#(You Are My Glory executes this so well because his reasons to reject her both times - years apart - make character sense)

[silviakundera]

one trope I am SO INTO in romantic ships is Person A confesses feelings or hits on Person B and they are turned down. and then Person A moves on, but once they've put it behind them ... DOT DOT DOT now Person B is interested.

I don't mean fake 'doesn't remember the kiss'/'didn't recognize an obvious confession' nonsense bullshit, I mean they really were rejected: maybe Person B was having a terrible week, maybe Person B had personal problems & didn't have a thought to romance, maybe Person B was committed to someone else, maybe Person B has a negative impression that needs to be corrected...

It's so good y'all. I love that shit.

[ekaterinakostrova]

“I can feel this fear in your blood; hear it in your heartbeat”.

“She had to do something. She did not have gold or lands, or castles, or anything she could offer to him so that she could redeem this poor child. He was just a little boy. There was nothing that she could offer to this man.

The air burned her lungs in these icy mountains. The midday sun glided along the mountain ranges, freezing on the adamantine peaks of the rocky cliffs.

She did not know the true horror and fear before. All the nightmares that appeared to her at night could not be compared with such a horrible reality. The loud, horrific cries of children left to die in the mud in cold ground. Cassian told her once, how his people were dealing with the bastards. Some were thrown alive from the rocks, others were torn to pieces by the creatures living deep in dense forests, and someone were left on the ground without the limbs with blood splashing everywhere.... 

They cut off their fingers, and then chopped off their hands and feet, and then set fire to their wings¸ and the children burned alive in the fire.

In ancient times, the Illyrians chose the most powerful warrior among the clan and called him as their leader. They raised their swords to the glory of their new master, respecting the power of one warrior over their lives and families. Centuries have passed, and one family strengthened its power. It became so powerful that influence of one leader was indissoluble and unshakable. The head of the household was called as the war lord.

One clan absorbed another for the sake of lands, and after for the sake of more selfish reasons - power, influence, strength. Strength was everything for all of the Illyrians – the most solid foundation for achieving greater unity and solidarity among all the clans. Those clans were eager to destroy everybody and everything in its path. The leaders of these clans were hungry snakes, ready to devour their own kind.

She watched Kallon. Kallon with a smile of a jackal on his lips. Watched as this man piercing the boy’s back with a black dagger with a gold hilt. She heard as a cry of pain burned the air. Even cattle were slaughtered with less cruelty. Hot blood spattered his face while his boot rested on the back of the boy. He pressed the child to the ground, stopping him from moving. One man’s hand held tightly to the wing, and the other cut the wing from the back of the child. There was so much blood that the man's dark camisole took on a deep crimson hue.

Nausea came up to her throat. She could barely stand. Her hands were trembling, her knees buckled. She looked at the tent, where all the war lords gathered, but not one of them moved while the warrior’s dagger cut the flesh of the child; not one of them attempted to stop Kallon, whose hands separating the flesh from the bones, the wing from the back. The Lord of the Night Court continued his conversation with the leader of one of the clans.

An emotion of disgust froze on Cassian's face.

He had no right to interfere in the actions of one of the members of the ruling family. Cassian was the General of the Night Court, but for the ruling leaders of the Illyrian clans, he remained a bastard.

The fruit of sin.

The spawn.

She felt the tension rise immediately.

Women took their children to the tents. The soldiers silently watching the execution. Nesta was deafened by a terrible, exhausted scream.

Her legs moved instinctively. It was one those moments, when the body moves by itself in order to survive on the battlefield. And for her, Kallon became that rattlesnake. And she was going to chop off its head.

She attacked him with a cry, throwing him aside with the weight of her body. She knew the reason of this bloody scene. All of this was for Cassian. Cassian, who was an insignificant bastard. Cassian, who was the right hand of the Lord of the Night Court. Cassian, who was one of Illyria's most powerful warriors in the history. Cassian, who was a miserable bastard unworthy of life.

“I'll kill you!”

She screamed, tearing apart his leather uniforms with her strong, immortal fingers, ripping apart golden chains and sapphire stones decorating his expensive clothes. She tore the skin on her knuckles and her pale hands were in his dirty blood. She repeatedly punched the beautiful shape of his nose and strong jaw. And for the first time after her rebirth, she was grateful for the strength of her new body.

Excitement seethed and smoldered in her veins as she was tearing the skin on his chest with her fingernails, trying to reach his ribs and then rip out his poisoned heart. His hot blood coated her hands.

“Take this viper away from me!”

Several men grabbed her by the shoulders, and while she was trying to fend off their strong hands, she broke the jaw of one of them.

“Crap!” - Kallon hissed, spitting hot blood on the ground. “Bastard’s whore!”

Her mind was flooded with anger and pure rage. The flames raced through her body. She could not think, when she cried out words that pierced the air, like lightning.

“Duel,” - she screamed, trying to break free from the grip of the Illyrian warriors. “I demand a duel with the noble as the winner of the Blood Rite!”

His mouth curved, as if she'd said something funny. Kallon began to laugh hysterically. His smile bore a hint of mockery. And then again she saw that sparkle in his eyes. She had already seen this dark gleam in his eyes, when he first saw her with Cassian.

“Whore! You think that if you came out of the Blood Rite alive, you have the right to speak with me as an equal. Apparently your master did not teach how to keep your mouth shut in bed.

The wind stopped. Even the clouds seemed to freeze.

His tone a blade that whispered warning.

“Even if the elders give you a permission to fight with me, I have the right to reject the fight. After all, what will I get in return after accepting your challenge? You know the rules that both opponents have to offer something to the rival”.

She refused to look away. Death whispered in her ear.

“The life of this child, I want your warriors and your people! You will let them go. That is what I want and that is what I’m going to take from you.”

And when Kallon walked to stand less than a foot from her.

Nesta's instincts were screaming at her to grab the knife in her boot, but she forced herself to stay in place. She wouldn't crawl, not for anyone. 

Kallon's face changed, he came closer to her while his warriors held her hands, and then bowed her to the ground, until she was kneeled before him.

“My clan, my people, my lands. And what are you going to offer in return? You have nothing. You might be a nice plaything for one night, but I won't bargain with you for my entire clan if it’s all what you can offer.”

He took her chin between his fingers. Cold knuckles running along her skin. She met his eyes, forced herself to hold her ground.

“Who told you that you have the right to be here and speak? Who told you that you have the right to look into my eyes? You walk among us, eat among us, sleep in our tents. We let the witch to walk among us, made her one of us,” he shouted to the crowd gathered around them.

“It is precisely because of such a vicious leader as the current High Lord of the Night Court. We allow strangers to dictate their rules into our lands. We allowed the bastard to become the General that leads our warriors on the battlefield. So many women and daughters are left alone. We are the greatest army, which is ready to establish its own rules on the lands of Prythian. Illyrians paid its debt to the Night Court from the day when the first clan led by Enalius set foot on this land. These lands, these mountains, these forests belong to Illyria. We spilled enough blood for the Night Court and its ruthless leaders!

Nesta lowered her head and said calmly.

“You are afraid of me”.

The men's hands stilled on her shoulders, she felt their eyes focused on Kallon.

“I can feel this fear in your blood; hear it in your heartbeat”.

Open interest showed on his face.

“A poisonous viper, I had to chop off your head before you stepped on the lands of my clan before you open your filthy mouth.”

“That's right,” she admitted, giving him a teasing grin. She tried to piss him off; she knew too well, how to get a rise out of him. “But the head of the viper spits poison even after it is chopped off.”

He stared at her back.

“She has the right to fight as a winner,” Devlon announced loudly, arms crossed over his strong chest.

Nesta did not dare to turn around. She only felt his eyes on her back. Cassian.

Kallon grinned viciously, and Devlon continued.

“If you think that this girl needs to be taught a lesson, then teach her properly. Show her then. Show everyone, what we should do with those, who dictate their rules to us”.

His eyes narrowed. 

“This snake has nothing to offer me in return.”

Kallon turned around on the heels of his shiny, leather boots. These boots were soaked in the blood of a child, still trembling on the cold ground. His moans still echoing in her ears, still burning the air.

Nesta swallowed.

“I have something to offer you. And my offer will be the most profitable in your life! You have been expecting such an offer for so many decades. You will have a chance to revenge.”

Kallon turned around.

“And what are you ready to offer me?”

“Myself”.

He laughed, the sound full of dark, and then he took a deep breath.

“What for?”

She hissed, rising from her knees, despite the hands holding her.

“I am the one, who took the King’s life. I am the one, who survived in the ageless darkness and the one, who swallowed the darkness of the Cauldron, took it into my veins, into my blood. Steel became my body, and flame became my blood. To own me means to own the world”.

He grinned. His eyes gleamed, but all he said was:

“I don't need Cassian's whore.”

She had to make a decision. She would not have a second chance.

“I'm not his whore,” she shouted. “I'm his mate!”

Kallon’s expression held pure shock. His eyes froze on her face, in the depth of the seething rage of her silver-blue eyes. A wave of whispers swept along the ranks of the Illyrians.

“Such an appropriate lie,” he finally whispered.

“You don't believe me, then, ask the Morrigan.”

She lifted her face to feel the full onslaught of the wind. It felt good on her skin. The sensation made her feel brave, fearless, and she has nothing left to lose by releasing this, by revealing the truth. 

Nesta took more air into her lungs before screaming:

“Tell them Morrigan! Tell them all the truth! You are the one, who tells the truth and nothing but the truth. Tell them what you see! Tell them all, what kind of beast I am! Let them all see, who I am!”

She could imagine it. She could imagine the emotion of horror on Morrrigan's face.

Then she heard the thunderous approach of his steps, the heat of his strength, burning the air around. Her breath caught in her throat. Kallon cast a glance at Cassian approaching them, saw something in his eyes. His own eyes light up.

The men removed their hands from her shoulders: they were a shackle around her upper arms, when they saw the promise of death in the eyes of the General of the Night Court.

She fought the urge to turn around. She fought the urge to see his face.

“You have to decide faster, Kallon,” she whispered, not looking back at Cassian. She could smell him; hear the beat of his heart.

Kallon looked into the eyes of the General of the Night Court, saw something on his face. And that was the moment, when he believed her. His lips curved upward in a feral smile, when he said:

“I accept your offer, Nesta Archeron”.

[dweemeister]

Aaron Loves Angela (1975)

The protests following the death of George Floyd have ignited debates about police militarization and tactics in the United States. They have also reenergized, in some cases mainstreamed, a discussion about what is celebrated in popular culture. Some have argued that certain films should not be available for consumption because they have espoused white supremacist values or have merely depicted white supremacy – an argument that this blog rejects in favor of contextualization and curation. By many of those same critics’ hypothetical standards towards how black people can or should be depicted, blaxploitation films might be considered too problematic to show. Blaxploitation, a subgenre of exploitation film, rose and fell in the early- and mid-1970s. It featured majority-black (if not all-black) casts, but the characters they depicted often reinforced violent and sexualized stereotypes under the guise of empowerment.

Among the directors central to blaxploitation were Gordon Parks (1969’s The Learning Tree, 1971’s Shaft; the former is the first film directed by an African-American for a major Hollywood movie studio) and his son, Gordon Parks Jr. Released by Paramount, the younger Parks’ fourth and final film, Aaron Loves Angela, is a confounding film that cannot be cleanly categorized within the blaxploitation subgenre. At times, Aaron Loves Angela looks as if it will be played as a straight teenage coming-of-age or interracial romance film peripherally adapted from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, but a poorly written criminal subplot direct from low-rent blaxploitation fails to connect with the central drama. As disappointing as the execution is, the film’s interracial romance and – at least when the film focuses on the title characters – its framing through the star-crossed lovers is unlike anything of its kind in mid-1970s American cinema.

It is the early 1970s in Harlem. De facto segregation between blacks and Puerto Ricans does nothing to quell a simmering racial animosity. Two 15-year-olds – Aaron James (Kevin Hooks) and Angela Sanchez (Irene Cara in her film debut) – have a wordless, chance meeting during a high school basketball game. They gaze in each other’s eyes, with that tingly feeling in their stomachs. Of course, that tingly feeling is overwhelming and inconducive to winning a basketball game. Yes, Aaron’s team loses the game and a (predictable) bench-clearing brawl occurs. Aaron and Angela, despite their knowledge that most of their friends and family would disapprove, begin to see each other. Both are the only child in a single-parent household. He lives with his resentful father, Ike (Moses Gunn), once a promising American football player whose career ended due to injury, and too often stating his desire to see his son play professional basketball. She lives with her mother, and has never lived in one place long enough to make lasting friends.

Just as Aaron and Angela start their relationship, screenwriter Gerald Sanford (a journeyman television writer credited with episodes of Barnaby Jones and CHiPs) drops in a subplot that sidetracks the film so much that it not only undermines the budding story of the protagonists, but it seems as if it came from an entirely different film. In Aaron’s apartment building, drug dealer and pimp Beau (Robert Hooks; Kevin’s father) reels in Aaron on a narcotics deal with the Italian-American mafia. Aaron agrees to help for no good reason. Sanford’s inclusion of Beau and his girlfriend Cleo (Ernestine Jackson; whose character commits statutory rape) is an attempt to justify the film’s careening turns into a blaxploitation crime drama – a shootout, a climactic vehicular pursuit with innocent minors endangered. Considering how the film begins, its title, its ostensible spotlighting of two actors in a rarely-produced subgenre of romance, the subplot is a detriment to the young actors’ performances – there are genuine moments of tenderness, but not nearly enough – and the way their characters are written.

Romeo and Juliet displayed interest in developing the young Montague and Capulet; West Side Story affords the music and space for the audience to know Maria and Tony. Aaron and Angela favors the former, with the latter’s personality, family and friends, and ambitions reduced to her attraction to Aaron and nothing else. That Sanford and Parks are so disinterested in imbuing Angela with any character depth is an encapsulation of how carelessly they handle the story. As the criminal subplot begins to overstep its welcome, the amount of time directed towards Angela (without Aaron doting on her) and the Puerto Rican community evaporates. The film’s incuriosity towards its female and Puerto Rican characters probably should have been expected given the nature of exploitation films, but it is nevertheless dispiriting to see this sort of storytelling recklessness for a perspective seldom seen in American filmmaking.

The drug deal subplot also reduces the screentime for the best performance in Aaron Loves Angela. Moses Gunn, as Ike, is excellent here. He vacillates between fits of alcoholic rage and uttering thoughts regretted the moment after their delivery to sober melancholy and overbearing parenting. Stereotypes of black fatherhood in American mainstream media will often have the father be absent from their child’s life, sometimes simply unsupportive, and occasionally involved in criminal enterprise. Certainly, Ike exudes hostility and bitterness – which, on its face, appears to uphold those historic negative stereotypes frequently seen in movies (not just blaxploitation films). Noting his brief, injury-ended professional football career, that depthless well of antipathy is justified – in recent years, the National Football League (NFL) has been criticized for neglecting the financial and physical wellbeing of its retired players. Parks and Sanford should receive some credit, even if this is accidental, for providing dimension to a black father’s negative behavior. The film does not condone Ike’s behavior towards Aaron, but it retains some sympathy for the embattled father – something that might not have been perceptible with anything but a solid turn by Gunn. As Ike, Gunn plays a lifetime haunted by ghosts of glory.

Aaron Loves Angela also boasts songs by Puerto Rican singer/songwriter José Feliciano (who has a cameo in the film; some of the songs were co-written by his then-wife, Janna Merlyn Feliciano). The best and most notable feature of the code-switching soundtrack is “Angela”, played over the film’s opening credits. “Angela” is an impassioned song, strummed along to Feliciano’s signature guitar along with rolling string harmonies that make the piece distinctively Feliciano’s. The English-language version of “Angela” has not received much attention due to Aaron and Angela’s lack of success at the box office and contemporary obscurity, but the Spanish-language “Angela” (with a Spanish “g” pronounced as an “h”) was a generational hit among Spanish speakers. Irene Cara, a skilled vocalist (as any fan of 1980’s Fame will tell you), does not sing in this film.

Following Aaron Loves Angela, Gordon Parks Jr. formed a new production company, Africa International Pictures, and set to work on his newest project, an adventure film entitled Revenge. At least one-third of Revenge was completed when, on April 3, 1979, Parks and three others perished in an airplane crash that occurred shortly after takeoff. Revenge was never completed. The younger George Parks was survived by his father. For the young actors, they continued to work in the entertainment industry albeit thriving in different mediums. Kevin Hooks left acting to become a television producer and director while Irene Cara would become better known for her musical career (“Fame”, “Flashdance… What a Feeling”) than for her acting.

Movies centered on an interracial romance, let alone youthful interracial romance, are almost never distributed by major movie studios. Often consigned to smaller, independent studios and limited theatrical releases, these films deserve to have an audience. For Aaron Loves Angela, this was a film made by an established Hollywood studio, but apparently floundered with audiences – explanations for its lack of financial success are almost nil in freely-available literature because of the film’s obscurity.

Here is an attempt at inference. By 1973, the blaxploitation subgenre had been protested by civil rights groups and disgruntled actors and directors under the banner of the Black Artists Alliance because of their portrayals of black characters. Studio executives took notice of these protests, and the blaxploitation film would be in terminal decline for the remainder of the decade – these protests occurred even though these films provided black actors and actresses with a volume of starring roles that had never been seen in American cinema. With its 1975 release, Aaron Loves Angela arrived during the subgenre’s hasty decline. It is not an accomplished film, but Aaron Loves Angela’s central conceit – a film centered on African-American and Puerto Rican teenagers in a relationship – has unfortunately been buried due to the timing of its release. The virtuous qualities and cultural damage of films like Aaron Loves Angela and blaxploitation in general remain an open debate – one that deserves the recognition of nuance and previously unheard voices to help guide.

My rating: 5/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

[mittensmorgul]

Today on the tnt loop, 11.21 and 11.22 (so far, we’re going through 12.03 today). But Chuck is here, and it’s fascinating to watch just how much he harps on the whole Free Will thing... From 11.22

SAM: Getting these groups to enlist and then work together, it's not gonna be easy. DEAN: Couldn't you just compel them? CHUCK: I invented free will for a reason. DEAN: So we're tying our hands on principle? CHUCK: No, you can't make an effective soldier by force. They have to choose this fight. DEAN: But they're gonna want to know they're backing a winner.

Compel, no. Persuade by manipulating the narrative, by dismissing or rendering ineffective any other play, by making it so that there doesn’t seem to be any other choice, by foisting blame off on everyone else... from 11.20:

CHUCK: Nature? Divine. Human nature – toxic. METATRON: They do like blowing stuff up. CHUCK: Yeah. And the worst part – they do it in my name. And then they come crying to me, asking me to forgive, to fix things. Never taking any responsibility. METATRON: What about your responsibility? CHUCK: I took responsibility... by leaving. At a certain point, training wheels got to come off. No one likes a helicopter parent. METATRON: What about Amara? She's your sister. CHUCK: I took responsibility for her, too. Locked her away – barely, I might add. And who let her out? METATRON: Sam and Dean Winchester. But they're trying to fix that. CHUCK: You know I love those guys, but the world would still be spinning with Demon Dean in it. But Sam couldn't have that, though, could he? And so how is Amara being out on me? METATRON: It's not. But I-you helped the Winchesters before. CHUCK: Helped them? I've saved them! I've rebuilt Castiel more times than I can remember! Look where that got me.

But it’s all a manipulation... Chuck presented his point of view as the truth, as the only way. This was his progression to winnowing everyone’s options and choices down until there was only one way out, only one solution.

DEAN: I tried to kill her. (Flashback to DEAN stabbing AMARA only for the knife to shatter.) And it didn't work. CHUCK: Maybe it didn't work because you didn't want it to work. Maybe you didn't want to kill her. SAM: You want God to kill Amara because you don't want Amara to be killed? DEAN: Yeah, maybe there's a part of me that just can't hurt her. But if she's already dead— SAM: Then she's already dead. Right. LUCIFER: Well, that got weird. SAM: Dean… We always sweat this stuff, these choices. But, for once, we have God on our side. I mean, for once, we can actually just do things his way.

To when everyone would let go of the fight and capitulate to “doing things his way.” To the point Sam was ready to take on the Mark without question. To sacrifice himself yet again.

CHUCK: Once she's been weakened, I will take the Mark back from Amara and use it to seal her away. You ready? SAM: Yeah. DEAN: Wait, what? SAM: God and I talked about this. Someone needs to bear the Mark. DEAN: Well, that should be me. I-I've had it before. I'm damaged goods. CHUCK: Exactly. You've already been tainted. I can't transfer it to you. Sam volunteered. (DEAN glances at SAM then yanks on his arm to talk with him some feet away.) DEAN: First Cas is making kamikaze side plans, and now you? You couldn't have talked to me? SAM: We did talk. DEAN: And what happens when the Mark turns you psycho, then what? SAM: You lock me up where I can't hurt anyone and you throw away the key. DEAN: Sam, no. SAM: Dean, you told me you couldn't beat Amara, that it would have to be me. Well, this is it – me.

Not because it was a real solution to their problems, but because it was the only option they believed they had left. It’s the illusion of choice at this point.

SAM (to DEAN, quietly): We talked about this. It's time to do the smart thing. DEAN: So, what am I supposed to do, just sit by and watch? SAM: No. We're both in this fight. You're leading this army. DEAN: Oh, you mean babysitting the bad guys? (SAM huffs out a laugh.) DEAN: Okay, Sam. Okay. God's plan.

Amara stopped Chuck from executing his “give Sam the Mark” plan, so Chuck went with plan B-- turn Dean into a weapon. Always one brother sacrificed, and it doesn’t seem to matter to Chuck which one it is.

Chuck: I'm sorry. For this, for everything. Amara: An apology at last. What's sorry to me? I spent millions of years crammed in that cage... alone... and afraid, wishing -- begging for death, because of you! And what was my crime, brother?! Chuck: The world needed to be born! And you wouldn't let me! Amara, you give me no choice. Amara: That's your story. Not mine. The real reason you banished me, why I couldn't be allowed to exist... you couldn't stand it. No, we were equals. We weren't great or powerful, because we stood only in relation to each other. You think you made the archangels to bring light? No. You made them to create lesser beings, to make you large, to make you Lord. It was ego! You wanted to be big! Chuck: That's true. But it isn't the whole truth. There's a value, a glory in creation... that's greater and truer than my pride or my ego. Call it grace, call it being! Whatever it is, it didn't come from my hands. It was there... waiting to be born. It just is, as you and I just were. Since you've been freed, I know that you've seen it. Felt it. Amara: It didn't have to be like this. I loved you, brother. Well... you've won again. Finish it. Kill me.

But Chuck didn’t want to kill her, he just wanted her imprisoned again so he could go on lording it over his own creation. So he could go on feeling big. Which was his issue he went to Becky for help with in 15.04:

CHUCK: Things were said. Uh… Now I’ve found myself low on, um… resources. I went to ask my sister for help, and she rejected me. ‘Cause she sucks. And now I’m just… stuck. So, I thought I’d come see you, my number-one fan. And, I don’t know, see if you can help make me feel big again. BECKY: So, you want me to… fluff you? CHUCK: I mean, no. BECKY: You do. You thought you could just come back to me, your pathetic ex, your number-one fan, and get what you’ve always gotten from me… a nice big crank on your ego. CHUCK: Well, I mean… BECKY: Well, sorry, that’s not me anymore, Chuck. I am married to an amazing man, I have two great kids, and I like myself, Chuck. For the first time in a long time, I like myself. So, I don’t need you. CHUCK: I know. You don’t need me. No one does. I’m happy for you, Becky, that you like yourself. Because… I kind of hate me right now.

Which goes a long way toward understanding the journey Amara has chosen to embark on between this point and s15, where we find her enjoying her liberation despite Chuck. In 11.22:

AMARA (over CHUCK’S choking sounds): I'd die a million times and murder you a million more before going back there! (The Mark fades away from Sam's arm and returns to Amara's shoulder.) Tell me if you won't change, why should I?

She would do anything not to be locked away again, even let all of creation (and Chuck himself, and as a result even HERSELF) perish.

AMARA: My brother will dim and fade away into nothing. But not until he sees what comes next. Not until he watches this world, everything he created, everything he loves turn to ash. Welcome to the end.

But in 14.20, this is the exact sort of tantrum that Chuck himself threw, right down to the “Welcome to the end” line. And Amara... she flat out laid it out in those exact terms from 11.22, in 15.02:

Amara: Don't. Even on Your best day, You couldn't force my hand. And this is not Your best day. In fact, I don't think You can do much of anything. Ah, a few parlor tricks, perhaps, but You can't leave this world, not without my help. And me? I'm done, Chuck. I've changed. I've adapted. I've become the better me. And You? You are still the same -- petulant, narcissistic. So... I'm leaving You here. Once, long ago, You sealed me away. Now, in a way... I'm doing the same to You. You're trapped, diminished, abandoned. So I guess You got what You've always wanted. You're on Your own.

Chuck hasn’t changed. (and even Cas has understood how nothing will ever change unless they all fight for it, in 15.06.) Amara freed herself from Chuck’s control because she chose to change and adapt. Is that what Chuck will have to do by the end? To let go of his need to feel “big,” to control the entire story? One way or another, I think so.

[moderately-ok-trash-bin]

Three OTP Questions

So I just kinda spontaneously decided to write this for my two favourite OCs because if I don’t force myself to talk about them now then I never will. Sooo here’s the first one, my Altmer Dragonborn Aradove.

1) How did they first meet?

‘Must keep going. Must remain vigilant. Dragons, the Thalmor, the Imperials, bandits, beasts... any or all of them could appear at any time. I won’t be truly safe in this land until I can make it so. Rid Skyrim of the dragons and the tyrants, show her people they can trust me, and show my people that peace and coexistence is possible. Then I can go home... then I can rule a land of prosperity and growth, instead of a land of foolish supremacy and cruelty. I’ve been given this power by the Divines, and I’ve been given it for a reason. It is up to me, and me alone, to end the cycle of senseless violence that has plagued Tamriel...’

It was thoughts like this dominating my mind as I rushed through the forests and cliffs of the Rift. While I couldn’t help but feel excitement at the rush of the wind, the smell of the trees and the river, and the sounds of the untouched wilds all around me, the weight of my purpose kept my face unflinching as stone. Ever since I’d fled Summerset and, after narrowly evading execution upon reaching Skyrim, learned that I was the prophesied Dragonborn, things had been different. I was no longer a disillusioned princess with no desire to be the figurehead of a regime that rejected all ways of life but their own, but a destined hero who must bring about a new age. And this was a destiny I knew I must take seriously. It is up to me to herald in a new peace for both those it is my birthright to rule, and those is is my birthright to save. That is all that matters. Nothing less than that would satisfy me.

My head snapped to the side when I heard a faint but deep snarl in some nearby grass. I drew one of my two steel swords, and in my free hand, sent a fire bolt hurtling at the Sabre cat that now charged at me from its hiding spot. The animal screeched with rage as the flame hit the side of its face, but it did not slow, leaping into the air to attack me. I narrowly blocked its huge paws with my blade as it landed, deftly shoving it to the side and drawing my other sword in my free hand. As it dashed in to try and rake me with its claws, I inhaled sharply and, focusing my energy into my voice, I used my Shout. ‘Fus’ echoed slightly around us as the beast staggered, giving me the opening I needed to move in and put my swords through the animal’s chest.

I stepped back, briefly wondering if I’d ever get used to the feeling of using my Shouts. They were unlike anything I’d ever felt, some deep, complex knowledge in my very soul that manifested as power. This was the Divines’ gift to me, the gift that uniquely allows me to deliver this world from calamity... I’d never before imagined that such a power could exist in me...

I suddenly became acutely aware of the reality of my current situation. I’d been careless, lost in thought in the middle of the wilderness after using the most attention-grabbing power at my disposal. I’d let my guard down. I was vulnerable.

Too late.

The second Sabre cat slammed its paws into my chest and nearly knocking the wind out of me as I whirled around, claws digging into my leather armour as I winced and dropped one sword, hastily bringing the other one up toward my face. I heard the clang of bone against metal as I barely managed to put my sword between the animal’s massive teeth and my throat. I tried to push it off of me, but to no avail. It had me pinned and I was in no position to use any of its strength or even my own against it so I could get up and fight on. Magic wouldn’t work either, as I needed to keep both hands on my weapon to keep the creature at bay.

I felt my heart drop in fear. Would this thing tire before me? I was already straining to keep pushing it back at the poor angle I was forced into, would it tire before me? How long would I need to stay here? What if it outlasted me and I died here? A chorus of ‘no’ echoed within me, yet try as I might to Shout again, the power still needed time to recharge. I winced as the pressure on my chest began to register at the same time that I tried to push the Sabre cat off, closing my eyes tightly to try and distract myself from the peril of my situation, instead focusing all of my energy into trying to escape and save myself. I had no idea how long I was there. A second? Two minutes? Didn’t matter. I only snapped back to my senses when I heard a muffled cry of pain from the Sabre cat, followed by the complete removal of the pressure crushing my chest as I opened my eyes to watch the beast slump over, a shining steel greatsword being pulled from its side.

I sat up, and after looking to the Sabre cat that had just nearly ended my life just to make sure it was truly dead, I gazed up to see who it was that had come to my rescue. What I saw triggered a landslide of things within me that I could not begin to understand.

My mysterious saviour was a Nord man with dark brown hair and a short beard. Black war paint framed his eyes like tear-streaked eyeliner. He wore a type of armour I’d never seen before, with more furs and a more brownish tone of metal, and some metal wolf heads adorning the torso. After briefly looking him over, I gazed back up toward his eyes, and I became distinctly aware of both his disdainful expression, and the Imperial woman in studded armour behind him. I tried to find the words to say, but before I could, he addressed me.

“Are you alright? That thing was damned close to ripping your throat out.” Instinct told me to bite back and tell him he had no idea who he was talking to, but I refrained, only just remembering I needed to keep my identity a secret.

“I’m fine. The thing simply caught me the second I dropped my guard,” I replied, attempting to keep my composure despite the strange feelings welling within me. My face felt warm and my heart was beating faster. I glanced to the ground, briefly wondering if I’d contracted a disease from one of the Sabre cats...

“Hmph. You can’t just be complacent out here, elf. Do that, and you’re sure to get torn apart,” he sneered, my face flushing further as I looked at the annoyed expression on his face. I gritted my teeth subtly at the implication that I was just being foolish.

“I’m not a fool, I know that. It was simply bad timing to lose focus. There’s been much on my mind these past few days,” I replied, standing up and sheathing my blades.

“Hah. An off day, hmm? Of course.” I could feel the sarcasm dripping from his words, his disbelief in my abilities clear. I decided it was time to take the focus off of me, before I felt like I needed to give a demonstration.

“Those matters aside... I must thank you for saving me. You have my deepest gratitude. May I ask who you are?” I inquired, attempting to summon up the regal politeness that was drilled into me as I grew up. The man stood with a certain sense of indignance and pride as he introduced himself.

“My name is Vilkas, a member of the Companions in Whiterun. This is my Shield-Sister, Ria. We of the Companions fight for honour, glory and coin. We take the burdens of people who don’t feel up to defending their own honour,” he said confidently. I had heard mention of the Companions before, both rumour and small talk in Whiterun, and the famous Five Hundred Companions of Ysgramor from my history lessons. Things had changed drastically over time, it would seem. Yet this thought’s importance in my mind paled in comparison to the still-rapid beating of my heart. Something about looking at this man gave me such a rush. I had no idea what I was feeling, and at that point I was beginning to fear it. All I knew was that I needed to get away, and quickly.

“I see. Once again, many thanks for coming to my rescue. I must now return to my travel, but know that I will not forget your help.” I turned to leave, Vilkas giving me a nod of acknowledgement as I walked away. Once I had passed through enough forest to be out of his sight, I leaned against a tree, bringing one hand to my chest and the other to my still-red face.

‘What on Nirn is this feeling...?’

2) What did they think of each other at first?

Aradove was immediately attracted to Vilkas, but she had no idea what she was feeling at first, so she was suspicious of him because of the effect he had on her until she figured out what it was. Vilkas, on the other hand, thought Aradove was just some stupid elf too full of herself to be aware of danger.

3) Were they immediately interested/attracted or did that come later?

Aradove yes, definitely. Vilkas though, only began to take a shine to her as she rose through the ranks of the Companions later on in her story and proved herself strong, honourable and level-headed.

——————————

Oh my god I did it. I wrote a whole OC post. And I don’t hate it. Whattt

@hircines-hunting-grounds @curiousartemis

Idk what do you guys think? I hope you liked it :)

[arcadianambivalence]

Les Miserables 2018 Reactions

Episode One

A title card gives a brief summary of the situation in France before dropping us into the day after the Battle of Waterloo, when the “glory” of battle is over and the gore remains. 

 Rather fitting for a series translated to The Miserable (or Wretched) Ones.

Yikes.  British viewers really weren’t kidding about the typeface.  Or that 1970s slasher movie red.

But in all honesty, I like the change in opening.  It’s a bold move, sure, but it grounds viewers in a specific time in history (so only the inattentive can make the “it takes place during the French Revolution” mistake) and functions as a mirror of the eventual end.  

**Book spoilers**

A Ponmercy possibly dead at the scene of a failed conflict?

A man surviving conflict and returning home to be separated from his child by Gillenormand?

Does this not sound like a bitter cycle when we know this story ends in Marius surviving a failed conflict and Valjean surviving conflict and returning home to be separated from his child by Gillenormand(‘s grandson)?

And to top it all off, the title card ends with: “The old order will be restored.  The revolution forgotten.”  Aside from Les Miserables, how often do you hear of the June Rebellion?

The Opening

Rain, mud, dead horses, trees shattered by cannonballs...the cinematography feels Romantic (capital R) already.  A horse flutters its eyes (Is this a reference to Napoleon’s war horse Marengo, famously depicted in Napoleon Crossing the Alps by Jacques-Louis David?)

Thenardier (!) rushes onto the screen, injecting it with a surge of adrenaline.  Laughing (?), he hops from one dead soldier to the next, picking pockets and collecting anything of value he can get his hands on relatively quickly.  And he’s not alone.  There are other looters, and there are British soldiers chasing them in the background.

(Are we supposed to see a parallel between this and the way society is shown to treat its ‘dead’ and ‘dying’? Or are the British soldiers chasing people breaking laws, or at least morals, representative of how the Law works in the series?)

...But I can do without Thenardier cackling the entire time.

Anyway, he starts to loot one soldier crushed under a fallen horse when the soldier regains consciousness and, thinking Thenardier pulled him out for charitable reasons, thanks him for saving his life.  Could it be Baron Pontmercy?

The Pontmercy Plot

In a rare adaptation appearance, a living Baron Pontmercy returns home alive.  The streets of Paris initially seem colorful and thriving, but lintering shots of homeless beggars.  Pontmercy’s father-in-law, Gillenormand, rejects him for siding with Napoleon.  He goes into the “I’m glad my daughter is dead” trope, then ends it with a biting “I thank God I may never see you again.”

“It’s your lot they’re strining up from lamposts now,” Gillenormand says as we are shown a precious toddler overhearing everything. This is Pontmercy’s son, Marius, a little baby boy who will be raised to hate his own father by his grandfather.

Nicolette sneaks out of Gillenormand’s house to tell Pontermcy where he can see Marius at church.

The Fantine Plot - Part 1

A few feet away, a young Fantine is trying to convince her friends that she’s not naive and that she can take care of herself (I’ll wait for a Cosette callback in later episodes).  I like seeing Fantine as a carefree young woman instead of being introduced to Fantine after she had and separated from Cosette.  It makes her slow descent even worse when we see how youngshe is.

Also, we were just introduced to one man who is denied custody of his son by a gatekeeper of society, and now here is a woman who will eventually have to give up custody of her daughter by the circumstances of her society.  Nice parallel!

The Valjean Plot

The yellow filter and the music makes this feel like a Western.  This town ain’t big enough for the both of us, 24601...

Valjean sees one of the guards beating a prisoner and causes an avalanche that pins down the guard (so he visually echoes Pontmercy under the horse in the opening scene).  Why does Valjean attempt murder?  Well, this adaptation’s Valjean senses the injustice and wants to balance out this unjust society through violence (again, foreshadowing).

But when he hears the pinned man’s agony, he realizes he isn’t that person.  He isn’t capable of committing a crime like that without guilt.  So out empathy and guilt, he goes to lift the weight.  A man lifting a weight from a man pinned under debris? Hmm...forshadowing.  A man lifting a weight off someone pinned under the rocks (of society?)  Hmm...symbolic.

Javert, who has been watching the entire thing, stares down at Valjean.  That night, Valjean is brought to Javert’s office.  Javert asks, “What was that about today?”  Valjean looks at him like Because I’m a decent human being?  That’s why...

Javert’s backstory is really, uh, shoe-horned in there, isn’t it?  Could have revealed it later when he unwittingly befriends Madeleine or something...No?

Javert says, “Men like us have only two choices: to prey on society or to guard it.”  And, well, you could view every male character we’ve met so far through that lens: Pontmercy vs. Thenardier and Gillenormand, Valjean vs. Javert.  

But who’s really the one preying on people here?

The Fantine Plot - Part 2

Speaking of prey, Fantine’s out on the town with her friends.  She meets eyes with Felix, and her friend Favourite urges her to be more forward with the attraction.  Felix wastes no time playing the charming dance partner.  The slow music switches to something more lively (and tell me if you don’t have the tiniest reminder of that below-decks dance in Titanicin this moment).

Ugh.  These Fantine night scenes look gorgeous.  Like a (modern) outdoor wedding.

“You have to remember they’re not serious...they’re amusing themselves.” The harsh voice of experience doles out some foreshadowing.  “Why should it always be like that?”  Fantine asks. The voice of change we hear throughout this series, too.

The Fantine section is also filmed like Davies’ more famous adaptations (lulling unwitting audiences into a false sense of security about where this is going...)

So many period drama romance tropes.  It really does feel completely different from any other adaptation I’ve seen in this section.  I like it.

Felix tries every trick in the book: I didn’t care about anyone before you.  I’m going to be a poet, and you’ll be my use.  Have mercy on me, I’m suffering with love for you.  But Fantine has never read the playbook, and she kisses him, despite her doubts.

The Pontmercy Plot - Part 2

In case you weren’t against this prison system before, the prisoners are forced to watch an execution in a brief scene that cuts to Gillenormand saying, “order restored.  Now everyone knows their place again.”

Gillenormand convinces his grandson into believe his dad’s a “scoundrel” for his political stance. Throughout the scene, little Marius is playing with army figurines, too.  Hmm…can you hear commentary about how wrong this situation is yet?  (The book isn’t subtle about this is, either)

Baron Pontmercy is reduced to waiting for a glimpse of his son at church.  It hurts in the book, and it hurts here, too.  Oh, and the religious theme comes in.  (And a nice Mabeuf cameo).

This is a good time for an unpopular opinion: I’m fine with the cuts between the Pontmercy, Fantine, and Valjean stories.  It makes the later inclusion of more characters and the eventual intertwining of some of these plots feel natural.  It also shows how different people in this society suffer completely different unfair circumstances that bloom from this society and culture.

The Valjean Plot - Part 3

Is this what Daves meant by “sexing up “Les Miserables with a nude, underfed, and whipped Valjean?  He’s muscular from forced labor.  Not really sexy.

“You have your name back, Monsieur 24601.”  Hey.  This will be ironic in hindsight!  

Oh, and (un)paid labor for prisoners commentary, too.  Valjean’s furious.  But why wouldn’t he be?  Nearly two decades for petty theft.  And in those conditions.

Valjean carries those barrels like he’s carrying the world.  (Do you see the Jesus symbolism yet?)

But if he carried any hope that life outside of prison would be any more rewarding, he is quickly corrected.  More manual labor with little pay.  Chased away from a place to stay by dogs.  Pointed to the church by a kind woman.  (All in all, pretty book accurate—down to the ensuing conversation)

Cut from one faceless shot of Valjean to the Bishop, connecting the two.

Bishop with spectacles.  Awww.

Valjean has the bluntness that comes across in the translations of the brick (I’ve never read it in French.  Is he blunt there, too?)

The comparison Valjean draws between the religious authority figures in prison versus the Bishop here is a nice book reference, and it shows that he is very much aware of his terrible situation and how imbalanced society is (in and out of prison) versus the (actual) Christian values shown by the Bishop

“How can I love my fellow man when he treats me like a dog?”

“Even if the world has done you a great injustice.  Does it really serve you to have a heart full of bitterness and hatred?”

Ooh.  The quandry at the heart of this adaptation’s Valjean.

So what if it’s on the nose?  It’s for viewers introduced to the book for the first time.  Books are a well.  Shows are a pool.  It’s the detriment of adaptation.

“What about the silverware?”  The bishop, knowing full well it must have been taken by Valjean, “I can’t help you, I’m afraid.”

In the few minutes he’s part of this episode, the Bishop is The Perfect Christian example that Valjean (and even other characters) will follow in various ways

The vulnerability and disbelief in Valjean’s eyes when he realizes somebody’s helpinghim and even covering for him...

Valjean’s little chuckle when he realizes he’s free again

Valjean’s what am I supposed to do with these?look at the candlesticks.  Heh

“Jean Valjean, you do not belong to evil anymore.  You belong to good.  I have bought your soul with this silver and these candlesticks.”  Again in this adaptation, there’s this sense that Valjean didn’t choose to better himself, but it was foisted onto him (the Holy Spirit foisted on him) until he eventually makes the choice to let it in himself

The episode began with Thenardier stealing and showing no signs of remorse.  It ends with Valjean stealing and being presented with the means to turn his life around.  Nice bookends—is what I would say if the episode ended here.  But there’s more!

The Fantine Plot - Part 3

Oh, the “sexing up” was with Fantine and Felix.  Just some family-friendly snuggles as he drops hints he’s going to leave her and her baby.

Fantine has a caged bird in her room.  Symbolism.

Felix, Fantine, and their friends are out on a double (well, tripple) date. The guys tease a “surprise” for the women.  What could it be?  A beautiful day outside.  A meal at a fancy restaraunt.  Could they plan on...proposing?

Nope!  This is a last hurrah before the guys leave to return to their “respectable” families.

I’m surprised we got an abbreviated Felix speech from the book. Didn’t expect that.  And it’s all the more irritating for his character when you know what comes next: the men quietly leave the room as their girlfriends wait excitedly for the “surprise.”  But the light drains from the eyes of all three of the women as they read the “surprise,” a letter stating that their boyfriends (and financial support) are leaving them forever.

The Ending

Meanwhile, Valjean leaves the village, angry at the Bishop for “buying” his soul.  Conflicted, he rests beneath a tree.  Then a little voice grows louder.  Is it--? Yes, it’s Petit-Gervais playing with a sou and singing down the road. Valjean steps on the coin (almost intentionally) and scares Petit-Gervais away.

This is different from the book.  In the book, he goes into a trance during this moment and only realizes he’s standing on the coin later (which conveniently absolves him of guilt in the reader’s eyes).  Here, Valjean is brought back to the reality of his actions by the tolling of the church bell.  He stole from a little boy like the prison system stole from him.  A few scenes ago, he was that little boy.  And he tries to do the right thing and return the coin.  Like in the book, he calls for the boy to come back, but the child is gone, and Valjean is a thief again.

Meanwhile, Fantine returns home to her happy baby.  She moves to curl up on the bed and cry, but the needs of her daughter Cosette draws her back to the world.  Felix is no father, but Fantine is still a mother.

Valjean is free, but Fantine is about to enter a different kind of prison.

Overall, I liked this episode.  There were a few changes I would have made, like concealing Javert’s backstory until episode 2 (or even later) to build up a sense of mystery to him.  Thenardier was too…jovial to me, also.  Finally, that scene of the women gossiping in the woods was unnecessarily choreographed, and I’m surprised PBS actually aired that scene.

When I first heard about some of the adaptational changes, I was wary of this series, but now that I see them in context, they aren’t too bad.  I think an angry Valjean could make for a more dramatic transformation in later episodes.  I loved Derek Jacobi as the Bishop and Lily Collins as Fantine.  

But my favorite choice of this miniseries was the way it made the Valjean plot, the Fantine plot, and the Pontmercy plot run concurrently to highlight the similarities in their situations.  

In the book, Hugo describes Valjean’s situation in one “book,” then switches to Fantine and goes back in time a few years to explore her experiences before her plot meets Valjean’s plot.  It allows for the reader to get invested in each uninterrupted arc, but what works on paper doesn’t translate well to screen.  There must be change.

We’ll see what other page to screen changes were made in the upcoming episodes.  Les Miserables airs Saturday nights on PBS.

[verbumincarcerem]

A Head Full of Spiders

well here it is the HxH self-insert fic with the trash clown that no one asked for

I.

Heaven’s Arena, Melody decided, was an excellent place to both kill time and get rich quick.

At first, she’d disdained her mark for the decision. Thick with crowds, bloodlust, and gambling, the Heaven’s Arena tower, which stretched over half a mile into the sky, wasn’t the most ideal place to weed out a Nen user undetected. Melody had assumed she’d be bored out of her mind, waiting endlessly for an opportunity to present itself.

She was still waiting to locate her mark, but at least she was having an uproariously good time about it.

“Begin!” the referee called, flinging his right arm up into a sharp arc. The screams of the crowd rose into a crescendo as all eyes fell on the arena floor and the two fighters staged upon it, the floor referee all but invisible now.

Melody was one of those fighters, her brown hair pulled up into a rare, messy bun, her blue eyes trained on the man in front of her. The keenness of her gaze was the only thing that implied she was taking any of this even halfway seriously, because her appearance certainly didn’t. Black leggings, lavender tunic, her hands shoved into the front pockets of a gray hoodie—none of these things would immediately be considered battle appropriate. Save for the black, flat-heeled boots that came up to her knees, she looked like she was on the way to a gym workout instead.

Nothing sharp and nasty was waiting to be drawn from her pockets, either. She was weaponless, as the rules dictated for the first 199 floors. At first, she’d fretted over the loss of her short swords. By the 70th floor, she’d stopped noticing their absence, and now that she was here, on floor 199, she knew she had no need for them.

While spirited, her opponents so far hadn’t warranted any cause, and the reason was obvious. Very few, if any, of them knew about or had been initiated to use Nen. That included the man in front of her, with his shaved head, thick black beard, and the body that corded deliberately with muscle as he dropped into a fighting stance. Reshi, the self-purported master and creator of his own Black Bear martial arts style.

Yeah, right. He was an impatient boar who thought he had a lot of power to throw behind his fists. Against normal humans, he’d be a formidable contender, but she was not, strictly speaking, normal.

As predicted, Reshi roared at her and charged, his hands extended in front of him as if he intended to grapple with her and throw her down.

Melody stayed where she was, hands still comfortably housed inside her hoodie. She focused a small amount of Nen in her left foot, barely detectable to other Nen users and completely invisible to Reshi. When Reshi was within a foot of her, she acted.

She was certain, when he woke up later, he would need someone to tell him what had happened. Faster than his or the audience’s eyes could see, Melody crouched then executed a high kick with her left foot, striking Reshi perfectly in the chin. She heard his teeth clatter together—maybe some of them had shattered—and saw his eyes roll back into his head for the briefest of moments. The Nen behind her attack sent him flying in a perfect arc until he crashed onto the arena floor, bouncing then finally rolling to a stop on his back, unconscious.

“That’s a clean hit—no, that’s a win by knockout!” the referee called belatedly as he edged near Reshi and determined he was out of the fight. The fight’s announcer declared the victory hers, her name over the loud speakers nearly drowned out by the riotous crowd.

Slowly, Melody lowered her leg and, with her hands still pocketed, nodded acknowledgement to the referee, and turned to exit the arena. Once she cleared the sight of the audience, re-entering the tower’s interior, she allowed herself a little smile.

This was, by far, the easiest money she had ever made.

After her match, Melody was expected to report to the front desk, not to collect her winnings, which would automatically be deposited into her account, but to make the transition from the first, common 199 floors to the more prestigious 200th—a prestige that would only rise the higher one climbed.

Instead, she stepped into one of Heaven’s Arena’s many bars, ordered a Vodka Cranberry, and made a phone call.

“Well, look who finally decided to report in,” a wily voice answered. Melody found herself smiling despite herself. She could imagine the old man on the other end of the line, stroking his long, white beard as he prepared to put her to task. Minus any real venom, though. Chairman Isaac Netero was rarely serious unless no other option remained. “Did you find our friend yet?”

“Nope,” she reported back cheerfully. “Not a hint of him, so he must already be on one of the higher floors. Just made it onto the two-hundredth myself, by the way.”

“Congratulations,” Netero dryly quipped. “You’ve only been gone six weeks.”

“You said to stay incognito as much as possible, so don’t criticize. Besides, you know how this place works,” Melody combatted before taking a grateful swallow of her drink. “I doubt he’s much higher than me. All I need to do is find his floor and room, then this can be over.”

“Don’t be overconfident,” Netero said, as much warning as there was amusement in his tone. “Mr. Ilmyr was once one of us, before he went rogue. He knows how to hunt and when he’s being hunted in turn. He won’t be an easy opponent to defeat, let alone take down.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said, dragging a finger along the rim of her drink. “The fights have been rewarding, but I was started to get bored by the repetition of it all.”

“You young people today,” Netero sighed. “Nothing satisfies you anymore.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” she replied before hanging up the call. Downing the rest of her drink, Melody paid her tab using but a trifle of her new earnings, then made her way to the registration desk.

Eventually. After stopping in a few clothing stores and sweet shops first.

“Melody… Okay, yes, there you are,” the receptionist said, focused on the computer screen perched on her desk. “Did you want to register a last name with that, for quicker searching?”

“It’s my right to not have a last name,” Melody said in a joking tone, even though she was completely serious. She was certain the image of her holding four massive shopping bags in each hand did nothing to dismantle the illusion of carelessness she presented.

She was proven right when the receptionist winked at her. “Understood. Well, here’s your floor pass and the key to your new room. Your belongings have already been transferred there by hotel staff, so please let us know if anything is unaccounted for.” The receptionist glanced at Melody’s bags, but continued gamely on, “The elevator is down the hall, to your left. Congratulations and enjoy the two hundredth floor!”

“Thank you,” Melody chirped back, taking the offered items after some bag juggling and followed the woman’s directions.

As the elevator took her a floor up, Melody thought how fortunate she was that the world she lived in held such an appreciation for discretion. Or maybe it wasn’t the world at large, but rather the parts of it she chose to interact with. It had been a few years since she’d had to leave her family name behind, only hearing it spoken aloud in the rarest of circumstances. Chairman Netero knew where she came from—it was the reason for their arrangement—but since their initial meeting, he had never used it in reference to her, out of respect.

Some might say she was running. Melody would argue it was hard for anyone to tell when even she didn’t exactly know whether she was running from or running towards something. She was existing, and that was enough.

When the elevator doors opened, Melody was immediately greeted by a pink-haired floor clerk, the woman’s sleepy eyes matching the mellow tone of her voice. “Welcome to the two-hundredth floor. Please follow me to the registration desk.”

“Of course,” Melody said. As she walked in step with the floor clerk, she took in the floor’s red carpet and the decadent, black marble panels lining halfway up the walls, which were trimmed with gold, and thought, Yeah, people definitely think they’re hot shit up here.

“You will have until midnight to register as well as a 90-day period to fight a match. Failure to do either of these things will result in your rejection, and you will have to return to the ground floor.” The floor clerk’s inflection didn’t change as she spoke, granting a dreamy quality to her voice. That, or she was acutely exhausted. Given the kind of people who came to Heaven’s Arena, Melody could believe it was the latter.

Melody followed the floor clerk as she turned a corner on their left and walked down a short corridor, where they would again turn either left or right. Melody predicted, given the layout of the tower and the various rooms they had passed so far, it would be to the right. Was Ilmyr on this floor, or had he been assigned somewhere higher?

The floor clerk continued, “There are currently 174 fighters registered for the 200th floor. All weapons are allowed on this floor and above, so feel free to use what you have. Also, prize money will no longer be awarded, as all fights from this point forward are fought strictly for honor and glory.”

“You’re kidding,” Melody interrupted, scoffing. The floor clerk’s serene state was shaken at last, and she looked taken aback. Melody leaned toward her conspiratorially. “That’s definitely a rule a man made up. I bet I’m the only woman on this floor right now, aren’t I?”

“W-well,” the floor clerk tried, “there might be a few others. At least one of the Floor Masters is—”

“Exactly. This place has thousands of fighters, but only a handful of women. Want to know why?” Melody cupped her mouth and stage-whispered to the clerk, “It’s because we have far better things to do, and far better ways to fight.” She straightened, saying at normal volume, “‘Honor and glory,’ please. Only men come up with this crap.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when she felt it. A menacing aura drenched in lethal intent aimed directly and solely at her. A Nen attack. Her own defenses instinctively reacted, her body encasing itself in aura that protected her from the attack. Melody’s head snapped toward the direction the deadly aura had come from, and she quickened her steps.

“What’s—” the floor clerk began, but Melody cut a hand toward her in a gesture to stay back. But the instant Melody crossed into the new corridor and turned left, the aura faded, vanishing so swiftly it was like it had never existed.

And of course, there was no one there. Melody examined the hall expanding out to either side of her, but no one was currently roaming its carpeted floors. Someone was well trained in Zetsu as well as Hatsu, for even though she searched with aura amplifying her sight, she couldn’t detect a sliver of her attacker’s Nen or where he had gone.

Not that she expected to. And not that the failure prevented her from angling her body back to the left side of the corridor, the last place she’d felt its presence. Narrowing her eyes, Melody sent out a wave of her own Nen, laced with bloodlust. She knew it wouldn’t do any good. It wouldn’t reveal her attacker, who could be anyone from Ilmyr catching onto her or some idiot trying to fuck with her.

But it would send a message. She may not care about these fighters’ ultimate goals concerning Heaven’s Arena, but she was just as willing to get her hands dirty in the ring with the rest of them.

Just maybe not with all these shopping bags.

“Sorry, ma’am. I thought I heard something.” Melody smiled sheepishly at the floor clerk and jabbed a thumb in the opposite direction she’d sent her Nen, the shopping bags rustling with her movement. “Registration’s this way, correct?”

It didn’t take long for Melody to be assigned a match. Luckily, her challenger had mistaken her as a rookie in Nen as well as a clueless newcomer to the floor. Melody supposed her evenings spent floating around to the Arena’s many bars, buying people drinks, socializing, and winning a few hands at cards was paying off. Even though she didn’t always dress the part, her bored socialite act was allowing her to fly under the radar here as well as it had done on the floors below, even if she often staggered back to her room in the early morning hours, drunk and happy to forget why she was here. Melody hadn’t been forced to reveal the true extent of her Nen abilities during her match, allowing her to continue gathering information on where her mark was.

No one she schmoozed had ever heard of an arena fighter named Ilmyr, however. Perhaps it was naïve of Melody to have hoped that he hadn’t chosen to operate under an alias, given that the Hunter Association itself was looking for him.

On the other hand, many people did know of a fighter named Milyr, who matched Ilmyr’s exact description: mid-thirties, stocky frame, tree trunks for legs, brown eyes, and hair to match. When Melody discovered this, she’d found the bar’s camera located in a shady corner near the cash register and gazed across the room at it through blurry eyes that were warm and dull with alcohol, as if Netero were somehow watching on the other side, rolling with laughter at her expense.

The next morning, Melody found herself at the registration desk. She flipped a lock of hair over her shoulder as she filled out new forms, her sky-blue tank top shifting as smoothly as water with her movements. She shifted from foot to foot, heel-to-toe and back, her black jeans and boots rustling against each other as she debated on when to fight next. With wry amusement, she realized she didn’t want to at all, but she couldn’t leave until she found Ilmyr or he chose to leave himself.  

Melody filled in the very last day of her 90-day period she wanted to fight a match, viewing the date as a hard deadline. By that point, she would find Ilmyr and be long gone from here. Any longer, and she’d risk her cover as well as her life fighting stronger opponents she wasn’t ready for.

Until that time, she had no choice but to either plot in her room or roam the Arena in search of leads. This time, she elected for her room. Perhaps she could call Netero for another clue he’d overlooked that could help her, but as she rounded a corner to get there, she heard the upbeat chatter of two young boys.

“Gon, wait! Your arm!”

“I’m fine, Killu—omph!”

Melody staggered as one of the boys ran headlong into her, his forehead banging into her clavicle. The black-haired boy ricocheted, falling back on his rear, and Melody winced. What the hell was the kid’s head made out of?

“Oooow,” the boy groaned, clutching his head as one brown eye was clenched shut. The second he saw her, though, he shot to his feet despite his right arm being in a cast and sling. “I’m so sorry, miss!”

“Gon! Watch it! The room’s not going anywhere.” The other boy gazed at her with impassive blue eyes through tufts of white hair. “Sorry about him. He’s easily excitable.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Gon said, bowing frantically at her.

Melody knew who both of them were—Gon and Killua. It was hard to miss the stir these two kids had caused by fighting in a place as insane as the Heaven’s Arena. “It’s fine, no harm done,” she reassured them with a smile. “Bad luck fighting Gido,” she told Gon, indicating his injuries. “But you clearly pick up on things fast. You’ll definitely beat him next time.”

Gon’s entire face lit up, and Melody could swear it was brighter than the sun on the hottest summer day. “You really think so?”

“Sure, so long as you don’t keep bumping into people.” She grinned. “Not everyone’s as nice as I am. Or as nosy. How come you’re not fighting any matches yet, Killua? I know the crowd’s really looking forward to it.”

Killua looked momentarily taken aback that she acknowledged him. He folded his hands behind his head. “I don’t want to leave Gon behind,” he said simply.

“That’s sweet. You sound like very good friends.” She stepped out of their way. “I won’t hold you up. Just know you have at least one person on this floor who’s rooting for you both.”

“Thanks,” Killua said with all the sincerity of a politician. But there was a spot of red on his pale cheeks, as if he wasn’t used to the attention or the praise.

The boys moved to pass her until Gon spun around. “Oh, what’s your name?”

“It’s Melody.”

Gon waved at her with his good arm. “Nice to meet you, Melody! See you around.”

“See you,” Melody called before glancing at the ground. “Wait!” She stooped, plucking a very familiar-looking card from the floor. “I think you dropped this, Gon.”

“Oh, thank you!” Gon rushed to reclaim it from her, sighing a breath of relief. The relief was short-lived as Killua rapt him one good time on the back of his head.

“Idiot!” Killua scolded. “Didn’t you tell me new Hunters are most likely to lose their licenses within six months? You need to be more careful.”

“Sorry, sorry! But that’s why I have you here, right, Killua?”

“I’m not keeping track of your license for you, idiot, so forget it.”

Melody took in Killua’s long-suffering mien and Gon’s apologetic wince and said, “Good friends, like I said.”

“Thanks again!” Gon waved. Melody waved back as they slipped around the corner.

So, that kid was a Hunter. Would wonders ever cease? She continued her walk to her room, marveling at the sheer amounts of energy Gon and Killua both had. Had she once been able to bounce back as effortlessly like that? She honestly couldn’t remember. It wasn’t until a few years ago that she’d taken the Exam and gotten her license. For Gon to attempt it at his age… Perhaps Killua had, too. Melody realized that there would now be one downside to leaving Heaven’s Arena so quickly. She wouldn’t get to witness how those two grew and advanced through their matches.

But maybe when she called him, Netero could tell her precisely how that particular Hunter Exam had gone.

Her mind preoccupied, Melody found her room, but before she could unlock the door, she immediately tensed. At once, she was looking widely around, Gyo activated in her eyes.

To her right, she saw it clearly. A small wisp of Ilmyr’s aura, which was a dense jade green color, just as Netero had described. He had been here, possibly looking for her.

Melody checked that the short swords she’d returned to the sheaths in her boots were secure. Then, grimly, she followed the trail, all thoughts of bright-eyed young Hunters forgotten.

At last, she found Ilmyr’s room. His aura had led her straight to it. Melody was all too aware that this was meant to be a trap, and she was going to spring it anyway. She wanted the job to be done.

There was no need for stealth. Ilmyr knew she was coming, so using a small burst of aura, she made short work of the lock and forced her way into the front door.

Aside from its immaculate state, the room was a mirror image of hers. There was a small round table with two plush, red armchairs a few feet in front of her and to the right of a floor lamp, nightstand, and a red-quilted, queen-sized bed. To Melody’s immediate right was a long desk that also acted as a stand for the flat screen TV, which was turned off. The curtains of the windows were all drawn back, allowing moonlight to filter inside, the only source of light in the dark room.

Melody crossed the entryway into the main area, her footsteps silent on the hardwood floor. She continued using Gyo, her eyes combing the room, looking for her prey, waiting for an attack. Ilmyr must have concealed his aura, waiting for her somewhere deeper inside, because so far the room was empty, but she didn’t allow herself to relax.

The faint sound of running water reached her in the tense silence, from either a shower or a sink. Perfect. Melody glided on the balls of her feet to the closed door that led to the bathroom.

She drew to a halt, frowning. Netero had told her Ilmyr wasn’t the type for theatrics, so if he was truly expecting her, why was he bothering to string her along like this? It wasn’t his style, and in any case, she was already deep inside his territory. An attack should have come from him by now, or at least, they should have already been talking. Something wasn’t right.

Melody’s hair on her arms and neck rose the same time the water shut abruptly off in the bathroom. A second later, she was dodging a projectile aimed straight for her head, and it was coming from somewhere behind her.

She swiveled to face Ilmyr, heard the impact the projectile made as it sunk into the bathroom door, but it didn’t matter. Her hand had reached down for the blade in her boot, but the effort was equally futile. Before she could even brush the hilt, her arms were being jerked back, her entire body following until she was slammed into the door hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs and cause dark spots to erupt across her vision. Her feet scrambled to reach the floor, but all she managed to do was bang her heels against the door.

When she managed to clear her sight, she discovered that her arms were pinned to the door by a pink aura wrapped separately around both wrists. Try as she might, she couldn’t pull them away from the wood, her wrists stuck firmly in place, and her own Nen wasn’t dispelling it. She caught a glimpse of something to her right and found that the projectile resting centimeters from her head wasn’t a knife, ax, or throwing star.

It was a card. The four of spades.

Fear surged through her veins as cold and crippling as ice. This was not Ilmyr’s room, and the soft, amused laugh she heard did not belong to him, either.

Melody’s breaths grew uneven as Hisoka Morow, the Magician, made his slow advance toward her. The clip of his shoes against the wooden floor was deliberate, sharp, and slow, like the second hand of a clock counting down to her demise.  

All her bluster was gone. If Gon and Killua had become overnight sensations in Heaven’s Arena, then Hisoka was infamous. The rumor mill absolutely churned concerning him. Melody had heard plenty of stories, both outlandishly fictionalized and too gruesomely real to be denied, and she’d soon decided that she never wanted to meet him in person, let alone find herself facing him in the arena. She’d glimpsed him only once through the advertisements promoting his upcoming match with Kastro, the announcer’s voice delivering stats to the viewers with almost breathless glee. Hisoka never lost a fight except through willful absences, and every time he did fight, he didn’t just defeat his opponents.

He ruined them.

“Isn’t this novel?” Hisoka said, his golden eyes glinting in the moonlight. There was a playful quality to his voice she hadn’t expected, as if everything were a joke only he was privy to, the syllables dancing in the air in cruel mockery of her. “No one’s ever attempted this before. Your timing could use some improvement, though. I was about to bathe.”

Hisoka looked the same as he had on her television. Same bizarre magenta hairstyle, face paint, baggy pants, and heels, but for one major difference. He was shirtless from the waist up, and judging from his smile, he wasn’t at all perturbed by it.

Because he’d known she was here, probably since the moment she’d stepped on this floor, never mind the sloppy way she’d breached his room. Because he obviously was the type for theatrics, and he had been gladly playing with her for much longer than she knew.

And Ilmyr had known Hisoka would do so. What he’d done went beyond merely tricking her and drawing her into a trap. Ilmyr had used a much stronger predator to intercept his own, and his aura had been the bait.

“There’s been a mistake,” Melody said, sounding much calmer than the heartbeat pounding loudly in her ears implied. “I didn’t come here to kill you. I’m not here for you at all.”

“Is that so?” Hisoka’s tone turned patronizing, matching his smile. “I could almost believe you, if it weren’t for the way we met.”

“I know this doesn’t look great on my part—”

“I’m not talking about right now. I’m referring to this.” Hisoka raised his hand, and Melody barely got her Nen shield up in time before an onslaught of aura with lethal intent struck her.

Though she had never met Hisoka in person before or attended any of his matches, she couldn’t deny how incredibly familiar the feel of his bloodlust was. Not when it was the very same that had greeted her so spectacularly upon her arrival on the 200th floor.

“You initiated me,” she gasped out when his Nen had receded. Her voice rose towards distress at the end as she recalled how she’d reacted. She’d been playing some kind of Nen tennis unawares, not with a contender she could handle, but with a man who didn’t care about who he killed or why. The exact kind of person she’d been trying so hard to avoid. But she seriously hadn’t thought that someone on Hisoka’s level would deign to give her the 200th floor’s traditional greeting, much less take any sort of notice of her whatsoever.

“Yes, and not only did you pass, but you answered with some intriguing aura of your own.” The corners of Hisoka’s lips turned up into points. “Some people might call that flirting.”

Melody had no idea how to respond to that notion, so she changed the subject. Maybe she could logic her way out of here. Maybe Hisoka could be reasoned with. “I’m looking for an ex-Hunter named Ilmyr, though I think the idiot goes by Milyr here. Whatever. If you know where he is, then tell me, and I’ll leave right now and kill him slowly for wasting both of our time.” She tugged experimentally on the Nen binding her wrists, which still didn’t budge. “I just need you to let me go first.”

“Hmm.” His gaze never leaving hers, Hisoka toyed with a card in between his fingers, making it disappear and reappear with a lazy flick of his wrist. “I hoped you’d be more interesting than this.”

It wasn’t that Melody cared about Hisoka’s frown of disappointment or the way his sharp eyes honed into something that eviscerated with a look. But his voice… It had dipped from playfulness into something darker, the sound evoking chills that slinked down her spine. With that, she knew her instinct was screaming at her that his disappointment was the last thing she wanted, that if she’d truly obtained it, she needed to get as far away from him as possible.

But it wasn’t possible. His Nen still held her in place, and her skin began to grow jittery with panic, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest. Stay calm.

Melody inhaled deeply and said with all the icy venom she could muster, “Remove your Nen, and I’ll show you how interesting I can be.” She smiled coldly, leaning her head back against the door leisurely, so she could look down her nose at him. “Unless you’re afraid, of course.”

“Oh, I’m terrified.”

The alluring quality of his voice pulled at her, but she had no idea if its returned presence was a good or a bad sign. Normally, Melody could read people and their moods intuitively, but with Hisoka, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. And right now, she really needed to know if he was seconds away from killing her or not.

Hisoka dragged a finger along his jaw, eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Why aren’t you using your Nen ability to fight back? I’ve been wondering that since you’ve stepped on this floor.” Melody’s eyes widened, the only sign of her surprise, but it was enough for Hisoka. “You must have at least one, or you wouldn’t be pursuing such intriguing prey, would you, little Hunter?”

Melody’s body went as stiff as the door pressed against her back. “I never said I was a Hunter.”

“No, but outside the most talented of assassins, only Hunters hunt down their own for going rogue, and you’re obviously no assassin. Yet someone went to all the trouble of teaching you Nen, so there must be some reason.” The lulling cadence of Hisoka’s voice both teased her and excluded her, as if by the end of his speech, Hisoka was talking to himself. Measuring her worth, she realized with a jolt of alarm. His eyes glinted as they rose to hers again. “What’s your Nen type, little Hunter?”

Melody set her jaw and stayed silent.

Hisoka’s eyes became half-lidded. “Oh, a stubborn one. Be careful. I’m starting to see the appeal.” He lifted a hand as if accepting an offering from her, his sharp nails reflecting the moonlight. “Won’t you give me a taste of your ability? Do that, and I’ll let you go.”

Both of Melody’s parents had warned her about her pride, that it would damn her one day. She figured it was about to do so again. She turned her head to gaze dispassionately out of a window, the view nothing but inky blackness outside.

“Not even if I do this?”

Melody flinched as another card—the queen of hearts—landed just above her eye line at a sideways angle, embedding itself halfway into the doorframe. Her forehead began to sting, and she felt the blood slowly beading along a razor-thin cut. She whipped her head to snarl at Hisoka, only to freeze, her vision blackening around the edges, tunneling towards one single object in the room.

Hisoka was laying out his deck of cards on the table in an arrangement she didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that his back was to her, and there, displayed proudly between two defined shoulder blades, was the tattoo of a black, twelve-legged spider, a red “4” blazing at the center.

The symbol of the Phantom Troupe, and that number meant he was truly a member.

Melody’s vision went completely black, and a rushing noise sounded in her ears until she was deaf to everything around her.

As much as she’d always been condemned about her pride, she’d also been praised about her ability to stay calm, even in the most trying of circumstances. A lot of it was pretending, but all that time faking it had made some of it real. Every major decision she’d made about her life up until this point had hinged upon that sense of calm. It was the thing that separated her from the rest of her family, and it was the thing that anchored her when she’d finally obtained a hint of knowledge and decided she’d wanted more, so much more, and the only price to pursue it would be her family.

Serenity was the name she’d given to her numbness when she learned she’d paid that price.

She was not feeling serene or numb now, despite how much she told herself she would if a moment like this ever came. Instead, rage erupted inside of her, a dark dragon birthing itself from embers that rested in the deepest pits of hell, and the blackness in her eyes burned away to shining crimson.

It had been such a long time. Melody wondered fleetingly what she looked like now, with her Kurta eyes. Was she the demon outsiders had always claimed the people of her clan were, unnerved and afraid of their unnatural crimson gaze, the cause of their isolation from the world? Was she an animal whose only instinct was to fight until death?

Yes, she was. She knew that because the only thing she wanted to do was rip off Hisoka’s head and let every drop of his blood spill into her mouth until she stopped hearing the voices of her family crying out to avenge them. Why hadn’t she avenged them? Why hadn’t she done anything?

She had avoided this for so long, and now there was no escaping it. Yet now, with her blue eyes changed to red, the feral part of her wondered why she’d ever wanted to try.

Done with his arrangement, Hisoka plucked a card from the table and laughed to himself with the airy amusement of a well-fed spider gloating over the struggling moth he’d caught in his web, just for fun. “What fearsome aura you’re giving off now. Are you finally motivated enough to play with me?” Before Hisoka could throw another card, he saw. “…Oh.”

Hisoka drank in the red glow of her eyes in the dark, his own widening, but not with fear. Instead, it was something like awe, anticipation…

Arousal.

“You’re a member of that clan.” His slow smile now was more terrifying than it had ever been, sadistic and lascivious. Even his eyes seemed to smile at her, encouraging her for more, but there was nothing warm or good intended in either of those things. He continued roughly, “Of course you are.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Melody promised, her voice close to guttural.

Hisoka licked his lips and purred, “Show me how.”

The door behind Melody erupted into chunks of wood and splinters, some of which she took with her as she launched herself at Hisoka, his Nen still like adhesive cuffs around her wrists. A wild beast slipped from its leash, she’d never moved faster in her life with such singular intent to maim than she was at this moment, and it was enough to barrel straight into him. Colliding with his body was like jumping from a ten-story building only to meet solid concrete at the bottom, but it didn’t stop her from tackling him into the table, which quickly fell to pieces, cards fluttering around them as they both landed on the ground.  

She might have punched him as much as she punched the floor into splinters; she couldn’t tell. Her entire existence was only red and rage and retribution.

But no matter how fast she was and how strong her eyes made her, it didn’t change the fact that she was still fighting someone with more experience than her and more knowledge of Nen.

Just as she aimed to break in Hisoka’s teeth, her fist impacted gray smoke instead, his body vanishing completely. Melody stumbled to her feet, not because she was trying to get her bearings, but because she wasn’t being given a choice. Something pulled her forward by the naval, and she didn’t need an expert to tell her it was Hisoka’s Nen.

Melody dug her feet into the floor to stop it, but she skidded forward regardless, eyes flying wide open as she saw where she was being dragged. She braced a boot against the box spring and gave a snarl of outrage when Hisoka’s Nen gave a final hard tug, forcing her entire body to pitch forward until she face-planted heavily onto the mattress.

Her body barely bounced, her head unable to rise, before Hisoka’s weight was there, straddling her hips, one hand twisted painfully in her hair as he locked her left arm behind her back. He didn’t have to bother with her right, not when his Nen had it pressed against the bed. With a sickening lurch in her gut, Melody realized he could have kept her in place with his Nen completely if he wanted to, but he’d chosen to get physical with her instead to prove just how much stronger he was.

And to prove just how little damage she’d actually dealt him. His pale face didn’t have a hint of blood, swelling, or bruising, the star and tear drop on his face immaculate. Only a few disheveled strands of hair parted from the rest indicated that she had ever touched him at all, and he looked so fucking satisfied.

Melody squirmed, trying to shift. Maybe if she could get a leg up, she could—

She couldn’t stop the cry of pain that escaped as Hisoka twisted her arm so hard, she swore her shoulder had popped out of its socket. Agony exploded from that point with an arrow’s swiftness, and she bit it back until it was just a dying whimper in the back of her throat.

A hiss managed to escape as Hisoka pulled her hair until her neck craned into a painful arc, his lips close enough to brush her ear and his voice thick with arousal. “Move like that again, little Hunter, and I’ll consider that the continuation of our foreplay.”

Melody became acutely aware of Hisoka’s body hovering about her own, the warmth of his bare chest evident through her thin tank top, but what was more alarming was that hard thing against her backside. Fear and revulsion warred for attention inside of her, but she searched for her fleeting rage instead. It was enough to keep her eyes red, her emotions heightened well past the point she was used to. She almost laughed. Of course her eyes were still red. All the better for Hisoka to finish the Troupe’s job of killing the last Kurta and ripping her still crimson eyes out of her skull to sell to the highest bidder.

Unless he was going to do worse to her first, all to improve the color’s luster.

But instead of all her fears, Hisoka murmured into her ear, “I have a secret to share with you, little Kurta, but you have to promise not to tell.

“And, you have to promise me something in return.”

She shouldn’t humor him, but what choice did she have? He wasn’t even holding her left arm anymore because it was out of its socket. Now he was toying with the strands of her dark hair that rested against her back, his nails scraping against the exposed skin by her shoulder blades. Tremors of pain flared every time he played with her left side, to the point where her voice trembled. “What secret? And what do I have to promise?”

“You haven’t ripened yet; I see that now. But you’ve been holding yourself back, afraid the Spiders are going to find you, haven’t you?”

“A lot of good it did because they have.”

“Have they?” Melody felt his lips curve more than she saw it. “I have no intentions of telling them. The Kurta massacre was before I killed the previous Number Four, so you see, I had nothing to do with it.”

Every inch of Melody’s blood pounded with this knowledge. She had to remind herself that she couldn’t trust him no matter how placating and convincing he tried to sound. “You’re lying.”

“That’s not even the secret. First, you have to promise me that you’ll grow stronger. Otherwise, the next time I see you, I’ll have to kill you out of boredom.”

“Why would I promise you that?”

“Because if you don’t”—Hisoka said with a dark, rumbling purr—“I’ll kill you right now.” To emphasize that point, he reached up under her until her head was trapped between the hand clenched in her hair and the one now wrapped around her throat, his nails pricking her skin.

He could cut her open with a quick slice of those nails. He could choke her until she passed out and keep going so she’d never wake again. He could twist her head until her neck broke and she fell limp, dead in an instant. All of this, before ever using his Nen.

She had no idea how many creative ways he could kill her using that.

“Fine, I promise,” she said shakily, her throat vibrating against his hand.

“Such a good girl,” Hisoka praised. Something pinched the lobe of her right ear, but it happened so fast, she wasn’t sure if he had scratched it or bitten it. “Has anyone ever told you, you look so adorable like this?”

“Uphold your end of the bargain,” she growled. “What secret?”

“You are not the last surviving member of your clan.”  

It would have been kinder if he’d just dug her heart out with those claws of his he called nails.

“Yes, I am,” she said, the words straining to get out as her throat tightened. Her eyes stung, but she blinked the terrible feeling away. “They were all defenseless. They all died. The only reason I didn’t is because I wasn’t there.”

“And neither was Kurapika.”

Everything froze. Melody thought her heart had stopped, her body going completely limp on Hisoka’s bed. Numbness swept through her again—or was it calmness—and her eyes faded back to blue. She barely felt Hisoka’s hand scraping to the back of her neck. “What did you say?”

“The way you’ve been parading around the arena. You try to hide it, but peel back the façade, and it’s all there,” Hisoka said, and the mischief dancing in his voice implied he was gloating at figuring her out, at least partly. “You both have the same stubbornness, the same capacity for growth. The same eyes, especially when they’re full of that same determined expression.”

Hisoka’s body shuddered against hers. He spoke with deadly softness, as if he were on the precipice of something. An unblemished sheet of glass right before a splintering impact. “By the time the Exam was halfway over, I barely recognized him, just like I barely recognized you when your eyes finally changed.”

“Hold on.” Melody’s head was spinning as she fought to catch up with what Hisoka was telling her. “Kurapika took the Hunter Exam? With you?”

She tried to remember how old Kurapika would be now. In his teens certainly, a decade younger than her, maybe less, but it was hard to be sure. The Kurta clan had been large enough that she didn’t know every member extremely well, but she remembered her fourth cousin, his bright smile that went along with his bright eyes and sunshine hair. What did he look like now? How had he survived the Exam with Hisoka being there?

Unless Hisoka really was telling the truth, and his allegiances weren’t truly with the Phantom Troupe. The thought did little to comfort her, not when she thought about her cousin. If she as an adult was this much of a wreck, drinking whenever she could and just going from day to day, not really caring about much of anything, then how was Kurapika at his age coping? How had he survived alone this entire time?

And she hadn’t bothered to try and find him. Hadn’t ever dreamed that he could still be alive. The thought crushed her, threatening to drag her down into despair until—

Netero.

The name struck her like a bullet to the chest. Isaac Netero was the chairman of the Hunter Association. Netero would have overseen the last Hunter Exam, the one with Gon, Hisoka, and Kurapika. Netero knew who she was and where she’d come from, and he’d never said a word.

Not a single fucking word. Instead, he’d given her this assignment and sent her on her way, ensuring she would never get a glimpse of her cousin.

“Did Kurapika pass the Exam?” Melody asked flatly, her gaze a cold, deep blue, but deep down, she somehow already knew the answer.

“We both did, in case you were wondering.” The bed shifted as Hisoka rose from it, his weight leaving her at last.

“I wasn’t.” Melody stayed where she was. Her shoulder was a wreck, and Hisoka’s damn Nen was still in effect. “Where is he?”

“Who’s to say? Likely training with a Nen master. He’s after the Spiders, after all.”

No. No, no, no. Melody clenched her eyes shut. She’d been afraid of this, so, so afraid. Shit. Her hands balled into fists. What was she supposed to do?

“But,” Hisoka continued lightly, “I know where he’ll be.” Even if Hisoka didn’t identify as a Troupe member despite the mark on his back, he was still a spider even now, drawing her into another web she couldn’t help but be lured into.

He must have passed the Hunter Exam so easily. Tempting prey with the right bait came so naturally to him.

In hindsight, Melody realized she should have asked Hisoka why. Why did he know where her cousin would be? Why was he helping her find him? Why was he seemingly helping both of them? Instead, she said, “Tell me.”

“Meet me in Yorknew City on September 1st,” Hisoka threw over his shoulder as he stepped through the debris of the bathroom door, the muscles of his arms and back flexing as he removed the rest of his clothes without a hint of shame. “And I’ll show you.”

He was in the shower when he remembered to disable his Nen. Naturally, she left quickly after that, no doubt licking her wounds and going to finally put her prey out of his misery. Part of him was tempted to follow her, to see how she would use those eyes to kill, but he knew he had pressed hard enough for one night. He didn’t want to break his new toy so quickly, and he’d almost come so close so many times tonight alone.

Like when he’d sensed her stalking him.

When she’d refused to answer his questions.

When her eyes had sparked from dead to alive the more he goaded her, turning from dull gray to determined sapphire to bloodthirsty red at last.

When she’d attacked him with every intent to tear him to pieces.

And when she squirmed and cried out in pain so deliciously—

Hisoka twisted the shower knob from hot to ice cold and braced himself against the shower wall, hair falling into his eyes as a deranged grin split his face and freezing water spilled over him.

That little Kurta had made him so…stimulated. His bloodlust was spiking hard, and he wasn’t in a situation where he could give himself over to it.

Hisoka’s arms tensed in concentration. He couldn’t quench it, so he had to get it under control. His fight with Gon was still on the horizon. With a little more training, Gon would win a match and Hisoka would accept his challenge, and nothing was going to prevent that battle from taking place.

Not even the little avenger he was going to painstakingly craft with his own two hands.

At last, Hisoka exited the shower, red hair dripping water down his shoulders and chest. He smirked at the mirror, where the reflection of his fake Phantom Troupe tattoo shown with particular deviance tonight, as if it were congratulating him. He left it there for now; it would be simple enough to remove later with Texture Surprise.

Coming back to the ruin of his living area, Hisoka paused as he caught sight of the two cards he’d aimed at the little Hunter. He drew them back into his hand with Bungee Gum and moved to do the same with the other cards strewn across the floor, but a hint of red caught his eye.

Hisoka spied the thinnest stain of blood on the right edge of the queen of hearts. His eyes became half-lidded, his smirk almost fond as he took it in. He swept his tongue up the edge in a slow lick.

The taste made him moan.

Melody Kurta’s blood was sweet, and he should have never let her go tonight.

But the auction was rapidly approaching, and with it, all his prey would be together in one place, as well as all his new toys, each one more unpredictable than the last.  

He couldn’t wait.

[lcclements]

Bonded Chapter 3

Author’s Not: So, you may have noticed that I change the title. The reason for this is because the silence theme was pretty weak by itself. Also, there is the whole bonded theme, which was meant for comedic purposes. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the Legend of Zelda franchise. It belongs to Nintendo and Shigeru Miyamoto. Please don’t sue! I only create OOCs!

Guide:

“blah” : sign language

‘blah’: thoughts

[blah]: foreign language

Chapter 3: Adjusting

    Zelda placed back and forth in her library. This man who fell from the sky looked like a hylian, but not like a hylian. His skin was gray, tattooed with symbols, and black hair streaked with flicks of silver. His injuries were extensive, and he would be covered in scars. The garb he wore, it seemed like he either came from an ancient civilization, or an arid one. Looking through what was left of the historical texts, she couldn’t find the symbols marked all over his arms. It was frustrating, most of the library that contained historical records were burned by Calamity Ganon. Now, she was stuck with this humanoid creature and no idea if the male wash hostile or not. She sent a messenger to Hateno Labs, but she hasn’t heard back yet. She went back to one historical text, the one of how Hyrule was infected by a blanket of darkness and only a descendant of those banished by the goddesses could cure it. The hero and the goddesses’ descendant had a trusted ally who destroyed the mirror, returning to the dark realm.

    The story was only briefly touched on when she was a child, but after the mirror was broken, there was to be no contact from the dark realm. Then again, there were ways to reach the sacred realm, not just the triforce. Still, if this humanoid creature was a threat to Hyrule, she would quickly put it down. She was brought out of her thoughts by a soft voice. “Your highness?”

She looked up from her notes to look at a mousy maid. She was small in stature, and even tinier in voice. Thinking, she couldn’t come up with the maid’s name. Then again, she had just gotten a new staff after Hyrule Castle was rebuilt. “Thank you.” She said, “Has this…person, exhibited any violent tendencies?”

“No, your highness. Though, he didtell the doctor that he wished to speak with you.” “He? This is a male?” “The doctor confirmed it, among other things.”

“Excellent I’ll be there shortly.” The maid sighed as she saw Princess Zelda grab a quill and paper with a giddy expression. As she ran past the maid, the worker sighed. Many wondered if Zelda was meant to be a researcher rather than a monarch. Princess Zelda hurriedly walked down the hallways of her castle. She often marveled at how the master builders were able to restore her home to its formal glory. A brisk walk made it a short distance between the available rooms and the library. The guards bowed and opened the door to the doctor and the inhabitant. He looked male, with bandages adorning his chest. The old royal doctor stood and bowed. “How is he, Erol?”

“Besides the two broken ribs, the second degree burn to his leg, and the dislocated shoulder? He should be fine. He speaks very well, and I see no signs of a concussion.”

“Is this Princess Zelda?” asked the male

She looked at him for a moment. His eyes were red, and he had black splotches everywhere, with one on his left eye. “Why yes, I am.” She said, “Can you understand me?” “I can understand you fine. To be honest, I’m actually surprised you didn’t kill me on sight.”

“I see no reason to kill a non-hostile creature?” “Creature? Princess Zelda, my name is King Stil of the Twili, descendant of the interlopers.”

    Saphira could only wince as she heard King Dorephan bellow at his son. After the bonding ceremony, Prince Sidon had to sleep overnight in the room next to Saphira’s, and of course the rumor mill started. Both were summoned to the King’s chambers, which made Saphira shake in fear. She had never seen a creature so big, and she was hoping that she wouldn’t be executed for such a stunt. Sidon had tried to assure her that this wouldn’t be the case, but she still folded her arms to cover her twitching fingers. King Dorephan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Father, I assure you that Saphira has no ulterior motive.” Said Sidon

“How do we know this?” asked Mizu, “Ever since this…thingarrived, we’ve had nothing but misery. First the poisoning from that shadow, then a third of our troops are dealing with a deadly poison, and now bonding with our Prince?”

“She didn’t mean for that to happen. She was just trying to communicate.” “And she couldn’t find another way?”

“She is standing right here.” Snapped Saphira, “And no, I don’t have another way, considering normal languages takes years to master. Plus, I already know how to cure them and I told your royal doctor how to cure them.” “Witch!” hissed Mizu, “You did this to your people!” “Enough!” bellowed King Dorephan

Saphira stepped forward, going down on one knee. “Your Majsty, my intent was to warn your people of the creature that passed through our portal.”

King Dorephan looked at the girl with wisdom in his eyes, then looked at his son. He lowered his hand. “Rise child, and come here.”

She looked back at Sidon, who got closer and held her hand. A feeling of calmness washed over her as he led her to the King’s hand. She stood her back rigid but her left hand twitching. Sidon gave her right hand a squeeze for reassurance. “Tell me what was your intention.” Said the King

“I wish to warn the people of this land of the demon that plagued our lands, killed all our food, and forced us to flee to this land. The demon, Lenora, destroyed everything because we refused to bow down to her whims. She possessed our Queen, and created a King for herself, a usurper named Aghanim. I apologie your Majesty for anything I did, but I did notmean to bond myself to Prince Sidon. I don’t plan on marrying him or any other man.” A tug of hurt crossed her and she felt her hand being let go. Out the corner of her eye, she could see Prince Sidon turning away. “As priestesses, we are to remain chaste, a conflict of feelings would only desecrate the oath that we took as teenagers. I willfind a way to break this bond between us.”

King Dorephan nodded and lowered his hand for the two to step off. That pang of hurt in her chest seemed to get heavy, especially when she looked at Prince Sidon, who was looking away from her. “Very well, Mizu, make sure Saphira has access to the library.” Mizu balked at his King and then compsed himself. He bowed and walked away, glaring at Saphira on her way out. King Dorephan sighed, looking away for a second before looking down at the two of them. “I hope that you canbreak this bond.”

“I’ll do my best.”

With one last bow, she left the room quickly after Sidon. He walked quickly, with her following briskly after him. The hallways became familiar to her, and the Prince stopped before an ornate set of doors, with the symbol of the Zora above it. She could see the Prince sigh before turning to look at her. His arms were folded and he looked down at her with a look of contempt, but she could see the look of hurt in his eyes, and in her heart. “Prince Sidon?” she asked

“Don’t you have somewhere else you could be?” he sneered

“Is there something you need to talk to me about?” “After you rejectedme? I don’t think so.” Saphira felt guilt knot in her stomach. She didn’t remember outright rejecting him, but she knew she was impeccable in her words when she stated that her intention wasn’t to marry Sidon. Sure, he was a cute man and, wait, cute? She felt her face flush and then she cleared her throat. “Maybe we should talk about this in private?” Sidon pinched the bridge of his nose and led her inside. She gave an apologetic look the guards before going in, but it didn’t seem to faze them. She shut the doors behind her and then looked at a pacing Prince Sidon. “This is not like me.” He said, “I’m sorry.” “Well, I figured it had something to do with the bonding ceremony we did. Maybe it enhanced our feelings and made is more attracted to each other.” “Yes, well it’s hard to turn down a beautiful woman.”

Saphira blushed again and looked away. Sidon could feel a pang of sorrow in his chest, and watched as she stood defensively, back towards him. “Don’t lie. I’m the only Twili you’ve seen. When you meet my people, you’ll find someone even more beautiful.” Sidon puckered his lips for a moment as he felt despair creep into his heart. He walked over and put a hand on her shoulder. “When I say you’re beautiful, I meant it.” She brushed him away before turning around. He could feel the despair getting lighter, slightly. “You’re only saying that because of the bonding. When I find a way to break it, you’ll be back to normal.”

“Well until then, I’m going to show you around the kingdom.”

“How? Sunlight is very painful if you haven’t noticed.” “Maybe your cloak.”

“Not enough. Besides, I don’t wan to keep getting it dirty. I’m guessing black cloth isn’t in demand.” Sidon scratched the bottom of his chin. Cloth wasn’t necessary except for special occasions. “Maybe the hylian merchant has something.”

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, DAPHNE! You’ve been accepted for the role of EDMUND with the faceclaim of Hunter Parrish. Admin Kaitlin: Oh man... oh man, oh man, oh man. Daphne, there were a great many things about this application that spoke to me, but I cannot imagine a world in which you didn’t include that final interview question because wow--it took my god damn breath away. With a single line, a part of me just knew that you understood Easton on an absolutely intrinsic level. You show so so much development potential just from your sample alone, never mind your actual plots. I cannot tell you how excited I am to start plotting things out with you, and to see you on the dash. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Daphne

Age | 22

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | 6/10 – I’m trying to get back into the swing of writing things, but I tend to be quite slow with replies. I even struggled with trying to finish this application on time (oops!), but there it is.

Timezone | EST

IN CHARACTER

Character | Edmund / Easton Craven, although he sometimes uses his mother’s maiden name (which is Westfall, because I have a terrible sense of humour). Please let me change his face claim to Hunter Parrish so I may bless the dash with his presence. :)

What drew you to this character?

Why bastard? Wherefore base? There’s a lot to be said for individual interpretations of characters, but I’ve always considered Edmund to be a remarkably nuanced individual in Shakespeare canon. He’s someone with nothing to lose and everything to gain. He’s the very definition of Machiavellianism, delectably manipulative, clever, and cunning in his own right, and by god, he’s hungry—so deprived, so angry that he should be despicable in his ruthless pursuit of satisfaction. But somehow, he still demonstrates the capacity for remorse; he evokes sympathy for his situation. He takes matters into his own hands, refuses to settle with the cards fate has dealt him, and I can’t help but admire that audacity, even if it stems from long-standing resentment and spite. The way he chooses to reclaim his identity is a well-earned fuck you to the system, and as a wise Lannister once said, you should never forget what you are. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you—if only there was anything left of Easton to hurt.

I’m a huge glutton for fictional angst and bitterness, but admittedly, what I love more than either of those things is the sheer futility of Easton’s situation. I love him precisely because the odds were against him from the very start. In King Lear, he’s drawn the short stick in life, and the moment Edmund steels himself against the order of the world, he becomes a marked man living on borrowed time. Easton is similar in the sense that he’s doomed to never achieve the fulfillment he so desperately craves. He will never be able to fill the emptiness that remains after his forest fire of hatred has razed all else to the ground, and that is largely because the circumstances for his unhappiness are beyond his control. He was born broken, which isn’t to say that he doesn’t have to be held accountable for his actions, but rather that the descent into hell for him is easier than most; to be damned, after all, is his one and only birthright. He is very much a monster of his father’s making—so much that I imagine for all he wishes to reject his background, the resemblance he bears to his father both in appearance and ambition is ironically uncanny to everyone around him. A part of me aches deeply for the person he might have become if only he had been loved (tl;dr, yes, I am a sucker for characters with major daddy issues), but since that isn’t the case, our only other option, really, is to bask in the glory (the horror) of what his father created: Easton as he is currently, as the Craven’s unholy son. You see, the gods may deny his cause, but I came here to stand up for him in their stead.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?

I. KING OF NOTHING - Easton pursues glory with a dark, ugly vengeance. He wants to rule, and he’s hellbent on getting there, although the way I picture it is that he’s currently biding his time under the radar, scoping out the playing field, and figuring out how he can manipulate people to his best possible advantage before he makes his move—much like a spider unattended, quietly spinning its web in the dark corner of a room. And while that in itself will be pretty fascinating to flesh out, I’m more concerned with the endgame of it all. For Easton, there’s no question that the ends justify the means, but what, exactly, is the “end” he is trying to justify? I don’t think he has a good grasp on the answer, and while he ultimately has the drive and the craftiness to ascend through the ranks, the question I want Easton to confront once he arrives there is, what now? As much as he wants the world to pay, becoming the king he thinks he deserves to be will not make him whole. I want to explore his struggle to deny this growing realization, and to have him eventually look down upon a kingdom from his point of conquest, only to see the vast emptiness that lies before him—to understand that despite everything, this is the one constant that has stuck by him his entire life. And once he accepts that nothingness? Some men just want to watch the world burn.

II. MY BROTHER’S KEEPER - But Easton was loved, you cry; he has Everett! To which I say, ah, but does he really? I think that to some extent, Easton is aware that Everett does care for him—his own feelings, however, are much more complicated, because he can’t seem to separate his resentment towards Everett from the deep-seated insecurities at the very core of his being. He has the life that Easton has always wanted, so it makes sense that at the heart of these issues, they’re intertwined. The way Easton sees it, Everett may care about him, but he does so from a position of privilege: his life was handed to him on a silver platter, and for that, he can never hope to understand. Easton is convinced that Everett never truly put his full effort into trying to understand or to help mediate their family dynamic when it mattered, and to be honest, I don’t think he’s wrong to feel that way. Not that he gives a damn anymore—as far as he’s concerned, they don’t owe each other anything—but since they’re both working under the Capulets, ignoring Everett won’t be as easy as it used to be, and I can’t wait to see how their relationship unfolds because there’s really no other character who defines him more. It’s inevitable that Easton will eventually realize his relationship with Everett is something to be exploited, not only because he’s a complete tool, but also because it’s that timeless rom-com cliché: to fake a relationship for ulterior motives only to realize that some small, twisted part of you may actually care (gasp, the horror!) for the other person. Except they’re brothers, not lovers, and I can’t think of any better way for Easton to come to terms. Something tells me that Everett may not be so forgiving, but I am 100% here for the drama and the fallout that ensues.

III. BERSERKER - There’s a very dark and primal part of Easton that contributes to his anger, and although his mind is definitely valued, this is ultimately what makes him such a great soldier for the Capulets. The moment Easton gives into that rage, all his boundaries disappear, and he becomes single-minded in his ruthlessness. He’s much better at reigning in his temper than he used to be, but you can still sense the savagery that brews just below the surface—the dark, nameless thing that paces restlessly inside of him, just waiting for an excuse to be let loose. I imagine it’s something that’s often been ascribed to him as innate, if only because of his illegitimacy. What I’m interested in exploring is, how much of that is true, and how much of it matters?  Is it still something he can keep at bay, something he can still reject, if he so chooses, as it’s called into play more often with the Capulet’s plans? Or is it something he has no choice to succumb to—that internal war between instinct and emotion versus logic and reason?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? Sure!

IN DEPTH

I didn’t manage to finish the interview section in time, but I still put one of the responses in the Extras section just because I thought it was too good to waste :)

In-Character Para Sample:

[FOUR YEARS AGO]

“Huh.” Colborne brings a hand to his chin. “Interesting. It’s risky, but it might just be ballsy enough to work.”

He is 22 when he still believes the world could be his oyster—eager to impress, eager to prove himself, and he preens, but it comes a moment too soon. He’s gathering back up his sheets and packing up his briefcase when the executive starts again, shaking his head with a chuckle.

“I have to say, I’m impressed. This isn’t exactly what I was expecting from someone of Craven & Ricci calibre.”

The world slows to a stop.

“What did you just say?” he asks, fighting to keep his voice even. The clasp on his briefcase shuts with a click. Easton turns to face him. The Dellecher executive is mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, and all he can hear is the irregular beat of his heart, responding in time to those dreaded two words.

“Well, Everett—your brother, isn’t that right? He called earlier. Put in a good word for you.”

Half-brother, he almost corrects with a growl.

Of course he did, thinks Easton, with a cold, resounding clarity. How completely and utterly stupid of him to assume there was a world beyond Everett’s reach, simply because he’d picked what he thought to be a relatively obscure firm. His face shutters, and for a moment, he pauses. Takes in a breath. The world is bleached white, but when he responds, his voice is still calm. Serene.

“I see.”

“How about it, then? You think you’ll be ready to start on Monday?”

Easton smiles thinly and gathers his coat. It’s easier than it used to be, and just like that, the door swings shut on another opportunity.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he says, without turning around. “I assumed I was going into this position based on my own merit.”

Colborne laughs, just a little nervously.

“Look. You’re talented, don’t get me wrong,” he says, licking his lips, and Easton can’t help but wonder, snidely, where this man was twenty, thirty years prior—how his words fall to pieces as soon as they leave his mouth, buoyed up on the tongue of a hypocrite. This man may be a superior, but to Easton he’s nothing, and he loses more respect for him with every passing second.

“But you’re also young, and you’re inexperienced. Talent won’t get you everywhere. I’ve got ten other guys all dying to get their hands on this job, and frankly, if you weren’t a Craven, well…”

But he isn’t a Craven.

Not really.

He stops listening to Colborne and slides the dossier across the table. Later, he thinks back on how he was too forgiving—how he should have burned that folder; how he should have let the company go up in flames.

Colborne’s voice swims in and out of focus.

“You should be thankful, really,” he says grimly. “All your connections, all that luck, and you’re just throwing it away. You have no idea how many people would kill to be in your position—”

And just like that, something in Easton snaps. All the control he’s been working so hard to exercise unravels in an instant as a hot streak of rage courses through him, rearing its ugly head. He grabs Colborne by the tie and shoves him up against the wall so hard that the Escher replica hanging on the wall crashes to the floor, frame splintering into pieces.

“You have no idea what I should or shouldn’t be thankful for, you sorry son of a bitch,” Easton spits, fingers clenched around his disgustingly damp collar. Red starbursts flare in his periphery, adrenaline pumping fire through his veins, and the image of Colborne’s face, bloodied and broken, rises up in his mind, the satisfaction of hearing the crack of his skull running rampant in his brain. He’s about to slug him when his mother’s laugh appears out of the blue, unwelcome and intrusive.

Suddenly he’s twenty again, sitting in the backroom of a Venetian cabaret club across from someone he can’t call anything other than a stranger.

You can dress nice all you want, she tuts through ribbons of cigarette smoke, nodding at his clothes. It’s a valiant attempt, I’ll give you that much. You almost even pass as being fully related to that beloved brother of yours.

But you can’t hide that temper.

Easton drops his fist.

It’s the bastard’s blood.

(For the first time, he wonders whether she meant him or his father.)

He lets go of Colborne, who slides down against the floor, shocked into silence, and something ugly blooms in chest when he steps back—something that feels an awful lot like guilt. It lingers as he dons his coat and smoothes out his hair, intermingling with the stench of the man’s sweat, and the longer he looks at him, the more he realizes that he feels nothing for the man—that the guilt isn’t so much for Colborne as it is for the satisfaction he gets from towering over him.

Easton nods at the folder.

“Something to remember me by,” he says stiffly. “Use it. Or don’t. I really don’t fucking care.”

He calls Everett while he’s waiting for the bus and catches a glimpse of his reflection in the glass pane. He looks every inch the part. Not a wrinkle, not a flyaway hair, not a thread out of place. It’s a far cry from how he was managing just a few months ago—ever since their father announced he was stepping down, and he’d let himself entertain the inkling of hope that maybe, just maybe, there would be a sign—but what’s important hasn’t changed. He still isn’t good enough.

Everett picks up on the first ring.

“You called Dellecher,” he accuses, voice flat.

“Westfall? Really?” Everett sounds amused. Bored, even, as if it surprises him in the slightest that he’d choose to use a different name.“Do you truly hate us that much, little brother?”

Irrevocably, something stings. More than the nip of winter frost at his cheeks, or at his ears. No, he decides, it’s not so much a sting as it is a burn, spreading through his ribcage, up his throat like white fire. A gloved fist clenches at his side, and in that moment, he makes up his mind. He’ll claw his way to the top if he has to or die trying.

Do you truly hate us that much, little brother?

If only he knew the half of it.

“Stay out of my way, Everett,” Easton says coldly, just before ending the call. “I don’t need your help.”

He doesn’t need anyone’s.

He’ll make it on his own—just like he always has.

EXTRAS:

Mockblog: http://machiavillains.tumblr.com

A cornucopia of unrelated (but still fun) facts:

Also has a hand in managing certain offshore accounts, so I guess he does dirty work for his day job too? Point being either way, he’s not afraid to and will play dirty

Is still sensitive about a cryptocurrency fiasco that happened last year and will lash out if you mention it in the slightest

His misspelt Starbucks name is always Edinger Westphal

Yes, he’s kind of juvenile but that’s what happens when you’re emotionally stunted because your dad doesn’t love you

And finally, the response to “What has been your biggest mistake so far?” question:

“Haven’t you heard?” Easton smirks faintly, the smile no less cruel, no less mocking. If only they knew how easy it came to him now—how easily he wears the words, how they slant around his ears like a crown, not a curse (or maybe—just maybe—they’re one and the same). “I’m the bastard son,” he says with a dramatic flourish, reclining further back in his chair. But there’s something true, something bitter about it, something that snags at the end of his words. “My biggest mistake was being born.”

All in all, it appears the Easton in my head is much more of a mopey, woe-is-me mess than I expected and I’m really sorry about that BUT he appears well put-together and vindictive on the outside I promise it’s just inside he never grew up and he’s still an angsty teen.

Okay, that’s it! I’m sorry this was so long, and thanks again for considering me :)

[the-desolated-quill]

The God Complex - Doctor Who blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. If you haven’t seen this episode yet, you may want to before reading this review)

Oh great! Another Toby Whithouse episode! They’re always good for a giggle!

I’ve always felt Whithouse was the obvious candidate to take over from Moffat as opposed to Chris Chibnall. Granted not everything he writes is amazing, but he always maintains a decent level of quality and he seems to have a good handle as to what makes Doctor Who such a unique show. I absolutely adored School Reunion and while The Vampires Of Venice was a tad flawed, it was still hugely entertaining due to its camp silliness. The God Complex is very much in the same vein as Vampires. Although problems do crop up toward the end, it’s still very enjoyable overall.

The Doctor, Amy and Rory arrive at a hotel, only to discover it’s not a hotel at all. It’s a prison made to look like a hotel with other ‘guests’ trapped inside, their worst fears hidden behind every door and a hungry Minotaur roaming the corridors. Bit like a hotel I stayed at in Rome during a school trip.

Now of course the advertisements describe the rooms as containing their worst fears, but I do hope Whithouse didn’t actually intend this to be scary. Because if he did, he may have fallen short by a few... light-years. See the thing about fears that are personal to you is that only you find them scary. Everyone else just finds them either tame or just plain hilarious, especially if it’s something weird like a gym teacher or a man in a gorilla suit clutching some toilet roll, both of which appear in the episode and both of which are hysterically funny. So I’m assuming that Whithouse was going more for surreal rather than scary. And yeah, it works. It works really well. If Whithouse was going for surreal, this is definitely surreal. The hotel is a great setting and it does lend itself to some very weird imagery, like the dining room full of ventriloquist dummies. A lot of it feels very reminiscent of Stephen King. The most obvious is The Shining with perhaps a little bit of It thrown in for good measure. Not very original granted, but it’s executed very well. And I did like the Minotaur. Okay the design is a bit crap, but the use of fisheye lens and inventive camera angles help to make it somewhat threatening.

Let’s talk about the characters, starting with my favourite. Rita, played by Amara Karan. Having had to put up with obnoxious plot device in a mini-skirt Amy for what feels like two ice ages rather than series, you can imagine I was very excited when the Doctor offered to take Rita with him in the TARDIS when all this was over. A woman that’s not defined by her physical attractiveness or her importance to the Doctor and is actually a fully realised character in her own right? Whithouse, please, remind me what that’s like! It’s been such a long time!

Needless to say, I really liked Rita. She’s funny, really smart, she’s got a good head on her shoulders, and is able to keep her cool while everyone else is losing their’s. I particularly liked the exploration of her faith. She believes the hotel is actually Jahannam, the Muslim version of Hell, and I liked how she’s able to take it all in her stride. She’s confused as to why she’s been sent to ‘Jahannam’, believing she has lived a good and moral life, but remains steadfast that everything will be explained and that she will get out of this somehow. Plus it’s just nice to have a Muslim woman on Doctor Who. I certainly would love to see a Muslim woman become the Doctor’s companion. I was utterly heartbroken when she died, although I suppose I should have seen it coming. I thought Amara Karan gave a really good performance and would have  fit in really well with Matt Smith’s Doctor. I feel she would have provided a nice rational counterbalance for him. I especially liked her calm rejection of the Doctor’s all mighty saviour mentality.

I could have done without the stereotyping though. When Rita opens the door to her room, her worst fear is revealed to be her strict dad berating her for getting a B in mathematics.

Really Whithouse? 

In fact this episode contains a lot of stereotyping now that I’m thinking about it. I mean look at Howie. Bespectacled nerd with a stutter who blogs about conspiracy theories, likes Star Trek and is afraid of talking to girls. Joe doesn’t escape this either. He’s a gambler and we know this because he wears a horseshoe pin on his tie and dice cufflinks. It just feels really lazy on Whithouse’s part.

The other character I liked was Gibbis, played by David Walliams. Now this surprised me because David Walliams worked with Matt Lucas in the sketch show Little Britain, which I’ve always thought was about as funny as passing a kidney stone. They also worked together on the short lived mockumentary series Come Fly With Me, which was quite possibly one of the worst comedies I’ve ever sat through in my life. In fact I still vividly remember that Christmas. My family and I staring open-mouthed at the telly watching David Walliams and Matt Lucas in yellowface singing a really offensive, mock Chinese song about Martin Clunes. I actually consider it an insult to my backside that I had to sit through that deeply racist pile of dreck and to this day I still don’t know what possessed the BBC into thinking that was in any way appropriate. To cut a long story short, I don’t like Walliams or Lucas very much. What can I say? I have a thing against talentless hacks thinking casual racism is funny. It’s a quirk of mine. But yeah, I really liked Gibbis. It’s a great idea. A race of aliens that have survived by sucking up to their invaders and oppressors. It lends itself to some really funny moments (their national anthem is ‘Glory To... Insert Name Here.’ LOL), I liked how Gibbis’ cowardice is used to pit the characters against one another, and as much as I’m loath to admit it, I thought David Walliams did a good job in the role. Well I suppose even a broken clock is right twice a day (unless it’s digital of course).

As I said, I do mostly like the episode. It’s very surreal and engaging. Silly but entertainingly so. It’s just a shame the whole thing had to go a bit tits up at the end.

So the Doctor works out that the Minotaur isn’t actually feeding on fear, but on faith, and that the reason the TARDIS was drawn there was because of Amy’s faith in the Doctor. Okay, not a bad idea. It’s certainly a good way to explore their relationship and how Amy has never really grown up, as demonstrated when the Doctor talks to her and he sees her as young Amelia. The problem is the whole faith aspect isn’t done very well. For instance, I can see Amy having faith in the Doctor, Rita having faith in Allah and Joe having faith in luck, but Howie’s faith in conspiracy theories? That’s a bit of a stretch. And what about Rory? He’s repeatedly shown the fire exit because apparently he doesn’t have any faith in anything.

BOLLOCKS

Everyone has faith in something.

And then there’s the resolution. If Amy’s faith in the Doctor is so strong, would a two minute monologue really be enough to break it? It feels very similar to a moment in The Curse Of Fenric where the Seventh Doctor had to break his companion Ace’s faith in him, but the reason that worked was because it was genuinely shocking and uncomfortable to watch. He coldly attacked parts of Ace’s self esteem and made her feel like little more than a piece on a chessboard. Here it just feels a bit pathetic and half-arsed in comparison. Also you never get the sense that the Doctor and Amy’s relationship has actually changed once her faith has been ‘broken’. They’re still laughing and smiling like they normally do. With Seven and Ace, while he does apologise and explain why he did it, you get the sense that their once close relationship is slightly more fragile now going forward.

But one thing that puzzles me especially (and this is in no way Whithouse’s fault) is why is Amy’s faith in the Doctor so strong considering everything that’s happened. Would Amy’s faith really be that unshakeable after the Doctor failed to save her daughter? Or when he coldly left her alternative self to die in The Girl Who Waited? 

Which brings me to this. Remember in my previous review when I said I had a problem with how The Girl Who Waited was resolved, but it wouldn’t become apparent until now? Well this is it. Wouldn’t it make so much more sense if Amy and Rory left after that episode rather than this one? The God Complex is really jarring at the beginning because the three leads are getting along, but surely after what happened in the previous episode there would be some tension between them. Can they actually trust the Doctor after everything that’s happened? So I have a really hard time buying that Amy would still have faith in the Doctor. Or at least that her faith would be as strong as they’re claiming it is. I would much rather have seen Amy and Rory take some initiative and choose to leave the TARDIS of their own accord because of what the Doctor did rather than having them get unceremoniously dumped for the weakest and most patronising of reasons. He’s worried they’re going to get killed if they stay with him. Well big whoop! Get over yourself! Yes it’s dangerous travelling with him, but his companions are well aware of that. They want to travel through time and space because it’s cool, not because they’re too stupid to know better. If Amy and Rory want to take the risk, that’s their choice. By stripping them of that choice, the Doctor is basically treating Amy like the child he just encouraged her to grow up from and leave behind a few minutes ago.

The God Complex was never going to be special. I realise that. But it was still a decent enough story that was both imaginative and enjoyable to watch. It’s just such a shame that ending had to spoil it.

[modelronpagame]

Zugzwang || Kaz || Trial 6-3 || Re: Everything / Attn: e.ve

He knows what’s on the piece of paper. Even before the trial, he was already acutely aware of what his teammate thought, and part of him was also certain that he shared Koharu’s thoughts on the matter. Was it friendship? Was it the need to not lose another friend? Was it just internal bias working its magic? Certainly, Kaz had a lot to consider as the baton was passed onto him, and he knew that in order to tackle this fairly… certain adjustments would be needed.

(he still has the time to give Koharu’s hand a squeeze before she departs for Atsuko and leaves him alone on the Cute Team’s side)

“Before I begin, I do want to address something. Red- no, Huang Yi Chen-san, while I appreciate your honesty in all matters, including being forthcoming about the existence of your twin brother, I ask that you please not drop any more last-minute truth bombs on the rest of the class. Especially because I doubt you are the accomplice, and in fact, I believe the entire game has been trying to make us distrust you over and over based on what we would end up finding about you. Sharing a last name with Huang Xiaozhu, your kitsune mask and now your twin brother after I suggested the possibility of my progenitor being Petbe is…” An odd, introspective look flits across Kaz’s face. Nevertheless, he continues. “Thank you for summarizing most of what we’ve all uncovered about Petbe’s physical traits and habits nonetheless. I hope I’m not wrong in trusting you, because if there’s anyone else I’d like for it not to be, you’re on that list as well.”

Inputting a series of commands, he takes a deep breath before acknowledging and executing the necessary changes. As the light starts to fade from his eyes, Kaz’s expression disappears into a blank stare, and his body language is muted. “To be as unbiased as possible in what I am about to state next, I have disabled my emotional protocols for fifteen minutes. Know that I dislike having to do this, but if we are going to have to make accusations, I cannot allow my personal feelings regarding the three of you to distract me. Let us begin this countdown.”

Withdrawing his notebook, Kaz flips across the pages. “The reason I brought up and narrowed down all three of our current main suspects is due to the need to connect what physical and circumstantial evidence we have to a face or faces. For example, the aforementioned hannya mask: while Red-san is not wrong, extrapolating the original mask shows it represents a jealous female demon. Evidence against Atsuko-san due to her being the only female suspect? Or is it a red herring precisely because she is being framed? And before we narrowed down the pool of suspects, would anyone have pointed the mask at Atsuko-san if she was not placed in the spotlight?” He looks up. “It was rhetorical, please do not expend any time answering that. The point is that reducing the number of possible avenues allows one to draw conclusions leading towards a suspect, instead of attempting to cross-hatch that information and hoping they align and point towards someone in particular. In this case, because of the allegations Atsuko-san has brought up, I will share what information I have gleaned about e.ve as well.”

“While it may be just coincidence, I would like to point out that e.ve’s real name is Ichiro Morimoto. While I'm aware it is spelled with different kanji than the normal interpretation, Ichiro can also mean ‘first son’, which incidentally ties back neatly to the firstborn Cain mentioned in the hint Fukumoto-san mentioned. While I do not know whether or not he has a brother, consider the implications of the following: Petbe takes a picture of a younger male who appears to be having more friends, more things to celebrate and thus more success than he does. Does that ring true to the fable of Cain and Abel? There is also the mention of Kai Midori-san, who while not present, does have ties to Mazawa-san’s class as he was in the Talent Course program that year. If we take the Rejection Letter at face value, there is the possibility that Petbe has been at Hope’s Peak Academy for longer and is thus about as old as Mazawa-san is. True, that does not point to any of our three nineteen-year old suspects,” he grudgingly admits. “But it still stands to reason that it does not preclude any of the three from possibly knowing them. That aside, does something else not seem quite odd to all of you?”

He closes his notebook, and finally stares directly at e.ve. “All of this time you’ve been focusing on pointing fingers at Atsuko-san. Granted, with very good reason to do so given the circumstances, but if there was anyone I would have thought you would accuse, it would be Ng-san. He is the only other one who fits within the biblical allegories due to his upbringing, and one can argue that, and with my sincerest apologies as I reveal it, his relationship with his sister Charmayne could point towards the hint about Cain and Abel. With regards to a possible rejection to Hope’s Peak Academy, there’s enough circumstantial evidence to support the possibility that he was rejected at the same time he had applied with her three years ago, and especially because his cologne was found on Petbe’s coat… and yet the most obvious and therewithin one of our suspects is the one you bring the least attention to. Consider me curious as to why that i-”

It’s right in the middle of his summation that the timer expires, and you witness the exact moment he freezes as his internal regulation of both virtual serotonin and adrenaline restarts itself. The gravity of the words he has uttered in the last fifteen minutes sinks in as the colour returns to his eyes, causing Kaz to stumble over his words as he hunches over the podium, gripping it for support. After he takes a few moments to process the bevy of repressed frustration and loss that assaults his senses, he looks up with a solemn expression on his face.

“Because I don’t want to keep doing this. To keep pointing fingers at each other and have to bank on chances and circumstance to find the truth of the matter.” Recomposing himself, Kaz straightens up in all of his 5′3″ glory to finish what he’s started. “I can say that I’m holding onto one last connection, one last piece of evidence that doesn’t indict any of the three outright, but I’m keeping this last ace close to the chest until we get confirmation of who the accomplice could be as well. Because I have faith it’ll either make or break their case. Now please, e.ve-san… address what Atsuko-san has to say. Please.”

And then he falls silent, waiting for the crucible to drop headlong into the fire. 

[feathersandblue]

Existentialism, John Silver style

I think part of the reason why I can relate so strongly to Silver’s decision in the finale is that at the core of my convictions, I’ve always seen existentialism as fundamentally true.

The idea of being condemned to freedom (as a lack of superordinate morality and purpose), to an existence that does not have an inherent meaning but gains its meaning only through personal actions - an existence where the inidivdual and their choices are not good or evil but only true or not true to their own inner conviction - is reflected exceptionally well in Silver’s arc in Black Sails. It’s made explicit when Silver himself refuses to attach meaning to the events of his past in 4.09, where he outright denies the existence of a storyteller. Due to that lack (and rejection) of a “higher” purpose, Silver becomes one of two (arguably three) characters in Black Sails to choose his own fate through an act of personal sacrifice. 

I’ve seen a piece of meta very recently that basically said that Silver had no right to act the way he did because he was taking choices away from Madi (and the maroons). That way of thinking is deeply foreign to me, because existentialism is all about individual choices. The characters in Black Sails have always been strongest when they were taking responsibility for their own actions - when they were acting true to their own nature. 

If going along with Madi’s and Flint’ war went against the things Silver truly believed in, should he have done it only for her and Flint’s sake? That might have been more loyal on a surface level, but it would have required of him to act against his own convictions.

Besides, none of the main characters have ever worried all that much about taking choices away from anyone, not, at least, when it came to politics. Flint, Silver, Vane and Billy didn’t show any kind of hesitation to undermine the governor’s position by threatening and intimidating every pirate who had taken the pardon. And Madi was also willing to go to great lengths to make that war happen, even in opposition to Julius, who had valid reasons to oppose it. I think it’s only fair to add that Madi had also selfish reasons to want that war - as a young woman, stepping out of the shadow of her parents, trying to establish herself as a leader to her people, in opposition to the more protectionist rule of her mother. That war was her personal quest, her coming of age.

In any case, all throughout the series, the parties who wanted the war didn’t much care about other people’s opposition. And war is what they got until Jack, Max, and Silver pulled a page from their book and put a stop to it. 

Do we believe for a second that Madi would have left the war behind for Silver? Of course not, and we woulnd’t expect her to, because she was deeply convinced that the war was a righteous cause.

Then why do we expect Silver to go along with the war for her sake, even though he truly believed it was the wrong thing to do? THERE IS NO MORAL HIGH GROUND. Black Sails has shown us both the noble sheen of a war for freedom and the horrible price people have to pay for it. The whole tragedy of the ending is that we have two people who deeply love and respect each other, but whose belief systems don’t work the same way. 

The strongest existentialist struggles are always found where people claim their own freedom, where they make difficult choices not according to what other people believe, but to their own values. Where they take a stand. 

Of course, this existentialist freedom only exists where people are actually free to decide -, only then can it be acknowledged and claimed, and only in that moment, people actually are free. Free to be bound by nothing but their own conscience - free to fight an inner battle when the outer circumstances allow for that kind of luxury. Mrs Hudson is not free to make a choice based on her inner convistion because she’s bound by her love and responsibility for her children. Likewise, Vane, the character for whom freedom is the first and foremost priority, avoids every kind of attachment to material goods, any commitment that would bind him, knowing they are civilization’s greatest weapon. When Vane chooses his death, that's an existentialist choice right from the textbook - while the decision to hang him is Eleanor’s, he chooses the terms and the meaning of his execution, and ultimately, he chooses to die because his death will be a catalyst for a revolution. That’s not the same as, say, someone committing suicide to escape neverending horrors. Choosing the lesser of two evils, forced by the circumstances, is not freedom. The truly existentialist choice is the one you make willingly, the one not dicatetd to you by others.

The interesting thing about Silver is that he has that feedom on a very basic level right in the beginning - as a drifter, committed to no one - but then he gives it up, or rather, loses it in a variety of ways. And when he decides to put an end to the war, that’s both reflective of who he truly is - a pragmatist, a survivor, a man who does not understand the idealism that drives Flint and Madi - and what he truly believes. That’s what makes his decision so important. He’s not a hero, he’s not a villain, but maybe for the first time, he is authentic. And his act is more tragic and, in a way, even heroic, because it requires him to betray the two people closest to him and condemn himself to a life that lacks all its glory. 

Comparing Siver’s situation with Max’ decision to prioritize her relationship with Anne over a position of power makes it obvious how much more difficult Silver’s decision is. Max makes a simple choice, one that requires a personal sacrifice - giving up power - but allows her to act in accordance with her truest believes. What she doesn’t do is betray her loved ones on a personal level, quite the opppsite; it’s her way to make up for an earlier betrayal. There is quite an allure in self-sacrifice, if it means you can go on knowing you have the moral high ground. Max does it, and the narrative rewards her for it, telling the audience, quite clearly: “You chose love over power, and it was the right choice.” The narrative favors Max to an almost incredible degree. Max gets to be governor. Max also gets Anne’s forgiveness.

But it’s not Max’ personal sacrifice that makes it happen, it’s Silver’s.

Silver, by acting in accordance with his truest believes, gives up everything he’s won. He doesn’t get the fame. He doesn’t get the captaincy. He doesn’t get the treasure. He has irreparably damaged every meaningful relationship he has ever had, and what is his gain?

I can’t emphasize this enough: it would have been a lot easier for Silver to go along with what Madi and Flint wanted. If Silver had only been interested in his own, short-lived gain and gratification, if he hadn’t felt active disgust at the person he was becoming - the person who killed and tortured and betrayed his friends and orchestrated the death of people under his protection for the greater cause - then he would not have acted against them. What he did was not the action of a person who chose the path of least resistance. It was the action of a man who found the strength and conviction to make a choice. It was the action of a man who no longer wanted to do bad things in the name of a good cause. 

Did he have the right to make that choice? That’s a moot question, because under these existentialist terms, having the power means having that right. Silver was in a position to end the war, and that’s what he did.

What Silver is, in that moment, is the master of his fate, and there’s really no bigger accomplishment in terms of existentialism. 

Robert Louis Stevenson based his character of Long John Silver on William Ernest Henley, who is most famous for his poem “Invictus”, which may be the epitome of the kind of freedom at the core of existentialism : 

It matters not how strait the gate

how charged with punishments the scroll

I am the master of my fate

I am the captain of my soul.

That’s what Silver is doing, in this final episode. Instead of letting others decide for him - instead of blindly following Madi and Flint into a war which, in Silver’s understanding, is the horror - he uses all the means at his disposal to help Max and Jack to put a stop to it, and he does it without further bloodshed. It is only Silver who is in a position to achieve this ending. It is only Silver, with his cunning and his inventiveness, who can be Flint’s end without killing him. 

I have no understanding for people who are trying so very hard to deny the difficulty of Silver’s choice, and what it cost him, and what it means for him in terms of character development, who are completely willing to throw him under the bus and deny that his feelings and respect for Madi were ever real, or that his decision to send Flint to Savannah instead of killing him was not an act of love and mercy on his part. 

[mdye]

[Editor’s note: Nixon biographer John A. Farrell wrote this comparison of the two presidents in February — well before the firing of FBI Director James Comey. It is reposted here with only light edits.]

We’re barely into the Trump administration and we’ve had war on the press, electronic eavesdropping, a sacked attorney general, humongous demonstrations, fury over a Democratic National Committee break-in, Cold War­­–style skirmishes, and scandalous intrigues akin to Watergate.

Sound familiar?

“Imagine packing 6 yrs of the Nixon admin into 3 weeks,” tweeted Nicole Hemmer, a scholar from the University of Virginia’s Miller Center (and Vox columnist), in February. “It’s like Nixon speed-dating.”

Veteran hands like Dan Rather, Bill Moyers, John Dean, and William Kristol have joined youngsters like Rachel Maddow in drawing parallels between Richard Nixon and Donald Trump.

As the author of a new biography of Nixon, I get asked — a lot — how I plotted the book’s release to coincide with the surge in discussion, in the press and social media, of similarities between the disgraced 37th president of the United States and his latest successor, Donald Trump.

Having lived the past six years with Nixon in my head (I seek no pity; just buy the book), I approach the idea of comparing the two leaders with caution and restraint, for there are important differences.

As bad as Nixon was, for example, he never embraced white nationalists, much less sat one on his National Security Council. Nixon supported every major civil rights bill in the 1960s, and may have lost the 1962 gubernatorial election in California as a result of his spirited denunciation of the John Birch Society, the alt-right wack jobs of their day. “It was time to take on the lunatic fringe,” he wrote to Dwight Eisenhower.

Which is not to cast Tricky Dick as a saint. Fallacious comparisons cut both ways. When Trump dismissed acting Attorney General Sally Yates, a Justice Department holdover from the previous administration, for declining to defend his executive order on immigration, the episode was immediately compared to Nixon’s “Saturday Night Massacre.” But Trump’s move hardly rates with Nixon’s. The stakes were far higher in 1973, with war in the Middle East, a nuclear alert, and the resignation of a corrupt vice president as a backdrop. Nixon’s own attorney general and his successor resigned over principle after refusing to fire the Watergate special prosecutor, before Solicitor General Robert Bork stepped in to do the deed.

So restraint keeps me from overstating the echoes. But then Trump will produce a performance like his rambling, combative February 16 press conference (“Russia is fake news!”) so rich with “narcissism, thin skin and deeply personal grievances,” as NBC’s Brian Williams put it, that the analogies with Nixon’s piteous “last press conference” of 1962, or his Watergate-era clashes with the media, are insistent and appropriate.

And finally, perhaps inevitably, Trump himself joined the game: He alleged that Barack Obama had bugged Trump Tower in an act worthy of “Nixon/Watergate.” (You want to see your book sales leap on Amazon? Have POTUS tweet your topic.)

Why is Nixon the go-to model for presidential misbehavior? For one thing, he is deeply embedded in our lives and culture. The only president to resign in disgrace was famously polarizing long before Watergate. This red-baiter from Southern California was the point man for McCarthyism, earning the eternal enmity of postwar liberals.

In the swinging ’60s, he was the stodgy self-made man: the square in the age of hip. As such, Nixon was a model for Mad Men’s Don Draper and, after stretching out the Vietnam War for four additional years, his reign helped inspire the evil Galactic Empire in Star Wars (according to George Lucas). He may not be the subject of a hip-hop Broadway musical, but he has served as the central figure in an opera (Nixon in China) and played the villain in the X-Men and Watchmen movies.

Andrew Caballero-Reynolds / Getty It took Nixon a while to provoke protests like these. On the other hand, some two-thirds of the current American population were either not alive or not residents of the United States, when Nixon resigned in 1974. In my Nixon biography, and in what follows, I’ve tried to portray this oft-caricatured scoundrel, in all his glories, for Gen X-ers and millennials who may know him only as the disembodied head on Futurama.

Thinking through the points of similarity between Nixon and Trump, and where they differ, may help us to better understand both men.

Psychobiography — correlation: modest

The differences in their upbringing — Trump came from a wealthy home in New York, Nixon from the California outback and a family wracked by illness, death, and poverty — make any comparison between the two men on this score somewhat strained. Yet both are known for self-centered, narcissistic personalities — and these, perhaps were sired by the emotional austerity of their childhoods. Trump exhibits insecurity, harbors grandiose fantasies, and shows a tetchiness about criticism. So did Nixon.

The Nixon home was known for its physical and emotional severity. Frank Nixon was a crotchety and abusive dad described, by a nephew, as “a highly acquisitive person and a slave driver” who “worked all his children and he worked his wife.” Nixon’s mother, Hannah, a devout Quaker, gave the future president his sense of idealism: He really did want to bring peace to the world. But she was preoccupied with his four brothers, two of whom died as youths, and the demands of the family store. Dick craved her approval, but she never, as Nixon famously confessed, told him that she loved him.

Historians tread lightly when it comes to psychobiography, but Nixon’s career “vindicates one of that maligned genre’s most trustworthy findings: The recipe for a successfully driven politician should include a doting mother to convince the son he can accomplish anything, and an emotionally distant father to convince the son that no accomplishment can ever be enough,” wrote Rick Perlstein in Nixonland.

Much of that may apply to Trump. As biographers Michael Kranish and Marc Fisher describe him in their book, Trump Revealed, the president’s father, Fred Trump, was also a disciplinarian, a workaholic, and a skinflint. At 13, Donald was culled from his family and exiled to military school as a disciplinary remedy. It may not be unreasonable to suggest that, like Nixon, Trump has spent his life seeking to fill an emotional void.

The press — correlation: high

It is no accident that both Nixon and Trump are famous for waging war beyond reason with the press. In men with their backgrounds, criticism may be interpreted as rejection, ripping the scabs from old psychic wounds and inducing emotional pain and hostility.

It’s also no small irony that each was quite successful at courting the press in their early years. Nixon was a protégé of the Chandler family, which owned the then-right-wing Los Angeles Times and promoted Nixon’s career through the simple tactic of imposing news blackouts on his opponents. Trump was a dealmaking playboy in New York’s tabloid jungle. The experiences left both men spoiled by the media’s fawning, cynical about its professed values, and reckless with the truth.

Mark Wilson / Getty Trump surveys the “enemy of the people.” Trump’s well-documented disregard for veracity was well matched by Nixon’s: He lied repeatedly about Vietnam and Watergate as president. When announcing that he was dispatching troops to invade Cambodia, Nixon solemnly assured the nation that the US had been scrupulous, to that point, in observing that poor country’s neutrality. In fact, he had been bombing Cambodia, secretly, for a year.

Nixon was as brash about his lying as Trump. On one occasion, when he thought the camera had stopped filming, Nixon told an interviewer how he had inserted a crude obscenity into a quote from Lyndon Johnson, because it made for a more colorful story — and portrayed Johnson as a vulgar bumpkin. When his aides could not find the chopsticks he used during his famous trip to China, Nixon told them to use any pair for a museum display, as the public would never know the difference.

Striving to maintain control, Trump rages over leaks. Nixon, too, confessed to being “paranoid” about leakers, and famously declared: “The press is the enemy.” Trump has friends in some corners of the media, and his declaration of war may be cynical and manipulative. For Nixon, the hate was real.

Trump, erupting in nocturnal tweets — emissions quite similar to those captured on Nixon’s White House tapes, except that they are instantaneously blasted out to tens of millions of Twitter fans — has taken it further. The press is not just his enemy, he tweeted, but the “enemy of the American people.”

Their politics — correlation: modest

Trump and Nixon both rode the politics of grievance — particularly white grievance — to the White House.

“I am your voice,” Trump told the disaffected electorate of the South, West, and Midwest, who responded by giving him an Electoral College majority. In his speeches, Trump called for the return of “law and order,” just like Nixon in 1968. “The silent majority is back,” Trump said, identifying his voters precisely as Nixon did. “We are going to take the country back.”

The division between coastal elites and the heartland is a hardy theme in American political history — the tension between frontier farmers and the Founding Fathers led to open rebellions in 1787 and 1791. In crises, the country draws together, then the old divisions reemerge in times of peace.

The gulf yawned after World War I, when the carnage of industrial warfare and the doctrines of scientific and moral relativity inspired a fundamentalist response in the midlands. Americans came together during the Second World War, but the rifts reappeared thereafter. In 1946, a young Navy veteran, running as a Republican, unseated a New Deal Congress member in rural California with a campaign that promised, “Richard Nixon Is One of Us” — not one of the pointy-headed pinko elitists running things in Washington.

Arriving in Washington, as a member of the House Committee on Un-American Activities, Rep. Nixon embraced journalist Whittaker Chambers, a reformed communist agent, and went to war with the establishment by identifying one of the New Deal’s golden lads, the former diplomat Alger Hiss, as a Soviet spy.

It was “an epitomizing drama,” Chambers wrote in his memoir Witness, a book that would become a bible for the conservative movement. There was “a jagged fissure” between “the plain men and women of the nation and those who affected to act, think and speak for them … from their roosts in the great cities, and certain collegiate eyries.” The left “controlled the narrows of news and opinion,” Chambers wrote, but “my people, humble people, strong in common sense, in common goodness” were led and inspired by Nixon — “the kind and good.”

Nixon used the Hiss case as a launchpad to the Senate, and then to a spot as Eisenhower’s running mate. He survived a brush with scandal over a campaign slush fund filled by wealthy businessmen with a now-legendary televised address, in which he made memorably mawkish mention of his mortgage, his wife’s cloth coat, and the family cocker spaniel, Checkers.

“The sophisticates … sneer,” wrote columnist Robert Ruark, but Nixon’s speech “came closer to humanizing the Republican Party than anything that has happened in my memory. … Tuesday night the nation saw a little man, squirming his way out of a dilemma, and laying bare his most private hopes, fears and liabilities. This time the common man was a Republican.”

That was 1952. Long before the ’60s, the culture war was raging. The ’50s were “the Nixon years,” columnist Murray Kempton would write, when “the American lower middle class in the person of this man moved to engrave into the history of the United States, as the voice of America, its own faltering spirit, its self-pity and its envy, its continual anxiety about what the wrong people might think, its whole peevish resentful whine.” And so Trump and his legions follow Nixon down a well-worn path in American politics.

However, there is one significant difference in how Nixon and Trump got elected. As circumstances had it, in all three of Nixon’s campaigns for the presidency —against John Kennedy’s “New Frontier” in 1960, amid the chaos of 1968, and against George McGovern in 1972 — he ran as the candidate of moderation, of calm and experience. His speeches were generally soothing.

A young Navy officer named Bob Woodward cast his vote for Nixon, convinced he was the candidate who could end the Vietnam War. Even Hunter S. Thompson bought in.

“For years I’ve regarded his very existence as a monument to all the rancid genes and broken chromosomes that corrupt the possibilities of the American Dream; he was a foul caricature of himself, a man with no soul, no inner convictions, with the integrity of a hyena and the style of a poison toad,” Thompson wrote in 1968. But “the ‘new Nixon’ is more relaxed, wiser, more mellow.” Nixon’s were campaigns, as the political scientists Richard Scammon and Ben Wattenberg put it, of “social stolidity.”

Trump is anything but stolid.

Monkey-wrenched elections — correlation: high?

It is a testament to the efficacy of the Republican cover-up that four months after a foreign power affected — may even have determined — the outcome of an American presidential election, we still don’t know the facts. The timidity of the electorate, permitting Congress to let this pivotal question go unanswered, is stunning.

Ira Gay Sealy / Getty Anna Chennault was Nixon’s secret liaison with the South Vietnamese government before the 1968 election. The extent of President Trump’s possible contacts with a foreign government before the 2017 election has come under scrutiny.

From what we do know, it is safe to say that the Russians sought to influence the outcome of the 2016 election, in favor of Donald Trump. We don’t know how or if he and his advisers, in contacts with Russian officials, acted to further the illegal hacking of Democratic organizations and officials. We know that Trump publicly encouraged the Russians to do so (though whether this was a serious request or a glib comment is debatable). This has been written off, like several such misdeeds, as “Trump being Trump.”

In Nixon’s case, it has taken almost half a century for the truth to come out about the 1968 election — about his own conspiring with a foreign power, and the steps that he took to affect that year’s outcome.

Nixon feared that Lyndon Johnson’s election year initiative to negotiate an agreement that would bring an end to the Vietnam War was nothing more than an “October Surprise” designed to elect Vice President Hubert Humphrey. (LBJ had pulled such a trick in the off-year elections of 1966.) And so Nixon employed a campaign official, Anna Chennault, to act as a go-between and persuade South Vietnam to drag its feet and scuttle peace talks with North Vietnam. He — and she — promised the South Vietnamese better terms if Nixon won.

Tragically, peace was indeed close at hand in 1968. The Soviet Union, wanting to promote Humphrey, had promised Johnson a “breakthrough” in the talks and vowed to pressure North Vietnam. But Nixon’s attempts to monkey-wrench the talks were successful. In a telephone call to Sen. Everett Dirksen, a bitter LBJ, who had been getting details of Nixon’s machinations from electronic eavesdropping conducted by US intelligence agencies, accused Nixon of “treason.”

(Trump has offered no evidence for his claim that his campaign was “tapped” by President Barack Obama last fall, but there is no doubt that LBJ was eavesdropping on Chennault, a Nixon campaign official, in her discussions with the South Vietnamese Embassy in Washington.)

There is a law — the Logan Act — that makes it illegal for a private citizen to interfere in the foreign affairs and diplomacy of the United States. Nixon appears to have crossed that line; without more facts, we cannot say that Trump did too.

The deep state — correlation: modest

Like Julius Caesar, cut down by Brutus and a gang of conspirators, Richard Nixon fell victim to a coalition of mutinous forces. He had clashed repeatedly with Congress over its power to declare war, to appropriate funds, and to have access to presidential documents and tapes. He declared war on the press. His antipathy for the State Department, the CIA, the military brass, and other power centers was well-known, and his reliance on backchannel diplomacy with China and the USSR spurred the Joint Chiefs of Staff to plant a spy in the White House. Nixon may also have alienated the federal judiciary by pledging to end its lifelong terms and security.

How low has President Obama gone to tapp my phones during the very sacred election process. This is Nixon/Watergate. Bad (or sick) guy! — Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) March 4, 2017

The FBI offers an instructive test case on what Nixon’s rash antipathy yielded. Nixon had come to power in Washington with the help of Director J. Edgar Hoover, but after Hoover died, the president provoked the bureau by trying to install a Nixon loyalist as a replacement. “Deep Throat” — the legendary anonymous source for Washington Post reporters Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward — was Mark Felt, a deputy director that Nixon passed over when choosing Hoover’s successor.

Trump has been tormented by leaks he blames on Obama holdovers in the national security agencies and other entrenched bureaucracies. Trump profited during the campaign from FBI Director James Comey’s eleventh-hour revelation about Hillary Clinton’s emails. But Comey was reportedly outraged by Trump’s allegation that Obama tapped Trump’s headquarters during the campaign and, according to leaks, demanded a public repudiation of the imputation. (And now, of course, Comey has been fired.)

Scandals — correlation: to be determined

There are more than half a million responses to a Google search for Trump and Watergate. But as much as his critics hope to see the 45th president exit the White House like Nixon, we have a long way to go before “Russiagate” is reasonably equated to Watergate.

There are obvious parallels. Both scandals stem from break-ins at the Democratic Party headquarters, whether real or virtual. Both involve electronic eavesdropping. And credit must be given to Roger Stone, a minor figure in the Watergate wars, who managed to survive the decades since and surface once more in the Russiagate stew.

Yet Nixon had years to dig his grave, and the Watergate scandals were, as Woodward and Bernstein famously wrote, “a massive campaign of political spying and sabotage.”

The DNC headquarters at the Watergate were one of a half-dozen targets for burglary and/or bugging, including the campaign headquarters of Sens. Edmund Muskie and George McGovern and the offices of the psychiatrist who treated Daniel Ellsberg, leaker of the Pentagon Papers. By the time Nixon resigned, Watergate was a vast umbrella. The scandal brought to light subsidiary issues — like whether Nixon shortchanged the Treasury on his income taxes, and used taxpayer funds to protect and improve his Florida vacation home — that have obvious correspondence to Trump’s behavior.

But there will have to be some remarkable revelations — proof that Trump and his aides offered inducements to the Russian hackers — before Russiagate can be compared to Watergate. On the other hand, if it is proven that the Trump campaign, in league with a foreign power, stole the White House, it could supplant Watergate as the greatest political scandal of them all.

John A. Farrell is the author of Richard Nixon: The Life, which is being published March 28.

The Big Idea is Vox’s home for smart, often scholarly excursions into the most important issues and ideas in politics, science, and culture — typically written by outside contributors. If you have an idea for a piece, pitch us at thebigidea@vox.com.

[ruffsficstuffplace]

Of Rocks, Romantic Rivalries, and Rune Rangers (Part 2): Lessons from Ignorance

As the Actaeon saying went, <Your vision is never clearer than when you are looking over your shoulder.>

It was embarrassing, really, a sign of how far she'd let herself fall from her glory days, a gaffe that if she were still in Jahilliyah have put her career in serious jeopardy and wiped away a good chunk of the reputation, trust, and goodwill she'd built with her superiors and their numerous clients and contacts.

After all, how could you trust an information broker that couldn't see what was right under her nose?

As it stood, however, she just had her heart broken twice over.

It started with a trip to Shiro's room, a week earlier.

She had been planning to ask him out on that hiking trip to Argus for a while, but with the Galra's constant attacks and suspicious activities all over Avalon, it was hard to find a free day where you were reasonably sure that the fate of the realm as they knew it wouldn't be threatened, and you could spend a good chunk of the day outside of Rune Terra—Argus especially.

There were very good reasons that the human settlers had been completely unable to expand Solaris into the swamp region until the Fae let them: it was isolated from the cities and difficult to maneuver even with flying vehicles, full of magical interference that made communications and teleportation into and out of it difficult, and offered no shortage of places for a guerilla force to successfully hide in, waiting for their target to come obliviously waltzing on by, as the Celestian Fae had 1,000 years ago with the First Settlers.

It was a great place for an ambush, a kidnapping, or a covert assassination, with the bonus of the location providing free and thorough clean-up, no need to throw the bodies into a bog—it'd happily do the work for you.

It was also a great place to get away from it all, feel completely and truly in private with little to no risk of people or Fae walking in or overhearing, where if your confession of love to your teammate was rejected or went horribly wrong, you two could promise that what happened in the swamp stayed in the swamp.

And besides, it felt appropriate, confessing where all of their paths had first crossed, when Jahilliyah made good on their promise to help her find her family, if in ways neither expected.

She didn't hesitate, walking up to his room as soon as she found a free moment in her schedule.

Jahilliyah had taught her the value of moving fast, especially because their primary commodity was information at an age where communications were literally at the speed of light, and most everyone had access at their fingertips.

And she stopped in front of his door, spending a minute reviewing how she was going to ask Shiro out, because Jahilliyah had also taught her the value of spending a few seconds to think her actions through, to avoid the pratfalls and the repercussions of those that just clicked and confirmed like Old World gunslingers and their revolvers, even if it meant shooting themselves in the foot.

She was in the middle of debating whether or not to say “There’s something I need to tell you” or “There’s something I need to get off my chest” when the door opened.

“Ah, Pidge!” said Shiro’s voice. “Great timing: how do I look?”

Pidge’s eyes widened, not recognizing the Fae in front of her, before her training kicked in and she recognized all the components of a Fae disguise, and who was wearing it.

“Oh, hey, Shiro, what's up?” Pidge asked. “Another covert ops mission?”

Shiro shook his head. “Oh, no! Not at all! Just have plans of getting outside of Rune Terra one of these days without getting swarmed by civilians asking for autographs.”

Pidge nodded.

Though piggybacking on the nigh-ubiquitous surveillance and recording equipment in all the major city-states was useful for preventing Zarkon from pulling off any major terror attacks or schemes, and knowing exactly where they were if he pulled it off, it also made it pretty much impossible to maintain secret identities of any sort.

“Can I come with?” she asked.

Shiro’s expression looked strikingly like the politicians, executives, and celebrities Pidge had blackmailed over the years with truly incriminating material, which was never a good sign. The fake wolf ears pulling back in nervousness and the tail going between his legs didn't help.

“Ah...” he rubbed the back of his head with his organic arm, “actually, Pidge, I was planning on just going alone. You guys are great and I couldn’t have asked for a better team, but sometimes I need to remember what it’s like to be just Shiro, not ‘Shiro, Ruby Ranger of the Celestian Guard.’

“You know: 'me time.'”

Pidge blinked, before her face fell. “Oh. Okay.”

Shiro frowned. “Is something the matter, Pidge?”

Pidge sheepishly looked away. “Well, I was going to ask you if you wanted to go on a hike with me through Argus sometime, but since you’ve already got plans, and we don’t know when or where Zarkon is going to strike again...”

She felt Shiro’s arm on her shoulder. She looked up at his smiling face.

“Pidge, I promise you that after this, we are going on that hike the coast looks clear again,” he said.

Pidge slowly smiled back. “Thanks, Shiro.”

“You’re welcome, Pidge,” Shiro said, a light dusting of red now on his cheeks and his fake wolf tail waggling in delight.

He turned around and walked back into his room.

“Wait! Shiro!”

Shiro’s fake wolf features both perked up in alert. “Yes, Pidge?” he asked her over his shoulder.

“You should REALLY change your fake Fae stuff,” Pidge replied. “As is, your lack of sharp teeth, your eyes, and your relatively poor sense of smell is a potential give away if someone is really paying attention.

“I’d suggest you change it into a horse—your lack of prominent canines will stick out less, as will your sense of smell. The tail doesn’t move around as much so you don’t give away your nervousness, too.

“That outfit really needs to go, too. Even if it's not what you usually wear in public it just screams your usual style.

Shiro blinked. “Alright. Thank you, Pidge, I’ll do that,” he said, before he walked back into his room. He stopped, and turned around. “Actually, could you spare some time and help me change up my disguise? I'm not the mistress of disguise here after all...”

Pidge smiled. “I'd love to.”

They went into his room, teleporting in one of the fabricators from Pidge's room to make him new clothes on the spot. A little while spent making fashion choices for him, avoiding disguise stereotypes that most everyone could see through, and Pidge pointedly looking away and staring very hard at a wall whenever Shiro was taking off his pants and/or shirt, and they had a disguise:

Partially unbuttoned flannel shirt, distressed jeans, sneakers, and a pair of Old World square-frame glasses, adding up to a very un-Shiro outfit.

“Wow, I do not recognize myself at all,” Shiro said as he looked at himself in the mirror, putting the clunky glasses on and off.

“Rule of thumb with disguises is to be something completely different than yourself—new look, new way of talking, new set of habits and knee-jerk reactions,” Pidge explained. “You'd be surprised at how many amazing disguises have been ruined by people acting exactly the way they usually do.”

“I'll keep that in mind, Pidge, thank you,” Shiro said as he took off the glasses—there was something about his reflection that seemed off to him.

“So, is there anything else you needed my help with?” Pidge asked.

For a moment, Shiro's expression looking for a moment like Pidge's old friends in Jahilliyah, the ones torn between their wanting to help her and the consequences their superiors promised at the dreaded unauthorized information leaks.

“… No, nothing,” Shiro said. “You can go now if you'd like, Pidge.”

Pidge nodded. “Enjoy your 'me time,' Shiro!” she called out as she stepped out.

“I will!” Shiro replied, just before the door closed her.

Pidge stopped in the hallway, briefly wondering just what it is Shiro did for “me time” and why he would want or need a disguise to keep from being recognized on the street.

Then, she shook her head.

“What am I, his girlfriend?” she thought to herself. “I don’t need to know everything he does or where he is.”

She dismissed the thought, but it lingered in the back of her head, waiting, watching.

She sighed and supposed it was some sort of karma for using the same tactic for so many targets, planting the seeds of doubts and dangerous ideas in people who would have gone on just fine if she hadn't stepped into the picture.

Her schedule still free and uninterested in filling it with yet more tinkering, trancing, and training she headed further up to the largest and most heavily guarded of the residential areas:

Allura’s room.

For reasons of security, there were only two other people aside from her who could open its doors. The keys were supposed to be on a rotating schedule with all the other Rangers and Coran, but thanks to a number of incidents, Pidge and Coran had them full-time.

“But wouldn’t it make more sense for you to give it to Shiro, since he’s the leader and all?” Pidge asked.

“If I have important business to discuss with Shiro, it can be easily done in the Core,” Allura replied as she permanently fused the key with Pidge’s rune. “My room is my sanctuary, and I’d rather not taint it with any of that dark business—the rest of Rune Terra already reeks of terrible memories.

“Besides, now you can come visit me any time you want! Really, any time at all~!”

Pidge made a note to clean her glasses afterward, because for a moment it had seemed like Allura was winking at her.

Back in the present, Pidge strode up to Allura’s door and pressed the intercom. “Princess Allura?”

There was a brief pause before Allura’s face came up on the screen—the static image of her used when she wasn’t “presentable” or could do without the holographic projection in front of her face.

“Oh, Pidge! Hello! Please, come in, come in!”

Pidge had a strange feeling in her gut, the one that tended to occur whenever something Seriously Bad was about to happen. She had no clue why it was happening or what was going to happen, but she did know there was only one way to find out.

She summoned her rune to her hand, and waved it in front of the door. The slabs glowed, and slid open, just a little larger than Pidge, and she stepped in.

Like the Core, there was a brief, blinding flash because of how much more radiant were the crystals it was built from, compared to the rest of the castle. Pidge shielded her eyes as the doors slid shut and locked behind her, blinking until her vision returned.

And what a sight awaited her.

Allura looked over her shoulder and smiled. “So, what brings you to my humble abode?” she asked as she finished hooking the bra she was putting on.

“I, uh—actually, I’m pretty sure it can wait...” Pidge said as she shut her eyes and her cheeks began to heat up.

She blindly waved her rune behind her at the doors, wondering why the locking mechanism wasn’t reacting as quickly and effortlessly as it usually did.

Allura sighed as she turned to her, half-naked. “You’ve spent far too much time in the human settlements, Pidge—it's not normal for Fae to be disturbed by something so natural as nakedness.”

“Well, yeah, but you know, it’s kinda important to know all these expected knee-jerk reactions and habits when you’ve spent the past couple of years living undercover with humans...” Pidge said, wondering if she could diagnose and fix what was wrong with the doors by feeling blindly for it.

Allura frowned as she stepped closer. “You’re not hiding anymore, Pidge—you’re living with us now. And frankly, I think it’s quite disturbing how alien you seem to have become to your own species.”

“Okay! I can get the sentiment, and I agree with it, but could we reacclimate me to it a little bit at a time than throwing me right into the deep end?”

Allura bit back another sigh. “Will it help if I put a shirt on?”

“Yes, yes it will,” Pidge replied, eyes still shut.

There was a few moments of silence and clothes shuffling. “Okay! You can open your eyes now.”

Pidge did, and sighed in relief. She could still see Allura’s bare and rather shapely legs, but at least the bigger distractions had been covered up. “Thank you, Princess,” she said.

Allura smiled. “Please, just call me Allura; I want you to be comfortable here, none of the formalities.”

“Sorry,” Pidge replied. “Force of habit again.”

“Like your communicating entirely in Nivian despite the fact that we’re both Fae?” Allura asked. “Are even able to speak Actaeon anymore...?” she asked, frowning.

<Of course!> Pidge replied. <It’s actually a common tactic to encode classified documents in a mix of both Nivian and Actaeon, then encode it; even for bilingual folks like me who work with written and spoken codes and documents all the time, it can get pretty hard to crack!>

<Then let’s talk in that!> Allura hummed, smiling. <It’s been far too long that I’ve been able to have a conversation in our own tongue with someone aside from Coran. So, what brings you to my room, Pidge?> she chirped.

<Well, you know how Zarkon’s taken a break from threatening the realm as we know it, so we now we've got all this free time?>

Allura paused for a moment, before she smiled wider. <Yes?>

<I was wondering if you’d like to do something together while things are all quiet. You know, just the two of us.> She paused. <Like a date.>

Allura’s face looked like the counter-intelligence agents, rival gang members, and aspiring crime-busters Pidge had foiled with ultimatums, pitting them between their sense of moral uprightness and something or someone they held near and dear to them, and that was never good.

Pidge’s face fell. <You already have plans?>

<Yes; I was actually in the middle of preparing for them before you knocked...> Allura replied.

<Oh, well, is there anything I can help with?> Pidge asked.

Allura beamed. <There is actually! I need a human disguise—a look that screams anyone but ‘Allura, Rune Guardian of the Celestian Guard.’ Normally, I'd be an expert at this, but I still have 1,000 years of cultural changes to catch up to...>

Pidge paused, then frowned.

Allura looked worried. <Is something the matter, Pidge?>

Pidge forced a smile. <Oh, nothing—come on, let’s make you a human disguise!>

With the help of a different fabricator warped in from Pidge’s room, they ended up making her a leather jacket, a sleeveless top randomly splattered with paint to wear underneath it, leather pants, and boots that had far more buckles on them than was strictly necessary.

Her bunny ears were easily pulled back and hidden within her hair, her lack of human ears was obscured with a beanie and carefully teased out locks, and her cottontail was easily hidden underneath her top.

<My word...> Allura said as she eyed her reflection, struck poses, and tried to look 'tough.' <This is… nothing like I imagined!>

<Do you like it?> Pidge asked.

<Yes, yes, it’s wonderful! If I myself couldn’t have thought of it, how much more someone trying to get into my mindset and figuring out what I’d use as a disguise?> she smiled warmly at Pidge. <It’s perfect, Pidge.>

Pidge blushed. <You’re welcome, Prin-->

Allura began to frown.

<--Allura.> Pidge finished.

Allura kept on smiling.

<What do you need this for, anyway?>

<Oh, I’m just planning a little stroll through the cities—preferably without causing pedestrian accidents and neck injuries from people gawking at me!> Allura replied.

<Do you want me to come with you?> Pidge asked. <In case someone does recognize you, I can help you throw them off your tail.>

Allura’s smile became tight and forced. <Oh, that’s much appreciated, Pidge, but I’m planning on doing this alone. You know, ‘Me Time’ as you would say in Nivian!>

Jahilliyah had taught Pidge that there were few true coincidences, especially in this day and age; everything is connected, every bit of information a piece to a larger puzzle, and all they needed to do was gather them all in one place, see where each fit, stand back and see the bigger picture.

And sometimes, you needed to seriously underestimate the intelligence and cunning of humans and Fae, understand that yes, there are a lot of individuals and groups that are TERRIBLE at keeping secrets, unintentionally painting giant, blinking signs on their activities that read:

TOP SECRET

KEEP OUT

WE MEAN IT >:(

Pidge forced a smile and nodded. <I understand. Have fun, Allura,> she said as she turned around and left.

<Wait, Pidge!> Allura cried.

Pidge looked over her shoulder.

She bit her lip. <Do you… do you want to help me make more disguises? In case one of these days I have urgent need of one, and then I’d have it ready to go!>

<It’d probably just be easier for all of us to send me, Keith, or Shiro in; disguises are a lot more than appearances, Allura, there's also the location you're infiltrating and the reasons behind it,> Pidge replied as she waved her rune in front of the door.

This time, it reacted, sliding open for her, before dutifully shutting itself as she exited.

The very next day, both Allura and Shiro left Rune Terra at different times; they had done it so far apart that no one was really suspicious—not unless you knew that they had both needed disguises at the same time, had filled their schedules with something urgent that could not be moved, and had both claimed to need personal time.

“They’re probably on a date or something...” Pidge said, finding a comfortable spot in her room she wouldn’t mind being zonked out on for a few hours. “I guess it was only really a matter of time...” she said as she logged into the Trance.

She supposed she really should have made a move on either of them sooner, instead of spending so much time debating who to choose.

[the-christian-walk]

INVITED

Can I pray for you in any way?

Send any prayer requests to Gods4all@aol.com In Christ, Mark

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

** Follow The Christian Walk on Twitter @ThChristianWalk

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The scriptures. May God bless the reading of His holy word.

Jesus spoke to them again in parables, saying: “The kingdom of heaven is like a king who prepared a wedding banquet for his son. He sent his servants to those who had been invited to the banquet to tell them to come, but they refused to come.”

“Then he sent some more servants and said, ‘Tell those who have been invited that I have prepared my dinner: My oxen and fattened cattle have been butchered, and everything is ready. Come to the wedding banquet.’”

“But they paid no attention and went off—one to his field, another to his business. The rest seized his servants, mistreated them and killed them. The king was enraged. He sent his army and destroyed those murderers and burned their city.”

“Then he said to his servants, ‘The wedding banquet is ready, but those I invited did not deserve to come. So go to the street corners and invite to the banquet anyone you find.’ So the servants went out into the streets and gathered all the people they could find, the bad as well as the good, and the wedding hall was filled with guests.”

“But when the king came in to see the guests, he noticed a man there who was not wearing wedding clothes. He asked, ‘How did you get in here without wedding clothes, friend?’ The man was speechless.”

“Then the king told the attendants, ‘Tie him hand and foot, and throw him outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’”

“For many are invited, but few are chosen.”

Matthew 22:1-14

This ends today’s reading from God's holy word. Thanks be to God.

Have you ever received an invitation?

I think we all have probably been asked to attend something at one time or another.

So how do we approach these invitations? What are some of the reasons we might reject?

Well, sometimes our schedule is in play. We all seem to be busy with any number of things between work, family, church, or any number of other things. Sometimes an invitation conflicts with something we already have planned to do. Perhaps this is why people usually try to give a lot of advance notice to people when they are holding an event, so to allow for people to get it on their schedules.

At other times, we may not be able to accept an invitation because of health issues. We may be injured or dealing with an illness that would keep us from going to an event. In these cases, we choose to recover and heal instead, a wise move especially if a sickness might be passed onto other people.

Maybe we just don’t like the person inviting us or we might like them but dislike someone else we know has also been invited. Either way, we can allow our feelings to dictate our actions.

And of course there’s the possibility that we just don’t want to go because we usually have a choice, right? We might turn down the offer, giving some excuse so not to offend the inviter, and then go and do something we would rather do instead. 

The point is, we all get invited to things and there are any number of reasons we might choose to decline the proposition.

With this as a back drop, we turn to the opening verses of Matthew 22 as Jesus is in His final days before being arrested, falsely accused, brutally assaulted, and then crucified as a criminal, even though He was completely innocent. Hard times were ahead and He not only knew that but He knew who would be the main perpetrators of His false conviction and subsequent execution. In fact, some of those responsible were the very people He was telling the parables to at the end of Chapter 21 and in the verses for today. 

Over the last two messages, we have looked at the first two parables that Jesus told to the Jewish religious authorities. You’ll recall the first was centered on two sons and how they responded to their father’s request to go and work in the field. The second was centered on a group of wicked tenants who occupied a landowner’s property and then not only failed to deliver on their part of the deal but abused and killed people the landowner sent to collect, even going as far as murdering their landlord’s son.

Today, we find Jesus delivering the final parable in this series as He addresses a group of Jews in Jerusalem, a group which included chief priests, elder, and teachers of the law. And as we’ll see, although the parable’s characters and scene is different, the root meaning of the illustration remains the same regarding who will gain the kingdom of heaven and who won’t. Look again at His words here:

Jesus spoke to them again in parables, saying: “The kingdom of heaven is like a king who prepared a wedding banquet for his son. He sent his servants to those who had been invited to the banquet to tell them to come, but they refused to come.”

“Then he sent some more servants and said, ‘Tell those who have been invited that I have prepared my dinner: My oxen and fattened cattle have been butchered, and everything is ready. Come to the wedding banquet.’”

“But they paid no attention and went off—one to his field, another to his business. The rest seized his servants, mistreated them and killed them. The king was enraged. He sent his army and destroyed those murderers and burned their city.”

“Then he said to his servants, ‘The wedding banquet is ready, but those I invited did not deserve to come. So go to the street corners and invite to the banquet anyone you find.’ So the servants went out into the streets and gathered all the people they could find, the bad as well as the good, and the wedding hall was filled with guests.”

“But when the king came in to see the guests, he noticed a man there who was not wearing wedding clothes. He asked, ‘How did you get in here without wedding clothes, friend?’ The man was speechless.”

“Then the king told the attendants, ‘Tie him hand and foot, and throw him outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’”

“For many are invited, but few are chosen.”

In order to frame the parable correctly, it’s important to know that the king in the parable is none other than God Himself and the son, God’s son, Jesus, the teller of the parable.

The king had sent servants to invite others to the banquet (in this case, the Jewish nation) but they refused to accept the request. Still other servants were sent and this time, those invited were told of what had been prepared for them. They could expect to enjoy a feast at the wedding banquet but this time around they not only rejected the offer and went about doing other things but some actually harmed the messengers, even going as far as killing them. Such was the case with many of God’s prophets who had foretold Jesus’ coming.

Well, the king was incensed at the snubs he received and the abuse of his servants. The scriptures tell us that he “sent his army” and “destroyed” the murderers before burning their city. There were severe consequences for those who brought harm to people the king had sent to do his bidding.

Rebuffed two times the people he had selected, the king decided to open up the wedding banquet to anyone, rejecting those who had rejected him before. He sent his servants out into the streets and gathered people who actually wanted to come. There was no discrimination between good and bad. Anyone who wanted to attend could come and as we read, the wedding hall was full with guests.

But there was a problem. One person attending was not wearing the proper wedding attire. They were not prepared properly for the feast and when asked about it, the man was “speechless”. There was really no excuse for the man being in the state he was in because anyone who wanted to attend and did not have the proper clothes could get them from the banquet servants.

And so the king, angered by the man’s unwillingness to be properly prepared, ordered his attendants to evict the man from the banquet, saying:

“Then the king told the attendants, ‘Tie him hand and foot, and throw him outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’”

He added, “For many are invited, but few are chosen.”

Before we look at what Jesus was trying to get at through His parable, let’s look at a few other scriptures like this one from John’s Gospel:

To this John replied, “A person can receive only what is given them from heaven. You yourselves can testify that I said, ‘I am not the Messiah but am sent ahead of Him.’ The bride belongs to the bridegroom.” John 3:27-28

“Hallelujah! For our Lord God Almighty reigns.”

“Let us rejoice and be glad and give Him glory! For the wedding of the Lamb has come, and His bride has made herself ready.”

“Fine linen, bright and clean, was given her to wear.” (Fine linen stands for the righteous acts of God’s holy people.)

Then the angel said to me, “Write this: Blessed are those who are invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb!” Revelation 19:6-9

I find it interesting that we find John speaking in both of these passages on the same subject from two very different New Testament books.

In his Gospel, we learn that the bridegroom is not him but the coming Jesus, the Messiah, and the bride will be all those who place their hope and trust in Him. In other words, the church.

Then in Revelation, we find a connection to Jesus’ parable for John mentions the wedding supper of the Lamb, Jesus, and how blessed all those invited to it will be. Indeed, those who accept Jesus invitation for salvation will find themselves at the great wedding celebration banquet.

Going back to the parable, since the Jews chose to reject Him, the gates of the kingdom were opened up for anyone who simply chose to believe in Him as Savior. This included all Gentiles who had been shunned by the Jews and considered banned from heaven. Even the most unclean, the most bad prior to finding Jesus, were invited to the banquet.

But note that not all were chosen.

We know this because Jesus said so. Some will think they are a part of the wedding banquet but they never actually accepted the invitation. They just showed up, wanting to be a part of the celebration but not willing to believe in Jesus as Savior. They were maybe the original biblical wedding crashers but note that they would suffer severe consequences for their actions. For while everyone else was celebrating and enjoying the union between Jesus (the bridegroom) and His followers (the bride), those who were not “married” to Him would be cast out into judgment to suffer a terrible fate, characterized by weeping and gnashing of teeth.

The main point Jesus was making was no different than in the prior two. He wanted the Jewish religious authorities to know that they were going to be rejected entry into the kingdom of God because they refused to accept Jesus as Savior, even though the very prophets they professed and taught about had foretold His coming. Perhaps it’s one of the saddest commentaries in the scriptures but in the end, it was part of the overall plan God set forth. The stone the builders rejected (Jesus) would indeed become the cornerstone that God would build His salvation promise upon.

So how about you as you read this today? You have been invited to the great wedding feast by God, invited to be the bride of His Son, Jesus, the Bridegroom.

Have you accepted the invitation or have you come up with excuses as to why you won’t be attending?

I pray you have decided to take God up on His offer because if you haven’t the kingdom of heaven will not be open for you. You’ll only be destined for great weeping and gnashing of teeth, joining others who chose to reject Jesus, the chief priests and elders and teachers of the law in that group.

Amen.

In Christ,

Mark

PS: Feel free to leave a comment and please share this with anyone you feel might be blessed by it. Send any prayer requests to Gods4all@aol.com

[jmyers104]

An Exposition of Philippians 1:12-18

           In 1553, “Bloody Mary” ascended the throne of England. During her reign, she had hundreds of people executed for their religious convictions (most of them were burned alive). One of her first acts as Queen was to arrest Bishops Ridley and Latimer. After serving time in the Tower of London, they were taken to Oxford for examination by the Lord's Commissioner in Oxford's Divinity School. Ridley was asked whether or not he believed the pope was Peter’s rightful successor to the foundation of the Church. He rejected this notion and affirmed that Christ was the rightful heir to the church, not any man. The papacy in Ridley’s eyes  was about seeking its own glory rather than God’s. His position was rather scandalous and offensive, at it ultimately led to both their deaths. As the fires were lit in 1555 in Oxford to burn the English reformers, Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley, for their faithful witness to Christ, Latimer shouted, “Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man. We shall this day light such a candle by God’s grace in England as I trust shall never be put out!”

           It is often the case that the church is at its strongest when it is facing persecution. History shows us that when believers are threatened, they seem to proclaim gospel truths with more tenacity than ever before, and conversions occur at a rapid pace. While I do not wish for persecution, it seems that the religious freedom we have experienced in our country has lulled us to sleep. Ours is a soft, comfortable Christianity that desires man-centered worship services and fun programs with no regard for what God wants from us. Churches want games, not gospel; concerts, not Christ; entertainment, not exposition; politics, not preaching; fun, not fellowship. We are losing the theological soul of our churches, and the results are catastrophic. Because we desire comfort, we do not evangelize. We pursue happiness, but we lack joy because we are not living as God intended. God did not save us so we could be comfortable. He saved us to make us holy and blameless. His purpose for us on this earth isn’t to pursue happiness through worldly means, but to proclaim the gospel of Christ. When we submit to God’s authority and dedicate our lives to proclaiming the gospel of Christ, we will experience true and lasting joy.

           With this in mind, we turn to Philippians 1:12-18. This text describes the power of God unto salvation in even the worst of circumstances – a power that results in joy for Christians as lives are changed and God is given praise and glory. The proclamation of the gospel of Jesus Christ results in salvation for the lost and joy for the believer. Further, The proclamation of the gospel of Jesus Christ occurred in various ways with various motives, all with the result of strengthening believers who, in turn, continue to proclaim the gospel.

            First, we learn that gospel proclamation occurred throughout the entire prison. Verse 12 reads, “Now I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that what has happened to me has actually advanced the gospel.” Paul wants us to know something. There are some things we simply cannot know. You may have heard the fictional story of Albert Einstein sitting next to a college student during a long flight. Einstein introduced himself and said to the young man, “Let’s play a game…I will ask you a question, and if you don’t know the answer, you pay me $5. Then you will ask me a question, and if I don’t know the answer, I will pay you $500.” The young man agreed to the terms. Einstein began by asking the young man, “What’s the distance from the Earth to the Moon?” The young man thought for a few moments but came up with nothing. He reached into his pocket, pulled out $5, and handed it to Einstein. Now, it was his turn to ask Einstein a question. He asked, “What goes up a hill with 3 legs and comes down with 4 legs?” He could see that the wheels were turning in Einstein’s brilliant mind, but he wasn’t saying anything. Five minutes go by…ten minutes go by…after an hour, Einstein shakes his head and hands the young college student $500. Einstein inquires, “Well young man, what goes up a hill with three legs and comes down with four?” The young man reached his pocket and gave Einstein $5. There are some things that even the brightest minds cannot know. There is some knowledge that is beyond our reach because we are finite beings. However, there are things that we can know beyond a shadow of a doubt. God has revealed truth to us. We can know the gospel. We can know how God rescues us from our sins, and how He intends to use us to spread His message. That is precisely what Paul wants us to know here.

           One of the things we can know is how the gospel changes our identity. Before Paul gets to what he really wants the Philippians to know, he calls them “brothers and sisters.” Paul is not writing to his biological siblings, but a congregation who was radically transformed by the gospel of Jesus Christ. In order to gain a better understanding of who Paul was writing to, we need to back up a few verses. Here is the full greeting, starting in verse 1: “Paul and Timothy, servants of Christ Jesus: To all the saints in Christ Jesus who are in Philippi, including the overseers and deacons. Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.” Paul is writing to believers. His original audience was the Philippian church, but by extension, he is writing to all those who have trusted in Christ alone for salvation. Paul tells us that we are at once servants, saints and sons. I do not want us to lose our focus on the passage at hand, but if we are to gain a better understanding of the gospel we are to proclaim, we would do well to briefly consider these three roles. The word “servants” comes from the Greek word doulos. Some translations use the word “slaves” instead of “servants,” and I believe that the word “slaves” better captures the idea that Paul is conveying here. Servants are not owned, but slaves are. If you belong to Christ, you were bought by His blood. You who were once dead in their trespasses (Eph 2:1), but because of the cross of Christ, you now belong to God. God placed your sins on Christ – the One who knew no sin – so that you could become the righteousness of God. To put it more plainly, according to the gospel, when Christ bore the wrath of God on your behalf, Christ’s righteousness was transferred to you. Now when God looks at you, He does not see your sins. Rather, He sees the righteousness of Christ. Because He is such a good. That is why we can be called saints. We have not attained such a status through good works, but have been made saints through Christ Jesus. That does not mean that we can go on sinning. In the next chapter (Phil 2:12), Paul instructs believers to work out their salvation with fear and trembling. The gospel does more than ensure a seat in heaven for us. God’s power is made manifest through the gospel in how He enables us to do good works, but also in how He implants in us a desire to work out our salvation. On the one hand, Paul tells us to work out our salvation. On the other hand, the says that He who began a good work in us will bring it to completion (1:6) We don’t strive for holiness so that God will save us, but because God has saved us, and we do so in the power of Christ. As saints, we are to be who we now are: holy and blameless. Paul’s prayer for them is that they grow in knowledge and discernment so that they may be holy and blameless. That is the key to working out our salvation in fear and trembling – in living life as a servant and a saint. Because we are servants who have a good Master, we long to honor and obey Him. Because He has made us saints, we have the ability now to obey His words. We were not saved from God’s wrath so that we could continue in our sin. Gospel transformation ensures that we are separated from our sin and given over to the life God wants us to live. Our heart of stone is removed and we are given a heart that loves what God loves and hates what God hates. We look like Him because we are His children. And if we are His children, we are brothers and sisters in Christ. We have been brought into everlasting fellowship with God and with each other. That is why Paul cares so deeply about these people. That is why he prays for them, and that is his motivation for writing them.

           And the reason he writes is to tell them about his imprisonment. We might expect Paul to disclose the details about the imprisonment. What is the condition of the jail? Is he receiving adequate food and water? How long do they intend to keep him locked up? Paul doesn’t answer these questions because that is not his purpose in writing. Rather, he writes about how God has used Paul’s imprisonment to advance the gospel. There are at least three reasons why Paul takes this approach. First, his partnership with the Philippians is based on the gospel. Philippians 1:5 reads, “For you have been my partners in spreading the Good News about Christ from the time you first heard it until now.” Second, the gospel is what mattered most to him; the conditions of the jail are merely peripheral to Paul. Third, Paul sought to encourage his brothers and sisters who were presently suffering. Paul says in verse 28, “Don’t be intimidated in any way by your enemies. This will be a sign to them that they are going to be destroyed, but that you are going to be saved, even by God himself.” They were therefore in need of comfort, and if their imprisoned leader could find joy in the midst of his circumstances, certainly he could encourage them to do the same.

            How amazing it is that Paul’s imprisonment actually caused the gospel to advance. What man intended for evil, God used for good; Paul’s circumstances didn’t keep the gospel from spreading, but actually gave Paul opportunities to evangelize that he would not have otherwise had. Paul was a pioneer going into uncharted territory, and as servants, slaves, and sons in Christ, we are to follow in Paul’s footsteps, advancing the gospel wherever God places us. That is our identity in Christ, but it was that identity that led to Paul’s imprisonment.

            Our second point is that gospel proclamation occurred because of Paul’s identity. Verse 13 says that the gospel has advanced “so that it has become known throughout the whole imperial guard, and to everyone else, that my imprisonment is because I am in Christ.” Being in Christ was the reason Paul was in prison. How easy it could have been to throw in the towel and say, “Well, that’s it. My ministry is done for.” But Paul knew that He was placed there by God. His ministry was far from over. Being in prison was a temporary assignment, but being in Christ was his permanent identity, and just as God began a work in Paul’s life and would bring it to completion, so God would use Paul as a vessel to begin that good work in the lives of those in the prison.

            The imperial guard mentioned here was the most elite group of Roman soldiers – about 9,000 in total. At all times, Paul would be chained to one of these soldiers. As one guard finished his shift, another would be there to relieve him of his duties. Paul saw this as the perfect opportunity to spread the gospel. He would share the gospel with one of these soldiers, and every time they changed shifts, he had a new audience. Though Paul was in physical chains, these guards were in spiritual chains. They were the true prisoners! Paul did not slide into depression because his joy was not based on his location, but on his Lord and Savior. He did not fear the guards because he feared what would happen to them if they never heard the gospel. We must adopt that same attitude. Every day, we encounter men and women who are on their way to hell, and God has placed us in their way so that if they are to go to hell, they must leap over our bodies. And yet more often than not, we put our heads down and keep on walking. Maybe that is why you have no joy. Maybe that is why your life seems meaningless: you are not living the life you were created for! God has made us servants, saints, and sons. And now, he desires to use you to bring others into the kingdom. There is no plan B; you are it! It is not exclusively the pastor’s job to evangelize. God seeks to use you in the process of releasing sinful men and women from the bondage of sin.

            Do not let this task overwhelm you. You do not need to draw a crowd on a street corner and give a full-blown presentation on Christian apologetics. Paul witnessed to one guard at a time, and before he knew it, the gospel had spread to the whole imperial guard – all 9,000 of them! It starts with one. Who is your one?

            Perhaps you are confused as to what exactly you should say. Situations vary, but the content remains the same. One commentator constructed a conversation Paul likely had with one of the guards. He writes, “Imagine a guard coming on duty to watch Paul. He has no idea who Paul is. So he asks Paul the most common question directed at prisoners, ‘Why are you in chains?’ Paul’s answer is Christ-centered: ‘I am in chains because I belong to Christ. I serve Christ. Jesus Christ in humility and in obedience to God’s will died for our sins on a Roman cross under Roman power. Jesus Christ is not the risen and exalted Lord above all powers. Christ called me to proclaim the good news about him among the nations. Christ is the Savior of all who trust him. One day everyone will recognize and worship Christ as the Lord of all’ Undoubtedly, something like this would have been Paul’s answer.” At the core, it must always be a Christ-centered message. You may not know every answer to every question they have, but you have the answer to their greatest problem, and that is Christ. He is enough.

            And what if they do not respond favorably to your message? Concern yourself with faithfulness, and let God take care of the results. Just as the wind blows all across the globe and cannot be confined to a single location, so the gospel spreads and cannot be contained to a jail cell. The only way you can keep the gospel from spreading is if you keep your mouth shut.

            Paul was confined to his quarters and chained to an imperial guard at all times, and yet God still used him to spread the gospel. So I ask you: who is your imperial guard? Where are your quarters? Perhaps you work in a cubicle. God is calling you to proclaim the gospel to your co-workers in that office. Maybe you are a stay-at-home parent. God is calling you to teach your children the gospel and live it out. Wherever God has placed you, allow Him to use you the way He desires to. In doing so, the gospel will spread and your joy will increase. There is no need to fear. Because God is working through us in all things, we are therefore free to proclaim His Word fearlessly.

            In fact, that was the result that Paul’s message had on fellow believers. Our third point is, Gospel proclamation was proclaimed fearlessly because of Paul’s witness. Look at verse 14: “Most of the brothers have gained confidence in the Lord from my imprisonment and dare even more to speak the word fearlessly.” Paul’s imprisonment stirred up a boldness in the believers that caused them to proclaim Christ, even though human wisdom might have suggested that they keep their mouths closed. The word “dare” comes from a Greek word meaning to show boldness or resolution in the face of danger, opposition, or a problem. This does not imply that they initially lacked boldness altogether, but that there was a noticeable increase in their boldness. Opposition and potential persecution could not keep them from proclaiming the gospel.

            Such a boldness was characteristic of so many believers facing persecution in the early days of the church. Around 162 A.D., a man named Marcus Aurelius Antoninus began a great persecution against the church. He was known as being “sharp and fierce” towards Christians, as was evidenced by the terrible ways he killed Christians. Polycarp, a disciple of John and a bishop at the church in Smyrna, was one of the many Christians who suffered under this tyrant. Just before he was burned at the stake, he was given the opportunity to recant and deny Christ. “Swear, and I will release thee; – reproach Christ,” the proconsul urged him. Polycarp replied, “Eighty and six years have I served him, and he never once wronged me; how then shall I blaspheme my King, Who hath saved me?” As a father in the faith, Polycarp had come to know and experience the love of Christ in such a powerful way that he could look past the fiery death that awaited Him and focus on the glory of Christ that blazed even brighter. History is full of such heroes in the faith. If you lack courage, look to them. If God can embolden men like Paul and Polycarp to dare proclaim the gospel under such horrid circumstances, then He can do the same for us.

            Our fourth point is, gospel proclamation occurred with conflicting motives. Motives matter. For example, When I ask my children to do something, I care not just that they do it, but I care about their reasoning and disposition because it reveals their motives. I want them to do it because they love me, not to make their siblings look bad because they did the task better. Likewise, God wants us to do the work He sets before us with motives that are pleasing to Him. There were essentially two groups that were preaching the gospel. One group was preaching with good motives, the other with sinful motives.

            There were essentially two groups that were preaching the gospel. One group was preaching with good motives, the other with sinful motives. We will first look at the “good” group; it is much easier to recognize the counterfeits when we are familiar with the real deal. Paul points out three characteristics about the good group. Paul moves from the general to the specific. Starting in verse 15b, Paul says that these believers preach “out of good will. These preach out of love, knowing that I am appointed for the defense of the gospel.” So Paul is saying here that their good will is demonstrated by love for the gospel, as well as love for Paul. They were not blind sheep following their leader to the ends of the world. There are many preachers who gain a following, fall into sin, and end up being exposed for charlatans, but a faithful few continue to follow them. These believers had a correct knowledge of Paul. Unlike Job’s friends, they knew that Paul wasn’t being punished by God. Yes, sometimes we bring hard times on ourselves because of our stupid decisions, but they knew that wasn’t the case with Paul. God placed him in the midst of an unreached people group, and the fact that Paul continued to defend the gospel motivated them to do the same. They were not competitors, but comrades.

            I always look forward to Christmas, because that is the one time that my whole family is able to get together. For years, it was just my mom, my two brothers, and me. About four years ago, my mom remarried, and I gained a stepdad and three stepsiblings. My stepdad is my pastor. One of my stepbrothers pastors a church in Virginia. Another one of my stepbrothers is a youth pastor. My stepsister is married to a youth pastor. When we get together, we talk about two things: Alabama football and theology (as a Calvinist, I am more bothered by the fact that they aren’t Dawg fans than I am by the fact that they are Free Will Baptists!). My favorite time of year is getting together and talking about the gospel and its impact on every area of our lives. If I find myself to be discouraged, meeting with these brothers always lifts my spirits because they point me to Christ. There is no competition among us. We are fighting together, defending the gospel and edifying the church. Likewise, many of these brothers understood that this was the case for them.

            Unfortunately, others did not see it that way. Verse 15a says, “To be sure, some preach Christ out of envy and rivalry.” Verse 17 reads, “the others (that is, those with sinful motives) proclaim Christ out of selfish ambition, not sincerely, thinking that they will cause me trouble in my imprisonment.” Five negative qualities are listed to describe these believers. And yes, they are believers, not heretics.

            We might be inclined to think that these are false teachers, but that is not the case. Paul reserves his harshest words for those who are distorting the gospel, and for those who are being persuaded by their message. Paul wrote to the Galatians because a group of people known as the Judaizers were teaching them that they must be circumcised in order to be saved. Plain and simple, that is works righteousness. Paul did not begin his letter with any sort of commendation. Even the sexually immoral Corinthians were greeted with kind words in the letters Paul wrote to them, but that was not the case with the Galatians. In Galatians 1:6-9, he writes, “I am amazed that you are so quickly turning away from him who called you by the grace of Christ and are turning to a different gospel – not that there is another gospel, but there are some who are troubling you and want to distort the gospel of Christ. But even if we or an angel from heaven should preach to you a gospel contrary to what we have preached to you, a curse be on him! As we have said before, I now say again: If anyone is preaching to you a gospel contrary to what you received, a curse be on him!” He warns the Philippians of this grave error as well. In Philippians 3:2, he says, “Watch out for the dogs, watch out for the evil workers, watch out for those who mutilate the flesh.” If these rivals in chapter one were false teachers, Paul would likely be far more stern. Instead he actually describes them as fellow Christians. Notice how he lumps them in with the believers of good will: some of them (i.e., the believers mentioned in the previous verse) were preaching out of envy. Paul does not scold them as he did the Judaizers because Christ was still being preached.

            Why does it matter whether they were believers or unbelievers? Because their identity carries implications for us today. If these believers could fall prey to a lifestyle characterized by sin, so can we. Further, we learn from this passage that external righteousness do not gain us favor with God. Preaching Christ is a noble act, and we are all called to evangelize, but even their righteous needs were corrupt because their hearts were sinful. It is only when we think and feel rightly about the gospel that we can live rightly.

           As already mentioned, five negative qualities are mentioned here. The first two are listed in 15a: they were characterized by envy and rivalry. They were seemingly jealous of Paul, and now that Paul had fallen on tough times, they took this opportunity to belittle him. They were also characterized by selfish ambition. This might seem strange considering they were preaching the gospel, but many today use the gospel for selfish gain. We are all too familiar with TV preachers who promise wealth and prosperity to people if they have enough faith…and also send them money. But it can be far more subtle than that. Many preachers (often young preachers who gain popularity early in their lives) get a taste of success and begin to preach in a way that exalts themselves rather than Christ. They may not even be aware that they are doing it, but because they fail to examine their own hearts, they fall prey to this sin. Preachers aren’t the only ones, by the way. It’s not always wrong to be ambitious. Maybe you want to make enough money to provide for your family, and that is a good thing. But when you begin to think about money more than you think about Christ, or when you want a promotion so you can have more possessions than your neighbors, or when you desire a promotion so you can lord it over others in your company, you have become selfishly ambitious.

            These rivals were also insincere and seeking to cause trouble for Paul. It wasn’t enough that he was out of the picture; they had to kick him while he was down. They were vultures, swarming around Paul waiting for his ultimate demise. This is the inevitable result of envy. Sinful desires never stay stagnant. They will always grow and give birth to greater manifestations of sin. James 1:14-15 says, “But each person is tempted when he is drawn away and enticed by his own evil desire. Then after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin, and when sin is fully grown, it gives birth to death.” These Christians did not just roll out of bed one day and say, “You know what? I think I’m going to make Paul’s life miserable.” We don’t know all the details because Scripture doesn’t provide them, but we know how sin operates in our lives. It may have started with a sermon. “Wow! Paul sure can preach! I wish I could preach like that…” They may have paid lip service to Paul, even patting him on the back. However, on the inside, there hearts were darkening towards him. “Why is he getting all the attention. I am a great preacher, too.” Then it gets a little more personal as they move from his actions to his character. “Ok, seriously, why is this guy preaching this Sunday and not me? I’m more qualified than he is. After all, I’m not the one who murdered hundreds of Christians.” Finally, Paul is arrested, and they rejoice because their opponent is out of the picture. Now they can seize this opportunity and discredit Paul. “If God was really working through Paul, then why would He allow Paul to be arrested?!” That’s one of the many problems brought about by sin. It distorts our thinking to the point where reason is flipped on its head. The truth of God is exchanged for a lie. No doubt they thought they were in the right, but their spiritual vision was so impaired that they were harming their brothers and sisters. We must regularly examine our hearts, asking God to reveal our hidden sins. We must pray that God would allow us to see ourselves as He sees us. As we proclaim the gospel, we must also take care to preach it to ourselves, for the greatest way to combat the sin in our lives is looking to the perfect and sinless Christ who died for our sins so that we would be holy and blameless.

            Regardless of motives, Paul could rejoice, and that leads to our fifth and final point: Gospel proclamation led to Paul’s joy. How easy it would have been to grow bitter and angry in this situation. Put yourself in Paul’s sandals: You’re in prison. You’re chained to a guard. You cannot come and go as you please. There is no unwinding with Netflix at the end of the day. You don’t get to tuck your children in bed and pray with them. And to make matters worse, your brothers on the outside are seeking to ruin your reputation. What is Paul’s response? In verse 18, Paul says, “What does it matter? Only that in every way, whether from false motives or true, Christ is proclaimed, and in this I rejoice. Yes, and I will continue to rejoice.” Paul is essentially saying, “These brothers are seeking to cause me harm. So what? What do I care? It really doesn’t matter because Christ is being proclaimed.” When the gospel is under attack, Paul fights for the faith. But when Paul is under attack, he sees no need to defend himself. He is a picture of what he commanded in 2:3. Gospel proclamation is not a competition. Paul was not attempting to build a megachurch or gain a huge following. His life was all about preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ.

            Paul is not only rejoicing at the time he wrote this letter, but he resolves to rejoice in the future, regardless of circumstances. His joy is tied to the person and work of Christ, and because Christ is unchanging, Paul’s joy is unfading. If you do not experience joy like this, perhaps you are pursuing satisfaction in things other than Christ. People look for happiness in all kinds of things – money, sex, power…the list goes on and on. The problem is, when we live for anything other than Christ, that thing ultimately becomes an idol and will be our destruction. It may bring momentary happiness, but it will not bring us ultimate satisfaction. Only Christ can do that.

            We have learned five important things about gospel proclamation from this passage. Gospel proclamation occurred throughout the entire prison. God will at times place His children in difficult circumstances, but He will use these trials to advance His kingdom and increase our joy. Gospel proclamation occurred because of Paul’s identity. To be a saint is to suffer. If we are in Christ, the world will oppose us. But blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of God. Gospel proclamation was proclaimed fearlessly. Paul said that to live is Christ and to die is gain. We live for Christ, which brings us joy. But even if we lose our lives because of persecution, we can rejoice because that just brings us into Christ’s presence. Gospel proclamation occurred with conflicting motives: some good, some bad. In either case, Christ was being preached, and this leads to our joy.

            When I think of bold, fearless preachers, I think of Martin Luther. On April 18, 1521, Martin Luther stood before some of the most powerful religious leaders in the world. Their demand was clear enough: recant, or face severe punishment. He has been issued that command the day prior, and overwhelmed by the magnitude of the moment, he asked for time. He returned the next day and responded with these now-famous words: “Unless I am convinced by the testimony of the Scriptures or by clear reason (for I do not trust either in the pope or in councils alone, since it is well known that they have often erred and contradicted themselves), I am bound by the Scriptures I have quoted and my conscience is captive to the Word of God. I cannot and I will not recant anything, since it is neither safe nor right to go against conscience. I cannot do otherwise, here I stand, may God help me, Amen.” As we look to Paul’s example, may we be strengthened, emboldened, and filled with joy. And in the face of trials, tribulations, and suffering, may we stand with Martin Luther, proclaiming with our mouths the gospel of Christ and proclaiming with our hearts, “I cannot do otherwise, here I stand, may God help me, Amen.