#knowing full well in whose hands lies the control of power and history

[bloobluebloo]

Ganondorf may be evil, TO YOU. To me, he is the symbol of resistance. Who is truly a hero, one who has every tool and favor of the empire behind his back, or the one who dares to resist the empire no matter how dire his position is? The one who has been fortold in legends and already beloved before he is even born, or the one who will not care for how history will smear his name and erase his humanity as he fights tooth and nail for his freedom? The one who throws himself into battle knowing that he has every tool and every person that will come to his aid, or the one who knows that he stands alone in the face of overwhelming power, who knows his body and his self are the price of failure and will still refuse to die on his knees?

#everyone wants to rag on my wife for being barbaric and someone who preys on the weak #not even considering he is in the position of weakness #and yet even in the face of overwhelming odds #knowing full well in whose hands lies the control of power and history #he will fight back #of course propaganda hates him how dare a weakling meant to bow fight back and damage them #how dare he demonstrate that our empire is not infalliable #*gives him all the kissies* #they will never understand you the way I understand you #hero of my heart and most importantly MY WIFE #ganonthots

[calisources]

𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐃   𝐎𝐅   𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃𝐒   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐒𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒   𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒.   all   sentences   have   been   taken   from   the   hunger   games:   the   ballad   of   songbirds   and   snakes   book   and   some   from   the   movie   trailers.   might   include   spoilers   for   the   movie   and   book.   change   pronouns   and   locations   and   names   as   you   see   fit.

“Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping.”

“Being from the Capitol doesn’t give you that right. Nothing does.”

“Well, as they said, it's not over until the mockingjay sings.”

“People aren’t so bad, really, It’s what the world does to them.”

“That is the thing with giving your heart. You never wait for someone to ask. You hold it out and hope they want it.”

“Snow lands on top.”

“I think there’s a natural goodness built into human beings. You know when you’ve stepped across the line into evil, and it’s your life’s challenge to try and stay on the right side of that line.”

“Before need, before love, came trust.”

“And try not to look down on people who had to choose between death and disgrace.”

“What are lies but attempts to conceal some sort of weakness?”

“The strain of being a full-fledged adult every day had grown tiresome.”

“You can blame it on the circumstances, the environment, but you made the choices you made, no one else.”

“Wars are won by heads not hearts.”

“There is a point to everything or nothing at all, depending on your worldview.”

“You're mine and I'm yours. It's written in the stars.”

“But better off sad than dead.”

“What young brains lack in experience they sometimes make up for in idealism. Nothing seems impossible to them.”

“I think it’s more important than love. I mean, I love all kinds of things I don’t trust.”

“I’m planning to build a whole new beautiful life here. One where, in my own small way, I can make the world a better place.”

“If the war’s impossible to end, then we have to control it indefinitely. Just as we do now.”

“What was there to aspire to once wealth, fame, and power had been eliminated? Was the goal of survival further survival and nothing more?”

“They were both after all, still children whose lives were dictated by powers above them.”

“Star-crossed lovers meeting their fate.”

“I’m bad news, all right.”

“The ability to control things. Yes, that was what he’d loved best of all.”

“What happened in the arena? That’s humanity undressed. The tributes. And you, too.”

How quickly civilization disappears. All your fine manners, education, family background, everything you pride yourself on, stripped away in the blink of an eye, revealing everything you actually are.”

“A boy with a club who beats another boy to death. That’s mankind in its natural state”

“Please, Coriolanus, I would never forget the favor.”

“Who are human beings? Because who we are determines the type of governing we need.”

“What sort of agreement is necessary if we’re to live in peace? What sort of social contract is required for survival?”

“It’s just the kind of story that catches fire.”

“And last but least, District Twelve girl . . . she belongs to Coriolanus Snow.”

“Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains.”

“If history teaches you anything, it’s how to make the unwilling comply.”

“You know what I won’t miss? People. Except for a handful. They’re mostly awful, if you think about it.”

“And to erase me, they must erase the Games.”

“Why did these people think that all they needed to start a rebellion was anger?”

“And if even the most innocent among us turn into killers in the Hunger Games, what does that say? That our essential nature is violent.”

“It's the things we love most, that destroy us.”

“We all did things we’re not proud of.”

“What are the Hunger Games for?”

"If you want to protect people, then it's essential to accept what human beings are and what it takes to control them."

“Hope is the only thing stronger than fear."

“If the cause wasn’t honorable, how could it be an honor to participate in it?”

“He’s a Capitol boy and clearly I got the cake with the cream, ’cause nobody else’s mentor even bothered to show up to welcome them.”

“To dine with her suggests that you consider her your equal. But she isn’t.”

“The endless dance with hunger had defined his life.”

"In nature, things that are prey, that are weak, are marked"

"The world is not kind to those who don't fit in"

"We all wear masquerades in this Capitol"

, "There's a price for everything, Lucy. Sometimes you pay it willingly, sometimes it's taken from you,"

"Freedom is not given, it is taken"

“I’m not convinced that we are all as inherently violent as you say, but it takes very little to bring the beast to the surface, at least under the cover of darkness.”

#rp meme #sentences memes #rp resources #meme call #roleplay memes #sentence meme #( cali meme. ) #rp memes #rp prompt #rp musings #roleplay prompt

[justfandomwritings]

By The Norns (Part One - Soulmate!Loki)

Pairing: Loki x Reader, Soulmates AU

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: Nobody was harmed in any way in the making of this story... but there was some arson.

Summary: She wasn’t a goddess. She wasn’t even an elf or a dwarf. She was a mortal, a Midgardian, a human. To Odin, she was a curse. To Loki, she was a second chance.

Notes: Don’t worry. Despite what the chapter and the description may make you think anyone whose read my stories before will know I am not a fan of soulmate aus that take away the character’s choice. This chapter is set up. Stick with me on this. I promise. Posted in honor of @muna1412​ being very excited at the prospect of another soulmate au.

This is not related to Loyalty in any way... I just have an unhealthy obsession with Soulmate aus. 

Fate was a funny, fickle thing. Loki knew that much. After all, he’d met her. 

Them, to be more precise. The Norns.

Urdr, Skuld, and Verdandi were their names: Past, Present, and Future, as they should be known.

It was they who watered the tree, and they who grew its leaves. The task fell to the Norns to write, shape, create, and control the fate of every being under the branches of Yggdrasil. 

A poor, dwarven craftsman working on the surface of Nidavellir, a beautiful, golden elf living on a hill in Alfheim, a meager, puny human scurrying around the surface of Midgard. It was they who made the dwarf rich, who killed the elf in his sleep, who let the human sow the land. They did not exchange the gold; they did not wield the dagger; they did not draw the plow. But it was by their hand, by their grace and mercy, that the worlds turned, that life waxed and waned, that the Realms drew breath. 

Every birth was through their will. Every death was by their hand, and everything in between was because they decided it would be so.

All fell under the gaze of the Norns. The kitchen cook, Andhrimnir, who served the Aesir’s table at night, owed everything to the Norns. They allowed his birth into Asgard. They raised him above the station of a lowly tavern boy. They gifted him the family he cradled so dearly to his chest.

Odin, King of the Nine Realms, Protector of Asgard, owed everything to the Norns. He was born by their choice. He survived a thousand battles because they said he would do so. He married Frigga because they put her on his path. His sons… 

Well, one of his sons.

Loki knew the exact moment Odin stopped looking at him as a son, the exact moment Odin chose Thor over him, the exact moment Odin turned his back on him, the exact moment his father marked him disappointment.

It was, like all things, the doing of the Fates. The Norns.

Fates were theirs to command from the highest branches of Yggdrasil down to its very roots. From king to beggar, slave to master, aristocrat to pauper, farmer to merchant, sailor to soldier. From Loki to her. She was their doing.

Love was an inevitable part of life. Not even the Norns, with all of the power of the gods and then some, could stop that. Humans, Aesir, Elves, Vanir, the sentient beings of the Nine Realms felt an overwhelming urge towards emotion, and one of the strongest, one of the most inevitable, was love.

They couldn’t stop it, but they could direct it.

It fell under the purview of Fate to decide who one loved. People, god and mortal alike, fell in and out of love all the time. 

Sometimes, though, every now and then, the Norns would reach down and touch two beings. The Norns would take two souls in two bodies and braid them together, weave them together, mold them together, as if they were one.

Those who knew magic well, those like Loki, could see them, watch them, doing this. 

They could see Urdr floating, invisible amongst them, deciding the pair. They could see Skuld, plucking up their souls. They could see Verdandi tying them together.

Loki watched them when they took his soul.

“Mother, Mother,” Loki tugged on his other’s silk skirts and pointed up into the rafters of the Grand Hall. “What’s that?”

Frigga followed her son’s gaze and gasped. Magic was not her proficiency, though what little she had she wielded well. She had enough to see the Norns, floating ghostlike in the air over her younger son. She had enough to see his soul in their hands, and another at their side. 

In the old days, before that fateful night, it was considered an honor to be chosen by the Norns. It was a guarantee of a great, powerful destiny in the future. It was a promise of passion, understanding, and respect on the horizon. It was the mark of one who would know true love. 

The Midgardians called them soulmates. The Aesir called them the destined. 

“The Norns have touched Loki,” Frigga whispered to Odin at her side. “They are gifting him a match.”

“With who?” Odin asked because he could not see them for himself.

Frigga squinted in the direction of the apparitions tying together Loki’s future. “I cannot tell. She appears to be…” Frigga’s eyes whipped around to Odin, “Midgardian.”

Odin turned up his nose and sniffed.

Midgard. The word, the world, that had sentenced Loki to a lifetime of second best. 

His ‘destined’, his ‘soulmate’, his curse.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was centuries before the soul tied to Loki’s found the body it would spend its own life in.

(Y/n), her parents named her. 

They weren’t sure why they named her that. When asked, they said they saw the name once in a book. Or was it on the tv? Or in a dream? 

Neither could really remember. All they knew was that, as she grew, the name suited her perfectly. Almost as if fate itself had chosen it for her.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For centuries, millennia even, her soul had been lingering on the edges of reality, existing but not quite feeling. She floated through time and space, following the ties that bound her to existence, waiting.

By the time her soul entered her body on Earth, she had existed longer  than any other Midgardian ever had or would in all of history. She had lingered for years just out of reach of one of the most powerful beings on Asgard, her soulmate. Lifetimes had passed her by in the blink of an eye, and though she didn’t remember any of them, they remembered her.

Her soul hovered above its mate, basking in the magic that dissipated into the air around him like smoke. She breathed it in, soaked it in, drew it in.

In many ways, even subconsciously, she showed her age, her mate.

Even as a baby, she never woke her mother up screaming, to the jealousy of her mom’s friends. She was the model toddler, even through her terrible twos. She almost never cried and rarely threw temper tantrums. They called her a prodigy when she started speaking in full sentences before time doctors even expected her to be learning her first words, and they called her a genius when she learned to read full children’s books while other kids were still struggling through their first alphabet flashcards. Even though she ran around playing in the mud or splashing in puddles, somehow her clothes were always pristine. She taught herself faster than the teachers could and skipped two grades in elementary school alone. She was suspiciously charismatic for such a little girl and made, literally, hundreds of dollars off her lemonade stand. She listened to a family speaking another language in the store once and ran up to them to answer a question they had; when her parents asked her how she’d learned to understand or say that in another language, she had no idea what they were talking about and seemingly hadn’t even realized she’d done it. 

And yet there were other things, darker things. 

When she was born, the nurses didn’t question the little shock of static that jolted through them as they held her. No one commented how, in the right light, the baby’s eyes could look terrifyingly aware. She lied as easily as she breathed and almost never got caught. A girl made fun of her friend's hair once at school, and that night ended up being rushed to the hospital by her parents with all the signs of a heart attack in a five year old child. She liked having things her way, and even when her parents refused her, they always found themselves oddly compelled to do whatever it was anyways. She had an affinity for snakes that often found her letting them in the house. The pranks she pulled on her little brother sometimes got out of hand and often resulted in loud crashes and screams, though by the time any adult arrived nothing ever seemed broken. Her father used to joke that she must be some kind of shape shifter because he swore that, from day to day, her eye would change their color. Sometimes, when he looked in them, he swore they weren’t his daughters, but when he blinked and looked back they always returned to normal. 

Most of it was written off as the simple oddities of a child or exaggerations of first time parents. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Superheroes did not exist when (Y/n) was a child. 

It would be another decade before Tony Stark would stand on a stage and proclaim before the world, “I am Iron Man.” It would be even longer still before Peter Parker would put on a red and blue jumpsuit and call himself, ‘Spiderman’. Bruce Banner hadn’t even begun his research into the serum that would be his ultimate undoing. Dr. Stephen Strange was finishing up med school. Thor hadn’t made his presence known. Wanda had just been born. Hawkeye and Black Widow were still assassins working in the shadows. No one outside Wakanda had ever heard of the Black Panther. Vision hadn’t been built yet, and Captain America had been dead for decades. 

Even if they did exist, it wouldn’t have helped (Y/n). Most of them weren’t born super. Most of them became so by lab experiments or radioactive insects or training or technology. 

In the world (Y/n) grew up in, there were no superheroes. And if there were no superheroes... then what was she? 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She was 12. 

It was her big day. 

Not her birthday, she didn’t particularly care about birthdays. Something about them just felt off to her. When she turned 11, she asked her mom if she could have two of those candles that were shaped like the actual numbers, and she’d put them pressed against each other on top of the cake. She ran around all day telling everyone she was 1,111. Some people laughed, but mostly to humor her.

That was why she hadn’t had a birthday party when she turned 12. She didn’t like people fake laughing. It felt like lying. She didn’t particularly mind lying herself, but she hated thinking that people were lying to her. Especially because she could always tell when they were. 

No, instead, she had this. The Science Fair.

She’d won first prize the night before. She knew she had because one of the judges had told her she’d won.

That morning, they would be handing out the awards, and she was so excited for everyone else to know the secret, to know that she was the best, even better than the older kids in her class.

The judges were walking up on stage, and any moment, once they got past the category winners they were going to call her name.

“In third place we have Jesse Martin with his project in the biology category!” 

A cheer went up that, judging by the pitch, absolutely must have been from Jesse’s mom. The other parents in the room clapped while Jesse ran towards the stage, turning red in the cheeks from his family’s overzealous encouragement. 

“Congratulations, son,” the Dean smiled as he bent down to shake the boy’s hand. The mike picked up a small bit of Jesse’s anxious thanks before he ran to join the line of winners.

“And in second place we have, (Y/n)! With her wonderful….” 

Second place. 

But Mr. Sellers, the science teacher had told her she won. 

Was he lying? Did he honestly think second place was winning? Was he just saying that to shut her up? Or was he being mean? Did he want to laugh at her when his real favorite won? 

The parents were cheering her, including her own. Her father was nudging her towards the stage, but she didn’t at all appreciate the gesture.

No. They told her she was going to win. 

Her face screwed up in pain, and she balled her hands into fists.

At the back of the room something exploded. 

A scream went out. 

“Fire!” Someone shouted. “Fire!”

The poster boards up and down the hall were catching fire. It jumped easily from paper to paper. It didn’t help that there was no smoke, for some odd reason. That the sprinklers, that the fire alarm, didn’t turn on.

Someone grabbed (Y/n) by the waist. Her father no doubt. 

(Y/n) barely noticed. She was still upset staring at the trophy on the stage over his shoulder. 

Slowly, before her eyes, it began to melt.

She smiled. Good. If she couldn’t have it, no one could.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

“She caused the fire.” He whispered, staring down at the floor in front of him with glassy eyes. 

“Wayne, that’s crazy; you know it is.” 

“I saw it with my own eyes, Elle. She clenched her first and suddenly Christina Danvers poster exploded. She gets second, and the first place project explodes the moment she throws a fit?”

“Our daughter doesn’t throw fits.”

“Not normally, but she did today. She was about to, and then everything caught fire.”

“Wayne, you can’t be serious about this right now.”

“She was smiling.” He whispered. “When everything burned down, she was smiling.”

(Y/n) listened silently from the hallway as her parents talked.

She loved to eavesdrop on her parents late night. They never knew she was there. It was another one of those odd coincidences of her life that (Y/n) was the only person in the house who never made the steps creak when she walked up and down the stairs. 

She was old enough to know what they were saying, what they were implying. It should’ve bothered her more than it did.

(Y/n) walked back upstairs, silent as the grave, and opened her closet.

She needed the duffle bag her father kept tucked away in the top of her closet, but she was nowhere near tall enough to reach it. As the door slid open, the bag teetered on the edge of the wire shelf and fell to the floor. 

“How convenient,” (Y/n) mumbled to herself. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hey Kid,” The man shouted at her out the window of his semi-truck. “What’re you doin’ out here at night? It ain’t safe!” 

(Y/n) shrugged. “Not safe at home either.” 

The man gave her an understanding look. 

(Y/n) watched him carefully as he opened the door of his rig and offered her a hand. 

Her mother had always told her not to talk to strangers, but (Y/n) had found she could always tell what people wanted. Besides, she was pretty sure she was a greater danger to them than they were to her. 

“Where ya’ headed?” The man asked.

“West.”

“I can take ya’ as far as Texas.” He offered. 

(Y/n) hopped off the curb and grabbed the man’s offered hand, hauling herself up into the passenger seat. 

She didn’t know where she was going or why she was going there. But something inside of her told her she had somewhere to be.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next Time On.... Part Two

Thank you very much for reading! I hope you all enjoyed. I have just come back from a hiatus and a great deal of why I went on said hiatus was the stress of managing ‘added features’ for lack of a better expression. I like writing. I don’t like formatting or managing the blog side of things. 

As such, no taglists. Please don’t ask me to be on a taglist. Keeping track of it stresses me out too much. I don’t feel like doing it. I don’t appreciate being pressured into doing it. In the olden days of tumblr, people used to follow each other, and I promise you that feature still works. If you follow me you will see part two when it’s posted. 

#loki x reader #loki odinson x reader #Loki Laufeyson x Reader #loki soulmate au #loki soulmate #soulmate loki #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki x reader soulmate #marvel imagines #loki imagines #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel one shot #loki one shot #loki oneshot #mcu fanfiction #avengers fanfiction

[twh-news]

How Loki's big finale reveal failed Marvel fans | Digital Spy

Loki finale spoilers follow.

Marvel used to have a major villain problem. Throughout Phases One and Two, Earth's Mightiest Heroes fought cookie-cutter bad guys who just wanted to get rich or take over the world. Loki and Bucky were the only exceptions to this because of their personal connections to Thor and Cap.

Phase Three began to build on this idea with fan favourites like Ragnarok's Hela and Black Panther’s Erik Killmonger. Both of them committed terrible acts, sure, but their plights were also understandable to some degree, and even relatable.

With the advent of Marvel TV on Disney+, Phase Four has developed this approach even further by putting anti-heroes front and centre in each of their own shows. Even Wanda, a full-fledged Avenger, is forced to reckon with her own morality in light of what she did to Westview. And that's been integral to the success of these shows, which each unpack what it means to be a hero in ways that no other Marvel project has ever attempted on screen.

But by centring the so-called "antagonists" like this, a different kind of villain problem has risen, like a seemingly dead baddie who thrusts one hand up from the grave just as the credits start to roll.

Since Loki's very first episode, there's been endless speculation on who the Big Bad might be. The mysterious Loki variant who showed up to kill TVA soldiers was perhaps the most likely candidate at first, but things took a surprising twist with that Lady Loki reveal (although given that betrayal at the end, Sylvie certainly did make a good case for her being the show's true Big Bad).

And then of course, other villainous candidates soon raised their heads. Everyone from Ravonna and the Time Keeepers to Alioth and President Loki all played a "bad" role to some degree. Loki's willingness to tackle the greyer areas of morality has been a strength of this show. But throughout the first five episodes, there was always this idea that someone else, someone "bigger" was waiting in the wings, controlling the TVA from a distance.

The penultimate episode leaned heavily into this idea with a final shot that practically begged fans to speculate about who could be hiding away in that castle beyond time. And then the finale arrived with the big reveal of He Who Remains, "a ruler" and "a conqueror" who also refers to himself as a "jerk" of sorts.

If you're not a fan of weighty exposition, you might consider him to be a jerk as well. Jonathan Majors does everything he can to sell these scenes, but when you break it all down, the vast majority of this final episode was dedicated to explaining an entirely new character whose arrival made little or no sense to casual fans watching back home.

On the flip side of that, He Who Remains was always the number one suspect for comic book readers who know their history. Kang, as this character is called in the source material, has been hinted at throughout the series, and Marvel even announced Jonathan's casting in the role months before Loki even started.

For some, Kang was the obvious choice for this reveal, which makes it a bit less exciting because it's so predictable. And then for others, it was the complete opposite problem. If you don't read the source material, then Kang's arrival came completely out of nowhere because his character wasn't even mentioned prior to the finale. Without comic book knowledge of Kang's identity, this just doesn't work as a satisfying end.

And even if you do know exactly who Majors is playing, what is there to actually gain from a random character showing up like this last minute? Loki has no emotional attachment to Kang beyond his manipulation of the TVA, and as a result of this, there's no closure. Thematically, another Loki variant would have made for a far more satisfying villain, one who forces "our" Loki to confront himself and his notions of what it means to be good.

Logistically, Kang's debut here isn't ideal either given that it required hefty amounts of exposition which slowed the finale to a crawl. While it was refreshing to see Loki avoid the usual CGI spectacle that often plagues the end of these stories, Marvel's incessant need to focus on set-up dragged things down in a different way here, forcing Kang in at the expense of the story that's currently being told.

It's thrilling to think about how this new multiverse will impact the MCU moving forward. The possibilities are literally endless, and we tried our best to outline some of the biggest ramifications to this big reveal right here. But what about the here and now? What about Loki's arc in this season and what about the viewers who couldn't care less about the wider MCU?

The ways in which this franchise connects everything together (much like the comics it's based on) is easily one of Marvel's biggest strengths, to the point where rival studios have desperately tried to replicate this format. But when vital plot points are introduced purely as a nod and a wink to fans who constantly look forward to what lies ahead, then this connectivity also becomes one of the studio's biggest weaknesses.

For decades, comic book giants like Marvel and DC have rebooted themselves and wiped the slate clean over and over again because they eventually become too inaccessible, weighed down by the sheer volume of backstory that newbies are forced to wade through. Marvel Studios has managed to circumvent this problem for the most part due to its widespread popularity, but sooner or later, people who don't have time to watch every single movie and show will start to resent stories like this that don't end to at least some degree.

Clearly, what was once a villain problem has become symptomatic of a much larger issue. But the essence is still the same. Characterisation is still being overlooked just to move the story along in whatever way Marvel sees fit.

And if this fixation on setting up the next project continues to take precedence over character and story, then shows like Loki run the risk of existing solely to continue one ongoing saga, like a snake eating itself in an endless loop.

Of course, fan expectation does play a role in this too, but when Kang said "We're all villains here," it's hard not to think that he might be referring to something far bigger and even more powerful than himself.

#loki #loki series #loki spoilers #spoilers #loki series spoilers #article #digital spy #marvel #MCU

[fantasyinvader]

Beat Binding Blade tonight

So, right off the bat I'm going to admit. I abused the arena and save states. This is a really, really hard game. And while I enjoyed it, I'm going to give three things I didn't like about it.

1)Enemy reinforcements arrive at the end of the player phase, and can attack during the enemy phase. That is unfair, especially when I assume that parking a unit on the spawn point will prevent them (It doesn't) or my healer just happens to be in the area. I like difficult games, but when I fail at something in those I want to feel like it's my fault for doing so. When I die in Bloodborne or lose a unit in Fates Conquest, I'm willing to accept it because I felt it was fair (plus I'll just restart the chapter in Conquest anyway). I could have not died if I had played a little better. This game was not fair when it did that.

2)The supports. A lot of the stuff about the characters is locked away in their supports, since this is one of the old Fire Emblems where it throws units your way because it's assuming you didn't reset the game when one died. They don't get cutscenes to be important, and with only five supports per character (barring if one dies, then any unit that had supports with gets those supports back). And even then, getting an A rank doesn't pair up any units except for Roy. So you don't get to play love doctor here, it's only really there for the stat boosts. But in the case of my boy, he needs those supports in order for his character to fully come through.

3)I can take 8 units into the final battle, and they're the only ones who get full ending cards. Everyone else just gets a single line. Kinda weak if I use someone like Fir for most of the game, but bench her at the end to give Rutget Durandal.

Even with my cheating, I still enjoyed this game. Mostly for the story. When Fire Emblem first appeared in Smash Brothers Melee, as a kid it instantly caught my attention. Roy and Marth just looked so cool with their swords and armor (true fact: My favorite design for Link is the Skyward Sword design, simply because it has chainmail under the tunic. I get it, the tunic is iconic but SS's Link just looks practical), and I preferred Roy because I though his fully-charged shield breaker hurting him was cool. I even keep a Cipher card of his in my wallet for good luck. I wanted to know what Fire Emblem was, what kind of game it was. My friend showed me a screenshot of the upcoming GBA game in Nintendo power, which I got for the following Christmas (sadly, I didn't get Sacred Stones as I got a PS2 the following year). I loved that game, but the idea that I was playing as Roy's father always was a bit of a sour point for me. It's because of that game when I got a 2DS a decade later, because I wanted to game but kept getting pulled away from my console, I eventually went back to Fire Emblem.

And, I'm going to admit, Binding Blade hurt me because I played Blazing Blade first. It really did. I mean, Hector dies early on, Lyn is presumably dead hell a lot of my old comrades probably died in this war, Eliwood's wife dies shortly after they are married while Eliwood is more useless than ever, the kid I saved in Bern becomes a genocidal maniac, and the fact that the characters of Blazing Blade kinda caused this to happen by releasing the seals on the Legendary Weapons in their own quest... It kinda bugs me that the Legendary Weapons I used in Blazing Blade are in their trap filled storage places. Like, who returned them there? And if I have characters from that game returning in Binding, I find it strange they don't comment on needing them again. But this is a case of the game trying to be a prequel to a story that wasn't written with it in mind.

But at the end of the day, one thing just kept popping up in my mind. Binding Blade is the antithesis of the Crimson Flower route from Three Houses. I know they said Genealogy of the Holy War was an inspiration, but I can't help it. I've seen so many people try to praise that said route as some sort of denouncement of the rest of the franchise. That it's about putting power in the hands of the people (it's not) instead of having some Lord be the good king. Granted, the Mandate of Heaven seems like it's a running theme of the series, so without understanding what that is I can understand why people don't grasp what that part of the message. But Binding Blade, it just hit so many things on the nose that I needed to say something.

So without further adieu, I'm just going to bring up a few points.

With Regards to Humanity

It's interesting how both Zephiel and Edelgard come at this from different angles. Sure, they both lead wars of conquest across the entire continent, and I'm guessing Zeph didn't tell his troops what he was planning on doing once he won so there's likely a level of deception going on there as well. He really doesn't care for his fellow man, and the game goes out of it's way to show us why. Hatred, greed, or even selling out your people in the name of self-preservation. The game doesn't shy away from showing us any of this, saying that it's wrong and thus why Roy has to kick some guy's arse. Zephiel knows this, but in Edelgard's case? She's out there fighting for absolute power, destroying anyone who won't bend the knee to her while those who do out of self-preservation like House Gloucester are rewarded for it.

In essence, Edelgard is everything Zephiel saw wrong with the human race, she is why he felt we needed to go extinct. The very things he condemns humanity for are the things she reward. Zephiel would have actually handed over power to those he felt deserved it if he had won, whereas Edelgard is demonstrably shown to hold onto power until near the end of her life. One wants humanity dead, the other wants all the dragons. They even oppose each other in their classes. Edelgard is based on the red emperor archetype, she wears red, her class is the heavily-armored Emperor and her weapon of choice is an axe. Zephiel is a king, armoed but wearing purple and he uses a sword in battle.

Even if they both have screwed up history with their family's due to their father's inability to keep it in his pants, they're both presented as villains despite being ideologically opposed which goes to show with Fire Emblem the method IS the message.

Ancient Wars, Super Powered Weapons and Lies.

War of Heroes vs. The Scouring. The former is an event where the full details are shrouded in mystery, up to the player to piece together the clues and figure out the truth for themselves...or in Crimson Flower's case, ignore the truth and act out in your ignorance.With Binding Blade though, when the truth starts coming out, it hits hard. I mean, right from the beginning of the game we're told man was the one who broke the peace by attacking the dragons, but then we learn that those legendary weapons messed up the environment, resulting in dragons needing to use human forms only to be slaughtered by man. Dragons were blamed for the environment, the people who used those weapons were revered as heroes. We don't know why mankind launched their attack, but we do know that they weren't able to slay the Demon Dragon, one who had her soul destroyed in order to control her, because the Heroes felt sorry for her. It's making dragons out to be the victims here, much like the dragons in Three Houses. But Crimson Flower only serves to demonize them, acting like they can't understand humanity when the dragons in that game are a lot closer to humans emotionally than the ancient dragons in Elibe.

The Elites in comparison weren't heroes, and that lie has been confirmed as Rhea trying to make peace.

The good ending for Binding Blade is being able to save the dragon whose soul was destroyed, whereas Crimson Flower ends with slaying a dragon after you've spent the entire game triggering her (and is the ending that leads to oppressive rule under Edelgard, in addition to the only ending without sunlight. What? You thought you'd get the good ending when her final boss theme was playing on the last stage?). Also, you need all the Legendary weapons in order to unlock the final stages, which all play into the big mystery. Crimson Flower requires the player to not understand that the world-building was done to support fighting against Edelgard instead.

Merits of a leader

Let's not beat around the bush here, Roy will not carry you through Binding Blade. His bases are low, and while he has good growths he is unable to promote until the very end of the game. Even then, you need to save the Binding Blade's usage to ensure you get the good ending. Roy is also very unsure of himself, thrust into a position of leadership despite his young age. But look at what happens when he succeeds, he manages to overcome the odds and take down the mightiest army on the continent. At the end of the game, he's shown himself as more than capable of leading. Not to mention, he also believes that humans and dragons can live together, even seeing this in Acadia (and if Ninian was his mother, he's unknowingly proof of this as he is 1/4 dragon himself. May explain his poor bases). If he marries Liliana, he even becomes a King for likely much of the same reason Byleth does in SS/VW (most leaders are dead following the war, plus combining his territory with Ostia which had already taken over Lyn's land after she abdicated/married Hector). Roy learns the truth as already established.

Compare this to Crimson Flower Byleth. Byleth leads the Black Eagle Strike Force, but credit for it goes to Edelgard. Byleth never gets any recognition for this, no position of authority despite proving themselves, instead that goes to Caspar Jenkins of all people, and ends the war continuing to fight TWSITD from the shadows to support Edelgard's regime. And if you read between the lines, Edelgard is NOT a good leader, resorting to bribes, threats, cronyism, secret police, propaganda, and even TWSITD's support and later stolen tech in order to maintain her rule. Byleth lost whatever emotional development they got from White Clouds during this route, once again becoming the Ashen Demon, and is even willing to let themselves die if they can't keep their “humanity” in check showing a distaste for their own draconic heritage (showing humans and dragons can't live together in this timeline). They didn't grow into being a leader, they devolved into being Edelgard's unthinking muscle. Byleth never learns the truth in this route, falling for Edelgard's manipulations resulting in them losing Enlightened One/Nirvana status.

Not to mention, Heroes Relics have really low weapon levels. In theory, they can be used by anyone but only safely by those with Crests and most fully with a matching Crest. Legendary Weapons, on the other hand, can be used by anyone with an S rank in their type. Your characters have to EARN the right to use those things and you'll need them to deal with all the Manaketes during the final level, whereas Relics aren't exactly that level of broken.

Honestly, seeing the ending of Binding Blade and Idunn recovering put at least one tear in my eye. Crimson Flower's just made me feel like the game was calling me an idiot (which considering the Nirvana/Enlightenment thing, it kinda was). I would love if Binding Blade got the Echoes treatment, or even if they just did a GBA collection for the Switch. But after all these years, one thing is as certain now as it was when I was a kid.

In this house, ROY'S OUR BOY!

[juanbreaksitdown]

Playing MGSV for the First Time Knowing the Twist, Part 0: Ground Zeroes

I’m a big Metal Gear fan but I dropped out sometime after MGS4. I’ve recently begun playing MGSV but I already know the twist about a certain character’s true identity. Still, the rest of the game is new to me and I’m ready to let Hideo Kojima break down my perceptual reality and teach me war is hell all over again. I’ll be chronicling my takes on the game as I go through it, starting with this post.

MISSION START

It’s been a while since I’ve done some tactical espionage action, so I died a bunch playing even this tutorial level. Good to see the ol’ TIME PARADOX death screen, reminding us that history is already written.

On PS4, the graphics on Big Boss look great. Kiefer Sutherland slots into the voice nicely. Admittedly, David Hayter will always be Snake to me, thanks to nostalgia.

I love that the series has added a ton of quality of life adjustments since its last main console release, with hints and instructions given without too much handholding by both Kaz on the radio and the design of the level itself. Kojima’s design chops have always been as strong as his penchant for indulging in meta-fiction. I remember being dropped into the first challenge of MGS1, where you have to enter Shadow Moses from the outside, and finding it difficult to know what I was looking out for.

Granted, I was a child. This game is easier now.

Speaking of children, I’m pretty comfortable saying that this is the darkest opening to a Metal Gear game full stop. To begin with, you’re rescuing children as part of Big Boss’s MSF. Metal Gear has spent a good long time telling us that child soldiers - and children being involved in war at all - are not good. MGS2 sees E.E. die trying to help Snake and her step brother Otacon. Raiden himself is a child soldier, which leads him to be emotionally closed off. Sunny ends up helping save the day in MGS4, but Snake and Otacon, having seen the brutality of war and how it permanently harms children even if they survive, keep her away from the fighting as much as possible. Kojima’s stance on child soldiers has always been - unsurprisingly - that they are a heinous crime and a symptom of a system which knows no morality, only conquest accomplished by feeding humans into a flesh-rending machine for money.

The existence of children that you must rescue from a PoW camp shows that this is far beyond Big Boss realizing the President made him kill his mother figure, lied about why, and still wanted to shake his hand. We are at the precipice before the inevitability of Outer Heaven and Solid Snake. And it’s only getting darker.

Paz, the little girl I just rescued, has had a bomb sewn into her gut. Here I become impressed with the care put into animating Big Boss - Kojima has always seen himself as bridging the gap between film and games so he treats his characters like actors. Their body language matters, not just their voice acting and mechanics. Big Boss’s body language couldn’t be clearer when he realizes what’s happening aboard the helicopter. Gone is the confident super soldier and master of CQC: he raises his hands nervously, like an overwhelmed new parent whose child is sick. He doesn’t know what to do; he knows his skill set as a soldier is completely helpless against a medical crime such as this. He believes in a world where this doesn’t have to happen, but to make it exist, he has to endure this part. He is just as much of a child as he was when he was deceived into killing the Boss. The child is raising children and all his strength and cunning won’t stop the hurt.

Kojima forces us to watch Paz’s guts get opened up and sifted through while Snake holds her down. The panic in her body conveys the pain viscerally. Kojima’s stance that war isn’t a game and treating it like one only removes humanity from the greatest aggressors is clear even as he makes war games. He wants us to know that this is the cost of using war to battle a world controlled by war. It’s not to be fetishized.

The bomb is retrieved, and all seems well. With a little bit of quiet, Kaz rages against their situation impotently. They were played like damn fiddles.

And the tune isn’t over.

Paz announces there’s a second bomb in her… (we don’t get to find out where specifically, I’m going to assume something only mildly horrific and not speculate too hard for my brain’s sake). She jumps out of the chopper, but it’s too late. Her proximity to the chopper immolates all inside and our mission ends. Kojima’s theming is already strong here. The bomb you see, the bomb you catch, is bad. Horrible. More awful than you ever wanted to deal with.

The second bomb is worse.

Indeed, in this series which began on the dangers of nuclear proliferation, Kojima has called out the two bombs which make his message a necessity. The Little Boy, dropped on Hiroshima, was the first and only uranium bomb dropped. 98% of the material did not undergo fission. It obliterated the city nonetheless. The second bomb, Fat Man, was plutonium and devastated Nagasaki, cementing the nuclear bomb as the ultimate in material destruction.

In Metal Gear Solid 2, the first bomb, that the S3 plan was the Solid Snake Simulation, blew the audience’s mind as they learned anyone could be Solid Snake, soldier genes be damned, so long as they experienced the right soldier memes. The second bomb, that your perceptual reality was constructed by sociobiological AI too vastly powerful to be understood by a single mind and the true S3 plan was to curate digital media to its normative liking in the Selection for Societal Sanity, is the one people remember Metal Gear Solid 2 for.

In Metal Gear Solid 3, the Virtuous Mission ends in the disaster of the Boss defecting and Volgin firing the Davey Crockett nuke. Operation Snake Eater ends with Snake realizing his life is a lie; that the nation he has given his life to will never respect it, only burn it as fuel for its own ends.

Here, we have begun with Metal Gear Solid V: Ground Zeroes and one bomb has gone off.

The second bomb, I can only assume, has been armed and left for Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain

I’m already excited.

#Metal Gear #metal gear solid #metal gear soild 5 #Metal Gear Solid V #Metal Gear Series #Metal Gear Solid 2 #Metal Gear Solid 3 #MGS #MGSV #MGS2 #MGS3 #Naked Snake #Big Boss #Solid Snake #Hideo Kojima #the phantom pain #ground zeroes

[navigatrixnarrations]

Sometimes Always, Part 5: Thief In the Night

Catch up here

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language

Word Count: 2841

The night is moonless and the road is blocked by branches and debris. From out of the gloom, a rasping voice rumbles “Stand and deliver! Your money or your life!” The coachman’s lamp reveals a broad-shouldered man standing beside the makeshift barricade before the stopped carriage, completely swathed in dark clothing, face hidden, a cutlass at his waist, aiming a pistol.

The adrenaline sings in Charles Vane’s blood; he’s missed the thrill of the plunder. This promises to be a rich prize, one that will assist in repairing the Adventure. One that may make Margaret see him as a partner rather than a burden, an obligation, or worst of all, an object of pity.

The coachman is older, with a soldier’s bearing, but seems disinclined to put up any resistance. In the coach, a man made rich off the blood and toil of those he claimed to own. His shaking hands are trying to load a pistol, which Vane snatches from his hand. To think this sniveling, scared weakling who would call him a scoundrel had the confidence to travel unguarded with this amount of coin — there’s the difference between those who dwell on land and those whose home is the sea, he supposes. The ocean is unforgiving and even wealthy men cannot stay sheltered in its domain.

Vane hoists the sack of coin over his shoulder. A pistol shot rings out, but misses, and despite the snow on the ground, he’s into the trees and out of sight before the coachman or the mark could reload. By the time he pushes his skiff from the riverbank, he almost feels like a proper pirate again.

The night is bone-achingly cold, even more so on the water. If he hadn’t botched things so terribly, he’d be warm in the West Indies. He’d be known and feared, not a thief in the night with his face and name hidden. He’d have a crew, and he’d be sailing under the black with Margaret at his side...

Can he pinpoint it, the moment he started to trust her? Perhaps it was when he awoke aboard the Revenge and she told him he was free.

“What kind of weapon made that?” She pointed at the brand on his chest.

“Hot iron.”

“Why?”

“So the person who owned me” -- he felt his face twist as he said it -- “could tell I was his slave. Find me and take me back there.”

“I won’t let him,” she said with a ferocious scowl, her voice surprisingly dark for one so young. “I won’t let anyone.” And he believed her. He was right to believe her.

He shakes himself from his reverie. He’s got to focus on the task at hand. There’s little traffic in the harbor tonight, but still enough for him to blend in as he sails around the horn of the Battery and makes his way back to the garret. With his hair tied back, a woolen cap pulled low and his laborer’s clothes, with the sack of coin slung over his shoulder he looks like any other longshoreman coming home from a long shift of loading and unloading cargo.

He imagines the look on Margaret’s face when he shows her what he’s robbed, and smiles as he climbs the stairs.

His smile fades as the door handle is jerked right out of his hand by her, her expression one of worry and anger. “Thought you’d have been back hours ago. Was out looking for you.”

“I told you I’d be back.”

“I was afraid someone recognized you! I was afraid you’d been captured or killed!” Her chest heaves under her coat, and he feels his body warm more than the small fire in the hearth should have allowed.

“Well, I wasn’t. And look what I’ve brought us.” She was worried? About him? He drops the sack on the table and opens it. “Coin, Magpie, more than enough to complete the repairs to the Adventure.” When she doesn’t respond, he repeats “It’s coin. We won’t even need to fence it.”

Margaret sits down heavily and wrestles her temper. “Where the fuck did you get all this?”

“A bit of highway robbery.”

“Charles. Next time, if there is a next time, take me with you.”

“Didn’t want to put you in danger.”

She narrows her eyes and her lower lip juts out stubbornly. “Says the man whose life I’ve saved how many times now?”

They stare at each other, neither willing to back down.

“I’ve got things to do besides make sure you don’t get yourself killed,” she informs him. And then, more quietly, so quiet as to be nigh inaudible, “I lost Sully. I can’t lose you too, not again.”

“You won’t.”

The table is between them, and he’s about to upend it, coins and all, just to get it out of the way, when Margaret gets up to stoke the fire. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful, Charles. But you’ve a recent history of getting yourself nearly killed to help friends.” She pauses. “They’d never say so, but Anne and Jack are beside themselves with guilt about what happened.”

“How the fuck do you know about that?”

“Idelle told me.” Margaret fixes Vane with a fierce stare as she returns to her seat across the table. “She loves you dearly, you know.”

“Idelle is a good woman.” He’d sensed sometimes that she did, and not only because she didn’t always charge him in full for her services, though at the time he’d mostly put that down to being one of the few who took care to make sure she enjoyed herself as well. And he respected her directness and sharp mind -- traits she shared with Margaret. Yes, there was the rub.

“She almost broke when you shook your head no from the gallows.”

Vane doesn’t reply.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be one to give up, regardless of your pretty speech about fearing death being a choice.” He can almost hear in her accusatory tone the words Margaret once cried out: I thought I knew you, Charles! More fool me.

“Didn’t want to risk more of us getting killed trying to save me. Thought my death would drive a rebellion.”

“It wasn’t at all because some part of you no longer wanted to live?”

Sometimes he swears the blasted woman has the ability to see into his mind. Though if that was the case, perhaps things between them would have taken a different path. “I was worth more dead than alive. Had to leave Nassau. Fucked over your father a second time to help Flint fight England. And…” he trails off and stares into the middle distance.

“And?”

“The woman I was in love with loved another.” Vane’s voice is low, confessional, but there’s an edge of challenge in it.

“The woman you were in love with loved only power. Control. Wrapping her soft, weak little hands around whatever bits of influence she could grasp,” Margaret says waspishly.

Vane’s thin lips curl back, baring his teeth. “I’m not talking about Eleanor.”

“No?”

“No!” Vane slams the palm of his hand into the table for emphasis. Fucking hell, why can’t she understand what he’s telling her? He’d stopped loving Eleanor well before her final betrayal, well before she battered his face in his cell as he awaited hanging, well before he saw the sickening, smug look on her face as he stood at the gallows, though that certainly drove the point home.

His arm tremors, and from the slight furrowing of Margaret’s brow, she noticed. He wonders if she takes any satisfaction in seeing him like this, broken and brought low. He can’t say he would blame her if she did. But her lips part in concern, and her eyes are worried. She wraps a hand, callused and graceful, around his forearm.

“I need you to know that I took the shot the moment I was able; I didn’t delay or let you hang any longer than necessary.”

“I never doubted that, Magpie.” And he didn’t. Margaret never struck him in anger, never lied or broke her word to him. The scar on his brow is his own fault for startling her when she was holding a marlinspike; as for the scars on his heart, well, perhaps those are his own fault too.

It was barely dawn when Sully staggered shirtless out of Margaret’s tent, reeking of drink. Vane, up all night on watch duty in the Revenge camp, wanted to gut him. How dare he go to her drunk like that? Vane felt sick to his stomach, as though he’d been sucker-punched while nauseous. Hearing him approach, Sully turned to him with a grin. “Morning Charles…” His smile turned to a look of surprise when Vane shoved him, knocking him over backward into the sand, his long plait flying over his shoulder as he fell.

“Charles!” Margaret yanked on his arm, spinning him around to face her. She was fully clothed, though she looked like she just woke up, and she was livid. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

“You’ve a right to fuck any man you wish to, Magpie, but you at least deserve one who isn’t stumbling drunk.”

“Charles.” Margaret’s voice was patient, as though speaking to an idiot or a recalcitrant child, “I didn’t fuck Sully. I’ve never fucked anyone, of any state of sobriety. I’m likely the only virgin in Nassau.”

He didn’t smell sex on either of them, it was true, and Margaret didn’t even smell of rum. But even so. “What was I to think, when he stayed the night in your tent?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but he decided to drink on an empty stomach, and I dragged him in there to sleep it off.”

Sully hauled himself to his feet. “I was a perfect gent to our Maggie-Pie, I was,” he announced. “And I’ll knife anyone who isn’t.”

Margaret whirled on him. “If you call me Maggie-Pie, I’m going to call you Mick.”

“I hate it when you do that,” Sully said cheerily. “Look sharp, here comes Hands.” The three of them straightened their postures; it was important to present a united front before that bastard.

******

The first year after Sully was killed passed in a haze of agony. The second year, Margaret was mostly numb. By the third year, the grief had become sneakier, creeping up to knife her when she least expected it. She could go days feeling what now passed for fine, and then something -- the scent of the tobacco he’d favored, a snippet of a song he’d liked -- would rip open the wound.

What a fool I am, thinking Charles might care for me, Margaret berates herself. Her flirtations the night of the skiff race went uncommented-on, unacted-on. Of course she should have expected that: the moment there was a girl fawning over him whose body was unscarred by blades and musket balls, whose hands weren’t roughened by rope and salt, whose face wasn’t bronzed by the sun, he’d stopped paying her any attention, hadn’t he.

He’s finally asleep, and she can weep. Quietly. She forces herself to stay silent despite the sobs wracking her body. Then a hand, Vane’s hand, reaches for her in the dark, finds her own, and holds it. She glances at him, crouched beside her bed so as not to loom over her. She hadn’t even heard him come into her room.

“Turnabout is fair play,” he says. She sits up, and he sits beside her, using his free hand to wipe her tears. Margaret tries to affect a steely dignity, but his voice, honey over gravel, cuts through. “You held my hand in the dark. I was a fool to have let myself ignore that. A man should never forget who held his hand in the dark.” She lets him gather her in his arms; it’s been so long since the last time she’d been held. She feels the stubble of his cheek pressed to the top of her head, his long hair hanging over her arm, the deep inhale he takes. She allows herself to lean into him, to nestle her face into the junction of his neck and shoulder and inhale the smoky scent of him. “Now,” he continues, “do you want to tell me what this is about?”

“Of course I fucking don’t.”

One of Vane’s hands is stroking her hair while the other rests between her shoulder blades, heavy and warm and anchoring. “I recall,” he says, his voice a purr reverberating through her torso, “a smart girl once telling me that there is nothing wrong with accepting help from people who care for me. That I’m not alone in the world.”

Margaret raises her head and looks at him sharply. Did he just say he cares for her? She had been telling herself that she’d laugh in Vane’s face if he showed any signs of being sweet on her. But here, in this moment, in his arms, she can’t bring herself to be cruel to him on purpose, not when his gaze is so gentle, so uncharacteristically unguarded. God knows they’d caused each other enough pain already, however inadvertently. “And turnabout is fair play, Charles?”

The strong shoulder that her cheek was just resting upon lifts in a shrug. “You ought to take your own advice.”

She leads him into the main room, where it’s warmer. Brings out the rum bottle. Vane is leaning toward her, letting her have her silence, but his own silence has a questioning quality to it.

“I’m thinking of the nature of promises. How to keep them. What it means to keep them.” Vane is simply watching her, waiting for her to continue. She takes a swig of rum; she wants liquid courage for what she’s about to tell him. “When Sully got killed, I threw everything he owned overboard. Any reminder of him was too much to bear.” She’d been certain she’d lose her mind with grief if she saw a shirt of his on someone else. She sees Vane trying to connect what she’s saying. “He once made me promise if he should die first, that I wouldn’t spend my life in mourning. That I’d find a way to be happy again.” And someone to be happy with, Sully had emphasized, though she’s not ready to tell Vane that part. “But I can’t see a way forward.”

“You were happy, though. With him.” He isn’t asking a question.

“Yes.”

Vane nods to himself and stares down at the coin he’s rolling back and forth between his fingers. “That’s all I ever wanted for you, Magpie. For you to be happy.”

For a moment, Margaret is afraid she’s going to burst into tears again, and she forces her expression into one of stoicism. “Were you happy? With her?”

The coin ceases its glittering dance across Vane’s knuckles. “I thought I was, for a time.”

“Do tell.”

He raises his face with a scowl to meet Margaret’s eyes, but his expression softens when he sees the real curiosity there. “In the beginning, she pursued me hard, lavished me with what I thought was love. Then she’d withdraw her affection, and I’d try to regain it. I see now that was her strategy.”

“To hear Idelle and some of the others tell it, Eleanor had you dancing like a puppet on a string.” Vane recoils as though she’d slapped him, and Margaret wonders if she pushed him too far, twisted a knife in him that she hadn't meant to insert, truly she hadn’t. “Charles, I…”

He cuts her off. “I assure you that I’ve got long-overdue clarity about the manner of woman she is.” He closes his eyes for a moment and sags slightly in his chair. He huffs out a short, mirthless laugh. “She’s a shit and everything you told me was correct.”

Margaret stands with an unstifled yawn. Damnation, but she’s exhausted. She considers telling him it took him long enough to figure out what she and Sully saw from the start, but what purpose would that serve? “I’ve got to be up early. Tide’s coming in about five, and the Adventure should be coming out of drydock with it. Got to move her to a proper slip.” Vane rises as well and they stand for a moment, looking at each other with uncertainty. He looks like he’s about to step towards her, so she simply says “Good night, Charles.” In response, he reaches out to squeeze her hand, ever so briefly.

As she settles herself back into bed, she smells him brewing coffee; he’s gotten in the habit of fixing a pot of it so that it would be ready when they woke, something she appreciates. If she could see through the door, she’d note him sitting before the fire, elbow on his knee and chin in his hand, staring into the flames, a man lost in thought.

Tag List: @whenimaunicorn @n3rdybird

#sometimes always fic #charles vane x margaret teach #charles vane x ofc #charles vane x oc #charles vane fic #charles vane #black sails fic

[shararsblog]

BENGALURU - INDIA'S CRIME CAPITAL.

(28/07/2021)

Greetings for the day. Here I am beginning with my first blog or post whatever you can say. To begin with let's straight away come to the point. Many blogs have been written till date, with each blogger expressing his heart and mind on various issues. So I am too putting my heart and soul into a subject, which is present throughout the world, and each country has its own law policy when it comes to dealing with i.e. crime.

Here are my experiences of living in a city based in Karnataka in India for four months. Bangalore or Bengaluru as you can call it, is considered as the IT hub of India, a city from where United States of America sources the highest number of software professionals for working in projects in its own backyard. But apart from being the Information technology hub of India, Bengaluru is also the hub for highest number of crimes, along with New Delhi.

Though I have stayed in Pune too a city in neighbouring Maharashtra state another IT hub, and visited Mumbai which is close by, but never ever had this fear psychosis of happening to see gang wars, because the law and order machinery in Pune, Pimpri - Chinchwad and Mumbai was by far very much in control by police authorities there. So why Bengaluru has become lawless? during my four months of stay there, every morning I happen to open the newspapers and the Bengaluru section showed up at least one or two murders, the result being gang wars. The killers regular criminals and their victims also history sheeter's. These gangsters or rowdies carried on with their killings on the streets of Bengaluru with so much audacity, that they never possessed any fear of law. The recent killing of Joseph Babli who himself a rowdy inside a bank in Koramangala, highlights the brazenness of killers, that Joseph was chased inside the bank, and hacked to death in broad daylight in front of scores of customers and bank employees, goes on to show complete failure of law and order machinery in Bengaluru.

Not just this, another murder of a former corporator Rekha Kadiresh that too in broad daylight in cotton pet area of Bengaluru, was an added feather in hat for an inefficient Bengaluru police. Slaying rivals in daytime in full public view, indulging in rowdism, road rage, harrasing innocent people, chain snatching gangs over bikes on prowl in every area, So where is the Bengaluru police in picture, that is the question?

And why rowdies in Bengaluru have no fear of police?

Bengaluru police and Karnataka politicians are to be blamed for this. The answer here lies in police - criminal - politician nexus. Also you may be surprised to know that Karnataka state ranks top in corruption index in whole of India. Power hungry politicians, greed for money and coupled with it the biggest major factor which has led to rise in goondaism is land deals. Bengaluru city is considered as one of hot cakes for real estate market, land grabbing is rampant and where higher acre's of land is involved for deals corrupt politicians, mafias and police are hand in glove.

Though land is very less available in Bengaluru urban areas and even if available, the prices are skyrocket and rowdies ultimately with blessings of politicians get involved. This rowdies - karnataka politicians nexus have blossomed to such an extent, that middle class families, who despite can afford to own plots at higher prices never dare to get involved. The problem begins from the bottom of organizational hierarchy in police department. The rot is so deeper that for example, say five out of every ten constabulary rank officials within Bengaluru police force, are hand in glove with the rowdies, this relates to daily hafta collection or in simple language extort money through these rowdies from hawkers, bar restaurant owners, share in commission arising out of disputed land deals and many illegal activities done by these rowdies. The buck does not stop here, the Bengaluru traffic police have a set target of collection fixed by every DCPs in their respective zones, so regular office goers either in two wheelers, four wheelers, rickshaws, commercial vehicles face the brunt of hafta collection. What an irony! Never ever in the history of Policing across the world, has there been so much rampant corruption, as has been the case with Bangalore police.

Kamal Pant Bengaluru police chief : completely clueless.

But then whose responsibility is it to discipline the Police?

Karnataka is a state, which has seen two parties struggle for power, back in 2018 Congress - JDS (Janata Dal secular) combine wrestled power from BJP (Bharatiya Janata party) headed by BS Yeddyurappa. Kumaraswamy son of former prime minister Deve Gowda became the chief minister, the BJP despite being the single largest party could not garner the numbers required to form the government. But two years later the tide turned completely in BJP's favour, the biggest drama unfolded in Karnataka, with accusations of horse trading leveled by Congress - JDS combine against BJP. The Kumaraswamy govt was reduced to a minority, and it failed to retain power. The BS Yeddyurappa led BJP stormed to power in Karnataka. Power tussles are nothing new in Indian politics, but the sad part is the lust for power has taken a huge toll on law and order machinery in Bengaluru. The Karnataka politicians already neck deep in corruption, have left the city to rot at the mercy of rowdies. Another major factor for rise in hooliganism is the patronage provided by political parties to rowdies, take any party be it the Congress, the BJP or JDS have rowdies seated at their party offices, the favour these goons do for these political class may vary, it may be anything even getting a cup of tea for the party youth leaders or district incharge, distribution of pamplets during elections many other things and obviously the favour is returned, with blessings of these political parties rowdies have a say, in every tender issued by the Karnataka government, almost 99% of contracts sourced out by the local corporation body of Bengaluru i.e. the Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike has been handed over to rowdies, whether related to garbage collection, disposal, road repair contracts etc. When elections are round the corner, the hooliganism is at its peak, these very leaders are accompanied by these rowdies, threatening people who raise their voices, gangwars involving rowdies from rival political parties, if an in-depth analysis is done of the extent of criminals invasion into political parties, shocking as it may sound close to 80% of these so called party workers are rowdy elements. As it is said, the strong basis for students to pass with good marks in school and later to excel in life and become ideal citizens of the country, the onus lies on the principal and teachers and the education imparted in schools getting students to value good culture, respect for one another, and focus on studies. If one or two students fail in all these aspects, the blame can be put on students themselves, but just imagine if the whole class fails, then obviously the principal, the teachers are responsible. So the same applies to the police force of a state as well, the police department is a big school in itself, and the chief minister of the state is the principal and teachers his respective cabinet colleagues, so they are the torch bearers for these law enforcement agencies, and giving them guidance drafting policies is the sole responsibility of chief minister his cabinet colleagues. But here the entire Bengaluru police machinery has failed miserably and politicians governing the state are solely responsible.

BJP has been at the helm of Karnataka for almost two years now, even in these two years chief minister BS Yeddyurappa and his home minister colleague Basavraj Bommai miserably failed to bring crime rate down in Bengaluru. What can you expect from a police force, when the chief minister himself is embroiled in an illegal land deal. The bench of Karnataka high court led by justice Ravi malimath and Micheal Cunha even refused to give him any relief on the matter. Also infighting within the state BJP, and some leaders unhappy with Yeddyurappa's style of functioning has led to the CM busy trying to save his own govt, fighting his detractors, leave development of state at God's mercy and Bengaluru of course at rowdies mercy. And finally infighting within the BJP took its toll, Mr. BS Yeddyurappa resigned from the CMs post. And as usual came the drama with his resignation, an emotional Yeddyurappa in tears thanking Prime minister Modi, Amit Shah and JP Nadda for giving him an opportunity to serve the people of the state. Mr. Yeddyurappa we can understand your emotions but you should have stopped at that, your immature and misleading comment that, "Bengaluru is turning into a world class city" is the biggest Joke of the millennium. The reality is you and your predecessor Mr. Kumaraswamy have turned Bengaluru into a world class gangsters city.

Former Karnataka chief minister BS Yeddyurappa : equally responsible for lawless Bengaluru.

Corruption in police department is not something new and is prevalent across India. Also let me make it clear, not all cops are corrupt, there are a few who put their heart out and perform their duties. Even in Bengaluru police department there are officers at constabulary rank, inspectors, senior inspectors, who have excellent track record in curbing crime and have acted tough against rowdies but there are also a few with questionable track record and it is this few dark sheep within the police that has led to rowdies wrecking havoc in the city. Also this time things really aren't good in Bengaluru at all. Though police chief Pant on his behalf is doing everything thing to bring crime rate down, Bengaluru CCB has siezed a large cache of drugs, several drug peddlers have been nabbed, several rowdies homes have been raided a large cache of weopans recovered, but still the rowdies menace has been increasing in Bengaluru rapidly.

Mr Kamal Pant now you also need to bring the hammer down harder on some of your own men, women within the force, who have links with these rowdies. Cleaning must also be done at home. There was a time when Mumbai city in Maharashtra state, also known as the financial capital of India was under the grip of the underworld gangs in 90s, things had totally spiralled out of control due to gangwars, prominent builders, film personalities, small time business men became victims for refusal to pay extortion and some for links with rival gangs.

It took the combined effort of the Mumbai police who formed hit squads later on called as encounter specialists to eliminate the gangsters. And the credit for completely wiping out the underworld from Mumbai, goes to then Mumbai police commissioner Mr. MN Singh. Bengaluru is facing the same problem today, that Mumbai faced in 90s. And Bengaluru police commissioner Kamal Pant will have to take a leaf from what MN Singh did in Mumbai.

Also political interference in police working has been the biggest problem in India. That police work under political pressure is not a hidden secret. And this has been one of the reasons for rowdy explosion in Bengaluru. Rowdies enjoy political patronage, from all three the Congress, JDS and BJP. In Mumbai the police turned a deaf year to political influence, and took on underworld in a spirited way under guidance of MN Singh. Certainly Bengaluru police go weak in their knees when it comes to politicians, and none but Mr Kamal Pant will have to put his foot down on such interferences, when it comes to dealing with rowdies, even if it means confrontation with a ruling party and also take action against political leaders who are linked to these rowdies. Kamal Pant and Bengaluru police have a long long way to go if they want to rid Bengaluru from gangsters. And I have no doubt at all that things have come to a level where Bengaluru cops have to form a separate hit squad to eliminate the rowdies like Mumbai police did.

Also Bengaluru being an IT hub and one of the cities with higher number of foreign tourists visiting for trips as well as official company work, such lawlessness does not augur well for the city, the image of Bengaluru has already taken a severe beating at international level and it will have severe consequences. Foreign direct investment will be hit, if things don't improve, that day won't be far when other countries start issuing advisory or warning to its citizens to deter from visiting Bengaluru, as it has already happened in New Delhi's case, and if it happens in Bengaluru's case prime minister Narendra Modi's 'ache din' or 'good days' of his promise to citizens of India will be dented beyond repair.

#bengaluru #kamal pant #karnataka #bs yeddyurappa #karnataka bjp #bengaluru police #hd kumaraswamy #congress #bangalore #narendra modi

[esabri]

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[toushindai]

again to fly away

Post-epilogue, 1.9k. Even the summary is a bit spoilery, so that’s below the cut.

[ Read on AO3 ]

Nyx gives Persephone a gift before she returns to her mother.

(“Well, with your family, one learns to take precautions.”)

x

Persephone is dressed not in her regalia but in a simpler gown when she pokes her head around Nyx’s corner.

“I’m going to spend a little time in the garden, Nyx. Would you care to join me?”

Nyx looks down at her own midnight robes. “Should I change first?” she asks, sincerely unsure.

“No need! I just wanted to look over everything before I prepare to leave.”

That does not seem to be the entire purpose behind her invitation; usually, she tends to the garden on her own, or with Hades’ help, and Nyx notices that she offered her invitation only minutes after Zagreus’s latest departure. But, if there is something her Queen wishes to discuss in private, then Nyx will gladly oblige. And besides, any time spent with Persephone is a treasure.

So she follows Persephone outside, floating effortlessly behind her as the younger goddess waters the hedges. “Those flowers you keep in your little corner,” Persephone says, “Hades tells me they were a gift from Zagreus?”

“They were.” Nyx smiles, a bit wistfully. “He commissioned them without warning, one night when I was attending to other business, and they startled me when I returned, but they made me think of you. They have brought me more joy than I foresaw.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“They are.”

“You’ve raised him to be so thoughtful, Nyx. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Mm.” Nyx thinks of the young prince. “I do not believe that I am solely to thank for his upbringing. Achilles has shaped him as well, and his father, in his own way. And while I may take some credit for his thoughtfulness, that cannot be fully conflated with his kindness.” She averts her gaze, cupping a pomegranate blossom in her hand. “You know well that I have struggled, in the past, to demonstrate such kindness; to empathize before I think of practical matters. In this regard, I have tried to learn from you, and to treat both the prince and others under my care with tenderness when it is appropriate. But I am not sure that I am the reason that Zagreus learned such an instinctive kindness as he shows to all those he meets.”

“Nyx.” Persephone draws near and takes Nyx by the elbow, looking up into her face. “You have always been so kind to me.”

“Not always,” Nyx disagrees. When the Fates first brought Hades to this realm, her realm; when Zeus, shortly thereafter, deposited Persephone here and the tendrils of light and life that the younger woman inevitably carried with her infiltrated Nyx’s carefully cultivated darkness, upsetting the balance that she had been fighting so hard to maintain—Nyx had been curt, then, and unwelcoming, injured by the implication that her control (already costing her everything) was not enough. If Hades had not been so gruffly dutiful and Persephone so patient and willing to listen, there might have been a clash that tore the Underworld in two. But Nyx is at least observant, and unlike Chaos at their distant remove she has learned to respond to the world around her. Hades and Persephone had helped to shape the Underworld into something that could be controlled. And from the two of them, Nyx learned a little more about interaction, about the subtle skill it takes for a being to exist alongside another being.

Now, tenderly, she touches Persephone’s face. “I know that I was part of what made your adjustment to the Underworld so difficult the first time, my Persephone. I only hope that this time, I have not repeated my old mistakes.”

But Persephone cups her hand over Nyx’s, smiling ruefully. “You haven’t, Nyx, not at all! You’ve been more welcoming than I can say, and you know that I missed you. Our early difficulties, you had already made up for a thousand times by the time I left.”

The Queen’s eyes are honest. Nyx lets herself trust them. “Then, good.”

“Then, good, indeed!” Persephone gives her hand a little squeeze. “Don’t worry so much about ancient history, all right, Nyx? We’ve all changed. I’m not that impulsive young woman anymore, either.”

“No, you aren’t,” Nyx agrees.

“Exactly.” Persephone turns back to her flowers, but he does not release Nyx’s hand; Nyx trails obligingly after her to observe what Persephone is observing. She half-expects the Queen to explain some detail of care for the plants, some task she would like Nyx to perform in her absence. But, instead, a hint of seriousness comes into her voice. “Speaking of impulsivity…. Well, perhaps that isn’t a fair transition. Nyx, I wanted to ask you, what was Zagreus like as a child?”

Nyx looks at her in confusion. “Zagreus, as a child?”

“Yes.” Persephone’s face is as serious as her voice. “I will confess, I am asking with an ulterior motive. Supposing Mother should inquire about her grandson, I don’t want her to catch on that I wasn’t around for his upbringing.”

Nyx feels a pulse of fear, and conceals it. “Ah. You are clever to think ahead of such a possibility,” she says, and Persephone winces in answer. “Do you think that Goddess Demeter would try deliberately to entrap you thus?”

Persephone gives a wry smile. “She may. She used to do so when I was young, catching me in little lies about whether I had spent the night obediently in my bed or gone out running through the fields. Maybe it’s silly, to worry about such things like I’m still a child, but…”

“You know your mother best, my Queen. If this is a concern you have, then I will do all I can to alleviate it. Including telling you stories of Zagreus’s younger days.”

“Thank you, Nyx.”

Nyx hesitates, though, because telling stories cannot be all that she can do. She enfolds Persephone’s hand between both of her own and looks seriously at the goddess of verdure. “To tell the truth, I would prefer not to have to send you back to your mother.”

Persephone looks back solemnly. “I know,” she says. “Hades has said the same, and I know Zagreus is thinking it, too. And I… I don’t mind the idea of reconciling to Mother, but I wish I felt that I had a little more choice in the matter. If she were not holding the mortal world hostage, if Hades didn’t fear that she would start a war over me… well, it’s funny, but I think I’d be more willing to visit her, if that were the case. But I must go. This all started because I seized an opportunity to run away from my problems, and it’s spun out of control for long enough.”

“I understand.” She does not like it, but she understands. “Will you forgive me if I send something along with you, to keep you company and keep you safe?”

A smile comes back to Persephone’s face. “There would be nothing to forgive, Nyx! I would treasure something to remember you by. As for keeping me safe, well… I know what my family is like. We can’t be too careful.”

“Then give me three nights before you depart, and I shall have something for you. But for now…” She draws Persephone over to the bench at the edge of the garden, and they sit down together. “Let me tell you of your son’s youth. There is much to tell, for Prince Zagreus was not always as well-behaved as he is nowadays…”

*

Busy though the Underworld is, it does not take Nyx the full three nights she requested to fashion her gift for Persephone. She lets the time pass, anyway; darkness seeps into the gift, strengthening its power and Nyx’s connection to it. But she cannot force Persephone to tarry for too long. When the fourth day dawns—after Persephone has said her good-byes to her son and seen him off on another escape attempt—Nyx pulls her aside and places the newest Chthonic Companion into her outstretched hands.

Surprise crosses Persephone’s face as she sees what it is. “A Chthonic Companion, for me? Don’t you think I’m a little old for this?” For a moment, there is severity in her face, and Nyx wonders if she has misstepped, making a stuffed animal for the woman who rejected the name maiden. But then Persephone breaks out into a warm smile. “I’m only joking. It’s adorable, Nyx. It’s a swallow, isn’t it?”

“It is.” A bird whose arrival in the land of Greece above foretells spring. The Companion is made in a red and black that recalls the Queen’s regalia, with a pale wheat-colored belly that matches her hair. Nyx selected the emeralds carefully to reflect Persephone’s beautiful green eyes.

Persephone cups the swallow in her hand, turning it this way and that to admire it. “I always loved swallows. Mother taught me to watch for them when the winter grew too long to bear. I love it, Nyx, thank you. Does she have a name yet? A fable?”

“Not yet.”

“Is it all right if I come up with all of that?”

Nyx smiles. “I would be honored.”

“Then when I am lonely for the Underworld and missing you, I will tell myself stories of how Mother Night fits into this little one’s life.” She presses the Companion to her chest and then tucks it into the top of her bag.

Nyx takes her hands and draws her closer to the wall, speaking quietly. “It is not only a keepsake to remind you of me, my Queen. Should you ever feel that you are in danger there on Olympus—”

“I know,” Persephone says. “Zagreus has told me all about how they work when he carries them through his father’s realm. Are you promising to burst into the light in my defense, should my mother and all the rest not treat me with all the respect I deserve?”

“Yes, I am.”

Persephone speaks lightly, but Nyx does not. She did not realize it until the Queen returned to the Underworld, but the truth is that Night Incarnate would gladly start a new war and end it in the same moment if that was what it took to keep Persephone safe.

Seeing the sincerity in Nyx’s eyes, Persephone falters for a moment. Then she squeezes Nyx’s hands tightly. “Let us hope that things do not come to that,” she says.

“I will always hope the same, Persephone.”

And then Persephone releases her hands in order to throw her arms around Nyx. Nyx is startled for a moment—she fears for the propriety of such an embrace here in the formality of the House—but when Persephone does not release her, she returns the gesture, holding Persephone’s head close to her breast. “I will miss you,” she confesses.

“I’ll miss you too, Nyx. You’ll write, won’t you? All the time?”

“Of course I will.”

“I will, too. We’ll give Hermes quite a workout, ferrying our letters back and forth.”

“I am sure he will appreciate the opportunity.”

They stay like that a moment longer, until some deep part of Nyx feels something slip ever so slightly out of balance. “You must not keep Charon waiting any longer, my Queen,” she says.

Persephone sighs. “You’re right, of course. Then I’ll go. But I’ll be back this time, Nyx. I swear it.”

“We will all look forward to your return.”

“I will as well. Farewell, Nyx. None of you may forget how much I love you all, you understand? I forbid it.”

Nyx answers with a half-bow, and Persephone leaves through the garden, turning once to make her swallow’s wing wave one last good-bye. And then, as Charon ferries her away, Nyx watches the golden thread of her existence wind its way all the way up to the surface and into the blinding light.

#hades game #hades spoilers #nyx #persephone #nyx (hades game) #persephone (hades game) #1.0 spoilers #tou wrote a thing #again to fly away

[deathliken]

𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞𝚖: 𝚎𝚡𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎

THE THEMES: corrupted holier than thou guilds / world orders that are way too sketchy and crave eternal war / vampire secret societies and adjacent politics / ouroboros of greed and pride / who’s the real monster ? / the power of blood.

CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of child grooming / mental & emotional abuse and indoctrination, wars and politics ( it’s vampire politics, but you never know ), discrimination of both supernatural creatures by humans / humans by supernatural creatures, demonization and dehumanization, death and mercy kills, manipulation and mind games.

as always please do not steal anything / take inspiration from here, any mention of other IDV characters is just purely casual and there’s no obligation to abide to every word i say, i’m just a writer who rambles a lot ;;

𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚙: a forsaken youth whose blood traces ancient priests and aristocrats just like his whole being is painted in grays and whites and reds, whose honorable father disappeared under mysterious circumstances when he was too young to remember and whose lovely mother’s health was so quickly deteriorating because of a mysterious abyssal disease ━he ended up leaving his home in order to live with the old family friend and trusted figure of jerry carl, as lastly wished by aesop’s mother herself before passing away. the known veteran, member of the most influential guild of supernatural hunters of the Allegiance of Countries known as The Order, raised the child himself by imbuing the guild’s creed and his own hatred towards supernatural creatures, for he had seen the great potential that laid within the pale child ━especially when it came to both his rare blood and his affinity with the supernatural as aesop has always shown as a child the ability to see spirits and perceive the presence of supernatural creatures as clearly as he could so easily admire the traces of stars on a night sky, things most hunters and humans can't do and that of course try to compensate for with their techniques. memories of his past prior leaving with jerry are hazy at best, but all that remained as vivid as ever was his mother’s tired smile ━and the harp demanded to come with him in the new place he was supposed to call home. as he bloomed into adulthood, he became a model of what a diligent exorcist had always been supposed to be: a living weapon for The Order to take pride of and use, a terror for creatures haunting and decimating humanity to fear, developing his blood bait at a spectacularly young age and successfully adapt it to his own natural gifts ━and when jerry died ( by aesop’s hands himself who so heartlessly shot the agonizing mentor who nighly was turning into a rabid ghoul ), aesop simply took over the mentor's duties and position as The Order’s mortician much to the higher planes’ glee. but perhaps it was indeed because of jerry not being around anymore to manipulate his deadly creation and the curiosity he harbored deep within the indoctrinated diligence ━or perhaps it was because of said deadly creation showing signs of hesitation and true mercy when sparing a rogue vampire he was supposed to eradicate from its hideout not that far from one of the province’s towns━ the pale exorcist had started  to realize that some things didn’t add up, that some things he’s never questioned just because he grew up in it and knew nothing more about than an eerie sensation hitting him down his spine every now and then had actually some gruesome, macabre obscenities in its womb.

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚜:   not much is really known about its birth, a history as clouded by fog as the birth of the world and the first great wars in the eternal darkness ━considered the greatest armed force within the Allegiance of Countries, The Order is involved deeply in the politics and matters of those states requiring their presence, judgement and interventions. its structure as well is a mystery, with orders impossible to defy coming from the high council manifesting only in so - called times of need, and the serious to everyday matters under the strict control of the high summoners and the very running strength of The Order: the exorcists ━often presenting themselves solo or in groups of two / three members, with each one specializing in several arts from contact to more intellect - focused studies and often ending up with one becoming their main field alongside their signature blood baits. blood baits are the most known technique every adept of The Order needs to learn to access to if they want to be able to be considered full part of The Order, created by the blood of the exorcist imbued in special items which then create a symbiotic bond with the exorcist meant to last until the exorcist passes away ━or at least as long as every month exorcists will respect the requirement of participating to blood donations which is said to be the only way to renew the bond with the blood bait and to create to create supplementary hunger baits for creatures like vampires, ghouls,  wendigos / skinwalkers, werewolves, demons of various kinds ( any creature that feeds on blood or flesh, pretty much ) ; it takes several years for a blood bait to start to develop and a great number of standard exorcists never truly manage to reach its fullest potential, and each blood bait is different from one another and cannot be passed on from exorcist to another. aesop’s blood bait, ‘ embalm ’, is contained in the mortician cosmetic box the exorcist is seen always carrying along, and when opened it takes the shape of an elaborate coffin. the casket itself is able to summon a lifelike replica of himself or someone else he’s able to replicate, powered by his own blood and consequently maneuverable by him like a life sized puppet.

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛: no self righteous claim is ever backed by equally pure true intentions, and The Order is no exception ━as their extremism has been known to know no ends just like their pride and greed, their desire to acquire more power and more riches causing them to indeed thread with the very creatures they claim of despising and creating the most complex and extensive blood trafficking ring that still to this day has never been truly caught or dismantled. they claim it’s in order to infiltrate and create ways to mine the greatest menace from the inside, but greed and hunger for more and more just roars louder within the darkest abysses. truth be told, so much of the ancient beliefs of The Order has been tressed in lies at some point in the darkest centuries and only those at the very top are well aware of it ━of how the blood baits do not need to be ‘ renewed ’ every month, of how blood in the supplementary hunger baits either comes from some unfortunate corpse or animals and all that blood taken away from the loyal and blinded exorcists gets actually sold to the great holders of the status quo known as the vampire aristocracy who so much want to hold their eons - old power just as much as their enemy and ‘ partners ’ want to steal it all from them ; they’re blueblood, old money after all ( the Bloodline above them all ), indifferent if not unbothered by the lower folk and creatures whose diatribes and feral rages act as more of a nuisance they’d like to get rid of before anything too out of hand can ever hope to happen. and in that, The Order’s strict beliefs just come quite handy ━especially considering the infighting between factions within the great clans of blood and how each clan dares using The Order to ' take care ' of dissidents that might menace the thin ice between two great forces, creating and manipulating several situations in order to trigger their intervention. and some members of the order itself ━or rather, those who are well suspicious but aren't aware of how things run deep in the highest spheres nor speak━ do not really hold any sympathy nor desire to be seen as the vampires' attack dog , for them it's just a temporary alliance given by the blood trafficking ring bc this way they get information about the enemy and ways to fully plot a mass extermination, usually dissidents in the order just ' disappear mysteriously '. it kinda works like a cold war born from an even ancient war leaving no trust between one another and ruination at each step in an equilibrium that truly doesn’t exist and is as much of a lie as everything else, with these subtle jabs at one another in higher spheres being covered by the loudness of both the hungerous creatures inhabiting the land and the facade of fanaticism of The Order ; both sides are driven by their own most selfish and most obscure desire and cravings that only seem to be amplified dangerously the more time passes, both sides want nothing but their status quo to reign and be maintained for their own interests to keep being fulfilled forevermore: The Order wanting for the extermination of all supernatural ‘ for the sake of humanity’s safety ’, the power and the riches ━and the Bloodline ( among other so - called allies ) to stay ontop of the social and power ladder and have endless pools of blood for them to feast on while all of the world would crash and burn in a new apocalypse allowing them to rewrite everything as their image and ideal. ( but maybe there’s more, creatures of lingering abyss playing chess with the living in their most maddening boredom, hiding underneath dormant churches ━who knew. )

#‹ ✞ › ━━ headcanons. #‹ ✞ › ━━ v:sancta sanctorum. #child grooming tw / #mental abuse tw / #emotional abuse tw / #corruption tw / #indoctrination tw / #discrimination tw / #extermination talk tw / #demonization tw / #dehumanization tw / #death tw / #manipulation tw / #mind games tw / #war tw / #i am sure im missing tags but please let me know if i did so i'll gladly add them alongside on the content warnings ontop ! #but aaaa it's been so long #im so proud of what i've created

[twentiethcenturymoviesandtv]

A Question of Auters: A Director’s Influence

John Ford.  Alfred Hitchcock.  Stanley Kubrick.  Martin Scorsese.  Orson Welles.  Charlie Chaplin.  Tim Burton.  David Lynch.  Francis Ford Coppola.  Steven Spielberg.

If you have only the barest knowledge of film, you recognize at least one of these names, and well you should.  These are the names upon which an entire school of thought is built, the greatest directors in film history.  These are the directors that matter, the creators that shaped an industry.  These are the men who made important films.

Or at least, so popular auteur theory would have us believe.

Auteur is a word heard often within the film community, thrown around as a casual term, part of the jargon used by those interested and well-versed in cinema.  Even those who aren’t interested or well-versed might recognize the word from use alone, and either way, depending on your viewpoint, it may inspire either a wise, respectful nod, or a disgusted snort.

Before we jump into the reasons for those reactions, however, perhaps we should discuss what, exactly, an auteur is.

The word auteur is a French noun, defined by dictionary.com like this:

A filmmaker whose individual style and complete control over all elements of production give a film its personal and unique stamp.

Or, for a simpler definition, just translate the word literally: auteur is French for author.

It’s a reasonable translation, one that makes a lot of sense.  In many ways, despite not literally writing the story or script, a director is the person the most responsible for a film’s end result.  They get the final call.  They work with the actors.  It is they who have the ‘vision’ of the film, the end product in mind throughout the entire project.

It’s no surprise that in a world fascinated by the relatively new (and relatively fast growing) medium of film, it didn’t take long for the public to become equally fascinated by the people most obviously behind the movie-making process: the directors.

The term auteur theory is not a new one.  It was discussed first by future author François Truffaut, in Cahiers du Cinéma titled Une certaine tendance du cinéma français, which, translated, is: “A Certain Tendency of French Cinema”, in which Truffaut criticized French cinema, championing instead American directors, notably Alfred Hitchcock and Howard Hawks.  It was also Truffaut who said:

“There are no good or bad films. Only good or bad directors.”

Later, the term auteur theory was first coined by American critic Andrew Sarris in a 1962 essay entitled Notes on the Auteur Theory, followed by a book called The American Cinema: Directors and Directions 1929–1968, which would go on to influence movie critics, raising further awareness of the idea of auteur theory in the first place.

But what is an auteur?  We’ve named a few, sure, and we’ve even discussed the basic definition, but how can you tell if a film is created by an auteur, rather than ‘just’ a director?  Where does the difference come in?

The answer lies in the examples used by Truffaut in his essay: Howard Hawks, and Alfred Hitchcock.

Both of those directors help set the gold standard for what would be considered the criteria for the auteur style, very simply by having a style of their own.

See, put very simply, Hitchcock and Hawks, while creating very different films, had one thing in common in terms of directing: they both had very distinct individual styles.

In Sarris’s 1962 essay, he laid down the groundwork, three major rules, that all directors must follow to be considered an auteur, all three of which Hawks and Hitchcock embodied to a T:

“A great director has to at least be a good director.”

 In other words, to be an auteur, the director in question has to be at least a competent story-teller and film-maker.  They must have some level of ability in terms of technicals.

2. “Over a group of films a director must exhibit certain recurrent characteristics of style which serve as his signature.”

An auteur must have a signature style.  This is probably the rule that people are the most familiar with, the distinguishable personality that makes Tim Burton’s films dark and full of stripes, or why Hitchcock has an ‘icy blonde’ in nearly every one of his best films.  This is the element that dictates that, for it to be the work of a true auteur, you can tell who the director was, just by looking at the film itself.

3. “Interior meaning is extrapolated from the tension between a directors personality and his material.”

In simpler terms, auteur films have to reveal the director’s innermost thoughts and ideas about life, the human condition, films, anything, really.  It’s these elements that give us Steven Spielberg’s use of fathers (and lack thereof) in his films, or his themes of ‘Growing Up Sucks’ and Tear Jerker stories of idealism, or Howard Hawks’ themes of manhood, or Martin Scorsese’s stories of Anti-Heroes, cynicism, and the idea of Family vs. Career.

To quote Andre Brazin:

“The politique des auteurs consists, in short, of choosing the personal factor in artistic creation as a standard of reference, and then assuming that it continues and even progresses from one film to the next. It is recognized that there do exist certain important films of quality that escape this test, but these will systematically be considered inferior to those in which the personal stamp of the auteur, however run-of-the-mill the scenario, can be perceived even minutely.”

In other words?  Being a bad film produced with a recognizable style is better than being a good film with a bland style.

The question is…is that true?

Is it better to be a worse film with the distinct fingerprints of a well-known name, or a good film with no individualism as a style?

And an even bigger question: does it all truly lie in the hands of the director?

Here’s the thing:

While auteur theory existed in the 1950s and 1960s, it wasn’t really considered a big deal, especially by the auteur’s themselves.  Hawks and Hitchcock thought of themselves as just working in a trade, not making art.  It was in the following decade that the idea truly took off.

The ‘auteurs’ emerged, en masse, in the 1970s, and with good reason: the entire idea of auteur is impossible without the existence of film school, and the ability and reason to watch a director’s entire filmography.  The distinct styles of Orson Welles, Charlie Chaplin, and Alfred Hitchcock directly influenced the ‘movie brat’ director generation, such as Scorsese, Spielberg,  Francis Ford Coppola, and Woody Allen, directors who had not only grown up with films, but with film studies.  This led to the birth of ‘New Hollywood’, the age of the director, a period that returned the state of productions to the way it had been in lulls of studio involvement in the past.  It’s no coincidence that many films on ‘best of’ lists are created by auteurs from the 1970s (although I should point out that there are no shortage of films created by stylistic directors beforehand).  Although the idea of ‘auteur’ had been around for decades, an argument could be made that director worship truly took off in the 1970s with films like The Godfather, Taxi Driver, Jaws, and Annie Hall.

The success of these films encouraged studios to put more projects in the hands of these up-and-coming directors, fresh and eager to tell new stories and make more films.  As big as the idea became in the 1950s and 1960s, it can be very easily argued that the idea experienced a rebirth in the 1970s, shaping very much the idea and examples we have available to us now.  But just as it sparked a resurgence, it also sparked a backlash, a backlash that some would argue was very much needed.

Some, like critic Pauline Kael, have been very outspoken against auteur theory, with plenty of arguments being made against it, such as it’s tendency to elevate lesser films, claiming that a bad movie by a great director is important simply because it has his style.  Other criticisms point out that just because a director forces his style on a film doesn’t necessarily mean it fits the individual film, making each movie more about style than substance (a common criticism of Stanley Kubrick’s work).  Other complaints explain that the idea of ‘auteur’ excuses Prima Donna Director behavior, or encourages overblown expressions of ‘vision’ that end in disasters.

These are valid criticisms.  

But there is one that is held above the rest, one final critique that remains, in my opinion, the nail in the coffin against auteur theory being considered so incredibly great, is that: film is, by nature, a collaborative effort.

I asked earlier if this all lies in the hands of the direction, and the fact is, no, it doesn’t.

There’s no Tim Burton or Steven Spielberg style without their signature Production Posses.  Alfred Hitchcock’s iconic work doesn’t rest on his shoulders alone.  Every director, no matter how involved or talented, relies on a network of people, all bearing a substantial portion of the weight of an individual film.  The best directors know this.  

The fact is, no matter how talented the director is, there must be a limit to the director’s power, or a film’s production can turn into an egotistical disaster.  By nature, movie productions are group efforts.  Between actors, producers, editors, cameramen, costume designers, transportation, catering, and countless other individuals with vital jobs, films are massive efforts from massive amounts of people.  Every movie, no matter how many ‘hats’ the director wore, is the result of the coordination of several people executing a vision that, in the end, may have been the director’s, but by no means was exclusively his.

“Boiling it down to one person and placing their influence above everyone else makes for bad movies.”  (“The Ultimate Guide to the Best Auteur Directors.” StudioBinder, 12 Feb. 2020, www.studiobinder.com/blog/auteur-theory/.)

In a nutshell?

Are directors important?

Of course they are.  They are still the head of a production, and they still do (often) have identifiable fingerprints on each film they’re a part of.

But with that said, it’s vital to remember that directors are not the end-all and be-all of an individual film.  Auteur theory is a valid element of film study, and by no means should it be omitted, but it should be contextualized in film history, a reminder that no director stands alone.

And the best directors, the auteurs themselves, would agree.

Thank you so much for reading, and I’ll see you in the next article.

#Film #Movies

[gamechangeroo]

Part 3/3

Click to read the Prologue and Chapter 1 first.

Chapter 2: Whether You Are Under or Over Them, Tables Are Places of Conversation

Gintoki woke up to a table crashing through the divider between his bedroom and the Yorozuya den. It was a loud enough projectile that he almost arrived in the waking world fast enough to dodge it.

Almost.

Instead, it startled him upright in time for him to feel the full brunt of the pain as the edge of the table crashed into his quadriceps, and the face flung forward to smack his torso.

He ended up sprawled on the ground, pancaked beneath it in a drowsy haze of achy irritation, listening to the annoying screams of idiotic children coming from the next room.

“How dare you barge into a lady’s home at this hour?!”

“Did I interrupt naptime, little girl?”

“How about you go to hell, sadist!”

Crushed into the floor, Gintoki swiveled his head to stare at his miraculously unharmed Justaway clock flashing merrily away mere centimeters from the table’s edge. The hour hand was smack dab on the three, which meant he had only been home for two hours before the bastard beagles had sniffed him out. Damn.

He sunk deep into the furthest depths of his drowsy brain to poke at parasite-kun with a mental stick. This is your fault, asswipe!

As it had done since ‘the convenience store incident,’ the thing wholly ignored him, hiding in the metaphysical plane where sadistic cops could not bring handcuffs and arrest warrants. Lucky it.

Back in the annoyingly physical world, Gintoki heaved the table off of his abused chest with a short grunt, and shuffled out into the firing zone. There he found Kagura being dragged across the floor by her unbound hair courtesy of a disheveled Sougo, whose forehead was bleeding rather copiously. Most importantly, however, the table that usually rested in the center of the room between two couches was conspicuously missing.

“Danna,” Sougo greeted, spraying flecks of blood from his lips as he spoke.

“Tax thief,” Gintoki returned, scratching the skin that lay just below the elastic of his boxers. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“We have your sword at the station,” Sougo said, barely dodging a fist Kagura sent at his jaw. “How about you come with me to pick it up?”

“Nice try,” Gintoki shot back. “My sword is right here.”

He waved a hand toward the innocent, wooden sword lying next to the upended table on his futon in the other room. He had taken to buying his Lake Touya in bulk these days, which was a particularly great strategy for times like these when he needed his next one quick.

“I see,” Sougo assented. “In that case, why don’t we just go for a drive? There’s a cool new sweets shop that just opened near the Shinsengumi barracks that I know you would really like. My treat.”

He had to give it to the kid; Sougo had returned his suspect claim with one of equal bullshit. Actually, Gintoki didn’t have to give him anything at this hour of the morning. He settled on staring the intruder down dully.

However, Kagura was still short enough so that these sorts of lies flew over her head, and she instead used the opportunity to scoff and sneer at her opponent.

“Too little too late, sucker. Team Yorozuya is already getting some sugar from a different daddy.”

Sougo looked curiously between Gintoki and the girl who was trying to stab his left eye with a chopstick, uttering a simple, “Oh?”

This little alien child was far too gullible, and far too willing to share their shady Amanto food deals with government dogs, who might find ways to take the parfait train away!

Grinning wide, Gintoki quickly started doing damage control: “Yup! We landed a fat cat client, who throws money at his problems until they go away. Or, rather, throws money at us until we fix them. By them I mean poodles, and by fix I mean not shitting on his sofa.”

After only a half second of confusion, Kagura nodded, playing along, “That’s right! We’re training a fat cat to shit money on us!”

That’s not… not off base. It would have to do.

It did not do though. The brat obviously was not drinking their Kool-Aid. He opened his mouth, looking like he was about to ask more seemingly-innocuous questions that were actually terribly insightful traps, when Kagura’s foot met his face with frightening speed, and Sougo, like the table earlier, flew across the apartment and crashed through a door – their front door this time.

Executing her version of damage control, Kagura gave Gintoki a cheerful thumbs-up, as if to say, I got this.

Well, Sougo was not drilling for state secrets anymore now that his head was busy drilling into their door. It would have to do.

After giving the victorious girl a half-assed head pat, Gintoki took a moment to put on some pants, a shirt, and his yukata, before dragging Sougo out of the hole his body had made in their entranceway. The bloodied and likely concussed officer nodded shortly in thanks, as he staggered out of the house, Gintoki in tow.

“I appreciate your cooperation, Danna,” Sougo said, opening the back door of the police car for him.

“What better way to show that I’m an upstanding citizen who would not even consider breaking the law? I would never impede the grand process of Justice,” Gintoki quipped, waving to Kagura as she flapped her arm lazily back at him from the balcony, seeing him off.

“You’d better bring me back some good stuff, Gin-chan,” she hollered.

Gintoki had no idea if there existed any food in Edo that even came close to the godly succulence that came out of the ovens in the Foryunthustoriphyxnarfyndalvnuduraqiualinoytfusian embassy, so this was a rather tall order now that her standards were so high. Maybe the imaginary sweets shop next to the Shinsengumi headquarters would exceed his expectations.

...

Kondo Isao stared down one fish-eyed Sakata Gintoki from across the black, square interrogation table. A dim, flickering lamp swayed back and forth above them, shadowing the hollows, crevasses, and scars on both faces, showing each man the light and darkness of the warrior in front of him. These two figures alone in this arid, windowless room painted a severe, powerful image.

With a harrumph, the leader of the Shinsengumi folded his arms in front of him, and said, “Now, when it comes to the sword ban in Edo, we normally turn you a blind eye. The good you have done not just for the government, but for the whole city, isn’t something any of us here will be soon inclined to forget.”

Gintoki’s expression remained unchanged. “But,” he prompted.

A firm smile was there and gone on his lips in half a moment before Kondo continued, “But. When you start using Laser Swords, heads higher up than us start to take notice. If we don’t do something to reprimand you, it could be our jobs on the line.”

“Laser Swords?” Gintoki asked incredulously, the mood in the room changing suddenly from solemn to just… strange.

“Well, what do you call it?” Kondo returned, leaning forward in his chair and looking somewhat eager. “We had a bit of a poll here in the office to decide what to put on reports, and Laser Sword won, though Disco Stick was a close second.”

“I wouldn’t call the Disco Stick anything, because I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gintoki replied obstinately, and crossed his feet on the table, rubbing the edges of the dirty soles against the clean, cold metal. “I am being brought in on false, unsubstantiated charges.”

Kondo nodded calmly before turning around to face the interrogation room’s one way mirror, cupping his hands, and yelling at his own reflection, “Oi, Yamazaki! Write down another vote for Disco Stick!”

After staring intensely into his own eyes for a few moments, Kondo turned back to Gintoki, looking satisfied that his request had been done.

“There is a lot of compelling evidence piling up, Danna,” Kondo resumed. “We have two eye-witnesses claiming a white-haired, permy samurai cleaved a convenience store in half with the wooden sword that we found at the scene. This is the same sword many of us have felt the brunt of at one time or another. We know what your weapon looks like.”

“What a terrible conspiracy theory,” Gintoki drawled and yawned outwardly, while steaming internally.

Two eyewitnesses? Who else could they be, but the cashier and Robber #1, and how dare they team up against him – particularly that cashier! That convenience store worker was working with the man who was about to slit his throat for money to throw the man who saved him from said man under a bus! Thankless bastard!

“Kondo-san, you know my weapon, and you know that it is no Disco Stick. Are you sure your pair of witnesses weren’t flying high on a little illegal disco of their own?”

Take that, cashier! We’ll see who is taking who down by the end of all this!

Now Gintoki was not just a rebel; he also had a cause. For each question Kondo asked him, he had an answer to give that undermined the reputation of a certain someone.

Where was he this evening at midnight? Well, human beings are notoriously terribly at remembering precisely what they were doing and when they were doing it. Everyone rewrites their own history in their own minds to make themselves out as better. We are useless witnesses, us humans. Didn’t you know, Gori-san?

Did he stop at a convenience store this evening? Well, convenience stores in Japan have been going downhill these days. Rumor has it the main chains like Eight-Twelve have been hiring felons to man their registers to cut costs, and not the mild sort of felon that ended up in the slammer because the slipped on a banana peel and bonked heads with a high-flying government leader. No, they’re hiring the sorts of felons that slipped on a banana peels and pushed a high-flying government leader to the ground in order to keep their balance. Terrible, dangerous thugs. Didn’t you know, Gori-san?

Yes, but, did he stop at a convenience store this evening? Well, they are called convenience stores, but they are not convenient at all. It is a well-documented fact that convenience store employees are trained to make customers feel inconvenienced and uncomfortable, because the more down in the dumps they are, the more likely they are to purchase the comfort food lining the aisles! Didn’t you know, Gori-san?

“Enough with the Gori-san!” Kondo finally snapped, successfully diverted from the line of inquiry, as Yamazaki burst through the door.

“The result just came in,” Yamazaki announced with all the gravitas his plain visage could muster, carrying a slip of paper to Kondo’s side. “Here it is, Chief Gori-san.”

“We are conducting a serious investigation, and all anyone can do is crack gorilla jokes?” Kondo scolded, holding the paper in front of his face to hide a shamed flush that colored his cheeks. The teasing was totally getting to him. “I am severely disappointed.”

Thoroughly chastened, the everyman in uniform apologized, before skittering out of the room. With this little show of leadership, the gorilla seemed to get a bit of his groove back, and summarily began scanning the paper under Gintoki’s dull-eyed stare.

As he watched the Shinsengumi leader’s eyes swing back and forth like a beady typewriter, Gintoki bounced a leg impatiently beneath the table.

Just what evidence had they pulled on him? It better not be too incriminating, because he needed out of this government-sanctioned dungeon that smelled like each member of this stupid sword-club rubbed their armpits on the walls after they worked up a sweat arresting innocent men and women every night. It was about time for his pre-breakfast breakfast at the Foryunthustoriphyxnarfyndalvnuduraqiualinoytfusian embassy, oi.

At long last, Kondo finally glanced up, cleared his throat, and regarded Gintoki with a firm gaze.

“It is all here,” he said.  “This makes things very clear.”

There was decisive evidence?! Shit. Gintoki waited with baited breath.

“What you’ve done tonight comes with serious consequences,” Kondo warned – his expression severe. “You have swayed many of my men. The voting majority is now in favor of Disco Stick.”

It was Gintoki’s turn to fling a table.

“WHO CARES ABOUT THE NAME!”

Twitching beneath the flung projectile, Kondo coughed, “You say that as a winner, but would you still be whistling that tune from my shoes? I lobbied for Cumming Wood with all I had.”

Gintoki was not necessarily proud of what he was about to do, but his blood sugar levels were low. Anything that would get his mouth near a parfait sooner was on the table, or, in this case, underneath it. With a sigh, he lifted one side of the table, and crawled next to Kondo before placing the table softly on top of both of them.

From his place on the floor, the gorilla stared at him with a quizzical expression that was somewhat prolate due to the table crushing his face. Gintoki scooched toward the befuddled commander and whispered in his ear, “Just how much does Cumming Wood mean to you?”

Kondo’s face tensed, as he started to catch on. In a low voice, he returned, “What… what do you mean?”

Well versed in these sorts of negotiations, Gintoki knew what Kondo was actually asking: What do you want for it?

Gently, so as not to spook his prey, Gintoki murmured, “I mean, if you were to let me go now, and let these underlings of yours know, as you and I do, that I had nothing to do with any of this, I might be able to convince those guys to do a recall vote.”

“A re-recall vote?” Kondo repeated, entranced. He scooted closer to Gintoki, causing a table leg to clang loudly against the nearby wall, as the base wobbled on top of them both.

“Cumming Wood is a great play on words. They obviously haven’t thought about it hard enough, so they just need some time to… reconsider,” Gintoki proposed casually.

Kondo’s face almost could not contain his wide smile, as he slipped deeper and deeper into Gintoki’s web. “It is a great pun, isn’t it!”

“Yes,” Gintoki affirmed – his voice soft, but commanding. “I could help your men realize that they made a terrible mistake. Really, we’ve all just made mistakes here. You guys didn’t vote for Cumming Wood, you guys brought in the wrong man. If we all own up to these errors, we could all get exactly-”

“What the hell?”

Dammit!

“Toshi!” Kondo screamed like a man who had just been sucker punched by his own self-respect. He pushed the table off of both of them in a flash, wrapping his arms around his own body, as if to cover up his misdeeds. “This isn’t what it looks like!”

“No, but I don’t actually know what it looks like.”

One Demon Vice-Commander stood in the doorway of the room, his expression a grand mixture of frustrated discomfort and all-consuming confusion, looking like he would rather be absolutely anywhere else. If Gintoki had offered him a choice between continuing to stand right there, and doing the backstroke in a pile of Saduharu’s diarrhea a few kilometers out from this spot, Gintoki honestly did not know which the guy might have picked.

“Hijikata-kun,” he greeted jovially enough from his spot on the floor next to Kondo’s interpretation of ‘A Deflowered Maiden is Greeted by Her Father.’

If this asshole’s existence had to ruin his chances at bribing his way out of here, Gintoki’s existence might as well serve to cause Hijikata some mental agony. He waved his fingers impishly.

To his credit, Hijikata appeared to regain his mental footing rather quickly. It only took a few seconds for his expression to change from DEFCON(STIPATION) 1 to neutral, as he strode quickly to Kondo’s side.

“Kondo-san, the results from Squads 5 and 8 just came through,” he reported, blatantly ignoring his superior’s shamed position on the floor. “I would recommend we discuss them outside.”

Staggering to his feet, Kondo grimaced and shook his head, muttering, “No, that won’t be necessary.”

The gorilla put a hairy-knuckled hand on his Vice-Chief’s shoulder, and squeezed it lightly. He continued, “I… I have been compromised. You’ll need to take over the investigation from here.”

“Huh?” Hijikata had the decency to look halfway alarmed, as he glanced between Gintoki and Kondo. “What did he do?”

Kondo waved off Hijikata’s concern with a sad, distant smile – his eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “He… he used Cumming Wood against me.”

Immediately, Hijikata’s expression shuttered, and he pushed a sniffling gorilla toward the exit.

“No need to worry. I’ll take it from here,” he said, firmly slamming the door on his superior before the man could say another word.

The room fell into an incredibly heavy silence. Hijikata stood stiffly with his hands still on the door he had shut, while Gintoki eyed him from his spot on the floor. He watched the tense back of a man that knew he had to follow Cumming Wood, and Gintoki realized he had a decision to make. Did he want to get out of this Shinsengumi hell hole sooner than later, which meant playing nice with this police dog whose leash was a little too long for his short temper? Or, would it be more satisfying to kick this mutt while it’s down and rot in jail forever?

Neither! Neither is good! Is there any option where Gin-san can escape while kicking the dog?

He heard the flick of a cigarette lighter, as Hijikata turned to face him. Gintoki gave his most surly expression in response to the man’s sharp gaze, but did not speak. He was using inhuman amounts of self-restraint right now, which the world should recognize and justly reward!

After another eon of quiet, Hijikata stepped over the upended table and strode over to the one chair remaining upright, sitting where Gin-san’s butt had been only minutes before. Gintoki took this as a victory, and sneered.

Catching the sneer, but not the meaning, Hijikata let out a put-upon sigh.

Finally breaking the silence, he said, “I suppose now is as good of a time as any.”

“Huh?” Gintoki snorted, as sparking hostility gave way to confusion. That was not really the opener that he was expecting.

Giving him a long, assessing look, the Shinsengumi devil uttered, “You’re an idiot.”

Finally in familiar territory, Gintoki welcomed this insult as a declaration of war.

“Says the man who follows the orders of Commander Cumming Wood!”

“Shut it!” Hijikata bristled. “You leave Kondo-san out of this!”

“I’ll leave him out of it if you jackasses leave me out of it!” Gintoki yelled indignantly, as he scrambled to his feet. He was feeling the urge to tower over his opponent.

By the red splotches creeping across his face, Hijikata looked about ready to rise to the bait himself, but settled for blowing an aggressive puff of smoke in Gintoki’s direction, which, where this guy was concerned, was a pretty lukewarm shot to fire. Mr. Mayo was holding himself back. Maybe it had to do with how there were probably half a dozen or so Shinsengumi ducklings watching his performance through that one way mirror, or maybe he realized he needed to take a shit when he entered the room and now he was stuck here, or maybe Gintoki didn’t really care enough to guess. All he knew was that he had spotted a weak point, and there was no way he wasn’t about to exploit it. Gintoki walked toward the man with heavy steps.

“There wouldn’t be a situation to leave you out of if you a– wait, what are you-”

The bastard paused mid-sanctimonious speech, shock paling his face, as Gintoki lifted the cigarette from Hijikata’s lips, put it between his own, and inhaled.

Jutting out his jaw in a show of dominance, smoke leaking through his nostrils, Gintoki hissed, “You take my freedom? I take your cigarette.”

All at once, Hijikata’s face lost all traces of humanity, leaving only a beast out for blood. Gintoki sneered in victory and prepared to parry any attack this hot tempered loser would try to throw his way.

However, just as soon as his temper had flashed, Hijikata slammed a lid on it. The only signs of its existence now rested in his hands, which were gripping his uniformed thighs so tight that he might have been close to bruising his own bones.

“Yorozuya,” he hissed, sounding like a viper with a sore throat. “Stop acting like a child and listen to me.”

Who wanted this stupid cop’s olive branches if he was going to give them out covered in demeaning insults? Gintoki knew just where this asshole could shove his pathetic attempts at half-assed anger management.

Taking another drag from the cigarette, Gintoki threw it lazily to the ground, stomping it to ash with his boot.

“That one tasted like secondhand shitty cop. Gimme another,” he demanded in as derisively provocative of a tone as he could manage, gesturing toward the rectangular bump in Hijikata’s uniformed pocket.

Hijikata pupils were so dilated by this point that his irises were completely consumed by black. The atmosphere around him vibrated like the air above summertime pavement dances and shimmers on the hottest days of the year. Gintoki blatantly ignored the warning signs and reached out to pick the prick’s pocket.

The tips of Gintoki’s fingers brushed the box and lighter, before pinching their edges and lifting them. He rummaged about in the package, taking out a cigarette, and began showily flicking the lighter.

Hijikata’s lips cracked into a crooked, cutting smile.

“Okay,” he said. “You win.”

...

Lounging about on the cold, stone floor of the Shinsengumi holding cell, Gintoki ignored any regrets that came to visit, while also doing his best to ignore the real world smells of piss and human suffering that emanated from his immediate vicinity. There really wasn’t any way this terrible fate could have been avoided. Hijikata might as well have ordered Gintoki to snatch his cigs at sword point, considering how coerced this hapless citizen had been into committing this non-crime.

Speaking of non-crimes, just how long could these shitty excuses for cops keep him here for rustling the jimmies of their commanding officers? Gintoki let this question echo throughout his mind to make sure that his friendly, neighborhood brain parasite heard about the unfair dilemma its host was being put through. However, to his complaints, the indignant prisoner received no response inside his head or out.

#gintamafanfic #incomplete

[soberqueerinthewild]

I don’t know what you saw, I want somebody who sees me 

{AO3 Link}

Alternatively Titled: In which Kyle goes to a gay bar

Part 1 can be found HERE : You likely want to read Part 1 first to get full context, but in theory this could be read as a standalone. 

More introspective Maria POV. Malex, mentions of Maria/Michael, Maribel if you squint, a scene of Kyle in a gay bar that serves no narrative purpose, but I just had to write it. 

Thanks to @seeaddywrite for fixing my grammatical mistakes and being patient with my run-on sentences.

***

It doesn’t end with a bang, but with a whimper. She never does work up the nerve to have that direct, adult conversation she knows would’ve been the healthy way to handle the new revelations. But with running the bar and taking care of her mother, she never really has emotional reserves to handle whatever the result of that conversation might be. And on the days she thinks maybe she could stand it, Michael always looks decimated from another day of practicing new powers, following new leads that turned into dead ends, or soaking his troubles in acetone.

Instead, she lets the relationship start to die the death of a million little cuts. Because after that day in the Crashdown, it’s like a a veil lifts and she realizes that the problems in her relationship don’t start or end with feeling like she’s the interlude in someone else’s love story. She let herself fall into familiar patterns with Michael. Maria’s been told more than once that she has a tendency to put her own needs last. Hazards of a psychic, she guesses, and it’s only gotten worse since her mom hasn’t been coherent enough to remind Maria that she matters; that it’s ok for her to ask for what she needs. It’s not that Maria is a pushover, far from it. She doesn’t let people walk all over her, and she stands up for herself when the situation demands it. It’s more that she rarely asks for help, because when she can innately sense that her friends are already struggling with their own grief and trauma, it feels easier to just... be her own damn savior. That way, she can stick to being the fun, supportive friend, instead of adding to their already heavy burdens. In relationships, when in every argument, she feels the disappointment and hurt radiating off her partner, well, who could blame her if she twists herself in knots to be everything they need instead. In recent years, she’s mostly stuck to dating people like Chad, with the emotional depth of a banana slug, whose feelings never reached the point of even registering; or one night stands, where she has no problems asserting her own needs rather than even trying for a relationship with any sort of future where she’d be forced to figure out how much of herself she was willing to give away.

It’s a little ironic because she’d seen choosing to accept Michael’s overtures and start a relationship as progress of a sort. Messy and perhaps ill-advised, but an attempt nonetheless at putting her own wants and needs first. It felt unnatural, and guilt settled heavily on her shoulders, yet she thought perhaps it would fade. Other people did this all the time, prioritized relationships over friends, and she thought maybe if she pushed through, it would start to feel better. And maybe it would’ve in time, but it turns out that making that one choice didn’t alter her well-worn patterns. Michael’s pain, as much as he tried to tamp it down with her, felt so overwhelming that she’d slipped into a familiar care taking role. She’d let herself be what he needed: a safe place, a distraction. She could sense that he wanted things to be easy with her, so she acquiesced. She didn’t ask the questions she knew he didn’t want to answer, and she pushed down her own resentments that he’d had a brother with healing hands and never told her, when he knew she had a mother who rambled about aliens and was rapidly losing her memories. Pushed down her fury that she’d been drugged and violated and used and he still hadn’t told her about what happened to her until events forced his hand. In darker moments, she wonders if he kept it from her not because he was so used to protecting the secret at all costs, but because it was more important to him to have someone with whom he could escape his reality than to be honest with her.  

In an alternate universe, she would’ve recognized what this was a lot sooner, and adjusted her expectations accordingly. In fact at first, right after Texas, she’d thought Michael Guerin might be the perfect escape for her, too. Someone who wouldn’t expect anything from her, who wouldn’t worry if she drowned her heartache over her mother in tequila a little more than was advisable, and who could help her work off some frustrations with sex whenever she wanted it. But somehow, someway, without her even recognizing it, her feelings for Michael had deepened, and learning about his history with Alex had raised the stakes. She wouldn’t risk hurting Alex for just a fling, but she’d begun to think that she and Michael might have a shot at something real, and perhaps, after feeling lonely for so long, it might be worth the cost. So she’d stubbornly ignored the signs, pretended that it was working for her, that they were headed somewhere, that she wasn’t just doing what she always did, and letting him take what he needed from her, while burying her own needs down deep. Now that her eyes are open, she realizes it’s not even a decent distraction. Sure the sex and companionship is nice, their banter can be fun when either of them is up for it, and she knows they do genuinely care for each other, but she can’t leave her problems behind with him. Not when after a day spent listening to her mom ramble about aliens and mind control, she comes home to Isobel freaking Evans in her kitchen, taking a walk through her best friend’s memories in the newest attempt to resurrect Max. This is not what she needs.

When Isobel and Liz finally leave, she knows she can’t leave it one more night. It’s Sunday, which is both her day off and the night the bar closes at 9, so it’s empty when she leads Michael down the stairs and suggests a night cap. Maybe this’ll be easier outside the confines of her apartment in a more neutral place. When she tells him it’s over, Michael looks resigned, but not surprised. It’s been weeks of cutting remarks, awkward silences, and disconnected sex, as her heart really hasn’t been in it. Maria had kind of been waiting for him to put them out of their misery, but now realizes Michael has never gotten this far in a relationship and has no idea what to do, so it falls on her.

“Is it the alien thing? Or is it just me?” Maria forces herself to harden her heart against the flash of pain in Michael’s eyes. She knows abandonment is a sore spot for him. “Or is it Alex?”

His name hangs between them, for so long unspoken. She doesn’t answer; it’s all those things and none at the same time.

Michael rushes to fill the silence. “I’ve told you, it’s over, I’m over him.”

It’s the blatant lie that pushes her out of the resigned acceptance, and sparks fire in the pit of her stomach. “Oh yeah?” She retorts. “Tell that to my light bulbs.”

When he doesn’t respond, but merely arches an eyebrow at her, feigning confusion, she continues conversationally, “You know, I lied. Kyle Valenti and Alex aren’t actually dating.”

Even as the words come out of her mouth she doesn’t know if she means them as a jab, a test, or just a parting gift. If it’s a test, he definitely fails, as she barely has to try to feel the wave of relief, and the spike of sharp hope that course through Michael in an instant, followed closely by guilt.

She cuts him off before he can mutter a denial. “You can’t lie to a psychic, Guerin.”

He hangs his head, but doesn’t try to convince her. She doesn’t want to make this hard. If he keeps looking like that, she’s worried she’ll cave. Her weakness is kicked puppies, after all. But this isn’t good for either of them. She’s seen the cracks and she can’t pretend they don’t exist. Can’t stay in this just so he doesn’t have to handle another person walking away. She desperately wishes now they hadn’t tried this. He could use a friend, they both could, and it’ll be hard to get back there now, with resentments between them. She tries for that maturity and honesty she hasn’t been able to muster in the last weeks.

“Michael, we just can’t be what each other needs. You want something that’s a little bit easy: a distraction, an escape maybe? It’s ok to want that, but it can’t be with me. Because for me, choosing this, us, wasn’t easy. It had a cost. And it’s not an escape when my mother’s afflictions are wrapped up in alien secrets you don’t like talking about with me. I can’t keep pretending those things aren’t true, or pretending this is gonna be something it never is.” She blinks back tears and avoids his gaze.

When he finally speaks he sounds as defeated as she feels. “It sounds like your mind’s made up then. Should I even bother trying to change it?”

She swallows her knee jerk response of ‘do you even want to?’ because it won’t help anyone. “Yeah, it is made up,” she replies instead.

She can’t resist taking this last opportunity to say the words that have been bubbling under her tongue for the last few weeks.

“And I know you didn’t ask, but just my two cents? Distraction is a coping mechanism, but it’s supposed to be a temporary one. Someday you’ve got to stop avoiding, stop escaping into a relationship or a bottle, and actually talk about some of your trauma. You’ve been through so much, and I know you want to focus on Max, but ignoring everything else isn’t helping. I know talking to a therapist is probably out, but maybe you should try with a friend. Maybe someday that can even be me, but not if we keep doing this.”

She doesn’t really expect a response from him, but his silence is a deafening confirmation that she’s doing the right thing. They sit there staring at each other for what feels like an hour before he finally mutters, “I’m sorry, Deluca.”

“Yeah, me too.” And she really is. “Take care of yourself, Guerin.” The last names feel like an attempt to erect a wall, to regain some distance and bring them back to a time where all that was between them was caustic exchanges about his bar tab and harmless flirting. He takes the cue and gets up to leave, with just one dejected look over his shoulder on his way out the door.

She manages to wait until she’s sure he’s out of earshot before she breaks down. Weeks of pent up emotions flow out of her and she’s choking on her sobs, making it hard to breathe. She feels so desperately alone all of the sudden. She should call Liz, but even though she knows it’s not fair, the only person she wants right now is Alex. Ten minutes later with two shots of tequila warming her veins and clouding her head just enough, she gives in and presses the call button. He answers breathless after three rings, his voice laced with concern.

“Maria, is everything ok?”

They never call, only text, especially lately. Hearing his voice brings on a new round of tears, she tries to speak through them, but the words won’t come. What could she even say? ‘I broke up with the love of your life and I need you to comfort me?’ She wonders for a sick, dizzying moment if maybe Alex already knows. If maybe he was the first call Michael made on his way out the door. She pushes away the paranoia, but still can’t find the words.

Alex doesn’t need them. “Are you at the bar?” She manages to choke out an affirmative. “I’ll be right there.”

True to his word, he’s there 10 minutes later, and for a second she wonders where he was, since clearly he couldn’t have arrived that fast from his cabin. Her question is answered as Kyle trails in after him. He seems to have appointed himself head of the Alex Manes defense squad and determined he might be in need of protection from Maria, for fuck’s sake. God, she really doesn’t want to lose her shit in front of Valenti. He seems to have matured but it’s still hard for her to think of him as anything other than the asshole, high school bully, who Liz was much too good for. Alex immediately understands what she needs and as soon as he sees her face he tells Kyle he can go as he takes three steps across the room to fold her into his arms. Kyle turns and leaves without comment.

Alex strokes her hair and she leans against him heavily. She knows she owes him an explanation of some kind for dragging him over here.

“It’s over. I broke up with Michael.” Alex’s hand stills in her hair for a fraction of a second before resuming the comforting, even, strokes. “You were the only one I wanted. I know it’s so unfair of me to even call.”

He shushes her as he takes the seat beside her, re-adjusting but never removing his arms from her shoulders. “You can always call me,” he assures her softly.

Maria tentatively reaches out with her powers and for the first time in months she can actually feel something from him. The empathy and love for her emanating off of him feel like a balm to her soul. It’s such a relief to feel anything from him at all, that she pulls back and stops herself from probing too deeply. If underneath there’s just the tiniest spark of hope, well, no one would blame him, but she’d rather not know. For now, she would prefer to relish the comfort of her best friend and leave reality for another day.

***

Her relationship with Alex isn’t magically repaired overnight. There is still a guardedness to their interactions that was never there before, but day by day things improve. Within a week Alex has started swinging by the Wild Pony again during slow times to keep her company, and joining her and Liz at the Crashdown for milkshakes. It feels like the old days for the most part, even though they both avoid the elephant in the room and haven’t discussed Michael at all. The night of the breakup Alex asked enough to ascertain whether or not Michael deserved an ass kicking (she’s guessing if she’d said yes he might have outsourced to Valenti, but she’s confident it would’ve been at least attempted either way), and then didn’t press when she didn’t offer details beyond the vague ‘we were looking for different things.’ It’s still not as effortless as it once was, but the fact that they are both trying so hard makes her confident that they can get back there eventually.

As the weeks pass she starts to feel more like herself and she wonders if maybe she should tell Alex that Michael hasn’t given up hope. Maybe all they need is a little nudge. She ultimately decides against it. There’s so much she still doesn’t know about what’s happened between them all these years and Michael’s not exactly in a great place to be with anyone right now anyways. Besides, the part of her that’s still re-learning to sleep alone isn’t sure she could handle being the conduit in their reconciliation quite yet.

Instead, she vows to stay out of it and let them work out their own shit if they can. Alex at least seems to be making progress on some of his. Though there’s a heavy sadness and guilt that burns beneath anything else he feels, now that he’s finally let her back in, she’s thrilled to realize that she no longer senses the blanket of shame that used to weigh down any joy he tried to claim for himself. It seems he’s cast it aside these past few months and traded it for a steady surety and confidence that suits him as well as the leather jacket he’s taken to wearing again.

Apparently his look isn’t the only thing that’s changed. Maria’s surprised and pleased when Kyle invites her one night to come along with him and Alex to the only gay bar within a 100 mile radius of Roswell. Since her breakup with Michael, Kyle has warmed considerably to her. He was never rude before, just coolly polite, always keeping one eye on Alex as if he might need to rescue him from the conversation at any minute. He’s finally dropped that habit and she’s come to find him witty and charming in a way she didn’t expect. And since she and Alex still fall into awkward silences when one-on-one, the specter of Michael hanging between them, Kyle has been the perfect buffer. She’s tempted by the offer, especially when she learns it’s karaoke night, but Maria never leaves the Wild Pony on a Saturday night. It’s her most profitable and she really can’t afford to miss out on the night’s tips, but a conversation with Liz grounds her in the realization that there really is no amount of money she wouldn’t sacrifice to see Kyle Valenti in a gay bar.

Liz and Rosa have opted for a sister’s night in, and so it’s just Maria, Kyle, and Alex for the night. Maria finds that even more amazing than seeing former homophobic bro-jock Kyle Valenti looking completely at home in a gay bar, is watching Alex’s whole demeanor noticeably relax as soon as they walk through the door. She’d anticipated that he might be nervous or uncomfortable, since as far she knows he’s not the gay bar type, but he looks completely at ease, smiling and even flirting a bit with the bartender as he grabs them all another round of drinks.

Kyle interrupts her musing. “The first time I brought him here he was all nerves. I don’t think he looked a single person in the eye, and look at him now.”

“Wait, you brought him here?”

“Well I couldn’t watch him sulk one more goddamn day. We’d both been buried in research for a month after that night, mired in guilt over the atrocities our fathers committed, and starting to go a little stir crazy. I knew we had to do something to break our rut, so I got online, found this place and kidnapped him. He was pretty mad at first, but it turned out to be fun. So we’ve come back every few weeks since, when we need to blow off some steam.”

“Well you look awfully comfortable here. Come to any new revelations about yourself I should know about?” She’s half-kidding, but on the other hand he seems awfully enthusiastic about bimonthly trips to a gay bar so maybe he is enjoying more than just the drinks.

Kyle lets out a heavy sigh. “Unfortunately, I seem to be unfairly, but fatally afflicted with heterosexuality.”

Maria lets out a startled laugh. “Wait, are you legitimately upset about that?” Maria has long considered herself to be, at the very least, on the flexible side of heteroflexible (bisexual, she guesses would be the right word, though it’s not one she’s ever used out loud to describe herself, in part because opportunities to explore this part of herself have been scarce in Roswell), so she can’t really relate to Kyle’s consternation.

“Yes!” Kyle exclaims, banging both hands on the table for emphasis. “I really opened myself up to the possibility, thinking maybe my homophobia in high school was really some version of self-hatred. But after much reflection, I think I was just a dick. I just... don’t want to have sex with men.”

Maria tries to follow. “And this is... upsetting to you?”

“Yes! I mean, Alex is my favorite person; we already spend all of our time together. Wouldn’t it be great if we could also have sex? I mean, if I were even just a little gay, or bisexual, I guess, and you know... if he actually wanted to have sex with me. Which I don’t think he does. Which is honestly a little offensive?! I mean have you seen me? I’m a catch. And I’m a surgeon. Do you think it’s ‘cause I’m not tall?”

Apparently after after a 48 hour call shift, the two drinks Kyle downed quickly when they arrived have hit him hard. Luckily, drunk Kyle is a trip and a half. Even if she has to carry his ass home, it will have been worth it just to bear witness to that little rant.

Maria pats his shoulder placatingly, “Yes, Kyle, you’re definitely a catch. You know how I know? ‘Cause all those guys,” she points to the six guys she can see right now that have zeroed in on their table, “aren’t staring at me. If you want to explore whether the attentions of men do it for you or not, I think you might find a willing test subject here.”

Kyle laughs, preening himself a bit.

Alex returns to the table as they are still laughing. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh just Valenti enjoying a little ego boost,” Maria quips.

“Oh yeah, he’s very popular here. I actually feel kind of bad about bringing him here to disappoint his many admirers with his unfortunate heterosexuality.”

“But you do anyway, because I’m an excellent wingman.”

“Well,” Alex concedes, “you’re certainly a determined wingman.”

The banter is interrupted as a very attractive guy who looks like he just stepped out of a Navy Seals recruitment brochure, approaches their table and asks Alex to dance. To Maria’s utter shock and delight, he gets up, tosses a wink back at her and Kyle, and makes his way out to the dance floor. Maria can only watch in amazement. She wonders idly just how many glasses and light bulbs would explode if Michael were here to witness this, but pushes the thought away to focus on Alex.

Despite the fact that Alex has been out since he was 16, there’s always been a disconnect in his willingness to state he was gay and actually acting on it, at least in public. He confessed once while drunk and maudlin that though he’s been out to basically everyone since DADT was repealed, there are still moments when he hears the echo of his father’s voice ranting about how his perversions make him weak. That sometimes, when he catches himself looking at a guy in a certain way, he suddenly feels like he’s still that scared 11 year old who isn’t exactly sure why his dad is beating him, but it seems to be something about the way he looks at Kyle Valenti. Maria’s heart broke for him then, and she always hoped he’d figure out how to overcome it. Watching him now, relaxed in a room full of other queer people, it seems like he finally has, and Maria couldn’t be prouder. She’s not totally sure how Jesse Manes wound up in a coma, but she sure as hell won’t be shedding any tears about it. Sometimes she thinks she’d have killed him herself given half a chance.

The night flies by in a haze of drinks, dancing, and karaoke, and ends with Maria and Kyle shamelessly eavesdropping as yet another cute guy propositions Alex. They both boo rather loudly when Alex lets him down gently and suggests they finally head home. Alex is the designated driver (apparently Kyle had the honor last time, when they brought Liz and Isobel, of all people, with them. Maria tries not to be resentful that she hadn’t gotten an invite) so they have no choice but to call it a night and follow him out the door.

“Why’d you turn that guy down?” Kyle whines drunkenly. “I’ve seen you talk to him here before. He’s cute, right?” He looks to Maria for confirmation.

“Yes, totally.” She nods her head emphatically, the motion causing her to stumble a bit, and forcing her to admit that she’s more than a little drunk herself.

Alex smirks at them, a spark of mischief she hasn’t seen in a long time in his eyes. “Honestly, he’s just not that good in bed.”

“What?” Kyle practically screeches, “You’ve been holding out on me, Manes! As your wingman you are obligated to tell me these things. When did you even have time? I see you like every day.”

“It was barely worth writing home about. When we were here last month? Or maybe six weeks ago, he gave me his number and we hooked up one night you were on call, I think. It was fine, but I’m not looking for a repeat performance or anything.” Maria tries to catch his gaze, but he looks pointedly away and clears his throat, an awkward silence falling for the first time that evening.

Maria’s insides twist uncomfortably, guessing why Alex isn’t looking for repeats. She feels a momentary kinship with Alex’s random hookup, as they both hadn’t realized they could never compete with 10 years of cosmic, epic, star-crossed love. Maria forces herself to halt that train of thought. She really doesn’t want to let the bitterness take over and sour her night. She knows that eventually she’s going to have to reckon with Alex and Michael. If they get back together she will have to work on seeing them together and thinking about their relationship without it hurting. She won’t lose Alex again, so she’ll figure it out. But tonight is not the night for that. Tonight was supposed to be about fun, reconnecting with her friend, singing some karaoke, and watching Valenti get hit on by men, all of which she accomplished.

She forces herself not to dwell, and instead she slings an arm over Kyle’s shoulder. “Hey, I still think you’re a good wingman. You can’t be held responsible for quality.”

“Next time I’ll ask for references before sending anyone your way.” Kyle jokes as Alex shoves him towards the car.

“Get in before I decide to leave you behind.”

Maria clambers into the front seat next to Alex, forcing Kyle into the back. She tries to hold on to the joy of the night, of the few hours she was able to leave her troubles behind her. She leans against the door, and drifts off to the sound of Alex softly singing along to the radio, grateful for the temporary reprieve.

***

After that night, Maria realizes how important it is for all of them, Alex, Kyle, Liz, Rosa, and even Michael and Isobel to take breaks. She feels helpless in all of it, not able to cure her mother or be of much use in the plans for Max, so instead she focuses on taking care of herself and her friends in the process. She sets time aside for dance parties and slumber parties with Liz and Rosa, as well as movie nights with Liz, Rosa, Kyle, and Alex, as they all enjoy making Kyle sit through all of the Star Wars movies. She even pushes past her distaste for Isobel Evans, which she’s forced to reconsider a bit anyways as she learns that some of the actions Maria so resented were really Noah acting through her. So she does her best to be kind when she makes deliveries of food and booze for Isobel and Michael. The act allows her to feel useful without immersing herself in all the alien drama or having to talk to Michael.

About six weeks after she and Michael officially ended things, she catches him lingering in the Wild Pony parking lot, a look of indecision on his face. She stops and takes stock of him for a long minute. The sharp stab of pain, anger, and guilt she’s felt previous times they’ve seen each other seems to have lessened to a dull ache. She meant it when she’d told him that she hoped they could be friends again someday, and she supposes now is as good a time as any to start. She rolls her eyes and shoves him towards the door. He gives a surprised squak, and then a flash of a relieved smile, accepting her overture. After that he makes an appearance once or twice a week, mostly with Isobel or Liz. He doesn’t sit at the bar anymore, which she appreciates, as she’s not ready for the proximity, but it doesn’t hurt as much to look at him as she feared and she has hope that it will continue to get easier.

It seems that Alex and Michael have moved past some of their uneasiness too, enough that they aren’t limiting their interaction to text and email anymore. Liz has made off-hand mention of planning sessions where Michael, Isobel, Liz, Kyle, and Alex were all present. She’s also seen them at the Crashdown together a few times, talking quietly, with a nervous energy crackling between them. Maria tries not to wonder if they’ve made their way back to each other in other ways. She wants badly not to care, but her skin still flushes when Michael catches her eye, and her body still unconsciously seeks his in the middle of the night. She knows these reflexes will fade at some point, maybe after her patented cure of random sex, different guy, which she hasn’t worked up the energy for yet, but for now it’s hard to shake.

Intellectually, she’s pretty certain Michael and Alex are not actually together, if only because she imagines the nervousness would dissipate in that case. She can’t help but notice how Alex can’t figure out what to do with his hands when Michael is near, clenching them into fists or tucking them in his pockets, as if he needs to physically restrain himself from touching. She’s not too proud to admit she does eavesdrop the times she sees them talking. When Alex senses her presence he always takes an unconscious step backwards widening the distance between them, and elevating his tone just enough to be sure she hears that the conversation is business rather than personal.

Though she doesn’t immerse herself in alien fight club, she gathers from her talks with Liz, Alex, and Kyle that slow, but steady progress has been made in the plans to resurrect Max. She stays  stayed largely out of the loop, for her own sanity, but she makes sure Liz knows that if she does need to talk about it, or if Maria can be any help at all, she’ll set aside her reservations and do what she can.

That’s how, about six months after that night, which is how they all have apparently decided to refer to the night when Max died, she ends up in a dank cave, on a cold night, with claps of thunder echoing in her bones, questioning how the hell this is her life.

***

When Alex and Kyle had come into the bar just before closing two nights before, looking like death warmed over, she knew something was going on, especially when she spotted what looked like a glowing fingerprint peeking out of the neck of Alex’s shirt. She stares pointedly until he buttons it up all the way. Once she ushers out the last of the drunks, she pours tequila for all of them wordlessly, knowing she’s going to be in for a hell of a ride. The plan as they lay it out sounds a little convoluted to her ears, based off some Project Shepherd research, plus a lot of conjecture and half-baked hopes, but it’s all they’ve got.

“So, let me make sure I understand. Your research shows that strong emotions fuel alien power.”

“Yes,” Kyle answers first. “In all the experiments at Caulfield that proved true. Any strong emotions increased the effectiveness of the powers, like anger or fear.”

“Right, but also, we do know from Noah and from those experiments that killing is the most effective. But that’s out of the question?” Maria’s not sure if that’s a statement or a question.

Alex rushes to assure her. “Yes, out of the question. ‘Do no harm’ over here wouldn’t let us sacrifice my dad to the cause.” Its a testament to how far from normal they’ve strayed that Maria’s not sure if it’s a joke or not. Alex continues, “But we think that love is just as effective. In the experiments, the aliens were stronger when they were protecting others, and we know that Max brought Liz back from the dead, just on his own power, fueled by his love for her.”

“Right,” Maria continues, “So you want Michael and Isobel together, with their new healing skills, to use their love for Max to fuel his resurrection?”

“We think it’s gonna take a little more than that. Max has been dead nearly six months now. Liz had barely been gone a minute, and Max was more experienced at healing. It was his main power, not a side one, so we think they’ll need more help.”

“And this is where Liz comes in?” Maria asks. This is the part of the plan that scares her the most. This all sounds so intense and she’s not sure she wants Liz anywhere near it.

“Yes, Izzy has walked through Liz’s mind before, and when she does, she can feel Liz’s love for Max shine through her,” Kyle explains. “She thinks she can harness it, combined with her own, to boost her power. And since there’s a storm coming in two days, and Michael’s been working with electricity a lot, he’s going to try to do that Thor thing Max did.” Despite the serious nature of the conversation, Maria’s amused to see Alex shoot Kyle an approving grin, like he does anytime Kyle manages to make an accurate sci-fi reference.

Alex adds, “That’s the plan and we kind of just have to hope it works. We really can’t know until we try.”

Maria’s not confident it will,  but she knows one thing: she’ll have to be there. She fixes them both with a stubborn glare they know better than to argue with. “If Liz is going to tear down her armor to flay herself open with her love for Max, I have to be there for her. If this all goes sideways, she’s going to need someone that’s in their right mind.”

“I can do that, Maria. I know all this has been hard for you. You do not have to come.” Maria knows the sentiment is coming from a good place, which is the only reason she doesn’t flip him off for his slightly patronizing tone.

“I assume Kyle is there as, you know, an actual doctor to make sure Michael and Isobel don’t kill themselves in the effort. And I’m guessing you’re directing this operation, Alex. You’ll have your hands full, so that leaves me for Liz.”

Alex relents. “I think she wanted to ask, but she didn’t want you to feel obligated.” Maria shakes her head. Sometimes she and Liz are too alike for their own good, never wanting to add to the other’s burdens.

“Ok, then it’s settled. Just tell me when I have to be there and if there’s anything else I need to know. Like for instance, why you’ve got a handprint on your shoulder, Alex.”

“Because he’s a lunatic that’s why!” Kyle exclaims in exasperation. “Just sliced his own shoulder open today when we were going through the plan with Michael and Isobel. Michael healed him, fueled by anger primarily, since this one wouldn’t stop antagonizing him. I don’t know exactly what you were trying to do.”

Alex looks down, avoiding both of their gazes. “It’s just a backup plan, but hopefully it won’t matter.”

“Backup plan?” Kyle seems as confused as Maria is. “Oh, in case love isn’t a strong enough motivator for Michael, you wanted to see if he could heal with anger motivating him?”

“Something like that,” Alex responds evasively.

He’s obviously not telling them something, but when Maria tries to pry into his feelings she feels that steel wall again, as Alex was clearly expecting her. She doesn’t love surprises, but there are more important things to focus on, so she lets it go and she, Alex, and Kyle spend the rest of the night thinking about supplies to bring to the cave to be sure they are prepared for any eventuality. With so much out of their hands, they grip tightly to what they can control.

***

As happy as Maria is that they thought to pack warm clothes and rain gear, she realizes there was no real way to prepare for this. They wait helplessly while Michael paces outside in the wind and rain, trying to figure out how Max managed to harness power from the heavens. She hopes someone has thought of a plan to tap into Michael’s love for Max, because for now he seems to be cursing his name. At last, Michael re-enters the cave and he does seem to be buzzing with energy, so something must’ve worked. Now that the plan is set in motion, Maria’s suddenly freaking out a little. She looks over at Alex and copies the slow, deep breath he takes before he starts directing everyone as they’ve practiced. Maria and Liz are stretched out on a cot against the far cave wall, far enough to not be in the way, but in Isobel’s line of sight. Maria’s positioned Liz so she is sitting between Maria’s legs, leaning back on her for support, Maria’s arms tucked tightly around Liz to ground her if channeling her love and grief becomes too much.

Maria watches as Alex dips his hand in the silver solution and pulls Max from the pod. Immediately, Isobel and Michael place their hands over Max’s heart, and Maria can feel the swirling of love coursing through the cave. The energy emanating from Michael and Isobel is intense and a little frightening. Max’s body pulsates as power surges through him, but as the continued attempts don’t push breath back into his lungs, Maria feels Michael’s frustration mount and he lets out a pained scream. Maria can tell that the frustration and love aren’t working together to fuel his power, but rather fracturing it. She looks around panicked, unsure if anyone else is aware that Michael is about to come apart at the seams. Liz has her eyes screwed shut, tears streaming down her face as she pushes bruises into Maria’s arms. Isobel has both hands plastered over Max’s heart, eyes never leaving Liz’s face, completely focused on her attempts, only love flowing through her body into Max. But Maria can feel that Michael’s love for Max is clouded by anger, frustration, and fear, and he can’t seem to focus it, as the power he channeled from the storm threatens to overwhelm him. Maria sees Kyle take an unconscious step forward, seemingly concerned about the power expenditure but unsure what to do, until Alex orders orders him to stop and step back. Maria’s panic recedes a bit as she sees a calm certainty on Alex’s face. He moves purposefully, kneeling on the other side of Max directly across from Michael.

Michael looks at him panicked, “No, Alex, get back! There’s too much… it’s too much.”

“Michael. Stop. Look at me.” Alex’s voice is a stark contrast to Michael’s: calm, but commanding. Michael seems grateful for the intervention and does as he’s told. Isobel stops her attempts too. They both look to Alex for direction.

Alex unbuttons his shirt, sliding it off one shoulder, revealing the full glowing handprint Maria saw the corner of in the bar the other day. Alex grabs Michael’s left hand, the recently healed one.

“What are you doing?” There’s still an edge of alarm to his voice, but Maria can feel that he has settled a little.

Alex looks Michael square in the eyes. “Will you trust me?”

Michael just nods and lets Alex press his left hand to the handprint. He places Michael’s right hand back next to Isobel’s over Max’s heart and directs them both to try again. Maria watches Alex close his eyes in concentration. Maria’s senses are flooded by the waves of love that she can feel Alex push into Michael. It suddenly clicks for Maria. She knows from Liz that the handprint creates a psychic bond; that she and Max could feel each other, and if Max touched the handprint, they could even share in each other’s memories. This was always Alex’s backup plan, she realizes, to use his love for Michael to fuel the resurrection, and she thinks it might be working. When Maria tries to read Michael now, she senses a shift in his entropy. His emotions were storming before, fighting against each other, but now, it’s like everything else has gone quiet, and the love pours out of him bright and strong. Michael rests his forehead against Alex’s, eyes closed, gripping Alex’s shoulder with his left hand, as his right glows red next to both of Isobel’s. She can tell he’s emitting energy and the lights they’ve set up in the cave flicker wildly, but he no longer looks as pained.

Maria’s focused so entirely on Michael, that it’s not until she’s knocked sideways as Liz suddenly leaps to her feet and throws herself at Max, that she realizes that Max’s chest is now rising and falling on its own accord. Liz is clutching at Max and sobbing, as he comes to enough to wrap his arms around her. Isobel is sagged against Kyle, who is making her drink water as he takes her vitals. Michael collapses into Alex for a moment, until Max jostles them as he attempts to sit up. They seem to remember simultaneously that they aren’t supposed to be touching each other like this, and pull apart. Michael, after assuring himself that Max seems to still be breathing steadily, rushes to Izzy’s side, nearly knocking over Valenti in the process. Isobel lets Michael hold her, but she never takes her eyes off Max, seemingly afraid to blink in case when she opens her eyes, he’ll be suspended in that pod again. Michael has an arm secured tightly around Izzy, and his eyes flicker between his siblings, but his left hand unconsciously touches his shoulder in the same spot the handprint is splayed on Alex’s.

A hand on her arm causes her to flinch and she realizes Alex has come to sit down beside her. “You ok? That was a lot.” His tone is gentle, but uncertain in a way it hasn’t been in weeks. This close she can feels even more strongly the echo of emotions from both Alex and Michael, their energies intertwined through the handprint now. Maria considers him thoughtfully, before reaching over to grip his hand. “Yeah. It was a lot.” They both know she’s not talking about the resurrection. “I didn’t realize… I guess, maybe I didn’t want to…” She trails off, staring fixedly at their joined hands. “I am sorry, you know. I don’t think I ever said that.” She can hear Alex shift uncomfortably next to her. He’s always struggled to verbalize what he’s feeling, especially when he’s vulnerable, so it’s not surprising to Maria that he doesn’t respond right away. She does think it’s progress that he doesn’t immediately wave away her apology either. They both have work to do on accepting that their own wants actually matter.

When he does speak after a long moment, he seems to choose his words carefully. “I had ten years to tell you about it, and I never did. Part of it was because it didn’t feel like just mine to tell, but mostly I didn’t know how to explain it when I haven’t really always understood. It took me a long time to even get to a place where I was ready for it.” He laughs ruefully, “As always, our timing was obviously off.” He pauses, taking one of his deep centering breaths as he always does now when he needs a minute. He continues, “I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t hard for me, that it was you and him. But, I know better than anyone how everything else can disappear when he looks at you. If you needed that, well, I get it.”

She swallows hard, before forcing herself to drag her eyes up to meet Alex’s. “It was never like that with us...for either of us.” She admits. “We both wanted it to be, I think. But we didn’t, couldn’t, find that in each other.” They’re still kind of talking around it, not able to even say Michael’s name, but she thinks maybe it’s enough for now. It’s already an emotionally draining night, maybe they don’t need to say everything that’s been left unsaid between them right this minute.

They are interrupted anyways, by Max’s exasperated shout of, “Valenti, enough. Please, I’m ok, but I’d like to get out of this cave someday.” His siblings seem to have recovered their energy enough to move to his side, obediently waiting with Liz, close enough to touch him, feel his warmth, but allowing Kyle the space to do a brief checkup. Kyle and Liz have a silent conversation over Max’s head. Maria can tell they both would prefer to drag Max to a hospital and run every test in the book to be sure he really is ok, but they know that’s an impossibility, so they agree that they should all move back to Max’s place.

They haul Max up, and he leans heavily on Kyle and Liz. Isobel and Michael are too weak to be much support, so they trail close behind, unwilling to allow Max to be too far away from them, even for the short trip to the cars. Though his focus is on Max, Maria notices Michael’s gaze unconsciously flicker towards Alex every few seconds, as she and Alex walk behind the rest of the group. Maria sees Michael’s eyes narrow in concern over Alex’s barely noticeable limp, the result likely of too little sleep and too long kneeling on the uneven cave floor. Alex doesn’t seem to notice, as he’s too busy evaluating Michael and Isobel’s stamina. She can tell that he’s primed to step forward to support either of them if they stumble, even as his own balance is a little off currently.

Once back at Max’s they all collapse exhausted in his rather spacious living room. Liz curled against one side of Max, and Isobel on the other, while Michael’s reclines in the chair across from them, looking wrecked. Alex and Maria perch on stools next to the kitchen island, watching as Kyle rushes around doling out food and drinks, always the doctor, making sure everyone’s physical needs are met, before he begs off, indicating an early shift the next day. Maria suddenly feels like an outsider, unsure of her place here anymore. Liz can’t take her eyes or her hands off Max, and really doesn’t need Maria, but for some reason she’s not ready to remove herself from this situation. It feels petty to admit it’s mostly about the way Michael and Alex are looking at each other, the connection she can feel vibrating between them. Alex’s words echo in her mind: when Michael looks at him, everything else, including her, disappears. She really wants to get to a place where she’s happy for Michael and Alex if they can figure out a way to make things work, and it frustrates her that her stomach still drops at the thought. Maria feels a headache coming on. She wonders if it’s some kind of psychic hangover, brought on by an overdose of emotion swirling all around her tonight or the result of guilt that she’s having so much trouble being the bigger person. She’s not ready to leave completely but suddenly she really needs some air. The storm has quieted, so the air is humid but comfortable as she escapes wordlessly out the side door, sinking into an Adirondack chair by the fire pit. She lights up a joint, hoping it will combat the impending headache.

After about ten minutes, as the world begins to soften around her, she hears footsteps behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Alex head for his car, not noticing her stretched out in the chair nearby. He opens the driver’s side door but before he can climb in, the door slams shut. Alex whirls around to watch Michael shuffle towards him, seemingly having further exhausted himself with even this small use of power.

“What the hell, Guerin?” There’s no bite behind Alex’s words, just exhaustion.

“You’re leaving?” Michael sounds more hurt than angry.

“I thought you would want time with your family.” Maria has a good vantage point from where she’s sitting, the outside lights illuminating the cars, leaving the fire pit in shadow. This is starting to seem like a pattern for her, being in places she’s not supposed to be, hearing things she shouldn’t be hearing. But just like that day in the Crashdown, she’s glued to her seat.

“I thought you said you were my family.” Michael’s voice is quiet now that he’s made his way to the car and is leaning sideways against it, facing Alex. Alex sighs and takes a step towards Michael halving the distance between them.

“I am.” He replies, just as softly. “I was just trying to give you a little space.” Maria can see the familiar tension in his hands as he clenches them tightly behind his back.

Michael inches closer. “What if I don’t want space?” Maria can feel a surge of hope from Alex, even from this distance, followed by an immediate attempt to squash it. Michael continues, “I don’t think you do either. The handprint, it doesn’t lie.” He says it like a statement, but Maria can hear a questioning, insecure lilt to his tone.

Alex lets out another long breath, still working to keep his emotions in check. “Guerin, you’ve been through a lot tonight. Not just tonight, the last few months have been intense. What I showed you in the cave? That was the truth, that’s how I feel. But what you’re feeling right now? Liz told me that the handprint, it links us, links our emotions. So you’re feeling an echo of what I feel for you. It’ll fade in a few days, and you’ll remember all the reasons why you didn’t want to do this.”

“Come on, Alex. You’ve never needed a psychic handprint to know what I feel for you.” Michael shakes his head slightly, a fond exasperation on his face. “I still haven’t looked away.”

Maria’s not sure if she wants to roll her eyes or swoon. Jesus, Michael was never big with the declarations with her, but with Alex apparently he talks like he’s in a fucking Lifetime movie. The implications of his words sting a bit, but they are just a confirmation of what she already knew.

Michael reaches out, hooking a finger in Alex’s belt loop and tugging him even closer. Maria senses Alex’s resistance start to crumble. She feels a little like a voyeur, but there’s no way she’s leaving now.

“Michael,” Alex breathes. “I meant it when I said I wanted to start over, build things up the right way. But since then, we still haven’t really talked. About Caulfield, or Maria, or so many other things. I don’t want to keep making the same mistakes. Crashing back together or falling apart in the wake of traumatic and emotional events.”

“You called me Michael.” Michael sounds like he might actually cry. “That feels like progress. Can’t we just...forget the rest for right now? Just for tonight?”

Maria sees the instant Alex loses the battle he’s been fighting with himself, unlacing his fingers from behind his back and bringing a hand up to cup Michael’s jaw. “Ok,” Alex relents. “For tonight. And then we’ll talk?” Michael barely pauses to nod, as he slides a hand into Alex’s hair and surges forwards, kissing Alex like he needs him to breath. They grip each other tightly, swaying together for a beat before pulling apart just far enough to press their foreheads together, a mirror of their position earlier in the cave.

“Nauseating isn’t it?” Maria’s been so engrossed, she completely missed Isobel making her way outside until she’s collapsing in the chair next to her, plucking the joint from Maria’s hand and taking a long draw. Maria gapes at her as she continues, voice low, seemingly not wanting to be caught spying anymore than Maria does. “I feel like I have a freaking psychic hangover from the love fest going on inside, and now I come out to this.” Isobel waves her hand in Michael and Alex’s general direction, a look of annoyance on her face.

Maria lets out a startled laugh, before clapping a hand over her mouth. Luckily Michael and Alex don’t seem to have noticed. Michael leans heavily on Alex now, his head tucked against Alex’s neck, Alex’s arms wound protectively around Michael, as he braces himself against the car. Isobel looks at her questioningly. “I was thinking the exact same thing earlier,” Maria explains in a hushed tone. “It’s why I came out here actually. All that love swirling around gave me a headache. The pot helps.” Maria snags the joint back from Isobel taking another hit.

Isobel studies her appraisingly, as though she’s really seeing Maria for the first time. “Oh right, you’re kind of psychic too. Guess we have more in common than just our pathetic love lives.” Maria feels like she should be offended both by the ‘kind of’ and the crack about her love life, but god help her, Maria’s always had such a fondness for sass, so it really only endears Isobel to her.

She’s not sure if it’s the pot, the exhaustion, or the sense of connection that seems to have sprung up between them that leads her to ask, “With Noah, did everything else disappear when he looked at you?”

Isobel considers for a minute. “No,” she says finally. “It never did. I loved him; I wish I didn’t, but I did. But he wasn’t my person. I could never be myself with him, so I could never relax enough for that.”

“Yeah,” Maria agrees quietly.

Isobel seems surprised and embarrassed by her momentarily bout of honesty. She regains her composure quickly, returning to her regular snarky coolness. “Sorry though, your failed three month experiment of playing house with my brother kind of pales in comparison to my five year marriage to a serial killer who violated my body and mind to murder people.” Maria’s read Isobel before, but nothing she saw or felt from her during that reading is as illuminating as the edge of vulnerability that sneaks into her caustic tone.

Maria picks her words carefully knowing that this tentative bond will be snapped if Isobel senses even a trace of pity. Suddenly that’s something she really doesn’t want. “Wow, you really are a bitch,” Maria comments, keeping her voice light. “Luckily, I kind of love it.” Maria’s pleased when Isobel gives her another surprised and approving once over. Apparently Maria’s not the only one who appreciates sass.

“So, do you want to keep sitting here watching your ex-boyfriend and your best friend cosmically reconnect, or do you want to break into Max’s study where he keeps the good scotch?” Isobel offers. Maria allows herself one more glance over at Michael and Alex. They haven’t moved, still wrapped up in one another. For a moment she’s able to view them as an objective observer; the contentment radiating off of them both, the sense of peace they seem to find in each other, warms her heart. She forces herself to look away, before reality crashes back in. She pulls her gaze back to Isobel instead, transfixed for a moment by the way her blond hair gleams in the moonlight like a beacon. Maria gives her head a shake to clear it and throws Isobel a dazzling smile. “By all means, lead the way.”

#roswell new mexico fic #malex fic #maribel #if you squint #kylex friendship #maria deluca pov #my fic #soberqueerinthewild fic

[thecomicsnexus]

THE WILD STORM #13-18 JULY - DECEMBER 2018 BY WARREN ELLIS, JON DAVIS-HUNT AND STEVE BUCCELLATO

SYNOPSIS (FROM DC DATABASE AND COMIC VINE)

It is raining in New York when Jacklyn King arrives in the alley, summoned by Director Miles Craven and Deputy Director Ivana Baiul. She is surprised to find a crimescene - and horrified to find the victim is Mitch Saunders, her subordinate. Baiul rattles off the timeline - forensics puts the time of death almost immediately after when they know he let IO headquarters yesterday. Baiul is condescending to Jacklyn, but offers to contact Henry Bendix, head of Skywatch, whose computers they just hacked, and who had both motive and means to order such an assassination.

Craven demurs on a diplomatic solution, ordering the mobilization of three CATs (covert action teams) and the beginning of a plan to kill everyone Skywatch Ground Division in New York. War between the agencies may have already begun.

On the Skywatch satellite headquarters, Henry Bendix and his XO Lauren Pennington are wondering if Craven will back off after what they did. Bendix admits that if it doesn't, they could target the families of agents - and also start disabling research facilities. Pennington interjects that wasn't productive when they did it last time, so Bendix gives her an order: he wants two sets of plans, one where they stealthily disable a research site, and one where they leave a public pile of corpses.

In Levin's Diner, in the desert, John Lynch is being watched. Looking up from his greasy breakfast, he locks eyes with a distracted man at the counter, who states that "they all know" what he did, and that he doesn't know what grew from his actions. Musing, Lynch leaves the diner immediately.

That night, he arrives at a farmstead in the middle of nowhere. Musing that the man he seeks used to like being around people, he almost doesn't notice the field of stakes behind the barn, each one topped by a crude arrow, all pointing at the same area of the night sky. Entering the residence via the back door, he sees his target is watching an adventure show on the television, but is also aware of his entrance. Lynch introduces himself, and identifies the man as Colonel Marc Slayton.

In shadows, Slayton tells him there is beer in the fridge. Lynch takes two cans, and throws one to Slayton. He wonders what drew Slayton here. Grinning, Marc explains he looked up his surname. It comes from the Norse word sletta, meaning "level field", and the Old English word tun, meaning a farm. So, he went to be a farmer on a level field, hunting and planting.

Lynch cuts to the point - IO is looking into Project Thunderbook. He tried to destroy all the files, but he left an index that he could watch, so that he could tell if someone ever came looking - and he might not have gotten all the files. So, he has come to warn Marc Slayton.

Slayton accuses him of not knowing what was done to the Thunderbook subjects. Lynch rattles off a potted history of the project - how IO found corpses in ancient burial sites which contained active genetic material they identified as alien. How their gen/active samples were found to plug easily into human DNA. How he went to his best and brightest, and offered them a place in a project to use the gen/active samples to become human enhanciles. And how, despite the unknown factors, despite the dangers, Marc Slayton had been the first to volunteer, stating his desire to push the possible forward and improve the world.

Slayton lashes back verbally, saying his position has changed. As his wrist starts to glow, he explains that the sample he was bonded to turned out to be a genetic engine that grew an organic computer inside of him. It grew other things, too, he says, as a glowing barbed tendril emerges from his wrist. And he has been feeding it. Feeding it enough that he has started to hear it talk to him, hear it pull him towards... something, possibly the other Thunderbook subjects, possibly beings far stranger. It wants to eat people. It can tell there is something unusual about Lynch. And it occurs to him that whatever IO knows, the only person who definitely knows his location... is Lynch.

Slayton strikes out with his barbed tendril, but Lynch dodges right. Firing wildly, Lynch punctures Slayton's beercan, which distracts Slayton, Slayton lashes out again, but Lynch tricks him into burying his tendril in the fridge, then knocks over the fridge and shoots rapidly into it as he runs. The resulting explosion wrecks the kitchen, giving Lynch the space to escape to his car, at which point, he considers Slayton warned, and drives away at high speed.

In the doorway of a closed-down music shop, the homeless man known as "the mayor" is trying to sleep when he is shaken awake by two women, who introduce themselves as Shen Li-Men and Jenny Mei Sparks. Opening a portal, Li-Men tries to recruit him by letting him sleep on Jenny's couch.

At his farm, Marc Slayton is bandaging small cuts in his face. He has decided that he does not like John Lynch, who always escapes the fallout of whatever the situation is, only to return and judge others. Slayton turns to self-pity, remarking he has "hunted" so many humans and "planted" them so that their souls could be launched to the world his alien implant came from. In the mirror, an alien creature with six glowing eyes seeks to calm him, saying he has done so much for it, and that to save himself, he should of course flee John Lynch or IO or whatever authorities they can summon and hit the open road. Crying tears of gratitude, Slayton identifies this being as "the Carer".

In her home, the popstar known as Voodoo sleeps drugged and deeply. A being emerges from the shadows, and placing one massive hand on her head, it orders her to "dream of the world as it truly is".

On the Skywatch satellite, a mission to Mars is undocking. With its drive running and its stealth systems operating, it will be at Mars in a week. On the control deck, Bendix and Pennington are making small talk, when Pennington says that Bendix and Craven have exactly one thing in common. They are afraid of a public scrap. A public scrap would reveal the power games both agencies have been playing. So, while she has compiled a list of people it would be useful to assassinate, and a list of facilities that could be destroyed or disabled, she has also written up a plan to break IO's control on Earth, radically destabilizing life and making it impossible for another polity to take their place.

It is night in New York, and John Colt is recording a video on his smartphone. Though he does not know his birthday by the reckoning of his home, he picked tomorrow as his birthday, long ago, and he makes a point of alerting Jacob Marlowe of its arrival every year, so that he starts the day angry. And he does this because when arrived here, on their spaceship from the homeworld, Khera, Jacob made them assume human shapes, to an unknown end. And then, for a reason he never explained to John, Jacob trashed the expedition by blowing up the spaceship, stranding the survivors here.

As he holds the camera, John marks his birthday as he always does - by temporarily shedding his human disguise to appear in his true form. Holding the phone in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, John holds the camera to expertly frame his monstrous six-eyed face, and raises a toast to his own continued good health.

In New York, Lucy Blaze - Skywatch Ground Division, codename "Zealot" - is arriving five minutes late to work. However, before her co-workers can reassure her that this is fine, their office is attacked by a pair of I.O. covert action teams (C.A.T.s), who spray bullets across the office. Thinking fast, Lucy directs the last other survivor to the elevator banks to escape, then throws a desk at the attackers using superhuman strength. Using this as an opening, she proceeds to kill all six attackers using a silenced pistol. In the ensuing silence, she radios security for advice.

In a garage in the desert, John Lynch pulls in and addresses the lone employee by name: Alexandra Fairchild. Alexandra is suspicious, so John comes clean - someone in I.O. has started looking into Project Thunderbook, and he is warning all the project subjects so they can properly prepare. Accepting this, Alexandra brews him a pot of coffee and explains that she originally moved here because it is down the road from a town full of nice people who keep to themselves.

John asks if there is anyone around to eavesdrop, which gets Alexandra talking - about how she's been merrily surviving since she got out of the service, armed with nothing but some fake IDs, the "severance pay" that John gave everyone, and her skills as a mechanic who fixes things. How she tried to live with humans - mostly men, some women - and tried to fix them, before giving up in resignation. The tipping point was when she told her then-boyfriend that she was pregnant with their child, and he tried to kick the fetus to death, so she broke his neck with her bare hands.

The alien genetic implant that she got as part of Project Thunderbook wants her to fight. When she fights, it feeds on her anger, making her stronger and tougher every time. And realising the damage she could do to that child, she gave the baby up for adoption and vanished.

At this point, a plume of dust is visible on the road, and Alexandra mentions the other detail - the town down the road contains a family of ne'er-do-wells who like to mess with people. Recently, they stepped over the line, and Alexandra had asked them to stop. When they responded by targeting her, she killed the family matriarch. They are coming for her now. Today she will either die by violence, or vanish in the chaos - and she's not sure she can die. As Alexandra prepares to heft a pickup truck as a melee weapon, John Lynch asks what her daughter's name is.

Alexandra says her daughter should be in the system under the name "Caitlin Fairchild". She thanks him for warning her, and says that John ought to leave before the fighting starts.

As John Lynch drives away, he sees the garage explode behind him, and regrets that his life has led him here.

In New York, Miles Craven is having a video-call with Henry Bendix. Bendix is furious that I.O. would send C.A.T.s against his territory, and vows that Craven will atone. Craven responds that he took no pleasure from the attack, which was a punitive measure in response to the attack on I.O.'s Hightower facility and the subsequent hack on I.O.'s server - actions for which Craven will hold Skywatch responsible. Then Craven hangs up on him.

In Jenny Mei Sparks' London flat, Jenny and Shen Li-Men are explaining the world to the vagrant known as "the mayor", using Jenny's full-wall mind-map. The mayor is visibly agitated, and accuses them of talking about him as though he were not present. Li-Men thinks she has a solution to his predicament, and hands him a pill, saying it is medicine. The mayor responds with paranoia, but Jenny zaps him with electricity from her fingers - he is eating the damn pill.

Once he has swallowed the pill, Li-Men asks him his name. In amazement, the mayor says his name is Jack Hawksmoor.

On a country road with nearby foliage, Marc Slayton is experiencing car trouble. He flags down a passing motorist, who seems helpful, but Slayton undercuts him by asking which secret agency he works for. The man in the car demonstrates glowing eyes and says he works for Skywatch, prompting Slayton to tear the car apart with his whip appendage. Taking his attacker's spines, she starts singing.

In Skywatch Headquarters, Henry Bendix is fuming at the outcome of his last conversation with with Miles Craven. Skywatch has been blamed for an attack on an I.O. installation. Faced with the news from Pennington that their organization is not responsible, Bendix orders the deployment of the Little Stick - an experimental weapon developed in the Eighties, a foot-long diamond rod, which, when dropped from orbit, achieves sufficient velocity to strike the target with the force of a tactical nuclear device.

In London, Li-Men Shen is having a vision - a man, pinioned, his mouth in a gaping, silent scream, while science is perpetrated on his body: skin removed and reattached, treads on his feet, wires in his brain, bugs in his guts. Snapping out of this vision, she names the perpetrators as Skywatch, the secret space agency. The victim, the homeless man known as "the mayor", introduces himself as Jack Hawksmoor. He is still recovering from the drug Shen gave him, but he has a theory - Skywatch kidnapped and experimented on him, to make him into something that could survive and labor in a toxic city. And that he doesn't think he was the only one.

In orbit, a diamond rod - the Little Stick - breaks atmosphere, landing on the Hightower facility with a colossal boom.

In a gas station bathroom, Marc Slayton is having doubts. He regards his work for the being he calls the Carer as holy, but still he feels ill at the necessary killing. The being appears in a nearby mirror, and announce itself as "the Khera", and explains that it is what is necessary. Crying in gratitude and repentance, Slayton exits the bathroom, returning to the scene of three gruesome murders, and pausing only to craft an arrow to launch their souls as the Carer told him, he moves on.

In a small bar, John Lynch enters. Talking briefly to the barman, he sits down with a shy-looking man of Chinese descent in a corner table, and identifies him as Andrew Kwok. The shy man demurs, introducing himself as Philip Chang. John pulls out a scanner, insisting that this device identifies the shy man as Kwok - and that he came to warn Kwok that I.O. is looking into Project Thunderbook. At this, the shy man stops smiling. He explains that while Lynch gave him a new fake identity, he didn't trust Lynch to crack under torture, so he used his money to get plastic surgery and a new fake ID, and moved on with his life. He has a wife now, and two children - Hector & Percival, both named for their mother's love of Arthurian myth.

At this point, John Lynch starts to bleed from his good eye, as Chang explains that he will kill Lynch in the most painless way he can find, and then hide the body. Lynch responds by shooting him in the face, but Chang is able to slow the bullet in midair. Chang boasts that a single bullet will not be enough - so Lynch fires six more. As Chang sweats from holding all of them, Lynch explains that while Chang's ability to hyperfocus made him a great assassin, it left him unable to multitask, which is why he's about to die. Pausing to shoot the barman, who has pulled out his shotgun in response to the noise, Lynch questions why, despite the respect he has tried to show them by giving a fair warning, all the Thunderbook enhanciles have done is boast of their offspring, or try to kill him. As he struggles against the bullets, Chang stutters that this may be because the alien enhancements they have mean that the agents are no longer strictly human, but are driven by goals of conquest or colonization. Lynch muses, says he will see that Chang's kids are cared for, and then shoots Chang in the head. Pausing only to throw a grenade which starts a fire and covers his tracks, he flees the scene.

In New York, Miles Craven is having a videophone conversation with Henry Bendix. Bendix shows footage of the remains of Hightower, and insists that he does not care enough about I.O. to cover his tracks when he attacks them. That he truly believes that the Earth would be best used as a resource supply center for the space-based civilization Skywatch is building. And that if I.O. touches his people again, he will use one of the Little Sticks on I.O.'s New York headquarters, and leave Craven to bury the dead and explain the damage.

Craven responds by saying he will relinquish control of the Skywatch Ground Division offices, but that the surviving agent, Lucy Blaze, is officially barred from New York, on pain of death. With a gesture of contempt, he ends the transmission.

Walking back to his office, Miles Craven meets his head of Analysis, Jackie King, who explains that forensics on Mitch Saunders' phone showed the presence of spyware - spyware that Skywatch specifically tried to erase. Skywatch knows what they did, but not how they did it. But Skywatch's reliance on hardware leaves them vulnerable to basic electronic weaknesses - by deploying countermeasures against the recent bot attack, Skywatch showed where their space station was. Should I.O. require, they can just nuke them.

Miles asks Jackie if she wants a war, and Jackie responds in the negative - she wants an execution, and if Miles will not give the order, she will pursue her goal by other means.

Going to her office, Jackie throws a computer monitor through a glass divider in frustration.

In a Skywatch safehouse, Lauren Pennington is congratulating Lucy Blaze on her recent actions, and his informing her of a new, roving brief, where she covers cases all over America. Lucy wonders if this is a punishment for her actions during the I.O. attack on the New York offices, but Pennington insists - this is all good news.

Besides, says Pennington as she raises a glass of wine, given the current détente between Skywatch and I.O., New York might not be around long enough for Lucy to properly miss.

In Jacob Marlowe's safehouse, Angie Spica has "found" a copy of the machine telepathy data the wild CAT brought back from the Hightower blacksite, and has used it to change how she interacts with her implanted technology. Unprepared, she wonders if she can use it to access the internet... and her technology responds by logging her onto the internet, visualised as a set off central hubs with individual nodes splitting off them in neat patterns.

Angie is amazed at this scene, but is even more surprised when she is greeted by Jenny Mei Sparks, who immediately imposes herself on Angie's electronic view and introduces herself, saying that she is the person who lives here.

The two introduce themselves - Angie as a woman who built a robot suit into herself and is on the run from IO, and who has been taken in by the tech mogul Jacob Marlowe, but is also stealing from him; and Jenny as a woman who is over a century old, not entirely human, distrusts IO and Skywatch, can live inside communications systems, and carries a lot of electricity.

Jenny decides that she likes Angie, and that if Angie ever needs to escape from Jacob Marlowe, she only needs to call, and Jenny will come and help - her and every friend she can bring. With a lazy wave, Jenny Mei Sparks vanishes - leaving Angie's world a little stranger and a little nicer.

Somewhere west of there, John Lynch parks his car in a driveway. He walks a path through rocky grounds in a red twilight, towards a minimalist two-story house with a hexagonal tower sticking out of it. Seeing the front door ajar, he remembers the danger he faced at his previous stops, so he pulls out his gun and moves carefully through the building.

He finds nothing on the ground floor, moving through a spacious and expertly-cleaned house, before checking in the hexagonal tower. And there, a floating woman with glowing red eyes advises him to put his gun away before she makes him have an accident. John recognises her at once: Gloria Spaulding, the woman he came here to see. He compliments her on her house and warns her that IO may be looking into Project Thunderbook, the program which gave her an alien genetic implant, and that she should be careful for a bit, but that considering the obvious costly nature of her house, the care she has taken to protect herself, and her untroubled status, he thinks she will be fine.

Curious, he asks her if she has had a child since they last saw, like Kwok, like Fairchild. Gloria admits she felt a great compulsion to have a baby, but once she had given birth, her normal detached nature reasserted itself, and she abandoned the child with Gloria's mother.

Gloria's detachment always served her well in her IO role as a black bag operative specialising in retrieving items or data. It served her well in the private sector, where her skills have earned her money, and the trust of "all kinds of interesting and spooky friends". But her Thunderbook implant, in addition to granting her superhuman power, also worked to calm her anxieties, to the point where now she feels... nothing, neither positive emotions or negative.

Gloria says that Lynch needs to leave, as she has to pack up and go into hiding, but in thanks for the warning, she leaves him with one in turn: Marc Slayton's implant can remember where it came from.

As the floor tiles starts to float loose, Lynch runs for the door. He makes it to his car as the house disassembles, and as he drives away, in the rearview mirror, he sees a feminine silhouette against the red moon, dragging the substance of the house into the twilight sky behind it.

In Jacob Marlowe's fortress warehouse, Angie Spica is asking Cole Cash for help, as he knows more about guns than she does. Cole wonders aloud what she would do with such information - whereupon, Angie uses her implants to create an object the same size and shape as a handgun bullet cartridge. Without Cole's training, she can only create prop. With Cole's help, she can safely pull apart bullets and guns, scan them all - and she will never be unarmed again!

Stephen Rainmaker was the most dangerous man John Lynch knew even before he was inducted into the Thunderbook program. So much so that nobody could quite define how Thunderbook changed him. On his trip around America to warn his old team, Lynch left Rainmaker until last— for a reason. This is the visit that Lynch always knew could kill him. Meanwhile, Marc Slayton is discovering new things about America, IO and Skywatch.

Miles Craven needs a minute, but Jackie King, who has an appointment with him, insists that he do his job as the head of International Operations. Based on the data her team recovered from their illegal hack on the computers of Skywatch, Cole Cash—the former IO operative they presumed dead but who showed up as part of a wild CAT who interfered with an assassination—is not working for Skywatch, but they now have a positive ID on one other member of the wild CAT, who was an astronaut who died decades ago. She thinks they can investigate more.

Miles Craven lists off his problems: Jacob Marlowe, the tech billionaire whose death he ordered, is still alive. Angie Spica, the rogue IO engineer whose capture he ordered, is missing. Mitch Saunders, the IO office worker who was the victim of a Skywatch phone bug, is dead, and when he attacked the Skywatch office in New York in retaliation, the two heavily-armed teams he sent were singlehandedly shot to death by Skywatch agent Lucy Blaze. Michael Cray, the IO assassin who he ordered to be "retired", is alive and working for a San Francisco division of Skywatch. Hightower, the IO research station, was hacked by parties unknown, and then destroyed from orbit by Skywatch as a show of strength. Craven is left feeling like someone is pulling a con on him, and that they are winning at his expense.

Angry, Jackie responds that Craven only feels like this because he is weak. Craven is angered by this, but becomes defensive, saying he has to be proportionate in his actions. Jackie recites the speech he gave when he took control of IO, about how the agency was beholden to a mission to save the world from chaos and anarchy, and in the service of that mission, they would do great and terrible things. Now chaotic events are assailing the world... and Miles Craven is sleeping in his office and complaining to her. If he cannot be equal to the burden of the times, she says, he should give the job to someone else.

On Skywatch's satellite, Henry Bendix, the agency's head, is talking to Dr Ragnar Helspont, the head of the agency's posthuman experimental reseach office. Helspont has good news—Christine Trelane sent him the medical readouts about Michael Cray, who Skywatch secretly implanted with something years ago which activated recently due to a surge of electromagnetism he received while trying to assassinate Jacob Marlowe.

Helspont boasts that he has been watching all the people Skywatch perpetrated posthuman research on, and says that his mind-control implants will perfectly when the time comes. Helspont wonders why Bendix does not keep these slave posthumans on this space station, to be teleported to Earth on his whim, but Bendix shoots down the idea, saying that if one got free, they could easily rupture the hull and kill everyone.

Helspont mentions that he used to work as part of Project Thunderbook, but left with all his research when John Lynch shuttered the program. Defecting to Skywatch, he was able to create fascinating—and controllable—human variants. Skywatch's previous subjects were prone to neural damage, but Helspont is confident in his work. "Everything in Heaven is fine"

In Jenny Mei Sparks' London flat, Shen Li-Men has recovered from trying to treat Jack Hawksmoor, who is in the shower with a shaving kit and a bag of new clothes. She says he has neural damage which is causing his amnesia and his eccentric actions, and while she can treat the symptoms, she needs to find the cause. Jenny says she just needs to know if Jack is able for the vigilante actions she plans to start, or if he needs to be somewhere quiet, to recover. Jack, clean-shaven, emerges from the shower and defends himself—though he may never fully recover, he is absolutely ready to get revenge on the people who gave him amnesia.

On a country backroad, John Lynch is driving. When he comes across Marc Slayton with, he responds fast, firing a flashbang from a grenade launcher to stun Slayton, and then another to further incapacitate him. Exiting the car, he spells out his position—the whole time Slayton has been trying to track him, Lynch had a tracking device on Slayton's car. Before, Slayton was able to surprise him, but that advantage is gone now.

Lych pulls out his handgun, and explains how fearsome his bullets are. Slayton pulls out his coils, and prepares to lash back, but Lynch fires first—and shoots a hole in Slayton's car's, from the engine to the license plate. As Slayton pauses in confusion, Lynch spells out his position—he does not want to kill Slayton. He does not care about Slayton. But if IO is coming for Project Thunderbook, then they will strike at him from their New York headquarters, and the only way for Slayton to defend himself is with an offense against IO and its head, Miles Craven. Confused, Slayton looks to "the Carer", the hallucinatory embodiment of his alien implant, and it agrees with Lynch. Wishing Slayton good fortune, Lynch gets back in his car and drives away.

In the wild CAT's safehouse, Angie is writing a goodbye letter, explaining her respect for Adri, how she is leaving all her data on Kenesha's computer, and how she hopes to meet them again but will not come looking for more favors. That done, she puts out a message just as Jenny Sparks told her... and Shen appears appears and invite to walk through a doorway in space. Perplexed, Jenny complies and finds herself in Jenny's London apartment. Shen introduces Jack, who Angie immediately recognizes as the New York homeless man known as "the mayor". Angie explains that what finally convinced her to join Jenny's gang was a phantasmagorial visitation from a being whose likeness she produces—who Shen recognizes from her magical knowledge—and who referred to Jenny as having "the authority". Jenny accepts this news without blinking.

On a train somewhere in America, Michael Cray is explaining to a fellow passenger that his former employers were all jerks and he is travelling to New York by train to give one in particular a piece of his mind. She accepts this information at face value, but in the reflection of the window, the face that represents Michael's superhuman implant is smiling.

In the wild CAT's safehouse, Jacob Marlowe, the team's patron, is reading Angie's letter in mild frustration, but before the team can read it, Kenesha bursts in and informs them that an IO research station has just trapped a cosmic particle of immense power, and they need to raid the facility at once to stop any research.

At an open air cocktail bar in Los Angeles, a pair of aliens whose faces resemble the true face of John Colt—and the faces of Slayton & Cray's implants—are ordering drinks and complaining about how difficult it is to manage Earth. They are both glad that nobody else can perceive as as strange—especially when Lucy Blaze walks into the bar and orders a water. The aliens recognize her as "Zannah of the Khera", a former underling of Emp, the rebel who sabotaged the Kheran mission to convert Earth into a slave state. Zannah in turn rebelled against Emp, and so today, the two aliens have to balance Emp & Zannah's agendas, and IO's, and Skywatch's, all in secret, just to give the humans a chance at evolving naturally. And for this thankless job, they have rewarded themselves by choosing to get drunk on this, their night off.

On the Skywatch satellite, Bendix and Pennington are looking out over a view of Earth and a backdrop of stars. Bendix is considering giving Helspont a higher budget. And doing something radical to make Earth more "useful". And killing Miles Craven. As he considers, he sings a children's song and grins maniacally.

REVIEW

By an annoying mistake, there are two issues #13. It will surely bug people forever.

As I said before, this story is too decompressed. Had it been bi-weekly, it would have been acceptable. But it took a bit more than two years to complete and it’s nothing but a big long prologue.

But I’ll tell you why that is great instead. Unlike DCU and MCU... and even the early Image Universe, the world of WorldStorm is cohesive. Everything was designed from the same world. It’s not a panache of properties, all banding together in the same universe. I feel like that is the strongest appeal of Wildstorm, well at least the properties around StormWatch. In these issues we are kind of seeing the groups forming (WildCATS, Authority, Gen13), but as I also said before, I do not know if these properties will take off anytime soon. But at least they are better now than at the beginning of the New 52 (Although StormWatch/Demon Knights was quite good).

Ellis and David-Hunt are also perfect for this title. It’s their work together that delivers amazing action sequences with some mind-bending graphics. Sure, it is pretty violent, but that was to be expected from WildStorm.

One of the moments that gave me the most pleasure, was seeing Apollo and Midnighter, even though, we do not actually see them, it is very obvious it’s them. They have history in the DCU as well, very recently, so I guess that may have... gone away.

Do you think Sam Elliott is too old to play Lynch?

I give these issues a score of 9.

#jon davis-hunt #the wild storm #wildstorm #dc comics #comics #review #2018 #post modern age #the authority #gen13 #stormwatch #wildcats

[didanawisgi]

“As a student of history and human nature, I know many fear what they do not understand. I am also keenly aware of the possibilities, that may repeat themselves, should a Citizenry whose degree of liberty and freedoms, never before seen in known human history, ever forfeit their ability to defend, by force if ever necessary, those same freedoms and liberties that allow them life, liberty, and to pursue those joyous experiences that represent peak experiences of the human condition.

History teaches us that people who wield power must be tempered. Plato’s idea of the Philosopher King was such that a King whom, essentially, learning of the several liberal arts and sciences, and becoming closer to God and Nature, and understanding Natural Law, would be embodied with compassion and wisdom and other qualities quintessential for successful and benevolent rulership. But as the currents of time flow in one direction, so too does the truth. As it turns out, this is not enough. Francis Bacon’s ‘New Atlantis’ was a place influenced by an academy known as the House of Solomon, a mythical place where humankind will meet its greatest potential. This place is America; the Novus ordo seclorum (New order of the ages). This order, a Republic founded in the principles of the Constitution, is a system devised to benefit all within its borders; a permanent ‘Philosopher King’ found only in a text that allows America (possibly named after the Merica, the Mandaean Star of Venus, and consort to the King/Pharaoh) to not suffer as our ancestors have, and has allowed each successive generation incrementally more freedom, more well-being, and more opportunity, should we take it. This is not to say we don’t have our modern day challenges. But it is the Second Amendment in the Bill of Rights, not granted by Government, but by God (the philosophical Natural Law), the intrinsic cosmic consciousness and Architect of the Universe, that ensures us at least the opportunity to defend the natural evolution of Liberty and Freedom, and to stop those who would seek to destroy it or take it away from us; for tyranny historically springs forth from the well intended initially. This is perhaps why, in terms of importance, it is the second, after the Amendment which protects our freedom of thought and the ability to communicate those thoughts; the ability to stand up and act, by force if necessary, against forms of Tyranny which throughout the course of Human history has unfortunately, enjoyed many appearances.

Nowhere on Earth is there a ‘Bill of Rights’ so comprehensive with a philosophy founded in Natural Law. This ethos or emergent ethic has its origins in the Judeo-Christian traditions (which can be traced all the way back to Sumeria). This emergent ethic is centered around the individual, which is the most appropriate and logical way to approximate fairness and true freedom in such a large scale as a Nation. The Ethos of America, the cultural identity and source of our greatness, stems from these concepts. This uniqueness in American history does influence us today, particularly those who believe the Second Amendment exists to limit the power of the Federal Government (as the rest of the Amendments do) and to protect our Liberty and personal Freedom henceforth and for posterity; for in a crisis, many times you may be the only one to rely on. It is a matter of individual responsibility. The individual consciousness as the Logos, which carries with it the power to manifest good and evil, heaven and hell, life and death. We require the freedom to think, as is our God given Right, (and therefore Speech, because the thought comes first) in order to manifest our own destiny (I call it the Right to Logos), to develop this inner voice. From our fruits shall ye know us.  In order to maintain this Right to Logos, the American ethic of individualism, (which is an ‘emergent ethic’ in its highest form), necessitates you take responsibility for all aspects of your life. Respecting the Individual is of paramount importance in this ethic, which the Bill of Rights attempts to enshrine in the Constitution, in the sense that it is the only proper level for analysis and prescription, of laws, philosophy and political affect. Herein lies my first issue with things like gun control, censorship, prohibition laws in general, and other laws and ideas that seek to control the evolution of the individual.  

Another problem I have with gun control in particular, is that it is deeply rooted in racism, if you examine history keenly.  Huey P Newton, co-founder of the Black Panther Party in the 60′s once said, “The policemen or soldiers are only a gun in the establishments hand. They make the racist secure in his racism.” It is true that, if you study history, you will find that gun control is rooted in racism and government sanctioned murder. You don’t even have to leave America to see this. Think of what instigated the events at Wounded Knee, which was a failed and illegal attempt of government to secure/confiscate the rifles of natives. Hundreds were murdered…  

Attorney Ralph Sherman has, what I think, is a good synopsis of this argument. This was written in 1999:

Legal Opinion by  Atty. Ralph D. Sherman April 1999 Blacks and the right to bear arms It’s time to resume my discussion of the history and meaning of the Second Amendment (as requested by several readers). One of the myths that you hear from the gun-ban crowd is that the U.S. Supreme Court has “never” said the Second Amendment guarantees every individual the right to keep and bear arms. Our deceitful President would like you to believe that your right to firearms has something to do with duck hunting. There are several reasons that Handgun Control and company don’t want you to know the truth. One reason is that when you research what the Supreme Court has actually said, you quickly find that “gun control” laws are rooted in racism. Wait. I haven’t turned into some kind of conspiracy nut. If somebody had told me 15 years ago that “gun control” and racial discrimination are inseparably linked in the history of the United States, I would have been skeptical, too. After I started to read some of the old cases and statutes, however, I saw that it is impossible to reach any other conclusion. (In fact I recently gave a talk at UConn on the connections between “gun control” and racial, economic, and sexual discrimination.) Anyone who studies the history of the United States in the 19th Century comes across the Supreme Court case known as the Dred Scott decision. The correct title of the case is Scott v. Sandford (1856), and you can find it in any law library. Usually the case is studied because of its bearing on the status of blacks. Today the Dred Scott case is infamous, a good example of how the Supreme Court can be dead wrong. Dred Scott himself was a free black. The Supreme Court was asked to decide whether a free black was a citizen, entitled to the full protection of the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and other laws of the United States. The court held that blacks were not citizens, because the founding fathers didn’t have blacks in mind when the Constitution was written. This is no longer the law of our country, thank goodness, because even the Supreme Court corrects its errors, if given enough time. But the Dred Scott case is still important because it is one of the first cases in which the Supreme Court gave its view of the Second Amendment. In this column I don’t have space to discuss most of the decision. But here’s the critical section. The court found it unthinkable that blacks could be considered citizens, because: “[If black people were] entitled to the privileges and immunities of citizens, it would exempt them from the operation of the special laws and from the police regulations which [Southern states] considered to be necessary for their own safety. It would give the persons of the negro race, who were recognized as citizens in any one State of the Union…the full liberty of speech in public and in private upon all subjects upon which its own citizens might speak; to hold public meetings upon political affairs, and to keep and carry arms wherever they went. And all of this would be done in the face of the subject race of the same color, both free and slaves, inevitably producing discontent and insubordination among them, and endangering the peace and safety of the State.” The “special laws” mentioned by the court are the Black Codes, drafted to keep blacks down even if they became free. Essential to the Black Code of every Southern state was a law prohibiting blacks from owning firearms - a total gun ban for blacks only. The “full liberty of speech” is the court’s reference to the right of free speech, guaranteed by the First Amendment. The freedom “to hold public meetings upon political affairs” likewise refers to the First Amendment. And the right “to keep and carry arms wherever they went” - I don’t have to tell you where the Supreme Court found that one. But you can see the meaning as plain as day, in the words of the U.S. Supreme Court. Because of dissatisfaction with the court’s ruling that blacks weren’t citizens, Congress eventually passed the 14th Amendment. This also is quite relevant to the right to keep and bear arms, and anyone who reads this column needs to know why. I’ll explain in a future column. (Source: ralphdsherman.com)

Much of the “black codes” apropos possession of guns, are rehashed in contemporary fashion; except now, the codes are tailored for everyone, not just black people.  If my point has not been made well enough, I shall tell you a story of the only Coup D’Etat in U.S. History:  “A mob of white supremacists armed with rifles and pistols marched on City Hall in Wilmington, N.C., on Nov. 10 and overthrew the elected local government, forcing both black and white officials to resign and running many out of town. The coup was the culmination of a race riot in which whites torched the offices of a black newspaper and killed a number of black residents. No one is sure how many African-Americans died that day, but some estimates say as many as 90 were killed.” -https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=93615391

What they neglect to mention is that the “black codes” had disarmed the populace, and they were ill-prepared for the slaughter.

Again, racial tensions are not as high today, and this occurred in the not-so-recent past, however the ugly memes of tribalism, which globally and historically have resulted in Warfare, discrimination, violence, racism, religious killings, terrorism etc. are thriving in some parts of the world, and because history, no matter how small the chance, potentially could repeat itself. To quote Fallout: “War, war never changes”.

“The world is not entirely governed by logic. Life itself involves some kind of violence and we have to choose the path of least violence.” -

The Mind of Mahatma Gandhi.

If you have ever been a victim of any crime, or hate crime, you know that it is a terrible ordeal, and that your peace of mind is disrupted.  These things can affect how you perceive the world. I find that many armchair philosophers often come from a highly privileged state of mind, a state that is developed overtime from a perch of relative safety; an Ivory Tower. They underestimate the rate of defensive uses of weapons and overestimate the rate of illegal, criminal acts with firearms, when in fact, according to the CDC, the rate is about equal, or even more defensive uses therefore counter-intuitively avoiding violence.

Defensive Use of Guns

“Defensive use of guns by crime victims is a common occurrence, although the exact number remains disputed (Cook and Ludwig, 1996; Kleck, 2001a). Almost all national survey estimates indicate that defensive gun uses by victims are at least as common as offensive uses by criminals, with estimates of annual uses ranging from about 500,000 to more than 3 million (Kleck, 2001a), in the context of about 300,000 violent crimes involving firearms in 2008 (BJS, 2010)…

A different issue is whether defensive uses of guns, however numerous or rare they may be, are effective in preventing injury to the gun-wielding crime victim. Studies that directly assessed the effect of actual defensive uses of guns (i.e., incidents in which a gun was “used” by the crime victim in the sense of attacking or threatening an offender) have found consistently lower injury rates among gun-using crime victims compared with victims who used other self-protective strategies (Kleck, 1988; Kleck and DeLone, 1993; Southwick, 2000; Tark and Kleck, 2004). - CDC,  Priorities for Research to Reduce the Threat of Firearm-Related Violence (2013)  https://www.nap.edu/read/18319/chapter/3#15

There is something to be said for the art of complete nonviolence, however this must be cultivated over time. Only two people I know of have mastered it; MLK and Gandhi. I do not doubt other examples can be found, however, it is extremely rare.

Just as one must learn the art of killing in the training for violence, so one must learn the art of dying in the training for nonviolence. Violence does not mean emancipation from fear, but discovering the means of combating the cause of fear. Nonviolence, on the other hand, has no cause for fear. The votary of nonviolence has to cultivate the capacity for sacrifice of the highest type in order to be free from fear. He recks not if he should lose his land, his wealth, his life. -

The Mind of Mahatma Gandhi

I want both the Hindus and Mussalmans to cultivate the cool courage to die without killing. But if one has not that courage, I want him to cultivate the art of killing and being killed rather than, in a cowardly manner, flee from danger. For the latter, in spite of his flight, does commit mental himsa. He flees because he has not the courage to be killed in the act of killing.

The Mind of Mahatma Gandhi

I suggest reading Sam Harris’ The Moral Landscape. He also has a piece called The Riddle of the Gun, which in my opinion is a good philosophical treatise on the issues surrounding guns, both morally and in terms of rational philosophy. Excerpt:

“Most of my friends do not own guns and never will. When asked to consider the possibility of keeping firearms for protection, they worry that the mere presence of them in their homes would put themselves and their families in danger. Can’t a gun go off by accident? Wouldn’t it be more likely to be used against them in an altercation with a criminal? I am surrounded by otherwise intelligent people who imagine that the ability to dial 911 is all the protection against violence a sane person ever needs.But, unlike my friends, I own several guns and train with them regularly. Every month or two, I spend a full day shooting with a highly qualified instructor. This is an expensive and time-consuming habit, but I view it as part of my responsibility as a gun owner. It is true that my work as a writer has added to my security concerns somewhat, but my involvement with guns goes back decades. I have always wanted to be able to protect myself and my family, and I have never had any illusions about how quickly the police can respond when called. I have expressed my views on self-defenseelsewhere. Suffice it to say, if a person enters your home for the purpose of harming you, you cannot reasonably expect the police to arrive in time to stop him. This is not the fault of the police—it is a problem of physics.Like most gun owners, I understand the ethical importance of guns and cannot honestly wish for a world without them. I suspect that sentiment will shock many readers. Wouldn’t any decent person wish for a world without guns? In my view, only someone who doesn’t understand violence could wish for such a world. A world without guns is one in which the most aggressive men can do more or less anything they want. It is a world in which a man with a knife can rape and murder a woman in the presence of a dozen witnesses, and none will find the courage to intervene. There have been cases of prison guards (who generally do not carry guns) helplessly standing by as one of their own was stabbed to death by a lone prisoner armed with an improvised blade. The hesitation of bystanders in these situations makes perfect sense—and “diffusion of responsibility” has little to do with it. The fantasies of many martial artists aside, to go unarmed against a person with a knife is to put oneself in very real peril, regardless of one’s training. The same can be said of attacks involving multiple assailants. A world without guns is a world in which no man, not even a member of Seal Team Six, can reasonably expect to prevail over more than one determined attacker at a time. A world without guns, therefore, is one in which the advantages of youth, size, strength, aggression, and sheer numbers are almost always decisive. Who could be nostalgic for such a world?” - https://samharris.org/the-riddle-of-the-gun/ & https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I0DYpaLgWIo

We can try to “cultivate the cool courage to die without killing.”  But if you are not on that level, maintain your weapon, practice, and assert your Second Amendment Right, based in Natural Law, for the defense of yourself, family, community, and Liberty.”

- The Modern Alchemist

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