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threewaysdivided · 3 years

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Ghost Aliens?

@mindforgedmanacle submitted:

Thought I sent this days ago xD Anyway, I very much enjoyed the newest chapter of Deathly Weapons. It felt very tense, which is not typical when a story is not dealing with its main plot. Kudos on the realism as well.

I don't know it's something you'll ever cover - it's pretty tangential to the plot - but do you ever plan to mention how aliens in the story see ghosts and if there are ghost aliens? A couple chapters back we get M'gann's reaction about there being Martian tales warning against trying to sustain the mind of a dying person (this was neat to include). But as Danny Phantom was presumably an alien-free series, we don't know of any ghosts that were ever anything but human/animal or spawned as ghosts (I'm ignoring Hartman's later backtracking, it's clear Steve Marmel saw many of season 1's ghosts as just spirits of the dead).

It probably shouldn't be a plot focus ("that's a ghost, but Martian!" isn't much to go on, heh), but these kinds of interactions always interest me yet seldom occur or get a mention. For its many faults, I did appreciate that Young Justice later showed the magic and some religious practices of Martians, for example. Avoiding the usual implication that magic is an Earth-thing for some reason, and not portraying all aliens as having abandoned religious practices. Maybe the Martians or someone else have some ideas about the afterlife (or an afterlife, as the case may be) and find it unsettling that some of them ended up in the Ghost Zone.

Well, even humans feel that way. 😂 Just a thought. Thanks again for your wonderful story. From that stellar opening chapter to now, it's been a pleasure to read.

Thank you! I’m really happy that you had fun with Chapter 18of Deathly Weapons. I’ve been very pleased to hear people say the tension of the mission came across well. Like you said Black Gold doesn’t really do a whole lot to advance the central plotline or main character arc by itself (it’s mostly important as a baseline negative control to show that the Team can operate well with Phantom on board when Ghostly Nonsense or Personal Tensions aren’t throwing spanners in the works) so I really wanted to punch up the short term stakes and espionage suspense to compensate.

As for ghosts and aliens in Deathly Weapons I’m going to have to give a moderately firm “not really”. I’ll explain why, and my thoughts, but before I do, a preface:

Hi, I’m an author, please kill me! (Figuratively, of course; if you literally do that then there will be paperwork, I shall be quite unable to continue posting chapters and the others may become rather miffed at you for it.) What I mean is that I’m a big proponent of the Death of the Author theory, and that also applies to myself. Feels a bit pretentious to call myself an “author” but at this point Deathly Weapons is punching in the same length-class as the first entries in the Alex Rider, Artemis Fowl and Harry Potter series so perhaps I have earned it? Don’t get me wrong, I love to talk about my process, I love to talk about my headcanons and theories for things. But at the same time I’m just increasingly tired by this recent trend where official creators try to retcon/ insert information/ enforce specific readings via social media, or act like it’s somehow the audiences’ fault for coming away confused/ with a different reading because key information was either completely left out or very poorly presented in-story. I personally think it’s a really dishonest and disrespectful approach and I never want to do that if I can avoid it. This stuff is fun to talk about here but until/unless it shows up in my writing you can consider it just another headcanon. And the things I suggest now may be subject to change later as I do more thinking/ research and potentially come up with ideas/ theories I find more compelling. Basically, I can tell you my intent, but I don’t want to dictate to anyone how they have to read my writing. Right. Cracking on:

So the reason for my “probably not” here is basically what you’ve said - how aliens in the story see ghosts and whether there are ghost aliens isn’t very relevant to core mysteries and character arcs of Deathly Weapons, and runs the risk of being distracting.

A lot has been said about the “Mystery Box” style of writing (where writers start raising questions before knowing the answers themselves) but personally I prefer the opposite approach. I like to know what my major answers/endings/resolutions are in advance, so I can deliberately set up questions/reverse-engineer foreshadowing to lead the audience that way. I always find it kind of frustrating/unsatisfying when a story raises a question or introduces an interesting idea only to do nothing meaningful with it by the end. It’s sometime I’d like to avoid doing in Deathly Weapons - steering people toward the answers I want while sidestepping rabbit-holes or un-fun implications. (e.g. how it kind of puts a damper on things once you stop to consider that M’gann and J’onn’s Martian biology means they will inevitably outlive all the human characters by several lifetimes.)

For me, the problem is that your suggestion would be too interesting; if I brought it up then I’d want to address it well and pay off people’s understandable curiosity, but the point where it would mostly likely appear in Deathly Weapons isn’t really structured in a way that would let it naturally come up or be properly explored without completely putting the breaks on the pacing of some fairly important late-game story-beats.

It’s also just a personal preference thing. I tend to favour character- and plot-driven stories over world-driven stories, so for me worldbuilding is a more like a foundation element that serves the narrative; either by directly providing something that is/will be useful in solving a current/upcoming plot problem, as a source of character context/motivation/development, by helping to ground the characters/systems/strategies/stakes in a sense of consistent internal logic, or by making things feels more immersive by suggesting a bigger living world beyond the story.

(M’gann briefly recalling Martian death-stories in Chapter 16 falls mostly under #4 for me - my thought process was that it would make sense for Miss Martian to have her own cultural framework outside of human pop-culture, and that it would have some distinct differences that reflect how Martians’ unique abilities/biology would produce a society with their own ways of communicating/connecting/grieving.)

That sort of incidental-feeling addition, which can come up organically and make the world feel bigger in 1-3 lines without breaking stride, is kind of my ideal Goldilocks zone for non-critical worldbuilding. It’s the Law of Conservation of Detail - the more space something takes up, the more I want it to meaningfully contribute, and if it doesn’t then I can find it really hard to justify. That’s actually part of why Chapter 18 was such a long write; Black Gold is structurally important but on its own falls just close enough to “filler” that there were several points where I was debating if that was a good enough reason to keep it in.

That all still feels like a bit of a Nigel-No-Fun response to your suggestion, though. To make up for it, what I think I’d like to do is go over a couple of the headcanons I’m using for ghosts and ghost-mortal interactions in Deathly Weapons and then maybe talk a bit about my plans for some of the alien stuff.

Let’s go:

Headcanon #1 - How Ghosts Work

I like to take a blended approach when it comes to the whole “monsters from another dimension” vs “manifestations of ectoplasm and post-human consciousness” thing. There are some ghosts in the show that were very obviously intended to read as former people, but even early on there were others that read as most unnatural/ monster-y. My solution is to break the ghosts down into 3 categories:

Post-living: These ghosts are the imprint of a departed mind/soul, left in ectoplasm and formed into a new entity. Phantom explains a little bit about this in Chapter 16 - if there is enough ambient ectoplasm around, and the dying mind leaves a strong enough imprint then if creates a seed pattern which gets built upon to manifest the ghost. (This is also my explanation for why so many post-human DP ghosts seem to be so gimmicky; the imprint isn’t necessarily a perfect encapsulation of the mind, and minds with strong fixations/personality traits are more likely to leave an imprint, which biases the pattern into something like a caricature/Flanderization. What was a prominent trait in life can become a dominant train in the entity that forms afterward.)

Conceptual: These ghosts are also the result of living cultures, but rather than being an individual imprint are the result of a myth/story/legend being left as a collective imprint over time. (Pandora would be one of these.)

Native: These ghosts manifest within the Ghost Zone and develop/adapt/evolve with little to no external influence. This category runs the full gamut from minor entities like ectopi to more monster-y sorts, to living terrain and extremely eldritch/primal beings. (Clockwork would be one of these). There’s some “chicken vs egg” when it comes to these ghosts vs conceptual ghosts as it’s not always clear whether the legend originated a conceptual ghost or if a native ghost passing through a portal inspired/influenced the legend, but in general the more myth-specific ghosts are likely to be conceptual and the more primal/elemental ghosts are likely to be native. The yetis of the Far Frozen have been the subject of much scholarly debate among the few ghosts that care.

Ultimately though, the categories don’t mean much to the average ghost since (outside of a few powerful figures) there isn’t much by way of systemic hierarchy across the whole Zone and (with a few notable exceptions) most ghosts tend to skew more solitary in nature unless brought together by a powerful ruler/ common threat.

Headcanon #2 - DP vs DC Ghosts

One of the worldbuilding challenges of DP x DC crossovers is how to create a system where DP ghosts can exists alongside more “traditional” DC ghosts like Secret or Deadman. For me, the answer has been that morphology-based categorisation systems are for chumps and suckers. Basically these are two completely unrelated phenomena that just happened to get lumped together because of some shared surface level characteristics, and because instances of either are so rare that they tend to get folded into the broader mythology/ folklore of “ghost stories” rather than identified or classified.

If you wanted proper names for them, I tend to go with “ectoplasmic entities” and “shades”: ectoplasmic ghosts being what’s described above and shade ghosts being the original mind/consciousness/soul held in the mortal world through willpower/magic/curses/other paranormal phenomena. (One distinction I find interesting with this is that shades - being the original soul - could potentially be revived or allowed to move on, where ectoplasmic entities - as a new being formed from the imprint of a departed soul - could be destroyed or potentially transformed into a new living entity but not used to bring back the original.)

But when it comes to the average person, if it looks like a ghost and it spooks like a ghost then it’s a ghost.

Headcanon #3 - How the Ghost Zone interacts with the living world

I’ve talked about this in other asks, but my go-to explanation for why DP’s ghosts are so unknown and so often a surprise to the other heroes in crossovers (and also why Ectobiology is routinely dismissed as woo-woo rather than accepted as actual science) is that, outside of a few locations/ points in time, ghosts are incredibly rare.

My take is that the different dimensions all kind of sit on top of each other, and that the barriers separating those dimensions only get thin enough to allow incursions under certain conditions.

In Deathly Weapons the conditions around Earth (whether mystical or simply due to elemental makeup/ rotation/ magnetic field) cause the barrier between the living world and the Ghost Zone to thin from a curtain to a veil; enough that ghostly encounters can be measured at a rate of decades rather than centuries/ millennia. And then on Earth itself there are specific places where the phenomena concentrates to the point that the veil either spontaneously tears with a fair amount of regularity, or grows thin enough to be readily punctured with the appropriate rituals/ technology/ magic. I also like to think that - while the Ghost Zone is fairly amorphous - there is some degree of fixedness, and that most of the post-human ghosts tend to congregate in lairs/ territories around the area(s) where the Zone-Earth barrier is thinnest, which is why the ghosts get weirder and less humanoid/ more unrecognisable the further the crew travel from the Fenton-portal.

When it comes to the rest of the universe, ghosts could theoretically show up anywhere but the chances of the curtain spontaneously tearing are negligibly low - most likely a one-off event. That said, it would be perfectly reasonable to expect that other planets/ locations in the universe could meet similar conditions for their own Ghost Zone connection.

So I guess the answer to “are there Alien Ghosts in Deathly Weapons?” is that it’s not impossible but it’s also unlikely to be from planets in Earth’s immediate galactic system and the planets thatare connected could be so far removed from Earth and connected to such a distant part of the Ghost Zone that they might never encounter each other and possibly wouldn’t recognise the other as originally being from living world if they did.

Some stories that might interest you: JaredBlueRose’s Smallville x Danny Phantom crossover Just Another Meteor Freak includes some worldbuilding around Krypton being connected to the Ghost Zone and known about by the people of the Far Frozen. I feel like Danny Phantom fans in general might have fun with Jonathon Stroud’s Bartimaeus Sequence books. The concepts of seven planes of reality, the spirit/demon denizens of the Other Place and how they and their realm interact with the human world are very DP-ghost-adjacent. Also the de-facto narrator is delightfully snarky. (And, if you want something even closer to home, Stroud also wrote the Lockwood & Co. series about a psychic detection agency in a ghost-infested London.)

That isn’t to say that other alien cultures wouldn’t have their own rituals/ practices/ mythology/ superstitions around death, dying and the afterlife. Mortality is one of the universal experiences, and the questions of where did we come from? why are we here? and what happens after we die? hang over basically every society with enough intelligence and existential awareness to recognise that they have a finite lifespan. I do kind of wonder about Atlantean funeral rites, considering the specific challenges involved in interring or cremating a body several miles below the surface of very cold flesh-preserving saltwater.

However, to be honest, that aspect of culture isn’t really something that’s going to get a lot of attention in Deathly Weapons. YJ:DW is a character-focussed mystery/espionage story with a slightly smaller scope than YJS1 so things are mostly going to be Earth-centric and driven by the main cast. Individual members might have some opinions, but how different alien cultures feel about ghosts as a whole just isn’t going to be super relevant to solving the immediate problems the Team will face. (And most of the relevant characters did their major reacting across Second Impressions and Assessment).

The primary way I want to explore alien cultures here is as character context. Culture shapes character, and a character’s values/ behaviours/ beliefs/ experiences can paint a picture (however incomplete/ distorted) of their home culture, even if we don’t visit that culture directly.

The Team gives us Conner (who isn’t particularly connected to his Kryptonian heritage and is going to be playing somewhat of a support role for most of the main character arc) and technically Kaldur (whose culture canon already gave use a glimpse of, and whose spotlight scenes in Deathly Weapons will be focussing on a more specifically personal experience) but the one I’m most interested in is M’gann. Her personal experience with her home culture was a huge part of her character motivation/ behaviour in Season 1, it didn't get a lot of elaboration and I want to see if I can potentially give my own take on what kind of experience could have led her to be like that.

As for later seasons I'm not sure what you mean, since - far as I know - the show wasn't properly continued after the primary directors left? I think the producers and a couple of the writers tried to sell some X-years-later stories as sequels but since the lead showrunner turned out to be a disingenuous queerphobic incel (and his co-creator an inexperienced adaptation-fanboy) those entries kind of fell apart into insultingly threadbare grimdark cynicism that simultaneously tried to be every DC story at once while also trying to both out-clever and exploit nostalgia for the original season, and ended up completely gutting the themes, stakes, characterisation and relationships while wasting the few compelling characters and concepts they introduced.

Anyway, there are a few things that specifically interest me about M’gann:

First is that she doesn’t express any indications of her culture - no phrases, no gestures, no observed practices, no instances hinting at it. And yes, some of that is her leaning into the “Megan Wheeler” persona but that façade never slips, even in the period where she’s lost her memory.

M’gann also doesn’t volunteer information about Mars very much and even more rarely does it come with a specific personal opinion attached (and again, because she spends a large part of the season acting it’s hard to distinguish when she’s offering her own opinion vs the one she thinks a Green Martian would express). She never volunteers any specific personal experiences - even ones that would be mundane, positive or otherwise non-incriminating - unless pushed, and even then she keeps it brief (the only time that she elaborates unprompted in the S1 companion comics, it’s to lie about her false backstory as a Green-born Martian who won her protégéship via contest).

It’s also noteworthy that M’gann never talks about her family or any Martian friends, and is never show to express any regret/worry/speculation about how they’re doing back on Mars. The only exception is that one passing titbit about having 12 sisters (and even then it’s potentially telling that it’s a quick afterthought at the end of a more sincere-sounding statement that “I always wanted a sister”). Again, she never volunteers information or visibly reacts to the topic of family, even when witnessing/speaking to/consoling other characters who are dealing with family issues. Then there’s her actual backstory - that she stowed away off-planet on the ship of an uncle she barely knew, seeming without telling anyone or saying goodbye, and that we never see evidence of her attempting to communicate with anyone back home after she arrives on Earth.

And then there’s the two things we’re directly told about White Martians: that they’re treated as second-class citizens, and that the primary experience driving M’gann’s attempts to hide her status and terror around being ‘clocked’ was not one of direct violence or active punishment but of constant rejection.

To me, this all speaks to the possibility that M’gann already felt unusually disconnected/separated from her home culture, even compared to other White Martians. (I know it’s tonally a very different show but contrast the 2004 Teen Titan’s cartoon, where the influence of Tamaran and Azarath pervades Starfire and Raven’s visual aesthetics, powers, personalities and day-to-day behaviour). It also suggests that M’gann didn’t have many close personal connections, even within her own family - or at least no-one she felt was worth staying for or who she worried would notice/ significantly miss her when she was gone. (That isn’t to say that her family was necessarily abusive or actively neglectful. Plenty of people can feel like “the Black Sheep” simply because their passions/interests/aspirations don’t align to the rest of their family, or feel overlooked due to their position as a child in a big family or in a family with other more “difficult”/“successful” siblings.) It seems like she might have latched on to Hello Megan! as a source of comfort/escapism from a consistent feeling of loneliness/ostracization in her everyday life, and that this might have influenced her decision to leave her culture behind entirely for a new life on Earth.

Whatever the case, M’gann’s behaviour in Season 1 seems to suggest an experience of feeling very alone even in places where others like her might have found connection, and that’s more the line I'd like to run with during her character spotlights in Deathly Weapons.

So, yeah. There we have it. Hope you’ll come along to see.

In the meantime, I’ll leave you with this:

A small thought I wonder how Martians would react to Human stage magic? So many of our sleight-of-hand tricks and illusions - moving things without touching them, passing through objects, changing the appearance of items - are things that come naturally to Martians as part of their telepathy, telekinesis, shape-shifting, density-shifting and mind-reactive bio-materials. Would they even immediately register most of what’s happening as unusual/impressive by human standards?

Thanks for stopping by! 💜

#young justice: deathly weapons #young justice #danny phantom #YJ x DP #DP x DC #submission #mindforgedmanacle #3WD answers #this got kind of rambly and tangential but I hope it answers your question #sidenote but:#something me and some discord buddies found funny to think about #is that if you look at it from the right angle #S1!M'gann is kind of the Martian equivalent of a Weeb/Otaku #she's *really* into a show from another culture #to the point that she eventually decides to move to that culture and live there permanently #and initially she the way choses to interact with that culture is by basically LARPing a cosplay of her favourite character #it's pretty cute #but also might explain why she had difficulty fitting in on Mars #that's a pretty niche interest/ potential hyperfixation #especially if she's being rejected from most of the communities around it due to being a minority #m'gann m'orzz #miss martian #obligatory tags because of that little aside:#Young Justice Critical #Greg Weisman critical #sodium levels spiked for a paragraph there #anyway #there are no future seasons in ba sing se

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infinitewarden · 3 years

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Osiris & OCD

I’ve had this post on my mind for a while but I never got around to sitting down and writing it. So here we are.

Osiris has OCD.

Yes, you read that right. Osiris has OCD and I’ll be going into depth here why he can be read that way.

To start off I would like to clarify what, exactly, OCD is since there are many misconceptions about it perpetuated by pop culture. OCD is different for everyone who has it, at least the way the symptoms present themselves. It’s not entirely about “ew yuck I hate germs.”

OCD is a long-lasting disorder in which a person has uncontrollable, reoccurring thoughts (obsessions) and/or behaviors (compulsions) that they feel the urge to repeat over and over.

Obsessions are repeated thoughts, urges, or mental images that cause anxiety. Compulsions are repetitive behaviors that a person with OCD feels the urge to do in response to an obsessive thought.

Not all rituals or habits are compulsions. Everyone double checks things sometimes. But a person with OCD generally:

Can't control their thoughts or behaviors, even when those thoughts or behaviors are recognized as excessive

Spends at least 1 hour a day on these thoughts or behaviors

Doesn’t get pleasure when performing the behaviors or rituals, but may feel brief relief from the anxiety the thoughts cause

Experiences significant problems in their daily life due to these thoughts or behaviors.

Source.

Now, with this clarified I can go into detail about how these symptoms present themselves with Osiris. Let’s start with bringing up a couple of instances that stood out to me (as local OCD haver.)

Bodies in the rubble.

Evacuees from the Eastern breach caught in the blast.

Their deaths filled his mind through twenty gilded eyes, capturing the scene in its totality.

Osiris would scour the Northern front in golden Light.

He looked to the shattered wall. Through the gap, mind inutile, overshadowed by the eternal precipice. Crowded with menace. Eyes peering down, seeping over, hungry, waiting to flood this last hope with plunging depth. Even now, as Fallen lines break against the Light, others stand watching from deep starless hollows. If not this, another. The dam will fail, as all do in time.

The Pigeon and the Phoenix. 9: Thin

Osiris is absent; preoccupied with insatiable predilections that drive him to worry.

The Pigeon and the Phoenix. 11: Breathe

His mind is still taxed from his last visit. He remembers—camouflaged against the rushing atmospheric bands of Jupiter—how he drifted alongside its evergreen moon. He remembers the deep wedge that sunk between the two bodies, dividing them.

The Pyramid before him, lascivious tendrils of wildfire hue flowed from it like a grasping hand across the Cradle. The image as clear as relived trauma. Io had been dwarfed against the black angular pit seated in its atmosphere. His eyes could not leave it then; even now, he feels himself falling into its gravity as they approach again.

“Have you sent it to Saint yet?” Sagira flitters into view. She brings him back to the present, soaring across space.

Immolant Pt. 1

Osiris tenses his jaw in forced silence. He twiddles with code. “I’m worried about what Vance found.”

Saint places a heavy hand on Osiris’s chest. “Let go of your obsession. Do not leave chasing phantoms again.”

“Phantoms… You think the Darkness is satisfied? This is just the first move. I need to know the next before it’s made.”

“If there is something you fear, let me help you. We face this together.”

Osiris’s mind drifts to the Dark anomalies. Saint doesn’t need another burden.

“The safest place for you is the Tower, Saint. Time... tends to renege on its gifts.”

Immolant Pt. 1

So.

Obsessions: Upsetting focus about the dark future he tries to avoid, of the Vex, of the Darkness, and of death.

There is another instance in the Tomb Rider lore where he starts down an “OCD Spiral” of obsessions, starting off with his worry over Mercury. In which Saint promptly shuts him down by grounding (lifting him by the shoulders), and diverting attention (feeding him candy.)

Let’s look at his compulsions.

“He’s dead because of me. I’ve made every precaution. I’ve had my Echoes check against trillions of disaster scenarios.” He turned to look at the fluctuating glow of the exposed chronometric core. “Mercury is the only planet that will be affected. Because that’s where he died.”

The Sundial.

Without thinking, Osiris pulled off his gloves. Freed of the metal gauntlets, his hands looked old. He wrung them together, his fingers worrying at the edges of his ragged nails. "If the Darkness is able to claim Mars… if they take Mercury—"

"Quiet your mouth," commanded Saint-14, and Osiris did.

Saint-14 stood and then moved toward Osiris in two enormous strides. He grasped the Warlock by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. He took Osiris's hand in his own and wordlessly filled it with triangular orange candies.

Osiris obediently placed a few in his mouth and chewed silently.

Tomb Rider.

I see infinity.

An infinity of possible worlds, so perfectly simulated as to be indistinguishable from the experiences I once called "reality." I can touch them, taste them, pass lifetimes in them! They grow within this machine like fruit upon a tree—no, a forest of trees, its fractal expansion nigh unmeasurable.

I said that to Sagira and she replied, "Sounds like a challenge."

This Ghost of mine knows me too well.

It strikes me now that I could find in this Infinite Forest a reality in which Ikora accompanied me into its endless mysteries.

What an awful, destructive machine this is.

I must know everything about it.

Kairos Function (Chest)

Osiris nods, realizing he had no right to demand action. “I apologize. Thank you.” He motions toward the windows’ reinforced glass. “The Traveler’s reforging was a sight to behold.” His words have a faint reverence to them.

Zavala turns away from the Traveler’s pale light, his face dimmed. “Indeed. I wish it was more than just that.”

“These events were beyond us all, Zavala. I should have seen it… I just want to correct my error.”

“I’ll help you where I can, Osiris. Remain in contact, and if it is dire, I will point every gun at whatever fiend you uncover.”

Immolant Pt. 1

Compulsions: Checking and double checking again and again, picking at his nails (picking is another common OCD Thing), learning everything he can about an Upsetting Thing, chasing “loose ends” to correct stuff he considers his fault.

Interestingly enough it seems that both Saint and Sagira are aware of his tendencies and respond to them by either physically grounding him or distracting him. ( “Saint places a heavy hand on Osiris’s chest.” - “Sagira flitters into view. She brings him back to the present, soaring across space.” - “He grasped the Warlock by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. He took Osiris’s hand in his own and wordlessly filled it with triangular orange candies.” - “Sagira darted down as if to dive bomb her chosen, but stopped just short and met him eye to eyes.” )

Let’s also not forget that Ikora, the Speaker, and Saint have described Osiris to be obsessive, and though Osiris denies this it’s hard not to see that he is. Thus… “Obsession” part of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

So there you have it. There’s quite a bit of lore that points towards or at least allows it to be read as him having OCD.

#osiris #theus.exe #lore.exe #i had more sources but i didn't want it to get too cluttered

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squadrablog · 4 years

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Now hear me out: (Non-binary reader x Hot Pants) Reader has a stand that can read people’s souls, sort of like an aura and gets curious about what they see on Hot Pants, extreme guilt (we all know what happened to her brother right?). They follow her around awhile through the race trying to see what up with her and slowly befriends her along the way. Reader also has no combat experience so H.P. has to save them a few times but she still lets them ride along with her because they’re nice.

Finally finished it! I keep it free of most major spoilers for Steel Ball Run. I also decided to make Hot Pants a trans woman as per my wife’s request, and both your and her conception of gender is like... affirmed but also contemporary with the time period and understood through the lens of what would be available in the 19th century.

Hot Pants x Nonbinary Reader

Ao3 Mirror Here.

Words: 8414

Warnings: Really light body horror (just Hot Pants’s Cream Starter), and mild violence + animal death. Light angst.

Under cut for length!

Something happened to you in the desert during that last stage.

You had barely escaped with your life from what you had rationalized was a sinkhole, or a sandstorm, or maybe one of those hallucinations of an oasis people have when they’re on the verge of dehydration, although you hadn’t been tricked into seeing water but rather large arching natural rock formations around a smooth bowl shaped crater. Before the ground swallowed the whole landmass up and buried you in a tomb of sand you managed to guide your horse away from the danger, but not unscathed.

While you and your horse had managed to avoid a terrible death with only minor physical injuries, after you had set up camp you started to realize that something was wrong with you. As you fed the fire you realized despite the growing warmth, your hands were shaking. You were in something of a daze, and you kept seeing things out of the corner of your eye, causing you to jump and yelp and call out to any possible intruders only to hear no answer. You could tell your horse was starting to get a bit jumpy too. Could she sense the strange presence as well?

No, she could not. She was reacting entirely to your stress. You were making her nervous... concerned for you, even? Yes… concerned. Was that too human an emotion for her to feel? Were you projecting onto her, anthropomorphizing her to cope with your current mental state? You were close to her, sure, and you could pick up on her body language better than anyone. But this feeling you had watching her now was so strange, as if you were looking past those usual outward displays you used to read her and were seeing something else. Almost as if she was whispering to you in a language only you could understand… or you were at least hearing an interpreter whisper for her.

You screamed again when you saw something in the corner of your eye. It was a hand, translucent and only vaguely human, hovering right above your own, but when you turned to look at it, it was gone.

The near-death experience had been pretty traumatizing. You cursed yourself for following after that Gyro man in some attempt to get the edge on the competition; he might have been reckless and unconventional in how he had approached the race so far, but he had the skill to back it up. You weren't bad on a horse by any means, but the rough terrain and constant toughing it in the wilderness was way harder than you had ever imagined, and it was taking its toll on you. From here on out you would take the paths that the majority of the other racers were using and not get tempted by every promise of a shortcut from some eccentric rider playing loose and fast with life and death.

You apologized to your horse for scaring her again before crawling inside your bedroll and covering your head, shutting your eyes tight, willing yourself to sleep and leave these phantoms behind with the night. Come morning you’d be better.

And come morning, you were better.

For a while.

When you were riding with your horse alone in the wilderness, finally comfortable in the safety that the main course provided, you felt ecstatic. You loved horse riding of course, you wouldn’t be doing this otherwise, but something was different today. You and your horse were in perfect sync and you swore you felt as energetic and driven as if you were her yourself. If this was going to be the tone for the rest of the race then you’d have no problem leaving your waking desert nightmare long behind you.

When you saw the checkpoint in the distance you became even more excited, rushing ahead with all the energy your horse had been saving up for this point. You probably weren’t first but you were absolutely giddy at the thought of crossing another checkpoint. The closer you got, the more excited you were, until you realized something definitely felt off about everything.

Your excitement was starting to make you jittery. Frantic, even. The closer you got to the crowds of people cheering at the top of their lungs the shakier your breathing got. You didn’t have a problem with the crowds before the race, so why now?

Your horse of course picked up on your stress and you felt it magnified back towards you worse than before. You weren’t sure what was worse, the joyful excitement that threatened to drown you, or the anxiety feedback loop between you and your companion.

When you crossed the finish line you didn’t even listen for the announcer to try to figure out what place you were in. You dismounted your horse, tied her to a hitching post, and stumbled as best as you could towards the food and water table set up for competitors. All you needed was some cold water to ground you, that’s all. Maybe you were still shaken up from last night and it had just chosen a bad time to boil back up to the surface.

You practically fell over, stepping back suddenly, when another hand that wasn’t yours extended from your own to grab at a cup of water you were reaching for. It was the ghost hand from last night, only this time it didn’t disappear. To your horror it actually grew out of you until it was an entire creature, humanoid in shape but alien in appearance.

You looked around frantically at everyone in your vicinity, but all they did was raise their eyebrows at you in confusion, looking at you like you were out of your mind. Could no one else see it? You could only faint from the shock.

---

When you woke up you were in a medical tent, but you felt no relief when upon scanning the room for any staff members you once again met the gaze of the ghost that had put you here to begin with.

“What are you!? What do you want with me?” you demanded, only to receive no reply.

“So you do have one,” an intimidating voice called out behind you. Your head snapped back and you saw an androgynous stranger dressed in hot pink sitting in one of the chairs by the tent’s entrance, staring at you with an apathetic expression. The words seemed less directed at you and more just the stranger musing out loud.

Despite what must have been a conscious attempt from the stranger to disguise any secondary sex characterisitics, you knew right away she was a woman. You knew it before your eyes had even adjusted to get a good look at her. You suddenly knew a lot of things about her that you had idea how you knew. Her face was entirely unreadable and gave nothing away, but it didn’t need to.

This woman was a cosmos of warring emotions that threatened to rip her apart from the inside. How could she sit there and look so calm when she was currently drowning, burning, and crumbling before your very eyes? Shame, fear, despair, grief, an ocean during a storm.

You had many questions fighting in your mind for permission to be asked first. Who was she? Could she see the ghost? Did she know what it was?

“Are you… are you okay?” you sputtered out instead. Her overwhelming aura had won out against all your curiosity.

She raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

You couldn’t articulate why you had asked her that unprompted, but there was no way you were just projecting emotions this time like you had with your horse. These were human emotions from a human woman that were attacking your human mind. You clutched your head and winced in pain.

“What’s happening to me?” you choked out, the beginning of sobs starting to form in your throat. “What are you doing to me?”

The ghost that had been watching you with curiosity this whole time floated up to you, placing its hand on your shoulder. Your instinct was to flinch, but now something else was overwhelming all your senses. You didn’t notice at first, but this ghost had a mirror where its face should be, and now that you were staring at it you could only see yourself. Then there was a gentle calm, a bright light snatching away your vision, and a sudden realization.

This thing was you.

Although you were spared the continued assault of the stranger’s emotions, your now exhausted body drifted off once again.

When you woke up again it seemed as if not too much time had passed, as the announcer’s voice could still be heard calling out race results in the distance and the lighting in the tent hadn’t changed much. You sat up again and glanced around. The ghost was gone, and so was the woman. It hadn’t been a dream, had it?

Well, if there were no nurses available to check up on you before heading out you supposed you’d make your leave. As you popped out of your own tent and glanced into the others you passed by you supposed you could understand. While you had fainted most of the other people needing medical attention had some pretty nasty injuries from the race. After finally leaving the medical tents behind you saw a familiar (and very much not a figment of your imagination) pink figure in the distance, preparing to mount her horse.

She wasn’t getting away that easily! You ran to intercept her, unsure of what to call to get her attention, settling on just, “Hey! You!”

She turned towards you as you approached, and without a change of expression she went back to readying her horse. “You’re awake,” she stated, matter of factly.

“You left before I could talk to you!” you wheezed out, catching your breath. “You didn’t explain anything!”

“I don’t have anything to explain,” she replied flatly, still not turning to look at you as she untied her horse from the hitching post. “But if you have something to ask I suggest you ask it now.”

“But you were waiting for me to wake up! And you know about the ghost that I saw, right? And… when I looked at you before everything got all… weird and dark…? But it’s not like that anymore! Did you fix me?”

“I saw you out in the desert,” she replied, ignoring your questions. “You found the same rock formations I did, didn’t you? No one else could see the thing you call a ‘ghost’ except for me. I thought you’d have answers, but you don’t know anything, so I saw no point to sticking around,” she explained before climbing up onto her horse.

“Wait, don’t go!” you called after her, but her horse was already trotting off. You looked around for the hitching post with your own horse and quickly got to work mounting her before trying to catch up with the mysterious woman. You pulled up beside her and gave her a big frown, but she didn’t even look over at you. “Please, I have no idea what’s happening!”

“I answered all your questions, didn’t I?” she asked, increasing her horse’s pace while you pulled ahead to match it. She didn’t, not even a little bit, but it seemed like she might be in the same boat as you. Didn’t she want to figure out what was going on? How could she be so disinterested?

“Are you being serious right now?”

“I’m always serious,” she said, finally sparing a scathing glance in your direction. Approaching the border of the town where streets finally made way to an open dirt path, her horse started up a reasonably well paced running speed, leaving you behind in a cloud of dust. She really wasted no time cooling down between stages before getting right back in there, did she?

Fine then, you’d keep pace. You’d follow her across this entire damn continent if you had to in order to get an explanation you were satisfied with.

At first you didn’t try to continue your conversation since most of your energy was placed on just trying to catch up and stay caught up. While the overwhelming anxiety you had felt in the presence of the crowded city streets had faded to background noise, distancing yourself even further was still a huge relief. Whatever your ‘ghost’ had done to you before you passed out the second time, it seemed to make the influx of emotions ebb to a steady trickle. You also felt like you had a bit more control of what you took in now, focusing your new ‘ability’ at your horse and shutting everything else out.

Whatever was going on with you at least it was making you a better competitor, more in tune with your horse than you ever had been. You were starting to realize you’d need any advantage you could get if this was only a starting pace for the woman. Once your horse got comfortable staying in line with her horse and you felt confident she wasn’t going to try to pull ahead again you called out to her.

“Who are you?” you asked. A reasonable question that could perhaps break the ice. When she didn’t answer you told her your name instead. Nothing. You glanced over and noticed the brand on her horse that read: “HP? Are those your initials?” Again, silence.

You had something you could use to get her attention, although you hadn’t wanted to start with it. Still, it was something about her that made you very curious. She was clearly trying to disguise the fact that she was a woman from other competitors, and while there were plenty of viable reasons a woman would want to do that, and she might not react well to being found out, you had to know if her reasons were similar to yours.

You wore clothing that disguised aspects of your figure and facial features, in addition to a wide brimmed hat, bulky scarf, and gloved hands. A lot of people assumed you were a man by default, but others sometimes projected different traits onto you. Truth is that you’d rather keep it a mystery, leave everyone guessing. You never felt like you fit into either the world of men or of women, but you had never met another person who felt the same way as you.

While you knew this stranger was definitely a woman, could the fact she disguised herself mean she understood too? Or was it for her safety?

“You’re a woman, right?” you asked, a bit awkwardly. You immediately regretted it when although it had the desired effect of getting her attention she now turned towards you with a glare.

“What makes you think that?” she asked, controlling her expression back to its neutral unreadable state, turning back to look ahead.

“The ghost told me so,” you said. “But you don’t want people to know.”

“It would be inconvenient, but I don’t really care what anyone thinks of me. I can’t be blackmailed,” she responded, a bit of gruff annoyance seeping into her voice. “What about you? Are you not also attempting to hide your identity with the way you’re dressed? I’ll warn you now, if you’re an outlaw I won’t hesitate to knock you off that horse and hang you.”

“Oh my God, what?” you yelled at her, taken aback. “No! I just… don’t want people looking at me, is all!”

“I’ve noticed,” she replied. “Which is why I wasn’t expecting you to follow after me.” Had she been keeping an eye on you? Noticing your withdrawn and secretive nature? You did rank decently in the first race, so it would make sense if she did some snooping on her competitors. “But here you are, after I’ve already told you I have nothing for you.”

“But... you have a ghost too, right?” you prompted. Even if she seemed to think comparing notes wasn’t worthwhile, you had to disagree. And now that you had her talking maybe you could get some answers.

“No,” she said. “But I have this.” She pulled out what looked like a… lighter, perhaps? The handle of a gun? She did take it from her holster. “It appeared after I encountered that place in the desert. It’s called Cream Starter.”

“What is it?”

“A weapon. It lets me melt flesh.”

That was a scary thought. You hadn’t done anything like that yet. “And it’s called Cream Starter? How do you know? Is that just what you named it?”

“No,” she responded, holstering it again. “I just know.”

Did your ghost have a name too? You thought about how you’d like to get another look at it since it had not reappeared yet, but simply thinking that made it materialize into existence next to you. You flinched a little, but this time you were able to keep your fear under control. You didn’t want to scare your horse again.

You gave it a quick glance, not wanting to distract yourself from the road ahead of you. It still had that same mirror face and you noticed what looked like a rotary phone embedded into its chest. Without understanding why you knew, you knew.

“Mine is called Kiss Me Through The Phone,” you said out loud, not necessarily at her. You weren’t expecting a reply to that. You sent the ghost away and spoke again to her. “I don’t exactly understand what it does, but it lets me… tell what people are like. Who they are and how they’re feeling.” You weren’t sure if she gave a grunt in reply or not, but she didn’t say anything else.

The both of you rode in silence for a while as she seemed to have no intention of trying to ditch you, but she didn’t seem happy about you following her either. You could always check to tell exactly how she felt about you riding with her, but you were afraid of feeling that same drowning sensation you felt before you were able to control what got in and what didn’t.

Before you knew it the sun was setting and you finally broke the hours of silence. “There’s an inn up ahead in a small town! Some of the competitors look like they’re stopping there for the night!” You pointed ahead even though she wasn’t looking at you and could probably already see the distant figures of three of the other top ranking competitors heading towards a town in the distance. You recognized them as Gyro, Johnny, and Diego. While Diego had been a favorite to win from the start, the other two were generating their own buzz after their performance.

But your companion did not change course to veer closer to the cliffs leading into town, but stayed on the lower path.

“Wait! The inn is at the top of this hill!” you called, as if it was possible for her to not already know that.

“Don’t let me stop you,” she called back at you, continuing ahead as your horse’s speed faltered a bit. You wanted to rest in a comfortable inn and you had already sworn to yourself that you wouldn’t follow any more shortcuts presented by other riders after what happened in the desert. But you didn’t die in the desert, did you? It was almost as if you were fated to end up there and receive this power. And now you had met someone else caught up in the same situation.

You already knew what type of person she was. She was cold, but not malicious. She was harboring a deep pain within her, something she was able to keep hidden from everyone else but not from you. She was lonely, and you were no stranger to loneliness yourself. You had kept your true self hidden from everyone since the race started, and for some time before it if you were being honest. You were drawn to her, despite the way that your stomach turned every time you imagined the terrible pain that peering into her soul had given you.

But she was the one who had to bear that pain the worst, always. She couldn’t shut it off like you could. If you couldn’t help her fight it, maybe you could at least help her carry it.

---

“Why couldn’t we just sleep at the inn and leave earlier than everyone else? Are we really saving that much time by camping a bit ahead of the others?” you whined. You had been complaining like this for a while as you helped Hot Pants set up camp.

You had finally learned her name was Hot Pants, but knowing HP was indeed an acronym had you playfully calling her that occasionally, her much to her indignation. You also saw her Cream Starter in action briefly as it managed to heal some scrapes on her horse’s legs as if they had never been there. The thick meaty substance was a little gross, but the fact that it had applications outside of use as a weapon made you a little less afraid of it.

“I’m not making you camp with me,” she said in her usual blunt tone. “You chose to follow me.” You knew she was right, but you still grumbled. It took some convincing for her to even let you camp in the same spot as her, but you had offered to share your resources and help her gather firewood.

“Sorry,” you sighed. “I’m just not used to roughing it.”

“I’m not here to take care of you,” Hot Pants said, looking at you firmly. “I won’t wait up for you in the morning, either.”

“Hear you loud and clear HP,” you said, giving her a smile. Despite the outward apathy in her expressions and words, you could be sure her hostility was mostly empty. You did try probing her with your ability just a bit more, focusing on the outer layers of her psyche without diving any deeper than you needed to. At the forefront of her mind, beyond the despair she held deep within, was a fierce determination and a sense of hope that had been overshadowed last time you looked at her soul. Knowing that she had found some distant light to strive for had you a bit relieved for her sake.

Still, as surface level as you tried to keep your readings now, you still felt a bit guilty about seeing her as you had before. It didn’t sit right with you to keep silent about it, and you felt like in the spirit of trying to gain her trust you should be open about it. After the fire was built up to a level where it didn’t need your constant attention you leaned back and decided to bite the bullet.

“HP… about when I first saw you,” you began. You were expecting her to ignore you until you got to your main point since she wasn’t very tolerant of any preamble in your conversations, but this time she did look at you with a raised eyebrow. “With my ability… I saw something really scary inside you, really painful to experience. I don’t know what it means, but I just thought you should know.”

“My soul has strayed too far from God’s light, then?” she said as a question, although with her flat delivery it sounded more like a statement. You were expecting denial of what you saw, or annoyance that you saw it, but you weren’t expecting her to say something like that.

“What? No? It wasn’t like… evil or anything. Just… sad,” you said. You hadn’t wanted to use the word ‘sad’ because it stood in such stark opposition to the unaffected aura she was trying to project, and you didn’t want her to feel insulted.

But she gave a small chuckle, quiet enough to where you almost didn’t hear it. “Just sad,” she repeated, to herself. She looked towards you with a weird kind of curious smile. “Earlier you had also said that my soul is that of a woman, correct?”

“Y-yeah… that’s how I could tell. And, I mean… if you already know it then some of your prettier features start to stick out, more,” you began, your cheeks quickly flushing a bit in embarrassment for admitting you found her attractive. You tried to backpedal. “But if you’re worried about other people finding out-!”

“No,” she said, interrupting you. “I told you already, I don’t care about that. I’m just surprised is all.”

“Surprised?” you asked in a tone of confusion.

She looked at you as if it was the first time she was really taking you in as another person, not just a competitor or obstacle she was sizing up. But before too much vulnerability could show through, she was closed off again. It was silent for a long while and it was clear the conversation was over for her, but you didn’t want to relinquish any of the progress you had made so far so you awkwardly tried to start up the conversation again.

“I’ve just never met someone else who’s tried hiding their gender is all,” you blurted out. You had thought that maybe being vulnerable about your own secret would show her you were trustworthy, but you regretted it soon after you said it. “I mean, whatever you’re doing it for is probably different, but! I was just… I don’t know… curious!”

“Your disguise is for hiding your gender?” she asked, seemingly interested in the conversation again. “It’s effective. I really can’t tell one way or the other.”

You gave an involuntary smile at that. “Th-thanks! Truth is… I don’t really like being seen as anything in particular… ever since I was a kid it always felt weird. I know that probably doesn’t make much sense to you… you probably want to know what I actually am...”

Once again, she was looking at you very closely, her face its usual neutral but far more relaxed and visibly contemplative. “No,” she said again. “It doesn’t concern me.”

While she had tried to say it the same apathetic way she had said it before, as if she really didn’t care to hear any more about your life story, once again reading her revealed a softness to her intentions. It was meant as an affirmation. You gave her a big sheepish grin in response to that, and she let out an annoyed huff before standing up and heading to her bed roll.

She said she wouldn’t wait up for you in the morning, but the next day you could tell that the noisy way she packed up her supplies was intentional.

---

“Those two took my cattle,” Hot Pants said with some uncharacteristic frustration, reaching over to one of the bags on the side of her horse to dig around for something. She pulled out two ropes and began tying them into what you slowly realized was two nooses. “They’ll hang for that.”

“Huh!? Really? I can understand being upset but don’t you think that’s kind of harsh?”

She looked towards you as if she could not possibly understand what your reasoning was. “They’ve broken one of the laws of this land, correct? Is the punishment outlined by your laws not hanging?”

You weren’t familiar with the exact word of the law, but something like that was probably true. Still, the idea that she could be so casual about hanging two men who you hadn’t even investigated yet had you pouting.

It was also interesting to note the way she said “your laws” and the laws of “this land.” She had registered in this race as an American, right? Did her origins have to do with her disguise? Or was she just from the other side of the continent? Maybe you’d ask her about it later. She had been a tad more open with you lately, although she had yet to tell you her “true objective,” which you slowly began to realize through small clues here and there that it was not winning the Steel Ball Run.

As you got closer you saw it was Gyro Zeppeli and Johnny Joestar. “Nice weather for racing, isn’t it?” Hot Pants asked casually as she threw both nooses over a tree branch. “But I’m not here to talk. Can I ask the two of you to dismount so I can hang you properly?”

Gyro furrowed his eyebrows and looked between Hot Pants and you. You just looked at him a bit wide-eyed and awkwardly shrugged your shoulders. You didn’t like the idea any more than he did. Hopefully the three of them could talk things out.

“You’re that Hot Pants guy, aren’t you?” Gyro asked before looking at you and saying the false name you had entered the race under as well.

“The two of you finished an hour before anyone else, what need do you have to kill off the competition like this?” Johnny asked, frustration as well as curiosity laced into his voice. You directed your ghost’s power towards the two men and found no hostile intentions between either of them on a surface level.

“You misunderstand my intentions,” Hot Pants said. “That cattle you slaughtered for its meat was mine. For theft of cattle the punishment is hanging.”

“Hey, HP? I think that we should hear them out…” you said, but it came out a bit more quietly than you were hoping before Gyro was speaking over you.

“Hey, hey, hey, let’s not be hasty. We only took a little bit, but only because the cow was already dead and picked apart by scavengers by the time-” he started, but he was interrupted by Hot Pants jumping off her horse with her spray bottle at the ready. You really wished Hot Pants wasn’t the kind of person to act before talking. She had already started spraying them with her Cream Starter, and while Gyro had reached for what appeared to be a weapon of sorts he was immediately overtaken by the fleshy substance.

“Ah! HP!” you yelled to try to get her attention, but she was paying you no mind, tackling Gyro off his horse and to the ground. Johnny Joestar held his finger out towards her in a gesture reminiscent of aiming a gun, although unlike Gyro he didn’t have a weapon on him, but HP was quickly spraying him as well. Soon the faces of the two men were covered with a thin layer of flesh that blocked all their orifices, causing them to thrash around sightless and unable to breathe.

You probed them a bit deeper to ascertain their guilt, since Hot Pants wasn’t going to listen to reason. As far as you could tell Gyro had been truthful in saying that they had come across the cow already dead, and deeper than that he didn’t seem like a bad person by any means. Certainly not the type of guy who deserved to be hung. Johnny Joestar was a little trickier to get a read on, and while you could tell he too was not necessarily a bad person he did harbor a deep anger and an almost dark level of determination that kind of frightened you a bit. If you could stay off his bad side, you definitely would. Hot Pants wouldn’t listen to them, but you hoped she’d listen to you.

“HP, please! They didn’t kill the cow! Gyro is telling the truth, they really did just find it like that!” you called out to her. She hesitated for a second before crawling off Gyro and calling off her Cream Starter’s attack. Just in time too, it looked like Gyro was about to hit her with that iron ball of his.

“If you say it’s true, then it is,” she said, casting a glance in your direction. “But I won’t apologize to someone who ate meat that legally belonged to me, regardless of how much they took.” She walked casually back over to her horse and remounted it.

“Bastard,” Gyro grumbled under his breath. “Good riddance.”

“Wait!” Johnny said before Hot Pants could move her horse. “Did you get your stand from the Devil’s Palm too?”

“Stand?” you asked.

“Yeah, that’s what they’re called. I got one during the Arizona leg of the race too, out in the desert,” he further explained.

Hot Pants looked thoughtful for a moment, although she remained quiet. You weren’t about to let the opportunity go to waste though, and you pulled out your Through The Phone.

“Is this ghost a stand too?” you asked.

The two men looked a little shocked at first before relaxing. “Probably,” Johnny said. “Looks like mine and some others I’ve seen.”

“There’s others? How many!?”

“I dunno… we’re bound to see more by the time this race is finished, though.”

Hot Pants was looking over her shoulder at you, clearly already content with the amount of information she had received and ready to get going. You were a bit surprised that she was actually waiting for you before going on ahead, but the thought made you happy.

“Well, maybe we’ll run into each other again!” you offered with a friendly wave good-bye. The two men looked at each other with raised eyebrows, confused with your demeanor considering your riding companion had just tried to kill them, but they offered a reluctant farewell as your horse trotted off after her.

After you had put some distance between yourselves and them she muttered out, “We still need to hang the one responsible.”

“I’ll give you some of my food tonight if it would make you feel better,” you offered to placate her.

“It’s not about the food. It’s against the law. If justice doesn’t exist out here, I’ll bring it myself,” she stated. While her convictions seemed almost a little ridiculous to you, you could tell from her aura that she did in fact abide by this black and white sense of righteousness. You hoped for the thief's sake that you two didn’t stumble upon them.

After a while of trotting along on your horses you started to feel like all the trees looked the same. It felt like you were making no progress at all, no matter how long you walked for. Eventually Hot Pants took out her compass and gave a confused huff at whatever she saw on its display. The two of you noticed some familiar figures that you thought you had just left behind drawing closer, and a small log house some ways behind them.

“Well, at least we can trust those two to help us out,” Hot Pants said plainly, pulling up ahead of you. Despite your fear from the current predicament you were in, you couldn’t help but smile a bit. Her choosing to trust those two was an extension of her choosing to trust you. That thought also made you happy.

---

You hadn’t been ready for a gunfight, let alone a stand fight. That man, Ringo Roadagain, didn’t even bother looking at you. You weren’t worth his time, and you could have honestly gotten out unscathed if you had stayed back like Hot Pants told you to. But when he aimed to shoot her you ran to push her out of the way, acting on pure instinct, and you were shot pretty badly in the process. You were out cold after that and by the time you finally came to your senses it was night time.

You sat up quickly, frantically feeling at your shoulder to assess the status of your wound, but you quickly realized that there was nothing there except a faint dull pain. You were on top of your bedroll in front of a campfire, your horse next to Hot Pants’s horse.

“You’re awake,” came a familiar voice, and you turned to see her sitting on a log, watching you, her head leaned on her steepled fingers.

“Did we… get out of there?” you asked, a bit groggy.

“Yes. I healed your wound.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, laying back down on your bed roll.

“You would risk your life to save that of a stranger?” she asked, straight to the point. No ‘you’re welcome’ or ‘how are you feeling’ or even ‘that was a close one’, as her eyes continued to bore into you. “You have no reason to believe I’d do the same for you.”

You gave her a tired smile and chuckled, which only made her eyebrows furrow in annoyance. “You could have left me back there. Even if you just wanted to heal my wounds to be polite… you could have left me behind.”

“You’re clearly trustworthy,” she said, a little too quick, as if to dismiss the idea that it was purely out of the goodness of her heart. “I need allies I can depend on, and your stand will be useful in discerning who stands in the way of my objectives.”

“Hmm… so it’s just because I’m useful? How utilitarian of you,” you said, your smile turning into a smirk. But still, did that mean she was officially inviting you along? Was she no longer going to pretend that you just happened to be in the same places she was in and that you were of ‘no concern’ to her? The mention of her ‘objectives’ also made you think she might let you in on whatever she was really in this race to do.

Hot Pants finally broke eye contact with you. “You’re a good person. And you can keep pace with me.” There she went again, dampening a compliment by following it with another less sentimental, more practical one. She stood up and made sure the now dwindling fire was fully out before she went to her own bedroll, slipping inside it and turning her body so it faced away from you. “Next time do not sacrifice yourself for my sake.”

You just smiled to yourself, getting settled in your own bedroll, which you realized that she must have spread out for you. Your heart fluttered a bit at the deep appreciation and respect noticeably radiating off her.

---

“They got ahold of another corpse part,” Hot Pants said, putting her binoculars down. “Good.” Gyro and Johnny were off far in the distance with a girl who Hot Pants had recognized as Lucy Steel. It seems as if you caught them in the aftermath of some battle, as they were looking pretty beat up, but they had managed to secure the spine. There had been some heavy rainfall earlier, but the sky was finally starting to clear up, which you were glad for.

“Why can’t we just work with them, instead of waiting to steal the parts later?” You already knew why, of course. You’d seen Johnny’s overwhelming desire to obtain the corpse, and you knew he wouldn’t give it up easily, especially not if Hot Pants was unwilling to reveal her true intentions to him. You’d told her as much before, so she didn’t bother answering your question. While you didn’t want to hurt Johnny even you had to admit something like the holiest corpse on the face of the Earth was too precious a thing to belong to any one man. The Vatican collecting it seemed the most reasonable option to you.

“Well… let’s keep moving then,” you said after the figures in the distance were out of sight even with Hot Pants’s binoculars. The two of you continued along, and as usual you were the one trying to lead a conversation. “So, you’re like a high ranking agent of the Vatican, right? Do you go on other missions as big as this one too?”

“The Vatican deploys me as they see fit,” she said, devoid of any of the juicier details you were hoping for. “Before this I performed the duties of a sister in my covenant.”

“You’re a nun?”

“No. The Church felt my skill set made me better suited for an uncloistered life. I did spend years training to become a proper sister with the idea I may one day become a nun, but once the period of my temporary vows elapsed I underwent a different type of training.”

“Secret battle nun training?” you asked with a playful smile. She just stared at you blankly.

“It’s probably for the best, in the end. I don’t think it was God’s will that I continue on as a sister,” she said, her voice lacking its usual conviction. “Although…”

“Hm?”

“It seems it is still God’s will I live my life as a woman,” she said, almost too quiet for you to hear. “As I believe it is also He who brought us together.”

You bit your lip to stifle a giant grin that was appearing on your face, although Hot Pants was not looking in your direction anyway, now lost in her own thoughts. What types of vows did a covert agent of the Vatican have to abide by? Was it wrong that you felt yourself falling for her, little by little? Could she even be with someone like you, someone who lived as neither a man nor a woman?

The more you learned about Hot Pants, though, the more you began to suspect she and you were more alike than you originally had thought, as clearly her relationship to her gender was more complicated than it appeared on the surface. You never asked outright about it; if she wanted you to know she would tell you herself.

There had been a night when in the middle of a round of questioning from you on various aspects of Catholicism the topic of Joan of Arc had come up. Apparently there were ongoing efforts to canonize her as a saint. Joan of Arc was acting under the directions of God when she wore men’s clothes, right? It wasn’t the same at all, but… was it too hard to believe that God’s plan had accounted for your circumstances?

“Well, if that’s true, this God fellow is alright in my book,” you said with a chuckle. She turned back to give you a glare as she usually did whenever you didn’t show God what she felt was the proper amount of reverence, but it was hard taking her seriously when you could read her actual feelings at any given moment.

And for the first time since you met her she seemed content.

---

“HP!” you called out, shaking her awake with one hand, holding a lantern you had quickly lit up with the other. “HP, there’s something in the woods! Our horses ran off!”

She blinked a few times to clear the sleep from her eyes before she heard the same snapping of branches that woke you up. She shot up onto her legs and grabbed Cream Starter from her side, turning towards the noise.

“Enemies?” she muttered.

“Whoever it is, they’re angry, and… hungry? Really simple thoughts. I think it’s an animal,” you murmured, positioning yourself behind her.

Your suspicions were confirmed when a bear lumbered into your lantern’s light, its eyes a bright yellow green as they reflected back eerily at you two in the dark. It stood still for a while, sizing you two up, and you noticed that Hot Pants had noticeably tensed, her hand with her weapon still held uselessly at her side.

Just like that you were transported back to that moment you first met her, before you understood your stand’s power, when you felt the weight of the entire world crushing you from all sides as you sank lower and lower into despair. All the layers between the image Hot Pants projected outwards onto the world and the deep sadness she felt at her core were gone, and you were hit with it all at once before you could guard yourself against it.

“HP!” you yelled, clutching at your head. “HP, please!”

She was breathing heavily as she slowly turned to look at you, her eyes wide and horrified in a way that looked so wrong on her usually calm and collected face. She looked past you at something else, someone else, far away from here. Her mouth hung open with the promise of a silent shout, but the only sound she made was her panting.

“Look out!” you yelled, pushing her out of the way as the bear behind her swung its claw. She fell to the ground with you following after her, your bulky clothes ripped to shreds at your side where blood seeped out from a few of the deeper cuts. Despite the pain your adrenaline allowed you to shoot back up and drag Hot Pants away from the bear as it turned around to follow you with its gaze.

“Hot Pants, please,” you begged, your breathing just as ragged as hers. “My stand isn’t strong enough to hurt it.”

“I’m sorry,” she cried out, tears spilling from her eyes. She wasn’t talking to you, still looking past you. “Lord, I’m sorry… I’m sorry.” She repeated it over and over and when shaking her by the shoulders didn’t snap her out of it you turned around to face the bear again.

You summoned your stand and tried to think of what you knew of bear safety. Were you supposed to play dead? Was it too late if it was already attacking? Did you aim for the nose or did you try to run and not engage? Your stand was only about as strong as an average person’s strength, but you used its arms to hit the bear hard on the nose. That seemed to stun it momentarily, which gave you the opportunity to pick up Hot Pants and drape her over your shoulder as you started running away, the feelings of anger only intensifying behind you.

While Hot Pants dragged her feet initially, eventually she was able to take steps in time with your own, although she still needed your support. “I’m sorry,” she said again, although it sounded a little more grounded this time. “You’re injured.” She sobbed loudly upon finally comprehending the situation at hand. “I told you not to sacrifice yourself for me, I told you to never sacrifice yourself for me...”

“HP, it’s still after us,” you said firmly now that you had her attention. She stopped walking and removed herself from your grip.

“Keep going. I can handle it now,” she said, her voice a shaky imitation of her usual confidence.

“I’m not leaving you!” You knew she was hardly in a state to handle a bear all on her own, and you could still feel all the negativity she exuded like thick gooey tar. You didn’t want to leave her to any self-destructive impulses she may have.

“You have to live,” she said, turning back to you with a weak smile. “That bear is just here for me.”

“It’s a bear!” you shouted indignantly. “It came here for food! It doesn’t know who you are, Hot Pants! If it was a holy messenger of divine wrath I think I’d know!”

“But-” she stuttered. “My sins- I can’t-”

“I told you before,” you said, loud and firm but more gentle than your previous yelling. “Your soul doesn’t have a shred of evil in it.”

She paused for a second before turning back to face the oncoming bear, her Cream Starter raised and poised to attack. “No… not evil,” she quoted with a wavering laugh, “just sad.”

With that she was leaping forward, spraying the bear’s face with a thick layer of her meat spray and taking away any of the senses it had to track either of you. Unable to breathe or see or smell its surroundings, it thrashed wildly in all directions as she continued to spray without end, borrowing flesh from its legs which now wobbled weakly under its weight.

Eventually it collapsed and the heaving of its body as it struggled to find any air finally ceased.

Hot Pants was shaking again as she fell to her knees in front of its corpse, her Cream Starter falling out of her hand. As you tried to calm your own heart still pounding in your chest, you approached her and plopped down next to her on the dirt. She cried for a while, silent this time, as the two of you just looked at it.

“Well, at least this takes care of our food situation for a good few days,” you said at last to break the tension. When you heard her give a small laugh you were glad that you didn’t come across as insensitive. “Although I hear bear meat is pretty gamey.”

Instead of responding she abruptly wrapped her arms around you and squeezed you tight. “You saved me,” she whispered.

You were taken aback, but you slowly brought your arms to wrap around her as well. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one who took it down.”

But the true meaning of her words was not lost on you. Once again your heart was overflowing with the ambience of her inner self, and while she still held an ocean within her it felt as if the storm clouds had finally parted and the waters were steady.

You two finally disentangled and stared at each other in a contemplative and comfortable silence for a long time. She had a sweet smile on her face, and you didn’t need to use your stand to see the way her eyes were sparkling with adoration.

“I won’t leave your side, Hot Pants. I’ll stay with you until this whole thing is over,” you promised, holding up your hand to cup her face. “And I’ll follow you after too, if you’d let me.”

You leaned in slowly, giving her ample space and time to move away, but she only fluttered her eyes shut and leaned in as well. Eventually the two of your lips met in a soft kiss, almost chaste but definitely warm and just a touch desperate. Slowly the two of you backed up again, searching each other’s eyes for some help in deciphering the intimate moment, but it was clear neither of you had regretted it.

She gave you a smirk, a playful twinkle in her eyes. “Whatever you do,” she began, grabbing at the hand on her face to intertwine her fingers with it. “It doesn’t concern me.”

#hot pants #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo imagines #hot pants x reader #jjba reader insert #jjba #my writing #mara-carbonaras

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fabulouschrissi · 5 years

Text

Peter Hale x fem! Reader

Request: “Maybe where she's the one stuck with Peter at the phantom train station, and Peter reacts to the obvious signs of her being in love with him.”

Words: 867

Warnings: English isn’t my first language so I apologize for any mistakes

"Hey, where are we?" You ask the lady that is sitting beside you on a bench.

You do not remember how you got to a train station or why you are there in the first place.

The lady doesn’t seem to remember anything either only that she is waiting for the train.

A businessman sitting next to her and reading the newspaper says that we have been there for at least six hours.

This confuses you even more as you don't remember having waited that long.

As you try to look for someone who works there, a voice comes over the intercom, "The following stops have been canceled..."

Suddenly everyone gets up from their seats and head for the tunnel.

Wind starts to sweep through the tunnel, the rustling of leaves can be heard with the sound of the Ghost Riders approaching.

The People start to panic and flee, when the Riders tear through the station and knock people down as they're in their way.

Because you were so focused on other people you did not notice a ghost rider approaching you at an enormous speed.

Just when you think it got you, someone grabs you and throws you behind a column with an inhuman force, that knocks the air right out of your lungs.

"Y/N. Are you okay?" A soft voice asks, a voice that you could recognize anywhere.

As you catch your breath again, you see him.

Peter Hale.

The big bad wolf you have a BIG crush on.

You feel blood rush up your cheeks, "Yes, I'm fine. But Peter what are you doing here?"

_____________________________________________________________

A shiver runs down your spine as you sit down on the cold bench, while trying to figure out how to get out of there.

Peter sensing your discomfort, moves closer to you.

A wave of warmth overcomes you as he wraps his jacket around your tiny frame.

The smell of his cologne fills your nose and you have to restrain yourself from inhaling this man's scent too obviously.

His voice breaks through your daydreaming, "Is it better now?" he looks at you softly.

"A lot better. Thank you," You blush, as you are not used to this kind of attention off of him.

His eyes stare at your frame and you can feel your heartbeat picking up, "Are you nervous?"

"Wh- What? I am not." You say and look anywhere but his eyes, where you usually could find yourself drowning in.

Peter grins to himself, he always had a feeling that you liked him, but he was never so confident in his believe, since he did not think that he deserves to be with you.

You are so different in contrast to him.

A kind and gentle woman, who never had a prejudice towards him because of his past mistakes and saw him for the man he is now, the man that you met.

Peter looks back at you, "Could it be because you like me? I mean you are always blushing when you're in my presence, not to mention that you are the only one who would ever talk to me." His eyes soften more, "The only one who calls me to pack meetings when the others intentionally leave me out."

"And.."

He pauses for a second and looks down,

...

“I- I often catch you staring at my butt ", he meets my gaze again with a cheeky smile.

"I never looked at your butt!" You quickly argue back.

His smile grows bigger and you realize your mistake.

A big mistake.

You lived years now with the knowledge of the supernatural world and yet,

yet you forgot that they have the ability to hear you lie.

You imagine how it must look from Peters point of view.

You gaping like a fish trying to come up with an excuse that would justify you looking at his butt.

Not to mention the current embarrassment written all over your face, since he figured out your crush on him.

Peter laughs, "You don't have to worry sweetheart, I don't mind actually."

At this you finally gain back your confidence and voice,

"Well good, because I'm sure I won't be stopping anytime soon. And you are right, I do like you Peter. How can I not? You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I mean look at you!"

Now you are the one smirking at him and he is the one blushing at your words.

Oh well, well, well. How the turntables…

But as quickly as you had this sweet moment of a blushing Peter, it was as quickly gone as he composes himself.

His hands reach to either side of your face, to pull your lips to meet his.

You kiss him back, savouring the feeling of his warm and slightly chapped lips against your own, before he pulls back.

Foreheads leaning on each other, he whispers,

"You are mine now. Don't regret it, I am a very possessive man, sweetheart."

"I know and I would risk it anytime"

...

You huff out, "We still need to find a way to get out of here though."

"Now that you mention it. There is a guy staring at us very obviously."

#writing #imagine #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf x reader #peter hale imagine #peter hale #x fem!reader

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txkeyourheart · 4 years

Text

@batteredmettle Liked for a Starter!

He spends more time in Mementos than reality these days. More time in worlds other than his own. It isn’t that he hates his universe, nor has he forsaken it, there is simply nothing binding him there, no one to notice him disappear, and so he disappears.

It’s strange, he thinks, pushing from the Mementos of his world into that which runs beneath another, rarely does Tokyo differ much from his own world, and yet somehow, it feels different, less oppressive. More welcoming simply in the sense that they have never known him and so cannot forget.

Case in point, as he steps from the Metaverse into Reality, there is a soothing way to the feel of this strange foreign-not-foreign place.

Upon exiting the Metaverse, his Phantom Thief’s outfit fades away, giving way to civilian clothing, black jeans, black boots, black blazer worn buttoned up, he is all monochromes, save for the single copper-red lapel pin he wears, a rider wait Fool’s tarot card only slightly larger than his thumb nail.

Immediately, his hands tuck into the pockets of his jeans, head turning left and right as he observes for any abnormalities, but no, it is simply Tokyo. It does not need to be anything more.

He disappears into the crowd, ignored by business people and those on day trips. Quietly, he makes his way towards Inokashira, he comes here often, in his world and in others, funny, leaving his own world just to go to the same old places.

In any case, he makes his way to the lake, swinging himself over the low wooden fence which keeps people from straying too close to the water’s edge and sitting upon it lightly. The breeze that comes over the lake is nice. And it gives him a moment, facing away from the world, to simply look exhausted, to close his eyes, and simply let it pulse through him, to feel like his very soul may drip, aching, from his bones to spatter to the ground and disappear.

Alas, it does not. He reigns himself in again in time to hear approaching footsteps, something he would usually ignore, but something draws him to turn his head.

...

The shock of blonde hair is painfully familiar, but he remains still, he neither attempts to draw attention nor does he attempt to hide. What will be will be, if he is approached, it will be so, if he is ignored, well. He’s come to terms with that truth.

#batteredmettle #!!! yesss

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7deadlycinderellas · 4 years

Text

if the summer of our lives could just come again, ch34

ao3 link

The North

They have been fighting in the north near on a moon when Danaerys recognizes Jamie for who he is.

It’s surreal. Her mind, her memories and her old, ghost memories are all at odds. Kingslayer one says, father killer, another. Viserys’s words echo in her history. The voice in present just says, “keep working, keep clearing the north, get these things off this face of existence, send them back to the earth.”

So they do.

It’s a game of hunt and peck. The huge armies are gone, but small packs of the dead still roam. They have no goal, no command, and they are easy enough to exterminate with dragonfire, but the process seems endless.

And the process is not without its horrors.

The worst of the fighting had occurred where the Ironborn disembarked outside White Harbour. Because of its proximity to Winterfell, many of the dead that had managed to breach the barriers had made their way to the sea.

She hasn’t been able to get word from Theon or Yara and she fears the worst.

Danaerys can’t bear to think of why they were heading towards the water. Even when she’d seen from Rhaegal’s back that they had begun to cross the streams and rivers, she couldn’t imagine them crossing the ocean. Essos would have been completely unprepared.

Danaerys is exhausted, drained. She can’t imagine that there will still be more to come after this.

She approaches Jamie on Rhaegal’s back, and calls out.

“Cerwyn and Torrhen’s Square have both been cleared,” Jamie tells her, “But we still need to sweep east and west.”

“I’ll take the Northwest,” she tells Jamie, “The forests and mountains will be too much for your men on horseback. Get with the survivors of Winterfell and go through the eastern keeps. “

“Be wary of the mountain clans, they do not always take kindly to outsiders and I doubt even the Stark’s could compel them to evacuate,” Jamie warns her, “Bear Island’s there too, and several men from Winterfell have claimed that many refugees were sent there.”

Danaerys winces. Of course, with whatever foresight the north could have had, they would have tried to get their peoples to safety, and she doubts the south would have paid them any mind. Much like she nearly didn’t. She wonders how many of her men who she brought over from Essos, nearly entirely unprepared for this, have perished.

Soaring over the thick forests, hills and valleys of the North, Danaerys wonders how she could have never heard stories as vivid as seeing this land from the air like this.

Jamie presses east, trying to make contact with the scouting parties from Winterfell. His men are as lost in the north as Danaerys is, and they don’t have the advantage of dragons on their side. Drogon and Viserys are keeping closer to Danaerys and can’t be too much help to him.

The east of the north is flatter, and the sunshine makes the fighting easier, but this doesn’t change the fact that little swaths of the dead keep finding their way through the trees.

Fewer and fewer. He can’t wait until they aren’t anymore.

And it’s the same for his men, Jamie has met very few of the army he led north, these are men of the Reach, southerners through and through. As the dead fall, so do they.

They clear the keeps one by one. White Harbour is a graveyard, littered with the fallen of the Iron born and Unsullied. They bury those they can, and take up the survivors. Jamie muses that they must be the most mismatched, hacked together army that history has ever produced.

Oldcastle, Ramsgate, Widow’s Watch. Inland towards Hornwood, and north, to the Dreadfort.

He vaguely remembers something about Ned Stark executing the traitorous Boltons years ago, but he has no idea what had been done about their empty holdings.

They meet up with a group that has come from Winterfell, northmen and wildlings alike. At the front, Jamie spies Robb Stark, riding tall with an axe in his remaining hand. Jamie feels his own ache, in a phantom pain.

“We ride north,” he calls out, “The Last Hearth and Karhold still remain.”

When they reach Karhold, there’s a small horde that emerges from the woods and attacks. Jamie steels himself but finds he moves far slower than the rider by his side.

The other rider dispatches the approaching dead with ease, as though they have done it have done it a thousand times. They may have.

Jamie’s hand is still on his sword when he turns to acknowledge the rider. The memories buried in the back of his mind roar to life when his eyes connect with pale blue.

Promises that should have been made, vows he tried his best to follow through, all of them rush through him. His stomach starts turning somersaults, and he finds he can’t control the expression playing out on his face.

Brienne’s mouth opens, and Jamie can’t even imagine what she would say to him, wonders in fact if she would even recognize him, after all not everyone saw the same things, wonders if-

She shouts, “Duck!” but it’s too late. The Other’s arrow of ice comes at him too fast, and pierces him through the eye.

The Neck

Meera sits cross-legged on the edge of the crannog, staring off into the swamp air. The fog has returned, heavy in the morning, and she feels like this has meaning.

Her daughter sits on her lap, her husband having taken a dip into the clear waters around the crannog.

Arra babbles, and sucks on her fingers. She had slept through the night for the first time a few nights prior, frightening her parents when they’d woken before she did. Jyana had smiled and commented that she would start sitting up on her own and maybe even crawling soon.

It makes Meera’s chest tighten, to think that they’d been hiding so long.

“It’s not much,” she whispers over Arra’s head, “And sometimes you have to look deep for the beauty, but it’s home.”

There’s a splash as Bran emerges up through the water and takes a deep breath, before paddling over to where they’re sitting.

Every single day that it had been warm enough Bran had gone in the water. Even on the days when he couldn’t stay in more than five minutes without his lips turning blue. He claimed that with the water cushioning his muscles and joints, he felt more free than he had since before his accident, either of them.

When he’d told her this, she had felt the need to remind him that his pain and disability were never a burden to her.

“Are you ever getting out of there?” Meera teases.

“Nope,” he says, “I’m going to grow gills and fins, and you’ll have to come in here too if you ever want to see me.”

Arra babbles, and Bran laughs in response, before pulling himself out, slowly, onto the crannog. He leans over and pulls Arra into his own lap.

“Maybe I’ll wait until this one can swim in with me.”

Meera turns her face up towards the fog. There’s something different about this morning. It’s something in the way the air feels on her skin, in the way it smells.

Inside the keep, Jojen smells it too, and he knows.

“It’s going to start raining soon,” he tells Shireen, who’s sitting at the table writing.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Is that a vision?’

Jojen chuckles.

“No, just experience.”

His voice quiets, and becomes more serious.

“I did have a vision a few nights ago. It was different though. It didn’t hurt, and I don’t know why.”

Shireen frowns.

“Do you think...maybe it had to do with the big ones all of us had?”

Jojen’s silent. He doesn’t know. They sit in silence until the raindrops begin to drop rhythmically on the metal outside the keep.

“After this is done,” Shireen starts, “I’m going to go back to Winterfell, collect everything I can. The fights, the names of the dead. I’m going to take it all to the Citadel. History deserves to be told by the people who lived it.”

She pauses a bit.

“Come with me,” she says, with uncharacteristic certainty, “Come to the Citadel with me.”

Jojen freezes, and doesn’t respond.

Shireen continues, reaching out to touch his hand, “I know you must have thought about it. I know I have, being able to be in the place in Westeros that so reveres knowledge and learning...”

Shireen drops her hand, and her eyes drop to the wood of the table.

“Though even if I bring things for them to add to their collections, I can’t even know that they’ll give me the time of day.”

Jojen doesn’t respond to her words, but he reaches back up to take her hand again, squeezing. Just when it looks like he might say something, Bran and Meera enter from the side of the keep, soaked in rain, Bran clutching baby Arra.

Shireen raises an eyebrow.

‘Looks like it’s coming down out there.”

Meera nods, squeezing the rain water out of her curls and finding a flannel to dry off the baby and wrap her. At the sound, Sansa emerges from where she had been in their sleeping chamber and joins Jojen and Shireen at the table.

Jojen stares out one of the windows before Meera moves to check and make sure the netting is pinned down so the wind can’t blow it open.

“I feel like the rain is important,” Jojen comments to the others. “There was rain in my dream last night.”

“What did the rain do? Bran asks. He’s seated and rubbing his leg. Sometimes changes in the weather make the bone that was broken so long ago ache.

Jojen shakes his head.

“I don’t really remember. But I think- I think it might be all over.”

That gets everyone’s attention, but no one dares speak.

Finally, it’s Bran who breaks the silence.

“I’ll send Una north, and try to warg the others again. We’ll see.”

It’s been strange trying to keep track of the birds from here. With their wings, they can avoid the dead with ease, and bird eyes are good enough to know when they can land. Bran sometimes wonders, if they hadn’t been able to stem the tide, if the Night King had prevailed, would the birds have kept on. Some birds could eat the dead, and others could see in the night.

With Bran’s mind wandering, he’s suddenly terribly glad they stopped the Night King from getting his hands on Viserion this time.

At least it means they managed to make something easier.

Winterfell

Some nights, the pain from Ned’s wound is enough that he can barely leave the Great Hall. Thankfully, it’s not like his chambers are in any condition to be slept in.

“There’s a wall down on the east side of the Great Keep,” Arya tells him one morning. On the days he can barely move, she’s been keeping him up to date on the state of the repairs.

“How bad?” Ned wants to know. The morning that the first scouting party had gone out, Arya had taken one look at her injured father and known she had to stay at Winterfell. She couldn’t leave him alone.

“Pretty bad, but it’s our first priority. To give shelter to who we still can. We’re using what stone we can salvage, there’s a few masons among us, but it’s not like we can get in any new material shipments yet.”

This is how most of the conversations have gone, as Arya has kept him up to date of the outbuildings that need rebuilding and the fire damage. This is a patch job, and will be until the north can return and begin functioning normally. If it ever does. They’ve done all they can to clear debris, but there seems to be endlessly more, and too much that they have nowhere to dispose.

“Is your husband still here, or did he go out with this scouting mission?”

Arya nods. The first scouting, Gendry had accompanied, leaving her behind to continue with the rebuilding. Upon the party’s return, he had decided his skills were better used here. After complaining quite a lot about the constant riding of course.

“He’s still here. The party’s due back later today, so I can send Robb and Jon to see you too.”

“You should let them rest,” Ned tries to insist, but he knows it won’t work. None of the siblings have spoken about their father’s condition, but it seems they all somehow know.

Arya leaves the Great Hall into the courtyard, and takes in what she can handle to see of her childhood home.

Robb and Jon can barely bring themselves to look too deeply either. Arya offers to take them both to see Ned, but Jon has the dubious honor of getting Jamie Lannister to Maester Luwin.

“Shows up, and the next thing you know, he’s got an arrow sticking from his eye. Mostly the remaining wights aren’t using weapons, he just had spectacularly unlucky timing.”

“Seems poetic honestly,” Arya muses, “He lost his arm before, wonder if maybe he sees this as an upgrade. I’ve been blind before, I think I could adjust.”

Regardless, Jon has to get him among the injured so they can see what to do about his eye.

Jon thought it was good to give Robb time alone with Ned. Functionally, Robb was now Lord of Winterfell, even missing his arm. He led their men through the north to extinguish the threat of the dead, Back at Winterfell, him and Val were leading the rebuilding and many of the men looked to Robb first, before Ned.

Ned hadn’t gotten yet to tell him how proud of him he had become.

“We’ve managed to clear most of the east. The dragon queen is still trying what she can in the west, but the mountains are making it hard,and we have to decide if it’s safe to retrieve the refugees from Bear Island yet.”

Ned took his son’s arm.

“There will be time enough for plans. Rest my son, tomorrow is another day.”

Off on the other end of the Great Hall, Jon deposits Jamie Lannister onto a mat for Maester Luwin to examine. It’s made easier because when Jon and Brienne had helped him from his horse, he had since passed out from the pain.

“The bleeding seems to have stopped, but he’s been in awful pain since.”

Luwin nods.

“Best I can do is give him milk of the poppy for the pain,” his voice thins, “we don’t have much left. Other than that, it’s just hoping that it heals without corruption. There should be someone with him when he wakes up, or he could hurt himself.”

Jon feels a step land behind him. He hadn’t realized Brienne had continued with them past the courtyard.

“I shall stay with him Maester.”

Jon meets her eye, and sees a spark, and a shimmer. He nods to her, clapping her on the shoulder.

“If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the Godswood.”

Somehow, even with all the damage, the Godswood has remained pristine. Stepping over the rubble at the entrance, Jon feels in his soul why Ned had always considered it his place, where he could think and be with his own mind.

He finds Rowan seated at the base of the heart tree, with Ygritte by her side.

“How’s your arm?” he asks, setting down Dark Sister and sitting upon the grass.

“Still getting used to it,” Ygritte tells him

Jon turns his attention to Rowan.

“Is there anything else the weirwoods are speaking of the land?”

Rowan smiles softly.

“They speak of change, but I don’t yet know what that means, whether it is something just for them, for the land, or for us all.”

She stands, and brushes off her limbs. The snow is beginning to melt, but some powder still remains.

“Perhaps more useful images will come to me in my sleep.”

Rowan has begun to rest in the hollow formed underneath the oldest tree in the wood. It bore much resemblance, in a way to the cave far north where they had first met.

Once she had gone, Ygritte asks Jon.

“What is it like out there?”

Jon sighs deeply.

“The dead seem to finally be staying down without stragglers. We’re waiting for Danaerys’s word that the land is safe before we begin recalling the refugees. We may have even to go scouting again, and so much has been destroyed. It will be years, maybe decades even, until the North is more than a shadow of its former self.”

Ygritte nods.

“Some of the Free Folk are talking about helping rebuild, but others want to return to their homes over the wall.”

Jon chews his lip in thought.

“That would be something to bring up with Robb. After his marriage to Val, all the north should be considered one in the same, but somehow I doubt it will go that smoothly. Even if there are only a few of my former brothers still alive among us.“

Will the Night’s Watch even need to still exist? Jon suddenly ponders. There will be no more white walkers, at least as far as the stories go, and if the Wildlings are considered northerners...

“Will there be any more pretty crows in the wild who need to be kept warm?” Ygritte wonders, wrapping her fingertip into one of Jon’s curls. He retaliates by pulling her into his lap.

“I hope not, don’t want you getting any ideas about trading up.”

Though much of the snow has melted, the ground is still frozen underneath Jon’s backside and the air nips at their skin where it is exposed by moving their clothing aside. His cloak spread on the ground eases some of the cold, as does Ygritte’s warm, soft flesh, in his hands, surrounding him and moving above him.

Jon does his best not to linger on the symbolism of the two of them like this, coupling in front of a heart tree, on top of his cloak. But his mind cannot shake the image of the heat from their bodies, being pulled into the earth, softening the winter freeze.

King’s Landing

Winter storms had come to King’s Landing. Rain and sleet and hail poured down at a rate the capital didn’t see any other season. It made life very difficult for many of the smallfolk, some even who might have welcomed a nice, quiet snowfall.

And when that wasn’t enough, there was Tywin Lannister.

While many denizens of Westeros had been wandering since the visions in a state of confusion, or despair, or occasionally elation, Tywin had been consumed with only one emotion. That emotion was rage.

He was hardly the only man in the capital who had seen his own death, but he was the only one that was actively fuming over it, nearly every hour of every day.

The servants felt his wrath the most. The small council members almost as much. And he could only imagine what he would have inflicted on his own grandson if it weren’t for the unfortunate incident that had ended his life prematurely. Again as it would seem.

Because now, Tywin was hand to an infant king, a grieving widow queen, and father of three incredibly difficult and infuriating children. He had some hope that the confusion and grief of the situation might allow him to retain some influence over the Queen Regent. He had no doubt that the rest of the Tyrells would be eager to extend their influence on the crown and the realm, and he must not allow them to gain a foothold.

And one day, during a torrential downpour, reports came to his ears of a dragon flying south.

What a ridiculous story. But still, he tells the guards to be vigilant.

Not that there was anything they could do.

The three beasts enter the skyline of King’s Landing during another downpour, that while it threatened flooding, almost kept down the city’s infamous smell.

What was a hill to a dragon? What were walls? The three bodies skimmed over the Blackwater Rush with nary a thing in their way. The guard’s gathered in the courtyard can do little more than fire arrows that bounce off their scales. Behind the guards, Queen Margaery has ushered the servants and ladies of the court into the bowels of the keep, and has quietly joined the men in the courtyard.

Tywin has dealt with Targaryens before, but he’s not quite sure what to expect when the dragon’s rider dismounts.

It’s not a woman, bedragged by the rain, staring him straight in the eye. The others flank her, one carrying a bundle in it’s claws. She stays under the protective cover of the dragon’s jaws, it’s tongue wiping the raindrops from it’s muzzle. Tywin could order his men to attack, but he knows better.

She looks Tywin up and down.

“The city appears in one piece. That’s more than I can say for the rest of your kingdom. I can see from your garb you are a Lannister, given your age and position, I imagine you must be Tywin.”

“Speak your peace,” Tywin responds, his voice sounding for what may be the first time in his life, uneasy.

“I have brought you evidence of what has been rampaging over the North of Westeros for near on a year. I imagine you must have heard the stories, though I know you did nothing.”

The dragon to the left sets down the bundle on the ground. It’s wrapped in sackcloth and rope. Margaery feels her stomach turn.

“I will thank your son Jamie, however, for the men he was able to provide to the cause-”

Tywin’s face whitens. And here it was, his children, able to cause him strife in any life he lives.

“And the Queen you serve, who felt the need to go around her King’s back to send them. Though, I understand, no one could have expected to find wights upon the land, not outside of nursery tales.”

The bundle on the ground twitches, and Tywin hears one of the men shout. Danaerys steps forward, and pulls the burlap away from the top of the figure, though she does not untie it.

Even far behind the guards, Margaery feels all her plans and schemes for the future of her life begin to melt away. She files mentally through her skills, dismissing them one at a time.

It was never one her grandmother would approve of, but perhaps this time, the best path will be humility.

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #gendrya #jongritte #time travel fix it #fic

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xxyumeno · 5 years

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Name: Lugh Kanji: ラ Alias: Lug or Luat Face Claim: Jack Vessalius Seiyuu: ... Age: Immortal Zodiac: ??? Sex/Gender: M/M Height: 191cm 「6'3"」 Weight: ???kg 「???lb」 Blood Type: Ichor

Servant Info (will update at a later time)

Attribute: Sky or Earth Class: Lancer (can also be summoned as a Saber, Archer, or Rider) Alignment: Lawful Neutral(?) Traits: Diving, Humanoid, King, Male, Pseudo-Servant, Servant, Weak to Enuma Elish Singularity: N/A Likes: ??? Dislikes: Bres, Tuireanna's Sons Talents: Carpentry, Blacksmithing, Warrior, Poet, Harpist, Scientist, Physician, Sorcerer, and Sculptor Cards: Buster, Buster, Quick, Art, Art │ Extra Hits: 4, 4, 2, 3, 3 │ 4

Lore

Lugh (pronounced Loo), is a Celtic (Irish) God of many many many talents (or skills). He is the god of oaths, granting domain over rulers and nobility. A god of justice in many forms, often without mercy. A sun god (as he was worshiped as such) as well as a fierce warrior. Let’s not stop there, he was also known as a god of storms, in particular to thunderstorms. Last, but certainly not least a god of light and god of all arts and crafts.

Despite some of his wholesome roles, Lugh has also been known to be a trickster, willing to lie, steal, and cheat to overcome his opponents. This is quite the contrast to his son Cú Chulainn who is born later in his lore.

“What are his talents?” one may ask, his talents just to name a few are those of a carpenter, a master blacksmith, a warrior, poet, harpist, scientist, physician, sorcerer, and sculptor. He is one who can do all of these. Due to his many talents Lugh is typically associated with the Greek god Hermes/Roman god Mercury and to some degree Apollo through his association with Lugus. Then there the possibility of him also being a triple god comprising of the Gaulish gods Esus, Toutatis, and Taranis.

He associated with the raven, crow, and lynx, and has a magical hound. Aside from this Lugh has several magical weapons as his disposal including an invincible Spear, one of the treasures of the Tuatha Dé Danann. The spear is said to never missed its target (sound familiar?) was called Gae Assail, Areadbhar, or “the Slaughterer” (depending the writing). It said the spear was so bloodthirsty it would often try to fight without its owner. According to other stories would fight anyone wielding it. Due to Lugh being a god known for his many skills he was called many things such as Lugh Lámhfhada (Lugh of the Long Arm), Lleu Llaw Gyffes (Lleu of the Skillful Hand), Samildánach (Skilled in All the Arts), Lonnbeimnech (fierce striker, sword-shouter) or Macnia (boy hero).

Descended from two bloodlines, Lugh is the son of Cian, the son of Dian Ced, healer of the Tuatha Dé Danann and Ethniu, the daughter of King Balor of the dreaded Fomorians. Cian had disguised himself as a Druidess entered Balor’s stronghold, where Eithne (Balor had his daughter locked up for reasons…) lived and seduced her. In time this fruitful relationship between Cian and Eithne produced triplets. Due to a prophecy from a druid that said Balor would be killed by the hands of a grandson. The main reason to why he locked up his daughter to begin with. Practically had her raised in a tower being unaware of men.

In order to avoid the prophecy from coming true Balor gathers the triplets into a blanket and orders them to be drowned in a whirlpool. Lugh is the only to have survive his would be death. As luck would have it the messenger that had carried him and his siblings to their death had unwittenly dropped him in the harbor where he rescued by Biróg. She brings the baby Lugh to her father and the father then gives him to his brother, Gavida the smith, in fosterage.

Gavida is one of many foster parents to Lugh as his foster parents varies depending on different stories: the Irish sea god, Manannán mac Lir; Tailtiu, Queen of the Firbolg; and of course, Gavida, god of the smiths.

When still a young man Lugh had travelled to the Hill of Tara to join the court of King Nuada, the high king of Ireland. Lugh wanted to join the Tuatha Dé Danann in their fight against the Fomorian King Balor. King Balor had been governing the Tuatha dé Dananna unfairly. He wanted to join them despite being half Fomorian. Due to being half of a hated enemy he wasn’t particularly trusted.

One day he arrived at the gate of King Nuada’s palace as a stranger. At first he was denied entrance into the hall, because no one could enter (or were admitted) without being the master of some craft. The gatekeeper doing his job inquired about Lugh’s profession and the conversation between them proceeded as such:

“I am a carpenter,” said the stranger.

The gatekeeper replied that the king already had a skilled carpenter and had no need of another.

“Then tell the king I am a master smith.”

“We already have a smith,” answered the gatekeeper.

“Then I am a warrior, too,” said the stranger.

“We do not need one,” replied the gatekeeper. “The great Ogma is our champion.

”The stranger proposed all possible professions he mastered, even poet, harpist, scientist, physician, sorcerer and sculptor. Each time, he was told that the king Nuada already had such a professional at court.

“Then ask the king,” said the stranger (Lugh) to the gatekeeper, “if he has with him a man of all these crafts at once, for if he has, there is no need for me at Tara…”

With this Lugh had managed to charm his way into the court and into the highest position one could possess in the court of a king: that of the Chief Ollam. This position afforded Lugh much of the same reputation and attributes only afforded to the king.

Lugh would eventually become the salvation (or bring it) for the Tuatha dé Danann. Nuada had put Lugh in charge of the coming war against the Fomorians. With Lugh being determined the Tuatha dé Nuada take an offensive stance rather than a defensive one to approach Fomorians. The war could not proceed when the First Battle of Moytura took place in the Country of Galway against the Firbolg. It was during this battle that Nuada had lost his hand, forcing him to step down as High King, because a kingdom could not be blemished. His replacement was a Bres, a half-Fomorian (or Fomorian-favoring) who ended up delaying the against his kin.

Meanwhile Cian had met his end by the hands of Tuireann, his great foe. The sons of Tuireeann’s, Brain, Iuchar, and Iucharba had hunted down Cian. At the time Cian had transformed into a big. Before the final blow was struck upon his person, Cian had turned back into his human form. This would grant Lugh a right to seek revenge for his father. The sons attempted to bury Cian, but twice the ground spat him back up. They managed to bury him on the third try. It was by chance that Cian came upon his father’s grave. Lugh asked the ground who laid there and replied it was his father’s grave. From there he started to plot his revenge.

Revenge was set into motion when he invited the sons of Tuireann to a grand feast. Unaware of what was about to happen to them a question was asked what they would require if someone murdered their father. Of course, they replied that death was only answer. Surprise surprise, falling into his trap like he thought they would, Lugh revealed he was Cian’s heir and demanded the same justice. Being a god of games, a series of tasks was given and each task was overcome. The last and final task given was an impossible one and Tuireanna pleaded for mercy on his sons, Lugh unfortunately for Tuireanna, would not relent. The final task wounded each of them and Lugh had withheld their magic pigskin that would have healed the wounds. This was how the Tuireann’s sons had died. In his own grief Tuireann died as well giving Lugh the justice and victory over his father’s enemies.

Even though Bres’ was married to Brigid of the Tuatha, the Tuatha dé Danann were enslaved once more. This further injured the already strenuous relationship between the two groups. Bres’ reign lasted for twenty-seven years.

Lugh’s grandfather and uncle crafted a silver hand and then a hand of flesh for Nuada, thus removing his blemish. He then took back the throne from Bres and Bres was than exiled. After Lugh had finished planning for the war he sought the council of the Phantom Queen, the Mórrígan. A Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh then took place.

During the battle Nuada was beheaded by Balor of the Evil Eye, but Lugh had managed to secure their victory in the end. He had killed Balor with a sling-stone and shot him straight in the eye that sank into Balor’s brain and then cut of his head. This incident wrecked chaos among the Fomorian soldiers and fulfilled the prophecy saying that Balor would be killed at his grandson’s hand. Lugh was placed in power and Bres was subjected to teaching the Fomorian enemies the skills of harvest. This was a very menial and insulting task compared to his once all-powerful position.

Lugh became King and reigned over a united Ireland.

Bres was eventually killed in the form of hospitality of receiving three hundred wooden cows filled with poisoned red milk. He didn’t deny the hospitality and drank each pail of milk without hesitation and died.

Eventually Lugh would meet his own end after his wife Buach took Cermait, son of the Dagda, as a lover. Cermait was then killed by Lugh upon discovering this affair. In turn Lugh was drowned in a lake by Cermait’s three sons who had sought their vengeance against him. The lake Lugh was drowned in was named Loch Lugborta. Lugh’s ruled lasted for forty years with his end marking the decline of the Tuatha dé Danann.

In death, Lugh dwelled in Tír na nÓg, at times appearing in the mortal world. Due to this he had sired the Irish war hero of the Ulster Cycle Cú Chulainn with a maiden by the name of Deichtine. He later appeared to his son during the Cattle Raid of Cooley, healing him over three days during battle.

Weapons

Aside from his spear called, Gae Assail, Areadbhar, or “the Slaughterer” depending on text. Lugh also possessed a sling-stone that he used to kill Balor.

Apart from those items, Lugh had affiliations with Manannán mac Lir, God of the Sea, through some of his other instruments. He had a horse forged by Manannán allowing it to pass over land and through the ocean. He was also in possession of Manannán’s sword, “the Answerer” after Manannán’s death. Aside from those mention Lugh has other powerful objects at his disposal.

Notes

Lugh had many wives, including Buí and Nás, daughters of Ruadri, King of Britain, as well as Echtach, Englic, and Rosmerta.

Children: Ibic, Ebliu, and Cú Chulainn (mortal).

Weapons: Gae Assail, Fragarach, and Tathlums

#🕊 ＊ catch all. muses to be learned #🕊 ＊ about. you gotta dance like there's nobody watching #🕊 ＊ about. lugh 「 celtic god of light 」#🕊 ＊ profile. myths &&. legends #( omg; this took way too damn long to write

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oscopelabs · 6 years

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3D, Part 1: James Cameron and the Broken Promise of the Third Wave by Vadim Rizov

[Note: This essay is the first in a two-part series on 3D. Part 2, coming soon, will discuss the unexpected peak of 3D as an artistic form. —ed.]

It’s not fair to say that James Cameron ruined projection standards by pushing for a digital changeover—the industry impetus was already under way—but Avatar left less of an impression as a movie than as technological advocacy, resulting in unintended, still-lingering side effects. Cameron dreamed of 3D cinema arriving, finally, at what he viewed as its overdue narrative fruition; he couldn’t have imagined compromising projection standards or undermining film archiving in the process. This is a two-part essay: The first is a grim recap of the Third Wave of 3D, which has unfolded over the last decade. The second will advocate for a secret classic of 3D cinema at its inadvertently experimental peak.

****

The not-too-reductive standard narrative goes like this: 3D was popularized contemporaneously with widescreen in the ‘50s as half of a two-pronged initiative to lure audiences away from their TV screens by giving the theatrical experience something unavailable at home. By decade’s end, widescreen was normalized; ’60s and ‘70s one-offs excepted, 3D wasn’t. 1980’s Comin’ at Ya! kicked off its second wave, which had a similarly short lifespan. In both runs, 3D failed to transition from passing gimmick to standard filmmaking option, mostly due to the diminishing thrill of seeing things flying at you, but also due to technological flaws that made the results physically difficult to watch. This history’s a bit of an oversimplification: like sound, color, and widescreen (all of which were experimented with long before they became standard options), 3D had test-run incarnations well before its ‘50s boom. Still, this story is largely accurate. So what makes the third wave different?

Cameron’s ideal 3D would be to create totally immersive worlds, refusing to throw objects at viewers the way the first two 3D waves had done. These effects were presumably cheap grabs for attention, while Cameron was focused more on depth rather than breaking the proscenium. In a (troublesomely unattributed) quote from 2009, a collaborator summed up his approach: “There’s a scene early in [Avatar] where something jumps out of the screen. Jim said, `I just did that so that they would know I know how to do it. But then I stopped doing it because that’s not what 3D is; 3D is bringing the audience completely into the environment of the movie.’” Narrative disruption was not on the agenda; Cameron’s films have always followed conventional dramatic arcs, and Avatar has a particularly unchallenging (“archetypal”) story. This meant yoking 3D to digital projection, which would straighten out the format’s numerous problems once and for all by eliminating both the visual eyestrain and eyeline problems of watching 3D, either polarized (the default standard until digital) or in anaglyph (the infamous red-and-blue glasses format that became a stand-in image for the format, despite being relatively rare) and the double potential for error caused by an incompetent projectionist. Cameron had spent years preparing audiences—and, more importantly, the industry—for a digital conversion. In 2005, he, George Lucas, and Peter Jackson appeared at ShoWest, the trade theater convention to boost for 3D and, by association, digital projection. “I’m giving you guys plenty of warning,” Cameron said. “You’ve got two years to get ready.” His timeline was off, the larger idea was not: In 2009, 16,000 screens worldwide were digital-ready. The next year, that had shot up to 36,000.

It’s not clear digital projection is the optimal way to see Avatar; the late 3D advocate Ray Zone saw the film five times in multiple formats in its first run, concluding not only that film-based IMAX 3D (with two 70mm projectors running simultaneously) was the correct way to see the film, but that “One hint that IMAX 3-D 15/70mm was the native 3-D format for Avatar was that the new large platters would only hold two hours and forty minutes of 15/70mm film—the exact running time of the film.” Nonetheless, Avatar’s overwhelming success sped up a slow-moving push to digital conversion, which the industry had been inching towards for some time. George Lucas had some digital screenings of Phantom Menace, but locally, I remember digital first rearing its head at the arthouse—specifically Austin’s long-closed four-screen Dobie Theatre, an independent that had by then been bought by Landmark Theatres. The arthouse chain went in early for digital projectors, a bright future ushered in Windows Media Player 9. (From a press release at the time: “The film is a milestone in digital origination — a genuine work of art that takes full advantage of new technology. Windows Media 9 Series will show it in all its glory.”) “We can hear the techies in the crowd oohing and ahhing already,” The Austin Chronicle’s Marc Savlov wrote. “It'll only be a matter of time before the entire industry goes digital and the notion of scratched and blotchy film and frazzled frame adjustments will seem very quaint indeed. Progress, baby. We live for it.” My first screening in that format was Russian Ark, Alexander Sokruov’s one-take Hermitage film that would have been impossible to realize on celluloid, with its inherent time limits on how long each reel can be. That projection (the Dobie was only one of four US theaters to play it that way in the film’s initial run) made sense: digital in, digital out.

Still, the stakes of first digital conversion were relatively small; Avatar’s success upped digital’s presence significantly while coupling it to 3D. This is the part that’s different: where previous pushes for 3D worked with (extensively) modified versions of existing film hardware, this time the medium’s perfection accelerated the wholesale rethinking of film production and exhibition. Striking and shipping 35mm prints was expensive, as was paying qualified projectionists, and said prints would get beat up; the longer you waited to see a film, odds were the worse it would look. And “qualified” projectionists certainly weren’t the baseline standard by any means: I remember going to see Talk to Her improperly projected in 2002, the frame misaligned so that the bottom of the frame showed as a sliver at the top from start to finish. (Here’s a much more dramatic projection fail story from back in the day; probably everyone has at least one.) As with any new tech rollout, unforeseen problems followed: smaller theaters crowdsourced funds for new projectors or risked going out of business, digital files proved anything but foolproof in practice, a push for digital archiving placed the history of film at risk as new storage formats proved highly unstable relative to well-preserved film. (This last sentence is a heavily compressed version of what David Bordwell tracked at length in his highly recommended “Pandora’s Digital Box” series.) More succinctly, this is the first time 3D introduced a specific ghost in the machine: every time you go to a multiplex to see a movie that looks way too dark, the odds are good someone left the 3D lens on, and no one’s around who can fix it or who would even care to. What started as an attempt to perfect 3D had the inadvertent effect of undoing 2D digital projection standards.

Again, none of this is directly James Cameron’s fault. He’s just the one who helped push through a change faster than it might have been implemented otherwise. Avatar’s blockbuster breakthrough was followed the next year by Alice in Wonderland, which harvested a billion-plus dollars worldwide, making the case that it didn’t matter whether 3D was native or, as in Tim Burton’s film, post-converted. Not a year later, Jeffrey Katzenberg—another 3D booster—was already worried “the bloom was off the rose” because cynical types “thought they could just deliver a kind of low-end crappy version of it, and people wouldn't care, or wouldn't know the difference.” Five years later, Katzenberg was blunter, quoting (intentionally or not) Easy Rider to convey the extent of his disappointment: “we blew it.” 3D’s never had as big a year since 2010: its revenue has declined every year since, and production of 3D films has gone down. The technology stuck, but 3D’s potential as a normative storytelling tool remains once again questionable until further notice.

Setting aside the grim trajectory of 3D’s current wave, which has seen revenue (and audience demand) for the format decrease, it’s worth reflecting on Cameron’s original idea that 3D would add “depth” to the familiar, instead of a better brand of comin-at-ya effects. For years, whenever people would ask which 3D movies I liked, I’d say Yogi Bear. This is (not entirely) a smartass answer: obviously Goodbye to Language would be a better response, but Godard sought to dismantle all 3D’s rules one event shot at a time, and no one will (be able to) follow up on its visual inquiries. Pina made visual sense (the performers are dancing outside, depth is important), Hugo looked neat, and Tron: Legacy was a cool lightshow (though that had more to do with sheer color overload and Daft Punk’s super-loud score as rendered on the biggest speakers theatrically available, and a 3D expert friend swears it has some of the worst use of the medium he’s ever seen); otherwise, my 3D sampling has mostly been review assignments of bad-looking movies. The worst are the post-converted monstrosities. A real low here was the new Pete’s Dragon, which Disney screened in 3D: it looked extremely dark, which was predictable, but worse, a bunch of shots which were clearly shallow-focus, had all been rendered as three to four separate planes of depth, casting blurry background areas in semi-sharp relief, each shot an unintentional diorama. It was sort of possible to tell what the compositional intent was, but impossible to really envision it.

So Yogi Bear is peak 3D. Why not? At a cost of $80 million, Yogi Bear renders a depth-filled Jellystone Park entirely on par with Pandora, with all of the depth and none of the tacky colors. Both movies tell stories, both benefit from depth to spatially reconstruct a largely external environment: the differences are mostly details. In an interview Google will no longer let me find, but which I swear I remember, Cameron said only 19 shots (or thereabouts, let me hedge) in Avatar featured zero CG. These are, I presume, the shots of Jake Sully back on base; to me, they’re easily the most memorable parts of the movie, capturing the full depth of a set (and its metal walls) in a way that’s way more compelling than a fully rendered fake ecosystem . What if Cameron was wrong and 3D is, fundamentally, not just a way to enhance immersiveness but one which, when deployed in the non-CG constructed world, can recode the nuts and bolts of narrative filmmaking visual language itself? In Part II, I’ll look back at the much-derided second wave of ‘80s 3D to make the case that 1983’s Treasure of the Four Crowns, a little-regarded Raiders of the Lost Ark knock-off, is one of the format’s greatest, most progressive and inadvertently suggestive moments.

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