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starfaring-princelotor · 4 years

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Fifth Sight

Summary: You find Lotor, but bringing him back to reality is harder than expected.

★ Disclaimer: I do not ship Lotura and I respectfully ask that this story to not be tagged as Lotura. This is a Lotor x Reader/Self-Insert OC story which is in no way related to Allura at all. Please be respectful of my chosen pairing. ★

Warnings: Minor gaslighting, triggered moments, mentions of blood and death.

Touch Series: Part One___Part Two___Part Three___Part Four___Part Five

Taste Series: Part One___Part Two___Part Three___Part Four___Part Five

Sight Series: Part One___Part Two___Part Three___Part Four___Part Five

“The mind is a dangerous place. A place where anything and nothing can coexist at once. A place that will drive even the most virtuous of people to madness. A place where a careless soul can find themselves wandering aimlessly, lost for all of eternity.”

Lotor’s words echoed in your mind as you stared at the sharp-edged face of Sincline. It was much more intimidating up close, especially with those eyes radiating specks of power, of quintessence, directly at the two of you. He stood by your side to also take in the magnificent creation in terrifying, yet awed, appreciation.

He tilted his head down just a bit, just enough that you noticed his solemn expression from the corner of your eye. “You must be careful. Do not trust what you see with your own two eyes. When I showed you my memories, it was my choice to do so. My choice to trust you, to share with you.”

Now, you turned to fully face him. The defined, regal edges of his face, those nebulous eyes gazing far into space and beyond. He was worried. He was giving you all this information to prepare you for the worst, which you were absolutely sure he witnessed first-hand plenty of times before. The hoktril did more than control people’s bodies. It controlled their minds.

And breaking that control? It comes with a hefty price.

“Sincline is different and so is your Emperor. One wrong move can start a series of irreversible damage, both to you and to him,” Lotor tried to suppress the guilt he felt over Narti, he tried so hard, “Not even in my reality have we had the proper research done about mind sharing. If this does not work, if you are...if you can not return to your own body, Kylan knows what must be done.”

“Yes. Yes, he informed me of what he will do if I fail.”

Four of the five years have already passed since both Voltron and Emperor Lotor disappeared. You know not what happened to the Coalition nor Blades of Marmora. All you knew was that this was the last year before the Galra Empire declares Lotor dead. The last year before another Kral Zera ceremony commences and someone else sits on the throne.

But what happens after that? Would the universe be submerged in war for another 10,000 years? Can the universe survive that long without peace? Or will planets rely on the return of Voltron once more?

No. No, Kylan knows better than that. Voltron was not an ally anymore. Voltron was not reliable. It was no use depending on weapons of mass destruction to save those suffering under war. This was something Kylan understood and, after all that has happened? You would be slapped silly to believe anyone else would side with Voltron if they came back.

No more one savior. It was time to unite everyone for a chance of peace, both through the Galra and the rest of the known universe.

“Before I go, there is something...else I wish to share. Something personal,” his voice quieted down when he reached the last word.

You remained silent, allowing him to continue gifting you with his advice, but no more words followed his train of thought. Now, he took a few precious seconds to study you. Your complexion had paled slightly since he first laid his eyes on you. The shine in your hair? Dull and unkempt, save a quick run through with your fingers as a poor replacement for a comb. Overall, it seemed as though your health was failing. And failing fast.

It tugged at his heartstrings to see you like this, but you needn’t know that bit of information. Perhaps you just needed...time to recollect yourself. To take care of yourself without his aid. Sometimes, for one to grow, the best course of action is inaction. Step out of the way. Finding Lotor on your own would do you good. Reaching for that hope, achieving what you thought was impossible, it will do you good.

“What is it?” you asked after a prolonged moment of staring on both of your ends.

“Nothing. It is nothing.” Lotor raised his chin proudly, which you mimicked perfectly.

Good, good. You still had that spark in you somewhere. That inner compass has not shattered yet. He hopes this trial will be successful. You have the tools, you have the means, you have the drive and the unbreakable will. You learned from the best, know the humbleness that came with your lessons, understood the risk of commanding the power of life-sharers.

“I wish you all the luck in the universe.”

But he knew, deep down, you didn’t need luck. Especially when he saw the elite skills of the survivor in your eyes.

The plan was solid. Everything was set up how it should be, whether you failed or not. Your training was your strength, your mind resolute, and the choice? The final decision resting in your overworked hands? You were ready. And yet, some part of you, some small throbbing part in the scar on your shoulder, kept whispering caution signs. Warnings. Remember the past.

Remember how you almost died when you thought everything was going according to…

“Are you ready?”

You took a deep breath, truly considering Kylan’s words. The Paladins were watching with tension thick in the air as the platform floated in front of the mech’s face. There was something unnerving about those hollow eyes, those quintessence-fueled mist leaking out of the corners of it. That feeling of being watched, being judged, being held under a microscope only intensified the closer you stepped towards it.

It reminded you facing a door, completely unaware of what would happen when you opened it.

“Kylan,” your voice held no inflection, no hesitation, but when you turned to face him, he saw something different flutter behind your eyes.

Resolute, yes, but also...peaceful in a way he only saw in the most desperate of patients. Those who knew the road was ending. Those who still walked forward knowing their choices were running out. But even in the face of the unknown, there was always a choice. You were confident. You were ready for whatever you will witness within Sincline.

This was not the final destination for you, but if it was, then you would be damn glad for Plan B.

“You are ready,” he answered for you.

And that was what you needed to hear. Closing your eyes, taking a deep breath, then reaching forward, your fingertips grazed the cold, dark metal. You pressed your palm flat against the faceplate, calm and collected, but your heart was loud in your ears. You’ve gone off by yourself before. You’ve survived by yourself before. Yet, this? Going somewhere no one else has gone before? Into a realm where the hypothetical soul resided?

It was a new frontier you weren’t sure you would return from. Or want to.

With your mild glowing hand, you felt some force pulling you. From your wrist to your shoulder, your chest, your entire body, all the energy began draining from your very soul. What you expected was to feel cold, feel fear, feel a shared connection of some sort. A prodding into your mind, something familiar like with Kylan or with the Black Paladin.

Panic should have instinctively kicked in, should have forced you to back away, retreat from this unfamiliar path before you. This wasn’t the expected result. You weren’t meant to feel...warm. Comfortable, peaceful in the mind, untroubled, as if unreasonably high on a dose of serotonin. The inner turmoil was gone, the black haze clouding your mind these past years was dissipating and clearing a way for tranquility.

It felt so, so good. You couldn’t think of a time when you last felt such innocent emotions. And it lured you in. Made you forget for a moment where you were, what you were doing, what your plan was. The hum of the ship was muted. The thudding in your chest reduced to normal. Slow, slower yet. Your sight became hooded, body too lax to hold yourself up properly, and you fell.

You fell into a deep sleep, unaware of Kylan’s voice calling to you, catching you in his arms as his hand immediately reached up to test your pulse. You had none.

It was odd to say, to even think about considering the grand years of the human lifespan, but you believed that souls simply cease to exist after the body can not function any longer. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. For the birth of life, there are fatal wounds of death. For tears of sadness, there are tears of happiness. For every act of war, there are strives for peace. It was a cycle. Always changing, always moving, never stagnant.

Once the body fails, what is the point of the soul staying?

Moving meant being alive. Running meant going forward. And fighting meant defending. You reject times of peace because there really wasn’t a time of peace. You reject war because war doesn’t last forever. There was a balance you learned in life, your life, other people’s lives. Something you would have never discovered had you not took that step into the unknown. Had you not tripped, had not begged, had not fallen into the pit of despair and pulled yourself out of it.

And yet, you were glad you were wrong.

”Good morning, darling.”

Blearily, your eyes parted and slowly adjusted to the view before you. The sight was one for sore eyes, one a deep part of you doubted was real at all. It couldn’t possibly be that easy. It couldn’t possibly be...him, staring at you with curiosity and a softness you didn’t dare believe was directed at you. And was that a smile?

He was smiling. Lotor was wearing a genuine smile on his face.

Silver locks were draped over his pillow as he used his palm to hold his head up, elbow propped on the cushy bed. He wasn’t in his usual armor attire. Actually, he wore a loose shirt that showed off his defined collarbones and smooth skin along his neck. You dragged your eyes upwards, from his mouth to his nose and eventually his nebulous orbs, those colors you rarely glimpsed at when in a deep dream.

And you whispered, quietly, hesitantly, hopefully, “...Lotor?”

At that, his entire demeanor brightened up, “It is good to see you again.”

Why were you so...comfortable?

“I am here.”

He raised his fingertips to skim over your cheek, brushing a stray hair from obstructing his view of you. The affectionate gesture felt potent, much more than you ever recall like the time he kissed you, held you at night, kept you safe and secure against his encompassing form. The night he bit you was one that burned into your memory. The panic you remembered, the demand to stop, the weak excuse you gave him.

But now? Oh, your chest was blooming with caressing tendrils of happiness as if this? Right here? With Lotor? It was meant to be. It felt perfect. Nothing felt wrong, not even the flow of peace surrounding your very being. There was no pain, no fatigue, no dark thoughts suffocating your mind with every breath you take.

It was...tranquil. And it felt so, so good.

“Why are you crying, my dear?” he held no worry in his tone as he erased tears away from the corner of your eyes with his thumb.

And you were. Your brows were pinched and the trickle of tears watering your sight, blurring the image of Lotor - fuck, he really is here - right besides you. His gentle smile, his luminous shining gaze, the warmth of his hand reminding you of the very first time he held you like so. You sobbed, you couldn't contain it, your heart aching and yearning for you to go. Go to him. Be at peace.

This is what you were born for, to be with him. To be happy.

No words were said. You rushed forward and buried your face into his chest, tucking yourself under his chin as if the galaxy itself fitted you there. These aren't tears of sadness, or agony, or slow-spiraling despair into an empty hollowness. These were joyful tears, feelings of accomplishment after toiling for years under duress. Tears of relief. At long last, you found your sanctuary.

“Lotor…” you choked out, he held you tighter, “Lotor...you...Lotor…”

It was then you would come to realize that, when the matters of the heart and the brain were at battle with one another, your mind has always, always, became the champion. Except here, right here and right now. When you shunted away those festering feelings, boarded them up and told them to stay, nurtured them in your own silent spring way, they finally burst forth in never-ending waves of unfiltered, unrestrained happiness.

You once thought it was suffocating to release so much. Your father’s death, the guilt of inaction costing him his life, it never left you. And again, this time, by choice. You chose the wrong side of the morality battle with the universe on the thin, fine line and it took more and more energy to reinforce the inner chambers of your heart. You lost Lotor. You swear, you lost him.

“I am here. Please, let me see your face once more. Let me banish this sorrow from your eyes.”

And he did as he promised, touches so soft you were hard pressed to believe he really was a gentle giant. Carefully tending to you with eyes shining so brightly of peace tenderness, as if time itself no longer existed. This felt right. You could sense that he, too, radiated the same feelings of completion between what little space was left between you two.

This felt perfect.

They say happiness is a mix of chemicals released in the brain which triggers those good, addictive feelings. If that were the case, it was a wonder they never created it into a morally-acceptable pharmaceutical drug upon discovery. But, with your gaze lingering on the eternal sun setting over the horizon, you thought maybe this was better. Especially with Lotor holding your hand in his, that curious thumb idly tracing mindless paths over your skin.

The tickling sensation pulled a grin from you. The squeeze pushed you to lean against him, shoulder to shoulder. He wasn’t warm, but you still felt the comfort of companionship wash over you regardless. Not even the sun’s rays were of concern to you. Just him, just Lotor.

“It feels good to be home,” you said, “I never thought I would see this place again. I thought the sea had swallowed the island whole.”

“Nature has a funny way of taking and giving,” he spoke softly while shifting to slide his hand around your waist and you had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t talking about the ocean, “Will you tell me about your life here?”

Oh, but where to start? Do you tell him why you moved here? Tell him about abandoning your post as a doctor to live a simple life of fishing? Or about how every night, you childishly watched the stars and wondered if that age old myth about wishes were true?

“I was scared, after my father passed away. So, I ran to the only place he told me about. His home, the island he grew up in without a care or concern in the world. I thought that I would feel safer here. Safer from...death, I suppose,” you paused, reflecting upon your past, “But even though the weight became lighter, I still felt terribly alone. If Shiro hadn’t found me first, I would’ve eventually looked for him.”

“You do not have relatives? Your mother? A sibling?”

Usually, you would feel a disturbing, harrowing emptiness when your mother was mentioned. A reluctance to speak about her, to even think about her, would have left you disheartened for many days and nights.

Old habits die hard, especially when they turn into an instinctive reflex.

“What about your mother, Lotor?”

Then he leaned his cheek on the crown of your temple.

“Honerva. Her name was Honerva. An intelligent woman, or so I have read in her research. And then, she became ill. Poisoned with pure quintessence exposure.” Lotor contemplated about his mother, about the evil woman she became, about the monster, the witch who was his only tie to Altea, “She died long ago. The hollow person she is now is nothing more than a shell of her former self.”

His father’s puppet. How did they fall so far? He supposed he could ask himself the same thing, but that thought never had a chance to flutter over his head. It was instantly wiped away, banished into nothing, and those good, good feelings came back again.

“Do you miss her?”

“No. What has happened, has happened. We may be tied by blood, but I will never accept her as kin.”

Not after everything she has done. Not after everything she allowed to happen. Not after preventing him from saving those he loved.

And yet, the calmness pulsating from Lotor’s soul mixed with your own feelings as well. It was...it was refreshing, like two rivers finally joining in kindred spirit after years of wayfaring. Of carving new paths, of going where no road existed, of coming to terms with the cards dealt to you. No one was ever a lone wolf in the galaxy and it truly seemed like you finally found your partner for life.

“Well, that makes two of us with less than subpar mothers.”

The meager pace of daily life was, in fact, something you greatly enjoyed. In times of war, peace prevails, and all that hoohaw. Now, it seemed like fate had decided that the horrors of bodies dropping, blood oozing, limbs breaking, and sorrowful cries should no longer be placed upon your shoulders. And, by that strange stroke of luck, it was decided that Lotor should have a well-deserved break, too.

And, boy, you were going to extend this ceasefire zone for as long as you can. Days, months, years, you lost track, and you lost something equally as important during that time as well.

“My love, will you come here for a second?” you asked from the kitchen, ladle stirring the pot slowly, “Can you taste this for me? I think it might be a little too spicy.”

He came through the door, towel around his neck and droplets of water glistening on his face. A thing that became a normal occurrence was his fascination with being as bare as possible within the meager home, sans briefs per your request. A thing that also became a normal occurrence was his unquenchable appetite for trying different foods.

“Careful, it’s hot. Very hot,” you warned, holding the lip of the utensil up for him.

He sipped. He licked his lips. He grinned with a nod of approval, like he always did before.

“Tastes perfect. You must be a natural at this, no? Perhaps I should cook for you a famous dish a kind old lady on Balmera made for me,” Lotor leaned against the wall, showing off only his best assets for your eyes only, “Did I ever tell you about my travels to the Balmera?”

You loved listening to his stories, especially about those of his trials and tribulations throughout the universe. One day, you will experience it for yourself. One day, he will take you there. One day. Lotor always ended his rambling with those two little words. One day. One day, I promise.

Traveling around Earth was one thing, but traveling the entire known and unknown cosmos? That was the adventure of a lifetime and you would be a fool to pass that up. Who else better to go with than Lotor? Than your friend? Than your...your best friend? Was that the right term? Or was it something more?

His voice faded into silence, soup still piping hot and tempting right before him. Strange, considering he was right in the middle of the interesting part of his story, the part where a cave-in nearly took his leg, but as fascinating as that was, as much as he adored sharing such personal anecdotes of his life, there was something that caused him to stop so suddenly.

And as you could feel his emotions, his thoughts, Lotor could damn well feel yours, too.

“May I kiss you?”

You felt his desire before you heard his question, if those smoldering, curious, wanting, needing stares was anything to go by. The intensity of that small, burning ember - that spark ignited many moons ago, that which never went dormant - was waiting solely on your word. This fervent passion connecting you two together through unseen bonds was always so potent, if not willfully repressed.

“Please?”

Lotor was a man of love, despite being devoid of it from his parents, despite it being cruelly yanked from him by fate, and despite his battle with the entire universe itself.

You felt this. You felt all of this. You kissed him.

And he tasted like freedom.

Where there was water, there was land. And when the land is rich with nutrients, so are the luscious trees growing tall and ripe with seeds of fruit. Today, you had told him you wanted to watch the sunset from the cliffs, just high enough that the tree tops wouldn't block the scenery but add to it instead. And, never one to turn down adventure, he gladly let you lead him along.

This was your territory after all. This jungle was not one he knows of, but he does know your fingers entangled with his will guide him where he needs to be. Whether that be in safety or danger, Lotor felt deep in his chest that no matter what happens, things will turn out fine in the end. Blissfully fine and happy. Ignorantly unaware and falsely sheltered.

Shyness? Secrets? Hidden feelings? No such thing existed between you two. Nothing but the love of lovers, the barest truth of trust, the unwavering loyalty of the heart.

By the time you helped haul him up the last edge, the sun was just beginning to set in that picture-perfect sky of orange and red. No clouds, just the distant call of gulls accompanying a windward breeze. Neither of you remembered anything but this moment, here and now. This was all you needed to achieve that serenity etched in your soul.

“Beautiful,” Lotor murmured, eyes half-lidded in a daze, then he added, “The sunset is not bad either.”

The result was instantaneous and exactly what he wanted. A smile, a pure smile of joy, adding to the gorgeousness of your being.

He brushed his knuckles against your cheek, touching you for the sake of touching, “Thank you, my dear.”

“For what? I know that hike up here wasn’t rough. You didn't even break a sweat.”

“No, it was easy. In fact, I could have gotten us here quicker if you let me carry you,” came his cheeky reply, but before you could retort back, he traced his thumb on the plump of your lower lip to silence you, “No, dear, I wanted to thank you. For being here, with me.”

You leaned into his palm, your own hand coming up to make sure he didn't pull away, and a fluttering softness fell over your eyes. “There is no where else I would rather be, Lotor. I love you.”

You have to know that.

He does. Of course he does and he meshed his lips with yours to prove exactly how much he loves you in return. Actions speak louder than words, they always have. Although Lotor was a man who could articulate poetry without putting any effort into it, he knew that the best way to express exactly how he feels would be through his hands.

It took years to carefully nurture this bond, this connection no one else would understand, and it all started with a single touch. And you were so, so glad that burning sensation was no longer there. Not when his fingertips idly meandered their way up the side of your hips, not when he meticulously drew calming symbols on your sensitive skin, and not when he...caressed the raised indents of that scar on your shoulder.

No, no, when he touched that, there was no burning sensation, only an intense throb of discomfort. That surge of something different was enough of a shock to make you pull back, away from his pliant lips that promised oh so much. That feeling...you didn't like it. And it was such a new touch you never thought you would experience with Lotor that it left you confused and hesitant.

For the first time in what you thought were years of living a normal, peaceful life with him, something prodded you in the back of your mind. An unpleasant seed of...bad omens? Is that what it was? No, impossible. As long as you can remember, the two of you have felt nothing but absolute bliss and happiness when being around each other.

“Darling?”

Lotor felt it too. He was concerned, brows furrowed with uncertainty of exactly what just happened. He was suddenly, acutely aware of how this connection, this freedom with no limitations, and how it affected the both of you in great and unclear ways. It came as no surprise then, that your hands clutched his for support.

But support for what? He didn’t know the answer if you didn’t know the question.

The scar was the key. While you remembered joyful moments with Lotor, you became aware you couldn't remember any other moment in your life that brought you happiness before him. You couldn't even remember any painful memories at all, not with him and not with anything else in your history. But this scar, fuck, you had a gut feeling that it was a crucially important time in your life.

So why couldn't you remember how you got it?

You apprehensively touched it, staring at yourself in the mirror for any change to happen. Nothing, except that same initial uncomfortable feeling from a few days ago. Although the sun was setting and Lotor would soon come in to drag you to bed with him, you couldn't help but simply wonder with child-like curiosity about it.

He came up from behind you, letting his presence be known by inquisitively humming his arrival, “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are? I feel like I should mention it more often.”

Lotor wound his arms loosely in a hug around you, back pressed against his bare chest, “Getting complimented by a handsome young man such as yourself is always a welcome gift.”

A smooth chuckle rumbled from behind you, “Young? That is debatable considering I am no, how do you say? No Summer chicken?”

“Spring chicken. No spring chicken.” You brought a hand up to guide his face to the space between your shoulder, to which he gladly followed, “But you are young where it counts.”

At that, he greedily pressed himself harder against you, “Ah, yes, where it counts.”

Like right here, where he kissed your cheek. Right here, where he dragged his lips to your ear, releasing a hot breath upon your skin. Right here, along the soft slope of your neck. Right here, at that faded scar with an untold history, a lost history.

“Lotor, do you...know how I got this scar?”

“Mm? This one?” he questioned with a gentle press of his mouth, a whisper of his careful ministrations.

“Yes. I don’t recall anything about it,” your fingertips gently threaded through his hair, “Do you remember your scars?”

Lotor paused, not because of the topic at hand that would have normally brought up instant recollections concerning his bodily scars, but because for the life of him he couldn’t remember either. His body was littered with them, some big, some small, jagged, puckered from not healing correctly, discolored from exposure to intense heat. There was a time he could tell you his personal history for each and every one.

Now? His memory was drawing a blank.

“...No. No, I do not.”

And that was startling, so startling that both of you felt the same urge to discover the reason why neither of you could remember crucial, life changing moments of your past.

Even if they were doused in pain.

It happened sometime during the night. You don’t recall how, or why, but you found yourself wide awake and staring in wonder at Lotor’s resting face. Trying to remember how you two met, your first kiss with him, first shared laugh, first time you shared beds, first time you two spoke. But the memories never came back, no matter how much you searched. It was as if the slow poison of amnesia had already claimed what it sought.

And, oddly enough, you were less scared now that you knew the truth you discovered.

It stole everything from you right under your nose. Yet, for the life of you, you didn't know how to get it back. They were your memories, your history, regardless if it was good or bad. But did you want to remember? Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. Maybe you two were better off not knowing about the imaginative atrocities that happened in your past. Maybe you should just enjoy what you have now.

“I can feel your mind wandering a thousand light years away, darling,” a sleepy-laden purr spoke, “And your hands gripping my waist also gave it way.”

Immediately, you released your hold and gave him a gentle, soothing rub in apology. Lotor responded in kind, always holding you preciously in his warm embrace. If he could already feel your thoughts, then he must at least know the vague acceptance drifting between the bond.

“Tell me.”

After he placed a kiss on your forehead, you sighed, “Do you...feel like we’re missing something? Forgetting something?”

“Like what, dear?”

“I don’t know. It’s like I forgot to turn off the stove. Or I left the water running in the tub.”

“Hm. Catastrophically deadly, yet can easily be rectified if we but get out of bed and look for ourselves,” Lotor mused, almost jokingly, almost serious, “In truth, I wonder the same thing.”

He was exquisitely happy. That much was true. It was like a haze, an addicting haze that fogged his mind and distracted him in only the most pleasant of ways. But how did he get here? How did you get here? For all the days that came, the past was gone, and he was a man who lived in the now. Lived for the future, for the endless possibilities he was to face. A future with you.

Lotor shifted onto his back, allowing you to use his chest as a pillow of sorts, then let out a deep sigh. Part of him should appreciate what he has, for he was positively sure he worked hard for it. This was the fruit of his labor. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Yet, another part, one muffled and slowly picked away from his thoughts, told him the truth. If he couldn’t remember how he achieved this, all the blood, sweat, and tears he went through, then did he really deserve it?

“Should we be...worried?”

“This scar here, how did you get it?”

Your fingertips traced up along his forearm, across the discolored flesh with darkened pigmentation. A burn, most likely, but healed miraculously well. It had a circular ridge to it, one telling the both of you that it most likely was a through and through bullet shot. Lotor followed the curious pattern with his eyes as he tried to rack his brain for an answer.

“I am not quite sure, but the way you touch it sends a delightful shiver down my spine,” he gently plucked your fingers from his arm then kissed them ever so softly, “Which tells me that it most likely had something to do with you.”

Why else would he feel good when you touched him?

He continued with a plan in mind, “Darling, do you get that same feeling when I touch you here?”

His lips trailed to the back of your palm, laying claim higher and higher, until he stopped at the jagged faded lines ending at your elbow. Lotor imagined you must’ve fought a lion, a beast, for such claws to embed deeply into your skin. He imagined you healing yourself, wrapping gauze around your wound to prevent a bloody mess. He saw you as a fighter, a survivor, but from what?

“I do. It feels…” you murmured, your own thoughts muddled with a fading feeling of relief, “Safe. I feel safe.”

Not scared. Not panicked. But rather, a lingering catharsis that you were guarded. You were in good hands.

Then, as you were admiring the fond look behind his eyes, a flash of horrified fear crossed his face. Something was wrong. Shambles of buildings were falling. A dark pit was behind him, just about to swallow him whole. The blaring red alarm, entire room crumbling, glass flying and hazardous electrical wires sparking all around. But his face, you saw him falling, falling, eyes wide and -

And you blinked. It all vanished. You blinked again, breath caught in your fear.

Tears welled up in your eyes and your heart burst with waves of pain, choking your throat from speaking. What was that? What was that grip squeezing your chest? Silencing you from telling the one you love that you saw him die, saw him fall to his death while you couldn’t help him. While you couldn’t save him.

“Dear? My heart, what - “ he pulled you to his chest, crushing you in a hug, a protective shield to defend you from what was ailing you, “What was that?”

Whatever it was, he felt it resonate in his soul. Lotor did not like it.

Most, not all, of Lotor’s dreams consisted of the time he spent with you on the beach, or times spent together on the sand stargazing off into deep space. They were tranquil and he always woke up smiling, feeling happier when he could turn around and see your resting face in the morning. They were blissful, even. But this one? His last dream? It was a nightmare, one he didn't think was even possible to conjure up in his mind.

Lotor’s eyes shot open as cold dread trickled over his body. He reacted instantaneously, an instinct his muscles knew by memory when something scared him. The need to survive when danger was lurking in the shadows. And there was definitely something frightening him at that moment. He couldn’t pinpoint it, but he knew what he felt wasn’t good.

“Mm...Lotor?”

His bare back was turned towards you as he sat on the edge of the bed. Shoulders hunched, head hung low and his hair attempted to cover his troubled posture. He was still shocked by what he witnessed, whether real or not, and he found that his voice was failing him right now. Not when it was still fresh in his mind. That scene, they were gruesome, horrendous, and he -

But you felt his turmoil. A small inkling of it, but it was there and he was hurting.

“Go back to sleep,” he managed to whisper just loud enough that you heard him.

“What’s wrong, my love?”

Love. Was that why it hurt so much? Because he saw someone he loves die? He heard the deafening bang of a bullet. He saw it pierce right through your shoulder. He saw you fall, he saw you bleed, he felt it all. The warm blood staining his clothes, your hands, fuck, your hands clinging onto him for dear life. He felt the life drain from your eyes, he felt the pain of his heart ripping into irreplaceable pieces -

No. No, no, no...!

Lotor brought a hand up to cover his eyes, needing something, anything, to tear those images from his mind. The comforter shuffled behind him and your body pressed up against his as an anchor to reality. A reassurance that whatever was clouding his mind, it will pass, and you were alive. You were here with him. The evidence was right there. The proof was in your touch.

“I saw you die.”

And he wishes he never had to say those four words ever again.

It happened more frequently now, but with unfamiliar faces neither of you could name. Lotor’s dreams became more vivid, more clear in the night when he was deep in sleep. Your hallucinations would flash randomly during the day, sometimes he would notice with the way you turned away from him. Sometimes you would bury your face in his chest. Sometimes the shared pain would steal the breath right out of your chest.

It got worse and worse. Lotor dreamt of his mother. His father. Then a woman with antennas and triangular facial markings. Then he saw people like him, with pointed ears and uncertainty on their expressions. He dreamt of a cat. A blind teammate. His invaluable generals. Death, there was death. So much death. Countless screams of those he cared for, those he trusted.

Then...a glass cage.

“I don’t want to see this anymore,” you stared at the sunset as the bonfire blended almost perfectly with the sky, “I don’t want to see all this...this pain.”

The war, the soldiers, a man you called brother in arms. Young infantry dying by the dozen. Faces of unknown species seeking your aid, some you felt were evil. Some who were good. Some you purposely murdered to save the planet. Some you saved who backstabbed you for their own gain. The slaves, the refugees, the ones who died in the cell with you. The ones who mourned, who begged to live, who begged for someone to take this pain away.

“Something’s wrong,” he was tired, oh so tired, “This is not...it is not right.”

What happened to the good feelings? The laughs, the smiles, the high he gets when you say those three little words to him? Or was that the illusion? Were you real? Was he? Was any of this?

Lotor had a desperate feeling he was needed somewhere. And you? You had a gut intuition that you were here for something important. Something more important than just you and him living a never-ending peaceful life. Why else would these visions, these nightmares, warn the both of you now?

“We prepare tonight. Tomorrow, we leave at dawn.”

You knew the jungle like the back of your hand. Navigating around with not one, but two expert survivalists was no problem. The real issue was that the trees, the dirt paths, somehow kept leading you two back to the small hut you once called home. The ocean was endless, not even with a sliver of land in the distance. And it seemed as if time itself was looped with an eternal sunset painted in place. But more importantly, you two were scarily isolated. There wasn’t another soul on the island. No village, no city, no one at all.

The two of you traveled as far as you can, hand in hand with barely enough determination to keep both of you afloat. When fatigue would hit, you would rest for a shorter amount of time recommended. Was your health also not real? Was it possible to walk until the land underneath your feet gave out? Could you breath underwater? Was drowning only an illusion you set upon yourself?

“We’re...is this a simulation?” you asked Lotor upon realizing that, although it had been days since you two last ate, neither of you were hungry, “Are we...are we trapped here? A spell?”

He squeezed your hand as reassurance, “If it is, they are doing a wonderful job at gating our memories.”

There were bits and pieces missing still. You remembered Shiro. Something named...Voltron. You remembered Coran, but there was a person blurred out from your thoughts. And his. Lotor recalls his time in exile as well as running from his father. He recalls killing him. Lighting the flame at the Kral Zera. Oriande. Then, nothing. He woke up here, in a soft bed with you by his side.

“We will get out of here, my dear,” Lotor sealed the promise with a chaste peck of his lips against yours, “We can not dwell here any longer. Is there anything else you can remember from before?”

You closed your eyes and combed your fingers through your hair, “It’s all very vague. I remember Kylan and the Alteans at the Colony. We were - they were being evacuated. Then...your general, Axca. She was there, too, but I don’t know why.”

“Acxa? The last I remember of her was when I fought my father. I was the Emperor, that much I know, and that is why I must return to my throne. Do you recall the Paladins?”

“Yes. Yes, Shiro. He was the Black Paladin and my dear friend. We fought in WWIII together. There was...Pidge? Keith, Hunk, and Lance. All of us were from Earth, but someone else was there,” you looked up, trying and hoping and begging for the answer to fall on you, “Two people. Coran and…”

“Allura,” the both of you said simultaneously.

Brown skin. White hair. Child-like morals. A voice with no power. A crown with no claim. A princess who was unprepared for the retaliation of war. A princess who blindly commited murder under the guise of justice.

“Allura...she…”

Realization dawned upon Lotor’s face. His eyes frantically looked at you, then the jungle, then back to you. The fight. The Rift, he was in the Rift, surrounded by white, formless creatures eating him, clawing him -

“...killed. She killed me. They abandoned me.”

Left him to die inside Sincline. The machine meant to save worlds, not destroy them. The machine he worked so diligently on with Allura. He poured himself into it...and so did she. What exactly did her Altean powers do to the sentient being?

“My creator.”

Time stopped then. The wind in the trees froze in place and all the sounds of life came to an abrupt halt. Even the clouds and rays of sunshine filtering through the branches no longer had that whimsical touch to them. The illusion remained still, but the two of you could now feel another presence within the area.

“The...the robot?” you asked, “Sincline is doing all of this? How?”

“Sincline is sentient, just like the lions. Just like Voltron,” he explained while connecting the dots in his head, “It...it can not be. I hear it. Do you hear it?”

No, you didn’t hear it, but you felt like you were being watched. Not maliciously scrutinized, but rather protectively. As if someone was there making sure you were safe and happy. Well-taken care of with no worries in the world. Pampered and secured. Blinded to the reality of what horrors lie behind the door.

And that's when you realize why you were trapped here. You opened the door, volunteered to delve where no soul has gone before, and you found him. You, too, were pulled into the euphoric haze of ignorance, force-fed happiness by the spoonful, and had your memories fade away with every restful night.

“Lotor, we have to - we have to get out of here.”

“I do not think we can,” he pulled you close to his side, now fully aware of the situation you two were in, “It locked us in here. It is not our choice. We are in Sincline’s realm.”

“I will keep you safe, my creator.”

“No, you don’t understand - We have to leave. I - I remember now. Haggar is killing people to look for you. The other reality, their war coming. The Alteans, they need you,” the urgency in your voice matched the panic he felt radiating from you, “And so does the Empire.”

It wasn’t a matter of wanting to stay here. You simply couldn’t. This place was not real, and neither was the happiness that came with it. Your absence, Lotor’s absence, will put the fate of the universe and all realities in critical danger. There was no hiding and you will not stand aside in this dire situation.

“I know, darling. I know -”

“Sleep now.”

“Sincline!” he shouted to the sky, “You must set us free.”

He received no response. No answer to his demand. Nothing, except the environment slowly disappearing, peeling down the image of tropical trees into the very cosmos itself. Stars littered all around you two, blinking and twinkling in the vast sea of deep, dark blue space. There was no floor, no sky. Just the two of you, hand in hand.

“Are you...not at peace, my creator?”

The voice. The voice spoke with such innocence, such confusion as to why Lotor wanted to leave this paradise. Sincline created it for him because it was made to do so. It had both his and Allura’s virtues in one. It knew of the wars and evils out there, which is why it wanted him to stay here. To stay blissfully ignorant and bask in tranquility for all of eternity.

Lotor took a deep breath. A child. Sincline had the mentality of a child who only wanted to take care of -

“I am. However...”

Then, he squeezed your hand tighter, reminding himself that although he was at peace, he still had catastrophic problems to fix. To prevent. And you were here, dedicated to the final result. Ready to see it through to the end, struggles and death and all.

“I am needed elsewhere. We are needed elsewhere. You know this, do you not?”

Of course it did. It was careful to erase the memories of your past, of his past, but the truth can not be hidden. It can not be forgotten.

“Sincline, I thank you for saving me, protecting me, but it is time for me to go back now. For...us to go back. ”

For a while, it was ominously silent. You weren’t sure if minutes or days or years passed. Each tick of a second only made you dread that maybe, just maybe, Sincline wasn’t as virtuous or merciful as you had hoped. If it adopted traits from Allura, then who knows how far it will go to keep you two safe?

“If that is what you wish, my creator, it will be done.”

“I will see you soon...Protector of the Universe.”

The invisible floor gave way and the both of you began falling, falling, falling until visible pitch black darkness surrounded you two.

Neither of you dared to let go.

The first of your sense that came back to you was your sight. Then, the chill of death being chased away by your very real beating heart. Kylan was above you with your head propped on his lap and his fingers pressed against the side of your throat. His face was filled with both bafflement and disbelief.

He couldn’t believe it. You were dead, but now? You had a pulse and you were breathing.

“Lo...Lotor - “

A loud hiss interrupted your mumbling as the cockpit window disintegrated into hexagonal light. With what little energy you could muster, you pushed yourself up to your feet and fell forward. You had to get to him, had to be sure Sincline kept to its word. Had to be sure Lotor came back, too. There was that doubt whispering in your head, “What if it all wasn’t real?”

And then, you heard him scream.

Lotor yelled in agonizing pain, the onslaught of all his senses coming back at once was too much for him. Cold, his entire body was freezing, and what should’ve been the comforting warmth of his blood rushing through his veins only felt like searing hot lava tendrils setting him on fire from the inside. The cost of returning from the dead hurt more than anything he had experienced in his life.

He was crying. The sounds of footsteps rushed into his ears, a weak call of his name from your lips, the feeling of taking that first breath, it all sent him into a panic attack. His heart wasn't used to beating again after being off for so long. Lotor’s sight was blurred by his tears and, fuck, why couldn't he stop screaming?

“Lotor, listen - ”

Your arms closed around him, holding him up when he started to lean off his seat. His claws clung to you, dug into you, secured himself to you in his time of facing life again. Too many emotions flushed through him, jolting him with fear, with safety, with love, with hate.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Lotor’s entire body was shaking. He was gritting his teeth together, trying to bide through the feeling of his chest heaving much too quickly. All he wanted to do, all he knew what to do in this moment, was hide. And he wasn’t sure why, but he felt he had to for his own sake.

“You’re safe. Lotor,” something wet hit his cheek, “You’re gonna be okay. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

#lotor x reader #spacestories #ha #got it done before the year ended

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aelaer · 5 years

Note

Suicide TW!!! I live for the Nick/Stephen frenemy relationship, so: AU where Stephen is severely depressed and, instead of crashing his car, he parks in a pull-over and attempts suicide (drugs, alcohol, cutting, up to you) only to then be hit by an oncoming car. As a result, he ends up in hospital to realise that not only is he still alive, but Nick knows what he did. He can't stand the shame and humiliation, until he hears the words "I'm sorry" out of nowhere.

Okay nonny, so a couple things:

By relationship I presume you meant “platonic relationship” as my list of (serious) romance-focused stories in the MCU is a big fat zero and will remain that way probably for some time. If not all time. But I never say never.

I altered the scenario a bit and decided not to use a car crash, but the main elements (depression/suicide, Nick and Stephen interaction, Nick Knowing) remain. This also sort of allows it to potentially be in the “realm of canon” with enough stretching, should one decide to want the headcanon. Though IMO this is an AU-verse.

So I hope that’s all okay and you still find it fulfilling. I’ve never actually written Nick before (though I dabbled with the idea of all the events of Doctor Strange from Nick’s POV like, back when the film first came out) so that was also fun. I really dislike fics that make him look like an idiot (or worse, a pervert for some weird ass reason) so it’s great to get my own view out.

And I also didn’t want to write a book because I’ve got too many WIPs that are books that need to get finished first, so I was going for “short and sweet”. In a manner of speaking. I mean it seems I’m still incapable of doing something under 2000 words but it’s shorter than the last prompt so you know, I’m getting there.

As the prompt suggests, this fic will go into detail about very serious subjects around mental health, including depression and suicide. Please proceed with caution if these are sensitive subjects for you.

Please also note that the symptoms and actions taken within the story are not a guide or diagnosis tool and should be interpreted as strictly fictional. Please refer to official literature such as those offered by the National Suicide Prevention Hotline (US) and other verified sources for what you should do if you believe someone you know is suffering from suicidal thoughts.

Written for @stephenstrangebingo square, “It’s Not About You”.

—————–

Every employee at Metro-General took the confidentiality of their patients’ conditions seriously. There was no doctor or nurse on staff that could be bribed to leak any celebrity’s medical information; they were known for having some of the best doctors for a reason. Many of the elite of New York went to that hospital in the middle of Midtown for that famous discretion.

There was, however, one glaring exception to this rule that every nurse and doctor learned early on: if one of their co-workers had something very serious happen to them, their status would eventually leak out to the rest of the staff. There was never anything particularly hostile about the whispers, and while curiosity was the biggest fuel to the information train, news tended to spread out from concern rather than scorn. This trend even applied to staff members that were generally seen as assholes.

Doctor Nicodemus West learned this during his next shift. A couple minutes after entering his office, just as he was getting into his email inbox, a quick knock at the open door broke his concentration. He looked up and smiled. “Morning, Alyssa.”

The nurse offered a brief smile in greeting, but stepped inside and closed the door before speaking. “Did you hear the news?” she asked softly; her smile was gone.

His brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, news?”

“Doctor Strange was admitted to the ER last night.”

His mind came to a screeching halt. “What? Seriously?” He generally avoided the man if he could, though from what was going around the gossip circles the last couple weeks, Strange was still a raging asshole, but in good health. “What happened?”

Alyssa shook her head. “I don’t know all the details, but he had to get his stomach pumped.”

Nick winced in sympathy; that was not a pleasant experience. “Jeez,” he muttered. “Is he doing okay?”

“Last I heard, he’s stable,” she answered. “Apparently Doctor Palmer’s still his emergency contact, though.”

“She would be anyone’s emergency contact; she’s too good of a person,” he replied in return. “Thanks for letting me know, though; I suspect others in the department may need to take some of his patients that can’t wait for him.”

Alyssa nodded. “The administration is already looking through his cases, though I expect he’ll be up and back at work as soon as he can. Doctor Strange is never really one for breaks.”

“I suppose not,” said Nick. The conversation turned to other topics and the neurosurgeon put the matter with Strange in the back of his mind, left as generally unimportant in the grand scheme of his life.

—————

Strange got back to work and things got back to normal in the neurology department.

Only thing was, Nick started noticing things.

While Doctor West was no prodigy like Doctor Strange, he would not have the ability to become a neurosurgeon without the ability to notice details. It was the details in life— in the human body in particular— that fascinated him and turned him towards medicine in the first place. No, he wasn’t a prodigy, but he was still damn good at his job.

So when Strange came back to the office a few days after his visit to the ER, Nick decided to break his usual policy of avoiding Strange as much as humanly possible and went to his office to welcome him back. It was good for department morale to act mostly cordial to each other, even if most of the effort was on his part.

The door was open and Strange was still in his outer coat, back to him, when Nick knocked on the doorway. The doctor turned to face him and Nick raised a hand in greeting. “Hey. Just wanted to say welcome back.”

Strange’s brow furrowed and he made a rather weird expression. “Oh… uh, thanks.” He turned to the coat rack in the corner of the room and began to remove his outerwear.

“How’re you…” Nick started, but paused as the coat was fully removed, revealing Strange’s dress shirt underneath. It hung rather loosely on his figure; apparently the man had lost some weight recently. Due to Christine Palmer’s honeymoon phase about two years ago, Nick was more aware than he would prefer to be about how ‘fit’ Doctor Stephen Strange was (which really was unfair).

It seemed that wasn’t the case anymore. When had that happened?

Strange didn’t seem to notice his trailing off. “I’m fine. Perfectly alright, thank you. I hope you didn’t botch any of my surgeries while I was gone.”

And there was the asshole he remembered. Nick pressed his lips together. “All your patients are recovering without setback. You can even see them for yourself.” He did his best to cut back the bite of sarcasm in his last sentence.

If Strange heard it, he didn’t comment on it. “I’ll let the nurses handle it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I do have a lot of emails to catch up on. Close the door behind you, if you would.”

Nick rolled his eyes and shut the door as he left the office, but the detail seen settled in the back of his mind to remain quiet, but not forgotten.

And with that one thing noticed, he started to notice more things as the weeks passed on.

According to Alyssa, Strange was rarely seen in the hospital cafeteria anymore— one of the cafeteria staff members who had an open crush on the doctor was complaining about it, apparently.

Strange was having bouts of insomnia, according to gossiping security personnel. There were times that doctors did not go home for the night, but his were becoming more consistent occurrences.

As Nick ate with members from both his usual surgical team and Strange’s surgical team one lunch time a few weeks after Strange came back to work, the topic somehow went to Strange and his uncanny recollection for music, no matter the genre or decade it was released. It was well known that he liked to have the others on his team try and challenge him with their song choices while he was performing his operations.

“Not anymore,” said Billy, and Alyssa frowned at him.

“What? But that’s his gig! He’s been doing that for years.”

Billy shrugged. “He hasn’t been doing it for a few months now. He’s told us he doesn’t care what we want to play, but he doesn’t guess at songs anymore. Doesn’t give any recommendations, either. It sort of sucks; my music library has barely expanded this year.”

“Maybe you need to find something really challenging, a song so obscure that he’ll be drawn into it again,” she said. “I wonder how well he knows Jamaican music.”

“We tried British and Australian Top Hits of the ‘80s last year, but we haven’t done Jamaica. Do Jamaicans generally speak English? He hasn’t memorized songs from every language in the world.”

She rolled her eyes, and as Alyssa started explaining the history of Jamaica and Jamaican Creole, Nick stored this new bit of information away in the section of his brain that, somehow, had become dedicated to collecting all these tidbits.

And Nick noticed that every time he bumped into the other neurosurgeon in the hall, he appeared exhausted. Nick did not know if anyone else noticed the clear loss of weight and the dark bags around his eyes, but they were blindingly obvious to him.

Usually Strange moved with an endless amount of energy when off to surgery, and with some of the more challenging surgeries the energy stayed with him no matter how long the procedure took. It was an exuberance that even he admired, though it was never something he planned to admit to Strange. But now the energy was missing. He was still snarky and aloof, but the spark of genuine joy that was once clear to everyone in the department was gone.

If Strange was a friend, he would have acted weeks ago. If Strange was a colleague he got along with, he would have waited no longer than a month, just to make sure. But two months after his short medical hiatus and Nick remained uncertain, because this was Stephen Strange. Surely no one as big-headed and arrogant as he could ever actually be— yes, there were some signs, but it just seemed too far-fetched. Surely not.

A couple weeks later and some of the doctors from neurosurgery, some from cardiology, and some from the ER were having a rare lunch together. Somehow Christine Palmer had managed to drag Strange out of his office to see his coworkers. And somehow he ended up sitting next to Strange, though the man was mostly quiet as he took the occasional bite from his salad. That in itself was very unusual, as Nick was used to Strange enjoying all the attention of the room.

The conversation turned to a sudden, inexplicable death that happened just yesterday that the hospital was still trying to solve. As theories went around the table, Nick heard Strange mutter under his breath, “Maybe she just realized life wasn’t worth living.” None of the others heard it. Nick pretended he didn’t, either.

But the comment resonated in his head for the rest of the day.

————

This was not going to be comfortable. This was not going to be easy. Nick hated that he, of all people, had noticed. Had no one else seen it?

It only took another day to push his discomfort aside. “It’s not about you,” he mumbled to himself in the mirror in the early morning. “Strange needs help.” And he was a doctor, first and foremost. And doctors helped people in need.

He wanted to speak with Strange outside the hospital, in a neutral place for them both. The only problem was that he never saw the man outside of work and he had no idea how to approach him.

The opportunity came a few days later when Nick was already performing surgery while on call. Another emergency craniotomy was required and Strange stepped in at Christine’s request while Nick was unavailable. It was as good a reason as any.

“Thank you for taking that patient yesterday,” he said in greeting the next morning.

Strange looked up from his computer, surprise crossing his features. He looked tired. “No surgeon can be in two surgeries at once,” he said with a shrug.

“Still, I appreciate it,” Nick said. “I know you’re not fond of the ER.”

“A butcher shop.”

He ignored the comment. “So I’d like to thank you. You free after work? Dinner’s on me.”

The other man stared at him. “You want to have dinner,” he said flatly.

“As colleagues,” he added, hopefully unnecessarily, because really? “I’m trying to be nice and show my appreciation, Strange. Don’t be an ass about it and just say yes.”

Strange lifted his brows high, but the fuel to his ego did the trick. “Yeah, sure. Got any place in mind?”

Nick shrugged. “There’s a good Italian place three blocks south of us.”

“Italian’s fine.”

“Cool. See you later.” He ignored the expression on Strange’s face and took his leave.

—————

The walk from the hospital to the restaurant was a bit of an uncomfortable one, but Nick wasn’t certain if it was mostly one-sided or not; Strange was more or less expressionless. He only tried to instigate conversation once throughout the walk, but it trailed off to silence before they reached the second block, so Nick decided then to save all attempts at conversation for dinner.

It was going to be hard enough then.

After they arrived and were seated, he also decided to wait until they had finished eating before approaching the topic. Maybe the food would relax the nerves in his gut.

So in the meantime he talked shop. It had been some time since either of them had discussed their cases with each other, so he figured that it was a safe enough conversation topic until the end of the meal.

Unfortunately Strange, bastard that he was, threw him off his planned course. It was just after they ordered food; both had a glass of wine and their waiter had already set down a basket of bread and a saucer of olive oil for dipping. Strange caught Nick as the latter was ripping off a piece of bread to smother in the dipping oil.

“What is this really about?” he asked.

Nick paused mid-dip. “What?”

“All this.” He waved an arm to gesture to the restaurant. “I’ve helped in the ER several times when your hands were full. What is this actually about?”

He set his bread on his plate, frowning. “You can’t wait until after we eat?”

Strange raised a brow. “Consider yourself fortunate I said yes to this at all. I only came because, admittedly, I’m curious; I cannot begin to guess what you could possibly want to talk to me about outside of work.”

“Fine, fine.” Nick sighed and set his elbows on the table. He pressed his lips against his closed fists as he figured out how to start. All the while, Strange stared at him with an odd mix of exasperation and puzzlement. “You…” he started slowly. He trailed off.

“Me,” said Strange.

Fuck it. “You’ve been off lately.”

His brows shot up. “Off?”

“Yeah, off. Not yourself. Different.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means exactly that. You’re acting differently lately. For a while, apparently.”

He bristled in clear irritation. “If you’re just going to waste my time—”

“You don’t enjoy your work anymore.”

That shut him up. Nick continued in the silence. “You used to always enter and exit your operations with this excitement that echoed down the halls. That’s completely gone.”

Strange recovered his voice. “If you’re implying that my work has suffered—”

“No, no,” he interrupted. “Not at all. This isn’t about the quality of your work; this is about you.” Strange didn’t have an immediate retort to that, so Nick continued, “Or maybe it’s not about you but about this man that’s taken over you the last several months. That man is clearly not eating and sleeping well, barely comes out of his office, hasn’t bragged about his newest studies and speeches in months, and mutters about life not being worth living at lunchtime.”

His colleague’s mouth hung slightly open as if he wanted to say something but had forgotten how to speak. Nick couldn’t quite read the emotion in his eyes, either. Before he completely lost his nerve, he said one last observation. “And that man,” he muttered, “had his stomach pumped two months ago, and those circumstances combined with the rest paint a picture of a man who… might be a bit lost.”

Something raw flashed through Strange’s eyes that made him appear more vulnerable than Nick’s ever seen him before. That brought on a strange and discomforting feeling that joined the rest of the jumbled nerves in his stomach.

Quickly he continued, “You don’t need to tell me anything. I’m not demanding anything from you. I just wanted to say that— no matter what differences we have— that if you do need someone for— for anything— that I’m here. Even if it’s just to listen.”

He fell silent, and still Strange didn’t say anything immediately, which was unusual in itself. Nick wasn’t sure if he should continue looking at him or if he should look away, or what.

And thank God, dinner arrived and gave him the perfect reason to look away and leave Strange to his thoughts.

The silence sat for the remainder of the meal. Strange didn’t eat much (though he couldn’t blame him) but also didn’t leave. Nick didn’t know what that meant, or if it meant anything at all.

Still, he had one last thing to say.

After he paid the bill, he pulled a card from his wallet as he stood up. “She came with high recommendations,” he said as he put down the card of a therapist that most certainly did not work at Metro-General. “Think about it.” With that, he took his leave, allowing Strange time alone to dwell on what he said.

————

When they next saw each other at work, neither of them made any indication to each other that they had dinner last night. Their last conversation never crossed the threshold of the hospital. Strange never called him, and Nick never inquired about his well being more than he did any other coworker.

But a few months later, when he got word that Strange was starting his music challenge games in his operations once more, Nick allowed himself a small smile at the news.

#doctor strange fanfic #stephenstrangebingo #doctor strange #stephen strange #nick west #my writing #my fanfiction #prompt fill #tw: suicide #tw: mental health #Anonymous

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royal-writer · 5 years

Text

Romantic Woos 2

i have so many gd tissues surrounding me rn

Courses. Her mouth watered at the options; all the choices, all the dishes. It took restraint not to dive into platter after platter, hardly believing that the wealthy and elite got to feast like this regularly. Yes, perhaps the meals had been outlined and approved earlier on a regular day without guests, but the sheer volume and time it took to prepare and eat this enormity baffled and excited her for each new plate.

She feared by dessert there would be no room left in her tummy. Dinner in itself had been a filling delight of whiskey sauce mushrooms and cheese-stuffed leg of lamb coated in a garlic butter sauce she could have drank like soup. The salad she picked at, hoping not to be rude by snubbing off the radishes (such awful, tasteless things) and longing to save room for the best part of the meal: dessert.

Sure enough, her head perked up as the servers finally piled in with mint-sorbet pallet cleansers and shielded dishes with glimmering copper domes. Essätha woofed down her small scope of the chilling ice cream regretfully, her head aching as she pawed at the next set of silverware Amon had instructed her for the lash course hopefully.

Chuckling, the nobleman leaned back to observe her, leaving some melted remnants of his own sorbet in his tiny bowl. She shot him a dirty look, but he still wore the same dazzling gleaming smile so softly in response. It was frustrating, and she was eager to whip her head back to observe the servers pacing around with the next plates rather then become fixated on the softness of his dark eyes.

“Watch it, Essie, you’re about to start drooling,” Adela teased, waiting patiently for the dome to be removed, hands in her lap.

Essätha’s face grew instantly hot with humiliation. It was a crude slap in the face to her insecurities. Still a starved street-rat, always left wanting. Touch-starved, food-starved; it didn’t matter, when she wanted, it gnawed and clawed like a vicious parasite.

Amon cleared his throat beside her, boldly raising his chin towards the tiefling. “That’s enough, Adela.”

The jeweler scoffed. “I was only-”

“Enough,” he stressed.

Adela snapped her trap shut, and huffed.

Beside her, Essie could feel the barest touch beneath the table. Fingers against her wrist as she tightly held to the linen in her lap. She jolted slightly to the brush of digits, goosebumps racing over her skin as her posture straightened with surprise.

Before the tension in the room could grow, or her breath become any short, Lord Amon retracted his touch as the tops of the plates were lifted all at the same time.

A strawberry shortcake stacked three layers tall sat before her. Her hand immediately reached for the last utensil left once more.

“Oh gods this looks delicious!” She whispered; fork split into the biscuit as she tossed a glance over towards the nearest server. “Give the cooks my gratitude, everything has been splendid and artfully made.”

The finely-dressed gentleman turned pink at the acknowledgment, and nodded. They moved to hurry out with the others.

Amon chuckled softly once more. She didn’t spare him a glance, already shoveling the first mouth-watering bite in.

Even careful after the first bite; taking minuscule nibbles to savor and enjoy, the finale was there and finished too soon. Her eyes tore across to the others. All except for Rava still with something on their dish as they chattered and laughed with each other. Conversing rather than indulging.

Sighing, Essie resisted putting her elbows on the table to drown her sadness in her hands like she wanted. Oh saccharine scrumptious, always gone too soon.

“Hey.”

The quiet of the gentle voice barely caught her attention, but the callused hand definitely did. It warmed her skin, and made her head turn up towards him expecting.

Wearing only half-a-smile, Amon nodded his head towards his plate, and the fork he had hovering over it topped with his own choice of dessert. A pecan nut cake, coated in a drizzle of caramel sauce. The shine of the sugared caramel threatened to drip from his genuine silver made utensil.

He arched an eyebrow. “Care to try some?”

‘No’ would probably be the appropriate thing to say here, but as a bleak commoner and street-rat, she didn’t think it expected of her. She nodded with genuine enthusiasm.

Snickering, he offered out the fork. Stupidly unable to take the social cue, she mistook the gesture, and nipped the cake right off rather than taking the fork. Another laugh; this one muffled as he placed it back onto his plate.

Slowly chewing through the tender morsel, Essätha finally swallowed, face burning. “I’m sorry- were you wanting me to take…”

“I was,” he admitted, chest still shaking as he tried to contain his laughter.

Her face burned brighter. She gaped.

“No, it’s quite alright,” Amon informed her gently, taking her hand. “Do not be ashamed, I’m not upset.” A smile. “Any good?”

The flush moved down her throat now she nodded slowly. “Yes,” she squeaked. Good was an understatement. It was soft and chewy and the syrupy consistentancy made it even more tempting than her tart shortcake. She wished she’d gotten what he had instead.

The nobleman e nodded. Splitting his slice of cake in half, he looked around before scooting his plate over, and tipping half of it over onto her dish.

“Amon-” she hissed desperately, “I couldn’t-”

“My treat,” he whispered close, passing her a wink. “Sweets to fuel your sweetness. You appreciate them more than I do anyway.”

Grinning sheepishly; still a little embarrassed, she accepted the gift with a slight respectful dip of her head. Her hand found his beneath the table as he’d done to her, and traced her fingers along his before giving his hand a squeeze.

“Thank you, m’lord.”

His features tinted a pinkish color, and he nodded before almost nervously drawing his hand back. She tried not to question it. Still embarrassed, she took another bite of the cake on her plate, melting back into the upholstery lined chair.

The nobleman’s gaze flickered over her, briefly, with a timid grin before he went back to poking at the delicate cake; an almost dreamy sigh escaping him she didn’t even notice.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was dark. Dark even for her. A moonless night; no torches in sight. Her hand rested against her chest, listening to the sound of her breathing and elevated heart rate. The dream was faded; already far away, but like the bony clutch of demon’s hand, the fear rested upon her breast.

“Amon?”

The name barely rasped out of her tight throat. She didn’t know where it came from. She hadn’t thought of it; it slipped out of her as one’s breath. It rhymed with protection and had a synonym for safety.

A grunt echoed beside her. The comforter began to move, and her legs tensed. Fight or flight. Flee. Her head pounded. Her chest felt heavy.

Air rattled out of her lungs. A great release. How had a whisper even woken him; a bear in hibernation, his sleep usually so deep. The weight of his heavy arm around her; holding her in, grounding her to the solid shape of him.

“M’here,” he grumbled, half asleep. “I’m here.”

Essätha dragged in a breathless gust. The tremor in her fingers ceased. The tension in her spine relaxed. The bed no longer felt like the confining cage of steel bars, but of a pillowing cloud once more.

His snoring continued, gradually, as she melted; turned to putty. Her hands she rested against the back of his, feeling that nameless feeling lighten the burdens on her soul as it always did around him. The radiance of him, burning into her like a sun gone supernova.

She swallowed, and swallowed again against the tightness in her throat. Fear chasing longing. Wanting without understanding.

The thought of another lonely night ever again in her life felt like a torture she couldn’t bare to face. A future she didn’t want to survive in anymore.

No place ever felt more of belonging.

“I love you.”

The first time she finds the courage to dare labeling the feeling, and he is asleep, breathing warmly against her nape so she shivers in response.

Sighing weakly, Essätha held his hands a bit tighter, praying she’d never forget the feeling of home that rested in his embrace.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Make yourself at home. The words still sank into Essätha, weighted into the pit of her stomach. As though the feeling was easy to come across. It felt like the manor of Briarton had ownership over her, rather than the other way around. Large and imposing, its many walls and ceilings a foreign and unfamiliar territory.

She held only to the softness of his eyes, and the delicate whisper of his voice in the words.

This should mean something to her. This was what she’d wanted, after all: a house, fortune, securities, a comfortable living without struggle and fear.

None of these things felt like how she’d dreamed they would. None of them brought the solace she’d prayed for.

Then, night after night, the house began to change.

It started small. The curtains drawn open. Then the bedroom, rearranged. She watched with silent curiosity as new novels were added to the library on subjects she enjoyed; when a couch was removed for a favorable, less stiff fabric for something she could sink into.

Tentatively she found her voice.

The color of the curtains were changed; a desk sanded and repainted. A new throw rug for the upstairs sitting room was rolled out, and flowers of her choosing placed in window boxes that carried in their perfume through open windows. The dining room gained a new painting she found at market, and a new mat placed near the front door to leave boots.

She was speechless when she discovered the new wardrobe and dresser in the bedroom rolled in one day. The realization struck her only then that the Illiad manor was no longer simply a place to rest her head, it was becoming part of her dream.

Should she worry for when he grew tired of change?

Should she worry for when he grew tired of her?

It was a balmy day, the sun shining and windows left open to let in the draft as she lay reading in the sitting room with Caesar at her side and Green Bean looped in one of her indoor enclosures when she heard the tiptoeing of feet shuffling throughout the manor. Thinking nothing of it, she flipped through the pages of her novel in silence.

It continued. Again, and again, and again.

A knock at the door on her right, and she looked up to see the trophies of the hunt staring at her. She grimaced at their judgment, and snapped the book closed, leaving a bookmark in place.

Caesar groaned and lifted his head as she stood up to approach the door. Creaking it open, only the staircase and wide floor plan filled with immobile soldier figures and imposing taxidermy predators greeted her.

She went to close the door, and something slapped against wood. Her head pivoted around, spotting a scroll wrapped to the handle.

Unwinding the string, Essätha unfurled the parchment to glance upon the words scribed into it.

My darling Essätha,

You’ve taken me on an incredible journey of love and acceptance.

I would like to take you on a journey of discovery as well.

For further instructions, head to the place we share a cup of coffee every morning.

Her lips parted. Staring from the paper around the room, she saw no sign of the crafty nobleman who left the message.

Her hands shook. She crumbled the note slightly; grip tightening with a wave of swelling emotion.

As a burn of excitement traced the shape of her heart, she took off in a hurry through the room. The almost childlike zeal caught the housekeepers off guard, who paused amongst work to see her passing with shared glances of amusement and surprise.

Barging into the dinging room, she flung headlong into the room. Her bright eyes darted across the room, spotting an envelope sitting neatly at the table, propped up by a steaming hot cup of coffee; milky white in color.

Breathless, she inched forward to pick it up. This one was sealed with the Illiad wax seal, and had sprigs of baby’s breath in the hues of dark blue. She slipped a fingernail beneath the edge, tearing it open as a scent of cologne wafted off the paper.

Her heart thundered. Essie picked up the hot beverage to sip while reading the paper.

Check the place you sneak

Stealing sweets at late-night peak

“Oh,” she snickered, her face glowing as she pressed the letter against her chest. Beaming from ear to ear, she skipped through the dining room, her eyes tracing the piano in the corner and the arrangement of flowers in pots.

In the hallway, a small table sat with kick-knacks from their explorations. She smiled to herself, knowing that the single drawer contained nothing more than mementos. Trivial things; documents from travel, letters from friends, a paper weight or two. She giggled at vase with a chip in it on the floor before entering the next corridor, remembering how she’d knocked it over and broken the top and how she’d cried in apology for hours despite Amon’s reassurance that it had character now.

There was a small seat in the next hall, near the entry to the cobblestone room meant for gardening tools that lead to the basement, which housed outdoor boots and had a pillow that matched nothing in the house she just had to have upon it. A few hooks dangled, holding scarves and hats and a single light jacket.

She picked up the pace, pausing only long enough to study the rock atop another short end-table with their initials painted into it with whimsy innocence before entering the kitchen.

“Hello, miss Essätha,” a maiden greeted her with an endearing smile.

“G’day,” she acknowledged brightly, sliding past her to head for the pantry.

The lady knitted her brow. “Are you hungry, miss? I could whip you up something?”

“No no- that’s alright,” she laughed, bracing the doors open.

Another note. This one sat upon a fancy box. She picked it up, unaware of the young lady peering over her shoulder as she turned it over. Tiny, almost blinding blue lobelia’s were sealed in the wax, just as the others had been.

She slid her finger under this one, the inviting aroma of his scent coming off the paper as she folded it open.

See the library for a favorite read,

A cover with a knight, and his faithful stead

“My,” the maiden hummed thoughtfully, glancing sideways at the blush burning high on her cheeks.

Embarrassed, Essie folded the note over to hold carefully with the other. She reached for the box; her hands shaking as she picked it up to pry open the lid.

Lines of chocolates. A sniff, and she could pick up different scents coming off of them. One filled with raspberry, another topped with sea salt. There was ones topped with caramel drizzles, and others which appeared suspiciously plain.

Hugging this too to her chest, she offered the maiden a shy nod. “E-Excuse me-”

“Oh surely,” they said, offering a knowing smile as they stepped side.

She cut through her starting place; the downstairs sitting room, where the mastiff and serpent peered at her as she passed. Her feet took two stairs at a time; the runner carpet catching on her shoes once or twice as she grinned from ear to ear.

Mounted frames with various items clung to the wall. Feathers in one, a pressed flower in another; one of the very first Amon ever gifted her. She felt a swelling in her heart as her gaze lingered upon the lonesome rose bloom, and drifted along. Bookends that resembled common creatures of Etheron they’d bought together, and a bonsai they’d trimmed and cultivated sat upon a nearby nook with some stacks of books.

Recognizing the novel sitting on top; a daring adventure fantasy with a lady knight, Essätha gingerly flipped it open. She frowned, and began to skim through the pages, stopping on the one where the letter was left. Page 362, the one where the knight kissed the woman she’d been pining after for years without saying a word.

Careful not hurt the slightly bruised ivy-flowers any more than they already were, she opened the letter. This one contained not just another note, but a series of sketches. Some were of flowers. As she flipped through them, a gasp lifted from her. Crude, and poorly done, various sheets seemed to be of her. Silhouettes more than anything, but the strokes grew bolder. They seemed to be progressive of things over time, as shapes became more detailed, until she found what appeared to be the latest. A small portrait, the graphite smudged slightly to indicate the flow of her wild hair, staring out a window with a light smile and half-closed eyes.

Your beauty captures my heart,

For your next destination, there are many charts

Smearing the tears along the corners of her eye, Essätha topped her box of chocolates with the letters and cards of drawings to head through the sitting room for the alchemy study. The light of the sun shone in here perfectly, illuminating a painting they’d gotten together what felt like ages ago now. It almost a perfect photo of the moment; eyes immersed in each other, wild grins, hands interlocked.

She slipped past the fireplace and it’s new set of tools into the next hallway. The door to the alchemy room was slightly ajar, and as she pushed it open the light of a lamp flickering greeted her.

Realizing it was near the maps, she stepped hesitantly over to examine the rolls and unfurled pieces. Sure enough, there was a letter tucked beneath one. Keeping the edges of the map unfurled were two new gifts: an exotic perfume with words she couldn’t describe, and a massage oil that had the soothing aroma of lavender. The very same plant was locked within the seal.

Follow the hallway we’ve walked hand-in-hand,

Your next clue is easy to understand

With a hum, she added the two bottles on top of her growing pile and blew out the lamp before stepping out of the room. She closed it quietly behind her, eyes darting against the hallway walls while moving skeptically.

Metal weaved in intricate patterns to create an abstract design motif. A poorly done painting of flowers set beside each other they’d done in the garden for laughs.

She settled her gaze on a large fan near the end of the hall. Hand crafted, it had a landscape embroidered upon its fabric. Tucked behind it was yet another letter, this one with a line dangling from it containing a simple thin bracelet with a serpent charm looping around itself.

Plucking them each off where they hung, Essätha took the time to open the clutch and place the brilliant gleaming silver gift on before turning to open the letter. Forget-me-nots, this time. As if she ever could.

Next is the place where we last kissed,

A dragon spied us, but you I could not resist

“Cheesy,” she snickered, placing the message over top the others, slipping through the next entry way. The ticking grandfather clock they’d picked out together greeted her before she moved on into the long room nearby, overlooking the balcony staring down at the dining room. The aloft fake dragon bones peered indeed down upon guests. The entire room had shelving and tables now, lined with enough stories in the trinkets and totems left there from adventures to spend days talking about.

Carefully resting upon the wooden frame of the sturdy balcony, a leather-bound book with yet another message balanced on it. She picked it up slowly, examining the carvings in the empty journal’s leather. It seemed to be depictions of a million things; wolves and snakes, trees and flowers, hearts and intertwined fingers.

With a softness in her gaze, she pried the envelope to this one open as well. Cologne and pink fairy foxglove nested on the front.

Look up to the place,

That reflects your stunning face

“Look up?” she mused. Her eyes moved in front of her, to the ceiling, and the across with confusion.

A mirror, propped up on a far table, caught her eye as light bounced off its reflective surface. She hesitated before approaching it, staring blankly at her reflection. Her eyes moved down to the letter beneath it. A brand new quill lay over it. Chamomile this time was sealed in the wax.

A dreamy relaxing epilogue to the day,

Soaked and scented bubbles pave the way

Taking both her new gift and the latest note, Essie scurried out of the room and through the last hall. Her eyes drifted down to the garden through the windows, beaming brightly as she held to her goods with a wave of overwhelming adoration.

The sitting room to the bedroom was quiet. Beside a book on the coffee table, there lay a bouquet of freshly cut flowers from the garden. Each one was in full bloom; soft petals and arranged with a tender hand. Colors and shapes; each unique and vibrant. Their fragrance was so strong that it radiated around the sofas.

Her heart seized and melted. She sniffled softly, and laid her arrangement of gifts so far beside the latest gift before moving into the bedroom.

Making her way around the room without a glance, she stepped behind the privacy screen towards the claw-foot tub. Sure enough, another note and a set of luxurious bath bubble bottles sat at the bottom.

She retrieved both, studied the wood sorrel flowers for a brief moment, and opened it.

Have you noticed a pattern on your quest?

The final gift is where we lay intertwined at night to rest.

Giving a shake of her head, Essätha sat the products, and this note, on the nearby vanity before cautiously making her way to the bed.

A final envelope, and nothing else. A steam cut from a set of bleeding hearts hung from the wax seal. She pried it open slowly.

This place of residence could be your forever,

Say that you’ll stay here, come whatever.

It already has your spirit built into the foundation,

And I vow to you a lifetime of dedication.

Your secrets I swear to keep, your smile I promise to uphold,

Please stay with me. Let us grow old.

Behind her, a thud of boots. The heavy hinges of the oak door squeaked.

The letter fell from her hands and upon the comforter.

Echoing the last words written at the very bottom, a tender voice spoke.

“Turn around, Essätha.”

She did. Unsteady, but she did.

Wearing a shy, tender lop-sided grin and his best dress clothes; with the collar tight against his throat the way he hated and the cufflinks she bought him pinned in, Amon stepped slowly towards her. The cologne that had been perfuming the letters exuded from him; amber notes and pine trees.

Her eyes devoured him. The affection shining in his dark eyes; the creases around his eyes in the most endearing smile.

The ring box in his hand, as he stepped closer and began to kneel

Her knees buckled; hitting the side of the bed to sink into the mattress with a choked noise and tears spilling over faster than she could comprehend the fact she was crying.

“Yes!”

Surprise lit up his wide-eyes. Amon chuckled, a spring of tears in the corners of his eyes as he rasped, “I haven’t even asked-”

“YES!”

“My speech-”

“Yes,” she half cooed, half choked on sobbing as she slid off the side of the bed, grabbing the scruff of his beard. Her hands were shaking. Her chest heaved.

Seeing the house; the care of the letters, the sparkle of joy lighting up his face…

He was home.

She was home.

And as another sob tore through her; louder than the rest, she flung herself into his embrace. The arms that encircled her and brought her right in to where she belonged. The sound of his pulse racing with her own; his unsteady breathes, the smell of him; warm and abrasive hands against her and gentle lips close to her ear.

“I would rob all the stars in the sky, and all the light from the sun, if it meant you never doubted how loved you are, or your place here,” Lord Amon whispered softly. “I would do anything to have you never doubt the light inside you. How special you are; how treasured.”

“I would do anything for your happiness. Anything at all.”

Her crying increased tenfold. Tears soaking into the fabric of his good clothes, leaving damp stains in the crisp fabric. Her fingers curved into his back; crinkling the somewhat stiff garment as she choked.

“I love you,” Essätha whimpered, shaking. “I don’t need anything else. I don’t want anything else. Just hold me tight, and promise you’ll always love me too, m’lord Amon.”

The pressure of his lips pressed to her temple, and she rasped desperately for air.

“I love you, now and always, my darling Essätha.”

His voice wobbled; thick with emotion, and he clutched to her with enough strength she swore her lungs would collapse.

And she had no doubts, that this is exactly where she belonged.

#royal writes #essamon ship #Essie rw #amon illiad #my heart grew 349062 times this day

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coloradoron · 3 years

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Newt Gingrich will not Accept Joe Biden as President

Why I will not accept Joe Biden as president

Unwillingness to accept election result grows out of a level of outrage unlike anything previously experienced

By Newt Gingrich - - Washington Times, Monday, December 21, 2020

ANALYSIS/OPINION:

A smart friend of mine who is a moderate liberal asked why I was not recognizing Joe Biden’s victory.

The friend made the case that Mr. Biden had gotten more votes, and historically we recognize the person with the most votes. Normally, we accept the outcome of elections just as we accept the outcomes of sporting events.

So, my friend asked why was 2020 different?

Having spent more than four years watching the left #Resist President Donald Trump and focus entirely on undoing and undermining the 2016 election, it took me several days to understand the depth of my own feelings.

As I thought about it, I realized my anger and fear were not narrowly focused on votes. My unwillingness to relax and accept that the election was over grew out of a level of outrage and alienation unlike anything I had experienced in more than 60 years involvement in public affairs.

The challenge is that I — and other conservatives — are not disagreeing with the left within a commonly understood world. We live in alternative worlds.

The left’s world is mostly the established world of the forces who have been dominant for most of my life. My world is the populist rebellion which believes we are being destroyed, our liberties are being cancelled and our religions are under assault. (Note the new Human Rights Campaign to decertify any religious school which does not accept secular sexual values — and that many Democrat governors have kept casinos open while closing churches though the COVID-19 pandemic.) We also believe other Democrat-led COVID-19 policies have enriched the wealthy while crushing middle class small business owners (some 160,000 restaurants may close).

In this context, let’s talk first about the recent past and the presidency.

In 2016, I supported an outsider candidate, who was rough around the edges and in the Andrew Jackson school of controversial assaults on the old order. When my candidate won, it was blamed on the Russians. We now know (four years later) Hillary Clinton’s own team financed the total lie that fueled this attack.

Members of the FBI twice engaged in criminal acts to help it along — once in avoiding prosecution of someone who had deleted 33,000 emails and had a subordinate use a hammer to physically destroy hard drives, and a second time by lying to FISA judges to destroy Gen. Michael Flynn and spy on then-candidate Donald Trump and his team. The national liberal media aided and abetted every step of the way. All this was purely an attempt to cripple the new president and lead to the appointment of a special counsel — who ultimately produced nothing.

Now, people in my world are told it is time to stop resisting and cooperate with the new president.

But we remember that the Democrats wanted to cooperate with Mr. Trump so much that they began talking about his impeachment before he even took office. The Washington Post ran a story on Democrat impeachment plots the day of the inauguration.

In fact, nearly 70 Democratic lawmakers boycotted his inauguration. A massive left-wing demonstration was staged in Washington the day after, where Madonna announced she dreamed of blowing up the White House to widespread applause. These same forces want me to cooperate with their new president. I find myself adopting the Nancy Pelosi model of constant resistance. Nothing I have seen from Mr. Biden since the election offers me any hope that he will reach out to the more than 74 million Americans who voted for President Trump.

So, I am not reacting to the votes so much as to the whole election environment.

When Twitter and Facebook censored the oldest and fourth largest newspaper (founded by Alexander Hamilton) because it accurately reported news that could hurt Mr. Biden’s chances — where were The New York Times and The Washington Post?

The truth of the Hunter Biden story is now becoming impossible to avoid or conceal. The family of the Democrat nominee for president received at least $5 million from an entity controlled by our greatest adversary. It was a blatant payoff, and most Americans who voted for Mr. Biden never heard of it — or were told before the election it was Russian disinformation. Once they did hear of it, 17% said they would have switched their votes, according to a poll by the Media Research Center. That’s the entire election. The censorship worked exactly as intended.

Typically, newspapers and media outlets band together when press freedom is threatened by censorship. Where was the sanctimonious “democracy dies in darkness?” Tragically, The Washington Post is now part of the darkness.

But this is just a start. When Twitter censors four of five Rush Limbaugh tweets in one day, I fear for the country.

When these monolithic Internet giants censor the president of the United States, I fear for the country.

When I see elite billionaires like Mark Zuckerburg are able to spend $400 million to hire city governments to maximize turnout in specifically Democratic districts — without any regard to election spending laws or good governance standards — I fear for the country.

When I read that Apple has a firm rule of never irritating China — and I watch the NBA kowtow to Beijing, I fear for our country.

When I watch story after story about election fraud being spiked — without even the appearance of journalistic due diligence or curiosity — I know something is sick.

The election process itself was the final straw in creating the crisis of confidence which is accelerating and deepening for many millions of Americans.

Aside from a constant stream of allegations of outright fraud, there are some specific outrages — any one of which was likely enough to swing the entire election.

Officials in virtually every swing state broke their states’ own laws to send out millions of ballots or ballot applications to every registered voter. It was all clearly documented in the Texas lawsuit, which was declined by the U.S. Supreme Court based on Texas’ procedural standing — not the merits of the case. That’s the election.

In addition, it’s clear that virtually every swing state essentially suspended normal requirements for verifying absentee ballots. Rejection rates were an order of magnitude lower than in a normal year. In Georgia, rejection rates dropped from 6.5% in 2016 to 0.2% in 2020. In Pennsylvania, it went from 1% in 2016 to .003% in 2020. Nevada fell from 1.6% to .75%. There is no plausible explanation other than that they were counting a huge number of ballots — disproportionately for Mr. Biden — that normally would not have passed muster. That’s the election.

The entire elite liberal media lied about the timeline of the COVID-19 vaccine. They blamed President Trump for the global pandemic even as he did literally everything top scientists instructed. In multiple debates, the moderators outright stated that he was lying about the U.S. having a vaccine before the end of the year (note Vice President Mike Pence received it this week). If Americans had known the pandemic was almost over, that too was likely the difference in the election.

The unanimously never-Trump debate commission spiked the second debate at a critical time in order to hurt President Trump. If there had been one more debate like the final one, it likely would have been pivotal.

This is just the beginning. But any one of those things alone is enough for Trump supporters to think we have been robbed by a ruthless establishment — which is likely to only get more corrupt and aggressive if it gets away with these blatant acts.

For more than four years, the entire establishment mobilized against the elected president of the United States as though they were an immune system trying to kill a virus. Now, they are telling us we are undermining democracy.

You have more than 74 million voters who supported President Trump despite everything — and given the election mess, the number could easily be significantly higher. The truth is tens of millions of Americans are deeply alienated and angry. If Mr. Biden governs from the left — and he will almost certainly be forced to — that number will grow rapidly, and we will win a massive election in 2022.

Given this environment, I have no interest in legitimizing the father of a son who Chinese Communist Party members boast about buying. Nor do I have any interest in pretending that the current result is legitimate or honorable. It is simply the final stroke of a four-year establishment-media power grab. It has been perpetrated by people who have broken the law, cheated the country of information, and smeared those of us who believe in America over China, history over revisionism, and the liberal ideal of free expression over the cancel culture.

I write this in genuine sorrow, because I think we are headed toward a serious, bitter struggle in America. This extraordinary, coordinated four-year power grab threatens the fabric of our country and the freedom of every American.

#Biden #2020 Election #voter fraud #Trump #newt gingrich

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wittchnestle-blog · 5 years

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Political Scenarios for Climate Disaster

Political Situations for Local weather Catastrophe

Within the International North we frequently act as if our future might be a hotter model of right now: liberal capitalism, plus flood insurance coverage, minus coral reefs. That future is a fantasy.

Geoff Mann and Joel Wainwright &squarf; Summer time 2019 A bicyclist surveys a truck flipped into floodwater in Port Arthur, Texas. (Emily Kask/ AFP/Getty Pictures)

The scientific consensus is past debate: due to burning an ever-increasing quantity of fossil fuels, our world is present process deep and speedy local weather change. Sadly, the responses of the most important states (notably the USA) have fallen far brief of what’s wanted with respect to decreasing carbon emissions. Temperatures proceed to rise; the Earth’s ecosystems are reworking earlier than our eyes. However the coming modifications are usually not restricted to climate or the pure surroundings. The world’s social, political, and financial techniques are sure to vary as properly, maybe basically. Nonetheless, right here within the International North we frequently act as if our future will probably be a hotter model of at the moment: liberal capitalism, plus flood insurance coverage, minus coral reefs.

That future is a fantasy. It already has a chance near zero.

So how are we to consider options? Some flip towards doom-saying and prognostications of collapse. An increasing viewers eagerly consumes books with titles like Dropping Earth or Studying to Die within the Anthropocene. Every provides variations on apocalyptic themes, an anti-politics for the world after the autumn of human civilization.

There isn’t any real looking state of affairs for addressing local weather change that doesn’t contain a complete reorganization of human societies within the fairly close to time period. But we emphasize reorganization, not collapse or apocalypse. As a species, humanity will virtually definitely survive the approaching centuries. However who will survive, and the way they’ll stay, is genuinely unsure. The distribution of the burdens of considerable adaptation—which is now inevitable, regardless of the extent of future carbon mitigation—and the political-economic means by which distribution is carried out: these are pressing points dealing with us all.

On the coronary heart of those issues is the capitalist nation-state that buildings our world. Each different type of political-economic group derives from and is irreducibly dependent upon it. It’s virtually inconceivable to think about a world with out it; even these with pretentions to international energy often assume its centrality by way of the territorial or military-political enlargement of an imperial nation-state. Nevertheless one chooses so far the origins of the capitalist nation-state, accelerating planetary local weather change poses the best menace in its historical past. In contrast to the opposite “everlasting emergency” to which the organizational problem of addressing local weather change is ceaselessly in contrast—the Second World Conflict—the present menace isn’t restricted to this or that nation-state or transnational alliance. It’s, fairly, a menace to the sovereignty of the nation-state in all places as a way of organizing human collectivities. How those that train energy right now, and the actions that problem them, reply to local weather change may have an unlimited affect on human life sooner or later. If we need to perceive these processes, we’re pressured to take a position about how states and elites will try and form hotter and weirder futures. And if we search to make sure justice, democracy, and equitability, we should think about how the present conjuncture will develop and act in mild of that evaluation.

In Local weather Leviathan: A Political Concept of Our Planetary Future (2018, Verso), we examined what futures might plausibly emerge from the present geopolitical order. Will the nation-state-based zero-sum parceling of territorial sovereignty persist within the face of what’s generally described because the world’s largest collective motion drawback? Will that world stay within the thrall of capital? Even among the many very wealthy, the notion that modes of life that don’t exacerbate local weather change are incompatible with the infinite accumulation and power throughput of up to date capitalism is starting to sound like widespread sense. Because the writer of the UK authorities’s 2006 Stern Assessment famously put it, local weather change “have to be considered market failure on the best scale the world has seen.”

These two questions—of sovereignty and of capitalism—level towards 4 tough paths. We name these Local weather Leviathan, Local weather Mao, Local weather Behemoth, and Local weather X. Local weather Leviathan describes an emergent international order dedicated to the consolidation of capitalism by way of the group of a type of planetary sovereignty that may overcome the collective motion drawback. Local weather Mao would symbolize a equally planetary-scale “answer,” however one devoted to an anti-capitalist order. Local weather Behemoth describes a worldwide association animated by a chauvinistic capitalist and nationalist politics that denies—till it may possibly solely denounce—the menace local weather change poses to nationwide capitals. Local weather X is the identify we give the gathering of actions that pursue international local weather justice: actions that construct non-capitalist political economies, and assemble solidarities at a number of scales that reject the political logic of sovereignty.

These 4 broad trajectories usually are not equally doubtless. Local weather Leviathan is probably the most believable, if not probably the most preferable, for causes just like these behind Fredric Jameson’s well-known line: “it’s simpler to think about the top of the world than to think about the top of capitalism.” We’re already witnessing Local weather Leviathan emerge as widespread sense in a lot of the liberal- capitalist a part of the world. It’s a planetary mode of energy organized round adaptation, in an effort to perpetuate the present international distribution of energy and wealth. It has the facility of incumbency, together with the political-economic, army, and ideological energy of the states and regimes that decide the prevailing order value preserving. The collective desperation with which a lot of the progressive group in North America and Western Europe watches occasions unfold on the Copenhagen or Paris local weather negotiations exhibits a widespread want for a local weather sovereignty that decides who can emit and the way a lot, who and learn how to adapt, and find out how to apportion the prices. Many people appear to lengthy for somebody to find out how issues are going to be, within the curiosity of saving life on Earth.

Local weather Behemoth additionally has an orientation towards the capitalist established order, however in contrast to Leviathan it’s vociferously “anti-globalist”—in different phrases, it’s a capitalist order characterised by a reactionary, often racist, macho-nationalism. Local weather Behemoth right now expresses itself most fiercely in local weather denialism, a conspiracy-mongering worry that an emergent, cryptically hegemonic Local weather Leviathan is the foremost “globalist” menace to the nationalist-capitalist ultimate that animates a lot of the modern Republican Celebration and segments of the Conservative events within the UK and Canada.

Behemoth is a big menace to international stability particularly insofar as its present seats of energy quantity amongst them the USA. We completed the e-book in mid-2017, quickly after Donald Trump was put in within the White Home, not completely ready for a way properly he was forged on this position. Equally belligerent reactionary denialist blocs, principally led by Trump sycophants, have captured government energy in a number of different states in each the International South and North, most notably Jair Bolsonaro in Brazil. Trump and Bolsonaro are among the many few world leaders to label local weather change a “hoax”; Vladimir Putin and the Home of Saud additionally sometimes categorical “skepticism,” and there’s a not insignificant diploma of help for comparable posturing in some nations whose states acknowledge the problem of worldwide warming. On the electoral degree, that is notably seen within the ascendance of some Trump wannabes on the subnational degree, like Doug Ford in Ontario (Canada’s most populous and highly effective province).

Nonetheless, it’s truthful to say that a massive a part of the rationale Local weather Behemoth appears so threatening immediately is attributable to its Americanism; Russia and Saudi Arabia’s provocations have a lot to do with their relationships with the White Home. The largely white, male, sexist, and racist proper wing with which Behemoth is related can wreak havoc even when it acknowledges that local weather change is actual. Witness how Andrzej Duda, the president of Poland and host of the 2018 UN Framework Conference on Local weather Change (UNFCCC) conferences in Katowice, doubled down on coal and derailed the EU’s decarbonization plan, or the actions of the far-right FPÖ authorities of Austria, which doesn’t a lot deny local weather change as refuse to speak about it. But setting apart the actual risk that Trump may refuse to cede energy peacefully, the precarious electoral foundation of the few truly present Local weather Behemoths is sweet purpose to doubt its long-term endurance.

This isn’t to counsel towards resistance. However as horrible and devastating because the Trump presidency is, we already see the wheels beginning to come off the denialist bus. We now have reached a tipping level the place there are such a lot of clear alerts of speedy environmental change that it’s more durable to confuse individuals by producing noise. When even its personal pandering media discover themselves unable to promote a hoaxer’s story to Behemoth’s constituency—with the residential abandonment of coastal Florida, say, or the depletion of the Ogallala Aquifer, the water supply for a substantial portion of U.S. agriculture—the legitimacy of Behemoth can be exhausting to take care of. One of many least predictable repercussions of Behemoth’s declining legitimacy, nevertheless, is the rising attraction of Guide of Revelations apocalypticism to its fundamentalist cohort. The worldview of evangelical Christianity already does essential work for Trump and Bolsonaro. The longer term impression of its theological politics will rely not on the planet’s local weather, however on the correct’s capability to conjure an apocalyptic political local weather.

At current, although, an unquestioning dedication to capitalism incorporates the seeds of Local weather Behemoth’s personal destruction, as a result of it’s troublesome to think about the persistence of capitalism in a political financial system that refuses to sharply scale back the burning of fossil fuels. Most of what we all know concerning the social and ecological impacts of worldwide warming is categorically dangerous for a mode of financial group that requires relative stability for the circulation and accumulation of capital. That is why establishments just like the IMF and the World Financial institution are outspoken in favor of putting a worth on carbon.

The lack of an atomized Local weather Behemoth to deal with local weather change–induced social and ecological transformation factors us towards Leviathan-like orders of authority. However it should not be forgotten that though wealth and energy are presently concentrated within the International North, individuals and mass political actions are concentrated within the International South. There isn’t a cause to anticipate, for instance, that within the face of local weather devastation, the plenty of South and East Asia will embrace a worldwide Local weather Leviathan that (at the very least within the inchoate type it presently takes in arenas just like the UNFCCC) is just within the upkeep of a worldwide order during which they’re subordinated. As international warming additional impoverishes, marginalizes, and kills the billions of individuals on this a part of the world, it appears unlikely they may rally to a planetary order meant to take care of and even exacerbate present inequalities.

All these areas have their very own political-economic, ideological, and cultural histories to attract upon, lots of which don’t embrace a dedication to the regulative superb of liberal-capitalist progress. That is the rationale we give the identify Local weather Mao to the third future trajectory: a non-capitalist order of Leviathan-like planetary sovereignty. This isn’t the identical factor as “Local weather China,” though it’s exhausting to think about a state of affairs during which China doesn’t play an essential position in international local weather politics. As an alternative, we name it Local weather Mao partly as a result of we anticipate that the potential for this future lies within the radical political traditions of South and East Asia, areas with traditionally vital rural collectivism that retains substantial modern organizational assets. Since this a part of the world is residence to actually billions of poor individuals, the overwhelming majority of whom local weather science signifies stay in communities instantly liable to local weather change–induced disturbance—extra at-risk populations than anyplace else on Earth—it appears affordable to anticipate that these plenty will draw upon these political and ideological traditions within the face of threats to their livelihoods. Provided that local weather change threatens not solely the interior stability of those areas however the international political financial system to which they’re more and more central, we anticipate Local weather Mao wouldn’t embrace the nation-state because the locus of sovereignty, at the least not for lengthy. Insofar as capitalism stands justifiably accused of each driving local weather disaster and stopping critical motion to deal with it, Local weather Mao represents the most probably non-capitalist formation prepared to confront Leviathan on the planetary stage.

The attraction of Local weather Mao to radical critics of capitalism continues to strike us. Since it’s clear to them that the capitalist nation-state has confirmed an irremediable impediment to local weather motion, not to mention something approaching local weather justice, the attraction of Local weather Mao is nearly visceral. Like Leviathan, it guarantees to get past the spatial and political limits of the state and do one thing. However in contrast to Leviathan, it won’t be beholden to the planet-eating capitalism that generated the issue within the first place—a situation that seems sure to ensure Leviathan’s inadequacy to the issue.

The ultimate future political trajectory we describe—a future that refuses capitalism and sovereignty, each nationwide and planetary—we name Local weather X. Local weather X is sadly however inevitably probably the most troublesome for us to sketch out; therefore X, a placeholding variable for a variety of options. Local weather X is our time period for the world for which the worldwide local weather justice motion struggles. As a result of that motion is in truth many actions, organized at many scales, X will take many varieties, every formed by particular historic and geographical circumstances.

However at a minimal, these actions share two broad orientations. First is a rejection of the capitalist mode of political-economic group, by which the issue of local weather change originates. No remotely believable capitalist foundation for a simply and safe future for all has been demonstrated, regardless of many years of political maneuvering and greenspeak. Second, a refusal to grant political precedence, maybe even standing, to the sovereign arrogation of energy, both in its nationwide or emergent planetary type. The nation-state has already demonstrated it can’t and won’t “save the planet.” Local weather Mao may, however it’s as more likely to discovered local weather justice as the unique Maoism did social justice. If we’re trustworthy, we should acknowledge that each the nation-state and its efforts at worldwide coordination and enforcement have confirmed a hindrance to significant motion. Within the International North it has confirmed an enormous compromise machine, a nominally “democratic” desk at which capital all the time has the primary and final phrase. Local weather X is a recognition that a answer to the local weather disaster lies past sovereignty, in a number of actions that arrange not on the idea of predetermined autonomous political parcels, however on the idea of the struggles and livelihoods of these concerned.

The a number of and centuries-long efforts of Indigenous peoples present helpful and admirable fashions of group, dedication, and political creativity within the face of existential threats. These can’t exhaust the assets upon which Local weather X will draw, however they’re and can proceed to be essential sources of data, knowledge, and solidarity, as will the various different struggles of working individuals, racialized communities, and others on all scales. Some, however not all, of those efforts will probably be based mostly in radical left custom. If Local weather X is feasible, it’ll solely be via the post-sovereign solidarity of those many bases of local weather justice.

It’s value noting that because of this Local weather X doesn’t, and won’t, take the type of a Inexperienced New Deal. This isn’t to dismiss requires the reorientation of state coverage as mere instruments of the powers-that-be, a greenwashing of the capitalist downward spiral. If, for instance, the Home decision presently circulating in U.S. Congress (“Recognizing the obligation of the Federal Authorities to create a Inexperienced New Deal”) have been carried out, it will be greater than welcome. It’s successfully a social justice omnibus invoice; even when solely half of its objectives have been undertaken, not to mention realized, that may sign a exceptional flip in U.S. political financial system. But we have to assume onerous about its limits.

Setting apart the array of pragmatic and denialist criticisms (it’s too costly, it’s too onerous on the power business and its staff, it’s “utopian”), the obvious concern one may increase concerning the Inexperienced New Deal is that we merely wouldn’t have time to attend for the state to show the full-speed-ahead tanker that’s the U.S. financial system round. The sort of transformation proposed can’t occur on a quick sufficient timeline, it in any respect, whether it is state-led—particularly in the USA, the place fossil-fuel capital is so deeply entangled within the state. The Inexperienced New Deal would require civil society to reorient the Behemoth that’s the USA on an analogous timeline—an achievement value celebrating, however one that’s arduous to consider will occur between now and 2030.

Inexperienced Keynesianism’s longer historical past locations it squarely within the Local weather Leviathan camp. No less than since the newest international monetary disaster, its proponents have included not merely greenwashers like Thomas Friedman and Lawrence Summers, however sensible critics like Ann Pettifor and Susan George. Inexperienced Keynesianism is the central platform of the influential Stern Evaluation, and of an elaborate 2008 Deutsche Financial institution proposal to make use of nationwide inexperienced infrastructure banks to save lots of Europe’s monetary sector. These sorts of Inexperienced Keynesianism are usually not similar. Like Pettifor and George, the Inexperienced New Deal goes additional in its redistributive and democratic commitments than any Keynesianism that precedes it. However in essential methods it’s tightly sure to the Keynesian custom, and shares a few of its primary orientations and limits.

Inexperienced Keynesianism is a policy-institutional matrix aimed toward sustaining social stability—local weather danger is described as a “menace multiplier”—and it depends on well-coordinated nationwide capitals to understand this aim. Like different Keynesianisms, it places all its eggs within the state’s basket, assuming a welcome however perhaps over-sanguine view of state capability, but in addition assuming the state’s long-term dedication to this system (past, say, one or two administrations). Whereas we on no account imply to impute some imperialist scheme to the Inexperienced New Deal, it’s also essential to notice the slightly summary geopolitical context it assumes, during which america is an unproblematic worldwide chief on local weather motion. And there was little thought to how different states can be affected (one may, for instance, anticipate substantial financial hardship when the world’s biggest shopper radically alters its consumption patterns).

One may say—and lots of have—that regardless of these issues, the Inexperienced New Deal is so a lot better than the established order, and is the best choice we’ve got. Certainly, this system’s most articulate advocates argue compellingly that the nation-state is probably the most highly effective establishment at hand, and it might be insane to not use it if we will. We see the benefit of those arguments. However whereas the state may probably be a useful gizmo proper now, it has additionally been maybe probably the most vital impediment to local weather motion. The capitalist state is extraordinarily unlikely to supply one thing like a Inexperienced New Deal. We’ll want extra radical options—which may solely come from, and be undertaken by, the individuals within the locations and communities through which they wrestle to make, and make sense of, their lives at this perilous conjuncture.

Geoff Mann is the Director of the Centre for International Political Financial system at Simon Fraser College in Vancouver, British Columbia. He’s the writer of Within the Lengthy Run We Are All Lifeless: Keynesianism, Political Financial system and Revolution (Verso, 2017).

Joel Wainwright is Professor of Geography at Ohio State College. He’s writer of Decolonizing Improvement (Blackwell, 2008) and coeditor of Rethinking Palestine and Israel: Marxist Views (Routledge, 2019).

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Political Scenarios for Climate Disaster

Political Situations for Local weather Catastrophe

Within the International North we frequently act as if our future might be a hotter model of right now: liberal capitalism, plus flood insurance coverage, minus coral reefs. That future is a fantasy.

Geoff Mann and Joel Wainwright &squarf; Summer time 2019 A bicyclist surveys a truck flipped into floodwater in Port Arthur, Texas. (Emily Kask/ AFP/Getty Pictures)

That future is a fantasy. It already has a chance near zero.

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Text

Political Scenarios for Climate Disaster

Political Situations for Local weather Catastrophe

Within the International North we frequently act as if our future might be a hotter model of right now: liberal capitalism, plus flood insurance coverage, minus coral reefs. That future is a fantasy.

Geoff Mann and Joel Wainwright &squarf; Summer time 2019 A bicyclist surveys a truck flipped into floodwater in Port Arthur, Texas. (Emily Kask/ AFP/Getty Pictures)

That future is a fantasy. It already has a chance near zero.

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Text

Political Scenarios for Climate Disaster

Political Situations for Local weather Catastrophe

Within the International North we frequently act as if our future might be a hotter model of right now: liberal capitalism, plus flood insurance coverage, minus coral reefs. That future is a fantasy.

Geoff Mann and Joel Wainwright &squarf; Summer time 2019 A bicyclist surveys a truck flipped into floodwater in Port Arthur, Texas. (Emily Kask/ AFP/Getty Pictures)

That future is a fantasy. It already has a chance near zero.

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Text

Political Scenarios for Climate Disaster

Political Situations for Local weather Catastrophe

Within the International North we frequently act as if our future might be a hotter model of right now: liberal capitalism, plus flood insurance coverage, minus coral reefs. That future is a fantasy.

Geoff Mann and Joel Wainwright &squarf; Summer time 2019 A bicyclist surveys a truck flipped into floodwater in Port Arthur, Texas. (Emily Kask/ AFP/Getty Pictures)

That future is a fantasy. It already has a chance near zero.

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Text

Political Scenarios for Climate Disaster

Political Situations for Local weather Catastrophe

Within the International North we frequently act as if our future might be a hotter model of right now: liberal capitalism, plus flood insurance coverage, minus coral reefs. That future is a fantasy.

Geoff Mann and Joel Wainwright &squarf; Summer time 2019 A bicyclist surveys a truck flipped into floodwater in Port Arthur, Texas. (Emily Kask/ AFP/Getty Pictures)

That future is a fantasy. It already has a chance near zero.

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Text

Political Scenarios for Climate Disaster

Political Situations for Local weather Catastrophe

Within the International North we frequently act as if our future might be a hotter model of right now: liberal capitalism, plus flood insurance coverage, minus coral reefs. That future is a fantasy.

Geoff Mann and Joel Wainwright &squarf; Summer time 2019 A bicyclist surveys a truck flipped into floodwater in Port Arthur, Texas. (Emily Kask/ AFP/Getty Pictures)

That future is a fantasy. It already has a chance near zero.

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Text

Political Scenarios for Climate Disaster

Political Situations for Local weather Catastrophe

Within the International North we frequently act as if our future might be a hotter model of right now: liberal capitalism, plus flood insurance coverage, minus coral reefs. That future is a fantasy.

Geoff Mann and Joel Wainwright &squarf; Summer time 2019 A bicyclist surveys a truck flipped into floodwater in Port Arthur, Texas. (Emily Kask/ AFP/Getty Pictures)

That future is a fantasy. It already has a chance near zero.

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the-pretty-when-thin · 5 years

Text

Political Scenarios for Climate Disaster

Political Situations for Local weather Catastrophe

Within the International North we frequently act as if our future might be a hotter model of right now: liberal capitalism, plus flood insurance coverage, minus coral reefs. That future is a fantasy.

Geoff Mann and Joel Wainwright &squarf; Summer time 2019 A bicyclist surveys a truck flipped into floodwater in Port Arthur, Texas. (Emily Kask/ AFP/Getty Pictures)

That future is a fantasy. It already has a chance near zero.

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#Article #Capitalism #Civil society #Climate Change #climate denialism #climate justice #Green Keynesianism #News #rural collectivism #sovereignty #the nation-state #What is the Nation Good For

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