A moment of curiosity: Dottore. (male!reader) (also, not very serious of a fic.)

"So, you're basically saying that you killed a previous lover?" You ask him, furrowing your eyebrows. You weren't as scared as you were amazed. Intrigued, perhaps? I mean, not only did he manage to make a woman fall in love with him whlist his reputation was below the rocks— he also took her out on a date and killed her. And on top of that, he made it look like wild animals committed all those unspeakable crimes to her.

Dottore simply looks at you, his head cocked to the side, his lip curled as if he was two steps away from inviting you in his bed. "It is wonderful, is it not? I must admit, it was not one of my easiest feats back in the day, nor one of the most... rational ones, however, the reactions I recieved— nay, the situation received— were quite the satisfactory ones."

"So what you're telling me is that you were an impulsive, little attention seeker?"

"That's not quite what i–" Dottore stopped mid sentence, suddenly the correspondence of your words hitting him like a bunch of bricks that were caught up in a hurricane.

"This is not– there is no need to dwell on my past acts, my darling boy. They are not relevant to the current me in any shape, way, or form." He cleared his throat. "And she wasn't my lover, moreso just someone who happened to experience college crushes through my image."

With that, you sat on his lap, as you often did. "Would you have killed me, too, if I was in her place?" You were unserious in that matter, obviously, though Dottore seemed to take your question in the unintended sense.

"Entirely depends on how you'd have been in her place. If you were to simply act like her, with the only difference being your appearance; then I'm afraid the outcome would have been no different. However, if you were one who crushed on me in my days at the Akademiya, and you approached said crush as you did in our actual past, I'm certain that we'd have ended up in a similar position as we are now"

Does this man ever take breaths as speaks?

"Besides, my little prince, how would it be possible that you took her place, in order for that to—..."

Perhaps you should have never asked. Unfortunately for you, and for any passing by his office, he would not stop yapping about the scientific possibilities of the scenario you suggested.

So, wait, toes Remus know that Virgil is a dragon too?? if he does, did Virgil tell him or did he just figure it out?

It wasn’t too long after their escape from the prison complex that Remus got irritated.

He didn’t regret dragging the strange assassin along — after all, Remus probably wouldn't have been able to escape without him — but he was getting more and more frustrated with his lack of response to...well, anything.

Remus has attempted more than once to scare and/or gross the stranger out with diatribes of gore and violence, but that hasn't phased him at all. Really, Remus thinks he probably should have expected that response from a dark-elven warrior, but it was a little jarring to have his usual monologues accepted with little more than a cursory glare. It didn't help that he had to speak to the soldier in the goblin language, which neither of them knew well enough to share many complex ideas.

Then, there were his rages. Remus wasn't really himself in that state, and he knew he was quite the sight to those who had never heard of a barbarian. He's pretty sure that if he had some foggy awareness of the assassin being disgusted or even mildly intrigued by his berserk mode, he would have remembered them. As it stands, nothing.

Then, there was his trump card: The first time Remus let out his true form and went berserk on a few guards, the assassin barely even noticed the difference. Remus dismissed it at the time, assuming they had just been busy doing their thing and hadn’t seen him do it. But, as they were sneaking away from the castle spires the next day and he had to dispose of some noble-looking witnesses, Remus definitely saw the assassin look at his wings.

Still he made absolutely no reaction! He doesn’t seem to react to much of anything, unless he’s being mad at Remus for yelling too loud or missing a swing. Admittedly, being able to spark annoyance in the stuck-up soldier is a little fun, but even his moments of anger are few and far between.

This is the first and only time someone has seen Remus’s kick-ass undead angel wings and not had a damn thing to say about it, and Remus can honestly say he hates it.

So, now that they’re finally outside of the Colony walls (and Remus doesn’t have to worry about the assassin chewing him out for making a scene,) Remus smirks deviously at the unsuspecting drow.

“Hey! Watch this,” Remus shouts, then closes his eyes to focus.

He reaches deep inside himself to connect with that boiling mass of discordant energy — a frothing core of divine light that’s spoiling rotten and necrotic, burning away the mold, healing, and then spoiling again, over and over with each beat of his two hearts. As he’s practiced ever since he was a child, Remus grabs that energy and pulls it out, dismissing a weight in his stomach that he hardly notices until it's time to let go.

The instinctual protective glamor that hides his true form dissolves in the firelight of his true essence, as bone-like angel wings, void-like eyes, and a tidal wave of smoke pour out of Remus like air from a popped balloon. A sickly green glow outlines his irises, his scars, and emblazons the emblem of a sword over his chest. He can feel it as the energy unfurls, how the world spins and sears into focus, how his senses grow sharp and breathing is suddenly so much easier than it’s ever been before. This is what he truly is, how he really looks, and it is a figure that strikes fear and awe in every creature who has the misfortune of seeing it.

All except one. Apparently.

The assassin simply stares at Remus, stone-still as Remus’s whole fucked up magical girl cutscene plays out point-blank in front of him. The fear-inducing necrotic gas rolls past the assassin's feet and into his lungs, but nothing happens. A few seconds pass, and he still hasn’t moved, but he’s clearly not gone into shock or anything of the kind.

Eventually, the assassin gets the impression that Remus is expecting a response. So, he cocks his hip out to one side and folds his arms, mimicking the facial expression that he’s gathered humans make when they’re confused: a pointed eyebrow raise.

(Given his usual glowering expression, it comes across more like sass.)

The minute passes, and though Remus feels the smoke dissipate and his eyes and scars return to normal with a sinking feeling in his gut, the wings remain. Instead of dismissing them, Remus throws his arms out wide with a growl,

“Seriously? That’s it? You’re not scared!”

“Scared?” The assassin parrots lowly.

A wide smile stretches across his lightly-freckled face. In the space of a blink he’s behind Remus, gently peeling the barbarian’s tattered shirt away to get a better look at the base of his wings.

He lays one ice-cold hand against the divot between them, touching him clinically, like he’s trying to figure out how solid Remus's wings are. His hand smooths gently across the stump where flesh gives way to semi-transparent bone before Remus's brain catches up. He shrieks and jumps away from him,

“What the shit are you doing?!” Remus squeaks, eyes wide as saucers. He would be more embarrassed by how absolutely unthreatening he sounds right now if he didn’t still feel the shape of that hand on him like a brand.

(He decides that this is more because of the supernatural nature of his wings, and not because Remus hasn't been touched that carefully by another person since he was like eleven. He doesn’t have time to unpack that feeling whatsoever.)

“You told me to look.” The assassin teases, openly laughing at Remus’s expense.

Then, — and Remus could swear he’s doing it slowly just to make sure Remus sees him — the soldier takes a deep exhale, and his purple eye flashes a soft glow. Suddenly, his body evaporates until he is a cloud of shadowy smoke. This smoke quickly blends in with the surrounding darkness of the cavern, and before Remus can get a word in edgewise, the assassin has re-solidified and is poking his back again.

“StoOOP TOuching me!” Remus yelps and spins around to face him, face red as blood and hands up in a defensive position, “Since when could you do that?!”

The assassin rolls his eyes at this, his hands falling to his sides. Now he takes a moment to think, before reaching down to untie his dagger belt and pull his tunic loose.

“What are you doing?” Remus protests louder, covering his eyes with his hands.

The assassin doesn’t respond.

Though he’s reciting curses in his head and trying very hard to respect this stranger’s privacy, Remus’s curiosity quickly gets the better of him.

He peeks out between his fingers to find the soldier shirtless, his white hair parted and pulled over his shoulders. He looks up at Remus with a completely unimpressed stare.

The assassin reaches out to grab one of Remus’s hands, then turns to show Remus his back.

Remus stares for a moment, eyes tracing the thin, ragged lines of a latticework of scars. They stretch across and around the assassin’s back, some older and some deeper. Most seem to have been inflicted by animals or monsters rather than weapons.

Remus feels no sense of pity at the display — he’s got his own patchwork of scars and his own complicated relationship to them, but over all he sees them more as a mark of survival, as stories to tell. But, he is definitely curious, and his mile-a-minute brain is already spinning outrageous tales to match each and every mark.

Then the assassin guides his hand up towards the top of his back, just alongside his spine. The skin there feels leathery, and significantly warmer than the skin of the elf’s hand, though the heat seems to be emanating from someplace lower on his spine. It’s also slightly off-color, a bit lighter than the skin around it. Whatever this is, this scar is old.

Remus traces the outline of it up, then off to the side as it tapers to a thin line between his shoulder and the base of his neck. The assassin’s ears twitch at the gesture, and Remus’s hand flinches away.

He turns to look at Remus over his shoulder, his neutral grimace returned.

“We are the same. Shadow and wings. You are kitrye'maelthra, right?”

“I don’t know what that is.” Remus frowns, always frustrated when the assassin sneaks an elven word or two into their rare conversations,

“I’m not super good at reading energies, but you don’t feel like an angel… You have wings??”

“No.” He frowns, his gaze becoming soft and distant, “Not anymore.”

“Oh.” Remus sighs, now reeling at the possibilities.

What sort of dark elf grows wings, and how can they be removed? He winces at the phantom pain to his own wings as he parcels through every guess. Did a monster tear them off? The scar was so smooth, it seemed more like they had been burned away with acid. Did he fall into the pit of a living ooze, or maybe it was a punishment from some cruel cultist—

“Yours are broken.” The assassin pries, still staring at him while Remus zoned out.

“Broken? No they're not!”

“You have no skin.” The assassin remarks, like that should have been obvious, “And you look like a ghost.”

“Wait, skin? Like a bat?” Remus laughs, imagining it. He shakes his head, “I’m not supposed to have skin! —Well, I mean, I am, but also feathers. Y’know, like a bird?”

“Bird?” The assassin repeats, like he doesn’t understand the word. He probably doesn’t, goddamn Underdark.

“...Ehh, forget about it. I’ll show you one when we get up there.” Remus shakes his head.

The assassin pulls his tunic back up and re-ties it. While he waits, a sudden thought knocks Remus out of his gruesome imaginings.

He thinks he probably shouldn’t ask, but it takes him all of three seconds to snap and say it anyway,

“Hey,” Remus hums offhandedly, like he’s not extremely invested in knowing the answer, “If you could ‘go ghost’ or whatever this whole time, why didn’t you just poof yourself out of that cell?”

(“And why did you stay to help me?” Remus refuses to add, because he is not that attached to his little stray-criminal monsterboy, goddamnit. He refuses.)

The assassin doesn’t answer or turn back to him, simply staring off in the direction of their path.

Remus huffs and rolls his eyes,

“Fine, damn, keep your secrets. Bet you just can’t hold it that long~”

“Don’t xhandal me, lotha mal'dhalaruk. Usstan orn da'urzotreth dosst et'zarreth.”

“Again, I do not know what the fuck that is.”

Would you consider Hugo Strange a pulp villain?

Yes. And I would argue that he didn't really stop being one even after his revival.

"Professor Hugo Strange, the most dangerous man in the world! Scientist, philosopher and a criminal genius - little is known of him, yet this man is undoubtly the greatest organizer of crime in the world! - Bruce Wayne, Detective Comics #36

Hugo Strange was created with the intention of being Batman's arch-enemy right from the start, introduced as such by Bruce when he figures out he's responsible for the G-man assassination, pretty explicitly intended to be Batman's Moriarty and with even an equivalent demise. He was big enough to tower over his henchmen and fistfight Batman, he had a uniquely deformed skull, he was both a charismatic but threatening crimelord as well as a mad scientist plotting to TAKE OVER THE WORLD, and I've heard before the argument that the Monster Men were taken from a Doc Savage novel released earlier the same year called The World's Fair Goblin that revolves around a giant mutated man doing crimes under command by the story's villain

That poor devil, Maximus, was a Fair visitor himself, once. He was given injections of thyroxine and adrenalin—and changed rapidly into a pituitary giant. But, in the experiment, his will power was destroyed. Now he only follows the directions of that masked devil who has him hypnotized

He said, "The Man of Tomorrow stuff was merely publicity to draw the Fair crowds—and a shield to cover your own experiments. But the masked surgeon cashed in on it. Obviously he is mad enough to really believe a superman can be created." - The World's Fair Goblin

(Considering Lester Dent had taken potshots at Superman explicitly in "Whisker of Hercules", it's not unlikely that this is an explicit reference)

Although there's really no overlap in the stories besides that, as The World's Fair Goblin only had one giant where as Hugo mutated a couple dozen mentally ill patients to create monsters and then used them to go on mass murdering rampages, because Batman has always been over-the-top. But, yeah, original form Hugo was a pretty cut and dry pulp villain, like most of Batman's villains who debuted prior to 1940. Which is part of why he only had about 3 appearences before they killed him off.

By this point, Batman was in the process of moving away from his pulp knock-off origins into more of his own character, with the introduction of Robin and Dick Tracy cartoon villains that would set the tone for the rest of Batman in the Golden Age, and with the debut of Joker and Catwoman in Batman #1, Hugo was already obsolete as an arch-enemy, and was killed off the following appearence.

Of course, if you know Hugo Strange, you likely already know this, and that he was then revived in the 70s by Marshall Rogers with a brilliant take that stuck to the character's origins as a brilliant crimelord and scientific genius, but also added to him a specifically twisted psychological bent of being obsessed with Batman and becoming Batman, a villain of unshakeable will and even a twisted sense of honor and ethics, refusing to divulge Batman's secret identity even while beaten to death.

And from that moment onwards Hugo would go on to have some of the most consistently brilliant appearences out of any Batman villain (at least until the 2010s) and would secure himself as a mainstay, albeit a very obscure one, figure of Batman, the kind of villain whose plots can range from Born Again-esque subtle destructions of a person's life to a rampage of mutant kaijus on downtown Gotham, and like many of the best Batman villains, it all comes back to a central obsession and psychological edge upon Batman, and the weaponizing and destruction of anything that stands in his way.

You could argue Hugo Strange used to be a cut and dry pulp villain who was eventually reimagined as a Batman Villain, and it would even be somewhat fitting of his in-universe trajectory as a man who started out a career as a figure of prestige and respect, effortlessly able to blend in society, until his repeated encounters with Batman and, most importantly, his gradually increasing obsession with becoming Batman, gradually destroyed him until he's no longer the one ruling the madhouse, but instead trapped in it.

But the reason why I'd argue Hugo Strange is still a Pulp Villain is because his reinventions didn't shed away what he used to be, they merely returned him to his true origins. Because Hugo, you see, is not just a Mad Scientist or Mad Psychologist, Batman's got those by the dozens. Hugo is of a particularly nasty kind of Pulp Villain, who came to existence around the same time as the Mad Scientist if not slightly earlier, an archetype Jess Nevins has named The Evil Surgeon

Medicine has arguably thrown up more serial killers than all the other professions put together, with nursing a close second - Herbert Kinnel, former chairman of the British Medical Association

The Evil Surgeon came to existence as a pop culture archetype in the late 19th century, as the result of serial killers like Jack the Ripper and H.H Holmes making the news, with Doctor Quartz from Nick Carter being first and foremost among these, as the main arch-enemy of the most published character worldwide at the time.

He would be followed years later by H.G Wells's Doctor Moreau, and the likes of Dr Caresco and Professor Tornada, the stars of novels created by André Couvreur, who was himself a medical doctor and used these novels to both condemn the characters as well as give serious consideration to the ideas they explored, and depicted Dr Caresco's over-the-top exploits harkening back to stories about Marquis de Sade (the origin of the term "sadist"). These would be followed by characters like Grigorii Trirodov, Dr Cornelius Kramm, Dr Gogol from Mad Love, currently the most famous example of this seems to be Hannibal Lecter. And Hugo has been operating much more along the lines of those characters in the last decades, than the typical mad scientists he was once designed in reference to.

Of course there's a massive overlap between the two and room to dispute whether they even constitute separate archetypes, they practically came to existence together following the footsteps of Victor Frankenstein, who really isn't a true example of a Mad Scientist in the original novel, and wasn't even a real doctor, but Frankenstein's reputation undeniably is the oldest cultural touchstone we can point to as an influence in the archetype, even if said archetype would only truly take form in pulp magazines and serials.

What I'd argue defines the Evil Surgeon as an archetype specifically, is that they are specifically centered around the violation and destruction of the human body and function more as murderers with budgets, than supervillains in labcoats. Mad Scientists are generally more centered around plots closer to sci-fi/fantasy inventions like sentient robots and immortality potions used for large scale global domination, where as Evil Surgeons are more preoccupied with wielding psychology and torture and criminal resources to get away with destroying minds on more individual scales, or turning cities into slaughterhouses for them to work in.

They aren't quite full blown slasher villains, like Zsasz or Professor Pyg, instead they usually tend to be quite good at passing off as respectable, mentally sound figures of moral standing, and usually possess a sense of purpose towards their work, a goal they are working for by piling corpses atop each other and moving resources to achieve, even if said goal is a purely selfish fulfillment of their own desires. It's quite common for these characters to acquire large bases for them to operate in, even islands specifically.

In Caresco Surhomme, Caresco has taken control of the Pacific island of Eucrasia. Caresco applies his surgical methods to the inhabitants of the island, altering them to better do their jobs. The captain of the plane which brings outsiders to Eucrasia is a limbless trunk with telescopic vision. Even the island itself is in the shape of a human body. The natives of Eucrasia are addicted to various sensual pleasures and generally submit to Caresco’s rule, for fear that he will castrate them or worse.

On Eucrasia, Caresco makes use of “omnium,” a mysterious and unexplained power source, to create: a machine capable of stripping the years from human bodies and reversing the aging process, a fast underground train system, food pills, omnium-powered diving suits, and so on. Caresco is given to such things as collecting the spleens of all those he operates on - Jess Nevins, The Encyclopedia of Pulp Heroes

So, yes, I absolutely would argue Hugo Strange is still a Pulp Villain. Pulp villains do come in many different forms other than the Fu Manchus and Fantomases that are most commonly imitated, pulp was the breeding ground of the supervillain as a concept after all, where they got to star in their own magazines time and time again. Hugo started off as a fairly generic one, and when he's written poorly, he tends to be brought onboard of a story purely because it calls for a mad scientist.

But Strange came back from death as something much, much worse than just a crimelord and mad scientist, a much more rare and much nastier type of villain that, much like Hugo himself, may lie dormant, but refuses to stay dead for long.

"Quincy. My servant. My friend," Hugo said. "We don't have much time."

Quincy was crying again, with joy. "How, master, how did you-?"

The therapy, Quincy realized. The hypnosis. The drugs.

"Stay with me master, please!" Quincy tried to grab hold a phantom hand.

"I cannot." Strange said, looking benevolently down at Quincy, stroking his hair with a touch the prisoner couldn't feel. "But there is one last service you can perform me."

"Anything, Hugo, please."

"First, remove the sheet from your bed, Quincy. And tie it to the light-fixture on the ceiling."

All Cops Are Bad

The last of the essays i will be posting that I wrote for school, this one is an attempt at an approachable ACAB argument (my professor said that she was persuaded, at least)

    There is an old slogan with roots at least as far back as the 1920’s and is yet becoming more and more popular across the globe today: “All coppers are bastards.” Of course, most people just say “cops” these days.  The extensive history of the slogan might even make one stop to wonder why the police have been the object of such long-standing antagonism, if one isn’t the sort to grasp the slogan’s truth intuitively.  The reality is that all cops really are bastards, not in a literal sense, of course, but in the derogatory usage which communicates despicability.  The goal of this essay is to convince the reader that the police are bad and that policing should be done away with entirely.  After all, the police present themselves as the vanguard of the state’s repressive urges and as the guarantors of an order defined by deprivation and violence.

    Olivia B. Waxman, writing for Time Magazine, points to economic forces as dictating the development of the means and aims utilized by policing institutions in the U.S.  She writes that businesses had already been hiring private security to protect the transport and storage of their property, and that, “These merchants came up with a way to save money by transferring to the cost of maintaining a police force to citizens by arguing that it was for the “collective good.” (Waxman) In other words, America’s first publicly funded police force was simply picking up after the work of private businesses to protect their own property, but with the cost foisted upon those who were being kept out. She continues this economic argument as she traces the lineage of the modern police force back to its forerunners in the Southern runaway slave patrols. She writes, “the economics that drove the creation of police forces were centered not on the protection of shipping interests but on the preservation of the slavery system”. Thus, the primary policing institutions in the South were the slave patrols, the first of which was formally established in 1704. (Waxman)

    The police developed historically to enforce property rights rather than to ensure the wellbeing of the populace.  If it is understood that white supremacy encodes human skin with either privilege or dispossession, it should be understood that, as Mariame Kaba writes in an opinion piece published by the New York Times, “when you see a police officer pressing his knee into a black man’s neck until he dies, that’s the logical result of policing in America. When a police officer brutalizes a black person, he is doing what he sees as his job.” (Kaba) Kaba is an organizer against criminalization and a self-described police abolitionist because she believes that “a ‘safe’ world is not one in which the police keep black and other marginalized people in check through threats of arrest, incarceration, violence and death.” The police, then, are not focused on creating a safe world. They are interested in preserving the world as it is, which demands a tacit defense of misogynistic and white supremacist institutions.

    Regardless of personal attitudes or goals, the undeniable outcome of two hundred years of policing in America has been an uninterrupted avalanche of mostly arbitrary violence aimed at preserving the rule of law, that is, the sanctity of private property. In just the last year, the discourse about the role and place of police in our society has exploded with new questions and new ideas. What makes this conversation so powerful is that the police are considered so essential to the functioning of the modern world that the abolitionist movement must necessarily carry indictments on many other institutions and ways of relating that are bound-up with policing.

    Of course, many readers will be quick to react defensively.  Most disagreements with the argument presented here will take one of two forms: the claim that the argument over-generalizes police, and the claim that the police fill such an essential role that society couldn’t hope to provide an acceptable standard of life in their absence.  Both will be addressed below.

    The former argument comes in many varieties.  One might even say, “It is unfair to judge such a large group by the actions of a few bad apples,” without being aware that they were reversing the meaning of the idiom they are attempting to make use of, which actually originated as “A rotten apple quickly infects its neighbor,” according to Ben Zimmer, who is a linguist and language columnist for The Wall Street Journal. (Cunningham) Regardless of the backwardness of this idiom, many would maintain that it is wrong to generalize police or stereotype their actions based on our perceptions of a few bad actors.  Some police may abuse their power, or harbor prejudice, many readers would contend, but most police officers are decent people doing their best under difficult conditions.  The truth, however, is that literally all cops bring about harm simply by doing the jobs that they signed up for.  To go a step further, even if every police officer were to act in good faith, the task of maintaining a status quo defined by inequality would still force officers into the position of beating the cold, poor, and hungry back from the resources they need to live comfortably. This world of deprivation is not worth defending, and yet every cop has signed up to defend it.  Some readers might still say that to pain the police with such a broad brush, is to commit an act of prejudice on par with the attitudes the police are criticized for, but they are grasping at straws. No one becomes a police officer by accident.  By switching careers, they could avoid such judgement entirely.  One wonders if they would feel the same about criticizing other groups which are entirely opt-in, such as MS-13 or the Taliban.

    Could there ever be such a thing as a good cop? No.  Here is one example that I think demonstrates a larger principle: even if a given police officer is a dedicated and educated anti-racist, the logistical deployment of police departments across the US places more officers in poor neighborhoods and communities of color than in wealthy or majority-white areas. This means that even the most kind-hearted police would be more likely to detain or arrest poor people and people of color than affluent whites.  This is only one facet of a fundamentally unjust system.  The development of police departments as racist and anti-working-class institutions across History means that they are structurally and institutionally racist and anti-working-class in the here and now.  Police departments continue to defy reform because the problem is intentionally encoded into their purpose. They must be done away with entirely.

    When a protestor or graffiti artist echoes the old slogan that, “All cops are bastards,” it is an expression of a tautology.  Like the phrase “All triangles have three sides,” the slogan contains its own truth.  All triangles have three sides because it is part of the definition of triangles to have three sides.  We can’t even conceive of a triangle with four sides because by having four sides, it would cease to be a triangle.  Despicability is written into the definition of policing because the aims of policing are themselves despicable.  Any cop that ceased to work toward the aims of policing would cease to be deplorable, maybe, but he would also cease to be a cop as surely as a triangle with four sides would cease to be a triangle.

    The second primary counter argument to criticism of the police is that the police are a necessary evil, essential to protecting us from a rousseauian war of all against all.  This assumption that humanity could not get by without police seems silly, after all, the police are only a modern institution, hardly a blip in humanity’s story.  It has already been shown that the police were not created to protect the average person from harm, but to protect private property rights.  In any case, a counter argument from consequences is not the same as a refutation.  One need not know the correct answer to a problem to recognize a wrong one.  When asked, “What would you do with the psycho serial killers?” one should be unabashedly honest about not knowing the answer because there is no one answer.  The answer to each problem can only be located in the context in which the problem occurs.  This reflex to reach for a one-size-fits-all answer for all of life’s problems, along with its concomitant desire to preserve the tedious “peace” of the status quo, do a lot to explain the psychology of pro-police arguments.

    Neither the means nor ends of policing are acceptable.  The forces that shape and control our world, be they corporate or political, tower over us such that we only ever meet with their basest appendages.  The police are their piggy-toes, pun-intended.  Admittedly, the arguments presented here will be significantly weaker in the mind of anyone who really feels good about the state of the world which police maintain, however little is likely to be gained in dialogue with someone who could maintain a positive view of concentration camps, needless and ceaseless killings, the continuation of slave labor in the prison system, mass food-insecurity, etc.      

    It is incumbent upon each of us to improve the world around us.  The police are an impediment to a better, safer, freer world.  They are antithetical to equity, autonomy, and community; that is why all who fight too hard for a better life eventually find themselves faced with the police, one way or another. Nevertheless, while so much hangs in the balance, we can’t let the bastards get us down.

    Works Cited

Olivia B. Waxman. “How the U.S. Got Its Police Force” Time Magazine, https://time.com/4779112/police-history-origins/ Published: 5/18/2017, Date of Access: 12/2/2020

Mariame Kaba. “Yes, We Mean Literally Abolish the Police” The New York Times, https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/12/opinion/sunday/floyd-abolish-defund-police.html Published: 6/12/2020, Date of Access: 12/2/2020

Malorie Cunningham. “'A few bad apples': Phrase describing rotten police officers used to have different meaning”

https://abcnews.go.com/US/bad-apples-phrase-describing-rotten-police-officers-meaning/story?id=71201096 Published: 6/14/2020, Date of Access: 12/2/2020

We Are Our Own Heroes. Chapter Four: Tentative

Book: The Royal Romance, seven years post-TRR

Premise: Six years after a tragic loss, Liam and his adopted daughter meet Cassandra, an artist with her own troubled past, and the three find in each other the friend they never knew they needed.

Disclaimer: Setting and some characters belong to Pixelberry. I am just borrowing them and will return them when they feel better.

Themes: found family, (power of) friendship, healing

The Master Masterlist (link)  |  Our Own Heroes Masterlist (link)

Liam

“We’ve completed the background check you asked for, Sir.” Bastien announced from the door of Liam’s study. Liam sighed, and looked up.

“And?”

Bastien held up a manila folder. The guilt and uncertainty he felt mixed with relief at how thin it was.

“There is nothing to suggest Miss Rice has any harmful intentions.” He entered the study and placed the folder carefully on Liam’s desk. “She is Cordonian, originally from Portavira, studied fine arts and theatre abroad, and works as a temp and freelance ghostwriter for—”

“That’s enough, Bastien,” Liam interrupted. “I didn’t ask for this to pry into her private life. I just want to know whether I can trust her.” He winced at the double standard he was presenting; this wasn’t just curiosity, he reminded himself, it was assurance he and Emily would be safe. Blind trust wasn’t something he could afford.

“I believe so,” his bodyguard said, more conversationally. “Her only criminal records are parking tickets.”

Liam smiled. That was common enough. There were a lot of questions he would have liked answers to; where she had studied and why, what kind of art did she pursue, where was her family…

“Does she…” Liam’s brow creased as he considered the question, then mentally apologised to Cassie for the invasion. “Are there are partners or ex partners that could provide some risks?”

“None.” Bastien said, and when Liam looked up at him, his bodyguard shrugged.

Deciding not to pry further, Liam ended the discussion.

“If you believe she can be trusted, then I believe you.” Liam lifted the folder, removed the clips, and opened a cupboard to retrieve his shredder.

Cassie

Cassandra screamed.

The lonely peak she stood upon absorbed it and the sky answered with a sheet of lightning and close crack of thunder. Beyond the waves below the peak there was rain coming, and not a day too soon. The electricity in the heavy air vibrated through her very bones. She stamped her foot down on the craggy outcrop, balled her fists tight, and screamed again.

When the front hit, it was with a rush of cold air that buffeted her face. White peaks of the restless ocean splayed before her. They became dotted with heavy rain; she stared hard to commit the feeling and energy to memory, to burn it into her mind. There was so much anger there, but she didn't know whether it was her or the vengeance of the skies that conspired to keep her darkness.

The rain crested the peak, and for a lightning filled moment Cassandra raised her face to the broken skies with eyes shut and arms flung wide. Then thunder cracked around her, rolling against her ears, and, heart pounding, she fled.

By the time the world was awake, Cassie was heaving long breaths in front of her easel. The echo of the storm outside resonated on the canvas, with a vast expanse of swirling masses that floated at the edge of being distinguishable things.

She grinned, stepping back from her new painting. It was a story she was trying to tell, she was sure, and this part was more darkness in form than of it.

---

Cassie

Above the main city were lines of terraces stacked up onside a low mountain. Parting the upper and lower levels was an open space more familiar to locals than tourists, overlooking the main city and the bay. Cassie stood at the edge of the cobbled space, lost to the world as she stared over her city. It wasn’t the pier or the outcrop, but the dark swirling storm was as beautiful here as it would be there. There were several perfect views here for painting, in fact. Lifting her hands to make a rough square with her thumbs and forefingers and squeezing one eye shut, she imagined the image captured from different angles. Too perfect. This might be a real place, but even the organic, eclectic mix of buildings with colourful rooves… set on a backdrop of a low grey sky… there wasn’t enough grit or imperfection to translate.

Leaning her elbows against the half wall, she tried to imagine the view with a fire or collapsed building, something to put more conflict in the image. That dream kept her occupied while she waited.

“Cassie!” A young voice she knew called out behind her, and she turned to see Emily running to meet her. The girl stopped a few feet away and Cassie stood to attention to salute her.

“Hey, Em,” she said as Emily saluted her in return, “I like your shirt.” She nodded at the image of an open ocean and a few clouds. Emily looked down, then up again.

“Thanks.” Emily turned back as Liam reached them, smiling when she saw that he was.

“I hope we didn’t keep you waiting.” He smiled, but his posture was stiff. Cassie wondered what was going on behind it. Maybe she was reading too far into things.

“Not at all,” she replied, energy closer to that of Emily than of Liam. “I arrived early anyway.”

“Good.” Liam lifted an arm to point down the street. “There’s a really nice café down this way. I thought we could get lunch? If the weather holds, we might be able to sit outside.”

“Sounds perfect.” Cassie kept an eye on Emily as they walked. She looked back every so often at her father. Liam didn’t seem phased by the habit, instead walking with an absent half smile for the first part of their walk.

“How was your week?” Cassie asked after a time, not sure where else to start. Liam exhaled, and turned to her.

“Busy,” he said, still smiling, and didn’t give her much more than that.

At the café, which was more of a restaurant, Emily chose a table beneath an outdoor awning. She bee-lined for the tree-shaded playground adjacent with the decisiveness of a child who played on her own a lot. Liam watched her for a moment, and Cassie noted the dark crescents beneath his eyes.

“Thank you for meeting us,” Liam said after a time, looking over at her. His smile was tired but a little more relaxed. It was an interesting study to watch them, Cassie thought, seeing how they interacted in public, and she wondered if they were much less guarded behind closed doors.

“I seem to remember me asking you first.” She stretched, warm in the sun. “I should be thanking you for reaching out.”

Liam laughed, short and genuine, then nodded. “Why did you reach out?”

“I like your daughter, and you seem nice.” Cassie shrugged, then grinned. “Why did you?” Saved from having to answer by the arrival of their food, Liam thanked the server, and called Emily over. When the ball of energy arrived and they started eating, Cassie found herself plagued by questions from her about what she did and who she was and offered as many answers as she could. When Emily discovered she was an artist, she became more interested in that than her food.

“Would you like to see some of my work?” Cassie asked, already pulling the ever-present sketchbook from her bag and handing it over. Emily reached for it, nodding profusely.

“Yes please!”

“Fingers.” Liam reminded her, and Emily glanced at her hands, wiped the sauce from them with a napkin, then took the sketchbook and started flipping through.

“I wish I could draw…” she commented absentmindedly as she flipped through the pages. Liam looked surprised, and Cassie wondered whether she had expressed that wish before.

“I could teach you, if you like,” she said, and Emily looked up, grinning.

“Thank you!” She glanced at her father, who nodded, smiling, then turned back to the pages. Liam began to speak but was cut off by Emily’s laugh.

“You drew Drake?” Emily looked up again, wide-eyed. Cassie shrugged. She had written the man’s name in the corner of the sketch.

“I met him at a bar the other day.”

“His face looks exactly right.” Emily lifted the page for Liam to see. “Doesn’t he?”

“Do you know him?” Cassie frowned as Liam inspected the page.

“Very well.”

“Are you dating him?” Emily’s innocent question caught her off-guard, and both of them sent her questioning looks, though Liam’s was tinged with amusement.

“Definitely not.” She reached for her coffee, then realised how forceful her answer had been, and added, “He seems like a nice guy, but no.”

Far from relaxing, Liam seemed even more surprised, and looked away from her when she caught his eye, which confused her. Had she given the wrong impression? If he was offended he would say something, she believed him frank enough for that. Maybe not in front of Emily.

As soon as the latter had finished her food and waited the several fidgety minutes that her father requested, she raced off to the playground again, scaling the climbing frame with ease and dancing across the top as if she’d been born there.

“Dating?” Cassie asked Liam for clarification.

“She gets some… interesting information from her school friends. And movies don’t help either.” He shrugged, but there was a little unease in his manner.

“Must bring up some interesting discussions.”

“Sometimes.” He smiled, then frowned, focused on something on Cassie’s shirt. “Your necklace.”

Cassie looked down to see that the small chain had come free from her shirt, and reached up to touch the smooth diamond shaped flag: black, grey, white and purple.

“Do you know it?”

“I do.” He smiled, nodded as if with some new understanding, and sat back.

Her orientation wasn’t something she had come prepared to openly discuss, so she was glad Liam was aware of the community. She tucked the flag back beneath her shirt and let the subject end there.

Left alone with Liam, it wasn’t lost on her that barely any of their conversation centred on him as a person. She had no trouble being open about most parts of herself, and they talked about general topics, but Liam only spoke of things she could discover easily enough in a newspaper, or seemed near inconsequential to disclose.

They parted in the middle of the afternoon, when Emily returned, exhausted, to bury her face in Liam’s side. Taking that as a queue to let the girl go home and rest, they walked back to where they had met up, Emily half leaning on Liam, though Cassie half suspected it was for dramatic effect.

Cassandra

Cassie spent the next few days busy and inspired, her confidence bolstered by her time with Liam and Emily. The large canvas was still blank, but she had moved it behind a couple of finished pieces and was focusing on the smaller ones, less daunted by it being empty. An overcast day had cast some more drama over the beach she frequented, and she had spent some time photographing it to paint at home and letting the salty wind and light rain sink into her to remember the feeling.

She didn’t see Liam at Emily’s training, but did see him at the game, and they had agreed to meet afterwards. Her team didn’t win, which left them a little downhearted after three straight victories but didn’t curb Cassie’s optimism. They left much less dejected, and while she packed up she ran through ways to help them in their next training session. Liam and Emily met her outside.

“Ready?” asked Liam, and the lower guard in his smile heightened Cassie’s spirits as she nodded in response. Emily dragged her feet, and Cassie knelt to face her.

“You tried your best, Em, right up till the end, and that takes a lot of courage.” She ducked her head a little to Emily’s tired, downcast face. “There will always be losses. What matters most is how we come back from them.”

Emily’s frown lifted into a tiny smile. “That’s what Dad said.”

Cassie looked up to Liam, whose eyes crinkled as he watched them. “That’s because your dad is a very wise man.” She stood. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” Emily turned back to Liam, smiling again.

“You too, Panda.” He turned toward the emptying car park. “Ready for that movie?”

Nodding, Emily started again toward the car.

“Wherever your mother is now, I’m sure she would be very proud.”

Cassie knew it was a mistake the moment she said it. Emily stopped, and though Cassie couldn’t see her face, she felt the shock. Liam schooled a patient expression, approached Emily and squeezed her hand. She looked up to him.

“Dad?”

“It’s okay, Emily.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, voice low and soothing. “I’m here.”

“I’m sorry.” Cassie clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes darting between the two as her heart dropped. “I shouldn’t have said… I’m sorry…”

Liam turned to her now. “Give us a few minutes?”

Cassie nodded, staying back from the two and wringing her hands. The mask of Emily’s father broke when they made eye contact and some of the pain seeped through. Familiar pain. Liam picked up his daughter and walked away.

The official story read that Emily was Liam’s god-daughter, and he had taken her in after her parents had died in an accident. It explained the hypersensitivity to loud noises Emily had displayed in the past and perhaps her need to keep Liam within her sight.

Around the time the media excitement had been dying down, Cassie arrived back from studying abroad. She had followed the attempt on Liam’s life, the ensuing turmoil, and a bit about Emily’s sudden appearance, but hadn’t realised how much Cordonia had been obsessed with it until she landed. It had seemed disproportionate to the tragic circumstance, confirmed when Liam gave a public statement reaffirming some facts and refuting a few less accurate reports, and requesting privacy. Cassie’s friend had been disappointed, but it had been a long time since they had spoken.

——

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This week, I have a brand-new talentswap MAID especially for you! If you couldn’t tell by the pun in the first sentence, this Myth is the Former Ultimate Maid!

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BACKSTORY AND TALENT

Originally living with her sisters at an orphanage, Myth watched as both of sisters got picked up by loving families, while poor Myth was left in the dust. In order to make herself more desirable to prospective parents, Myth taught herself how to cook and clean after all of the other kids in the orphanage. Eventually though, much to her joy, she was eventually was picked up by a wealthy family that eventually ditched her, despite being great at her maid duties. Eventually, after going through many wealthy families and being tossed out/abused/ignored, without a second thought, one family managed to keep her: a warm and loving family with an artistic prodigy for a daughter. For once, Myth felt the love and affection that she was starved for, after all of those years of isolation and being tossed out like common trash. All of those skills accumulated from both helping out at the orphanage and being raised as a maid for all of these wealthy families, earned her the Hope’s Peak title of Ultimate Maid. 

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RELATIONSHIPS

Wyre Anon, Former Ultimate Artist

Born into an influential family of artistic geniuses, with their father being a master sculptor and their mother being a expert sketch artist, Wyre mainly specializes in the craft of both their parents, even though they are a master in practically every art form their parents can throw at them. When Wyre heard from their parents that someone was going to be adopted into their family, Wyre was ecstatic at the idea, and Myth quickly proved themself as a great servant and sister figure. Myth regularly serves food and cleans up after Wyre, when they gets particularly busy. Every since Wyre heard about Myth’s past with all of the other families, they claim that they are willing to fight all of them, much to the protests of Myth. 

Outfit: A brown paint-colored apron over a black sweater and matching pants and shoes, a tool belt with sculpting supplies, black fingerless gloves, glasses from original design.

Anon Scar, Ultimate Detective

Despite Scar’s eccentric behavior and constant talk of possessing an “All-Seeing Eye” under her eyepatch (which was actually lost in a battle between her and a particularly violent criminal), none of Scar’s clients can deny that she is a very competent detective, in spite of both that and her age. Her detective duties can get very stressful at times, but it seems Myth has a psychic connection to Scar’s distress, for she would always be there with whatever can calm Scar down. This has caused Scar to feel both intrigued (in regards to the possible existence of psychics) and concerned for Myth’s health and well-being (because of Myth‘s constant overexertion and overworking).

Outfit: A black and purple eyepatch on her left eye, a black jacket slung over her shoulders Yasuhiro-style, a black vest over a white dress shirt, black pants and black thigh high heels.

Fusion Anon, Ultimate Astronaut

Ever since he was little and went stargazing with his grandparents, Fusion has always showed an interest in reaching the stars and traveling beyond the boundaries. Having aced both the physical and written exams at NASA, despite his age, Fusion is well on his way to becoming a full-blown astronaut. Fusion also trains younger children who are planning on becoming astronauts just like him, via lectures on astronomy and little physical exercises to build up endurance, and he brought his astronaut-training seminars to the Kibo-Con. Myth regularly assists him in his seminars, and in return, Myth gets glow-in-the-dark star-shaped stickers and freeze-dried “astronaut grub” from Fusion. 

Outfit: A blue galaxy printed jumpsuit over a red t-shirt with a yellow star on the front, black and dark grey gloves and matching boots, glasses from original design.

FU-510-N Mk. 2 (aka. Fusion Anon II), Ultimate Robot 

FU-510-N Mk. 2 (or Fusion II as she’d like to be called) was a robot created by NASA, in order to both assist Fusion in his seminars and accompany him on his future space expeditions. Created to entertain adults as well as children during the lectures and training, Fusion II was written with more of a sarcastic edge to her dialogue with Fusion, making her a bit more of a straight man to Fusion’s cheerful and pun-loving funny man, almost like Fusion’s rebellious teen daughter. Fusion II bonded with Myth quickly over their shared statuses of being “assistants“ to others. But much to Fusion II’s dismay, it doesn’t seem like Myth is able to pick up on her sarcasm at all.

Outfit: A white exoskeleton, pink and black joints,  and four small black wheels underneath her “skirt”, clothes from original design.

Just Anon, Ultimate Anthropologist 

Running away from home, because of his massively rich, influential, and incredibly strict parents, with nothing but a backpack and his wits, Janon eventually found the one thing that actually interested him, while on his trek across the world: people and their cultures, which attracted him to the field of anthropology. After writing all about his travels and the philosophies he learned in a couple of journals he eventually published for the masses, Janon was revered as a genius in the field of anthropology. Despite planning on taking this secret to the grave, Janon has a secret soft spot for Myth, for she reminds her of the poor maids being crapped on by his influential family.

Outfit: A black facemask, a black overcoat over a pink t-shirt, a skull necklace, brown pants, black boots, a big brown backpack.

Sparkle Anon, Former Ultimate Entomologist

Specializing in lepidoptery and coleopterology, Sparkle intends on showing people all about the beauty of insects, in the most flamboyant and over-dramatic ways possible. Despite these idiosyncrasies, she is a respected figure by entomologists and aspiring entomologists everywhere. While Myth loves admiring the odd butterfly as much as the next person, Sparkle attracts insects like sugar water, and they are all a nightmare to remove and exterminate. The whole insect issue isn’t helped by the fact that Sparkle loudly and explicitly refuses to let Myth get rid of any of her “precious jewels”. Luckily, Sparkle shared some non-pesticide related methods to herd her insects, in case they get wild.

Outfit: A cape that resembles monarch butterfly wings with shoulder pads that look like rhino beetles, a green insect carrier,  a brown skirt with darker brown ant patterns, the glasses, jacket, undershirt, leggings, and boots from her original design.

Egg Anon, Former Ultimate Child Caregiver, and Wet Sock Anon, Former Ultimate Aikido Master

With a childish, immature and cursed yet caring personality, Egg was a massive hit amongst the children of the orphanage that they and their twin Wet Sock were born and raised in. In order to protect the children that their twin cared for, the brooding and cynical Wet Sock decided to pick up aikido and self-defense skills, dominating bigger foes in all the tournaments they entered. Shouldering the burden of hearing the twin’s primary defense mechanism (read: cursed comments), Myth quickly bonded with Egg, thanks to their shared interest in caring for others. Myth tried to bond with Wet Sock, but because of them being tsundere, Myth only gets judo thrown in response.

Egg’s Outfit: Part of their hair tied up with a yellow scrunchie, a green hoodie with yellow sleeves, a fanny pack colored like their original shirt, black shorts, long yellow socks, green light-up-shoes, glasses from original design.

Wet Sock’s Outfit: Same outfit from the original, but with black aikido pants and matching sandals.

Curious Anon, Jr. Ultimate Supreme Leader/Assassin

With the dubious and odd title of “Jr. Ultimate Supreme Leader” and an enigmatic and stone-faced personality, almost nothing is known about this mysterious Jr. Ultimate, not even what their talent entails. What Myth and the majority of the media don’t know, is that Curious is that his title is actually the Jr. Ultimate Assassin and is current throneholder of a secret underground religious cult that is particularly known for brainwashing and teaching their children how to assassinate potential religious rivals. Luckily, Myth was fortunate enough to not cross paths frequently with Curious, for she would definitely try to adopt the preteen assassin with a messed-up upbringing, if she ever catches wind of the truth.

Outfit: A simple white robe with a green sash indicating leadership that hides their assassination weapons.

Anon Nerd, Former Ultimate Inventor

Being a mechanical genius born in a country that was ravished by a massive war, Nerd was quickly sent to work in manufacturing and inventing brand-new weapons for his nation’s army. This past has given him a hair-trigger temper and a hatred for being interrupted, when he is in the middle of inventing. And yet no matter how many scouter-burns she suffers in the process, she never remembers that little tidbit of information about, when she comes barging into Nerd’s lab with his dinner, much to the rage of the easily-enraged inventing prodigy. But beneath the foul mouth and even-fouler temper, could Nerd have fallen for Myth’s kind and earnest attitude, despite being very annoying?

Outfit: Black armor that covers everything apart from his head, and the scouter from his original design.

Eldritch Anon, Ultimate Pianist

Videos of a person garbed entirely in black and playing self-composed pieces have been springing up on the internet for the past year or so, and despite the mysterious person attempting to make absolutely sure that he wasn’t found, Hope‘s Peak found the true identity of the online piano prodigy: Eldritch Anon, a former piano champion, who has since retreated to the shadows in growing anxiety and fear. Whenever Eldritch thinks about anything he wants or needs, Myth would always be right behind him with his want or need in tow. Because of that, Eldritch now wears a tinfoil hat on his head at all times, to prevent Myth’s psychic powers from reaching him, to no avail. 

Outfit: A black marching band outfit with white music note buttons, over a grey hood-up hoodie patterned with black sheet music, white gloves, tall black boots.

Dream Anon, Ultimate Magician

With infectious childlike cheer and unstoppable charisma on stage, Dream’s magical performances are truly a sight to behold, whether you’re a child or an adult. Dream has recently employed Myth as her magical assistant, and Myth regularly roped Dream out of trouble, just in case her magical performances go awry. But at the same time, Dream also took on sort of a mentor role to the maid. While Myth has entertained several guests with some minor parlor tricks, Myth would love to learn all about how Dream accomplishes all of her large-scale and stupendous, and how Myth can learn them herself. If Myth learns from the best, she would be able to entertain way more guests.

Outfit: A black and pink top hat, a black coat and white gloves over a pink vest, an orange bow tie and a white dress shirt, a pink skirt, grey stockings, and black tap shoes.

Iris Anon, Jr. Ultimate Cosplayer

Having been a regular consumer of fiction ever since she was little, she picked up sewing and fashion design from her parents and eventually began making accurate-to-the-show cosplay items, ranging from simple accessories to full-blown outfits. Despite being really clumsy when it comes to everything else, Iris is amazing at handicrafts. Myth and Iris consider each other “sewing buddies”, for their shared interests in sewing outfits and other such handicrafts. Iris regularly lets Myth model her cosplay, for they are about the same height and have the same proportions. Iris would be lying if she said she hadn’t tried sticking cat ears or dragon horns on Myth when she wasn’t looking. 

Outfit: Hair down with a heart barrette on each side of her head, a pink jacket with sewing supplies in her pockets and on her sleeves over a seira fuku with a red ribbon and a blue skirt, black stockings and red Mary Janes.

Purple Anon, Ultimate Adventurer

As the daughter of two famous and affluent ambassadors, Purple has been to practically every corner of the globe. Because of her travels, Purple regularly talks in archaic terms mixed with the insertion of gratuitous foreign vocabulary into her sentences, which means that the majority of the Anons can‘t understand a word coming out of her mouth. Purple is also stunningly timid for the daughter of two ambassadors, and often hides behind Anons that are bigger than her for when she doesn’t want to be seen by the crowds. Even if Myth can’t understand much of what comes out of Purple’s mouth, Myth still loves seeing Purple slowly but surely come out of her shell and talk about her travels.

Outfit: The beret from her original design, a dark purple overcoat and brown gloves over the sweater from her original design, lighter purple pants, brown boots, a brown carrier bag.

This AU will center around the maid getting helped for once, much to her protests.

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PERSONALITY

Despite her less-than-stellar past, Maid!Myth has a cheery and energetic attitude that belies (and bolsters) her sheer aptitude as a maid and her joy is described as “infectious” amongst Wyre’s family. With definite “mom energy”, Maid!Myth always comes prepared with the wants and needs for each and everyone of the Kibo-Con attendees, and seems to have an almost telepathic ability to whatever they all want, which unnerves a couple of the Anons (namely Eldritch, Scar, and Purple). Even though she overworks herself to a fault and everyone constantly tells to take a break from her work, she constantly shoulders every burden and duty placed upon her, in hopes that they won’t abandon her, just like every other family before Wyre’s family. This gave her a case of “chronic hero syndrome”.

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APPEARANCE

Maid!Myth’s naturally brown hair is tied in a prim and proper bun, complete with a white and light pink French-maid style headdress. As for the rest of her clothing, Myth wears a white and light pink French Maid dress with the only exception to the “white and light pink style” being a ribbon around her waist with a pink-to-purple-blue gradient, purple socks and red Mary Janes.

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I hope you like this AU! Let me know what you think of the AU and its roles in your reblogs!

Prologue. Introduce yourself, Olivia.

The shadows have always spoken to me. Even before my quirk developed.

I had always had a fascination with darkness, how it could hide anything and anyone...hide secrets. How it scared some and for others it was their only source of comfort and peace.

But before we get started on this story, let’s get introduced and get that shit over and done with shall we?

‘The names Olivia...Olivia Akamatsu, nice to meet ya.’

People call me a villain, but that’s not true at all...I’m actually a vigilante, taking the law in my own hands to do good in this stupid world, that’s me.

But people, especially the police and pro hero’s just call us villains with hero complexes, and to that I say

Go fuck yourself!

But enough of this dribble, you wanna read the good stuff, right?. Well here you go!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night was cold, but not overbearingly so as a dark figure scanned the nighttime crowds for any activity. It was mostly filled with people just out of work, or people out for a fun time...nothing out of the ordinary, yet.

A sigh of Boredom escaped from the figure of Olivia Akamatsu as she realised it was possibly going to be a slow patrol night...just perfect. perhaps if it was too slow she'd grab some takoyaki from that one place? he always gives it her on the house.

She was so invested in her thoughts of street food that she didn't register the commotion below her at first untill a shrill desperate voice echoed through the darkened ally, causing Olivia's head to turn and snap to attention. rushing to the edge she spotted a boy, clearly still in high school getting hassled by a group of other boys, clearly older and larger then the one they were hassling. Anger boiled inside her stomach as she watched the scene unfold. Taking a few steps back she dissapeared into a shadow, almost as if the thing had swallowed her whole. Only for her to appear on the ground silently opposite the group. The street lights near had alluminated the scene, causing a large shadow to form...perfect.

With a flick of her wrist their shadow had sprung to life and wrapped around the group, who had kicked the boy to the ground. As they yelled Olivia moved her arm, as if she was pulling hard on a invisable rope and sent the group of boys into the nearest bin, the lid closing behind them at the impact. with another flick of her wrist she gave a small laugh

"That'll keep'em outta our hair for a while"

she said to herself as she walked over to the bin, giving it a sharp kick.

kneeling down she picked up a brown leather wallet, before giving a few taps on the plastic she called out to the group

"So ya think it's ok to beat a poor kid down for his wallet, huh, boys?"

the collective groans from the boys inside made the vigilante smile. The type of smile that screamed that she was enjoying the torment.

"What kinda dirtbags prey on innocent highschool kids for their money...Don't you guys have your own cash to spend on pointless shit?"

she stated as she got up and made her way towards the boy. Pushing her small, red tinted sunglasses up her nose.

The boy had since sat up and was holding his nose. He looked at her with wide eyes as she crouched down to meet his gaze

"Hey, kid...this your wallet?"

she asked, her voice taking on a softer tone. When the boy nodded she placed it into his shirt pocket, an eyebrow raised as she noticed he was covering his nose.

"They've probably broken it...Assholes. May i look at it?"

The boy said nothing but took his hands away to reveal a bloody and obviously broken nose.

"Oh shit, kid that looks disgusting"

She told him, barely managing to hide the amusement in her voice

The kid glared at her, which made Olivia clear her throat.

“Sorry, what’s your name?”

The boy looks down before muttering

“Hajime”

Olivia smiles brightly, her eyes seemed to gleam from behind her glasses

“That’s an awesome name...I’m Olivia nice to-“

Her introduction was cut short by the sounds of voices growing closer.

Weather they were pro hero’s or citizens she didn’t want to stay and find out

“Sorry I gotta bounce, Hajime but those guys are gunna come and they’ll get ya fixed, oh and don’t forget to let them know about the kids in the trash, okay bye now”

She called as she ran into the darkness, her ombré hair dancing like flames as it trailed after her. Disappearing as soon as two pro heros showed up.

Night had officially began as Olivia waded her way through the market place.

The stars were bright and clear and the place was brimming with people and that’s how Olivia liked it, she wouldn’t be recognised as easily in the mass of people around her.

“Well, if it isn’t shadow weaver”

The store clerk called with a wave as he saw Olivia’s vibrant hair, which earned a smile from the vigilante when she finally heard that familiar voice.

“Hey not so loud, Nakamura...I’m sorta wanted ya know”

She said in a lightly teasing tone

Nakamura simply laughed

“Oh I bet you are...quiet day of keeping the streets safe?”

He asked in a interested tone as he turned his back to her to begin to make some food.

Olivia leaned an elbow on the counter, flicking her hair out of her face

“You know it, not many people wanna be criminals tonight it seems”

Nakamura nodded at this as the ingredients started to come together to form the familiar shape of Takoyaki

“Or those pesky pros are beating you to the punch”

Olivia sighed as she watched him make the food with rapt attention. She had always enjoyed watching him make the food, almost as much as she loved eating it

“You’re probably right, almost seems weird that I wanted to be one when I was a kid”

Nakamura smiles in a sympathetic type of way as he handed her the freshly boxed takoyaki.

“Well, you’re a hero in my eyes, Liv. Don’t forget that”

He told her with a soft smile, which earned a appreciative smile from the young woman

“Heh, thanks man...I’ll never forget the time you cried during my graduation from that place though”

She teased, taking a bite of the ball and walking away as he called her a ‘little shit’ and yelled that he never cried at her graduation (he did)

Welcoming the breeze as it nipped at her face and fingers as she made her way to survey the area near the place she called home.

Olivia’s place was not what you expected.

It was an old abandoned house on the outskirts of Kamino, practically falling apart and left to crumble, to wither away and rot.

But to Olivia it was home, her place of peace. She made her way up the stairs, tossing the empty container into the bag she called a trash bin and towards the bed, a stolen mattress with a multi coloured patchwork blanket and old pillows, too soft to be comfortable.

Throwing herself on the mattress she took out a cardboard packet out of a draw next to her bed and drew a cigarette. With it between her lips she grabs the lighter from the same draw and lights it.

Letting the lighter fall from her hand she falls on the mattress, smoke spilling from her mouth as the weather came to pull a cruel trick and had rain spill into the hole in the ceiling, dotting Olivia’s face with cold water.

She let the water hit her occasionally putting the cigarette to her lips and taking a long, hard drag. Her stomach beginning to ache.

Not even bothered to look at what she was doing Olivia put the cigarette between her lips and with her now free hand pulled a rope hanging by her bed. Releasing a large plank of wood that covered the hole. This was at the expense of a large portion of the national light but to Olivia didn’t mind.

She went to bed with an empty stomach and dreams about hero’s. how she’d alway be telling a lie when she’d tell people she was ashamed to have wanted to be a hero when she was a kid

Olivia still wanted to be a hero.

Meet Me Halfway- Chapter 4

Summary:  With his only friend gone after his defeat at the hands of the city's protector, Bushroot takes a walk through town to clear his head. On his walk, though, a certain lawn-ornament catches his eye.

Notes:  I probably found certain parts of this chapter funnier than others will, but I couldn't resist writing them, anyway x3

-First Chapter-

The heatwave finally started to break a few days after Liquidator’s defeat. With nothing better to do and in desperate need of fresh air that didn’t feel stale or suffocating, Bushroot spent the evening walking aimlessly through town.

Bushroot had gone back to the greenhouse every day since the “hard water crisis” (the term the media was using to describe the event wasn’t very imaginative), often staying until at least midnight in the hopes that Liquidator would show up just like before and they could go back to their afternoon routine of tending to the plants and talking about everything and nothing at all. Yet, every day, he left with the same disappointment of not seeing his friend.

It was strange, really: He’d spent so many years feeling lonely and unwanted. It was part of his everyday life- get up alone, go to work and have some minor social interactions that never really went anywhere, tend to his plants alone, then go home and spend the rest of his evening alone before getting up to do it all again in the morning. Then, out of the blue, a random supervillain breaks into his life and after only knowing him for two weeks Bushroot has trouble coping with the prospect of never seeing him again?

Maybe he really should see a shrink like his family always told him- there had to be something wrong with him to get that attached so quickly to someone so violent, so cruel, so conniving, so…

So charming…

So polite…

So eager to actually listen to him for a change…

Oh, who was he kidding? Even with his supervillainy ways, Liquidator was still one of the only people in Bushroot’s life who actually gave him some decent compassion and respect. Of course he’d miss the guy- he was one of Bushroot’s only friends since……actually, he was Bushroot’s ONLY friend since college, maybe even since high school now that he really thought about it. Gosh, he was so lonely…

With a heavy sigh, Bushroot kicked a pebble on the sidewalk and watched it roll across the street. He’d taken this walk to get some fresh air and try to get his mind off of how lonely he was, but all it did was serve to make him feel even more lonely and miserable than before. It didn’t help that he thought about his friend so often that literally everything was reminding him of the canine. That sprinkler spraying water over the lawn, those zinnias that were blooming like the ones in his greenhouse that he helped him water, that weird looking fountain statue shaped like Liquidator, that tree that-

Wait, WHAT?!

Bushroot had to do a double take to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. Across the street, in the yard the pebble had landed in, was a lawn sprinkler system with a distinctive centerpiece- a concrete statue that looked EXACTLY like the liquid villain.

Everything about it was correct from the face to his usual body-proportions when he wasn’t connected to a larger mass of water. Not to mention there was the odd position the statue was in- angled as it was, it just looked like an art piece, but, if he imagined it being more level with the ground, it looked like the concrete had dried while the figure was walking. Its face even had a look of surprise on it!

It was too accurate to be just a statue.

“Liqui..?” The duck asked in a quiet whisper as he stared at the statue. Just as he was about to go across the street to examine it more closely, the front door of the house that the front yard belonged to opened and he quickly ducked down into some bushes to hide. “!!”

“Come on, dad!” A red-haired duckling yelled as she ran out into the yard with a duffel bag on her shoulder and a hockey stick in her hand. “We’re gonna be late for the new-players party!”

“Not if SOMEBODY stops eating brownies for five minutes and gets out here!” An older duck who looked to be about the same age as Bushroot said while walking out of the house as well and helping the girl load her stuff into the car parked in their driveway, pausing only briefly to turn off the water in his sprinkler system. “Launchpad, let’s GO!!” He yelled back towards the house.

“Comin’, DW!” A slightly younger and much larger duck shouted while running out of the house. He shoved a brownie into his mouth while quickly closing the door behind him, soon getting into the driver’s seat of the car and starting it up. “Don’t worry, Gos- we’ll be there in no-time flat!”

“We’d better!” The duckling said while grinning wickedly. “No newbies are allowed on MY team until they’ve survived their first Gosalyn Mallard surprise practice drill!”

���Can you at least wait until AFTER they get their gear on this time? I’d like to get to the first game of the season WITHOUT getting yelled at by some kid’s angry PTA-mom in the hospital..” The oldest duck said with a shake of his head and an eye roll that spoke of many hospital trips and apology letters.

Once the small group was buckled in, the car drove off down the street at a speed that was honestly frightening to watch.

Bushroot looked at the house after the car was out of sight- there were no lights on, so everyone who lived there was probably already gone…

It was getting late, so everyone else in the neighborhood was already gone or just sitting down to dinner, meaning there was no one else around…

He could probably-

No, no, that would be wrong! It would be stealing!

……

Wait, would it really be stealing since it was a living person? Wouldn’t that make it more like kidnapping? Also, was it really kidnapping if you were taking someone from a place they most likely didn’t actually WANT to be and freeing them? Wasn’t that more like RESCUING??

Okay, maybe THAT part wasn’t so bad, but, even still, it’s not like he had a way to carry a solid concrete statue all the way back to his apartment-

And then the flat-bed tow-truck pulled up in front of one of the houses next to the property that Bushroot was hiding on. The driver got out, so distracted with trying to open his lunchbox and get out some donuts that he didn’t even notice he’d dropped the keys on the sidewalk on his way into the house.

……

So, this was really happening, huh?

……

The universe just conveniently gave him everything he needed to grab the statue and get out of there?

……………

Well, who was he to argue with the universe?

Acting quickly, Bushroot exited his leafy camouflage and grabbed the keys. It took some time to adjust the driver’s seat, get the truck pulled around to the other side of the road, and figure out how to work the levers enough to lower the flat-bed close enough to the ground that he wouldn’t have to lift the statue to get it on the truck.

Once he had the truck’s bed low enough, he grabbed the chains connected to the winch and tied them off around Liquidator’s stone body- hoping that he wouldn’t accidentally break anything vital. (Then again, he WAS made of water, so he should be fine, right?)

Bushroot hesitated for a moment with his hand on the winch’s lever.

Once he did this, there’d be no going back: He’d have to steal the truck to get Liquidator back to his apartment. If he got caught, he’d be charged with grand-theft auto at best and aiding a known criminal at worst. In either scenario, he’d be serving some major jail time.

Could he really go through with this..?

“……” He almost took his hand off of the lever, but, when he looked back over to Liquidator’s face frozen in a look of surprise and shock, he felt something stab him in the heart. “Don’t worry, Liqui- I’ll get you out of here.” Bushroot said quietly to himself more than to the statue before activating the winch.

It made a lot of noise as it pulled on the statue and began to separate it from its base and the pipes that had been run up into it. It lasted for a few agonizingly long moments until, with a final loud “clang”, the statue was freed from its moorings and pulled up onto the bed of the truck.

The noise, unfortunately, caused many of the neighbors to finally notice what was going on and start gathering at the windows and doors to see what was happening- including the actual owner of the truck who was NOT too happy to see his vehicle being used by someone else.

Bushroot practically dove into the driver’s seat, scrambling to get the door closed and locked behind him before speeding off down the street. He kept his head down as low as possible until he was far away from the neighborhood and certain that no one had followed him.

As he drove to his apartment, Bushroot swallowed down the guilt he felt over stealing the truck and damaging someone else’s property (though it HAD been a person who was essentially being held against his will), and focused on forming a plan to separate Liquidator from his concrete prison. He’d figure everything out eventually once his heart stopped pounding so loudly that he couldn’t hear himself think.

Strangely enough, the beating of his heart didn’t feel like it was entirely from panic. He briefly wondered if he should be worried about that…

<-Previous Chapter Next Chapter->

End Notes:  One plot-hole I don't see addressed that often is how Darkwing just left Liquidator's statue ON HIS LAWN. Logically, someone should've recognized it or Liquidator would have an idea of where Darkwing lived/who he was connected to since he was kept there for so long. Oh well, guess it's the sort of thing that helps fic writers out later xD

FILE 1: WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF SMILES

⤷ word count: 1,7k

⤷ a/n: there’s no major romantic shet here, but it’s like the foundation of what’s to come

[BLACK LIVES MATTER]

⤷ TRIGGER: mentions of pills & death

“Roronoa, check the mission board.” A stack of papers land right in front of his propped feet, waking him from his light nap. Standing in front of him was no other than the assistant chief, Law. “In two weeks, we’re raiding the SMILES House.” 

Yawning, he glanced over, doing as told. Law’s right. After extensive research, their department accumulated enough information to obtain a warrant to bust down this illegal business. Doflamingo is a smart man, he evaded the police’s eyes for years now despite his brother being the chief. His eyes skimmed through the raid team while taking a mental note — Usopp, Chopper, Law, and him, along with a bunch of other extra names. Supposedly, this ambush is the most difficult in the history of the New World Station, errr, at least that’s what Zoro hears in the coffee room. 

Chief Corazon-- the name everyone addresses him as, only a select few know his real name-- lead this station ever since the retirement of ex Chief of Police, Sengoku. You and Zoro transferred into this department not long after graduating law school. As Chief puts it, it’s a miracle how you never crossed paths with Roronoa during school-- maybe he just got lost while trying to do so-- because you complement each other so perfectly: you’re academically strong, while he’s strong physically. It’s no hair-puller to know why he’s constantly paired with you.

Zoro’s train of thoughts halts as a very loud, and jumpy girl emerges from the corner, latching onto his arm almost immediately upon seeing him. “Zoro,” you cooed like a little bird, expectantly. Prior to this day, Zoro wagered that it’s easy to drive around while patrolling the area because anyone can do that, and you took him up on his little bet. It was hard, knowing the shortcuts and hidden roads within the area, but it was easy when you get the hang of it. Unfortunately for Zoro, he was blessed with confusing right with left, north and south. Call it whatever you see fit, but you can’t deny it’s like taking candy from a toddler.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” he sighs, bringing out the iconic Starbucks cup, filled to the brim with your favorite coffee, Venti-sized. “Expensive-ass woman. You know how much that cost me?”

“Oh hunny, I know, you’re lucky I’m not asking you to pay for my rent,” you take a sip as Zoro nods along. Yeah, he’s aware of the rent surge for your apartment. That landlord of yours, what’s his name, Bella… Belle-something was a big pain in the ass, charging twice as much to splurge on gambling. He’s heard this rant so many times, he can recite it word for word.

“Y’know if you’re having a hard time with rent, then just leave. Go somewhere else.”

A pout forms on your lips, hand waving animatedly to dismiss his suggestion. “Easy for you to say, you own a house. Besides, it’s the only available one in this area. I don’t wanna go outta town. It’s hard enough to wake up on time in the morning-- what more of waking up 3 hours earlier?” You pinch his cheek, earning a groan from the man. Remind him again why he puts up with you.

“Don’t forget about our first-not-fake-date tonight,” you wink, body shimmying out of excitement. Sometime last night, you concocted the perfect date with Zoro to flaunt in front of Sanji. Zoro is to take you to the nicest park he can find and do a surprise picnic-- not much of a surprise if you orchestrated it-- whilst giving you a necklace with his initials on it-- again, nothing special especially if you’re gonna buy it. Zoro wonders why he’s even letting you use him, but then again, you pay for the propaganda, and he doesn’t have anything better to do. No rent money worries, no girlfriend to tend to, no stress that plagues the average adult. 

“Doesn’t sound like we’re dating if you call everything we do a ‘not-fake’,” his lips downturn to a very displeasing frown that marred his big-tough-guy look, while he attempts to pry your clammy fingers off said face. He doesn’t know the first thing about love, but sure as hell he’s not a dumbass.

Law pulls you aside to escort you to the Chief’s office, leaving Zoro to revert his focus back onto his reports, overlooking the new cases. A killer clown running loose, gathering a circus to cause more trouble. Nothing more than clout for a rep. 

The Massacre Solider’s, as the media dubbed, killings suddenly halted.

The Revolutionaries protesting and planning a riot downtown against the government, led by the infamous criminal dubbed as Dragon.

Firefighter accidentally sets the workplace on fire after reheating meat for too long. Damn it, Luffy.

“Hey, Zoro!” The familiar long nose approaches him, friendly as ever. “We’re partners today for patrol! Thank god it’s you.” He sobs out the last part, body turning milky white while remembering the horrid flashbacks of almost being shot at by an angry woman for notifying her about her illegally parked car in a handicap spot. The world is a scary place.

Usopp let out a huffy sigh after seeing Zoro’s nose scrunch in distaste. “No offense Usopp but Y/n is and has been my partner,” his arms crossed, gaze not leaving the paper.

The persistent sniper slides next to Zoro, slinging his arm over his shoulder despite the other shoving him off. “Yeah but the chief said that he’s borrowing her for today.”

Great.

It’s not like Zoro dislikes Usopp, it’s not like that at all. It’s just he knows he’s going to babysit the scaredy cat. Amazing how he’s a coward, yet one of the finest sharpshooters he knows. Nobody doing it like him.

The hectic, sharp alarm lights the room red, causing the policemen to spring to action. The once-chattering room fills with the sounds of rapid footsteps, police sirens, incoherent yelling, and the urgent news.

Local wealthy landlord found dead on the street, SMILES cause of death, victim unidentified.

They made it through the yellow tapes and through the crowd with the help of Usopp’s directions, and Zoro instantly remembered that face-- really, how can he forget that face when you constantly bitched about him nearly everyday. That cocky smile never left that bastard’s face despite half of the pearly whites being gone.

It was Belle...

Belle-something.

It was Belle! 

He passes by him on the staircase whenever he visits you for nonsense. The medic hoists the mass onto the gurney, and drives off, leaving the remaining team to survey the area.

His colleagues told him that the victim OD’ed on SMILES, but the marimo knew better. Although faint, his sharp eyes can see the smudged trail of blood coming from another area. This isn’t a typical overdose. Belle was dead by the time the team got here. He was murdered somewhere else and dragged into the streets for a show. A declaration. A warning. 

In short, he was murdered. And probably from the same guy who started this whole SMILES addiction.

Meanwhile as the news blared in Chief Cora’s office, your heart sunk when the anchor broadcasted the victim’s face after receiving identification for a brief moment. It was Bellemy! Holy Gorgonzolas, that’s your landlord! Crap! As fucked up as it seemed, the only thought that initially crossed your mind was Does that mean I don’t have to pay for rent? More importantly, he’s dead! Not that you feel deep remorse... he did call you a whore last week and scoped your apartment without your permission.  

“It’s a message,” Cora puffed on his cigarette, the dim lighting of the room accentuating the smoke, “He knows we’re onto him.”

He ashed his cigarette in his heart-shaped ashtray, before relighting. Paper slid across the table, a confidential report wide open. Attached to the report was a headshot of a man with fancy, bird-eye-like shades. 

“His name is Doflamingo. Known as God of the Underworld. Dangerous man,” Cora said dryly, and straight to the point. “That kid that was on TV worked under him. Bellemy.”

Your brows furrow as you flip through the pages, examining the details with careful precision. “So the assets belong to this man?” 

“Legally. I didn’t find any contract that says that Bellemy shares this property with Doffy. Doffy must’ve not liked that one of his henchmen opposed his will. We can only assume that his death was the price to pay and to promote the SMILES. Other than that, Bellemy’s apartment lots are illegally owned, so we can also assume that it’s going to be confiscated when the police connect two-and-two together. You get where I’m going with this, right?” His eyes glanced over his shoulder, expecting you to catch on with the elaborative hints he dropped. It took a while, but it clicked.

“And now I’m homeless.” Hands thrown in the air, you sighed in defeat. First it was losing your bike in the walkway, next it was having to sneak in your own office like a burglar for a last-minute report that could’ve cost your job, and now it was being thrown on the streets because you lived and paid for an illegal apartment. 

Law interjected your whine with the clearing of his throat. “You don’t have to be.” He was silently watching the events unfold before him, taking in your reactions along the way.

“You can live with us,” Corazon proposed, cutting off whatever Law was going to say. That offer left both you and Law with your jaws hanging wide open. After a second, Law collects himself and musters a very confused what. 

“I was going to say to find someplace outside of town to live!” His disbelief coated his every word, and went unnoticed. “Are you sure?”

Cora simply nods, a thumbs up affirming his decision whilst trying to convince you to take up his offer.

“Please,” Cora’s hand found its way to your shoulder, lightly squeezing it. “It’d be beneficial for both you and us. You’re part of the brains of this operation so it’s better to keep you near us. And you did say you’re homeless now.”

He nudges you once more, after seeing your silence. “C’mon, beggars can’t be choosers.”

With that one line, you concede. 

You pull out your phone and send a simple text to your date, telling him you’re taking a raincheck to pack up your shit. He never responds. Had you known the consequences of agreeing, you would’ve stayed on the streets if that could mean that he’d still be here.

Oc-tober Day 21: Palette

Aight, first and foremost, this is not a pretty story and these character are morally veeery bad people lol. And the colors I used for Massacre Anne in the first piece are not at all what they really are, they’re just the palette swap thing. Moving on to the story:

MASSACRAZE

Based on the song Massacre Anne by Mary Crowell:

Massacre Anne was a well-known mass murderer, on a rampage for years until a powerful wizard cornered her. She expected to die, but he gave her a choice. He marked her bones, making her more powerful and chaining her to his will. He would use her to clean up the other powerful law breakers.

She killed evildoers for years, armed with a magical list showing all her opponents, a sentient sword, and a mammoth as transportation. She never complained, she loved the thrill of being able to kill powerful opponents.

Then, one year, a Lord of Necromancy who routinely (and illegally) brought zombies back to life to search for his lost love (and to release his… desires when it’s not her), at the basement of the Wizard Tower, accidentally opened doors one too many times and unleashed the Angel of Darkness. With the angel gone from its realm, all souls became unleashed, and zombies littered the desert.

The Angel of Darkness took the chance to go out and get revenge on those who he feels are unworthy and wrong. He starts with the wizard commission, killing them all and inhaling the Master, keeping him prisoner inside his stomach. He spares the Lord of Necromancy because he feels no threat from him, instead, gratitude. The Lord of Necromancy is shaken but takes being spared by cowering in his room with a zombie girl caught in the crossfire.

Before getting inhaled, the Master sends an SOS to Massacre Anne. She goes to the temple as fast as she can, but all she finds are the feathers of the angel and the emergency power rings her Master never took off. She puts them on and finds the Lord of Necromancy in the basement. When she hears of what happened, she forcefully takes the Lord and zombie girl with her on her quest. She claims she will never rest until she gets her Master back!

…. But first how about some more killings to let her blow off steam? She goes to the desert to check her paper for some quick stops, only to find her names disappearing one by one. She’s distraught, her kill count is shrinking! She investigates by going to the last name, hoping to get there before they’re killed as well.

The last name is of a Priest of Guile and Elocution. He was a Priest who took advantage of his smooth talk to trick many people through the years, eventually leading to him having to sign a contract with a devil in order to not die. Little did he know, the devil was already working for another; his rival for power, the king of the desert. He was framed for many crimes he didn’t commit, and incarcerated. It was the night before his execution when the Angel of Death burst into the kingdom, powered up with the souls of all the criminals they killed, demanding the devil come out and fight him. The king, now possessed by the devil, proceeds to fight with the Angel; in the confusion, the jail is crushed and the Priest almost escapes, before getting snatched by Massacre Anne. They get away from the town just before it was completely decimated, and Massacre Anne hides the Priest with them on a cave; her base.

There, she learns more about the Angel of Death and the Devil thanks to the priest. The Angel of Death used to be a pure one, the most naïve of all angels, but he was tricked by the king with help of the Devil and her Master into going down to Earth. Once he stepped foot on the ground, he was attacked by Master, and stripped of his holiness in order to feed the Devil. After he was drained, they tossed him aside, making him too weak to fly back up to heaven, and too tainted to be rescued by his fellow angels. Instead, the ground swallowed him, and he became the keeper of souls, the Angel of Death. Try as he might, he had no power to get out, but he bid his time until he could. Overtime, his strength was regained, but he was still trapped.

Then he was unleashed by the Lord of Necromancy and here we are.

Boosted by the power of many living souls, the Angel of Death defeats the Devil, crushing him and the king, feeding on their power as well, regaining his holiness in the process. The problem, though, was he was still a tainted angel; mixing the two causes a reaction in him, turning him into a demigod.

He plans on going to heaven now and destroying the angels that abandoned him. Once he’s up there, Massacre Anne and the rest wont be able to stop him, and the Master will be doomed.

They need a plan.

They agree to work together, and they stage a trap with multiple layers. Lord of Necromancy manages to hold the angel down by overwhelming him with a mountain of zombies, the Priest uses his possession powers to keep the angel in a sedated form, unable to fight, and Massacre Anne delivers the final blow, using all her power gained from her master.

It works.

He pops, and all the people he inhaled are back. The door sucks up all the lost souls and closes again, taking all the zombies with it (including the poor zombie girl everyone got attached to), and they are left back to normal. Except the Master’s energy has been reduced significantly and he has become a child now with his adult brain still intact. The big bad Master has now become much less of a threat, reverted to a child, and Massacre Anne fakes sweetness for am minute only to immediately try to kill him to get out of the contract, but no matter his power level, she is still bound to his will and cannot harm him. Now she must continue killing big opponents like before, but the Master joins her in order to soak up their power and restore his levels, much to her disdain. The Lord flees before he’s able to be persecuted, becoming another name in Massacre Anne’s list. His mission has been modified to bring back both his love and the young zombie he’s taken a parental role for, now with the added difficulty of not having the supplies he needs nor the portal chamber the Wizard Tower provided. He needs to build his own. The Priest returns to his position as leader of the church and, now with the king dead, his power is absolute. He will work closely with the Master to create new rules to follow… or else be persecuted. Massacre Anne is excited for the possibilities of more names being added with these revisions. (This is fuel for a second part to the story)

A few notes on the characters I couldn’t take pictures of cuz Tumblr has a limit of photos lol: 

Massacre Anne:

- A sociopath

- Really doesn’t understand feelings or empathy

- Has no interest in turning “good”.

- Hates her Master behind a smile

- Only searches for him because of his command. Was very theatrical the whole search for him and would constantly grooooaaan about it.

- Has a sentient weapon that changes shape but mostly takes the form of a sword cuz they’re cool. It’s the “Sword with a will of its own” in the song. It’s definitely her best friend and the only one that ‘gets her’. 

- The Priest and Lord somewhat befriend her as well, though they know they’d kill eachother if it came to it. Massacre Anne has formed a stronger bond with the Zombie Girl, and she went as far as calling her her only female friend. Zombie Girl genuinely likes Massacre Anne, though she finds some stuff she does offputting.

Lord of Necromancy:

- There’s no way around this, this man’s a bit of a necro, though he only takes corpses with souls and asks for consent. 

- On a normal day, his zombies would only last a week usually before their souls slip away.

- His kink started with his love, a the past head of the Wizard Tower, an older woman who took him under her wing. This dude is trans, and she was the only one that helped him fit into his body. She was kind and understanding, nurturing even, and he was hopelessly in love. She brought him to the basement and introduced him to zombie summoning. You can imagine what went on.

- Then she died in an accident. She maniacally laughed till the very end, excited and calling this her favorite experience yet. The Lord was distraught without her. He mourned for a day before beginning his search for her soul. He’s been looking for her for years.

- When he was stuck with the young zombie girl, he was annoyed at first. He has no use for ones as young as her, and to top it off, this girl was missing her tongue and was mute. Poor conversationalist. But with time, she really grew on him. And he began accepting her as his adopted child. When the portal closed and she was ripped from his arms, he nearly followed her. The Priest held him down and prevented him. Now it’s his duty to find both his love and his child.

Priest

- He’s selfish, egotistical, narcissistic..... but he’s smart af. He can play anyone like a fiddle.

- Celibate (read: He’s so self centered, everyone else just... disgusts him)

- Him and the Lord do NOT get along... though their relationship becomes more amicable with the more alcohol they drink. By the end, he saves the Lord in a moment of genuine concern that suprises everyone. Though he’ll always say it was just his instinct kicking in. Tsundere.

- He also became close to Zombie Girl, and even the Mammoth. Zombie Girl stuck to him and helped him get well (since when he was found, he had a fever and hadn’t eaten in days.) Afterwards, she would always listen to his ramblings and make him knicknacks like flower crowns and stick dollies. He once again would never admit it but he kept a few. He ends up liking the Mammoth becuase, though it is big, hairy and smelly, it’s helped the Priest many times as well, even blocking hits with its trunk. Ugh, feelings.

What happened from my previous post?

The artist and activist Cristina Donati Mayer made a blitz in the park and posed a young - black - girl doll and hang up a paper: "The monument to Indro Montanelli is now completed. It was not necessary to color the statue, it was enough to add the 12-year-old Eritrean girl whom he abused as a colonialist and fascist soldier on the knees of the old man".

She was later arrested by police for her non-violent art-performance of civil dishobey. Cristina Donati Mayer was identified and set free after one hour.

She said:

"It was not my intention to deface the monument, on the contrary. That statue had, after more than a decade, a fundamental role to rekindle a discussion and a reflection, never made in Italy, on what the Italian invasion and colonization in Ethiopia, Eritrea, Somalia and Libya: nerve gas on civilian populations, bombings, mass rape, massacres, enslavement of girls and boys, child brides purchased by families, theft of artistic and monumental goods, resources and lands. So we should all be grateful to Montanelli and his monument, which, acting in some cases as a scapegoat, has allowed Italian men and women to know and deal with a horrendous past: the one of wars and colonial aggressions of fascism".

La Repubblica - Link

3 - Italian Laws and Colonial Laws about marriage from 1935 to 1937

Now, I will proof that rape and marriage with a 12 years old girl was not the accepted in the Kingdom of Italy of 1935-1936 and was considered a crime.

The infamous art. 159 of the Rocco Penal Code of 1931 gave this definition of "carnal violence" - that was classified as a crime against honor and morality, not as crime against person and their sexual freedom -:

Art. 159. - Anyone who, with violence or threat, forces a carnal conjunction is punished with imprisonment for three to ten years.

The same penalty applies to those who come together carnally with the person at the time of the event:

1. did not turn fourteen years old;

2. did not turn sixteen years old, when the culprit is the ascendant or guardian, or is another person to whom the minor is entrusted for reasons of care, education, supervision or custody;

3. victim is mentally ill, or is unable to resist culprist because of their condition of psychic or physical inferiority, even if this is independent of the offender;

4. was treated deceitfully, for the culprit was replaced by another person.

After we have verified that Montanelli would be a rapist also with the 1935-1936 laws, we will make a comparison between art 519 C. P. with the articles about marriage in the Pisanelli Civil Code of 1865:

Art. 55. - The man before he is eighteen, the woman before he is fifteen cannot marry.

Art. 100. - The marriage followed in a foreign country between citizens, or between a citizen and a foreigner, provided that it is celebrated according to the forms of that country, and the citizen has not contravened the provisions contained in the second section of Chapter I of this title.

Art. 68. - The King (...) can also dispense with the impediment of age and admit to marriage the man who has the task of 14 years and the woman who has completed 12 years.

In Montanelli case we can't apply art. 68, becuase there is not a royal marriage dispense.

However, in art. 544 Code Penal we would find the institution of "matrimonio riparatore" (rehabilitating or reparatory marriage): according to this article of the code, the accused of crimes of carnal violence, even on minors, would have extinguished the crime in the case of marriage with the offended person.

In our case, we can't apply the awful art. 544 c.p. ("matrimonio riparatore") because the reparatory wedding must be celebrated AFTER and not BEFORE the carnal violece, so we can assume that the marriage between Destà and Montanelli would be null and void because of the nullity condiction of forth section of Pisanelli Code due to age limitation.

QUESTION: Did The Italian Civil and Penal low can be applied in the Colonies?

Yes, according to Royal Decree July 2 1908, n. 325: "The indigenous customary law of the breed applies to colonial subjects and assimilated subjects, insofar as it is compatible with the spirit of Italian legislation and civilization. However, in the cases falling within the jurisdiction of the Court of Assize, the penal laws in force in the Cologne apply. Indigenous customs will be taken into account for the evaluation of the excuse, minority or aggravating circumstances and the customary law for the compensation of the damage will be applied. "

Art. 325. - Ai sudditi coloniali ed agli assimilati si applica la legge consuetudinaria indigena propria della razza, in quanto sia compatibile con lo spirito della legislazione e della civiltà italiana. Tuttavia nelle cause di competenza di Corte d’Assise si applicano le leggi penali vigenti nella Colonia. Si terrà conto delle consuetudini indigene per la valutazione delle circostanze scusanti, minoranti od aggravanti e si applicherà il diritto consuetudinario per il risarcimento del danno. "

The Italians in the colonies will follow in principle of "personality" in the application of the law: "double track rule". The population of the colony was divided into two groups: the first is made up of Italians, Europeans and all those whose "civilization" standard was considered comparable to the European one; the second group was made up of natives (so-called colonial subjects) and "assimilated", foreign individuals with a standard of civilization lower than the European one and equal to one of the native inhabitants of the colony.

Technically, therefore, in the relations between local subjects was applied their tribal or islamic law (sharīʿa), while between Italians and other Europeans was applied Italian Law, however local law was difficult to codify and was mostly oral and customary, so the hegemonic character of the law of the motherland will be affirmed on indigenous customs and practices by jurisprudential way, especially in cases of regulation of mixed relationships. Traditional law was never recognized as a source of law. ("La Colonizzazione Giuridica dell'Eritrea, diritto coloniale tra scienza giuridica, antropologia, etonogrfia giuridica dal 1880 al 1912" by Valerio Panza; "Blood, Land, and Sex: Legal and Political Pluralism in Eritrea" by Lyda Favali, Roy Pateman)

Limits:

in case of conflict between indigenous and Italian law, the latter would prevail.

repugnancy clause: tribal customary law could only be applied if it did not conflict with public order or with the general principles of civilization.

So in the case of criminal law, the most serious crimes were always tried on the basis of Italian law, even if they had been committed by and against "natives".

People tend to forget that the first racial laws enacted in the Kingdom of Italy (Royal Legislative Decree nr 880 of April 19, 1937) punished with imprisonment for 1 to 5 years who carried out sexual acts or married a person of color and prohibited recognition of children born of such uniuni. So there are lots of people in Libya, Eritrea, Somalia and Ethiopia - and maybe now they come here as asylum seekers or migrants - with at least one Italian great-grandfather who could benefit from easy access to Italian citizenship and passport, but who cannot because fascist regime denied them the right to be recognized by their parents as children (L. May 13, 1940 n. 822 "Norms about mixed-race children").

Why did Montanelli - as well as actual and past Italian society - never considere his action as a crime? The answer could be find in the interview above and in his article: he admitted that in Europe what he did would be considere sexual violence, but not in Africa, where little child grew up fast.

Montanelli considered black people not equal to white people: they are uncivilized, barbars, animals.

White Europeans are superior, in Montanelli view, so a white European child would never be considered a "little animal".

(I suggest reading "Shape Shifters: Journeys Across Terrains of Race and Identity", edited by Lily Anne Y. Welty Tamai, Ingrid Dineen-Wimberly, Paul Spickard, in which there is a long essay about Montanelli, with other episodes and exemples of his racism, and about the experience of being an half-italian child in Ethiopia and Eritrea after fascist age)

4 - Institutions of Marriage in the Erithrean Traditional Constumary Law

To understand that "madamato" was not dämòz but a fraud used by colonialist to take advantage of women, I will report what Alberto Pollera (1873-1939) wrote about "madamato" in "La Donna in Etiopia": "The indigenous law allows the search for paternity; indeed this is one of the cornerstones of that right; Italian law prohibits it; and based on this conflict of law, many Italians, taking advantage of the ignorance of the natives on this point, they easily make them concubines, to abandon them when they have offspring."

"La legge indigena ammette la ricerca della paternità; anzi questo è uno dei cardini di quel diritto; la legge italiana la vieta; e basandosi su questo contrasto di diritto, molti Italiani, approfittando della ignoranza delle indigene su questo punto, ne fanno facilmente delle concubine, per abbandonarle quando ne abbiano prole."

("Diritto e razza: Gli italiani in Africa" by Michele Bonmassar)

Albero Pollera was a colonial officer and anthropologist, author of a lot of important African studies on Eritrean ethnic groups and the protagonist of a personal battle against racist ideology that prohibited mixed marriages and the legal recognition of mixed-race children born from Italian colonists.

Pollera, who seemed to have more knowledge of Eritrean customs than many of his fellow colonists, was aware of dämòz marriage and blamed "the Europeans" (when he could more honestly have said "the Italians" ) for not respecting its rules.

"The difference of civilization and education between the European man and the native woman", argued Alberto Pollera in "La Donna in Etiopia", "is too great and there cannot be, therefore, that perfect unity of sentiments that is necessary to give a happy and energetic life to a family"

Alberto Pollega had a life-long relationship more uxorio with an Erithrean woman, named Ghidam Menelich, and had seven mixed-race sons and daughters (If you want to know more about his son Giorgio, the fist mixed-race officer to had an honor medal, I suggest to read "Dangerous liaisons, Colonial Concubinage in Eritrea" by Giulia Barrera). Pollera relationships were formalized prior to his death in 1939, in a religious Ceremony. Pollera’s marriage was particularly remarkable given that Italian law at the time prohibited both mixed-race marriages and concubinage.

I suggest the reading of "Colonialism and National Identity", edited by Paola Bertella Farnetti and Cecilia Dau Novelli, to read the story of Hanna Gonnicè and her Italian husband Ugo Bolsi, the only mixed race couple who actually had a catholic wedding during colonial period.

Another good book I suggest to read is "Principi di diritto consuetudinario dell'Eritrea" by Carlo Conti Rossini, orientalist and author of various studies on Ethiopian and Eritrean language and culture.

Using the information in Carlo Conti Rossini's book, we will see that Montanelli, buying a 12 years old Ethiopian girl in 1935, was not respecting a "local use".

It is true that in Eritrean customary law (Saganèiti, where Montanelli bought the little girl Destà, was in that region of Eritrea called by the Italian colonial literature "Abyssinian Eritrea") there was a term marriage, called dämòz which was made illegal after the liberation war from Italy. However this institute prescribed many measures to protect the bride, which were not respected at all in the times of the Italian colonial domination especially when the man / groom was a white man.

Conti Rossini writes at page 255: "A union of the kind that has been hatched naturally lends itself to abuse, and with easily degenerates. One of its degenerations is the concubinage of an indigenous woman with a white man".

"Una unione del genere che si è venuto tratteggiando si presta naturalmente ad abusi, e con facilità traligna. Una sua degenerazione è il concubinaggio d'una indigena con un bianco".

As I wrote before, quoting Pellega, "madamato" was concubinage not dämòz, it's important to noticed that the same fact was already analized 1916 by Conti Rossini. So we must believe that "madamato" became much more frequent in 1935, the year of the beginning of infamous "war of Abyssinia", which led to those lands also the twenty six year old Indro Montanelli.

Italian colonial domination was never tender with the "natives" and in perfect continuity with the brutalities of the liberal era, it was not less tender during the fascism.

But let us return to the analysis of some aspects of Eritrean customary law. We can read at page 258 of the same book: "It is undoubted that the right to free themselves from marital bonds powerfully influenced to ensure that, at least in legal terms, the position of the woman is, in northern Abyssinia, much higher than that of peoples with the same degree of civilization and also among more advanced peoples ".

"È indubitato che così fatto diritto a sciogliersi dai vincoli maritali ha poderosamente influito a far sì che, almeno nei riguardi giuridici, la posizione della donna sia, nell'Abissinia settentrionale, molto più elevata che non presso popoli in pari grado di civiltà ed anche presso popoli più evoluti".

Then on page 259 we find:"In Abyssinian Eritrea (...) the defense of rights and the interests of the woman is driven, at least by some statute such as that of the Adchemé Melgà to their extremes. Where are typical that kind of costumes, there is evidence that in Abyssinia marriage is not a purchase agreement of the woman".

"Nell'Eritrea abissina (...) la difesa dei diritti e degli interessi della donna è spinta, almeno da qualche statuto come quello degli Adchemé Melgà agli estremi. Ove si considerino così fatte consuetudini, se ne ha una riprova che il matrimonio non è in Abissinia un contratto di compera della donna".

Conti Rossini wrote that Constumary law of semithic populations of Eritrea and Ethiopia was, as later Pollega confirmed, based on agnation - line of descent traced through the paternal side of the family -, there were also important trace of matriarchal organization of society in which women had higher consideration in society than happened in other cultures.

Conti Rossini singled out two basic forms of marriage among the Tigrinya: "The first one is based on a true solemn pact among two kin (marriage for pact or märaqal kidan); the second one is an agreement that states that the woman will go to live with the man under a given payment and, usually, for a given time (temporary marriage or dämòz). A further development of the first one is the religious marriage. But, in general, the religious component is not within the marriage contract, and it is not necessary at all in order to have a perfectly valid and legal union ."

According to Conti Rossini, the solemn marriage or märaqal kidan in Tigrinya—a marriage for pact—"must be considered the true marriage (the other one, I would say, is a sort of simple conjugal union)".

Generally, a marriage for pact was arranged by the fathers (mothers had no authority in the matter) while the designated bride and groom—especially the bride—were still children. According to what Pollera wrote in "La Donna in Etiopia", fathers arranged marriages when their children "were usually not younger than seven years old". The bride went to live permanently with her groom when she was 12, although her marriage would have been finalized earlier and she would have lived with her spouse for some time before.

Normally a girl was betrothed between the ages of 8 and 14 years old, and she is married around the ages of 13, 14, or 15. And her husband can have maximum 5 year more than her.

Among the Tigrinya the bride brought a dowry, but Muslims required the groom to pay a bride-price.

Before a marriage took place, the genealogy of the future son- or daughter-in-law was the subject of much scrutiny by both families involved. Many Eritreans (not just the Tigrinya) assigned extraordinary value to the "purity of blood" —i.e., the assurance that a prospective spouse’s ancestry did not include slaves, minstrels, or outcastes such as blacksmiths and goldsmiths—categories often charged with witchcraft.

"For the slave girl there is no hope of marriage", noted Pollera in "La Donna In Etiopia" , while music players, blacksmiths, and goldsmiths could marry only among their own people. According to Conti Rossini, most goldsmiths were Jews.

Pollera, for instance argued that "in most of Christian Abyssinia virginity is not taken into consideration", while it was considered very important by Muslims.

Predictably, non-virgin girls, women of "impure blood", and women without a dowry constituted a pool of viable candidates for becoming madame. (Dangerous liaisons, Colonial Concubinage in Eritrea by Giulia Barrera)

Except for religious marriages, in Eritrea divorce was possible and seemed to be quite commonplace. But here it should be noted that since divorce did not exist in Italy, Italians might have been inclined to exaggerate its occurrence in the colonies. (Dangerous liaisons, Colonial Concubinage in Eritrea by Giulia Barrera)

If she consented, a divorced woman could remarry; quite often the request for remarriage was addressed directly to her.

The second kind of marriage identified by Conti Rossini is known as marriage for pay or dämòz in it "a woman commits herself, directly or through her family, to live in conjugal union with a man, for a given length of time, and for the payment of a given sum". At this point Conti Rossini noted that superficial observers—especially Catholic missionaries—mistook such unions for concubinage: "It is a mistake. I deem it to be the continuation or, at least, the equivalent of an extremely ancient Semitic [temporary] marriage".

Dämòz was a temporary marriage whose duration was established (from one week to one year) and and imposed a remuneration for the bride. It was made on the occasion of man's travels or for example in occasion of prolonged stays in the markets. It was a synallagmatic contract - imposing reciprocal obligations upon the parties - for sexual services and domestic works regularly recognized by law. The woman could appeal to court if the agreements they were not respected and any offspring had the right to a paternal inheritance.

But dämòz marriage may have been customary only among limited groups of Eritreans or only in neighboring regions. Still another hypothesis could be that contemporary researchers may have failed to report this kind of marriage, or they may have mistaken it for concubinage.

It is also possible that dämòz marriage was commonly practiced during the colonial period, but that thereafter it progressively disappeared due to a trend in the last century toward more standardized forms of marriage.

("Dangerous liaisons, Colonial Concubinage in Eritrea" by Giulia Barrera)

5 - Other forms of traditional marriage not mentioned by Conti Rossini and Pollega

Among the Ahmara existed three differents types of marriage, along with the dämòz:

Qurban. Religious marriage in which divorce was impossible. This kind of marriage was used by nobles and religious figures;

Samaniyya. Civil and contractual marriage, in which divorce was possible;

Shi’i Muslims have a form of temporary marriage which is commonly practiced in modern Iran and elsewhere. It is called mutʿa, but the Islamic law doesn't fully recognize it and women rights are not respected as in dämòz.

6 - Mixed-race unions, children and fascist racial laws

According to the 1931 census, there were 515 mixed-race Italian citizens inEritrea (among a total Italian population of 4,188). Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing how many métis children were not recognized by their fathers.

As we seen before, Eritrean customary law, authorized mothers to attribute paternity while Italian law did not. As a consequence, many Italian men, taking advantage of Eritrean women’s ignorance in this regard, easily convinced them to become their concubines, and abandoned them when they had a baby.

Abandoned by their fathers, these children, accorting to what Pollera wrote in "La Donna in Etiopia", were likely to be shunned by their mothers’ families, who felt no responsibility to provide for them. Hence mother and child quickly sank into the deepest poverty. He claimed that indigence, coupled with resentment toward those who hadabandoned them, pushed mixed-race children toward delinquency. (Incidentally, Pollera himself was the father of mixed-race children; he recognized them and provided for their education.)

And what happened to the mothers, the Erithrean women frauded by Italian men?

Pollera wrote: "Abandoned by the European the madama easily and quickly falls into deep poverty, as it will be difficult for her to marry, because nobody wants to bear the burden of another man’s children. She cannot find an honest job, because there are no occupations or workshops, and thus she often falls into the lowest prostitution."

Already in the early twentieth century, between 1909 and 1914, the Italian colonial administration had attempted to curb phenomena of this type through a series of rules incorporated into a special colonial law which aimed to minimize any admixture between colonists (especially colonial officials) and indigenous peoples

I refer to the R.D. September 19, 1909, no. 839 and R.D. December 10, 1914, no. 16. In the first case, article 43 specifies that "colonial officials are forbidden to cohabit with indigenous women"; in the second case, article 42 specifies instead that "the colonial official who contracts marriage with an indigenous woman is considered to have resigned".

During the liberal-era, Italian government had allowed Italian men to acknowledge and support the children they had with African women and children acknowledged by their Italian fathers had acquired Italian citizenship automatically. Moreover, a law of 1933 had created the possibility for mixed-race children unacknowledged by their fathers to obtain Italian citizenship also. This law gave legal force to the practice of assimilating unacknowledged Italo-Eritrean children into the Italian community, which colonial governments had sanctioned in practice since 1917.

In the colonial literature one can also find mention of mixed-race children being brought to Italy where they went to school, but apparently they were rare exceptions ("Dangerous liaisons, Colonial Concubinage in Eritrea" by Giulia Barrera) .

A 1914 Italian law addressed mixed-race menfor the first time, stating that they could not become a colonial official (R.d. 10 December 1914, no. 1510, art. 3.).

This is an indirect clue that some mixed-race men had risen to a position to apply for such offices.

The 1933 legislation on Eritrea and Somalia ( L. 6 July 1933, no. 999. Ordinamento organico per l’Eritrea e la Somalia) dealt more extensively with métissage. The law confirmed that mixed-race children who were recognized by their Italian fathers automatically gained Italian citizenship. It also introduced a special regulation for children of unknown parents. Those whose "physical characteristics ... give rise to the belief that both parents were of white race" automatically obtained Italian citizenship. Those who appeared to be biracial could gain Italian citizenship only if a judge deemed them worthy: they had to prove that they had "a perfectly Italian education", that they were not polygamists and had no record of major crimes, and that they had successfully attended the third class of elementary school (art. 18).

Three years later the new law for the Africa Orientale Italiana (R.d.l. 1 June 1936, no. 1019) effaced this possibility. The notion that an individual’s "physical characteristics" determined personal status, however, persisted and subsequently led to dreadful consequences:

Art. 30. - Il nato nel territorio dell’Africa Orientale Italiana da genitori ignoti, quando i caratteri somatici, ed altri eventuali indizi facciano fondatamente ritenere che entrambi i genitori siano di razza bianca, è dichiarato cittadino italiano.

(...)

Art. 30. - The child born in the territory of Italian East Africa from unknown parents, when the somatic, and other possible indications make it reasonably believe that both parents are of race white, is declared an Italian citizen.

As I wrote before, the first racial law in Italy was the Royal Legislative Decree 19 April 1937, no. 880, (turned into l. 30 December 1937, no. 2590), that was the culmination of a campaign against "the plague of miscegenation" that arose after the Ethiopian conquest in 1935–1936.

The first effect of the new segregation policy was the criminalization of the "madamato" . The law’s only article read:

The Italian citizen who, in the territory of the Kingdom or the colonies, has a relation of a conjugal nature with a colonial subject of the Africa Orientale Italiana, or with a foreigner belonging to a people which has traditions, customs, social and juridical concepts analogous to those of the subjects of the Africa Orientale Italiana, will be punished with imprisonment from one to five years.

"Il cittadino italiano che nel territorio del Regno o delle Colonie tiene relazione d’indole coniugale con persona suddita dell’Africa Orientale Italiana o straniera appartenente a popolazione che abbia tradizioni, costumi, e concetti giuridici e sociali analoghi a quelle dei sudditi dell’Africa Orientale Italiana, è punito con la reclusione da uno a cinque anni" (r.d.l. 19 Aprile 1937, nr. 880, convertito in l. 30 Dicembre 1937, nr. 2590).

In 1940, the "Norms Concerning Children of Mixed Race" (L. 13 May 1940, nr. 822) prohibited Italians from acknowledging the children they had had with Africans and from helping to support them; as for the "mixed-race" children (meticci), the norms assigned them the juridical status of colonial subjects.

7 - Conclusions

Montanelli had 14 years more than Destà, who was only 12 year old.

Considering all the reasons above, I'm allowed to consider wrong who said that Montanelli married a 12 years old Ethiopian girl in the respects of local Constumary law.

"Madamato" was a froud, a way in which white colonialist abused of low-class women, and definitely was not dämòz.

When you buy a 12 years old Ethiopian girl from her father with a shotgun and a horse for 500 lire, you are not marring her in the respect of dämòz. You are buying a slave.

In the 19th century a person was considered a slave if another individual exercised power or control over the slave to restrain his or her personal liberty. In 1935-1936 slavery were illegal according to the Slavery Convention of 1926.

When you talk about "madamato" you talk about rape and slavery.

This is a wrong rapresentation of historical reality of Italian colonialism, a way in which white men, today and yesterday, continue to oppresses women and young girl with the myth of "a benevolent" Colonialism.

...

In the next part I will examine why Montanelli could not be considered a good journalist and some of the atrocities committed by Italians against the african population during it's colonial wars.

Humans are Weird: Professional Criminals

For all the magnificence alien species held over humanity, from their technology to their way of life, they never full grasped the idea of organized criminals. The very concept alone seemed as foreign and alien to them as the humans were.  This was to say that they did not have the concept of crime, but the scope of it was drastically reduced to individuals breaking the law for emotionally driven reasons rather than a sound minded choice.  Because aliens did not fully understand it they initially did not consider it a threat to their governments or way of life....a fact which many unsavory humans were all to ample to take advantage of and carve out their criminal empires....... ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On the planet Karkoga, the capital city’s work shift was ending and the Karkogan people were all heading home. They were roughly humanoid in shape with the exception of their dirty orange colored skin and spiky heads that gave them the appearance of a pincushion head.  The workers all went on their way back home filled with the idea of relaxation before the next work shift began, giving the masses a near celebratory air. Well, with the exception of one young Karkogan who made the mistake of being caught dealing the drug “Galaxy Dust” by the local police force known as the “Magistrates”.   Molby was lifted up by the magistrate and shoved against the wall, his legs dangling below him and bouncing off the wall as he struggled in the magistrate’s grip.  “Think you can push that galaxy dust crap in my neighborhood do ya kid!?” The magistrate shoved Molby against the wall again with greater force making his back feel like it was about to snap.  “There, there, there must be some mistake magistrate!” Molby coughed up.   That earned him another shove much harder than the previous and Molby felt the air violently escape from his lungs leaving him gasping.  “The only mistake here was your whore mother not leaving you out to die in the street for being a good for nothing!” The Magistrate threw him across the alley way and into some rubbish receptacles causing the contents to go flying.  Molby tried to rise but felt a foot kick him back down to his knees. All he could do was look up at the Magistrate pulling out his shock baton and power it up. He braced himself for the inevitable pain when a voice came in from the end of the alley way.  “There you are! I’ve been waiting for my delivery for some time now!”     The magistrate and Molby both turned to see a figure step out of the shadows and begin walking towards them. They were wearing an expensive looking outfit judging from the quality of the materials. A black suit with matching pants with a red tie. A long brimmed hat covered their face in shadow until they stepped closer and tipped it upwards.  A human....Molby thought.  A few years back they had been discovered by the galactic community and after a few wars had been fought they had eventually signed peace agreements with the varying species of the galaxy. Ever since then they’ve been using established travel routes to spread across the galaxy to the point that nearly every planet had some form of human community on it.  The well dress figure let off a toothy grin as he continued walking towards them.  “Back off human,” the magistrate said as he turned his baton to point their way, “this is official magistrate business.” The human stopped in their place a few paces away and held up their hands. “I would never dream of it Magistrate. Number one rule for humans on Karkoga is to never interrupt  the work of a Magistrate. You make our police forces look like a bunch of children with water shooters.”  The Magistrate lowered the baton a little at the praise but still kept it pointed towards the human. “Then you humans aren’t as stupid as you seem to be. So push off then, this has nothing to do with you.”  The human continued smiling and tilted their head to the side. “I’m afraid that’s where you are wrong Magistrate. You see I’m the person this young fellow here was going to sell the galaxy dust to.” The Magistrate fully turned to face the human and glared at him. “I take back what I said earlier, your kind really are stupid to admit to a crime in front of a Magistrate.”  “Oh no no no, that’s where the confusion is from.“You see I have a rare human condition called “Nero-logic Pententious Cerebrum”. Galaxy Dust is the only known treatment for it I’m afraid.”  “Nero-La, Nero-Loc, Ner- whatever you call it!” The Magistrate stammered as he tried to pronounce it.”It’s not something I’ve heard of.” “Completely understandable Magistrate. It’s a relatively new disease that humans contract during extended space travel. Nasty business I’m afraid. My nervous system starts shutting down on me and I lose control of portions of my muscles. Some begin to expand so rapidly they burst through skin or begin contracting and tightening so much they snap bones.” The magistrate coughed for a moment and Molby thought he might actually throw up at the human’s description. “Galaxy Dust for some reason has been proven to treat the disease but it must be taken regularly.” The human slowly began reaching into their coat when the magistrate  pointed their baton at them again.  “Stop right there!” He shouted at the human. The human froze but kept smiling. “I’m just pulling out my doctors note magistr-” the human began before his arm started twitching.  “Oh no....” The human suddenly stopped smiling at looked at their twitching arm which was beginning to fidget \erratically. “No, no, no, no!” Their arm began wiping around violently and smacked the human clear in the face before his other arm grabbed it and tried to keep in under control. “I’m overdue for my treatment!” The human cried out and collapsed against the wall.  The magistrate and molby just watched in growing horror as the human began writhing around on the grown switching between sobbing, laughing, and screaming all the while flailing around.  “Well don’t just stand there!” Molby looked up at the Magistrate now clearly worried about the idea of a human dying on his watch after denying him his medicine. As strict as they were, the government did not look kindly on their magistrates that allow innocent people to die. “Give him the dust!”  Molby stood up and shambled over to the human who was now screaming their lungs out on the ground. He pulled out the pouch of dust and was about to give it to the human when they cried out “NO!!!!”  Molby tumbled backwards at the sudden outburst. “It-it--IT---...it” they stammered, struggling to speak a complete sentence. “It must be diluted! Need water! Get water!!!” They screamed at the magistrate who nodded and rapidly ran down the alley way to the street.  Molby watched the magistrate sprint away and turned to comfort the human who appeared to be in considerable pain when all of a sudden they stopped moving.  “Hey, kid. Is he gone?” Molby was unsure what to say so simply nodded.  Without warning the human stood up and brushed themselves off. “Haven’t had to run that gag in a long time, but i still got it.” The human laughed and stretched their arms and legs before wiping the last bit of grime off their shoes.  “But...how...you..?” Molby stammered as he tried to understand what was going on. “Kid we’ve got maybe five minutes before that magistrate comes back with a glass of water.” The human said as they donned their brimmed hat. “We could spend it answering your questions, or we could make our escape. Don’t know about you but I’m bugging out. Care to join me?”  Without waiting for an answer the human began sprinting down the alleyway they had come from leaving Molby alone and confused before snapping himself out of it and dashing after them. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  They had sprinted for nearly twenty blocks before the human began slowing down and motioned for Molby to follow him.  They stepped into a nearby diner and took a table near the back of the room.  The two of them were still gasping for breath but somehow the human was still able to place an order for food between gasps.  The waitress left and Molby began to calm down when the human let out a long sigh. “Well, that, was exciting!” He laughed as he took off his hat and set it down on the table, running a hand through his slick black hair.  “If that’s your idea of excitement you need to get out more human.” Molby froze as he realized what he had just said and saw the dead eyed stare the human was giving him. It felt just like when the magistrate was about to beat him with the shock baton but ten times worse making his knees begin to shake.  They stared at him for what felt like an eternity before the hand that had been smoothing their hair smacked the table and they let out a laugh. “You’ve got spunk kid, I like that in a fellow criminal!”   Molby nervously laughed as well now feeling the tension of the last hour fade from his body. The human held out a hand across the table. “Name’s Jimmy.” Molby looked at it for a moment unsure what he was meant to do. “Right, you people don’t do handshakes. Gotta remember that one.”  Molby guessed it was some form of human greeting so he reached out with his hand and grasped theirs. “I’m Molby....and thanks...for, you know...” Jimmy shook Molby’s and flashed a toothy grin. “Don’t sweat it kid.”  He let go of Molby’s hand and reached into his coat and took out a small box. He held it up to his open mouth and shook it a few times before some white pellets fell out which he began munching on. It dawned on molby that this was the first time he had met an alien before yet he hardly felt like it was anything different from his day to day interactions.  Seeing the pellets Molby remembered what Jimmy had said to the magistrate and quickly pulled out the galaxy dust. “Here! For your treatment!” Jimmy coughed a few times as Molby pulled the bag of illegal drugs and shoved them back under the table and out of sight. “Jesus kid you really are dense, or is it that I’m that good of a performer?” He said as he took a gulp of water. “I don’t understand...You looked like you were in so much pain from your Nero-”. Jimmy held up a hand to stop Molby. “All acting kid. There’s no such thing as  Nero-logic Pententious Cerebrum.” “But then why did the magistrate-” He held up a hand to stop Molby. “The thing is if something sounds real enough, and you say it seriously enough, then anybody can will believe anything.” Molby looked at Jimmy with wide eyed wonder as he merely shrugged. “It’s an old trick I learned back on earth but it feels like out here it’ll get new blood. That reminds me.” He pointed at Molby getting serious. “If you run into that same magistrate again and he asks what happened just say that I told you to get me to my doctor for special treatment.”  Molby nodded and was about to say something when the waitress came back with their food. He looked on longingly as Jimmy dove in and began devouring the food and his own stomach rumbled. Without saying anything Jimmy pushed the plate between them. “Dig in kid, can’t talk business on an empty stomach.”  Molby hadn’t eaten all day and was starving so didn’t need any more invitation to dig in.  It was after several mouthfuls that Molby remembered what Jimmy had said. “What business?” He asked with a mouthful of food. Jimmy leaned back in the booth and looked at him. “How you’re going to pay me back for saving you from a beating and time in the pen for starters.”  Molby stopped eating and looked at Jimmy, the smile gone from his face. He put down the food and sat in silence. “What do you want?” Jimmy sniffed and rubbed his nose. “How about half of what you made today selling galaxy dust?”  Molby stood up from the table. “That’s crazy!” Jimmy held up his hands. “Easy kid, easy.” Molby noticed that everyone in the dinner was now staring at him so he quietly got back in his seat. “Why’s that crazy?” Jimmy remarked. Molby rocked back into his seat uncomfortably. “It’s complicated....” Jimmy sniffed again and nodded. “Going to take a wild guess here, but I wager you have no family and the only way you can make money to survive is by selling drugs; and the reason you think my offer is crazy is because whoever is selling to you charges half what you normally make, leaving you with almost nothing to survive on.”  Molby looked at him in silence. “Are humans mind readers?” “God I wish.” Jimmy chirped, “I’d make a killing in gambling dens. No  kid, it’s just a story I’m all too familiar with back on my world.” He suddenly looked like he was remembering something from his past and was ashamed of it.  The moment passed though and he was back to all business. “So if you won’t pay up how about this then.” Molby tuned in to what Jimmy had to say. “Come work for me.” It was Molby’s turn to laugh. “What makes you think I’d work for you?”  Jimmy knocked back a few more pellets and munched on them. “You’ve seen how crafty I can be and that was only the tip of the iceberg kid. Stick with me and you’ll be making more money then you know what to spend on.” Molby considered the option. It was true, he had never thought of trying to trick a magistrate before, hardly any of the other dealers he knew had even considered it. Once you were caught it was game over. But with Jimmy..... “What makes you think you can do better than me?” Molby countered. Jimmy leaned over the table and crossed his fingers together. “Because humans are no strangers of crime and we’ve practiced it for so long we’ve turned it into an art form.” There was no hint of humor in his voice Molby noted, he was being dead serious.  After a long silence of consideration. Molby nodded. “Alright, I’ll give you a try. but if you don’t add up I’m back to being a solo gig.” Jimmy smiled and stretched out his hand again and Molby took it. “Kid, you’ve just witnessed the rise of a criminal empire.” Molby didn’t understand it but he felt like it had some human significance.  “What now?”  Jimmy put some money on the table for the waitress and began to stand up. “Now, I want you to go find any other dealers you know and tell them to meet us tomorrow at the old conversion plant at the edge of town.” “What for?” Molby asked as he rose to follow Jimmy as he began walking out. “I’m going to recruit them to. We’re going to need a lot of people for this kind of operation.”  “But what if they won’t come? What if even I decide to bail and you never see me again”   Jimmy shrugged. “Tell them what I’m telling you. You pass on this you’re passing on more money than you’ve ever dreamed of. Humans are a crafty bunch. We know how to handle law officials, we know how to establish a steady supply, and most importantly we know how to make a lot of money.”  He tipped his hat to the kid and began casually walking away. “Make sure to stress the last part for them, that always works!” He waved over his shoulder and vanished into the crowd of bystanders leaving Molby standing there with dreams of wealth that he’d oddly never dreamed of before..... ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- *Stay tuned for the next chapter of this story. Humans are Weird: Criminal Organizations*  

Observations on the Hierarchy Of the Guard of Priwen

The Guard of Priwen largely remains a mystery to us as the player throughout Vampyr. No matter how openly we see them patrol the streets as some form of underground night watch, we only see glimpses of their true, and supposedly resurrected power, let alone witness the history of what they were before the schism from their “cowardly” brothers, the Brotherhood of St. Paul’s Stole. As Lady Ashbury parts with us, the Guard of Priwen is a secret society, one of many in the dreary and eerie vampire underworld.

I have other plans to delve deeper into the militaristic madness that is the Guard of Priwen’s inner workings and possible historical backgrounds, but I first wanted to share this small piece regarding the one detail that is most obvious in the game: the several Mobs we encounter with their logos splattered all across it. Therefore, this will be a shorter analysis solely dedicated to the possible hierarchy within Priwen, combining datamined research, the lore, and some fun historical notes behind each and every rank!

As per usual, this analysis will have spoilers, this time all the way through! All parts of this post will discuss Vampyr’s lore in detail, so please skip if you do not wish to be spoiled! 

Tagging @comfycheesecakes, @orionali, @cursedbethechoice as I imagine some of this may be to each of your interests. 

To preface a starting point point: Usher elaborates on the history of Priwen’s conception when Jonathan speaks to him in the West End inside his crypt: 

Usher also writes of them in the Collectible “Laughing at the Guard”, explaining their origins and beliefs from a historical point. The Collectible helps to detail the inner turmoils that founded the Brotherhood as well as the detailed purpose behind its creation:

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This gives us a starting point to Priwen’s possible background and development. 1801 places the birth of the Guard of Priwen in the Georgian Era, beginning from 1714 to circa 1830 - 1837. 

You will also see a militant trend following Priwen which is also an obvious fact in game but characters like Archer Woodbead in The Docks or Dorothy Crane in Whitechapel, both in Districts with the highest concentration of Priwen, this is a very visible trend for those around them: 

Dorothy’s exchange occurs if you Spare her as Jonathan, revealing a harrowing fact about Priwen’s encroaching behaviour in their fanatical fear of keeping any sign of vampire activity eradicated. Beforehand, Priwen guards burst in to the Dispensary regardless of your Pillar Choice as Jonathan, with the patients downstairs being shot to death should you check again with Senses. The bodies no longer have visible heartbeats.

When Jonathan begins to gain access to the rich streets of the West End, it, too, struggles to avoid Priwen’s influence with not only their guard presence, but also their criminal presence! 

Inspector Charles Jerome Albright will speak to Jonathan about the recent happenings and murders in London, claiming that there are:

Jonathan has the option to then report a possible suspect, one of these being Geoffrey McCullum, the current leader of Priwen:

If you choose McCullum, Jonathan calls Priwen a group of “vigilantes”; a vigilante is someone, or a group, who attempts to enforce laws (or their ideas of what is law) without the authority to do so.

With this very worrying trend now established, let us fully move onto dissecting Priwen’s inner workings!

GUARD OF PRIWEN

What’s interesting to note is that a lot of the current enemies in GoP have different names depending on where you look—from either the canonical versions in the game themselves, to the game files, or even the concept art. I will be looking at all three sources for any comparisons!

PRIWEN

To begin dissection—I will first begin with the titular names of each organisation for each of their respective sections, beginning with the Guard of Priwen. “Priwen” is a reference to Geoffrey of Monmouth’s (Latin: Galfridus Monemutensis, Galfridus Arturus, Welsh: Gruffudd ap Arthur, Sieffre o Fynwy)  Arthurian legend titled “The History of the Kings of Britain”, or “De gestis Britonum” (On the Deeds of the Britons) or Historia regum Britanniae”, written circa. 1136.“Priwen” is the name of King Arthur’s shield, hence, the Guard of Priwen:

“Without a moment’s delay each man present, inspired by the benediction given by this holy man, rushed to put on his armour and to obey Dubricius’ orders. Arthur himself put on a leather jerkin worthy of so great a king. On his head he put a golden helmet, with a crest carved in the shape of a dragon; and across his shoulders a circular shield called Priwen, on which there was painted a likeness of the Blessed Mary, Mother of God, which forced him to be thinking perpetually of her.” — Legends of Arthur, Richard Barber, 2003.

Arthurian myth utilized in several aspects of Vampyr, with this being one of the more prominent examples. The symbol of Priwen is also referencing this myth, as it resembles a Latin cross with a circle to represent a shield:

LEADER

This is relatively standard, but we do know that the head of the Guard of Priwen is always referred to as “leader”, as the notes done by Geoffrey McCullum and Carl Eldritch thus far are denoted by “leader”; the only exception is reserved for Kendall Stone who is also denoted as “Founder”. “Leader” is rather self-explanatory, as it simply means “someone who leads a group”. Interestingly, it also seems to be used for those who are not the head of Priwen either, as we see in the scouting note during Thelma’s side-quest: a female “team leader” who went by Amanda Tilton. This seems to indicate there is no specific or official title to discern the head of Priwen, perchance making “leader” more of slang or casual terminology that merely stuck through the generations. The below are either written manuscripts by the leaders themselves, or copies from another. 

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Kendall Stone’s denotation and signature:

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Carl Eldritch’s denotation and signature:

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Geoffrey McCullum’s denotation and signature:

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CHAPLAIN/SHEPHERD/PREACHER

(For the purpose of relevancy, I will mostly be focusing on the Chaplain terminology as that is the canonical one we see in-game, but will still be examining the Chaplain’s alternative terms and their origins.)

Chaplains are curious. You do not see them until much later in the game (other than certain exceptions regarding side-quests), there are two versions of them according to the game files, that being the Shepherd_Preacher and the Shepherd_Fanatic, but only one model, the Fanatic, remains in the game. Shepherd_Preacher is the first version of the Chaplain which we see in the E3 2017 Trailer. Their enemy busts are below; the model shown in the game files is only of the Fanatic:

Concept art also reveals them being originally labelled as “Preacher”, with a single exception being that sometimes, the loading screen within the game will use the title:

 Florent Auguy

The word “chaplain” is borrowed from Old French “chapelain”, which in-turn stems from the Medieval-to-late Latin “cappellānus” that also hails from a Medieval Latin to Late Latin word read as “cappella”. Notably, “cappella”  is defined as a chapel or a choir. The story of chaplains themselves hail from a 4th-century practice:

In the 4th century, chaplains (Latin cappellani) were so called because they kept St. Martin’s famous half cape (cappella, diminutive of cappa). This sacred relic gave its name to the tent and later to the simple oratory or chapel where it was preserved. To it were added other relics that were guarded by chaplains appointed by the king during the Merovingian and Carolingian periods, and particularly during the reign of Charlemagne, who appointed clerical ministers (capellani) who lived within the royal palace. In addition to their primary duty of guarding the sacred relics, they also said mass for the king on feast days, worked in conjunction with the royal notaries, and wrote any documents the king required of them. In their duties chaplains thus gradually became more identified with direct service to the monarch as advisers in both ecclesiastical and secular matters.

In modern usage, a chaplain holds a strange position within the religious circle they reside in, most notably because the definition of a “chaplain” is a cleric who is assigned to a secular institution such as a hospital, prison, military forces, universities, and so on. 

n. A member of a religious body (often, but not always, of the clergy) officially assigned to give pastoral care at an institution, group, private chapel, etc. A person without religious affiliation who carries out similar duties in a secular context.

…

Clergy and ministers appointed to a variety of institutions and corporate bodies—such as cemeteries, prisons, hospitals, schools, colleges, universities, embassies, legations, and armed forces—usually are called chaplains.

Often they are considered a religious leader or some form of a figurehead, with some chaplains previously being leaders of a chapel before their assignment to a different institution. Given Priwen’s circumstance of being an underground militia, the usage of the word makes perfect sense as the Chaplains of Priwen seem to hold the same responsibilities of real-life, in this case, military chaplains (as they are called) who serve in the armed forces (the concept of allowing religious figures into battle, to this day, still holds much controversy), or we can at least assume they do some of the following which are: 

A chaplain performs basically the same functions in most armed forces. A chaplain in the U.S. military must furnish or arrange for religious services and ministrations, advise his commander and fellow staff officers on matters pertaining to religion and morality, administer a comprehensive program of religious education, serve as counselor and friend to the personnel of the command, and conduct instruction classes in the moral guidance program of his service.

Beyond that, a “shepherd” has a variety of religious messages but to keep it short: “shepherd” stems from the Middle English word “schepherde” to the Old English “sċēaphierde” which is a mixture of the two words “sċēap” (”sheep”) and “hierde” (”herdsman”). A female version of the word is a “shepherdess”. The word itself has multiple sorts of definitions, with a rather funny one to think about at times:

n. A person who tends sheep, especially a grazing flock. (figuratively) Someone who watches over, looks after, or guides somebody. (figuratively) The pastor of a church; one who guides others in religion. (poetic) A swain (”young man”); a rustic male lover.

A “preacher” is as it sounds: someone who spreads their worldview or philosophy. In this case, it would be perhaps a gospel or a sermon. From the Old French “preecheor” (”prêcheur”), to Latin “praedicator” (”public praiser”, “proclaimer”). A female preacher is known as a “preacheress”.

EXECUTIONER/TRAPPER

Executioners, or Trappers as the concept art referred them as (see above), are the crossbow snipers wearing red, hooded garbs, able to throw gas grenades and flaming bolts, bereft of any melee resistance whatsoever. According to the game files, there are three types of Executioners. Here are the files:

Alongside their respective busts labelled Chemical, Fire, and Wood, their models are instead labelled CrossBow, FireCrossbow, and Sniper:

The word “executioner” is a combination of the words “execution” , which is borrowed from Old French “exécution”  (c. 1360) of the Latin “executio”, an agent noun (a word deriving from another word that denotes an action of some sort), of “exequi” (”to follow out”) which stems from “ex” (out) and “sequor” (”follow”) and of course, “-er”, from Middle English “-er” and “-ere”, as well as Old English “-ere”, and Proto-Germanic “-ārijaz” used as a suffix. “Executioner” is also a fairly self-explanatory definition; it literally means “one who executes”, but to ensure that we are being thorough:

n An official person who carries out the capital punishment of a criminal. (archaic) Executor (one who conducts a task). A hit man, especially being in some organization.

An “executioner” was historically seen as a “hangman” or “headsman”—a reference to the practice of execution via. means of public decapitation. This, alongside the file name of “Sniper”; the fact that the Executioner is only ranged, defined as “hit man, especially being in some organization” and that beheading would often result in instantaneous death, the choice of title is very distinct. Like beheadings, a sniper aims to kill with a single action—an underleveled Jonathan will easily be one-shot by an Executioner from afar, making their name strikingly fitting. The fact that they are a part of Priwen, an “organization” of sorts that specializes in executions of the undead, is simply a fond, bloody coincidence. 

In comparison, a “trapper” is, well, one who “traps” something, often animals for their hides or other precious materials. This may be an insinuation that literal traps of some kind were going to be added to the final product but were inevitably cut out. It does, however, fit Priwen’s perception of vampires—that they are feral animals to entrap and be rid of.

INVESTIGATOR

This will be short, as it is a term used in the game files and concept art for three ranks od Priwen, which happen to be the most squishy of mobs: Priwen Rookies (Rookie), Priwen Cadets (Veteran), and Priwen Gunners (Range).

“Investigator” is also self-explanatory: “one who investigates”, which is to say: 

v. (transitive) To inquire into or study in order to ascertain facts or information.      to investigate the causes of natural phenomena (transitive) To examine, look into, or scrutinize in order to discover something hidden or secret.      to investigate an unsolved murder (intransitive) To conduct an inquiry or examination. 

Said to have derived from the mid-1500s, from Latin “investigator” which hails from “investigare”. Interestingly, we know that female versions of each of these models exist in the game files apart from NPCs, confirmation of a female “leader” as shown above, as well as hearing female voices in the Prologue of Vampyr when Jonathan must escape the mass grave at dawn. Women were shown in the Alpha iterations of the game. Elwood confirms the presence of women in Priwen if you speak to him soon after Edgar’s kidnapping:

The feminine usage of this word is known as “investigatrix”, from Latin “investīgātrix”.

ROOKIE

Rookies are the most numerous types of enemies within the game as well as the first one you encounter within the Prologue. They only use melee weapons and hold resistance to Ranged Attacks. The sheer amount of them you find are most likely a reference to the Guard’s revitalized state in the wake of the Skal Epidemic. Ashbury mentions that Priwen was “almost gone” before Priwen began its new wave of mass recruitments: 

Jonathan will frequently hear references to this mass recruitment when wandering around idle Guards:

“Rookie” is also a rather simple word to dissect: an altering of the word “recruit” and “-ie”. There is also a possibly Dutch origin from the word “broekie”, short for “broekvent”, lit. meaning “a boy still in short trousers”, which explains why “rookie” is often used as a sort teasing term. To be technical:

n. plural “rookies”

An inexperienced recruit, especially in the police or armed forces. A novice.

As the first definition shows, it does have some bearing to Priwen’s overall trend of having a nomenclature relating to militaristic forces.

The Rookie’s respective enemy UI portrait and model:

CADETS/VETERANS

Cadets, or Veterans as the game files name them, are essentially Rookies with guns or flaming torches, only being somewhat tougher than fresh-blooded Rookies. This can be inferred as a progression in rank—a Rookie that’s survived their first couple of nights on patrol. They certainly look more well-garbed, and the term “veteran” also fits with this idea of experience alongside surviving the dreary, vampiric-ridden streets.

The Cadet’s enemy UI and model:

An interesting feature to note at this point about each of Priwen’s enemies is that the majority of them seem to have an undercut. At the time (and even now), undercuts were done on men deployed to the war as the militaristic style of the era—Jonathan and McCullum share ones of their own. This hints to Priwen’s military connections that many NPCs remark on (as shown above) and that some of Priwen’s members do hail from military backgrounds which are demonstrated in their extreme firepower and access to various parts of the city.

“Cadet” stems from French “cadet” from a southwestern French known as Gascon Occitan “capdet”, further back into the Late Latin “capitellum” (”headling”) shortened version of “caput” (”head”), sharing English form by 1634. “Cadet”, unsurprisingly, is also a term with military usage. The female version would be spelt “cadette”. It also holds a definition for “junior”:   

n. plural cadets

A student at a military school who is training to be an officer. (largely historical) A younger or youngest son, who would not inherit as a firstborn son would. (in compounds, chiefly in genealogy) Junior. (See also the heraldic term cadency.)      a cadet branch of the family

“Veteran” is borrowed from Middle French “vétéran”, of Late or Vulgar Latin “veterānus” of the word “vetus” (”old” or “aged”). It is a rather official word referencing one who has served in the military or armed forces, most specific to older soldiers or those who have seen long years of service. While the age of Priwen’s Guards can certainly be up for debate—Cadets, while relatively squishy, seem to be what Rookies advance to should they survive their first nights at the mercy of patrols, facing whatever awaits them during it.

GUNNER

Gunners are another frequent, early mob of Priwen that you encounter. They are about as numerous as Rookies and equal in their frailty, only they seem to be Rookies with more additions to their design and opt to only use Ranged Attacks, much like their fellow Executioners. The portrait shows no difference as it is a reused UI bust, but their outfits differ slightly.

“Gunner” sounds straightforward but does hold a military usage. One can literally define “gunner” as “someone who uses a gun”, but the word itself is a rank used in the British Army Royal Artillery. It is abbreviated as “Gnr”, and is equivalent to the military rank of a “Private”, which makes sense. They hold similar stats to Rookies, Rookies are stated to essentially be new recruits—privates usually act as the lowest, entry-level rank in the military after training has completed, which means that Gunners, too, are on par with Rookies in terms of Priwen’s hierarchy. 

BRAWLER/ENFORCER

Brawlers are quite the mixed bag of things. There are three different variations of them in the game files, are seen relatively early in the game, and serve as the brutish powerhouses Jonathan has to face when running into more of Priwen’s hordes. We seem them with heavy guns, a shield on their left arm, gas, and flames. A wide assortment of anti-vampire materials is cast onto a single kind of member, which proves interesting.  In the game files, they are known as Enforcers with three names: Flamer, Ram, and Shield (”Tank” seems to be used generally amongst all of them for clothing files).

“Brawlers” is defined as “one who brawls”, which is to say: “fight or quarrel”—of Middle English “braule” and “brall” (”brawl, squabble”) of earlier “braulen” and “brallen” (”to clamour, boast, quarrel”). Similar words from Middle High German (”prālen”; “to boast, flaunt”)), Low German (”brallen”; “to brag”), Dutch (”brallen”; “to boast”), and Danish (”bralle”; “chatter, jabber”) have also been considered, whose meanings make sense. Priwen’s guards hold no shortage of leech-related insults, but the Brawlers have quite the large assortment of them out of every other Guard member. A show of their imposing sizes and statures, I would wager. However, their large array of weapons, brute force, and usage of miniature bosses imply that Brawlers are quite high on the ranking list. Chaplains are the only thing larger than them, and it has been established that Chaplains are sort of seen as pious, leading figures. Consider this when taking a look at the game files term for Brawlers: Enforcers.

“Enforcers” is a combination of “enforce” and “-er”, with “enforce” coming from Old French “enforcier”, of the Late Latin “infortiāre”, from “in-” and “fortis” ((physically)“strong”)). I emphasize this word for the Brawler for one definition in particular: 

n.

One who enforces. The member of a group, especially of a gang, charged with keeping dissident members obedient.

Ram is also a reference to a battering ram (and the ability in which they charge at you) used in the British Police Forces. The second definition is specific to a Mob Enforcer. Priwen has access to multiple parts of London, with heavy access to firepower, large numbers, and seemingly free reign once night comes, kept entirely away from law enforcement. This is what discerns Priwen from a gang per say—their power and influence put them upwards to that of a Mob, or a “traditional gang” which is essentially a gang with overarching influence upon a region, to the point that they nearly act as the local law enforcement. Multiple mobs/traditional gangs existed, some of notable fame, throughout the Victorian Era well into the World Wars, many of which centred in the East End much like Priwen is: Peaky Blinders, Birmingham Boys, the “Sabini” gang, Hoxton Gang, The Yiddishers, and several others. 

Brawlers essentially being Mob Enforcers must mean they hold a lot of trust within Priwen to both be given the position of watching the other men, as well as proving they can also follow through with said position. 

With all of what we know of Priwen now defined, here is a chart of what I believe to be the hierarchical structure within the Guard of Priwen from what we have gathered:

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As Ashbury says: like all good societies, Priwen is still very much a secretive one even with such open recruitment. There may be inner workings we are unaware of, and what we have been revealed to may only be scratching the surface of what truly hides within the esoteric, fanatic-hunting organised Mob that Priwen has built itself into. Worse more is the mystery behind their schism with the Brotherhood: a once united group, now a duality that remains incessantly at odds. The way the current Brotherhood organises themselves is much more esoteric and theological than that of militaristic Priwen, a further representation of their dichotomy being at odds.

CREDITS:

None of this data collection would have been possible without the informative help of @wolfsirius and @orionali. Of course, I will never write a post without thanking @cursedbethechoice for their initial, contributive works to the lore of this fandom and for continuing to inspire me throughout. 

The tool I used to view these files was from Gildor’s Umodel Viewer.  

EXTRA COMMENTS:

This essay is exactly 3,724 words long!

It’s been quite a long while since I’ve written anything despite being active on the blog. Nearly a year now! I’m hoping this small introduction allows me to ease my way back to the projects I wanted to share (which are a lot) both here in full, and show peeks of on Twitter! Thank you to those who have continued to follow this blog despite the time gap. I hope to be much more frequent with Lore posts here!

You may notice a tag at the bottom labeled “secret societies series”. That is because I intend to have a small series of analyses dedicated to the three major factions we witness in Vampyr: The Guard of Priwen, The Brotherhood of St. Paul’s Stole, and The Ascalon Club. This will be the catch-all tag for any analyses relating to those topics!  …With a possible mention of the Druid Order (mentioned in the “Blood Goddess Heresy” Collectible). 

Other “series” are still in the works!

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ALL SOURCES/BIBLIOGRAPHY (in no particular order):

Legends of Arthur, Richard Barber, 2003 “GANGS”, Bill Sanders, February 2016 — Oxford University Press Chaplain, ENCYCLOPÆDIA BRITANNICA Oxford English Dictionary Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary Wiktionary Online Etymology Dictionary The British Army Website’s British Army Structure London Metropolitan Police’s Article of the Enforcer Wikivisually’s Article on the Enforcer (battering ram) Etymology of “Chaplain” – Traditional & Professional, Rev. Dr. Michael G. Maness, 1998, revised 2015, formerly published as “Meaning of Chaplaincy” The etymology of “rookie” in Wikitionary The etymology of “chaplain” in Wikitionary The etymology of “brawl” in Wikitionary The etymology of “enforce” in Wikitionary Online Etymology’s Dictionary’s Page on “enforce” The Mob Museum in Las Vegas—National Museum of Organized Crime & Law Enforcement Online Etymology’s Dictionary’s Page on “veteran” Online Etymology’s Dictionary’s Page on “shepherd” Online Etymology’s Dictionary’s Page on “preacher” The etymology of “shepherd” in Wikitionary. “investigate” in The Century Dictionary, The Century Co., New York, 1911 “investigate” in Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary, G. & C. Merriam, 1913 King Arthur: The Mystery Unravelled By Chris Barber Journey to Avalon: The Final Discovery of King Arthur By Chris Barber, David Pykitt The Welsh Academy Encyclopædia of Wales. John Davies, Nigel Jenkins, Menna Baines and Peredur Lynch (2008) pg. 668

Catching a Killer

Pairing: Forensic Anthropologist!Peter x FBI Agent! Tony Word Count: 1865 Warnings: Graphic depictions of death?

This was the first time the pair had been on a case in months. With Peter having traveled to Laos to catalog new bones discovered there and Tony having returned from his summons to the Pentagon. The two were a little on edge. Peter was excited to see the agent again, though he'd never say that aloud, and he could feel himself flushing with anticipation. Tony, though just having arrived home was trying to leave for vacation and this case just happened to get in his way.

"Is there any way you can hurry this up, kid? Just give it your best guess and I'll put someone in cuffs so I can catch my flight?"

Peter released a loud huff, choosing to ignore both Agent Stark and his ridiculous nicknames, as well as choosing to believe his flush was a result of the sun sat high in the sky. Peter could feel the sun beating down on his back, but was far too engrossed on the partially decayed remains in front of him and the markers bred within the bone that could help identify who this person was.

"From what I can see, she's female. Presence of wisdom teeth indicates they're over eighteen. Width and shape of the pelvic bone would concur with those deductions." Peter pauses for a second, snapping a pair of latex gloves onto his hands before reaching down and slightly rotating the skull. "Normally I wouldn't be so quick to state this, but since someone has a flight to catch, I figured I should inform you that from what I can currently see, it would seem the manner of death here is a homicide considering this large blunt force trauma to the back of the skull that could indicate cause of death."

"Petey, baby, I would say that a girl gettin' her skull bashed in is more than indicative of foul play." At this, Peter turned his head over his shoulder, still squatted over the body and sent the man a chilling glare. Despite what it seemed from the outside, the pair made a good team, though always fighting over seemingly trivial things, always managed to crack the case and put the bad guy in cuffs.

The agent looked at his shoes and adjusted his tie, trying to escape the look he knew was geared towards the stupid pet names that Peter absolutely despised. But Peter knew that if he was ever in a jam, or in any form of danger that Tony would be there to save him, though the boy avidly claimed he was no damsel in distress.

Having put the agent in his place, the boy returned to his work of examining the person before him. It was evident to him that the body was partially buried: as every part of the body excluding the lower half of the girl's right arm was covered in adipocere.

"Hey Pete, why does half of her look like that?"

"Like what?"

"All waxy, it's kinda freakin' me out." Peter sighed, as he had moved over to examine the patch of green grass beneath the partially exposed radius and ulna, before collecting all of his jumbled thoughts to explain the answer to the older man's question.

"From what we can see here," The boy gestured to the waxy half of her body, "we know that she was partially buried. For the sake of time, what you need to know is that because dirt is so compact it lacks oxygen in comparison to above the ground. And as a result of it raining pretty recently, the dirt is a moist anaerobic environment, prime for creating adipocere from the body's fat. The fat reacts with the water in the dirt in a process you may know as hydrolysis and creates this waxy substance." Peter couldn't help the condescending tone that seeped into his words and honestly he didn't even care to try to take it back.

"Right, knew that." The agent shrugged, running a hand through his messy hair and trying to observe the boy working, but at a decent distance. Tony had been working for the FBI for 7 years and considering this was his line of work, dead bodies were no new sight, though he liked getting guts on the rug of his car even less than he liked finding people dead.

"Surely." The kid replied in a snarky tone, attempting to formulate some sort of time of death gap within his head as his eyes focused on the remnants of flesh that were beginning to slip off of the arm bones.

With a sigh, the kid stood to his feet and began removing the gloves, making his way back to the car.

"Where the hell are ya going kid? I didn't get much insight on what the hell happened to this girl!" Stark called after him, with his ridiculously tiny notebook and pen in hand, attempting to catch up to the younger scientist.

"From what I can tell, as indicated by the skin slippage, the body has been there for approximately 2 or 3 days? It's a little difficult to gauge time of death considering adipocere takes weeks to form over an entire body and yet the arm that was left to the elements looks as if it has only been there for a few days. So the answer to your question is: I have to run more tests. Back at the lab. So we're bagging up the body, and taking surrounding soil samples. I'm sure that Bruce can collect those, so you're going to drive me back to the lab."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Well I missed breakfast for this call, so you and I are gonna head to the diner and grab a piece of pie, how's that, sweet cheeks?"

"Please just drive, Tony."

\\\\\

True to his word, Peter worked tirelessly at the lab, trying to discover the mystery of the accelerated rate of the formulation of adipocere and the slippage of skin. It had been long past 24 hours since he had eaten pie with Agent Stark, and though he could feel the exhaustion in his limbs, his mind was moving a mile a minute.

"Have you slept yet, kid?"

The boy laid the skull back on the lab table and let out a sigh, before shaking his head, his back still turned to the door and by extension, the agent.

"You really need to catch some z's in order for us to catch this guy, Pete." Still refusing to turn around, the boy stared over to the other lab table where another body laid.

"I know, Tony. This case...it's just...really getting to me." Peter swallowed the lump in his throat, attempting to shove down the load of emotions that came with working on cases like these. "I'm fine though, honestly, I feel like I could put in a couple more hours worth of work."

At this, Tony sighs, before crossing the threshold and grabbing the boy's forearm, turning him gently to face him. The agent smiled at the boy, a gentle smile, one that reassured the kid that no matter what happened, the older man would be there for him in whatever capacity he needed him to be. And so the boy gently smiled back.

"Please go nap on the couch, and I'll keep looking through what we have, see what I can find, okay?" Huffing in defeat, Peter nodded and slipped out of the room, towards his office where that heinous orange couch called his name.

\\\\\

After days upon days of endless researching, swabbing, running things through the Mass Spectrometer, calculations, phone calls, pulling strings with higher ups, and far too many all-nighters, Stark had caught the man.

He was a nobody, just like they all were. Thinking they were somebody enough to take another's life, and that was part that made Peter shiver. That was the part that reminded Peter of how he lost his brother, Harley, to some absolute nobody.

It was cases like these that shook Peter to the core, and made him reconsider his occupation. Made him wonder if he was cut out for this: looking at corpses every day and helping Tony find criminals. Criminals who felt no remorse, or sometimes who couldn't even remember their victims' names. It was days like these when he realized that he couldn't be alone. Couldn't hold himself together without someone acting as glue.

So during days like these? Tony came over.

Peter would sob, hysterically, laid atop his bed and Tony would just hold him. Tony would card his fingers through the boy's knotted, curly locks, and press kisses to his forehead. Tony would just lay there and hum gently, as the boy curled into his chest.

Tony would let him fall apart, but he would always put him back together.

"T-Tony?" The boy called out in a gravelly voice, and the man stopped his humming.

"Yes, Pete?" The man's eyes shifted from where they were focused on his hand carding through Peter's hair, to the boy's honey brown eyes, before smiling gently at him.

"W-We can do this right?" At the boy's question the man quirked an eyebrow, continuing to run his fingers through the soft strands atop the boy's head. He thought for a moment before inquiring.

"Can we do what, babe?" The boy's fists were balled up in the man's t-shirt, and silent tears streamed down his round, flushed cheeks, before he spoke up again.

"We can keep doing this. We can find bodies...and run labs and-and catch killers? We can keep looking into the face of death in order to f-find justice right? These people deserve at least that, right?" The boy looked so lost, and Tony let a soft sigh escape his lips.

"Peter...I can't even fathom how difficult this must be. How hard it must be to get out of bed every day and know that what you do is what someone did for Harley all those years ago. But you have to recognize that we're better than them. We can, and we will make sure that all of those criminals receive proper punishment for the crimes they've committed and the lives they've destroyed. Petey, baby, what we do here, together is so incredibly difficult, so incredibly taxing in that every day adds up but Pete, we save the lives of those who were potential victims. We bring peace to families and I am so incredibly sorry that you may never know that peace, but you do amazing work." The boy was shaking in his arms and so Tony held him as tight as he could without causing him pain.

"D-Do you think that maybe one-one day we'll find whoever hurt, Harley?" The man held his breath, unsure of making false promises, but he shook his head gently to himself, before nodding with fervor.

"I think that if you and I put in the time and effort that we could, yeah." Peter barely nodded on the man's chest before his honey eyes locked with the older man's dark whiskey ones.

"You wouldn't mind? P-Postponing your trip to help me?" With an airy chuckle, the man kissed the younger boys forehead and shrugged.

"Eh, the Bahamas ain't really for me anyways. What do you say we take a trip up to the NYPD and look at those old case files? See what we can dig up?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

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Just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone that read my story is supporting all of my work! I greatly appreciate it and hope you appreciated my first piece of work for Stark Week 2k19. Anyways this was based on the tv show Bones and so yeah! Love you guys and feel free to check me out on ao3