#grant bowler | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

juuuulez · 7 months

Text

📰 | prologue: capulet.

info: Carl Grimes-less chapter (sorry!), Negan x Daughter! Reader, pre/start of apocalypse, violence and minor gore, morally grey reader, mentions of child abuse/neglect.

summary: When the apocalypse breaks loose, you find yourself in companionship with your sport teacher, Mr. Smith.

THIS was so much fun to write!!!! Genuinely my favourite chapter I’ve done so far. Let me know what you all think, because I’d love to do more little tidbits that stray from the original story. But with that in mind, this instalment IS required to understand parts of the fic going forward. Prologue is mandatory…..I’ve just finally done it.

Chapters 1, 2, 3, and 4 are already out! 5 will return to our regularly scheduled program of Carl and (Y/N) bickering.

You valued consistency.

Doing the same thing, every day.

Even if your life was shit, at least it was consistently shit.

You always knew how to behave. What could just go unpunished. How to enter the house without making a sound. The perfect patterns to ensure your location wasn’t given away. What exactly to say to avoid being hit.

It was routine, comfortable. You permanently lived on the edge, waiting. Listening, watching. Observing those around you.

As routine, you were late. It was becoming quite the pattern, but you couldn’t help it. The bus ran late. Or, you suppose… if it ran late every day, then it was on schedule. Maybe you should start catching an earlier bus.

Whatever, it didn’t matter.

Second period, Tuesday.

Sport.

Now, you didn’t necessarily dislike sport. But you didn’t really love it, either.

The uniform always made you feel insecure. Which, at the ripe age of 13, doesn’t seem to be an emotion your peers are experiencing yet. Or maybe they are just better at hiding it than you are. It’s also incredibly performative, sport, which you hate. Being singled out, going one by one, choosing teams. All of it was terrible.

You didn’t mind your teacher.

Which, went a long way, considering you disliked most people who resided within these buildings. Teachers and students alike.

But Mr. Smith was nice. To you, at least. And to everyone. He was loud, had too much energy, but you didn’t mind. It just meant that he cared about his job.

You absentmindedly tugged at the sleeves of your shirt, the fabric wrapped around your arms to make up for the breezy garment of the girls tank top. It made you look different, set you apart. You hated that.

Regardless, you fall in line with the others.

Baseball.

Granted, you’ve never played baseball before. Sure, you’d watched it, on the small occasion that you were allowed to stay with a friend. It was a vivid memory. Watching from the hallway, over her father’s shoulder, whilst she was asleep.

You wished that your father liked sports. Or maybe cooking. Or collecting things, cleaning things, fixing things. Anything.

It’s almost the end of class, you’re standing at the back of the line. Three kids, then two, then just one. You. The others are standing on the bleachers, already collecting their equipment, preparing for break.

“Batter-up.” Mr. Smith says, though you don’t understand the colloquialism. Nonetheless, you move forward, accepting the bat from the previous student. Another is further down the field. Bowler, you presume.

The metal bat is cold between your fingers, clenched in your dominant hand. It’s heavy, but not an unmanageable amount, just enough to keep you aware of it. There’s weight to the swing, weight on your arm, shoulder. It takes a moment to find your footing.

But when you do, the other student has already thrown the ball. It’s hurdling towards you, faster than comfortable. Spinning through the air with a distinct whizz, perfectly curved, heavy. Dangerous.

It’s instinctual. Your body twists, landing a hit on the spherical object with laser accuracy, the impact ringing in your ears as it soars away, towards the end of the pitch.

Your head snaps in the opposite direction, recalling the match you’d silently observed years ago. There are beige bases in the grass, thin plates. The bat falls from your grip, hitting the ground with a thud, and you move to start running.

It only takes a few steps before reality clicks in, and you realise the feat is pointless. Nobody else is playing. There is no-one to catch your ball, to cheer and clap. Everybody has already begun to leave. They didn’t watch you, didn’t continue the game. Three seconds tick over before the bell rings, releasing the crowd of children awaiting their freedom.

Suddenly the summer breeze is too hot, the sleeves of your shirt itching, sticking to your skin. The tank is too tight. It hugs your body in the wrong way, vulnerable, at their mercy. And yet, you are unseen in a similar manner, and there’s an inkling of you that wants to be judged, simply to say you’d been recognised.

You’re collecting your things, and by that, putting your muddied sneakers into a plastic bag and slipping on new ones. There are footsteps behind you. Heavy, easily identifiable as an adult. You have impeccable hearing.

Before he can announce himself, you’ve turned. There’s always been respect in your tone when conversing with teachers, well aware of the authority they hold, despite your frequent disagreeable on their methods.

“Never mentioned you were good at baseball.” Mr. Smith quips, already packing up the equipment left behind from the lesson into a large bag. Those concrete-hard balls, the plastic bases, the metal bats.

“I’ve never played, sir.” You tell him, flashing that usual, awkward smile that doesn’t really count as a smile, but just the pursing of your lips. An attempt at civility from somebody too irreversibly damaged for their age.

“Well, we’ve got a team running,” He continues to speak whilst organising, and though he does not look at you, your attention is drawn. “Could come find you later, give you the permission slip.”

That bursts your bubble. There’s no chance in hell that you could persuade your father to sign it. There was forging the signature, but this game would run in after-school hours, an extra curricular. You wouldn’t be allowed.

“I dunno,” You shrug in premature defeat, slinging the bag over your shoulder, coming to stand at the feet of the bleachers. “Not really a team player. Wouldn’t fit in with the older girls.”

Though there’s no visible indication, it’s obvious that Mr. Smith disregards this as a valid excuse. Which, it definitely isn’t, but it’s the little statement you tell yourself in order to feel less shitty about missing an opportunity.

“How about I get you the slip, and then you’ve got the option?” It’s said as a question, but clearly isn’t, as he’s then reaching into the duffel bag and pulling out one of those heavy, metal bats.

He holds it out to you, and you have no choice but to take it.

“Get some practise in before the weekend.”

Then Mr. Smith is leaving, and you’re left standing there, on the muddy field. The second bell rings out.

You’re late.

Now, this habitual lateness may not be all so coincidental.

Tardiness was handled rather vigorously in the seventh grade, for whatever reason. You didn’t understand.

But it hasn’t taken too long into the year to crack the metaphorical code. Detention was mandated for wrongdoings, ergo, another hour before you had to be home.

You’d take detention over home any day of the week.

So it was unsurprising when you ended up there this afternoon, settling into your usual spot near the back. There were a other kids, the typical troublemakers, and a few poor souls who genuinely had misfortune befall them.

Mrs. Hagerty, the librarian, overlooked detention. She was old and slow, grey hair, grey lips. Grey… skin. Well, she looked half-dead, which was saying something. You weren’t surprised, though it was a little suspicious how she hadn’t chastised you for bringing the baseball bat into the room.

It sat propped up against your desk.

Despite your adamancy against pointless procedures, public humiliation, gossip, and assholes in charge, you were quite good at school. English, primarily, was your strong suit. Reading, writing. All of it.

The peace that you’d carefully crafted was interrupted roughly halfway into the lesson. Or, babysitting session, as Mrs. Hagerty was yet to look up from her desk. Talk about worlds easiest job.

You still remembered that day, even now. Years later.

At the time, Mr. Smith was nothing but your sport teacher, someone with authority who you detested less than most other figures. A reasonable constant in your life, so far.

Now, he was Negan. Everything to you, in a way. Alike to how you were everything to him. Though you didn’t know it then, this was the day that he’d consume an entirely different part of your mind, forging a new identity that would terrorise, ravage, and torment communities.

But in the same breath, protect you, help raise you, construct an entire empire with you as the sun. Though you’d never succumb to the hive mind, you were not Negan. But you certainly were his.

Nonetheless, it all started within that room. The detention room.

“Permission slip.” Negan announced, placing the small pink paper on the desk in front of you. He attempted to keep his voice hushed, mindful of the other students who were meant to be studying, but appeared more to be sleeping.

Now that it was out of school hours, and he was likely printing, Negan wore reading glasses. Later, you would mock him for these, making comments about him being old.

It always awarded you with that same distinct look of warning. Yet, it never made you feel threatened, but appreciated. Seen.

You slide the permission slip closer, reading the small black writing. In the same motion, you fish out a pen, jotting down cursive letters in the underlined section.

You slide it back.

“I can’t take this,” Negan points out with a sign, gazing down at the signature that is obviously not one of your parents. “You’re really making me go back, and print another one?”

This causes you to roll your eyes, “So I can take it home and do the same thing? That just wastes both of our time… our you could take it now.”

However, he won’t budge. “It’s policy. Go home, get it signed. I don’t need to know how.”

Though you feign annoyance, the insinuation made you want to smile. Turns out, Negan knew more than he was letting on. Gossip spread across faculty quickly, and it didn’t take a genius to deduct your… poor living situation.

The long sleeves, the turtle necks, the gloves. Jeans in summer. Never a parent to attention parent-teacher conferences.

He’s about to turn and leave, when there’s a slight commotion at the front of the room.

One of the younger students, Jasmin, is talking to Mrs. Hogarty in a hushed voice. Goody-two-shoes.

When she gets no response, the student only continues talking, trying to elicit a reaction from the teacher that has otherwise remained silent. In an irreversible mistake, Jasmin reaches out, gently waving her tanned hand in front of glazed over eyes.

Mrs. Hogarty lunges at her, finally in motion, chubby hands gripping at the forearm of the girl and taking a bite from plush skin. Blood spurts from the wound, Jasmin screams in horror, alike to the rest of the few misdemeanours in the room.

Everyone is in motion. Some try to help Jasmin, others flee. You’re stuck. Truth is, though you boast agility, you’ve never been in a situation like this. Your mouth gapes like a fish, open, closed, searching for something to say, to do. A reaction befitting of this complete, disgusting travesty.

“C’mon, up. Let’s go.” Negan is talking to you, you realise. It’s like everything finally clicks back into motion, the water no longer clogging your ears, making everything muffled and distant. This is reality.

You scramble from the chair, grabbing books, pencils, hastily shoving them into your little brown bag.

But there’s a hand on your shoulder, urging you forward, towards the exit sitting towards the back of the classroom. “Leave it, no time.” Negan is telling you, helping you off the floor. Before the two of you can make a break for it, your hands clasp around the metal baseball bat.

It swings at your side as you leave the building, feet padding against the concrete of the pavement. It’s strangely… desolate. There is no increasing urgency, nobody around. It almost makes you question whether what happened was real. But you’re still walking, forward, away.

“Shouldn’t we help her?” You ask, to which Negan finally stops to look back at you. His brows furrow, confused, so you clarify. “Jasmin.”

“No, no, there isn’t any helping her,” He clarifies, talking slowly to try and get the idea in your head. “I read about this shit online, it’s in other countries. Europe. They aren’t people anymore.”

You don’t quite catch on, understand the severity of his words. But it makes sense. No person would act like that. Your feet begin to move again, travelling the familiar path.

“Hey, where are you going?” Negan calls out, and it’s only now that you become aware of the distance between you. Your head snaps into the direction of the bus stop, a silent answer, and Negan seems to deduct your intentions. He nods in the opposite direction. “C’mon.”

You obey, needing to skip in order to catch up with his longer strides. The bat is still clenched in your dominant hand, cold metal occasionally making contact with the side of your leg. It’s heavy, but you’re getting used to it.

As you approach the car park, the sun beats down, warming the asphalt. A few paces away is Negan’s truck, but before that, another person you quickly identify as an older student.

Stringy hair, grey skin, dull eyes. Arms reaching out, wandering aimlessly. The animated corpse seems to have some semblance of consciousness, as it spots you, limping over.

Preemptively, you take a step back, that familiar feeling of panic flooding your system at an unavoidable danger. Luckily, Negan appears to be significantly more composed than you are, as he’s reaching back for something. Extending a hand to you.

When you don’t react, he whistles, a high-pitched noise that instantly gets your attention. You did not know it yet, but this would become a familiar constant in your life. Nonetheless, you catch onto what he meant, letting the metal bat fall into his extended hand.

“Are you gonna…?” You don’t finish your question, as you’re unsure what exactly you think may happen. There’s a small part of you that doesn’t want to know.

Luckily, Negan provided little answers. “Go around and get in the truck.” He tells you, instructs you, and you listen simply because you trust him. Which, in this day and age, is dangerous.

You busy yourself with the seatbelt in order not to watch, able to mentally fill in the blanks as to the measure that Negan was taking. It made sense, you supposed. They weren’t alive anymore, couldn’t feel. Only wanted to hurt other people. Therefore, they needed to be put down.

There’s a clang as he places the baseball bat in the back of the truck, getting into the drivers seat and starting the engine. You watch this interest, unable to remember the last time somebody drove you anywhere. Never, if you recall correctly.

Thankful, Negan opts to ignore the way you inspect his every movement, like a little bird. Or a startled cat.

“Your address?” He requests, already making a start down the street that he would presume lead towards your house. It snaps you out of the little daze, face scrunching up.

“No, gross. I can’t give you my address,” You say in a matter-of-fact tone, as if the idea of completely insane. “You could be a predator, for all I know. That’s private information.”

Negan gives you that look again, the same one when you’d forged the signature. He can’t quite understand you. “Why would I work in a school if I was a predator? Tell me, how would I get that job.”

You shrug, “Maybe because that’s exactly what you want.”

He becomes fed up with your inane accusation, rolling his eyes. Yet, despite the attitude you’ve adopted, he does not get frustrated with you. “Address, now. I’m takin’ you home.”

There’s a large part of you that doesn’t even want to go home, yet you obey, providing Negan with your address to which he turns down the proper street. Luckily, you don’t live too far from school… or, unlucky, you suppose. For it isn’t long until you’re pulling into your driveway.

You get out, footsteps cautious against the pavement. A few meters away is an older lady, half alive, clinging to the path with desperate hands despite the concave appearance of her head. Your neighbour. She groans upon noticing you, but her legs are broken, and cannot move forward.

Remembering earlier, you move backwards towards the truck, fishing out the metal bat. It’s shiny metallic end is caked with reddish blood, stringing bits of decomposing guts hanging from it.

You can only make it a step forward until Negan is holding your shoulder again, pushing you in the opposite direction, towards the house. “Nope. Just leave her, she ain’t hurting anyone.”

Usually, you would detest being controlled. Told what to do. The shadow of an adult so close behind you, watching, letting their hands intrude on your space. But you didn’t feel threatened by Negan, which was odd. You weren’t going to complain about it, that’s for sure.

You ascend up the shallow stairs, coming to a stop in front of the door. When you reach out, pressing on the doorhandle, you’re shocked to find that it simply swings open, already sitting ajar. Dread fills your body.

It’s not that fearful, sickly dread that you get when you know you’ve done something wrong, and are awaiting the inevitable consequences. No, its.. different. You’ve felt it very few times before. Concern, worry. Knowing that something is wrong, and you cannot stop it.

Nonetheless, you enter the house. It’s in its familiar state, which provides a slight comfort to you, but Negan finds himself taken aback. It’s practically a mess. Every surface has something on it, whether it be pointless junk, or the garbage of bottles and cans. A few areas remain spotless, like the kitchen counter, and the bin remains empty and carefully tucked away.

It’s clear that you upkeep the small areas which you require for your autonomy. The rest of the place? Not your problem. It’s no wonder you don’t like being there.

As you pat further down the hallway, Negan draws his attention to the entrance. There’s a large bookshelf, though the books are dusty, likely long since actually used. A few slots are unusually empty, indicating that you’ve taken some to keep elsewhere.

But it’s the top shelf that draws his attention. Two photographs, positioned around thirty centimetres apart, with two respective urns behind them. One significantly smaller. Mother and daughter, he recognises. Mother and baby, actually.

It’s apparent that this is the home of a family that’s lost half of its inhabitance. He can’t help but wonder, is this the fate that will befall him, come Lucille’s death? Hopefully not. Nothing like this.

“Dad?”

Negan regains his sense of reality, curiosity piked as you’re speaking down the hall. He moves further into the space, standing in the kitchen as he observes you, there on the porch.

You stand near the doorway, that bat still hanging from one hand. In front of you, a figure, sitting down. Next to him, a half-empty case of beers. Part of Negan becomes increasingly alert, aware, prepared to avoid letting any harm befall you. A harm that you’re likely accustomed to.

There’s no response.

“C’mon. Just say something.” You urge, sounding utterly defeated. And yet, your father gives no response, despite the impending doom blanketing the situation.

It doesn’t take a genius to understand. The vicious, red welt on your fathers neck gives it away, jagged and seeping blood that stains his already unkept shirt. It’s a matter of time, at this point. You’d like to extract at least one, genuine conversation. Absolutely anything before he disappears forever.

That isn’t seeming very likely.

Your eyes drift around the yard, welling with tears not of sadness, but frustration. This is it? You are to become an orphan, the world is ending, and your piece-of-shit father won’t even look at you? In this moment, you wished he was angry.

You wished he would yell at you.

Pin you against the wall by your neck.

Bruise you. Beat you.

Anything other than this.

“I made the baseball team.” You tell him, another futile attempt to elicit any sort of reaction. Pride, maybe. Congratulate his young daughter for her achievement. Even the smallest hint of recognition would go a long way, pull you from this spiral you’ve begun to succumb to.

And what does he do?

He scoffs.

His arm lifts, taking another swig of the near empty bottle.

Finally, you’ve gotten your sign. A signal, a hint. The divine intervention that sets everything straight, reminds you of your place in this world. Just enough attention to keep you subdued, but satisfied. Complacent.

Anger overtakes you before you’re even aware of these emotions, wielding a surprising amount of strength for a pre-pubescent girl. You want to scream and shout and hurt him.

So you do.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction, really. Unplanned, messily executed. But would you have done it again? Certainly.

You cannot feel remorse for causing pain to a man who’s soul died long ago. Died with your mother, died with your infant sister. Tried to kill yours along with it all.

It’s already happened before you can understand.

There’s a distinct soreness in your shoulder, strained from swinging the metal baseball bat with such force. There are little blisters forming on your palms from how tight you’re gripping, clawing, clenching around the handle. The movement has shifted your whole body, but you don’t look down.

You don’t acknowledge the mess you’ve made.

Blood splattered across the wooden porch, some even hitting the adjacent fence. Skull broken, concave. Oozing sticky red.

The glass bottle rolls down the steps. Clink, clink, clink. It hits the plush grass, silenced.

It was inevitable, anyway. Whether to the virus, or your own hands, your father was going to die.

It was a mercy-kill, at best.

Vengeance at worst.

But that didn’t matter anymore, because when you turned around, he was there.

Negan.

Standing in the kitchen, watching you through the open door. He didn’t appear horrified, or disgusted. Maybe unsettled, sure. There was a darkness within you that he recognised, understood. Sure, he didn’t put it there, but over the years he would cultivate it, guide you. Raise you as somebody who would never be taken advantage of again.

Untouchable.

#carl grimes x reader #the walking dead x reader #twd x reader #negan smith x reader #negan smith #twd x you #the walking dead #carl grimes

254 notes · View notes

cantheykillmacbeth · 6 months

Note

Shulk from Xenoblade Chronicles?

While a man of woman born for sure, the Monado is... kind of sort of capable of killing whatever it's willed to after a point in the story.

{and as a more conventional one to investigate, Pyra/Mythra from xenoblade 2 can kill macbeth :3}

Well, as we've established before, the murder of Macbeth is attributed to the person and not the murder weapon (MacDuff wasn't able to kill Macbeth because his sword was forged, it's because MacDuff was a C-Section baby). The only scenarios in which this gets fuzzy are those in which the murder weapon itself is a sentient being (See: The Bowler). I couldn't find any evidence that the Monado itself is a sentient being, so I would say the kill is still attributed to Shulk himself.

As for the "capable of killing whatever it's willed to" part of your submission... I don't know if I'm just reading this wrong, but from my research, the Monado's power to "manipulate the [building blocks of all life in the universe] around it" and "change the material and immaterial shape of the world around it" kinda just sounds like... a fancy and dramatic way to say "it can cut things"?? And I couldn't find any evidence that it explicitly subverts prophecies, either- in fact, it seems to GIVE Shulk prophecies in the form of future vision.

So, I don't believe the Monado would be able to grant Shulk the ability to kill Macbeth, and since Shulk is male and he evidently had parents, I don't think Shulk would be able to kill Macbeth at all.

As for Pyra and Mythra, we actually already covered them briefly in our post about Malos. We determined that all Blades apply for the Unconventional Birth Clause, and in Pyra and Mythra's case specifically, they are both female and their Driver is male, so they also apply for the Gender Clause and Birth Parent Clause.

Thank you for your submission!

#asks #unconventional birth clause #gender clause #birth parent clause #debatable character #xenoblade #xenoblade chronicles #xenoblade 2 #xenoblade chronicles 2 #xc2 #shulk #shulk xenoblade #pyra #pyra xenoblade #pyra xc2 #mythra #mythra xenoblade #mythra xc2

40 notes · View notes

shitapril · 3 hours

Text

the 2024 ipl (indian premiere league) is more exciting than ever.

not only is there an overwhelming and refreshing influx of newer, and younger talent, teams seem to be evenly matched in terms of experience and skill (although rcb's luck seems to have stayed the same, i suppose some things, indeed, do not change).

that being said, can we talk about the absolute entertainment these matches are bringing this season ? almost every single one is a nail-biter and teams are putting up scores above 200 like it's nothing ? granted, every season there's a domination of either the bowlers or the batsmen - hell i remember not many seasons back we were averaging scores of 165 but now srh is putting up 250+ scores as if the opposing teams have personally offended their mothers.

regardless, i have no complains and i'm here for this batsmen dominated season. god knows we were in desperate need of one.

#ipl #ipl24 #iplt20 #tataipl #csk #srh #rcb #cricket #indian premier league

2 notes · View notes

spiderdreamer-blog · 1 year

Text

The Adventures of Brisco County Jr. (1993)

Thirty years ago, the American TV landscape was a world apart from the one we know today. Broadcast networks and syndicated local markets still ruled the roost, the Internet was just starting to have an influence, and cable had a few powerhouses but was still fairly expensive. Perhaps most importantly, while serialized storytelling wasn’t nonexistent-soap operas were popular in daytime, and network dramas and sitcoms like Hill Street Blues and Cheers had made inroads in terms of story arcs and long-term character development even within episodic structures-it was still a relatively fresh concept. In terms of sci-fi genre fare, largely episodic TV was still the order of the day with series like the various Star Trek entries or Quantum Leap. And the televised Western was relatively dead by comparison. Thus we come to The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr., a one-season hybrid mash-up on FOX that is practically tailor-made for the designation of “cult classic”. How does it hold up in our streaming age?

Developed by screenwriters Carlton Cuse (Lost, Bates Motel) and Jeffrey Boam (Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, Lethal Weapon 2 and 3), and inspired by Western serials of old, Brisco’s pilot episode picks up in 1893. The eponymous bounty hunter’s lawman father (R. Lee Ermey) is shot dead by infamous outlaw John Bly (Billy Drago) and his gang during a train escape, with Jr. (Bruce Campbell, he of the legendary chin) left to pick up the pieces. A group of robber barons hires Brisco to track down Bly and his gang, with nebbish lawyer Socrates Poole (Christian Clemenson, not a million miles away from David Hyde Pierce as Niles Crane) as their liaison. Also on Bly’s trail is rival bounty hunter Lord Bowler (Julius Carry), and along the way are colorful characters like Dixie Cousins (Kelly Rutherford), saloon singer and girlfriend of Bly’s second in command Big Smith (M.C. Gainey), and Professor Warwick (John Astin), a Doc Brown type who shares Brisco’s enthusiasm for “the coming thing”/promise of the future. But things quickly become complicated: Bly is interested in a strange artifact known only as the Orb that grants people inexplicable strength and psychic powers, among other niceties. Is THIS the ‘coming thing’? Perhaps, but Brisco will have to find out for himself. And there are plenty of other adventures in store along the way.

I feel like the above description does not quite do the series justice in getting across what it’s about or, more crucially, its tone. Like the other shows of the time that I mentioned, the adventures are primarily episodic; outside of the pilot, there are only five pure “plot” episodes about the Orb and Bly himself, even if many of the episodes deal with other members of his gang. That overarching plot is even resolved several episodes before the end of the season, the rest of which are more standalone plots. And those plots can vary wildly in terms of genre and incident: one story has Brisco acting as a lawyer for an old friend, another features a sheriff who acts like Elvis with no explanation whatsoever in the middle of a reasonably serious story about the cycle of revenge, and yet another has pirates. Yes, that kind. No, they’re not on the water. The only limits here are the writers’ imaginations (and of course the almighty budget), which are quite fertile indeed even if there are occasional dud episodes.

One might be tempted to assume via Campbell’s presence that the series is a parody of square-jawed adventurers in impossibly ridiculous situations. After all, he had just come off Army of Darkness, which rotated his Evil Dead protagonist Ash Williams into an outsized macho caricature whose skill in dispatching Deadites is matched only by his lack of foresight in, uh, everything else. It’s genuinely not. For one, Brisco is a far more traditional lead in terms of his competence. For two, the characters are comedic and eccentric, certainly, but their problems and emotions are taken seriously. A good early touch is that while Brisco initially seems cold about his father’s death (reasoning that he had a long time to prepare for it given the man’s career), we see at the end of the pilot that he’s genuinely shaken and it still weighs on him for some time. And while he is a bit of a womanizing Indy/James Bond type, he’s not a bro-y horndog.

The others get nice shadings of depth at times as well. Bowler could have very easily come off as an Angry Black Man caricature and a lackey to Brisco once their rivalry turns into genuine partnership. And yet we get real insight to some crucial differences between them, like a terrific beat where Bowler proves to have invested his bounties wisely in terms of his beautiful mansion home, complete with an on-call butler. And their friendship always feels like one of equals, with a back-and-forth and mutual, eventually less grudging respect; there’s some very touching moments later on when we see how things have changed between them. While Socrates doesn’t get AS much development, he does prove to have more backbone than initially anticipated, as well as a moral fiber that serves him well. Dixie too has some nice beats of seeming less like a femme fatale and more like someone who’s very comfortable in her own skin, but also weary of Brisco’s inability to potentially settle down if she ever wanted that.

A lot of this is down to the cast, who is top to bottom terrific, with nary a bad performance in the regular, recurring, or various guest casts. Campbell often self-deprecates about his acting ability compared to some of his contemporaries, but I would say that his very blue-collar, get-the-job-done mentality is an unimaginable boon to his screen presence. There are many actors who could have played Brisco and well, but there’s a potential danger of either too much machismo overpowering the charm of the character or that aforementioned self-parody aspect being too much of a “ain’t this ridiculous, folks” twinkle in the eye. That does work for a character like Ash, who is sympathetic but ultimately a buffoon with one particular skillset, but Campbell wisely modulates and plays more of a straight man here. His comic timing never reaches too far for a laugh, letting them come out naturally rather than mugging for attention (good example is when he throws Dixie over his shoulder at one point and she demands to be put down: “Alright, you look bad in a wig and you were too easy to find!”) This lets him be a good balance to Carry in particular, who’s wonderfully exuberant and over-the-top by comparison, though he too modulates as necessary. Clemenson is the perfect likable nerd, not too action-hero but not too pathetic either, and Rutherford finds the right balance of Dixie being a canny career woman who nonetheless has the soul of a romantic at times. Warwick is also a lot of fun when he shows up, with Astin’s grandfatherly likability that can make even the groaniest of groaner dad jokes land on full display. The various guest villains make good impressions too, with Drago as a particular standout in terms of being genuinely scary for such an ultimately lighthearted show, and John Pyper-Ferguson manages to make a hell of an impression as Pete Hutter, a gunman with delusions of intellectual grandeur and an unhealthy fixation on his prized “piece” revolver. Think cowboy Team Rocket and you’re halfway there.

In terms of the actual production, it’s a handsome one even if the DVDs are showing their age (prayer circle for an eventual HD remaster). The physical effects are all great, and even the primitive CGI has a weird appeal, especially because it gets used for a couple of REALLY horrifying death scenes. It also hugely benefits from being shot on location in terms of the Wide Western Vistas and loving recreations of old-timey towns. The actual direction is very early 90s TV in terms of “get it in the can” professionalism most of the time, but it fits well with the breezy nature of things. Musically it’s fairly standard too outside of Randy Edelman’s excellent Copland-esque theme music (that later got reused for NBC’s Olympics coverage, which definitely fits).

I suppose in terms of actual FLAWS one can discuss, the main one that the racial dynamics are occasionally problematic. In terms of positives, we get a few black characters with Bowler as our main one, and they’re all fairly well portrayed, with nary a hint of racism beyond one “half-breed” comment implying that Bowler has Native American heritage (which is reflected in some of his dress and that Carry apparently had in real life). And while some of the Chinese characters have stereotypical mysticism attached, we are at least spared any broken English, and James Hong being the main recurring one means that the power of James Hong Being Awesome overpowers most of the negatives (he gets a good line about a Wise Saying where Brisco asks if it’s an ancient proverb: “No, I just made it up”). More glaring is zero Native American presence outside of that Bowler mention, and the Mexican characters are divided into groups of Bandits, Corrupt Military Assholes, and Heroic Revolutionaries. Not the most nuanced portrayal, is what I’m saying, even if you can make the argument of “well, EVERYONE is kind of silly, so that doesn’t stand out AS much as it would in a more ‘serious’ show.”

So why did Brisco ultimately fail with audiences? It’s hard to say. By all accounts, Fox was very supportive of the series and promoted the hell out of it. They aired every single episode too, unlike other, later shows that they cancelled early or mid-run (gestures at that one Family Guy joke). The time it was on could have played a role; 8 p.m. on Friday night is generally seen as the Death Slot. But then again, The X-Files, the show it was paired with during THEIR first season, found great success there before moving to primetime Sunday nights mid-run. And the audience Brisco DID obtain loved the hell out of it, especially when TNT later re-ran the series on Saturday mornings. Shit’s just hard to predict sometimes. But I do think it’s a shame. It’s a series that’s fun above all else, with good spirits and plenty of sensible-chuckle humor if rarely outright laugh-out-loud funny.

Maybe someday Brisco County, Jr. will ride again. Until then, we have this. And sometimes, that’s enough.

#TV #media analysis #reviews #the adventures of brisco county jr.#bruce campbell

9 notes · View notes

ghostlypawn · 2 years

Text

anyway heres my theory on jane doe’s existence pre-cyclone...

i like to believe that jane doe works alongside karnak to help people accept their death and move to the otherside instead of staying in a purgatory like the choir finds themselves in. i assume she died a while ago and got stuck in purgatory like the choir but never moved on and found her purpose here to help those who haven’t accepted their death. to me, she likely died and found karnak in the early 1900s. she carries around a porcelain doll (who’s head she takes) and these dolls were most popular around 1900. sure it could just be for the spooky aesthetic but wheres the fun in that. fortune machines were also popularised around this time (the script says he’s from the 1920s). maybe perhaps this is the time they met and since then theyve been travelling around the country helping dead people for around 100 years now.

the first time we hear jane doe is in karnaks dream of life before we meet any of the choir and before any of them die. to me this song sounds like the start up music of the fortune telling machine (karnak) which could imply that she 'haunts’ the machine as she sings along to karnak’s music. jane doe is also introduced to the choir a short while after the arrive into this purgatory which also, to me, implies that she was never with them when they died. well not physically anyway, similar to karnaks machine, she haunts the carnvial as a whole and we hear her vocalisations in uranium suite when the rollercoaster breaks (almost like an omen of death).

in order to help people accept their death, i like to believe that jane doe is able to change appearance (body anyway) to what will help them move on, in the case of the choir it’s a school uniform as the choir emphasise with their own. i still believe that jane’s back story and emotions are real... just that they happened 100 years earlier than the show is set. i think it’s much more believable for a young girl to go missing/remain unidentified by parents in the year 1900 than 2020, especially when she’s headless. the ‘funeral’ clothes the kids wear in tbojd also happen to be inspired by early 1900s fashion with bowler hats and trench coats whilst the latter half of the song is inspired by new orleans trumpets which had the biggest influence around this time too. i think this time of death could also lend itself to jane’s inability to fully understand the choir being from different time periods n all but also jane’s need for friendship as she’s been stuck here alone for so long and probably rarely comes across people her age. i think her questions and rage in tbojd are amplified if you think about her being stuck here for 100 years constantly seeing people move on leaving her to wonder why she wasnt granted the same.

from the beginning of the show i believe that karnak only ever had the intention of bringing jane doe back to life he just needed to convince the choir that they too wanted jane to ‘win’. “Sadly, I’ve only ever possessed the power to bring one back to life.” is an interesting line to me because it tells us that he only has been able to do this once in his 100 years of life. he’s never needed to bring anyone BACK to life before because he helps them accept their death. he convinces people to save jane and karnak pretends to do so so they move on to the afterlife and jane stays in purgatory to do the same thing again and again for years and years. at first i thought he did the same to the choir* but then i realised karnak is aware that he will soon die and will leave jane behind and so he actually granted his one gift of life to jane doe so that she will finally be free of this purgatory shes been stuck with him in for a 100 years. he could have hypothetically granted himself the life but instead they leave purgatory together.

*mostly because the show also ends with jane singing suggesting that she is still actually there/hasnt moved on but i like to believe its more of the choir reliving their death and remembering the voice that accompanied their death. the melody does also complete as they accepted their death and jane also moved on so never has to sing it again.

to me, in any situation, jane doe was NEVER penny lamb before the show and was reincarnated as her afterwards (we see her as a baby if she was penny lamb before the accident it wouldve made sense for her life to resume at 17 instead of birth). but instead of being a random unknown choir member she happens to be a girl who died in 1920 (maybe the kinda fucked up girl noel wants to be 🤔 /j).

it sounds kinda crazy but brooke maxwell and jacob richmond said themselves “we didn’t know if she was one of the kids on the rollercoaster or just the ghost of the carnival or she died 100 of years ago. do we have to answer that question? no we don’t. [...] it’s whatever you want it to be.” so this is what i want it to be 😁

#ride the cyclone #jane doe rtc #does this make sense? idk like 80% of it does.#why did i accidentally make karnak like a grumpy father figure to angsty daughter jane #also didnt proof read yolo #its 1am idk #u can add things to this if u want

24 notes · View notes

1-50thofabuck · 6 months

Text

During playtesting of the Ignota RPG in 2018, the PM(Planet Master, the game's cute term for GM) ran an adaptation of Dungeonland and The Land Beyond the Magic Mirror. The picture, above, was commissioned to celebrate the conclusion of the adventure. I was playing a character named Lili, a namail - a fish person. Lili was a necromancer, of a type the game calls a necrokis. One of her magic items was a pretty pink bowler that gave her the appearance of a skeleton - you see her to the left, on one of the giant crabs with two skeleton guards. The giant crabs, too, were undead, raised by Lili as mounts. Quills are a unique series of magic items in Ignota, granting various bonuses based on their color when placed in a hat. The necrokis is the "dark" version of the necromancer, since they animate dead bodies as servants and feed off of souls for mana. However, Lili only fed off of evil individuals, and generally only animated the wicked, unless she was animating the victim of an enemy to use against that enemy, in which case she justified it by stating that she was giving them the opportunity to avenge their own deaths. Lili went off on a journey and it has not yet fallen into the knowledge of the wise what became of her afterwards. So far as is known, her home is currently in the care of her friend Daayan, a rakshasa witch. On Ignota, rakshasas are not inherently evil and can be of varying cat types.

Daayan, Lili, and Kratr were my favorite Ignota characters. Sandiga Backen, a gurdte(rodent) martial artist who eventually became the Benevolent Dictator and Queen of Oz(seriously!) certainly gets a runner up status. Note that she gave herself the title ironically(though she really did take the Wizard's place), as she was a rather comical individual. If you figure out who she was modeled after, you'll know why...!

#original game #original rpg #ignota #dungeonland #land beyond the magic mirror #homebrew #oc #original character #necromancer #fish people #fish person #skeleton #original art #giant crab

2 notes · View notes

havatnah · 7 months

Text

note: this is a very personal story involving our beloved top hat wearing gang leader. It is based on true events but are mixed with how I wished things would have turned out. I hope that I still managed to capture Jacob's personality well enough and didn't need to bend him too much.

word count: ~8k

warning: trigger! please don't continue if easily triggered, description of violence, blood, self harm and rape

Personal mission

With quick but not hasty strides did the young gang boss climb the flight of stairs up into the 3rd floor of a small apartment building. Three of his Rooks were already waiting in front of a door. It was a sunny day outside, so atypical for the London weather, and hence so much more precious to enjoy it. The top hat wearing man was enjoying a day off from his hunt, as the entire city seemed to have agreed on a truce, when a messenger boy came running to him, asking for him to come as quick as possible to one of his rook’s flat. The boy didn’t use the emergency word but when he stated the address the young man was already on his way.

“Boss! Good you’re here. She wouldn’t open the bloody door” Jimmy, a middle aged Rook with a bowler hat on stated with a slight worry in his voice.

“What happened?” was the sharp question, even before Jacob reached the last step.

“We don’t know. We were to meet, as she had agreed to help us with the buses but she wouldn’t open the door. We only hear” and there it was. The sound that Michael, who was wearing a combination of the Rook’s green uniform and that of a bus driver, was about to refer to. A deep agony filled crying, punctured by breathless sobs. Michael didn’t need to end his sentence but exchanged a short glance with his boss. A boss he never thought he would have. So much younger than himself but good at what he did.

Jacob nodded, pushed himself past the three Rooks and waited a moment, hoping there would be a short pause in between the sobs, that were clearly filled with so much pain, so he could knock and the female Rook, who occupied the flat, would hear him. With a gentle but firm voice, Jacob Frye called out “It’s me, Jacob. Open the door”. There was no answer; only silence. Not even more crying. The seconds passed and felt like minutes, like eternity. The Rooks behind him noticeably grew more uncomfortable with worry. Jacob knocked again, called out a bit firmer this time “I know you’re in there. Open the door. Now.”

The reply he got now, wasn’t one he ever would have expected.

He knew you as a gentle soul, who always tended to the needs of the other gang members. Sure, you could be deathly when on a mission or in a gang war. So deadly that you, after you’ve joined the gang, quickly climbed up the ranks, and became one of the few, he would trust with delicate missions. No matter whether it was to take down a blighters’ strong hold or tracking down a higher ranked Templar, or even infiltrate a party for intel. Your abilities as a chameleon have proven to be a valuable resource for all kinds of missions. Your loyalty to the cause of the Rooks earned not only the other members’ trust but also his own, which he didn’t grant too easily. But there was one trait of yours that has proven to be a nuisance. Your curiosity.

Your curiosity has driven you to stick your nose into businesses that were complicated and dangerous. There were many times, this natural drive of yours, helped to gather information on the enemy, on the Templars. Like a spy you would be delicate in retrieving the needed intel for the Rooks to form a plan before the Blighters would only do as much as to think about executing their own. But that one night, you have stumbled into something else, caught Jacob and his sister Evie with documents, not related to the gang, but to something else. Piece of Eden, Templars, a long lasting war between two parties that led back not only centuries but millennials. Your boss was a member of a syndicate that was called the Assassins. The third tenant would have urged the twins to get rid of you. The brotherhood was not to be compromised but just when Evie was about to act, Jacob intervened. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t let you be killed. You were so loyal to the Rooks so far and, what he didn’t know at the time, something else in his stomach made him protect you. A gut feeling. The young assassin claimed that his gut feeling was rarely wrong. Of course Evie held another opinion but at the end agreed to make you an initiate to the assassins. She would soon leave with Henry Green for India but until that time would come, she insisted that it was her who would teach you as much as she could about the creed. Since you were a too valuable member to the gang, the option of sending you to Crawley for the training was off the table, but Evie didn’t want her brother to set you on a, to her, wrong path for an assassin. After Starricks defeat Evie and Henry left for India, trusting that the few blighters and Templars remaining in London after their grand master was gone, would pose no problem. Not even when it was her dear baby brother and an initiate, who did well for the short time of training, that you had so far. That was about two years ago.

You were deadly to the enemies but he didn’t know a more compassionate and caring soul, when it came to the gang; or now also the brotherhood. It would be a heavy loss and cause him pain if you would…leave.They say, curiosity killed the cat. Was this the case now?

“GO! AWAY!”

Was that you? He never heard you scream like that. Your voice was filled with aggression towards him, or was it towards everything? For a moment the witty reprobate was speechless. When he regained his composure after a second he was glad that his employees weren’t able to see his shocked expression. But they must have looked the same, or even worse. Then miff took over and Jacob turned on his heels, descending the stairs.

“Boss!” the third Rook, an older man with whiskers, called out. “You can’t leave”

Why were people telling him what to do now all of the sudden? “You heard her. We shall go away.” He hissed over his shoulder, clearly offended and already on his way down again. He didn’t like to be shouted at nor what he was supposed to do. That was one line you crossed too much. Or did you not?

“But boss…” Jacob stopped in his tracks. Again. He had taken several steps down already. Shortly tilting his head back into his neck he groaned, rolled his eyes and turned back around. He fought his anger. You were still his subordinate and were in no place to scream at him, yet alone to order him around.

After taking a deep breath and having reached your door once again, he stated “I won’t go away. Open the door” His voice was even and surprisingly conveyed care but the only reply he received was another scream “GO! AWAY”, which was even more bone shaking than the previous one and he sensed that the three men behind him took a step back. The hatred and agony in your voice made his blood boil in his veins and it took all his strength to keep his composure. His gut twisted and he needed a deep breath before he would try one last time: “Open the bloody door. Now! Or I’ll break in. This is an order! Understood?”

No reply. What was going on? An uncertainty that was hanging in the air was slowly tightening its grip around each of the men’s throats. Slowly strangling them with every moment that passed without a reply. The young gang boss took a step back, lifted his right leg and was about to kick his way in; he didn’t take orders after all, from nobody. But did the door always look so damaged? It looked like one of the urchins could break in. When he heard a shuffle behind the door, his posture relaxed. Only a few seconds, which felt at least like a minute, later the lock was turned and the door handle pressed. The door opened just enough to be unlocked but not further. The shuffling sound, now louder, slowly became quieter again as you withdrew from the door without answering it. What made you do this, you had no idea. You wanted them gone. You wanted everyone gone. You wanted yourself to be gone. You felt like a machine. And as empty as one, but in the next second the pain was back. The roller coaster of emotions inside you made you go through a back and forth change between feeling absolute emptiness and despair and agony.

With a flat hand, Jacob slowly pushed the door open, the Rooks followed him with a short distance. When the door was open enough to enter a sight, of blood on the floor greeted him. Drops, marked a trail from one room to the door and now back into the sitting room. Jacob was no stranger to blood, it didn’t bother him, but when he saw this trail of red life essence, he knew it was yours, and that was a fact he didn’t like. At all. His bearing turned 180° and the miff from before was replaced by worry. Careful steps carried him inside, wary of what would be revealed. Suddenly he felt like the victim of a horror show. He prided himself on not being afraid of anything. There wasn’t a mission too dangerous for him. His ability to work on the fly was his greatest asset and that was something that made him fearless. But in that moment, he felt what must have been fear. His heart was pounding and he could hear it drumming in his ears as it rushed his own blood through his veins. Following the bloody path he reached the sitting room and found you. And for a moment he felt like in a nightmare. It must have been a nightmare right?

You were sitting, no, you were crouching, on the sofa, with your knees pulled up to your chest, arms crossed on top of them, eyes staring ahead and away from him. In one hand you held a knife, its blade smeared red. The other arm showed the source of the blood on the floor. Warm red liquid was dripping from deep cuts on your forearm.

You have cut yourself.

“Go away” the same mantra, only much quieter now filled the room. “Go away…please”. The aggressive screech had turned into a desperate plea and was followed by another wave of sobs. From where Jacob was standing, he wasn’t able to fully see your face but it was enough to see that it was red, your eyes bloodshot and tears were now streaming down your cheeks. Certainly not the first that you spilled today.

“I’m not going anywhere” Jacob whispered loud enough so he was sure that you could hear him and as he took one step across the doorstep to enter your living room his ear rang.

“GO! AWAY!”

You have turned your head just enough to scream at him, but didn’t look at him. Your hand clenched around a knife, knuckles white from the vigour, and shaking.

“GO AWAY!”

The Rooks behind their boss shuffled, confused, helpless what to do. They couldn’t see much and none of them dared to push their boss but they heard enough. That wasn’t you. It couldn’t be. No. Not ever.

How dare you shout at him like that? Anger boiled up again for a moment and then blended into sympathy. He knew, by instinct, if he was to make one wrong move now, he would kill you. Even though it would be you, wielding the blade, the blood would be on his hands now that he entered your lodgings. While he never minded blood, for hell’s sake he was an assassin, killing was part of not only his job description but who he essentially was, however at all cost he wanted to prevent that it was your blood being spilled; more. He also was a Rook. He was their leader. And a Rook protected. As a leader he had to protect his Rooks when they couldn’t.

He needed a plan, because his ability to think on the fly was not working properly. His brain didn’t supply him with any idea what to do in such a situation as he has never faced something like that. He knew how to take down his enemies, but what was it if the enemy that threatened his Rook was the very same Rook itself? How would you defeat an enemy that was in the skin of an ally? He didn’t know. So to hell with his sister’s preaching of forming a plan. Despite him not knowing what to do in such a situation he did what he always did, when in a tight situation. Trust his instincts.

“GO” AWAY!” every one of your screams became louder and louder.

“Out. Now!” He hissed over his shoulder. The look he gave his subordinates was a glare that didn’t leave any room for discussion and so the three men, cladded in green, retreated immediately.

“Go away, please” You have heard the mean leave but sensed that your boss was still only a few metres away from you. “Please” you whimpered and pulled your knees even further up.

“I won’t. Talk to me…please” Jacob lowered his voice to a soft tone and for the first time since forever he said ‘please’. He wasn’t the personality that would ask for things. He took them. He did as he pleased. And knew how to run things to have them turn out the way he wanted them. So he never said “please”, not to anyone.

“Go away” the mantra again.

“Talk to me” he would then start a mantra of his own.

“Go away” you didn’t raise your voice, which was a good sign.

“Talk to me, please” and again, he asked, almost begging you.

The feeling in his stomach that made him intervene on that day when you discovered his secret, he didn’t know back then, as it was only a mild feeling, but over time it became more frequent and stronger. It took him a while but he realised that this tingling feeling would only arise when you were around. When he would see you laugh he couldn’t help but smile. When your hands would touch one another for a fraction of a second when, for example, you handed him a pint or cards, he felt like an electric shock. But it was pleasant. And soon, without himself realising it at first, he would seek these small touches. The feeling that they gave him was addictive and he wondered if you have felt the same way. So it occurred that whenever there was an opportunity to make an accidental touch, he would grab it. He was Jacob Frye after all, not missing any chances. When he slid in on the table in the bar your knees or shoulders would shortly bump into each other. When dealing out cards, he would accidentally grab them early and brush against your fingers, when handing out drinks, he would either hand them or take the stein in a way that a short touch was ensured. He didn’t know why but he grew to enjoy your presence more and more, even though you could be pesky and annoying at times. His sister’s teaching was clearly seeping through. You would nag him at times, tell him your opinion. But surprisingly he didn’t mind because you managed to do it in a way that was different from his father’s, George’s or his sister’s. You made it appear like a casual side comment and never directly opposed him. You would never tell him that his ideas were bad, or that he needed a plan. No. You did it in a subtle way that never questioned his qualities but reminded him that there were other options too. That way he was able to save his face in front of his gang and also never felt offended. You did your job well. Sometimes he would heed your advice. Sometimes not. And when he did not, you still were there alongside with him. Always ready to save Rooks or him from a tight situation. Mostly you kept yourself in the background but would always be the backup when it was needed. And that has saved them a few times already. And while he never openly admitted it, he was thankful for it. You became the person he would trust his back with. When you were on with the mission, he didn’t need to worry about shit hitting the fan. He never did in the first place, but he worried less about others getting hurt and hence was able to focus on other things. The fun things. Like blowing up smuggler ships, or, when not flooding the streets of London with beer, racing through them. You managed to save the situation somehow. Clean up after him. And when there was no need for that, he sometimes would hear you whine in the pub that you had nothing to do and missed all the fun. You would banter over that and drink and laugh and have fun after all.

You saved him and the Rooks numerous times, now it was time that he saved you and he still didn’t know how; only that he needed to get this knife out of your hand.

You didn’t reply to his begging but starred ahead with a ghost-like empty expression.

“Talk to me, please. I won’t do anything. But please talk to me”

Again only stillness. The clicking of the clock on the wall was the only sound in the room.

“May I enter?” He tried a different approach. He wanted to coax you into speaking, get you out of this agonising mantra.

“People don’t care what I want. So why do you bother asking?”

He managed to get you out of it, finally. But there was only a tiny joy for this accomplishment. What did you mean? You sounded so defeated. The thought of suggesting to drown your sadness with a bottle of Jager crossed his mind, but he discarded it quickly. It was a balancing act. And he didn’t like that. Being sensitive to someone, that was your job, not his. But now the roles were reversed because his instincts told him that if he wasn’t delicate right now, things might not turn out ugly.

“I won’t do anything that you don’t want” the young gang boss bit the inside of his cheek after this came out of his mouth, realising that he would need to leave if you asked him one more time. But you didn’t. You only shrugged. Good, his instincts were still good to rely on.

When he saw eye movements and a tiny twitch of your head he was thankful for his father’s training to be able to detect the smallest of movements without trouble. He would scoff at himself about having such thoughts but now wasn’t the time. He took these tiny motions as a clue that you tried to build up a connection, that you wanted to open up. He had to be careful now. Too much haste is too little speed, his sister’s words reminded him, which brought bile up into his mouth. Slowly he would take a step inside. Out the corner of his eyes he saw that the front door was indeed shut again. Good.

“What happened?” - no reaction.

“I want to help you” - still no reaction, Have you shut down again?

“Please” - and again he whispered "please”, which started to have a foul taste on his tongue but it caused you to slightly tilt your head and flicker your eyes. Only to turn back again a moment later.. A little advancement. How much he hated that, to work at such snail-like speed. But what outweighed his displeasure was his worry for you now.

With slow and careful strides he entered the room further but didn’t reduce the distance to you just yet.

“I can be patient” - again a twitch, slightly more this time but you turn back once again. It wasn't an outright lie. He was able to be patient; he just didn’t like it. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips and Jacob hoped that this was a sign for your willingness to speak. So he remained silent. For ten seconds. For a minute. For two minutes. He stopped realising how long he waited. In the meantime more blood dripped from the wounds on your arm, the knife remained firmly in your hand.

You wetted your lips again, parted them but closed them again into a thin line when no word came out. He waited. Again. And again after a while the same. Wetting your lips, parting them but this time a sound left your throat, which, Jacob only realised now, had marks that definitely didn’t belong there. This discovery made his blood first freeze and then boil. He had to swallow as a nasty hunch crept into his mind. If he had believed in god he would have prayed for this not to be true. But other than his sister, he wasn’t superstitious. He now wished he was.

You turned your head towards your boss but your eyes were still fixed on the flow only occasionally flickering up, but never quite reaching his face.

Usually he didn’t like when people weren’t able to look the other person in the eyes but considering the current situation he booked this as an advance, which he didn’t want to destroy, but his worries grew with every drop of blood that left your body.

Your lips trembled, opened and closed times and again in an attempt to speak. You wanted to. You wanted to trust that man standing there in your sitting room to stay true to his words. He wanted to help, and you wanted to tell him what had happened to you. But the words just wouldn’t come out of your mouth, no matter how hard you tried. You felt helpless, cold, broken, dirty, worthless. All of that while you felt empty all the same. Regret and guilt were the spices that made your emotions so much more unbearable. They were tearing at your inside. Literally. Your chest felt like someone was stomping on it. Your heart clenched vigorously and your throat hurt so much that even breathing was hard. And yet you wanted to reach out to this man, even though it was a man who did all this to you. But this gang boss was made of another wood, right? You didn’t know if you could trust him or even trust yourself anymore. You are partially responsible for this whole mess after all. You were uncareful hence responsible. Yes. If you hadn’t been so careless nothing of this would have happened. You could have reported this man to the police or even better taken care of him yourself, preventing what he has done. But you didn’t. Your inaction was the reason you were in this situation right now.

Just when his own patient was running out and Jacob parted his lips to speak, you did him better: “He surprised me” the nasty thought of what might have happened was fed by your shaken words.

“Don’t” Was the thought that ran through Jacob’s mind.

“He” another sob interrupted your attempt to speak, your mind was back in that time, at that place. It was faster than your words. But you had to speak. Willing yourself to continue, you forced yourself to take several deep breaths, with each of them your body shook less until you finally continued “broke in and strangled me and…” a new wave of cries and tears overcame you as your mind replayed this torture for you in a loop, over and over an over again. So Jacob had seen correctly, the door had been victim to a break in.

The hair in his neck stood up as grief was replaced by the thirst for revenge. He knew what he would do and he almost would have turned on his heels to find this son of a sun but you were more important right now.

The sobs shook your body again, your face pressed into your knees. Taking that opportunity Jacob approached you with the stealthiest steps he could muster and slowly reached for your hand with the knife. When he closed his hand around yours, your body went rigid and for a long time, both of you were still. Only when your hands relaxed ever so slightly, Jacob slowly peeled the knife away from your fingers and out of your hand.

After he had let the knife drop to the floor, he kicked it away into a corner of the room, causing the floor to get painted red and you started crying again.

“He raped me, Jacob”

There. It was out. Albeit having had a hunch before, truth hit the young man like a freight train. He wanted so many things at the same time then: Track that bastard down, and rip him apart, limp by limp. He wanted to turn back time and prevent this from happening. He wanted to cradle you into his arms and tell you how he felt and that you’re safe now. But he did none of that.

For several more minutes you cried. Let more of your emotions out. Telling your assassin brother about it was like removing the cork from a bottle of champagne, only that it wasn’t champagne that was free to flow now but tears of bitterness. You sounded so defeated that Jacob never could have dreamed up. The cheerful Rookie who always had an open ear to every issue, no matter how small or big, who would annoy him sometimes with her obnoxious remarks, that you were, was now a defeated warrior.

It was going against his nature but he needed to be calm and responsible now. For your sake. Because what kind of person would he have been when he couldn’t save you one bloody time while you have saved him and others so many times?

“I will take care of that” Jacob wanted to call this son of a sun thousand words but railed himself in, “bastard. But now we need to take care of you”

A shaky nod was all he needed as an allowance. The gang leader, who usually made Templars shiver from fear and kneel to him, kneeled down and removed his cravat from his neck to use it to wrap it around your arm just about the cuts, to stop the flow of blood. Luckily the cuts were on the upper side of your arm, where blood would still flow but no vital artery was severed. The rest of the red cloth was wrapped around your cuts. He could feel that some were deep. So it was to no surprise that they were still leaking. You definitely needed medical treatment.

“I don’t want anyone to see me like this” just in time when Jacob finished tending to your arm as much as he could, you told him about your wish, because you knew exactly what he was about to suggest. He wanted Mrs. Nightingale to treat your arm with proper medicine. Without missing a second Jacob got out of his coat and wrapped it around you and pulled up the hood. That way, nobody would see anything. The coat completely wrapped around you and the hood obscured everybody’s sight on your face.

The familiar smell of leather and gunpowder were mixed with your boss’ own individual scent. You inhaled deeply and a feeling of safety wrapped around you, like his leather coat. But also guilt as you were ruining his best coat. You remember how smug and proud he looked when he first strolled with it into the Rook’s owned bar where you and the others had been celebrating a more than successful heist. “Baron Jordane's Finery is it called.”, the grin on the gang leader’s face was contagious.”A coat has a name.” the assassin had spread his arms out in a manner to present himself or rather his new possession and you could see that Evie would have liked to bonk him for his boasting “Can you believe that?”. From that point on, it was clear that this coat had become Jacob’s favourite piece and he would wear it for special occasions, like celebrations or on calmer days. And now you were ruining it, yet you couldn’t speak up. You would repay him somehow. Later.

After he helped you up, careful where he would touch you, he guided you out of your own flat. The last strides before you reached the door however, he stepped ahead. Opening the door he ordered in a sharp tone: “closed coach. Pronto”. Hasting down the stairs, the three rooks followed the order without so much as grumbling a word. A green four wheeler was ready by the time you made it down the stairs. It took only a glare for the Rooks to back away. He would drive himself. Without his coat the wind, even though the sun was still shining brightly, was chilly.

Mrs. Nightingale, didn’t ask you many questions out of respect, or was she shut up by the top hat wearing assassin? You didn’t know. And in all honesty, you didn't care about the reason, but were thankful for the silence. “Scars will remain, my dear” she stated in an informative but soft manner. Since you didn’t look at her it was unclear to you, if she meant you or Jacob.

With a bit of arguing and Jacob repeatedly assuring that he will regularly check on you, Mrs. Nightingale agreed to discharging you. You were suspended from your duties for the Rooks for the time being. The only order that you had to follow now, so said your boss, was to focus on recovery. And indeed he dropped by every evening. Sometimes he brought a beer from a new pub he found and deemed it drinkable, sometimes he would bring his deck of cards, from which you were sure he always had with him. So you spend the evening drinking, playing cards or just talking about what was going on in London, while the latter remained a rarity. Sometimes Jacob would get into a fret about something the assassin council remarked about his style of handling things. But you weren’t sure if this was just an act on his part to entertain you or not. Usually he would just shrug them off. So at least have you experienced the council meetings and ‘scoldings’ so far. Rooks made sure to drop deliveries of food and other necessary items for you, so you wouldn’t be required to leave the flat when you didn’t feel like it.

As you fumbled with your fingers one evening, Jacob picked up on it and prompted “spill it, Rookie” while he was dealing out the cards for another round. “You know I can’t deny anything from you”, these words left his lips faster than he could think of them and now he couldn’t take them back. So he plastered on a cocky smile, making it appear like a flirty comment.

“Would you accompany me for shopping?” You didn’t look at him, feeling embarrassed for this question so you railed in “never mind. Forget it” and hastily took your cards. You played several more rounds of cards, all losing to Jacob. He must have cheated somehow. You were sure of that but didn’t question him. You’ve caused him too many inconveniences already, now you even dared to ask him for more support. Luckily he has dropped the topic. Or so you thought.

As he was exiting you flat with a mocking tip of his hat and priggish smile he casually stated “so tomorrow around the same time I’ll pick you up”. Leaving you no chance to reply he sashayed down the stairs and into the cold evening air.

The knock on the door pulled you out of your grim thoughts that have been haunting you all day. Glad for some distraction you went to get the door. Jacob was waiting behind it with two packages in his hands. One was a basket filled with a few groceries, the other a brown paperback which content stayed unknown to you. “Get dressed for some fun” was the greeting you got and the reprobate, who looked eager to get going, pushed the grocery basket inside your apartment.

You were confused, “I thought we go shopping?”

“I have an even better idea” your boss smirked at you “so get ready” and already began to turn waving his hand to cue you to follow him.

With haste you got into your boots and felt a little excitement coming up. Jacob usually had good ideas but sometimes they involved too much space for interpretation. So you didn’t know what exactly he meant with ‘fun’.

Despite you trying to peek inside the paper bag and asking him where he would lead you, Jacob’s lips stayed sealed, only curving up into a teasing smile that showed that he enjoyed leading you with a carrot stick. He knew your curiosity well, it was the reason you joined the brotherhood after all, and hence he knew how to play it and tease you. And he did so up to the very moment until you reached your destination. A new fighting ring.

Topping had told Jacob about him planning to open it a few days earlier and Jacob confirmed he would pay a visit, knowing that Topping told him for his own benefit, namely money. Good fights meant more revenue for the bookie and Jacob was a guarantor for good fights. So it was no surprise that the man with the ridiculously looking top hat was very excited to see Jacob strolling into his new money earning paradise.

“Ah, it's good to see you!” The bookie approached the younger man “here for some good fights, I presume”

“Of course” still with a smirk on his lips, Jacob confirmed what the other male already knew, or at least believed to know. The ticket for participating in the ring was issued without any question but enthusiasm, however when Jacob handed that ticket directly to you, he earned confused looks from both you and Topping. “You need to fight this off” his voice dropped into a serious tone as his smirk vanished. Damn, he had played you. When Topping wanted to object, Jacob did only as much as raising a hand to silence the other man while he was still looking at you. “I told you to get ready for some fun. Now, fight this off and”, he raised the paper bag and waved with it “you get a special price. If you win, that is.” He was back to teasing you, eyes glittering with mischief.

It took you a moment but then you crossed your arms and raised your chin and replied “only if I know what I’m fighting for”, for you couldn’t fight a small smirk tucking at the corner of your lips. Oh how much have you missed these banters with your brother assassin. You have enjoyed the nights Jacob dropped by to provide company but this, this was a bit of normality coming back.

The index finger of his free hand wiggled at you “Ah Ah! Where is the fun in that?” and he held up the bag when you tried grabbing it. It was out of your reach, as it was one of the easiest tasks for him to hold you off “Now, love, get ready. You know what you’re fighting for” he stated after he had pushed you off him, still smirking impishly but there was a hint of seriousness in his tone that made you nod.

The second round was just over and you were breathing hard, leaning on a post of the ring waiting for the next round to start. Jacob approached you from behind. “Good so far. This one has a preference for dealing out kicks to the knees.” he tucked his chin towards a man with suspenders “so look out for that. Also for your footwork, stance is good so far. Stay light on your feet and play your advantages well”. While Jacob was giving you the tips you studied the three men who got ready for the next round. Beside the man with suspenders there were two tall and broad shouldered men who looked like their punches would hurt a lot. The bell rang and the round started.

Jacob had been right. The suspender guy did indeed try to immobilise you by breaking your knees with kicks and he would have gotten you if not for your footwork. The two others threw powerful punches and swings but were slow over all. You managed to surprise them with a few rolls and quick turns and knock them out with a kick to their heads, which was, considering their and your size, something they definitely never expected. After a few more minutes you managed to take down the suspender man as well and stumbled back to your pole where Jacob was waiting with a beaming grin. He caught himself a few times, wanting to join in the fun but the bag in his hand reminded him that this was about you and you recovering. And that indeed it did. Sweaty from the fighting you felt like a welcomed ordinariness has returned. Glee has returned and you have reveled in the action. There would be one last round and Topping looked at you surprised that you were still standing.

While you leaned on the pole trying to get your bearings together before the last round would start you heard the man behind you whisper “you manage this one and I have somethings special for you”

Turning your head so you could look the assassin, who almost had leaned over you, in the eye, you smirked and shot “what is so special you keep your lips sealed so long? A kiss?”. The blush on the man’s face was just too amusing but before either of you could say more the bell rang, initiating the last round for you this evening.

Mumbling something about audacity Jacob continued watching you and towards the end even whistled to cheer you on. The fight was hard and at some point it even looked like you would lose. Something seemed to drive you though, to get up on your feet again. At the end you emerged victorious, bruised but victorious and the adrenaline rushing through your body made you forget the pain.

Jacob sautered towards you after you had received the prize money from the bookmaker “So now for your price”.

“Oh, you really meant it? I get a kiss now?” you played innocent and surprised, opened your arm as you would wrap your arms around the gang leader to receive the kiss you claimed he promised.

“I thought this”, he held up the bag and wiggled it “would be more appealing than a kiss, but if you insist”, he was slowly closing the distance and while he dropped his voice into a velvet murmur “I can give you a kiss and take the Jäger for myself” his face was mere inches from yours and you craned your chin up pointing out “You can’t stand Jäger” in an equally seductive tone and the tension between you both was rising, but you couldn’t decide whether this would lead to something positive or negative. Granting your boss the victory, you backed out of the flirty stare off and reached for the paperback, which this time wasn’t pulled away. Indeed there was a large bottle of Jäger inside. “This must have cost a fortune” you gasped at the size of the bottle. “Don’t mention it” the top hat wearing man grinned, eager now to get a pint or two “So shall we go and celebrate your victory now, Rookie?”.

“You would drink Jäger for me?”

“You know I can’t deny anything from you” as he offered you his arm in mockering politeness, you took it, pretentiously acting like an aristocratic lady. But it took you both only a few steps towards the door until you bursted out into a joined laughter, which felt so liberating.

You were strolling along the streets heading to a bar you knew would serve good beer, you continued to banter and joke with Jacob. Your directness has made Jacob blush again which in turn made you giggle. In a pub the rest of the evening was boozy and the top hatted reprobate stayed true to his word, drinking two shots of the almost black liquor. How you could call it sweet flavoured was beyond his understanding as the burn in the back of his throat was prominent when he upended the shot.

Next day buried the young gang leader in work, a lot of trouble with blighters and he had a feeling that he might have had a shot or two too many the previous night, but it was fun and he didn't regret it. But now that issues were settled he was on his way to you, which he looked forward to. A few beers and rounds of cards would be a fabulous closure for such a hectic day. When he was taking the direct route across London’s roofs he came across Scotland yard and by instinct he dived into his ability to heighten his senses. He already had a slight headache from using his eagle vision so much during the day but the uneasiness was gone the moment he saw something surprising and made him stop in his tracks.

While the word turned grey there were a few things highlighted by specific colours. Red always meant enemies, green were his allies while gold was his target and blue, well, these were the nuisances of bobbies patrolling the streets. But there was a man sitting in the Scotland yard cell who didn’t fit any of this. He was purple. His savviness told him what it meant and what he had to do, he didn’t need books for this like his sister. He had seen Freddie exiting your house a few days ago and he felt more anger rising in his gut. That he hasn’t thought about this possibility. But to his own defence: he endeavoured to help you recover.

The creed of the assassins had three tenets

Stay you blad away from the innocent

Hide in plain sight

Never compromise the brotherhood

His father had added a forth “Don’t allow personal feeling to compromise the mission”. He himself had reminded Evie of that when they had been hunting for Lucy Thorn and Starrick.

But what if the mission itself was personal?

A shadow dropped down onto the streets and approached the Scotland Yard building. Hiding in the dark the shadow took out the policemen one by one, working its way up the floors to where the criminals were held in a cell. It was soundless and with steps light as a feather it didn’t cause any stir, so contradicting to what it usually loved to do.

The night was usually calmer than the day but Sergeant Abberline was beginning to wonder if it hadn’t been too quiet to be true. The middle aged man with sideburns was about to get up from his desk to check on his subordinates on the lower floors when he saw a shadow climbing up the stairs. When he reached for his revolver a familiar sounding “Don’t” stopped him.

The assassin allied Policeman looked up and saw how the shadow was approaching him but to his question “Jacob? What are you doing?” he didn’t receive a reply. The figure, wearing a hood, concealing most of his face approximated further. And albeit Frederick Abberline wasn’t able to see the other man’s eyes he felt the intense stare from under the hood. He also prided himself with something, the strong Abberline constitution, but the closing in gang leader managed to shake it once and now the second time had arrived. Doing his best to cover up what he assumed the assassin’s prey must feel when they see their enemy coming closer, namely trembling inducing fear, he asked once more “What is wrong?”

The brisk order “Give me the keys” that made others move with haste was declined by the only officer left awake in the building, as realisation what the assassin was here for set in. “You know I cannot do that”. The man’s eyes flickered sideways to the cell mere metres away. A mistake. A great mistake, because this moment was enough for the assassin to bring himself behind the policeman, who gave up asking how a person can move with such inhuman swiftness.

“I’m sorry, Freddie. But this is personal” with an arm locked around the other man’s neck Jacon made the constable lose consciousness and took the keys for the cell after he dropped his assassin gauntlet on the wooden desk. He had been a bit gentler than with the other bobbies, Freddie was sort of a friend to him after all but this mission didn’t allow any sympathies.

The golden eyes gleaming in the dark that spread as the sun was setting, caused the inmates to think a demon was entering their cell. “Try anything fishy and you’re dead” hiss to the two others, forcing them to press into a corner only with his word.

Pale as a bleached piece of paper the third inmate demanded “What do you want?”But he only received a grunt and Jacob’s bare knuckles colliding with his jaw as an answer which sent him stumbling against the wall. This bastard wasn’t worth the tiny effort that it took to speak because he must know what the demon’s reason was. What he did.

Not granting him any time to recover Jacob swung another fist to the other side of his face and before he could even collapse on the ground a punch to his solar plexus, with the fist remaining there, held him up. “That was for asking a dumb question. Now for what you did” The younger man started strangeling the rapist and despite being a bit shorter than his prey the gang leader lifted him off the ground. Just before he was to lose consciousness, the grip was removed and the man collapsed onto the floor, coughing and ringing for air.

“What the he…” the man interrupted in his angered coughing then he received a kick to his jaw and a foot was placed upon his chest, slowly pressing down, once again cutting off the air supply. The man tried to wiggle himself free but to now avail.

Jacob looked down on him with contempt. “Now, to give you an idea, how she must have felt” the assassin replaced his foot with his knee as he knelt down so he was able to reach for the man’s groin. Without mercy he squeezed slowly crushing the jewels and if the man had been able he would have screamed in agony but the knee on his chest was pressing down so hard that he didn't have air to make any vocal sounds.

When Sergeant Abberlin regained consciousness he saw how a shadow exited the cell, which was now inhabited by two silent and trembling lawbreakers and a distorted body that missed its genitals. Its arms were twisted in unnatural directions as were his legs and the constable was sure that the human leg didn’t have a joint between the knee and hip. The white material sticking out of a wound confirmed that. There was blood spread everywhere in the cell and some even made it through between the metal bars, almost reaching his desk.

While the young assassin grabbed his arm contraption from the desk he mumbled “I apologise for the mess.” and vanished through the window without bothering to put on his weapon. He would later send someone to clean up but for now he had a more important destination in mind.

That day the time flew by as you have been occupying yourself with all sorts of different activities but when the usual time that Jacob would show up on your door, has passed, not just by a few minutes but two hours, you started worrying. Have you done something wrong? Until now you have thought that things were going great, you have enjoyed yourself and believed Jacob felt the same. You even have decided that it was time for you to head back out and to work the next day. When you were readying yourself to go to bed, you heard a knock on your door. But who could visit you at this time of the evening? It filled you with panic. With a pounding heart you called out “Who’s there?”

The familiar voice replying “Me” prompted you to open the door. You knew it was your boss but never would you have expected the sight that the door revealed to you.

Jacob was standing in front of your door with an unreadable expression. His face as well as clothing was sprinkled with blood. His hair, neither covered by a hood nor a top hat, even more dishevelled than usual. When your eyes travelled further down, you saw that he was holding his gauntlet in his hand. It wasn't secured around his left forearm, and it looked clean. Au contraire to his bare hands. His knuckles were painted red with someone else’s life essence. His boots were covered in a mix of dirt and blood. After you have taken in his appearance, you met his eyes with confusion.

By stepping aside you allowed the assassin into your refuge and closed the door behind him. “Is this…”

“Yes”

You turned around to face the person who got rid of the reason you felt unsafe outside of your four walls. Moving on instinct you took two quick steps up to your boss and threw your arms around him for a hug. You were certain that you crossed a line there, between boss and subordinate but you didn’t care. “Thank you” - your whisper was muffled by his coat, Baron Jordane's finery. What an irony. Now you definitely had to get him a new one. You smiled to yourself.

You felt his arms wrap around you as he returned the hug, the gauntlet discarded lying on the floor. He didn’t use it when he ended that monster’s life. Nor did he use any other weapons. This had been personal.

“You’re free now”

#Jacob Frye #jacob frye imagines #assassin's creed syndicate #assassin's creed #ac syndicate #self therapy #rape #trigger #selfharm

6 notes · View notes