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#call of the wild
nobrashfestivity · 5 months
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René Bull, Illustration for Jack London's "Call of the Wild" 1903
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ybon-paramoux · 1 month
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Yousuke Kawashima - Call of the Wild
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boanerges20 · 1 year
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Motolove. Call Of The Wild.
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ashen-wing · 6 months
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I’ve been thinking about this subject since we had a discussion on it the discord server, but it definitely opened my eyes in a way and it made me realize something crucial:
Xenofiction shouldn’t have to stick to realism all the time and shouldn’t be afraid to go to different places thematically.
I love realistic xenofiction, but that is also the problem; it hasnt’ changed at all. That is another reason why most xenofiction has never impacted me; because they all are kinda the same. I feel like sticking to basic realism has seriously left the sub-genre stagnant, as they all do nothing new but explore the same themes over and over (like environmentalism for example being the most egregious). I wish xenofiction would take a different unconventional approach with more creative twists to them in terms of themes and storytelling. We need more elements, tropes and themes lifted from fantasy and sci-fi. Something like Dune but in an animal world (granted I’ve never read it, but it sounds cool from what I hear, as it did break the mold of standard sci-fi at the time).
Something to spice it up a bit, you know?
Everyone just kept trying to imitate Watership Down, and the sub-genre has been stuck like this for decades at this point, with no breakthroughs. I personally think that Duncton Wood and its sequels managed to break that mold, but hardly anyone knows of those books and I have yet to read any books like those in the sub-genre that have high fantasy and spiritual themes\tropes in them, with huge worlds to explore with lots of lore and mysticism, stretched across multiple volumes. But sadly, who knows when we’ll get some kind of monumental achievement like in the ‘70s, as most readers hardly ever read these “silly children’s books”.
I don’t care how crazy or outlandish those future books will be..As long as they can bring some new flavors to this otherwise stale sub-genre, I’ll be content.
I hate to say it, but we’re in need of a Xenofiction Renaissance of some kind.
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graytrailcam · 3 months
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Images done for Call Of The Wild (2020) done by Yoshihiro Takahashi
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prissnukem · 9 months
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mtg-cards-hourly · 14 days
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Call of the Wild
From a whisper to a roar, the call is heard by all and refused by none.
Artist: Paolo Parente TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link
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annemarieyeretzian · 1 year
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the only problem with playing dorian’s response in the recap is I am, genuinely, not taking anything else in at all. I will be thinking about robbie daymond choosing to open with a breathy “oh, orym...” and saying “my heart aches...” for the next 3-5 hours.
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oliviarampaige · 1 year
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“L'Appel de la Foret”
Day 12 - Forget
↟ ↟ The forest’s call ↟ ↟
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ivaspinoza · 20 days
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earthstellar · 6 months
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Beast Wars - Integrating Bot and Beast, Processor and Spark: What Defines the Cybertronian Sense of Personal Identity? An Analysis
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"Once, we were merely robots in disguise! But on this planet, we Maximals have become something more. Maximal programming was designed to block our beast urges, but that has proven to be an error.
Our beast forms are part of us. Fighting our nature only made them stronger. We must accept both beast and robot forms.
Feel your core consciousness, find the programming block, and delete it!
Bring your beast and robot forms together! Let them work in harmony! And let them both make you stronger than you were before."
-Tigatron, Call of the Wild, S1 E19 Beast Wars
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There isn't much elaboration as to what "core consciousness" refers to, but we can assume it's the core of a Cybertronian's being and contains the basest elements of their personality etc., which suggests this may be both spark and processor related--In humans, our frontal lobe is where much of our decision making and opinion forming takes place, and that can be a significant part of someone's individual personality!
In Cybertronians, in various continuities, it is implied that the spark contains one's unique personal elements, what makes you, you.
In IDW 1, the reason why mnemosurgery is so frightening (in part, at least) is because it can alter your personality via altering your memories or by otherwise influencing your thoughts from that point onward-- So that is perhaps equally as significant as the individual's spark, in terms of personal identity.
Your experiences as a person help form who you are as an individual, just as much as your unique "spark" does.
Your life is unique, and what happens in it, how you perceive and experience those events, how those things change you and grow you into your own person, are also unique to you. On a mental level, we are all unique. Even if many people experience the same event, each individual person may perceive that event differently, with different feelings and understandings of what happened.
Likewise, physically, we are all unique-- Even though we are all the genetic product of our parents and ancestors, with epigenetic elements factoring in as well, this only serves to further individualise us.
Personal identity is a complex subject, and we don't have much clarity in most TF canon as to how Cybertronians may experience, contextualise, or define this-- And when it is touched upon as a subject, it tends to vary from continuity to continuity in various ways.
However, with a focus on Beast Wars, Call of the Wild addresses a potential incongruity between Beast and Bot modes; There is a conflict between the Cybertronian aspects of self, and the Beast aspects of self.
An innate clash between organic and mechanical.
As Tigatron states, there is a coding component to this clash: "Find the programming block, and delete it!"
This suggests there may be difficulty integrating organic/beastmode sense of self (the more base, animalistic organic instincts) with the more complex Cybertronian thought processes,which are mechanical in nature.
Whether a Cybertronian's "core consciousness" may be defined as being spark based, processor based, or both is not entirely clarified; However in other TF continuities like IDW 1, special importance is placed on a spark's individual or unique properties-- Such as with the Point One Percenters, which are noted for having particularly rare or unique aspects to their sparks.
So it may well be a combination of both, although in Beast Wars this is unclear.
Either way, it seems (at lest in Beast Wars) as though bots with beastmodes may have some difficulty integrating their separate modes, mechanical root mode and beast alt-mode-- And if these two distinct halves of the self are not integrated successfully, this may lead to losing one's sense of self to one's base organic instincts: Going feral.
Tigatron's method of resolving this issue and what he recommends to the others suggests there is a conscious, mental component to this: One can fight through the haze of organic animal behaviour, and make an effort to allow one's
It isn't actually 100% clear what this means, though!
How do the two aspects of self actually integrate? What are the implications of this for the individual, how does this potentially alter the singular sense of one's self identity? Is a new "self" produced, one that is equally organic and mechanical? How might this change their perception, thought processes, behaviour, etc?
The implications of this are huge, which is why I find it so interesting.
Having a beastmode may in and of itself alter one's sense of self and personal identity all together; Thought processes may be unique, may not be entirely Cybertronian, may not be entirely organic, a special blend of two vastly different natures within a single entity.
It varies based on continuity: There are some bots who were forged or otherwise created with beastmodes. There are some bots from colony worlds in which beastmodes are the default alt-modes. And there are some bots who obtain beastmodes later in life, long after their initial sense of self has been developed.
The concern in Call of the Wild comes from the concept that the bots are losing their Cybertronian sense of identity and upper/complex cognitive processes, as their frames adapt and seemingly develop a preference for their beastmode base instinctual behaviours beyond their conscious control.
The idea that this is even a possibility for Cybertronians with beastmodes is fascinating, and how any ultimate internal resolution or cohesive integration of organic and mechanical aspects of self actually occurs (and the total impact of that on the individual) is left undefined in any further detail.
After this, mostly things return to normal--But Tigatron notes that achieving this integration is something that makes them stronger.
This is likely referring to both a physical and mental stability that occurs once a beastformer has reconciled the differences between their modes of being, but it's not 100% clear if this may have other implications-- For example, there may possibly be increased physical strength or agility when one is more in-sync with their beast alt-mode, or one may be better able to utilise their enhanced sensory suite (playing off of the traits of whatever their beastmode might be), and so on.
If one fails to integrate their different modes, it is implied that they are then resigned to acting out their most base organic/animal instincts, unable to access their higher processing or Cybertronian root mode functions.
Essentially, beastmodes can potentially go feral.
And that's pretty wild to think about.
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CHRIS: Commencing tomorrow, part one, “The Call of the Wild”.
NORTHERN EXPOSURE 3.16 Three Amigos
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ganymede-princess · 2 months
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The Craving | Jack Conroy
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ship: Jack Conroy x fem!OC
warnings: mentions of death, brief description of healed frostbite
summary: Jack meets a musher girl on his first day in Alaska.
word count: 2826
a/n: I am actually extremely proud of this so I hope somebody reads it haha
written by @ganymedeprincess
This story can be read as a one-shot or as the first chapter of a larger fic which can be read here.
Living in the Yukon, you get used to craving. You crave warmth, food that doesn’t come from a can, a bed with a real mattress and a roof over it, the sight of a fresh face and fresh conversation. I had been out there for nearly seven years by the time I met Jack Conroy, and nearing my seventeenth birthday too. I stood at the edge of our camp, watching the prospectors stumble out of the narrow passage at the top of the pass, like rats spewing from a drainpipe. He caught my eye then, beet-red and fresh of face, dressed warm, but not warm enough, his eyes glazed with exhaustion and wonder. He reminded me of myself the first time I climbed the Golden Staircase, back when snow still glittered like pixie dust, and my father’s promise of a gold seam to call our own didn’t ring hollow as the wind through an empty mine. I knew Conroy instantly; the mirror of his father, the man who raised me better than my own. I kept my head down as he looked around, knowing he was there for Alex, but not wanting to face it. The Yukon would turn that boy hard as ice before long, and I didn’t want to watch it happen.
As he traipsed over to us, I crossed my arms and glared at him. Go home, Conroy. I thought. Go shack up somewhere warm, and be happy. He didn’t look at me once, so consumed with his mission. I shielded my face and retreated to the tent. The coffin was easier to face than Alex breaking his heart. Despite my reluctance, I knew I would not have minded taking him on. There were few young people so far into the mountains, except the few kids at the Tlingit village along the trail, but we never stayed long enough to get to know them. The boy could become my companion, of sorts. We would take him north-west from Dyea to Klondike, then set him loose to find his way to the Conroy claim to spend a few months frantically digging into the hill; and go home colder, hungrier, and poorer in spirit. I wouldn’t even have to see it break him. Alex wasn’t like that. He was a pragmatist. He and Skunker knew how to mush, and they took me on because I was the best scout you’d ever need, thanks to my daddy’s training. This boy was a city slicker, and the best he could offer the team was a morale boost, and Skunker was already too cheerful for Alex’s liking. We couldn’t take him. He’d be a dead weight. I tried to close my ears to his charming, eager voice as he tried to butter up old Larson. Soon enough, Alex stepped into the tent and nodded for me to help him lift the coffin. I set my teeth and heaved it. ‘Heavy’ doesn’t begin to cut it.
“Who’s in there?” Conroy asked, puffing a white cloud as he tried to catch his breath.
“Name’s Dutch.” Alex caught my eye and nodded in acknowledgement. I said nothing.
As sweet as his cold, dead daddy, Jack Conroy helped me lift the box. He waffled on in a voice tense with effort, about maps and letters, and gold dust in an envelope his father sent him on his deathbed. My heart ached at the thought of kind old Scotty, dying alone in his claim with that grey lump of diphtheria in his throat. We found him frozen one winter a few years past, and I left a bundle of purple lupines on his grave. My eyes started to burn and something in my throat thickened as I finished tying up my corner of the sled. I pushed past Jack to tie his side. He stumbled, his shoes struggling for purchase on the packed snow. Wolfish fury passed over his face as he regained his footing, then he calmed and went back to pleading his case.
“Everybody finds a little gold dust.” Alex assured him. “That’s what keeps you digging. But you have to strike it, and your father didn’t. Go home and find a regular job. You wouldn’t last a day out here.”
Something odd happened then. I caught the boy’s eye, still glimmering with hope, and realised three nuggets of truth at once: one; this boy was no stranger to craving adventure, glory, and a namesake, but craving food, craving heat? He had never wanted for these things in his life. Two; he had that grit in his teeth that showed the true conviction of his words. He would try to journey to the Conroy claim, with or without our help. And three; I had never known craving until I craved him.
“I’m a good worker, and I just want what’s mine.” He insisted, his soft voice strained in earnest as he trailed Alex’s heels. “I’m asking you to give me a chance.”
“Skunker!” I slapped the old man’s feet, sending him thrashing into wakefulness. You better back me up here you stinkin’ old bastard.
“Damn, what is it?” He exclaimed, limbs flailing as he leapt to his feet. “Alex!” He breezed past both Jack and me, still dazed with one foot in a fancy. “I was dreaming you, me, and Dutch was livin’ it up in Frisco! ‘Lil Quinn at a real college, the works!”
“Get the dogs ready.” Alex said coldly. This was his way.
“I hope Dutch appreciates this ride.” Skunker bemoaned, ignoring Alex’s crotchety comment and making no attempt to hide his annoyance for my sake. I damn well agreed with him. “‘Cause you shoulda died at your digs!” He hit the coffin with his fist. “Saved us a trip back.”
“Are you going near my father’s claim?”
“Scott Conroy’s son!” I called after Skunker. He turned on his heels, a half sceptical look on his face.
“What? Lemme see that face, kid.” He got up in the boy’s face and grabbed him by the chin, inspecting him close with beady eyes. Jack held his breath against the smell. “My God, Alex, he’s the spittin’ image of his old man! And I knew ya pa well. Clarence Thurston.”
“Jack Conroy.” Skunker slapped him into a frenzied handshake.
“You throwin’ in with us?” I knew I could trust old Skunker to have my back. I didn’t even have to plead a case for him.
“Yeah, I’d like to.”
“No.” Alex said simply. I knew this wouldn’t be easy.
“No? You’re taking him with you and you’re not gonna take me? He looks half dead already!”
I giggled. The first laugh I’d had since my daddy kicked the bucket. I slapped a mitten over my mouth to hide it and slipped away to wake up the dogs while Skunker bartered some gum out of him as an apology. Our wheelers, Fritz and Fatty, stirred and wagged their tails as I ran my hands through their fur, whining and baring their teeth in greeting.
“Hey, don’t worry about him.” Skunker assured him, waking up Digger and George, our swing team. “He’s just tired, that’s all.”
“Yeah, or he knows there’s gold out there and wants it for himself.”
“Woah, boy! You got the harness on the wrong dog.”
“Conroy.” I spoke up, meeting his hostile stare and forcing a calm over my body despite how flustered I felt. “If there’s one man you can trust in this damn place it's Alex Larson.”
He scoffed, seeming to ignore my words entirely, and rounded on Alex.
“Listen, if you don’t wanna take me, I’ll go by myself. I’ll get rich by myself too.”
“I think he’s crazy enough to do it Alex!”
“Skunker’s right.” I left the wheelers and sidled up beside him. “The Yukon will swallow him whole, we gotta take him.”
“Quinn, we can’t take him just because you think he’s cute.” Alex put on a shit-eating grin and tapped my arm with his glove.
“It’s not jus’ that.” My face heated up, but I saw no sense in denying it if it was already that obvious. “He’s got a musher’s spirit in him, even if he is green as snow peas, and I don’t wanna find him dead in the woods come summer and know we killed him.”
“Come on, Alex, he’s Scott’s boy!” Thank you Skunker! “Look at him, huh? How much trouble could he be?”
He cast a final sceptical glance at Jack, but conceded. Skunker winked. I stared him down for a second, admiring the swoop of his dark blonde hair, then let my lips twitch into a curt smile.
“I’ll take you as far as Klondike. Fall behind, and I’ll leave you where you drop. Understand?” Alex was all talk, as usual. Even if he wasn’t, he would realise soon enough that leaving this boy in the snow would mean signing two death papers at the Klondike post office.
“Yes, sir.” Jack beamed. At the sight of his smile, I felt the craving stir again, paired with a healthy portion of despair. I knew a virile young man like that would never make do with a musher girl who had lived amongst men so long that she had nearly become one, and often felt more dog than person; but to travel beside him for a while would be a gift.
Alex retreated to the tent to nurse his regret, and Skunker went out to the tuck tent to get some minced meat for the dogs. I went back to playing with the pack, settling beside them and letting the six team dogs crowd around me and vie for my attention. Jack came to sit beside me, eying me as cautiously as the dogs. The thin, agouti bitch who laid at the edge of the group got to her paws and came to watch him with her ice blue eyes. Her body was relaxed, though she let out a deep rumble
“Connie.” She turned her ear to me, but kept her eyes hard on the boy. “He’s a fine boy, he won’t hurt me. He’s Scotty’s boy.” Her ear twitched back up at Scott’s name. “Heel, Connie.” She stepped over to me, eyes always trained on Jack. “Sit now, girl.” She did. I reached over and laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder, stroking it like I would a dog. “Now do the same to me.” His eyes flickered to me, hesitant, but he did as I said. Connie cocked her head, then pinned her ears back and wagged her tail. “See girl, he’s alright.”
“Can I touch her?” His voice was full of wonder.
“You have to ask her. Give her your fist. Gentle now.”
Slowly, he raised his fist to her. Their eyes met. Connie froze, and for a long moment I thought she might bite him, but then her body relaxed and she licked his hand, then his arm, and soon she had climbed all the way on top of him to lick his chops. He giggled and squirmed under her weight and collapsed onto his back.
“Connie! Settle down, girl, he ain’t for eatin’! I know he looks tasty.” I wrapped my arms around her middle and lifted her off him.
“Thank you,” He puffed, clambering off the snow. “Um…”
“Quinn.” Meeting his eyes was almost painful. They were so blue, like a clear day when the sky reflects on the snow so bright it’s almost blinding.
“Ah, thank you, Quinn.”
I looked away and stroked down Connie’s hackles. Setting my teeth together to keep from chattering. Nerves make the cold so much harder to bear.
“How’d a girl like you wind up out here?”
“You noticed, huh?” I raised my eyebrows. “Not many folks do these days. I got used to being called ‘son’ years ago, on account of my boyish charms.” To his credit, Jack chuckles, though I was sure that must have been the first joke I’d told anyone but Connie-dog. “Doesn’t help having a boy’s name, neither.”
“I think Quinn’s a fine name for a girl.” He said it earnestly enough that I managed to spare a glance at him. “And I knew you were a girl as soon as I saw you.” I said nothing, only squished some snow between my fingers to hide my squirming. I almost wished he hadn’t seen me at all. “‘Cause I’d never known a boy to be that pretty.”
“Now, Jack-” I started, my embarrassment trying hard to fester itself into anger. Well, ain’t you living proof to the contrary?
“It’s the truth!” He shifted closer to me, and I shifted away in return, bringing my knees up to my chest and pulling my scarf over my nose. “So how did you end up out here?”
“Mushin,’” I gave him a sidelong glance. “Been out here with my daddy since I’s ten. It’s how I make my living.”
“Who’s your da- your father, who is he?” His face reddened, making me giggle. I hid my face in my knees to cover it.
“Who’s my daddy?” I lean a little closer, enjoying being the one to make him squirm. “Well, he’s a fella by the name o’ Ysbrandt Maarschalkerweerd, but ain’t nobody this side the Atlantic can pronounce that, so they jus’ called him Dutch.”
“Oh.” He took a moment to digest it. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, that’s life.”
“I-I suppose?”
“It is. People just up and die out here sometimes.” I pushed away one of the team dogs from licking up my ear without checking who it was. “It’s not so bad.”
“You don’t miss him?”
“Not as much as I miss yours.” I admitted. “He was more of a father to me than my own ever was.”
“Really?” He leaned in, brow furrowed in contemplation.
“Yeah. He checked on me a lot, and one time- musta been about thirteen- I stayed with him at the claim for nearin’ six months while daddy and Skunker mushed supplies up to Nome. That’s when he bought Connie-dog for me. We went down to Klondike a fair bit to watch the fiddlers, see, and one time there’s a little boy sellin’ puppies. Turns out ol’ Colton’s lead bitch got knocked up by a wolf while they were out in the woods. Cost your daddy a whole dollar, but she’s been an asset ever since.”
“Wow.” He stroked the brindled fur between her eyes with reverence.
“It’s right we take you to Klondike. I think if you live an honest life out here- you stay true, you never rob, or hurt your dogs- your bones turn into a new gold seam when you die. Your pa never struck gold, but he might have made some for you.”
“Huh.” He looked thoughtful.
“Don’t let this place kill your kindness, Jack. You might leave some gold behind.”
“I won’t.” He noticed the scepticism on my face and added more emphatically: “I won’t.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen and still a green lil’ bean.” I shook my head. “You need better gear ‘n this. C’mon.”
He followed me dutifully to the sled where I dug around in my pack and produced my spare scarf, wool trapper hat that I usually wore under my coonskin, and a spare pair of fur cover-gloves to wear over his mittens.
“When you’re out in it, keep a scarf around your nose and mouth.” I pull the glove off my left hand with my teeth and show him the stub of my pinky finger, the missing tip on my index, and the hollow gouged into the pad at the base of my thumb. “‘Else you’ll lose ‘em like my fingers.” His eyes widened. “Wear these gloves over your mittens. I don’t have another coonskin, but you need more’n a baker’s cap to protect your ears. Tie it under your chin so it don’t blow off. You do that, you keep up with the sled, an’ you respect these dogs, and you’ll make it to Klondike with nothing missing.”
“Will they bite me?” He casted a nervous glance at the pack.
“No, but if you try anything abnormal I’ll bite you. They call me Dogtooth up at the Tlingit camp ‘cause a boy tried it on wi’ me and I bit square through his pecker.”
“Really?” He cringed, taking a step back.
“No.” I put my glove back on, smirking. “But you believed me, which gotta count for somethin.’”
“Did not!” 
“Did too!”
“Fightin’ already?” Skunker called out, hobbling along with two buckets full of fish.
“No, Skunker!” I waved him off. “Did too. Now come feed the puppies ‘fore they starve, get in their good graces.”
I turned to walk away, but Jack caught my shoulder and pushed himself flush against my back. I felt my heart quicken in that terrible, delicious rhythm as his lips brushed my ear. Every inch of me trembling with a craving like I had never felt.
“Did. Not.”
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boanerges20 · 1 year
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Motolove. Call Of The Wild.
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ashen-wing · 1 year
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My Discord server called The Xenofiction Literary Universe is now LIVE.
NOTE: It is an 18+ server
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friku8706 · 1 year
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You know, if they make more Puss in Boots movies, it'd be so sick if they reincorporated Death's character again, but more subtly.
Like when Puss is faced with dying or life risking situations, he sees Death in a vision watching him, which encourages him to keep pushing on. It would be especially impactful if the moment involves Puss fighting for the greater good without thinking about his own rewards or fame, because we know Death only wanted him to appreciate his life and not be so self centered.
I imagine a scene similar to Buck seeing the black wolf when he's losing his fight against Spitz in the Call of the Wild movie:
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