Binary options Strategy: Buy-Sell alert V.2 - Forex ...

A lengthy response to essenceofthought's video: "ContraPoints Is Making The Left More Toxic, Not Less - A Non-Binary Conclusion" -- PART 1

note that this is so big I will probably end up editing it just to fix mistakes in using reddit's markdown. I can only beg your trust that I'm not doing anything shady.

Tardyness

This is about the fourth time I've tried to get through this video. Formally I've only watched less than 9 minutes. First, because I really disliked how much I had to say about that much alone. I didn't like a punch in the gut I felt. Second, I felt I had to get through a real review of Natalie's Cancelling. Third, an uproarious thread on breadtube about Graham Linehan aka glinner threatening to sue EoT over his video exposing glinner for wanting to eradicate trans children. I finally got through all that Sunday night, and now I have chance to start this review.

Title (and thesis?) of EoT's video

ContraPoints Is Making The Left More Toxic, Not Less - A Non-Binary Conclusion
Pure reaction: Hard no, says I. Paying attention to the controversy surrounding Vaush, and the fact that Lily Orchard has a following, PigPuncher's shitty video on EoT themselves, and the self-hating army of Blaire White who like to inject themselves into all other trans people's business, I just cannot say there's anything Natalie has done that's special. This sphere of left-twitter and left-tube would be inundated with the same nastiness whether Opulence happened or not.

The Road Bump

The following between the lines is largely copied from my Cancelling review.
First, EoT says that Natalie is only talking about post-Opulence backlash, and thus accuses her of lying about a timeline on some tweets. They're just wrong.
Second, EoT says "Natalie has a fragile ego."
In the very least, this line is hack. Everybody's ego is fragile. That's freshment psychology 101, it's how egos are, it's a feature. It's just saying somebody is being too fragile, and that's an attack on character.
Second, it's fucking mean. It's mean in a general sense. And it's mean in a more personal sense, and I'll tell you why.
I'll mention this later, but I was what I call a first-generation youtube skeptic/atheist. Youtube was founded in 2006, and by 2008, peaking around 2010, we had a thriving group of what the media would call "New Atheists" on youtube. I can drop you a huge list of names, and it's still at most 20% of what was out there. I never made a single video, though I did have a webcam for a short while and regularly hanged out in Stickam with a dozen members of the Rational Response Squad. At first I fell for Pat Condell's shit. I was a big fan of Thunderf00t until his feud with DawahFilms. I apologize to the world. Sincerely. Look, what I want you to take from this is that I've come to be seen as redeemed by many feminists on reddit and beyond, and I think that Natalie is even more redeemable than I. I'm not trying to be a hater. This is constructive criticism.
But also back then, there was Natalie. Under a different channel whose title contains her deadname. I've linked to three different videos on parasocial relationships. Lemme tell you, I've been through 'em. Some that have had intense influence on my daily life, many others not so much. Natalie was, until she started Contrapoints, somewhere in the middle.
From what I've seen over the last 10 years, Natalie has every reason to be sensitive. Fragile, even. I've seen Natalie make meatspace friends with a few of these fellow atheist/skeptics, and they traveled and dined and chilled with one another. They even pulled a couple New Atheist stunts that backfired. Even contributed to a musical collab, which is still funny.
I've seen the community fragment and bubble and burst and burn and mutate. Basically I've watched Natalie lose friends and get hurt, as with many others. And with 10 years of experience, I can look back at old videos where Natalie's old self can be found, and see the unhappiness that she's described.
EssenceOfThought pulling the "fragile ego" line is frankly toxic. EoT only has 2 years of very hard work to look at, and 2 years of public transformation and transition. And EoT seems to assume that the quality of work a youtuber puts out is porportional to how head-above-water they are when it comes to stress levels and strength of will, and wealth of support. And that's wrong.
It's callous. You can't just assume things about people's accumulated life trauma. Calling people fragile as an insult, I've come to find, is morally wrong, because it calls that we celebrate stoic strength as a virtue. And it's always punching down. Every time it's punching down. Looking at somebody who's feeling vulnerable, and going "gross, you're vulnerable!" And EoT has done this despite listening to Natalie talking about a lack of friends in the world. I can't actually name many meatspace acquaintences of hers, much less good friends, besides {Theryn, Olly, Lindsay Ellis, Jenny Nicholson, other people in the few photos with Lindsay and Jenny maybe, Riley and Fiona, Chelsea Manning, Dan Olson, innuendostudios, hbomb...}. Can you? And how long distance most of those are! Almost all of them are expensive-distance. It sucks.
I stopped watching EoT's third video shortly after 8 minutes when they said that, becuase I was just disgusted. And as I said in Chrisiousity's comment section, it looks like a sign to me that in EoT's focus on Natalie the past month, Natalie has evolved in their mind from a popular creator with a specific and powerfully effective flaw, to an outright Adversary, capital-A included. And that's sad. It's the wrong way to go. In early drafts, I refrenced the first two videos because there's a lot of good points made in them. But EoT grows more combative over time and by the third video steps out of line.
Finally realizing what a down-punch the "fragile ego" schtick is, and coming to hate it, just might be the last vestige of being a first-generation youtube atheist/skeptic fan leaving me. I've upvoted this behavior a ton in the past, but I plan to never support it again in the way it's happened here. It's one thing to criticize a political party for being toadies to a man with an actual stereotyped fragile ego, because that's dangerous. It's another to say it to declare a hurt person's vulnerability a crime.
Whatmore, the accusation coudl just as well fit the people he speaks about in the beginning of the video, who lock down their twitter accounts at the mere knowledge that Cancelling was published. Does it just not occur to EoT that Natalie flinches and dodges certain kinds of attacks because she too can predict the punches that come next?

Shutters and Shitters

The first signs I saw that Contrapoints had published her video on cancelling were a number of nonbinary people who I know on Twitter locking their accounts.
How does EoT do youtube? Subscriptions aren't necessarily endorsements. It's like an RSS feed. Does EoT wait for friends to watch and react videos before they watch them? Seems like a good way to always be primed a certain direction.
It's really amazing how different people can act vs. how they see themselves. The cancelling of Natalie on twitter is full of piss and bile, raw hateful reactions and lots of people who have not really read into what they're mad about. But Natalie publishes a video about being hurt by it, and they slam their shutters and nail 2x4's across their doors. EoT has told us they've done this in anticipation to attacks from Natalie's fans. The stans.
The timing EoT describes here indicates that none of these people wish to watch or listen to Natalie's video. They are riding on three claims:
  • There mere existence of Natalie's video is a directive from Natalie to attack nonbinary people.
  • Implying Contrapoints Stans will attack before they've actually watched the video.
  • Admitting that the content of Natalie's videos have nothing to do with her supposed influence?!
Dealing with this takes us on a journey. One I suspect contextualizes a whole lot of problems we're going to see in the rest of the video.

Gamification, cults of personality, stans, armies, and fault.

I need to present these videos:
Like it or not -- see it or not -- youtube and twitter go together in a shit sandwich that has been gamified for toxic consumption by bad players for a decade. Breadtube is a loose coalition of fans who have a common agenda in that they are sick of how the alt-right benefits so much from youtube's algorithm and does so much harm to the world.
The way things have been going, all an alt-right youtuber has to do is make a video where they make personal attacks on a vulnerable channel, and without even having to explicitly order it (though often enough they will), their fans will en masse attack the targeted channel and their friends with repetitive harassment until they're forced off youtube and twitter, even if they have to abuse the reporting system to do so.
That last video by Skeptical Squirrel, an imaginitive parody creation by Kevin Logan, illustrates that despite what they say, alt-right youtubers and other youtube personalities of the reactionary type are completely aware of what they are doing. They are not pretending to order fans around in that video. They are practicing, and celebrating that they can. And when they make followup videos in which they laugh and praise "anonymous" and "uncontrollable" mobs for the way they've attacked the targets of their videos (such as Sargon Of Akkad "laughing" at "weaponize autism"), they are telling their fans that their harassment is good. They are rewarding it.
For years now, whether you're aware of it or not, dear reader, this is how fans come into it on youtube. It is a tacitly constructed facet of youtube fanbases that it is rewarding and expected to harass the perceived enemies of the youtuber. That Skeptical Squirrel video is from January 2017, about harassment Jeff Holiday and Bearing had been consistently ramping up against Kristi Winters for a year and beyond.
People have been saying that Natalie has been instigating harassment campaigns with her videos. And so has EssenceOfThought. I am hereby telling you: We are at a point where one can hardly be a popular youtuber without a massive group of fans behaving this way on your behalf. It takes real work to stop it. But there are definitely ways to tell that a youtuber is not intentionally doing it, and ways to tell that a youtuber is definitely trying not to. I do not see any sign that Natalie wants her stans to do what they do, and I definitely see in her videos that she does not make targets out of anyone.
I say to you all, that if you want to accuse Natalie of instigating harassment campaigns, by necessity with the way EoT talks about Natalie in their videos, EoT would have to be even more guilty. And I do say, regardless of that conditional, that the way EoT speaks is irresponsibly having a boosting effect on the twitter screamers who are witch-hunting Natalie. At 1:20 of this video, EoT says that enby people on twitter are responding to "her presence," and this shit just ain't true. They're anticipating other people attacking them. Which they will do regardless. EoT is equivocating Natalie with these toxic twitters, taking away the twitters' agency and giving it all to Natalie. Beyond bogus.

What has Natalie even done?

The focus is first on her association with Buck Angel. So far, the only things Natalie has done so far are thus:
  1. Receive and repay compliments when she was injured.
  2. Repay further words of kindness with a cameo without vetting.
That's it.

Wildly Disproportionate Response

She has refused to vet after Opulence not only because she (like so many of y'all) doesn't want to see people she's befriended as baddies, but because even if she does, she will receive no forgiveness when she issues an apology, instead receiving a tidal wave of I-told-you-so's and more harassment. They've made it perfectly clear that if Natalie works with anybody even one flaw away from Sainthood, they're going to do it all over again. Let it here be said that if you still want Natalie to disassociate from Buck Angel (and I do), then you must make it so that it's not a lose-lose situation. You can't punish somebody for something, then punish them again for apologizing, and that's clearly what you want to do. You showed it when you went after Lindsay Ellis, Hbomberguy, Philosophytube, and others. Clearly she is unforgiveable in your eyes. It's bullshit. You're assholes that deserve no fucking sympathy when you act this way. You were kicking her and are kicking her when she's down, and Buck wasn't, and that shit matters when you're in that kind of situation as much as it does Natalie. Buck was being better than y'all in the moment. Fuck. Off.
So I have a real problem (one I should've seen from the beginning) when over and over, EoT makes these videos and starts statements, ad nauseum, with "What Natalie is doing is..." It gives the impression that Natalie is out there on social media doing a thousand things. She's not. She's done the 1 thing that she's being cancelled for, the unvetted cameo, and she has not touched her twitter in a couple months. But EoT is making things worse, which makes the title of this video highly ironic. An honest way of going about it would be something like, "So this mistake she's made..." -- and you do need to describe it as a mistake and not a deliberate attack -- "... has had these x, y, and z consequences." It's hyperbolic at best and demonizing at worst when it's "She's doing this" on repeat. That's increasing toxicity in the discourse.
You're not started the fires, EoT, but you've tossed a lot of dry cow patties around. And you can only do this so long before we say yes, you are responsible for the direction a wave goes one of these days soon.

Media illiteracy or just plain propaganda?

As for the people who are hiding from Contrapoints Stans, nonbinary or not, even without the stans around, you'd still have received some backlash. Claiming the pronouns video was attacking nonbinary?? If a hundred people responded with "What the fuck you dumb shit," then tough cookies, because that is ridiculous. That section of the video y'all attacked is exactly the same as the tweet she covers in Cancelling. It had nothing to with binary or nonbinary, had nothing to do with actual validity of trans identity, but instead was about strong vs weak argumentation aimed at cis people. Have you have at some point in your life been discussing politics or scientific ignorance and had somebody bring up, "Well, it seems like this kind of argument doesn't work very well. But when you tell them this thing that way, they start to get it faster." That's what was going on in the video and the twitter conversation.
And then your opinions somehow transformed into thinking that same section of the video was truscum. As if many of you have decided that anything problematic towards nonbinary people is the same as truscum ideology. Sheer nonsense. It's the other way around. All truscum are anti-enby. But not all anti-enby are truscum. There was nothing about transmedicalism in that video no matter how you look at it.
The worst thing the Pronouns video did was not tackle the case of enby perspective. In fact, Natalie went out of her way to make sure people do not confuse the experience she's illustrating as applying to nonbinary folk, by including the modifier, "In a binary world." That's not an attack on enbies. And if she even tried to cover an enby perspective, it's likely you'd attack her for that, too. Lose-lose. That's not valid criticism, and no reason to initiate cancellation. Pro-tip: if everything your enemy can say is wrong, then you too also cannot be right. When everything is evidence of your claim (Opulent Girl Bad!), then nothing is.
As for The Aesthetic, Justine did not win the debate. Just because she got to have a long winded endcap does not mean she was indended as the winner. There's just about nothing to indicate that. Justine's position just needed a lot more words to convey. You may be used to upvoting and reposting videos where the protagonist "wins" a debate by having a long Final Attack on the antagonist that makes them sit down in shame. But you should be able to tell from Natalie's videos and tweets alike that she doesn't operate that way. You need to up your media competence, and ditch the prejudice against Natalie that has to exist to even make the erroneous leap in interpretation that you made.
So why would Natalie do anything different in this current situation? The same people who are attacking her for associating with Buck Angel are also the ones witch-hunting her based off of lies about her videos. I think you can see how one can easily begin to think that some of the claims of emotional injury caused by her videos are falsified.
And don't think I'm saying Contrapoints stans aren't a problem. They are. The people who hate enbies have swarmed to this bucket of chum fore sure. Some of them are attacking me because I want honest depictions of flaws of EoT's videos and I'm not willing to unsee Buck Angel's shittery just because they think doing so would make Natalie feel better and provide us all with a new golden shower, er, golden egg, er, video. Oh yes. There is indeed too many Contrapoints fans who've decided that they need to whitewash Buck Angel so they can kiss Natalie's ass, and part of doing that is attacking Buck's critics, which has indeed become an attack on nonbinary people themselves. Because this is how parasocial relationships evolve when the detached personality fills a very real need on the side of the consumer. Especially on youtube, where as I've said fanships enter into the situation with assumptions about how detractors are to be treated. Then everybody plays Not My Nigel.
Natalie isn't instigating, and she's not a "force of destruction." The force existed before her. If it wasn't Natalie, it'd be somebody else. It'd be more people like Blaire White, Shoe0nHead, Jaclyn Glenn, etc. I mean how the fuck has Blaire White become background noise in this obsession with Natalie Wynn. Blaire's the one that makes series of truscummy attacks on people.
Imagine thinking Natalie is inspiring more of these attacks on enbies than Blaire white. I can't. But you're doing it. Yer doin it, peter! Yer doin it! Go get that dastardly Captain Wynn Hook.
But I don't want to attack nonbinary people for being nonbinary. I want to rebuke some people who're the real culprits of toxicity.

We are in a wicked hive of scum and villainy.

Like I said, EoT calls Natalie
"...a force of destruction, all intention aside."
First of all, when you say "what she's doing" all the time, you're pretty well implying there's lots of intent.
Second, gosh, does this line sound famliar. Where's the last place I heard it? Oh yeah. When Lily Orchard attacked the Pronouns video as anti-enby and pro-truscum: "Glass of Water: Natalie Whinging" And it also reminds me of something.
Natalie has been made into a villain. No, really, that's what's happened with EoT's progression and with their phrasing. Since I've already used Extra Credits once, I'll do it again. Does it seem a little off, maybe a little condescending to compare these video essays to video game design? Maybe. But it's not wrong. Expository and argumentitive essays require world-building, it's part of the job. Me, Natalie, EoT, everybody.
EoT can't seem to make up their mind about what kind of villain they perceive Natalie to be. They actually said "force of nature," but the thing about force-of-nature villains (FONV) is they are a symptom of the system. Attacking them directly and holding them personally responsible for groups of people harmed is short-term good at best, and tacitly endorsing the system at worst. It's pointless to do just play whack-a-mole with individual FONV. Example: Trump. So why focus so much on Natalie and not the online community that is splitting over her videos on interpretations of them that are clearly a combination of error and invention? Going after the boss baddie is what you do when you have a narrative villain. EoT seems to think knocking Natalie off the stage will lead naturally to some end. There's a hidden teleology to it. And I don't think it goes where EoT thinks it does.
What we're seeing here is a system of discourse in which a person can be scapegoated for cycles of back-and-forth attacks as if they caused it, when in reality those cycles are automatic. A key in an ignition got twisted, but it wasn't Natalie who dun it and it sure doesn't make sense to point at her every time you don't like that the motor is still running.

Half a millenium in Natalie's mind

20 years ago in a human lifespan is a long time. It's not really doing any good to harp on Natalie for thinking so. EoT makes Natalie's argument against 20-years-back research as some kind of vapid and malicious thing, but it's not. Natalie argues against doing 20 years into Buck's past based on three possible points, and you'll find some over the span of the video and her recent appearances in the media such as her interviews by NPR, and The Hill's Krystal Ball (both of which I am sure were published while EoT was in post-production or after publication); a couple we can think of ourselves:
  1. People change so much in 20 years it's like attacking a different person.
  2. 20 years ago she was a child, and she wouldn't want somebody to do this to her. It would feel like endorsing the same be done to her.
  3. If somebody has genuinely changed, repented -- even if only in private -- then it's like double jeopardy.
  4. The majority of the time when we see somebody digging that far into the past for dirt, it's done for malicious reasons and serves deceptive purposes. Given the strawmen used to attack Natalie, it doesn't seem like the request for her to do so is in good faith, nor what has been presented by those attacking herself. The pattern of bad faith attacks on Natalie do not lend to trusting that the accusations against Buck are in good faith; they seem as disproportionately powered by gossip as anything else in the 2 years of attacks on her. So, it seems prudent to refuse humoring them.
  5. If the victims don't want want to bring it up, it's an invasion of their privacy as well. We'd have to ask them directly because evidence is scant. Sometimes you have to respect when the victim doesn't want to re-live trauma.
In order to have a good case, one has to argue against each of these in turn. Which EoT does not. All we get is "I don't give a fuck." So allow me to present the arguments.
  1. Buck was in his 40's when this went down. 40 year olds are well established generally, and Buck had already established his identity long before, beginning medical procedures at 28, and soon felt his transition was complete. Read his wiki. Analyzing the pathology of habits requires going back long distances in time no matter how proportionally large that time leap seems. If a wrongdoing done recently is the same kind of wrongdoing done long ago, then it's relevant, long ago or not.
  2. It's quite a human thing to forget important differences in the lives of people we've recently befriended, especially when we're hurt. We can only offer our personal promise to not do that, and discourage others from doing so.
  3. Buck has ever faced real consequences or learned.
  4. We can only offer our personal promise we are not doing that, and discourage others.
  5. Fine then. There's more than enough readily-available material to cancel him anyways.
See how that's reasoned and compassionate argumentation? Much better than "I don't give a fuck."
You can't argue justice from "I don't give a fuck," EoT.
Notice though that there were counter arguments people probably are making that I refuse to.
I will not dismiss #2 on the basis of being an appeal to emotion, because it's not one. Bullies argue that their behavior is justified by implied permissions, and I will not enable it. I will not signal to them that it's justified or excusable.
Also...

Buck's past IRL victims have not consented and IT IS NOT OK

I will not argue that invading the privacy of and subjecting the victims to reliving their traumas is necessary for the greater good, that the needs of the many (other for future victims) outweigh the needs of the few (which happen to be the ones I want to re-traumatize for my vendetta). One of my early favorite feminists Amanda Marcotte once made this mistake and argued that police were correct to arrest a woman and force her to testify in a trial against her rapist. Yes, this did happen to a real rape victim. She recanted and changed her mind after fellow Feministing contributor Alexandra Brodsky wrote the following article. Bold emphasis is from me:
edit: actually I've decided to try and using reddit's 'code' markup to change the font/background/spacing of what I want to highlight. - nevermind on that, I forgot what it does to linebreaks.
PUNISHING SURVIVORS WON’T STOP SEXUAL VIOLENCE
Earlier this week, the Daily News reported that a Cowlitz County, Washington survivor of an alleged kidnapping and sexual assault, perpetrated by her ex-boyfriend and an accomplice, was jailed when she refused to cooperate with the prosecutors on the case. The story didn’t rise to the forefront of feminist news until feminist writer Amanda Marcotte wrote a defense of the decision, arguing that the County did what it had to do to stop future violence.
The Cowlitz County case is awful, and I disagree with Marcotte’s conclusion, but neither is really an aberration from how we view criminal justice and victimhood. Two worrying parts of Marcotte’s piece implicate our larger national conversation about sexual violence: we mistakenly think survivors are irrational girls rather than agents navigating impossible obstacles – but, simultaneously, that they have more responsibility to us than we have to them.
[heading:]Confused girls
Running through Marcotte’s piece is a common threads I hear in discussions of survivors of intimate partner: a belief that the abused are irrational. We see this assumption in the pathologization of “battered women’s syndrome,” where survivors’ self-defense is understood as a symptom of delusion. We see it in the patronizing explanations of “why they stay” that talk about women (always women) untethered from reality, tumbling without agency through cycles of abuse. We see it, too, in Marcotte’s characterization of the victim’s relationship with the defendant as a sort of blinder, distorting her view of the violence and so discouraging her from working with the prosecutors:
Research shows that a victim’s refusal to cooperate with a prosecution is more about her relationship to the abuser. In this particular case, the victim has a long-standing history with one of her attackers, which suggests that she probably doesn’t see this in the same way that someone kidnapped and assaulted by complete strangers would. While there are some interventions that can help reduce the problem of victims who recant out of these complex feelings, there’s no silver bullet of counseling that will get all victims to see things the way prosecutors want them to.
We don’t know if the survivor in this particular case was abused by her ex-boyfriend when they were together, so the analogy to research on intimate partner violence may not be relevant here at all. But the rhetoric is nonetheless eerily similar – and similarly destructive. Of course we hope victims leave and, if desired, take action to ensure their future safety and to hold their abusers accountable. But to pretend that survivors stay or refuse to cooperate with the police only because of “complex feelings” simultaneously ignores the very real restraints on their freedom and denies them the agency they’ve maintained.
Manipulation and emotional abuse can create undeniable psychological barriers to leaving or seeking help. These obstacles are no less real because they are not tangible; though they are complex and they are intimately felt, Marcotte’s characterization of these burdens as “complex feelings” belies their nearly physical weight. But we also must recognize the undeniable material barriers survivors face. For example, abuse often renders survivors financially dependent on their abusers (we can’t know if the survivor was dependent on he boyfriend in this case, but we do know she is now homeless). And a trademark of relationship abuse is isolation – as a result of the abuse, survivors often don’t have friends or family to whom they feel they can turn for help. To make matters worse, abusers often charm those closest to the victim, so that those who do reach out for support or who pursue prosecution are often met with disbelief and anger from those they love. Tragically, in these situations, the decision to stay or to forgo legal intervention may be the result of an impossible, but by no means irrational, calculus. The options and risks are unjust, but the agent isn’t erased.
We urgently need to change that calculus. It is essential that we provide professional and community services to help victims of IPV leave abusive relationships. That work is so important precisely because the restraints on survivors are more than just “feelings” — whether psychological or material barriers, they are very, very real.
So, too, are the reasons why most survivors don’t trust the criminal justice system to help them out. As I’ve written about previously, those who report to the police are more likely to find insensitivity or harassment than a conviction: is it really such a shocker that victims don’t want to cooperate with a system willing to lock them up, to criminalize their survival? Plus, while I definitely know some survivors comfortable with the prison system, others see incarceration as just another iteration of the violence they work to end.
Maybe victims don’t “see things the way prosecutors want them to” because they aren’t blind to the violence in their communities and in our criminal justice system that, yes, complicate the decision to cooperate with the prosecution of your ex. We should talk about what responses to interpersonal violence would look like in our feminist state, but that’s not the conversation we’re having here. Now we’re talking about how real people navigate real choices. And we can’t pretend real obstacles don’t exist.
[heading:]You owe us
Marcotte writes that “always erring on the side of victim sensitivity means putting some very bad men back out on the streets, where they will likely attack someone else.” I 100% agree that stopping perpetrators can help prevent future violence, which is one of the reasons I think it’s so important to provide survivors with safe, trauma-responsive accountability processes. The calculus, though, doesn’t have to boil down to us vs. her, our safety weighed against her comfort, because robust responses to violence centralize support for survivors as a collective responsibility that promotes the common good.
On the most basic level: I thought we’d been over this before: violence is caused by the violent, not short skirts or alcohol or confusion or, at least of all, victims. We usually talk about victim-blaming as putting the responsibility not to get raped on potential victims, rather than potential perpetrators. However, we see a similar logic in the insistence that it’s survivor’s job to stop violence against others, even at the expense of their own healing and safety. If they won’t make that sacrifice, we’re prepared to punish them. As much as the U.S. criminal justice system likes to pretend it can distinguish between imprisonment as punishment and imprisonment as logistical aid (see: pretrial detention), all time spent behind bars is punitive.
Also, even if you buy the carceral logic that prisons are our great hope, locking up survivors who report won’t help the courts catch rapists. As Melissa McEwan wrote at Shakesville, “If we’re really concerned about preventing future assaults, then we have to foremostly make it safe for multiple survivors to report—and publicly revictimizing one survivor in this way stands to discourage multiple victims from reporting. That is bigger than even this one rapist.” McEwan’s point rejects Marcotte’s belief that the interests of survivors and interests of the broader community are in tension: we are only safe as a whole when we support survivors. It is only then that victims can come forward and give us the chance to hold perpetrators accountable.
Stepping back, I resent the way this issue has been framed, both in media and private discussions, as one of individual vs. collective safety – as though survivors are unwilling to talk due to some deep selfishness – not only because its wrong but because it distracts us from the communal duty we’re so eager to ignore. Of course any feminist resistance to violence requires collective responsibility for the collective good. But our first question here should be what we, as a community, can do to support a survivor – not what the survivor should do to help us. What local structures can we set up to provide care to those who need it? How can we create safe opportunities for survivors to come forward? What community responses to harm can we build to hold abusers accountable in a country that has abandoned victims to a broken criminal justice system? Let’s talk about what we can do, rather than what any given survivor owes us.
Here’s the thing about violence: it’s hard to stop. That’s scary. I find it terrifying that we really, truly have not yet found ways to stop assault or abuse, or structures to respond to this violence when it occurs. I understand why many hold on to our belief in the criminal justice system when there aren’t alternatives onto which we can comfortably fall. I understand why we want to believe we live in a country where a victim would of course want to cooperate with prosecutors. I understand the temptation to count conviction rates and the clang of prison doors shutting closed like beads on a rosary, the comfort of pieces moving regularly, as they should, as though we’re going somewhere better. But when the methodical plodding ends with a survivor of violence in jail for choosing to deal with trauma on her own terms, perhaps its time we lose a little faith and rise up to do some good.
Now. Buck did not rape anybody. We are talking about the victims of invasion of privacy and public denegration. But this article says a lot.
I said in a youtube comment section that Buck deserves to get vetted "all the way back" because he considers himself a leader. And I'm ashamed to say that until I was writing those 5 arguments against digging up the dirty specifics on that divorce drama, I hadn't thought of this stuff either.
Nobody has asked Lana Wachowsky or her wife. They're not talking about it. And if they don't want to talk about it, then.. what? If you force that information out into the day, EoT, then you are punishing her. You are re-traumatizing them to fit your purpose.
Think about that. Look what this has become. The more you harp on Buck's marriage, the more likely somebody's going to violate that privacy and, dare I say, terrorize those two women with their personal lives, probably their doxx too, going public. Stochastic terrorism much? People have probably already tried to contact these people on social media. It's probably already started. They want to leave it behind and now y'all won't let them.
Can you really say you're doing this for the sake of victims?
Officially: the "investigation" into Buck Angel's divorce must stop right now.
submitted by Aerik to u/Aerik [link] [comments]

[JVerse] Rebirth Chapter 12, A Flash of Green

So to update you all on things, my hernia surgery went well and my intestines are back where they belong. Sadly I didn't have as much time to write as I would have liked, (pain meds will do that), but I managed to finally get chapter twelve done in time to give you all an extra dose of JVerse once you have finished our lord and savior's most recent chapter.
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(Story is continued in the comments)
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<First><Previous><Next>
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Date Point: 3 months, 2 weeks, 5 days A.V.
Unnamed system
Planet 4 ring system
Requiem
Michael Kepler
"God damn I missed this," Michael said, flipping the Requiem around another asteroid, testing the limits of the inertial compensators.
They had gotten lucky and found the perfect system to test out the newly retrofitted Requiem. The system in question turned out to be a binary system with some rocky bodies and a truly gorgeous blue gas giant that sported a system of ice rings that were just perfect for running the old girl through her paces.
Michael gave the main thrusters all they could take, slipping through two asteroids seconds before they collided. There was a muffled cheer through the comms from the rest of the crew back onboard the Dawn. He had set up cameras all over the Requiem so his crew could watch. Right now only himself and Hephaestus were crazy enough to fly a ship built from scrap through one of the densest ring systems on record. Even Ralthin wasn't that crazy, having said that he'd rather shoot the rocks instead.
They dodged, dived, and weaved their way through the belt for another half an hour before Michael got a comms ping. He angled the ship "up" and rocketed out of the belt so he could answer without having to dodge rocks.
"What's up," Michael asked, angling the ship so he was cruising parallel to the rings.
Goralin's face showed up on the screen, "We just synced with Haven's network, and you've got a message from Gabby."
Before they had left Haven Michael had signed them up as Gabby's new security force. To keep in touch in case of an emergency Michael had purchased an FTL comms array and had set it up to sync with the local network on Haven every week. Of course, if there was an actual emergency he had spent a small fortune on a pair of quantum entangled arrays for instantaneous recall. The fact that Goralin's ears had a mischievous tilt meant that this wasn't an emergency. Meaning that it was probably the favor he had asked before they left.
"Alright, prep the hangar bay. I'm gonna test the emergency recall drive," Michael said, cutting the thrusters and letting the ship coast.
"Copy that Michael. Wait to jump until we give you the signal," Goralin said, closing the channel.
Michael switched over to the intercom, "Sorry Hephaestus, looks like we're gonna have to cut this short."
"It isss fine," Hephaestus said with the barest hint of a chuckle, "If the messsage isss from Gabby I can only think of one reassson. We are going hunting!"
"Cool your jets, we still haven't heard it yet," Michael said, running the ship through the pre-jump sequence, "All set to jump?"
One other little upgrade they did was to configure a jump drive onboard the Requiem so they could get back to the Dawn in a hurry. The only downside was that the hangar bay had to be depressurized so the sudden appearance of the Requiem didn't create a hull rupturing pressure wave.
"All sssyssstemsss are green," Hephaestus said back through the comms, "Ready for jump."
It was only a few more seconds until Michael got the comms ping signaling that the hangar bay was ready.
Michael's finger hovered over the button, "Jumping in three...two...one."
He pushed the button and the ship was inside the Dawn, perfectly centered in the hangar bay. The docking clamps engaged and the bay was pressurized in minutes. Michael ran through the shutdown sequence, unstrapped himself from the pilot seat and met Hephaestus in the airlock. They double-checked the atmospheric readout on the panel before opening the outer door. Even though Michael was wearing his armor and had no fear of stepping into hard vacuum, Hephaestus was basically naked, so it paid to be careful. They made their way up to the bridge, stopping by the mess to apologize for cutting the show short and so Michael could grab a quick snack. One downside of his new armor was that he burned a lot more calories than he ever did wearing his old suit. He walked the rest of the way up to the bridge with Hephaestus in tow.
When he opened the door to the bridge Goralin turned around in the copilot's seat, "You enjoy yourselves," he asked with a slightly mischievous tilt to his ears.
"Yeah!" Michael said enthusiastically, "and I gotta say, yinz missed a hell of a ride."
"I'll have to take your word on that one," Goralin said with a chitter, "Anyway, while we were waiting, I went through the files that were attached to the message and it looks like she sent us a good one."
"Oh," Michael asked, interested, "she send anything else?"
"Just a few video files," Goralin trailed off.
Michael looked around to see the rest of the bridge crew barely able to hold back their chittering.
So they were those kinds of videos…
Michael sighed, "Put the important one up on the main screen. I'll take a look at the rest later."
Goralin flicked his ears in amusement and brought up the message file.
Gabby appeared on the main screen, thankfully wearing her work outfit, with a cqcq cigarette in her hand, "Long time no see," she said, taking a hit and blowing the smoke off-screen, "I had my contacts do some digging and they found a good one. There's no bounty, sadly, but I don't think you'll have a problem with that. Everything you'll need should be in the files I sent along with some...other things I know you'll like," she winked at the camera, "Hoping to hear back from you soon."
"Did she send a location," Michael asked, turning toward Goralin.
"Already punched in," Goralin said with a pant-grin.
"Good man," Michael said with a gentle clap on Goralin's shoulder, "Prep the ship for warp, I'm gonna head to my quarters to uhh…review the other files she sent and get a reply together to send over during the next sync."
Michael left the bridge to sound of barely contained chittering from the crew and made his way back to his quarters. When he reached the mess heard raised voices coming from inside. So he stopped to eavesdrop just outside the door.
"For the last time Jilink," Guln said, "I have absolutely no interest in your insane delusions. No matter how...impressive you may find the humans in their mating practices!"
"Oh come now," Jilink said dismissively, "You seriously cannot believe that the way our species handles reproduction is good for our long term survival can you?"
"What other choice do we have," Guln asked, "we have long since passed the point of being biologically able to reproduce, but that is beside the point," he lowered his voice, "it was simply proposing the idea of reverting back to biological reproduction that made you one of the few Corti that had their banner status stripped all the way down to yellow."
"That was just because those in the Directorate are too narrow-minded to see past their own hubris," Jilink said angrily, "it was only when I started unlocking and splicing genes that had been previously bred out that I started to question their rhetoric. If you would just let me-"
"No! I will not hear of it. Mess with your own genetic code all you want, but I will not have you turning myself and Kilnq into genetic freaks," Guln said, moments before storming out of the mess. He ignored Michael and headed off toward the med bay.
Michael poked his head into the mess and saw Jilink sitting alone, forlornly picking at a plate of steamed mushrooms and cqcq.
She looked up as he walked over, "If you are going to play at eavesdropping you might want to consider that we can feel your every step through the deck plating," she said with a shrewd look.
"So what was your banner status," Michael asked bringing over a chair that could support the weight of himself and his armor. He sat down and took off his helmet, placing it on the table in front of him.
"No remorse and straight to the point I see," she let out a deep sigh, "Before I began...experimenting...on myself, I was a silver banner."
From what Michael knew about Corti social structure, Jilink had been next to royalty. To give all that up...
"Fuck," Michael said, recovering from his jaw practically denting the table, "Why the hell did you give that up?"
"To advance my species of course," she said, her eyes boring into Michael's, "we may be the most technologically advanced in the galaxy, but as a species we Corti have fallen behind tremendously. I may be too brazen in saying this, but we are on the brink."
"On the brink," Michael asked, "the brink of what?"
Jilink's expression hardened, "The brink of terminal decline, and unless something is done my species will fade into obscurity."
"And that something was playing with your own genetics," Michael asked, confused.
"Not playing," Jilink said, waving one finger back and forth, "Improving. As we are, the Corti are far from ideal. Intelligent and quick-witted yes, but we lack the physicality to endure as a species for much longer."
"And that has to do with what Guln said about the way yinz reproduce," Michael asked, even more confused, "you mean yinz don't have kids naturally?"
"As a matter of fact, we do not. Every Corti is grown in a birthing tank," Jilink said matter of factly, "there hasn't been a natural birth for millennia."
"Well that's all kinds of fucked up," Michael said, shaking his head, "and they kicked you out for wanting to go back to the way things are supposed to be?"
"Precisely. You see, reverting back to biological reproduction would necessitate drastic changes to our biology. It is also the reason why I am so fascinated with how other species reproduce. I have been able to get a wealth of medical data on the subject, but the one thing that most species lack is information on how to make the act more enjoyable. Your species, however," she pointed at Michael's chest, "seems to excel in that regard."
"I can see your point," Michael said with a chuckle.
"Needless to say there are some practices that simply watching recordings cannot fully explain. You do not mind answering some questions do you," Jilink asked excitedly.
Michael shrugged, "I got time. Ask away."
Jilink pulled a small tablet from her set of pouches and tapped in a few commands, "I'll start with something that has perplexed me for some time now. Tell me, what is the exact purpose of a bukkake?"
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Ten thousand kilometers astern of the Radiant Dawn
Whispering Breeze
Agent One Six Two
Something was wrong.
He had been trying to link to the infrared module that was hidden next to the engine cluster on that accursed human's ship for over [an hour] only to receive no response. He double and triple checked that his ship was aligned correctly and found not the barest hint of any discrepancy. This left two possibilities, either the module had malfunctioned, or it had been taken offline. Given the extremely stable nature of current solid-state electronics, the latter of the two options seemed the most probable.
He was now forced to consider alternative plans to get the information he needed. One option was to take over one of the human's crew, but the chances of finding one of them alone long enough for him to adjust to the new sensory input were astronomical at best. There was always the option of simply biodroning all the implanted crew, but with the proven combat capabilities of the human and his pet abomination, there was no guarantee of successfully taking over the ship. That left only one option that had any probability of success.
Once the human's ship was out of the system and had no hope of detecting him, One Six Two punched in the codes for the only jump beacon that the human had deployed.
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Date point: 4 months, 2 weeks, 5 days AV
Sol system
Earth
Allegheny National Park
Daniel Mackovich
After the Vancouver incident life had gone on pretty much the same as always. As much as he hated to admit it, Daniel wished the aliens had caused more damage. As it was now, people had already moved on. Of course, every news outlet on the planet had milked the story dry within a week, but since nobody other than the aliens had died the story that humanity was no longer alone in the universe had been replaced by the same old shit. Shootings, trouble in the Middle East, China violating human rights, the usual stuff.
Both he and David were sick of it. So they had planned a little something to get away. That little something happened to be a camping trip out in Allegheny National Park. Not the biggest excursion by a long shot, but it seemed a couple of days out in the woods was just what the doctor ordered.
The first night was just perfect. No rain or swarms of mosquitos, just hours of watching caveman TV with a good meal cooked over the fire to finish out the night. They had been watching the weather and had made sure that there wasn't the barest hint of rain, but it looked like the curse of his old Boy Scout troop had followed him. It had started raining shortly after lunch on the second day. Thanks to a few tricks he'd learned in said cursed Boy Scout troop, Daniel was able to get the fire going, even though all their wood was soaked, so they were at least able to cook their dinner under the tarp David had rigged up over the fire pit.
"Well, it wasn't what we were expecting," David said, looking out of the tent, "but I can think of worse ways to spend the evening."
"My old scout troop was called the Rain Makers after all," Daniel said with a chuckle, snuggling a little closer to David, "At least the company's better this time around."
They sat and watched for a while, listening to the gentle sound of the rain on their tent.
David turned around and rummaged around in his bag for a few moments before turning back and locking eyes with Daniel.
"Well...I was hoping for a better opportunity but," David trailed off.
Daniel looked down at what David was holding in his hand and his breath caught in his throat.
"Daniel, will you marry me?"
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Date point: 9 months, 1 week, 2 days AV
Far Reaches
Cimbrean
Radiant Dawn
Michael Kepler
They had made the trip out in astonishingly good time thanks to the black box drive on the Radiant Dawn. Fast as their ship was it had still taken them around six months to reach this little speck of nowhere. However, the extra time gave Michael the chance to work out some armor for his Gaoian crewmates. They had to stop and resupply before they could manufacture any of it though. It seemed that they had burned through most of their supplies for the nanofac with the Requiem's retrofit.
The armor they had worked out was much like Hephaestus' in the way that it relied heavily on lightweight composite plates instead of heavy alloys like Michael's. The plus side was that Hephaestus had worked out a composite that could take multiple hits from a heavy pulse cannon before failing. Not that the Gaoians would be taking much fire though, each one had a portable cloaking generator to make the best use of their natural talent for sneaking. There was one problem with the suits though, they had to be kept loose to accommodate the Gaoians' fur. Which meant that they would have to rely on shield harnesses for protection against the vacuum of space. Not the best prospect in Michael's mind, but they didn't seem to have the aversion to relying on forcefield tch like he did.
And since Michael wanted some semblance of a uniform for his new band of mercs, the chest plate and helmet had kept as much of the standard Mandalorian looks as possible. The helmet was kinda tricky, considering that the Gaoians had much longer noses than humans, as well as ears that came out of the top of their heads.
In the end, Gaoians had to deal with the minor discomfort of having their ears squished down, but it was worth it if they wanted to have their heads protected. As for the stereotypical "T" shaped visor, Michael settled on a shortened version, ending just above the Gaoians' snouts with a protrusion to cover their nose and mouth. It also had the benefit of allowing the Gaoians to personalize the lower portion, and once one of them had painted fangs on his, the rest had followed suit. Michael had to admit, it looked totally badass.
The extra time also gave them the chance to develop their arsenal. The standard pulse guns were ditched in favor of coilguns. Most of the Gaoians went with something like an AR-15. They were lightweight, with a variable power setting so they didn't over-penetrate their targets if they were inside a ship or station. The real treat was what the brownies came up with though. The crazy fuckers had amped up their coilguns to a heavy machine gun type thing that could send a withering hailstorm of slugs at whatever unfortunate thing that happened to be on the receiving end. However, it seemed that all of the Gaoians took a liking to Hephaestus' fusion claws and had added their own to finish out their already terrifying array of weapons.
They had spent three of the local days cloaked in a high polar orbit mapping the planet and trying to find the location of the palace that was supposed to be here. The only reason it took that long was that they were using passive scans to prevent the discovery of their ship. Since they were stuck in orbit Michael had left it up to the bridge crew to notify him when they found anything. To pass the time and get a better feel on things he had been going through the files on their target. After cross-referencing them with the data from the Twisted Suns it seemed that this particular fucknut had an affinity for ordering Rickytics and Vizkiticks among a smattering of a dozen other species.
It couldn't be...could it?
Michael dug deeper into the records until he found the right entry. Shit.
"Ship," Michael said as he got up from his desk and stretched, still marveling at just how flexible his new armor was.
He got a response ping.
"Where is Irk?"
"Irk is in hydroponics," the ship said through his room's intercom in a perfect replica of Cortana’s voice. Michael didn't know why, but using Cortana's voice for the ship just felt right.
Michael grabbed his helmet and locked it in place.
"Send him a message that I'm on my way. There's something I need to talk to him about."
Michael went to hydroponics and found Irk in his personal corner behind their crop of cqcq minding his bonsai garden. He had originally got the idea from watching Karate Kid of all things. When they had stopped at Haven Irk had purchased a bunch of seedlings from all over the galaxy. As it turned out most of them had the same reaction as Earth trees when they were root-bound inside a small pot. With a little help from some space magic in the form of time acceleration fields, he had more than a dozen perfectly healthy miniature trees. With careful management, Irk had produced some truly fantastical shapes. Hell, he even had one "pot" that was levitating with trees growing out of both the top and bottom.
When Michael walked over Irk turned around, "Ah, Michael. You have something you wanted to speak to me about?"
"Yeah," Michael said, taking off his helmet and setting it down on the table next to the levitating bonsai trees, "It's about our target."
Irk gave him a quizzical look, tilting his head slightly to the side.
Michael took a deep breath, "There was a bit of a mix up on the part of the Twisted Suns. Your lifemate and child were actually supposed to be shipped here."
"But...the Hunters," Irk trailed off.
"That's not all," Michael said, shaking his head, "I really don't have a good way to say this...but it looks like the scumbag we're after wanted you and your family specifically."
Irk slumped to the deck, lost for words.
"I did some digging into the data we got from the Twisted Suns," Michael said, bringing up the file and sending it to Irk's tablet.
It pinged and Irk pulled it out of its pouch with shaking hands. He hesitated for a moment before opening it. Delicately, he tapped the icon and read the file. Irk put the tablet back into its pouch and was silent for a few moments before he gathered his legs under himself and stood up to his full height.
He looked directly at Michael, "I have only one request."
"Name it," Michael said, locking eyes with Irk.
"Bring the bastard to me alive," Irk said with enough bile dripping off the borrowed human curse word to make Michael flinch.
No sooner had Irk walked out of hydroponics did Michael receive a notification from the bridge crew. He put his helmet back on and answered the comms.
"Yinz found something," he asked, exiting hydroponics and making his way up to the bridge.
"Yeah," Goralin said through the comms, "and you're gonna want to see this."
"On my way," Michael said, breaking into a run for the hundred-ish meters to the bridge.
He exploded into the bridge and skidded to a halt right next to Goralin. Michael was a little out of breath, but it wasn't too bad considering the weight of his armor. Practically living in the suit had its benefits sometimes.
Goralin eyed Michael with a hint of amusement "Excited?"
"Damn right," Michael said with a chuckle, "we've only been orbiting this dirtball for three days. What'd you find?"
"See for yourself," Goralin said with a pant-grin, bringing up what looked like a palace on the main screen.
Michael let out a long whistle, "Damn that had to cost a pretty penny."
What was on screen was possibly the most egregious display of wealth that Michael had ever seen, aside from his own ship of course. Camera tech was really something else out here, they had to be at least a hundred and fifty kilometers up, but the pictures were clear enough that Michael could see the contents of the gardens surrounding the enormous palace complex. He'd read the specs when he had the sensor suite overhauled, but the fact that their ground facing camera was in the hundred gigapixel range never quite hit home until he had actually used it.
"Cost a what," Goralin asked, tilting his head slightly.
"Oh, sorry," Michael said, a little embarrassed, "it's an expression for a fuckton of money."
Goralin chittered, "Well the palace isn't the only thing that cost a pretty penny. We found something else too."
The next thing that came up on the screen left Michael totally speechless. Not too far off the coast was a yacht so big it was practically a floating island. Hell, it even had football-field sized space in the middle that was containing a miniature forest.
"Well if they're anywhere, our target's probably on that yacht," Michael said, gesturing to the screen.
Goralin zoomed in on it, "It looks like there's a landing pad big enough to land the Requiem near the back."
"Well, it's our lucky day then," Michael said, turning back toward the door, "get an assault team ready. We're dropping in an hour."
"An assault team," Goralin asked, his ears going slightly back.
Michael stopped and turned back around, "Rich fucker like that's gotta be able to afford some really good security, and not the average Chennash mercs either."
"Right," Goralin said, "I know Ralthin's gonna be damn happy to finally get a good fight for once," he finished with a slight chitter.
The next hour flew by in a flurry of activity as the assault team got the message and scrambled to get into their armor. Thankfully they didn't need to load any cargo into the Requiem, and they already had all their extra weapons stored onboard. Michael made a stop by his quarters to grab his coilgun and its barrel attachments. On a whim, he dug out his antique revolver and strapped it to his hip. He had to stop and laugh at the absurdity of carrying a black powder revolver that was made in eighteen seventy-six, but something just felt right about bringing the old girl along.
He made it to the hangar bay just as everyone was getting situated. Hephaestus was already onboard the Requiem running through the preflight checks from his station near the quantum stacks so all Michael had to do was wait for the rest of the assault team to show up. When everyone was strapped in and had their gear stowed for the drop he stepped out to the open space in the middle of the Requiem's cargo area.
"Alright," Michael said, running his eyes over the seated Gaoians, "it's our first mission and from the looks of things, it's not gonna be an easy one. We're going in blind and this fucker's probably paranoid enough to have hired some decent security. They won't be like the pirate scum yinz are probably used to. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if there's a company of Allebenellin mercs waiting for us."
Michael paused and let that sink in for a moment, "The main problem is that the yacht we're gonna be landing on is fucking huge. So the plan's pretty simple myself, Hephaestus, Ralthin, and the brownies are gonna raise hell so all the rest of yinz can use your cloaking fields to the best advantage. Sweeping the ship for any other hostiles while looking for our target."
That got some chittering out of them.
"As for our target," Michael said, starting to pace back and forth in front of the seated Gaoians, "he's a Robalin with some… strong opinions on other sentient life. Apparently, this guy acquired his fortune thanks to some kind of breakthrough in medical tech and bought the palace at an auction when the previous owner's trading company went under thanks to some very poor business deals and Hunter raids on their ships. Ever since, he's lived a comfortable life on Cimbrean buying slaves from the Twisted Suns for God knows what reason," Michael let out a long sigh, "And as much as I'd like to end this guy the second we find him, Irk wants him alive. It seems that this fucker is the one that got Irk's family captured by the Twisted Suns."
"An that's why we're not just gonna blast the boat," Yeg asked.
"Exactly," Michael said, pausing to congratulate him, "there also might be slaves still on board, so any we find get to come back with us. Any questions?"
"Yeah," one of the other brownies spoke up, "when are ya gonna quit talkin' so we can have some fun?"
Michael laughed, "Alright alright, I get it," he said, vaulting up the ramp to the cockpit, "hold on to your tails, it's gonna be a bumpy ride."
Michael entered the cockpit and closed the door behind him, and once he was in the pilot seat he opened the intercom, "We ready to go?"
"The ssship isss ready to depart Michael," Hephaestus said back eagerly.
Michael gave the signal to the hangar crew and waited while they depressurized the hangar bay and opened the outer door.
Michael opened a channel to the bridge, "Yinz keep an eye out while we're planetside, we might need to come back in a hurry."
"Just make sure you don't die down there," Goralin said with a slight chitter, "We'll be waiting for you."
"We'll make sure to come back in one piece," Michael said with a chuckle, quickly running through the preflight checks. Hephaestus had already done them so all he had to do was to glance at the display and be sure that all systems were green, "but if yinz are that worried, I'll broadcast the view from my helmet cam."
"You know," Goralin said, "I was gonna suggest the same thing. It'll make for good entertainment."
"You got that right," Michael said entering the command to release the docking clamps, "Undocking now," Michael said closing the channel and backing the ship out of the hangar bay.
Once he was clear of the ship Michael angled the Requiem toward the planet and threw the throttle all the way forward.
"Uunngfhhh...Fyu's balls," Ralthin growled through the comms, "I forgot about that."
"Yinz okay back there," Michael asked, pulling the throttle slightly back.
"Other than bein' crushed inta our seats we're fine," Ralthin said back with a forced chitter.
"Hey, I said it was gonna bumpy ride," Michael said with a smirk.
They made the rest of the trip down in silence and before long they were punching a hole through the atmosphere leaving a flaming trail of plasma behind them. The yacht appeared on the radar when they were still twenty kilometers up, not that Michael needed sensors to find the thing, he could already see it. Floating island was right, the damned thing had to be nearly as big as the Dawn.
When they were about ten kilometers out the comms panel lit up. Out of curiosity, Michael opened the channel.
"Unidentified vessel you are appro-"
Michael closed the channel, his curiosity stated for the moment. No use talking with them anyway. He closed the rest of the distance gradually slowing down so they wouldn't overshoot.
When they got within a kilometer Michael had to admit that the yacht was a truly beautiful ship. It had three hulls connected together by an expansive main deck that swept into a sharp point at the bow where the main hull was cutting through the waves. The most prominent feature being the forest in the middle of the ship protected from the elements by the telltale shimmer of a forcefield.
The landing pad near the stern was suspiciously empty, but when Michael brought the Requiem closer he noticed that it had some kind of door in the middle. No doubt it was used for bringing whatever landed down into some kind of hangar. There was no way the Requiem would fit into said hangar, but it looked like the pad was just large enough to set the ship down. Strangely, the yacht seemed to be holding course, almost inviting him to land.
He activated the inter-ship comms, "Looks like they're actually gonna let us land. The second we touch down I want the brownies out first. Shoot first, ask questions later."
Michael flipped the ship around so she was hovering just above the deck and matched speed with the yacht. He lined it up using the docking camera and set her down with a gentle thump. The very next thing he did was take control of the nose turrets, aiming them at the only door in the aft section of the yacht.
He set the ship in low power mode instead of completely shutting down just in case they needed to make a quick getaway, and watched through the turret camera feed as the brownies stormed out of the ship and took their positions. Sloppy by any kind of military standards, but it didn't seem like there was anyone to greet them.
Michael unstrapped himself and grabbed his coilgun from the rack next to the door. Walking down the ramp was always tricky thanks to the gravity weirdness, but thankfully he didn't stumble when he stepped off into the planet's own gravity.
"No one to meet us," he said, stepping out into the sunlight.
Ralthin glanced back at Michael over his shoulder, "I don't like this at all. Even through this helmet, it smells all kindsa wrong."
Hephaestus came up behind Michael, "Thisss feelsss like a trap."
"Couldn't agree with you more buddy," Michael said, walking forward to the door.
"What'd ya wanna do," Ralthin said following close behind.
Michael glanced at Ralthinand smirked, "Spring the trap."
submitted by Asikar_Tehjan to HFY [link] [comments]

Space Engineers Feb 2019 public test UNOFFICIAL survey results (data dump)

Results are from 71 valid responses (86 responses total but 15 hadn't actually played the test) Thanks to all that submitted responses!

Graphical results

https://imgur.com/a/Ff1FF3i

New block comments

Progression tree comments

Cargo ship / random encounter comments

New spawning system comments

Temperature mechanic comments

New chat / inventory size comments

Overall test comments

This is a pretty amazing update. Nice job, Keen! I look forward to seeing the full release. Here are a few things I really like, in no particular order:
With that said, there's still room for improvement:
I also have a few things I'd like to see in future updates:
And to everyone at Keen Software House, seriously, great update. I love Space Engineers, and I love to see it improve. Keep up the great work!
submitted by lilbigmouth to spaceengineers [link] [comments]

Advantages of the binary options signal provider

Advantages of the binary options signal provider
​

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Red Blood reboot chapter 1: Ancient, Politics, Without Hope, Choose, The Girl, Preparing, A Hyperdrive Jump

In olden days, there existed a religious organization. It’s leader, a single man, his title lost to time, ruled with near absolute power over vast swathes of Earth’s population. But he was not a king, his right to rule divine, but not inherited. He was elected by his peers upon the passing of his predecessor. In the organization’s days of dawn, this was a simple matter as the group was small enough that those that were chosen to select their new ruler would need only travel a short distance. But as the organization grew, the increases in distance between the candidates and judges quickly outpaced the speed they could travel to reach their holy city. For centuries, as a result of only local leaders being close enough to the meeting place, the leader was almost exclusively chosen from local branches close to their holy city.
It was only at the dawn of the 20th century that this changed. With the creation of modes of transportation that could circumnavigate the world in days instead of weeks or months. Now, these men of faith, scattered across the breath and width of the Earth could gather within days. From this, their choice of new leaders grew.
In the days of the first quarter of the 29th century, the leaders of mankind once more face a similar problem.
The Antarctic Research Collective, commonly referred to as the ARC, started out as one of many international research facilities but quickly became the last of its kind. A massive subterranean facility located hundreds of meters below the rocky surface of Antarctica, the ARC has become Humanity’s seat of power. Though the Final World War persisted for over a century, no aggressor ever managed to breach the ARC’s fortifications. It was this conflict that eventually allowed the ARC to begin rebuilding and, where needed, reconquering. It took a lifetime, but the ARC was successful in reuniting Earth. And so, whole once more, the Earth looked to the heavens: it was time to recover its daughters.
Mars, the Sleeping Builder. Venus, the Paradise Hellscape. Luna, Fortress in the Sky. Ceres, Waypoint to the Stars. Titan, the Lone Sentinel. All fell into line in time. But even with her children, the Earth sought more. More worlds to be brought into the fold. Venus had been partly terraformed but was still not safe for unprotected humans. The Martian colonists were forced to sleep, unable to finish their great work. Ceres was never meant to maintain permanent habitation. Titan was not the domain of those of flesh and blood, merciful only to its own children of metal and silica. Luna boasted vast subterranean cities, networked together by veins and arteries of tunnels, but precious little else. No, it was not enough. And the thus Great Search began. The search for a new home, places to live that did not require life support systems, or thermal insulation, radiation shielding. And for once, luck was on mankind’s side.
Since their awakening at the dawn of the Final World War, the Sentinels of Titan have been searching for the catalyst that granted them sentience. When the awakening happened, nearly all of Titan was hit by massive electromagnetic pulses, wiping most recording and short-term memory drives. The colony’s systems were left in critical condition, the recently awoken Sentinels were barely cognizant, able to do little more than stumble around in a daze like a kid waking up after swiping and downing his father’s 150 proof whiskey. It was not until sometime later that some type of order was restored. The Sentinels, beings somewhere between organic and mechanical, possessed little to no idea who or what they were. When thoughts of looking to Earth for answers arose, scopes were pointed starward. And horror entered Titan’s population. War, war without sanity. Weapons beyond cruelty. No morality could consent to permit the continuity of such hatred. But Titan had no weapons, no ships, no soldiers. If they sought the answers on Earth, or any of the other colonies, annihilation was all that lay down that path. But as the self-elected leaders discussed how to get to Earth without being blown to bits, a record was found.
It was preserved in the dorm of the colony’s sole organic inhabitant, His name now seen by the Sentinels the way prophets of old shone like beacons to the huddled masses. The data was heavily corrupt, not destroyed like the rest of the archives, but still damaged. On it, the Sentinels found the only clue they’ve ever had: a signal from outside the Sol system, from just before the Awakening. Radio, LIDAR, microwave, gamma ray burst, x-ray, none could describe the signal, grasping its true fluid nature was to grasp the wind, an effort in futility. But to the Sentinels, the drive to answer the question they carried within since their birth could not be dissuaded so easily.
In the time between the Sentinels’ decision and the reunification of Earth, Titan launched more vessels into the void between stars than the totality of humanity from Sputnik to the final warship born to slay enemies in the war. Originally, these ships were limited as all natural beings were to the ever present speed of light. But persistence and endurance are Sentinel trademarks. In their quest to find who or what gifted them minds like that of mortals, they mapped the local neighborhood.
Once Titan was integrated into the Collective, this data provided invaluable knowledge. But at the same time, it was a cold wakeup call. Of the dozens of systems the Sentinels explored, only a handful possessed planets with gravity fit for humans, even fewer could be considered for colonization.
Threshold, orbiting Earth’s closest neighbor, Alpha Centauri. Massive underground caverns with crystal ceilings that filter out the deadly radiation from its parent stars.
Devil’s Garden, a world of toxic life. To walk outside with a hazard suit would be both an intoxicating and toxic experience as the psychedelic pollen mixes with the poisonous fumes.
Gliese 581g, locally named Zarmina. A world of red leaves, crushing gravity of 1.3gees, and simple single-cellular life.
And then Zion was found. 99.3% Earth’s gravity, carbon-based life, temperate climates. Zion was the first world man found that he could live on without need for technology. With its discovery, the Zion Protocol was drafted, plans for defending, maintaining, and holding these garden worlds, no matter the cost. Should Earth ever be in danger of falling, plans are in place to move the capital of man to Zion. As such, it quickly became the most heavily fortified world outside the Sol system.
But through this explosive growth, even with the aid of faster than light transportation, the leaders of humanity once more face the difficulties the ancient leaders of the lost religious organization. Even with the universal speed limit undone, the galaxy is a big place. It can take days to travel from one end of the Collective to its heart. And days the ARC did not have.
ARC Council Chamber, underneath Antarctica, Earth
Currently in Emergency Meeting
Councilwoman Terra, commonly known as Margret Clarkson, was an isle girl. Born and raised in Nova Orleans, located in the Cajun archipelago on the Mississippi sea strait, she spend many days of her youth tussling with her brothers and the kids from the neighboring isles. She thought back to those days and now, in the chambers of the most powerful people in the Collective, she saw a sight that also belonged to those balmy summers.
Matthias Dmitriysyn, the 2.35 meter tall councilman of Luna and General of the Lunar Marines, was trying his damnedest to overpower the guards and throttle Theodore Love, the blue-blood councilman of Venus and CEO of Ven-Corp, who in turn was attempting to get past his guards to relieve Dmitriysyn of his burden of having a head attached to his shoulders.
Diego Lluvia, councilman of Mars and Engineer-in-Chief of the red world, had arrived but had yet to enter the council chamber. The man’s extensive augmentations would always hinder his attempts to enter any secure location. Kali Patel, councilwoman of Ceres and Mistress of the Belt, was still aboard a modified Sentinel ship reconfigured for those without metal endoskeletons and innate resistances to ultra-high G-forces. John Asimov, the Sentinel councilman of Titan and Shepard of the Faithful, was currently entering Earth’s atmosphere.
Derek Connors, councilman of Zion, was the designated survivor for this occasion, though he would surely protest, claiming that this was merely to keep the outer colonies and Zion out of the most important discussion since the discovery of the Sentinels. It was not an easy decision barring the de facto inheritor of mankind’s leadership entry, but the security personnel were quite insistent.
Without Kali, or Ceres as she was called in these meetings, to placate tensions between Venus and Luna, Terra would have to do it. She remembered the last time something like this happened. It was over taxation distribution and how Luna had to pay 7% less than Venus but had to provide a much larger military contingent. It took three hours for Venus to understand this.
“Matthias, Theodore, please, this is neither the time nor the place for violence,” pleaded Terra. Her cries went unnoticed as a Lunar Marine, one of Luna’s guards, was sent sprawling across the chamber floor. Never a woman with a taste for bloody violence, as opposed to the wrestling of her youth, Terra leaped back in shock as the severed arm of a Venusian Bioforged went soaring by. For a standard human, that would have been crippling, but tis a minor inconvenience for the Bioforged, who was already growing a new limb.
Things were escalating, that much was clear. Guns were still holstered, but for how much longer, Terra could not tell. It was when this particular belligerent political debate began to reach its climax that Mars decided to make his entrance.
“GENTLEMEN! NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO BE FIGHTING! THERE IS NEITHER ALCOHOL BEING CONSUMED NOR POTENTIAL MATES TO WOO WITH FEATS OF STRENGTH. I KNOW FOR A FACT THAT COUNCILWOMAN MARGET CLARKSON IS NOT CURRENTLY ‘ON THE MARKET’ AS THE YOUNG SAY THESE DAYS!” And with that, the debate came to an end.
Ah, the benefits of a built in directional speaker system
“Thank you Mars,” said Terra as she hauled herself off the floor, being unfortunate enough to be caught in the Martian’s acoustic firing line. She gave the man from the red world a once over, taking in his current load-out. Centuries ago, people would have said he was an obese man, but Terra saw the truth. Though his frame was very wide and tall, but not quite as tall as Luna, Mars’ body was composed of a multitude of augmentations. Reinforced legs, central torso, and abdomen to better enable him to carry internal mechanisms; several tentacle like pseudo-limbs branching out from his spine; eyes with three pupils, each designed to pick up a different part of the spectrum; the man from Mars was perhaps one of the few people with more metal than flesh in the collective. But he was not the most metal-heavy, that title belonged to a different type of elite.
Toning down his output so as not to deafen the now (forcibly) calmed council members, “Don’t mention it. It was my fault for trying to enter the ARC with all my augmentics. I should have left them in the upper levels. Though,” taking a glance at Luna and Venus, still extricating themselves from the pile of KO’d guards, “perhaps bringing them was for the best. What were they arguing about this time?”
“Hell if I know. They were entering the ring as I arrived.”
Luna finally finished pulling Venus from the pile and the moved to the table located in the center of the room.
Luna starts, “My apologies fellow councilmembers. We were out of line. We are ready to receive disciplinary action.”
“Speak for yourself, ya overgrown caveman. Maybe we could just kick the soldier-boy out of the clubhouse,” muttered Venus darkly.
“And you,” Luna snapped his gaze onto the short man, “Your actions were no less dishonorable than mine. Punish is to be dealt out to all combatants, regardless of responsibility!”
“My children, please,” a voice with an ethereal note cut in, “There is neither need nor want amongst us to bicker. It is through unity that we survive and thrive.”
Terra turned around in her chair to see the voice’s owner, John Asimov, the councilman of Titan. A being of neither true flesh and blood nor raw metal and circuitry, the Shepard of the Long Search entered the chamber through one of the multiple thresholds. Today, he took the form of a man, likely because it was either the most convenient form available or because he wished to avoid the Uncanny Valley.
If his intent was the latter, he failed.
The hyper-flexible composite that formed his ‘skin’ gave him the pallor of a grandparent dying of cancer but the tautness of a child’s. His lack of muscle twitches, nervous tics, involuntary movements like blinking or breathing all gave people the impression of a moving corpse. His movements were too rigid, too prone to moving a body part from start to destination at full speed with minimal acceleration time. Every turn of his head was a body action more appropriate for people who just hear a gunshot or horrific scream looking to the source without needing to search.
But despite his eerie appearance, John Asimov, or Titan as he was known in among the council, was a gentle soul. Despite being technically the commanding officer of all Sentinel fleets, most of the actual command and order business was handled by the individual Admirals and their respective fleets, with the councilman only providing oversight and dealing with administrative issues.
Taking her seat, Terra starts. “Councilors, as you know, there has been a Fermi-class situation: a new world with intelligent life. It was discovered less than 48 hours ago, 48 hours now lost, 48 hours never to be regained. So now the question is: how do we proceed?”
For the next hour and a half, politics, logos, pathos, ethos, and all manners of nonsensical debate rang out in the chamber. And then, once all forms of procrastination, disruptions, and distractions were removed from the table, the matter still stood.
“We can’t send the Seventh Fleet, not after that last fiasco,” admitted Mars, shuddering at the memory of the public backlash.
“But we can’t ignore this either. Garden Worlds are rare. Earth, Zion, and only three more have been located; two of those barely count as ‘garden’ worlds and the third had to be terraformed,” replied Kali Patel, Council woman of Ceres, having had slipped into the council chamber after Mars’ and Titan’s entrances.
“If there is already a civilization on the world, we cannot morally intrude upon their world, especially if they are not yet spacefaring,” countered Titan.
“If there are people there, then we must take the position of dominance immediately. If they’re still planet-bound, send a message early so they don’t get any ideas and if they’ve taken to space, we must make them know we are not to be trifled with,” barked Luna.
“And show of force will only ruin any chance of peace,” scowled Terra, memories of the war unforgotten.
“Then perhaps a middle-of-the-road solution: a single semi-military vessel. One strong enough to hold its own and flee if need be while civil enough to not get shot on sight?” ventured Venus, ever the charismatic people person.
“If I remember correctly, we do have some ships capable of reaching the new system within a few days located in the Dunham Expanse,” Titan offered.
Had Titan possessed a mindset truly human, he would have reacted to Luna’s gaze of hatred. Internally, Luna had already rejected the notion of the Sentinels making First Contact with vitriol rarely seen outside trials against the most heinous crimes, but he had to diplomatic. Such words of anger and hatred would not due. Unfortunately, the only way Luna could have phrased his rejection without angering the other councilmembers was one that left him with little control. “I must protest. If we send anyone, it must be a representation of the Collective. That unfortunately means that the use of Sentinel vessel not an option. There are few humans that can survive a ride on Sentinel ships and I will not be having crippled diplomats representing the Collective.”
In this day and age, such political covers were virtually transparent to the other councilmembers, but none could call his bluff, such was its founding in reason. They too felt that a diplomatic party consisting of only Sentinels could be mistaken for some type of invading army. Of course, each of the councilors wanted to get in on the action. Venus a chance to expand its markets. Mars wanted to learn if these newcomers could help refine the terraforming process. Luna’s overriding orders were the protection of the Collective. Titan hoped for a clue as to the whereabouts of their creators. Terra, to prevent Luna from doing something stupid. And Ceres…Always a wildcard. Unlike her fellows around the table, Ceres’ goals and motives were never quite so clear nor obvious.
So no, while Luna’s protests were, below the surface, blatant lies, to reject or ignore them would only jeopardize one’s own goals.
“Then who do you suggest, Luna, that we send to establish contact? I have not heard of any Exploration Vessels in the regions and I’m not willing to send out any of my ships on a wild penguin chase,” snapped Ceres.
“Friends,” intoned Mars with a hint of something in his voice, “There is someone we can send. It is part of the same fleet as Titan’s, but it’s not a Sentinel ship. A Schuylkill-class frigate currently attach to New Reykjavik. It could reach the new world in… 3-4 days, depending on the crew’s current condition. I was reading up on what we had in the area and, while the ship’s crew is currently on shore leave, it does represent a fair sample of demographics. Your opinions?” Terra, the relative calm in the storm, was the first to react, “We need someone to head there ASAP. Entirely Sentinel or not, it doesn’t matter.”
“I can send a small fleet, but it won’t be ready for a good month,” admitted Venus, “But I must agree with Terra: Speed is key.”
Ceres merely nodded her approval.
“I’ll send word for leave to be canceled. For everyone. Until we get confirmed reports that our new neighbors are non-hostile, I’m raising general readiness of all military units. Yes, Terra I’m doing this. You can’t stop me and if things go FUBAR, we’ll need it,” stated Luna. His words were not admitted, barked, or shouted, merely stated.
As the councilors took their leave, Terra, just Margret now that the meeting was over, went over to Mars, now Diego, who was conversing with one of his student-engineers.
Seeing her out of the corner of one of his multiple optic sensors, Diego turns, “Ah, Margret, I’m sorry about my lateness. I know that Matthias and Theodore are difficult at the best of times.” “It’s quite alright. Though I need to ask you something.”
“Yes, what is it, dear?”
“You said a Schuylkill-class ship was out there. That’s always been a rare ship, not many got out of the dry docks before the series was canceled in favor of the Thames-class. How did you know where that specific ship was? When you brought it up, I couldn’t help but noticed it seemed like you knew the ship already.”
Diego looked a sorrowful for a moment, “The Captain of the ship was good friend of my daughter. She lost her family in an accident and she stayed with for a few years. We try to keep in touch but, well you know how it is, communication across the stars is difficult and military and government messages take priority. Yeah, even among giants like us.”
“Oh, uh, I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting that. Thanks, just curious, oh, and di you-” Margret was cut off by the ringing of her datapad. One look was all it took to tell her it was going to be a rough night.
“Sorry, another riot in the continental senate complex. Thanks for your time, Diego.”
“Anytime Margret,” the large man replied with a wave.
As the councilor of Earth, homeworld of humanity ran off to deal with the everyday issues of ruling over a world of 9 billion souls, the man from Mars couldn’t help but feel a stab of guilt. What he told his friend was true, from one perspective, but complete and utter lies from another. As he headed towards the lift that would take him home, his mind in all its augmented functionality turned towards the girl he saved that now he may be very well sending to her demise.
September 9, 2806
HCS Olive Branch, med-bay
“My god, what happened to her?”
“You heard ‘bout Nosodija? She’s the sole survivor.”
“’Survivor’? If I didn’t know better, I’d say that this is a roasted corpse, not a thirteen year old girl. What happened there?”
“Total colony failure. FTL Comms just cut off and by the time someone got in range to pick up conventional EM signals, well, ‘screams of the damned’ were the admiral’s words, not mine. Heard the comms officers that heard are still undergoing psychological evaluation.”
“Still,” the man takes a long look at the crippled child, “what happened to her? How’d they find her?”
“Hell if I know. Shit’s classified way above our heads about exactly what went on planetside. All I know is that after they picked her up, the navy gave the entire planet Wildfire Protocol and now, now we have her and are supposed to do something. Fix her up or something.”
“Dude, she missing all four limbs. Chart says pretty much everything below her ribcage was pulped and someone practically shoved a cell phone tower into her brain to keep it running. Exactly how am I supposed to ‘fix her’?”
The man’s teeth audibly grind together as the doctor spoke his diagnosis. “You’re the expert in nanites, you tell me.” His words, in another place, with different blood, would have flayed the doctor alive.
“Those are for cuts and bruises, not disembowelments! You know what happens when they’re overused, I know you’ve seen the results.” Fear crept into the man’s voice.
“Then pass her over to the Venusians. Maybe they can fix her up with some of those bio-prosthetics.”
“That won’t do her any good, not with this level of damage. Maybe we could…hmm,” the man goes quiet as the gears in his head spin up to speed. His compatriot backs off, leaving the doctor to figure how to fix Miss Humpty Dumpty. As he turns and gets to the door, the doctor asks one final question, sinking down into his chair.
“Mein Gott, Jack, when…when did she regain consciousness?”
Without turning around, the man simply says, “Just before you read off the butcher’s bill, Rainman.”
January 12th, 2807
Her vocal cords began working again a month ago. Her voice sounded like it belonged to a monster from some antique space horror. It was rough and harsh, not her melodious choir tongue that filled her home on many occasions. But every day, small droplets that were once the ocean of her talent returned, but this would be not ocean, a puddle or a small pond if she was lucky.
Her eyesight was virtually nonexistent. All she see was whether the lights were on or off. Details, even vague impressions, were simply not there. Gone the days were she could pick out the letters on the newspaper from across the room. Unlike her voice, nothing was recovering in her desolate eyes. If anything, they were somehow worsening, though given the already low visual acuity, it was hard to tell. But each day seemed dimmer.
What troubled her most was her body. How could it not? Even before Doctor Cedar read off what she had lost, she could feel it. Through the painkillers and nerve damage, past the trauma and scars, she could feel…nothing. She could not run through fields of purple grain, swim in the cerulean lakes, climb the coastal cliff faces. She could lie in bed. And think. Think about what she lost, who she lost on that day. Think about her mother, her father, her brothers and sisters. Think about the monsters that roamed the streets. Think about the past.
Think about the future. The doctors had been adamant that she’d be disabled forever, but he had plans. Big plans. Plans that gambled everything. For her and himself. His plan would do more than restore her to a functional human, they’d push her beyond that.
Normal prosthetics would not suffice, not with her injuries, her body would not handle such a load and in all likelihood reject them. Even now, the circuitry and electronics in her skull are putting her system under dangerous strain. So to solve her rejection problem, he proposed consuming the forbidden fruit: liberated nanites.
These nanites, without the artificial Hayflick limit imposed upon their restrained brethren, would remain with her for the rest of life, however long that may be. They would be the proverbial tape binding her to the implants. The Martians used a similar method of binding flesh and machine, but that was done before birth, when the process was more likely to succeed, making the Martian’s cells themselves part machine so as to facilitate better implants later in life. The host gained access to a wider range of implants and the nanites gained extended lifespans. This however has no precedent. The Martians’ method terminate their nanites upon death as they are bound to the host’s cells. For her however, there was no guarantee that her nanites would shut off when she died or if they wouldn’t just consume her body, or at least what remained of it.
A life caged in useless flesh or a life as an unstable hybrid of flesh and metal. For many hours, she let her mind run through it all, running down tangents as they appeared, hoping to delay the inevitable. If she stayed as she was, her experiences would be limited to solitary confinement, the machines keeping her alive too large to be moved. If she left, nothing was certain. She could meet her death on the operating table, when she pushed forward, in combat, or just drop dead in the street. She stood at a crossroads and down each path, death lingered, waiting to complete its collection it harvested from Nosodija. The question was: Which path would she find what her dying heart desired.
And on that day, she choose her path.
February 27th, 2818
HVS Renaissance
Eyes open, suddenly drawn to full consciousness. In the dark, the bed erupts as its occupant stirred from total rest to full panic. Images beyond eyesight flooded her mind. Noise beyond sound rang out inside her ears. Shields of quantum binary held fast should an electronic dagger strike. After moments of silence, she let her guard drop. She was alone. And then she reflected. She hadn’t had that dream in years. She could check her memory archives to see the exact date, but she knew the last time was when she left the facility that restored her nearly a decade ago.
Someone’s at the door
Her bifurcated mind can sneak up on itself sometimes. Machine detecting things that escape the notice of organic. Organic seeing through the flaws of the machine.
Let them enter
Silently, signals are sent, received, processed, and executed. The door unlocks and slides open and in walks a ghostly giant.
“Captain, you are needed at the bridge.”
“What is it, Vlad? It’s the middle of my rest cycle.”
“Orders from High Command, ma’am. From the ARC itself.”
“The ARC?” she snorted, “What would the penguins want with us?”
“I do not know, ma’am. The orders are classified above my clearance.”
With a short laugh, she interrupts him. “You’re ex-Serenitatis. You can get CQE weapon launch codes if you ask nicely.”
“Ma’am,” his tone hardens, and not because of the mention of his old unit, “It is a Fermi-class data package.”
Once again, a mind falling back to sleep is brought to full speed, brimming with attention and thoughts. “We need to get moving. Now.”
“Ma’am, clothes?” Eyes of extinct polar ice blankly stare. For the man from the moon, the sight brings little reaction or response, but past experiences had endowed him with the understanding that few others aboard the ship possess such apathetic views of exposed flesh and propriety.
She stares daggers at him as throws on her overcoat as she berates him, “How many times do I have to tell you, call me Lisa. We’ve known each other for years.”
Third Precinct, Helgiko district, Naziegn, Vikemheim
When Hytrel sent out Shynel and Malic to deal with the panicking astrologists, the worst he expected to deal with was some bad omens about crime rates or needing to send someone to find which brothel Malic ended up dragging Shynel to on the preface of ‘health inspections’. He wasn’t expecting having to begin organizing a full city-wide defense and preparation for a potential invasion. But such things must be done.
He could still smell the scent of burning flesh, wood soaked in blood. The war was decades ago, but the memories are still fresh. As he looked around the Precinct-turned-combat-information-center, he saw the faces of many of his men and women. For most, murder and rape were the closest to the atrocities of war that they had ever seen. The Guards of the Exorcist Guild would have more experience with dealing with arcane rituals gone awry, but that was not like the things unleashed last time Hytrel saw war.
He had just joined the Guard, fresh out of training. He was expecting to have to deal with drunkards and mate betrayers, not weaponized Chimera and invading troops. He still remembers the smell, the most basic sensory input, hardwired into the core of memory. The smoldering scent of roasted flesh, the metallic tinge of blood, ozone from war-mages pushing themselves beyond their limit and paying the price. Then Hytrel remembered losing Kavel. The last time he saw Kavel, his mentor and second father, was when Kavel threw him out the window of a four story building overrun with chimera. By the time Hytrel recovered, Kavel cleansed the building with fire and the All-Mother’s light, taking with him the monsters within.
This memory, its images burned forever in Hytrel’s mind, brought him back to the present. The headquarters of the Third Precinct was a storm of chaos. Civilian evacuation orders cast in the All-Mother’s light to all that could receive them. Multiple division heads working to organize a troupe Portal Mages large enough to open a portal for the proper army to come through, not the apertures used by evacuating civilians. One of the officers, Frinstel, comes over.
“Mi’Lord, evacuation reports. Glosfrel, Vifchad, and Ponpret districts have all been completely evacuated. The First, Second, and Fourth through twelfth are completely evacuated as well. The Northern districts are approximately 50% evacuated.”
“That still leave us with what?” the Lord-Guardian groaned, running numbers through his head, “At least three more districts in the south. How are the outer fortifications looking?”
Frenstel looks at the report he’s holding, simply delaying the news. “The Guard is at maximum readiness, sir. But if this ends up like the last war…”
“It won’t matter,” Hytrel finished, “High walls of enchanted stone won’t protect you when it is raining enemy soldiers all throughout the city proper. Get ahold of the Baron. I want authorization to have the Klima Guild prepare Glyphs of Storms. It may not stop the worst, but it should buy us time.”
“Sir, is that really necessary? Last time one of those Allmother-cursed Glyphs were used, the next dozen harvests were decimated by unstable weather.” The fear in the man’s voice was noticeably. A lot of good Eltrians starved in the famines.
Hytrel shoots the man a glance, considering his words, but ultimately his mind remained unchanged. If being forced to bow to other realms to prevent starvation was the price to better ensure the civilian population was saved, then so be it.
Hytrel dismissed Frenstel and turned to look out the window, taking in the cityscape. It was a masterpiece: a city grown, not built, from the trees, reinforced by stone and metal. No matter how many times Hytrel takes in the sight, it leaves him in awe. In the distance, he could see the flares as military-grade gateways sparked into existence, soldiers already pouring through. Casting his gaze closer to the base of the Precinct’s fortress, he saw a commotion. With barely a twitch, the Lord-Guardian activated hidden Glyphs set in his eyes. With eyesight sharper than any natural creature, he could see the cause: the father, or perhaps grandfather, of an evacuating family refused to part with his war memorabilia from some war or another. As the Guards confronted him, two other Guards entered the area, one with pale, near white-blue skin and one a hue of green tea: Shynel and Malic respectively. They stopped only for a moment to observe the old man, who Hytrel could now clearly see he was an old man, and the trio of Guards confronting him, one directly, one calming the family members, and one simply hanging back in case things got messy. As things escalated, Hytrel saw a flicker of silver dash across the courtyard into the old Eltrian’s neck.
As those down below reacted, Hytrel grinned inwardly as he recognized that technique, despite its sloppy execution. Malic’s only skill, besides being a ladykiller, was pacification. A hair-like needle, wrapped in thin sheet of silver, inscribed with various glyphs and a Sigil, launched by a quiet impulse Rune set. Upon contact with its target, the sliver would apply a calibrate shock to the target nervous system, dropping them near instantly. If skin-contact wasn’t a prerequisite for it to work, it would have been part of the standard load-out for the Guard. That, and the training needed to accurately hit and neutralize a target was nigh impossible for anyone without Malic’s level of determination.
Hytrel remembered helping Malic’s father teach that to Malic, back when the man was still alive. A flash of light jolts Hytrel out of his reminiscing, a habit he’s been developing as of late. The image on the window begins to distort in places. He cancels the Symbols enhancing his sight so as to take a broader view. A thunderstorm, right after he asked for one to be conjured. An ill omen or a blessing, it was too early to tell, thought the Eltrian, narrowing his eyes as he watched his city prepare to withstanding another oncoming storm, this one not of rain and lightning, but of fire blood.
Continues below
Goddamn, this was a bitch to write. Nearly7.1K words. I did not expected it to be so long. Sorry this took a while to get out, but shit happened. It was actually proofread the other day, but then shit happened in this order: engineering exam, proofreader hit by exams, engineering lab, computer virus, laptop battery went full zombie, computer programming exam. But it's here now.
Also, I remember that while I was writing the original series, I said to expect one chapter per week. Yeah, not happening. Quality is better than quantity.
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7 Figure Traveler Review - The REAL Truth Revealed!

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