#this line has done palpable damage to my brain

[saintsebastiensbf]

olivia gatwood, the lover as a cult // mitski, wife

#just saw these parallels and screamed #this line has done palpable damage to my brain #mitski #olivia gatwood #the lover as a cult #wife #lyrics #quotes #parallels

[lifeofkaze]

The Soil We Need to Grow

Neville Longbottom Short

Prompts: Herbology Incident

1) (character) Neville Longbottom

2) (object) flower pot

3) (quote) "You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it." — Maya Angelou

Word Count: ~ 1.500

________________________________________

With a shriek, Rose Weasley dove behind one of the raised flower beds lining the greenhouse. Like all the other flower beds and tables in the brightly lit Herbology classroom, it was already covered in clay shards, soil and green shreds of what had formerly been the sapling of a Wiggentree.

On the central table the culprit causing this commotion was currently in the process of wrapping its slashing tentacles around the garden shears lying dangerously close to it. Rose’s face lost all its colour as the raging Venomous Tentacula managed to hoist them up and fling them in the rough direction of her hiding place.

As the shears were soaring through the air, the door to the greenhouse suddenly opened and a tall man in a soil covered cardigan strode in, several boxes of seeds balanced on his arms. His eyebrows rose in astonishment at the havoc that had been wreaked in his classroom.

“Get down!” Rose managed to scream just in time for Professor Longbottom to duck and evade the deadly projectile.

He dropped his boxes and jumped behind the flower bed she had been cowering behind. Rose winced as another flower pot crashed against the wood shielding them.

“What in Merlin’s name has happened here?” Neville asked in a mix of astonishment and exasperation. “When you said you wanted to experiment on the Venomous Tentacula, I thought you had something like testing fertiliser in mind.”

He carefully glanced over the edge of the table and waited for a moment until the rogue plant had turned its attention to the helpless sapling again. He quickly drew his wand and with a practised flick of his wrist, the Venomous Tentacula froze, dropped the branch it was currently munching on and then faltered in on itself.

With a sigh of relief, Neville stood up and extended a hand to help Rose to her feet. She brushed off the dirt from her clothes and contritely took in the messed up greenhouse.

“I wanted to make it stronger and more resilient,” she mumbled, “so I added a Fortifying Potion to the watering can. I wouldn’t have thought it would get quite so fortified,” she added unhappily, wringing her hands. “I’m really sorry, Professor Longbottom, please don’t take any House points from me.”

Neville had listened to her without interrupting; it was palpable that this project was important to the daughter of his closest friends, and that she was devastated at its outcome.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured the distressed girl gently. “I know how it feels to experience setbacks like this.”

Rose looked at him astonishedly. “You do?”

Neville nodded in confirmation. “When I was your age, I tried to tweak Valerian plants to reverse their properties.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Do you know which potion Valerian is used for?” Neville asked in return instead of an answer.

Rose thought about it for a moment, raking her memory for the according information. “Um, a Forgetfulness Potion, I think?” It was more of a question than a statement.

“Exactly,” Neville confirmed. “I was terribly forgetful when I was your age. My grandmother even got me a Remembrall in my first year,” he laughed quietly, his face softening from reliving fond memories, “but alas, I regularly forgot where I put it.”

Rose watched Neville silently; she had a feeling that this wasn’t the only reason the man she had to call Professor at school and Neville when he was visiting her family home had undertaken such an effort as a student. “Was that the only reason, Professor?”

Neville’s face grew serious. “I assume your parents have told you about my family, haven’t they?”

Feeling sorry for bringing up such a personal topic, Rose’s eyes dropped to the ground. “I didn’t mean to make you think about something so awful, Professor; I’m sorry,” she evaded his question sheepishly.

“It’s alright,” Neville answered. “See, the minds of my parents were shattered when they fought for what they believed in. While they still somehow knew who I was, the Healers told me they didn’t fully remember me. But them remembering was all that I wanted back then, more than anything else. So I started looking for a way to help them. It was what drove me.”

His eyes were twinkling as he looked her up and down. “What is driving you, Rose Weasley?”

Rose shuffled her feet and wrung her hands. She knew Neville was friends with her mother and telling him about her motivation almost felt like telling her mother herself.

“Everyone always tells me how smart my mum is,” she finally admitted. “Brightest witch of her age, brain of the Golden Trio, Minister of Magic at such a young age. I want to make her proud. I thought by creating something totally new, something no one had ever done before, I could do that; show the world I have some brains on me as well. But no matter what I do, it never really works, something always goes wrong. It’s so frustrating!” The words spilled out of her in a quick succession, as if she had wanted to tell someone for a long time.

“I was feeling just as frustrated as you do now,” Neville answered after listening to her words. “But Professor Sprout, who was teaching Herbology when your parents and I were at school, shared one of her personal wisdoms with me when she saw my discouragement.”

He reached for one of the few flower pots that wasn’t lying in shambles at their feet and held it up for her to see. “See this flower pot? It is empty now, just a vessel ready to be filled with whatever you wish. What would you put in there?”

Rose fought not to raise her eyebrows doubtfully; she wasn’t quite sure if a philosophical lecture on flower pots was what she needed right now.

“I’d put a plant in there, I guess,” she shrugged, having no idea where this was leading.

Neville did as she suggested and put a sapling into the empty pot; without anything to support it, it immediately slumped to the side and fell to the bottom.

“What do you think is missing?” he asked her with a patient smile.

“You forgot the soil,” Rose answered. “Without soil the pot is too big.”

Neville’s eyes sparkled. “Exactly; like your endeavour to create something on your own to make your mother proud, this pot seems too big for a small sapling like this; without sustenance, it cannot grow.”

He grabbed a shovel and started adding loadful after loadful of the rich, dark soil he kept in sacks underneath the working tables, slowly filling the pot up with it.

“However, if you keep trying and trying and learn from your past mistakes, you can build a base for your wish to grow upon. Your failures are like the soil a plant needs to grow from a sapling into a flower; if you don’t let yourself get discouraged by them, they can be the foundation of your success.”

Neville gently set the sapling upright in the now filled flower pot and pressed down on the soil with his fingertips. Rose watched him quietly, letting his words sink in; she’d never felt anything but frustration at her own failed experiments before.

“But you didn’t succeed with your Valerian, did you?” she said after some time.

Neville didn’t look up from his flower pot. “No, I didn’t”

She grimaced. “Then what was the purpose? All the effort was in vain. There was no flower growing from it.”

To her surprise, Neville laughed and shook his head. “I didn’t accomplish what I was trying to do, but I wouldn’t say it was in vain either.”

He held up his dirty hands for her to see. “While I was trying to find a solution for what was driving me, I discovered other things; my love of Herbology, for example; the inner peace working with plants gives me; and that the direct way doesn’t always lead you where you need to go.”

Satisfied with his work, he straightened himself up and brushed the soil from his hands. With an encouraging smile, he pushed the pot with the small green sapling towards her; surrounded by the massive heaps of dark earth, it was looking a bit lost.

“I said I wouldn’t deduct any House points from you for wrecking my classroom,” Neville said sternly, but Rose could see the laughter shining in his eyes. “But as compensation, you will take care of this little friend here for me. I expect to see a full grown beauty by the end of the year.”

He took out his wand again and turned from her as he started to repair the damage her Venomous Tentacula had done to his work materials. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Rose tentatively grabbing the flower pot.

“Thank you, Neville,” she mumbled, the more familiar use of his first name not escaping him.

“You’re welcome, little Rose,” he smiled over his shoulder. “I believe in you. If anyone can grow a flower your mother would be proud of, it’s you.”

#harry potter #neville longbottom #rose weasley #neville longbottom fluff #next gen kids

[grigori77]

Movies of 2021 - My Pre-Summer Favourites (Part 2)

The Top Ten:

10.  ZACK SNYDER’S JUSTICE LEAGUE – one of the undisputable highlights of the Winter-Spring period has to be the long-awaited, much vaunted redressing of a balance that’s been a particular thorn in the side of DC cinematic fans for over three years now – the completion and restoration of the true, unadulterated original director’s cut of the painfully abortive DCEU team-up movie that was absolutely butchered when Joss Whedon took over from original director Zack Snyder and then heavily rewrote and largely reshot the whole thing.  It was a somewhat painful experience to view in cinemas back in 2017 – sure, there were bits that worked, but most of it didn’t and it wasn’t like the underrated Batman Vs Superman: Dawn of Justice, which improves immensely on subsequent viewings (especially in the three hour-long director’s cut).  No, Whedon’s film was a MESS.  Needless to say fans were up in arms, and once word got out that the finished film was not at all what Snyder originally intended, a vocal, forceful online campaign began to restore what quickly became known as the Snyder Cut.  Thank the gods that Warner Bros listened to them, ultimately taking advantage of the intriguing alternative possibilities provided by their streaming service HBO Max to allow Snyder to present his fully reinstated creation in its entirety.  The only remaining question, of course, is simply … is it actually any good? Well it’s certainly much more like BVS:DOG than Whedon’s film ever was, and there’s no denying that, much like the rest of Snyder’s oeuvre, this is a proper marmite movie – there are gonna people who hate it no matter what, but the faithful, the fans, or simply those who are willing to open their minds are going to find much to enjoy here. The damage has been thoroughly patched, most of the elements that didn’t work in the theatrical release having been swapped out or reworked so that now they pay off BEAUTIFULLY.  This time the quest of Bruce Wayne/Batman (Ben Affleck) and Diana Prince/Wonder Woman (Gal Gadot) to bring the first iteration of the Justice League together – half-Atlantean superhuman Arthur Curry/the Aquaman (Jason Momoa), lightning-powered speedster Barry Allan/the Flash (Fantastic Beasts’ Ezra Miller) and cybernetically-rebuilt genius Victor Stone/Cyborg (relative newcomer Ray Fisher) – not only feels organic, but NECESSARY, as does their desperate scheme to use one of the three alien Mother Boxes (no longer just shiny McGuffins but now genuinely well-realised technological forces that threaten cataclysm as much as they provide opportunity for miracles) to bring Clark Kent/Superman (Henry Cavill) back from the dead, especially given the far more compelling threat of this version’s collection of villains.  Ciaran Hinds’ mocapped monstrosity Steppenwolf is a far more palpable and interesting big bad this time round, given a more intricate backstory that also ties in a far greater ultimate mega-villain that would have become the DCEU’s Thanos had Snyder had his way to begin with – Darkseid (Ray Porter), tyrannical ruler of Apokolips and one of the most powerful and hated beings in the Universe, who could have ushered the DCEU’s now aborted New Gods storyline to the big screen.  The newer members of the League receive far more screen-time and vastly improved backstory too, Miller’s Flash getting a far more pro-active role in the storyline AND the action which also thankfully cuts away a lot of the clumsiness the character had in the Whedon version without sacrificing any of the nerdy sass that nonetheless made him such a joy, while the connective tissue that ties Momoa’s Aquaman into his own subsequent standalone movie feels much stronger here, and his connection with his fellow League members feels less perfunctory too, but it’s Fisher’s Cyborg who TRULY reaps the benefits here, regaining a whole new key subplot and storyline that ties into a genuinely powerful tragic origin story, as well as a far more complicated and ultimately rewarding relationship with his scientist father, Silas Stone (the great Joe Morton).  It’s also really nice to see Superman handled with the kind of skill we’d expect from the same director who did such a great job (fight me if you disagree) of bringing the character to life in two previous big screen instalments, as well as erasing the memory of that godawful digital moustache removal … similarly, it’s nice to see the new and returning supporting cast get more to do this time, from Morton and the ever-excellent J.K. Simmonds as fan favourite Gotham PD Commissioner Jim Gordon to Connie Nielsen as Diana’s mother, Queen Hippolyta of Themyscira and another unapologetic scene-stealing turn from Jeremy Irons as Batman’s faithful butler Alfred Pennyworth. Sure, it’s not a perfect movie – the unusual visual ratio takes some getting used to, while there’s A LOT of story to unpack here, and at a gargantuan FOUR HOURS there are times when the pacing somewhat lags, not to mention an overabundance of drawn-out endings (including a flash-forward to a potential apocalyptic future that, while evocative, smacks somewhat of overeager fan-service) that would put Lord of the Rings’ The Return of the King to shame, but original writer Chris Terrio’s reconstituted script is rich enough that there’s plenty to reward the more committed viewer, and the storytelling and character development is a powerful thing, while the action sequences are robust and thrilling (even if Snyder does keep falling back on his over-reliance on slow motion that seems to alienate some viewers), and the new score from Tom Holkenborg (who co-composed on BVS:DOJ) feels a far more natural successor than Danny Elfman’s theatrical compositions.  The end result is no more likely to win fresh converts than Man of Steel or Batman Vs Superman, but it certainly stands up far better to a critical eye this time round, and feels like a far more natural progression for the saga too.  Ultimately it’s more of an interesting tangential adventure given that Warner Bros seem to be stubbornly sticking to their original plans for the ongoing DCEU, but I can’t help hoping that they might have a change of heart in the future given just how much better the final product is than any of us had any right to expect …

9.  SYNCHRONIC – writer-director duo Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead are something of a creative phenomenon in the science-fiction and fantasy indie cinema scene, crafting films that ensnare the senses and engage the brain like few others.  Subtly insidious conspiracy horror debut Resolution is a sneaky little chiller, while deeply original body horror Spring (the film that first got me into them) is weird, unsettling and surprisingly touching, but it was breakthrough sleeper hit The Endless, a nightmarish time-looping cosmic horror that thoroughly screws with your head, that really put them on the map.  Needless to say it’s led them to greater opportunities heading into the future, and this is their first film to really reap the benefits, particularly by snaring a couple of genuine stars for its lead roles.  Steve (Anthony Mackie) and Dennis (Jamie Dornan) are paramedics working the night shift in New Orleans, which puts them on the frontlines when a new drug hits the streets, a dangerous concoction known as Synchronic that causes its users to experience weird localised fractures in time that frequently lead to some pretty outlandish deaths in adults, while teenage users often disappear entirely.  As the situation worsens, the pair’s professional and personal relationships become increasingly strained, compounded by the fact that Steve is concealing his recent diagnosis of terminal cancer, before things come to a head when Dennis’ teenage daughter Brianna (Into the Badlands’ Ally Ioannides) vanishes under suspicious circumstances, and it becomes clear to Steve that she’s become unstuck in time … this is as mind-bendingly off-the-wall and spectacularly inventive as we’ve come to expect from Benson and Moorhead, another fantastically original slice of weirdness that benefits enormously from their exquisitely obsessive attention to detail and characteristically unsettling atmosphere of building dread, while their character development is second to none, benefitting their top-notch cast no end.  Mackie is typically excellent, bringing compelling vulnerability to the role that makes it easy to root for him as he gets further out of his depth in this twisted temporal labyrinth, while Dornan invests Dennis with a painfully human fallibility, and Ioannides does a lot with very little real screen time in her key role as ill-fated Brianna.  The time-bending sequences are suitably disorienting and disturbing, utilising pleasingly subtle use of visual effects to further mess with your head, and the overall mechanics of the drug and its effects are fiendishly crafted, while the directors tighten the screw of slowburn tension throughout, building to a suitably offbeat ending that’s as devastating as anything we’ve seen from them so far.  Altogether this is another winning slice of genre-busting weirdness from a filmmaking duo who deserve continued success in the future, and I for one will be watching eagerly.

8.  WITHOUT REMORSE – I’m a big fan of Tom Clancy, to me he was one of the ultimate escapist thriller writers, and whenever a new adaptation of one of his novels comes along I’m always front of the line to check it out.  The Hunt For Red October is one of my favourite screen thrillers OF ALL TIME, while my very favourite Clancy adaptation EVER, the Jack Ryan TV series, is, in my opinion, one of the very best Original shows that Amazon have ever done.  But up until now my VERY FAVOURITE Clancy creation, John Clark, has always remained in the background or simply absent entirely, putting in an appearance as a supporting character in only two of the movies, tantalising me with his presence but never more than a teaser.  Well that’s all over now – after languishing in development hell since the mid-90s, the long-awaited adaptation of my favourite Clancy novel, the origin story of the top CIA black ops operative, has finally arrived, as well as a direct spin-off from distributor Amazon’s own Jack Ryan series.  Michael B. Jordan plays John Kelly (basically Clark before he gained his more famous cover identity), a lethally efficient, highly decorated Navy SEAL whose life is turned upside down when a highly classified operation experiences deadly blowback as half of his team is assassinated in retaliation, while Kelly barely survives an attack in which his heavily pregnant wife is killed.  With the higher-ups unwilling the muddy the waters while scrambling to control the damage, Kelly, driven by rage and grief, takes matters into his own hands, embarking on a violent personal crusade against the Russian operatives responsible, but as he digs deeper with the help of his former commanding officer, Lt. Commander Karen Greer (Queen & Slim’s Jodie Turner-Smith), and mid-level CIA hotshot Robert Ritter (Jamie Bell), it becomes clear that there’s a far more insidious conspiracy at work here … in the past the Clancy adaptations we’ve seen tend to be pretty tightly reined-in affairs, going for a PG-13 polish that maintains the intellectual fireworks but still tries to keep the violence clean and relatively family-friendly, but this was never going to be the case here – Clark has always been Jack Ryan’s dark shadow, Clancy’s righteous man without the moral restraint, and a PG-13 take never would have worked, so going for an unfettered R-rating is the right choice.  Jordan’s Kelly/Clark is a blood-soaked force of nature, a feral dog let off the leash, bringing a brutal ferocity to the action that does the literary source proud, tempered by a wounded vulnerability that helps us to sympathise with the broken but still very human man behind the killer; Turner-Smith, meanwhile, regularly matches him in the physical stakes, jumping into the action with enthusiasm and looking damn fine doing it, but she also brings tight control and an air of pragmatic military professionalism that makes it easy to believe in her not only as an accomplished leader of fighting men but also as the daughter of Admiral Jim Greer, while Bell is arrogant and abrasive but ultimately still a good man as Ritter; Guy Pearce, meanwhile, brings his usual gravitas and quietly measured charisma to proceedings as US Secretary of Defence Thomas Clay, and Lauren London makes a suitably strong impression during her brief screen time to make her absence keenly felt as Kelly’s wife Pam. The action is intense, explosive and spectacularly executed, culminating in a particularly impressive drawn-out battle through a Russian apartment complex, while the labyrinthine plot is intricately crafted and unfolds with taut precision, but then the screenplay was co-written by Taylor Sheridan, who here reteams with Sicario 2 director Stefano Sollida, who’s also already proven to be a seasoned hand at this kind of thing, and the result is a tense, knuckle-whitening suspense thriller that pays magnificent tribute to the most compelling creation of one of the best authors in the genre.  Amazon have signed up for more with already greenlit sequel Rainbow Six, and with this directly tied in with the Jack Ryan TV series too I can’t help holding out hope we just might get to see Jordan’s Clark backing John Krasinski’s Ryan up in the future …

7.  RAYA & THE LAST DRAGON – with UK cinemas still closed I’ve had to live with seeing ALL the big stuff on my frustratingly small screen at home, but at least there’s been plenty of choice with so many of the big studios electing to either sell some of their languishing big projects to online vendors or simply release on their own streaming services.  Thank the gods, then, for the House of Mouse following Warner Bros’ example and releasing their big stuff on Disney+ at the same time in those theatres that have reopened – this was one movie I was PARTICULARLY looking forward to, and if I’d had to wait and hope for the scheduled UK reopening to occur in mid-May I might have gone a little crazy watching everyone else lose it over something I still hadn’t seen.  That said, it WOULD HAVE been worth the wait – coming across sort-of a bit like Disney’s long overdue response to Dreamworks’ AWESOME Kung Fu Panda franchise, this is a spellbinding adventure in a beautifully thought-out fantasy world heavily inspired by Southeast Asia and its rich, diverse cultures, bursting with red hot martial arts action and exotic Eastern mysticism and brought to life by a uniformly strong voice cast dominated by actors of Asian descent.  It’s got a cracking premise, too – 500 years ago, the land of Kumandra was torn apart when a terrible supernatural force known as the Druun very nearly wiped out all life, only stopped by the sacrifice of the last dragons, who poured all their power and lifeforce into a mystical gem.  But when the gem is broken and the pieces divided between the warring nations of Fang, Heart, Spine, Tail and Talon, the Druun return, prompting Raya (Star Wars’ Kelly Marie Tran), the fugitive princess of Heart, to embark on a quest to reunite the gem pieces and revive the legendary dragon Sisu in a desperate bid to vanquish the Druun once and for all.  Moana director Don Hall teams up with Blindspotting helmer Carlos Lopez Estrada (making his debut in the big chair for Disney after helping develop Frozen), bringing to life a thoroughly inspired screenplay co-written by Crazy Rich Asians’ Adele Kim which is full to bursting with magnificent world-building, beautifully crafted characters and thrilling action, as well as the Disney prerequisites of playful humour and tons of heart and soul.  Tran makes Raya an feisty and engaging heroine, tough, stubborn and a seriously kickass fighter, but with true warmth and compassion too, while Gemma Chan is icy cool but deep down ultimately kind of sweet as her bitter rival, Fang princess Namaari, and there’s strong support from Benedict Wong and Good Boys’ Izaac Wang as hard-but-soft Spine warrior Tong and youthful but charismatic Tail shrimp-boat captain Boun, two of the warm-hearted found family that Raya gathers on her travels.  The true scene-stealer, however, is the always entertaining Awkwafina, bringing Sisu to life in wholly unexpected but thoroughly charming and utterly adorable fashion, a goofy, sassy and sweet-natured bundle of fun who grabs all the best laughs but also unswervingly champions the film’s core messages of peace, unity and acceptance in all things, something which Raya needs a lot of convincing to take to heart.  Visually stunning, endlessly inventive, consistently thrilling and frequently laugh-out-loud funny, this is another solid gold winner once again proving that Disney can do this kind of stuff in their sleep, but it’s always most interesting when they really make the effort to create something truly special, and that’s just what they’ve done here.  As far as I’m concerned, this is one of the studio’s finest animated features in a good long while, and thoroughly deserving of your praise and attention …

6.  THE MITCHELLS VS THE MACHINES – so what piece of animation, you might be asking, could POSSIBLY have won over Raya as my animated feature of the year so far? After all, it would have to be something TRULY special … but then, remember Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse?  Back in 2018, that blew me away SO MUCH that it very nearly became my top animated feature of THE PAST DECADE (only JUST losing out, ultimately, to Dreamworks’ unstoppable How to Train Your Dragon trilogy).  When I heard its creators, the irrepressible double act of Phil Lord and Christopher Miller (The Lego Movie, Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs), were going to be following that up with this anarchic screwball comedy adventure, I was VERY EXCITED INDEED, a fervour which was barely blunted when its release was, inevitably, indefinitely delayed thanks to the global pandemic, so when it finally released at the tail end of the Winter-Spring season I POUNCED. Thankfully my faith was thoroughly rewarded – this is an absolute riot from start to finish, a genuine cinematic gem I look forward to going back to for repeated viewings in the near future, just to soak up the awesomeness – it’s hilarious to a precision-crafted degree, brilliantly thought-out and SPECTACULARLY well-written by acclaimed Gravity Falls writer-director Mike Rianda (who also helms here), injecting the whole film with a gleefully unpredictable, irrepressibly irreverent streak of pure chaotic genius that makes it a affectionately endearing and utterly irresistible joyride from bonkers start to adorable finish.  The central premise is pretty much as simple as the title suggests, the utterly dysfunctional family in question – father Rick (Danny McBride), born outdoorsman and utter technophobe, mother Linda (Maya Rudolph), much put-upon but unflappable even in the face of Armageddon, daughter Katie (Broad City co-creator Abbi Jacobson), tech-obsessed and growing increasingly estranged from her dad, and son Aaron (Rianda himself), a thoroughly ODD dinosaur nerd – become the world’s only hope after naïve tech mogul Mark Bowman (Eric Andre), founder of PAL Labs, inadvertently sets off a robot uprising.  Cue a wild ride comedy of errors of EPIC proportions … this is just about the most fun I’ve had with a movie so far this year, an absolute riot throughout, but there’s far more to it than just a pile of big belly laughs, with the Mitchells all proving to be a lovable bunch of misfits who inspire just as much deep, heartfelt affection as they learn from their mistakes and finally overcome their differences, becoming a better, more loving family in the process, McBride and Jacobson particularly shining as they make our hearts swell and put a big lump in our throat even while they make us titter and guffaw, while the film has a fantastic larger than (virtual) life villain in PAL (Olivia Colman), the virtual assistant turned megalomaniacal machine intelligence spearheading this technological revolution.  Much like its Spider-Man-shaped predecessor, this is also an absolutely STUNNING film, visually arresting and spectacularly inventive and bursting with neat ideas and some truly beautiful stylistic flair, frequently becoming a genuine work of cinematic art that’s as much a feast for the eyes as it is the intellect and, of course, the soul.  Altogether then, this is definitely the year’s most downright GORGEOUS film so far, as well as UNDENIABLY its most FUN.  Lord and Miller really have done it again.

5.  P.G. PSYCHO GOREMAN – the year’s current undeniable top guilty pleasure has to be this fantastic weird, thoroughly over-the-top and completely OUT THERE black comedy cosmic horror that doesn’t so much riff on the works of HP Lovecraft as throw them in a blender, douse them with maple syrup and cayenne pepper and then hurl the sloppy results to the four winds.  On paper it sounds like a family-friendly cutesy comedy take on Call of Cthulu et al, but trust me, this sure ain’t one for the kids – the latest indie horror offering from Steven Kostanski, co-creator of the likes of Manborg, Father’s Day and The Void, this is one of the weirdest movies I’ve seen in years, but it’s also one of the most gleefully funny, playing itself entirely for yucks (frequently LITERALLY).  Mimi (Nita Josee-Hanna) and Luke (Owen Myre) are a two small-town Canadian kids who dig a big hole of their backyard, accidentally releasing the Arch-Duke of Nightmares (Matthew Ninaber and the voice of Steven Vlahos), an ancient, god-tier alien killing machine who’s been imprisoned for aeons in order to protect the universe from his brutal crusade of death and destruction.  To their parents’ dismay, Mimi decides to keep him, renaming him Psycho Goreman (or “P.G.” for short) and attempting to curb his superpowered murderous impulses so she can have a new playmate. But the monster’s original captors, the Templars of the Planetary Alliance, have learned of his escape, sending their most powerful warrior, Pandora (Kristen McCulloch), to destroy him once and for all.  Yup, this movie is just as loony tunes as it sounds – Kostanski injects the film with copious amounts of his own outlandish, OTT splatterpunk extremity, bringing us a riotous cavalcade of bizarrely twisted creatures and mutations (brought to life through some deliciously disgusting prosthetic effects work) and a series of wonderfully off-kilter (not to mention frequently off-COLOUR) darkly comic skits and escapades, while the sense of humour is pretty bonkers but also generously littered with nuggets of genuine sharply observed genius.  The cast, although made up almost entirely of unknowns, is thoroughly game, and the kids particularly impress, especially Josee-Hanna, who plays Mimi like a flamboyant, mercurial miniature psychopath whose zinger-delivery is clipped, precise and downright hilarious throughout.  There are messages of love conquering all and the power of family, both born and made, buried somewhere in there too, but ultimately this is just 90 minutes of wonderful weirdness that’s sure to melt your brain but still leave you with a big dumb green when it’s all over.  Which is all we really want from a movie like this, right?

4.  SPACE SWEEPERS – all throughout the pandemic and the interminable lockdowns, Netflix have been a consistent blessing to those of us who’ve been craving the kind of big budget blockbusters we have (largely) been unable to get at the cinema.  Some of my top movies of 2020 were Netflix Originals, and they’ve continued the trend into 2021, having dropped some choice cuts on us over the past four months, with some REALLY impressive offerings still to come as we head into the summer season (roll on, Zack Snyder’s Army of the Dead!).  In the meantime, my current Netflix favourite of the year so far is this phenomenal milestone of Korean cinema, lauded as the country’s first space blockbuster, which certainly went big instead of going home. Writer-director Jo Sung-hee (A Werewolf Boy, Phantom Detective) delivers big budget thrills and spills with a bombastic science-fiction adventure cast in the classic Star Wars mould, where action, emotion and fun characters count for more than an admittedly simplistic but still admirably archetypical and evocative plot – it’s 2092, and the Earth has become a toxic wasteland ruined by overpopulation and pollution, leading the wealthy to move into palatial orbital habitats in preparation for the impending colonisation of Mars, while the poor and downtrodden are packed into rotting ghetto satellites facing an uncertain future left behind to fend for themselves, and the UTS Corporation jealously guard the borders between rich and poor, presided over by seemingly benevolent but ultimately cruel sociopathic genius CEO James Sullivan (Richard Armitage).  Eking out a living in-between are the space sweepers, freelance spaceship crews who risk life and limb by cleaning up dangerous space debris to prevent it from damaging satellites and orbital structures.  The film focuses on the crew of sweeper vessel Victory, a ragtag quartet clearly inspired by the “heroes” of Cowboy Bebop – Captain Jang (The Handmaiden’s Kim Tae-ri), a hard-drinking ex-pirate with a mean streak and a dark past, ace pilot Kim Tae-ho (The Battleship Island’s Song Joong-ki), a former child-soldier with a particularly tragic backstory, mechanic Tiger Park (The Outlaws’ Jin Seon-Kyu), a gangster from Earth living in exile in orbit, and Bubs (a genuinely flawless mocapped performance from A Taxi Driver’s Yoo Hae-jin), a surplus military robot slumming it as a harpooner so she can earn enough for gender confirmation.  They’re a fascinating bunch, a mercenary band who never think past their next paycheque, but there’s enough good in them that when redemption comes knocking – in the form of Kang Kot-nim (newcomer Park Ye-rin), a revolutionary prototype android in the form of a little girl who may hold the key to bio-technological ecological salvation – they find themselves answering the call in spite of their misgivings.  The four leads are exceptional (as is their young charge), while Armitage makes for a cracking villain, delivering subtle, restrained menace by the bucketload every time he’s onscreen, and there’s excellent support from a fascinating multinational cast who perform in a refreshingly broad variety of languages. Jo delivers spectacularly on the action front, wrangling a blistering series of adrenaline-fuelled and explosive set-pieces that rival anything George Lucas or JJ Abrams have sprung on us this century, while the visual effects are nothing short of astounding, bringing this colourful, eclectic and dangerous universe to vibrant, terrifying life; indeed, the world-building here is exceptional, creating an environment you’ll feel sorely tempted to live in despite the pitfalls.  Best of all, though, there’s tons of heart and soul, the fantastic found family dynamic at the story’s heart winning us over at every turn. Ultimately, while you might come for the thrills and spectacle, you’ll stay for these wonderful, adorable characters and their compelling tale.  An undeniable triumph.

3.  JUDAS & THE BLACK MESSIAH – I’m a little fascinated by the Black Panther Party, I find them to be one of the most intriguing elements of Black History in America, but outside of documentaries I’ve never really seen a feature film that’s truly done the movement justice, at least until now.  It’s become a major talking point of the Awards Season, and it’s easy to see why – director Shaka King is a protégé of Spike Lee, and together with up-and-coming co-screenwriter Wil Berson he’s captured the fire and fervour of the Party and their firebrand struggle for racial liberation through force of arms, as well as a compelling portrait of one of their most important figures, Fred Hampton, the Chairman of the Illinois Chapter of the BPP and a powerful political activist who could have become the next Martin Luther King or Malcolm X.  Get Out’s Daniel Kaluuya is magnificent in the role, effortlessly holding your attention in every scene with his laconic ease and deceptively friendly manner, barely hinting at the zealous fire blazing beneath the surface, but the film’s true focus is the man who brought him down, William O’Neal, a fellow Panther and FBI informant placed in the Chapter to infiltrate the movement and find a way for the US Government to bring down what they believed to be one of the country’s greatest internal threats.  Lakeith Stanfield (Sorry to Bother You, Knives Out) delivers a suitably complex performance as O’Neal, perfectly embodying a very clever but also very desperate man walking a constant tightrope to maintain his cover in some decidedly wary company, but there’s never any real sense that he’s playing the villain, Stanfield largely garnering sympathy from the viewer as we’re shamelessly made to root for him, especially once he starts falling for the very ideals he’s trying to subvert – it’s a true star-making performance, and he even holds his own playing opposite Kaluuya himself.  The rest of the cast are equally impressive, Dominique Fishback (Project Power, The Deuce) particularly holding our attention as Hampton’s fiancée and fellow Panther Akua Njeri, as does Jesse Plemmons as O’Neal’s idealistic but sympathetic FBI handler Roy Mitchell, while Martin Sheen is the film’s nominal villain in a chillingly potent turn as J. Edgar Hoover.  This is an intense and thrilling film, powered by a tense atmosphere of pregnant urgency and righteous fury, but while there are a few grittily realistic set pieces, the majority of the fireworks on display are performance based, the cast giving their all and King wrestling a potent and emotionally resonant, inescapably timely history lesson that informs without ever slipping into preachy exposition, leaving an unshakable impression long after the credits have rolled.  This doesn’t just earn all the award-winning kudos it gained, it deserved A LOT MORE recognition that it got, and if this were a purely critical rundown list I’d have to put it in the top spot.  As it is I’m monumentally enamoured of this film, and I can’t sing its praises enough …

2.  RUN, HIDE, FIGHT – the biggest surprise hit for me so far this year was this wicked little indie suspense thriller from writer-director Kyle Rankin (Night of the Living Deb), which snuck in under the radar but is garnering an impressive reputation as a future cult sleeper hit.  Critics have been less kind, but the subject matter is a pretty thorny issue, and if handled the wrong way it could have been in very poor taste indeed.  Thankfully Rankin has crafted a corker here, initially taking time to set the scene and welcome the players before throwing us headfirst into an unbelievably tense but also unsettlingly believable situation – a small town American high school becomes the setting for a fraught siege when a quartet of disturbed students take several of their classmates hostage at gunpoint, creating a social media storm in the process as they encourage the capture of the crisis on phone cameras. While the local police gather outside, the shooters discover another threat from within the school throwing spanners in the works – Zoe Hull (Alexa & Katie’s Isabel May), a seemingly nondescript girl who happens to be the daughter of former marine scout sniper Todd (Thomas Jane).  She’s wound pretty tight after the harrowing death of her mother to cancer, fuelled by grief and conditioned by her father’s training, so she’s determined to get her friends and classmates out of this nightmare, no matter what.  Okay, so the premise reads like Die Hard in a school, but this is a very different beast, played for gritty realism and shot with unshowy cinema-verité simplicity, Rankin cranking up the tension beautifully but refusing to play to his audience any more than strictly necessary, drip-feeding the thrills to maximum effect but delivering some harrowing action nonetheless.  The cast are top-notch too, Jane delivering a typically subtle, nuanced turn while Treat Williams is likeably stoic as world-weary but dependable local Sherriff Tarsey, Rhada Mitchell intrigues as the matter-of-fact phantom of Zoe’s mum, Jennifer, that she’s concocted to help her through her mourning, Olly Sholotan is sweetly geeky as her best friend Lewis, and Eli Brown raises genuine goosebumps as an all-too-real teen psychopath in the role of terrorist ringleader Tristan Voy.  The real beating heart and driving force of the film, though, is May, intense, barely restrained and all but vibrating with wounded fury, perfectly believable as the diminutive high school John McClane who defies expectations to become a genuine force to be reckoned with, as far as I’m concerned one of this year’s TOP female protagonists.  Altogether this is a cracking little thriller, a precision-crafted little action gem that nonetheless raises some troubling questions and treats its subject matter with utmost care and respect, a film that’s destined for major cult classic status, and I can’t recommend it enough.

1.  NOBODY – do you love the John Wick movies but you just wish they took themselves a bit less seriously?  Well fear not, because Derek Kolstad has delivered fantastically on that score, the JW screenwriter mashing his original idea up with the basic premise of the Taken movies (former government spook/assassin turned unassuming family man is forced out of retirement and shit gets seriously trashed as a result) and injecting a big dollop of gallows humour.  This time he’s teamed up with Ilya Naishuller, the stone-cold lunatic who directed the deliriously insane but also thoroughly brilliant Hardcore Henry, and the results are absolutely unbeatable, a pitch perfect jet black action comedy bursting with neat ideas, wonderfully offbeat characters and ingenious plot twists.  Better Call Saul’s Bob Odenkirk is perfect casting as Hutch Mansell, the aforementioned ex-“Auditor”, a CIA hitman who grew weary of the lifestyle and quit to find some semblance of normality with his wife Becca (Connie Nielsen), with whom he’s had two kids.  Ultimately, he seems to have “overcompensated”, and his life has stagnated, Hutch following a autopiloted day-to-day routine that’s left him increasingly unfulfilled … then fate intervenes and a series of impulsive choices see him falling back on his old ways while defending a young woman from drunken thugs on a late night bus ride.  Problem is, said lowlifes work for the Russian Mob, specifically Yulian Kuznetsov (Leviathan’s Aleksei Serebryakov), a Bratva boss charged with guarding the Obshak, who must exact brutal vengeance in order to save face. Cue much bloody violence and entertaining chaos … Kolstad can do this sort of thing in his sleep, but his writing married with Naishuller’s singularly BONKERS vision means that the anarchy is dialled right up to eleven, while the gleefully dark sense of humour shot through makes the occasional surreality and bitingly satirical observation on offer all the more exquisite.  Odenkirk is a low-key joy throughout, initially emasculated and pathetic but becoming more comfortable in his skin as he reconnects with his old self, while Serebryakov hams things up spectacularly, chewing the scenery with aplomb; Nielsen, meanwhile, brings her characteristic restrained classiness to proceedings, Christopher Lloyd and the RZA are clearly having the time of their lives as, respectively, Hutch’s retired FBI agent father David and fellow ex-spook half-brother Harry, and there’s a wonderfully game cameo from the incomparable Colin Salmon as Hutch’s former handler, the Barber.  Altogether then, this is the perfect marriage of two fantastic worlds – an action-packed thrill ride as explosively impressive as John Wick, but also a wickedly subversive laugh riot every bit as blissfully inventive as Hardcore Henry, and undeniably THE BEST MOVIE I’ve seen so far this year.  Sure, there’s some pretty heavyweight stuff set to (FINALLY) come out later this year, but this really will take some beating …

#movies 2021 #zack snyder's justice league #synchronic #synchronic movie #without remorse #raya and the last dragon #the mitchells vs the machines #pg psycho goreman #psycho goreman #space sweepers #judas and the black messiah #run hide fight #nobody #nobody movie

[class1akids]

Chapter 249 Thoughts

This is my favourite chapter since forever. It was tense, suspenseful, tragic, funny, awkward, uplifting - just the whole range of emotions - what a great ride from start to finish. It’s meaty character stuff for everyone too and gorgeous, amazing, breathtaking art. 

1. Endeavor’s dream...

...of a happy family where he has no place in. Guilt? Foreshadowing? Death flag? Poetic justice?  Can his family heal if he’s around? Does he have any right to be there anymore? That’s some deep stuff. And I really despise Endeavor for what he did in the past, yet I still feel for his struggle to do better - and that’s a redemption arc done well. 

2. Wonder Trio

They are roommates!!! 

We also get a delicious glance of their morning personalities. (And yet again, I’m Bakugou). Todoroki is the residential motivational speaker. 

They still didn’t surpass Endeavor. No surprise there, but I think there will be a “faster than you” moment before the end of this arc. 

3. The dinner invitation

I can’t believe that Bakugou and Midoriya so naively walk into this particular trap. I love the running gag of Bakugou furiously denying being friends with Shouto.

Can’t wait for him to eat those words and call Todoroki a “friend” some point down the line. It will happen. 

But even he calms down when he meets the force of nature that is Fuyumi (I adore her in this chapter!!!!)

4. The awkward dinner

The Deku / Kacchan reactions during the dinner are absolutely gold.  

I love Deku’s coping mechanism is to deliver a mutter-analysis of the fried chicken, while Bakugou tries to inhale enough spicy food to numb his brain. 

(Midoriya is absolutely flawless in this chapter. From his initial freak-out / sunshine boy, to his crazy muttering, his earnest intervention, his interactions with Kacchan - he was written on point in this chapter).

Fuyumi sneakily left soba noodles off the menu. It’s a brilliant preventive move against all the passive-aggressive slurping. She adapts too. 

5. Fuyumi

OK, can I just gush about her? 

She has become the absolute BOSS of this family. She can wrangle anyone to do her bidding. She is also stubborn in her sunshine ways - I love that nothing can discourage her from trying to get them together. 

Pinching a pissy Natsuo under the table is a great sibling moment.

And I love the depth of the relationship she seems to have with Shouto. She’s really done right by him and it should be recognized more, because she was a kid herself, struggling, and now she could just walk away from this toxic place, but she hangs in there, because her she cares so much and has so much faith. Endeavor acknowledging her (not to her face of course) is a touching moment. 

6. Natsuo 

Everything Fuyumi is, he’s not. And he has the right to be resentful of course, but ironically, out of Endeavor’s children, he resembles Endeavor the most - not just on the outside. No wonder they don’t get along. He’s holding onto the hate and grudge.

His Front - Back T-shirt is hilarious.

But considering he’s the one who dropped Touya’s name the first time, I wonder if his “cooking” story is a foreshadowing of what happened to Touya. I.e. once it was clear that his body was too weak for his fire (or at least to All Might-beating levels), Endeavor forced him to stop training. Touya in his resentment of being “replaced” by the new masterpiece, defied his father’s order and burnt down something (was presumed dead). Anyway, until we are getting more clarity, this is my theory.

Love how freaked out Shouto is that he’s eaten Natsuo’s cooking.

7. Wonder Clean-up Duo

Deku and Kacchan’s professional clean-up operation is great fun. They even have the awkward conversation of “I know that you know - now you know that I know”. I think Deku deduced from Bakugou’s demeanor that he’s in on the Todoroki family secret, but he expected that it was something Todoroki shared with him, rather than something Kacchan overheard. Anyways, that cat is out of the bag finally. 

Also, it’s interesting that Bakugou’s reaction is not to say that it was wrong what happened, but that it shouldn’t be mentioned in front of guests. We already knew his home was not the pinnacle of raising emotional healthy children either....

8. Shouto / Fuyumi and the flashback

I love so much this conversation between Shouto and Fuyumi - it shows how long they’ve come. They are so honest with each other. Fuyumi totally drops the happy act in front of Shouto. 

The flashback to the scar incident was so raw and breathtaking. Every emotion - fear, regret, panic, pain, confusion - is so palpable on it. It legit makes you understand why Shouto never blamed Rei for what she did. As she was frantically trying to undo the damage - it made me tear up. 

Then Shouto’s really honest reply of not knowing what to think about their father. I love that. It’s so realistic. It must be for him especially so difficult to watch this Endeavor - he’s a good hero, a competent teacher - why waste all these years? All the could have beens are right in front of his eyes. He could have been trained in a way as not to lose his childhood. He could have been the son of a top hero he can be truly proud of. 

In think it’s also interesting that just like at the first family dinner, Shouto is only focusing on the hurt Endeavor caused his mother as a reason for holding onto his anger. He hasn’t really acknowledged the hurt he himself had been put through. I understand his hesitation to put himself into the victim’s shoes, but I think sooner or later he will have to face this fact. He was a kid, and he was badly hurt and it was wrong and it’s OK to feel angry for himself, not only for his mum. But he’s getting there slowly - not talking about his scar, and before when he talked openly about his father’s violent training methods.

9. The Midoriya - Shouto meta-conversation

Deku being Deku meddles. And I love how he reflects on the nature of forgiveness (it really feels something he has personally put a lot of thought into), which I think is not only about Shouto and Endeavor, but also, inevitably about him and Bakugou. I wrote more about it here. 

I think he’s helping Shouto by saying that holding onto the hate eventually is a valid response, but that he doesn’t think that’s where Shouto is heading (or Midoriya). 

I think it helps Shouto understand that forgiving doesn’t mean betraying his mother, just as using his fire side didn’t mean that. It’s his power, and he can use it how he sees fit - to assert himself. 

Also, it’s a grim reminder to Bakugou that nobody owes him forgiveness (not that he asked for it - yet).

10. Bakugou - Endeavor 

Bakugou is watching Endeavor this whole time. I think seeing this destroyed family clawing to put themselves together is the lesson he was meant to learn during this arc. Burnt bridges, broken chances, time lost and an empty victory. 

I can’t wait to see when it will pay its dividend in Bakugou’s arc. 

11. Touya

Everyone is screaming about it. Yes. I think it’s Dabi. Can’t wait for the fourth Todoroki child to come home (I hope it’s really happening). 

Bonus:

Shouto making a dig at Midoriya’s overly helpful nature.

Well, there were plenty of opportunities....

#bnha #bnha 249 #todoroki shouto #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #todoroki enji #todoroki fuyumi #todoroki natsuo #todoroki touya #todoroki family #wonder trio #endeavor #endeavor internship arc #bnha meta

[365days365movies]

January 4, 2021: First Blood (1982) (Part II)

Quick Recap before we go on. Oh, and SPOILERS right up top!

John Rambo (Sylvester Stallone) is a Vietnam vet wandering through Washington State, until coming upon the town of Hope, run by the Sheriff Will Teasle (Brian Dennehy).

Sheriff Will Teasle is an absolute dick who arrests Rambo for no real reason; just for being a “drifter.” His police force, which includes the sadistic Galt (Jack Starrett) and sympathetic Mitch (David Caruso, AKA Horatio Caine from CSI: Miami), beats John Rambo, and post-2020 me is UNCOMFORTABLE!!!!!!!

Rambo has Vietnam flashbacks (like you do) and escapes the prison, pursued by the obsessive and dickish Sheriff and his equally dickish men (except for Horatio, maybe).

Galt tries to shoot Rambo, and karma bitch-slaps him RIGHT in the face, holy shit. He dies, and Rambo is blamed and shot at, escaping into the forest.

OK?

OK. On with the recap!

At this point, all of Rambo’s actions are in self-defense. In truth, it’s been self-defense since the beginning. However, he does kill two dogs, so...yeah, can’t really justify that. That sucks. The dog’s handler gets shot by Rambo, who now has a gun, and we also see that Galt’s certified sociopathy has leaked into everybody else but Horatio upon his death, including the dog guy, who tells his dogs to straight up kill Rambo. But, as previously stated...that’s not what happens.

At this point, I should introduce the amemedala.

The amemedala is a portion of the mesencephalon (or midbrain) discovered in the brains of millennials and younger individuals, recently discovered, named, and made up by yours truly. This area, attached to the thalamus, acts as a relay center between the cerebrum and the various sensory receptors of the body, similar to the function of the thalamus. However, while the thalamus governs the broad relay of senses to the appropriate areas of the brain for analysis, the amemedala relays appropriate sensory signals to the frontal lobes, where catalogs of shared sociological trends, or memes, are housed. This relay and association generates connections between extrenal stimuli, and entries in the meme catalog of the frontal lobes. While this is technically an autonomic process, it can be suppressed with enough willpower.

Why am I ringing this up in the middle of First Blood? Because EVERY. SINGLE. CELL of my brain is working to suppress the amemedala right now. Why? BECAUSE OF THE LORAX, AND FOR WHOM HE SPEAKS.

Is it an outdated meme? Very much so. BUT I CANNOT GET IT OUT OF MY GODDAMN HEAD AS I WATCH THIS MOVIE.

OK. That is now out of my system. Anyway, Rambo continues to speak for the trees, which is understandably starting to spook the smalltown cops. This leads to the VERY surprising moment where a camouflaged Rambo appears OUT OF NOWHERE and stabs Horatio in the goddamn leg! Like, wow, he was invisible! I had to rewind the film to see where he was. This is tense...and awesome, not gonna lie. This is awesome.

And then, he gets another cop by JUMPING FROM A TREE. Well, a tree stump, BUT STILL. After he takes him out, he stands in plain sight in front of an approaching cop. That cop, subscribing once again to the shoot-first-ask-questions-later policy, fires. And I SWEAR, Rambo is FASTER THAN THOSE SPEEDING BULLETS, as he dodges out of the way, and the bullets HIT THE COP HE JUST TOOK OUT!

And then, when I didn’t think this could get any more intense, that cop triggers a booby trap, and A STICK WITH WOODEN SPIKES GOES THROUGH THIS MAN’S LEGS, AND HE’S SPEARED LIKE A KEBAB OH MY GOD

The asshole sheriff runs to the NEW set of panicked screams, and his compatriot is just Batman-ed away by Rambo. It’s just the sheriff, now. The storm is building, and the forest is getting darker. The sheriff frees leg-spike cop, and goes to find the other cop, who’s been PINNED TO A TREE LIKE A BUTTERFLY IN A DISPLAY CASE. See, look!

HOLY SHIT IT’S RAMBO WITH A KNIFE IN THE FOREST. He pins the sheriff up to a tree, then with some legitimately badass lines, threatens with the sheriff with “a war [he] wouldn’t believe,” and telling him to make like Elsa and…

I love this sequence. It is the most intense, crazy, holy shit sequence I’ve seen so far this month. Wow. I understand why people talk about this movie. Man, that was a hell of a ride! Good movie, though. All right, so, time for the final sco-

Oh. Oh, my God. I’m only HALFWAY INTO THE MOVIE?

...Wow. OK, then.

We now meet Colonel Sam Trautman, Rambo’s commander in the Green Berets. He’s come to “get his boy.” He says that he came to rescue the Sheriff’s dumb ass from Rambo, rather than the other way around. And the Sheriff is...an idiot. He’s an ass, he’s a maniac, and he’s a stubborn idiot. Even after learning that Rambo is the best, he’s unwilling to back down, the dummkopf.

Rambo kills a wild boar in the woods, which makes no sense for Washington State, but whatever, sure. Anyway, they try to get the colonel to lure Rambo out, even though that’s obviously gonna make his PTSD, just...SO much worse. Especially as he starts using Vietnam parlance in contacting him. Not gonna end well, guys. But it’s then that we learn that Rambo is now the last surviving member of his unit, contributing to his trauma. Rambo’s also been trying to get in contact with the Colonel, winding up here because he has no place to go. He says that there are no friendly civilians, and the trouble’s been caused by that “king-shit” cop. I will be using this term from now on.

Wow. Damn. Hell of a reason for that title. And I think I love this movie. Seriously, I’m having a good time.

King-Shit Cop keeps going ahead with his absolute idiocy, despite all warnings to the contrary. So, a bunch of troops now converge upon Rambo’s place, but he naturally opens fire on them, without killing a single person. In fact, he hasn’t killed anyone this whole movie, and they make a point of saying that he’s been holding back the whole time. So, they decide to use the next, most logical course of action. They FIRE A ROCKET AT HIM.

Afterwards, the Colonel and King Shit Cop catch up at a bar, where the latter exposes his full sociopathy, commenting that he just wanted to kill Rambo. This is opposed to the Colonel, who doesn’t really know what he’d do if Rambo survived.

Which, of course, he did. C’mon, you think a little military-grade propelled explosive is gonna kill John Rambo? Nah. He’s the best there ever was, and he’s gonna prove it now. He jumps into a military vehicle holding an M-60, and hijacks it. Doesn’t take long for the news to break that Rambo’s still kicking, and he’s quickly intercepted by King Shit Cop, who JUST. DOESN’T. KNOW. WHEN. TO QUIT. And I’d admire his tenacity if he wasn’t SUCH AN ASSHOLE.

The cops try to run Rambo and the truck of the road, and he plays the UNO Reverse Card on them instead. And I’m pretty sure at this point…

...that old Johnny boy’s just killed some cops. So, yeah, now there’s a bigger problem. He powers through the State Police blockade like it was a banner blocking a football team, stops at a gas station, grabs the gun from the car, and LIGHTS ALL OF THAT SHIT ON FIRE! Destroying the livelihood of an individual who had nothing to do with this.

Yeah, Rambo’s starting to turn from innocent acting in self-defense to public menace REAL quick. And yeah, it’s King Shit Cop’s fault entirely...but, yeah, Johnny needs some help, because he’s losing the train at this point. But, not to be outdone, King Shit Cop is also beginning to lose it, and it’s definitely beginning to seem like only one of them is going to come out of this alive. And the Colonel tries to give him an out, but King Shit Cop’s prepared to go down with the ship that he blew a hole in in the first place. Like an asshole.

But here we go, the finale. John Rambo vs. King Shit Cop (whose name, by the way, is Will Teasle. I just like Rambo’s name for him better). KSC’s on the roof, Rambo’s on the street. Rambo causes more property damage, possibly because banks also give him PTSD (I joke, but PTSD is no laughing matter, John clearly needs help), and then finds his way to a store that has just all of the ammo a psychologically-damaged Vietnam War veteran on a revenge quest could ever need.

And then he BLOWS. THAT. SHIT. UP.

And he does this...ALL of this...just to lure KSC out of hiding. This man DESTROYS A TOWN because this idiot, sociopathic, unhinged, King Shit Cop, won’t just STAND. THE FUCK. DOWN ALREADY.

Rambo enters the police station, where KSC is on the roof. And, like the Colonel and the rest of us guessed, KSC gets shot in the process. And as Rambo stands over KSC, the Colonel finally shows up and does what literally everybody else should have done.

Talk. He just...talks to Rambo. He talks to this mentally ill man, and that mentally ill man responds, espousing his pure anger at the war, the public, protesters, work, the country, the town, himself...everyone. And goddamn, is that shit palpable.

This man can no longer fit in the world that he was forced to leave, and forced to return to. This poor, poor, poor man. It hurts. And it sucks. And he pours his heart out to the Colonel, and to us, and...you feel it. You feel his trauma, you feel his pain. You feel the aftermath of war. And it’s been seven years at this point for the Colonel, but no time for John. Not Rambo. John. And it’s just...never over.

Damn. Goddamn.

This...this is one hell of a good movie. And not just a good action movie, either. A damn good movie.

And that’s it. That’s First Blood.

#first blood #rambo: first blood #rambo #rambo first blood #john rambo #sylvester stallone #richard crenna #sam trautman #colonel trautman #trautman #brian dennehy #will teasle #jack starrett #galt #david caruso #ted kotcheff #action #movie #action movie #action genre #movies #movie essay #movie essays #movie challenge #365 movie challenge #365 movies 365 days #365 Days 365 Movies #a year at the movies #a year at the cinema #action january

[the-weeping-monk]

visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)

Chapter 5

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“There isn’t much time.”

Nimue’s mouth went dry. “I don’t understand, what’s happening?”

“It’s Cumber. He’s sending an army to wipe the Fey out.” Morgana paused, then amended, “Well, another army.”

“‘Another army’? They didn’t leave on the ships?” Nimue wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or dismayed, but she was definitely guilty. Had they stayed for her? She had told Arthur to leave, to not look back. She had made her choice for the good of her people—why couldn’t he have just let her go?

But the tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered to her that the Fey had stayed for her. Because they believed in her.

“No,” Morgana said, shaking her head. “I didn’t know it, either, but apparently Cumber sent soldiers to make certain the Fey never left the beach.”

Her stomach dropped. How many casualties? she wanted to ask. How many did we lose?  

But Nimue remained silent. She could not ask now or else she might break, and that was not an option. She had to be strong—if not for herself, then for the Fey. Taking a deep breath, she asked instead, “What do we do?”

“I made sure that Arthur led the Fey to safety. By the time Cumber’s soldiers arrive at the beach, they should be long gone.”

“You saw Arthur?” Nimue’s heart stuttered. “How is he? Is he alright?”

Morgana gave a rueful smile and glanced away. “He’s fine, Nimue.”

Nimue couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped her. Arthur was alive, alive, alive. She would get to see him and this time, they would never have to be parted again.

“In the meantime, we need to slow Cumber’s army down. If you and Merlin work together—wait.” Morgana paused and looked around the clearing, her gaze briefly stumbling on the Monk. “Where’s Merlin? And what is he doing here?” she demanded, jerking her head toward the ex-Paladin.

Ignoring Morgana’s last question, Nimue asked, “Is Merlin supposed to be here?” She found that she didn’t possess enough energy to pretend to defend the Monk’s reasons for tagging along. She still hadn’t made up her mind about him yet, still hadn’t decided if she could move past what he had done to her people.

To their people, she reminded herself. Because he had not just harmed a race he didn’t understand out of fear or ignorance, no—the Monk had been a part of mass genocide against his own kind.

It made her sick, it made her angry. She didn’t want to feel anything other than hatred toward him, but the previous night had complicated things. His confession had twisted her assumption of him and made Nimue question everything she knew. The Monk was single-handedly blurring her well-constructed lines between good and evil, and she didn’t know what to do.

She never should have let the Monk travel with them. He and Squirrel were already closer than she could have imagined, given the circumstances; the boy had even let him call him by his given name. Squirrel was young, impressionable. What would happen if he and the Monk grew closer if the boy began to look up to the allegedly reformed murderer?

Clenching her teeth, Nimue silently resolved to make sure that never happened, whatever it took.

“Merlin told me that he was going to meet you,” Morgana said, bringing Nimue back to the present.

“Well, obviously something got in his way.” Nimue paused, thinking, and then, “Where did you two go after I . . .” she trailed off, unable to form the words. Her fall was still fresh in her mind, the feeling of Death’s talons gripping her lungs still paralyzing.

Morgana pursed her lips. “We went back to his old tower in Uther’s palace. We didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Do you think Uther found him?” Nimue didn’t want to believe it, but it was entirely possible. Even if Merlin had his magic back, he couldn’t defend himself or outright murder the king without risk of being hunted down for generations to come.

“I don’t know what to think anymore, but there isn’t enough time to debate. We have to get to the Fey before Cumber’s army does.”

“What makes you think that we can do anything against an entire army?” Nimue asked, doubtful.

Morgana gave her a flat look. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

Nimue’s brow furrowed. “I’m serious, Morgana. Getting rid of those soldiers in the forest was one thing—fighting off an entire army is another.”

It was true; Nimue had been able to fend off a handful of soldiers, but she knew she was not yet ready to take on an entire army, at least not alone. Maybe if Merlin were there it would be different, but he was nowhere to be found.

“You will have me.”

Nimue startled. It was the first time the Monk had spoken since Morgana had arrived. Nimue almost wished she could say she had forgotten he was there, but it wouldn’t have been true—she felt his presence in the back of her mind, a steady heat burning in her subconscious. Ever since she had had that vision of him in the caverns, something had changed.

No, changed wasn’t the right word, she decided. Something had been discovered, something that had always been there, buried in the shadows of her mind. Fate had led them there, and fate guided them now.

It was only then that she realized what—or, more accurately, who—she was connected with, and she stifled a wave of revulsion.

There must have been some sort of fluke; maybe the presence in the back of her mind was her mother, guiding her to the right decision. After all, it felt good and kind and familiar, and the Monk was none of those things.

It couldn't be the Monk. Fate wouldn’t be that cruel.

Morgana scoffed. “I still don’t understand what he is doing here.” The question was directed at Nimue but her eyes were on the Monk. “Didn’t he hunt you all down, hell-bent on murdering the Fey?”

The Monk looked away, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Yes,” he breathed, “I did.”

“And you’re fine with that, Nimue? Welcoming him into your good graces after all that he has done?” Morgana shook her head before Nimue had the chance to respond. “Did the water of the lake damage your brain, is that what this is?”

“Morgana,” Nimue said her name like an order. The young Daughter stopped her tangent and gazed at Nimue expectantly. “I am not saying that I’m alright with the . . . situation,” she glanced sidelong at the Monk, whose gaze was resolutely turned away, “but I am asking you to focus on what’s more important at the moment—the Fey.” Nimue closed her eyes in anticipation of what she was about to say. “And if Lancelot is offering his help, then I won’t turn him away.”

For a moment, Nimue was sure Morgana wouldn’t respond, and then—

“He’s Lancelot now?” She guffawed. “I didn’t realize we were humanizing murderers.”

Nimue tried to be patient, she really did, but it wasn’t in her power. She was disgusted with the Monk and frustrated that Morgana was questioning Nimue’s decision to allow him to stay with them. Why couldn’t anything be easy for once?

“I’m not asking you to understand, Morgana,” Nimue said, patience running thin, “so let’s focus and discuss what’s more important right now.”

Morgana bit the inside of her cheek. She was silent for a few agonizing moments before she spoke.

“They Fey could have left tracks—they were in a hurry.”

Nimue let out a small sigh of relief at Morgana’s compliance. “If Cumber’s army is already on its way, then we have to move fast to intercept them. They’ll likely have sent scouts ahead, and I can’t let them get back to the soldiers with wind of where the Fey went.”

“I agree. Head there now—I’ll go find Merlin and have him come to you so he can transport the lot of you to the beach,” Morgana asserted. “Once you get there, make sure to cover any tracks the Fey could have left.”

Nimue nodded. The decision had been made. “Born in the dawn.”

Morgana’s answering smile was grim. Idly, Nimue found she had trouble remembering the last time she had seen her friend smile. “To pass in the twilight.”

The Fey expression was easier than saying goodbye. It meant that there was still a chance of life beyond death, that if something ever happened, Nimue and Morgana would one day reunite.

Nimue blinked and Morgana was gone.

There were a few moments of palpable silence before Nimue turned back to Squirrel and the Monk, determination hardening her gaze. “We have to leave, immediately.”

No objections were made—both Squirrel and the Monk seemed to understand the weight of the situation.

The Monk didn’t spare her a glance as he lifted Squirrel onto the horse and started forward on foot. His limp was more prominent than it had been, though his face was emotionless, dead eyes staring straight ahead. He must have reinjured himself during the fight.

She made herself look away. One minute she hated him, and the next she was sympathizing with him?

But she couldn’t just let him hurt himself further. Whether she liked it or not, their paths were intertwined. As his queen, she had a duty to help him—she owed it to him to give him this. He had saved her and Squirrel, and that counted for something.  

Nimue sighed. She couldn’t believe she was actually going to do this.

“Mo—Lancelot,” she called, tripping over his name. He turned back to her, hand snapping to one of his swords, ready to fight at a moment’s notice despite being heavily injured. “Use the horse. I need a good walk.”

His expression hardened, most likely thinking that she was pitying him. His voice was rough when he muttered out an “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re clearly not.” Nimue walked forward, catching up to him easily and stopping in front of him. “Get on the horse. That’s an order from your queen.” When he didn’t move right away, she tried again. “I thought you said you were loyal to me?”

This seemed to get his attention. “Yes, my lady.”

Nimue blinked. “I’m not your lady.”

The Monk gave her a quizzical look before his mask fell back into place once more. “What should I call you then?”

Nimue hesitated. “Not ‘my lady’.”

Maybe it was the light or the adrenaline from earlier warping her perception of reality, but Nimue could have sworn the Monk’s lips had quirked up in the beginnings of a smile.

The Monk did as he was commanded and climbed atop his horse behind Squirrel, who had been noticeably silent throughout the entire exchange. When the boy caught her staring, he merely raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

Nimue didn’t know what that was meant to convey, and she didn’t ask, and instead started forward along the path once more. They could have stayed in their little camp until Merlin found them, but Nimue knew she wouldn’t have been able to sit still, not with Fey lives on the line. She had to move, had to do something.

But even as they walked, the silence of the woods was too all-consuming and she was bombarded by intruding thoughts.

What if Cumber’s army discovered the Fey? Would Arthur be alright, was he struggling to lead the Fey? What about Pym and Kaze? Nimue hadn’t even thought to ask Morgana about them.

She had to distract herself.

“So,” she found herself saying, “how do you think you did it?”

The Monk knew what she was referring to and didn’t ask for clarification. “I’m not sure.”

Nimue frowned, though he couldn’t see it; she was still staring resolutely ahead. “You cloaked all of us with your magic; that must have taken a lot of concentration. Are you sure that you weren’t thinking of anything specific?”

She looked over her shoulder in time to catch the shake of his head. His eyes were on the horizon, but when he felt her staring at him, he met her gaze. Nimue whipped her head back to face the front as if she had been burned.

After the awkwardness had passed, she began again. “When I was first learning how to wield my magic, it responded to my emotions. Was it like that for you, do you think?”

The Monk was silent for a moment before he spoke, deliberating. “All I knew was that I had to protect Percival. And you,” he said.

“And you said that you’ve never done this before? Not once, not even on accident?”

The Monk shook his head once. “I never had a reason to protect anyone before,” he said simply.

When she had asked him the first time, the Monk’s brows had pinched together in confusion. But this has never happened before.

Have you ever needed to use it? she had asked, though she felt she already knew the answer.

The Monk had stayed silent, proving her suspicions correct.

Now that she had a verbal admission, it wasn’t necessarily surprising, but it was odd to hear all the same. Nimue hadn’t found herself wondering what the Monk’s life had been like with the Paladins—considering he was a Fey hiding in plain sight—but now she began to imagine. And she hated what her mind came up with, hated the sympathy rising within her. Hated that she could quite possibly relate to his situation more than anyone else could.

Nimue still remembered what it felt like to be hated for what she could do.

No! Stop, please! Fear had crept up her throat. Please stop! No, stop!

Peri had not listened to her pleas. That’s the mark of the dark gods. Then, Is that what you did, demon? Used your magic to make Wallo look at you? She sounded incredulous. Do you think he’d ever be with you?  

Leave me alone! Nimue had cried, the fear within her spiraling out of control. Would they kill her, would they cut her open and leave her to rot? Would her mother ever find her body?

She had been panting, her heart had raced out of control.

The next thing she heard had been Peri’s screams.

Let go of her, Nimue! Wallo had demanded, frightened eyes beseeching. Nimue!

It had not taken long before Wallo and his friend had cut Peri loose, but once they did, they had scampered away into the forest, fleeing for their lives. Nimue had instilled that fear in them.

But instead of saying any of this, instead of telling him that she understood, all she could breathe out was a soft “oh.”

Despite the fact that Nimue was only assuming his experience had been as bad as hers, she couldn’t help her hatred for him ebbing away. She didn’t trust him—didn’t even like him—but it eased her conscience knowing that for all the pain he had caused the Fey, he suffered just as much hiding who he was from his supposed brothers.

“Uh, Nimue?” Squirrel asked, nervous.

Nimue glanced back at the boy. “Yes?”

Squirrel didn’t respond. He merely pointed up at the blue, midday sky.

Except the sky wasn’t blue. Instead, dark, ominous clouds began to gather overhead, blocking out their view of the sun.

Thunder rumbled.

Nimue’s stomach sank. This wasn’t good.

. . .

To say that Merlin was having a rough day would be a monumental understatement.

Just as he had been about to leave to find Nimue, royal guards led by Uther himself had crashed through Merlin’s door.

Merlin had started up out of his seat where he had been preparing a rucksack, eyebrows shooting up. He had distinctly remembered locking the door in the event his rooms were ever searched, though he hadn’t expected anyone to break down his door in order to get in—Uther knew he didn’t have anything important in his chambers besides empty wine bottles.

Two soldiers stumbled through the door, and three others followed behind. When they saw Merlin, they stopped dead in their tracks, eyes wide.

Merlin reached for the Sword of Power and stood to face the soldiers, who still hadn’t moved from where they were frozen in the middle of the room. Had he been given more time, he would have hidden the sword, but it was too late now—the soldiers had seen it, and if Merlin didn’t dispose of them, they would report their findings back to Uther. And under no circumstance could Merlin ever let the sword fall into the boy-king’s hands.

“Your majesty?” one of the soldiers asked, hand on his sword as if he were unsure whether to draw the blade or not.

Merlin’s brow creased as he looked beyond the soldiers and into the darkness of the stairwell. Footsteps scuffed against stone, followed by a crisp voice.

“What is it?” Uther snapped, coming into view before stopping abruptly, eyes disbelieving. He blinked, and then his face grew deathly pale. “Merlin?” his voice came out as a whisper.

Merlin should have been angry, should have been vengeful. Uther had had him killed, he had wanted him dead. But maybe Merlin should have been there for him more. Maybe he should’ve been more supportive of Uther’s ventures.

He should’ve done so many things differently.  

Try as he might, Merlin couldn’t help but feel responsible for Uther and who he had become. The magician had known the boy-king for his entire life, had watched as he grew up, had celebrated each of his accomplishments as if they were his own.

He hadn’t meant to get attached, but then again, Merlin had a habit of caring far too much.

“Did you expect I would be easy to kill?” Merlin asked, tone carefully reserved.

Uther flinched. Fear and a tinge of regret laced his tone as he demanded, “How?”

“How about you tell me why you tried to kill me?” Merlin’s voice was even and controlled.

The soldiers between them shifted uncomfortably, glancing between the two men. Their hands were on the hilts of their swords, poised to attack Merlin with one word from their king.

A broken sound came out of Uther’s throat, and after a few moments of concern, Merlin realized that it was supposed to be a laugh. His eyes were crazed and red and he looked like he hadn’t had a wink of sleep in days.

Merlin’s eyes softened imperceptibly. “Uther, I—”

“What is that?” Uther demanded, eyes focused on the Sword of Power clenched in Merlin’s hand. “Is that what We think it is?”

Merlin tried again. “Uther—"

But the boy-king wouldn’t let him finish. “I feel it calling to me.” His eyes darted up to meet Merlin’s own. “Give it to me.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

Uther’s eyes flashed. “Hand it over and be absolved of your crimes.”

Merlin would have chuckled had he not been overcome with regret. He didn’t want to be Uther’s enemy, but if it was between Nimue and Uther, Merlin would choose Nimue every time.

“I’m sorry, Uther.”

“You lie,” Uther spat the words like they were poison.

You are the king of lies.

He needed to get out of this situation, and fast. Thinking quickly, Merlin began to concentrate on willing a storm to gather overhead. If he could conjure lighting again, as he had on the stone bridge, it would give him a good enough distraction as he made his escape.

Merlin looked away. “I meant what I said, before,” he started. He could feel Uther’s eyes on him, on the sword in his hand. “I am proud of you, Uther.” He raised his eyes to the boy-king, only to find Uther shaking his head fiercely.

And then—

“I trusted you!” Uther shouted, hurt and rage pouring forth, the dam inside him splintering. “How could you do this to me?”

Merlin didn’t want to remind the already unstable king that he had been the one to try and murder Merlin and not the other way around, so he remained silent.

“Have you anything to say for yourself, old man?” Uther’s hands were clenched at his sides and his cheeks were red with bottled fury.

Merlin felt the crackle of energy at his fingertips, ready for use. As much as he wanted to mend things with Uther, he couldn’t waste any more time.

“All I have to say is goodbye,” Merlin said, willing his staff into his hand.

Uther’s eyes shot wide. “No—stop him!” he commanded his guards.

But they were too late; Merlin was already calling down a strike of lighting. By the time the soldiers reached him, Merlin was gone in a flash of blinding electricity, and the soldiers were left smoking in their armor.

. . .

Lancelot had met many powerful Fey, but none as powerful as the one who stood before him—or the one that had appeared in front of them by way of a lightning bolt.

Instinctually, Lancelot dismounted Goliath, gritting his teeth against the ache in his bones. Merlin was a powerful sorcerer and Lancelot knew better than to underestimate him, despite rumors—evidently false rumors—going around that he had lost his magic. Better to be on his toes if Merlin decided he didn’t favor Lancelot’s presence than stuck on the back of a horse.

Squirrel shot him a look of worry, but Lancelot just shook his head. He was fine—he had to be.

Nimue seemed to trust Merlin. That should have been all Lancelot needed to know, but something wasn’t right. He didn’t trust the sorcerer, didn’t trust how he and Nimue were so close despite numerous obstacles in the way of them ever meeting. Lancelot knew he was missing a vital piece of information, but he doubted he would get it from Nimue; he would have to figure it out on his own.

“Merlin,” Nimue breathed, rushing up to the sorcerer in question and throwing her arms around him.

As the skies cleared and returned to their normal color, Merlin wrapped the young queen in his arms and held her. The two sorcerers stood there, not speaking, simply holding the other as if their lives depended on it. Moments passed and Merlin finally pulled back just enough to inspect Nimue’s face, eyes darting between her own and assessing her for any damage.

The act brought a memory to the forefront of Lancelot's mind, one where his father had done the same thing to him as Merlin was doing with Nimue.

Lancelot had been just a boy when he had gone scouring the woods, desperate for the taste of adventure. But he had been young and foolish and had gotten lost. He had been forced to traverse the dangerous woods alone at night, but, after painstakingly retracing his steps, he had eventually found his way back home. His mother had cried and his father had taken his tiny face between his large hands and had inspected him for injury.

Those memories were usually buried deep in his subconscious, but Lancelot found that the more he let go of his life with the Paladins, the more connected he was with his past life—and his real family.

Nimue gripped Merlin’s hands with her own. “I’m sorry that I worried you, but I’m alright.” At his uncertain look, she added, “I promise.”

Merlin dropped his hands from her face and stepped back. “I swear to you I will get my revenge.”

“And I thank you for that, but right now, we have more important things to worry about.”

Merlin’s brow furrowed as Nimue explained their plight. When she was finished, he leaned on his staff for support, head bowed slightly.

“Morgana said that the Fey would be long gone, but I still think we should make sure they didn’t leave any tracks,” Nimue said.

Merlin’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he attempted to smile. “A good plan.”

Nimue waited in silence as if expecting more of a reaction.

“It’s just . . . I’m so proud of you, Nimue,” Merlin spoke, voice shaky. There was pain in his eyes. “I need you to know that.”

Nimue’s answering smile was sheepish. “I couldn’t have done all of this without you.”

“Yes, you could have,” Merlin contradicted without hesitation, “and for the most part, you did. I just helped you open your mind to the Hidden.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

The corners of Merlin’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “And you give me far too much.”

“Nimue,” Squirrel piped up, “we should go. The Fey could be in danger.”

Merlin blinked, gaze going to Squirrel and Lancelot as if he had just noticed they were there. The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed in confusion at the sight of the former Monk but he didn’t comment, which Lancelot took as a good sign. He wouldn’t be murdered today—at least not by Merlin.

Nimue took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right—we have to move. Merlin, do you think you can transport all of us to the beach?”

“It would be an honor.” The sorcerer moved to stand in the middle of their small group. He eyed the Monk warily before he said, “You all need to have physical contact with me in order for this to work.”

“Will you be able to transport Goliath, too?” Squirrel asked.

Merlin’s brow creased. “Who?”

“Lancelot’s horse,” the boy said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Lancelot shot Squirrel a grateful look, and Squirrel smiled in return.

A frown pulled at Merlin’s lips. “I can try, though it’s been . . . a while since I’ve done this.”

Satisfied, Squirrel reached down from his position atop Goliath and put his hand on Merlin’s forearm. Nimue was next, resting her hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and Lancelot followed her lead, burying his fear of losing his limb.

“Ready?” Merlin asked, looking to Nimue for confirmation.

Nimue glanced at Squirrel before meeting Lancelot’s eyes. The ex-Paladin gave her a subtle nod, to which she said, “Alright. We’re ready.”

Clouds gathered overhead and thunder rumbled, preceding a clap of thunder so electrifying it shook the ground beneath them. Fire shot straight through Lancelot’s veins, so much so that he thought he might burn up. He shut his eyes against the blinding light and opened them to find himself on a deserted beach.

The light died down; only sparks remained, zapping between the Fey as they separated.

“Is everyone alright?” Merlin asked, glancing around at the small group.

Squirrel’s eyes were wide and his hair was sticking up at odd angles, but a brilliant smile was stretched across his face. “That was insane!”

His lips quirked upward of their own accord as he helped the boy off of the horse. Squirrel had seen a lot for someone his age, but he still found ways to appreciate the little joys in life.

Lancelot was not a good person, but he wanted to be. If not for himself, then for Squirrel. He wanted to be someone the boy could look up to—someone like the Green Knight. He wanted to teach him how to properly hold a sword and how to appreciate the beauty around him.

Lancelot found his gaze straying to Nimue. She was discussing plans animatedly with Merlin, but Lancelot didn’t hear a word she said. He just . . . watched her, the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way her nose scrunched up as she thought hard about something.

Yes, Lancelot wanted to teach Squirrel about the beautiful things in life, too.

“Nimue?” a voice called behind them.

Lancelot whipped around, swords already out of their sheaths as he positioned himself in front of Squirrel.

But instead of one of Cumber’s soldiers, a man with dark skin and wide eyes faced them, sword in hand. A sword that was quickly abandoned to the sand as he ran straight toward Nimue.

The Fey Queen met him halfway, a smile lighting up her face. Something inside Lancelot felt funny at the sight, but he couldn’t place what.

“Arthur,” Nimue murmured against the man as they hugged each other close. “I wasn’t sure when I would see you again.”

The man—Arthur—pressed Nimue impossibly closer. Lancelot felt like he was looking into a private moment, one not meant for his eyes. He resisted the urge to turn away.

“I thought I had lost you,” Arthur said. He stepped back from the embrace and looked Nimue over. His eyes narrowed in concern. “What happened? Your dress . . . it’s all torn.”

Nimue pressed a hand to her chest, to her side. Lancelot hadn’t paid much mind to the cuts in her dress, but now that Arthur had pointed them out, he stilled. Those weren’t just tears in the seams, as he had previously thought. No, those cuts were from arrows.

“I’ll explain everything later,” Nimue said. “I promise.”

Arthur nodded. He looked behind Nimue to Merlin, who he gave a terse nod to, and then to Squirrel, where a small smile touched his mouth. And then his gaze met Lancelot’s own, and the former Monk knew everything was about to go very, very wrong.

Arthur’s bright eyes and happy persona darkened immediately. His voice was low, dangerous as he spat, “What is he doing here?”

#visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you) #vasats #vasats fic #nimulot #nimulot fic #nimulot fanfiction #Nimue x lancelot #nimue x the weeping monk #cursed #cursed netflix #Lancelot and squirrel #Arthur x the red spear #Arthur x Guinevere #nimue #the weeping monk #squirrel #the-weeping-monk #the-weeping-monk writes

[mwolf0epsilon]

Sammy’s and Normans first kiss?

I don't usually poke at these sorts of themes, but fair warning: This is slightly NSFW due to a few "wandering hands" on Sammy's part.

Summary: If there's anything that Norman regrets, it's his and Sammy's disaster of a first kiss...

---

     Susie's and Sammy's messy breakup over the replacement of Alice Angel's voice actress role had taken an even bigger toll on the studio than anyone could have ever imagined. Morale had already been low with the steady increase of workload, and the stress of overclocking to chug through the narrowing time frames between deadlines. So having both Sammy Lawrence and Susie Campbell, two of the most outspoken and loud folk in the studio, in such low spirits really had an impact on the other employees.

Sammy took it out on people, his fragility making his temperament unstable to the point lashing out felt like an easier way to cope than to deal with his emotional turmoils head on.

Susie resorted to pettier methods. Decreasing morale with rumors and cruel gossip, and overall making any voice over roles she got (the very same low grade background characters she'd begun with) a nuisance to get done if just to make Sammy's life more difficult. This in turn, fed the perpetual cycle of anger and frustration that permeated the recording booth.

Susie was gaslighting Sammy, and Sammy was verbally assaulting people in retaliation. All of this generated by Joey Drew "accidentally" sending everyone but the intended employee a memo detailing sensitive information regarding their work.

Truly, Norman was at his wits end from pure exasperation over Drew's tactics to keep the studio under his iron grasp. He knew the sort of dangerous game that devil of a man was playing, and he hated how easily everyone fell into place.

Above all, he hated what Joey was slowly shaping both Sammy and Susie into.

     Back in Louisiana Norman had a particular childhood bully who was the ringleader of the bigger meaner kids in town. He was a scrawny meek looking boy with a devious spark in his eye. A thinker instead of a go-getter.

That boy had made Norman's life a living hell, up until his growth spurt came in (he'd been a late bloomer so that had been a good 15 years under that little hellion's tyrannical grasp). Once Norman became bigger than his bullies, that clever bastard had tried buttering up to him. Get him nice and friendly so he'd fall in line with the rest of the thugs.

Once Norman 'kindly refused', he'd instead tried to make him look bad to the rest of the neighborhood. Not too hard, considering he'd always been a bit of a sneak, but honestly he'd never much minded what others thought.

Norman was the weird kid with the crazy eye, and the lightest feet in town. He could sneak up on the feral cats that lived in the overgrown playground without getting heard, and he was the kid that knew sign language because one day his hearing was going to go because he was born with something inherently wrong with his ears. He was also the kid that woke up at 5AM sharp to run training drills with his old man and his siblings.

Nothing the little jerk could do or say had ever made much of an impact on his reputation. Then one day of course his little sister came in missing a braid and his little brother had a split lip. That day Norman beat the shit out of that hellspawn and got in trouble for standing up to his bully.

That's what Drew was doing. Pulling all sorts of cheap manipulative tactics that were slowly shaping the people he employed into being predisposed to doing whatever he felt like.

Be it light threats hidden in passive aggressive comments, invitations to lunches or dinners where he'd test his boundaries of control over certain situations like who paid the bill or what sort of seed of doubt he could implant in someone's brain, or even feed the fires of someone's ire by meddling with their relationships.

By doing this to Sammy, especially, Joey was destroying his reputation as a respectable musician. The blond music director may be unreasonably unsociable, but that did not affect the quality of his work in the least. If anything Sammy seemed to work better under a more private setting.

Now that he was the focus of scrutiny and that people were constantly intruding upon his given workspace however, things were blurring. Professional and personal life had mixed and Joey was purposefully poking a sleeping bear to maintain control over the only composer he knew he could effortlessly keep under his control.

If Sammy so much as tried to quit, the damage of his current behaviors would ensure he'd never be employed ever again, and then where would he go from there when he had bills and rent to pay, and another mouth to feed?

Susie too was at risk.

She'd taken the hit so badly that she was actively fighting her employer and superior by behaving in an almost childish way in protest over being personally wronged. By demeaning her own work she was risking one of Joey's infamous blacklistings from the working industry. Who'd hire a difficult broad that thought she ran the show?

No one, that's who. Not in this overly masculine society.

     20 years ahead of both in experience, Norman was well and truly concerned. Both of them weren't bad people. They were fine adults with their whole life ahead of them if they played their cards right and sorted their emotional bullshit before snakes like that devil Drew got them cornered like mice in a maze. They were also both very competent and passionate about their work (which honestly was very attractive to him).

Obviously they weren't getting it on their own, so he had to stir them towards the right path somehow. A little nudge.

If only things weren't so hard in this damn studio… Getting to Susie was complicated considering she was avoiding people. And Sammy? Well, Sammy had some concerning vices.

  "He's been drinking." Jack had taken Sammy under his wing a while back. Norman knew how much the lyricist cared for his coworker and friend, so the pain in his voice was palpable. "He's hardly himself anymore. He's resorting to racist comments and shouting matches because he can't come up with any real reason to put people down, and I caught Wally straight up crying in the bathroom the other day because Sammy made fun of his spots to the point he couldn't take it anymore."

  "Miss Campbell ain't doin' no better. Word is she pitched a mighty tantrum ta other day in ta booth." At least that's what he'd witnessed while doing his usual rounds. "Sammy threatened ta write her up so Joey would fire her."

  "Don't remind me… I was conducting the band while Sammy helped Miss Pendle, and then Susie just barged in!" Jack ran a hand over his tired face, looking a decade older than he actually was. Just from how frustrated the situation left him. "I'm losing my best friend Norman… If this keeps up I won't be able to stand Sammy. Wally feels just about the same with Susie. They're hurting everyone around them and they don't care because they're so caught up on attacking each another…"

  "They is more stubborn than a mule in ta field. Ain't nothin' I could say that could fix what Drew's meddlin' has done, but I could sure try ta call them ta reason." He muses. "I've had ta knock some sense into Sammy before. Could use the reminder..."

  "You're not gonna hit him are you? Norman you could get fired…" Jack looked concerned at this.

  "N'aw. Drew don't care, I roughed him up before and our 'kindly boss' didn't give a rat's ass 'bout his wellbeing." Norman stated. "Henry sure did give me an earful tho…"

  "Who…?"

  "An old friend… Anyhow, can't hurt ta go see Sammy 'bout his deplorable behavior. You know where he gone off to?" Norman dismissed the question with a smile.

Jack shrugged at him in reply.

  "You could try his office. Unless you know where he holes himself up, then he's probably there." The shorter of the two men fixed his bowtie and grabbed his hat from the hanger at the door. "Please go easy on him… It's not his fault."

  "Don't excuse him being a right pain to everyone else."

  "No, but you wouldn't blame a wounded dog to bite when cornered would you?"

  "That's what a muzzle is for."

Not that a muzzle would work on Sammy's sort of breed. He was not one to be silenced so easily in his pain.

Subdued… Maybe, if he had a couple of glasses of that yummy bravery juice and an ear to badger. He wasn't a wordsy man in the sense that he could elaborate what he felt. He was more the word vomit type that said what he felt in bursts. Not very articulate but definitely trying to show what was going on in that confused head of his.

Silencing Sammy was not worth the effort. It'd only make the situation worse. At best, Norman hoped to get him talking after knocking him about just a little.

It never occurred to him that he'd end up doing something else entirely.

     Jack hadn't been kidding. The kid had indeed been drinking, and god the smell of whiskey in his office was overpowering. It came off thicker than Sammy's cheap cologne, and it definitely reminded him of his Pepaw's bootlegging days. The sharp smell of alcohol and a man's bitter tears beneath the dense musk of despair.

Norman crinkled his nose in displeasure as he watched the wiry frame of the blond music director draped over his desk like some twisted puppet that had its strings cut off abruptly. A soft noise made him roll his good eye, wondering when Sammy had fallen so far from grace to the point he was openly snoring in his office like he didn't care about his reputation.

He walked closer, half ready to slap him awake when he realized the noises weren't snores. More like keening whimpers. Soft and throaty, just barely contained.

Then he really scrutinized what the kid was doing. Left arm cushioning his head, while the other was… Oh.

  "Fuckin' Christ Sammy…"

The other's flushed face turned to look at him with a jump, his hand still stuck in his pants, and his eyes just barely focusing.

The wretched smell of alcohol and sweat were already an indicative of his state of inebriation. The lack of shame in his actions, another indication.

But then it was the way he was staring up at him that really gave Norman a scope of just how shitfaced Sammy was.

  ".........S'dat you Norms…?" Speech slurred and bleary eyed. Drunk as an Irishman on Saint Patty's, or a German man on Oktoberfest. This was not a dignified way to find the ornery composer. If anything Norman felt wrong intruding on… Whatever this was. A pity wank?

  "I… should come back later." He was not dealing with this.

  "No!" Sammy reached out for him. "S'day. S'ged'ing lon'ly…"

The taller of the two froze and bit his lip in discomfort. He was not staying to watch Sammy jack off, there was no way in hell. He'd seen Piedmont enough times to warrant a restraining order if the man ever found out what he'd been up to while hiding in the walls. He wasn't going to perv on someone 20 years younger than himself. That was just wrong... As hypocritical as that may sound.

  "I really should let yous finish that…" he tried to back off, but the other clearly wasn't getting it. Counting bottles, Norman could guess why exactly that was. Just how much had Sammy drank?

  "Pl'ase. S'day… D'n't wonna… D'n't feel good all al'ne…" Sammy sniffled loudly. Still reaching out for him with his unoccupied hand. The other was still very much preoccupied down south, from what he could tell in the dark.

  "Sammy Lawrence I am not watchin' you pleasurin' yourself like some deviant! That ain't right!" Hypocrite, the little voice in the back of his mind hissed. You would.

  "Why no'd…? You cute…" Had he… had Sammy just called him cute? A man twice his age and well outside the whole petit brunettes sort he liked? "Big an' han'some… You cou'd brea' me… I'd let's you…"

This was… this was not what he imagined when he'd come to confront Sammy. That hungry, lustful look under the drunken stupor. The way he wasn't even trying to hide his pleasure as he unapologetically stroked himself while speaking to Norman.

An open invitation. It evoked something the older of the two men had been trying to bury for a while now. Desire. A desire that was certainly making his own trousers feel a tad constrictive.

But he couldn't. Not like this. Sammy wasn't in the right state of mind for this.

As if reading his mind, the blond stumbled forward. The projectionist backed up once more to avoid his grasp, but found his back colliding with the office door. Closing it and cornering himself in the process.

Sammy breached his personal space and put a hand to his chest. Norman tensed under his touch, watching transfixed as the composer felt up his pecks in clear adoration. Adoration. Sammy Lawrence was showing something other than annoyance towards him and it felt like he was watching the man being enlightened in some way.

  "So strong…" He felt himself swallowing around a thick lump in his throat as Sammy's purrs got to his groin rather quickly. "So han'some…"

Norman's good eye went back to the fiddling hand, just barely able to see what was happening beneath fabric. Then he felt Sammy's exploring touch lower until it rest between his legs.

  "So big…" The blond whispered seductively before he pressed their lips together in a bid to get what he wanted. Get what both wanted. The taste was both vile and tempting. So hard to push away... But Norman knew it was inherently wrong to exploit.

  "Ok that's enough a' this charade!" He grabbed hold of Sammy's shoulders and pushed him off, ignoring the painful ache between his legs that begged for the music director's hand to return. "Yous don't just go feelin' up a fella's package you damn twit! If I was one o' them homophobes I woulda beat yous black an' blue for this! Ya gotta be smart Sammy, or yous is gonna end up dead one o' these days!"

The blond stared up at him in confusion and mild shock, clearly unhappy about the rejection. He pulled his hand out of his trousers and just stared at him with that semi unfocused gaze that was slowly gaining a bit of clarity as time progressed.

  "... Did… I do bad…?" His confusion soon turned into frustrated anger "Why m'I never good 'nough?!"

  "Sammy what are ya hollerin' 'bout?"

  "M'I ugly? W'y s'everyone got'a leave?!" Sammy stalked back over and pushed Norman against the door, clearly ready to blow up out of anger. "M'I not good 'nough for you?!"

  "Sammy…"

  "J'ust wonna feel! Feel good!" The music director looked him in the eye, practically begging. "Wonna feel good! Pl'ease! Ju'sh wonna feel loved!"

  "Wouldn't be right… you're drunker than a skunk… ain't right kid. Please see reason…" He pleaded, honestly pleaded with the distraught man. 

To his credit, it sort of worked. Sammy cried out in anger and shoved him a few more times against the door for good measure, before collapsing into a crying heap. All Norman could really do was kneel down and try to comfort him.

  "J'us wonna m-matter…"

  "Damn it Sammy… You do matter." He held him closely, feeling bitter about the circumstances behind the gesture. "Yous don't gotta offer yourself up like this ta feel like you do…"

Rather than reply, Sammy sobbed and clung to him for dear life. Letting all the pent-up heartbreak out.

The games Drew played… they had an impact that Norman truly despised. Ones that lead people into the brink of desperation. Sammy was already a casualty of it, Susie not far behind.

That night Norman took it upon himself to take Sammy home, not trusting the kid to be able to go on his own. He practically carried him all the way, making sure to go through less frequented streets to conserve some of the dignity the music director had left.

Knocking on the door and having to explain to Sammy's sister that he was out of it was... Distressing. That girl may be a ray of sunshine, but the obvious disapproval behind Abigail's eyes was colder than ice.

They'd been at odds recently, the two siblings, because of just how badly things were spiraling.

Abigail wanted Sammy to leave the studio, find something else to do that didn't take such a toll on his mental health. Sammy refused, out of pride and fear for what Drew might do to sabotage him.

Norman found that this was another thing he couldn't exactly fix. Wherever that devil of a man looked, a strange taint followed. Even something as pure as a sibling bond, or a kiss.

And god, did Norman regret that damn kiss.

What a fucking mess.

#Eps Writes: #Bendy and the Ink Machine #BATIM #Sammy Lawrence #Norman Polk #Norman believes in consent #Also fuck Joey Drew

[admiralty-xfd]

the whole truth

Diana makes a decision. Mulder's final confrontation with Diana (if only in his mind). Scully returns from Africa to make an unspoken declaration of her own.

This is chapter 15, to go back to the beginning click here.

Chapter 15: The Transfer

GEORGETOWN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

PSYCHIATRIC UNIT

JULY 1999

He was trapped in a padded cell, all alone.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been dismissed as crazy, although as death seemed to be closing in on him, it could very well be the last. And as he glanced desperately around this prison like a trapped animal in a cage, when he tried to call for help only one sound would come out.

“Scully!”

It was the only word he could summon.

His brain pounded and ached, and it was an unusual situation to be in; completely coherent but unable to make his own body respond. The cacophony of voices were dimly carrying on in the background of his mind, presumably from outside his cell; an almost soothing, reliable presence. It troubled him that he could not hear her anywhere.

Mulder was used to being alone; he was alone most of the time, had felt alone most of his life. The only time he didn’t feel alone was when Scully was near. And her absence now was more palpable than it had ever been before.

He screamed for her; pleaded, begged.

Scully will come, she has to come.

But she didn’t come. Maybe she couldn’t.

After a while he stopped screaming. What was the point? He sat still, back straight against the wall of the cell, staring at the door, waiting for her.

He sat this way for thirty-six hours.

***

Mulder heard the door unlock and hoped beyond hope it was Scully but, instead, Skinner came in.

When he’d heard voices in Skinner’s office, it had been just a jumble of confusing words and phrases, not enough to know what was really going on. But now as his boss entered the cell, he could hear the truth: Skinner had been compromised by Krycek, and his life was in jeopardy.

Mulder wasn’t sure how much he could trust Skinner. But in the quiet calm of the cell what he heard above everything else in the other man’s mind was genuine concern for his well-being.

He was here, after all, and he wanted to help.

Grateful it hadn’t been Diana coming in, at least, Mulder assessed his situation. The message he’d written had been intended for Scully but she wasn’t here.

Help me.

He didn’t know where she was, how long she would be, and he could be running out of time. Skinner might be the only person who could help him right now.

He put on a show to get the message into Skinner’s pocket, to get the ball rolling, to get the truth to the surface; the truth of what he’d become, of what was inside him.

He hoped he’d live to see Scully again. This time she would have to believe.

***

Diana stood at Fox’s bedside, watching him. He was fully unconscious, finally, and she was uncertain what kinds of drugs were coursing through his veins to allow him to rest, but he looked peaceful. She was grateful for it.

“I know what you’re thinking, Diana,” came a voice followed closely by cigarette smoke.

C.G.B. Spender stood on the other side of the bed. She narrowed her eyes, unsure what to reveal. There was no way out for her anymore, no way back.

“You love my son,” he said. “Don’t you?”

She reached out to touch Fox’s cheek with her hand, and while she didn’t really feel like divulging her innermost desires to a man who surely had no reason to care, it felt like it mattered so little at this point.

“I do.”

“I can sense your conflict,” he nodded. “That although you know what must be done, although you know this is the right course, you can’t help but wish it could be different. That it could be someone else.”

She did wish it were someone else lying here, not Fox. And she wanted him to live, even if that meant he didn’t choose her in the end.

If Fox remained in this state, he would become the very thing he’d sought his entire adult life: alien. But this wasn’t like Gibson Praise, or even Cassandra Spender. This was different. What Fox had inside him was essentially killing him: it would turn him into someone, some thing she no longer recognized. And more quickly than anyone was prepared for.

She hadn’t expected this. She wanted to do everything she could to prevent that, but… the work.

“What we need is more time,” she said. “Time we don’t have because we’re losing him.”

Spender looked at her. “But if we were to remove what's killing him… perhaps Agent Mulder could survive.”

“You want to… take away parts of his brain?” The thought hadn’t occurred to her: that maybe it was possible to isolate those portions and remove them from Fox. Maybe that would save him. “The parts… that are alien?”

Spender looked at her meaningfully. “And perhaps… if someone else were willing to carry the burden… take on his suffering. Someone who knows what this gift could mean…?”

Was he suggesting…?

“Do you mean…?” she trailed off, not wanting to say it, not even wanting to put the ludicrous idea out into the open. It seemed Spender was volunteering.

Spender eyed her carefully. “You could have him back,” he said. “Maybe this will be my final purpose. To carry this immunity so that everyone can survive.” He reached out and touched her hand, that cold contact she wasn’t used to. “So my son will survive.”

He pinned her with his standard intense gaze, a signature curl of smoke rising from the smoldering white stick between his forefingers. She honestly couldn’t tell if he’d just thought of this to spare his son for her sake or if he’d been planning to do this all along; become the ‘savior’ regardless of who he had to carve up. But if he was offering, and if it could truly save Fox’s life… did it matter?

She looked down at Fox, lying asleep in his hospital bed. He looked so helpless. Maybe this was a viable alternative?

“What you’re suggesting could kill him anyway,” she pointed out, the reasonable part of her brain taking over. “Damage his memory, his motor functions. This is his brain we’re talking about. The slightest mistake…”

She knew as much as anyone how dangerous this could be. But what choice did they have? Shooting him full of drugs could only last for so long.

She thought of Fox all those months ago, how he’d travelled halfway around the globe to Antarctica to rescue his partner.

She thought of Agent Scully, whom Skinner had told her was in Africa searching for a cure to save him.

And she thought of herself, standing here doing virtually nothing to help him.

This, she could do.

She nodded her acquiescence. “What do you need from me?

***

“Fox…Fox…”

He’d never hated the sound of his own name more.

Upon hearing her voice again, he only felt anger and betrayal. Foolishness. Part of him wanted to let her explain; and if she could not, to let her mind explain for her.

The other part of him never wanted to see her again.

Diana entered his room and approached his bedside. There was pain etched into her face. He hoped she at least had the good grace to know it was over between them.

“I know what’s happened to you. I know what you’re suffering from. I’ve been sitting back and watching.”

He couldn’t understand the look in her eyes, how unfamiliar she suddenly was. This was a stranger, this wasn’t Diana. Not the Diana he thought he knew.

“A decade, I’ve been lying to you for a decade. I’ve been lying since we met.”

“I know you know,” she continued, her spoken words interweaving with those flying around her brain. He tried desperately to comprehend it all. “I know you know about me… that my loyalties aren’t just to you but to a man you’ve grown to despise.”

“Your father. This entire time… how did we end up here?”

His father? What was she talking about?

“You have your reasons, but as you look inside me now you know that I have mine.”

“The work. The greater good. The truth. That’s what it’s always been about for me, and he gave me that opportunity.”

Mulder was still unsure what to make of everything. She was trying to tell him the truth, but the thoughts he could now hear whirring through her mind betrayed further truths: she didn’t believe it was over. After everything, all of this, what she’d done, she still held onto hope that they could be together.

“There’s still a chance for us, Fox.”

“Fox… Fox, I love you,” she said. “I’ve loved you for so long,” And her thoughts mirrored this sentiment. “You know that, too.”

She believed it utterly, that she loved him… but he didn’t understand. Why would she betray him this way if she loved him? How could she allow this?

Did she even know what love was?

Did he?

Diana’s declaration felt hollow and empty, meaningless; he couldn’t help but think instantly of Scully and how it was she from whom he wanted to hear these words, how it was she from whom he wanted a declaration. Right words… wrong person.

Scully would never, ever have let this happen to him.

“...I won’t let you die to prove what you are, to prove what’s inside you,” Diana was saying.

“Fox… you have to understand… what you have can save so many lives…”

“There’s no need to prove it. It’s been known for so long.”

“I’ve known it for so long. Knowing the things I know has come at a great cost… but now I won’t hide anything from you ever again.”

He couldn’t help but notice she had no choice in that particular matter, not anymore.

“Now we can be together,” she said.

He marveled at her delusion in this moment, that she could possibly think there was a future for the two of them after what she’d done. But he found himself thinking of Samantha, of his belief in aliens, even his feelings for Scully, and quickly realized there was indeed a fine line between hope and delusion. Love apparently made all the difference.

“I’m going to help you, Fox… I’m going to save your life… maybe then you’ll forgive me...”

It had certainly taken him long enough, but he finally knew the truth. He didn’t want her help.

She leaned down and kissed his forehead and her lips were cold, distant. He only wanted Scully. Even in the bitter cold of Antarctica, her nearly-comatose lips had been somehow warmer, more welcoming; entirely devoid of what he now saw were Diana’s ever-present agendas.

His eyes welled up as he lay motionless and wondered where Scully was, why she hadn’t come to see him. And he felt incredible guilt over the fact that he’d doubted her, even for a second. Why had he fought so hard for Diana all this time? Why, when all he needed was to see Scully?

He’d told her he always wanted her around to prove him wrong and when she’d tried to do just that where Diana was concerned he’d rejected that proof, even though she had been completely justified in her distrust. Now he was suffering the consequences.

How would Scully react when she learned of Diana’s treachery? He knew this was vindication she’d earned but an outcome she’d never desired.

Would he die here without ever seeing her again? His heart ached at the notion.

He heard relief in Diana’s thoughts as she turned to leave, knowing she’d said her piece, but he felt none of his own. He only felt the harsh sting of betrayal.

IVORY COAST

WEST AFRICA

JULY 1999

The air hung heavily in the tent, sticky and oppressive. Waves crashed onto the shore outside and Scully hoped beyond hope they were simply waves of saltwater this time, and not blood.

She lay awake on her cot, wanting to sleep, but unable to. Her mind was alive with thoughts of the craft, and she didn’t miss the irony of what was going on in Mulder’s own beautiful mind thousands of miles away from her.

She missed him terribly; the tightness in her gut paired with the ache in her heart was longing she could barely contain anymore.

Her fear for his condition was unfortunately familiar, but worse than ever. They hadn’t spoken since she’d heard that familiar smirk on his face before he hung up the phone.

Then go ahead and prove me wrong, Scully.

But she couldn’t; she wouldn’t prove him wrong, not this time. Not when proving him wrong meant accepting he was actually dying.

She was in Africa to prove him right, for once.

Mulder wasn’t technically dying, though; she knew that now. He was more alive than he’d ever been because of what was inside him. And what was inside him was extraterrestrial after all. But she knew soon enough his body would no longer be able to withstand it. She wasn’t used to accepting such a thing so freely and willingly but here and now, in this place, with time working against her, she had to believe to find the cure. Skepticism was a luxury she couldn’t afford in this particular fight.

She’d spent the last several days and nights toiling over the symbols on the surface of the craft, looking for connections she knew only Mulder could make.

In Antarctica, he had arrived for her just in time, armed with a cure, armed with the means to save her life.

She’d arrived here with nothing.

It isn’t nothing, she told herself. It can’t be. It just wasn’t anything she could understand. She wanted to believe but what she needed was Mulder to help her make sense of it.

Although his death felt impossibly imminent and she knew everything else was secondary, she couldn’t help but wonder, again, what might have been if they’d only finished that kiss. If they’d only been rewarded for their momentary bravery rather than continually punished for it.

If perhaps Diana Fowley’s perpetual, insufferable, nauseating presence in their lives could have been entirely avoided.

Or maybe it all would have been for nothing.

No, she told herself. It isn’t nothing.

It can’t be.  

GEORGETOWN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

PSYCHIATRIC UNIT

Pain.

First and foremost, he only registered the pain. He heard Scully’s voice, sensed her worry. He used every single bit of his very limited strength and agency to try and tilt his head towards her, to no avail.

He had no idea where she’d been. He had no idea how long she’d been gone.

But she was here. She was here, now.

“Mulder, it's me.”

The three words that could bring him back to life had finally arrived.

“Scully… I knew you’d come,” he said, but she could not hear his words.

“I know that you can hear me. If you can just give me some sign…”

He tried. He wanted to, badly. But he was so tired. His body couldn’t react.

“I’m here, Scully. I can hear you,” he said. But again, she couldn’t hear him.

“I want you to know where I've been-- what I found.” She looked down at him, and it was difficult to see her from his angle, frozen in place. But he saw when her lips were moving; when they weren’t. “Africa, the Ivory Coast,” her thoughts came. “I’ve been halfway around the world, Mulder.” She spoke again. “I think that if you know... that you could find a way to hold on. I need you to hold on,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. Scully’s voice never broke.

He listened, the only thing he was able to do, and heard her desperate fear for him wrapped up within a multitude of medical jargon he couldn’t quite understand. Her presence in the room soothed him; and in this moment he could think of a million things he wanted to say to her that he couldn’t.

“Don’t give up,” her mind revealed. “Please stay with me, Mulder. Fight. I can’t do this without you. Please hold on.”

“I found a key- the key- to every question that has ever been asked,” she continued. “It's a puzzle. But the pieces are there for us to put together and I know that they can save you if you can just hold on…”

“I can’t do this alone.”

“Mulder…” at that moment, her voice broke again. He felt her hand take his, squeeze it, the first contact they’d had in days. Her hand was warm and full of life, and he felt grounded for the first time in what must have been days.

But then he heard something he didn’t expect.

“I saw it, Mulder… I saw… The truth you’ve searched for is out there, it’s within our grasp. But I need you to help me understand it.”

“Please… hold on,” she said.

“Help me…” she thought.

He wanted to tell her she didn’t need his help; that she’d always been able to see. She only needed to want it badly enough. Maybe now she could.

Maybe now she could help him.

She stayed by his bedside for a long time, her hope and determination giving him the strength to hold on like she wanted him to. He heard her turning the intricacies of the puzzle over and over in her own mind, desperate to find the answer, to find the cure to save him. She took every possibility into account; every alien influence was considered, as if she had taken over his role in their dynamic, if only for the time being.

And in the blink of an eye he knew that to do this, to find the answer, to put the puzzle together, it had to be the two of them. Him and her, together. He needed her, and she needed him. One could not exist without the other.

“I have to go now,” she whispered, her lip trembling. “I don’t want to, but I have to.” She stood and looked down at him, into his frozen eyes, and smoothed his sweaty hair away from his brow.

And then he heard it, clear as a bell, as if she’d spoken the words with her lips.

“I love you, Mulder.”

She leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead. Warm, giving, selfless; so unlike Diana’s kiss.

He suddenly remembered the Padgett case a few weeks back; how he had wondered, hoped, believed that Padgett had been talking about him.

Agent Scully is already in love.

For just a moment, thoughts of his impending death were insignificant, because Scully loved him.

I love you, Mulder.

Now he knew for sure, and his heart soared.

“Don’t give up,” she said firmly and audibly, then turned to leave. He watched her walk away, trusting her completely to do whatever she could to save him. He knew she wouldn’t give up on him.

He would not give up on her, either.

***

Michael Kritschgau was the last person Diana had expected to see helping AD Skinner. She’d been certain he had been silenced properly years ago. She didn’t know him, not really, but she knew of him; had recognized him from her work at Roush. And she was pretty sure from the look on his face he’d recognized her as well.

Now, it seemed even he was aware of how valuable Fox was, and was willing to go to extreme lengths to obtain such proof.

Diana had been clinging desperately to the hope that this could all still turn out okay: that Spender could save Fox, and the work could be completed. Optimism had never been her strongest personality trait but, with nothing left to lose, she clung to it now like a seahorse gripping a frond of seaweed in a riptide.

When she saw Spender and Fox’s mother talking across the room, however, things began to unravel. She couldn’t help but envision a young Fox Mulder: where he’d come from, the events that had transpired to make him into such a broken man.

Diana had been numb to her guilt for so long that lying to Fox and everyone else around her had become second nature. But over time the numbness was wearing thin, as if the longer the truth of her betrayal was known to him the more the guilt could seep through.

Perhaps Mrs. Mulder truly believed Spender planned to help her son. Or more likely, she simply knew questioning the man was pointless in any case. Spender did what he wanted, and the mother of his son surely knew as much.

After Spender had administered Fox with one more injection that Diana truly hoped would be his last for a good while, Fox’s eyes had closed, and he’d drifted into a state of unconsciousness that she knew would last for some time.

She watched Mrs. Mulder sign Fox out of the hospital against medical advice, and she watched the older woman gently dab a handkerchief to her eyes as her son was wheeled away by a stranger.

Diana practically sleep walked through the transfer from the hospital that could do nothing to the underground Department of Defense facility where they would certainly do something. She wasn’t entirely sure if that "something" was the right thing, anymore. What she did know was that the control she thought she’d had over this situation was rapidly dissolving with every passing minute.

Everything was moving so fast, like a dream, and soon she was staring at Fox, laid out across an operating table with his arms splayed to either side, like Christ on the cross. Her own personal Jesus.

How did we get here?

An apparatus was placed on his head. It was a device she knew well- she herself had helped develop it. It would scan his brain, helping locate and retain the irretrievable information inside so that the operation could go as smoothly as possible without altering his memories too much. It wasn’t perfect, however: it read dreams and fantasies, but also had the capability to plant them as well, be it purposefully or inadvertently.

There was also no guarantee this procedure wouldn’t damage his brain permanently if he did survive.

After the prep was finished and the surgical team had been notified to begin, Diana and Spender were alone with Fox.

“A father has high hopes for his son, but he never dreams his boy is going to change the world,” Spender said from behind her as she watched Fox lying there. “I’m so proud of this man… the depth of his capacity for suffering.”

Diana turned to him, placating. “Like father, like son.” Regardless of what was going on in her mind, her emotional turmoil and confusion, she couldn’t let Spender reconsider.

“They think what he has is killing him, but in actuality he’s never been more alive,” Spender said.

He looked at Fox like prey, and Diana found it interesting that Spender seemed to be rewriting history even as they stood here. Lies upon lies, upon more lies. Now that Spender was poised to receive what was inside his son, what had previously been a death sentence seemed now to be a blessing.

He wanted whatever it was that Fox had inside him; he wanted it badly. And it seemed at this point he’d say just about anything to get it.

She tried to decipher his riddles but she felt herself weakening with every moment that passed. He couldn’t know she was onto him, not yet. Not until she figured out what to do.

“Do you think he dreams?” she asked. The apparatus attached to Fox’s head was far from perfect; there was really no way to know what state he was in.  

“Oh, I’m sure he dreams,” Spender assured her.

“About what, I wonder?”

“Dreams all men who are owned by the world have, a simple life full of simple pleasures,” Spender pontificated. “Extraordinary men are always tempted by the most ordinary things.”

She wondered about this; about whether or not it was true for Fox. Whether or not it was true for Spender. She thought of her own life and whether it was even true for her: ordinary things had never been what she sought. She’d always wanted to be extraordinary.

What was she now?

She looked down at the sleeping fox, completely helpless, at the mercy of whatever his mind and the apparatus concocted. His eyes twitched ever so slightly and she wondered if he could hear them. Whatever he dreamed of, she hoped it brought him comfort.

“Dreams are all he has now,” Spender said, and for a moment she thought perhaps he’d slipped up; revealed something he hadn’t intended.

“What did you say?” she asked, turning around to face him.

Spender appeared slightly chagrined; at least, as chagrined as he allowed himself to appear.

“-For the time being, of course,” he clarified. “We all have such places— borne of memory and desire,” he continued. “Dreaming of the things we once had, or perhaps the things we’ve forsaken. Hundreds of little joys…” he looked reflective, “to open a door and have a woman beckon you in… to have her make a fire and lay the table for you… and when it’s late, to feel her take you into her arms.”

His gaze had turned towards her, and she felt incredibly uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to distract her from his misstep, or if he’d actually once had those things, or if it was even some poor attempt at seduction. Whatever it was, she was tired of listening to him.

“Wherever he is, I’m certain he’s at peace,” he concluded, or at least she hoped.

She didn’t believe him anymore, any of it. He expected Fox to die, and soon. But she wasn’t surprised. She’d known from the start this endeavor would be a long shot.

Was there anything she could do to stop this? Everything was already in motion. If she attempted to get Fox out of here, she would certainly be apprehended… and for what? What would it matter? Without removing the brain matter that was killing him, he’d die anyway.

She looked around as the surgeons began to file in, a dozen of them at least, flanking Fox like greedy, starving vultures. She thought of poor Gibson Praise lying on a slab, his brain exposed, and how she’d allowed it. She’d just… allowed that.

What had she become, truly?

She thought of the book she had back at her apartment, nestled into the top drawer of her nightstand; how it was the only thing she’d had over the past several months, the only thing that had kept her going. The only thing that she could use to possibly justify any of this, if only to herself. If she did seek assistance to get Fox out of here, how would she explain why she’d gone along with any of it? Would anyone help her? Would anyone believe her?

Would anyone care?

She went over her ever-dwindling options in her mind: AD Skinner. Michael Kritschgau. Even Alex, for fuck’s sake. And she knew none of them could help Fox.

None of them would help him.

But in an instant, she knew who would. She knew the only person who could. And it was the last person she wanted to involve.

It occurred to her she’d driven a fox-shaped wedge between herself and her only option over the past several months that there was no hope of dislodging now. The irony struck her; that the only person in a position to help her was the only person who would never, ever trust her.

She had to find a way of getting Agent Scully to understand what was going on, and what needed to be done, without directly asking her.

The answer came to her in an instant. The book. It could help. She had to try.

Diana turned to face Spender, her attention back on the task at hand: making him believe nothing had changed. “What would your place be like?” she asked him.

“Pardon?” He looked confused, as if the mere notion that anyone would ask him about his personal life was absurd.

“The place you’d go to in your mind,” she said. “What would be there?”

He looked pensive, and for the first and only occasion in the entire time she’d known him, she thought she saw a faint glimmer of regret.

“Ordinary things,” he said simply.

He gave her a weak smile, but she saw a glint in his eyes as he left to prepare himself for surgery.

#txf #msr #the x files #sixth extinction #diana fowley #the whole truth #my fic

[riveires]

fight club

@twentysixdegrees​

JOOHYUK

It's insult to injury. It may or may not be the right metaphor...or, simile? Shit, he's always been bad at this kind of stuff. Add another language to the mix and things all get jumbled up in his brain, especially when he's in this kind of mood. The bus ride back had been full of tension, and he'd practically jumped down the stairs of the thing, only barely remembering to grab his gym bag before heading back to the dorm.

He's half hoping Joonho isn't there--a part of him knows he needs time to cool off. But the other half just wants to--"What the fuck." It's like he can't throw the bag hard enough against the wall, but he hears something clack against the concrete blocks before it drops down harmlessly onto his bed. "Where the hell were you today?" His hands are balled up at his sides and he's practically shaking. It may seem silly but--Joohyuk needed this. He needed them to do well today and he needed Joonho there because he's--his person.

You'll never hear him admit it though.

"We lost." The tiny space of their room is suddenly too large. "We got our asses handed to us and you were supposed to be there. You fucking promised, and, and, here you are on your ass doing nothing. Nothing." He feels suffocated. He wants to grab Joonho by the collar. He wants to run far away but he can't help himself, either--"You're such a shitty fucking best friend. You couldn't even do this one thing for me?"

JOONHO

the current circumstances have been everything but forgiving lately: if their semi-packed room is looking like something of a shit show right now, joonho's own state of presence is giving it a run for its money. a glance at the wear and tear of the past week is one hell of a revelation: dark circles marked in, coffee of breath, patches of stubble thanks to none other but his negligence. and it's indeed negligence that's to blame this time. diving head first into some logistics project had rendered everything else that mattered completely and utterly lost to him.

so when joohyuk's voice cuts through the air, all he can say is,

"what?" 

it takes him a minute for joonho to gather himself: day, time, event. a friday, he notes. upon giving the digital clock a closer look does the second realization drop down like a catastrophic bomb because god fucking damn it, he wasn't supposed to be here but at the soccer field.

but there's no time to salvage the damage, not when it's already done. between them simmers a third presence, the other's anger threatening to boil over. 

“christ, that completely slipped from my mind, i—" and he can only flinch, because the next string of words that would fall from his mouth suddenly sounded like the most insensitive thing he could say right then and there: "i'm so sorry, dude."

JOOHYUK

how bitter the realization was, when he scoured the crowd for a familiar face and didn't find the one he was looking for. it was almost like adding salt to the wound; he could have used joonho's nauseatingly affable disposition right after the loss.

for a few seconds, joohyuk breathes in deep through his nose and wonders if he's overreacting. he looks at joonho's face, at the figure he cuts against the harsh lighting of their school desk lamps, and he feels like a fool. this kind of thing has happened before. joonho is prone to getting lost in whatever he's put his mind to, and in many ways that's an admirable trait but in situations like this...how many times does joohyuk gotta utter "it's fine, man" and pretend it really is? fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, thrice--shame on me.

"you said you'd be there, and yeah--life happens, shit happens, but this was really goddamn important to me! and you knew that. why do you do this kind of shit so much? it's not cute." joohyuk keeps balling and un-balling his fist. he doesn't want to get physical but there's an urge to do something with his hands. "'i'm so sorry, dude?' that's all you have to say? you're the worst; best friend my ass--you probably just barely remember my fucking name."

JOONHO

there's a thin line between admission and pure, unadulterated guilt. he has enough shame to feel the latter, enough of a brain to perform the former. thing is, it seems like neither will do any good to pacify joohyuk's brimming rage. from the corner of his eye, he can see the movement of his hands, akin to the clenching of a jaw. a jaw that might be his own after he gets his teeth knocked out raw. be it because of the lack of an immediate solution, or the sight of that alone,  traces of annoyance start to snake in right beneath the somber tone of his voice.

joonho sighs. "it's been busy. you know that as well as i do, joohyuk." especially, most definitely of far more pressing issues. the fact that this—no, their, as in under mutually shared ownership—room isn't fully in order, for one. maybe that he's been covering for him whenever he'd been gone, for another. childish is the thought that begins to circle around in his head. so fucking childish.

"it sucks that the team lost. how am i supposed to make it up to you?"

JOOHYUK

"stop saying my name like that." the anger had been dissipating, but then the pity in joonho's voice bled through the temporary impasse. he tries to navigate around the mess of boxes in their room, but his chin knocks against something particularly hard in a box and curses under his breath. it's one thing after the other--he just can't seem to win.

the walls aren't moving but the space seems smaller. "what the hell could you possibly do to make it up to me? there's literally nothing, joonho. you think its that easy?" the laugh that sounds into the room is full of something that creeps, claws, and settles somewhere in between them, just waiting for the perfect time to ruin everything. "god, life's so easy for you, isn't it? we're both here, at this fucking school, in this tiny little room, but you've got your shit together. you've got your priorities--treading water just fine with all these ivy league assholes. but me? i'm just not good enough. not enough for you to care."

JOONHO

there's no reason why he shouldn't be used to it—the slew of assumptions, the implications held under that sting. four years should be more than enough to grow a skin so thick that nothing should cut through, but joohyuk’s gaze is knife-sharp, the words that fall from his lips sharper. 

"easy?" joonho narrows his eyes. "well i think it'd be fucking easy for anyone to let something like this go." a pause, one that feels more like a deadweight about to drop over their heads than anything as light as an inhale. "but you're not just anybody, are you? can’t stand if not one person isn’t paying attention to you for one damn second.” 

the room bristles, the air crackling. it's palpable enough for joonho to realize that this is impossibly suffocating.

"there'll be other games." a poor attempt to backtrack, if at all. the tightness of his voice loosens, but the hollowness of his gaze betrays him entirely. since when had he become this stubborn?  "it’s not the end of the world.”

JOOHYUK

it's the feeling of when you're watching water fill something up, toomuchtoofast but you're too far, too helpless, to do anything about it. the surface tension arches, forming the slightest bulge over the rim, and then-

"you don't fucking understand!"

it overflows, and he's lost this battle. 

joohyuk's built a reputation for himself. he likes it, identifies with it, and plays into it. 'oh of course he won't mind! joohyuk's super chill!''you'll love joohyuk, he's so outgoing!him? that dude that's always smiling and laughing about anything and everything? pretty sure joohyuk never gets mad!

so why does joonho get under his skin like this? it's a particular skill - he knows the things that those other people don't. he can read joohyuk without him ever having to say anything. yet - they're not on the same wavelength right now. now, when it might just matter the absolute most. 

"i like attention, so what? it's fucking true - that shit doesn't hurt me." his voice is raising. joohyuk realizes, but it doesn't register, not fully. "i wanted you to be there because i fucking need you!" he stutters, regroups - rephrases. "i just -- i needed you there, but you have your priorities, don't you?" the anger deflates, the pressure releasing from his chest and his shoulders. he's unwinding but it doesn't make it better because what replaces that white-hot red tint is pure hurt. "i just don't matter as much as your - your little elitist ass friends!" he'd always joked about joonho's accelerated lecture friends, and truthfully he'd be lying if he wasn't a little insecure - yes, they all go to an ivy league school but he's here on an athletic scholarship, primarily.

and, he's not infallible - clearly.

joohyuk knows he's making assumptions, half-thought out accusations, but this is the only way he can take back what little is left of his pride. he's fishing for anything that he knows may hurt joonho because he's in the middle of his pity party and he needs to tear down the person closest to him in actual distance as well as just, in general.

"they're fucking elitist pricks and you're one of them, too!" he kicks his slightly pushed out chair into the desk, and puts his palms to his temples, as if he can re-center himself with the motion, ease his anger - but nothing is working.

JOONHO

and there it is.

they're not strangers to any of this, to the way joohyuk is at the mercy of his own emotions, and the perilous ups and downs that come with their weight. his words are hurled like pelting stones. they hit where it should hurt the most, one after another, meant to knock him down with each blow.

the last one lands, and then there's silence. all joonho can do is stare. 

then, "you really think that." 

his expression turns blank, eyes dark, a degree too cold to be mere neutrality. stiffly, he swivels around in his chair. grabs his bag from under the desk to slide in his things from the tabletop with a single sweep of his arm.

"you're only proving my point." he stills, tongue deliberately curling around his next set of words that might push them over the brink. every fiber of his being tenses in warning, to be the one to let go, be the better person. but what little remorse that had held him had long slipped free with his rationality. in its place are the thoughts that never fail to loom at his worst: ridiculous. insolent. a fucking child. 

shouldering his backpack, he stands to leave. his voice is void of any feeling. "grow up."

JOOHYUK

tell him to stay. tell him you're sorry, that you didn't mean it.

the rational part of him keeps repeating these things over and over in his brain, but it echoes in the space between his ears - nothing seems to absorb, nothing happens, and he doesn't so much as twitch a finger, as he watches joonho pack his things. joohyuk feels his limbs go numb, and he lets his hands fall back down to his sides.

it's just been a lot, lately. you've missed him so much but have been unable to tell him just how much. you're jealous - of his study budies and don't know how to properly express it without potentially getting too raw and revealing things that might change your relationship forever.

but instead, he twists his face into some sort of scowl, eyes burning not with hatred but with some emotion that is almost too heavy to put into words. "clearly, i'm right - if you're running off like this. i hit a nerve," he accuses. it's always the people closest to you that can inspire the strongest emotions. he's a maelstrom of feelings, and if he were even just a little more clear headed he could maybe try and pick apart and identify the individual emotions causing this shitstorm of a confrontation - and try to explain it in a way that'd be more fair, in a way that could diffuse this -

instead, he hears the last two words from joonho, and he laughs. bitterly. "honestly? fuck off, man." and he turns his back on him, listening closely for the sound of sneakers scuffing against linoleum to fade - going from right next to him to down the hall, around the corner.

going, going, going...gone.

"this sucks." this was far from the way he wanted this to end. but he's here now, and he's alone.

[FIN]

#twentysixdegrees #c: son joonho #opp: nam joohyuk #pr: fight club #/ the way we're powering through threads on discord...amazing

[sweetcatmintea]

Sacrifices - Part 2

Here’s part two of Sacrifices! I’m not the best at horror but I tried my best anyway! (I’ll proofread tomorrow to find all the typos) I hope you enjoy your time in space ^u^ Feedback is appreciated!

Part 1: Sacrifices

Words: 2198

~~~~~~~~~~

          The universe around the station radiated bright colour as they entered a new territory. Sensors beeped, sliding metal shutters to block out the intense light. Toby and Jules worked together, documenting and analysing the readings spat out rapid fire from the computer. Holly crunched the numbers. Calculating and recalculating their trajectory. Searching for new obstacles that may accompany the new terrain. Hasley and Miguel, overlapping their wake cycle for the information onslaught that followed every milestone, reported back to Earth headquarters. Noise and movement buzzed through the station, bulldozing the usual quiet peace.

          “Course still clear. Repeat. The course has not changed.”

          Miguel and Hasley parroted Holly’s words to the Earth team, alternating languages and repeating the message as many times as needed.

          “Readings are normalising. Light is beginning to fade.”

          “It looks to be coming int waves. Another strong wave is expected in 45 standard min-”

          A light flicker then black. Before panic could ensue, systems rebooted, returning life to the station.

          “What was that?” Toby was the first to speak. His eyes bounced off each surprised expression. Delirious panic ghosting their faces.

          “It was just a glitch.” Jules tried to laugh it off but their voice was hollow. There was no conviction. “I’ll run a scan and see if it’s the hardware or software.

          Miguel tapped frantically at the screen. “We’ve lost communication.”

          “Try to reboot it.”

          Hasley didn’t stop to look at Toby. Fingers flew across the keys, her words clipped. “That’s what we’re doing.”

          “Anything?” Holly peered over Jules’ shoulder, wringing her hands and trying not to shake. Jules bit their lip, nodding slowly.

          “It looks like one of the external wire clusters was damaged. I’m guessing that was more than just light waves… We’ll have to go out and fix it but that should get everything back into gear.” They pointed to the section on the station’s blueprints.

          “That doesn’t make any sense.” Hasley frowned. “Communication systems run through here,” she trailed her finger down diagonally, “Damage to that section shouldn’t have knocked out the video. We’d still, at the very least, have audio.”

          “There’s nothing wrong with there.” Jules brought up the reports for Hasley to see for herself.

          “Maybe it’s just bad timing?” Toby offered. “We were all surprised that the connection reached as far as it did. Maybe we’re just finally out of range?”

          A gloom of realisation weighed down the room. Screens couldn’t replace touch, but it was infinitely better to nothing at all.

          Holly refused to accept Toby’s proposal. “I’m sure it just needs a minute or two to cool down. When we fix the lights, everything will go back to normal. You’ll see.”

          There was a sequence of non-committal ‘yeah’s. No one wanted to disagree but an air of futility crept around their necks.

          “We can’t do anything until the light waves are less intense and we’ve had a chance to prepare for a spacewalk. Without immediate danger, I’m not risking lives if I can avoid it.” Jules ran calculations through the system as he spoke. “The earliest point the waves will be safe enough to engage will be in about… five hours.”

          “No way!”

          “You’re kidding?” 

          They’d have to wait five hours before they could repair the over-complicated life support machine?

          Jules sighed to themselves. “Afraid not. If we go out any earlier, the light will be blinding. Not to mention the potential radiation poisoning. The suits aren’t made for that degree of direct exposure. Sorry guys, we’re just going to have to hunker down and wait it out.”

          So they did. Miguel, Holly, and Toby headed to the living quarters, breaking out a board game with over-acted enthusiasm. As though winning was the only mission at hand. Hahaha our lives are on the line? Certainly not a problem when I can make ‘orbit’ in scrabble! Jules stayed with the instruments, running test after test on the systems. Nothing better to do, they killed time trying to suture the connection with Earth. Hasley, already close to the end of a wake cycle when the action started, headed to sleep. Might as well choose unconsciousness over anxiety. The station hissed and sighed, decompressing rooms to prepare the inhabitants for the walk. Only two would go but there was no room for error. All would be prepared.

          Seconds ticked by. Slowly. So slowly. Metallic ticks echoed in Toby’s mind. The thing about time, the more you’re aware of it, the more it drags. Each minute stretched longer than the last. He cracked his knuckles, stretching to spend just one more second. Holly fidgeted with her letter tiles. Arranging them and re-arranging them. Miguel bounced his knee. He bounced so much the table juttered along with him. Each time the stereo fell quiet, Toby put on another corny space song. He had saved so many of them, a muscle memory from faulty internet. The crew twitched and fidgeted with plastered smiles and exaggerated movements. Time ticked by slowly.

          As ‘All about that space’ wound to a stop, Toby momentarily left his tiles to switch tracks. Even if his friends were to peek, it wouldn’t make a difference. He was losing anyway. He punched letters into the stereo one at a time. Spending more seconds where he could. S – T – A – R - _ - T – R – E – K – K –

          An ungodly scream. Rabbit panic pause. Another scream. Game abandoned, they bolted for Hasley. Forgotten tiles crashed to the floor as Toby crashed through the door.

          “What’s wrong!?”

          Shaking, wide eyed, Hasley scrunched herself against the wall. Blankets pulled tight over her shoulders in a white knuckled grip.  “I – I.. There w-was s-s-something there!” Her eyes glued to the corner of the cell. Holly slapped the light on, searching for what Hasley had seen. The area was too cramped for hidden shadows.

          Toby tried to coax her out, to calm her down. “You had a nightmare Hasley.” He said it as gently as he could.

          “I was awake.”

          “There’s nothing here. You probably didn’t realise you - ”

          “I. Was. Awake.” She glared at him, gritting her teeth hard enough to give herself a headache.

          Toby raised his palms placatingly. “Okay. Okay. You were awake. There’s nothing here now, so come to the living quarters with us. Play some scrabble and get your mind off it.”

          She looked like she wanted to argue but couldn’t find a good enough reason. Holly offered her hand, leading her back to the living quarters. Miguel, Jules, and Toby exchanged glances. What was that?”

          “I’ll check around, just in case. You guys make sure Hasley is okay. I needed to stretch my legs anyway.” Jules waited for confirmation before walking away, poking into nooks and crannies as he went.

          ~~~

          An hour passed. A tense, slow, hour. Jules’ search was inconclusive. Like they thought, there was nothing there. Hasley perched herself on the couch, watching the others play. Her face was pallid, unable to shake her distress long enough to pretend everything was okay. She knew she saw something. Jules returned to checking the numbers. There had to be an answer in them somewhere. The station continued its quiet ruminations.

          Another hour. Scrabble to dominoes to Uno. Anything to maintain normalcy. Boredom and anxiety mixed, creating a palpable static in the air. Every lull as a song faded, Hasley stiffened. Listening for something other than silence. Something that wasn’t there. Lights flickered but stayed on. Each time, the teams’ laughter got a little louder. A little more forced. Just a little longer. Toby pretended he couldn’t hear feint clicks starting and stopping at random. He pretended his mind wasn’t starting to warp shadows into faces as the what ifs grew. Pretending there wasn’t a twisting claw in his guts that they wouldn’t get out in time.

          ~~~

          Eventually, after too many insufferable hours, Jules reappeared. “The waves are manageable. We can go out.”

          Holly all but jumped at the opportunity, slamming her hands on the table and sending cards flying. “I’ll go!”

          Jules nodded, looking to the others for the second walker.

          “I won’t. I can’t really…” Hasley trailed of, uncomfortable in her vulnerability. She couldn’t concentrate right now. Holly looped a sympathetic arm around her. No one could blame her.

          “Unless Toby wants too.. No? Okay. I’ll go.” Miguel joined Holly suiting up for the trip out. Toby positioned himself as the look out, monitoring their safety from within the station.

          Jules briefed the walking pair on the repairs they needed to make, before returning yet again to the control centre, tailed by Hasley. They had to ensure the soft and hardware synched properly.

          Alone again, Toby watched as his friends climbed out of the airlock hatch, taking floating steps onto the shell of the station. Holly took the lead, as was her prerogative, crossing the distance as quickly as the universe allowed. Miguel followed, more carefully, tethered to her by a long, long cord, grounded to the station with another. Toby held his breath as they reached the damaged panels. They anchored themselves and got to work.

          “Progress report.” It wasn’t necessary this early, but Toby couldn’t help asking.

          Miguel gave a thumbs up to his approximate location. It was harder to tell where he was from the outside. “All’s fine mama hen. The damage is minimal. We should be finished relatively quickly. All this waiting for a fifteen-minute repair job, honestly.”

          “Good. Of course. That’s what I expected from you.” Toby stumbled over himself. It would be over soon. His brain was flooding as relief crashed against a cliffside of fear.

          Holly laughed at him. He could feel her rolling her eyes. “Riiight. That’s why you needed to check up on us. We’ll be done sooner if y-”

          White noise blasted through the radio. Toby tore off the headset, flinging it across the room. It hurt so much! His ears were ringing. Another screech and the lights died. Pure, unadulterated dark smothered the station. Toby pressed his face to the window. Nothing. Void so deep it burned into his retinas like an after image. Miguel and Holly were meters away but gone. Swallowed by the black. Toby launched himself at the headset. The world spun. Vertigo and motion sickness made blended roadkill of his organs. His mind caught up with his body, floating blind. Who the hell turned off the gravity simulator? Pressure bumped against his outstretched hand as the headset floated back to him.

          “Hello. Hello. Holly, Miguel, are you okay?”

          Silence.

          “Repeat. Holly, Miguel, are you okay??”

          Nothing.

          “What’s going on!? Hasley, Jules?? I can’t reach Holly or Miguel!”

          Nothing.

          Nothing.

          Nothing at all.

          Toby was panicking. Hands clammy, shaking, cold. Breathes short, fast, too shallow. And then, a break. Slightly less nothing. Slightly less again. A slow glow crept along the edges of darkness, waves of light starting again. He thanked his gods, whoever would listen, racing to the window. He could signal for the walkers to return.

          Except he couldn’t.

          They were gone.

          Just a frayed tether floating outside. No! No no nononononono! This couldn’t be happening! He peered out, straining his eyes to find them. A sign of them. Anything would do. A dot would be enough. He’d suit up and bring them back. There’s no way they could have travelled far yet. He just had to find them.

          He couldn’t.

          They were gone.

          A strangled sob escaped him. What was he going to do? He needed help. He needed Jules. A single rational thought.

          Toby was on his back. Coughing. Trying to force air into his winded and wheezing lungs. The dull thud continued ringing through his body ling after his head connected with the floor. He groaned, reaching to touch the throbbing pain. His hair was sticky. He had to get up. His head was swimming. He was going to be sick. He had to get up. But he couldn’t move. Light trickled around him, like a full moon on a clear night. Objects were given monochrome form. Blurry indications of something as opposed to nothing. Tears or injury, he didn’t know. Silence prevailed. No corny music. No friendly banter. No blood curdling screams. The loudest silence he’d ever heard. His brain was too fast and too slow and he couldn’t think. Chest heaving, he panicked. Alone in the universe with a cruel peace and gentle darkness settling around him. So very alone. Nothing but his snared jackrabbit heart moving.

          Clickclick Clickclick

          The one thing worse than silence where there should be noise, is noise where there should be silence. Rhythmic clicking. Nails on metal. Getting closer? Further? It echoed around and around. Toby hauled himself up, pushing himself into the corner of the room. Hiding. Jostled ticks and clinks. Closer. Definitely closer. Like keys or dog tags. Sweat trickled down his neck. He couldn’t stop shaking. Hot breath under the door. Pants. Snarls. Growls. It was coming. A shadow melted through the door. Long. Canine – once. Not anymore. Too long. Too big. Too tangible. It wasn’t until she was standing over him Toby realised.

          They found Laika.

          She was alive.

          She made the ultimate sacrifice.

          Thrown away.

          She was not looking to forgive.

----------

Tag list

  @inkovert, @snobbysnekboi, @kainablue, and @i-rove-rock-n-roll. 

#original story #writing #writblr #horror #horror story #creepy #space #scifi #story #short story #part two of two #When you have all of space to explore and make vengeful ghost dogs #I tried <u<

[feelingfredly]

Tea for Three?

Part 3 of the Better Living Through Chemistry series

Grimmjow was a surprisingly good companion—Ichigo refused to call him a date, no matter what Nelliel said—the only problem was his enthusiasm.

And his ego.

Oh, and don’t forget the fact that he constantly forgot they were surrounded by humans.

Okay, he was a horrible date, but it was still good to not be the only one in the audience looking at the kickboxing “experts” and thinking they’d last about a minute and a half in a real fight.

“Sit down, you idiot,” Ichigo hissed, for what seemed like the fiftieth time. “I told you, they don’t take challengers.  Anyway, you’re in a fucking gigai.   What makes you think you could take them anyway?”

Grimmjow growled and dropped back onto the bench. “I could take that asshole in the black with my teeth. I can smell his fear from here.” He pulled his lips back in a feral grin and Ichigo had to admit, they were impressive teeth for a gigai.   Kisuke’d even let him keep the almost-fangs. “Everything he does is for show and then he runs away where the other guy can’t hit him.  Fucking coward.”

Ichigo made a noise that could have been agreement.  “The guy in white has great range, though.  I thought he was going to pull the guy over completely when he grabbed that last kick. Good leverage.”

Grimmjow grunted. “Should’ve just broken his ankle.  Gloves are for weaklings.”

Ichigo didn’t argue.

They sat like that, alternating between hunched forward staring intently and throwing themselves back in their seats in frustration as the fights went on, until neither of them could stand it anymore.

“Race you to the training grounds at the shōten.”

The almost-fangs shone in a blood-thirsty answer. “Thought you’d never ask.”

***

They trash talked as they raced through the streets of Karakura and Ichigo had to fight Zangetsu down more than once, his inner hollow feeding on the aggression.

“Aw, is the Baby Hollow giving you a hard time, Kurosaki?” Grimmjow laughed at the glimmer of gold that Ichigo knew was edging the brown of his eyes.

“Fuck you, Grimm,” he said, tripping the taller man as they turned the last corner before the straightaway towards the shōten. “Zan would wipe the floor with you, gigai or not.”

He could hear the crazy laugh in his inner world and growled internally. Don’t get any ideas. Grimm is MY fight.

Zangetsu giggled again. Sure, King. Fight. Right. Say it a little louder and maybe you’ll believe that’s all he is.

Ichigo frowned and ignored the taunt.  Zan had jabbed at him more than once about the time he spent with Grimmjow, whether they were arguing or sparring or trying to sort out what exactly was going to happen now that Aizen wasn’t running Hueco Mundo. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the white bastard was jealous. And Kisuke was no help.  He just smiled and said that it made sense for Zan to want to prove his dominance over the nearest hollow, and if Ichigo was going to continue spending time with Grimmjow, he should either get used to his inner world being a constant snarkfest, or give in and let Zan have it out with Grimm once and for all.

That sounded like a recipe for disaster of absolutely Kisuke proportions.

“Cheating bastard.” Grimmjow laughed and scrambled to his feet so fast it was as if he’d never lost his balance. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Kurosaki.”

“You have no idea what I have in me,” Ichigo said, throwing himself forward at full speed.  Even in his human form he could feel his reiatsu humming along his skin, and he couldn’t wait to hit the training ground to beat Grimmjow and Zangetsu both back into line.

They hit the door of the shōten at almost the same time, but Ichigo had the edge of familiarity and he had the door in his hand before Grimmjow could grab it. “Beat you, Grimm.”

Grimmjow snorted and leaned against the wall, the only sign of their hell-for-leather race being his breathing a little more heavily than usual. “What was that? You wanted to use all that practice you’ve gotten beating off, eh, Kurosaki? Why didn’t you just say so? Didn’t have to…”

“Shut it, asshole,” Ichigo slammed the door, just missing Grimmjow’s foot, “save it for downstairs.”

Just then Kisuke wandered out of his lab, hair mussed like he’d been running his fingers through it. “Grimmjow-san! Ichigo-kun! Welcome back! I didn’t expect to see you so early. I take it the kickboxing tournament failed to hold your attentions?”

Grimmjow pushed off the wall and sauntered across the room. “Tournament? Bunch of losers you mean.  One adjuchas could’ve kicked all ten of their asses, and then eaten the damn trophy at the end. Right, Kurosaki?”

Ichigo hated to agree with him, but he wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah. It was a little frustrating, honestly.  Too much padding.  Too many rules.  Made us want a real fight.  I thought we’d use the training ground and burn off some steam before Grimm headed back to Hueco Mundo.”

Kisuke looked from one to the other and then shook his head a little apologetically. “Oh, but Ichigo-kun, don’t you remember?  The experiment I’ve been working on is finally ready, and you promised to help me test it this evening.  I’d say that it could wait, but unfortunately the compounds in this batch are quite volatile.”

Ichigo groaned.   Right now, the last thing he wanted was to do another one of Kisuke’s tea drugging experiments, but he couldn’t back out.  Kisuke’d been working on this one for three weeks.

“I’d totally forgotten.  Crap. Sorry Grimm, but I’m going to have to take a raincheck on the fight.”

Grimmjow wasn’t having it. “What the fuck is so important that it can’t wait until I’ve kicked your ass around a little?  We weren’t even going to be back for another hour, and it won’t take me that long to beat you into a bloody pulp.  Then the mad scientist over here can use what’s left for his experiments.  Win/win. Everybody’s happy.”

Zangetsu hissed in the corner of his brain. Let me kick his big blue ass, King.  I’ll take him apart until he’s nothing but little pieces that Kisuke can let Benihime practice sewing on. Fucking prick.  All talk.  Let’s fuck him up so badly that you’ll have to throw him through the garganta back to Hueco Mundo.

Ichigo knew from the look on Kisuke’s face that Zan had taken enough of a hold on him that his eyes were bleeding to gold.  Fuck, this wasn’t what he’d planned for this evening.

“Grimmjow-san, I am sorry to say that the bloody pulp would not be sufficient for my experiments,” Kisuke gave a little bow, “although I appreciate your willingness to adapt your plans to suit mine. For this experiment, though, I need Ichigo-kun at his strongest.  He will have to be to deal with the effects of the tea.”

A blue eyebrow rose. “Tea?” The disbelief was palpable. “Is this one of those tea drugging things Kurosaki was whining about a couple weeks ago?  I mean what?  You made him throw up for a couple hours.  Surely that isn’t something that he’d have to be in top form.   Or are you going to actually poison him for real this time?”

Ichigo shoved him.  Hard.  The bastard barely moved, though, and that just pissed him off more. “If Kisuke says I have to be in top form, then I have to be in top form.  You’re just lucky you’re not the one getting dosed.  You’d probably be crying in a corner like a kitten when it was over.  Asshole.”

Grimmjow stepped into him, forcing him to look up to meet his eyes. “Anything you can take, Kurosaki, I can take twice over.  Fucking drugged tea.  Give me a break.  He’s probably going to dose you with a sleeping pill so he can finally have a quiet night without listening to you whine.”

Kisuke stepped forward. “Boys, boys, calm down.”  He raised his hands placatingly. “I’d really rather not have to close the shop because you two ripped the displays apart.  Again.”

The two of them separated looking a little sheepish.  Well, Ichigo looked sheepish.  Grimmjow just looked pissed.

“Grimmjow-san, coincidentally enough, you might find the experiment interesting after all.  It was, in fact, designed to interact with Zangetsu-san, so it should, in fact, affect you as well.”

Broad shoulders rolled back at the challenge couched in Kisuke’s voice. “If the white punk could take it, then I can.”

Gray eyes turned to Ichigo and a blond brow rose in silent query.  The penny dropped, and Ichigo remembered what Kisuke had told him about this particular experiment.

 Hollows, no matter how evolved, whether they’re like Zangetsu-san or the Arrancar, are more driven by instinct than humans or Shinigami or Quincies.  At the bottom of every interaction you will find one of the major impetuses—fight, flight, or, to be blunt, fuck.  Most of them revert to flight.  The stronger ones fight.  Very few fuck.  What if we could find a formula that would change that? It would be much easier to kill a hollow that’s trying to chase an orgasm than one that’s trying to kill you, ne?

At the time it had sounded impossible and insane, but honestly many of Kisuke’s best/worst ideas started that way. And now… he’d done it. Or he’d gotten close enough that he wanted to try it on Zan and he didn’t think it would do any lasting damage if it didn’t work.

Zan’s wild laughter had quieted, but the anger still simmered deep inside and Ichigo wondered what the hollow would be like if he was just horny instead of murderous all the time.

What would Grimmjow be like?

That was what Kisuke was asking, wasn’t it?  Did Ichigo want to include Grimm in this mad trial? What would the brutal attention he brought to his fights be like if it was turned into sex? Did Ichigo want to bring that into their lives?  Into their bedroom?

“Two test cases are always better data sources than one, Ichigo-kun.”  A sly smirk spread across Kisuke’s face and Ichigo could feel a flush begin to crawl up his neck and across his cheekbones as his jeans became just a little tighter.

“Fuck it.  Bring on the tea, Kisuke,” he said, flinging himself onto the cushions by the low table in the lounge. “First one to cry uncle loses.”

***

“Now, Grimmjow-san,” Kisuke had brewed two cups of his best matcha and set them in front of Ichigo along with two glass vials filled with dark amber liquid, “normally I wouldn’t inform you of the expected effects of one of my experiments due to the possibility that foreknowledge would skew your reactions, but because you are coming into this totally blind I find myself in a quandry.  Most people would tell you I have no morals to speak of, and they’re typically correct, but I cannot in good faith let you take part in this without your understanding and consent.”

Grimmjow was shifting on his cushion clearly wanting to get to the next stage of the action, whatever that action was, but Ichigo couldn’t help but appreciate the fact that Kisuke was at least trying not to take advantage of the big idiot.

“Yeah, yeah, so what’s this going to do?  Make me howl at the moon?  I already do that sometimes, you know. Roar, not howl, but it’s pretty close.”  He grinned, and Ichigo could just imagine him on the dunes of Hueco Mundo roaring into the night, all the other hollows running in fear from the sound.

“Yes, it isn’t quite that simple, Grimmjow-san.”  Kisuke knelt in a graceful seiza and reached for one of the vials. “If I asked you what drives you, what would you say?”

It only took a second for him to answer. “The fight.  Being the one that’s still standing. That’s what it all comes down to.”

“This,” Kisuke waggled the vial, “will change that.  You’ll still have a drive, and it’ll ride you as hard as your desire to fight, but it won’t be the same.  You may want to run—to flee from whatever you see as danger.   You may want to fuck your way through it, to survive and thrive by spreading your seed as far and wide as you can.  I don’t know.  All I know is that while you’re under the effects of the formula, you *should* react differently than you normally do.”

Grimmjow made a sound in his throat like he had a hairball. “Flee my ass.  I’ve never run from anything in my life and no fucking formula is going to change that.  Fucking?  I don’t care about that, but who’m I going to fuck?   You?  The Berry over here? If you’re saying I’m going to sit around with blue-er balls than usual, I’m going to reconsider this whole thing.”

Kisuke didn’t say anything, but Ichigo couldn’t help but shift his weight slightly and Grimmjow’s eyes widened a fraction when they landed on him. His face was red, he knew, but he wasn’t going to be the one to back out of this.

“Well, well, well,” Grimmjow said, his voice dropping a little lower, his eyes moving from blond to redhead and back again, “not the wrestling match I expected, but I’m game.  Any other side-effects you want to mention before we get this show started?”

Kisuke shook his head and shifted until he could lounge more comfortably. “Well, there are always unforeseen side effects, but they should be minimal.”

Grimmjow looked back and forth between them once more and then took the vial and downed it before raising his cup of tea in a salute.  “Good enough.  If I end up bald or with an extra leg, I’ll just kill you tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” Kisuke laughed and removed his hat back in a show of rare openness.  “If that happens, you are more than welcome to try.”

Ichigo reached for his matcha and the other vial. “You’re lucky you’re not getting the pink spotted camouflage tea, Grimm. I should’ve gotten a medal for that one.” He slugged back his dose and made a face.  It tasted terrible.  Again.

“Pink spotted camouflage?” Grimmjow’s voice cracked and Ichigo thought he looked a little panicked at the idea. “What the actual fuck?”

“I don’t know, Grimm,” he said and settled back to sip his tea. “It’s Kisuke. What can you expect?”

***

Zangetsu was quiet, and it was making Ichigo nervous.

“Kisuke?” He looked across the table at the blond and sighed. They’d shifted from tea to sake, but he was still not feeling anything but a little warm around the edges. “I don’t think this is working.  How certain are you about the formula’s projected outcome?”

Kisuke took a sip from his cup and very pointedly did not look at Grimmjow. “Oh, fairly certain, Ichigo-kun.  I expect that you’ll be noticing something shortly.”

The Arrancar growled and sucked in a shaky sounding breath. “Yeah, I can pretty much guarantee that if the bleached bastard isn’t making noise in that noggin of yours, it isn’t because he isn’t feeling it.”

Ichigo couldn’t stop his smirk. “Does that mean you’re feeling something Grimm?  Still want to see what Pantera looks like with a high-gloss coat of blood, or have you lost your taste for it?”

Grimmjow’s eyes narrowed and Ichigo could see his throat move in a convulsive swallow. “Not sure you want to tease, Kurosaki,” his voice sounded like it was being dragged across broken glass, “I may want to swing something other than a sword right now, but you covered in blood wouldn’t be a deal breaker.”

Ichigo’s throat worked on its own swallow at that.

Fuck yeah, Zan finally pushed through and Ichigo felt his breath catch at the overwhelming wave of awareness that came with him. Hold him down and lick him open. Stab his pretty hole with my tongue, stab him with my cock. Make him beg.  Make him cry.  Make him come all over himself.  Pull his hair and fuck his mouth and stripe that face with come until he smells like me, tastes like me, aches for me…  fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Ichigo must’ve made a noise because suddenly Kisuke’s eyes were focused on him, measuring. “Ichigo-kun? Everything okay?”

He was too far away.  Ichigo couldn’t feel him.  Couldn’t feel the warmth of his skin.  Couldn’t smell the ink and sandalwood and sword oil that meant Kisuke.

“Finally hit ya, huh?” Grimmjow asked, tossing back the dregs of sake in his cup. “Wondered how long I’d have to wait.”

Ichigo turned to face the Arrancar and could see the wildness flickering in the depths of his gaze.  His face burned because he knew what Zan was saying.  What he was thinking.

“Kisuke?” He pried his gaze away from Grimmjow long enough to ask, “You still have the wards up on the bedroom?”

The blond was already half-way to his feet as he answered, “Yes.”

“Good,” he said, holding on to his control by a thread. “It’s time to move.” He bared his teeth and lunged at Grimmjow with a growl, sinking his teeth into the long tendon there that had been tempting him for longer than he wanted to admit.  “Now.”

***

The futon was barely big enough for the three of them.

Kisuke had hesitated, standing to one side while his measured gaze following Ichigo and Grimmjow as they’d all but attacked each other, but Grimmjow stopped and reached out, his long fingers twisting in the front of his samue, pulling him inexorably closer.

“You don’t get off that easily,” he laughed, dark and suggestive, “or maybe you will, I don’t know.  What does it take to get a mad scientist off, Kurosaki?”

Ichigo pried himself away from Grimmjow’s neck long enough to answer. “He likes it all, Grimm, but if you want to knock his geta off, rubbing his prostate while you’re sucking his cock as deep as possible usually works for me.”

Kisuke visibly shuddered at the words and Grimmjow and Ichigo shared a grin.  “Can’t say I blame him.  Nothing like a good face-fucking to get things started.”

Another time Ichigo might have snarked about how quickly Grimm went to his knees, but watching him strip Kisuke so efficiently, pulling his cock out and licking a strip from crown to balls and back again, drove everything from his head except, “Fuck, yeah.  Just like that. Holy shit that looks amazing.”

Kisuke groaned along with him as he grabbed two handfuls of blue hair, jerking his hips forward just as Grimmjow wrapped his lips around him, the glistening tip of his prick disappearing and then reappearing with a lewdly wet pop. “It feels amazing as well, Ichigo-kun.” He pulled back and angled himself so that his next thrust slid his length along Grimmjow’s jaw, smooth in a gigai, but they were all thinking about the sharp edges of the bone mask that should’ve been there.  Instead, there was a trail of pre-come tracing his jawline that made Ichigo itch to kiss it and taste the combination of slick and skin.

Kisuke reached down and stuck a thumb in the side of Grimmjow’s mouth, “I can’t wait to ruin this pretty mouth,” he said, pumping his cock in alongside it, the tips of his fingers pressing against the hinge of Grimmjow’s jaw holding it open as he fucked into it, “fill your mouth until you can’t breathe.  Let those blue eyes beg enough and maybe I’ll let you.”

The tone, threatening enough that normally Grimmjow would be raring to strike out at anyone who dared to talk to him that way, was clearly pressing different buttons.  His eyes fluttered closed and his tongue lolled out beneath Kisuke’s cock, drool leaking from the corners of his mouth.

Ichigo watched the scene unfold, Zan howling in the dark corners of his mind as he watched the two men, deadly and beautiful, and all he could hear was the drumbeat of mine, mine, mine, drowning out every other thought.

Grimmjow had worn regular human clothes for the tournament and the tight black trousers clearly showed the outline of his hard-on, huge and heavy, pressing against his zipper. Ichigo sucked a breath in through his mouth, the musk of Kisuke’s arousal and the heady scent of Grimmjow going straight to his head, and he knew had to see it, to touch it, to taste it.

“Shift your leg, Grimm,” he said, trying to pull the fabric down and out of the way without tangling Grimmjow’s legs up painfully.  Finally he managed, and his mouth literally watered when he got his first glimpse of the Arrancar’s cock.  A hot spurt of pre-come squirted out of his own, and he pressed a hand into it to try to minimize the wave of sensations that swamped him.

“Like what you’ve uncovered, Ichigo-kun?” Kisuke managed to sound mostly unmoved, but Ichigo could hear the hint of breathiness that was the first sign of his loss of control.  He and Grimm may have been the ones dosed, but none of them were getting out of this unscathed. “He has an impressive cock, doesn’t he?  I can’t wait to see it disappearing into your slick, stretched hole.  Zangetsu-san will hate that, watching you allow another hollow to ride you, to fuck you…”

He swallowed the last word on a strangled groan as Grimmjow took him deep into his throat, and Ichigo could just imagine what that tight ring of muscle felt like, wrapped so tightly around him that it stroked him with every millimeter he moved.

The redhead couldn’t wait anymore.  He stood and shucked his clothing, not caring where it landed, and he wrapped his hand around his own length, pumping it in counterpoint to Grimmjow’s movements. The blond watched him, eyes hooded, and Ichigo could see the wheels within wheels moving in his head.

“You should take care of our guest,” the words were mild, but they triggered a wave of hunger that consumed him, the idea of touching Grimmjow’s muscular ass suddenly becoming the most important thing ever.

“Fuck, Kisuke,” he said, breath stuttering on the upstroke, “yes. Yes.”

He stumbled over Grimmjow’s legs where he was kneeling on the futon and grabbed the pot of slick from the bedside table, somehow managing to open it without spilling it everywhere.

Grimmjow was working up and down Kisuke’s cock like it was the only thing in the world, his chin dripping with saliva and pre-come, until Ichigo’s weight fell against him. He pulled off with a wet pop and glared.

“Watch it, Ichigo,” he said, hoarse from the fucking Kisuke’d given his throat, and Ichigo felt a shudder ripple through him both at the sound of Grimm’s broken voice and the sound of his name being said with it.

“I am watching it,” he said, hiding behind a little of his standard bravado, “and if I can say so, it’s well worth watching.”

He ogled Grimmjow’s ass and waggled his eyebrows until both the big Arrancar and Kisuke let out rough laughs.

“Watching isn’t going to cut it tonight,” Grimmjow arched his back a little and spread his knees, balls hanging heavy between his thighs and Ichigo just wanted…  everything.

“Want to fuck you, Grimm,” he said as he ran a sword-calloused finger down the graceful line of the other man’s spine, “Zan’s going a little crazy about it, but this…  this is what I want.” He dipped three fingers in the pot of slick and let the other man see them for a moment, and then, before he could react, Kisuke grabbed him by the sides of his head and thrust his cock between his gasp-opened lips.

Fuck, Kisuke. Zangetsu was as turned on by the blond’s move as Ichigo was, So hot.  Fuck his face.  Choke him on your cock.  

Ichigo pressed the tip of one finger against Grimmjow’s entrance, the muscle there tight and hot, and all three of them groaned from the domino effect of the sensation.  A second finger quickly followed the first, and then a third, the knowledge that Grimmjow was probably the most durable person he could ever fuck soothing whatever pangs of conscience he might have about proper prep.

Kisuke watched his progress closely, eyes glittering as he relentlessly slid his rigid prick between Grimmjow’s lips, pressing so deeply that it brought tears to the Arrancar’s eyes, and then backing off just enough for him to catch his breath before starting the cycle over again, timing every thrust to coincide with Ichigo’s fingers. The harder Kisuke pressed him, though, the hungrier he seemed, opening wider, swallowing harder, hips rocking back against Ichigo’s fingers as he strained for more, every bit as wild and driven he’d ever been in battle, and the redhead wondered if just that would be enough to get him off.

Then, Kisuke changed the game.

“As lovely as this has been, Grimmjow, I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed.” He pulled his cock out of Grimmjow’s mouth, but didn’t move far, his cock still ruby red and glistening mere finger’s-widths away. Ichigo watched, fascinated, as he gripped his own length and pumped it slowly, teasing the other man. “You’ve always talked such a good game I thought you’d be a sexual force to be reckoned with, but you’re just a little too…  passive for me.”

He smiled at Ichigo over the blue head. “Maybe I’ll just watch you try to top from the bottom with Ichigo-kun.”

Grimmjow erupted into motion, his lethal body moving faster than he had all night, leaving Ichigo wide-eyed and slick-fingered on the side-lines as he swept Kisuke into a hold that had to knock the air out of him.

“Can’t come up with a better insult than topping from the bottom, Shinigami?” He grabbed Kisuke’s legs and dropped him onto his back with a growl, pinning him there with his full body weight as he slotted his hips between Kisuke’s legs and lodged his cock between Kisuke’s ass cheeks. “I know what you’re doing, pushing me, pissing me off.  You and your fucking experiments.  You want to see what happens when you piss me off enough that I lose control? I’ll tell you. I’m going to fuck you so hard they’ll hear you in Hueco Mundo, so hard your crimson bitch won’t be able to sit down. And then? Then, I’m going to fuck Ichigo until he can’t remember his fucking name, and make you watch while my come leaks out of your ass and you can barely crawl across the futon to beg for more.”

Slick fingers pressed into Kisuke’s hole and the blond squirmed and gasped, but his cock was still jutting up, hard and demanding, and Ichigo knew he was enjoying it.

Grimmjow looked over at him and grinned triumphantly, a wild, beautiful thing, and Ichigo leaned in and caught his mouth in a filthy kiss that tasted of lust and violence and Kisuke’s cock.  He licked into Grimm’s mouth again and again, eating at the heat there, listening to Kisuke groan and hiss and sigh under the demanding fingers that were stretching him wide for fucking, and knew he’d never again be able to see Grimmjow’s battle grin without getting hard.

Zangetsu was vibrating at the edge of his inner world, cursing Grimmjow and Kisuke by turns, and Ichigo swatted him away, because these two were his, and Zan could just go fuck himself and the horse he identified as.

He leaned over Grimmjow’s shoulder and looked at his cock, ruddy and huge, dripping pre-come, and breathed into his ear. “Go on. Fuck him, Grimm. He’s a fucking slut for it.  He’ll love it.  Love the stretch and burn as you pound into him.  Love it when you hit that spot that makes his cock leak and his eyes roll back in his head.”

Grimmjow growled and pressed against the ring of muscle that was the last barrier between him and Kisuke’s heat. Then, with one rapid rock of his hips he breached his ass, dragging a low groan from the Shinigami beneath him.

“Fuck yes,” Kisuke hissed the words and rolled into the thrust, silently demanding more.  Grimmjow was more than willing to provide.

“Isn’t he perfect?” Ichigo asked, hot breath stirring the fine blue hair around Grimm’s ear. “He’s made for fucking.  Tight ass. Hard cock.   Smart enough to know exactly what to do to make you see stars.  Wait until you feel him in your ass. You’ll want him again and again.”

Kisuke let out a little moan as Grimmjow bottomed out forcefully and he flexed his muscles around the Arrancar’s length.

“Fuck,” Grimm gutted the word out. “You’re so fucking tight.  It’s like fucking a velvet vise.”

Kisuke let out a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh and Ichigo couldn’t help but feel a pulse of envy.

“Lean forward, Grimm.  Hold him down.” He wrapped himself over Grimmjow’s broad back and held on as he bucked into Kisuke, and Ichigo found his hole with questing fingers again.  He was still loose from earlier but Ichigo took his time, curling his fingers and sliding them along the rim before twisting so that he could find that spot, that incredible little spot that would make even Grimmjow whimper and whine.

He angled himself to capture Grimmjow’s lips in another kiss, this one sloppy and breathless, distracted by the pistoning of Grimm’s hips as he fucked Kisuke so hard Ichigo was almost afraid for his gigai, but Ichigo had pounded Kisuke’s ass often enough to know that a day or two of rest was all the blond needed before he was back in form, turning the tables and driving him to the edge and over.

“Want to see you fuck him, Ichigo-kun,” Kisuke’s voice broke on the words, desire so thick he could hardly speak around it.  “Want to see his face.  Want to hear you both.” He reached out with a scrabbling hand and Ichigo grabbed it and squeezed.

“Grimm?” Ichigo asked, unwilling to force the Arrancar into something he didn’t want, but apparently it wasn’t a problem.

“You heard him. You need an engraved invitation?” was all he said, but the answer rattled through Ichigo and he groaned, dragging clawed fingers down Grimmjow’s flank, digging into the dimples above his hipbones as he settled his weight behind the bigger man.

The heat pouring off Grimmjow was amazing, and Ichigo rubbed his face against the plane of his back, nipping along the bumps of vertebra, his knees splayed obscenely to either side of the well-muscled ass.  Grimmjow leaned farther forward and dropped down to catch Kisuke’s lips in a kiss, something Ichigo had never thought to see, stilling the motion of his own hips to allow Ichigo to maneuver into place, his cock pressed against the puffy red furl of his opening, slick and soft and worked loose until it practically sucked him in.

“Fuck.”  He breathed the word against Grimmjow’s skin and felt rather than hear a rumble in response.

“What are you waiting for, Kurosaki?” A dry, raspy need threaded through Grimmjow’s voice that hadn’t been there before and it made something predatory in Ichigo sit up and take notice. “Just put it in me, you son of a bitch. Fuck me with that cock.  I know you want it.  Show your boyfriend here what fucking a hollow is really like.  Let the hunger out.  I won’t break.”

Ichigo couldn’t pass up an offer like that. He snaked a hand down beneath them to where Grimm’s balls were tight against him and rolled them once, twice, gently and then buried himself deep in his ass in one thrust.

Grimmjow roared and Ichigo howled along with him.

Sweet heat exploded around his cock, and he could feel the shock waves as he lost control of his reiatsu, the waves of it pounding against the others. He rocked forward and down, forcing Grimmjow deeper into Kisuke, and the moans that broke from them both only fed the flames of his hunger. He loved that sound, loved that he was the one wringing it from them, and wanted to hear it again and again, until they were too hoarse to speak.

“Look at us, Kisuke,” he reached around Grimmjow and grasped the blond’s cock, the drooling, dripping length of it hot in his hand, “this is what you said you wanted so open those pretty eyes and watch carefully.  I’m going to fuck him now.  Fuck him and let him take you apart until you’re nothing but a quivering, come-soaked mess.”

He couldn’t have stopped now if someone had held a sword to his throat.   He started with a quick motion, rocking deeper and deeper into Grimmjow until he was working at a constant pace, shifting after every third or fourth stroke to aim for his prostate, pulling moans and curses from the Arrancar as he also almost brutally stroked Kisuke’s cock.

“Fuck, Kurosaki. Harder. Harder.” Grimmjow was holding himself up over Kisuke, the muscles in his arms rippling as he panted and bucked, his own cock plunging in and out of Kisuke at a wicked pace spurred on by Ichigo’s fucking and the redhead couldn’t tell if he was begging or threatening him. “I’m almost there.   Fuck.  That’s it.  Come on.  Fuck it out of me. Yes, yes…  right… there! Fuck!”

He jerked as if electrified, his whole body locking up as he poured his come into the blond beneath him, but Ichigo kept moving, slamming his hips against him until he was sure Grimmjow would have bruises on his ass.  He could feel his own orgasm just beyond his reach, and he stroked Kisuke’s cock in time with his own rhythm, determined to bring him off. His thighs trembled and he could feel his balls tighten as he dragged his thumb through the wet slit at the tip of Kisuke’s cock and then he heard it, that sob and gasp that he sometimes heard in his best dreams, and as Kisuke came, so did he.  Pulse after pulse of come striped Grimmjow’s chest and pooled on Kisuke’s belly and Ichigo filled Grimm’s ass as the reiatsu waves of a truly earth-shattering orgasm ripped through all three of them.

Later when consciousness had crept slowly back, they pulled themselves apart like pieces of a come-covered jigsaw puzzle, breathing heavily in the dim bedroom.

“So,” Grimmjow said, scrubbing a hand through his wild blue mane and looking at Ichigo, “I’d say the mad scientist’s experiment was a success.  What about you?”

Ichigo smothered a grin.  “I’d agree. Kisuke?”

The blond rolled over sleepily and settled between them, spooning back into the big Arrancar’s body while wrapping an arm around the redhead.   “Well, first impressions are positive, but you know how it is with these things.  One has to be able to recreate the results of an experiment several times before being certain of anything.”

In the recesses of Ichigo’s inner world, Zangetsu laughed.

#Bleach #uraichi #Grimm/Ichi/Kisuke #consensual tea drugging #smut #omg so much smut #no really #this is just an excuse for fighty boys #the author is blushing

[andtheywereroom-mates]

Zabuza is glaring furiously at the sling draped around his shoulder, wincing slightly as he flexes his fingers to test the damage. It was rare that he slipped up in battle, rarer still that even he would confess his injuries needed more attention than an antibiotic cocktail and a long nap. As he rounds another corner, still no closer to his latest residence in the village and even more lost than when he began nearly an hour ago, he growls to himself.  Why had he even decided to stay in this stupid town anyway? “Genma! What part of this does your pea brain not understand?!” The mist nin’s steps pause and an amused smirk pulls at his lips as he follows the voice. 

Sure enough, there she is, arms flying through the air as she digs into the man beside her. Vix taps the clipboard in her hand, each vigorous tap punctuating her words. “Two. To. Kiri. Three. To. Iwa. And he wants you-” she pokes his chest, “leading the one to Suna, vy ponimayete?” Genma raises his hands in appeasement and rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay...y’know I much prefer it when he sends Shizune for these briefings...” 

“Headed to home turf, hm?” Zabuza calls, ambling to greet her. 

Vix turns and a surprised, but delighted smile graces her features. “Zabuza?” However, as the realization of what he has stumbled into dawns on her, her face blanches and she mutters a fearful, “Zabuza.” 

She turns and begins vigorously listing off under her breath to Genma, shoving the clipboard into his hands, before swiftly jogging to meet Zabuza halfway. “What are you doing here?” She asks innocently, then notices his injuries and immediately switches to an agitated, but worried tone. “And what the hell did you do?” 

“Nice to see you, too.” he chuckles,  “I figured I’d avoid your soapbox and head to the clinic myself before you dragged me there by force.” She raises an eyebrow and speaks with a playful lilt. “So you were thinking about me, huh?” 

Caught, he runs a hand through his hair and changes the subject. “What are you doing here barking orders at the Kage’s office?” All at once Vix remembers their precarious circumstance and blinks at him. “I....” she licks her lips, her tongue searching for a convincing lie. “I...am working as his assistant...for the day..” Zabuza raises his brows, impressed. “Wow, barely into ANBU and you’re already getting noticed by the Kage, huh?”

  Oh she had gotten much more than noticed... 

She laughs sheepishly, “What can I say I’m just uh..that good-SAY! I’m starving, are you starving? Let’s head to Ichiraku, I’m buying!” she mutters in a rush, taking his arms and beginning to lead him back into the village. Zabuza’s head tilts curiously at the sudden surge of nervousness that has apprehended her, but it is her offer that causes him to stop short. 

“You’re buying.” He mutters seriously. “Yeah, you deserve it! Now let’s go!” she pulls again, but he hardly budges. “Never--I mean never--in all the time I’ve known you, have you paid for anything, let alone offered to pay for someone else. What’s going on?” 

From behind him, she can see one of the clerks jogging down the steps and calling out her name. Hatake-san? Hatake-san! 

Vix insistently pulls on his uninjured arm, eyes darting between the approaching woman and his suspicious gaze. “Zabuza, I just want to treat my favorite person in your time of need so please let’s just go and-” 

The clerk reaches the pair, winded; she glances uneasily at Zabuza’s towering form before bowing to Vix. “I’m sorry to interrupt, ma’am...but your husband has been looking for you-“

Zabuza’s eyes snap around to the timid woman, confused. “Husband...?” 

In one swift movement, Vix is gripping the woman’s hands and turning her around back towards the office, even as the woman feebly attempts to finish her message. “But it-” “Thank you, Kaori. I’ll handle that in just a-“

But before Vix can finish her words, a crackle of silver and blue is barreling down the stairs straight for Zabuza. Oh for fuck’s sake... 

Just as they are about to collide, the shapeless form stops revealing...Kakashi Hatake, holding a squirming infant under his arm. He is chuckling as he tosses the boy up into the air and catches him. “Sorry about that! He’s getting a little too fast.” Kakashi stands up straight to shake the hand of the stranger his son had nearly taken out, only to have the smile drop from his lips in surprise. 

Vix is covering her face with her hands, shaking her head softly. This was not happening right now.. The doe-eyed boy notices the action and with a delighted laugh, covers and uncovers his face as well with a sing-song, “Peek-a-boo, Mama!” If the earth could only have swallowed her up into the ground in that instant. Defeated, she uncovers her face with a soft smile. “Yes, peek-a-boo, sweetheart.” 

Meanwhile Zabuza is stunned into a stupor. His eyes dart back and forth between the three of them. This child is undoubtedly Kakashi’s, both sporting the same shock of silver hair and lazy eyes; however, it is the deep brown of them that stills him, it is the way the boy’s nose crinkles when he laughs, an action Zabuza had seen a hundred times before on his mother, that shakes him to his core. The snippets of their conversation fall into place as Vix comes to stand beside the Hokage, tenderly taking the child--their child--from his arms, a mocking family portrait. 

“Boys, this is Zabuza my, uh....friend.” Kakashi glances down at her when she stumbles, mouth setting into a hard line. “Zabuza,” she pierces him with an apologetic look, “this is Kakashi and this is Hikari our....” There is too long of a silence, so Kakashi finishes the sentence for her. “Hikari is our son.” 

The three stand in palpable tension for a few moments longer before Kakashi clears his throat. “Well Vix, we were going to try to catch you for some dango but since you’re busy we’ll just-” 

“Actually we’re done here.” Zabuza supplants curtly; Vix’s heart clenches, sensing a foreboding double meaning. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt your family time.” Vix withers beneath his pointed gaze and chews on the inside of her lip. As he turns to leave, she takes a step towards him, but Hikari’s oblivious, joyful “Bye-Bye!” gives her pause. Instead, she watches him leave, sensing the conflicted energy swimming about him and feeling helpless to assuage it. 

#pt 1 #otp: you are my new dream #otp: oil and water #f: family portrait

[taddle]

Wally/Bendy Theory Analyzed

Okay, in the very not popular opinion of Wally being Bendy, I offer my two cents: its possible and I'm okay with. 

About the Ink Demon

 First off, what do we really know about the Ink Demon? NOT MUCH! But I'll try to outline some important points:

 1. We know he has a thing for Henry, chasing after him every chance he gets.

2. He has a very specific disability in his legs. Wouldn't have been much to note, though after the remaster and model change, its a bit more evident.

3. He is a tier above the creatures and characters that exist in his world due to his ink powers. He can exert an influence that is palpable to everything around him, in some cases even damaging/destroying them (The Butcher Gang copies and "Alice" for instance).

 Point one is hard to discuss, since "Bendy" has no lines and no specific goal which we the players can discern, only from "Alice"s dialog that he WILL go after you if he finds you, pointing out that its not just specifically Henry that should fear him. Therefore, we cannot tell with what intent "Bendy" has when he does chase us.

 Point two is only a subject of discussion due to the 'wheelchair vision' that we get at the end of Chapter one. The three (Wheelchair, Ink Machine, and "Bendy") are obviously tied together somehow, yet until now we don't actually have any clue to whom the wheelchair could have belonged to, only that whoever had need of it could have possibly been transformed into "Bendy" by the Ink Machine somehow, in the same way how a lot of the more prominent creatures apparently are former employees ("Alice"/Susie basically outlining it with her knowledge about the studio and the people in it). Also a necessity to point out is how difficult a disabled person would have navigating a studio that wasn't exactly built to be very disability-friendly (and correct me if I'm wrong, but I'd assume the 1930s is still in the time where a lot of prejudices still exist, especially for people who are seen as disabled, making it very hard to believe that Joey Drew would be hiring any of the sort UNLESS he was that incredibly cheap and would have done so to get out of properly compensating them).

 Point three...have to question why. Why would "Bendy" have these powers? What is his purpose roaming the halls terrorizing everything in sight and, more recently, collecting the bodies of creatures? It would make sense to think, in the context of being Joey Drew, to be his superpowered inksona and his brazenly going around with everyone fearing him, though it doesn't make sense that he would be chasing Henry around after going through the trouble of inviting him back here with the purpose of killing him...assuming killing him is what happens. Moreover, it REALLY doesn't make sense that for someone who takes the position of mastermind of the whole operation, from the construction of the Ink Machine, to the entire facility, to his influence encompassing a number of manufactured products (and a theme park to boot)...to be relegated to some misshapen monster, forever damned to wander the halls of a rotten studio. Being able to live eternal with cool powers to boot, yes...but is that really all he wanted, IF he could have done so much more?

 About the Death Sequences

 Let's take a clue on a non-canonical end that happens every time you're 'killed'- the remastered chapter 4, as confirmed by Mike and Meatly, is the final version of how they've always wanted the game to turn out. Therefore, the 'death sequence' that was recently added is assumed to always have been what was intended to happen. You find yourself in a tunnel of ink with a light at the end, ominous whispering surrounding you as you climb your way out.

 The implications of this sequence is you essentially experiencing what "Alice" explains to you in Chapter 3- about living in the dark puddles, which are 'a buzzing, screaming well of voices' with 'bits of your mind swimming like fish in a bowl'. People have taken the audio from this odd sequence and have found out to be distorted versions of almost every piece of dialog from Henry in Chapter one, reversed (bits of your mind). Let's combine this with what else we know about it from "Alice"s experience - that it is possible to be 'born' from them...and more than once. Of course, you can't be 'born again' if you were already born once- as in, she had to have relinquished her first form somehow in order to have taken the form she currently appears as. Applying all of this to what Henry experiences, this is meaning that every time he 'dies', he is being reborn from the ink. This ties in with what MatPat says about the 'cycle of reincarnation' that exists in the studio- nothing there can ever truly 'die', simply having its consciousness 'reprocessed' by the Ink Machine to exist again in one form or another (another way of seeing it is you climbing through the pipes towards the spout of the Ink Machine to be spat out again).

 This can explain the views of The Cult/ Sammy's belief in Bendy being the savior and his intense desire of 'being set free' from 'the dark inky abyss he calls a body'. If 30 years worth of living a non-existence in a rotting studio isn't enough to compel a man to desire death, wouldn't had he have jumped on that option when the opportunity presents itself...unless it was never an option to begin with (further pointed out by one of the Lost Ones repeatedly trying to brain itself in a room you find exploring the vent in Chapter 4). And we can all conclude Mr. Joey 'with enough belief, you can even cheat death itself!' Drew was responsible for this odd quirk everyone is apparently condemned to.

 So with that knowledge, to what end does "Bendy" have to chase and kill everything that moves, knowing that it would do little more than delay the inevitable of them returning again anyways?

 About Wally Franks

 So let's consider what we do know about Wally Franks. From what we glean from his audio logs, he appears to be a janitor of some sort, responsible for cleaning up the studio. Of course, the term 'janitor' implies that Wally was no one important, and the general consensus was to relegate him as the funny side character that just happens to be...there. But then let's actually scrutinize Wally with a bit more consideration as someone very integral to the story as a whole:

 1. Wally is everywhere. From Chapter 1 to Chapter 4, Wally's audio logs can be found throughout the story, wherever new area Henry manages to find himself. Understandable, if he is the janitor of the company and is responsible for its maintenance in its entirety. The takeaway here is that Wally knows every place of the studio, from the sweatshop on top to the massive storage way down below that holds the abandoned Bendy Land project.

 2. Wally is more than just a janitor, as far as his dealings in the studio is concerned. As early as Chapter 2, we have a blueprint of the Ink Machine citing Wally as an attendant, and as late as the remastered Chapter 3 expanding on that point with Thomas, the only qualified technician to work with the machine and its finicky ink pipes (notice how ink pressure was always a subject of concern in most of his logs) teaching Wally the importance of regulating it.

 3. Wally is aware of everything that is happening in the studio. All his logs point out what is happening in general, from Joey's odd work practices to how it affects his co-workers, to him being as far as Storage 9 to deal with the worker's shenanigans down there. While everyone else's experience in the logs is far more limited to their jobs/duties, Wally has a more encompassing/generalized view of the whole picture, making him representative of the studio populace.

 Point one is significant in that it makes Wally have almost a sort of omnipresence in the studio, knowing where everything is. Let's compare it to Henry's knowledge of it, where as far as his reactions to new areas is concerned, has always been limited to the little animation studio on top. Besides the "knocked down a wall or two" comment he made of the new area behind his work desk, he apparently didn't know there was an area for the music department ("How did this place get so big?"), and definitely didn't know there was a toy shop even further down ("Wow. I don't remember any of this."), suggesting that Henry left pretty early at this point in the company for him to lack what seemed to be pretty common knowledge about the manufacturing side of the business. Bertrum's tape in Chapter 4 even suggests that Bendy Land was public knowledge (being introduced as 'Bertie' to high-level investors and wall street tycoons). So while one could argue that animators were limited to the top, and people of other specializations where regulated to their own areas further down, what is pretty clear is that Wally Franks is familiar with all of them.

 Point two importance goes hand in hand with the importance of the Ink Machine. Let's presume that the Ink Machine is the cornerstone of the current state of the studio, the thing that makes everything work, the thing that Joey invested a good chunk of his capital and  'belief' on...why of all people would he entrust a nobody like Wally Franks to attend to it, especially when we're given to know that he can be a bit airheaded (from losing his keys to Sammy in his Hot Topic Q and A mentioning that he can't 'keep things in order', to Thomas trying to teach him something as simple as flipping a safety switch). We can make an assumption that it might be Thomas' idea, seeing as he's made his feelings very clear on his continued employment ("I won't be doing any more repair jobs for Mister Joey Drew"), and of the cast of people we know that has worked here, Wally seems to be the best capable person to act as attendant given his position in dealing with the more practical duties around the studio. Regardless of how that happened, the new Chapter 3 audio log confirms that Wally does have at least some knowledge on how to regulate it. God forbid there ever comes a time where life and death is decided on whether Wally can remember if he needed to tighten a bolt or flip a switch.

 Point three sort of adds point one's position of omnipotence, where Wally is aware of everything that's going on. Aware of Joey Drew's odd behavior and requests, aware of how people are reacting to it, aware of the projects that are going on, aware of the state the studio is falling in. Compared to everyone else, Wally can be seen as the most important character in terms of knowing everything that's going on in the studio, second only to Joey Drew himself.

 Conclusion

 What does this all amount to in the end? We lack the solid evidence that can definitively link "Bendy" to anyone. However, we can make a hypothetical scenario where Wally is "Bendy" and how it could work, given what Wally is and knows- being an attendant, knowing the entirety of the studio, the people that work there, the workings of the Ink Machine itself. Rather than being the Big Bad, the ultimate evil you will eventually have to face at the end of the story, I see "Bendy" more as being a 'regulator' of sorts, wandering the halls and finding anything he sees and forcing them back into the ink, perhaps, as MatPat suggested, with the purpose of outputting a character that would end the cycle of deathless torment, like a Perfect Bendy. Again, this would go back to The Cult's/Sammy's belief that his actions will eventually 'set them free', although its still up in the air how a Perfect Bendy would be able to actually solve everyone's problems.

 And if that was the case, where is Joey Drew in all of this? (Very possibly) At the bottom of the abyss, where the Ink Machine is leading you, waiting to show you the thing.

#Bendy #BATIM #Bendy and the Ink Machine #spoilers #theory #Wally Franks #Joey Drew

[itbethatwaysometime]

Uncharted- Chapter 11

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Emtional breakdowns :(

A/n: sorry I took so long. If you saw my last post you heard that all of my stuff just kind of disappeared which sounds completely absurd. So here you go, and I’m going to try and write as much as possible over the holidays!!!

Part 1

You waited there for a minute, a minute became two. Then you heard some shuffling behind the door followed by some pensive thinking. Bucky was wondering whether or not he should let you guys in. You hoped he did, he was probably strung up with guilt.

After another minute, with Steve steadily growing more anxious by the second, the door finally opens a few inches.

Through the gap, you see Bucky’s tall frame peering through, his eyes a magnet towards the large bruise blooming on your face, a pained expression on his face.

“Hey Bucky….” You say, gently, an exhaled breathe. He didn’t have a cap on, his hair was an alluring mess, he was wearing a dark grey Henley and black pants. He was still wearing his heavy combat boots, ready to go. He had a heavy scruff, that looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week.

“Can we come in?” Steve inquires, his hands gripping the handlebars of the wheelchair tightly. You practically hear the gears churning in his head.

For a second or two, you honestly thought Bucky was just going to close the door on you, his eyes darted from you to Steve. He looked like he was going to flee. But, he made an almost imperceptible nod and opened the door completely, holding it open for the both of you.

The inside of the apartment was similar to the ones you and Steve lived. You looked to your right and you could see the very little personal belongings he owned in a green duffle bag off to the side.

The sight made you sad. From your point of view, you could see a couple of shirts and jeans, a jacket, a red notebook, a black notebook, and an old postcard that was faced down. So little, such an insubstantial amount of things to represent a story that could be told over years and years. You couldn’t without taking a better look into that bag, but you couldn’t imagine him carrying anything that tied him to his past, anything.

Steve pushed you over to the couch where he sat down protectively to your side, placing himself in between you and Bucky, he laid a large hand on your thigh, keeping both you and him grounded. Bucky stood uncomfortably in the middle of the sitting area for a beat, but elected to sit down in front of in front of Steve, where he had a good vantage point of the door, the only entrance and exit to the apartment. You could see him shift, adjusting his position to make sure his metal arm was as far away from you as possible

There was a really awkward silence before, Steve cleared his throat.

“Thank you.” You started, both men looked at you in surprise, Bucky was also looking at you slightly horrified, his lips parted and eyes wide.

“You caught me. When I, um fainted.” You clarified. Going from a standing position straight to the floor was painful, very painful. Thankfully there was a certain super soldier that caught you before more damage could be done.

“I almost killed you…” The words coming out with a pause in between each. As if it took effort to speak them. “You should- You can’t”

He couldn’t seem to manage to have any words come out, so he settled for a guilty shake of the head. He once again scanned your features and he seemed to notice the fact that you were in a wheelchair. He cast his eyes downwards guiltily, as he assessed the rest of your injuries from his point of view. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but you desperately wanted to know.

“You didn’t, he did. But, I’m okay” He looks up abruptly staring back, disbelieving.

He opened his mouth once, twice, words threatening to spill over, but never coming to light.

Then, Steve spoke up.

“Buck, I wanted to apologize for… before. I didn’t know-” He rubbed a hand through his neck, gathering courage,” I didn’t know that was going to happen.” Steve inhaled strongly, keeping himself in check. Steve spoke sincerely, wanting to apologize profusely and tell him how terribly bad he felt and how he regretted the many things he didn’t say back in the day and how he hated fighting him on the helicarrier… He wanted to say all these things, but he knew that if he did, Bucky would run. He’d run, because those feelings would be too vivid and too real, and they’d hit too close to a part of his brain that hasn’t been utilised since he got taken away by Hydra.

So, he kept it simple, even if it didn’t come out the way he wanted to, he hoped desperately that his best friend saw all the feelings and words he couldn’t convey through the tone of his voice.

You watched Bucky respond. He almost never spoke, when he did, it was short, mostly monosyllables replies. But, he didn’t need to speak, he didn’t need to use words to answer questions. What those people did, they took that away from him, they stole his power over words, stripping it from the man he once ones and never giving it back to the man he is today.

He answered with a meaningful gaze and a slow nod. He was forgiving. You had a terribly hard time imagining yourself back in the perilous situation you found yourself in a few hours ago, with the same man. You scolded yourself, they weren’t the same person, they were just inhabiting the same body.

You could see the tiredness in the lines of his body. The nervousness in the tapping of his finger. He didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Steve, do you know if the King T’Challa has arranged the–” that’s when a certain rich, playboy, philanthropist of a man burst through the door of his apartment. In a second, there were two ridiculously tall super soldiers shielding you from view, ready to defend.

Steve was a relaxed, solid wall of muscle, standing in front of you, keeping a soft hand on your shoulder. Bucky on the other hand, was coiled tight, a spring ready to fire off, a trigger just waiting to be pulled. There was a terse silence, tension sending sparks through the air.

“How can you let her in here, Captain?” Tony says, his voice, quaking with rage. He might only be one man, but oh does he have some willpower. “How?,” He levels his gaze towards Steve,his anger rolling off of him, he pointedly looks at Bucky,” He-”

The moment he raised his voice, you reached out and grabbed Bucky’s forearm, trying to tell him to stay calm and stand down. He twitched, tensed and then pointedly looked at where you touched him, staring at it as if it was some foreign object. Slowly, you saw his stance relax just a little, you send him in encouraging smile, before letting go, missing the skin to skin contact.

“He didn’t do anything.” You said from behind them, you gently nudged Steve aside, rolling yourself towards Tony. “He didn’t.” Tony stared at you, jaw agape, looking at the bruise that had gone from green to black in his absence.

You could feel the two presences behind you, both ready to pounce for two very different reason. Steve knew he might have to reel you back, if someone pushed the wrong buttons, wheelchair be damned. Bucky on the other hand, was reluctantly tensed up again, he didn’t want to hurt anyone, but Tony seemed ready to have his head on a stick.

“I’m fine.” You try to reach for his hand, but he pulls away.

“No! You aren’t fine! He choked you! You almost died. I had to-,” he turned his back to you, hiding his eyes with his right hand,” I had to watch you-.” He spits out the words, voice cracking.

You turned towards Steve and told him that you’d be back soon, then you turned to Bucky.

You grabbed a hold of his metal hand, he visibly flinched and reared to pull his hand away but you held on. And to your credit, he could easily fling you across the room, but thankfully he didn’t. “I’ll come back. Promise.” You didn’t know it yet, but those were the exact words he needed to hear.

You push yourself to be right under Tony’s gaze, despite the height differential. “Hey now, I’m leaving. Let’s go back to my house.” You tug on his hand to set him into motion. You send in apologetic smile to the both of them, waiting for Tony to bring you out.

He leaves with a cold glance towards the dynamic duo, and pushes you out.

He pushed you silently towards the other side of the hall. Opening up the door for you, you were finally back home after your… ordeal.

The silence between you was palpable, and not in the good way. You could hear him thinking, readying some kind of lecture for you to listen to for the next 45 minutes.

He elects to get you comfortable first, it was getting late. He pushes you towards the couch, gathering up blankets and pillows. He seems to have made a place for him too. He still hasn’t said a single word and you knew he was angry, having an argument with himself in his head.

He walks over to you, a look you can’t quite place on his face as he slips a hand under your knees and around you waist, gently depositing you and the couch.

He sits down next to you, bringing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. He rests his head on his forearms, breathing in deeply, shakily.

“I had to watch the life drain out of you.” He whispers out, barely audible. “He had his hand around your neck and I just stood there,” he spits out, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides,” helpless.” He says, completely defeated.

At that moment you just began to realise the depth of his hurt. It was monumental, much like Bucky’s, but very different. You knew this from the time you spent together, you caught glimpses every once in awhile. But, it’s the first time you faced his sorrows upfront.

You did your best to scoot over, but a sharp stab to the rib kept you still. You let out an irritated huff before ushering him closer to your side.

“I know. But, you have to see that, what I did there, in that cell, was necessary. Him getting triggered was an outcome I thought I could avoid, but Tony… You should’ve seen him, strapped to that bed,” You tightened your grip on his hand remembering the scene vividly, he squeezed back.

He looks at you for a beat, his emotions more exposed than ever before, so he did what he did best, let it out angrily.

“That was reckless. That was so incredibly reckless, do you have a death wish?” You knew that this was a coping mechanism, so you let him vent,” I had to watch- I haven���t felt that sort of panic since Pepper-” He stopped there, catching himself before the words could spill out. “I can’t do that. Not again.”

He seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack, or a breakdown or something that would break him. He always hated this part of him, the part that showed off weakness, but it tore you up inside because all it did was show you his strength.

“Come here,” you grabbed him and pulled him in so that he lay by your side, snuggled into you,” I’m fine, some stuff hurts, but that comes with the job.” You made sure to exaggerate your breathing a little bit so that he followed it.

“You’re okay. We are okay.”

You didn’t know how long you laid there, but by the time you escaped your buzzing thoughts, Tony’s breaths had evened out and he’d drifted off to sleep.

Your mind led your way back to Bucky. To the the little amount of words that drifted out of his mouth. You wanted to hear more of it, listen to anything he’d have to say, hear him laugh and recount stories about him and Steve. You sigh and shift a little knowing good and well that wasn’t going to happen.

You didn’t blame the others for thinking that way, but you hoped that one day they’d move on, and see the man underneath, someone you had yet to meet.

It was confirmed that he was staying here, and in that time you’d like to get to know him better. You seemed to be the only one, other than Steve, that saw through his past, that didn’t hold it against him.

The tiredness started to catch up to you and before you knew it, your eyelids grew heavy and your breathing slowed, drifting off into peaceful sleep.

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