Oh hello, I have not posted here in a good while, and the spark has returned in earnest to my heart now that I have free time. For the past -- two or three years, has it been? -- we have heard stories of inspiring, insightful revolutions of what the West connects as liberalism and democratic progress in a number of Middle Eastern and Northern African states. Source: Wikipedia The media has delightfully given an almost brightly cinematic name to this mass public upheaval of opinion. We know it as the Arab Spring. Traced back to December 2010, when Tunisian protests sparked in response to Mohamed Bouazizi's self-immolation in response to maltreatment, this wave of revolutionary fervour and the everyday people wishing to have their civil rights further respected began to take hold across much of this region. In the past three years, we have had political reformations, overthrown governments, consistent protests, and two violent civil wars, one of which is still ongoing. Where does this leave us? The Hotspots It can be argued that out of the many conflicts going on at the moment, the situations in Egypt and Syria are perhaps the most tense. Egypt The public, with the help of the armed forces, have overthrown two leaders and governments thus far. Mubarak's authoritarian collapse felt generally welcomed by many at that time, but the overthrow of Morsi, who was democratically elected, has prompted internal strife and constant conflict between Muslim Brotherhood supporters and a few more secular or moderate groups. Syria A civil war has been raging since 2011. Much less clean cut than the Libyan Civil War, despite beginning on similar foundations, the Syrian Civil War is an extremely messy, complicated affair which has racked up a death count of around 100,000 individuals by June 2013, and there is little sign of the war ceasing peacefully or decisively any time soon. The government of Bashar Al-Assad has some support from powers such as Russia and Iran, while the opposition forces are getting direct support from Saudi Arabia and Qatar with reluctant support from countries such as France and the United States, but not necessarily to the same extent. In contrast to the Libyan Civil War, the opposition is much more heavily fragmented and disorganized, and this, along with Assad's methods of keeping support, have led to the government slowly routing out existing opposition. Timeless historical constructs and entire city sections have been destroyed, many lives lost, and there are even possibilities of chemical weapons usage. Furthermore, the conflict exhibits a sectarianism that underlies not simply this conflict but the sparks of other conflicts around the Middle East. Locations of Note Libya In 2011, a majority of the Libyan people overthrew Muammar Gadhafi, long time head of the nation, restoring power back in the hands of the public, generally. Although things are shaping up, tension still exists within the nation, mostly internally between militia powers. Benghazi is an especially notable hotspot, and was the site of the infamous attack on the US consolate. Tunisia Tunisia's revolution, of sorts, was much more lax compared to that of Libya and Syria, but that did not change the sentiment behind it; Tunisia was, for all respects and purposes, the place where everything began. Although power has been redistributed to the elected party Ennahda, a moderate party with an Islam incline, a few recent concerns involve the assassination of opposition figureheads, and a few calls for the toppling of this government as well. Yemen Yemen has, unfortunately, been not in the best shape for a while. Although the government was ousted and elections took place, the country is still in a bit of an unstable, precarious shape. Even recently there has been an Al-Qaeda scare that has led the United States and a few other nations to be further on guard in the country, closing embassies. Iraq An enormous increase in bombings has plagued Iraq in the past few months of 2013 alone. Although the country was doing a bit better for itself in the past few years thankfully, these recent attacks are increasingly sectarian-linked and do not appear to be stopping anytime soon, unfortunately. Iraq may very well be on its way to becoming a hotspot of its own. Sources: Al Jazeera, BBC Although many of these were generally simplifications which is why those links exist, what does KHV think? Do you have hopes that the tumultuous region will pull together any time soon? Are these simply the throes of transition that every country in transition goes through? What are your outlooks on this hot region of affairs in the world?
It appears that the members are already practicing to audition for the role of "German yelling in the opening".
The saddest part of Bleach for me was when I ran out of it to clean a few things in my house.
It certainly depends for myself. I am well versed with certain time zones to the point that I can rattle off an expected approximation of another's time in either a general or precise manner, depending on my state of mind at the time, whether or not it is Daylight Savings, and other things to take into account. I know the time zone differences of North America by heart due to indoctrination from a young age, and I usually have a good idea of GMT-0 as reference. From there I can generally infer other European time zones, but for places such as South America or Asia, where a few of our members reside, I have little idea from the top of my head at all. Alas, such is the boon and bane of time zones. And Daylight Savings Time is another untamed dragon of a beast entirely ...
Not necessarily, no. Though there is no harm in making a small enough change like this to reflect some expanding Kingdom Hearts heritage, I suppose. We are all about the nationalism deep in the crevices of our Sora-esque collection of hearts. Keyblade Master is certainly appropriate enough for reaching Premium.
It is reassuring to know that even to extraterrestrial beings that can traverse space and time, the education system is still a terrifying institution.
{ m u s i c }[ a midsummer's night dream ] Oh. What a troglodyte. Fatime was ignored, again, again. Why did she even bother trying to talk to other people? But it didn't surprise her at the least, so her expression of distinct exasperation didn't change one bit. She looked out the window, contemplating why she didn't just call her brother to come pick her up. It wasn't fair. But never mind it -- never mind. She bit her lip in frustration as she gazed at the painted streaks of snow-covered pines outside the window. It was getting colder by the minute, and this car, it felt so alien. She traced her finger along the window sill, and it trembled like a softly vibrating violin string. Aaah ... she didn't want this. Why was she going here again? She didn't make friends with any of them. She barely even talked to them ... it was so cold. Where was Ayanna? What was her brother doing? What if this strange creepy old man was going to take her somewhere she-- she didn't want to go? Fatime felt a chill down her spine, and she couldn't tell whether it was the weather or the weightless feeling of shaking fear that began to surround her. She tucked her bag of Cupid's Brew by her lap and lifted up her legs, curling into a ball by the window. She lowered her eyes, and tried to stuff her face deeper into her scarf. Stupid ... What an imbecile. This was a bad idea. She shouldn't have gone so late at night. She should have just visited tomorrow ... She wasn't invited anyway. Aaah ... what in the world made her think testing these ridiculously unsanitary love drugs on people was a good idea? You were brighter than that, Fatime ... it wasn't science, stop excusing yourself. It was something else. Something else has been driving you all this time, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling at all. Fatime wanted to go back home now. But Julius had already driven her so far. She couldn't go back now! Maybe just a night at that wretched, sickening house and she could leave early in the morning. Julius had to stop to buy a few things for people. Sure, okay. She mumbled a recited quote in reply and tried to sleep. She almost did, or she tried. But the cold gripped her far too much, so all she could do was hide in the corner of the car's front seat like a lone cat. Eventually, Fatime heard footsteps crunch in the snow. Julius returned and sat back in the seat, putting on his belt. Fatime didn't move, but she made a reluctant effort to greet him. He wasn't a bad man in the least. At least he was bringing something for the kids in the party, right? They'd be happy. He really cared about them-- << Here ya go girly! Sorry if you don't like chocolate, but Merry Christmas! >> ... Wh-- Fatime turned to look at her driver. He gazed at her, holding a box of chocolates in his hand. What? Was this for her? No, no it couldn't-- what in the world was this buffoon doing? He should just get on with driving to that cursed house! She couldn't take something like this. What a waste of money and time! She just wanted to be alone now and get to the house in peace but all of these trip-falls of literary mess in the way! Useless useless, everything! But why was he giving it to her? This was-- she didn't-- didn't even like chocolate. So why was her lip trembling as she saw this offer to her? Ah ... She looked back at her tablet, and curled her fingers closer into her jacket sleeves as she chose an appropriate quote from a familiar book. She decided to go along with Pillowcase Samba by Jonah Salzig. << "G--get in the car," Alfred s-said, worried. >> Fatime couldn't even bear to look at this crazy man! Her voice was wracked with shakiness. << "It's cold outside, and I wouldn't want you feeling cold in the least. " >> Fatime reluctantly took the box and held it tightly, close to her bag of brew. She returned to her curled up ball by the window, and refused to look at this mad benefactor. The winds whistled louder as the night grew long, and before she knew it, they off on the silent road again. Fatime coughed gently into her scarf. Julius tried to talk to her. At first, Fatime wondered why he kept even wanting to try. To him, she was just another annoying little kid to take care of, and-- and not even a useful or genius one, like the others who had bigger roles in the play. All she could do was read. And ack-- here-- here she was asking him for help! Fatime's heart rate accelerated as she realized what a burden she must have been right now. The least she could do is try and reply ... He wasn't a bad man. He was loopy, insane even! Aha. But he cared. He noted her love for books, and this almost kindled a fire in Fatime before the flame snuffed out as she realized it was just more of the typical generic teacher-comment of positivity that they were all entitled to say. Okay. He was trying. Fatime gripped the bag of Cupid's Brew more tightly. She managed a terse reply, another quote from Steel Ball Run appreciating his gesture. But that was all she could manage. Her bones were on fire and her skin prickled with cold. She just wanted to get out ... It was better, though. For some reason, it felt as if the car had become warmer to her, even though the heating still was at its previous level. Maybe she was just getting used to the cold ... Fatime continued to look out the window, but from the left corner, by the windshield, it felt as if things were getting brighter and brighter ... What was-- SCRRREEEEEEEEEEEECH Spoiler Fatime's head shot up. Everything was set in bright lights and she couldn't see a thing, but before she could realize what was happening, she heard a sickening, metallic crunch that blew out her ears. Her entire body jerked forward as the airbags inflated, and she slammed into them, part of her legs bending by the seat and crashing into the space below the dashboard. She heard another crunch, but she wasn't sure if it was her bones, or the metal falling apart. The cold suddenly felt unbearable as the winds entered the car. Shards of glass had shot into her arms, and she couldn't feel part of her leg. In fact, she could barely feel her body. Her vision was blurring, and her cracked glasses fell apart from her eyes. She tasted blood seeping from her mouth, and felt a distinctive wetness dripping from her side ... What ... what did -- She-- she couldn't-- everything melded together, like an abstract painting in front of her eyes. Her vision began to blacken, and the cold nipped at her bare ears and nose. No ... No, she-- was she-- she wasn't going to-- << Girly ... >> Fatime winced. She felt herself being lifted up, and for a brief moment the pain of everything struck her entire body. It was as if sharp needles were drilling into her limbs, and bloodied fingers had rusty needles wedged underneath the fingernails. She didn't know where the pain was coming from, but it felt like icicles jabbed her back, or her own bones tore through her skin. It was the type of pain that was mysterious, and this mystery made it all the worse. She was dropped to the cold snow with a thud, and the shock of the cold suddenly brought her back to reality, while just momentarily numbing her pain. She opened her eyes wide, and darted around, trying to focus them, trying to see what happened ... what-- what did-- She followed a trail of deep, crimson blood, painted with streaks black from the night shadows and the uncaring snow. The front of the car had scrunched up like a sheet of paper; twisted spires and minarets of metal, some bloody, rose from a sea of glass. Small fires were slowly being put out by the relentless snow. And suddenly, her heart froze. Julius! Fatime could barely move, but she looked around to see his form. Where did he go? Was he okay? He wasn't hurt, was he! It was him that called out to her! Aaaah -- she was terrible, terrible, terrible! Where was he? Julius! Julius! She tried to crawl back onto her legs. There he was! He was-- he was ... Fatime let out a piercing scream. But it was in her head, for when she tried to vocalize it, she simply coughed up blood onto the ice and slipped back onto the snow. She-- she had to-- she couldn't be useless! Fatime tried to lift herself back up again, the pain in her legs slowly returning. She spotted a few of her belongings strewn across puddles of broken glass, metal, and drops of blood. The-- the brew-- Fatime clenched her teeth. No ... no ... The bag had a giant hole in it, from which a few of the broken bottles spilled their bright pink contents into the snow. It could be salvaged! This-- this couldn't be happening-- Fatime's heart began to pound as claws of shadowy fear gripped her. She suddenly realized she really was alone. She looked around her, and all she could see were the inky patches of black behind the snow-capped trees. She could have sworn she heard the howl of the wolf. Tears formed in her eyes, and the pain began to catch up with her. She was going to die ... She slumped back into the snow. All of this for nothing ... right? No, no, Fatime. That was wrong. She slowly turned her head to look back at Julius. His body looked lifeless. She needed to do something. Something-- something! Something with the last ounce of energy she had. Her mind yelled at her to do something, and the adrenaline seeped into her veins, but her useless body wouldn't comply. She looked back at the brew, and both noticed the box of chocolates and her phone by it. That was it! She-- she could-- But ... aaah ... The pain fired through her legs. Fatime began to crawl along the snow and ice. It was like crawling upon metal spikes with soft, bare skin, and the cold ripped deep into her arms. She could feel the shards bite into her back like the teeth of a beast. Her legs were numb and lifeless, but she used her last ounce of energy to get as close to the items thrown about as possible. Her breaths were heavy, and from time to time she coughed up blood. And all throughout this duration, her vision was veiled in a cloud of tears, running across her cheeks and freezing them in pink streaks. It felt like hours, to her, but she eventually made it. And she picked up the phone, slumping down onto the snow. She rolled onto her side, and the phone slipped in her hands, but as the snow began to pile on her ever so slightly, and numb her body again, she managed to call 911. Wait! She-- she couldn't-- where was her tablet? How could she quote anything? Her fingers began to tremble ... << Hello, Percival County Intercity Police Dispatch. Please state your problem and the services will be there momentarily. >> Fatime squeaked. << Wh-- >> << Ma'am? Are you alright? >> She couldn't do this ... she couldn't speak. She tried to say something else, but she just coughed more. Her throat was raw. << Ma'am! Can you speak? >> She-- she had to. She had to speak! Not for her own self, no. She turned her head towards the nearby bag of Cupid's Brew, and the box of chocolates ... At first, Fatime mumbled something incomprehensible. The dispatcher tried her best to understand, but was already about to send in some forces. But no! That wasn't enough! Fatime tried to clear her throat, but at this point she could barely see. Her vision was slowly beginning to blacken again. << Help ... crash ... man ... teacher badly hurt ... Please save him!! >> Her words were thick with blood, and the final phrase ended in a cough. The phone fell out of her hand. The dispatcher said words that she couldn't hear among the ringing in her ears and the chorus of the wind. Her eyes were slowly beginning to close. Ah, this was it, Fatime. You did what you could ... and you always had a plan, right? There was no way the world would continue to let you down, even if this would be the end! She snickered to herself one last time, and gazed at the two items in front of her. The bag of spilling brew, with its few intact bottles, and the box of chocolates, its contents haphazardly thrown across the snow. With her last ounce of strength, Fatime fought the sharp sting to raise her arm towards the items. With a slow movement of her body, as it drove further into the snow, she moved the box of chocolates closer to her, and curled herself around it protectively. ... [ C H A P T E RxxxE N D ]
Fatime cut off the call with dearest Lucas, her hand shaking ever so slightly. Wonderful, wonderful! He would help with her preparations for this little experiment. All she had to do was get there, and it was certainly in her luck that she was able to find someone to take her there even in the midst of everything. Unfortunately, Christmas night was a surprisingly quiet affair; few cars were on the road even this late at night, and the winds were not as loud as she expected them to be. So for the first part of her trip, she sat with her teacher in an ocean of awkward silence. How terrible. She needed to make some kind of small talk with this man to establish a relationship. Relationships, ah yes, they were always useful in the future when you needed to use someone for something, wasn't it true? The earlier she started and developed a useful one like this, the easier it would be for her to call upon his help in the future ... Ahaha! Fatime snickered. She reached for the radio knob and turned the music to some random station. { m u s i c }[ bonfire of the vanities ] It would calm the mood set for this entire debacle. But wait! She probably already made a terrible impression with the beginning ... dammit, dammit! Calm yourself, Fatime. You have control of this situation, and you always do. She could probably say something, but-- but why was it so cold tonight?! Ugh. Fatime lowered her eyebrows in venomous spite, as if ready to strike a defenseless animal at her legs playfully dangling over the seat edge. She fought back the urge to shiver, but the cold was driving her up the wall. Maybe this would be a good start? Haha ... She turned to Julius and picked a quote from a classic adventure novel, Steel Ball Fun, by Bitte Joestar. << "Internal car heating?" Joseph Jufran asked, flexing his muscles and posing in the starlight to keep himself warm. >> Fatime said this with a voice as cold and emotionless as Cold War steel.
GREETINGS HOW ARE YOU SIR.
{ m u s i c }[ ulysses ] << "W--Wait!" Sugar called out, a chill in her voice. >> Fatime's voice was flat as she rushed over to the dark figure of her professor in the cold winter moonlight. A grey scarf was tightly wrapped around the lower edge of her face, and it muffled her words a bit, but it was nothing that prevented her from communicating. Her hands were bare, and her freezing pink fingers trembled as she held a death grip on her tablet, opened to the e-book from which she found that particular quote. When the musical was over, Fatime wasn't quite sure how to feel at all. Opening night went off without a hitch. But did it matter to her? The crew and the players especially, they all received such lovely welcomes and congratulations. Warm ones, that would keep everyone in that auditorium away from the freeze of winter. No, no ... it didn't matter to her. So she slipped away, a lowly hairdresser whom nobody acknowledged and whom never tried to make contact with these others, to her own devices. And here she was, in the cold, with a bag of the dangerous concoction of a brew that would allow her to understand exactly what kind of drug it was. But her eyebrows were low, her cheeks rosy from the cold, and her expression flat-faced, biting her lip ever so slightly, as dear Ayanna had told her that she couldn't take her to the party just yet. She never wanted to go in the first place. Who would wish to enter the home of a dangerous little bird like that with the Bennett family, regardless! Hodgepodge! She puffed out her cheeks angrily, considering this. But no, she had little choice. The drive of scientific curiosity left her on edge. So she needed another ride ...She could call her dear brother at the Bennett household, and he could easily assist in her little experiment. Ahaha! Fatime walked over to Julius, mustering up the courage to put on the most sincere, cutest little smile she could manage. She tried not to crack it under the cold. Her fingertips shivered, and she tried to hide the sharp shaking of her knees with her large coat.She looked up at the tall teacher and quickly tried changing the e-book file on her tablet, finding words. Ah! With her trembling fingers, she momentarily dropped her tablet. It landed with a soft thud in the snow. Aaaah ... oh no oh no oh no! She felt her heart rate rise. Quickly, Fatime bent down to pick it up and slipped on some ice, falling flat on her stomach in front of Julius. Her body was hit with a cannon shock of cold that gripped her entire body. Her bag fell to the ground, but thankfully its contents didn't spill out. She struggled like a turtle on its shell, her limbs splaying forward, her hands trying to grasp her tablet. She felt so helpless. She wanted to cry, right here, but no, she couldn't! Not in front of the Professor! So she clenched her teeth and tried to get up. She was shaking from the chilly winds and her bones rattled, but she was able to make it to her knees. She picked up her tablet and tried getting up, but fell backwards sharply on her bottom. She winced, and she felt the familiar feeling of tears by her eyes. But these tears, they were the sort chilled by the immense cold, and so they stung into her face like bullets. No! No! She couldn't be this uselessly pathetic! She tried to get up again, and this time, slowly but surely, she made it to her feet. Leaning down, then rising upward, her legs shook, and she deftly picked up her bag, moving onto a softer patch of snow. The white cotton fluff made it to her stockings, and the cold began to jab at the ends of her legs. Her hands were still trembling. She opened the e-book, to a story called "Fabulous Drunk Women" by Thomas Ciel-corazon. Be confident ... be confident ... She cleared her throat. << She said with a sigh, "may I go with you to the party tonight?" >>
Well, he joined in summer and our admin is indeed just a baby.
Torvald was so happy at this glorious revolution that the minute he stepped onto the deck of the boat he fell flat on his face asleep. On the deck. He thought someone tossed him his shark suit. Fatime gave up in cleaning her room halfway through and collapsed to have another weird dream. Maybe.
<< What the hell are you guys running for >> Torvald asked as he looked at the breathless proletarians clutching their legs and hearts in despair. << What did you see for Marx's sake? DO TELL. >> From across the thingamajig and the sludgeymadjig he noticed that something felt off. He carefully pat his medical kit and made sure everyone was close in case something bad might have occurred or something even worse. Did they release hellfire again? INCANDESCENT LIGHTBULB PEONS MY FOD Torvald readied his run legs.
{ m u s i c }[ ulysses ] Aaah ... Fatime let out a soft yawn, stretching out her limbs in her messy tumult of a bed. The sheets splayed all over the places, with giant ripples and corners dangling uneasily off of the edges. She curled around in her pajamas, and kicked one of the hundreds of books littering her bed aside. She rose, blinking quickly, adjusting to the light of the evening. Her room was an incomprehensible mess. A hurricane of books had passed through; hardcovers, softcovers, colourful covers, bland covers, all kinds of covers you could think of. The deep smell of nutmeg waltzed indiscriminately with the light scent of herbal tea, and her laptop slept soundly tucked between two pillows left askew. Ah ... what time was it? She moved over to the bedside and sat up, dangling her legs off the side. Ayanna was out today ... Maybe she could read something. Maybe she could clean her room? Where was everyone ... not even Lucas had contacted her in ages. Did they leave her? She deserved it-- Ah. She bit her lip and scrunched up her eyes. Haha ... Fatime kicked a book gently off her bed and leaped off the bed. She rubbed her tired, weary eyes, red from a torrent of various reasons, and picked up her dusty glasses from the bedside. She had not used these in a while, had she ... Fatime felt a tingle down her spine, and suddenly she felt as if she were standing on the surface of moving water. Maybe Ayanna would be happy if she cleaned her room ... Haha ...
[ I N I T I A T E ] C L I C K x x x x x ACT I // VERSCHOLLEN monte au bâtiment voisin. VERSCHOLLEN GRUNDLAGE! // GRUNDLAGE se réveille. GRUNDLAGE Quel enfant êtes-vous Pour me réveiller si tôt Dans le matin? // VERSCHOLLEN tient un livre dans les mains. VERSCHOLLEN Je suis ici pour m'aider. Des bâtiments comme vous Vivez pour s'aider des autres. Mais, vous créez seulement des regrets En autres, dans le monde. // VERSCHOLLEN marche au bord du bâtiment, en tenant le livre fermement. GRUNDLAGE Une jeune fille comme vous ne peut jamais Comprendre qu'est-ce que le monde c'est. Parlez! Pourquoi vivez-vous? Pourquoi portez-vous une masque? // GRUNDLAGE sonne. C'est 13 heures. VERSCHOLLEN Je vive pour combattre mes démons Comme tous les humains dans ce monde sombre. C'est pourquoi je vous fais une faveur. // VERSCHOLLEN ouvrit le livre. VERSCHOLLEN Neanmoins ... Vous êtes la fondation des maux De la société. Je porte une masque parce que Mon existence est éphémère. // VERSCHOLLEN regarde GRUNDLAGE VERSCHOLLEN Well, honour is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life: but, for my single self, I had as life not as live to be, In awe of such a thing as I myself. Votre horloge a cessé. Spoiler The masked girl, standing on the building looking over the Candlewood City Hall, opens the blank book to the 264th page. The winds are cold and sharp, and though she is virtually unseen, her inky hair drifts through the sky. She picks up a set of noise-cancelling headphones by her feet, wide apart to keep stability high up on this building. Pulling her hood tighter to herself, she adjusts her mask, and presses the small switch in the middle of the book's page. In front of her, a pristine white dome erupts into clouds of blinding yellow and orange. As the dome slowly crumbles and collapses into a storm of enveloping grey dust, four blank pages, the size of a hardcover novel's, drift through the air. The top of the Candlewood City Hall has exploded.
{ ? ? : ? ? } xxxxxxWhen the announcer's disgustingly sickeningly sweet voice of capitalist tyranny that sounded like a fat cat combination of a bad Japanese speaker and Meryl Streep from the Devil Wears Prada announced the acceptance of the first passcode, Torvald released his breath and let out an audible sigh. The party had spent almost an hour thinking about what sort of password these vaults would accept, until they slowly began to formulate the idea. At first, a few of them had considered obvious things, like favourite colours, or the weather, but everything began to fall apart when they learned that the passcode only accepted four numerical digits. There were arguments, there was fear, and there was enough camaraderie and comradeship that made Torvald cry tears of communist joy on the inside. Their revolution paid off, for with a divine stroke of genius they realized what numbers would work. From their time within the mansion, through the gardens, and among the atmosphere of the town itself, the party realized the heavy Anglo-centric nature of this cluster village in the middle of nowhere. It took a while, but with a smear of luck it was realized that the numbers corresponded to the dates of two famous, heavily-English wars in history -- World War I, and the Anglo-Scottish Wars. Which year fit with which was an easy step from that point -- the years in the 1540s would correspond to Noelle and Jonathan, because they were chronologically older, and their names were rooted in Anglo-Scots tradition. Meanwhile, the 1910s years corresponded to the Italian Sophie, and the vaguely Polish Pierce respectively, both playing more-than-nominal parts in the First World War. The doors were unlocked, and even Torvald was surprised at how stupidly insane these passwords were. But alas. The revolution would go o- << the vault unlocks and inside lays Sophie Baguette, sleeping on a white bed >> << DEPLORABLE CAPITALISTS! >> Yelled Torvald, his voice echoing through the dark basement chamber. << NO RESPECT FOR THE WORKING CLASS OR WORKING CLASS BREADS! TO THE HELL WITH IT ALL! MAY YOUR TOP HATS BURN IN DESPAIR AS THE BILLION BOOTS AND WRENCHES OF WORKERS OF THE WORLD WILL STOMP ON YOUR FACES FOR ETERNITY! >> He grabbed Lucas' hand with a tight grip and spun off into the vault to get Sophie. << DISGUSTING BUTLER TRAITOR OF THE PROLETARIAT MURDERER! MISS BAGUETTE LIES HERE AND WE MUST RESCUE HER FROM THIS TYRANNY OF CAPITALISM THAT HAS BEEN SHOWN TO US THROUGH MR. GRANT'S INSIPID FALSITIES AND ENSLAVEMENT OF THE HUMAN CONDITION! >> Torvald left Lucas in the vault and pirouetted out to the main hall, where he whirled around to find Jonathan, before stopping. What? It seemed darker, and there was no movement. This was -- uh -- He walked closer, more carefully this time, and peered into the vault.The announcement was not lying. Torvald cursed under his breath and turned to the others who were not within the vaults. << Uh.This is terrible. Deplorable! We have proof enough they were kept here. But they cannot be left dead so quickly. It is entirely possible they have been hidden in another part of the house. We have to be careful. Be careful, be careful. This is all a great danger to the revolution of our minds! It is clear enough they know we are going to take their little prisoners. It is clear enough that they may have moved these two to lead us into unsavoury situations. >>
{ 1 2 : 0 5 } xxxxxxAs Torvald followed the others through the warzone that was this hellish inferno of an estate, he kept himself on guard and took in as much as possible with his surroundings. Nothing about the pristine white walls called out positively to Torvald, and he just wanted to get the others and leave this fortress of the enemy as quick as possible. As they passed through an ornate dining room that left a bad taste in Torvald's mouth, he subtly noticed that the other three pocketed a few items of silverware from the table. He considered it, eyeing one of the knives, but refrained himself from doing so. There was no way he would touch cutlery stained with the blood of the back of the working class people. He glanced up at the maid. And regardless, stealing would possibly be a bad thing. He had enough training with his fists and some sharp surgeon's scissors in his first aid kit if he really did need to defend himself.The garden was an enormous maze, with the hedges tall enough to partly block out the sky's pale light. The maid began humming Michaela's threnody from the Girl in Watercolours. Torvald raised his eyebrows and glanced at the little working-class nymph, but he kept himself from saying anything just yet. Cracked twigs and fallen leaves crackled and crunched beneath his heavy steps, and the garden's sharp smell of turpentine made his head ache. Eventually, they reached the elevator, and Torvald narrowed his eyes.This was going to be dangerous. He entered with the others, and the maid pulled the rusty lever, sending them dropping into darkness. Suddenly, the other three men exploded into questioning the poor maid, who would probably be pained enough from everything that was going on. << Enough, enough, calm yourselves! >> Torvald cried out to the ruckus after it slowly died down. << You are overwhelming our poor worker class maid girl. Give her some space. >>He sighed and turned to the maid. << I'm highly sorry for this explosive revolution of questions. We're curious people. I have a few myself, if you do not mind answering, when you are finished with the others. >><< Why do you feel so anxious, so nervous? Is it simply a natural characteristic of yours? You have nothing to fear. >>Throughout the entire ordeal, he had noticed that the poor maid was fitfully clumsy and pale. << How often do people -- Bentley residents, outsiders, or otherwise -- visit this mansion? >>
{ 1 1 : 4 5 } xxxxxx What a dirty dismal home of a feverishly disgusting fat cat aristocrat like this Grant was! When Torvald entered the creaky old homestead with the others, he realized that this putrid wreck of a house had been built on the backs of not simply the oppressed, but the enslaved. No, it was no surprise that many old homes here in Percival County were relics of a past best forgotten, but the pristine white walls and clear windows, the grand doors and colonnades of the entire estate screamed barbaric voices in Torvald's head. But this was a dangerous place, so he could do little. They were a bit aways from Bentley, and the murky, muddy smell of swamps only kilometers away stung his nose. Dragonflies played their buzzes throughout the air and the grass was rife with an orchestra of creatures that gave the entire estate a lively jump. This former plantation of a home had -- by Marx's soul -- sold away its crop for what was simply acres of useless land. Useless! Torvald puffed his chest as his face reddened. This land could have been used for the innocent working class people! Alas, alas! A man like Grant would not survive in a changing world, filled with revolution and infinite tumult. The boot of the proletariat would strike this vicious stamp of insult that this home was on the progression of the human race as it would all others like its cretinous existence. Torvald shuffled in with the others as the plain-looking maid led them in. They had a maid! He wanted to yell at her to rise up against this tyrannical overlord of hers, to join his revolution, but before he could say a word he forced himself to scrunch up his face as the little party of adults sat down and she gallivanted off to some other part of this maze-like home. The interior was surprisingly less ostentatious than he expected, and he could almost call it homey, but the aching soreness of remembering how this place would have been built, and what sort of man Grant was, made him scowl at the very prospect of breathing the house's contaminated air. There was a bowl of candy and a few drinks set out in front of everyone, but Torvald was suspicious enough to restrain himself from taking anything. He looked up at the others. << Right it is! By Stalin's boots, we should ask the bourgeois tyrant some questions. >> Torvald's voice was quiet enough so that it was heard only among the party, but it carried its familiar flame of evangelical preaching. << The working class will rise up and topple the mysteries and the revolution will come as a wave to rescue those we must rescue. That being said ... >> He cleared his throat. << Where do you believe we should begin. >> The tone of his voice once again became slightly mired with ache and fatigue, but this change only served to allow his words more secrecy. << This Grant man holds extreme power in the town of Bentley. There are perhaps crevices everywhere that may allow him ears into our conversations, so we must check. >> He turned to Bryan, eyeing the slight bulge in his pocket. << Be on your guard. You are the one who will be our greatest defensive asset. >> Torvald's mind had sharpened, and his eyes darted around, tracing familiar paths in the air as if he had done this too many times.
Spoiler: x A sheet of static only briefly blanketed the screen, but after a second it dissipated slowly as a rough, low-poly image, blocky and mired with blue and green artifacts, came into place. The camera jittered around, and the sides of the image were almost in a constant blur. It took ages to focus in place, but eventually the image was clear enough to display two people in lab coats; a tall man fixated to incomprehensible scrawlings on a yellowing whiteboard, and a stout, chubby, dwarfish lady near him, glancing up with a menacing leer. "Camera's runnin'!" The lady suddenly glanced towards the camera. "Tha' terrible thin'? You thinkin' we be mad? Bloody knocker, why don't you ain't just get an' find me own recording for this here ol' thin!" Her fiery storm of hair puffed out and about as her plump red face seethed and gesticulated in frustration. She walked closer, her prosthetic leg tapping hard on the floor, ready to grab the camera man. The view quickly began to back away. The tall man continued to stare at the whiteboard. "Professor, can't you just let that idiot film this?" "Nou!" She swiveled around on her good leg, pounding her hips with balled fists. "If they's want somethin' or th'other like this here ol' thing to record for the publication then there ain't not gonna be on my watch somethin' little bloody gobshite of a veritably terrible 240p jay-pee-gee garbage hobsmash under my esteemed name. Ye thinkin' of tarnishin' me good name in the entire preponderance of academic existence ye thinkin'!" Her accent was extremely heavy, but it cushioned her eclectic mix of vocabulary well. "Prof!" Called out the camera man, further backing away from the violent little professor and the man by the whiteboard. "It's okay. I'll uh-- I'll convert it. Or-- or something. But just get back to work, I need to see you and nerdpants there solve th--" "Prof?" The little professor suddenly turned a whole new undiscovered shade of pinkish red. "Ye be callin' me prof like I ain't one a yer bozo friend clowns just jankin' all up with the tarnished eloquence that one ain't gonna attribute to the versimilitudinous existential dithyramb parties y'all gon' keep flying up like a buncha squabs on the roast fire and--" "Professor Hennessey." The camera view and the professor turned back to the man at the whiteboard, his deep voice silencing this ephemeral little squabble. The room, for a fleeting moment, was quiet enough to hear the tell-tale tapping of stark, weighty rain. "I need some of your advice with figuring out the generational line of descent regarding eye colour alleles, uh, here--" The man stuttered a bit, his words falling off. "The expression of the HERC2 gene over the five generations of Percival County citizens in the data we have gathered, it looks like, uh, there's something kind of faulty. Missing. This pattern doesn't match the data we've got." The camera man was silent. Hennessey hobbled over to the tall man, her shoulders rising and falling with each step like waves on the ocean. She glanced hard at the written scribbles on the whiteboard, but the view did not zoom into the content. "Huh. Ye've got some idea there?" "Maybe." The tall man lowered his head in thought, holding his chin. The tall man told Hennessey his little idea on the eye colour discrepancies. Throughout the explanation, Hennessey's sharp, beady eyes rose in understanding. When the tall man finished his explanation, the camera man walked closer to the whiteboard. "Ye've got to test it out, if ye can," Hennessey said. "Geographic implication sure ain't somethin' that can be considered completely fer a thin' like this, yeah." She turned away and nodded to herself. "More like a mutation in the EYCL1 gene expression, but that would mean somethin' or th' other wi' the HERC2 ... " The room was once again devoid of chatter as the rain hit the walls of the laboratory. "Got the entire thing on tape, Tor," the camera man said. "This'll be gold for our first paper on gene expressions, don't cha think?" Torvald chuckled, his voice lighter and like honey. "I hope so! I uh, it would be great. But the Professor needs to still keep us undergrads in check." When the camera turned to Hennessey, her expression seemingly changed. It had become more stern, pained, as if she held to cinderblocks on her conscience. The tiny ends of her teeth bit her lower lip, and her fox-like face set itself into sharp angles of weary consideration. The camera view suddenly flew off below and focused on the ground, away from the talk. "Ye two," she said in a softer voice. "Ye two, you ain't still thinkin' about goin' overseas, are ye?" Her words were lined with toxic caution. The view shook for a split second. "People are dying," Torvald said. "Bloody Syria's already a mess. Ye ain't gonna change nothin'." "Professor Hennessey. With all due respect, I don't give two little cares if we aren't able to--" "And ye think tha' they'll give two lille cares if the bloody government kills--" "Wait! ****, ****. I left this thing on." The view changed from the floor to some point on the wall as the camera turned off, and the video ended. The last words were Hennessey's vicious, wrathful swears. xxxxxx Torvald closed the video file and set his phone aside, leaning forward and rubbing his forehead in weary fatigue. The room was dark, and the beds were unkempt. Pads of paper bearing terrible handwriting and messy diagrams littered the floor around Torvald's side of the creaky inn bed. Some pads were yellowed, some were ruled, and some were more taped sheets of paper than anything. Thank Marx for Cane's incessant throwing of office supplies at him -- it provided a steady source of stationery to help him brainstorm while bypassing the grueling task of asking another person. Chalky sunbeams entered the room through the gaps in the shut blinds, casting a ghostly glow in the darkened room. Torvald stood up and walked over to the closest window, pulling the blinds cord with a quick swipe and releasing the sunlight back into the dark space around him. { 1 0 : 0 0 } He looked back at his squat little phone resting on the bedside table. Green eyes, green eyes ... it was certainly true, by the revolution, every Bentley native had green eyes. This was preposterous! Squabs-- uh, rather, scumbag fat cats. Right. Torvald cleared his throat. They had green eyes, and-- and this coincidence was driving Torvald in half. But this was not a small scale mutation, like the research four, five years ago? Four years ago. This was on a huge scale. And all this time, it had been underneath his-- their noses. That is, except for the fact that it was impossible that this was a mutation. There was something at work here -- something revolutionary. Torvald posed in the sunlight, looking away from the window, his front drowned in shadow. But ... ah ... Torvald looked back to his phone and was silent in deep thought. He walked over and sat back on his side of the bed, kicking away one of the messy paper pads by his feet. As he picked up his phone and began to punch in a number, he tried to keep his fingers from shaking ever so slightly. Ring, ring ... Beep! ... ... Hello. This is the ... Molecular Biology and Genomics Faculty of the University of Vincristine, West Percival. You are speaking to the receptionist ... how may we help. Uh. ... Yes, I need to ask you a question. ... ... Your voice has become quiet, monotone. Is that-- Who? What? ... You don't-- who is this? A graduate student. Which one, then ... It doesn't matter. ... I just need you to answer a simple question quickly if you can. ... Okay, right, fine ... what is it that you want? ... Is Professor Hennessey available? ... She left. I- What? ... She's in Mozambique to help with the crisis. The University of Vincristine has no way to contact her at the moment ... on her final day, she burned her bridges very badly. I'm sorry ... Why did she-- that-- that bloody hypocrite. ... Don't beat yourself up about it, Tor. Maybe you should just blame yourself and the others back then. What?! Wait! You-- Can you at least give Cameron my regards? ... No! No, I just-- no, I can't, I mean-- god damn. Torvald cut the call off quickly before he could continue that morbid conversation. His face had broken into a cold sweat. Small beads curled down his forehead as he bared his teeth in frustration and touched a hand to his temple. This was-- ****, this was ridiculous. He couldn't think straight. Maybe he just needed breakfast ... right, ahaha ... { 1 0 : 0 5 } When Torvald heard all there was to say, hiding by the open door as Kline went off and talked about the incidents last night, he tried hard to keep his knees from shaking. His heartbeat was quick, and he gently grinded his teeth behind his taut lips. But at the same time, a wave of apathy washed over him. His spine was sore, and his stomach inflamed; the feelings brought back by memories that re-occurred again and again and again. His joints ached, and his breaths became heavy. Freddie called out for a medical kit. Right ... ah, aha, that's right. Torvald briefly went back to his room, picked up his first aid kit, and walked lethargically over into the common room where the others sat. His eyes were tired and heavy, lined with frustration and caked with remorse. He wasn't able to get much sleep at all these past nights, and learning about Bentley only seemed to invite mystery after mystery. The others did not exist to him right now. There we are. Only the goal. Only the patient ... He knelt beside Kline, and opened his kit, picking up a roll of bandages and alcohol. << Kline, please be still and be calm. >> Torvald's voice had completely changed, and had becomed more honeyed, delicate, sweet. It felt almost motherly. At the same time, it frayed at the edges, and yellowed with age, as if this particular tone was one he wished to keep away forever, but always washed up in his mind simply from his habits of regret. << It will be alright. We, the revolution, will protect all of our citizens. Please tell me where your wounds are. The alcohol may sting, so I ask the brother of Kline to hold onto her sister's hand. To the others, I-- we must figure out what happened. I refuse to leave with comrades left in enemy territory. >> His voice felt like it echoed in his head. His hands were careful, but they succumbed to minute trembles as he went through this scene for the billionth time. Some things had never changed, even after these three years.
