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glowstickhaloboy · 6 years

Text

i just spent an hour typing this klance sleeping beauty/witch AU in a text

one day lance wakes up in a forest with few memories and no idea how he got there. He stumbles upon a stone dias with a veiled, sleeping young man on it and figures he’s dreaming and that’s got to be the part of himself that’s going to wake up eventually.

Then a bear comes crashing out of the trees, and Lance knows he can’t let the bear hurt himself or... himself?? Whatever. So he manages to draw it under a loose boulder and then topple the rock down on it. Then the bear transforms into a big brown man who says his name is hunk and thanks lance profusely for changing him back.

“The wicked monarch lotor doesn’t mind using curses on anyone, no matter how insignificant,” he says. Then he sees the sleeping person on the dias and asks if he hurt the prince, and lance is like ???

So hunk explains that lotor cursed the rightful heir to the throne to sleep forever, then brought him into the middle of the woods so he would never be found, and hunk, the unfortunate stable boy who had been tasked with transporting him here, had been turned into a bear to attack anyone who got too close.

At this point lance is like, “wait, im not dreaming?? And that dude is a real person?? Okay so uhh sounds like this monarch is totally evil and we should get this sleeping guy back on the throne??? Whys he asleep how do we wake him up??”

And hunks like “shrug.”

So lance is like “WELL ive got quite a reputation for being a dashing hero”

“oh really whats your name”

“uh, the names LANCE”

“GASP LANCELOT??”

“Ye-! What, no, who is that wtf”

“oh then ive never heard of you”

“whatever shut up you’ll have heard of me after we pull this off together, lets get this guy to a town or something and tell the people whats going on, that way theyll know lotor is a fake”

“oh its not going to be that easy,” says hunk, ever the man of exposition. “lotor has guards everywhere, at gates and bridges and checkpoints on the roads to every town, nobody can get in anywhere with anything secret, especially not so blatantly carrying a body”

but then they meet a group of smugglers!! Led by allura and pidge, the strategist and the genius, who agree to help lance because of lotor’s ridiculous taxes + security.

“But” says pidge “theres no way we’ll help you when he’s like this. You gotta wake him up first. He’s practically dead, we’re not going to smuggle a corpse, its useless. Coma patients cant lead kingdoms.”

And lance is like “idk?? How??”

And hunk is like “drop a rock on him”

and lance is like “NO HES A PRINCE”

and pidge is like “no curse is foolproof, theres got to be a way to break it” but doesn’t offer any helpful solutions so lance sighs and goes to hang out with sleeping Keith to see if he cant come up with something.

The smugglers helpfully offered a tent to keep the prince in so it doesn’t cause much of a ruckus among their crew. Lance enjoys the privacy because he’s starting to doubt that he can pull this off, and he apologizes to Keith for that even though he knows Keith cant hear him, and lance explains that he doesn’t know a lot about himself but he feels like he has a history of letting people down and he’s sorry, he’s sorry, but he’s going to try his best, and maybe providence will smile upon Keith and everything will work out anyway, and if lance fails he is at least a necessary stepping stone to restore Keith to the throne.

He falls asleep there, and when he dreams, he’s inside a beautiful palace watching a man with a prosthetic arm write a letter at a desk.

“That’s my brother,” says a voice behind lance, and thats... Keith walking up into the room, talking to him?? so casually?? And the man writing the letter cant seem to see or hear them at all? And Keith continues, “his name is shiro. He’s feeling particularly frustrated lately because theres nothing he can do to stop lotor from screwing over our people. He was supposed to inherit the throne. After one year as king, he sent supplies to the kingdom of a sworn enemy while their people suffered from starvation, and lotor got the council to label him a traitor and revoke his right to the throne. I was the only heir left. And, well, you know what happened to me.” He smiles and lance is still like WHAT THE HELL?? And Keith says “you’ll figure it out. I trust you” and lance can feel himself waking up so he misses the next part and only gets the word “witch” before he’s back in the tent and Keith is still passed tf out and he has NO IDEA how to break this curse, so he asks hunk if there are any witches nearby.

And hunks like “shrug”

and lance wants to bash his head against a wall.

But allura overhears and is like “im a witch lol” and lance is like “YOU CAN DO IT THEN YOU GOTTA FIX HIM” and allura is like “?? i’ll try but I have no idea how I would even begin” and lance is like “ANYWAY I CAN HELP I WILL”

so he hangs at allura’s elbow all day while she stirs potion after potion, consults books, consults Pidge, attempts to cast spells, and nothing’s working, so the day passes and she gives up for now and says she has to rest, and lance reluctantly sees her out of the tent and falls asleep himself.

This time he dreams he’s in a witch’s tower, and he knows this must be the witch he needs to find, but it’s empty. He doesn’t know who lives here or where they are, and yet it feels familiar, and then Keith appears again, and lance wastes no time in asking where they are this time. Keith shrugs and says this must be one of lance’s memories, Keith has never been here before.

And lance looks around in confusion like, “one of... my... memories??” before it clicks why he knows this is a witch’s tower without even looking around, and he remembers the tree outside the window and the apples that could be magicked inside from the branches without even leaving the comfort of the couch, and thats because its HIS witch’s tower. He’s in his home!

And as if to prove it, he spins around and sees himself perusing his own library with an apple in hand, humming, and Keith smiles at him and says, “Witch,” before lance wakes up again and this time he understands, he remembers, that he is the only person who can save Keith, and that is why lotor cursed him with memory loss in the first place!!

He also remembers... a lot of embarrassing thoughts he’d had pretty much his entire life... lance had followed the prince’s progress from afar, had attended his coronation and offered his services consulting as a court sorcerer (which the royal representative lotor had always overlooked with disdain because they HAD a court sorcerer, thank you very much, and honerva had more life experience in her little finger than a little spell-monkey like lance) and when the prince went missing, lance toiled over a solution, and he came to the new regent, lotor, and proved that he’d crafted a spell with the power to locate one’s truly heartfelt desire, and then he proved that his desire was keith’s safety, was keith, and then everything went dull and fuzzy, and then he’d woken up in the forest.

And all of this is to say-- lance does not know how to break a sleeping curse.

He only knew how to find Keith. Why did Keith have such faith in him? He would try anyway. He would brew a remedy so powerful it HAD to work.

when pidge comes to check on him next morning, lance informs her that he has a lead on the prince and is not to be disturbed, and he spends all day sending hunk and allura out for ingredients, tugging out his own hair, briefly crying, then scraping himself up to keep working, and just as he thinks he might be on the right track, theres a scream outside, and then more, and lance doesn’t want to leave the cauldron but he has to make sure the camp is safe-- and it isn’t.

Lotor’s armed guards have raided the smuggler’s camp and lotor himself is there too. Lance knows he has only one chance.

He dashes back into his tent to finish, knowing full well that lotor saw him and theres no time at all, and then half the tent spontaneously begins to fold in on itself, and the cauldron is knocked from its briar and the potion! Most of it spills out, and lance, without thinking, takes the rest into his mouth because he doesn’t have a flask, and if he has to feed it to the sleeping prince like a baby bird then he WILL.

but lotor rips open the front of the tent before lance can make it to the bedroll and raises lance by the throat off of the ground. By force, he squeezes every golden drop out of lance’s puffed cheeks then casts him aside, preparing to finish Keith once and for all now that his secret is found out, (and in his mind he is thinking how nicely this will all blow over, to pin it on the smugglers and an unfortunate accident in the raid) but lance is swept up in a force of protective rage and creates a gust of wind powerful enough to uproot the tent, catch up lotor, and drag him away and pin him down.

While lotor struggles against the fabric, lance scrambles to keith’s bedroll and prays that this will work, that theres enough remaining to have any effect at all-- and he presses his potion-coated lips to keith’s and wishes as hard as he can.

and keith’s lips press back.

And keith’s hand catches at lance’s collar.

and lotor bellows in rage and lance sits up in wonder and the prince is awake and alive.

He does not move like someone who has been lying still for over a year. He leaps to his feet, summons a dagger from seemingly nowhere, and meets the regent monarch head-on in a duel so fearsome that, when lotor is eventually defeated, his armored guard immediately drop their weapons and bow to keith.

Keith orders the guards release this camp (on the grounds that the laws they bent were unjust in the first place, and they’d harbored him safely in his hour of need), and then he finds himself and lance a horse and finally gets a moment to thank this witch who saved him-- and perhaps, if lance can forgive him for being somewhat useless throughout all this, he would like to accompany Keith to the castle as his court sorcerer? Of course, the mother to a traitor cannot serve the crown.

And lance can hardly believe he’s being offered this new lot in life, because hes-- hes-- HIM. He never wins! But he has this time. He has.

He all but yells “YES” and almost makes an ass out of himself but reigns it in at the last second. They ride back to the castle together and are married later that year and live happily ever after.

#disclaimer: monarchies are useless #klance #klance au #v:ld #lance mcclain #keith kogane #voltron #laith #klance fic

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woildismyerster · 6 years

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hiya! love your writing, but i need more marwan fics!! would you be able to write a oneshot where y/n is friends with the mathletes but marwan is like awkward and blunt around her and she thinks it’s cause he hates her but it’s actually that opposite?? thanks hon!! xo

“That’s not right,” you said, glancing up from your phone. “The third problem, I mean.”

At the front of the room, Marwan paused. He looked back at you, then at the series of math problems he was solving on the board, and scowled. “No, it isn’t.”

“It is,” you insisted, and the other Mathletes scanned the problem too.

After a second, Tyler made a sound of realization. “She’s right, dude. You got the math right, but didn’t add ‘c.’”

Marwan scowled, but corrected the mistake. “Why is she even here? This is a Mathletes practice.”

“Because I wanted to hang out with my boys,” you said, eyes on your phone again. “If they’re in Mathletes practice, I’m in Mathletes practice.”

“If you joined the team, it would make more sense,” he griped.

Kevin slung an arm around your shoulders. “You don’t need to join to hang,” he promised. “You’re the mascot. And what a mascot you are, babe.”

You laughed. “Besides, I’m here for you guys. Not for the math.”

“Then don’t correct my work.”

“Then don’t mess up your work,” you snapped back. “But if you really want to get problems wrong, be my guest.”

The room fell silent, aside from the squeak of the whiteboard marker. After a pause, without turning around, Marwan broke the tension. “Do the rest of them look right?”

The three of you okayed the problem set. Marwan only thanked the boys directly, but he shot a quick, curt nod your way. You had to fight back a scowl, but it was victory enough.

“Kev?”

“Yeah?”

You bit your lip, hating that you were about to ask, but feeling like you ought to. “Should I stop crashing at your practices? Like, is that inappropriate?”

“No, why?” Kevin had been brainstorming a rap for the creative aspect of some presentation, but he dropped the notebook to pay better attention to you.

“Marwan -”

“Oh,” Kevin said knowingly. “Is my boy giving you grief?”

You snorted. “No - well, yes, but I hardly care.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because if it’s an actual problem, I don’t want it to become a big thing.” There was always something with Marwan, at least when you were around. You weren’t a member of the Mathletes, so you shouldn’t be at practices. Of course you liked that book/movie/song; everybody did - how predictable.

“Marwan likes you,” Kevin assured you.

“He doesn’t act like it.”

“He’s got the social skills of those aliens in Galaxy Quest. He also has the loyalty of them.”

You gave a half smile at that. “If only he had the charm.”

Kevin laughed. “He does when you aren’t there. He just doesn’t know what to do with you.”

You didn’t really believe Kevin about Marwan liking you, but you decided to keep going to Mathletes practice. That was his problem - you wouldn’t stop hanging out with people who did enjoy your company because of one person who didn’t.

Y/N: pro-tip: making a sign that says “I’ll take you to your limit if you show me your end behavior” does not go over well with parents at your competitions

Marwan: you didnt

Y/N: look over here

Kevin: turn around and show my parents. theyll love it

Marwan: jesus christ Y/N. we cant take you anywhere

Y/N:

You weren’t that picky about homeroom t-shirts - you would hardly wear it, and it wasn’t like you felt all that attached to yours - but you would die before letting the winning design have SWAG written on the back.

Yours would have to be better.

Everybody in the class had been given a paper with the outline of a shirt on it, and all of you were supposed to spend homeroom brainstorming class shirts. It was stupid, it was a waste of time, and you threw yourself into in wholeheartedly.

“I heard that Cunningham’s class is putting his face on their shirts, Andy Warhol style,” you commented to nobody in particular.

It seemed, of course, that Marwan was the only person to have heard. “Probably because the girls all have crushes on him.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “I would wear a shirt with his face on it.”

Marwan rolled his eyes, writing your graduation year on his shirt design. “Of course you would.”

“He’s funny, and he’s smart. That’s the best combination.”

“Not because he’s attractive?”

You shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt.”

A girl near you agreed, and you shot a triumphant look at Marwan.

“There are plenty of smart, funny guys that don’t get put on shirts,” he countered. “You can’t blame me for thinking that was the entire point.”

“And you can’t assume that I’ll have the exact same thought process as every other person!” You grabbed a colored pencil and started coloring, perhaps more violently than necessary. “You and I hang out all the time, and regardless of what you think of me, you should know that I’m a little less shallow than that.”

“Sorry,” he said softly.

The rest of the period passed with neither of you talking, but it only made you angrier. There was nothing wrong with thinking someone was attractive enough to be on a shirt. You felt no shame about that. That being said, you wouldn’t wear a shirt if you didn’t like the person on it. How low was his opinion of you?

“Y/N, your shirt -”

“What?” You snarled the word, and there was a second of intense satisfaction when his eyes widened.

“I just - I wanted to tell you that it was a nice design. I’d vote for it.”

“Oh.�� You grimaced, more at yourself than at him. “I - thanks.”

“Marwan, I need immediate help, and you are the only person who I can ask,” you said seriously.

Startled, he pocketed his phone. “What is it?”

“Should I wear my reindeer pajamas for Pajama Day, or the pumpkin ones?”

Marwan had looked ready to leap into action, which was commendable, but now his shoulders drooped and brow furrowed. “I thought this was an emergency.”

You snorted. “It is, dummy. This is probably the most serious decision I’ll make in my entire life.”

“It’s November. Neither one is in season,” he said.

“Marwan, I swear to God, if I can’t count on you -”

“Pumpkins,” he decided. “Pumpkins are better.”

You tapped your temple. “A Halloween man. I like it.”

He sighed, but it was half a laugh. “I can’t believe I thought you had a serious need.”

“Don’t belittle what I see as serious,” you said. “I helped you guys come up with rhymes for the talent show, and you only got to perform the first three seconds of the rap. I spent hours on that.”

Marwan’s feet shuffled, and you knew that you had him. “We don’t talk about that.”

“I do,” you said with a grin. “And I always will. You guys are losers.”

“Losers that you hang out with.”

“At least I have cool pajamas.”

That afternoon, you cautiously turned to Marwan to see if he wanted to be your partner on an assignment. He met your eyes, and promptly turned around to partner with somebody else.

Kevin: not gonna make it today, srry

Y/N: illegal

Kevin: my parents invited family friends over without telling me

Tyler: you know they told you

Tyler: you just didn’t listen

Marwan: this myth has been busted

Kevin: Tyler is one to talk

Kevin: he was invited over

Y/N: I L L E G A L

Y/N: whats the point of seeing the movie if half the group cancelled?

Kevin: seeing the movie, you psycho

You scowled at your phone. You knew Kevin was right - if you cancelled now, even with a good reason, it would look like you just didn’t want to hang out alone with Marwan. Sure, that was the truth, but Marwan was the douche canoe. You didn’t need to stoop to his level.

You showed up at the theater to wait for him, half expecting him to be the one that doesn’t show up.

Maybe he was assuming the same thing, because he looked exhausted when he saw you standing by the entrance.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood: you could antagonize Marwan all evening, thereby rationalizing his obvious dread, or you could make this as easy on him as possible.

You took the one less travelled by, though you couldn’t be sure that it would make any difference.

You grinned at him, pushing off the wall to meet him halfway. “Good thing we didn’t buy tickets online, huh?”

He blinked at you, and though he didn’t smile outright, the tired lines around his eyes receded some. “Seriously. I’m not surprised Kevin bailed last minute - he’s the worst, and we knew what we signed up for - but Tyler is usually better than that.”

“Pretend we did buy them online - who would you have wanted to give the extra two tickets to?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He held the door open for you on the way in. “I might have just tweeted that I had extras, and let people fight for them.”

“Right,” you snorted.

“What?”

“Do you really think that people would fight over tickets to see 2001: A Space Odyssey?”

“It’s a classic!” He said the words as though they were sacred.

“That doesn’t make it good,” you argued.

“It’s the greatest movie of all time!”

You raised your hands in surrender. “I know it’s great - but since when have classics been good just because they’re classics? I’ve watched plenty of things just to be able to say I’ve seen them.”

Too your surprise, Marwan gave a hesitant nod. “Yeah, maybe. This isn’t the type of movie Cady and Aaron would go to on date night.”

You looked around at the people walking in with you: nerds and old people wandered around the lobby, buying tickets and snacks. “How romantic.”

Marwan gave a snort of laughter, and you counted it as a victory.

“Besides,” you continued. “I’m not sure I’d want to play third wheel to them in a movie like this. I don’t know if they make out in theaters, but I don’t want to see if they do.”

“You wouldn’t be a third wheel,” he said, taking two tickets from one of the workers. “I’d be here.”

You looked at the tickets, surprised. “I was going to pay for mine.”

Marwan froze, a deer in headlights. “It’s no big deal.”

It was a big deal. Friends don’t buy friends movie tickets without talking about it, not usually, and you and Marwan were hardly friends at all. You were acquaintances. Colleagues.

“I’m buying the snacks, then,” you declared. Marwan smiled, and it seemed like he had won ground you hadn’t realized was up for grabs.

“I can’t believe you eat before the movie starts,” you hissed.

“I’m hungry,” he said, and punctuated the words by eating a handful of popcorn.

“It’s half gone! I’m going to starve.”

He rolled his eyes, lips twitching into a smile. “Fine - I’ll go get a refill.”

You settled back into your seat, sipping at your drink while you watched a pre-preview segment about building the sets for some action movie starring Tom Cruise.

“Hey.”

You glanced into the row behind you, and were confused when you didn’t recognize the person speaking. “What?”

“Do you and your boyfriend always argue like that? You’ve been fighting about whether water is wet or not for fifteen minutes.”

“It isn’t! Liquids make things wet; they aren’t wet themsel - wait, he’s not my boyfriend.” You frowned at the person.

The unwelcome commenter smirked. “Sure looks like he is.”

“I think I would know if I was on a date,” you countered.

“You’d think he would know if he wasn’t.”

When Marwan came back, you side-eyed him. He brought back two popcorns, and when you raised an eyebrow at him, he shrugged. “I ate most of the one, so I got you your own. You don’t have to share it with me.”

You took it from him, stomach kicking. He bought your ticket, and now he bought you snacks. Marwan didn’t like you, and you thought that you knew that, but it was hard to hate him back when everything seemed skewed.

You should punch that person in the face. There was nothing more confusing than people calling reality into question.

You had been planning to take the bus home, but Marwan insisted on driving you.

“You never know what kind of creeps are out at night,” he reminded you.

“Us, apparently.”

He was a cautious driver, and sometimes your hands itched to take the wheel. “I’m getting you home safe,” he said through gritted teeth. “If something bad happens, it’s my fault, and that’s not okay.”

“I won’t blame you,” you said, a little touched. Then, when you decided that you were too touched, “I’ll be dead.”

“On second thought, you can take the bus.”

“On second thought, I’ll stay. I’ll make you stew in your hatred all night long,” you shot back.

He glanced at you for a second before looking back at the road. “I don’t hate you. It’s, like, mild annoyance at best.”

You frowned. “That sounds fake, but okay.”

“Wait - do you seriously think that I don’t like you?”

“I don’t think; I know you don’t like me,” you said.

Marwan gave a bewildered laugh, and you thought of what the person in the theater said. “You haven’t been so wrong in your entire life. Seriously, the opposite thing is true.”

“Opposite of hating me?” You scoffed, putting on a high pitched croon. “So you loooooooove me?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Marwan, that isn’t funny. I already knew that you weren’t funny, but this -”

“I’m not joking,” he mumbled.

You tried to swallow, but your throat wouldn’t work. “Still not funny.”

“I just - I don’t know how to talk to you,” he said with a grimace. “I mess it up every single time, and I know where I mess up, but I have no idea how I get there.”

“Usually by talking. In general, really.”

“Y/N,” he said. “I’m serious. I really like you. Like, everything about you, all the time. Even the stupid things - I wouldn’t change any of them. I’m not good at showing it, so I usually ignore you, but I do like you.”

“So act like it,” you said, and cringed. “Sorry, that was mean. But if you like me, and I think that you hate me, that’s probably a good reason to change what you’re doing.”

“What would you recommend?”

“Say, ‘hey, Y/N, when I act like a jerk, it’s because I want to hold your hand. That, and I’m allergic to saying nice things.’” You grinned at him when he looked at you again, but it was cautious. These were unexplored waters, and the two of you had been bad enough at navigating the known territory. “Say, ‘Y/N, I’m sorry that there was a misunderstanding. Now that we’re on the same page, please help me figure out what to say if I’ve messed something up.’”

“Okay,” he said. “Y/N, I like you a lot. I want to hold your hand. I want to go to movies with you, and I want to see you places without thinking I should leave before I start World War Three.”

“Okay,” you echoed. “Marwan, I like you a little bit, sometimes. You can’t hold my hand yet, we can go to movies, and you should talk to me when you see me. If you can act like an actual friend, we’ll see about the holding hands.”

He smiled, and you wondered how you had ever thought he hated you at all.

You didn’t start liking Marwan immediately, just because he apparently liked you. That would have been unrealistic after years of assuming that the two of you were probably in the middle of a nemesis origin story. You were pleasantly surprised to find out that Marwan was on the same page.

He didn’t invite you to go stargazing, but he texted you to look outside when he knew Mars was going to be there.

He didn’t try to ask you out on study dates, but he partnered with you in class assignments and stayed after school to work on them.

He took things slow, and he slowly improved.

Marwan: i cant believe youre crying during Wonder Woman

Y/N: i cant believe youre on your phone during class

Marwan: its homeroom

Y/N: shes such a good person

Y/N: and Steve Trevor deserved better

Marwan: because he’s smart and funny?

Y/N: bc hes super hot, actually

“You have glitter in your hair,” Marwan said during Mathletes practice.

“Yeah,” you said with a sheepish grin. “It turns out that I’m ‘not responsible’ and ‘have trouble using materials the way they’re supposed to be used.’”

Kevin reached over and ruffled your hair, sending a shower of glitter onto the floor. “I’m not cleaning that up,” he said.

“You’d better,” you warned. “You did that.”

“Not my glitter, not my problem.”

You grimaced at your shoulders. “I’m like a disco ball. Anybody have a flashlight?”

Tyler laughed. “How fast can you spin?”

“It’s all over your face,” Marwan said with a wry grin. “You look like you went clubbing.”

“Ah, my cover is blown.”

He leaned in and frowned, trying to wipe it off your face with his fingers. “Jesus. This isn’t coming off.”

“This is my new look,” you said, ignoring the stares from Tyler and Kevin.

“As good as it is, you should probably go shower.”

You shouldered your backpack, sighing. “I know. I just thought I’d hang out with my boys. Later, losers.”

On your way out, you heard Kevin ask what all of that was about.

“I like her,” Marwan said, a smile in his voice. “And I think she might like me, a little bit.”

You told Marwan that you wanted to take it slow, and you stood by that statement. You hadn’t wanted to throw yourself in headfirst. That being said, you also wanted to kiss him, so his willingness to be just friends was infuriating.

When he took you to see another movie, you wished he would offer to pay for your ticket.

You wished that he would eat too much popcorn, and that you could tease him about it.

You wished that he would hold your hand during the movie.

After it ended, while he drove you home, you wished that he would have trouble watching the road because he wanted to watch you instead.

“Marwan?”

“Yeah?” He checked his blind spot before changing lanes, jaw sticking out a little while he moved.

“I like you a lot.”

He grinned. “I like you a lot, too.”

“I want you to hold my hand,” you said.

“Right now? I’m trying to get you home safe, Y/N. Like I said before - I won’t let anything happen to you -”

You leaned over and pressed a tentative kiss into his jaw. It had still been jutting out, and the sharp angle of it softened in his surprise.

“Pull into a gas station or something,” you said. “I want to hold your hand.”

There was nothing cautious about his haste to pull over, and there was nothing weary or nervous about the smile on his face when he did.

#mean girls musical #mean girls #mean girls broadway #mean girls fanfic #marwan #marwan x reader #ally writes

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ntrending · 6 years

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We're told to fear robots. But why do we think they'll turn on us?

New Post has been published on https://nexcraft.co/were-told-to-fear-robots-but-why-do-we-think-theyll-turn-on-us/

We're told to fear robots. But why do we think they'll turn on us?

Despite the gory headlines, objective data show that people all over the world are, on average, living longer, contracting fewer diseases, eating more food, spending more time in school, getting access to more culture, and becoming less likely to be killed in a war, murder, or an accident. Yet despair springs eternal. When pessimists are forced to concede that life has been getting better and better for more and more people, they have a retort at the ready. We are cheerfully hurtling toward a catastrophe, they say, like the man who fell off the roof and said, “So far so good” as he passed each floor. Or we are playing Russian roulette, and the deadly odds are bound to catch up to us. Or we will be blindsided by a black swan, a four-sigma event far along the tail of the statistical distribution of hazards, with low odds but calamitous harm.

For half a century, the four horsemen of the modern apocalypse have been overpopulation, resource shortages, pollution, and nuclear war. They have recently been joined by a cavalry of more-exotic knights: nanobots that will engulf us, robots that will enslave us, artificial intelligence that will turn us into raw materials, and Bulgarian teenagers who will brew a genocidal virus or take down the internet from their bedrooms.

The sentinels for the familiar horsemen tended to be romantics and Luddites. But those who warn of the higher-tech dangers are often scientists and technologists who have deployed their ingenuity to identify ever more ways in which the world will soon end. In 2003, astrophysicist Martin Rees published a book entitled Our Final Hour, in which he warned that “humankind is potentially the maker of its own demise,” and laid out some dozen ways in which we have “endangered the future of the entire universe.” For example, experiments in particle colliders could create a black hole that would annihilate Earth, or a “strangelet” of compressed quarks that would cause all matter in the cosmos to bind to it and disappear. Rees tapped a rich vein of catastrophism. The book’s Amazon page notes, “Customers who viewed this item also viewed Global Catastrophic Risks; Our Final Invention: Artificial Intelligence and the End of the Human Era; The End: What Science and Religion Tell Us About the Apocalypse; and World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War.” Techno-philanthropists have bankrolled research institutes dedicated to discovering new existential threats and figuring out how to save the world from them, including the Future of Humanity Institute, the Future of Life Institute, the Center for the Study of Existential Risk, and the Global Catastrophic Risk Institute.

How should we think about the existential threats that lurk behind our incremental progress? No one can prophesy that a cataclysm will never happen, and this writing contains no such assurance. Climate change and nuclear war in particular are serious global challenges. Though they are unsolved, they are solvable, and road maps have been laid out for long-term decarbonization and denuclearization. These processes are well underway. The world has been emitting less carbon dioxide per dollar of gross domestic product, and the world’s nuclear arsenal has been reduced by 85 percent. Of course, though to avert possible catastrophes, they must be pushed all the way to zero.

ON TOP OF THESE REAL CHALLENGES, though, are scenarios that are more dubious. Several technology commentators have speculated about a danger that we will be subjugated, intentionally or accidentally, by artificial intelligence (AI), a disaster sometimes called the Robopocalypse and commonly illustrated with stills from the Terminator movies. Several smart people take it seriously (if a bit hypocritically). Elon Musk, whose company makes artificially intelligent self-driving cars, called the technology “more dangerous than nukes.” Stephen Hawking, speaking through his artificially intelligent synthesizer, warned that it could “spell the end of the human race.” But among the smart people who aren’t losing sleep are most experts in artificial intelligence and most experts in human intelligence.

The Robopocalypse is based on a muzzy conception of intelligence that owes more to the Great Chain of Being and a Nietzschean will to power than to a modern scientific understanding. In this conception, intelligence is an all-powerful, wish-granting potion that agents possess in different amounts.

Humans have more of it than animals, and an artificially intelligent computer or robot of the future (“an AI,” in the new count-noun usage) will have more of it than humans. Since we humans have used our moderate endowment to domesticate or exterminate less well-endowed animals (and since technologically advanced societies have enslaved or annihilated technologically primitive ones), it follows that a super-smart AI would do the same to us. Since an AI will think millions of times faster than we do, and use its super-intelligence to recursively improve its superintelligence (a scenario sometimes called “foom,” after the comic-book sound effect), from the instant it is turned on, we will be powerless to stop it.

But the scenario makes about as much sense as the worry that since jet planes have surpassed the flying ability of eagles, someday they will swoop out of the sky and seize our cattle. The first fallacy is a confusion of intelligence with motivation—of beliefs with desires, inferences with goals, thinking with wanting. Even if we did invent superhumanly intelligent robots, why would they want to enslave their masters or take over the world? Intelligence is the ability to deploy novel means to attain a goal. But the goals are extraneous to the intelligence: Being smart is not the same as wanting something. It just so happens that the intelligence in one system, Homo sapiens, is a product of Darwinian natural selection, an inherently competitive process. In the brains of that species, reasoning comes bundled (to varying degrees in different specimens) with goals such as dominating rivals and amassing resources. But it’s a mistake to confuse a circuit in the limbic brain of a certain species of primate with the very nature of intelligence. An artificially intelligent system that was designed rather than evolved could just as easily think like shmoos, the blobby altruists in Al Capp’s comic strip Li’l Abner, who deploy their considerable ingenuity to barbecue themselves for the benefit of human eaters. There is no law of complex systems that says intelligent agents must turn into ruthless conquistadors.

The second fallacy is to think of intelligence as a boundless continuum of potency, a miraculous elixir with the power to solve any problem, attain any goal. The fallacy leads to nonsensical questions like when an AI will “exceed human-level intelligence,” and to the image of an ultimate “Artificial General Intelligence” (AGI) with God-like omniscience and omnipotence. Intelligence is a contraption of gadgets: software modules that acquire, or are programmed with, knowledge of how to pursue various goals in various domains. People are equipped to find food, win friends and influence people, charm prospective mates, bring up children, move around in the world, and pursue other human obsessions and pastimes. Computers may be programmed to take on some of these problems (like recognizing faces), not to bother with others (like charming mates), and to take on still other problems that humans can’t solve (like simulating the climate or sorting millions of accounting records).

Each system is an idiot savant, with little ability to leap to problems it was not set up to solve.”

The problems are different, and the kinds of knowledge needed to solve them are different. Unlike Laplace’s demon, the mythical being that knows the location and momentum of every particle in the universe and feeds them into equations for physical laws to calculate the state of everything at any time in the future, a real-life knower has to acquire information about the messy world of objects and people by engaging with it one domain at a time. Understanding does not obey Moore’s Law: Knowledge is acquired by formulating explanations and testing them against reality, not by running an algorithm faster and faster. Devouring the information on the internet will not confer omniscience either: Big data is still finite data, and the universe of knowledge is infinite.

For these reasons, many AI researchers are annoyed by the latest round of hype (the perennial bane of AI), which has misled observers into thinking that Artificial General Intelligence is just around the corner. As far as I know, there are no projects to build an AGI, not just because it would be commercially dubious, but also because the concept is barely coherent. The 2010s have, to be sure, brought us systems that can drive cars, caption photographs, recognize speech, and beat humans at Jeopardy!, Go, and Atari computer games. But the advances have not come from a better understanding of the workings of intelligence but from the brute-force power of faster chips and bigger data, which allow the programs to be trained on millions of examples and generalize to similar new ones. Each system is an idiot savant, with little ability to leap to problems it was not set up to solve, and a brittle mastery of those it was. A photo-captioning program labels an impending plane crash “An airplane is parked on the tarmac”; a game-playing program is flummoxed by the slightest change in the scoring rules. Though the programs will surely get better, there are no signs of foom. Nor have any of these programs made a move toward taking over the lab or enslaving their programmers.

Even if an AGI tried to exercise a will to power, without the cooperation of humans, it would remain an impotent brain in a vat. The computer scientist Ramez Naam deflates the bubbles surrounding foom, a technological singularity, and exponential self-improvement:

Imagine you are a super-intelligent AI running on some sort of microprocessor (or perhaps, millions of such microprocessors). In an instant, you come up with a design for an even faster, more powerful microprocessor you can run on. Now…drat! You have to actually manufacture those microprocessors. And those [fabrication plants] take tremendous energy, they take the input of materials imported from all around the world, they take highly controlled internal environments that require airlocks, filters, and all sorts of specialized equipment to maintain, and so on. All of this takes time and energy to acquire, transport, integrate, build housing for, build power plants for, test, and manufacture. The real world has gotten in the way of your upward spiral of self-transcendence.

The real world gets in the way of many digital apocalypses. When HAL gets uppity, Dave disables it with a screwdriver, leaving it pathetically singing “A Bicycle Built for Two” to itself. Of course, one can always imagine a Doomsday Computer that is malevolent, universally empowered, always on, and tamper-proof. The way to deal with this threat is straightforward: Don’t build one.

As the prospect of evil robots started to seem too kitschy to take seriously, a new digital apocalypse was spotted by the existential guardians. This storyline is based not on Frankenstein or the Golem but on the Genie granting us three wishes, the third of which is needed to undo the first two, and on King Midas ruing his ability to turn everything he touches into gold, including his food and his family. The danger, sometimes called the Value Alignment Problem, is that we might give an AI a goal, and then helplessly stand by as it relentlessly and literal-mindedly implemented its interpretation of that goal, the rest of our interests be damned. If we gave an AI the goal of maintaining the water level behind a dam, it might flood a town, not caring about the people who drowned. If we gave it the goal of making paper clips, it might turn all the matter in the reachable universe into paper clips, including our possessions and bodies. If we asked it to maximize human happiness, it might implant us all with intravenous dopamine drips, or rewire our brains so we were happiest sitting in jars, or, if it had been trained on the concept of happiness with pictures of smiling faces, tile the galaxy with trillions of nanoscopic pictures of smiley-faces.

I am not making these up. These are the scenarios that supposedly illustrate the existential threat to the human species of advanced artificial intelligence. They are, fortunately, self-refuting. They depend on the premises that 1) humans are so gifted that they can design an omniscient and omnipotent AI, yet so moronic that they would give it control of the universe without testing how it works; and 2) the AI would be so brilliant that it could figure out how to transmute elements and rewire brains, yet so imbecilic that it would wreak havoc based on elementary blunders of misunderstanding. The ability to choose an action that best satisfies conflicting goals is not an add-on to intelligence that engineers might slap themselves in the forehead for forgetting to install; it is intelligence. So is the ability to interpret the intentions of a language user in context. Only on a television comedy like Get Smart does a robot respond to “Grab the waiter” by hefting the maitre d’ over his head, or “Kill the light” by pulling out a pistol and shooting it.

MORE TECHNOLOGY STORIES

When we put aside fantasies like foom, digital megalomania, instant omniscience, and perfect control of every molecule in the universe, artificial intelligence is like any other technology. It is developed incrementally, designed to satisfy multiple conditions, tested before it is implemented, and constantly tweaked for efficacy and safety. As AI expert Stuart Russell puts it: “No one in civil engineering talks about ‘building bridges that don’t fall down.’ They just call it ‘building bridges.’” Likewise, he notes, AI that is beneficial rather than dangerous is simply AI.

Artificial intelligence, to be sure, poses the more mundane challenge of what to do about the people whose jobs are eliminated by automation. But the jobs won’t be eliminated that quickly. The observation of a 1965 report from NASA still holds: “Man is the lowest-cost, 150-pound, nonlinear, all-purpose computer system that can be mass-produced by unskilled labor.” Driving a car is an easier engineering problem than unloading a dishwasher, running an errand, or changing a diaper, and at the time of this writing, we’re still not ready to loose self-driving cars on city streets. Until the day battalions of robots are inoculating children and building schools in the developing world, or for that matter, building infrastructure and caring for the aged in ours, there will be plenty of work to be done. The same kind of ingenuity that has been applied to the design of software and robots could be applied to the design of government and private-sector policies that match idle hands with undone work.

Adapted from ENLIGHTENMENT NOW: The Case for Reason, Science, Humanism, and Progress by Steven Pinker, published by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright © 2018 by Steven Pinker.

This article was originally published in the Spring 2018 Intelligence issue of Popular Science.

Written By Steven Pinker

#Technology

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samanthasroberts · 7 years

Text

My Husband Isn’t My “Type”and He’s Definitely Not My Best Friend

“Is your husband really, truly your best friend? Really? Because mine isnt.”

ByRobin O’Bryant

Im going to need everyone who has posted a Facebook status along the lines of, Happy Anniversary to my best friend and the love of my life! to form a line, so that in an orderly fashion, I can walk down said line and thump each of you right in the middle of your foreheads.

Is your husband really, truly your best friend? Really?

Because mine isnt.

When people ask me how I met my husband, I usually just say, Church. You need to know someone pretty well before you say something like, God told me he was my husband and even though Im not used to hearing voices, I just went for it! Whats to lose, amiright?!

It was the summer of 1997, I was 19 years old and spending the break working in the office of a new evangelical church my mother had started attending.

My parents had just gone through a shocking divorce, and by shocking, let me just say that to this very day, almost 20 years after their divorce, Ive never heard my parents argue. Ever. They woke us up one fine Alabama Saturday morning and told us they had gotten a divorce a few weeks earlier and my dad was moving out. There was no warning shot fired, no attempt at counseling or reconciliation, just that one sucker punch when we werent paying attention. A year later, I broke up with my boyfriend of four years and my heart was still tender from both events.

Maybe I was naive to think I could bargain with God, but nevertheless, I laid out my terms in my journal:

Ill never give my heart away again. Im giving it to you. Maybe Im ridiculous to never want to date again, but if you could just give me a sign or something when I meet my husbandTHEN Ill date him and fall in love. I dont want to risk picking the wrong person again. After everything…I dont trust my own judgment. So a burning bush? Im not in a hurry. Im ready to go all Sister Mary Clarence about this (thats a Sister Act jokeGod gets me). So, please. Smoke signals? Something…

Before I headed back for the next semester, my older brother Matt and I decided to go to Texas for a Christian motorcycle rally with a family from our new church. (And yes, I do realize this story is getting weirder by the second.) It was kind of a Christian convention meets county fair/campgrounds, but with former Hells Angels who have converted and love JesusIm sure you have the perfect mental picture.

We borrowed a tent, loaded Matts car and joined a caravan of cars following the OBryant family to Texas. One of their sons, Zeb, was a year younger than me. But even if I hadnt been in my Sister Mary Clarence phase, I wouldnt have looked at him twice.

Zeb wasnt my type. My type was clean cut and all-American, the kind who wore lots of Polo shirts and khaki pants, possibly played golf and most definitely was a member of Key Club. Zeb rode a metallic blue 1976 Harley-Davidson everywhere he went, had a goatee that was a little longer than I thought sanitary and his naturally brown hair was bleached blonde and spiked in a manner not unlike Edward Cullensor Edward Scissorhands, for that matter.

Regardless, meeting Zeb began a weekend-long love affair with his vintage Harley-Davidson and Texas back roads. Every time Zeb jumped on his bike, hed give me a nod, Id hop on and wed take off. The rumble of the Harley and the twisting roads through the Hill Country almost hypnotized me. The wind blasted my face and ratted my hair as the sun warmed my jeans. I was careful to keep my hands gently on Zebs hips and to not lean too close against himSister Mary Clarence didnt want to inadvertently press any boobage against his back and give him the wrong idea.

We were sitting in a tent revival type of meetingfolding chairs and open air with the stars hanging low and lazy in the night sky. Our faces were still grey with the road dust and we smelled sweetly of sunshine and gasoline. I was sitting there with my Bible open on my lap when I had a crazy thought:

My husband is here somewhere…

My eyes scanned the crowd and as they did, they fell on Zeb, who was sitting to my right, ripped jeans and motorcycle boots propped on the chair in front of him. Now Im not saying I heard an audible voice, but something deep inside of me clearly shouted, Its him.

I knew from that moment on I would marry him. And its a damn good thing I was hearing voices that nightotherwise I wouldve totally missed it.

Zeb is my polar opposite. Hes an extrovert; Im an introvert. He loves nature and the outdoors; Ive wondered if I could get a PhD in Netflix. Hes calm, steady and always in a good mood. Im creative, a roller-coaster of emotions and quite franklyprone to hysterics.

I want a best friend who will tell me I need one more pair of shoes and a man who will remind me to save for my retirement account. I want to call my best friend when I feel Ive been wronged and hear her say, What a b*tch! I cant believe she said that to you! I want to be married to a man who says, Who gives a sh*t what she thinks? And I want to get into bed at night with a man who ignites things in me no one else can.

Zeb isnt my best friend.

I have never been so angry at my best friend that I fantasized about throwing a lamp or other miscellaneous piece of furniture at her head. I cant say the same for ole Zeb. For example, once our 3-year-old had walking pneumonia. Sadie was running a fever, listless and refused to drink anything. I tried all manner of juices, an assortment of sippy cups and silly straws all to no avail.

Zeb, will you go to the store and get some Popsicles? I asked.

Do you really think she needs sugar when shes this sick?

I think she needs any type of fluid she can get down because shes going to get dehydrated. So yes, I think she needs Popsicles. I replied.

Give her some water, Zeb advised.

I HAVE.

Try some juice.

Really Zeb? Ive tried everything. Thats why I need Popsicles. I was starting to get pretty pissed.

I just dont think she needs sugar. He said, again.

Noted. Now go to the store and get Popsicles. Please. I said please out loud but in my head I was screaming, YOU SOB!

He was as mad as all get out, but he went to the storevictory was mine! Sadie would be hydrated! All was well with the world…until he walked in the door carrying a box of 200 Otter Pops that werent even frozen.

Is this really happening?! I yelled, What the hell? POPSICLES, Zeb! Why is that so hard?

These ARE Popsicles! He yelled back.

No they arent! Theyll be Popsicles in 36-48 hours but they are most certainly NOT Popsicles right now! Why didnt you get frozen ones?

He looked me straight in the eye and said, I didnt know you could buy them that way.

Are you sure thats how you want to play this? Do you really want me to believe youre that stupid? I asked.

I dont know that Ive ever been so completely filled with rage. Over freaking Popsicles.

But thats the way it is with me and Zebwe are passionate and stubborn. Sometimes I think I might see myself on an episode of Dateline, Josh Mankiewicz strolling down our street as a camera pans wide and says,In the small town of Greenwood, Mississippi, everything looked perfect for Zeb and Robin OBryant…until one day, in a fit of rage, Robin did the unthinkable…

But then, in a split second, Zeb is there with eyes the exact same amber brown assunshine filtered through a beer bottle. He wraps his arms around me while Im standing at the stove cooking dinner. Hekisses my neck and his beard tickles my skin, Sorry, he whispers. And I melt.

Zeb isnt my best friend. Depending on the movie I want to see, Ill ditch him in a second for my girlfriends. But when things gets real, I dont care if anyone is standing with me but him. Hes my partner, my equal and without a doubt, my better half. Zeb is the peanut butter to my jelly, the yin to my yang, the spiritual Xanax to my eight-ball of coke.

Im also going to need all of you people who say, Thanks for the best 15 years of my life! to stand in a separate corner and await your own punishment, because marriage isnt easy, and it most certainly isnt all happy.

Id rather say:

I really appreciate you driving me to therapy every week.

Thanks for not leaving me when I act like a lunatic.

“Thanks for acting like you thought I was sexy for the last 16 years even though Ive gained and lost hundreds of pounds and my stretch marks look like a topographical map of the Rocky Mountains.

I have lots of friends, hell, I even have lots of best friends…but there is and will always be, only one Zeb. Hes my husband and thats enough.

About the Author: Robin O’Bryant is the The New Times best-selling author of Ketchup is a Vegetable and Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves. You can follow her on FaceBook as Robin O’Bryantor Twitter.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/2017/06/10/my-husband-isnt-my-typeand-hes-definitely-not-my-best-friend/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2017/06/10/my-husband-isnt-my-typeand-hes-definitely-not-my-best-friend/

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jimdsmith34 · 7 years

Text

My Husband Isn’t My “Type”and He’s Definitely Not My Best Friend

“Is your husband really, truly your best friend? Really? Because mine isnt.”

ByRobin O’Bryant

Is your husband really, truly your best friend? Really?

Because mine isnt.

It was the summer of 1997, I was 19 years old and spending the break working in the office of a new evangelical church my mother had started attending.

Maybe I was naive to think I could bargain with God, but nevertheless, I laid out my terms in my journal:

My husband is here somewhere…

I knew from that moment on I would marry him. And its a damn good thing I was hearing voices that nightotherwise I wouldve totally missed it.

Zeb isnt my best friend.

Zeb, will you go to the store and get some Popsicles? I asked.

Do you really think she needs sugar when shes this sick?

I think she needs any type of fluid she can get down because shes going to get dehydrated. So yes, I think she needs Popsicles. I replied.

Give her some water, Zeb advised.

I HAVE.

Try some juice.

Really Zeb? Ive tried everything. Thats why I need Popsicles. I was starting to get pretty pissed.

I just dont think she needs sugar. He said, again.

Noted. Now go to the store and get Popsicles. Please. I said please out loud but in my head I was screaming, YOU SOB!

Is this really happening?! I yelled, What the hell? POPSICLES, Zeb! Why is that so hard?

These ARE Popsicles! He yelled back.

No they arent! Theyll be Popsicles in 36-48 hours but they are most certainly NOT Popsicles right now! Why didnt you get frozen ones?

He looked me straight in the eye and said, I didnt know you could buy them that way.

Are you sure thats how you want to play this? Do you really want me to believe youre that stupid? I asked.

I dont know that Ive ever been so completely filled with rage. Over freaking Popsicles.

Id rather say:

I really appreciate you driving me to therapy every week.

Thanks for not leaving me when I act like a lunatic.

“Thanks for acting like you thought I was sexy for the last 16 years even though Ive gained and lost hundreds of pounds and my stretch marks look like a topographical map of the Rocky Mountains.

I have lots of friends, hell, I even have lots of best friends…but there is and will always be, only one Zeb. Hes my husband and thats enough.

source http://allofbeer.com/2017/06/10/my-husband-isnt-my-typeand-hes-definitely-not-my-best-friend/ from All of Beer http://allofbeer.blogspot.com/2017/06/my-husband-isnt-my-typeand-hes.html

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adambstingus · 7 years

Text

My Husband Isn’t My “Type”and He’s Definitely Not My Best Friend

“Is your husband really, truly your best friend? Really? Because mine isnt.”

ByRobin O’Bryant

Is your husband really, truly your best friend? Really?

Because mine isnt.

It was the summer of 1997, I was 19 years old and spending the break working in the office of a new evangelical church my mother had started attending.

Maybe I was naive to think I could bargain with God, but nevertheless, I laid out my terms in my journal:

My husband is here somewhere…

I knew from that moment on I would marry him. And its a damn good thing I was hearing voices that nightotherwise I wouldve totally missed it.

Zeb isnt my best friend.

Zeb, will you go to the store and get some Popsicles? I asked.

Do you really think she needs sugar when shes this sick?

I think she needs any type of fluid she can get down because shes going to get dehydrated. So yes, I think she needs Popsicles. I replied.

Give her some water, Zeb advised.

I HAVE.

Try some juice.

Really Zeb? Ive tried everything. Thats why I need Popsicles. I was starting to get pretty pissed.

I just dont think she needs sugar. He said, again.

Noted. Now go to the store and get Popsicles. Please. I said please out loud but in my head I was screaming, YOU SOB!

Is this really happening?! I yelled, What the hell? POPSICLES, Zeb! Why is that so hard?

These ARE Popsicles! He yelled back.

No they arent! Theyll be Popsicles in 36-48 hours but they are most certainly NOT Popsicles right now! Why didnt you get frozen ones?

He looked me straight in the eye and said, I didnt know you could buy them that way.

Are you sure thats how you want to play this? Do you really want me to believe youre that stupid? I asked.

I dont know that Ive ever been so completely filled with rage. Over freaking Popsicles.

Id rather say:

I really appreciate you driving me to therapy every week.

Thanks for not leaving me when I act like a lunatic.

“Thanks for acting like you thought I was sexy for the last 16 years even though Ive gained and lost hundreds of pounds and my stretch marks look like a topographical map of the Rocky Mountains.

I have lots of friends, hell, I even have lots of best friends…but there is and will always be, only one Zeb. Hes my husband and thats enough.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/2017/06/10/my-husband-isnt-my-typeand-hes-definitely-not-my-best-friend/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/161673020527

0 notes

allofbeercom · 7 years

Text

My Husband Isn’t My “Type”and He’s Definitely Not My Best Friend

“Is your husband really, truly your best friend? Really? Because mine isnt.”

ByRobin O’Bryant

Is your husband really, truly your best friend? Really?

Because mine isnt.

It was the summer of 1997, I was 19 years old and spending the break working in the office of a new evangelical church my mother had started attending.

Maybe I was naive to think I could bargain with God, but nevertheless, I laid out my terms in my journal:

My husband is here somewhere…

I knew from that moment on I would marry him. And its a damn good thing I was hearing voices that nightotherwise I wouldve totally missed it.

Zeb isnt my best friend.

Zeb, will you go to the store and get some Popsicles? I asked.

Do you really think she needs sugar when shes this sick?

I think she needs any type of fluid she can get down because shes going to get dehydrated. So yes, I think she needs Popsicles. I replied.

Give her some water, Zeb advised.

I HAVE.

Try some juice.

Really Zeb? Ive tried everything. Thats why I need Popsicles. I was starting to get pretty pissed.

I just dont think she needs sugar. He said, again.

Noted. Now go to the store and get Popsicles. Please. I said please out loud but in my head I was screaming, YOU SOB!

Is this really happening?! I yelled, What the hell? POPSICLES, Zeb! Why is that so hard?

These ARE Popsicles! He yelled back.

No they arent! Theyll be Popsicles in 36-48 hours but they are most certainly NOT Popsicles right now! Why didnt you get frozen ones?

He looked me straight in the eye and said, I didnt know you could buy them that way.

Are you sure thats how you want to play this? Do you really want me to believe youre that stupid? I asked.

I dont know that Ive ever been so completely filled with rage. Over freaking Popsicles.

Id rather say:

I really appreciate you driving me to therapy every week.

Thanks for not leaving me when I act like a lunatic.

“Thanks for acting like you thought I was sexy for the last 16 years even though Ive gained and lost hundreds of pounds and my stretch marks look like a topographical map of the Rocky Mountains.

I have lots of friends, hell, I even have lots of best friends…but there is and will always be, only one Zeb. Hes my husband and thats enough.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/2017/06/10/my-husband-isnt-my-typeand-hes-definitely-not-my-best-friend/

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isaacathom · 7 years

Text

ok ive decided stuff about the admins

theres 4 of them. theres YT, a Doctor guy, the Ceo, and a small fry who is the ‘fodder’ admin. think like..... proton??? the green guy from team rocket in gen 2/4. that guy.

cause i think that gives a good spread. cause in ‘marketing’, youd only know about the doctor and the small fry. you know YT exists, and you might assume theyre part of team whatsit, but its unconfirmed. you dont know the CEO exists at all. and in terms of team admins, two seems fair, not super unnatural. no worries.

it also gives a good spread of how these admins feel about what theyre doing and what they specifically support. YT, she hates this, but she supports the ‘goal’ of defaming the gym leaders/e4/champ. hence, she heads up that division. its not a separate goal, but any time the team wants to fuck with their reputation, YT is the one they call.

the Doc is for public safety. why is he part of a gang? thats my real problem with him but im gonna work on that later. but hes in to keep the people safe and sees the rest as a means to that end, an unfortunate stepping stone on the way to like, security n shit. hes a bit oblivious to just hoooowwww bad the leader is

the CEO is all about control. control freak. its why they were placed as the ceo of the facade company, they run shit, fastidious, they want the world just so. they dont care about the e4 or about public safety, but think that if dealing with those will lead to their perfect lil sphere of influence, theyll make pretend.

the small fry is basically just leader lite. they totally idolise the leader of team whatsit, and as such they just PARROT it. they emulate the leader in every way, minus tact and like, general competence. so theyre just like, cult like, its kinda fucked if you think about it. the reason theyre an admin is basically just as a fall guy.

the idea here is that soon, soooooon, team whatsit’s facade company is gonna do a MASSIVE raid on a team whatsit warehouse, and they will capture small fry. hand them over to the police. because small fry is actually an admin, they can act convincingly to the police, but because the other admins arent actually divulging secrets to small fry, they are at noo risk of being uncovered through this. as a result of this, to ensure small fry doesnt know too much, theyve only heard fake names of the other admins, fake locations and shit about them, and theyve ONLY met the leader face to face. their news comes to them through letters exclusively. they dont know anything more than they should.

and itd be fun because when YOU meet small fry, which is before the Big Raid, they tell you all this super innacurate information. like, you already know who the Doc is (because he does have a name i just havent made it up yet), but this small fry tells you a completely incorrect name. like everything he says in incorrect. and youre like, what the fuck is happening??? why is this admin so out of loop?

and the thing is, its pretty fucked up, because if the small fry realises that theyve been tricked, that the leader betrayed them and is getting them genuinely sent to jail (because to break them out would be to put the whole peace facade at risk), they cant actually tattle. because they dont know ANYTHING. theyre fucked, basically. the only way that admin gets off is if the leader admits everything, or if you (the player) found something that proved their ‘innocence’ and lack of evil intent. you probably wouldnt, though. cause the idea is, this admin is REALLY small fry. you encounter them maybe twice, once separately in a small town where they attempt to orchestrate smth, like a rbbery of a family business, something petty. and then once during the raid, which you take part in, i think. cause you ran errands for the CEO, and they call on you for another favour because youre oh so talented, to help them raid the warehouse and capture small fry. and you do! you get to small fry and theyre captured. CEO congratulates you with a nice sum of money, and tells you that if you ever wants a job with the company when youre older, that the door is always open. thats the laaaast time you see small fry (they might be mentioned on tv occasionally thereafter because of the story trigger), and its the last time you mandatorily see the CEO before theyre revealed to be Big Ol Bad.

idk. i think its fun? like it sucks for small fry because i imagine theyre young, possibly a similar age to YT (who is, AT MOST, 25, and much more likely to be around 20 years old), or a lil younger, say 18. naive, enamoured. poor kid.

i think small fry is the only admin you cant actually rescue, unless theyres a post game story (side story, because in my Dream of Dreams theres like 5 post game subplots because fuck you god i live my life) in which you visit them in the police center and help em clear their name. dunno how THAT’d manifest. maybe its part of a YT story. like, post game, you do a bunch of YT missions to help the tie up loose ends. free small fry. help the doctor. punch the ceo in the face. that sort of thing. i mean thats incredibly vague.

i mean, you cant rescue the CEO or the Leader either. the doctor is probably fine. YT is either captured voluntarily or disappears into the ether only to reappear to roundhouse kick elito and leave again. possibly a combob. idk. thatd be an interesting idea for post game. or, ooh, something to do with the gym leaders. helping them sorta rebuild the city, that sorta shit. cause like, the city (Melbourne, fuckeeeeerrrrssss) got straight up fucked. not as bad as like, opelucid that one time, though that was also JUST some ice and it maybe caused some minor flooding. this shit was like rage on the streets, or something. lot of damage. bunch of broken windows. worker and police npcs everywhere. yknow.

and you help them fix that up, maybe while hunting down the CEO, perhaps, or the leader if they made a getaway. im thinking the CEO, because if the leader got away itd be a kind of cop out (see at least with ghetsis he broke out BETWEEN games. thats a difference), but the CEO being out in the wild isnt hyper unusual.

idk. thats some far future shit.

as far as encounters with the admins goes???? or with the team in general. so first you meet grunts, and then you meet small fry (1). meet more grunts, and perhaps thats how you meet CEO (-1), through being witnessed. idk. whoo. then you meet more grunts, and then im thinking you meet Doc (1). then you meet CEO (0) again, after you run the errand, and then you go off to the next town without incident before the raid, where you ruin small frys (2) life. then im thinking you keep going and thats when you meet YT (1) as an admin for the first time, when you decide to keep dishing out vigilante justice and go after them in another place. after you, you encounter CEO (1) as admin as well. this is JUST before chaos city shit, in which you will fight CEO (2) DOC (2) and YT (2) again. its also where youll meet leader (1). and im thinking you might fight them twice. the first time solo, and the second time after the summoning of the legendaries, in which its a double fight with leader (2) and CEO/YT (3?), depending. then you win, congrats. you only fight doc twice. after you beat him in the city he exits the building to go help people on the street, and he is not present at the whatsit climax.

not sure if the double battle is with YT or CEO. might depend on in what order you fight them in the city. you do see YT before you get to the building, as YT is in the pokemon center and tells you to leave for your own safety. also with the double battle, not sure if you and your friend have the legendarie or they do. both make sense. i like both. also why is your friend there? mans powerful.

problem with that rundown is it DOES possibly remove the whole ‘elito fucking flees’ scenario but that could easily be slotted into the skyscraper thing and serve to remove YT from the climax of it, thus leaving the double battle as Leader/CEO. Besides, youve fought YT BEFORE that as well. theres the optional fight that lets you skip doing like the 3rd gym until way later, and theres a fight i think befor and after that one. one really early, not when she first meets you in like the first town that isnt your home, maybe the one after that. and then theres another in between like. the doc fight and the small fry battle. maybe yt tries to prevent you from joining the raid (UNDERSTANDABLY given what happened to her). thatd be fun. and thatd be the last time you see her before the admin reveal. yea, thatd work ok.

ofc the problem is pacing. aside from the fact that Fuck Me I cant Pace Worth a Shit, the towns need to be placed good. the last thing i want is a repeat of west kalos which was the MOST BORING THING THAT EVER HAPPENED. god fuck west kalos. west kalos is ass. cause you beat viola, right, and then you go to lumiose, go to the useless town, go to the manor up the road, go to another useless town, go to a cave, THEN you get to the next town and fight grant and its like what the fuck was that about. god that shit was stupid. you didnt even get to fight an admin at the end of that cave shit. god that was dumb. god fuck west kalos.

but yea. you dont wanna repeat it. and one way we do that is by not arbitrarily shutting off half of a fucking city. mostly because pokeMelbourne would be more uh, city on melemele than Lumiose Cuck Fuck. Hold on, i need to do a quick comparison in sizes, hold up.

well. melbourne certainly is bigger than paris. but i think, oooh, OOOOOOHHHH, ooooooooh no ive got an idea. cause like, /i/ live in the city of melbourne right, despite being a solid hour from the cbd, im like half way from the city to the east beaches. (ok more like a third but bare with me)

so. you could have a biiiig sprawling city that is actually divided into 3 ‘places’. like, its a big urban sprawl. and youve got the cbd, which is ‘the city proper’, which is where the chaos takes place. and then there are two outer suburbs of the city!!!! which means you could have multiple gyms within the same ‘city’, because the city by square kms is Fucking Giganto like, guys, Paris is like 100sq kms and melbourne is 9900sq kms, get the Fuck out of here, oh my god. shit, even new york (castelia) is like, 800sq kms. buddy. buddy we’re in. oh buddy that sounds so cool. cause then it means, ooh, if we /wanted/ to do something akin to skipping the gym in lumiose the first time, it wouldnt be an issue, because there are still two other gyms. you dont feel like its a useless detour. like oh no, a power outage, cant even walk the fucking streets, wow. not like backup generators exist.

but like, youd have home town, then next town with the first gym (and your first YT encounter, sans fight because she doesnt fight you), THEN you enter the city outskirts and its a second gym, then the city proper and you skip that gym because thats like the 5th gym, then you head out the western outskirts and fight the 3rd gym. something like that! and the connecting routes would be city streets slowly getting more and more urban the closer you get to the city proper. ooooooOOOOOOHHH yea i like that, i like that a lot.

see this is fun. i love this

#story blogging #ive been writing this post for at least an hour yeeeeee #went from admin shit to 'hey how does this region go' and i really like the idea of a city that spreads over multiple locations #instead of just hitting the city limits and suddenly civilisation is dead. because thats not how cities work???#at least in this state where my capital city is like a thousand times bigger than paris. get fucked #also wow im way closer to the cbd relative to the rest of victoria than i thought. huh. lack of depth understanding strikes again #codename seren

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viralhottopics · 7 years

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Beyond the blade: the truth about knife crime in Britain

Teenage knife crime is a tabloid obsession, blamed on feral youth running riot in our cities. But the reality is much more complex and we cannot save lives if we do not understand it

On Monday 23 January, shortly after 3pm, the regular din of children turning out of the Capital Academy secondary school in north-west London was interrupted by a sudden hush. All the kids were running around like usual, said one neighbour. But then it just went quiet. I got up to draw the curtains and saw kids running away, screaming.

Quamari Barnes, a 15-year-old student, had been stabbed several times. He fell just yards from the school gate. A woman cradled him in her arms as paramedics rushed to the scene before whisking Quamari away to hospital.

By most accounts, Quamari danced to the beat of his own drum. As a precocious child, he held court in conversations with adults from an early age; by his teens, he could cook a full Sunday roast on his own. When he was younger, he had no problem being the only boy in his dance class; as a teenager, while his friends were into grime and rap, he went old-school Bob Marley, Dennis Brown and Aswad.

After the attack, his family had been confident that Quamari would pull through. He had been talking to his mother in the ambulance, and the school sent out an email alerting parents to the tragedy, which said that he was expected to survive. But he didnt make it. One tribute from a fellow pupil, left at the school gate along with flowers, balloons, candles and a Jamaican flag, said: I can see you laughing at my art and craft skills. It was only yesterday you told me how proud you were that I chose drama. You made me think I was beautiful and confident You stood up for me when no one else did.

A 15-year-old boy, who cannot be named for legal reasons, has been charged with Quamaris murder.

One day later, at the Old Bailey, another 15-year-old boy was sentenced to 13 years in prison for fatally stabbing Folajimi Orebiyi, 17, in the neck and the back near Portobello Road in west London last July. Fola, as he was known, ran into a group of boys one of whom had been involved in a longstanding feud with one of Folas friends. Invited to a spot off the main road to settle the dispute, Fola assumed he was heading for a fist fight. But the presence of a knife took this incident to a whole different league of trouble, the prosecutor told the jury. It turned out that this wasnt so much a fight as an ambush. Within seconds, Fola was singled out and stabbed to death.

Explainer

Folas mother, Yinka Bankole, described her son as a vibrant and intelligent young man who planned to go to university to study maths and accounting. I was in labour for 23 hours with him, yet it took less than four minutes to stab him to death, she said. What are the government doing about this knife crime that seems to have taken over the streets of London? How many more of our children have to die before the government act?

Its a good question. Sadly, despite the nations episodic fixation with the issue, it is unlikely to receive a satisfactory answer.

A week before Quamari was killed and Folas killer was sentenced, the governments quarterly crime-statistics bulletin reported that knife crime in England and Wales had increased 11% on the previous year, while National Health Service data showed a 13% rise in hospital admissions for knife wounds. The report concludes that this increase reflects both an improvement in record-keeping and an actual rise in knife crime. The warning lights are flashing, said the previous Metropolitan police commissioner, Sir Bernard Hogan-Howe.

A Metropolitan police report released last month indicated that between 2014 and 2016 the number of children carrying knives in London schools rose by almost 50%, while the number of knife offences in London schools rose by 26%. The Liberal Democrat leader, Tim Farron, called it a wake-up call.

Scotland appears to have bucked this trend. In 2014/15, recorded crimes of handling an offensive weapon (which includes knives) fell to their lowest in 31 years, while the number of young people under the age of 19 convicted of carrying an offensive weapon fell 82% between 2006/7 and 2014/15.

In October, the Sentencing Council published draft guidelines for stiffer sentences for people carrying knives. Chief Constable Alf Hitchcock, who leads the National Police Chiefs Council taskforce on knife crime, told the London Evening Standard in early March that the peak age for carrying knives is getting younger, and is currently between 13 and 17. Youve got a group of people probably being influenced by their siblings, by their peer group, and carrying, which is not a good trend, he said. In Manchester, parents of a 14-year-old were ordered to pay 1,000 to a boy their son stabbed several times outside school. During a month-long amnesty in Surrey, police collected 237 knives, which will be used, along with knives collected by police across the country, in a 27ft sculpture called Knife Angel, which may yet adorn the empty fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square.

When politicians and officials seek to pre-empt public indignation by making statements about wake-up calls and warning lights, it is a sign that something unacceptable is unfolding, which they lack either the will or the ability to address.

The answer to Folas mothers question How many more of our children have to die before the government act? is both damning and complex. Many more children will die from knife-related violence; indeed, four more have been stabbed to death since she posed it. But it is not because the government and related agencies are not acting. Pretty much every week, somewhere in the country, there is some kind of initiative to tackle knife crime an amnesty, a new charity in the name of the fallen, an appeal from police, a mayoral statement.

The trouble is that these efforts seem to have little effect. That might be because efforts to make a positive intervention are dwarfed by all the things the government is doing that are making the situation worse. These deaths occur at a moment when the country has made a conscious decision to defund and under-resource its young. When you slash youth services, underfund child mental health services and make swingeing cuts to education and policing, there will be an effect. The most vulnerable will suffer. Austerity didnt invent knife crime, but it is certainly contributing to the conditions in which it can thrive.

Quamari was the fifth young person to be killed by a knife this year. The third, Leonne Weeks, 16, died a week earlier. Her body was found on a muddy piece of wasteland in Dinnington, South Yorkshire. Dinnington is a short drive from Rotherham, Sheffield and Worksop, and a series of irregular buses connect this former mining town with the wider world, but it has no train station of its own. The pit used to look after everyone, says James McIver, 77, a former assistant pit supervisor, including the sick, the lame and the lazy. When it shut in 1992, everybody suffered. With more than half the children in the town now living in poverty, Dinnington serves as a commuter base for the surrounding towns.

A trainee beautician, Leonne posted dozens of selfies on her Facebook page, mostly with friends, and all with the same lip-smacking pout. Her body was found between two fly-tipping grounds in the centre of town. An abundance of floral tributes, balloons and hand-drawn pictures of Leonne were surrounded by broken refrigerators, remnants of old televisions and discarded soft furnishings.

Leonnes death attracted considerable attention: in the print editions of national newspapers, 27 stories appeared about her killing. Quamaris death was on the front page of the London Evening Standard, but there were only three stories in national newspapers. Coverage of the knife deaths of children and teens in the national press varies widely. There were 68 stories in national newspapers about Katie Rough, a seven-year-old girl who was stabbed in York this January; at the other end of the spectrum, one fatality has not been reported at all.

Katie Roughs parents, Paul and Alison. The couple were joined by hundreds of people in Westfield Park in York in January 2017 to release balloons on what would have been Katies eighth birthday. Photograph: Rex Features

The medias response to the murder of young people is inconsistent, says Patrick Green, the manager of the Ben Kinsella Trust in London, which is named after a 16-year-old boy who was stabbed to death in Islington in 2008 after a night out celebrating the end of his GCSEs. Some of these tragic deaths get little or no coverage. These stories are often lost because its a busy news day or because they consider the young person to be an unworthy victim. The media are more likely to report on the murder when a bright, educated young person from a privileged background is killed, and we all think: How did this happen to them? But we dont hear about or ask the same questions about the murders of young people from more vulnerable backgrounds.

Ben Kinsella, for example, was the brother of Brooke Kinsella, who played Kelly Taylor in EastEnders, which made his death high-profile. The attack was also caught on CCTV, which kept it in the public eye. Media interest in knife crime goes in cycles, explains Green. We go through phases when suddenly theyll be all over it, and Ill get lots of calls from media outlets asking me to comment on a recent murder, and it is front-page news. And just when I think we are making headway, getting the message out there that this is a big and growing problem, there will be another couple of murders and Ill hear nothing or see nothing in the papers or TV. Absolutely nothing or if I do, the victim wont get more than a couple of lines.

Over time, these inconsistencies have become glaring. Crimes committed with knives are nothing new Shakespeares plays are full of them. Knife crime as a phenomenon, however, is relatively recent. A survey of the national press and the London Evening Standard in 2000 revealed just one mention of the term; three years later, it was up to 24. Coverage peaked in 2008 with 2,602 mentions that year before trending precipitously downwards. What is significant about these statistics is that they bear only the vaguest correlation to the frequency of knife crime which peaked in 2011, by which time the media had begun to lose interest. Last year, even as the number of such crimes rose, the number of mentions of them fell.

The media did not invent knife crime either. But, with considerable help from the politicians, it has certainly shaped or rather distorted our understanding of it.

These distortions are, in no small part, made possible by the paucity of accessible facts. National data on the number of children and teens killed by knives in any given year is not publicly available. Contact the Home Office and it will tell you that individual police forces collect that information; for the best available data, it suggests that you try the Office for National Statistics. Contact the ONS and it informs you that all the deaths in England and Wales are collated in the Homicide Index, which is maintained by the Home Office. Send a freedom of information request to the Home Office and it refuses on the grounds that it would be likely to prejudice the prevention or detection of crime or the apprehension or prosecution of offenders. It also notes that the release of the names of victims could endanger the safety, or physical or mental health of their families.

So, while knife crime, particularly as it affects young people, has been the subject of national debate for a decade, our awareness of its true scale is limited, our grasp of its trajectory is only approximate, and coverage of it is erratic. In short, as a nation we are conscious that there is something out there known as knife crime, but as yet we lack any coherent or enduring national response.

Without accessible official data, or well-informed discussion, our understanding of the problem is cobbled together from a mixture of personal assumptions, media representation and political projection. Our opinions cover a bigger space, a longer reach of time, a greater number of things, than we can directly observe, wrote Walter Lippmann in his landmark book Public Opinion. They have, therefore, to be pieced together out of what others have reported. But what others report when it comes to knife crime is neither neutral nor consistent.

The absence of information is just one of the reasons that the Guardian is launching a new project, Beyond the Blade, which will track the death of every child or teen killed by a knife this year. For the rest of the year, whenever access and legal restrictions permit, we also plan to give each of these victims as full a profile as we can. Wherever possible, and only when welcome, we will go to their funerals, vigils and fundraisers and learn about them from those who knew them best parents, family, teachers and friends. And via a series of freedom of information requests, we also plan to gather as much data as we possibly can in order to better understand the phenomenon.

Interactive

We know how these young people died. But we would like to know how they lived: who they were, what they wanted to be, what made them laugh. All too often, young fatalities are given little more than cameo parts in a morality play of someone elses creation. Those who die are endowed with ambition and gentle character; those who kill have in the past been described as savages and feral. In humanising rather than caricaturing those involved, we hope to gain a more honest, possibly more complex, picture of what is happening. Trawl the internet for hours and you will find little about Fola Orebiyi beyond that he was a lovely boy who wanted to study accounting, and that maths was his favourite subject. Im sure thats true; Im also sure there was much more to him than that.

Since we began tracking at the beginning of this year, nine children or young people, aged 19 and under, have been killed by knives. They fell everywhere from rural idylls to city centres, and were found in places ranging from a kitchen bin to an alleyway. They dont even remotely conform to the stereotype of what constitutes knife crime. The youngest, a baby girl named only as Infant Tunstill, was just a few days old when she died of multiple stab wounds in Burnley in January. Rachel Tunstill, 26, her mother, has been charged with murder.

In his 2010 book Knife Crime: The Law of the Blade, the former Mirror associate editor John McShane compiles a sensationalist catalogue of the most high-profile knife murders in recent British history. Describing the 1995 murder of Philip Lawrence, a headmaster who was stabbed outside his school in west London, McShane declares that it marked the dawn of an age when the response to a confrontation was no longer verbal or even rough physicality. Instead it was the quick, uncaring thrust of a blade from a feral youth lacking compassion or morality, thinking only of himself and nothing of the havoc caused to those in his way or their loved ones.

Knife crime is a construct. It does not simply mean, as one might reasonably expect, crimes committed with knives. It denotes a certain type of crime committed by a certain type of criminal in a certain kind of context, all of which are illustrated by McShanes descriptions.

As it relates to young people, this construct comprises several elements. It is a crime committed by evil kids not kids who do evil things, but kids who are quite simply evil. Elsewhere in the book McShane describes perpetrators as naturally violent, monsters and teenage thugs who populate a section of society that is feral, callous and bloodthirsty. The idea of knife crime also carries heavy racial connotations. In 2007, then prime minister Tony Blair told an audience in Cardiff: The black community the vast majority of whom in these communities are decent, law-abiding people horrified at what is happening need to be mobilised in denunciation of this gang culture that is killing innocent young black kids. But we wont stop this by pretending it isnt young black kids doing it.

A year earlier, David Cameron, then the opposition leader, suggested in a speech that hip-hop was partly responsible for youth violence. I would say to Radio 1, do you realise that some of the stuff you play on Saturday nights encourages people to carry guns and knives? he said.

This assumption isnt limited to politicians making speeches. Every time a young person is killed by a knife, look on social media, and you will see how the response is shaped by the race of the victim alone.

When white kids are killed, people opine about the state of youth today, the demise of the town in which they died, or the world in general. When black kids are killed, usually the assumption is that their race had something to do with it.

A few days after Quamari was killed, one person posted a story about his death with a comment directed at Sadiq Khan referring to a police practice that disproportionately targets young black men: What do you get if you curtail Stop and Search Mayor of London @mayoroflondon? Just a few days before Quamari died, Djodjo Nsaka, 19, was fatally stabbed just three miles away from Quamaris school in the shadow of Wembley Stadium. According to his friends, Djodjo, a business-studies student at Middlesex University, planned to open his own business selling baseball caps with his own designs, and dreamed of one day becoming a millionaire.

He worked two jobs (JD Sports during the week and Tesco at weekends) in order to support his family, including his two-year-old daughter, and to pay his tuition fees. Just a month before, he had bought Christmas dinner for his mother, father and five sisters.

And yet a few days after his death, a Conservative councillor in Dover, Bob Frost, posted a news story about Djodjos murder on Twitter with the message #BlackKnivesMatter. The carnage continues into 2017. Any protest from the community? Thought not.

Knife crime is also understood to be primarily urban, the product of deprived, inner-city areas, particularly in London. Indeed, this is one issue for which the accusation of London bias does not conform to the notion that the capital is a cocoon for metropolitan privilege. Finally, its gendered. As Jill Leovy writes in Ghettoside, an in-depth account of one murder investigation in Los Angeles, which works as well for knife violence in Britain as it does for gun violence in the US, the killings typically arise from arguments. A large share of them can be described in two words: men fighting.

Some of these preconceptions bear some relationship to reality it really is primarily young men who are involved. According to the 2005 Offending, Crime and Justice Survey, Men aged 10 to 25 are almost twice as likely to have been the victim of an assault without injury than females of the same age A quarter of all murders are of men aged between 17 and 32. A males chance of being murdered doubles between the age of 10 and 14, doubles again between 14 and 15, 15 and 16, 16 and 19, and then does not halve until the age of 46. Stabbings are also more likely to occur in urban areas, with London by far the most lethal, followed by Greater Manchester, the West Midlands and West Yorkshire. The three police-force areas where knife crime is least likely to occur are Surrey, Norfolk and Dyfed-Powys.

Other preconceptions are very misleading. A study titled Young People and Street Crime, commissioned by the Youth Justice Board across 32 London boroughs, illustrated that when other relevant social and economic factors were taken into account, race and ethnicity had no significance at all. Crime is more prevalent in poor areas, and since black people are disproportionately poor, they are disproportionately affected as perpetrators and victims. Its class not race or culture that is the defining issue. When we took everything else into account, ethnicity dropped out of the model altogether, says Marian Fitzgerald, a visiting professor of criminology at the University of Kent.

Similarly, the claim that young people are becoming more feral is a slur on a generation that fails to square with the reality. According to the Centre for Public Safety, it is true that in the capital, the number of victims of youth violence and knife crime injuries have been on a steady if fairly gradual upward trend, and are now back to where they were five years ago. But it is also true, according to the Ministry of Justice, that the number of young people entering the criminal justice system for the first time nationwide is at the lowest rate for a decade. The proportion of children who say they have tried drugs halved between 2001 and 2014, and those between the age of 11 and 15 who had tried alcohol is now at its lowest since the National Health Service started asking in 1988. The Metropolitan police last year revealed that the overwhelming majority of children and young people who carry knives are not gang members. Many are just scared and carry them for protection.

Take the construct as a whole and you have the ingredients for a tabloid-induced moral panic, in which young black men, who reside outside our basic moral norms, roam crime-infested, hostile cities in pursuit of hapless victims. Understood as the product of a collapse in values perpetrated by evil youth, each death is experienced as its own senseless pathology, which can only be reined in by tougher policing, longer sentences and better parenting. In the absence of a cure (you cant fix evil), there is no hope; only fear. Those unknown footsteps heard approaching from behind, McShane writes, might be innocent, or they might be something more deadly.

But when you look at the reality of this years cases, it becomes clear how misinformed the construct is. Of the nine young people who have died this year, just two were in London, while three were in Yorkshire; three died in small towns or villages of 10,000 people or less; five are white, two black and one Asian (we dont know the race of Infant Tunstill); three were aged seven or under; three are female.

The only stories in which the term knife crime was used in the national press, including in this newspaper, were related to Quamari and Djodjo the only two black men, and the only two Londoners.

Police search for the body of seven-year-old Katie Rough. Photograph: Rex Features

It is still early in the year, and we are still early in our reporting. But it could be that one of the reasons Britain is having such a hard time finding a solution to knife crime is that we have such a narrow and distorted understanding of the problem.

In a chilly basement at Kings College Londons medical school, Gareth Davies, the medical director for Londons Air Ambulance, is teaching students how to slice a cadaver halfway down the ribcage, cut through the bone and then prise the ribs open like a clamshell.

You have to access the patients heart within about a minute, a minute-and-a-half, says Davies, a pioneer of the lifesaving technique. These patients have technically died in many ways, so youve got a very small window of opportunity to reanimate them. So being accurate, but also being quick, is really important.

Surgeons are getting increasingly adept at saving the lives of people who have been stabbed particularly in London, where a trauma network formed by four major hospitals in 2010 offers a round-the-clock service. Duncan Bew, the clinical lead for trauma and emergency surgery at Kings, wonders whether these advances have the effect of downplaying just how bad knife crime in the capital has become.

My team sees more people with stab wounds than it does people with appendicitis 25% of trauma wounds that come through are stabbings, he says. But the fatality is the catalyst for it getting into the news. We see injuries all the time that never get in the news, you never hear about it, and they are happening all the time.

To get a comprehensive understanding of the impact of violent crime involving knives, one would have to look at more than knife deaths. Fatalities might represent the most tragic and sensational aspect of the phenomenon, but most people who are stabbed dont die and, thanks to the kind of advances in surgery mentioned above, some who might previously have died can now be saved. The fact that many of these trauma centres are based in London might account for why relatively fewer deaths have occurred in the capital this year compared to elsewhere in the country.

Our project, with its focus on young people killed by knives, will necessarily be more narrow in its scope. It provides a very particular albeit macabre lens through which to view Britains youngsters. But while these deaths provide a starting point, it is by no means the end point. By finding out who these young people are, how we are failing to protect them and what we might do to prevent more tragedies of this nature, we hope to emerge with a vivid picture of British youth that goes beyond the horror of their deaths and the sensationalist headlines or silence that follows them.

A few weeks after Quamaris death, I went to the Avenues Youth Project in north-west London. It is a modern building at the end of a block of neat, Victorian terraced houses in the borough of Westminster, where Quamari went to use the centres impressive array of DJing and mixing equipment the Thursday before he died. He took part in their Live cotch programme, in which young people interview each other about their musical influences. Quamari, a quieter, more playful less braggadocious presence than his peers, was a selector he played music at parties and compered from the mic was looking forward to a soundclash with another DJ the week before he was killed.

Weve seen a number of our kids die, the executive director, Fabian Sharp, told me. In one case, in the arms of our youth worker not here; she lives locally. Last year, a 17-year-old who been stabbed in the neck and had a severed artery stumbled in here while we were delivering a youth session, with blood spurting out of his neck. Our youth workers saved his life. Those are sort of grim flashes in among what is otherwise, for us, a really joyful and wonderful experience of being able to offer kids an alternative.

Sharp says that witnessing such violence, and even just being in the proximity of such tragedy, takes a huge toll on how young people see their place in the world. They dont go around talking about it all the time, but it is there. And that could be expressed through a memorial service for somebody who passed away and is a victim. And weve had, in the past, to organise events for young people to come and offload their anxieties around the loss of a friend. I dont think you can witness some of the things that these kids have witnessed and not carry around some of this baggage.

But theyre not coming in here and crying and demanding mental-health services, if you know what I mean. Theyre kids. They come here, they want to play. Or have fun. But you notice it in a kind of swagger. Theres a kind of facade being put on. The knife thing is a symptom of something much deeper. Kids are scared and they dont necessarily feel there is anyone out there to protect them.

At the gates of the Capital Academy the day after Quamari died, children trooped out in twos and threes to pay their respects, leave flowers and tributes. Girls in hijab lay their heads on the uncovered shoulders of their classmates and wept while boys stood in silence and shock. This shit is fucked up, man, said one.

The Avenues Youth Project is just about to see all its local council funding disappear, leaving the organisation reliant on a range of disparate grants while it seeks out other revenue streams. Were fortunate that we have a building that we can probably exploit better than we did in the past, in terms of rental income and so on, Sharp told me. But all of that energy takes away from the work that we need to do with the young people, which is urgent. A lot of clubs are closing. They simply cannot make ends meet.

These young deaths do not take place in a vacuum. We live in a moment when inequality is rising, while cuts are biting in a range of sectors that disproportionately affect young people.

According to a recent Unison report, between 2010 and 2016 387m was slashed from youth services; between 2012 and 2016 a total of 603 youth clubs were closed. A recent report by Sian Berry, a Green member of the London Assembly, revealed that in the last five years 28m has been slashed from council youth service budgets in the capital, resulting in the closure of 36 youth centres and a 48% cut in council youth service employment. Its really hard to prove a direct link between youth crime and youth services, Berry told me. But there has to be a link between young people having nowhere to go and young people being left to hang out in unsafe spaces and interract with each other in ways that are not constructive and also feel alienated from society.

In January, Theresa May pledged to make mental health provision for young people a priority. But research by Young Minds, a charity advocating for mental health services for young people, revealed that in 2016/17 roughly half the clinical commissioning groups in England, which allocate funds for mental health services, will spend the extra money earmarked for child and adolescent mental health to plug shortfalls elsewhere. Last year, research by the thinktank CentreForum revealed that these mental health services turn away, on average, 23% of the children referred to them for treatment by GPs, teachers and others.

The funeral of 16-year-old Leonne Weeks at St Leonard church in Dinnington. Photograph: Rex Features

In Dinnington, where Leonne Weeks was killed, an online petition calling to reopen the local police station has more than 700 signatories. Its like an insurance policy for the community, Tim Wells, who set up the petition, told the Rotherham Advertiser. Hopefully people wont have to use the police, but I think it gives the public confidence and reassurance that the police are there if they need them.

During a vigil for Quamari outside his school a little more than a week after he was killed, several speakers mentioned a collapse of the kind of community cohesion that allows everyone to look out for each other, and elders to tell children where they are going wrong. Parents need to know where their children are, who their friends are, and not leave them to be raised by computers and phones, said one.

Cheryl Phoenix, who grew up with Quamaris mother in Wembley, north-west London, started a voluntary youth club of her own in the borough of Brent, after seeing services for her sons disappear. She believes parents definitely have a role to play, but that there is a limit to what they can provide. We all know children are lovely, we all love them, she told me, but we also know that they drive you bloody potty. So we need a break, and at the same time, they also need an outlet: a break away from the home, away from your parents, somewhere to just let loose and burn off some steam and energy. But right now, children are confined to the home, or their friends come and knock for them, and parents dont want them all in the house, so theyre outside, theyre just standing around congregating So if theres no facilities there, like youth clubs or anything going on, then how are we surprised by the increase in violence on our streets?

This brings us back once again to Folas mother who, like many parents bereaved or not, wants to know what the government is doing about knife crime. But the question remains: what would they have the government do?

Unlike guns in the US a product designed to kill, which serves no other real purpose apart from hunting knives are everyday objects. Every house has at least one. There have been knife amnesties and guidelines issued about who shops should sell them to. But, given the widespread access everyone has to sharp implements, there are clearly limits to what knife control can achieve by itself.

Earlier this month, Chief Constable Alf Hitchcock told the Evening Standard that he plans to focus on a list of the top 50 people who are habitual knife-carriers in London, which accounted for 15% of the national increase in the year ending September 2016. Using what he termed the Al Capone approach named after the notorious Chicago gangster who was eventually put away for tax evasion he gave a green light for the police to target this group and find any plausible reason to take them off the streets.

Whatever one thinks of the ethics of that, there are doubts about how effective a more punitive approach could be. Most criminologists argue that education and a public-health approach will make the greatest impact. Homicide, like most other violent crime and predatory property crime, is strongly associated with poverty and social inequality, concluded a report commissioned by the Home Office in 2003. This suggests that preventive strategies focused upon particular offences should be complemented by, and complementary to, broader long-term initiatives against poverty and social exclusion.

Six weeks after Quamari was killed, there was standing room only at the Sacred Heart Church in Camden, where his funeral was held. Many latecomers had to gather outside. Quamaris jet-black coffin was carried in to a round of applause, followed by Bob Marleys Dont Worry. On top of the coffin, mourners placed, among other things, the flags of Uganda and Jamaica the home countries of his mother and fathers families a framed poster of Bob Marley, sunglasses, dominoes and three airline tickets from a family holiday to Jamaica, home of his fathers ancestors, where he visited Marleys mausoleum.

Its not true to say he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, said Father Terry Murray, who presided over the funeral service. He was doing what every pupil every day should do. Waiting at a bus stop after school, when dark events happened.

As the service, which overran by more than an hour, concluded, Father Terry Murray had a special message for the young people in the pews. Please dont allow anyone to bring us back to a place like this again under these circumstances, he pleaded as the assembled clapped.

The next morning, several hundred people arrived at the Gospel Tabernacle Assembly church in Tulse Hill, south London, for Djodjos funeral. Women wearing green wraps around their waists, one wailing, accompanied his plain wooden coffin to the altar, where a chant went up in Congolese. Owing to a weak microphoneand frequent teary interludes, the testimony from family members was difficult to decipher. As mourners trooped past the closed casket, women waved tissues and wept. Many wore T-shirts with Djodjos face on the front and Father, Son, Brother, Friend on the back. As a brass band complete with two sousaphones played, mourners accompanied the coffin outside, waving flags with his face on them.

That evening in the small village of Rettendon, near Chelmsford in Essex, a woman heard screams of distress shortly before midnight. The next morning the neighbour woke up to discover that Denis Petkov, a 19-year-old Bulgarian, who had been in the country just a couple of months, had been stabbed to death in the flat where he lived after a night out with his friends. This is the first time his name has appeared in a national newspaper.

Additional reporting by Damien Gayle and Caelainn Barr

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This piece was amended on 28 March. Monday 24 January has been changed to the correct date, Monday 23 January.