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hardly-an-escape · 11 months

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Headache

Square: D1 - Fragile Rating: T Word Count: 1540 Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Warnings: No archive warnings apply Additional Tags: Dreamling Bingo fill, fragile, domaystic2023, bath, sick fic, migraines, unfortunately I must inflict my own suffering on fictional characters, Dream of the Endless is a good friend, it’s totally normal to draw a bath for your friend and ogle him a little while he strips in front of you, and sit chatting while he’s fully naked in the bath, right? right??, pre-slash Summary: Hob has a migraine. Dream has a revelation. Read on AO3 | fill for @dreamlingbingo | fill for @domaystic day 10: bath

“Mate, I spent the first thirty years of my life either living in a one room hut or on the road with a band of soldiers. There’s a very short list of things I haven’t done in front of someone else, and bathing isn’t on it.”

Dream enters the New Inn early one evening only to find that Hob is not waiting for him at their usual table.

He is, momentarily, at something of a loss, until the woman working behind the bar (her name is Judy, she dreams of deep forests and warm bread) flags him down.

“You’re looking for Rob, right? He called and said you’d be stopping by,” she says. “He’s under the weather. Said to let you know he’ll see you next week and he’ll pick up the tab to make up for it.”

(This is meaningless. Hob picks up the tab every time they meet. Least I can do for the immortality and all, he often says.)

“Under the weather?”

“Yeah, he didn’t say what. Hope he feels better soon,” she says kindly, and moves down the bar to see to another patron.

Dream continues to be at something of a loss for another several moments, during which he considers his options.

Hob is under the weather. Therefore, Hob is not here. He wishes to see Hob, and this wish is strong; stronger today, as it more and more often is, than propriety might normally allow. Therefore, he must go where Hob is.

If he were under the weather, Hob would care for him. Therefore, he must care for Hob.

All the current dilemmas of the world now resolved, Dream slips through the door marked ‘staff only beyond this point’ and makes his way up the side stairs to Hob’s flat.

At the landing outside Hob’s door, he pauses. The possibility exists, he realizes, that Hob will not wish for company while he is under the weather. But the risk is worth taking. He knocks.

“Who is it?” Hob’s voice comes weakly through the door. “‘S open, come in.”

The living room is dark and still, and Hob is lying on the couch with one arm thrown over his face. He lifts it enough to peer under his own elbow, and Dream does not think he mistakes the way his eyes, though tired, light up when he sees him standing in the doorway.

“Oh, Dream, I’m sorry. Didn’t Judy tell you I’d called down?”

“Yes. But I thought perhaps. I could offer my assistance.”

“You’re sweet.” This is the first time in Dream’s memory that this epithet has been applied to him. “Nothing to do but wait it out, I’m afraid.”

“What ails you?”

“Just a migraine. Get them every once in a while.” Hob replaces his arm over his eyes. “I took some pills a little while ago, they’ll kick in soon. Not fit for company till then, I’m afraid.”

Dream steps into the room and closes the door softly behind him, coming over to kneel beside the couch.

“I am frequently considered unfit for company,” he says. “And you provide company regardless. Allow me to care for you, my friend. Is there nothing that would help you?”

Hob peeks out again from under his arm and smiles wanly.

“Well. It’s a bit silly –”

“– I am sure it is not,” Dream interjects.

“– it is, rather. But I would kill for a cool bath. I just can’t find the energy to get up and fill the tub.”

Dream stands smoothly.

“I will draw you a bath.”

It is, he thinks, indicative of Hob’s fragile state that he settles into the couch cushions with nary a word of protest.

The bathroom is comfortable and well-appointed, with a tub deep and long enough for a fully grown man to submerge himself completely. Dream has often heard Hob cheerfully refer to himself as a hedonist. This room is proof of that: the bathroom of a man unwilling to shortchange himself even on life’s simplest pleasures.

He stops up the drain and turns on the taps. Hob has requested a cool bath, so he ensures the water is several degrees below average human body temperature. He pulls down the blinds against the harsh light of the late afternoon and surveys a shelf of soaps and oils.

“Lavender or mint?” He pokes his head out to see that Hob has maneuvered himself into a sitting position on the couch. “I believe both are helpful for headaches. Do you have a preference?”

“I think… lavender,” answers Hob, eyes still closed. “Mint sounds too sharp.”

“Can’t tell you how much this means, mate,” he says, leveraging himself off the couch and groping his way toward the bathroom door. “Fuck, my head. Do you get migraines?”

“No. Not personally. But I am familiar with them, through the dreams of others. What are they like for you?”

“Well if you’re ever looking for human experiences, I emphatically do not recommend them.” He sways and leans against the bathroom doorjamb. “Feels like I have my own personal jackhammer in my temple. My shoulders and back seize up as well. Sometimes I puke, that’s always lovely. But the light sensitivity is the worst. I can function with the pain, but when I can’t even leave the flat because the fucking sun is too bright? Forget about it.”

“What causes them?” Dream asks, pouring a liberal capful of lavender scented oil in the water.

“Never been able to figure it out.” Hob shrugs and sits down on the closed toilet to remove his socks. “Isn’t that dumb?”

He begins to unbutton his shirt, and Dream turns the taps off.

“I will leave you in peace now,” he says. “Enjoy your bath. I hope your headache passes swiftly.”

He moves toward the door. There is a beat as Hob shrugs out of his shirt and begins to pull his undershirt over his head, and then –

“You can stay,” he says, voice muffled by the cloth. “You won’t bother me.”

His face, when it emerges from the t-shirt, is a scant shade pinker than it was.

“Your voice is… I think it’s kind of helping? Like it’s resonating at the right frequency?” Hob grimaces. “That sounds mad. My brain isn’t working.”

“You do not require…” Dream hesitates. “Privacy?”

This is something he knows many humans feel strongly about, and therefore part of the reason he does not intrude personally on any dreams – including Hob’s – without good reason.

Hob has to stand and bend over in order to remove his trousers and underwear, and he winces as the blood flows to his head when he does so. Despite his words, he turns his back to Dream as he stoops, and Dream catches but a brief glimpse of thickly furred thigh and a pleasing curve of backside before averting his gaze. In deference to propriety.

Propriety. With which he is certainly preoccupied. And not with the pleasing curve of Hob’s backside.

Hob slides into the scented water and makes a deeply contented noise as he leans back, tipping his head back so as much of the back of his neck as possible is underwater while his ears remain above the surface. His eyes are closed. The line of his throat and the bump of his Adam’s apple rise from the water, little islands of life, looking oddly fragile.

Dream sits down, straight-backed, on the closed toilet that Hob has recently vacated, and devotes a fraction of the collective unconscious to some rapid calculations.

He wished to see Hob, and he finds himself here. He wished to care for Hob, offered to care for him, and was invited – here. Hob has expressed pleasure at his presence, has called him sweet, has asked for his voice, and now lies naked mere feet away from where Dream is seated. He has looked upon Hob’s body and found it pleasing; and the pink lingering in Hob’s cheeks despite the cool water would seem to suggest that the pleasure Dream took in that moment of looking is met with equal pleasure in being seen.

Could it be that he wants Hob? Could it be that Hob wants him?

It seems more and more likely by the second, as Hob relaxes fully into the water and the tension he carries begins to visibly drain from his neck and temples. As Dream’s gaze slips again down the line of Hob’s throat. And the sweep of his hair off his forehead. And the muscle in his forearm where it rests on the edge of the tub.

Dream is not perturbed that this revelation, the knowledge of these feelings, is only now working its way to the surface of his mind like a bubble struggling toward the surface of the water. It is not the first time he has pushed his own emotions so far down into the belly of his subconscious that it takes the equivalent of an earthquake to throw them back up into the light.

Hob swallows, and his throat is a tectonic plate.

“Would you mind?” he asks. “Just staying and… talking? Just for a little while. I wasn’t kidding when I said your voice was helping.”

“Of course,” Dream answers softly. “Of course I will.”

[Read on AO3]

green = complete, orange = WIP

#dreamling #the sandman #dreamling bingo #my writing #because I get migraines Hob must also suffer - sorry but I don't make the rules #once again I somehow messed up the header image and I don't know why it's so small >:(#domaystic2023

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ao3usertaliax · 1 year

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Summary: The Underground has only ever had one Queen. Undyne doesn't want to be Her. (Alphyne, Exiled Queen / Empress Undyne ending.)

Word Count: 1540

Rating: G

Other part of the secret santa for @carlyraejepsans! since the first one was so short.

XXX

The Ruins doors grind shut. Stone against stone, rumbling like the growl slowly dying in the back of Undyne’s throat. She slides down the doors’ cold, slick surface, sinking into the snow at her feet.

She shivers. It’s done.

The Queen is gone.

“Captain—er, Queen Undyne…?” Dogaressa starts.

She and Dogamy are leading the squadron, though Undyne hadn’t needed the backup. Queen Toriel had gone without resistance.

"Don't call me—" Undyne bites her tongue.

What did she expect? She overthrew the Queen. She is the Queen, now, in their eyes.

Her stomach feels worse than the times she’s ridden conveyor belts. Normally she wouldn’t mind hurling, but it doesn’t sound fun anymore. Not without anyone to gag at how gross she is.

"Fan out. Check the wall for structural weaknesses," she rasps.

She doesn't expect them to find anything, but it'll give her troops something to do while she…

While she sits here, the cold biting into her toes. Turning the fire in her soul numb.

Asgore, what do I do…?

What would he do?

…Not kick out his ex, probably. But she had to. She couldn't, wouldn't sit there and watch the Queen unravel everything Asgore had worked for.

(She wouldn't watch the Queen deny what had happened to Papyrus. She wouldn't watch Sans play innocent.)

She shivers, even with Papyrus's scarf as tight as a noose around her neck.

She couldn't protect him. She couldn't protect Asgore. What makes her think she can protect the whole Underground?

"U-Undyne…?"

Her head snaps up. She’s really losing her touch if Alphys found a way to sneak up on her. She’s bundled up in layers of knitted sweaters under her lab coat, and a bright pair of pink boots. …Alphys owns boots?

“How did you get here?” Undyne croaks out, wiping the back of her arm across her eyes.

“Mettaton.” Alphys shuffles closer. The Dog Squad packed down the snow, at least, so she doesn’t have to lift the bulky-looking boots too far. “He wants to g-get an interview with the Guard, s-so he was already coming this way… I t-told him not to bother you, but—”

“But he’s Mettaton.” Undyne nods. Trying to stop him from doing something is like… well, like trying to stop an indestructible robot.

At least he’s not here right now, and Alphys is.

Undyne’s shoulders tremble beneath her armor. She can’t even keep up a strong front for Alphys. Not that Alphys needs her to—she’s strong enough on her own—but Undyne…

It’s stupid, but she just wants the only friend she has left to think she’s cool.

“I… didn’t just come because of Mettaton. I was worried...” Alphys crouches down beside her. It can’t be comfortable—Alphys hates the cold even more than Undyne does. “N-not about you! I knew you would be fine! But, uh, you know… Ugh, I sound s-so stupid right now…”

Alphys covers her face. Undyne gently takes one of her hands, pulling it away.

“You’re gonna smudge your glasses,” Undyne says. Hopefully the scarf covers her blush. “And, uh. It’s not stupid.”

It’s adorable, how much she trusts Undyne. She’s adorable.

Alphys’s breath puffs out in warm clouds. It fogs her glasses, despite Undyne’s previous attempt at protecting them.

(She can’t even protect a couple of lenses.)

“Um. R-right.” Alphys swallows. Her throat bobs beneath her thick turtlenecks. “I guess it doesn’t matter, now. It’s all over.”

Alphys’s gaze flickers to the doors behind them.

“Yeah. Over,” Undyne lies.

It’s just beginning. Getting rid of the Queen was easy, compared to the mountain of responsibility she feels weighing on her now.

Laws. Regulations. Everything she spent her childhood fighting against. Deep down, has she ever stopped being that punk kid, pushing boxes for community service? Even the structure of the Guard is just something Asgore invented to keep her occupied. She knows this, because the Queen’s first order of business had been to disband it.

“He… he went with her, didn’t he?” Alphys asks weakly.

It takes a moment for Undyne to catch up to her train of thought, but when she does, she snorts. If the sound comes out a little too wet, it’s just her nose running from the cold.

“Sans? What do you think?” Undyne grumbles. “He’s been wrapped around her finger since she crawled out of her hole.”

“Since b-before that, actually…”

“Huh?”

Alphys blushes, for some reason.

“Ehehe. You know how I set up cameras, um, to watch for humans…?”

There’s one in the bush to their left, Alphys explains. Apparently she’s watched Sans and Toriel flirt through this door for months.

No wonder Sans was always such a useless sentry. He’s been a traitor from the very beginning. The thought should make her rage boil, but the numbness keeps its icy grip on her soul.

“I was going to, r-recalibrate this camera, in case either of them… escape…? I thought it might help you relax,” Alphys mumbles.

“That’d be great,” Undyne replies quietly. “Thanks, Alphys.”

Sans and the Queen are the least of her worries, honestly—neither of them have the guts to put up a fight—but it’s reassuring to know that Alphys has her back. That she’s not as alone as she feels.

“O-of course! If there’s anything else I can do… you pr-probably have everything figured out, but…” Alphys trails off, claws clicking together.

She’s done plenty already. Just being here, on this side of those stone doors, is enough.

(But. If there’s anyone strong enough, smart enough, to help Undyne—it’s her.)

“I don’t want to be Queen,” Undyne blurts—then immediately flinches, looking left and right.

The dogs are nowhere in sight, but that doesn’t mean they can’t hear her. Hopefully the drifting snow muffles her cowardly admission.

“Why… why not?” Alphys asks, her head tilting. “You t-trained under Asgore. If anyone knows how to lead, it’s you. R-right?”

Undyne can guess what Alphys is thinking: she just kicked out the only other monster who might know what she’s doing. Why do that, if Undyne wasn’t ready to pick up the pieces?

The truth is, the people were going to revolt, whether Undyne helped them or not. Unrest from Papyrus’s murder had spread from Snowdin all the way to Hotland. Not to mention how everyone felt about Asgore and the missing human souls.

Undyne had been so busy trying to keep everyone plotting the revolution safe, she hadn’t thought about what would come after. But she’s thinking about it now. And all she knows is this:

“There’s only been one Queen before,” Undyne mutters, “and I don’t want to be her.”

“You’re… worried about being like Toriel?” Alphys asks.

Then she laughs. It sounds a little hysterical, which makes sense. The concept of Undyne looking like the Queen, acting like the Queen, is insane.

“S-sorry!!” Alphys’s face goes red as she tries to muffle her snickers. “I just… I can see it?”

“What??”

“N-not in a bad way!! You’re just both, very… committed? To your principles! It’s really h-ho—admirable!!!”

Undyne blinks. The words get her all twisted up inside, compliment-and-insult all at once. …Well, really it’s just a compliment, but being compared to her…

“I can’t be her,” Undyne finally admits.

As much as she can’t stand the Queen, there’s no denying that Toriel is everything a Queen’s supposed to be. Elegant. Warm. Composed. What if the people realize she was the better choice after all?

What if they rise up against Undyne just as quickly?

“I… don’t think anyone wants you to be?” Alphys frowns. “Not the way… it sounds like you’re thinking.”

“You just said you found her admirable,” Undyne mutters.

“I also said—I admire you!” Alphys bursts. Her claws grip the edges of her long sleeves. “You’re so…”

Alphys gestures to all of her. Undyne’s not sure what to make of that.

“You’re you, Undyne. Nobody knew Queen Toriel, well, except Sans… and Gerson, I guess… b-but, everyone knows how much you c-care about them! You’re my—our hero!! I don’t th-think there's anyone in the Underground who could do a better job than you.”

Her breaths are heavy. They fog up her glasses again, obscuring her eyes right when Undyne wants to see them most.

Maybe it’s for the best. At least Alphys can’t see how deeply Undyne’s blushing.

Your hero…

“You really think so, huh…?”

“I—I know so! You’re going to be a great Queen!! Just like Empress Jupiter when she had to lead the Planet Brigade in Moon Sailors episode twenty-seven!!!”

A spark of fire reignites in Undyne’s chest. She still has lingering doubts, but Alphys has given her an idea that settles her churning stomach.

“You’re a genius, Alphys! I’ll be Empress Undyne!” Undyne grins, hugging her tight. “Then I won’t have to feel like hurling every time someone calls me Queen. It’s the perfect plan!! Fufufufufu!!!”

“That’s… not what I…?” Alphys starts, before shaking her head and hugging Undyne back. “I mean, yeah!! Empress Undyne sounds se—um, s-super cool!! Ehehe!”

“HECK YEAH!!”

It takes all her restraint not to suplex Alphys out of affection. Maybe some other time, when they’re not surrounded by freezing snow.

For now, Undyne holds her tight, feeling perfectly warm.

#G #alphys #undyne #alphyne #undertale #hurt/comfort #1-2k

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kultofathena · 9 months

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Ádám Bodorics – Beham Messer with Ring Hilt and Brass Frame Boxwood Grip

This Beham style Messer by specialist swordsmith Ádám Bodorics is a wonderfully agile sword in the hand that strikes with velocity and power – its wide and well-tempered blade bites deeply and its thin profile along the main cutting portion of the blade passes through a target with little drag and resistance – a truly fierce performer in a scrap of a melee! The thick ring at the hilt gives impressive protection to the entire hand from even notably larger weapons and the grip is a unique composite with the thick tang riveted and embedded between two halves of smoothly polished boxwood which is framed in strips of finely worked brass. The wood grip halves may look cracked, but they are actually created from a deliberate reconstruction of smaller pieces with strong and colored bonding filler in order to give the grip a unique theme and appearance that is perfectly apt to the troubled times of early 16th century Germany.

The sword is matched with scabbard of well-carved wood which is wrapped in linen for a binding to aid in durability which is then finished with overlaid tight leather with a compartment for a matching byknife which is included. Integrated and knotted to the scabbard is a thick sword belt with an adjustable buckle for wear. Below is Ádám’s own words on his unique creation offered here:

Messers take a huge variety of form and construction. This piece is based on a 1540 woodcut by Hans Sebald Beham with a subtle Memento Mori theme. In the 16th century, knifelike sidearms undergo several changes, one of them being the increasing regularity of hidden tangs. Illustrations from the period sometimes show rather complex grip shapes that would be complicated with a full-tang construction, but a hidden or a frame tang makes them much more trivial. Hans Sebald Beham often shows interesting grip shapes even in a bucolic setting, and it’s one of his woodcuts I based this piece on.

The straight and nimble blade is ground from 51crv4 (6150) high-carbon steel and is heat-treated to 50-52 HrC. It is optimized for cutting and slashing. It has plenty of distal taper and a wide fuller along it’s length. The cross has a gentle S-shape and a sidering instead of a Nagel. It is still affixed to the blade with a rivet o make sure it’s not mistaken for a sword or falchion or storta. The finials of the cross echo the trilobate design of the grip. The real tang of the blade reaches to about two-thirds of the grip. A thin steel plate was cut to the intended shape of the grip with a brass strip formed and soldered along it’s edges. The grip panels sit on the edges of the frame with the cavity between the panels and the tang filled with adhesive following the style of surviving frame-tang sidearms.

The byknife is hand-forged and ground from 80crv2 with integrated bolsters and a forge-welded mild steel tang. The grip panels are affixed by glue and tubular brass rivets of increasing diameter. The grip panels are boxwood, buxus sempervirens. These pieces were hand-picked to highlight the effects of the blight eradicating old growth, namely the aggressive checking from quick drying following rapid defoliation and the cloudy dark discolorations. There is evidence for boxwood’s continuous use for over two millennia, but as specimens large enough for larger carvings take an immense amount of time to grow, preventive culling or neglect of infected trees both make it near-impossible for this material to stay for long. To me, using these specific slabs was like erecting a gravestone, removing the need for any overt Memento Mori or Totentanz motifs.

The scabbard has a wooden core, linen wrapping and a vegetable tanned leather wrap with an integrated subsheath for the byknife. It is dyed a light brown and is undecorated to keep the attention on the hilt of the Messer. There is a belt threaded into two slits in the back of the sheath, crossing over to either side.

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irish-dress-history · 1 year

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Drawn after the Quick

(ie Drawn from Life)

Colored woodcut print by an unknown English artist, generally dated to 1540-1550, possibly depicting Irish kerns who fought for King Henry VIII at the siege of Boulogne in 1544.

All 6 of the men wear a léine (linen tunic) with an ionar (short jacket) over it, and the 4 on the left have a brat (wool mantle). The men have their léinte rucked up to knee length and secured at the waist with a belt or cord. The léinte have the wide hanging sleeves that are typical of 16th c. Gaelic fashion. They also have a deep center-front opening, a feature which matches Burgundian courtier Laurent Vital's description of clothing he saw during his 1518 visit to Kinsale, Co. Cork:

"Generally the men, women, and young girls wear their shirts open to the waist. Most young women and girls have their chests naked to the waist." (translation taken from a lecture by Katherine Bond)

The ionair in this print are very similar in cut to the ionar of the Kilcommon bog outfit. The hat worn by the man in the red ionar is also similar to the hat of the Kilcommon outfit.

The floral scroll design seen on some of the ionair was a popular embroidery motif in England during the 16th-early 17th centuries. It also shows up in 16th c. Irish art like St. Brigid's shoe shrine.

4 of the ionair and all of the visible scabbards have fringe on them. Fringe was a popular embellishment in 16th c. Ireland. The use of fringe is mentioned in several 16th and early 17th c. descriptions of Irish clothing. Fringes made of wool and fringes made of silk were imported into Ireland during the 16th c.

In spite the claim that it was drawn from life, this print includes some stylistic exaggeration. The sword blades are depicted as having a bulbous tip, which actual Irish ring-pommel swords are not. Compare the swords in the print to this extant 16th c. sword from Tully Lough, Co. Roscommon in the NMI:

The print is currently in the collection of the Ashmolean Museum. https://collections.ashmolean.org/object/737327

Bibliography:

Arnold, Janet, Tiramani, J., & Levey, S. (2008). Patterns of Fashion 4. Macmillan, London.

Dunlevy, Mairead (1989). Dress in Ireland. B. T. Batsford LTD, London.

Flavin, Susan (2011). Consumption and Material Culture in Sixteenth-Century Ireland. PhD thesis.

McClintock, H. F. (1943). Old Irish and Highland Dress. Dundalgan Press, Dundalk.

Irish Ring Pommel Sword: New Insight into Use

National Museum of Ireland talk on St. Brigid's shoe shrine

Depicting and Describing Dress in Early Modern Ireland: lecture by Dr. Katherine Bond

#irish dress #gaelic ireland #irish history #irish mantle #bratanna #leine #ionar #fringe #embellishment #historical men's fashion #headwear #art #16th century #anecdotes and observations #dress history #bog finds #extant garments

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drysdaales · 1 year

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everything you lose (a step you take)

bradley “rooster” bradshaw/jake “hangman” seresin | 1540 words | read on ao3

There’s a moment wherein Warlock walks in and says Maverick’s name and Bradley’s life hasn’t been changed yet.

And then, in a matter of seconds, Warlock delivers the harsh, unflinching truth. “He’s gone.” His voice is deep and gravelly with an emotion too great to bear, and Bradley almost asks who. Almost.

“What?” Maverick speaks like he’s been punched in the gut. Bradley blinks, looking between them with confusion. “What? W-when did he—”

“Sarah just called.” Warlock steps forward and extends a hand out, gripping Maverick’s shoulder tightly. “I am so, so sorry.”

Bradley feels like he’s outside of his body when Maverick nods, heaving a shaky breath like he’s screwing his head back on straight. “Kid—” Maverick cuts himself off, swallowing, and the devastation on his face feels like looking directly into the sun. “Rooster, I’m s—”

“What are you talking about?” The words come out mangled and hoarse, and Maverick shuts his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Iceman,” Warlock says, finally letting go of Maverick’s shoulder. He looks to Bradley with a steely determination in his eye, and Bradley feels terrified of him for the first time. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for your loss, as well.”

Everything is still as Warlock leaves the room; when the door closes, though, it’s like it breaks whatever stalemate they were in. Bradley understands the words individually, hears them, comprehends them as a sentence, but something’s not clicking. “My loss?” he questions aloud, and he hears Maverick sniffle.

“I’m sorry,” Maverick says, and his voice cracks at the end as he turns away, hiding his face in his hands, and Bradley feels like he’s suffocating and suddenly he can smell antiseptic and bleach and latex, and Maverick’s telling him off for skipping out on school when Gabriela, his mom’s favorite nurse, had to come into the hallway.

“She’s gone,” Gabriela said, so morosely Bradley would have thought she was talking about her own mother. “Oh, Bradley, Pete, I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Bradley demanded, and Gabriela’s eyes filled with tears. “We— We just walked out. Like, barely left.”

“I know.” Gabriela wiped at her eyes. Maverick stepped forward and gripped his hand. “It—”

Bradley pushed past her and stared at his mother’s lifeless body, eyes gathering tears in the corners. “Oh, kid,” Maverick said, turning him away from the bed, but Bradley couldn’t stop looking. She was never quiet. She was calming, sure, but never quiet. Not like this.

“She’s not moving,” he breathed out, stumbling back into Maverick.

“I’m sorry.” Maverick tucked Bradley’s head into his shoulder like Bradley was 7 and not 17, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Jesus fucking Christ . “I’m so sorry.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” he asks, and he can’t even feel any shame for cursing in front of Maverick.

“You’ve got me,” Maverick murmured, pressing another kiss to the same spot. “I’m right here.”

I’m right here.

“Hey,” Maverick says now, tears running down his cheeks. He seems more clear and lucid, though, which is good, because Bradley isn’t. He’s stuck in between 17 and 32 and his mother’s been dead for 15 years and Mav’s been dead to him for almost just as long, and Iceman too, except— “Hey, Bradley.”

“What happened to him?” Bradley doesn’t even sound like himself; he feels crazed as he stares up into Maverick’s eyes, red and glassy. Maverick sniffles and glances away, but Bradley grabs his wrist and commands attention. “Mav.”

“He was sick.” Maverick swallows, crouching in front of him. He hasn’t aged much, Bradley thinks, except he could reach out and touch laugh lines that weren’t there the last time they spoke, forehead creases that only seem to have deepened. He’s getting older, Bradley thinks, with a suspicious lump in his throat. “Cancer.”

Bradley almost chokes on it. “What?”

“He was—” Maverick glances away. “He was fine the first time. I only just—”

“The first time?” Bradley’s going to pass out. “What the hell do you mean the first time?”

“I left you a voicemail,” Maverick says.

“I blocked you,” Bradley snaps back, and Maverick flinches.

Bradley exhales shakily, taking in another uneven breath and Maverick places his hands on Bradley’s knees. I know this isn’t easy, he said once, when Bradley was 14 and gearing up to watch his mother die slowly. But I’m right here. Bradley believed him then, when he was almost 20 years younger and immature and unscathed minus a dead father he barely remembered.

And even though Maverick’s betrayed his trust once before, his earnesty and pure, unflinching sadness make him believable again. “I’m really, really sorry,” Maverick says, and Bradley wants to say he’s sorry too, sorry for everything, sorry for Ice, sorry for shutting him and Ice out and sorry for Ice dying and sorry for saying everything he just said to Maverick, because—

No kids, no one to mourn you. Bradley shuts his eyes. He keeps fighting with Maverick, and everyone he loves keeps dying. It feels like it can’t possibly be sustainable.

He doesn’t speak, trying to hold all the emotions in without them bubbling over, because if they do he’ll break completely and tell Maverick he’s sorry and he’ll do anything to get him back and half of him wants that more than anything in the world. And then the other half, the half of him that was raised by Maverick, wants to tell him to fuck right off.

Maverick squeezes Bradley’s knees and turns to leave, and Bradley clears his throat. “Me too,” he says, and Maverick’s breath hitches. “I’m sorry.” A pause. “About Ice.”

And in that moment Maverick looks as young as he was when Bradley first remembers him, which is always, and he looks older than Bradley ever remembers him being, and Bradley realizes for the first time that Pete Mitchell isn’t immortal. Pete Mitchell could die tonight. Pete Mitchell could be shot out of the sky, or get into a motorcycle accident, or be randomly mugged, or just die of a broken fucking heart.

“I know you are.” Maverick gives him a small, watery smile. “Go home. Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bradley doesn’t like this; something in his gut is tugging at him, and when he looks back up Maverick is gone. Bradley runs, shouting after him down the hallway. Maverick turns, and Bradley aches with missing him. “Are you—” Bradley clears his throat, but he’s still trying not to cry. “Are you going to be okay?”

Maverick shrugs. “I have to be,” he says. “I need to make sure you’re all—”

“No, fuck, Mav, not that.” Bradley shakes his head. “I mean—shit, I don’t know, I’ve never—” He falters on the words, and he knows Maverick hears them by the way his face crumples. “Mav, please, I—”

“I’ll go see Penny,” Maverick says, and Bradley wants to shake him, tell him to say something. “Rooster, go home.”

“Tell me you’ll be fine,” Bradley pleads. “And I will.”

Bradley watches Maverick begin to roll his eyes, and then he stops, walking toward Bradley but stopping just short of being able to reach. “Bradley,” Maverick says gently, and Bradley shuts his eyes. “I’ll be okay. Will you?”

“I—” Shaking his head, then nodding, Bradley lets out a long breath. “Yeah. But you have to promise me—”

“I promise.” Maverick does roll his eyes then, and if Bradley tries hard enough, he could be 15 and his mother and Ice could be making mischief just down the hallway. If he squeezes his eyes shut, the peels of their laughter could echo off the high ceilings. If he believes it, it’ll be true. “I’m right here. You’ll be okay.”

Bradley opens his eyes then, and Maverick nods, walking away. It doesn’t feel right to let him. Bradley just wants to hold onto the moments that will keep him a kid—wants to hold onto his mother’s waist, wants to hold on to his first kiss, wants to hold onto Jake, wants to keep Maverick right there, next to him, so that he can’t go and do something stupid like die before Bradley gets the chance to—

Bradley sags against the wall, letting it hold him up, when footsteps creep toward him. Bradley would know them anywhere.

“Hey,” Jake says, eyeing him critically. Bradley has never wanted to punch someone or hold them more.

“Hey,” he says back.

Jake extends a hand to him, wiggling his fingers in Bradley’s face with a stupidly soft grin. “Let’s go sneak some food into Phoenix and Bob, yeah? You and I both know that hospital food sucks.”

Bradley almost chokes on the gratitude, almost blurts out an I love you, almost almost almost—instead, he accepts Jake’s hand and squeezes once before letting go. “That’s a good idea,” Bradley murmurs. “Wish I’d thought of that.”

“Yeah, well.” Jake waves him off, snagging Bradley’s keys from his pocket, giving him a shit-eating grin before he walks away. “We can’t all be perfect, Bradshaw!” he calls back, and Bradley feels some sort of calm wash over him.

You’ll be okay. Bradley takes a deep breath and vows to believe in Pete Mitchell for another day.

#hangster #hangster fic #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fic #tgm fic #my writing #grace speaks #uhhhhh hi? take this?#i guess?

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compneuropapers · 8 months

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Interesting Papers for Week 33, 2023

Parametric control of flexible timing through low-dimensional neural manifolds. Beiran, M., Meirhaeghe, N., Sohn, H., Jazayeri, M., & Ostojic, S. (2023). Neuron, 111(5), 739-753.e8.

Dissociation in neuronal encoding of object versus surface motion in the primate brain. Bigelow, A., Kim, T., Namima, T., Bair, W., & Pasupathy, A. (2023). Current Biology, 33(4), 711-719.e5.

The presence of irrelevant alternatives paradoxically increases confidence in perceptual decisions. Comay, N. A., Della Bella, G., Lamberti, P., Sigman, M., Solovey, G., & Barttfeld, P. (2023). Cognition, 234, 105377.

A novel computational approach to pain perception modelling within a Bayesian framework using quantitative sensory testing. Drusko, A., Baumeister, D., McPhee Christensen, M., Kold, S., Fisher, V. L., Treede, R.-D., … Tesarz, J. (2023). Scientific Reports, 13, 3196.

Cerebellar control of a unitary head direction sense. Fallahnezhad, M., Le Mero, J., Zenelaj, X., Vincent, J., Rochefort, C., & Rondi-Reig, L. (2023). Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 120(9), e2214539120.

Temporal derivative computation in the dorsal raphe network revealed by an experimentally driven augmented integrate-and-fire modeling framework. Harkin, E. F., Lynn, M. B., Payeur, A., Boucher, J.-F., Caya-Bissonnette, L., Cyr, D., … Béïque, J.-C. (2023). eLife, 12, e72951.

Illusory perception of visual patterns in pure noise is associated with COVID-19 conspiracy beliefs. Hartmann, M., & Müller, P. (2023). i-Perception, 14(1), 204166952211447.

Interplay between biochemical processes and network properties generates neuronal up and down states at the tripartite synapse. Joshi, S. N., Joshi, A. N., & Joshi, N. D. (2023). Physical Review E, 107(2), 024415.

Inversion of pop-out for a distracting feature dimension in monkey visual cortex. Klink, P. C., Teeuwen, R. R. M., Lorteije, J. A. M., & Roelfsema, P. R. (2023). Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 120(9), e2210839120.

Intraparietal stimulation disrupts negative distractor effects in human multi-alternative decision-making. Kohl, C., Wong, M. X., Wong, J. J., Rushworth, M. F., & Chau, B. K. (2023).eLife, 12, e75007.

Bayesian inference in ring attractor networks. Kutschireiter, A., Basnak, M. A., Wilson, R. I., & Drugowitsch, J. (2023). Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 120(9), e2210622120.

Energy-efficiency computing of up and down transitions in a neural network. Liu, X., Lu, L., Zhu, Y., & Yi, M. (2023). Journal of Neurophysiology, 129(3), 581–590.

Recurrent networks endowed with structural priors explain suboptimal animal behavior. Molano-Mazón, M., Shao, Y., Duque, D., Yang, G. R., Ostojic, S., & de la Rocha, J. (2023). Current Biology, 33(4), 622-638.e7.

Brainstem serotonin neurons selectively gate retinal information flow to thalamus. Reggiani, J. D. S., Jiang, Q., Barbini, M., Lutas, A., Liang, L., Fernando, J., … Andermann, M. L. (2023). Neuron, 111(5), 711-726.e11.

Brain State-Dependent Modulation of Thalamic Visual Processing by Cortico-Thalamic Feedback. Reinhold, K., Resulaj, A., & Scanziani, M. (2023). Journal of Neuroscience, 43(9), 1540–1554.

Mountains of memory in a sea of uncertainty: Sampling the external world despite useful information in visual working memory. Sahakian, A., Gayet, S., Paffen, C. L. E., & Van der Stigchel, S. (2023). Cognition, 234, 105381.

Inhibitory top-down projections from zona incerta mediate neocortical memory. Schroeder, A., Pardi, M. B., Keijser, J., Dalmay, T., Groisman, A. I., Schuman, E. M., … Letzkus, J. J. (2023). Neuron, 111(5), 727-738.e8.

Motor recalibration of visual and saccadic maps. Tyralla, S., Pomè, A., & Zimmermann, E. (2023). Proceedings of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, 290(1994).

Serial dependencies between locomotion and visual space. Wiesing, M., & Zimmermann, E. (2023). Scientific Reports, 13, 3302.

Subcortical encoding of summary statistics in humans. Zhao, Y., Zeng, T., Wang, T., Fang, F., Pan, Y., & Jia, J. (2023). Cognition, 234, 105384.

#neuroscience #science #research #brain science #scientific publications #cognitive science #neurobiology #cognition #psychophysics #neurons #neural computation #neural networks

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0junemeatcleaver0 · 7 months

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𝖁𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝕯𝖆𝖞 𝕹𝖎𝖓𝖊

Prompt: Doctor Character(s): Flannery, Fareed Rating: Teen Words: 1540 We get the results from our experiment way back on the second of Vamptember. Bad Vampire Science homies rejoice!!

Read Here

#vamptember #flannery gilman

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rottingmanifesto · 2 years

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The History of New Bordeaux

Situated just a few miles north of New Orleans, Louisiana, “Bourbon City” is home to a unique blend of cultures, night life, history, and music, as well as being one of the busiest ports in the Gulf of Mexico, alongside its sister city. Founded by the French, ruled by Spanish forces for roughly 40 years then purchased as part of 1803’s Louisiana Purchase, New Bordeaux hosts a unique blend of Creole and Latin American cultures and vibrant (though tumultuous) history. The city has always been trapped in a power struggle between countless groups, but despite issues both social (poverty, crime rates, racial strife) and natural (slowly sinking land, hurricanes, floods), New Bordeaux persists as a testament to human will.

France & Sister City

The first residents of what would become New Bordeaux were Native American nations— Chitimacha, Coushatta, Tunica-Biloxi, amongst many other nations— though following the French exploration during the 1600-1700s (not including De Soto of the 1540s), most indigenous nations had been pushed away from the mouth of the Mississippi River. It was Bienville of France who established the first main settler colonies in the late 1710s, alongside New Bordeaux (which was just considered an outer territory of Nouvelle-Orléans). The city was officially established in 1718, though the original name has been lost to time as different areas called the city different names. Many historians have coined this as the “Proto-Bordeaux” period.

During this time, numerous groups lived in the territory, including: French settlers, formerly enslaved people (typically from the English colonies though not always) as well as free Black people, a few Latin American groups (primarily what is now known as the Dominican Republic and Cuba— note that the surge in this population would occur mostly during the Spanish Trials), and a few natives who had not been successfully pushed out of the region.

Spanish Trials to Louisiana Purchase

While New Orleans fell to Spanish power in 1763, Proto-Bordeaux navigated Spanish influence by avoiding interaction beyond trade. Though they did eventually “fall” into Spanish rule, it took two years for a semi-peaceful transition of power to occur. Under Spanish rule (though not nearly as strong as Spain’s grip on NOLA), Proto-Bordeaux now legally had a class of free People of Color (whereas beforehand it was a disputed but mostly accepted rule) and traded heavily with Cuba, Mexico, and other Latin American countries. The strong Catholic influence showed through the city’s architecture and art despite the Spanish not being extremely active in the city.

In 1796, Proto-Bordeaux faced the “Spanish Trials”, which was an attempt by the Spanish ruling class to unite the areas in hopes of economic gains and control. Countless people were put on trial as “insurrectionists” for disagreeing or speaking out against unification— the records however seem to indicate that most of these people who were put on trial were in fact not speaking out against unification but rather the injustices they faced from other groups in the city. The city would eventually tear itself apart in 1798 before a tentative reunification under brief French rule, thus ending the “Proto-Bordeaux” period.

In 1803, Louisianan territory reverted back to French rule but was sold quickly after by Napoleon in order to gain money to fund his war(s) in Europe. New Bordeaux became a wealthy port city for the United States.

Pre-Civil War

Alongside its sister city, New Bordeaux’s ports sailed raw materials and products to the Caribbean, South America, and Europe. Thousands of enslaved people were sold in its markets, but its free Black community thrived. Until the 1830s, the majority of its residents still spoke French or a local dialect that combined Spanish, French, and Native American languages. New Bordeaux notably had (and still has) a slightly different accent from New Orleans.

During the War of 1812, there was a small battle against British forces, and despite the smaller numbers, New Bordeaux’s citizens won and were able to push the British a bit more south.

Crime organizations from each neighborhood/area began to show up around this time, though it was sporadic— between pirates, smugglers, ethnic crime groups, and other groups, no one held much influence over the underbelly of the city. It was also during this time of crime that a very early form of what would come to be known as the Southern Union and Dixie Mob, respectively, would kidnap freed Black people and sell them to the highest bidder, usually the French or Spanish ruling classes on the ritzier ends of the city. It would be Reconstruction before either gained any significant power.

During Civil War

The Civil War was the largest turning point for NB, alongside New Orleans. Unlike NOLA, the residents were split between Confederate support and Union support, which led to the city more or less destroying itself (again) until a few families— the Harless family and Duvall family most notably— united the city under the Confederate flag. Even when NOLA fell to Union control, the Confederate force of NB attempted to fight back Union troops to no avail.

The Battle of New Bordeaux in August of 1862 (just a few months after New Orleans fell in April) lasted 3 days and ended when General Duvall was killed on field and most of the Confederate troops either fled or surrendered to the Union. The Union’s control of the city marked the second destruction and the end to the first era of New Bordeaux.

Reconstruction

Reconstruction was a turbulent time, especially for New Bordeaux, as the city had entered a new age of tense unification that no one seemed to have wanted. Sharecropping on old plantations in Frisco Fields area was not uncommon, though most free Black people were regulated to poverty with no conceivable way out, even with the aid of the US military. It didn’t take long for former Confederates to fight against every freedom given to the (already freed, for the large part) Black people of NB, to the point that Reconstruction was considered and early failure there. NOLA remained a powerful port, as NB’s older plantations started to fade away into the age of antiquity. However, their port remained mostly intact, and trade became a crutch as the city attempted to heal its internal wounds.

During Reconstruction, Confederate sympathizers and countless KKK-satellite organizations such as Dixie Mob and (more importantly) the Southern Union would seep into the city’s very fabric, alongside the numerous People of Color who already resided there. The United States government continually had a military presence stationed by the ports just in case the city attempted to destroy itself again despite the general failure of Reconstruction. (This would later contribute to the CIA presence in the city, but that would not be until the 40s with the OSS then later the CIA in the 50s.)

During this time, a few cults— most notably the Ensanglante— began to pop up as Confederate sympathizers looked for any and all excuses for their losses during the war. The notion of “the Filth” was in part inspired from Mormon doctrine, and much like Mormonism, focused on white American Imperialism and superiority over everything on Earth. The movements remained an upper-class cult, with the lower classes being “implemented” in the early part of the 20th century.

Early 20th Century

New Bordeaux, once again, began to rebuild its city. In the 1880s, Haitian and Italian immigrants appeared in droves, and by 1910, they were a part of the fabric of the city. Dominican and Cuban influences were already present but it began to show more in the city’s budding night life.

Compared to NOLA’s jazz, NB had more emphasis on dancing and blending together stringed instruments with the brass typical with jazz. Cello, violin, piano, trumpet, trombone, and drums were staples of New Bordeaux jazz, alongside Latin American-influenced dancing (mostly Dominican and Cuban). The Harlem Renaissance of New York influenced art and poetry from the Black community of NB and reinvigorated hope for freedom like what was seen during French-Spanish rule. Drinking also became a staple, and due to the pre-existing smuggling rings from pre-Reconstruction, 1920s’ Prohibition meant barely anything to the citizens. Numerous gangs also rose to prominence in the 20s, including the Italian-American mafia.

The Rule of Sal Marcano

Starting in the late 1800s, smaller crime organizations in different regions of the city had begun to crop up, though it would be until the late-1930s before many (beyond the Italian-American mafia) were able to seize any sizeable power. In the 20s, bootlegging using the underground tunnels was mostly blended between gangs (before Burke showing up), and areas like Delray Hollow (eventually being taken over by Samuel Robinson) and Barclay Mills (Enzo Conti’s area) each had its own crime situation. That all ended after Sal Marcano and his brothers forcibly took over NB’s crime underbelly.

Following the brutal murder of Giuseppe Carrillo (which is known as All Saints’ Day Massacre) under the guise of revenge— Sal had set his father up to be killed over gambling debts then accuse Carrillo of being merciless— the Marcano Family was established and took over all of the city’s rackets. It would be the late 1930s when Sal gained power in Cuba through casinos and ports, which brought in enough money to take the partially-crumbling city into a potential tourist attraction.

Sal was both a blessing and a curse to the city, bringing in more revenue than ever seen before from ports, colleges (which would now be considered STEM-centered), alcohol, weapon smuggling, underground gambling, and more. But, it seemed only to make the rich man richer and the poor man poorer.

Beyond the rule of Marcano, bluegrass and very early rock began (or, began to surge in popularity) in areas such as Delray Hollow, which produced 3 blues legends of the 1930s*.

Mid-Century

The 40s saw a large surge in nationalism in the city, as well as campaigns like Double-V that contributed to a large population of Black people from NB enlisting. Records show that roughly 15% of Black men from the city (who weren’t drafted) enlisted in the war. However, despite their best efforts, the racism back home only got worse thanks to people like Remy Duvall and the Southern Union. It wasn’t all bad however— Delray Hollow began to have more business, and a few social programs were established to help returning veterans gain some amount of education following their time in World War II.

Crime wise, Sal controlled most of the crime scene in the late 40s or otherwise coerced (or intimidated) their leaders into joining him— which is how Enzo Conti rose through the ranks, and Samuel “Sammy” Robinson (who was already head of the Black Mob) gained more influence. It was in the 1950s that the Haitian gang began to form and cause troubles for the Black Mob, following a large influx of immigrants due to political strife and violence back home.

In the 1950s, the town flourished. The night life and local attractions brought in thousands of tourists every year, due in part to the marketing from Lou Marcano, and the Marcano Family had a successful grip on both the police force and crime scene. But no amount of tourism or revenue could save a city so divided.

Following Executive Order 9981 in 1948, then Brown V Board of Education in 1954, protests struck all across the city. The ones that advocated for the instating of these policies turned violent when the police force and firefighters would release tear gas or hose down protesters, leading to countless deaths and widespread fear. Sal Marcano was never officially proven to have ties to these, though it is highly speculated that he played some part in all of this. This would start a trend of protests, violence, then fearful silence that would persist for years. Yet, the people pressed on, painting murals and expressing grievances through art when possible. Music became one of the biggest escapes for People of Color in NB, and rock had a distinct sound in the city. Acoustic guitar mixed with electric, stringed instruments, piano, organ, drums— it would build upon the foundation from the jazz scene, with its own twist of melancholy and anger (which was and is justified).

In the 60s the city trucked on, plagued with even more violence and hatred than ever before, but the starry-eyed hope for change persisted. The Korean War slipped by without much of a mention in the late 50s and no one exactly wanted a fresh war with French-Indochina— the only issue was that this new fangled “Vietnam” was falling to the commies, and god forbid that occur. Compared to World War II, Vietnam saw very few non-draftees from New Bordeaux, and the city’s poorer population tended to side with anti-war sentiment. In a way, social movements from way back in the late 1880s (as mass-industrialization occurred) contributed to the surprisingly strong socialist presence in the city. Alongside this came a vocal Black Power/Black nationalism scene, primarily seen through radio shows like “The Hollow Speaks” and the Black Panther branch that was eventually burnt in 1969.

The Black Mob, led officially by Sammy Robinson, had an iron grip on Delray Hollow despite the tension between them and the Haitians. The area continued to see large art movements, thanks in part to Sammy’s wife Perla, who funded many of the community plays, band nights, and even occasional local school events. Following her passing, a charity theatre was built.

By 1966, Sal Marcano had begun plans on “going legit” by legalizing gambling and creating a casino— it wasn’t suspected or a concern to anyone outside of his payroll, and even then, the move seemed to be purely due to nepotism. He wanted his son, Giorgi, to take over a semi-legitimate business and live comfortably (unlike he did in his early life). This would all backfire in the end.

A City Ablaze

The summer and fall of 1968 were arguably the largest to-date catalyst for the city’s continued turmoil. Many of the details remain vague or under lock and key by the Federal Bureau of Investigation— that being said, many of the files were declassified in 2017 following the (in)famous documentary in 2016 (in-universe, of course).

Following the heist of a federal reserve during the height of New Bordeaux’s liveliest celebration, Mardi Gras, Sammy Robinson’s bar was set on fire with him, his son Ellis, and Daniel “Danny” Burke (son of the bootlegger and notorious drunkard Thomas Burke) being killed preemptively by either being stabbed or shot by Sal and Giorgi Marcano and another man. Sammy’s adoptive son, Lincoln Clay (an army vet and distinguished service cross receiver), had survived being shot in the head and left to burn after being dragged out by a local priest. After a few months of in-and-out consciousness, Lincoln Clay began his violent streak that would tear the city limb from limb.

Starting in early March, the Federal Bureau of Investigation came down to the city to investigate the strange burning of Sammy’s Bar as well as the Marcano Family. The investigation was headed by Jonathan Maguire and faced numerous setbacks from the start— the residents didn’t talk to outsiders (especially not “feds”, since CIA agents and military personnel were already prevalent in the city), evidence was hard to come by, and even most of their surveillance equipment and files were stolen. Despite this, Maguire and his team continued their investigations.

On the other side of ‘justice’, Lincoln Clay, alongside his former CIA handler John Donovan and a cohort of other crime leaders from different areas of the city, proceeded to brutally massacre the entire Marcano Family and any associates that didn’t immediately side with Clay. Interestingly enough, it was Lincoln who did most of the work himself which wasn’t— and isn’t— seen much in gang activity. What is also of note is the sheer publicity and violence of many of the kills (hanging from a ferris wheel in an abandoned amusement park, thrown from the penthouse of the Royal Hotel, hung on a cross and burned alive, gutted alive and hung on a statue, etc.), which became solidified in the city’s history long before the blood dried up.

By October of 1968, hundreds of people— including Sal Marcano and his son— were left dead in warehouses, streets, and pavements. The FBI struggled with keeping track with everything, so much so that Lincoln Clay was able to slip away to god knows where. The city, for the 3rd time in its history, was left in shambles.

The Song Continues

The New Bordeaux Gang War (1969-1973)* temporarily shut down the city’s ports as federal agents and state guard troops attempted to calm the city down, but to little avail. Whatever remnants of the pre-Clay crime scene continually fought for power, money, land, or anything they could get their hands on. By 1973, Thomas Burke of the Irish mob and “Cassandra” of the Haitian gang were both dead, and with Vito Scaletta having fled in 1972, the city was left to smaller regional gangs and the upper-class, plus outside forces. New Bordeaux went back to its Reconstruction state both economically and (partially) socially.

Enter the late-1970s oil crisis; unemployment rose to roughly 30%, crimes spiked by 120% (though most were robbery-related and not murder), and general welfare decreased further than ever before. Then-governor Edwin W. Edwards (1972-1980) signed numerous bills to help build up the economy and specifically aid Louisiana’s port cities with infrastructure, social programs, and economic stability. President Carter (1977-1981) also sent a permanent FBI presence to help with smoother elections and general peacekeeping (in hopes of avoiding too much underground influence in politics as seen with the Marcanos). With this, NB saw new development that aided in restoring the city to at least some extent. Note that some historians state that it was the city itself that mostly did the work, with occasional state and federal help, but there is not enough evidence to suggest that.

The 1980s and 90s continued to evolve the city’s night life, political reforms, and economic development through policies and culture shifts. For the first time since pre-Louisiana purchase, racial tensions also radically decreased, though lynching still remained a hot-button issue. Tourism also began to slowly come back as the city stabilized. It never reached the same peak as it did under Lou Marcano, but the revenue brought in was enough to aid in some social programs and better school supplies for the district. New Bordeaux’s higher education system continued to lean towards STEM schooling though the arts still flourished in Delray Hollow and its historically Black college*, and further national funding helped repair some of the older schools (higher education or otherwise).

Modern Day

New Bordeaux still retains its status as a vibrant night-life city, despite the consistent strife brewing in its residents. Hurricane Katrina flooded roughly 60% of the city— compared to NOLA’s 80% flooding— and killed over 700 residents in the city alone (the official death count was counted at around 2,000 nationally)^. The crime scene is still divided, with drug and human trafficking being the main crimes committed by various gangs. The moniker of “Bourbon City” never died, it simply revealed itself to have a double meaning: the city that will always go up in flames.

Other Notes

Note from wiki: “New Bordeaux is a city on the Gulf Coast of the United States that serves as the setting for Mafia III. It is known for its round-the-clock nightlife, vibrant live-music scene, and spicy, singular cuisine. With ten districts featuring a mixture of ethnicities, the city is a true melting pot of French, Irish, Italian, Haitian, Cuban, African, and American cultures.” All I did was add Dominican as well because Lincoln’s actor, Alex Hernandez, is Dominican and I wanted to pay homage to that. Also because why the fuck not.

NB was a military city in some regards as the US government wanted to use it for ports to spy on other countries (mostly Latin American), hence the CIA presence in the 50s. This also meant that some criminals in NB jails were suckered into joining Project MK-ULTRA, though news about it never leaked outside of the city. The CIA didn’t (officially) stop operations there until the mid-2010s after countless protests from over the years finally caught up.

Deathgrass (rock and “metal” ish influenced bluegrass) has heavy roots in NB. NB is known for its use of the electric guitar and bass alongside drums, acoustic guitar, piano, a variety of stringed instruments like the violin, and poignant lyrics (if there are any) to create an unique city-sound. Music is one of the prides of the city!

*: I do not know much on music history, so if you have commentary, please add it! Or hell, even name ideas or something.

*: I’ll write up a whole other post on this, my thoughts are too scattered to share here yet. I’m open to questions though!

*: Still need to name this and come up with a small backstory. In short, it was established in the 1880s but really only became operational in the 1920s and 30s, and remains open to this day. The 1986 Centennial was definitely fascinating! (I’m just too lazy to elaborate on that.)

^: more people died in this version of Katrina. The real death count was roughly 1,500, based on what I could find.

#mafia 3 #long post #lincoln clay #john donovan #father james #james ballard #how else do I tag this #thomas burke #vito scaletta #meta #mafia iii #the personal logs

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