Log in

No account? Create an account
entries friends calendar profile Previous Previous
Dear Larry Corriea,

I am writing this open letter to you as a longtime SF fan and BAEN customer.

I have been poking around SF author blogs lately, mostly due to the influence of Writing Excuses, a Podcast I believe you guest starred on before. I greatly enjoyed hearing your thoughts and value your contribution to my own development as a writer. As a fan, I was shocked at the sudden vitriol that seemed to have splashed across the SF writer's community. I do seem to have this habit of getting into communities at a bad time. But enough about me, let's talk about you.

I was reading up on this whole "puppygate" thing that's dominating the google search page and making it hard for me to find the blog posts i was actually looking for, and I eventually arrived at your blog-off with GRRM, and discovered this paragraph you wrote:

"So I went out on the internet and started searching my name, trying to find out what the buzz was for the Campbell nominees. I started calling friends who belonged to various writer forums and organizations that I didn’t belong to, asking about what people thought of my books in there. You know what I found? WorldCon voters angry that a right-wing Republican (actually I’m a libertarian) who owned a gun store (gasp) was nominated for the prestigious Campbell. This is terrible. Did you know he did lobbying for gun rights! It’s right there on his hateful blog of hatey hate hate! He’s awful. He’s a bad person. He’s a Mormon! What! Another damned Mormon! Oh no, there are two Mormons up for the Campbell? I bet Larry Correia hates women and gays. He’s probably a racist too. Did you know he’s part of the evil military industrial complex? What a jerk."

You later also clarified:

"Side note, I’m not racist, sexist, or homophobic, but if that crowd (I’ll talk about the derogatory label my side uses that you don’t like in a minute[1]) decides you are the enemy, they will smear you with those labels, regardless of the evidence."

[1] SJW, for any people reading this Open Letter who are not familiar with this already.

While I am only quoting a small excerpt for brevity's sake, the full blog post is here:


Larry Correia, I have something really important to say to you:


It's always great to welcome new members, especially when they are also famous people! You add luster to our ranks!

What club am I referring to? Why, the "People are stereotyping me and it totally sucks" club. I'm so happy that I get to formally welcome someone!

Now I know that maybe my happiness is a bit grating, when you've just had an unpleasant experience. But I urge you to accept my welcome in the positive spirit in which it is given, and embrace the communion or your new brothers and sister is suffering. A burden of pain shared is a burden lessoned.

I've been a member for quite a while now. See, I was a Straight Asian Male, living in Hawaii, which is almost like being a Straight White Male living on the US mainland. We see ourselves as being basically normal, even 'default.' It's a pretty cozy existence, up until some jerk ruins it for you. For me, the moment came when I was forced to spend some months at a public school in the frozen wasteland known as Falmouth, Massachusetts. There, for the first time in my life consistently surrounded by White People rather than fellow Chinese folks., I discovered to my horror that people were Stereotyping me! They would just come right up to me, and noting my asian features, ask if my parents worked at the local Chinese Restaurant. I must admit, I am now rather ashamed of my reaction. It was apoplectic. How dare these smirking, upper middle class white folks just assume my parents must be working class stiffs just because of my Asian Heritage! Both of my parents had Ph.D's for crying out loud! We were only in the frozen wastes because my father has accepted an invitation to collaborate with a colleague at the prestigious Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute.

In retrospect, that was classist of me. But it cannot be denied that people made unfounded assumptions about me based on my ethnicity. They stereotyped me, and it hurt. Oh, it hurt. In truth, it still hurts, even today, so many years later. So Larry, I want you to know that I feel your pain. And I want you to know that you are not alone. Every asian immigrant moving to these shores shares that pain. Every woman who has tried to pursue a career in a field traditionally seen as a men's preserve has suffered as you have suffered. Every Native American who has opened a high school history textbook knows the sorrow that now weighs on you. And we all stand in solidarity with you. We support you. You are our brother now.

I make this an Open Letter, because I want to call on everyone to show Larry how much we support him in this difficult time of transition for him. I want us all to write Larry some kind words under the hashtag #WelcomeLarryCorreia . He has joined us in our fellowship of being looked upon as a stereotype rather than a human being and we must support our new brother.

I am shocked and appalled that people are attacking Larry when he needs emotional support rather than more emotional distress. I call on everyone to stop throwing around biting sarcasm and harsh political language and angry fandom rants. Theose benefit no one. Right now, we need to focus on doing what is right, what is good. Helping someone with the unpleasant, and for him, unexpected experience of being "lumped in" with people he does not consider his own is surely a more noble cause. And I have everyone confidence that the good people who enjoy SF will do the right thing.

Let us all welcome Larry Correia.

#WelcomeLarryCorreia #LarryCorreiaSolidarity

Tags: ,

Leave a comment
Chapter - 1: Homecoming

The Shodai Hokage did not merely create a forest. He created a vast repository of hundreds of medicinal plants, an abundant reservoir of renewable food resources, and carefully sectioned blocks of specific trees, each offering an uniquely useful form of wood. This new and novel Hidden Village he was creating would lack for nothing that he had the power to provide.

In this endeavor, he was aided by one of the few remaining lineages that had preserved something of the science of botany by passing down what fragmented knowledge and methodology had been retained from the prior age. The Yoshinaga clan was thus the first non-shinobi clan to throw in with the Senju's radical experiment.

-excerpted from The Miracle of Mokuton, by Inari Tsukino, Shiratori press, 1044 NE.

Sayuri Yamanaka sipped her tea as she considered her guest. Hiroko Haruno had once been a favored scion of the Shimizu clan, one of only three clans that were merchant houses rather than shinobi lineages among the charter families that had been Konoha’s core population at its founding. The Yoshinaga clan had since become a shinobi lineage in its own right, leaving only the Rokubungi and Shimizu as Konoha’s official “civilian” clans, entitled to openly wear clan insignia and retain land grants in the Great Forest despite their lack of shinobi members. It produced occasional grumbling from some of the smaller shinobi lineages, or from families with strong shinobi traditions but which were too small or obscure to count as a clan. They earned their tenancy in the bountiful Great Forest or their seats on the council by blood, with each generation, while the Shimizu and Rokubungi held theirs by contractual right passed down in perpetuity

Not that anyone could justly accuse Hiroko of not earning her due. Haruno Fine Crafts had grown from a few artisans to a booming business with over thirty master craftsmen and smiths in a mere half dozen years, despite the owner having a background in the textiles industry that the Shimuzu clan's businesses dominated, rather in metal or ceramics working. Hiroko herself rarely set foot in Konoha, busy completing her restructuring of the Shimizu holdings in Wind country and establishing a strong presence for Shimizu Mercantile in Lightning country, but her keen eye for talent had ensured that her own company back in Konoha prospered under the direction of capable managers. No, the unsubtle campaign of whispers and meaningful looks that had socially isolated her since her return to Konoha a few months ago had its roots in something else entirely. Doubt was cast on Haruno’s virtue and dignity, rather than her competence.

Sayuri had recognized that Haruno must be a formidable woman to accomplish as much as she had, but meeting her revealed the steel in her soul far more clearly than any impressions she previously had. There had been no need to ask about the rather vicious rumors that had swirled around the woman since her return to Konohagakure two months ago. Hiroko was easily astute enough to guess the motive behind the invitation to tea from her daughter’s new best friend’s mother. She knew that Sayuri wanted to gauge her character, to ensure that little Ino was not falling in with the unwanted child of an abandoned woman. She knew she was being judged, and she bore it with steadfast calm and dignity.

She spoke calmly and forthrightly, her voice neither challenging nor apologetic, as she recounted the years she spent away from her hometown, and the marriage that had strained her relations with her family to the breaking point. Hiroko had been sent to supervise the Shimizu Mercantile holdings in Wind Country, which had been, at the time, meant as an opportunity, not exile. It was her chance to show her worth as a Shimizu clan scion, and demonstrate her business acumen. She had performed splendidly, much as her family expected from the astute young woman, and seemed poised to move up to greater and grander things. Until, that is, she fell in love with a local, and decided to get married.

Hiroko was hardly the only impetuous young scion of a highly placed family that had become enamored with a lowborn lover. Indeed, in relatively egalitarian Fire country, it would hardly be worth commenting on, except for the poor timing of her return. Hiroko had shown up, newborn daughter in arms, just in time to arrive in a Konoha still wreathed in smoke from minor fires that had not been put out as shinobi and civilian relief efforts alike focused on saving lives in the wake of the Kyuubi's attack. Her arrival, with a small caravan packed with pottery, was welcome in the eyes of Konoha's beleaguered civil services, who pressed the vessels into service for water storage and delivery while repairs were being made to the village's extensive sewage system and water works.
It was less welcome in the eyes of her emotionally strung out family, who she hadn't told of her marriage, let alone her pregnancy. The screaming row the resulted when the reunion between the wayward daughter and her distraught parents occurred was the talk of a village relieved to have something other than the carnage left by the kitsune bijuu to occupy their minds. In the end, Hiroko had been shuffled off back to Wind country to save what little face the clan could.

Seven years later and she was back in Konoha, her daughter quiet and haunted, her husband nowhere to be seen. The Konoha rumor mill was in overdrive. Sayuri had heard at least six variations on "he's run off with another (younger) woman," with a range of appendices ranging from "the poor dear" to "hmph, this is what comes of ignoring the wisdom of one's elders."

But Hiroko's calm and dignified manner put the lie to such gossip. She hesitated and skirted the issue of her husband's death, but made it clear that he had died, and died honorably. She was not an abandoned wife throwing herself on the mercy of the family that she had once spurned, but a widow returning to the town that was her home, of her own accord, with no need for charity from anyone. There was no sign of irritation at the gossip, no petulance about the unfairness of it all, only carefully measured out grief, as politeness dictated - enough to make one’s feeling clear, but not enough to discomfit anyone else. Hiroko’s back was unbowed, and her eyes clear, ready to stare down any who would slander her husband, and declare that Yoichiro Haruno had died no less honorably or well than any of Kohona’s finest.

That was something Sayuri could respect. She knew that the Shimizu traditionally shied away from the pursuing the way of the ninja, preferring to expand their prosperous financial holdings and ever burgeoning library, but they could not help but soak up some of the attitudes of the ninja that dominated the village. Dying well was important for ninja, who knew that they might be called upon to spend their lives for the sake of their comrades or their village at any time. Their lives, the accumulated experience and skill they presented, were the village's most valuable resource, wealth not to be spent lightly. That was the among the first lessons a prospective ninja of the leaf was taught: that she must be prepared to lay down her life for her village, but that such sacrifice must be made for worthy ends in time of need.

Konoha invested much in its shinobi and kunoichi, and wanted them to live long enough to make the investment worthwhile. Konoha ninja would not be fodder to be cast heedlessly into the fire like the poor souls awarded headbands by some other villages. Iwa forgot its ‘lesser’ nin, and told its children the space was now open for the strong to fill; Konoha carved the names of its dead into stone and cherished their memory. It was a point in Hiroko’s favor that she understood the meaning of sacrifice.

In fact, Hiroko seemed to understand a great deal about military matters. Sayuri had taken the liberty of examining her financial records, public and otherwise, and noticed an interesting trend in her business dealings. Most merchants prioritized profit, wheeling and dealing to corner the market for a product or take advantage of supply and demand. Hiroko, on the other hand, seemed more interested in expanding Konoha’s economy, especially with regards to areas Sayuri herself had identified as needing development when she had worked in the logistics division.

Hiroko had arranged the immigration of pottery experts from Sunakagure to start a ceramics industry in Konoha, taking advantage of the excellent clay to be found on a few of the nearby rivers. She imported samples of freshwater crayfish that were cultivated along with rice in the terraced pond-fields of Rai no Kuni, and agriculturalists knowledgeable in their cultivation, giving Konoha yet another source of indigenously producible protein. Everywhere she went, she sought out people with skills and talents that might flourish in Konoha, and pointed them at its gates.

Sakura might be the first ninja from the Haruno clan in many generations, but Sayuri could see the strategic mindset of a veteran warrior in Hiroko’s actions. She was securing the logistical base for her home, expanding the economic base that was the root of her influence rather than settling for merely exploiting a niche in its markets, and turning a respectable profit in the doing, no less. Most of the shinobi she knew lacked that sort of acumen for strategic planning.

“You know, I worked in procurement during the Third Shinobi War. One of my biggest gripes was the lack of an indigenous source of high quality glasswork, since the ninja in the field were always asking for more binoculars. But you seemed to have fixed that nicely with the master lensgrinder you managed to convince to immigrate from Wind Country.”

Hiroko caught the implication immediately. “I suppose I can’t fault you for peeking into my financial transactions. I’ve always made sure to gather all the relevant information before discussing a deal myself. But please don’t make a habit of it.” She offered Sayuri a wan smile. “I’d like to think that we could be friends rather than business rivals.” She spread her hands, as if to say, ‘see, I came unarmed.’

Sayuri smiled back, acknowledging that Hiroko had won that verbal sally. “Old habits die hard I’m afraid. Though I must say I’m curious as to how you found the logistics department wishlist.” Never mind how ignorant civilians usually were, all too many shinobi lived at the point of the kunai, scarcely caring beyond that. Her talent for seeing the bigger picture was what won Sayuri her chuunin vest during the last shinobi war; the Hokage recognized her talent for logistics. She suspected that Hiroko could have done the job as well as she had.

“If I knew there was a wishlist, I would have asked to see it,” Hiroko told her. “My business strategy was to fill in all the unoccupied niches in Konoha’s indigenous industry. If I prioritized those trades which produced wares with military application, it was because those were the ones I could be most confident of succeeding in a hidden village.”

“Clever,” Sayuri said, “and more astute than most merchants. You’re creating long term economic growth, which in turn means a bigger market for other goods your clan has an interest in.” Certainly the several dozen new immigrants Hiroko had sponsored all loyally bought from Shimizu owned businesses.

Politeness would have dictated that Hiroko compliment Sayuri for her grasp of economics in turn. Instead, Hiroko looked out the window as if searching for something on the distant horizon, and her reply was in a softer voice than before. “Our economic independence has always been a pillar of Kohona’s strength. Mokuton gave Konoha not only the physical barrier of the Great Forest, but also defense against both scarcity and reliance on the patronage of others. Other hidden villages are not so fortunate. Iwa throws its children into the fire because there are plenty more of the desperate and destitute waiting their turn. Mizu nurses its children with blood, because they’ve no mothers to breastfeed them. Even Suna puts its children to harsh tests because they must struggle against the unforgiving desert. As it stands, only Konoha and Kumo can afford to indulge in giving their children a childhood.”

It was poetic, how she pared down the economic situation of the five major hidden villages to a few phrases. Sayuri found herself intrigued by the insights offered by Hiroko's unique way of thinking about the situation. “So you’re a patriot.”

“After what my husband told me about life in the badlands of Wind country, after what I saw in Suna, after what I personally experienced in Lightning. . .” Hiroko looked back at her host. “How could I not be? This is a place of beauty, a place where justice is not set aside for cold necessity, where people have the margin to pick ourselves back up after mistakes.” She looked out the window again, this time towards the garden, where Ino and Sakura were playing. “Where children have the chance to be children.”

“A rare thing in our world as it is now.” Sayuri agreed. “Though I’m not sure we can ascribe it all to having a good economy. I’d like to think that the moral character of our founders and our shinobi contribute something to it.”

Hiroko nodded, acknowledging both the point and the clever parallel to her own words. “Of course. In the end, that’s what matters most, isn’t it? That the people with the power to level cities and bring down nations remain ethical, sane, and content. Trying to make sure that they eat well and feel safe at home is my contribution.”

“Well, I for one thank you for it,” Sayuri told her. “And also for that fine silk kimono. Ino was beside herself with glee.” She smiled at the thought of her daughter. Ino loved to dress up, and befriending the granddaughter of a textiles magnate had made her giddy with the opportunities to be had for expanding her wardrobe.

“It was far too small a gift for what she’s done for Sakura,” Hiroko demurred. “No one else was willing to stand up for the new girl. And Sakura’s never been able to make friends easily. Just Ino being there has done her a world of good.”

“It must be difficult for Sakura, without her father,” Sayuri offered, dangling that observation out to fish for more intelligence on the mysteriously tightlipped girl.

Hiroko’s composure faltered for the first time since she’d stepped across the threshold of the Yamanaka’s home. Though they would be subtle in other circumstances, the almost imperceptible flinch and the sudden tightness of her fingers on her teacup were positively jarring against the unblemished mien she had previously maintained. “She watched him die. I wanted to leave but she wouldn’t move, and I didn’t dare draw any further attention to us. She saw the whole thing; watched without a sound, without a flinch, without a tear. Not until we were safely back in Fire country did she even allow herself to cry.” She set down the teacup, staring down into it as though the tea might offer her an answer.

“I used to be so proud that my daughter was so precocious, so mature for her age.” That was punctuated by something that was at once a bitter laugh and a sob. “Now I wish she’d had more time to be a child.” She finally looked up again, meeting Sayuri’s eyes. “Ino’s gotten her to speak more in a week than I have in several months. She’s done a better job of comforting my daughter than I have.” Her gaze fell again. “And a better job of protecting her.”

“You weren’t the one to take her father from her, Hiroko. You can’t blame yourself for that.” Sayuri set her own teacup down and took Hiroko’s hand in her own. “There is only so much that lies within our ability to affect.” She spread the other woman’s clenched fingers with her thumb, cupping the hand with her own. “These hands can protect our daughters from reaching out to touch a stove, but cannot prevent them from being curious. And however much we protect them, they must leave the nest eventually.”

She let go of the other woman and gestured out the window, to the garden where their daughters had gone to play. “I worry sometimes, about readying Ino for the kunoichi ranks. I wonder if she’ll thank us for it, ten years down the line, when she’s attended the funerals of too many friends and washed the blood out of her clothes far too many times. But in the end, it’s her choice to make, and if she walks that path, I’ll make her as ready as I can.” Sayuri shook her head. “You were a merchant factor, and surely traveled where danger lurked quite often. I was a kunoichi, and danced a perilous line alongside death for years. Yet here we are, drinking tea, and worrying about our daughters, while many others who chose safer lives died as girls, from sickness, or as young women from accident, before they could even consider having daughters of their own.”

Sayuri’s fingers traced the scar across her right forearm, the sole feature that marred her smooth white skin. “Your husband died for what he thought just. It’s a better death than many in this village had. I think Sakura recognizes that, already. She’s a bright girl.”

Hiroko was still for several moments, then finally whispered, “I know that Sakura understood why he died. I was just afraid she’d decided to follow his footsteps too closely. That she’d decided that she had to sacrifice herself to live up to his legacy. But you’re right. It’s a choice for her to make.” She cleared her throat, her voice returning to firmness. “Sakura told me today that she wants to go to the Academy.” There was no need to say ‘Ninja Academy’; in Konoha there was only one ‘Academy.’ Her gaze locked with Sayuri’s. “Would the Yamanaka Clan be willing to sponsor her for the Accelerated Training Program?”

That was a bit of a surprise. Most civilian families were content to enroll their children in the standard curriculum. ATP entry required that the prospective entrant already meet certain criteria, largely composed with the children of ninja clans or families in mind. “Has she had any prior training?” Sayuri asked, wondering just what else had gone on in Sakura’s childhood.

Hiroko nodded. “She’s studied basic martial arts. Not true taijutsu, but the one of the styles used before shinobi learned to use chakra. More an exercise regimen than anything you’d use in a fight, but it should help. She picked up basic chakra molding through observation while we were in Suna -not enough to do anything with, but it’s there, or so I’m told. Extensive study of strategy; but almost everyone in the Shimizu clan does that, since it’s not so different at the bargaining table and on the battlefield.”

“She learned chakra molding by observing the odd shinobi while in Suna?” That merited raised eyebrows. Sayuri had figured out chakra molding only after extensive tutoring from her kunoichi mother. And if the Shimizu clan was teaching it’s scions military strategy, alternate uses aside, they were definitely more martially minded than they appeared to be. She made a mental note to ask her old friend Suzume about any Shimizus on the academy rolls. Everyone knew that neither of the civilian clans had members serve as ninja, but apparently that didn’t mean they were fully divorced from the arts of warfare.

Hiroko had the good grace to appear embarrassed. “She was always a precocious child.”


The precocious child had just pricked her finger on one of the rose bushes in the Yamanaka family’s garden. Most girls her age would have cried out, or announced that she had an “owie.” Sakura simply sucked the blood from her finger and spat it out onto the ground, and would have gone right back to work on cutting the stem had not Ino taken notice.

“Rose bushes aren’t poisonous,” Ino told her companion. “You don’t need to do that.”

Sakura looked at her, then shrugged and simply said “Habit.”

Ino blinked. “Where’d you learn a habit like that?”

“Wind Country.” Snick! went the stem as it came off. Sakura carefully placed it in the bucket, and turned to the pansy plant next to the roses.

Ino’s face scrunched in mild annoyance. Sakura almost never spoke more than short phrases, except when being polite to adults. Dragging any detail or explanation out of her required a lot of prodding. But still, she had such interesting stories, so the effort was generally worth it. “Are there a lot of poisonous plants there?”

“There are a lot of poisonous everythings there.” The tone was flat, but given how precise Sakura was about everything, that mangling of grammar could only be deadpan.

Ino grinned broadly. “Sakura! You made a funny!” She laughed, gleefully. “I was starting to think you didn’t know how.”


The two women turned to the window, hearing the laughter from the garden. Sayuri saw tears forming in her guest's eyes.

"It's been months since I heard Sakura laugh," Hiroko said, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand. "I'd almost forgotten what it sounded like."

"I'm sure she'll have more smiles to share when you give her the good news," Sayuri told her, smiling comfortingly.

Hiroko nodded, but hesitated. “What was it like for you, as a kunoichi? I can't really worry for the innocence Sakura has already lost, but. . .” She gestured helplessly.

Sayuri shook her head. “They didn’t throw us out into the world with kunai and orders to kill at age eight, whatever you may have heard. In a way, the instructors at the Academy tried to prepare us and protect us at the same time. It didn’t always work out how we would have liked. But life brings you what it will. The academy trained me to be strong enough for those challenges when they came." She put a hand on Hiroko's shoulder. "I'm sure both our daughters will be strong enough."

Leave a comment
Counting Coup

"Is this a scorecard? You guys put scorecards on the side of your ships?" Apollo's first instinct was to wince. It hasn't even been a day yet and Starbuck is already scrapping for a fight. He can hear it in her voice, and even someone not familiar with her mannerisms could hear the deliberate scorn in her voice. Part of him wants to tell her not to antagonize the pilots of what is likely the only other colonial fleet unit still intact, but she's not exactly alone in her sentiments - he can see that Racetrack and Helo are no more impressed by the kills painted on the Viper's fuselage than Starbuck is. For that matter, he finds them rather off putting himself. Colonial Civilization has come to an end, and the Pegasus airgroup is spending their limited paint supplies on kill counts. That betrayed a certain lack of perspective.

Racetrack, being, after all, a Raptor crewer instead of a viper jockey, naturally can't miss the opportunity to take a shot at Starbuck. "Like you don't keep score."

"You don't see me painting them on the side like I'm bragging to the whole frakking universe." Of course not. Starbuck only brags when she thinks it'll get someone else to buy the drinks. Or get her laid, if Zack's stories from the academy were any indication.

"Hey, that's 48 kills right there." Which might be impressive if every Basestar didn't have several hundred Raiders in it's bays, and there weren't far more Basestars in service than the Colonial fleet had intact capital ships. The part of him that isn't vaguely annoyed at everyone in this conversation is beginning to become rather worried about the implications of the Pegasus crewmen thinking that any number of kills means anything when the Cylons can probably churn out new Raiders faster than the Colonial fleet - what's left of it - can manufacture new rounds for the Vipers' cannons. Admiral Cain's welcoming his father 'back to the colonial fleet' said worrying things about her sanity, and her subordinates are not making that initial impression any better.

Naturally, Starbuck is unimpressed. Even had she been impressed, she wouldn't have shown it, as being unimpressed with the competition was pretty much the standard attitude of hotshot ace pilots everywhere. But she's genuinely dismissive, likely because she can do the same basic arithmetic that keeps Apollo up late at nights counting, recounting and wondering how his old man can keep on against these odds. "Special. Do you have caps and t-shirts too?"

Helo laughs, in a half strangled manner that is too loud, to artificial. It's a snarky comeback, the kind Starbuck has long been known for, but Apollo suspects Helo's mirth was cut off by the same, despairing thought that treacherously popped up in his mind almost immediately. Of course there are no caps and t-shirts. Who would make them? The factories for such frivolities are gone, burned in nuclear fire by Cylon orbital bombardment.

It's almost a relief when the Pegasus CAG comes to the aid of his beleaguered subordinate. "Where's the Galactica CAG?"

"Right here," he says, injecting just a hint of challenge into his tone - he's outranked, but hes going to stand by his people.

The wannabe hardass seems to think playing drill sergeant is the solution to the dissension brewing in the ranks. "Let's hear the run-down on squadron of yours, Captain. I see you don't keep track of your kills. You should start- encourages morale, gets competition going, esprit de corps."

Apollo manages a, "Well, that's one philosophy," in a surprisingly even voice given that he is now fuming inside. Esprit de corps. What frakking corps? The Galactica Air Group is largely a mix of second line pilots who had been on the verge of cashiering out of the fleet before the Cylon attack, and half trained ex-civilian volunteers. The last thing they need is competition for kills. Carefully coordinated teamwork, limited as it is between civilians used to flying solo, not dogfighting, is the only thing keeping them alive long enough to learn how to do the job. He counts, not kills, but able-bodied pilots, ammunition stores, and tylium. The fleet is running short of all three. The Cylons show no sign of any shortage of Raiders.

"It's Admiral Cain's philosophy. That means it's your philosophy now, Captain." His ears hear the words, but all his brain hears is 'Admiral Cain is going to get us all frakking killed.

That makes it easier to snap back. "The name of my Commander is Adama, which should be pretty easy to remember, because it's my name." Not the wittiest comeback, but Apollo, for once, is entirely behind his father. Commander Adama, at least, can do math.

It's not until much later that he realized that there was a perfect rejoinder to the bullshit the Pegasus Air Group was trying to impose on his people. It's not one he's ever going to tell those frakwits, nor one he needs to tell his subordinates. It's a truth scored across his soul by days of continuous operations, Cylon pursuit dropping in every 33 minutes like a deranged metronome. Galactica's crew doesn't measure it's victories in kills. It measures them in days, hours, even minutes. Every time he wakes up and the remnants of the colonies are still living on in defiance of Cylon genocide, he knows they haven't lost yet.

There's only one scorecard that matters in the fleet, and every Galactica crewer with two brain cells to rub together knows it. It's kept in the president's office on board Colonial One, written in marker on a plain white dry erase board, and updated daily. Every day the number doesn't fall is a victory.


Yeah, sorry, unbeta'd. Wrote it in one sitting.

Tags: ,

Leave a comment
It's not A Ship To Tarshish (which i've only been working on for forever), but I managed to finish a firefly fanfic.  Whoo!

Title: Belive
Author: Artistshipper (Satori)
Fandom: Firefly
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Summary: "It doesn't matter what you believe, Mal. Just believe." Odd thing for a Shepherd to say, don't you think?

Maybe Not...Collapse )

Tags: ,

2 comments or Leave a comment

When Naruto finally told her about the nine tailed fox that resided in the seal on his belly, she'd set the matter aside. They had a mission to focus on. Later, eating celebratory ramen after that mess had been handled, Naruto brought it up again, nervously explaining that people had hated him for having the demon that had leveled a good chunk of the city in him.


She'd thought about it for a few seconds, and then burst out laughing, falling of her chair, and rolling on the floor for nearly a full minute.


Because it was funny. People were worried about the demon fox. Hilarious


She knew better. She'd known for years that Naruto was a force to bring down thrones and shake countries. He didn't need the fox for that. If anything, the fox was lesser worry.


Naruto was a simple soul. He liked Ramen, the company of friends, and a good joke. She thanked the Kami for that daily. Imagine if he'd had a taste for cruelty or a greed for power. The thought made her soul quail.


For she knew that in that simplicity was a intensity that outshone the sun. Naruto had a power that made even the legendary bijuu seem pale in comparison. He spoke, and people listened. Not merely hearing his words, but actually changing their beliefs, their actions, their lives because of what he said. He demanded that they be better than they were and they did. Because he told them so fervently, so passionately that they could not help but be caught up in his dream. "Believe it!" he'd say, and he'd say it with such unshakable conviction that you did.


She'd heard Naruto called naive. That was nonsense. His belief in goodness was so bright that all other thoughts melted against it. If he was naive, it was a naivete more contagious than any virus. Against his conviction even the power and malice of bijuu struggled in vain.


It was no exaggeration to say he made friends everywhere he went. And thank the Kami that he thought of them as friends, for where he led, people would follow. If he marched to the gates of death, they would follow, with songs on their lips and fire in their hearts.


She'd studied enough history to know what that kind of charisma had wrought in ages past. And so she laughed, reveling in the joy of the world as it was. Because Naruto, her friend, her comrade in arms, was not the kind who would ever be such a destroyer, whatever power he had. Believe it.

Tags: ,

2 comments or Leave a comment
So all you whiny mainlanders claiming Obama isn't a US citizen can STFU already.  Yes, they are still going on about that. [0]

Seriously, I know conspiracy series are pretty whack, but one that claims the friggin' atlas is wrong takes the cake.  Hawaii has been a state since 1959, and US territory since 1897.  Yes, we've been flying the red white and blue for OVER A  CENTURY NOW.

Remember World War Two?  Remember why the US got involved?  That's right, Japan bombed our naval base at PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII.

And yet 5% of North Carolinans don't believe Hawaii is a state, according to a poll [1].  I bet they're mostly the same people who can't find the US of A on an Atlas.  UGH.

Anyone born on US soil is an US citizen [2].  Hawaii has been US soil for over a century.  FRIGGIN' DEAL ALREADY.

Sometimes I find humanity depressing.

Tags: , ,

8 comments or Leave a comment
Title: Nostalgia 
Author: artistshipper 
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica, Mac/Max, Wallace
Word Count: 1,026
Rating: PG
Summary: “Hey!” Logan protested.  “I would have gotten a retro radio set, but I was spending my e-bay time looking for-”  A night of radio drama, Ovaltine, and ooh look, a secret surprise.
Spoilers: Through 3x17, but doesn’t follow season three continuity.  Set several years post series.
Warnings: Symptoms include feeling old and wanting to relive childhood memories.  Use at your own risk.  Men suffering from midlife crisis should consult their psychiatrists before use.

“A group of friend in a cozy, dimly lit, room listening to a dramatic radio presentation, and enjoying powdered beverages, just like in the good old days.”Collapse )

Tags: , ,

9 comments or Leave a comment
Title: Two Four Six Oh One
Pairing/Character: Veronica, Wallace, Mac, OC
Word Count: 1,064
Rating: PG
SummaryTo her surprise (wasn’t it a sad notion that this was surprising?) someone came to the misfortunate young man’s aid.  Series Reboot, with new characters added.  Someone else tries to help Wallace off the Flagpole, and the changes accrue from there.
Spoilers: The entire series eventually, but just 1x01 for now.
Warnings: This is my first time writing for Veronica Mars.  This is technically a crossover, but the new characters I am adding are pretty much original characters.  Some were from another TV show, but I added so much character development and backstory to them that they're unrecognizable.   And they're under pseudonym anyway.  But I developed them from the template provided by that other show, so yeah...  This really isn't relevant to chapter 1 at all, is it?  I apologize in advance for 40+ percent of this chapter consisting of movie/book quotes.

Who am I?Collapse )

Tags: , , ,
Current Mood: busy

1 comment or Leave a comment
 I can't ever seem to finish a darned Fanfic these days. (Muse: You've never finished one ever.  Me: Sure I have, there's that pokemon fanfic back in high school.  Muse: I thought we promised never to mention that ever again?)  Defying Delphi is on hold, pending a re-write, and I'm currently trying to decide between two Veronica Mars ideas to develop.

So, tell you what.  First person to post a reply gets to dictate my writing schedule for the next month.  (that is, if anyone reads this... I don't post enough to really have a readership.)

Current possibilities:

This is what my mind comes up with...Collapse )
3 comments or Leave a comment
Defying Delphi

Chapter 3, and still no plot... bad Satori, no cookieCollapse )

Tags: , , ,

Leave a comment