Felt Like It. It happens that he will notice afterwards that he probably shouldn’t have thrown himself into a bad situation, but he’s also good at handling the sudden stress, because he comes into a kind of “do or die” mindset when stressed or under pressure.

Speaking of stress. It’s no secret that Mic has a LOT of projects going on. He loves to present events and be on TV, he is a pro hero, but he’s also a radio host (for two shows) and a teacher! He wants to do so many things, and he has to keep the momentum going!! A lot of people with AD(H)D keep themselves under stress and pressure to manage to get things done, because when things finally slow down, that’s when the AD(H)D-er will fall into a rut. This all of course leaves Mic Exhausted when he comes down from the rush.

Hyperfixation hour!! Music, singing, DJing, radio and TV— What Mic loves, he LOVES with his whole entire DJ-soul. He doesn’t do anything half-assed, he goes in 110% no matter the task, even if it is just something as simple as presenting an entrance exam for a bunch of kids. PLUS ULTRA!!! However if he doesn’t want to do something... it’s whatever...

While his hero costume is tight and flashy, when he’s in his civilian clothes, he prefers to keep things loose and comfortable. Nothing tight, irritating or hot, when he’s out of work, he’s Relaxed.

He is specific about sensory input. He gets irritated when grating noises (for example horrid ringtones) interrupt his work, despite the hypocrisy of him being the loudest at the office. The headphones also help him filter out noise that could irritate him. The shades are a part of him by now and taking them off will cause him to squint a lot; he doesn’t do well with strong and/or bright lights. The shades are also yellow, which puts less strain on his eyes.

Talking. He can go on and on about the things that he finds interesting, to the point where he’s almost having a conversation with himself. In class it causes a lot of students to grow distracted or even fall asleep.

Not good at reading a mood. Sometimes he says things that just don’t work, are too bold or just embarrassing, because he just didn’t think before he spoke, or he couldn’t really tell if something was left unsaid between him and the others partaking in the conversation. HOWEVER if he knows you well, he can read you like a book, and will notice little things about your mannerisms that nobody else does. A lot of people who struggle with reading moods can actually focus so much on learning how to do it that they flip it on its head, becoming incredibly observant! Mistakes can still happen however, but he has little things he looks for, making him sharper than others.

That being said, don’t interrupt him, as it will throw him off and possibly make him lose the entire thought-process he had. There’s also a chance to make him Peeved.

Easily angered. He has a rather short fuse with certain things where he just need to let somebody have a piece of his mind. He’s quick to shout (of course), but also quick to wanting to kick somebody’s ass, even if it’s not a good idea/the morally correct thing to do.

RSD. He needs to get to know everybody, he needs them to think he’s cool or fun to be around, or he’ll take it to heart something fierce. You say one bad thing about him, he’ll shrug it off and laugh, but go home and overthink it until he hates himself.

Bad at controlling his own volume. Does not equal being bad at handling his quirk, those are entirely different things!

He’s a touchy boy. Especially with Aizawa, but with others as well. He’ll try to touch their shoulders, swing his arm around their necks, pat their heads and so on. He doesn’t really think twice about personal space, but if you pop his bubble without a warning, he’ll get really irritated and/or uncomfortable.

Addiction. People with ADHD are prone to getting addicted easily, and we all know Present Mic is considered a heavy drinker among his peers, and apparently spends every Saturday out drinking.

#present mic #yamada hizashi #bnha #mha #my hero academia #bon ponders #adhd

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tanadrin · 5 years

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So all the terrible retcons and geographic inconsistency (Kul Tiras wtf) and the time travel and the bullshit with the night elves is bad (Illidan is the worst character ever, don't @ me), but the most frustrating part of WoW lore to me is its failure to explore certain complex emotional themes in a really satisfying way--like, the people who expound and expand on Warcraft lore are canny enough to notice that these emotional themes *exist*, but not clever enough to actually work with them or build them out, and so the whole thing collapses into rule-of-cool melodrama. There's nothing wrong with rule-of-cool melodrama; I love rule-of-cool melodrama. But Warcraft lore is *begging* to combine that rule of cool melodrama with some really rich and interesting emotions and character interpretations, it sets them up and is all ready to knock them down, and just... doesn't.

Take the conversation between Saurfang and Garrosh in the Borean Tundra, in WotLK, the one that ends with Saurfang saying "I don't eat pork." I think that's emblamatic of the big theme that unites the Horde, that makes it make sense as a faction. The Alliance, after all, started as a defensive association in the face of the Orc invasion; its renaissance after the creation of Durotar and the invasion of the Scourge is only natural. But what is the theme of the Horde? Is it honor? Strength? Sheer brutality? Well, none of those things. Orcs claim to value honor and strength; the Forsaken are certainly various shades of very dark gray at best, the Tauren and the Orcs *do* seem like natural allies of a sort, but all the races of the Horde have something even deeper in common: trauma. The Orcs are still (cf. Saurfang) dealing with the emotional turmoil of having been both forced and partially complicit in the atrocities of the First and Second War--after which their homeworld was destroyed, they were forced into concentration camps, and they had to rebuild their culture and their identity from the ground up. They have to find a new place in a new world, and there's this tension between the younger generation that doesn't have firsthand experience with any of this and just remembers that the Horde used to be a name that struck fear into the hearts of their enemies (Garrosh Hellscream, for instance) and the older generation that remembers how awful that time really was, and doesn't want to see the old ways revived because it might just destroy their people for good this time. Then there's the Darkspear Trolls and the Tauren, who were both driven out of their old homelands, and fell in with the Horde as natural allies with similar cultural points of reference; and the Blood Elves, whose suffering in the Third War was severe enough to radically alter their culture, coupled with being betrayed by their ruler who decided that joining the Burning Legion and abandoning them sounded like a better time than rebuilding Quel'Thalas.

And then there's the Forsaken. Oh, man, the Forsaken. The Forsaken and Sylvanas are some of my favorite characters in all of WoW, because sure, you could look at it and say, "okay, creepy undead who like green things that go plop and mad science = evil, bad guys." But you'd really be missing what makes the Forsaken interesting. They're not the Scourge--they explicitly broke away from the Scourge when Arthas left Lordaeron. They're not invaders, either. They're in fact mostly the human population of the destroyed kingdom of Lordaeron, the inheritors of that land, but who are treated by the Alliance as interlopers with no right to the very towns and villages they have *always* called home. They're treated as monsters by every living person who ever knew them, and they can't help but regard themselves that way, too. "What are we, if not slaves to this torment?" is one of the casual interaction lines you get when you click on Sylvanas: they do not *like* being dead. But Sylvanas is ruthless and cruel and after Arthas is killed, wins the Val'kyr over to her side so she can keep making more Forsaken. Why?

Simple. Let us imagine: you are an ordinary person, of no unusually great or poor moral virtue. You are hurt, badly. Grieviously. In a way you will never recover from. And everyone you love, all of your friends and your family, the whole society you come from, now sees you as an unredeemable monster that should, no, must be destroyed. How long must you be called a monster before you decide--fuck it, I *will* be the monster they call me. Because, at least that way, no one can ever hurt me again.

The overpowering motivation for the Forsaken is not power or bloodlust; it's not money, or forbidden knowledge. It's making sure no one in the whole world is ever able to make slaves of them again. To make sure they will not be hurt. And the biggest misstep the Alliance ever made was not reaching out to Sylvanas with overtures of friendship as soon as she established her kingdom--because like it or not, she has the support of the people of Lordaeron, and thus a damn good claim to her position. Maybe, if they had, they could have influenced the Forsaken, shown them that they had friends and didn't need to resort to amoral methods to defend themselves. But as it stands, they only have allies of convenience in the Horde (at least until Sylvanas becomes Warchief), and they know that no one in Azeroth is quite happy to see them continue to exist and be free. Everything else about the Forsaken--their use of dark magic, their development of a new, even more destructive plague, their recruiting former servants of the Lich King and raising new Forsaken from among the dead of the ongoing wars--makes perfect sense from the standpoint of a people that knows they are under threat from all sides, and will do anything to survive.

(The Draenei could have been something like this, too, FWIW. Like, a broken people, a people of exiles who are most comfortable in the shadows and with moral ambiguity. But then Metzen had to go make them Righteous Space Goats. I mean, come on. They're just boring now. They were never going to be Horde-aligned--there's too much history with the Orcs there!--but having a group like that on the side of the Alliance, to help drive home the point that there is not a clear good guys/bad guys distinction here, would have been really nice.)

That actually makes them a pretty damn good fit for the Horde. Moreover, it creates an interesting point of tension with the Alliance, which is clearly *not* always the good guys. I mean, there's the matter of orc concentration camps, but also consider the refusal of leaders like Daelin Proudmoore to contemplate peace (and the subsequent, somewhat... forced turn of Jaina Proudmoore from dove to hawk) and the steadfast refusal of many on that side to deal fairly with the races of the Horde just because they appear monstrous. And arrogance, hoo boy. Dalaran, Gilneas, the Night Elves--huge swathes of the Alliance are characterized by being arrogant and not a little cruel.

And what of Sylvanas becoming Warchief? I don't know where the BFA lore is going (I'm not playing retail anyway), but right now it looks like they're setting up another Garrosh type situation, and preparing for Thrall to retake the Warchief-ship, but if they do that it would be a real pity. First of all, because, well, we saw that already in Mists of Pandaria! What, are we going to besiege Orgrimmar again? Second of all--Sylvanas and Garrosh are *very* different people. Garrosh was, well, Proud; hence the Sha of Pride. He wanted glory and power, he wanted war for war's sake, so he could live up to his father's reputation as a warrior. He was willing to sacrifice everything else that made the Horde the Horde for that. Sylvanas, though, has one overriding motivation: Keep Her People Safe. Punish the people who hurt her is a strong secondary motivation--but it's part of that first one, because if she can make her enemies' victories painful enough, she might discourage them from trying to press their advantage. And her people *trust* her on this: "Dark Lady watch over you," they say when you take your leave. She is not an autocrat--she is their beloved protector. So, she makes the ruins of Lordaeron uninhabitable. She annihilates Teldrassil. Does she spend very many Orc and Troll and Tauren lives doing so? Very well. They aren't *her* people.

I don't think this has to be a tragic flaw leading to her downfall. It sure doesn't make her a good leader for the rest of the Horde, though (even though, on an emotional and aesthetic level, I am 3000% here for Warchief Sylvanas, even more than Warchief Vol'jin, who also had a lot of the creepy threatening vibe that made him a much more interesting choice than either Thrall or Garrosh). But you could make it one, and you could do it very well--they've already mentioned in the tie-ins that Calia Menethil, Arthas's sister, teeeechnically has a claim to the throne of Lordaeron. And, even more interesting, is no longer quite among the living, even if the mechanism of that unlife is happy fun magic instead of evil death magic. Moreover, she has some sympathy for the Forsaken. You could have a squaring-off between them, and you could have a Queen Calia--maybe. If you could bridge that gap and make her understand that the Forsaken feel fundamentally apart from the other human kingdoms now, if she could come to understand just how much evil the Alliance has done to them, if she could really grok what it's like to be them. Then you could have a leader who understands their trauma--but also wants to heal it, rather than lash out at anyone and everyone that might conceivably be a threat. That, too, would be very interesting.

(There’s a reason that, while I loved the Alliance as a kid, I only play Horde toons as an adult. It’s not just that the Horde feel more interesting and vivid to me. It’s that the hypocrisy and the arrogance of the Alliance stands out in much greater relief now. The Horde aren’t good guys--nobody’s the good guys, here--but they don’t lie about their motivations, and they don’t act with cruelty and then play the victim in response. Jaina was an important exception, but they badly mishandled her character in the runup to MoP, which I find very hard to forgive.)

But knowing Blizz, even if they go vaguely that route, they won't stick the emotional landing. There is a very good, if very OTT and melodramatic (in the best possible way), series of fantasy novels or games lurking *behind*, or perhaps parallel, to Warcraft's lore. It is a shame that Blizzard has done so much to obscure it with obnoxious cruft, retcons and timeline compression, repetitive use of the same handful of characters, stupid-ass time-travel plots that create ten thousand plot holes and inconsistencies, shitty tie-in novels (cf. everything by Richard Knaak), and a total failure to make half the world's characters (i.e., everyone in the Alliance) at all interesting. I have a daydream of doing my own version of WoW lore and posting it somewhere like on AO3, but one of the things that makes WoW lore simultaneously so interesting and disappointing to me is that it's embedded in the explorable, realized space of video game worlds. Hard to reproduce that in print, I think. Might be worth it to try.

#world of warcraft #lore #warcraft lore #the forsaken #sylvanas windrunner #the work of chris metzen and its discontents #but hey #at least i got full chain of the scarlet crusade on my warrior in classic

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nevergiveupneverrun · 4 years

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Bodyguard - Chapter Fifty-nine “With time...”

Hello , how are you? Here is chapter Fifty-nine of my Story Bodyguard, yay!! I hope you will like this chapter. Sorry for not posting last week...

I’m sorry in advance for the mistakes… English isn’t my first language and I do my best. Here is the link to the previous chapter: Click Here.

I hope you will enjoy this chapter :) 💛

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- A glass of champagne, sir?

- No, thanks, I stay with orange juice, I answer, pointing to my glass, still half-full, in my hand.

The third server that I dismiss since we arrived at this reception of the nominees at the awards.

A furtive eye to my watch reminds me that we have been here for more than an hour.

But time seems much longer to me… if there is one thing that I do not appreciate in my job, it is these receptions of convenience where the big family of showbiz finds themselves in a still heavy atmosphere, where hypocrisy and personal interest mingle.

A familiar sound reaches my ears and I discover Amelia, a few steps from me, laughing at a joke from Andrew, present at her side.

For this reception, I had informed her that I would stay slightly behind.

To avoid her having too many questions about me, I preferred that she did not have to explain herself constantly about my presence and that she did not reveal to too many people who I was…

However, I was very focused: attentive to each person who approached her and each silhouette who did, if only to touch her.

I applied to the letter one of the basic guidelines of my profession: do not take your eyes off her…

- Hard to detach from the show, right?

A teasing voice awakens on my left and a glance on the side reveals me, Meredith, smiling and adorned with a sober black evening dress, the eyes also riveted towards Amelia.

- Can you help me monitor to rest my eyes if you want? I answer by bouncing on the teasing that she expresses to me.

With her new role as manager, I had quickly become closer to Meredith and a certain complicit had naturally settled between us.

- I don’t want to spoil your pleasure, she bids with a smile. Joke aside, you will see that Amelia has attracted certain glances, stay on your guard. It’s impressive how she can capture light and attention in a room… without her having the slightest awareness.

- It’s perhaps the most dangerous thing that she doesn’t necessarily realize.

- It is intimately linked to her nature. With her story, she suffers from a chronic lack of self-confidence… in her job… in her personal life… I don’t know who will be able to cure her of this weakness, but he will have my eternal gratitude.

Her last words are spoken in a calm voice but in a weaker tone, which leads me to listen carefully to perceive her words beyond the music echoing in the room.

As if she shares a secret with me.

Confidence.

Or a hope…

I try not to read more than is necessary for this remark and content myself with nodding without replying.

- I understand that tonight you stay away. To let her enjoy this moment. And avoid questions. But tomorrow, I only want to see you in one place: by her side… on the red carpet… near the stage… if he tries something, it’s probably during the ceremony.

- Don’t worry, Meredith. Tomorrow, I will be near her as far s the protocol allows me… and I will always be close to intervening.

- I do not worry… if Richard trusted you, I know you are the best. I’m just trying to remind you that you also have to know how to erase the distance when it’s necessary… when it’s the right time…

I feel her hand lay furtively on my arm, then a breath of air rises on the side as she moves away.

——

I turn my head a few moments to follow Meredith’s silhouette with a look, puzzled again after her last words… as for the chance of my observation of a few faces in the room, a very familiar facies appears to me.

Memories of a nightmare night invade my mind.

He looks proud and arrogant just a few steps from me.

This charming and self-confident air.

He’s the same man… the one who represents everything I hate…

I perceive a tension taking hold of me, as he advances in the room, approaching dangerously Amelia… henceforth alone, Andrew had left his place at her side.

I suddenly notice that his approach is becoming more assured: he is moving precisely towards the singer.

Like a predator having spotted its prey.

I immediately forget my guideline to stay away and join Amelia, at the precise moment when he approaches her.

- Mark… good evening, Amelia says, a discernible unobtrusive embarrassment in her response.

- It’s nice to see you, how are you? He inquires with a false innocent air.

I meet Amelia’s gaze, once at her height, before placing my attention on the intruder.

- She is doing very well… much better than the last time she saw you… I answer firmly.

A heavy silence settles for a few seconds.

Seconds when I look at Mark.

Seconds when he easily retains his proud and detached appearance.

- Mark, I think you better go talk to someone else, Amelia replies then, breaking the silent duel that had settled between us.

- I just wanted to greet you, and wish you good luck for tomorrow, he resumed, detaching his gaze from mine and directing a cheerful smile towards the singer.

- Well, you can consider it done…

He observes Amelia for a few seconds, surprised by her evenness and undecided on her reaction.

- I thought we could also talk about this duo project that I have already mentioned in the past with your staff, he continues, stammering slightly.

- Fine, what did you want us to discuss? Amelia continues in a softer voice, with a thin smile.

Her answer takes me by surprise: I expected a sharp reply from her, and not a cordial opening to discuss this project. Mark smiles widely, savoring this small victory and glancing at me, before speaking again.

- We could start by exchanging our availability to work on the song? Share song models we might already have?

- Yes, let me think… answer Amelia thoughtfully. Well… come back in 30 years and I may have a quarter of an hour to devote to you… in the meantime, I advise you to waste your time with your usual bimbos, as long as one of them can align two notes… or read three lines.

I spontaneously laugh at Amelia’s reply, completely unexpected.

Mark’s face immediately breaks down when he realizes that the singer has been playing with him for the last minute.

She dips her lips in her glass of champagne, watching her victim, with a falsely innocent look on her features.

- Make fun of me, Amelia… but tomorrow, I’m sure you will laugh less when you come back empty-handed… Mark says with a frank disdain in his words, like a snake spitting its venom.

He immediately goes away and quickly disappears behind the silhouette of the many guests present.

- You scared me, I didn’t see you coming… and neither did he visibly, I say, once Mark is out of our sight.

- It was much more enjoyable than if I shattered all his hopes from the start, right?

- He loved it, I said, smiling slightly, Amelia laughing briefly by my side.

- Bodyguard and funny with that, you found the rare pearl, Amelia!

A voice rises a few steps from us and we recognize Jo, dressed in a short black leather dress, very precisely shaping her shape.

- Yes, there is only one like him, Amelia retorts, observing the host stand by our side.

- When do you allow him to return to the market? I hope you haven’t negotiated an exclusivity clause for 10 years…

- Owen is free to stop his mission whenever he wishes… I let you discuss your offer, Jo, I have a question for Meredith, Amelia suddenly announces, walking away to join her manager, in discussion with two other people.

- Amelia, you…

I do not have time to finish my sentence that she is already a few meters away… beyond my reach and my voice. An unexpected contact arises parallel against my arm… a hand of Jo resting firmly on the fabric of my jacket

- What does it take for me to suggest that you come to work for me?

My gaze remains fixed on Amelia: her reaction leaves me perplexed… and embarrasses me as she seems to encourage me to change my mission…

- Excuse me?

- Give me your conditions…

- My conditions?

- To be my bodyguard? Maybe it’s money?

I remain silent to her question, my attention still placed on Amelia, now talking with Meredith.

- From what I could see, you have been working for several months for Amelia… you are one of the best, if not the best from what I read about you, but also one of the bodyguards changing the most employer…

I redirect my attention to the host, surprised by the information she reveals… and the time she has visibly spent identifying me.

- I can offer you twice what she offers you… or is it something else? She asks in a soft and almost tempting voice.

- Listen, Jo, I say, looking at her. I’m not in the habit of negotiating a contract when I haven’t finished the current one… as I told you, I am not available… I protect Amelia until further notice… this is an open-ended mission…

- I will be patient in this case, I do not insist… this mission looks special…

- Thank you, I appreciate, I say, without echoing her remark.

- Reassure me, she said after a short break. You are not on 24 hours service here? You can take a break, forget the bodyguard… even for a few hours? She whispers when approaching me, until invading my personal space.

- Uh… Owen… we can go, I got the details I expected from Meredith, announces timidly Amelia, back by our side. Unless you want to stay…

- Fine… ok… Let’s go, I answer still stunned by Jo’s question while taking a step to get closer to Amelia and guide her to the exit.

- Have a good evening Jo, the singer launches with a slight smile.

- Thank you… and Owen, concerning my last question, your availability will be mine, she specifies with a mysterious air.

——

- We can go back on foot, it’s not very far? Amelia offers, once we are outside.

I nod, placing myself at her side in the wake of her steps.

The air is pleasant and still warm, despite the late hour.

I follow her, silently, for a few meters, when the direction she tales suddenly leaves me perplexed.

- Amelia, the hotel is just a little further at the end of the avenue, I inform her of pointing to the building already insight.

But the singer continues to advance and ends up bending over after a few meters to remove her heeled sandals… and put her bare feet in the sand.

- We can take a little detour, right? She finally announces, turning to me, shoes in the hand.

- I don’t know if it’s a good idea… I concede, walking in my turn on the fine sand of the beach, the sound of the waves echoing up to me.

- Look, there is nobody, Amelia specifies, running a few steps in front of her, before sitting in the sand, facing the sea.

I join her in a few strides, my shoes accompanying my suit are not the most practical in the sand; then sit down next to her.

I observe Amelia for a few seconds, looking at her from the side, while her attention is lost in front of her… on the immensity of this stretch of water facing us.

- It’s calm here… and melodious…

- Because you thought that the little reception we just left was not calm or melodious?

- Seen those we met there… not really, no… Amelia answers, smiling, her face turned to me.

The natural light of the stars above us maker her face shine.

Time seems to stop suddenly while I draw eyes with her face, facing me.

- Why are you still here, Owen?

Her question breaks my feeling elsewhere and out of time, as she scrutinizes me intensely.

- What? What are you talking about?

- Your words of earlier made me think… made me considerer your presence differently… you revealed to me that you never stayed very long on a mission… how long was your longest mission?

- 3 months, I answer, spontaneously, without thinking.

- And you’ve been protecting me for almost 6 months… Amelia says, surprised by the information she discovers.

6 months… I haven’t seen the time go by.

I forgot all my past precepts which pushed me to leave after a few months…. Because there was someone I wanted to protect more than anyone else… above all… myself.

- Why are you making an exception with me?

I stay in my thoughts for a few moments, realizing for the first time, that my biggest mistake is there… time is my biggest enemy… I let it pass… I got attached…

- You… you need me… with Richard’s death, the attacks on you… I couldn’t leave…

And I didn’t want to leave, continues my little inner voice.

Revealing my reel defeat.

That of staying too long with Amelia.

That of having let her gradually approach, breaking down my barriers.

- If you want to regain your freedom, don’t feel guilty… if you want to work for someone else…

- I’m here until the end… the time it will take for you to be safe… I confirmed to the singer.

- Until the end… what does that mean exactly? She questions again.

I pause, then objectively reveal the option.

- In my job, there are only two possibles outcomes… I arrest the man who wants to harm you, by putting him out of harm’s way…. Or I’m not the quickest to prevent him from acting… but I protect you while he is exposed… others who can finish the job…

- And the second alternative, how does it end? You with a bullet in the heart, in the head? Amelia asks with a hint of nervousness.

- He may opt for the bladed weapon, I resume smiling. Between us, I prefer. Bullets, it hurts like hell… I supplemented with a detachment to relax the atmosphere.

- How can you joke about this stuff? How could I wish you to be killed in my place?

- Amelia, that’s part of my job… I’m here for that if need be… take a bullet if it is for you…

- Well, I hadn’t realized it until now… and I’m not selfish enough to accept that you die through my fault…

- It won’t be your fault, and I’m consenting in this story. This job, I chose it. This mission, I accepted it. I’ll go all the way, fully aware of the risks.

The singer stares at me intensely, visibly destabilized by the exchange and the context in front of us… the threat is here, more real than ever.

- Aren’t you… aren’t you afraid of dying?

I laugh briefly at her question, looking away from hers, but I feel her attention kept on me.

- Not really, no… I even wanted death at certain times in my life, you know… so be afraid of it… and fear is a dangerous feeling for my job… fear, it petrifies, it paralyzes… it blinds…

- Are you never afraid? She whispers weakly.

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Thank you for reading. Stay safe and have a great week 💛

#greysanatomy #fanfic #Fic #omelia #omelia fanfiction #omeliafics #amelia shepherd #owen x amelia #amelia x owen #Owen Hunt #jo wilson #Mark Sloan #Meredith Grey

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somethingusefulfromflorida · 3 years

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TLDR: Republicans believe themselves to be infallible and cannot be convinced otherwise

Republicans think America is perfect and always has been, while simultaneously believing that America is DOOMED and ON THE EDGE OF COLLAPSE at all times and want to bring us back to the Before Times™ when men were men and women were household appliances and minorities were someone else’s problem. If you bring up a genuine critique of American culture or history they throw a pissbaby shit fit and start spewing nationalist platitudes, “America: Like It or Leave It!” All their complaints stem from their perceived self-importance being eroded; they don’t like to realize that other people with differing opinions exist and should have their voices heard. If a “brown” or a “black” or a “red” or a “yellow” is allowed to speak, that just means there’s one less space for a “white.” All their complaints come from a slippery slope argument that if we don’t model our society after their specific cherrypicked interpretation of The Bible then we will degenerate into amoral savagery.

They say being gay is an abomination and allowing it will damn our children to hell; what they really think is that it’s gross and they don’t want to see things they think are gross. There’s literally no good argument against marriage equality besides “I don’t personally like it.” America is not a theocracy, so the belief system of Christianity should not be construed as the law of the land. This stems from their belief that the Bible is infallible, “because the Bible says so.” They don’t know and don’t want to know about the history behind it, nor the very contentious political landscapes at the times the books were written, nor the personal biases of the very human authors. If the Bible is a literal textbook, then why? What makes it so special? By whose authority were its contents collated and designated THE Good Book? If the Bible is literal, why not the works of Homer, or the Epic of Gilgamesh? Just because the Bible says the Bible is right doesn’t make it so. For the record, I am a Christian, and I think the Bible is just an old book. I’m a Christian in that I follow the teachings of Christ, which can be summed up as “DON’T BE AN ASSHOLE.” I live by that, and All the ChrINOs (Christians in Name Only) need to learn it. Jesus would be ashamed of what he saw today.

They say that abortion is baby murder, on par with ritual human sacrifice and Satan worship. They don’t understand biology, they have a Sunday School understanding of philosophy, and live in a world so black and white that they can’t even imagine a reason someone would have an abortion besides that they’re a terrible person; a woman who would have an abortion is unfit to be a mother in their eyes because they see abortion as equivalent to smothering a baby with a pillow because you don’t want to take care of it anymore. “He or she is alive, he or she has a heart beat!” Well, at this point is is just a blob of tissue, not a living person; a heart beat alone does not make something alive or dead. Your life comes from your brain, not your heart. If someone is alive the moment their heart starts, then they must be dead the moment is stops, so CPR is necromancy. A person isn’t considered dead until their brain is dead, so if they wanted to argue that life begins at brain activity they would have a stronger argument, though still weak because brain activity is not personhood either. Patients in permanent vegetative states on life support may have some brain activity, but they are effectively dead. There is no way a judge, appointed by senators elected by the people of the United States, can prove that not only do souls exist but that they are created the second a sperm fertilizes an egg. If “souls” exist, they aren’t so much created as built up over time as we gain new experienced and our brains develop. What we are is electricity in a ball of meat jelly in our skulls, and that comes to being at a point after which abortions are already banned. Conservatives also just want to control women; Roe v. Wade isn’t explicitly about the right to an abortion, it is about the right to body autonomy. Do women have the right to control their own bodies, or do they defer that right to their fathers and husbands? Are women people or property? Can a man make decisions on a woman’s behalf? “You must forgive my daughter; as a simple minded woman she’s fallen into a stupor of female hysteria. We’ll have the family doctor bring out the smelling salts and leaches.”

They say that certain vices are crimes against God, but only when some people do it. Divorce is a sin because marriage is sacred, except when a conservative does it, then it’s totally justified because of such and such explanation. Tattoos are the mark of the beast, worn by degenerates and lesbians, except when a conservative does it, then it’s just art and harmless self expression. Marijuana is a gateway drug and we need to lock away its addicts and throw away the key, unless a conservative does it, then it’s just recreational, no big deal, we don’t want to ruin the [white] boy’s future because of it. A black person who does cocaine is a criminal, a white person who does cocaine is a public figure (you’d be surprised how many actors and politicians regularly use coke; they have to have high energy 24/7 in case there are any cameras, so they need uppers to keep themselves presentable). This all springs from the fundamental conservative philosophy of “it’s okay when WE do it, but not when YOU do it.” That’s the long and short of it. The in-group is allowed to do things, but the out-group isn’t. It’s the Us vs Them mentality taken to the logical extreme; WE are people, THEY are monsters. WE are allowed to have faults, THEY have to stay in line and follow all the rules. OUR lives matter, THEIR lives are lesser. When you strip away the showy bits and get down to the core of their beliefs, everything stems from their desire to hurt anyone who isn’t them. They want power, they want to be special, they want the Good Guys™ to always prevail over the Bad Guys™, and they want to be the ones to decide who is good and who is bad. Their opinions are the only ones that matter, everyone else is wrong because they’re not them. Now, it’s not like you could solve every problem by opening up your mind to new opinions; there are some issues that are indeed black and white with objectively right and wrong answers, but they live in a world where they are incapable of being wrong. They see personal growth as a betrayal of the self, that admitting a fault is terrible, that apologizing and learning from a mistake is traitorous. No, they have to double down on every single one of their beliefs to re-instill it in their minds. They can never doubt themselves, because God will punish them forever if they ever have doubt. They can’t ask questions or look at things from other perspectives because that would be an admission that their perspectives are fallible. They are afraid of changing their minds so much that they refuse to even listen when someone explains their opinions because they don’t want to have their minds co-opted by Satan’s LIES! If they hear something convincing, it’s all over, their entire world collapses, everything they believe is a lie, they lose, they go to hell forever, The End.

That is the dichotomy under which Republicans live their lives. Nothing matters but what they believe. They don’t believe what they believe for logical reasons, so no amount of logic will ever make them not believe it. They’re making up their own rules to win. You’re playing Rock-Paper-Scissors and they throw Nuclear Bomb, which defeats all three, so you lose. You say that’s not fair, they say tough. You throw Nuclear Bomb, and they say they have a bomb proof shield, so the bomb doesn’t hurt them but kills you, so you lose. You can’t even beat them at their own game because they’ve been playing it longer, and they cry foul when you stoop to their level, suddenly saying that you need to be the bigger person, walking right up to the line of admitting that what they do is wrong but not quite getting there, simply reverting to the complaint that you shouldn’t be allowed to do it. “I can, but YOU can’t.” That’s why it infuriates me when nobody ever calls out a Republican for their hypocrisy. They do something, a Democrat does that exact same thing, they cry foul, but nobody ever says “well, you didn’t have a problem when you did it,” they just try to excuse their own actions rather than demand justification for theirs. Democrats are always on the defensive, they always look like they’re losing even when they’re winning, so the Republicans can use that to build their base and rally together for the occasional victory (Democrats won 7 of the last 8 presidential elections; the last Republican to legitimately win the presidency was George H.W. Bush in 1988).

I don’t know how you’d even begin to fight someone who is this far down the rabbit hole of self denial.

Democrats self-reflect, Republicans self-deflect.

Democrats are progressive, Republicans are regressive.

Now I’m sure there are no Republicans reading this, but if there are they’ll make themselves known and “totally refute” everything I’ve said with some paper thin argument that doesn’t stand up to scrutiny, but they don’t care because it stands up to them. They only need to show one example of a Democrat failing to write off the entire party; they only need to show one black Republicans to deny the existence of racism; one gay Republican denies homophobia; one women denies sexism. They are the party of tokenism.

They will point out the mote of dust in your eye and ignore the plank in their own.

Debate me, I have nothing better to do with my time, I’m a dirty libtard cuckflake soyboy beta with a case full of participation trophies and handouts paid for by other people’s tax dollars (funny, they think handouts are for degenerates, except when they get them. Inheritance? Privilege? Never heard of them!)

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sebthesnipe · 4 years

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The Dreamer by Whatwashernameagin an Analysis? (Part 1 cuz it was a lot longer than expected)

All portions:

Chapter 1: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

Chapter 2: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

Okay so first off… I get asked a lot what I can do with a forty-thousand-dollar degree in Literature when the job economy is so crap… Answer: Lay awake at 2AM analyzing your favorite fanfic authors. So, here we are. Before I begin however, I wanted to make a few things clear: First, if you have not read any of @whatwashernameagain’s work I highly recommend you do so. She is very talented. You can find her on archiveofourown here; and The Dreamer Chapter 1 here. Secondly, I realize that most authors don’t look into their work as deeply as the reader does when writing an analysis and that a red door may simply be a red door… but where is the fun in that? And Lastly, there will be spoilers… So… Beware! (Also it is a Sanders Sides fanfic so check out Sanders Sides by Thomas Sanders on youtube as well if you haven’t already)

WARNING: Spoilers under cut!!

I’m not sure how many of you are familiar with the literary theory of Reader Response (its pretty much exactly what it sounds like) but I’ll probably be addressing it throughout this post. In fact here and here great introductions to the literary theory; which can be defined in its most broad sense, as a criticism that “considers readers’ reaction to literature as vital to interpreting the meaning of the text” (Purdue Writing Lab). Not very clear is it? Basically, Reader Response is the concept that readers have just as much say in what the work means as the author does. In other words, “readers do not passively consume the meaning present to them by an objective literary text; rather they actively make the meaning they find in literature” (Purdue Writing Lab). Without the author there is no reader and without the reader there is no author.

That’s probably a lot of mumbo jumbo to take in but I’ve studied so many literary approaches that it is merely a glimpse into the stuff rattling around in my brain when I read any type of work. I don’t tell you any of this to flex or show how smart I am… …. Well… not really anyways lol. I am explaining this now because it will be important later in the post. Now! Onto the really fun stuff!

CHAPTER 1 (Again spoilers!)

Okay, going into the work I knew the premise: Superhero vs. Villain eventually becoming friends and even lovers. I’m totes down! However, Eva (the author (Whatwashernameagain) never ceases to pull in the reader from the first line!

“He’d chosen to call himself the Utilitarianist, the etymology of which was clearly derived from the Latin word ‘utilis’, meaning ‘useful’” (Whatwashernameagain).

First off! The italics are beautiful! They pull attention to the fact that whoever it is that is naming himself (*cough* Logan *cough*) has already shunned the outer world. He doesn’t care what others have to say. He is deciding this for himself. The sheer amount of strength in a single word because she used italics is stunning and I’m certain she doesn’t even realize what she has done.

Moving on to the actual name is another thing entirely. I know that ‘Utilitarianism’ is defined as “the ethical doctrine that virtue is based on utility, and that conduct should be directed toward promoting the greatest happiness of the greatest number of persons” (“Utilitarianism”). So first, this screams Logan, secondly there is a lot to be said for the name choice. While, the hero/villain’s goal is obvious by the name (doing acts that are for the ‘greater good’) there is a lot to be said for personality here. Obviously, it can be taken that whoever chose this name is insecure in a way; only taking value of themselves by how useful they are. The man no doubts feels as if he is only as valuable as the contributions he makes, which is certainly relatable. So, within the first sentence we learn quite a lot about a single individual and are already drawn in… then again, that’s Eva for you.

Within the next paragraph we learn that the he is in fact a ‘villain’ though I like to think of him more as a… misguided vigilante… but Logan is my bea… so… yeah. Once again, we see italics: “They called him a villain” (Whatwashernameagain). It pulls the reader’s attention to the separation the Utilitarianist is making between himself and the outside world. The feeling of loneliness just from the two italicized words is almost suffocating, at least to me (hence Reader-Response theory). Eva always has such a way with capturing emotions so subtly its breath taking. It certainly is one of her biggest strengths. I mean, here we are not even two sentences in and I’m already moved by the isolation of the villain.

Moving on down the line, we see that the Utilitarianist feels he is doing good for the world… sees himself as a hero rather than the villain the world sees him as. Eva also begins to apply descriptors to the not-villain. “Cold and infallible logic” is used to describe his work. Knowing Sanders Sides as I do its obvious that at this point, I have an assumption as to which character the Utilitarian is (and I’ve already read the work once or twice) but this practically cements it. The reason I bring these four little words to your attention however is the simplicity of them and the giant impact they have. Just as the italics spoke volumes so does this small excerpt. The loneliness I mentioned before only grows with these words, becoming an image of shivering, icy fingers reaching out for someone who isn’t there, the only thing keeping him warm is his own logical calculations…. Its… so heartbreaking… Damn it Eva!!! T.T

Within the next paragraph however we’re moving on to a more light-hearted tone as the Utilitarianist calls the world small minded and unable to understand his ‘superior logic’ (Whatwashername). That, in and of itself, gives way to more personality, breathing more life into the previously abstract character and making him more human… though far less humble lol.

I feel as if I really need to move a bit more quickly through this work to keep this post from getting to long but… Eva’s work with emotional subtext is so stunning I can’t help myself. We’ve moved from the first sentence drawing attention to the separation of the Utilitarianist from the public’s view of him, to the lonely cool logic behind his actions and now within the next few sentences were pulled into a whirlwind of frustration and all of it is so seamless. It may seem like something small and inconsequential but there are published best-selling authors that struggle with it regularly and she manages it so flawlessly (and if I had to guess, without even really thinking about it.

The frustration I mention above is visible through the way the Utilitarianist uses descriptors pulling attention to names like ‘whistleblower’, ‘eco-terrorist’, ‘extremist’, and the way he points out more than one, obviously frustrated. He also insults the world once again pointing out their ‘small minds’ and ‘hypocrisy’; the media calling him ‘cruel’. Again, it’s the subtle things that really make a work shine and as usual Eva’s work is almost blinding.

“His enemies were clear to him, chosen not by his own selfish passions or greed, but by pure, beautiful logic” (Whatwashernameagain).

This line…. Oh, this line…. -sighs dreamily at the words-

So, Reader-Response theory can be interpreted in a number of ways but basically what you need to know is that everyone reads things in different ways due to their own life-experiences, interests, backgrounds, opinions, etc. So, this tiny line that most wouldn’t think twice of is one of my absolute favorites. Why? Well… Lets just say that I have four copies of every Sherlock Homes book (Sir Arthur Connan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes) (Leather bound, hard cover, soft cover, and children’s versions). Which means I’m a bit of fan. Why is that important here? Well, Logan’s (the Utilitarian’s) thought here, pulls me straight back to Doyle’s work. It is so Holmes-esc that it makes me all warm inside and brings a smile to my face. Not to mention it is another shift in the emotional tone of the work, pulling the reader from frustration to an almost affection as Logan addresses his work. This provides the character with even more complexity making him more tangible than ever. There is already so much depth to this character in the first half of this chapter than it astounds me… I am never disappointed in the woman’s writing.

As I read about some of Logan’s target, I have to pause because of just how real some of these issues are. “Fast food chains that ate away the natural resources with their disgusting wastefulness, earning money on the back of animals starved of space and clean air. Government funded projects poisoning the water of people dependent on it. Radioactive plants secured so badly the surrounding hospitals were filled to the brim with cancer patients. Presidents who criminalized people for their skin, their sex, their religion or orientation” (Whatwashernameagain). It makes we want to bring attention to New Culturism and New Historicism but that’s a whole different can of worms. For now, I’ll just say that in today political and environmental climate these are some real issues and she knows that. She knows her audience, for sure! I feel as if this could be a real power play, not in any bad way but in the sense that she can pull at the concerns of so many readers at once with Logan addressing these issues, submerging them in support of his unconventional solutions. How else do you make a reader fall in love with a villain but with sympathy and support? Brilliant… just bloody brilliant.

“Public acts of violence threatened to cause a brutalization of the human mind and thus cause more violence due to normalizing it by prolonged exposure” (Whatwashernameagain).

I won’t spend too much time on this but… Holmes-esc… just saying… I love it so much!

“Despite any attempts to paint him as a ruthless monster, the people were his ultimate ally… Ultimately, he believed the world would come to understand his superior philosophy” (Whatwashernameagain).

Okay, lets pause for a moment. We get some conflicting information here (not in a bad way). Up until now Logan has isolated himself from the world but now, we find out that the people work with him. This is conflicting not because it goes against what has been said but simply what the reader has assumed (reader-response theory). When we really consider it, of course there would be support for his tactics. Trump has supporters… I don’t see why but he does… It’s only logical that someone who is actually making change for the better (even if his methods are extreme) would have them too…. Wait… Did I just compare Logan to Trump?! I’m going to go cry in a corner now… T.T No, but seriously Eva is making her readers think and ask questions that they have to fill in the blanks for, themselves. Its fantastic! The truth of the matter is, the best works have the readers read between the lines, fill in the blanks, help mold the story to their own liking, and she does this so Wonderfully I am jealous and awed by it all. As for bringing the world around to his philosophy we as a reader know that’s probably not going to happen but that might not be the point of the sentence. Perhaps, its to bring a small sense of eccentric tendencies in a far less subtle manner to Logan or just determination. I feel that it does both whether intended or not and does it beautifully. It makes it obvious that Logan is still lonely and determined to bring others in on his work while deluding himself that they will. I think most of us have been lonely enough that we went just a little crazy at one point or another… Which makes Logan more relatable.

Unfortunately, I have to go to work; but I will be back with a Part 2 of this. I have a lot more to say so be warned! And yes, I realize there’s going to be a lot of TLDR’s but it’s a good thing I’m writing this more for myself than anyone XP so… until next time…

Purdue Writing Lab. “Reader-Response Criticism // Purdue Writing Lab.” Purdue Writing Lab, https://owl.purdue.edu/owl/subject_specific_writing/writing_in_literature/literary_theory_and_schools_of_criticism/reader_response_criticism.html.

“Utilitarianism.” Dictionary.com, Dictionary.com, https://www.dictionary.com/browse/utilitarianism.

Whatwashernameagain. “The Dreamer - Chapter 1.” Hello Guys Gals And Non Binary Friends, 8 Sept. 2019, https://whatwashernameagain.tumblr.com/post/187581477262/the-dreamer-chapter-1.

#The dreamer #villain!logan #hero!roman #Sanders Sides #logince #logan sanders #roman sanders #logan/roman #analysis #readerresponse #reaction #whatwashernameagain

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mightyhydrator · 5 years

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There is a level of hypocrisy in Andrew Hussie’s statement.

This may end up in having my points be out of order, but whatever.

One of the things that I felt kind of aggravated by was the bit at the end:

“Wherever the most conscientious and invested members of fandom want to drive this universe...”.

Obviously you can’t have all members of the fandom be involved, so you pick out the biggest and most loyal ones, but even then, why alienate half the fanbase with something you made bad on purpose (I am sure that most of those who stopped being part of the fandom because of the epilogues would have otherwise fit the description)? Why make something stupid to “challenge” the fanbase to think critically when you can simply make something good? There isn’t really any reason to make something bad unless you are doing a big subversion thing by proposing an alternative, which Andrew is clearly not going to do, as he’d rather continue the epilogues’ arc, just with the “help of fans” (all of whom, no doubt, loved the epilogues).

There is also a level of blaming the fans for wanting things out of this.

And by peeking into the imagined realm of "happily ever after" to satisfy our curiosity, we discover that our attention isn't so harmless, because the complexities and sorrows of adult life can't be ignored. Nor can the challenges of creating a civilization from scratch, when several teenagers are handed god-status. It turns out the gaze we cast from the sky of Earth C to revisit everyone isn't exactly friendly, like warm sunlight. It's more like a ravaging beam, destructive and unsettling to all that could have been safely imagined. Our continued attention is the very property which incites new problems, and the troublemakers appear to be keenly aware of this.

Calling this paragraph a thermian argument would be very weird, as the nature of the epilogues and its themes (which are part of the universe, mind you) are incredibly meta, but he tries to blame the fact of this being written as the fault for all the terrible things that happened. But it’s simply not true: you chose to write this, you chose to present the attention as a “ravaging beam”, and only you made the troublemakers like this. (also the realm wasn’t “happily ever after”, calling it that is just being dumb).

His fable about the meaning of words applied to media is also somewhat inapplicable? “Intermission” was kept consistent in Homestuck for the most part, there were just a lot of them. “Intermission” always meant “a break between parts of the current Acts”. A break betwen act 3 and 4, a break between Act Acts (where the attention moves away from the alpha kids onto other characters), and a break between Act Act Acts (where the attention moves away from Caliborn onto other characters). If anything, if Andrew called these intervals “entr'actes”, his questions would be more applicable. (Disclaimer: Homestuck was my first piece of media where an intermission is present. I may not actually know the exact way people use these words).

Same with “epilogue”. As far as I know, there is no unspoken rule as to what an epilogue can include, as long as it concludes the story. Honestly, from what I know, it might even be allowed to have a cliffhanger. His “epilogues are kind of an afterthought” thing is no more than drivel about his own interpretation of the way the word is applied. The only way the Homestuck Epilogues challenge the word is “Can an epilogue act as a) a story in its own right, and b) Segway directly into a new narrative?”. A) has been addressed by the stamenet, in a way, but b) is just left there.

And the stuff about unreliable narrators.

Like the fact that all narratives have perspectives and biases, depending on who is telling the story, even in the case where it's unclear if the narrator has any specific identity. The suggestion that all narratives are driven by agendas, sometimes thinly disguised, other times heavily.

The one narrating simply can’t be an unreliable narrator if they are the author. The author, as the one who creates the narrative, has an agenda to convey the events, and in most cases even thoughts, truthfully. There are cases where this isn’t super applicable, like interpreteable events, unconcluded plot threads, red herrings, etc., but the author, as the one with inherent authority over everything in their story, has the answers to everything, and their every whim dictates what is part of the story and why. An author can’t be an unreliable narrator as the author has neither any reason to have their narrative lie about its contents nor is a fallible source of information about the narrative. (Outside of narration, however, these are possible, but we are talking about narration here).

“Heroes of Olympus”, since every book is written in third person, doesn’t have unreliable narration coming from the author-narrator (Rick Riodan), as he has every interest in keeping his story truthful. “Trials of Apollo”, as it is written from the first person perspective of Apollo, is subject to being unreliable (in the moment, overall everything is true), as Apollo is a real person within the diegesis of the books and has every interest in being seen as infallible, wronged, etc.

Andrew’s narration is more like Rick’s, no matter what he says, whereas Calliope’s and Dirk’s is closer to Apollo’s, no matter what they say.

Now here is the last bit:

It's also an opportunity for people to discuss any of the difficult content critically, and for fandom in general to continue developing the tools for processing the negative emotions art can generate. Sorting that out has to be a communal experience, and it's an important part of the cycle between creating and criticizing art. I think not only can creators develop their skills to create better things by practicing and taking certain risks, fandom is something which can develop better skills as well. Skills like critical discussion, dealing constructively with negative feelings resulting from the media they consume, interacting with each other in more meaningful ways, and trying to understand different points of view outside of the factions within fandom that can become very hardened over time.

So the reason he decides to show us that it’d be a good idea to better the fandom and develop frameworks for helping us deal with negative emotions created by pieces of media is... by worsening the fandom and instilling negative emotions? This is like breaking someone’s leg so that it’ll heal, or giving the King of England the plague so that he gets well soon and then later could have a better immune system (not like a vaccine, but a genuine plague).

I am all for fandom being a better space to be in and for frameworks to help deal with negative emotions, but again, nobody forced him to cause problems for us to solve (this also applies to conflict in the epilogues, where nobody forced Hussie to make more villains).

If you wanted this to happen, Andrew Hussie, then you should have given people something that would inspire them to do what you want them to do, not blame them for not doing it when the only thing you gave them makes them feel like shit. You’ve done this with Homestuck, you are capable of this, don’t chicken out.

#homestuck #homestuck epilogues #hydra talks #Andrew Hussie

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moiraineswife · 5 years

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Exposed - An Ineffable Husbands Fic

i return. bearing the fruit of my brains. it is angst. again. because i’m Predictable. Shout out to the goblin discord squad whom I love and cherish <3 Previous Good Omens fic may be found here!

Title: Exposed

Summary: Aziraphale wakes in the middle of a quiet night’s peaceful meditation to find that the demon he (deliberately) fell asleep next to is no longer there. After some minor panicking, he finds him, and then angst and hurt/comfort ensue. Crowley has chronic pain/wing stress from his Fall. Split POV.

Teaser: They draped his thin frame like a shroud. The shadow black feathers glistened with rain drops that looked for all the world like stars in the night. But their tips dragged on the ground, held at an awkward, unnatural angle, the primary feathers more ragged than was usual.

All at once he looked both holy and profane.

It was as though he had just Fallen, as though Aziraphale was seeing him in the moments after it had happened. Still bathed in the final, fleeting rays of Heaven’s light. Even as he was dragged down into Hell’s darkness. Not truly belonging to either, caught between two worlds, like a fly in a web, suspended forever in time, unable to escape either way.

Link: AO3

Aziraphale slowly returned his mind back to his body. It became aware, as he did so, that it was enveloped in soft warmth, and he instinctively burrowed down into it, like a bird settling into its nest.

He had never quite managed to sleep the way that humans, or indeed, Crowley, did, but...Well, holding Crowley while he fell asleep was very nice.

After a while, he had learned how to do something better than sleeping. He had reasoned that he was lying down, warm, and comfortable, and Crowley wasn’t a very good conversational partner while sleeping (though he did occasionally mumble things, but they were never very distinct, nor very coherent) he may as well try and get some form of rest.

He liked to call it a ‘deep meditative state’. Crowley always snorted at this and said that was just a fancy word for napping.

Aziraphale knew the difference, though, whatever Crowley said.

He lost awareness of his body, as one would when they fell asleep, but he kept awareness and control over his thoughts, unlike the dreamlike state that humans, and his demon, entered into.

It really was rather wonderful. He’d tried to explain this to Crowley. He’d even suggested that he try it for himself to see just how wonderful it was.

Crowley had just looked vaguely horrified and said, firmly, “Angel, the whole point of sleeping is that I don’t have to think about anything while I’m doing it! Maybe you should try that. It’s dead...Refreshing,” he’d added, with a slightly wistful look on his face.

Frankly, Aziraphale thought it was a waste of his time.

Immortal he may be but there was always so much to do that he never managed to fit it in to his days as it was. He had no idea how human beings managed to function, much less be productive, when they were expected to sleep eight hours per day.

No, his few hours of quiet deep meditation were enough for him.

An unexpected little breeze whispered across Aziraphale, and he shivered, burrowing further down into the covers to escape it. Instinctively, he shuffled to his right, seeking Crowley’s natural warmth.

One of the perks of being with a demon – one was never cold. Crowley’s skin always seemed feverish to the touch in its heat, like the hot rocks you got at certain quality spas. Aziraphale had been known to indulge in them from time to time, and they were very pleasant indeed.

To his disappointment, he didn’t shuffle into Crowley.

He stretched out a hand, fumbling blindly through the sea of sheets and pillows and blankets and duvet, reaching for him.

“Crowley,” he mumbled thickly, in what Crowley would have described as a ‘whine’, to which Aziraphale would have corrected that it was more a general noise of displeasure.

He was most indignant either way that his demonic heat-source was being so rude and not making itself easily available.

No response to his noise of displeasure, either.

Frowning, he blinked, and the dark room around him came slowly into focus. He had learned when coming out of his meditative states to do so gradually, so as not to overwhelm his body’s senses.

There now, the dark walls, the luxurious silken black sheets, the abstract paintings on the wall, everything as it should be.

He looked to his right.

An empty space where Crowley should have been was all that stared back at him.

No long, lanky demon frame. No red hair, mussed from sleep. No pale skin so beautifully reflecting the moonlight. No deep, golden eyes, finding Aziraphale’s soul bare upon his skin with every glance.

His heart jumped as though lightning had just punched into it. Familiar flickers of panic, like a thousand tiny hummingbirds spawning in his chest to frantically beat their wings at once, beginning in his chest. Then tightening in his stomach and tying his nerves in knots.

Calm yourself now, dear boy, he thought, firmly.

There was no reason at all to suspect that anything at all was amiss. Crowley could simply have decided that he needed to water the plants. Or that a rerun of his favourite episode of Golden Girls was on and he wanted to watch it. Or that, that he desperately needed a cup of tea.

Aziraphale couldn’t possibly have meditated through an entire, elaborate scenario that involved the vile agents of Hell breaking into their home and resting a terrified, struggling, fighting Crowley from their bed, and kidnapping him away for all kinds of unnatural, inconceivable, unthinkable tortures while Aziraphale was right beside him, surely.

Or could he?

“Damn you and your ridiculous little human notions, Crowley!” he exploded, scrambling out of the bed.

In his state of panic, which had not been appeased in the slightest by his calming, logical thoughts, though they’d been as firm as they could be, he felt he was allowed this minor hypocrisy in the moment.

“I swear I shall never forgive you for this, you stupid old serpent,” he continued, ranting, wringing his hands at thin air like an old maid in the kind of old-fashioned television show Aziraphale rather enjoyed, but would never confess to liking, even under demonic torture1.

Aziraphale had discovered hand-wringing some centuries ago. Perhaps even invented it, he was unsure. Six thousand years of memory was quite a lot to trawl through, especially at a time like this.

Either way, Gabriel would have had a fit if he’d ever seen him doing it. He wouldn’t consider it ‘appropriate’ behaviour for an angel. But, well, blast it, it helped.

Aziraphale paced in a nervous fluster through the flat, following his familiar anxiety path.

Cat, who had been enjoying a midnight snack, followed him with her big, yellow eyes, so painfully like Crowley’s. She gave a soft mew at his obvious distress, but unfortunately shed no particular light on the whereabouts of their favourite demon.

Finally, he returned to the bedroom, and began to do his utmost to wear a hole in the rug as he tramped up and down up and down up and down, as if this would suddenly reveal Crowley.

It didn’t.

A cold wind tickled the back of his neck again, which was the very last thing he needed at this moment in time. Feeling distinctly aggrieved, he angrily looked up in an attempt to locate its source.

Only then did he realise that the window was open.

There were very few windows in Crowley’s flat. He seemed to have a certain aversion to them. Which Aziraphale supposed was understandable, given he was a demon. He’d always had rather sensitive skin, bless him. Likely a side-effect of him being a red-head.

The plant room had some, naturally, but the only other one in the whole flat was in the bedroom. It was set into the ceiling, a huge, beautiful, circular structure. Though it had no right to, given that Crowley lived in a mid-floor flat, it looked right up onto the sky beyond.

At present, there was no glass in it. Aziraphale could feel the ripple of the wind but was shielded, thanks, no doubt, to another little demonic miracle, from the pouring rain outside.

He breathed again.

He didn’t, strictly speaking, need to, but he’d found that his body got rather cross with him if he didn’t at least make an effort every now and then. It started turning blue in various different places, and he got awfully dizzy. Humans were very delicate creatures, really.

Slowly, luxuriously as always, Aziraphale spread his white wings. He was really rather proud of them, he thought, as he flexed the feathers to stretch everything out appropriately. And he did miss being able to have them out whenever he felt like it.

He centred himself beneath the window, crouched slightly, wings flaring- Then he hesitated.

If he was seen...He shuddered, vividly recalling the paperwork nightmare of 1795. He hadn’t emerged for weeks. His hand had cramped for days afterwards. He hadn’t been able to so much as look at a book without it bringing him out in a cold sweat at the memory of all those pages and pages full of cramped handwriting and scrawled signatures.

And people were so much less likely to believe in the supernatural these days. Things had died down alright in 1795 after the required measures had been put in place There were modern cameras about now, and those clever phones like the one Crowley had and-

No.

Hang it.

He didn’t care.

Anyway, it was dark, and they were so high up that no-one would see. If they did, well, he would deal with them. Them and the ensuing paperwork, if that was what it took.

With one powerful down stroke, Aziraphale propelled himself up into the night sky.

It was a strange sensation. Crowley had altered things to allow the sky to filter directly into his window. His body wasn’t entirely aware of this, and struggled to cope with the tunnel of altered reality and the fact that Aziraphale was, strictly speaking, flying through a building.

Reality, however, coped, and Aziraphale endured. He emerged a minute or so later, feeling much as he had when he’d decided to take his first (and last) pleasure cruise on the Titanic back in 1912. And this had been before the whole iceberg calamity.

Crowley had laughed so hard he’d snorted wine through his nose so badly he’d nearly discorporated himself at the idea of an angel getting seasick. Aziraphale had not found the matter nearly so amusing.

He’d almost been glad when the thing had sunk. Hundreds of casualties aside of course.

The rain struck him as soon as he was clear of the building, and he winced. He did so hate getting his wings wet. It was always such a trauma trying to dry out all the feathers properly. And then there was the fact that it just felt awful.

Shuddering, he landed on the roof, a little harder than he’d meant to, feeling distinctly ungainly for an angel. It had been quite a while since he’d done this. It seemed he was rather out of practice. How embarrassing.

Flying was rather like riding a velocipede, one never forgot how. That did not mean one retained their level of competence without sufficient, regular practice, however.

He strained his nightshirt with dignity, then took stock of his surroundings, blinking in slight surprise.

There were dozens of plants dotted around the rooftop in different troughs and tubs, in a very haphazard approximation of a terrace garden. There didn’t seem to be any particular order that he could identify. Yet even in the dark, he could tell that they were well-cared for. They had all been trimmed, and dead-headed, and watered, and fed appropriately. A lot of love had gone into this little place. He could feel it.

At the centre of it all, like the sun in a sea of smaller stars, sat Crowley.

His chest was bare, exposed to the deluge from the Heavens above. Aziaraphale could see his beautiful tattoo. He had never known that he had it until the two of them had become...rather more intimate in the months following the Armageddon that was averted.

It was a stunning thing, truly. A rippling black watercolour reflection of star spattered sky above them. The cosmos carved out in ink upon the skin of its creator. A beautiful, haunting echo to how it all began.

Through it all, the serpent swam. It would have been invisible, but it was of a darker black than the night around it.

Like the wings that spilled from Crowley’s back.

They were even more breathtaking than the tattoo. A different form of art, to be sure, but no less exquisitely wrought.

They draped his thin frame like a shroud. The shadow black feathers glistened with rain drops that looked for all the world like stars in the night. But their tips dragged on the ground, held at an awkward, unnatural angle, the primary feathers more ragged than was usual.

All at once he looked both holy and profane.

Something in Aziarpahle’s chest caught looking at him, as though he too had been snared by some trap.

For all they had done together, for all they had shared in more than six thousand years, for all the intimacy between them now, Aziraphale had never seen Crowley quite as vulnerable as he appeared now.

It felt as though he was intruding on something deeply private. Something that should never be witnessed by another. Like a confession. A confession that revealed the barest parts of another’s soul.

Rain continued to fall between them like a veil. So thin he could see him, could smell him, could taste him...But could never quite reach him.

Aziaraphle stared, swaying slightly in place, hypnotised by the scene before him.

For all he moved, Crowley might have been a statue. Carved from marble and obsidian, a study of the Fallen, and the weight they bore.

Dear Atlas carried the world upon his shoulders.

His dear Crowley seemed to hold the Heavens upon his back, in more than ink and skin. He was still crushed, Aziraphale knew, by the weight of promises that had been made, and lost. By things that had been taken, and the knowledge that they would never be returned.

Aziraphale jerked himself from his indulgent thoughts. They didn’t do Crowley any good, and that had to be his focus right now.

Crowley.

How he would hate those thoughts. As he would hate anyone, even Aziraphale, seeing him in this state.

He had worked so hard for years to cultivate his show of aloofness, to act as though he cared for little, and loved even less.

But it wasn’t true.

Angels were beings of love, it was often said. He could sense it. But Crowley? Crowley felt it. Truly felt it. And it was both his destruction and his salvation. He needed it, but he feared so much that anyone would see it, because in his world, all they would ever see was weakness, and targets.

Aziraphale had never considered himself as particularly strong – in any sense of that word.

As he’d admitted to himself after his conversation with Gabriel in St James’ park, he was soft.

His soft, bleeding heart had given away his god-granted sword for pity’s sake. His soft will had let him succumb to base mortal pleasures.. His soft moral compass had permitted Crowley to tempt him into the Arrangement.

Aziraphale was just soft.

But for Crowley, for this being he loved with everything he was, and everything he might ever be, holy or profane, angel or demon, whole or in pieces...For Crowley, though it went against every instinct he had and felt as though his soul was being dragged over hot coals, he would do this to spare him any further pain.

He turned to slip back inside the flat, hating himself for every step, even as he loved Crowley with them.

He would go back inside, drop down to the back, walk around the front and return via the main entrance. Then he would wait. Draw a bath, perhaps, though he didn’t want to make it obvious that he was concerned or fussing, for then Crowley would know that he knew that there was something to fuss about, and he wouldn’t want that.

But he would wait. He would be ready. Whenever Crowley was. In six days, or six months, or another six thousand years, he would be ready for him, and then-

“Angel?”

Crowley’s voice was a hoarse rasp, but it was distinct enough.

It carried through the quiet night air like a scream, with only the soft static of the rain to disturb it.

Aziraphale froze. Then he turned slowly back. If he had made this worse, if he had ruined it all-

Crowley still hadn’t moved a muscle, but he spoke again. His words were so faint they were almost stolen by the wind that rose around them. Except for the fact that Aziraphale clung to them the way a holy man might cling to his prayer beads in the middle of, say, Armageddon.

“It’s okay,” Crowley mumbled quietly, “Y’don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”

The words slurred together a little, most likely from pain.

It was the cruellest kind of pain, he knew, though he had never tasted it himself. An echo of wounds six thousand years old. A phantom Aziarpahle’s magic, though holy, could not banish.

His heart ached for him. And, not for the first time, a flicker of anger stirred to life within him.

“I just mean you can,” Crowley added, giving a tiny half-glance in Aziraphale’s direction.

He noticed then that his demon was shaking. From cold or pain, he couldn’t tell.

“S’a free country ‘n all that,” Crowley mumbled vaguely. “But m’ point is...You don’t have to leave. You can...You can stay. If you like.”

Aziraphale softened.

He knew Crowley well enough by now, he should think, to know that ‘you can stay’ meant ‘please don’t leave’.

“I would like to,” Aziraphale murmured as he moved in closer.

Tentatively, he knelt down at Crowley’s back and eased his arms around him. Crowley let out a tiny whimper and melted against him. Aziraphale braced himself against the rain damp tiles and held Crowley close, pressing his forehead to the seam between his wings.

“You’re freezing cold,” he admonished, concern leaking into his words, but no harshness. He had seen too much of that already.

“’M a demon,” Crowley grunted back, “We don’t get cold. Hellfire in our veins and...Stuff.”

“Well you are,” Aziraphale said, firmly, drawing him in even closer, instincts flaring, the desire to protect, to shelter, to save overwhelming.

Crowley didn’t protest.

With a soft exhale, Aziraphale extended his own wings, stark white against Crowley’s inky black, and draped them gently around the pair of them. The rain pattered mockingly against them, but in the moment, he couldn’t care less about that.

Crowley shuddered slightly and pressed himself deeper into Aziraphale’s soft embrace. Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed him in. For a long while he simply held him in the rain, and the world was blessedly quiet as the stars turned overhead.

Finally, Aziraphale croaked, voice shaking just a little, which he thought was quite the achievement, considering “Is it your wings? The pain?”

Crowley shook his head.

Aziraphale raised his, surprised, and felt Crowley shift slightly beneath him. Uncomfortable at the reaction, or at the simple loss of contact, he couldn’t be sure.

“I mean, they hurt,” he clarified, bluntly, “But it’s not the pain...Not just the pain. I know pain. I can deal with it, it’s-” His voice broke and he shook his head, trembling more tangibly in his angel’s arms.

Aziraphale stroked his fingers tenderly along the arc of Crowley’s spine. Up and down, up and down, in a slow, soothing rhythm, like breathing, seeking to calm him.

Finally, he managed to choke out, “I miss it, ‘Ziraphale. I miss it.”

The agony was so obviously etched into this last words that Aziraphale nearly flinched from it.

Crowley shivered in Aziraphale’s arms, and the angel stroked his back, hands running so delicately over his tattooed skin.

“D’you know why I like to sleep so much, angel?” Crowley managed to get out at last.

This was an unexpected follow-up, to say the least, but Aziraphale simply said, gently, “Tell me.”

“I dream,” Crowley whispered, “And when I dream...I fly again.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, unable to stop himself instinctively pulling Crowley in more tightly. As though he could shelter him from this grief as he sheltered him from the rain.

It was cruel, what they had done to him. So cruel sometimes it was all Aziraphale could do not to find himself that flaming sword and storm the whole of Heaven with it, blasphemy be damned.

***

“Every time, Aziraphale. Every time,” Crowley rasped.

He swallowed with difficulty past the lump in his throat and let his head hang on his neck, limp and pathetic, like an old child’s doll that had been so thoroughly abused, it couldn’t exist without its saviour and breaker.

It had taken a while, and a lot of talking to humans, before he’d realised they didn’t see the same thing over and over and over again every time they fell asleep.

Well. Some of them did. Some of them had nightmares.

That had terrified Crowley. The idea that Hell could reach him the only time he ever felt truly safe, the only time he knew any real peace anymore.

It had never happened.

Every time he dreamed, he flew over Eden. His wings were strong, and beautiful, and whole. The black feathers rippled like black glass in the sun as they caught updrafts and sent him endlessly through the interminable vista of rolling clouds and soaring winds.

Sometimes, in the distance, he could make out Aziraphale standing sentinel on the Eastern wall.

He never joined him in the air, though. The skies were his, and his alone.

He was safe. He was happy. He was free.

At least until he woke up.

“She does it,” he said now.

He tried not to let his voice shake but...what was the point? He was only here with Aziraphale, and all his ghosts, and they had both seen far worse from him then a tremor on his tongue.

“I know she does it. I don’t know why. She never talks to me anymore.” And why would she? “But...She does this.”

Aziraphale’s grip on him was so tight it was painful. It felt good. It felt grounding. Crowley was afraid he might be torn away by the rain storm without him. A stray feather in a hurricane. Insignificant. Helpless. Forgotten.

“I don’t know if it’s to punish me, to remind me of what I lost, what She took,” he couldn’t help the edge of bitterness that crept into that last word.

It was like a thief in the night. Unwanted, unwelcome, and invasive. But ultimately, that didn’t matter. It came anyway.

Six thousand years. Six thousand years since he’d Fallen. He should have been over it by now. He should have been over it centuries ago. Millennia, really. But he wasn’t.

“I don’t know if, maybe, it’s Her letting me remember it, letting me live it again. Just a bit. If maybe...Maybe it’s the only bit of forgiveness that She can give me.”

He sagged in Aziraphale’s arms at that, ashamed. Ashamed that he could still hope, could still believe She might still care about him. After everything he’d been through, the Fall, Hell, the torments they offered up down there, Her relentless silence, after everything She’d done to him, he should know better. He should have learned.

There was nothing left to have faith in anymore.

Crowley took a breath as the wind stirred up again and rippled through his feathers, making them tingle. He could still feel his wings. Some days he could feel entirely too much of them. He could still move them, still have them respond to him but...He couldn’t fly.

He had tried. He had tried a lot, especially those first few centuries, and every thousand years or so since. It had been excruciating. He’d told himself if he just pushed a little bit harder he could make it happen, could make them stronger, could fly again. All he’d gotten for his pain was near discorporation and a very strong letter full of expletives from Below.

“I like it out here,” he found himself muttering, conscious of Aziraphale’s patient embrace, “’Specially when it rains. Being up here, under the stars, with the wind, and the rain, and the peace...It’s the closest I can get to flying anymore.”

He felt pathetic admitting that. His deepest secret. His ultimate weakness, laid bare. Like the shiny metal covers they put on food at the Ritz, whipped off to reveal his soul, exposed beneath.

“If I could,” aziraphale breathed behind him, soft as a blasphemy whispered in a church2, “I would give you mine.”

“Aziraphale,” he croaked, starting with surprise in his arms.

He’d have been less shocked if the angel had blasphemed in church, had cursed out God in every language known to humankind (and the few they hadn’t discovered yet), and told her he quit3.

An angel’s wings were near holy. It was a miracle (not truly, but sometimes that human turn of phrase was all that would do) that they were sheltering Crowley and not destroying him.

An angel’s wings were everything to them. Their pride, the overwhelming symbol that set them apart from demons, from humanity, from everything. And Aziraphale’s...They were perfect. Just perfect. To give them up, to even consider it...

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” he mumbled, “You’re an angel. It’s practically lying.”

“I mean it,” Aziraphale said, so sincerely, he might have been reciting scripture.

Crowley jerked in shock.

“What?”

Aziraphale shifted faster than Crowley could follow. In a heartbeat he was before him, kneeling as though he were an altar the angel had been made to give worship at. It was profane, the very thought of an angel on his knees before him and-

“I mean it, Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated, fiercely, and every other thought was wiped from his mind.

Aziraphale reached up and cradled Crowley’s face firmly between his soft hands.

“If I had to carve them from my own back, if I had to pull them apart a feather at a time, I would do it. For you.”

Crowley recoiled, shaking his head uncontrollably. The very idea was repulsive, unbearable.

Aziraphale didn’t understand what he was saying, what he would lose, the pain of it. He’d had his wings six thousand years longer than Crowley had. To lose them now…

“It would destroy you,” he breathed, hoarsely.

Unconsciously, he lifted a hand and grazed the tips of his fingers slowly, reverently, along the top crest of his angel’s beautiful white wing.

“It’s destroying you,” Aziraphale whispered back, catching Crowley’s hand and intertwining their fingers

Demons were supposed to be selfish creatures who cared only for their own interests, who took whatever they wanted, regardless of what it cost anyone, or anything, else. But he couldn’t even contemplate doing something like this. Not to Aziraphale.

Crowley was weak. All of Hell said so. They had for years, behind his back, like he didn’t know.

He didn’t particularly give a shit anymore.

“I would never let you,” he choked out, shaking his head violently, as though to rid it of the thought.

The look on Aziraphale’s face in that moment could have been used to define love for the first time in history.

“Which is why I would do it,” he breathed reverently. “Without hesitation.”

He leaned forwards and gently touched his forehead to Crowley’s. Crowley closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, to the cool comfort of his angel. Who was insane. Completely, and utterly, insane because Crowley knew he meant it. Every word.

Angel’s could sense love. Demons could feel truth. It kind of went with the territory of the whole drawing up contracts, making demonic pacts, sealing ancient bargains, and that kind of thing.

But in the same way that angel’s didn’t spend their entire life being bombarded by every human’s love for peanut butter, or mystery novels, or Queen - he could only feel deep, raw, truth. The kind that was so sincere it left a mark upon the soul.

Crowley knew every word that had just come from the angel’s lips was like gospel to him.

With a slow, gentle movement, Aziraphale wrapped his wings tenderly around Crowley, then pulled him in close, as close as they could be while remaining separate entities.

All at once, he was enveloped in a soft, feathery cocoon, breathing in the smell of old books, and leather, and some kind of spicy fragrance Aziraphale had been favouring for centuries that he’d never been able to exactly identify.

After a long time spent cradled up in angel, his fingers carding soothingly through Crowley’s hair, he heard Aziraphale speak again, very softly.

“I, I could take you, if you wanted. Now. I could, I could carry you while I flew and…” He sounded so hesitant, as though one wrong word would send Crowley skittering away from him like a nervous animal. “I know that it wouldn’t be same, perhaps not even close, but...But we could try? If you wanted?”

Crowley’s face crumpled with emotion, but when he withdrew enough for Aziraphale to see him, all that was left was a wry smirk.

“Isn’t that against the angel’s code of conduct?” he said, “Heaven’s Flyway Code: no exceeding 30mph, no overhead-taking, no flying under the influence, and absolutely no being seen by humans?”

To say nothing of taking demons with you. If that wasn’t already part of the code, he could practically hear Gabriel squeaking up in Heaven and barking at Michael to get it added immediately.

He felt that it wouldn’t really be necessary to point out that they happened to be in the most densely populated city in the UK. Even with miracles, it would be a risky thing to attempt even in the countryside.

Then again, he never thought he would have to remind Aizraphale of anything even remotely resembling a rule. ‘Fussy stickler’ was definitely near the top of the list of ‘most frequently used phrases to describe the Principality Aziraphale’.

“I’m serious, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, quietly.

He reached out and cupped Crowley’s cheek in a hand, the pad of his thumb lightly tracing the arc of his cheekbone, “I want to help you, my dear.”

Crowley covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own and squeezed gently, “If you’re seen- If they catch you-“

“I shall cross that bridge if we come to it,” he cut in, firmly.

“Aziraphale-” Crowley began.

“Please,” the angel interrupted, a slight quaver in his voice.

Crowley arched up on his knees and gently kissed the top of Aziraphale’s head, breathing him in. Sweet, naive, foolish angel, even after all this time.

“There are some things you can’t fix, angel,” he said, quietly, fingers threading through Aziraphale’s thick white hair. “No matter how hard you try. No matter how badly you want to. Some things are just broken.”

“You are not broken!” Aziraphale burst out indignantly.

Crowley hesitated for a fraction of a second. In truth, he was. But not because of this.

“No,” he agreed, slowly, “But these are.”

He gestured over his shoulder as he gave his wings a slight flex which stoked the burning pain in them to a sharp flare before settling again into their familiar dull ache.

With a sad smile he said, quietly, “You can’t catch me, angel. I’ve already Fallen.”

Aziraphale slid a finger under Crowley’s chin and tilted his head up until their eyes met. He brushed his mouth tenderly against Crowley’s lips, gentle as the kiss of a feather on the wind, and breathed, “that’s no reason to keep me from lifting you up again, Crowley.”

In his mouth, his name sounded almost like that of an angel.

For the first time since he had held him, Crowley looked past Aziraphale. He looked past the bright blue eyes, full of empathy and the need to help. He looked past the beautiful white wings, now glowing faintly in the moonlight, perfect, not a feather out of place, forming a halo around his soft form.

He looked out to the stars he had crafted from the darkness. The rain continued to fall around them, but the clouds where he looked had faded. The sky was clear, and he could see the stars beyond, beckoning him home.

He closed his eyes and breathed it in.

The wind ran its fingers through his feathers the way Aziraphale might when welcoming him back after he’d been gone too long.

The air was cold, but it felt good against his burning skin.

His imagination carried him and he soared over the city. He imagined what it would look like from so high up, all little lights, and square buildings, and long narrow streets. The feeling of testing himself in those narrow streets, weaving between those buildings, racing around tight corners. It was exhilarating.

The fierce wind was nearly ripping feathers from his wings. The rain was like bullets against his skin, nearly blinding him.

Aziraphale’s arms were around him, making sure he didn’t fall.

The fantasy shattered.

All he could see now was Aziraphale cradling him, like a child, his wings dragging uselessly behind him, utterly dependent on another to carry him and care for him in the skies that used to be his.

He couldn’t feel the wonder, the joy, the freedom anymore. All he could taste was bitterness, and resentment, and humiliation.

It was a stupid reason not to try, to further deny himself something that had been taken from him for six thousand years but...He couldn’t. He couldn’t stand it.

“No,” he said, shakily, “No I, I can’t. Not now. Not-“ He swallowed with difficulty and added, pathetically, “I’m not ready.”

“I understand,” Aziraphale said, gently, softly stroking his hair again.

Crowley was pretty sure he didn’t understand at all. But he was so grateful the angel wasn’t pushing him, or using that limitless reason and logic to explain at the moment why they should at least make a go of it.

He couldn’t face trying to put the tangled web of his emotions into words right now. Not like this. Aziraphale at least seemed to understand that, damn him.

The angel wrapped his wings around him again, but more loosely this time. Stroking his fingers through Crowley’s hair he said, quietly, “What do you need? Tell me what I can do for you. Anything. Anything at all.��

“Just don’t leave me,” Crowley mumbled. The words were out before he could stop them, and he felt utterly pathetic saying them, but there was no helping that now.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale whispered into Crowley’s hair, more said to himself. “I couldn’t bear to be on my own without you just now,” he admitted, and Crowley found himself pulling the angel in closer, no longer feeling weak or useless, only grateful.

Gently, Aziraphale began massaging Crowley’s wings, clever fingers finding and loosening the knots in the muscles. It didn’t take away the pain, but it helped.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asked, softly, “May I continue?”

In answer, Crowley sagged against him, mashed his face against Aziraphale’s neck (in a comforting way), and managed to groan out an incoherent but enthusiastic, “Uh-huh,” against his skin.

There was a faint smile beneath his disapproval when he said, “You see, if you’d just come to me first and skipped all of these dramatics, wouldn’t that have been better?”

Crowley growled indignantly.

This was somewhat undercut by the soft moan of relief that escaped him around the same time.

“You were napping,” he mumbled, thickly.

In a very bloody disconcerting way, he didn’t add, eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. Would have given humans nightmares for years.

Aziraphale huffed with irritation, as expected, “Actually, I’ll have you know that I was engaged in a deep meditational study concerning the evolution of symbolism and theme throughout the life’s works of William Shakespeare. I was not napping, as you so crudely put it.”

“Were,” Crowley muttered petulantly under his breath.

Aziraphale dug his fingers into a particularly tight knot and Crowley yelped in protest.

While he frowned up at him with wounded indignation, the angel said, angelically, “So sorry, dear boy.”

Still scowling, Crowley slumped gracelessly back into his original position.

“Regardless,” Aziraphale went on, voice softening, “What I was doing is irrelevant. You will always take priority, Crowley, whatever I might be doing. I need you to know that.”

“You’ve gone soft in your old age, angel.”

“And I’ll make no apology for that,” he replied, calmly, gently kneading a particularly tender spot as he did so. “And we’re ageless, dear,” he added, placidly, “I cannot be old. Nor can I be young. I simply am.”

“Simply insufferable,” Crowley muttered.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, in his serious ‘stop deflecting or I’ll be nice to your plants again’ angel voice which meant he had to listen to him, “I love you,” he said, firmly,” And I will keep pestering you with that knowledge until the end of time if that’s what it takes to make you accept-“

“I do, I do accept it,” Crowley interrupted irritably, pawing at Aziraphale’s hands in an attempt to get him to skip the lecture and resume his soothing massage.

“Until you accept that you deserve it,” Aziraphale pressed on.

Blessed angel really was insufferable, Crowley thought, ignoring the sudden lump in his throat. All good, and noble, and decent.

He couldn’t find a proper answer with words, so he arched up, ignoring the painful tightness in his back, and kissed Aziraphale full on the mouth.

The angel recoiled from the shock of it for a heartbeat, then melted into him, smiling against his lips, hands gentle on his waist.

Crowley leaned into his upwards momentum and shifted into his serpent form, coiling endlessly around Aziraphale until his entire weight was supported by the other.

“Take me back inssside, angel,” he hissed softly, nuzzling affectionately against Aziraphale’s neck.

“Oh, well, my wish is your command, sir Crowley,” Aziraphale grumbled at this issuing of orders, but without any real heat or rancour.

The angel miracled them both back inside with a blink and let out a small sigh, shaking out his wings and spattering every surface in a ten foot radius with water droplets.

Crowley knew how much Aziraphale hated getting his wings wet.

He gave him a little squeeze and said, “Run usss a bath, angel. I’ll make it up to you.”

“There’s absolutely nothing to make up for, my dear,” the angel insisted, obstinately, all the while continuing to drip mournfully onto the carpet.

Crowley growled impatiently and slithered around him until they were nose to nose.

“Aziraphale.”

“No!” the angel said, “Not while you’re this sore, it’s utterly unfair, I won’t even-“

Crowley squeezed until Aziraphale cut off with a look that very plainly said ‘really, darling?’

“Aziraphale,” he repeated, in his best ‘agree with me or I’ll miracle inappropriate typos into all your favourite books again’ demon voice. “Let me take care of you, too. Pleassse,” he wheedled.

“Oh, very well,” Aziraphale said, throwing up his hands dramatically as he did so, “You wily old serpent, you,” he added, fondly, gently kissing Crowley’s snout.

Crowley wriggled away from him with an indignant hiss, “I am an apex predator,” he informed Aziraphale, tartly, as the angel carried him to the bath he had just miracled into existence for them.

“Of course you are, dear,” the angel replied, not at all patronisingly.

“I could eat you for breakfast,” Crowley persisted, rearing up a little as he said it to add to the threatening effect of his words.

“I rather hope you will,” Aziraphale replied evenly, without missing a beat.

Somehow, Crowley’s snake form blushed.

They continued to bicker throughout the bath, in which Crowley carefully washed and groomed Aziraphale’s wings to rid them of the rain damage. And afterwards, as Crowley dried Aziraphale’s wings, then the angel carried him back to the bedroom, where he stretched luxuriously on the bed.

Then he nestled against his angel, coiling around him in heavy black and red folds, still in his snake form. Aziraphale settled back against the pillows, a book already miracled to him on his chest of drawers for when Crowley drifted off.

The tips of his fingers traced soothing patterns over Crowley’s scales, bleeding the last few vestiges of tension from his body.

Just before he fell asleep, head pillowed against Aziraphale’s soft stomach, Crowley found that, perhaps, there was still something left to have faith in after all.

******************************************************************************

Footnotes:

1- Crowley had tried. The wily demon had taken him unawares, striking him when he’d least expected it, in spots he was most vulnerable, tickling mercilessly, but to no avail.

2- As if Aziraphale would ever even dream of doing such a thing.

3- Crowley didn’t know if it was strictly possible to quit from being an angel. The same way it wasn’t really possible for a cow to quit from being a cow. Or for a table to request a transfer to be a chair instead.

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girlobsessed21 · 5 years

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The 100 6x07 analysis - putting the mind at ease

I absolutely loved this episode, the attention to detail, the explanations, the tone, and pacing. It was definitely my favorite of the season so far. And, climbing the charts to the best of the series but you’d have to work really hard to top a The 100 finale. This season is shaping up to be the best, the stories they’re exploring, the sci-fi content, the unpredictability, everything is top notch. Well done Jason and the writers, are you good friends with Elon Musk?

Ready to take a trip down memory lane, buckle up, it’s a long ride, ready, let’s go! I’m breaking this up into Clarke’s encounters with her ghosts since it takes place solely in her mind. It’s fitting for Clarke to wake up in her prison cell given that she’s literally trapped in her subconscious. Also, if I had to picture the inside of it, I’d see drawings everywhere too.

The safe space - daddy’s arms

To me, it seems like the images and voices she encounters first are those she’s lost except for her child. Finn, Wells, Lexa, and of course her father. When Clarke realizes she’s dead, she’s glad her fight is finally over but regrets not being able to say goodbye. To Madi and mom. I’ve seen some people upset that she didn’t include Bellamy, that’s because she did greet him in a certain way when she apologized and told him he was her family.

Now, the weather is a direct product of her mood. When she encounters Jake, the sun is bright in a place she was once happy. Then, the thunder starts when she gets upset. I would have liked it to be Jake himself letting her in on the heartbeat and the fact that she’s alive but he’s only a figment of her imagination. Meaning it’s the way she would have wanted it too.

I imagine this scene as the life Clarke pictured living. Content, with her father alive and Madi going to school while she draws and farms.

A.L.I.E to the rescue

Those words make no sense. Funny how she instantly transforms into Wanheda in the presence of the AI. I had some other theories on why Clarke survived and then I watched a Youtube video by the Theorizer before the episode aired which explained this fact and it made complete sense. A.L.I.E saved Clarke.

How does this work? I found an article in Techworld that explains it as follows: “At its most basic form, neural lace is an ultra-thin mesh that can be implanted in the skull, forming a collection of electrodes capable of monitoring brain function. It creates an interface between the brain and the machine.

To insert neural lace, a tiny needle containing the rolled up mesh is placed inside the skull and the mesh is injected. As the mesh leaves the needle it unravels, spanning the brain.”

To remove the neuro mesh from Clarke’s brain, they would have to EMP her. In other words, remove Josephine from the brain, drain the last of the neuro mesh and re-insert the body-snatcher.

Furthermore, I’d like to touch on the subject of there is no joy without pain. Believing this is tragical. Sure, life does include unpleasant bumps and hurdles but joy can certainly exist without pain. A glimpse into her trampled heart.

Then, A.L.I.E tells her the painful memories aren’t present. This boggles me somewhat because like I’ve said her most prominent drawings are those she’s lost. Isn’t that painful enough? Is that why she moved on to Mount Weather and the fighting pit or is there something even more agonizing than those? Something Josephine encounters by herself later?

Encountering the parasite

So, Josephine describes why both minds cannot survive simultaneously. I’m not a neurosurgeon but I gathered that the brain does not have the capacity to maintain both, which will lead to cerebral hemorrhaging and a stroke.

A power struggle between two badass female characters is always a delight to watch. Clarke Griffin is not someone you wanna mess with, told ya! The hypocrisy in Josie calling Clarke selfish and dumb is amusing. Check the mirror, sweetie.

She’s not stupid in the literal sense, obviously, she only overestimates her own causes and abilities. But the “when I tell you not to think of an elephant, what do you think about” move is smart. Unfortunately for her, our blonde hero is one step ahead.

Unlike the prime princess, who lives in a peaceful castle on a moon, Clarke has fought her fair share of battles and easily kicks ass in a physical fight. Just as she thinks she’s won, the parasite shows up again with the news that she can’t die in the mind space. Dramatic sigh.

On being haunted by Bloodreina

“Even your projections hate you, Clarke.” In episode two we already see that she is her own worst enemy. She hates herself more than anyone for the things she’s had to do.

1) Letting the bomb drop on TonDC

2) Stealing the bunker while Octavia fought for it

3) Leaving Bellamy to die in the fighting pits

Oh and now we learn why we don’t see Bellamy. He’s the one person she cannot face. In 6x04 she acknowledged leaving him to die is her deepest regret. In 6x01 she tells him he kept her sane during the six years alone. Clearly, she’d rather go up against Bloodreina, a controversial monster, than him. Why is that?

Bellamy has forgiven you, Clarke. Go ahead and forgive yourself.

Mount Weather

The place responsible for creating Wanheda. Now, it’s common knowledge that Clarke blames herself for what happened to Mia and Jasper. But seeing her question the godly decisions to save those she loves is heartbreaking. Yes, she’s made some bad choices in the past but this shows just how remorseful and compassionate Clarke truly is. War made her a monster, though that’s not who she is, at all. At least it led to the realization that she’s still in control of her own mind.

Finn’s death and Jasper’s cage

Sneaky, Clarke. Hiding the memory in one of the places you’ll never wish to revisit. But sadly, Josephine doesn’t mind exploring the place where you had to mercy kill Finn or dig into Jasper.

As if it’s not bad enough that the devil lures her to the last place she’ll want to see, she uses the one self-loathing thing about Clarke to manipulate her into giving up. Amusing how the final turning point is learning that Bellamy’s willing to sacrifice her for saving everyone else. Is it the comprehension that Bellamy no longer cares that causes her surrender or the fact that it’s the only way to save her people? A bit of both I assume.

The lock sequence was awesome - 0100. “You forgot about Bellamy and Raven - 0102. There’s only 6 of the 102 left now if I’m right. Seeing her cry in Lexa’s throne though, was so, so sad.

They definitely saved the best for last with Monty

I cannot express my gratitude for this unexpected return enough. I’ve had some terrible Monty, Harper and Jasper depression hours over the last week and this made my day. So, Mr. Cockroach Murphy, this is not what Monty would have wanted. Letting them get away with killing innocent people for immortality does not fall within the definition of doing better.

If only Clarke knew how much Madi needs her right now. She’s trudging on dangerous ground and could use some serious motherly guidance.

Who better to light the way to victory than the man who saved humanity? Six seasons and his death down the line and he’s still picking locks. Hate to be the one to say this, but Raven, Monty is purer than you are.

Applause for using Josephine’s own tactics against her by controlling her through the no-go-zone.

Crossing the sociopath's threshold

That door looks so much like a blissful suburban family home over Christmas, which I’m sure Josephine had back on earth before her tragedy. Oh, and the library is amazing, I must say. I imagine my own mind looking much the same, I love books.

But in that perfect little head, the most horrific things are hidden. Why are the primes so afraid of dying? Is it only power and narcissism that causes Josephine to resort to oblation?

Clarke learns that she offered the nulls to the trees, hence banning them from their society because they hinder the nightbloodline. But Isaac, Kaylee’s lover, gave them to Gabriel to build an army, instead. I’m certain Clarke will use this info in the future.

Gabriel loved Josephine once, I’m sure we’ll still get to this story but I can’t wait to see the face-off between the two. His last host was already 95 at the time of the memory, meaning now, six years later, he’s 101. Which is why I assume he can only exist within the anomaly where time is altered. And like I’ve said many times before the trio in the woods will turn out to be Sanctum’s saviors.

But we also see the good side of Josephine, the person she once was. PTSD probably morphed her into becoming a sociopath and the mind-drives enhanced the trauma. I feel bad for what happened to her but it does not by any means justify the person she’s become.

Why is she looking to Bellamy when she says, “I know how to kill her once and for all.” Did she see the memory of Clarke telling Roan, “I’ll do anything, I’ll stop fighting. Just, please, don’t kill him?”

Bellamy Blake, you genius

I knew it, I called it. Bellamy was the first to figure out that Josie’s not Clarke and of course the first to deduce that she’s still alive. That was some big soulmate energy right there!!! Thank you for being a big ol’ nerd and paying attention in Earth Skills.

That smile, a stark contrast to the tears that rolled last week. His princess is not gone and he’ll swim the Atlantic to bring her back. He’s gonna reel in everyone’s help on this project but be careful Bell, Josephine does not go down easy.

Just a side note. I appreciate Miller and his standoffishness in this scene since no-one seemed to mourn her last week.

One last thing, I may have been wrong about Abby, she might know something and it’s possible that’s she’s planning on taking Russel’s body for Kane. An eye-for-an-eye?

That’s all folks. As usual, you’re welcome to disagree with me. I love hearing I’m wrong and why.

#the100 #the 100 season 6 #The 100 s6 #the 100 season six #the100 6x07 #the100 6x07 review #nevermind #clarke griffin #bellamy blake #josephine lightbourne #josephine vs clarke

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imustbeamermaidrango · 4 years

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The Optimism of Satan

by Mitch Horowitz

See article at: https://medium.com/s/radical-spirits/the-optimism-of-satan-eea5a1a24550

A friend of mine once had the opportunity to ask the Dalai Lama a single question.

“Who was your greatest teacher?” he asked.

The exiled leader replied, “Mao Zedong.”

I once felt provoked in my own sphere by a similarly unlikely teacher — Donald Trump.

Years ago, Trump the Developer asked an interviewer: “What good is something if you can’t put your name on it?” His comment is indelibly stamped on my memory, though I confess I cannot find a source for it. Did I imagine it? The sentiment, while coarse and easily rebutted, came to haunt me.

Did Trump, the showy conman obsessed with naming rights, capture a nagging truth of human nature — a side none of us can deny or push away, other than by an act of self-regarding hypocrisy? And did I, hopefully in a more integral way, share a kernel of his outlook? Was the voice even his — or something within me?

Soon after hearing Trump’s remark, I received what struck me as a bit of ridiculous advice from the editor of an academic spiritual journal. I told him in candor that I wanted to find greater exposure for my byline. “You don’t have to put your name on everything you write,” he replied. Such a principle could ring true only in the world of abstraction.

Trump’s statement about self-exaltation, however ugly, captured half a truth. The whole truth is that our lives, as vessels for various influences — some physical, some perhaps beyond — are bound up with the world and circumstances in which we find ourselves; and within that world we must, at the stake of personal happiness, create, expand, and aspire. Whatever higher influences we feel or great thoughts we think, or are experienced by us through the influence of others, are like heat dissipated in the vacuum of space unless those thoughts are directed into a structure or receptacle. Our purpose is to be generative. Questions of attachment and non-attachment, identification and non-identification, are incidental to that larger fact.

I came to feel strongly about this several years ago when I found that my spiritual search, a path of radical ecumenism with a dedication to esoteric interests, was failing to satisfy me. I began to suspect that I was not acknowledging what I was really looking for, either in spirituality — by which I mean a search for the extra-physical — or therapy. I came face-to-face with an instinct that few people acknowledge, and would deny if they heard it spoken. But they should linger on it. Because what I discovered captures what I believe is a basic if discomforting human truth: The ethical or spiritual search, not as idealized but as actually lived, is a search for power. That is, for the ability to possess personal agency. We pray, “Thy will be done.” We mean “my will be done” — hoping that the two comport. This is why, at least in my observations after thirty years as a publisher, seeker, and historian of alternative spirituality, many seekers in both traditional and alternative faiths are ill at ease, fitful in their progress, and apt to slide from faith to faith, or to harbor multiple, sometimes conflicting, practices at once.

Power is supposed to be the craving of the corrupt. Is it? The novelist Isaac Bashevis Singer, surveying the modern occult scene, wrote in 1967: “We are all black magicians in our dreams, in our fantasies, perversions, and phobias.” And to this I would add, in pursuit of our highest ideals. As Singer detected, we are not very different from the classical magician when we strive, morally and materially, to carry forth our plans in the world — to ensure the betterment of ourselves and our loved ones; to heal sickness; to create, sustain, and, above all, to generate things which bear our markings, ideals, and likenesses. All of this is the expenditure of power, the striving to actualize our drives and images.

I do not view the search for individual power, including through supernatural means (a topic I will clarify and expand on), as necessarily maleficent. Historically and psychologically, it is a fundamental human trait to evaluate, adopt, or avoid an idea based upon whether it builds or depletes our sense of personal agency. “A living thing,” Nietzsche wrote in Beyond Good and Evil, “seeks above all to discharge its strength — life itself is will to power…” The difficulty is in making our choices wisely, and ethically.

I know how far I’m extending my chin by quoting Nietzsche. I sound like a dorm-room libertine. A critic once accused me of harboring an adolescent wish to power. To that, I plead guilty — but with a catch. I do believe in universal reciprocity, an indelible oneness of existence, and I operate from a ground rule of nonviolence. By that, I do not mean abstention from self-defense but rather an unwillingness to violate the sanctity of another’s search, to knowingly do anything that would deprive another of his or her own pursuit of highest potential. And since the political question is never far away, I’ll note that my policy preferences run to a mildly redistributive social democratic state with single-payer healthcare, labor unions, and consumer protections with teeth.

As alluded, sensitive people often deny or overlook their power-seeking impulse, associating it with the tragic fate of Faust or Lady Macbeth. It can be argued, however, that all of our neuroses and feelings of chronic despair, aside from those with identifiably biological causes, grow from the frustrated expression of personal power. We may spend a lifetime (and countless therapy sessions) ascribing our problems to other, more secondary phenomena — without realizing that, as naturally as a bird is drawn to the dips and flows of air currents, we are in the perpetual act of trying to forge, create, and sustain, much like the ancient alchemist or wizard.

The ultimate frustration of life is that, while we seem to be granted godlike powers — giving birth, creating beauty, spanning space and time, devising machines of incredible might — we are bound to physical forms that quickly decay. “Ye are gods,” wrote the psalmist, adding “but yet shall die as princes.” Immortality and the reversal of bodily decline is the one magic no one has ever mastered. The wish to surpass the boundaries of our physicality is behind some of our most haunting myths and parables, from the Trojan prince Tithonus, to whom the gods granted immortality but trapped in a shell of misery and decay for failing to request eternal youth, to the doomed scientist Victor Frankenstein, who sought the ultimate alchemy of creating life only to bring destruction on everyone around him.

We live in a sphere of limitations. But we cannot desist from pushing against its limits. It is our heritage.

Many of us grew up learning the story of humanity’s fall from grace in the biblical parable of the garden of paradise, where the serpent — long associated with the Great Adversary (a guest who’ll soon be arriving) — seduces Eve, and then she Adam, into eating forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. But take a fresh reading, or a first reading, of the sparsely detailed chapter three of Genesis. When revisiting this familiar story in virtually any translation, you’ll see not only that the serpent’s argument is based in truth — the couple does not perish for eating the apple, and their eyes are, in fact, opened to good and evil (indeed, some scholars contend that the garden’s two trees, the tree of knowledge and the tree of life, are the same)— but also that Eve, contrary to a shibboleth about feminine nature, does not seduce Adam, who requires little coaxing. The serpent even suggests, as augmented in other texts, that Yahweh displays cruel hypocrisy by forbidding intellectual illumination, even as its availability sits in the garden’s midst.

We’re taught, too, that the denouement of Eve’s misstep was her son Cain slaying his brother Abel. But Cain’s tragic act of fratricide may reflect, in discomforting realism, the unavoidable consequence of creativity: friction. Competing ideologies and the wish to measure and evaluate may be the inevitable cost of awareness. But without the rebel, the malcontent, the usurper — the snake in the garden — how could humanity claim sentience?

Lord Byron used his 1821 drama, Cain, one of the dramatist’s most alluring and under-appreciated works, to take the marked brother’s side. And to introduce the most jarring literary re-conception of Lucifer next to Milton’s. Byron’s antihero, who befriends the rebellious Cain, is persuasive and penetrating in his denial that he was the serpent in the garden, yet he points out that the serpent greeted Eve as a sexual and political emancipator — an outlook embraced by many proto-feminists and political radicals of that century and the next. Byron’s dark lord is a fiery optimist on the side of the malcontents: “I know the thoughts/Of dust, and feel for it, and with you.”

I began to question whether the forces of creation with which I most identified — whether parabolic or metaphysical — were these same forces of Promethean defiance. Forces of aspiration who rallied to the cry of the demon Moloch in Paradise Lost: “Hard liberty before the easy yoke.”

Now, one could ask: why think of any of this other than in material terms? Why not put away my Bhagavad Gita in favor of Atlas Shrugged? Because, as noted, I believe that truth is not contained within flesh and bone alone. I think we participate in an existence that goes beyond the five senses. And I believe that our ancient ancestors were correct in deifying certain energies and understanding oneself in relation to them; they gave them names like Thoth, Hermes, Minerva, and Set. Hence, I began to take a long and considered look at such an energy, to which I have been alluding, but which I have not yet named: Satan. This term has its own complicated past, it has gotten me cast out of a garden or two myself, but I employ it both to acknowledge its colloquial primacy and as a bow to bluntness.

There exists a rich and underappreciated counter narrative of humanity’s encounter with what is called “Satanic” in Western life particularly, but not only, in the literature of the Romantics. This countercurrent of spiritual, political, and cultural history — and present — has been insufficiently understood, historically confused, and blurred by entertainment, conspiracy theorists, sensationalism, and fraud (such as the “Satanic Panic” of the 1980s).

My wish then, is to encourage a second look where we’re not supposed to be looking — that is, to take a more unadorned, elucidating, and even hopeful perspective on the Satanic. Milton has Satan say: “The mind is its own place, and in it self/Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.” Again, Satan is an optimist. Me too. No cards under the table: my journey — and perhaps yours — includes constructively wondering whether my own search for a personal, spiritual, and ethical philosophy (I have one — and it’s vital to me) lies east of Eden, or within what is popularly but incompletely called the “dark side.” That’s what I’ve been describing.

Darkness is not a void; it’s a womb. And in the territory of truth and consensual experiment, there exist no boundaries of exploration.

#Mitch Horowitz #satan #satanism #snake #adam and eve #cain and abel #power #ethics #reciprocity

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mst3kproject · 5 years

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K11: Humanoid Woman – Part II

According to Wikipedia, the Humanoid Woman cut of this movie removed what was considered to be ‘Soviet Propaganda’. I find myself skeptical. If you removed all the Soviet propaganda from this movie there’d be no movie left.

When I reviewed The Stone Flower, one of Aleksandr Ptushko’s non-MST3K movies, I remarked that it was very Soviet in its concern with class. The Ptushko movies that did end up on the Satellite of Love had similar undertones, what with Sadko stripping the nobles of their wealth to redistribute it among the poor, and the leaderless paradise that is the society of Kalevala. Per Aspera ad Astra doesn’t explore ideas of class and property the way Sadko or The Stone Flower did, but it’s very Soviet nonetheless. It provides us with a rather fascinating and sometimes hilarious view into how people in the USSR saw westerners.

I seriously doubt any of the many American movies about communists as soul-less machines ever made it past the Iron Curtain, at least not before Glastnost, but Per Aspera ad Astra comes across as an answer to them nonetheless. One of the major themes of the film is the importance of emotions, particularly compassion, which is presented as an integral part of the human (Soviet) psyche. When Niya is first found, some sort of scientific council debates what to do with her. Sergei offers to take her home with him. Dr. Ivanova argues that she should be locked up, because she is dangerous, but Sergei finds this unacceptable. As a sentient being she should not be kept in a cage, and as the last of her kind he fears she will die of loneliness. His home is the perfect place to open her up, to allow her to recover her traumatic memories in a safe and supportive environment.

When we meet the multi-generational Lebedev family, they turn out to be a close and caring little community. They’re a far cry from Beulah’s brainwashed minions or the music-less, humour-less followers of the Perfect Order. These are warm, loving human beings – even the actual robot has a certain amount of personality to him, despite his refrigerator-like appearance. Furthermore, this compassion and warmth are gender-neutral. It is Sergei who feels for Niya’s loneliness and takes her home with him, and his son Stepan who comes to love her like a sister and is sorry to leave her at the end. The spaceship crew on Dessa run out and dance in the rain when they succeed in cleaning up a patch of the planet, laughing and singing like fools. Emotion in this world is human, not male or female.

Contrast this with the portrayal of the Dessans, the movie’s capitalists. Their world is barren and lifeless, and the people are slaves to corporate interests that care only about profit. The destruction of their planet has rendered profit itself pretty much meaningless – what can you buy when there’s nothing there? Characters like Turanchox the gas mask tycoon pursue it anyway, considering money to be its own reward. Ordinary Dessans resent having to buy their very survival but feel powerless to do anything about it – and they don’t trust the humans to help because of the propaganda fed them by their corporate overlords. Turanchox actively works against the survival of his planet, because he’d rather be rich and dead than broke and alive (amusingly enough, Turanchox is a rich ugly man who makes weird faces when he talks – the Donald Trump School of Movie Villainy is a truly global phenomenon!).

There’s a notable gender bias in the Dessan society, too – all the Dessans whose faces we see are male. This is never commented upon but it does contrast with the prominence of women among the humans. It also contrasts with Niya’s little family of clones. Their creator made an equal number of males and females, whom Niya refers to as her brothers and sisters. The purified world he imagined was an egalitarian one, too.

If the first half of the film is telling a western audience that communists are not the emotionless drones we imagine them to be, then the second half is telling us what we look like to them: soul-less slaves to work and profit, incapable of even going out in the sun without permission from our evil overlords. Which, uh… I kind of want to be insulted, but honestly, the last couple of years it’s been hard to argue with that.

Another way in which the movie seems to be an answer to western propaganda is in its use of the idea of mind control. This is something a lot of highly-placed people the US worried about in the 60s and 70s, and tried to come up with ways to counter. Evidently the Soviets had some concerns, too, because both sides in Per Aspera ad Astra attempt to use mind control – and intriguingly, both fail. The control circuit in Niya’s brain allows various people to control her actions at various times, but never to a wholly successful conclusion.

After discovering the control circuit, Dr. Ivanova uses it to spy on Niya and to keep her from hurting Selena, who has said some unkind things to her. Technically, this works: Niya is unable to harm the other woman. However, Niya herself is so distraught by the experience of being taken over by an outside force that she attempts suicide. Later, when the humans ship she has stowed away on comes near the Dessan vessel where Niya was found, an automatic device on board calls her back, and she teleports there only to nearly die of exposure to vacuum. Finally, on Dessa itself, Turanchox tries to use the device to force her to set off a bomb. She is able to break free of his control and resist him. The ultimate lesson of all this seems to be that mind control is not how you go about changing the world. People will not change unless they want to change.

Other parts of Per Aspera ad Astra suggest that Soviets in the 70s and 80s saw westerners as victims in a very similar way to how we saw them – at least, there are striking correspondences between the presentation here of the Dessans and how, say, It Conquered the World saw Beulah’s victims. The Dessans whose faces we do not see wear masks – gas masks when they’re outdoors, but creepy Michael-Myers-y face masks even when they’re inside. This is useful to the plot, as it allows the bad guys to act without identifying themselves to witnesses, but it also speaks to a lack of individuality. Just as Beulah’s slaves lose all personality and the people of Planet Terra all agree on everything, the people of Dessa all look alike, all slaves to a bigger system with no concept of themselves as anything but cogs in it.

Also in both cases, the opposing point of view is considered a disease. In Stranded in Space, Benedict explicitly talked about Stryker in those terms. In Per Aspera ad Astra, Dr. Ivanova tells Niya that the Dessans are ill, that their minds are asleep. The difference is that where Benedict believed that Stryker had to be locked up or killed (just as Peter Graves did for those in Beulah’s thrall), Ivanova insists that the Dessans can be cured. She says that the Earthlings must wake them up, make them see the truth. We have to cure them, not hate them. This is probably the thing that most makes me think this film feels like an answer to American cold war movies. You think we need to die, it seems to say, while we only want to help you.

Both Graves and the characters in Stranded in Space spoke of the idea of bloody revolution with fear and contempt. Revolution is an important part of communist ideology and since the story presents the necessity of some kind of revolution on Dessa, one might expect Niya and the humans to lead one. Yet the movie, through its characters, speaks up against it instead. Niya talks at one point about saving the planet by force, taking only the healthiest of the children and letting the ill and the old die to make way for a new world, but one of her crew-mates chides her for it, telling her that nobody wants a world stained with blood.

There’s a lot of stuff here I agree with, albeit in a qualified way. Unregulated capitalism does give free reign to assholes and allow a lot of environmental destruction, but the USSR was not exactly a bastion of green economy, either, so there’s an unpleasant hypocrisy to the whole theme. Nor is anything I’ve discussed above remotely subtle. There’s something about preachy and condescending movies that just pisses me off, even when I do agree with them. I liked District 9 as a movie. Avatar was very pretty. Yet both of them just make me want to grind my teeth because they’re the film equivalent of those facebook memes that say “share if you’re a decent human, ignore if you’re a Nazi!”

It is possible to tell these stories in a way that isn’t patronizing. Wall-E did it, and maybe Russian version of Per Aspera ad Astra did so, too – maybe the English translation just wasn’t very good. I’m filing this one under the same ‘very interesting but not something I’d watch for its own sake’ heading as First Spaceship on Venus.

#mst3k #reviews #humanoid woman #80s #russofinnish coproduction

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