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I haven't finished the show. I didn't fact check this. I don't feel like the show respects me so I don't feel obliged to respect the show. If this is inaccurate... I don't care 🙂

S2 fix-it

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Motifs.

For several years of his life, Hob had no idea the concept existed. He couldn’t read at all for a good hundred-fifty years to begin with, and it took a while even after getting involved in printing before he progressed to actually reading literature on his own.

But what Hob has always known is that life runs in patterns. Resonances. He doesn’t believe in fate—told Destiny that to his face actually—but clearly there are forces in the universe beyond his understanding and one of those is recurrence. Motif. Plays upon a theme. Things always come back around. They always come back.

Fashion trends. Moral panics. Political movements. Places. Memories. Tiny coincidences that may or may not be only deja vu.

Dream.

Which is why, though Hob owns a pub—which he currently wants to burn to the ground—he finds himself at the White Horse. Not his White Horse. But there’s a trillion of them in London. Can’t turn a fucking corner without being reminded.

His intentions for the evening had actually been:

Get smashingly drunk at a gay bar.

Find a guy who looked kind of like Dream but not and wrong.

Fuck in an alley.

Hate himself.

Throw up in a public bin on the street.

Die of alcohol poisoning. 

Come back to life. 

Hate himself.

Go back to the New Inn and contemplate burning it to the ground with him in it (he’d live).

Alas, instead he’s at the (wrong) White Horse Tavern, on his third bottle of wine (still working on the alcohol poisoning), playing lute music on his phone because it reminds him of The Past and the present’s kind of shit at the moment. Finding the past in the present always feels a little weird and wrong, except it always comes back, everything always comes back around, and at this point Hob would take a little bit ‘weird and wrong’, actually he would take a lot weird and wrong, is there someone he can kill to make it happen? It might make him feel a little better to just fucking kill anybody whose hands touched this. He’s just so goddamn angry he’s going to explode. 

One thing that helps with anger that doesn’t involve killing someone is finding a like mind, and Hob could probably go talk to some of the people in Dream’s life who feel similarly, except if he does he’s likely to run into that kid that’s sort of Dream but mostly not, not in the ways that matter to Hob, and even though he knows it’s not his fault, Hob feels kind of homicidal when he looks at that kid so. Probably shouldn’t. 

God, would it be too unhinged to throw a couple shots of tequila in this wine? Would ruin it, but what does that matter. 

He orders three shots of tequila at the bar and is in the middle of pouring them into the bottle when there’s a flutter of feathers and Matthew lands on the table in front of him. “Dude, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Trying to die of alcohol poisoning?” 

Hob points at him. “Bingo. You want some?”

“No.” 

“Your loss.” Hob pours a glass and tries it. Dear god, that’s awful. 

“I’ll take some fries if you have ‘em, though,” Matthew says. 

Hob orders some chips on his phone. Why does this pub have a fucking app? Is nothing sacred? 

“I didn’t know you were allowed to leave the Dreaming,” he says when he’s done. 

“Yeah, whatever.” 

No one says whatever with as much clinical disdain as an American. Why does Hob know an American raven? Do they even have ravens in America? You know what, it doesn’t even matter. Nothing does. 

“I’m not taking orders from a two-year-old,” Matthew continues. 

“Quite frankly, that is the least of my problems with the guy,” Hob says. “Known some wise infants in my time. Someone who thinks he can take the place of my friend—?”

It’s not his fault

It’s not his fault

It’s not

his

fault

He tsks in disapproval. “Well. S’a different matter.”

“Hob, how many people have you killed?” Matthew asks.

“In what time period?”

“Jesus Christ. I dunno, forever?” 

“I don’t know. Plenty. Less in the past half-century. Killing people used to be more normal. Now you can only do it at war. Or by starting a chemical company and poisoning the water supply with Teflon. It’s too stupid now to bother with.”

“Okay, so you are actually insane,” Matthew says. 

Hob shrugs, drinking more of his unholy wine concoction. “You never saw your boss kill someone?” 

“Actually, he usually tried not to.” 

“Huh.” 

“Scared the bejeezus out of people, but killed them? Not really.” 

“Too bad,” Hob says. 

Matthew snorts. 

“Too fucking bad.” Shit, he’s out of wine. “Wait, why did you ask me that? Did you want me to kill someone?” 

A server comes by with their chips just then. Hob doesn’t know why he doesn’t get kicked out for having an enormous bird on the table. Maybe they think Matthew’s fake. Maybe he’s invisible. Maybe Hob’s getting a pass for having spent at least £300 on alcohol in two hours. 

Matthew starts scarfing down the chips. “Not really,” he says, between huge mouthfuls. “I was wondering if you were gonna do it on your own.”

“If I find someone whose death’ll make a difference. Otherwise, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I really don’t.”

“Tell me about it.”

For the time being, Hob opens the stupid pub app and orders another bottle of wine.

Shockingly, they deliver it instead of cutting him off.

He pours another glass and drinks half of it in one go. He’s starting to feel sick, headache-y, but doesn’t stop drinking. “Fuckin’ hate funerals.”

“Kinda glad I missed my own,” Matthew says.

“I’ve been to a few of mine. S’fuckin weird.” What Hob wouldn’t have given for Dream to have walked into his own, though.

Just to have something in his restless hands, he starts folding his napkin in half, then half again, smoothing the creases in brutal, sharp lines. “‘Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,’” he quotes. “‘Choose executors and talk of wills, or not, for what can we bequeath save our deposed bodies to the ground?’”

“Now I get why you guys got along. You’re both fucking cryptic.”

“It’s not cryptic, it’s Shakespeare, God poorly rest his soul.” He keeps working on folding his napkin into tinier squares. It’s only possible to do it so many times. One of the rules of the universe. “‘Throw away respect,’” fold, “‘tradition,’” another fold, “‘form and ceremonious duty,’” he can’t fold it any more, “‘for you have mistook me all this while. I live on bread like you, feel want, taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus, how can you say to me, I am a king?’”

“I don’t know how you can recite all that while totally hammered,” Matthew says.

“Had a long time to learn it. Reminds me of someone I know.” He drains the rest of his glass and starts drinking straight out of the bottle. Manners are for those who have a reason to give a damn.

Matthew steps sideways on the table as he chokes down another chip. “I never got into that stuff when I was alive. You probably saw it in person or something.”

“It’s not that difficult to have seen a Shakespeare play in person,” Hob says.

“You know what I mean, dickhead.”

“I dunno. Probably did. I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember.”

“I had other priorities at the time.” Probably came out during the after portion of that time period. Yikes.

He unfolds his paper square and starts refolding it in the opposite direction.

“You know, I was alive then,” he says.

“Obviously?”

“In the time when the play was set.” He sighs. “Weird to look at a story like that, one that echoes back to your own experiences. Whenever they try to do a ‘realistic’ film adaptation they always get some of the details wrong… the clothes and the fucking, trees and shit— gets under my skin.” Asynchronous resonances. Weird rippling echoes.

Kinda feels like that being in this White Horse.

“Stage is better for it,” he says. “Abstracted. Doesn’t matter about the details.” He drinks more of his wine.

Things always circle back. Back and back and back again. Same but different.

“‘The great stories always return to their original forms,’” he says. Come back to me, he thinks.

“Is that Shakespeare too?” Matthew asks warily.

“No.” Hob grimaces. “Dream.”

“…Oh. Fuck.”

Hob slumps down in his chair, head tipped back, spine bent uncomfortably. Not uncomfortably enough to distract from how much it all hurts.

“Did you put more tequila in that wine?” Matthew asks.

“Not this time, you want some?”

“Yeah.”

Hob pours some out in one of the empty shot glasses and passes it to him. Then gets distracted for a few moments studying the mechanics of a bird drinking out of a shot glass. Always another new thing.

“Kind of appropriate, this place,” he says at last.

“Uh, how so?”

“The White Horse.” He taps his fingers along the stem of his wine glass. His phone is still playing Spotify’s Bardcore Lute Mix or whatever the fuck. “‘And I looked, and beheld a white horse, and her name that sat on him was Death, and all Hell followed her,’” he says.

“What is that now, fucking… Armageddon?”

“Come on, Matthew, it’s Revelations!”

“I’m not Catholic!”

“A pale horse, Hob,” says a new, but familiar voice. “Not white.”

“Didn’t know I could summon you with that,” Hob says as Death sits down at the table across from him. He doesn’t offer her a drink. He’s not feeling particularly charitable towards her right now.

“You can’t, I chose to come.” Death plucks a spare wine glass off another table and pours herself some. Takes, always takes, Death.

“‘White horse’ feels more correct to me,” Hob says, gesturing at their surroundings. “Life and death fall in the shadows of this place. Well, not this place, literally, but.”

“Its echo still captures you,” Death says, sipping her wine. “Cycles like the turning of a season.”

Her expression is kind. Hob fucking hates her.

“If you’re here to ask me a question, don’t bother,” he says. “I intend to drink so much of this that I die, and then come back and do it again.”

“I’m not here to ask you anything,” Death says. She studies them both shrewdly, cryptically. Matthew hops away from her and up onto Hob’s shoulder, nervous. “Have I told you about the Sunless Lands?”

“You told me you couldn’t tell me about the Sunless Lands,” Hob says.

“And I can’t, except that circumstances require that I do.” She studies the surface of her wine. She is so very still, even Dream would struggle to compete. “There are things outside of myself that govern my speech, so perhaps in a language that my brother would favor: ‘Everyone is right, as it turns out. You go to the place you always thought you would go, the place you kept lit in an alcove in your head.’”

“Billy Collins,” Hob says, as Matthew whispers in his ear, “How the f—”

“So, you see,” Death says, folding her hands together.

“What I see,” Hob says, growing increasingly incensed, “is someone dead who shouldn’t be, and what I’m hearing is a lot of absolute bullshit about how it’s meant to be that way. Oh, death gives life meaning, life already has meaning! Dream’s life has meaning. I've killed people-- you think me putting a sword through a soldier's chest is what gave his life meaning? You wanna know what death is?” Why the fuck’s he ranting about death to Death. “You want another quote? A fucking poem? What is death? ‘Death is absolute and without memorial.’ Just—”

“Wallace Stevens.”

Hob knocks over his glass.

Motherfucking Morpheus-of-the-not-Endless sits down beside him and steals Death’s half-empty wine glass. “He also wrote,” he says, “‘Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.’”

“Arsehole!” Hob yells, throwing his arms around him, dislodging Matthew, who jumps down to the table crying, “Boss!”

Morpheus startles at the contact. He’s actually physically there. He’s got a heartbeat and everything. Far too many glasses of wine catch up to Hob all at once and he starts crying against Morpheus’s shoulder.

“Hob—” Morpheus tries, awkwardly patting his back.

“Are you really here?” Hob asks. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Morpheus says.

“How?”

“I don’t make any decisions, once someone’s crossed over,” Death says, eye twinkling. “I’m simply… obliged to take people where they are meant to go. Where they believe, and hope they will.” 

So then… Hob? But then…

He’s not sure that makes sense, ‘rules of the universe’-wise. How can he be someone’s afterlife? He still lives in this life, for one thing.

But he doesn’t say so. He doesn’t say a damn word.

Death steps around the table, touching a hand to his shoulder as she goes. A chill runs through him. “Take care, Hob,” she says, then she’s gone.

“You must go, too, Matthew,” Morpheus says.

“But—”

Morpheus touches a light fingertip to the top of Matthew’s head, strokes his feathers. “Go back,” he says gently.

Matthew sighs. “Alright.” He pushes his head into Morpheus’s hand, then takes off and disappears.

When he’s gone, Hob pulls Morpheus tighter to him, pressing Morpheus’s head into his shoulder. “Hob,” Morpheus protests, but Hob keeps holding him, and eventually Morpheus sinks into his embrace, wrapping his arms around Hob in turn. “I am sorry,” he says quietly.

“Don’t. Oh my God.”

“I did not realize until… I did not know this would happen.”

“Just had it stashed away in the back of your head, eh?”

“Yes. I suppose I must have.”

God. Hob pulls back from him at last to look him in the eyes. “Welcome, then, to…” afterlife feels wrong, how can it be ‘after’ if it’s still a life? “your... second life?”

“Yes,” Morpheus agrees. 

Hob scrubs at his eyes, though the tears keep coming. “So much for death being absolute, sorry Wallace.”

“I believe it still is, there is no way for me to turn back, to become… Dream again. However, there appears to be a way forward that I did not anticipate. I am…” his cheeks go a little pink; that’s never happened before. It’s adorable. “Glad to be here.”

Hob must be really drunk because he takes Morpheus’s face between his hands and strokes his thumbs over that blush, which only makes it deepen. “Can never really go back anyway, can you? Only catch echoes and memories.”

“Yes,” Morpheus agrees.

“Speaking of which”—he points to Hob’s phone—“this music is… strange and insufferable.”

Hob laughs. “Honestly, yeah, it kind of is.” ‘Bardcore.’ What the hell. “I’ll find you something you’ll like better.”

“You often do,” Morpheus says.

Madly, impulsively, Hob moves forward to kiss him. Morpheus’s lips are soft and warm, human, though Hob doubts he truly is, he’s something else, a shadow given back the shape that cast it, though not quite, exactly, the same.

Morpheus tilts his head back into the kiss. Is this just what you do in the ‘after’life? Finally let yourself have what you want? Hob could get behind it.

“I love you,” he says when he pulls back. “Always have.”

Morpheus’s cheeks go pink again.

“I’m glad you didn’t go,” Hob adds, pulling him back into another hug, pressing Morpheus’s scrawny chest to his.

“I suppose I did, but not as far as I expected,” Morpheus says.

“Good.”

Morpheus leans against him, tipping his head down on Hob’s shoulder. Hob’s heart sings. Forget alcohol poisoning, he might die from the emotional whiplash of it all. Doesn’t matter. He’ll come back.

"You get it now?" he says. "'Why should I give my bounty to the dead?'"

"'Shall I not find in comforts of the sun,'" Morpheus says, picking up the thread of the poem, "'things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?'"

"Exactly."

"Hmm," says Morpheus. "I suppose so. Yes."

Hob wraps his arm around his shoulders. “Glad I called it the ‘New Inn,’ and not, ‘White Horse 2’ or something,” he says.

“‘White Horse 2,’” Morpheus echoes. “That would be rather unoriginal. Not that ‘The New Inn’ is brimming with originality.”

“Excuse you.”

Morpheus chuckles against his shoulder.

“Nevertheless,” Hob says. “I think we picked well, with this place. Or. The original place. Whichever.”

“In what way?”

“‘Death rides a white horse.’”

“I believe the verse is, a pale horse,” Morpheus corrects.

“Yeah,” Hob says, smiling to himself as he squeezes Morpheus tighter. “Whatever.”

---

Citations:

"Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs..." - Richard II

death rides a pale horse - Revelation 6:8

"you go to the place you always thought you would go..." - Billy Collins, "The Afterlife"

"Death is absolute and without memorial" - Wallace Stevens, "The Death of a Soldier"

"Death is the mother of beauty..." and "Why should I give my bounty to the dead?" - Wallace Stevens, "Sunday Morning"

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The Strange Case of Starship Iris Wet Cat Tournament Quarterfinals

Welcome to the thrilling kickoff of the Starship Iris Wet Cat Tournament, where we pit your favorite spacefaring disasters head to head to crown the ultimate Sad Wet Cat!

A warm thank you to everyone who sent in submissions!

Sana v. Krejjh

Arkady v. Violet

Brian v. Jin Seon

RJ v. Thasia

Have fun, and please be sure to spread this to other fans!

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Heard this stupid dad joke that killed me: Which Chinese word takes the longest to write? "Friend" (朋友) because it takes two months just to write half of it

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WHAT!!!!

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I enjoy when the show pairs them up for random tasks or downtime. Like they're a salt and pepper shaker set or something.

Is it silly to admit that one of my favourite lines in season 1, episode 10 is when Major-General Frederick says, "Park. McCabe. Go."

I mean, it's a line from The Baddie, and Frederick also has no idea in that moment that Park is a double agent, but I love the idea of them zooming into action (I kind of picture it like a comic panel with them both running off with speed lines).

Actually Park should be heelying off

Also yes, I loved that entrance and the fact that McCabe and Park came in together xD Hey, maybe they were watching Sh'th Hremreh :D

So not a ton of McCabe moments to talk about BUT their snarky grand entrance <3 oh RJ McCabe my beloved.

I’m really having fun picturing Park and McCabe just like playing cards in the other room until they hear enough yelling to decide to join the Plot.

And I will not be convinced that they weren’t holding hands when they thought they were about to die <3 I think McCabe grabbed Park’s hand and they both forgot to let go for a few seconds afterwards and McCabe got really embarrassed about it. But that’s just my opinion….

Aw, I love that idea -- I also imagined them hanging out together before all the piloting stuff got dire. I enjoy when the show pairs them up for random tasks or downtime. Like they're a salt and pepper shaker set or something.

(McCabe would totally hold his hand, but CONTROVERSIAL OPINION, I think McCabe is the less touchy-grabby of the two. Maybe Park holds their hand. :P )

We've got the hiatus coming up, but (and this isn't really a spoiler) there will be more Park and McCabe interactions coming up later in the season, including a couple I'm really excited for.

Thanks for sharing your thoughts! I always love seeing people's reactions when a new episode is out. Now we just have to get through this short hiatus .... T_T

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Coda to Episode 2.03: Deep Breath

A/N: After listening to Episode 2.03, I couldn’t help but want to write something from Other Violet’s perspective after the call with Sana and Arkady, to explore some of her thoughts and humanise her a bit. It can’t be easy being the premier spymaster of a galaxy-wide revolution. Plus, I wanted the excuse to write some soft Other Violet & Thasia fluff ^^ (I envision their relationship here as more queerplatonic than romantic, but feel free to make it whatever you want in your own head).

Warning for references to Brian’s illness from Episode 3, as well as references to the death of Emily Craddock. I tried to go lightly on this and not make it a main theme of the fic, but the references and associations are still there and could potentially be distressing to people with the way the world is right now, so please take care <3

–

Violet closed her eyes after the call ended, counting out the seconds. Once she got to ten, she opened them again.

It hadn’t helped much; the beginnings of a headache still throbbed at her temple, insistent. She took another couple of deep, steadying breaths.

She was in the middle of orchestrating a galaxy-wide revolution, with an infinite number of moving parts, variables and potential pressure points to navigate every single day. One group of loose-cannon smugglers and former Regime agents shouldn’t be able to stress her out like this. And yet.

They hadn’t checked in. They’d gone bolting off to Telemachus without a single word, practically crash-landed on the planet by the sounds of things, and hadn’t even thought to so much as let her know. And the situation with their translator–

“How was the call?” Thasia quietly re-entered the room, two steaming mugs held in one of their pairs of hands. Violet recognised the scent of chrysanthemum, and took another moment to be grateful to Thasia for always, somehow, knowing what she needed before she did. She held out a hand and accepted the mug.

“They figured out that the illegal weapons shipment was headed for Telemachus and took off there like a shot to warn their contacts,” Violet summarised, taking a sip of the tea, which was sweetened just the way she liked it. “And they managed to tear up the ship on entry.”

Thasia, who had sat down on the floor of Violet’s little office - or as they liked to call it, the ‘command centre’ - did a physical double-take. “Tore up the ship? Krejjh? That doesn’t sound like them. When I said that their flying was legendary, I mean I have never seen anything like it.”

Violet pressed her lips together; she’d been holding back this last piece of news. “Brian Jeeter is sick,” she said, succinctly. “It sounds like he was taken ill shortly before they left Hypatia, or maybe just after. In Captain Tripathi’s words, he 'coughed himself unconscious’.”

She watched the impact of these words hit Thasia, who cursed softly under their breath. “Translator Jeeter lived out in Neuzo,” they said.

“Yes.”

“Did you tell them about–?”

“They weren’t in the mood to hear it, and I wasn’t in the mood to go into it,” Violet said shortly. “Besides, what good would it do? We weren’t - able to save her.”

Thasia shifted fractionally closer to her chair, almost but not quite touching. Near enough to offer comfort. “Translator Jeeter spent some years on Neuzo, but he didn’t grow up there,” they pointed out. “So his condition is probably… recoverable. With time.”

“I know that,” said Violet, a little too quickly. “They got him medical attention quickly enough. I’m not concerned.”

Thasia looked at her. Dwarnians didn’t have eyebrows, but the expression of scepticism was easy enough to read without them.

“I just wish they would-” Violet searched for the words to put to her frustration. “Stop to think for a second and realise that they’re a part of something bigger now. That they have responsibilities to people other than themselves.” Thasia tilted their head, the Dwarnian equivalent of a nod of understanding. “And that they also have people they can rely on now, too.”

“It can take time, that sort of adjustment,” Thasia pointed out. “It wasn’t that long ago that they were just a tiny group of smugglers. But they’ll come around. They’re just… scared. And desperate. You and I both know how that feels.”

Violet let out a breath, because they did. She could - and did - still fault the Rumor crew for being brash, impulsive, reckless and uncommunicative, but most of those were things she’d known they were when she’d given them the Hypatia job. This was just another reminder.

And she couldn’t fault the crew for panicking and doing whatever they could to help a crewmate who had suddenly fallen seriously ill, with a cause they didn’t properly understand or know how to deal with. Violet remembered how that felt. The helplessness.

It didn’t change anything about their situation, the razor’s edge they were currently walking between success and failure, and she didn’t regret taking the Captain and Arkady to task in the way that she had. They needed to understand what was at stake. But it did sap the last of her irritation, leaving her just feeling drained. The headache stabbed at her temples more insistently, given the opening.

It wasn’t three o'clock in the morning where she and Thasia were; she wasn’t sure what time it was. She worked until she couldn’t any more and then slept. Woke up again, and repeated the cycle.

“Violet,” said Thasia, and Violet opened her eyes again, not sure when she’d closed them. Thasia only rarely dropped the title from her name, and never when others were around; it always managed to surprise her, like a little shock of intimacy. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

In response, Violet got down from her chair and sat next to Thasia on the floor until they were body to body, sharing warmth. She leaned her forehead against Thasia’s. “Just this,” she said, honestly.

She felt, more than saw, Thasia smile, as they gently brushed a strand of her hair behind one ear. “I can do that,” they said.

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what's up everyone for a variety of ~reasons I only just listened to the latest episode and I am now going to spend the next 10 minutes staring into The Void

how are you?

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i think about them all the time. just a sentient pumpkin that grew a body and a funny tentacle monster. being in love and stuff. et cetera

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"the spiderverse movies have references to all kinds of iterations of spider-man!" well do they have HIM?

?

do they?

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omg MADE OF ADORABLE. I love your style!! The roumd Piderman! Tuba looking so chipper! And of course the always adorable sleeping Squib and Pumkin 🥺🥺🥰

Comfort show, I love all these little goobers

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Day 30: Wanda :3

AA SORRY FOR NO DRAWINGS I got tired :(

Anyway here's Wanda

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How amazing that the old episodes of Baman Piderman started dropping on SmallBu's channel right on Yaoi Day.

Here you have a magma doodle of Pumkin and Squib!

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In honor of Smallbu Animation getting Baman and Piderman licensed after SEVEN YEARS of effort, here is a phone wallpaper version of my beloved pumkin and squib. 💙💙💙

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Baman Piderman is up there with Homestar Runner as a primordial artistic inspiration to me. It’s distilled animation joy. Seeing it back after all these years, even if the circumstances aren’t ideal, is a small(bu) miracle worth celebrating.

Welcome back, dear friends 💖

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Omg I love this so much

My original drawing from 2021 below:

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celebrating Baman Piderman's new home back with its original creators with some doodles and a rewatch! if you've never checked it out, the first few eps are on Youtube on SmallButera's channel. :] it's such a classic indie animated series that changed my sense of humor forever!!!