#Yeah ancient civilizations should fear thus

[thisonlyguy-49]

Well shit… 😶

#amphibia #amphibia season 3 #amphibia Red moon #Should they fight or embrace the fall #Matt Braly #Yeah ancient civilizations should fear thus #Goddamn it #ThisOnlyGuy shitposts #Of course #ancient civilizations should have feared this #And we still should #😦😦😦 #Amphibia spoilers

[deafeninggardenerpanda]

Mr. Fugo woke up suddenly at the sound of the alarm. He was tired, but as he listened to the guard’s reports, that tiredness went away. His temples tingled and his mustache swayed. He glared daggers and growed low.

"Thieves ... Unforgivable! I’ll catch you for sure ... You’ll pay for this! Don’t get in my way—I will fix the machine ...! " This wasn’t the face of a gentle millionaire—it was Mr. Fugo’s true face.

He recalled what happened a month ago.

One day, Mr. Fugo received a strange report from the mine manager. A huge cave was discovered while digging in the mines, and in it, was a mysterious machine. He went to the diamond mine and saw the machine with his own eyes, but the machine did not work and its purpose was unknown.

On investigation, there was a silver plate attached to the surface of the machine. Fine ancient characters were inscribed on it. Mr. Fugo searched for a scholar who could decipher the characters, but he knew the citizens would be of no use. He decided to keep the machine secret until he knew more details, as it could be useful for making a profit.

While investigating privately, Mr. Fugo received a visitor. He was a medicine peddler who carried a heavy trunk and wore a large hood.

"Hi! I’m Magolor," the merchant said and waved.

"I have no use for merchants, I'm busy," Mr. Fugo frowned. He tried to turn him away, but Magolor spoke quickly.

"You found an ancient machine, old man! I want to see it."

Fear coursed through his veins. "Why do you know that ...!? "

"Aren't you looking for a scholar who can read ancient characters? I can read them!" 

"What ...? You can?" Mr. Fugo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There was no way a suspicious medicine merchant could read ancient characters ... 

But, he took a chance.

He took Magolor to the mine and showed him the ancient machine. Magolor stared, fascinated by it for a while.

"What a funny thing ... It's a machine, but it looks so strange. Sleepy eyes ... a cat-like mouth ... a compass and scissors attached to it ... "

"I don't care what the ancient machine looks like!" Mr. Fugo said, frustrated. "What I want to know is this. What is written here?"

He pointed to the silver plate inlaid at the bottom of the machine. Magolor, then, somehow, began to read what was written.

"Umm ... ‘I will leave this important message for the people of the future’... "

" ... What? You can actually read these characters!?" Mr. Fugo eagerly listened to Magolor's next words.

"Yup, the continuation ... ‘This machine is the worst invention in all of history. Instead of turning stone into priceless material and making tremendous amounts of money, it only scatters misery.’ ... "

"Ah ... Amazing, the machine makes tremendous amounts of money!?" His tone changed.

"Once upon a time, when this machine ran day and night, more money was made than anyone could spend in a thousand years, however, only the aristocrats profited. A terrible stench filled the town as the machine worked. Suffering from such wretched miasma that one couldn't even open the eyes, I sealed the three gears with great magical power and stopped the machine. This saved the town, and the people of the later world!

Never start this machine again! The day that happens, this town will fall to ruin!"

Mr. Fugo turned bright red. His whole body shook and his attitude shifted dramatically.

"Ma- Magolor! No, Professor Magolor!" He knelt down and took Magolor's hand. "You are a wonderful scholar! You deciphered the characters! There was such a secret in the ancient machine!"

"Now that you know how to start it, you can make a lot of money. It’s amazing, huh?" 

Mr. Fugo looked up at Magolor's face in distrust. There was a chance he would tell everyone this secret. It would be bad news if that happened. The citizens will surely oppose the starting of the ancient machine. He spoke to Magolor gently.

"Of course, I would like to show my appreciation, Professor Magolor." 

"Appreciation? You’ll give me something?"

"That’s right, whatever you want! I’ll give you half my fortune, even. It doesn't matter." 

"Really? Wow, I’m rich!" Magolor’s eyes sparkled with great joy. Mr. Fugo laughed darkly in his heart as he watched.

(Good, if you're happy right now.)

Of course, Mr. Fugo wasn’t going to give away any amount of his fortune to Magolor. If the plan was successful, the town would be destroyed. A weak merchant like Magolor wouldn’t be able to stop him. Mr. Fugo continued to laugh without showing any sign of his evil plans.

"Leave the gear finding to me! I have a good idea!" Magolor said.

"A good idea?"

"Put some prize money on the gears, and use anyone who's got the skill to find them. It’ll go well, for sure!"

"Prize money ... huh. I see, that's a good idea," Mr. Fugo smiled and nodded. 

Of course, he wasn’t really willing to pay a prize, either. The gear finders would just be thrown out of the town along with Magolor. Thus, Mr. Fugo announced the ancient machine in the newspaper and promised a huge reward. Word of the ancient machine spread throughout town, and the residents began the search for the magical gears.

Magolor, who slept soundly in a hotel bed in the Town of Wind, was alerted by a messenger and brought to Mr. Fugo’s mansion.

"Why did you call me at this time ... I'm sleepy ... " he tiredly complained.

"Look!" Mr. Fugo shouted. He took Magolor to the hidden room. Magolor awoke fully upon seeing the opened safe.

"Wow ... What happened!? It looks as if a thief broke in ... "

"Oh noo~, that’s not what happened at all! I was the one who broke into my own safe!" Mr. Fugo usually spoke very politely to Magolor, but today, he was so angry he could not hide his real personality. "According to the guards, the bandits are a duo. One wore a red, silk top hat and cloak."

"Red, silk top hat and cloak ... Hm, maybe ... "

"Oh, these days the Town of Light is troubled by a great thief. Many mansions have been hit. I hoped this wouldn’t happen ... "

"What was stolen?"

"That's the problem!" Mr. Fugo paced as he spoke. "There are lots of precious treasures in this house. Lots of jewels, fine art, and of course, money, but the thieves didn't touch those at all! They invaded only this hidden room and ... " he continued, "they stole everything regarding the ancient machine. Even the photo I kept in the safe!" 

"What photo?"

"A photo of that silver plate," Mr. Fugo said, covering his face. "If that plate is deciphered, it will ruin everything! The citizens will be extremely opposed to the operation of the ancient machine. The plan is ruined!"

"Uh-huh ... " Magolor said in a carefree voice. "Don’t worry, some thieves wouldn't be able to read the ancient characters."

"They must have an interest in ancient technology, though. Because otherwise they wouldn't have been able to take the documents and photograph without getting distracted by the riches throughout the mansion."

"That’s right ... " he thought. Mr. Fugo turned grim.

"Then it’s come to this. There is no choice but to get the three gears as soon as possible. The machine must be started before the thieves have a chance to strike again."

"Uh, uh-huh. All right." Magolor was surprised by Mr. Fugo’s sudden steely determination. He stretched his arms wide. "I’ll hurry and get the gears for you, then."

"Really!? You’ve found them!?"

"That’s right! I know what I’m doing." Magolor waved and left Mr. Fugo’s mansion. He headed back to the hotel in a good mood.

"Meta Knight seems to have been successful in finding the gear. President Dedede retrieved the gear on the clock tower as well, and Kirby found the one in the field ... " Magolor couldn't stop laughing. "The three gears, they’re mine! Fugo doesn’t even notice he’s being deceived! My plan will succeed!"

Meta Knight returned to his mansion and took a closer look at the stolen material from the secret room. The most worrying item was the photo that was stored in the safe.  

"These symbols ... I see, they’re characters from an ancient civilization." Meta Knight pulled out a thick book from the bookshelf and enlarged the text with a magnifying glass as he turned the pages. After a while, Daroach came in through the window.  

"I'm back! I've returned."

"You’re safe."

"No wonder, they couldn't lay a single finger on me!" Daroach looked at the books spread out over Meta Knight’s desk. "What? What are you doing?" he asked.

"Deciphering ancient characters," Meta Knight answered without looking up from the book. "The photo in the safe has ancient characters on it. They probably have to do with the machine."

Daroach picked up the photo and blinked. "I've never seen characters like these before. You can read something like this?"

"Of course I can't read them. However, I have a research book on ancient characters. I’m looking for clues."

"Really ... " Daroach stared at the detailed symbols written in the book. His expression soured. "I can't. My head hurts."

"You should rest, already."

"Fine, I’ll leave you to that." He laid down on the couch as he said that.

"If you want to sleep, you can use the guest room."

"Goodness, here? I can’t settle down on a bed so gorgeous. Besides, I don’t want to get caught by your butler." He fell asleep quickly.

" ... A good man gets his rest," Meta Knight murmured. He began the process of deciphering the ancient characters. There was a long night to come.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

Daroach was dreaming of delicious sweets when he was roughly awakened.  

"Get up! Get up, Daroach!"

"Ah ... huh ...  " He rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Hm? Where ...? Oh yeah, I fell asleep in your mansion. Good morning, Meta Knight ... " 

"Listen to me! I understand what the ancient characters mean!" Daroach, at last, remembered what happened before he fell asleep.

"You, did you not sleep last night? You've been working hard ... " 

"It doesn’t matter, get up!" Meta Knight grabbed Daroach's hand and dragged him to the desk. "It was difficult, but I managed to decipher it. It’s a grave warning an ancient sage left to those of the future." 

"Warning ...? " Daroach was still half asleep. Meta Knight pulled his arm sharply. "Please explain."

"I will. There are some parts I couldn't decipher, so I will read only the parts I understand. ‘This machine ... turns stone into priceless material ... makes a lot of money ... instead ... misery ... ‘"

"Hmm? What does that mean?"

"There is a continuation. ‘The aristocrats ... profited ... In the town ... stink ... suffering ............ Three gears ... sealed ... Stop the machine ... When this machine starts again, this town ... ruins ... ‘" 

"What ...!? " Daroach’s face was drawn. "It says if the machine moves again the town will fall to ruin!?"

"That would be the case. The ancient machine can be used to turn stone into treasure and money, however, doing so will harm the inhabitants of the town and enrich only the aristocrats. It's a nightmare machine."

"Fugo ... Does he know this!?"

"Probably. Even I was able to decipher it, and he likely had an expert on his side." 

"What a mess ... it wasn't an evil wizard who sealed the gears of the machine ... No, it wasn’t like that at all. The truth was Fugo was willing to destroy the Town of Wind for profit!"

"We can't let this happen. We have to stop the plan." At that moment, someone knocked on the door. Butler Vul’s voice was heard from the other side.

"Good morning, sir. That medicine peddler named Magolor has come again." 

"Magolor?"

"Yes, it’s rather annoying this early in the morning. Should I turn him away?" 

"No, it doesn’t matter. Let me through."

" ... Understood." Then— "Wah! Ma- Magolor!?" Butler Vul’s loud voice echoed. "I told you to wait at the front door! You’re just not going to listen and do whatever you want!?" The door opened and Magolor appeared.

"Good morning, Lord Meta Knight!" 

"A good morning, it is not! Rude ...! " Butler Vul was on his way to throw out Magolor when he noticed Daroach. "Daroach!? You bastard, again, you’ve snuck in under my gaze! You’ve ignored me over and over ...! "

"I don't mind," Meta Knight soothed the furious butler swaying with anger. "You’re dismissed. Don't come unless I call you."

"But my Lord! I have a responsibility as a butler! Nevertheless! Nevertheless, when these guys—!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I apologize on their behalf. Get out." Meta Knight pushed Vul out of the room and closed the door, then turned to Magolor.

"You came back, Magolor," he said. Magolor looked curiously at Daroach.

"Eh ... who is this person ...? "

"A friend of mine, Daroach. He’s collaborating with me to help search for the gears." 

"Wow! Nice to meet you, Mr. Daroach. I’m Magolor ... "  

"Oh, I’ve heard about you, but nevermind that. There are more important matters at hand."

"Did you find the gear?"

"Well, we found out the unexpected truth. We’ll walk you through it, so sit down." Daroach picked up the stolen picture and gave it to Magolor. Magolor shook his head exaggeratedly.

"There’s something like characters written on it ... What is this?"

"It tells the purpose of the ancient machine found in the diamond mine." 

"What’s it say? I can't read a single word of it!"

"It’s difficult to decipher ancient characters, but I understand the general meaning," Meta Knight said. He read aloud the parts he could understand.

"In other words," Daroach said, "when the ancient machine works, it turns stone into expensive treasure and makes the aristocrats a lot of money, but in exchange, it stinks up and destroys the town."

"Ehhhhh!? Whaaaa!?" Magolor covered his face and shook. "I didn’t realize the ancient machine was so scary! I didn’t know, not at all, not at all! What!?" Meta Knight turned his sharp gaze toward Magolor.

"Did you really not know? You're very familiar with the gears."

"Of course, but I just wanted to collect them! There’s no reason to think that way!"

"Why did you know where the gears were in the first place?" Meta Knight’s voice became harsher and harsher.

"U-uh ... " 

"I doubt a mere medicine peddler could know such valuable information. Are you related to Fugo in any way?"

"Ehhhhh!? N-no wayyyyy!" Magolor waved his hands back and forth in a panic. "I used the Star Compass! That’s why I knew where the gears were!" 

"The Star Compass? What is that?"

"It’s a tool used to find magical objects. My friend, Kirby, has it."

"Kirby? Airplane pilot Kirby?" Daroach asked.

"Do you know who that is?" Meta Knight turned to him.

"Mhm. He’s a celebrity in the Town of Wind. An interesting, gluttonous kid who likes to take naps." Daroach turned to Magolor. "This means Kirby also knows where the gears are?"

"Uh-huh ... Not only Kirby, but President Dedede, too ... "

"Let’s hurry to those two, then. We need to stop them before they turn over the gears to Fugo." Meta Knight picked up the gear and the stolen material, and, after a moment, the book on ancient characters as well.

"You want to bring that heavy book with you? For what?" Daroach asked.

"I may be able to decipher more of the ancient text if I have it on me. I want as much information as possible."

"You're right, let's go." The three left the room. They were led by Butler Vul, who muttered under his breath as he took them to the garage behind the mansion. There sat Meta Knight’s seven steam cars.

"Woah, sick!" Magolor squealed. "I’ve never ridden in anything like these!" 

"I hope you've got guts, Meta Knight’s driving is something else."

"Wow, sounds exciting!"

Meta Knight opened the door of a bright red sports car. "This car is the fastest. Get in." 

He sat in the driver's seat, while Daroach took the passenger side, and Magolor sat in the back. Meta Knight stepped on the pedals suddenly, and the car spewed out smoke and accelerated rapidly. It had ferocious speed. The wind blew in their faces with such force it was difficult to keep their eyes open.

"Waahhhhhhh!" Magolor screamed.

Daroach squeezed his eyes shut. "Hold on tight, Magolor!" he shouted. "If you don’t, you'll be blown out of the car!"

"Waaghhhhhhh! Scaryyyyy! Help, Lord Meta Knight ...! "

"Give up! Meta Knight’s personality changes when he drives!"

The car reached its maximum speed in the blink of an eye. They flew through the wide roads and sped off into the Town of Wind.

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#kirby #meta knight #daroach #magolor #millionaire fugo #captain vul #Kirby: Search for the Dreamy Gears! #kirby light novel #translations #fun fact: this is the longest chapter in the novel! #even a little longer than chapter one :0

[faveficarchive]

Coup de Grace: Part 1

The Last of the International Dilettantes

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: From the Author:

The fabulously ill-tempered archaeologist Janice Covington and Southern-Belle-in-Exile Melinda Pappas gradually discover the real truth at the heart of the Xena Scrolls, in a story that darkly plays with time and memory, loss and desire, and the nature of what is real and what is not.

The stars all seem motionless, embedded in the eternal vault; yet they must all

be in constant motion, since they rise and traverse the heavens with their

luminous bodies till they return to the far-off scene of their setting.

—Lucretius

1. Still Life with Assistant Professor

Cambridge, 1948

At precisely 12:19 p.m. on Saturday, June 11, 1948, after sitting on the back porch and consuming two meatloaf sandwiches, drinking half a beer, pondering the uneven lawn begging to be mowed as well as the rutted wood rot in the roof beams of the porch, thinking that she didn't want to go to Venice to some damned boring conference anyway, then wondering why she didn't want to go anywhere and would rather stay and home and paint the kitchen ceiling and pull weeds out of the garden and just watch her lover fall asleep in the sun, after all this fermentation of thought aided by the American institutions of beef and beer, Dr. Janice Covington, the restless, relentless archaeologist and world explorer, fully realized that she had been domesticated.

She exhaled, as if some intangible pseudo-virility within her had been deflated.

Then she burped, and this small, crude action comforted her.

Janice laid back on the porch, head pillowed on a forearm, ignoring the empty, yawning lawn chair—she could not tolerate being civilized any further. Smoke from her cigarette drifted up into the rafters of the back porch. Out, damned rot! she thought, scowling at the poor old beams. She had warned Mel about this, when they bought the house—that it was less sturdy than it looked. But its shabby genteel, struggling-academics-meet-haunted-house ambiance possessed great appeal to the Southerner, who reveled in a very regional penchant for the Gothic. Not to mention that the house, drafty in the winter, also possessed incessantly creaking floorboards and a regularly flooding basement. Nonetheless, Janice reluctantly admitted to herself that she liked the house. Oh, hell, I love it. It's ours. She sat up abruptly, as if the happy thought would strip it all away. I've been waiting for two years for the other shoe to drop. 

She continually expected to wake up some morning in a leaky tent somewhere in the middle of nowhere: alone, on a site...lucid and miserable and no longer part of this living dream. Or she would wake to find a "Dear Jane" kinda letter propped against the sugar bowl (no, Mel would take grandma's sugar bowl with her. Against the toaster, maybe?) on the kitchen table : Dear Janice, I cannot go on any longer loving someone as short as you. I'm going back home to my fiancé, who was 6'4" in his stocking feet. You can keep the car. Love, Mel. Never mind the fact that the fiancé was now, most definitely, a former fiancé and married to another woman, and who kept sending Mel annoying photos of his newborn son, who had a strangely large head, like a mutant turnip....now there's someone who desperately needed the Pappas gene pool. But so far, practically every day, she woke to the smell of coffee, to Mel in the kitchen, loose hair spilling over a bathrobe, frowning over the newspaper. This world, I swear, she would drawl.

This world. When Janice was younger she kept a journal, in which she wrote about the things she was learning from her father. When she was 19 she finished one particular notebook with a litany of names—all the places she'd seen thus far. Under the dark canopy of night and tent, everything seethed with possibility, and she would recite the list in her mind: Hierakonpolis. Athens. Syria. Alexandria.

The litany kept her company, and for a long time it felt like her only friend. Through the holes in the old tent she would see stars.

Cairo. Rome. Istanbul. Thessalonika.

It had not occurred to her then to wonder if she was happy. Because everything had seemed possible. She looked around the yard. And the amazing thing was, it still felt that way. 

Add Cambridge to the list.

*****

"Ah, my little Mad Dog. My poor, little, housebroken Mad Dog."

Upon murmuring this benediction, Paul Rosenberg leaned back into the soft leather chair at the study's desk, and put his feet up on it, ignoring Covington's entreaties about doing so. Janice was always so nervous in the study—which she considered Mel's room—as if she were in the tomb of Tutankhamen himself and fearing some ancient Carolinian curse, should objects be tampered with. Carefully, he stretched his long legs over the desk, avoiding the thick, vellum-paged notebook, covered with lines of Greek, and an English which, to him, was as indecipherable as the ancient language, given the florid, tangled serifs of the bold hand. He knew instantly it wasn't Janice's handwriting, having encountered her painstakingly neat printing while they worked at Neuschwanstein. The chair carried a faint whiff of Mel's perfume. He smiled and closed his eyes for a minute. 

His brief, fluttery daydream of a certain leggy, blue-eyed brunette was disrupted by the disgruntled tones of a certain small blonde: "Hey, asshole." 

Janice had lured him from his penniless life in New York to an equally penniless one in Boston, with the promise of a teaching post for him at the college. When this drunken promise failed to materialize (I would've known she was drunk on the phone if I hadn't been drinking myself!), he found music gigs in town, tutored here and there, and acted as Janice's Boy Friday, a position that dictated nothing much more than picking up her dry cleaning (skirts being an unfortunate fact of life for a female professor, even one as lowly as she) and trying to discern the fate of the scroll she viewed at Neuschwanstein at the end of the war. You've still got the military contacts, buddy boy, she had said to him. Paul opened his eyes and smiled broadly at Janice, a toothy grin crowding his ten o'clock shadow, his open madras shirt flapping in the breeze from the window, revealing a slightly yellowing white v-neck undershirt. "Yes, my little Mad Dog?"

"Stop calling me that," she snapped. He had been relentless about the nickname, ever since hearing Mel employ it in an equally teasing fashion one day, as she shipped Janice off to work: Mad Dog honey, y'all sure are pretty in that dress! Now she stood before him, scowling, hands settled along her hips, in blue jeans and a dirty white t-shirt. He suddenly wondered if she had seen A Streetcar Named Desire recently, or if Marlon Brando had taken butch lessons from her. "Whaddya got for me? You call that number down in Washington?" 

"Ah. Well, I got stonewalled. That's what I got." He sighed, and toyed with a fountain pen from the desk. "I can't get the file. Sorry."

"You're kidding me. They won't even let you see a file?"

He shook his head. "I tell ya, I really ran up my phone bill trying to track it down. All I found out was that the scroll had been returned to the family of the owner before the war. Presumably the family that the lovely Fraulein Stoller bought it from. They live in Venice."

"Venice," Janice repeated dully. 

"That mean something to you?"

"There's an international archaeology conference there next month." Then, to herself: "Damnit, I need a name, at least." He murmured, "That's a coincidence."

"I hate coincidences, Paul." She paced in front of him. "Who's the bigwig in charge of all this?" She felt a familiar burn in her gut: the excitement of the chase. Is it happening again? I've still got it, then?

"Some general named Fenton, in Washington. I spoke to a flunky in his office. We got to bullshitting about the war, and he was the one who told me the scroll is in Venice. But that's all he would tell me."

Janice stopped pacing. She stared at him. Another coincidence. "The general is Jeremiah Winston Fenton?" "None other." Paul glanced at her uneasily. "Why?" "I'll be damned. Mel knows him. He was an old friend of her father's."

"Old Dr. Pappas knew everyone, it seems."

"Comes in handy."

"I see. So...you think Melinda could sweet-talk him? Is that your plan?"

"No." Janice sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. "She hates him. Said he's a creepy old bastard."

"Somehow I can't hear her saying that," Paul noted wryly. 

"Her exact words were, 'He's quite a terrible old man.' " She mimicked Mel's accent to perfection.

"That's pretty good, sweetheart. You sound just like her," he said admiringly.

"I get a lot of practice. But let me translate it into our lingo: He's a bastard. He put the moves on her, not long after her father died."

Paul shrugged. "Surely she's used to beating them off with a stick," he said, with forced carefulness. You don't want to be on that list of terrible men, do you, buddy? He was content just to be in Mel's orbit. Or so he believed. Given the strength of the relationship he witnessed between the two women, he knew he had very little choice in the matter.

"We're talking hours after Dr. Pappas's funeral," she snorted.

"Oh." He winced. "Lovely."

"Yeah. I don't want to put her through talkin' to that asshole again." Additionally, she was wary of using Mel's charms in this way, given the near disastrous results with Catherine Stoller. Near disaster? Okay, definite disaster. She was quiet for moment, but Paul didn't like the strange glint in her eye.

"Get the phone, will ya?"

*****

Paul's hand grew sweaty as he gripped the phone, and the business-like woman answered. "Melinda Pappas calling for General Fenton!" he barked into the receiver. Janice gave him a thumb's-up sign. He nodded, then handed her the phone. She made a great show of wiping her hand after touching the slimy receiver, but no sooner than she did, Paul could hear, from his close proximity, a deep male voice on the line.

"Why, General Fenton, is that you?" she began. Eerily, her voice had taken on the accent and cadences of her lover's. "Yes, it's me, Melinda. I know, it has been simply too long. Yes, yes, that is too true! So! How was your war?"

Paul rolled his eyes.

"Oh yes, I was abroad for a while, in England. I did so want to help the cause, and I was kept out of the WACs 'cause of my terrible nearsightedness." Janice giggled like a demented schoolgirl. "General, stop! Y'all are too much! My eyes do not look like sapphires! Well, maybe just a teeny bit, I suppose. You're so sweet. A summer sky? No, no one's ever told me that before! Well, now, I did have a purpose in callin' you…I've been so desperate for help. Yes, I am positively desperate!" Janice sat up straight, breathless as a Gene Tierney heroine. "You see, I have been continuin' the work of my Daddy—God rest his soul—and durin' the war I was fortunate enough to view a certain scroll at this lovely little castle in Germany—Neuschwanstein, yes. Now I'm sure you know, given how eee-fficient the military is, that it has been returned to its original owner, but I would so love to have a look at it again, so I need to contact the individual who is in possession of it. I had one of my manservants call your office earlier, to see if they would provide any information of their own free will—but I'll be darned if your Yankee bureaucracy didn't have me hog-tied! Yes sir, I bet you could just picture that: me, all tied up! What a sight! I was madder than a hornet's nest." A pause. More male rumbling. "Oh my, yes, you better believe it, sir! I do have a terrible temper. Why, just the other day I found one of the servants spit-polishing my silver! Usin' his disgusting saliva on the tea service that my great-grandaddy fought and died for, defendin' it from Sherman's fiends! I was so furious I could've cut off his balls and fed them to the hounds…" Janice's voice dropped menacingly. "They do so love the smell of blood, it arouses them for the hunt."

Paul conveyed a frantic plea to stay in character via a well-placed kick to the shin.

Janice grimaced, then cleared her throat. "Er, as I was saying, I would so love it if perhaps you could intervene…" Another pause. A bright smile lit up the archaeologist's face. "Oh General," she cooed seductively, "you are wonderful. I am entirely indebted to you. Uh-huh..." Janice picked up a fountain pen and scribbled down some information in the notebook in front of her. "Yes indeedy, I will call that lieutenant...and I certainly hope you read him the riot act!" Another pause. "No, I'm not living in South Carolina, or even in North Carolina anymore..." An unfortunate inspiration occurred. "Why, I'm livin' in New Orleans now! You sound as excited as I did when I moved here! Ah got together with a bunch of my old sorority sisters from Vanderbilt, and we all chipped in and bought a lovely old house down in the French Quarter. We call it the Rising Sun."

He buried his head in his hands.

"If you're ever down that way, well, you just try lookin' me up." Another peal of feminine tittering. "Oh, you're just awful! Uh-huh. Really? Well, red is my favorite color, you know…mmm-hmmmm. I would love to talk longer, General, but my manservant just brought in my mint julep and reminded me about gin rummy with the girls this afternoon. Why, yes…" she grinned at Paul. "He is a big strapping man, how did you know?"

Paul heard a loud click at the other end of the line. Janice looked at the phone in surprise. "Got him all worked up," she muttered.

He shook his head in pure disbelief. "You are out of your damn mind, Janice."

"That ain't no way to talk to a lady, mister."

"You're no lady, even when you're pretending to be one. And I tell you, if she ever finds out—"

Janice jammed a finger in his face. "She's not gonna find out unless you tell her, and if you do, I'll feed your balls to the hounds—"

"I'd like to see you try, butchling, 'cause we might as well face facts here—"

She grabbed his shirt, yanking him up out of the chair, knocking over the notebook.

"—you're pussywhipped!" he shouted gleefully.

Both parties felt a breeze from the study door, now opened by the woman who, indeed, without a single doubt, had them both pussywhipped. Mel stood in the doorway, her face slightly flushed from her brisk walk from the campus in the midday sun, carrying the leather satchel that once belonged to her father on her shoulder, and with a needless cardigan sweater draped over one forearm, poised like a waiter with a towel. Her pale, well-formed arms were bare in the summer dress she wore. Judging from the slightly dazed expression on her face, she either heard Paul's exclamation or was suffering a mild form of heat stroke.

"Hi," Mel greeted timidly, feeling as if she had interrupted some intimate scenario in a house that was not her own.

Both Paul and Janice mumbled hellos.

"Um..." Mel began, as she deposited both satchel and sweater on the study's couch. 

Paul straightened his abused shirt. "Hey, didn't you tell me you guys got meatloaf?" Before Mel could affirm, he darted past and down the hallway into the kitchen.

Janice remained sitting, now cross-legged, on the desk, prompting a scowl of disapproval from her companion. The archaeologist jumped off the desk immediately, sending loose papers scattering in her wake, and inadvertently wounding the fountain pen, which proceeded to bleed blue ink all over the desk's blotter. 

Mel sighed deeply.

"Sorry."

"This word—" Mel tried again. A parade of nervous tics commenced. First she nudged her glasses with a knuckle. Beneath the becoming blush, Janice could see the little linguistic wheels spinning in her lover's mind: Pussywhipped. Transitive verb. Pussy. Slang, obscene.... Then she scratched her cheek and tugged nervously on her ear.

The bullshit generator kicked in. "It's all part of the Mad Dog legend, baby. You know lots of things are said about me, and ah, this is one of those rumors...that, ah, I liked to abuse cats."

"I see," Mel responded, drawing an imaginary line in the carpet with the tip of her shoe, perhaps indicating a rapidly lowering threshold of nonsense. She took a step toward Janice. Who retreated with a much larger step of her own. "You know...dogs don't...like...cats..."

"If that is the case, then, wouldn't it have made more sense for Paul to call you a pussywhipper?" Mel said the word cautiously, as if afraid of mispronouncing it.

Oh, to hear that word rolling off that tongue. Language covered in honey. "Now Mel," Janice muttered, taking another backstep and colliding with a chair, "you know the intricacies of American slang cannot be easily dissected and understood fully without further research. There is also an arbitrary element at work, which we must take into account—"

"Good Lord, you are becoming an academic."

Janice gaped at her, hurt. "That was low!"

"My apologies, Assistant Professor Covington." Mel grinned at her; then, gradually, both the smile and the warm blush faded. "Did you sleep at all this morning?"

"Huh?" The archaeologist feigned ignorance. "Sure, once you were gone. You take up a lot of space." As do the nightmares in my head. "And you snore like an old man," she added softly.

The smile returned to Mel's face. "No one says you have to sleep with me."

"Actually, it's in the 'Rules for Pussywhippers' handbook. I must suffer for love."

"Perhaps," Mel suggested, "I should just ask Paul about this word. Hmmm?" She turned on her heel for the door. The little blonde panicked; she knew Paul would crack as soon as Mel took the meatloaf away from him. With a running leap, Janice jumped her, piggybacking effortlessly onto Mel's back. The Southerner oofed in surprise, then giggled, but bore the weight effortlessly, instinctively grabbing the legs that locked around her waist, and opting not to think about the dirty heels digging into her clothes. "Is this pussywhipping?" she asked in mock innocence. "Or a prelude to, perhaps?"

Janice laughed. "Will you stop for a minute?" She tightened her arms slightly around Mel's neck and shoulders. 

"I will find out what that word means," the translator proclaimed.

"Of that I have no doubt. You're the most stubborn woman I ever did meet."

"You bring it out in me," accused Mel.

No snappy retorts came to Janice's mind. She was too close to the nape of Mel's neck, and inhaled her scent with the ferocity of a junkie. The roller coaster rush through her blood left her dazed and senseless, and resistant to sequential thought. "How's your Italian?" she mumbled into Mel's ear.

"What? Oh, just fine. It's sittin' in the back of my brain, with my French and my Latin, playin' backgammon. Why?"

"That's a surreal answer."

"Such a non-sequitur deserves it."

Janice kissed her cheek. Several times.

"Hmm. That's a better non-sequitur."

"Baby," the archaeologist purred, "we're going to Venice."

Mel craned her neck to look at Janice in surprise. "You changed your mind?" In previous discussions concerning the conference, Mel had taken Janice's lack of interest as a sign they would not be going. She had been surprisingly disappointed, wondering, with some amusement, if she herself were the one growing restless.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Good question, wondered Janice. I just got caught up in the chase again. Figures as soon as I accept settling down, it starts up again. "Tell ya later," she replied as Paul stomped back into the room.

"Hey, you guys are out of—" he stopped, blinking in surprise at this playfulness. Simple horseplay, or Lesbian foreplay? I don't want to know, do I? Whatever it was, the obvious love made him feel about a dozen kinds of ambivalence.

But that happy look in Mel's eyes, and her big grin, seemed to override everything for him at that moment. "We're goin' to Venice," she blurted, like a kid, breathless, as she lugged Covington toward the door.

Paul managed a small, wry smile. "Send me a postcard," he said wistfully.

2. The Spell, Unbroken

Venice, 1948

For Jennifer Halliwell Davies, another trip to Venice was…another trip to Venice. The city was like a drowning woman, a dying dowager thrown on a reef: It was alive, though just barely, and as such did not interest her. She could not even remember how many times she had been in the city, let alone this particular palazzo, one of many built during the Renaissance by the powerful Cornaro family.

But there was one thing in Venice that interested her: a certain woman, who stood in the crowd milling in the courtyard below.

She'd had a premonition—well, not exactly that. She'd met a fellow in the hotel bar the night before, some poor anthropology professor from Harvard, who hit her up for as many vodkas as she was willing to buy. And when she discovered that the chap knew Janice Covington and had said that the esteemed archaeologist was attending the conference as well, Jenny would have stormed Moscow itself and raided Stalin's liquor cabinet just to keep him talking.

And there she was.

Jenny hid herself, allowing a large vase to provide her cover, as she stared at Janice through her fashionable turista binoculars.

Upon closer inspection through the looking glass, she noted that Janice wore a man's white oxford shirt, bright against her tanned arms, and it looked clean. Must've been laundry day yesterday. The pants were khaki, as they usually were, and the wild strawberry blonde tresses were twined carelessly into a messy braid. The only things missing were the leather jacket and the foul fedora, older than the Dead Sea Scrolls. Perhaps the abomination passing as a millinery item had finally faced its overdue demise. Nonetheless, the good doctor looked quite prepared to lead an impromptu expedition into the most appalling of canals.

Despite the never-changing attire, she thought Janice looked different somehow. The small article she encountered almost a year ago in Archaeology magazine, about the so-called Xena Scrolls and Dr. Covington's role in their recovery, mentioned that she had served in the war—was that why Janice looked more mature?

The archaeologist was nodding politely at the older woman who had engaged her in conversation—whom Jenny recognized as a White Russian expatriate, just another international dilettante like herself. Her brows knitted in curiosity as she realized what was different: There was no impatient, angry scowl on Janice's face.

Jenny felt Linus's presence before he said anything—or, more accurately, she felt his mustache tickle her ear. "You were right," he burred.

She frowned, then lowered the binoculars. "Not totally useless, you know."

Linus smiled. "Never said you were, darling." His arm drew around her waist in an affectionate squeeze. "Aren't you going to go say hello to her?"

"Should I?" She tapped the lens of the binoculars irritably, then pushed away a loose strand of her blonde hair. "I suppose it's tempting."

"I'll leave it to you." Linus touched the knot of his green silk tie for the umpteenth time. Then he slicked back his dark brown hair with the damp palm of his hand, twitched his mustache to make sure it was in place, and allowed his hand wander back to the tie.

"If you don't stop fussing with that, I'm going to hang you with it," his wife hissed. "You're worse than a woman."

He raised a thick eyebrow. "I always thought you liked that about me," he parried pleasantly.

She smiled at the familiar retort. After almost ten years of marriage, the minutiae of their lives—the jokes, the jaunts, and the lovers, shared and not shared—flimsy on their own accord and meaningless when dissected, held them together more than any illusion of love or fidelity.

"You haven't seen her in over five years," her husband reminded her. "The spell is broken, is it not?"

She said nothing.

"You know what she's like." Linus prodded with the delicacy of a ham-handed surgeon. "Girl in every port...."

...and I was just lucky Alexandria was a stop on her itinerary.

"I would be surprised if she's here alone. And," he added, ignoring her homicidal glare, "Covington is an awful lot of bother. She breathes trouble like air."

Jenny turned her gray eyes to her husband. "That was part of her appeal, you idiot," she growled.

Linus rolled his eyes, unable to comprehend this. "Oh, righto. Forgot that bit. As I said, I'll leave it all to you, dear. If I should run into her first, I'll just tell her you're at Baden Baden with the masseuse again and you can remain up here, hiding."

He succeeded in making her laugh. His lines around his eyes crinkled as he grinned, and then softened as he grew serious.

"What?" she prompted.

"Don't get hurt, hmm?" He kissed her cheek, trotted down the stone steps leading into the garden, and she turned her attention, once again, to the woman in her sights. "And Jenny?" he called, turning around suddenly to face her again.

"What?" she shouted irritably.

"Don't give her any money!"

Oh, you cheap bastard. "Fine!" she retorted, as he melded into the crowd. With another sigh she put the small binoculars back in her purse, snapping the bag shut. I think I need another drink first. She lost herself for a few minutes, staring into the crowd. Linus wants to see her again. Wants her to come to Alexandria. What about what I want?

Jenny had to admit that she didn't have a clue about that.

Italian purring emanated from just beyond the open doors of the palazzo. She knew, even with her back to them, that it was Vittorio Frascati, who owned the palazzo. She did not know him well—she vaguely recalled being introduced to him once before the war—but the old man, scion of a prominent Venetian family and descendent of a doge, was high profile among the wealthy international set. And now he was oozing his lecherous charm on some hapless female. "Is it not the finest Cornaro in Venice?" he was murmuring.

Jenny turned around, just for a peek. She expected to see some tittering blonde barely out of university, but this one made her raise an eyebrow appreciatively; Vittorio did have taste after all, she marveled. The small, dapper man had linked arms with a tall, bespectacled black-haired beauty, who smiled at him graciously. Jenny wondered if the woman was the wife or mistress of a famous man, or even, perhaps, famous herself. Her clothes were impeccable: a silk blouse of deep blue, a darker matching skirt, both items flattering and elegant.

The woman nodded at the old man. "Grazi, Vittorio," the woman replied, honoring him in his native language. "You have been very generous with your time. And very helpful."

"And you have been generous to humor a babbling old man, Melinda." He squeezed her arm affectionately, then disengaged from her. "I hope you find what you are looking for." He kissed her hand, smiled, and returned indoors to maintain his Gatsby-like aloofness from his own party.

Jenny found herself alone—and exchanging smiles—with the beautiful woman, who looked faintly embarrassed to have been fawning, however subtly, over a wealthy and powerful man.

"He's quite a charmer," Jenny said to the woman.

"That he is," the woman agreed. Her low, indolent drawl was from the American South. She came closer to Jenny, and that was when the Englishwoman noticed that the stranger was about half a foot taller than she, almost as tall as her husband. "If I wanted to marry for money, he'd be the one," the Southerner added.

Jenny tried to stifle a grin. "You seem the type who would marry for love instead."

The woman smiled mysteriously and said nothing, but absently touched a ring on the smallest finger of her left hand. It was a silver ring, a nice complement to the expensive watch (Cartier) and the pearl earrings (real).

"I'm Jennifer Davies," she said, offering a hand.

The tall woman enfolded it in one of her own. "Melinda Pappas."

"Let me guess..."

"Hmmm?" Mel mused, raising an eyebrow.

"You're from Virginia!"

It was the "Guess the Accent" game. Mel was well acquainted with it; it had made the first few months of living in New England sheer hell. "Er, no, I'm afraid not."

"Tennessee?"

"No."

"Kentucky?"

"No."

"Definitely not Texas."

"Certainly not," Mel affirmed, a touch haughty.

"I'm afraid I've run out of Southern states," Jenny said, almost apologetic.

"South Carolina," Mel provided, the syllables languishing in her speech like Janice Covington on the sofa after one bourbon too many.

"Good heavens." Jenny paused. "Does each compass point have a Carolina?"

Mel laughed. "No. Just North and South."

"And what brings you to this party, this conference?"

"I'm a translator," Mel supplied succinctly.

"How fascinating. I barely stumble through English, let alone any other language. What have you been working on?"

"Well, it's a bit of an ongoing project. I'm translating a series of ancient writings, known as the Xena Scrolls."

For once Jenny was glad she wasn't drinking, for if she were, she would have choked. Then providence, divine and sadistic, threw a sunbeam down to highlight the silver ring on Mel's finger. Oh bloody hell.

"So," Jenny enunciated carefully, "you must know Dr. Covington."

***** Janice frowned in the general direction of the palazzo's great doors, wondering where Mel was. She scowled into the dregs of her wineglass, then returned her gaze to the house. Venetian architecture failed to impress her, and she had opted not to go on the impromptu house tour that Count Frascati offered to them. But she knew Mel's motivations were more than a desire to see the palazzo; the Southerner had hoped that the Count would know something about the Falconettos, the elusive, aristocratic family that had owned at least one scroll authored by Gabrielle of Poteidaia. So far all they knew of the family was that the patriarch had died at the end of the war and his son, his heir, could not be found.

The old maze of the city, though, intimidated her, and she frequently found herself getting lost whenever she was alone, tooling around the city with the ridiculous—and essentially useless—hand-drawn map that Mel had given her. "Don't get lost," Mel always said to her. And the archaeologist always scoffed at this: Lost? She, who could navigate all five boroughs of New York (even Staten Island!) with ease, who knew Alexandria and Cairo like the back of her hand, who, as an ambulance driver during the war, had the smallest streets of London and Paris committed to memory?

"Venice is a tricky city," Mel had said. "It's a changeling." She had paused dramatically, and if you aren't any kind of goddamn warrior you sure did inherit a sense of drama from that damn woman, Janice had thought to herself. "Kind of like the South," Mel then added, both wistful and mysterious.

This was typical. Whenever Mel liked anything, it reminded her of the South.

This is what I get for taking her up North, thought Janice, with a trickle of guilt. Endless nostalgia and romanticism.

Janice deposited the empty glass on a tray that sailed by, piloted by an overworked waiter. No sooner was it out of her hand than a fresh drink was thrust into her hand. "Hey!" she exclaimed, half-turning to berate the waiter.

Who was already gone. Standing in his place was Jennifer Davies.

Oh shit. Janice's sudden desire for Mel to be there was not because she wanted her lover to witness what could be a potentially ugly encounter, but because she knew that the ever-responsible Mel would, if nothing else, ensure a safe return to the hotel after Jenny had beaten her to a pulpy state of unconsciousness.

"Janice," she purred.

"Jesus," blurted the archaeologist.

"Not quite, love." The Englishwoman sipped at a glass of pinot grigio. "Almost didn't recognize you without the hat. And the jacket. You seem almost naked."

Janice rolled her shoulders nervously, then squared them, both gestures dying for the roguish finishing touch of a leather jacket. She studied Jenny. The Englishwoman was still lovely, with her mess of dark golden curls now tamed into a respectable looking bun, her gray eyes, usually mischievous, still possessing a lively glint. But what that glint meant now, Janice was not sure. All she felt was gratitude that Jenny was not enamored of firearms. "Good to see ya," Janice mumbled. Goddamnit, Mel, where are you?

"It's surprising to see you." Jenny swallowed. "I thought, for a while, you might be dead."

Is her hand shaking? "What?"

"Not long after the war I ran into Andrew Curran. He said he saw you in London, in '44. And they were sending you to the continent, right into the heart of it."

Janice remembered that. She also remembered he borrowed ten quid and never paid her back. Andrew was a writer, an old friend and ex-lover of Jenny's, and a RAF pilot during the war. "I'm glad Andrew made it."

Jenny ignored this. "I've spent five years wondering what's become of you."

Shit oh shit. Somehow an I’m sorry seemed pointless in the face of this weighty fact. "Guess I shoulda sent word."

"Perhaps. But eventually I knew you were all right: Your scrolls are making you well known." Jenny sipped the wine. "You have them all now?"

A tiny frown, and the familiar furrowing of her brow. "Not all of them. There are more."

"Really, Janice? Your translator thinks you're wrong." Jenny smiled, relishing the stunned look on her former lover's face, and tilted her head. Janice followed the direction of the motion. They were not difficult to spot, because they were both two of the tallest people at the party: Linus and Mel, together, talking.

Shit oh shit oh shit. "You've met Mel." Janice was, initially, too surprised to ignore the implications of what Jenny claimed Mel had said about the Scrolls. "Quite by accident. We started talking, and found out we had a mutual acquaintance in you, my pet. Then I introduced her to my charming husband, and they've been blathering about Mayan architecture for the past twenty minutes. Terribly dull. Oh Janice, don't glare at me like that. I'm not saying your little concubine is a bore. Actually, she's not so little, is she?"

"No, she's not," snapped the archaeologist.

Rather defensive, thought Jenny. "Not that it's a bad thing," she amended.

"It's not. I never have to worry about changing light bulbs or gettin' things from the top shelf in the pantry."

Always ready with the wisecrack, Janice. That hasn't changed. "At any rate, she's lovely, and very smart. Don't worry. I said nothing to her of our—shared past, and I'm sure Linus won't either."

"I'm not worried about that."

But Jenny could tell from the nervous clenching of the archaeologist's jaw, that this wasn't quite the given that it was declared to be. "To be frank, dear, I didn't think she was your type."

"If that's your polite way of sayin' she's out of my league, I know that." Janice glared at her.

"She's out of everybody's league, darling." Jenny said it lightly, but felt it deeply, miserably, in her bones. She would have been prepared to compete with a woman—or even a man—for Janice's affections, but not an Amazonian demigoddess. "They look good together," Jenny observed, as they both watched Linus and Mel. "My husband and your lover. Both so tall. Like some Nazi-Nietzschean super breeding couple." As she'd hoped, Janice did chuckle at that. Nice to see I can still make you laugh, if nothing else.

"And I thought I was pissed off about being short."

"I'm pissed off about a lot of things, love."

"Even after five years, baby?" Janice raised an eyebrow.

Jenny resisted the diminutive and what it stood for: an obvious attempt at being charmed. Unfortunately, as she stared into the green eyes and ached to kiss the lips, she realized it was working. "She wears a ring."

"Yeah," Janice grunted. "Is that a crime or something?"

"No. But it's the ultimate symbol of marriage, of commitment. Isn't it?"

The infamous Covington sneer of defiance made an appearance. "So suddenly you're an expert, since you're married yourself? You might as well wipe your ass with that piece of paper."

Ah, Janice, I have missed you. I needed to feel something, and you're it. Who else would talk to me like this, who would let the truth fly like that? She wanted to take Janice in her arms, and forgive her, and make all the promises that she knew she couldn't keep. Our mutual marriages appear to be in the way of that. Mine has always been flexible. But yours? She watched Janice watch Mel. This was also something new, this naked look, a vulnerability slowly crossing Covington's face, like a blind man negotiating an intersection.

"Just admit it. You're in love with her. And it's something bigger than anything you ever felt for me."

Janice closed her eyes. "Jenny, don't do this. Don't start." A little too late for that, big mouth, she chastised herself.

"I'm not starting anything. I'm finishing it." Jenny glared into her wine, watching the surface of the liquid spin like a hula hoop. "You left it a bit sloppy, a bit unfinished in Alexandria. Didn't you?"

Alexandria. It was the last time they had been together. Janice remembered little of it: Hazy golden blurs of fucking, of drinking. Of the haunting urge that built in her head to see Mel again, until it became so strong and desperate that she sold her mother's wedding ring just to get enough money to buy a plane ticket home. She had left Jenny without saying goodbye. She remembered sitting on the edge of the bed, money in her hand, watching Jenny sleep. And then moving, as if in a dream, for the door. "I guess I did," Janice replied softly. "I regret that." The musing tone gave to the words all the weight and substance of a feather. But it felt, to Janice, as if she were now a different person, someone not capable of that behavior. For she could never see herself doing that to Mel, ever again. Especially since I gave you a ring and I said I didn't need a ceremony or a church or a God. I don't need anything except you.

Jenny, of course, knew none of this, and even if she did, would have remained as  impassively impressed as she was now. "A hell of an apology."

Okay, I tried noble, now I'm back to the bitch. "Well, what the fuck do you want from me?" snapped Janice.

She wanted to slap Janice hard—very, very hard. But instead, she opted for the humiliation of throwing wine in her face. The sudden violence of the gesture possessed the emotional impact she wanted, as she watched the archaeologist flinch, if only ever so slightly.

"Try to explain that to your dashing Southern belle," she said quietly.

*****

Inevitably, at any type of social gathering, Mel eventually reverted to wallflower status; she felt most happy quietly observing other guests.

Especially Janice. At the moment, however, the archaeologist was not visible from where she sat, on a stone bench, at the periphery of the crowd. But then Janice was walking quickly toward her, whistling tunelessly and betraying her nervous restlessness by tapping a clenched fist against her thigh.

Mel straightened in distress when she noticed the dampness of Janice's cheeks. Crying? she wondered. But once the small blonde sat down next to her she realized it was not the tracks of tears, but a sheen of white wine. Luminous clear drops were falling happily, willingly, into her cleavage.

"Oh, dear. And we were proceeding so nicely, without incident." Mel murmured. She handed her companion a clean yet wrinkled napkin.

Janice blotted her face dry.

"Could have been worse, I suppose," she added, discreetly checking for bloodstains or bruises.

"I suppose," echoed Janice with a sigh. "But white wine does possess a certain sting."

"Would you care to tell me what happened between you and Mrs. Davies?"

"Mrs. Davies?"

"She was the last person I saw you talking with. Did she do this?" Mel gestured at her lover's face.

"Ah, dear Mrs. Davies."

"Yes. What of Mrs. Davies?"

"This conversation is beginning to remind me of that crazy book you were trying to make me read."

The "crazy book" was by Gertrude Stein. What Mel found to be a fascinating exercise in the modern use of language had sent Janice scurrying for the comfort of her old friends Raymond Chandler and Dash Hammett.

"Don't change the subject, darling. Especially when it's about a woman who still seems to be in love with you."

"So you figured that out, huh?"

"Yes. I'm pretty good at decoding the obvious. You should have seen me when the Hindenburg blew up."

Mel had hoped to bring a smile to the that lovely face, but instead Janice frowned, wrapping the napkin around her fist, the white contrasting with her tanned hand, like a bandage. Like the gauze and cloth slapped on her during the war, like the handkerchief Harry gave her when she scraped her knuckles on rocks during an excavation in Macedonia. Four days later he was dead and all she had was his handkerchief, covered with her own blood, and his dreams, and his debts.

"I didn't know she'd be here," Janice admitted quietly.

"Of course not. But when...when were you with her?"

Janice continued to stare at her hand, watching the white cotton flutter as she wiggled her fingers within it. "Last time I saw her was in '43. It was one of those on again, off again things. I met both of them…" she exhaled, scowled in thought. "….oh, I think it was 1940. Harry called their set 'the international dilettantes.' They threw parties, they traveled, they nosed around on digs, acting all curious and trying to buy anything that struck their fancy. No one took them seriously. They were kind of on the fringe of things. In a way, so was I, but no one could say that I didn't do my time in the field, and that I wasn't serious about what I was doin'." She shot Mel a wry look. "I thought you were one of them, one of those types, when I first met you."

Mel shrugged. "Well, I guess I am.”

"No," teased Janice, "you're a debutante, not a dilettante, honey."

"Gosh, I do get those words mixed up in my pretty little head!" Mel drawled.

Janice laughed. "There's a lot in that pretty little head, I know. In fact, I've always thought you should be the one teaching, not me. I'm just a digger at heart. Anyway," Janice continued with a sigh, "we kept running into Jenny and Linus—Athens, Cairo, Syria, you name it. They were always around. Eventually we all became friends...and, with Jenny, more than that."

"And Linus? Did he know? Does he know?"

Janice snorted derisively. "Oh yeah. He knew all right. In fact, he gave me money for a couple of my digs. 'Cause I was fucking his wife and keeping her happy."

"This made him happy?" Mel frowned, confused.

"Linus and Jenny have what you might call a marriage in name only. He's nouveau riche, Canadian. His family was looking to make themselves classy by marrying off their dissolute son to a woman with background. Jenny's got the lineage, her father is a squire or something stupid like that...they have this big country house...but no cash flow. It's a perfect set-up. They're fond of each other, and for all I know they may actually fornicate with each other every once in a while, but usually they go their separate ways when it comes to companionship of that kind."

"Oh." Mel blinked, pondered something meaningful to say. "At least she's not a Nazi."

Janice laughed in amazement. "No, she's not. She's worse." Morosely she stared at the ground, then scrutinized Mel. "You're taking this awfully well," she accused.

"I don't see the point of getting upset over something that's already happened." Mel chewed her lip. How to convey reassurance, with an innocuous touch, what inept words cannot…whoever thought that language would fail me, of all people? Even now there were moments when she could not trust her body, her movements, as if any casual sign of affection would tell the world what she was, and what she felt. Her fingers twitched, she steadied her hand, and plucked at the khaki pant leg, gently, teasingly.

Janice looked at her.

"I don't care about that."

"Jesus, I do not deserve you. Damn this stupid thing. Why did we come to this party anyway?"

"It was your idea," Mel reminded her.

Janice made a pretense at scanning the crowd. "I thought we should get out. Some people might think fucking in a hotel room for a whole day is unhealthy."

"I wouldn’t take you to be one of those types, Janice."

"And I never thought you'd turn out to be a sex fiend with unlimited energy." Janice reached out and took the wineglass from the large hand, permitting her fingers a brief electric entanglement with Mel's own. "But you are, aren't you?"

Mel thought, for a moment, that Venice had just sunk another inch.

The archaeologist drained the glass. She swallowed. Her lips glittered, wet.

"Do you want to go back to the room?" Janice asked. She pressed the empty glass into Mel's hand. Her palm brushed along the knuckles curled loosely around the expensive Venetian stemware.

She took the soft smash of Vittorio's fine wineglass as a yes.

*****

In the sanctuary of their rooms at the Hotel Danieli, Jenny lit up a cigar in honor of Covington. She puffed furiously. Like to see that Southern ninny try to smoke one of these. The spiteful thought came too soon, as the smoke strangled her and she proceeded to hack violently. It's like tasting death.

Linus emerged from the large bathroom while unknotting his tie to find his wife sprawled, unladylike, on the couch, her skirt hitched up to dangerous heights and a cigar in her mouth. "You know," he began, "Byron called Venice 'Sodom on the Sea.' " He sat down next to her, draping a large hand on her bare thigh, not in the least tempted by the smooth skin. "So one would think, whatever your misfortunes with the lovely doctor, you would find a bit of...entertainment elsewhere." He squeezed her leg with gentle affection. "The night is still young."

She unfurled smoke at him in lieu of a response.

He coughed loudly. "Darling, put that foul thing out before we all go up in flames."

She dropped it in the half-empty champagne glass. It fizzled, just like all those hopes I had of being back in your bed, Janice.

Linus took her hand. "Look, I know it bloody hurts, but she's happy. Can't you tell?"

"Yes." She flopped against him and pressed her face in the dark soft night of his black jacket. No crying. Not yet. Not now. She took a deep breath, its jagged rhythm suggesting the inhalation of broken glass. It fucking feels like that, anyway. "She'll be coming to Alexandria?" The tiny pleading voice was almost lost against the breadth of his jacket.

He shrugged. "The invitation was proffered to both of them. You can lead a horse to water…."

"…but she'll end up drinking bourbon anyway." Jenny sighed and sat up. She stared at the ceiling, then at her husband. Time to ask the tricky question. "Lye, this really has nothing to do with me, does it?"

His standard trick, in attempting to look innocent, was widening his dark eyes.

"Why do you want Janice in Alexandria?" she asked slowly, knowing she would get the answer he always gave, the answer that, in his so-called line of work, he couldn't help but give her.

He smiled. "You know what I'm going to say…"

"Say it anyway."

He rubbed his chin. "I need to keep an eye on her."

*****

Mel had decided that they should never leave the hotel room. Because she was both deliciously happy, yet deeply mortified. What kind of looks might they get when they dared to leave the sanctuary of the room again? If this were a room in the Bible Belt, we might get away with saying we were holding a small revivalist meeting or something. I could even throw in a hallelujah. For, if the proverbial fly on the wall were, say, a blind nun, this creature would have been most impressed by the Christian devotion of Dr. Covington, as she chanted "Jesus" over and over again, so lovingly, so frequently, so breathlessly. The repetition had indeed made Mel downright nervous, triggering dormant Methodist tendencies, and distracting from the extremely pleasant task of servicing the good doctor. Blasphemy upon blasphemy. I really am going to hell...if I still believe in that. Her quasi-theological ruminations derailed as Janice climaxed, blonde head slamming back into a soft, fat pillow, with one final cry for Christ. Her mouth glistened, as if she had swallowed stars, and her eyes were dazed, unfocused, and happy.

Mel decided that hell was worth this.

"Keeps getting better and better," mumbled Janice, before rolling on her stomach and falling into a light slumber. Mel indulged a bad habit and sprawled practically on top of her, cheek against shoulder blade, hips to butt. She was on the precipice of sleep herself when the soft growl of Janice's voice reverberated against her.

"I was a shit." The words were almost smothered by the pillow to which they were addressed.

Mel could not see her face. "What?"

"With Jenny. I was a shit."

Her hand swept down and felt the scars along Janice's thigh, then the resultant shudder that the touch brought, one of desire or remembrance, she did not know. She wondered if Janice herself knew. "I don't care." The words tumbled out of her mouth. It was true. It also appeared cruel somehow. She wondered, ever so briefly, why she didn't. Love, the great blind spot.

"You should."

"Why?"

"The last time I was with her…I could think of nothing but you." Janice whispered this, sighed, then stretched, the action rippling her body.

Mel rode the current of flesh. "Am I too heavy for you?"

"No. Don't move." And she added, almost shyly, "I like it."

Some emotion caught Mel by desperate surprise, a nameless, rootless anxiety, and she knew now Janice's own fear of having it all taken away, of the dream dissolved. She thought of the other woman who, in this city, at this moment, also loved Janice Covington. If fate were crueler, she wouldn't be here now. Usually, Mel possessed a powerful ability to find common ground with others; empathy had caught up with her at last.

"I love you anyway," she said.

3. Lucky

Cambridge, 1949

Dr. James Snyder sat at his desk, focusing a passionate amount of attention on his pen. He twirled it in his fingers, aligned it with the stack of papers in front of him, picked it up again. "You don't think she'll bring a gun, do you?" he muttered, half-joking.

The Dean, sitting on a worn leather couch near his desk, only smiled.

"Of course, you've heard the rumors…."

"Hmm," was the Dean’s noncommittal reply.

"…she killed an entire Nazi patrol single-handedly. Didn't she get some sort of commendation? And I have a colleague at the University of Texas who said that she pistol-whipped him."

The Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Oh, dear." This response did little to assuage Snyder. "I'm relatively certain that Dr. Covington is capable of behaving herself, Snyder. We've had no incidents in the two years she's been on staff." Just a rash of infatuated coeds, he thought.

Nonetheless, when the door opened and the small woman, wearing dark trousers and a rumpled khaki shirt, strode into his office without being formally invited, Snyder felt his palms go clammy and every muscle in his back knot itself. He was not comforted either by the tall woman who lingered shyly near the door. Great, she's brought a second. He only knew of Melinda Pappas via her rising professional reputation, but wrongly assumed that the translator was as ill-tempered as her companion.

"Hiya, Snyder," Janice said as she flopped in the chair facing his desk. She nodded at the Dean, who sat at her left. “Old man."

The Dean grinned, amused. "Hello, Janice."

The archaeologist craned her neck to gaze back at Mel. "Join the party, Stretch."

Mel rolled her eyes, and reluctantly approached. She was not faculty and enjoyed no special status, despite tutoring and being a regular denizen of the library, and thus felt uncomfortable at being privy to matters among the staff. Even if it they were about the Scrolls. But Janice had insisted that she attend the meeting. You're my partner, Janice had said. And, she thought as she took the seat next to Covington, I really like the sound of that.

"Hullo, Miss Pappas," Snyder said.

"Hello, Dr. Snyder. How are you?"

"Oh, just fine." He smiled at the polite, blue-eyed beauty. "Stretch, huh?"

"Mmm."

"Didn't know folks call you that."

"They don't," Mel replied firmly. She flicked a sidelong glare at Janice, who shrugged.

Snyder blinked. "Oh."

A stake was now driven through the heart of casual conversation.

Janice cleared her throat. "Why are we here, Snyder? I assume it has to do with the dating of the Scrolls."

"Correct, Dr. Covington. Er, the results of the carbon dating are in."

"And?" Janice prodded impatiently.

"Well, it is a little later than you initially thought."

The archaeologist shrugged. "They were damn difficult to date. That's why I was so broad on time period."

"I quite understand. In general, that's the safest, most practical route. But now with the advent of radiocarbon dating, we can be much more accurate. Statistical probability is the basis in calculating the half-life of C-14, but no one can really predict the rate of decay, and a standard deviation exists in every case, which is—"

"Snyder, I don't need a goddamn lecture on the process, okay? Just tell me what you found."

The befuddled and frightened academic mumbled something which sounded like "churlish beans in sentry." In fact, this was precisely what he said. For within the great roaming recesses of his mind he thought that perhaps Covington would be satisfied with this response, would smile, shake his hand, declare him a genius, perhaps even buy him a drink.

Instead, her gaze cut him like a diamond on glass. She straightened from her lounging, relaxed position. He saw her flex her hands and became utterly convinced that even her fingernails possessed muscles. "Come again?" she requested smoothly.

Snyder swallowed, thought a quick prayer and a farewell to his wife. "The early sixteenth century."

Another silence dropped, like a theater curtain after a botched performance.

Until it was broken by Janice. "Are you shitting me?"

"Calm down, Janice," the Dean urged.

The only thing that kept Janice from jumping up was the sudden warm hand that, mindless of their location and the parties present, gave her leg a comforting squeeze. She looked quickly at Mel, whose stunned expression nonetheless betrayed the assurance of the gesture. "There has got to be a mistake," Janice snapped. Mel nodded numbly. "This is still a very new procedure. Someone made a mistake."

It was now Snyder's turn to be riled. "No mistakes can be made in this process. I checked the results several times. I dated several pieces of parchment."

Janice stood up and began pacing. "But the typology of the instruments—the scroll casing, the stiles—it all fit in with the time period."

"The stratigraphy confirmed this?" asked the Dean.

"Yes! Do you know how far down I had to go? They were in a tomb, for Christ's sake!"

"Those artifacts—the scroll case and the writing tools—did date well within the time frame you assigned," Snyder agreed. "As did some of the pottery you brought from the same location. But it's the actual scrolls themselves that do not: the paper."

"So this was all a ruse. They're fakes." Helpless, inconsolable for the moment, Janice leaned against the windowsill. It was the only thing that kept her standing.

"Or very cunning duplicates of the originals," Mel added softly.

The Dean smiled. He didn't know Covington's partner well, but what he knew, he liked.

But before he could pursue this line of thought, Snyder threw in, "Oh, who cares how real they are!" The women and the Dean stared at him. "They're a fascinating discovery! Somebody was clever enough to write in ancient Greek, use the proper materials to make them look like ancient scrolls, found a case somewhere, then buried them for posterity, thinking they played a massive joke on the world. You know, like that MacPherson fellow, who invented Ossian."

"Or they are copies of the original scrolls, which are still missing, as Miss Pappas proposed," the Dean added. "What do you think, Dr. Covington?"

Janice's fury was spent for the time being, otherwise the hand pressed against the cool windowpane of Snyder's office would've been bloodied by shattered glass. "I don't know what to think," she whispered.

"I know what I think," the Dean retorted. "I think you're lucky."

Janice shot him a curious yet homicidal glance.

"Your father spent his entire professional life looking for those scrolls. Yet you, barely thirty, made this discovery, and in a war zone, no less. They may not be the real thing. But they're a damned sight closer—and more interesting—than anything Harry Covington found."

"Watch what you say about my father, old man," Janice grunted.

"Janice." Mel sounded the warning.

"My father laid the foundation for me to find what I did. He did thirty goddamn years of legwork chasing after these. If he hadn't died when he did, he would've found them." She drew a breath to refuel her fury. "If you want me off the faculty now, fine. I don't give a damn. I didn't have much of a reputation before I came here. It doesn't matter to me. So I'll resign."

Alarmed, Mel stood up. "No. Wait a minute—" She exchanged a look with her lover. 

How much of the bravado was shock, and wounded pride? Janice's desire for legitimacy—for someone to take her work seriously—was very much a part of why she accepted the position at the university. It complemented her wish, however seemingly tenuous at times, for a stable life.

"That isn't what I want," the Dean replied quietly. "I want you to find the real scrolls."

"You believe they exist," Janice stated warily.

"I believe that if they do exist, you'll find them. And if this is, as Snyder suggests, some kind of fantastic fraud, you'll find that out as well."

"All for the greater glory of the old alma mater, eh?"

Once again, the Dean proffered his smug smile. "Anything you uncover would benefit the university, as long as you are under its auspices. And as far as I'm concerned, you are." The older man stood up. "Let's give you a year to come up with something. I know that doesn't seem like much time, but if, at the end of that year, you give me enough reason to continue the search, I'll extend the expedition. After you spend a semester in the classroom, of course."

The Dean extended his hand for Janice to shake. She stared at him suspiciously.

"Don't be a bad sport, Covington. I'm giving you an opportunity to do what you do best. And you're damned good at it, I know that. Have a proposal on my desk in six weeks."

Her hands remained idly on her hips.

He chuckled and withdrew his hand. "I look forward to seeing what you'll do." He winked and picked up his walking stick, and a hat. "I'll get my money's worth out of you, my girl." He nodded at Snyder and Mel. "Dr. Snyder, Miss Pappas, good day."

Janice was staring into space. "Money's worth?" she mumbled. Her gaze snapped to the doorway where the Dean had departed. She stomped over to the door, flung it open, and shouted down the hallway at his retreating form: "You already get your money's worth out of me, you old sonofabitch! Do you know how goddamn low my salary is? You're wringing me dry, you cheap bastard!" She drew in another breath with which to launch another tirade, relented, growled, and stormed down the hallway after slamming the door.

Mel yanked her glasses off her face with a groan and massaged her temples.

Snyder gave her a timid look. "She really doesn't want tenure, does she?"

*****

The odd, arrhythmic typing of Mildred, the department secretary, was punctuated by the strange thwaps emerging from one of the offices nearby. She paused in her task, wondering when the noise would cease, and if the perpetuator would notice that her typing had stopped, but the angry sounds continued. She sighed, and took a cigarette out of the pack she kept in her top desk drawer. She was halfway through the cigarette, and pecking halfheartedly at the letter in the typewriter, when Mel arrived.

The stout middle-aged woman exchanged a look with the Southerner. "You want the bourbon?" Mildred asked. She hadn't the chance to ask Janice if the professor wanted the emergency bottle of hooch—the little archaeologist had barreled past her with such speed and anger.

Mel shook her head. "I don't think letting her drink will help in this instance."

"Actually, I meant for you."

The translator laughed so faintly that it was barely an exhale of breath. "Ah, no, I don't think so." A finger stemmed the tide of her eyeglasses, sliding down her nose.

"If I hear screams I'll call the police," Mildred remarked as Mel entered the sanctum sanctorum.

The lack of time spent in the office was reflected in its bare décor; the assistant professor was rarely in it except to brood and meet the occasional student. Pieces of wood—representing two and a half years' worth of grading midterms, finals, papers, and resisting the advances of romantically deluded students—were scattered on the floor, along with the woman responsible for them and the large, cracked dent in the side of the desk. Janice smoked a cigarette and regarded the pile of tinder, as if a merry little act of arson would cap her day.

"Paul Bunyan," Mel said. She half-leaned, half-sat along the desk.

"Get me an ax, then, so I can destroy it properly." A baseball bat, which lay beside her, worked well when she grew tired of kicking the desk, but a sharp object would be ever so more pleasing.

"You're very lucky the dean likes you, honey."

"Lucky!" Janice exploded. "You're as bad as he is." She pushed at the woodpile with the toe of her boot. "I should have let Kleinman keep them," she said softly.

"No, you shouldn't have," Mel countered. "They may not be the Scrolls, but they are still Gabrielle's words. And as such they are sacred."

Janice ignored this. "Why does it seem impossible to get to point B from point A?" she mused. "I thought I was already there. Thought I had them." Thought I had it all. She looked at Mel, who had her arms crossed and was staring into space, thoughtfully. I am incomplete without you, but I'm incomplete without them as well.

"Zeno," Mel muttered absently.

"Huh?"

"One of his paradoxes—about how all motion is impossible. You recall—?"

"Oh. Yeah." Janice, in reality, had totally forgotten anything to do with Zeno, or much of anything she was forced to read as an undergraduate. "Is there really a Gabrielle or a Xena? Are we so sure that these just weren't stories our fathers created? They fed us these legends, these make-believe stories. We ate it all up. We were kids. And then it seeped into our subconscious, these myths. They're universal. A shared hallucination."

"I never suspected you were a Jungian, Janice."

"Are we descendants of heroes and bards, or forgers and pranksters?"

Mel's lips tightened, set in their familiar stubborn grimace. "You deny what you know to be true."

"Do I?"

"You have the dreams."

Janice said nothing. How long did you think she would say nothing, would wordlessly hold you after you wake up screaming? How long would she politely ask you how you've been sleeping, and settle for your half-hearted lies?

"Will you sit there and tell me that those nightmares you have…that they're just about the war? Can you tell me that?"

The dreams were about the war, at the very least. What her mind refused during the day, what it would not acknowledge, her body whispered in the ragged gossamer of scars: This happened to you. And then the brain would finally rebel, subconsciously. 

More recently, they were tenacious—and they went further than ever, extending into a darker past: Lying in snow, stomach bathed in blood, daylight faltering around her, in the blue glow of a winter world devoid of sun. She looks at her hand, watches it fall...onto a plank of wood, where it is bound by a Roman soldier. And what was too horrible to contemplate, too awful to bear, was that she doesn’t die alone. There is a broken body next to hers.

Yet you managed to smile for me. I still remember the first time you smiled at me—really, truly smiled. It was hesitant, shy, belying the reputation of the warrior and the coldness of your eyes. This piece of you—so fallible, so human, you gave to me. The stupid, stubborn farm girl who followed you.

"Hey." It was Mel's soft drawl, snapping the spell. The chill she experienced every time after the dream was aroused once again, and the hairs on her arms stood, stiff in fright. Until Mel smoothed them, rubbing warmth with her palms.

Janice swallowed, stood up. She simmered, paced. Mel sighed inwardly, and waited for the inevitable.

"Goddammit!" she screamed, and kicked the desk once again. More chips of wood spiraled from the desk, like gymnasts executing backflips.

Mildred is calling the police.

A finger, not as callused as it was once when they first met, was thrust at the translator. "It may be all fine and well for you to hear fucking little voices inside your head, but not me, baby! Not me!"

Or maybe she is finishing off the last of that bourbon.

"I thought that I really accomplished something: I found the Xena Scrolls. They were real—or so I believed. And then, I thought, just maybe, I could have a simple life. Where I could just be myself. Not the descendent of some naïve brat who changed personal philosophies like underwear. Not the daughter of some obsessed grave-robbing bastard carrying on the crazy family legacy. I wanted it all normal." She regarded Mel thoughtfully. "You made me want that. Just a house. A steady job. And a girl who loves me."

“I know,” Mel said softly. “I’ve wanted the same thing.” She paused. “Come here.” Janice hesitated in the face of the gentle order, remembering the same words in different circumstances: The first time they made love, when she had stood, fixed in the doorway, neither resisting nor giving in, afraid to take the leap into the bedroom, until Mel, sitting on the bed, had uttered those two words. She had felt as if she were opening up Pandora's box, propelled by an unknown energy and motion, by fatal curiosity. And she felt that way again, now. Afraid of what you'll find.

She permitted herself to be held, to let Mel prop her chin upon her head. And afraid of what you’ll lose. She had lost Harry to this search—even before he died.

The blue of the dream was the abyss and the salvation at once, beribboned together.

Mel pulled back and looked at her. And the blue of these eyes? "Weeks ago you were excited at the prospect that there were still scrolls out there to be found."

"That was when I thought they were real."

"They are real."

Janice said nothing, frowned, let Mel's thumb press a temporary cleft in her chin.

"It'll be you and me, under the stars," she said.

As it has been always been.

"How bad can that be?"

Janice did not know. They hugged again, she placed her head against Mel's shoulder, and for the moment she could ignore the chill of the dream and could draw upon the strength of Mel's words. She loved the certain, the tangible, the sure thing. Now she gave herself over to words not written down, belief neither felt nor seen, and a love that, more often than not, she did not understand, nor felt she deserved.

#xena #xena warrior princess #mel/janice #mel/janice fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #fanfiction #femslash

[godzillajuniorreborn]

Godzilla King of the Monsters review

In memory of my father. Even though we didn't always see eye-to-eye, without him, I would've never become the fan of Godzilla I am today. Thanks, Dad.

Here it is, my belated review of the recent American Godzilla movie that serves as the sequel to Gareth Edwards' 2014 cinematic reboot and the third installment in the Monsterverse. I saw this movie on Sunday with my mom and brother. Let me just say this to the critics who bashed this movie. I am so sorry this movie doesn't pander to your standards. I'm sorry this movie doesn't exactly have a hidden agenda for you to latch on to. I'm sorry this movie was made for the fans of Godzilla and Kaiju in general. But, you should have known, after seeing the trailers, this movie was going to be a monster slugfest. I also find your critiques very hypocritical since you're more willing to bash this movie yet give praise to the MCU despite those movies not being in the realm of reality. With that said, let's get on to the review.

Story: Five years have passed since mankind bore witness to the rise of Godzilla and the very staggering realization that monsters do exist. Now, humanity is aware of the gigantic beasts known as Titans. However, a dark plan to overthrow humanity and return the rule of Earth to the Titans is underway as an eco-terrorist and rogue Monarch agent let loose a powerful, dragon-like Titan locked away within Antarctica named King Ghidorah whose very presence can summon Category 6 hurricanes all over the world. As humanity faces a worldwide monster apocalypse, Monarch finds itself in a race against time to stop the evil Ghidorah as Godzilla and the other Titans, including the lepidopteran Mothra and the pterosaur-like Rodan, are on a collision course for a battle to decide the fate of the world and who reigns on top as "King of the Monsters".

Let's start with the cons. Just a warning, there WILL be spoilers:

1. The pacing: The first half of the movie feels like it goes a little bit too fast. In the first thirty minutes, we are introduced to Mothra, Ghidorah's awakening in Antarctica as well as his first battle with Godzilla, Rodan's introduction, Godzilla getting incapacitated by the Oxygen Destroyer, and Ghidorah taking control over the other Titans. Luckily, the movie slows down in the second act and allows the audience to catch their breath.

2. Not a lot of Titans: Despite the movie having a total of about twenty Titans, the only ones to get any screen time dedicated to them are the Main Four (Godzilla, Mothra, Rodan, and King Ghidorah) as well as four new monsters (Behemoth, Scylla, Methuselah, and Bosmuto). That's a total of eight Kaiju out of at least twenty with the majority either being names on computer screens or a cameo from Kong. In addition, Rodan and Mothra don't appear that much in the film, mostly taking a backseat to Godzilla and King Ghidorah.

3. Some scenes feel incomplete: For example, there is a scene where Madison (Millie Bobby Brown's character) steals the ORCA, a device meant to communicate with Titans designed by her mother and father, and she does so with little to no effort at all, despite it being a key component in Alan Jonah's (Charles Dance's character) plans. You'd think for such a key instrument, he'd have someone at least guarding it. Heck, in the novelization, there's one guy protecting it who Madison takes out with a taser. In the movie, Maddie just swipes the device with no opposition whatsoever.

4. Emma Russell's Plan: In this movie Emma Russell (Vera Farmiga), after losing her son Andrew to Godzilla during the Battle of San Francisco, apparently went mad and decided to give the planet back to the Titans and is working with Alan Jonah, a former army colonel turned eco-terrorist to set about bringing forth a Kaiju apocalypse by setting loose the Titans from their hibernation and having them fix the planet's ecosystem. Yeah, while it is obvious she's being driven by five years worth of grief and she's not in the right mental state, here are two things wrong with her plan (Heck, even Jonah who is the film's main human villain calls her out on this.):

The Titan you have spear-heading this operation is a three-headed dragon who we later find out is from space and was so feared, ancient people refused to go into depth about him (which should be a major red flag that nobody wants to even acknowledge his existence).

Emma says the radiation brought up from the Titans results in new plant-life. Okay, this lady clearly hasn't heard of the effects radiation has on plant-life. Three words: Red. Forests. Chernobyl.

Granted, she kinda gets proven right, for as soon as the Titans are free, the world gets better, but, she was still willing to kick-start global genocide. When a former British Colonel turned eco-warrior is calling you out on your crap, then something's gone wrong.

Now, the pros:

1. The four main Kaiju: Godzilla, Rodan, Mothra, and King Ghidorah are all perfectly realized. As much as I loved the 2014 reboot, I felt like Godzilla could've had a few more scenes to it to flesh out his character. Here, Godzilla is the main character and we get a better grasp at his personality: a weathered, determined king who feels the weight of keeping the natural order in balance on his shoulders. Speaking of personalities, the other three Toho Kaiju have their own distinct personalities, though one gets a category on his own (and I'm pretty sure you know which one) with the stand outs being Rodan who has a hot-headed rogue feel to him but tends to showcase his loyalty to the current Alpha Titan while Mothra is purely benevolent and seems to have a touch of Anguirus' personality with her being loyal to Godzilla alone. I also think this may be the most aggressive incarnation of the Goddess of Peace since GMK.

2. King Ghidorah: The 1991 Godzilla vs. King Ghidorah film was the first Godzilla movie I ever saw, thus King Ghidorah was the first Godzilla villain I saw and he was TERRIFYING. I mean, he's a three-headed dragon the size of a building, that alone is scary. Michael Dougherty succeeded in reminding me why Ghidorah was a nightmare of my childhood. This version of the King of Terror is the most evil I've seen of the character, even more so than Grand King Ghidorah (and that's saying a lot considering that version of Ghidorah was willing to kidnap kids so he could suck them of their life-force as a snack). I like how each of his three heads have their own personalites; the center head being the cold, calculating, arrogant leader, the right head is smarter yet also more aggressive, and the left is an over-achieving, psychotic manchild that has to be kept in line by the center head. In addition, this is the one film villain of 2019 who is evil just for the sake of being evil. There is NOTHING worth sympathizing over. For starters, he's an alien dragon (Yeah, that's right, alien.They don't mince words on that either.) who wants to terraform Earth into his own liking (and it's implied he's done this to other planets as well). He has no conscience, no sympathy, no empathy, and no mercy. He's evil. Nothing more, nothing less. Putting it simply, Ghidorah is that one villain whom you're going to love simply on the grounds of how despicable he is.

3. The Music: The score for the movie by Bear McCeary is excellent. In addition to the classic Ifukube themes for Godzilla and Mothra, it also gives themes for Rodan and Ghidorah that fit them with Rodan having a fast-paced, bombastic theme and Ghidorah having a theme with the Heart Sutra as part of his leitmotif that makes him feel all the more demonic.  I also like the heroic theme given to Monarch.

4. The Human Characters: IMO, I found the human characters surprisingly likable and engaging. They were fleshed out (well, much more than you'd expect in a typical Godzilla movie) and had their own story arcs. My favorite characters would have to be Ishiro Serizawa (Ken Watanabe), Ilene Chen (Zhang Ziyi), Alan Jonah, and Rick Stanton (Brad Whitford).  Rick especially since his jokes are actually pretty good. I also like Alan considering he's not your typical Godzilla human villain who wants to use the Orca and turn the Titans into weapons of war, rather, he comes off more as a Miyazaki villain like Kushana or Lady Eboshi, in that he has good intentions (he's sick and tired of humanity's nonsense and it would be better if the Titans took back the planet), it's just his execution of this plan involved the near extinction of human civilization and the reliance on a three-headed, psychotic dragon from space. Also, Mark Russell (Kyle Chandler) is pretty much the anti-Haruo Sakaki. He holds a grudge against Godzilla, but even then he knows it's downright suicidal to try and fight him and, in the end, realizes the Big G's the only thing standing in the way of Ghidorah's machinations. Heck, some of his actions save more people as opposed to Haruo whose blind hatred towards Godzilla got people killed.  

5. NO! POLITICAL! AGENDA!: Seriously, am I the only one sick of seeing overly PC elements in movies nowadays? I mean, I get it, there should be more representation, but when those themes bring a film to a screeching halt, it feels more like propaganda posing as entertainment. Luckily, KOTM doesn't do that. If anything, it sticks closer to the themes of the Godzilla franchise (coexistence with Nature and what not) and the only political jab it made was a mention of a Titan attacking Stone Mountain. However, it's so brief and so quick, you'd miss it and it wouldn't change a damn thing. Heck, the only actual politics in the movie is a conference scene you'd expect to see in a Godzilla film. Not only that, but none of the main female characters (Emma, Madison, Ilene etc) are Mary Sues, not even Mothra who is the most powerful of the main female leads (yes, Mothra is technically a character) is all powerful. Emma, despite her stupid, STUPID plan, is clearly not thinking straight due to five years of mourning her son and going extreme with Serizawa's belief of the Titans bringing balance to Earth clearly isn't helping. So, yeah, this movie isn't trying to get Woke points, it's trying to tell a story.

6. The Action Sequences: Aside from one scene, most of the action in this movie is probably some of the best out of any Godzilla film, heck, it's some of the best action I've seen in a Kaiju movie in general. And, trust me, if the anime Godzilla trilogy left a bad taste in your mouth (not that I blame you), you can rest comfortably that we get a proper fight between Godzilla and King Ghidorah. Also, this is the first time we get to see Godzilla and Ghidorah really go at it.

Overall:

This movie was exactly what I wanted to see from an American Godzilla film. It was also the nice little pick-me-up after the utter disappointment that was the anime Godzilla trilogy. Frankly, I think Kong better have something up his sleeves when he and Godzilla have their cinematic rematch next year.

#ooc #godzilla #godzilla: king of the monsters #king ghidorah #rodan #mothra #monsterverse #review

[thatdarnblogagain]

Captain Marvel Review

This...this is awkward. *Ahem* How does one put this gently? The Captain Marvel movie, kind of sucks. Like “oh my gosh this is bad” sucks. That sentiment comes from an objective viewpoint; well as objective a viewpoint one can have after watching whatever Marvel’s, Captain Marvel was.

I paid little attention to the calls for the film to be boycotted or whatever controversy surrounded the lead of the film, Brie Larson. All I wanted was a good film as Marvel is accustomed to delivering. Sadly, I was let down. Why you ask?

.Carol: A tale of Two Leads - One of the biggest problems for me is not the character of Captain Marvel but what Marvel is trying to do with her. It is in some way similar to what happened with Iron Man in his first live action film.

Robert Downy Jr took a C to B list character at best and gave a performance that shot him into the upper echelons of comics. However that was more of an unintentional thing. There was no one saying how great Tony Stark was. We saw this with his ingenuity throughout the film but more than that we saw it by how vulnerable he was by being captured, and left for dead more than once, thus having to learn or rely on others. Why? Because Tony is a genius and he is genius enough to know he needed others to help him in his plight. Yes he has an ego but that falls away when he knows his or others’ lives depend on it. He makes mistakes and comes out of the other side stronger for it. That’s relatable.

In Captain Marvel from the first exchange of dialogue in the movie, we are told how strong Carol is though she is “emotional” (Something we see little of). We have constant scenarios of the character being lauded by others for how brilliant she is, whether as a pilot, warrior or hero. There is no fall for her beyond brief moments of being captured...twice. In each scenario she manages to get away with ease and gain little from either. Yes she “falls” in the movie during montages as Marvel tries to hamfist the idea of rising up into the plot line but Steve Rogers did that already and without needing to hammer it home that this was a Psuedo-motivational moment.

Again let’s look at Tony. In his workshop Tony goes through countless tests to get his suit to fly or do what he wishes and we see him fail before he succeeds. But Tony does not give up! He keeps going till he gets it done and even then, he keeps upgrading his suits for any possible situation because he knows he is not invincible. Anything is possible and he needs to be prepared. Whether this is caution or his need for control it shows us Tony’s mindset which almost seems neurotic at its worst.

Carol...falls from space, closes her eyes and decides to fly. That is a scene meant to be empowering but I instead just groaned. Marvel seems to want us to buy into Carol being the cornerstone of the Marvel Cinematic Universe but I think it can be argued while not nearly as strong as Carol, Black Widow deserves that spot.

(This picture has more charisma than the cast)

.The Attitude - Carol is cocky. Not quite Tony Stark or Namor cocky but she has an ego of sorts. She is a woman who knows she is powerful, knows she has the means to take control and is not afraid of doing so. However she has an attitude of no nonsense but also of being able to empathize with others, such as when Scarlet Witch returned to her senses after the House of M storyline. Carol in her Ms.Marvel guise along with Spider-Woman come to her aid before taking Wanda to the Avengers’ Mansion and in those few pages we see a range of emotions. Joy at seeing her friend. The jubilant yet skilled approach Carol takes to fighting the threats facing them. The pain on her face when Vision turns Wanda, his wife at the time, away.

Those are organic expressions and it hurts to say those pages carry more emotion in them than Brie’s portrayal. It is wooden and has no real character behind it. Yes she is soldier but so is Captain America, Bucky, Falcon and Black Widow. Yes she has amnesia, so did Bucky and in Civil War he still showed the emotion of someone who felt like they could not even trust themselves, worry, fear, wariness of all around him besides Steve. Brie really only has one emotion throughout. Stoic. Stoic in happiness, sadness and anger.

She does stoic well but nothing else. For example, upon realizing all she knows is false, Carol in the movie has no moment of breaking down that others face. T’challa upon seeing his father’s transgression confronts him and completely changes his mindset about aiding the outside.  Charlize Theron as Furiosa in Mad Max - Fury Road upon realizing what she was fighting for all along no longer exists, this bastion of strength walks into the desert, takes off her prosthetic arm and screams into the distance. Carol has none of that besides saying, “I don’t know who I am!!!” which is quickly countered by her friend saying, “You are Carol Danvers....”. And...that’s it. She has a moment at the end where she echoes this and ordeal over. Yup.

.Missed Opportunities - Yon Rogg, Korath, Ronan, Agent Coulson, Mar-Vell and even the Skrulls feel like they were wasted in this movie. Some are glorified cameos and that sucks. Korath especially feels like he could have had backstory to show how he became what he was in Guardians of the Galaxy. Oh and Mar-Vell...what did they do to Mar-Vell!?!? Moving on!

Nick Fury feels like he got some of the worst of it all. Many wanted to see how he got those Scars but the pay off is so bad you wish it was instead a moment better left to our imagination. While it is fun seeing a younger Nick Fury at work with a different attitude to his older self, there seems like he deserved a subplot that paid off the speculation of him losing his eye.

Skrulls + He trusted someone he should not have + Lost an eye = Easy Subplot. Imagine going through a movie with Nick having faith in a character only to see that is not who he thought it was and pays a huge price before painfully having to take that person out? That would have explained the Nick Fury who we know so well.

(Annnnnnnd...lack of common sense starts now)

.Plot Twists - NO! That’s all I will say! NO! I understand trying to subvert expectations but there are some things in the Marvel Universe that should stay as such. This is not like changing, M’Baku to a anti-hero/hero or the Mandarin into an Actor (Who was not even the real Mandarin). This is like taking the Red Skull and making him a hero. It  just does not work. That is all I will say to avoid spoilers.

.What Genre am I? - You know something? Winter Soldier is a Spy Thriller movie. Ant Man, a crime comedy. Thor-Raganarok a Sci-Fi Comedy. None of them are really the same despite being hero flicks. Each has its identity. Each understands what it wants to do. Captain Marvel does not.

It shifts from bad action movie, to bad drama to bad comedy. It is jack of nothing and the ace of nothing. Captain America understood it was a period piece and played up the aspects of this. It was essential but Captain Marvel only has this is spots before the film does away with them.

It is no rite of passage tale like Homecoming was or even Shazam. In those films the heroes fall due to their own errors and must dig themselves out of it, in one case literally. Captain Marvel has none of that. Brie is powerful at the start and becomes more powerful at the end. It has the spy of spies in the MCU, Nick Fury but fails to use him nearly enough.

A depowered Carol, (Thanks to a power cancelling chip on her neck) on the run with Fury trying to understand her past sounds like an amazing prospect, making me want to see her regain her powers after gaining better understanding of how to utilize them. But nope, she whoops ass and will make sure you know. Even if you don’t want to.

(I’m the badass female of the MCU...after Black Widow, Okoye, Shuri, Peggy Carter, Valkyrie, Gamora, Frigga, Pepper Pots, Aunt May, *Aunt May Into the Spider-Verse* Nebula, Sif, Sharon Carter, Nakia, The Ancient One...yeah after all of them!)

Rating: 1 out 5

.Boring Screen Play and action

.Bland Lead

.Misguided attempt at a powerful female lead (Wonder Woman & Furiosa did it far better even if they were flawed as well)

.Convoluted plot

.Goose is awesome and so is Nick Fury.

#captain marvel #captain america #brie larson #Steve Rogers #bucky barnes #bucky #marvel #Marvel Comics #Marvel Civil War #live action #Film Review #review #mavel cinematic universe #samuel l jackson #mad max #furiosa #wonderwoman #Wonder Woman #DC comics #dc

[itsthenerdwonder]

Avengers: Endgame

So I just saw it again. I should’ve done this the first time I saw it. The audience was amazing. The laughs and gasps and cheers and tears! We were into it. There were a couple tops of heads bobbing across the bottom of the screen of people needing to pee, but overall a great experience with my roommate. 

But my parents wanted to see it too, so my dad bought tickets for an 11:30 a.m. showing yesterday. Earlier is better, but that means we don’t get the kids or teens who love this series. Just the adults who are taking off work. That might not have been bad, but it’s a dine-in theater (so people were constantly moving around in my direct line of sight) with one kid running up and down the stairs (I get you need to pee, but if you stomp one more time I will snap you out of existence) and people talking (if you want to whisper, that’s fine as I constantly whisper through movies, but even my mom talked loudly because she needed me to hear from 4 seats away) but not cheering. Come on! That was an amazing shot! He did the thing! We won! Clap! Cheer! Something!

I also didn’t bring my notebook to write down my immediate thoughts, so I’m going to basically give a play by play as best as I can. Mostly memories of the first showing, as I’m sure you guys would prefer. On with the review!

So the movie starts immediately with the death of the Barton family. The logo hasn’t even started, but here we go! Death and pain await us. 

Once the logo starts, we switch to Tony and Nebula on the...ship. I kinda wanna say Millennium Falcon, but that’s not even close to accurate. *googles* The Benatar. ...yeah, I’m not calling it that. Anyway, Tony’s teaching her how to play tabletop football, and it’s adorable. He’s teaching her how to be softer and she’s letting him eat the last food and he’s fixing the ship and she’s fixing his body and it’s...it’s just so nice. I mean, we have Tony doing a voice over of how they’re going to die which isn’t as nice, but their bond at being the last ones on Titan is just...I love it. We’re barely 5 minutes in and I’m about to cry.

And then we get a Carol ex Machina. Yay? Anyway, they get back to Earth (side note: the end scene of CM was apparently not in this movie, but it probably got cut due to time constraints) and Steve is the first one there. He’s the first one to Tony, the first one to try and help him, the first to hear his regrets, the first to offer sympathy and I don’t ship Stoney, but DANG! That’s how you do it! And then Pepper is there and she and Tony are kissing and hugging and it’s adorable even though we just cut out Steve and he looks a little awkward.

Cut to inside and the death toll rolling and climbing and Tony loses it. He’s still mad at Cap for Civil War. Still pissed about how everyone jumped down his throat for Ultron when he was doing his damnedest to prevent this exact situation where everyone died. And like...no. I still disagree with your idea that it was better to put a “suit of armor” around the world than protect everyone’s “precious freedoms,” but I understand what you’re saying. Dad didn’t back up Mom and now our kids have been murdered by a drive-by hitman. I get it. I’m still not supporting you, but I understand why you’re pissed. 

But, Nebula knows where the purple cockroach scuttled off to and Carol is a fucking tank, so let’s go. But the stones have already been destroyed. ...I’m sure this will have no lasting consequences, especially since the Ancient One said “these things create our understanding of time, reality, space. if you take one away...you risk catastrophic disaster and alternate timelines.” BUT NOW THEY’RE ALL GONE because some fuck boy decided to play with things he didn’t understand to “correct” a problem he didn’t understand and had no business messing with. Thor cuts off the gauntlet and then his head before walking off into an increasingly blurry image and we roll the title. 

FIVE. YEARS. LATER.

Steve’s leading a support group (ONE GUY SAYS THE WORD MAN INSTEAD OF WOMAN ABOUT HIS DATE SO NOW WE HAVE LGBT REPRESENTATION YAAAAYYYY! fuck this) and Natasha’s leading the remaining Avengers. Carol says “I’m busy dealing with other worlds besides Earth, so piece out bitches.” Rocket and Nebula...I’m assuming are doing the same thing. It’s not really clear. Okoye is...here for some reason to say there’s an earthquake, but there’s nothing we can do. Um...rescue teams? We can’t do anything about the earthquake, but if you’re reporting it, I’m sure it caused some mild damage or something? No? You’re useless. Rhodey reports that a cartel in Mexico has been slaughtered by Clint and we’re not supposed to be okay with that. I mean, wouldn’t be the first time he was a bad guy, and he’s more anti-hero/rogue vigilante than bad guy, but you do you.

Then Steve comes in, sees Nat trying not to sob because Clint’s bad and the world is bad and she’s stressed, and tries to cheer her up. But, DING DONG! Scott’s not dead. See, a rat in San Francisco pushed the right button and spit Scott back out into a storage area. After walking home with a little red wagon and finding Cassie, now age 13-15, and getting the 411 on the last 5 years, he got the La Cucaracha van out of storage and drove it all the way to upstate New York. So now he’s jittery and weird (probably because he spent 5 years hours in the quantum realm and he went a little cuckoo) and saying they should try time travel to get the stones back so they can undo what Thanos did. 

It’s just crazy enough to work. LET’S ASK TONY! Who has a child to show that time has passed. The daughter is wearing an iron mask that Tony says is for “mom” so we aren’t confused when Rescue shows up later. Not that anyone would know her name is Rescue outside of comic book fans, but who cares because Tony is an adorable father. But then the plot shows up and says “get in, loser, we’re going time heisting.” Tony’s all like...you’re kidding, right? And so is the audience, but weirder things have happened in comics and Tony always loved a dramatic entrance, so whatever.

Then we have Professor Hulk, as he is apparently called. And...in my opinion, this is the worst scene in the movie. We’re in a diner and the food is in bowls bigger than my head and Professor Hulk gets talked into helping with the time heist. Sure, fine, we need the plot to move forward. We have a nice explanation how Hulk and Banner are one and it’s Hulk’s body with Banner’s brains because they did some soul searching and are better now. That’s nice. I like that. That is a good part of this scene. But then we have some weird kids taking a picture with Hulk/Banner (you know what, I’m just going to use whichever one I want and you can fight me) and Scott says, “do you want one with me? I’m Ant-Man.” And thus begins the longest 5 minutes of the entire movie. It might not even be that long, but it actually feels a little longer. The kids don’t want a picture because they’re Hulk fans instead of Ant-Man fans. That’s fine, that happens. And they don’t know who he is, which...this is New York and he’s over in San Francisco. Plus, no one sees Ant-Man. Giant-Man/Goliath? Sure. But not Ant-Man. And Scott sees it and immediately retracts his offer to keep it from being weird. But Hulk, to be nice, pushes the issue, which makes it weird. And I’m like, if you want to push it, ask if they want Cap’s or Black Widow’s? But no, we have to have the kids smiling but clearly not wanting too and Scott seeing that and being a little hurt but understanding he’s not an A-lister and Bruce being “kind” but about as intelligent as Hulk. We have time for this? The movie is over 3 hours long? We kept this? Why? Did test audiences love it? Cut it!

And back to Tony who shows us a picture of him and Peter goofing off (don’t make me cry yet, save it for the hug or the Simba/Mufasa moment) and thinks that maybe he can have hope again. We don’t know how long he works on it, he just says “one last time before bed and I shut it all down.” But then...“SHIT!” “shit.” Duh! Knew that was coming. Kids say the shittiest things. But it’s okay because she loves him 3000. That’s going to be a knife wound that won’t heal anytime soon. Anyway, he tells Pepper that he figured out time travel. Because that’s something you can just do. And because he knows that if he continues down this path, he’ll probably unretire again. He won’t stop helping because he can’t stop and he doesn’t want to stop. He’ll become Iron Man again. And Pepper says, “but will you be able to rest?” And, if you guys remember back in IM3 how Tony couldn’t sleep? It would probably be like that. It might not be visions of Thanos’s ship, it would probably be Peter asking why he couldn’t come home. So...yeah, mull on that for a bit. 

The next day, Banner, Steve and Nat test out time travel on Scott. But he becomes a kid, an old man, and a baby because “instead of pushing Lang through time, you essentially pushed time through Lang.” Also, Tony’s here! He got a little “I told you so” moment, but he and Steve are definitely on better grounds than the last time we saw them. (Tony’s porch doesn’t count because that was mostly Tony and Scott with a little bit from Steve to say “pretty please with a cherry on top?”) And then Tony asks if we’re getting the whole team.

Rocket and Nebula show up in the ship and blast away the insides of Scott’s taco. “Rhodey, be careful on reentry, there’s an idiot in the landing zone.” *CLANK* *Scott drops the taco shell in fear* “Sup, Regular-Sized Man?” It’s so funny followed by Hulk sharing two tacos with Scott to replace his. Adorable. Anyway, so Hulk and Rocket go to pick up Thor in New Asgard. No idea where this is. I think it was in Kansas originally, but Rocket, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore. Looks more like coastal Maine or something. We meet up with Valkyrie who informs us that Thor is doing a bang-up job leading his Asgardian subjects in their new home. Also that she’s weirded out by Professor Hulk, which is fair. Me too, although I can look at him while my roommate said she couldn’t, but she’s a weirdo so whatever. 

Anyway, Thor’s holed up in his house with Korg and Miek playing Fortnight and Thor threatens a child for being an ass. By the way, Thor’s fat now. Yeah, after watching everyone he ever loved die plus failing to prevent the deaths of quadrillions, he’s wallowing in a drunken stupor and eating carbs. It’s played for laughs, but like, sheesh. It’s pretty rough. This is Thor! A literal god! This is the guy who’s been stabbed multiple times by his brother and continues to love and care for him. He can bounce back from anything...right? Hulk tries to convince him to come back, but he doesn’t consider it until Rocket says they have beer on the ship.

Now to pick up Hawkeye. To Tokyo we go! Hawkeye Ronin is chasing this guy who’s probably Yakuza or some other mafia guy. Clint kills him, which is kinda cool in a visual and choreographic sense, but not super profound. Nat says we might be able to bring your fam back. “Don’t give me hope.” “I wish I could’ve given it to you sooner.” And now we test the time travel thing. Clint goes home (space=check) and grabs his sons’ baseball mitt before hearing the voice of his daughter (time=check) and being pulled back with the mitt still in hand (probably accidental, but return with objects=check). Now we figure out when. Previously on Thor the Dark World...on Guardians of the Galaxy...on Infinity War...on Avengers...on Doctor Strange: Infinity Stone montage. This montage marks the start of hour 2. We are now getting interesting. 

Cap, Scott and Tony to Avengers with Bruce tagging along for five seconds. Thor and Rocket to Thor: The Dark World. Nebula and Rhodey to Guardians and Clint and Nat to Infinity War, but at the same time as Guardians. Natalie Portman’s back and being stalked by a rabbit. Rene Russo’s back and being stalked by fat!Thor. Tilda Swinton’s back and explaining magic to Bruce. Robert Redford is back and being an ass to past!Tony while present!Tony tells Scott “lightly kill me.” Come and Get Your Love is back and cutting out so we can laugh at Chris Pratt. Hugo Weaving is back and just as unhelpful as ever. That one shot of Avengers is back and showing up the framing of this movie. (seriously, I want a good shot of A-force or all of the “avengers.” Apparently the Russo’s don’t understand screenshots.) Also, discussion of America’s ass is a thing (I love it) and MCU!Cap quotes Comics!Cap by saying “Hang glider” (I hate it.) But apparently Tony forgot about Hulk’s mini-freak out over the stairs (should’ve let one of the fliers go down the stairs instead of Hulk) so in the middle of their heist, the case flies open, Loki grabs the tessaract and gets the heck out of Dodge. ...I’m sure it’s fine.

Now Steve and Tony go back even further STAN LEE CAMEO! RIP! and Scott, being new here, doesn’t understand that Mom and Dad are finally on the same page and now is when you just sit back and watch in awe as they do their thing better than you ever could. So they go back to 1971 and Steve sees Peggy and Tony runs into Howard. We’ve switched to old Howard, not the one from First Avenger/the Agent Carter series. And Tony and Howard bond over being dads (he was still shitty. Just because he wasn’t horrible all the time doesn’t excuse his emotional and [at least in the comics] physical abuse) while Steve dreams for 5 seconds before tricking Michael Douglas out of his office to grab more Pym Particles for them to get home. 

Meanwhile, Nat and Clint fight on a cliff while Red Skull sits back eating popcorn or some shit. Why are they fighting? Well, who’s going to die, of course. Because Clint feels guilty over becoming a vigilante and Nat has nothing else to live for? Okay, pros? Clint has a fam. Nat is managing the Avengers. Cons? Clint went a little crazy for a couple years, but he was doing what he thought was helping, so...??? Nat has red in her ledger, but she’s been trying to wipe it out since day one, so...? They basically do that thing where one person gets up and the other person trips them as they go by. Eventually Nat dies and it’s pretty sad. But...now we have all the stones! Yay?

Oh, and Thor and mom had a heart-to-heart where Frigga said “you’re a failure and that’s okay because we all fail. Now, look on the bright side, find your hope, and start eating better.” Then Thor grabbed Mjolnir (I’m sure there were no implications there, unless Cap gave it back with the Aether) and was super happy because he was still worthy. Even fat and a failure, he’s still worthy of wielding Mjolnir. So sweet. So nice. Anyway, it’s rabbit season duck season rabbit season duck season and Rocket and Thor skedaddle and meet up with everyone else at the same time, but without Nat. They mourn, but Thor says “knock it off, she’s not dead.” Which, considering how many times Loki’s died plus he’s wielding his destroyed hammer with the destroyed Infinity Stones ...yeah, that’s fair. But “she can’t come back” because her contract’s up and she doesn’t wanna.

And now we enter hour 3! The best part, in my opinion. We have the stones. Tony’s made an Iron Gauntlet to hold them. Thor wants to do it so he can finally feel useful and like he did something right, but Tony won’t let him because he’s not in the right mindset. Fair, Thor’s probably still drunk as a skunk, but the guy needs a win. You should understand that, Tony. Hulk says “I’ll do it cuz I’m bigger than you, and Thanos was big and his arm got turned into a chicken wing, extra crispy.” So he puts on the Iron Gauntlet and screams in agony. That’s what happens when you use subpar materials. Probably should’ve gone to Nidavilir instead of using Earth tech, but whatever. Hulk snaps and then birds are singing and Mrs. Barton is calling her husband like...where did you go and where’s all the food? We probably won.

But, uh oh, apparently Nebula has a network (...sure?) and they forgot to put her on airplane mode when she went back to 2014. So the broadband was crowded and Nebula kept making the dial-up sound. Thanos took present!Nebula in 2014 on his ship and past!Nebula takes her gold plating and puts them on top of her blue plating (...no, but whatever) and she goes back to the future instead of present!Nebula. Now that past!Nebula and her continued obsession with getting daddy’s approval are in the future, she can bring the entirety of Thanos’s ship with her. I guess Thanos replicated the Pym Particle? Or Maw did? Whatever, we need a final battle, so here we go.

Just as Clint is gaining hope and Scott’s saying “ooh pretty” to the birds and Tony’s trying to keep Hulks arm from turning grey, Thanos says “surprise, muddafucka,” and drops a single nuke. Rhodey, Rocket and Hulk are all trapped together with rising water and Hulk keeping the building off of them with one arm. Scott’s running as fast as his little legs will carry him to help, although it’s probably good that he’s so small in the continually collapsing building. Clint has the Iron Gauntlet and is running away from those ugly things from Infinity War. You know, the Mieks that kill themselves at the Wakandan border? Yeah, gross. And Tony is joking with Steve and it’s nice even in this scary time. Thor suits up with a cool braided beard, Thanos says “I’ve changed my mind. Forget wiping out half, let’s start from scratch,” and it’s time to start fighting for another 45-50 minutes.

Thor, Steve and Tony go at it. Combo moves and team ups and Thanos is getting beat up, but not going down. Then he throws Iron Man away. He flicks Cap off of him. He grabs Stormbreaker and starts to do the thing that Thor does to his future self last movie. And a girl in the audience just starts shouting, “Come on, Thor! Come on, Thor!” And internally I’m right there with her, but then THE AUDIENCE. LOSES. THEIR. SHIT!!!! I know there were more people screaming than just me, but I probably contributed about 50% of the collective volume. STEVE ROGERS IS WIELDING MJOLNIR! YES! We’ve been waiting for that since Ultron! Probably my favorite part of the whole movie. I’m totally going to find that video on YouTube and save it for myself because FUCK YEAH! 

Meanwhile, Hawkeye has been playing keep away with the evil Mieks and past!Nebula shows up to grab the Iron Gauntlet. Present!Nebula convinces past!Gamora they’re on the same side and we can kill Thanos. They start by saving Hawkeye from past!Nebula and kill her. ...I’m sure it’s fine. 

Thanos kicks America’s ass. He calls down the 4 uglies we killed last movie plus more armies. I guess his ship was there on Earth while he was dicking around on Titan? Otherwise, how did the the triangle ships get to Wakanda? Whatever. We have a gorgeous shot of Cap in the high ground backed by white walking down to face Thanos with the low ground backed by darkness. And then...“Hey Cap...Cap, it’s Sam. Do you copy?...On your left.” And a magic wormhole opens up and Okoye, T’Challa and Shuri all walk through and nod at Steve for a whole minute before Sam flies through. And then, all the circles show up and everybody walks through. Valkyrie on her horse; Spidey thwiping behind the Guardians; Wong and his sorcerers; Wasp and Bucky; Scott growing big and saving Hulk, Rhodey and Rocket; it’s a who’s who of the MCU. “Is that everyone?” “You want more?!” (yeah, actually. Where are my Defenders?) We’re all eating it up. Clapping and cheering and then Cap raises Mjolnir and says, “AVENGERS...assemble” and they charge and the audience goes wild. I personally think the assemble shouldn’t have been so quiet. Like, how did they hear him and know to charge? But it’s fine. I don’t care. KICK THE ANNOYING GRAPE’S BUTT! And they do.

In between the fighting, we get several nice moments and call backs. Rocket and Bucky fighting side by side again, although Rocket doesn’t make a prosthetic joke. Scott and Hope start up La Cucaracha van to take the stones back in time and Hope calls Steve “Cap,” because “that’s what we call him. If you’re a friend.” Iron Man and Rescue are fighting back to back and I love this power couple so much. Doctor Strange gets sidelined taking care of a burst damn (guess he’s too powerful and we can’t have him showing up the og Avengers) but Tony’s like “Is this the one where we win?” Strange is all “if I tell you what I wished on the birthday candle, it won’t come true,” which I guess is as good an explanation as any. Hawkeye’s getting overwhelmed and T’Challa says, “Clint, give it to me,” because he doesn’t know his name is Hawkeye since he introduced himself as “We haven’t met. I’m Clint.” “I don’t care.” Spidey takes it and tells Karen to “turn on Instant Kill” because this is a time where it definitely qualifies. He then gets rescued by Mjolnir and Cap telling him “Hey, Queens, head’s up,” which is adorable. And then Tony hugs Peter because he loves him but also “That’s not a hug, I’m just getting the door for you. We’re not there yet.” Past!Gamora saving Quill and when he sees her and caresses her, she knees him in the balls. “Seriously? Him,” she asks. Present!Nebula replies, “It was either him or a tree,” which is fair. Drax isn’t interested, she’s like his murderous little sister and Rocket is...no. We’re having so much fun.

Wanda shows up in front of past!Thanos and says “You’ve taken everything from me.” “I don’t even know you,” which is fair. But then she’s like, “You will.” And dang! If that’s not a badass line, I don’t know what is! She and he go at it and it’s awesome and then he’s pressing down on her, but she smiles and destroys half of the dual sword, making him effectively fucked. And she’s got him. He’s a goner, until he cheats again. He cheated with Vision and he cheats here. So what’s important is while Iron Man or Thor or Captain America are super powerful, Thanos can easily take them on in hand-to-hand combat. But Scarlett Witch? She’s too awesome! He can’t beat her playing fair! The cheating prune has to call for air support to get her off of him. Screw everyone and everything else, get this powerful witch off! And it works, but luckily, the sorcerers put up shields to protect people from the falling nukes. And then...they stop and point up...oooooh BABY! LET’S GO! I mean, it’s totally a Carol ex Machina, but I love seeing her just tank everything. 

She takes out the ship, allowing everyone a second to breathe and Peter to slightly uncurl and hold the Iron Gauntlet. “Hey, I’m Peter Parker.” Sweety! Use your made-up name! “Hey, Peter Parker, you got something for me?” And it’s confident and badass, but you know what’s even more badass? FUCKING A-FORCE! “Don’t worry. She has help.” FUCK YEAH! Every single female in the MCU (minus Widow)! I love it so much. I wish we could’ve had a single frame where all of the ladies are visible, but it was still so awesome. And Captain Marvel is charging towards La Cucaracha van and is about to win until the purple toad throws the other half of his big sword into the back of the van. Jerk. Doctor Strange takes a hand away from dealing with the water (which...isn’t doing anything. Yay?) to tell Tony, “1.”

Now we get to play keep away on a smaller stage. Thanos vs Carol is badass. She doesn’t even flinch when he headbutts her. So fucking awesome. But then he cheats and pulls out the power stone (that hurts to hold but not the blue stone in infinity war? okay) to punch her. That does it and takes her out, then Thor and Cap try and team up but he throws them off and give Steve a massive headache. He puts on the glove and is about to snap his fingers--but Tony swoops in at the last second. And we know he’s no match. We’ve seen him lose to the purple gorilla twice! So what’s he gonna, oh. Nanotechnology to the rescue. Unfortunately, the suit was not designed to hold 6 Infinity Stones, so while Tony stays conscious enough to spout a great one-liner “And I...am...Iron Man,” and snap his fingers, that’s it. Thanos and his entire army are dust. ...I’m sure it’s fine. Like, get fucked, but...time travel? Anyway, Tony is...he’s done. He’s only human. Thanos is...a big alien. Hulk is...a big monster. Stark is...Iron Man. It’s at this point my roommate is sobbing into my arm. And I can hear sniffles in the theater until the end of the movie. 

Rhodey finds Tony first, and I thought he was already dead, not going to lie. Tony can’t do anything. He can’t move, blinking isn’t happening, his eyes are very unfocused. One might assume he was dead. But then Peter comes in and, oh! If you weren’t already crying, now we have Peter telling Tony “we won” like Steve did all those years ago. But now it’s...it feels like Simba at the death of Mufasa. “HEEEEEELP! SOMEBODY! Anybody. Help.” And so Pepper comes to the Rescue (sorry, you’re right, not the time) and tells him, “it’s okay. We’ll be okay. You can rest now.” I don’t know if “we” is Pepper and Morgan, the Avengers, Earth/the galaxy, or the MCU, but man! This thing that Iron Man started 11 years ago is...it’s come into it’s own. And saying goodbye to Tony Stark, the man who’s been in almost as many MCU movies as Stan Lee, to RDJ, the man who is Tony Stark in his early trials and path to redemption, to Iron Man, the superhero who gave us hope in a world of bad Marvel movies, is hard. 

And then we have a funeral because we really needed it. Tony gets a last speech of “if I die, I still love you.” WE LOVE YOU 3000! And then we get everyone standing around for the funeral for Tony and no one else. (Black Widow? Gamora? Loki? No? Why not?) Pepper lays down a wreath with the “Proof that Tony Stark has a Heart” and we have a tracking shot of pain. Pepper, Happy, Morgan and Steve. Ant-Mans and Wasps. Gaurdians of the Galaxy minus Gamora. T’Challa, Okoye and Shuri. The Barton Family. Bucky, Falcon and Wanda. THAT KID FROM IM3! Maria Hill and Gen. Ross. Captain Marvel. And then Nicholas J. Fury with Coulson standing behind him. And Morgan wants cheeseburgers! And Happy’s gonna give them to her!!!!! DON’T MAKE ME CRY AT CHEESEBURGERS, RUSSOS! 

Thor gives Valkyrie kingship over New Asgard (which is awesome) and dicks off with the Guardians. Barton retires, for good this time. And Cap’s going back in time to put all the stones back. I don’t know if that means the stones are still gone or back or what because...The Ancient One said something about we need all six to exist or catastrophe, but Thanos is an idiot so...idk. Anyway, Cap goes and gives the stones back and then decides to live the rest of his life with Peggy Carter because apparently he’s still not over her. I thought he kinda was. He started dating Sharon or something, right? You know what, it’s cute and adorable. Anyway, Steve’s old now and passes on a fixed shield to Sam. Bucky’s perfectly okay with it, and I am too. Captain Falcon and Bucky? I like it. Might not be the dynamic duo that Captain America and Bucky were, but still good. And then the credits roll and the og Avengers sign their names and we’re all clapping and cheering and crying and it’s so beautiful.

This movie...you know. If you’re reading this, you’ve already seen the movie, so you know. You know how good it is. It’s not perfect. The beginning is slow, some of the jokes don’t land and some people don’t like where the Russos took certain characters. “Steve shouldn’t have gone to live with Peggy!” “How dare they kill off Tony!” “They fridged Natasha! It should’ve been Clint!” “I don’t like that they made Thor a joke! FAT PEOPLE AREN’T FUNNY EVER!” “Ronin was stupid!” “I couldn’t look at Hulk!” “Captain Marvel needed more screen time!” “Captain Marvel had too much screen time!” “TIME TRAVEL!” SHUT UP! 

Look, the movie isn’t perfect, but if you want to constantly bitch about this movie, go watch CinemaSins. This movie is great. Not perfect, but great. It is epic. It is grand. It is a finale for the ages. We the fans have seen the movies, made the fanfiction, bought the merch and just enjoyed the heck out of this massive franchise for the past 11 years. We wanted an ending of monumental proportions and that’s what we got. I’m not going to defend their take on how Thor was funny because he was fat. I’m not going to say Steve should or shouldn’t have married Peggy. I’m not going to say who should have died or not died. I am at peace. Because this is a great movie. Not a good one, a great one. It ties up so many plot points and character arcs from Iron Man and brings it back for us to enjoy. We love this movie because they loved us. And if you disagreed with something, Archive of Our Own is always taking new fanfic. We’ll read it and enjoy it, but right now, I want to enjoy a cup of cocoa to drown my sorrows in. This has been a journey of epic proportions, but my tears are still coming and I’d like to read some happy fanfic. I’ll see you on the flip side, nerds, for a new live blogging series. Later.

#MCU #avengers endgame #endgame spoilers #spoilers #live blogging

[blitzkingdom]

RESOURCES

Most planets under the control of Parim ( whether high, middle, or low class ) have some sort of trades resources. Obviously not all worlds are going to have a unique resource up for sale or trade; some are foods, fashion material or armory minerals. Almost everything is bought and sold from every world including types of grass or water. In some cases even “air” is sold. One of the most valuable sales or trades is in low-class people. It’s VERY rare but sometimes even Middle-class people are bought or sold, but never has there ever been a high-class slave.

Most of the things sold are fruits, foods, spices, or materials. Fashion is a huge industry on middle and high class worlds. Because of this material import is up in the top five most sourced trades. It’s common to see slaves from low-class worlds on middle and high, usually tending to shops or upkeep for nobility. The middle and high class slaves, the ones fortunate enough to work for nobility are cleaned and live like Kings or Queens of the low-class worlds. Of course, they are still slaves.

The most valuable trade in all of the system is the youth serum. It’s something valuable even to shareholders, because the resource used to make it has a limit, the greatest collection of serum is locked away on the high-class worlds and used every one-hundred years. There are many rumors stating that there’s even a de-aging serum that makes an elder young again. Although that’s never been seen in trades or even confirmed on the Dark Market. ( Which is a market used by the info-exchange, who trade secrets of high-class families )

Aside from those things, the other most common trades or sales would have to be technologically based. Things like ships, weapons, transport for land, air, sea, etc. Or even suits or cybernetic enhancements, and then finally drugs. ( like Hyperreality ) or others like it.

NOBILITY

The hierarchy for each world is pretty much the same. ( especially in part due to the constitution of Parim ) Each world has an elected King or Queen. This elected official is the spokesperson of the entire planet, to the shareholders. That person may have to answer to an Agent or a Regent, but they are responsible for their citizenry. Should a crime be committed by one of their own, that planet is held responsible depending on the crime’s nature.

Kings or Queens may be elected through birthright, and much like the traditional type, through marriage or arranged alliances through pairing. Lineage is very important and is key to the success of most worlds. The shareholders never create alliances with other worlds, their children marry into those of their own species and race to keep some of their more prominent genetics without modification. A King can be crowned as young as ten years old ( same for a Queen ).

The Kings and Queens of each planet are encouraged to create Guards ( units ) for protection during passage to and fro planets. Once a King’s or Queen’s guard, titles and inheritance is relinquished. They must swear an oath and upkeep it with their lives. Heirs from different worlds are able to marry into each other’s family and form alliances beneath Parim, but never against. These alliances are usually built on resources, land, or population.

Per usual, breaking a vow of alliance through marriage ( like adultery ) could be brought before Parim’s judiciary and followed until the alliance is off and punishment is published. Depending on the severity, the punishment could result in death. Parim’s constitution of noble right states that inheritance must be passed to someone possessing the blood of the line and none else, not even a Queen or King, only their children. ( more )

THE GAMES

The Games have been around for centuries upon centuries. No one can state exactly when they began ( except one of the shareholders, should they remember ) but they’ve been around nearly as long as Parim itself. The idea is simple, it’s a battle; shareholder versus shareholder. The five of them, richest in all of the Galaxy, who hold the most planets in their estate, come together to compete in the games. So, what are the games? Parim collectively has slaved well over two hundred planets, and as a rough estimate, destroyed over fifty. Warfare can drain a world, pollute it, rob it of resources, suck the life right out of it. The games have left worlds with great cities, abandoned, empty - or those with great rivers and oceans, dry and sea life washed ashore.

Each shareholder picks a world from their estate that they’ve slaved as a fighter and they pit them against each other. The fighting grounds could be either of the planets that are selected. The fighting worlds are then supplied with weapons and arsenal by their sponsor ( the shareholder ) and they must fight for their world’s survival. The winner of five games has the chance to be christened Champion of their sponsor, which means option for re-worlding, which is moving from one dying planet to a new planet full of life and resources, one of the middle-class worlds. Shareholders are known to sponsor and use barbaric worlds in the games, the kind that have little technology or lack sophistication.

Some champion worlds are supplied with youth serum to fight longer, this serum is collected via genetic extract from races that have evolved so much that they stop aging altogether. The High-class view the games in much of a spectacle or sport sort of fashion, while the middle-class feel some of them could be or use to be subjected to the Games, so they’re a bit sympathetic. The low-class obviously fear and reject / rebel against the Games, but are futile to stop them from moving forward. Parim has embedded itself so deep into the Galaxy that most worlds couldn’t survive without it, and thus must fight in the Games.

TRAVEL & FASHION

So, travel back and forth from worlds happens as you would expect it to - there are great huge ships designed for these things. Now, not every ship is fit for world-to-world travel; some are only suited for surface travel. That means, you know a bit like from China to Canada in like an hour, something like that. It’s very likely that different people and member groups have different kinds of ships and technology, except those who reign beneath Parim. Technology is distributed like an industry; different model, same make. That kind of thing.

Hyper-space will be acknowledged in our Galaxy—so jumping or warping space ( if you’re a Star wars or Star Trek fan ) it’s essentially going light-speed with a ship. Traveling light years and what not. It breaks down the travel time between worlds which are separated by solar systems. There are several solar systems in the galaxy; some have two suns, some have one, some worlds have five moons, and some have none. Fleet ships are used for military purpose; they’re huge and station over ten’s of thousands of men and women. Meanwhile, CARGO ships carry other ships and are labeled the “whales” of space. They’re huge, some even bigger than Fleet ships. Empty cargo ships could likely carry the entire population of a planet ( a small one ) kind of like, Noah’s space ark.

Smaller ships that seat one or two people are going to be faster and likely be used for surface travel. Although, there are some single-seaters used for space-travel, especially paid transport. Like space-taxis or in our case “royal carriages.” The atmosphere breaking, the rumble of the seat, that life or death moment as it feels like everything is ripping apart leaving a planet, YEAH. Don’t be shy of writing that sort of stuff into your scene. Exactly what would it be like to have someone royal upon a royal ship? And what would a royal ship be like? These are things to keep in mind when trying to conceive the scene in detail.

Methods of travel per CLASS

 High-class worlds likely use high-class travel transports. It’s very common to see ships of gold and silver transporting people. Train-like autos on a sleek white single track traveling hundreds of miles an hour, or plain old horse and carriages for the more traditional. Elements that they’ve adopted from less civilized worlds. ( horses could be an import )

Middle-class worlds would obviously be similar to High-class worlds with the exception of rare imports like solid gold ships. Methods of transport would be tech-based mostly, and non-horse-carriage-varied.

Low-class worlds would be down to cars, buggies sail boats and wagons, carriages, horses and other alien-like creatures that resemble methods of tamed transport.

Fashion in this galaxy ranges from different sorts of material and style; leather, clothe, and even gel. But, let’s get into the theme. Parim has a modern roman look about their entire sector of space. Much of the architecture is similar to ancient times as well. This is likely due to their marvelous and elegant appearance. Royalty stacks on layers of silks and jewels. It’s common to see men sporting gowns and garnering golden tiara’s ( especially the older and more wise ones )

The middle-class is pulled to a more Athens kind of look. Very reserved. Men wearing sandals and capes with kilts. Low-born are rags and cloth mainly, or in rare cases chainmail. High-born might seem limitless; crazy styles of hair and make-up. This is where it gets interesting; they could appear as having a slight futuristic spin on a modern roman appearance. So think Hunger Games, Panem and their styles. Very wild and odd and colorful. Another example might be Nova Prime from Guardians of the Galaxy, something like that might work here. The military fashion is more or less civilized ( as Obi-wan would put it ) and has swords and shields and frown upon gun-fire. It’s good to keep in mind these people value straight-up power. Swords made of insanely strong metals that sing when you swing them. Shields that could deflect almost anything ( okay Captain America ) and armor that glistens from the sun.

We’re going for a mostly modern / ancient Roman / Greek type of fashion.

The low-class worlds would be everything from modern suit-style to viking clothing. Some of them are less intelligent and more primitive. We’d prefer that most of the added worlds from creating members are more leaned toward the viking / old world aesthetic.

ARCHITECTURE & WORLD BUILDING

The going theme of the Galaxy under Parim is Greek / Roman architecture. The reason being that it flows well and is elegant and runs with the recurring themes of house v. house politics. The air of sophistication and yet an ancient aesthetic really helps sculpt the Universe of The Hundred Thrones.

Things such as white pillars, statues, and paintings all featuring Roman and Greek inspired aesthetics. More than any other area, these sort of themes and designs will be very, very apparent in High-class areas. These areas are flourishing with technology however as well. Things such as: hovering ads, neon projected signs, ship docking and moving walkways. Lights are set on display all throughout most of the cities giving a somewhat futuristic accent to the statues in the way they’re lit up at night.

These statues will likely be of ancient warriors, champions of a house or world, etc. Monuments will be built in Middle-class areas as well to support the history of the games. Most of the Middle-class areas could resemble 16th century themes. Horses and carriages will still be acknowledged as well as birds, snakes, lizards, etc. Don’t be afraid to be creative with what animals you throw into different worlds.

Obviously other worlds are going to have different creatures. If you’re drawn to things like Dragons, Zombies, Vampires, etc. DON’T ! Do not use those sort of things because they’re not real. Instead try to create something LIKE those things for this Universe. For example; maybe a large rhyno looking creature with several horns that stands as tall as a bus and eats grass and plants, grey skin and protective of its kin – hard to kill due to the tough skin. It has eight eyes upon its squared head.

Maybe it could be called “Vonsra” Who knows. But things like that help the world-building during the stories. Don’t be afraid to throw a little bit of your own creativity in there. Just stick to the on-going theme of Roman / Greek inspired aesthetic. For further details regarding the architecture look in the “setting” section below.

Each member is able to help the world building in small doses. Don’t over do it. Try to pitch some small things in and out of the scene; but don’t flood the scene with an overdose of so many different and wild things that it’s confusing to the reader. The staple world building for this Universe is pretty simple; just think of similar publications for reference; Star wars, Star Trek, Jupiter Ascending. One thing that has been severely different is the mixture of human // creature relations.

There are alien species here in this galaxy, not many are intelligent, the ones that are, are able to walk around free. There’s not much discrimination against most alien species. Some are known for certain characteristics; one example might be “Griphins lie their way through lies they’ve been caught in, don’t trust’em!” Now, not all “Griphins” lie obviously, but it could be so common in their type that all of them get mistaken for being the same sort of person. Although there are aliens, we are predominantly a humanoid galaxy, so it’s few and far between. ( aliens are human-appearing, just different skin or eye colorations )

For land travel as mentioned before there are several types of ship that carry passengers to and from destinations across small or large planets. Aside from these are bikes and bike-like transports. One popular invention is called the Stryker. It’s a hovering bike design that gets up to two-hundred miles an hour in about ten seconds. ( for reference see Destiny’s Shrike or Anakin’s bike from Episode II ). As also mentioned, horse and carriage is viable, especially on high-class or middle-class worlds who love those sort of transports. Each world is different, different landmass, water, gravity, air, etc. Most middle and high class worlds are A-1 habitable zones, or Earth-like worlds. They have the most survivable conditions. There are some desert worlds, or sea worlds; worlds with one single trait or characteristic that they’re known for. 

RELIGION

Each world in The Outer is without Parim and because of this is able to practice religion freely, however, Parim’s constitution forbids the practice of religion within their union. This is due to the multiple rebellion attempts against their law in the name of religion. However for more tamed worlds, it’s impossible to forget their religion and with ancient text sold in the Dark Market, minds tend to wonder on what things were like before Parim. So, certain religions could be practiced in secret. However, most would revere the shareholders as their “Gods” and the middle-class as the “Angels.”

#LORE

[oncethrown]

So... at some point between The Mortal Instruments and the Dark Artifices, homophobia dissapeared from Shadowhunter Culture.

Even though homophobia in Shadowhunter society was an important part of the Mortal Instruments series, there is no reason it had to continue in the Dark Artifices. That’s not what I’m saying. However, making that change to the world without actually writing anything to create that change, brings out some really wierd mindsets and predjudices in Cassandra Clare’s writing.

Let’s start at the beginning- Shadowhunter Society in the Mortal Instruments was explicitly homophobic

-Izzy tells Clary that there are no gay Shadowhunters when Clary asks if Alec is gay -Alec suffers a lot of shame and fear and self-loating and self-harm over being gay -People seeing Alec and Magnus kiss in the Accords Hall express disgust -Alec has to explain to Jace that, yeah, he’s heartbroken that Magnus gets kidnapped -Alec and Jace have an extended conversation about how homophobic Robert is, and how hurt Alec is that Robert can’t accept him. - The ‘million little paper cuts speech -Aline realizes she’s gay because Alec- the only gay shadowhunter- exists -Aline and Helen’s marriage has to take place after the Clave decides that it can be legal and allowable, which means it was illegal before. 

And it’s explicitly homophobic for kind of no reason that is logical within the text

-Shadowhunters have no official religion according to the text, so there’s no doctrine or god forbidding homosexuality, as is typical in the real world

-Shadowhunter society is ancient and worldwide while also being super insular. It’s growing seperate from the mundane culture entirely, and encompasses a ton of regional cultures and time periods that wouldn’t have had the same concept of “gay” that Alec is experiencing in the Mortal Instruments. 

-Men and women are equal as warriors, so there shouldn’t be the same type of misogyny in Shadowhunter culture that fuels homophobia in mundane culture

-The parabatai bond- A bond that is between marriage and brotherhood, and often experienced between members of the same sex is paramount in the culture. (Caveat- the fact that parabatais are often members of the same sex and that there is a curse on parabatais who fall in love could have been written as a reason that Shadowhunters society is homophobic... except for the fact that this parabatai love curse thing only crops up in the Dark Artifices, and Alec is in love with Jace for a couple books)

But in the Dark Artifices:

(For the record I’m like 2/3rds of the way through Lord of Shadows)

There is no homophobia amongst any of the Shadowhunters at all, but also no indication that there ever used to be.

-Having an adopted warlock grandchild cured Robert and Maryse of homophobia (and racism maybe?)

-Alec is suddenly a goldenboy of the Clave. They are begging him to take over and Institute, and they *give* him the London Institute after he spends a day there. He’s also an important part of a political apparatus that works with downworlders and the Clave.

-Jia Penhallow becomes Consul, and her daughter being the second official gay Shadowhunter ever does not matter. Robert Lightwood becomes Inquisitor without Alec’s sexuality being an issue either.

-Mark Blackthorn, who was taken by the Wild Hunt when he was like fifteen, comes back and is caught a couple times by his family and several goody-two shoe, non-family member Shadowhunters with his male Seelie lover, Kieran, and no one ever reacts to the fact that this lover is male, even though when Mark was taken during the Dark War, his having a boyfriend would have been An Issue (like it was for Alec, Aline and Helen)

Even when all of the Blackthorns and Kieran (and Alec and Magnus) wind up as the guests of an old woman who is described as so old fashioned that she still wears Edwardian clothes, that old woman hates having a Seelie in her house, but never reacts to how many of the people suddenly in her Institute are not heterosexual.

-Even the villains, who are literal nazis who want to register, intern, and mass murder downworlders, are not homophobic.

Isn’t that good? What is the problem?

The Mortal Instruments series ended with the conclusion of the Dark War, where Sebastian Morgenstern turned a bunch of Shadowhunters into evil monsters with the help of the Seelie Queen. It was basically a Shadowhunter genocide, and the Shadowhunters blame the Seelies for it. Thus, they’ve imposed something called “The Cold Peace” on the Seelies, which is an obvious analogue to the Treaty of Versaille at the end of World War I, which punished Germany so harshly that it made World War II more or less inevitable. The terms of the treaty deny the Seelies council representation, and strip Seelies of all the civil rights downworlders have gained over the last few centuries.

The villains of Lord of Shadows are a group of Shadowhunters who are consistently, loudly, anti-downworlder. They want all downworlders to submit to a registry, and the leader of this villain group- Zara Dearborn- explicitly wants this registry to lead to the interment and genocide of downworlders. This is another obvious real world analogue.

And only like 5 years have passed between the end of the Mortal Instruments and the beginning of the Dark Artifices.

It would have been really easy to explain this sudden social turn-around in way that made the ongoing story more cohesive, said something about our world, or at least reinforced that the core issue of all of these books should be “Even with Friends and Relatives there, You Still Can’t Trust the Clave”

-The positive option- A lot of Shadowhunters died in the Dark War. They need to rebuild their ranks (and are doing it by using the mortal cup on mundanes) and there are orphans everywhere. Homophobia disappearing from society could really easily have been a result of the Clave changing the official policy to “Marry who ever you want, but please pick up your three orphans and two surly-formerly-mundane-teenagers on your way back to your brand new Institute”

-The deeply cynical option- In the new culture of enhanced blatant racism, agressive oppression, and actual existential threats to being a Shadowunter, being a Shadowhunter became more important than anything else. As long as you are *NOT A DOWNWORLDER* you fit into the approved Clave profile and gain benefits from it. Like how neo-nazi groups in the US are recruiting white gay men now, because whiteness and maleness are more important than sexuality as they seek to oppress non-whites and non-men. Or how people in Germany did nothing to help jewish neighbors because they stood to gain socially and economically from the government’s anti-jewish policies.

It also would have been easy and logical and potentially worthwhile story-wise to keep homophobia as a problem, and use is as a way to explore other issues within the culture of hatred that the Dark Artifices explores

- So many Shadowhunters died in the Dark War that the Shadowhunters are desperate to swell their ranks. Everyone needs to have as many babies as possible. The Clave declares their couple years of leniency on non-straight sexualities a lull in judgement, dissolves marriages, criminalizes the Birth Control Rune, and starts veering toward a forced reproduction type of society, Handmaid’s Tale Style.

-Homophobia becomes part of the anti-downworld campaigns. In the books it’s said somewhere that all Seelies are bisexual, and all the downworlder cultures are pretty open about sexuality. It would have been really easy for the books to show the Clave making non-heterosexuality analogous with being a non-shadowhunter, because it made you too much like a Seelie, and for Shadowhunters who had come out during the last five years punished, exiled, or encouraged to “come to their senses”. This also would have cast homophobia as a political tool rather than a “moral position” like we usually see, which I think would have been illuminating for the target audience of these books. 

But Even If You Can’t Write Good and Don’t Want to Deal With That it’s Worth Noting-

Homophobia being a major, systemic issue that simply evaporates from life and culture in less than five years, makes several of the things going on in the series seem weird under a little more scrutiny.

1. Why bother with the homophobia in the Mortal Instruments at all?

If it’s going to disappear without explanation or real consequences… why bother? Alec’s storyline in the Mortal Instruments could have been dramatic enough if he just had a crush on Jace, and it was never clear if Jace reciprocated, and then ouch,  Jace asks Alec to be his parabatai, so Alec knows it’s hopeless, since parabatai can never be lovers. Then this Clary girl comes in and screws everything up! Then there’s this warlock that Alec can’t stop thinking about! But! Good Shadowhunter Boys DO NOT DATE DOWNWORLDERS!

The books always come back to this race dynamic, so why not start there and stay there? Plus then you are exploring the main theme of the series, and wrapping all the plot points around it, instead of spending so many scenes listening to Alec’s slut-shaming and biphobia.

2. Kit and Livvy and Ty

So… again, I’m only 2/3 through Lord of Shadows, maybe this question gets answered before the end, but Lord of Shadows is a book about pining. And all of the language Kit uses to describe Ty sounds like the same language all the other pining characters use about the focuses of their affection. And it’s very similar to the language Kit uses to describe looking at Livvy, who he is eager to kiss early on in the book.

And Kit is 15. He’s got the puberty going on.

If there is no homophobia in the world anymore, and Kit has plenty of examples of gay and bisexual men in relationships around him, it doesn’t make a lot of sense that internalized homophobia would still be a thing either. They all look up to Mark Blackthorn and everyone is in awe of Alec and Magnus. 

So… that means that Kit can look at Livvy and feel attraction to her and know he feels attraction to her,  but doesn’t seem to think of his attraction to Ty in the same terms at all, even though they seem to be closer than Kit and Livvy are… which makes it seem like the resistance to be attracted to Ty is about Ty having autism.

3. Alec Vs. Aline and Helen

Alec becomes the golden boy, but Aline and Helen become banished women. They are shipped out to,  essentially, Siberia. They are not allowed to come back, even to visit. Helen, who is in a stable marriage and is old enough to run an Institute, and who is married to the daughter of the Consul, is forbidden from raising her six younger siblings, leaving the job to 12 year old Julian Blackthorn (even though Helen thinks that a much older, but just as male relative is rising the children).

In the text, the reason for Helen’s unfair treatment is, explicitly, because she is half Seelie… but Mark gets to live at the LA Institute. He is caught with his boyfriend a couple of times. When they run off to the London Institute Mark and Kieran are there together, without the excuse of being sort of protected by being in the LA Institute, and by the Blackthorn reputation for thwarting the Clave. There’s no reason in the text why the elderly woman who runs the Institute (until the second that Alec Lightwood shows up and the Clave gives it to him) would think the Clave would allow a full blooded Seelie and a half blooded Seelie to be housed in an Institute, but she lets it go. 

Also… Helen can’t raise her half siblings, but the Shadowhunter social climate in Lord of Shadows is also very anti-warlock, and Alec and Magnus are able to adopt two children, one of whom is a Shadowhunter. Not only that, but Alec and the Shadowhunter child have a language barrier, and Magnus and the Shadowhunter child do not.

So… it’s not really about the lack of homophobia in the work of the Dark Artifices, it seems to be Cassandra Clare wanting as few women as possible in her story, and especially getting away with saying she has lesbian characters, without having to give them any lines or screen time. There’s a scene in the London Institute about 2/3rds of the way through where there are five gay or bisexual men in a room together (6 if you count Ty, but at the point I’m at in the book it’s not entirely clear if he returns Kit’s affection)... but Aline who is a lesbian and Helen who, considering the Seelie thing, is probably bisexual, but the text never even bothers to tell us, have no line and have to live at the ends of the earth in a horrible ice hut full of pickled fish. 

#homophobia #lord of shadows #cassandra clare #meta #shadowhunters #dark artifices

[thomdunn]

Gun Violence Isn’t a Problem—it’s actually 5 Problems, with Different Solutions

I’ve written extensively on gun violence, spoken on international TV and radio on the subject, and even pursued a gun license in the strictest city of one of the strictest states in the country. Despite my first-hand experience, the most ardent defenders of the Second Amendment will still tell me things like, “We don’t need more laws! We need to enforce the laws on the books!” or “We can’t stop every shooting because that’s just the price of freedom.” However, those #2A Avengers will still acknowledge that yeah, okay, maybe NICS has some problems, or maybe those Parkland cops should have done something earlier — that is, until they swiftly retreat back into the same tribalistic mindsets that always prevent human progress. But maybe, just maybe, we can find more common ground.

Naming something gives you power over it.

That’s the basic idea behind all the magic in every folktale dating back for centuries, from “Rumpelstiltskin” to the Rolling Stones’ “Hope you guessed my name.” Ancient shamans didn’t practice “magic”; they just had knowledge, and names for things like “eye of newt” that no one else could understand. To name something is to know it, and knowledge is power. Think about the relationship between “spelling” and “spells” and you won’t be so surprised that Harry Potter has been all over the gun violence conversations lately, on both the Left and the Right—which makes sense, considering that they have a word you memorize and practice reciting in order to kill people.

But when we talk about gun violence—or gun control, or gun reform, et cetera et cetera ad nauseam—we’re all too busy tripping over words to see the problems that we’re trying to address. And no, I’m not talking about “gunsplaining,” or even about the eye-roll-inducing “assault weapon” terminology (which is a distinction that I have come to understand and appreciate, and also a debate that is nothing but distracting on every single side of it). It’s hard to deny that gun violence is a problem in the United States of America, but it’s in our attempts to name that problem where we start to lose our footing, and thus, our focus (and I know a thing or two about focus). Perhaps if we learned to name the individual issues of gun violence that need to change, then we can start to identify specific solutions — one at a time, without infringing on civil rights or liberties. Then maybe then we could have some real conversations about how to make our society safer.

Instead of seeing at gun violence at One Big All-Encompassing Monolithic Problem, let’s look at the isolated areas where gun violence needs to be addressed: Domestic Violence, Suicides, Mass Shootings, Gang Violence, and State Violence.

1. Domestic Violence

An existing history of violence against family or loved ones is the greatest indicator of a person’s penchant for gun violence. An American woman is shot and killed by her partner every 16 hours, according to the Trace, and more male shooters attack their own families than schools or public places. In terms of the sheer number of deaths, the money we spend on terrorism would be better focused on the threat of husbands.

Perhaps none of this is surprising—but for some reason, we still don’t do anything about it. While the NRA loves to whinge on about self-defense, they ignore the fact that abused women are five times more likely to be killed by partners who own firearms, and 90% of women imprisoned for killing men had previously been abused by those same men.

That’s what I mean when I say “We have a problem.”

Felony offenses for domestic violence are supposed to mean that an American loses their right to gun ownership. But this requires the person to willingly turn their private property over to the government, or for the ATF to actively pursue civil asset forfeiture on those guns—neither of which is a very practical solution.

So what can we do? Legally, it’s complicated. But states like Rhode Island, California, Washington, and New York have recently enacted laws to prevent guns from even failing into the hands of misdemeanor* domestic abusers, and quite frankly, I don’t see a reason why that can’t be enacted everywhere. It’ll save lives, and it won’t infringe on the rights and freedoms of law-abiding gun-owners, or people at greater risk of being victims of violence. We can also improve the National Instant Criminal Background Check System(which even the NRA has mockingly acknowledged to be flawed) by standardizing the information that states and military are required to submit, under threat of financial penalty.

(*The one caveat I will acknowledge: this requires people to actually press charges. And that’s easier said than done, for a number of social reasons that are difficult to legislate.)

2. Suicides

According to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, nearly two-thirds of all gun deaths are suicides, and almost half of all suicides are gun deaths. The majority of those victims are men, often with military backgrounds, and mostly over the age of 45.

This is the one place where mental health really enters the gun reform debate, and it has nothing to do with a risk of physical harm to others.

Suicides of all kinds are unfortunately difficult to prevent. But most attempts are impulsive, and 70% of people who survive an attempt won’t try again. Unfortunately, only about 10% of people survive a suicide attempt by gun — which means the trick is in screening those deadly impulse buys.

Some gun sellers in America have already started taking the initiative to spot suicide warning signs in customers, using grassroots activism to empower more community intervention. And in fact, when Australia enacted its gun ban, the country saw a drastic drop in suicides as well. If we want to focus our energies on saving lives, that might be a place to start. (Of course, this will also require investing more money in community resources and social work, too — but I think the return on investment is worth it, ya know?)

3. Mass Shootings

Mass shootings get the most attention, because they’re massive and tragic. More often than not, the circumstances around them are almost too absurd to wrap out heads around, so we search for scapegoats such as “mental illness.” But mass shootings account for less than 1% of firearm deaths—which unfortunately makes them kind of hard to plan for and around to base legislation upon.

Now, to be fair: mental illnesses do figure out one-quarter to one-half of mass shootings. But anyone who knows anything about data will tell you 1/2 of 1% is not really a good indicator of anything, especially when about 20% of the population has a mental disorder, and those people are still significantly more likely to be victims rather than perpetrators of violence. It’s also important to point out that, while gun violence in general is on the decline, mass shootings are becoming deadly—but not necessarily more frequent.

Now that all that data is out of the way, we still need to talk about the fact that mass shootings—especially in schools—are a problem. Given that small statistical sample, however, it’s harder to find solutions that will be applicable in enough situations to make a difference. This is about more than “walking up” and bullying initiatives. Because the most bullied people are LGBTQ+, or Muslim, or poor, or physically unattractive, while most school shooters are white men. But you know where we can start? Increase funding and training for social work, especially at schools, and give people the tools they need to express their frustrations.

See that? None of it will infringe on civil rights and civil liberties. It willinfringe upon the people who don’t want to pay taxes and/or want to harm social services and public education. Poverty, opportunity, and violence go hand-in-hand, and they all require some financial investment to upend.

4. So-called “Gang-Related” Violence

This one is particularly frustrating, because it’s often racially charged — and thus, often used as a racist deflection (STOP👏BRINGING👏UP👏CHICAGO👏).

Unfortunately, it’s also true that 80 percent of gun homicides (but not allgun deaths) are gang-related killings, which affect mostly young men.

If you ask me, this connects back to the same problems of toxic masculinitythat lead to domestic violence.Even financial struggles or other markers of “manliness” can drive men to violence, lashing out at the world for their own perceived failures. Simply put, violence is a byproduct of anger, not of general mental health. That alone is not a legislative solution, but perhaps it can serve as a guide for the ways in which we cultivate our culture with compassion, empathy, and understanding—oh, and not automatically treating teens who misbehave like they’re already criminals, damned for life.

Luckily, there are already educators and social workers trying to address these problems. Perhaps we should consider increasing their support and resources; after all, it’s better to address a problem before it starts than to spend all your money trying to clean-up the mess after the fact.

5. State Violence

Neither the military nor the police should be excused from unnecessary acts of violence. History has shown time and time again that the use of violence as a tool of persuasion only engenders more fear and anger among the general public, and that in turn leads to more violence every time. The state should not have a monopoly on violence, and violence committed at the hands of the government is just as bad or worse than violence between civilians.

Militarized policing, for example, is known to harm both police reputations, and community stability, without actually make anyone safer. The FBI has been watching and warning of an increase in violent white supremacists infiltrating police departments for years, and nothing’s happened to stop it.

Or consider the fact that 40% of police officer families experience domestic violence, according to the National Center for Women and Policing. And yet, the Blue Fraternity all but ensures that charges are never brought against the officers involved, even though it’s been established that patterns of violent behavior almost always lead to more violent behavior. The same goes for the rising problem of police brutality (or as the passive-voiced PR prefers, “officer-involved shootings,” a phrasing that’s intentionally designed to absolve the officers of any responsibility). Thanks to police union laws, officers who do commit excessive and unnecessary acts of violence are often transferred to or hired by another nearby department, with little to no consequences for their actions—despite the fact that they are likely to repeat them.

We should not excuse these acts of violence simply because they are committed by police officers. By doing so, we just enable more violence—which empowers more cops to act with extreme prejudice, which leads to more violence, which is met by more violence.

Much of this goes back to mental health as well, and the way we treat our veterans after subjecting them to the horrors of war. If a history of violence is the best indicator of future acts of violence, then training our soldiers to commit acts of violence—with little support for the PTSD they endurewhen they come home—is simply setting them up for more violence. That’s why veterans tend to be more susceptible to joining the ranks of white supremacists, or committing acts of domestic violence: it’s an outlet for the violence that we inflicted upon them by sending them to war in the first place.

(This especially true of men who receive other than honorable or bad conduct discharges. The military has their reasoning for their categories, which don’t impact a discharged veterans ability to purchase a gun in the future, even if the reason for their discharge had to do with violence. An improved FBI background check system would find a way to address this loophole, too.)

Unfortunately, this makes it easier for those same veterans to seek out the camaraderie and power of the military by joining extremist militias, or to seek solace in suicide, as mentioned above. Our society (rightly) likes to talk big of honoring our veterans, but there’s nothing honorable about subjecting them to these horrible fates.

We can’t find common ground unless we can actually identify the problem to solve—and we can’t see the problem if we don’t share the same words to describe it. That’s the source of our gun debate.

Regardless of where you fall on the political spectrum, I hope that we can all agree that reducing death and violence is a good thing for everyone. But we can’t just throw our arms and shrug after every awful shooting tragedy; nor can we throw our arms up and scream about every single death like they’re all the same.

Sometimes, the best way to tackle a larger problem is to break it down into smaller ones, and to make sure that everyone’s using the same words to refer to all the same things. If we’re ever going to deal with our gun violence epidemic, then I think this could be a good place to start.

#police #politics #political discourse #gun violence #gun control #guns #violence #domestic violence #military