#sir the people are not insurgents. we have no cause to arrest them | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pineaberry · 6 years

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Productivity

Part 1:Efficiency|Part 2:Productivity|Part 3: Competency

Efficiency is doing more with less.

Productivity is doing more with the same.

His name was Archiban Frodrick Kimble.

The man pondered this fact as he stepped out of the makeshift hospital’s refresher. He stared at the mirror grimly noting how the water hadn’t gotten warm enough to even begin to fog the glass.

He’d always been of the opinion that names were a sure way to tell how much a parent hated a kid. He considered it sound logic as he recalled how insufferable his own parents had been. If it had been up to them he’d never have left Coruscant after his studies. They would have him plan out his life like erecting a cage. It would have been a comfortable prison to be sure, but a cage nonetheless.

“Frodrick,” he scoffed.

It was the Frodrick what got to him the most.

Frodrick sounded like a man who enjoyed shuffling paperwork and hemming over ‘the economy’ and the ‘apprehensive state of things’ from behind the comfort of a borl wood desk. Frodrick would have stayed in Coruscant and ascended the echelons of high government while watching the galaxy tear itself apart from one of the planet’s copious ivory towers.

Frodrick was a ponce. Farkle that guy. He’d take Doc any day. A shiver cut off his thoughts.

“But I bet Frodrick has hot water,” he sighed before ruffling his damp hair with a towel and finishing his morning routine.

He usually didn’t mind his spartan surroundings, after all, helping those in need and five star accommodations were rarely part of the same packaged deal. However, after the fifth week without reliable plumbing, his living situation was starting to grate on him.

“Just remember, it’s for the greater good,” he muttered to himself as he gave his hair a final inspection.

It occurred to him that he did a lot of unpleasant things for the sake of the greater good. His willingness to dive into the muck to save lives had gotten him involved with crime lords, Hutts, spice traders, and more than his share of gang enforcers. There were still places in Nar Shadaa he couldn’t show his face without running the risk of getting it blasted all over the walls… and those were people he could still consider friends.

People called him reckless. Women would call him impulsive. (A significant size of said demographic would also call him a series of insults that would make a Hutt blush.) None of them really understood his motives. He went where he was needed simple as that. Be it in a rickety hovel on Rodia, or infiltrating the Imperial Medical Corps on Sullust, he sought the action because where there was fighting the inevitable civilian cost of it followed. It was why he was now on Balmorra juggling between feigned deference to the Imperials and pretending to care about whatever pointless cause the Resistance was championing this week.

Imperials allowed his unsanctioned medical outpost in the far edge of the Markaran Plains because it was convenient. Scouting parties often ran out of supplies this far away from their outposts and he was more than happy to sell them subpar medpacs or ‘gently’ expired rations. The Balmorrans allowed it because after a firefight, there was always a need for an isolated place to hole up. Doc was a practical man and he knew the moment one side decided he was expendable, it would all go up in flames. Considering how both sides seemed to be on a hair trigger, neutrality was becoming more dangerous by the day.

A cursory glance at his medical equipment revealed the sad state of affairs. His resupply was late. What little presence the Republic spared locally was holed up in Bugtown and unfortunately it also meant that the safest drop point had to be in the middle of a colicoid nest. Any number of things could have gone wrong. Speaking of which...

A handful of Balmorran Resistance fighters came barging in carrying wounded two of which, Doc knew, were already as good as dead.

“Colicoids! Imps they… they were herding them! Took the whole camp, couldn’t even sound the alarm...” stammered a young fighter looking white as a sheet, “tried to retreat and we-we ran into shock troops!”

“It was a tiny camp, not even on the maps or nothin’,” said another as they helped place a wounded man down on the medical bed.

“Imps never come this far west!”

“You only ever saw scouts around these parts!”

“They don’t have the manpower to hold the plains. They can’t!”

Doc didn’t comment as he worked on the wounded. His mind slipped into his medic mode as he categorized the patients: three critically injured, four stable, two terminal. He activated an old pair of medical droids that were being held together by hopes and wishes. The jittery contraptions were only good for working on the lighter injuries but they would ease some of the load.

Something about this bothered him. An unexpected coordinated attack had befallen a tiny camp that had until now, seemed to be too insignificant for notice. As he grappled with returning someone’s insides back into their proper place he glanced at one of the fighters.

“How many were in the camp?” he asked as he grabbed the last pack of Kolto and applied it where it would do the most good.

“Twenty… maybe thirty… we’re all that’s left. It was overkill. There was no need...”

“Okay kid, I’d love to hold your hand right now but I’m elbow deep in your buddy here. So if you don’t mind, help me out and put some pressure there… yes right there. Okay you don’t have to look but don’t let go,” Doc cut him off and recruited him as a nurse. Poor bastard was going to have to cope with some serious PTSD after this. They were too young and they seemed to get younger every time.

The kid was right, though, colicoids and shock troopers were a bit much for a camp that didn’t reach forty people. Usually when Imps tried to send a message they simply slaughtered the designated unfortunate bastards and left the bodies behind to serve as a warning. Survivors were rare unless… Doc’s eyes widened in realization.

“CLOSE THE BLAST DOORS!” he bellowed at the shell-shocked fighters near the entrance. One off them, a teenager thin as a rail rushed to the lock.

Almost on cue, an imperial probe droid zipped into view and shot the boy before destroying the locks. Like swarming insects, Imperial troopers flowed into the makeshift hospital. Their weapons were trained on the hapless resistance fighters. These weren’t the easily bribed dregs of the Empire that washed up at Doc’s door. These were regiment troops from Sobrik. No doubt fresh off a starship if their nearly spotless armor was any indication.

“So, it's going to be that kind of day…” he said as he tugged off his bloodied gloves in annoyance.

Doc’s experience with Imperials was that they skewed towards being rigid, hierarchical, militants with a superiority complex. If he wanted to find the leader of this little brigade, he’d just have to find the biggest most condescending asshole of the bunch.

“Seal the structure, no one enters or leaves this compound without my authorization,” an sharp voice echoed through the room.

“The elusive asshole shows himself,” he muttered as he saw troopers point their rifles at the medical beds. In a surge of anger he turned to the nearest soldier and scowled. “Hey! Point those things away from my patients!”

He was answered by a swift strike to the face with the side of a rifle. Doc stumbled back holding his nose and he had to hand it to his opponent, that was quite the eloquent counterpoint.

“Lieutenant Quinn. The bunker is secured, sir,” the soldier reported before raising his rifle to strike Doc again.

“Enough. Are you the doctor running this illicit facility?” Quinn asked somehow managing to sound both annoyed and utterly bored.

Doc blinked away enough stars from his gaze to focus on the man questioning him. He wore the usual drab gray uniform with a lieutenant insignia on his chest. He had black hair, cold blue eyes, and perfectly symmetrical features that betrayed the extensive eugenics treatment his DNA had gotten. Save for the speck of black under his left eye he could have been mistaken for a stock photo. Here he was, an Imperial Officer traipsing through the backwaters of Balmorra and the bastard had the audacity to not have a single hair out of place.

Oh yeah, he was in charge, and he knew it.

“This is an independent medical facility,” Doc said enunciating each word as though he were clarifying it to a child. The Imperial officer’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly as he sized up Doc’s form.

“Very well. Then in accordance with the Treaty of Coruscant article five section three, you are under arrest for harboring and enabling terrorist activity,” he replied before glancing at a stormtrooper, “corporal, arrest the doctor and execute the traitors.”

Doc felt his stomach plummet at the words.

“What? No wait a minute! Waitaminute! WAIT!” he yelled stepping in the line of fire between the soldiers and the wounded. “Lieutenant Quinn, right? Sir, wait, please. They’re just kids. They’re stupid kids who wanted to play the Balmorran hero and got themselves mixed up in all this. Don’t… don’t kill them, there’s no honor in killing them.”

“Do not presume to tell me what is or is not honorable,” Quinn snapped with thinly veiled disgust, “I know what you are. You and your ilk enable this pitiful insurgency in clear violation of the ceasefire. You provoke the locals into revolting against Balmorra’s lawful annexation to the Empire and continue to draw out this conflict. Their blood is on your hands. Not that I would expect Republic scum to understand the basic concept of social responsibility and consequences.”

Doc bristled at the accusations but bit his tongue in the interest of saving lives.

“Alright… okay… maybe I deserved that, but don’t kill them. They’re no threat to you or the Empire. Listen, I’m a damn good doctor, I’ll go with you, hell I’ll even work off any trouble I’ve put you through after making you come all the way out here,” Doc’s mouth was running faster than his mind could keep up. There had to be something he could offer this slab of ice.

“You are wasting my time. Corporal, you have your orders,” Quinn said dismissively before turning his back on the entire scene and walking away. The soldiers locked onto the resistance fighters.

“There’s a shipment of medical supplies!” Doc blurted and Quinn suddenly stopped. The stormtroopers seemed to hesitate and looked to Quinn for guidance. Sensing the lieutenant’s interest Doc decided to work that angle. “I know you guys are running dry. I’ve a contact, Lt. Leeral at the outpost. She’s been pressing me for med kits and I’ve got them delivered this week. An entire month’s supply maybe more if you ration it right: Trauma packs, medpacks, fresh kolto, the works. Enough for a whole regiment.”

Lt. Quinn looked thoughtful and he raised his hand stopping the soldiers’ advance. Resources on the battlefield were scarce and they were indeed running on fumes. Additional supplies would be a godsend to the frontlines, but of course the man could be lying through his teeth to preserve his allies.

“You spare them and it’s all yours. I’ll take you to the drop point myself,” Doc said raising his hands as though attempting to appease a rampaging bantha. “Everyone gets what they want, nobody has to die”

Lt. Quinn pinned Doc with an ice-blue stare that chilled him to the bone. He could have handled a glare, or disdain, or even sadistic glee from the Imperial, but cold calculating nothingness? How was he supposed to read that?! It was reptilian and devoid of humanity, like looking a Krayt Dragon in the eye, or an armed droid calculating whether or not it should disembowel you.

“Corporal, take the prisoners to the outpost for processing and hold them there. I want a team of four to accompany me,” Quinn ordered before jabbing a finger at Doc, “and you. If your information proves to be worthless you will regret having lied to me.”

“Me? Lie? C’mon Lieutenant, how can you call a face this handsome a liar?” Doc retorted with a brash smile.

“I want cuffs on this idiot, right now.”

Doc sat in a holding pen that reminded him of an oversized pet carrier. His wrists were bound with durasteel cuffs, quite unnecessarily considering how he was already in a cage. Sobrik was every bit the cold, fascist place he’d imagined it to be. Though the Lieutenant had requested a map of the supplies’ location, Doc had adamantly refused to divulge any information save for the fact that it was located somewhere in the Jacent Valley. There was no point in revealing everything he knew, after all, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t take the intel and shoot him on the spot. Lt. Quinn had managed to look offended at the thought.

And so here he was, in a holding pen with nothing but his thoughts and the lock picks tucked into the inside of his boot. Doc leaned back against the bars and stared at the grated ceiling up above.

“What is a man to do?” he grinned before he deftly slipped out of his cuffs. It took only slightly more skill to open his cell door and sneak past the inexperienced guard.

Impersonating someone required confidence. If you didn’t project confidence, then no disguise could shield you.

Take Imperials for instance. Impersonating an Imp was all about stance. They walked, talked and breathed like they were bred to crush inferior beings under foot. Doc smoothed his hair back so as to streamline his look before squaring his shoulders and taking a steadying breath. He then began to storm down the streets of Sobrik as though he were being summoned for a pointless meeting and someone was going to pay dearly for wasting his precious time.

It worked…

…Right up until he took a wrong turn and ended up in a dead end surrounded by military personnel. He’d obviously stumbled into the officers’ quarters but rather than backtrack and raise suspicion, he marched himself right up to a door with only a young guard posted.

“Halt. Identification papers please.”

“Young man do you think a random stranger would simply barge into the middle of Sobrik if he didn’t have pressing business?” he snapped hoping his accent didn’t push through. “I didn’t rise through the ranks to become a major just to be questioned by a snot nosed brat!”

“I… that is… apologies sir. It’s just… your see... Lt. Quinn is very specific about protocol, sir.”

“Ah yes, the man can be an utter bore. He wouldn’t sneeze without the proper paperwork,” Doc huffed as he clasped his hands behind his back and stood at parade rest.

“And he’d submit it it triplicate,” the soldier echoed mournfully only to realize who he was addressing, “that is to say… er… sir… Lt. Quinn is not in his quarters at this time. If you leave your name I can… ah… let him know you stopped by.”

Doc raised an eyebrow. So that’s who this building belonged to. Well this was going to be more fun than he expected.

“I am well aware of Lt. Quinn’s location. I’ve only just arrive from cleaning up the mess in Marakan Plains! I wouldn’t come here donning civilian clothes if my business with him was not of the utmost secrecy,” he replied in his best emulation of Quinn’s condescending tone, “now step aside soldier unless you’d prefer to do your next assignment patrolling Bugtown!”

The young corporal looked conflicted before finally opting for the lesser of two evils and letting him through. “Yes sir. I’m sorry sir.”

Once more bravado and bold face lying won out. Doc marched inside leaving a flummoxed guard in his wake. He looked around curiously before making a beeline for the terminal. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the good Lieutenant to keep his end of the bargain, but he needed to make sure the people he was risking his life to save had made it out alive.

“Encrypted... ” Doc growled in frustration. He couldn't say he was surprised but that didn't mean it made the situation any less annoying.

He mulled over all of his known Imperial security keys but he found that the data was too well protected. A message flagged as important piqued his interest but it resisted all of his attempts to crack it. After a valiant but ultimately futile attempt, he could get no more information save for the fact that it arrived last night and it was delivered via an off-planet data courier. He’d almost be impressed by Lt. Quinn’s foresight and skill if it wasn’t such a huge pain in his ass. Without his trusty slicing gear he was left with few options. It was not an entire loss, he’d managed to skim enough data from the remaining messages to deduce his patients were still alive and being kept somewhere as collateral.

“Kriffing imps must really be hurting for supplies if they go through all this trouble just for lil ol’ me,” he muttered under his breath.

So like it or not, he was stuck here, at least until he could devise a way to ensure his patients’ safety. Doc leaned back on the chair as he mulled over the new information before catching a glimpse of Lt. Quinn’s sleeping quarters. The entire place was unnaturally spotless and pristine. Idly Doc wondered if the Imperial was actually a new form of humanoid droid.

“Well if you can’t beat them...” he sighed before springing to his feet and walking towards Quinn’s closet.

“You had one job, Jillins! One!” Quinn’s voice all but trembled with rage. “How is it you bungled such a simple straightforward task!”

“It’s not my fault, sir! He said he was a major and had a classified mission.”

“If I hear another excuse spilling out of your mouth, I will march you off the edge of Gorinth Canyon!” he snapped as he searched through his datafiles for signs of slicing.

“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t… I’m sorry...” Jillins stammered.

Quinn clenched his jaw as he worked furiously to identify and stem any damage or security leaks that might have sprung. Not only had his security detail allowed a Republic prisoner to escape custody, but now said prisoner was wandering around Sobrik in full military attire.

“Shall we sound the alarm, sir?” Jillins asked and it took all of Malavai’s strength not to throw a paperweight at his thick skull.

Yes of course, sound an alarm. Tell the entire city what complete and utter jackass you are. And by proxy, what an incompetent jackass I am for believing you could handle something so simple!

“He can’t have gone far...” the corporal said in an attempt to be helpful.

Quinn pinned his subordinate with an acrid glare that successfully cowed him into silence.

I am surrounded by idiots.

This was the last thing he needed. Lord Baras’ newest apprentice would be arriving any day now. Standard hyperspace flight times from Dromund Kaas to Balmorra could be anywhere from 4-7 days barring any major skirmishes. Lord Baras had given him a week’s notice, but from what he had gleaned, the Sith cared very little for accuracy or feasibility in his proposed deadlines. One week could very easily become 24 hours and he simply wasn’t ready! With his best men on the field gathering intel for Lord Baras, Quinn was having to rely on raw brawn and nitwits like Jillins.

The excursion through Markaran Plains was supposed have been simple: Locate the hospital patching up resistance members and seize any medical assets. With Imperial medical shipments three months overdue, this had been a had been a last ditch effort to restock their dwindling supplies. Planetary Command’s solution to an increasing loss of personnel was to send more troops but this level of death was unsustainable. Without reliable medical support, the Empire would never be able to cement their hold on Balmorra.

Regardless, his mission had ended up being nothing more than a costly expenditure of resources. The supposed hospital had been nothing but a sad collection of medical beds and a single bleeding-heart medic. Now more than ever they needed to not only find the medic, but the promised medical supplies. Should he fail to deliver either, the Balmorran commanders would have his hide long before Darth Baras ever lay a finger on him.

He ran a hand over his face feeling the pressure mounting behind his eyes. Not enough sleep in days, too much cheap caff and lack of a decent meal was making him irritable. He was bound to end up with an ulcer before the week was out.

Focus. Failure is not an option. Analyze the situation and act.

“I want you to go to the shuttle area and question the droid for information on anyone matching the prisoner’s appearance,” he finally said in a tone that was far calmer than he felt. Unfortunately this made Corporal Jillins hesitate and Quinn’s restraint finally snapped. “GO. NOW.”

Jillins flinched and hurried away as though he’d been scalded. It wasn’t as satisfying to Quinn as it should have been. He ran his fingers through his dark hair only as though to tear it out by the fistful in frustration. His holo communicator rang cutting through the silence and his gaze flickered with annoyance. Malavai recognized that frequency.

Enter another in a long parade of people wasting my time...

“Kent, I’ve told you, we are not going to be allocating resources to your facility for the foreseeable future,” he cut off the man before he had a chance to speak.

“I am aware. I got your ten page report on it,” Kent stated dryly, “though a simple no would have sufficed.”

“Then why do you insist on calling.”

“One of my boys just came back from Sobrik. I just thought you’d like to know there’s a Major at the Cantina regaling the place with stories and running up your tab,” the portly man on the holo replied looking utterly pleased with himself.

“What? That’s preposterous, I don’t have a tab-” Quinn froze and his expression turned positively livid before snatching up his blaster. “I’m going to kill him.”

He stormed out of his quarters with Kent’s amused laughter ringing in his ears. The outrage within him bubbled over and stifled that tiny voice that insisted they needed to take the prisoner alive.

“So there we was pinned down, easily fifty to a man. Blaster shots whizzing by our heads, and down to our last two snipers. When BOOM! Another concussion grenade and there went our snipers! There were so many dead troopers sprawled everywhere we piled them up and made barricades. Then there was another blast and I got it straight in the face. Death was callin’. So I turned to my mate Quinn and I says, ‘Quinny my lad, if I don’t make it out alive you toss my carcass on that barricade so I can keep kriffing up Pubs in the otherworld.’” Doc’s voice was tinted with his most convincing imperial accent as it echoed through the small crowd of cantina girls and soldiers.

Wars came and went but if there was one constant in the universe it was that nothing beat a good Cantina. Hell even Imperials became downright likeable once they had a few pints in them. Toss in a good story and soon Doc had quite the audience. The Sunken Sarlacc Cantina was no different than the Republic Cantinas off-world, granted there was a distinct lack of non-human faces on THIS side of the counter.

“You’re so brave,” a cute little Twi’lek cooed as she snuggled closer to Doc and brought him a fresh drink.

“I am, aren’t I? Heart of gold, you girls have. That goes double, in your case, beautiful,” he grinned nodding at a zabrak dancer with dark crimson skin. “Gotta tell you, luvs, after a long day protecting the Empire, it’s nice to come back and be reminded wot we’re fighting for.”

He’d settled in a private lounge usually reserved for visiting dignitaries which had not been cheap, but thankfully Lt. Quinn had excellent credit and a clear tab to boot. If Doc were a sensible man he would not be pressing his luck, then again no one could ever accuse Doc of being anything resembling sensible.

“Well then after that scrap, Quinn and I were thick as thieves we was,” he grinned as he looped an arm around the dancer and smirked, “got a scar from that and I just might show you if you play your cards right.”

The lounge door slammed open an enraged lieutenant on the warpath loomed in the doorway.

“YOU.”

“Ah! There he is now! Quinny m’lad, grab a pint! Ladies, make him feel welcome!” Doc chirped happily and raised his glass.

The gathered soldiers cheered his arrival and follow suit, some even clapped Quinn on the shoulder as they stumbled out and back to their barracks for the night. A few more mumbled things along the line of ‘you’re alright Quinn’ followed invariably by ‘no matter what everybody says’.

Quinn blinked in confusion as their reactions threw him for a loop. Despite a decade of service on Balmorra, he was not well-known and those who did know him were more likely to raise their glasses to throw their contents in his direction rather than… well whatever this was.

He scowled as he pushed away a scantily dressed alien female as though he were being confronted by walking sewage. He reacted as though the very idea of her existence to be an affront to decency itself. Quinn then approached the medic and seized his arm in an iron grip before pinning him with an angry glare.

“You are coming with me this instant,” he hissed under his breath.

“Aw, Quinny mate, you just got here,” Doc whined as he was dragged to his feet. He rolled his eyes at his captor. “Oh alright, if I can’t tempt you with pretty girls I suppose I can let you have your way with me. Take me to your dungeon!”

Quinn sputtered as though horrified beyond words as the cantina dancers tittered gleefully.

“You’re so pretty when you blush...” Doc smirked only to be confronted by the full brunt of Quinn’s closed fist. The medic stumbled back stunned but not entirely surprised.

“Don’t make me shoot you. No, better still, please do. Please give me an excuse to upgrade the decor with your splattered brains,” Quinn snapped as his grip grew tighter with each word.

Doc flexed his jaw a bit before answering.

“Okay, first: Wow, you are high strung. If anyone needed some downtime it’s you. Second: You are cutting off the circulation to my-OW OKAY! OKAY! I’M UP! I’M WALKING!” Doc yelped as he was pulled along like an errant child caught playing hooky. Once they were out of the cantina Quinn slammed him against the nearest wall and cuffed his hands behind his back.

“I cannot believe you had the gall to impersonate an imperial officer,” Quinn seethed.

“Oof, I didn’t like the accomodations you provided.”

“Obviously I made a mistake. I’ll make sure to find a suitable ditch to dispose of your body this time,” Quinn all but growled as he forced Doc to face him.

“Aw, don’t be like that. You know I hate it when we fight.”

“Am I going to have to gag you to get you to shut up?!” Quinn snarled in Doc’s face as he slammed him back against the wall.

“You know, I love it when we roleplay, honey, but maybe wait until we’re in private?” Doc’s head tilted to one side and he made a show of staring at someone behind Quinn.

Malavai turned to see a soldier patrolling the street staring at the both of them. He knew exactly how it looked: two officers stumbling out of the Cantina early in the evening... one of them pinning the other against the wall… the other spewing smutty nonsense...

Emperor preserve me.

“Stop gawking and do your job,” he snapped at the soldier before turning to Doc who was stifling his laughter. “I hope you enjoyed your little excursion because you won’t be setting foot outside in a very long time.”

“Oh Lieutenant, I’ve been so baaaad...”

Malavai clenched his jaw and all but dragged the drunken prisoner through the streets of Sobrik. That had to be it. He was definitely drunk. That was why threats were not working. That had to be the reason.

“I should have just shot you and saved myself the trouble,” Quinn muttered under his breath.

“You keep saying that but something tells me that if you could have, you would have,” Doc replied with a smirk, “seems to me like you need me alive. Either that or you’re just REALLY incompetent.”

“Would you care to test that theory?” Quinn asked as he drew his blaster.

“See, there you go again being rude to me. I respond to positive reinforcement and all these threats are doing nothing for my nervous disposition. You haven’t even asked my name!” Doc accused him as he stared defiantly down the barrel of the blaster.

“If it made any difference-” Quinn’s retort was cut off by the wail of sirens.

“What is it? What are those sirens?” Doc asked as he saw his captor look around warily before checking his ammo clip.

Quinn cast his talking burden with a grim look before sparing him a single word as explanation.

“Colicoids.”

“What? In here? But isn’t this an Imperial City?” Doc asked as he was shoved towards the nearest building emblazoned with an Imperial crest, “Don’t you have those huge guns? And a force shield!”

“If you’re that insistent on it, you’re welcome to explain to them when they catch us now walk faster!”

As the sirens continued to wail, Quinn’s security clearance got them into the building which turned out to be an vacated hangar. There were off-duty soldiers there already forming a battle plan in the upper levels. Quinn noticed an empty cargo container no doubt used for shipping fragile items. With a smirk and promptly shoved his prisoner into it.

“Hey! HEY! You can’t just lock me up in a box! IT DOESN’T EVEN HAVE AIR-HOLES!”

“Sit down, shut up, and maybe you won’t use up all your oxygen,” Quinn snapped before slamming the lid closed and locking it tight.

“Quinn! C’mon man! Don’t leave me in here! It stinks like an old mattress! I can’t even stand up! Quinn! Quinn! ARGH! YOU ARE THE WORST KIDNAPPER EVER!”

Now that had been properly satisfying. If it weren’t for their imminent doom, Malavai might have even laughed. He climbed up the staircase to the second level and joined the soldiers. They, like him, were preparing to defend the hangar should it become necessary or to join the fight should they receive a direct order to do so. Hopefully the breach would be contained before it got to that.

I loathe Balmorra.

#Malavai Quinn #Doc #Archiban Frodrick Kimble #F: Productivity #SWTOR #Balmorra

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Hyperallergic: Controversial Assassination Picture Wins 2017 World Press Photo Award

Mevlüt Mert Altıntaş shouts after shooting Andrey Karlov, the Russian ambassador to Turkey, at an art gallery in Ankara, Turkey. (all images courtesy World Press Photo 2017)

Turkish AP photographer Burhan Ozbilici’s shocking photograph of Mevlüt Mert Altıntaş, a 22-year-old off-duty police officer, standing over the dead body of Russian ambassador to Turkey, Andrey Karlov, has won the top prize at this year’s World Press Photo competition. Altıntaş assassinated the ambassador at an art exhibition in Ankara, Turkey, on December 19, 2016. It was selected from 80,408 images submitted by 5,034 photographers from 125 countries.

The winning image is facing some controversy though, as jury chair Stuart Franklin has written a response to the selection indicating that he wasn’t in agreement with the selection. His piece in the Guardian outlines his reasoning, pointing out: “Placing the photograph on this high pedestal is an invitation to those contemplating such staged spectaculars: it reaffirms the compact between martyrdom and publicity.” He continues: “To be clear, my moral position is not that the well-intentioned photographer should be denied the credit he deserves; rather that I feared we’d be amplifying a terrorist’s message through the additional publicity that the top prize attracts.”

In December, Hyperallergic covered the infamous photo in an essay by Robert Archambeau, who wrote:

I think a large part of my inability to fully process the images from Turkey has to do with a kind of category error. They should, I tell myself, be documents of an atrocity, the kind of images we’re bombarded with all the time, and to which most of us have, perhaps at some cost to our humanity, developed antibodies. We see mediated atrocity every day. We tell ourselves we care, and perhaps we do. But generally we look at the wreckage, the carnage, the suffering faces, and we move on. This time, though, I’m having a hard time moving on, because I don’t just see the images as documents of atrocity. I also see them as aesthetic, and that doesn’t sit easily with the other way of seeing them. Indeed, it feels immoral. It feels wrong.

He discussed some of the discomfort many feel toward the image, which is simultaneously attractive and repulsive.

Other World Press Photo award winners include:

Contemporary Issues: Jonathan Bachman (Thomson Reuters) for an image of protester Ieshia Evans standing her ground against the Baton Rouge Police Department.

Lone activist Ieshia Evans stands her ground while offering her hands for arrest as she is charged by riot police during a protest against police brutality outside the Baton Rouge Police Department in Louisiana, USA, on 9 July 2016. Evans, a 28-year-old Pennsylvania nurse and mother of one, traveled to Baton Rouge to protest against the shooting of Alton Sterling. Sterling was a 37-year-old black man and father of five, who was shot at close range by two white police officers. The shooting, captured on a multitude of cell phone videos, aggravated the unrest coursing through the United States in previous years over the use of excessive force by police, particularly against black men.

Daily Life: Paula Bronstein (Time Lightbox / Pulitzer Center For Crisis Reporting) for an image a woman, Najiba, holding her two-year-old nephew Shabir who was injured from a bomb blast in Kabul on March 29, 2016.

KABUL, AFGHANISTAN -MARCH 29, 2016: A the Emergency hospital Najiba holds her nephew Shabir, age 2, who was injured from a bomb blast which killed his sister in Kabul on March 29, 2016. Najiba had to stay with the children as their mother buried her daughter. In 2016 marked another milestone in its 15-year engagement in Afghanistan. Despite billions of dollars spent by the international community to stabilize the country, Afghanistan has seen little improvement in terms of overall stability and human security. The situation on the ground for Afghans continues to be grave. Security for the Afghan people has also deteriorated in large swaths of the country, further complicating humanitarian response. Afghan civilians are at greater risk today than at any time since Taliban rule. According to UN statistics, in the first half of 2016 at least 1,600 people had died, and more than 3,500 people were injured, a 4 per cent increase in overall civilian causalities compared to the same period last year. The upsurge in violence has had devastating consequences for civilians, with suicide bombings and targeted attacks by the Taliban and other insurgents causing 70 percent of all civilian casualties.

General News: Laurent Van der Stockt (Getty Reportage for Le Monde) for an image of Iraqi Special Operations Forces searching houses of Gogjali, an eastern district of Mosul, looking for ISIS members, equipment, and evidence on November 2, 2016.

Mosul, November 2, 2016: The Iraqis Special Operations Forces (Isof 1, Golden Division, ISF) are searching houses of Cogjali, a eastern district of Mosul, looking for Daesh members, equipment and evidences. Young and adult men are quickly interviewed. Most of the time, civilians feel insecure while fighters of isof, still under the threat of snipers and car bombs, feel being in hostile territory.

Long-Term Projects: Valery Melnikov (Rossiya Segodnya) for an image of civilians escaping a house destroyed by an air attack in the Ukrainian village of Luhanskaya.

Civilians escape from a fire at a house destroyed by the air attack in the Luhanskaya village

Nature: Francis Pérez’s image of a sea turtle entangled in a fishing net swimming off the coast of Tenerife, Canary Islands, Spain.

A sea turtle entangled in a fishing net swims off the coast of Tenerife, Canary Islands, Spain, on 8 June 2016. Sea turtles are considered a vulnerable species by the International Union for Conservation of Nature. Unattended fishing gear is responsible for many sea turtle deaths.

People: Magnus Wennman (Aftonbladet) for an image a five-year-old girl, Maha, fleeing with her family from the village Hawija outside Mosul, Iraq.

Maha, 5 and her family fled from the village Hawija outside Mosul, Iraq, seven days ago. The fear of Isis and the lack of food forced them to leave their home, her mother says. Now Maha lays on a dirty mattress in the overcrowded transit center in Debaga refugee camp. I do not dream and I’m not afraid of anything anymore Maha says quietly, while her mother’s hand strokes her hair.

Sports: Tom Jenkins (The Guardian) for an image of jockey Nina Carberry flying off her horse, Sir Des Champs, during the Grand National steeplechase in Liverpool, UK.

Jockey Nina Carberry flies off her horse Sir Des Champs as they fall at The Chair fence during the Grand National steeplechase during day three of the Grand National Meeting at Aintree Racecourse on April 9th 2016 in Liverpool, England.

Spot News: Jamal Taraqai (European Pressphoto Agency) for an image of lawyers helping their injured colleagues after a bomb explosion in Quetta, Pakistan, on August 8, 2016, when 70 people were killed outside a civil hospital.

Lawyers help their injured colleagues after a bomb explosion in Quetta, Pakistan, on 8 August 2016. Seventy people were killed when a bomb exploded outside a civil hospital where a crowd of lawyers and journalists had gathered to mourn Bilal Anwar Kasi, a senior lawyer who had been assassinated hours earlier.

Visit the World Press Photo website for more information.

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