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sinisterlyhan · 4 years

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03. bang chan ; 2chan / 5189 words

public sex, unprotected sex, crempie(ish...?), unprotected sex, female reader, it’s a quickie but i didn’t really write it like one

parts: 01 ; 02

a/n: my 1 whole minute google search looking up how to say changbin & chan 😭 also, ahh, this took a surprising turn.

1:00 pm, statistics class, and you absolutely dreaded it.

chan walked beside you, his eyes darting between you and the almost empty hallway of the math and science building. he looked somewhat nervous, but not nervous enough he appeared timid and shy.

according to his previous research, one that lasted for about two weeks, you would be getting grumpy starting right about now. and so far, he was able to conclude the reason behind your mini-bursts of temper tantrums: seo changbin.

ever since that night at the party, the one where you hooked up with changbin and never told him who you were, you had been avoiding him.

not in a sense where you were avoiding him in hopes that he would leave you alone because he would never look for you for anything. you were avoiding him in an attempt to keep yourself from thinking about him because he has been all you could think about.

you actively ignored his existence. not looking at him despite wanting to spare a glance during a boring lecture, not walking the path he does so you wouldn't get a chance to be near his vicinity, not thinking about him when you were touching yourself at night and trying to relish in the feeling of having him inside you.

it felt like an obsession, almost. it was unbelievable how much changbin has consumed you with just one night. if you close your eyes, you could still feel his plump lips on your neck and his bulky arms under your fingers. and you hated that, you really hated that. you thought getting off with only your vibrator was hard before, but oh, nobody prepared you for this.

you didn’t know changbin would be that good, and you had no idea that your preset fondness for him would take that secret affection, along with the sex, to a whole new level.

“he–“

“this is all your fault!” you huffed before chan could finish his sentence, snapping your head to his direction and cranking up your neck slightly to look at him.

“yes, i’m sorry.” chan nodded and clamped his mouth shut after the defeated apology.

he had no plans to argue with you, he tried that the first time you decided to get unreasonable with him and he completely lost the argument with all of his dignity lost. it was truly one of the worst arguments you two have had in the many years of your friendship, at least for him it was the worst because all he did was stand there while you brought up the weirdest thing to insult him.

he could remember everything, each one a little arrow to his poor, fragile heart. how he’s an idiot, how he’s the worst best friend, how you hate him for dragging you to the party that night, and possibly the funniest of it all—that his dick is small.

that didn’t hurt him as much as the other ones did because he knows you were wrong. and you would know if you had just asked him politely during that dry spell you had.

“gosh, i can’t stop thinking about him at all! this is crazy, i hate it!” you hissed as you ran a hand through your hair, scratching your scalp and pulling at your roots angrily before letting your hand fall to your side. “i literally cannot go one night without–ugh!”

chan looked over at you, his brows raised faintly at your dramatic reaction.

he was in disbelief when minho picked you and changbin back in the party, and he definitely did not miss the mischievous glint in minho’s eyes when he made direct eye-contact with him after he locked both you and changbin in the closet.

minho looked playfully spiteful, like he knew the secret chan was hiding layers beneath his opened heart, like he knew chan’s affection for you went beyond what one would call a best friend.

and he was in even more disbelief when the party was over and he was driving you home, then you started to really open up to him about everything that happened in the closet. your explicit words filled in the noises he heard from outside (those damn noises! the door banging and your scream of changbin’s name!), giving him a vague image of you fucking a man he had replaced his silhouette with.

it had taken him all the strength he has not to show you how turned-on he was the entire car ride. even though you just kept sighing about how good his friend was, which was ultimately weird but he thought he was more jealous and annoyed than weirded out. and he was so sure he could do better if you just give him the chance to prove it.

he wasn’t able to ask you so straightforwardly back then, considering how smitten you were with changbin just because of having sex with him once. granted, you did use to think of him during your midnight rendezvous, which was a detail chan really wished he hadn’t known.

he enjoyed nothing about this aside from the fact that you had asked him to help you avoid changbin so he would never find out you were the girl in the closet.

and chan did exactly that, happily as well. he has beaten it out of changbin’s head that you were not a candidate of choice and he wouldn’t have to take another glance at you. lo and behold, changbin really didn’t, and that has caused you so much distress because you wanted him so bad.

and chan was forced to hear you complain about it, it was so damn infuriating for him. he couldn’t take one more second of you whining about how good changbin fucked you that night.

“what if i make you forget him?” chan blurted that out far too quickly for his mind to fully process his words. by the time he was able to understand what he said, though, instead of fussing over it in embarrassment, he only turned to you with all seriousness in his eyes.

you took a moment to take in his insinuation. you wondered what he meant by making you forget changbin; did he mean he would take you out on a fun date? like somewhere in the middle of a roller-coaster ride where you’d scream so hard at the thrill of a drop that you temporarily forget about changbin. or did he mean something else? something else that still involves you screaming so hard that you’d forget about changbin.

“i can make you forget him,” he pressed on suddenly, taking a closer step towards you.

you stumbled back in shock, your eyes widening in panic amusement as you looked up at chan. you could only find a pair of intense eyes staring back at you, anticipation and desire burning behind those hooded brown eyes. they shone so prettily, you couldn’t look directly into them, so you glanced away as a nervous giggle left your lips.

“chan, wh–what are you talking about?” you stuttered, your eyes shaking at the proximity he closed off between you two by taking another step closer.

“you know what i’m talking about,” he hushed, leaning closer to your ear. “you don’t have to beg for it, just thought i could have helped.”

you shivered at those familiar words, your mind bouncing back to the conversation you had with him before the closet game started. so your assumption was right, he was aiming for the second option, he was talking about sex. your mind zapped blank at the mere idea and you found yourself losing your voice when you opened your mouth to speak.

chan, chan… it would probably be a phenomenal experience—fuck, hold on, no, wait. chan has been your best friend for years. he was always so kind and patient with everyone he meets, and he was possibly one of the hottest men you’ve ever met in your life.

it was a miracle that he was your friend at all, so would you really run the risk of destroying this friendship just because you were horny and was trying to get over somebody else?

“nothing is going to happen to us, (name).” as if reading your thoughts, chan was quick to mutter to your ear words of reassurance. “i asked you for this. if anyone should be scared of losing something, it should be me.”

your sight was blurring the more he leaned close to you. his nose touched yours at some point, and he nudged forward to he put pressure against the bridge. your lips were almost touching, you could feel his breath reverberating around the entrance of your lips and your skin went cold.

“only twenty minutes until class starts, (name),” he said, pulling away slightly so he could look into your eyes better. “let me help you. you will look into changbin’s eyes later and only see me.”

oh, that sounded very tempting. but surely, the most tempting aspect of this would be the man standing in front of you. and you wanted to.

before you could speak, a small commotion erupted at the start of the long hallway. a group of students walked past, chatting and laughing amongst each other. classes were slowly getting dismissed one by one, and soon there’d be more people scattered along the hallway, waiting for their next class. if you wanted to start, you’d better start now while you could still make some noises.

“but where are we gonna–“

chan flashed you a small grin. that sounded like an agreement to him but he would definitely be asking for it more down the line. for now, he grabbed onto your forearm and looked up, his eyes scanning the hallway for the room numbers.

stopping when he found your statistics class, he hummed in satisfaction when he saw that the room was pitch black inside, and he quickly dragged you along with him.

he pulled you inside the dark classroom and left your side so he could close and lock the door. as soon as he turned around, he reached his hands out to your face and moved closer to you, simultaneously tugging you towards him.

you stumbled, your hands flying up to his arms to steady yourself just as your lips crashed against each other.

your heavy breaths resonated with each other as you kissed each other fervently. he shrugged off his backpack and let it drop to the floor, same as you slowly let go of your bag to place it near your feet. none of you wanted to let any interruptions stop whatever you were doing, your eyes closed and lips hot against each other.

his calloused hands found their way to your jaw carefully, and he held your head in place so he could take the lead. he could feel your fingers slowly dragging across his back, trying to find something to hold or to tug on. they moved up, running along the back fo his neck to his head, and you flipped off his cap so you could thread your hand through his hair.

oh, this was nothing like you have imagined before, simply because the real thing could never compare to the vivid scenarios you overplay in your head. his lips were so soft, much like changbin’s small but plump once. but chan felt to have much more control over the situation, understandably as he wasn’t blinded like before.

chan slid his hands off your jaw after a while, gliding them down your body and stopping at your waist instead. then he walked, slowly bringing you backward until the back of your thighs hit the teacher’s table located in the middle. he squeezed the side of your waist when he heard you groan, and his arms flexed lightly as he hoisted you up to sit on the edge of the table.

finally getting the willpower to pull away from you, chan panted heavily to compensate for the long minute of him seemingly withholding his breath. he was kissing you, someone who he has been so fond of for way too long.

as soon as his lips touched yours, that was all he knew how to do; he couldn’t even remember to breathe through his nose, he just focused so hard on mapping out the shape of your mouth.

“are you okay with this?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse.

he tilted your face up, his thumb caressing your cheek. you looked at him, your heart palpitating against your chest in newfound excitement. and he was staring straight back at you.

there seemed to be a mutual understanding of this situation; his tenderly fond gaze revealing a silent confession, the rubbing of his thumb at your skin spilling an unspoken promise that he would take good care of you, that you wouldn’t have to worry at all.

it made your heart swirl into chaos. it was a different feeling than when you were stuck in the closet with changbin. back then you were excited to be able to have sex with someone, albeit the person is one of the many people you have a crush on. but you couldn’t see changbin then, nor did you know him the way you know chan now.

the butterflies flew more rapidly in your tummy and the flutter of their wings wafted against the skin of your ribs crazily. it sent you tingles all over your body, you never wanted to be away from chan.

“i think we should be quick, we don’t have much time left until class starts,” you mentioned, looking pointedly at him.

chan huffed out a laugh in response, his head dipping low as his eyes quirked into crescent moons. “well, thank god you are wearing a skirt today then,” he muttered, running his hand up your bare thighs and disappearing under the fabric of your pleated skirt. “save us the fuss of having to take things off.”

“i do have safety pants on, in case you don’t realize that,” you hummed, rolling your eyes slightly before you felt his hand reach all the way up to the waistband of your skirt.

his fingers tugged through the band as he tried to pick out the hem of your safety shorts, and you helped him out by shifting your weight when he pulled it off your legs with a swift yank. it dropped to your ankles and you arched your feet to shake them off to the ground, flinging them a little farther away from where he stood.

chan pushed you down onto the empty desk, an amused smile on his face when you yelped in surprise, your legs immediately spreading apart to let him scoot closer to the table. his fingers danced along your inner thigh before they finally reached your clothed heat, his hand slightly trembling in enthusiasm when you sighed at the featherlight touch.

his mind blanked out for a moment there, needing some extra time to process how this was really happening. albeit not at the most ideal location and he was limited by a ticking timeframe, being able to get so intimate with you was basically a dream come true to him. his yearning for you was finally going to be satiated for once.

“god, who would have thought i’d be doing it in my stats classroom–mm, woah, okay,” your sentence got cut off mid-way when you felt chan press his thumb against your clothed clit, pressing a jolt into your body and causing your brain to short-circuit quickly.

you laughed slightly in embarrassment, finding your reaction less than appealing despite it being more than he could ever ask for. but your laughter could only last for a brief moment before a blissful sigh left your lips. your eyes squeezed shut at the feeling of him moving your pantie to the side and slipping his middle finger inside.

oh, that was exactly what changbin did. flashes of the dark closet met your eyes as chan pumped his fingers in and out of your heat, flashes you felt guilty thinking about at a time like this. the man hovering above you wasn’t changbin, you had to remind yourself, and you opened your eyes just so you could look up at chan.

his hair was tousled from when you shifted your fingers through them when you kissed, and his eyes were focused on your every movement. the way your features scrunched and contorted with each pump of his finger, a prideful sight for him to look at until you suddenly opened your eyes to look at him. there was a moment of solace, just a brief moment, and then his hand slowed down as realization hit him.

“you’re thinking about him,” chan muttered.

you sighed, giving him a timid nod to confirm his assumption. and that—well, that was a new kind of soreness he has never felt in his chest before. he wanted to explode; the unreasonable anger stuffed inside of him, the jealousy churning in his chest that his friend not only got to fuck you first but he stayed in your head every single fucking day, the sore loser in him that so firmly believed that he could do so much better.

chan didn’t want to take it out on you, he really didn’t. but oh heavens, he was so tired of associating changbin with you.

“that’s fine,” he said with a nod, pulling his finger out of your cunt and reaching for his pants. he released the button and unzipped it, shrugging it off his thigh quickly before proceeding to tug his boxers down just enough for his cock to spring out. “you won’t be thinking about him when i’m finished with you here.”

if the setting was different, he would surely have his way with you however he wanted. he would make you squirm for much longer, and he would make you beg like a fucking whore for him before he decided you are good enough to have his dick pound inside of you. but this would be quick. this has to be quick, unfortunately for chan.

he was rather confident in himself, though. he would like to think if changbin could do it blind-folded, he could definitely do it with both of his eyes open. not to mention, being able to watch your features change in the face of pleasure would do nothing but add to the filthy lust burning through his veins.

he could fuck you better.

he will fuck you better.

you didn’t miss the soft beat of his eyes matching up with yours after he aligned himself at your entrance. his gaze wavering, waiting for you to give him a cue to go. your eyes grazed past his shoulder at the door, a sense of fearful thrill bursting like fireworks in your stomach when you realize how easy it would be for people outside to hear you, and how they could look inside the window and see you two if they angle their head a certain amount.

this was exciting. nothing you have ever done before and nothing you imagined you would ever do, yet here you were with chan waiting above you, your wetness clenching at nothing impatiently.

“fuck me, chan,” you whispered, your eyes returning to him.

his heart leaped at those words, far too excited for his own good. he smiled, leaning down to your face before he huffed, “i was planning to.”

your legs twitched when he inserted himself in quickly, the stretch fast and thus, painful. but the time was ticking, you knew, so you didn’t blame him for not taking his time. the slickness in your hole was doing a fantastic job of helping him glide in and out of you smoothly, and chan had been planting butterfly kisses along your neck in an attempt to distract you from the pain of adjusting to his size.

your cunt was tightening around him, a sensation so pleasurable that it overwhelmed his senses and almost drained his sanity clean. you felt good, and the fact that you were you, the fact that he has been secretly in love with you for so long just made everything even better than he could ever imagine.

chan couldn’t think of anything else. his shameless mind only knew he wanted to keep going, he wanted to keep feeling you, he wanted to kiss you everywhere and make you feel so great he occupies your mind for the rest of the day. and he was giving in to the pleasure, leaning into the bliss and abandoned all that he has ever known to pound into you relentlessly.

the squelching sound of your pussy haunted every punch to your hole, your heavy breathing slowly turning to desperate little moans. your hands were clutching his arm just for the sake of having something to touch, feeling his prominent muscles flex under your skin, and letting it turn you on even more. and your legs flailed about until they finally wrapped around his hips and pushed him closer to you.

“ahh, chan–fuck!” you gritted out, his cock sliding along your walls quickly and creating never-ending friction. each time his tip reaches a deeper end of your hole, you feel a burst of fluttery feeling across your body. chan kept going, hitting the spot once, twice, three times until he suddenly thrust into you hard, and you let out a loud, chocked moan.

chan’s lips quirked up automatically, feeling his ego boost with that loud moan you let out. but instead of showing you his smugness, he clamped a hand over your mouth tightly and glared at you. your eyes widened as your brows furrowed, not confused as to why he shut up but annoyed that you couldn’t let out any noises at a location like this.

“you better keep quiet, baby,” he warned, thrusting into your harshly to test out his grip. your sudden moan was a muffled, but from the looks of your eyes, he could tell it would have been loud without restrictions. “you don’t need the whole floor finding out what we’re doing in here.”

you hummed out a whine, nodding obediently at him as your hands flew up to grip his hand. you didn’t try to move his hand, you let it stay over your lips and tried to navigate his hand until he gripped the sides of your jaw. chan raised a brow at you, bewildered but not opposing to making sure you shut the hell up for the remainder of this session.

his hips continued to roll against yours, and you found yourself bucking your hips up for more. the knot at your abdomen was twisting uncomfortably, feeling like it wanted nothing but to burst, so your legs tightened around his hips and kept drawing him closer to you, even though chan has physically no more space to move forward.

he kept fucking into you, his pace only picking up more and more when he could hear students shuffling and talking outside the door. time’s ticking, he has to finish off quickly now.

“shit–“ chan groaned under his breath when you suddenly clenched around him, your high approaching unexpectedly.

being unable to hear your voice sure didn’t give him any hint of when you were reaching your limit, and he was too drowned in the sensation to feel your body language. the way your legs pushed at his back, the way your hands continuously tightened around his wrist, the way your back kept arching off the desk. he couldn’t pick those up until he felt it suffocating his cock inside of you.

and his own high was racing to the finish line as well, the way your walls felt all warm and rough around him was unlike anything he has ever felt. no amount of toys could help him relish in a feeling like this, no amount of people could make him feel the way he was with you now.

it has to be your body, it has to be your cunt, it has to be you.

your whined against his palm when chan rammed into you at an even quicker pace, his lips touching your neck and you could hear him sucking in his breath. your hands flew up to the edge of the desk where you grabbed on, your back scratching against the wooden surface at the way he pounded into you. oh god, he was hitting deeper, how was he hitting deeper—fuck!

your back arched off the table suddenly, your eyes rolling up and a strangled scream barely seeping through the gaps of his fingers. you felt yourself release around him, your legs jerking and tightening around his hips at the fulfilling feeling of letting it all go. the tightness loosened up in your stomach and you felt pleasant and free.

chan continued to move, his breathing getting louder with each thrust. he could feel your cum, mixing in with the warmth of your walls and moving about around his cock. he shut his eyes when you pressed your arms around his back, holding him close to you. you pulled at his locks, stimulating his senses more, and you pressed your thighs together as you raised your legs a little higher to narrow your walls around him.

“ahh, fuck–fuck! ahh–“ he whined when he felt the bubble burst at his tip. he bottomed out inside, reaching to the hilt and finally allowing himself a satisfying release. his jaw dropped, his breath hitting against your neck as he panted for a moment before finally pulling out of you.

he didn’t leave your side, though. chan let go of your mouth so he could kiss you, his hand moving down to your hole so he could gather the dripping cum and push them back inside your pussy. pulling away from you, he looked into your eyes pointedly as he pushed his finger inside your heat, then he demanded softly, “you’re gonna sit through the lecture with my cum inside of you, hmm?”

you whimpered a little, feeling him press his finger against your walls. “yes, chan.”

“good girl,” chan smiled, running his hand through your hair and patting your head as a sign of praise.

almost immediately then, a knock sounded at the door, and you both widened your eyes at the noise.

right, classes!

scurrying off the desk, you picked up your safety shorts and pulled it back up your thighs again. you wiggled your waist to adjust your skirt before heading over to pick up your school bag. you dropped it on a chair before reaching down to grab chan’s backpack, bringing it to him with an amused smile.

“i’ll pick you up when class ends, okay?” he said as he took his bag, swinging it over his shoulders as he smiled at you. “if that’s fine with you, of course. we can have dinner together.”

you looked at him, a soft smile gracing your lips. “yeah, sure.”

he heaved a relieved sigh inwardly, hoping his nervousness didn’t seep through his facade. he reached an arm out around your shoulder and pulled you towards him, his lips briefly meeting the top of your head before pulling away and waved you a quick goodbye. he made his way out of the room, not forgetting to flick open the lights before he did so.

and, almost immediately, changbin walked into the classroom from the other direction. chan must have missed him when he walked out, because surely chan would have made a cheerful greeting and acted like he hadn’t just stuffed you full of his cum.

you stood stoic for a moment, catching his eyes and finding him stare back at you. well, while you did momentarily forgot about changbin, seeing him still made your heart pump from nervousness. damn, you really couldn’t get a moment’s of rest and think about the fact that you just had sex with chan in a classroom, huh?

to avoid staring longer at him, your lips pursed into an awkward smile as you waved at him before turning away to rummage through your bag.

but you didn’t get to do much, because only a few seconds later, his presence walked up close behind you and his hand went around your neck to give it a frighteningly familiar squeeze. your breath halted and you whimpered at the pressure he added to your bone, your hands flying up in defeat.

changbin huffed out an irritated laugh. he could recognize that whimper anywhere now, he’s replayed it so many times in his head.

he leaned close to your ear, his hot breath pricking the back of your neck dangerously and his chest pressed against your back. he spoke in a low tone, his words intending not for even the air surrounding you both.

“so you were the girl who fucked me in the closet a few weeks ago.”

you licked your lower lip and nodded. all that effort to result in this. “yeah…”

“i thought i recognized that choked moan somewhere,” he said, rolling his eyes as he recalled the awkwardness he felt when his hand left the doorknob and he stood to the side to wait.

it had taken him a second to find out why he felt icky all over his skin. he remembered your voice, and that sudden moan you let out through the door came from you.

he had his doubt, of course, something within him didn’t want it to be you, because how heartbreaking—and pathetic—would it be if he had been spending weeks hung up on your identity while you were, well, having fun in concerning locations.

he got his answers when chan walked out and you were the only person in the classroom. it has to be you; both your voice and the fact that you happened to also be in the circle that night.

there was a dramatic pause, the silence almost wrapping around you whole before he spoke again, “i’ve been looking for you everywhere. turns out you’re just here getting fucked by my friend.”

“tell me the truth,” he said, “was i better?”

you couldn’t answer. your mind simply blanked out and no thoughts were coherent at the moment. his hand deliberately pressed your neck, causing your chest to heave, and you could still feel the sticky substance sliding out your cunt and wetting up a patch at your panties. you didn’t know where to put your attention, and you felt hot all over once again.

just as changbin was about to taunt you even more, the classroom door opened with a loud bang. he quickly moved away from you and looked away, pretending to be walking off to the back of the class. but as he turned around and sat down, you found his hooded gaze was fixated on you, and you gulped at the words it told you.

you have the class period to figure out the answer to his question.

#stayverse #stray kids dark hours #stray kids smut #chan smut #bang chan smut #changbin smut #seo changbin smut #skz smut #skz dark hours

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something-very-special · 3 years

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"Yeah, I'm... kinda special that way."

Minding my own business, working on another observations/impressions post, and then I realize I've accidentally spent half an hour theorycrafting based on twenty seconds of dialogue.

This got utterly out of hand. NieR conjecture, possibly spoilers, presumptions of deep lore knowledge.

This bowled me over: BroNier goes to visit Emil and they have an entire conversation about how Emil hasn't aged. I mean he hasn't (don't know if you noticed, it's hard to spot) but this was insane to me for two reasons: one, they didn't discuss this at all in Gestalt, and two, has Brother NOT been visiting him?! Popola mentions the letter with a familiarity that implies that Emil's name has become a regular part of the parlance between herself and Nier. Presumably they've kept up correspondence regarding un-petrifying Kaine, but I got a feeling from Papa Nier that he had been regularly visiting Emil, not just writing letters. Maybe it's because Papa Nier didn't even mention the difference so it just felt verboten that obviously it had come up some time in the last five years and they both just shrugged, but... Obviously the two still have a really good relationship so at least they've been keeping up correspondence (between Emil's insanely upbeat letterhead and the warmth with Brother greets him, which really hits in a whole different way by contrast to Brother's constant, simmering anger), but it was peculiar, and I don't believe that line was in the original. I still can't read Japanese so I'm talking out of my ass here, but I just feel like the entire exchange was much shorter (fitting with the conversation Papa has) and like it was added for the benefit of the audience. Kind of a 'no, we didn't forget to give him a new model, this is deliberate'. It does vaguely upset me that there was apparently a need to clarify. One of my favorite gameplay experiences was going through this with my friend-- I had done the full Ending D run so I knew exactly what was going on, but I was introducing the game to her in a Labor Day marathon so I was getting a lot of first-time reactions. She'd fallen in love with Emil at this stage, too, and was very excited to see how he grew up after the five year timeskip. I recall her audible confusion, and to have it actually addressed and explained away feel like a deprivation of a wonderful moment. Although the initial reaction is still there. I think I like playing this game alongside other people because, while I'll never be able to experience it for the first time again, I can do so vicariously through others. The person I'm playing with now is familiar with the original (from years ago) and also had a moment of audible confusion. Even disregarding that, it's difficult to be too offended because it introduces another bit of intrigue that's always been kind of on the back of my mind; how long has Emil been awake? I had been under the assumption that he had been put into a similar hibernation as the Gestalts (or at least some form of sealing, having fulfilled his duties as a weapon for a nearly-extinct humankind) and woken up relatively recently-- recently enough that he wasn't aware of his effective immortality, and of course being so isolated from the world and having his memories wiped the fact that he wasn't maturing just might not have registered (or maybe just been rolled in with 'I dunno man I'm a cute gorgon I'm already kinda weird!'). However, here, it's not only acknowledged, but something that he actively tries to brush aside when Brother asks him about it. "Yeah, I'm... special that way." So he's fully aware that, basilisk gaze aside, there something ain't right about him and it implies, if not shame, at least some level of discomfort. Which in turn leads me to ask a question that hadn't really occurred to me before-- how would he have had the experience to know Brother or Father's age and build by the sound of their footsteps? Obviously he's encountered people before; can't learn that just by listening to the scrabbling of your giant spiders. And that ties in to the observation that, of course, he's wearing the style of Seafront. If he didn't have his memory from the weapons laboratory then he had to have realized more recently the nature of his petrifying gaze; the statues in the courtyard are consistent with the 3300-era styles, which could be discarded as just

reusing extant NPCs until again you remember that they made Emil this complex and knew he'd only be around for an hour. It wouldn't have been out of the question to just put the male statue in a semblance of a suit-- just some little oddity. It's an unmoving model, after all, a relatively minimal timesink; how many hours do you think went into programming the seals? (A lot of hours. A lot of love. Look at those boys roll away.) So he must have encountered other people, from Seafront. The manor is considered 'haunted' in modern times, so it must not have been particularly recent, although probably also not that far back (it's hard to imagine they just never went to the library for decades-- although I assume that Rubrum actually wasn't active until after Weiss had been awakened, it was her activation that attracted the Shades, and it was this factor that alerted Sebastian to the possibility of being able to find the petrification research in her pages. That's all pure conjecture on my part). So long has Emil actually been awake and active? A while. Given his response to Brother mentioning he doesn't age, probably much longer than he would care to admit. Which leads to further conjecture, and of course this was always an eerie question: how did those statues wind up in the courtyard? Who were they? If Emil didn't remember anything from the weapons laboratory and just his more recent memories... why would he be so ashamed of his power? What did he do? By the time we meet him he's already, um... not doing so well. Kaine pegs him immediately as being the same as her; blessed with a horrific power, frightened and ashamed of what he's capable of, quietly harboring feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing ("You told me that even a life such as mine has value!"), and perhaps not... entirely... dismissive of dying. (He is, like, super okay with putting himself between Rubrum and everybody else in the library-- and Replicant actually changes Weiss' line from 'Brave words, but I see your knees quaking in fear!' to one that says it's pointless because everybody else is already too dumb to retreat, implying that Emil wasn't necessarily being brave so much as he put the worth of his own life below that of people he met anywhere from five minutes to twenty seconds ago. That or he knows he has about ten times as much HP as Brother does and with his staggering M. Def can tank hits from Rubrum for days.) I don't think it's a particularly hot take (even from me, on this blog, probably) to assume that Something Happened in the past that caused Emil to brand himself a monster and shut himself away in the Manor. What's only just really sinking in for me is just how far back int he timeline that might have actually happened, and how different the circumstances were when it did. How long has he been in the Manor, then? I used to assume a few years. I figured the statues were from before-- more concurrent with the audio drama, 'present day' more or less. Thinking on it again? It's... been a while.

#NieR #NieR Replicant #Theorycrafting #Emil #No. 7 #Writing essays about MY BOY EMIL I feel YOUNG AGAIN #But seriously did Brother just ghost him for five years? What a jerk.#Headcanon proposal: Emil didn't adopt Seafront's style. Seafront adopted Emil's.

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morganaseren · 3 years

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WIP Meme (Warden Inquisitor Niamh/Warden Bethany)

Tagged by: @illusivesoul Many thanks!

Tagging: @this-is-something-idk-what, @noeldressari, @jellydishes, @w-h-4-t As usual, I suck at telling who has or hasn’t been tagged yet.

So this WIP is from prompt #3 I made off this list. It doesn’t tie into the other Warden Niamh/Warden Bethany AU I’ve already written; this is something wholly separate. No knowledge of it is needed to read this.

Granted, this is a much rougher draft than what I’d normally post here, but given I’m already more than a month behind on updating OtSttCA, I thought you guys would appreciate the treat. :)

Things you might want to know:

As with any AU where Niamh is a Warden, she’s the one who undertakes the Dark Ritual with Morrigan in order to spare anyone from being sacrificed once the Archdemon is slain. Through magic, Kieran is born as a result of their union. While both women carry a great deal of respect for one another, they aren’t and were never in a romantic relationship although there’s gonna be a whole separate AU for that once I get around to writing it.

Niamh is the Warden-Constable for Ferelden while her sister Saoirse is the Warden-Commander and Hero of Ferelden. Saoirse and Leliana are married sometime after the end of the Blight.

As a result of going on the Deep Roads expedition with her sister, Bethany contracts the taint and has to undergo the Joining in order to save her life. She is transferred to the Fereldan branch of the Grey Wardens by Stroud not long afterward.

Niamh and Bethany are in an established relationship by the time the events of Inquisition begins.

While Niamh would normally be off searching for the cure by then, I'm just going to headcanon that she and Morrigan weren’t able to find a suitable lead in their research until much later—enough that they start hearing about the mass disappearances of Wardens across Ferelden and Orlais.

Out of concern, Niamh and Saoirse convince the remainder of their comrades (except for Bethany obviously) to head toward Weisshaupt for help, but Niamh senses that's enough wrong about the situation that she also tells them to journey there in secret. Vigil’s Keep is pretty much closed down at this point until they can figure out what’s going on.

Niamh and Bethany head out toward the Hinterlands to follow up on reports of some Warden sightings in the area. It's when they're stopped in the Crossroads area (where you meet Mother Giselle) that Niamh has Bethany to ask the villagers for any leads while she heads up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to follow up on a tip there. The usual stuff happens, and she ends up waking up in Haven's dungeons, where she gets interrogated by Cassandra.

Honestly, this follows pretty closely to how OtSttCA unfolds as far as the major decisions being made within it goes. However, because she wasn’t in self-exile for a decade, Niamh’s a lot more laidback and confident in her ability to lead, especially with Bethany by her side.

Along that same vein, Bethany is also more self-assured in her abilities as a mage now that she no longer has to fear hiding from Templars. As such, she’s much quicker to speak about what’s on her mind rather than bottle them up as she used to in the past. She confronts Cassandra like an absolute badass several times during the beginning of the story in defense of her lover, which you can check out below the cut with the rest of the content. ;)

Like in her canon world state, Niamh isn't treated well when she’s imprisoned. The guards merely know that she's a mage, so they're operating under the assumption that she caused the explosion at the Conclave. It doesn't help that Niamh's been essentially undercover to search for the missing Wardens, so she's not wearing her usual uniform to signify her status. Cassandra does her whole intimidating interrogation as per usual when Bethany—in all her Warden regalia—bursts in with Leliana.

---

"She leaves with me," she leveled at the Seeker coldly before turning to Leliana with a deep frown. “Why did you not put a stop to this?”

“I arrived here at the same time as you. I didn’t know she was here until she was already imprisoned.”

Niamh couldn't help but chuckle under her breath, utter relief filling her. “I think you may invited utter ruination upon your heads with those two."

Cassandra frowned. "What? Why?"

“What do you mean why?” she parroted with a roll of her eyes, unimpressed with what she had seen of the woman and her colleagues thus far. "Leliana’s my sister-in-law, and the Warden next to her is my fiancée, whom—might I add—you've actually succeeded in making angry.” The corners of her lips turned up into a languid smile. “Not an easy feat, and not a fate I would normally wish upon anyone.”

“Hush,” Bethany muttered as she brushed past Cassandra—all but shoving her aside with a pointed shoulder—as she knelt at Niamh’s side to begin healing the wounds she’d received from her captors. All the soldiers began backing away uneasily, especially as Leliana walked alongside her. “I’m already upset that you sent me down to the Crossroads while you went up to the Conclave alone.”

“It was the easiest way of scoping out the area," Niamh defended even as she sheepishly shrank back beneath her lover’s glare. "If the individuals we were searching for were still down in the village, you would have seen them, and if they were up at the Temple…Well, I suppose that’s a moot point now, given what our new acquaintances have just revealed to me.”

“Do you remember seeing anything at all?” Leliana asked then in concern.

“I can’t recall much of anything before the explosion.” Niamh admitted with a frown. “I thought I remembered someone screaming, but then there’s just... nothing.”

“And...” Leliana gestured toward her hand. “That mark?”

She shrugged as much as she was able to, especially given her heavy shackles. “It certainly wasn’t there when I went to the Temple.”

“What is going on here?” Cassandra demanded then, perhaps confused as to why their supposed prisoner had proven so much more forthcoming with Leliana than anyone else thus far.

“You’ve met my wife before, yes? This is her younger sister Niamh Cousland. She is also the Constable of the Grey here in Ferelden, Cassandra,” Leliana stated gravely. “While the Wardens may not regularly involve themselves in politics, Niamh’s high enough up their chain of command that this country’s branch would fight to the death to get her back, and that’s not even involving what Saoirse herself will do once she finds out her sister's been hurt.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose wearily. “Not to mention the Teyrn of Highever…”

---

After the demons upon the frozen lake had been defeated, Niamh felt the brush of a warm hand in the crook of her elbow gently pulling her back before all she could see was Bethany’s back as her lover marched right up toward Cassandra, heedless of the obvious height difference between them.

"Point your sword at her again, Seeker! Kindly test my patience right now, and see what happens!"

Niamh was mildly amused when Cassandra actually appeared to be a bit startled and had to move back a step so as to not accidentally stab the woman. The Seeker’s dark brows furrowed in confusion. "Are... Are you threatening me?"

"Only because you’ve threatened her repeatedly!” Bethany scowled. “Niamh's very life is in danger so long as that portal in the sky exists; she has no reason to put yours in harm's way. She’s made it more than abundantly clear she’s willing to cooperate even after the mistreatment she received from you and your colleagues." Amber eyes narrowed, and despite their bright depths, there was little mistaking the ice within them. "I haven’t, however, and I’ve no reason to if you’re going to blatantly ignore your own words to the contrary simply because she’s a mage."

Cassandra sheepishly sheathed her weapon. "I’m—"

"If you ever think of drawing a sword on her again, your friendship with Leliana or no, I swear it will be the last time you ever draw breath," Bethany spat, tilting her chin up defiantly. "I’ve lost enough. I will not lose her too." She turned then to hold out her hand for Niamh, allowing the first bit of tenderness to enter her expression as she called out to her. "My love..."

Niamh chuckled quietly even as she weaved her fingers through Bethany’s. “Still so quick to defend me?”

Her lover smiled. “Always.”

Afterward, Cassandra was left to follow behind the two women, who proceeded to lead the rest of the way up the mountain.

"I did tell you not to make her angry," Niamh quipped to Cassandra later upon reaching the first outpost, grinning when she earned a soft sound of disgruntlement.

---

Nothing had really prepared Bethany for the sight that greeted them upon reaching the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

There were so many bodies scattered across the immense crater, expressions twisted in permanent states of terror as they tried to guard themselves against a danger beyond all earthly imagining. Horrified with such evidence of the Breach’s power, it was then that she realized that if Niamh hadn’t somehow received the Mark, she likely would have—

"Bethany?"

She jerked in place, turning to see her lover’s concerned eyes watching her.

"It's nothing,” she mustered up with a weak smile. “I'm right behind you."

Bethany saw, however, that Niamh couldn’t be convinced, as was evident in the tender way the other woman had taken hold of her hand. Niamh said nothing else, as was always her way. She never pressed her to offer anything more than she was ready for. She sighed.

"I should have been there with you," Bethany murmured at last, looking at the strange mark still glowing upon her lover’s palm. It was nothing that even with all her healing magic can hope to fix, but Niamh merely shook her head.

"No.” She brought Bethany’s hand up to her lips to press a kiss reverently across her knuckles. “Were you there with me, I fear you would have died with everyone else," she admitted solemnly. "My heart would not have survived such devastation."

---

Bethany was beside herself with worry when Niamh fell unconscious upon the first, unsuccessful attempt to seal the Breach. Niamh was brought back to Haven to recover, but Bethany refused to leave her side despite Leliana's attempts to get her to take care of herself as well.

"Bethany—"

"You know as well as I do that your colleagues would have killed her down in the dungeons if we hadn’t arrived when we did," Bethany said flatly from where she sat by Niamh’s bedside. "Everyone in the village knows she’s a mage now, and I don’t need to remind you of how well-liked we are on a regular basis..."

"I’ll have my agents watching her. What nearly happened outside the chantry will never happen again."

Bethany bristled instantly at the memory.

---

She’d still been inside the building to relay some information regarding Saoirse to Leliana when they heard the first outraged cries beyond the doors. As the uproar grew louder in volume—all demanding the death of the one who had supposedly killed the Divine—Bethany had rushed outside immediately just in time to see civilians and more than a few soldiers attempting to stone Niamh.

Infuriated by the blatant injustice, Bethany reached over her shoulder for her staff and immediately slammed its point into the ground. At the moment of impact, a wave of force magic traveled violently across the ground, taking the mob entirely off their feet. She had been mindful to curve the energy away from Niamh—and inadvertently Cassandra, who had sidled up to aid the other mage, just as she unleashed her magic—so her lover had remained unharmed and even grateful for her arrival if her relieved smile was any indication.

Still, Bethany steeled her features to utter impassivity as she coolly strode through the crowd. Those within it seemed to be in various states of bewilderment as they tried to regain their bearings, but she took note of the many widened eyes that recognized the blues and silvers of her Warden regalia.

“You will show Ferelden’s Constable of the Grey the proper respect she is due,” Bethany said lowly as she placed herself alongside her lover, her gaze searching for any signs of rebellion to her words. “Anyone who would dare accost her in spite of her title will sorely live to regret it...”

---

"Can you really make such promises?" Bethany asked dryly.

"I can certainly try. Niamh’s family. Saoirse would never forgive me if something happened to her, especially if she knew there was anything I could have done to prevent it." She sighed. "Nor would I be able to forgive myself for that matter. Niamh’s a kind woman, and much like you—and any mage—she’s so undeserving of the treatment she often receives from others.”

---

Anyone who knows me knows that I LOVE mages; thus, it should come as no surprise that I always go to get the mages at Redcliffe as allies.

It should also go without saying that Bethany also would have gone with Niamh to deal with Alexius and the Venatori. Per the events of In Hushed Whispers, it's canon that the companions who went with you there become prisoners in the twisted, future version of Redcliffe.

While Warden mages are more susceptible to Corypheus' influence, I headcanon that Bethany was so furious with the loss of Niamh to Alexius that she fought against the mind control even to the point of torture like Leliana. When Niamh sees her in the future, Bethany's so pained, broken, and exhausted but so very thankful to see her lover again.

There's hope again—no matter how small—and Bethany's determined to help her set the world right again.

What little happiness they have at their reunion obviously doesn't last long, especially with Alexius’ death. With the Elder One beckoning at their door, Bethany goes off with the other companions to stall the demons and Venatori outside to give Dorian time to cast his spell.

I’ve always headcanoned that mages have auras unique to the type of magic they specialize in and that they’d be able to subtly influence the world around them based on their emotions. You see evidence of that a lot in OtSttCA, especially in those moments where Niamh’s angry or upset.

In any case, per my headcanon, mages would be able to sense one another although the distance at which they could detect such magic would be dependent on the senser’s overall power or their relationship with the other mage. As close as both women are, Niamh absolutely feels the moment Bethany dies... :(

---

She felt the absence of Bethany’s magic like a dagger to the heart.

It had been there, burning as bright as the sun, and then it had stuttered—dark clouds eclipsing its light—until it simply settled inside her like a dead weight. Left bereft of that familiar, constant presence that had been her very reason for breathing for so long, it was as if water had pooled into her lungs, threatening to drown her. The sensation immediately brought her to her knees, leaving her gasping for breath.

"No..." Niamh whispered out brokenly, anguish and horror overtaking her even as Leliana tried in vain to urge her back up to her feet again. She couldn't hear the other woman's concern past the shattering of her own heart. In its place was simply an aching emptiness that slowly began to consume her whole...

---

Let’s just say that Niamh’s not happy with Alexius when she and Dorian manage to return to the present...

---

The fighting between the Inquisition and rebel mages against Alexius and his Venatori was brought to an abrupt halt by the presence of the Fade rift that appeared overhead. The force with which it easily tore space and reality asunder was enough to take everyone within the audience chamber off their feet, especially as stifling heat and wind spilled from the portal along with two figures.

“Give her back..."

Bethany blearily looked up when she heard Niamh’s familiar voice, and relief filled her when she saw that she was standing beneath the now sealed rift. Even with its disappearance, however, she realized all too soon that it had done nothing to quell the storm that had now taken residence within the room, sending banners and tapestries flying with whipping gusts of wind. At its center was her lover, who was standing so still amidst the chaos around her, regarding Alexius with such apathy in her expression.

“What?" the old magister uttered in confusion, shakily rising to his feet only to have his progress nearly undone as lightning struck the ground next to him with a deafening peal of thunder.

Bethany saw how his throat undulated as he swallowed in nervous regard of the mage slowly making her way toward him. His fingers trembled with the effort to form flames between them.

"...Who gave you the right?” Niamh asked, voice as low as the rumbling thunder, as she strode toward the dais.

The pressure within the room escalated once more as an aura of absolute fire surrounded her. Like vines, they rose from the floor up in spiraling patterns before enveloping her entirely with almost playful licks of flame. Nothing in Niamh’s expression indicated the display of power was in any way exhausting to maintain whereas Alexius was already weakened from his initial spell to destroy her along with his efforts to keep the Inquisition at bay.

But it was not a woman who sought to meet him.

It was death.

As if aware of the sudden danger he was in, Alexius threw forth several barrages of fire at Niamh, but her smooth, relentless advance couldn’t be stopped. She made no attempt to even bat away the bursts of magic. If anything, the flames just seemed to absorb themselves into her. Her aura flared higher, burning more brightly beneath each attack, and as Alexius tried to back away, he inadvertently tripped himself into the throne behind him. He flinched as another peal of thunder made itself known, and as he reflexively turned his gaze to the dark storm clouds coalescing above them, he didn't see Niamh Fade-stepping forward to close the distance between them until he was choking from the fingers around his neck. With her enhanced Warden strength, Niamh was able to lift the magister off his feet entirely, leaving him to dangle helplessly.

“Who gave you the damned right to take her from me?!” she demanded.

With her cry, the fires along the sconces and the hearth behind the throne went out entirely, gone with the sudden gale of wind. As such, the only light to be seen came from the flashes of lightning above them and the fiery aura surrounding her. In the sporadic moments the room illuminated itself, there was little mistaking the utter hatred in Niamh’s eyes.

She was going to kill Alexius.

It would have been well within her right, given the magister had attacked her first within their meeting, but Bethany’s eyes widened when she saw how the staff on Niamh’s back began to rattle violently. Against the sheer heat emanating from her body, the silverite wolf head adorning the top of the staff began to melt entirely onto the floor in thick dregs of liquid while the shaft bowed and arched until it creakily bent in the middle, angling itself with the sharpness of an arrow.

Oh, no... With dread, Bethany scrambled to her feet and darted over toward Niamh. Without her staff to act as a catalyst, if Niamh burnt too much of her magic away, she could cause irreparable damage to herself and those around her.

Upon reaching her lover’s side, she placed her hands on Niamh’s face, desperately trying to draw her attention from Alexius. For a moment, nothing could sway her from trying to squeeze the life out of the magister, and she winced when she felt Niamh’s magic already begin to fluctuate erratically against her own.

"No, no, no! Look at me!” She jerked her lover’s head toward her. “Look at me, Niamh! Please!"

And as Niamh did, she watched in confusion as the woman’s expression froze. The lips that had been pulled back in a sneer of bared teeth slowly went lax, forming an ‘o’ of awe and disbelief, as recognition began to dawn in her lover’s gaze. With it, Alexius gradually slid from her grasp to collapse at her feet with desperate gulps of air, but Bethany paid him little mind. With relief, she saw Niamh’s fiery aura dissipate along with the glow of her eyes until they returned to the pale grey she adored.

"That’s it. Come back to me,” she encouraged. “Just breathe." Bethany took one of her lover’s hands in hers, placing it over her own chest, allowing Niamh to feel her breathing. “Slow and steady. Just like that.”

As each breath fell into sync with her own, Niamh's expression gradually softened into something so reverent and sweet that it almost hurt to see—as if salvation had finally blessed her—but Bethany smiled when she saw the battle rage finally leave her.

“There we are."

Niamh used her other hand to gently cradle the side of Bethany's face. “You’re still here…” she breathed, utter relief in her voice.

“Yes.” Bethany frowned in concern at her reaction. “Always."

---

When they returned to Haven, where Niamh gave her official report to her War Council, Bethany was horrified to learn all that her lover had endured from Alexius’ spell.

Afterward, Niamh suggested they spend the evening in their cabin together rather than explore the trails out the village as per usual, and Bethany didn’t object. She understood her lover’s need to reassure herself that she was still there with her—that she wasn’t simply caught in a dream that she could never wake from.

“Is... Is this okay?” Niamh asked quietly, wanting permission to seek such comfort.

Niamh was always thoughtful in everything she did for her—in bed or otherwise—and while she never treated her like glass, Bethany could count on one hand the number of times she saw her magic unfettered like in Redcliffe. She had felt subtle traces of it occasionally with their intimacy although it was usually with purposeful design—heat, ice, and tickling traces of lightning—that were meant to tease.

But rarely was it ever so close to the surface like this—a conduit of power coiled so tightly within mortal form—waiting to burst beneath Niamh’s skin.

“It’s okay,” Bethany said, gently lacing the fingers of Niamh’s marked hand in hers.

The other woman had been reluctant to let her touch it although it hadn’t shown any notable effects toward anyone—or anything thus far—save for its ability to close rifts. Still, Niamh had been skittish all the same, fearing that it might harm her.

...Or perhaps she believed it was a damning mark of shame—of guilt—much like it had been when the people of Haven had attempted to stone her to death.

---

“There’s no denying that this mark is tied to the Breach. You saw the wreckage at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. You saw how many people died, and I still can’t even remember what happened before or after that moment beyond waking up in the dungeons. What if I did do something to cause that explosion?”

“If you had, it would not have been intentional,” Bethany insisted with a frown. “The mark is unlike anything we’ve ever seen, yes, but that you bear it all does not mean you were the one who created it.”

But Niamh couldn’t be swayed as she paced back and forth before the hearth of their cabin. “How can you be so certain?” she murmured.

“Because I’ve known you for years, Niamh. You would never purposely hurt anyone without provocation. Trust in me if you can’t yet trust in yourself.”

---

With permission given, Bethany found herself gently laid out against their bed as Niamh sought to touch and bring her pleasure all throughout the night.

Over the years, she’d become remarkably acclimated to Niamh’s magic that felt so much like a forest caught beneath a winter storm of ice and lightning. It was normally as calm as it was now—crisp as the first intake of breath beneath a cool dawn—but there were times where it could be provoked. The incident in the audience chamber was proof enough of that, where it had settled over them all like the tolling bells of judgment—an inevitability inviting the nascent danger of death.

Bethany had been beyond concerned when she had seen the first bits of viridian energy springing across her lover’s eyes then. There had been an almost disturbing beauty to them—a ring of vines gathering just at the outside perimeter of silvery irises—but that they had pulsed in time with the mark upon Niamh’s hand...

Bethany had feared for her, especially when it seemed to flare all the brighter with the fury that had overtaken her.

She was glad to see no evidence of that now as Niamh laid contentedly next to her. Even though Niamh was sated at last—the burning, restless energy within the other mage having finally simmered down to faint embers—she seemed reluctant to drift off into sleep. Winter-grey eyes continued to lazily rove across her face and form, as if cataloguing every detail less she forget later.

In response, Bethany reached out to tangle her fingers through the dark mane of tousled hair, letting her nails gently rake across her lover’s scalp. Pale eyes had widened imperceptibly at the sensation, but like always, they soon became half-lidded with the soothing nature of it. She heard the quiet hum of disgruntlement, as if protesting the notion of Bethany’s attempts to lull her to sleep against her silent vigil, but she merely shushed her.

“Shh… Rest, my love. I’ll still be here in the morning when you wake.”

---

And that’s basically it.

Again, since this is still in its rough draft phase, it’s not as polished as I’d like it to be, but I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, leave me a like, comment, or send some love to my inbox! Until next time, dear readers!

#Dragon Age: Inquisition #bethany hawke #female warden/bethany hawke #fanfic #My writing #OTP: In Search of Silver Linings #lee's au ideas #female cousland/bethany hawke

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jenniferisacommonname · 3 years

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Bonus Level Unlocked

This week marks the release of Jason Schreier’s Press Reset, an incredibly well-researched book on catastrophic business failure in the gaming industry. Jason’s a good dude, and there’s an excerpt here if you want to check it out. Sadly, game companies going belly-up is such a common occurrence that he couldn’t possibly include them all, and one of the stories left out due to space constraints is one that I happen to be personally familiar with. So, I figured I’d tell it here.

I began working at Acclaim Studios Austin as a sound designer in January of 2000. It was a tumultuous period for the company, including a recent rebranding from their former studio name, “Iguana Entertainment,” and a related, ongoing lawsuit from the ex-founder of Iguana. There were a fair number of ghosts hanging around—the creative director’s license plate read IGUANA, which he never changed, and one of the meeting rooms held a large, empty terrarium—but the studio had actually been owned on paper by Acclaim since 1995, and I didn’t notice any conflicting loyalties. Everyone acted as if we always had been, and always would be, Acclaim employees.

Over the next few years I worked on a respectable array of triple-A titles, including Quarterback Club 2002, Turok: Evolution, and All-Star Baseball 2002 through 2005. (Should it be “All-Stars Baseball,” like attorneys general? Or perhaps a term of venery, like “a zodiac of All-Star Baseball.”) At any rate, it was a fun place to work, and a platformer of hijinks ensued.

But let’s skip to the cutscene. The truth is that none of us in the trenches suspected the end was near until it was absolutely imminent. Yes, Turok: Evolution and Vexx had underperformed, especially when stacked against the cost of development, but games flop in the retail market all the time. And, yes, Showdown: Legends of Wrestling had been hustled out the door before it was ready for reasons no one would explain, and the New York studio’s release of a BMX game featuring unlockable live-action stripper footage had been an incredibly weird marketing ploy for what should have been a straightforward racing title. (Other desperate gimmicks around this time included a £6,000 prize for UK parents who would name their baby “Turok,” an offer to pay off speeding tickets to promote Burnout 2 that quickly proved illegal, and an attempt to buy advertising space on actual tombstones for a Shadow Man sequel.)

But the baseball franchise was an annual moneymaker, and our studio had teams well into development on two major new licenses, 100 Bullets and The Red Star. Enthusiasm was on the upswing. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention when voice actors started calling me to complain that they hadn’t been paid, but at the time it seemed more like a bureaucratic failure than an actual money shortage—and frankly, it was a little naïve of them to expect net-30 in the first place. Industry standard was, like, net-90 at best. So I was told.

Then one Friday afternoon, a few department managers got word that we’d kind of maybe been skipping out on the building lease for let’s-not-admit-how-many months. By Monday morning, everyone’s key cards had been deactivated.

It's a little odd to arrive at work and find a hundred-plus people milling around outside—even odder, I suppose, if your company is not the one being evicted. Acclaim folks mostly just rolled their eyes and debated whether to cut our losses and head to lunch now, while employees of other companies would look dumbfounded and fearful before being encouraged to push their way through the crowd and demonstrate their still-valid key card to the security guard. Finally, the General Manager (hired only a few months earlier, and with a hefty relocation bonus to accommodate his houseboat) announced that we should go home for the day and await news. Several of our coworkers were veterans of the layoff process—like I said, game companies go under a lot—and one of them had already created a Yahoo group to communicate with each other on the assumption that we’d lose access to our work email. A whisper of “get on the VPN and download while you can” rippled through the crowd.

But the real shift in tone came after someone asked about a quick trip inside for personal items, and the answer was a hard, universal “no.” We may have been too busy or ignorant to glance up at any wall-writing, but the building management had not been: they were anticipating a full bankruptcy of the entire company. In that situation, all creditors have equal standing to divide up a company's assets in lengthy court battles, and most get a fraction of what they’re owed. But if the landlords had seized our office contents in lieu of rent before the bankruptcy was declared, they reasoned, then a judge might rule that they had gotten to the treasure chest first, and could lay claim to everything inside as separate from the upcoming asset liquidation.

Ultimately, their gambit failed, but the ruling took a month to settle. In the meantime, knick knacks gathered dust, delivered packages piled up, food rotted on desks, and fish tanks became graveyards. Despite raucous protest from every angle—the office pets alone generated numerous threats of animal cruelty charges—only one employee managed to get in during this time, and only under police escort. He was a British citizen on a work visa, and his paperwork happened to be sitting on his desk, due to expire. Without it, he was facing literal deportation. Fortunately, a uniformed officer took his side (or perhaps just pre-responded to what was clearly a misdemeanor assault in ovo,) and after some tense discussion, the building manager relented, on the condition that the employee touch absolutely nothing beyond the paperwork in question. The forms could go, but the photos of his children would remain.

It’s also a little odd, by the way, to arrive at the unemployment office and find every plastic chair occupied by someone you know. Even odder, I suppose, if you’re actually a former employee of Acclaim Studios Salt Lake, which had shut down only a month or two earlier, and you just uprooted your wife and kids to a whole new city on the assurance that you were one of the lucky ones who got to stay employed. Some of them hadn’t even finished unpacking.

Eventually, we were allowed to enter the old office building one at a time and box up our things under the watchful eye of a court appointee, but by then our list of grievances made the landlords’ ploy seem almost quaint by comparison (except for the animals, which remains un-fucking-forgivable.) We had learned, for example, that in the weeks prior to the bankruptcy, our primary lender had made an offer of $15 million—enough to keep us solvent through our next batch of releases, two of which had already exited playtesting and were ready to be burned and shipped. The only catch was that the head of the board, company founder Greg Fischbach, would have to step down. This was apparently too much of an insult for him to stomach, and he decided that he'd rather see everything burn to the ground. The loan was refused.

Other “way worse than we thought” details included gratuitous self-dealing to vendors owned by board members, the disappearance of expensive art from the New York offices just before closure, and the theft of our last two paychecks. For UK employees, it was even more appalling: Acclaim had, for who knows how long, been withdrawing money from UK paychecks for their government-required pension funds, but never actually putting the money into the retirement accounts. They had stolen tens of thousands of dollars directly from each worker.

Though I generally reside somewhere between mellow and complete doormat on the emotional spectrum, I did get riled enough to send out one bitter email—not to anyone in corporate, but to the creators of a popular webcomic called Penny Arcade, who, in the wake of Acclaim’s bankruptcy announcement, published a milquetoast jibe about Midway’s upcoming Area 51. I told Jerry (a.k.a. “Tycho”) that I was frankly disappointed in their lack of cruelty, and aired as much dirty laundry as I was privy to at the time.

“Surely you can find a comedic gem hidden somewhere in all of this!” I wrote. “Our inevitable mocking on PA has been a small light at the end of a very dark, very long tunnel. Please at least allow us the dignity of having a smile on our faces while we wait in line for food stamps.”

Two days later, a suitably grim comic did appear, implying the existence of a new release from Acclaim whose objective was to run your game company into the ground. In the accompanying news post, Tycho wrote:

“We couldn’t let the Acclaim bankruptcy go without comment, though we initially let it slide thinking about the ordinary gamers who lost their jobs there. They don’t have anything to do with Acclaim’s malevolent Public Relations mongrels, and it wasn’t they who hatched the Titty Bike genre either. Then, we remembered that we have absolutely zero social conscience and love to say mean things.”

Another odd experience, by the way, is digging up a 16-year-old complaint to a webcomic creator for nostalgic reference when you offer that same creator a promotional copy of the gaming memoir you just co-wrote with Sid Meier. Even odder, I suppose, to realize that the original non-Acclaim comic had been about Area 51, which you actually were hired to work on yourself soon after the Acclaim debacle.*

As is often the case in complex bankruptcies, the asset liquidation took another six years to fully stagger its way through court—but in 2010, we did, surprisingly, get the ancient paychecks we were owed, plus an extra $1,700-ish for the company’s apparent violation of the WARN Act. By then, I had two kids and a very different life, for which the money was admittedly helpful. Sadly, Acclaim’s implosion probably isn’t even the most egregious one on record. Our sins were, to my knowledge, all money-related, and at least no one was ever sexually assaulted in our office building. Again, to my knowledge. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure we remain the only historical incident of corporate pet murder. The iguana got out just in time.

*Area 51’s main character was voiced by David Duchovny, and he actually got paid—which was lucky for him, because three years later, Midway also declared bankruptcy.

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deadinsidedressage · 4 years

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Why Acti-Veg’s “Ethical Issues with Horse Riding” is Flawed

Militant vegans and animal right’s activists alike have determined that horse riding is an inherently unethical activity. Yet the criticism they dole out is inherently flawed itself. In a recent run-in with the vegan community a “source” provided to shame me about being an equestrian was a post by Acti-Veg.

The following will be a look into the claims made in that post by myself, someone who has grown up around horses, ridden a variety of disciplines, witnessed the spectrum of how personal finances impact horse care, and currently work for a top level professional.

To really delve into the flaws in the arguments made in Acti-Veg’s post we must first acknowledge one difficult truth: Abusive practices in horse riding, horse training, and horse management still exist, still are popular, and are extremely visible. There’s a higher degree of accepted abusive practices the lower on the economic spectrum the culture of a given discipline, breed, or nation tends to be. The ugly truth about animal abuse and neglect is that it tends to occur because of a lack of education. A lack of education occurs because of poverty. The poverty cycle and the impacts it has on education is well-documented and something I am personally acquainted with as an educator in an under-serviced community. The way we break abusive practices in any animal husbandry starts with making education free and accessible. Yet there’s the flaw with equestrianism--- it’s an extremely classist endeavor. There is a hard class division between the ability to be a truly ethical horse owner and as an unintentionally neglectful or outright abusive horse owner. The class issue in equestrian is two-fold; on the one hand there’s the lack of educational opportunities free from a paywall that could help erase abusive practices, on the other there’s the psychology of poverty and the creation of a “us versus them” mindset (often what I refer to as the “underdog mentality). There are limited opportunities for people to access affordable/free education to improve their horse care, handling, riding/training and when there is it is often meant with hostility. The unfortunate fact is that people who are engaging in abusive and neglectful practices because of lack of education are also extremely defensive of having their practices questioned. They fall into an assumption that the party attempting to educate them is just an embodiment of the upper class and judgmental because of their privilege. In the US, this dichotomy is primarily seen in the split between Western and English disciplines. With Western often engaging in “old timey”,“cowboy” practices and English being dismissed as “snooty”, “spoiled” and so forth. Refusal to change and adjust to ethical practices is seen as a place of pride because the “cowboy method” is upheld against the assumed “spoiled princesses” who have “everything done for them”. These people believe themselves to be “do-it-yourselfers”, of succeeding despite “the system”, and of having “worked for what they have”. Abuse and neglect is not exclusive to Western disciplines, but the vast majority of under-educated unintentional abusers, in my experience, come from Western disciplines.

When I discuss counter-points to vegan talking points, I am speaking specifically of ethical equestrianism. Horse ownership, care, and training rooted in a belief in continuing education. A group that is self-aware of the flaws in the sport and who advocate for global changes toward ethical equestrianism.

With that out of the way, the first point latched onto is the use of the term “breaking” when discussing the training of horses for riding:

“... horses are forced to accept a rider against their will. A lack of resistance does not mean that a horse has consented to being ridden, it simply means a horse has figured out that it is in their best interests to allow it to happen. Even the term “breaking” implies an acknowledgement of the truth of this fact.”

Breaking is an antiquated term and while still used in the equine community to describe starting horses under saddle, when we are discussing ethical horse training it is simply a colloquialism. The post mentions still-existing though admittedly abusive practices such as laying down a horse (forcibly dropping a horse to force “submission”) and begrudgingly refers to currently accepted slow-start practices though insistent that that is still an inherently abusive practice. The fact is, when discussing the practice of training a horse to be ridden as “unnatural” is only as true as the act of domestication is unnatural. Domesticated animals do not have the same instincts as their wild counterparts. They have had instincts bred out of them and the ability to enjoy co-habitation with humans bred into them. Do horses feel the need to be ridden? No. Neither do cats or dogs feel the need to live with us, but like these are all animals that have been bred to accept and enjoy human socialization. Riding is a form of socialization. Dependent on the breed and individual personality of the horse, not only is riding a fulfilling form of inter-species socialization but it’s a form of complex mental and physical stimulation they need for quality of life. Yes, just like there are dogs that have been so purpose bred they develop neurosis when kept “just as a pet” there are horses who have the same need for work.

Another point the post tries to make is about growth plates and long-term impacts of riding prior to fusion:

However, studies demonstrate that the epiphyseal plates in the body of the lumbar vertebrae of thoroughbred horses is not fully developed until they are between 6 and 9 years old, and that riding them before this time can cause lasting injuries. Even after this age, damage to the spine resulting from riding is common. In one study, 91.5% of ridden horses studied were diagnosed with some kind of alteration of the spine after x-ray, even though they seemed perfectly healthy prior to the scan.

The post sites two studies, one which is written by someone with their PhD in holistic medicine, a clear anti-riding bias, and a misunderstanding of kissing-spine as universal to all horses. The other is in German. Were the entire post in German and meant for German speakers I wouldn’t have an issue with sourcing a study in German... but as it’s directed toward an English-speaking audience and it’s in German... I mean that just reeks of twisting facts to suit your narrative while preventing people from fact-checking you.

Here’s the thing about growth plates and horses, we also have studies that have shown that light age appropriate work helps with bone density, helps remedy some conformational flaws, and does not damage. The key word is appropriate.

Reining and racing are the two top sports that skew data sets toward showing detrimental impacts on the longevity of horses because they are sports that start horses too early and with too high of intensity for it not to result in damage. Ethically developed young horses are given long stretches of off time to accommodate growth phases and are worked lightly. A 4 year old is not worked with the intensity of a 14 year old.

There’s also the issue of kissing spine which is still not fully understood. It’s most prevalent in Quarter Horses, Thoroughbred, and Warmbloods--- the three arguably most populous riding horse breeds. There is some debate as to what causes it or the extent of the genetic component, but kissing spine has been discovered in the remains of prehistoric, pre-domesticated horses.

I would also argue that depending on the age demographic of the “91.5%” study that there’s also just the nature of wear and tear on bodies. Within the equestrian community it’s known that no horse is going to vet entirely clean because that’s not how being a living creature works. Life has impact on the body and even humans who’ve never engaged in sports activities will develop conditions like arthritis as they age. Especially when we consider that medical advancements have surpasses ours and our domesticated friends’ evolutionary lifespans. Simply put, ours’ and theirs’ bodies will begin to breakdown long before there are no longer care options to prolong life.

A point that is barely worth mentioning because of the seeming refusal of the author’s post to do any research in order to attempt an educated opinion is on the use of training equipment and aids:

On top of the process of riding, many riders inflict additional harm on their horses using instruments like harnesses, bits and whips; even saddles can restrict blood flow and cause chafing, this is not including general injuries sustained by horses which are part and parcel of being ridden. Bits are particularly harmful, as they damage horse’s sensitive nerves, their teeth, tongue and palate.

None of this equipment is inherently harmful. An ill-fitting saddle or an incorrectly used bit and the damage they can cause are not equatable to a properly fitting saddle and a correctly used bit. They don’t even give me something to counter here other than saying “no, that’s wrong” because they have so little understanding of the use of tools in training and riding horses. Saddles can cause chafing--- hmm, does that reason that a vegan would then prefer if I “had” to ride I did so bareback? What about the studies I can pull up showing that bareback riding is detrimental to spine health... The “not including general injuries sustained by horses which are part and parcel of being ridden” portion of this is a little hilarious as someone who has always been around horses. Yes, it’s not out of the question for a horse to sustain small injuries through the course of being ridden just as it’s not out of the question for a human person engaging in any physical activity to sustain small injuries. What about potentially “career ending” injuries though? Anecdotally, I know of few horses with injuries that lead to retirement from riding that actually occurred while being ridden. Horses are an evolutionary shitshow and much of that is evident in their tendency to injure their legs in somewhat miraculous ways. Additionally, injuries that could occur from work are also mostly preventable and this is where the class/educational barrier raises it’s ugly head again. A top tier dressage horse is likely to have more overall stress on their body than the average 4H horse. However, the dressage horse is also going to be exposed to preventative and aftercare measure such as boots/polos, icing, poultice, theraplating, PEMF, laser therapy, nutritional support, structured warm-up/cool-down, etc. The 4H horse is usually lucky if someone notices they’ve bowed a tendon or developed a bone spur. There is so much that education can do in prevention of injury and wear.

The supposed “gotcha” moment of this post comes when talking about euthanasia, making bold claims about horses being disposed of when they outlive usefulness:

One in particular, an owner of a horse equipment shop, explained the reasoning: “I really love horses. But when they’re no good to me, what are you going to do with them? We don’t want to take ‘em out back and shoot ‘em. They may just as well be slaughtered, and get some use out of them.” Another commented that: “Chickens for eggs, lambs for wool, cows for milk, horses for work, and when their useful, productive life has passed, then you turn them into meat.”

Part of me honestly doesn’t really believe this is a real quote by a real person, but these people also do exist. There also is the unfortunate reality of the “slaughter pipeline” in the US in which horses who are sent to auction often end up in the hands of kill buyers who ship them over the boarder to sell for meat.

As far as should a horse be killed when it surpasses “usefulness”? Absolutely not. Ethical equestrians don’t view horses this way and recognize that an animal which has offered so much by way of partnership deserves a soft retirement and a loving home until they die. However, the post tries to take an anti-euthanasia stance period:

“..most owner’s prefer to euthanize animals when they become too old or sick to walk or ride”

If you’re not catching the problematic part of that sentence, there’s the suggestion that it’s wrong to euthanize an animal that can’t walk. The inability to conceptualize quality of life over quantity of life seems to be a recurring theme with vegans. An animal that is evolutionarily designed to roam miles in a day, essentially need movement to help with digestion, and can’t communicate pain isn’t an animal that can be ethically kept alive when it loses the ability to be comfortably mobile. It is better to euthanize any animal in order to prevent suffering that is to force them to live through it. Animals cannot conceptualize pain the way a human being can. A horse does not wake up in pain and think “well, thank god I’ve lived through another day!”. It wakes up, feels itself in pain, and suffers.

Now, to indulge myself in my own controversial opinions... I think horse slaughter should be legalized in the United States and regulated in order to make sure it is done in an ethical manner. There is simply too high an over-populous of unethically bred horses that are not going to be placed in homes to justify the horrors involved in the shipment of horses to slaughter. Horses currently going through the slaughter pipeline due to being undesired go through horrific non-stop truck journeys in which they are crowded, starved, dehydrated, extremely stressed, and sometimes even die in the process of the trip. It’s a cruel end to the horse. Horses are also extremely expensive animals that require a high degree of care in order for their needs to truly be met. This post referenced horse owners as spending an average of roughly $3,500 a year on their horse. That is a shockingly low number and indicative of how normalized neglectful care is. Prices of care certainly change based on location, but personally keeping my horse at an absolute basic level of care while assuming no vet emergencies are taking place and without factoring any of the expenses keeping her in work would entail.. I am at nearly $10k a year and that’s with doing the absolute minimum with zero preventative care. I also have no issue with the sentiment of horse owners who’d like to see some “usefulness” out of the death of their horse. The practice of either taking the meat from your deceased horse for you family or to be given to the needy in the community is standard in Norway. It isn’t a taboo, it’s a sensible way to dispose of the corpse of a large animal in a way that doesn’t negatively impact the environment and honors the horse. I know people who have donated their horses’s corpses to wildlife sanctuaries to feed animals. For some people being able to ascribe some meaning pr purpose to the death of their animal is needed for coping.

The major thing with this post is that it lacks the understanding of nuance. It condemns riding as a whole based off an awareness of abusive practices that activists within the community are trying to change. Arguments made are made without the education to back up the points being attempted and when all else fails it’s reliant on the classic militant vegan rhetoric about interaction with animals being exploitative. Ultimately while not as egregious as PETA thinking sheering sheep involves skinning them, this is the horse version of utterly misunderstanding the subject of the argument.

#horses #horsblr #vegan

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phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 3 years

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31 Days of Apex Legends

Little bit behind, but I combined Days 1 & 2 (Pride & Friendship)

Chapter 1 of an upcoming fic I am still writing.

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Title: Pride & Assumed Prejudice

Chapter 1: Masks

Something sour lingered on the tip of his tongue, on the razor’s edge of every thought; like a granule of poison sinking slowly into a beverage, unseen as the hapless victim takes a sip. Unnecessary, unnerving, and oddly enough, inducing a curiously debilitating sensation of anxiety for the first time in well over a decade. An emotion long-ago thought cordoned off, and utterly aggravating in its resurgence.

One could theoretically shut it out with enough mental fortitude and regimented distraction, but this tended to only provide short-term relief, for it always returned; faster, stronger, more pervasive than the last time. A creeping sense of wrongness that seemed to seep through every vein, clutching tightly to each breath as it worked to enter his lungs, twisting his stomach at random intervals, and reigniting old memories best left buried in unmarked graves. Unmourned and unwelcome.

At least, that is what Caustic tells himself.

There seems to be some level of psychological impairment at work, he rationalises in the depths of the night when he can barely think for the voiceless fears that make his heart race and air withdraw from ravaged lungs before it can fully impart its gift. The only hypothesis that makes even the vaguest sense is that there is likely a chemical agent of some kind, a poison, being introduced into some facet of his daily routine that is affecting his mental faculties?

Caustic is perplexed to find that his bloodwork runs clean each time, as do random samples of his food stores, lab equipment, clothing, cleaning products, furniture, air filtration units, plants and even toothpaste. Though he runs them often, at random, in hopes of locating the culprit for these uncomfortable sensations, these distractions from his research. Randomising events on his mental schedule each day in order to avoid any other human or non-organic being from identifying his routine again; if they ever even had. And yet, it persists.

Denial is perhaps the only shield that he will not admit to using, in this instance. Though for all his great logic, his knowledge and emphatic belief in the fundamental laws of science… there is still a strange feeling that persists in coursing through his veins. If he would allow himself but a moment to acknowledge it, to let it in and experience the sensation then it may lead to a breakthrough… but at what cost? If the facade falls, then who would he be?

Yet still his whole body feels electrified from within; as if sensing a change coming, like the increased atmospheric pressure before a thunderstorm. Everything that had been built was starting to decay, and it was not clear why now, why this year… why this ridiculous event was the catalyst. Even though such an obvious connection between this heightened emotional state and the particular time of year never actually occurred to the unnaturally overwrought man.

As the days between the present and the event grew shorter, and the other Legends began to ramp up their ridiculous displays of personal expression, the odd physiological effects increased exponentially, until simply existing in the same dwelling had become almost unbearable. It was merely because the others were younger, more prone to ludicrous displays of ebullience, constantly impeding his research with their tomfoolery… yes, that must be it. The reassurances ring hollow, even to his own mind.

Yet still the simple fact remained… that the year previous, as a new Legend, this whole event had been laughably easy to ignore. So why did it bring such distress, such melancholy? What variable had changed between these two points in time that was bringing this insidious juggernaut of disruption to his mind, body and experiment schedule?

Despite what he, at the time, perceived as his best efforts to provide a front of general indifference and borderline contempt for the ‘nonsensical festivities’ of the majority of the other Legends; it became apparent that these actions were not nearly enough to stave off the eyes of the irritating coworkers. Without even realising, Caustic was shrinking away, becoming distant once more and this, in turn, naturally raised a few eyebrows.

Certainly, he was not the most extroverted or beloved amongst their ranks, but at the insistence of Miss Pacquette, that damnable Gibraltar, and the unerringly difficult to evade Salvonian he had been making small forays into socialising in the name of increasing battle compatibility with the others. In the name of increasing battle efficiency, of course.

Caustic’s sudden detraction from even the few low-key communal activities he had begrudgingly begun to attend on a generally regular basis in their shared lodgings, such as the occasional movie night or weekly shared meal, was a blatant signal to the more empathetic and suspicious of the Legends that something was not right here. Some moved immediately to paranoid delusions, others queried if the scientist was unwell or had been caught up in work and forgot; Caustic could always feel Miss Pacquette’s eyes on him these days. Waiting for him to do something she could no longer forgive.

The sting of her derision only made matters worse, silencing all explanations he might give to the others when they arrived at his assigned room; so that all any who arrived saw was a brief silhouette before the door slammed shut in their faces. Assuming hostility, when the words were simply trapped inside; not wanting to admit this disgusting weakness that clawed, bit and screamed every moment of every day.

However, it was the unintended actions that gave rise to what came next; and he could blame none other than himself. For, as the foolish often do, a handful of those in the complex began to conjecture… rumour, if you will, and they spread like an unchecked wildfire. Caustic was not able to tell if they had been an errant thought turned unintentionally malicious or the deliberate attempt of one of his detractors like Loba or Crypto; and as much as he wished to close off the side of himself that felt anguish at these new beliefs swirling between his coworkers… he could not.

To say the rumours were incorrect would be an understatement, but even he could see how the gossip-mongers amongst their ranks had extrapolated a tenuous but alluring hypothesis that slandered his character, from such limited data points as were available. Especially after their foray to… the planet of his youth, most recently.

It seemed wherever he went, that blasted Crypto seemed to be hovering nearby with a smug look on his face; as if waiting for the opportune moment to mention a few inconvenient truths. Did the younger man realise what was happening to him? Could he use that drone of his to deliver a toxic compound into Caustic’s chambers when the scientist was absent? No, no of course not. Mystik would never forgive him… unless he could provide a plausible alibi. Even that particular train of thought was beginning to wear on him, feeling more tangible each time his brain brought the concept up. Actual poison was not the hacker’s style; but social poison, the slow and cruel kind that seeped from mouth to mouth, assassinating without a blade… that might be plausible.

These days, Caustic found his pulse always quickened when he caught sight of the hacker in the living complex, the anxiety making his mind rush through the worst possible scenarios of his secret being openly divulged to the masses without warning; even though some seemed utterly ridiculous. What would happen, after all? The worst case scenario? Repulsion from the others would be one thing, a natural consequence of their newfound awareness of his misdeeds and discovering the depths of his past, somewhat less than legal, activities. A strong possibility that perhaps the Legends would take the rash step of immediately contacting authorities to attend the Legend dwellings; something even Caustic would understand as rational.

Yet still, with his normally formidable intellect being absolutely and utterly subsumed under false assumptions and fallacies; the kind only a mind shuddering on the verge of collapse could generate… far worse fates arose like apparitions behind his eyelids. Such as the bizarre and somewhat infuriating insistence of his anxiety-ridden mind that the other Legends could hear of his past and simply decide to take matters into their own hands; pretending all is well until an opportunity arose to publicly execute Caustic themselves, mid-match with his beacon deactivated, for all the world to see. To denounce him in such a way that none could ever assume they had kept his secret; the disgust on their faces as they would wipe his blood from their skin would be proof enough.

Often in the depths of night Caustic muses on this highly improbable outcome. Yet, he finds that the variable of the scenario that keeps him awake is simply that, in this outcome there was the uncomfortably very real possibility of his Mother inadvertently bearing witness to the second death of her son; a thought that makes his chest constrict with a nameless horror. She loved to watch the games, according to that brat she favoured so much… and he could not put her through that grief again.

No matter how nonsensical, the idea and an uncountable number of similarly impossible scenarios would repeat over and over again every waking moment of the day. And again throughout every second of sleep he managed to wrest from this endless void of uncertainty, until it felt like the only true outcome. Caustic was aware he was not thinking logically, or even assessing all the variables… but his mind clouded it all out with whispered worries to distract, to isolate and distress.

These imagined ends and their outcomes added an almost unfathomable heaviness to his existence; adding unearned gravitas to the myriad of little concerns, worries and secret guilts until they felt like a thick fog that obscured all rational thought. Every little concern, so often hidden from his own conscious mind by a never-ending series of experiments and day-to-day tasks he employed to quiet the thoughts he did not wish to entertain, was now screaming inside. Some days he felt not unlike a speaker, reverberating from the harsh beating of his heart, and almost surprised none other than himself could hear.

No, this was ridiculous. He could not allow this to continue, not if he wished to remain Caustic. As a Legend, as a researcher with endless funding as long as he gave the right results in battle, as a scientist seeking additional data, and… as reluctant as Caustic was to admit it, as a member of the rag-tag team that shared the Apex-funded lodgings. A collective, almost like a-...

The thought always shut off there, twisting to a rapid mental analysis of the other Legends for the sake of anything else to focus on. Certainly some of the other ‘champions’ were irritating and he found it difficult to deal with them for long; but others he had to concede were fascinating, and startlingly brilliant in their fields, many of whom were willing to engage in discussions about their expertise and experiences. Even with mild distrust guarding their words to begin with, until passion for the subject overtook their misgivings.

But, as loathe as he was to admit this to even himself; to Caustic... the legends themselves were something he was starting to feel part of. Somewhat like they were a-... the word lodged in his chest like a blunt knife, something that could cause harm if he ever admitted how far he had fallen into the illogical void of social intelligence. He railed against the term, but logically it was the only apt one available to describe this group of strange people; and that was… family.

Bile scorched the back of his throat as he allowed the thought to flow through him like a soundwave, the sentiment of it far more distressing than the physical sensations; as Caustic been under the strong impression of having successfully managed to cut off all sense of sentimentality, along with his fingers, on Gaea. This feeling, this potential vulnerability, was therefore repulsive.

However… it could not be denied that recently the increased socialisation had brought out some surprising connections and insights with the others. Even simple interactions such as providing a gruff thank you to a teammate for pinging a weapon component whilst looting was noted by the others; and the way that Caustic made certain to inoculate his squadmates before a match. Inconsequential activities, but seen… apparently. He had never noticed their eyes on him during these moments before… and now he felt as if they never ceased their burning gazes on his every breath, every twitch and thought.

As it stood, he was closer to some Legends than others; and had forged several, somewhat tenuous but holding, connections he was not wholly ashamed to admit.

For example, Caustic found Horizon’s expertise on astrological matters an excellent way to pass sleepless nights, when both found themselves in the kitchen for coffee at 2am. Minds full of half formed ideas, or regrets, and unable to speak them aloud to anyone; there was an odd companionship between the Legends, so close in age and so vastly apart in lived experiences. Or, at the least, the experiences of their alibis.

Even through the distress he felt, Caustic could not help but smile as he recalled that their first two meetings at such a location and hour had not gone quite so well as in recent times. For the good Dr Somers had been blissfully unaware that a rather prominent side effect of Caustic’s initial and continued toxin exposure often expressed itself as a bright green glow about his irises; therefore the first time they had met in the pitch-black kitchen at an ungodly hour, the astrophysicist had said some truly profane things and thrown a mug of hot coffee in his direction. Lifeline had not been pleased to deal with burns at that time, no matter how Horizon had insisted they needed a proper assessment of the damage, but the young woman seemed to have found the whole situation quite humorous in hindsight. Often making smart ‘Be careful, Doctor, that’s hot!’ quips when she caught either of them holding coffee.

Ah, but their second meeting of this nature had been different. Caustic had merely been resting his eyes at the kitchen island when Horizon had carefully crept inside the darkened room, footsteps barely audible, and proceeded to make herself coffee on the quietest setting possible. It was, in fact, the sound of her sipping the beverage that had roused Caustic, and Horizon had promptly performed an almost perfect spit take in shock at his ‘sudden appearance’. The stain in the wall had never quite come out and neither of the older Legends had bothered to inform the younger Legends how it had manifested. Though some had their suspicions...

There was a calming energy to Dr Somers, and she seemed to have a distance in her eyes that he could relate to without ever broaching the subject. When they spoke of stars, of technology to traverse the time and space between the worlds, there was a communion of unspoken camaraderie there that soothed in an inexplicable manner.

Of the others, Caustic had occasionally found himself ensconced in fascinating discussions and discourse with Mirage when the pair had found themselves trapped in a social setting, such as lunch in the common area, fumbling for topics. Or more accurately, Mirage visibly sifting for a safe topic to be polite, and Caustic pointing at whatever the man was tinkering with at that moment, in silent question. It was rather intriguing how the younger man’s stutter settled when he was intensely focused on a subject he enjoyed. Although it must be said that now the scientist knew entirely far too much about holographic projection technology, and he was hard pressed to find an application for just such knowledge in his research.

On a more irritating note, was Gibraltar’s continued attempts to convince Caustic that attending events such as karaoke night or some roleplaying adventure evening with the rest of the Legends would be fun, positive, and a good bonding experience; and not at all humiliating, bizarre or definitely subjecting himself to the mortifying ordeal of being known by the other champions. Disgustingly, Makoa Gibraltar was a weapons-grade optimist with a sharp mind behind that disarming smile of his.

Recognising that the current stratagem was not working as it allowed the subject too much free will, Gibraltar had added additional variables to his socialisation experiments with Caustic. Even since, Gibraltar had been occasionally dropping by with a small portion of some homemade meal or other; often with one of the other Legends as an unspoken form of backup. More often than not, in recent times, Fuse would be the person of choice.

The rescue specialist was a very large, very polite man who had gracefully accepted the times Caustic would shut the door in his face to avoid allowing anyone to breach his inner sanctum of isolation and research. Walter Fitzroy was decidedly not.

Fuse was a very charming man, but he genuinely believed that any closed door was an invitation to trial his knuckle clusters on it, ‘in the name of friendship’. The pair would then invite themselves inside, and somehow a conversation would occur about the most randomised of topics, amidst the hidden garden-like interior of Caustic’s quarters. After weathering the scientist’s myriad of multisyllabic protestations about property damage and right to privacy, with mildly amused expressions on their faces, of course. Now that he thought about the subject in detail, the visits had been increasing in duration rapidly in the past two months or so; detracting from his research, yes, but at the same time… Caustic had begun to find himself not wanting to reduce this contact in the slightest.

Rampart had recently asked Caustic, in a quiet moment, if he wanted something strong enough to withstand a knuckle cluster barrage whipped up, because he was more often without a door than with one these days. Caustic had found himself smiling under the mask as he declined; not catching her sly grin of understanding in response. “It’s your funeral mate…” she teased as she left. He still had not had a chance to analyse her meaning or motives in relation to that interaction.

Still skeptical of his motives, but warming, was Lifeline. On the odd occasion, the healer would simply come into the common area to ‘hang out’ with whomsoever was present, and initially this had been a frustrating strain on his limited social endurance. Especially if the runner joined in, or she decided that the volume was far too low for her chosen programs at the time. They had engaged in arguments, which tended to resolve when he left, seeking solitude and silence in his own quarters.

Although, to review the past month or so in subjective data; Caustic was intrigued to find himself less irritated by Lifeline’s choice of audible and visual entertainment than previously.

However, the woman’s unerringly pleasant but smug grin as she would turn and catch Caustic’s fingers tapping the datafile laden table in subconscious adherence to the rhythm of the background music, was still a nuisance. At present, if he attempted to tell her so, Lifeline would laugh or roll her eyes and throw a quick, ‘Whatever yuh say, Doctor…’ in his direction.

Caustic believed that the newfound camaraderie between Lifline and himself was either in relation to a number of recent matches wherein he had had to shield her bodily from a hail of incoming fire while she revived a teammate; or pertaining to his begrudging assistance in formulating an altered version of stim for Octane, with lower health impacts. While it seemed counterintuitive to his stated goal of wiping out humanity; the challenge of forcing a volatile substance into a different composition to improve health on use rather than detract from it, had been exhilarating. While the current formula, Stim 2.3, was by no means perfect, it could always be improved in future testing. In fact, Caustic had been surprised to find himself looking forwards to improving upon the newly created formula with Miss Che in future. Her mind was agile, quick and experienced around medical, political and Octane-related matters. Verbal sparring with Miss Che was akin to mainlining caffeine, and possibly her persuasive arguments may have something to do with how thin his facade was feeling at present. How he was starting to regret his actions, when previously they were buried deep, untouchable, as Lifeline skillfully pointed out fallacies in his logic and ideologies.

Of all the Legends, the hunter Bloodhound, he hunter, was a mystery that continued to intrigue and distract from his research. Caustic had honestly been certain that there it would be highly improbable for the pair to have anything in common; given they were from a world that despised the very technology that his homeworld had embraced with open arms.

He had also felt that perhaps the hunter would avoid him, given Gaea’s reputation around such things as diversity in attraction and gender identification; he knew what was said and not all of it undeserved.

Somewhat surprisingly, it was a shared interest in plants that began their interactions; as the hunter had peered from their room at the right moment to catch Caustic returning home with a new specimen of unknown origin. The GAVN 1.2 bot stationed at the nearby Solace City plant nursery had no knowledge of what species it may be of, but the important matter was that the machine had recalled Caustic’s request to contact him if anything ‘interesting’ came through. Bloodhound had stopped him to ask how a Crentular Vynth bush had made its way to this planet; and Caustic had been so distracted by the conversation that followed that he did not realise they had moved to Bloodhound’s room until his second cup of herbal tea.

That had been the oddly auspicious beginning of… whatever this was. Whether they were now coworkers, or something slightly below comrades in arms, their companionship had been cemented nearly a full three months later on Olympus, when a bullet shattered Caustic’s mask mid-match.

Things had not been going optimally at the time. Their third squadmate was dead; some nameless human who had dreamt of glory and fame, and was now likely in a respawn pod beyond the arena commiserating their loss with the other failures.

Bloodhound was in the process of scouting for activity within and without the building they were currently camping inside; at the far end, if the faintest of footsteps could be believed. Skirting carefully about Caustic’s traps despite the pre-match inoculation provided that assured temporary immunity for the other two.

He had been calculating the potential ring trajectory of the next round, and automatically reloading the mozambique in his hands mechanically, when a careless step had placed him directly before one of the many damnable slatted windows of the building. The first he became aware was a crack, and a split-second realisation that made him jerk back just in time for the kraber shot to hurl his mask clean off and away.

Ducking automatically, not risking a second looking for the person who was definitely chambering a new round in anticipation of taking him out, Caustic had snatched the shattered mask up and slid through the rails to the floor below. Landing with a jarring impact that raised dust, forced air from his lungs, and inspired a violent coughing fit. Panic began to stir, as the reality of his vulnerability became apparent.

To counter this, Caustic set off a nearby gastrap deliberately, obscuring himself amidst the swirling green smog; allowing a moment to focus purely on the issue at hand, and forestall the intense anxiety that the cameras could be observing his features or condition too closely. He could already see the mask was beyond repair, the hoses hissing upon his shoulders as his filtered supply fed into nothing; despair was starting to claw at his chest, tightening it until it burned...

And then Bloodhound was there. Without a word, those impassive goggles took in the scene in its entirety as they crouched down by his side; pulling a small spare mask from one of the many pouches on their belt, without the slightest hesitation, and pressing it to Caustic’s face. “Here, breathe easy felagi fighter.” they said, nothing more, nothing less.

The filtration hoses hissed a moment more before the hunter had them shut off at the valve, so as not to waste more of the carefully balanced components. The mask adhering quickly and filtering the more violent components out of the air automatically; as Bloodhound needed, given their own damaged airways. Caustic may not believe in their All-Father, but he could almost admit to himself that it was very fortuitous they had been there that day.

When the smog cleared, vanishing as it dispersed to a minimal level, the crisis was over and his panic subsumed. Bloodhound clapped a hand to his shoulder and rose, making a statement of thanks in relation to receiving ammunition. A weak cover, but one they hoped viewers would be satisfied with; feel no great desire to dig for more information on this brief ‘green-out’.

“Come, there are three squads remaining, we have foes to slatra.” they offer, and he rises quickly to follow. Win or Lose, Caustic had felt confusingly like he had already received some small victory that day; though to put it in words was beyond even his skill.

Unfortunately, the downside of increased awareness of other human beings was that they tended to request opportunities to strengthen the bond. Of all things, the Hunter and the Salvonian now wished Caustic to go camping with them; in Kings Canyon or some equally feral locale, where they may all die of undercooked food or rabid wildlife. As disagreeable as he found the idea, Caustic found himself rapidly running out of excuses as to barriers that would forestall his presence on such an experience. And just the other day, before this intense sensation of dread descended, he found himself considering purchasing a prowler-proof sleeping bag… which had been a definite call for self-reflection at the time.

Indeed, when he thought back over the past few months… Caustic found that he had had at least one small interaction of moderate-to-positive success with all of the other Legends. Even with that know-it-all Crypto. Though Caustic strictly maintained that the whole scenario had been pure happenstance; and not any display of coworkerly or implied sibling affection.

If the young brat had just so happened to be tinkering with his little drone at the kitchen island and required a tool that Caustic, also present and working on his own project, had just so happened to have on him at the time… so be it. Truly, Caustic was not even certain if Park had realised who had supplied the multitool that had readily slipped into his grip on request; although, the fact that it had been returned nonetheless to his quarters, possibly by drone through a window he had forgotten to close overnight, gave a different impression.

Ironically, whenever Caustic finds himself thinking about the other Legends recently, shades of distress, distrust and uncertainty began to fill his limbs with lead and his mind with a million illogical questions. Did Loba’s smile at breakfast mean she was intending to out him to the others? Was it normal for Revenant to ask to view his research on gases with compounds that could corrode organic metals? Was the laughter between Wattson and Wraith about him? What made Bangalore watch him instead of the screen during the movie night two weeks before? Why did so many whispers stop when he moved closer? When was the last time Gibraltar had used the phrase ‘hey buddy, you doin’ okay?’ with any other Legend?

Who. When. Why. How. What. An endless merry-go-round in a carnival of horrors, all of his own devising… and there was no way to signal to the ride operator that he wished to exit. What was wrong with him?

Or, was there something wrong with him, at all?

Perhaps this was normal, for someone whose life was close to its ending. Didn’t people feel distress over regrets and mistakes in their life?

Desperate for a concrete reason, Caustic ran diagnostics on his blood and biometrics at least twice a day, and yet felt disappointed to find no significant progression in the disease. For if not the disease… then what was this?

Days wore on as he remained confined to his quarters for all but the most necessary outings. He did not see or hear how the household was becoming more and more colourful and the Legends pre-celebrating. Glancing out his window at the billboards in the city beyond, his lip curled derisively; ah, the corporations became more sycophantic as time wore on, disgusting. But all he could focus on was the manner in which this swelling sensation of anxiety was drowning him; Caustic was awash in a sea of tumultuous negative emotions with no sign of rescue. Quietly hoping that none would come.

It felt, constantly, as if he had an anchor bound to his ankles; the chain a cruel twisting thing, cold and rattling in the currents, always just long enough so he could bob above the despair for short periods of time before another wave crashed down. Caustic was beginning to wonder if it was worth trying not to drown at all...

Unbeknownst to the scientist, his absence was noted, and some were more concerned than others. The sudden withdrawal from household life drew attention from concerned parties with irritating accuracy; and he found himself subject to gentle half-questions that sent his blood pressure skyrocketing, his hands balling into fists to hide their shaking, and his mind racing to decode the hidden trap within the questions. Overwhelmed, Caustic responded by pulling back from the internal life of the Legends with greater fervour, trying to handle this situation himself; hating that it had come to such a ludicrous turn of events as this.

It was only when he was in the depths of despair and fighting to hide this from himself, that Caustic himself began to hear the rumours swirling about. Abhorrent, pervasive, and inaccurate… but easily believable if you lacked critical thinking skills. They made him feel more vile and misrepresented than the original advertisement campaigns for his arrival as a legend ever had. All that fabricated nonsense about being a verified and diagnosed sociopath; when it was only partially true, mixed with showman’s flare for the sake of selling him as the villain to the public. But these rumours… gossip rag conjecture, utter debasement and filth. Easy to believe… and in the mouths, hearts and minds of the people he had somewhat began to trust.

~)0(~

“It ain’t his fault, he’s from Gaea, yuh know?” whispers one legend to another, in a tone so casual that the sentence was doubly alarming to have come from seemingly out of nowhere. Caustic nearly drops the mug he is holding, mind shocked into momentary pause, at the statement. At the implication behind it.

The other sighs, “I know they’re, uh, different about things… but I thought that being in Solace City this whole time might have…” There’s a pause. “Well, you know, shown him a different reality… he’s already made progress in being an okay human, or something like it. Thought things were going okay, caught him smiling at one of Rampart’s jokes the other day… ”

“Yuh best keep it quiet though, don’t want the media gettin’ wind of this or it’ll be a problem.” hisses the first, acutely aware of how the media at large takes any vague hint of something, right or wrong, and runs with it. For the last six months magazines had been declaring that she was ‘going to propose to Wraith anyday now’ because they’d been snapped shared a sandwich at a Legend event a while back. The online forums were a constant minefield, even if some of the fanart was well-done.

“Oh yeah, I’m not going to put anyone through that deliberately, my dearest fiance-to-be…” the other laughed back. “You think surprise-portalling him into the middle of the parade would help? Or do Gaeans drop dead if confronted with new ideas without any warning?”

Just as despair was filling his heart like a lead weight, the rumours like tiny knives in his heart, filleting the memories he held about someone now lost… another combatant enters the ring. So to speak.

“Enough!” snaps a third, highly unexpected but nonetheless welcome, voice. The word hissing between what can only be clenched teeth, in a normally serene face.

Caustic finds himself holding his breath as he presses close to the kitchen wall nearest the common room entrance; desperate to hear more, despite his stomach churning, wanting him to flee this whole situation. It boggled the mind, after all he had done… Miss Pacquette, coming to his defence? How could she find it in herself to speak on the behalf of such as him?

“Listen to me, and hear me when I say that not all of Gaea’s citizens think in such a backwards manner… you cannot assume because people are poor, from a small place on their world, or work on farms that they all perceive things so narrow-mindedly. There is acceptance on Gaea, in much the same way that there are pockets of intolerant people on Psamanthe and Salvo who believe that robots are not sentient, or people of different races cannot be allowed to love one another. There are good people there too...” Wattson says, voice rising with the internal fervour of righteous anger. She was so very like her father, unable to allow someone she cared about to go undefended when people brought slander to their doorsteps. If someone raised a knife to his back, she would put up a fence to bar their way, and then continue to tell him off for his inappropriate actions from the months before.

In the brief silence following her statement, shuffling is heard, and it is clear something is happening though he dare not attempt to see in. He would be sighted for certain.

In a calmer tone, almost too soft, Wattson continues. “I once knew a man from Gaea when I was very small. He was… very important to my Papa, and to me. They worked together for many years, and I believe that they loved each other just as deeply as Papa and Mama did. He was always very kind to me, like a father you could say, even on his darkest days he was always ready to make me feel happy.” She took in a shaky breath. “Many of my youngest memories involve him, from my first baking soda volcano, to my recovery from the ‘ghost’ incident; not to mention the first attempt to create my sparks… and then the hour or so we spent resetting the powergrid for the whole map due to the short we made. He was a good man, if very obsessed with his work; as Papa was. Driven, you could say.” She sighed sadly, in a way that made even Caustic’s shaking arms want to wrap around the younger woman in comfort. “But he was forced to go home many years ago because he was having a disagreement with the company overseers about a new project they assigned to his research team. He was so angry when he left, and I wish I could have had a happier memory to keep of him. I only discovered later why he was so… you see, Papa mentioned that his team was assigned the goal of manufacturing a way of purging unwanted biological urges through aerosolised disbursement in the general population, and, well… he did not agree.”

There’s a sharp inhalation of breath from a few too many voices for simply two other people to be present in the common room. Given what the ruling bodies of Gaea were known to stand against, it did not take much guesswork around the applications of such a project.

Caustic had always liked to break accepted ethical conduct on the odd occasion to get breakthroughs that pushed science to the edge of a new frontier, but even he had been abhorred by the very concept. Caustic closed his eyes, recalling the very arguments he had had with his then-superiors about the situation; and how he had even held out the ‘impeding human rights’ card as a final way to thwart the project. The cold smirk on thin lipped faces as he was informed that none who would be affected could be counted as a true human until they were cured of their odd notions… it was a miracle he had restrained from using his fists there and then.

His ‘compliance’ was bought with a simple reminder of how very important the company’s healthcare policy was to Caustic’s mother, at the time, and how it would be a shame to have it terminated alongside his employment. Feigning defeat, and hating himself, he had made a show of deferring to their wishes. Those pompous, self-inflated fools had taken him at his word. That was their first mistake.

Caustic jerks slightly, as if he has fallen out of his own memories and back to the present, bodily. Finding Miss Pacquette still speaking, her voice growing ragged with emotion.

“He… he died shortly after leaving us. I was devastated that he was gone, but even more so for the way it had happened. I could not imagine the fear and sadness he must have felt as the lab burned around him, with his entire research team. All they ever found was a charred corpse and two fingers that had enough DNA remaining to confirm his identity.” A soft sob shocked out, before she masterfully pushed it back. “U-Unfortunately for the company it seemed that all of his research and specimens on the topic burned with him; and some kind of alternate chemical residue coating the lab after the fire made the building unusable. Sometimes… I wonder if it was deliberate, for him to have taken it all with him. To be honest it would not surprise me in the least, he was as stubborn as Papa…” Natalie trailed off, clearly upset by the recollections. “Oh mon dieu, I do not mean to be so silly… I just miss him and Papa so much! And now you are all being so awful about the only person who… who reminds me of them, and I know he is difficult but there is good there, somewhere.”

Caustic’s teeth grind until it is agony. He longs to comfort her, even now as a full fledged adult and not the doe-eyed little girl who always wanted his attention... but how would that look to their comrades? Would she accept it after what he had tried to do? The anxiety wrings his stomach out like a wet rag, and locks both legs firmly in place. The scientist is disgusted with his weakness, debasing himself internally even as he countered with the simple truth of not being able to fight your own brain when it had decided on a Freeze response to distress.

He can clearly hear Lifeline and Wraith providing quiet soothing statements to Miss Pacquette, and it lessens his own distress over hers. Until he hears the one voice he would prefer never have been party to the conversation, speak up. “What was his name?” A general query, curiosity and a hint of foreboding there, as if the puzzle pieces were sliding together in the younger man’s mind.

Caustic’s heart freezes in his chest. Of all the Legends, why must Park be the one to overhear this tale? He who knows too much already...

There’s a soft muffled sniffle, muted most likely by Wraith’s shoulder, before Wattson replies; utterly unaware of how she was putting the final nail in his aliases’ coffin. “Oh, did I not say? His name was Alex… or I suppose Alexander. Dr Alexander Nox…”

The sound of Crypto’s drone clattering to the floor almost swallows the high pitched shattering of the ceramic mug meeting the kitchen floor. Almost, being the operative word.

By the time anyone has a chance to check the kitchen, Caustic has long since made a tactical retreat to his room. The racing thoughts feel like they are wrapped about his throat, constricting his chest until he can barely breathe. Hoping that none saw his frantic flight back to the safety of familiar walls.

~)0(~

#apex legends #caustic #please tell me if its too ooc #i have been agonising over chapter 2 #it was meant to be a short little fic and now chapter 2 feels very ooc #31 days of apex

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letterstoleia · 3 years

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Important Lessons Learned from Gabby and Brian

As an author and advocate for survivors of domestic violence, I’ve learned a lot about the predictable patterns of unhealthy relationships. After years of personal experiences, research, and outreach, I’ve learned to recognize the tell-tale signs of abuse. I am not a licensed therapist, social worker, police officer, or minister. So please understand I shared my thoughts as 3 a.m. musings. When a few people asked me to make the post public, I agreed, reluctantly. I had no idea this message would resonate with so many people. I've worked back through the original post to explain a bit better how I'm feeling. I realize not everyone will agree with me, and I respect all opinions and views. All I ask is that we engage in respectful discourse on all sides. Thank you all.

In recent days, the tragic events involving Gabby Petito and Brian Laundrie have given us a lot to learn. This case is still under investigation, and I can only make assumptions based on the textbook patterns of abuse I’ve witnessed too many times to count. I also recognize that multiple families are grieving, and I have tremendous empathy for everyone involved. However, many survivors will resonate with at least some of the following insights, and I’m hoping we can use this tragedy to shift the way we as a culture approach the complicated issue of domestic abuse.

Let’s examine 30 important lessons this couple teaches us:

1. Followers on social media saw a smiling, happy couple, full of love and wanderlust, setting out for a cross-country adventure while documenting all the joys of young life. In many cases, targets become very good at smiling through the pain.

2. When the public was shown body camera footage captured by Moab City Police officer Daniel Robbins, (who pulled Laundrie and Petito over after the 911 call on August 12), some viewers assumed Petito was suffering from mental illness and Laundrie, while nervous, was the steadier of the two.

3. Other viewers assumed both partners were equally at fault—the old “it takes two” myth that doesn’t really apply to most abusive situations.

4. Some people even assumed Petito was the abuser and Laundrie was the victim.

5. These three assumptions probably crossed everyone’s mind as a possibility (they did mine). Healthy minded people tend to give others the benefit of the doubt, especially when someone is being accused of a negative act. Also, we can all understand that mental illness is a difficult situation and can tax even the kindest most gentle of souls (and the people who love them). Unfortunately, in many cases, this thought pattern leads us to assume the victim is mentally ill or that the victim is to blame for an altercation.

6. “Victim blaming” can happen even in the worst cases of abuse because we don’t see the longitudinal story unfolding. What we don’t see is that the target has managed to keep things together until she reached her threshold, at which time we may see her crying, yelling, or breaking down emotionally. By exhibiting those behaviors, many might assume the target is “crazy,” and it’s natural for us to feel as if the more stable person is more trustworthy.

7. If we listen carefully to Laundrie’s conversation with the officers, he even laughs and says, “She’s crazy.” (17.09) Then he dismisses it as a joke. Of course, he’s already put this claim in the officers’ minds (and by the nonchalant way he says it, many might assume it’s not the first time he’s said these words.)

8. So while viewers (and officers) start wondering if perhaps the target is “crazy,” the abuser plays the part of the poor, patient partner who has to deal with this irrational person. In the video, Laundrie mentions Petito’s anxiety and her OCD, painting her as an unstable partner. (Please note: I’m not at all justifying any physical violence against either party. No one should intentionally harm any other person. Period.)

9. A typical abuser would be skilled at convincing people that he’s innocent, while in fact he’s been acting very differently behind closed doors, pushing his target to this point intentionally and feeding on her emotional break. Many abusers LOVE to see evidence that they’ve hurt their target. They LOVE to see their target in pain. For this reason, “breaking” the target is usually the goal from the start. In cases of abuse, it may take an abuser hours, weeks, months, or even years to break the target, but he won’t stop until he gets that reaction, and then he’ll point the finger and say, “See? She’s crazy. I’m just trying to keep her calm.” And then he’ll do it again. And again. And again.

10. As a result, some people will buy into that false narrative. Even the target can be brainwashed to doubt her own truth. Which may be one reason we see Petito making many excuses for Laundrie’s behavior and taking the blame for everything.

11. In contrast, we see Laundrie blaming Petito, insisting he never hit her and saying he was just trying to keep her calm. He’s charming. He comes across as the loving and loyal partner. He’s joking around with the officers and even gives one a fist bump in the end. All the while, his fiancée is at risk of being charged with domestic assault and possibly spending the night in jail.

12. Later, we’ll hear the 911 recording that (it seems) the responding officers were not fully informed of at the time: “I’d like to report a domestic dispute.” The 49 second audio recording continues as the caller says, “The gentleman was slapping the girl.” When the dispatcher asks him to confirm that the man was slapping the girl, the caller responds, “Yes, and then we stopped, they ran up and down the sidewalk, he proceeded to hit her, hopped in the car, and they drove off.”

13. But long before the 911 call was made public, many survivors could already see through the spin playing out on the video footage. They easily recognized the “red flags” because these cycles become the norm for victims of long-standing abuse. Many targets eventually become conditioned to believe everything the abuser does is her fault. Covering for the abuser, accepting all the blame, trying harder to make the abuser happy—this warped reality becomes the only truth a target knows.

14. Also, it seems clear that Petito doesn’t want her fiancé to be in any trouble. She’d rather pay the price and protect the man she loves. And because she probably believes he only acted this way because of her mood/behaviors/anxiety/OCD/job, she doesn’t want him to be blamed. This is also the norm in abusive relationships.

15. Many experienced and well-trained officers see right through this typical pattern. Others buy the cover-up story. And, sadly, because some officers are also abusers, some side with the abuser even when they know exactly what’s going on. Throughout the video, we get the sense that Officer Robbins senses there’s more to the story.

16. I credit the police in Petito’s situation, especially Officer Robbins. The four responding officers (two of whom were park rangers) remained calm, they separated the couple, they interviewed them individually, they split them up for the night, they consulted the domestic violence shelter … many would say they did everything right considering the information they had at the time.

17. I imagine the officers involved may be suffering from tremendous guilt and wondering if they could have prevented Petito’s death, but I want to give credit to the officers in this case. While it’s easy to look back and say maybe they should have handled things differently, knowing what we now know, I was impressed with how well they treated both Laundrie and Petito (and, sadly, I was thinking how rare it is to see that level of respect and professionalism in most cases of domestic violence, particularly in the South where I’ve been most involved with survivors’ stories.)

18. After Petito was reported missing, many people expressed shock in response to the Laundrie family’s refusal to cooperate early in the investigation. Petito reportedly lived with the Laundrie family for more than a year. Anyone can see that this family will do anything to protect their son, even at the cost of an innocent young woman who was a real part of their family and soon to be their daughter-in-law. While most of us can certainly understand parents wanting to protect their son, most would agree they crossed a moral line when his fiancée went missing.

19. But perhaps it goes deeper than that. Perhaps what we’re seeing is a system of enablers who not only allowed their son to abuse Petito (which may have been a factor in her reported anxiety) but also a system of gaslighters who may have always been shifting the truth to keep Petito confused and make her believe she was the problem.

20. It’s not a far stretch to assume Petito was caught in a system of abuse. And once a target is caught in that psychological web, it’s extremely difficult to see a way out. Reality becomes flipped.

21. It’s also worth noting that Petito and Laundrie had been involved in various levels of a relationship since their teens. This is also commonly observed in dysfunctional partnerships.

22. These immature relationships work beautifully when both partners grow together and mature emotionally. But when one wants to keep the other down, naïve, and under his control … and the other is growing, learning, and maturing … it doesn’t work.

23. We hear Petito tell the officer that Laundrie didn’t think she could succeed with her travel blog (3.25). It seems clear that he didn’t believe in her and that he was trying to make her doubt herself.

24. Throughout the conversation, he implies that he locked her out of the van because she wouldn’t calm down. But when we listen to the full video, it seems he was upset because they’d spent too much time at the coffee shop with her working on her website when he wanted to go hiking. This suggests that because she wasn’t in the van when he was ready to leave, he lost his temper.

25. In the moments that followed, the altercation became physical. Reportedly, Laundrie squeezed Petito’s face with his hand, cut her down verbally, and criticized her.

26. Some would argue that this escalating abuse typically persists until the target reacts emotionally and/or physically. If this case follows the norm, Laundrie may have been trying to break her spirit, intentionally.

27. Why? Again, if this case follows the typical situation, it would likely be because Petito’s focus wasn’t 100% on Laundrie. She had found this new job she enjoyed. She was succeeding at it, and it was allowing her to connect with other people. (Remember, she’d already left her job as a nutritionist to travel around the country with Laundrie.)

28. In a healthy relationship, the new job might be considered a positive opportunity for Petito. Especially considering Laundrie admits they have very little money (not even enough to afford a hotel room to prevent his fiancée from going to jail). But in an unhealthy relationship, the abuser wants the target all to himself. And when that doesn’t happen, he can become increasingly violent.

29. Petito now had this one little piece of her life that Laundrie couldn’t control, so if we’re looking at textbook patterns, perhaps her blog angered him. Perhaps he didn’t like all the attention she was getting on social media. Perhaps he punished her for it. And then a cycle developed. Even though she was doing nothing wrong by building a new career.

30. The next thing we know, we have a missing person, a recovered body, a young man on the run, and several families destroyed. Too much grief to measure. And the truth is, it will happen again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, until we learn to recognize and respond to abusive situations in healthier ways.

The overall takeaway?

When we see someone at her emotional end during a domestic dispute, we shouldn’t assume she’s crazy. We shouldn’t buy into the false narrative given by the abuser. We shouldn’t believe the cover-up story by the target who has been conditioned to carry all the blame and shame. And we shouldn’t assume they’re going to be okay.

Instead, we should all learn the difference between healthy and unhealthy relationships. We should learn to recognize the warning signs of abuse. We should engage in respectful, fact-based conversations about trauma bonds, abusive cycles, and emotional intelligence. We should be familiar with terms like gaslighting, hovering, love bombing, enabling, triangulating, and projecting. We should stop blaming targets and help them reclaim their truth. And we should stop repeating the age-old myths that keep targets trapped in these dangerous and all-too-often deadly cycles.

Finally, while I’ve used the most common scenario of male-on-female violence in this article, we should recognize that abuse crosses all barriers and can impact anyone regardless of gender, sexuality, ethnicity, nationality, religious affiliation, age, or socio-economic level. And we should stop assuming these situations will get better in time. Personally, I haven’t heard of one abusive relationship that became healthier. Not one. Not with therapy. Not with church. Not with prayer or forgiveness or complete surrender. When an abuser is determined to destroy his target, he will not stop until that target is erased from this world or stripped from her life. And in many cases, he’ll walk away without any consequences, often taking the target’s finances, home, vehicle, reputation, or even her children with him.

Please don’t let the next statistic be you or someone you love. For support, contact the Domestic Violence Hotline. From a safe phone, call 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or text “START” to 88788.

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powerovernothing · 4 years

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A winter's wind blows over rooftops, and the surrounding walls of the city of Bruma, and a fresh layer of snow slowly falls over the mountain peaks, and steadily blankets the dirt roads leading into the nearest forests, and upwards towards the temple of Cloud Ruler. And within the protective, hidden walls of one of the Blades oldest fortresses in the province of Cyrodiil, Lucien Lachance can easily feel the growing tension swirling in the air around him, even before it dares to come and darken his doorstep. From where he sits at his desk within his quarters upon the highest level of the temple, he can easily hear the distressing commotion brewing just beneath his feet. He is able to make out the heated words being spoken; the hushed, awkward apologies when a lull finally takes place, and the uncomfortable sighs as one party leaves the room below, and the sound of approaching -- stomping -- footfalls reach his ears, and then pass by his sliding door.

Lowering his quill over his, only partially completed, assignment report, he leans back into his chair and lets out a heavy sigh of his very own.

He had assumed, once he learned of his Silencer's valiant return with the supposed golden armor of Tiber Septim -- or whatever senseless nonsense Jauffre and the Blades prattled on about that he had barely paid any amount of heed to -- that Martin would surely usher Korbin from the main hall, and then tend to any and all injuries he may have sustained during such a difficult journey.

But to be able to clearly hear both of his younger siblings argue with one another from an entire floor above and know that a considerable strain was being formed as he sat and merely did nothing... it was utterly strange to his ears. Strange, and incredibly off putting.

Out of all of them within their chosen family, it was his Silencer and his Light Brother that were the ones who rarely came at odds with each other.

But of course, considering the lives they led, and their given places in the ongoing Crisis, there were bound to be instances where one would disagree with the other, or the occasional moments of wounded pride... but to know that they were actively arguing, and one had now stepped away to place distance between the other... he knew very well that he needed to act.

That he had to do something to end this madness before it was allowed to continue, or worse yet, before it somehow escalated into something far more unbearable.

Rising from his seat, he quickly makes his way out of the room and into the hallway, just in time to see the back of Martin's robing as he disappears into his own chambers and shuts the door behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, curious to know whether or not the youngest would soon to follow along after him to try and make amends for whatever it is that had happened, Lucien does not wait for a proper answer, and simply chooses to follow in Martin's shadow. To try and make sense of the situation they were now -- all three of them -- seemingly trapped within.

Reaching out, he carefully opens the door, and watches as Martin paces in place for several moments, rather oblivious to his presence, and then ultimately settles upon the surface of his bed with a deep groan.

Only when he has quieted, does Lucien dare to breech the silence. "...Is there something you wish to discuss, Septim?" He asks carefully, keeping his voice low and even. "If there is something on your mind, you very well that I am here to listen -- if you shall only let me."

Martin looks up suddenly at his voice, and yet when he realizes that it is only Lucien that has followed after him, he relaxes ever so slightly. Yet even still, the Assassin can clearly see the obvious signs of fatigue, as well as frustration etched deeply over his features.

Martin slowly shakes his head to Lucien's questioning, not at all aware of the fact that concern has spread over his own -- something of which Lucien is quite thankful of.

"No, there is nothing that I wish to discuss, not truly," Martin replies in a somewhat breathless whisper; his hands clutched tightly into white knuckled fists. "It is merely the..."

"--The state of Korbin's injuries that is troubling you?" Lucien interjects; finishing Martin's unspoken thoughts for him from where he had trailed off halfheartedly. "Admittedly, I saw very little before you all but commanded Korbin to march to his room... but from what I did, I do not believe his wounds were at all a cause for great concern. Especially not within your own capable healing hands."

"It is not merely the matter of Korbin being hurt, Lucien," Martin says with a shrug as he pulls himself up from his bedside and returns to his prior pacing as he seeks to somehow make his brother understand. "While yes, it is indeed partially to blame for my current state of being, it is more so everything else that has happened that is causing me such grief."

Lucien raises an eyebrow to his words. "Everything else?" He repeats curiously. Making his way into the room at last, he holds out his hands to Martin, and considers whether he should allow his brother to continue pacing about almost unending, or simply force him to stop in place and actually focus.

"Whatever do you mean by that?"

In the end, Lucien does not have a chance to make either choice, as Martin comes to stop in the middle of the room himself.

"...Would you not rather see how Korbin is fairing, Lucien?" Martin mutters through a quiet, almost saddened whisper that catches Lucien by surprise; his face intentionally hidden from his brother as he speaks. "After all, I am certain he would value your presence at his side, and it would be far better use of your time than simply staying here, and listening to my irrational ramblings..."

Lucien lightly scoffs and walks forward to place a gentle hand over Martin's shoulder. "You know very well that I would not have asked if something was amiss, if I did not wish to ease the weight upon your shoulders," He tells him with a faint grin over his lips, and waits until Martin actively turns to glance at him, before speaking once more.

"Thus, with that in mind, I do believe you should take this opportunity to explain to me what it is that seems to be frustrating you so"--Lucien turns on his heel, and points a finger as sets upon the edge of the bed where Martin once was--"And I do hope you shall be nothing but completely honest, and spare no details from me."

Martin watches as Lucien leaves his side and takes his place on the bed. As he does, Martin's shoulders slump, and he runs a heavy hand over his face with a grumbled breath.

"...By the Divines themselves, I do not know where to even begin..."

"I believe you have already answered your own question, Martin. Begin, of course, with the beginning, so that I may understand the source of such emotion and hope to somehow spare you any further irritation."

Martin barks an almost bitter laugh in response. "As such such a thing is so easy!" Another sigh then escapes him, and a hand rises to rub over his temple. "...But, very well. Perhaps the source of all of this is because of the mere fact that, time and again, our brother willingly ventures out on these precarious, even life-threatening assignments, and denies -- or even outright refuses -- aid of any kind!"

Lucien watches as Martin fumes -- and quite literally at that, as the Assassin notices genuine smoke beginning to rise off the Septim Heir's shoulders the more he loses himself to the call of his pent-up anger -- and chooses to remain respectfully silent.

Knowing all too well that near to anything that he sought to say in such a moment would only fuel his brother's blazing fire, instead of dousing it as Lucien would actually want. And so, he sits, and waits, and listens, and simply hopes that such flames will dissipate with time as Martin continues to work through his ire.

"You know as well as I that he all but forbids you, of all people, from accompanying him," Martin explains as he circles around the bed, and back again several times in a row. "Somehow under the foolish assumption that you would be better suited at my side, protecting me from every known threat than at his own in the field of battle!"

He pauses, and then turns to speak to Lucien directly as a deep red flush in his cheeks. "Does he not realize that here, in the Bruma mountains, I am at my safest? What possible threat is there to be concerned over, other than a scratch occurring in training, or falling asleep at my desk at strange hours of the night due to research?" A familiar sadness overtakes his words. "What truly frightens him so that we could not somehow face it together?"

Lucien sighs, as he listens intently to every word that Martin speaks, and slowly comes to the realization that not only is what he is saying undoubtedly the truth -- as his Silencer had indeed acted in such a way in regards to the self-proclaimed 'solo missions' that he had taken upon himself even before this hunt for some sort of 'holy relic of Septim's long past', and been a cause of great concern every time he all but slammed the door in his face on his way out of the temple in a near frantic rush -- but that he also readily agrees with every word just as well.

There had been countless times that Korbin's obvious lack of self-preservation had made his heart ache with deep pain whensoever he teetered on the edge of death itself upon coming back to their makeshift home, and while he knew very well that Martin surely felt the same at the unimaginable thought of losing Korbin -- especially to this damnable Crisis -- he would have never realized that his brother's emotions would have ran so deep, or felt so incredibly similar to his own thoughts on the matter.

"And to see him return to us... bruised, battered, and half alive," Martin continues on; resisting the growing urge to reach for his locks of auburn hair, and run his fingers through it as his emotions rage. "And worse yet! Knowing that he shall always play off such horrific injuries with an ill-timed joke, as if his suffering does not matter..."

Lucien watches as Martin wraps his arms around himself. "As if, somehow, he himself, matters so much less than the task at hand. That he believes the supposed mission is the only thing that is truly important... not at all understanding that each time he does such a thing, each time that he believes as much... that it slowly breaks us in two, and... and..."

As Martin words trail, and his feelings threaten to engulf him completely, Lucien slowly reaches out and grasps his closest hand in an attempt to ground him, and comfort his brother somehow...and yet, even despite the open show of affection, Martin backs away from his offered touch, and willingly succumbs to the overpowering waves surrounding his heart.

"And that is not what destroys me the most out of all of this," He manages through a painful breath; tears filling in the corners of his eyes. "It is in the understanding that makes this so utterly unbearable. Realizing that the only reason he does this... that he does any of this -- putting himself at risk, braving the depths of the worst Oblivion has to offer to the world, shrugging off every wound with a lighthearted smile, and reassurance that he should not even be speaking, when it is us that should be comforting him in such an aftermath -- is because--"

"--Because you require numerous items so that you might finally translates that deplorable Daedric book you keep within your possession, and open the Portal to those Mythic Dawn bastard's Paradise," Lucien suddenly interrupts; speaking for the first time he placed himself upon the bed, and catching Martin considerably off guard in the process.

"Is that not what you were just about to say, my brother?" He prompts somewhat carefully. "That what makes this hardest is knowing that Korbin is, essentially, doing all of this on your behalf? That he persists despite the obvious risk to his life, that he dares to venture into those fiery depths, time and again, paying no need to our worried outcries, and simply follows your every task with a smile... because he knows how important this crusade is to you, as well as how important ending the Crisis is for us, and many others?"

Lucien pauses as his words hang in the air, and then softens his tone of voice. "Is that, truly, what is bothering you the most out of all of this?"

The air in the room falls stagnant as Lucien speaks his peace. The only sound to be heard being the occasional breaths from either of the brothers, and the familiar thumping of approaching footsteps. At such a noise, Lucien grimaces inwardly; knowing that any interruptions at this point would do just as much damage as if he had thought to speak up before Martin reached the conclusion to all his rambling.

It would only cause more damage, and possibly even throw Martin further into his own fragile mind, and Lucien genuinely worries for his Light Brother's wellbeing if such a thing were to come to pass.

And yet, before he has an opportunity to prepare an angry, furious string of words for whatever nonsense Jauffre or his foolish Blades would want from Martin -- now, of all Sithis-cursed times -- it is, in fact, Martin's own voice that pulls him from his thoughts, and back into the moment at hand.

"...You are right; you are absolutely right," He says; answering Lucien's previous question. His words are spoken quietly at first, and Lucien opens his mouth to soothe him, but is soon silenced as Martin's voice shifts, and his words turn to almost frantic shouting.

"That is what makes this so hard, and by the grace of Akatosh, if there was some other way -- any other way, so that he might simply remain safe, without willingly following my word without question, without daring to dance with death with every battle fought with the Mythic Dawn and Oblivion itself, without any of this nightmare resting upon our shoulders every time he leaves our side -- then you know I would do it in less than a single heartbeat!"

Martin gestures wildly as tears begin to spill down his cheeks. "Because knowing that I am the one sending him out into danger, knowing that I am putting him at risk at all... you simply do not understand the sheer extent of the horrors I face in my own mind, as I mull over every possible what if, Lucien!"

"Oh, my dear brother, I do understand," Lucien explains to him, grasping onto the brief silence and readily filling it as Martin reaches to wipe at the tears in his eyes. "I understand more than you might realize, for such unbelievable horrors linger within my own mind every moment that passes by and he has not returned to me from some task I appointed to him just as well."

"Then you surely know how often I am brought to my knees by the endless wondering!" Martin cries out; his fingers intertwining together, as his hands tremble. "Wondering just how much more he is capable of enduring until it becomes too much for his body and spirit to bear! Terrified in wondering if the very next time I ask of him something, even the simplest, most innocent task, he is too gravely injured for me to save his life before he fades completely. Or, the one thing that utterly shatters me, the thought of him not returning at all, and having to live with the heartbreaking guilt in knowing that I sent my very own little brother to his dea --"

Martin’s words are suddenly cut off, as he begins to waver slightly on his feet partway through his unfinished, near hysterical screaming. And in that same instant, Lucien is quickly at his side; attempting to keep him from stumbling down to the hardwood floor below them in a collective heap.

"By the Dread Father himself, Martin! Are you all right?!" Lucien hisses; one hand around Martin's shoulders, as the other latches tightly onto his nearest wrist. "Come here and sit at once, before you collapse."

Martin shakes his head in response; trying -- to absolutely no avail -- to somehow pry himself out of Lucien's iron-clad grip. "N-No... no, brother, I am--" He struggles to explain; his face paling from the mere effort of speaking. "I am... all right. I simply--"

"Do not think to lie to me, Septim," Lucien warns through a harsh whisper, as he leads him back to the bedside. "I have never witnessed you in such a state, and if your health is being compromised in the same way as Korbin's, then you shall--"

"--If you simply allow me to explain," Martin quickly, or as quickly as he can manage, interrupts Lucien’s words. Finally pulling himself free of his grasp at last and being rewarded with a furious glare in return. "Then I could tell you this is only the result of expending far too much power while healing our brother's wounds, and nothing more."

Lucien's glare turns to genuine bewilderment. "...What are you talking about?" He asks; only to then growl under his breath as he, once again, hears the sound of approaching footfalls edging just outside Martin's door... that soon shifts to worry as he comes to recognize such familiar steps, and realizes that they did not belong to neither Blade nor Grandmaster.

A bead of sweat falls down his face, and he quickly flickers a look of concern towards Martin. In the hopes that he would somehow notice and stop himself before speaking anything further.

Unfortunately, it goes completely unseen. "Such a thing is actually quite the common occurrence whenever I choose to summon forth my inner Light to heal Korbin of his injuries, Lucien," Martin begins to explain; blissfully unaware of Lucien's sudden change, or the sound directly behind him.

"Especially so when they are as grave as the ones he earned after returning from the excursion within Sancre Tor. It is a considerably draining feat, and one of the many reasons why you have not seen me like this before now -- as I do my very best to shield if from your eyes, as well as his -- and why I speak truly when I say that it is no cause for any concern."

"Ma-Martin, that is quite enough..." Lucien struggles to halt Martin's unneeded explanation; desperate to stop him before he can say the wrong word that the wrong ears may hear by mistake, and cause an already impossibly difficult situation to obtain irrefutable damage on top of everything else. "I... do believe that you should--"

And yet, much like his concerned look, his pleading falls completely upon deaf ears as Martin feels determined to soothe -- what he simply believes to be -- Lucien's worry for his own wellbeing.

"I realize this can be quite shocking at first, but it is really nothing to trouble yourself with," He says with a faint smile. "As you can so clearly see, I am already feeling far better, and the only reason you saw me in such a state to begin with is because caring for Korbin in moments such as this... well, it can be so incredibly tiring at times."

The sudden sound of a harsh slap resounds and echoes throughout the room as Lucien's palm connects painfully with his forehead upon hearing what it is that Martin so foolishly chose to say -- in this moment, of all possible moments -- and acting as though he had somehow accomplished a good deed in the process.

Breathing through his frustration, he runs a careful a hand over his face in an attempt to compose himself, but when his eyes open and he notices the one who now stands in the frame of the sliding door... his prior frustration at Martin's sheer ignorance becomes a more genuine rage.

"...Martin, you absolute imbecile!" Lucien cries out; allowing himself to fall into his own waves of anger and caring very little for what Martin may think of what he speaks, or how. "You would do well to silence yourself at once, before you say anything more that would destroy--"

"--Silence myself?" Martin repeats as confusion overtakes his eyes. "Why do you wish for me to be silent, now of all times? Did you not ask me to be honest with you from the very beginning? To hide nothing so that you might somehow ease the burden from my shoulders? And that is precisely what I have been doing! Explaining to you everything that I feel, as well as attempting to reassure you so that you will not worry about my wellbeing as you would Korbin's!"

"Yes, Martin, I realize that, and I did indeed ask of you to say all of that and more, yet--"

"--And now, somehow, you are upset with the words that I am telling you?" Martin promptly cuts Lucien off before he can complete his sentence. "To the point that you wish for me to... what? Simply stand around, and do nothing? To say nothing?"

He crosses his arms over his chest, and sighs deeply. "Lachance, please... I know this evening has been difficult for all of us, but you must somehow make up your mind, and explain to me what it is you actually want, as I surely have no possible idea what--"

One of Lucien's hands come to cup over Martin's lips, and a deep red blaze in the Assassin's dark gaze. "Dammit, Septim, that is not at all the point here!" He shouts; attempting to pull Martin away from the door, and back towards the bed. "It is not as though I wish for you to be silent in regards to what you are feeling on the matter which came before, it is simply that you have lost yourself to your own uncontrollable emotions, and you do not realize the extent of the damage you are doing because of them!"

"Uncontrollable emotions?!" Martin quickly pulls out of Lucien's grasp; stumbling slightly and staring at him with a flash of hurt. "So now my emotions are somehow uncontrollable? I thought you wished to help me, brother! That you wished to know the reason why I was so upset with what transpired between myself and Korbin. Why I was brought close to my limit with the choices he made while locating the armor of Tiber Septim! Yet, now you have begun to personally insult me for how I am feeling?!"

Lucien claps his hands together, and his words return to their desperate tone of voice. "Martin, you do not understand!" He exclaims almost frantically. "If for once in your life, you will only listen to me when I am speaking to you, then you will surely come to realize--"

"I will realize what, Lucien!? That I will come to realize what?!"

Lucien sighs deeply, somewhat saddened, and sidesteps away from Martin; gesturing towards the open door. "...That you would then come to realize that we are, in fact, not alone."

Martin pauses at Lucien's strangely emotional words, hardly expecting such a thing after his show of remarkable anger, and slowly adjusts his gaze to where he had gestured over his shoulder.

Mentally wondering to himself just what in all of the Divines themselves his brother may have have meant by not being alone, and if one of the Blades had somehow rushed into the room in the midst of their heated argument. Fearful for their lives at the noise that they may have heard in passing, and suddenly feels as though he was pierced in the chest by a barbed weapon when he finds himself staring -- not into the eyes of a friendly Blade, or even Jauffre himself -- but into a pair of familiar golden eyes instead.

His stomach twists, a wave of nausea threatening to overtake his every sense, and he quickly spins on his heel... only to see Korbin standing in the middle of his door, looking as though he, too, had been pierced by the very same metaphorical weapon, but so much more deeply.

Martin can see his shoulders beginning to tremble, he can see him fighting off the urge to raise his hands over his shoulders, or even to bury them underneath his grey locks, and his eyes... dear Akatosh, his eyes. The eyes that would normally hold a playful innocence, look at Martin with deep betrayal as their natural light dulls to nothingness.

As though every possible fear his younger brother may have had, may have carried throughout the course of their time knowing one another... had suddenly, and horrifically came true in one single instant.

And he looks so much older than Martin knows him then. He looks as though he had aged ten years within the span of several seconds, and the strength in Martin's knees begin to give away as he backs up against Lucien to try and keep himself from crumbling.

The color drains from his face as he realizes what it is that Korbin may have heard as he came to locate him, what he may have thought as he bore witness to his own screaming, frustrated remarks, and how he may have taken it without knowing that he surely did not mean it.

But he said the words, he spoke them candidly -- to Lucien, of all people, instead of Korbin himself -- and he feels as though he is no more than three inches tall underneath his brother's broken expression.

"Kor-Korbin, I--" Martin begins to say; stammering considerably as he tries to find the words need, the strength needed. And yet, underneath those faded, almost emptied eyes of his brother, he feels himself incapable of speaking anything more than merely the most foolish of question. "H-How long... how long have you... have you been standing... there?"

"Oh, quite long enough it seems," Korbin says after a moment of extended silence; his words just unemotional and as dull as his eyes. "You see, I was actually coming to speak with you. To try and apologize for all the worry that I caused because of my recklessness, as well as everything that led to you leaving my side in a huff after you healed my wounds... but I can so plainly see that it was obviously a waste of my time."

Martin shakes his head as tears begin to fill in his eyes and blur his vision. "No, no, Korbin... little brother, lis-listen to me..."

"I never actually realized that caring for me was, in fact, such an incredible weight upon your shoulders, Martin," Korbin tells him with a saddened smile, and the faintest of chuckles escaping past his lips.

"But I should have, shouldn't I? After all, I knew too well that you often worried -- to the point of breaking -- whenever I ventured out on missions for you, or for Lucien, and then subsequently returned to the temple injured in a way that you were not prepared for... but I would have never thought, would have never even guessed that your grievances truly ran so deep..."

"Korbin, no, you don't -- you don't understand, I didn't mean it like that, I didn't mean it at all, I just..." Martin moves forward, extending his hand out to Korbin in an attempt to latch onto him, to try and comfort him, to help him to understand.

But the youngest among them simply backs away, as his smile spreads more painfully over his lips.

"Well then, if that is truly how you feel about the situation," Korbin says to Martin; seemingly unfazed by his words, or perhaps simply no longer caring. "How you feel about me, then I will be certain to do whatever is within my power to spare you of any further burden regarding myself and my wellbeing in the future."

Korbin then turns on his heel, leaving Martin's room, and making his way down the stairs that connects to the rest of the temple. In the very instant he is gone, completely out of view of both elder brothers, Martin feels as though his heart is shattering into a thousand pieces at his feet, and as though he surely has made the worst possible mistake of his entire thirty seven years of life.

And Lucien feels very much the same. "...Do you see now why I attempted to silence you before you dug yourself into an even dipper grave than you already were in?"

"But I didn't... that isn't what I meant, I simply-- " Martin continues to stammer pitifully as his words remain fragmented, and incomplete; after a moment, he shakes his head, and turns to look at the Assassin with a deep level of remorse in his tear stained eyes. "Lucien, you know... you know that I would never--"

"Yes, I realize that," Lucien sighs deeply; pressing a hand to Martin's shoulder. "But Korbin does not, and that is why you must rectify your terrible mistake at once."

"But... but how? What should I... what should I do to even begin to repair this?"

"Chase him before he leaves the temple grounds," Lucien explains simply. "For, if I know my Silencer well enough, that is exactly what he is in the process of doing whilst we merely linger in place. Attempting to put as much distance between himself and you as he possibly is able. Thus, you must find him, stop him, and allow him to know what you actually meant by your words in whatever way you deem most appropriate."

He pulls his hand away, and then gestures towards the door once more. "And it would be best if you hurried."

=====

Rushing out of the double doors of Cloud Ruler, Korbin makes his way towards the main gates of the temple that connects with the nearest mountain surrounding the Bruma forests. With every step forward, it is accompanied with an equally pained groan as his hands ball themselves into fists, and slam into the sides of his head.

Tears sting painfully in his eyes, and he pulls lightly on his hair as he descends past the courtyard and towards the first of two stone staircases; all the while seemingly blaming himself for what transpired, for what happened, as he mutters harshly under his breath.

"For the love of Sithis himself, I know, I know!" Korbin then shouts to the snow and the wind surrounding him; fully unaware of Martin’s presence at his heels, or the words that the Septim Heir speaks in an attempt to gain his brother’s attention somehow. "I know I should have realized something like this would happen eventually! I know I should have prepared myself for it! I know it shouldn't surprise me, considering everything that I’ve done! Just shut up, just bloody shut up! I don't need you to rub it in, and somehow make it worse!"

"Korbin!" Comes Martin’s voice at his back; and as Korbin begins to still, coming to stand momentarily in place -- once more pulling at his hair, and nearly ripping out strands of it as he continues to whisper angry words to himself -- Martin takes the given opportunity to finally close the distance between them as he reaches out to grab a fistful of his brother’s armor. "Korbin, please! You must stop trying to avoid me! Stop trying to leave my side, and simply listen for one single instance as I explain myself!"

Korbin pulls away from Martin’s touch, and from it he feels a wave of anger -- at himself, not at Korbin, absolutely not at Korbin -- for failing to pull him closer to his side, or into his arms, or even so much as getting him to turn around and face him directly.

"I know what you may be feeling," Martin explains carefully. "I know very well that you are undoubtedly upset, that you are angry, as well as hurt for what you heard me speak to Lucien so openly, but... but you aren't understanding the truth of the matter! The meaning behind my words, and that what you heard is not at all what you think, or what you may fear!"

Halfway down the remainder of the stone staircase, Korbin finally comes to a complete stop upon one of the lowest steps. Whatever attempts that he made to flee from both the temple and Martin had seemingly come to a sudden, and abrupt end. Whatever furious words that he spoke to himself, blamed himself over, had now been silenced by Martin’s own emotional outcry.

And after a moment of sheer nothingness but the sound of the chilling wind howling between them, Korbin finally speaks in a low, gruff whisper; his tone both fractured, and pained.

"Is anything that you have ever said to me... " He begins to say; his voice cracking slightly. "Anything that you ever told me in our most quiet of moments shared together... was any of it even remotely true? Or have you been lying from the very beginning?"

Martin blinks; taken aback. "...What?"

"You told me once that you cared about me, that you loved me as your sibling," Korbin turns around, and stares at Martin as tears quickly spill down his cheeks. "That I would never have to...have to second guess myself, because you always assured me that, no matter what came our why, no matter what may end up happening, I was always going to be worthy of your affection..."

Korbin allows his words to trail, and then laughs bitterly.

"Oh, do not tell me that you have somehow forgotten such sentimental claims?" He asks accusingly. "You told me after the failed mission with the spies nestled within the city, and yet... in the very moment you choose to leave my side, to speak privately to Lucien behind closed doors over what happened in the mission, of the mistakes I have deeply shamed you with... you readily admit that caring for me is incredibly tiring!"

"...Brother, no; that isn’t--"

"Meaning, obviously, that I am somehow a... a hassle? Or perhaps even a burden, if you prefer that word over the former?" Korbin walks closer; watching Martin backs up as he does. "So, tell me! What is really the truth, Septim?! Should I have even bothered becoming close with you, after all this time? Was it simply just a waste, when in reality you despised me all along?!"

Korbin’s voice raises in volume, as well as heartbreak; closing the distance between him and Martin and staring him down.

"What was the breaking point, I wonder? The fact that I am an Assassin? The way that I end lives as a chosen profession? The overwhelming bloodlust associated with it? Or perhaps it is the fact that a bastard heir of a dead Emperor cannot dare to be seen with a worthless heap abandoned upon the streets? Just admit it to my face, then!" He shoves Martin back, and his tears fall more heavily.

"If you truly hate me, then just say it directly instead of stating it in secret! Confirm every fear that I have always had, and I will leave your side for good!"

Martin stumbles from the force of Korbin's sudden push, and struggles to maintain both his physical, and mental balance. Uncertain if he should simply allow Korbin to work through his sorrow, his genuine pain over what he did, over what he caused without his intervention, or... if he should instead stand his ground against every false accusation that his brother throws angrily with an unflinching, uncharacteristic stoic expression, and only choose to speak once Korbin had successfully tired himself.

He does not have a chance to decide on either choice presented to him, for as collides into the nearest wall, a look of anger marred by a faint glow of gold shines in his eyes, and he loses control of himself -- for the third time that evening -- before his mind can tell him to simply be silent and not somehow make the same mistake twice.

"How, in the names of all the known Divines, could you possibly believe that I could ever hate you?!" Martin screams without realizing, and flinches when he hears how sharp his voice sounds in his own ears. He does not make an effort to quell his anger, even despite every part of him begging for him to understand that what he is doing could possibly push Korbin further away than he already was.

"How can you even stand in front of me and think there would ever come a time where I would somehow see you in any other way than I always have?! Do you not realize the extent of your own worth in my eyes?! Do you not understand just how much I care for you, and how..."

Martin looks away from Korbin for a moment and struggles desperately to collect his thoughts. Tears fill in his eyes just as they once had, he feels his throat tightening from the words that go temporarily unspoken, and throughout it all... Korbin only watches him with a careful gaze.

Uncertain how to feel about what is now happening around him, uncertain where all of these frantic words are going, and if it will somehow end up as it had before. Part of him wants to turn around and be ignorant. To pretend he does not hear anything that Martin is saying. That nothing he would say would make this right, and yet still he continues to remain in place.

He doesn't know if he is simply waiting for the moment for Martin to set aside all the lies, all the anger, and simply admit -- once and for all -- that he does indeed hate him, or if he is waiting for him to finish so that they can might say their final goodbyes to one another.

With a shake of his head, and a quiet laugh, he goes to open his mouth -- to tell Martin to hurry up and get this over with -- and when he does... he sees the hurt in his brother's eyes. The very same hurt that he wore when he realized that he had been listening to his hidden truth in the hallway all along, and that only triples Korbin's confusion.

Martin moves closer and touches a hand to Korbin's shoulder. "...Do you truly not realize how thankful I am for you? For being in my life, and for... genuinely saving me?" Korbin opens his mouth to speak, to accuse him of deceit, but Martin quickly hushes him.

"Korbin... you came into my life in the very moment in which I lost faith of everything I once sought to understand. When you and Lachance stood before me in that ruined chapel in Kvatch, you... you smiled at me, told me that you were there to save my life, and... I could have never understood just how truthful such words would actually become."

"...All I did was pull you out of rubble, and close a Gate of Oblivion, I didn't--"

"You did far more than you could have ever realized. Not only did you save me from the hordes of Oblivion itself, but you..." Martin's words catch in his throat, and he swallows heavily. If there was a time to be overwhelmed, and to try and hide away... it was surely not this moment. Not now. Not when he was so desperate to make Korbin understand.

Breathing in, he continues on. "You gave me purpose. You gave me a genuine reason to keep going, to keep fighting, to search for the light of a new dawn -- when everything would be all right -- when everything up until such a point told me to simply lay down and accept what had happened. That I had failed, that the Divines themselves abandoned me, that I lost everything that I cared for once again... and yet, you pulled me up. You brought me out of the darkness of my own mind, and in return..."

Korbin shakes his head; adverting his gaze and looking at every other possible thing instead of Martin’s face. "...Martin, stop. It’s all right, and you don’t have to keep--"

"--And in return... you wanted nothing more than friendship, kinship," Martin laughs tearfully as a smile spreads over his lips; not at all allowing Korbin to somehow believe the doubt that was steadily creeping deeper into his mind. "You took me aside, you called me brother, when you hardly had any reason to do so. You did not know me, not truly; you did not know of my past, or the things I had done, the people I had lost, and yet it surely did not matter in your eyes... because through it all, you still stood beside me. You still protected me. Against the Daedra, against myself..."

He sighs and places his hand against Korbin's cheek. "And yet, somehow... you truly have the gall to believe that I... could ever hate you?"

"But I heard you," Korbin explains through a whisper; pulling back from Martin's touch, and finally finding the courage to look at him. "...I heard what you said to Lachance about me. Over how caring for me was tiring, that it was an incredibly draining feat, that you had to hide your frustrations, and I was --"

"Oh, my dearest brother," Martin interjects softly; effectively cutting Korbin off before he has a chance to suffocate within his own self-loathing. "You misheard me. You misunderstood my words completely. As I only meant that it was tiring to use such powerful healing spells on your numerous injuries. That the use of my inner Light was what was draining, and I hid it from Lucien’s eyes to spare him of the worry he would have seeing me in such a state."

And then it is Korbin's eyes that widen, and blink in surprise to what he is hearing. "...Wa-Wait... what...?"

"It was not that you, yourself, was tiring, Korbin. For I would never think that towards you. Not even with my dying breath," Martin runs a hand through Korbin's messy grey locks. "You spoke of our conversation when you were ambushed by Mankar Camoran's spies upon the journey back to Cloud Ruler Temple, and yet it seems as though you failed to remember the strain such healing had on my body at the time."

He watches a frown touch Korbin’s lips as he struggles to think back. "I can easily understand how you would assume my words to be something born of the darkest nightmares that plague you during the longest nights," He tells him; his voice somewhat cautious as he treads over a difficult subject. "But I swear to you... that is all I meant by what I said. That such spell casting was deeply tiring and caused my body to be drained. Nothing more than that; I give you my absolute word."

Korbin remains silent for an extended moment. Still looking at his brother with genuine shock. Martin takes such a sight as a means to continue on; smiling more softly, and slightly more playfully.

"However, you should know that, yes, it is indeed quite a trial to look after you, time and again. Especially when you are wounded so often, and so recklessly--"

"Aha! So, you do admit it! Meaning that part of your words held some manner of truth, after all!"

Martin sighs, and pulls Korbin into a sudden, tender embrace. "...Korbin, the only reason I say this at all, is because of what seeing you so close to death has on my own wellbeing." He presses a gentle kiss to the side of his head. "Do you not understand how much it pains me to even consider the thought of losing you? Of losing the one I so openly consider my beloved younger brother?"

"But you... I thought --" Korbin stammers; unable to piece together coherent words as he tries to make sense of everything Martin is telling him. He had thought that the conversation would go one way -- one terrible, awful way -- and yet, it went in a direction that he was not prepared for.

He is uncertain how to handle the genuine emotion, the genuine affection, and in the end, he simply buries himself into Martin's embrace, and allows himself to cry.

"Answer me honestly now, brother; please," Martin whispers into his ear, still holding him tightly in his arms. "Do you truly believe I could ever possibly hate you in any way? That I could ever come to view our time spent throughout these many long months anything other than a constant source of joy, and reassurance in my life?"

"...But you sounded so furious before."

"Frustrated; not furious," Martin corrects gently. "And that was only because when you first returned, and then collapsed in my arms with so many open wounds, I truly thought that you were mere moments away from fading completely. I thought that I was too late, and thus it took every amount of strength that I still had within me to keep myself together long enough to actually save your life."

Korbin slowly pulls back with a familiar frown. "...So, you were angry with the fact that I was injured, and not...actually with me overall?" He asks him nervously. "Even despite how you shouted me back into consciousness and then basically drug me up the stairs to my room by my ear?"

"Well yes; that is exactly what it was, Korbin, " Martin says with a faint laugh. "And I am sorry for shouting at you, although I’m certain you now know the reason why I did."

"I do, but... just to be sure. You don't -- actually hate me, or regret choosing to care for me in any way?" Korbin stares down at his feet as they shuffle against the snow caked along the surface of the stairs as the second question falls from his lips.

"...Is that what you truly fear coming to pass?" Martin paraphrases Lucien’s own words.

And Korbin slowly nods. "...Part of it, but there is so much more that I fear other than simply --" His words are cut off abruptly, as Martin moves in to wrap his arms tightly back around his brother in a show of reassurance as the chill of the cold continues to whip at their backs.

At the sudden touch, Korbin loses control of himself completely, and instantly clings onto his brother as though he is surely the only thing keeping him together in this ever changing, ever worrying, almost intolerable world that they live in.

"I promise you, there is not a single moment where you have been at my side that I have felt any regret over," Martin says after a moment; pulling back, and smiling. "You are my brother, Korbin; and I love you dearly. I could never even consider hating you, no matter what it is that you do in this life, or the next."

Korbin chuckles tiredly and gives Martin a half grin. The natural playfulness had returned only slightly, and yet it still contained everything that Martin knew all too well. He shakes his head in amusement, thankful for seeing even a hint of the brother that he knew and points a finger accusingly.

"However, that was not at all an open invitation to experiment with the limits of my patience, I will have you know."

Korbin's chuckling turns to genuine laughter at Martin's mischievous words -- those of which he would be more than excited to test when this day was over, and the anger had faded with the setting sun -- and he carefully wraps an arm around his brother as the two of them begin to make their way back up the stone stairs, and towards the main entrance to the temple where Lucien was waiting for them in the distance.

"Ah, you take the fun out of almost everything, Septim."

Once they catch Lucien's ever watchful gaze, and the Assassin greets them with a gentle smile -- obviously pleased with the outcome that both of his younger siblings were more than capable of finding on their own with only the slightest push in the proper direction by his own hands -- Martin suddenly sighs and leans more heavily within Korbin's half embrace.

Korbin turns his head at the sound, and Martin smiles. "Even after all this time, I truly do not understand how Lachance does it..."

"Does... what, exactly?" Korbin asks; eyebrow raised.

"Makes situations such as this look positively like child's play," Martin explains with a shake of his head. "Is there perhaps something that I have missed? Some clever word, or secret tome, or even some special power that would effectively grant to me the mastery that our brother has over these sorts of moments in our life together?"

Korbin laughs; sounding far more genuine than he had been in hours. "Well, I'm not quite sure, Martin!" He says with another grin. "I mean... yes, Lucien has quite the talent for moments like this; there is truly no doubt about that, but I don't think it has anything to do with some sort of magical power! It would make sense if there was, but I think..." His words trail slightly, and when Martin cranes his head to meet his gaze, Korbin’s grin then spreads from ear to ear. "Well, I simply believe that after so long, and how many times he has had to pull us both back from the darkest depths of ourselves, that it is just a natural talent brought on from a near endless amount of patience, and practice."

"Oh, is that so true?" Martin matches Korbin's laughter. "Well, here is another question, then! Do you believe that it would be possible to learn such a skill? Or that he could train me if I so asked?"

"Perhaps!" Korbin cheerfully replies; gesturing towards the open temple doors that Lucien had disappeared into once he witnessed them smiling and sharing a laugh. "And if you do, then perhaps you will end up honing such a skill far more easily than you have your numerous Assassin training!"

Martin's laughter fades to a low chuckle, reaching up and ruffling Korbin's hair as they walk into the temple together. "I shall have you know that such training is coming along swimmingly, and there have been quite many times where I have nearly caught Lucien completely by surprise with my ability in the art of stealth."

"Now I know that you are lying, Septim!" Korbin ducks under Martin's hand and rushes forward to escape his sudden onslaught of playfully unwanted affection. "You being able to get the jump on Lucien when I, myself, could never?! Nothing more than absolute lies!"

He waves a dismissive hand. "But regardless of such – oh-so obvious – lies, I do so wonder what is it we should call this brand-new training regimen for the both of you? Every good means of training should have a proper title, as you should surely know! Brother protection, perhaps? Korbin defense 101?"

"I'm quite fond of the latter myself, I do admit."

"Ah, as am I!" Korbin nods almost proudly. "Let us go and locate our wayward shadowy sibling at once and ask his opinion on such things!"

Martin smiles warmly. "After you, dear brother."

And as the familiar twinkling fully returns to Korbin’s eyes, he then quickly turns on his heel. Dashing away from the main hall and making his way towards the staircase leading to the higher rooms within the temple walls with a boyish laugh -- as well as a impish taunt in the hopes that Martin would willingly follow after him with similar speed in a sudden, impromptu game of chase to see who would be able to reach Lucien's room before the other.

Martin watches him go with a gentle, content chuckle at the absolutely wonderful sight before him. Signifying that things had returned to reality normalcy once again -- or rather to their own personal definition of such a word -- and then he slowly breathes in… before accepting his brother's given challenge and tailing along after him in all too pleased bliss.

#hero of kvatch #martin septim #lucien lachance #the elder scrolls oblivion #tes oblivion #The Knight The Emperor And The Assassin~#My Fan Fiction~

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secretgamergirl · 3 years

Text

How not to Write a Campaign

I have been playing RPGs for a very long time. Back in the day, I avoided any and all pre-written adventures of any sort because my limited experience with them was... just frankly terrible. Weird inconsistencies in tone, unfair encounter setups, too many assumptions about PCs’ motives and actions, etc. Then much later I discovered a group of writers who actually got it, wrote things perfectly in line with how my friends like a game to go, and we’ve been all in on those for a decade and change. But I just finished running a ROUGH one, and I want something good to come of it.

I don’t want to make this a specific review, because... I’m in the industry, I know the people who wrote this campaign, I can guess at some of the problems involved, and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings or reputation, so let me just refer to the offending prewritten campaign here as the Amnesia Campaign. It’s for a big fantasy RPG, it riffs of a particular author’s work, you can probably guess what it is from that, but, I’m trying.

The first problem I need to bring up with the Amnesia Campaign is that it just commits the cardinal sin of long term RPG campaign writing- The mustache-twirling villain who always manages to escape from the PCs at the last minute. I cannot convey just how important it is that you never, ever do this. The worst sort of example is when you plan around the PCs actually confronting your villain multiple times, and failing to kill them, which is a terrible idea because there really is no way to ever stack the deck and account for every contingency to make an unwinnable fight, or even one where escape is always possible, and especially if you’re publishing adventures, some number of groups will kill the villain too early, either shorting things out or forcing a handwave to keep an ineffectual villain in play and pretend they’re still a threat.

The Amnesia Campaign doesn’t quite go there. Having an actual chance to go toe to toe with the villain is reserved for the very end, but it does use another variant, where no matter what happens, the PCs arrive just after the villain they’re chasing has left. Now... there’s a way you can make that work. If you have a villain who cannot be reached in practical fashion, and can launch attacks anywhere within a huge region, you can build a whole campaign out of characters reacting to the aftermath of evil actions they could not be expected to even learn about until the villain has left the scene. Here, meanwhile, we have a villain with a big elaborate plot that requires traveling all over the world gathering things, based on research he does at the very start which the PCs can, and indeed are expected to do, quickly pick up on these research notes, and basically know everything the villain plans to do from nearly the start of a very long campaign. And... frankly, the villain has no real edge to keep him believably one step ahead. He is a mildly wealthy man hiring goons, mundane forms of transportation, and having to negotiate and fight his way through to various sub-objectives needed for his plan, and it is at least strongly implied that he doesn’t have a lot of lead time. When presented with a scenario about someone needing to be chased down and stopped, PCs can pretty reliably be counted on to constantly be rushing forward, coming up with clever ways to accomplish what they need to in less time, and cut down if not completely nullify their travel time. But, like with battles the villain somehow keeps escaping from, I am forced to continuously state to my players in running this that no, somehow even after avoiding this whole side quest by reading the mind of the person with important information, and directly teleporting to where the villain left for by riverboat, he somehow beat them there, and once again, just left. It’s frustrating, and implausible. We end up with a villain who seems overwhelmingly outmatched, but keeps succeeding because... well, he has plot armor so we’re railroading this.

Admittedly, having a good villain when writing a full campaign in advance can be tricky. The safe and tested formula is generally to start off with minions of your main villain, starting with some who don’t even know who they’re ultimately working for, gradually build up to who’s calling the shots and to what end, have a big side trip to prepare for the final confrontation not directly involving the villains, than cap it with a big showdown. If the PCs know who the main villain is from the very start and where to find them, it becomes hard to rationalize anything between. Sometimes you can pull it off if they’re leading an army or ruling a country, but even then, you want to work up a food chain to them.

A similar problem, which crops up a bit towards the end of the Amnesia Campaign, is making too many assumptions about how the PCs react, and who they befriend. In RPG writing, you need to make as few assumptions as possible about the specifics of what the PCs will do in any situation. You can count on the real broad strokes. The party will investigate the situation described in the adventure, they’ll explore the area, find the villains, fight them, win, learn something to keep the larger plot growing, but that’s it. You can’t assume they’re going to team up with this NPC, enter this room from that direction, or otherwise reenact what you’d imagine you’d do in their place, or what happened in your test play of your adventure. This is particularly important when you include a little sidequest unconnected to their primary goal, or you’re presenting an open-ended investigation.

Ideally, you just have a sensible location, have some villains in it with clear goals and personalities laid out, and you scatter around some things to enable various clever tricks if players think to try them, without mandating any of them. Mention where windows are, and chandeliers, and holes just too small for the average human to fit through, but don’t, as part of the Amnesia Campaign does, invest heavily in the assumption that the PCs will start investigating a sewer system when investigating how a cult gets around a city and go sparse on other possible clues. Also don’t waste adventure background note space on thousands of years of history at the expense of what the actual current problem in the area is and who or what is behind it.

The next problem is one that, were I the average consumer just buying this book would bother me a hell of a lot more than it does as someone who knows how the sausage gets made. Put mildly... you do not want to play a rogue in the Amnesia Campaign. Nor do you want to play a swashbuckler, a critical-hit focused character of any stripe, really any class out of the... roughly 25% of all classes who rely on knowledge of where to make a hit count the most to do the full amount of damage with their attacks, because practically everything is immune.

Now, again. I partly understand how this happens. We have several different authors writing different chapters of the campaign, simultaneously, in pretty unforgiving crunchy conditions, with just a rough outline to go off. Nobody really has a chance to confirm notes and say “hey, did your chapter totally invalidate one of the foundational character archetypes, because I was thinking of doing that and having two of those back to back would be a bit much.” And while the publisher of the Amnesia Campaign does throw out little booklets of tips for players on what sort of character concepts will/won’t work, they’re not written last, so this sort of tip is missing there too. On the other hand, it’s a huge problem within nearly any given chapter just on its own. If you’re making the call on what all monsters to include in a multi-level stretch of a campaign, you should generally avoid choosing nothing but monsters immune to one of the most common bread and butter class features. And honestly, given how the subject matter naturally lends to the deployment of a particular monster type, erring on the side of assuming everyone else is heavily deploying them wouldn’t be a bad assumption for any author to make.

This though, unlike the rest of my gripes, is ultimately a high level problem that needs a high level solution. When you’re publishing a whole campaign, and you’re doing it in a game where several foundational character concepts kinda live or die based on things like whether things are properly harmed by particular flavors of damage, or whether a decent percentage of enemies fall under a certain classification, that really shouldn’t be a double-blind. Coordinating to get all authors to use a decent spread, or include outline notes like “it’d make sense for about half the enemies in this chapter to be fire elemental themed in various ways, but keep a good variety otherwise,” and/or trying to get a rough handle on emergent themes to adjust for/warn about in player-facing pitch material. Even the best-written campaigns are prone to rude awakenings or hilarious reductions in challenge as turns out, say, going all in on cold damage does indeed pay off for the one with Fire in the title.

Meanwhile, on the other side of that coin, more or less, huge swaths of the Amnesia Campaign really just completely break down by failing to account for some basic standard issue capabilities of a typical party. Particularly the fact that past a certain point, you need to account for the fact that the PCs are almost certainly capable of flight. It’s a thing that happens. If you are really keen on writing adventures where local warlords are chilling out on the open-air rooftop patios of their otherwise heavily fortified fortresses, or melee-oriented monsters plan an ambush in a canyon in a vast wasteland, or a dangerous leapfrog between a series of elevated platforms over something dangerous, you want to make those low-level adventures, or else a typical party, possibly even accidentally, will just completely circumvent the whole thing. There is a whole lot of that in the back of the Amnesia Campaign. My group... literally skipped giant swaths. Heck, there was a whole side quest in the last book where the PCs are rewarded with the location of a giant obelisk which I had to cut because... it was in the middle of a big open outdoor space, and they flew over the city on the way in. They definitely had a view over those hedges.

This sort of dovetails into the next issue, consistently escalating threats. The whole fantasy RPG gimmick is that at level 1, you’re a helpless peasant barely capable of doing anything remarkable, and by level 20 you’re literally punching gods in the face and have more money in your pocket than everyone else in your home country combined (with the obvious exception of the other people in your party). Now, mechanically, balancing around that is a very easy math problem. Characters of level X are meant to deal with threats of level Y, either pull a Y level monster out of the book, or slap levels on something lower to bring it to that point, or spread that out over more enemies, then they drop Z amount of fancy loot. Easiest thing in the world. But you also need things to fit together thematically. You can absolutely throw fighter levels onto the local chicken-stealing goblins to make them mechanically as threatening as a demigod bursting through from another plane of reality, but when a group of characters is at a level where they can be expected to handle the former, it’s just plain weird for them to end up dealing with the latter. Like, yes, these particular goblins have 200 HP instead of the usual 4, so the local town guard can’t handle them, but that should never be true of chicken-stealing goblins. You don’t get that tough stealing chickens, and once you’ve gotten that tough, you should have your sights set a good deal higher than that. At least be stealing rocs or something.

The 4th chapter of the Amnesia Campaign is a particularly blatant example of not getting this, featuring a large number of “please be aware the party can fly at this level” moments mentioned above, and also just demanding the PCs deal with problems that really are beneath them at that point. Seeking out local guides, impressing petty local warlords, getting challenged by giants they must impress to rest safely when crossing a huge desert. These are... not appropriate speed bumps at a point in the narrative where the party is traveling to a location where they are going to literally fight a god, weakened or otherwise. The whole setup would be wonderful as the first chapter of a campaign, but that far in, it just doesn’t work. Particularly when the actual opening of the Amnesia Campaign sets the tension very high right off the bat, with extradimensional threats, shapeshifters, an evil cult, things that typically come later as things start to escalate.

This isn’t to say you can’t mix things up a little. Dealing with threats well below a party’s capabilities can be really nice as a chance to just sort of flex, and get some perspective on how much more capable they’ve grown over time, but you have to do it in a low-tension point of the narrative, and a little self-awareness about it doesn’t hurt.

Finally, while I really kinda hate modern wealth-by-level assumptions, they are baked into the design of the game, so if you’re running with it, you really need to make sure you’re really giving the players something they can use. The Amnesia Campaign really leans heavy on treasure being weird oddities that may be of value to a collector... while also being set, generally, in places so totally removed from civilization that shopping trips aren’t really practical. Much less those needing the party to really find the right sort of buyer.

Really, you want to give out entirely practical loot (really hard to do without knowing the party makeup, but variety can work), big piles of cash/sellables along with sufficiently large cities along the way for viable shopping, or raw materials suitable for crafting plus ample time to really do something with them.

Anyway, hopefully this has come across more as practical constructive advice for anyone writing a campaign, either as a printed product or just for your home game, not just me tearing into the Amnesia Campaign at length.

#rpg #game design #gm advice

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hoe-doroki · 3 years

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Alright, friends, your local demi is going to take one last bow before ace week is up.

I’m going to talk about myself, because I the lived experience of ace and acespec people isn’t talked about enough and, well, this is the week to talk about it!

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s bring in a good ol’ frame of reference:

78% pure. For those who don’t know this is the rice purity test, where high scores mean you haven’t participated in many “racy” activities and low scores mean you have.

First, let’s state that I don’t want to put too much stock on this test. Only 3/4 of the questions are about sex and dating while the remaining 1/4 is about alcohol, drugs, and illegal activity. (Part of the reason my score is so high is because I, unrelated to being acespec, don’t drink or smoke.) But, like I said, it’s a place to start.

Stats. I’m a 24-year-old woman. I am cisgender, straight, and demisexual/demiromantic (not asexual or aromantic). I have never had a boyfriend, I have never enjoyed kissing, I have never had sex.

Oof, and right away, I’m embarrassed saying that.

And that’s the whole problem.

(This post clocks in at ~1.6k, so the rest is under the cut. Trigger warning for suicidal ideation.)

Well, not my whole problem, haha, but it is why I’m bothering to talk about this instead of keeping it secret, like I prefer to. I want to dispel some myths that harm the way I view myself and keep me from being honest with others. Because I fear that when people look at me and hear “24-year-old virgin” they assume things about me that just aren’t true.

First thing’s first. The fact that I’m a virgin means nothing except that I have not had sexual intercourse with another person. There are no other assumptions to be made.

It hurts when people are surprised by this. I happen to fall mostly into the barbed categories of American conventional attractiveness, so when people hear that I have never had a boyfriend or that I’m a virgin, they assume there’s something wrong with me. Or that past men I’ve been around have missed an opportunity or something.

This is shitty on two levels. One, the assumption that my stats are the way they are because of some failure sucks. All it should be is a reflection of my agency and the fact that I am the queen of saying no. (In fact, it was my first word.) But then people are assuaged by the fact that I have, in fact, been approached for sex, as though that confirms for them the value that they assumed I had. As though that’s where any of my worth should be coming from.

Two, these assumptions, when flipped, imply that it would “make sense” for me to have my stats if I looked different or was less neurotypical.

Media--as it does--has played a role in these assumptions. I think about the characters who are “later-in-life virgins” and I think of Emma Pillsberry from Glee, who deals with extreme OCD and germophobia. Or Sheldon and Amy from The Big Bang Theory, the former of whom might very well be acespec and is likely on the autism spectrum as well, but who is shown to be very antisocial with many difficulties forming interpersonal relationships and the latter of whom comes from a very conservative family and a mother who ensured she couldn’t learn social skills until well into her thirties. Or the “what if” episode of Friends that basically asserts that Monica would have been too fat to get laid. Or The 40-Year-Old Virgin, which I don’t wish to talk about. (Oof, all such problematic examples)

And yes, these characters are all white (I am not) and that’s a discussion for another post better made by someone who is more of a media expert than me.

These characters are all portrayed to have something that “explains” why they haven’t yet had the privilege of having sex. And we see in movies like The 40-Year-Old Virgin, or a whole host of teen movies, that virginity is something to conquer--especially for male characters.

I don’t look how people expect virginity to look. I’ll be real--I have high self esteem. I think I’m awesome inside and out and I don’t see any reason why I should be shy about that. I know that if I wanted to have sex with a stranger, I could do it tonight (covid notwithstanding--be safe, friends).

And even if I were a different person who had less self confidence or looked different or came from a different background, that wouldn’t mean that I “deserve” to be a virgin or whatever it is media is telling us. Virginity still wouldn’t have a damn thing to do with the other things that make up a person.

So, louder for the people in the back: being a virgin doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with me.

Next point. Being a virgin doesn’t mean that I’m innocent, a prude, or that I’m “waiting for marriage.”

Gosh, I’ve been asked if I’m waiting for marriage too many times. Two things. 1. No. I’d rather know my sexual compatibility with a partner before marriage and 2. I’m an atheist. So no.

Also, I am not innocent or a prude.

My lack of experience makes me feel infantilized. It does. That’s a personal issue of mine and, ya’ll, I don’t have many answers for how to overcome it. But I have done what I can to change that.

Guys, some of the best choices I’ve made in my adulthood are the things I’ve done to reclaim my sexuality (meaning sexualness not orientation) for myself. Not gonna get super nsfw here, but I’ve invested in about a dozen sex toys and I intend to buy more. They always makes me feel so much more adult and sexy. And I’ve done things with them that I feel pretty confident that many of my sexually active, allosexual friends haven’t done. This kind of thing isn’t for everyone acespec, but it helps me reclaim my worth as a sexual being, without needing a partner to validate that.

I’m also fully valid to write erotica! I love erotica and it’s another way I take back my sexuality. It is just as valid for me to write as it is for anyone else. I am capable of research--both on my own body and from resources, experts, and classes. I don’t need to have had sex for my opinion to matter.

Oh, and being acespec has nothing to do with my sex drive. It seems that I have a libido that is either average or slightly above average--I’m also a person that the more I’m engaging with my libido, the higher it gets.

This often feels like a curse. I, unlike many, but not all, acespec people, strongly desire sex. Like, I’ve bundled up a 35-pound weighted blanket on top of myself whilst engaging in self-pleasure just to try and make the activity feel more partnered (pro tip: that didn’t work.) The truth is that I’m really sick of having to take care of my libido by myself and would much rather have a partner.

But it’s not easy.

I’ve tried online dating, guys. Many times. I can’t do it. That’s not true of all acespec individuals, but it is for me, at least right now. For me, my demisexuality means that the idea and experience of going out, even on a casual date, with someone I’m not already interested in is nearly intolerable. And my current lifestyle, for many reasons, doesn’t lend itself well to me naturally forming crushes.

I’ve only had one major crush in my life. And it was 10 years ago. So you understand the difficulty.

I hate being demisexual, guys. I do. I wish that I could write this post with the intent of spreading pride and positivity, but I can’t. That’s not where I’m truthfully at yet. I’m lonely to the point of suicidal ideation. I’m too young for it, but I’m already making contingency plans for freezing my eggs or trying to imagine a future where I could be a single mother and...I can’t yet reconcile it. I know that part of this is my dreams being created in society’s image, but all I’ve ever wanted is to be a wife and a mother. And it’s hard to see that future when I can only look at my past and see images of silicone and sexual repulsion.

Remember when I said I’ve never enjoyed kissing? I’ve had more stage kisses than “real” kisses and, I have to say, the staged ones were more enjoyable because at least I wasn’t forcing myself to do them. Forcing myself to try to kiss someone so that I could feel “normal.” Forcing myself to kiss someone just because I was curious about what it was other people were talking about. My first “real” kiss was at 20 years old and it was a night where I forced myself to do a lot of things for the sake of catching up with my peers and I’ve been deeply uncomfortable with that experience ever since, and I can only be grateful that I stopped it as early in the evening as I did.

Everyone’s experience is so different, ya’ll. I haven’t heard a story like mine before, so in no way can I claim it to be an experience that widely represents demisexuality. It certainly doesn’t represent asexuality, nor how queerness (or many other things) intersects with either of those things.

But, at the same time, I’ve never heard a story like mine before. Do you know how helpful it would have been to have been able to see a story like this a few years ago? Ten years ago? It would have been life changing. Because even though, in the middle of all that self-confidence I spouted off about paragraphs ago, there’s this kernel of self-hatred stuck in my teeth, I would have felt validated. I would have felt seen. I would have been able to DM someone who could have told me, hey, it hurts and I know no one seems to understand you, but I do.

That’s to say, if anyone is going through something similar and wants to talk about it, my DMs are always open. I’m no expert, and I bet some of the things I’ve said here aren’t going to hit some people right, but this is my experience. This is the most intimate part of my life. It is a privilege that I’m sharing this with you all, so please, hold it with care. I hope this means something to someone.

Happy ace week, ya’ll.

Oh, and the rice purity test doesn’t mean shit. It’s good fun if you want, but if it makes you feel any kind of way because your number is too low or too high, throw it away. That’s not where any part of your value comes from.

#i promise this has nothing to do with the fact that today is my brother's wedding day #not bitter at all #asexuality #ace week #demisexuality #demisexual #demiromantic #asexuality spectrum #acespec #nobody asked ana #personal #tw: suicidal ideation #tw suicidal ideation #cw: suicidal ideation #cw suicidal ideation

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etherealwaifgoddess · 4 years

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Run To You - Chpt.7

Summary: Steve is reeling from Bucky’s departure and trying to make sense of what to do next. After an unexpected clue and a surprise offer of help, Steve does everything he can to make New York safe for Bucky to return. The only problem then becomes, what if that’s not what Bucky wants? Master list is HERE

Content Warning: None :)

Word Count: 4.6k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! The last chapter is here!! Thank you to everyone who has stuck around for this fic through all of it’s ups and downs. Please enjoy the last bit of the journey and the much awaited happily ever after. The epilogue goes up next, so keep an eye out right after this. XOXO - Ash

Chapter Seven

Steve

Three weeks. It has been three excruciating weeks of searching and hoping and ultimately losing hope. Steve feels like he’s living in a world of grey, nothing brings him joy quite the same way it used to. It’s startling to discover how quickly he’d grown to care for Bucky and how empty his life feels without the other man. After a few days of trying to give Bucky space, Steve had reached out only to find the brunette was gone. It was hard to believe, especially after Bucky had just promised not to run away when things got tough. Steve had been frantic at first, fearing the worst, until Tony had done some research and shown Steve the paper trail. Bucky had drained his bank account and bought one way tickets to Moscow for him and Becca. The trail went cold after that, he’d ditched his phone and stopped using cards, disappearing like a ghost in the night.

After four days of hiding in his bed mourning the loss of what was and what could have been, Steve went down to the mission debriefing Tony was hosting and dove head first back into work. It’s been non-stop missions from that point on. Days off are too lonely without having someone to text or call or visit. The nights are even worse. So Steve pours himself into the all consuming need to eliminate the threat that had sent Bucky running in the first place. Steve knows it’s not the healthiest reaction but a small part of him clings to the hope that if he can remove the threat, Bucky will be able to come home. A more rational part of him points out that even with Hydra gone there are other threats. And how would Bucky even know that Hydra had been defeated? Desperation and hope had never been rational things though.

The team worries about Steve the longer his non-stop working goes on. They each approach the subject differently but by the end of the third week they’ve all made their concerns clear.

A subtle “Why don’t you sit this one out, pal? We’ve got it covered.” from Bruce.

A less than subtle “You look like you could use another ice nap, Capiscle. The bags under your eyes have their own set of luggage.” from Tony.

Steve shakes off their comments lightly, assuring everyone he’s fine. Really, he’s fine. Steve is starting to hear the edge in his own tone but pointedly ignores it. He just needs to keep busy until the searing ache in his chest dulls enough for him to get through a day without feeling like he’s falling apart. He hasn’t felt this off kilter since waking up seventy years in the future and realizing he’d missed his chance at a life with Peggy. But he had moved on from the pain of that loss, and Steve knows he can do it again. He has to.

The first clue comes a week later when Tony is doing his monthly deep scrub of the security systems. He finds the normal clutter of attempted hacks and people trying to poke around just for the hell of it. Most of it doesn’t get past the first ring of protection and is pathetically amateur. Those people don’t even warrant a second glance before he wipes the records. It’s the people who get a little further that Tony takes note of. It’s a rare occurrence, maybe three or four times a year, that someone actually gets past Tony’s first set of barriers and those are the people who get a nice little visit from SHIELD. Tony had actually hired his newest intern that way. A sweet kid from Queens who had gotten pretty damn far, three out five barriers, on his first try. Peter Parker had been trying to spy on their intel so he could clean up the crime in Queens on his own. Setting out like a tiny little vigilante in spandex. Tony did a little spying of his own and had been more than impressed with the kid’s skills. Taking him under his wing, Peter was currently training with the team a few days a week. Tony refused to let the kid out on missions until after he turned eighteen, but for now he was at least getting prepared for when that day came.

The clue was more of a blip than a red flag, and Tony almost overlooked it, though he didn’t admit that to Steve when he was telling him the news. There was a small window of time, just barely twenty minutes, one night where the memory had been overwritten. It took Tony longer than he was willing to say to backtrack and restore the original record but once he did, his jaw dropped. Someone, identifiable only by a little black spider icon, had gone through the security feed and Jarvis’ surveillance inside the tower. Specifically tracking down Steve and his movements throughout the day. Tony’s first assumption was Hydra, but he’d seen how they worked before and it lacked this level of delicateness and finesse. The fact that nothing had come of it also led him to believe this wasn’t Hydra.

“So do you think it was Bucky?” Steve asks once Tony has finished explaining what he’d found.

Tony shakes his head, “No, not unless he’s a secret super hacker in his spare time. I think he was involved somehow though. Someone wanted to make sure they knew where you were while your boy toy made his grand exit. I tracked it as far as I could, but this little spider was good. Scary good. How much do you know about his friends? Anyone in security, or IT or something?”

Steve thinks for a minute, running through the conversations he’s had with Bucky about people in his life. It hits him over the head like a ton of bricks. “Natasha!” he practically shouts, “There’s a woman, Natasha Roma-something. They went to NYU together and she works in cyber security. She watches Becca while Bucky works overnights. He joked about her ‘spy skills’ once.”

“That sounds like a good start. I’ll start there but if you think of anyone else let me know.”

Three hours later Tony has a name, address, and a promise that he’s 99.99% sure Natasha Romanoff is their woman.

Steve insists on going to visit Natasha alone, praying she doesn’t run the second she sees him. He promises Tony he can go another time to “talk shop”. Natasha isn’t home when Steve arrives so he tugs the visor of his baseball cap lower and pulls out a worn paperback from his jacket pocket. Two chapters later, he spots a redhead eyeing him suspiciously as she approaches the stoop.

“Steven.” she says evenly once she’s a few steps away.

Steve recognizes it as tactical, she’s far enough away that she can still flee if he gives her any indication this isn’t a friendly visit. He stays seated, not wanting to scare her off unintentionally. “Natasha.” he replies.

“I don’t know where he is, he hasn’t contacted me.”

It’s impressive to Steve how well she lies. He’s never had that gift. “I don’t think that’s necessarily true.” he says. Natasha’s lip quirks up, amused. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have had to spy on me while he was escaping.” he adds lightly.

Natasha’s lip curves into a full smirk at that. “I must be losing my touch.”

Steve shakes his head, “I don’t think that’s necessarily true either.”

Despite herself, Natasha actually chuckles at that. “Come on in, Steve. I’ll make tea.”

Steve spends the rest of his afternoon in Natasha’s little loft apartment. It’s cozy and filled with bright colors and vibrant patterns. It’s so different than he would have expected and he kind of loves it. They talk about Bucky a lot, but also about Steve, and Natasha too. Natasha is more reticent about sharing her story but Steve has a feeling he got more than most people do. She very carefully skirts around the topic of who she works for and what exactly she does, as well as anything involving where Bucky is.

All of her question dodging is frustrating and Steve’s patience finally snaps, “Look, I’m not going to go after him. I promise you, I’m not. Not until I know it’s safe for him to come back. I lo-” Steve clears his throat, unable to say the words aloud, “I care about him so damn much. I won’t risk his safety again. I’m going to take Hydra down for good this time, I know it. And once Hydra is gone, then I’d like to at least have the option of reaching out to him.”

Natasha watches Steve quietly for a moment. He feels like a bug under a microscope as she looks for some unimaginable tell. After a few seconds she finally nods, coming to a conclusion. “Okay,” she says, “I believe you. But if you’re going to do this right, you’re going to need me.”

“Need you?” Steve parrots back, confused.

“Oh yes, me. You need someone who can trace all of Hydra’s webs back to their source. Or sources, most likely. Find all of their locations and burn them to the ground. If we miss even one, there’s always going to be the chance for a resurgence. Let me help take them down and then we can talk about maybe you reaching out to Bucky.”

Tony almost swallows his tongue the first time he sees Natasha go to work on his computers. As much as he hates to admit someone is better than him, he’s in awe of Natasha’s skills. They spend all hours of the day and night working, often passing out from lack of sleep right on the computer desk. Steve brings them coffee and sandwiches but he really can’t contribute much to the discussion as they throw ideas around.

With Natasha’s help it only takes two weeks to track down every last Hydra base, safe house, lock box, and rendezvous point. Steve insists on looping in SHIELD after he and Natasha hammer out a strategy they can both agree upon. There’s too much exposure and a risk of missing Hydra members if they use only the Avengers. The strike needs to be tactical and synchronous. Thirty one locations and thirty one strike teams all attacking at the exact same time. No chance for locations to tip each other off or for people to run.

Agent Coluson is more than willing to lend the support the Avengers need and offers up all the man power he has. With teams in place, Steve isn’t willing to wait another day to end the decades old war. At 2:23am, eastern standard time, all thirty one teams move in on their locations. By 2:35am, Hydra has officially fallen.

It takes a few days for it to sink in that Hydra’s really gone. Steve worries incessantly that they missed something and it’s all going to be for nothing again. He’d rather spend another seventy years at the bottom of the ocean than risk bringing Bucky back to danger. SHIELD is kind enough to handle the processing of items and documents recovered from the raids, as well as incarcerating the few members who allowed themselves to be taken alive. Much to SHIELD’s embarrassment, the raids uncovered a few Hydra agents in their own ranks, but they were thankful to have the potential threats to their organization removed.

Steve doesn’t approach Natasha for Bucky’s whereabouts. He’s still too nervous and tentatively hopeful to ask. He doesn’t think his heart will be able to handle it if she says no again. It helps that she’s going to be around more now so he’ll have opportunities when he’s ready. After a little cajoling by Tony, Natasha had agreed to work with the Avengers on a loose, as needed, basis. Basically whenever she feels like it, but Steve’s pretty sure she’ll come to help if called. In the end, Natasha is the one who seeks out Steve. She finds him sitting in the common room, watching an old western by himself in the dark, and hands him a slip of paper.

Steve blinks blearily, caught off guard, and he tries to read the note in the dim, flickering TV light. It’s an address and a phone number printed in Natasha’s tiny neat penmanship. He knows what it is immediately but can’t figure out why she’s giving it to him now.

“It’s time.” she says simply, reading the question on his face. “If you decide to go, let me know and I’ll help with your disguise.”

Steve chafes a little at her offer, “What’s wrong with my normal disguise?”

“Steven, a baseball hat and a coat are not a disguise. If you’re going to him you’ll need to blend in. Even with those ridiculous shoulders of yours.”

“Fine, fine.” he grumbles without any heat. Part of him wants to jump on his bike and drive straight there until he can hold Bucky in his arms again. The other part of him is still terrified of rejection and that maybe their mission wasn’t a success like everyone thinks. His mind is warring with itself until Natasha flicks his ear, breaking him out of his thoughts to glare at her.

“Stop over thinking.” she commands. “We’ll go in the morning. Together. I’ve been apart from my malyshka for long enough.”

Steve looks at Natasha, gratitude pouring from his eyes while his mouth can’t find the words to thank her enough. She knows without him having to say a word. Patting him gently on the knee, Natasha gets up and silently exits the room leaving Steve to solitude once again.

xxXxx

Bucky

“Come on, bug, please.” Bucky begs, trying to coax Becca away from the glass walled cage of guinea pigs.

“But daddy, look at that one! She’s perfect! I could name her Angelina and she could live in my room.” Becca pleads pointing to a white, black, and tan colored pig in the back.

Bucky hesitates, almost willing to cave in, before finding his resolve again. “No, not right now. I’m not saying no forever, but let’s go home and do some research first. We want to make sure we can give her a good home before buying her, right?”

Becca looks up at him skeptically before admitting defeat. Her tiny shoulders slump but she nods. “Okay, we can do the research first.” Becca turns back to the cage, wiggling her finger at the tiny animal. “Bye Angelina. I’ll be back for you soon.”

Bucky herds Becca away from the cage and towards the check out. All they’d needed was a new filter for the fish tank Bucky had set up in the kitchen a few weeks back. It was hard to believe they’d had Elsa and Anna for a month now. Becca had won the pair of fish at the fall festival they went to their second week in town. Both Barnes’ had adapted to life in Cape Elizabeth quickly, loving the slower paced small town life. Bucky missed the city at times, the hustle and bustle, the nearness to everything, but mostly his friends. And Steve. He tried not to think about Steve as much as he could, but in the quiet moments his memories consumed him.

Back in their apartment, which now feels like home more than their apartment in Brooklyn ever had, Bucky replaces the fish tank filter and starts the oven preheating so he can get dinner cooking while he grabs a shower. He’s still in his scrubs, having picked Becca up after his shift at the urgent care center, and though it was a relatively easy day, he still wants his habitual post-shift shower so he can feel a little more human again.

Bucky pokes his head into Becca’s room and finds her already in her pajamas, sprawled out on the floor, coloring. He leaves her be, not wanting to disturb her, and heads towards his room. Bucky just gets his shirt over his head when the doorbell rings. He was so close to hot water and soap. Pulling his shirt back on with a groan, Bucky heads to the front door trying to keep a scowl off of his face. It’s probably just Anne with some new baked good, or maybe even Chris from work dropping something off he forgot there. Bucky throws the door open before looking out the window and regrets it when two strangers stand in front of him.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his tone guarded. In a span of a heartbeat Bucky goes through the list of places he’s hidden knives and pepper spray. While he trusts Natasha’s skills, he never wants to risk not being able to defend himself and Becca. In the next heartbeat he recognizes the breadth of the man’s shoulders and the sharp glint of the woman’s eyes. “Oh my god.” he gasps, his knees buckling under him in shock.

Steve lunges forward, super soldier reflexes coming to the rescue, and he catches Bucky before the smaller man hits the ground.

Embarrassed, Bucky rights himself with assistance from Steve. He’s trembling, terrified what it means if they’re both there on his doorstep. “Come in then, I guess.” he says, shakily waving a hand towards the living room.

Bucky can’t help but stare at Natasha and Steve as they take their seats on the sofa. Natasha’s bright red hair is a muted brown, thick rimmed glasses frame her eyes, and she’s wearing heels that add four inches to her petite stature. Steve’s hair is colored black and spiked up in a way that makes Bucky want to laugh. The shapeless green army style jacket and brown contacts in his eyes make him almost unrecognizable.

Natasha, fearless as ever, is the first to speak. “Sorry for dropping in on you like this.”

“Why are you-” Bucky is cut off by a shriek and then a flurry of yellow pajamas as Becca comes flying into the room, throwing herself at Natasha. The little girl would recognize that voice anywhere.

“Auntie Nat!!!” she yells as she clings to Natasha for dear life. She’s crying, tears streaming down her pink cheeks, mumbling into her auntie’s shoulder, too quiet to understand.

“I know, malyshka,” Natasha croons, “I missed you too.”

Bucky feels tears of his own prickling the corners of his eyes.

Becca starts peppering Natasha with questions, still not recognizing Steve much to the former blonde’s amusement. Natasha gently cuts off the little girl’s questions. “Okay, kiddo. I need to talk to Bucky for a few minutes. Adult talk. Can you go play for a bit and when we’re done I’ll come hang out with you for as long as you want?”

Becca nods, giving Natasha another hug before heading down the hall without complaint.

Bucky shakes his head, “You know she’s never going to let you go now that you said that.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Natasha grins.

“So,” Bucky starts the dreaded conversation again, “Why are you here? Do we need to leave? Did something happen?”

Natasha glances over at Steve and begins when it’s clear he’s not ready to speak. “Well, we have some news. Good news, actually.” Natasha looks at Steve one last time, wanting to give him the chance to share the news but he remains silent. “Hydra is gone, permanently this time. We’re certain, I’m certain. I kind of teamed up with Steve and the guys to make sure of it. You’re safe to come home now.”

Bucky’s heart clenches at the word ‘home’. He is home. Trying to parse through the information Bucky gets stuck on, “Wait, you kind of teamed up with Steve? And the guys? What are you, an Avenger now?”

“I wouldn’t put a label on it. But I’m there to help them when I have time.”

Bucky huffs a laugh at the surrealness of it. He’d always thought Natasha was practically a superhero and now, here she is really being one. “Do you have a superhero name and everything?” He’s going to enjoy lording this over her head, whatever it is.

“Nope.” Natasha says at the same time Steve says “Black Widow.”

Bucky’s eyes bug out comically at both the name and the fact that Steve finally spoke. The rich timber of his voice rolls across the room to Bucky making him feel weak-kneed all over again. “Steve… I…” Bucky looks at Steve helplessly. He doesn’t know how to start with so many conflicting emotions whirling around inside.

Natasha watches the pair of men watch each other and decides it’s time for her exit. “I’m going to hang out with Becs. You two have a lot of catching up to do.” She pops up from the sofa and heads off leaving the two men to stare at each other in silence.

As much as it pains him, Steve finally speaks up. “If you don’t want me here I can go. I shouldn’t have just shown up like this, I’m sorry. I just… I thought… well, I’m not sure what I thought anymore.” He looks so lost and earnest it breaks Bucky’s heart a little more.

“Wine.” Bucky blurts out awkwardly. “I have wine. Let’s get some and we can go sit out on the porch and talk.”

“Okay, Buck. Whatever you want.”

Steve follows Bucky to the kitchen quietly. He waits as Bucky pours two mugs full of a dark red wine and hands him one of the mugs. He follows quietly again when Bucky leads him out to the porch and takes a seat on one of the adirondack chairs. Steve takes the chair next to Bucky, surprised by how comfortable the seat is. “This is nice.” he says, not specifying if he’s commenting on the wine, the chair, or the crisp, clear, autumn evening.

Bucky hums his agreement. “It is.” A soft silence falls on them again, but Bucky doesn’t let it linger this time. “So Hydra’s really gone?”

Steve nods immediately, finding his footing a little. “Yeah, for sure this time. You should have seen Natasha and Tony. They were amazing tracking everyone down. We even got SHIELD to lend us their forces to ensure our plan worked.”

“That had to feel really good after all these years.”

“Yeah, it did.”

“So, what’s the plan now? What will you do now that Hydra’s out of the picture?”

Steve thinks a moment before finally shrugging his ridiculously wide shoulders, “I really don’t know. Tony was making some jokes about me finally retiring but I don’t know what I’d do with my time if I wasn’t working.”

Bucky reaches over and places his hand on top of Steve’s where it rests on the arm of his chair. The movement is so natural and easy that he’s squeezing Steve’s hand comfortingly before he even realizes what he’s doing. “You’ll find something,” Bucky assures him. “Maybe you could volunteer. There’s veterans centers, and animal shelters, and old folks homes that could all use an extra set of capable hands. You’ll figure it out.”

Steve chuckles at the thought, “Yeah, maybe I’ll go volunteer at a retirement home. It would be nice to swap stories with people my own age about the good old days.”

Bucky huffs a laugh and shoves lightly at Steve’s arm. “I forget that you’re really a senior citizen under all that muscle.”

“Only chronologically. Physically, I’m still twenty-seven.”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s see the date on your driver's license, pal.” Bucky teases.

Steve laughs in earnest then, leaning a little closer to Bucky and the moment turns soft, intimate, as their laughter dies off.

There’s so many things Bucky wants to tell Steve, so many different ways the conversation could go. But he finally decides on, “Steve, I need you to understand that as much as I want to be with you, I don’t want to go back to New York. Becca and I created a life in this town and there is so much opportunity for her to have a happy, normal, childhood here. I can provide better for her here than I ever could in the city.”

“She comes first.” Steve says simply.

“She does, always. I loved New York for a long time but I think I forgot how different life could be outside the city. I have a job here that I love, it’s less stress and more money and I work normal hours for once in my life. Our expenses are like half of what they were in Brooklyn, which is still unreal. And Becca loves her new school and her friends. It’s not setting her up for Ivy League or anything but they have advanced classes she can take when she gets a little older. She’s happy here, we’re happy here. Hell, we have a yard, Steve. A real yard where she can run and play and just be a normal kid. This is the life I wanted for her.”

“I’m not asking you to give all that up, Buck.” Steve is quick to assure him, “I’m just asking if maybe you’d consider giving us another chance. I know we were only together for a few months but I… I fell in love with you. And I don’t expect you to feel the same way, I’m not trying to force you into something you’re not interested in, but if you’d be willing, I’d really like to give us another try.”

Bucky’s heart swells at the declaration. It was fast, but he’d fallen just as quickly and deeply as Steve. He doesn’t know how they’ll work out the distance, but in the spirit of putting their cards on the table, Bucky admits, “I fell in love with you too. Leaving was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I had to protect Becca. I’m so sorry I ran. Again. It’s going to be one hell of a commute, but I’m willing to give us another try.”

Steve’s hands are trembling as he’s overwhelmed by emotion. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be too far. I’m sure there are things for a retired centenarian to do around here. If you’re serious about trying, I’ll go back to New York and hand in my resignation tomorrow. I could be back and ready to house hunt by the weekend. Just… promise me you won’t run again. Please. If things don't work out then it’ll suck, but okay. Just, don’t run before giving us a chance to talk it out.”

Pain blossoms in Bucky’s chest at Steve’s plea. He knew he’d hurt Steve twice now by running instead of talking. After this last time, Bucky knew he’d learned his lesson. “The only place I’ll be running from now on is back to you.” Hope and love shine brightly in Bucky’s eyes as he leans forward to capture Steve’s lips with his own. The kiss is a gentle, a promise for a future together. They’re unhurried, losing themselves in the moment as their bodies fall back into sync like no time has passed at all. After a little while the air is too chilly to stay outside and they head in to find Natasha and Becca coloring together as dinner cools on the stove top.

“I took it out when it beeped.” Natasha says pointing at the stove, “It smells amazing, I hope you don’t mind sharing.”

“Not at all.” Bucky grins, “We’d love for you guys to stay for dinner. And if you don’t have to be back right away, you’re welcome to crash here for the night too.”

A faint blush spreads across Steve’s cheeks at the idea of spending the night, hopefully in Bucky’s bed. He returns Bucky’s grin readily. “No place I’d rather be.”

#stucky #stucky fanfic #non winter soldier bucky barnes #nurse!bucky #parent!bucky #becca barnes #kid!becca barnes #adopted child #captain america steve rogers #shrunkyclunks #marvel #marvel fanfic

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theculturedmarxist · 3 years

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Yves here. Reader IM Doc, an internal medicine practitioner of 30 years, trained and worked in one of the top teaching hospitals in the US for most of his career before moving to a rural hospital in an affluent pocket of Flyover. He has been giving commentary from the front lines of the pandemic. Along with current and former colleagues, he is troubled by the PR-flier-level information presented to the public about the Pfizer and Moderna vaccines, at least prior to the release of an article in the New England Journal of Medicine on the Pfizer vaccine: Safety and Efficacy of the BNT162b2 mRNA Covid-19 Vaccine. However, he did not find the study to be reassuring. He has taken the trouble of writing up his reservations after discussing the article with his group of nine physicians that meets regularly to sanity check concerns and discuss the impact that articles will have on their practices.

By IM Doc, a internal medicine doctor working in a rural hospital in the heartlands

Right off the bat – I am as weary and concerned about this pandemic as anyone. What my little rural area has been through in the past three weeks or so has been nothing short of harrowing. This virus has the ability to render patients about as sick as I have ever seen in my life, while leaving more than half the population with minimal if any symptoms. The patients who are sick are often very sick. And instead of slow and steady improvement like we normally experience, most of these patients are assigned to a long and hard slog. Multiple complications arise. This leads to very diminished throughput in the hospital. The patients literally stack up and we have nowhere to put the new ones coming in who themselves will be there for days or weeks. On top of that are the constant donning and doffing of PPE and intense emotional experiences for the staff, who are themselves becoming patients or in this small town have grandma or Aunt Gertrude as a patient.

To put it bluntly, I want this pandemic over. And now. But I do not want an equal or even worse problem added onto the tragedy. And that is my greatest fear right now. And medical history has demonstrated conclusively over and over again: brash, poorly-thought-out, emotion-laden decisions regarding interventions in a time of crisis can exponentially increase the scale of pain and lead to even worse disasters.

I am not an anti-vaxxer. I have given tens of thousands of safe and tested vaccines over my lifetime. I am very familiar with side effects and safety problems associated with all of them. That is why I can administer them with confidence. I am also an optimist, so all of the cautions I discuss below are the result of experience and the information made public about the Pfizer vaccine, not a temperamental predisposition to see the glass as half empty.

I know this piece is long, but I wanted to completely dissect the landmark New England Journal of Medicine (from now on NEJM) publication of the first Pfizer vaccine paper. I am replicating the method of my mentor in Internal Medicine, a tall figure in 20th Century medicine. He was an internationally recognized authority and his name is on one of the foundational textbooks in his specialty. He was a master and he taught me very well, including the fundamentals of scientific inquiry and philosophy, telltale signs of sloppy or dishonest work, the order in which you should dissect someone’s work, and the statistics involved.

When I have a new medical student doing rotations with me, I give them a collection of reading. At the very top is Drug Companies & Doctors: A Story of Corruption from the New York Review of Books in 2009 by Marcia Angell, MD. She was the editor-in-chief of the NEJM, the very journal that published this Pfizer vaccine paper.

Dr. Angell’s article is the Cliffs Notes version of much longer discussions she had about corruption, corporatism, managerialism, profiteering, greed, and deception in in the medical profession. Patient care and patient concerns and indeed patient lives in her mind have been absolutely overcome by all of these other things. It is a landmark paper, and should be read by anyone who is going to interact with the medical community, because alas, this is the way it is now. I view this paper the exact same way I view Eisenhower’s speech about the military industrial complex. What she said is exactly true, and has only become orders of magnitude worse since 2009.

And now the paper.

Unfortunately, this study from Pfizer in the latest NEJM, and indeed this whole vaccine rollout, are case studies in the pathology Agnell described. There are more red flags in this paper and related events than present on any May Day in downtown Beijing. Yet all anyone hears from our media, our medical elites, and our politicians are loud hosannas and complete unquestioning acceptance of this new technique. And lately, ridicule and spite for anyone who dares to raise questions.

I have learned over thirty years as a primary care provider that Big Pharma deserves nothing from me but complete and total skepticism and the assumption that anything they put forth is pure deception until proven otherwise. Why so harsh? Well, to put it bluntly, Big Pharma has covered my psyche with 30 years of scars:

• As a very young doctor, I treated an extraordinary middle-aged woman who had contracted polio as a toddler from a poorly tested polio vaccine rolled out in an “emergency.” Tens of thousands of American kids shared her fate1 • The eight patients I took care of until they died from congestive heart failure that had been induced by a diabetes drug called Actos. The drug company knew full well heart failure was a risk during their trials. When it became obvious after the rollout, they did everything they could to obfuscate. Actos now carries a black box warning about increased risk of heart failure • The three women who I took care of who had been made widows as their husbands died of completely unexpected heart attacks while on Vioxx. I have no proof the Vioxx did this. But when Vioxx was finally removed from the market, the mortality rate in the US fell that year by a measurable amount, inconsistent with recent trends and forecasts. Merck knew from their trials that Vioxx had a significant risk of cardiovascular events and stroke, and did absolutely nothing to relay that danger in any way. Worse, they did everything they could to muddle information and evade responsibility once the truth started to come out • The dozens upon dozens of twenty and thirty-something patients who have been rendered emotional and spiritual zombies by the SSRIs, antipsychotics and amphetamines they have been taking since childhood. Their brain never learned what emotions were, much less how to process them and we are left with empty husks where people never developed. The SSRIs and antipsychotics were NEVER approved for anyone under 18. EVER. While there are some validated uses for stimulants in children, they are obviously overprescribed, as confirmed by long-standing media reports of their routine use as a study/performance aid. It is all about the lucre. • The hundreds and hundreds of 40-60 year olds who have been hollowed out from the legal prescribing of opioids. All the while the docs were resisting this assault, the drug companies and the paid-off academics and medical elites were changing the rules to make physicians who did not treat any pain at all with opiates into evil Satan-worshippers. And they paid for media appearances to drive across the point: OPIATES ARE GOOD. WE HAVE MADE THEM SO YOU CANNOT GET ADDICTED. And here we are now with entire states taking more opioids than in the waning days of the Chinese Empire, and we all know how that story ended. All this misery so a family of billionaires can laugh its way to the bank.

I carry all these people and more with me daily. I would not be doing a service to their memory if I allowed myself to be duped into writing another blind prescription that was going to add yet another scar.

I will dissect the important parts of this paper exactly as my mentor described above taught me. He performed years of seminal research. He was a nationally-known expert in his field.

In medicine, especially in top-tier journals like NEJM, landmark papers are always accompanied by an editorial. These editorials are written by a national expert who almost always has “peer-reviewed” the source material as well. This is how the reader knows that an expert in the field has looked over the source material and that it supports the conclusions in the paper. My mentor did this all the time. The binders all over his office were the actual underlying data that he scrutinized to confirm the findings. There is no way on earth to print and publish the voluminous source material. Editorial review was one sure way all to assure that someone independent, with appropriate experience, confirmed the findings. This was onerous work, but he and thousands of others did it because this is the very essence of science. He was scrupulous in his editorials about findings, problems, and conclusions. It was after all his reputation as well.

My first lesson from him: READ THE EDITORIAL FIRST. It gets the problems in your head before you read the statistics and methods, etc. in the actual paper. It gives you the context of the study in history. It often includes a vigorous discussion of why the study is important.

Admittedly, over the past generation, as the corporatism and dollar-counting has taken over my profession and its ethics, this function of editorial authoring has become at times increasingly bizarre and too-obviously predisposed to conclude with glad tidings of joy, especially if pharmaceuticals are involved.

So I read the editorial first. You can find it on the NEJM webpage, in the top right corner.

And, amazingly, it is basically a recitation of the same whiz-bang Pfizer puffery that we have all been reading for the past few weeks. There really is not much new. Furthermore, it is filled with words like “triumph” and “dramatic success”. Those accolades have yet to be earned. This vaccine has not yet even been released. Surely, “triumph” is a bit premature. Those words would NEVER have been used by my mentor or similar researchers in his generation. They would have been focused on the good, the bad and the ugly. A generation ago, editorial reviewers saw their job as informing the reader and making certain the clinicians that were reading knew of any limitations or problems.

In quite frankly unprecedented fashion, two different events that were carefully reported occurred almost simultaneously with the release of both the paper and the editorial. Both of these events contradict and contravene data and conclusions reported in both the paper and the editorial and I believe they deserve immediate attention. They both belie the assertions of the editorial writers that [emphasis mine] “the (safety) pattern appears to be similar to that of other viral vaccines and does not arouse specific concern”.

First, a critical issue for any clinician is “exclusion criteria”. This refers in general to groups of subjects that were not allowed into the trial prima facie. Common examples would include over 70, patients on chemotherapy and other immunosuppressed patients, children, diabetics, etc.. This issue is important because I do not want to give my patient this vaccine (available apparently next week) to any patient that is in an excluded group. Those patients really ought to wait until more information is available – FOR THEIR OWN SAFETY. And not to mention, exclusion criteria exist because the subjects in them are usually considered more vulnerable to mayhem than average subjects. From my reading of this paper, and the accompanying editorial, one would assume there were no exclusion criteria. They certainly are never mentioned.

I reiterate, the paper is silent on this question of exclusion criteria, as is the editorial. Had my mentor seen something like “exclusion criteria” in the source material, and realized that it was not in the final paper, he would have absolutely included a notice in his editorial. This would have been after calling the principal investigator and directly questioning why there was no mention in the original paper. Patient safety should be foremost on everyone’s mind at all times in clinical research and its presentation to practitioners.

And now we know there were exclusion criteria, not because of anything Pfizer, the investigators, or the NEJM did but because of stunning news out of the UK. UPDATE: I will address this at greater length, but an alert reader did find the study protocol, which were not referenced in any way that any of the nine members in my review group could find, nor were they mentioned in the text of paper or editorial, as one would expect for a medication intended for the public at large. I apologize for the oversight, but this information was not easy to find from the article, not mentioned or linked to from the text of the article, the text of the editorial, in the “Figures/Media,” or in a supplemental document.

In the UK on day 1 of the rollout, two nurses with severe allergies experienced anaphylaxis, a life-threatening reaction to this vaccine. Only after world-wide coverage did Pfizer admit that there was an exclusion criterion for severe allergies in their study.

Ummm, Pfizer, since we are now getting ready to give this to possibly millions of people in the next few weeks – ARE THERE ANY OTHER EXCLUSION CRITERIA? Should I, as a physician, specifically not be giving this to patients with conditions that you have excluded?

Furthermore, NEJM, since you published this trial, have you bothered to at least put a correction on this trial on your website that it should NOT be given to people with severe allergies? I certainly see nothing like this.

Should someone from the NEJM or the FDA be all over Pfizer to ascertain the existence of other exclusion groups so we do not accidentally harm or kill someone over the next two weeks?

Unfortunately, Americans, you have your answer from the FDA about severe allergic reactions right from a press conference in which Dr. Peter Marks, the director of FDA’s Center for Biologics Evaluation and Research is quoted as saying:

Even people who’ve had a severe allergic reaction to food or to something in the environment in the past should be OK to get the shot….1.6% of the population has had a severe allergic reaction to a food or something in the environment. We would really not like to have that many people not be able to receive the vaccine.

Are you serious? Dr. Marks, have you ever seen an anaphylactic reaction? I live in a very rural area. Many patients live 30 minutes or more from the hospital. What if one of them had an anaphylactic reaction to this vaccine hours after administration, had no epi-pen and had to travel a half hour to get to the nearest hospital? There is a very high likelihood that a good outcome would not occur. Sometimes, as a physician, I simply cannot believe what I am hearing out of the mouths of our so-called medical leaders.

To the writers of the editorial accompanying this research:

Did you actually look at the source material? The existence of at least one exclusion criterion for severe allergic reactions had to be in there somewhere. If you did look at the source material, are there others that the physicians of America need to know about? If they were not in the source material, after the events in the UK, has anyone bothered to follow up with Pfizer about this omission?

Does anyone at NEJM or Pfizer or FDA plan to fully inform the physicians of America? Does ANYONE at NEJM or Pfizer or FDA care about patient safety?

Now for the second story that got my attention this week, an article from JAMA Internal Medicine, a subsidiary of JAMA, The Journal of the American Medical Association.

JAMA, like NEJM, is one of America’s landmark medical journals. I will assure you that JAMA is not the National Enquirer. This piece was written by a nursing researcher. It is very likely she is well-versed in all aspects of American medical research.

In her story, she details her recruitment and her experience in the Pfizer COVID trial, the same one we are dissecting here. She describes in detail her experience with the vaccine and the fact that she is concerned that many patients are likely going to feel very sick after the injection. She wrote up her own reactions, and included a very troubling one. About 15 hours after her second injection, she developed a fever of 104.9. She explained that she called her reaction to the Research Nurse promptly the next morning. The recounted the response of the Research Nurse to her information as “A lot of people have reactions after the second injection. Keep monitoring your symptoms and call us if anything changes.”

Thankfully, it appears this nurse has completely recovered. From the best I can tell, this encounter occurred in late August and early September, putting it well within the trial’s recruitment of arms as detailed in the paper.

This JAMA article impinges directly on Figure 2 on page 7 of the paper, a graphic that that lays out all the major side effects during in the trial.

It is very important to note that based on the trial’s own data, conveniently laid out on the very top of the figure in green, blue, orange and red, a temperature of 104.9F or 40.5 C is described as a Grade 4 event. The definition of a Grade 4 event is anything that is life-threatening or disabling. A fever of 104.9 can have grave consequences for any adult and is absolutely a Grade 4 event.

By law, a grade 4 event must immediately be reported to the FDA, and to the Institutional Review Board (the entity charged with overseeing the safety of the subjects) and to the original investigators. THERE IS NO EXCEPTION. One would think that would also be reported in the research paper to at least alert clinicians to be on the lookout.

I could not find any mention of this event in the text of the paper. NOT ONE. Let’s take a closer look at Figure 2 on page 7 where adverse events are reported in a table form. Please note: this is a very busy image, and in the browser version, with very low resolution graphics that are profoundly difficult to read (they are a bit clearer if you download the PDF). This is a time-tested pharmaceutical company tactic to obscure findings that they do not want you to see. My mentor warned me about ruses like these years ago, and finding one raises the possibility that deception is in play.

The area for the reporting of this Grade 4 reaction would be on the 2nd row down at the left of the set called B, titled systemic events and use of medication. The area of concern would be where the graph is marked with the number 16. Do you see a red line there? It would be at the very top. I have blown this up 4 times on my computer and see no red there. I am left to assume that this Grade 4 “Life Threatening or Disabling” event that was clearly within the time parameters of this trial was not reported in this study.

To those who say that I am making way too much out of one patient with a severe fever, let’s do a little math. There are 37,706 participants in the “Main Safety Population” (from Table 1), of which 18.860 received the vaccine.2 Let us assume that this individual was the only one that had a GRADE 4 reaction. Let us also assume that the end goal is to vaccinate every American a total of 330,000,000 people. So if we extrapolate this 1 out of 18,860 into all 330,000,000 of us, it suggest that roughly 17,500 could have this kind of fever. Now assume a 70% vaccination rate, and you get that would be approximately 12,250. I hope you now understand that in clinical medicine related to trials like this – a whole lot of nothing can turn into a whole lot of something quickly when you extrapolate to the entire targeted group. Does anyone not think that the clinicians of America should be prepared for anything like this that may be coming?

A couple more questions for NEJM and the editorial writers:

Were you ever made aware that this Grade 4 reaction occurred? Now that we have a reliable report that it occurred, has there been any attempt to investigate?

Did the Research Nurse actually report this event? If not, was she just simply not trained or was there deliberate efforts to conceal such reactions? How many more reactions were reported anywhere this trial was conducted and that did not make it to the FDA, the IRB or possibly the investigators? Is that not a cause for concern?

As if this is not enough, there is so much more wrong with this editorial. Now we are going to talk about corruption.

I want to reiterate my concern that over the past generation, as my profession has lost its way, its medical journals have turned into cheering sections for Big Pharma rather than referees and safety monitors. We all should relish the great things medical science is doing, but we should be doing EVERYTHING we can to minimize injury and death. Too often our journals have become enablers of Big Pharma deceiving our physicians and the public. Unfortunately, this paper and its editorial look troublingly like a case study of this development.

To provide context, I looked over the last month of the NEJM, the issues from November 12, 19 and 26th and December 3rd. Based on having read the NEJM over the years, I believe these four weeks are representative.

During this period, there were 15 original articles published in the fields of Oncology, General Surgery, Infectious Disease, Endocrinology, Renal, Cardiology, Pulmonary and Ear Nose & Throat. Of these 15 articles, the editors thought that eight were important enough to have an editorial from an acknowledged expert. I have read every one of these studies and the editorials as I do every week. All eight in the past month were indeed by leading experts in the field of the underlying studies. They included a COVID vaccine overview reviewed by an leading figure in vaccinology, and two COVID papers about Plaquenil and other approaches discussed by top infectious disease experts.

It was unlikely that those papers were going to get national media attention. All medical stuff.

But here we have our Pfizer vaccine paper. We have 300,000 fatalities in the USA alone and millions of cases. We have whacked our economy, we are in the depths of a national emergency. And we have a paper, the first, that may offer a glimpse of hope. Certainly this would be a landmark paper, and certainly it was treated in that manner? Right?

One would think that the doctors of America would have this study explained to them by a world-known vaccinologist? NOPE…..Maybe a virologist? NOPE….. Maybe a leading government official? Dr. Fauci? Dr. Birx? Dr. Osterholm? NOPE…..Maybe an expert in coronaviruses? NOPE…

We get the Pfizer ad glossy editorial treatment from Eric Rubin MD, the editor-in-chief of the NEJM. And Dr, Longo, an associate editor. Dr. Longo is an oncologist. Dr. Rubin is at least a recognized infectious disease doctor, but his specialty based on my Google search is mycobacterium, not virology. Again, one would normally anticipate for a paper of this importance, the editorial would be from someone with directly on point expertise.

Why would this fact been important to my mentor? (and I had the privilege of hearing him trash a paper in an open forum about a very similar issue, a paper introducing a drug to the world that later was the disaster of the decade, Vioxx) Why is this important to me and all the other physicians in my review group here in flyover country yesterday?

Because the choice of authorship of the editorial leads you to one of only several conclusions:

• Pfizer would not release the source data because of proprietary corporate concerns and no self-respecting expert would review without it • Pfizer knew there are problems and did not want anyone with expertise to find out and publicize them • The editors could not find a real expert willing to put their name on a discussion • Drs. Rubin and Longo are on some kind of journey to Vanity Fair and wanted their names on an “article for the ages” • This is a rush job, and no one had time to do anything properly, and so we just threw it all together in a flash

Readers, pick your poison. If anyone can think of a sound reason, please let me know. I am all ears.

But let’s open up the can of worms a bit more. Pfizer supports NEJM. Just a brief swipe through of recent editions yielded several Pfizer ads. A Pfizer ad appeared on my NEJM website this AM. I do not know how much they pay in advertising but appears to be quite a bit.

Americans, have we devolved so far in our grift that it is now appropriate for the EDITOR-IN-CHIEF of our landmark medical journal to be personally authoring “rah rah” editorials about a product of a client that supports his journal with ad dollars? And he has the gall to not present this conflict on his disclosure form? Really? Am I the only one worried about this type of thing?

Now we travel from the can of worms to the sewer. And this impacts every single one of us. I want you to Google the names of the people on the FDA committee that voted 17-4-1 two days ago to proceed with the Emergency Use Declaration. Go ahead – Google it. On that list, you will find the name Eric Rubin, MD. Why yes indeed, that is the very same Eric Rubin MD who wrote this editorial. Who is the Editor-in-Chief of the NEJM. A publication that certainly takes ad dollars from Pfizer. And he was one of the 17 to vote for the Pfizer product to be immediately used in an emergency fashion. Oh yes, oh yes he was.

Am I the only one who can recognize that Pfizer and other pharma companies may have some influence on Dr. Rubin thanks continued support of his employer, the NEJM? Am I the only one concerned that Dr. Rubin’s “rah rah” editorial may have been influenced by Pfizer? Is anyone else troubled that the Editor-in-Chief of the NEJM, supported by Big Pharma advertising dollars, is sitting on an FDA board to decide the fate of any pharmaceutical product? Is this not the very definition of corruption? Or at least a severe conflict of interest? I strongly suspect that a thorough evaluation of members of that committee will reveal other problems. As my grandmother always used to say, “There is never just one roach under a refrigerator.”

I looked in vain all day today for media discussions of conflicts of interest with Dr. Rubin or anyone else in a position of authority. I found nothing.

What I did find was the Boston NPR affiliate WBUR discussing Dr. Rubin’s Yes vote. You can listen yourself:

This interview left me much more concerned about Dr. Rubin’s role and what exactly he read in the raw data from Pfizer. In this interview, he admits that he as an FDA advisory member has seen no data from the Moderna trial coming up for a vote this week:

These two vaccines are fairly similar to one another, so I am hoping the data will look good, but we haven’t seen the data yet, so I reserve judgement.

Excuse me, but should not the members already have the data and be mulling over it to ask intelligent questions?

These statements left me more worried about the issues I have already brought up with the Pfizer vaccine:

We don’t know if there are particular groups that should or should not get the vaccine…We do not know what will happen to safety over the longer term.

When finally asked specifically about the UK allergic reactions and if they came up in the FDA meeting (emphasis mine):

It did come up and this was a bit of a surprise because in the trial, that trial was limited to specific kinds of participants, there were apparently no incidents like that, nevertheless this suggests it is something we are going to have to look out for.

There is absolutely not a word in the published data to suggest there was a limit to SPECIFIC PARTICIPANTS – what on earth is he talking about? Are there limited specific kinds of patients that we as physicians should be looking to vaccinate?

In a fine finish, toward the end of the interview Dr. Rubin states he is a bit relieved that low risk patients will be getting the vaccine later after we know more about the side effects with the first patients. I am really not trying to be a jerk – but are you kidding me? I thought this vaccine was a triumph with minimal side effects.

Dr. Rubin, kind sir, I really feel that you owe a clarification about your statements in the WBUR interview to the patients and caregivers of America. We are the ones with lives on the line.

First, I have the privilege of sitting on an Institutional Review Board (an independent entity that protects patient safety) and I know something about Grade 4 side effects. Just for 1 Grade 4 side effect in one subject, the accompanying documentation would often be a half a ream of paper. Because I agreed to do that job, it was my obligation to look through that documentation. That half a ream was for one side effect in one trial. Yet, you state unequivocally in this interview, that you, as a sitting member of the FDA committee that oversees the safety of the nation in this affair, have not seen any of the Moderna documentation for that upcoming meeting this week.

For readers to fully understand what I am saying, this Moderna documentation is going to be reams and reams of documents that need to be evaluated carefully to ask the right questions. And you have not yet studied this? For a meeting in just a few days? I find this deeply troubling. Your statements create the appearance the committee you are sitting on is nothing more than a rubber stamp for a decision that has already been made. This would be an absolute tragedy.

Second, Dr. Rubin, you in your position as the Editor-in-Chief of the NEJM and the editorial writer for this research, may be one of the few people on earth that have seen the original Pfizer research. Despite calling this a triumph, you state in the interview that you are relieved that younger people less likely to get the vaccine early so you will have time to wait to see if complications develop in the first patients. You have stated, despite your assertion in the editorial that the side effects were consistent with other vaccines, that “we don’t know if there are particular groups that should or should not get the vaccine”. Have you seen something in that “triumph” research that is concerning enough to you to make such statements? As a physician, I would really like a clarification on this statement, given that the shots are already rolling out today.

Now that we are past the editorial, a few words about the nuts and bolts of the paper.

I look for very specific red flags – usually making the data difficult to interpret. This study did not disappoint.

On page 5, in Table 1, the Demographic Description of the participants, go down to the AGE GROUP area. Note it is divided into only two cohorts 16-55 and >55. This is a real problem. My mentor said an honest paper should never deploy such a tactic.

You see, more than half of my patients are over 70. Why is this kind of obfuscation a real problem for my ability to trust the vaccine? Well, the intro papers to many pharmaceuticals that have gone down the drain in recent years have used this very same device. It is their way of hiding the fact that they did not put many older patients in the trial, certainly not representative of the population, and certainly not representative of who is seemingly going to get this vaccine in the first round. Do I know that 90% of the >55 group is actually between 55-58? I don’t. How hard would it be for them to do a breakdown in decades? 16-25 26-35 36-45 46-55 56-65 66-75 76-85? We have lots of computers in this country and the population breakdown is done this way on studies I read all the time. Why not do provide this information on a study that is this critically important, particularly one where elderly patients will be near the head of the line?

What are they trying to do here? Unfortunately, too often drugmakers resort to this practice to hide their failure to test their drug on the elderly to an appropriate or safe degree, knowing there would likely be lots of problems. Because of their past behavior, I ALWAYS assume this is true until proven otherwise and act accordingly with my elderly patients.

That is the world these companies have made for themselves.

Now for the tables on pages 6 and 7 about immediate side effects.

Just a brief look shows that local soreness and tenderness is very common, up to 75% with this vaccine. That is a bit high, but not that far out of range from my experience with other vaccines.

The tables on page 7 are the whoppers.

Headaches, fatigue, chills, muscle pain and joint pain appear to be very common, way more common than other vaccines I am used to, as in an order of magnitude higher. It is very clear from this table that about half the patients, especially the younger ones, are going to feel bad after this vaccine. That is extraordinary.

We are told nothing about how long these symptoms last or the amount of time at work lost. The “minimal side effects comparable with other viral vaccines” in the editorial and press releases is just not consistent at all with my experience of 30 years as a primary care physician. There was universal agreement with this assessment among my MD colleagues. They had great concern about this as a matter of fact: great concern that it will cause bad publicity and decrease administration and great concern that given this already high side effect profile, it may be much worse when it gets out to the public.

Given the fact that this virus is largely asymptomatic in more than half the people infected, what exactly are we doing here?

Furthermore, unlike other pharmaceutical papers that try to explain variances in symptoms like this, there is not a word offered about possible underlying causes of these outcomes.

The numbers of COVID cases in the placebo group vs the vaccine group have been widely publicized, from 162 cases in the placebo group down to 8 in the vaccine group, giving a relative reduction of 95%. It seemed to all of us in our review group that we do not have nearly enough patients to really make assessments. That is not a criticism. The researchers have done admirably in my opinion to get this many patients this quickly. That is still the problem: they are going to be using the first million patients or so in the general public to get a real gauge on numbers and side effects.

Another issue of grave concern to us all on Friday was the asymptomatic cases. The only subjects counted in the 162 and the 8 numbers above were patients with symptoms. Who knows how many in each cohort were asymptomatic.

This to me leads to the most important question of all, and it was again completely untouched….. How many asymptomatic patients are there? And how many who were vaccinated are still able to spread the virus? Not even an attempt to answer that question. This is critical, and is one of the ways a vaccine can backfire. If a vaccine does not provide sterilizing immunity, ie stop transmission, it is of limited use for disease control. It is great for the individual, but if they can remain without symptoms and still spread it all around it does not help from a public health standpoint.

I have described my concerns and red flags about this study. I would like to add one more thing. Pharmaceuticals that go bad rarely do so in the first few weeks or months. Rather, the adverse effects take months or years. It is a known unknown of not just vaccines but any kind of drug. Our pharma companies have become notorious for having inklings or indeed full knowledge that there is a problem early on, and saying nothing until many are maimed or killed. I will assume that this is the case in this class of drugs until proven otherwise. They are such deceivers I have no choice.

Due to sense of urgency my colleagues and Ifeel about this vaccine rollout, we had an ad hoc meeting of our Journal Club to discuss the NEJM article. Of the nine physicians at the meeting, three have already had very mild cases of COVID. Of the nine, only one is enthusiastic about these vaccines. I have a wait and see stance. I will not be taking it myself. I have too many scars, too many staring at me from the grave to take any other approach.

My patients’ feeeback on the COVID vaccine has been very different than the polls finding that 60% are ready to take it. About half my patients are in the professional/managerial classes and feature a higher level of the 0.1% than the US overall. They tend to be more blue. Most prefer to wait and thankful that health care workers were getting it first. The other half who are working class, more red, and they feel the whole thing is a hoax. They will not be getting the vaccine – likely ever.

The only enthusiasts I would call elderly Rachel Maddow fans. That really makes no sense to me at all since Operation Warp Speed was a Trump project and even Kamala Harris said she would not take a vaccine that Trump recommended.

I would say AT BEST 25% of my patients will be getting this vaccine shortly after being available. There is widespread skepticism that is not being acknowledged by our media. The pharmaceutical industry has worked tirelessly to earn every bit of that disrespect.

Please look at Dr. Angell’s seminal article from 2009. She predicted in her works, all of this and more. My profession has been captured by a cabal of corporatist MBA clones, rapacious and unethical pharmaceutical entities, and an academic elite addicted to credentialism and cronyism. They have over the years bought off and infiltrated all of our government health care regulating agencies and our public health system. And they are completely incestuous. I believe where we are now to be worse than Dr. Angell could have ever dreamed. Even more depressing, I see no way out.

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

1 As a special homage to the polio patient described above, a truly exceptional woman, let me underscore that the disastrous rollout of the this polio vaccine came at a time similar to ours. Panic and malaise were in the air. The children of America and the world were being stricken with polio at an alarming rate. Dr. Alton Ochsner, a leading figure in medicine of the day, vaccinated both of his grandchildren in public in an attempt to bolster confidence in the vaccines. Within 8 days his grandson was dead of bulbar polio. All the celebrities and politicians lining up to take this vaccine on national TV should remember this tragedy. “Stupid human tricks” like this have no place in this kind of situation, and can backfire in unexpected ways. Unlike that era’s polio vaccine, there is no way on earth this vaccine can transmit COVID. However, there are those of us in the medical profession who treat the plan to make population-wide use of messenger RNA, which before these trials had been repeatedly investigated but never reached the human trial stage save in a small scale Zika vaccine study. This is no time for machismo. This is also no time for anything less than complete transparency on the part of everyone involved in the quest for safe and effective vaccines. To behave in any other way is an affront to patients like mine who have suffered and died in the past.

2 If you read the paper, you might well have wondered about that 18,860 number and even checked Table 1 to make sure it’s accurate (it is), since the third paragraph of the Abstract, under the headline “Results,” has very different figures:

A total of 43,548 participants underwent randomization, of whom 43,448 received injections: 21,720 with BNT162b2 and 21,728 with placebo.

So how did the researchers get from 21,720 injected with the vaccine to the 18,860 in the “Main Safety Population”? This sort of thing confirms the impression that this is a very incomplete or sloppy study. It is really not clear where the difference between the 37,706 and the 43,548, or for that matter, the 36,520 total subjects in the Tables 2 and 3 (Efficacy) come from. I used the 37,706 and hence the 18,860 that went with it from Table because it gave slightly smaller numbers than using the Table 2 and 3 figures, but they would be close to each other.

My concern here is the 6000ish discrepancy between the figures in the main text compared to the tables. Were they excluded? If so, why? I could not make heads or tails out of this, and accordingly kept it out of the body of this post. This kind of inconsistency really needs to be hashed out with the actual source data in hand, and should have been explained in the article, even if just in footnotes.

#covid19 #covid #the rona #la rona #covid-19 #covid vaccine #fuck covid #coronavirus #medecine #health #medical pharmaceuticals #pharmaceutical industry #big pharma #pfizer #vaccine rollout #operation warp speed

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calesmiththealchemist · 3 years

Text

CaleSmith = Alchemist

I am called The Keeper by some...

Tonight I present to you a rare glimpse into the elite - whom to me are of as low an intellectual I’ve ever seen - and I can’t believe what they’ve done has worked so damn well. Anyway — this is ...

How they Lie to you

What I look to do with wisdom is share it in a non-demanding and tolerant way. I would never care about marketing myself or the topic, nor would I bombard anyone with secrets long since hidden from public view that could, if applied as prescribed, allow us to level up in ways far exceeding monetary gain...even if I possessed secrets that could demand such a price*, i would not proceed down that road of service to self and repeat the mistakes of the past 12,000+ years we are living in today. Further, I wouldn’t use the amazing gifts of knowledge Handed down to me in order to make noise at you or act as if I’m better because of it, and certainly not to make money – no, instead I’ll use it as intended —> to provide insights and useful information that help you to find your own truth as it did for me. All one can do for another is ask questions, give impulses and share their own experiences.

I don’t have answers for you, because I know that you have to find the answers yourself inside of you, nor do I claim that my way is the only right way. In lieu of this, I encourage you to find out for yourself what you resonate with, and what is the right way for you, but know that if I’m ever able to be of assistance, I’d take the time to answer your questions when you are struggling, but ultimately i will leave it up to you. I think one thing any teacher must ask themselves is, ‘Am I helping those with me into independence and not keeping them adequately guarded against co-dependence?’ This is of paramount importance because we will never find our answers externally. We carry them all inside of us.

Again as it bears repeating —> We will never find our answers externally. We carry them all inside of us.

There is no other truth than our own. And it changes, as we move forward and raise our frequency, and expand our consciousness. It simplifies more and more, until the questions just stop and are replaced by a deep inner knowing. So just be aware, despite the struggles, wobbles, and insecurities, to not fall into another loop of co-dependency.

Your story is like no other. You will have to walk your own path and have to find your own answers. Under any context - should you find yourself blindly following someone else, you are still acting from a place of fear, not from self-love. Once this changes permanently and you master self-love then it will be clear: The only person to follow is YOU.

Today we stand on the precipice to the Age of Aquarius —> Nothing like this has ever been witnessed before in the history of humankind. We have arrived at the most important intersection in world history; our choices will define the unfolding of our future. It is important that all people try to stay as positive and optimistic as possible; however, still too many switch on their Dancing Colored Box every night to become indoctrinated with lies from the MSM-fear mongers with their misleading images and carefully chosen constructs ...

To the uninitiated ~ I don’t say that statement in judgment or to instigate anyone with an opposing viewpoint, viz: There is no anger, no provocation, no judgment, no fears, no buttons you could push on me, because I do not resonate with these frequencies. I’m here to simply hold space for you upon your readiness, and will not be triggered by anything.

It MUST be emphasized that I do 100% intend for anyone who reads this to know that it is Stated like the undeniable and objective fact that it is ~ the Media lies🤥 and 90%+ of you are under various forms of mind control 😲, but don’t worry It’s not our fault and it doesn’t mean you’re a weakling that cowardice produces - let’s start with the fact we are all ignorant - and let’s remember what ignorant means - not this puzzling remix of the word that = an insult ... for ignorant carries strongly negative connotation and as with many words these days - I’m at a loss as to why - for all it means is uninformed. It means we have never been told or educated properly - how does that make you feel now? I suspected this may soften the sting a bit - so we should all be ok with escaping the failure label and instead we were simply failed. As our parents before us were, and as their parents before them.

Every single one of us below the elite were biogenetically engineered into this ignorance - so it’s nothing to be mad about or take offense to, we never had a chance! It’s the design of the system as a whole to churn out (figuratively speaking) deaf, dumb, and blind human beings ...

Until now — I don’t like time predictions but I’d feel insulated saying the longest one can stay in the main illusion is another 12-36 months — and that’s very optimistic for the ones still in the dream state. Anyway —> as the frequencies and collective consciousness rises every second of every day - the choice of ignorance will be taken from you... it’s a fact - it will happen - it’s simply when and not if. I offer this as merely information I’ve come across so do with it as you please —> you’d rather move with the internal alchemical changes and self care necessary using a cadence that aligns with the integration required by your powers of observation, will, reasoning, and ultimately—discernment.

If not now, when?

If not you, then who?

you either have static intelligence or fluid intelligence in this life from this NOW moment forward - which is it for you? Are you finished with all research required to fuel your belief system - or will you opt for an ever expansive approach to assimilate all information crossing your consciousness by examining the field for any newfound possibility or potential of life plus validating the X-Y-Z axis for every current belief ?!

To me, I understand that beliefs are, in a very real sense, the birthing chambers for our reality, so I want to ensure mine aren’t limiting, but At the same time they must be undeniably possible, although I’m unconcerned with what the Probability May be — as I think the whole idea of probability kills as much or more potentialities than the lack of belief ... it’s damn close I tell you ~ factoring anything but a certain probability in with a belief is, to me, the exact same thing as not believing.

There is no wrong answer - but I trust you know the one thing that can always be counted on via the universe is motion - it never rests and so my choice was easy - as above, so below and as within, so without. I mirror this great cosmic dance in order to nurture and maneuver with the outpouring/inpouring light that surrounds us all the time.

that I have no urge to convince anyone of - when you’ve plumbed the depths I have - it’s as much a certainty as gravity.

for it is a solo journey we must all take...and all will eventually. Nonetheless, once accepted, this offering of Knowledge being held for you patiently by our cosmic brethren will give you any answer you seek, but more importantly, you’ll gain a glimpse into our collective future where

the polarities are harmonized

the complexities are simplified

the paradoxes have their solution

which is why i present the recipe of how they lie:

A Fallacy is: "An unsound argument, or mode of arguing which, while appearing to be decisive of a question, is in reality not so; or a fallacious statement or proposition in which the error is not readily apparent." Sophistry is a Fallacy used to deceive others. Sophistry employed to deceive others regarding their moral obligations of rules of conduct is frequently called Casuistry.

Here follows a collection of the more common forms of Fallacy, with a brief description of the particular character of each, and an indication of the particular point of each in which the false-reasoning is hidden.

The Fallacy of "Begging the Question." This particular form of Fallacy consists of one assuming as a proven and accepted fact something which has not been proved, or which, at least, would not be accepted by the other person were it put squarely before him in the form of a plain question. The gist of this form of Fallacy may be said to be in "the unwarranted assumption of a premise, usually the major premise."

A writer gives as an example of this Fallacy through the following argument expressed as a syllogism: "Good institutions should be united; Church and State are good institutions; therefore, Church and State should be united." The above argument may seem quite reasonable and logical at first thought, but a more careful examination will disclose the fact that the Major Premise, viz., "Good institutions should be united," is a mere impudent assumption lacking proof, and not likely to be accepted if presented plainly and considered carefully. It "sounds good" when stated blandly and with conviction (principally because we accept the Minor Premise), but there is no logical warrant for the assumption that because institutions are "good'' they should be "united." Question the Major Premise, and the whole chain of reasoning is broken.

Many public men habitually violate the laws of sound reasoning in this way: they boldly assert a fallacious premise, and then proceed to reason or argue logically from it, the result being that their hearers are confused by the apparently logical nature of the whole argument and the soundness of the conclusion, overlooking the important fact that the basic premise itself is unwarranted and unsound.

Such argument and reasoning is rotten at the core. These men proceed on the principle attributed to Aaron Burr, that "Truth is that which is boldly asserted and plausibly maintained." They carry into practice the policy of one of Bulwer's characters, who said: "Whenever you are about to utter something astonishingly false, always begin with: 'It is an acknowledged fact, etc.,' or 'It is admitted by all,' or 'No thinking person denies.' " Bulwer also makes this character say: "Sir Robert Fulmer was a master of this manner of writing. Thus with a solemn face that great man attempted to cheat. He would say: 'It is a truth undeniable that there cannot be any multitude of men whatsoever, either great or small, but that in the same multitude there is one man among them that in nature hath a right to be King of all the rest—as being the next heir of Adam!' "

In all reasoning and argument, therefore, be sure to first be sure to establish the "reasonableness" of the premises, or basic facts. It is true that no reasoning or argument is possible unless we agree to assume as reasonable, or proved, a certain general or particular proposition; but we are always entitled to take the benefit of the doubt in such a case by challenging the reasonableness of the principle or premise seemingly fallaciously advanced to support the subsequent argument of chain of reasoning. Once admit, or allow to pass unchallenged, a fallacious premise, and you may be led by the nose into an intellectual quagmire or morass, where you will sink up to your neck, or perhaps over your head. A fallacious premise is like a rotten foundation of a building—that which is erected thereon may have been carefully built, and be of sound material, but nevertheless, the whole building is unsafe, dangerous, and not fit for habitation.

A writer has given us the following basic rules of sound reasoning and argument: "(1) Clearly define your terms, and insist upon your opponent doing likewise; (2) Establish the correctness, or reasonableness, of your premises, and insist upon the other side doing the same; (3) Then observe the laws of sound reasoning from premise to conclusion."

The reader will be surprised to discover how many popular ideas, beliefs, and general convictions are based upon arguments and reasoning which "beg the question" grossly in stating their Major Premise.

The Fallacy of Reasoning in a Circle. This form of Fallacy consists in assuming as proof of a proposition the very same proposition itself, stated however in another form ("same in substance, different in form"): For example, the following proposition: "This man is a rascal because he is a rogue; he is a rogue because he is a rascal." (There is here, of course, no proof here that the man is either a rascal or a rogue.) This may sound foolish, but many arguments are no sounder, and are based on the same general principles. Here is an "explanation" given under this fallacious principle: "We are able to see through glass, because it is transparent; we know that it is transparent, because we can see through it."

Here are more complex forms: "The Republican Party is the right party, because it advocates the right principles; the Republican principles are the right principles, because they are advocated by the right party." Or again: "The Church of England is the true Church, because it was established by God; it must have been established by God, because it is the true Church." Or, again "The prophet was inspired; we know that he was inspired because he, himself, so stated, and being inspired he must have spoken only the truth."

As a writer has said: "This particular form of Fallacy is most effective and dangerous when it is employed in long arguments, it being often quite difficult to detect its presence in long discourses in which the two statements of the same thing (in different form) are separated by other words and thoughts.''

Irrelevant Conclusion. This Fallacy consists in injecting into the Conclusion something not contained in the Premises. For example: "All men are sinners; John Smith is a man; therefore, John Smith is a horse thief." Many solemn statements made by public men, and others, are really quite as absurd as that just stated, though the absurdity is often lost sight of in the extended statement, and complicated presentation, aided by the solemn, positive air of authority assumed by the speaker. A more plausible form is as follows: "All thieves are liars; John Brown is a liar; therefore, John Brown is a thief." In this last, the statement ignores the fact that while "all thieves are liars," all liars are not necessarily thieves. Remember the old saying: "All biscuits are bread; but all bread is not biscuit."

False Cause. This fallacy consists in assuming a false relation of Cause and Effect between things merely occurring at the same time at the same place; a Coincidence is not necessarily a Cause. There follow typical examples: "The cock crows just before sunrise; therefore, the cock-crow causes the sun to rise." Or, "The Democratic administration was accompanied by bad crops; therefore, the Democratic Party in power is the cause of bad crops, and therefore should be kept out of power." Or, "Where civilization is highest, there we find the greatest number of high silk hats; therefore, high silk hats are the cause of high civilization." In the same way, a symptom or a consequence of a condition is often mistaken for the cause of the condition.

Burden of Proof. It is a favorite device of sophistical reasoners to attempt without due warrant to throw the Burden of Proof upon the opponent; particularly when this is employed to establish the truth of the sophist's contention, because the opponent is unable to "prove that it isn't true." The absurdity and fallacious nature of this is more clearly perceived when the proposition is illustrated by a ridiculous example, as for instance: "The moon is made of green cheese; this must be admitted by you to be true, because you cannot prove the contrary." The answer to such a fallacious argument is, of course, the statement that the Burden of Proof rests upon the person making the statement, not on his opponent; and that Proof does not consist in the mere absence of disproof, but rather in the positive evidence advanced to support the proposition advanced. In this connection one recalls the old story about the lawyer in court who produced three men who swore that he saw John Doe strike Richard Roe; whereupon the other side offered to produce a hundred men to swear that they didn't see him do it—this sounded well until it was shown that none of the hundred men were present on the scene of the fight at all.

Abuse of Opponent. It is no argument, or true reasoning, to abuse the opponent, or the general character of those holding contrary opinions. This is a direct evolution of the ancient argument of beating the opponent over the head with a club, and then claiming a logical victory. Likewise it is not a sound argument, nor logical reasoning, to appeal from the principle under consideration to the personal practices of the person advocating the practice. For instance, a man arguing the advantages of Temperance may be very intemperate himself; but to point to his intemperate habits is no proof or argument that the principle of Temperance is incorrect. Many a man fails to live up to the principles he teaches to be correct. It may be logically argued, in the above case, that belief in Temperance does not always cause a man to be temperate; but there is no proof here that the practice of Temperance is not advisable—in fact, the man's habits may even be urged as an argument in favor of Temperance, rather than against it. The Fallacy is readily detected when one considers that the man may change his habits so as to square with his belief; and in such case it cannot be held that a change in the man's habits changes the principle from untruth into truth. A proposition is either true or untrue, regardless of the personal character of the persons advocating or presenting it.

Prejudice. Prejudice is "an unreasonable predilection for, or objection to, anything; especially, an opinion or leaning adverse to anything, without just grounds, or before sufficient knowledge." Prejudice arises from Feeling, not from Reason. Take away from Prejudice the Feeling element therein, and there is little left to it. When we form judgments from Feeling, we frequently perpetrate Fallacy. And, yet, the average person performs the greater part of his decisions, and makes the greatest number of his judgments, in this way—he is ruled by Prejudice rather than by Reason.

A writer says: "Many persons reason from their feelings rather than from their intellect. They seek and advance not true reasons, but excuses. They seek to prove a thing to be true, simply because they want it to be true. The tendency is to see only those facts which agree with our likes, or are in line with our prejudices; and to ignore the other set of facts. Such persons unconsciously assume the mental attitude which may be expressed as follows: 'If the facts do not agree with my pet theories or prejudices, so much the worse for the facts.' "

Another writer says: "Nine times out of ten, to argue with any man on a subject that engages his emotions is to waste breath. His mind is not open to logical persuasion. His emotions first determines his opinion and then prompt his logical faculties to devise plausible excuses for it. There is a thing that psychologists call a 'complex.' It consists of an idea charged with emotion, and it operates as a sort of colored screen in front of the mind. A man whose emotions are deeply engaged on one side of a question may think that he is reasoning about it. But, in fact, he may be incapable of reasoning about it, because whatever impressions his mind receives in that connection come through his complex and take no color. His logical faculties operate only by way of inventing plausible defenses for the judgment his emotions have already formed. It is impossible to change his position in any respect by reasoning, because reason cannot touch his mind until his emotions have dealt with it and made it conform to their color. Whenever you talk to a person with a strong bias on any particular subject, which bias does not coincide with your own bias, talk to him about something else.

Illogical Deduction. There are a number of phases of Fallacy arising from the violation of the technical rules of the Syllogism, which violation results in deduction opposed to the principles of logic. These points are too technical to be considered in detail here, and the reader who wishes to pursue the subject further is referred to some elementary text-book on the subject of Logic

Adonai

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