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jadelotusflower · 2 years

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why this show wasn’t just called Kenobi I’ll never know

Because it’s about him rediscovering the Obi Wan inside, and then recommitting himself to his life as Ben at the end? Why go for an unwieldy title when a punchier one that fits the theme will suffice?

Honestly, the bar is the floor, and somehow disney manage to only just stumble over it. I’ve given it a week or so before posting this because my feelings about this show are well and truly mixed - there were aspects of it I loved, but they were almost lost amid the unforgivably sloppy writing. In many ways this show is infinitely better when consumed only through tumblr gifsets of the good scenes, which is in no way a credit to it.

I just have to wonder where the big brains over at lucasfilm think they’re going with this franchise. After needlessly incorporating Tatooine into both the Mando and Boba Fett, when it comes to this series that should take place entirely on Tatooine, they have to get Obi Wan offworld asap?

Have they learned nothing from the mess of the sequel trilogy? Where is the foresight? Where is the plan? Why isn’t learning about Tusken culture in this show rather than Boba Fett? How does a series about Obi Wan during the dark times not have Owen, Beru, and Luke as major supporting characters? How does this show somehow create more plot holes than it solves?

On the one hand it does feel hypocritical to complain about Reva stumbling around with cauterised guts when Darth Maul came back from vivisection, but on the other hand, past nonsense doesn’t give you a license to indiscriminately continue with nonsense. I just feel there is a difference between suspension of disbelief because star war, and complete and utter laziness?

I remain baffled at disney’s continued lackadaisical attitude to keeping continuity in canon - I’m sorry, but “General Kenobi, years ago you served my father in the Clone Wars” is not what you say to the man who saved your life several times over when you were ten, and attempted papering over of this with “don’t let anyone know” is just silly. They were so concerned about explaining aspects of the sequels (why Leia would name her son Ben), with little regard for how it impacts upon the OT.

It’s very clear that this started out as a film script that was padded out into six episodes, and yet most of it was with filler and everything feels like a first draft. Bail’s message says he’ll head to Tatooine, but then he doesn’t and it’s never addressed, it’s only a cheat to get Reva there. The Inquisitor fortress is manned by six staff so two rebel fighters can successfully attack it, Star Destroyers suddenly don’t have TIE fighters, Leia searches through wires for a button right in front of her for twenty minutes - if there’s a more egregious example of the plot driving the characters (as opposed to the characters driving the plot) I’ve not seen it recently.

I can overlook things because Reasons when the story is good enough not to worry about minutiae, but there was just so much to overlook here.

But setting all of that aside, I appreciated that the show was ultimately about trauma - Obi Wan reluctance to use the Force because of his own perceived failures (his arc here only goes to show how the same storyline didn’t work for Luke in TLJ - because it was always a crib from Obi-Wan just like Rey’s arc was cribbed from Luke’s), Reva as the traumatised child acting out against everyone, Tala atoning for her service to the Empire (Indira Varma my beloved).

But there wasn’t enough substance to it - Obi Wan and Reva talking through the door in ep 5 was the first time I thought the show was actually great (Moses Ingram was fantastic in that scene) but holding off the reveal (when it was obvious from the beginning who she was anyway) meant there wasn’t any room to explore it. What exactly were her motivations for going after Luke anyway? Her “have I become him” rings false after she’s spent six episodes slicing off hands, torturing children, and slaughtering refugees - I just wanted more to her arc to earn the payoff, not the slapdash ending we got. The conversation with Obi-Wan afterwards was very poor, with no real reckoning of the events of the series, nor satisfying resolution to their earlier conversation.

However I did enjoy the bickering antics of the Inquisitors - who were always kind of incompetent boobs - Rupert Friend is an actor I enjoy and equipped himself well as Grand Inquisitor despite the bad makeup job, and the antagonistic dynamic between Reva and Sung Kang as Fifth Brother added an interesting element.

While I was never on board with Obi Wan and Vader meeting in battle before ANH - but since they went there, the mask off scene was well worth it (even if repurposed from Rebels). It’s nice to see Hayden Christensen getting his due, he really brought “you didn’t kill Anakin Skywalker - I did” and I suspect for many that scene alone redeemed the series.

Little Leia (the teeniest ten year old in the galaxy) was a delight and it was great to see her latent force sensitivity bleed through in her strong will and ability to read people. The only thing that didn’t quite ring true was the kindness to/affinity for droids - that was always more Luke’s thing. But Vivien Blair is a real find, I would watch the hell out of a Leia of Alderaan series, and I do like the idea of Obi Wan having a connection to both the twins. Jimmy Smits is always good value, although I wonder why Natalie Jackson Mendoza didn’t reprise the role of Breha.

Joel Edgerton (an actor whose career I’ve followed ever since the The Secret Life of Us) has absolutely nailed the transition of Owen Lars from young man in AotC to grizzled in ANH, and it’s clear he put a lot of work into the role - the gruff voice, cadence, body language is all pitch perfect. I also love that they gave Beru that steely quality (and nice to see Bonnie Piesse after her cult recovery). I’m just so sad we didn’t get to see more of them - their scenes were the absolute highlight for me and “he is my own” is incredibly validating as the Lars family really just doesn’t get enough focus/credit in canon or fandom.

But did they have to give Lucas two bucks every time they said Luke’s name or something? All “the boy” this and “the boy” that was extremely weird.

Look, if they make a second season of this show that revolves around Luke like this season revolves around Leia, give us more Owen and Beru content, and actually delve more into Obi Wan’s trauma rather than remaining surface level? I’d feel better about this show.

#star wars #obi wan kenobi #spoilers #my feelings they are mixed

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ollifree · 3 years

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1. What are things they both find funny?

Pet antics. They share a morbid sense of humor about the plague that anyone else who lived in Vesuvia at the time would find abhorrent. They have different limits on it and know where each other’s is.

2. If they could each describe each other in one sentence, what would it be?

You’re gonna limit Lucio to one sentence? Lucio? He’s gotta talk about how smart Skylar is, how good he looks, his talent in magic, his thoughtfulness. Lucio’s favorite words for Skylar are, in order, “Pretty, precious, perfect.”

I’m taking Skylar’s from a prompt from last year.

“Should I start with his eccentricities or…? He’s loud, brash. More cunning than people give him credit for. He’ll have an absolute meltdown if he can’t get his makeup right and have himself convinced two seconds later he always gets it perfect. He wears white because he’s always covered in dog hair. He makes sure everyone knows what his opinion on something is, and will do everything within his power to fix something he deems wrong.”

3. If they complimented each other, what would they say?

Lucio makes a point of complimenting however Skylar looks, but it’s a rare day Lucio doesn’t praise Skylar’s intellect and dedication to his work.

Skylar’s go-to descriptor for Lucio is “handsome”. His favorite (non-extensive) list of things to compliment Lucio on are: how hard he tries, how brave he is, his confidence, how passionate he is when it comes to the things he cares about.

They each compliment each other’s ass at least ten times per day.

4. What would be their ship name?

Either "grind against your bones until our marrows mix", or "the awful edges where you end and i begin", both of which are lyrics from Ludo's The Horror of Our Love.

5. What activities do they enjoy together?

Favorite activities are lounging on each other, doting on the pets, and people watching. Skylar gets coaxed into doing magic (however mundane) so Lucio can compliment him. In modern verse they binge watch bad reality tv. Lucio will put up with being outside when it snows only because Skylar likes outdoor winter activities and only because Lucio knows he’s gonna get some hardcore snuggle time at the end of it.

6. What is/are their love language(s)?

Lucio’s are gift giving (showing) and words of affirmation (receiving). Skylar’s is quality time. Physical touch is mandatory for both of them.

7. Write a ~300 word love scene for them.

This question is arophobic.

8. What were their first impressions of each other?

I’m always down for some self-fic plugging [link].

Skylar couldn’t have had a better introduction to Lucio: Julian had brought Skylar to Vesuvia for the menagerie, and Skylar and Lucio immediately clicked over their shared love of animals. Lucio truly has a unique personality and Skylar was excited to meet a new kind of person. Add on Julian’s endorsement of the Count and it’s no small wonder Skylar wound up staying in Vesuvia long past when he would have left anywhere else.

9. Have they made each other cry?

Yes. Mostly via mutual vulnerability and happiness. Then the plague happened.

10. Write a ~300 word argument scene for them.

This is a direct call out for me not writing my fic yet.

11. What causes them to fight?

Lucio’s Lucio-isms getting out of hand, or Salsa destroying something of Lucio’s. He can’t get mad at his fur babies so Skylar gets to take the brunt of it. Their biggest arguments happened over the coliseum and how to deal with the outbreak of the plague.

12. Do they have differing political opinions?

Before Lucio’s death Skylar didn’t invest himself enough in Vesuvian politics to give a concrete answer in that area. Insofar as Lucio’s views of being in a position of power? Yes they absolutely have different opinions.

13. Name something they would never do for the other person.

I was originally going to say “nothing”, then I remembered Lucio has one. So Skylar’s currently sitting at a “nothing” with an asterisk of “unless I remember something”.

Lucio’s is being around Skylar when Skylar’s sick. Lucio has a phobia of catching whatever’s going around after the plague and has to nope out of situations where he’s around illness. That being said he is hyper aware of Skylar’s health, as after leaving Vesuvia Skylar becomes more prone to colds and flues.

14. What would be a dealbreaker?

Skylar's dealbreaker almost happened, which is someone's wants getting in the way of / actively opposing another's needs. Lucio's would be unfaithfulness.

15. What are traits they dislike in one another?

Nothing they outright dislike, but they do recognize the faults the other perceives in themselves and help them improve in that regard. For Skylar it’s his non-confrontational nature getting his needs and wants ignored. For Lucio it’s empathizing with others and taking responsibility for, and dealing with, the consequences of his actions.

16. If they broke up, what would be their opinions of each other?

How dare you.

17. What senses (sights, smells, feelings, etc). remind them of each other?

Never in anyone’s life would Lucio have expected to get an attachment to the smell of books yet here he is. The same goes for hot chocolate. Skylar walks into the makeup department and it’s just like walking past Lucio’s collection.

18. What would be their love motto?

19. If they could each write a single line in their marriage vows, what would they be?

This isn’t in the marriage vows because they have the awareness to go “if we say half the things we feel in front of anybody, concerns we are not equipped to address in an acceptable way will be raised.” After the ceremony, when they’re on their own, this exchange happens:

Lucio: “Love me. Until we’ve been dead so long our bones are dust.” Skylar: “Not good enough. It’ll have to be until the world is ash.”

20. What is a promise they have made to each other?

Similar ones to what’s above. Trauma-induced codependency reinforced by magic ritual body trading meta sure is something.

21. How have they changed each other for the better/for the worse?

For the better: by helping one another with the issues listed in question fifteen. For the worse: they gain a lot of codependence for stated meta reasons, along with a very deep-seated fear of losing each other again.

In the end they do leave Vesuvia. Ultimately they are going the route of “this is a very important lesson we’ve learned about responsibility and the consequences of our actions. Now let’s get the fuck out of the city we’re responsible for and one of us nearly ruined with his actions.” They acknowledge the hypocrisy of this, and while in the end they’re better off outside Vesuvia it is there.

22. If their lives were what was originally intended at birth, would they have still fallen in love?

Because I’m a sucker for them the answer’s yes. They only hit the love stage to begin with because Lucio was able to put the work into unlearning and breaking the cycle of the worst parts of his tribe’s culture. I will say though that Lucio staying with the tribe would make it vastly more difficult for them to meet. Skylar still does his traveling, as his parents didn’t have any major expectations beyond “well-functioning adult” when raising him, but considering how infamous the warring tribes of the south are I don’t see travel into the steppes being easy or recommended.

23. Write a ~300 scene between them with no dialogue, only body language.

I honestly may come back to these but 300 words is a lot for my amount of spoons rn.

24. What is something they have each had to forgive the other for?

“Skylar has never done anything wrong in his life.” - Lucio Arcanagame

Salsa’s definitely destroyed a few things Lucio’s particular towards, and as it’s impossible for Lucio to be mad at any of his fur babies Skylar gets the brunt of it.

Along with Lucio getting snippy with him for Salsa mauling his good shirts, Skylar’s had to forgive Lucio for a lot. Mostly it’s Lucio-isms that make things get blown out of proportion. Then there’s the Coliseum. And Lucio’s deals. And the plague.

25. What moves do they know work on the other?

“Want to have sex?” / “Yes.”

If all else fails, Lucio knows he can get Skylar out of a book and back to real life by smoochin’ behind Skylar’s ears.

26. What are their favorite parts about physical affection/sex?

Sex is a cathartic extension of their shared love language, physical affection. The orgasms are an added bonus.

27. Do they have any kinks/fetishes that they share?

All of them. Like I say it as a joke but it’s just easier writing-wise to have them on the same level. Realistically it’s like 80-90%. Both of them want to please their partner and have a good time doing so. Their communication on that front is solid.

28. Write a ~300 fantasy one of them has about the other.

This question is acephobic.

29. What are each of their signature foreplay moves?

“Want to have sex?” / “Yes.”

30. Write a short exchange of dirty talk between them.

What up I’m Olli I’m almost 27 and I still haven’t learned how to write porn.

Lucio:

“Does puppy want me to fill him up?” “So precious…” “Look. Look at what I’m doing to you.” “Beg for it.” “Not yet. You piss when I tell you to.” “Do you like the taste of your cum that much?” “Good boy.”

Skylar:

“How you feeling, handsome?” “Are you ready to behave?” “What a mess you are.” “Fuck me so full I can’t move.” “You want to be good, don’t you?” “Master.” “Fuck fuck fuck fuck! Fuck me, fuck me.”

31. What do they love to do after sex?

Shared baths.

32. Do they enjoy morning or night sex?

Why are we limiting when the sex happens? The time of day doesn’t affect their enjoyment of it. They’re exhibitionists with impunity there is literally no limit on when the sex can happen.

#arcana #lucio #skylar #oc things #otp: live inside you #it took me a year and three months to finish this #but it's finally done! \o/#so much development have been done #and so many answers have become more concrete

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awaylaughing · 4 years

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Pippa and Hamin for the ship meme!

let’s GOOOOO. Under a read more because I can talk about Ideas For Fucking Ever. The meme in question and if you read this and think “golly gee, I’d love to give you an opprotunity to chat more about othere people” I have a shiny new character page you could reference here.

who’s the werewolf and who’s the hunter

This one I had to think about. Hamin probably makes a better werewolf, but Pippa makes a UNIQUELY terrible hunter so, pivoting ever so slightly maybe she’s more like a behind the scenes information broker type (Pippa, Collector and Keeper of Secrets is incredibly canon after all). She’d obviously have to start off allied with the hunters, to keep the tension with Hamin real and true. Hamin’s pack doesn’t have the WORST reputation possible, but they’re definitely not above suspicion. They retain their passion for ocean voyages, which strikes other people as odd because prejudice.

That said, you know who ALSO makes a great werewolf? Pippa’s mother and “aunt”, Roshan and Jessamine, so Pippa as part of a bamf all lady’s wolf pack who get tangled up with hunter shenanigans is also an excellent plot. Not least because Pippa would be a very pretty wolf, I dare say (maybe they’d actually be were-jackels, a la the Golden Jackel? A Consideration, given where I HC a modern AU Pippa would be from).

In this case I’d say the lady’s pack almost never maul people, except maybe domestic abusers and rapists, but who can blame them? So another pack moves in (it’s prob Jarrude’s lbr) and causes problems and Very Serious Hunter Hamin (ha) has to wade through the complicated world of lycanthrope politics to find The Truth. And of course falls in love with the nicest werewolf this side of whatever major geographical feature of your choice.

who’s the mermaid and who’s the fisherman

Mermaid Pippa and “fisherman” Hamin, natch. Pippa’s not very ruthless canonically, but I can apply liberal use of Alternate Cultural POVs On Ethics and say Pippa only leaves her goaded people on rocks, she never drowns them! That’s very nice of her! And sometimes she pulls an Ariel and helps a bro out, which is probably related to how her and Hamin meet. Some options:

1. Pippa had previously saved Hamin’s life, so in turn, something happens and she gets caught, and he saves her life as repayment. Similar to Bog Standard Plot Below, she’s obviously too injured to return to sea so they’re forced to cohabitate. High jinks and romance ensue.

2. Bog standard mermaid washed ashore plot. Bathtub high jinks ensue. There’s a scene where someone catches Hamin carrying a bucket of raw fish into his house and he has to explain it away. Leala catches on in the first 20 mins. At some point, they’re forced to bring Pippa to dinner with Hamin’s dad and there is much nerves, only for Pippa to reveal she’s stranded many a gentlemen adventurer in her time and she picked up some epic etiquette knowledge along the way.

3. Hamin gets stranded somewhere and Pippa’s the only person around who can come visit. It starts with her bringing him fish. Requisite Second Act Breakup is when Pippa, conscience having formed in the last hour of run time, reveals a way off his small deserted island. Obviously, he sails off in a huff and they meet up again in the next 35 minutes, have the big damn kiss and idk how you turn this one into a true happy ending and not a sort of esoteric one but Hollywood and or an Indie Darling Director will manage.

who’s the witch and who’s the familiar

Witch Pippa, hands down the answer. She gets it from her grandmother (er, step-grandmother?). Does Hamin have an animal form? If so, does it align to Pippa Aesthetic and is he a snakey boi or, does he get to pick? What would Hamin pick? Seagull - the goose of the sea?

Other option is he’s always human and either case I’m betting Hamin’s not a traditional familiar. Rather, he needed to get out Faerie/Familiarland STAT and filched Pippa’s contract off a Traditional And Proper Familiar and got himself a ticket to human land away from whoever he pissed off.

High jinks ensue.

who’s the barista and who’s the coffee addict

I had to think about this one because I mean let’s be very real here - neither Pippa, Quintessential Nice But Still Privileged Rich Girl or Hamin “cause problems for the staff on purpose” are shoe ins for having worked for customer service. That said, Hamin’s more likely to piss off his dad and be forced to get a job and like, have a real person job in general. So, Hamin’s barista job is his in-world Summit equivelent and he planned to quit the moment he paid off whatever damages he’s definitely paying off.

Except, Pippa comes in and orders only moderately complicated coffee orders and this isn’t a place that does the name thing so Hamin knows Nothing except she’s friendly and pretty and omg this one is perfect to throw in the OT3 because clearly the only reason he doesn’t just immediately ask Pippa for her name and number and also the next 20 years of her life pls and thanks is her hot boyfriend.

(But it’s okay, Pippa has two hands and so does Zarad u_u)

Otherwise she’d have to be someone who just comes to drive through bc idk why he’d hold off on asking since this is HAMIN we’re talking about.

who’s the professor and who’s the TA

...either of these two in academia is an interesting prospect. Maybe he’s a kid who got into archeology because of Indiana Jones and, while there’s far fewer chase scenes and death traps, Hamin ended up with a PhD and a job and look, he’s as confused as you are about how this all happened. It’s alright though because the job does come with cute anthropology TAs who work in an allied and often cross referential field. Pippa’s less immediately enamoured with Hamin but warms up because he’s the only person who actually listens to her and doesn’t treat her like she’s a child just because she’s a short woman.

This one could be set in exciting locales for a bit of Indie Flavour but with more consent and less horrifying age gaps, and no breaking of international laws and if anyone gets squished by rocks it’s a horrifying rock slide scenario.

Alternatively, polisci professor Pippa is working alongside the marine biology department to work on smth enviro-politics and ocean protection. TA Hamin is Very Enthusiastic about helping her out. This one features a scene where people naturally assume Hamin’s the professor and he trolls the ever living shit out of them.

This one is set in conferences which is 10000% less sexy but also way more familiar.

Depends on the vibes u want. Either way, Lyon is there somewhere and he and Pippa are unlikely friends purely because 4′10″ Pippa and like, 6′5″ or whatever Lyon being friends is never not hilarious. He definitely disapproves of Hamin just in general but especially in a library setting.

who’s the knight and who’s the prince(ss)

This is legit a Knight’s Tale AU, except instead of Jousting, we’ll say Hamin ends up taking Princess Pippa across the country as a sort of personal security situations and, as usual high jinks ensue. IDK who makes the best Chaucer stand in as a pal to help Hamin in his quest but he definitely needs the help. Pippa catches on like, super fast anyway because her interpersonal insight is boss af but she just goes with it because it’s amusing and he’s doing a fine job.

Another candidate for the OT3 bc Chaucer!Zarad is perfect, but so is the plot being that Hamin and Zarad had a thing aaages ago, now Pippa’s being carted off to marry prince Zarad and oh hey this is also nearly a Sinbad AU but with the proper Poly Ending in place

There is no AU where Pippa’s a the knight to Hamin’s prince, I’m sad to say. Her martial skills are about nil.

who’s the teacher and who’s the single parent

HMMM. I think Early Childhood Specialist Hamin and Parent Pippa shake out best, mostly because at the end of the day I don’t think Pippa like...likes kids that much. She doesn’t dislike them but she’d never want a life devoted to spending all her time with them. Her own kids though, different story.

Evil instinct says dad is Clarmont, because I feel like Clarmont is really easy to kill off in incredibly tragic but heroic circumstances and Modern AU Pippa would totally be down for a Clarmont romance. Anyway, Pippa has an adorable little girl who thinks Mr. Hamin is the BEST teacher, he helped her dig up worms for her show and tell at recess mama!

Pippa and Hamin in this set up don’t actually meet for like, a solid three months so they both form skew-whiff images of the other and so they get a CLASSIC “oh no (s)he’s hot / THIS IS MR. HAMIN / THIS IS MS. X” moment. Adorable Little Girl is captain of this ship despite being like, 4 and Pippa and Hamin are just along for the ride.

High jinks ensue.

(alt bc I’m never not on my bullshit dad is Zarad, and not dead and they just never married bc Family Drama and OT3 babey)

who’s the writer and who’s the editor

Absolutely writer Hamin and editor Pippa. She inherited from someone who quit and she really shakes things up by like, having Expectations and shit and Hamin, who’s been not in a good place following a personal trauma, finds himself annoyed for all of two seconds before she shows up on his doorstep on the day after a due date because if he wants to play Pippa will Play. And oh no, she’s cute. Hamin is enraptured, Pippa just wants him to work at first. Romance blossoms lopsidedly but he charms her after some sort of deal is struck that includes her dragging him out of the house to buy food or just go for a walk or whatever.

Shenanigan ensue.

This one is pure fluff about the power of human connection, there is no second act drama they get to skip ahead AND collect their 20 dollars it’s great.

#awaylaughing writes #7kpp #haminxcorval lady #otp: build a better future #7kpp hamin #pippa of corval #ft. 7kpp zarad #and #7kpp clarmont #in the WORST WAY I AM SORRY CLARMONT #u just seem like the kid of guy who'd die preventing a mugging or smth heroic and seemingly senseless #quilleth #also this is over 1.5K words kasdlksas

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fandomfourever · 5 years

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In Defense of Alvin Murphy

I’ve been having thoughts ever since watching Z Nation. Twice. And I had to get this all off my chest. But, I’m just gonna put this under a read more because this will probably be super long.

So, as I said above, this is mostly just something I needed to post about so I can finally think about something else, lol. Most of what I’m writing is based on canon, while some sections (which I’ll try to make obvious) are educated guesses based on what we do know, and what makes sense (to me anyway). I’m going to try and keep it in some kind of order, but it might get a bit ramble-y.

While it obviously isn’t everyone, there are a lot of people who just really hate Murphy. And while everyone’s entitled to their opinions, sometimes I feel it’s a little unjustified. Not only that, he gets a lot of hate in the show from various characters. Now, I’m not going to claim Murphy is a saint who can do no wrong—he’s done plenty wrong. But this post is basically about putting things in perspective. If this interests you, please continue reading. Otherwise, move on I guess?

Sometimes it feels as though people seem to forget that Murphy has some major PTSD. Many of the characters do, but here’s the thing: those characters are often treated with sympathy, where Murphy is not. Example: Murphy panics in the elevator when they’re looking for McCandles, and Warren smacks him and tells him to stop (paraphrasing), but when Warren has a panic attack in the box in the labyrinth, Sarge helps her out and people are sympathetic. Not that they shouldn’t, but it’s a stark difference between similar moments.

Let’s not forget that Murphy was in prison for Postal Fraud. Not murder. Not rape. Not terrorism. Not drugs. Postal Fraud. And he was sentenced to 3 years, when the maximum can be up to 20 years with a $250,000 fine, unless it involves a “presidentially declared major disaster or emergency” which can land you 30 years and $1 million dollar fine. AKA, whatever Murphy did, it was really minor. (You can find info and the quote if you google Postal Fraud)

In the flashback we see of him in season 2, Murphy sees his first zombie; a dude shanked by another dude. Chronologically, Murphy is then given the vaccine during Black Summer. When we see Murphy in the pilot, he’s got a full beard, meaning some time has passed between seeing his first Z and being vaccinated.

Here’s where a bit of educated guessing comes in: we don’t see what happens to him between those two times. It would make sense to me that, if there’s been a zombie outbreak and food/water is going to run out, prisoners would be kept in their cells indefinitely (or almost so). Which would then give a pretty good explanation to Murphy’s claustrophobia. Whether he was in the cell alone or not, that’s a tiny space, and can you imagine the kind of terror that would come with that? Probably hearing other prisoners turn? All it would take is one guard getting bitten by mistake and the whole place would descend into chaos.

Back to what we know for sure. At some point after seeing his first zombie, he is then forcibly taken to the prison lab to be experimented on. Murphy, strapped to a table, has to watch two other prisoners die after being injected—one of which seized so hard he broke his own neck. Then he’s injected, and left behind, where he’s mauled by zombies and is awake and experiences them tearing into his body.

Then, to add insult to injury, Murphy is led around for a year by Hammond—you know, one of the people who abandoned him to be bitten—to try and bring him to California where he will be, once again, experimented on. We see how Hammond treats people, especially Murphy. He yanks and shoves him around, and we see he even treats people he views as human kind of like crap; Murphy is just a “package” to him. In fact, Murphy is called “the package” by just about everyone.

(remember that Hammond hauled Murphy from the truck and demanded he show Warren and Garnette the bites. Against his will.)

So, Murphy’s been traumatized, experimented on, and treated as less than human by the military, and then he’s taken in by people who also view him as less than human. Is it really any wonder he acts like an asshole? I doubt any normal person would be nice and friendly after all that.

The first person that actually tries to ask about what happened is Doc, but Murphy has no reason to trust him and lies about having volunteered to do it (I doubt Doc believes it, but he doesn’t ask further about it either). So yes, Murphy could have told Delta X-ray Delta exactly what happened, and maybe that would have gotten him the sympathy he deserved. However, they all know he was bitten eight times, so you’d think that alone would be enough to be treated with some kindness. But nah, they all are happy to push him around and tell him to shut up and again continue referring to him as “the package”.

It only gets worse as Murphy starts to turn blue. Not only does Murphy have to deal with the fact he’s being dragged across America to be experimented on by Dr. Mercy again, he then has to deal with the fact he’s, literally, falling apart.

Yes, Murphy takes water from that family and lets the husband inside. Yes, that was an awful thing to do. But, Murphy’s natural inclination is not to be a murderer (if they actually died). So I was thinking about the situation from Murphy’s perspective. The mother and daughter were hiding out in a building waiting for the husband to return. When he took the water, neither fought back, which can get you killed in the apocalypse. Even if he hadn’t taken the water, how long would they have lasted? Especially if they waited there for the husband to come back and he never did? They likely would have starved or died of dehydration. As Murphy leaves, he stops, thinks, then lets the zombiefied husband inside. I think it’s entirely possible that, from his prospective, he was helping in a way. The mother and daughter wouldn’t die wondering what happened to him, and could be viewed as a twisted sort of mercy. Again, not a good thing to do, and I’m not excusing him. But it’s a point to ponder.

Next I wanted to talk about Cassandra. Well, when Murphy bit her. Like with 10K, we never actually see the bite happen. What we see is Murphy going past everyone who’s devastated by Cassandra dying, and then entering the room and looking at her. Now, up to that point, Murphy had only bitten/infected four people, and controlled three of them sort of. The first person he bit, that guy at the Fu-Bar, died and didn’t turn. Now, based on the fact that even Murphy seemed surprised by Cassandra’s return, and her strange behavior, my guess is that he bit her to keep her from becoming a Z. He knew she meant a lot to the others, and despite his outward behavior, I think it’s safe to say Murphy does care about them at this point. So it would make sense to me that he would assume seeing her turn into a zombie would be heartbreaking to everyone else, and therefore bit her to prevent that, not knowing she would become a Blend and come after him.

In the final episode of season 1, Murphy sees what became of Patient Zero. He sees a man melted to a table, still alive, and begging for death, and knows he could become him. Then he learns Dr. Kurian isn’t who he says he is and could be wanting to kill or torture him (like the other experiments in the lab). (An aside: Dr. Merch worked in that lab, meaning she had a hand in those experiments.)

So again, I don’t find it unreasonable that Murphy, triggered by his trauma and impending kidnapping, fled. Flight or Fight, and we know Murphy prefers not to fight. So he ran. Someone in that kind of head-space is not going to be thinking of other people, and it would be unreasonable to expect that.

Then the beginning of season 2 is marked by people hunting Murphy down. People who are completely willing to break his legs to get the bounty. Again, he was being treated as less than human. The only bright spot in his life was Lucy, who he felt like he had to give up because he believed the group would hurt her. Considering the way they talked about him and her, and the fact they’re totally okay with allowing a baby to be experimented on, he wasn’t wrong to be worried.

Then we get the lovely episode The Collector. You know, the episode where Murphy was electrocuted multiple times. If you take a look at ScriptTorture like I have—specifically their electrical torture tag—you’ll see just how bad even one shock can be, let alone however many he got there. Being shocked with electricity can cause: heart attacks, muscle spasms enough to break bones, someone biting their own tongue off by mistake, death from falling because of muscle failure, burns, and bruising. While we know Murphy didn’t experience those (luckily) it’s still torture, and still incredibly painful for him. And let’s not forget he got shocked with a cattle prod back in the first episode of the season, and that he later gets repeatedly shocked in that episode with the Zuggalos.

The end of the episode leaves us with Murphy asking Warren to promise him she won’t let him be alone when they get to the CDC. And she does. Until a few episodes later, anyway. During the flashback episode, we get a scene where Murphy tells Warren he’s scared and that if she was his friend, she wouldn’t leave him alone at the CDC. What’s Warren’s response to this? “I’m not your friend” and “There are some things we have to do alone, even if it hurts.” Like, wow, nice, so glad you don’t care you’re breaking Murphy down further.

And then to find out Dr. Merch and the others on the sub weren’t even going to save humanity, just the rich people on Zona? To know he’d been subjected to all that shit for nothing? Yeah, Murphy had every right to be upset and to try and take matters into his own hands. A persona can only take so much before they snap, after all.

You know what’s ridiculous? That Warren & Co (minus 10k) were totally fine with Hector/Escorpion hanging out with them despite, you know, torturing Vasquez, killing multiple people even before the apocalypse, trying to kill 10k (the ep where he was with Sketchy and Skeezy), being part of a Cartel… But Murphy being snarky and occasionally an asshole is just so much worse, I guess.

Now I want to address Murphy biting 10k. Like with Cassandra, we don’t see what happens, just the before and after. But let’s think back on some things. Murphy bit Cassandra because she was dying. Murphy did NOT bite 10k when the Collector ordered him to because there was another way out. Murphy did NOT inject Warren & Co when they were with The Zeros, when he had the opportunity and even motive to. So then we have 10k on the sub, shot in the stomach. We last see 10k (pre-bite) stumbling off the table in the sub. Despite being bandaged, he didn’t look like he was doing too well. When we see 10k later, he has no memory of the bite happening. Murphy can do a lot, but we’ve never seen him erase someone’s memories. Now, looking at Murphy’s past actions, and what we see going on with 10k, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to assume that, perhaps, 10k fainted or was knocked out. Falling to the floor or against a wall could have very easily re-opened his stitches, causing him to bleed again. Now if Murphy saw this, he could have easily thought that 10k was dying and bitten him.

All that isn’t to say Murphy wasn’t in the wrong for trying to control 10k, because he was, but I find it hard, if not impossible, to believe it was a lie when Will said that Murphy cared about him and didn’t want to hurt him.

Honestly, season 3 feels kind of like a mess when it comes to vilifying Murphy and trying to make it seem like Warren is in the right. I’m honestly glad when Murphy calls out her hypocrisy, because Warren keeps saying freedom is important, and free will is important. But apparently when the people go to Murphy of their own free will to get his cure, that doesn’t count. Warren was totally okay with slaughtering a bunch of people (with the help of the Red Hand who are also a bunch of murderers), because they felt safe with Murphy. And why wouldn’t they? He made them immune to Zs, got them fresh water, functioning electricity, and food.

Which brings me to another point I want to make. People love to call Murphy a narcissist. While he does act arrogantly, he’s not a narcissist. To be classified as a narcissist, a person must exhibit 5 or more of the following symptoms:

A grandiose sense of self-importance

Preoccupation with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love

Belief that one is special and can only be understood by or associate with special people or institutions

A need for excessive admiration

A sense of entitlement (to special treatment)

Exploitation of others

A lack of empathy

Envy of others or the belief that one is the object of envy

Arrogant, haughty behavior or attitudes

A grandiose sense of self-importance: Nope. Murphy frequently said he didn’t want to be The Savior, that he wanted to be normal and die like everyone else. When he does refer to himself as The Savior, it’s highly sarcastic or to stay alive.

Preoccupation with fantasies of success, power, etc.: Again, no. The closest he gets is saying he could have been an action news anchor if he’d applied himself.

Only associating with special people and institutions: No. Murphy associates with everyone. Does he get a little close to this with Zona in season 4? Yeah, but since it isn’t exclusive it doesn’t count as this.

A need for excessive admiration: Nah. You can see him get visibly uncomfortable when his Blends act overly obsessed with him. And guess what? Murphy gives them all credit for getting the power working. Not once does he claim that all the good things they have is because of him and him alone.

A sense of entitlement: Sometimes. But I’d say considering the shit he’s been through, it’s not unreasonable.

Exploitation of others: Yeah, he does do this.

Lack of empathy: Whoo boy, you’d have to have not been watching the show to think this. Murphy, despite his outward behavior, gets attached to people so fast. It only took one card game with Doc for Murphy to call him his friend, and to feel devastated when he thought Doc had been blown up. He has full empathy for Zs, and just because they’re dead doesn’t mean it doesn’t count. Especially when we know from both Murphy and Lucy that they do still feel things. Murphy and Lucy’s storyline as a whole disproves this one.

Envy of others/Thinking one is envied: No, we don’t see any evidence of this.

Arrogant and haughty behavior: Yeah, he does this too.

So, 2 out of 9 symptoms. Murphy’s not a narcissist. Case closed on that one.

Now, back to my main points. So we have Murphy creating a beautiful room for Lucy, intending to find her and bring her back to raise her properly. Warren tells Doc and Addy to get to Lucy first, so she can be the new cure. Because it’s totally fine to experiment on babies. And yeah, we know now that Sun Mei would have likely only taken a little bit of blood, but we didn’t then, and neither did Warren & Co. And even still, it’s experimenting on a baby. Truly, Warren was the hero of season 3 and Murphy was pure evil.

Luckily in seasons 4 and 5, Murphy is treated a lot better. Well, mostly the end of season 4 and season 5 in general. The way things are framed, it seems like Murphy doesn’t care about anyone not on Zona, but it’s crucial to remember that 1) He was told everyone was dead and 2) it’s been 2 years for him. And then when he’s reunited with Lucy she snubs him and hangs around with Warren, who acts all pleased about it. It’s not like Murphy loved Lucy more than anyone, even himself, and had tried so hard to get her back, thought she was dead, and just wants a chance to be a dad. And, because Murphy hasn’t suffered enough, Warren’s sense of self-importance about her mission to “stop” Black Rainbow got Lucy killed. Just saying, if they’d just gone to Newmerica, Lucy might have lived.

Also, how can your heart not break even a little when, at the camp, Doc gives Murphy a hug and Murphy says “At least there’s one person who’s happy to see me”? Like?

The last time we get Murphy being treated super unfairly is by Addy in season 5. Like, yes, Addy traveled with Lucy and cared about her, but Murphy was her father and might have been able to raise her if Doc and Addy hadn’t gone to kidnap her first. But she just has to get in a dig at Murphy not being around for Lucy. Like he totally would have had he not been abducted by Zona.

As long as this post is, I hope those that read it can see my point. Murphy is not perfect, but the way he’s treated is vastly out of proportion to what he’s done. He definitely deserves more sympathy than he’s given. If we’re ever given a season 6, I hope he’s treated a lot better.

If people would like to talk about this, whether you agree or not, please do. But also please be nice about it. I’m all for respectful discussions.

#z nation #alvin murphy #my thoughts #my opinions #I feel a lot better now that I've gotten this all written down #lol #this isn't to say any of the other characters' traumas aren't important #but that murphy's seem to be looked over a lot #at least from what I've seen

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tarisilmarwen · 5 years

Text

Splinters: Night Terrors

(Am I setting up and foreshadowing for things to come? Maaaaaaaybe. In the meantime enjoy more angst!)

---

Ezra wandered down a long, stark gray corridor. It seemed familiar. Ezra felt like he knew it somehow.

His footsteps echoed hollowly on the immaculately clean floor. There wasn't anyone else there except him. Well, him and—

Ezra stopped walking, his breath catching. Someone was standing in the middle of the hallway. A tall man in white.

With blue skin and glowing red eyes.

Ezra felt ice shoot through him, freezing him to the spot. He was pinned in place with terror, and that was before Thrawn even began to speak.

"It hardly matters whether or not you choose to disclose anything," he was saying, those eerie red eyes trained on him with clinical indifference. "I will glean the answers I seek one way or another."

No no no... This had been up in his office not... not down here...

Ezra could almost see the outlines of the man's desk floating behind him, bisecting the corridor.

"I do prefer not to subject you to more extensive methods..." Thrawn was continuing on, and Ezra heard the clinical monotone take on a threatening edge. The red eyes narrowed. "...but I have accounted for all of your potential attempts at defiance. Do not force me to order your torture, Bridger."

His mouth ran dry and his ears were screaming. With wide eyes Ezra found his paralysis lifting just enough for him to take one step back, then another. He shook his head mutely. Thrawn didn't move but Ezra could still sense the threat rolling off him, ebbing out from his standing form.

Just as he was turning from Thrawn to run he ran smack into someone else.

Ezra bounced off her, startled, dread and fear slamming into him as fingers twisted into his hair and yanked his head back, an iron grip seizing his right wrist.

"Ahh!" he cried out, pain ripping the sound from him.

He recognized it was Governor Pryce without even needing to see her, knew her by the nails digging against his scalp, by her hot breath as it blew on his cheek and neck. She was pulling his wrist back, wrenching his arm behind him.

"Answer the Grand Admiral, Bridger," she hissed.

"No!" he yelled, shriller this time as he struggled in a panic. "Let go! Let GO!"

Her touch burned him like acid. He wanted her off, wanted to scratch off any trace of her. She was squeezing his wrist hard enough to crack bone, keeping his arm pinned painfully to his back. Ezra could barely breathe through the fear racing through him now.

"Very well," decided Thrawn, even though Ezra hadn't said anything. Red eyes flicked up to the woman behind him. "Governor Pryce, if you would please."

She began to push him forward, grip tight on his hair and his arm. Ezra's throat locked up, his breaths coming in short and stilted as he saw the hallway was now the interrogation room. Thrawn had vanished and in his place were Stormtroopers and Imperial technicians, all watching him silently like carved stone pillars.

Ezra dug in his feet, pushed back against Pryce as she forced him towards that hated table. His feet slid, his arm wrenched as she increased the pressure on his wrist. He gasped and his face twisted in pain, even as he fought harder against his unwanted movement towards the table.

"No..." he said hoarsely. "No... no..."

She was about to pin him cheek-first into its cold metal surface now.

With a burst of strength he yanked forward away from her... and her hands disappeared, and the table too, leaving him stumbling, tripping, falling to his hands and knees.

He was in the hanger. There was a loud firefight going on behind him.

He shuddered in relief. He was still in danger, he knew Pryce was still behind him somewhere, but at least now he could steal a ship and escape.

Something tingled on the back of his neck before he could move.

Ezra.

Ezra whipped around in alarm. His eyes searched frantically. Pryce and some Stormtroopers exchanged fire with Rebels on the other side of the room, but the voice calling his name hadn't come from there.

Wait...

His eyes widened. Just off to the side, near the docked TIE fighters, there was a familiar dark figure with distinctive red and black tattoos and burning yellow eyes.

Ezra, Maul said again, even though his mouth didn't move.

Ezra snapped to his feet, stumbling backwards. "Stay away from me!" he shouted.

He turned, looking for the exit. The shuttle... He could take the shuttle.

Something seemed wrong as he moved towards it, aimed for the lowered ramp. His limbs seemed heavier, his movement slow and sluggish. A numbness was moving through his veins.

Like he'd been sedated.

"No no, c'mon..." he whispered, fighting through the sensation. His eyes darted back briefly over his shoulder. Maul hadn't moved, but Pryce was turning away from the firefight, glaring at him venomously. Ezra whipped forward again, reaching for the ramp and the light from inside spilling across it.

His legs were weakening. Ezra felt them giving out on him just as he reached the bottom of the ramp. Ezra gasped, tilting forward, his palms hitting the ramp.

"C'mon c'mon, move... move..." he willed himself.

He was so close...

The strength was leaving his arms too. A dull roar was rushing up in his ears, fading out the sounds of the battle.

A sensation of dread filled him as his vision darkened. He stretched out for the top of the ramp, weakly.

Someone's hand was reaching for him—Maul's or Pryce's, he didn't know and he didn't look.

He covered his neck with both arms, cowering. His head drooped towards the ramp and—

***

His eyes shot open.

Ezra sat bolt upright, biting a knuckle harshly. His finger screamed in protest but the pain helped him focus, helped him remember where he was.

Zeb was snoring softly in the bunk beneath him. It was such a comforting sound Ezra shuddered with his relief.

He pulled his hand out of his mouth, pressing both palms over his eyes.

It was just another nightmare, he told himself. That's all. Just a bad dream. It wasn't really him.

His breath came in a shuddering gasp.

Force he hoped it wasn't. That was the last thing he wanted to be dealing with on top of everything else.

He realized he was shaking. Ezra slowly put his hands down, calling to mind dozens of Kanan's lessons about centering himself, clearing his mind.

His breathing evened out.

Tentatively, fearful of what he might find, Ezra closed his eyes and probed out. He felt the fraying, tattered edges of the bond that had connected him to Maul and...

Nothing.

There was nothing. The bond was still severed.

Ezra opened his eyes again, a little calmer. Maul hadn't been calling out for him. It had just been the dream.

Just the dream.

He shuddered, coming out of the Force, letting his senses dull.

The room was utterly still.

Ezra's legs shifted as he lay back down, nervous pings reverberating through him as he contemplated going back to sleep. Even though the nightmare was fading quickly, the uneasiness that always came after one was still clinging to him.

I'm okay. It wasn't him, he told himself again. Just go back to sleep.

He lay still a long time, but he couldn't shake it off. It settled around his lungs and chest like a heavy, oppressive blanket. His breathing grew tighter. He knew if he couldn't calm down from it, it would just build right back up into panic.

Last night it had been so bad he'd fled to Sabine's room. A few seconds of frantic rapping on her door and she'd opened up, wordlessly letting him in and holding him for an hour while he talked himself down.

"Where are you right now, Ezra?" she'd asked him softly.

"Yavin," he'd whispered. "I'm on the Ghost."

"That's right," she'd encouraged. "And I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. You hear me?"

He'd buried his face in her shoulder with a murmur.

Thinking of the memory brought a bit of cool serenity back into his chest. That was right... Sabine was there. She was always someone he could turn to. Or he could wake the snoring Zeb. Or go shake Kanan awake. Or Hera.

He wasn't alone.

Ezra turned on his side. He rubbed his right wrist soberly, feeling phantom pain from Pryce's grip still lingering under his skin.

Zeb's snoring continued below him. Ezra listened for a long while, his anxiety fading.

His eyes slid closed as he drifted off back to sleep.

---

I summon Chapter Notes!

1. Revisiting Ezra's interrogation via flashbacks and nightmares always gives me lovely opportunities to fill in the gaps and the behind the scenes from "Cracks In The Mirror". :) Granted, Ezra's fuzzy memory still messes things up so I won't say Thrawn's lines are things he definitely said but it's along the same general lines.

2. Oh look, now the other major source of his traumas is starting to reappear in his dreams! Lol.

3. I strongly headcanon that Maul is a constant in Ezra's nightmares ever since Malachor so really it was only a matter of time before he showed up.

4. Couldn't resist putting in a little Sabine and Ezra moment. Sue me.

Coming around to the home stretch. Two more chapters in this baby! Just a little setup for things to come and we'll wrap things up here. Thanks for sticking with me this long, readers!

#star wars #star wars rebels #ezra bridger #grand admiral thrawn #sabezra #fanfiction #prompt fics #protective sabine best sabine

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ghostradiostoryhour · 5 years

Text

Slay

Once a month, every month, we go to the club and we slay. Let the smooth edges of the music slide across our exposed shoulders like silk, like Britney’s snake, like the arm of a lover we’vejust met. We come home with blood in our mouths, fur on our knuckles still receding. The thin cuts from breaking fresh and red down our hands and arms, our chests and faces. Our jaws and teeth sore, still a little swollen from the transformation. We throw on some fresh clothes, dump the bloodied ones in the outside trash. We text a time to meet for brunch and then we all sit together, pushing our eggs around our plates like it’s nothing, this monthly trauma, like we’ve just gotten our periods and oh my god are we all finally on the same cycle? We laugh because we are still coming back to our bodies, because at first humor is the only kind of consciousness that is tolerable. And it is quite the joke, isn’t it? Werewolf drag queens? The stuff of B-horror movies, sexploitation films. But here we were, real as the mimosas in our manicured hands. Last month, one of us joked that we felt long in the tooth, and we all threw our heads back to howl.

We never thought of ourselves as mutants, but I guess some people saw it like that. We were in constant transformation, but hadn’t we always been? Hadn’t everyone always been? To be human wasto change. We had reached a higher plane. We tucked, we stuffed our bras.If we had to, we filled our veins with hormones. Some of us cut away at ourselves, with the help of doctors or razors, whichever felt more like home, whatever homewas supposed to be. We broke ourselves to make the breaking a choice. We were family.

We are the best of the best, we are the house that dominates the drag scene. We kill as long as we have the stage and a murderous pair of heels and a damn good song. We spin, and we let the beaded fringe of our skirts rattle over our thighs. We throw the long hair of our wigs out over our shoulders and then pull our hands up our silk-smooth, shaven legs, careful not to let our fresh red nails snag the fishnets or the nylons we wear. We smile and the whole crowd melts. They look and they look and they look and we let them. We strut out to take the dollar bills from the bachelorette parties and the straight-but-curious and the oh-no-not-me-I-could-nevers and the liberal anthropologists and the best friends and the beards and the hags and the drunks and the allies and the whole entire spectrum. We are radiant, and this—killing—is how we can afford to stay radiant.

Slaying is our one night off, because who can work knowing that the bodies we love so dearly, the changeable bodies we maul and remold and fight against and show off with, are about to break open? So on nights when the full moon rises high in the sky, we slip on a sparkly red dress or a slick new suit, and contour and tuck and bind, or sometimes we slay simply as we are, unedited. So many of us feel out of place in our own skin, even when we change at night, even when we become something closer to who we really are. The one place we feel at home? That’s on the dance floor at our favorite bar, Tits Up, a drink in one hand and a new lover on the other.

Under the half-dome of the ceiling, the spinning disco ball threw multicolor lights across ourfaces. All around us, sharp-lined eyes flashed like pinpricks in the dark bar. Even in the dead of winter, skin was everywhere, moving in time with the music, and we were no exception. We liked to dance against the moon, until we could feel our milk teeth pushing out from the base of our gums. When we could take it no longer, we’d hand our heels to a friend, andshuffle out, discreet as we could.We’d run down the alley at the end of the block, to the parkon the water that closed after sundown. Then it was a quick dash under cover of the trees to the nearest abandoned construction site, far from the eyes of the bustling nightlife. Then we’d break open, tears in our eyes, the streaks from our mascara only more shadows in the light from the moon.

We knew our history. House LaBeija. DuPree. Xtravaganza. We were respectful to our elders. We were old school, or we wanted to be.Weall had different styles: femmes and kings and butch queens and comedy queens and then there were some of us that were just starting out. But of course we were all the same, so we made our own house.

We were the House of Breaking. The House of the moon. The House of blood and bite and bone. Nobody, not even the horror queens, wanted to be in our house, but that didn’t mean we didn’t command their respect. People in the drag community knew what we were, and they kept an open mind, or they kept their mouths shut, anyway.

One night, we were out at a show, one night. A Williamsburg show, in a newer place.

A lunatic had made the country his bitch.His white men in red hats wanted a fight, had the gall to shout slurs and declare themselves proud Nazis on camera, and still they cried that they were the oppressed. They needed protection. The look in their eyes frightened us. Us! Creatures of fur and tooth and claw, creatures of unknowable strength. But we were petrified. Because we knew the look well: bloodlust.

That night, we were leaning against the wall of the club, out for one lastsmokebefore moonrise.Aman, white as Florida beach sand, in a bright red baseball hat, turned on to the street. He was with a few friends of much the same ilk, though they did not have the hats to match. They laughed easily, telling a long-winded story about something basic. We tensed a little, armor on, and the youngest of us, the stunning Miss Maya Condios, bared her teeth.

The man approached, and as he walked we took all of him in: his look (middle-aged dad), his scent (sweat and cornchips and Aqua Velva), who he was wearing (nobody, maybe Massimo for Target), whether he could hurt us (yes). When he got close enough, Maya tilted up her chin and glared down at him imperiously. She blew him a kiss.

“Fucking faggots,” the hat man snarled, and launched a thick glob of spit at us. It landed on Ursa Major’s breasts, smearing the contour applied there. And that was it.

Maya leapt on him, sunk her teeth into hisshoulder, and drew blood. We knew, because it spread like an opening black bud on the white pique cotton of the polo he wore. And because of the unearthly shriek he let forth. His two friends fell on Maya, landing punches left and right, but she dug her teeth into that shoulder and growled, the dark curls of her wig swinging wildly as the man spun beneath her, trying to shake her off. We leapt into the fray, the largest of us prying the men apart from each other, the smallest of us pulling at Maya, begging her to stop. We liked this club, it was good money. We didn’t want to be banned, especially not on account of some homophobic asshole.

We broke apart, a clump of brawlers glistening with sequins and sweat, and glared at each other. Some of us held Miss Maya back. We could feel the breaking starting beneath her skin. Her arms were shaking with rage, with the coming change boiling in her blood.

“Get her out of here,” one of us said, and the others obliged, rushing Maya down the street and into a dark alley where she could break peaceably, a place away from the leering crowd that had gathered, a place free of reflective surfaces. Maya, always the high femme, hated to watch herself break. She couldn’t bear the masses of fur that sprouted from her knuckles and the way her petite fingers lengthened and gnarled into paws with dirty yellow claws. The stretch and distortion of her face, her nose. The contour would be all wrong, her perfect makeup suddenly a garish mistake on such a wolfish head. As we watched her duck into the alley from our places outside the bar, we could hear her cry, a low mongrel whine.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

The indignant tone in the man’s voice brought us back. It wasn’t the man who’d been attacked, who was looking a little woozy. That was the way it was. He would break later tonight, guaranteed. He had caught it, and you always broke the night you were bitten. We exchanged nervous glances. It wasn’t our way to leave a fellow breaker unsupervised, but it also wasn’t our way to take in so called Proud Boys. Most often, we bit when in the throes of passion, not out of hate or righteous indignation. And there was no easy way to separate this man from his friends.

This was uncharted territory.

“Your friend fucking bitGarrett,” the one man kept saying. “Bit him.”

“What the fuck,” Garrett said, sounding a little weak. His other friend helped him sink to the bench outside of the club. He touched his shoulder and looked at the blood on his hand.

“You better not have given him AIDS.”

We had a few options. Killing him would be messy. A crowd was already gathering.

“Faggots,” said one of them.

That word again. We looked at each other. The oldest of us, Rhea Bilitation, stepped right up to the mouthy one, towering over him in her blue sequin leotard, her breastplate nearly touching his face.

“Honey, do you know where you are?” she said, allowing a little of the growl into her voice. “This is New York fucking City, not Fargo or Topeka or wherever the fuck little shit town you call home. You want to call the cops? Do you knowwhat drag queens like us do to cops?”

The man swallowed. Rhea was used to flexing her muscles in dangerous situations. She was the one of us with the most control over her breaking. The smell of the wolf—musk, woods, wet dog—pervaded the air. The man dropped his gaze and stepped back.

“Yeah,” Rhea said. “That’s what I thought.”

A twink across the street let out a cheer.

“Now get your girl,” Rhea flicked iridescent nails toward the bleeding man on the bench. “And get out of here.”

The men considered for a moment, but then thought better of it, probably because their friend looked so bad. They hoisted the bleeding man up off the bench and to his feet.

“Better go get that looked at, honey,” someone shouted.

We really hoped they didn’t get it looked at. Exposure would be the end of us. If anything was true of America these days, it was that only so much difference was permitted, and even then on very rocky terms. Now was not a good time to be outed.

Rhea touched her short blonde wig and curtseyed to the gathered crowd, then yelled, “Now who wants to see me reallyslay?”

Brunch the next day was tense.

Yes, we had slayed, thanks to Rhea’s recovery, but we did not consider it a victory. At least, most of us did not consider it a victory. Others, including Maya—who looked a little worse for wear after breaking, but still glamorous as ever—were alive with excitement. We were fighting back. Hate could go and fuck itself.

But some of us, the older ones, still felt danger crackling in the air. And more than that, we were less of a unit now. Less “we” more “me,” and that was how drag houses died.

Some of us felt that this was no display of force, nor was it a win for love. Maya biting that man put all of us into danger.

“We don’t have to take him in, do we?” Maya said, pulling the celery out of her Bloody. “I’m not babysitting that. Hell no.”

“You should have thought about that before you decided to bite him,” Lex said, her pencil mustache from last night’s Gomez drag still Spirit Glued to her upper lip. She took a bite of her cheeseburger.

Rhea sucked her teeth. “Hopefully the problem resolves itself.”

First, we had to get ready for our show. Same Williamsburg venue, with hopefully a different crowd. Tres LaVain squeezed into thigh high stiletto boots and a shocking white wig, and Lex prepped her Lady Gaga/Joe Calderone drag. Rhea went red this time, and Maya looked like a space princess from another dimension. Ursa opted to keep the Morticia drag from last night’s duo with Lex, but this time in irony. Williamsburg would eat that shit up.

$2 PBRs, $3 wells, and the packed-house crowd was revved, bristling with bills ripe for the taking. Lex did a backflip off of the shoddy piano and tips rained down. Ursa’s death drop was amazing, and Maya landed a full back handspring into a split. Tres did an original comedy number about Jerry Springer. Rhea broke a little onstage, letting her face elongate into a snout and then when she turned around again, she was her regular self, only a little bloody. The crowd roared.

We had all but forgotten about the fight.

And then, at three AM, we walked out of the club, and there he was, caked in rust-colored blood. He wore the same white polo shirt, or what was left of it. He looked like death.

“Please help me,” he said.

We took him home with us. We piled into the subway and climbed out at the Myrtle-Wyckoff stop. On the way, we learned a little more about our guest: Garrett, no last name, though he did tell us he had a wife upstate and three young kids—two girls and a boy.

We all agreed; his obvious fear—of himself, of us—made everything much less fun.

“Relax, doll,” Rhea said.

“You’re one of us now,” Lex said, and we weren’t sure how to feel.

“I… I killed someone, or something,” he said. “I think, anyway.”

“Alright, well, rule number one is discretion,” Rhea said sternly, as she unlocked the door to our apartment building. “Which means don’t talk about kills, or about breaking, while you’re still in the middle of a fucking street, especially not in motherfucking New York City, honey.”

“Breaking?” he asked. Somehow, Garrett had the gall to speak after this reprimand. We exchanged major side-eye. It was a bad idea to fuck with Rhea.

“Could you please shut up,” Maya said, under her breath. The door opened and we pushed him in front of us.

“You live here?” he said.

“Welcome,” Tres growled, and opened the door to the apartment.

We tried to make ourselves comfortable in the living room. Ursa put a kettle on, like she always did when she was stressed. Garrett did not sit. He paced the length of the apartment, which made the whole scene tight and dire. It was not a good look. None of us were sure whether we should start getting out of drag or not, if we should start counting our money. The breach of trust that this man had created by entering our sacred space was more and more damaging by the second, and our resentment toward him—and toward Maya—swelled.

“Okay, first off,” Rhea said. “Don’t fucking touch anything that doesn’t belong to you. This is not your home, and this is not your space. You are a visitor here, and you will act as such until we teach you how to handle the breaking. When we are confident that you have control of yourself, you will leave, and not come back.”

“You’re experiencing Breaking,” Ursa said, bringing a tray of teacups and a steaming hot pot into the room and setting it down on the coffee table. She served us each a cup as she spoke. “At least, that’s what we call it. You’re a werewolf, for lack of a better term. We don’t really like to use that word—it’s reductive and dehumanizing—but that’s essentially what’s happening to you. You will break—turn—every month at the full moon. More often until you get a handle on the wolf inside you.”

“How do I get better?” Garrett asked. We had clearly confirmed his worst fears.

“You don’t,” Tres said, and sipped her tea.

“What do you mean? There’s gotta be a cure, right?” he said, voice cracking.

Ursa poured him a cup of tea and pushed it into his hand.

“I know it’s tough,” Maya said. “But we can help you—”

“Fuck you,you’re the one who got me sick,” he spat.

“Language,” Ursa said, as calmly as she could. She sat on the couch next to Maya and held her hand. Maya was trembling, trying to keep herself under control.

“Rule number two: you treat us with respect, or we turn you out before you’re ready,” Rhea said with authority. “No more of this homophobic, toxic masculinity bullshit you’re serving. And trust me,” Rhea said. “You need our help.”

Garrett glared at her. “Fine.”

“Good,” Rhea said. “Managing this conditionis fully a matter of self-control. We will work with you—at our own expense, by the way, so you’re welcome—for the next few weeks to teach you how we handle the breaking, and what to do during a full moon.”

“What if—what if I killed someone already?” Garrett stammered, fear again in his voice.

Rhea leaned forward, pulled the man close to her, and sniffed. “This is deer blood. Lucky break. Now, call your family. Tell them your trip has been extended, that you’ll see them as soon as you can. And remember: discretion.”

The man nodded and got up to go into the kitchen, dialing a number on his cell.

“Don’t think we won’t kill you to keep ourselves safe,” Lex called after him.

“Please,” Ursa interrupted. “I think we’ve had enough violence for now.”

Lex crossed her arms.

Over the next few days, Garrett learned as best as he could how to control his emotions. Apparently, he had never felt like it was okay to even acknowledge his emotions at all, much less known how to control them. We would have pitied him for that, if it weren’t such a huge problem. He listened when he wanted to, which was more and more often. He and Maya became close. Terribly close. A little too close, we thought.

For a week, we ran Garrett through the gamut: how to control each break until he had found safe cover, where to stash extra clothes for the next day, how to gracefully back out of a conflict (some of us were still working on that one). The more he learned, the more optimistic and kind he became. The more human to us. We marveled when one night we came in to find him braiding Lex’s short hair in the living room, the two of them laughing at an old re-run of The Addams Family. We were even more shocked when the sound of glass shaking in the kitchen cupboards echoed through the apartment one night, and we peeked out of our doorways to find the blue light of the open fridge spilled out onto the kitchen floor, broken into long shadows by Maya’s bare legs lined up with Garrett’s. One of her broad hands pulling his bare ass back and back again against her body, the other buried in his sandy hair, his ear pressed hard against the freezer door, his face screwed up, small moans of pleasure from them both as they rocked against the appliance, Ursa’s many crystal vases clattering in the cabinets above. We exchanged looks as best as we could in the dark, then slipped back into bed.

When we got up the next morning, Miss Maya was sitting on the couch in the living room, a piece of scrap paper in her hand. She was smoking a cigarette, something she only ever did after someone dumped her.

“He left,” she said. She held up the piece of paper. Thanks for everything, three cold words in chicken scrawl. Tres scowled. Ursa climbed onto the couch with Maya, touched her knee. Lex was silent.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t do anything stupid,” Rhea said, and poured herself a shot of tequila. And that was that. There was no news of Garrett for days.

Until there was.

We were at brunch, after a particularly lucrative show the night before. We’d finished eating and gossip hung heavy in the air. It was almost time for the menu to change over to dinner, and all of us were feeling tipsy, loose and bright. All was right with the world, for the moment, at least.

“That opener,” said Tres. “Do you think she knew her weave was all fucked?”

“Her? Please,” Ursa reached out to touch Tres’s elbow. “Honey I don’t even know if that wasa weave.”

“Girl needs some practice,” Maya agreed, smiling snidely. “And a mirror.”

“Such shade,” Lex said and tutted, then smiled. Maya flicked the umbrella from her drink at her.

Rhea didn’t say anything. She was staring at the TV above the bar.

Garrett’s face was on the news, along with the caption, SEARCH FOR SUSPECT CONTINUES.Our mouths dropped, and Tres gasped. Rhea waved and got the bartender’s attention. The screen cut to footage of helicopters circling a white clapboard house. Yellow police tape fenced off the crime scene. Police swarmed like ants on the yard.

“Could you turn it up for a second?” she asked, her voice flat. We held our breath.

The bartender nodded and turned up the TV.

…earlier this morning, when police responded to a 911 call from a neighbor after they heard screams coming from the house,a male news anchor was saying. When authorities entered the house, they found the suspect’s wife, Sandy Keller, and the Kellers’ three young children, Christine, Megan, and Johnathan, had been slashed open and left to die in what is seemingly one of the most brutal murders that Rochester has experienced in the last decade. We go live now to Patty, who is on the scene. Patty?

The report cut to a tearful interview with the neighbor, and we turned to each other. None of us knew what to say. Had we not trained him well enough? Did he not listen to anything we had taught?

The TV showed a cop with a serious expression, giving some kind of official statement.

Our main suspect, Garrett Keller, is still at large. We have a warrant for his arrest. Anyone with information should call Rochester PD. It is not clear whether the suspect is armed, but he is considered dangerous, the sheriff said.

Rhea thanked the bartender and passed him a ten dollar bill.

“This is not good,” she said, and the rest of us nodded, suddenly sober.

We took a car home together. We were anxious and tense, and we needed to be somewhere it was safe to discuss logistics. If he did get caught, and he would, what if he outed us? What if he didn’t plan to out us, but he got hurt in the scuffle, and needed to go to the hospital? We couldn’t have doctors finding out about what he was, even if he did keep his mouth shut, which we didn’t trust to begin with. Where there was one werewolf, odds are there was another. Or five others, in our case. We didn’t want to split up.

“Maybe he won’t get caught,” Ursa suggested as the car pulled up in front of our building. Tres snorted.

“Yeah,” Ursa said, in a resigned tone. “You’re right.”

We thanked the driver and got out, started to walk up the steps to the door.

“Wait,” Rhea said with such authority that we all froze in place, our breath caught. Fear vibrated off us.

A shadow moved in the darkness of the alcove where the door to our apartment building was.

“Who’s there?” Rhea said.

The shadow stepped out into the light. Garrett.

He was wearing a black hoodie with the hood up, khakis and penny loafers. His eyes were wild, and his face and hands were still bloody from the morning.

Rhea tucked one hand into the pocket of her jacket, where she kept her cell phone and a switchblade.

“Please help me,” he said. “I have nowhere else.”

“Why did you kill them?” Maya said, her voice cracking. When we looked, we could see that she had started to cry. “Why would you do that?”

Garrett stepped forward and we all stepped back instinctively. His face fell. He seemed hurt by our retreat. “I wasn’t trying to—I didn’t want to be alone,” he said. “I was trying to turn them.” He glanced at Maya. “Like how you did with me.”

He stepped toward us and we stepped back. “I don’t know who I am anymore. After all this and then that night—“

“Don’t you darefucking blame this on that,” Maya growled. Lex reached out a steadying hand. “You’re the one that wanted to hook up to begin with.”

“I was confused—”

“So you went home and slaughtered your family?” Tres said. “Confusion doesn’t justify murder, you asshole.”

We were all quiet for a moment. A siren wailed in the distance. The wail became louder.

“You didn’t,” Garrett said, and Rhea held up her cell phone.

“I’ve had this text drafted since I saw the news,” she said. “I knew you’d try to come back here.” “You’re my family,” Garrett said. “You said. We’re family.”

“No,” Rhea said. She turned and gestured to all of us. “Thisis my family. You are an unfortunate accident, one who only thinks about himself. You don’t know what it means to be in a family. You just murdered your own children, for fuck’s sake. How dare youtalk to me about family.”

He clenched and unclenched his fists, looked wildly at each of us. Then he settled on Maya.

“Baby,” he said.

Maya spat on the ground. “Don’t even fucking start with me.”

The cop car turned down the street and Garrett cursed, pushed past us to run, but it was no use. Soon the cop ran him down, threw his body to the concrete and read him his rights. We turned away. We never liked seeing anyone get arrested.

A few months passed. The news would not let up about the Rochester Ripper, the name they had given Garrett, thanks to the gruesome state he’d left his family in after he broke in front of them. His trial was widely publicized, and there was nationwide coverage of the grim affair. We had go bags ready, in case things took a turn for the worse, but even still, we weren’t sure where we could go that this nightmare wouldn’t follow. Europe, maybe. South America. But odds were good that if a werewolf craze broke out in the U.S., and there was even a little proof, we would never have a safe place to break in peace again. We would all end up like the Lady Twain, or worse. At best, we knew we would never see each other again. A whole pack, a drag house, is too easy to find. We watched the proceedings from our apartment, in a black mood.

Garrett took the stand. After he answered some basic logistical questions (where were you when it happened, why did you run), the information Garrett began to share made us tremble.

“Mr. Keller,” the prosecutor said with a voice like a knife. “Why were you in Brooklyn the night you were arrested? What were you doing there, a full five-hour drive from your home? Were you attempting to find shelter from the law?”

Garrett looked terrible. His months in jail had not treated him well. His beard was nearly full, and his blonde hair had become stringy and matted with sweat. He had scratches all over his face, arms, and hands. From breaking, we knew. According to the news reports, Garrett had been kept in solitary confinement out of safety for the other prisoners, and probably out of some cruel sense of retaliation. Some said he had even bene forced to wear a straightjacket, because of all the self-harming he was doing. We cringed at that. The idea of having to break inside of a straightjacket was more than horrible. We wondered how many bones he had broken in the process. From the looks of him, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

“I was there because,” Garrett started, then looked down at his hands for a moment. We prayed he didn’t sell us out. “I was there to see some friends. People I thought were my friends. People who were trying to help me.”

“So where to? Canada first, then Iceland?” Maya said, her voice flat. She sat on the couch with her arms crossed, uncrossing them every so often to take a drag from her cigarette.

Lex put a finger up to her lips and hissed. We all listened, hard.

“According to the arrest report, the person who called the police was named Ryan Bisby, a local drag queen better known as Rhea Bilitation,” the prosecutor said, pacing the floor.

“He butchered my name,” Rhea grumbled, and Tres put a hand on her shoulder. “RayBilitation? What the fuck is Ray Bilitation? There’s no pun there, it’s not even pretty!”

“Mr. Keller, are you homosexual?” the prosecutor asked, a cruel twist of the knife in his voice. Garrett blanched, and he continued, “Were you having an affair with this person?”

“Jesus Christ,” Maya said.

“Here it comes,” Ursa said, and squeezed Rhea’s hand.

“Objection!” cried the defense lawyer. “This is irrelevant to my client’s case.”

“Sustained,” the judge said, surprising us all. Maybe she was our ally in the courtroom.

The prosecutor did not look amused. “Then what were you doing there?” he said.

Garrett took a deep breath, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Then he set his hands down and answered. “I just drove as far away from Rochester as I possibly could. I didn’t care where. I figured the city was as good a place to try to get lost as any, and so I went there. I picked the first house I got to and tried to break in. They came home too soon. I panicked when I saw the cops and I ran,” he said. “That’s it. That’s the whole story. I don’t know them. They seemed like good people.”

“Oh my god,” Rhea said. Maya shed a tear. Lex’s hand went to her mouth.

“He didn’t sell us out,” Ursa said. Tres narrowed her eyes at the screen.

The prosecutor looked skeptical. “Interesting,” he said. “So, you’d never seen them before you showed up on their particular doorstep that day looking for a place to hide?”

“Right.”

The prosecutor grinned.

“That is a truly remarkable answer, Mr. Keller,” he said, back to pacing, confident. “You see, the police received an anonymous tip from someone who mentioned they had seen you and some friends about three months before the attack. They saw you get into an altercation with a group of drag queens, including the aforementioned Rhea Bilitiation, outside of a Williamsburg gay bar.”

“Oh fuck,” Rhea said, and we were all thinking it, too.

The courtroom was silent, except for the sound of the prosecutor’s pacing steps. He stopped. “Well?”

Garrett came unraveled. He told it all, from the initial bite to the cohabitation to the training to the fucking to the killing. His eyes were wide, and the whole time, he clawed at himself, digging new red lines into the skin of his face. He did his best to explain the process of breaking—he was getting so worked up even talking about it that we thought maybe he would break right there, on camera, for all the world to see. But he kept it together, enough that he didn’t start to turn. When he was done, breathless and weeping, the court was silent once more.

Rhea turned the television off, her expression more tired than anything else. It was over for us, what we’d had here. We’d have to run. But not that day. We spent the rest of that day together, drinking and telling stories about our greatest shows. Smoking all of our cigarettes and draining what booze we had, music turned way up loud. We wanted to be together for one last day. We’d leave in the morning.

We rose before the sun came up, all of us dreadfully hungover, all of us packed and ready to go. Rhea fried up an egg for each of us. Ursa, tears in her eyes, poured cups of tea. One last meal. We were less ready to let go than we wanted to admit.

Tres clicked on the television.

“What’s the verdict?” Maya asked.

Tres flipped to a news channel covering the story.

ROCHESTER RIPPER PLEADS INSANITY,the screen read.

“Whoa, hey, turn it up,” Maya said, but Tres was already on it. Hope spiked in our hearts.

“And that’s the thing about these kinds of killers,” a dark-skinned woman in a smart suit was explaining. The description under her name read: FBI Agent, Criminal Profiler.“Sometimes they become so disconnected from reality, and the reality of what they’ve done to their victims, that they truly start to believe in an alternate reality, one in which they are the victim. One in which they have no control over their actions.”

The blonde news anchor nodded along. “It’s just terrible, what’s happened in Rochester,” she said. “But at least now the community is getting some justice.”

“And the killer is getting help from the good people at the Rochester Psychiatric Center,” the FBI agent agreed. “Rehabilitation is key in these cases. Perhaps by the end of his life, he will be able to come to terms with what he’s done.”

Rhea smiled. “You heard what they said: Rhea Bilitation is key in these cases.”

“So we’re not leaving?” Ursa asked, her joy evident in her tone.

“We’re staying right here!” Maya shouted. She unzipped her suitcase and dumped out the contents, spilling makeup and glitter everywhere. The rest of us did the same. We all felt so full of light, of justice. We looked around at each other, safe again in our home, with our family, in our House. We would go out and slay tonight, that was a given. But for now, we threw our heads back and we howled.

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erinturnerwrites · 6 years

Text

Perilous Creatures: SSP #1

In the winter, the road up Mt. Mansfield was closed and unplowed. Cars had to stop at the little parking lot a few hundred feet from the closure and turn around if they went that way unknowingly. Over the winter, the accumulated snowfalls made a wide white path, packed by the many feet of hikers and cross-country skiers and dog-walkers who used the snowy road as a hiking trail when the temperatures were reasonable.

Thea, who had been coming to Stowe for years now, knew it would be a good place to view the planetary alignment (once every three thousand years! raved the papers, her professor, the clickbait articles on the internet), so she had rolled out of her warm bed back at the inn and, leaving her disinterested friends asleep, had made the solitary pilgrimage to this place. But as fascinating as the physics of the alignment was, and as beautiful as the cold, clear, starlit morning was, there’s only so much one can do without a telescope or some kind of problem to work out.

I came, I saw, I observed with my eyes, Thea thought, turning the car off and putting on her red fleece ski hat. She got out of the car and zipped up her coat, tucking the keys into the pocket. It was a little after six, sunrise was still an hour away, and she felt strangely restless. She was going to hike up the path a little way – not far, not so far that she could get lost or freeze or anything. Not so far that she was too far from civilization, either. Unconsciously, she touched the space on her chest where her little silver cross hung, a gift from her uncle the priest.

The stars were bright, though the moon was down, and the reflection of the white snow gave Thea plenty of light to see by as she clambered up the slope rough-formed by hundreds of clambering feet. Then she was on the snowpack, standing about three feet higher than the road. Before her stretched the smooth white road, leading, it appeared, straight towards a rocky outcropping of mountain, rounded and dark purple and dusted with snow that had settled into its cracks and crevasses.

The predawn morning was cold, but not too cold. The air stung Thea’s cheeks and burned her lungs; it felt good after sitting in the stuffy, over-heated car. Thea set a good pace for herself, and took care to scan the trees for any sign of movement. Rising from the snow like a flooded forest the spindly trunks obscured little of her visibility, even in the dark. All was bare, clean, monochromatic. Thea paused and adjusted her scarf a little, appreciating the lack of noise, sonic or visual. Living in Boston was a great experience, but she tired of the never-ending vitality that spilled out at all hours, of the city glow that obscured the stars. Here, her red hat and scarf were the most colorful things around.

Except she wasn’t.

Thea’s brisk pace slowed, then halted. She was about three-quarters of a mile from the car. In front of her, dull red splashed across the snow like a Jackson Pollock painting. To the right, near the tree line, a dead body.

Thea took a deep breath. In, out.

She walked closer. That much blood meant an animal attack, probably. Yes, as she thought. The throat, heart, intestines all gone, the arms and legs torn. Shredded. The remnants of a person scattered across the path, a dark stain on the otherwise pristine snow.

What could have caused this? From the looks of things, it had happened hours ago, at least. Since nightfall, because otherwise somebody would have discovered the body. Somebody else, anyway.

Thea stared down at the frozen corpse, hands tucked in the fleece-lined pockets of her old grey ski jacket, fascinated. She thought about this body that had once been a person, laying here all night, the only witnesses the uncaring trees and silent stars. No death vigil for this person, not from them, with such a brief, tiny life in the massive span of years the stars witnessed. It was curious, how little the universe cared about death, Thea thought, tearing her gaze away to scan the scene for any information she could gather.

There were no clear tracks around the body, but the snow here was so hard packed that nobody left clear tracks. Thea pulled out her phone to call 911 and frowned at the NO SERVICE message. She wasn’t that far up the mountain, but her phone had started acting up last week. Well, the body would keep just fine for a little longer.

Thea tucked the useless phone back in her pocket and turned around. Then, struck by a sudden thought, she pivoted on her heel and walked back, getting as close to the body as she dared. The attack was bloody, violent, yes, but far too clean for a bear-mauling. And it was January. All the bears were asleep.

Three-quarters of the way around the body, Thea found what she had been looking for – a wolf print. Well, sure, it could have been the print of a huge dog, but she didn’t think so. Except by this point Thea was pretty sure that the animal who made that print was no ordinary wolf.

“Remember, a werewolf kill is bloody, but rational. No frenzy. The animal will go for the throat to kill, then hit the major organs. It always takes the heart.”

Her dad was a professor of folklore at Amherst who had a bit of an edge on his colleagues’ knowledge thanks to some interesting life experience. He had been very clear in his lessons. Thea had always believed he was accurate and honest, but now knew this as fact based on evidence. And – yes, of course, it had been the night of the new moon. All the old lore only had it half right (to be fair, half right was a pretty good track record when it came to old lore, so garbled and confused it had become); werewolves changed at the full and new moons.

And they usually guarded the kill until sunrise, when they changed.

Thea touched the silver cross again and looked up. It was supposed to protect against werewolves and skin-changers and revenants, but who knew?

There was nothing in front of Thea but the dead body. Carefully, slowly, she turned her head, first to the left. Nothing but trees. Then the right. Still nothing. Then, scarcely breathing, a quarter turn at a time, she turned around.

Six yards away, just where the road looked like it disappeared into the mountain, was a wolf. Thea swallowed, but kept her breathing even.

“If you ever see a shape-changer, it’s just an animal.” They had such strange conversations over the holiday dinners, weird mixes of physics (from Thea and her mom) and theology and literature and lessons on How to Survive a Brush with the Supernatural™.

“An intelligent animal,” her uncle had interrupted her father, who had waved his hand like that didn’t matter. Mom passed the mashed potatoes around again, and Thea took a big scoop.

It did look intelligent. It sat there, looking at her, its head cocked to one side. The gesture would have been cute if the thing hadn’t been the size of a Great Dane. Its dark grey coat bristled. It looked well-fed. Was that from the wolf or the human beneath? How on earth was a silver cross the size of her thumbprint supposed to stop that?

“It’s just an animal. It senses fear. Sudden movements will spook it. If it’s a predator, that might provoke an attack.”

“Don’t run, is what he means,” her uncle had broken in again.

“Yes, that. Keep your breathing even. Walk away slowly. Let it follow you – then you know where it is. The closer you get to civilization, the more timid it will be.”

Well, she was about to discover how good her lessons had been, and how accurate the lore was. Thea turned around again, and walked down the trail at a snail’s pace. It had grown just a bit lighter, the sky more grey than blue, the stars fading. The crunch crunch of Thea’s footsteps in the snow, though faint, was enough to obscure any sound the wolf might be making. She glanced over her shoulder, and thought she didn’t see anything. Then she caught a glimpse of motion to her right.

The wolf was now eight or ten yards away, keeping pace with her as it walked along through the trees. She could feel it watching her.

Thea was kind of impressed. She knew from experience that if she walked off the packed snow, she would fall right through, up to her thighs or waist. But somehow the wolf stayed on top of the snow, its paws only sinking an inch or two with each step. It was leaving deep footprints. What would the police think? How would they explain this?

It grew even lighter. The different shades of the trees were now distinguishable, along with the paler patches on the wolf, at its shoulders and the tip of its tail. And the deep red smears at its muzzle and chest.

Thea was no longer afraid. Dawn wasn’t far off; the wolf was bound to know that. She didn’t think it would attack. Maybe it could sense the silver she wore, but for some reason, she doubted it was a long-distance charm. It seemed more curious than anything. Or watchful, maybe. Not that she wanted to go pet it or anything. It was still a wild animal, and dangerous.

As she rounded the last bend in the road, the wolf dropped back and left her behind. Thea kept walking, which meant she didn’t see it shudder and writhe and twist back into a human kneeling in the snow, naked and male and tired.

She got back in the car and turned the heat on before she called 911. She stayed until the police arrived to take her statement, their violently flashing lights breaking the neutral stillness, further shattered by yellow crime tape and a hive of warm bodies swarming up the snow-packed road. She gave her statement and her contact information, for the inn and for her dorm back at BC. The sun was full up, the sky bright and cloudless and blue only as a winter’s day can be, before she was released.

It was strange, the police woman had offered trauma counseling, and warned her about PTSD. An EMT had checked her out, and seemed surprised when she showed no signs of shock or trauma. And they didn’t even know about the werewolf. Thea had been surprised by their expectation. Her encounter with the body and the wolf had been anything but traumatic.

The werewolf. Not what Thea had imagined. The movies had gotten it wrong. They weren’t snarling, slavering beasts, nor were they poor, misundersood creatures who just wanted love. They were human, and animal. A force of nature. A touch of magic. Perilous creatures. Perilous, and beautiful. Not good or bad, just – neutral. Natural. Like the stars.

She would tell her dad about the wolf, Thea decided, but ask him to have his hunter friends suggest it move, instead of killing it. Somewhere farther away from lone hikers, where its only prey on the round moon nights would be deer and rabbits. As she pulled into the parking lot of the inn, with its broad view of snow-covered Mt. Mansfield, Thea wondered if it was too late, as a junior, to add a bio major to her physics one. Surely the world could use a cryptozoologist.

Staring at the mountain, savoring the last bit of silence before she was buried under another round of questions from her curious friends, Thea realized she finally understood that poem her lit prof had been going on and on about last year. The one about the stars, by that guy . . . what was his name? Robert Frost.

He had lived in New England somewhere, Thea remembered. What was the probability he’d run into a werewolf? It certainly made one a bit more reflective about humanity and nature. Thea felt that she was hovering on the edge of a profound realization about life when her best friend Ella, blonde and bubbly Ella, starfished on the driver’s door before yanking it open, talking all the while, and the moment was lost.

This story is 100% mine; please don’t share without including my handle.

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Prompt by V: Urban fantasy, female MC, and the below poem

“Stars” by Robert Frost

How countlessly they congregate

O’er our tumultuous snow,

Which flows in shapes as tall as trees

When wintery winds do blow! –

As if with keenness for our fate,

Our faltering few steps on

To white rest, and a place of rest

Invisible at dawn, --

And yet with neither love nor hate,

Those stars like some snow-white

Minerva’s snow-white marble eyes

Without the gift of sight.

Photograph by me, of the actual location of the story.

#robert frost #Short story project #short story #werewolf

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