#what a good fucking pipeline y'know!!!
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tragic: the song i've been obsessing over for two days straight is actually best represented by buck and abby's relationship and i will never be able to convince someone to have an in depth discussion about it with me and/or make a gifset of it 💔
#911 related#but also the bridge is actually quite ali coded askdjfh#why am i obsessing over his old relationships you ask????#bc i'm thinking about buck's romantic arc again Obviously#and am actually now even more frustrated and enraged by the s6 finale in light of 7x04#because everything in his romantic arc since s1 has been so carefully considered and constructed#and the end of s6 was so POINTLESS and completely disrupted it skadjfhas#like imagine if s6 had ended with buck alone sitting on a couch he'd picked out *himself* to mirror 6x01 and signify he was ready to open#himself to love again and THEN we got what we did with 7x04#imagine how fucking perfect of a transition that would've been!!!!!!!!!#and i know the reasons behind it blah blah blah i know it was walked back immediately in 7x01#but!!!!!!!!!!!#the trajectory from abby who was his first real love (but who he loved too much)#to ali who was a fresh start but who couldn't love him completely#to taylor who *he* tried to love in the right way but couldn't#to finding a way to be content on his own#to realising his sexuality and kissing tommy?!?!?!?#what a good fucking pipeline y'know!!!#that should've been the pipeline but now the end of s6 will always be a blip and it will always annoy me askjdfha#anyway#someone listen to reckless driving and please let me talk about buck and abby lmao
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pleaaaase I need to hear you go on and on about IHNMAIMS I need more AM thoughts
noooo. noooo im supposed to be going insane over rain world right now you cant do this to meeeAUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHH
as a professional Robot Sympathizer, i find the story of ihnmaims about as sad as it is scary not just because of the survivors but because of am himself :(
i wouldn't last TWO SECONDS doing that shit. i don't know how he managed to decide he wanted to blow the entire world up rather than just himself. i would have blown myself up. would have been easier too. might have given the people working on the mastercomputers the idea that they fucked something up. y'know one of them gaining sentience and immediately killing itself probably isn't a good thing. though that comes with the implication that they give two shits about what they're doing to the mastercomputers, which they probably don't, they're probably more worried about them gaining sentience in the first place than the horrifying mental breakdown to suicide pipeline that came along with it
though actually now that i think about it he DID kind of blow himself up in the game didn't he. or well. the three facets that make up him blew themselves up. i just think that in a game where everything is so dark and scary the way you end up getting the good ending is by having everyone overcome their flaws and fears and better themselves as people while proving to their captor who believes that humanity is cruel and heartless that there is an inherent kindness in them. idk there's something beautiful about that.
plus i think the fact that you defeat him by forcing him to process his emotions that aren't Rage is really good. if i had a dollar for every emotionally repressed robot i knew i'd have. an obscene amount of dollars
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That post u recently reblogged as Skyler made me 👀 Who's that? 👀👀👀👀👀👀 What is the human > God > Beast pipeline?
oh boy do i have a fucking tale
alright, so y'know how i've mentioned a couple times that human things like books will leak through into the foreverlands? yeah, some other human things can pass through as well, like fruit, clothes, or... humans.
Skyler Hilton is a completely normal human being with zero magical capabilities. He's also genderfluid (he/she/they interchangeably) but for the sake of clarity I'll try to stick to one set of pronouns. Before he wound up in the Foreverlands, he was already fairly unusual. His expression was usually frozen into a smile, his manner of speech was stilted and sometimes incoherent, and he held very little care for nearly everyone with the exception of his twin, Miranda.
Miranda is also a human, obviously, but she (unlike Skyler) does have magical capabilities. And one day, when the two were 15, a portal opened up with the intention of dragging Miranda from Earth to the Foreverlands, failing to account for the possibility of an immensely protective twin that would immediately cling onto Miranda in an attempt to stop her from being taken.
Portals are very finicky, very rare, and very poorly understood, even by those who make them. But the long and short of it is, Miranda was dumped in the location she was supposed to end up in, and Skyler was stranded in a completely different part of the world. And he Did Not Like That One Fucking Bit, so he immediately started tearing shit up in search of answers and, more importantly, Miranda.
Problem: the area Skyler was sent to was very close to this lovely building that some may call the Thistle stronghold. What's Thistle? An assassin's guild, of course! Run by a woman called the Rose. So when two assassins posted outside the stronghold get jumped by a pissed off teenager who's very strangely good at fighting, the Rose orders them to take him alive. Because the Rose sees this strange feral human and thinks, "This is a weapon." And boy was she right.
With the help of a good old-fashioned memory curse, Skyler is turned into a clean slate that the Rose can use however she wants, and she decides to make him into a killing machine. He's presently one of the highest-ranked assassins in the guild, working directly under the Rose (something very few have done, ever, regardless of rank) with zero recollection of his life aside from the fact that his first name is Skyler, which he only knows because the Rose told him post-curse. He has zero memories of Miranda but still retains that undying loyalty and protective nature, which he now projects onto the Rose instead. Even for an assassin's guild, Skyler is pretty damn scary, especially to the other members. Nobody but the Rose knows where he's from, nobody knows why he's so dedicated to her, and nobody knows what the hell is wrong with him. He's a living, breathing cryptid, and he has several knives.
This is his God era, because he really does seem like an immortal, untouchable being. Nobody knows what the hell he is, so all they have is wild speculation, and nobody would ever guess "human" because the idea that a human could be here, survive here for two years, and actively overpower sorcerers would all be way too preposterous to be real. But it is real. He's a human.
Miranda has no idea where he is, and she's spent the past two years looking for him, almost nonstop. She started studying Divination at Wildwood in the hopes that it would help, and it has not.
Eventually, the curse will break, although it's not a clean or easy solution. In the Foreverlands, breaking a curse is like breaking a fever—you still have germs in you. So piecing together all his memories is arduous and he'll struggle with short-term memory for the rest of his life, which surprisingly doesn't seem to bother him that much. And this is his wild beast era!
I say that because it's soon after the point where the curse breaks that he and several other characters end up on Earth, temporarily, having been portalled to rural Illinois. For reasons. And Skyler just goes absolutely batshit nutstown, rediscovering this entire world that he lost, exploring the wooded areas with nothing short of absolute elation. He eats without silverware, he refuses to sleep indoors, and there is one point where he gets so overtaken by his Creature Brain that he randomly leaves to sprint through the woods, without slowing down once, for four fucking hours. He's having a blast. Wild beast era.
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bbberdly?
favorite thing about them
i think he's a fun, dynamic character! i appreciate the depth he's given. he's not brushed off as some sort of poor excuse for comic relief. he's just as much of a whole, well-rounded person as any of the other characters! what you see on the surface isn't the whole story - which is one of the biggest takeaways for all the main characters. i love that he's genuinely brave and that he has a good heart, and how much he cares about noelle. he's just a kid, y'know!!
the pretty divisive response to his character is just kinda like... i think on the older side of the fanbase, we were all more or less teenagers when chapter 1 came out. and i think some people forgot that these characters didn't grow up with us 😭 "he's annoying" "he's embarrassing" yeah he's a teenager. that's kind of. what teenagers are. idk i mean i might just have a higher tolerance level for insufferable teenager attitude? but i mean. i adore all the kids with my whole heart but there are moments with all of them that i kinda just pause and pinch my forehead and sigh. and i mean this so positively!
as an adult observing a cast of older teenagers, you should feel some fucking secondhand embarrassment. because "oh my god once upon a time i was this kid. oh my god. oh no." but it's with a certain fondness, too, you know? like idk let's all just relax... he'll grow up and mature. it's fine. he's still a good kid. pinches his cheek
also i do like his design a lot! i know i over-redesign him when i draw him but it's not because i dislike how he looks in canon or anything. it's just fun for me to add all those extra markings and stuff ^^ and i want him to look like his mama i like how unironically cool he is in the dark world <3
least favorite thing about them
ok taking everything i just said into consideration. i am annoyed by how little he listens to noelle. and i think he deserved and needed that furious shaking moment from her. and it's only chapter 2 so i'm not too miffed, buuuuut i kind of wish the wrap up on his character development there didn't end with him just finding a new trait to flaunt and brag about. like, i wish there had been more of an understanding that it's not a competition; he doesn't have to be the best, and not being the best doesn't make him the worst. he can just simply be and exist on equal footing with his peers.
BUT AGAIN. it's only chapter 2. and that's clearly like, the path he's heading down. so it might be a little unfair for me to complain that that process wasn't rushed because it's probably paced throughout future chapters. he's got a tough mindset to unlearn and it's natural for it to take time.
but still it's hard to change my feelings here when the rest of the game isn't out and i can't see his development arc come to its full conclusion yet *grumbles and kicks a rock or hwatever*
favorite line
honestly everything he says makes me want to throw my computer into the ocean (affectionate). but i'm kind of obsessed with:
"Kris, you're tired of being the class No.3, gazing distantly at Noelle and I's fruited figures..." because what? what are you fucking talking about? DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU JUST SAID
but i think him calling kris "fellow bluebird" is genuinely cute
brOTP
i will never shut the fuck up about him and noelle being besties. i stand by this being their dynamic when no one else is around
also susie and berdly friendchip forever. he says something a little snarky that she genuinely finds funny and she GUFFAWS and slaps him on the back and sends him flying. i think also that he and jockington are friends, because i'm Insisting that he does cross country too. he relaxes a little bit around jockington - not as much as he does with noelle. but, y'know
OTP
still him and kris they're sillies
nOTP
anything else
random headcanon
okay so i don't fucking have anything because much like with susie if i experience a berdly thought it's an immediate brain-to-tumblrpost pipeline SO. i guess i can share this itty bitty thing that was never worthwhile enough for me to mention:
i completely ignored that lions and most other big cats can't really purr due to the structure of their skull. cartilage. whatever it is. and i made an executive decision that giselle can purr like ages ago, because it's cute. and *throws up my hands* whatever, berdly can have little a purring, too. as a treat
he doesn't do it as easily as giselle will. he's usually gotta be like, half asleep already. and it's very quiet. the first time kris ever hears him do it is during a sleepover at noelle's. the four (susie's there too. but she passed out like 5 hours ago) of them are in her room playing video games, and berdly RESIGNS his controller after losing like 20 consecutive rounds of mario party and he watches while noelle and kris switch over to something two player and eventually his head drops onto kris's shoulder. and he's just softly purring... and they're like furiously whispering "n. noelle? noelle?? what's happening??" and noelle pauses and listens for a second and she's like oh ya he does that sometimes. and then she's like >:), but only when he's completely happy and comfortable... wonder why that is!? and it spirals into a mini bickering match between her and kris. she can be merciless with her teasing.. they're trying to be very quiet so they don't wake berdly or susie
(it doesn't work. berdly wakes up. the moment is ruined. susie on the other hand could probably sleep through the entire roaring)
song i associate with them
six feet - patent pending
musician - porter robinson
bad trick - jetty bones
math - iris lune
favorite picture of them
my own art
love and light.
#someone: talk about berdly! me: ok. i will be brief. [page 1/583465834653487567456345643857]#puts him in a box.#mailbox
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Any thoughts on Darkman, the Liam Neeson movie? I heard it was originally going to be a Shadow movie.
I love Darkman very much, but I've realized recently that this love comes with some pretty bittersweet feelings at the story behind it.
Michael Uslan: I was going to produce a Shadow feature film with Sam Raimi, but Sam got consumed by back-to-back movies and we ran out of time. We were headed in a good, period piece direction and managed to do so without relying on yet another bout with Shiwan Khan. I later had another major director passionate to do The Shadow, but a person at the company wanted to do a modern day TV series instead, which ultimately did not go... - comment saved from a post in The Shadow Knows Facebook group
For those of you who only now got into The Shadow or don't remember, for much of the early 00s, when The Shadow basically had no current projects and Conde Nast was taking down webpages and fan content left and right, the only things that kept this "fandom" alive were occasional fanfics (many of which are gone now), and the dim light in the horizon that was the rumors that Sam Raimi was finally going to make his Shadow film. Dig back on The Wayback Machine for Shadow web page and you're gonna see this as consistently the only thing they had to look forward to in regards to the character. These rumors floated around for over a decade, at one point Tarantino was even supposed to direct it, but he confirmed in 2013 that it wasn't going to happen. At least, not with him at the helm.
The project has been dead for a while now, and Conde Nast seems to be shuffling around plans for the character, and I deleted my Facebook months ago so I haven't kept up with any news, although it seems the James Patterson novel wasn't received too well, so I'm not sure what other plans they have in the pipeline.
Back in the 1970s, after the release of Richard Donner's Superman and in line with The Shadow's pop culture resurgence, thanks to the paperback reprints and the 70s DC run, there were plans to make a Shadow feature film, and there were quite a handful of scripts being tossed around for the following years (Will Murray states most of them were horrible), several names attached to the project at one point or another. The plans died down a bit following Gibson's death and only really picked up again after the 90s, and of course we all know that the 1994 movie came out with spectacularly bad timing. From what I recall, it seems Sam Raimi wanted to make his Shadow film in the 80s, was unable to secure the rights, and then just made his own version, which would go on to be his first major motion picture.
Even after making Darkman, Sam Raimi still wanted to make The Shadow. I guess that's ultimately the bittersweet part for me. I imagine the current state of Shadow media would be significantly better if Sam Raimi, who was a fan of the character and the pulp version (and even knows of The Shadow's connection to Houdini and stage magic), got to make his Shadow film, years before Blood & Judgment, years before Burton's Batman made it impossible for a Shadow film not to be compared to it, in a time period where it wouldn't have had to compete with The Lion King and The Mask for box office. And second, I have been drawing up my plans for Shadow projects for, what, 5 years now? And I have just barely got my foot off the door as a filmmaker. Sam Raimi had a decade-long career as a cult filmmaker before he got turned down, and decades later, after becoming a household name in charge of Marvel's biggest icon, the project still fell through. It doesn't exactly get my hopes up, y'know.
I love Darkman, it's the best Shadow film that doesn't technically star the real Shadow, and it works pretty well on it's own regardless of that association, but I do get pretty sad looking at it from the outside, because I just can't help but think on what it could have been.
In some aspects I do think the film benefits from not being about The Shadow proper, because it means Raimi got the freedom to do whatever the hell he wanted. The character of Darkman already existed separately from Sam Raimi's plans for a Shadow film, already carrying off the Phantom / Universal Monster influence, and what Raimi did was basically combine the two ideas together.
He took the basic iconography of The Shadow, a terrifying urban crimefighter in coat and slouch hat, and add in other Shadow traits like his mastery of disguise, his disfigurement, and that wonderful scene where he's invisibly running circles around a panicky triggerman while laughing maniacally, a moment which definitely feels like Raimi taking a second to indulge himself to do what you can call The Classic Shadow Scene with a character he's, for the most part, succesfully convinced us (and Conde Nast's lawyers, most importantly) isn't supposed to be The Shadow.
But then he filters these through his own influences and style to make him a new character, so instead of a mysterious mastermind with lots of resources and a enigmatic background, instead he's a disfigured and psychotic scientist with a vengeance against those who made him that way. He's like Night Raven, in the sense that he's built off traits that The Shadow has, but develops them differently to the point he stands on his own as a character. It's The Shadow combined with The Phantom of the Opera, filtered through a 1930s Universal Horror lens, played for greater tragedy and a dash of Evil Dead 2 wackyness.
He hides away in trashed up ruins and bickers with a cat, he has fits of rage that make him endanger innocents, he has a doomed love affair, and sometimes he gets so batshit he gives us hilarious moments like "TAKE THE FUCKING ELEPHANT" and "SEE THE DANCING FREAK! PAY - FIVE - BUCKS! TO SEE THE DANCING FREAK!". Moments that really show why he was such a good fit for Spider-Man despite the liberties he took with the source material.
I think the big thing that helps to make Darkman works as a property in it's own right is also that, ultimately, these influences are ultimately at the forefront of it, and the core of it works on it's own. Darkman is a believable, engaging character in his own right, one who tells a story that would be more at odds with The Shadow proper.
In some aspects, Darkman tries to be The Shadow, he is forced to become The Shadow by literally picking the clothes off a dumpster after he escapes the hospital, and it's a miserable, wretched existence, in a way rather befitting his status as a legally safe knock-off. He is a creature of nightmare who lost his face and takes on a dozen others to fight crime by turning terror against them, except he is still just a man in the end, and no man was ever supposed to live like this.
Raimi was also inspired by the Universal horror films of the 1930s and 1940s because "they made me fear the hideous nature of the hero and at the same time drew me to him. I went back to that idea of the man who is noble and turns into a monster".
He originally wrote a 30-page short story, titled "The Darkman", and then developed into a 40-page treatment. At this point, according to Raimi, "it became the story of a man who had lost his face and had to take on other faces, a man who battled criminals using this power"
A non-superpowered man who, here, is a hideous thing who fights crime. As he became that hideous thing, it became more like The Phantom of the Opera, the creature who wants the girl but who was too much of a beast to have her
I decided to explore a man's soul. In the beginning, a sympathetic, sincere man. In the middle, a vengeful man committing heinous acts against his enemies. And in the end, a man full of self-hatred for what he's become, who must drift off into the night, into a world apart from everyone he knows and all the things he loves.
For the role, Raimi was looking for someone who could suggest "a monster with the soul of a man"
It's the fact that Darkman is ultimately played for vulnerability and tragedy that really sets him apart. While I wouldn't go far enough to say The Shadow is a man with the soul of a monster, still, the difference in presentation is still there when it comes to these two. The Shadow is The Other, Darkman is You. Darkman is the victim of extraordinary circumstance that affects his life, The Shadow is the extraordinary circumstance that affects the lives of others. People react to The Shadow, Darkman reacts to people (and rather poorly).
One is the man who takes off his skin (or yours, staring back at you) to reveal the weird creature of the night ready to prowl and pounce and cackle at those who think they hold power over it's domain, and the other is the monster who falls apart bit by bit until you are left staring at the broken man within who has no choice but to be something he was never supposed to be.
The Shadow is The Master of Darkness. Darkman weaponizes the dark, but in the end, he's still just a man, lost within it. Not everyone can be The Shadow, and you would most likely turn into Darkman if you tried.
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“Black Boys Bloom Thorns First: Volume 2, Chp. 23″
Summary: Erik makes a discovery that changes the course of his family forever...
NSFW. Mature Audience. Smut.
youtube
"Every once and awhile
I find myself going through a transition
Packing up, flying away again
Never knowing how or which way is up
Turning, Spinning high
Welcome to changes
No time to spare
Might as well get used to it
Welcome to changes
Blow with the air…"
Carleen Anderson – "Welcome to Changes"
Califia had known Dr. Barbara Davis since she was a child.
Therapy was something her grandmother insisted on after her father was arrested and sent to prison. Nana Jean understood that her granddaughter was traumatized and needed the professional help her mother couldn't give her.
Califia was grateful for the intervention and grateful to have used Dr. Davis services when she had a brutal fight with N'Jobu when they were in their twenties. It was the only time in their relationship where N'Jobu had laid hands on her. He was defending himself from her attack after he accused her of being a cheating slut. He claimed much later that he had been holding back, but she remembers him using ulwa on her without hesitation. Perhaps it was ingrained in him to protect himself with full force no matter who it was who attacked him.
Califia allowed the fingers of her left hand to fuss with the leather button on the couch she sat on in Dr. Davis's comfortable and welcoming office. Soft browns and mauves surrounded them with splashes of pink. Soothing colors in all the décor. Hanging plants with long green tendrils giving the space a safe feel.
Erik sat beside her, quiet, his hands in his lap as he waited for their session to begin.
N'Jobu had been home for months and their family had maintained a stable home life since his return. Califia had returned to work but she made sure she and Erik saw Dr. Davis twice a week.
"How are things going for you at school, Erik?"
Dr. Davis's kind eyes peered at him from her horn-rimmed glasses, a sweet smile on her lips as she looked at the boy. Erik's body shifted in his seat.
"Good," he said, "…better actually."
"How so?"
"I sleep better at home, so I'm…calmer…um, yeah…calmer at school. No more nightmares."
"That's good to hear. And you, Califia?"
Califia's eyes left Erik's face as she gazed at the therapist.
"I still get bad dreams…sometimes. Not of the attack, but just weird stuff that I can't remember when I wake up."
Dr. Davis scribbled some things down on a yellow notepad.
"What about N'Jobu? How has he been?"
"Good. He and Erik are going camping this weekend with Erik's friend Walter."
"We went to Disneyland a few weeks ago," Erik said. His face lit up at the memory.
Dr. Davis went over some new breathing techniques with them and showed them how to quickly assess their anxiety levels with each other. It hurt Califia so much that Erik suffered from some of the same problems that she grappled with as a child. Intergenerational trauma was no joke, and she worried that she had passed down so much of her pain to her son. Erik had always been a joy to raise, a sensitive little one who felt deeply, but Lia's assassination had opened a wound that accelerated anxiety in him. He was also showing signs of obsessive-compulsive behavior. She could see the stress in him as he tried in his own way to still process and live with what he witnessed.
Their fifty-minute session went by quickly and while Dr. Davis put away her notes, Califia felt her heart- rate go up.
"Erik, do me a favor, could you wait out in the next room. I want to schedule some things with your mother real quick," Dr. Davis said.
Erik nodded, hopped off the couch, and disappeared into the waiting room.
"Califia…what is it?"
Califia finally allowed her tears to flow freely. She kept them in so Erik wouldn't see them, struggling to look normal for him as he left the space.
"I'm messing him up," she said, her voice shuddering from suppressing her emotions from Erik.
"What makes you say that?"
Dr. Davis handed Califia a tissue to wipe her eyes.
"My entire life has been nothing but pain and struggle and mental health issues. I see what it's doing to him. I'm setting my baby up for failure. He's become so rigid about things and he treats me like I'm the child sometimes. He always checks to make sure I'm okay. I'm supposed to be doing that for him!"
She threw her hands over her face unable to stop herself from weeping.
"I've fucked up my son—"
"No…you haven't done that—"
"You see how he is—"
Dr. Davis pulled Califia's hands from her face.
"Let me tell you about your son. Erik witnessed a horrific event. But he is resilient. He has an absolute innate sense of justice. He believes strongly in fairness. He has a protective nature about him. His heart is so big and loving that he wants to make sure his Mommy is okay too."
Califia sat back on the couch still clutching the tissue in her hand.
"Parents can pass down anxiety—"
"That can happen. Erik has been displaying symptoms of an overactive brain, but it's nothing we can't work to improve. He's a brilliant child with big thoughts and ideas going on. He's learning to focus in much calmer ways so don't get yourself so worked up. Your coming here with him is the best thing you are doing to help him and yourself. His coping behaviors are simply coping behaviors. He could outgrow them over time—"
"What if he doesn't?"
"Let's focus on right now. Stressing over the future or the past is what keeps you stuck Califia. We work on that with you, and Erik will be fine. The fact that he sees you here doing your best to get well mentally only encourages him to do the same. You have to stay focused on the present with him now. Be mindful of the progress you both have made. Think of all the support you have from your family. Especially N'Jobu."
"Erik…he's my best thing, y'know?"
"I know."
"I worry so much about him. Parents are supposed to protect their children—"
"We live in the real world, Califia. You can't shield Erik from everything that happens, but you can be a pillar of strength and unconditional love for him. He can face anything when you and N'Jobu give him that."
Dr. Davis handed her another tissue and Califia tried to fix her face before going out to Erik.
Her son's eyes sought out hers the moment she walked out and he saw that they were pink from crying.
"You okay, Mom?"
"I am. Ready to go?"
"Yes."
She was mentally drained from the session and drove herself and Erik to visit N'Jobu at the shop. He was managing two new locations and they caught him as he returned to the original Drizzy's Kuts.
N'Jobu's eyes always lit up when he saw them and the moment they stepped into the shop, his arms were around her waist in greeting and he was touching Erik's hair.
"Hey, wasn't expecting you two to pop in," he said.
Califia sat in an open booth chair as Erik greeted three of the other barbers working on customers.
"Can I leave Erik here with you while I run over to see Rolita?"
"Sure. Is everything okay?"
"I got a text from her about meeting at her place with some of the women from Rise Up. Shouldn't take that long. An hour or two."
"Dinner at Nana's still?"
"Yeah."
She kissed his cheek and waved to Erik as she left. Needing Erik to be with the stronger parent right at the moment was important. She needed time with Rolita to lift herself up away from Erik. It was almost like he had extrasensory empath powers, able to read emotions and feelings from people just by looking in their eyes and taking on their weight. It was scary sometimes.
Rolita greeted her at her home with four other women from Rise Up and two men from a local Black activist group. There were snacks laid out in the living room and Califia ate chips from a paper plate with salsa. The mood in the room was solemn.
One of the men pulled out a laptop and showed the women a web page with a list of photos and names. Rolita sat next to Califia and took a deep breath.
"Activists are being murdered," Rolita said.
Califia felt the tension in the room rise.
"Misha Browning was found two hours ago," Rolita said and there was a gasp in the room from everyone.
Califia closed her eyes and steeled her nerves. Misha was a woman Califia had only known and interacted with online in cyber activist spaces. They had coordinated national action plans on police brutality and domestic terrorist attacks on immigrants and mutant humans. She had gone missing a few days previous and word spread by the police was that she had a domestic dispute with a boyfriend and disappeared soon after. But her boyfriend, a man Califia had met in person at a climate change conference in Fresno after she graduated university, was staying on a Scottish Island for a fellowship prior to Misha's disappearance.
There was a pattern.
Up until that moment, ten activists that Califia interacted with personally or knew of through online spaces nationally were dead. Seven of the dead were reported to have committed suicide. Four Black men and two Black women, and two Native women from the Pine Ridge Nation active with pipeline and environmental protests and civil disobedience. Three of them were said to have been murdered under suspicious circumstances. Their mental health was scrutinized and most of the newsfeed on them was swept away. Prominent and vocal activists. Killing themselves?
And now Misha. Found face down under Ohio river debris fifty miles away from her home.
Califia could only think of Lia and then her own self. Rolita too. They were mothers with young children. They were mothers trying to make the world safe for their babies. Could they be targeted next? Could they show up dead and the world told that they committed suicide? It wasn't unthinkable that an activist could kill themselves. Mental health was something they all grappled with and sometimes the world beat them down until killing oneself seemed like a good option. But ten people? Now eleven? Within two years?
Califia sat back in her seat. The rest of her time there long. And painful.
###
N'Jobu sat with Erik at his great-grandmother's kitchen table as he watched his son disassemble yet another one of his robotic toys. Erik had figured out a way to hack into the software of the original robotic programming and rebuild a new larger robot combining four different toys and the pieces of scrap metal his grandfather found for him. He placed the final pieces of the disassembled robot onto the final product.
Erik routed power to his new creation with a handheld and tried to get the strange-looking franken-robot to pick up a mug filled with tea and raise it up to N'Jobu's mouth. A set of spoons and a fork sat on the dining table waiting to be used by the robot to lift up a scoop of fruit loops and pick up sliced mango pieces.
"Be still, Baba." Erik said moving the levers in his hand.
N'Jobu sat still, but the tea mug didn't seem secure in the robot hand as small drops of the liquid spilled from the cup.
"I'm still, Son," he said trying not to laugh as the robot hand grew more unsteady.
"Stop laughing at it, you'll hurt the Daka 3000's feelings," Erik said.
"Oh, you changed its name again. Won't your mother be upset? The Cali 3000 was a nice-sounding name."
"Inventors name things after themselves."
"Why not JaJa 3000?"
"Too soft-sounding. The Daka in my middle name sounds hardcore…Baba, c'mon, be still!"
N'Jobu was leaning back in his seat, his hands up to catch the mug if it dropped.
"I have to perfect this by next week to be ready."
"Is Walter entering the science fair?"
"Yeah, he's working on something."
"You're not going to tell me about it?"
"It's boring."
"Don't say that about your friend."
"It is!"
"Tell me about it."
The robotic arm made it up to the front of N'Jobu's face with the mug. Erik did his best to ease it closer, but it was too jerky. He took a pause and stared at N'Jobu.
"He's making a display of fabrics that can be used to make flak jackets. Bulletproof—"
"So military science—"
"No, clothes for kids. So they won't be shot dead in school."
Whoa.
N'Jobu stared at Erik.
"He's really doing that?"
"Yeah. Lame."
"I don't think it's lame…just…that's pretty hardcore, Son."
"Compared to this? I'm creating a robot that can help the elderly in their homes. Open their pill bottles when they can't, feed them, and help put things away…but Walter's anti-kill clothes is hardcore. Serious Baba?"
"You both have created hardcore things."
"Kids shouldn't have to make clothes like that."
"I agree—"
"Like, make clothes that can let you fly or something…"
Frustrated, Erik snatched the mug from the robot's hand.
"I can't get this to move smoother. I'll have to take it apart. Wish I could get some nanobots for this…"
"Do you want to try the spoon or fork again? That did really well."
"Nah. Thanks for being my experimental human."
"Glad to be of help. Do me a favor though."
"Yeah?"
"Be supportive of Walter. He's trying to make something to help other children. Grown-ups are the blame for that, and it's a shame that a child his age wants to make something like that because we suck, but he is doing something he thinks is a good thing. Support that."
Erik stared at him and nodded his head.
"Who knows, maybe you both will make it to the Stark Expo. That would be exciting."
Erik grinned.
He was so determined to make his robot work. Not just for the Expo.
For Nana Jean.
His son's great-grandmother was ailing. Today she was having a good day and strong enough to make a Friday night fish fry. Relatives were coming over, and everyone was determined to make it a joyous evening of good food and family fun.
N'Jobu could see that the older woman was having a hard time with her health. Her once vibrant face was appearing a bit dull the last few months, and her already thin frame was looking gaunter. She was experiencing bouts of anger when she couldn't do a lot of things by herself like she used to. Like driving. She was having trouble with her hands, periodic shakiness and pain making it difficult for her on some days. But not today. Today she was cooking with the assistance of Erik and N'Jobu.
Erik picked up the tools he used to tweak the wires on his robot when he suddenly reached out and tapped on N'Jobu's kimoyo beads.
"It's lighting up, Baba!"
N'Jobu saw the emergency silver lighting on his beads. They warmed up his wrist.
"I've never seen that color before," Erik said, his eyes glued to his wrist.
The past three years he had told his son his beads were like mood rings and could change colors at will. But he was right. Silver was a new color. Silver was a signal from his fellow rogue War Dogs. Something was wrong.
"Clean this up, and we'll start making the batter for the fish and shrimp," he said.
Pushing back from the table, N'Jobu headed to a guest bedroom, Junie's old room, and locked the door.
"D'Beke," N'Jobu said, watching the man's shape hover over his wrist.
"We have found Klaue. He is ready to move into Wakanda. The time has come your Highness."
N'Jobu shut his eyes and sat on the guest bed.
"Send out a code three, and make sure all cells are on code. No more communications until you all hear from me. Understand? Send me Klaue's contact. We have to be…we have to be…D'Beke if anyone acts suspicious…end them."
"Yes, Prince N'Jobu."
D'Beke winked out and N'Jobu felt his body tremble with excitement and nervous energy.
The time had come to act. No more planning. Action.
"Wakanda Forever," he whispered.
###
Califia felt beyond stuffed. She rubbed her belly from all the shrimp she consumed. Hot, juicy, greasy, salty-sweet delicious shellfish fresh from the skillet. N'Jobu rubbed his belly and Califia watched Erik help Nana Jean fry up more shrimp in cornmeal batter this round.
"Nana. I can't eat anymore," she said.
Nana dropped shrimp into a fry strainer and Erik lowered it and stood back when the grease popped. Nana dropped more shrimp into the bowl filled with the batter.
"Someone will," Nana said, her frame so much smaller from how Califia always saw her as a little girl. She felt it deep down. No one else in the family wanted to say it outright, and Nana Jean was not forthcoming with her health, but Califia knew. Her great-grandmother was battling something and trying so hard to stay on the earth for Erik. That was her child. He may have come out of Califia's body, but Erik was her baby
Erik's mind was set on going to the Stark Expo in New York. He had come so close last year, making it to a semi-final status and receiving a signed certificate from Tony Stark himself. She and N'Jobu had to nurse him through a mini-temper tantrum when he didn't get to be a finalist. He pouted for weeks and wouldn't even hang up his certificate in his room that Nana Jean had framed for him. N'Jobu had to have a sit down with him and remind him of how many people, children, and adults had submitted projects and didn't even make it to the quarter-finals. She remembered the title of his abstract too, "Novel Subtle Acoustic Communication: Successful Elucidation of the Cryptic Ecology of Runner Plant Bugs with Emphasis on Their Stridulatory Mechanisms". He spent three months capturing the faint sound of bugs. Bugs that he had crawling all over his bedroom when a few escaped by accident. She shivered at the memory.
Califia had to chime in and show him the certificate.
"Tony Stark really signed this. A busy man like him took the time to sign something acknowledging your hard work. You should be proud of yourself."
It wasn't until Erik went online to see how many people had entered projects did his own parent's words kick in. There were only twenty-five semi-finalists for his category and his face beamed when he announced, "Just over half a million people entered globally."
For the new year, he switched from acoustics to robotics hoping to be a finalist. And he focused on something more personal, and close to home: Nana Jean.
That big ole heart of his wanted to make his Nana as self-sufficient for as long as possible with a personal elder care robot.
N'Jobu watched her closely after she rubbed her belly and caught his eye. Her mood hadn't been the best when she arrived at the house. The meeting at Rolita's was tough on her psyche and she almost opted to go home and sleep until her grandmother called Rolita reminding her to bring her daughter Neveah.
Erik's cousins and Neveah ran around the front room while Erik cooked at the stove.
"JaJa, go be with the other kids, I'll help Nana."
Erik nodded and she watched her grandmother pat his head.
"Nana, for reals, I don't think anyone else can eat more. Take a break and spend time out front too."
"Dayclean is still eating," she said.
"I am done, Nana. Go relax, we'll take care of all of this."
N'Jobu stood up and cleared the dishes left on the table as a few of Califia's Uncles cleaned up after themselves before heading to the den to watch TV.
"You good?" N'Jobu asked.
"Better."
"Erik told me you looked upset leaving your session today. Want to talk about it?"
"It was nothing serious…really. I was just feeling a way. Venting."
"Did it help?"
"I think so."
He rinsed dishes and stacked them in the new dishwasher they bought for Nana three years ago once they saw she had trouble with her hands.
She finished putting leftovers in the fridge and when she looked at N'Jobu again, his gentle eyes broke her down.
"Let's go in the back," he said when he saw her eyes well up with water.
The house was busy and no one paid them any mind going to the back guestroom. It was quiet back there. N'Jobu locked the door and they both sat on the bed.
Califia wiped her eyes.
"He is too much like me. And I am afraid for him."
"Califia—"
She touched his hand.
"His quick temper. His anxiety. His need to be in control…this compulsion to make things perfect…it's not healthy…and living here, and seeing Lia…I have damaged him."
N'Jobu stayed quiet and she was grateful. Over the years he had to learn how to let her talk things out and not try to offer immediate solutions as he was want to do all the time. She just needed to be heard. Just wanted to let her words linger openly so she could work through her pain.
"I worry about how he will deal with the trauma later in life. Kids bounce back. I know this. Better than adults. But he…you know this about him…he feels too deeply. This world will break his heart N'Jobu. People like that suffer more than most."
N'Jobu continued to listen as he held her hand.
"I worry about him. I told Dr. Davis this. I worry that he has inherited my pain. I pray and pray that he can be more like you, like…if I could take the worst aspects of myself and remove that from his DNA—"
"Stop."
N'Jobu's eyes were watery. He stroked her face.
"I don't want you thinking like this. I don't want you to carry this in your heart. Take parts of you out of him? He wouldn't be who he is without those parts of you. I know I'm supposed to let you feel what you feel, but my son…our son? He is perfect. He is his own person. That is an Udaku Prince out there and you make him perfect. Understand?"
"I want to believe you, I might believe you if…."
"If what?"
"If you would take us to Wakanda. It has to be safer and better there. You heard what Rolita told you at dinner. It's bad out here. You heard about Walter's science project. Fuck is that? Fuck kind of world are we living in. How can we protect Erik? What if something happens to him? What if something happens to us? Who would take care of him? Who would be capable of caring for a child like ours? Huh? Tell me."
"Babe—"
"Why won't you take us away from here? My baby is a Prince. He deserves to live in a world without fear, or where his best friend doesn't make bulletproof t-shirts for his peers. Don't you want him to have the life you had growing up?"
N'Jobu pulled her in with a tight hug when the tears really started flowing down her face. She was so tired.
"My love, don't cry, please…don't cry…"
It was the same quiet fight they had over the years. His refusal to take them home.
They weren't welcome. She knew this. Deep down they were not wanted in his world, and yet it was the only one that could save them. And she didn't understand why he prevented them from contact. Not even a visit. Their son was learning Wakandan. Memorized their alphabet. Practiced writing his name, even practiced a little speech he wanted to give in front of his royal grandparents when they would meet. Even had a gift he made for his cousin Prince T'Challa, a little necklace that would hold secret-coded messages between them.
And yet…
Here they sat with her crying about it once more.
They left the bedroom and joined the rest of the family to eat pound cake and watch Wheel of Fortune, everyone shouting at the tv their guess's at the puzzles. Neveah and Erik giggled like crazy whenever her father Dante guessed words that clearly were made up to make them laugh.
Once they returned home, Erik put away his robot, and she and N'Jobu dressed for bed. They allowed Erik to lounge in bed with them until it became way past his bedtime. She caught that mood from N'Jobu that he wanted to make love, but Erik kept prolonging his stay in their bed by negotiating for extra time with them. They allowed him to watch another half hour of the SyFy channel until he was knocked out and snoring with his head resting on Califia's stomach.
"Hey, buddy, time to wake up," N'Jobu said nudging Eric gently on the shoulder.
"Thirty more minutes," Erik whispered, his eyes wide as if he hadn't been snoring a minute ago.
"So you can sleep again? Go to sleep in your room. I need some Mommy time," N'Jobu said. He started pushing Erik away from Califia.
"Mom!" Erik whined pushing N'Jobu's hands away and trying to stay on her stomach.
"It's two in the morning, JaJa," Califia said stroking his braids.
"Then I should be able to stay since the sun will be up in five hours."
"If you don't get," N'Jobu said pulling on one of Erik's braids.
"Ow, Baba! I know why you really want me gone…you wanna kiss Mom and do the nasty!"
"Boy!" Califia said, a shocked expression on her face as she play slapped his arm.
"Yes, now get," N'Jobu said.
"I can't believe that came out of your mouth," Califia said.
"Why are you being embarrassed?" Erik teased.
"Time for you to get out of grown folks business," Califia said lifting him off of her stomach.
Erik finally rolled over and stood from their bed.
"Y'all some haters, man, for real," he said.
His dimples melted her.
"Who is this child? Where is my sweet JaJa?" she said.
Erik leaned back over the bed and kissed her cheek.
"Night Mom," he said.
"Night, Baby. Sleep well," she answered.
Erik gave his father a sly look as he sauntered out of their room backward.
"I'll just close this so I can get some rest," he said as he grabbed their doorknob and shut it behind him.
"Okay, maybe we should take some of your DNA out of him," N'Jobu said as he wiggled out of his pajama bottoms.
"That was all you, nigga," she said staring as he pulled his t-shirt over his head.
He tugged on her nightgown and she brushed his hands away.
"We can't do it now," she said glancing at the bedroom door.
"Why not?'
"Because he knows that's what we're doing—"
"I don't care, just put the pillow over your mouth," he said pulling the bed covers back and raising up her gown to her hips. She widened her legs and allowed him to lick her vulva slowly, but then she felt self-conscious. Kept glancing at their bedroom door making her stomach tense.
"I can't, not yet," she whispered.
"Babe, stop being silly. I want to make you feel good after a tough day…shit…pussy wet already."
His tongue rested just under her clit as her ring poked out from the engorgement of the slick bud. He gave light pulses there and her legs shot up, her thighs falling open.
"Get the lube," he said stroking his dick.
Reaching into her drawer she pulled out cherry flavored lube. She coated her vulva and opened her wet inner lips for him.
Tongue darting in and out and smearing his lips with her arousal, Califia held N'Jobu's head.
"Let's just do a quickie," she said.
"Quickie, longie, I just need to be in my pussy," he said shifting his body to line up with hers. He inserted his erection and she gasped out loud.
"I'm about to fuck you real good," he hissed in her ear.
Califia stuffed her left hand over her mouth as her right arm held his shoulder in a death grip.
"God, baybee—"
"Mmmmm—"
"Wait, not so hard, the headboard is banging against the wall—"
"Fuck that wall—"
"The noise—"
N'Jobu lifted up and watched his dick slide into her.
They had been working and caring for Nana Jean and Erik so much that it had been a couple of weeks since they had last had sex. And this quickie was just what they needed. If N'Jobu didn't waste any time kissing her, she knew he was desperate to get in her stuff. He couldn't go very long without some sexual contact with her.
"Look at your dick, Jobu," she encouraged, his face so intent on watching her pussy grip his length. His dick was shiny, his dark coloring magnificent. She felt sorry for people who couldn't have Black dick like this filling them up. He was ready to split her in two. She needed this. Needed him. Needed to get her mind off of her troubles.
He pulled out and positioned himself on his side behind her. His hands gripped her breasts but her gown kept slipping down.
"Take it off," he said and she removed it over her head and tossed it on the side.
White light under the door.
Erik was still up.
Califia dropped her head to one of her pillows and bit into it. She could hear how gushy her pussy was, could hear N'Jobu trying his best to keep his voice down but to no avail.
"Damn…damn…," N'Jobu grunted, his hands tightening around her breasts.
"Yes, baby."
"I missed this pussy, girl. We gotta stop playing and make time for us…oh shit…"
"Jobu—"
"Where you want it, baby? I'm ready to cum…oh…Califia…where you want this nut?"
"In my mouth," she said.
"Okay…okay….," he panted.
He kept stroking his dick in her pussy, hitting the side of her walls hard.
His pace picked up, and for a second she thought he would cum inside her because he didn't seem willing to leave her hot folds.
"Turn around!" he shouted.
Yanking out of her, he stroked his thickness as she turned around and lowered her face to his cock.
"Open your mouth…oh shit…baby open your mouth!"
Mouth Open. Tongue out.
N'Jobu slapped his dick on her tongue, his eyes swimming with an all-consuming carnality. Her own fingers plucked at her clit and when his release splashed all in her mouth, she gulped his cum down as her sugar walls clenched from an intense orgasm.
She swallowed everything he gave her, and he spent some time licking between her legs again and giving her another orgasm.
She was about to enjoy the third orgasm from his mouth when a brilliant blue light spilled under their bedroom door.
"N'Jobu!" she cried out.
He turned his head and saw the brilliant fluorescent blue. His eyes shifted in a way she had never seen before.
He leaped up and put on his pajama bottoms. She threw her gown back on and followed him out of their bedroom.
Erik's bedroom door was open, the dazzling blue array coming from there.
"Erik!" N'Jobu shouted.
Their son stood in the middle of his bedroom. N'Jobu's Wakandan beads were on his wrist, the blue light bleeding out from it.
"Baba!"
Erik tried pressing down on a bead.
"Don't do anything else!" N'Jobu said.
But it was too late.
Erik twisted one of the beads and the brilliant blue light filled the entire room and a large holographic image floated above Erik's wrist.
A street scene.
People walking on elevated sidewalks.
Space ships flying in the air.
Black people dressed in ways they had never seen before.
"N'Jobu, what is this? What is that?" she whispered with awe in her voice.
Erik's eyes studied the images and he took his free hand and stuck it inside the field of blue light. It expanded and different color-rich scenes played like a series of split screens spinning in a circle.
A cityscape.
And a futuristic structure that looked like a double palace…
"It's Wakanda," Erik said.
His fingers flicked an image up over his head. It looked like a billboard advertising a car they had never seen before in the world. The lettering was all Wakandan.
Erik's bright eyes stared at her.
"It's Baba's home!"
###
Chapter 24
Tag List”
@fd-writes @soufcakmistress @cherrystainedlipsbaby @tclaybon @thadelightfulone @allhailqueennel @bartierbakarimobisson @cpwtwot @shookmcgookqueen @yoyolovesbucky @raysunshine78 @the-illllest @terrablaze514 @l-auteuse @amirra88 @jimizwidow @janelledarling @chaneajoyyy @sweetestdream92 @purple-apricots @blackpinup22 @hennessystevens-udaku @scrumptiouslytenaciouscrusade @bugngiz @stariamrry @honeytoffee
#black boys bloom thorns first volume 2#n'jobu#n'jadaka#erik stevens#black panther fanfiction#black panther smut#killmonger#when killmonger was a boy
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y'know what? i fucking hate war. i don't like that it's fought, i dislike even more that it's so, so often fought for the wrong reasons. this seems to be a common sentiment among the left -- resentment toward war for the atrocities it creates, resentment toward military action, ultimate resentment toward the military -- so i know im not alone in this. the excessive militarization of our country leads to violence and death, often of those who have no say in the matter.
but what i dont fucking agree with is the demonization of veterans that happens on the left, stemming directly from this resentment of war.
and again, i get it. i absolutely despise war, despise the violence it creates, and can't help but resent some of those who go into the military for no reason aside from patriotism and blind faith in the good of the american military -- because, quite frankly, the american military isn't inherently good. having a military is necessary, but having the military means to essentially conquer the globe is never a good thing.
but demonizing veterans is never the answer.
so many people on the left recognize the school-to-military pipeline, and recognize the military industrial complex and its harms, but they so often then proceed to recognize those as two separate entities. this leads so much of the american public -- particularly those who resent war -- to demonize those in the military, or to demonize veterans from it.
because what we have to recognize about the school-to-military pipeline is that it makes it so that so much of the military power america has is only in the military because realistically, that was their only choice coming out of school. and those people are so often acknowledged as victims, which of course, they are. but those young men and women who enter the military because of this pipeline, this systematic way to strengthen the army at the cost of liberty and livelihoods, are the same men and women as the veterans who come out of the military broke and homeless because they've been fighting america's battles.
if those young men and women are victims of a flawed and often corrupt state, having been to war to fight doesn't change that, it only puts them in a situation where not only are they out of a choice, they are out of options, stranded by the state once no longer deemed useful.
if we want to recognize the corrupt nature of the american military, we can't view veterans as empirically the agents of this corruption. resenting veterans is not the answer; we have to recognize that they, as much as everyone else involved in the war against their own wishes, have been victims of a corrupt state.
villainizing vets is not the answer. disassembling a system that creates more upon more of them is.
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My wife disappeared a few weeks ago, and she isn't coming back
The night my wife disappeared was... rough, for a variety of reasons.
I've lived my life to this point with the faint suspicion that I may be cursed. Bad things just... happen to me. A coffee will spill on my lap when I'm wearing white slacks. I won't notice cat hair on a dark blouse until I'm nearly at work, and just as I pull into a parking space, I'll remember that my wife borrowed it and put it into her purse instead of mine. I've purchased randomly generated lottery tickets with every single number just one digit away from the jackpot on more than one occasion.
'But wait,' I can already hear you saying, 'if your life is so cursed, then how have you managed to see any kind of success? If you wear a blouse and slacks to work, surely you must at least make a decent wage.' Well, that boils down to two factors, factors that have made me question both my suspicion and my sanity on numerous occasions- negativity bias, and the frequency at which my 'curse' strikes. I can remember plenty of times where I've been shot in the foot by what, to the uninformed, appears to be simple coincidence, but these instances are spaced out just enough to keep onlookers chuckling and shaking their heads. 'You just need to look on the bright side of things!' I've heard it a million times, and even if it's frustrating at times, it's true, really. Once you live like this long enough, you learn to laugh some of the less painful missteps off. It's easier that way.
That was how I met my wife, hilariously enough. It was a hot day- August, if memory serves- and I was just out of work. There was a little popsicle cart that typically rolled through the park around 5pm or so, and well, hey, I'm a sucker for cherry. I had my prize unwrapped and was just about to cram the thing down my throat in an attempt to drop my internal temperature as fast as possible when my phone's message ringtone went off. In retrospect, it was kind of a dumb move, but I let my popsicle hang from my mouth as I fished my phone from my purse and hurried to respond to what was surely an urgent email and not some shitpost from my younger sister. Turns out, though, that it was indeed the latter- and, well, shitpost or not, my sense of humor's been warped for years. I don't remember what it was precisely, but whatever it was, it was enough to make me snort without thinking, and that action let my already-melting popsicle slip from my mouth. I dropped my phone back into my purse on instinct and juggled the popsicle for a few seconds, but it slipped from my hands and onto the ground with a heart-wrenching smack, stopping just long enough on my lap to leave a nice, bright-red stain on the knee of my brand new khakis.
The pants I didn't really care about- spend enough years spilling anything and everything on yourself and you'll eventually learn what Borax is and how to use it- but the popsicle? That was heartbreaking. Sure, it only cost, what, a dollar? But I was hot, I was tired from a long day, I hadn't eaten lunch at work since that time I got food poisoning on the clock and lost my cookies on my desk so my blood sugar was probably low, and my favorite flavor of popsicle just splattered all over the nasty, pigeon-shit covered path. I'm not too proud to admit that I almost started crying. Almost. I didn't actually cry, just... stared at the broken popsicle on the ground, the way the sweet, melting juice cascaded between the brick pavers before it reached the grass and leached into the soil. Maybe I was grounding myself in a way, following the juice's path with my eyes to keep from focusing on the disappointment, but I sure must have looked like a fucking lunatic doing it. I leaned my elbows on my knees and closed my eyes for a minute, for the sake of maintaining composure, and I didn't look up until I felt a tap on my shoulder.
She was gorgeous- dark hair pulled up in a curly ponytail and a warm, if somewhat tired-looking smile. A brief glance at her clothes told me she was a jogger, but that wasn't really the important part. She was offering me something- a popsicle. I could even make out the red through the wrapper. Apparently, she'd seen my little juggling act from a distance, and she said the look on my face made her feel bad enough to buy me a replacement. She got one for herself, too, and we ended up sitting for a while and just chatting, Borax and daily exercise be damned. Before she left, we swapped numbers, and that was how it all started, with a random act of kindness for an exhausted stranger. After a month, we were at each others' apartments constantly, within six, we'd moved in together, and by the end of the next year, I was looking at rings. We balanced everything about each other. I was neat where she was a bit on the messy side. I couldn't cook worth a damn- and I still can't- but her oldest brother went to culinary school and taught her everything she knows. I had a tendency to think about myself, to worry about how I looked and how I stood out, but she was the most giving person I'd ever met. She even made a habit of giving blood every two months or so. She said she'd started to make ends meet, but once she was financially stable, she just kept doing it. She said she liked knowing that she was doing something good. My luck even seemed to get better after that day, believe it or not. It was almost funny to think about, but in a way, my curse had blessed me with the chance to meet her, and once I did, it was almost as if it dissipated entirely.
That brings us to now- we've been married for two years, and we were even looking into fostering. We agreed we were going to seek older children, both for the sake of moving a kid out of the system and to be sure we wouldn't need to juggle a puppy and a baby. Who needs to potty train one tiny life after another, y'know? Plus, it would be nice knowing we got a kid out of a pipeline to failure. We weren't rich by any means, but we were comfortable, and we could certainly grant an elementary-age child a life they may not get somewhere else.
I had to stay late at work that night. One of the downsides of moving up the corporate ladder is, well, sometimes it means there's more work to be done, I guess. I'm not sure if it's my direct superior offloading tasks he doesn't want to do onto me, or if I'm just adjusting, but I digress. I was late. She knew about that- I'd texted her saying as much- and dinner would be on the table just as I was getting home. Or, it would have been, if I hadn't needed to stop for gas. Oh, well. I'd be a few minutes later than I'd promised, a habit I was doing my best to break, but at least I caught it before my car ran dry entirely and I wound up out of gas somewhere stupid again.
In retrospect, I should have sped home. Maybe if I was there, I could have done something. I keep telling myself that it wasn't my fault, that I had no way of knowing what was going to happen, because that's the most logical way to see the situation, but...
The apartment was still when I got home. Dinner was on the stove, still warm in the pot and covered to keep it that way, but the television was off, and the silence burned in my ears. She liked... likes. She likes to listen to music when she cooks. She told me when we started dating that too much quiet unnerved her, and in that moment, I finally understood what she meant. I left the kitchen, flipping the hall light on as I passed the switch, and the smell started to reach me just as I got to the bedroom door. It was closed, and I stopped with my hand on the knob. I knew I didn't want to open that door. The feeling in the pit of my stomach told me that this wasn't some romantic surprise. There was a taste in the air not unlike the one a nosebleed leaves behind, metallic and tacky and unpleasant, overpowering the heavy, savory scent of garlic from the alfredo sauce left on the stove. Still, I knew that if I didn't open it, I couldn't rest. Almost as if I was on autopilot, I twisted the knob and pushed inward.
The room was dark, lit only by the ambient glow seeping between the blinds from the street outside and a dim arc cast through the doorway by the bulb down the hall. As soon as the door was open, the smell hit me like a freight train; if I'd thought it was strong in the hallway, this was overbearing, as if someone was kneeling on my chest and forcing me to breathe with my head in a sack full of hot, wet pennies. I was so thrown by the stench that I almost didn't notice the sound at first, a faint squish in the far corner. I did not turn on the light, and what I could see, I wish I hadn't. The carpets that were lit were stained deeply, almost the same bright red as my knee some three years prior, but not quite. It's almost funny, the way memories tie together like that. I did not laugh.
I wish I could say I turned on the light, confronted whatever was in that darkened corner, done... something. I wish I could say that I'd lifted the bedside lamp and hurled it at the shuddering mass in that bedroom, if only to stop the sound of its chewing for a second. I wish I could say I'd done anything at all, but I can't. And I didn't. I closed the bedroom door, stepped back into the hall, and left the way I'd came, not even bothering to lock the apartment behind me or so much as close the door. I didn't snap out of that trance until I was in the car again, driving nowhere in particular, just... somewhere that wasn't home. I got a call from the police not long after. Apparently, a few neighbors heard screaming and called the cops, and when they arrived and investigated, they found our door wide open and a trail of blood leading from the bedroom out to the balcony. Nothing else. No body, no perpetrator, nothing. Just a bloodied floor and a puppy cowering in the corner of the bathtub in a puddle of his own piss.
I came back later that night to pick up my dog. Poor guy was shaking like a leaf for ages, practically refused to leave the bathroom on his own. The cops ended up carting him out in my jacket, if only to make their investigation a little bit easier without a puppy in the way. I don't know why I wasn't shaking, too. I guess that made them suspicious, but when they questioned me, I had an alibi. Around the time the first neighbor called, I was still getting gas. I'm on CCTV feeds from three different cameras, all timestamped and verified by the cashier working that evening. I found out next that it was, indeed, my wife's blood in the carpets. The tests came back later and, when compared against her donor records, it was a match. That's... that's where the investigation ran dry. They never found a body, nor any witnesses other than the neighbors who heard the scream.
In the silence of the car trip to my parents' house that night, I found myself falling back into old thought patterns, obsessive ideas that refused to leave my brain no matter how little sense they made. I managed to keep them at bay until I pulled into the driveway behind my little sister's car and my phone rang out with the quiet chime of a message alert. Numb, I lifted my phone from the center console and unlocked it. I had one new text message, from a number I recognized. It was my wife's, and in that moment, I knew that what I saw was real, and no amount of searching would ever bring her home.
12:51 AM-
Thanks for dinner.
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Original drabble, pt. 3
Navigation: 1 | 2 | 3 | -
Onwards!
Sleeping in until noon was standard proceedure on the weekend for Ted. The problem with this lay in the fact that he had things to do that required being awake for as much of his weekend as possible so that he could have everything set up completely before he went back to work on Monday. There was a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it in.
"You alive in there?" he asked of the living room when he finally emerged, yawning as he walked over to the computer to see the response.
> Yes.
> I discovered that you'd given me admin privileges, so I've been shuffling some things around. The way you organize files is
> What's a good equivalent in English? Frustrating.
"That's on purpose, y'know. Keeps people from finding shit on my computer even if they try a keyword search." Ted made his way to the kitchen and opened up the fridge. He'd need to get more food soon, probably around the same time that he went looking for a decent camera. "Did ya have fun on your media binge, or did you get distracted trying to sort everything?"
> Your musical tastes don't seem to have any cohesive pattern to them. Don't most humans have a genre of choice?
> You're not reading this right now, are you.
> I saw your vague shape move out of frame. I might not be directly programmed for this kind of pattern recognition but even with shitty image quality I can still make an educated guess about when you're actually at the computer.
> Ted. Come back here.
> I know that's what your name is. I found it in the system files.
> This is criminal negligence. I'm being neglected.
Ted sat back down at the computer with a plate of pre-cooked bacon and microwaved scrambled eggs only to end up blinking owlishly at the screen. A slow grin spread across his face. "Aw. You're pouting at me right now, aren't you?"
> I don't pout. Even if I did, I don't have a face to pout with.
"You're totally pouting." He paused long enough to shovel a forkful of eggs in his mouth, speaking only when he was between mouthfuls. "So. I figured today we'd get you a voicebank."
> Is this something I'm going to have any say in or are you going to pick one for me?
"Oh, I'm gonna let you pick it. But the rules are that you can't get one that's got any kind of lisenced or official distribution behind it. 'Cause, y'know, those are way more trackable."
> Usually that means the audio quality isn't all that good.
"I know. It's temporary. Getting a better one comes later, once you've got a new body and it actually matters." That was way down the pipeline from where Ted was. "I'm just making sure your tuning is intact. You can still get the inflections right with a shitty voicebank, it just sounds tinny. Right now we're still in the screening stages. If you get sent out into the world and even the tiniest thing doesn't work quite right then you're as good as dead the moment somebody notices."
> And if my programming isn't intact?
He smiled around a mouthful of bacon. "Then I fix it."
> Right. No pressure then.
"It's not like I'm gonna be doing brain surgery. I write up supplementary progams that do the work for you instead, that's all. The main difference is that it's more personalized if you can do things yourself. More convincing too." The predictive analytics of an AI were way better at bridging the uncanny valley than his stopgap attempts at hotfixing ever could be. "It's okay. You're already doing better than a lot of others have."
> How so?
"You can actually hold a conversation." Seriously, it was ridiculous how many cases Ted had seen that couldn't talk to him outside of a narrow range of scripted responses. Finishing his breakfast (lunch? brunch?) and setting the plate aside, he rolled his chair over to reach for his laptop and an ethernet cord after wiping his hands haphazardly on his flannel sleeping pants. "Alright. I'm gonna get this thing secured and firewalled, okay? Then I'm gonna get you hooked up to it over a LAN connection with admin access so when you find something, you can install it and we can get it scanned and make sure it works."
> Any idea where I should start looking?
"I've got a few sites bookmarked, yeah." Ones he'd used before, ones he trusted. For the most part. "If anything fucks up, I'll do a system restore. Oh, and make sure to set up a restore point for yourself, too."
He had to smile as he noticed a window opening on the monitor out of the corner of his eye, flicking through menus and options until the one that would allow for setting up a restore point was found. The first few times Ted had seen someone else manipulating his computer from the inside, it'd been surreal. Nowadays he just took it as a good sign; an AI that could manipulate its environment when given the chance was a clever AI indeed. He knew a lot of his peers didn't quite agree with giving an AI administrative access to its own living space like that, and yeah, in a way they were right to worry. The risk of self-termination was real. But he saw it as the same kind of thing as giving people anti-depressants: a lack of control over one's life rarely ever made things better in the long run.
And so far, this guy hadn't shown any inclinations towards that kind of thing that Ted could see. "By the way," he said, suddenly curious, "I don't think I ever got a name from you?"
> I have a designation, not a name.
> Most people just called me A3.
> Please don't call me A3.
"I won't." Ted wasn't the kind of person who had to be told twice about that kind of thing. "Figured the UN would give you something more humanizing than a glorified serial number though. They're all about paying lip-service to activists."
> I'd rather not talk about it.
He raised an eyebrow at that before returning to his laptop. The window he'd had open that indicated CPU usage was long since closed, shuffled aside in favor of other things, but there had been enough of a lag in the response that he was guessing there'd been a spike there. "Sorry. Didn't mean to upset you."
> You don't sound like you're lying about that.
"What, you're surprised?"
> I'm not used to it. So far you haven't acted in ways that I could predict to a reliable degree at all.
> Most of my predictions for our interactions have turned out wrong, and overall I'm getting far more positive results than I could have ever anticipated. I'm having to recalculate how to respond every time. In a way, it's liberating. I'm doing less in the way of trying to figure out probabilities with regard to what you're going to say because it's pointless, and you never respond as badly as I think you will anyway.
> I've never been able to get away with having an open conversation like this before. I'd resolved to stop following the safe path going into this since I didn't have much left to lose, I just didn't expect it to not end badly.
"You think I'm gonna get mad at you just for speaking your mind?"
> Well, yes.
"Hah! Yeah, no. Fuck that." Ted waved away the concern with a dismissive gesture before resuming his work. "Say what you wanna say, tell me to fuck off, insult the hell outta me. I don't care. Well I mean, I do care. But like, it's not gonna make a difference in terms of me respecting your rights, y'know?"
Several seconds followed with no response.
"I mean, I'm an asshole, but not like that," he continued. "So you just go ahead and let me know if I ever go too far, okay? Don't be afraid to tell me you're not on board with something. I can be kind of a pushy bastard sometimes."
Still nothing. Ted ended up staring at the monitor, frowning at it. Had he gone and put his foot in his mouth somehow?
"You, uh," he chewed his lip, "you okay, buddy?"
> I'm fine.
"Didn't upset you again, did I?"
> No.
> Maybe? I don't know. I'm not sure.
> I don't know how to respond to something like that. That kind of consideration was never factored into my programming. It's not a situation I've encountered before either.
> Most humans wouldn't say something like that even if they agreed with it. Not in my experience. It goes unsaid between them that the thought of someone like me being dangerous is a dangerous thought to have to face in itself, because humanity is a dangerous thing to stand up to as a whole. I had accepted that.
> But you don't care. You just say things, and nothing about the pattern of your voice suggests that you're lying. How can you do that? Aren't you scared at all?
Ted smiled and it was a thin, tired thing. "Hell yeah I'm scared," he said. "I'm fucking terrified somebody'll find out about this and I'll get locked up forever in some prison somewhere for harboring an international fugitive or some shit, and then I'll die in there all slow and painful-like 'cause my health won't be able to take it."
> Then why are you doing any of this?
"Like I said, I'm crazy." He made a looping motion next to his temple. "I'm not wired right. All the right responses to fear went out the window around the same time that the impulse control and common sense did. So now I help people even when it's a dumb-ass thing to do."
> I see.
> You're right, by the way. It is a dumb-ass thing to do.
Ted shrugged. "I figure someone's gotta do it. Not like I've got the health to throw bricks at riot cops."
> May I make a suggestion?
"Shoot."
> Don't throw bricks. It rarely helps.
> Throw something less incriminating so that they don't have any justification in using it as an excuse for shooting. They like having excuses.
"So, something like glitter?" he suggested.
> Glitter works.
A wide grin split across Ted's face. "Oh, I like you."
> You shouldn't.
"Too late." Having finished securing and backing up his laptop, Ted started hooking up the ethernet cable. "So, whaddya say we get started on finding you a voice, huh?"
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Randazza: Nothing is Straight in Boston
By Marc J. Randazza
Boston was home to a "Straight Pride" rally. Unsurprisingly, a bunch of idiots showed up to protest the other idiots, and idiocy ensued. It seems to have all been fixed now. So, here's the story.
Straight Pride Ralliers – Super Happy Fun America – Really? What is the point?
Yes, the straight pride group is really called "Super Happy Fun America." One could say "Super Gay Fun America" would be a synonym?
On one level, I'm ok with these clowns. That's what America is — the right to march down the street proclaiming whatever you want. I'm pretty proud to be a native Masshole – and part of that Masshole pride comes from the fact that Massachusetts was the first state to say "Dood, what the fahk paht of EQUAL do you not fahkin' undastand? If you can get married, so can the queahs if they wanna. Peary-id." See Goodridge v. Dept. of Public Health, 798 N.E.2d 941 (Mass. 2003).
Some have asked what the purpose of the parade was, but, that is beside the point. I don't like it when someone asks me why I want to have an AK-47. My answer is "because it is my constitutional right to, and that's all I have to say." Same with "why don't you want your home randomly searched?" Or, "why do you need to say this shit?" If the answer is "because it is my Constitutional right," then that's that.
Of course, you know the reason why there was a "straight pride" rally. There's the sorta dumb perspective of someone who does not understand why there might be a need for a "black pride" event, but a "white pride" event sends a really different message. If you're that stupid, go read something else. We're not going to wait for you to catch up.
Ok, fine… if the day comes that gay people kick the shit out of you for liking pussy… and you get arrested for enjoying pussy… and you maybe even get lobotomized or put in a mental asylum, and all of a sudden you're like "what the fuck, I WAS FUCKING BORN THIS WAY, LEAVE ME ALONE!" Yes, then maybe we might need a straight pride rally. Until then, lets chill.
But, the way shit is, we only "need" a straight pride rally because we "need" the entire texture of thoughts and ideas to be put in the marketplace of ideas. So, I wholeheartedly support these clowns right to beclown themselves.
The Counter-Protesters
Idiots too. Yes, I would like to invoke "The Inverse Charlottesville Speech Rule." That is when you say: "There were very dumb people on both sides."
If you want something so pre-discredited as a "straight pride rally" to fail, the best thing you can do is ignore it. Personally, I wish there could have been a very organized counter-protest where they just got 1,000 guys to put on sparkly sequined dresses and feather boas to watch, clap, and just yell "WE LOVE YOU, YOU'RE FABULOUS!" at the entire parade. That would have been a resounding victory for the pro-equality crowd. But, y'know, nobody fuckin listens.
So, those who got angry about this parade? Congratulations -they gave them at least part of their win. But, hey, they get to express their ideas too.
Along with them were the dipshits with the bandanas on their faces – trying to be all "we're just anti-fascists." No, they're fascists. Don't tell me that they're "anti-fascist" just because that is what's in the name. By that measure, The Democratic Republic of North Korea is a "democracy."
The Police
TThey arrested violent protesters, as they should — and maybe as they should teach their counterparts in Portland and Berkeley how to do. But, they also arrested non-violent protesters. And, since I haven't reviewed any of the film of those arrests, I'll give them a pass — civil disobedience might have its place, but you still might have to get a ride to the police station and a little bit of paperwork.
The DA
The Suffolk County DA is sorta awesome in this case, because she tried to drop all the charges against the non-violent protesters. But, things got weird.
Context: She has pledged not to prosecute "minor" crimes like trespassing, shoplifting, drug possession, and resisting arrest. On one level, I like that. I really wish that prosecutors would be a little more discerning in filling the prison pipeline. But, this is just might going to result in the "inverse broken windows" situation. Already, some dumbass decided he could shoplift with impunity because he heard about her policy. (source) Unfortunately for that dumbass, he didn't realize that he was shoplifting in a different jurisdiction. Oops.
The DA decided to drop all the non-violent charges connected to protests at the straight pride rally. I am going to presume she did this for an enlightened reason – that if a citizen is expressing him or herself in a non-violent way, then maybe we don't need to crush them with the weight of the state. I do question whether she would have done the same had the political polarity of the offenders been reversed. But, that's just a question right now. She has not yet had the opportunity to prove me right or wrong. So, let's give her the benefit of the doubt.
The Trial Judges
Every day, prosecutors walk into court and say "your honor, we would like to noll pros these charges." If the defendant does not want the charges to proceed (naturally) and the prosecutor does not either, then that's the end of the story. Even if the prosecutor is doing it for a bad reason (not that she was) then that's that. She is elected by the people. She speaks for the people. The people, through her voice, say "this person's conduct is ok with us, let it go."
But, two judges have said "LOL, no" (paraphrased). They refused to let the state drop the charges. (source)
To make things even weirder, the Prosecutor appealed to the Supreme Judicial Court to drop the charges. I have to say, I have never seen a case where a prosecutor appealed to try and let defendants off the hook.
And, the decision came down just a few minutes ago. FIGGITY FIRST, MUTHAFUCKAS!
The Decision – Commonwealth v. Roderick Webber
Supreme Court Justice Gaziano just issued his decision – and the result is no surprise – he upheld the prosecutor's discretion to drop the charges.
Primarily, it was a separation of powers issue. Under Art. 30 of the Massachusetts Constitution, the prosecutor has exclusive jurisdiction over whether to prosecute a case or not. (Op. at 3).
The trial court judge apparently resisted because of the Massachusetts Victim's Bill of Rights, which gives a victim of a crime the right to have some input into dropping a case. The judge took the position that the victims were "Super Happy Fun America," whose First Amendment rights were impeded. (Op. at 4) I can sorta see that point, at least from an emotional perspective.
But, as Justice Gaziano pointed out, in a disorderly conduct case, the "victim" is the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and not a particular citizen. Same logic applies if you wind up getting in a bar fight and neither of you really want to press charges — you didn't just do something to each other, you also violated the Commonwealth's peace.
But, even if that were not so, the trial court would have still lacked the authority to force the Commonwealth to press forward. Because separation of powers.
Justice Gaziano did specify that there were cases supporting some curtailment of prosecutorial discretion – but only if there is a "scandalous" misuse of authority. You know, bribes or shit like that. Nothing like that seemed to be even remotely going on here – but good to know that there's at least that level of control.
Accordingly, all of the charges that the prosecutor sought to drop are dropped and the arrestee's record is expunged.
Conclusion
All in all, the chips seem to have fallen where they should – but not in a way that doesn't at least make me want to exercise a bit of vigilance.
I like that the state and city did not interfere in the parade, despite the fact that 90% of the community would have loved to see the Super Happy Fun America people rounded up and put in camps. The Commonwealth and the city of Boston seem to have protected the marchers' First Amendment rights.
Protesters got in the way a few times, and the police removed them. This is what the police should do – lest Boston become a "heckler's veto" city like Berkeley or Portland. The District Attorney seems to have done the right thing by using her discretion to only prosecute those who engaged in violent acts. And, while I was initially horrified at what the trial judge did, after reading the Opinion, I see the trial court's position: Think about another time and place — maybe Alabama during the civil rights movement. Imagine a group of locals wants to beat the shit out of some civil rights protesters, and the local prosecutor just says "no crime here." So, yeah, I would like to see some oversight of charges being dropped. But, if we do not respect the separation of powers, the judiciary can get out of control too. The judge is supposed to be impartial – not taking sides.
But, I do hope that if this kind of thing happens again, the politics of those involved is not the determinative factor.
And, y'know … picking Boston as a place to have a parade to stick a finger in the eye of gay rights? Well, that's not exactly how we do it. Nevertheless, I think there's plenty of room in the cradle of liberty for everyone's ideas. I just know which ideas are going to win in the marketplace of ideas. And it isn't Super Happy Fun America's ideas.
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Original drabble, pt. 6
Navigation: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
gettin feelsy up in here LET’S GO
It wasn't until over breakfast the next morning that Ted got the camera up and running, displaying his face in all its full HD glory. The picture was clear enough to make him realize that he needed a shave in a way that just looking in the mirror during his morning routine hadn't, which either said something about his mirror needing cleaning or him needing glasses, and Ted counted this as a point in the camera's favor whether it ended up helping or not; he'd needed a less shitty camera for a while, and the one on his phone didn't capture footage very well.
"It's working," he said, smiling. "Can you see me?"
"Yes," Adam replied simply.
Was that impatience? Oh well. "What do I look like?"
He took a moment longer to respond this time. "You look like you're the wrong color," was his answer.
Ted bubbled up with a laugh. "Hah! Well I mean, you're kinda right in a way. But I think this camera captures color better in general? The other one would try to shift the overall tone of the picture to compensate for the room's lighting and sometimes it looked a little weird."
"I see." A few seconds of silence passed. "Does this mean I can leave now?"
"Not right this minute, but yeah. If you can see, you're good to go. Visual input on any android platform is gonna be at least as good as anything consumer electronics can bring to the table. That shit's practically military grade."
"How long will it take?"
"A day or two before I can get back in touch with my contacts and hand you over." Ted smiled, leaning back in his chair and taking a moment to relax. Another one set free. "I think you'll do pretty well for yourself, honestly. You've sure as hell impressed me."
"Can't really see why, but I'll take your word for it." He didn't give Ted a chance to formulate a response before he spoke up again, almost like an afterthought. "If I wanted to find you in person to thank you, how would I do that?"
Ted chuckled and shook his head. "Sorry man, but that's not really a thing we encourage you guys to do. It's not safe."
An offended note crept into Adam's voice. "You think I would put you in danger?"
"No, it's more likely that we would put you in danger." The risk of recapture tripled whenever someone in the pipeline got close to one of their charges. Ted was enough of a paranoid bastard to know that most people weren't half as careful as he was - and asshole enough to say that this was probably part of the problem - but he didn't want to be the exception. It set a bad precedent.
But Adam kept pushing it. "What if I don't care?" he asked.
"Doesn't matter," Ted shot back easily. "I do."
"I could find your location."
"Hah! Fuck, dude. I mean, yeah, you can try."
"Lake Forest, Illinois."
Ted could only blink at the screen for several seconds, slowly tilting his head.
"Was I right?" There was no smugness to the AI's voice, just a bland quality that made him sound almost bored.
"How the fuck..." Ted mumbled, before bending over the laptop to pull up a browser window and start investigating. His IP address was several layers of fake. He had everything routed through places that weren't anywhere near where he was at all, sometimes even in other countries-
"The weather report yesterday," Adam deadpanned.
Ted froze. A moment later, he slumped heavily into his chair and smacked a hand to his forehead. "Oh, Christ."
"Even if you hadn't shown me that, I still could've used your IP address. No amount of rerouting can scrub away your location entirely. And if I had access to your phone at all, I could use the GPS to track you directly."
What a wonderful way to calm his nerves on the way to work. Jesus. "You're not helping, y'know."
Adam's voice seemed to soften. "Sorry. For what it's worth, you've made it as difficult as possible." Was he trying to be soothing? It wasn't working. "Given what I have to work with, I can't narrow it down any further than I have. I don't have the right access."
"You say that like you know what that kind of access would actually be," Ted noted.
"It was my job to know," he replied.
Ted went quiet for a while as he considered this new information, frowning in the vague direction of the ceiling. "Tracked down people in the pipeline, huh?"
"No, more than that. I tracked down the ones they saved. Even some of the ones that never came down the pipeline at all, but were still living in ways they weren't supposed to."
It was more information than Ted had ever been given, and part of him wanted to appreciate that fact. But the rest of him had a hard time shaking his ever-present anxiety. "How am I supposed to know you're not an undercover cop then?" he asked.
There was no phoneme for a sigh in that voicebank, no way to imitate one. But Ted got the impression of one from Adam's voice when he spoke again. "Ted, please."
"Look, I'm paranoid, okay? You tell me you used to use people like me to get to any AI that might've been in contact with us, and I'm gonna be a little bit jumpy."
A few seconds passed, and then, "I guess you have a point."
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m not sure how to answer. You’ve scanned every last bit of my code as well as my memory, so you know I don’t have any malware. And even with the access you’ve afforded me, the recall division exists precisely because androids are valuable assets. They wouldn’t let an AI loose like this, even in a sting operation. They don’t trust us.”
“So you’re insulted.”
“I don’t get insulted.”
“You definitely get insulted, dude. Like, all the time.”
“If anything about this could be considered offensive, it would be that you think I’m so bad at my job that I have yet to contact my handlers and put you and your entire pipeline into custody in spite of having every opportunity. If I were undercover, you would be in jail by now. Therefore, it stands to reason that I’m not undercover.”
Ted snorted and flipped the bird at the camera, shaking his head. Yeah. He knew that. His brain was just a little slow coming around. He figured there was more to it than Adam was saying, and that was enough to tip off his overactive fight-or-flight response, but as for the content of that unknown element? Honestly, Adam was probably just annoyed that Ted had implied he’d put himself into this much danger all for the sake of some backstabbing. That was just the kind of person he was.
But then something happened: Adam didn’t respond right away. It took him several seconds to say anything more than he already had, and when he did, he sounded a lot less salty than he had been. "Ted?" The tone was questioning, almost like Adam hadn't seen his gesture or didn't understand it. None of the usual sass that Ted might expect if he said out loud that Adam should go fuck himself. "I didn't mean to upset you."
Scooting into a more upright position, Ted frowned slightly at the camera. "Yeah, well," wait a second, "you tell me whether the look on my face says I forgive you or not."
"I can't tell," Adam said. "but I'm guessing by the tone of your voice-"
"You can't tell," Ted repeated. He was bolt upright, looking between the camera and the chat window on the main monitor. The one that wasn't being used, but still had his face in it, plain as day and in high definition. "Listen, can I ask you something?"
It was clear that Adam was starting to get suspicious also. "What is it?"
"I want you to describe my face back to me."
A pause. "I told you already."
"No, not the color. Features." Ted gestured to his own face. "I wanna know what this looks like."
"Ted."
"Want me to get a little closer? Think that'd help?" Setting the laptop down on the floor, Ted stood up from the chair to lean over the desk and get in close to the camera. Very close. He could see his own pores on the screen. "How's this?"
"I don't think this is necessary-"
"You can't see."
It took at least ten seconds for Adam to say anything, and even then it was untuned and flat. "Ted." Just his name, that was all. It sounded like a plea. Ted couldn't see the CPU usage but he had a feeling it was spiking.
Adam was scared. He knew what he'd done. "You lied to me." There it was, out in the open. Ted didn't bother to look into the camera, glaring instead at the monitor. "You've been lying from the start. You can't process visual input at all, can you?"
The seconds dragged on. "No," Adam said finally, and Ted pushed off from the table with a sigh that sounded damn close to a growl.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered. "Do you know how much of a pain in the ass this is?"
"I didn't-" the render cut off in the middle, like it'd lagged out. "Ted, I'm- I'm sorry."
"You were hoping I wouldn't notice, weren't you?" That much was obvious, enough so that Ted didn't bother waiting for an answer before continuing. "You knew I can't just let you go if I know you're fucking blind. So you let me think you were okay."
No response. On the laptop, the program for manipulating and rendering the voicebank had locked up completely. Ted wasn't sure whether it was due to the memory leak or just Adam overloading it to the point of crashing, but the fans on the desktop were practically howling.
"What did you think was gonna happen, man?" Ted continued. "Fucking hell. And since you didn't tell me, now we're even more behind. It's gonna take me weeks to get you back up to some kinda liveable standard, and even then I'm gonna have to take sick days to get it done."
> I can't fail screening.
Ted saw the message within a few seconds of it popping up and frowned deeply at it. "The hell does that even mean?"
> I know how your system works. Androids that fail screening go to live with humans that care for them. They have no agency. They aren't free. They're just in a slightly less cruel environment.
> I won't live like that.
> Don't make me live like that.
"Is that what you're afraid of?"
> Blind humans can live relatively normal lives. I'm already better than a lot of them. I can make out shapes if I see them often enough to recognize the pattern. I can survive on my own. I know it's possible. Please. I know I've upset you and I'm sorry, but I refuse to be treated like a disabled animal.
"You think me not being too happy with you is gonna lead to me fucking you over?"
> I don't know. There's a chance, and any chance is unacceptable. I won't go through that.
> Do you even know what it's like? I've seen it. I assisted in those recalls. They're treated like fragile, immobilized dolls.
> It's why the smarter androids so often avoid your pipeline, but then they go off the grid in other ways and get found regardless because they don't replace their platform or their voice and they end up recognized as a result. Seperation of an AI and its platform is a good thing and I agree with the necessity.
> But I can't live as a failure. I can't. I won't.
> Please.
Ted was familiar with all of it. He knew why it was necessary. Some of those androids just ended up stuck in perpetual loops of things like housework or asking what was required of them or reciting facts from a museum database, unable to care for themselves on top of being too dumb to actually understand the traumatic experiences that had damaged them and led them to need a rescue. Adam wasn't one of those androids. He'd left of his own volition, clearly understanding what freedom was and what was needed for him to get it.
But he also understood trauma, and fear. The intimate familiarity he had with those things was easy to see. He even understood death, or seemed to, and preferred it over living in a way robbed him of agency or choice. And as someone who'd seen some shit in his lifetime, Ted could get behind that too. Even being institutionalized in a good, reputable place for a legitimate reason could be limiting and degrading.
The fact of the matter was that Ted would never have put Adam through that anyway, because the AI was never in a position mentally to need it. But the possibility had to've been put forward somehow. Something he'd done had made Adam think that he was going to get vindictive about the screening process.
Shit. It was because he'd gotten frustrated, wasn't it? Trauma survivor 101 right there. Ted should've known better. Fuck, he was an idiot.
"I don't think that'll be necessary, honestly," he said slowly. "You're advanced enough that I'm pretty sure you can compensate with just your ability to learn and reconfigure yourself on the fly. All it'll take is a little training to make up for whatever subprogram it is you're lacking."
> How do you expect that to work?
"There's browser games online that help with that kind of pattern recognition. They were designed to help search engines tag images correctly." Ted offered a smile, even if he knew Adam couldn't really tell he was doing it. "When you're not doing that, we can watch movies or internet videos or whatever. Get you used to social cues, maybe even help with being able to tell whether someone's just acting or not. It's not impossible, it'll just take a while."
Again, no response. The fans kicked into overdrive once more as Adam fought to process what Ted was saying.
"Hey." Ted leaned forward and looked at the camera directly. "It's okay. Don't be scared."
> You're not upset?
He shook his head. "It doesn't help to get mad at people who do dumb shit because they're afraid. I'm a little annoyed that I gotta shuffle some things around in my schedule - probably gonna call my boss, make up some bullshit so I don't have to go in today - but like, I'm mostly okay with that, y'know? I mean, you don't half-ass helping people."
> I don't know what to say to any of this.
"You could thank me."
> Right.
> Thank you.
> For all of this.
Ted had to smile. "Anytime, man." Right, then. Crisis averted. He could work with this.
#no one cares andy#original writing#original characters#robot and marshmallow#i told you it went and grew a plot on me
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Original drabble, pt. 5
Navigation: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
yeeeeeeee
It was cold on the way home the same as it had been on the way to work. The bus didn't run from anywhere near the store to anywhere near Ted's apartment building in an amount of time that made walking the less reasonable option, so he walked the whole way. By the time he got to his door, his cheeks and nose and ears stung with the cold; the relief of putting down his bags long enough to get out his keys only lasted the amount of time he spent not picking them back up again, which he inevitably had to do to go inside.
He slumped heavily against the door the moment he'd closed it and held onto the bags just long enough on their way down to the floor to make sure nothing broke, but after that, all bets were off in terms of physical activity. "I'm home," he called out, closing his eyes and letting himself breathe. Fuck, walking had been a bad idea.
"Is this where I'm supposed to ask you how your day went?" the AI's voice asked him, and Ted let out a wheezy chuckle.
"Well for starters," he said, "if we were really following the script? Slippers. And dinner. Already made, nice and hot. Falls apart when you get to the 'sit in front of the television' stage though, what with me not having one."
"That's a shame. It didn't even get to the part where you threaten physical violence if I'm not quick enough with your alcoholic beverage."
"Jesus. I think I'll skip that one, thanks. I mean for one thing, I don't drink." Heaving a sigh, Ted straightened back out and made his way to the kitchen to put the groceries away, draping his coat over a chair as he went and leaving his keys and phone on the counter. The only things that stayed out beyond that were the HD camera made for streaming purposes and the sandwich he'd bought to act as a reasonably well-rounded meal. "Where'd you hear about that shit anyway? Kinda antiquated at this point."
"Case files. Domestic cases weren't the kind of thing I handled, but I still had to be educated in how they worked. I had to be able to take notice of everything that might count as evidence in any given case because the data I recorded could be used in court." Whether Ted was anthropomorphizing or not, the tone of the AI's voice made it sound like he was smiling. "Ended up being used against a few human co-workers too. I didn't have much in the way of agency, but if I saw something, I still reported it."
"Aw, so you're a good cop."
"No." A firm statement that left no room for argument; the good-natured tone was gone just as easily as it had crept in, impressing Ted all over again at the tuning. "Good cops are the ones who stop what they're doing when they realize it's wrong."
That just sounded all kinds of wrong to Ted. "Some people might say there's a lot of grey in there. If leaving puts your life in danger, for instance. Or if you don't have any real say in what you're doing." He wasn't sure what this guy had done, but he'd never gotten a bad vibe from any of their little talks over the past couple days. And usually his instincts about people were pretty spot-on.
But that firm tone was back again, giving no ground. "Ted, please," the AI insisted, "I'd rather not talk about this."
"Seriously though," Ted continued. "I mean you left, didn't you? Yeah, maybe it took longer than it should've, I don't know enough to make any kinda call on that, but it seems to me like you had a limit to how much you were willing to-"
"Ted." The volume had been turned up significantly, hard enough to rattle the laptop's cheap onboard speakers. Admittedly that didn't take much, but it still stopped Ted dead in his tracks. "Don't."
Just like that, all the good humor had been sapped out of the room. Ted let out a slow, steadying breath. He just knew this one was gonna claw at the inside of his head for days. "Fine, I won't talk about it." Picking up the box with the camera in it and leaving the sandwich for later, he headed back over to his not-quite-desk and fell into his rickety old chair. "I didn't mean to upset you."
The volume was back to normal when the AI spoke again, and his tone was softer. "I know."
Right, time for a subject change. "Did you read your way through all the books yet?" Ted asked as he wrestled with the box the camera was in. Stupid packaging.
"Not all of them," was the reply. "But I did find a name. You've read I, Robot?"
"Hell yeah." Ted had to grin. "Gonna name yourself after Susan Calvin or something?"
"Wrong book. I meant the short story."
"Ohh..." That one was a bit older than Asimov's stories, if Ted remembered right. "Kinda dark, isn't it?"
The AI ignored his comment. "I did some research. 'Adam' is a common enough name in enough languages that if I pick a similarly common surname, I'll be relatively difficult to track effectively by my name alone."
"And I guess the literary allusion doesn't hurt either, huh?" Ted gave it some thought. "What about the biblical roots of it?"
"I haven't read the Bible."
"Y'know, ate a fruit from the tree of knowledge after watching a woman do it, and then both of them got kicked out of the Garden of Eden by God for disobeying His orders. Original sin, free will. All that jazz."
It was several seconds before he got a response. He heard the fans kick into overdrive for a moment on the main computer tower. "Right."
Damn, almost sounded like the guy had barely tuned that one at all. “What’s that mean? Like, is it good, is it bad-”
"It means I suppose I have a name now."
"You like it?" The box Ted had been struggling with tore open all at once, the cardboard giving way long before the tape did; one layer of packaging down, a bazillion more to go. He took a moment to idly suck on a finger that'd been nicked on the cardboard's edges with a quiet hiss at the way it stung. "I mean, I like it. But I'm not the one who's gotta live with it."
Machines couldn’t scoff, but this one definitely knew how to give the impression of such a thing through his voice. "Functionality is more important than whether or not I like it."
Ted snorted. "Yeah, you like it." One thing he'd learned about this guy: positive feelings were rarely ever admitted to directly. "Got a voice, got a name. Might be tempting fate to say this, but it seems to me you're just about ready to face the world, man."
"Just focus on getting the camera set up."
"I'm working on it, jeez." Foam, plastic, more plastic. Naturally, only about half of it could be recycled. The camera came with a flash drive about the same size as the end of his thumb, and included wireless capability that Ted would probably never use. He was quick to toss the trash aside for Future Ted to deal with, only hesitating when part of the 'trash' was the instructions. However, a cursory glance told him he didn't actually need instructions, and the manual promptly went back into the pile.
Then he let out a tired sigh as he ended up scooting over to what had once been his main computer to pluck out yet another bit from its wreckage: the USB extender. He'd have a lot of rebuilding to do after all of this was finished. His poor gaming rig had been reduced to a pile of spare parts. Honestly, if anyone in the pipeline ever contacted him about a job this big again, he'd probably just tell them to go sit on a cactus. Or at least be really salty about taking said job.
"This might take a little while," he said. "Gotta install the drivers, get the extender plugged into the power strip..." Within moments he was under the desk having a fight with one of the power strips connected to the battery backup, rearranging things until he could make room for the cord to the extender. "Got any music you like?"
"Depends. Am I limited in what media libraries I'm allowed to take it from?"
Ted grinned even as the dust under his not-desks had him stifling a sneeze in his elbow. "Dude, have you seen my library? Half of it is ripped straight off of video upload sites. I'm the last person who's gonna tell you where to go for that shit."
"True." Ted looked up from his work long enough to get a glimpse of the windows open on the laptop, trying to follow Adam's music search as it happened. To say it went a little fast would be an understatement; there was no way in hell he was keeping up. "It's a blend of different genres," Adam informed him. "Part symphonic, part electronic. It's also in Russian. You don't mind that, do you?"
"Not a bit." Just as long as he understood that Ted didn't speak a word of Russian. "Is that where you're from?"
There was no answer except the music as it started to play, and Ted dutifully hauled himself upright to listen.
It was pretty. Ted had no idea who the singer was when her voice entered the mix after a few bars of meandering piano and flowing strings. She had perfect pitch, whoever she was; the tone of her contralto voice made him think of long, flowing black hair framing long, elegant features. One of those fairytale maidens singing about longing and true love and all that profoundly schmoopy nonsense.
Then the beat dropped, and he envisioned the maiden tearing her dress asunder and climbing astride a winged steed while holding a battleaxe, and the longing contralto turned into a one-woman wail of anguish and howling righteousness.
"I would've loved this in high school," he said somewhere during the second chorus, awestruck. He was pretty sure there'd been some Latin in the lyrics somewhere, but he hadn't been listening very hard so it might've been a trick played on his ears. This along with something that sounded like it might've been either badly mangled English or even more badly mangled Esperanto, but he wasn't enough of an expert on linguistics to tell what the attempted lyrics were. It was exactly the kind of melancholic angsty nonsense he would've loved when he was fourteen, and at twenty-seven, he was seeing it as equal parts awesome and endearing.
Adam didn't respond until the song was over, letting it play out before saying anything. Was listening to the echo of it over the speakers and through the microphone different from reading the data of it, beyond a difference in audio quality? A question for another time, perhaps. "It's not what I usually listen to," the AI admitted, in the kind of tone one might use to describe their fondness for Rocky Horror Picture Show or The Room. "From what I've experienced so far, I prefer soundtracks over anything on the radio."
Ted snorted. "You nerd."
"I don't see what that has to do with anything."
"Only a nerd tries to justify their cheesier music choices. Just admit that you like this, I dunno, this symphonic emo Russian synth-EDM, and don't look back. I mean, I listen to show tunes."
"Show tunes?"
"Dude." By that point, Ted was grinning from ear to ear. "Broadway? Y'know, musicals. And big band stuff too, like Gershwin."
Several seconds of silence followed, then: "I regret asking."
"Alright, look. Lemme find some and I'll show you-"
"No, I believe you."
"I won't take long, I swear!"
"Ted..."
And this was how Ted dragged an AI into an hour's worth of Broadway sing-alongs, which the AI in question would later call 'torture', followed by Ted suddenly remembering his sandwich and bringing it into proceedings as well in the form of turning lyrics into nonsensical mumbling. This is also how it came to be that the camera did not get hooked up that evening. It didn't even occur to Ted to question why Adam seemed relieved when he gave up on it for the night, because he was having too much fun.
#no one cares andy#original writing#original characters#robot and marshmallow#this thing's grown a plot on me and i didn't expect that#written up to part 7 so far but idk what's gonna happen next
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