#Faris would insist they carry him the entire way | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thelevinary · 4 years

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Dealer's Choice, so feel free to pick one, some or all of these three: H38, with Faris & El (with or without Luminerik, heh); H2, Hendrik and literally anybody but Jade might be funniest; H9, Serena & Jade

Alright, so H38, or “We should do a couples costume.” stuck out to me.

Please enjoy the following with this visual. Thank you. :)

“We could do…a couples costume,” El said sheepishly, his shoulders up to his ears. Erik looked back at him like he was speaking a different language.

“Excuse me? Could you repeat that? I think I heard you wrong.”

El shook his head, he meant what he’d said.

“For the parade. Faris said he’d even dress up with us-”

Before El could finish the thought Erik had already turned his back to walk away. He waved his hand dismissively back at Eleven.

“No thanks. I have no interest in helping him any more than we already have. Do what you like, but I’m out.”

He didn’t look back because he knew El’s pout would draw him right back in, and damn it, he wasn’t going to dress up in a stupid costume with El and Faris.

After an hour of window shopping for things he didn’t need, Erik almost ran right into Veronica blocking his path, arms spread wide to get his attention.

“You. With me. Now.”

As much as Erik wanted to argue for the sake of being an ass, he decided it was easier to do as she said. It was too hot for anything else in this godforsaken city.

“What did you say to Eleven?” she said, hands on her hips. He assumed she’d jump up to smack him in the face if his answer wasn’t a gushing apology. Instead he shrugged his shoulders.

“I told him I didn’t want to dress up with him for the parade.”

Veronica huffed. “He asked you because he didn’t want to hang out with Faris alone. You were supposed to be his buffer. Some partner you are!”

That comment cut a bit, and Erik knew Veronica knew just how to get under his skin. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Fine. I guess if he needs me I’ll be there.”

“That’s more like it. Now Sit. Stay. Good boy.” She mocked a whip movement with her hand before walking away, laughing. Erik rolled his eyes with a huff and turned to make his way toward the palace.

Crowds had already begun to form along the main street, and Erik found it increasingly more difficult to elbow his way through. By the time he finally reached the palace, the parade was about to begin.

The two guards in front of the entrance crossed their spears, blocking Erik’s way in.

“Sorry, kid. No entry to the palace during the festival, Sultan’s orders.”

Erik grunted behind gritted teeth, they had to be around here somewhere. He glanced around, but everyone was already in costume. He caught a glimpse of purple and wheeled around, but it was just Sylvando, decked out in his usual feathers.

“Looking for someone, sweetheart?” He asked. “Where’s your other half?”

Erik furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to argue.

‘I know, I know. Honestly, honey we’re all just waiting for it at this point.”

Erik snorted back a laugh and turned to walk away. Sylvando called after him.

“If you’re looking for our little Luminary, he’s dressed as a horse with the princey-poo!”

Erik clenched his fists. Technically, this was his fault. If he would have just agreed to go with El in the first place, he wouldn’t have to -

Wait, a horse?

Erik scanned the gathering crowd of performers until he spotted what might have looked like a horse…if you’d only ever seen one from about 30 feet away in the dark.

He jogged over and tentatively patted the horse’s back.

“Uh, El? Are you in there?”

The head of the horse came off, and he was face to face with Eleven.

“Hey, sorry about earlier. I didn’t realize-”

“Thank you for coming, but I’m still mad at you. What changed your mind?”

Erik decided he wasn’t giving Veronica the credit for guilting him back. That, and it made him seem like an even worse friend.

“Change of heart. Even thieves can have those, ya know,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. Another person emerged from the back of the costume.

“My friends! A thousand thank yous for coming! Oh, this is delightful! Now that there are two of you, I can ride the noble steed!”

“Excuse me?” Erik said, holding himself tighter. There was no way in hell Faris actually expected him to get in that thing.

Ten minutes and a few puppy-dog pouts later, Erik was in the back end of the horse getup.

“I can’t believe-” he started, until Faris decided to climb onto his back. All of the air left his lungs and he braced the weight on his legs, which had already started to wobble.

“Oh my god I’m going to collapse. This isn’t going to work!” His voice was muffled through gritted teeth. He reached out desperately and wrapped his arms around El’s hips for support, burrowing his face in his lower back. He tried to arch his back, but it caved as his core gave out, keening Faris violently to the side.

“Woah, woah there friend! Should we place dear Eleven in the back instead? I fear you may not be able to handle the weight.” He dismounted and El pulled the horse head off, stepping out so Erik could move. He gasped for fresh air, his face flushed and hair sticking to his forehead.

“I think I almost died.”

“Perhaps it would help if you removed your shirts. The parade is an entire lap around the city, and I would not want my steed to pass out from under me!”

Erik shot El a glare, but his turtleneck was already up and over his head. He sighed loud enough for Yggdrasil to hear and began to untie his sash.

El handed him the horse head with a smile as Faris helped him into the back end of the costume. That smile was going to be the death of him one of these days.

The parade started off well enough, Erik and El moved together as they usually did - in step, fluid. Erik warned of dips in the road and changes of direction, and El followed, trusting Erik to be his eyes.

It was hot as ever in Gallopolis, so it hadn’t taken long for both of them to be dripping in sweat. Maybe Faris had a point other than obviously trying to get El to take his clothes off.

El clung to Erik’s waist for support, arms locked like a vise. His back wobbled every now and then, but he was holding out much better than Erik would have. Maybe all that time at the forge really was doing something for him.

He’d never admit it out loud but the skin-on-skin contact was pretty nice, even if they’d both need extensive showers later. Erik was jolted out of his thoughts to El’s head bumping into his back.

“Did you just headbutt me?”

“Keep…moving.” He grunted. The weight was definitely starting to get to him. They only had a few blocks left.

They reached the end in one piece, only barely. As soon as the parade began to disperse, El’s back sunk and Faris lept off with surprising grace.

“Ha ha! What a parade! Thank you so much, friends!”

Erik tossed the horse head on the ground and stepped out of his half, turning around to help Eleven out of his. He stood up straight slowly, his back cracking in several places.

Faris eyed him over much like he did when they first met, much to Erik’s annoyance. The prince stepped closer, and Erik’s muscles tensed.

“If you require a…massage to get yourself back in order, please do not hesitate to come to the palace.” He said before backing away with a wink. His tone was far too flirtatious.

“I got it.” Erik growled between clenched teeth. He took his gloves off and shoved them in his waistband before kneading at El’s shoulders a little more forcefully than required until Faris was out of sight. He snapped back to his senses when El yelped in pain.

“Ow, Erik! Stop, jeez! What’s gotten into you?”

Erik immediately removed his hands and slid his gloves back on before replacing his tunic and sash.

“That guy creeps me out. He likes you a little too much.”

El crossed his arms and looked at Erik accusingly. “Sounds like someone is just jealous.”

Erik sputtered, unable to come up with a decent comeback. Could he have at least put his shirt back on before being a little shit?

El watched with amusement as Erik’s face turned red and he struggled to form a sentence. Flustering him was too easy, one of these days he’d get a confession out of him. For now, he was more than content with teasing him until his face matched his sash. El picked up his undershirt and coat before heading off to the bar for a well-earned drink, Erik scrambling after him.

#fic #prompt asks #Luminerik #writing more nonsense without shirts I'm on brand #I could not get that horse costume out of my HEAD it had to happen #Faris would insist they carry him the entire way

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alberteamllc · 7 years

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SMART PEOPLE LIKE YOU AND ME (721)

It’s hot in Agresjia and the breeze never really stops tasting like salt. It gets to her hair, which she never really bothered to take care of that much anyway, but now she wakes up every morning to find a pile that’s dry and frizzy and above all else, big. Every day she decides to go get it cut, reaches to the bedside to fumble for her coin purse, gives up, goes back to sleep.

Words she thought she’d never say: well, the money’s good. But the money was good, and a different kind of girl, she thought, could carve out a decently fulfilling life with this happy disparity between labor and compensation, but she was mostly bored, and she knew that when she got bored she got depressed, she’d heard it from Tavi and she’d heard it from Elam and she’d heart it from Tartuffe and from everyone else. She was depressed in the army too but that was a different thing. She still couldn’t eat a biscuit without cringing, bracing herself for that unpleasant hard crack of long-march cooking.

She wakes up sweating, which folk lore insists that elves can’t do, but what the hell does folk lore know about half breeds and bastards she wonders, scrubbing her face with a wet wash cloth. She doesn’t bother dealing with her hair, just ties it back. It’s not like I’m getting all dressed up for anybody important. Just the crown bloody prince.

She’d been a little taken aback when he’d summoned her to the city five months ago. Maybe she shouldn’t have been. He was one of them, after all, as good as one of them, and even a Starry Messenger that’s out of the field is a Messenger for life, and you looked after your brothers and sisters. He was famous for it. And in fact she’d known him briefly on the campaign, he leading his little city-state’s proud but scrappy army, she putting up with entirely different forms of piss-poor weather and acting as a go-between between human and elven camps, making sure lives weren’t lost over quibbles in ad-hoc translation. They’d barely spoken. He’d nodded at the little silver constellation pinning back her cloak, and asked under whom she’d studied, and offered her a swig of the exquisite fucking stuff he kept in the flask beside his saddle. I’m Adeline Ingwers, your… highness? He sounded it out. Adeline Ingwers. I’ll remember that.

Her salary was thirty gold pieces a month, a figure that had made her cough violently when she first read the missive from the palace. She’d fished in her pockets and handed the messenger boy a shiny five-silver coin. What the hell, she could afford it now. Her job was, on paper, to aid the crown in long-term projects pertaining to elven philology and ancient history, a kind of jerry-rigged one-woman anthropologist, literary critic, archaeologist, apologist, and proof-reader for good measure. The prince was working on something big but the letter didn’t say what. She’d packed her bags that night.

She finds herself rehearsing all of this each time she makes that walk to the palace, running the math in her head again, double checking how long she can coast if this job dries up. Well… forever, she figures, but that doesn’t keep her from checking them again. Four gold pieces a month got her lodgings she’d call palatial, not that you’d guess it from the rime of clothes and books coating the floor, the piled dishes. She felt weird hiring a maid so she didn’t. Four gold pieces a month and so much left over. She eventually treated herself, bought a roomy little one-story house on the wrong side of town, cash up front, and filled it wall to wall with books. She worried about silverfish and thought back often to her childhood. Watery soup with thin roots, scrawny chickens. All six kids piled onto one low pallet, mother and father snoring three feet away, and now she’s a homeowner with a studio uptown to boot.

She nods to the guards, and makes a detour through the courtyard to sneak a look at the knghts sparring. Ilan Sarmasik, who always seemed distracted, a little mopey at times, but a decent person, cultured but not learned, so he could talk about a poem or a tale without having to sweatily establish his mastery over it. Faris Svette, young, who Adeline liked to observe in commiseration, the fluffy white mane on her head also turning into some ghoulish dandelion in the hot months. And old Verlaine Porlock, who was sword to a prince who died long ago and haunted the palace like a pensioned ghost, leaning on his halberd and watching his two pupils flit across the training ground at each other. There was a lot of history in this place if you bothered to learn it. She kept promising she’d find the time some day.

She finds the prince’s study door shut-- as good as locked--and when he emerges she’s been waiting in an antechember for fifteen minutes, lazily absorbing the room’s phalanx of starchy family portraits and marble busts of people with the prince’s nose and the queen’s aggressive chin, the fire roaring in the fireplace despite the sticky heat of the season. He’s impeccably dressed even in his offtime and she knows he’s holding back the urge to plead, once again, for her to permit a tailor to swing by her apartment, his treat, but she likes her robes with the elbows worn smooth, and she likes the only sarouels she ever found that fits just right so she can write in the pose that feels most natural, that is, as Tavi always teased, crunched up on her back like a dead insect, that she likes so much that she bought three pairs when she was stationed in Kukudhra, at the time an extravagance. Ok, she concedes, glancing down, she might have accidentally walked across town in her slippers, and that might be a flash of her little toe peeking out between the fake velvet and the cheap sole. But the prince is nothing if not polite, and he merely shakes her hand and holds open the door as she passes through.

He waves broadly to an assortment of objects arranged in a chunky row on his desk, smiling proudly at his finds. Adeline sees at a glance that at least some of it is junk but she knows he’ll take the news in stride.

“Handsome spread, your Highness. What have you been getting yourself into?”

He paces behind her as she begins to inspect the items, pulling little multi-paned monocle from her tunic and bending over each piece in turn.

“I took a trip out towards Faxfleet and Bottsford with Sir Sarmasik. There were rumors of a barrow that had opened up after the last heavy rain and, well, I couldn’t help myself. Some halfling salvagers had already gotten to it, sadly-- I had to haggle for all of this. I’m sure you’re chomping at the bit to tell me how badly they’ve cheated me, so I’ll forgo letting you in on how much I paid for the lot”

“Help yourself to a new pair of boots on the way back? Wouldn’t want to stomp mud all around these ritzy carpets after around out in Faxfleet, your Highness.”

“Rich talk from the young woman currently haunting my office with the world’s most alarming cuticle.”

“Har har, your HIghness. Try having to walk to work every day.”

“I walk quite a bit. It’s a large palace.”

“Sarmasik doesn’t carry you?”

He laughs under his breath and they lapse into the familiar silence that tells him that she’s working. The prince is sharp-- in some fields, she’d concede, he’s probably brilliant. But he gets at an archaeological site like a little kid. Everything’s a priceless find to him until it’s not. Case in point-- the cup in her hand. Circa three years ago, of the “shop around the corner from the fish market” dynasty. Probably thrown into a ditch and washed into the ruins by the heavy rain. But this…. this was interesting. She picks it up and immediately feels the urge to toss it down. That’s always a sign. Of something.

“Now what’s this beauty, your Highness?”

“Isn’t that your job? Well, hm, obviously it looks like a circlet or a diadem of some kind.”

“Don’t start developing hat-envy on me prince, you can call it a crown. This was in the barrow?”

“Yes. I suppose. That’s what I was told”

She snaps her fingers impatiently like a teacher trying to jog a pupil’ memory. “And... . what? Just sitting out? Was it on an altar? Was it displayed? Did you pry it off of somebody? Context, your Highness, context!” She catches herself. Other princes would have a person’s head for less, but Anselm just rolls his eyes, circling around the desk to peer at the crown from the other side.

“Just… jumbled up with detritus I imagine. Rubble. When Ilan and I had a look inside it looked like it might have been a burial chamber. A central slab-- a priest or something of the like-- surrounded by five other slabs in a radial pattern.”

“That sounds like--”

“Druidry?”

“Precisely.”

“That’s what I thought at first, but the dates don’t make sense…”

She shrugs.

“That’s what makes the Valley such a hell for serious academics. Hard to pin a date n a site when they come roaring up out of the dirt according to their own whims. We do our best, your Highness, but we’re always guessing.”

He looks irritated. She’s telling him things he already knows and he doesn’t like it, so she walks it back.

“But you’re right, of course. It’s unusual to say the least, although jumping to anomalous seems premature.”

Next to the crown is a crude stone knife, filigreed with little dancing figures, a stick-figure body tied to a sacrificial altar. There’s a buzz in her brain, a sudden shooting headache. It occurs to her to take the knife and drive it through the prince’s eye, fit the crown to her head, and sit down laughing beside his corpse. She shakes it away and puts the crown down like it was a burning brand. A blurriness she hadn’t noticed clears from her thoughts.

“Ahem. Soo… yeah. Moving on, this knife is interesting. It, again is typical in some ways of the druidic stoneworking you’d see in sites six or seven hundred years old well off to the West. Let’s take this conversation to that weapons display up the tower a bit, I’ve got an urge to compare this to something you showed me there a little while ago…”

“Ah. The axe? I see. Well, after you--”

As they leave he puts a hand on her shoulder like a friend, like a peer, and she allows it, and later in the evening, after the sun is down and they’ve had some wine and laughed about the same old senile lecturers back at the Tower of the Stars, she checks in with the seneschal and he hands her her check without saying a word. The walk back to her apartment is not too long but she drags it out, and, hyper-aware of her ragged house slippers now, stops to savor the feel of the smooth paving stones on her feet. It wasn’t like this in Dahora during the war when her parents wouldn’t let her run barefoot because the soil was so thick with spear-heads and shattered masonry. Tavi had always told her about this place, this Agresjia, with that Tavi self-effacement. She hadn’t told Andeline how lovely it could be, how that accursed salt air could be a gift too, something you turned your face up to and drank. She misses the cold. She keeps walking past the well-lit streets of the well-to-do, past her apartment, through alleys and night markets to her neglected little bonus house, full of books and garbage and probably insects. She unlocks the door and passes through to the only chair in the place and sits in silence for a long time.

He was lying. He was lying and smiling and he thought they were friends in spite of this. She pushes aside the heavy book-case that made her buy this house in the first place, a slab on rusty rollers that led down into what had once been some enterprising person’s hideout for swampweed packing or illegal charcuterie, but which now held the books she didn’t want Nevyah’s rent-a-spies to be poking through, if he thought to have them do so, and she knew he never gave a thought to her. Her logs. She pages through them, back and forth. The bastard was doing it. Inquiries he’d started making idly, that made the rounds of antiquarians and collectors, after ancient pharmakons, amulets against sickness and age. And this thing behind it all-- druidic, that was true, but buried deep, way down below, a fragment in the most effaced and dispersed bits of myth and taboo of the Valley. That twitch of the nerve she’d felt, that call to violence-- was that this crown, its weight on the brow of anyone who touched it? This was no chance find-- this was something he’d been searching for, desperately, she’s sure of it now. Rumors about the prince-- about this campaign against death, this obsession-- she’d heard them all at the Tower. And not quite believed them. But she’d kept them in her mind when accepted this job, and had kept an eye out. Everything suspicious about him-- everything behind that front of charm and erudition-- was beginning to click into place. She notes the day’s events down, cracks open a bottle of beer, and falls asleep fully clothed on the floor.

The next morning she buys a tooth brush and uses it and takes a leisurely amble uphill back towards the shops she can afford now, the shops she has no reason to avoid, and buys a new pair of fine, soft leather boots, with sturdy soles and a tiny ribbon on each cuff. She throws her old slippers in a trash-heap as she winds her way to the palace, munching all the while on a vegetable skewer, fragrant and delicious. At the foot of that tower she looks up at it blotting the sun and turns away, blinded, before straightening her lapels and marching in. Later, realizing a mistake in notation at the same time as her, he jokes in that familiar way, that suggests they’re in on it together, this universe of fools, smart people, like you and I, like you and I and Nevyah and every damned idiot that ever thought reading books and knowing dead languages meant you understood what was good for people, what they really needed but didn’t know, and she laughs, scoffs really, but he takes that scoff as something other than what it is.

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thechurchillreview · 7 years

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Contains SPOILERS for Alien (1979), Prometheus (2012), and Alien: Covenant (2017).

The problem I have with both Prometheus and Alien: Covenant is that the Alien proto-Xenomorph (Stupid unconvincing and not scary CGI! No suspense or terror with it this time around...) never needed anything resembling an origin story. These aren't questions I had. Nor answers I ever thought of seeking before. Sometimes, the mysterious should stay, well, a mystery. Alien comic by the always fantastic @faitherinhicks.

In Alien, those aboard the Nostromo are woken up and diverted far away from their charted course home to investigate a message of unknown origin. Kane enters a vagina-shaped looking entrance of a found spaceship, becomes a figurative sperm, touches a mystery egg that a Facehugger then emerges from. From that point forward, Kane’s body serves as an incubator for the titular Alien until some early spoken dialogue comes back to violently haunt him (“I feel dead”). The chestburster ripping out of Kane is one of the most iconic scenes in Alien. It is messy, frightening, and bloody. I mean, jeez, Kane was a victim of clear sexual assault and an unwanted pregnancy kills him in the process! Viewers are given glimpses of something grisly occurring (“Bones are bent outwards...Like he exploded from inside”), but the full disturbing magnitude of the parasitic sexual predator is observed here. Prior to, simultaneously, the audience and Nostromo crew learn that the organism has put Kane into a coma, possesses a defense mechanism of molecular acid-like blood, and can survive adverse environmental conditions.

Heck Alien screenwriter Dan O'Bannon said so himself in the Alien Saga documentary released in 2002. "One thing that people are all disturbed about is sex... I said 'That's how I'm going to attack the audience; I'm going to attack them sexually. And I'm not going to go after the women in the audience, I'm going to attack the men. I am going to put in every image I can think of to make the men in the audience cross their legs. Homosexual oral rape, birth. The thing lays its eggs down your throat, the whole number." The more you know right?

See, Alien chiefly works because of its claustrophobic horror atmosphere combined with its characters being in the dark as much as we too stumble about spliced with the subtext I already mentioned earlier. You feel the tension. You fear and totally envision what the “alien” could be capable of. The human mind's perception of a mysterious horror combined with imagination is ridiculous: hence the strength of the withheld image. This is especially heightened throughout the air ducts scenes. Due to this, akin to the malfunctioning mechanical shark named Bruce in Steven Spielberg’s Jaws (1975), the less the Alien’s Xenomorph is visibly seen, the more compelling and terrifying the reveal moment is.

And even when information is gathered about the "alien" the humans are still stuck grasping at straws.

Always one step behind.

Another cadaver.

Eventually, Nostromo’s seven crew members is whittled down to one. Leaving Ellen Ripley, a science-fiction icon, portrayed by Sigourney Weaver, the last one. Where everyone else failed with attempted teamwork, Ripley triumphs alone.

Look, Ripley’s function in Alien is to carry the story forward. That it is her story was and remains a big deal in the big Hollywood picture. Ripley is seen briefly (...Sorry) in her underwear towards the conclusion to signify the “conclusion” of her terrible ordeal (the removal of battle attire, how we change out of work clothing and slip into something more comfortable). I used to have a problem with this, but over the years I saw it more as Ripley foolishly lowering her guard too soon (became too cocky before truly winning) while the exposure of her flesh reflects her vulnerability. Earlier in Alien, the men are seen in their underwear too when they’re awakening. The comatose Kane in his underwear medically make sense I believe, yet could be additionally stating his level of vulnerability at the time. I don’t sleep in solely underwear with a shirt. Nope, I prefer jeans and a shirt, always.

She stealthily and quickly dons astronaut attire, bravely impales the Xenomorph with a harpoon gun shot that sends it into the void of space, and fries it with the engines of the ship burning up the cable to leave it adrift out there. The nightmare is no more. Now mourning, reporting, and sleeping is next. So, through the aforementioned sexual assault subtext, Ripley isn't depicted as powerless or weak in Alien. She courageously kept her composure and survives against the lethal threat that killed the rest of the Nostromo’s crew.

Yeah, the one key aspect that both Prometheus and Alien: Covenant have utterly failed is generating another woman on equal footing with Alien’s Ripley. The freaking focus of the Alien prequels is a male robot designed by a male creator. His creator should’ve of comprehended the deeper implications of David’s piano piece selection of instead of outright criticizing his choice. *Shudders* I don’t study music compositions and I know the meaning behind what David chose, jeez. Should’ve destroyed him immediately. Nope, too dumb to think of that.

We do get female characters and in the kindest way possible that I’m typing they’re essentially awful. Elizabeth Shaw has her uterus cut open (courtesy of David poisoning/killing her boyfriend), repairs him, and is experimented/tortured upon. In comparison, after discovering that Ash isn’t human, Ripley finds out all she can before pulling his plug. Shaw fixed an already proven to be duplicitous android…? What a fool. In Covenant, Daniels “Dany” Branson putting too much trust in Walter backfires when the painfully obvious twist towards the end rears its ugly head. Daniels not verbally battling harder for Christopher Oram to reconsider his position before landing on a trap which also goes against the purpose of the Covenant? The fact that Daniels was allowed to speak a famous Ripley line still baffles and enrages me! You’re not her. Neither is that moron Shaw.

Don’t get me started on Oram following David to a lair of Facehuggers after the android tried to befriend an alien that decapitated Covenant crew member Rosenthal. Or Oram abandoning the mission because they perhaps found another suitable colonization location that isn’t seven years away? His choice kicks off the unspeakable horrors his crew faces against. He jeopardized the lives of his crew and almost 2,000 innocent others inside of the Covenant! Oram, you’re seriously an atrocious captain! Or how about Rosenthal not following orders about staying close by whilst freshening up despite witnessing an alien ripping another crew member’s jaw off with a tail swipe? Or Maggie Faris freaking out at the sight of blood, locking Karine Oram inside with the very deceased transforming Ledward, coming back with a weapon, slipping on blood which makes her miss her target, unable to save the being mauled to death Karine, breaking her ankle when running away then falling down often, missing with every shot except for a bunch of exposed blasting explosives than in turn blow up a ship and herself?! Once again, Ripley follows proper quarantine protocol with her captain Dallas, the infected Kane, and Lambert...Until Ash undermines her and lets them inside the ship. Every crew member lacking a helmet since the air is apparently (that’s not suspicious to anyone? Really?) breathable leads to the demises of Ledward and Hallett plus the freshly born alien killing machines. It was their fault for intentionally touching something or stomping around without a care in the world.

Yes, the sheer idiocy on display in Alien: Covenant is unbearable. Hilarious even. Er, sadly.

The truth is that there’s a barbarous beauty to Alien and with Ridley Scott insisting on prequels to the original classic he's hurting what made Alien so special in the first place.

Look Covenant isn't entirely bad...Just absolutely needless. The ideas within its DNA have considerable merit (same with the previous installment Prometheus) and Scott should of established a new IP instead of piggybacking off of an existing mostly looked upon favorably motion picture brand-name. It is confusing and complex for the sake of it. Covenant notoriously introduces some stuff and then doesn't bother to follow-up on any of them to a degree where it matters in the narrative being told! Such as the theme of love versus duty, to name an example. “Here’s a gay couple! Lope and Hallett! After the fact. Enjoy that cake everyone! Unless you viewed The Last Supper prologue video on Youtube that is.” Um, that is not how you garner praise. Just more deserved derision. Having and reinforcing the script’s couple concept crew might have been interesting. If only Alien: Covenant had bothered to color those finalized paper-thin cut-outs masquerading as genuine individuals and actually followed this angle.

The alien existing as its own damn unmanufactured species in the depths of space apparently isn’t good enough anymore. The “perfect mysterious organism” has been ruined by Covenant: that’s the truth. Dagnabit! No, the world must have at least three prequels to Alien (Scott hinted at six in all). What the French toast?! Basically, the ideas/themes in Prometheus and Alien: Covenant deserve or should've been in a franchise that isn't remotely connected to Alien. We’re eight entries in (counting the AVP movies). EIGHT! With it would seem six more planned to go, oh my goodness. In other words, don’t waste your breath on Prometheus or Alien: Covenant. They offer misplaced themes, awe from certain gorgeous visuals alongside vexation, bafflement, and unintentional hilarity.

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