Monkey King 2009 Episode 5

NO.

GENERALS!!!

I JUST STARTED TO BELIEVE IN YOU

a lot - and I mean a lot - happened this episode. but I'm mad about THIS.

Something has really been eating at me recently and that was a string of lies I told when I was a child. Under a video of a small creator called PewDiePie playing Slender: The Eight Pages, I commented "my brother was playing this game and he heard a noise and turned around and his face was in slenderman's PEANUS XD"

I don't have a brother and I never have except in the womb there was another embryo which I absorbed before it could develop. It didn't even have a gender but my family always called it my brother who I ate. I never received any sex ed by my parents or a school system and until I was like sixteen I didn't know the difference between boys and girls or why we weren't allowed to be in the same bathroom or play together once we got to be a certain age. I only found out from observing my dogs that boys had a sticky outy part and when I observed my own genitals it was confusing because it didn't look like a girl dog's "privates" (we weren't allowed to call it or anything else which sounds extremely creepy and sexual to me now). I thought what I had was a "boy part" that failed to form. Because my parents always joked that I was a killer in the womb who had eaten my own brother I thought I was some kind of evil mutant creature half me and half my unborn brother and people around me seemed to hate me my entire life for no reason and blame and punish me for things going wrong in their life like some kind of shitty scapegoat and one time someone in elementary school said they cut themselves because of me and I made them want to die and honestly I'm lucky I didn't develop DID or something from thinking I could hear my brother's thoughts as well as my own. But I still call myself "you" in my thoughts as if I'm another person yelling at the other me inside myself. One time I was accused of biting someone in second grade because I was the kid who barked at people and I didn't but I said "my brother made me do it" because a knife in the heart of the innocent is the only escape known to the sacrificial lamb.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah I don't have a brother and I never played Slender or any video game and I didn't know what a penis was. Can I ever be forgiven

hi!! i hope you're having a very nice day!!

regarding that post you've made recently about the religious symbolism in Trigun,, with Vash being an obvious allegory of Jesus, it also calls to mind a title for Christ which appears in the Gospel of John -- the Lamb of God, 'the one who takes away the sin of the world'. in other words, he is the scapegoat of humanity. and as the Bible has it, a scapegoat is a kid goat which is cast into the open desert, symbolically carrying away with it all sins and impurities of the community. but there is one other kid goat involved in that same ritual -- the one that is sacrificed for the better of the community. that, i believe, is Tesla. her death is justified by those who caused it as it contributes to a better understanding of the independents. she is sacrificed for the greater good of humanity. while Vash is a perpetual castaway of the humankind, burdened with its sins yet willing to carry it in order to lighten, even if a little bit, the load that people have to shoulder

that's only my own interpretation, but i wanted to share it anyways

bye! 🧡

Hi! I ruined my coffee this morning, but other than that, it's been a good day so far.

It's been a while since I've cracked open a bible (I think I donated mine years ago lol) but ooooh I like this. I always took Vash to be the sacrificial lamb, what with the Jesus parallels --and he very much is to an extent-- but I can see how Tesla also fits that role.

I would like to say that the scapegoat(s) fits for Knives and Vash's endings as well, where Knives dies (turns into a tree, sob) while Vash remains to do what he's always done (wander the desert, get chased from town town with a bounty on his head).

[For reference to anyone interested, the bible verses are John 1:29 and Leviticus 16: 7-10]

Sins of the Father

Rating: T (just a lot of angst, really.)

Fandom(s): Mass Effect

Ship: Femshep/Joker

Linkage: Ao3

Summary:  Cass Shepard isn't sure what hurts worse--knowing she's now a war criminal, or the man who made her the scapegoat.

Note:  This is the same Shepard who appears in Movie Night, and is mentioned in Masha, though you don't need to read those fics to understand what's happening in this one. You should DEFINITELY play the Arrival DLC though, cause major spoilers.

~*~*~*

Dr. Chawkwas has long gone to sleep when Cassandra Shepard collapses in her chair. She presses her forehead against the cold steel of her desk, waiting. Waiting to feel something, anything about what she has done. Maybe Cerberus made a mistake bringing her back. Or maybe Cerberus didn’t bring Cass Shepard back from the dead. Maybe they brought back a monster. 

Three Hundred Thousand. Gone. Cass remembers her first kill. A Batarian, then too. She doesn't know much about alien physiology, but there was something about the way that soldier looked at her, wide-eyed and shaken, told her that he was younger than her, still a kid, at least emotionally. And she shot him between all four eyes. 

The door whisks open, but Cass doesn't move. “Sorry, Doctor. I’ll just be a min--”

“Commander.” That voice jerks her awake. Hackett’s sudden arrival almost jerks her out of her chair and into attention. But then Cassandra Maria Shepard remembers what she found in the Shadow Broker’s files. 

“Admiral,” she drawls. “Or should I say, Dad?”

Whatever Hackett had planned to say died right there on his lips. “Excuse me?”

“When exactly were you planning on telling me?” Cass really should lower her voice, salute--something, but she figures in light of her recent sins, insubordination will be low on the list. “Before or after they line me up for the firing squad?”

Steven Hackett does something Cass long judged physically impossible--he removes his hat. His officer persona--his poker face comes off with it. For once, her father looks tired, exhausted even. “They’re not going to execute you, Cassandra.”

“Then why the fuck are you here? This is a shitty time for a family reunion.”

Hackett grimaces, and he flops into Dr. Chawkwa’s chair like it’s a recliner. It’s then Cass realizes she’s never seen him sitting down. “Hannah and I agreed it was best not to tell you.”

“Best for who?” The crew out in the mess turn their heads. Cass has never really bothered to check how soundproof the SR2 is. Right now, she doesn’t care who hears. “Cause it fucking sucked growing up without a dad.” Cass paces like a wild animal caught in a cage. “Fuck, I hardly had a mom either. Raised by my tías planetside whenever she was deployed.”

Exhausted as he is, there’s still a bit of the admiral in his steel eyes. “The Alliance needed us. A scandal only would have--”

Cass snorts. “Of course. Sacrifice my childhood, who cares? The motherfucking Milky Way is at stake. Gotta raise me for my life as a sacrificial lamb, right, Dad?”

Hackett rubs his face, sighing. “Cassandra. I’m doing what I can for you. Please just cooperate with the authorities and we’ll sort this out.”

“Did you know about the relay?”

“Goodbye, Cassandra.” Hackett pauses by the door, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. One foot points at her and the other towards the exit. Almost as if he’s considering offering a hug. 

Cassandra doesn’t even turn to look--just watching him through her peripheral. The door hisses shut behind him. It’s only when the tears drop on her hands that Cass realizes she’s crying. 

----

“Commander?” Joker’s voice sounds like it’s coming through water. “Shepard?” Cass looks at the display case without seeing it. Without seeing anything, really. “Cass? Shit. I’m coming up. EDI, take the helm.” 

The com screeches off and Cass jumps a little in her seat. How long had she been sitting there? How did she even get up here? Last thing she remembers, Cass was sitting in the med bay. She checks the time on her omni-tool. Hackett’s visit was two hours ago. How did she lose so much time?

“Cass?” Joker leans against the foyer wall between the elevator and the cabin proper.

She stands and feels pins and needles in her feet. Joker guides her to the bed and holds her like she’s the fragile one. Wrapping her arms around him, Cass feels like she’s dreaming. Like none of this is really happening. Her lips form words but nothing comes out. Maybe she is dreaming. Maybe this is all one long nightmare. 

“Talk to me, Cass. Please.”

Cass would give anything to feel, to be present in this moment. She squeezes Joker as tight as she dares. Anything to ground herself, to be herself. To be there for the man she...oh god. “Stay?” she manages, quietly. 

“Sure.” Joker pulls back eyeing her with his eyebrows scrunched. He’s been through so much lately. Because of her. He watched her get spaced. Watched the crew get abducted by the Collectors. Watched her toss a colossal asteroid at a mass relay and-- Setting his hat on the table, Joker runs his fingertips back against his buzz cut. He helps her get her boots off, and then lies with her across the sheets. “You still with me, Cass?” 

“Dunno.” Is she crying again? Cass doesn't need to look up at the skylight to know the Normandy’s still flying. The universe is still moving and she’s frozen in time. 

“So, uh. This is probably the worst timing, but your mom called.”

“Nng.” Cass burrows her head in the crook between Joker’s neck and shoulder.”

“You...wanna talk about it?”

“Nng.”

“I’m not going to make you do anything, Cass. But it wouldn’t hurt, right?”

Cass mumbles into his shirt. 

“What?”

“Hackett’s my dad.”

Joker’s arms flop off of her like she’s made of melted butter. “What?”

“Liara told me.” She sniffles, wiping her runny nose with the back of her hand. Joker belatedly hands her a tissue from the nightstand. “Shadowbroker stuff, y’know?”

Joker’s brows scrunch just a little bit tighter. “Cass?” he says slowly, “what happened on Aratoht?”

Cass flops against the mattress, watching the stars above, waiting for the panic attack that doesn’t come. Maybe she’s too exhausted to panic? “You saw the meteor hit the relay.”

“Well, yeah. Kinda hard to miss. But why the hell were you there?”

Her limbs shake with her rage. “Daddy sent me. After his ‘old friend.’ I have no fucking clue if she actually was his friend, or just some rogue agent, or if she was his fucking mistress for all I know.”

“Damn. What happened to her?” Joker lies on his side, carefully, as always, and combs the damp hair from her eyes with his fingers. 

“She’s--was indoctrinated. They all were.”

“Fuck.”

Cass swallows hard. “Yeah. Maybe if they weren’t…. maybe I would’ve warned the Batarians in time--”

“Cass.” Joker cups her face. “Look at me.” She does so, reluctantly. “There were 300,000 of them, give or take. How the hell were they gonna evacuate?”

“At least I would have tried!!”

“Cass…”

And then her com rings. Cass growns and stuffs her face into her pillow. 

“Shepard.” EDI says neutrally. “Captain Hannah Shepard is insistent that you answer her call. Her words are “I will dry dock this ship if you don’t answer in 30 seconds.”

Cass drags herself out of bed and over to her desk chair. “Mom,” she snaps when she answers the call.

“Cassandra--”

“You should’ve fucking told me.” Cass hangs up before her mother can answer. 

Chariot, Priestess, Hermit and Justice for Juno pls!

Thankiiiieeeeee

The Chariot: Asserting your will and dominance, mastering impulsivity, reining in emotion, war-like control

Juno has become very good at reigning in emotion, specifically. She’s afraid of people thinking she’s angry, or thinking she’s rude, or thinking she’s hateful. She knows she doesn’t have many friends and she has weird tics and habits and sometimes acts strangely, and she doesn’t want to come off as scary, as bad, as “crazy” or as angry. So she buries everything behind a blank vernier of politeness, of shyness and eagerness to please. She wants so badly for people to see her as someone quiet and kind. But she knows she’s acting.

The High Priestess: Biding time, patience, placidity, intuition, inner vision, potential, that which is supernatural and obscured

Juno sees shadows in the corners of her eyes, the shapes of hands and faces through the trees, and she wants to immerse herself in that shadow, and to hide herself. She’s become very resigned to waiting, to hoping, resigned herself to the imagined worlds where she can be what she wants. She knows who she wants to be and why she can never be that person, so she hides in shadow and she waits, and she hopes she can handle waiting forever.

Justice: Fairness, impartiality, taking responsibility, weighing options, accepting consequences, understanding coincidences

Juno is the kid who does everything right and still gets in trouble. Does everything she can, and tries her very hardest, but still takes the blame. Maybe it’s a conspiracy, and everyone in her life is out to get her. Maybe she’s just the most fit to take on the consequences, because she’s supposed to be a boy. She doesn’t know. She does all the hard work she can but she inevitably screws something minor and insignificant up and that’s enough for her parents or her teachers or the captain to tell her off. And she’s gotten used to that. At least as long as she’s being yelled at, no one else is. And maybe she can take the brunt of their evil.

The Hermit: Introspection, solitude, offering/being offered counsel, taking advice, seeking a truth of the self

Juno is alone, and she thinks maybe she wants to be alone. Letting people in just gets them hurt, because she’s inherently dangerous. She has that hidden sharpness, that restrained aggression that she doesn’t want. She has the curse of getting into the only batch of trouble you could possibly stumble into. And she’s hiding something, obviously. So it’s very dangerous to let other people in, and she knows that. She thinks maybe the most good she can do is as a martyr. Maybe she can be a sacrificial lamb, a scapegoat, someone that helps everyone else. She thinks she’d like that.

I just wish that the Silva sibs’ problems weren’t what they are in canon. Why can’t it be loving and well intentioned sibs just not seeing eye to eye? Like the eldest 3 being too protective and accidentally smothering Noelle? And then she runs off to join the Black Bulls with no explanation? And since Silvas can’t communicate for shit, hurt feelings and misunderstandings everywhere! Plenty of drama! Makes more sense than “I want to keep you safe so I’ll just make your life a living hell”

I feel like given their situation their situation fits. I mean, all of their familial issues spurn from them trying to be stoic in the face of adversity. Unfortunately, among the elite, cruelty is more becoming than grief and insecurity, which are the root of their cruelty

The Silvas' problem to me is that a) three out of four of them don't know what's going on with the curse, and b) they would all be punished for showing the healthy amount of vulnerability the loss of their mother caused them. Noelle became a scapegoat for dealing with their feelings in a healthy way, because their status as royals didn't allow them to grieve and emote the way they needed to

I think that Nebra and Solid were doing the best they could with the tools they had (which were no tools and therefore SHIT) but Nozel really was well intentioned. He just also didn't have the tools to deal with the situation in a healthy way, and so to protect himself and his siblings in his mind, he had to allow Noelle to be the family punching bag

Acier really made Noelle the sacrificial lamb in terms of how her family was going to cope with her loss and her curse. These kids didn't ever have a chance. They're all hurting and hurting each other because of circumstances they can't control. I don't think she did that on purpose... She probably didn't have the tools to handle this either

Does that excuse their behavior? Not one fucking bit

Do they need to get it together? Absolutely

Do I think that the way they acted doesn't make sense? Nah, it all adds up unfortunately

Whumptober Entry One - Let’s Hang out Sometime

Based on the prompts Waking up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging

“Wha- what is this?” Malcolm gasps out, still fighting to catch his breath. “It’s a warning, Malcolm Bright,” Pierce replies. "This really isn’t about you, I’m afraid. You’ve just been chosen as the scapegoat, as it were. The sacrificial lamb.”

Malcolm regains consciousness with a gasp and a painfully violent jerk, his whole body flinching away from the sudden shock of being drenched with freezing cold water.  It pours over his head into his mouth and nose, and he gasps, eyes flying open only to close again as water flows in and clouds his vision.  He reacts without thinking, feet slipping on wet concrete as he tries to turn away, to escape the onslaught.  His frantic movements are futile; the water keeps coming, though, mercifully, the steady stream moves from his head to his chest, allowing him to finally breathe.  It takes several moments for him to fully come back to himself.  He has no idea where he is, or how he’d gotten there.  Last he remembers, he’d been walking home, less than a block from his apartment.  As awareness returns, he starts to realize that the burning in his shoulders and wrists is a separate pain from the icy chill of the water pouring over his body and soaking his clothes.

He’s hanging, suspended from his arms, thick shackles secured tightly around his wrists, cutting sharply into skin and bone as his weight pulls down on them.  It isn’t until the steady stream of water finally stops that he’s able to get his feet under him and blink his eyes open fully, struggling to take stock of his situation.  There’s not much to see.  He’s in a large, open space, with dusky late-afternoon sunlight filtering in through dirty windows set high in the wall.  A thick rope has been threaded through the chain connecting the shackles on his wrists, pulling his arms up towards the ceiling.  Now that he’s got his feet under him, there’s plenty of slack in the rope, and he’s able to relax his arms, relieving his wrists and shoulders from the pressure of holding his body weight.  A small mercy.  

“Back with us, I see,” a nasally voice calls out.

Malcolm jerks in surprise, nearly losing his footing once more.  He doesn’t recognize the voice, and his vision is still blurred by water dripping from his soaked hair.  It takes him several moments of rapid blinking before he’s able to clearly see the man standing a few feet away, hose in hand.  Once Malcolm sees him clearly, the man is unmistakable; Conrad Pierce, a well-known enforcer for one of the larger gangs in the city.  Malcolm’s never had dealings with him, or his gang, before, but he’s a notorious figure in the New York crime scene, and a frequent visitor to the Precinct.  Though, unsurprisingly, none of the charges that bring him there ever seems to stick.

“Wha- what is this?” Malcolm gasps out, still fighting to catch his breath.

“It’s a warning, Malcolm Bright,” Pierce replies.  

A shiver spreads through Malcolm’s body, and not from the cold.  The fact that Conrad Pierce knows him by name is… unsettling.  Of course, the man could easily have gone through his wallet, peeked at his license.  But somehow, Malcolm doubts that.

“About w-what?” Malcolm presses, teeth chattering as another shiver courses through him.  This time, it is definitely from the cold.  There’s no heat running in the building, and with most of the windows broken, it’s almost as cold inside the large, open space as it is out in the late November air. 

"Hmm.  Either you’re acting the fool, or your team isn’t quite as good as my employer thought.  No matter.  This really isn’t about you, I’m afraid.  You’ve just been chosen as the scapegoat, as it were.  The sacrificial lamb.”

Malcolm’s breath catches in his throat once more, and as much as he’d like to blame it on the water he’d surely inhaled while he’d been sprayed down with the hose, the way his heart rate increases as well betrays the fear that wells up inside him at the other man’s words.  He truly has no idea what Pierce wants with him, though he’s starting to put some of the pieces together.  If only he could stop shaking, and his teeth could stop knocking together when particularly violent shivers run through him.

“I’m not acting,” he insists.  “And if you just… leave now, I’ll be none the wiser, and none of this will be necessary.”

“Ah, if only things were that simple,” Conrad laughs.  He drops the hose, and begins to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt.  ‘“Unfortunately, I do have a job to do.”  He sighs, moving his hands to his hips, looking Malcolm up and down speculatively, lips pursed.  He nods, once, clearly coming to some sort of decision, and steps forward till he’s nearly standing toe to toe with Malcolm, raising his hand towards Malcolm’s face.

Malcolm flinches back, uselessly, turning his head as best he can, tensed for a blow that never comes.  Rather, Pierce catches his chin between thumb and forefinger, turning his head frontwards once more and looking Malcolm squarely in the eyes.

“I need you to deliver a message for me, to your team.  Lieutenant Arroyo, Detectives Powell and Tarmel.  He’s going to be a father soon, isn’t he?” Pierce hums, and Malcolm feels a spark of fear flash through him once more at the knowledge Pierce possesses about his team.  “They all seem very protective of you, Mr. Bright.  Concerned for your well-being, which is why I choose you.  Do you think you can do this for me?”

“O-okay,” Malcolm grits out, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering together.  His muscles spasm painfully as he shivers, limbs jerking hard enough that the chain rattles and his feet nearly slip out from beneath him.  His thick trousers and jacket, meant for warmth, are heavy with water, keeping his body encased in an icy shell, his body heat doing nothing to fight the cold air surrounding him.

“Drop the Randall case.  It’s none of your concern, and all you’re gonna find is trouble if you keep looking further,” Pierce snarls, his voice suddenly dark and vicious as he leans in close enough that Malcolm can feel his breath against his cheek.  

Before Malcolm can respond, Pierce lashes out and punches him square in the stomach, just below his ribs, driving the air from his lungs in a painful rush.  He isn’t given time to recover before Pierce delivers two more blows to his middle, followed viciously fast by a strike to his face, driving his head to the side hard enough that he’s sure to have whiplash.  Malcolm’s legs give out beneath him and he sees stars, choking out a ragged cry as his shoulders and wrists catch his weight with a painful jerk.  

Malcolm wheezes and coughs, scrambling to get his feet under him once more.  Breathing is a struggle as his abused ribs and stomach protest the effort each inhale and exhale requires.

Pierce steps in close and grabs a handful of Malcolm’s hair, yanking his head up.  Malcolm glares up at him as best he can, and Pierce chuckles.

“You know, for some, that would be enough.  But you’re a fighter, aren’t you, Mr. Bright?  Stubborn.  So is that Lieutenant of yours.  It’s going to take a bit more to really get the message through, isn’t it?”

Malcolm snarls, biting out a curse, though the effect is lessened by the wheezing and shivering, which only makes Pierce laugh louder.

The beating continues.  Pierce knows how to inflict pain, without causing too much damage, though Malcolm’s fairly sure he has at least one cracked rib.  The blows are focused on his stomach and sides, hard enough to be painful, to keep him from catching his breath, and certainly enough to bruise, but not enough to damage organs.  

It hurts like hell, and Malcolm doesn’t bother to bite back on the gasps and moans that are driven out of him, when he even has the breath to spare.  His feet scramble uselessly against the concrete but he can’t regain his footing, and he’s left hanging, swaying like a punching bag beneath Pierce’s onslaught.  

He doesn’t know how much time passes before Pierce is finally satisfied, all he knows is that everything hurts, and is going to for a long time.  Then, Pierce strikes out one last time, another blow to the head, and Malcolm knows no more.

He wakes up on the ground, a particularly violent shiver making his whole body jerk, his abs tightening and making him gasp, the pain pulling him back to consciousness.  Malcolm groans, and if it turns into a sob, no one is there to judge him for it.  Everything hurts.  His head is pounding, his stomach and ribs throbbing, shoulders burning, and anything that doesn’t hurt is cold as hell.  The shackles are gone, and he pulls his arms in close to his body in an attempt to shield his numb fingers from the cold.  He’s still wet, though, lying in a pool of water as he is, and there’s nowhere on his body that feels any warmer than his fingers do, anyways.  

There’s barely any light in the building, which means night has fallen, and he’s in real danger of hypothermia, if he hasn’t already reached that point already.  He’s struggling to push himself up, to get his sluggish body moving, when a bright light fills the space a few feet away from him, and a familiar trill of electronic bells cuts through the silence of the building.

His phone is there, and it’s ringing.  He scrambles towards the little rectangle of light, practically dragging himself across the floor until he’s close enough to reach out and grab it.  His heart swells when he sees Gil’s name on the screen, and his fingers are barely cooperating, but he manages to swipe across the screen and answer the call.

“Gil?” he gasps out, his voice scratchy and rough.

“Kid,” Gil breaths out, “where the hell are you?”

“I d-don’t, don’t k-know.  I’ll— hng, I’ll send you a p-pin,” he stutters out.  The shivering is good, his mind supplies, as he struggles to get his hands to cooperate, to press the right buttons to share his location with Gil.  It’s when you stop shivering that there’s a problem.  “Gil.  Did you... did you get it?”

“Yeah, kid.  I got it.  I’m close.”

“C-close?” Malcolm stutters out, surprised.

“I’ll explain when I get there, Bright.  Are you okay?”

“I’m c-cold.  Wet.  Little bruised.”

“Shit.  I’ll be right there, okay Bright?  Hang in there, kid.”

Malcolm murmurs some sort of response, but then his phone slips from his fingers, and he can’t quite find the energy to pick it up again.  He slumps back down to the cold, wet floor, and hopes that Gil really is as close as he claimed to be.

***

Gil curses loudly when the line goes silent.  The connection hasn’t been cut, but Bright isn’t replying to his questions anymore.  Rather than continuing to try to get a response, he hangs up and calls for an ambulance.  Whatever condition the kid is in, it’s clear he needs medical attention.  

Gil had been trying to get a hold of Malcolm for over an hour, ever since he’d gotten a text from an unknown number that said simply ‘Come get your boy,’ followed by an address.  The address led him to an old, mostly abandoned industrial park.  Much to his frustration, no specific building had been indicated, and Gil had nearly started searching building by building when Malcolm had finally answered his call.  The location Malcolm had sent him was much more specific, bringing him to one specific building, though it’s a large structure, and it still takes Gil several long minutes of searching until he finally finds his profiler.

Gil’s heart plummets when the beam of his flashlight sweeps across the floor and lands on Malcolm’s prone form.  He’s lying on his side in a pool that Gil initially fears is blood.  He rushes over to the younger man’s side, his panic easing only slightly when he catches the slow rise and fall of his body, a sure sign that he’s at least breathing.  

“Malcolm, hey, kid, can you hear me?” Gil asks as he drops to his knees next to Bright.  This close, he’s relieved to find the pool is only water, though Malcolm is soaked in it, and Gil can feel just how cold it is as it starts to quickly seep in through his pant legs.

Malcolm groans softly as Gil rolls him carefully onto his back, methodically checking each inch of his body for signs of injury or bleeding.  He sees nothing, although Malcolm’s face is bruised and he has a cut on one cheek.  He pats him lightly on the uninjured cheek, calling out his name a few more times until, finally, Malcolm’s eyelids flutter open, and he gasps, sucking in a pained, wheezing breath.  

“Gil?” he whispers, eyes searching wildly in the dark till they finally find Gil’s face.  Malcolm smiles, weakly, and his eyes start to slide closed once more.

“Hey, hey kid, I need you to stay awake, okay?  Are you hurt?  Can you move?”

“Just, a lil’ bruised.  Should...be fine t-to move,” Malcolm slurs, forcing his eyes back open.

Gil wraps his hands beneath Malcolm’s arms and drags him to a dry patch of ground.  Malcolm moans softly, but doesn’t protest.  

“The medics will be here any second, okay kid?  Just hang in there.”

“‘M cold,” Malcolm murmurs.

“I know, kid,” Gil sighs.  He debates getting the kid out to his car, blasting the heat going for him, but without knowing the extent of his injuries he’s worried about moving him too much.  He wishes he had a blanket, or dry set of clothes he could give the kid, but he doesn’t.  “Let’s get you out of this jacket, okay?  It’s soaked.”

He manages to get Malcolm upright, and strips off his sodden suit coat, tossing it to the side.  He pulls Malcolm close, gently urging the smaller mad to lean against his side, wrapping an arm carefully around the kid’s shoulder, sharing what body heat he can with him.  Malcolm is barely shivering now, his body racked by an occasional tremor here and there, and it worries Gil.

Malcolm sinks into him with a sigh, grunting in pain as he settles against Gil’s side.  Gil tries to be as careful as he’s able as he wraps his an arm around Malcolm;s shoulder, rubbing his arm vigorously, and presses him to move in closer with a hand on his hip, practically pulling the younger man into his lap, sharing as much of his warmth with him as he can.

Malcolm lets his head fall against Gil’s shoulder, snuffling quietly as he settles into his hold.

“You wanna tell me what happened, Bright?” Gil asks once they are settled.  He’ll get a full statement once he knows the kid is okay, but he wants to keep Malcolm awake and coherent until the medics arrive.

“I dunno.  Got grabbed,” Malcolm begins, his voice soft, weary.  “Woke up here.  Got beat up.  Do have some good news, though.”

Gil huff in disbelief.  “What’s that, kid?”

“We’re investigating the right guy,” Malcolm answers.

Gil tenses beneath him, his grip tightening around Malcolm protectively as some of the pieces start to fall into place.  “Malcolm, who did this?” 

“Was Pierce,” Malcolm mutters.  “Conrad Pierce.  S’not happy.”

Before Gil can push any further, the wail of sirens cuts through the still night, and flashing lights flood in through the windows.  He can hear the paramedics enter the building, and calls out to alert them of their location.  He sets his concerns about Conrad Pierce to the side.  The man is a threat, his employer even more so, but it’s a threat that Gil vows will be dealt with.  His only concern in that moment is ensuring Malcolm’s safety.  Retribution will have to wait.

ABOUT RITA 

full name: margaret qiuyue zhang nicknames: rita (primary name) age: thirty-six pronouns: she/her zodiac: pisces sun, capicorn moon, pisces rising mbti: intj-a, the architect  alignment: true neutral

+ Imaginative: Think outside the box is a saying that Rita struggles to understand. Why impress upon people that there is a box in the first place? Thought, in and of itself, is boundless, reaching further than the outer limits of the universe. For Rita there has never been a box. Independence in thought allows the imagination to roam through the peaks and valleys of possibility and rationale, to toy with ideas and theories. It’s this quality that enables Rita to swiftly and cleverly untangle problems, and rearrange modes of operation. If patterns can be detected, information can be found, and with a mind that works like hers it’s a thrilling challenge to imagine solutions. And when she isn’t solving problems this imagination of hers runs wild, lending the woman an entire galaxy of her own. 

+ Tenacious: Rita has heard the stories of her family’s lives in China. Of the Japanese invasion, the Moaist regime, the famine, and her familys’ journey from the world they knew and loved to one that offered opportunity and security with a sacrificial price. Her ancestors’ strength moves through her, catapults her into action, and Rita knows that she has to fight for what she wants. Society has constantly tried to convince her that she’s less than, that her potential is not enough, and it’s only added fuel to her fire. People can count on her to get things done, to see it through and done right because for her there is no other choice. 

+ Decisive: Bossy. Utilitarian. Arrogant. Rita has heard it all, but in reality the woman, since girlhood, has simply been unafraid to take initiative and make decisions. Lacking hesitation, she finds herself ahead because of  her resolution and unwavering assuredness. For her it’s not a question of whether or not she makes the “right” decision, because once it is made, it no longer matters. Instead, Rita focuses on turning every decision into the right one. This aspect doesn’t always make friends, or present as the most attractive trait, but Rita appreciates, and takes pride, in this part of herself. 

- Manipulative: In pursuit of her own desires there are very few lines that Rita is wary to cross, and those she uses are often thought of as little more than pawns. What she lacks in innate charisma, she has learned to make up for through observation and perception. Perhaps she can’t simply charm you into doing what she wants, but the woman can certainly convince you that what you want is synonymous to what she wants by deftly pulling on the strings of logic and desire, reality and fantasy, until the lines blur and she can reap the benefits. But as handy a tool it is, Rita herself can often be left questioning what is real and what is not.  

- Detached: As a girl Rita’s mother lamented that she didn’t understand her own child, an enigma, a puzzle, she would mutter in Mandarin. And others shared the sentiment. She was hard to keep up with, hard to pin down, and ultimately hard to connect to. When one feels as though people are constantly struggling to understand them, tolerating rather than grasping them, distance grows. What is often misinterpreted as haughtiness, is really a fear of being misunderstood, and showing her authentic self. Rita’s emotional well runs deep, and she’s terrified to drown. It’s a lonely way to live.

- Paranoid: Rita once thought that power and persuasion would bring security. People value her, money has made her more than comfortable, and intel keeps her prepared and in control. But now, in a world as cruel as the one she finds herself in, Rita fears it’s only a matter of time before the gaping maws come snapping at her. Her sense of reality melts away, and in its place delusions of betrayal and deception close in. Suspicion and anxiety follow suit and suddenly her coveted  power is the enemy. Then, as quickly as it came on, it recedes, lurking in the shadows until it seizes her once again.

BIOGRAPHY 

Margaret Zhang was born in a humble, upstairs flat in Camden, London. Her mother’s screams could be heard from the street, but Rita was as silent as a lamb when she entered the world. She would hear the retelling many times by her grandmother-- eyes like saucers, unblinking and astute, as though she had been waiting for this moment, knew it was coming, and couldn’t bear to delay her first glimpse at the world. Their flat sat above the family’s business, a portrait studio, and though they didn’t have much to their name the Zhang’s were overjoyed at the arrival of their small, plump daughter. 

Largely silent until the age of two, Rita’s father often had to ease her mother’s mind as the woman worried over their daughter’s development. The quiet, sharp-eyed baby grew into a reticent, and pensive girl.  Even at a young age it seemed that the child was lost in thought, floating somewhere just beyond reality, wondering about the whistling tea kettle, about the cars beyond the window, the flick of the cat’s tail, and the weather report on the television all at once. Her thoughts were scattered about, picking apart different details and examining them like their own separate mysteries. And when her mother would say her name, you could practically see the threads of thought gathering back together, tethering the girl once more. Rita lived inside her head. Her thoughts, curiosities, and dreams weaved an intricate web as if to ensnare anything that passed through her mind. She wanted everything-- yearned for extravagance, craved knowledge, thirsted for intrigue, ached for significance. But how to attain it?

Growing up, one of Rita’s favorite past times was helping her father in the studio, fetching batteries, a different lens, extra stools, ... whatever was necessary to gain those moments where she got to observe people. She’d watch them gently handle the new baby that was proving to be more work than either parent had signed on for, or watch as siblings bickered over the center, ruining multiple shots so that their mother delivered swift swats to the back of their ginger heads. Newly weds, ancient faces, best friends... People of all colors, speaking in foreign languages, happy, tired, frustrated... Their worlds were hers for those few moments, and in their worlds possibilities multiplied beyond her ability to comprehend, and it was in these worlds that she felt most at home. Their faces smoothed with practiced composure when her father dipped his head to look through the viewfinder, but oftentimes they were so focused on what was to come, that they were most open in the seconds before. It was there, in that small room with low ceilings and the subtle smell of wet wood that Rita learned to read people, to guess their desires, their hardships, their fears. She would come to spend everyday after school there beside her father, inserting herself  into the lives of others to escape for just a few moments. 

In reality growing up as a British Asian came with challenges and hardships. Her mother held her head high when store clerks belittled her with slow speech or offensive imitations. Her father did well to catch the eyes of those who dared to stare or sneer on the Tube. Her grandmother, who never quite caught onto the English language, was spared the exact slurs that were muttered as they passed a group of teenage boys on the street, but the sentiment transcended speech. Kids were cruel and even Rita felt the flames of shame lick at her cheeks when Sarah McCormick loudly remarked upon the foreign smell of Rita’s Shuizu, or when Jeffery Louse announced that his father thought people like her didn’t belong in England. Humiliation, rage, injustice, and hurt are wonderful catalysts, C-4 placed at the base of a dam; it honed her vision, sharpening what had once been a soft, dreamlike quality to her desires. Rita would have a life that put everything at her fingertips, allowed her to say what mattered and what didn’t, things would not happen to her, she would make them happen.  

Her parents needn’t push her to excel, she wanted it for herself, needed it for herself, so the girl plunged herself into tuning her mental acuity. And when she didn’t have the means to make do on her own, the young woman dove into her treasure trove of manipulative skills. She read their body language, mimicked their energy, and picked apart their words to gain what she could from them. She used her imagination, knowing that if she reached far enough, jumped high enough, and let go of  how things should be done, that there was a world of endless possibilities and delights. It was this willingness to stray beyond the beaten path that blazed her through secondary school and propelled her to London School of Economics and Political Science. But when she arrived at university, Rita was hopelessly lost. She had spent so much time dreaming of different lives that she floundered when it came time to decide which direction to take. Having already chosen and thrown away the ideas of business and politics, Rita had recently turned to law when, by happenstance, she found War.

A colleague heard that a position had recently opened up in the accounting department for the company Bellum Nova. Rita had heard of it, of course, a name that garnered attention from news outlets, caught hers as well, and though Rita was learned in mathematics, she knew next to nothing about weapons manufacturing. Still, she applied, naive to the fact that the “open position” was in fact the role of a scapegoat in case reports were dragged into the blinding light of an interrogation room. Still, they used her for the legal proceedings of the company, and although the work was mundane and rather monotonous, Rita felt that Bellum Nova was the sort of place where things happen. 

And they did. It was a routine file submission, a cross examination of current assets, and the invoices presented to accounts receivable, the busy work they often handed down to her. But this time she noticed a discrepancy. Thousands of pounds missing from a single client. She double checked, triple checked, then, heart pounding in her chest, filed the invoice away like any other. No one had asked her to ignore it, in fact she never even mentioned it to her boss, but she was suspicious of what it meant. In the weeks to come more and more evidence of revenues being underreported trickled down between the numbers. She did the same equations over and over to be sure, finding again and again that the figures didn’t lie. It was simple to cover up, and with decisive fingers, she changed the dates on back up reports to align with requirement contract overages. She worked quickly, and without instruction, acutely aware that this wasn’t a simple case of oversight. One evening her boss stopped her on the way out. Bellum Nova, or rather War, was  in need of a capable accountant, and the illegal transactions in her possession were, more than anything else, a test of confidence and initiative, and, unlike the poor chap before her, Rita had passed. 

An angel, they called it. Funny name for a role that was a far cry from any celestial being. She remained a scapegoat, a fall man if anything should go awry, but now she had purpose. Changing her major to economics, Rita suddenly saw a dazzling future amidst the figures before her. She had come to understand long ago that there wasn’t a straight, honest line to what she wanted, and if it meant fudging numbers and forging invoices, she would do it. In fact, there was little she wouldn’t do. The thrill of it all engulfed her, and like Persephone she found herself trapped in an underworld she desperately adored. University taught her how to legally orchestrate finances for a global company, and War taught her the workings of a world of crime. She held her position at Bellum Nova throughout university, eventually gaining her initiation and a place among the Powers just months after she had graduated. 

In the years to follow Rita continued to learn about the weaponries industry, and what it required while continuing on for a certification in jurisprudence. Rita learned the law in order to avoid it, and where she had once prodded the line of right and wrong the woman now strode across the barriers, watching as her influence grew, her knowledge bounded, and her pockets grew heavier. She was as willing to carry out a delivery, as extort a politician, as to place her signature on a forged invoice. It was this dedication, along with her tenacity to retain what she learned, and her aptitude for problem solving  that put Rita in place for the role of Dominion. It was nearly a decade after joining that she ascended to the position. Some claim she only received the title because of Remus, that nepotism was as alive and well in War as any institution (legal or otherwise), but Rita knows how many hours she poured over textbooks new and old, how much blood she tasted in her mouth, how often she had berated herself over the details of her decisions. It might have been Rita alone that knew how much she really deserved it, but that was enough for her, and no one dared say otherwise to her face. 

The Scapegoat and The Whipping Boy | Q & A |

In this episode of The TruthSeekah Podcast TruthSeekah does a live Q&A with the chat and speaks about The Scapegoat and The Whipping Boy. There are many examples of people stepping out of the social norm and losing everything that they worked hard to build. In this episode I talk about Roseanne Barr getting let go from her show which quickly became the number one show on television with its reboot in 2018 after twenty years. She woke up in the middle of the night supposedly out of a Ambien and alcohol induced sleep and tweeted about former President Obama's senior advisor Valerie Jarrett. When Roseanne woke up the next morning her tweet had made headlines and she soon after got a call from ABC letting her know that her Services were no longer needed. Roseanne says that the Tweet was meant to be a political tweet but everyone disagreed and said that it came off racist. There is this weird thing on the inside of humans that loves to see people rise to power and fame and then fall flat on their faces back down to join the rest of society at the bottom. We've also seen this with Logan Paul the famous YouTuber who took a trip to Aokigahara to visit Japan's famous suicide forest. He went there to Vlog and camp out and maybe shoot a creepy video and ended up finding a dead body hanging from one of the trees deep inside of the forest. He filmed the body and turned his vlog into somewhat of a PSA for suicide prevention but as soon as the upload went public there was immediate backlash. YouTube cut his earnings in half many brands that he was affiliated with immediately pulled out and social media went crazy as everyone had something to say about Logan and his despicable act. Logan Paul comes off as very obnoxious and annoying and many adults can't stand him but he has been a big hit with children and teenagers. People almost seemed to be waiting for Logan to fall from grace and lose everything that he had worked so hard to build, there was a lot of anticipation and the people finally got what they wanted. All the other YouTubers and bloggers went in on Logan about why he's a bad person, why he should be banned from YouTube and how he should never be forgiven. The people rejoiced. There are countless other stories where celebrities and historical figures rise to power and then fall from grace and the people love it. Oftentimes the people who fall are destroyed by the same ones who lifted them up to that platform to begin with. They show their love, give support adorning them with adoration but the moment they say or do something outside of what the people are used to or believe they are quickly made an example out of. Jesus was killed by his own people that he came to save, the same with Martin Luther King, JFK and Malcolm X. Sometimes this is done unto death as in those cases but in this weird Information age that we're in now it's done socially and digitally as in the case of Alex Jones. Alex Jones had taking his Free Speech a little bit too far with crazy conspiracy theories and a little bit too much influence over the itching ears of the people. He said some things that made a lot of people mad and ended up getting deplatformed from all of the major social media outlets, email providers and other private owned companies that are used to distribute content. With the push of a button they deleted all of his uploads, affiliates and advertisers backed out and again with the push of a button the majority of his existence outside of his personal website was gone. Again, when this happened the people rejoiced. I read a book when I was younger in school called The Whipping Boy and it was about this beggar kid who was made to stand in proxy to receive the punishment of a young prince to be. Since he was royalty no one would lay a hand on him so they would bring in The Whipping Boy in to whip him and give him the punishment that belonged  to the prince. This is also adamant in the story of Christ where the people deserve to be punished for their sins but yet Christ goes to the cross and takes their punishment upon himself. This is also shown in the Old Testament in the form of the scapegoat as well as the sacrificial lamb. Most people do not want to take responsibility for their own actions but will stand in a moment to blame others for their own mistakes and wrongdoings. It is a weird fascination with murder, floggings and misery that humans have, even if we cannot do it in our own life to other people we love to watch it on television in sitcoms and soap operas. Just like in the lyrics of the Tool song Vicarious, people love, need and feed off of death and murder even from the comfort of their own homes.

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