#I would be delighted if anyone could come up with a clever English version that rhymes

[coupleofdays]

A funny rhyme in Swedish I read some years ago:

"Våga vara bisexuell!

Dubbla chanser varje kväll!"

Literal translation into English (sadly without it rhyming):

"Dare to be bisexual!

Double the chances every night!"

[welcometomy20s]

March 31, 2021

.Hololive Quarterly Report

I was trying to write this, then it became painfully too long, so I stopped and I’m going to try a much abbreviated version. I don’t why I’m writing this preamble.

Usada Constructions - Buy

CEO Pekora has come back from the creative crisis in late January, her response to the Akukin relay, Pekoland has been quite the success, and Pekora has hired three new people and taken two into actual production, and there has been talks of two more recruitments. Usada constructions has been the premier revenue maker in the server already and with renewed vigor, Pekora has inadvertently cornered the service industry, with her business associate Moon, making the HoloID mall, and hiring Botan or Menya Botan and Kiara of KFP in the process, and thinking hiring Watame, which has a food delivery service.

Future is looking bright for UsaKen and one should buy the stocks now.

Akukin Constructions - Sell

Akukin has a bright start with the recent hiring spree then the wildly successful AKukin Building Relay... and boasting 25% of the workforce in their wake. But CEO has been hampered with failure of her personal projects, first with her loss in the Mario Kart tournament, and then her failure to get the elusive solo Master in Apex. Perhaps, buoyed by her failure, she’ll return to Minecraft, but for now... there has been minor outing of the employers.

Both Mio and Marine went on Minecraft once after the relay, Marine to push Kanata to make her noteblock machines, and Mio in basically upkeep. Rest of the players have been quiet or have been associated with other people. Roboco have played once of twice, although she didn’t even participated in the relay. Choco has been mostly working as a broker for Flare, who is a contractor for Akukin. Lamy and Nene has been basically doing their own thing, mostly since they haven’t had anything else to do... and that’s it, I believe. Iofi, Mel, and Akirose never returned to Minecraft after the relay.

Well, Shion returned after four months with Rushia as the guide... but seriously, Akukin is all but over unless there is a serious reorganization. Sell them!

Shirauni-Elite Conglomerate - Buy

This is outside of current consensus, but it makes for me because it fits the current state of things. Miko and Flare first found their calling by basically gaslighting Kanata into operating a school. They have sense collaborated many times, Flare being part of the four heavenly kings and expanding their partnership in the urban environment, more specifically in Los Santos.

Flare’s turn in Minecraft basically leads me to reassess Flare’s strengths. Flare was kind of the straight man of the 3rd Gen, but she has shown that she could be as wild and unpredictable as the rest of the Hololive Fantasy. Flare eventually roped Polka into an apprenticeship, and Polka’s ability to pop into the most unexpected direction really helped with Flare’s stream as well.

Flare is having the time of her life, and her lover Noel has finally turn the tide on her devastating decline due to the great ASMR purge in early 2020, by embracing the English duolingo... finally passing up people, after falling so far.

Yeah, you should buy here. Although Miko’s recent pause is little worrisome...

Oozora Constructions - Hold

Subaru has been doing a lot of work... her biggest strength has been her free talks, she is a great storyteller, but that’s obviously hampered by language, which is why Subaru made the difficult move of having English summary in her topics, which is a great improvement for her... but her collabs have been on fire, and I mean Oozora Police was just amazing, with good timing as well.

Apparently Subaru has a new costumes, collabs, and original songs coming up in the next quarter, so Subaru is going to surpass already high expectation made during this quarter. As for her company though... well, Subaru has been a... lone duck in the situation. (Sorry for the pun)

Famously outcasted as Kanata and Marine were chatting up with Moona and Reine, Subaru has been lonely for quite sometime. Subaru has been working an actual commission from Korone, although Korone is most inconsiderate Hololive member (as evidenced by two consecutive Kuukiyomi tests), which is a bad sign. Rushia has been working well, both independently and with Subaru... now Luna... that’s the cinch of the situation at this moment.

I’ll talk about Luna later, but overall Oozora has its strength and weakness perfectly balanced. It’s a hold for me, although it can be a buy quickly...

Haachama Constructions - Buy

Haachama started off kind of lost. She recently moved back to Japan, and she didn’t really knew what direction to go off on... apparently a horror unfiction was her choice. It is a great unfiction, in all its spirit, the meta-component worked perfectly, the improvisational and interactivity was unparalleled, it is astounding that this a one-woman production, since even a dedicated team might not pull off this feat, taking images made minutes before the stream is due and incorporating them into the story flawlessly.

Akai Haato always impressed me, but this arc showcased that to everyone. And her future seems to be bright as she starts working on Season 2. Just buy!

OkaKoro Constructions - Hold

Both Okayu and Korone has been steady in their output, minimal collabs and continuing their series of old games. Korone has been particularly clever in her selection of games. Everyone playing Undertale, why not play the game that inspired the whole thing, Earthbound? People are playing Dragon Quest? Well, how about a classic version, Dragon Quest 3, instead of 11S?

But other than that, there wasn’t much going on... then the OkaKore anniversary concert happened, and I realized they still have so much progress. One commenter said how Bloom was a failure because there wasn’t any idols in that list, namely Watame, Okayu and Korone, and I started to agree.

But that’s just one performance, we don’t know if this would be foundation for something better. So let’s hold on the papers for now.

Kureiji Constructions - Hold

There’s always a bit of anxiety when one is lauded as the next new star, least to me, I was always anxious about Ollie’s growth. She could be great, she has plenty of talent, she’s a massive simp and a social collaborator, but her personality can turn on a dime if not careful. Fortunately, Ollie made good on herself, having one of the more explosive growth and becomes generally accepted as a peer, recently doing a large Mario Kart collab.

It’s still a hold, since I have residual anxiety, but this is a good stable company.

Seiso Pillars - Buy

I never really got the appeal on Sora, until she put on her glasses on. Her movement was so fluid and practiced, you can tell she’s a young lady with ambition, which is contrary to the goddess image. Azki has been making the move that Suisei did in end of 2019, slowly putting herself in the comedic spirit of rest of Hololive, and her Vtuber showcase is freaking phenomenal.

Suisei has been flirting with the pillar in Minecraft, and bring the third of HoloKazo(?) in Los Santos, letting her psychopathic side fully. Suisei used her arbitrary demonitization to her advantage, reinvigorating her streams immensely. I thought about holding, but honestly this is a buy. They are going to get better.

Shirakami Forestry - Hold

Fubuki wanted to finish her cherry tree by spring. Well, that didn’t happen. But Fubuki has been doing okay. Fubuki has made some radical moves this year, firmly associating with Coco. Remember that Fubuki’s explosive growth was due to Chinese fans, and this is true of Aqua as well (which is why Aqua has been more distant lately), so to associate with one of the most hated Vtubers by the ‘West Taiwanese’ is a risk, but one made with the knowledge that her base can be shifted, since this did not impact her growth at all.

So Fubuki is going to be Fubuki, no matter who she associates with. Hold.

Free Agents - ???

Matsuri might be the most valuable free agent, but she’s kind of like a public official, helping to keep stock on the commons, and helping Luna as well. This is why Luna is the kingmaker. Luna has connections with both Subaru and Matsuri, but their connection is either loose or non-associative. She can be convinced, but she could easily refuse... and who knows how that would affect Pekora.

Most people thought Matsuri was going to join UsaKen, and that might still be the case, although Pekora is notoriously uncomfortable of senpais.

Risu is next valued player. After her explosion in the 4th quarter, Risu has been struggling to keep afloat, although Risu seems to be fine with her laggard growth. Her impromptu Nier;Automata streams are always a delight, and her Spring soundboard has been fun as well. Risu also returned to Minecraft for a bit, so she might be on the hunt... she would be a great addition to UsaKen.

Ayame is the third player. Ayame has been inconsistent this quarter, mostly since she streams the least amount out of anyone. Her recent collab with Marine was something though, although that’s going to be paused for a bit.

Anya is the last person, just because she doesn’t have Minecraft and she is the least subscribed member. I think it was surprising how Anya’s stream has been. Instead of doing gatcha and perhaps talking stream, her game selections has been far off the beaten path, more so than Korone and Okayu, and she has been blazing (that’s another pun) her own trail much to her detriment.

I mean she’s fine in the grand scope of things, still very interesting move.

Okay, that was the short version, and even then it’s really long so... yeah.

[theemptyquarto]

Abandoned WIP

Warstan (but John got killed off before the story starts) and purely platonic Sherlock & Mary.  Quite AU... John and Mary get together before Sherlock jumped off of Bart’s.  Maybe a little bit of hinted unrequited Johnlock, I honestly can’t remember if I was going there with this fic.  A “Mary is the new Watson” retelling of “The Adventure of the Empty House,” rated T.  This was written before S3 happened and I fell in love with BBC Mary and she actually made me view BBC John as an interesting character in his own right and I rejiggered my alignments.

I’m going to rant here, just briefly, about how ACD’s Mary Morstan is probably one of the most wronged-by-their-author characters that I can think of, which is why I started writing this fic where she takes the lead.

She appears for the first time in the second-ever (authorially, not chronologically) Sherlock Holmes story, “The Sign of the Four,” and is delightful.  Watson falls hard in love right away and acts like a huge dweeb about her, she’s courageous, clever, and kind.  Maybe without all the panache of the later Irene Adler, but a more traditionally Victorian heroine for our more traditionally Victorian junior protagonist.  Her next appearance, “The Adventure of the Crooked Man,” is significantly more tangential, but she sets the action of the story in play and is shown to be a helpful, kind figure.

And then all of a sudden Conan Doyle ships her off to visit her mother (she was established as an orphan), stops using her at all, and finally kills her off.

Not even on the page.  Between books.  And it’s mentioned so tangentially in two lines of “The Adventure of the Empty House” that you can easily miss it if you aren’t looking for it.

(Incidentally this sort of shit is why ACD fandom can’t agree on how many wives Watson had or who the subject  of his “sad bereavement” is.  The number ranges from 1-13.)

Why, Artie?  Why did you do that?  I mean I get if you want to park Watson back at Baker Street you probably do have to off her but you were a fairly good hack and doing it this way made you give up the opportunity to have some sort of emotional payoff in your stories.  Especially since you later introduce another wife character who is in no way distinct from Mary (a niche component of ACD fandom thinks that Mary didn’t die at all and Watson “abandoning (Holmes) for a wife,” was him and Mary reconciling after an estrangement.)

Anyway.  Don’t create cool characters and then kill them for no good reason.  That’s my point.

_____________

The Empty Flat (Mary)

I had been widowed for three months and was rather surprised at how badly I was doing with it. The snug three-bedroom garden flat in Maida Vale had been the perfect size for a not-quite-young couple planning on children.  Now it seemed vast and empty and utterly, utterly silent.  When I slept, which wasn’t all that much, I did it on the sofa.  Our bed still smelled faintly of his aftershave, and I couldn’t stand either to sleep there or to wash the sheets.  Arthur, the blue point Siamese cat who I had bought into the marriage, would curl up on my feet and awaken me with his yowls in the morning.

To some extent I had been able to occupy my mind with work, and the requirements of my job had kept me more or less a functional adult.  But the summer holidays had begun a week previous, and I was thus thrown entirely on my own resources, which were scant. What family I had left were all back in America, and the friends I had made in England seemed to have melted away since John’s death.  Some days, I thought that this was due to the universal impulse to avoid reminders of mortality.  Other days I decided it was more likely due to the fact that I deleted their emails and declined to answer their phone calls.

The truth, as always, was probably somewhere in the middle.  

Whatever the cause, my life was empty.  I ate when I remembered that I was meant to.  I wore pajamas all day.  I left the flat when I ran out of cat food, and at night I would turn on the tv and stare at it without paying attention until I finally sank into oblivion.

Presumably it was on one of those descents into the maelstrom of crap British late-night TV that I first took note of the murder of Ronald Adair.  The dead man was vaguely familiar to me, though I had never watched any of his shows personally.  He was a scion of one of those impoverished but very old-and-noble families that the English keep on out of sentiment. Showing unusual initiative for one of his class, he’d made a success of himself by appearing on a famous reality show, then on the “celebrity” version of that show, and parlaying that into one of those mysterious but apparently quite lucrative careers that consist mostly of having your picture taken.  

And now, he was dead, shot in the back of the head in his own bedroom on Park Lane.

The story struck me, for some reason.  John, when he’d been alive, used to take four daily papers and half a dozen weeklies, and I had not cancelled them yet.  I plucked a week’s worth out of the recycling where I had tossed them, unread, and scanned through them for articles about the murder.

Ronald Adair had been alone in his bedroom, drinking neat whiskey and updating twitter, when he died.  His last tweet (@JustLukeyA, “LOL C U @ Ibiza”) had been sent at 10:11 in the evening. His personal assistant had heard the sound of breaking glass, broken down the locked door that led into the bedroom, seen his body, and dialed 999 by 10:17.  The bullet had been a large caliber hollow point round that had done severe damage to the back of his skull, and he had most likely died almost instantly.

The entire affair was mysterious.  While the police hadn’t released any real statements, the personal assistant had been the only other person in the house at the time of the shooting, and had been released after questioning.  This would suggest the shot had been fired from outside, but the window in Adair’s bedroom, while open, was on the fourth floor.  There was no evidence to suggest anyone had climbed to the window, meaning that the shot had come from somewhere outside.  

This made no sense at all to the gossip rags.  The window faced directly over Hyde Park, and any level shot would have had to come from over a mile away.  And shooting from ground level would have been impossible: the Park was open, reasonably crowded given the warmth of the summer evening, and no one had heard a thing.  The American embassy was less than two hundred yards away, and even its overblown security hadn’t noted any unusual activity.  Essentially, it was impossible that he could have been shot, and yet there he was.

As I read through the papers, I thought how John would have gone through them at the breakfast table to try and figure out what had happened.  Although his professional interest in solving mysteries had died with Sherlock, he never lost his fascination with the more arcane sorts of crime.  He would have loved this one, and I could imagine the crinkles that would form around his eyes as he would describe the possible motives, mechanisms, and solutions.  It was a Sunday, and I suspected that he would have wheedled me into taking our normal long walk in the direction of the crime scene.  I’d have teased him, said he was morbid, but I’d have gone, and he’d have hypothesized happily for a while.

I could so clearly imagine it, and it made me smile, despite myself.  It had been difficult to like Sherlock Holmes, and very difficult to deal with the fact that their association put John into danger on a regular basis.  Yet, now that they were both gone, I found myself forgiving every thoughtless insult and sleepless lonely night the detective ever gave me, since he had made John so happy.  

Wishing to hang on to my happy memory, I decided, abruptly, to take the walk over to Park Lane myself, just as John and I would have done.  It was past time I actually started doing things again.  I would go and see where Ronald Adair had died, and I would try and solve the mystery, and I would remember John.  Quickly, before I could change my mind, I showered, dressed, and left the flat.

July, in London, is one of the few times of the year when it approaches being warm enough, and it was a beautiful day.  I took the long route around Kensington Park, since a straight shot would have taken me directly past St. Mary’s Hospital, where John had worked - and where his body had been taken. The trees were brilliant green, and it seemed everyone in London was sunbathing or playing football or falling in love around me.

Ronald Adair’s flat was adjacent to the Mariott, in one of the converted brick Georgian edifices that infest all of Park Lane.  I had forgotten to take note of the number, but it was easily identifiable by the flowers and stuffed animals heaped up on the low fence that surrounded it. There were a fair number of gawkers, and by asking, I found which window Adair had been shot through.  I was stumped, for the moment, but thinking logically, decided the best route was to see from where I could have made the shot.  The busy street and the shrubbery borders of the park being ruled out, necessarily, I confined my attention to the sidewalks.  I took pictures on my phone, and paced around, and tried to work out the trigonometry involved.  

Then I stopped.  There were half a dozen locations from which the shot could have come.  It would be the hell of a task: the window was small and high, but if it were dark out and the shooter were aiming into a lit room, it would be possible. I had hunted a lot as a kid, and might have been able to make it with a rifle.  John, who had been an excellent marksman, might have been able to do it with a handgun.  But to do it quickly enough to avoid notice in a busy neighborhood, to do it silently?  That was impossible.

All facts that were undoubtedly obvious to the police.  If John had been with me, it would have been a fun little mathematical exercise.  We’d have followed it with a walk home, dinner at the pub on the end of our street, and making tipsy love in the light of a summer sunset in our flat.  But he wasn’t with me, and he never would be again, and the day would end as all days did, alone with the cat and the television and the dark.  The whole thing was a pointless, futile exercise - a little girl’s attempt to play make-believe.

I knew, suddenly, that I was going to cry.  It happened a lot, and it wasn’t an experience I wanted to share with all London, so I spun around to depart and slammed full-force into a souvenir hawker who had been just behind me.  Grace has always eluded me.  The pole she carried, hung with ballcaps and other tat, fell to the ground, and she gave an indignant Cockney squawk of “Oi! Watch it!”  I bent to retrieve her pole and handed it back to her, mumbling, “Sorry, sorry,” and fled outright into the park, keeping my eyes firmly on the ground.  

Leaving the path, I hurried through the park, not really aware of where I was going as long as it was quieter and emptier.  I reached a dim copse free of children, tourists, and lovers, where I sat down, and let the tears flow.

It’s easy to see why the ancient Egyptians thought that the heart, and not the brain, was the source of love.  True sadness isn’t felt in the head, it’s felt in the chest, and I could feel every choked beat of my heart as I sobbed and gasped and tried to catch my breath for what seemed like ages.  But from a pragmatic point of view, I’m sure I didn’t go for long.  Crying is too tiring to keep up for much time.  Of course, I had come out without any tissues, so I wiped my aching eyes and puffy face on the corner of my cardigan.  

At that moment, the hawker walked into the copse.  

“There you are!” she called out, “Wondered where you’d got to!”

I sighed.  “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry about knocking into you.  It was an accident.  If I’ve damaged anything I will be happy to pay-“

“Na, na, love.  Just a load of rubbish.  Can’t hurt it if it isn’t worth anything to start with.  But I saw your face and thought you might be in some trouble.”  The woman was elderly, with a mop of dyed auburn hair and a thick Docklands accent which I would love to render in text, if it didn’t look so silly.  But her blue eyes were kind, and she handed me a miniature water bottle marked with “Souvenir of Hyde Park.”

“I’m – fine.  I just got a little upset.  Thank you.”  The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of plasticizers, but it soothed my irritated throat.

The woman seemed to take this remark as an invitation, and placing her wares on the grass, sat next to me.  I have lived in London since I was twenty-five years old and I could tell what was coming.  There are two main personality types among the English: the type that is intensely uncomfortable with any sort of emotion, and the type that delights in every possible expression of sentiment and wishes to hear all about it.  They’re like New Yorkers in that respect.

Apparently I had found one of the latter variant.

“You get to see a bit of everything, my line of work,” she said, digging a battered packet of Silk Cut out of her pocket, “Care for one?”

I had officially quit smoking years ago, when I finished my doctorate, and stopped even having the occasional one when I started dating John, since he loathed the things.  Just at that moment, though, it sounded like heaven.  “Yes, thank you.”

She shook two out of the packet, and passed one to me before getting out a transparent plastic lighter.  She lit hers, and then handed over the lighter.  A brief breeze kicked up, and I bowed my head over the tiny flame, trying to make the cigarette catch, as she said, quietly, “Now, Mary, you need to remain calm.”

The cigarette caught, and I took that first delicious, poisonous drag, before the fact that this stranger knew my name really filtered into my mind.  

I looked over, and where the woman had been, sat Sherlock Holmes.

  The Sign of Four (Sherlock)

The art of disguise, as I have often remarked, is in context far more than it is in costume.   Truly approximating the appearance of someone else is only possible from a distance: in ordinary situations major alterations to the face appear theatrical and attract more attention than not.  If, instead, you select a character who would be entirely appropriate in the context in which he appears, you need make only minor changes to your own appearance.  The observer’s mind will then do ninety per cent of your work and you will be de facto invisible.  I intend to write a monograph on the topic when I have the time.

Mary Morstan may have had some subconscious understanding of this.  On the occasion of our first meeting, I observed that she was wearing a carefully calibrated disguise, although I doubt she would have referred to it as such.  Very high heels, but an intentionally prim and boxy suit, severe makeup and hairstyle, heavy-framed glasses.  She introduced herself with a flat, middle-American accent, only slightly sharpened by years of living in London.

Just after she arrived, John walked into the flat, his arms filled with carrier bags of groceries, which he set down with great rapidity in order to shake her hand.  

“Mary Morstan, my associate, John Watson.  Miss Morstan,” I said, “Teaches maths at Westminster School.”

She stared at me when I said that.  John, I noted, didn’t let go of her hand when her attention was distracted.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

I sighed, though in truth I always enjoy it when they ask for the reasoning.  

“You’ve obviously come straight from work, meaning that you work Saturday mornings.  Chalk dust on the right cuff, which is worn in a way that you only ever see with people who spend a great deal of time writing on blackboards.  There are traces of red ink on the heel of your hand and a splotch near the tip of your index finger.  Thus, teacher.”  

As I’d expected, she dropped John’s hand to examine her own.

“You took the tube to get here, and in those shoes you probably didn’t walk far before you boarded at Westminster station: there’s construction digging up the street there and the fresh splashes of yellowish mud on your left stocking are quite distinctive.  Half a dozen schools in that area, but your ensemble suggests older students and moneyed parents. Hence, Westminster School.”

The last was a gloss, as her ensemble suggested nothing of the sort.  It said quite plainly “I teach older boys.”  Her skirt was unfashionably long, her blouse was buttoned up to the neck, and her jacket was boxy in order to conceal her rather large breasts.  Having attended an all-boys senior school, I recognized the style, and the motivation behind it.  But since I was undoubtedly going to receive the ”abrasive” and “show-off” lectures after her departure, I saw no reason to add the “inappropriate” one, and simplified the matter.

“And… maths?”

I sighed again, this time sincerely.  The easy ones are never any fun.

“There’s a graphics calculator in the right pocket of your overcoat.”

At that, she laughed.  Giggled, really.  But almost instantly, she caught herself, cleared her throat, and dropped back into the lower vocal register that she had previously affected.  Everything I could ever have wished to know about Mary Morstan’s character was thus revealed in the first five minutes of our interview.  Nature had given her a respectable brain and deposited it in a body that was small, blonde, and rather fluffy.  Her disguise did a reasonable job of concealing this, but she would spend the rest of her life trying to make people take her seriously.

“That’s amazing,” she said, “I read in your blog, Doctor Watson-“

“John, please,” he interrupted.  Oh dear.

“John.  I read about this kind of analysis but it’s remarkable to see it in real life.”

“Can be a bit creepy if you’re not used to it, though,” John replied, which I thought extremely unfair, given that I had been very polite and not mentioned that her teeth demonstrated her adolescent bulimia or that her fingers and eyebrows strongly implied a mild obsessive-compulsive condition.  I maintained my dignity, and said only,

“Thank you, John.  State your case, Miss Morstan.”

“Right.  Well.   I suppose I have to go back to the beginning.  My father, Thomas Morstan, was English.  I was actually born in Sussex, but when I was two my parents divorced and my mother and I moved back to America. I never got to see him much, growing up, but he always kept in touch, by phone and letters, and then by email when that came around.  Sent birthday gifts and that sort of thing.  Ten years ago I finished grad school, and he offered to buy me a ticket to come and meet him in London.  I hadn’t seen him for several years at that point and I didn’t have a job so, obviously, I said yes.”

“Mmm.  Continue.”

“He’d booked us rooms at the Langham, which I thought was much too expensive for him, but he said it was a treat for my graduation.”

“What was his profession, then?”

“He started off in the Army, but he resigned his commission after the first Gulf War and joined the diplomatic service.”

“As?”

“An attaché.  Just an office job, basically.  Visas and helping distressed tourists and so on.”

“And his rank in the army?”

“Ah, he ended as a Lieutenant Colonel, I believe.

“Go on.”

“I flew to London, expecting him to pick me up at Heathrow, but he wasn’t there.  No answer when I tried to call him.  I took a cab to the Langham and asked if he’d checked in, and he had, but there was no answer when they called up to his room.  Eventually they agreed to open the door – he’d had a heart attack a few years before, and I was getting very upset - and all of his things were in there, but no sign of him.  I never saw him again.”

“Interesting.  Did the police investigate?”  John was patting her shoulder, sympathetically, which seemed excessive given that the death (and yes, it was death, almost certainly) was ten years in the past.  She should have been well beyond it by this point.  But upon closer observation, I could see that he was right: a slight swimminess around the eyes and the set of the jawbone indicating gritted teeth.  Oedipal complex.  She replied, calmly enough.

“Yes.  They didn’t find anything.”

“Of course they didn’t.  They never do.  Did your father have any acquaintances in London?”

“Only one that they could find: a Major Sholto.  He had no idea Dad was even in town.”

“Mmm.  I doubt a disappearance ten years ago would incline you to seek the services of a consulting detective today.  What has changed?”

Morstan cleared her throat and opened the battered leather attache case that had been sitting at her feet.  From a manila folder, she removed a broadsheet page of yellowing newsprint, with a quarter-page sized advertisement in the upper right hand corner circled in red ink.  The paper was the Omaha World-Herald, the date was May 4, 2004, and the advertisement simply stated:

“If Mary Morstan, daughter of Captain Thomas Morstan, will contact the address below, it will be to her advantage” followed by an email address.

“Half a dozen of my friends from high school saw this and forwarded it on to me.”

“And what did you do?”

“I sent them an email.  I said I was Thomas Morstan’s daughter, that I’d relocated to London, and asked what they wanted.”

“Any reply?”

“No.  And when I sent on a follow-up a few days later, it bounced.   It was just Hotmail… could have been anyone.  But then a few days after that, I received this in the mail.”

Reaching back into the attaché case, she pulled out a small pouch made of black jeweler’s felt. Loosening the drawstring, she tipped something small and square into her palm, and passed it over to me.

I could hear John inhale sharply through is teeth as I reached for my lens.  Mary said, wryly, “Yes, that’s pretty much how I felt.  It’s a three carat, blue-white, flawless diamond.  Probably dug up in India, if that’s any help.  It’s worth around $150,000, retail.”

“Unusual cut,” I murmured, looking at the magnified lump of crystallized charcoal, “It’s called the-“

“The old mine cut,” interrupted Mary, “Meaning it was most likely faceted sometime between 1700 and 1900.  I know.  After the police gave it back to me, I had it appraised at Sotheby’s.”

“You went to the police again?”

“I did.”

“Any good?”

“Not really.  They hung onto it a while, but nobody reported any similar gems lost or stolen, and then they gave it back.  Apparently it’s “not illegal to be given things.”  So after that I was on my own.  But I still didn’t feel right about it, so I had the appraisal to see if a real professional could find anything more useful.”

“Well done,” said John, heartily.  He was in a fair way to make an idiot of himself over this woman, although she seemed flattered by the compliment.

“Thank you,” Mary replied, “And then, the thing is, Mr. Holmes, that it didn’t stop with this.  Every year since then, on May 14, I get another one of these in my mail.  I’ve changed addresses and it didn’t make a difference.  Perfectly matched, very expensive diamonds.  I left the rest of them in my safe deposit box: even carrying one of them around makes me edgy.  And then, yesterday, there was this.”

She passed over a letter.  Fine, high linen content paper, no watermark, 10-point… Trebuchet font, printed on an HP laserjet printer. It read, “Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre on Saturday, July 9 at seven o'clock. If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman, and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend.”

There was no signature or address.

“Did you keep the envelope?”

“Yes, here.  And here,” she said, passing over a small heap of padded mailers sealed into plastic zip-topped bags, “Are the envelopes the diamonds came in.”

“Well, you do have the right instincts.  Not much to see here, though… the letter and the last three packages had their labels off the same printer.  The first four were from another.  It stretches credulity to think that there are separate groups doing this so we’ll assume for the moment it was simply a matter of replacing an outdated device.  The mailers can be bought anywhere.  Various London postmarks… thumbprint on this one, Miss Morstan, may I see your right hand please?  Thank you.  Your thumbprint. I’ll put them under the microscope later but I doubt there’ll be that much to learn.”

“And you’ve no idea at all who may have sent these?  No… admirers, things like that?” John asked.

She laughed at that.  “Generally, when men are interested in me they go more for things like asking me to dinner rather than anonymously sending me a million dollars in gems over the course of seven years.  I’m not that unapproachable.”  I rolled my eyes at their stale flirtation, although I don’t believe either of them noticed it.

“But…” she continued, more hesitantly, “Mr. Holmes, do you think that there’s any possibility that these are from my father?”

John was glaring at me, and so instead of saying “Of course not.  He’s been dead for ten years,” replied “I’m afraid it’s very unlikely.”

“I see,” Mary replied, quietly.  She drew a deep breath and continued, “Well, regardless, I had planned to go… unless you can give me a real reason not to.  If whoever it is wants to hurt me it seems like they’ve chosen a really baroque way of going about it.  I mean, they already know where I live so it’s not like there’s much point in avoiding them. And I’m getting sick of this mystery.”

“There are, however, a few points of interest in it.  As you are allowed to bring two friends and John is already planning on accompanying you, I believe I shall join him.”

She darted her gaze back and forth between us, smiling, “Really?  You will?  Both of you?  Oh, thank you, thank you so much! This whole saga has just been so shady and I didn’t know anyone who’d be any help with this kind of thing.  It’s such a weight off my mind. Thank you.”

She was gushing, and her voice had inevitably pitched up again.  I responded calmly with, “Yes, well.  Can you be here by five thirty on Saturday?  And leave us your contact information.”

“Of course!”

And, writing an email address and a phone number on a sheet of scrap paper, she disappeared in a whirl of gratitude.

John rose to escort her to the door.  I remained seated, and began texting.

“That, he said, picking up his carrier bags and taking them into the kitchen, “Was a very attractive woman.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“Really.  I knew you were a human adding machine but I never thought you were actually dead.  Sherlock, it’s an objective fact!  She’s got a beautiful smile.”

“Very short.”

“Oh, come on.  She’s an inch or two shorter than I am.”

While this statement would not actually exclude “short” from consideration, I simply raised my eyebrows and replied, “Women have developed this remarkable technology called shoes which they use when they wish to increase their height, John.  She’s no more than five feet tall.”

“Yes, well, shortness is not a handicap, Sherlock.  And she’s clever.”

“She’s adequate.”

“And brave.  She was going to walk by herself into a threatening situation just because she wanted to find out the truth.”

“So are you.  So am I, for that matter.  I fail to see why it’s so much more meritorious when it’s her doing it.”

“I’m a combat-trained military reservist, and you are England’s only consulting detective.  It’s our job.  She’s a very small maths teacher.”

I set down the mobile and glared at him, “Mary Morstan, John, is in no need of your protection.  This affair of the diamonds is a mere personal intrigue.  She’ll meet with the woman and resolve it without the benefit of your attention.”

He paused from putting the potatoes in the bin and inquired, “It’s a woman sending the diamonds?  You’re sure?”

In general, I don’t admit which of my deductions I’m certain of and which are (very good) guesses.  Maintaining a reputation as infallible isn’t a trivial exercise.  But John had repeatedly earned the truth from me, and so I said, “No, I’m not.  I’m reasonably confident, given the font choice, the computer used, and the wording, that it’s a woman, and a rather melodramatic one.  But there’s more – uncertainty in these things than I would like.”

John chuckled.  “I should take a picture of you right now and call it ‘Sherlock Holmes admitting he might be wrong’.  They’d love to have it down at the Yard.  So why take the case if you don’t think there’s any mystery?”

“Oh, there is one, just not the “why is someone sending me expensive gemstones” one she came in with.  Can you log on to the GRO database and look something up for me?  My email address and password will get you in.”

“Sure,” he said, walking back into the sitting room and picking up his laptop, “What?”

“Deaths.  Start by looking for “Sholto” in late April, early May of 2005.  If that doesn’t bring up anything, look for ex-military, older, in London, same time frame.”

“Right.  What are you going to do?”

I held up my mobile.  “I’ve done it.  I’ve sent a text to brother Mycroft.”

“Why?”

“Watson, when a man leaves a high rank role in the army to become a low-end functionary in the diplomatic service, what does that suggest?”

“Er, PTSD?”

“No. It suggests spy.  I want to find out exactly what Thomas Morstan did for a living.”  

A week after that, Mary Morstan arrived punctually back at Baker Street. She’d replaced the dowdy suit with trousers and a blue blouse cut low in the front, left off her glasses, and undone her severe bun to let her hair hang over her shoulders.  She had chosen flat shoes this time, which was a relief, as it showed the target of all this display was John rather than me.

Six hours after that, I saw that the display had been successful.  I had to physically restrain John from going to her as she was handcuffed and loaded into a black maria for the murder of Barbara Sholto.  As typical of Americans, she was explaining loudly and slowly to the arresting officer that there had been a terrible misunderstanding, clearly expecting this to rectify the situation.  

“John, look,” I said, sotto voce, as I pinned him to the wall of the alley, “If you go over there you’ll only be arrested too.  Athelney Jones has already picked up the entire domestic staff and Theresa Sholto and would be only too happy to increase his bag.  The man’s an idiot, even by the standards of the metropolitan police.  We’ll text Lestrade to let him know, and the worst she’ll have is a few uncomfortable hours, but we need to be on our way if we’re going to actually catch the killer which is the only thing that will do her any good.”

Even that early, I suspected that Mary would not be as swiftly forgotten as the rest of the girlfriends.

Three days later, Mary was a free woman again.   The lost crown jewels of the Russian Tsars, of which she had been offered a one-third share, were scattered along six miles of the bottom of the Thames.  She had accepted this development with equanimity.  As she said to John, “Even if they hadn’t been lost, it’s not like I was expecting to keep them.  I’m sure there’s still some Romanovs somewhere who’d like to have them back.  The whole time Teresa was telling me the story of how she got them I kept thinking “Yeah, this kind of stuff doesn’t happen in real life.””

I heard, while they were falling in love, enough of “The Things Mary Says” to gag a cat.  I heard about Mary’s feelings on politics, the arts, and current events.  I heard about Mary’s emotional turmoil on the discovery that her father was an intelligence agent who had taken the pay of so many competing nations and organizations that even now nobody could say who he had really worked for.  And that was apart from his being a jewel thief.  I heard enough recitations of her personal charm, intelligence, and integrity to gag a dog.

  Not being enamored of her, I was able to observe her far more clearly.  I saw that she omitted to mention during the investigation that she was already in receipt of seven perfectly-matched flawless three carat blue-white diamonds, pulled from a coronet made for some forgotten Tsarina.  I saw no reason to bring it up to anyone, if she had overcome her scruples about receiving stolen property.  I would rather the money have gone to John than to anyone else, and it was clear by that point that it would.

Over the next months, Mary incorporated herself into John’s life, and thus, into mine.  I grew accustomed to the scent of her cosmetics in the flat’s shared w.c. (she was a disgustingly early riser and had usually gone before I woke up), and the sounds of their post-sex conversation from the upstairs bedroom (they kept the actual lovemaking quiet, out of politeness, but the after-chat was quite distinct).  I drew the line, however, at allowing her to tidy the place.  She didn’t understand the system and would have made a hash of it.

Ultimately, just over six months after the day she rang the bell at Baker Street, I found myself ordering a round of tequila shots at the bar of the White Lion and slipping chloral hydrate into three of them.  Earlier, Mary had balanced on tiptoe to kiss my cheek and whisper in my ear “Can you please try not to let them get him too drunk?”  I carried the round back to the table where a flushed and grinning but not yet weaving Watson listened as a dozen of his Army and medical school friends speculated on whether Mary would qualify him as “Four-Continents Watson” or if the actual location of the coitus mattered more than the origin of the lady in question.  I passed the shot glasses around, judging that the administration of three Mickey Finns to three particular members of the party would bring the night to a graceful but early end in about an hour.

I judged, as usual, correctly.  After decanting the three dazed ringleaders into a cab, the party broke up, and John and I made it back to Baker Street with only slightly more difficulty than usual. The stairs did give him some trouble, but ultimately I was able to successfully deposit him on the couch.  I shook two aspirin from the bottle and handed them to him along with a glass of water.  He took both uncomplainingly.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.  For whatever you did back there.  I’d hate to be a mess tomorrow.”

“I looked up the duties of the best man and apparently making sure the groom is present and presentable are tops on the list.”

“And you even agreed to wear a tie!”  This non sequitur amused him, and he chuckled at his own joke for a moment, before sobering (comparatively), and staring around the flat.  “I’m going to miss all this.”

“No, you won’t,” I predicted, climbing the stairs to fetch the blankets off his bed.  

“I will!” he insisted, “I’m happy, really happy, about Mary.  She’s wonnerful.  But I’ll miss this life.  And you.”

“It’s not as though I’ll be dead.  You’ll be ten minutes away.  I’ll be sure to call you whenever I need my cases blogged.”

“I love you, mate, you know that?  Even though you are- just such a prick.”

I smiled and pitched the blankets at his head.  “I do.  Tosser.  Now go to sleep.  You have a busy day ahead of you.”

He was out and snoring, wearing everything but his shoes, five minutes later.  I refilled his water glass and left it on the end table.

At noon the next day I (wearing not only a tie but my entire morning suit) stood at John’s left shoulder and watched Mary Morstan walk down the aisle.  I doubt she saw me: her eyes were fixed on John, who was sober, alert, and in full dress uniform, as requested.  The expression of love and joy on her face obliged me to concede that, at the moment, she was in fact a very attractive woman.  

I don’t think I could have given him up to anyone who loved him even a bit less.

At the reception I gave a speech which everyone said was very interesting, and drank one and a half glasses of inferior Prosecco.  I watched them cut the cake, noting that the new Mrs. Watson was far more comfortable with John’s ceremonial saber than he was.  She’d lost the callosities of the dedicated fencer, but the skill remained.  Then, as Molly Hooper was prowling around with an eye towards dancing and my actual duties were complete, I slipped out of the hall and walked back to Baker Street.

I stopped in at the chemists and bought a packet of cigarettes, then let myself into the flat.  There was a peculiar sensory illusion that it was larger and emptier than normal: nonsense, of course.  John was routinely absent when I was there.  The fact that the absence would now be permanent didn’t alter the actual physical size of the place.

There was always work, and heedless of my dress clothes, I went to it.  Three months later, I “died.”  And three years after that, I returned to a London which seemed larger and emptier than I recalled.  Sensory illusion again.  The softer emotions have a very negative impact upon accurate observation, and the world in general doesn’t change at all when a single person drops out of it. On an individual level, though, a single death can rip the bottom out of everything.  Such was the case with Mary Watson, who I encountered on a bright August day in Park Lane.  She’d lost a stone in weight, which was significant at her height, and was wearing an oversized camel-colored cardigan which I recognized with a pang as being one of Watson’s.  She had, in general, the appearance of a child’s toy where the stuffing had been pulled out.  I approached her, unseen, as her attention was on Ronald Adair’s flat.   When she lost her composure and fled, I hesitated.  Then I followed.  There were two reasons for this.  The first, as always, was John.  I couldn’t envision a situation where he would not have come to the aid of a crying woman.  In the particular case of Mary, he’d have sprinted to it.

As for the second, well…  On the occasion of the case of Neville St. Claire, John had said to me that, “People in trouble come to my wife like birds to a light-house.”

And I truly had nowhere else to go.   Chapter 3: The Death of Ronald Adair (Mary)

In general, I am not a fainter, and I didn’t faint then.  But a grey mist swirled in front of my eyes, and when it subsided I noticed I had dropped the cigarette onto the well-clipped Hyde Park grass.  I picked it up with numb, nerveless fingers.  With my other hand I reached out to Sherlock and pushed on the flesh of his bicep.  He was reassuringly solid.

“So I haven’t gone mad.”

“No.”

“Not dead, then?”

“Yes.”

I took a drag from the Silk Cut and asked, “Does anyone else know besides me?”

“Mycroft.”

“Of course.”

“And Molly Hooper.”

“That bitch!” I exclaimed, before I could stop myself.  I wouldn’t quite have called Molly a friend.  We didn’t see much of one another, but her quiet competence had gotten me through the hellscape of the funeral.  I found it startlingly painful to believe that she had been concealing a secret like this- especially from John.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at me and said, “You’re harsher on her than on Mycroft?”

“There is nothing that I would put past one of the Holmes boys.”

He sighed, and drew on his own cigarette.  The sun dipped below the treetops and set us into shadows.

“Sherlock,” I asked, eventually, “What do you want?”

“I need a gun.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.  Of course you do.”

“Mary, please-“ and he hesitated.  He and I had never been more than “friendly”, and he certainly had never been inclined to ask any favors of me.  

“You’re still in trouble, aren’t you?” I accused.

He hesitated again.

“Yes.”

“Right,” I said, brushing off my pants and rising, “We’ll talk.  Baker Street, or our place?  My place.”

“Baker Street is being watched.”

“Can we take a cab?”

“Probably.”

It was actually very impressive, how he collapsed his face into that of the Cockney souvenir hawker.  He even seemed to lose several inches in height.  The stage lost an excellent actor when he decided to go into detective work.

We walked in silence back to Park Lane, and took a cab (after he’d dismissed the first one that tried to stop).  He sat next to me in silence, until a horrible thought overtook me, and I said, “Oh, God, has anyone told you?  About-“

“Your… bereavement?  Yes.  I was… very sorry to hear of it.”

It was a relief.  It had already happened several times: some colleague or acquaintance who I hadn’t seen in a while would, in the course of ordinary chit-chat, drop, “Oh, and how’s John doing?” into the conversation.  And then I would have to watch their faces change from polite disinterest to horror and pity as I gave them the news.  I would say it was the worst thing I had to do, but I had developed an entire new suite of worst things in recent months and was somewhat spoiled for choice.

We didn’t speak any further until I let us into the flat.

“Have a seat.  I’ll just go get it.”

John, given that he was occasionally prone to physically violent nightmares, had always kept the Sig Sauer semi-automatic securely locked away in a box in the master bedroom closet.  I retrieved it, and returned to the living room.  Sherlock had installed himself in his old favorite spot on the sofa, and Arthur had climbed onto the arm next to him.  They were watching each other with matching expressions of flat-eyed distaste.

“I don’t know where the key is,” I said, passing the box over.

“It’s fine,” he replied.  And indeed, he materialized a lockpick from somewhere and opened it within ten seconds.

He’d removed his auburn wig, although he still had on an excellent shade of lipstick for his complexion: a glossy transparent berry-stain.  It was almost the only color on his face.  Whatever he’d been up to, it was doing no favors for his health.  I wouldn’t have thought he could have gotten thinner or paler, barring his contracting tuberculosis or vampirism.  And yet, he had managed.  At some point, he’d cut his hair off close to the scalp, and it was faintly peppered with grey.  Sherlock was a year or two younger than I, but at the moment I could see what he would be like as an old man.

“You know that thing’s illegal, right?” I said.

“It’s not something that’s a real concern just at the moment,” he returned, calmly.

“It should probably be cleaned.  It’s not been touched since… well, I’m not sure of the last time John cleaned it.”

“It will be fine.  They’re very simple instruments and Watson was always over-cautious.  I didn’t clean my old one for years and it never had any problems.”

“That’s because John would secretly do it for you every few months.”

One of the small pleasures in life that everyone should get to experience at least once is to watch Sherlock Holmes’ face when he is informed that one of the normals has gotten something past him.  I had to suppress a flicker of a smile at how thunderous he looked.

“Look,” I said, “Give it here and I’ll do it.  The cleaning kit’s on the top shelf above the stove in the kitchen, if you’ll reach it down for me.”

I could hear him rummaging around in the cabinet as I released the clip, disconnected the slide, and popped out the spring.  I laid everything down on the coffee table and accepted the kit when he returned and gave it to me.  When I sighted down the barrel, I could see ample dust, and a fair bit of corrosion from the soggy English atmosphere.  It only made sense, really.  When Sherlock had died, John had lost any professional reason to carry a gun, and gained a strong personal reason to lock it away and leave it to rust.  Dipping the cleaning swab into the wide-mouthed jar of solvent, I began passing it through the barrel.

“’In a self-defense situation, there will be many things you can’t control. The condition of your weapon is not one of them,’” I quoted.

“Did Watson say that?”

“No, though he’d have agreed with the sentiment.  That was my stepfather.  He was the one who taught me about shooting.”

Sherlock blinked at me.  “I didn’t know you had a stepfather.”

“Like everyone else, I do actually have an objective existence apart from the parts you find interesting, Sherlock.”

I sounded bitter, but I didn’t care.  I had been the one to put John back together after Sherlock’s quote-unquote death, and having him sitting calmly on my sofa irked.

“I only meant,” he replied, “That he wasn’t at your wedding.”

“He has congestive heart failure and travel is very difficult for him!” I snapped,

“Sherlock, why the hell did you do this?”

“Well, I had in fact been exposed as a fraud and-“

“Bullshit.  You have been more or less cleared for two years and I’m sure your brother told you that.  D.I. Lestrade had to demonstrate that you weren’t, in general, a criminal, because he wanted to keep his job. Fifty people, including me, by the by, came forward to tell stories of how you had solved cases that you couldn’t possibly have faked.  The only real mystery remaining is this whole affair with Richard Brook, and frankly the best person to justify that would have been you.”

He scrubbed his hands through the bristles of his hair.  “There was more.”

“So tell me.”

Sherlock sighed, and stared off into the space over my left shoulder.  “When the head of an organization is removed, the organization generally remains.  John Kennedy is shot, the United States persists.  The death of Jim Moriarty left a thriving multinational criminal organization with a vacancy at the top for which there were numerous keen candidates.  I have spent the last three years attempting to take advantage of this situation and dismantle its operations entirely.”

Something about the cold way he said “dismantle” made me think I really didn’t want to hear much about this process.  I asked, “And you couldn’t have done that in your own persona?”

“No.  Because- Moriarty was in many ways a remarkable man.”

The tone of this statement was pure admiration, and I rubbed my forehead where I could feel the old familiar “Sherlock” headache coming on. “How’s that?” I asked.

“I don’t want to say he founded a cult of personality, but in his immediate circle were several men who genuinely did admire him and support him in his goals, as opposed to the ordinary hangers-on who simply were in it for the profit.”

“So, his friends.”

“What?”

I sighed.  “Never mind.  Continue.”

[iknownothingihearnothing]

Game of Thrones 8.4 “The Last of the Starks”

I. Am. MAD.

This...this week’s offering right here is an example of an episode I loved and loathed in equal measure. There were lovely moments of--

And then...then there were even more ones of--

Y’all know what I’m talking about. From Brienne’s heartbroken face to that motherfucking Northern stubbornness, to Missandei’s capture and death, to Jon still not knowing enough (he’s so naive), to Euron shooting poor Rhaegal out of the sky, to JON BEING A HORRIBLE WOLF-DADDY!

He just ABANDONED Ghost! Without even a pat goodbye! Even if he had to leave him, he could’ve at least spared a frigging goodbye. Yeah yeah budget blah blah. You couldn’t get an actual big, white, fluffy dog for the few seconds needed for Jon Snow to bid his wolfy buddy who RISKED HIS LIFE for him a proper farewell?! 

I pet my dog and call him a good boy when he gets the ball and goes poop outside. You couldn’t spare more than a “laters, brah” nod to your poor puppy?!

LOOK HOW SAD HE IS!

I want to hug him and kiss him and snuggle him and tell him he’s the goodest boi in the North. Pawning him off to Tormund to live Beyond the Not Wall where he knows no one, what’s the matter with you, Jogon of House Snowaryen?! 

Dany may be leaning a biiiiiit too far into her House Targaryen roots but at least she is a dedicated pet owner. We know she loves her...scale...babies? They have spines, right? Spine babies? Fire babies. 

Ugh, let’s get into this week’s slice of sadness. 

The episode opens with a massive funeral for those that died in the Battle of Winterfell. Including Jorah, Lyanna, Theon, Mr. Edd, and Beric, who is now definitely out of lives.

Dany, crying, leans over Jorah’s prone body, kisses his forehead, and whispers something we’ll never know into his ear.

At least, we’ll never know unless either Emilia or Iain decide to spill the deets. Iain Glen said in a post-ep interview with Entertainment Weekly that it was “something definitely profound”. But who knows, he could be bullshitting us and she actually said “I like muffins” or something and he had to lay there pretending to be dead.

On second thought, she’s English. So perhaps she prefers crumpets. 

Sansa is sniffling over Theon’s body and places a House Stark pin in his shirt. Jon is looking out at this sea of corpses like--

There is no more Ol’ Nighty to bring them back.

Or so we’re led to believe. 

The camera pans across the mourners and we catch a glimpse of our favorite furry friend.

He’s such a good, loyal doggo. Wolfo? Direwolfo. 

Oh Jon I am so MAD AT YOU!

Saving my rage for a bit further down. Barely.

Jon gives a farewell speech about all their dead--they defended the realms of men, no one will ever see their like again, etc. etc.--and then some of the mourners who knew the dead best are given flaming branches in order to set the bodies alight. In the North, they burn their dead. I guess cus the ground is forever frozen and one day someone from House Whyrevr said fuck it and lit his dead grandma on fire. 

Afterwards, they have a joint funeral/”glad we’re alive” party because of course they do. Kinda reminiscent of our shiva except people are sitting on chairs. At the head table, Jon is looking awkwardly at Dany--apparently, that whole “we’re technically related and oh you have a better claim to the throne than me” stuff has lingered beyond fighting for their lives. Damn. Not even surviving Team Undead’s invasion could get them out of that business. 

Elsewhere, Gendry asks the Hound if he’s seen Arya. Does Robert’s bastard have a wee more on his mind than all the death? Like, say, his wee-wee?

Some things never change, no matter what century it is.

Gendry tries to stutter that it’s not about that but the Hound knows it is. Gendry’s alive and the dead are not. Might as well take ASS-vantage of it.

Eh? Eh?

Srsly, this is like the worst party in the history of Westeros. Uh, aside from the Red Wedding (but not the Purple one, #ByeJoflecia). They just buried burnt a heap of their dead, two of their hosts are keeping a huge secret from everyone (and being super weird around each other because of it), and Dany’s endlessly fighting against that frigging Northern hardheadedness. It’s not GREAT, Bob.

Speaking of that famous Northern jackassery, Dany sees an opportunity to crack that stubborn ice as Gendry crosses the party hall. Calling him over, she at first inquires about his parentage, asks him if he knows that Robert Baratheon kinda had her whole family killed and wanted to slaughter her as an infant. Gendry’s like “Whoa, did not know that he was my daddy until after he was dead” and Dany’s all “Yep he dead and so are Renly and Stannis so who’s Lord of Storm’s End?” and no one knows.

This is Dany’s chance to make good.

Not only did Gendry survive the battle, he got laid and made a lord!

You go, Glenn Coco, Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End!

Ser Davos, the onion knight (lol) leads the room in a toast to Gendry, the newest Lord on the block.

Don’t be fooled cus he’s now a Lord, he’s still he’s still Gendry from the Forge.

Tyrion remarks that now Gendry will forever be loyal to her and Dany says that he is not the only one that is clever.

Sansa, hearing this, looks at her like bats just sprouted from her head and flew out her ears while her eyes turned red as she chuckled evilly. 

Oh, come on! This is what people in powerful positions on the show do. That’s how they secure allies without, you know, marrying their allies. You want someone’s loyalty, do something for them. Dany’s not the first one to try that. And it’s not like she had Drogon Dracarys the hell out of one of Gendry’s enemies to secure that loyalty. She made him a damn Lord. 

The Starks are annoying me this season. Except when Arya laid the smacketh down on Ol’ Nighty. 

In another corner, Jaime and Brienne are celebrating by gettin’ crunk. She offers a halfassed excuse but Jaime’s all “Dude, we defeated a horde of zombies. Drink up!” and she does, giving him this look:

Bow chicka wowowwwwwwwwwwwwww chicka chicka boom.

Not that I can blame her. Aside from all that incestin’, Jaime’s a fine slice of Kingslayer pie.

Ser Davos of House Onion and Tyrion are talking about Melisandre, who last episode took off her necklace and aged into evaporation. Davos tells Tyrion that he swore to Melisandre he would kill her next time he saw her but he never got the chance, as she did it to herself. Or the Lord of Light took her. Or whatever. They don’t like him much. They fight his war and then he fucks off. 

Tyrion crosses the room to BranBot, who is reading in his wheelchair, which Tyrion calls a clever invention. I keep forgetting that wheelchairs aren’t really a thing in Westeros. 

BranBot, as animated as he’s programmed to be, delights in telling Tyrion that it is reminiscent of the one Daeron Targaryen made for his nephew over a hundred years ago. Just your regular episodic reminder that BranBot is...BranBot. 

Tyrion says BranBot’s BranVision will come in handy as the Lord of Winterfell, which he technically is as Ned Stark’s last surviving “trueborn” son. But BranBot doesn’t want it. BranBot doesn’t really want anything or anyone. He totally just doesn’t care, man.

Tyrion envies BranBot’s ability to not give a shit and and BranBot tells him not to because--

Yes, yes. You’re an “old soul”, BranBot. BranBot calls himself a grandpa in a teenager’s body. He forgets what generation he is and refers to people his own age as “you youngins”. He constantly crows that he is a “proud introvert” who’d rather be reading. We KNOW, BranBot!

Tormund leads a toast (with his awesome tusk cup) to the Dragon Queen and everyone cheers so maybe Dany’s making headway. She herself turns her own toast to Arya, the hero of the Battle of Winterfell. 

Jaime, Brienne, Tyrion, and Pod are playing a Westerosi version of Never Have I Ever with wine and Tormund, a bit drunk off his red ass, is going on and on about how awesome Jon is. Meanwhile, Dany is listening and though she toasts him she knows that she will always be an outsider to these people and they fucking love Jon.

Also, this happened:

“May I have your name?”

“Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons.”

“Okay, that’s Daniellris Shoehorn, the Sunburnt, Keen of Mean Girls, Bean of the Sandals and the Thirsty Hen, Call Sweetie of the Eight Assed Bee, Brother of Wagons. Is that correct?”

“Ugh. Just write Dany.”

“Okay, Fannie.”

The PTB at HBO have since digitally removed The Cup from the episode but wah bro I think they should have kept it in. That’s hilarious. I want to live in a world where Starbucks exists on Game of Thrones. And it survived the battle. Of course House Styrbycks is right around the corner from Winterfell, conveniently situated at the heart of the town square. 

And you better believe there’s a ride-thru for the horseman on the go.

I enjoy how HBO came out with a statement that Dany ordered herbal tea. I can see Dany ordering herbal tea.

In warmer climes, though, she’s definitely a dragon fruit smoothie girl.

Aside: Liam Cunningham recently went on Conan and gifted him The Cup:

He swore it was the actual cup. How is that even possible?! Wouldn’t someone have tossed it after all this time? And the fact that it was still around had to signal to someone on set that a) trolol a person in Consistency fucked up and at least one dude on GoT knew it before the ep aired and b) that Emilia’s discarded latte appearing in a scene would be gold. 

I want to believe it’s legit. I want to believe so hard that it’s the real Cup and that all these circumstances came together to land the Cup in Liam’s hand all this time later. I want to, and so I shall.

(Yes, I know it is not the real Cup but shh I want to BELIEVE!)

So, Dany is watching everyone have fun and be close with each other, especially how everyone seems to love Jon here, and she’s feeling even more like an outsider (and not a bit insecure about her claim to the throne) and she gets up and leaves. Varys starts to follow her with his watchful Varys eyes.

Jaime, Brienne, Podrick, and Tyrion are still playing their game and getting increasingly drunker doing so. Drunker and more giggly. Everything’s all well and good until Tyrion suddenly sits up, looks Brienne in the eye, and accuses her of being a--dun dun dun--virgin. Pod nonchalantly sips his wine.

Brienne clambers out of her seat and mutters that she has to piss. Tormund, also drunk as a skunk, stumbles to their table, celebrating, and asks--

Well? Who did shit in Tormund’s pants?!

It’s kinda awks because Tormund is into Brienne but Brienne has feelings for Jaime and when did GoT become a teen soap opera? It’s like The North 00000 up in here.

Tyrion pours more wine into Tormund’s tusk as Jaime follows Brienne out.

Dramz. Will they? Won’t they? Stay tuned next week!

No, they totally will right now. 

But first, Tormund is going to bitch.

I was cheering for Tormund to win his Big Woman, I really was. But then Jaime showed up and their chemistry just...reignited. 

Tormund expresses sadness until a Northern lady volunteers to take up his time. The Hound continues to drown his sorrows--tho idk what he’s sad about, he’s alive--ignoring even the prospect of sexytimes until Sansa, finally able to make eye contact with the Hound, shares his table. It was a long time ago when she couldn’t even look at him, back when she was just a little bird. But now she’s a dark phoenix (see what I did there? Because Sophie Turner is starring in Dark Phoenix!) risen from the ashes, having had her revenge against her latest torturer/husband, Ramsay Bolton via his own hounds.

None of if would’ve happened if Sansa had left K.L. with the Hound way back when. But Sansa gently squeezes his hand and says that without Ramsay, Littlefinger, and all those assholes, she’d still be that same naive little bird.

Anyone else get the vibe that David and D.B. are kinda...trying to justify what Ramsay did to Sansa here? Just an itty bit? All that’s missing is Sansa belting out Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter”. 

Outside, Arya is practicing her archery skillz when Gendry, the new Lord of Storm’s End, is imbued with way too much enthusiasm after being dubbed by Dany and legit blurts out a proposal to his one night stand right then and there.

Ugh. I can’t wait until my shitty copy of Phhotoshop arrives. Until then I have to use paint shop. Look at those corners! They are making me itch.

Anyway, Arya obvs rejects Gendry’s proposal and it’s d’awww. Gendry is like that guy you hook up with once because he’s hot and afterwards, he won’t stop calling you and texting you and trying to add you as a Facebook friend and messaging you on Twitter suggesting that you fly to Michigan to meet his parents for Thanksgiving. This is something I know nothing about.

Ah, now we’ve circled back to the Jaime and Brienne Show!

That’s if he’s not still obsessed with his siiiiiiiiissssterrrr (she’s a psycho!)

Brienne’s throwing more wood onto yet another hearth (there are a lot of hearths in Winterfell) when Jaime knocks on her door and unceremoniously proclaims that she did not drink when Tyrion accused her of being a V to the gin. He pours her some Dornish red and mutters about it being hot in here; Brienne has learned in the North to always keep a fire going. Jaime has learned in the North that he hates the fucking North. Brienne counters that it grew on her.

Jaime wonders if Tormund Giantsbane also grew on her. He seemed quite sad when she left.

He wants the V-card and the V.

Jaime chuckles awkwardly and begins to pull at the collar of his shirt because “it’s bloody hot in here”. Brienne watches him warily for a second until she gets annoyed and unties the garment herself.

You see where this is going.

First time for Jaime, too. He’s never slept with a knight before.

Has he ever slept with anyone who isn’t his sister before?

Shows how much he cares about Brienne. Letting someone in who isn’t Cersei. That’s a good, non-incestuous step forward, Jaime.

It’s a big moment for Brienne, too, aside from the obvious. She’s had a thing for Jaime for years. This is like that guy you’ve been secretly pining for suddenly realizing he’s totally into it.

In the next scene, Dany confronts a “slightly drunk” Jon, who did not know Ser Jorah very well, but he is pretty sure that if he would’ve chosen a way to die, it would have been protecting Dany. Dany knows Jorah loved her, but she couldn’t love him back--not the way he deserved, not the way she loves Jon.

They kiss and it’s like before Jon ever found out he’s also Aegon until--

“Does Westeros have any support groups for this? Maybe I should ask Ser Jaime.”

Jon wishes that Dany had never told them that they were related and I’m sitting here like--

He would’ve figured it out sooner or later, right? I mean, if he knew he was half Targaryen and all and Rhaegar was his daddy. I understand math is hard but...

Dany tries to forget and sometimes almost succeeds until tonight when she saw all those people gathered around him, looking at him like I’m The Hero! People have looked at her like that before, lots of people, but not here, not on this side of the Narrow Sea. She begs him not to tell anyone of his Targaryen lineage, to swear Samwell and BranBot to secrecy, so that things could go back to how they were before between them. 

But Jon must tell Sansa and Arya because family and nobility and Starkism and all that. And we all know Sansa no likey Dany, despite the fact that HER ARMIES SAVED YOUR NORTHERN ASS.

She begs him some more and he promises that she is his Queen and they can all live together. And they can, if Jon keeps his trap shut.

In Brienne’s quarters, if the animal pelts are a rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’!

Warm enough in there now, Brienne? 

In the War Room--damn, don’t we all aspire to have a War Room?--our favorites are gathered around the Great Table or whatever with a map of Westeros in the center and some old timey Checkers pieces standing in for the two sides’ respective armies. Obvs, the Battle of Winterfell has depleted Dany and Jon’s forces greatly, but they still have enough to wage hell on Cersei. Yara has taken back the Iron Islands in her name, and the Prince of Dorne pledges his support. Still, Cersei has the Golden Company led by Guyliner Greyjoy and the Lannister Army fresh and ready to fight. 

Dany is not appeased. No matter how many noble people declare their fealty to her, while Cersei still sits on the Iron Throne, she can still call herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon, Tyrion, and Varys reassure her with talk of dragons and the people of K.L. having rebelled against their King before. Sansa adds that she wants to give the armies time to recuperate, which is also--

--since they just fought Team Undead and all. But Dany wants to hit up K.L. NOW NOW NOW because the longer they wait, the stronger her enemies become. Or something.

Someone’s starting to lean a wee too far into her Targ roots. It’s just common sense, Dany. Take a chill pill.

But Jon sticks up for his GF. Very sternly, he swears the North will honor its commitments and allegiance to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and blah blah blah. 

Dany appears smug.

Silently, Arya and Sansa trade glances like--

Tyrion narrates that Jon will lead the remaining forces up the Kingsroad while a smaller group of them will take a fleet to Dragonstone while the Queen will follow on...dragonback.

Jaime will remain at Winterfell as a guest. 

The camera ticks to Brienne’s expression at the mention of her former crush and new lovah’s name:

She’s trying to outwardly remain passive, but inside--

She’s getting laid and she’s not dead. Those are good times in Westeros.

Dany completes the conference and Arya demands a word with Jon. Outside, Jon is like “We’d all be DEAD if not for her” which is again DUH and Sansa snides “Arya’s the one that killed the Night King”. Arya wouldn’t have had the chance to kill the Night King without Dany’s armies because they’d all be DEAD. Seven Hells, you people are ridiculous. “We don’t trust her, ShE’s nOt OnE oF Us.” That is an absurd reason not to trust someone. I’m from New Jersey. It’d be like me about to be murdered and refusing help from someone because they’re from Florida. Don’t trust her because of her personality not because of where she is from.

And then, like a naive idiot, Jon actually thinks because he swore them to secrecy, Sansa and Arya will for sure totally keep his true lineage behind zipped lips.

This here was one of the scenes that made me roll my eyes so hard, they almost got stuck.

From that, thankfully, GoT moves on to one of my favorite scenes of the episode. Jaime and Tyrion sitting there over drinks gossiping like yentas. Jaime’s giving his younger brother all the deets vis-a-vis his liaison with Brienne. When Tyrion doesn’t say anything snide, Jaime is visibly uncomfortable, and Tyrion claims he’s happy Jaime is happy. 

And--

Tyrion has been waiting for ages to make tall person jokes.

He also wants to know what she’s like “down there”. Jaime calls him a dog.

But then Bronn shows up, finally after Creepy Qyburn hired him to kill Cersei’s “traitorous brothers”, a bit drunk off his ass, brandishing that crossbow. After he smacks Tyrion in the nose, he tells them that Cersei offered him Riverrun, but he knows the Queen is fucked after seeing Dany’s dragons, even with their depleted forces. And Cersei can’t pay up if she’s dead, so...

So Tyrion counters the offer. Highgarden for Riverrun. Bronn would be made Lord of the Reach. It’s certainly open now that House Tyrell has been decimated (RIP Olenna, you ultimate badass). Jaime blanches. How could Tyrion just give him Highgarden? Well hell, it’s better than being dead. 

Jaime doesn’t think Bronn will seriously kill them. Jaime is wrong.

Jaime scoffs Highgarden will never belong to a cuttrhoat but Bronn laughs pish-posh. Isn’t that how all the great Houses started? Kill a few hundred, they make you a Lord. Kill a few thousand, they make you a King?

Tyrion gives Bronn-y his word he’l give him Highgarden as long as they take King’s Landing. Bronn opts out of leading the fight, but wishes the brothers luck with a casual “Don’t die”.

The Hound yells “FFS!” when he meets up with Arya on the Kingsroad. Yep, they’re both goin’ Kings Landing way. Nope, Arya doesn’t really care to hang around, even if she is the hero after knifing that horned fucker. Yes, she probably will abandon the Hound again if he gets hurt.

They both have “unfinished business”. Arya to scratch Cersei off her infamous Kill List. The Hound, presumably, to finally fulfill our fantasy of Clegane Bowl!

Elsewhere, Dany is getting ready to leave the fucking frozen North, petting her dragons. And on this show, that is not a euphemism. One of them, presumably Rhaegal, takes flight.

While Drogon remains with her, that mama’s boy.

On the bridge, Sansa is watching Drogon and Rhaegal lift off, trying to shoot them down with her eyes.

Before he leaves, Tyrion tries to convince her one more time that Daenerys is it, or at least a way better option than Cersei, and he believes in her, her people love her, Jon loves her, etc, and he’d totes appreciate it if they were at least allies, and he turns to leave as the camera pans close on Sansa’s face; she calls him back to spilleth the beans..eth.

Did I win?

As Jon is loading up his Horshon Wagon, Tormund jokes that he’s not riding the dragon down south. Jon laughs that Rhaegal needs a break; he doesn’t need Jon weighing him down.

Tormund says that he has had enough of “the south” and plans to take the Free Folk back Beyond the Not Wall through Castle Black. It’s not home, not where they belong. Or, suddenly, where Ghost belongs either after EIGHT YEARS.

Yeah, this is where I RAGE.

Jon insists the North is no place for a direwolf and asks Tormund to take Ghost with him back Beyond the Not Wall, where he knows no one, will be lonely, and have to contend with even colder weather than what he’s used to. Tormund tells Jon that he has the “real” North running through his veins and “maybe” they’ll meet again before he departs and Jon goes to HUG EVERYONE. 

ALMOST.

RAGE! RAGE AGAINST THE JONCHINE!

I know, I know working with the CGI wolves is ExPeNsIvE, blah blah. I DON’T CARE. There are dragons that spit actual fire on this show. Y’all couldn’t substitute a real big, white, fluffy doggie so Jon could bid his furry friend a real goodbye?! This was the saddest scene in GoT history. Forget Ned’s beheading or even the Red Wedding. This right here is inhuman.

The episode’s director, David Nutter, tried to defend himself, weakly, by insisting he thought this way was more powerful. He obviously does not own dogs. Or any pets of any kind. He did not anticipate how much we all love our furry friends. As soon as the episode aired, Twitter lit up with #GhostDeservedBetter. Poor Ghostie. He lost an ear for you! You’re leaving forever. I snuggle my dogs when I just leave to go to the bathroom. I shall honor Ghost here, First of His Name, Protector of the Realms of Men, the One Eared and the White Furred, Warden of the North. Or at least Warden of the Woof. 

I had to watch this portion a few times to get the right screenshots so now I must go snuggle my own doggies. And tell them they are my own little direwoofies and I will never ever leave them. Especially for King’s Landing.

Jon “I’m the worst Wolf Daddy in Westeros” Snow rides off and Sam, Gilly, Tormund, and Ghost watch him go, even after his owner slighted him, because he is the goodest boi on the continent.

On the way to Dragonstone, Tyrion has immediately spilled to Varys because let’s be honest: Jon’s true parentage was always going to stay a secret for about, meh, an hour? And now eight people know--Jon, Dany, Sansa, Arya, Tyrion, Varys, Sam, and BranBot. Which makes it less a secret and more info. If the internetz had existed back then, the whole of Twitter would’ve known within fifteen minutes. #JongonSnowgaryen would trend worldwide. Westeroswide? 

I need to start following The_Mastr. 

People like Jon. They follow Jon (even tho he’s a terrible pet owner). If this were to get out, Dany would lose the North--Winterfell and the Vale. Sansa would see to that. 

Tyrion suggests marrying them and they could rule together. They love each other, but Varys ain’t so sure Jon could ever see beyond that whole “she’s his aunt” thing. And Dany doesn’t like to have her authority questioned. Then Tyrion cheerfully suggests that Cersei could end up killing them all anyway and that would solve their problems.

And then Guyliner Greyjoy comes out of nowhere and motherfucking shoots down Rhaegal!

I literally gasped “NOOOOOOOOO!” out loud when this happened. My animal-loving heart can only take so much, Game of Thrones. There’s a fan theory that technically we didn’t see Rhaegal die and two somethings appeared in the sky in the trailer for the next episode so he could come back with a vengeance. Please come back with a vengeance, Rhaegal. 

Dany is furious that Captain Maybelline shot her baby and orders Drogon to make a beeline for him. But afraid for her other baby’s life, she turns at the last minute. Euron, annoyed that he only took down one dragon, instead aims for the boat carrying Team Daenerys, which explodes under the force of multiple scorpion arrows. 

All of them swim to shore--all of them, except one. Just before the arrows flew, Grey Worm ordered Missandei to seek refuge on the skiff, and, when we shift to the castle gates, we see Cersei presiding over thousands of innocents who will be caught in the crossfire of war between her and Dany, her child (which she tells Captain Maybellne is his), and a captured Missandei.

In the War Room at Dragonstone--every Great House has a War Room, it seems--our merry band is presiding over a map of King’s Landing where Varys looks Dany in the eye and begs her not to attack the castle. They have Missandei, they killed Rhaegal, yes, but thousands of innocents are held inside the Red Keep, which is Cersei’s modus operandi. Varys pleads with her not to destroy the city she came to save but Dany believes she has a destiny to rid the world of tyrants, and she will fulfill it, no matter the cost.

That sounds vaguely culty, Dany. It wasn’t that long ago you were doing all you could to avoid a battle inside King’s Landing, cus you didn’t wanna destroy the city and the people you were gonna rule over. What happened? Don’t go all Aerys on us.

Tyrion suggests offering Cersei her life in exchange for the throne to avoid carnage. Dany knows Cersei will never go for it, but it’s good for PR, anyway. The people will know that Daenerys Stormborn tried to avoid bloodshed, and Cersei Lannister refused.

Take it back a few, Dany. Just a few, mkay?

At the hearth--there is always a hearth chat going on, and Dragonstone is no exception--Tyrion and Varys are having A Talk. Varys has served many tyrants, and they all talk about destiny and stuff. But, Tyrion negates, Dany has walked through fire and made dragons and lived, maybe she really is destined to rule the Seven Kingdoms. 

Varys considers How To Solve A Problem Like Jon Snow. Who may not be a problem so much as a solution. Who would make a better ruler, Jon or Dany? Varys knows Jon doesn’t wanna rule, which is partly why he bent the knee, but maybe a good ruler would be someone who doesn’t want to rule at all.

And Jon’s a dude, which, in ye olden times, was important. Also why he’s got a tighter claim to the throne than Dany does. They’re talking treason right now. Tyrion accuses Varys of abandoning all of the kings he served under. Varys reaffirms that he will always serve what’s best for the realm and the people, thousands of whom will die if the wrong person sits on the throne. 

Tyrion asks what happens to Dany and Varys gives him a look like “What do you think?” 

At Winterfell, the Northerners are rebuilding while Sansa and Brienne are being all secret-like, talking in whispers and glancing at Jaime. He follows them, having the creeping sensation that they’re talking about something that pertains to him. When he asks what’s up, Brienne tells him that they just got word of Guyliner Greyjoy’s ambush on Dany’s ships, Rhaegal’s death, and Missandei’s capture. 

And another for Jaime Reacting to Bad News screenshots:

BUT what exactly is he reacting to? That Cersei is going to die or that he isn’t going to do it himself?

That night, Jaime is watching Brienne sleep, then creeps outside to pack up his mighty steed to head back to the capital. Too bad Brienne wakes up and catches him. The city is going to be destroyed, they all know this. And Jaime doesn’t have to die alongside Cersei.

Jaime doesn’t think he’s a good man. He pushed a boy out of a window and crippled him for life (which led to him becoming BranBot) for Cersei. He strangled his cousin to get back to Cersei. He would’ve killed every man, woman, and child in Riverrun to get back to Cersei. She’s a monster. And so is Jaime.

And then he leaves and Brienne is heartsick and her POOR FACE. 

THIS EPISODE IS KILLING ME.

But--and I know a lot of other people think this, too--after I wrung my hands a bit, I thought about this moment. I think Jaime’s going back to K.L. to off Cersei himself, leaving Brienne to believe he left because he thinks he doesn’t deserve her. It still SUCKS but it’s less sucky than thinking he’d rather have his twin sister’s V. 

In said capital, the remaining Unsullied and Dothraki forces, along with Dany and her merry men, are lined up outside the gates. Cersei, Pirate von D, and Cersei’s ever lurking zombie Mountain are on the battlements with a chained Missandei. The camera sweeps to show both sides and when did King’s Landing get so FLAT?

Isn’t King’s Landing supposed to be all lush and hilly? What has Cersei done to the place?! This is Dubrovnik, ffs!

Creepy Qyburn comes out of the gates and Tyrion goes to meet him, Hand to Hand. Queen Daenerys demands Cersei’s unconditional surrender and the return of Missandei, unharmed. Queen Cersei demands Daenerys’ unconditional surrender. It’s a stalemate and they’re not getting anywhere so Tyrion tries to appeal to Creepy Qyburn’s logic. They have a chance to prevent bloodshed. To not cause the screams of thousands of children as hellfire is rained down upon them. It’s not a pleasant sound, Qyburn agrees. Alas, he still goes on about Cersei being the one true Queen so Tyrion pushes past him to speak to his sister himself.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are all--

Dany also thinks this is not a good idea.

Some of the Lannister army up on the battlements with Cersei and Co get their bows and arrows ready but as Tyrion approaches, Cersei waves them off with a smug smile. Calling up to her, Tyrion says he knows Cersei doesn’t care about the people of the Seven Kingdoms; they hate her and the feeling’s mutual. 

He mentions her children, her unborn child. How she loved them more than life itself. And just because her reign is over doesn’t mean her life has to end, her her child has to die. 

Just for a moment, one moment, it appears as if his words are getting to her. Cersei takes a deep breath, lets it out shakily. Lena’s acting in this instance is superb. And then, she crosses to Missandei as Dany and Grey Worm race toward the gate in alarm, and murmurs “If you have any last words, now is the time”.

Missandei’s last word?

With her last word, Missandei is telling Dany to fuck it all and burn King’s Landing to the ground.

Cersei gives zombie Mountain the nod to take off Missandei’s head, and poor Grey Worm can’t watch as the undead monster kills his girlfriend.

Dany shakes, turns, and walks away as Cersei smiles triumphantly.

The Mother of Dragons is so done fucking around, y’all.

Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhh this episode was a ride. I wanted to wring SO many necks. Jon Snow, how does it feel to be the villain of the internet? Jaime, you best be headin’ back to K.L. to kill Cersei. Don’t you be breaking Brienne’s heart for nothing. Burn it all down, Dany! #Cleganebowl!

I am EXCITE for the penultimate ep. So EXCITE!

[preserving-ferretbrain]

Detention

by Ronan Wills

Thursday, 11 October 2018

Taiwan's history of martial law makes for an excellent portable horror game

Oooh! This is in the Axis of Awesome!~

Horror video games are in an odd spot right now. With my beloved Silent Hill buried beneath the ashes of Konami and the genre dormant in the big-budget space (although Capcom might be giving it a sharp poke back into wakefulness, if Resident Evil 7 and the upcoming Resident Evil 2 remake are anything to go by), gamers looking for a scary good time have increasingly turned to the indie scene to get their fix.

But even that’s starting to stagnate, with a plethora of shabby titles ripping off whatever the latest big trend is. The

Amnesia: The Dark Descent

clones weren’t too bad, but things got really dire once

Five Night’s At Freddy’s

came along.

There is, however, another trend that’s flown under the radar. In recent years, indie horror games from south-east Asia have started to crop up here and there. Developed with an international audience in mind but touting their local culture and mythology as a selling point, these games stand out both due to their point of origin and because they tend to take inspiration from older, more well-regarded horror classics, instead of chasing the latest flash in the pan. The trend seems to have begun with

DreadOut

, a Kickstarted game from Indonesia heavily inspired by the Fatal Frame/Project Zero franchise, and over the last few years more and more have popped up on Steam and other digital platforms.

Jonesing for something spooky to play and realizing that I hadn’t dipped my toe into this particular corner of the market yet, I browsed the Nintendo Switch online store and spotted

Detention

, a Taiwanese game from developer Red Candle. I remembered hearing good things about it when it was released on the PC early last year, but I didn’t know much about it past the basic plot setup and that it’s a 2D side-scrolling game.

Now I’m just kicking myself for not playing it sooner. Everyone who loves classic horror games and who harbours hope for the future of the genre needs to play this game immediately.

Detention

takes place in the 1960s, during the period of Taiwanese history known as the White Terror. The country is under the rule of the nationalist Kuomintang, who use anti-Communist paranoia and tension with neighbouring China to brutally stamp out any hint of dissent among the populace. Our protagonist is Fang Ray Shin, a seventeen year old high school student on the cusp of graduation and adulthood.

Trapped in her school during an unseasonable typhoon, Ray finds herself in a nightmarish version of her familiar world, where ghostly creatures roam the halls and supernatural manifestations force her to confront the events of her recent past--events that she either doesn’t remember, or is trying desperately to forget.

If that setup sounds just a wee bit familiar, then you’ll understand why I sat up and gasped in delight more or less the moment I started playing

Detention

. It’s very clearly and obviously riffing on the older

Silent Hill

games, and unlike many horror games that have tried to do this over the years, it both successfully distills the essence of what made

Silent Hill

so memorable and also manages to retain its own identity.

Despite the 2D presentation,

Detention’s

gameplay is as familiar and comfortable as a favourite pair of slippers. You explore spooky, elaborate environments, searching for clues and items to help you solve puzzles that usually operate on some amount of dream logic. You’ll use items on environmental objects, you’ll hunt down keys, you’ll find statues that look as though they’re meant to be holding something but are currently not holding anything...it’s very familiar survival horror fare. The puzzles are uniformly clever and intriguing; as the game goes on they ramp up in difficulty nicely, eventually requiring the sort of lateral thinking that leads to satisfying “ah ha!” moments. Smart environmental design means that you’ll never fail to progress simply because you didn’t press A on the right piece of background; things you’re meant to interact with are clearly signposted as such.

Where Detention diverges from its inspiration is in enemy encounters. Realizing that combat was always the worst part of classic horror games, Red Candle decided to do away with it entirely in favour of light stealth mechanics. You’ll be looking to avoid

Detention’s

eerie monsters rather than kill them, although I don’t want to spoil the main mechanic by which you do that because it’s pretty original. Enemies aren’t very common--they show up just enough that you’re always worried about running into one, but the game doesn’t throw them at you just for the sake of creating artificial difficulty. Puzzles and plot are the main focus here, particularly in the game's second half.

Said plot is easily

Detention’s

greatest asset. From the very first scene, where a teacher is called away by the school’s political officer for unknown reasons, the game establishes a heavy atmosphere of dread. Its handling of Taiwan’s history really demonstrates the difference between people telling the stories of their own culture and an outsider doing it. A western developer would likely have gone much heavier on the White Terror angle, rather than taking the much more nuanced approach that Red Candle did.

The White Terror is both ever-present and distant. Like all people who live through history, Ray isn’t aware that her experiences will one day seem extraordinary to future generations, or that the society she lives in will come to be viewed as a transient period of darkness between relative stretches of light. This is just her life; she and her classmates and family and teachers have the same daily concerns as anyone else living at any other time, they just happen to exist in an environment where mundane actions and worries can get people killed. Feeling stifled by her surroundings and her home life and yearning to escape, but not knowing what that would look like in practice, Ray takes the kinds of reckless actions that young people the world over are prone to. The fact that her life is engulfed in tragedy as a result isn’t treated as remarkable or even unfair; it’s just the reality of the time and place she happens to live in.

If you’re familiar with

Silent Hill

-inspired games, you’ll know that they like to have Big Plot Twists of a certain nature. Very early on, I figured out what I thought was going to be

Detention’s

Big Plot Twist, but it turns out that the developers were one step ahead of me. Obviously anticipating this reaction from savvy horror fans, they de-twist the twist by basically giving the game away well before the climax. The suggestive symbolism littered throughout the personalized hell that Ray finds herself in lays out the basic fundamentals of what happened to her and the other characters and why she’s in the situation she’s in very clearly, and then a combination of cut-scenes and documents makes it explicit if you’re paying any attention at all. This turns out to be a smart move on Red Candle’s part, as trying to conceal the truth for a Big Plot Twist would likely have failed, and the exact specifics of why everything happened is more interesting than the mere fact that it did happen.

Ray herself is one of the best-written videogame characters I’ve seen in years. Initially encountered through someone else’s perspective, she comes off at first glance as the sort of timid, helpless heroine that horror likes to go in for. But as you peel back the layers of the plot, she turns out to be something very different altogether, both stronger and weaker than she appeared at first, and heart-breakingly relatable even as she’s caught up in circumstances that most of the people playing as her will (hopefully) never experience.

More than just well-written, Detention is subtle and intelligent. Visuals, music, plot and dialogue weave together in eye-opening and unexpected ways, forcing you to constantly re-examine things you saw earlier in new light. It really does reach the heights of meaningful, subtle symbolism that Silent Hill achieved at its best. At times, it might exceed it.

I’m enough of a

Silent Hill

mega fan that that’s high praise indeed. In case it didn’t come through clear enough, I loved every single second of

Detention

, from its mysterious, foreboding opening to it's heart-breaking conclusion. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the successor to the throne of the top tier of videogame horror that Konami relinquished when they started farming Silent Hill out to inexperienced studios, and my anticipation for Red Candles’ next game is physically painful.

All that aside, the game has a few irritating flaws. The English version is plagued with a number of typos and grammatical errors, including the occasional straight up missing word; judging by Red Candles’ English website, it seems like they don’t have any entirely fluent speakers on staff, and it shows. The problems aren’t enough to be a deal breaker by any means, but the mistakes are jarring given how well written the dialogue is, and it’s disappointing to see these errors uncorrected in a version of the game released well over a year after the initial PC release.

At one point, the game brings up a student/teacher relationship which (reading between the lines) appears to have become sexual. Taken at face value, the way the story leaves off this plot point could be read as alarmingly positive. Thinking about it a bit more deeply in context, the rose-tinted way the relationship is portrayed is being filtered entirely through the perspective of the student--who has understandable reasons for feeling that way and wildly mis-interprets other adult dynamics--rather than any detached authorial voice. The only third-party opinion we get on the situation comes from another adult who's generally portrayed as an empathetic type with her head screwed on straight; the fact that she basically calls the teacher involved a predator is, I feel, a pretty clear indicator of where the developers' own feelings lie (there are also some horror elements of the game that don't exactly paint the adult party in a positive light).

Still, I wanted to bring it up in case readers may be uncomfortable with the idea of playing a game that tackled this subject matter at all. Other than this plot point, the game stays entirely away from sexual violence and abuse, which I thought was an admirable bit of restraint given how dark some of the other topics handled are (this is, again, somewhere that I feel a western developer might have tripped up).

Also, the Switch version of the game chugs and drops the framerate during visually busy environments. I’m assuming this issue isn’t present in other versions of the game, but it’s something to be aware of if you’re considering where to play it.

Regardless of how you play it, I recommend you do play it.

Detention

is the best horror game I've played in years and easily one of the most nuanced, mature stories in the medium as a whole. I have no hesitation in making it my inaugural

Axis of Awesome

entry on Ferretbrain.

Themes:

Computer Games

,

Horror

[humanoid-lovers]

Excellent book on grammar with some instruction, some anecdotes, and plenty of humor. Hilarious. Well-written. Instructive at times. Go to Amazon

Proper English Lives! One would not expect a book on grammar and punctuation to be hilarious, but Truss brings laughter to almost every page. As one of those annoying people who cannot help but point out grammatical errors in public print (menus and grocers and ebooks, oh my!), I found a kindred spirit in Truss. I only wish she had provided her email address, so I could share with her the most egregious of the sign-errors I see every day. Every Grammar-phile should read this book, and keep it on her person for constant reference. Non Grammar-philes should read this book to learn the love of clarity in writing - and to pick up tools with which to defend it. You, too, could be one of those annoying people, confronting the abuse of quotation marks in greengrocers everywhere! Go to Amazon

Really fun read! My ability to puctuate correctly was adequate, but I wanted to be better. I got this book and found it to be an enirely enjoyable read; it gives you confidence to use even the the more unusual punctuation marks correctly... Go to Amazon

A keeper It's refreshing to read a book by an author who has such an obvious love of written language and all its nuances. To make it even better, Ms Truss has infused the entire work with wit and humor. I especially liked the way she was able to weave in a sense of the history of punctuation and its impact on written English, and I share her concern for the future of all these points, stops, and marks. This is a book to savor again and again. Go to Amazon

A Trully Creative, Entertaining and Informative Read If you have doubts a book about punctuation can be clever, entertaining, funny and educational all at the same time, read this one. I have given it as a gift to many of my reader friends and it has never failed to please. Short example and supposedly true story: A famous writer, on his death bed, uttered the following final six words, "I should have used fewer semi-colons." You gotta love it. Go to Amazon

A Humorous Look At Punctuation Trying to remember all the conventions and rules surrounding the topics of punctuation and grammar give some folks a headache. Heaven forbid that anyone would actually want to read up on it; but this was an enjoyable read. We have some snobs here in America who won’t even bother to read something written in the English style (their loss). I often read independently-published Kindle books by English authors and Lynne Truss has clarified, for me at least, some of the strange punctuation noted. Like American writers, English writers also take liberties with the language, but most readers will find themselves chortling through the pages. Dedicated people like this author offer us hope. Go to Amazon

My mistake turned out to be a revelation I bought the book with the advice of a co-worker and accidentally bought the audio CD version/format of the book. My mistake was fortuitous and I have never been happier. The audio format (CD) is a pure delight to listen to as I commute to and from work each day. The people who made the disc did a wonderful job. Very interesting as well as entertaining. I will buy more audio books after this one. Go to Amazon

Get it, read it, keep it, tell all you know about it. This tome deserves high praise indeed. Lynne truss is excellent and knows her stuff so well that you will feel like a small student at a master's knee. She diligently argues that punctuation should not be placed aside and forgotten. That it makes your words come alive with vibrancy. Go to Amazon

Read it once and you’ll never write the same Not a style guide, but a delightful and amusing read I didn’t like it An Okay Read A must read Extremely boring. If the schools didn't require this book Punctuation Penance A well deserved: runaway, best, seller - in Great Britain... Hilarious The musical

[themediareviewer]

The Great Adventure of Horus, Prince of the Sun

1968, Isao Takahata. Action, fantasy, medieval-ish. 

What a delight to have the chance of watching this movie! Few will probably know it, but the ones who do probably know it as one of the first movies in which Hayao Miyazaki and Isao Takahata — the two main directors of Ghibli Studio — worked together. As a big fan of Miyazaki’s work, I must admit I definitely saw it under that light.

As an “older”movie (49 years!), there are obviously certain things that can feel and sound a bit “outdated”. The level of the animation is not consistent throughout the movie and the drawing style is visibly simple if we compare it to the flashy, exuberant effects of today’s movies and anime. However, The Great Adventure of Horus is one of those classic stories that should be watched simply because it is the base to so many stories that we know and love nowadays.

In matters of plot, this movie reminded me a lot of Hayao Miyazaki’s later movies, markedly Princess Mononoke. Here, the movie takes place during trying times and constantly reminds us that coming together as a community is often the only way to move forward. 

There also seems to be a large interest in war-like topics, such as the notion of men going off to war, leaving their wives and children behind. This reality of death, and the loneliness and harsh living conditions of the survivors is very present throughout The Great Aventures of Horus — though not always the main point of the story. This tangible fear and recognizable circumstances anchored the context of the movie pretty well for me, even with all of its fantastic elements. We might not have talking animals or magic spells in our world, but we do understand concepts like food rationing or a grieving wife and kids.

In fact, I find that Japanese animation often seems more comfortable tackling these harsh topics than American animation does. When characters die in Japanese animated movies, it is not always for noble reasons and they’re not always charming deaths. It’s a type of death that seems to confront, even the youngest audience members, with the harsh reality that sometimes people we love just die, in sometimes violent or even pointless ways. And although we can feel angry about those deaths, we (and the characters in the movie) don’t always have the power to do anything about them.

It leads me to wonder if this willingness to explore such helplessness comes from Japan’s own experience during World War 2. Of course, this is nothing but personal speculation, but who better to speak of “feeling helpless” than a nation who sacrificed so much and didn’t get to celebrate victory? I’m not speaking in terms of people being right or wrong in the war -- rather, I’m acknowledging the fact that war is harsh on all sides, and sometimes, decisions made by the head of states can have dire consequences for the majority of the population when they might not even agree with the decision to begin with. Interestingly enough, the animated movie Animatrix also touches upon these feelings of helplessness over a governmental decision, and Princess Mononoke makes us wonder if there really is such a thing as the “right” side in a war. All that to say that, it is often interesting how a country’s history strongly influences the messages explored by their movies, and even their artists’ willingness to tackle certain topics.

As a matter of fact, I am often positively surprised by how much confidence Japanese animated movies have in their audience. I remember watching Princess Mononoke in English for the first time and being struck by how explanatory the dubbed version was in comparison to the Japanese one. While in Japanese the character would say something like, “Ah!”, the English version would say something in the lines of: “Ah, look! The trees are coming together in order to make a barrier!” Reflexively, I would just laugh, because it felt like the people responsible for the movie’s dubbing thought that what was taking place in the animation was unclear, and so needed to explain the visuals through the dialog. In other words, where the Japanese animation trusted its viewers to pay attention to the movie and figure things out on their own, the English-dub seemed to feel their audience needed more explanation and hand-holding in order to appreciate the movie.

Though I am not a fan of purposefully vague movies, I do think there is room for improvement in that front, particularly in Western movies. Audiences will understand way more than some people might give them credit for -- and if they don’t, maybe dumbing down the plot isn’t the way to solve the issue. Instead, a combination of the audience’s willingness to understand harder concepts and of artists to lay their information with enough coherence and grace would benefit both sides, I think.

In fact, as much as this movie is a classic, if I had to complain about one thing, it would likely be the subtitles. Now, I’m no expert in Japanese, so I couldn’t say that such and such translations were “wrong”. Nevertheless, I know that Japanese is a complex, often poetic language, where what is read in-between the lines can be just as important as what people are actually saying. One word emphasized in a different way can completely change the meaning of a sentence. One “nope” instead of a “No” can make a world of difference. That is why when sentences were overly simplified in the English subtitles, they often sounded laughably crass. “You’re like my twin brother then!” the subtitles would read. For English speakers, this sentence can sound odd, in that it seems at once too intimate and too childish.”Like a twin brother” implies such a strong bond, yet since it is being spoken by a child to a stranger she just met, makes it sound like a naive comment. (In fact, most people in the audience laughed at this line in the movie!) However, if we consider that the original Japanese sentence sounded more like, “Your soul and mine are as similar as twins then!”, now the sentence holds the weight of a child with a scarred soul; a kid who has seen too much and whose dialog mirrors the discrepancy between her vocabulary and her age. Of course, this was just an example and I’m likely taking some poetic liberties with the translation. Nevertheless, this is one of the moments when I wish I could speak all languages, because (risking sounding too lame), I am much too aware of how much can get lost in translation.

Another element present in Horus that become even more relevant in Miyazaki’s later movies is the nebulous definition of the word “Good”. Here, Good or Bad aren’t adjectives used to describe a person; rather, a person has both good and evil inside them. Without giving away too much of the plot, there are several characters in the movie whose nature we can’t quite pin down at first -- and that’s because often, those characters are confused themselves! That willingness to admit that people are often more than just good or bad makes these characters way more realistic than many other animated characters to me. In fact, Mark Steinberg once mentioned that Japanese animation often depicts what he calls “emotional realism”, that is, it uses a style that might not look or move very realistically, but realistically depicts the complexity of emotions inside a person. A character who agrees with the protagonist at a certain point in the story might disagree in some other aspect — just as real people do. We have changes of heart, and we can act differently when we’re tired, or sad or angry. Likewise, once someone comes to trust you as a person,  that trust is often enough for them to believe you no matter how much someone seeks to undermine your credibility. There is no big moment of “You doth betrayed me!” (*big, exaggerated motion*). Rather, those who like you will likely back you up no matter what, and those who don’t, will probably find any excuse to act against you.

Finally, I’d like to discuss the clever use of budget in this movie. When I think of movies like Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, where even the simplest shot has a picture-perfect background, with a beautifully crafted movement and a painfully sharp photo quality, I understand why people could expect that same level of perfection from every animated studio out there. But as an audience, we should remember that not every studio has that sort of budget and man-power. That movement style we understand as “realistic” comes with a cost that not everyone can pay. And yet, artists may still choose to tell a story with the means they have available, and we as viewers should be willing to meet them half-way. You know the saying, Tell me a good story and I will read it from a toilet paper (it’s not a saying... But it is a good reference to V for Vendetta). If we only judge a movie by how visually appealing it looks, we could be missing out in some great stories out there. 

The Great Adventures of Horus is one of those movies where, likely for budgetary reasons, the artists used very simple animation. More than once there were long sequences of still frames where the only “movement” was literally the camera movement over the static drawing. It might feel a bit jarring to look at -- particularly for someone who is used to Pixar-like movies -- but it isn’t so jarring if we consider that animation also came after centuries of Shadow plays and Kamishibai (literally “paper play”) in Japan. In that context, animation is not limited to a realistic aesthetic or to a particular quality of movement; it is a means of telling a story, a box of stylistic possibilities.

As such, I found myself thinking of why the artists chose to use partial animation in certain scenes instead of others. In this movie, the makers clearly put their limited budget toward animating the sequences with most emotional value for its characters. The clearest example is that while one of the main battles in the movie (which could be considered imperative to the plot) happens mostly through these moving stills, while the festival of the sun -- which introduces Horus to the village in a more relevant way -- is lavishly animated. The fighting sequence, though important, depicted nothing more than violence and death, and didn’t really require complex animation to be understood by the audience. On the other hand, the dancing sequence is a moment of bonding. Here, we get a fantastic 3-5min sequence where the whole village is dancing around a bonfire while the sun is setting. Between the shadows cast on the floor, or the dozens of people making a zig-zag conga line, or the children running between the people dancing, I just couldn’t stop marvelling at the richness of the visuals. It seems almost contradicting that the same movie could have animation “cheats”, but it’s really not. It is precisely because the movie chose to have some “cheap” shots that they could afford to go big where it mattered to them. As someone who appreciates good storytelling and character development, I definitely respected that decision.

When it comes down to it, I feel this movie is definitely not for everyone… in the same way that The Godfather is not for everyone. As a viewer, you sort of need to know what you’re walking into. However, by adapting your frame of mind and taming your expectations, you can appreciate the movie for what it is: a piece within a historical context with its own filmmaking significance. Personally, I watched The Great Adventures of Horus, as the originator, an inspiration to many movies I love today. The visuals range from noticeably simple to masterfully complex, and the characters go from flat talking animals to scarred men of war. All in all, this movie is the very definition of go big and go home.