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redstainedsocks · 3 years

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Internal Affairs, Liars and Lairs

I’ve been staring at this for too long and I have no idea if it makes sense anymore but I’m done, I’m just posting it, and if it’s not clear where Zach’s head is at or what’s going on my ask box is open for questions and I’ll explain my worldbuilding there xD

Warnings: mentions of past torture, vaguely referenced past noncon, talk of human trafficking, trauma responses, dis-association, medical drug use, incorrect use of pain relief, aftermath of whump, traumatic memories, talk of being buried alive, messed up head space, thoughts of wanting to be back with whumper and carrying out whumper’s wishes (please let me know if I missed anything!)

[Previous]

The debriefing room was comically like an interrogation room. One wide table, low lighting, recording devices. Zach hovered in the doorway, uneasy. He bit the inside of his lip, worrying at a half-healed abrasion until he tasted blood. Could he keep secrets in here? Would he be capable?

“It’s sound proofed,” Jordan said, coming up behind him and interrupting his thoughts. “It’s the only reason we’re using it. So no-one that you don’t want to overhear can listen in. Whatever you say in here stays between whoever you feel comfortable knowing things.”

Zach looked over his shoulder at Jordan. “Not going to hound me for details like a bad cop, then? Make me sit here until I sweat it all out?” He was trying for light hearted but it fell flat, his voice cracked with nerves.

“No, Zach. There are some things we need to know, but only in your own time. No-one is going to force anything. This is to help you, as much as it is to help us.”

That would be a novelty, Zach thought. When was the last time anything had been done with his own well-being in mind?

He slunk into the room, sticking to the wall, wondering which chair was to be his. There were two on each side of the table. Bryson and Jordan sat on one side, Lacey came in and sat on the other and gestured for Zach to join them. So, this is who it was going to be?

“We’ll start small for now, Zach. Anytime you need a break, just say the word, we’ll stop, no questions asked. All right?”

Zach nodded, looking at his hands. He wanted to pick at his fingernails, comb hands through his hair, jiggle his leg, but with all eyes on him he was tense and still, no outlet for the energy running through his veins, the anxiety making his heart beat faster.

“Lacey is just here to collect some data, Jordan will help make sure your health is taken care of. I’m here because I’ve known you the longest. Are you comfortable with all that?”

Zach glanced up at his old mentor, frowned in confusion. “Does it matter?”

Bryson reared back in surprise, eyebrows raised. “Of course, yes. We want to debrief you not interrogate you. You should be comfortable, anything you say here will not be repeated outside these walls unless you agree to it.”

“No… no, I mean, we—we have to do this. I’m never going to be… okay with what we have to talk about. So, it’s, it’s...” Zach hung his head. “I would like to just get it over with?”

Bryson reached a hand across the table and squeezed his wrist for a moment. “We’ll take it slowly. Archer, or anyone else, can come in or leave at your behest.”

Zach nodded again. “What first, sir?”

They began with his escape, what he recalled from the hours and then moments before the phone call. Lacey tapped away at her laptop, inputting things and looking at data as they worked backwards, trying to build a map of the places he had passed and for how long he’d run to try and pinpoint where he had fled from.

“And how did you get away that day?” Bryson asked.

The question rolled around Zach’s mind like a marble, or a maelstrom. It all hinged on this. “I… I had been, well, pretending. No, not pretending, um. Giving in, a little. Being, they called it good. But, pliant? I suppose. Not causing trouble. I don’t know—I couldn’t say why or really when it started I just couldn't anymore and I wanted… I knew they would pay me less attention if I behaved the way he wanted.”

“Zach, take a breath,” Bryson coached him. “You don’t have to explain the details, tell us in simple terms.”

Zach closed his eyes for a moment and thought about the most straightforward way to say it. “I saw an opportunity and I took it. But I don’t know if… if they let me, or if I really, actually, got away on my own.”

Bryson considered him for a long moment. “And he was hurt, when we found him?” He asked Jordan.

“Mhm, yes, two cracked ribs, plenty of abrasions. Newer bruising as well as old.”

“Zach is that consistent to the amount of injuries you typically sustained, or did any of them happen during your escape?”

“Only the soles of my feet were hurt when I ran,” he answered honestly.

“All right, then, we’ll circle back around to this.”

It went on like that. Questions. Answers. They checked that he knew basic information like the day and month, asked how much of his work with the team he recalled before his abduction. They asked how he got some of the scarring that had been revealed during his hospital stay, if there was anything pertinent to how he might recover or ongoing problems that he knew he had. It was a dance of back and forth as he tried to work out how much to give away, which parts of his shame to air or keep secret. Zach’s head spun and he gripped the table so that he didn’t feel like the room was tilting around him.

“Do you know where you were held?” Lacey asked, as she scanned the map she had begun to make. “Anything you know will help us narrow it down.”

Zach closed his eyes, his mind tumbling in an entirely different direction to the meaning of the question. The phantom touch of hands on him, gripping, invading his space. There wasn’t one part of him that had gone untouched, not one part of him that hadn’t been exposed. Held down. Held by his wrists, by weight on his back, by hands groping, chains restraining, ropes winding around and around.

“Zachary?” Bryson’s voice broke through the ringing in his ears. The panic was still palpable, but contained, he raised his head from where he’d pressed his face to the cool metal of the table. He couldn’t remember doing that, but he faded in and out of the present sometimes, and didn’t question it.

“There wasn’t only one place. And no, I was blindfolded or… or otherwise not allowed to see every time I was moved.” The same way you brought me here, he thought sullenly. All control taken, he was never permitted to know.

The room was silent until Bryson declared he required coffee, and that they should break for at least a few hours if not the rest of the day. Zach didn’t move from the chair until everyone else had left, and then he went to the bathroom and tried to keep down the meagre lunch that Archer had made him.

They didn’t start again until a day later. Zach had had a restless night, and the pain from his healing injuries was worse until Archer reminded him the pain medication the hospital had prescribed was in one of the drawers in his room. Once the effects took hold Zach felt almost lightheaded, much calmer, and he wondered if one of the tablets was a mild sedative. He hadn’t asked, he’d just swallowed them whole and known whatever came of it was exactly what they thought he needed.

It turned out it made him chattier and he couldn’t be as anxious about his answers. The darkest recesses of his mind whispered how that was their plan all along. To take his ability to think clearly and hold back. They wanted to talk about heavier subjects, some of the details of his ordeal, and here he was, words tumbling from his mouth before he could hold them in.

“Can you tell us who took you?” Bryson asked after the first few questions were out of the way.

That, of course, was an easy question to answer. “Decker. First. And then, when he sold me on—”

“Sold?” Lacey interrupted, squeaking the word out before Bryson’s hand waving could stop her. Zach looked between them, trying to gauge how they were reacting. He knew it wasn’t normal, to say it so casually. It had just been a feature of his life enough times that the sting of it was gone, mostly.

“Umm, yes?” He replied, not sure where the confusion lay.

“But why?” Lacey asked, pointedly ignoring the glares that Zach could feel boring into them from across the table. “You can’t just sell people that’s not--Sorry, I know, it’s just. Fuck. Zach, I’m sorry.” She reached for his hand and he let her squeeze it for a moment before pulling away with a grimace. His hand tingled where she’d touched him, he rubbed at it under the table, both chasing the warmth and wanting it to continue, and wanting to scrub his hand clean of it.

“Why don’t you tell us in your own words what you remember of these events?” Bryson said, clearing his throat and gesturing for Jordan to take an extra set of notes.

“Every-every one, sir?” That would be painful, he shuddered at the thought.

“An overview will be fine,” Bryson said, gently. “Help us understand what you mean.”

Zach wet his lips, tried to find moisture to stop his voice from cracking. “So after, once he’d got what he wanted from me, when.” He took a breath to steady the sudden onset of nerves. “Once I’d betrayed you all, he said he was going to sell on the opportunity for other people to learn what he knew.”

“After you succumbed to his torture? That was not a betrayal, Zach,” Bryson said, and though Zach wasn’t watching his eyes to be sure, he was certain Bryson held steady and believed what he said. Perhaps that wasn’t a betrayal, maybe thinking of it that way was a lie, told to him often enough that he’d started to think of it as a truth. But it didn’t matter, because what he was doing now…

“Yes. Right. Anyway, he didn’t just want to sell the information. He just offered our other rivals, people who felt they’d been wronged by us, or who wanted to get out ahead of any future altercations, a chance to… to get their hands on me and take the same opportunity. Or anyone else who felt wronged and wanted someone to take it out on.”

Lacey stood, her chair shuddering back as she pushed to her feet. Zach glanced up and saw Jordan looked a little unwell too. “I have to, I can come back, I just would like a moment.” She spoke slowly, calmly, but Zach noticed the trembling fist by her side, the only hint that she was distressed. He watched it all in a detached way, wondering what he’d done wrong to upset them. It was so tiring being the cause of everyone else’s actions and trying to judge their reactions. It was easier to let it all wash over him, it would either hurt him, or it wouldn’t, it wasn’t for him to decide.

“Of course, send Archer in instead,” Bryson said.

Archer came and hovered near the door once Lacey left, and Jordan pushed his chair further back, and took some deep breaths.

“So you were tortured for information, forced to endure the same treatment over and over again?” Bryson asked, and Zach thought he heard a wobble in the voice that was usually so steady.

“Yes. Um, partly anyway. In the end… in the end I just answered straight away. I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it over and over again. And often they threatened civilians, random people, if they found out that I lied. I couldn’t watch anyone else get hurt because of us--because of me. Sometimes I was just sold to people who wanted someone to hurt though, and I was… I was a good candidate for their revenge.”

The room was heavy with unsaid words, with the weight of the knowledge he’d just dropped in their laps. And Zach knew it wasn’t even the worst of it. He was sparing with the details of what had come after all of that, they didn’t need a laundry list of the horrors that now made up his nightmares.

The silence went on a long time, long enough that Zach was startled back into the present when Bryson cleared his throat and spoke again. If any silent communication had happened between the rest of them, Zach had missed it.

“So which of our old enemies did you take your leave of four days ago?” Bryson inquired.

Zach’s mouth twitched in a small semblance of a wry smile. He huffed, almost laughing, though not sure why it was funny. “Decker.” He could image the raised eyebrows and confused expressions even though he didn’t look up from the table surface. “He wasn’t done with me. The others… that was just the first six months, maybe? He took me again, I’ve been his since then.”

Zach was still his now, the threats and promises that had been made were a slowly tightening noose around his neck.

“Do you have any idea how they faked your death?” Archer asked eventually, as he leaned forward, one elbow on the table, dipping his head to try and catch Zach’s eye. “That’s the one bit we’re still not able to piece together. Do you even know where you when—” Archer’s swallow was audible. “What was happening to you, then?”

Zach looked up through his eyelashes, caught sight of Archer’s red hair.

“I remember,” he said, his voice airy. Dreamlike. He felt himself detach from it. “It was when I was still with Decker the first time, but I think he was nearly done with me.” He frowned, playing back the memories, slotting his injuries into place in his mind. The crossbow bolt entry wound was healed but the scar was still red. He had no fingernails left at that point, which made what came next both a blessing and more painful.

He teased the memory out. Yes, after that, he’d been left alone—completely isolated—for two or perhaps three weeks so that the worst of his wounds could heal and he could regain enough fight that the auction would be appealing. Just enough energy that the next buyer, the next set of torture, could knock the fight right back out of him.

“What do you remember?” Archer asked.

Zach thought he heard him swallow, he felt all the air in the room go still. He’d lost his breath too. “They showed me, the… the footage, the death certificate. Pictures of you all grieving. So I knew no-one was looking for me.”

He heard the gasps, heard Archer swore as Bryson tried to calm Jordan down, who was ranting about the coroner’s report. “It’s not your fault Jordan,” Bryson said. “None of us could have known, it all looked exactly as it should.”

“None of this is how it should be,” Archer’s voice was calm, a controlled quiet. Zach remembered that Archer sounded like that when he was close to losing his cool.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I died.” He thought that would make them all feel better, his foggy thoughts told him it was right, to explain like that.

“What?” Archer said, turning Zach bodily by the shoulders so they faced each other.

He nodded, trying to smile, and not show how scared he was of that memory. “They buried me.”

“I know we did, but… that’s not, what you mean is it?”

“There was a box, and a hole, and they played out the funeral for me, so I knew. What it was like. And, and when I came back out there was nothing left for the old me, I couldn’t be me anymore, because he died”

He’d clawed and clawed at the wooden box and inescapable horror of it, but had no fingernails to find purchase and no strength to break out. It was so small and hot in there, and later it got cold, so very cold as he couldn’t fill his lungs anymore until they’d dragged him out limp and weak. Not even a scream left in his body.

“Zach, Zach are you saying they, that one of the tortures was—” Jordan began.

“Don’t!” Archer interrupted. “Don’t make him say it.”

They all took a break after that, with so much left unsaid.

“Let’s just go back,” Bryson said the next day. “I’d like to revisit your escape, if you’re up to it.”

Zach thought he was. Jordan had explained that he didn’t need to take all of the pills at once that morning and he felt much more clear headed. He was still tired. He wanted this to be over, but he wasn’t sure what ‘over’ would look like and that scared him too. He pushed it all down and attempted to focus on Bryson’s question.

This was it, the moment. To go back, or to go forward. To come clean, or betray.

Words dried up in his throat, and his mind swam with possible ways to answer that simple question.

“Zach? Is that something you can handle today?” Bryson asked.

He must have been quiet for too long. He took a sharp inhale of breath, filled his lungs until they felt fit to burst and then breathed out slowly. He nodded. “It’s… I get confused. But I can try.”

“What do you get confused about?” Bryson asked, a kindly smile playing on his lips even as his brow furrowed in question.

“What happened, and, and when?” Zach picked restlessly at his hands. “Decker had--has--plans. I tried not to get too wrapped up in them, I didn’t want to know, I didn’t think it was worth knowing because I was never getting out of there… only then I did.” he scrubbed a hand down his face. “It’s confusing. I’m not sure how much to say--I mean how much you need to know. There’s so much.”

“Alright,” Bryson said. “You are safe here, anything you say will only be to help you, and us, not to hurt.”

There was a flood of emotions in Zach that he had kept at bay for years. Squashed and compressed down until they only came screaming out of him at the end of a whip, or the ferocity of a forced fight, or the violent intimacy laying his body bare beneath another. Dribs and drabs of grief and terror that made their way out through small cracks before he could close them back up and stem the tide.

These soft spoken words, said by people who cared so much and so openly, chipped away at the defenses he thought he had. The reassurances, the kind touches, the offers of food and rest… all of it was so strange to him now, and bit by bit hot tears kept wanting to make themselves known behind his eyes. He blinked them away, choked them back down.

“I don’t know where I fit in—into his plans,” he said, trying to buy himself time.

These people cared. They cared so much. They’d brought him back into their embrace and kept him safe and every bruise he had was fading, every cut healing. How could he ignore that?

Because you don’t have a choice. Decker’s voice whispered in his ear and he shivered.

Didn’t he? Wasn’t everything a choice? It was just a choice of who got hurt; him, or them.

His plan had always been to lie in a way that was closest to the truth, Decker had said that was easiest but nothing felt easy now. Still, he had no other instructions than the ones he’d been given. He had to stick to the plan.

“He wanted me to help him. He said… if I agreed he’d let me go. So, I agreed.”

Bryson shifted, Archer put his head in his hands. “He asked you to work for him, once he let you go.”

Zach’s pulse pounded in his ears. He felt himself nodding, numb to it. “I just did it to get away, I never meant it. I-I don’t think I meant it.” He frowned. “I just knew if I acted broken enough, uhh, if I went along with it, that was my way out.”

“He wanted you to be a double agent?” Archer asked.

“He wanted me to be his, I convinced him that I was.”

“But you’re not, right? It was all just… you said it was a trick? A ploy?”

Zach turned and saw the sincere, open question on Archer’s face. He wanted so badly to make Archer feel better. “That’s what I tried to do, yes. Must’ve worked, right? Because I’m here?”

Archer leaned over the space between their chairs and smothered him in a hug. He breathed in the scent of Archer, felt the heat of the closeness radiate until all of him was warmer.

“I just wanted to come home, I didn’t see another way,” he mumbled into Archer’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to agree to his games.”

When Archer pulled away Bryson was studying him intently. “This isn’t what you said on our first day.”

Zach gulped. “What did I say then?”

“You said that you saw an opportunity and you took it, but that you didn’t know if that was by your own doing, or orchestrated for you.”

“Yeah, yes. I meant that I didn’t know, I don’t know, if I was convincing enough, or too convincing. If I was clever enough to pull it off. Maybe—maybe I really broke? I don’t know.”

“But you’re here now, and you want to stay here with us? Safely? And not return to Decker?” Bryson asked. “We will protect you no matter what, of course, you’ve been through hell and under no circumstances would we let you be taken again, but you need to understand that if you’re not sure where your loyalties lie we cannot let you remain here.”

Zach licked his lips, his face burned red with some mix of emotions that he couldn’t name. Shame, maybe, a desire to hide and the embarrassment of being seen.

“I don’t want to be tortured anymore,” he said.

Bryson nodded. “Of course. That’s natural. But we need to know, can we trust you? Are you still one of us?”

They’d brought him to their headquarters and Zach knew that in itself was a sign of trust he hadn’t earned and he didn’t want to be reprimanded for it. If he was honest, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know. He wanted to be good, he was looking for a way to let this play out and for nobody to get hurt, he just wasn’t sure that was possible.

An honest lie, Zachary, that’s all it takes.

“I hope so, sir.”

[Taglist: @haro-whumps @whumpthisway @hurting-fictional-people @lonesome--hunter]

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ladyfogg · 4 years

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May I? - 17/?

Fic Summary: Ensign Faith Diaz struggles to hide her mental illness from her fellow shipmates aboard the Enterprise until an intrigued Data goes out of his way to try to understand her behavior. At his insistence, Faith tries to figure out what she’s truly passionate about and eventually seeks the professional help she needs. Fic Masterpost.

Fic Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Data/Female OC

Warnings: tw: depression, tw: anxiety, fluff, friends to lovers, eventual smut

Screenshot by @ geekygwen

The hours Data and Faith were separated were filled with endless calculations and theories on how to reach her.

Data did not know how he would orchestrate his and Faith's escape. He had yet to gather sufficient information on the vessel which they traveled. Fajo was careful with his words and actions, not revealing or doing too much to give Data an opening to rebel.

When he saw Fajo attack Faith, he had attempted to break the door down without success. Right then and there, he vowed to do whatever he needed to get them home. He only hoped Faith would be more cautious with her own personal safety.

As such, he played along with Fajo's wishes. He wore the clothes, he sat in the chair, and currently, he entertained his guests.

Faith sat by his side, body stiff with tension. Data felt more comfortable having her by his side rather than locked away. He also now knew the location of her room which was not far from his.

He only agreed to the dinner on the stipulation that he be allowed to see Faith first. Fajo begrudgingly agreed and Data suspected it was because Faith was being so difficult.

The dress Fajo made her wear was obscene. Though Data did feel it accentuated her body in an aesthetically pleasing way. Faith clearly did not feel the same way. She shifted in her seat, reaching up to subtly adjust the front of the dress to hide as much of her breasts as she could.

He reached over to lay a comforting hand on hers. Faith gave him a soft smile before squeezing his hand back.

Fajo was in the process of telling his friends all about his time in prison and subsequent release. Kornok and Dulcer listened excitedly. Enil kept his eyes on Faith, much to Data's dismay.

There was something in his expression that he did not trust. He could tell Enil made Faith uncomfortable by the way she avoided eye contact with him. Not to mention his question about their intimacy was inappropriate.

Eventually, talk turned back to Data himself.

“Tell us about yourself, android,” Kornok said, leaning his elbows on the table.

“I created by Dr. Noonian Soong and was built with an ultimate storage capacity of eight hundred quadrillion Bits and a total linear computational speed rated at sixty trillion operations per second. However—"

“Bah, none of that technical stuff,” Kornock interrupted. “I mean tell me about you.”

“Well, I am a Starfleet officer who has achieved the rank of Lieutenant Commander. I am Second Officer of the Enterprise and have received numerous accolades.”

“Is that all you do? Work?” Dulcer asked.

“No,” Data answered. “I also paint and play the violin and guitar. I often enjoy reading and various other recreational activities.”

“Fascinating!” Kornok exclaimed. “If it weren't for his skin and eyes he could pass as human.”

“The detail is fantastic, isn't it?” Fajo beamed proudly.

As they continued their back and forth, two of the Oz'ods came from the kitchen pushing trays of food. Faith leaned over to quietly whisper, "The one on the left is Soshi. They bring me meals."

"Mala is the other," Data responded, equally quiet. "They are Fajo's personal aid."

"Slave is more like it."

"What are you two whispering about?" Fajo asked, drawing everyone's attention to Data and Faith.

"Data was complimenting my dress," Faith lied smoothly.

Data doubted Fajo believed her but his guests found it entertaining.

"How sweet," Kornok said. "Tell me, android, is romance built into your programming?"

"Many aspects of human life were not initially included in my program," Data explained. "However, I can create programs as I see fit. For example, I have spent a significant amount of time building a romance program, as well as a subprogram specifically for Faith."

"He can adapt, how delightful!" Dulcer exclaimed. She turned her attention to Faith. "You must feel very special to have a mate who can perfectly match your desires and expectations."

"I do," she said, though her smile did not convince Data. He was not sure why but Faith seemed uncomfortable with Dulcer's statement.

It intrigued him. They had not discussed the logistics of their relationship and Data theorized that may be a contributing factor.

"Mr. Data does seem particularly attached to Faith considering his lack of emotions," Fajo said with a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Though I doubt he'd really truly miss her if she were gone."

There was an underlying threat with his words. Faith's hand gripped Data's tightly. The Oz'ods served the guests. Data's eyes remained on Fajo.

"That is incorrect," he stated. "As I establish friendships, my positronic brain develops connections to thoughts of those individuals. If that person were to leave, I will experience a sense of loss. In essence, I will miss them."

"Fascinating," Enil muttered, unmoving even when food is placed in front of him. "So your mate is not a simple plaything? An outlet for your curiosity?"

"No, she is not."

Data did not appreciate Enil's insinuation, nor the way he constantly eyed Faith.

"Enil, stop being rude," Kornok scolded his companion. "I must apologize for my fellow delegate. He has an affinity for human females."

"Personally, I don't see the appeal," Fajo said flippantly as he ate his dinner. "But if Data must have her around, I am happy to oblige."

Data glanced at Faith, noting the darkening of her cheeks and the way she became entirely too invested in her food. Their dismissal of her was misogynistic and insulting to her accomplishments.

"Faith is a decorated Starfleet officer," he said. "She recently made Lieutenant and is Engineering's second-in-command. Her intelligence is vastly superior to her peers and she has a keenly trained eye for details. She has a lot to offer as a mate and a friend."

"Was a decorated Starfleet officer," Fajo corrected. "She and Mr. Data live with me now."

"That does not change her accomplishments."

"It seems the android does not enjoy your insults," Dulcer said to the men. "And he is not the only one. Let us discuss something other than the woman."

Faith relaxed her grip on his hand. While she gave him an appreciative smile, he could tell the conversation had affected her greatly.

Unfortunately, dinner stretched on for hours. Course after course was brought out. Faith ate very little, though Data knew she was likely hungry. Soshi seemed to notice as well and tried to provide her with larger portions. It did not help.

Throughout the evening Data answered any and all questions the delegates posed to him. Very little was asked of Faith but he suspected she was grateful. Even he found their questions tedious to a point.

Eventually, the food was removed and by then the novelty of Data and Faith seemed to wear off the guests. Talk turned to matters of business, which Data found intriguing. Any business Fajo was involved in could only be illegal and dangerous.

Unfortunately, once the subject changed, Fajo waved his hand at the couple. "You may be excused," he said. "Mala, escort them to their quarters."

Data suspected Fajo did not wish for Faith and Data to overhear what he and the delegates were really meeting to discuss.

Mala bowed and waited patiently for Data and Faith to stand and follow.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Data said with a dutiful bow. “If you'll excuse us…”

“Nice to meet you too,” Kornok said with a wave. “Really, the manners, the movements...stunning!

“Very well done,” Dulcer agreed.

Enil sneered. “Very.”

Data kept his hand on Faith's lower back, making eye contact with Enil as they left. The man still watched Faith like a hawk.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Faith let out a noise of frustration. "Stars that was insulting! Who the hell do they think they are?!" She was shaking with anger, her hands balled into fists.

"I will admit their comments were inappropriate and out of line."

"Thank you for sticking up for me," Faith said. "I knew I had to ignore them but I'm grateful you didn't."

"I cannot. It is in my programming, remember?"

Faith smiled and wrapped her arm around his, hugging it tightly. "Yeah, I remember."

They reached her quarters first and Data turned to Mala. "May we have a few minutes alone before I must be escorted to my room?"

The Oz'od seemed hesitant. "Mr. Fajo no like Mala delay."

"You have my word it will not take long," Data assured them. "I would like to say a proper goodnight and do not know when we will see each other next."

Mala conceded with a nod, opening Faith's door for them. "No take long."

Once they were alone, Faith threw herself at him, yanking him down into a fiery kiss. Data matched her energy or at least tried to, wrapping his arms around her. The dress was soft but he found himself longing to touch her skin instead.

She drew away with a shaky breath. "I hate the idea of being separated again."

"I do not find it satisfactory either," Data agreed. His hand suddenly slid over something hard tucked into the back of her dress. "What is this?"

Sheepishly, Faith reached into her dress, pulling out a dinner knife. "I swiped this when no one was looking," she admitted. "I don't have a phaser so I needed some kind of weapon.”

Data was surprised and impressed. Even with his keen eyes, he hadn't noticed her theft.

"That was very risky. If Fajo had caught you, it would not have gone well."

"I know but I had to try. You have your strength and mind to protect you. I don't have anything."

Data studied her carefully, noticing the fear in her eyes. "I understand. I only ask that you be careful."

"I will. Trust me, I'm not going to attack him. But having something with me helps the anxiety."

She left his arms to slide the knife under her pillow. After, she sighed heavily and sat on the bed. Data joined her, putting his arm around her shoulders.

“Would you like to know what I have learned so far?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

“I believe we are on the ship that attacked the Enterprise. It is constructed from the same materials. That will work to our advantage as Starfleet has already been made aware of its existence. There will be people looking for the ship. The doors can only be operated by Fajo and the Oz’ods.”

“Also Fajo has a phaser that hurts like a bitch.”

Data reached out to touch her injured hip. “Are you in pain?”

“A little. These damn shoes didn't help.” She kicked out of her heels. “God I hate this dress.” She looked around and spotted a pair of pants and a shirt folded neatly at the edge of the bed. They must have been delivered while they were at dinner.

Data watched her stand, wiggling out of the purple dress to slip on more comfortable clothes. Considering her anxiety, he was surprised she had no apparent qualms about undressing in front of him.

Once she was dressed, she slid onto his lap. She looped her arms around his neck and hugged him.

Data held her close. “We will escape this place.”

“I think the Oz’ods might be our best bet with that.”

“How so?”

“Soshi all but told me they're prisoners. They're only helping Fajo for protection. They don't think they can survive without him. But if we make them see that they can, maybe they can help us.”

“That is a solid foundation to build upon,” Data said. “I will try to speak to Mala. As of yet, they have been reluctant to answer questions but with this information, I will adjust my approach.”

He suddenly remembered her reaction to Dulcer’s comment at dinner. “Faith, why did you react negatively when Dulcer mentioned my programming adjusting to your needs?”

It took her a moment to recall what he was referring to. “Oh, that. I don't know, I just didn't like the way she said it. There was insinuation there that didn't sit right with me.”

“To what insinuation are you referring?”

“To me, it almost felt like she was saying I was lucky to have someone cater to my desires and expectations. Almost as if I don't have to put any work into our relationship. I don't know. Maybe I was reading too much into it.”

“And that thought insulted you?”

“Yes, of course it did. When you're with someone, both partners should be willing to adapt to each other. It's not fair if only one person has to change to fit the other's needs.”

This made Data curious. “Are there aspects of my personality that you need to adjust to?”

Faith seemed to hesitate before answering. “Yes,” she eventually said. “But not in a negative way by any means. I just have to remember that there's a learning curve between us and that you're still learning about human interaction in general.”

“If I have done anything to make you frustrated or upset, I do apologize.”

Faith leaned in and kissed him. It was gentle and meant to comfort. “You have nothing to apologize for,” she said, nuzzling his cheek. “You've done nothing wrong, okay?”

Her expression was earnest and sincere. Data nodded. “Okay.”

As much as he wanted to stay, he knew he needed to get back to his room before Fajo finished with his friends.

“I must leave you now,” he said. “I will do everything in my power to see you again soon.”

Faith whimpered and gave him another hug, which he returned. Data found it difficult to pull away. In fact, the hug lasted twenty-three more seconds than the average hug between them.

Once they parted, he kissed her goodbye and stood. Before he reached the door, he turned back. She sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around her trembling frame.

“Please remember to eat,” he said.

She gave him a small smile. “I will.”

Data left, meeting an anxious Mala in the hall. The Oz’od hurriedly brought him to his room. Despite Data’s cooperation, it was still sparse. Fajo did not seem to trust the android enough to allow him anything more than the decorative chair to sit upon.

Before Mala closed the door, Data turned to them.

“Please help Soshi take care of Faith,” he said. “She is special to me and I do not wish for Fajo to harm her.”

“Fajo no harm Faith so long as Faith listen,” Mala said.

“May I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Your friend who infiltrated the Enterprise, how did you intend to bring him back home?”

Mala pursed their thin lips but remained silent.

“Ah. I see. You did not intend to.”

“Toka died for Oz’od safety. Will be remembered.” Mala made a move to close the door.

Data cocked his head in confusion. “Toka is not dead.”

Mala froze, eyes meeting his. “You lie!”

“I am not lying,” Data said. “The Enterprise captured Toka but they are still very much alive. We would not kill a new life form without provocation.”

“Fajo said Toka dead,” Mala said in a soft voice.

“I believe it is Fajo who lied to you,” Data said. “Once Faith and I get back to our companions, I would be more than happy to reunite you with him.”

“Lies! Fajo said you lie to trick Mala!” With that, they slammed their hand on the panel and the doors shut, leaving Data alone once more.

He had suspected convincing Mala would be difficult. He only hoped he had been able to plant the seed of doubt.

With nothing else to do, Data sat in his chair and waited for Fajo. He knew the man would seek him out after the meal. He only hoped he performed well enough to his captor’s satisfaction.

It was two hours and fifty minutes later when Fajo strolled in. He seemed to be in good spirits, which Data took as a good sign.

“That went spectacularly,” Fajo said with a large grin. “See? It's not so bad doing what I say, is it?”

“I did not appreciate Delegate Enil’s interest in Faith. His comments were inappropriate.”

“Is that a hint of jealousy I detect?”

“I cannot feel jealousy.”

Fajo waved dismissively. “So you say. Don't worry about Enil. He's harmless. Well, mostly harmless. You and your little girlfriend certainly made an impression. I thank you for the delightful dinner.”

“What do you plan to do next?”

“Well, we have to keep moving, obviously,” he said. “Thankfully this ship has a spectacular cloaking device. One of a kind and built by the Oz’ods themselves. There are a few items of mine that I would like to get back. I expect you to help me with them.”

“And Faith? She will still remain safe, correct?”

Fajo snorted with disgust. “Ugh, Faith, Faith, Faith. That's all you talk about! I have half a mind to sell her to Enil and be done with it.” He glanced at Data with a smirk. “Thankfully, she's worth more to me right where she is.”

“I have made it clear I will listen to you so long as she's safe,” Data said. “You do not need to keep threatening her safety.”

“But it's so fun. Every time, I swear I'm going to get a reaction out of you.”

“Do you wish to elicit an emotional response from me? You know I do not have them.”

“You say that but I theorize that you must. In some capacity,” Fajo said. “You just need the right push. No matter. We have plenty of time to test my theory. In the meantime, enjoy your room. I'll be by tomorrow to discuss a job I'd like you to do.”

He turned to leave but then paused and spun back around on his heel.

“One more thing,” he said. “I am a reasonable man. If you continue to perform so spectacularly, I may consider allowing you and your little pet to share a room together. Keep that in mind.”

Data was surprised by the thought, though he did not trust Fajo’s charity. Still, planning their escape would be easier with Faith by his side.

“I will do my best,” he said.

Fajo smiled brightly. “I know you will. Sleep tight!” He chuckled at his own joke as he left.

#commander data #lt commander data #Data Soong #data tng #star trek next generation

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goonlalagoon · 6 years

Text

The Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry || Leagues and Legends

A few months back I wrote a Leagues & Legends/Hogwarts AU as a birthday present for a friend who’s also a huge fan of the books, and figured I may as well post it here!

When Laney Jones goes under the sorting hat, her back is perfectly straight and her face is placid, relaxed. Her hands fold neatly in her lap, and none of the students and professors think she’s anything other than calm, maybe even disinterested.

Internally, she quite seriously threatens the Hat with a fiery death if it spits out her secret. The threat alone would probably merit Gryffindor, but the Hat isn't easily swayed by mere stunts. When the rip along it's hem opens, it sends her to Slytherin.

(Such a thirst to prove yourself. You'll do well there)

She's practically a squib. She makes no attempts to claim otherwise, because if you say you're Merlin reborn everyone watches you, but when they think you're a step away from being a muggle they take the fact that you got some coloured sparks as a victory, even if you're supposed to be turning a matchstick into a needle. Pride is one thing, but Laney knows that sometimes you have to let people think poorly of you so they won't look too close.

She excels in herbology, potions, and magical theory. She won't excel at History of Magic until her second year, because she is unequipped both for professor Binns and for the way all of the magical history she knew was geographically removed from everything they covered in class.

(Laney Jones isn't a squib; her mother is a squib, so that effectively makes Laney a muggle. Her brother is a wizard, though she hasn't seen him since she was eight. She scours the Prophet every morning, because she still thinks her big brother is the centre of the world)

Rupert Hammersfeld had already read every History of Magic text book on Hogwarts' seven year book list at least once by the time he was ten. He stays awake in Binns' classes making detailed notes anyway, but most of them are his own thoughts and recalled external sources. Rupert likes history; his mother is a curse breaker, and so he knows plenty of non euro-centric history from her, and his uncle made sure to teach him at least some of the history of the parts of India their ancestors hailed from as well. He writes out theoretical alternate lesson plans when he's done transcribing his years-old notes on the British goblin wars.

He's read a lot of textbooks over the years, curled up in the Hogwarts library in the holidays. He watched years worth of students pass through the halls before it was his turn, helping his uncle with the paperwork and quietly finding the homesick kids at weekends with his palms full of hot-chocolate and handkerchiefs tucked into his pockets.

His uncle fretted, sometimes, that he couldn't give Rupert as much time as he deserved. The world outside thought he did, of course he did, the headmaster of Hogwarts having to raise a child, it was a wonder he had any time for the boy at all. They sniffed and murmured about how irresponsible, how unseemly, it was for that Elizabeth to have not only had a child out of wedlock but to have then left it with her respectable, long-suffering brother to raise while she ran wild.

He was pure-blooded (that his father had magic at his fingertips was one of the few things Rupert knew, not because his mother gave two figs about blood status but because one of the few stories she shared of him included the elegance of his preserving spells), from a line that could trace itself back to the Founders, and he just wanted everything to be orderly, calm, and safe. He spends ten and a half minutes under the hat, discussing where he should go. The hat is quite adamant, but Rupert knows how people would talk and takes a while to convince.

(Usually, the hat accepts a direct request to go into a certain house - but this is from a self-imposed sense of obligation, and under it there’s a strong sense that the hat’s option would be really nice, actually, so it insists)

The Hufflepuffs and the Slytherins don't have any first year classes together; for historic reasons they tend to be paired with the Ravenclaws, which suits Rupert quite well. He's from a family of Gryffindors, but they can be a bit...much, sometimes. He’s all for chivalry and protecting those who need it, but from a lifetime in the castle he’s familiar with just how often the Gryffindor common room exists in a state of chaos.

He's aware of the black almost-squib in his year anyway, of course. He watched his fellow first years arrive on the boats, matching names to faces as they were called up to the front of the Great Hall, noted houses. And you could never escape the gossip - a castle full of teenagers lived on rumour and hearsay.

Rupert sneaks down to Hogsmede regularly, to meet up with Sez and Bart. He slips past Laney in the halls or out on the grounds, unseen, and he says nothing to anyone - not that there was a student out of bed, or about the mix of muggle tricks and magical practical jokes she was carefully practising with, night after night.

They don't meet properly until third year, when they chose between the optional subjects and classes became more widely mixed between the four houses. Laney takes Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures and Muggle Studies. She doesn't particularly like the sound of muggle studies, but she knows her own grades - the extra work is worth it, she figures, for that number of perfect grades to outweigh her abysmal practical demonstrations. Besides, she's eyeing the idea of a political career, and she figures it wouldn't hurt to be officially Able To Speak the Muggle Lingo.

Rupert signs up for all of the same subjects except for Muggle Studies as well, so their schedules rather abruptly align almost completely. It's several weeks into third year before Rupert (hesitantly) offers her the recipe to a colour changing powder he'd found in a market stall, one summer visiting his mother. Laney had been hiding dyes up her sleeves and hidden in bracelets for years, turning mice green when she was supposed to make them into a pin cushion. The Dozen Drop Dyes she’s been using are expensive, and require active enchantment to make. A powder is in several ways easier to hide, and it’s something she can make herself with the help of a few magical ingredients.

She drops her Magical Theory books down next to him in the library the next day because he'd been struggling with the underpinnings of Gamp's Exceptions (again. It just didn't make sense! What was different about food? He could conjure wooden furniture, but he couldn't conjure spices that were made from dried bark. It wasn't logical) and Laney was painfully aware of anything even close to a debt.

By the end of the year, she would be trading notes and explanations because it was easier to study together than alone. He would be occasionally transfiguring things in class for her, always partially and always incorrect, and talking her through the non-magical defences he'd learnt over the years of helping Sez and Bart track down dangers in the streets of Hogsmede and the edges of the Forest.

At the start of their fourth year, there are two arrivals of particular note. One is a red-head who towers over the first years, and the other is short even by the standards of his cohort. Farris, Jack, goes into Gryffindor. Sanders, Grey, has an extended period under the hat and is finally sent to Ravenclaw.

(Jack thinks the hat sounds a bit grudging about it)

It turns out that Jack is actually in their year, a transfer student. When asked where from, he shrugs and says "here and there", which people generally take as either home schooled, or expelled from every other magical school in the world, because it turns out that Jack gets into fights the way most people breathe.

It isn't even duelling; magic is rarely involved. Rupert half-suspects that's intentional. After all, when you're fighting someone over the fact that they've just said something dismissive about the muggleborn, sending them to the hospital wing with a broken nose without drawing your wand at all does rather illustrate the point. Rupert lectures him about fighting and files neat, official complaints and sends home form-written teacher’s notes where it will help.

(Grey slips safely beneath the radar, by and large. He doesn't get letters at breakfast, but occasionally he'll find a book he's never seen with his name on the fly leaf in the Ravenclaw common room. Spider had been at Hogwarts, once upon a time, and he used to slip out to Hogsmede, and after all - the Ravenclaw tower was guarded only by riddles.

This was all immaterial, given he could also turn into a spider at will, but at heart Spider appreciated the detail of these things)

Laney and Rupert quickly discover that it is very difficult not to like Jack. He seems permanently cheerful, but has a streak of dark humour that never fails to make Laney snicker. His magic is all over the place, which Rupert marks down to his haphazard teaching. Some of the fourth year material is old hat to him, and some of their first year spells are novelties.

He also has a distressing (to Rupert, at least) tendency to wander at will into the Forbidden Forest. Rupert makes sad sounds whenever he catches Jack wandering in or out of the trees, and ignores the guilty awareness that he's been gradually working on containing an acromantula infestation in there for years.

Laney tells Jack she isn't even an almost-squib, magically speaking, early in their fifth year. She had thought about it the summer before but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She's too used to secrecy, and she can't just hand this over to someone without knowing for certain that they won't let it slip. He stares at her, delighted, and immediately produces a battered jacket imbued with a shield charm. She pours over it, and he promises to write to the friend who made it for him to see if she can be persuaded to share her secrets.

Laney and Rupert are too busy with their own studies to help Jack catch up on the patches in his own past learnings completely, so he’s had a mismatch of tutors since the professors first realised he was missing several foundations. Somehow he ends up being taught second year Charms by the runty first year he shared a boat over with. Grey trades off time running Jack through old class notes borrowed from Laney and Rupert to explain things he hasn't necessarily studied yet himself for time going over the material the fifth years are currently studying.

(Grey is vaguely considering taking his OWLs early, except then he'd take the NEWTs early too, and he'd be stuck out in the world with stunning grades but no legal guardians, too young to do things like rent a flat or get a job even with his forged papers placing him as a few years older than he actually is)

Jack gets letters sporadically, usually accompanied by pictures covered in sticky fingerprints. They rarely seem to be delivered by the same bird twice, until he goes home to Mexico for one winter break, Grey in tow. They have a great time, even if Grey complains about the heat, but he also notices that none of the family know anything about what their youngest has been up to for the past six years.

He corners Jack about it once they're back at Hogwarts, in a roundabout way, and it spills out - the one magical son in an entirely muggle home, except for a mother who had some magical relatives and extended family friends in several different countries. They'd fabricated an excuse for why he was leaving home, and Jack hadn't gone back since. His mother had been insistent that it would be good for him, better than staying at the local underground schools or going to the closer boarding school in America, even if she hadn't been able to verbalise why. She just knew.

His mother had been quite keen to hear what he'd been up to since he ran away from school, but Grey knows he wasn't supposed to have heard that conversation and won’t be getting any answers if he asks.

Laney listens closely, peers sidelong at Grey, and smirks at them both.

"Well, I had to forge enough paperwork to get onto the Hogwarts register and fool my mother." While Grey splutters at the new information, Rupert tilts his head and asks ‘why Hogwarts’. She's never spoken about this before, and he hadn't wanted to pry. Laney shrugs.

"Uagadou acceptance can't be faked, and I was actually born in England - mom and dad were over for a year living with my uncle, diplomatic stuff - so it was just feasible that I would have gone onto their register not Uagadou's." She smiles, sharp. "And anyway, everyone at Uagadou uses gestures not a wand, so magic would be a lot harder to fake."

They derail into a conversation about different schools of magic. If Rupert or Laney find it odd that Grey goes quiet when they mention Mahoutokoro, the school of magic closest to his home town (though they don't know this, precisely, just that he has a certain face structure and accent, and a tendency to slip into Japanese when he’s grumbling over books without realising), neither mention it.

Jack waxes unexpectedly, passionately lyrical about how colour coding robes is harsh and minimising and biased anyway, because it rewards grades not effort, and some of the more flashy, non-grade related ingrained colour shifts follow no reasonable pattern, with no care for context.

Did you know that if you kill an aggressive giant with a third year spell you'd use to play pranks on your friends every week (and a lot of luck), your robes turn shimmering gold for 'services to the community'? But if you kill a rampaging dragon as it tries to eat you after razing an entire village with a curse you've only heard of and never dreamt of using, they'll go white as snow.

The year Laney, Rupert and Jack reach their sixth year of school, Grey is finally old enough to go to Hogsmede with them - well. According to his paperwork, anyway. They had offered to take him before through the hidden passage Rupert preferred for getting to the village to meet Sez, but he'd waved an ink specked hand to decline because he was too recognisable, too obviously not old enough to be on a Hogsmede trip, and that meant he wouldn't be allowed into the bookstore, so what even was the point?

Jack cheerfully trails Grey into the bookstore, holding a growing pile of books and trying (and failing) to see any kind of rhyme and reason behind the collection. Laney peels off to the joke shop to buy a few new toys. She comes out with a mental list of other purchases for Rupert, Jack, or Sez to pick up for her later to make sure nobody draws too many connections to her.

Rupert wanders around the local houses with his pack full of gifts he's carefully brought down from the castle - a pepper up potion brewed with better ingredients than a family could afford, a handful of pages carefully transcribed from an old rare book that only existed in three collections in the world for someone's research, several bags of cookies baked in a corner of the kitchens (the house elves had gotten used to this when Rupert was a child and didn't panic too much nowadays) to hand out to anyone he knows is having a bit of a rough patch, or will just appreciate a friendly visit.

They meet up at Sally-Anne's place as always, because it's good, cheap food and Rupert wouldn't dream of going anywhere else unless required by circumstance to be a Noble Example of a Pureblood Son.

(Sally had inherited the Hog's Head not more than a couple of years ago, but she's been practically running it since she was fifteen so everyone thinks of it as Sally-Anne's)

When Rupert arrive there are already textbooks scattered over his favourite booth. He, Jack and Laney all have a Care of Magical Creatures group project to work on. Grey is theoretically working on his own History of Magic essay, but is actually pouring wide eyed over their notes. Jack is waving his hands as he talks at length about dragon communications to an increasingly fascinated Grey and a frustrated Laney, because none of this is in any of the five books she's read, Farris, where are your sources - Rupert nudges her as he sits down, because while the mystery of Jack's sporadic yet strangely specific knowledge base is something they both agree they need to get to the bottom of, they've also agreed they should probably make sure they do it somewhere they can't be overheard, given how much he slides away from it.

Halfway through doodling a dragon (it's supposed to be a Liondragon, but Jack knows it's a poor copy of the carved sketches he's spent years watching George leave on tables, support beams and pieces of firewood) Jack feels a chill on the back of his neck, and shrugs it off as residual paranoia.

The window explodes a moment later, and he pushes himself thoughtfully up from the scattered glass.

"Huh, so I guess that was an anti-apparition ward being set." He tries to explain this to the aggressive fellow Gryffindor who's loudly threatening to go fetch the aurors, and winds up tearing up his robes to act as a tourniquet because he isn't carrying any dittany and it's not like he's going to be given his wand back to actually repair the splinching wound anyway so he needs to do something.

Laney catches his eye as the two searching men start tearing up the floor in search of the rumoured tunnel to Hogwarts. She's fiddling with the bracelet on her left wrist, a dark wooden bangle with - if Jack remembers correctly - some constellation etched onto it. Rupert goes very still beside him, eyes apparently fixed on Sally shouting furiously at the Wizards tearing up her pub.

The hidden compartment on Laney's bangle flips open, and the room is abruptly plunged into night as it fills with dark mist. Jack lunges forwards towards the wizard holding their wands, and rolls cheerfully to his feet amid the sound of them clattering to the floor. From somewhere off to his left he can hear the loud oof of someone who has just been punched in the guts and probably hasn't been in a fight other than a magical duel since he was ten and doesn't remember how to roll with the punches.

In the dark, Jack grins.

#Remember the Dust #Beanstalk #Echoes of a Giantkiller #leagues and legends #L&L fic #L&L!Hogwarts AU #Laney Jones #Rupert Hammersfeld #Jack Farris #Sanders Grey #This is a bit jumpy and no particular plot but it was fun #I went back and forth on which house Rupe should be in for ages #Because he screams Puff to me in a lot of ways #but I could be swayed to Ravenclaw as well #and I feel like baby Rupe would sit there going #No I should be Gryffindor #I'm sort of Gryffindor's legacy people with TALK they'll blame my UNCLE for not having time for me and I'm SUPPOSED to be Gryffindor #but I decided that the hat would go nope not the right reason to make yourself miserable I know what your uncle thinks and it is not that yo #u are a disappoinment if you don't wear the family colours #George is still running around in Japan learning magic on the down low from Bea #I...didn't decide what happened to Liam #Grey's dad is a squib but one who took it A LOT LESS GRACEFULLY than Laney's mom #Hence why Grey had to run somewhere else to get his education #Also yeah I was really struggling for a nice title for this one so #my writing

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myfriendpokey · 6 years

Text

promissory notes

Complete satisfaction OR your money back!!! - is something I don't think anyone in videogames has ever willingly said,so maybe it doesn't make sense to talk of anything as stable as a "guarantee". Maybe it's more like a system of overlapping promises, designed to contain the idea that a videogame exists in at least some kind of provisional relationship to human happiness, even if the rate at which the two could be converted is never quite nailed down. We have the promise the game will work on a given system or set of minimum requirements, the hazier assurance it might at least resemble the screenshots on the box, the genre assurance that it formally and hence experientially resembles some other game you like. The assurance, in press leading up to release, of passion and artistic intent rattling around in there somewhere as well, the assurance that the game will have x y and z new features and scope. Press and external reviewers can so to speak cosign a guarantee or write their own more ambivalent one on the basis of their reputation. Storefronts as well can tacitly endorse some promise - that this thing exists, functions, falls into the category of "entertainment" - when they put it on their shelves, virtual or otherwise. There's the promise of personal reputation, that the people involved wouldn't want to associate themselves with a bogus product, and the promise of monetary interest - this game obviously had a fair bit of money put into it, they're expecting to make that back, therefore we can expect some moderate fidelity to customer expectation and the sort of general polished feel that comes with being able to hire lots of people to create bark textures.

Most of these institutions aren't specific to videogames, but I do think they have a greater prominence there, owing both to the higher amount of fussy technical variation in the format (it's hard to imagine a book, say, refusing to boot or secretly installing a bitcoin miner in your head) and also to its historical novelty. The idea that something called a "videogame" exists, is an entertainment format, is linked to some kind of prospective emotional value - all these have to be rhetorically insisted upon, particularly as the format moved from spaces with immediately visible analogues (pinball tables, mechanical amusements) to a more diffuse place alongside the family television or home computer. They had to insinuate, and to an extent still have to insinuate, the exact role they played in everyday life. And the shift from being a sort of weird, garish, once-off toy into an ongoing home-improvement project, with new games and consoles to choose between and new add-ins to improve your machine, had to be accompanied by the emergence of institutions that could offer some reassurance this ongoing investment wouldn't be a waste.

So you can maybe glibly think of videogames as a form of currency, built on the premise that they can be "exchanged" at any time for some measure of enjoyment, where this exchange rate is underwritten and co-signed by various institutions. And as having something of the abstraction of currency, as well. If one videogame is a moment of enjoyment then 6000 videogames are in principle 6000 moments of enjoyment - never mind that you may never have a chance to play all those discounted games in your Steam library within one lifetime. Think of it as saving them up for a rainy day. And I suspect that as this relationship between possession and affect grows more abstracted and tenuous, institutions take on a correspondingly more important role in confirming that the central exchange relationship still holds true. A bit like debt rating agencies - it's not so much about actually untangling the complicated sale of good, bad and nonexistent debt packages from one financial institution to another, it's more the promise that at some point this untangling COULD occur, that all this imaginary money still bears some kind of distant relationship to actual human needs.

I wonder if the paranoid style in videogames culture stems partly from this sense of underlying contingency. It's not that games are just experiences, which can't be taken away - they're more like deposits on hypothetical experience, and those deposits can indeed depreciate in value if not turn out to be worthless from the start. Bad reviews, spoilers, the general reputation of a game can all cause it to drop in expected value. The fuss that happens every time a new GTA game gets below 9.5 on IGN or wherever is not so much that the game might really have problems so much that having those problems flagged from the start can marr the sense of occasion, the I-was-there-ness and anticipated retrospective value that's part of the package being sold. And of course the consistent anxiety around corrupt reviewers, incorrect press releases, "fake games", all those other things that could adulterate the currency...

And maybe we could consider the current anxiety around "asset flips" on Steam in the same light. After all, who's really playing these things - besides Youtubers doing so ironically? They're easy to spot and easily refunded and even if some kid really does buy "Cuphat" or "Battleglounds" by accident, well, the worst that could happen is that they develop the same misplaced affection for exploitative consumer garbage as everybody else who grew up playing videogames. And indeed the fact that nobody really buys them is part of the critique - what's unsettling is the fact that they seem more connected to the shadow economies of cheap bundles and trading-card-store manipulation (which is so easy and widespread that PC Gamer could publish a how-to guide with no apparent pushback from anyone). You can easily unpick the specific arguments about what constitutes an asset flip versus a game that just uses premade assets, or how to tell a "scam" from just a regular bad videogame - demonstrative sincerity?? Producing cynical knockoffs with premade asset packs is not necessarily the act of poorly-funded fly-by-nights, as witness the recent news about Voodoo recieving $200 million from Goldman Sachs. But of course they're the chief source of anxiety around the issue, and the ways in which that anxiety manifests is often weirdly racialised - the automatic bad faith extended to the Global South, the fear of nameless hordes overrunning our valuable, exclusive institutions, even a sort of weird variant on the “welfare mother” imagery - the asset flipper with 100 interchangeable games, driving a cadillac... Leaching off the accumulated value stockpiled by the Steam brand, devaluing our libraries and the institutions that have been telling us they're worth something...

I don't really have a lot of sympathy with the asset-flip discourse, both because exactly the same anxiety has been rolled out in the past to Unity, walking simulators, visual novels, Game Maker, Twine, and basically anything else that lowers the barriers to entry around making videogames; and also because I love many games I think those anxieties would try to exclude ("The Zoo Race", GoreBagg games, the Johnny series, even Limbo Of The Lost is as close as Oblivion ever came to being creatively exciting), and I think the calls for hard work and sincerity and so forth function as just so much evasive kitsch. We already HAVE a ton of games like that; and that's maybe the real problem. Why is there so much anxiety about discovering good games when, say, people are complaining about having to choose between the two different, polished, labour-of-love, years-in -the-making narrative platform games being released the same week? Doesn't this just mean the "enjoyment standard" of the videogame promissory note is just by now so abstract and intangible that it's basically just an empty convention, useful for nothing but perpetuating itself - perpetuating the idea of an unadulterated good-game-ness, stretching aimlessly into space like a 1950s radio broadcast. It's a convention which is basically exclusive, which works by trying to put a cordon around the vast swathes of human culture it thinks it's safe to ignore.

Which is maybe fine - nobody can pay attention to anything, and some "rating institutions" are presumably less pernicious than others (the advice of a friend? a critic you enjoy? your own intuition?). There are obviously a lot of critiques that can be levelled at the existing one for videogames, including in particular the assumption that anything that cost a lot of money is worth at least checking out. But there's also something more generally sad about this kind of enforced, perpetual scarcity in a time of abundance, about a model that just pines for less shit so that it can start to feel relevant again, about one that can think of nothing to do with the sheer volume of things being made and rabbit holes being burrowed than wish they didn't exist and try to shut them out entirely.

More people being able to make things is good, and hard to get to; it can also be unnerving and disorienting and also push against some of the happier ideas we might have had about the democratization of art-production (for example, that this wouldn't co-exist with monopolies of arbitrary unaccountable control of the kind exercised by Youtube, Steam, the App store, Google, etc...), it can be a space to view some of the weirder machinations of capital as they leave traces through the culture (money-laundering $9000 books on Amazon and viral Pregnant Spiderman youtube vids). I don't think continuing to defend the value of the medium will help think about these, or become anything but more and more paranoid and quixotic over time.

#lou #vgames #money

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lovedmoviesb · 7 years

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"Look alive, Grimes. I'm not paying you to stand around looking pretty." The sardonic southern accent bit at Rick's ears, immediately rubbing him the wrong way. The man from whom the voice emitted completed the image. Over six feet tall with unnaturally perfect hair, Philip Blake was the picture of conservative family values to his potential constituents. Those who worked with him knew better.

Phillip Blake was an asshole.

Rick swallowed thickly, biting his tongue for presumably the hundredth time this morning. His boss took his silence as compliance, already moving along on his list of people to verbally abuse.

"This Michonne, she's gaining in the polls," Philip's southern accent was far less polished behind the scenes.

"She's a novelty, sir," Blake's assistant, Milton, a mousy man with rectangular glasses, piped up on queue. "They'll grow tired of her. My numbers—"

"Are bullshit," Blake finished. "I'm not taking any risks. Find me something I can use against her."

It took every ounce of self-control for Rick not to roll his eyes. Philip Blake would have made an excellent dictator in another life. His hatred for his opponent burned bright. Rick suspected that the fact that a Black woman had the gall to run against him burned the hell out of Blake's chaps.

"She's a problem," he clipped out, pausing to adjust his hair and tie in the mirror backstage. "She needs to be dealt with."

Rick's eye twitched again.

"She's young. Unseasoned. You have the support of the party—" Milton tried again.

"Find something I can use," Blake interjected, acting as though his assistant hadn't spoken at all.

"I will," Milton was doing the stuttering thing again. Rick almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Where the hell is my wife?" Blake turned his attention elsewhere, eyes sweeping for the platinum blonde. Rick hadn't exchanged a word with her in the month since he took this gig, and he didn't care to change that. Mrs. Blake was just as unpleasant as her husband.

"I'm here," she appeared in a click of heels and a cloud of perfume and bad attitude, her waves of hair seemingly glued around her head. She took her husband's arm. At once, their scowls melted into smiles that could have graced a Colgate ad. Rick watched them sweep onto the stage, happy to retreat to his place with the other bodyguards just behind the curtain.

He spotted Abe, an old colleague, standing up ramrod straight. The redhead caught his eye, grinning.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Abe started in immediately. Rick felt his mood improve marginally.

"Abe," he nodded.

"Shane hook you up?" he asked, shaking Rick's hand.

"That obvious?" Rick took his place beside him, facing the pulpit. His clients had emerged to raucous applause. Rick's stomach turned.

"Politics ain't really your scene," Abe snorted lowly.

"And they're yours?" Rick scoffed. He couldn't imagine a more politically incorrect person than the man beside him.

"I at least served old Uncle Sam," Abe grinned. "You couldn't cut basic training."

"It's good money," Rick shrugged slightly. This was his daily mantra.

"Better you than me," Abe's eyes locked onto the Blakes. "Ain't never seen a bigger pair of assholes."

Rick held in his laugh and his agreement. "How's your girl?" he asked.

Abe's smile widened. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the arrival of the client in question.

"Excuse me," a lilting voice drew Rick's attention. His eyes flickered momentarily to the woman walking out on stage, head high and shoulders back.

Rick dropped his jaw. He'd seen pictures of her, clips on the evening news. None of them did her justice. He hadn't seen a person look less like a politician. Her dark locs were fixed back from her forehead in a simple but striking updo. Her skin seemed to glow under the stage lights, dark like polished bronze. She swept past him in a swirl of vanilla and sandalwood, her heels clicking as she took her place on the podium. Rick stared in shock.

"Is that her?" Rick whispered under his breath. He wasn't looking at the Blakes at all anymore.

"That's her," Abe smirked knowingly, his eyes never leaving his client. "Michonne Bechet. Atlanta Councilwoman. Might be an Obama in the making."

"Holy shit," Rick's statement came out almost as a gasp. "I'm going to kill Shane."

Abe chuckled, arms folded in front of him, the hint of amusement playing beneath his facial hair. "Walsh did you a favor."

"How do you figure?" It damn sure didn't feel like a favor from where Rick was standing. From where he was standing, it looked like Abe got to guard the gorgeous, progressive candidate while Rick got stuck with Philip Blake.

"He knows you, man. You couldn't handle her," Abe's lips barely moved as they muttered quietly to one another.

Rick didn't answer. There were plenty of ways he suddenly wanted to handle the woman in front of him, none of them professional. "You might have a point," he admitted.

Abe grunted his agreement.

Rick wasn't one for politics, but he paid close attention to the debate that night. He'd heard Blake's stance a million and a half times, but Michonne's words stuck with him. She had vision, she had panache, she had charisma, and she was a hell of a looker. Michonne faced the jeering crowd without so much as flinching. If Blake's sardonic insults affected her, she didn't show it. She answered the debate questions in a clear, high voice, outlining her point until even the crowd seemed to silence before her.

Blake hated her.

"Find me something on her," he reiterated that night, taking a break from his hooting and hollering and cursing to address Milton. "Before this gets out of control."

By debate number two, it was clear that the situation had long since gotten out of control. Michonne was gaining in the polls. Blake couldn't maintain his polite façade. Their meeting at a charity ball quickly divested into petty remarks. Rick reddened behind his boss while Michonne took the insults on the chin.

"Asshole," Abe was angrier even than Rick, his eyes burning holes into Blake as he sipped champagne and schmoozed with donors.

"Dick," Rick agreed, fighting the urge to knock his employer in the back of his head with the butt of his gun.

"Abe," they were interrupted once more by the dark horse candidate. She looked stunning in her little black dress, her hair pulled up in a bun.

"What do you need, darling?" Abe came to attention at once. Rick resisted the urge to step forwards towards her.

"I'm tired," she announced this with the air of one discussing the weather. Only the weariness in her eyes betrayed her actual feelings.

"All right," Abe nodded, mobilizing her people at once. Rick was left standing there, staring at her, anger burning in the pit of his stomach at the way this woman was treated. She glanced back, her expression mildly curious.

"Don't let him bother you," Rick's mouth was moving before he even realized it. "He's scared of you."

She looked surprised for a fraction of a second, then her expression changed. Her laugh, clear and melodious, got him through the rest of the night, even as Blake snarked at everyone around him.

"Thank you," she told him as Abe swept her off, throwing Rick a knowing look from beneath his bushy brow.

Rick and Michonne met again at a community center groundbreaking. She was just as stunning in jeans and a blouse as an evening gown. She smiled at him this time, greeting him kindly as she passed. Rick ignored Blake's burning glare to smile back.

"Maybe you're not useless after all," Blake mused later, unaware of how close he was to getting punched squarely in his face. "She's likes the working class type. Talk to her next time. See what you can find out."

Rick seized the opportunity. He found her a week later, sitting at the bar, her ankles crossed, her hair hanging freely down her back. He beelined for her.

"Rick," his name sounded regal coming from her lips. "Should you be talking to me?" she seemed amused. Her hand cupped her chin as she stared up at him, her confidence burning bright.

"It's my day off," he told her. This was true. Both candidates were stationed in the same hotel. He bumped into her at the bar downstairs. He'd come down to meet Abe for a drink, but changed course the moment he spotted her.

"Blake gives you those?" she quipped, sipping prettily from her beer.

Rick laughed. Behind them, Abe watched, amused. Rick caught his eye, silently begging his friend to leave them alone.

"You owe me," Rick read Abe's lips from across the bar. Rick happily sent over a drink to keep him occupied.

"How do I know you're not a spy?" Michonne questioned lightly a few moments later. There was something underlying in her tone that let Rick know she was not joking.

"You can ask Abe what I think of my employer," Rick didn't miss a beat. Truth was, he hated Philip Blake. Work had become the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

"What do you think of me?" she asked, taking another draw. Rick's eyes flicked to her lips. He swallowed thickly.

"I might vote for you," he told her, taking a gulp to steady himself.

"Just might?" she sounded so incredulous that for a moment Rick feared she was serious. Then she smiled around the mouth of her bottle. Rick grinned back.

"Learn anything interesting?" Blake asked the next morning.

Rick had learned her favorite drink, her cat's name, that she loved action movies, and got into politics to fight for the voiceless.

"Nope," Rick answered. Blake glared. Rick did not flinch. Blake eventually moved off.

"Are you making a move on my client?" Abe asked later, when both of them were stationed behind the scenes of debate number 3.

"I'm thinking about it," Rick did not hesitate to answer. It was all he seemed to think about.

"You're going to get fired," Abe rolled his eyes.

"Might be worth it." There was no might about it. If Rick had half a chance, he'd take it.

"I'm going to regret this," Abe sighed, then pulled out his phone. "She asked me for your number."

Rick punched it into Abe's phone at lightning speed.

Her first text came the following Saturday afternoon. Phillip and his wife were drunk at the pool and Rick was bored to tears.

"What's it going to take to get your vote?" the question blinked up at him under the bright light of the afternoon sun.

"Want to talk about it over dinner?" he text back, waiting with baited breath while the three dots flashed at him.

"It can't be public."

Rick's heart jumped. Trying to contain his excitement, he text back. "I know a place. No one will bother us."

Her response took a full five minutes, but eventually it pinged in.

"Sounds great."

Rick read her message, sitting contently and grinning while Blake yelled at Milton from across the pool.

#twd #richonne #WE'RE THE ONES WHO LIVE #love.devil.movies.baby #Rick Grimes #Michonne

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mrcoreymonroe · 6 years

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Why Would You Need Both GPS And DME?

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It all started with on weird note on the ILS Z or LOC Z Rwy 23 at Walterboro, S.C. (KRBW). The note says: “GPS and DME required (emphasis mine).

Back when I learned to fly, a GA airplane with distance measuring equipment, or DME, was high-tech ride to brag over: “It actually shows you how far you are from a VOR station! And your groundspeed! Well, presuming you’re flying directly towards or away from the station ...”

Now GPS lets my phone spit times and distances to four different Starbucks dispensaries within the surrounding eight blocks, complete with verbal directions. Likewise, GPS in the cockpit makes DME an eBay novelty. You can substitute GPS for a DME requirement in virtually every situation—so how can an approach require both?

It doesn’t. You can fly this approach with only an approved GPS. Now come down the rabbit hole with me to understand why that’s true. Spoiler alert: This discussion might reveal that you’ve been reading approach charts wrong for years.

If GPS can substitute for DME, then why do some charts specifically say that both DME and GPS are required? Good questions, and there is an answer. As in most cases with apparent chart ambiguities, it's just not an obvious answer.

Letters in Approach Titles: Then and Now

First a bit of background: Back when DME was the bomb, the only single letters you saw in a approach titles were from the beginning of the alphabet, such as the VOR/DME-A approach to Augusta, ME (KAUG). (These were also the days when a cell phone’s only function was making phone calls. The dark ages, for sure.)

Replacing a specific runway with a letter in the approach title means that only circling minimums are available. This happens when the final approach course doesn’t align within 30 degrees of a runway, the descent from MDA to the runway would be too steep for a straight-in, or the runway environment lacks required items for straight-in minimums. Required items include things like runway markings and lights. If any of those criteria are true (the VOR/DME-A at KAUG meets the third one), no straight-in minimums are published even if the final approach course aligns with a runway. Only circling minimums are published and the approach is to all approved runways. You can still land straight-in if you want, but that’s for another discussion.

Letters from the tail end of the alphabet (X, Y, and Z) identify multiple approaches to the same specific runway, so you’ll always see a runway named in the approach title. Most often, the Z allows lower minimums by requiring a higher climb gradient for the missed approach. The Y and Z versions of the ILS or LOC/DME Rwy 19 at Rutland, VT (KRUT) are poster children for this. The Z version has a DA 600 feet lower, but requires 370 feet per NM on the missed approach if it doesn’t work out. (The charts for these approaches have so many notes the plan view area is compressed just to make room. Check ‘em out some time.)

The other common reason for multiple versions is different equipment requirements, and that’s what’s happening at KRBW.

Start with the Y approach. This is a conventional ILS, with a requirement for DME stated in the notes. The question is: What for? It can’t be for a transition from the enroute environment because those notes appear on the plan view, not in the notes section. The IAF at LAMKE is a fix on V18-311, so you can get there by VOR. VOR capability (or GPS equivalent) is assumed, so it’s never stated as a requirement. An ILS never requires DME for identifying the FAF or DA because the FAF is glideslope intercept and DA is by altitude. Cross-check of glideslope intercept altitude is a good idea, but it’s never required. The missed approach goes to STOAS, but that can be identified as an intersection of two VOR radials.

The answer is that DME is only required for the localizer approach. There’s no other way to identify the FAF at DOTMY or the missed approach point at 1.1 DME on the localizer. Note that there’s no timing published for FAF to MAP.

If you’re flying the ILS you do not need DME on the aircraft. Yes, that’s correct, if you fly the ILS you may ignore that note.

Before you press send on the email telling me notes aren’t optional, understand that this chart displays two separate approaches, co-charted. The ILS approach is a different approach with different obstacle requirements and different procedures than the localizer approach. The reason they share a chart is historical. Do you remember paper charts that we used to tote around in hernia-inducing binders? (If not, Google it on your “phone.”) Almost every ILS had an accompanying localizer approach that shared most of the same information. Co-charting the two approaches kept those binders a few kilos lighter.

This truth applies to your approach request. You ask for the ILS or the localizer and get cleared as such, “... cleared ILS Runway Two Three approach ...” not “... cleared ILS or localizer Runway Two Three approach.” If you switch from one to the other part way, say because the glideslope failed, technically you should get a new clearance. No one cares in practice, but that’s another discussion as well.

This fact that it’s two approaches is why the correct name is: “ILS Y or LOC Y Rwy 23” rather than what “ILS or LOC Y Rwy 23.”—and, yes, that means the title of the Y and Z approaches at KRUT are wrong (as are many others). This reveals how deep the confusion goes. The charting office even had to straighten themselves out. Expect the incorrect titles to change as charts are updated.

Now that we have this nomenclature straightened out, check out the Z approach at KRBW. GPS is used for transition from the enroute environment with no-PT sectors allowing direct LAMKE. That’s a great benefit for GPS-equipped aircraft, but it’s not required because you could arrive at LAMKE via airway, just like the Y approach. The DME requirement in the notes section is for the same reason as the Y chart: it’s only for the localizer version. Per FAA policy, you may substitute GPS.

However, the Z approach has a different missed approach procedure in that you go GPS-direct to STOAS rather than intercepting a radial east of STOAS and then proceeding outbound. This requires GPS—and applies to both the ILS and the localizer approaches.

Therefore, what “GPS and DME required” should actually say is “GPS required for ILS Z or LOC Z missed approach procedure. DME required for LOC approach, and you can substitute GPS for that if you want.”

And that’s essentially what the FAA will be doing in the future. A new area in the briefing strips will specify what’s required for what. I don’t have the details, but I’ll be happy to see it put into effect.

Now I hear the cry: “If GPS is required no matter what, and GPS can substitute for DME, why bother saying DME is required at all?” In this case, there’s no good reason other than consistency. However, if the Y and Z had different minimums you could, in theory, ask for a missed approach procedure that didn’t require DME and thereby obviate the need.

At least, that’s the way I think about it. I’ve never seen guidance or an FAA position on this, but I can tell you in practice we used to do this all the time where approaches required equipment for a missed we didn’t have installed. We requested alternate missed approach instructions from ATC and got on with business. No one complained or gave us a number to call on landing.

I’m not saying that’s an approved procedure, but it does point out how understanding all those notes on the chart is essential to your strategy for flying an instrument approach.

Preparing for Your Y or Z

There’s an interesting practicality of this having two approaches co-charted when it comes to loading the approaches from a GPS database. Note on the ILS Z or LOC Z Rwy 23 at KRBW that there’s a stepdown inside the FAF at ZILTA. Identifying ZILTA lets you descend from 680 MSL to the minimum of 480 MSL.

It used to be you’d only see the ILS approach in the GPS database. That approach might—or might not—contain a stepdown fix like ZILTA. If it didn’t, you’d have to do the math that ZILTA was 1.7 miles from the threshold of Runway 23.

It turns out that if you buy your data from Jeppesen, you still do this math. If you buy your North American data from Garmin, however, there are two approaches in the GPS database, one for the ILS without ZILTA in the flight plan, and one for the localizer approach with ZILTA in the flight plan. It’s not a big deal, but it’s worth knowing if you’re loading approaches or choosing your database vendor.

Or you could just invest in that vintage DME on eBay to brag that you can fly an airplane—or find a Starbucks—without no stinkin’ GPS.

You can read more on this subject, or other instrument flying topics, in Jeff’s IFR Focus blog.

Want more articles on instrument flying and related VFR options? Check out our Inside IFR archive.

The post Why Would You Need Both GPS And DME? appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

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