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nightingaelic · 3 years

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One I've always been infuriated by: you can't take a companion to Honest Hearts because the caravan is at capacity, but you can get Ricky kicked out. So New Vegas companions follow the Courier to Zion: what hilarity ensues?

Arcade Gannon: While Arcade is absolutely not a fan of Caesar's Legion, he's reserved enough not to shoot the Burned Man as soon as he appears, and he may even test the former Malpais Legate's philosophy and convictions in some sparring of wits once he feels comfortable enough [Speech 75]. Arcade thinks that Graham has replaced Caesar in his life with God, switching out a human tyrant for a nebulous deity: Graham argues that Arcade's desire for a wishfully-thought, balanced world springs out of an unsatisfied need for internal harmony, one he might find through spirituality. The courier can only stand an hour or so of this back-and forth before giving up and leaving Angel Cave to go find some geckos to hunt. Follows-Chalk amuses Arcade, and he encourages the young scout's desire to explore pre-war ruins: After all, there's always something to be learned by studying who and what came before you. Waking Cloud earns Arcade's utmost respect with her knowledge of medicine and of the canyon's natural order, but he would likely be disappointed with Daniel's and Graham's encroaching influence on the Sorrows' faith.

Craig Boone: Fight on sight with Joshua Graham, which leaves the Burned Man's bandages a little bloodier than normal but is ultimately broken up by the courier before any real harm is done. A shouting match ensues in the middle of the Dead Horses' camp, with Boone airing all of Graham's atrocities at maximum volume and the courier admitting skepticism of the man's change of heart, but still wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Boone wins and the Dead Horses must be convinced of Graham's crimes in the wider world [Speech 100], or the New Vegas visitors beat a hasty retreat from Zion [Speech 85/100]. Maybe the courier wins and Boone realizes that the Burned Man already lives a life wreathed in the pain he inflicted during his decades of Legion service and the eternal mark of Caesar's fury. Either way, Boone is on edge for the remainder of the time in Zion Canyon, and doesn't make too many friends. Follows-Chalk takes a shine to him though, and Boone admits that the scout makes for a decent spotter. I don't think Boone would form a strong connection with Zion until encountering the diaries of Randall Dean Clark, and realizing that the people the courier was trying to save were the chosen loved ones of a man not unlike himself.

Lily Bowen: Having Lily along on the trip to Zion might give some of the other caravan members a chance of surviving, as I don't think the White Legs are used to encountering super mutants and would probably falter anyway at a courier backed up by a giant nightkin grandmother swinging around a vertibird blade [Terrifying Presence]. The Burned Man's appearance in the canyon doesn't bother or even interest her, but she loudly laments the Dead Horses' practice of hunting bighorners rather than taming them. In contrast, Lily loves the Sorrows' treatment of Zion's wildlife, particularly their domestication of geckos. The tame geckos are terrified of her. Of all the inhabitants of Zion, Lily would best relate to Waking Cloud, finding common ground with the tribal midwife on topics like motherhood, the uprooting of a happy life and respect for nature. I think the courier would recognize this bond and even give Lily the chance to complete White Bird's rite of passage herself, defeating the Ghost of She with the courier and Waking Cloud's help. Lily would be most likely to leave Zion with more friends and family than when she entered it.

Raul Alfonso Tejada: Apart from being somewhat of a living ghost himself, I don't think Raul would have much in common with Joshua Graham. While they're both trying to atone for mistakes they've made, their respective mistakes are in completely different time zones. Plus, I don't think Graham talks to ghouls much, thanks to his history with the Legion. Maybe Raul would share a tip with the Burned Man about .45 maintenance, maybe some helpful info about caring for damaged skin if he's feeling generous, but their relationship wouldn't go far beyond that. Like Boone, the story of the Father in the Cave strikes a chord with the old ghoul, and he might seek out Clark's final resting place with the courier to give the man a proper send-off and burial. Similarly, I think he would sympathize with Daniel and his attempts to help the Sorrows, and what bond he might have built with Graham would instead grow with the Mormon missionary. On the side, though, I think he might teach some Sorrows a few phrases in Spanish to heckle the man with, just for fun [Wild Wasteland].

Rose of Sharon Cassidy: Convincing Cass to accompany the courier to Zion in the first place would probably be a feat in and of itself [Barter 62], and once the White Legs appear over the horizon and start assaulting the caravan, Cass might just admit out loud that she and any crew she travels with are cursed. From there, every new piece of the story would entertain her to no end. The most wanted man in Caesar's Legion is just hiding out in a canyon in Utah. The remnants of Vault 22's inhabitants are scattered all over the landscape, meaning Ricky would've eventually been caught in his lie if he'd actually made it to Zion. The Mormons are here, and they're arguably more enthusiastic about proselytizing the tribes than they are about helping them escape and defend themselves. I think Cass would be the most angry and vocal about that last part, and might even wind up arguing with Graham and Daniel about how the only part of their faith they should be spreading right now is the belief in making amends for their actions: Namely, leading the White Legs to Zion in the first place. She would probably be the only one of the companions to propose going to Salt-Upon-Wounds and discovering the tribe's motivations and the manipulations of Ulysses and Caesar, and maybe convincing the war chief that he is being used [Speech 100].

Veronica Santangelo: The Brotherhood Scribe finds a kindred spirit in Follows-Chalk, and the two quickly become fast friends. The young scout happily shares the history and practices of the Dead Horses with her, and in return, Veronica tells stories about the wonders of New Vegas that she has seen while traveling the Mojave with the courier. Joshua Graham creeps Veronica out though, but her own curiosity leads her to prod the courier into interrogating the Malpais Legate by proxy. Like Cass, Veronica would be annoyed with the Mormons' roles among the tribes, but unlike Cass, she lacks the knowledge and context needed to convince them to take some steps back. She is, however, good at tracking down evidence to back up her suspicions, and she and the courier might be able to find evidence of the Legion's influence on the White Legs by poking around their camps [Sneak 73]. Veronica is also in awe of Waking Cloud, particularly of her skill with the yao guai gauntlet. Once she's picked her jaw up off the floor, the Scribe asks the midwife to show her some techniques and help her affix some yao guai claws to her own power fist [Unstoppable Force].

ED-E: The little robot is a huge novelty in the Zion Canyon, and ED-E hams it up for every curious individual that approaches it in the Dead Horses camp and the Narrows. The courier can't help but smile with every quizzical beep, bounce and zoom around the members of the tribes, but they keep the robot closer in Zion to protect against White Legs storm drums and tomahawks. ED-E enjoys spotting trail markings for Follows-Chalk and tracking animals with Waking Cloud. The robot doesn't understand who Daniel is, but knows from reading his body language that he is sad. Not as sad as the man in Angel Cave, though.

Rex: As soon as Rex sets foot in the Zion Canyon, he hears danger on the wind and warns the courier. The caravan is therefore on edge before the inevitable attack, and less likely to perish in the ensuing battle. Like ED-E, Rex doesn't know who Joshua Graham is, but he knows he doesn't trust him: He smells like a wildfire, inside and out. Neither the Dead Horses nor the Sorrows keep dogs, and some members of the tribe are actively afraid of Rex, associating him with the mongrels that run ahead of White Legs raiding parties. The Sorrows are more forgiving, and Rex shows them their trust is well-placed by allowing them to pet him and inspect his mechanical parts when he lies before the campfires to rest at the courier's feet.

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winterscaptain · 3 years

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tali i have kind of a weird question? growing up my family never watched a lot of classic/common movies (we were FIRMLY a veggie tales house) so I have No Clue what like half of the movies you mention are? like I've never seen footloose or what a wonderful life or die hard? or practically... anything you've ever talked about :(

(also ive never seen mean girls but thats a oersonal failure cas I just. forget to watch it?)

do you have a fav/good movie i should start with cause I feel like I'm missing out on so much :(

hi honey!! you’re so valid, and i had LOTS of veggie tales experience growing up. i know you asked for one, but i went a lil ham on this list because you’ve unknowingly touched on one of my favorite hobbies

okay so i have a big list for you, but it’s in really manageable chunks!! i went to theatre school at the school that houses the Best Cinema School in the World (fight on, usc) and i have Opinions™!!

if anyone has any other recs not on this list, drop em in the replies!!

i’ll put these in order of my preference/pop culture relevance, so it’s all subjective and idk what your taste is like, but if you have any questions im always here for you!! i’ve added a few notes and disclaimers along the way

this is a really good list to go off of, in general!

okay so here are my top seven films that i never get tired of watching, in order.

skyfall

that thing you do

captain america: the first avenger/captain america: winter soldier

inglorious basterds*

the sound of music

knives out

blazing saddles**

* inglorious basterds is a quentin tarantino movie, and tarantino isn’t for everyone. his films are always really bloody, intense, and rife with bad language. i don’t like him personally, but i love his work. this is, in my opinion, his best and funniest work

** blazing saddles is a mel brooks movie, and he’s REALLY offensive and inappropriate in his satire. it’s definitely an iconic comedy, but not to everyone’s taste. it’s one of those movies where you’re actually allowed to laugh at the really horrible jokes because it’s an equal-opportunity offense-fest lmao

so here are some other genres and films that are a good foundation!

IN GENERAL!! i don’t like remakes. if there’s an older version of the movie, watch that one. trust me.

i’ve also bolded a couple of key favorites on this list

romantic comedies

my best friend’s wedding

the ugly truth & 27 dresses (katherine hiegl movies ROCK)

sleepless in seattle & you’ve got mail (meg ryan and tom hanks own my ass)

when harry met sally

movies based on books/short stories

to kill a mockingbird

the book thief

the hunger games trilogy

divergent

chronicles of narnia

pride and prejudice (2005 or the bbc miniseries)

3:10 to yuma

based on a true story

ford v. ferrarri

three billboards outside of ebbing, missouri

moneyball

zero dark thirty

the king’s speech

black mass

apollo 11

documentaries*

ken burns’ civil war

ken burns’ baseball

paris is burning

blackfish

free solo

the hunting ground

* please be advised, some of these documentaries cover some disturbing and distressing subjects. please engage responsibly!

superhero movies

iron man

the dark knight*

wonder woman

scott pilgrim vs the world (okay give me this one)

spider man 1, the amazing spider man, and spiderman: homecoming (all different spidermans, all great movies!

deadpool**

* tdk is really really dark, but the performances are immaculate. ** deadpool is wildly inappropriate, so don’t take the R-rating lightly! it’s so funny though. so so fucking funny.

teen favorites

10 things i hate about you

mean girls

she’s the man

easy a

heathers

70′s icons

jaws

monty python and the holy grail

butch cassidy and the sundance kid

star wars trilogy

dirty harry

80′s classics

alien (technically in ‘79 but feels like an 80′s movie)

dirty dancing

john hughes movies!! the breakfast club, st. elmo’s fire, pretty in pink, sixteen candles, some kind of wonderful

back to the future

footloose

princess bride

90′s flicks

the matrix

three men and a baby

thelma and louise

pretty woman

notting hill

a league of their own

lgbt +

our own private idaho

brokeback mountain

moonlight

philadelphia

call me by your name

love, simon

some of these movies don’t get everything right. if you do choose to engage, engage critically and let the art make you feel something.

tom hanks movies

yes he gets his own category

joe v the volcano

castaway

big

saving mr banks

movies where the government saves matt damon

the martian

saving private ryan

interstellar

jason bourne (technically he saves himself, but he’s still funded by the government)

war movies

fury

band of brothers

full metal jacket

the last full measure

war horse

1917

hacksaw ridge

westerns

django unchained

the magnificent seven

true grit

the good the bad and the ugly

a fistful of dollars

old hollywood

an affair to remember

breakfast at tiffany’s, roman holiday (audrey hepburn is an icon of the era)

any alfred hitchcock movie, but psycho and rear window are my faves

these movies don’t get everything right. they are a product of their time and often come with insensitive and unironically offensive cultural baggage. if you so choose, engage critically. you’re still allowed to enjoy the movies, just understand what’s not acceptable!

christmas movies

it’s a wonderful life

white christmas

a christmas story

the holiday

die hard (some people don’t think this is a christmas movie. i disagree.)

the family stone

a year without a santa clause

halloween movies

hocus pocus

beetlejuice

anything by tim burton - the nightmare before christmas, the corpse bride

the shining

the blair witch project

get out

cult classics

the rocky horror picture show

the room

reservoir dogs

jennifer’s body

point break

these are WAY more fun with friends - please quarantine responsibly, but it's so worth the wait to watch this with a big group of people.

#tali talks movies #anon reply #tali answers stuff

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nellie-elizabeth · 3 years

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The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: One World, One People (1x06)

Oof, okay, so I obviously enjoyed watching this, but I do have some things I would like to discuss.

Cons:

The biggest one is honestly about Isaiah. I understand that this is a superhero show, and there's some cheesiness baked into the very concept of it. I like the idea of a triumphant ending for our heroes, where amends are made and everyone is brought some measure of peace. BUT, I feel like a more nuanced, more true to reality ending here with Isaiah might have been different. Maybe he gives a tip of the hat to Sam, says he's happy he's found his peace, but he still doesn't agree with his choices. See, the thing is, some people who have been hurt by systems want that system to acknowledge its mistake, to apologize, to make amends. That's what Sam is pushing for. He believes we can do better, and all that. And that's a wonderful perspective. But other people who have been hurt by systems might not want anything to do with that system ever again. At the end, when Sam sets up the part of the museum for Isaiah, he says "now everyone will know what you did for this country," and Isaiah seemed pleased and touched by this. But I couldn't help but think... he was forced into doing those things, and then punished for doing them. If he'd decided he didn't want acknowledgment, didn't want to be linked to the idea of American heroism... I couldn't blame him for that. It might have added more nuance to the ending. Sam could have even said that it's okay if he and Isaiah don't agree on the best way forward, they still have mutual respect, or whatever.

As a white lady, maybe I'm off base. I'm just really curious at what the reaction is going to be. All through watching this show I kept saying to myself that an ending where Sam takes up the shield and becomes Captain America can't stand on its own. There's got to be nuance. There's got to be some good justification for it. And as I'll talk about in a moment, I think they've done an okay job... but I also wouldn't be surprised to find some people enormously dissatisfied with this conclusion. Steve Rogers handed the shield to Sam, yes. But should we forget what he did before handing it over? Well, he walked away from the government and was on the run because he didn't respect their choices. Just some food for thought.

I also just want to say: ????? to that ending for John Walker? It was so bizarre to see the light banter moment between him and Bucky after Walker had quoted Lincoln. Like... that felt so out of place. And now he's being made into an American agent? I don't understand that random lady's role in events. I don't know if I'm supposed to think it's sinister and creepy as fuck that John still has a uniform, and even the suggestion of authority (I do think it's creepy as fuck, for the record), or if I'm supposed to be... pleased that he got a new job? Just, tonally, the stuff with Walker in this finale was all over the place. He didn't seem to really matter, and yet he was still there, and the episode didn't seem able to reckon with his presence.

Oh, also, I can totally respect a bit of ham-fisted politic in a show like this. It's really the only way to do it. But Karli saying that Lamar didn't matter, and John saying "you think Lemar's life didn't matter?" was, perhaps, a little on the nose. I'm not sure I like the BLM mouthpiece being blond haired blue eyed John Walker, especially when Lemar's death, at least as a narrative function, only happened to allow John to get sad and angry about it. Where's his wing in the museum, huh?

Also Sharon Carter, she's my girl or whatever, but I gotta admit she was kind of boring to me in this whole series. I wanted more from her. The reveal that she was the Power Broker had me shrugging. I wanted to be more shocked, but she was so clearly telegraphed as being fishy from minute one. The fact is, we haven't had enough time with this character to figure out who she actually is as a person, yet. I don't understand her, and that's a shame.

Pros:

That was a long "cons" section, especially for an episode that kept me riveted the whole way through!

First off, the action was exciting and different and had so many classic "superhero moments" while not totally abandoning a more grounded feel. Sam holding the car up was such a Moment. Also the "that's Black Falcon!" "No, that's Captain America" moment was so cheesy but exactly the right kind of cheesy, you know? We got to see everyone being a bad-ass, crowds applauding, Sam's fantastic entrance with the new suit, the wings, the shield... damn. It was all cool in the way the best Marvel products need to be.

So, Sam taking the shield. I think it works because of his speech to the politicians. Specifically calling out the power they have, and the people they have in the room with them when they make the decisions that will affect so many people. There's this wonderful moment when one of the politicians asks a legitimate question: what about people who came back after the snap to find someone else living in their house? It's so complicated. And as the show ends, we're not given a simple answer. Sam merely points out the miracle of having everyone fighting the same fight for once. These rich and powerful people have had no idea how impossible it can be, and now they're getting a taste of that. There might just be the power of equalizing in all of this.

And most important to me? The government didn't hand Sam the shield. Sam took it and took ownership of it on his own terms. Think back to the legacy of Steve and the shield, honestly. Yes, he was given it by the government, but then he stole it when he ran away, then he gave it up, then Tony gave it back to him... it's a lot more complicated than it might first appear. Nobody's going to argue that the shield was Steve's to give, and he gave it to Sam, and Sam took it for his own. That made it work for me, as a direct contrast to the way in which John Walker got his hands on it.

Karli's death was inevitable and tragic. While I never cared all that much for her character as an individual, she worked quite well as a symbol. Sam points this out in his speech as well. Hasn't anyone stopped to wonder why people believed in this cause so much they were willing to die for it? That matters. It means something. And more will follow. I appreciate that the show ends on an ambiguous note. The people in power are still the people in power. And yes, their decision has been postponed. They've decided not to relocate people and replace the borders immediately. But what is the long-term solution? How does the world begin to heal? Well, we don't know. We don't get to see that.

If anyone got short shrift in this finale it was Bucky, but I'm honestly okay with that for a couple of reasons. One, this is Sam's show and I'm happy that it stayed that way. And two, we saw Bucky's emotional arc come to a head in last week's episode. The work isn't done, but he knows what the work is that he has to do, and we see him start to do that. He gives the journal up to his therapist. A way of letting go of his guilt, but also of saying goodbye to Steve in a way that can give him some actual closure. He confesses to his friend Yuri what really happened to his son.

And more than all of that, he shows up to hang out with Sam and his family. He brings cake. He goofs off with the kids. He hugs his friend, his partner, Sam Wilson. I can see Bucky coming to peace with some things. Coming into his own. It breaks my heart that we don't get to see more of that play out on screen. The show had to make a choice about whose story to prioritize, and in my opinion it made the right choice. This was a show about Sam's journey and Sam's decision here at the end was the capstone of that.

That scene at the end, though... the kids hanging off of Bucky's metal arm was such a poignant image for me, because this man is a killing machine, was designed to be so, but has remade himself into something else, and this moment really showcased that. Also, that gay-ass ending of Sam and Bucky looking out over the water together and then strolling away, Sam's arm around Bucky? Thank you for my life, Disney, I guess. And we got Bucky calling Sam "Cap," and his obvious admiration and pride in him for his speech... I just love them, y'all. I really do.

I wouldn't say anything about this show broke the mold or made me really excited about Marvel again. I enjoyed it, because I already liked Sam and Bucky, and I got to spend more time with them. I was nervous about how they were going to navigate certain political stickiness, and honestly I think they did... an okayish job. I could have wished for them to go even further, but they didn't take the easy way out, in my opinion.

I hope they make more of this someday. Regardless, I'm not ready to say goodbye to Sam Wilson or Bucky Barnes, so I hope we get to see Captain America and the White Wolf grace our screens again in some project or other!

8.5/10

#review #fatws #fatws review #the falcon and the winter soldier #the falcon and the winter soldier review #falcon and the winter soldier #falcon and the winter soldier review

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montagnarde1793 · 4 years

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Ribbons of Scarlet: A predictably terrible novel on the French Revolution (part 2)

In case you were wondering, that’s not actually the novel’s subtitle, which is really “A Novel of the French Revolution’s Women.” But like, only the famous ones. Ok, I’m done. Moving on...

Parts 1, 3, 4 and 5.

Structural Issues

While the choice of characters was a red flag for me (and not in a good way), choosing to structure the book the way they did was a mistake.

This is true for a number of reasons. (I’m sorry, btw, for all the comparisons to Marge Piercy’s novel, but the shared conceit kind of made it inevitable.) Piercy’s characters also only got an average of 80 pages each (though as the typeset was denser, they arguably had a little bit more space), but since the POVs were interspersed, they played off each other much more naturally and allowed the characters the time to develop. Even there it could feel underdeveloped, but here it seems like they’re rushing the undeserved character development so they have some kind of complete arc for each character before the next part starts.

Some chapters are clumsier at this than others. The absolute worst is Pauline Léon’s, which is unsurprising for a number of reasons, but notably because she has the fewest pages of anyone except Charlotte Corday, who doesn’t really get an arc: she shows up in the plot already wanting to assassinate Marat; she succeeds; she doesn’t regret her decision; she’s tried and executed. That’s it.

This choice also means that the main strength of this type of anthology goes largely untapped: namely, that we get different POVs on the same events. Since each protagonist is associated with a different period in time, we can only ever get their point of view on previous events through awkward flashbacks.

It probably also accounts for one of the worst, most artificial and amateurish aspects of the book: the way in any given section the other six point of view characters are shoehorned into the narrative, whether it makes any sense or not. The protagonists of the different sections have to have some (highly improbable) relationship with one another or be reflecting on each other’s lives in the most ham-fisted, author-soapbox way possible. We’ll circle back to that last part in a bit.

Possibly the most ludicrous example of this is Manon Roland’s inexplicable decision to take a random trip to Caen in mid to late August 1792 just so the author can have her run into Charlotte Corday. Like, do I even need to explain how little sense this makes? Apparently so. Look, first of all, going from Paris to Caen was not a trivial trip in the 18th century. Today you could make a day-trip of it and not be missed. It’s about 2 hours each way in the TGV. But in the 18th century, you’re looking at more like 2 days each way, minimum. Not the sort of trip you tend to make without an ostensible reason. Does Manon Roland have one, even as written? No, she does not. She’s going to Caen to flee the temptation of François Buzot’s advances. Which, ok, internal motivation for leaving Paris, but they don’t bother to give her a pretext. How is she going to explain to her husband her random absence of at least 4 days (not to mention the expense)? And why Caen (other than the external reason of the author’s wanting her to come across Corday)? She has no connections there. Does the author even know that the main person Manon Roland knows from the region is Buzot and that it’s therefore the last place she should flee to stop thinking about him? And she’s supposed to be a savvy politician: does she not care about the optics, as the interim Minister of the Interior’s wife, of fleeing in the opposite direction as the Austro-Prussian troops are advancing on Paris?

And I know what you’re thinking: I’m overthinking this. This wasn’t a book designed for specialists. But I think a reader can tell when a world they’re reading about doesn’t feel fully fleshed-out. In that sense, it’s less about accuracy than it is about how flat and artificial a reading experience it makes for. One of the most valuable things I was taught in school was that when making a presentation, you should always know more than you intend to say. I think the same goes for fiction: you should know more about the setting and the characters than appears on the page. In this book I consistently have the impression that the authors know less.

Moreover, the authors claim to have been striving for maximum consolidation of characters in order to reduce confusion, but it ends up coming across as both artificial and condescending. Trust your readers to be smart enough to work through their confusion. Otherwise you make it feel like there were a total of about 20 people in Paris during the Revolution, which, again, makes the setting feel completely artificial.

While I’m not sure anything but better research and writing could have salvaged it, this book would have already been 1000% better if the characters met or thought about each other only when it would actually make sense for them to do so and the narratives were interwoven.

The Authors are Desperate to Make Sure You Feel the Way They Want You to about Key Figures. They Also Think You’re Stupid

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not accusing them of supposing their readers to be ignorant about the French Revolution. You should always assume your reader to be ignorant of what you’re going to tell them. Ignorant, but intelligent. That’s the key. The problem is that the authors don’t trust their audience.

So we also get characters doing things like giving you a who’s who of the most famous (and only the most famous) authors, artists and activists of the time whether it makes sense for them to do so or not, like this is a textbook and we’ve got to make sure the reader is informed of the existence of all these figures (or maybe give them the chance to pat themselves on the back if they’ve already heard of some of them).

Or my least favorite French Revolution trope: having Robespierre ominously show up in 1789 to start plotting the “Terror” (here they have him spouting the apocryphal* quote “pity is treason” to an audience of Sophie de Grouchy, Condorcet and the Sainte-Amaranthe family sometime in May or June 1789) (p. 89).

*Presumably, it’s a corruption of declarations such as the one in his 5 November 1789 response to Louvet’s denunciation that “La sensibilité qui gémit presque exclusivement pour les ennemis de la liberté m’est suspecte.” (“I find the sensitivity that groans almost exclusively for the enemies of liberty suspect.”) or the one in his second speech on the judgment of Louis XVI of 28 December 1792: “la sensibilité qui sacrifie l’innocence au crime est une sensibilité cruelle ; la clémence qui compose avec la tyrannie est barbare” (“sensitivity that sacrifices innocence to crime is a cruel sensivity; clemency that compromises with tyranny is barbaric”).

Again, we see the same need for oversimplification. Robespierre is, as one of the authors’ notes puts it, one of the “dangerous men” (back matter, p. 18) that should have been prevented from ever having power so he’s not allowed to ever do or say anything sympathetic. (And yeah, I know, death of the author and all that, I shouldn’t count the authors’ notes, but they really only serve as explicit confirmation of what could be pretty transparently inferred from the text and this way no one can accuse me of reading things into it that aren’t there.)

Because of this, even real quotes are cited out of context to the same end: when Robespierre says “pity is treason” in 1789, Condorcet says his bit from the Chronique de Paris article from April 1792 to his wife — you know the one, about Robespierre’s being admired by women because he’s basically a cult leader (p. 90). There’s no reason to think Condorcet had any particular enmity toward Robespierre (or even that Robespierre would have been on his radar) just after the opening of the Estates-General, though certainly, contrary to what is portrayed here, Condorcet was not a democrat in 1789 and Robespierre was. But again, historical figures we’re not supposed to like must be set up early and often as stock villains — otherwise you run the risk of your readers thinking for themselves, I guess. Also the Chronique de Paris quote (which is from an unsigned article generally attributed to Condorcet) is pretty damn misogynistic, which given the book’s stated main theme, you would think would be addressed in some way, but nope!

Conversely, figures the authors like are liked by the characters — or they are at least forced to begrudgingly recognize their merit — whether it makes sense or not. One of the things Manon Roland is made to number among the things going “wrong” in August 1792 is “the hero Lafayette[’s being] forced into exile” (p. 261) and while it is the author of a different section who is a self-proclaimed La Fayette stan (thanks to Hamilton, of all things…) I think it’s fair to say from his portrayal in all the sections that we’re meant to admire him. But here’s the thing. I don’t really care what you think about La Fayette. That’s not the question. To Manon Roland in August 1792, La Fayette was a traitor who attempted to march his army against the Legislative Assembly and all her friends and allies in said Assembly voted to indict him. If you’re writing from her point of view, it should reflect that.

Likewise, they have Pauline Léon describe Olympe de Gouges like this in July of 1793: “A defender of women, of slaves, I wish I could have admired her, but having aligned herself to my enemies, I could look at her no other way.” (p. 353). Olympe de Gouges is far better known now than she ever was in her lifetime, so making sure every character has an opinion on her is, once again, pretty artificial, but even assuming Pauline Léon had heard of her, Olympe de Gouges’s brand of feminism was an elitist one that excluded women like Pauline Léon and her abolitionism went out the window when the slaves actually started to rise up, so Pauline Léon actually would have had reason to dislike her beyond the logic of ‘you’re with me or you’re my enemy’ (there is a quote where she’s made to think precisely that, but I can’t seem to find it now — or maybe it was Reine Audu; they’re characterized pretty similarly in that respect). Likewise, Pauline Léon is made to disapprove of Condorcet or the Rolands because they don’t “[get] things done,” not because of any actual ideological disagreement (p. 349).

Probably the worst bit of condescension comes once again from Manon Roland’s section, where she tells a fellow spectator in the gallery of the Convention, “‘Don’t bother trying to tell the different assemblies and conventions apart,’” which is pretty transparently just the authors directly talking (down) to the reader rather than a conversation people who were living through events (and invested enough to be attending the Convention) would plausibly have had.

If it sounds like I’m being particularly harsh on the Manon Roland section, btw, I actually think it’s one of the less poorly done, at least in terms of rendering an historical figure’s mentality, most likely because unlike for some of the other figures, we have her memoirs and correspondence. It helps that the figures she’s supposed to hate line up with the figures the authors want us to hate as well. She saw herself as a reasonable republican and her Montagnard enemies as demagogues and that’s also clearly the authors’ assessment of the situation, so there’s less of the strange cognitive dissonance you get in some of the other chapters where even what is supposedly characters’ own POV frames them as wrong.

Stay tuned for style issues and reflections on what it means to “write what you want to know”!

#en anglais #French Revolution #Révolution française

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valensfm · 4 years

Text

❛ WHAT A WICKED GAME TO PLAY .

okay so like – listen ,, i am an apogeehq stan first & human being second . that being said , hello ! i’m cc & i’m testing out valens because in theory , i like the idea of him . anyway :

( wong kunhang + twenty-one + muse 01 ) isn’t that valens lau over there? i heard he joined faction one after they got back to west ham. it’s funny, ‘cause they were only on the service trip because he helped organize the event. hopefully they fit in there – they’re virtuous, but also obstinate. oh, i’m sure they’ll be fine.

─── 𝙛𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙨

full name : valens lau

nickname(s) / alias(es) : golden boy ,

age / dob : twenty one / september 14 ‘99

hometown : west ham , kansas

current location : new ham

ethnicity : chinese ( macaunese )

nationality : american

gender : cis male

pronouns : he / him

orientation : bisexual , biromantic

religion : atheistic

faction : one

muse # : one

label : golden boy

tropes : good is not soft , i was just passing through ,

face claim : wong kun hang / hendery

language(s) spoken : english

speech : very well spoken , polite & overall charming . he’s got a way with words that makes people just want to listen to him , whether he’s talking about the clean up trip out of town or what he wants to eat for dinner . either way , he’s got a certain charm about him & it’s unknown where it comes from ( since both of his parents are , how you say , not the most well spoken people ) .

hair : dark brown – almost black , but he keeps it natural without styling it too much . it falls naturally in curls , but it’ll very quickly will straighten itself out & nobody knows how it happen . either way , he gets away with not combing it or styling it cause he sometimes looks like a prince .

eyes : big , brown puppy eyes that honestly – showcase every single emotion he has . it’s because of them that he can’t hide any of his feelings , since they really are the windows to the soul .

height : five feet , eleven inches

build : more lean than broad , but still athletic from years of playing soccer – played collegiately as well .

tattoos : none .

piercings : none .

scars : a small , barely visible scar on the pad of his right thumb .

clothing style : very boring , comfort over style , basically . he cleans up well when he has to , but prefers sweatpants ( grey , adidas , track pants ) paired with whatever shirt he grabs first in the morning . as leader , he’s tried to dress better ( i . e . khakis , button ups , whatever ) but will still often be found around town looking like the college jock who will walk you home at night .

usual expression : awestruck puppy who can’t quite believe the world he lives in . he’s endearing , with a face that tells people they can approach because he just looks like the kind of guy that’ll listen & help you out as best as he can .

distinguishing characteristics : high cheekbones , a nose that scrunches up whenever he laughs .

─── 𝙧𝙪𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨

exterior : wants to make up for everything his parents did in their lives – valens is pure good . he is sweetness & morality mixed up into a child that should’ve been wicked , but he’s looked evil in the eye , shook hands with unfortunate circumstance & still chose to be good . it’s been seen in west ham , valens helping the old women cross the street & laughing at their stories , letting them fix his hair & collars before he climbs a tree to retrieve a stubborn cat . that lau boy is good , you’ve heard before . he walks his friends home in the dark & gets his fists bloody for the underdog – the town of west ham thinks of good & they think of valens lau , golden boy who shows up early to church to help open doors & wipe down pews . a people person , has a natural gift for making everyone feel loved & special .

i . e . cool jock that’s friends with everyone , thor odinson in thor : ragnorak , good guy with a heart of gold , golden retriever but make it boy , boys will be boys but wholesome version .

interior : wrangles with a lot of pressure & weight – because he knows what’s expected of him . one slip up , & he’s just the lau boy , what everyone expected . but he’s not , he’s worked hard to shed what people think of him & embrace something else . he is good above all else , to the point that he puts everybody else before himself ( & those closest to him ) – he loses himself in making sure that everyone else is okay & taken care of , nights where he doesn’t sleep to make sure everyone has a locker dec , or days where he forgets to drink water because he’s babying his team . slow to anger or frustration , he rarely shows signs of wear & tear , opting to keep all of his negative emotions in anyway to avoid worrying everyone else .

i . e . “my people come first , everyone else before me” , self - sacrificial , dangerously loyal & moral , self sacrificial atlas – holding the weight of the world solely on his own shoulders

─── 𝙘𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙡𝙚

TRIGGER WARNINGS : tbd

the lau family lives on the outskirts of west ham – a small house that can be more considered shack than home . nobody’s around when valens is born , his cry loud enough to send a flock of ravens flying from the overgrown lawn . innocent life , baby blessed by goodness – he doesn’t know how corrupt his parents are or how hard they’ve had to fight to have the life they have . the things they’ve done & the people they’ve wronged is one long list that’s unknowingly passed down to a child that the townspeople look down on . they turn their noses up at a baby born in the dirt & expect the worst from him – if he’s anything like his parents , they’d better lock their doors & keep their purses close , the lau family is rotten – it only makes sense that their only child will be as well .

but he grows wild & good , a sunflower trapped in a field of weeds . valens comes to church on his own , arrives at school in rags & at first , the townspeople tell their children to stay away from the lau boy . but he does things that a boy like him shouldn’t do – he holds hands with the new widow her first sunday back at church , he wipes her tears & lets her hold him . he dives into the street to pull back a wandering toddler , saving her life & disappearing before her parents can thank him . they know he’s hungry , but gives the sandwich he got from wiping down counters at the diner to the old man who lost his son . valens is good – the whispers start , but he is blind to them as he is blind to parents who steal for dinner .

eventually , school gets easy for him . his teacher gets him into soccer & pays all his fees so he can play with the other boys , & he has his first kiss in third grade with a girl who sits next to him during reading . valens gains popularity simply for being good – he’s friends with everyone , the richest , the poorest , nobody ever sits alone if he’s there . for some reason , people tend to like that on him , but he doesn’t do it because he wants people to like him , he does it because he knows what it’s like – going hungry , sitting alone , everyone’s eyes on him for something he didn’t do . what a shitty feeling , he hopes nobody else has to suffer the way he has .

a full ride to west ham on a soccer scholarship , valens makes sure to thank his second grade teacher for getting him in in the first place . by the time he’s eighteen , he’s the golden boy around town , known for working in the greenhouses & bringing flowers to the elderly women who sit in the square on saturday mornings . the lau boy is different from his parents – he’s kind & good ; the kind of boy people wish their daughters would marry & the good kind of hero that is humble enough to deny the accusations .

he wins sga president for his senior year , thanks to both his charm & influence on the student body . college has been a ride for him as he shoulders all the weight on his shoulders to pretend that everything is peachy , ignoring any cracks that might be starting to form in his perfect marble form . he organizes the trip , invites as many people as he can & expects it to go business as usual , only for things to of course go horribly wrong .

people look to him for leadership , as they should – he’s the only one around who technically ran for president & won , but it’s barely starting & he can feel the cracks starting to get bigger . there’s a lot of concern that he has in his heart for everyone , not just the people who’ve fallen under his command . at the end of the day , valens want everyone alive , happy & thriving & he’ll do almost anything to ensure it .

#apogeeintro #anyway

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quinnybee-writes · 4 years

Text

Title: Fire Meet Gasoline

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia

Rating: T+

Part: 4/?

Story Summary: A chance encounter between a villain and vigilante leads to an unwise deal made between unlikely allies; an unwise deal made between unlikely allies ends in a final stand neither would have ever dared to take on alone. Together, though, they just might have a fighting chance.

Part 4 Summary: Purposefully misconstrued dating advice leads to a deal being struck between the villain and the vigilante.

Part 1 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 2 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 3 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 4 on AO3

Three days later and Aizawa had yet to make contact. Hizashi frowned to himself, watching the dark subway walls speed past the train’s window. He kept having to remind himself to not pick at the cork stoppering the bottle of wine in his lap but his hands grew fiddly and nervous when his mind wandered too far back towards the vigilante’s radio silence. What was the reason behind it? Was he trying to force Hizashi into contacting him instead as some kind of lazy entrapment attempt? Hizashi couldn’t bring himself to believe that. Aizawa was a lot of things but half-assed wasn’t one of them. If he wanted to get to Hizashi he would make sure he did so in the middle of something he could use to nail Hizashi to the wall. If he followed that thought to the logical end, however, Aizawa protecting him made even less sense; it would have been the perfect opportunity to drag Hizashi to the cops by the collar like a self-satisfied house cat bringing its owner a dead pigeon. Why would someone so careful in everything otherwise make such a glaring error and then spend three silent days failing to do anything about it? Aizawa was a mystery of motivation; every time Hizashi thought he’d gotten a handle on the type of person he was, something new came along to prove him wrong. Hizashi grimaced and shook himself mentally as the train slowed at his stop, tugging his thumbnail out of the rut he had carved into the top of the cork. He’d been chasing himself in circles all week, and now wasn’t the time to throw himself back into the spiral.

Standing in front of the apartment door, Hizashi took a minute to center himself with a deep breath and fixed his expression into a relaxed-ish smile before knocking. The chatter of conversation on the other side quieted as footsteps approached. There was a short pause, then the door swung wide to reveal his mother’s elated face.

“Hizashi!” she exclaimed. Before he could return the greeting, her expression fell into one of shocked concern. “Oh my god, what happened to you?”

“Mm? Oh, this,” Hizashi said with a forced chuckle. He cleared his throat and tried to sound nonchalant about his half-healed double black eye and two-inch headwound as he rattled off the cover story he’d been practicing for this moment. “I, uh, tripped over a couple of trash bags behind the studio, ended up clocking myself on a dumpster,” he said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “Real graceful, huh?”

“Heavens,” his mother said as she ushered him inside. “You went to the ER and got checked out, right? Head injuries like that can turn nasty out of nowhere.”

“Yeah, Ma, I took care of it,” Hizashi said, giving her an appreciative kiss on the cheek. “Didn’t really have a choice, actually, the night delivery guy found me out cold in the alley and called an ambulance. I think I might have traumatized the poor guy.”

“With a face like that how could you not?” Haru teased as Hizashi came into the kitchen to set down the wine. She took the bottle from him before giving him a quick, tight hug. “Good to see you, Zash.”

“You’re heartless but I love you anyway,” Hizashi replied, squeezing her back.

“Whatever, we both know I’m the cute one,” Haru said. She pulled back and gently prodded him in the chest with her ladle. “Now go mingle, I’ve got a curry to keep from burning.”

“Yes’m,” Hizashi said with a salute.

“If it isn’t everyone’s favorite problem child back from the dead!” Hizashi’s sibling Hoshi said in mock surprise as Hizashi dropped into one of the empty living room chairs. “It’s lucky you showed up, Zash, Hitoshi and I were about to ro-sham-bo for who gets your cat.”

Hizashi turned a grin on his nephew, who was perched on the arm of the sofa next to his mothers. “If you can get Ai-chan to leave the apartment with all your limbs intact, you’re welcome to her, Shortstack,” he said.

“Don’t you even think about it, Hitoshi Shinsou,” his mother Mara said, nudging her son in the leg to reclaim his attention from the video he was watching on his phone. “If I wanted a pet chainsaw, I’d live in a hardware store.”

Hitoshi snorted. “Don’t worry, Mama, I’d rather step on a beartrap than make that cat do anything. Baji can have her,” he replied, punctuating with a “have at it” gesture to Hoshi.

“Yes!” Hoshi said, pumping their fist in the air. “Dibs on the attack gremlin maintained!”

“Are we just ignoring the fact that I’m not actually dead, or…?” Hizashi asked, crossing his arms and trying not to smile as he arched an eyebrow at his sibling.

“I mean, at this point we kind of have to,” his sister Hinako said from the other side of her wife. “Mara and I claimed your TV and that fancy toaster oven Mom and Dad got you for Christmas last year, Haruko gets your new laptop and router, and Hiro beat everyone else out in the tournament for your apartment lease. Ai-chan was the last thing we had to divvy up.”

“You guys are the absolute worst,” Hizashi said, trying and failing to keep a straight face as he said it. “I take time out of my busy schedule of being attacked by trash bags and getting bullied by my cat and this is the thanks I get?”

“Truly, we aren’t worthy,” Haru said from behind him, ruffling his hair. “Time to set the table, busy boy, Mom said Dad’s almost home.”

Dinner with his family was like finally being allowed to exhale after months of holding his breath. Deep down he’d known having to isolate himself from them to prevent them from getting wrapped up in things had weighed on him, but the full extent of it didn’t hit him until here and now. It took less time than Hizashi had expected to get back into the flow of the family conversation, a chaotic blend of speech, signing, and the kind of sweeping gestures that came from being raised by an opera singer and a very emphatic law professor. The constant sting of edginess that kept him from ever really relaxing melted away to nothing, no match for the rapid-fire retellings of weird life moments and accompanying bouts of breathless laughter from around the table.

“Speaking of tired,” his father said, bouncing off the tail end of a story Hiro had told about a toddler at his daycare center who had somehow gifted three other children and one of his coworkers with a combination of chicken pox and flu, “you’re looking a little wilted, Shortstack. High school applications getting to you?”

“Actually, Hitoshi has some news about that he was going to share tonight,” Hinako said. She beamed over at her son, giving him an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder. Hitoshi cleared his throat, the look of someone who had hoped they weren’t going to have to talk in front of people written plain on his face. Hizashi gave a sympathetic wince; growing up as an introvert in a family full of dramatic hams and public speakers had to be a lot to handle when the spotlight was suddenly on you.

“I decided to take the UA High entrance exam,” Hitoshi said, managing a small smile in spite of himself.

Despite his sympathy a moment earlier, Hizashi couldn’t help joining in the excited uproar from around the table that followed Hitoshi’s announcement. “Hell yeah, dude!” he crowed. “Carrying on the family tradition!”

“Does it really count as a tradition if only one of us made it in?” Hiro asked. He seemed to realize how the question had sounded a moment later as Hoshi elbowed him in the side. A strained flicker of sideways glances at HIzashi followed. Hizashi just grinned despite the sudden jolt the words had sent through the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t be such a wet blanket, Hiro,” Hizashi said, shaking his head. “If people are allowed to call things ‘first annual’ then Haru has every right to be a family tradition all by herself.”

“Aww, thanks, Zash,” Haru said, reaching across the table to pinch his cheek. Hizashi swatted her hand away with a snort.

“You went to UA, Aunt Haru?” Hitoshi asked, sounding surprised. Haru preened.

“Sure did! Three years strong in the A-class Hero Course, graduated seventh in my class. Not high enough to get snapped up by one of the famous agencies, but good enough for some solid sidekick gigs,” Haru said.

“That’s right, you’ve been doing temporary assignments at a bunch of agencies, haven’t you? How’s that going?” their mother asked quickly. Everyone seemed eager to sidestep the pit of discomfort Hiro had accidentally opened up, especially Hiro. As everyone’s attention turned to Haru’s newest temp assignment at Loud Cloud’s agency Hiro caught Hizashi’s eye and mouthed “dude, sorry”, grimacing at himself. Hizashi shook his head and signed “no worries” back. The words still burned in his gut, but Hizashi did his best to ignore it and listen to Haru’s story.

Too soon for his liking, Hizashi hit his soft out time, his middle out time, and finally his hard out before the trains stopped running and he’d have to take an overpriced cab home. He said his goodbyes, promising without much hope that it wouldn’t be this long before he saw them all again. As he was putting on his shoes, Haru threw her coat over her shoulders and offered to walk him to the station to make sure he got there okay. Not about to turn down a lingering moment of normalcy before he had to go back to being himself in the morning, he accepted.

“Hey. You okay?” Haru said as they headed up the sidewalk.

“Mm? Yeah, why?” Hizashi said. Haru gave him a Look and Hizashi relented. “I mean, he wasn’t wrong,” he said grudgingly.

“Being right isn’t the same as not being a dick,” Haru pointed out. Hizashi waved a hand as if wafting away the accusation.

“Honestly, Haru, it’s not a big deal. Some of us grow up to be heroes--” Hizashi said, gesturing to Haru-- “and some of us have to make do being the family disappointment,” he finished, gesturing back at himself. “It’s the circle of life.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Haru snapped, surprising him with the sternness in her voice. “You aren’t a disappointment to anyone. Especially me. All right?”

Hizashi smiled at her, shoulders relaxing back out of the sarcastic hunch they had started to reflexively tighten into. “Yeah. Thanks, Haru.”

Haru nodded authoritatively. “So. On to other things, namely this dashing, courageous night delivery guy you mentioned,” she went on, a sly smile creeping over her face. Hizashi tried to ignore the way his face immediately heated up at the implication in her tone.

“What about him?” he asked, amused in spite of himself at the word “dashing” being used for the scruffy, monotone Aizawa.

“I mean, he was gallant enough to come swooping in to your rescue to save you from your own klutziness,” Haru said. “Seems like something you’d want to repay with some kind of favor, don’tcha think? Like one that starts with ‘thank you’ and ends with ‘drinks after work, my treat’?”

Hizashi scoffed, about to blurt out that under no circumstances whatsoever was something like that going to be on the table, but the word “favor” sparked off a half-formed idea in his head. Repaying favors with favors was practically his side business, after all. There might be something in that, though far from the path Haru’s mind seemed to be going down. “You might be on to something there,” he conceded. “I’ll let you know if it works.”

“Make me your best man at the wedding and we’ll call it even,” Haru teased, holding the station door open for him. “Text me when you get back to your place, okay? There’s some bad shit going around right now.”

“Will do. Thanks again, Haru.”

“Just doing my job.” Haru gave him another quick hug-and-hair-ruffling before bidding him goodnight.

Hizashi lay in bed with a very disgruntled Ai-chan snoozing on his chest, burning his eyes with the light from his phone screen. The more he considered what Haru had said, the more the idea appealed to him. The only roadblock now was Aizawa and his apparent determination to freeze Hizashi out. Still, there was more than one way to catch a delivery man, Hizashi thought as he double-checked the station’s equipment budget for this quarter and opened their online supplier in a new browser tab.

It seemed like in aside from “multi-platinum criminal mastermind” and “epicenter of most of the trouble in his life right now”, Shouta could add “compulsive online shopper” to the list of traits Hizashi Yamada was using to intrude on his day-to-day life.

Shouta had done his best to put the confused night he’d helped Yamada avoid arrest out of his mind, ignoring the paper bag of Yamada’s belongings where he’d stuffed it into the back of his closet and getting back to his life. At first Shouta had thought Yamada had either been doing the same, or at the very least avoiding stirring things up while the dust was still settling. Yamada hadn’t made any kind of contact and was keeping quiet about his misadventures in his public life as far as Shouta could tell from the bits and pieces of Yamada’s show he’d caught while on patrol. Instead, however, Yamada appeared to have been just saving up energy for the marathon of attention-seeking he had planned. Nearly every day Asahi Radio was one of his scheduled stops with some new item listed as needing delivered to HIzashi Yamada, signature required. Shouta managed to very calmly beg a few of his coworkers to switch routes with him for the day, making sure to ask the ones with longer routes who would be more than willing to switch him for a shorter day for the same pay. After several days of running unfamiliar routes and going through every willing coworker he had, however, he found himself railroaded back into taking his route back by a politely-worded “friendly reminder” from his supervisor about making sure to get his own work done. Shouta checked his delivery manifest, saying a short, silent prayer to not see what he knew he was going to see down at the bottom: Asahi Radio, three kilogram package for Hizashi Yamada, signature required on delivery. He gritted his teeth, throwing himself into the front seat of his truck and slamming the door behind him. Today was going to be a very long week.

As soon as Chiyaki saw Shouta shuffling through the front door with the box tucked under his arm, they were already hitting Yamada’s extension on their phone. “You got another one, boss,” they said, waving Shouta inside.

“On my way,” Yamada’s voice replied. Shouta was darkly pleased to hear that he sounded almost defeated when he said it, like the week of not getting what he wanted was starting to grate on him as much as his pestering was grating on Shouta. Yamada came slouching out from the back room of the studio. He didn’t look much better than the last time Shouta had seen him; the bruising around his eyes had faded from midnight purple to a sickly pond scum grey-yellow-green and the gash on his forehead seemed to be healing well, but he held neck and upper body stiffly like he was trying very hard not to move too quickly and risk wrenching something. Despite this, his whole posture straightened as he saw that it was Shouta making the delivery today. Shouta sighed internally as Yamada swaggered up to him with a suspiciously cheerful grin.

“Haven’t seen too much of you around here lately,” Yamada said, the barest note of challenge to his tone. Shouta gave him the flattest, most disinterested look he could manage in return.

“We’ve been moving people around,” he said, handing Yamada the clipboard. “Sign here, please.”

“Right, right,” Yamada said. He stamped the bottom of the delivery slip and made to claim is carbon copy. As he started pulling the perforation, he paused as if he’d just thought of something. “Are you allowed to pick up something since you’re already here, or do I have to call in for that?” Yamada asked.

“I can take it for processing if it’s properly addressed, but they’ll charge your account after the fact for the delivery costs. And since it’s Friday it probably won’t get delivered until Monday,” Shouta said. It was technically against policy do it things that way, but a little bit of policy finagling was worth cutting this conversation as short as he could.

“Oh, that’s fine, it’s nothing urgent. Just something I owe a colleague of mine,” Yamada said. “It should still be in the outbox, Chii,” he added, turning to Chiyaki and pointing to a pair of mail trays behind their desk. Shouta collected the envelope from Chiyaki and tucked it under his arm, reclaiming the clipboard from Yamada as well.

“Thanks for your patronage,” Shouta said, already turning and heading towards the door. He tossed the envelope into an empty bin in the back of his truck and was mostly successful in putting it out of his mind.

“Aizawa!”

Shouta halted on the threshold of the employee entrance at the sound of a voice behind him. He sighed, wondering what new impediment was about to be added to his day. When he turned around, however, he was surprised to find Takeshiro, one of the night crew in package processing, approaching him with an envelope clipped to a clipboard.

“Something I can help you with?” Aizawa asked warily. Takeshiro held the clipboard out to him.

“Found somethin’ for you in one of the bins,” Takeshiro replied. “Figured you could sign for it now. No point sendin’ someone all the way uptown for someone who works here, y’know?”

He wasn’t wrong, Shouta supposed, though it seemed strange that someone would be sending him something through the company he worked for. If they knew him well enough to send him things he would have assumed they knew to just use the postal service and save themselves the handling fees.. He set his bag down, having to dig through a few different pockets before he found his spare stamp. Takeshiro watched him with disinterest bordering on impatience. Shouta signed for the envelope and barely had time to tear off his copy of the form before Takeshiro reclaimed the clipboard and bid him a perfunctory good night. Shouta watched him go, eyebrow raised, then shrugged. He would have considered himself a man of few words, but Takeshiro was about as talkative as a tree stump.

Turning back to the envelope, Shouta was somewhat unsurprised to recognize it; the envelope Yamada had gotten him to take for processing earlier that day. Shouta grimaced at the thought that Yamada considered him in any way a “colleague”. The envelope itself was heavier than he would have expected for its size and rattled when he turned it over in his hands. The noise was not encouraging. Shouta slid the envelope into his bag, careful not to jostle it too much as he made his way back to his apartment.

Once there, Shouta dug a filtration mask, a pair of thick leather gloves, and a long-handled pair of chemistry tongs out of the jumble of spare parts and unused equipment in his linen cabinet. It would be somewhat out of character for Yamada to resort to some kind of long-distance assassination via courier package but Shouta wasn’t in the business of being careless around villains. He knelt on his entryway floor, envelope in front of him. Using the tongs he grasped the tab of the envelope and pulled it open. Nothing happened, which was equal parts a relief and suspicious. He took the bottom corner of the envelope between two fingers and pulled the edge of the opening wider with the tongs, sliding the contents of the envelope out onto the floor.

A zip-top sandwich bag full of cash clattered out, landing with a metallic splat. Holding the envelope at arms’s length Shouta peeked inside and saw something square and yellow stuck to the inside; pulling it out revealed a pair of yellow sticky notes stapled together at the top corner that appeared to have been shaken off of the sandwich bag in transit. The note on top read “they took a stupid route and overcharged you”. Dumping out the sandwich bag, Shouta found it contained five thousand, one hundred sixty-nine yen in small bills and change; rounded up, the fare from the hospital to Yamada’s apartment building. A roundabout way of deciding to repay him, Shouta thought, but it showed more discretion that he’d honestly expected out of Yamada. Flipping to the second note, he saw it was an address and a small but detailed hand-drawn map from his apartment to the destination and a meeting time of 8:30pm, signed off with Yamada’s stylized M signature. One step forward, two steps back, Shouta thought as he pulled the respirator mask off with a sigh. The invitation wasn’t a binding agreement, but Yamada had already proved he was willing to go utterly over the top to force Shouta into an interaction. Either Shouta bit the bullet and went now, or he had at least another week of near-constant deliveries to look forward to. At least this way he could return Yamada’s things and not have to look at the accusatory paper bag every time he went to get dressed in the morning. One look at the clock told him he was already destined to be late, but Shouta didn’t bother rushing as he collected the bag and kicked on his shoes to head out again. Whether Yamada waited to see if he was coming or stood him up was the other man’s prerogative.

The address was for a small bistro-style cafe with a rooftop veranda that overlooked the sidewalk. Yamada was hovering beside the door with his phone in his hand, pretending to be engrossed in whatever was on the screen but keeping a sharp eye on passersby. He looked like he had come straight from work, still dressed in the same clothes Shouta had seen him in earlier with a leather laptop bag over one shoulder. The smile he gave Shouta as he approached was as close to genuinely friendly as Shouta had ever seen from him.

“I already got us a table,” Yamada said, nodding to one of the tables on the veranda. He motioned for Shouta to follow him into the restaurant and up a claustrophobically narrow set of stairs next to the door to the kitchen. The two of them sat across from one another at the table, a tension settling between them as soon as they did. Shouta ordered a black coffee without looking at the menu and Yamada requested the server come back in a few minutes to give him time to look things over.

“I’ve never actually been here before,” Yamada admitted when the server left. “I saw it when I was walking home the other day and it struck me as a good place to get some privacy, you know?”

“Hn,” Shouta replied. The veranda was abandoned other than the two of them, with only the tiny staircase or vaulting the safety rail as viable exits. A quiet laugh from Yamada interrupted Shouta’s train of thought. He looked over to see Yamada trying to hide a smirk behind his hand.

“You do that too?” Yamada asked.

“Do what?”

“Tally up every escape route the second you get into a place,” Yamada said. “Hopping the railing wouldn’t be my first choice, but you seemed to be staring at it pretty hard. Bored with me already?”

Shouta scowled at him, trying to ignore the heat in his cheeks at being called out. Instead of answering, he grabbed the paper bag and set it on the table in front of Yamada. Yamada looked at it, then up at Shouta with his head cocked to the side. “I would have returned it sooner, but things came up,” Shouta said, only lying slightly. Things had come up, they were just mostly intangible things like the unmistakable feeling that he didn’t want to see Yamada. Bemused by the roundabout explanation, Yamada unrolled the top of the bag and looked inside. He paused, seeming taken aback when he saw what the bag held.

“So you’re the one who made off with all of this,” Yamada said, not quite managing to keep the surprise out of his voice. He pawed through the bag’s contents and pulled out the tangle of wires and audio parts Shouta had yanked from around his neck.

“I...may have broken that,” Shouta admitted grudgingly. “Sorry. There wasn’t a lot of time.”

Yamada looked it over, running it through his fingers like a jeweler inspecting a string of pearls, then shook his head. “It doesn’t look like it. I worked some break points into it when I built it, like those elastic loops they put in cat collars so they don’t strangle themselves.” He shrugged. “Might be time for an upgrade anyway.” He seemed to catch himself lapsing into thought and shook out of it, holding the handful of assorted technology up like Shouta was supposed to have any idea what he was looking at. “It’s a vocal directional focus,” Yamada explained. “Depending on the combination of switches I use, it activates the speakers to give me a little boost in sending my voice where I want it to go. The only downside is smaller parts burn out twice as fast, and that’s if you’re using them for what they’re meant to do. You can only fight obsolescence for so long.” He shrugged again, setting the gear aside to continue poking through the bag.

Yamada picked up his mask, making a face at the jagged crack across the brow, then his jacket. He inspected the jacket even more closely than he’d looked at his gear, clicking his tongue in annoyance and running his thumb over some deep scuffs on the lapels and sleeves. “A little polish and she’ll be good as new,” he muttered, more to himself than Shouta. As he moved it to the side, something fell out of the pocket and clattered onto the table. Yamada picked it up. “Is this yours?” Yamada asked, holding up a small matte black USB drive between finger and thumb.

“No,” Shouta said, shaking his head. He had quite a few storage drives, but he kept them in a secure pocket elsewhere in his bag from where he’d stowed Yamada’s things.

“Huh.” Yamada looked it over, but from what Shouta could see there didn’t seem to be any kind of label on it. “Do you mind?” Yamada asked, pulling his laptop case up onto the table. Shouta shrugged. Personally he thought the mystery flash drive could wait until Yamada was done with whatever he had called him here for, but Yamada had already packed away his other belonging and was halfway into booting up his computer heedless of Shouta’s waning patience. Yamada’s eyebrows furrowed closer and closer together and he scrolled through the drive’s contents, occasionally making small “hmm”s or “huh”s.

After one especially scathing noise of curiosity, Shouta lost the last of his composure and half-snapped, “Something interesting?”

Yamada blinked, seeming to come back to himself but not looking away from the computer screen. “Possibly,” he said, sounding like he was more thinking out loud than anything. “Looks like the two you chased off were trying to do a little bit of revisionist evidence-planting. Some of these transcripts are mine, but some of them are definitely not. They are very interesting, though. If the night had gone a little differently those two would’ve had a nice feather in their cap.” Saying that seemed to jog him fully back to the present. “Anyway,” he said, pulling the drive out of his laptop and stowing both back in the case. “That actually brings me to what I actually wanted to talk to you about.”

“Which is?” Shouta asked. He couldn’t help feeling relieved that they had finally gotten to the point of this tiresome meeting.

“I wanted to thank you,” Yamada said. His expression was as close to serious as Shouta had seen from him and his voice lacked any of the attention-seeking cheeriness or slick smarm he usually used. “You stuck your neck out for me when you didn’t have to, and things would have broken pretty bad for me if you hadn’t been there.”

“Er. You’re welcome,” Shouta said. The words felt very awkward in his mouth. The corner of Yamada’s mouth flickered up into an almost-smile but it was gone again a moment later.

“That’s only half of why I asked you to meet me, if I’m honest,” Yamada continued. Shouta frowned, a sinking feeling settling into his gut. Of course there was a catch, he thought irritably. When he didn’t respond, Yamada went on without him. “Since I owe you for saving my skin, I want to offer you a deal. It’s something I think will solve this stalemate we keep finding ourselves in,” Yamada said. He was back in his element, posture too languid and his voice picking up a calculating breeziness. The return to status quo wasn’t completely unexpected but was completely unwelcome.

Shouta waited for Yamada to keep talking, but Yamada seemed to be waiting for him to make the next move. Gritting his teeth, Shouta asked, “What kind of deal?”

Yamada’s renewed grin widened at the acquiescence. “It’s nothing too complicated,” he said. He held up a hand, long fingers spread. “The deal is ‘first to five wins.’ Each of us gets to ask the other five favors, no strings attached, no questions asked. The first one to use up all five has to willingly turn themself over to the authorities and never breathe a word about what they know about the other.”

Shouta stared at him, taken aback. He’d expected something sneaky that would keep the scales tipped in Yamada’s favor, but turning the situation into some inane rivalry game was a twist he hadn’t seen coming. As far as he could tell, Yamada was completely serious about the suggestion; he seemed proud of both the idea and the reaction it had gotten out of Shouta.

“You said no questions asked. You mean, no matter what the favor is, we’re required to do it because we agreed to the deal?” Shouta asked. Yamada nodded. “So what’s stopping one of us from saying, ‘do me a favor and go turn yourself at the nearest police station and pretend you never met me’?”

Yamada frowned. “Nothing, I guess, other than a sense of fair play,” he said coolly. “Deals like this require a certain level of trust to work.”

Shouta snorted. “What makes you think I trust you?”

“There has to be some reason for a guy like you to lie to the police and withhold evidence, then let the only other person who knows the truth walk away from you,” Yamada said, shrugging one shoulder.

He had a point, much to Shouta’s annoyance. His choice to let Yamada go that night and then do everything he could to not see him until now was more one of exhaustion mixed with avoidance, but not once in the midst of it had it occurred to him that he might have to worry about Yamada turning him in to the police. He must have been silent long enough that Yamada could sense him coming around to the idea, as Yamada’s grin returned in all its toothy, rankling glory.

“So, is that a yes?” Five strikes for each of us. Well,” he corrected himself, “five and four. I’m guessing I’ve probably already burned one free pass at your good will.”

Shouta shook his head. “No,” he said. “If this is to level the playing field, it’s going to be level. Five for each of us, like you said. What happened before was a...lapse in judgement,” he finished, scowling at himself. His moment of ill-advised altruism had officially overstayed its welcome.

“To lapses in judgement,” Yamada said, extending a hand across the table. Shouta shook hands with him, hating the finality of it. With the rules as they were set out, all Shouta had to do to win this ridiculous bet was hold off on asking Yamada for anything other than some peace and quiet and wait for Yamada to burn himself out. It was too simple of a solution for Yamada to have not thought of it before he offered the deal, and Shouta had a sneaking suspicion that they would end up clashing at the finish line anyway. For right now, though, it seemed like playing along might be his best option.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #villain!mic #vigilante!aizawa #shouta aizawa #hizashi yamada #Erasermic #bnha #mha #Fire Meet Gasoline AU #Quinny thinks she's a writer

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write-it-motherfuckers · 5 years

Text

Last Day to Live

Today was the day. My last day on earth. I’ll never eat another ham sandwich or wander the streets of the city at night. Today I’ll be ‘paying for my crimes’ which, by the way, most of them I didn’t commit. Gah. I hate the feeling of Death looming over you.

"Ayo, Death,“ I call, lying back on the bed of my cell. "Any possible way you could stop with your ominous looming for just a sec?”

"Uh….“ Death appears, floating around the fluorescent light bulb hanging from the ceiling. "No? It’s kinda my job?”

I chuckle. “Oh come on. We all know that you just love to hang out with me.”

He scratches his head. “Yea, well, I only come to visit you on my off days. Besides, this time it’s actually your turn.”

I sigh and close my eyes, tucking my hands under my head. “Yea, yea, I know. By the way, I had another weird dream last night.”

"Those aren’t uncommon to have before you die. And stop talking to me! The guards are looking at you like you’re crazy.“

I stick my tongue out at them. "They already think I’m crazy, along with everyone else.”

"I see,“ he sighs. "Hm? What’s this? A guest?”

I pretend to sleep, lifting my eyelids just enough to see his royal crappiness slap a fist onto the reinforced glass. I pretend to be shocked into wakefulness as Death skitters out of sight into some other dimension.

I sit up, pretending to still be sleepy. “Why hello Ezra. I didn’t see you there. How are you today?”

He flashes his best (albeit fake) smile. “I’m doing just fine, no thanks to you.”

I saunter up to the glass. “You know who wouldn’t be doing fine without me? Your sister.”

"All Jen was doing was finishing cleaning up outside of her shop when you attacked her and shoved her to the ground. Then you pulled a gun on her.“

"Your sister was lying on the ground, terrified. There’s no way she would have survived if I hadn’t been there to distract the Crow. ”

He exhales in annoyance. “I don’t know Emily. Maybe my mother would still be alive if you stopped pretending about these monsters?”

"Oh, so you’re blaming me for her death now?“ I stay calm, knowing that getting angry will only result in more trouble.

"This was the last straw for you. Breaking into a jewellery store? Murdering my mother? Assaulting my sister? You seriously think that the government will just let you off the hook for this?”

I sit down on my bed, continuing to look at him. “My crimes aren’t the dilemma in this situation. The problem is that the entirety of humanity is oblivious to a predicament that has been allowed to fester for generations.”

Just as Ezra is about to respond, Simon walks in, that infernal smile plastered onto his face. The guards salute as he waves them away. After all, he is the president of the entire city and holds a great deal of power politically.

"Hello, Emily. Having a nice conversation, are we? Your murder of my wife, Lydia, has caused your family a great deal of trouble.“

I throw that fake smile right back at him, showing all of my teeth.” If I were to kill anyone, it would be you, Simon.“ His subtle jab at the fact that I don’t have enough of a family to be involved in these legal matters doesn’t go unnoticed, but I add it to the list of things I want to send a bullet into his brain for.

"Naturally.” He pulls out a tablet. “Now, your execution is scheduled for exactly thirteen minutes from now, so let’s discuss what exactly will be happening. But before that, some news.”

"Oh? Do enlighten me.“

A sense of dread fills me as he turns to his son. "Ezra, the chip.” He inserts it into the tablet, and a holographic image of Damian’s bloody body is projected into the air. “I’m afraid your fiancee was involved in an accident. He was intoxicated at the time, and nothing could have been done.”

I sigh shakily as tears burn at the edges of my vision. Internally, I scream at the injustice of it all but I keep up my facade. “Wonderful. Now, do tell me about this speech I’m apparently giving.” My finger taps at my side, and I fight the urge to cry. Damian was one of the few people who actually believed my outside of my mother.

"You are permitted a final speech before your execution. You have about 5 minutes.“

"Alright then. That’s that. Now, when do we leave?”

Simon stands up. “We’ll leave you alone for your last 7 minutes. Ezra?” Simon walks out of the prison block, shaking his head. Ezra follows.

I walk back and collapse on the bed, my hands covering my face. “Hey, Death?”

He materializes beside the bed, suddenly looking very ominous with his scythe and black hood. “Yea?”

"Does it hurt to die?“

"I wouldn’t know. It’s fast enough. You’ll know when it’s time.”

"Okay.“

I hate it. I hate the feeling of knowing I can’t do anything. I’m scared. I’m terrified of dying. I’m only 18. I was supposed to have my whole life ahead of me. Now I’m heading to my death before I could even say goodbye.

Three agonizing minutes later, the guards open the door to my cell and handcuff me. They lead me out onto a stage with a single microphone. The guards release me but keep the handcuffs on. I don’t react. It’s best not to. I walk up the stairs and pick up the mic, my palms sweaty.

"Um. Hi.” The crowd boos. “Okay, okay, I know you all hate me. I’m that insane girl who sees monsters that don’t exist. I know.” I take a deep breath. “But I’m not lying. These monsters are real. I wish there was some way I could get you to believe me, because I think you all deserve to live, no matter what you’ve said or done. This city still has the opportunity to survive these attacks. And you can pretend to be oblivious to this all you want, but it won’t change-”

A crash sounds from above me, and the holographic shield that was protecting the execution arena shatters, raining down on the crowd. Only one person has the technological and physical skill to take down a shield of that magnitude. My mother, Fay, jumps out of the hover-bike she apparently made, her long red hair swishing in a braid at her back. The hover-bike immediately explodes into flame, and she runs towards me. The scar over her eye doesn’t hinder her deadly accuracy in shooting at the guards who are already firing at her back.

"What are you doing here?!“ I shout, sticking out my hands so she can break the cuffs around them.

She grins. "I’m obviously rescuing you.”

I gesture to the ruined hover-bike. “Using that?”

"There were some miscalculations. Just run!“ She tosses my custom revolvers to me.

We dash into the prison block. "Well, how do you intend to get us out? This prison block is, well, a prison block, and prisons are generally reasonably hard to break out of.”

"Never fear, for your mommy dear has a plan.“

"Just tell me your plan please.” I fire a few shots behind me as more guards start marshalling. “And hurry it up. There’s no way we can hold them all off.”

"I’ve been doing research on this place. There’s a staff entrance at the coffee shop near here.“ I stare at her. She shrugs. "What can I say? People love their coffee.”

"Whatever. Let’s just find the exit.“

Submitted by @wickedwildunicorn

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downstvged · 5 years

Text

s u r v e y : p e y t o n p e l l e g r i n o.

what’s this? there’s something paper clipped to the page... a stick of juicy fruit. how thoughtful.

basic information

FULL NAME: jamie claverton peyton pellegrino PRONUNCIATION: PAY-ton pell-eh-GREEN-oh MEANING: noble, royal REASONING: his kidnapper father said he always looked like a peyton. strong, wise, dignified. NICKNAME(S): pey, pellegrino, pillsbury ( monty ), sparkles ( tess ), etc. PREFERRED NAME(S): peyton BIRTH DATE: july 24, 2000 AGE: 18 ZODIAC: leo GENDER: cismale PRONOUNS: he/him ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: heteroromantic SEXUAL ORIENTATION: heterosexual NATIONALITY: american. ETHNICITY: italian-american. his father’s got pellegrino pride.

background

BIRTH PLACE: milton, delaware HOMETOWN: milton, delaware. his dad said he was born in ohio. everyone thinks he’s from cali, when they meet him. SOCIAL CLASS: upper-middle. FATHER: presley claverton. matthew pellegrino. fire chief. 52. west ham’s most eligible and charming single father. and peyton’s best friend. faceclaim. MOTHER: theresa claverton. francesca milluzzo. peyton never knew her. his dad said she deserted them shortly before his first birthday. SIBLING(S): none. BIRTH ORDER: first of three. the clavertons needed to fill the void. first and only. PET(S): none. but he adores anything fluffy. OTHER IMPORTANT RELATIVES: n/a PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS: n/a. he’s always been too scared of his own shadow to ask a girl out. ARRESTS?: squeaky clean. PRISON TIME?: not unless you count double-shifts delivering pizzas.

occupation & income

SOURCE OF INCOME: works part-time as a pizza delivery boy at one of west ham’s most beloved pizza joints. CONTENT WITH THEIR JOB (OR LACK THERE OF)?: very content, usually! people tip well and peyton enjoys the small talk. PAST JOB(S): assistant life guarding at the local pool in middle school, but that quickly ended after he had a panic attack on duty. SPENDING HABITS: peyton’s pretty frugal! his idea of a fun time is boarding around town with monty, or grabbing a scoop of ice cream at one of the local places. he’s not too big on driving, if he doesn’t have to. longboards almost everywhere. his dad’s job gets them ample cash, being fire chief, but they live modestly. pellegrino men are humble. MOST VALUABLE POSSESSION: his longboard. unfortunately, his anti-anxiety meds.

skills & abilities

TALENTS: deduction, longboarding, mock trial, stage lighting, studying, making people smile. he’s mario kart champion and he’ll never live that down. SHORTCOMINGS: overthinker. often, he limits himself just by thinking in circles. he... finds the good in people. assumes the best. LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: english, and enough italian to get friendly with the kitchen staff. DRIVE?: yes. JUMP-STAR A CAR?: yes. CHANGE A FLAT TIRE?: yes. RIDE A BICYCLE?: yes, but longboards are way better. SWIM?: yes. PLAY AN INSTRUMENT?: he has a guitar and plays it decently well. sometimes he’ll hum a little tune and strum a few chords, but it’s nothing too major. PLAY CHESS?: yeah. BRAID HAIR?: ha! him? able to braid hair? he wishes. TIE A TIE?: he can double-knot his shoes. PICK A LOCK?: no.

physical appearance & characteristics

FACE CLAIM: noah centineo. EYE COLOR: deep hazel, primarily chocolate with pools of mossy green. HAIR COLOR: dark brown. HAIR TYPE/STYLE: wavy/curly. it does what it wants, and he rarely styles it, unless it’s for a mock trial competition or a student gov event. reference. GLASSES/CONTACTS?: he has a glasses prescription but always wears his contacts. DOMINANT HAND: right. HEIGHT: 6′1. WEIGHT: 165 lbs. BUILD: lean, trim, athletic. EXERCISE HABITS: he’s co-captain of the lacrosse team with monty, so they have daily team workouts. he goes for runs a lot, and likes HIIT training. does longboarding count? it should. he’s boarded all over this town countless times ( it’s also how he chooses to deliver pizzas, when the weather’s alright. ) SKIN TONE: tanned, smooth. reference. TATTOOS: none. he can’t handle needles. PEIRCINGS: none. MARKS/SCARS: a few on his arms and legs from nasty longboarding falls. NOTABLE FEATURES: his wild hair. million-watt smile. USUAL EXPRESSION: peaceful, welcoming. CLOTHING STYLE: reference. leather bracelets, cuffed jeans, lots of solid colored and colorblocked tees. when he dresses up for mock trial, the girls kinda swoon. boy looks dashing in a suit. has a glasses prescription but always wears contacts. his dad says he looks sharper that way ( but it’s actually because, with glasses, he looks too similar to the claverton family. ) beat up chuck taylors, kind of untied on purpose. he’s got that whole loosely kept together, sleep deprived look down pat. JEWELRY: leather bracelets. sometimes he’ll wear a thin chain. ALLERGIES: n/a. BODY TEMPERATURE: the standard. he runs a little warmer than most. DIET: lots of pizza. mountain dew. juicy fruit gum’s basically a whole other food group. PHYSICAL AILMENTS: n/a. he can be a bit jumpy, sometimes, if he’s feeling on edge. his left pinky kind of clicks funny when he makes a fist, from when he broke his hand his freshman year.

psychology

MORAL ALIGNMENT: lawful good. TEMPERAMENT: phlegmatic. ELEMENT: earth. MENTAL CONDITIONS/DISORDERS: anxiety disorder. SOCIABILITY: very approachable. warm. kindhearted. there’s a reason he’s the one tasked with getting class dues, as class treasurer. there’s a reason why he leads the lacrosse team. EMOTIONAL STABILITY: typically very levelheaded. his anxiety can make that fluctuate, though. PHOBIA(S): having another panic attack in public. he hasn’t had one in front of anyone besides monty in a year. ADDICTION(S): does juicy fruit qualify? DRUG USE: none. very straight-edge. ALCOHOL USE: occasional, as much as you’d expect. PRONE TO VIOLENCE?: not at all.

mannerisms

QUIRKS: peyton shoves his hands into his pockets when he’s nervous. he always looks for monty or tess in a crowded room, to get grounded. whenever he wears a flannel or a sweatshirt, he always pushes the sleeves up midway to his elbows. HOBBIES: lacrosse, longboarding, mock trial, reading, parkour ( a phase in freshman year ). watching football games with his dad. trying out weird recipes. HABITS: biting the edge of pens. turning his head to the side when he’s listening. offering people pieces of his lunch until he realizes there’s nothing left for him. NERVOUS TICKS: not knowing what to do with his hands. trailing off. looking at the ground. laughing. counting his own fingers. biting the tip of his tongue. DRIVES/MOTIVATIONS: he genuinely wants to see people happy. he wants everything to run smoothly and willingly along. FEARS: his meds will stop working. he’ll have a panic attack in front of his classmates, who are supposed to see him as calm, collected, put together. he’ll never get to know more about his mom. it bugs him. POSITIVE TRAITS: benevolent, bona fide, conscientious, suave, tenderhearted. NEGATIVE TRAITS: anxious, critical, restless, self-limiting, yielding. SENSE OF HUMOR: puns. wit. a lot of inside jokes with tess and monty. DO THEY CURSE OFTEN?: not really! he’s more likely to say frick or flipping than anything bad. CATCHPHRASE(S): “ oh shit ! ” & “ dude ! ” & “ what’s good ? ”

favorites

ACTIVITY: longboarding, hands down. ANIMAL: he’s got a super soft spot for rabbits. BEVERAGE: mountain dew or 7-up. BOOK: growing up, he loved the percy jackson series. CELEBRITY: stephen hawking. COLOR: green. DESIGNER: designer? he guesses, like... is gucci the right answer? he’s not really plugged in to that. FOOD: does juicy fruit count? FLOWER: he’s learning more about flowers, but he thinks sunflowers are pretty nice. kelly’s teaching him more about those. GEM: tiger’s eye. HOLIDAY: christmas. that’s when the famous pellegrino slutty brownies surface. MODE OF TRANSPORTATION: longboarding !! MOVIE: original star trek. MUSICAL ARTIST: saint motel. QUOTE/SAYING: “ we’re dead ! we survived but we’re dead ! ” – dash, the incredibles. SCENERY: rolling hills. sunset. SCENT: cinnamon. SPORT: lacrosse. SPORTS TEAM: in connecticut, he’s surprised he hasn’t been vilified for being a chicago bears fan. but he and his dad spent some time there, and going to those games became a weekly tradition. they watch them now, and it’s like a little piece of their story. TELEVISION SHOW: saturday night live, honestly. WEATHER: that golden-hour sunshine, just before sunset. lukewarm. mid-60′s. VACATION DESTINATION: hawaii. he’s always wanted to longboard down those colossal volcano-side roads.

attitudes

GREATEST DREAM: go into tech/lighting design for broadway. ask cassandra pressman out, for real. GREATEST FEAR: his dad won’t be able to function without him in west ham next fall. he’ll panic in front of people when he needs to seem strong. MOST AT EASE WHEN: he’s with his squad, the belugas. LEAST AT EASE WHEN: he’s allowed the time to overthink. when his dad doesn’t come home from his fire shift on time. when things don’t feel right. BIGGEST ACHIEVEMENT: the west ham mock trial team won the state championship this spring. BIGGEST REGRET: he never pressured his dad more about finding his mother. MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT: he had a panic attack in the middle of his treasurer speech freshman year. someone pulled the fire alarm right as he couldn’t breathe. to this day, peyton has no idea who that was, but he’s so friggin’ thankful. BIGGEST SECRET: his biggest secret’s not even known to him yet. matthew pellegrino isn’t his father; he’s his kidnapper. peyton pellegrino’s fake. doesn’t exist. TOP PRIORITIES: having monty and tess’s backs. taking care of his dad, since he’s still reeling from peyton’s mom leaving almost 17 years ago. bringing the lacrosse team to the state championships. making sure every single thing he does for west ham high’s theatre department is flawless: making art on that stage. finding out how to... conquer this anxiety. finding out how to muster up enough courage to make a move before it’s too late.

#newhamhq: task #🍂 –– shallow graves for shallow hearts ! isms.#🍂 –– there's no place like home ! psyche.#yoooo..... cackle at that header image bc i'm still laughing

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secret-rendezvous1d · 6 years

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what if Harry was at after partt or some event and he was talking with models and of course the media write about it and the missus sees the pics and she gets super insecure and a lot more than tsince she is pregnant and Harry whew comes back home ask her whatsw wrong

People like to meddle… she knows that.

She fully trusts her husband. Of course she does. But, she can’t help the twinge of jealousy that sparks inside of her when she sees fan photos and candid shots of him speaking with woman who she considers herself to be miles beneath. Who have the gorgeous blonde hair that doesn’t resemble birds nests in the mornings. Who have the white teeth that look almost too perfect. Who have the slim figure and the boobs she could only dream about having - especially when she was 8 months pregnant and sporting a bump that looked like she’d smuggled a watermelon beneath her sweater. She knows he won’t go home with any of them, she knows that they know he’s a married man who’s also an expectant father, she knows that he wouldn’t dare make a move on a woman he was talking to, and she knows she’s the lucky one that he gets to come home to every night. She knows she’s the topic of most of his conversations because he loves to show how grateful he is to have and how appreciative he is to be her husband and how in love he is with her.

She knows all of that.

But, the twinge never leaves.

She’s not like any them. She’s far from who people expect him to be with. She’s a blogger who likes to steer clear of the public eye and only ever attends appearances when she feels like she has to appear - or when she gives in to Harry’s incessant begs to be his plus one - and she’s a blogger who looks after herself and tries to keep her personal life on the downlow. She doesn’t constantly tease the fans, she doesn’t turn her back on them when they see her in public, she doesn’t throw any insults or bad manners in their direction, and she’ll always give them the time of day. Her husband wouldn’t be where he is without those fans who support him and she’s forever grateful for them - she watched him grow and that’s all on them.

The only time she gets frustrated is when they tag her in photos that she doesn’t want to see. With captions like:

are YN and harry done?

What is he doing?!

isn’t his wife pregnant rn?

wat the fuck is he doing? he’s married!

guessing a marriage is on the rocks… yikes.

… and it breaks her to pieces.

They’re perfectly fine.

They kiss and they cuddle in the mornings. He makes her breakfast in bed when her feet ache too much to walk. He runs her a bath or helps her shower and lets her use his shampoo because it smells like him. He massages her back and rubs her feet and makes her dinner when she’s too tired; he’ll sometimes make runs, passed midnight, to fetch her what she was craving.

They were fine.

But the mere possibility of them not being okay, of them distancing away from one another until there was no love between them, broke her.

There’s been a few moments when Harry would come home and see her, tears dribbling down her cheeks and a palm rubbing her stomach, scrolling through pages that have derogatory speech on them, aimed at her and their marriage and, sometimes, he’d see that she’s gone all the way back to when they first started dating. And he hates it. He hates how she’s tearing herself down and upsetting herself over something so silly and so unnecessary.

So, when he comes home and sees her frustratingly cleaning a kitchen counter - because she’s in the nesting phase and what’s everything to be cleaned and properly furnished and moved into better places - he knows something is bothering her. Sleeves rolled up to her elbows, cheeks bright pink from the power behind her movements, legs shaking from being on her feet for longer periods of time.

“Hey, hey. No. Sit down. You can’t be doing this,” he forgets about slipping his jacket off and immediately walks towards her, cupping her hip with one hand as his other reached over to grab the cloth from her fist, “god, what’s the matter? What are you doing awake? It’s one in the morning. You should be sle-”

“How can I fall sleep when my husband is out chatting with models?”

“I wasn’t chatting with them about anything other than my music and you. You and the baby. Our marriage. Our honeymoon They know about us. Everyone knows, for Christ sake,” he throws the cloth in the direction of the sink, missing it completely as it landed with a splat upon the tiles, and sighs deeply, “you can’t keep doing this, okay? It’s not good for your health and it certainly isn’t good for the baby.”

“It’s hard,” she whispers, her voice cracking, and for the first time since his arrival home, he catches a look at her broken face. Her cheeks sore and tear-stained, her lips cracked, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot at the corners, her nose dribbling and scrunching with sniffles and she looked exhausted. “It’s hard because you could have any one of them and not bother coming home to the huge excuse of a wife. You could have someone thin and skinny and someone who would willingly suck your dick because she doesn’t have crazy hormones making her despise anything remotely close to sex. Someone who doesn’t-”

He presses a finger against her lips and chuckles softly.

“You’re not a huge excuse of a wife. You’re beautiful and gorgeous and so perfect, to me, and you’re wonderful at keeping me in check and looking after me. You think I care about my dick not getting wet? For god sake, I’ll just jump in the shower if I was that desperate,” he snorts, catching a smile lifting her lips as she wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled as close as she could to his front, “you, my darling wife, are 8 months pregnant. That’s 35 weeks. With a baby. Our baby. Our little lady who we’ll meet in a short 4 weeks, won’t we? That’s exciting. I wouldn’t ever muck up what we have when we’re so close to having our perfect little family, okay? I love you. I vowed that I always would and that I’ll never stop. You make it so hard to not wake up every single day and fall more in love with you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Now, I’ve not eaten since the afternoon so what do you say about ham and cheese toasties, with a tonne of brown sauce, and that tub of ice-cream from the freezer that we’ve saved for a special occasion?” He hums, looking down at her and catching her head as she nodded, “I think this is an ice-cream scoffing moment, for sure.” xx

#not going to lie.. this one made me a little emotional :')))#harry talk #harry styles imagines #harry styles blurbs #harry styles concepts

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aswithasunbeam · 6 years

Text

An Elusive Peace, Chapter 7

[Read on AO3]

Rating: T

Summary: For Hamilton and Eliza, peace was supposed to mark the end to their separation and the beginning of domestic bliss. But Hamilton’s ambition and the challenges facing the new nation quickly interfere. Happily ever after may not be as easy to attain as they once hoped.

Ham gives a very important speech, and then they adopt a new baby...

February 1787

Steam wafted from the silver coffee pot as Eliza finished pouring the freshly brewed beverage. She’d never much cared for coffee, especially not the way Alexander drank it—piping hot and strong, with not a cube of sugar or drop of milk to soften the taste—but she did enjoy the smell in the mornings. When she placed the top on the pot, the scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon quickly replaced the coffee.

“I can see to the rest, ma’am, if you’d like to go up now,” Judy offered with a sunny smile as she flipped a strip of bacon over.

Alexander had hired the young woman a few weeks ago after hearing her plead for assistance at his last meeting of the Manumission Society. Her former master had freed her upon his death, but his son, a Major Turner, was doing his utmost to ignore that particular provision of the will; the ensuing controversy had made it nigh impossible for the poor girl to find honest work. Although it strained their budget to add another member to their household staff, Eliza was more than happy to have her help with running the house and managing three willful children.

“Thank you, Judy,” she replied amiably. “I suppose I should set Philip to his reading, and I’m sure Mr. Hamilton will be wanting his coffee.”

She placed the coffee pot and the basket of bread on a tray and mounted the stairs. As she came to the top, she heard Pip chattering on about something along with the distinct sound of a newspaper page being flipped. Angelica’s tinkling giggle filled the space between Pip’s enthusiastic conversation.

When she entered the room, Pip’s chatter had given way to a series of grunts, and he was squatting on the floor with his arms hanging loose between his legs. “Philip, what on earth are you doing?” she asked as she set the tray on the table.

Pip answered with a series of short ‘oo’ sounds as he leaned his weight on his knuckles and scooted forward. “Monkey,” Angelica giggled, turned sideways in her chair and clapping her little hands together with delight. Alexander had peeked over his paper to watch Pip as well, his eyes alight with amusement.

“So, will you, Papa? Please?” Pip asked, pushing himself upright again.

“Tomorrow, perhaps. If you’re good, and do just as Mama says today,” Alexander replied, with a fond sort of exasperation in his tone. Pip must have been pestering him about something while she was downstairs seeing to breakfast.

“What is it you’re getting if you’re good today?” Eliza asked.

“I get to see the monkeys,” Pip said excitedly.

Ah. She ought to have guessed. One of their neighbors, further up Wall Street, had acquired the exotic pets recently. Pip had spotted them swinging in a tree last Sunday, when the family had taken a walk after dinner. Alexander had lifted Pip to sit on his shoulders so he could watch the creatures play, and their son had been obsessed ever since.

“Well, the first step in showing me what a good boy you are is to get to your reading,” Eliza told him, nodding towards the Bible on the sideboard.

Pip’s shoulders slumped dramatically, but he obeyed, trudging towards the sideboard, retrieving the Bible, and shuffling to her side to begin his morning reading. Eliza poured out Alexander’s coffee as Pip began his halting oration. Alexander thanked her softly when she pushed the cup forward towards him, and she began slicing and buttering the bread for Angelica and Alex. When Judy came up to serve the tea and the plates of Johnnycakes and bacon, Eliza allowed Pip to resume his seat at the table for his breakfast.

Little Alex had squeezed the pieces of bread she’d sat on his highchair into balls, and he began to throw them onto the ground. Pip and Angelica were both snickering, which made the baby grin. “Oh, Alex,” Eliza sighed, taking the bread away and replacing it with a few pieces of Johnnycake. That, at least, the child began to gum with interest.

Alexander was looking pensively down at his plate when she looked over at him again. The Johnnycakes and bacon were untouched, and his son’s antics didn’t seem to have caught his attention. He was worrying about the speech he was to deliver in the Assembly this afternoon, she intuited.

“Was there anything of interest in the paper this morning, sweetheart?” she asked, hoping to distract him.

“Hm?” He looked up, frowning. “Oh, just more news about the farmers rebellion in Massachusetts.”

“The state militia still hasn’t put it down?” Eliza asked. The farmers, led by Daniel Shays, had been actively and violently protesting the high taxes laid upon them by Massachusetts since the autumn. The grievance had a painfully familiar ring to it.

“The General Court has declared Massachusetts officially in a state of rebellion, and General Lincoln defeated Shays’ retreating forces somewhere outside Petersham,” he reported.

Eliza’s eyes widened at Lincoln’s name—the great General had been the one to accept the surrender of Cornwallis’s second at Yorktown. His association with quashing a rebellion jarred her. “General Lincoln is involved now?”

Hamilton shrugged.

He was far from indifferent to the situation, Eliza knew; he was just exhausted from having been warning people about the possibility of such a problem for years. Back when he’d first been sent to Congress, he’d campaigned for the central government to have a meaningful taxation power, not only so that it might make a start on its own debt, but also to help equalize the debts owed by the individual states. Instead, Congress continued without such powers, and printed worthless paper money to pay its obligations to soldiers and citizens. Massachusetts had raised the tax burden on its poorest citizens to as much as forty percent to try to retire her own debt, and also insisted on being repaid in specie, rather than the paper money. The result was a full-fledged rebellion.

Pip made his monkey sound again as Eliza came to grips with this latest news, and Angelica followed along. Alex made a grunting sound and pounded his little fists against the wooden tray of his highchair, determined to join in the fun. Her husband brought his hand to his mouth, obviously attempting to cover his amusement.

“All right, children,” she cut in to the ruckus firmly. “If we’re done eating, it’s time to wash up and begin our lessons.”

Pip shoved half a bread roll in his mouth. “I’m still eating,” he claimed, voice muffled by the food.

“Then eat,” she directed. “And we don’t speak with our mouths full, do we, Philip?”

“No, Mama,” he agreed, mouth still full of bread.

Eliza closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“I think I’ll head out now,” Alexander announced, taking a last gulp from his coffee cup. “I have a meeting with a client at my office this morning before I go over to the Assembly session.”

His plate had barely been touched, Eliza observed again.

He rose from the table and gave each of the children a tender kiss on the top of the head. He paused when he came to Alex, and rubbed his thumb over the baby’s chubby cheek tenderly to wipe away a spot of sticky jam. “I love you, my little lambs. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye, Papa,” Pip waved, a piece of bacon hanging out of his mouth this time.

Eliza followed him out into the entryway.

“Are you all right, sweetheart? You hardly ate anything.”

An embarrassed smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m fine. Just…a little nervous. You know how my stomach gets.”

She pulled him into a gentle embrace. “Your speech is wonderful.”

“Thank you.” His arms closed around her in return. “And thank you for staying up with me last night to finish it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Of course,” she said. She bit her lip, considering her next question. “Is the public permitted to sit in the gallery today?”

He tensed in her arms. “I…I think so, yes. Why?”

“I thought I’d leave Judy and Polly with the children this afternoon so I could come watch.”

A heavy sigh fell from his lips. “I’m going to lose, Betsey.”

“You don’t know that, honey. You’re very persuasive. Perhaps the Assembly will see reason.” He’d worked so hard on that speech, infusing it with logic and passion in equal measure. “Given the fresh news about Massachusetts, I don’t see how they can do otherwise.”

He chuckled. “Logic and reason mean very little to these men. The import tax would bolster the central government, and Clinton would rather die than give away an ounce of his influence. Were I not loath to disappoint my constituents, I wouldn’t bother defending the act at all.”

Eliza rubbed his back and pressed her lips to his jawline. “I’d still like to see you speak, even if you lose the vote. Then you’ll know you have at least one supporter.”

His head tilted to the side and down so he could catch her lips with his own. “Thank you, my angel. I’ll look forward to seeing you.” He then extracted himself from her arms and donned his hat and coat.

“I’m so proud of you,” she assured him as he pulled open the front door.

He smiled weakly and stepped out into the cold, bright morning.

The gallery was more full than she’d imagine, the crowd composed almost entirely of men who were hooting and hollering at each other in a manner that reminded her very much of her five year old son. And, much like her son, her presence and steady gaze seemed to chasten them. She swept down and across the gallery to find a seat in the front row, leaving a more orderly and composed crowd in her wake.

“Ma’am,” a man on the bench near her greeted, making to rise despite the traveling desk he had set up on his lap. She waved him down and sat beside him. “Mr. Childs, ma’am, of the New York Daily Advertiser.”

“Mrs. Hamilton,” she introduced herself, smoothing her skirt as she settled into her seat.

The reporter nodded. “Your husband is meant to give quite the speech. I’ll try my best to do him justice in my account.”

She smiled politely, though she’d yet to see any account of her husband’s speeches that did him justice. There was something about the conviction and earnestness of his delivery that simply couldn’t be captured by the written word. Her gaze fell to the floor of the Assembly, and she saw her husband sitting down, studying the notes he’d made last night.

Alexander seemed to feel her stare after a long moment, and he looked up with a small, tender smile. She waved subtly and blew him a kiss, which he pretended to catch. She laughed. Some of the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, making her doubly grateful she’d insisted on coming today.

The chairman banged his gavel at the front of the room, calling the meeting to order. “Good morning, gentlemen. Today we consider further the act granting to Congress certain imposts and duties, and specifically the clause regarding the grant of power to Congress to levy such taxes.”

Alexander rose from his seat.

“The chair recognizes Mr. Hamilton from New York City.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman.” Her husband crossed the room and stood straight-backed at the podium before the Assembly, his piercing gaze roaming across the rows of delegates, as though drawing them all in before he began to speak. A noticeable hush fell over the room, except for the sound of quills scratching steadily as the newspaper men began to copy down her husband’s words.

“Mr. Chairman, There appears to me to be some confusion in the manner of voting on the two preceding clauses of this bill,”* he began, voice clear and firm. Eliza settled in to listen, watching with fascination as he seemed to gather passion with each word. As he spoke, he began to pace, his gaze moving from one man to the next as he walked. The mass of powdered heads below moved with him, back and forth before the podium.

He’d added a piece last night where he quoted directly from the Declaration of Independence to bolster his claim of constitutionality. He hadn’t written those words down when he decided to add them; he knew them by heart. She’d heard the words so many times, but to hear her husband speak them now, they felt fresh, and new, and impossibly moving. The men around her were all nodding, captivated.

As he came to the end of the of his argument regarding the constitutionality of the bill, his voice rose, impassioned. “If the arguments I have used under this head are not well founded, let gentlemen come forward and shew their fallacy. Let the subject have a fair and full examination, and let truth, on whatever side it may be, prevail!”*

No one stood to argue with him. No one dared.

He continued on for more than an hour, his chest working visibly and color rising in his cheeks as he built the foundations of his argument, stone by stone. Properly funding a central government posed no danger to the public liberty, he argued, and given the state of the country’s finances, the measure before the assembly was absolutely necessary to the continued existence of their country. New York had become the Atlas of the union, he claimed, and to leave the system as it was would be an act of political knight errantry.* Soft laughter emanated from the crowd at the image, just as he’d intended, and she saw Alexander smile faintly. Still he pushed on, making his points with zeal. Heads bobbed around the room as he made point after point.

Alexander’s knuckles were white against the podium as he worked towards his conclusion. “What will be the situation of our national affairs if they are left much longer to float in the chaos in which they are now involved… if there are any foreign enemies, if there are any domestic foes to this country, all their arts and artifices will be employed to effect a dissolution of the union. This cannot be better done than by sowing jealousies of the federal head and cultivating in each state an undue attachment to its own power.”*

A stunned silence reigned.

Alexander was breathing hard, absolutely spent from the effort. When he stepped down, she saw him bend at the waist and hold on to the nearest table. She worried suddenly that he would faint, given how little sleep and food he’d had over the last day. But he pushed himself up again after a moment and made his way to his seat under his own power.

“Is there to be a rebuttal?” the chairman queried, stepping up to the podium again.

Another long beat of silence passed, before one of the delegates rose from his seat. “I move for an immediate vote on the clause in question.”

Eliza felt her heartbeat quicken in her chest. Had he done it? Had he convinced them?

“I second,” another voice called.

“A motion for an immediate vote has been duly made and seconded,” the chairman called. “The vote shall now be taken.”

“Yea,” the first delegate cried.

Eliza smiled and clasped her hands together on her lap. Oh, he’d done it. She tried to catch his eye. He was sipping from a glass of water, his face tense.

“Nay,” the third man voted. And the fourth. And the fifth.

The smile leached from her face.

No. No, no. He’d worked so hard. No one had even bothered to rebut him. They knew they couldn’t compete with his words, with his ideas.

“The clause is defeated by a vote of 36 to 21. The assembly will now consider—”

She fixed her attention on her husband. His face had regained some color, at least, she noted. He’d known he’d be defeated, but the fact that no one had even bothered to try to argue against him galled her. Why should he entangle himself in petty politics at all, when this was the result?

His gaze traveled up to the gallery and landed on her.

She made herself smile at him. “I love you,” she mouthed silently.

His expression went soft, and he gave her a little nod.

“They couldn’t even muster a counter argument,” Eliza complained that evening as Alexander removed his coat and hat.

“They didn’t need to,” he sighed, resigned. “I told you I would lose, Betsey.”

“It’s just not fair.”

“It’s politics. It’s not meant to be fair. And it doesn’t matter anyway. We’ll be meeting in Philadelphia in May to overhaul the whole system. Let Clinton have his way for now. It will be out of his hands very, very soon.”

She held her arms out to him, and he sank into her embrace.

“I worried you were about to faint when you finished.”

“I just needed a moment to catch my breath.”

She frowned, unconvinced. His health, always delicate, felt especially tenuous when he began to overextend himself. It had been her initial concern when he went to the convention last fall, and so it remained. “You should go change into something comfortable. We’ll get some good, hearty food into you, and then you can have a proper rest.”

He pulled back from her and grinned. “No.”

“No?”

“I refuse to stay home and wallow in my defeat. Troup told me he has extra tickets for the theater tonight. Let’s get dressed up and go out.”

“Are you sure? You seem tired, sweetheart.”

“Tired? Me?” He took her by the hands and spun her around. “Perish the thought, my dear. Besides, between my practice and the New York Assembly, and you looking after the children, we haven’t had a proper night out in far too long. It will be fun.”

She couldn’t help but laugh; his good humor was contagious. “If you insist.”

“I most certainly do.”

“Papa!” Pip appeared in the entry to the parlor, bouncing eagerly on his toes. “Papa, I was really, really good today. Really! I listened to mama, and did all my letters and my sums. So can we go see the monkeys tomorrow?”

Alexander laughed and bounded forward to scoop him up. “I may give you to the monkeys. You and your sister. You should be raised amongst your own kind.”

“We’re not monkeys, Papa,” Pip protested.

“Are you sure? You sound like a monkey.”

“No I don’t.”

Alexander tickled him under the armpit, and he squealed with laughter. “Hmm, you’re right. Maybe not a monkey. Maybe you’re piglets?”

“No,” Pip giggled.

Eliza shook her head fondly as she headed upstairs to change for a night out. After selecting a dress and quickly fixing up her hair, she returned to find the animal game apparently still going. Her husband was on all fours with both Pip and Angelica on his back, and Pip was urging, “Giddy up, Papa!”

She leaned against the doorjamb, smiling at the scene.

Eliza tucked her hand into Alexander’s elbow and used her free hand to hold her skirts up from the snowy sidewalks as they hurried into the theater. The doorman pushed the door closed behind them as soon as they entered the lobby. Two fires glowed at the far end of the room, and she sighed at the warmth.

As she handed her cloak over to be stored, she heard a murmur of excitement ripple through the crowded lobby. She glanced back, assuming someone of importance had arrived. To her surprise, most eyes were trained on her and her husband.

Robert Troup was standing nearby, and he seemed to be encouraging in the interest in Alexander. When Alexander finished checking his coat, Troup called out, “Let’s hear it for Ham, the great man himself!”

A round of huzzahs followed, with almost the entire lobby partaking. Eliza laughed, shocked, and looked around to see Alexander blushing furiously. Troup stepped up and slapped Alexander on the back.

“Glad you came, Ham,” Troup said. “There’s talk of making you governor, after that speech of yours. You’d be a good improvement over Clinton, that much is certain.”

“It was hardly worth all this fuss,” he demurred.

“You were wonderful, darling,” Eliza interjected.

He laughed, clearly still uncomfortable, but he thanked her softly.

“There’s a few people eager to speak with you, if you wouldn’t mind,” Troup added.

Alexander glanced at her.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. I’ll go keep Mrs. Troup company,” she urged, kissing his cheek. He was quickly swept away into the crowd. Watching him for another brief moment, she looked around the lobby and spotted Jennet standing near the stairs to the box seats.

“Your dear husband is the man of the hour,” Jennet observed, taking her by the arm as she came closer.

“So I see. He certainly wasn’t expecting all this,” Eliza replied.

“He should have been. The whole city’s talking about him. He may have been unsuccessful today, but he’ll have plenty of support for whatever he can accomplish in Philadelphia this summer. Or so Troup keeps saying.”

Eliza smiled weakly. She was proud of him, truly, and glad he had so many supporters, but she wished people’s hopes for the nation weren’t resting quite so heavily on her husband’s shoulders. Jennet seemed to sense the hesitation, and she wrapped an arm around her shoulders companionably.

“Let’s go up to the box. The boys will join us eventually.” They walked up the staircase together, and Eliza took a program from an attendant outside their curtain.

She waited, and waited. Troup slipped in as the show began, but Alexander wasn’t with him. “He’ll be along,” Troup assured her in a whisper as the actors took the stage.

The first act had nearly ended before Alexander slipped into his seat at her side. He leaned close, his lips ghosting over her cheek, before he whispered, “I need to talk to you.”

“Now?”

He nodded.

Her stomach clenched. Had he accepted another government position? “All right,” she agreed, standing up and following him out into the hall.

His hand curled around hers, and he led her down the hall to a little deserted alcove.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Please, not another appointment, she pleaded silently.

“I just ran in to someone downstairs. Do remember Colonel Antil?”

She frowned, then nodded. They hadn’t seen him in some time, not since his poor wife had passed away, about two years ago. “How was he?”

Alexander shook his head. “Not very well. He’s not been coping well.” His hand squeezed hers tightly, as though he could ward off the same fate for her by holding on to her tight enough. “I suggested he come to the meeting of the Cincinnati tomorrow to request aid. He’d like to move up north to try to make a go at a farmer’s life.”

She waited, curious as to why he felt the need to immediately report this conversation to her.

“I invited him for dinner tomorrow at our house, as well.”

“That’s fine, honey,” she assured him. They had a leg of lamb she’d been planning to prepare anyway. There’d be plenty of food for a guest.

“They had a little girl, do you remember? Frances. Fanny. She’s just two.”

“I do,” she agreed, though she hadn’t remembered the little girl’s name until now.

“He can’t take such a little babe into the wilderness with him. I was hoping…” he trailed off, his gaze on the floor.

Eliza squeezed his hand. “You were hoping?”

He looked up at her. “I know it’s a lot to ask. We have three little ones already, and you do more than the lion’s share of the work. But…I was hoping we might offer to take her in. Just temporarily, while he gets settled.”

It was a lot to ask. As darling as their three children were, they were also a handful. But her heart went out to that poor little girl. If Antil couldn’t care for her properly, if she’d be in danger going with her father up north, how could Eliza refuse?

Alexander looked so earnest as he waited for her answer. He’d always had a soft spot for children in difficult circumstances. Much of it stemmed from his own difficult childhood, she knew, and his immense gratitude to Thomas Stevens for taking him in when he had no obligation to do so.

“Of course we can,” she agreed.

“You’re sure. We needn’t say anything if you’re not comfortable. Completely comfortable. It’s your choice.”

“I know,” she assured him. “We’ll offer to take her while he gets settled. What’s one more monkey in our little menagerie?”

He laughed. “You’re an angel.”

She rolled her eyes. “So you’ve said.”

“I mean it. A genuine angel.”

He leaned close, his lips hovering near hers. She wrapped her arms around him and let her lower lip drop open so the tip of her tongue could touch his. A soft moan fell from his lips. His hand started to wander from her lower back towards her bustle.

“Not here,” she whispered, pulling away reluctantly. The effect he had on her, she thought, blushing retroactively. Her mother would have fainted outright had she heard her daughter was standing in the middle of a public building kissing a man, husband or not. He made a discontented noise as she removed his hand from her back. “Keep that up, Mr. Hamilton, and we’ll have more than one little monkey joining us.”

He grinned. “From your lips to God’s ears, my darling.”

*From New York Assembly, Remarks on an Act Granting to Congress Certain Imposts and Duties, 15 February 1787.

#hamilton fanfic #an elusive peace #alexander hamilton #eliza hamilton #hamliza

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googlenewson · 5 years

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What causes a person to become radicalized?

This was the subject of a fascinating talk delivered by Tamar Mitts, an assistant professor of international and public affairs at Columbia University, at a “data science day” hosted by the school on Wednesday. Mitts studied the efficacy of Twitter-disseminated propaganda supporting the self-identified Islamic State, or ISIS, in 2015 and 2016. To avoid the “obvious ethical issues” which attend to subjecting humans analysts to ISIS propaganda, Mitts said she used machine learning algorithms to identify and sort messages and videos into various categories, such as whether they contained violence. Then she parsed her dataset to uncover trends.

Mitts’ results were a revelation. Even though people tend to associate ISIS propaganda with heinous acts of brutality--beheadings, murder, and the like--Mitts found that such violence was, more often than not, counterproductive to the group’s aims. “The most interesting and unexpected result was that when these messages were being coupled with extreme, violent imagery, these videos became ineffective,” Mitts said. In other words, the savagery for which ISIS became famous did not appeal to the majority of its followers; positive messaging found greater success.

There’s a caveat though: Anyone who was already extremely supportive of ISIS became even more fanatical after encountering a piece of propaganda featuring violence. So, while violent acts turned off newcomers and casual sympathizers, they nudged ideologues further down the path of radicalization. Extremism begets polarity.

In the wake of the Christchurch massacre, Mitts’ research gains even more relevance. Tech giants are continuing to fail to curb a scourge of violence and hate speech proliferating on their sites. World governments are, meanwhile, passing ham-fisted policies to stem the spread of such bile.

Perhaps Mitts’ discoveries could help society to avoid repeating history’s darkest moments. My appreciation for her work grew after I finished reading In the Garden of Beasts, a gripping journalistic endeavor by Erik Larson, which details the rise of Nazi Germany through the eyes of an American ambassador and his family living in Berlin. Afterward, I watched a YouTube video--an innocuous one--recommended by the author: Symphony of a Great City, a 1927 film that documented the daily life of ordinary Berliners at that time. It amazes me to think how, within a few years, these souls would come under the sway of Hitler’s bloodthirsty regime.

While the Internet makes zealotry easier than ever to incite, today’s tools also make it easier to study.

Robert Hackett

@rhhackett

[email protected]

Welcome to the Cyber Saturday edition of Data Sheet, Fortune’s daily tech newsletter. Fortune reporter Robert Hackett here. You may reach Robert Hackett via Twitter, Cryptocat, Jabber (see OTR fingerprint on my about.me), PGP encrypted email (see public key on my Keybase.io), Wickr, Signal, or however you (securely) prefer. Feedback welcome.

THREATS

Marred-a-Lago. The U.S. Secret Service apprehended a suspicious Chinese woman who attempted to enter President Donald Trump's Mar-a-Lago resort in Palm Beach, Florida. The woman, Yujing Zhang, was carrying four cellphones and a thumb drive infected with malware. One of the stories she spun: She said she was there to use the pool, though she had no swimsuit.

Verboten. German chemical giant Bayer said it contained a cyberespionage intrusion by suspected Chinese hackers. The company discovered the computer infection early last year and then quietly analyzed and monitored the intruders before booting them from the network last month. "There is no evidence of data theft," the company said.

Thrill of the chase. Jamie Dimon, CEO of JPMorgan Chase, highlighted the importance of digital security in his annual letter to shareholders this week. "The threat of cyber security may very well be the biggest threat to the U.S. financial system," he wrote. "[T]he financial system is interconnected, and adversaries are smart and relentless - so we must continue to be vigilant."

Show me the money. The city of Albany, New York, and iced tea-maker Arizona Beverages were recently hit with ransomware attacks. Norsk Hydro published a video featuring interviews with employees who grappled with a recent plant-crippling ransomware attack. And the Federal Bureau of Investigation said it had to change the way it conducted cyberattack investigations after wrestling with the SamSam ransomware campaign, which affected cities such as Atlanta and Newark.

Bezos vs. Saudis. Gavin De Becker, the investigator hired by Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos to find out who obtained private text messages and photos relating to his extramarital affair, said he has concluded that "the Saudis had access to Bezos' phone, and gained private information." A spokesperson for Saudi Arabia told CNN that the kingdom "categorically rejects all allegations that it is involved in any fashion in the apparent dispute."

The Russian equivalent of Jedi mind tricks: "combat parapsychology techniques."

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http://fortune.com/newsletter/cybersaturday/

Looking for previous Data Sheets? Click here

ACCESS GRANTED

Creepy crawlers. Meet Eva Galperin, a hacker-activist who studies commercial surveillance software, so-called stalkerware, as head of the Electronic Frontier Foundation's threat lab. Now Galperin is calling on Apple and antivirus companies to protect people from these privacy-infringing tools, as Wired's Andy Greenberg writes. More extremely, Galperin is asking government officials to prosecute executives at companies that sell this kind of software.

Over the last year, Eva Galperin says she's learned the signs: the survivors of domestic abuse who come to her describing how their tormentors seem to know everyone they've called, texted, and even what they discussed in their most private conversations. How their abusers seem to know where they've been and sometimes even turn up at those locations to menace them. How they flaunt photos mysteriously obtained from the victim's phone, sometimes using them for harassment or blackmail. And how none of the usual remedies to suspected hacking--changing passwords, setting up two-factor authentication--seem to help.

The reason those fixes don't work, in these cases, is because the abuser has deeply compromised the victim's phone itself. The stalker doesn't have to be a skilled hacker; they just need easily accessible consumer spyware and an opportunity to install it on their target's device. An entire industry of that so-called spouseware, or stalkerware, has grown in recent years, one that Galperin argues represents a deeply underestimated scourge of digital privacy.

FORTUNE RECON

A British Spy Agency's London HQ Operated in Secret for 66 Years. Turns Out, It Was Right Next Door. by Phil Boucher

Domestic Terrorism Is on the Rise. But How Prepared Is the U.S. to Counter It? by Natasha Bach

Proposed Law Would Require YouTube and Netflix to Do More to Protect Kids Online by Danielle Abril

If the Full Mueller Report Is Released, Here's What You'll Actually See by Renae Reints

Who Should Own Your Health Data? by Erika Fry

Mark Zuckerberg Has Made the Case Against a Fragmented Internet. Here's the Case for It. by David Mayer

How True Crime Podcast 'The Murder Squad' Will Crowdsource Investigations by Dan Reilly

ONE MORE THING

Xinjiang jail. In this chilling multimedia piece, The New York Times takes viewers inside Kashgar, a Chinese city that the Communist Party has effectively transformed into a gigantic prison. Residents are required to keep software on their phones that monitors calls and messages. They are forced to stop at checkpoints to have their faces and ID cards scanned. Surveillance cameras are ubiquitous and neighborhood watches grade people based on their "reliability." As the Times writes, this dystopia is "as much about intimidation as monitoring."

from Fortune http://bit.ly/2Ulj9l1

#World News

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trendingnewsb · 7 years

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Bafta TV awards: What to look out for at this year’s ceremony – BBC News

Image copyright Getty Images

Image caption Benedict Cumberbatch (The Hollow Crown) and Claire Foy (The Crown) are in the leading actor and actress categories

The Bafta Television awards take place on Sunday, with the lavish royal Netflix drama The Crown dominating the nominations.

The event at the Royal Festival Hall will be hosted for the first time by former Great British Bake Off presenter Sue Perkins.

Here are a few things to look out for on the big night.

Who can we expect to see on the red carpet?

Image copyright Getty Images

The glittering guestlist includes Alan Carr, Amanda Holden, Ant and Dec, Benedict Cumberbatch, Claudia Winkleman, Daniel Mays, David Walliams, Ed Balls, Jessica Raine, Kim Cattrall, Louis Theroux, Nicola Walker, Nikki Amuka-Bird, Olivia Colman, Pearl Mackie, Sarah Lancashire, Scarlett Moffatt, Suranne Jones, Thandie Newton, Tom Hollander and Zawe Ashton.

And by the look of the seating plan (above), The Crown’s Claire Foy will spend the ceremony sitting next to EastEnders’ Danny Dyer.

She can tell him about Queen Elizabeth. He can tell her about the Queen Vic.

But why’s Graham Norton not presenting as usual?

Sue Perkins is taking the reins this year because Norton will have been busy presenting the Eurovision Song Contest in Ukraine one day earlier.

When she was announced as host in March, Perkins tweeted: “Beyond chuffed to be the one keeping the inestimable @grahnort ‘s seat warm this year.”

Cheeky.

Which shows have the most nominations?

Image copyright BBC/Minnow Films/Joe Albas

Image caption Damilola, Our Loved Boy (BBC One) has three nominations

The Crown – 5

Damilola, Our Loved Boy – 3

Fleabag – 3

Happy Valley – 3

See the full nominations list

What can we expect from the winning speeches?

Not just a long list of “thank yous” if 2016 is anything to go by.

At last year’s Baftas several winners used their speeches to defend the independence of the BBC. The ceremony took place just days before the government published a white paper on the corporation’s future.

This year a general election is looming.

Bafta is reported to have emailed nominees asking them to offer “a short anecdote or an interesting detail about the production” in their victory speeches.

According to The Guardian, some of its recipients have dubbed it “a ham-fisted attempt to avoid controversy”.

Will The Crown reign supreme?

Expect plenty of right royal headlines if the big budget show scoops the drama category.

The Crown’s first 10 episodes launched on Netflix in November. Writer Peter Morgan intends to tell the entire story of Britain’s monarchy from the reign of George VI, the Queen’s father, over 60 episodes.

Claire Foy is up for leading actress for her portrayal of the young Queen Elizabeth.

Jared Harris, who plays George VI, John Lithgow (Winston Churchill) and Vanessa Kirby (Princess Margaret) are all nominated for their supporting roles.

Last year Bafta changed its rules on eligibility which has allowed shows with international funding, such as The Crown, to be entered outside the international category.

The best actress race is one to watch

Image copyright AP/Getty Images

Image caption Leading actress nominees (clockwise from top left) Claire Foy, Sarah Lancashire, Nikki Amuka-Bird and Jodie Comer

This is Claire Foy’s second consecutive nomination for lead actress. Last year she was nominated for her role as Anne Boleyn in Wolf Hall, but lost out to Doctor Foster actress Suranne Jones.

This year’s competition is just as tough.

She’s up against NW’s Nikki Amuka-Bird, Happy Valley’s Sarah Lancashire and Jodie Comer for BBC Three abduction drama Thirteen.

Could streaming services win big?

Image copyright Getty Images

Image caption The cast of Netflix’s Stranger Things

Yes, we’re talking about those shows that weren’t made for the traditional broadcast channels.

Netflix has never won a TV Bafta, so victory for The Crown would be a big deal.

It has another shot at glory with sci-fi hit Stranger Things, a strong contender in the international category.

Last year that category went to Netflix rival Transparent, on Amazon Prime, about a Los Angeles family who discover that their retired father is a transgender woman.

And who did it beat? Netflix’s Narcos, among others. Ouch.

Transparent is nominated again this year – but there’s also stiff competition from HBO’s crime drama The Night Of and the Golden Globe-winning The People v O J Simpson: American Crime Story.

And let’s not forget all the nominees from online-only channel BBC Three.

Will the stars of Fleabag be jumping for joy?

Image copyright PA

Image caption Phoebe Waller-Bridge is up for best female comedy performance

Talking of BBC Three, its breakout comedy hit Fleabag has three nominations.

Phoebe Waller-Bridge, who adapted her own one-woman theatre show, plays a sarcastic, sex-obsessed young woman attempting to navigate modern life in London.

Fleabag is nominated for best scripted comedy, while Waller-Bridge and Fleabag co-star Olivia Colman are up against each other for female comedy performance.

They are up against Lesley Manville for Mum and Diane Morgan for Cunk on Shakespeare.

Joanna Lumley won’t be going home empty-handed

Image copyright PA

It’s already been announced that the Ab Fab star is being honoured with the prestigious Bafta Fellowship.

Perhaps best known for playing champagne-sipping Patsy Stone, Lumley has had one of the most varied careers in British entertainment.

After starting out as a model she was propelled to fame in the 1970s as Purdey in The New Avengers.

She once took 27 takes to kiss Leonardo DiCaprio when they were filming a scene for The Wolf of Wall Street.

Surely that deserves a Bafta all of its own.

When can I watch the ceremony?

The Virgin TV British Academy Television Awards will be broadcast on BBC One on Sunday at 20:00 BST.

Follow us on Facebook, on Twitter @BBCNewsEnts, or on Instagram at bbcnewsents. If you have a story suggestion email [email protected].