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fandom-necromancer · 3 years

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Late Night City Drive

Fandom: Cyberpunk 2077 | Ship: Delamain/fem!V&Johnny (Warning: Slight body horror in the first two paragraphs you can skip)

The sounds of bullets piercing into concrete and breaking glass followed her as she slid down the slope. The rough material reamed her skin and clothes, but the impending danger behind her was worse than the pain. And then came the fall. The endless fall with air rushing past her as the ground came closer and closer at terrifying speeds. Every second she would collide with the ground and feel the excruciating pain of broken bones and cracked skin. But the moment never came, there was just the fear of it coming for her any second now and the endless time spent on imagining how her body would warp and crack once it came. As time had stretched on enough, she finally collided, but not in a way she had thought to. She had fallen onto a heap of garbage bags filled to the brim with stinking waste. The impact of her fall made her sag into the mass, the foul smell causing her to gag and fight, but the mass was overwhelming and struggling only made it worse.

Suddenly there were hands on her. She looked behind herself and startled as she found herself face to face with her friends. Her dead friends. Jackie looked at her from glassy eyes, mouth distorted with blood still dripping from his lips. His hands were cold, so cold. They were the icy unmoving hands of the dead trying to grip her and pull her with them like she deserved. Behind him there stood T-Bug, eyes charcoal holes in her skull and the back of her head missing. She gripped V too, pulling her forwards and throwing her into a mass of bodies, one reeking worse than the next and all of them holding onto her with their cold dead hands. V struggled against it with all her strength, but stayed afloat only for a few moments. It was enough time to look back at Jackie and T-Bug, both of them smiling at her. ‘You killed us, V. Now join us.’ And then she was pulled under.

She jolted up with a gasp, the feeling of suffocating in a million dead bodies overwhelming her as she forced air in and out. With shaking hands, she hugged her torso, trying to shake off the feeling of countless fingers on her. Her whole body was aching at the tension and she was sure to throw up when her vision glossed over, streaks of turquoise code distorting her surroundings and gifting her with stinging headache on top of the pain that already shook her. V pressed her eyes close and swallowed to keep the bile down, knowing she just had to sit this one out. The malfunction of the relic would soon subside, and she would be able to live in her own body again.

‘Urgh, Fuck.’ She rubbed at her face, fingers caught in the familiar rim of her chrome. ‘V.’ ‘Shut the fuck up!’, the mercenary shouted, lifting up her hand signalling the ghost, the virus, the fucking splinter that would kill her in the long run, to better follow her order this time. Not that she could do much should Johnny choose to appear again. But at least she still had control over her body and could force him to disappear. ‘Just shut up, you already did enough’, she added silent this time, stood up and grabbed her gun and some clothes to throw over. She didn’t bother washing or checking the time, she knew it was the middle of the night anyways and that there was no way she would be able to fall asleep any time soon. She knew exactly what she needed, and she needed it now.

The elevator ride down to street level couldn’t be fast enough for her, already calling her car and slipping past the masses of people still on the street despite the hour to hop in. She relaxed only as she slammed the door shut and sunk into the comfortable driver’s seat. ‘Where can I bring you today?’ V just sunk deeper, staring out of the window up into the night sky barred by skyscrapers, roads and glaring neon lights. She closed her eyes almost like in pain and appreciated once again the AI had the patience of… well, of an immortal computer program. ‘Just get me…’ She sighed deeply. ‘Just get me anywhere, Del. Outside the city. Badlands.’ ‘Of course.’

She felt the hum of the engine get louder and the seat press into her back as the car drove off. She watched the city pass her by while Delamain changed the radio to more silent, softer tunes than she normally listened to. In nights like these it was easy to forget how brutal Night City could be. If you drove through her streets, no more than an anonymous passenger of uncountable others, it seemed near impossible that underneath that beauty, underneath that architectural artwork and the bright glamourous lights hid an ugly monster half-dead but still hanging on to every piece that kept it alive and clawing at everything that tried to take it out of its misery. Was she any different to this shithole she lived in? She had been dead already and now she was living on borrowed time. She was no better than the tumour infesting this city. ‘Your little mercenary friends aren’t the problem here.’ V furrowed her brows in anger. ‘Did I fucking ask you for your opinion?’ ‘Hey, no need to get bitchy. Just saying the corporations are killing this city, the criminal basis is just a by-product of an uncaring world.’ ‘Shut the fuck up!’, V shouted furiously. ‘I just want my peace for once! Isn’t it enough you will kill me in the end? Just show a bit of patience and wait until I’m dead!’

‘I didn’t say anything.’ V sighed and concentrated on the world passing by. They were on their way out already, the highway leading to the border. ‘I know, Del’, she sighed quietly. ‘Then who were you talking to?’ ‘No one. Sorry.’ For a moment it was silent except for the rumble of the wheels and the hum of the engine as they passed the stone front that looked almost like a barrier separating Night City from nomad territory. ‘May I ask what brings you out into the Badlands in the middle of the night?’ V rubbed her forehead and looked outside the side window. ‘I had a nightmare’, she whispered then. She noticed the digital particles from Johnny’s presence and already braced for another unnecessary, cocky comment. But instead he just sat there next to her.

‘Apparently dying isn’t something the brain can easily process’, she added, maybe out of spite to jab at the construct that was killing her. ‘I’m afraid I can’t deliver any personal experience to that’, Delamain commented. ‘But if desired I can get in contact with several therapeutic-‘ ‘No’, V interrupted. ‘No, that won’t be necessary. I don’t have time for that. Just… Just let me drive for a while.’ ‘As you wish. I will disable automatic driving.’

V sat up and took over wheel and pedals. She sighed, relaxing her shoulders and accelerating just a bit more. For a quiet while it was just her and the road. Then Delamain spoke up once again: ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude, but how is this helping you?’ ‘It’s…’ V risked a look over to Johnny’s projection, who shrugged and looked out of the window. ‘Some old habits die hard’, she explained finally. ‘I’m a nomad after all. Whenever the family argued or I simply had enough, I would took my car for a ride. Some days there is no better friend to have than your car and the road beneath you. Makes you feel free. Makes you feel like you’re just one of many, coming from somewhere and driving somewhere else. No one cares where that might be, you are just out there on the road, your car a little part of home.’

‘That sounds fucking lonely if you ask me.’ ‘That sounds… interesting’, Delamain said and seemed to mean it. ‘I don’t know if I understand but I will keep it in mind.’ ‘Fucking people pleaser.’ V sighed and switched stations to Morro Rock. The shock of the nightmare had subsided and now she needed distraction, not calmness. ‘It’s better than drowning your problems in alcohol.’ ‘Always worked for me’, Johnny shrugged, but smiled faintly as the radio began playing the old Samurai songs. ‘Shut up’, V replied. ‘Maybe we can do that later.’

She turned from a dusty side road to a main highway that would eventually lead her back to Pacifica and decided to test out just what Delamain hid under that hood. Seeing the needle of the speedo climb higher and higher and feeling the satisfying pressure in her back, she turned up the volume and watched the completely empty street speed towards her. The streetlights flickered past one after the next while the engine roared and the car climbed up the small slope of a hill.

She enjoyed the ride as long as it lasted and slowed down once they reached streets with more traffic. Soon they would reach Pacifica and V felt exhaustion crawling up at her once again. ‘Should I take over again?’, Delamain asked and V nodded, letting go of the wheel. ‘Are you feeling better?’ ‘Yes, I do. Thank you, Del.’ ‘I didn’t do much, but I’ll take the praise, nonetheless. Should I drive you back to your apartment?’ ‘Yeah. Guess I’ll try to get some more sleep.’ She leaned back in her seat and yawned heartily. ‘Hopefully without nightmares, this time.’

‘You are not at fault for their death’, Johnny interrupted the peace and V felt far too tired to start another fight. ‘Yeah, maybe not’, she sighed. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that they are dead and I’m alone.’ She had a hard time keeping her eyes open with the monotone sound of the engine and the gentle sway from the suspension. ‘Doesn’t matter anyway’, she mumbled, already half asleep. ‘Gonna be dead in a few months no matter what.’ She turned a bit to the side to lay more comfortably against the curve of the chair, drifting off to sleep already. It would keep her wondering later if she had just imagined the words Johnny spoke in a surprisingly concerned tone for the asshole.

‘Not if I can help it.’

#Cyberpunk 2077 #Cyberpunk #Delamain/V #V/Delamain #fem V #female V #V #Delamain #Johnny silverhand #petition to call the ship TaxV #I needed V/Delamain content and I couldn't find any so I wrote something #Now you know one of my three coping mechanisms do with that info what you want #Love this game

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violet975 · 3 years

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Random thoughts.

So i replayed BOTW a while ago for the first time and decided to write down some of the random thoughts that i get while exploring Hyrule, here they are.

… A lot of these things gave me some fanfic ideas and I hope that they will do the same for someone more competent.

It's realty in character that the response to being asked why you took the man's torch is either to bludgeon things to death with it or to be a pyromaniac.

When the tower pedestal shines, Link instinctively leans back for a second before diving right back in because curiosity kills the cat.

The message from the slate/tower is to watch out for falling rocks which either means that

1: zelda is writing them (and has a fair bit of free reign still).

2: the ancient Sheikah could see the future.

3: Ai to the likes of Fi.

Ganon kinda reawakens when the towers are up so maybe he was resting and building a body until he was interrupted here, which could be why his form later is such a hodgepodge of the Blights?.

Link is not too naive since he kinda clamps up in his answers to the totally unimportant old man.

Did Link briefly make eye-contact with the camera when he got the spirit orb!?

Link is a bit freaked out in his "How did you know!?" Response cas now he knows something major is up when the old man directly mentions the spirit orb.

Again, in character that you can choose to be an impatient brat with the "paraglider please?" Or inquisitive when Roam points out the slate.

Either run out of temper with the "that wasn't the deal!" Or be resigned with "so I need more now?" When the old fart sends you off to the other three shrines.

Ohh, another adrenaline junkie option with the "got it!" Over climbing the tower for a good view or a Deadpan "are you joking?".

"Or so i heard quite some time ago.. I do not know if it actually works as such" so they did not get teleporting to work before? or he just didn't learn how it was done.

So the monks, according to how the Triforce signs they held, apparently associate Power with Magnesis, Wisdom with bombs, Stability with stasis and Courage with cryonis?

The monks dissipate into green specks like Ganon’s soul does under the castle!

I'm not into men but damn if Link doesn't look good in the Warm Doublet.

Oh. My. God, he was King Rhoam Bosphoramus Hyrule!!!!!

Link is such a dumbass, you get to ask Kass "are you a ...bird?" As if the man isn't standing right in front of you. No shit Sherlock! What next, is that a recorder?.

OhhohoHO! You either say "no(, i have not heard of them)" or "Ancient songs?" As if you do not initially realize why they are thought to be ancient which either is old memories warring with the now world or Link not realizing what impact The Calamity had on culture.

Another flat-faced sarcastic remark everyone!

When Manny mentions that his job is checking for beauties/sus people you can either be a dumb dunce and ask about the said beauties or a little menace with "sounds though".

Manny is an Incel, talks a big game and puts himself on top of a pedestal alongside being demanding and a creep.

Does Hateno not have a goddess shrine? Just the ~Evil~ one?

There is a pair of rusty knights sword and shield by the leftmost part of the walkway of Fort Hateno. Some knight probably died laying there, watching out over the field of guardians having been/being purged by Zelda.

A traveler (Chelessa) is interested in history and wants to question Impa about it, and is on her way to do so in fact. . Describes her personality as very pleasant, that must be wrong.

The Yiga know exactly how Links first waking moments played out so either they have extensive knowledge about his character and the setup of the Shrine Of Resurrection or Ganon was watching in on Zelda's call and relayed it to a minion in the clan.

"Hero boy" - derogatory.

Arrow in the eye of the bridge at the entrance of Kakariko, the Yiga are petty and I love it.

Piano's (the painter) hair bun thing that is styled like a pencil has paint on the tip... this man painted with his hair.

So the great fairy Cotera makes it sound like she will enchant your gear because you rejuvenated her, not because you bring the materials to do the enchanting.

The levels of enchantment seemingly depends on physical closeness to the Fairy (blow< indirect kiss< kiss < sex)

She can not enchant beyond Lv 1 without her sister's help, so they share power?

Paya specifies that they have watched over the Orb since the grandmother of the grandmother of Impa, that's 9 whole generations of long lived Sheikah! roughly 1000 years of recorded history!

Again with Link being a dense Shonen protagonist with "where is it?" Or a sly bastard with "really, though?"... maybe so that she would want to prove it ;)

…”I'll answer you some day, just not today!”

Either Paya is just not ready for that or she is so nervous that she did not think about the fact that her own grandmother was in the room when she said it!

“Served the royal family in secret” so it's not common knowledge that the royals have a village of Magic ninjas!? No wonder it took a damn demon to topple it instead of rebellion or infighting... probably has been like this since the old old king banished 'em.

"The royal family was destroyed, and the members of our tribe scattered."- okay so it was probably some Sheikah that either thought the royal family was completely extinct and either fled or, according to this next bit- "Sadly, there were some who swore allegiance to Ganon at that time. They joined together as the Yiga Clan, seeking out all who opposed Ganon... cutting them down, one after another."

So from that we get to know that not all Sheikah deserters became enemies (unless the Sheikah dislike defectors enough to hunt them down) and others who either joined an existing opposing group or simply up and created the Yiga clan that then aligned itself with Ganon... probably under either the belief that Hylia's line was extinct and that it was join or die or because they wished to spite the goddess and her followers.

I actually like this way more because it makes no sense that the Yiga could survive before the Calamity when the Royals would have an entire damn country and anbu black-ops to hunt them down with.

"Master link, now that you are awake, you are surely the most formidable opponent standing against them!" Either hero worship or the Sheikah are freshly out on capable warriors with Ninja magic tricks, probably the latter which would explain why the world isn't infested with Lynels or why hynoxes haven't just trampled every settlement.

"No doubt they will come for you, employing whatever underhanded methods they can device"

oh come on! Do not tell me that i'm stuck with the goodie two shoe ninja clan!? Underhandedness is your bread and butter! No wonder you served the royals in secret because you and them by proxy would have been a laughingstock otherwise!!!

"The great fairy Cotera... few remain who know that this village was built under her watchful eye." So the village is fairy new and the Yiga came about before Kakariko or it is old and so well protected that they can't get in... at least not easily.

"The mysterious power of Cotera is that of sacred protection..." so the Great fairies are linked to either Hylia or the gods, good to know.

So it’s not that Cotera “-would be happy to help” but, instead “i can't think of any reason why she wouldn't be happy to help you”. so either she only directly helps men or the earlier "you can put your trust in the great fairy" means that she judges more favorably for the chosen hero.

"I heard that the weather is going to be beautifully tomorrow... to bad you won't be alive to enjoy it"

So they have weather accurate~ich prediction? through magic or old time methods?

Again: Hero boy - derogatory... It's a common nickname for Link within the Yiga.

The lush green shrine could tell that a buck was on it, so the platforms are most definitely scanners.

A travelers sword by a campfire at the foot of mount Lanayru, so someone either took a swim and died to the Lizardfo, dramatically quit or got killed in their sleep.

Love the effect when you have metal weapons on the ground and swing a ThunderBlade!

You automatically reflect the Octorock's rocks, goes faster if you do it manually.

There is a hollowed out part of a hill/mountain with a lot of fic potential to the North-West of the Sword by the campfire.

Located where the lines meet if you draw a line to the right from Rabia plain and up from Trotter's Downfall.

Koko of Kakariko has been deceived by my cunning and slight-of-hand.

Yes, Sagessa (woman by the lake of the Dueling peaks stable), there is, in fact, something "quite romantic" in Link's "endeavor" to save Zelda, thank you for noticing!

The chests inside the shrines can only (non-violently) be opened by use of the Sheikah slate so why not steal a few? prefect safe-keeping for more stuff to keep in Links house.

Dunce moment everyone!

The Yiga traveler tries to seduce Link and you either go with "OK..." so he either has no damn idea about what is going on or is just not good with women?

Orrrrr you go with a straight "I refuse!" cas you see through their ruse and want to rub their face in the dirt!

According to Mina the Hylian, taking out two Bokoblins is considered as great martial caliber which both she and her traveling companion could not do while decently armed.

Best way to deal with a guardian scout when you have weak weapons: hit with electricity, switch weapon, hit 2-5 times, switch to electric, repeat.

When you first enter the area around Hyrule Castle, smoke Ganon throws a fit until Zelda slaps him away.

This either means that Zelda canonically gets a larger workload from there on and out or that the both of them push harder against each other every time you get close.

According to Zelda's diary, Link was assigned as her guard after the champions had been appointed.

How Link was focused on her yet did not voice his thoughts apparently "makes my imagination run wild!". Either romantic or dense.

Link admits to staying quiet because of the pressure of being the boy chosen by the sword.

King Rhoam mentions that he decided to honor THE royal family's traditions by naming his daughter Zelda, and that he is "not a man accustomed to frivolous musings".

Basically confirming that he is not the parent of royal blood.

They probably knew about The Calamity for a good while cas the page after zelda's naming speaks of the fortune teller, probs 3-8 years since Zelda was described to already have vast interest in the relics.

Pikango gets up at 10 past 5, I spent the night watching him and Beetle sleep.

According to all known laws of aerodynamics, Rito should not be able to fly, is Revali's gale then just an absurdly strong variation of some kind of sky Arcanum that all Rito possess? Do all the races possess one as Well?

Slimes ate the Bokoblins in the tree base at the center of the west Hyrule fields.

Savelle is a helpful guy without a pension for violence.

Munk Shae Loya is just flexing on all the other Munks, those old farts need to sit down while he's been squatting on one leg the last 10'000 years.

Chork of the Tabantha Bridge Stable is drunk.

Toren is either naive or a simp for the Faireys.

If you have the Hylian hood equipped with no weapon while riding at max speed then your cape will flap.

"Sweet boy..." "...I see now that my first impression of you was correct. You most definitely are pleasant to look at."

So link has some kind of presence/soul-thingy that appears pleasant to mystical creatures? Might be the spirit of the hero or this link in particular.

The Fairy Kaysar makes Link blush! No player input needed! We’ve found one of his types!... either that or he's just shy.

The fairies almost never use normal materials to enchant, it's always either monster parts that don't dissipate or things that grow in magical arias.

The Sheikah towers are sturdy as all hell, the Tabantha tower did not even get a scratch from a giant fucking pillar falling on it.

Okay, am I just crazy or is a Lizardfo and a Moblin holding a class for 5 bokoblins just to the left of the Tabanta fairy fountain!?

Lester, the wise curry rice guy at Rito Stable, describes Link as sunny boy, another point to the soul/aura theory thingy.

Phontos laughs to hide the pain.

According to the story that Kass sings.

Calamity Ganon was the result of sealing the enemy at its source.

It fought not only the spawn of the Goddess and the bearer of the Spirit Of The Hero but also the army of Guardians and the Champions that piloted the Divine Beasts for quite some time, as implied in the "and the guardians protected them throughout every hour".

So what i get from this is that the attack 10 000 years ago was the first sighting of what we know as calamity Ganon.

It was also far stronger than the one that attacked 100 years ago which implies that that one was either a rush job or that Ganon bounds had been tightened, both of which would drive him to seek out other methods like corrupting the Guardians.

...And the Guardians are apparently powered by the ancient blue energy which was, time-line wise, first shown when the Golden Goddesses created the world.

No wonder that Ganon was capable of doing this since he most likely is running on fumes, spite and the power of the Triforce which likely is made of/channels said energy.

According to the rumor mill, you need the blood of the Hero in your veins to wield the Master Sword, if this is accurate then that means that Fi is sentimental or that Link has magic blood.

Wildberrys are fucking massive.

Genli (the salmon child) is a cunt, one kid was crying about someone Vah Medoh killed and then Genli is all like "no don't stop it, if you do then i have to go to class again!", She would fit right in with today's youth.

Monk Akh Va'quot has the best position so far, he is just done with your shit.

"You adventurers are Crazy" -> "you're right"

You get nothing if you melt all the ice by the Tabantha tower! You lose! Good day sir!

Monk Daka Tuss got bored during his self-inflicted quarantine and started stacking his arm bands.

Tula (the bathing Zora) said "wow either you are a Hylian or hideously deformed"

Phura has vandalized and mounted one of the spirit frog statues above her door.

Okay but the fucking noice that comes out of Bolson when you buy everything!! It's as if you just walked up and twisted his nuts with the power fit to shield block a Lynel’s charge.

Is the flower by Link's bed a Korok version of a Silent Princess?

The monsters of Hyrule are show to have interest in consumption based on three accounts.

1: the Bocoblins and the Moblins by Hateno bay steal cattle.

2: Hynoxes carry around warriors foodstuffs.

3: Moblins (or at least the ones by the camp near the Serenne stable/forgotten temple) have a resting animation where they dig through the dirt and stuff something down their goblet.

...not to mention that nearly every camp has a bit of meat roasting by the fire.

Koyin has joined the fan-club!

God, the Naydra snowfield is fucking loaded in chill-shromes!

Stasis is perfect for looking for ingredients in forests, just open it, look around and bam! No more hidey hoe.

Why no shiny text for hylia's statue!?

I really do not like that they changed Naydra's colors when the malice was removed, they were so cool and then bam! White! White is not the color for ice and cold!

When praying by the spring of wisdom you are facing Hyrule castle, the same with courage and power if my memory serves me right.

...The master Torch

The Katona Aug shrine is just fucking mini-golf, how is that meant to prepare the hero?! Imagine how that Monk goes to the afterlife and has to look his fellows straight in the eye and admit that he was so lazy that not only did he make the hero play golf, not only was he so lazy that he made the Hero play mini-golf, but that he was so lazy that he did not even make a course! It is literally just a straight line!

Robie wants to see Links scars to verify that he is who he says that he is, Robie was likely one of the ninja that took Link to the shrine of resurrection.

Oh and Robin has two interesting sketches in his lab, the first is a detailed graph of a Sheikah tower so those were likely known about long before Link activated one (the one closest to Robin would be the one covered in malice and guardians so he could not have gotten enough detail from that one).

And the other is a sketch of what I believe is either a tier 2 or tier 3 guardian scout. Now, how can Robin know how that looks if only Link can/could enter shrines?

The Sheikah shrine that has the Barbarian helm is located at the end of the Sinai maze, did they just plop the shrine down there and steal the treasure of the ruin to later present to the hero?

There is one usable room in the citadel.

There is no compendium slot for the malice eyes that litter Naydra, Hyrule Castle and the Divine Beasts.

You can change the element of already elemental slime, not just the neutral kind.

Those head-spitting fuckers inside the divine beasts! They are partially reanimating mobs! So it's not that the Blood Moon is the time where Ganon is at his strongest, it's just where he chooses to revive everything.

The edge of duality can also be found in the shrine at the top of the dueling peaks.

#botw #lore #fanfic ideas #the legend of zelda #breath of the wild

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arcticdementor · 3 years

Link

There are three kinds of dissidents: (a) anons, (b) pundits who still care what people think, and (c) outsiders who DGAF. All these groups are great; real greatness can be achieved in any of them; and good friends I have in each. But each has its problems.

…

The problem with (b) is that you are always policing yourself. Not only do your readers never really know what you really believe—you never really know yourself. In practice, it is much easier to police your own thoughts than your own words. When choosing between two ideas, the temptation to prefer the safer one is almost irresistible. This is a source of cognitive distortion which the anons and outsiders do not experience. (Though anons do suffer something of the opposite, a reflex to provoke.)

As a pundit, you sense this stress in every bone of your body; you can never show it to your readers. This creates a deep dishonesty in the parasocial relationship between writer and reader—like a marriage that can never escape some foolish first-date fib. The falsity, like the blue in blue cheese, flows through and flavors every particle of your content. Neither you nor your readers can ever be sure whether you are speaking the truth, lying to them, or lying to yourself—but you are constantly doing all three. You may still be very entertaining—enlightening, even. All your work is ephemeral, and once you die only your relatives will remember you. And it’s not even your fault.

…

From my perspective, both the anonymous and official dissidents exhibit a kind of unserious frivolity, but a very different kind. The frivolity of the anon is imaginative, surreal and playful at best, merely puerile at worst. The frivolity of the pundit has no upside; in every paragraph he is breaking Koestler’s rule, and he knows it; the best he can do is to shut up selectively about the things he cannot write about.

And his mens rea, too, is awful. He is selling hope. He is selling answers. Pity the man whose life has brought him to the position of selling answers in which he does not believe, or which he is forced to believe, or which he must force himself to believe. However sophisticated and erudite he may be, he is just a high-end grifter. His little magazine is a Macedonian troll-farm with a PhD. He is lucky if his eloquent essays about the common good don’t appear above a popup bar peddling penis pills—and in fact, I know more than one brilliant scholar in precisely this bathetic position. The frame defines the picture; the context sets the price of the text. Sad!

Worst still must be the reality that bad punditry is worse than useless—since useless strategies for escaping from a real problem are traps. When you lead your readers toward an attractive but ineffective solution, you lead them away from the opposite.

You got into this business to change the world for the better. You cannot avoid the realization that you are changing it for the worse—because your objective function is that of Chaim Rumkowski, the Lodz Ghetto’s “King of the Jews.”

You exist to convince your own followers that they neither can nor should do anything effective. The easiest way to do this is to convince them that ineffective strategies are effective. And this, as we’ll see, is exactly what you cannot avoid doing, dear pundit.

Moreover, from our present position of profound unreality, where the official narrative shared and studied by all normal intelligent people and all prestigious institutions can only be described as a state of venomous delirium, the opportunities to play Judas goat are almost unlimited. Cows, remember: there does not have to be only one Judas goat.

…

A particular favorite of the pundit is the error that AI philosophers call the “first-step fallacy.” It turns out that the first monkey to climb to the top of a tree was taking the first step toward landing on the moon:

First-step thinking has the idea of a successful last step built in. Limited early success, however, is not a valid basis for predicting the ultimate success of one’s project. Climbing a hill should not give one any assurance that if he keeps going he will reach the sky.

When a vendor sells you the moon and ships you a rope-ladder, you’ve been defrauded. Time for that one-star review.

…

Today we’ll chart the edges of the legitimate possible by looking at three recent pundit essays which have done a fine job of exploring those edges, and maybe even expanding them: Richard Hanania’s “Why is Everything Liberal?”, Scott Alexander’s “The New Sultan”, and Tanner Greer’s “The Problem of the New Right.”

…

After reading Hanania’s essay, a fourth pundit (who is out as a radical conservative) asked me: why does the right always lose? “Narcissistic delusions,” I replied.

Which was far from what he expected to hear, or what most readers will take from the essay. All three of these essays are good and true; but their inability to go far enough leaves them pointing their audience in precisely the wrong direction.

Most readers will emerge feeling that conservatives need more and better narcissistic delusions. Indeed, both pundit and politician are right there with just such a product. This meretricious frivolity, posing as seriousness, is too egregious to leave unmocked; yet the right reason to mock it is to challenge it to assume its final, truly-serious form.

Richard Hanania and the loser right

Hanania’s true point—backed up with a ream of unnecessary, PhD-worthy evidence—is that the libs always win because they just care more:

…

Since the rebirth of conservatism after the revolutionary monoculture of World War II, all conservative punditry has consisted of attempts to create more excitement around policies and values which effectively resist the power of the prestigious institutions—giving “normal people” as much to care about as their fanatical, aristocratic enemies.

Sensibly, this tends to involve raising “issues” which actually seem to affect their lives, but which also run counter to aristocratic power. Over decades, the substance of these issues changes and even reverses; the opposite stance becomes the useful stance; and “conservative values” have no choice but to change to reflect this. (If this seems like a liberal way to rag on conservatives—the cons learned it from the libs.)

…

“New Right” is not Greer’s term, but as a label I can barely imagine a worse self-own. It promises something ephemeral and irrelevant. So far as I can tell, this same cursed label has been used in every generation of conservatism to mean something different. When it inevitably fails and dies, people forget about it, and the next generation, stuck in the eternal present of a Korsakoff-syndrome movement, can reinvent it.

Who reads the conservative pundits of the ‘80s? Even those who remember them have to throw them under the bus. Every generation of National Review twinks, solemnly intoning what they conceive to be the immortal philosophy of our hallowed founders, is horrified by its predecessor, and horrifies its successor—a truly bathetic spectacle. And of course, each such generation would utterly horrify the actual founders.

…

Greer then goes deep into David Hackett Fischer territory to explain the obvious, yet important, fact that this “New Right” consists of upper-class intellectuals (inherently the heirs of the Puritans, since America’s upper-class tradition is the Puritan tradition) trying to lead middle-class yokels (the heirs of the Scotch-Irish crackers, and (though Greer does not mention this) Irish, Slavs, and other post-Albionic “white ethnic” trash, today even including many Hispanics. He even gives us a clever historical bon mot:

Pity the Whig who wishes to lead the Jackson masses!

Uh, yeah, dude, that would be called “Abraham Lincoln.”

But the point stands. Not just the “New Right” with its new statist ideology, but the whole postwar American Right, is a weird army with a general staff of philosophers and a fighting infantry of ignorant yokels. How can this stay together? How can the philosophers bring forth a mythology that creates passionate intensity in the yokels?

…

There is wisdom in this madness, of course—the problem is caused by aristocrats whose minds are wholly given over to narcissistic delusions. Doesn’t it take fire to fight fire? Doesn’t it take passionate intensity? Isn’t passionate intensity generated only by myths, dreams, poems and religions, not autistic formulas for tax policy? So the answer is clear: we need more and better narcissistic delusions. Ie, shams.

After all, any “founding mythology” is a narcissistic delusion. The flintlock farmers and mechanic mobs of the 1770s, and the Plymouth Puritans of the 1620s, have one thing in common: none of these people even remotely resembles the megachurch grill-and-minivan conservative of the 2020s. None of them even remotely resembles you.

They did live in the same places, and speak sort of the same language. Otherwise you probably have more in common with the average Indonesian housewife—at least she watches the same superhero movies.

To Narcissus, everything is a mirror; in everything and everyone, he sees himself. No field is riper for narcissism than history, since the dead past cannot even laugh at the present’s appropriations of a human reality it could not even start to comprehend.

And fighting fire with fire is one thing, but fighting the shark in the water is another. For the aristocrat, transcending reality is a core competence. The essence of leftism—always and everywhere an aristocratic trope, however vast its ignorant serf-armies—is James Spader in Pretty in Pink: “If I cared about money, would I treat my father’s house this way?” Mere peasants can never develop this kind of wild energy: that’s the point.

Yet Hanania remains right about the amount of energy that a rational, Kantian agenda for productive collective action motivated by collective self-interest, or even collective self-defense, can generate. The grill-American suburbicon is like Maistre’s Frenchman under the late Jacobins: he has defined deviancy down to rock-bottom. “He feels that he is well-governed, so long as he himself is not being killed.”

O, what to do? When you are solving an engineering problem and see the answer at last, it hits you like a thunderbolt. The conservatives, the normal people, the grill-Americans, must accept their own low energy. They must cease their futile reaching for passionate intensity, whether achieved through Kantian collective realism or Jaffaite founding mythology. They must fight the shark on land.

Conservatives don’t care—at least not enough. Yet they want to matter. Yet they live in a political system where mattering is a function of caring—not just voting. Therefore, there are two potential solutions: (a) make them care more; (b) make systems that let them matter more, without caring more.

Conservatives have low energy. They want high impact—at this point, they need high impact. After all, once you yourself are being killed, it’s kind of too late. Any engineer would tell you that there are two paths to high impact: more energy, or more efficiency.

Conservatives vote but don’t care. If we don’t have a viable way to make conservatives care more—meaning orders of magnitude more—effective strategies and structures must generate power by voting, not caring. They must maximize power per vote.

…

Interference means voters who are on the same team are working against each other. Impedance means voters resist delegating their complete consent to the team.

Interference is like a bunch of ants pulling the breadcrumb in different directions. To eliminate interference, point all your votes at one structurally cohesive entity which never works against itself.

Impedance is like getting married for a limited trial period, so long as your wife stays hot and keeps liking the stuff you like. As Burke pointed out in his famous speech to the electors of Bristol, the fundamental nature of electoral consent is unconditional:

To deliver an opinion, is the right of all men; that of Constituents is a weighty and respectable opinion, which a Representative ought always to rejoice to hear; and which he ought always most seriously to consider.

But authoritative Instructions; Mandates issued, which the Member is bound blindly and implicitly to obey, to vote, and to argue for, though contrary to the clearest conviction of his judgement and conscience; these are things utterly unknown to the laws of this land, and which arise from a fundamental Mistake of the whole order and tenor of our Constitution.

The cause of electoral impedance in the modern world is the conventional concept of “agendas” or “platforms” or “issues.” When you vote not for a cohesive entity, but for a list of instructions you are giving to that entity, you are not voting your full power. You are voting for Burke’s opponent, who felt “his Will ought to be subservient to yours.” In effect, you are voting for yourself. Narcissism once again rears its ugly head.

When you vote an agenda, you are granting limited consent to your representative. You say: I vote for you, for a limited time, so long as you stay fit and cook tasty dinners. I am actually not voting for you! I am voting for “reforms for conservatives” (Hanania). I am voting for “a broad set of shared attitudes and policy prescriptions” (Greer). Dear, I am not marrying you. I am marrying hot sex, regular cleaning and delicious meals—till ten extra pounds, or maybe at most fifteen, do us part.

You implicitly withhold your consent for anything not on your jejune list of bullet points. Then, you wonder why your representatives have no power and are constantly mocked, disobeyed, tricked and destroyed by people who are legally their employees. This is not political sex. This is political masturbation. You voted for yourself. And instead of a baby, all you got was a wad of tissues. Nice way to “drain the swamp.”

Your vote does not work because you are not voting, delegating, or granting consent. You are like an archer with one arrow who, afraid of losing it, refuses to let go of it. Without releasing his dart, all he can do is run up to the enemy and try to stab.

So if conservatives want to maximize the impact of their votes, all they have to do is the opposite of what they’re doing. Instead of voting for the okonomi a-la-carte stupid little political menus of hundreds of unconnected candidates and their staffs, they can all vote for the omakase prix-fixe chef’s-choice of a single cohesive governing entity.

Such a power, elected, has the voters’ mandate not just to “govern,” but to rule. When no other private or public force enjoys any such consent, no other force can resist. We are certainly well beyond “rule of law” at this point! On the inaugural podium, the new President announces a state of emergency. He declares himself the Living Constitution. In six months no one will even remember “the swamp.”

Wow! What a simple, clear idea! The engineer, when he comes across so compelling and obvious a design, knows there’s a catch: he won’t get the patent. Someone else must have invented it before. People may be stupid—but they’re not that stupid.

Indeed we have just reasoned our way to reinventing the oldest, most common, and most successful form of government: monarchy. And we are setting it against the second most common form, the institutional rule of power-obsessed elites: oligarchy. And to install our monarchy, we are using the collective action of a large number of people who each perform one small act: democracy.

The alliance of monarchy and democracy (king and people) against oligarchy (church and/or nobles) is the oldest political strategy in the book. The suburban conservative, who just wants to grill, either has no idea this ancient and trivial solution exists, or regards it as the worst thing in the world—even worse, possibly, than his sixth-grader’s mandatory sex change.

And why? Ask your friendly local Judas goat, the pundit. Even the “new right” pundit—who only differs in his policies and issues. Which are, true, slightly less useless. As the top of the tree is slightly closer to the moon.

The 20th century even came up with a handy pejorative for a newborn monarchy. We call it fascism. No word on whether Cromwell, Caesar, or Charlemagne, let alone Louis XIV, Frederick II and Elizabeth I, were fascists.

But, to borrow Scott Alexander’s charming term, also not his own invention, they were certainly strongmen. TLDR: if you want to be strong, elect one strongman. If you prefer to be weak, elect a whole bunch of weakmen. Do you prefer to be weak? “If the rule you followed brought you to this place—of what use was the rule?”

The pundit reassures you that you don’t need a strongman to be strong—you’ll do fine with weakmen—so long as those weakmen have the right “shared attitudes and policy prescriptions.” By the way, here are some attitudes I’m happy to share with you. Click now to accept cookies. Did I mention that I have policy prescriptions, too? Skip ad in 5 seconds. Congratulations, you’ve been automatically subscribed! Check the box to opt out of most emails—void where prohibited by law—terms and conditions may apply…

…

An odd sort of pundit, who remains only nominally anonymous but has always very much GAF, Scott Alexander does not have Hanania’s cagey diplomatic noncommittal. As a “rationalist,” he is deeply committed to his own class status, and to oligarchy itself—which, like most, he misidentifies as “democracy.”

While the whole raison d’etre of the rationalist is the irrationality of our oligarchy, as displayed in genius moves like refusing to cancel regularly-scheduled airline flights to stop a Holocaust-tier pandemic, the rationalist’s dream is a rational oligarchy—using Bayes’ rule, which given infinite computing power will become infinitely intelligent—in Carlyle’s immortal phrase, “a government carried out by steam.”

Obviously, this is not just logical—it immunizes the rationalists from the scurrilous charge of “fascism,” or worse. And they were right about stopping the flights. So was my 9-year-old. Sadly, in a world of universal delusional delirium, rationality can get quite pleased with itself by clearing quite a low bar.

My view is that no government can be or ever has been carried out by steam—only by human beings—a species the same today as in the Old Kingdom of Egypt, if possibly a little dumber on average—and this will remain the case until some computational or genetic singularity occurs. For neither of which events will I hold my breath. This is why I find it easy to picture 21st-century America under the phronetic monarchy of an experienced and capable President-CEO, and almost hilariously impossible to picture it under a Bayesian bureaucracy of polyamorous smart-contracts.

Alexander disagrees. Here is his analysis—the same text that Hanania quotes. Let’s go through it thought by thought, and see if we can’t turn it into some delicious carnitas.

…

Let’s get back to those “elites.” Alexander conflates three quite orthogonal concepts in his use of the word “elite”: biology, institutions, and culture.

Elite biology is high IQ, which is genetic. Elite institutions are any centers of organized collective power—Harvard, the Komsomol, the Mafia, etc. Elite culture is whatever ideas flourish within elite institutions.

Destroying biology is genocide—specifically, aristocide. Destroying institutions is… paperwork. Who hasn’t worked for a company that went out of business? Same deal. And if the culture is the consequence of the institutions, different institutions (with the same human biology) will inevitably nurture different ideas.

The SS was anything but a low-IQ institution, yet it propagated a very different culture than Harvard. 21st-century Germany is anything but a low-IQ country, but the ideas of Kurt Eggers do not flourish in it. It seems that high-IQ institutions can be destroyed—and the new “elite culture” will be the culture of the institutions that replace them.

So the only target is the institutions. There is nothing “nasty” about closing an office. In the worst possible scenario, the police need to clear the building, lock the doors, and impound the servers. Such tasks are well within their core competence, and can be performed with calm professionalism. They will probably not even need their zip-ties.

…

For democracy to be effective in such a situation, it must know its own limitations. It can seize the reins—but only to hand them to some effective power. This power must have one of three forms: an existing oligarchy, a new monarchy, or a foreign power.

Also, there are three classes in an advanced society, not just two: nobles, commoners, and clients. Since clients support their patrons by definition, once nobles plus clients outnumber commoners, the commoners have permanently lost the numbers game. This is why importing client voters is a recipe for either civil war or eternal tyranny—if not both.

…

Yes. This is what happened in denazification, except with monarchy and oligarchy reversed. For example, all German media firms today are descendants of institutions created, or at least certified, by AMGOT. Nothing “organic” about it.

The essential problem with Alexander’s picture of this process is that, since like most smart people today he inhabits Cicero’s great quote about history and children, he simply cannot imagine replacing one kind of elite institution with another. Nor can he imagine high-IQ elites—human beings as smart as him—which are as loyal to a new sane monarchy as today’s elites are loyal, slavishly loyal, to our old insane oligarchy. Does he think that Elizabeth’s London had no elites? Caesar’s Rome?

If Alexander was analyzing the Soviet Union in the same way, he would conclude that elites are inherently devoted to building socialism for the workers and peasants. Since the present world he lives in is all of history for him, he cannot see the general theory which predicts this special case: elites like to get ahead. To genuinely change the world, change what it takes for elites to get ahead.

If the elites are poets and their only way to get ahead is to write interminable reams of “race opera,” as my late wife liked to put it, the floodgates of race opera will open. If the elites are poets and their only way to get ahead is to write interminable reams of Stalin hagiography, Stalin will be praised to the skies in beautiful and clever rhymes.

…

There are two big strawmen here. Let’s turn them into steelmen.

First, “the populace uses the government” is non-Burkean. The populace (not all of it, just the middle class) installs the government. Then it goes back to grilling. So long as the commoners have to be in charge of the regime, and the commoners are weak, the regime will be weak. They need to “fire and forget.” Otherwise, they just lose.

Second, Alexander has clearly never heard of the atelier movement. No, this is not the same thing as your grandma in front of the TV copying Bob Ross.

What happens is this: every (oligarchic) art school and art critic no longer exists. Not that they are killed, of course. Just that their employers are liquidated (not with a bullet in the neck, just with a letter from the bank). They exist physically, not professionally. They were already bureaucrats—they had careers, not passions. Who gets fired, but keeps doing his job just for fun? Certainly not a bureaucrat.

And every (oligarchic) artist no longer exists—not that they are killed, of course. Just that the rich socialites who used to buy their stuff got letters from the bank, too. Libs sometimes talk about a wealth tax—a one-time wealth cap, perhaps at a modest level like $20 mil, will concentrate the rich man’s mind wonderfully on actual necessities.

Elites like to get ahead. The people who got ahead in the oligarchic art scene can no longer get ahead by doing shitty, bureaucratic, 20th-century conceptual art. Because there were so many of them, and because the demand for this product has dropped by at least one order of magnitude if not two, elite ambition is replaced by elite revulsion.

The enormous supply-and-demand imbalance for both art and artists in 20th-century styles leaves these styles about as fashionable as disco in 1996. “Paintings” that used to sell for eight figures will be stacked next to the dumpster. “Artists” once celebrated in the Times will be teaching kindergarten, tying trout flies, or cooking delicious dinners.

Inevitably, some of these people have real artistic talent. (The first modern artists had real talent—Picasso was an excellent draftsman.) They can go to an atelier and learn to draw. They will—because now, acquiring real artistic skill is a way to get ahead in art. And again, elites like to get ahead.

…

There is nothing “normal” or “natural” or “organic” about oligarchy. Does Alexander think “uncured” bacon is “organic” because, instead of evil chemical nitrates, it uses healthy, natural celery powder? He sure is easy to fool. But who isn’t?

Culture and academia is already yoked to the will of government in a “heavy-handed manner”—yoked not by the positive pressure of power, but the negative attraction of power. When the formal government defers to institutions that are formally outside the government, it leaks power into them and makes them de facto state agencies.

Power leakage, like a pig lagoon spilling into an alpine lake, poisons the marketplace of ideas with delicious nutrients. Ideas that make the institutions more powerful grow wildly. Eventually these ideas evolve carnivory and learn to positively repress their competitors, which is how our free press and our independent universities have turned our regime into Czechoslovakia in 1971, and our conversation into a Hutu Power after-school special. PS: Black lives matter.

The paradox of “authoritarianism” is that a regime strong enough to implement Frederick the Great’s idea of “free speech”—“they say what they want, I do what I want”—can actually create a free and unbiased marketplace of ideas, which neither represses seditious ideas nor rewards carnivorous ideas. But it takes a lot of power to reach this level of strength—and it requires liquidating all competing powers.

I have never been able to explain this simple idea to anyone, even rationalists with 150+ IQs who can grok quantum computing before breakfast, who didn’t want to understand it. Ultimately it reduces to the painful realization that sovereignty is conserved—that the power of man over man is a human universal. (Also, we all die.)

No surprise that nerds who think of power as Chad shoving them into a locker can’t handle the truth. PS: I went to a public high school as a 12-year-old sophomore, was bullied every day for three years, and graduated college as a virgin. Whoever you are, dear reader, you are not beyond hope. You can handle the truth.

…

And yet: Alexander’s post is about Erdoğan—and his description of Erdoğan is spot on. It also is a perfect description of Orban in Hungary; it applies to Putin in Russia and Xi in China; and it is even pretty accurate for Hitler, Mussolini and friends.

What all these “strongmen” have in common is that they are provincial. Turkey is not exactly the center of the world. Even 20th-century Germany was nowhere near the center of the world, though it could at least imagine becoming that center. If Turkey just disappeared tomorrow, no one would have any reason to care except the Turks. Who needs Turkey for anything? What would collapse—the dried-apricot market?

Erdoğan’s problem is that he cannot vaporize the oligarchy, because the institutions that matter are not in Turkey. The provincial strongman has no choice but to follow the “populist” playbook that Alexander describes so well.

Orban can kick Soros’s university out of Hungary; he cannot do anything at all to Soros, let alone to the global institutions of which Soros is only a small part. He is indeed “arrayed against” these institutions, to which his Hungarian elites (who speak nearly-perfect English) will always be loyal. The contest is unequal and has only one possible winner, though it can last indefinitely long. Even Xi, whose country can quite easily imagine becoming the economic center of the world, is a provincial strongman—in fact, he sent his daughter to Harvard. Sad!

In a global century, the only way for these provincial strongmen to develop genuine local sovereignty is to go full juche. This is simply not possible for Hungary or Turkey, both of which are firmly attached to the cultural, economic, and military teat of the Global American Empire. Indeed it is barely possible for North Korea, a marsupial nation still in China’s pouch. So Alexander is right: these “strongmen” cannot win. Their regimes will all go the way of Franco’s. It’s impressive that they even survive.

Erdoğan simply has no way to attach his best citizens to his own regime. They are citizens of the world. Elites always like to get ahead. If you’re a world-class talent in anything, why would you try to get ahead in Istanbul? Suppose you want to make a name as the world’s greatest Turkish writer. Succeed in New York, then come home. Turkey is a province; provinces are provincial.

Yet I am not a Turk or a Hungarian, and neither is Scott Alexander. The greater any empire, the more essential that its fall begin at the center. The Soviet empire did not fall from the outside in; it was not brought down from Budapest or Prague; it fell from Moscow out.

And the American empire will fall from Washington out—though that may not happen in the lives of those now living. And although nature abhors a vacuum and no empire can be replaced by nothing—and oligarchy, in the modern world, can only be replaced by monarchy—the “strongman” of this monarchy will not look anything like these mere provincial dictators.

…

The result of Alexander’s perceptive calculations, which are only wrong because their only input data is the present, is simply that our present incompetent tyranny is and must be permanent. Of course, every sovereign regime defines itself as permanent. Yet when we look at the past and not just the present, we see that no empire is forever.

Some grim things are happening in America today. These grim things have a silver lining: they expose the gleaming steel jaws of the traps that the aristocracy sets for its commoners. They remind the cattle that a goat is not a cow and a baa is not a moo.

Every pundit is a Cicero. And amidst all the greatness of his rhetoric, Cicero could not imagine a world that had no use for Ciceros—a world governed by competence, not rhetoric. By the time Caesar crossed the Rubicon, nothing had failed more completely than the whole Roman idea of governance by rhetoric—an idea many centuries old, an idea whose execution had beaten all competitors to capture the whole civilized world, but an idea that was past its sell-by date. Rome herself was no longer suited to it. The republican aristocracy of Rome no longer meant Regulus and Scipio and Cincinnatus; it meant Milo and Clodius and Catiline. Its factional conflict was the choice between Hutu Power and Das Schwarze Korps. Caesar was not a disaster; Caesar was a miracle.

In the death of the American republic, every detail is different. The story is the same. The contrast in capacity between SpaceX and the Pentagon, Moderna and the CDC, Apple and Minneapolis—between our monarchical corporations, and our oligarchical institutions—is a dead ringer for the contrast between the legions and the Senate.

The sooner we stop pretending that this isn’t happening to us, the better results we can get. Wouldn’t it be nice to get to Caesar, Augustus and Marcus Aurelius, without passing through Sulla and Marius, Crassus and Spartacus? Alas, from here and now it seems unlikely. But I can’t see why every serious person wouldn’t want to try.

#curtis yarvin #substack #long #moldbug #well worth the read #monarchy #oligarchy #scott alexander #richard hanania #tanner greer #those who just want to grill #strongman #pundits #i'm reminded at several points of jim donald's arguments about how holiness spirals are ended

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ehyde · 7 years

Text

Worlds Unseen, chapter 7 (epilogue)

Yona’s mission to take down Hiyou and rid the Water Tribe of nadai is interrupted by the appearance of a ship floating in the sky … and by the revelation that neither Lili nor Suwon are the people she believed them to be.

(Part of a scifi au where the dragons and all of Kouka’s history are the same as in canon, but there is also a sort of alien invasion happening. Also, Suwon is an AI.)

(read from the beginning on AO3)

Author’s note: I’m sorry if the ending feels abrupt. I never intended for this fic to tell the full story of this AU, it was always meant to just be “Yona’s first contact story.” From the start, I decided I’d write about this AU through interconnected short stories, so that I wasn’t taking on a huge project all at once and so that I could go wherever inspiration took me, rather than telling the story in chronological order. But the pacing of this particular fic gave me some trouble and it actually ended up longer than I expected. Anyway, if you’re wondering about unaddressed plot threads, don’t worry--those are all stories that I intend to tell, just not in the context of this fic.

And now, on to the final chapter!

“Miss Tetora, Shinah keeps telling me how beautiful you are…”

“Oh?” Tetora teased Jaeha with a smile, forcing him to actually ask the question.

“We’re leaving for Fuuga tomorrow morning,” said Jae-ha. “Won’t you give me just a glimpse before we go?”

Yona and all her friends sat on the hillside below the university’s observatory, watching the inky blue dusk fade into night. A week had passed since they arrived, a week full of new ideas, but also occasional quiet moments like this. And now, Yona felt they had done all they could here. It was time to move on.

“He's...like this,” said Shinah. He, of course, had held out for much longer against Jaeha’s curious gaze.

“I'd like to see Miss Tetora's true form, too!” a young voice piped up. The maid who had been so startled by Lili on that first morning—her name was Taesa—had since become an avid follower of the three outworlders. Her devotion annoyed Lili—or at least it seemed to; Yona thought that Lili was secretly delighted by it. She had the night off, as Yong-hi had set out for Hiryuu Castle earlier that evening.

Tetora laughed. “Do I really have this many admirers?” she asked. “Well, in that case…” The image of the blonde human woman flickered, then was replaced by the alien form that Yona and Zeno had seen before. Her skin was a glistening blue-grey, her eyes solid, inky black, and in place of hair, numerous tendrils, almost like an octopus’ tentacles, extended from her head. But even Yona had to blink in surprise—each of those tendrils was illuminated by dots of light. The glowing bioluminescence—which also accented her face and arms—gave her a completely different look than what Yona had seen before under the bright artificial lights of their ship.

“Oh…” Jaeha breathed. “You’re a constellation.” He reached out a hand to brush his fingers against her skin.

“Careful,” said Tetora. “I might sting you.”

“I might enjoy that,” said Jaeha.

“You’d die,” said Ayura flatly, reaching for Tetora’s arm to pull her away. She, like Lili, had discarded her human guise long ago.

“You’re a different species entirely, aren’t you?” Yun asked. “You’re nothing like Lili and Ayura. Does that mean you’re from different planets?” Tetora nodded. “And is that why you waited so long to let us see?”

Tetora shrugged. “It seemed better not to confuse matters,” she said. “Most of the outworlders you’ll meet are aven, like Lili and Ayura.”

“Yeah, Tetora’s pretty unique,” said Lili. “There’s a good chance you’ll never see anyone else like her.”

“Then I thank you for the opportunity,” said Jaeha.

Interesting, thought Yona. Lili had told them of an alliance of worlds all across the stars. It only made sense that those worlds would have people as different from each other as Lili was from her. She looked back up at the sky. More stars shone now, blinking into view as the deep blue faded to black. “Shinah,” she said. “Can you see those other worlds?”

The blue dragon shook his head. “Not those,” he said. “But...other things. The metal boxes that fly around the world. Those...weren’t always here, so...they’re yours?” he asked, turning to Lili.

“Metal boxes...the AI’s satellites? No way. You can see them?” Shinah nodded. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she grumbled.

“Lili, what is this ‘AI?’” Yun asked. “You keep mentioning it, but you never explained.”

“It's…” Lili glanced at Yona, and Yona nodded. She'd been putting this off for too long, but her friends needed to know. Hak needed to know. “Actually, it’ll probably be a little easier to explain now. You started learning how to use Lady Yong-hi’s computer, right?”

“Right!” said Yun. “That thing’s pretty amazing, the way it can put information together so quickly. And they’re common in your world? Anyone can use them?”

“Yes, well, actually the model Lady Yong-hi has is pretty basic. An AI is a computer, too, but it’s way more powerful. AI means artificial intelligence, see. It’s basically a person,” Lili admitted. “A person with the mind of a computer.” She had once insisted, repeatedly, that Suwon wasn’t a person. Yona wondered what had changed. Had Lili spoken with him more, in the time that they were here? “The Company built a computer that could control their whole operation here,” Lili continued. “It had to be able to think independently enough to make its own decisions, but since it's a computer, emotions aren’t a factor. Its loyalty to the Company was never supposed to be an issue.”

“How awful,” mused Jaeha. “To be created for a single purpose, rendered unable to rebel by your very nature.”

“But it must have,” said Yun. “Otherwise we'd be trying to fight it, right?”

“He decided that out of his directives, 'protect Kouka’ took priority over 'serve the Company,’” said Lili. “I’m not sure if he even knows if that’s rebellion or not.”

Hak stiffened. Was he starting to figure it out? “A box that can think can't do any of that,” he said. “It would need—”

“It’s Suwon,” said Yona. She couldn’t stand the wait, the lie, any longer. “Suwon has been that for nearly as long as we knew him.”

No one spoke. Finally, Hak stood up. “Figures,” was all he said as he turned and walked away into the darkness.

“Hak! Hak!” Yona finally caught up with Hak at the base of the hill, at the edge of the forest surrounding the university. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I should have told you sooner. But I couldn't—I’m still trying to understand—”

“Oh?” Hak asked. “Doesn't seem too hard to me. He never really cared about anyone.”

“But...I don't think that's true.”

Hak dropped her hand and turned to face her head-on, looking down at her incredulously. “You still have feelings for him? Now?”

“No, Hak.” Yona gripped the fabric of her skirt, playing with it in her hands as she tried to formulate her thoughts. “Not...those feelings. But I keep wondering...someone, no, something like him, would he really choose Kouka over the Company if he didn’t care? I feel like, on some level, he must.” She shook her head. “Maybe I’m just weak. I’ve been given every reason to believe his kindness meant nothing, and I still—I still can’t—”

Hak took her by the shoulders and pulled her close. “Foolish, maybe,” he said. “But I could never call you weak.” Tears threatened to pour down from Yona’s eyes, blurring her vision as she looked up at Hak. What was he talking about? He’d called her weak hundreds of times.

Brushing back the hair that had fallen over her face, Hak made no comments about the tear he caught while doing so. Was she crying for Hak, who was here by her side? Or for Suwon, who she knew was lost to her forever? She reached for Hak's hand again, then looked up at the starry heavens. “The sky seems so much closer now,” she said. “But it’s still beyond my reach.”

Hak squeezed her hand tight. “I’m not going to try to understand Suwon,” said Hak. “I don’t want to understand him. But if this is the path you want to take, I’ll follow you.”

They walked, hand in hand, back up the hill to where the others waited for them. They said nothing about Suwon—they didn’t need to ask why Yona had kept that back for so long. “Tomorrow, we’re leaving this place,” said Yona. Tomorrow, if they wished, they could pretend that none of this had ever happened. How different the world seemed than it had only a week ago! “Lili, when your ship first carried me away, I thought I was going to lose everything—you, my friends, my entire world. I was so afraid. But I'm glad it happened.”

“You've said enough stuff like that, I should probably get it into my head that you really mean it.”

“I do,” Yona assured her. “And I wish I could stay by your side.” But that would be impossible. Staying with Lili would mean staying with Suwon, in one form or another. As much as she wanted to believe he still cared, as much as she knew, somehow, that his kindness wasn't a lie, she still remembered what he'd done. Still remembered the other time her world had changed before her eyes, remembered the instinctive terror that filled her at merely the sound of his voice. Hak lied. She was still weak. Still, they both fought for Kouka. Perhaps one day they'd fight side by side. Perhaps one day she’d understand him, understand her own feelings, enough to make working together possible. But not now.

“You don't need to,” said Lili. “Yona, I never expected to make friends on this world at all, let alone friends who knew the truth. You showed me something about the people of this world I never would have figured out on my own. Our fight against the Company might only be possible thanks to Lady Yong-hi’s university and—and an AI who turned against his creators—but it’s thanks to you—all of you—that I know we can win.”

#akatsuki no yona #alien larp au #my fic

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