#and the irony is that twilight ends up dying before any of her friends | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tongue-tied-ties · 5 years

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I finally got through all 200,000 words of that freaking epilogue and GOD HAVE MERCY I SHOULD HAVE WENT CANDY AND THEN MEAT.

Overall though, I like it. I like it alot! I mean there are some things I feel weird about which like.......aren’t the things everyone else feels weird about apparently.

SPOILERS BELOWWWWW~!!!!

So it’s alot easier to get out of the way what I am weirded out about than to explain the many things I did like.

- I feel weird about the xenophobia thing and how it’s being treated. Like it’s being treated like a huge issue but like non-issue all at once?? I guess that’s because from John’s perspective he’s just too busy being weirded out or suffering to truly get involved. Like I sincerely hope nobody on the team thinks standing by in a situation like this is a valid stance in any way. But it also happens in real life so like, I get it. I think this bothers me because these kids were heroes. But also they were heroes out of necessity and because they were main characters. Like that’s honestly it. They had a mission and fulfilled it and they were hailed as heroes.

- Hussie presenting xenophobia as both a joke and a serious issue and sometimes it’s hard to tell what position the comic is trying to take which makes me uncomfortable.

- I think it’s in character, but I hate that Karkat alone had to defend himself every time Jane was being the #worstTM. I hate that Roxy just standing by knowing good and well these are the stakes every single time was never fully addressed. I wish somebody sat our beautiful bae Roxy to let them know that like this is shitty too?? Like you saying this is simply politics when a literal extinction is happening is shitty why didn’t anyone tell them that in stone cold, super serious terms for the love of GOD it bothered me so much.

- Alright anytime Dirk used any sort of like reddit NiceGuy Are you triggeredTM 4-chan bullshit language it turned me all the way off. Like incel, beta, cuck?? Misgendering our void icon?? Yea. Cancelled but also not cancelled because I haven’t been this shook or excited over a villain in so long.

- Gamzee. Just...yikes all around. I’m not sure how I feel.

- JAKE DESERVED BETTER. HE REALLY FREAKING DID JUST SAYING. JAKE DIDNT DESERVE THIS MADNESS. Omfg i never hated anyone as much as I did Dirk when he snapped Jake’s psyche in half forcing him to love Dirk. It was so fucking iconic though and I’m still mad y’all. So many feelings. Oh god and when Jane like........did him wrong?? What le fuck? Jake i’ll be your friend, come here mate. Please let me hug my boi who I didn’t stan before but i stan now.

- Those kids.....I love those kids give them a good future, please. I’m begging hussie let John be a good father.

- I think the kids grew because they were with each other, and they fact they didn’t stay together and let each other be isolated kinda makes this make sense to me but it does feel like with some characters the growth went out the window. But also....people can regress especially if they stop after like one epiphany or whatever, so I see how this happened.

- Dave redirecting what should have been the core political issue (freaking extinction/controlled population of exclusively the trolls) to the economy every single time. Like Dave baby you were never the most racially sensitive dude (coming from a black girl who watched you say negrocity, call black people not shining shoes revolutionary (which could be read as irony in context but still) in the same rap, which, YIKES!) but like try please?? Hussie freaking fix this.

- I oddly feel weird about them getting rid of their flesh bodies for their ultimate forms and I’m not sure why but I honestly don’t want all bots. I can’t even explain that in a way that makes sense.

- Jade. Like....everything she did was a big yikes and honestly I’m reading the main story again to see if there was a character trait that led to her behavior. Cuz Dirk literally always had an overbearing personality and it was never truly addressed leading to what happened. Jane never really stopped with the whole business and control thing and she never really seemed to care for the trolls one way or another so I can kinda see it.

- Honestly?? I’m happy for the form of happiness that some characters had but MAN was it just the slowest most excruciating march towards that end. In candy, it felt like I was literally feeling John’s twilight-zone stir-crazy rise up in me as I read through. I think a “benefit” from reading Meat first is that like.....damn I ended up agreeing with Dirk. Like all of this shit was largely avoided and addressed sooner when Dirk was in charge and I hate/love that I’m saying this! Like what the hell y’all that's so brilliant to me. In Meat, I just.....wanted them to be free to make their own choices and when I was nearing the end in Candy, I realized they weren’t so damn isolated and I was happy that some of them finally got to heal.

To segue into I liked it starts on the same point my dislikes end.

- I felt so frustrated by everything that was happening which.....dear God is great writing because if I was John feeling this for years instead of the solid day it took me to get through Candy I’d be handling it way worse than John. I almost wished that Dirk would come in and take charge because they were just.....fucking up on every level. With Meat, I wanted what was in Candy and I wanted them to have their fucking free will to choose instead of these awful circumstances Dirk forced them to be in.

- DAVE. DAVE. DAVE. Fuck I love dave just so much, he felt the most home to me the entire time. When he fought back in Meat to make his own choices I was so proud of him. When he decided to join the revolution I was proud of him, when he finally admitted he was gay I was proud of him. When he just existed and seriously thought about what he wanted and needed to work through he felt like he authentically was trying to figure himself out the entire time in both Meat and Candy and I was so proud of him. Honestly will always have my heart.

- NUBS MCSHOUTY. From awkward bottom to rebel leader he is just a breath of fresh air every time he speaks because it is always a freaking mood. LIke yes, the extinction of your people is awful and you should say it. Yes, people who stand by and just sidetrack the conversation into semantics is awful and you should freaking say it. Yes! Yes! Yes! omfg. YOU ABSOLUTE FREAKING ICON

- Dirk. I.....ugh I know this is controversial but I love everything that happened. Our Dear walking God complex becomes literal God and it all goes to hell. Our friend the control freak, controlling the narrative when he reaches his ultimate form. Ou dear Dirk who always needs something to fix horribly fixes the narrative. When he revealed himself and said “but you already know that don’t you” in his iconic yellow text color me FREAKIN SHOOK. Like literary reveal of the gods (specifically this god ha). Nothing will shake me the same holy shit I was horrified and the horror never stopped. Omfg shook Dirk just freaking shook. So since I read meat first I was like “holy cow was he always like this?” But like, the one dirk that was decent freaking killed himself with his last wish being for relevance and like.....of course he’s like this?? It’s Hal, Caliborn, ARDirk, Brain Ghost Dirk and Dirk One who honestly was only half decent most of the time. All of these pretentious beings in one? Oh yea edge lord self masturbatory train dead ahead. AND I LOVED IT, the absolute fear and horror as he took the narrative back from Calliope was horrifying, his increasing disdain after the reveal, the moment he forced Jake to fuck everything up for the resistance was ICONIC oh my god I was so here. I was loving it so much I was scared I was being controlled by Dirk.

- Jake was always passive and like.....it manifested so bad. I mean I thought he stepped up when he finally, defeated the felt crew but like....of course, one battle isn’t going to solve a lifetime of posing and passivity. I don’t know why I never considered the horrible implications. I do wish he grew a full spine in one of the epilogues.

- Regardless of how I perceived her in canon, Epilogue!Jane was never painted as a hero ever. THANK GOD cuz Epilogue Jane is doing some really bad stuff.

- Roxy - our voidey babe exploring their gender identity and deciding in both that they don’t care for their assignment in some way, valid. Having all stages of their identity and the stages respected (in what I viewed as a great and fully addressed way as a cis black girl) is surprisingly refreshing when I look at Roxy alone and not the transphobic stuff Dirk was doing which was icky and Caliborn-ish.

- Rose and Kanaya being happy in Candy. Like it seemed so OOC but Rose also was literally dealing with something that ENTIRE TIME. When she was little it was the alcoholism of her mother, when she was in paradox space it was from horror demons to literal death, to life-threatening situations to being the seer she needed, to her own substance problem etc etc. Being non-essential freed her from that and we got to witness her still be the badass, freedom fighter she became. And I just love the thing she chose without needing to, without absolute necessity, was to raise their daughter AND fully immerse themselves in troll revolution against an oppressive regime. Fuck yes Rose, you deserve some fucking peace without debilitation or circumstance. Rose in Meat shall never be spoken of because that is so so so sad honestly. She was dying and like...Dirk took advantage of that which is tactically freaking genius considering Rose is usually who can pull these dorks together into action but damn Dirk.

- Fuck you know what I’m gonna say it. Dirk is the best villain holy shit he is honestly, truly smart and manipulative and somehow charming in this sick sick way God I hate/love him right now. I’m.....omfg still shook.

- I honestly just loved how intertwined it is, how twilight-zone/gritty it felt. Every literary craving I didn’t know I was having was fed and in the best/worst way. I’m hooked and here for wherever this is going. Also, I typed it above and I’ll type it again. I didn’t realize it but these kids, while they ascended as Gods were not heroes. I don’t think the kids really cared about their denizens much ever in canon. They fulfilled their mission and we handed them the hero stamp because we’ve followed their story. They are simply people who had a mission to fulfill and did that mission in whatever capacity you choose. They are ultimately really flawed human beings who were traumatized to hell and back with no real devices on how to deal with it properly. Of course, when you give flawed humans God powers, a world to rule over and nobody really holding anyone accountable bad things are bound to happen. They grew because they were in a situation where they had to and they were removed too soon for them to keep that growth. Fanfic or not, canon or not, essential or not, I think these are valid outcomes, within the context of who they are.

#upd8 #upd8 spoilers #rose lalonde #homestuck roxy #calliope #homestuck #dave strider #dirk strider #jade harley #john egbert #roxy lalonde #jake english #jane crocker #long post

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debbie-tanthorey · 4 years

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65 DAYS IN MAY

CHAPTER ONE

Cosmic irony. A dentist saved me. You read that correctly – saved my LIFE, albeit inadvertently. An action as mundane as having one’s teeth cleaned, set fate in motion. Was the week of Thanksgiving 2019, bi-annual check-up. Dentist does his thing after the hygienist finishes. You know the drill (pun intended). Only this time he uncustomarily offers me a hand-mirror, tells me to look in my throat, asks me if I've had my tonsils out.

“No”

“You have a white spot back there, see that?” My eyes shift toward the mirror – I LIE – say I see it (don’t have my glasses on, PRIDE won’t let me admit I can’t see any white patch) He continues, “If you don't mind, am referring you to an oral surgeon for a biopsy.” The nefarious B-word; brain fires a warning shot. B-word leads to the C-word.

Alone now in my car, I fall apart. Hi, I'm a hypochondriac; I don't handle health challenges well despite the jovial persona folks see. A paralyzed-with-fear hypochondriac. Foremost in my thoughts is a long-time friend from high school, currently dealing with a devastating throat cancer diagnosis; I know not to minimize this. (R.I.P. Grady, August 8, 2020 😔) Get to my desk, dial my primary physician immediately, which is a big deal for introverted-me; set up an appointment for a second opinion. The Thanksgiving holiday means I can't be seen until the following week. What is normally a fun, family-gathering time of year, is effectively fogged in with dread, I go through the motions. All-consuming thoughts ruminate incessantly - I'm dying. Yeah, it's what hypochondriacs DO, we ‘dive off into the deep end,’ thrash, drown in ‘what if’s??’

The next week, my doctor smiles after he peers past my tongue into my throat, “Where?” Looks twice, insists I relax, “It's nothing.” He knows me well, adding, “if it would make you feel better, let's follow-up in three months.” His reassurance tempers my panic . . life resumes.

CHAPTER TWO

December 2019, January, February, 2020 the winter that wasn't. Work that was. Mid-February Housing fair at Ohio University's Walter Hall Rotunda. Event coordinator, Donna, introduces herself to Dave and me at our display table. Lively-soul, (I admire extroverts) she explains she recently transferred to this area from Columbus and, among other things, is a Stage 4 breast cancer survivor. Woman is spunky. Piques my interest. I share my sister's email address with her, explaining Cheryl is an 18-month soldier waging the same battle.

March approaches and the little nagging voice in my head reminds, “3-month follow-up, Deb, just do it.” Did. Friday, March 6. Confirmed, no dumb spot. Ha!! Your basic normal appointment. Crisis debunked. As visit concludes, Hillary, his nurse, scrolls through my medical record, turns to mention it's been more than a couple years since my last mammogram, they’ve all been clear, but I'm due, and would I want to set up one.

“Sure”

My youngest, Leah, works in this same medical facility, stop at her desk near the lab to say ‘hello.’ She’s my last to leave home, miss her in my house still. Always good to see and talk to her. She and Ian were married 18 months ago. Her desk-mate, Jordan, coincidentally one of Leah’s friends from her high school days, sets up my mammo appointment for Monday.

MONDAY, MARCH 9. Say ‘hello’ again to the girls at their desk. Check-in. Take a seat, wait my turn. Have had plenty of these 'grams in my lifetime, no big deal, no dread. Bare 'em, squash 'em, and get back to work. This time though, the tech knows my sister, and as I dress when we are done, from behind the screen she casually asks how old Cheryl was when she got her diagnosis and how’s she doing. (60. She is doing remarkably well, maintaining) 10 minutes later, I’m back at my work desk, phone rings, the mammo-tech is on the phone, needing me to return the next day for “a couple more, 'maybe clearer' pics, and an ultrasound.” That’s never happened before. A fleeting shot of panic surges, but since my most recent dread has been unfounded, I attempt to not over-react.

TUESDAY, MARCH 10. Keenly study the radiology-tech’s face for clues when she comes to fetch me from the lobby, I examine her demeanor as if I’m a police detective on a high-profile murder case and she’s my prime suspect. She's calm. So I'm cool. Rescan first, ultrasound second. Not especially pleasant the latter, (idiotic thing to say, was wholly unpleasant ) having your chest unceremoniously smashed in a circular motion against your ribs. The techs are studious, the room silent, I stare at the ceiling. Last time I had an ultrasound was 26 years ago and I was pregnant. Today, no fun at all. Understand now why my sister mentioned she is not a fan of these during her breast cancer struggles.

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY, MARCH 14, a knock on the front door, mailman is standing on my front porch and in the time it takes me to scribble my name on a card, I'm staring down at a certified letter in my palm, the return address of the clinic lunging off the paper at me. There's a low, barely-audible, foreign sound in my head. It's 'control', in human form, and is protesting/whining as she’s being forcibly dragged away from me. Remind myself I'm somewhat sane, an adult - just open the envelope. I do. And there it is, in black and white, the word -

ABNORMALITY

The rest of the weekend is a blur, debunking the need for concern with my daughters. Every excuse, every plausible explanation of why a letter like this would be mailed. A mistake, surely so. Just a glitch in the system. “Mom, if it was bad, they wouldn't notify you by letter,” Leah insists.

MONDAY, MARCH 16, my primary physician calls in regard to my somewhat-panicky email fired-off to him on Saturday, the day the letter arrives. He speaks in calm tones, explains he was on vacation the past week, is sorry he could not talk to me before the notice arrived, he's seen the offending spot on the film, offers it's so small, unlikely any cause for concern. “Indistinctive,” he assures. Forwarding to a surgeon for review.

CHAPTER FOUR

TUESDAY, MARCH 17, mama-daughter call . . normal stuff .. she’s working today at the clinic. She mentions the aforementioned surgeon has office hours today, maybe I could be squeezed in. I’m in luck, they can. So in a couple hours, I am shaking the hand of the head of surgery. Personable guy, he tells me he's reviewed my pics, if the radiologist had not circled the area, he would not have noticed it right away. Optimism duly noted. He thoroughly examines that body part, pokes and prods, asks me if I feel a lump. “I have not.” Today he doesn't either. Every woman knows about lumps. I absolutely know about lumps. I would never ignore one. Fact of the matter, there is NO lump!

We go over my less than stellar immediate family history of C. (HATE that word). Lung, breast, leukemia. He recommends biopsy to rule out any true problem. The B-word again. This day I say, ‘ok'.

Right here is where COVID-19 makes it's bizarro presence known, personally impacts ME. Doctor advises local surgery center is now closed due to the virus and procedures are limited to emergencies only but he is willing to go before the Board to plead my case. ???? While thankful he is willing to intercede for me; I am tamping down anxiety fighting to rise up, mentally jumping up and down, stomping on it, both feet.

Couple days later I get the call the Medical Board approves me for a needle biopsy. Control-of-my-life, she is sitting on the floor in a fetal position, rocking, whimpering in a locked padded-room somewhere.

CHAPTER FIVE

TUESDAY, MARCH 24, Jess drives me to Jackson. I don't need driven. Appreciate my oldest’s company though. COVID rules necessitate only a patient be permitted to enter any facility; Jess has to wait in the car. At the door, am screened for symptoms, this is the Twilight Zone. And it's too quiet in here. The place is dark and weird and I don't want to be here. I'm the ONLY person in the entire surgery center, I overhear the staff talking, they weren’t on the schedule today, I’m the only patient. hhmmmm, why am I so important?? Creepy.

Am ushered into the procedure room, nurses are professional, put me at ease. Entering, it’s impossible to miss my film aglow on the lighted-box on the wall; she asks if I want to see it. (NO!! I don’t want to see it!!) In reality, robotically, walk over to look. There it is, plain as day. The previously described small-likely-nothing indistinctive spot. Yikes, it's a glaring, ominous, bright white glob with literal tentacles reaching out, it’s in the middle of my precious flesh. No denying this now. Thing’s staring back at me. The only way I know how to describe the rest of the appointment, is that I am having an out-of-body experience, it’s not happening to me. No . . . is not.

You know the lifts in a garage of an auto repair shop? That's what this is. Clumsily climb aboard, assume a face-down position. There's no delicate way to explain the procedure. There's an enormous hole in the table, chest area, your beloved body part dangles and the table is raised, surgeon accesses it from below. Area is securely taped, prepped and numbed. Needles are fun, aren't they??! (eye roll) Am told the table will vibrate, surgeon cautions me to lay perfectly still or the laser will slice me. (no problem, I float away, not even present in the room) And it begins. Computer guides a gatling gun of needles as it commences to stab the tumor, withdraw specimens of cells. Sounds horrific, but it isn't, numbing tends to that. Divert my eyes from the red, fleshy goop siphoning into the container, my eyes clamped shut much of the time. Lasts just a few minutes, dress, then am on my way. Visit the same surgeon in a week for the results. Will not come back to this location, by then this center will also be closed by the pandemic mandate, next appointment is at a nearby hospital.

CHAPTER SIX

APRIL 1, 2020, APRIL FOOL'S DAY. First time I have ever visited this hospital, enter alone, virus protocol at the door. Surgeon’s office on the second floor, take the elevator. Few folks in the building, those that are, like me, are wearing masks. As I wait, pilfer on my ipad. Name is called, off I go. Today I find out this thing is benign, that I have been spazzing for weeks over nothing, naturally. Don't wait long for the Dr., I remain seated as he enters, greets me. He begins talking as he walks across the room, lays down my chart, then turns, making eye-contact, “you are so lucky to have had this test, mammogram did what it was supposed to do; we've caught it early.”

“...(I go effectively deaf) blah-blah-blah-blah-blah CARCINOMA.” A cataclysmic concoction of consonants and vowels strung together into syllables, words, in sentence form, delivered matter-of-factly. What happens here is nothing short of BIZARRE. Always imagined if I heard the words, “you have cancer,” I would react BADLY.

I would -

be angry

weep

go to pieces

vomit

all of the above

In reality -

I did not cry

I did not faint

I did not scream

Instead, sit calmly, silently. Stoic. Utterly, absolutely, wholly dumbfounded. ( this isn’t real - my head hurts - is this a stroke!?) REALITY Brain cells scramble to focus, I listen intently to every word, nod occasionally. Hearing all, absorbing little, during this a crash course on three types of breast cancer and treatment options available. (drifting off - I like him, he gestures with his hands as he speaks of surgery options.) Reconstruction; their plastic surgeon is top notch. The decision is mine. The doctor adds simply, “you know what will happen if you do nothing.”

I do

Unceremoniously and without a second’s hesitation, I react, “Get it off me,” hand on my chest. (subconscious protesting, “I feel FINE!!!! THIS. IS. STUPID!!”)

He nods in acknowledgement of my words, continuing, discusses recurrence rates on the opposite breast. Fuzzy math. Right here I interrupt him with the wave of a hand, “Get them both off me!” For good measure, I repeat it. Decision made, bilateral mastectomy it is, ASAP. Hands me a print-out with my diagnosis, I roll the paper up like a diploma and slip it in my bag. Stare down at the bag I take to work everyday . . (new-reality thoughts commence) or did … back when life was normal.

“Lousy April Fool’s Day, ya gotta admit.” I mutter out-loud to him as I rise to my feet, reach for the door. (how am I walking??!)

Ah, but COVID-19. Global pandemic, if it were a person, he’d be a cold-hearted, merciless jerk. I have to wait 14 days, be symptom-free in order to be permitted in their surgery unit or risk contaminating the whole place. Condemned to live with my killer for 15 more days, let it sleep with me, go to work with me, hang out with me while I visit my kids, grandkids. Melodramatic? You betcha, but the truth. All the while knowing the beast is growing.

I don’t exit the building until I am pre-registered for surgery, receive copious instructions, am assigned a day, APRIL 16. Next to the radiology waiting room, there I message my sister, she is the first to know. I have breast cancer. There’s lab work, x-ray, EKG. Am a zombie. A polite zombie with cancer making idle chitchat with techs who have no freaking clue my unremarkable and average life has evaporated in the last 45 minutes.

Poked, prodded, scanned and x-rayed - my walk across the parking lot is a 1,000 mile trek. Open the door, slide into the seat, fasten the seat belt, inhale deeply, fill my lungs with air just so I feel alive and less numb. Stare at my hands. Wish I could scream without attracting attention. Vomiting would be a blessing about now. I seem to be the same person that got out of the vehicle two hours before. No, am not the same at all. HOW do I do this????! Any of this??

HOW??????????!!!!!

In the days that follow, I will unroll my biopsy report, familiarize myself: invasive lobular carcinoma, 1.6cm, grade 1, ER+PR+HER2-. (translation = hormone fed) I will become versed about the enemy within, that if left untreated, would put me in the ground. Knowledge is power.

CHAPTER SEVEN

How do you tell the people you love, you have cancer? How do you toss a live emotional-grenade in a room? As terrifying as it is for me, I have to watch the realization sink in, the fear in their faces. Jess and Leah, my girls, having initiated a video chat with me as I wait for labs at the hospital. “Mom...well, how’d it go??” Not necessary to share details out loud, I crack, my eyes said all there was to say. Tough to hide that. Awful is the fact I’m in a public waiting room as they ask, am trying to hold it together, not disintegrate, explode into pieces. Watch them absorb what they now understand. I can’t help them.

Morning of April 1, the plan was to go back to work after the appointment. I don't. I aim the car toward home.

But first, I stop at my mom's house, to reveal the diagnosis to her and George. This is the first time I will say the words. Standing in the middle of her living room, my mouth opens and the emotion-less words fall out, “I have cancer too.” It is weird to hear it voiced and I feel bad for her. (her sister, my dad, my brother, my sister, now me) Explain to her what I plan to do and comfort that it'll be alright. She supports my decision: show no mercy to the beast.

Head home.

Turn onto my county road, Jameson calls, asks how the Dr. visit went. Avoiding answering, instead, ask if they are home, that I will be right there. Am thankful I am not them. He ‘knows’ from my tone, detects from the question. My son and wife, Patty, live 1/4 mile from my house, I arrive at their place in only a couple minutes, walk into their living room where they both were, learn the kids are upstairs, state the fact to the both of them, and I sit down for a bit. Just like that. Keep it light and matter of fact.

Life is insane.

CHAPTER EIGHT

What follows is 15 days trapped in a state of in-between. Desperate for normalcy yet knowing I can’t have it. What to do. What. To. Do. Staying right-minded is the aim. Crave it. C-word rarely leaving my thoughts. Every day ‘hospital Jessica’ calls me to ask a series of Covid-19 related questions and asks my body temperature that I am tasked with taking each morning upon waking.

What I CAN maintain right now, is routine.

COVID locks my office door in mid-March, am the only one staffing there. OU student move-in/move-out day is May 3. I’m the one in charge of this, making sure everything is ready. Can’t cancel it . . it goes on with or without me. Scheduling surgery mid-April, slashes two weeks off my prep time for this once-a-year event. Realize the timing could not be better, if there IS such a thing, I have little free time to ponder what’s coming, am too busy. Every day I plow through my work to-do list. Go home too tired to indulge doom and gloom.

Away from the office too, I quickly find another diversion, researching and shopping for items I might need after the surgery. Soft tops with inner pockets for drains management, ice packs, hot packs, special propping pillow. A miracle they all arrive on time because Amazon Prime has been waylay-ed by the corona virus. A sick and twisted ‘Merry Christmas to me’ as each package arrives. In some small way, gives me a semblance of control.

Sleeping is not an issue during these days. It’s my safe place. Sleep deep and well, courtesy of a little purple pill discovered years ago. (thank you, menopause) Each and every morning, have about 30 seconds of ‘normal’ before I remember what demon is living in me.

An entertaining activity during this time is staring in my lingerie drawer at the start of every day, choosing which style, what color bra for one last travel in the rotation. I waffle. At first, suffer pangs of melancholy while looking at the neat row of vibrant colors and lace. Then chuckle, cups are large enough to be made into hats for small children. No one wants to discuss my boobs, but this is an important part of the process of letting go. Acknowledgement. A girl spends what seems like her whole life waiting for these body parts to materialize; coveted, we dress them up, suspend them with steel reinforcement, make the best of them. They feed our children, we rock our babies/grandbabies against them. They’re part of who we are. Mine are set for execution. It’s them or me.

Time ticks by.

CHAPTER NINE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15. Mastectomy Eve, am something I have never been, radioactive. True. This day go into the hospital ALONE, pass through the covid-19 gauntlet; escorted to a quiet room with a massive machine, bet it was a CT scanner, I don’t ask, I lay down on a metal table and a needle is inserted in my chest region, right side (still find it weird to use the word ‘breast’) and a radioactive tracer is placed in my body at the sight of the tumor. I’d researched the procedure a little (LIE . . I researched a LOT) beforehand, and read it would be EXCRUCIATING. So expect the worst. Naturally. Tech is kind and reassuring; small talk. I notice what great hair he has. Stare at the ceiling as I lay there. Then the doctor comes in, says I’ll feel a stick (had read the area is numbed first) expect that. Did. Not horrendous - that’s an exaggeration, barely felt anything. Assume we wait for the numbing to take effect before he drills through to the core. What I DIDN’T expect, is him to say, “you’re done.” Meaning that tiny prick was it. Say what now? Before the morning’s surgery, I’ll come back to this table, and will find out if the cancer has leeched into any lymph nodes. I dress and exit the building.

ESCAPE! The rest of this day IS MINE. I take my dreary thoughts, my diseased chest, the ‘DD girls’ , and we hit the road, took the long way home. Gave ‘them’ the best darned last-day-alive you could ask for. Was the least I could do considering what I was consenting to do to them. Pitied them and wanted them DEAD at the same time. Them or me.

Flowers waiting for me when I got home, the first time I sobbed in earnest. A torrent of tears.

CHAPTER TEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2020. DtoDD DAY. Death to DD’s Day. (and my Mom’s 81st birthday) Eerily calm. I grab my packed bag, stare at my freshly-made bed as I turn to exit the bedroom. Oh here comes one of those bizarro thoughts I have at times like this. Glancing around, mutter, “when I return, nothing will be the same. Gee, I hope I come back.” Melodramatic to a fault I am. Patty drops me off at the hospital door at a ridiculously early hour. Did I mention this is during a pandemic so no one can come in and that the hospital is spooky-empty and hushed?? Well, it is. Apocolyptically-quiet. Surreal. Check-in is swift and efficient and a surgery-nurse retrieves me promptly, accompany her to the prep area. this is real?

This unit has a circle of several cubicles, all but three are empty though. Settled in, changing into hospital gown, then I have three hours to ponder the fact that the last time I had surgery was 26 years ago and I am not as young as I used to be, and nowhere near ready to die, and lordy, I am no fan of pain. I feel FINE . . how can something deadly be in me yet I feel this HEALTHY??

In the hours I wait, return to scan-room to see if this thing has reached my lymph nodes. Dark room, humming machine. Same tech lets me watch the screen, bright lights like tiny fireworks become visible. No clue what I am watching.

My appointed time arrives, was about 9:30 a.m. Accompanied by a surgical nurse, I walk down the hallway to the O.R., my IV pole in tow. this isn’t real Three surgical staff are busily prepping. Funny how apprehension makes one awkwardly talkative with strangers, more so than normal. I greet them and cannot shut up, blather, “you know how kids took home tonsils in a jar?? (clutching my chest) you have a gallon jug I can take these home with me?” (yes, I really did say it) Laughter from them, that’s good. Am offered a stool to climb onto the table. I do. My God, to the gallows, ‘girls’

Jettisoned into the Twilight Zone right here. In the time it takes me to scoot, get comfortably horizontal on the table, sterile people descend on me, all over me doing things. Arms, legs . . belt around my abdomen. Am picturing masked-ants. Busy, busy. Big light on the ceiling lowering, settles above my upper torso and head. I feel FINE Am here, but not here. Oh God. Gentle voice to my right, as a mask is fitted over my nose and mouth, “take a couple deep breaths.”

Blackness.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m struggling in deep water, not diving down - but up, shooting to the surface of the water, I need air. Regaining consciousness, a jostling, repeating, “Debbie, wake up. Can you hear me?” Awake. Literal first conscious thought, drenched in relief -

“... NOT DEAD”

Body is being tugged, moved, but I’m not doing it. Realization hits me, where I am and what's happened. Conscious, I no longer feel fine, unrelenting waves of nausea wash over me. I give myself over to whichever medical professional wants to tend to me. They can have me, I don’t want me. Not this me.

End up in a hospital room, no recollection whatsoever how. Silence interrupted only by BP cuff on an ankle, inflating noisily at intervals reminding me I’m alive. Not moving. Lord, what have I done? Ice packs under both arms. Detest feeling this gross. I hang onto the sheets for hours, ride out the nausea.

As terrible as that was, and it was horrendous, it ends abruptly once I am fully awake later in the afternoon. In fact, feel remarkably good - considering. Any pain is well-managed. I can move, even lift my arms. I can walk to the restroom, tend to myself. Am hungry and eat a good dinner. Pleasantly surprised at this half of the day.

Curious. Here’s where I gingerly lift the blanket to get my first look. DD-girls are gone, replaced by a thick layer of bandage all across my chest, tubing, two drains, and . . . oh my lord . . . HOW long has my belly been that size??????! God bless boobs, they divert one’s attention from a myriad of flaws. Geez-louise.

Thank you, Covid-19, for the hospital stay’s solitude, I don’t mind, I welcome not having to share this day with visitors. Am only interrupted intermittently by nurses and the doctor. No big deal. Not much to tell. Post on facebook that I survived. Was released to go home the very next day with surgeon’s, “no restrictions. See you in a week, will have lab results for you then.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

FRIDAY, APRIL 17. HOME. Here’s where it gets funny. Seriously. Humorous. Reality. My youngest, Leah, volunteers to stay for the first few days. Plan on not needing much in the way of assistance. Stubborn. Not too uncomfortable, prop on pillows, watch tv, pain meds. First-night, decide my bed is where I will sleep, let her have the couch. Undeterred in the middle of the night, manage to get myself to the bathroom alone. Good for ME!! Ah, but then the sun comes up. Right here I discover Super Woman I am not. Attempt the same maneuver and the stabbing pain angrily asserts, “NOT THIS TIME, SISTER!” Ah, bladder is bossy and insistent. But Pain is in charge. “#*&@*#&$}” a little too loudly (translation) “Leah!! Help!!” She comes trotting and I’m laughing, trapped in my own bed. Arms frozen at my sides, literally cannot move under my own power without an instant excruciating reaction. With urgency (full bladder loudly protesting) instruct her to wring a bed sheet, get to the foot of the bed, hold the ends, let me grab the middle . . . PULL!! It works!! Whew, lesson learned, until I could get up and down on my own unaided, I didn’t sleep there again.

Drains. Grateful to only require two. Three times a day they need emptying. Unceremoniously, Leah’s job. When large portions of flesh are removed, one’s body compensates by attempting to fill the space with fluid, drains are typically inserted to draw off this fluid, speeding recovery. These ‘things’ (drain hoses) are just under my skin across the width of my chest, a stitch holding them in place at the hole (yikes) where they exit on either side. The bulbs at the end of the 12 inch lines are clear grenade-shaped receptacles collecting wound-juice. (you winched at the visual, didn’t you? haha) They get full. Necessary to milk the line first, with sterile gloved fingers of one hand, she grasps and steadies the line where it exits my body, with the other, she slides her pinched fingers down the tubing, pushes the ooze and any clots to the end. Pops the top of the bulb, empties 'ick' into a measuring cup, and logs the amount and color. Squeezes the bulb as she closes the lid so siphon will commence. My only job is to 'enjoy' the vigorous suction. eek

I sit dutifully still on a stool while she goes about her ‘work’, chit-chatting about this and that, am intentionally not watching the gore slipping, dripping into the bulb. She's not hurting me but every now and then will feel a subtle tug, a movement of the tubing. (shudder) Sunday evening she taps the bulb’s bottom on the table, remarking, “darned clot won’t fall through.” (rap, rap, smack) “Eww, that’s gross,” she says, “clot (tap) won’t (tap) let go ( jiggling it, the dangling, stringing bloody blob just hanging there, swaying back and forth).” My skin is warming . . . interesting sensation . . getting hot. Really HOT. She is sitting right next to me, is talking but her voice is fading. Am looking her direction, but she is drifting away in a misty vapor . . . waaaaaaaaaaaay over there now, voice, can’t hear her. Vision going and the room is moving ever so slightly.

I see my girl in slo-mo, she realizes what is happening, "Mom, Mom ... MOM!" (my mouth no longer works, cannot respond) hear her excited, “DAD!!!! Come quick!! Help! Mom’s passing out!!!”

Didn't. (did get to the couch . . sat still for an hour, feet up . . w/ice pack alternating on my neck, forehead) Didn’t vomit, so that's a 'WIN" for the day.

I learn to do it myself once she goes home. No big deal.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 23. A week passes, mostly uneventful. Sick leave, lounging, medicating, tracking excretion of Deb-juice, healing. Tough to remember the days in March and early April when I felt GOOD. I feel terrible. Blah - which to me, IS terrible. No fever, no signs of infection, just a general feeling of malaise. (such a descriptive word, ‘malaise’) Post-op visit, a follow-up with the surgeon. Oldest daughter Jess, chauffeur for the day. The entire drive down to Gallipolis, I imagine they’ll take one look at my sorry self, react in horror, re-admit me immediately. I have to be dying, something has to be terribly wrong. No one can feel this bleak and survive.

Mull my life over for that hour drive, did I live it adequately, what is left that I have not done, am I going to throw up IN or OUT of her car . . oh woe is me . . my thoughts are rambling, disjointed, grim. (BEYOND melodramatic) LOL Get to the hospital, I have to admit I cannot even walk in under my own power. I have no power, drained dry. Jess requests a wheelchair and I feel how I imagine being 150 years old and feeble feels, reliant on a stranger for transport up to the waiting area. Pitiful. I hate this. Too puny to care.

And remember COVID . . Jessica can’t come in with me. My mummified remains parked in a desolate waiting room. sigh I need a transfusion. I need a transplant, I need SOMETHING . . want my life back. Where’d Debbie go??!!

Eventually wheeled into the exam room (decrepit thing that I am) to wait. Surgeon enters, his normal perky self, smiles my direction. I lament the state of (absence of) well-being and inability to go to the bathroom for DAYS. (how embarrassing) “Sweetheart (NO, he did not say 'Sweetheart’) it’s your pain meds doing this to you. STOP THEM.”

huh?????!

Examines the 12-inch incisions on either side of my torso. Both doing well. No stitches to remove, interior stitches will dissolve on their own. Exterior sterie strips will fall off in the next week. He studies my drain-log, then simply remarks, “looks great, amounts are decreasing steadily. You want them (drains) out today?” (glimmer of hope) Instantly agree, so without ceremony and with a quick snip of a stitch and a wiggle of the tube and a firm TUG, one Jackson Pratt drain is out. Nasty thing now coiled on the exam table. OUT!!! The other follows swiftly. Oh dear lord . . feels soooooooo good to be rid of those things. Best part . . expected to have them at least another week, that the extrication of same, would be horrendous. Wasn’t. Didn’t hurt actually. Bandaids applied to my newest holes. No stitch, no nothing. “See ya in a month. No restrictions.” Surprised he didn’t pat me on my sorry head.

Trip home is infinitely better, envision the tunnel and light shining in the distance. aaaahhhhh

Not another pain pill crosses these lips . . the man is a genius. (epilogue: my decline was indeed induced by the pain meds . . out of my system - recovering was a breeze. TIP: get off them as soon as you can)

P.S. Almost forgot the most important part!!!!! Lab results!!! Geez . .the tunnel, the light . . THIS IS WHY!!! TODAY I learn I am CANCER-FREE‼️‼️‼️ Well, I would hope so!! Nearly six pounds of flesh sacrificed / removed . . CLEAN MARGINS around the tumor. Lymph nodes are CLEAR!!! Sentinel node removal a bit messy, seven others unable to be separated from it, come out as well. Sobering fact is that I, nor the surgeon, felt a telltale lump - but it was there. In black and white, sobering words, “STAGE TWO”. Appointment with oncologist in May to discuss options. Why??? Here's the thing about breast cancer, sometimes IT COMES BACK.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Want to tell you the euphoria was warmly welcome and long-lasting. Yes and no, in that order. Sharing with friends that surgeon ‘got it all’ was met with copious genuine exclamations of ‘thank God!’ and ‘hallelujah’. For good reason. Pathology report of clean margins and clear nodes is a positive outcome. IT’S GONE!! And like me at this juncture, believe that’s the end of it. Too few days of relief pass swiftly - the reality that it may not be over, steadily seeps back in as I educate myself. But with a stubborn childlike optimism, trust the oncologist will study my diagnosis, pronounce my journey with this evil thing over. “Deborah, congrats, you’re finished with it and it with you. Have a nice life.” Let’s go with that. I want it.

Just a couple more weeks to find out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the meantime, at home I’m getting bored. ‘Bored’ is WONDERFUL. It’s normalcy. And a strong signal that it’s time for life to go on.

I am well enough to attend to work emails, becoming more frequent as students prepare to leave Athens officially, the stalwart diehards who came back after Spring Break despite the lockdown that commenced mid-March. Boredom, the impetus, that gets me out of the house.

TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 12 days post-op, several days free from pain-killers and feeling almost back to my old self, I slide behind the wheel of my car, new precious pillow between sensitive chest and the seatbelt and drive to work. Man oh man, how I missed 70′s radio . . sing all the way. I last at my desk for 4 hours this first day, mindful to recognize limitations, cut the day short, but go home triumphant.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 30. Meet-my-oncologist day. (mentally mark off THAT on my ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’) First things first, why am I here??! Surgeon recommends I have a chat with the man . . rule out the need for anything further. Youbetcha. Today is THE. DAY!! Fully expect to be ‘blessed’ and sent on my way . . “Debbie, you were lucky, it’s all gone. Your cancer journey was intense and brief and now it’s over. Go live your life, girl.”

Check in. Hunker down at the back of the vast lobby, comfy chair. I absorb the room. Oh you know I don’t want to, but I do. A few patients are here. One unhealthy looking older lady on a hospital stretcher over there. Another slightly-weathered woman near the wall, wearing a turban. And there’s me. Odd-man out, pain-killers now out of my system: (yes yes, am minus the ‘girls’) full head of thick hair, kinda sorta minimally wrinkly, feeling strong and healthy . . . like me again.

Name called. BP and weight. Perks of the day . . bp is good, especially good for me. Literally-asked-the-nurse-to-repeat-the-numbers good. And am down 10 lbs. I’ll take it!! Gee, this visit is headed in the right direction!

Lead to an exam room, given a questionnaire. Ugh. Bottom of the page. Please list details of immediate family members . . . health issues, explanation. Here we go . . Melvin / dad / died in 2000 @64 / lung cancer (scribble to the side ‘life time smoker’ . . like it somehow negates the dying) Tim / brother / died in 2000 @39 / leukemia (again, the scribbling, master mechanic, hands in chemicals) Stephen / brother / died in 1957 @6 weeks / S.I.D.S. Bottom of this page is an OCD nightmare, ink scribbles in every direction, sad that I ran of space. Add, “Cheryl / sister / is 61 / @60 stage IV breast cancer (’maintaining’ . . didn’t add, but wanted to, “THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!”) Janice / mom / is 81. Terry / brother / is 55.” Finishing up, as MY oncologist enters the room.

Brief introductions . . Cursory physical exam of surgical site.

Oncologist reviews the information I provide, studies my chart. Two verbal inquires of me -

do you or have you ever smoked? “no”

do you drink alcohol and how much? “rarely”

He pauses. He can ascertain I’m not fudging the details. “Never?” he queries again. Shake my head in the negative. Sincerely he adds, “this makes NO sense. Risk factors are not there for breast cancer. No sense at all.”

Dr. Hamid relates there is a genetic test that can be performed using my tumor tissue, (eewwww, they still have it!!) the results determining whether or not chemo therapy would be of any benefit to me. Again - I am confused why a person who is now disease-free, minus seven pounds of her best flesh, needs ANYTHING additionally. I consent. He jots down for me the chemo recipe that I would receive if it’s indicated. Metaphysically burns my fingertips as I take the slip from him. (chemo??! stifling a scream) If not, I would be prescribed a pill to stop my body's remaining production of estrogen. Anastrazole is the drug of choice, there are a few common side effects: bone/joint pain, fatigue, etc. Majority of women experience no side effects of any kind, he assures. (mental note of an over-achiever: I will be one of THOSE) Dr. adds, “Lab work takes about two weeks to get back. Come see me in two weeks please. Oh wait . . you drive quite a distance to get here, right? Just call my office on May 13, we can handle this over the phone.”

uh huh . . . so much for being blessed and sent on my merry way. CHEMO, sub-set item under 1. CANCER on ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’. TRULY . . . there is nothing I enjoy MORE, than waiting on test results. (epic eye-roll right here, stomach twists in knot)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

This is the last chapter of ‘65 DAYS IN MAY’ (today it’s February 25, 2021) I am a procrastinator. Am still me, after all. My instructions were to call oncologist’s office on Wednesday, May 13, 2020, to learn whether or not chemo therapy was the next step in my cancer treatment. By now I have little recollection of the blur of days between April 30 and when Dr. Hamid called me with my genetic testing results, my Oncotype score. Every day seemed endless, recovering well, feeling progressively more like myself. I let work duties bulldoze me through those days, thoroughly occupied. I was thankful to have nearly 300 college students moving-out and moving-in on May 3rd. Grateful to be bone weary at the end of each day, having little time to thrash about the prospect of chemo - that, and staying safe as COVID rampaged.

TUESDAY, MAY 12, at my desk, alone in a pandemic-locked-down office. One last day not having to call, know anything. Ignorant bliss. Phone rings, spy caller I.D., uh-oh, cancer center. I stop breathing. Lift receiver, ‘Hello, this is Debbie.’ Not breathing. HERE WE GO (9+ months later now, still recall the catch of my breath and pounding heart. Am not exaggerating when I tell you time froze.) Dr. Hamid’s voice was soft, he wasted no time relating my Oncotype score plus chance of recurrence is low and chemo is not necessary in my situation. He’ll call in an Anastrazole script for me, it cuts my chance of recurrence to less-than 5%. Only question I had, “what exactly was my number?” 17 “See you again in 6 months,” as he ends the call. Stare at the phone receiver clenched in my hand.

NO CHEMO . . with exorbitant gusto, I EXHALE

Celebration fireworks in my head, both hands in the air, stifle an audible, triumphant HALLELUJAH! For the moment, issued a reprieve. I soak it up. Once composed, swivel chair to my right, run my palms slowly, purposefully over the desk calendar, lift the pages, studying, absorbing. Begin to count . . . .

STINT IN PURGATORY - 65 DAYS IN MAY

EPILOGUE

(stay tuned)

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bizarrebird · 6 years

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Okay so, to start this, for reference, I have watched Buffy: the Vampire Slayer several times and taken a class entitled “Understanding the Whedonesque” and written/read several papers about all things Whedon, Buffy in particular, so I feel like I’m at least somewhat qualified to speak on the subject so, here we go

I will put the bloggings under a readmore. And yes, I am very sure someone before me has done this better, but I’ve had a lot of wine and this shit seems fun, so fuck it. And yes, I do like Buffy. I honestly do. Regardless of literally everything Joss Whedon, it’s a good show and was very important (arguably still important) for its time. So this may be a continuing thing. We’ll see.

Diana Liveblogs Buffy (Season 2, Episode 1: When she was bad)

tw: this episode features undiagnosed ptsd, and the subsequent mistreatment and misunderstanding of someone suffering said condition

We’re starting with Season 2, Episode 1 (Because most of season 1 just... isn’t good. Like it’s just bad. The first and last episode are passable, but the rest is mostly eh, and I won’t be revisiting it without significant comment)

So we start in with Xander* (human garbage) and Willow (a sweet child who deserves better) talking idly exchanging movie references (dumb ones, like really really, dumb ones. No seriously their big references are Planet of the Aps (the old as fuck one) and Star Wars (also the old as fuck one) don’t worry about it, Joss still thinks these are smart) and talking about the fact that Buffy has left to spend the summer (after she fucking died) with her estranged father in LA. This scene shows, rather explicitly that Willow has feelings for Xander which aren’t (????) reciprocated, as he is still very much hung up on Buffy, asking if she asked about him when she contacted Willow. Which is of course the most important thing she could have possibly done in such a situation. (we will revisit later all the times Xander* is terrible about Buffy and several other people/things as we go This is the first of many that will be touched on.) Xander* mentions that he has “certain needs” because he’s a man. Wow. A man. Wanting to fuck a woman. How amazing. What intense drama. The fact that Buffy might not be interested occurring to him exactly... never. Huh. How about that.

*fuck Xander

There’s sexual tension here that’s really awkward (more awkward with the fact that WILLOW IS GAY AND I WILL TALK ABOUT THIS IN SEASON FOUR BUT SHE IS GAY) were Xander* dabs her nose with ice-cream and cleans it off. And okay, honestly credit where credit is due this could have been grosser with him licking it off, but he doesn’t. He gently cleans it away. AND THEN They are attacked by a vampire and saved by Buffy, who seemingly appears out of nowhere to save her friends.

THINGS IT IS IMPORTANT TO NOTE IN THIS FIGHT SCENE

Xander does push Willow back and tells her to go. Ignoring the macho vibes here, he is trying to protect his friend who he was about to kiss. I don’t give Xander a lot of credit, but this is a decent moment.

Buffy slays this vampire by pushing him into a tree branch. Thus she does not kill the first vamp. She pushes him onto another object that kills him. No trust me this is a big deal. Buffy has not killed a vampire with her own two hands for a while. Willow hugs her and then She then asks “Miss me?” as we go to opening credits

((This is important. I don’t care about the hugs we get after credits, we don’t know if her friends missed her and I don’t know how to tell you how important that is))

Buffy comments on the fact that neither of them are ready to deal with vampires “very sloppy”. Which they brush off, Xander* saying “that’s the first vampire we’ve seen since you killed the Master”. Buffy is immediately uncomfy, but they all blow through it. Xander* draws attention back to the vampire she just killed, and Buffy admitting that she went hard (”yeah, I didn’t kinda wail on him, didn’t I?”), but then that gets brushed off too. (do we see a theme yet???)

*fuck Xander

Willow says Buffy missed them burying the Master’s bones, and there’s this very close shot on Buffy’s face as she looks where Willow’s pointing. No one else notices, and no one else cares that Buffy is very obviously having a reaction to that and they just go on with their business saying they’re glad Buffy is back. (There’s a question asking whether she’s seen Giles yet and she’s pointedly ???? about it (cause she doesn’t want to admit to any issues) but that is a whole other Slayer/Watcher video that will develop as we go)

Alright then we go to:

Buffy’s parents putting away her stuff, which honestly is????? I think this plot would mean more if Joss got to do his actual version of the movie and Buffy’s dad got more screen time. But he doesn’t and Joss didn’t so this is just real awkward time that could have been devoted to my queen Joyce. Her dad mentions Buffy was distant. This is maybe because SHE FUCKING DIED AND NO ONE CARES. NO LITERALLY NO ONE GIVES A SHIT SHE DIED. THEY ASKED A 15-16 YEAR OLD GIRL TO DIED AND WERE SUPER CONFUSED WHEN SHE WAS UPSET ABOUT IT.

Okay, but this is not to shit on Joyce. She’s a good mom and she does her best. Please if you are for whatever reason only watching this show now, give Joyce a chance. She’s trying.

So we go to the school and

Cordelia (light of my life and sunshine of my heart this will make sense season 3 or when we get to Angel trust me) complaining about her parents not taking her on a glamorous vacation (this will be important later). Cordelia asks “is it possible to have too much character”, which is a great question (the answer is yes) and we’ll also get back to that later. Then we go to Giles and new (ish, remind me when hyenas ate the last dude) principal Snyder. There is an, extremely worrying comment from Snyder about how ‘every girl makes boys a time bomb’ (no like what the actual fuck Joss that’s so fucked up).

Snyder makes a comment about teenage boys turning into idiots around girls that ‘ironically’ (Joss Whedon doesn’t know what irony is) signals the arrival of Jenny Calendar. Jenny is the computer class (computer sciences???? idk what the fuck they were teaching in the 90s) teacher who helped last season with the destruction of the Master (a lame villain with like minimal buildup and a shitty plot, who killed Buffy cause fuck Joss Whedon).

Giles also likes her. A lot. This will be important later when the plot remembers who she is for drama.

Snyder ends this scene with the line “I might as well be talking to myself”, which HAHA he is. Isn’t that clever? Oh man, Joss, that’s a good one. So fucking original. I can’t believe this guy lasts as long as he does with the shit Joss gives him. No, seriously, look him up, he’s a decent actor??? but all he gets are bit parts cause of shit like this

Anyway

We go to Giles talking with Jenny about her exciting summer at Burning Man. Here we see how cool and ‘in touch with the youths’ Jenny is and Giles isn’t. Wow, how ever will they work out their issues? We just don’t know. There’s some marginally flirty banter featuring Giles picking up on the word ‘naked’ (so clever Joss wow, you are a wordsmith) and Jenny teasing him about liking books (she hints at him reading dirty books, or her liking them. idk what the real point is here) before Xander and Willow show up. Buffy shows up and Giles asks “how are you?”

To which she responds “alive and kicking.”

There’s a lot of fairly pointed stuff here about her dying and coming back, which again NO ON FUCKING TALKS ABOUT. But whatever. Buffy’s good. Like so good.

They quickly discuss and establish that the Hellmouth is still an open and active thing that they should be worrying about. Just in case anyone was wondering what this show would have going for it.

Now okay, Giles does try to be a decent human being here. He asks Buffy when she wants to start training again and clearly feels bad about the whole thing. And when she says she wants to start just then he’s iffy cause he knows there’s some underlying issues going on. But Buffy does insist. She says she’s ready.

INTENSE TRAINING MONTAGES

Okay so 90s montages aren’t what they are now, but the show does make it clear Buffy’s hung up on the Master and, y’know, the whole deal where he killed her. Yeah, that’s still a thing.

Then there’s some vamp stuff that like might have gone somewhere if the kid playing the anointed one wasn’t getting too old. But seriously in two episodes no one’s gonna care. Just worry about how this shit affects Buffy, that’s what matters.

And then Buffy has a dream where Giles tries to kill her while her friends sit there doing nothing. This is obviously super important, but again a point that I feel other people have probably covered better. But the essentials are that Buffy feels like Giles, and to a bigger extent the Watcher’s council don’t care and are actively trying to kill her, and that her friends (when push comes to shove) will stand by and let him do so.

We then go to this shot of Buffy’s window and SURPRISE SURPRISE when she looks back to it Angel is there. Who could have guessed. And okay like, this is a step up from Twilight. I will admit that. But it’s not as much of one as people want it to be. A 100+ year old dude creeping on a girl in high school will always be creepy. HOWEVER BUFFY HANDLES IT BETTER AND YOU CAN FIGHT ME ON THIS LATER.

So to the point.

Angel is in her bedroom because he has an invite to the Summers’ house. This will be important later. Vampires who are given invitations to a house can use it whenever. REMEMBER THIS.

So anyway, Angel is literally the first person to actually ask how Buffy is. She does shrug that off, but that’s still important. No one else even bothers asking. However, when Buffy presses, Angel reveals that there’s other stuff going on which is the real reason he’s there.

Again, no one is asking about Buffy’s issues because they honestly, earnestly care. Just wanna point that out.

For what it’s worth, Angel does apologize for not having better news and for (at least I like to think this**) not having unselfish reasons to check in. And Angel does try to warn her about the anointed one’s power, which is... nice?

SPOILER WARNING: Nothing comes of this because the actor playing the anointed one was getting to old and wouldn’t work as a recurring villain.

This scene doesn’t quiiiite end there because (and I’m going to try to be civil about the Bangel moments because I don’t wanna shit on anyone’s ship, but god Angel’s the worst) Buffy asks ‘is that it?’ Like, quite clearly expecting more. That isn’t a subtle signal Angel, what the fuck

But he leaves with an awkward “I missed you” before Buffy can respond cause he’s an awkward asshole who doesn’t know how to process emotions. Yes, this is a recurring thing with him. Don’t expect it to get better. It won’t. Yes, Buffy deserves better. She won’t get it, I’m sorry.

ANYWAY

Her mom drives her to school, and here we see THE SECOND PERSON TO GIVE A SHIT AND SORT OF ASK BUFFY WHAT’S WRONG. She doesn’t do it perfectly, and Buffy doesn’t respond, but like... this tiny moment it a looooot for this show. Trust me. You will be amazed at the amount of “I don’t give a shit” that happens later comparatively to the two whole people we had giving a shit here about Buffy’s issues.

Clearly, by what we see, Buffy says nothing to Joyce here. HOWEVER she mentions something about Angel to Willow and Xander. Who are no help. At all. They ask about kissing (Willow, sweet bab) and groping (Xander, oh honey no, I see you Joss, I fuckin see you). So yeah. MENTION OF RELEVANT 90s BAND AT THE BRONX WOW WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE I DON’T REMEMBER

And then Cordelia (my queen) arrives. The show is blessed with her glorious, radiant presence, and we should be so grateful.

So Cordelia (my badass queen who knows no bounds) just flat out stats that she knows demons are a thing and she’s not afraid to admit it. Xander and Willow are trying to keep up the ‘all is normal’ thing, but sweet Cordy has no patience for them. Cordelia (wonder of wonders) says she’s still freaked about being around for the Master stuff last year and (WITH A VERY SIGNIFICANT CLOSE SHOT) tells Buffy “your secret’s safe with me” (which would be a declaration of love on any show between an m/m pair I’m just fucking saying). Buffy (who isn’t ready to accept that she’s bi yet) brushes her off, which, I just wanna say, EVERYONE IN THAT SCENE POINTS OUT.

And we cut to the Bronze (idk if that’s the most correct spelling, but that’s what google seems to think is cool) . Willow and Xander are talking with Willow ( a soft child who knows little of the world yet) saying Buffy’s different now and Xander (a gremlin) saying who cares. Xander just wants to ogle that sweet Buffy bod, which becomes apparent when Willow tries to recreate their cutesy moment from before and it shot down completely.

And I forgot about this moment cause no one cares, but we cut away to vampire biz with the Anointed Baby digging up the Master’s bones for some creeptastic ritual. He doesn’t care about his followers and neither should you. This scene would matter if the anointed one matter, but he doesn’t, so it doesn’t. The only thing that should matter here is that the ground where the Master is buried is consecrated, but that’s never gonna come up again, so don’t worry about it, no one cares.

Stepping in time with *COOL 90S BAND MUSIC* Buffy struts into the club in a dress that’s hot but like... it’s still the 90s so don’t get your hopes up for sideboob. Also Angel is suddenly here I guess???? This would be a lot less weird if he had been there in any of the establishing shots, but Joss is still learning here, I guess, and forgets (frequently) that Angel should exist outside of his love interest, especially if he’s gonna get a spinoff later.

Buffy and Angel say hi and it’s awkward and I would probably care more if I rewatched season 1 first, but you couldn’t pay me enough to rewatch that. There’s clear tension there with Buffy wanting Angel ti give more of a shit and him not getting it because he’s spent a hundred years barely being a person, and Cordelia watches because???? reasons???? I guess. Buffy goes over to flirt with Xander and dances with him and it’s literally uncomfortable for everyone because this is an aggressively clear sign that BUFFY HAS BEEN THROUGH TRAUMA AND IS NOT DEALING WITH IT AND IS LASHING OUT BECAUSE SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO

Like I’m not saying that makes it okay, but this scene is a cry for help from Buffy that no one responds to. And then Cordelia (my sweet love) is forced to regurgitate words from Joss telling Buffy to ‘get over it’. Uh huh, yeah sure Joss, she’ll get right on that you dick.

And then Cordelia gets dragged off by vamps literally right behind Buffy’s back. Like that is the most literally of literallys. And she finds they also have Jenny Calendar there like ????? did they just snatch her and no one gave a shit???

Okay, okay, moving on, Buffy heads home-ish and finds the dug up Master grave which like... is in the middle of a regular cemetery and seems like it should have been fucking noticed by someone???? Whatever, all adults in the Buffyverse (except Joyce) suck I guess

AND THEN. Fucking then we cut to Willow saying Buffy has to be possessed for her weird sexy dancing with Xander. Instead of, y’know, the fact that she’s dealing with a lot of trauma and coping in shit ways and no one cares. Willow, I love you, but you’re not a great friend. Like straight up***.

Xander (a garbage boy wrapped in moldy taco shells****) tries to argue for a second before agreeing. Giles does try to point out that Buffy’s dealing with some trauma (which he has at no point directly addressed with her cause his spine is made of marshmallows and paperclips), and then Buffy shows up and says the Master’s bones are gone and everyone else forgets that she’s dealing with some massive shit. Cause wow, they might be in danger.

ACTUALLY I wanna point out a thing here where Buffy’s like ‘this is slayer stuff, no civvies’ meaning no Xander and Willow and like... given the response he has to Willow being in danger later, his response of getting super pissy now This is gonna be my first

FUCK YOU XANDER HARRIS

FUCK YOU AND YOUR GARBAGE PRIORITIES

FUCK YOUR CRUSHES AND FUCK YOUR ONLY DECIDING GIRLS ARE WORTH CARING ABOUT WHEN THEY’RE DIRECTLY RELATED TO YOU

ahem

Anyway

Snyder says some weird stuff and we move on.

We go to the library for RESEARCH FUN TIMES. Giles reads some prophecy thing saying they need the bones of the Master to bring him back and the blood of whoever was close to him when he died. Huh that’s interesting phrasing, or is it. A rock crashes through the window with a bracelet attached that Buffy immediately identifies as Cordelia’s (why do you know that’s hers Buffy? why do you know that bracelet?). It’s threatening and says come to the Bronze and is deffos a trap, but Buffy goes anyway cause fuck you not-dad

Buffy goes out to kick ass and I believe in her. Angel shows up and is all dark and brooding and no one cares, Angel. They don’t make out cause Buffy can do better and she heads into the Bronze (also there’s terrible foreshadowing about them fighting later and I hate it don’t look at me). Okay a lot of meta could be written on Buffy and Angel talking there but I don’t wanna do it

The trap isn’t for her surprise. It’s for Giles and Willow who were close to the Master when he died. Buffy realizes this and goes back to try to help them and gets there too late and Xander makes me hate him forever. He says he doesn’t know what Buffy’s issues are (there are a lot of them would you like a list fuckboi) and he doesn’t care (and yet he continues to call himself Buffy’s friend) if she had worked with them for five seconds (uh what five seconds? before or after she gave you all the info you had and then went to deal with literally the only lead) and he says, and I fucking quote “If they hurt Willow I’ll kill you”

Suck my giant dick Xander Harris. Maybe you’re a teenager and you’re stupid, but still. that is not the kind of threat you make to a friend, let alone one who fucking weekly saves your selfish entitled ass

I get this is supposed to be a moment where we’re shown he cares about Willow, where there’s a hint there might be chemistry there, but all this comes off as is spiteful and Joss Whedon shoving it in our faces that Buffy is wrong

She’s wrong for feeling her feelings

She’s wrong for not immediately getting over the trauma and hardship Joss fucking Whedon wrote her into

She’s wrong for not immediately knowing what to do to make things better

In case it’s not obvious, I hate this and don’t accept it, but LET’S PRESS ON SHALL WE

Xander actually takes a second to fucking explain why they took the people they did. We cut to Buffy torturing the one vamp who attacked her before (no one’s ever gonna touch on the morality here. like ever. like what the shit guys fucking Supernatural handles this better). Then we go to some... ceremony to probably resurrect the Master. Buffy plots with Xander and Angel “I’m gonna kill them all, that oughtta distract them”*****

And then I guess the ritual almost happens????? There’s not super much threat. The anointed baby runs away and Buffy eventually kills everyone. There’s some cool fight moves, I guess. And Xander and Angel are vaguely helpful, but they mostly let Buffy do everything

Buffy then goes to smash the bones of the Master and FUCKING FINALLY gets to have an emotional moment. Angel comforts her (he still doesn’t deserve her but like at least he gives a shit so... that’s good, I guess, better that literally everyone else here******) . And everyone else looks on and thats???? really weird???? Like there’s no emoting in any of the faces and it just feels v strange

We go to the high school the next day???? and Cordelia talks to Jenny Calenday briefly. Then we go to Giles and Buffy, who (because Joss Whedon secretly hates her which is my thesis for this project btw) says she made all the goofs. All of it is Buffy’s fault you guys. She did everything wrong. Wow. What a concept. Wow. Can you believe it. Because I can’t. I literally can’t wowzers.

Buffy goes to class and... has a moment with Xander and Willow I guess???? They saved her a seat so... everything’s fine now??? idk what the fuck the emotional conclusion we’re supposed to get here is so

Whatevs

FINAL THOUGHTS: All in all, this episode did have an important emotional arc for Buffy and isn’t a bad season opener. It didn’t introduce the main villains, but it did deal with significant wrap ups from the previous season and alluded to some potential conflicts down the road.

*My ‘fuck Xanders are largely as a result of a later ‘fuck Xander viewpoint’ but I think it stands

**For the record, I don’t like Angel. I don’t like the Angel/Buffy relationship. BUT I will give Angel points where he gets them. And right now, he gives the most of a shit about Buffy, so he’s doing decent, not great, but decent in by books

***Buffy and Willow both tend to be iffy friends when there’s a significant other involved. It’s a recurring thing and it’s not great.

****I am legit giving Xander more of pass now because he’s a teenager. He should still know better than to be the intensely shitty shit that he is, but he’s 16 now. This will change in later seasons

*****Okay but how does no one notice or give a shit that Buffy’s dealing with some stuff. She’s 16. This is fucked up, fuck Giles, fuck the watchers, fuck Angel, fuck all of it

******Not to detract from the moment but Buffy’s definitely standing on a box here like. Sarah Michelle Gellar is tiny and David whatshisface is a giant

#diana hush #diana liveblogs buffy #liveblogging #btvs #mostly nonsense #if people like this i'll do more #i just have a lot of feelings and opinions about buffy #i hope no one following me likes xander harris cause hoo boy #i am not kind to him

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abakersquest · 7 years

Text

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – SKYSTONE TOWER

On the first floor there was a dark grey stone sculpture that, to Wally, looked like the shapes that formed when a drop of water fell into a bucket, and a staircase that spiraled up along the tower wall. It was cool, quiet, and the strange properties of the stone it was made from filled the space with a glow of twilight. With no other options the group rushed up the stone steps to the next floor and another pair of doors, identical to the first.

“Great, what do we have to say to open these?” Hector said as he crossed his arms.

The doors swung inward rapidly, revealing a space so dark that Wally had to reach past the door frame to make sure it wasn’t just black paint on a wall.

“They’re all like that,” the captain began. “The rooms are random every time y’ walk in. That’s the first trick of this here place.”

Looking away from the captain, Wistea, Wally, and Hector shared pensive glances.

“Count of three,” said Hector.

Side by side the four heroes counted aloud, and on three, stepped through the doorway in unison. The sensation of tumbling into an open space overtook each of them, but no rush of air to indicate that they fell. In the darkness there was no gauging orientation or range, there was only the lack of any footing and a bizarre static tumble, as if the great empty void were juggling them in place before setting them down somewhere.

Wally suddenly found himself on his feet in a very dimly lit room, a glance behind revealing a solid wall and no sign of the others. Ahead of him, a row of four tall and unlit candelabras stood just in the periphery of the unseen light source of the room. Wally fostered a small flame onto a finger tip and approached the nearest of them to light the candles when they lit on their own. As the light revealed more of the space and more candelabras, he walked forward, the candles all lighting on their own within his proximity, creating a straight line through what he could now see was a grid. Finally the light of the candelabras revealed more of the room and, thankfully, the door out.

“Well,” He said quietly. “Much as I’d like to play by the rules, I’m in a bit of a hurry, so, if you don’t mind…” He unsheathed the Stellar Flare, and with a few well aimed strikes, carved a sizable hole through one of the doors, slipping through it to once again find himself tumbling into nothingness and landing squarely in front of the very same row of candelabras he’d started with. “Oh, so you do mind.”

---

In a much brighter room, a round and narrow beam rested over a flaming pit. One close look showed the structure holding it allowed it to spin in place, no doubt to add extra difficulty to the crossing. At one end of the room; a pair of doors with a burning lock, on the other end, a slow drizzle of water and a very pensive Planaetian.

Wistea recognized the intent of the puzzle instantly, and knew she’d somehow have to get the water over to the lock to open the doors. With no empty vials or containers to spare, she pulled a washcloth from her small travel bag and held it under the water’s flow, soaking it. With a confident smile she bundled it in her hand and was careful not to squeeze as she approached the thin path across the gap. Suddenly, the flames rising from the pit changed color and the already heated air became nearly impossible to breathe. Wistea retreated backward as fast as she could and saw the fires below return to their previous state.

---

Hector sat on nothing, finding it solid enough to support his weight and broad enough to keep him from slipping off. When he’d landed in this room, there was no floor to be seen, merely a pair of doors in the far wall, and the invisible thing he currently perched on. A few careful steps at the onset told him it bore sheer edges, and no doubt a deadly fall awaited in the pitch darkness below. It wouldn’t be much of a trap if death weren’t a possibility.

“Well Hector, let’s weigh our position properly. The room is meant to be crossed, there’s a door and an invisible path leading to it over a precipice. Meaning cunning and guile are called for. You’ve got both in spades, sir. So stand up and get to work.” As he hopped onto his feet, he felt a section of the nothing he stood on shift, ahead more platforms, entirely suspended in open air, appeared for an all too brief flicker of seconds before moving into new positions and vanishing once more. Hector smiled, “a memory game then? Alright, I can handle that!”

---

Captain Blackeye knew the tower would no doubt remember him and offer up some new challenge to prove he was worthy to rise to the belfry once again. Before him however, was something entirely unexpected. A simple stone room with a table and two chairs; and at the table sat Polly’s mother, Annabelle. The captain scoffed at the obvious illusion, and shook his head as he sat down and grumbled, “she’s gone, y’ great miserable pile of stone. Ain’t no point in tryin’ to trick me with this.”

“It’s no trick, pappy,” replied Annabelle.

He flinched at the sound of her voice, at the happy and sad memories it brought with it. He could hardly bring himself to look at her as she smiled as serenely as he remembered, and held her head as high and proud as always. He shifted in his seat to hide her visage in his blind spot and looked off to the furthest corner of the room.

---

Wally carefully tapped more and more candelabras to light the room up and get a sense of the space, as he did three things became clear in the slowly growing light. One, touching a lit candelabrum again made the flames go out. Two, every candle lit made the room grow hotter. Three, around the frame of the door were depictions of the grid with patterns in them. The two closest to the ground he could make out, but the top of the door was still shrouded in darkness. As he lit more and more candelabras to try and reveal the hidden image, the air grew hotter and hotter. The irony of a baker who also happened to be a Fire Mage dying inside a veritable oven crossed his mind for a few seconds as he lit one more candelabrum and finally revealed the hidden pattern. Struggling against the aggressively heated air Wally memorized the revealed pattern and doused every candelabrum he could, hoping to cool down, instead he found himself panting as the air in the room seemed to be growing thinner.

---

Wistea left the damp cloth behind her and approached the fire pit slowly. As she grew close, the flames did not change. She went back to the cloth, holding it out before her as she inched forward. The flames surged as the cloth grew closer and died down as she moved it away. Experimentally she squeezed some water into her hand and moved it closer, the flames growing at the approach of the water in her cupped hand. With an errant inkling she reached her other hand over and covered the water, hiding it from sight. As the flames died down she smiled broadly, having confirmed her wild theory.

Now, she knew she couldn’t very well cross without using her arms for balance and she had nothing to carry the water with that would keep it hidden from sight. Once again thinking impulsively, she moved under the trickle of water and opened her mouth, filling it with the cool and fresh tasting water. With her cheeks bulging slightly, she slowly approached the flames and saw they stayed calm. A triumphant sound rung out her nostrils as she very slowly inched onto the beam.

---

As Hector made a leap of faith from one invisible platform to the next, he felt the unseen switch in it trigger on landing. Once again the hovering stone slats appeared and moved, but this time the one beneath his feet moved as well. He forced himself to focus only on memorizing the placement of the one platform closest to where he thought he’d end up. Something that felt like enormous clockwork vibrated beneath his feet as the platform seemed to lock into its new position. “Alright then Sir Hector, attention on the skirmish and not the whole battlefield. Details shall win the day over broad strokes.”

---

“Pappy, please look at me.” Annabelle calmly implored.

“… Y’know, last time I was here, y’ tried to crush me ‘tween the floor and ceilin’ less I knew to cross the room just right. Attention to detail over trustin’ brute force was the point. It taught me a new way to face my problems. I was young, stupid, and willin’ to charge blindly at whatever was ahead.” He finally looked up at Annabelle. “But this? What? That it’s alright to mourn? Cry? Admit to loss? I’M SEVENTY-TWO YEARS OLD! I’VE LOST MORE FRIENDS N’ LOVED ONES THAN MOST MEET IN HALF THE TIME! Y’ THINK I DON’T KNOW THAT?!” He shuddered in both grief and anger and started directly at the image of his surrogate daughter. “I… Watched the place I was born turn to ruin and ashes… Crewmates, friends, all cut to pieces by my side…”

“My ship was sunk off the coast of Animana,” said a male voice that approached unseen, “when the first Sauroian boats came in from the north.”

The captain looked up to see Polly’s father, Francois, take a place by his wife’s side.

“I was sick when you were away,” she added. “I went to sleep and never woke.”

The memory of finding Polly almost starved in her crib and Annabelle long dead in her bed rocked Blackeye down to his soul.

“Pappy,” she began. “This ain’t a punishment or trial, it’s a gift. Somethin’ for being who you’ve always been. Y’ given away so much for the sake of others, it’s time y’ got somethin’ back. So here, now, you can finally say the word.”

“The word?” He barely uttered.

They smiled at him waiting patiently.

Realization slowly washed over as he found the strength to look at them both. “The word I got to say for all the others but not for the two I raised like my own… The word I came to hate the older I got…” He reached out over the table and they took his hands. With his mighty voice a weakened tremble and tears flooding his vision, he forced a smile and finally said, “Goodbye.”

---

Cooking in his armor, Wally entered the last pattern of lights and silently prayed the doors would open as he warily tapped the last in the sequence. The doors popped open and a rush of fresh cool air flooded in and doused the lights. With a sigh of relief he took off his helmet and shook his head in the breeze as he walked up to the door. Standing in the frame he looked back over the room and had a thought, that simply lighting all the flames would’ve killed him, but careful ignition had seen him through, if a bit crispy around the edges. He shook thoughts of a hundred burnt trays of cookies from his mind and continued through the doorway, once more tumbling into idle darkness.

The next room he found himself in was round and wide, with a glow akin to when they’d first entered the tower. Like before, the only doors out were immediately ahead, but between him and the exit stood a figure in armor. The stranger drew their sword, and Wally flinched in shock as he saw it was a duplicate of the Stellar Flare.

Instinctively, he reached back for his sword’s grip. As he did, his would-be opponent entered a ready stance.

“Wait…” Wally said quietly. He slowly released the grip and lowered his hand. The armored stranger responded in kind, sheathing his copy of the Flare. “You see someone you don’t know draw a weapon, most’d just react to a fight. Have to remember you’re being tested.” A memory flashed by of his brother Dale, explaining why he was the best choice to carry the Stellar Flare. With a fearless gait, he walked toward the unknown warrior, bowed his head slightly as he passed, and walked to the now opening doors.

Just before passing through them, curiosity urged him to look back. As his head turned the warrior removed his helmet and revealed himself to Wally. For a second or two, the wallaby was confused, what stood before him appeared to be a much older Hector. Thinking twice, he smiled and nodded his head before addressing him. “Sir Hammond,” he announced proudly, “I shall continue to do my best in your stead.”

Sir Hammond the Only bowed respectfully to his successor and vanished from sight.

Wally was happy to find his footing after tumbling through the aimless darkness for a third time, finding himself in a room identical to the tower’s entry. Waiting patiently against the far wall, Blackeye perked up and smiled.

“Glad to see ya made it, Mr. Walter!”

“Captain, I can see why this place took days off your life.”

“Worst part, no way to tell how long we been.”

Behind Wally A fog of colors and shapes suddenly snapped together to form Wistea, who stumbled forward to regain her equilibrium.

“Oh! I hope you two haven’t been waiting too long. That felt like it took at least an hour…”

“S’different for everyone,” the captain replied. “I came this far with two mates last time; the rest got shunted out beforehand. Don’t ask me how the tower picks, just does. Went for the stairs and I was the only one who could climb’em. When they tried, the stairs just kept loopin’ ‘til they walked back down and found themselves back at the front door.”

“Better than being cooked, if you ask me.” Wally said casually.

“Ugh, I wish fire had been the worst part of my trial,” Wistea huffed. “I am not sure what was worse, having to potentially fight a manifested image of my brother, or having to spit water onto a burning lock.”

They both stared until Blackeye started laughing and Wally tried desperately to intercede it by explaining what it could have meant in context.

Wistea knew what it meant to her, the sacrifice of dignity and the willingness to face danger despite it. Her pride and propriety would be an exploitable weakness if she didn’t manage it carefully. Still, she felt she didn’t need a magic tower to prove that to her, she’d already figured it out herself. So while Wally was pleasantly surprised to see her laughing at her own expense, she was simply happy to enjoy the comedy of it.

As the wait for Hector continued, Wally eventually found a place to sit and take stock of his surroundings before speaking again. “Is it… I hesitate to say ‘normal,’ but every magical or magic adjacent place I’ve been seems to erase all sense of time. It becomes this sort of perpetual twilight of morning and night where every moment bleeds into the next with no transition.”

Wistea sat across from him and wistfully lectured. “Lady Longaea of the clan Pinus once theorized that places that are unpopulated are pools of ‘idle time.’ Where time that passes unobserved collects and creates a sense of timelessness.”

“Which has become a bit of a hassle now that we’re in such a hurry to stop some power mad lunatic from destroying the world,” Wally grumbled impatiently. “Hector better get here soon.”

“But that is the issue, Wally. We have no way of knowing what soon is relative to-”

Hector snapped into existence beside them with the sound of jostled armor.

“Well, from here anyone would call that at least ‘soonish,’” Wistea concluded.

“Alright crew, let’s head up!” Blackeye was closest to the stairs and proceeded up them followed by the others.

“Hector, been meaning to ask… You’re not gonna try to cut off any of my fingers, right?” Wally joked to pass the time up the stairs.

“Oh come now, Wally. I’d never do that! Besides, Jason was a no-account thug who constantly bullied everyone around him. All I did was take him down a peg or two.”

“Also a finger or two,” Wistea added.

“They were sewn back on, and only slightly crooked afterwards!”

They climbed higher and higher, the tone of light from the stones around them soon matching the colors of a moonlit night. Above them, they could hear the sounds of armor clattering and heavy footfalls. With wills steeled for any sight, the four warriors dashed the final distance and emerged unto the belfry with weapons and magic at the ready.

A gigantic platinum bell floated unencumbered before them, though it hadn’t been struck and seemed to lack any form of clapper, it produced a serene hum. Around it, each of the belfry walls bore mystically animated stained glass depictions of weather from all four seasons. Silvery moonlight, unperturbed by the colors of the glass, painted everything in its light as if a full moon hung directly over their heads. It gave them all a clear view of the figure just walking around the bell to face them.

Its armor was a tarnished black assemblage, with no decoration or ostentatious features save a strange grill design to the bottom of the breastplate. However, one could hardly call the thick slab of metal that covered the front of this strangely bloated form a ‘breastplate.’ It was as if someone had forged the shape of a bag in iron and decided to add large arms and stout legs to the whole thing. It approached them without a word, its footsteps every bit the tremor producing stomps that the Black Rock Knights gave off.

Wally could barely get a sense of the thing standing before him. Its armor implied a strange body underneath that may very well have been so odd as to rob him of his insight. But in the grill shaped visor of the cylindrical helm it wore, Wally could see something that made him leap ahead of everyone else. The armored foe belched a fount of flames from its head that Wally intercepted in time to block. The broadside of the flare sent the conflagration left and right of the party’s position.

The stream of fire halted as suddenly as it had emerged, and the enormous metal thing stopped to seemingly consider what stood before him.

Wally readied himself for anything, excited flits of flame dancing across the blade of the Flare.

“Will you not attack?” the thing announced in a deep masculine voice that sprang from within the echoing depths of its armor.

“Not if I don’t absolutely have to,” Wally replied.

“Interesting.” He reached his gauntleted hands out, and from small apertures in the palms flames emerged and moved unnaturally. They turned into a column between his outstretched hands before quickly evaporating and leaving behind a massive war hammer in the space they’d occupied. “Understand then that I am the Indomitable Smith, a general in Kota’s army, I must fight you.”

Wally knit his brow and tightened his grip on the Flare. “Must because you’ve been ordered to, or because you wish to?”

“Both.” With that, the Smith charged forward and began to swipe his hammer sideways with one hand.

Wally sprang over the hammer, swinging the Flare at the top of his jump to send a fireball directly at the Smith’s visor, hoping to momentarily stun him.

The flames were inhaled into his helmet, and without pause he snatched Wally out of the air and hurled him against the bell producing a painful but harmonious tone.

The others moved to help him, but another belt of flame exploded from the Smith’s helmet and blocked their path. From the instant inferno emerged a Black Rock Knight, still streaming from its fiery origins, and already rushing toward them.

Captain Blackeye launched a powerful blast of pressurized water from his palm, staggering the artificial soldier. “Always wondered where these blasted things came from!”

“Hold it off as long as you can, captain!” Hector shouted as he channeled energy into his sword. “Wistea, go see if you can help Wally!”

The irony of having his bell quite literally rung was entirely lost on Wally as he struggled to shake off the resultant daze. Unfortunately, as his vision finally came back into focus, his eyes met the oncoming head of the Smith’s terrible hammer.

“FERROUS MUSICA!” Wistea’s mystic shout brought with it a spontaneous tree in the path of the hammer strike. The tree twanged like a smashed string instrument, but absorbed the blow entirely.

Finally shaking off the crash, Wally sheathed the Flare and rushed to close the gap between himself and the Indomitable Smith, the top of his helmet just skidding under a grasping arm. With feet securely planted and fingers tightly gripping the grill in the Smith’s breastplate, Wally could feel the dread general inhaling air, no doubt readying another blast of flame.

This stopped as soon as Wally forced the Smith clean off his feet, and with a shout of effort, he hurled him across the belfry and into one of the stained glass displays. Much to Wally’s dismay the glass didn’t shatter, it didn’t even crack.

At that moment, Blackeye fended off the forked blade of the Black Rock Knight, stalling for Hector while getting in a few good shots of his own.

“CAPTAIN, GET CLEAR!”

With no need to be told twice, a sudden and brief geyser launched Blackeye upwards, narrowly avoiding a broadside slash.

“Eight forms to one shape, from heart to hand and strike! LIGHTNING FLASH!” Hector vanished and reappeared behind the massive soldier, in seconds an array of electrical sparks exploded into being on the creatures upper arms, taking large chunks from them.

It began to turn and ready a strike just as Blackeye landed. He slashed once with his harpoon and knocked the striking arm clean off. Unimpeded by the loss of a limb, it reared its other arm back, only to have it bashed off in the exact same fashion.

Standing still briefly to consider its lost limbs, it looked toward the sneering old shark responsible and ducked its head to unleash a powerful charge the captain wasn’t ready for. The wind knocked out of him, the captain staggered and lost his footing, falling flat onto his back. The Black Rock Knight stomped heavily forward, aiming to bring a foot down through Blackeye’s chest before Hector threw it off balance with a just barely effective shoulder tackle.

The knight struggled to regain its balance with its shattered limbs, flailing the stubs to keep itself upright.

Hector shouted. “Captain! Ice the floor!”

Blackeye grunted and slapped his hand onto the floor, sending a fast spreading creep of ice across it that slid under the armored titan’s feet. Its flailing for balance reached a fever pitch right when Hector booted it in the chest as hard as he could, planting it firmly onto its back with a cacophonous thud. The two watched carefully as it struggled and failed to right itself.

Hector steadied his breathing, focused to best tap his limited reserved and slashed downward toward the knight’s chest, where an otherworldly bolt of lightning crashed dead center and cracked its torso. As the knight struggled the cracks worsened until the might of its own thrashing tore it apart.

On the opposite end of the belfry, Wally and Wistea stood before the Indomitable Smith as he picked himself up.

“Your magic is Fire. It cannot defeat me as it did the Thorned Princess or the Ragged Rogue.” Its deep voice rumbled inside its helmet like a hammer thrown into an empty pipe.

Wally felt certain now, somehow this being was hollow, or that whatever was inside the bizarrely pot-bellied armor had almost no substance to it. He treated the general’s words with the same weight.

“But I no longer need to fight you. My mission here is accomplished.”

Just as Wistea was about to ask what he meant, the tower shook violently, the bell sounding an awful tone that filled the room with a sense of dread. One of the belfry walls exploded in a dynamic cascade of debris that knocked everyone but the Smith off their feet. Struggling to stand and see through the fog of destruction, Wally watched as the Smith dove from the blasted open wall and snagged onto a wire hanging from the flying fortress. He saw entirely ineffectual lightning bolts pointlessly splashing over the armor of both the ship and the Smith. As it rose, larger cables attached to the ship pulled up from the whirlpool below an enormous conch shell that shimmered like a prism with two Black Rock Knights atop it.

“NO!” Blackeye shouted. “THEY’RE TAKIN’ THE FOUNT!”

The mystical artifact hung well beyond the reach of any of them, and they could only watch as one of the knights produced a small object from a satchel clipped to its waist. It held this small thing near its mystical perch and a bright blue aura of light shone like the sun for a measure of seconds before it was violently pulled from the Fount, and was trapped inside the knight’s device. The shine of the Fount quickly faded, leaving it a dull grey stone. The knights who rode upon it untied the wires, and the great dead thing tumbled down to the now unstable sea.

The Storm Bell’s chime was more akin to a pained shout as the tower began to fall. The group inside joined together and struggled to keep what footing they could as the floor lost its stability. Somehow, beyond the tumult of the angry ocean outside, Wally could hear a faint yet desperate voice calling out to them.

“Polly… IT’S POLLY!”

They all looked up and out the hole in the belfry, simultaneously spotting the God’s Fortune cresting over a wave. The captain growled and outstretched both his arms, muscles straining as the water between them and the Fortune bent to his will.

“EVERYONE JUMP!” He shouted.

Without hesitation they all leapt into what had quickly formed into a corridor of water and slid down it onto the deck of the Fortune. The second Blackeye landed he shouted. “POLLY, FIRE THE KETTLE!”

She slammed the switch into place and the ship took off like a shot over the chaotic sea.

The Indomitable Smith was pulled up into the vessel’s dispatch port where an armored Insicai stood waiting.

“The cannon array is readied, general. We will fire on the targets when they reach optimal range.”

“All has gone as planned,” The Smith replied. “The Flarebearer had no way to reach the Fount, and my actions in the tower’s belfry kept them sufficiently distracted during extraction. When we destroy the target, we shall return to Insicai and prepare for our mission to Orni’Hu”

The Insicai soldier crossed his arms in salute, “understood, my general.”

<[Chapter 17]–[Index]–[Chapter 19]>

#A Baker's Quest #Writing

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