#it's nonsensical to read shin as a straight man and yet any possibility of him returning kiku's feelings is barred off blacked out redacted

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG185!

- Given Jon and Martin’s recent conversations about categorisations:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: This place is… an homage, shall we say. A monument. To him, and those like him, who tried to… categorise the world with themselves at the centre. In so doing, constructed the architecture of its suffering…! […] Avatar isn’t a thing, Martin, it’s not–! It’s just a word. A word used by… fools like Smirke to try and sort everything into neat little boxes, to reduce the messy spray of human fear into a checklist: Human, avatar, monster, victim. Only now, now, there’s a binary. There’s finally a clear dividing line and… [SIGH] Well. I’m sorry you’re not happy with which side you’ve ended up on.

(MAG184) MARTIN: … I thought you said Smirke’s Fourteen was a load of bull? ARCHIVIST: I said it was limited, and draws artificial borders, but it does have its use when it comes to conceptualising these things.

Yep, this episode really conveyed the concept! I had felt like the Monument was predominantly Spiral; but this one? No idea. Utter blob of terror, I didn’t have any moment of “Oooh! Could be mainly x?” at all. The statement at times made me think of The Buried, with the lack of space (“The cell was small and cramped, and Tina kept hitting her shin on the bench. […] And now, she is back in her cell. Or a cell that looks like hers. It is… smaller perhaps, the metal bench is cleaner, but… rusted through on the hinges, so when she lies on it, it squeals and threatens to collapse.”); I got a few Hunt-vibes when Tina recalled the moment before she was arrested (“All day she had been feeling on edge, smelling the faintest hint of something rotten on the wind. Had it been her imagination? No; others had sensed it too, she was sure of it. In the shops she had seen them, eyes darting nervously, fingers drumming incessantly on trolly handles, waiting for whatever was coming.”); there were a few Beholding moments with the feeling of being watched, being listened to, having her secrets exposed and used against her (“And all day, that intense, unshakeable feeling that she was being watched. […] And there had been a file, a thick manila envelope stained with grease and coffee, which held the pages of her life typed out in a small, no-nonsense font. She remembered that she had read those pages with increasing alarm. It had all been there, all of it. Her life, her loves, her choices, her mistakes. No details spared, no nasty inference ignored.”); the lights out reminded me of The Dark, through the Inspector’s own fears (“Please, I’m… It’s almost lights out. I can’t be here for lights out! Not again.”); the guardians had Stranger vibes (“The door opened, and there they stood, identical in their uniforms, their skin fishbelly white, and their eyes gleaming with malice.”); there was some Spiral-y feelings, punctually or through Tina being unable to make sense of her situation (“The man had laughed at that. It had been a dry and hacking sound that cracked the mirrored glass of the interview room, and made the juror’s ears bleed.”); and the cold, the separation from others, her inability to connect also made me think of The Lonely (“Had she ever been this cold before? Outside, of course, in the deepest winter, bundled up and pushing through to a heated home. But sat inside, with nowhere to go, nothing to change or wrap up in, just a thin grey jumpsuit, unable to do anything but sit there and shiver… [A BED CREAKS] that was a sort of cold that was alien to her. […] When she saw the world beyond her walls, her heart sank. The world seemed bright, and normal. […] The world didn’t miss her, didn’t know or care about what was happening beyond these walls.”) – for this last point, I could almost believe it was part of Martin’s domain… so it wasn’t a big surprise that we would jump straight to it right afterwards.

So, I was able to think of this and that Fear, but unable to classify the place as a whole. The fear of being subjected to what you want to believe others deserve (even though you’re aware on some level that they don’t)? As a whole, the statement was a denunciation of the complacency and willing ignorance amongst the privileged in the middle of an authoritative and repressive state – and it made quite an interesting POV because we rarely get a case of the statement-giver/victim coming across as inherently unsympathetic in the middle of their own distress. Last time I felt that way was with Tova McHugh (MAG155), and this time was for different reasons, mostly due to Tina’s inability to… change her mind and denounce was what truly atrocious:

(MAG185) ARCHIVIST: “It was obviously a mistake, some miscommunication somewhere, or a case of mistaken identity. These things were unfortunate, but sometimes they happened…! One of the people in charge would no doubt realise and sort it all out. […] Part of her wanted to lie there and weep, overcome with what was happening to her. But faster than that came the anger, the indignation – how dare they? She did not deserve this, she was better than this, this did not happen to people like her. [SCRAPING SOUNDS] She clawed her way back up to the window and looked out, trying to see the spiteful little brat. […] There has been a mistake. She should not be here, but she had met the person in charge, she had pleaded her case, told him of what had happened. … And he had laughed at her. […] Tina ignores it as she grabs the hatch and tries to keep it open, tries to tell the guard, to explain what’s happened, that something’s gone wrong, that she shouldn’t be here, this isn’t right! Why can’t anybody see this, this isn’t the place for people like her!”

Underneath, there was the implication that others would still “deserve” to be subjected to this, and the fact that her anger was misdirected as a result: Tina was upset that it was happening to her, not that… it was happening at all, to anyone, and that nobody should deserve this. There was still this unabashed confidence and trust in the regime and in order as a thing, while she was directly exposed to its atrocities, and her anger that the world didn’t conform to the scenario in her head where she should be protected by the very same thing oppressing others. This season, Jon’s kept pointing out Martin that things were complicated, that “No one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most!” and this episode was pushing that to its (unpleasant) limits: first, with Tina, where it still felt like a fair retribution, in a way, with the irony of her complacency not protecting her against authoritarianism and its violence; and secondly, with the Inspector from MAG120 being imprisoned here, which also felt like a fair retribution (if he had so casually punched Elias when he was handcuffed back then, what are the chances that he had also exerted violence on more vulnerable (and innocent) people in the same situation? And he confessed to tampering with evidence, and Jon pointed out that he would probably enjoy a seat of power in this domain, implying he would make it worse for others). And yet, still: Jon had pointed out that nobody deserved what this new world inflicts on them.

(I got biiiiig Kafka vibes with this statement (“‘None of these things are illegal,” she had said. […] ‘The laws have changed.’ […] . They never told her any charges, never gave her any verdict.”), I wonder if it was a deliberate reference to The Trial, with the deconfiguration of justice and executive systems, which turn into something arbitrary, unreadable, impossible to understand?)

- There were so many mentions of Tina’s memories not being exactly linear, of memories being… supplied, to fill in the gaps?

(MAG185) ARCHIVIST: “And then she was here. Tina didn’t remember the journey, not… properly. […] It didn’t matter, it wasn’t her memory. She was just here. […] She turned away quickly, and saw the window above her. … Had there been a window when she had first come here? When had that been? […] The child’s eyes met hers, the first moment of human connection that she had really felt since she’d arrived – but… hadn’t she only just got here…? – and Tina felt herself begin to smile. […] And then she was back in her cell. [FOOTSTEPS] She didn’t remember the interview, not properly. Or had it been a trial?”

And I wonder if it was to increment her anguish (not really understanding what was happening, shutting down hopes as soon as she was formulating them in her head), or maybe a symptom of getting closer to the Panopticon…? We might have gotten the first reference of someone remembering the beginning of the apocalypse (“‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with us,’ they had said, as the sky above them began to change.”) – though I’m not excluding that it was just a fabricated memory, too, making her skip from one place to another. Still, the fact that she was able to question a few of her memories makes me wonder if it might be due to Jon and Martin getting closer to London and the Panopticon, making people a bit more lucid about what happened and aware of the dream-logic not following physical laws…?

- Jon still doing his statements alone in his corner, and if not for the end of this episode, I would have been worried again over Martin disappearing during a statement… though we still have fifteen episodes left so that’s still a possibility ;;

(MAG185) [METAL DOOR CREAKS OPEN] MARTIN: [BRIEF EFFORT SOUND] All done? ARCHIVIST: … Yes. [FOOTSTEPS] MARTIN: I still think doing it in one of the actual cells was a bit much…! ARCHIVIST: It was the most soundproof place I could find. MARTIN: Pffft! Soundproof? Yeah, dream on. ARCHIVIST: You… heard? I… I–I’m sorry, I know it was, uh… MARTIN: I, I actually didn’t, but only because I was too busy hearing what was going on in all the other cells. ARCHIVIST: Ah. Well.

I’m a bit surprised that Martin is still refusing to listen to Jon’s statements: is it still because it’s plain upsetting? Is it because it makes him feel like a voyeur, like he has no right to know about them? Is it because he’s still refusing to listen to the Fears’ doing, refusing to face the way people are hurting, in a way? Will it change with his domain…?

I felt that Martin and Jon were a bit more awkward, at the start of their exchange? A bit more cautious than usual, as if they were dancing around issues and making sure that the other wouldn’t get the wrong idea. Was it due to Jordan’s transformation last time? Was it because of the whole domain (tense, oppressive)? It already felt like they were on the verge of something, that a change was coming…

- So, it sounds like they had met the person/monster of charge of the domain, the “Warden”, beforehand?

(MAG185) MARTIN: What if another one comes along? ARCHIVIST: It’s fine, we’re, uh… We’re “guests of the Warden”. MARTIN: Urgh… ARCHIVIST: Mm-hm. … Come on. [BAG JOSTLING] [FOOTSTEPS, AND THE METAL DOOR CREAKS SHUT] [SILENCE BUT FOR FOOTSTEPS] MARTIN: … Does it not bother you? ARCHIVIST: What? Being a “guest”? MARTIN: Yeah! I–it’s, it’s not like it resisted. Hell, it was chummy! ARCHIVIST: Would you rather it had attacked?

Same thing as with Dr. Doe, then, who was overall extremely friendly to them. Martin is finally understanding the extent of their status: that they’re mostly untouched, that they’re favoured by The Eye, that they do get a special status in these domains… and not solely due to Jon.

Gosh, Jon sounded so tired, in this episode too? Like he was recapping most of his story, close to an epilogue, trying to guess the process of what had happened in his own mind retroactively.

(MAG185) MARTIN: No, it’s just… Is that how these creatures see us now? As one of them? ARCHIVIST: Mm! [AMUSED] I forgot that’s a new experience for you. MARTIN: Excuse me? ARCHIVIST: You have to remember, I’ve had this for years. Right from the start, it’s always been “Archivist” this and “Archivist” that, all these… weird, awful creatures assuming I’m… “in” on all the secrets. Even when they were trying to kill me, they treated me like I was a… a peer. MARTIN: Yeah, but they were still trying to kill you! ARCHIVIST: Not all of them. And now? Sure, the power’s shifted, it’s all… politeness and respect, but it still feels just like… more of the same…! I guess I just stopped caring at some point. Besides, they are technically right, I am one of them. To a degree. MARTIN: I suppose.

And it’s true! Jane Prentiss had called him “Archivist” (in her texts from Martin’s phone, and directly in MAG039); Michael had done the same (through Sasha, and then in person starting MAG047). For the different monsters and avatars, Jon wasn’t really “Jon” but “the Archivist” as a function (even the Not!Them referred to him as such at the end; Nikola did too, Jude identified him as “an Archivist”). Jon had even wondered about his status in season 3 (MAG085: “Maybe whoever sent this wants me to consider how many of these creatures used to be people. How many seem to have taken the mantle from the ones that came before them, and how none of them have been able to overcome their new natures. How most of them don’t even seem to think like people anymore. Given that there is every possibility I’ve taken one of these mantles myself, this is not an interpretation I’m keen on.”). And at the same time: Jon is still making a separation here, between himself and these “weird, awful creatures”? Is it due to the Archivist’s status being still a bit of an oddity in the Fear landscape? Even Jonah had mentioned that the function was extremely old (MAG160: “You see, the role of Archivist has been part of The Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers: most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain… throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.”), and in Jon’s case, he didn’t have a lot of manoeuvre in the powers he got – he began trapping people in his dreams and compelling before even noticing and understanding that those were things he could do, and we know that those were happening with Gertrude too. Jon’s powers didn’t shape themselves through his own relationship with the Fears; he got them with the position, and they seem to have been consistent amongst the Archivists at the Institute.

OBVIOUSLY, Jon broke my heart a bit when he mentioned he might have “stopped caring at some point” ;; By season 4, he was introducing himself as “the Archivist”, as if he had given up trying to fight it, and there was his long interrogation about whether or not he was still himself, still human… But: if Jon is accepting that he has changed, the real question is whether he still has choices with his new status? He might accept that he has changed; it doesn’t mean that he has to accept everything that comes with the new urges and the new status, and we’ve already seen that he was able to take decisions, to reject some aspects – just because the fear of this world feels “good” to him on some level doesn’t mean that he can’t challenge that perception, and him and Martin precisely went off on a quest to try to undo this world.

- Given how Jon redirected the question towards Martin’s own feelings:

(MAG185) ARCHIVIST: I think the real question is… how are you finding it? MARTIN: [SIGH] I–it’s not the same. I’m still just your… “plus one”. ARCHIVIST: [AMUSEDLY] Don’t put yourself down. It’s not your fault you’re a bit overshadowed; I am such a very big deal after all…! MARTIN: Oh, very big arse, more like it! ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLES] Either way, even if I wasn’t here, I don’t think you’d be in any danger. Not anymore. I wasn’t sure when we first started out, I hadn’t properly, uh… looked into it, as it were. But now I’m certain. MARTIN: … I’m one of them. ARCHIVIST: One of… “us”. MARTIN: [SIGHING] That’s not as comforting as you think it is. ARCHIVIST: Doesn’t mean it’s not true though. [PRISON AND PRISONER SOUNDS ARE CLEARER HERE] MARTIN: [INHALE] And this is all because I’ve been given a domain? Because, apparently, I somehow have people’s fear feeding me? ARCHIVIST: Well… feeding The Eye through you, but yes.

* Was it a case of Jon already knowing that Martin’s own perception and feelings could influence their journey, that Martin had to understand and process a few things before being able to enter his domain (just like Basira)? That Martin’s journey was mostly emotional and logical, rather than physical, and that Martin understanding and accepting his own status as an “avatar”, as a “us”, would matter?

* ;w; over Martin mentioning that he still feels like Jon’s “plus one”… Jude had made a few digs about it, and Martin, left on his own, had also remembered that he was “following” Jon, not the reverse way round (MAG170: “I was following, al–always following, never leading; never leading.”). He had been casually threatened by a few avatars/monsters, while they were showing deference to Jon; of course that Martin would feel like he’s mostly unaccounted with compared to Jon, who can turn Watched into Watchers, and kill the latter… while it turns out that Martin is also a Watcher of his own, and thus technically has the same importance as all the monsters/avatars we’ve seen in season 5, and maybe more, since he’s from The Eye.

* LAUGHING HARD at Jon’s shitty sense of humour. It sounded more clipped and posh-smug than his usual? Was it the tiredness, was it the gravity of the surroundings, was it Jon feeling comfortable enough to put on a role? Smug posh cat.

* Can’t believe that the Jon’s Ass discourse was resolved this episode smh (Jon “big arse” canon, Jon is “scrawny” and has a big butt the episode said.) (I’m joking.) (But MARTIN PLEASE! <3)

* That indeed confirms what had happened since the Change at the end of MAG160: the reason Martin didn’t become a victim was not (or at least not just) because he was protected by Jon… but because he was a Watcher of his own. It’s interesting that Jon confirmed it just a few minutes before they would get separated – at least, we knew that Martin would be “safe” even when they weren’t together. … But at the same time, it’s interesting that no, they’re not 100% safe from the domains either: Martin got entrapped into the Lonely house (MAG170) and could have stayed there, while Jon got trapped in a cycle of statements in the Web theatre (MAG172), and might not have been able to snap out of it if Martin hadn’t come back to interrupt him. Are they really truly safe, when the domains can influence them in these ways?

* … This is also a reminder that Jon can’t know something he hasn’t thought about looking for, that he’s not all-knowing naturally. If Jon wasn’t sure about Martin’s status at the start as long as he hadn’t searched for it, what else does he not know? His main weakness is still that he has to look for things in order to know them, which requires… asking himself the right questions.

* Martin is right that it’s not “comforting”; it’s an unpleasant truth. And yet, it’s still true, still something he has to face and deal with: that he’s protected because he’s benefitting from this world and feeding on his own victims’ fears.

(* It’s still all linked to The Eye getting fed through them: is it getting a special flavour through its agents? Variety? I’m still pretty sure that Melanie wasn’t given a domain, since she cut her connection to The Eye: it wouldn’t be able to feed through her at this point.)

- I love how Jon has reached this point, with what he’s seen and witnessed, where he’s adamant that “no one gets what they deserve”?

(MAG178) ARCHIVIST: No one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most! … Even me.

(MAG185) MARTIN: Even though I didn’t ask for it? Did nothing to deserve it? ARCHIVIST: “Deserve”, huh! Now there’s a word that always causes trouble. MARTIN: [HUFF] Don’t be patronising. ARCHIVIST: I just mean that nobody here deserves the position they’ve found themselves in, not really. I suppose a few may have asked for it, sought it out even, but far more didn’t. They just made the wrong choices for the… right reasons, or even the right choices. But ones that still led them here in the end. MARTIN: … I hate it. ARCHIVIST: On balance, that’s… probably a good thing.

It was even more powerful in this episode given the underlying tone of ironic retribution going on with Tina and the Inspector (subjected to what they felt others deserve)? I also remembered Tim’s words about the Fears and the fact that there was no particular reason for people to get hurt by them (MAG117: “I used to blame my brother for going off on one and poking around where he wasn’t wanted; I used to blame myself for… not helping him, but now? Now it doesn’t matter. I’ve read through enough of these things to know that this doesn’t matter. The only thing you need to have your life destroyed by this stuff is just bad luck. Talk to the wrong person, take the wrong train, [SCOFF] open the wrong door – and that’s it!”) – the idea that this whole Fear-machine was there to make people suffer anyway, that there wasn’t really any point to fight it individually, that being a victim of it doesn’t mean it’s (at all!) earned or warranted. … I hope that, at this point, Jon is also aware that all of this also applies to him? Jonah had gloated that it was due to Jon’s own “rotten luck”, that he had only been a “chosen one” in the sense that Jonah had decided to pick him for his ritual.

- Love’s Martin spiteful “I hate it” ;w; Just because it’s true doesn’t mean that he has to like or defend it; there are different forms of acceptance and rejections to be had around these concepts, even though it doesn’t change anything concrete, and I still like that he’s voicing it so simply and earnestly ;w; (And I feel like Jon understood that, too? In the same way that feeding on people in season 4 had felt “good” or that he’s been prospering since the Change, while still aware that it’s a bad, awful thing at the core that he wants to change.)

- I was so surprised by the return of the Inspector!

(MAG185) [SUDDEN RATTLING AGAINST METAL BARS] INSPECTOR: Hey! Hey, you! Yeah, I know you! MARTIN: U–uh…? INSPECTOR: It’s, f–fr–fr–from the, uh, Magnus Institute! Hum… aaah… Mark! ARCHIVIST: You know him? MARTIN: Martin.

* … Did he get a promotion since MAG120? He was a “police officer” back then – did he get a promotion for Elias’s arrest?

* After the Basira-Daisy mini-arc, this was our reminder that… the issues with Section 31 weren’t inherently tied to them, that it was existing outside of them, that it was awful on its own even without them (as the system protecting Daisy and accepting (and enabling) her violence, and also as the system who was ready to serve its own interest: Elias managed to coerce Basira to sign up with the Institute by pointing out that there were plenty of other Sectioned officers that would gladly execute them all to ensure that their exactions and Daisy’s would remain hidden).

* Mark Kerosene Blackwood. (I’m living, there have been so many references to Martin’s name this season! The face that he doesn’t have a middle name, Martin barely remembering his own name in the Lonely house, Annabelle pointing out that he hadn’t given her his name on the phone…)

* About names:

(MAG185) INSPECTOR: Martin, right, yeah! Y–you remember? You tipped us off, and we came and nicked your boss, the, that Bouchard bloke! MARTIN: Oh! Oh right, the, hum… oh, In–inspector… uh, I, I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten your name. INSPECTOR: So have I! It, I’m just… 547 in here. MARTIN: God, I’m so sorry.

Laughing so hard at this because. The dude had never given his name at all in MAG120, had only been credited as “police officer”.

- … It was indeed a part of Martin’s past:

(MAG185) ARCHIVIST: Martin? What do you think? MARTIN: What? ARCHIVIST: I decided about Jordan. This place is from your past. MARTIN: Yeah, but I mean only briefly! ARCHIVIST: Still.

It was a time Martin was still confident in that system (MAG082: “But you’re the police!” / MAG092: “Okay, wai–wai–wai–wait, that’s the police that you’re talking about! Okay, they… they wouldn’t… Would they?”), where Martin was ready to use it against Elias to get him arrested; it was Martin’s plan in season 3 – when in the end, the prison would strike a deal with Elias, technically serving his interests (preventing Jon from accessing him) and allowing him to escape when he would need, as shown in MAG158. And Martin had been the one to carry through Elias’s arrest, leading the officer in to Elias’s office by himself (Jon was in a coma, Basira was in shock, Martin had been reluctant to call in Melanie). That officer was only related to Martin.

- … Congrats to Martin for asking the right questions:

(MAG185) MARTIN: Why are you here? INSPECTOR: What? MARTIN: What are you so afraid of that you ended up in here? INSPECTOR: I didn’t do anything! MARTIN: Jon? [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: Why are you here? INSPECTOR: [RESISTING] I don’t… Argh! Stop! Stop! ARCHIVIST: I will stop when you answer the question. INSPECTOR: Argh! Look, you can’t know if they’re all guilty, all right? [STATIC DECREASES] MARTIN: [SIGH] INSPECTOR: It, it’s just about evidence! MARTIN: [FLATLY] Right. [STATIC FADES] INSPECTOR: Sometimes, you just have to, to… MARTIN: What, guess? INSPECTOR: I’m sorry, all right? MARTIN: No. You’re just afraid…! INSPECTOR: Please, I’m… It’s almost lights out. I can’t be here for lights out! Not again. Please, you owe me! ARCHIVIST: This place is born of their nightmares. And of yours. MARTIN: If you made him a Watcher… he’d become part of this place? ARCHIVIST: … He would. MARTIN: And if he was, would he enjoy it? INSPECTOR: What are you talking about? No! Of course not! ARCHIVIST: You know I can’t see the future. MARTIN: But? ARCHIVIST: But I can see his past. MARTIN: And based on that? ARCHIVIST: … He probably would, yes.

* “It’s just about evidence”: just as a twisted “justice” tends to be about forging a convincing reality through a few cherry-picked elements, rather than uncovering a truth (well. Or establish what is “true” legally, which is not the same thing as an objective truth).

* Which means that on some level, the Inspector knew that what he was doing was arbitrary and could be turned against him, and was still doing it anyway, and still aware that it was the reason this place would be his own nightmare. Yikes.

* I’m also guilty of having cheered when Elias got punched in MAG120, but: it was also true, back then, that if that police officer was violent with Elias (who was dangerous and handcuffed)… then, he probably was used to getting violent with way more vulnerable people. So, no, not really a Hero, even though we really wanted Elias to get punched. (Same thing with Basira in MAG148: it felt good on a narrative standpoint… and also felt absolutely horrifying that she would be allowed to get violent towards him in a visitor parlour, without anyone intervening to put a stop to it.)

* Jon’s compulsion was SO HARSH and pressuring, wow Jon.

* Anooother reminder that Jon “can’t see the future”.

* I really like Martin’s sentence about “You’re not [sorry], you’re just afraid”? It encompasses so well a few things we’ve witnessed in Magnus, that there is something deeply and tragically human in the fact that we want to be out of harm’s way, but that there is a problem at the root if our decisions are mostly forced by circumstances that don’t really feel like a choice? What the Inspector did was awful; he sounded absolutely nasty and despicable in the way he tried to plead his own case without regretting his actions; and at the same time, refusing him didn’t feel exactly “good” either — to leave behind someone who was pleading for help and clearly desperate, who was mostly motivated by fear and trying to grasp any lifeline to get out of there? What was messed up is that we didn’t have a situation in which he could change and evolve, that he wasn’t able to realise that he had committed awful things and wanted to “be better” like Daisy when she was in the Coffin…

* … I subscribe to Martin’s choice in this case, though: that it would have felt bad to allow him to enjoy a new status, despite what he had done, with the clear risk of him making things worse for the other prisoners (since he has already displayed and confirmed that he had previously abused his power over more vulnerable people). It was such a huge contrast to Jordan, who didn’t want to become a “torturer”, yet agreed that he didn’t want to become a victim again?

Who gets to be “saved” in this new world, then? People Jon and Martin personally know? Is it better to turn someone into a Watcher when it would make them suffer morally (Jordan), or is it better to turn someone into a Watcher when it would allow them to enjoy it (the Inspector)? It felt good on some petty level of irony to ultimately ignore the Inspector, but it also felt bad to ignore someone who was desperately pleading and reduced to frantic begging…

- Haaan, Jon’s apologies echoed what had happened with Jude’s building in MAG169!

(MAG185) MARTIN: [LONG EXHALE] That was horrible. ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry I put you in that position. MARTIN: N–no. You were right to, that’s… that’s a lot of power to have to deal with. Lot of responsibility. ARCHIVIST: Yes… [INHALE] Thank you, Uncle Ben. MARTIN: [CHUCKLE] Pop culture? Really? ARCHIVIST: I’m allowed to know what Spiderman is.

* And it feels like they both have evolved a bit on the matter of leaving the choice to the other: Jon acknowledging that it’s an unpleasant thing to do, and Martin acknowledging that Jon, so far… had to bear with it and was mostly the one choosing for them both, and that they’re both unequipped for it.

* Oh, Jon… I can’t even scream “Jon, you NERD” (but still a bit) – but aww at Jon’s way to try and defuse the tension…

* … This is how Web!Martin can still w-

- Aaaah, I love that we’ve reached this point of pointing out how inaction is still a choice:

(MAG185) MARTIN: [SIGH] … Not helping people is still a decision, isn’t it? ARCHIVIST: Well… You saw Jordan, I’m not sure “helping” is really… MARTIN: I know, I know, not the right word. Ignoring them, then. ARCHIVIST: Yes. It’s a choice I’ve been making a lot recently. MARTIN: … I guess we should get used to it. Knowing that all these awful things are happening for our benefit…! ARCHIVIST: Maybe it’s better if it never gets comfortable. MARTIN: Maybe.

* It was Jon’s struggle with Jordan already; the fact that having to “ignore” him… felt like too much, this time, since it was someone Jon knew and whom he felt indebted to. (And yet, as Jon had pointed out previously, there is no “better” in this new world: it was saving Jordan from one hell, to subject him to another… with Jordan still acknowledging that this new state of being felt more enviable than the previous one.)

* I wonder if in his “ignoring them”, Martin also included his own refusal to hear about the domains and the horrors of this world? Technically, shutting himself off from the victims hasn’t been any better this season – although, at first, it felt like Martin being finally able to establish his boundaries.

* If they’re now agreeing on the idea that “ignoring” the victims (not trying to do anything to change things for them) is still a “choice”, will that status quo change anytime soon…? Martin, in his own domain? Is the Panopticon coming very very soon, right after Martin’s?

* I like the constant about refusing that this awfulness, as real as it, is a positive thing. It’s what has made Jon so different from other avatars, the fact that he was refusing to embrace everything The Eye wanted him to like?

- Martin felt his domain first!

(MAG185) [VERY SHARP SQUEAL OF DISTORTION, SLOWLY INCREASING] [THEY WALK IN SILENCE FOR A WHILE] MARTIN: Hey, do you… do you feel that? [FOOTSTEPS STOP] ARCHIVIST: Martin? Martin, listen you need to get ready. [FADING] We’re about to enter– [HARSH CRACKLE OF STATIC] MARTIN: Yeah, “my domain”, yes, right, I get it. Dream logic, and timing, heh, apparently! [STATIC FADES] [FAINT EERIE WIND SOUNDS] … Jon? Jon? [BAG JOSTLING] Oh… Shit.

* The Lonely static squeals! It had been a while!

* Did Martin manage to access his domain right now because he accepted that he had himself changed, that he was one of “them” in this new world, that the world is awful but still real, that he’s still making choices in his journey despite his trying to pretend he was staying neutral? It feels like Martin had to confront himself a bit for these last two episodes, guided by Jon in the same way that Jon had previously guided Basira…

* Aaah, after the stressful sounds of the prison (distant voices, their echoes screeching a bit; the harsh creaking of the door, the overall oppressive atmosphere)… Martin’s domain already felt more soothing. Was it the sound of wind, or the sound of a gentle rain falling? (But I like how, sounds-wise, I already got the feeling that this place could be depressing, and also a small comfort, lulling people to sleep? Which is Martin’s experience with The Lonely as a whole: a temptation towards apathy, to stop hurting.)

* Gasp, two swears this episode!

(MAG185) INSPECTOR: Hey, hey, fuck you, you scrawny little tit! What the hell do you know? […] MARTIN: … Jon? Jon? [BAG JOSTLING] Oh… Shit.

Martin, still the Big Sayer Of “shit” in season 5 (there was his string of it in MAG179 when Jon got injured, and the SERIES of them in MAG163 when escaping the bullets).

I’m getting nostalgic because ;_; MAG039 had ended on Jon saying that word, when he had realised that the trapdoor had actually led them right back to Prentiss… and now Martin is closing an episode with that, when something expected but still surprising and unpleasant is happening…

- Tape recorder thing: the episode began with Jon’s recording, where he was isolated; it went on with Jon&Martin walking in the corridors together… and then it still recorded Martin, once he entered his domain and got separated from Jon. It was the same tape recorder; it was Jon’s. But it “stuck with” Martin when they got separated.

Small recap of the various mentions of tape recorders since they had reached the safehouse, without knowing for sure if some were the same:

(MAG160) MARTIN: Everything all right? ARCHIVIST: Just… making sure it works…! [SHUFFLING SOUNDS] MARTIN: I still don’t think we should have brought it. ARCHIVIST: Oh, it’s better than no warning at all.

(MAG161) MARTIN: Hey – when, when did you start recording? [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] ARCHIVIST: I… didn’t. MARTIN: [TENSE EXHALE] ARCHIVIST: I only brought one, and I’ve been using it to play the tapes. MARTIN: Oh. [INHALE] That’s not a great sign. ARCHIVIST: No…  No it’s not.

(MAG163) MARTIN: … Oh. Oh, hey! [SHUFFLING] [CLOSER] Jon, did you– … No. No, he was carrying his. [INHALE] All right…! [STEPS THROUGH LIQUID] What’re you doing here? [PLASTIC RATTLING] It’s dangerous. Could… get yourself blown up, like all these poor… […] You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.

(MAG166) MARTIN: [SIGH] [SILENCE] [BAG JOSTLING] … Kind of wish the apocalypse had some magazines. … A–ac–actually, no, second thoughts, probably not. Mmh! Def, definitely not.

(MAG170) MARTIN: [VOICE ECHOING SLIGHTLY] … Oh! Hello. [CHUCKLE] What are you? Do I… do I know you? Eh…! I can’t… [SHUFFLING] [CREAKING] I can’t tell through the fog, sometimes. You feel… n–not “friendly”. “Familiar”? [CREAKING] The shape of you in my hand… I talk to you, don’t I? We talk. What do we… what do we say? … I can’t quite…

(MAG181) SALESA: Hmmm. [SHUFFLING] Interesting… […] Now tell me, do you know why there’s a tape recorder here? I noticed it just now, but I don’t believe I actually own one. ARCHIVIST: … Uh… Not really. MARTIN: They sort of just … follow us round? SALESA: Hmmmm. Interesting. Did you carry it in? Things shouldn’t be able to manifest in here like that. ARCHIVIST: … You had one in your… bag, I–I think, Martin, did, did you drop it here? MARTIN: Uh… I, I don’t think so…!

=> Jon had initially brought one in Scotland. Another one appeared at the beginning of season 5, recording him listening to the tapes playing on his first tape recorder (so we’re sure that it indeed required two different recorders: the one playing the tapes, the one recording Jon listening to them). Martin spotted a wandering tape recorder at the end of MAG163, and was recorded when he was waiting for Jon at the end of MAG166 – it’s unclear whether it was the same one, or if Martin had picked up the one from MAG163 and kept it. In MAG170, Martin was recorded all alone (and, same thing, we don’t know whether it was one of the previous recorders, if Martin had kept it, etc., or a new one). By MAG181, Jon was aware that Martin had a tape recorder in his bag; but it’s unclear whether it was the same one as the one which popped up to listen to Salesa (what is strange is that Jon was implying that it couldn’t be his).

Tape recorders have been spawning for sure, so it’s not a complete restriction, but it’s interesting that by the end of MAG185… both tape recorders were presumably on Martin’s side. His own (in his bag), and Jon’s, who followed him into the domain (… but without Jon himself). Jon is currently recorder-less, although of course another one could pop up to record him (because it’s what they do!)… but I really wonder if we’ll be able to hear Jon at all as long as they’re not reunited, as long as Martin doesn’t find him back…?

- And so, we’re SPLITTING THE PARTY! Excellent, I’m sure nothing bad could ever happen from this.

Interestingly, it was the first time we directly heard someone transition from one domain to another: previously, it had felt like there was just that wasteland between them, while we went from the prison to another location immediately this time around, the only transition being the static and the squeals of distortion. To me, it felt like Martin’s domain is functioning on dream-logic even more than the others, that it has no… truly concrete location? That it was just accessible and there at this moment because Martin went through a few realisations and agreed to change his framework? We might hear about that next episode. I wonder if it’s more or less the same case for Helen’s domain, since Jon had mentioned that she would be on their way…?

- I’m not sure exactly what happened at the end of the episode! Given Jon’s warning, and how the soundscape changed, Martin definitely has entered his domain, but outside of that…

* What about Jon, since they got separated? Did Jon enter it another way? Is he a victim or vulnerable to Martin’s domain? Was he kept outside of it?

* How long will they be separated – will they find each other by the end of MAG186, will they go their separate ways for a few episodes?

* How will they manage to find each other again? There’s been a small progression in Martin getting stuck in Lonely space: Jon saved him and got him out of it (MAG159), then Martin became strong and firm enough about his identity for Jon to be able to find him (MAG170). This time around, will Martin have to find Jon, or find his way back to Jon by himself, without Jon being able to do anything?

* Alternatively, will there be any complication, anything Martin needs to do to be allowed to leave his domain? Will the domain tempt him to stay (because it’s made for him, and because he’s fed inside of it)? Jon had to learn to separate his urges, what felt good, from the morals and behaviour he actively chose to prioritise (it felt good to feed on other people’s trauma and to retraumatise them… but it was still atrocious, and something he decided wasn’t acceptable); comparatively, Martin might not be well-equipped if he’s hit with those feelings right away, without the years of slow avatarisation/path of dealing with the Fears…

* Still related: will Martin be able to leave on his own? On the one hand, we know that Helen can find him anywhere, and Martin was told he would be safe to travel through her corridors (MAG164: “The Distortion can always find anyone who has… crossed its threshold.” “And that includes you, Martin! […] I would happily take him. But I don’t think he’d want to leave you.”); on the other hand, Annabelle had explicitly told Martin that they would meet again very soon (MAG181: “Don’t worry, Martin. We’ll meet again. Hopefully when you’re feeling a little bit more… open-minded…!”), and now that Martin has learned about his own complicity, about the fact that he counts amongst the Watchers, that the concept of “deserving” isn’t really relevant when the Fears were involved… isn’t he precisely more “open-minded”, in better disposition to hear whatever she might have to say…?

* Jon had warned Martin that he wouldn’t be able to see his victims:

(MAG183) MARTIN: Are there people, Jon? ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: Are there people in my domain? ARCHIVIST: Not many. […] It’s a small domain. A swirling mix of The Eye and The Lonely. Inhabited by a few lost souls whose fear is not of their isolation or their agonies, but that no-one… will ever know of them. That they shall suffer in silence, and be mourned by nobody. That’s why you can’t really see it. It’s why even if we do travel through it, you won’t be able to see… any of the people trapped there.

Is that still the case? Has Martin’s perspective changed enough for him to be able to see them, now, or will he spend most of the episode unable to see or to know them, all by himself for a while…? Will Martin be able to challenge The Eye in order to give a statement about the victims, like Jon has been doing this season? Will Jon give the victims’ statements?

* … Is anyone we know in Martin’s domain? His father? Naomi Herne (MAG013: “There was no presence to [the fog], though, it wasn’t as though another person was there, it was… It made me feel utterly forsaken.”)? Jess Tyrell (given how Martin received her story, but couldn’t help her, and focused on what it meant about Jon rather than how his victims would fare)? In season 4, Martin looked like the primary victim of his own fall into The Lonely; he was able to disappear in front of Georgie (MAG149), but after months of forcing himself to stay isolated. Since he’s been discovering that he wasn’t as neutral as he would have liked, that he was himself benefitting from this apocalypse as a rewarded servant of Beholding, I would find it interesting if at least someone in his domain were to be someone he had directly or indirectly wronged in the past…

* Jon reminded the Inspector that the place was born from his and the inmates’ fears. What about Martin’s domain: was it shaped through others? Is it a reflection of Martin’s own trauma, as someone who was trying to stay hidden, both due to his sick mother and due to his many professional lies?

* I’m really wondering if the victims will sense Martin in the domain, in a way. To them, will he look like a monster, a creature they have to hide from…?

MAG186’s title is [EXTENDED SOBBING SOUNDS]. It reminds me of things Martin had said in MAG156 and MAG159, so obligatory SOB. It’s… a very Martin title and we’re indeed in his domain, uh…

(But is it actually about the people in his domain? About what is appealing to Martin? About Martin’s own wishes?)

#long post/ #will tag later

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 2

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Things Ernesto can do: charm people. Things Ernesto cannot do: say mass in Latin. But hey seize your moment, who needs a plan when you go charisma, am I right.

***

Chicharrón had been Santa Cecilia’s gravedigger for as long as Héctor could remember.

He seemed to have hardly aged since the days when Héctor had been just a little boy running wild in the streets along with other orphans, but not because he’d aged well: it was more that he’d always looked old, and a decade or two made hardly any difference. He was perpetually in a bad mood, always scowling unless he was well in his cups, telling somebody how he’d lost his leg – and slamming his wooden leg on the closest table for emphasis – or playing his guitar.

It had been the guitar that had first lured Héctor to the old hut he lived in. Like most children, he’d been scared of him; getting close to him before darting off had been a common game to prove their courage. But one evening, when Héctor had been hanging in the cemetery to avoid an older kid who’d promised to rough him up - Héctor had really wished he had an older, bigger friend to help him out at times like that - there had been music.

Later on he wouldn’t quite remember the words, but the sound alone, and the melancholy in Cheech’s voice, had drawn him closer. Playing with his eyes shut, Chicharrón hadn’t noticed he was there at all until he’d stepped over a freshly-dug grave – for el señor Delgado to be buried in the next day, Cheech had explained later – and fallen in it with a cry. The music had stopped, and Héctor had climbed out to see Cheech glaring down at him, a stick in his hand.

“Well, look at that. It lives. And you don’t belong here if you’re alive, muchacho,” the gravedigger had scoffed, and lifted the stick. “Now get out of here, before I change that and bury you--”

“Can you do that again?” Héctor had blurted out, catching the man by surprise. He’d blinked down at him, clearly confused.

“What?”

“Play the guitar,” Héctor had said, brushing some dirt off his clothes, still looking up at Cheech in stunned fascination. “It was good.”

That had definitely caught old Chicharrón by surprise. “Are you pulling my leg now?” he’d asked, and Héctor’s eyes had shifted to the man’s wooden leg. Cheech had followed his gaze and, suddenly, laughed. Coming from him, it felt almost as alien as singing. “Hah! You know what I mean. Are you mocking me, kid? Because if you are--”

“I want to hear that song again!” Héctor had insisted, and grinned up at him, giving him the kind of endearing look that usually gained him a smile from passerby and, if lucky, even an apple or a tangerine. Cheech was definitely not going to give him either, but at least he didn’t smack the look off his face. “Por favor? I didn’t know you could sing.”

Cheech hadn’t been that easy to convince, but in the end he’d given up, and played a couple of songs for him before telling him to get lost. The same had happened when Héctor had returned the next day, and the next and the next.

A week later Héctor had asked him to teach him how to play, no longer content with just listening. Chicharrón had mumbled, huffed, grumbled and complained… and then he’d taught him all he knew about music. Well, almost: Héctor already could sing, kinda, because the sisters at the orphanage had him and some other kids singing in a chorus at church from time to time, and on special occasions. But it had been Cheech to teach him how to coax melodies out of a guitar’s strings and how to read a music sheet.

A few months later, he’d written his first song. It had been about the dead coming out of their graves for Día de los Muertos and then getting confused over which grave was whose, forcing the gravedigger to herd them back and forth across the cemetery and into the right grave before sunrise, beating them up with his wooden leg if they got too stubborn.

It would have horrified Padre Edmundo and the sisters at the orphanage, and it had made old Cheech laugh so hard he’d almost spat out a lung, or so he’d claimed. Héctor hadn’t been sure if spitting out a lung was actually possible, but getting even a chuckle out of the gravedigger was an accomplishment.

“Hah! Now this is what I call poetry. You’ve got a gift there, muchacho,” he’d said, and had ruffled Héctor’s already messy hair with a calloused hand. For all the gentle words the sister always had for him, for all the kindness Padre Edmundo had always shown him, somehow Héctor hadn’t been prepared for that… and Cheech clearly hadn’t been prepared to see the boy in front of him burst in tears.

“Oye, oye, what’s that? Are you loco? I don’t get you, kid,” he’d said, his voice gruff as ever, but he’d crouched down before the sniffling boy and given him an awkward pat on the shoulder. Héctor had wiped his eyes and wished he’d ruffle his hair again, but he hadn’t. “Stop wailing. You’re here to sing, no? Very well, let’s sing. See if you can give a grito as loud as your wailing...”

They had, and it had been fun, but Héctor had left feeling embarrassed of his outburst – so embarrassed that he hadn’t visited for a few days afterwards. And when he had, Cheech hadn’t mentioned the incident: he’d just handed him a guitar all of his own.

“I found it among my old junk. Was about to throw it out, but maybe you could put it to some use,” he’d muttered. It looked like it had been built out of the remains of a broken guitar and a few more scraps, and Héctor - while really struggling not to cry again - had pretended not to have noticed the cuts and splinters on Chicharrón’s hands… but he’d never forgotten, and he still had that guitar.

“You should throw away that piece of junk and get you a new one.”

Héctor held back a grin at Cheech’s grumble. “It serves me just fine,” he said, strumming the guitar. “Whoever made it knew what he was doing.”

“Hmph,” Cheech muttered, and suddenly seemed very focused on the old spade he was getting some rust out of. Next to him, his equally foul-tempered pet rooster - Juanita, he called it, and no amount of telling him the rooster was male had seemed to matter at all - was glancing around like a guard dog, head bobbing.

Only a few steps away, next to the shack Cheech lived in, there was a coop with several chickens and plenty of chicks in it, peeping incessantly. The old gravedigger kept a lot of chicks, claiming to be waiting for them to grow and fatten before eating them, but Héctor had yet to see him butcher a single one; he grew attached, the old grump, just like he’d grown attached to him.

Not that Chicharrón would admit as much if he had a gun pointed at his face.

“I didn’t get you then and I still don’t get you,” he was saying now, still not looking up from the spade, obviously unsatisfied with the results his effort to get rid of the rust were yielding. “Especially with this priesthood nonsense.”

“Heh! You mentioned only a dozen times, or a hundred. Aren’t you happy to see me on the straight and narrow path to the pearly gates if heaven?”

“Pah! Straight, narrow, twisty, a goddamn maze, whatever. Any path leads to nothing but that,” Cheech had muttered, tilting his head towards the graves. “And you’re not priest material. I’d like to have words with the nuns who put that idea in your head.”

Hector shrugged. “Well, to be fair I can’t think of much else I could do. No family, no properties, no nothing. They did keep me from dying on the steps of the church, fed and clothed me. This is how I can repay the favor, I guess. I rather like being alive, you know?”

“Not letting a baby die is basic decency, idiota, not some feat to celebrate or reward. I wouldn’t have let you starve or run around naked, either. That’s one low bar,” Cheech muttered, causing Héctor to laugh again.

“I think I’ll be fine. I like it here, and I like helping people out. Someone’s got to look after all those kids. Got to make sure they don’t get in too much trouble. Like me,” he added, and strummed his guitar again before looking around. “Any idea where Miguel is, by the way?”

“Not the foggiest, and you’re not the first to ask,” Chicharrón grumbled. “Those two troublemakers came looking for him, too. Almost hit one of them with the spade, and Juanita gave the other a good peck on the shin. What do they think they’re doing, slinking around like that? They’ll send me to an early grave and if so I’ll make them dig it first.”

“Those two-- You mean Óscar and Felipe?”

“Sí, sí. The brothers of that novice, Imelda. That’s another one I don’t get. God knows if her becoming a nun would be a waste,” he added, and thankfully seemed to entirely miss the way Héctor bit his lower lip. “Anyway, haven’t seen Miguel. A bit odd. He’s usually here to annoy the hell out of us both. Just like you when you were his age, that kid. Hope he won’t get roped into the church, too.”

That was a bit off, Héctor had to admit. Where was he off to? Had he gotten in trouble with the sisters and found himself grounded? Maybe it would be best if he went to check, just for his peace of mind… and possibly to put in a good word for his early release, if need be.

As it turned out, it wasn’t needed.

“Héctor! Cheech!” Miguel’s voice rang out through the cemetery, causing both to turn. The boy was running up to them and skidded to a halt a few feet away, panting a bit but grinning from ear to ear.

“What is it, chamaco? Did you find Sister Marilena’s secret stash of chocolate?” he asked, and Miguel laughed, shaking his head. His hair was sticking out in all direction, and suspiciously damp.

“No, still looking for that. But that’s not-- the new priest is here,” he said, and his grin widened. “And he’s the best priest.”

***

“So, that’s the new parish priest?”

“The one talking with the Cordero widow?”

“Do you see anyone else dressed like a priest?”

“He’s… young.”

“And handsome, unless the beard is deceiving.”

“Sister Sofía.”

“I’m saying it how it is, Imelda. I’m saying it how it is.”

“You should be calling me Sister Gabriela,” Imelda pointed out, but she already knew it was pointless. Hardly anyone but the Mother Superior and a few of their older Sisters ever bothered; Sofía kept saying that she’d only use it when - and if, she’d add with a wink - Imelda actually took the vows.

There were a few moments of silence as they watched the new priest - he was quite young, yes, in his mid-twenties at most, and Imelda imagined most would describe him as good looking - laugh at something the old Cordero widow was saying, showing pearly-white teeth that seemed all the more blinding in the middle of that black beard. That didn’t escape any of them, either.

“... He is very handsome.”

“Nice laugh, too.”

“Almost a waste, for that one to have taken the vows.”

“Et tu, Sister Antonia? I thought your interest lay in the fairer sex.”

“What? I just so happen to have working eyes.”

“So does the old widow.”

“Are we quite done? It wouldn’t look good, you know, if he spotted four nuns--”

“Three nuns and a novice. You’re still on time to change your--”

“Do not finish that sentence. It still wouldn’t look good if he turned and saw the four of us--”

“Ogling?”

“... I was about to say ‘staring at him while chattering like old crones’, but I suppose ‘ogling’ describes it best. Three nuns ogling at a priest as the novice tries to be the voice of reason.”

“Well, we do have eyes to admire the wonders of God’s creations,” Sister Sofía said lightly.

“Never seen you looking at a sunset like that,” Imelda muttered, but precisely none of them seemed to hear her. She was about to add something a bit more scathing, but she spotted a movement out of her eye… and she wasn’t the only one.

“Oh, there’s novice Héctor!”

“Talking about waste.”

“Padre Edmundo did women everywhere a disservice by leading him to priesthood. But it’s not too late yet, Imel--”

“I am not hearing any of this from the mouths of brides of Christ,” Imelda said, rolling her eyes, but her lips did quirk upwards for just a moment as the nuns chuckled. Still, she made a point to turn away without another look towards the new priest… or Héctor. “Since you’re all so busy, it seems someone should go back and tell Madre Gregoria that our parish finally has a new priest.”

“Oh, good idea. I’m certain she’ll be happy to meet him.”

“She’s old enough to be his-- oh, I’ve had it with you,” Imelda huffed, and left with quick steps, doing her best to ignore the resulting, barely muffled laughter.

***

Seeing the new priest standing on the steps of the church, where he’d seen Padre Edmundo greeting his parishioners for so many years, felt… not quite wrong, but not right either. For the lack of a better word, it felt jarring.

Padre Edmundo had been old, with a back that had begun bending under the weight of his years, very little white hair still stubbornly clinging to a leathery bald head, and a few missing teeth. This Padre Ernesto was much younger - maybe only a handful of years older than Héctor himself - with a full head of thick black hair, back straight as a rod, and all teeth still in place. They were showing just now, she he smiled at the old Cordero window and waved her off before she walked down the steps of the church, clearly looking to tell more people about the arrival.

It wasn’t hard to see why Miguel, who was right at his heels, had been so impressed with him… and yet Héctor had to keep chasing away the unfair thought that no matter how good he may turn out to be, he simply could not replace Padre Edmundo.

“He has a horse, too,” Miguel was saying. “His name is Dante and he’s so big! Barely fits in the old stable where we used to keep the donkey. Padre Ernesto let me ride with him, you should have seen Óscar and Felipe’s faces when they saw us!”

Héctor hadn’t seen their faces then, but he definitely could see the expressions of plenty of bystanders who were beginning to gather around the church, clearly eager to take a look at their new parish priest. It was easy to tell Héctor wasn’t the only one who had been expecting someone… different.

Still, maybe a priest so young would be good for their parish, and Héctor had a duty to help him for as long as he could. Then he would take his vows, and he would be sent… wherever the Church saw it fitting to send him, he supposed.

I still think you should be our new priest, Miguel had said a couple of days ago, and Héctor had laughed it off, but the truth was that he’d hoped he could be just that, someday; that once he took his vows, he may be allowed to serve at the parish of Santa Cecilia after Padre Edmundo grew too old or passed away. He loved his town, loved its people, and had no wish to leave - but Padre Edmundo had died, his novitiate had yet to end, and the town needed a someone to lead the parish. They couldn’t just wait for him to be ready.

As he walked up to the church’s step, barely listening to Miguel’s words and pretending not to have noticed Imelda walking away just as he approached, he told himself it was probably for the best. Maybe some time away without-- Imelda -- distractions would do him good. Maybe he’d even get to travel, and have a wealth of stories to tell when he returned. Miguel would be sorry to see him go-- maybe so would Imelda -- but he’d be happy to hear what he’d been up to when he got a chance to visit, or at least so Héctor hoped.

But he’d worry about that later. He was still a novice, and he had work to do there.

Héctor was only a few steps away from Padre Ernesto and had already opened his mouth to introduce himself when someone passed him by quickly, almost making him fall down the stairs when he shouldered him. Héctor regained his balance just on time, and Miguel gave an angry yell.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, pendejo!” he exclaimed. It would have normally gained him a threat of getting his mouth washed with soap, a scathing retort on how much worse nuns had gotten at teaching proper manners to street urchins, plus a comment on bad role models while glancing meaningfully at Héctor - but this time Gustavo didn’t seem to notice either of them: he was already in front of Padre Ernesto, talking and gesturing, nearly oozing slime.

“… Truly blessed to welcome you here,” he was saying. “After Padre Edmundo’s unfortunate passing, Santa Cecilia has gone too long without a proper priest,” he was saying, and Héctor had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Oh yes, he had noticed him there all right. Jabs like that were typical of Gustavo: the parish sexton had enjoyed poking fun at Héctor since they were both boys, and had only grown more ill­-spirited as years passed, to become worse than ever since Héctor had decided to take the vows. Héctor had learned to ignore him most of the time… but sometimes he wished he didn’t wear the cloth he did so that he could sock him in the jaw without consequences. Not that he would ever admit that aloud, especially in front of Miguel, who was still bristling.

“… A tiring journey, but uneventful, thankfully. I mean, thank God,” Padre Ernesto was saying. He had a pleasant, warm voice. He crossed himself, and Gustavo did the same.

“Thank God,” he echoed. “Is there anything you require, Padre?”

“I would be grateful if you could see to my horse. Some food and water for myself as well, if you please. Oh, and a razor,” he added with a laugh, reaching up to rub his beard-covered cheeks. “The sooner I can get this thorn bush off my face, the sooner I’ll feel like a human being again.”

“Of course, Padre, leave it to me. Out of curiosity, which order do you belo--” he began, only to trail off when Padre Ernesto abruptly glanced behind him and his gaze found Miguel. He smiled broadly.

“Ah, here’s my little guide!” he exclaimed, winking, and stepped past Gustavo. He reached to ruffle Miguel’s hair before looking at Héctor. “And you’re Hé-- Brother Héctor, I suppose? I heard a lot about you before we even made it to the church.”

Héctor smiled, glancing sideways at Miguel. “Good things, I hope.”

“For the most part,” Padre Ernesto chuckled, and Héctor decided that yes, he liked him already. He could see why Miguel did, too.

Behind Padre Ernesto, Gustavo was rolling his eyes. Miguel noticed and spoke, all sweetness and light. “Why don’t you go tend to the horse like Padre Ernesto said, Gustavo? Poor Dante must be so tired after the long journey.”

That earned him a glare to which he answered with a grin, but there was nothing he could retort right there and then, and in the end he did as asked, mumbling something Héctor didn’t quite grasp. Not that he cared to, with Padre Ernesto clapping a hand on his shoulder and speaking again - or trying to. By then a small crowd had formed outside the church, and people were beginning to approach in small groups, speaking all at once.

“Padre! Welcome to Santa Cecilia!”

“I need your blessing, Padre.”

“I need to confess, it’s been two months since my last confession!”

“Confess-- oh. Oh! Of course!” The slightly hesitant expression that had crossed Padre Ernesto’s face faded within moments, so quickly that Héctor wondered if he’d imagined it. He smiled, and gestured towards the church. “I’ll be happy to confess and absolve all of you, uh, later. I first need to rest, lest I pass out in the confessional booth, and that would do good to precisely no one, no?” he added, and his smile widened.

Héctor didn’t think he’d ever seen some of those old battle axes even smile before that moment, and yet there was a collective chuckle.

Well, look at that. And here I thought an outsider would have trouble winning them over.

A few more pleasantries were exchanged, and Padre Ernesto somehow managed to make even la Madre Superiora smile when she arrived, an old woman who was tough as leather and heavy-handed as they come with misbehaving children and adults alike. It was no accident that Miguel had vanished as soon as she’d come up the steps.

“We do look forward to hear Mass from you,” Madre Gregoria was saying. Padre Ernesto’s smile seemed to waver for only a moment, a hand clenching on the crucifix hanging from his neck, and Héctor supposed it may be nervousness; he looked young enough to have never served as a parish priest before. Then the moment passed, and the smile was back.

“I look forward to it as well,” he said. As they spoke a few more nuns - Sister Sofía, Antonia, Luciana and María Fernanda; no Imelda - approached to greet him. Knowing Sofía as well as he did - though not as well and others, really, which was to say not biblically - Héctor wasn’t surprised to see she was looking at the breadth of his shoulders rather than heeding his words. When her gaze wandered to him, Héctor raised an eyebrow.

En serio?

Sister Sofía’s lips quirked. Héctor tried not to roll his eyes and turned his attention back on Padre Ernesto, who was talking about his journey to Santa Cecilia and how good the Lord had been to keep him from harm, no hint of nervousness left in his voice despite being the center of all attention and curiosity, with such a responsibility to the town on his shoulders.

Héctor wished he could be half as confident.

***

“I’m fucked. I am fucked. I am so fucked.”

Flipping frantically through a Bible entirely in Latin, Ernesto allowed himself a few decidedly unpriestly curses that may or may not have called the integrity of Virgin Mary into question. Not sermon material, he knew at least that much, but he suspected knowing what not to say wasn’t a good enough basis to hold mass.

Nor were his vague memories of attending mass, which went back to… about a decade earlier, actually, for his Confirmation. Even up to then, he’d mostly snoozed through them; the only exceptions had been the times he’d sung in the choir, which meant he was too impatient to get singing to pay attention to anything said.

He rather wished he had now but, as his current predicament showed, foresight was not among the many gifts of Ernesto de la Cruz, only son of a miner and a seamstress from slightly left of the middle of nowhere, Mexico. He hadn’t even realized he would be expected to say mass, in Latin, until he’d found himself trying to recall exactly what a priest is supposed to say to give absolution after a confession.

Well, this is it, he thought. He’d originally planned – bit of a strong word, that – to keep the act up for maybe a couple of weeks, as long as it took for the army to hopefully move up north, and then leave again… possibly at night and possibly with some food as well as money for his trouble, courtesy of the parish’s box of offerings. After all it was money meant for the poor and, at the moment, Ernesto owned little other than the clothes on his back, a pistol, a handful of bullets, and his horse. If that didn’t count as poor, he couldn’t imagine what would.

Now it looked like the ‘take the money and run’ part of the plan would need to be enacted much sooner than that. The thought of telling the truth crossed his mind, but he dismissed it quicky; the vast majority of people, probably including those of Santa Cecilia, hated the Huerta government, and he’d been fighting and killing for it until just the previous week. Perhaps they’d welcome him for deserting the Federal army - he’d been drafted against his will, like so many others, maybe they’d understand - or perhaps they’d hang him for having ever been one of them. He wasn’t going to risk it.

He’d keep up the charade and stay a couple of days, Ernesto decided, enough for him and Dante to eat and rest. His horse was hungry and exhausted and so was he; he was desperate to sleep in a proper bed, and have a decent meal - or two or three - after eating hardly anything but strips of salt beef for three days and then nothing for the past two, aside from one stupid bird he’d managed to shoot down.

He could avoid saying mass until then, Ernesto thought, tossing the Bible on the bed. He’d pretend to be sick, maybe fake a splitting headache; after traveling all the way there under that sun, no one would be surprised.

Sun’s packing a good punch today, eh, Nesto?, Alberto had muttered only a few days earlier, riding slightly ahead of him as they scouted well ahead of their unit as instructed, to ensure no revolutionaries were in wait among the rocky outcrops. They found no one; no revolutionaries, no soldiers… no witnesses.

Beats harder than my old man, Ernesto had agreed, his face blank as he pulled out his pistol and took aim.

One shot at the back of the head had cut off the other man’s laugh, and granted him a way out of the army. It had been nothing personal: he’d even liked Alberto, who had joined the army the same day Ernesto had been drafted and often asked him to sing to pass time. But he’d been a supporter of the government, would have never agreed to run off or keep silent if he did and, in that moment, he’d been the one thing  between him and freedom – so he had to go. Ernesto had been handed a way out, and seized his moment when he had to. He’d keep doing so until he was safe from that stupid war, and the damn army.

They don’t get to complain. They put a gun in hand, taught me to use it, made me use it, made me a murderer. I’m trying to survive. Nothing more.

Reassured that he still had the situation firmly under control, Ernesto went to the basin of water on the small table at the far end of the room, where Gustavo had left a towel, soap and a razor as requested. He threw some water on his face, and looked up into the small mirror to see his reflection for the first time in days.

Maybe it was the thick beard or the dark shadows under his eyes, or the tired look now that he had no jovial act to keep up, but he found himself thinking he looked at least a decade older than he was. But it was all right: the beard would go now, to make him less recognizable in case soldiers just happened to come to Santa Cecilia, and a good night of sleep and a meal - whatever priests were allowed to eat during la Cuaresma would seem like a king’s dinner compared to what he’d been living on - would take care of the rest.

Humming to himself, Ernesto lathered his face with soap and began to shave, careful to leave a mustache so that his face wouldn’t look too naked. By the time he was done and smiled at his reflection in the mirror, he felt a lot better. He could charm those idiots for a couple of days, and that was all he needed. After all, Miguel had described Santa Cecilia as an utter bore of a town.

What could possibly change in two days?

***

“Oye, Imelda. May I come in?”

“... You already let yourself in, so I guess.”

“Thanks. Chocolate?”

“We are supposed to be fasting and giving up on luxuries throughout la Cuaresma.”

“We are also supposed to be committed to lifelong chastity.”

“I am.”

“That’s why I brought you chocolate,” Sister Sofía said lightly, placing the dish with bits of dark chocolate on Imelda’s desk. She rolled her eyes, but then her stomach grumbled and she reached to take one. They weren’t fasting in the sense they ate nothing, of course, but their portions were smaller and, well, she was hungry.

“Isn’t Sister Antonia available to entertain you tonight?”

“Guess what she gave up.”

“Unfortunate.”

“I’ll find something to distract myself. I’ve been picked to help out at the parish, since Gustavo won’t bother to touch the laundry, dust or make meals,” she added, looking entirely too pleased with herself, and popped some chocolate in her mouth. Imelda sighed.

“And I suppose this isn’t due to a newfound passion for laundry, cooking and cleaning.”

“It’s due to curiosity, mostly. We already do all that at the orphanage, anyway.”

“I have serious concerns as to what you’re curious about,” Imelda said drily. “And what made Mother Gregoria pick you of all people? She’s not so stupid she cannot guess--”

“She reaaally wants that donation my papá promised.”

“... Of course,” Imelda muttered. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Sofía’s family’s wasn’t precisely rich, but they owned land and were significantly more well-off than most others. “They came to visit you last week, didn’t they?”

“With a list if potential husbands, and someone ready to write to the Vatican to free me from the loving clutches of the Catholic Church.”

“And none interested you?” she asked, but she already knew the answer. Her own family had been questioning her choice, arguing that it wasn’t a matter of religious calling but rather her ‘womanly stubborness’ to be picky over her marriage perspectives.

Which was, truth be told, absolutely correct, but Imelda would eat a live scorpion before admitting as much. There was absolutely no one-- no one available -- in Santa Cecila whom she could imagine herself married to.

She could have simply stayed unmarried, but the prodding would have never ended; her brothers seemed to be the only ones who didn’t care whether she married or not. Eventually, she’d figured taking the veil would shut them up. It hadn’t quite silenced them yet, but that should change once the novitiate was over and she took her vows.

And then, perhaps - once the Revolution was over - she could sign up to go on missions, to travel, to see places. She would like that. It had been one of the perspectives that had convinced her to take the veil, along with that of a better education. She would have loved to stay at home, in Santa Cecilia… but not at their terms.

“I have standards, Imelda,” Sofía was saying, unaware of her thoughts. “Admittedly low ones, but I have them. Let alone if it’s about something I’d need to endure for more than a night, or however long it takes me to get my hands on arsenic.”

That caused Imelda’s lips to quirk. “Thou shall not kill.”

“A nice suggestion. Are the rifles and bullets in the basement meant to water flower beds?”

Imelda’s smirk faded within a moment. “Not so loud,” she hissed, giving a quick glance towards the closed door of her cell. She turned back to Sofía with a scowl. “I told you, it’s only for a week. They will send for someone to take them soon.”

“I sure hope one of those bullets finds its way into Huerta’s heart, for all the trouble they are,” Sofía muttered, but she did lower her voice. “I’m amazed you haven’t joined the fight, really.”

“I’ll be of better use to the Revolution here,” Imelda replied, and it was true. She could hide weapons, pass on messages, occasionally find a hiding place for someone, and smuggle them in the infirmary if wounded. “They need as many friends in the clergy as possible. Padre Edmundo turned in a blind eye--”

“No, he just really didn’t realize a thing. Trust me.”

“... But we don’t know where this Padre Ernesto stands,” she added, and a sudden thought hit her. She turned to Sister Sofía to see she was grinning. “Oh. So this is what you’re looking to find out by serving at the parish.”

Her grin widened. “Among other things, yes. I’ll report my findings. All of them.”

“Stick to the ones relevant for the cause, if you don’t mind,” Imelda muttered, causing Sofía to chortle before she gave her an oddly serious look.

“Perhaps it is time we involve brother Héctor. He may not be the parish priest, but--”

No, Imelda thought. No. Too dangerous. “Sofía,” she said slowly. “Look at me in the eye and tell me you really think he could keep a secret without it showing on his face clear as day.”

“Oh, I think he’s a better actor than you give him credit for. It’s only his helpless love for you that he cannot hide,” Sofía added, the grin back, and Imelda regretted even replying to her.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she muttered pointedly, and focused on the book in her hands. Not religious reading, but the Lord could forgive her, or mind His own business for once. “I’d like to be left along with my thoughts,” she added, and to her relief Sofía did not insist.

“All right. I’ll leave some chocolate for you here,” was all she said before taking the dish and walking out, leaving Imelda alone with a novel she now couldn’t possibly hope to focus on.

***

“Madre de Dios, Padre, are you really that desperate to meet the Lord early? You need rest. I will let you have a room for another night.”

“If He wills it, I shall gladly meet Him. I must be on my way.”

“It’s a long road to Santa Cecilia. What are you seeking so urgently?”

“Salvation, if I may have the presumption to ask for it. Is this enough for the churro?”

“Qué?”

“The… the burro, I apologize. My Spanish is not… is it enough for the donkey?”

“Sí. You, uh. You may want to take my hat, Padre. The sun beats hard these days, and you’re very... well…” Pablo paused, not quite sure of what he should say. Very white, he’d been about to say, but that wouldn’t be quite correct at the moment, given that the gringo’s face was decidedly reddened by the sun already. “... Sunburnt,” he finally said.

Father John Johnson - what an exotic name, Pablo had thought when he’d introduced himself - turned away from the satchel he’d been trying to the donkey’s saddle, and smiled.

He was already sweating, ridiculously light blond hair plastered to his forehead. He looked young, with a scraggly blond beard along his jaw, but there was something in the thin line of his mouth and the somber expression in the watery blue eyes - a bit unnerving, those - that made him seem strangely old, too.

Then he smiled, and he suddenly didn’t look a day past thirty.

“That would be very kind of you, Paul,” he said. “You truly are a good Samaritan.”

“Pablo. That’s my christian name,” Pablo pointed out, unable to keep some annoyance out of his voice; he had done that before, and kept referring to his son Eduardo as Edward. But he’d caused no trouble and blessed his home as well as paying for his stay without trying to haggle for a lower price, and it was more that could be said of some people. He took off his hat to hand it to that crazy, crazy gringo.

He had to be crazy to be there at all. Mexico wasn’t a good place to be those days, with Huerta’s iron fist on them all and revolutionaries fighting it with all they had, and it could be especially dangerous for an American, depending on who he met on his way. There was no love lost between Huerta and that country, who refused to recognize his regime as legitimate… and as a whole, truth be told, not many people liked gringos for a host of excellent reasons, the theft of their land up north still too fresh in their memories.

Had it not been a priest, and had he not been a God-fearing man, Pablo wouldn’t have let him in his inn - much less give him directions to Santa Cecilia and sell him a donkey, no matter how much money he offered.

“I wish you a safe journey, then,” Pablo said as the priest climbed up on the donkey, a bit clumsily. Not that Pablo had expected him to hop on effortlessly: he was a bit on the pudgy side. The previous night, his wife had quipped that his face looked like a ball of raw dough.

“Thank you,” Father John said, reaching into a satchel as though to check for something. He pulled out a worn-out copy of the Bible, and opened it briefly; Pablo got a glimpse of a piece of paper tucked between the pages, as worn as the Bible itself, like it had been handled and read many times over. The man’s features twisted as if in pain for a moment before he closed the Bible and put it back in the satchel. He nodded at him.

“God bless you, Paul.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. With a sigh and no small amount of effort, Pablo decided to ignore it. “May I ask what you plan on doing in Santa Cecilia, Padre?”

The smile faded a little, and John looked suddenly older again. “The Lord’s work, if He finds me deserving,” he said gravely, and got the donkey moving. “The Lord’s work.”

***

A/N: a note about the OCs: I fully take the blame for Sofía, but it should be known that John is pretty much a collective creation of the Coco Locos server. I only take about 25% of the blame for his pompous ass.

***

[Back to Part 1]

#pixar coco #hector rivera #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #miguel rivera #coco #fake priest au