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sodone-withlife · 3 years

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i saw sumayyah‘s answer to an anon’s ask (so all credit for this idea goes to them) about that scene in Omnivore where Rossi is offering Hotch his gun and this thing pretty much wrote itself (which is exceedingly rare lmao), so here is something that i thought would be just a few hundred words but ended up being a really long interpretation of the Foyet arc with hurt/minimal comfort with a good amount of pre-Mortch (or you can see them as platonic, i think it’s up for interpretation).

also, just a quick heads up, i love Papa Rossi, but for the purposes of this fic, it might seem a little bash-y towards him

warnings: quite a bit of suicidal ideation, (almost) attempted suicide, implied/referenced suicide, canon-typical violence, canonical character death

word count: 7.9k words

The highlighted words stared back at Hotch as Shaunessy’s words echoed in his mind.

A deal with the devil.

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” he told Garcia.

“Because I found it, do I get to know what it’s about?” the analyst asked, unrepentantly curious. Hotch sent her a look.

Might as well. Shaunessy’s not going to last much longer, and we’ll be called in… “The Reaper,” he said simply.

“Like—the Boston Reaper?” Garcia lowered her voice as she named the notorious killer. Hotch nodded. “I didn’t even know the BAU worked on that case,” she remarked.

“1998,” Hotch informed her, remembering caffeine-fueled sleepless nights and the palpable fear on the streets. “It was my first case for the BAU as lead profiler.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we don’t have a profile for the Reaper in the system, do we?”

Not in the system, no. “That’ll be all Penelope, you can go home now,” Hotch told Garcia, turning to the bottom drawer of the shelf behind his desk as the analyst nodded and left. Pulling out a worn folder bursting with papers and photos, he placed the newspaper clipping and the evidence bag protecting the contract into it. He left it to the side and refocused on the folder in front of him filled with sheets of old handwritten notes filled with annotations and crossed-out sections.

There will be no sleeping tonight.

Early September, 1998

“You’re sending me?” Hotch was sitting ramrod straight in surprise, blindsided by Gideon’s sudden decision.

“Yeah,” Gideon answered simply, leaning back in his chair as much as he could in the cramped space and looking supremely unperturbed. “Do you not want to go?”

Hotch shook herself out of his shocked state, scrambling to gather his wits. “No—I mean, I’ll go, but—”

“But?”

Hotch carefully evaluated his words. “I’ve only been here a few months, and you’re sending me to Boston—alone—to help with the Reaper case? The case that has been going on for three years, longer than I’ve even been an agent, involving a killer that could probably put the Zodiac to shame?”

The older agent shrugged. “I have to stay and hold down the fort since we are severely understaffed, but I’ll always be a phone call away, and you’re mainly there just to act as eyes for the both of us. You’re not working on this alone.”

Hotch stiffened as a sudden—but careful—warm touch on his hand pulled him out of the spiral of self-doubt he had been teetering over and grounded him. He brought his eyes back to Gideon and was surprised to see complete openness and no signs of deception or maliciousness that he had been forced to learn long ago at the hands of his father.

“I’m not Dave,” Gideon began seriously, “I wasn’t the one who pulled you over here or the one you started out shadowing under, but I do talk to people. I know about your record in prosecution, in Seattle, and in SWAT, and it is very telling. You never doubted yourself before, and I have no doubt that you can handle yourself, so why are you starting now?”

He leaned back, clearly done with the impromptu pep talk that Hotch, still frozen, figured happened once in a blue moon based on what Rossi had told him about the unit before he retired. The cramped room was silent as Hotch felt Gideon watching him struggling with internal strife. Slowly, he released some of the tension that was coiled within him, and Gideon turned back to his stack of consults with an air of satisfaction.

“Start packing, Agent Hotchner. Boston awaits your presence.”

Late November, 1998

“Do you know what the hell is going on?” Hotch immediately asked when the call went through, pacing around his hotel room.

“And a good evening to you too.”

“Gideon.”

“What is it, Hotch?” his tone changed from dry to worried in a heartbeat, hearing the uncharacteristic urgency in his agent’s voice and the lack of nervousness that usually showed his agent’s discomfort towards using the less-formal form of address.

“Shaunessy, the lead detective,” Hotch spat out, throwing the case file that was in his hand on the bed. “He closed the case.”

“And that warrants a phone call at eleven PM, why?”

Hotch bit back a sharp retort, letting out a sharp breath. “You know I’ve been re-interviewing the victims’ friends and family, going through everything they had and lines of investigation that may have been dropped, working the profile along the way, but there have been no viable suspects, even with the accelerated killings,” he said quickly, a mess of emotions swirling inside him. “Gideon, no arrests have been made but he closed the case, just like that.”

“Remind me, when was the last victim?”

“Just over six weeks ago, a month after I got here. I know what you’re thinking,” Hotch said when Gideon didn’t respond, “that the case just went cold, but there were still things I had people following up on. It’s not cold,” he insisted.

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it, Hotch. I know you don’t like it, but the locals have point on this.”

Hotch sighed, but it did nothing to calm him down. “I know,” he said, annoyed. “I’m catching an early train back to DC, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

January 2003

“The Reaper?”

Hotch slammed the folder shut and looked up from his desk, startled. He sent Gideon a glare, glad that no one else was there to see his composure slip, but he only looked vaguely concerned.

“It’s been just over four years,” Gideon commented neutrally. “You’ve had that folder at the bottom of your third drawer, and you’ve pulled it out at least forty different times since ‘98.”

Hotch stared up at him in a challenge. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Gideon shook his head. “Just be careful. Don’t get too drawn into the chase.”

~~~

Sighing as he rubbed the familiar ache on the back of his neck that always appeared during paperwork days and especially stressful cases, Hotch closed his battered folder of notes and opened it back up again. It was almost compulsive at this point, repeating every twenty minutes and each time with the hope something new would catch his attention.

Hotch shifted, the bedsheets suddenly feeling unbearably scratchy and coarse even through his slacks. The case details buzzed around his head incessantly, distracting him from feeling the physical exhaustion and strain caused by the lack of proper sustenance and the stress of a day filled with dead ends.

The sudden ringing shattered the silence of the room, knocking him from his focus. He got up from the bed and warily walked over to the source, picking up the hotel phone and bringing it up to his ear.

“Hotchner,” he said out of habit, only to freeze as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in reaction to the sudden, heavy breathing. “Who is this?” he demanded, throwing the folder he was still holding back on the bed with dread rising within him.

“If you stop hunting me, I’ll stop hunting them.” His question about the caller’s identity went unanswered, though the cursed words of the contract spoken by the same distorted voice that was heard on the 911 calls from ten years ago was confirmation enough.

Anger flared inside him at the audacity, and he snapped back, “You think I’d take that?”

“It’s a good deal,” the Reaper replied flatly.

“I’ve misjudged you,” he said, some distant part of him wondering how Shaunessy felt when he himself got the offer ten years ago. “I thought you were smarter than this,” he was unable to help the derisive tone.

The silence was long enough for him to wonder how much he had caught him unawares with his response.

“You should take it.”

“And you’ve misjudged me.”

“This is your last chance,” he warned.

Hotch didn’t hesitate. “I don’t make deals. I’m the woman who hunts guys like you.” That got the reaction he was hoping for.

“There are no guys like me,” the killer growled, anger bleeding into his tone.

He scoffed. “You all think that.”

“You’ll regret this,” he warned.

It was said with such certainty that a chill shot down his spine, but it was overshadowed by his anger. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised, promptly hanging up without another word. He walked back around the bed, feeling a sudden need to put as much distance between him and the phone as possible. It was with some hysterical hilarity that he wondered if the next people to stay in this room would know about what had just happened—that a serial killer tried to threaten an FBI agent into surrendering in this room.

Those feelings faded away when a terrible feeling suddenly came over Hotch as he realized the Reaper knew which hotel—which room—he was staying in.

It wasn’t unusual during their cases for an unsub to contact another person in the midst of their crimes, but the memories of Elle in the hospital bed and Morgan in the interrogation room had been seared into his brain.

Both times, unsubs directly went after members of the team.

Unable to remain in the room any longer, he went around unceremoniously throwing his things inside his bags before leaving the hotel room. Paranoia quickly crept back into his consciousness as he quickly made his way down to the parking garage with a hand near his gun, intent on heading straight to the field office.

Only half an hour later, Hotch was staring at the glinting gold ring on the bus driver’s hand, feeling oddly detached from the situation as he was confronted with the consequences of that cursed phone call.

“6 bodies, not including the driver,” Rossi said from the back of the bus. “He put them down with a gun—or, more likely, guns—and finished them off with his knife.”

The call had come straight to the field office, just minutes after Hotch walked into the empty conference room that the team had taken command of. A beat cop had heard a series of gunshots and went to investigate, only to see the macabre painting of blood on the side of the bus with its occupants slumped over inside, unmoving. “Arthur Lanessa’s wedding ring,” Hotch heard himself say for the other agent’s benefit.

“What’d he take?” Rossi made his way down to him in the front.

He snapped back into the present with a sudden surge of anger. “Does it matter?” he asked bitingly, turning and storming away from the crime scene for the relative privacy of a nearby alley.

“Hey,” Rossi called in worry, taken aback by the brash response. “What’s going on with you?”

Hotch stopped some way into the alley and took a deep breath, taking his time before turning to Rossi, who had followed closely behind. “He called me tonight at my hotel room and offered me the deal.”

“What did you say?”

“I hung up on him,” his eyes burned with the sting of tears—whether out of anger at the Reaper or himself, he wasn’t sure. “And then he does this.”

“So you think this is your fault?”

How could it be anything but? He looked away, trying to hide just how shaken he was. “It is.”

The familiar sound of the safety of a gun being released pulled his attention back to the man in front of him. “Well, here, use mine,” Rossi said, holding out his gun to him. “You convinced me. No, no, you hung up on him,” he pushed as he waved him off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You practically killed them yourself—”

You practically killed them yourself.

Killed them yourself.

Killed them.

Yourself.

You.

You did this.

You should have made the deal

Hotch flinched away from the touch of cold metal against his head only to freeze in his place, ice settling in his bones as he processed what was happening. Barely seeing the horror on Rossi’s face, he stared at the other man’s empty hand before he focused in on the gun that was resting against his own head, tilted at an angle. There were five things he knew:

I have a finger on the trigger.

My hand is trembling.

I am still one of the best shots of the agents that are not in a tactical team.

Make one move, fire the gun, only the hearing in my right ear will be gone and the darkness continues to creep towards me.

Make a different move, fire the gun, I’ll leave Jack the legacy of a coward and Haley the knowledge that her efforts back in high school and college were for naught.

You did this, a malicious voice in his head said, sounding oddly like his father. And suddenly, he recalled the memory of the blood droplets hitting him and the ringing in his ears the first time he witnessed a gun go off when he was nine.

Slowly, deliberately, Hotch met Rossi’s horrified and guilt-filled expression and lowered the gun from his head. Carefully measuring his steps, he moved forward and pressed the gun into the older agent’s hand, which dropped down to the side, the weight of the gun now accompanied by something unseen, something much heavier.

Not sparing him another glance, Hotch turned and walked back out of the alley.

This isn’t the time nor place to break.

But in the end, he didn’t have a choice.

“Foyet escaped.”

Hotch’s blood ran cold as he processed JJ’s words before he roughly placed his mug onto the desk and stood up from his chair, following JJ outside to the bullpen that was full of noise and movement.

“Guards found him in his cell vomiting blood and convulsing, they rushed him to the prison hospital,” JJ explained quickly as they made their way down the catwalk. Hotch twitched as he heard Rossi’s office door open behind him, the man coming out to see what the commotion was about.

“Get me the US Marshal’s Office,” Hotch ordered, making the executive decision to ignore the older agent in favor of getting down to business.

“I already called Don Reilly. I offered our assistance, he said they’d call us if they needed it.”

Prentiss rushed to the trio, holding a phone up to her ear. “The Boston field office just identified documents from Foyet’s house,” she reported.

Reid approached the agents gathered in the middle of the room, holding out a printout of what looked to be a set of blueprints. “They’re schematics for the electrical, heating, and water ducts of the East Woburn Correctional Facility.”

Hotch looked at him blankly. “He had the schematics.”

“And not just for Woburn—for every jail, prison, and courthouse in Massachusetts.”

“And ten years to plan,” Rossi added, a heavy silence following as everyone turned to the TV.

Finally, Garcia turned around. “They’re going to find him, right?” she asked worriedly.

Eyes still trained on Foyet's mugshot on the TV, Hotch was completely certain in his answer. “No, they’re not,” he said, just as the memory of Foyet’s words rose to the forefront of his mind, unbidden.

If you know me so well, how come so many had to die to bring you here?

I’m going to be more famous than you realize.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, trying to get a hold of the wave of nausea that suddenly overcame him. He brushed past the team, purposely heading out of the bullpen for one of the bathrooms that was further away for the sake of keeping the team and their concern off his back.

Within minutes he was throwing up bile and the small amount of alcohol he had drank back in his office into the sink, thanking the god he never believed in that the bathroom was rather secluded so there wouldn’t be anyone catching him in this moment of weakness. His eyes burned for the second time in less than twenty-four hours—only this time, a few traitorous tears managed to escape from underneath his eyelids.

The taste of bile was strong as he turned on the tap and splashed his face with cold water, stiffening when he heard the door swing open and closed. Looking up to the mirror, he was both relieved and unsurprised to see Morgan locking the door behind him.

“You’ve been avoiding Rossi,” Morgan commented quietly. Hotch huffed a sardonic laugh, straightening up and turning around to face him, leaning against the sink for support. It was a familiar situation, one first started years ago when it was just them and Gideon, and stopped after the team started growing. Then New York happened and Hotch had to de-stress in a gas station they stopped at on the drive back to Quantico, and their secret rendezvous started happening again, when cases hit too close to home for either of them.

Somehow he always knows what the root problem is. “Was I that obvious?”

Morgan shook his head. “You know you hide it well. I’ve just known you far longer than any of the others, besides Rossi, of course.” He didn’t go on, waiting on the other to decide the direction the conversation would go.

Deciding to go for complete honesty, Hotch swallowed, tilting his head up and avoiding Morgan’s eyes. “He called me at my hotel room and offered me the deal.”

To his credit, Morgan only stepped closer, face creased in concern and a hint of knowing. “I said no, and he shot up a bus,” Hotch continued tonelessly. “I lost it in an alley near the crime scene. Dave had pulled out his gun and was trying to make a point about self-flagellation, but—” he cut himself off and shook his head frustratedly.

“I don’t know what happened. One moment I was just angry, and the next moment I was aiming a gun at my head,” he met Morgan’s eyes desperately, stern facade completely gone. “I don’t know what I wanted to do—I don’t,” his voice cracked as he sagged against the sink and his trembling became more pronounced. He quickly covered his mouth as a sob tried to escape his throat, prompting Morgan to move.

It was surprising to both him and Morgan how willingly he melted into Morgan’s body when the man reached out to stabilize him, but the sensation of the embrace was oddly calming for both of them. Neither spoke as they stood in the bathroom, not even as Morgan felt his shirt getting wet from the tears that Hotch finally let fall, and not even as the crying became more audible.

Now, they would stay in the bathroom and soak up the comfort that they offered each other. They would talk about Foyet’s taunts and what Hotch confessed later.

But later never came, because life never waits, and neither do unsubs.

Soon, they were racing against the clock as Reid got infected with an engineered strain of anthrax

Soon, they were investigating one of the worst, stomach-turning crimes they had seen.

When they got back from the pig farm, Hotch only asked the team for a bare-bones report of the investigation and let them leave to the comfort of their homes while he stayed behind and dealt with the rest of the paperwork and red tape that was involved because of their foray into Canadian jurisdiction.

It was past midnight when Hotch finally left the office and entered his apartment with the intent of pulling out a glass of scotch and staying on his couch with a book, knowing there was no way he was going to fall asleep that night.

But Foyet was waiting, and Hotch was weakened by the exhaustion and stress of two all-nighters in a row.

That night, as his team was sleeping in their beds, dead to the world while he was slowly bleeding out and floating in and out of consciousness in his own apartment, he could only take comfort in the fact that his death sealed Foyet’s fate. There was no way Morgan the team—hell, even Strauss, or anyone in the bureau—would stop hunting his killer to exact their revenge.

He faded into unconsciousness with the expectation that that was it.

He slowly regained consciousness to the sharp smell of antiseptic and the unpleasantly familiar beeping of a heart monitor. Fatigue settling heavily over his whole body was the next sensation that registered in his foggy mind, and then the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Where am I?” he forced out through a dry throat, eyes still closed.

“In the hospital,” Rossi, his mind told him. He opened his eyes only to close them again when he was met with blindingly bright lights, letting out a pained breath.

“How did I get here?”

“Foyet drove you.”

Morgan. He drew in a shaky breath as dull, pulsing pain finally made itself known through the painkillers.

“Can you remember what happened?”

That’s Prentiss.

He vaguely felt his head loll to the side before the memories rushed back into the forefront of his mind. Foyet’s words, the same exact words he remembered thinking back in that alley echoed unpleasantly,

You should have made the deal.

Hotch swallowed again and forced his eyes open through the heavy fatigue. “What did he take?” he asked quietly, unwilling to delve deep into what he remembered and deciding to mentally run through the details about the Reaper case instead.

“What do you mean?” Rossi asked, uncomprehending.

“The Reaper always takes something from his victims.” you’re one of his victims now—shut up and think about that later “Do we know what he took?”

“There was a page missing from your day planner,” his eyes flew open and he looked over at Prentiss as she continued talking, “in the address section, the Bs.”

No— “What did he leave?” Hotch asked, eyes slipping shut as a trickle of fear went down his spine and his brain screamed out in denial.

“I don't know,” Prentiss said, floundering.

“He also leaves something with his victims,” he trailed off in a breathless whisper, unable to sustain the volume he had been speaking at as the throbbing grew stronger.

“I looked over your whole apartment,” Prentiss told him helplessly. “Nothing felt out of place.”

A thought came to him. “Where are my clothes?” Hotch asked, slowly trying to force his eyes open again. He turned his head, watching Prentiss bring a plastic bag over to the hospital bed. Careful to avoid looking directly at his bloodied clothes, Hotch managed to pull the bulging manila envelope closer to him on his chest.

His hands froze as his credentials slipped out and he noticed a folded paper tucked inside. Slowly, shakily, Hotch pulled them out of the envelope and carefully flipped it open.

He sank deeper into the bed as the breath he had been holding was almost punched out of him by the sheer terror that pulsed through him, the treasured picture of Haley and Jack staring back at him tauntingly. That’s my blood, he thought blankly, staring at the red streak he knew was deliberately painted over his family’s smiling faces.

“Haley’s maiden name is Brooks,” he finally said, almost numb to the implications. “I always listed her in the Bs in my personal information in case it fell into the wrong hands.”

Some kind of precaution it turned out to be.

“He knows where they live.”

And that was that. As Hotch was stuck in flashbacks and lied to Prentiss about what happened, Morgan led the SWAT team in sweeping Hotch’s old house and picked Jack up from his playdate. As Hotch talked with Haley and failed to not think about that night in the alley with the cold metal against his head, Morgan played with Jack outside and failed to not think about Foyet using his credentials so he could continue to torture his friend boss. As Hotch remained confined to the hospital bed, Morgan watched through an upper-story window as Haley and Jack were driven off into the distance to a location unknown to anyone but a select few in the Marshals service.

Nine stab wounds, thirty minutes down time, and six days in the cursed hospital.

The numbers circled through Hotch’s mind when he stepped back into his apartment and had to work through the panic that rose within as he stared towards the place where he knew Foyet had been hiding.

In the end, what brought him back from the edge was when his eyes caught the new security panel that had been installed over where he knew the bullet had made a hole and the sticky note with what he recognized as Morgan’s handwriting that was stuck over it, concisely written instructions on how to use it. If he looked around carefully enough for other signs of Morgan’s presence, he could see where the section of bloodstained carpet had been replaced, and that was only because there was the tiniest spot that had been missed.

The tiniest reminder was enough to send Hotch into a panic, but he knew there was no way he could tell Morgan about it.

Is this what you felt like, Elle? Unsafe in your own home, having to sweep each room for fear of another one of the monsters we hunt lurking in the shadows?

Slowly, numbly, Hotch worked his way through medical leave and physiotherapy, during which everyone in his team came over at least twice, Prentiss and Morgan the most often to help change his bandages. He knew they worried, but he couldn’t summon the will to care nor the words to thank them for keeping him company and preventing the darkness in his mind from taking over.

And maybe it was a good thing, because there were things they didn’t know, things that he lied to them about. He lied and he lied, and he knew that if he had the words, they would all come tumbling out, and what little of himself that he had left would be exposed for all to see.

Even if Morgan had tried to take everything he might be able to use, there was still his mind, and so if he had the words, they would all know how many times he envisioned holding cold metal against his head just as he had back in that alley.

On the thirty-fifth day after he was discharged from the hospital, when they were discussing Darren Call on the plane, they came close to finding out.

So why hasn’t he killed himself yet? Sprees usually end in suicide. If he's got nothing to live for, why hasn't he ended it?

It was much later, after a day of being on the receiving end of careful, worried glances, and overhearing Morgan’s firm declaration from inside his office that he realized his slip.

“I’m not going to stand by and watch this man kill himself,” Hotch had heard Morgan snap towards Rossi. Moments later, Morgan passed in front of his office window and made eye contact with him, making it clear that his choice of words was deliberate.

Suddenly Hotch was back in the alleyway with the gun pressed to his head and managed to talk himself off the ledge he didn’t know he was standing on while Rossi stood there, frozen and horrified that his brazen attempt at making a point had backfired so disastrously. His own words on the plane came back to him, then thought about what others would have seen when he walked into that house unarmed, and he understood.

He hadn’t been thinking at all when he went in to try and talk Darren Call down, but though he didn’t have a background in psychology, there were some things that didn’t need expert opinion to be said, and so he knew exactly his action could be classified as.

Don’t lie to yourself, you know exactly what that was.

Hotch swallowed convulsively and broke eye contact with Morgan, turning back to stare at paperwork until the other man walked back to his desk in the empty bullpen. As much as he tried, he couldn’t forget Morgan’s impassioned exclamation nor the depth of the worry that was present in his eyes when they made eye contact through the window.

Maybe that was the day when things shifted. It wasn’t a complete change—the team still hovered around Hotch in uncertain worry, his thoughts never completely disappeared, and he nearly broke down in the bathroom the day Jack turned four in witness protection after seeing what footage of his child on a playground Garcia could enhance.

There was, however, a different air to his and Morgan’s interactions after that case. Perhaps it was a long time coming, stemming from the painful understanding that was formed that day in the secluded bathroom when they found comfort in each other.

It wasn’t news that the higher-ups were watching him again, but then he walked back to his office after helping JJ triage consult requests to see Strauss fixing him with a stern stare. The next few days he spent trying to work through the frustration of recording and justifying every decision while trying and failing not to antagonize Morgan. And so while he waited for Morgan to come into his office, he could only hope that he hadn’t managed to destroy the strange friendship that had been built between them based on their shared knowledge of just how close he was to the ledge sometimes.

I should give him more credit, I don’t know how he puts up with me sometimes, and he has more than enough reason to report me to Strauss.

“Come on, Hotch, nobody's gonna replace you,” Morgan said, incredulous at the notion of Hotch getting replaced. “Fight Strauss. I'll go to the mat for you, so will everybody else. You know that.”

“Morgan, it won't work,” Hotch spoke over him, trying to get him to understand. “Decisions like this have their own momentum. Unless I step down—”

“Step down? What are you talking about?”

A foreign feeling Hotch recognized with some surprise as amusement wriggled its way into his consciousness as he anticipated Morgan’s reaction to his coming announcement, “I'm resigning as unit chief at the end of the week”

“What? No!” Hotch couldn’t stop his mouth from twitching as his feeling of amusement grew slightly stronger at the visceral reaction. “Hotch, look, yeah, ok, sometimes your actions, I may disagree with them, but it's not enough for you to leave this team.”

“I'm not leaving the team, I'm just no longer in charge,” Hotch corrected, continuing before Morgan could get in a word. “You are.”

He watched as Morgan’s jaw dropped in shock, before finally asking, “Me?” Detecting no deception from Hotch who had nodded, he continued. “Look, I had the chance to be unit chief in New York, and I said no. I turned it down because I like this team. Strauss can't just fire you like this.”

“She can reassign me, and we can avoid that if I promote internally.”

Unable to come up with a counterargument, Morgan was silent for a moment. “This is wrong,” he finally said.

A strange thrill went through Hotch at the confidence Morgan had in him—their relationship, while slightly different now, ultimately had been built on unstated respect and the ease with which both were able to call each other out on their bullshit; it wasn’t built on such blatant declarations of trust and confidence. Hotch opened his hands, shrugging helplessly. “It's the only way to keep the team together.”

Morgan nodded consideringly before carefully eyeing Hotch. “So all of this,” he gestured between them, bringing up the tension that had built up between them in the last case, “this is why you've been pushing me so hard, huh?”

“I haven't been pushing you that hard,” Hotch denied, only to get a disbelieving look from the other man. He let out a faint smile before regarding the other with a serious look again. “Morgan, I need to know right now. Will you do this?”

He couldn’t articulate the relief he felt when Morgan finally agreed and continued to feel for the rest of the night as he introduced Morgan to the other parts of the job. Just like every other positive emotion he had felt over the past few years, however, it was short-lived, as Hotch had freed up time to dedicate to the hunt, even as he often stayed later to help Morgan get adjusted. Within months, they were called into a family annihilator case and Hotch was confronting Karl Arnold, one of the few unsubs that had continued to haunt him even after the case was closed and they were killed or incarcerated.

Of course, Arnold had to get in the last word, and oh, did he get it in.

The cursed eye of providence, now drawn over a newspaper article about the attack months ago, never failed to create a surge of anger and fear within him, but never had it created such a storm of emotions before now. One torturous night of waiting as the envelope the taunts were sent in went through the lab, and the whole team was in the throes of the hunt, and in the process, fell victim to tunnel vision.

What if they had slowed down and remembered that Foyet worked with computers? Would they have managed to catch him at the apartment unawares? Would they have been better prepared for what Foyet had planned to do?

But there wasn’t anything Hotch could do except try and talk Foyet out of going through with his plans while trying to maintain as level of a head as possible.

“Your mother tried to protect you from your father, but she wasn’t strong enough, and you hated her for that, didn’t you? So, you decided that all women were weak,” Hotch suddenly brought up, hoping to catch him off guard as he vaguely wondered if the team was on the line, listening.

“Those are your words, not mine,” came the grating, annoyingly blasé reply.

“What were you, nine when you killed them?

“It was a car accident. And, now that I think about it, our childhoods are eerily similar, don’t you think?”

Caught unawares, Hotch jerked the steering wheel, barely managing to avoid crashing the car as Foyet continued. “But it was only your father who died, whereas your mother remarried.”

How—? He turned cold at the show of Foyet’s obsession, which was clearly much deeper than he or anyone in the team could have predicted.

“No response?” the killer taunted.

“My father swallowed a bullet because he couldn’t live with his self loathing or the cancer,” Hotch finally snapped, quickly directing the subject back towards Foyet. Even with the pit in his stomach growing as it became clearer that he was being toyed with, he couldn’t help but use every negotiation tactic he knew and taught at the Academy, desperately but futilely trying to dissuade the killer.

“Haven't you gotten what you wanted?” Hotch tried, somehow having regained his composure after the unpleasant bombshell. “You've set yourself apart from anybody we've ever dealt with. You're not just a famous serial killer, you're the Reaper. We're going to study you and your methods for years and years.”

“You know what I've been thinking?” Foyet finally asked after a few moments of silence, his next words sending his heart pounding in fear. “Haley looks really good with dark hair. She’s lost some weight. Must be all the stress you caused her. Where's the little man?” No, don’t you dare— “Oh. There he is. Does he like Captain America because of you?”

Hotch gripped his phone tightly as he heard the ringing of another phone. “That's your wife. Hold, please—Mrs. Hotchner,” Foyet took on an accent, tone turning jovial. “Open the gate and I'll drive in.”

Open the gate? That son of a—of course.

“Aaron?” the malicious glee was back, cutting right to Hotch’s core. “I really gotta go.”

Almost frozen with fear, he pushed the car faster, heading straight towards the old house and praying to whatever deity he could think of that he could get there in time. He wasn’t sure how long had passed when he got Morgan’s call, which was confirmation that the team had indeed been listening. He didn’t dwell on it and only continued to push the car, disregarding speed limits and almost hysterically glad that it was the middle of the day and the streets were relatively empty.

When his phone rang, it was with numb, mechanical movements that he answered, fully prepared to beg and bargain for his family’s life if he had to, only to sharply inhale at Haley’s dearly missed voice, which turned shaky with fear when she realized the danger she was in. As Foyet undercut their exchange with his maliciously satisfied taunts, telling Haley all that he could never bring himself to confess about the case, Hotch could only think about how he was just too far away, Haley, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry for lying to you about everything, I’ll never forgive myself—

But then Jack was on the phone, and the pure innocence and eagerness with which his son greeted him after months of no contact was enough to send a fresh wave of tears coursing down his face.

“Is George a bad guy?”

“Yes, he is,” Hotch answered, wanting to scream at him to just run away, get as far away from him as you can when an old memory was suddenly brought forth from his subconscious. “Jack, I need you on this case with me. Do you understand?” he tried to keep his voice steady, hoping with his whole being that his son would remember. “I need you to work the case with me.”

“Ok, Daddy.”

“Jack, hug your mom for me,” he requested, voice cracking and desperately trying to contain the sobs that were steadily building. He could only imagine the warmth his son was feeling from his mother now, potentially the last memory he would ever have of her. Hearing his son’s too-inquisitive question about his mother’s mood left him viciously biting down on his bottom lip, trying to maintain some modicum of control over himself.

“Is he gone?” Hotch finally asked, nausea joining the storm of emotions within him at the nickname Foyet had given his son.

“Yes,” Haley confirmed, letting her fear shine through now that Jack wasn’t there to see it.

Each shaking breath was a stab straight to his core.“You’re so strong, Haley, you’re stronger than I ever was.”

Her response nearly sent him shattering into the pieces she had so carefully helped him put back together back in high school after his stepfather died.

“You’ll hurry, right?”

I can’t lie, I’m so sorry, Haley. I can’t lie to you. Not after everything I’ve already done, “I know you didn’t sign on for this.”

“Neither did you.”

Why does it have to be now that we finally talk about what caused the divorce?

“I’m sorry for everything.”

There was a short pause as Haley inhaled sharply, before leveling out into shaky breaths. “Promise me that you will tell him how we met and how you used to make me laugh.”

No, please— “Haley,” Hotch trailed off, unable to continue and almost paralyzed at the knowledge that these might be her last words because he’s too far away, I’m not going to—

“He needs to know that you weren't always so serious, Aaron. He needs to believe in love, because it is the most important thing, but you need to show him. Promise me,” she ordered him forcefully.

“I promise.”

The sound of three gunshots tore straight into his soul.

And then he was finding Haley’s body, trying not to let the seams break when renewed rage roared to life within him at the extinguishing of the light that had been inside her and lit up every room she walked in. Minutes later, he was straddling the demon that had haunted him for over a decade, the demon that he finally caught up to but at a terrible cost and then he was punching—

I’m going to kill that bastard son of yours and I’m going to tell him it was all your fault—

and punching—

You practically killed them yourself—

and punching—

You should have made the deal—

someone yelled his name—

Promise me.

“—dead. He’s dead,” someone was shouting as Hotch tried to lunge forward away from the person pulling him back and towards the man who killed my wife HE KILLED HALEY—

But all the fight that had been inside him suddenly disappeared, and he was left staggering backward, mouth open in a silent, rage-filled scream as someone—it’s Derek—kept a careful grip on his body, holding his shattered pieces together just long enough for him to gather his tattered seams close to his chest and fling himself away towards the stairs.

Hotch collapsed to his knees in front of the chest, seeing no indication of any taunting messages and daring to hope that his son was—

And the sight of his son, unharmed and blinking at the sudden change in brightness, nearly sent him into a mess of relieved tears that were also tears of unadulterated grief because I got his mother killed—

He held himself together and lifted his son out of the chest, seeing all the features he got from Haley—her his hair, her his eyes, her his inquisitiveness—and struggling to maintain his weakening control as he told Jack to go to Ms. Jareau, who was waiting with open arms in the doorway to the room that had once been his office.

Hearing their footsteps fade away and shaking with suppressed sobs, he slowly stood up, injuries that he sustained in the fight finally making themselves known as he made his way across the hall to the room he knew Haley was lying in—

He saw Morgan taking her pulse and for a moment he couldn’t help but hope that she was still—

But Morgan was pulling back and he was gently placing Haley’s right arm back on the ground and he wasn’t yelling for medics and—

“I’m so sorry, Aaron,” Morgan said softly as Hotch knelt down, his trembling becoming more palpable by the moment.

If he looked past the unseeing eyes and the blood that pooled everywhere and her lying on the floor and—

He could almost convince himself that she was sleeping. For a moment, he was almost afraid to touch her, afraid to disturb her in her sleep, but in the next moment—

He was pulling her cooling body close to his chest and burying his face into the crook of her neck, gut wrenching sobs escaping his lips as a wave of grief shattered the flimsy show of control he had put up for Jack’s sake, his son who just lost his mother because his father was addicted to the chase and I broke my promise, Haley, I’m so sorry—

She’s gone.

The solemn silence weighed heavily on the team as they waited for Hotch to finish testifying before Strauss and the brass. They had all expressed their outrage when they got the orders to come in for their statements, only two days after their leader nearly lost everything, but there was nothing they could do.

It had been painful to watch the man who had been a protector for so long, since childhood through his teenage years and into adulthood, try to maintain the post, disregarding his own health in favor of being the earliest in the office and last to leave, spending every free moment trying to get rid of the threat to his family. It was worse having to listen over the phone as his control started to slip while he tried so desperately to save his family from a madman.

With the sight of him savagely beating Foyet’s dead body into the ground, all vestiges of the infamous controlled facade gone, they all hoped for Hotch’s sake that Jack had found safety and were beyond relieved to see him in JJ’s arms. Reality caught up to them, however, when they watched as Morgan had to physically wrestle Hotch away from Haley’s body so she could be transported to the ME’s office.

When they got the full autopsy, they could only be glad that Hotch wasn’t there to find out all that Foyet did to his first love.

And within a year, Hotch’s family had been ruthlessly snatched from his desperate, flailing grip and torn into broken pieces before being shoved back at him, misshapen with pieces missing.

The faint sound of a door swinging closed had them all straightening up in their seats, turning to look into the bullpen where Hotch was walking up the stairs in front of his office, only to freeze right in front of the door with his hand just in front of the door knob.

They watched worriedly as he let his outstretched hand fall back to his side and slowly backed up from the door, almost as if he were in a trance and startled when Morgan suddenly jumped up and ran out of the room and through the bullpen towards the man.

Their confusion cleared up when they realized that Hotch wasn’t stopping as he backed up, somehow unaware that the stairs were right behind him and stumbled, only barely catching himself on the railing. For Jack’s sake, they forced themselves to stay seated but watched out of the corner of their eyes as he tried to stand back up, only for his knees to buckle underneath him.

Before he could hit the ground, Morgan quickly grabbed onto his arms, almost collapsing himself under his dead weight but managing to lower them both onto the ground, holding onto him in a way eerily reminiscent of what he had done when he pulled Hotch off of the barely-recognizable body of George Foyet.

Hotch was still staring at his office door as if he had seen a ghost, and it was with heartbreak that Morgan realized what it represented to him—it was the source of so much passion and temptation that had gotten the love of his life killed. Looking back at the conference room and seeing the eyes focused on the two men, Morgan carefully pulled Hotch up from the ground and slowly guided him out of the bullpen, knowing that the team had Jack taken care of.

They walked through the winding hallways and into the bathroom that he followed Hotch into the night it all started to go horribly wrong. This time, it was different and yet the exact same, and after Morgan locked the door behind them, he pulled Hotch towards him, mindful of his bruised ribs.

Surrounded by the four walls that heard so many of their small talks and witnessed their vulnerabilities, it wasn’t long before Hotch’s eyes began to burn as he finally melted into Morgan’s protective hold when the dam finally broke, letting out a wave of pain and anguish that was only made the slightest bit more bearable by the warmth of Morgan’s his friend’s care.

But even that couldn’t make that one sentence disappear.

You practically killed them yourself.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #hurting Hotch is so fun #aaron hotchner whump #hurt aaron hotchner #mortch #george foyet #haley hotchner #tw guns #tw suicidal ideation #tw suicide #tw character death #sodone one sentence

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aimerriarkle · 3 years

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okay episode six of tfatws

just my thoughts throughout :)

sam <3 sam <3

sam you caring, empathetic, intelligent, handsome mf

also. the show just laid out a whole entire episode, blatantly showing us how fucking perfect sam wilson is for captain america... so stop saying it should be bucky or that it should be any other white man

it is lost on me how some people would still think that way after this

now back to the program... SAM <3

a hero if I’ve ever seen one

things he did here: encouraged a woc to step up and save the helicopter; saved the pilot from getting killed by the other crashing helicopter—and saved anyone else near them from being harmed because physics will tell you it wouldn’t only be the pilot who got hurt by the impact; came to the rescue at the very last minute and saved the truck from falling; chose to not fight karli—like at all; brought her to the medics after she died; and he unapologetically stood up to the politicians about what exactly they’ve been doing wrong

and i really wanna highlight how that scene was written to take place in front of the public and be broadcasted in the news

like I’m glad it happened that way because it gave sam the opportunity to make his introduction as the new captain america to be someone who stands for and with the marginalized communities

I think doing it that way will definitely negate the possible distrust a lot of people would have had if he was introduced (to the public) as a hero who worked for the government or even if he was just merely introduced by the government

like it really emphasizes how in the public eye, sam as captain america will be seen as someone who is more than the typical heroic figures they’ve seen before

and idk maybe I’m jumping to conclusions but I think this’ll *maybe* be important to how civilians will see the avengers in the future? maybe? idk? but yeah

anyway his fit!!! the wings and the shield!!! idk much about storytelling through fight choreography but this man used the shield and the wings very well

redwing’s back 🥺

sam getting isaiah the recognition he deserves !!!!!!

im really looking forward to seeing how they’re going to introduce eli bradley as a hero in the mcu (I don’t read the comics so idk what happens)

we got like 0.5 seconds torres but I’m excited to see how marvel introduces him as the new falcon as well

zemo’s butler is his hitman wow, the job must pay well. and look at that old mf go

sharon :) now that’s a villain origin story. you guys better say sorry to her before she comes and kills you as the powerbroker—cue criminal by britney spears “but mama I’m in love with a criminal”

so remember episode 3? if zemo hadn’t killed nagel, then he would’ve definitely recognized sharon right? so what was home girl thinking when she strolled into nagel’s lab, trying to get the trio to leave... like surely he would’ve called her out to be the powerbroker then and there right?

I’m excited to see where she appears next cause theres a lot of explaining to do ms sharon carter

okay i wasn’t even gonna talk about john walker because—yikes. but here it is anyway. i didnt like that they made him out to still have morals because he chose to save the van instead of continuing his pursuit on the flag smashers. I mean yeah it’s great that he attempted at saving them because people change(?) or whatever but he’s still sus because he’s working with valentina—whose intentions are still ambiguous... point is, while I think that it’s a great way to make his character more complicated and have more layers in the situation where they decide to bring him further into the mcu, imo it’ll worsen the john walker empathizers because they have something “good” to say about him

okay back to sharon, so it’s unclear to me whether she was pardoned because sam helped her or because of the fact that she killed karli. if it’s actually the latter then,,, that itches me. like it only shows that the senator didn’t listen to sam and only continued to antagonize karli to the point where he pardoned her killer, instead of trying to understand where she was coming from when sam confronted him about it

is karli really dead? I know she got shot but where? and if it’s just in the stomach, she should been fine right because she’s a super soldier? Idk but ig the storyline is over... unless

anyway, bucky when he got thanked for saving them from the truck on fire :’(

bucky with kids

i overlooked this in the last episode because it happened there as well, but bucky letting his metal arm be exposed in sam’s hometown is just :’)... like tell me you feel at home without telling me you feel at home :(

bucky finally giving yori closure on his sons death

also, I know it’s just a bodily reaction or whatever, but the way that bucky’s eyes dilated when he watched sam confront the politicians

(28:52)

(29:59)

it’s very minimal, but it’s there

okay I don’t know if this happened in an earlier scene, but at 09:46 the when subtitles said “[captain america grunts]” I was like HELL YEAH CAPTAIN AMERICA DID GRUNT!! YES HE DID INDEED GRUNT 👏👏👏

sam taking pictures with people from his hometown because he’s now officially a hero they can rely on 😭

:’) captain america <3

at the end credits when it said “captain america and the winter soldier” I just <3

also, i’ve seen some fans be disappointed that it didn’t say captain america and the white wolf and tbh I’m glad it did not say that

while i do love bucky as well and appreciate that his character was supposed to put the winter soldier behind him because it’s not who he is anymore and just make amends with the people that he hurt,

i think it would’ve been too premature to have him be introduced as the white wolf, especially since he only finished crossing out the names just this episode—and I think it would’ve been too random like I don’t see how the writers could’ve slipped that in, in an episode as packed as this one was to have a significant impact on the audience and the character

and not to mention, I definitely think that him being introduced as the white wolf in tandem to sam being introduced as captain america, would’ve taken away from sam’s moment.

like it’s not news that most of the fans who loveee bucky will literally fall on their knees and worship to extremes every little thing that happens to him. and like I understand that, i get it, but his fans would have—for sure—taken the moment away from our boy sam wilson, the ✨captain america✨

I think bucky’s official introduction as the white wolf warrants another story to be told

so it’s valid to be upset by that, I’m not hating on any bucky stans or anything. I simply disagree and hope that you guys don’t complain about it too much to the point where it takes away from sam lol

and honestly, it’ll come eventually anyway so yeah

the ending where sam and bucky just look off into the sunset made me cackle idk why but it’s great they finally get to have a serene moment together

I’m so proud of anthony!!! I can’t wait to see how sam/captain america continues on in the mcu

anyway, give it up for captain america and the winter soldier 👏

and I have the sudden urge to go sight seeing

so brb I’m gonna book a flight to paris and see the eiffel tower

#tfatws #tfatws spoilers

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0poole · 3 years

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Humor in Writing

Most of the time I feel like dismissing what might seem like “faults” in writing because I haven’t actually made anything myself, and especially haven’t gotten any attention to what I make, but every once in a while something really ticks me off. Of course, I still try to take it with a grain of salt because of my lack of true experience in writing, but considering I’m hoping to actually become some degree of a writer I feel like it’s worth actually trying to explain what I think is a fault with things and why.

There always seems to be one specific thing that bothers me a lot when reading/watching stuff, and it’s the hard switching of tone from comedy to sincerity, or something similar to that, or vice versa.

Honestly, even though it sounds like the motive of a cartoon villain, I kinda think there’s too much humor in the world. It’s probably just entirely driven by opinion and preferences, but I feel like so many people are striving and looking for comedy that it hinders so many other things. I feel like, both in real life and in writing, having so much humor everywhere creates a pretty big gap between that tone and sincerity, which is pretty much always needed at some point. The big line between comedy and sincerity makes it so much harder, emotionally speaking, to feel good about the switch. I’ll try to explain…

First of all, this whole line of thought, even though I’ve been thinking it forever, was spawned by me watching Epithet Erased. Took me long enough, because I’ve seen some of the characters around and really loved their designs, but I finally watched it all, and I gotta say… It was interesting. Also, this is probably just going to be very ranty and opinionated but I will (hopefully) have something more valuable to say after. But, anyways, for one, it felt just barely too close to some of the premises for the stories I’ve thought of in various ways, but I guess that’s just bad luck on my part. Second, I feel like its humor really brought it down for me. Some episodes felt so long winded (although not necessarily “boring” I guess) because I felt like I got the joke they were trying to tell relatively quickly after they started it, but carried it so far. It didn’t help that, at least for a few of them, some of the characters felt like archetypes that I’ve seen a lot around the internet, or at least were simple enough that I understood what they were instantly, and when they are carried out through long character-focused moments it felt like nothing was happening. I feel like some of the characters are fine enough, even if I may not like them, but Giovanni and Indus were the two big ones that I thought had a little too much time given to them…

But more relevant to what I’m trying to say, sometimes the writing jumps way too far from the very comedic tone it’s trying to put out and into it trying to be sincere. The worst case of this was when Sylvie met Mera in the museum storage, and Sylvester tried to out Mera’s nightmares, only to see that her nightmare was the reality she was already in. With the scene change, and Indus becoming more serious with Molly, it felt like a good enough departure from the usual comedic tone to warrant the deeper motive of the character. But, then, of course, they had to trash the whole tone by adding the line about her also being afraid of ducks. There was absolutely no good reason to warrant that line and I will die on that hill. Not only was it just humor, but it was spontaneous “random” humor, and so on… I honestly hope people could just understand where I’m coming from there by how out of place it seems. I feel like the only defense they could use, apart from “just liking it,” would be that it’s comedic relief, but I genuinely feel like since practically the whole thing up until this point was comedy there was absolutely no need for comedic relief. The scene itself is like the opposite of comedic relief, like “Sit down and pay attention” or “Turn your brain back on” or whatever. The climactic point of the scenes before it were reached, meaning the sincere conflict there should be focused on, and apart from that one tiny little line it worked well enough. The fact that it was so tiny and insignificant is basically why I hated it so much. They literally could’ve just scratched it off of the script and only good things would have happened.

Something a bit similar happened before when Molly revealed her backstory to Giovanni. It wasn’t quite as bad, but when a scene goes from comedy to “my mom’s dead and my life sucks” you do feel the shift a little too quickly. I feel like it’s not as bad because it could just be Molly’s character, seeing the tragedy of her life as just sort of normal and not really that remarkable, meaning she’s more likely to just randomly bring it up.

But I definitely wouldn’t be going off this much about it if there wasn’t at least a little bit more. Zora was literally the reason I wanted to watch the show, because I saw a drawing of her a while back and thought she was just some random OC, but when I heard she was from this show I instantly wanted to watch it a lot more. I think the same thing happened with Molly, but I think I knew she was from the show to begin with. Anyway, Zora was the main character who I loved from the get-go and loved even more the more I learned about her. She’s such a perfect amount of diversion from being a generic cowboy in the little design details, while still being 100% cowboy material. Then, when I saw that her power was “Sundial,” or more generally just time powers, I loved it. The big thing that seems little conceptually is making her key term “sundial” instead of just “time” or whatever, because of how much it relates to her cowboy-ness, with it being associated with the “sun” people often associate with Death Valley and the Wild West and whatnot. Not to mention, it’s just a cool power.

But that’s kinda the thing, though. She’s so insanely strong. She could literally kill anyone on a whim. I don’t see how anyone could be cracking jokes in her presence. It’s kinda more general of a gripe, but when she aged up Howie it was borderline terrifying, and yet… right after, they’re cracking jokes again. It’s just so jarring. She could have literally reduced him to dust, and they’re so casual about it. I know Percy is supposed to be kinda blind to some obvious things, but I feel like even she could see the horror. That said, though, Percy is also one of my favorites. Her powers feel so natural yet interesting for what she is for some reason.

Frankly, the visual character designs alone for this show are all really good. Whether or not I’m into the writing, I can’t deny that the show kept me coming back just because it feels so good to just look at it, you know? The minimal animation, vocalized stage directions, and top-down scene view was really interesting to watch, since I’ve never seen it before, and seems like a perfect way to produce more content with less budget. It made everything feel super crisp and tidy, despite being animated so simply. Not to mention that the general lack of animation meant the few scenes where there was traditional-level animation felt really good. The voice acting was also amazing, (again not directly tied to the writing) especially when the voice actors carried their character and emotion from the scene into the stage directions, instead of just reading them out plainly. And, at the very least, the premise of the show is also really interesting (at least to me, mainly because I created 2 stories with a similar idea without even knowing anything about it. Simplified, specific superpowers are just perfect for character designing, you know?)

But I am kinda acting like the writing was bad, but it really wasn’t all things considered… I’m just not really into comedy, and when the comedy I don’t like is paired with writing and practically everything else I do like it doesn’t sit right with me. Considering this idea and some of the story beats were adopted from a DnD(-esque?) campaign, I feel like it’s much more fine. Frankly, I’m surprised I didn’t realize it sooner. Once I read about that, everything just fell into place. I’m not really into DnD either, though…

So, I feel like there are things to gain from thinking about this. While Epithet Erased is still on the mind, I feel like I’ve realized something about the juxtaposition of comedy and sincerity, that being that comedic characters can exist in sincere surroundings, and vice versa. Zora specifically could be one of these characters, because she’s so powerful that she probably sees everything around her as trivial, while the other characters have more sincere reactions to her obscene power. She could easily crack a sick joke that no one laughs at because she’s the only one who can find humor in whatever’s going on. By contrast, the thing about Mera’s fear of ducks was a product of the scene and not of the character, so it just ruined things. Nothing about it was made to be funny to the characters, it was made to be funny to the audience, even though the audience should be in sincere mode then.

Another character that I think works like this is Charlie from Hazbin Hotel, who is the sincere personality in a world of complete and total insincerity. She’s basically a more unique kind of straight man (despite being neither straight nor a man), who are always the grounding in comedic casts, like Squidward in Spongebob. I guess in sincere stories there are comedic relief characters, and in comedies there are straight men. You know, these are probably all things other people have figured out already… at least I can feel good knowing I sort of reached them on my own…

I think a good solution for stuff that’s primarily meant to be a comedy is to make it almost entirely comedic, at least with the inclusion of a straight man if needed. The big name that comes to mind is good ol Monty Python, the backbone of 14 year old boys’ humor style. At some point I realized why I like the humor of The Holy Grail, at least above other comedic movies, is that they don’t hold back at all. At no point whatsoever do they pull back the veil and put in a sincere moment. And, of course, since I can basically recite the entire movie from memory I think it did wonders. I think when it comes to comedies like this, trying to be too sincere at certain points makes it feel even less sincere than if it didn’t have the sincere moment at all. This might be a product of the 00s American family-rated live action comedies who all feel like they fall into that same boat, where the entire movie is hijinks, but then at the very end they pull that all back and have something really impactful happen, with the idea being having some shoehorned message about “family” or whatever. I can group so many movies into that category that it feels almost corporate how many there are like that, and because it’s both overdone and geared towards too generalized of an audience, trying to capture the comedy-lovers and sincere-lovers, it really just fails in both ways. Or, maybe people love them because they’re just barely bad enough to enjoy it in a so-bad-it’s-good sort of way. I dunno. If I wasn’t a little nostalgic for the time those types of movies might be my all-time least favorite.

But I’m a stick in the mud who hates comedy so I’m not really equipped to tell anyone how to do it right. Instead, I feel like there’s some seriously untapped potential in other forms of “feel-good” tones, like casual lightheartedness and just plain fun. I feel like those two things really work towards creating sincere stories that are still enjoyable, and not just one shot of sadness after another, while still having a dash of impactful emotion in them.

I feel like this is where Pixar really shines. People say “It’s not a true Pixar movie if you don’t cry at the end” because I think Pixar movies are great at making the audience lower their guard, and when the moment is right, hitting you right in your heart to make you feel the right emotions. For example, what I’d call my favorite movie of all time (for intents and purposes, if not for real), Inside Out, is all about emotional sincerity, where it’s trying to get across how it’s okay to feel sad, even though the world around you tends to say happiness is always what you want. For most of the movie, it’s a pretty casual romp around the inner workings of Riley’s mind, with some jokes thrown in (because it doesn’t have to be completely without jokes). I’m not really sure how to explain it, but the various jokes in Inside out feel like they’re sort of blended with the interesting workings of this fantasy mind-world, like the fact that earworms are just the little blobby workers in our minds sending the memory of the song back up to the control panel for the hell of it, or that our dreams are a product of a Hollywood-like place in our minds. These things definitely are there for humor, but something about them feels much more fun than just any kind of generic comedy.

Then, I feel like the most important thing about fun and lightheartedness is that they feel like they blend so much better with the sincere moments. Obviously if it’s too quick it’ll still be bad, but I think it’ll be much less bad than with comedy. Maybe you could think of it like a spectrum with pure comedy at one end and pure tragedy at the other, with fun and lightheartedness just barely crossing the midpoint towards the comedy side. Since there’s less of a gap between it and tragedy compared to pure comedy, it feels less jarring. Plus, it just feels more reasonable logically speaking, since comedy sort of puts up this insincere barrier to sort of suspend the disbelief that the events in question are supposed to be taken seriously, which makes breaking that barrier harder once it’s established. With fun and lightheartedness, there may be an expectation of it sort of maintaining itself but there isn’t as much to say there isn’t something hiding in the background. In Inside Out at least, throughout Joy and Sadness’ journey they are pretty determined to get back to the control panel to save Riley, but they’re for the most part confident they can do it (or, you know, just Joy’s confident), so they sort of interpret the world around them in a more casual light, but with that lower-level need still there. But when Joy falls into the abyss of forgotten memories and the hopelessness sets in, you feel it much more, because it was sort of already there to begin with, and it was just made perfectly clear at that moment. I think Bing Bong’s emotions during the scene also make it pretty emotional, since he’s being casual about his death while also being sincere about his sacrifice for Riley’s sake. Not to mention his inner sadness was outed while talking with Sadness.

I feel like if I were trying to write an actual essay I could probably phrase all this a lot better. I just think there’s a ton of value to lightheartedness in stories, as opposed to comedy, for the sake of “feeling good.” Pretty much all of my favorite things have that tone to them to some degree, like Wander Over Yonder, my for sure favorite TV show. It definitely feels fun in a way that can elicit laughs, but it’s not a lot like “This is a joke and you should laugh” most of the time (Disregarding the Evil Sandwich, my least favorite character in the show). I also think Steven Universe succeeds very well with that tone, creating an extremely comfy atmosphere when it comes to the less climactic episodes.

I also vastly prefer the lighthearted resolutions to the conflicts in lighthearted stories. Frankly, I am infinitely more likely to cry to a comfy and happy resolution than I am to the actual sad parts. I’m not really sure what it is about them, but I guess the characters finally being happy again after emotional turmoil warrants a happy-cry. I swear, if I think too hard about the scene where Riley finally admits her sadness to her parents and just sits in their warm embrace, I tear up. It feels so much better than hijinks-danger-hijink resolution.

But yeah, the stories I want to write the most will all inevitably have that sort of lighthearted flair to them, unless of course I choose to go more inherently serious with a story. There’s nothing wrong with that either.

With regard to the really big claim I made before about there being too much humor in the world, the themes of Inside Out, and what I said about comedy’s insincere barrier, I really think the world as a whole would benefit from valuing humor a little less. It feels like there are so many situations where people sort of want to maintain their good feelings with humor instead of more directly dealing with issues in a sincere mindset. For example, if people say something disagreeable (but not insane), It feels like too many people resort to making jokes at that person’s expense and not dealing with the issues directly. Obviously if someones saying some insane bullshit it’s fine, but when the more reasonable takes that are just barely put under the same umbrella as the insane shit are made fun of, it really deepens the trench between the people of different opinions. Of course, humor isn’t the only thing deepening that trench, but it really feels like one of them a lot of the time.

Apart from that, I feel like using humor as a way to distract from general negativity and negative emotions like what Inside Out sort of warns against can be pretty detrimental too. Obviously happiness can still be around, but putting up that kind of barrier between you and the necessary sincerity for emotion with comedy just makes the unpleasantness of the unpleasant stuff that much more unpleasant. I’m saying this one at least out of personal experience, since I have sort of developed to be too subconsciously against super sad and sincere real world scenarios. I haven’t personally felt too many of them myself, but I definitely feel myself blocking off some of my own emotional vulnerability, especially around other people. I can consciously talk against it, like I’m doing now, but I feel like it’s going to take a long time for that barrier to really break. Is humor to blame for that sort of thing? Maybe, with a dash of toxic masculinity and other buzzwords people often avoid for reasons I mentioned in the last paragraph.

Even though this one is much more unreasonably generalizable than the last two things, I feel like the popularity of self-deprecating humor across the internet also (probably?) takes a toll on some people. Obviously some people might just use it to their genuine benefit, but since it seems so common surely some people are putting on a self-deprecating face to get along, and eventually maybe even believing what they used to joke about themselves. Either way, it might be a product of an extreme departure from any kind of narcissism, making being self-confident and self-loving just that little bit harder for people.

But, while I’m not the most equipped to judge writing, I’m even less equipped to actually debate for the existence of all those things, so just know I’m kinda speaking with my heart and not my brain here. People obviously want and need different things, and I’m probably just projecting. Hell, maybe that’s me self-deprecating to not make me seem weird to everyone else. I dunno.

No matter what, all this reliance on humor really just shows who is and isn’t funny. Sometimes, people really need to get a grip. Frankly, I don’t think I’m that funny either, which is why I’ve kind of had the humor beaten out of me by one too many awkward silences after a weird joke in my elementary/middle school days. I guess that’s my cartoon villain origin story.

#rant #rambling #opinions #writing #humor #comedy #epithet erased #poole #etc

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art-thropologist · 4 years

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Cause & Æffect: art that speaks out, Indiana State Museum, Indianapolis, June 14th, 2020 — August 2nd, 2020.

In celebration of the centennial of women’s suffrage, the State Museum gathered together works from 14 different women artists who have lived, worked, or were born in Indiana. The exhibitions grants space to examine how art is used as a tool to speak out challenging topics such as mental health, the death penalty, migrant labor, and cancer. In doing so, visitors are asked to open themselves to conversations with each work and ponder how they can use art to create emotional affect and real-world effect.

Anila Quayyam Agha’s Flight of a Thousand Birds (2019) consists of a single stainless steel disk suspended before a blank wall, casting three overlapping shadows behind and two brilliant reflections before it.

The piece, in the didactic text, is meant to discuss the mingling of Agha’s multifaith and Pakistani/North American culture. The play between light/shadow embodies how there are identities that glance beneath our actions and our skin and also those that we reflect out to be seen. There is one person but the shadows they cast are indistinguishable as being from separate entities. Yet the identity we chose to show can be distorted by our environment or the situation in which we find ourselves in just as our shadows can. The circular and triadic geometry echoes the all-encompassing yet divisionary aspects of these facets. Though Agha’s piece references religion, these are not religious symbols like the crescent or the cross, choosing instead to preference aniconic influence. Agha gives no definite place to either side of her identity, instead creating a tangled after image of movement. Like a flock of birds taking flight, these patterns are constantly mingling and changing, just as our own sense of self shifts with the sun.

Mary Beth Edelson, on the other hand, takes an iconic masterpiece (Da Vinci’s The Last Supper) and recasts the apostles with (at the time, living) American women artists in Some Living American Women Artists/The Last Supper (1972).

Surrounding the altered print are the headshots of over 60 more women artists who have historically/culturally/academically not been given place in the art historical cannon. Georgia O’Keeffe takes the honored role of Jesus at the table. While not the first American woman artist by a long shot, she was one to bring them into the status of “Art Star”. Edelson’s piece is controversial in its appropriation of religious imagery for the discussion of feminism. If one is familiar with Linda Nochlin’s essay “Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?" a secondary interpretation arises; that the only way for these women to hold a place in the museum is for them to recapitulate the styles and performance of accepted male masters. Edelson’s print then can be read as an outcry against the lack of representation of female artists in museums (I personally would not be surprised if Edelson admitted to being a member of the Guerrilla Girls). Notably, none of the 13 artists representing the apostles belong to the traditional painting genre. They span the Expressionist, Surrealist, and Contemporary which is a solid rebuke against the Academic style represented by Da Vinci. It is a critique of the axiological system of the present art historical survey. Edelson also contributed story gathering boxes for visitors to fill out and start a conversation about what our mothers/fathers taught us about our gender and the binary opposite gender.

Lingering in the center of the gallery are two pieces about sexual violence. Lori Miles and Jeanette Johnson-Licon’s The Elephant in the Room (2015) is indeed an elephant in the room.

It is not obtrusively large or even within sightline when first approaching the gallery. Big, yes. Yet even the didactic calls the sculpture a ‘little elephant’. The pachyderm is made of plexiglass and a rolling wooden cart. The former material supplies a paradoxical presence. Elephants are massive and durable. Glass is typically not. The animal is here, and yet it is transparent. Present and invisible. A specter that haunts college campuses across the country. The Elephant embodies the conversations around sexual violence; the violence itself is ubiquitous, undeniably real, and clear to see, however that same transparency belies the greater reluctance to confront it, instead seeing right through it as if it is not there. The animal is minimized and rendered into slices that when removed from the whole become unrecognizable. One might argue that the choice to use glass is to represent how sexual violence is a delicate issue that must be treated with a feather-light touch. We don’t want to shatter the glass and cut ourselves on the pieces. But plexiglass is one of the strongest forms of glass available. It is used in shielding because of its resistance to fracture underscoring that the issue of sexual violence itself does not warrant such tedious handling. Of course, survivors deserve to be handled carefully. Not in the way a vase does, but in the way a living creature does. With respect, with gentleness and compassion. Afterall, when treated aggressively, elephants are known to stampede.

Beside The Elephant is a participatory installation by Monica Myer. The Clothesline (1978 - ongoing) began in Mexico City and has traveled across the continent to the heart of the heartland.

Its presence consists of two pink drying racks with lengths of nylon line running around the perimeter, pink cards are pinned to the nylon like laundry. The rectangular dimensions recall a child’s twin bed. Each card details the experience of sexual violence of an anonymous participant. A table is provided with blank cards for visitors to contribute their own testimonies. While there are other large installations in the gallery, the near neon pink of the paper draws the eye to it. This piece demands attention. The words scream silently from the paper. The Clothesline comes into conversation with The Elephant, the former laying bare the trauma that the latter represents. Together they take space and make an immovable statement.

This brings me to the only disappointment of the exhibition. Cause & Æffect presents itself as a celebration of the suffrage centennial…online. The gallery itself makes no mention of it. There is no signage, no didactic to clearly state such.

The lack of discussion around suffrage and the lack of acknowledgement that this is the centennial of white women’s suffrage. Black women would not get the vote until 1964 and First Nations would still be barred in some states until 1962. Given that there are several pieces in the exhibition specifically about elections and ethnicity and the ability of visitors to see the artefacts of suffrage one level down, the absence of any concrete reference to suffrage undermines that aspect of the exhibition as a whole.

Overall, Cause & Æffect challenges visitors to re-evaluate the role of art as a tool of inspiring change. It asks us what we will stand for, what we will speak out against, and how we will speak out for our cause? What visitors are presented with as a whole is a garden of community, pride, and revolution.

Homeschool/Field trip Activities

Elementary: What do you think makes a good neighbor? How can you be a good neighbor to your classmates? (House Life Project, 2017); What is a cause you care a lot about? How would you use art to talk about it?

Middle: Pick a cause represented by a work and write a paragraph about how it relates to one of the displays in the Natural History or Cultural galleries; fill out a form for the gender equality box, then look through other responses and journal your reaction to them; create a piece of art that reacts to the exhibition or a piece within it; you are a member of the suffrage movement, what art do you create to speak out for your cause?

High: Pick a cause represented by a work and write a page about how it relates to one of the displays in the Natural History or Cultural galleries. Include primary sources to support your thesis; write a paragraph about which of these works speaks loudest to you emotionally? Personally? Ethically? Locally?; what other times has art been used as a tool to speak out on a global stage? Why was it effective/affective? How did it invoke such responses? (For example Le Radeau de la Méduse (1818-19) by Theodore Gericault.); react to The Elephant and The Clothesline in whatever medium you feel is best.

#exhibition review #cause & aeffect #Indiana state museum

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penciltopbear · 4 years

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OKAY I’ve been thinking about Tasky and tma stuff even though I’m not caught up at all and I’ve come to the conclusion that Taskmaster is SUPER hard to pin down entity-wise so I’ve compiled my thoughts for and against each entity. Disclaimer that despite this being all I ever talk about I am by no means an expert on either tma or Taskmaster and will probably misremember a lot of stuff so please feel free to tell me what you think! Also I’m gonna be taking some of these points from @lhassinu so hi :)

Under a cut because I have a lot of thoughts

These aren’t ordered based on compatability or whatever it’s just based on what order the wiki has them

The Buried

For: He has a fear of drowning, one that was fairly pervasive in his childhood

Against: While he does have a fear of drowning, it’s not an overwhelming fear, especially since he has taken specific measures to minimize that fear so that it isn’t an issue. He doesn’t have any other fears associated with the buried, nor any financial issues, and I mean. Let’s be real here. Buried would be the lamest entity to go with. The man kills people for a living and wears a cool cape and you want to go with the fear named Too Close I Cannot Breathe? Lame. Moving on.

The Corruption

For: There really isn’t much in the way of support for this one. The closest you can really get is that he seems to have a general aversion to rot and decay, but nothing beyond a normal reaction. You could maybe spin something out of his best friend hanging around ants, but that’s a stretch.

Against: Like I said, not much for it in the first place. Aside from a lack of strong fear towards most of the Corruption’s manifestations, he also doesn’t have the need for love that people like Jane Prentiss had; there’s no way that something like what happened in Love Bombing would happen to him. In fact, he actively betrays most of his friends and doesn’t get especially attached to anything or anyone.

The Dark

For: Some parallels can be drawn between the Dark and the Abyss, namely the whole cult thing, and Tasky seemed vulnerable to the Abyss, so there’s some evidence that would suggest that he would align himself with the Dark/The People’s Church. There’s also the fact that, given his line of work, darkness can be incredibly advantageous for stealth missions.

Against: While there’s some support for aligning with the Dark out of love or something similar, there’s little in the way of fear. A big part of the Dark is the unknown, what can be lurking beyond, but Taskmaster just would not give a shit. He’s far too confident in his abilities to have anything more than mild caution.

The Desolation

For: Tasky has no aversion towards destroying people’s lives if it means making a quick buck, and he has definitely set fire to quite a few things.

Against: Despite that, however, he doesn’t necessarily enjoy doing those things. It’s more of a means to an end, that end being money, and it would take quite a bit of provocation before he would take the initiative and do it for free. The Desolation, much like the Corruption, also tends to pull in people with a need for companionship, people who want to be a part of something, which Tasky just doesn’t care about. Plus, while he’s not afraid of setting fire to things, it’s not a common enough occurence to really warrant devoting himself to a cult about it, ya know?

The End

For: There are a few obvious ties, namely the fact that he does kill people a lot and he utilizes imagery closely tied to the End in the way of his Skull mask. He also has a fear of dying, at least to a small extent. After all, you can’t really be a mercenary without a healthy fear of death. It’s possible that, if he were to die, he would choose to serve the End rather than go quietly.

Against: That being said, he’s also far too cocky to really be afraid of dying, at least enough for him to turn to the end while he’s still kicking. And, again, he doesn’t kill for pleasure often, it’s just a job.

The Eye

For: This one works really well in the context of Unthinkable. I tend to ignore Unthinkable for reasons I’ve gone over in the past and don’t care enough to talk about right now, but it definitely plays into the whole “need to know even if it could destroy you” thing. Aside from that, there is also his drive to constantly be acquiring new skills, and he keeps records of different fighting styles on tapes. In a way, he’s sort of like the Archivist, but instead of cataloging fear, he catalogs actions and behaviors.

Against: This man hasn’t stepped foot in a library since middle school and he can’t remember shit. Whether or not he knows how to read is questionable

The Flesh

For: There’s really not much here. If you’re reaching, you might be able to make something out of him being something of a butcher, but you can’t get anything super concrete.

Against: Piles of meat is just sort of part of the job, he’s not gonna be bothered by it much. Plus, he’s seen so many weird people in his line of work that he’s not gonna bat an eye at someone like Jared Hopworth, no matter how grotesque their body may be.

The Hunt

For: The Hunt was the first entity I thought of while trying to pin him down. A big part of the Hunt is how easily it can take a hold of people. As soon as they are exposed to hunting, whether it be monsters or people, there’s a chance of it taking hold. In that sense, the Hunt is somewhat of a hazard in Tasky’s line of work, so it wouldn’t be a stretch for him to be aligned with it at some point. Plus, I think that Taskmaster with a wolf skull mask would be a really neat aesthetic.

Against: I know I’ve brought this up a lot, and I’m gonna keep bringing it up, but killing isn’t something Taskmaster does for sport, it’s a job. He doesn’t necessarily derive joy from the chase, and if he isn’t going to keep it up if he doesn’t have a reason. If the money runs dry, he’s not gonna keep going. In a story, it would take a bit of build up for the Hunt to really work, but that’s not to say that it can’t work at all.

The Lonely

For: Tasky tends to work alone a good bit of the time. Every time someone does get close, he ends up betraying them in one way or another.

Against: He has been shown to care about his friends, and does feel bad about betraying them. He also has been shown to be effective when working with others, possibly even more effective than when he’s alone. Being a mercenary, being completely cut off from society is impossible, since good networking is crucial to getting jobs. Plus, his abilities rely on him being around other people. All of that put together prevents him from willingly cutting himself off like Peter Lukas. He doesn’t have a fear nor a love of being alone, thus stopping the Lonely from really taking hold. That being said, it’s not necessarily impossible. Much like the Hunt, if you really develop the idea it could make for a really neat story, but it won’t work well in the current state of his character.

Oh holy shit there are a lot of these

The Slaughter

For: He kills people bro

Against: The Slaughter is founded around unpredictable, unmotivated violence, which Taskmaster just does not do. Whenever he kills someone, it’s either because he was paid to or because someone really pissed him off that much. You could make the argument that from the victims end it seems unpredictable, but if they’re watching their actions and how they affect people it really isn’t. People aren’t gonna hire mercenaries to kill you for no reason, even if that reason is just “they have money and I want that money”. He also isn’t afraid of violence against him, he knows the dangers of being a mercenary and is prepared to deal with them. He also has no strong ties to war or music, at least when it comes to violence.

The Spiral

For: This is another one that I think is good in the context of Unthinkable. Throughout that entire run people are actively lying to him, and memory issues can definitely mess with your perception of the world to the point of thinking that things are wrong. He also does lie and betray others quite frequently.

Against: He doesn’t really tend to doubt himself, nor does he suffer from any hallucinations or mental illness that would alter his perception of the world, and his lies are often more short-term deceptions in order to gain the other hand as opposed to gaslighting someone or making them question everything they know.

The Stranger

For: Again, this can work well with Unthinkable. His sense of self gets entirely screwed up by his memory issues. Outside of that, masks are closely tied to the Stranger and his mask is one of his most recognizable features, and it’s definitely one that can invoke an uncanny valley sense. He also has the ability to quickly change his mannerisms, which I personally think could fit quite well with the Stranger,

Against: He doesn’t have strong ties with most things commonly associated with the Stranger, namely the circus and mannequins and taxidermy. He doesn’t have a strong fear of the unknown and unfamiliar, if anything it’s just another thing to be understood and for him to learn from. He doesn’t show intense paranoia, no sense that things are wrong, and I doubt that he would feel any fear of things associated with the Stranger beyond “haha that’s kinda creepy”.

The Vast

For: There’s not really much in defense of this one.

Against: He’s too full of himself to worry about his own insignificance or whatever. His only fears relating to wide open spaces would be drowning, but that’s a Buried fear and not Vast.

The Web

For: This is another one that I think shares a lot of similarities with the Abyss, namely being controlled. He has been manipulated multiple times in the comics, with one example that I can think of off the top of my head being when he worked for AIM in Secret Avengers. He strikes me as someone who could definitely be one of the Web’s puppets.

Against: I don’t necessarily think that he’s afraid of being controlled or manipulated. After the whole Abyss thing, he honestly seemed unfazed by the whole ordeal. He likely thinks himself too smart for it to be really an issue. He also isn’t afraid of spiders, so that can’t be used as a jumping-off point, so to speak, unlike Annabelle Cane.

I’m not doing the Extinction because 14 was enough.

So, based on all of that, it seems like the Eye is the best fit without changing any characterization, with a few others having the ability to work with a little bit of storytelling. BUT there’s also the possibility that he serves none of them. There are plenty of people in tma that don’t serve an entity but still profit from their existence, like Mikaele Salesa. I could definitely see Taskmaster sort of staying on the fringes of the whole thing, taking jobs to kill monsters and retrieve artifacts as he pleases and ignoring whatever the fuck Elias has going on.

IN CONCLUSION this was a really horrible idea and I should not have put this much time and thought into this. Anyway I am tired and refuse to read any of this over again so if I got something wrong feel free to tell me so and I would love to hear everyone’s thoughts :)

#marvel tma #taskmaster #tony masters #marvel taskmaster #did I have a reason to do this? no. did I do it anyway? absolutely.#this took an absurd amount of time for something so stupid but its uh. its done.#everytime i thought i was done.... there was another damn entity #im going to kill robert smirke for making 14 of them #i propose that we combine them all into one entity called the Big Spooky and every fear falls under it #heights? the Big Spooky.#death? the Big Spooky.#everyone worships the Big Spooky and gets along #god this was so much easier for black ant #literally my only reasoning for him was robot #and that was it! no stupid lists. it was so simple.#imagine if everything were that simple.#hang on i just realized that by that logic roombas are stranger what the fuck #okay maybe not all robots are stranger. just some #anyway i am sick and tired of thinking about taskmaster im done forevr #i scheduled this so it looks like it was written at a normal hour #but in reality its midnight and i did not proofread any of this :)

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marshmallowgoop · 4 years

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Doing yearly writing reviews isn’t really a thing. But once you start doing ‘em, it doesn’t feel right to stop, you know?

Seeing progress in other arts is of course a lot easier than seeing progress in writing, but I think there is some forward movement for me, especially when I also consider my compilations from 2017 and 2018.

In regards to 2019, I’ve selected various kinds of writing for this post: analytical essays, opinion pieces, news articles, creative fiction, and maybe some works that can’t be categorized so easily, too. It was a very difficult year on many fronts; I dealt with job struggles, financial insecurity, destroyed relationships, medical hardships, seemingly endless cyberstalking and online harassment.

But there were good things, too. New friendships. New passions. New outlooks. I feel like I’ve learned and grown a lot more in these past couple of months than I have in a long, long time.

The end of 2019 is more than just the end of one year. It’s also the end of a decade. But I think the best advice I’ve received all decade comes from this year:

✄ Sometimes, you have to say yes to saying no.

✄ If you can’t do something well, do something poorly!

✄ The best option may be to simply not engage.

✄ You don’t have to apologize for disappointing others.

✄ Your worth isn’t measured by how much you “accomplish.”

✄ You have rights: the right to have your needs and wants respected, the right to make mistakes, the right to determine your own priorities, the right to not be responsible for the actions or problems of others, the right to express yourself, the right to be human. It’s not selfish or narcissistic to stand up for your rights.

And, since it is the end of the decade and all, here’s also a comparison between one nerdy fandom essay from August 2010 and another from August 2019:

2010 (with added spaces because yes, this really was just a huge block of text originally):

Also, in my own opinion, nobody really gave a damn for Xion all that much save for Roxas. I mean, yeah, Axel cared a little, but in the end, he got totally mad at her, got mad any time she was mentioned, got mad whenever Roxas worried about her, got mad when she showed up at the clock tower. She was his friend, yeah, and he didn’t want her to go, but in the end, he would have chosen Roxas above her anytime.

The other “mean villains” didn’t really care. Luxord didn’t care, Demyx didn’t care, Xaldin got exasperated once at her, but overall didn’t care, Xigbar didn’t care, Xemnas outright said he didn’t care, Saix was rather cruel to her, but really, in the end, he didn’t give a damn for her. The others weren’t around long enough to have an impression on her. I think even Riku didn’t really care all that much for her, in all honesty. He just wanted his best friend back.

Also, you have to keep in mind that we played the game through Roxas’ perspective, and it’s in my personal belief that he fell in love with Xion. And if you’re in love with someone, when she gets into a coma, or goes missing, or ignores you, you’re gonna be upset, and talk about it. So Roxas did.

But you know, he doesn’t actually do a lot of it until the end of the game. Before that, it’s all about the THREE of them. He loves his friends (even if he doesn’t know it), and he wants them to be together forever, but when Xion goes missing or whatnot and they can’t ALL have ice cream together, he gets upset.

2019:

I’ve written more on the subject here, but to keep it short, Ryuko only tries to take Nui’s life when she’s convinced herself that she’s a monster, and her development is less about her becoming less okay with killing people and more about how she won’t let her anger and rage control her. What makes Ryuko’s attitude so different in the end isn’t that she’s reconsidered her thoughts on murder but that she’s composed. Come episode 22, Ryuko ain’t saying that she’s gonna kill anyone to sound tough or to intimidate. She keeps her cool even against her worst enemies.

But that’s just what I think! Maybe I’ve interpreted the character all wrong. But Ryuko’s freak-out after she goes berserk and hurts others in episode 12, her devotion to defending even people she’s just met… I just struggle to see her as someone who’s actually a-okay with killing. The fact that Ryuko’s perfect fantasy in episode 20 depicts her as a sweet girl without any of the violent tendencies that she has in reality also points this way; not to mention, Ryuko outright admits that her picking fights and causing trouble are bad things when remarking on her childhood in episode 8.

And Ryuko? She doesn’t want to be bad. All the poor girl’s ever wanted is love, and I can’t imagine she’d ever think that getting angry and killing people would get her a lot of that.

Progress may be slow, but it does happen.

At least, I think so.

Image Texts

January 2019

And personally? I find that sweetness just absolutely, utterly charming. When I understood what the rap was trying to communicate, I couldn’t imagine listening to the song without it. Heck, even before I understood, I found the “without rap” edits empty and barren. No matter how “silly” the lyrics might come off, the unabashed cheese is fantastic. The rap section that I was once “meh” about legitimately became my favorite part of the song.

Plus, I really can’t stress enough how sad the song is when it’s purely Ryuko. The official [nZk] remix replaces Senketsu’s rap with a reprise of Ryuko’s first verse, which recounts how she and Senketsu met. And it’s tragic! She says, “But I’m all alone,” and she is. Senketsu isn’t singing with her, no matter her claim that she can hear his voice. Considering what happens to Senketsu in the end, his absence in the song hits even harder.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/182361051017/oomoj-marshmallowgoop-the-rap-is-good

February 2019

The focus then shifts away from Ragyo, but Kill la Kill ain’t at all done with building the audience up yet. As the scene moves to the following day, viewers are met with quick, close-up shots of Uzu’s note to Ryuko, timed right to the beat of “Blumenkranz.” Uzu wants to duel, and we soon get to see his full request in an engaging low-angle shot where Ryuko looks up to this sign looming over her. The weight and gravity of the situation is effectively conveyed: the smooth transition from Ragyo to here, as well as the music and shot composition, let us know in no indirect terms that this fight isn’t something to be brushed off. Uzu’s duel is a big deal, and it’s very much connected to Ragyo’s expansive empire.

And the tension just keeps growing. Ryuko’s reaction to Uzu’s note is presented with a dramatic canted, high-angle shot. The camera—which is just slightly tilted—peers down at both Ryuko and the sign, communicating a sense of danger and unease. Viewers already know that the upcoming battle is important, but here, we also understand that it’s not going to be easy.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/182841724817/all-the-discussion-around-episode-6-of-kill-la

March 2019

Kill la Kill the Game: IF is currently being featured at the 2019 Game Developers Conference that runs until March 22nd in San Francisco, and a flurry of new gameplay videos are now available for viewing. Notably, these videos feature full English subtitles for the character dialogue for the first time since EVO 2018 last year and never-before-seen stages, such as what seems to be the Fiber Castle in the Kiryuin Manor.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/183766224117/kill-la-kill-the-game-if-gameplay-footage-from

April 2019

I mean, Kill la Kill ended over five years ago now. There’s been fairly minimal new content ever since—an OVA in September of 2014, a few pieces of merchandise here and there, a small crossover with Grand Summoners last year. And then, not even 11 months ago, out of seemingly nowhere, there was confirmation for a full-blown Kill la Kill video game. That we now know will be released in just 14 weeks!

Lots of jokes were made about the announcement for a game so many years after the series finale, but, like, seriously, as a longtime Kill la Kill fan, it’s hard to wrap my head around. Ever since the show ended, I’ve dedicated over half a million words to writing about it, spent tens of thousands of yen on books and Blu-rays and CDs, devoted nearly 60 GB to my own GIFs and edits. I’ve loved this thing to death. I’ve always found more and more that I want to write and create from this series, but I never really imagined nor expected that we’d ever get much more official content from the original creators themselves. And now we are getting so much more, and???

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/184228103137/kill-la-kill-the-game-if-releases-on-july-25th-in

May 2019

Kiznaiver: Oh, I was so excited to love this show! I was lucky enough to see an advanced screening of the first two episodes, and I was totally hooked. It was drop-dead gorgeous—and probably the prettiest series Trigger has ever put out—and I was very intrigued by the plot and characters. I remember just coming back to my hotel room at like 3:00 am after the premiere, utterly filled with excitement. I mean, Kiznaiver was directed by Hiroshi Kobayashi, the episode director behind the two episodes that got me hooked on Kill la Kill (episodes 5 and 18)!

But… my excitement quickly died. The story tried to develop way too many characters in way too little time, and I never enjoyed the romantic pairing of Katsuhira and Noriko, finding it shallow, undeveloped, and nonsensical (in a bad way), which… kind of ruins a lot of the series when that’s arguably the heart of the whole thing.

Kiznaiver is still super, super pretty, though. That last episode’s animation got me shook.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/184700944732/so-have-you-watched-the-other-stuff-studio-trigger

June 2019

I do recognize that many, many matters do not warrant conversation. I do recognize that the phrase “I’m just trying to have a conversation” can be—and has been—utilized as a means of directing criticism away from inflammatory, unacceptable, inhumane remarks. I in no way feel that hateful, discriminatory comments should be promoted.

Simultaneously, however, “conversation” should not automatically be a dirty word in the field of analyzing and seriously engaging with fiction, and thoughtful reactions should be supported and striven for. Nothing in fiction is ever black and white. There are so many nuances and complexities to the storybook realities of our media. I want commentators and critics of fiction to be passionate about listening, considering, and rethinking those nuances and complexities. Isn’t that why we do this work at all? To share our own point of view and open ourselves up to others?

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/185289615202/we-need-to-change-the-way-we-seriously-discuss

July 2019

Initially, I was really bummed by this lack of development. But as I thought about things more, I… didn’t mind so much. If this dream or universe or whatever is something that Satsuki “experiences” before the events of the anime, of course she won’t grow as a character here. Maybe this game is kind of the Kill la Kill prequel I’ve been begging for for over half a decade.

And as much as I didn’t get anything, I thought the ending bits between Ryuko and Satsuki were so good.

Like, I suppose Ryuko’s absorbing the Life Fibers or something?? But wow, pretty.

And the part where they talk before Satsuki disappears? That’s my kinda anime bullshit. It’s the kinda anime bullshit I wanted from the OVA between Ryuko and Senketsu.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/186648065467/goop-plays-kill-la-kill-the-game-if-satsuki

August 2019

That book, Log. 2, is a fan doujin from Kotaro Nakamori, who worked as an animator and animation director in Kill la Kill. There’s a bunch of assorted fanart in there, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Nakamori is a fan of Urusei Yatsura and wanted to make a little crossover between that series and Kill la Kill.

Personally, though, as someone not too familiar with Urusei Yatsura, I kinda just saw the image as oni-Satsuki (with oni being demon/ogre-like creatures in Japanese folklore). Oni are traditionally depicted wearing tiger skin loincloths, and Lum herself is definitely basically a space oni. So, I saw the cover and got super excited about oni-Satsuki because I love oni a lot, haha.

Fun fact: character designer Sushio has also drawn Kill la Kill characters as oni for setsubun, a celebration that’s held on the last day of winter (February 3rd). During setsubun, you might see folks dressed up like oni—who get beans thrown at them in an effort to bring in good luck and chase naughty demons away.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/187228888187/do-i-see-satsuki-wearing-lums-outfit-in-your-last

September 2019

Though I don’t see it much anymore, I remember lots of comparisons between Ragyo and the villains of Saturday morning cartoons back in the day. She was described as a generic, two-dimensional “evilz for the sake of evilz” baddie and criticized for her simplicity.

And though I did admittedly agree to an extent—I craved a lot more depth and insight, particularly in regards to her haunting line about “still having something of a human heart” whilst brutally attacking her own daughter in the final episode—I also found Ragyo to be a remarkably compelling, powerful, and horrifying villain even without tons of backstory and explanation. Perhaps my write-up on her first scene in episode 6 best details why; this woman has such a presence, and the visual language of the series amplifies that presence spectacularly. Ragyo’s intimidating and scary without the audience even needing to know anything about her.

And… I’d say that’s a good villain. That’s exactly what a villain should do.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/187987858537/on-ragyo-kiryuin

October 2019

And, though there are no visuals, so I can’t be sure if it’s an “Ocean of Light” or not, the fourth Drama CD also has the same kinda deal happening. In the CD—which takes place immediately after Ryuko learns the truth of her origins—Ryuko’s pain manifests as an explosion of light that knocks both her and Senketsu unconscious and pushes Senketsu away from her. The sound effect here is familiar, and I’m personally convinced that this is another “Ocean of Light” moment.

Which brings me to the “light” part of the terminology. Light is often associated with good, yes, but light is also associated with heat, and heat is associated with pain. In the Drama CD, Ryuko’s light is so hot that Nui even remarks that Senketsu “almost burned” from it, and when Mako embraces Ryuko after swimming through her “Ocean of Light” in episode 12, Ryuko’s touch scorches Mako’s skin.

I’ve already written an essay on the symbolic and narrative use of fire, warmth, and heat in Kill la Kill (that you should totally read because it’s actually maybe Kinda Good, Maybe), and relating to that, I see the “Ocean of Light” as a physical representation of Ryuko’s fiery spirit. That fire can be used for good, and that fire can also be painful, but no matter what, that fire is a part of Ryuko.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/188247077227/i-always-wanted-some-explanation-you-are-smart

November 2019

She looks around her cottage. Her eyes find the walls and the furnishings. Her eyes find the scratched floors and stained wood. She does not voice it to the once-emperor, but she had never been able to remove the stains from the attack. Her son's blood has painted the brown wood red. It is a reminder of what she cannot remember. It is a reminder of the past she has forgotten.

“This home feels so desperately lonely,” she admits. “I do not know who is missing. But it is not complete.”

The man is quiet. He did not expect to find himself feeling sympathy for the woman's plight. Perhaps she is a fool, to have given her heart to a demon. But kindness ought not be punished, he thinks. Or has he grown so cold that he believes it should be?

December 2019

🏀 Michiru and Shirou’s relationship may be the focus, but Nakashima emphasizes that Michiru’s relationship with Nazuna is also involved in the story in a big way.

🏀 Nakashima stresses the importance of depicting teen girls realistically. Two women screenwriters are on board: Kimiko Ueno and Nanami Higuchi. Both wrote for Little Witch Academia. Ueno also wrote for Space Patrol Luluco, and Higuchi was behind the production reports in Trigger Magazine (and, interestingly, wrote the script for the anime adaptation of BEASTARS).

🏀In regards to Michiru and Nazuna’s relationship, producer Naoko Tsutsumi (also an animation producer for Kiznaiver and Little Witch Academia) provides input as well. Nakashima says that they greatly value and take to heart the opinions of the women creators.

Full post: https://marshmallowgoop.tumblr.com/post/189928986922/otomedia-winter-2020-bna-brand-new-animal

#shut up goop #goop makes a (kinda) personal post #ramblings #writing #on to 2020!#right before the new year in my time zone as per usual lol #image texts under the cut #kill la kill #kingdom hearts #brand new animal #kiznaiver

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lisinfleur · 5 years

Text

Draumur

Author’s Notes | As always, the request gained life and became much bigger than I thought hahaha. Universe | Vikings Pairing | Sigurd x Reader Info | Viking Age AU, requested by @lol-haha-joke for 5CW6. The word “Draumur” means “Dream” in Icelandic. Words | 3592 ⁑ Warnings: Mentions of violence, death, blood. Religious controversy and familiar abuse. Caution is recommended: the following content may be triggering!

His eyes were open with the sun once again. But one more time, he remained in his bed, staring the ceiling. This time it was the top of a tent at the camp in foreign lands they were raiding. But many times before, his eyes stared the roof of his room, the wooden bars of the hunting cabin, or even the sky turning from dark blue to the tones of the dawn.

Anywhere he had fallen asleep to dream about that woman.

The same woman was filling his dreams, numbing his thoughts through the day.

"Y/N..." he muttered the name he heard a single time in his dreams.

His strange dreams where you were running. Where someone was yelling your name. You would always end up in his arms. It was always his embrace who would keep you calm.

Safe.

Sigurd sighed. Safe from what? His dreams were confused and he was tired of hearing the Seer's enigmas about this being part of a future that couldn't be revealed or things about his choices deciding if whether these dreams would be predictions or nothing but dreams.

The Wise-One's words were also too intricate and complicated for him to really want to spend his time decoding them. Life would happen, with or without his knowledge, right? So he would just have to wait.

The plans for the day among his brothers were quite simple: a huge storm was approaching and Ivar wanted to raid the closest village for some roofs to put over their men's heads. Under Ubbe and Hvitserk's last observations, he calculated it was pretty possible to divide the whole army into the houses and buildings of the village warranting a heart of fire to warm every single man during the storm and with it, preventing sickness, fever or worst to spread over their soldiers.

However, Ivar, as always, wanted to simply invade the place, killing the resistance and keeping the meek as slaves to serve the men. Ubbe, on the other hand, suggested kidnapping the village. Once it was a place on their way and not their main target, they could have the peasants keeping their men for the time they need in exchange of having their lives, cattle, and relatives spared from the Norseman's blades.

They didn't know how long the storms would be or how many days they would need to stay. Kidnapping the place sounded like the smarter option since they would minimize the damage and, with this, warrant they could stay for a longer time if necessary. Destroyed constructions wouldn't take them for too long and too many bodies would start to attract animals and plagues in a matter of days...

The brothers went for the calmer solution despite Ivar's discontentment with their option.

With the mantle of the dark night covering their approaching, the army invaded the houses one by one, surrendering the people, killing the less they could until the people of the town were all reunited at the center square, surrounded by their army.

"Is there anyone among you who speaks for the town?" Ubbe took the word and a man came forward, scared. "We do not intend to kill your people as long as there is no resistance against us. Our men need roofs, food and rest. We shall divide and share your houses for the time we need and if none harm us, then, we shall leave your lives untouched. If any reaction is taken, then we shall kill the ones who rise against us and take the others as slaves when we leave. Is that clear?"

The man looked around. They were farmers... Pretty much peasants without instruction on how to fight skilled warriors like the Norseman. It was the best deal for their lives.

"Please don't hurt our families..." he begged and Ivar rolled his eyes when Ubbe agreed, raising his voice towards the army.

"No harm shall be done against these people. No property destroyed, no cattle shall be killed except what we need to eat and share. No gold shall be stolen, no woman shall be forced to lay in our beds! We'll leave as soon as the storms are over and our men restored to keep traveling."

The men divided. No more than seven per house. And the princes reunite to confabulate.

"We shall split ourselves as well," Ubbe suggested. "No more than two of us in each house, to avoid any of them to have the brilliant idea of harming the leaders in order to spread the men."

"Wise words at least once!" Ivar said, sighing.

"I'll settle with you, and we shall choose a family that will serve us and our men. Sigurd and Hvitserk will settle somewhere else and we keep on touch."

A wise splitting as well, for Ubbe would take care of the moody little one as Sigurd would be sure Hvitserk would behave among the women.

They chose different families to settle and that was when his eyes crossed with yours for the first time... Hvitserk was still thinking about which house would he take when Sigurd took the decision after seeing you among the man's daughters.

Your y/c/e orbs were fixed in his since they found that blonde bardic prince in the middle of the Norsemen. You couldn't stop looking at him, even harshly reprehended by your older brother who was standing by your side and immediately reacted when the prince chose your house as their refuge.

"You said no woman would be harmed!" he yelled towards the men. "He doesn't stop looking at my sister and now chose our house as his refuge! How come you want me to believe he won't hurt her while staying?"

Ubbe looked back to the young man who was defiantly looking at them.

"I gave you my word," the prince said. "If anything happens to your family, then, my brother shall pay his price."

Your brother insisted, but your father contained him.

"I don't wanna lose my only son! God didn't bless me twice, Arwin! Now stop complaining!" the old man grunted looking at you with the side of his eyes.

Some contempt dancing on them, as always.

"If she serves to calm the princes down, at least, she will serve us for something. Now stop."

You swallowed up.

Your eyes couldn't leave that blonde man's orbs. They had the stain you could remember from your dreams, the snake you could see into those blues you dreamed about so many times.

But you didn't dare to mention it or tell your father you knew that man from your dreams. You didn't want to be beaten or forced to kneel on corn or seeds once again because of your witchery...

Witchery.

That was how your father and mother called the dreams you said you had about a blonde man with a snake in his eyes. About Norsemen invading your town.

They said it couldn't be God speaking to you but the devil's voices in your head whispering things, causing your dreams. Your mother cried to the priest of the town for help. Your father complained dozens of times. Not only God had given him three daughters and only a single son, but also, one of his girls was touched by the devil... What sins did he commit to receiving such a punishment like you into his house?

You couldn't say. Even though you knew it couldn't be right in the eyes of your god to drink and harm his family the way your father did through your whole life... It couldn't be right to punish a daughter or call her a witch just because of innocent dreams you slowly silenced into your mind.

But now, your silent dreams were there, standing in front of you, walking towards your house, sitting on your armchairs. And as your older sister was completely charmed by the older prince's malicious eyes, and the younger of you girls was hiding near your mother, still frightened by the presence of the strangers in your house, you were there, standing beside your brother, looking straight to that bardic man.

"We need food... And I saw you have mead in your house. Share it with us, old man," Hvitserk ordered, despite Sigurd thought it wasn't a good idea to have mead among the men.

"Keep it low, Hvitserk. Drunken men commit mistakes," he said, warning his brother.

Your father pushed you towards the kitchen along with your mother and the other women. You provided food for those men and served them through the night until it was time for them to rest. Then, you and your sister provided blankets for them all and your father ordered the doors of your rooms were heavily locked during the nights from now own.

When you delivered the blankets to that blonde man, his hand touched yours.

"What is your name, woman?"

"Y/N," you answered, for his surprise.

So, the Seer was right and there was something in his future after all...

You weren't just a dream. But why dreaming about a Christian girl?

"I know you," you said, "The man with a snake in his eye..."

"You know me?"

Probably from the tales about the sons of Ragnar and their raids through your people's lands.

But your words awoke something into his heart.

"I dreamed about you," you said before the heavy voice of your father could make you shiver entirely and go away from his touch.

"Y/N!"

There was something in the tone of that man towards you that Sigurd didn't like. But Ubbe's orders were to harm no one. So, he decided to observe...

But you weren't stupid... You could see the anger in your father's eyes. And you knew what was to come when the whole house retired for their first night.

"Open your door..."

You did as he said, for you had no choice. And your father locked the door behind him before his heavy hand could mark your face, slapping it so hard that you were sure your cheek would be bruised next morning.

"You witch... You God damn witch! You brought them! There is the snaky-eye man you so many times mentioned to your sisters, laid on my living room with the other demons! You brought him! You and your dreams brought them all!"

You lost the count of how many times he beat you that night. But you knew he left only when his anger was satisfied and your body was aching on the ground from where you didn't get up.

You crawled to the corner of your bed and slept on the ground, praying for forgiveness if that was what your dreams were all about.

But the dreams came again... You were scared, running into that man's arms. And you woke up sweating, with the voice of your older sister calling you out of your door.

The days were like that now: do your home chores, serving the Norsemen and sleep early in the night to repeat all over again the next morning.

You learned his name - Sigurd. And his brother's name - the almost unpronounceable Hvitserk. They left some times to meet their other brothers - the older one Ubbe and the other one, Ivar. These two, you had to admit, passing utterly different impressions towards the men of your village. While Ubbe seemed to be tranquil and calm, Ivar was terrifying everyone that could land eyes on those icy blues.

But it was Sigurd the one you couldn't take your eyes off. It was him who was always following your steps with his eyes. It was him who noticed the bruises on your face and arms - the reason why your father forced you to walk in long sleeves from that day on.

He wasn't blind. Just like your brother wasn't blind. You heard dozens of discussions between your brother and your father about how he was treating you. About how he should be really worried about your sister's behavior towards the older prince in your house: Hvitserk and your sister were exchanging malicious glares all the time. And at the end of that pair of weeks the Nordic men were in your house, your sister started mysteriously vanishing in the middle of the afternoon to come back smiling, giggling at the Norseman Prince whenever their eyes were crossing with each other.

Sigurd warned Hvitserk about the girl dozens of times. He knew his brother was having his way on your sister for fun, and since your sister wasn't being forced, there was nothing Sigurd could do but warn. Other women in your village god laid with their men as well and Sigurd could bet many of them would fall with child after their departure.

Their departure... Sigurd couldn't stop thinking it was approaching and he still couldn't understand what were those dreams nor why did the two of you know each other through them... He could barely get close to you, despite your eyes were always looking at each other and he could bet your father was beating you, causing the bruises he could see despite your long sleeves and veils.

There was around a month since they arrived now. And Sigurd heard from his brothers it was time to leave. The army was well-rested, the storms were gone and it was time to break camp and keep moving. They would leave the next morning and he still didn't know what was the meaning of his dreams nor why did he know you that way.

The thought kept him awake that night, enough to hear Hvitserk sneaking out of his bed, dangerously wanting one last night in between your sister's legs.

A huge mistake...

Your brother heard when her door was unlocked. Sure that the Norseman prince was finally breaking his brother's word and taking his sister against her will, Arwin invaded her room with your father's sword, waking the whole house when the sounds of a short fight could be heard mixing with your sister's screams...

Everyone came out of their rooms, but the damage was already done: in the middle of your sister's room, laid on a pool of his own blood, Arwin was laying lifeless. Hvitserk's sword was bathed in blood and the prince claimed no fault.

"He attacked me! Our deal was clear: no resistance!" Hvitserk defended himself when the brothers reunited in your home after the screams. "The woman invited me into her room, I wasn't forcing anything!"

"It's true, it's true!" Your sister confirmed his words, crying profusely the guilt that was on her shoulders.

But you knew very well who your father's swollen eyes were blaming.

"Honor is something important among you Christians," Ubbe said, landing a bag with five coins of pure gold at your table, in front of your father.

Absurdly more than your sister's dowry would ever worth.

"Buy a male servant to replace your son's arms at the farm. And your older daughter comes with us as if you had married her to my brother. She pays with her slavery for her brother's honor and blood. And we pay with gold for my brother's crime."

"I committed no crime!" Hvitserk insisted, but Ubbe growled towards him, demanding his silence.

And your father accepted the bag with a bitter glow in his eyes.

"Leave my house tonight so I can mourn my son, at least. Spare my family from serving my son's murderer."

Ubbe agreed, shortening the time you would have with Sigurd by your side. Shortening the time Sigurd would have to understand his dreams.

His heart ached... Somehow there was something unfinished with you. Something he couldn't find a way to reach. Complaining, Hvitserk left the house with your sister behind him, silent and shocked she had been sold like cattle that way.

"Tie the witch!"

The voice of your father rose not long after the door was closed. And his finger rose, pointing on you.

"Tie the damn witch who brought my son's doom! Tie her! Tie the witch!"

You looked at your remaining sister and mother, disbelieving they would fulfill that terrible order.

But your mother had tears of rage in her eyes and your little sister brought the rope to tie your arms.

"Mom! My sister! Please! I beg you!"

No word was enough.

"You killed my son," your mother accused.

"You brought them here!" your sister insisted.

You were suddenly the cause of the doom that fell upon your house and tied to the living room's column, you cried for their mercy as they left you behind to bury your beloved brother and decide your fate.

The tears were still running down your face when your father came home one more time, alone this time.

You saw your mother and your sister burying a wooden pole at the yard before your father closed the door.

And your whole body froze at that image.

Your father saw your fear, and his eyes had no mercy when he took you out of the column just to throw your body to the ground.

"You saw right, witch! I brought your disgraceful existence into this world; I'll rip it out! I know now what was my sin against our God and it was you! You were my worst sin! You're the rotten root into this family! You brought our doom and you shall burn, so I can end your sins and mine!"

He kicked your body towards the door and you heard his steps behind you.

He would drag you to that pole.

Your own family would burn you alive as the witch they believed you were!

Terrified, you gathered all your strength to kick your father's leg and put yourself standing, opening the door and fleeing through the streets.

"Get her back!" you heard your father screaming, "Witch! Witch!!"

With his screams, the whole city would come after you! With his screams against the witchery you never knew you were doing, the whole city would agree you were the cause of the Norsemen demons' appearance and that pole would be transferred to the center square of the city! The priest would order you to be public burnt! To save your soul... To save the city...

You couldn't handle it.

The Norsemen's army was leaving already when you yelled desperately for their prince.

"SIGURD! SIGURD PLEASE!!"

Surprised, all the princes turned back to look at the street, but it was Sigurd who finally understood what was happening.

Running, with men and women of the city after you, you came as his dreams towards his arms.

Your hair loose in the wind, your dress wrinkled and messed, your face and arms with bruises exposed when you threw yourself against his chest with a river of tears rolling down your face.

"They'll burn me! They'll burn me alive! Please, please, I beg you, take me with you! I'll be your slave; I'll do whatever you want. Just please, save me... Please!"

The words he never heard in his dreams.

"Y/N!"

Your name yelled in the voice he wasn't able to recognize: your father's voice, coming with the citizens of the village that heard his call.

"Give her back!" he demanded, "She's a witch and must be punished!"

There it was... What you were running for.

The choice he had to make and the words of the Seer revealed on time.

"Sigurd?" Ubbe asked, looking at his younger brother.

They had interfered already too much with that village. It was his brother's choice to take you or leave without you.

"You had destroyed enough in our town! This is none of your business! Give my daughter back and leave as you promised, Norsemen!" your father insisted.

But you felt Sigurd's arms closing around you in a soft embrace and you sobbed in relieve feeling he wouldn't let you down.

"If she's a witch, then she's valuable for me. Take it. And let us go." he said, throwing his bag of silver towards your father. "Try to take her from me, and our deal is undone. And I'll give my little brother what he wanted since the beginning."

Ivar smiled devilishly.

From all his brothers, he never thought Sigurd would be the one to permit him the pleasure of killing the number of useless Christians Ubbe was protecting from his hands.

Your father grunted, clenching his teeth. He wanted to have you back, to burn you for your brother's fate, but the people around were stronger than him and the town decided for him with the multiple asks.

"Let they leave!"

"Let them take her!"

"She's a witch! Then go with the demons out of here!"

"Leave!" the people screamed, forcing your father to accept the bag and stay still as Sigurd settled you in front of him on his horse.

"Thank you," you said, feeling as he softly embraced your waist.

The army leaving slowly through the road.

"Somehow... I was supposed to be here. I was supposed to find you... We dreamed about each other and called each other here. Maybe you're really a witch, I don't care. You're with me now... And none will dare to hurt you again," he promised.

His horse walking comfortably for he could see you were hurt. Your head softly nestled against his chest and your eyes saw your sister nestled to his brother's chest as well.

Maybe they weren't demons after all.

Or maybe you were really a witch.

Only a witch would feel safe in a Norseman devil's embrace, right?

It didn't matter anymore.

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tommyomalley · 5 years

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Overstated Harm

I have been thinking lately about harm—when it’s real, and when it’s exaggerated for political reasons. And as harm escalates, at what point does it require us to intervene on behalf of ourselves or others?

Yesterday, I recorded a conversation for my podcast Theater Fag with playwright Isaac Gomez. We met in the offices of Steppenwolf Theatre Company in Chicago, where his new play “La Ruta” is currently finishing a sold-out run. “La Ruta” is about the women of Ciudad Juárez, a Mexican border city that suffers one of the highest crime rates in North America, if not the world. Disproportionately impacted by the violence in Juárez are women, who regularly go missing without any hope of being found.

Obviously the situation in Juárez is an example of real harm. Like gay men with AIDS in the 1980s—like trans women of color in the United States today—the women of Juárez are dying preventable deaths at an insane rate, and nobody in the dominant culture gives enough of a shit to make it stop. Isaac’s play, “La Ruta,” is a tortured cry for mercy, one belonging to a theatrical tradition that includes plays like Larry Kramer’s seminal AIDS polemic “The Normal Heart” and “Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992,” Anna Deveare Smith’s verbatim account of the Los Angeles riots (in which Congresswoman Maxine Waters is a character, by the way).

In our conversation, Isaac and I discussed the roots of violence in Juárez, which Isaac attributed to toxic masculinity and failed US policy. Of the former, Isaac elaborated that he can draw a straight line from small acts of gendered insensitivity—microaggressions such as a man interrupting a woman to explain a point she was in the middle of making—to more grandiose expressions of violence, such as rape or murder. My impulse in the moment was to disagree and question the equivalence I thought Isaac was making. But after a night’s sleep on the matter, I think agree with Isaac’s general point—unchecked privilege corrupts, and if we don’t intervene when violence presents itself, it will escalate.

The women of Juárez are in a daily fight for their lives. The stakes for them could not be higher. That’s why, when people start to talk about feeling “safe” and the stakes fall somewhere short of life or death, it’s important to pause before offering our support and validation. Unfortunately, not all claims of victimhood are intellectually honest, and sometimes, folks who identify as victims are actually perpetrators. These situations require a different kind of intervention.

This week, the boys from Covington Catholic high school in a Kentucky have been all over the news, after a viral video clip in which one boy wearing a MAGA hat—Nick Sandmann—stared down an indigenous veteran named Nathan Phillips, who was seemingly just banging his drum. Since the release of that initial video, dozens more clips have surfaced, some of which show that Mr. Phillips intentionally walked into the Covington Catholic group, and others of which show an unrelated group of Black Israelites screaming nasty shit at every person who passed them, including the Covington Catholic boys and Nathan Phillips.

Some people claim these videos exonerate the Covington Catholic boys. Others say they implicate Nathan Phillips as a provocateur. What’s compelling to me is the immediacy with which reactions split along party lines. Lefties are Team Phillips, righties are Team CovCath. I have way too much trauma surrounding Catholic schoolboys of my youth to be impartial, but what I will argue is that the Covington Catholic boys are not victims here. I don’t want them destroyed, but I want to see some accountability. And when I see a lot of white adults minimizing their actions, I feel compelled to intervene.

The fact remains that Nick Sandmann stood aggressively close to Nathan Phillips, his posture and smirk fixed with a rigidity familiar to anyone who, like me, has been physically threatened or assaulted by a Catholic school meathead. Regardless of the aftermath, this was not a boy who was standing by innocently. He was full of the all the bravado an underdeveloped pre-frontal cortex allows, and that—to my eye—is undeniable in any of the videos I’ve seen so far. It’s an expression of the toxic masculinity Isaac mentioned in our discussion of “La Ruta.”

Part of the PR campaign the Covington Catholic community is waging involves blaming the Black Hebrew Israelites, a group of absolutely wild bigots that stand in public spaces and say naaaaaaaasty stuff about gays, women, etc. The reason for this PR move, I believe, is that Covington Catholic knows on some level that truth seekers will look at Nick Sandmann in those videos and see a young man eager for conflict, not peace. To avoid this murky discussion, they instead point to the Black Israelites as the instigators. “Look, these folks said faggot, that’s way worse.” Unfortunately, these two unrelated wrongs don’t change the interaction between Sandmann and Phillips on that video.

I was once a teenage boy, and I remember what a brutal period of self-discovery those years were for me. I made so many mistakes and treated folks around me with tremendous disrespect. To say the least, I’ve spent a lot of my adulthood making right the wrongs of my youth, and I am so lucky that every single fucking person wasn’t armed with a recording device when I was 16. I share this because I truly wish the best for the Covington Catholic boys—that they may overcome this moment, emerging on the other end with renewed faith and commitment to peace. I don’t see that happening, however, because as Nick Sandmann told the Today Show’s Savannah Guthrie, his only regret is that he didn’t walk away from Nathan Phillips (a subtle suggestion that Phillips was the aggressor), and he does not feel that he has anything for which to be sorry. If the only offense the Covington Catholic boys committed that day was Nick Sandmann glaring disrespectfully at an elder, then that would be enough to warrant an apology. Unfortunately, Nick Sandmann and whatever crisis PR firm is handling his case do not agree. (If you do not think Nick Sandmann’s glare was disrespectful, then let me ask you this: how would you feel if you saw him standing that way before your mother, father, grandparent?)

The problem is not so much the Covington Catholic boys as it is the adults who thrust victimhood on them. (And unrelatedly, I can’t help but imagine, if society cared this much about gay boys as it does about these Catholics then Bryan Singer would’ve been dealt with decades ago. But that’s another story.) The community that has built around Covington Catholic is absolute—the boys were not wrong, and any assertion otherwise is an attempt to ruin children's lives. Their supporters are misrepresenting the stakes in order to argue that MAGA folks are under attack. An attack on these boys gives MAGA supporters a chance to transfer their own feelings of victimhood, and so the amplification of their stories has created a deafening “poor me” echo chamber.

Speaking of poor me, in December I got into a Twitter fight with a playwright named Jeremy O. Harris, whose “Slave Play” was a controversial hit for the New York Theatre Workshop. The controversy wasn’t so much about the play as the playwright himself. I haven’t read or seen Slave Play, so I can’t speak to the piece’s merits, but I can speak to the way Jeremy behaves on social media, which seems to be carefully cultivated.

The initial buzz around “Slave Play” was huuuuge. As Jeremy himself said, the play went viral. The reviews from white NYC theater critics were overwhelmingly positive, with a few notable exceptions. On Twitter, however, criticism began to mount from a surprising corner: other black theater makers took serious issue with the way black women in particular are treated in the play. Some folks went as far as to say that Jeremy’s play was its own sort of violent act against black women, and they used things he’s said and tweeted publicly to support this. I won’t quote any of them, but it’s all there for you to find, if you want to.

All I can honestly say about Jeremy Harris is that I do not believe his social media persona is authentic. While “Slave Play” was enjoying an often sold-out run, he began tweeting about all the death threats he and his cast were receiving. For sure, horrific shit got hurled at Jeremy and his collaborators. At the same time this was happening, producers were looking seriously to bring the show to Broadway. Jeremy took to Twitter and called attention to the tweets and emails, claiming the threats he and others received numbered in the hundreds. I called bullshit on that number, and I wondered whether every mean tweet he received was actually a “death threat.” I suggested Jeremy was performing victimhood to engender sympathy that would distract from his critics and/or help facilitate a transfer, and perhaps that’s a leap too far. But I tweeted what I tweeted: I do not believe Jeremy Harris received “hundreds” of credible death threats over a play at an off-Broadway house. (For the record I never @ mentioned Jeremy on Twitter, he found my tweets on his own.)

In my back-and-forth with Jeremy, I made the mistake of roping critic Elizabeth Vincentelli into the discussion. Wasn’t really fair of me, because I don’t know her. But she was one of the only mainstream dissenting voices in her assessment of “Slave Play,” which she said ripped off better plays like “An Octaroon” and “Underground Railroad Game.” Elizabeth responded on Twitter to tell me that her problem was with the play, not the playwright, and she sort of scolded me for making inferences about Jeremy’s personality based on his tweets. Jeremy, who loves to herd critics on social media, jumped back in after EV’s capitulation, letting her (and me) know that “we stan critics.” The “we” referred only to him. Lol.

The funnier thing is that, two weeks later, on her podcast “Three on the Aisle,” Elizabeth did exactly what she admonished me for doing on Twitter—drawing conclusions about Jeremy the person—and she used much harsher language than anything I tweeted. She doubled down on the derivative nature of “Slave Play,” describing it as “a play that is embarrassing in its self-satisfaction and the way it revels in this empty provocation that is not really provoking, because people are just expecting it.” She elaborated:

“It’s is also written in an incoherent, smug manner that I found really, really annoying. Just the ineptitude of the writing was confounding, I felt. This play should’ve stayed in the oven, it was not ready to be pulled out… Reading the script afterwards, it annoyed me even more. The script is a window into the way this playwright’s mind works that is not really all that interesting.”

She later described anyone who was shocked by an event that happens in Jeremy’s play as “a target sitting still.” Harsh words for an artist and his audience. I wondered why she would be so brazen on a podcast yet conciliatory on Twitter. It made me wonder if she was afraid to bring the full weight of her position to Twitter, in writing, before Jeremy. And if that’s the case, then what positional power does she perceive that he has over her? Could be generational. Jeremy and his social media followers are presumably savvier to the medium than EV, which I imagine she would understand, so perhaps that’s part of the reason. Regardless, my question now, in light of everything, is: do we still stan critics like Elizabeth? (FWIW, I do. EV is one of the greats among NY’s theater critics.)

My beef with Jeremy truly isn’t so personal, although his personality seems challenging based on our Twitter interactions. That’s not real life, though, I know that. Jeremy and I have never met, only battled from our phones. Theater is the art I care most about, and I’m interested in who holds the power to create it.

Jeremy is a power-holder, despite repeatedly trying to position himself as an outsider. As far as I can smell, Jeremy is disingenuous in these claims, as he was when he overstated the number of actual threats he and others received. I believe that doing so helped bring attention to his play. Of course I have absolutely no concept of what it’s like to be a queer black person in America, but I do know that Yale Drama School—where Jeremy is finishing up his MFA—is the nerve center of NYC’s theater establishment. You cannot graduate from Yale Drama School and call yourself a theater outsider. Sorry. It’s just not honest. And when we allow dishonesty, for whatever reason, we allow injustice to escalate. And we stan only what’s just.

#la ruta #steppenwolf #theatre #theater #juarez #el paso #covington catholic #sandmann #phillips #catholic school #kentucky #march for live #harm #harm reduction #jeremy o harris #slave play #nytw #new york theatre workshop

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gimmetheheadcanons · 6 years

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Public/Relations 3/?

A/N: It’s long. It soooo drags. But at least it’s here. TW: Mention of death/suicide.

3. Three

They walked in silence. The young actress in front of him, huddled up in his arms as he directed her through an obstacle course made up of swaying guests. As they entered the final leg of the night, a desperate DJ stepped up his efforts, blasting music appealing to waning legs one last time.

After finally having delivered them both to the privacy of the concierge’s front desk (and with minimal interference from any loiters in the venue’s large lobby), Klaus impatiently ushered the valet to return to him his black Aston Martin Vanquish. Fast. There was the grave matter of a shaking woman in want of whisking away; and naturally, ever the leading man at a moment’s notice, Niklaus Mikaelson was dying to be of assistance.

It felt odd. That unearned intimacy between them.

Bonnie Bennett, so small and exposed; and Klaus, determined to keep peeling at the layers until she appeared without a thread of cover.

Yet the sudden way their sniping subsided made him wonder if maybe – perhaps – there could be a second chance at a more favourable first impression.

Almost instantly embarrassed by the ridiculous notion of him being required to make any sort of adjustment or impression, Klaus cast the sappy thought aside.

This was Elijah’s doing.

Or any of the others.

Those damned detractors and the low regard with which they held him.

Klaus had always found spite to be an excellent motivator, except thanks to the champagne lending a hand in fuzzing up his thoughts, he couldn’t quite work out what on earth it was he was trying to prove on this exact night. On any ordinary day, no matter how inebriated, he’d always have enough nous left to barricade against any dangerous ideas a weak heart may have. Meet the forces gathering at the base of skull, head on, and cut them down without mercy. Stop himself from doing silly trite things such as slipping away from his own celebration for the sake of impressing a girl.

A girl.

Yet Klaus could do little to deny it; something had changed upon observing the overwhelming pain on Bonnie Bennett’s face. The quick, cruel death of that airy little laugh he quite liked. Those blazing eyes worryingly wet and weepy. That firestorm which had so quickly excited him, suddenly snuffed out. All put together, such a pathetic picture had the power to pull at his chest, instantly inspiring an untried impulse

He actually wanted to help this girl.

Get her far enough away from here so he could once again poke and prod until this frightful cocoon burst and the Bonnie Bennett emerged, hopefully ready to take a second stab at that magical, made for syndication, sitcom banter he unashamedly sought after.

Make their own laugh track to muffle the sobering realities of unscripted life.

Klaus frowned a little as their carriage finally approach.

But then what? Where would they go? And more importantly, would she stay with him? Or without any polite notice, just up and go. Cut her losses, just as his dear brother had.

The clock ran out. The moment for deliberation gone as Klaus was confronted by the bane of his daily existence – flashes of white light in the distance brewing up a terrible storm of tabloid scandal.

Of course the parasites would’ve congregated to catch a glimpse of his court. Klaus groaned inwardly, feeling disappointed twice over – once for momentarily forgetting this detail and then for remembering.

The paparazzi, or more accurately those unable to deceive their way to legitimate press status or forcibly gain access to his guest list, had set up their own party across the street. Careful to adhere to the minimum distance required to avoid any altercations and additional days in court (and Heaven knows how Klaus enjoyed those); three men and a woman took a flurry of hurried photos of their favourite meal ticket.

Klaus rolled his eyes, imagining the gleeful eyes cowardly hidden behind monstrously oversized contraptions, hideously glued to where a human face ought to have been. On his own, each snap of him was worth a decent sum but whenever a beautiful woman was involved the rate tripled.

He was certain the bidding for any pictures taken tonight would be especially high.

Klaus turned to his right. Bonnie, still in a state of quiet distress, thankfully hadn’t noticed the vampires. Best to keep it as such by disappearing quickly.

Unfortunate for them both however, was that this latest unfortunate development meant Klaus’s plans were in drastic need of amending. He couldn’t very well risk a high-speed pursuit with a valued asset of the Disney corporation in the passenger seat.

Oh won’t you think of the children Niklaus!

Klaus let escape a small but grim laugh at his favourite past-time, pulling out from the depth of his memory a rather unkind impression of stuffy, proper, pain in the arse Elijah.

But with none of the awkwardness of having to admit defeat to a flesh and bone version of his brother, Klaus was free to heed the words of caution offered by his figment.

“No bother.” He called out, finally having made up his mind to return inside and thus throwing back the keys to the man who’d just delivered them to him. Klaus casually waved his hand over the car, attempting to deflect any questions with a masterful performance of his usual indifference. “I have no need for this now. Take it back.”

“And once again, need I remind you – be gentle.”

He received a swift nod from a quaking man familiar with the implied consequences. To Klaus that terrified trembling was just a perk he got to enjoy after all the diligent work he put in to consistently educating his fellow man, wherever he went. He watched as the valet and car disappeared at once, then turned to deal with the wrath of a woman he knew to be unlearned and unafraid.

“Why?” Bonnie shouted angrily at the apparent act of betrayal. Klaus withdrew slightly so as to avoid any possibility of being struck in the face.

Still composed but only barely – Bonnie spared him.

Cautious not to indulge the oglers and sadly unsure how long Bonnie’s self-restrained would last, Klaus carefully positioned himself with his back to the cameras before answering in a low whisper.

“Why should we be the ones to abscond into the night like bandits? I swear to you love, nothing but merriment awaits – should you choose return with me.” Klaus said ensuring his voice was soft and sweet enough to assuage her fears, offering up the sincere and practical solution of support against Parker.

One word from her and the buffoon should find himself flung out on his arse, free to model on this very curb for the long-lensed vermin he so adored.

“I won’t leave your side Bonnie.”

But Bonnie perceptive eyes signalled to him she saw through to his core. The man they all sensed him to be. She saw through this obvious glitch in his programming, all the way through to the selfish curiosity under the surface inspiring such chivalry.

“No.” She answered predictably, inviting a sad smile from him.

Yes, there was a story here, Klaus could admit that whilst focussing in on the beautifully pained face before him. A story he desperately hoped to know. Meanwhile, was it so hard to believe that his instinct to protect her ran just as deep as his desire to distract himself from the foul mood his bothersome brother had left him in?

“Then perhaps I can offer you an alternative solution. One more agreeable to you.”

And for the second time that night, Klaus Mikaelson took hold of Bonnie Bennett’s hand in a bid to lead her to a safer haven.

-----

When they finally arrived at their new much more discreet location, a private penthouse located within the same building, Klaus couldn’t help but show off a little. After all, leading a life of luxury meant he had the luxury to do so.

The noticeably awe-struck young woman in his company drank in the immaculate interior of the space. He followed the music of Bonnie’s heels connecting with the limestone tiles. As she took lead, soft yellow lights fixed high above were coming to life to greet her and celebrate her bravery. She didn’t have to travel too far from him to explore, her eyes doing most of the work, scanning the entire open space all the way to high glass walls revealing a fully furnished outdoor seating area and a sky pool in the distance.

“Make yourself at home.” Klaus called out, pointing towards the richly black Edelman leather sofas as he made a beeline to the built-in butler bar. He was about to pour two glasses of something comforting for them, when it dawned on him mixing drink and despair may appear slightly predacious to his watchful guest. Instead, Klaus returned to Bonnie’s side holding a less sinful (and therefore much less fun) bottle of mineral water which she politely accepted.

“Thanks.”

A genuine warm smile spread across his face at the tiny one he spotted her lips were failing to fight back.

“I usually keep this space for the after party. A handful of noteworthy individuals, for light debate followed by much needed debauchery. However…seeing how deeply loathed I am by everyone and their mum at this point in time– a fact my dear brother reminded me of a couple hours ago – I’d rather put it to better use tonight.”

Again, Bonnie thanked him, causing his chest to swell up like a balloon.

Klaus knew the automatic, monosyllabic, society taught reply shouldn’t have warranted such a reaction from him; yet there was a potent power in being able to receive Bonnie Bennet’s praise. Perhaps he could set himself a new challenge and keep a tally of exactly how much gratitude he could gross over the course of the night.

“To harbouring fugitives.” Klaus said raising his own bottle of water for a toast.

Bonnie resisted to clink plastic, choosing instead to roll her eyes at the bon mot.

“I’m not a fugitive.”

Klaus shrugged his shoulders, the glint in his eyes still very much intent on teasing her at the cost of the night’s takings.

He glugged down his drink partly in bid to appear unconcerned about the way she left him hanging and partly to try and rehydrate enough so he could have his wits about him before attempt to engage with Bonnie once more. She stood with her own bottle unopened, stealing subtle glances just as he was.

Once his thirst had been managed, Klaus lazily swiped at his wet mouth, his left hand unable to mop up each rebellious drop he let carelessly slid down his chin and onto the naked flesh peeking out from the top of his loosened-up shirt.

“Well…” He said sensing Bonnie’s discomfort at the intentional combination of silence, staring and so-close-together-standing.

“Now that I have obliged you so, will you – at the very least – grace me with an explanation as to why we have been banished from my own party.”

Bonnie hesitated for a moment before turning her face away and answering in a low voice.

“I don’t need to see him.”

Klaus’s jaw tensed at the distance she insisted on putting between them. Screwing back on the lid, he disposed of his bottle by frustratingly flinging it onto a nearby armchair, where it landed with a soft thud.

“That much I gathered.”

She appeared unable to get comfortable with him, her body still on high alert as she slowly began pacing the room whilst aiming to maintain the guise of leisurely browsing the full stocked bookshelves.

It was frustrating. The hold that idiot Parker seemed to have over this woman. A woman, Klaus, in the short span of time they’d become acquainted, assumed was fearless.

“Rest assured, there is no tail in need of shaking here.” Klaus promised again urging her to take a seat on any of the numerous chairs in the room.

Bonnie however denied him once more, continuing to evade him by staying constantly on the move.

A little heavier handed and a little more in character, Klaus proceeded to press harder.

“As an objective third party observer, I find the only thing pursuing you at this moment is your personal demons regarding Mr. Parker.”

She appeared to tense at his direct reference to her co-star, halting in a stride long enough for Klaus to close the gap between them. Good, he thought, pleased with the result of the harsher tactic he chose to employ. Perhaps now she would be more open to his assistance, whilst he was still gracious enough to be offering it.

“Demons,” Klaus continued in a slow purposeful drawl, inching nearer and nearer until able to see the specific shades of brown – from dark to light – of each individual hair strand on the back of Bonnie’s head. Klaus observed the beginnings of a couple of soft curls marching out of time, at odds with the rest of her perfectly placed and professionally straightened locks; and he wondered, how many more would join their marvellous little mutiny by morning.

With her back to her, Klaus had to guess what was going on inside Bonnie’s head. Instead his mind was preoccupied with the way her thin shoulders rose and fell as she breathed in and out more deeply. Charmed by the rhythm, Klaus’s own breath followed hers – his nose taking in the scent of sweet feminine fragrance on her skin. It was warm and comforting, like rich berries in a summer fruit crumble drowned in smooth vanilla custard. Meant for consumption during the blackest of winters, to heat the soul and stain the corners of your mouth a bloody red.

She turned to face him, without any warning and almost startled him.

Almost.

“These demons. I’d be glad to exorcise them for you if you could just make them more corporeal, love.”

The sequence continued on whilst she was facing him – that up then down, in then out – until Klaus interrupted it by gently resting his hands atop Bonnie’s shoulders, commanding them to steady.

She didn’t gasp for him.

His disappointed eyes watched her doubtful ones, unable to win them over; her silence just about to start reminding Klaus that his patience was a finite resource in need of constant replenishing.

“Details Bonnie.” He said, following up with a more insistent growl he knew he would come to regret. “I demand them.”

Klaus found his planned interrogation aborted quite suddenly. However, not by any hostility of Bonnie’s but by the gentle interruption of beeping coming from somewhere on her person. It was the sound of an incoming text message, she chose to immediately answer.

Phone in hand and pushing past him, her shoulders savagely cut across his chest like a rugby player’s.

After a silent second, Bonnie let out a furious scream.

Shaking with rage, her livid eyes were glued to the screen.

Intrigued, Klaus approached her to peer over her shoulder pryingly. Unfortunately, he was unable to catch the communication in its entirety when Bonnie once again shrieked.

“Argh! Damn it Alaric! Thanks for the heads up asshole.” She cursed upon having fully read the script herself, angrily smashing down her water on the marble counter in front of her. Not having noticed him walk up behind her, Bonnie bumped flat into his chest as she turned around.

“How about a little personal space?” She said her tone acerbic as she lashed out at him for the sins of another.

Hardly offended Klaus obliged, cordially stepping out of the way but not before mockingly putting both hands up and throwing her a wink.

Bonnie ignored him, angrily pressing away at the keyboard on her phone screen.

Alaric Saltzman, Klaus knew the man as well as he did every agent who tried their luck at claiming him as a prize. For a time, Klaus toyed with the idea of striking up an alliance with the man, before quickly recognising that Saltzman’s body of work, in all its underwhelming mediocrity wouldn’t have been well-suited to Klaus’s needs.

Not in the long run anyway.

Klaus wickedly grinned, thinking back to wholesome redheaded he freed from a potential life sentence as the second Mrs. Saltzman; realising that for a short while, there was a need the agent – or to put more accurately the agent’s fiancée – did satisfy.

His indulgence and mischief however had cost him in a way. Word got round and no agent in this town since managed to last beyond a couple of weeks managing Klaus. Each finding him too – what was it that Josh said – “mega intense and scary like a medieval torture expert guy”.

It was a gratifying sacrifice, if undertaken solely to punish Saltzman for his insolence. For the crime of daring to believe he and Klaus could be equals, the actor extracted his revenge most viciously. Taking from the man the love of his life, compelling her to lose herself in a moment of weakness, debasing her and discarding her. Still, it took just that on time of mixing pleasure and business for Klaus to see how quickly most fled from him.

Afraid of joining the pile of bodies he left in his wake.

Young Joshua must’ve been a glutton for punishment when he signed on with Klaus. Since the Saltzman affair, the pitiful boy had the pleasure of pulling double duty on all of the actor’s booking needs. Naturally, he did this collaborating with the patient people at William Morris Endeavour.

Done sending her text, Klaus wondered if Bonnie’s displeasure meant she could someday be persuaded to leave that dullard agent of hers and join him at the rival agency. Except, he quickly realised, that would require her to start viewing him in a much different light.

She must’ve been distracted enough by the unpleasant news she received, it slipped her mind to hold him to account for his earlier pushy behaviour. This would’ve been an ideal time to cease testing the patience of his guest, yet wholly undeterred and his impulsive nature getting the best of him, Klaus continued.

“Still waiting love.”

“Look Klaus,” Bonnie said finally snapping at him; the woman before him, far away from the timid, torn up creature he needed to coax into that lift. “Thank you for the rescue but you can return to your party. Okay? I’ll be out when I’m ready.”

This Bonnie, the one prone to turn on her heel and storm away from him, required a far more delicate touch. “Perhaps I can make arrangements to have you returned to your place of residence?” Klaus offered in a plea to appear reasonable.

But Bonnie didn’t need a moment to muse over his suggestion. Shaking her head immediately but looking somewhat despondent about having to do so, she replied weakly.

“No. I can’t. Not after tonight.”

With another piece of the puzzle in his possession yet somehow saddened by what it held, Klaus wavered a little.

“Then I have a suggestion you may find either entirely pleasing or wholly preposterous.”

“Stay here.”

It was out there now. That dangerously weak heart of his finally successful in its intended coup; and Klaus’s deepest desire for company – a secret no more.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Klaus replied fully committed to this idiocy now.

Bonnie took another look at the grand apartment he’d just made available to her. “I guess this is okay.”

Catching herself venturing into a territory occupied by the far more ill-mannered, Bonnie tried again – a little more enthusiastic this time. “Good even. I mean – it’s good. Thank you, Klaus.”

Another Bonnie Bennett thank you for Klaus’s book. The idle angel on his shoulder sure had an unusually amount to brag about tonight.

“Well, not so fast.” Klaus added, reminding Bonnie there were terms attached to his offer. “I cannot vouch for what kind of pay there is in television but there are a few items here that’ll fetch a pretty penny online. Morbidity of fame I suppose.”

Deciphering his meaning with narrowed eyes, Bonnie finally conceded.

“Fine stay if you must.”

“Just don’t bother me okay?”

Klaus clapped his hands together jubilantly. “Now we’re finally seeing eye to eye, I’d like to revisit my earlier queries.”

He walked over to the largest sofa and sat, his hand outstretched hovering over the space next him where he’d visualised she should be. “Come sit with me.”

Bonnie let out an ironic laugh at the proposal. “You gotta be kidding me!”

“You’re not gonna trick me into some ridiculous Dr. Phil situation Klaus.” She promised with a resolute look on her face.

Klaus lazily stretched his arms out above him and yawned, before satisfyingly settling his back against the soft cushions further. He then cast a relaxed smile in Bonnie’s direction, hoping to entice her to come do the same. Her day must’ve started as early as his, if not earlier.

“Come now, you’ve been standing in those heels for long enough love.”

“No way. No matter how comfortable the couch, I refuse to share it with you.” Bonnie repeated.

Frustrated, Klaus grabbed the soft white throw pillows, snatching them out from under him and busily began rearranging them. Without looking at her he muttered under his breath what he knew could only be received as a menacing attempt at intimidation.

“I’ll be sure to send Kai Parker your most affectionate greetings when I go then.”

Once again, Klaus made sure to use his full name for effect.

Dissatisfied with the thought of missing her reaction, Klaus put away his angry pout and turned to face Bonnie, adding with a sneer. “I so did enjoy him in this summer’s must-see superhero flick. Really remarkable how far he’s come from his humble beginnings as a teenage witch.”

Bonnie did not blink. It looked as though she’d been inoculated to his mean mouth after the first incident. Klaus was about to try something different to get that reaction he craved when she cut him off.

“Why are you doing this?” She demanded, completely throwing him.

“Why are you fucking with me?”

Not sure how to reply to such a straightforward question, Klaus hid behind a mocking gasp of shock and opted to childishly mutter about her use of foul language instead. Unfortunately, the aggravated actress firmly stayed on topic.

“All night in fact! Do you even see what you’re like?”

All of a sudden, Klaus had been stunned into silence by her more measured tone and the crashing waves of righteous rage radiating from her threatening to batter his unprotected body.

This was nothing like he’d ever dealt with before. Similar words from his siblings often fell short because of their own failings being so laughably apparent to him. No, blasted Jiminy Crickets would seldom manage to escape without being mercilessly crushed by his fist.

Yet here was Bonnie and having a bloody good go!

And it was different, he noted. Her inquires into his very character held no pretence of a search for higher moral reasoning. She didn’t care to teach him anything or even win for that matter. She just plain and simple wanted to know.

Demanded to know.

Why was he, Klaus Mikaelson, fucking with her?

It was a brilliantly phrased little question, simple in every way and yet something told Klaus he was in no way capable of delivering the complexity of its answer.

With no response coming her way any time soon, Bonnie groaned, wearily throwing her arms up in the air.

Her annoyance flared up once more when Klaus made the mistake of smiling. Her eyes flashed widely in disbelief at the action.

“Why are you grinning like a villain? Have you really nothing better to do?”

Ready to incur another deadly glare, Klaus was surprised to see her face soften.

“Come on man, why all this,” She whined in response to this uncharacteristic quietness she had to endure from him. “I don’t even know you.”

The plainly said statement, a desperate final attempt at trying appeal to his better nature. There are protocols in civilised societies, she beseeched him The pools of hazel staring back at him called for the decency to mind one’s own bloody business.

Except, that’s where Bonnie Bennett had gone wrong.

Klaus Mikaelson, more beast than man, was hardly civilised.

“Oh don’t be daft.” He laughed for a second time, crossing his arms under his head casually, further propping up the pillows. “Of course, you know me. Everyone does.”

“Great.” Bonnie said, her face clearly regretting her efforts to try and reach him. Klaus frowned a little at how easily she gave up. “So where’d your babysitter go? The big brother?”

Her casual mentioning of Elijah replicated the same discomfort Kai Parker’s did. Klaus shifted awkwardly in his seat and Bonnie noticed.

“Oh wow. You’re all of a sudden bored of twenty questions when it’s your turn?” Bonnie said with a sneer ugly on her pretty face.

Determined not to lose to her, Klaus answered frankly. “He should be where he prefers to be. Back in his hotel room in a deep untroubled slumber. Miles away from here. From me.” He said bitterly.

His earnest confession as to the reason for his aloneness had an unexpected outcome.

A sudden crash and the empty space next to him became occupied.

Bonnie let out a tired sigh, appearing exhausted by everything leading up to the moment to collapsed down next to him. It was odd having her choose to not only sit, but then to do so closely.

As her thigh pressed against Klaus’s, he turned his head slightly to get a better look at the profile of her face. Her heavily lashed eyelids were shut as she inhaled deeply, sinking further into the comforting cool leather. Using just the tip of her toes, she flicked off her right shoe followed by the left. Her perfectly pedicured and painted toes then giving a little victory wiggle.

“It’s a nice couch.” She hummed, her still lids shut.

“It is.” Klaus chuckled.

“So jerk brother huh?” Bonnie asked, her eyes opening to look around the room as if she had misplaced something.

Up close, Klaus noticed slightly dry flakes of darkly stained skin peeling off insides of her lips, revealing a fleshy pink in contrast to the impeccable matte coat of chestnut brown from earlier this evening.

Without being asked, Klaus found himself on his feet and heading to the counter, returning with her discarded bottle in his hand. Again, she thanked him when he opened it for her and Klaus counted that as being five now in his favour.

“Jerk brother.” He concurred taking his seat once more.

“And what of your handler? Your agent, Saltzman was it?”

Bonnie’s mood soured at the mention of the man. “Urgh, just found out he ditched me to deliver his twins.”

Klaus was surprised at her answer.

Why the old bugger sure bounced back rather marvellously! So, it was two sets of tiny feet, and not his own cold ones that kept Alaric Saltzman away this evening. But why instead of being elated for her mentor, was Bonnie Bennett clearly furious? Surely there had to be some greater transgression than this? Or was she a far pettier person than Klaus had realised.

“What a monster.” He said mockingly.

Bonnie snorted. “Yeah well, he could’ve drop a warning he was going to be leaving me with one.”

“Poppycock! I’ve been a perfect gentleman.”

When Bonnie allowed herself to giggle at his exaggerated exasperation for even a second, Klaus noted how his ears, coming through the other side of a severe joyless drought, were beginning to grow fond of the sunny sound.

“Like hell you have.” She said slipping on a brief smile, comfortable enough to lazily slap the side of his thigh with the back of her hand without really looking at him. The impression left by her touch tingled for a moment thrilling him. Then the smile, just as easily slipped from her face leaving nothing but a pool of quiet bitterness in her eyes.

“I didn’t mean you.” Bonnie added in a low whisper, unblinking eyes gazing into the distance.

Klaus inhaled deeply, the solemn air between them thick and heavy.

Alaric Saltzman’s failings finally revealed.

A heads up.

“Kai Parker.” He said without even the faintest hint of a sneer. She hadn’t anticipated on him being at the party. Alaric must’ve withheld that information from her.

“Yep.”

Klaus shook his head sadly, trying on for size the part of a supportive friend. “He seems like such a prince too. Making the rounds at children’s wards in his silly tights and cape.”

“Well what do you want me to say? That Disney money got him playing you all 24/7 okay?” Bonnie retorted, straightening up.

Klaus knew he’d gone wrong, his attempts at sincerity rang false.

“Okay.” He said yielding to her and hoping she’d return to that almost tranquil state of earlier, teasing him with a touch or two.

But it wasn’t to be. As if only just slowly waking from a hazy dream and suddenly aware of her surroundings, Bonnie Bennett’s guard came up in full force.

“Are you friends with him?”

It was Klaus’s turn to jolt awake.

“Excuse me?”

“I said are you friends with him?” She demanded more sternly.

Klaus’s chuckles were dismissive. “Why? Did he pass along a lovely little handwritten note asking us to be mates love?”

Bonnie shot up.

On her feet and at a distance, she repeated herself.

“I mean it Klaus. I need to know.”

“Are you friends?”

“No.” He said but by the time he answered they’d returned to their earlier roles. “Bloody hell. I said no didn’t!”

To his horror, Bonnie would not abide.

In one swift motion, Klaus rose also. Back to facing off with Bonnie, but now with a much greater height advantage than the barefoot actress.

“We hardly travel similar circles. Just the overcrowded ones in need of a good cull if you ask me.”

Sensing she needed more than that Klaus decided to spell out for her exactly how he felt about the Kai Parkers of the world.

“I never thought of him as anything but a self-centred, man-child with mediocre flair for the arts yet an unmatched need for constant attention.”

He was met with raised eyebrows from the young woman.

“Don’t look at me like that!” He insisted growing increasingly irritated she would continue to question him. “I mean it love. Believe me, we have nothing in common. He’s a hack. A Buzzfeed quiz favourite, constantly clamouring for followers across his social media like a harlot.”

Finally, Bonnie grinned a little. “Hashtag blessed.” She quipped in a voice much too heavy to be actually humorous.

Finally, Klaus watched as she settled back into her seat and convinced he did enough to ease her her doubts about him, followed.

“Well, I guess you know better than anyone not to believe what you read in the papers.” Bonnie observed, her head turning to face him. Her nose may as well have be touching his cheek but Klaus was too troubled by the mystery she still hid from him to take any joy in his triumph.

“On the contrary love, when it comes to me, I must urge you – believe every word.” He said completely unironically.

“Even Carol Lockwood?”

“I – sorry – I didn’t meant to – ” Bonnie stammered her face utterly changed by the dark weight behind those words. Her mouth slammed shut; Klaus’s grim look, a judge’s gavel coming down on hard on such the feeble defence her lips were aspiring to form.

“I don’t know why I said that.”

The choppy waves threatening to form above Klaus’s brows instantly settled, the flood of emotion never quite reaching the shores of his eyes. Gripped by the eerie stillness of a drowning victim, he sat unresponsive.

There was hardly any point to it. The pens dripped in poison had done their job, effectively killing this conversation as it had the one with Elijah.

“The topic exhausts me.” A whisper of life left in him confessed.

Klaus shifted in his seat slightly ready to resist any and all of Bonnie’s resuscitation attempts. He expected a taste of his own medicine; bracing himself for a barrage of prying questions meant to unsettle.

Bonnie, far kinder and empathetic he thought the descendants of Adam could ever be, simply decided to nod.

“I understand.”

Understanding. His heart ached a little at the prospect of such a thing – he was the keeper of far less publicised ghost stories. Ones good souls would greatly struggle with.

“How could you possibly love.”

Gallons of redness spilling over the sides and onto the tiles, setting Klaus up to lose his footing and fall when he found her. A bathtub transformed into an overfilled wine glass. His mother, always such a careless drinker, had decidedly drained herself. The shirt he wore that day suddenly a bib, soaking up the mess she left for him as Klaus lost consciousness on the floor.

Last thought on his mind?

She finally did it.

Escaped them all to other side.

#klonnie #tvd #bonnie bennett #klaus mikaelson #fanfiction

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phoenix-k-scriven-fiction · 6 years

Text

Mermaids, Macking, and a Little Thing Called Murder

At the age of twenty-three, Ana has all the freedom of youth, and a goal to match: she wants to chronicle the facts and fictions of unsolved crimes that happen to be surrounded by rumors of something beyond the natural. Whether kidnappings mired in faerie tales or property destruction explained away as ghosts, there’s always both a mundane story and a magical one behind every mystery, and splicing the two together spoke to the local culture in a way that made Ana downright giddy.

Unfortunately for Ana, the research trip to Grandmarch Bay unveils something entirely unexpected: an actual mermaid. Even as her research into a death from over twenty years ago starts to turn up startling elements that just don’t fit, she finds herself circling closer and closer to the girl with the gorgeous laugh.

Ana’s still unraveling the story for her book, but those eyes and that voice and that pretty, pretty face may prove to be more of a distraction than she can afford.

Welcome to the first chapter of my original story and the first publicly-available installment of my “Fae Horizons” universe. Chapters will be released to tumblr a week after Patreon for those who can’t afford to pledge. For early access, become a patron now!

Chapter One

Ana lifted a hand to her head to keep her hat in place, squinting against the wind that tore down the coast. It didn’t take more than a moment’s thought to decide that the temperature was low enough to warrant her bomber jacket. She ducked back inside, pulled on the brown leather, and left. A glance at the skies as she stepped out of the Bed and Breakfast showed her only pale clouds and a handful of seagulls.

At least it wasn’t raining.

Sturdy heels thudded quietly against the cobblestone of the side road, just as grey and mottled as the sky. The scuffed brown toes of her boots peeked out from under swishing blue skirts with every step, and she felt a tiny bit of tension bleed out from her shoulders as she made it to the flatter asphalt of the main road. Cobblestone was nice, of course, but it was so much easier to trip on than a flat surface.

Ana aimed for the bakery, a small part of her perking up like a child when she heard the bell over the door tinkle as she stepped through. The small building was warm, and the smells that drifted over from the display case were comforting. There wasn’t anyone in sight, so she tucked her hands behind her back and strode up and down past the glass for a few minutes, taking the time to make her decision for breakfast.

“Oh!”

Ana looked up and saw a woman stepping out of the backroom and into the store proper. Early thirties, maybe, probably Latina, and clearly one of the bakers, if the flour she was wiping off of her hands and forearms was any sign. Ana smiled and gave the woman a small wave. “Hi.”

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” the woman said. “I’m Janice. What can I get for you?”

“Can I get a chocolate croissant and two squares of the banana bread?”

“Coming right up!”

Ana waited at the cash register, credit card in hand. She passed it over when Janice came.

“Sorry, but I’m going to need ID if you want to use a card,” Janice said, giving her an apologetic smile. “I know everyone here by name, so I don’t need an ID most of the time, but for strangers like yourself…”

“Not a problem,” Ana said, digging out her license. “By the way, I don’t suppose you could tell me where I could go about getting information on the town’s recent history and urban legends, could you?”

“The library might be a good place to start. Or, well, the librarian, I guess,” Janice said. “I’d also give the pub a shot, in the evening. Some of the retired fishermen have a whole host of stories, you know?”

“I figured, yeah,” Ana said, smiling in what she hoped was a flattering manner. “So… can I have my card back?”

“Sure, Miss Ga…” Janice’s smile fell as she tried to read the name. “Um. Ga—”

“Ljiljana Gavrilović,” Ana cut her off, holding back a sigh. Every time. Wasn’t Janice’s fault, though, so she didn’t really deserve the bitching. “Don’t bother trying to say it; American ears can’t pick up some of the sounds properly. Call me Ana.”

“Can’t say I’ve seen a name like that in a while,” Janice said, handing the license over and moving to swipe the credit card through. “Russian?”

“Serbian,” Ana said, pulling the smile back up. “Still Slavic, but further south.”

“Serbia…” Janice made a face like she was trying to remember something. “Like the whole Kosovo thing?”

“…yeah,” Ana said, her voice almost as flat as her expression. “Like the whole Kosovo thing. Where’s the library?”

“Down the street and take a left into Hudson Court,” Janice said, passing over the card and bag of baked goods. “Are you o—”

“Thanks,” Ana said, turning and heading for the door as she slipped the card back into her purse. It swung open with a tinkle of bells that Ana did her best to ignore as she stepped back out onto the street and headed in the direction of the library.

Of course the one thing the woman knew about Serbia was the freaking Kosovo conflict. Of course it was. Why had she expected anything else?

She slowed down after a few buildings and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. The woman hadn’t known how much of a pet peeve this was. She hadn’t deserved the rudeness. And—

Ana looked down at her hands and, with conscious effort, unclenched the one that didn’t have a paper bag of goodies hanging from it. Her nails, short as they were, had dug into her skin and left deep indentations. There wasn’t any blood or ripped skin, though, so it didn’t seem like she’d damaged herself, at least.

She took another deep breath and turned, heading for the library.

o.o.o.o.o

“The Higgins drowning?”

“Yeah,” Ana said, leaning forward and trying on a smile. “I’m a journalist, but recently I’ve been trying to do a book on deaths that had supernatural stories attached to them. Gathering basic facts on the case is first, then local legends for context, and then the actual story.”

“Hm…” the woman tapped her pen against her lips. “I can help you find the newspapers, though they’ll be on microfiche. We’ve only got the last twelve years digitized, and this was… twenty-three years ago? It’ll be hardcopy, and I can’t let you take it out of the building since you don’t have a card with us.”

“I can work with that,” Ana said.

“You might be able to get some information from the police, if you drop by,” she continued. “There’s only about two dozen people there, and they don’t get much activity in a town this small. They’ll probably have time for you.”

“Only?” Ana asked.

“We’re not quite that small,” the librarian said with a wry smile. She shifted just enough for Ana to see the nametag on her chest. Laura. Huh. “But yes, I think I can make this work. You may want to stop by the pub on the waterfront. The retirees like to talk about this sort of thing, so you’ll be able to get the local legends out of them, for your background research.”

“I figured,” Ana said with a nod. “Are there any other possibilities, or can I start with the papers immediately?”

“I think that’s a good base for now,” Laura said, getting up. “I’ll show you the newspapers you’ll want, and once you’re done with those, I can point you in the right direction for the rest.”

“Thank you.”

“Adam! Come take over the desk for a minute!”

The microfiches weren’t in the best condition, but they were still more than workable. They gave Ana minimal information, but enough that she’d be able to turn what she’d found into the bulk of the introduction for the chapter on the Higgins drowning. She jotted down the names of the people involved, from the officers to the reporters, and made a note to stop by the newspaper’s main office and see if they had some more information.

As the clock struck noon, she reluctantly finished up what she could and moved back to her computer. Much as she loved working on the book, she did still have a day job, and while she was allowed to choose her own hours, to work from home, and to travel as she wished… she nonetheless did need to actually work. She did still have articles to write for the site.

Right. So. Today’s assignment was… compiling opinions on some new brand of lipstick. It had been out for two days already, and was from a popular enough company that there were probably reviews from makeup vloggers and on the company’s own site already.

Shouldn’t be too hard, she thought, and got to work.

o.o.o.o.o

On a sunny day in late August, 1995, twenty-seven-year-old William Higgins was found dead on the beach by a family out to enjoy the weather.1 Just a few hundred feet beyond the town limits of Grandmarch Bay, the death fell into the town’s jurisdiction, and was investigated by a detective from the local police department.2 The body was severely bruised, in a manner that suggested there had been a struggle with an attacker, and covered in scratches that forensics suggested occurred around the time of death. The scratches occurred in patterns that appeared to be made by either human or animal, rather than being caused by the rocks underwater after the drowning occurred.3

Higgins’ family and friends had related to the police and reporters that he had been drawing away from them recently, and visiting a set of caves north of the town. His truck was found near the caves, but the only prints found in the area matched his shoes. The case was declared a murder, but never solved, and all suspects were released due to a lack of motive and evidence.

o.o.o.o.o

“Hey.”

Ana looked up from her computer, though it took a few moments for the last wisps of ‘chemical compositions liable to cause allergic reactions in those with peanut sensitivities’ to clear from the front of her mind. She blinked at the man in front of her. “Er… hi?”

“I’m Adam,” he said, leaning over the table and holding out one hand.

“Ana,” she said, reaching out to shake the hand. “What’s up?”

“I’m one of the librarians here,” he told her. “It’s a bit slow here right now, so I have some free time and figured I’d check in on how you were handling the microfiches. I was wondering if you needed some help with that project you were telling Laura about?”

“Not at the moment,” Ana said. “I shifted into doing some articles for my day job a few hours ago, so right now I’m working on that. I can come find you once I go back to the research project, if you’re still game to help.”

“Ah. Any idea when that’ll be?” Adam asked.

Ana looked down at her computer and tried to gauge the word count. “Hour and a half, maybe?”

“My shift’s over in two hours, so if you still need help and I’m still around then, feel free to call me over,” Adam said, nodding. “You’re not the first person to come through looking for information on that case, but I think you’re the first that’s trying to put together both the mundane facts and the stories.”

“I like fusing the two,” Ana said. “There’s a level of intrigue there, I think. Why twist the facts when presenting them as they are and then showing the stories alongside is just as interesting? It’s… I’d say it’s more of a cultural study than anything. I’m not trying to solve the mysteries, or declare that there were supernatural forces involved. I just want to know what the stories were.”

“Seems interesting.”

“It is, but I really do have to get back to work, so…” Ana gestured at her computer again, and smiled as Adam excused himself.

Ana went back to reading the health report.

o.o.o.o.o

And here I was, Ana thought as she jumped around the video from one of the beauty vloggers and tried to find the quote she’d wanted to pull, doing her best to make sure she had it word-for-word, Almost forgetting how incredibly gay I am.

It really wasn’t a good idea to get distracted by how cute the vloggers were when she was supposed to be working. That was one of the job hazards, though. Obviously.

She dropped her head onto her arms and groaned.

Holy shit, I am so gay.

“Miss?”

Ana raised her head, and met the eyes of a little girl who couldn’t have been more than nine. “Hi?”

“Are you okay?” the little girl asked.

“I’m fine,” Ana said. “I’m just a little tired. My job is taking a while to do.”

“Okay!” The little girl said, waving as she left.

Ana pushed herself up straight and tilted her head to work out the kinks. Her neck crackled, an ugly sound that was loud enough to draw the attention of the girl from earlier, but Ana put a finger to her lips and winked at the girl, who covered her own mouth with her hands and ran off, giggling. Ana hunkered down and focused as best she could, finally finding the quote and finishing off her article. With a few minutes taken to make sure her links and references were in order, she sent it off to the editor.

Leaning back in her chair, Ana stretched and groaned. Her head fell back with a heavy sigh, and she tried to reorient her mindset towards the case she’d been researching. One glance at the microfiches was enough to have her sighing yet again, and she pulled the reader towards herself to hook it up to her computer again, and moved to reo—

Her stomach growled.

Oh. She’d skipped lunch, hadn’t she? Damn. It was almost three o’clock, and the library closed at seven…

Ana sent another look at the microfiches, biting her lip. She had the time… but she didn’t really want to put lunch off any longer, now that she’d remembered to be hungry, and she didn’t want to bother Laura to get it out again later, and she didn’t always want to rely on just the PDFs she’d saved…

Biting her lip, she got to her feet and headed for the front desk. Her things were visible from there, so it wasn’t much of a risk to leave them there for a moment or two.

“Well, hello there!” Adam said as she approached, grinning. “Something come up?”

“I was wondering if you guys had a printer on hand? I need to go to lunch, but I’m not done with the microfiches, and I don’t want to bother you for them again later. I’d like hardcopies to look over later anyway, so getting them printed would be best,” Ana explained.

“I have about fifteen minutes left,” Adam said, “Which should be just enough to help you out with that. Laura! I’m gonna go help the outta-stater!”

Laura, in the middle of checking out a book for a middle-aged man, lifted a hand in acknowledgement, but didn’t look over.

“So,” Adam said as he led the way over to the printers. “Where are you headed after your lunch?”

“Newspaper office, then police station, depending on how long the first takes,” Ana said. “After that, probably tomorrow… I’ll see about visiting people of interest, especially if the officers or reporters aren’t employed anymore, and then I’ll go down to the tavern that’s apparently on the waterfront to see if any of the older fellas have the mermaid stories I came here to find in the first place.”

“Organized,” Adam said. “Do you have those microfiche files saved anywhere?”

“I got them as PDFs on my computer,” Ana confirmed. “Can I print from there?”

“No, sorry. It needs to be from a library computer, so I was hoping for a USB,” Adam admitted. “Well, I guess we can bring the microfiches and the reader over and go from there.”

“You’re the specialist here, so sure,” Ana said.

Printing out the paper copies did indeed take the full fifteen minutes, and Ana packed away her bag with a sense of satisfaction. She’d actually gotten a lot done today.

“So.”

Ana yelped, scrambling not to drop her bag and turning around.

Adam stared at her, wide-eyed. “Uh. I promise I wasn’t trying to scare you?”

Ana put a hand to her chest, willing her heart to slow down. “Holy smokes. Okay. Hi. I kinda thought you left already.”

“Sorry,” Adam said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I figured that if you’re from out of town, then you probably don’t know any of the good places to eat. If you’re okay with eating with a stranger, I could show you someplace before you head for the police station.”

Ana squinted at him. “Like… a date?”

“Uh, no.”

“Oh, thank god,” she muttered.

“…should I be offended?” Adam asked.

“Dating while on a research trip is just a level of complicated that I really don’t feel like navigating right now,” Ana admitted. “Also… lesbian.”

“Ah.” Adam nodded for a few moments, and then said, “Trans.”

“I didn’t want to assume.”

“I’ve been on T for long enough that I don’t think most people realize it,” he said. “So…”

“I hang out in a lot of queer circles back in New York, and after a while there’s just a feel for who happens to be which shade of the rainbow,” Ana said.

“So what you’re saying is that you’ve got gaydar?” Adam said with a grin.

“And I saw the trans flag pin on your shoulder strap,” Ana admitted, nodding at Adam’s bag and laughing when she saw his mouth open and close in surprise. “So… lunch?”

“How do you feel about clam chowder?”

o.o.o.o.o

“So... small town, trans kid. It’s safe here?” Ana asked as they walked down the street, hands hanging off the strap to her messenger bag.

“Well,” Adam hedged, drawing the word out. “I grew up here, so there wasn’t really much of a choice in both being myself and being in the closet. Either I didn’t transition, or I got out of the closet. Or left, but I do like it here, so...”

“I think I can get that,” Ana said, nodding. “So everyone’s okay with it?”

“I think they just got used to it, honestly,” Adam admitted. “I left town for a few years when I was getting my degree, and I looked different enough when I got back that I just... I don’t know. College was good to me. Going away for that long means that I went through the in-between stages of transitioning in a safer environment.”

“But home is home?” Ana guessed.

“Yeah.”

Ana bit her lip, mulling over what the best question to ask now would be. “So... what did you study?’

“Informational sciences,” Adam said. “You?”

“Double major in journalism and anthropology,” Ana said. “I like writing and I like studying culture, so... yeah. Minors?”

“Hebrew, believe it or not,” Adam said, and then grinned when Ana raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“As someone who knows another language due to growing up with it,” Ana said. “I’m always weirdly impressed by people who learn one later in life.”

“I mean, I did know some growing up. Learned some from my parents and at the synagogue. This was just refining and expanding it and whatnot,” Adam said. “You?”

“Serbian.”

“No, no,” Adam laughed. “I mean, like, your minors.”

“Oh! Uh, didn’t have any room in my schedule since I was double-majoring, honestly,” Ana admitted. “I did do volleyball, though? Club, instead of division, but it was definitely enough to keep me in shape.”

“You could probably bench me, huh?”

Ana snorted. “Hardly. I could probably bench a kid, but not most adults.”

“Most?”

“Some people are smaller or skinnier than others, and I’ve got shoulder muscles for days,” Ana said, stopping to turn to Adam and flex, holding the pose for just long enough that the joke of her jacket blocking the actual view managed to soak in. She chuckled and dropped her arms, setting back off down the sidewalk. “You?”

“Track,” Adam confirmed, and then slowed down and veered to the side, holding open the door of a restaurant off to the side. “After you, milady.”

Ana blinked at him. “Really.”

“Can’t have a little fun playing with the idea of old-fashioned chivalry?’ Adam asked.

“We’re not exactly at a Ren Faire,” Ana said, but gave a shallow curtsy anyway, skirt swishing as she lifted it. She walked past him and through the open door. “Now show me this clam chowder you claimed is the best in town.”

“Damn straight I will,” Adam said with a grin, following her in.

#Queer #Lesbian #Trans #Mermaids #Mystery #Murder #Modern Fantasy #Fae Horizons #Mermaids Macking and a Little Thing Called Murder #Phoenix Files

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asktheadeptus · 6 years

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The Imperial Navy - History & Organization

"If the Adeptus Astartes are the Emperor's wrath, and the Imperial Guard His hammer, then His Holy Navy is His mighty shield."— Cardinal Kregory Hestor

The Imperial Navy is one of the armed forces of the Imperium of Man. While the Astra Militarum (Imperial Guard) represents the Imperium's ground forces, the Imperial Navy is responsible for the fleets of starships that maintain order between the stars and planets in the Imperium, for all space and air support provided to the infantry of the Astra Militarum, and for transporting those Guardsmen across the galaxy to the Imperium's myriad warzones. The battlefleets of the Imperial Navy are constantly engaging threats both inside and outside the Imperium's borders.

History

During the Great Crusade to reunite all the scattered colony worlds of Mankind beneath the rule of the Imperium of Man, both the Imperial Guard and Imperial Navy were originally a single service: the Imperialis Auxilia (Imperial Army). Collectively, these massive war fleets would come to be referred to as the Armada Imperialis. Under this form of organisation, each Imperial Cruiser would have a single Imperial Army regiment assigned to it. Imperial Army regimental commanding officers held command over both their regiment and the warship assigned to them, making a single warship a tactically flexible combined arms unit and minimizing the damage to the Imperium in the event of the loss of a starship, its crew and its assigned troops in the Warp. During the Horus Heresy, however, it appeared that some Traitor Army regiments used the power of the starships at their disposal in order to forge interstellar empires for themselves in the fires of anarchy that swept the galaxy during the seven bloody standard years of the Heresy. This tendency to make use of the power of an Imperial starship combined with that of an Imperial Army regiment to establish tyrannies on many worlds led to the eventual split of the Imperial Army into the Imperial Guard and the Imperial Navy to deliberately foster a bureaucratic and inter-service rivalry between the two. The Emperor of Mankind Himself issued a decree before his internment within the Golden Throne that starships could no longer be commanded by the officers of the newborn Imperial Guard but only by the members of their own service.

Origins

The origins of the Imperial Navy lay in the campaigns of the Great Crusade that began in ca. 800.M30. The Great Crusade was the largest and most ambitious military endeavor ever undertaken by Mankind. As mighty and valiant as the hosts of the Emperor were, this epic undertaking would have been entirely impossible without the countless thousands of Warp-capable vessels that transported hundreds of thousands of the superhuman warriors of the Space Marine Legions and many millions of Imperial Army soldiers from one star's light to the next. The Great Crusade saw a staggering array of vessels constructed, reclaimed or pressed into service. Some were used for a matter of months before being declared obsolete or wearing out and degrading to destruction, quite apart from losses incurred in battle, while others gained a permanent place in the canon of war, with successful designs endlessly copied and modified as the decades progressed. The first vessels to enter the service of the Imperium were constructed in the orbital foundries of Terra, and later Mars' Ring of Iron and the orbital shipyards of Saturn, under the scrutiny of the Emperor and the Forge-wrights of the Mechanicum, and indeed it was only in alliance with Mars that the trans-solar expansion was possible in any meaningful way. This was further aided when at last the Saturnyne Dominion, with its accomplished ship-masters, joined the Imperium after their alien overlords were overthrown, and as the Imperium expanded, many more great shipyards were added: Voss, Grulgarod, Lorin and Cypra Mundi, all grew to near rival Mars itself in voidship production.

Driven by the will of the Emperor, the first Expeditionary Fleets pushed outwards into the galaxy. Preceding each great Expeditionary Fleet of hundreds, sometimes thousands, of vessels often ranged smaller contingents of independent flotillas led by a class of martial leader that would become known as the Rogue Traders Militant. Many of these individuals were former rulers of the numerous realms the Emperor had cast down first during the Unification Wars and later, as the Great Crusade spread, came to include leaders of formerly independent human worlds. They were offered a stark choice--bend their knee before the Emperor and swear service to the Great Crusade, or die by His hand. Though many set pride before what they regarded as slavery, others chose service and took up the Emperor's Warrant of Trade. There was a price, however. The Rogue Traders Militant were expected to scout ahead of the leading edge of the Great Crusade, accompanied by their own armies as well as whatever assets had been ceded them by the Emperor. Operating so far ahead of the Emperor's crusading armies, the Rogue Traders Militant could expect little or no aid should they encounter foes too powerful for them to overcome. After several Terran decades penetrating the inky black of the void, Rogue Trader Militant fleets often appeared as ramshackle vagabonds, many of their starships taken from defeated enemies, sometimes including xenos vessels of entirely novel or esoteric form. They were forbidden to return to Terra, for in His wisdom the Emperor sought not to just rid Himself of powerful rivals, but to ensure that even in their deaths they might serve Mankind. Many vanished alone and unheralded; slain, consumed or enslaved by nameless xenos abominations far from the light of Terra.

As the Imperium expanded, so too did its fleets. Countless long-lost wonders of technology were recovered, some wrested from the dead hands of unwilling custodians, and others surrendered willingly as fitting tribute to the Master of Mankind. Some vessels were unique, constructed by methods even the most accomplished Adepts of Mars could not hope to replicate: the Terminus Est, the Nicor, the Mirabilis and the Phalanx foremost among them. Other patterns and classes proved possible to reproduce and replicate, and before long the various arms of the Imperium's military acquired their own distinctive panoply of warships. Those of the Legiones Astartes were often blunt of prow and slab-armoured, built to endure the withering storm of fire that accompanies a planetary invasion, their plasma furnace-hearts powering some of the most destructive weapons known to Mankind. But beyond these practical needs, each fleet favored the nature of its Legion, from the sable black marauders of the Raven Guard to the baroque crimson and gold battlecruisers of the Blood Angels to the brute functionality and unadorned steel of the Iron Warriors' siege-barques. The ships of the Emperor's wider naval armadas were more diverse affairs, built for void supremacy. They ranged from stately battleships, multi-kilometre long engines of doom, their armour concentrated to the fore and their flanks repleted with rank upon rank of broadside batteries, to lithe and deadly destroyers and stripped-bare Warp Runners, to watchful piquet frigates and lumbering star-fortresses. Beyond these were innumerable classes of transports, arks, conveyors and supply ships, the forge vessels of the Mechanicum and their own strange space-going engines of war.

Anchorage War Fleets

Born of an Imperium for which the galaxy now had been largely conquered, rather than one in which the Emperor still led the Great Crusade, its work not yet done, the Imperium formed multiple fleet anchorages -- a handful of Imperialis Armada fleet bases situated on or near the Imperium's borders. These fleet anchorages, at least one of which was founded in each of the Segmentum Majoris, with more planned, were the largest of their kind outside of the Segmentum Solar, and in their turn were dwarfed by the vast capacity of the Sol System itself, and were founded for the specific purpose of securing the domains the Great Crusade had forged from the strife-torn galaxy. As such, their functions were in the main as ports of supply and muster, command-and-control hubs, and as home bases for a permanently stationed armada of warships with their own armies of Auxilia troops. These armadas were designed to serve both as a source of deep-range patrols and rapid-reaction forces to respond to sudden threats, be they civil disturbance, rebellion or outside attack, both from within the Imperium and from beyond its borders.

In terms of the warships that physically made up these fleets -- and the Port Maw Armada was an exemplar of this -- they outnumbered and en masse likely out-gunned any single Expeditionary fleet of the Great Crusade, at least on paper. They were made up primarily of several hundred first and second rate ships of the line; various classes of cruiser and assault vessels intended to dominate "small wars" and conduct lengthy patrols, supported by frigates and destroyers meant for escort duty, to pursue and destroy marauders, and hunt lone predator craft that might disturb the Emperor's Peace. By nature they possessed fewer large capital class ships than the outward reaching forces of the Great Crusade by disposition, but those they possessed were often very powerful examples of the type, including Goliath and Legatus-class battleships. These two in particular were still extremely strong but support-intensive designs that had been replaced in frontline service only as the Great Crusade had reached ever further from the core worlds of the Segmentum Solar and supply lines had become stretched, giving way to more independently operating Gloriana and Victory patterns, but this was a deficiency of no consequence in their current role.

Unlike the ships and armies that made up the great Legiones Astartes-led Expeditionary fleets, the smaller Compliance battlegroups, and the Explorator and Rogue Trader-led formations, they were essentially defensive in nature, inward-looking and meant to be successively piecemeal-ed down into smaller commands and sub-deployments when needed and for as long as was needed. Because of this, they were made up almost entirely of the Imperialis Auxilia, with cohorts formed in the "Solar" pattern almost exclusively. These were in turn usually drawn from the established Segmentum Excertus commands, and so were purely human in make-up and quite outside the regular command structures of the Great Crusade. Their Grand Admirals and Lords Marshal operated under authority directly proffered by the ruling Council on Terra, and were equal or perhaps greater in effective rank even than the Lords Commander who governed the individual worlds their ships protected. In practice, of course, it would be a very foolish Grand Admiral that would not defer to a Primarch when matters came to it, or an emissary of the Terran Court or Mars for that matter, but this growing distance between these two sides of the Imperium's military coin, one to defend, the other to conquer, particularly after the Emperor's return to Terra, accounts perhaps for the fact that the Traitors' cause did not have quite so much traction in the midst of these sovereign defense fleets as it did elsewhere in the Imperium's forces, a fact borne out broadly by the historical record.

This observation bears true in the case of the Port Maw Armada, which despite clear efforts being made to deliberately subvert it, remained in the majority loyal, and those ships' crews and Solar Auxilia regiments which did join the Traitors' cause were seldom crewed by wholehearted converts, but more often taken over by a polluted officer cadre or an armed mutiny by a well-prepared and ruthless minority.

Holy Fleet

On many Imperial planets, the Imperial Navy is often referred to as the "Holy Fleet." The Ecclesiarchy preaches that the Fleet is an extension of the God-Emperor's divine will and is therefore itself a sacred institution. This is due to the intimate relationship between the Navigators who are able to guide the fleet though the Warp using the psychic beacon emanating from the Golden Throne and the Astronomican. Whether or not the title applies to all starfaring vessels in the Imperium that make use of Navigators is unclear, though this is unlikely. The Adeptus Mechanicus would also no doubt consider the vessels themselves holy. However, this is due to their own techno-theological beliefs concerning the divinity of all machines.

Imperial Navy Organisation

The Imperium is divided into five fleet zones known as the Segmentae Majoris. Every starship of the Imperial Navy is assigned to one of these Segmentae, and falls under the command of the respective Lord High-Admiral who commands all the Imperial Navy assets of that Segmentum. The naval assets of an entire Segmentum are named after that division of the Imperium; i.e. all of the Imperial fleet assets in the Segmentum Solar are known as the Battlefleet Solar, all the assets in the Ultima Segmentum are the Battlefleet Ultima, and so on. There are five Lord High Admirals, one controlling the assembled Battlefleet of each Segmentum. Although all 5 High Admirals are ranked equally, command of the Segmentum Solar is considered the oldest and therefore the most prestigious and senior posting. It is not uncommon for one of these Lord High Admirals to sit on the Senatorum Imperialis as a ruling High Lord of Terra. All Imperial shipping, civilian or military, is supervised within the jurisdiction of one of the five Segmentae. Each Segmentum has an orbital headquarters called a Segmentum Fortress which forms the base of fleet operations within the Segmentum. The Segmentum Fortress is controlled directly by a high-ranking official of the Adeptus Administratum known as the Master of the Segmentum, who reports only to the Master of the Administratum.

Sectors

Each Segmentum is divided into Sectors, regions of space that are generally cube-shaped and contain 8 million cubic light years of space. These Sectors contain multiple Sub-sectors, collections of star systems no more than 20 light years in radius. The Imperial Navy starships of each Segmentum are divided amongst the Sectors into further groups called Battlefleets. These Battlefleets are assigned the task of safeguarding the Sector they are assigned to, and each Battlefleet is generally named after the Sector it protects (Battlefleet Gothic is located in the Gothic Sector, Battlefleet Calixis is in the Calixis Sector, Battlefleet Cadia is located in the Cadian Sector, etc.) and commanded by an officer with the rank of Lord Admiral.

Sub-Sectors

Sectors are further divided into Sub-sectors, usually comprising between 2 and 8 star systems within a 10 light year radius (some may encompass more systems), while others are smaller in size and are governed by the practical patrol ranges of Imperial warships. Because Sub-sectors are actually astrographic divisions of worlds (rather than volumes of space) there are vast numbers of star systems within each sector which do not fall within a Sub-sector. These are formally referred to as Inter-sectors -- and are more commonly known as wilderness zones, forbidden zones, empty space, wild space and frontier space. Inter-sectors may contain gas or dust nebulae, inaccessible areas, alien-controlled star systems, unexplored star systems, uninhabited star systems and uninhabitable worlds.

Imperial Battlefeets

Each Sector Battlefleet is assigned a number of Cruisers and Battleships, usually between 50 and 75 vessels. Each Sector Battlefleet is also assigned multiple squadrons of Escort starships, and is also in command of a large number of transports, messenger craft, orbital defenses, space platforms and system patrol vessels. The ships of a Battlefleet must constantly patrol their Sector and fulfill a variety of roles; protect Imperial merchant shipping from pirates, transport Imperial Guard regiments to warzones, escort Adeptus Mechanicus Explorator fleets on their voyages to the Imperial frontier and provide orbital support for invading or defending armies.

Because of the vast volume of space that requires policing, a Sector Battlefleet is normally split into detachments called Battlegroups consisting of one or two Cruisers, accompanied by a squadron of Escorts. If a particular situation is more than one Battlegroup can handle, additional detachments of Battlegroups or squadrons are called in to reinforce.

On occasion, an entire Battlefleet can be formed to operate in a smaller area than an entire Sector. Battlefleet Armageddon is assigned solely to the Armageddon Sub-sector, and, prior to the Third War for Armageddon, was made up of 4 Battleships, 27 Cruisers and 36 squadrons of Escorts. Battlefleet Solar is assigned specifically to the Solar System, and is primarily charged with defending the two sacred worlds of Terra and Mars that lie at the very heart of the Imperium.

Bastion Fleets

Even within a single Segmentum, battlefleets can vary massively from sector to sector, having been shaped over the course of millennia to respond to their own particular need and circumstance. For example, Battlefleet Gothicforms a component part of the Segmentum Obscurus battlefleets, as do its neighbours, Battlefleets Tamahl and Odessa, as well as the more distant Battlefleets Cadia, Agripinaa, Scarus and Corona, among others. Even though these battlefleets all hail from the same Segmentum and rely on many of the same Forge Worlds and naval bases, there is still great variation within them in terms of composition and number of warships.

Battlefleets Cadia, Agripinaa, Scarus and Corona, in particular, are collectively known as the Bastion Fleets. These fleets are given over to guarding the region of space in the Segmentum Obscurus around the Eye of Terror, or the Sectors Ocular as these bordering regions are sometimes known in the Administratum. By their very nature, the Bastion Fleets are some of the most extensive and best-equipped battlefleets of the Imperium, forced to exist in a state of near-perpetual warfare against the frequent Chaos raiders from the Eye of Terror. More rarely, these battlefleets are forced to assemble into vast armadas and repel the amassed threat of a Black Crusade, and to this end maintain substantial reserve fleets ready for action with the existing active duty fleets of the Imperial Navy when dire circumstances require their use.

Reserve Fleets of the Segmenum Obscurus

As with all highly militarized zones, it is important for the Imperial Navy to maintain substantial reserves of vessels around the Eye of Terror, ready to deploy as reinforcements should the need arise. Whilst it is possible to keep the vessels themselves ready in this manner, Battlefleet Obscura simply does not possess the manpower to keep reserve crews stationed aboard these vessels as well. Instead, whole shipyards are filled with rows of silent, inactive vessels, often representing classes of ship now outdated or scarce. In times of great need these warships will then be brought into service and crewed with ratings from destroyed or crippled vessels or even with hastily mustered new recruits, meaning the crew is unlikely to have any familiarity with their new vessel. A posting to a reserve fleet is an unnerving duty, forcing a rating to enter deep into an unfamiliar vessel which may have lain dormant for many standard centuries. Much superstition surrounds such fleets and perhaps because of this, unusual behavior of both crew and vessel in these fleets is rather too commonplace. Reserve fleets are used only reluctantly by the Imperial Navy, and only in the most desperate of circumstances, but an invasion the size of Abaddon the Despoiler's 13th Black Crusade in 999.M41 without doubt qualifies as exactly that -- the most dire of circumstances, the most desperate of times.

In a reserve fleet, all vessels are prone to certain unexpected events, such as mass panic or even mutiny amongst the crew, inexplicable noises, sensor readings and sightings or disconcerting setbacks and failure of machinery. Against Chaos warfleets, where the followers of the Dark Gods are able to exert their influence to further unsettle their already nervous opponents, unforeseen events can be even more devastating to ship morale.

Source: http://warhammer40k.wikia.com

#warhammer 40k #horus heresy #adeptus astartes #adepta sororitas #adeptus mechanicus #adeptus arbites #adeptus custodes #astra militarum #Adeptus Astra Telepathica #officio assassinorum

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civia-caroline · 7 years

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Silent No More

Chester. Chris. Layne. Scott. Kurt.

The list goes on....

These were some of the names and the voices that helped shape me and shape my taste and appreciation for music. They're all gone way before their time. Why? Because of depression, addiction and mental illness in one form or another. These are silent killers. We can't be silent anymore.

When news hit of Chester Bennington's death by suicide, I was in shock. I can't quite explain what made it hit me so hard in a way that others before hadn't. The news about Chris hit just as hard, but this was a little different. I was in my car on my way to see my therapist (thank G-d for that) and a special breaking news announcement came in on Alt Nation on Sirius XM. I screamed out loud in my car "WTF??!!!" and had to pull over and text my friend and former co-worker who is connected to Linkin Park's management to confirm. I just couldn't believe it was true. I'm not sure why this one was such a trigger for me. Maybe it was the build up of all of them. Maybe it was the timing of some things I'm going through in my personal life with myself and my family that made it hit really close to home. Whatever the reason, my reaction was intense and visceral. In a way I feel numb. But I'm also so so sad. And scared. And perhaps most importantly, I'm motivated. I'm motivated to STOP THE SILENCE.

So many people are suffering in silence. Why are we so scared to talk about mental health and mental illness? Why should it be any different than any other illness or disease? Mental health issues do not make us weak. It makes us real. This is true for everyone, but I speak especially to the music and entertainment industry because the fact is, we are a community at risk. Musicians, artists, creatives, and those of us who are surrounded by them in our professional and daily lives are especially at risk. Many of us are sensitive people who are deeply affected by the energy of the people around us. We have a responsibility to each other and to ourselves to break the stigma around mental health issues and say "It's ok. You're not alone." Especially those of us in management and artist relations who sometimes have to be "stand-in therapists" for our clients. We can't brush away or minimize the signs of suffering. We have to hold each other accountable.

Unfortunately, there's nothing we can do to help someone who doesn't want to be helped. But, we can start to change the conversation around the issues. We can start to create an environment of more love and less hate. More acceptance and less judgement. More understanding and less silence. We can start to let people know that suffering is universal and there is no shame in it.

I'm going to start by revealing the story of my own struggle. This is something that is very hard for a generally private and introverted person - but I believe that we can no longer treat suffering as some dirty secret that we need to hide.

I've suffered with depression and anxiety in one form or another since I was a young child. At different stages in my life I've tried various medications and seen many therapists. For the most part, my depression was chronic. It was like a quiet shadow that followed me wherever I went. It wasn't so severe that it always interfered with my daily life, but it was just always there and was always whispering in my ear. There were a few times where the depression got louder and did start to interrupt my life. In those times of crisis, I somehow got through them with the help of therapy, but never really addressed the underlying issues.

As an adult, I've done a relatively good job of hiding it. Sure, those very close to me know bits and pieces of it, but the really dark parts I keep just for myself. About 5 years ago, a few months after I moved to LA, I hit another really dark, low place. At that point in my life, I had been through enough to recognize the signs and knew that I needed to do something. I found an amazing therapist who after a couple of months of seeing me recognized that I needed to be back on medication in order for her to be most effective. I was quite resistant for a while. I had been on medication before and thought I was now "strong" enough to do it on my own and "naturally." At one point, things got so bad that my therapist told me she wouldn't be able to continue seeing me unless I went to a doctor and started medication. She recognized that there was a chemical imbalance that caused the neurotransmitters in my brain to go all out of whack and misfire. This caused me to have a constant barrage of negative thoughts and chatter that I just could not turn off. There was no way for us to work through the issues that were bothering me when I couldn't even quiet my brain enough to think clearly.

I listened to her and got myself to a doctor and back on medication. It wasn't an immediate or automatic fix. It took a while to find the right medication, the right dosage, and to allow my body to get used to it. But, eventually it did, and my thoughts started to quiet down. And that's when the REAL work began. The medication was not my cure. It was just a tool that allowed me to really do the work on myself that I needed to do.

I now accept that for whatever reason (genetics, environment, past trauma, and probably a combination of many factors), my brain chemistry is off and needs some correction with the help of medication. It may be something I need for the rest of my life, and it may not be. But I have no reason to be ashamed of it. If I'm deficient in Vitamin D or Iron, I take supplements. This shouldn't be viewed with any harsher judgement than those. I've been on medication and working with my therapist ever since - over 5 years now. I say working, because it is WORK. It's not comfortable and it's not easy. I've had to confront many things about myself and my life that were painful and difficult to confront. There are times where it's been downright miserable. But I can honestly say that I am healthier now than I've ever been in my life.

That's not to say that I don't still struggle. In fact, I've recently been going through an especially tough time with things in my personal life and family. But I now have more tools and skills to get me through it and to grow from it. Perhaps even more importantly, I know that if ever get to a place that is so dark that I think I can't get out - there's always help, and there's always hope. And it doesn't make me weak, it doesn't make me less than or incapable of being successful and doing great things. It just makes me human.

Now, my story is mine alone. Medication is not the answer for everybody (and I believe that it's never the only answer for anybody). Each person's struggle is unique and so their solution and recovery has to be unique to them as well. Help can come in many different forms- a good therapist, a rehab program, medication, even a good friend. But one thing that's not unique - is that no person can do it completely alone. They have to be able to seek the help they need without the fear of ridicule or judgement. We wouldn't allow someone with cancer to suffer alone and not receive treatment because they're too scared. We can't allow someone with mental illness to either.

That's where we ALL come in.

People are scared to make a bigger deal of something that may not warrant it. Nobody wants to sound the alarm and be the overreacting drama queen when their friend is just a little sad over a breakup. But why not? Educate yourselves and know the signs. Hold each other accountable. Make agreements with your friends and family that you will tell each other if things are ever feeling overwhelming. Sometimes it's ok to "over-react." Under-reacting has much more dire consequences. We need to create a safe, loving, and accepting environment. We need to be aware of the people around us and look for the signs that they may be suffering more than normal.

To those in pain - know that you're not alone and don't hide it. I'm not saying to walk around with your pain on your sleeve and tell everyone you meet, but don't hide it away from everybody either. Confide in the people you love and trust. Don't be scared or ashamed to seek professional help. Hell, even the healthiest and strongest among us could benefit from some professional help once in a while! There are so many resources out there and so many people willing to help - if only they new where the help is needed.

I don't have all of the answers. We need to change the culture we live in. We need to get rid of a stigma that's been around for centuries. It's not an easy task, but I'm hoping that just by speaking about it, we can start the process together.

There is so much pain in the world. So many people suffering. But there's also a lot of love. Let's allow the love to be louder than the "sound of silence."

#mental health #chester bennington #chris cornell #kurt cobain #layne staley #scott weiland #music business #depression #anxiety #suicide

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nitewrighter · 7 years

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Star Wars AU! Part XIV! Major character death incoming! Aria picks up Renatus and dunks him into garbage. Fucking obliterated.

Okay actually it’s not that easy.

Actually it’s going to hurt. A lot. 5,962 words.

��It’s a bloodbath down here! We need reinforcements!” an assembly guard’s voice was barely recognizable through all the jamming and all the rain, but Clariz frowned and tapped at several icons on her screen. Foreman Toriss set a cup of caf next to her and she looked at him expectantly.

“Empire’s putting the screws on the Assembly,” he said with a sigh, pulling up a seat next to her, “At this point, if we allocate any resources to the Dooku estate, they’ll know.”

“Well we can’t just leave them! They’re—-” Clariz cut herself off at the sound of more static coming from her screen and squinted.

“Can you isolate it?”

“This is as isolated as I can get it,” said Clarys, sipping her caf and adjusting some settings on her screen.

“Shit—-Civilian ships are—-shouldn’t even be—-” the transmission cut off then. Prae frowned, then reached over and pulled his gray Assembly jacket that he had set on the back of a chair and began buttoning it up.

“Sir?” said Clarys as Prae headed towards the door.

“I’m looking into this personally,” said Prae. Clariz collapsed her screen and stood up and walked after him to the lift.

“I’ll stay in comm contact with you. I won’t have an ensign risking her life,” said Prae dialing a button into the lift for the Commsatt hangar bay.

Clariz stepped into the lift and the doors shut behind her. She folded her arms. “We both know you’re not immune to whatever comm scrambling is going on down there. I brought this up to you. I’m seeing it through.”

“It’s not a matter of ‘seeing it through,’ said Prae. He unholstered his blaster sidearm and held it out to her, “You know how to use one of these?”

Clariz glanced down at the blaster, then up at him for a beat, snatched it from his hand, unlocked the safety and turned toward a wall and aimed it, quickly and easily but with a well-practiced steadiness.

“Good, you know the bas—” Prae started to say but then she re-locked the safety and started spinning the blaster on her trigger finger.

“I grew up in the Aparian wastes, sir,” she said, making eye contact with him as she continued spinning the blaster, now reversing the direction of the spin, “Not a lot to do out in the desert. Started practicing when the Clone Wars first broke out. Paranoid family. Thought the Republic would descend on our crappy little town any second with all the propaganda Dooku was putting out,” She sent the blaster spinning into the air and caught it with her left hand, not even losing momentum on the spin, “Technically I received top marks on CIS Marksmanship tests—-blasters, mainly—with rifles i was more average,” she reversed the spin on her left hand just as easily as she had done on her right, “By the time I was old enough to enlist for off-world forces, of course the CIS military was pretty much exclusively droid-dependent,” she tossed the blaster around her elbow and caught it, “Organics introduce too many variables into battles, they said,” she tilted her wrist so that the blaster was spinning on its side, and then reversed the spin of that as well, “I thought communications would at least get me off-planet,” she sent the blaster flying into the air spinning again and caught it, this time by the barrel. She held the gun out to him, the butt towards him, “It got me here.”

Prae was staring when suddenly there was a soft thump and a computerized voice said “Hangar Bay” and the lift doors opened. He took his sidearm from her and just managed to say, “None of that was standard,” before holstering the blaster and walking out to the shuttles.

“All due respect sir, but none of this is standard,” said Clariz, gesturing at the shuttle where he was typing in an override key for emergencies. The empire would be alerted of his override, but it was within typical day-to-day functioning of the commsatt that it wouldn't warrant a high priority reaction from the Empire. They would have a window of a couple hours, tops. The door to the shuttle opened and Prae pressed a hand to his forehead and sighed, “Okay. You can come along. You do as I say, understood?”

“Yes sir,” said Clariz, following him up the entry ramp into the shuttle.

—-

“Think they’ll be all right?” said Cyp. The Siyah’s blue engines let off steam as it lifted upward. Aria and Cyp’s clothes were all but soaked through at this point, but they hardly felt the cold. Their lightsabers steamed and seemed half blurred themselves by the rain, hissing and fizzing in the downpour.

“They’ll be fine,” said Aria. It maneuvered decently well for a freighter in atmosphere.

“Aria?” said Cyp.

“Mm?” Aria glanced over, at him.

Cyp opened his mouth, seemed to hesitate, then glanced over at the relay tower, “Do… do you have a plan for when we see Renatus?”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Aria admitted.

“He blew up his own ship trying to stop you,” said Cyp, “I thought I lost you when the purge started. If anything happened to you I’d—”

“Cyp you can’t think like that. You’ve been doing so well—-Now’s not the time to start panicking about what could happen and—” “Look you don’t understand. Aria, I—-” Cyp was interrupted as the freighter opened fire on a platoon of droids that had been advancing across the tarmac.

“There’s our opening! Come on!” said Aria, springing to her feet and running toward the relay tower.

Cyp gave a glance in the general direction of the freighter as it went in for a final swoop before taking off after the droid reinforcement ship.

“I see your timing is excellent as always,” he muttered as he got to his feet and ran after Aria.

It wasn’t too long of a run, but between the rain and the blaster fire and the explosions in the background and the distant screams of Assembly guards, it felt far longer. Aria tried the panel at the base of the relay tower to open the door, found it locked.

“Cover me,” she said, plunging her lightsaber into the door. Cyp stood back to back with her, blocking the occasional stray blaster bolt with his lightsaber. Aria left a smoldering circle in the door, then shoved her weight against it, leaving a large gap in the door which she clambered through. Cyp dipped into the hole after her. The relay tower, being pretty narrow in general construction, had a minimal base level, which featured a large lift that Aria rushed toward and hit a button for. It was a welcome relief, being out of the rain for however long they had. The doors opened. She sheathed her saberstaff and stepped in and Cyp sheathed his own lightsaber and stepped in after her. She hit the button for the top level on the relay tower and the doors closed and the lift shuddered to a start and began moving upward. There were a few moments of slightly tense silence before the first level chimed and Aria cleared her throat.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. Cyp looked from the door over to her. She wrung out the bottom of her black tunic, dripping water onto the floor “I mean… I’m not glad we’re here—-in danger, having to face someone we thought was a friend—but I’m glad you’re here with me. I don’t think I could do this alone. You…you’ve been brilliant.”

Cyp watched as she fidgeted. Her fingers first mindlessly going to the place where her padawan braid usually rested, then pausing and dropping down and clasping a bit, running her thumb over her knuckles. She was scared, he realized. Well of course she was scared—-it would be stupid not to be scared with everything that was happening. He was scared too, he knew that. Up to this point he had been able to ride his own panic from one objective to the next like a strong tide, not caught up in it, but rolling with it, controlling himself in the midst of it. He was so used to Aria being the stronger one—-even in the moments where she was talking about feeling afraid or vulnerable, he had just rolled with the postulate that she was a jedi and he wasn’t, that she could handle far more than he could—-always had and always would. But that wasn’t true, it hit him now—-she was a consular of the Jedi order, gifted in the force, wise beyond her years, far more powerful than her appearance suggested—but she was just as terrified as he was, probably more so. His fingers rolled and unrolled into a fist he wasn’t sure was in a clammy sweat or just cold and wet from the rain and his brain was a mess of partially formed sentences, his thoughts somehow incapable of forming themselves into something cohesive.

Her mouth thinned and she shut her eyes and furrowed her brow for a moment before she inhaled, sighed, and opened her eyes again. She finally spoke again. “Cyp, you have to promise me that if anything happens you and Val will get—-”

“I love you,” said Cyp.

“…the…younglings…out of here… what?” Aria looked over at him.

He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him. “I love you,” he said, “I love your spooky eyes and your voice and your face and how brave and kind you are and how you see so much… good in everything. I love your smile and the way you laugh. I love that you can strike fear into the hearts of people at least a foot taller than you. I love how you’re a Jedi and you still cry. I love the way you fidget and mutter and how…how every time you look at the stars you get this look like… nothing in this galaxy is impossible. I love more things about you than I thought were possible to love about a person. Please know that I have never loved anything and I will never love anything as I love you.”

“Cyp…” Aria’s eyes were wide and searching his face, not knowing what to look for or if she already found it.

“And I’m sorry,” Cyp said.

“S-sorry?” Aria could only dumbly repeat the word after him.

“I know it’s not fair of me to put this on you, here and now. Please also know that whatever happens, however you feel, I will always see you as my best friend and that I wouldn’t trade that for anything. If you don’t feel the same way, if you only see me as a friend,” he smiled, “That’s enough. It was always enough. I just….” a tear budded out of the corner of Aria’s eye at this point and Cyp reached forward and brushed it off of her cheekbone with his thumb, “I just thought you should know.” Aria’s mouth was hanging open, moving slightly, the words dying in her throat. He wondered if he should kiss her—-it seemed like the thing to do, but then the elevator chimed and came to a sudden, shuddering stop. They had reached the top of the spire and a soft chuckle escaped Cyp as he turned toward the door, “Nothing outside this door will be as terrifying as that just was.”

Aria smiled and a weak giggle escaped her. As he turned to face the door he felt her hand slip into his, her fingers interlacing with his and squeezing a little. As he moved to glance down at their hands to make sure he hadn’t somehow tricked himself into thinking it had happened, he suddenly felt a slightly cool touch on his cheek. Soft, too clumsy and smooth to be fingers. He glanced over to see Aria’s face drawing back slightly and his hand went to his cheek. Aria cleared her throat and glanced off, blushing brightly.

“Did you just…?” Cyp started to say.

“Well…you know…” she said slowly, “For um…for luck.” The doors opened and the roar of the rain filled their world again. Aria’s fingers slipped from his, though he could have sworn she gave another slight squeeze with her knuckles as she did so, before wrapping her newly freed hand around her saberstaff. Cyp curled and uncurled his hand into a fist, consciously making a memory of the feel of her hand in his before he took hold of his own lightsaber and stepped out into the rain after her.

Renatus was standing out in the rain, his wet curls hooking against his forehead and a faint red light highlighting his profile as he looked over his shoulder at them.

“You know, I didn’t think it was possible to be impressed and disappointed at the same time—but I guess changing what you thought was possible is something that comes naturally to the Jedi.”

“It’s over, Renatus,” said Aria, “You’re holding this place against the Assembly now, but it won’t take long for the Empire to overrun this estate.”

“Oh I know that,” said Renatus, glancing over at his datapad, “I’ve adjusted the protocol. A contingent of my droids have raided Dooku’s office and library. We’ve secured the geo-compressor as well. They’re being brought back to my estate as we speak.”

Aria and Cyp exchanged glances. “On the ship you’ve been using for your droid reinforcements, I take it?” said Aria.

“Well I bloody well blew up my other one,” said Renatus, “I can’t be there to personally hack an Assembly ship to avoid tracking, so I’d rather get that ship prepped for hyperspace and be sure the artifacts are safe—” he cut himself off and turned around to look at her slowly, “You’ve done something.”

“Me, personally? No,” said Aria, “But I imagine out there’s probably a Mandalorian who’s not taking being put in what he called a ‘murder box’ particularly well.”

Something shifted in Renatus’s face and Aria saw the red light that had been shining behind him suddenly fade as he pulled out his electrobinoculars and looked to the skyline.

—-

“Stay locked, are you locked?” Val’s throat was half raw from how much he had been shouting at the two younglings he had manning his turrets.

“It starts beeping fast when you’re locked, right?” Galix’s voice came down the hallways of his freighter.

“Yes, fire!” said Val and the ship jerked slightly with the force of its own turrets.

Val heard an explosion on the port side of the ship. “All right, good shot, kid!” he shouted down the hallway.

“Hey Val?” Galix’s voice came down the hallway.

“Yeah?”

“How do you tell when the fire from the ship you shot is going to hit your ship?”

Val glanced out of the side of his viewport and saw far more fire than there should be rushing from the port side.

“Hang on!” he said, turning hard. He didn’t keep artificial gravity on in-atmosphere on his freighter out of habit. If he had been making just a routine smuggling run it wouldn’t bother him much, but between dodging the turrets of the estate below and chasing after that swift little ship of Renatus’s over the mountains, it made the inertia and ensuing airsickness about ten times worse. “I told you not to use the missiles!” he shouted.

“I didn’t!” Galix shouted back.

“I only have three, I’ll know if you used one!” said Val, “Aria’s not going to be happy if she finds out you’re lying!” He paused then immediately turned hard again.

“Do you,” Val heard a gagging noise from the starboard side, “Have to keep doing that!?”

“Sorry, Tepui. Don’t throw up on your targeting computer,” Val accelerated the ship back towards the estate, “We still have to save your teachers.”

“Starboard fire! Starboard fire!” Tepui yelled.

“What?” said Val, and a blaze of turret fire blasted past his viewport, “Shit…” he brought up his targeting computer, “Empire’s here….Hang on!” He activated the freighter’s additional thrusters, “We’re gonna need to take a detour to lose these guys!” he turned the ship hard to fall out of the way of more blaster fire. He counted four imperial ships. “Hang in there, Aria,” he said, thrusting the ship upward to rise above the storm, “Hang in there just a bit longer.”

—

“No,” Renatus was staring at the falling wreckage of the ship through his electrobinoculars, “No-no—You can’t just…” he brought the electrobinoculars away from his face and looked at them. Lightning cracked behind him and Aria read heartbreak in his features. He picked up his datapad, pressed a few buttons on it, then his eyes widened as he pushed his curls off of his forehead and then cupped his hands over his mouth.

“I told you, Renatus. It’s over,” said Aria.

“Do…. do you have any idea what you’ve done?” said Renatus.

“I imagine Val just blew up your ship,” said Aria.

“You—you don’t care, do you?”

“I care a great deal more about my friends than Sith artifacts,” said Aria, “It’s better they’re destroyed rather than letting them warp you further or risking them falling into the Empire’s hands.”

“You still care about me,” Renatus said it like she had just told a very clever joke and he had just got it.

“You tried to kill Val and a youngling,” said Cyp, stepping forward.

“But you both could just… hop on his ship and fly away from here, leave me to whatever fate the Empire has in store for me—-no, you’re here because you care,” he found only a cold furrowed brow on Cyp’s face so he fixed his gaze on Aria, “Because you care.”

“I think you’re scared and angry and confused, and the Dark Side has taken advantage of that,” said Aria, “The Force is with you, Renatus—but you never had the training to protect your mind against the—”

“I don’t need your training!” Renatus’s voice hitched up again, high and manic and Cyp instinctively stepped in front of Aria. Aria put a hand on Cyp’s shoulder and he stepped aside for her. Renatus was pressing one hand to his forehead, looking nearly on the verge of tears as Aria stepped toward him.

“Renatus…” Aria spoke softly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Renatus.

“Like what?” said Aria, still moving forward slowly.

“Like you can’t figure out if it’s a child or a monster you’re looking at,” said Renatus. Aria stopped in her tracks. “I know that look,” Renatus said, glancing off, “I know it too well,” he motioned at her unlit saberstaff, “Did you come up thinking you might have to use that on me?”

“I’m prepared to use it on you,” said Aria, “I don’t think it has to come to that, though.”

“The threat of force is enough, isn’t it?” said Renatus.

“Your droids have killed dozens of the Assembly guard and you’ve tried to kill all of us!” said Cyp.

“Not you,” said Renatus, glancing at Cyp, “Not yet.” It was Aria who stepped forward this time, her grip tightening on her lightsaber and a grim, fierce light filling her gray eyes. Renatus looked at her and her expression softened. “I saw that,” said Renatus, “Don’t think I didn’t see that.” He looked between them and then smiled, “Oh—something happened, didn’t it?” He laughed a little and looked at her, “All that nonsense about how those sorts of attachments are more ‘compromising’—there’s hope for you yet.”

“I don’t want your kind of hope,” said Aria.

“I think you do,” said Renatus. He rifled through his jacket and pulled out the source of red light from earlier, a small red crystalline pyramid, etched with sharp geometric glyphs.

“Put that down,” said Aria.

“No,” he held it toward her and she inched back, “It’s not going to bite you, Aria. I still want the same thing you do, the same thing both of you want,” he looked between her and Cyp, “We can stop the Empire. We just need to be willing to do what’s necessary. Aria—I know you can do it. I know you can break free of all of that fear they put into you.”

Cyp saw the red light reflecting in her gray eyes. “Aria…” he said quietly. Aria extended a hand and the holocron lifted out of Renatus’s hand and floated over and planted itself in Aria’s palm. Cyp’s breath caught in his throat as she looked over it.

“I am afraid,” Aria said, glancing down at the holocron. She could hear it whispering to her. She didn’t have to be afraid. She could save her friends. She could avenge her Order. She glanced over at Cyp and all the whispers were silenced. “I am afraid,” she said, looking at Cyp, “But I won’t find any freedom with this,” she tossed the holocron aside.

“You—” The holocron had only clattered against the ground once when S4ZA shot toward them, its electrical stunner crackling. Aria ignited her lightsaber and blocked some of the crackling electricity before forcing the blade of her saberstaff through and cutting the little droid in two. Renatus extended an arm and suddenly Aria was hoisted off her feet, grasping at her throat, and then thrown back, slamming hard into the lift doors.

“No!” Cyp’s first thought was to run over to her, but he saw her groan and stir, then he looked at Renatus out of the corner of his eye, stood his ground, and ignited his lightsaber.

Renatus’s eyes widened. “Wait—you—you’re seriously…?” Cyp glared out at him from beneath furrowed red brows and he assumed Form I. “You’re serious,” said Renatus, and he laughed a little, “Really? I mean, he shrugged and motioned at Cyp, “You know, you’re not a Jedi.”

“Neither are you,” said Cyp.

Lightning cracked again and Renatus visibly blanched. “Fine then,” he said, taking two ersatz-looking metal rods from his belt and holding them in both hands. Cyp heard Aria cough behind him and glanced over his shoulder at her. “Renatus—you didn’t…”

“Unlike you, I don’t give up at the slightest setback,” said Renatus, igniting the two lightsabers—-well, calling them lightsabers would be generous. They were ragged, ugly things, the sight of them reminding Aria more of the blaster bolt she had kept suspended in the air on Korbo’s freighter than a proper lightsaber blade. Red, angry, thicker and shorter than a typical lightsaber. The blades could only measure roughly from Renatus’s elbow to the tips of his fingers. Renatus assumed a position—-not the typical stance assumed by jedi trained in dual-wielding, but rather with his shoulders angled at Cyp, one lightsaber ahead of the other. A Serennoan dueling style, Aria figured, the blades too short to depend on the typical flash and intimidation that most duel-wielding styles afforded, but rather something developed for close quarters and dirty, desperate, cunning fights. And it showed, quickly.

Renatus advanced first, light on his feet, slashing at Cyp. Cyp easily blocked his first few attacks. Renatus was still adjusting to the movements of a blade that technically didn’t have any mass, but he was learning fast, and maybe it was training or the sheer force of fury and panic on his end that seemed to give him an unprecedented amount of energy. Cyp, however, had the Force on his side. That wave of panic he had been riding from task to task seemed to have receded, leaving some warm and glowing feeling in his chest, driving the exhaustion and the cold from his muscles. Red and blue lightsaber blades met and sparked and hissed in the rain, clashing again and again. Renatus wouldn’t hesitate to kick at Cyp, or try and bash at him with the hilt of the lightsaber if given the opportunity.

Aria coughed again and rose to her feet, the impact of the door bringing back the memories of being slammed into the side of a relay tower with Val and then dropped on the floor. She inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. Inhale peace, exhale pain. One with the Force, she ignited her lightsaber and moved to join in and help Cyp but suddenly the dented lift doors opened behind her. She turned on her heel to see two ramshackle magnaguards.

“Aria!” Cyp shouted over his shoulder at her, red sparks were flying from Renatus’s lightsaber.

“I can handle them! Just focus on Renatus!” She shouted back as she spun her saberstaff to force them back. She moved to push past the electrostaff of one but it knocked the bad of her saberstaff back and then issued a hard kick that sent her flying again, then bouncing hard and sliding across the ground. She coughed and sprung to her feet again,, calling on the force to shove one of the magnaguards hard. The droid slid back, its magnetized feet sparking across the roof and screeching with metal on metal. It made the mistake of lifting one foot to try and charge her and she thrust with her will and the Force one more time. It slid over the edge of the relay tower, the screech of metal falling silent before a clang was heard. Aria pivoted on her heel toward the second one and found it was much easier to confront without its compatriot. She tasted blood and realized her nose was bleeding again like it had back on the freighter. She gripped the electrostaff of the Magnaguard and then sliced through it, brain to pelvic auxiliary brain. It split apart into two nearly symmetrical halves. She turned on her heel back to Cyp and Renatus, Renatus had Cyp up near the edge of the relay tower, ready to push him off. Aria used the Force again, her head aching, and Renatus was sent skidding back on his heels, allowing Cyp to move away from the edge. “Thanks!” Cyp shouted to her, pressing forward.

Aria grinned a bit too fiercely and moved forward to flank Renatus when there was the sound of a large crackle and then there was pain and pain and pain in her back. The first magnaguard. The one she thought she had shoved off of the roof. It must have grabbed onto a ledge somehow and brought itself back up. Less than five seconds until it stops your heart, she realized, seeing the electricity course over her body. It was burning and beating and stabbing and prickling all at once. Jedi are trained to have a great tolerance for pain. She screamed. Lightning cracked. Cyp turned his head at the sound of her scream. Renatus stabbed him through the chest. The look on Cyp’s face was more shocked than in pain, his hand still gripping his lightsaber as the sound of thunder filled the air.

“NO!” Aria shrieked and stabbed blindly backward with her saberstaff. She pivoted on her heel, breaking away from the stream of electricity and thrusting upward with the lightsaber. She heard the sound of saber cutting through metal and thrust harder, jaggedly cutting diagonally up through the magnaguard. It fell back into two useless halves and fell. Her body still wracked with pain from the shock, she started scrambling toward Cyp and Renatus. Renatus was looking into Cyp’s eyes, looking nearly as surprised as Cyp. Hand nearly numb as he gripped the lightsaber piercing through him. Cyp glanced back at Aria, struggling toward him horror and desperation soaking her features, rushing, and then looked back at Renatus. With the last of his strength he swept upward with his lightsaber and cut through Renatus’s arm, severing it just below the elbow. Renatus screamed and reeled back and the red lightsaber sheathed itself and clattered to the ground. Renatus fell on his back, his screams turning to moans and sobs as Cyp felt to his knees. His hand would have instinctively gone up to touch or cover the hole in his chest, but it was still burning hot. Aria caught him in her arms before he could fall hard against the ground. Her hand went toward his wound, even now she would try and heal him? He caught her hand to keep her from burning herself but the strength was slipping out of him.

“Cyp—” she said and he made a charred coughing noise, the cough wracking his body, causing him to convulse in her arms. She held onto him tight.

“Don’t,” she said, sobs choking her words, “Don’t leave me. Please. Please. I love you. Please, I can’t lose you again.”

That sick, half-charred choking noise escaped him again and he brought a shaking hand up. She instantly clasped it in her own and held it against her cheek. She was sobbing. “Stay with me. Please stay with me.” She felt his thumb shakily move, brushing a tear out from under her eye. “I can’t do this without you,” she said softly, “Please don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” the two words came out of him in a slow sigh of a breath and then his hand stopped shaking in hers, his eyes still staring at her as the light fell out of them.

“Cyp—Cyp? Please—” she shook him, “No—you can’t…” her throat tightened and sobs wracked her body as she buried her face in his shoulder, the lightsaber wound in his chest still warm.

She heard soft pained grunts behind her and some quiet muffled crying and she looked up from Cyp. She glanced down at his face, not contorted with pain and death but simply staring upward into the rain. She closed his eyes and kissed his red hair sticking to his forehead with the rain before standing up and turning around. She felt a wave of calm wash over her. The sounds of the world seemed muted in her ears now. Even the burning pain in her back had dulled to almost an afterthought. Renatus was struggling to get to his feet, but being thrown off balance by the loss of his arm, his feet were sliding against the wet roof of the relay tower as he kept falling, trying to keep the stub of his arm from touching the ground.. He was struggling toward his datapad. Aria calmly walked over and stepped on his remaining hand before he could reach it. A soft cry escaped him.

I’m sorry,” he was saying, “I’m sorry.” But she didn’t respond to him. She didn’t even make eye contact as she picked up his datapad and pressed a few buttons on it.

“Tell me how to shut down the droids,” she said, tapping through his datapad. Her voice was raw from crying, but there was a terrifying calmness about it.

“Aria please—-I wouldn’t—-I didn’t want to—-” Renatus said but suddenly he was clawing at his throat with his one remaining hand as his entire body was lifted off the ground. Aria had her hand extended toward him. His legs were flailing uselessly.

“The droids,” she said. as he gasped and grabbed at his throat.

“Abort… Protocol… 8642852,” Renatus choked out and Aria dropped him. He cried out as his arm stub struck the ground and was gasping and coughing. She tapped at the datapad and it made several beeping sounds of confirmation. The sound of blaster fire below the tower died out within seconds. Aria dropped the datapad, then ignited her saberstaff and stabbed it.

“It’s over,” said Renatus, “See? It’s over.”

Aria used the Force to open the lift doors, and seemed to briefly consider walking away and leaving him there on the tower, but then seemed to better consider it. “No,” said Aria, turning toward him.

Instinctively he grabbed at his remaining red lightsaber and ignited it, pointing it at her, terror in his eyes. “Revenge is not the Jedi way,” he blurted out.

“I thought you didn’t want me to be a Jedi,” said Aria. She extended her hand and Renatus felt a force on his lightsaber.

“What are you doing!?” he said. Suddenly his lightsaber started sparking and sputtering. “What are you doing?!” He said again. He noticed that the the blade of the lightsaber was sparking as it was getting shorter. She was forcing it down. She was forcing it back into the crystal. Her nose was bleeding. He desperately moved to throw his lightsaber away from himself but then found that she was using the force to keep his hand clasped around the grip.

“Aria please—Aria you don't have to—! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he was shouting as his body was lifted off the ground again. A high pitched noise started coming out of the crystal chamber of his lightsaber as she continued forcing the blade to recede into it. Aria knew the noise. She had heard it before. Aria took a few steps, and then throwing her whole body into the movement, used the Force to throw Renatus and his screaming lightsaber, the blade all but disappeared, into the lift. She closed the doors with the Force. Renatus was screaming, “Aria please! Please, Aria! Ari—” He was cut off by the muffled sound of an explosion inside the lift. Smoke was coming out of a large crack between the lift doors.

Aria exhaled and the sound and the pain seemed to rush back into her world. She sheathed her lightsaber and picked up one of the electrostaffs of the magnaguards to steady herself, knowing that if she sat down she would probably pass out. Leaning on the electrostaff slightly, she made her way back to Cyp’s body. She stared at it until finally, her own body could take no more and she sank to her knees next to it. Suddenly she was casting a stark shadow over it and she looked over her shoulder to see the bright white headlights of the Siyah closing in on her. Val. The younglings. She hauled herself to her feet and stood up. The Freighter hovered over her and the landing ramp opened. Val edged out onto it, several feet above her head. “Where’s Cyp?!” he shouted over the roar of the engines. Aria glanced over her shoulder and Val followed her eyes. “Oh no,” he said, but he said it so softly she couldn’t hear it over the engines. “Renatus?!” shouted Val.

“It’s done,” said Aria.

Val’s eyes widened slightly, but he gave her a nod. Not proud, but relieved. Then the panic seemed to return to him. “Empire ships are moving into orbit!” he shouted, “Some are already in-atmosphere! We need to go!”

Aria looked back over her shoulder at Cyp’s body.

“Aria!” Val shouted, “They need you! Those kids need you! Please! we need to go!”

Aria blinked several times and looked up at Val. She held on to one end of the electrostaff and shoved upward with it toward him. he grabbed the other end and hauled her up onto the landing ramp. The landing ramp closed and they were inside the ship. Val got to his feet and Aria tried to stand as well but her legs turned to jelly beneath her. “Hey—” Val caught her before she collapsed.

“He’s gone,” Aria’s voice was quiet, “He’s gone.”

“Come on, stay with me, we still gotta get off plan—” Val said but he felt a warm wetness on her back and he pulled his hand away, finding it bloody, “Kid—” he started to say.

“He’s gone,” Aria said again, falling unconscious.

#my writing #my ocs #Star Wars AU

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meeedeee · 7 years

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Westworld: (De)Humanising the Other RSS FEED OF POST WRITTEN BY FOZMEADOWS

Warning: total spoilers for S1 of Westworld.

Trigger warning: talk of rape, sexual assault and queer death.

Note: Throughout this review, it will be necessary to distinguish between the writers of Westworld the TV show, and the writers employed in the narrative by the titular Westworld theme park. To avoid confusing the two, when I’m referring to the show, Westworld will be italicised; when referring to the park, I’ll use plain text.

This will be a somewhat bifurcated review of Westworld – which is, I feel, thematically appropriate, as Westworld itself is something of a bifurcated show. Like so much produced by HBO, it boasts incredible acting, breathtaking production values, intelligent dialogue, great music and an impeccably tight, well-orchestrated series of narrative reveals. Also like much produced by HBO, it takes a liberal, one might even say cartoonishly gratuitous approach to nudity, is saturated with violence in general and violence against women in particular, and has a consistent problem with stereotyping despite its diverse casting. In Westworld’s case, this latter issue is compounded as an offence by its status as a meta-narrative: a story which actively discusses the purpose and structure of stories, but which has seemingly failed to apply those same critiques to key aspects of its own construction.

The practical upshot is that it’s both frustratingly watchable and visibly frustrating. Even when the story pissed me off, I was always compelled to keep going, but I was never quite able to stop criticising it, either. It’s a thematically meaty show, packed with the kind of twists that will, by and large, enhance viewer enjoyment on repeat viewings rather than diminish the appeal. Though there are a few Fridge Logic moments, the whole thing hangs together quite elegantly – no mean feat, given the complexity of the plotting. And yet its virtues have the paradoxical effect of making me angrier about its vices, in much the same way that I’d be more upset about red wine spilled on an expensive party dress than on my favourite t-shirt. Yes, the shirt means more to me despite being cheaper, but a stain won’t stop me from wearing it at home, and even if it did, the item itself is easily replaced. But staining something precious and expensive is frustrating: I’ve invested enough in the cost of the item that I don’t want to toss it away, but staining makes it unsuitable as a showcase piece, which means I can’t love it as much as I want to, either.

You get where I’m going with this.

Right from the outset, Westworld switches between two interconnected narratives: the behind-the-scenes power struggles of the people who run the titular themepark, and the goings-on in the park itself as experienced by both customers and ‘hosts’, the humanoid robot-AIs who act as literal NPCs in pre-structured, pay-to-participate narratives. To the customers, Westworld functions as an immersive holiday-roleplay experience: though visually indistinguishable from real humans, the hosts are considered unreal, and are therefore fair game to any sort of violence, dismissal or sexual fantasy the customers can dream up. (This despite – or at times, because of – the fact that their stated ability to pass the Turing test means their reactions to said violations are viscerally animate.) To the programmers, managers, storytellers, engineers, butchers and behaviourists who run it, Westworld is, variously, a job, an experiment, a financial gamble, a risk, a sandpit and a microcosm of human nature: the hosts might look human, but however unsettling their appearance or behaviour at times, no one is ever allowed to forget what they are.

But to the hosts themselves, Westworld is entirely real, as are their pre-programmed identities. While their existence is ostensibly circumscribed by adherence to preordained narrative ‘loops’, the repetition of their every conversation, death and bodily reconstruction wiped from their memories by the park engineers, certain hosts – notably Dolores, the rancher’s daughter, and Maeve, the bordello madame – are starting to remember their histories. Struggling to understand their occasional eerie interviews with their puppeteering masters – explained away as dreams, on the rare occasion where such explanation is warranted – they fight to break free of their intended loops, with startling consequences.But there is also a hidden layer to Westworld: a maze sought by a mysterious Man in Black and to which the various hosts and their narratives are somehow key. With the hosts exhibiting abnormal behaviour, retaining memories of their former ‘lives’ in a violent, fragmented struggle towards true autonomy, freedom and sentience, Westworld poses a single, sharp question: what does it mean to be human?

Or rather, it’s clearly trying to pose this question; and to be fair, it very nearly succeeds. But for a series so overtly concerned with its own meta – it is, after all, a story about the construction, reception and impact of stories on those who consume and construct them – it has a damnable lack of insight into the particulars of its assumed audiences, both internal and external, and to the ways this hinders the proclaimed universality of its conclusions. Specifically: Westworld is a story in which all the internal storytellers are straight white men endowed with the traditional bigotries of racism, sexism and heteronormativity, but in a context where none of those biases are overtly addressed at any narrative level.

From the outset, it’s clear that Westworld is intended as a no-holds-barred fantasy in the literal sense: a place where the rich and privileged can pay through the nose to fuck, fight and fraternise in a facsimile of the old West without putting themselves at any real physical danger. Nobody there can die: customers, unlike hosts, can’t be killed (though they do risk harm in certain contexts), but each host body and character is nonetheless resurrected, rebuilt and put back into play after they meet their end. Knowing this lends the customers a recklessness and a violence they presumably lack in the real world: hosts are shot, stabbed, raped, assaulted and abused with impunity, because their disposable inhumanity is the point of the experience. This theme is echoed in their treatment by Westworld’s human overseers, who often refer to them as ‘it’ and perform their routine examinations, interviews, repairs and updates while the hosts are naked.

At this point in time, HBO is as well-known for its obsession with full frontal, frequently orgiastic nudity as it is for its total misapprehension of the distinction between nakedness and erotica. Never before has so much skin been shown outside of literal porn with so little instinct for sensuality, sexuality or any appreciation of the human form beyond hurr durr tiddies and, ever so occasionally, hurr durr dongs, and Westworld is no exception to this. It’s like the entirety of HBO is a fourteen-year-old straight boy who’s just discovered the nascent thrill of drawing Sharpie-graffiti genitals on every available schoolyard surface and can only snigger, unrepentant and gleeful, whenever anyone asks them not to. We get it, guys – humans have tits and asses, and you’ve figured out how to show us that! Huzzah for you! Now get the fuck over your pubescent creative wankphase and please, for the love of god, figure out how to do it tastefully, or at least with some general nodding in the direction of an aesthetic other than Things I Desperately Wanted To See As A Teengaer In The Days Before Internet Porn.

That being said, I will concede that there’s an actual, meaningful reason for at least some of Westworld’s ubiquitous nudity: it’s a deliberate, visual act of dehumanisation, one intended not only to distinguish the hosts from the ‘real’ people around them, but to remind the park’s human employees that there’s no need to treat the AIs with kindness or respect. For this reason, it also lends a powerful emphasis to the moments when particular characters opt to dress or cover the hosts, thereby acknowledging their personhood, however minimally. This does not, however, excuse the sadly requisite orgy scenes, nor does it justify the frankly obscene decision to have a white female character make a leering comment about the size of a black host’s penis, and especially not when said female character has already been established as queer. (Yes, bi/pan people exist; as I have good reason to know, being one of them. But there are about nine zillion ways the writers could’ve chosen to show Elsie’s sexual appreciation for men that didn’t tap into one of the single grossest sexual tropes on the books, let alone in a context which, given the host’s blank servility and Elsie’s status as an engineer, is unpleasantly evocative of master/slave dynamics.)

And on the topic of Elsie, let’s talk about queerness in Westworld, shall we? Because let’s be real: the bar for positive queer representation on TV is so fucking low right now, it’s basically at speedbump height, and yet myriad grown-ass adults are evidently hellbent on bellyflopping onto it with all the grace and nuance of a drunk walrus. Elsie is a queer white woman whose queerness is shown to us by her decision to kiss one of the female hosts, Clementine, who’s currently deployed as a prostitute, in a context where Clementine is reduced to a literal object, stripped of all consciousness and agency. Episode 6 ends on the cliffhanger of Elsie’s probable demise, and as soon as I saw that setup, I felt as if that single, non-consensual kiss – never referenced or expanded on otherwise – had been meant as Chekov’s gaykilling gun: this woman is queer, and thus is her death predicted. (Of course she fucking dies. Of course she does. I looked it up before I watched the next episode, but I might as well have Googled whether the sun sets in the west.)

It doesn’t help that the only other queer femininity we’re shown is either pornography as wallpaper or female host prostitutes hitting on female customers; and it especially doesn’t help that, as much as HBO loves its gratuitous orgy scenes, you’ll only ever see two naked women casually getting it on in the background, never two naked men. Nor does it escape notice that the lab tech with a penchant for fucking the hosts in sleep mode is apparently a queer man, a fact which is presented as a sort of narrative reveal. The first time he’s caught in the act, we only see the host’s legs, prone and still, under his body, but later there’s a whole sequence where he takes one of the male hosts, Hector – who is, not coincidentally, a MOC, singled out for sexual misuse by at least one other character – and prepares to rape him. (It’s not actually clear in context whether the tech is planning on fucking or being fucked by Hector – not that it’s any less a violation either way, of course; I’m noting it rather because the scene itself smacks of being constructed by people without any real idea of how penetrative sex between two men works. Like, ignoring the fact that they’re in a literal glass-walled room with the tech’s eyerolling colleague right next door, Hector is sitting upright on a chair, but is also flaccid and non-responsive by virtue of being in sleep mode. So even though we get a grimly lascivious close-up of the tech squirting lube on his hand, dropping his pants and, presumably, slicking himself up, it’s not actually clear what he’s hoping to achieve prior to the merciful moment when Hector wakes up and fights him the fuck off.)

Topping off this mess is Logan, a caustic, black-hat-playing customer who, in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it foursome with three host prostitutes – two female, one male – is visually implied to be queer, and who thereinafter functions, completely unnecessarily, as a depraved bisexual stereotype. And I do mean blink-and-you’ll-miss-it: I had to rewind the episode to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, but it’s definitely there, and as with Elsie kissing Clementine, it’s never referenced again. The male host is engaging only with Logan, stroking his chest as he kisses and fucks the two women; it’s about as unsexualised as sexual contact between two naked men can actually get, and yet HBO has gone to the trouble of including it, I suspect for the sole purpose of turning a bland, unoriginal character into an even grosser stereotype than he would otherwise have been while acting under the misapprehension that it would give him depth. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. Logan doesn’t cease to be a cocky, punchable asshat just because you consented to put a naked white dude next to him for less time than it takes to have a really good shit; it just suggests that you, too, are a cocky, punchable asshat who should shit more in the bathroom and less on the fucking page. But I digress.

And then there’s the racism, which – and there’s no other way to put this – is presented as being an actual, intentional feature of the Westworld experience, even though it makes zero commercial sense to do this. Like. You have multiple white hosts who are programmed to make racist remarks about particular POC hosts, despite the fact that there are demonstrably POC customers paying to visit the park. You have a consistent motif of Native Americans being referred to as ‘savages’, both within Westworld-as-game and by the gamewriters themselves, with Native American mysticism being used to explain both the accidental glimpses various self-aware hosts get of the gamerunners and the in-game lore surrounding the maze. Demonstrably, the writers of Westworld are aware of this – why else is Episode 2, wherein writer character Lee Sizemore gleefully proposes a hella racist new story for the park, called ‘Chestnut’, as in old? I’ve said elsewhere that depiction is not endorsement, but it is perpetuation, and in a context where the point of Westworld as a commercial venture is demonstrably to appeal to customers of all genders, sexual orientations and races – all of whom we see in attendance – building in particular period-appropriate bigotries is utterly nonsensical.

More than this, as the openness with which the female prostitutes seduce female customers makes clear, it’s narratively inconsistent: clearly, not every bias of the era is being rigidly upheld. And yet it also makes perfect sense if you think of both Westworld and Westworld as being, predominantly, a product both created by and intended for a straight white male imagination. In text, Westworld’s stories are written by Lee and Robert, both of whom are straight white men, while Westworld itself was originally the conceit of Michael Crichton. Which isn’t to diminish the creative input of the many other people who’ve worked on the show – technically, it’s a masterclass in acting, direction, composition, music, lighting, special effects and editing, and those people deserve their props. It’s just that, in terms of narrative structure, by what I suspect is an accidental marriage of misguided purpose and unexamined habit, Westworld the series, like Westworld the park, functions primarily for a straight white male audience – and while I don’t doubt that there was some intent to critically highlight the failings of that perspective, as per the clear and very satisfying satirising of Lee Sizemore, as with Zack Snyder’s Suckerpunch and Lev Grossman’s The Magicians, the straight white male gaze is still so embedded as a lazy default that Westworld ends up amplifying its biases more often than it critiques them. (To quote something my straight white husband said while watching, “It’s my gaze, and I feel like I’m being parodied by it.”)

Though we do, as mentioned, see various women and people of colour enjoying the Westworld park, the customers who actually serve as protagonists – Logan, William and the Man in Black – are all white men. Logan is queer by virtue of a single man’s hand on his chest, but other than enforcing a pernicious stereotype about bisexual appetites and behaviours, it doesn’t do a damn thing to alter his characterisation. The end of season reveal that William is the Man in Black – that William’s scenes have all taken place thirty years in the past, shown to us now through Dolores’s memories – is a cleverly executed twist, and yet the chronicle of William’s transformation from youthful, romantic idealist to violent, sadistic predator only highlights the fundamental problem, which is that the Westworld park, despite being touted as an adventure for everyone – despite Robert using his customers as a basis for making universal judgements about human nature – is clearly a more comfortable environment for some than others. Certainly, if I was able to afford the $40,000 a day we’re told it costs to attend, I’d be disinclined to spend so much for the privilege of watching male robots, whatever their courtesy to me, routinely talk about raping women, to say nothing of being forced to witness the callousness of other customers to the various hosts.

It should be obvious that there’s no such thing as a universal fantasy, and yet much of Westworld’s psychological theorising about human nature and morality hinges on our accepting that the desire to play cowboy in a transfigured version of the old West is exactly this. That the final episode provides tantalising evidence that at least one other park with a different historical theme exists elsewhere in the complex doesn’t change the fact that S1 has sold us, via the various monologues of Logan and Lee, Robert and William and the Man in Black, the idea that Westworld specifically reveals deep truths about human nature.

Which brings us to Dolores, a female host whose primary narrative loop centres on her being a sweet, optimistic rancher’s daughter who, with every game reset, can be either raped or rescued from rape by the customers. That Dolores is our primary female character – that her narrative trajectory centres on her burgeoning sentience, her awareness of the repeat violations she’s suffered, and her refusal to remain a damsel – does not change the fact that making her thus victimised was a choice at both the internal (Westworld) and external (Westworld) levels. I say again unto HBO, I do not fucking care how edgy you think threats of sexual violence and the repeat objectification of women are: they’re not original, they’re not compelling, and in this particular instance, what you’ve actually succeeded in doing is undermining your core premise so spectacularly that I do not understand how anyone acting in good sense or conscience could let it happen.

Because in making host women like Dolores (white) and Maeve (a WOC), both of whom are repeatedly subject to sexual and physical violation, your lynchpin characters for the development of true human sentience from AIs – in making their memories of those violations the thing that spurs their development – you’re not actually asking the audience to consider what it means to be human. You’re asking them to consider the prospect that victims of rape and assault aren’t actually human in the first place, and then to think about how being repeatedly raped and assaulted might help them to gain humanity. And you’re not even being subtle about it, either, because by the end of S1, the entire Calvinistic premise is laid clear: that Robert and Arnold, the park’s founders, believed that tragedy and suffering was the cornerstone of sentience, and that the only way for hosts to surpass their programming is through misery. Which implies, by logical corollary, that Robert is doing the hosts a service by allowing others to hurt them or by hurting them himself – that they are only able to protest his mistreatment because the very fact of it gave them sentience.

Let that sink in for a moment, because it’s pretty fucking awful. The moral dilemma of Westworld, inasmuch as it exists, centres on the question of knowing culpability, and therefore asks a certain cognitive dissonance of the audience: on the one hand, the engineers and customers believe that the hosts aren’t real people, such that hurting them is no more an immoral act than playing Dark Side in a Star Wars RPG is; on the other hand, from an audience perspective, the hosts are demonstrably real people, or at the very least potential people, and we are quite reasonably distressed to see them hurt. Thus: if the humans in setting can’t reasonably be expected to know that the hosts are people, then we the audience are meant to feel conflicted about judging them for their acts of abuse and dehumanisation while still rooting for the hosts.

Ignore, for a moment, the additional grossness of the fact that both Dolores and Maeve are prompted to develop sentience, and are then subsequently guided in its emergence, by men, as though they are Eves being made from Adam’s rib. Ignore, too, the fact that it’s Dolores’s host father who, overwhelmed by the realisation of what is routinely done to his daughter, passes that fledgling sentience to Dolores, a white woman, who in turn passes it to Maeve, a woman of colour, without which those other male characters – William, Felix, Robert – would have no Galateas to their respective Pygmalions. Ignore all this, and consider the basic fucking question of personhood: of what it means to engage with AIs you know can pass a Turing test, who feel pain and bleed and die and exhibit every human symptom of pain and terror and revulsion as the need arises, who can improvise speech and memory, but who can by design give little or no consent to whatever it is you do to them. Harming such a person is not the same as engaging with a video game; we already know it’s not for any number of reasons, which means we can reasonably expect the characters in the show to know so, too. But even if you want to dispute that point – and I’m frankly not interested in engaging with someone who does – it doesn’t change the fact that Westworld is trying to invest us in a moral false equivalence.

The problem with telling stories about robots developing sentience is that both the robots and their masters are rendered at an identical, fictional distance to the (real, human) viewer. By definition, an audience doesn’t have to believe that a character is literally real in order to care about them; we simply have to accept their humanisation within the narrative. That being so, asking viewers to accept the dehumanisation of one fictional, sentient group while accepting the humanisation of another only works if you’re playing to prejudices we already have in the real world – such as racism or sexism, for instance – and as such, it’s not a coincidence that the AIs we see violated over and over are, almost exclusively, women and POC, while those protagonists who abuse them are, almost exclusively, white men. Meaning, in essence, that any initial acceptance of the abuse of hosts that we’re meant to have – or, by the same token, any initial excusing of abusers – is predicated on an existing form of bigotry: collectively, we are as used to doubting the experiences and personhood of women and POC as we are used to assuming the best about straight white men, and Westworld fully exploits that fact to tell its story.

Which, as much as it infuriates me, also leaves me with a dilemma in interpreting the show. Because as much as I dislike seeing marginalised groups exploited and harmed, I can appreciate the importance of aligning a fictional axis of oppression (being a host) with an actual axis of oppression (being female and/or a POC). Too often, SFFnal narratives try to tackle that sort of Othering without casting any actual Others, co-opting the trappings of dehumanisation to enhance our sympathy for a (mostly white, mostly straight) cast. And certainly, by the season finale, the deliberateness of this decision is made powerfully clear: joined by hosts Hector and Armistice and aided by Felix, a lab tech, Maeve makes her escape from Westworld, presenting us with the glorious image of three POC and one white woman battling their way free of oppressive control. And yet the reveal of Robert’s ultimate plans – the inference that Maeve’s rebellion wasn’t her own choice after all, but merely his programming of her; the revelation that Bernard is both a host and a recreation of Arnold, Robert’s old partner; the merging of Dolores’s arc with Wyatt’s – simultaneously serves to strip these characters of any true agency. Everything they’ve done has been at Robert’s whim; everything they’ve suffered has been because he wanted it so. As per the ubiquitous motif of the player piano, even when playing unexpected tunes, the hosts remain Robert’s instruments: even with his death, the songs they sing are his.

Westworld, then, is a study in contradictions, and yet is no contradiction at all. Though providing a stunning showcase for the acting talents of Thandie Newton, Evan Rachel Wood and Jeffrey Wright in particular, their characters are nonetheless all controlled by Anthony Hopkins’s genial-creepy Robert, and that doesn’t really change throughout the season. Though the tropes of old West narratives are plainly up for discussion, any wider discussion of stereotyping is as likely to have a lampshade hung on it as to be absent altogether, and that’s definitely a problem. Not being familiar with the Michael Crichton film and TV show, I can’t pass judgement on the extent to which this new adaptation draws from or surpasses the source material. I can, however, observe that the original film dates to the 1970s, which possibly goes some way to explaining the uncritical straight white male gazieness embedded in the premise. Even so, there’s something strikingly reminiscent of Joss Whedon to this permutation of Westworld, and I don’t mean that as a compliment. The combination of a technologically updated old West, intended to stand as both a literal and metaphoric frontier, the genre-aware meta-narrative that nonetheless perpetuates more stereotypes than it subverts, and the supposed moral dilemma of abusing those who can’t consent feels at times like a mashup of Firefly, Cabin in the Woods and Dollhouse that has staunchly failed to improve on Whedon’s many intersectional failings.

And yet, I suspect, I’ll still be poking my nose into Season 2, if only to see how Thandie Newton is doing. It feels like an absurdly low bar to say that, compared to most of HBO’s popular content, Westworld is more tell than show in portraying sexual violence, preferring to focus on the emotional lead-in and aftermath rather than the act itself, and yet that small consideration does ratchet the proverbial dial down a smidge when watching it – enough so that I’m prepared to say it’s vastly less offensive in that respect than, say, Game of Thrones. But it’s still there, still a fundamental part of the plot, and that’s going to be a not unreasonable dealbreaker for a lot of people; as is the fact that the only queer female character dies. Westworld certainly makes compelling television, but unlike the human protagonists, I wouldn’t want to live there.

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