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otp-armada · 4 years ago

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I am not looking forward to these flashbacks.

To date, we’ve had four onscreen kisses shared between Bellamy and Echo with additional, smaller moments of other forms of intimacy. I’d rather the show refrain from adding more tally marks to the count.

If humans were gifted with the capacity for purging unwanted memories, then all this discomfort would be a moot point. I suppose there’s always alcohol as a fallback option, but not even the prospect of temporary amnesia is worth destroying my liver. Turning to alcohol to drown my B/E-related sorrows would probably qualify more as self-harm than self-help.

I’d much prefer to cut directly to an imminent breakup scene without the pomp and circumstance of an agonized Echo’s trip down memory lane.

If anything, supplying us with visual evidence on how happy they were together is an even sadder remark on the state of B/E’s fragility, knowing it took 0.001 seconds for the mere mention of Clarke’s name to bring it all to ruin. No collection of past happy moments shared on the Ring erases the fractures in their relationship that occur between them afterward, originating with the revelation of a still-living Clarke. I'd be an absolute fool to believe otherwise.

But if Jason deems a tour of their greatest hits as necessary to the story, I trust his judgment. Showing us B/E's origins as their romantic relationship begins to fall apart in real-time brings it full circle, and it lends gravitas to the story he's telling with Echo. With this particular arc, the bigger picture is still Echo's evolution. It's not about B/E.

Once season 7 started, there was a visible shift in how Jason utilized B/E. Whereas seasons 5 and 6 primarily used B/E as the third leg in a love triangle designed to keep a pining Bellarke apart, season 7 uses their master-spy dynamic to bolster Echo's development almost exclusively. Post-season 6, Bellarke is so primed to get together, one honest admission of mutual feelings without Echo as an obstacle and BOOM. Canon couple.

Echo has a more extensive role than girl-to-be-dumped, and I'm not upset over it. She gets to stand up as a character after the majority of her life has been marked by slavery for her crown, and I'm not upset over it. As indemnification for the loss of her relationship, this orphan-turned-soldier is finding her place in a supportive, loving family while developing a sense of identity and independence, and I'm not upset over it.

I would’ve preferred Jason found a way to take her on this path without B/E remaining intact this far into the final season and theoretically for the foreseeable episodes. I would always choose to end them sooner rather than later, given a choice. But I understand why Jason didn't.

Echo can’t very well outgrow a master-spy complex if there is no master to her spy. And as much as I hate it, the romantic aspect of B/E is a believable, convenient tool to keep this complex in place until her story comes to fruition. Would Echo act so extremely in service to a recent ex-boyfriend who left her for another woman? Probably not. As far as I can tell, the pinnacle of her arc is the moment she realizes she has to break free from Bellamy. So narrative structure demands B/E stay together, however technically, long enough for her to break those chains.

I was initially excited about the flashbacks, if only because I took them as a sign of an impending breakup. But the timing doesn't pan out. Aside from the logistics of Echo and Bellamy presumably on separate worlds, and with her thinking him dead, we've only just reached the point where Echo might start to ask herself those hard questions she's been avoiding. She must have noticed a change in her relationship. Between Psychosis!Emori, B/E's 6x04 fight, and Anomaly!Roan, she's had enough cause for doubt. But I think she's suppressed any urge to reflect upon it for a number of reasons. Love. Continued hope they'll last. War. A mission to save him. It took a lot of meticulous maneuvering to corner Echo to this point. Now that we're here, I don't think Jason would pull a reverse Uno card in a 40-minute episode. It seems more likely that he will let her continue to stew in her emotions. Either she'll keep sinking until she hits rock bottom, or she'll start learning how to swim.

Jason could always prove me wrong. And if I am, I'd never be happier for him to do so. If I'm not? It's at times like this when I am reminded of the resolution I made at the end of season 6- rest easy in the comfort of knowing B/E will meet its inevitable end but do not try to speculate when that might be. Attempting to discern the specifics of "when" brings one only misery.

Jason’s signature sometimes-too-fast, other-times-too-slow pacing, is often liable to tempt one into ripping their own hair out. That being said, I’ve seen enough of this show to trust in his ability to tell a damn good story. Faith in his competency for the craft just requires on our part, the patience of a saint.

If nothing else, it isn’t my story to tell, so I’ll just have to suck it up and find a way to deal with any disappointments I may feel. Or I can try to find the value within the story told. It's a better alternative than to be left bitter. No promises, though.

Maybe Echo’s actions against the Disciples aren’t reprehensible, considering the people she’s killing are those complicit in kidnapping and torturing her people. But Orlando was a good, honorable man whose naïveté convinced him to play for the wrong team, yet helped our heroes when he didn’t have to. Not unlike Shaw, whom Echo sold to Diyoza to fulfill her mission. But I assume “We are not his people” is residual mistrust leftover from Ryker’s betrayal of her. She miscalculated the feelings of one possible defector before, she won’t make the same mistake twice.

If she was able to save Bellamy in the end, I’m sure she’d be able to justify the spilled blood it took to get there. But Orlando suffered at her hands for nothing, and she may not be overly concerned with morality, but she cares for the people she grows close to. Unless the episode proves otherwise, I’d like to think Orlando’s fate will weigh heavily on her.

They may not have been close. But five years in close quarters with only a few people akin to friends for comfort, it'd be hard not to feel the slightest bit attached.

Those of us who believe in Bellarke know Echo is the third-party obstacle in a love triangle. But what is far more interesting is the role she played in the seasons-long Blake siblings struggle.

Echo was persona non grata to both siblings following her and Octavia's mountaintop fight. Six years later, she highlights the difference in the siblings' maturities. Whereas Bellamy has learned to embrace empathy and forgiveness with open arms, Octavia is cold and unyielding. On a more personal note, B/E represents Octavia's persistent unwillingness to respect Bellamy as his own person, with needs and wants independent of her.

After her soul searching on Skyring, I thought she had buried the hatchet, as per her lack of vitriol in her 6x12 conversation with Bellamy, and enthusiastically joining forces with Echo in 6x13. Maybe she did. But Octavia has also proven herself an unreliable narrator, and Hope feels indignation on her aunt's behalf. Whatever the case, there's a reason why the dialogue keeps referencing Echo and Octavia's hostile history. And I think it's building to a head in 7x07.

I think mutual love for Bellamy is healing the divide between them when Echo is at her most fractured. She's isolated from Bellamy and the rest of Spacekru. Left in pain and seeking retribution as Octavia did, which, as we know, is where it all went wrong for the latter. Octavia, more than most, is in the best position to empathize with what Echo is currently feeling and how pain can destroy her if she lets it consume her.

If Octavia can remind Echo she's not alone, if a former enemy can convince her she belongs and welcome her with open arms- as her brother did before her- it might do well in healing some broken piece inside of her. And it would be a roundabout display of Octavia's newfound maturity. This is good for both of them. This spiral she is in will require her to look inward. Since her fixation with Bellamy is partly what landed her in this mess, absolution cannot come from him. She can only find it in herself if she wants it. But I'd be glad if Octavia can help see her through it. This is what I mean about seeking value in the story told. We're so concerned about Octavia calling Echo family, about the possibility of it legitimizing B/E, it doesn't occur to us that it's about the characters themselves. And B/E is only a vehicle used to bring us there. It's easier to see when not consumed by automatic seething rage, as typical of our fellow Bellarke compatriots, for anything remotely associated with Echo.

If my heart and mind weren’t chanting “BELLARKEBELLARKEBELLARKE,” there’s a good chance I’d be able to better appreciate the complexities B/E gives to the development of the four characters it directly impacts.

Our side of fandom has made lots of accusations about B/E since 5x01. It’s a forgettable, physical relationship worth little to Bellamy. B/E is unhealthy for reasons x, y, and z. We generate a different example in every episode. Click slideshow for more details. But the fact of the matter is, much of this isn't true. Until Echo went postal, B/E wasn’t unhealthy. Bellamy just had a greater love for Clarke. Up until their ending scene in 6x04, there was nothing they couldn’t come back from together, if both committed themselves fully, no more walls. It's not a particularly popular train of thought among us, but Jason absolutely could've written B/E as an endgame pairing. And all it would take to deliver a final killing blow is the inclusion of a single damning scene.

We can gripe over the length of time they've stayed together. But, in spite of what most people think about every new B/E development and Bellarke separation, Jason has never actually dropped an ax on Bellarke. Hope persists.

Jason is responsible for the development of dozens of characters, major plots, and dozens of smaller subplots. But our fandom reduced the story chiefly to Bellarke's romance. Our villains are those who stand in their way. Namely Echo, the only outside love interest to be an official obstacle. We fashioned Echo as our enemy. In lieu of removing her from the narrative (which is not in our power to do), we've done everything within our purview to diminish her. If Jason won't treat B/E and Echo as the jokes we know they are, we'll do it ourselves. Minimizing her role in the story makes it a hell of a lot easier to erase a character we'd rather didn't exist for our preferred ship to advance.

Lord knows how many times we've claimed she has no story. That absent relevance or substantial bearing, she's there simply because Jason is partial to her for some elusive reason. But the reality is, we never looked for her story because we wanted to be able to claim its inexistence. We wanted to be able to say she's frivolous to the story, and by extension, to Bellamy. We want to be able to dismantle B/E when it appears Jason doesn't. Except he is and has been doing so since day one.

Months ago, on a whim, when I was feeling benevolent towards Echo, I wrote a long post HERE giving her the benefit of the doubt, and I said:

In the grand scheme of the story, I think this is the purpose Echo serves, to represent the part that says, “We’re all human. No matter what tribe we belong to, we fight for the same reasons. We love the same way. When you leave allegiances aside, when you see someone for who they are at their core, an enemy today can become a friend tomorrow.”

True peace, a series-long running theme for our heroes, begins with embracing former outsiders like Echo and Emori. Easy to lose sight of this when focused on ship wars.

It is perfectly acceptable not to love all the components of a story. It is understandable to focus your attention on those select segments you find appealing. But a tunnel-visioned mindset lands you in trouble when you become resentful at the reminders that a story is a composite of more moving pieces than just the parts you like. And when you forget that screentime allotted to developing those pieces ahead of what you favor is permissible. Everything on a show has its time, all in due course.

On the other hand, B/E shippers overinflate their ship's significance. They take canon and twist it to say, "Look at how strong B/E is, Bellarke could never. B/E is endgame, and Blorkes are delusional." Their conclusion of an epic love is another bias-based fandom interpretation that doesn’t hold water, either.

I think the reality of B/E lies somewhere in a muddled middle of these two extremes.

One last point, and I'll get off my soapbox. Despite what the melodramatic diatribe in my opening paragraph suggests, B/E is never as atrocious as fandom makes them out to be. Greater fandom treats anything remotely associated with B/E as the next great catastrophe. And as it turns out, it never really is.

Tagging @sometimesrosy, because I think, after years of combating opinions you don’t agree with, it might be a refreshing change of pace to know some of us do have more balanced views regarding B/E. If I do say so myself.

#hmmm how i tag this in a way that will land me in the least amount of hot water?#the 100 meta #with a side order of #fandom wank #long post #the 100 #bellarke #b/e #c/b/e #the 100 season 7 #my post

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whetstonefires · 5 years ago

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hey for the 40 questions thing, 9, 10 and 28??

Okay first of all, massive props to you for sending a signed ask, that’s so rare, I did the hugest double take at your not being a Nonny. 😂💗 Anonymous asks are fine and all when people are being pleasant, but it’s always a little weird because my brain flips back and forth between treating all anon asks as being from the same faceless entity and being perfectly aware that the sender is a person, may or may not be the same person as any previous ask, and may even have a name I recognize. Internet gothic.

9) Which fic has been the hardest to write?

Oof. Quantifying that is...tricky, especially if I consider all my Cirque segments as separate fics. Disqualifying those, and everything that never made it to post-ready because it defeated me in the borning....

But A Walking Shadow is sort of Earth-3 adjacent but my battle with it is the battle with the compulsion to try to hew close to canon even after very deliberately tossing it out the window in chapter 1 on the grounds of ‘too goshdarn depressing, everyone is alive at all times.’ Stg the Titans death rate is so wild, after they got the go-ahead to start just making characters up they were allowed to kill people basically whenever, because nobody else needed them for anything.

And special mention should go to the 10k ‘chapter’ of my 5+1 AU collection fic that I finally posted just recently, after several years ago it decided that it wanted to be a full-length novel. But Self (I said) I Don’t Want To Develop An Entire Economy And Political History For The FFVII Setting So Cloud Can Make His Adopted Big Brother Be In Charge Of It! So that has kicked my ass pretty thoroughly. For about four years. 😂 I finally forced the opening (where Shinra collapses and small Sephiroth is abandoned in Nibelheim and Mrs. Strife finds him) to be done, and posted that.

But the thing is, neither of these would have expanded in the way they have and managed to destroy me so thoroughly were they not, in certain ways, extremely easy to write. So they seem like they can’t be the real correct responses.

So I guess the winner is that Red Hood And The Outlaws 10K fic I still owe to an anon whom I can’t consult about specs or anything because they made the request anonymously. Because I had to read Lobdell’s vol 2 run to fulfill the request and as some of you will recall, this process slaughtered me. I cannot with Lobdell. After great suffering I ran aground repeatedly on the shoals of Brainzarro.

NONNY IF YOU’RE STILL OUT THERE PLEASE CONTACT ME I’M VERY SORRY FOR BEING OVER A YEAR LATE, WE NEED TO TALK.

10) Which fic has been the easiest to write?

Ooh, this is hard to assess for similar reasons. Sometimes stuff that took less effort wasn’t actually easier as-such, as a task, I just chose not to do it as well or as thoroughly; does that count?

Chaptered stories are inherently harder, of course, but generally the reason my chapter fics got so long in the first place was they were extraordinarily easy to write, and a great deal of them happened without too much suffering on my part. Either because the premise posed no significant complexities, or because I found it perennially inspiring.

Eventually that sort of progress always hits a wall, though, at least if you’re me. And you have to do the Work part. (This is pretty universal afaik.) I have several one-shot AUs to which continuations have been requested and in many cases sketched or begun, but not finished or posted because in addition to fleshing out the worldbuilding I have to grapple with questions like how much further I can take this concept without abandoning the particular tone in which I told the first part, and whether the tone or perspective I used is in fact the chief draw and so there’s no point.

This I eventually determined to be the case for ‘the tune without the words,’ the one where Jim Gordon runs into post-Under The Hood Jason at a bar, thinks he’s a traumatized veteran, and tries to recruit him to the GCPD.

There’s a plot there about Police Officer Jason, and the batfam reactions and interpersonal drama and whether and when and how Jason would fuck it up, and the identity porn of Batman knowing that Officer Todd Peters is the Red Hood and finding that telling Jim and not telling Jim seem equally unconscionable...but it’s not the same story as that scene in the bar. It’s the story that happens next, because of it. So I cut the bar scene loose from its hypothetical plot and posted it and it’s been quite well-liked.

But it’s certainly not the easiest, even though most of what’s in the posted fic went together fairly readily iirc, because giving up on making the subsequent story happen was such a fight.

...

What is ‘easy?’ What is ‘a fic?’ Watch me perish yet again at the intersection of epistemology and ontology. There are no simple questions there is only doom.

28) Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much.

OKAY THIS IS A DIFFERENT DIFFICULT. At least I’m not being asked to pick my Most Favorite, I’m so bad at favorites, I have to deduce my own favorite tea from behavioral cues.

I’m in the for-me bizarre position that more than three people whose fic I really enjoy are like, friends of mine and might see this. I cannot say any of them, the ones excluded would be Excluded, which I cannot do. So strangers only! Semi-randomly selected from my catalogue of faves!

Okay, let’s see. First one...AO3 user elanor_pam. We technically share no fandoms but I read their stuff for some reason (someone’s AO3 bookmarks I’m sure) and they just. They have really good sentences. I wind up caring intensely about whatever the story is about even if I have literally no idea what it is. And dialogue that’s just that really sweet balance of stylized and naturalistic.

I’m following their fantasy webcomic The Path To Timbala, which is really good so far and also I’m doing the art historian/birdwatcher thing I do with like astolat where it’s like ‘hmm, yes, I recognize that theme/story element/aesthetic preference/pacing trick from [fanwork], how interesting to see it unfiltered through anyone else’s worldbuilding!’

Second. Mm. Slightly arbitrarily and on almost opposite grounds, Persephone_Kore, who hasn’t updated in like four years but contributed to a majority of my favorite fics in the Girl Genius fandom, which is not a crowded one, and wrote a couple others solo. Good combination of humor with pretty faithful characterization. Good rhythm in sentence composition, which allows for humorous asides without breaking narrative flow.

Third...hm, I’m gonna pick metisket for the distressing ability to drag my guts clear out on almost any topic. But especially fullmetal alchemist. Mostly I like that one AU where Al is dead and Ed is homicidally insane. But like, constructively.

None of these people are still writing fic and the webcomic just went on hiatus for six weeks, I am useless as a source of recs, have a nice day. 😂💞

#ask #ask meme #qu-ucks #fanfic #fanfic writing #webcomic #hoc est meum

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violetsmoak · 5 years ago

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Philtatos [1/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47615902

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire--for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there's more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment, but if anyone’s interested, message me through Tumblr.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #art #gods in disguise #wings

Canon-Compliance: Follows the New Earth continuity, with elements of New 52 (ie the ones that don’t completely contradict everything that happened pre-Flashpoint). Ignores Rebirth completely. So, up to about 2016 in terms of publication dates? Robins War happened, but Red Hood hasn’t met Artemis or Bizarro, and nothing bad has happened to Roy ffs!

———————————————————————————————————–

“Of all the warehouses in all the towns in all the world, you grappled onto mine.”

Tim suppresses a groan at the faux amusement even a voice modulator can’t disguise and prepares for the likelihood that his careful planning is about to go to shit. It’s as irritating as the customary flutter in his stomach.

He shifts out of his crouch at the edge of the warehouse skylight and inclines his head to the right, taking in the familiar leather-clad figure and expressionless red helmet. He’s not sure how he didn’t sense the larger man approach or at least hear the tread of his boots.

Jason knows how to be quiet when he needs to be.

Quirks of being a Robin; the habit of creeping around like a living shadow doesn’t disappear, even years after the fact.

“This isn’t your warehouse,” Tim replies at last, careful to keep his tone neutral and not betraying his irritation. While he doubts his predecessor would try to take him out from behind (he’s 89% sure, at least), Red Hood has tried to kill him several times and in several ways in the past.

Jason acts as if he didn’t hear him.

“Might be time to go back to school, Timbers, if you can’t even recognize a Casablanca reference. I thought you’re supposed to be the cultured one.”

“Except for Star Wars, I prefer my movies to be from the post-John Hughes era.”

“Heathen.”

It’s hard to tell if Jason is shuddering in disgust, or in response to the biting November chill; either is possible. Leather isn’t known for its insulating properties.

On nights like this, Tim can’t help being way more in awe of former Robins. When he wore the colors, he had thermal warmers built into his suit—Dick and Jason used to do this job in short-pants.

“Anyway, I’d never buy land here,” Jason continues, a deceptive nonchalance in his tone putting Tim on edge. “It’s right in a flood zone. I dunno about you, but I had enough floods to last a lifetime.”

“Hood, what are you doing here?”

“Should ask you that. I thought you were in California or something. Team-building exercises with the other kiddy heroes or whatever it is you do.”

Tim ignores the way his heart jumps at the notion that Jason gave any attention to his whereabouts. “Business trip. What’s your excuse?”

“Missed the smell of smog and sewer. Needed to get my fix.”

Right, because I really expected him to tell me the actual truth.

“Uh-huh.”

The two former Robins size each other up for several seconds, and not for the first time, Tim curses the helmet hiding Jason’s face. He hates not being able to read people, but in his experience, not being able to read Jason has the potential to turn deadly.

“Are we done?” Tim prompts.

“Yeah, we’re good. Now make like a Bat and step off.” Jason’s reached into his side holsters—and yes, there are the modified M1911 pistols he favors. Tim’s awareness of his position between Jason and the skylight grows. “I’ve got a creep that needs to fear of Hood put in him.”

There is an implicit order to back off, but Tim squares his shoulders.

As if that’s ever worked on any of us.

He has no intention of relinquishing his case, and not just because he dislikes Jason’s style of justice. Tim gets sidelined enough by both Batmans and Robin whenever he’s in Gotham, he won’t knuckle under because Red Hood also demands it. Tim might be a bit in love with the guy, but he knows how to compartmentalize.

His feelings are inconvenient, but he’s resigned himself to them. He can pinpoint the exact moment it started to happen.

(His childhood fascination with Robin doesn’t count, even if it was watching Jason bulldoze his path through petty criminals that made him breathless and giddy in a way watching Dick never had.)

Tim blames the waffles.

No, that’s not right; he blames himself for asking Jason to stay for the waffles.

And the talking.

Which led to the joking.

Which led to that one moment where Jason, with syrup all down his chin, laughed at one of Tim’s throway remarks. Laughed, not sneered or scoffed, but genuinely laughed. It was unguarded and untouched by bitterness, warm and rich and his smile was that cocky twist Tim could remember from so many years ago. Something in Tim’s chest pulled tight, his mouth going dry, and he felt lightheaded.

He should have known at that exact moment, because that’s what happened with Steph, when he looked at her one day and realized, he liked her.

Except with Jason, Tim thought he was just recovering from his surprise that his predecessor agreed to stick around for a while. And that they were getting along and that Jason was laughing.

After that, it was a slow roll toward the inevitable that he unknowingly (totally knowingly) ignored. He’s always excelled at shielding himself from his own feelings—had to be. But every time they met each other on random patrols that crossed over, or amid the monthly major crisis involving the whole Family or when Tim ran into him at the manor visiting Alfred, that buoyant emotion returned, stronger each time.

Sometimes he lets himself imagine that Jason gravitates to him more than anyone else. It fills him with the same dizzy warmth as whenever Jason gives him a look—one of those conspiratorial ones like he and Tim are sharing a joke, except half the time Tim doesn’t know what the joke is and the other half he’s sure it’s him, because what moron falls for the guy that’s tried and almost succeeded in killing him more times than he likes to admit?

He keeps quiet about his feelings, though. It’s not as if it’s something that will ever pan out. It’s simiar to having a crush on a celebrity; fun, if a little sad, to dream about, but never serious. In private, he figures he has a better chance of a healthy relationship with Lynx than with Jason.

He’s accepted that and intends to go on with his life.

“I lose you somewhere there?”

Jason’s voice startles Tim out of his head—he realizes he’s been silent for about thirty seconds—and he gives himself a mental shake. “Just trying to figure out your angle. This isn’t really your…thing.”

“Shows what you know.”

Arguments with Jason are an exercise in futility and Tim refuses to justify his continued involvement in his own investigation—call if professional pride. Instead, he restructures his plan for apprehending his target, accounting for the new and often volatile presence of the Red Hood. He wasn’t looking for a team-up, but he’s pretty sure that’s what’s about to happen.

Tim sighs inwardly.

Just because he’s used to his plans imploding because of Jason, doesn’t mean he has to like it. As to why Jason’s here, it only takes a mental review of the case to figure it out.

“Bunny Vreeland?” he guesses.

“Got it in one.”

Tim nods, because given the specifics of this case, that would be the angle Jason focussed on.

A spate of burglaries have occurred across the city, resulting in Gotham’s elite families and institutions losing valuable pieces of art. Normally Tim would leave a case like this to the GCPD—it should be pretty open-shut, since every theft that’s occurred has been witnessed by the victim.

Except, none of the witnesses seem to be able to recall anything that happened. And somehow, the extant security footage has offered no answers either. As for museums and galleries, those meant to be on guard with security were discovered…doing other things. A lot of them were found in some rather compromising positions, both alone and when working with a partner.

(Tim suppresses a shudder. He could have gone his entire life without seeing the footage a sweat-stained, middle-aged rent-a-cop taking care of himself the Natural History Museum’s security office.)

None of the victims remember how they ended up that way.

That sort of thing, he’d normally suspect it involved Poison Ivy, but she always leaves spores or trails of toxin behind. Every crime scene so far has been clean of any trace evidence.

Whoever is cutting a swath through Gotham’s art collectors has a specific taste—paintings, sculptures and wood cuttings with decidedly risqué themes. Given the behavior of the witnesses and security personnel, it’s entirely conceivable that there’s a metahuman with some kind of… pheromone projection ability running around Gotham. That alone wouldn’t draw Jason’s attention. Except, the latest person to fall prey to the thief was a teenaged girl. And while the age of consent in New Jersey is sixteen, the consenter in question needs to remember giving it to be valid.

Hence Red Hood’s involvement.

“That happened yesterday,” Tim points out. He’s not sure what is more annoying to him: the fact he’s been on this case for a week and Jason thinks he can show up and take it from him, or that Jason’s been looking into it for less than twenty-four hours and has already tracked down the suspect. “How did you figure out you should come here?”

Okay, so it’s probably the latter.

“It’s art, right? Whoever’s doing this need somewhere to store the pieces, even if it’s only waiting to sell them off. And it’d have to be somewhere easy to get in and out of without drawing attention. I kept an ear out for any property changing hands around here that was inside the theft radius.”

“I checked recent property purchases, though. There haven’t been any for the past two months.”

“Well, there wouldn’t be any records of it if it was a handshake deal—which this was,” Jason replies. “It might not be on the record, but this place is now under the ownership of a Steven Howard.” He tilts his head to one side, and Tim suspects he’s being smirked at. “Why, what overly complicated scheme did you come up with to find this guy?”

There’s that teasing again, although the amusement is more genuine this time. Tim hopes the cowl covers enough of his face to hide the flush in his cheeks.

“I used tonight’s WE charity auction to showcase several pieces remaining from my parents’ collection, specifically those that fit the tastes of our thief,” he explains. “It was a last-minute decision, but I know a certain reporter that’s more than happy to plaster my name across newspapers and social media everywhere.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“I was hoping to catch the guy in the act, but I got intercepted by a bunch of Lockheed Martin reps and couldn’t get away.”

“Probably for the best, or he’d have put the whammy on you, too.”

“Maybe.” He doesn’t say he would rather it had been him than the event organizer; the poor woman had been frazzled enough before succumbing to the wiles of the mystery thief. “I had a contingency if it happened.” Specifically, a taser in the sleeve of his suit. “Luckily, I left microtracers on the stolen pieces and used the GPS to find where they were taken.”

“How did you manage that? This guy’s been knocking out every electrical device he’s gone up against.”

“Devices that are turned on, yes. You don’t need a GPS to be turned on to trace it—”

His explanation trails off as the computer in his cowl alerts him to someone setting off the motion sensors he planted a half-hour earlier. The thief was gone by the time Tim arrived at this warehouse, but he knew he would be back.

Showtime.

The shipping area is surprisingly empty but based on the security-feeds he’s hacked into dozens of stolen relics—paintings, sculptures and photographs fill the office. The ones he used as bait—a series of Edo-period shunga—have been placed with some prominence in the middle of the room.

He adjusts the screens within his cowl, toggling through nine different enhanced vision modes before he settles on heat-vision. Since cameras don’t seem to pick up this thief, he’s hoping thermal radiation will be a better bet.

Leather shifts and out of the corner of his eye, he notices Jason crouch down beside him.

Looks like he’s fine with us teaming up, at least.

Out loud, he says, “Wait for my signal. We have to confirm before we engage.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” is the snarky reply.

Tim rolls his eyes and settles back into his observational position.

Jason doesn’t like silence, or at least that’s what Tim thinks because he can’t think of a single instance where they worked together that the older vigilante didn’t run his mouth. Even now, he only manages for several minutes of quiet, shifting his weight back and forth impatiently, before he asks, “So what’s your interest in this? Gotham’s elite getting duped isn’t really your thing anymore. The way I hear, you’re a lot more international these days.”

Tim’s eyes don’t leave the window.

“This is international. There were similar crimes committed in Boston last week, which stopped once the thefts started here in Gotham. Before Boston it was St. John’s, before that Dublin, London—as far as I can tell, it originated in Amsterdam.”

“What’s in Amsterdam?”

“Besides spider assassins and stroopwafel? Catwoman. Except it can’t be her because when the second spate of incidents started up in London, she was in Innsbruck casing the Swarovski exhibit.”

“Then how’d you get a beat on this guy? I got nothing from the security footage. It’s like most of it was erased or malfunctioned.”

“It wasn’t easy. Vague witness statements and enhancing whatever footage was available, which barely helped. By accident, I caught something reflected in a shop window and that was the most tangible evidence.”

“So the guy doesn’t show up on cameras, but still has a reflection. So not a vampire.”

“Not human, either, I think. Somehow, this guy made it from Dublin to St. John’s without being flagged by any checkpoint or even Customs. There are no flight manifests, commercial or charter, that include passengers of his description. Or line up with his times of disappearance. I’ve got a second-hand witness description of him in a Boston lounge at ten o’clock last Monday. Fifteen minutes later on the same day, someone saw him walking around the Wedgewood Museum here in Gotham.”

“That’s where the first theft took place.” Jason makes crosses his arms. “Even if he had access to a plane that travels Mach 1, he wouldn’t get here that fast. Meta?”

“It’s the only explanation that makes sense, since it looks like whatever his powers, he can turn them off and on at will. Probably only uses them when he’s committing the break-ins.”

“And the—wait. There he is.”

They both go silent and watch the suspect enter.

It’s a bit anticlimactic.

Steven Howard looks nothing like a suave master thief that can stir up lustful feelings in anyone. Slender, perhaps as tall as Tim but with a slighter build, dressed in skinny jeans, several layers of shirts and thick black gloves. His dirty blond hair is literally filthy, hanging in the mats that white people try to pass off as dreadlocks, and he’s wearing tinted shades. Inside. At night.

Jason is just as unimpressed.

“Are you kidding me?” he hisses. “This scrawny, pale douche wearing sunglasses at night? He looks like someone didn’t realize Woodstock is over.”

They continue to observe as Howard shuffles into the middle of the room, carrying a huge paper bad with what appears to be enough Batburger to feed twelve people.

“It seems consistent with the descriptions I have,” Tim says, doubtful. “He just… doesn’t seem the type.” Jason is already standing, ready to dive through the skylight and confront the guy, but Tim stops him, throwing an arm out in front of him. “If he’s a meta, we need to have some idea of his capabilities first.”

“Or we knock him out before he knows we’re there and figure that out later.”

“If you want to get hit with whatever pheromones he gives off, be my guest, I promise I won’t take any blackmail videos,” Tim says, and that at least makes Jason pause and reassess.

Below, Howard places the takeout on a pile of crates, and strolls over to the Japanese prints. He considers them carefully for several seconds, before shucking his gloves and reaching forward, stroking his hand across the surface. Then, he presses his forehead against it, fingers caressing the edges.

“Clearly not concerned with artifact preservation.”

“That’s weird, right? Rich people don’t usually walk around feeling up pieces of art?”

“I don’t know, Hood, do you?”

“I’m not rich.”

“You steal literal fortunes from gangsters.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like I keep much of it. And I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth like a few other people I could name.”

“Bite me.”

“Kinky.”

The other man is obviously being a smart-ass, but Tim still clenches his fist and hopes his cowl is low enough on his face to disguise the flood of color in his cheeks.

Down below, Howard straightens up and tugs his shirts off.

“What the hell?” Jason hisses. “We’d better not be out to watch this guy beat off in front of a painting!”

Before Tim can respond, the lights in the warehouse flicker, as if hit by a sudden power surge. Howard rolls his shoulders, like he’s warming up for exercise, and there’s an odd snap that echoes even this high up.

Two enormous feathered appendages erupt from the man’s back, like something out of a video game, except this is real life. One minute there’s nothing occupying the space behind him, and a beat later feathers flare out to both sides, spanning almost the entire office.

“Holy shit. Are those… wings?”

“You mean you’re seeing them too? And here I figured I haven’t been getting enough sleep.”

“Knowing you, probably not.”

“Still want to jump in without a plan?”

“Shut up.”

Tim’s fingers fly over the keyboard of his wrist computer, manually inputting characteristics since he can’t seem to capture the guy’s face on his device. “Whoever or whatever he is, he’s a complete ghost. He doesn’t show up on any of the usual databases. Which is surprising, because, wings?”

Jason shakes his head, slow as if trying to dispel disbelief. “One thing’s for sure, this is definitely our guy…”

There is a squeal of tires from behind them, and Tim’s head whips toward the loading dock below the warehouse. He fiddles with his wrist computer, tapping into satellite imagery to see from the angle he can’t. A half dozen black SUVs swerve into the lot and a wave of men pile out, dressed in black and carrying a varied assortment of firearms.

And there goes the rest of my plan…

⁂

Jason creeps to the edge of the warehouse roof to check out the new arrivals, cursing against the newest complication; Red Robin showing up on his patrol and skinny white boys with wings weren’t bad enough, now he’s got to deal with gangster too?

This was supposed to be an easy night. Break a few bones, shatter a kneecap or two, then go finish off that leftover pizza.

He suspects that whatever this is, it’s going to take up the rest of his patrol.

“Who is it?” Tim wants to know, no doubt fiddling with his fancy tech to, like, use satellite imagining figuring it out instead using his eyes.

Nerd.

“I’m seeing a lot of Kalashnikovs and Makarovs,” Jason replies, tapping his comm so he doesn’t need to shout and give away their position.

“Russian? Ivgene maybe?”

“Bratva, I think. Those guys’ve been trying to push into Gotham since Alex Kosov got arrested and the Odessa Mob started to flounder.”

“Hm. I think you’re right. I’m going over the list of theft vics again, and Ishmael Knyazev is on it.”

“Knyazev…why does that sound familiar—wait. Like Anatoly Knyazev? KGBeast?”

“His younger brother.”

“Shit.”

“I’m pretty sure those Degas’ down there in the warehouse belong to him.”

“Guess he holds a grudge…”

Down on the pavement, the men spread out, a bulky guy bearing some resemblance to Slade Wilson but without the muscles gives orders. He barks at his men to surround the building, ordering them to retrieve the paintings and whatever else appears valuable, and detain the thief for their boss to speak to.

Jason snorts, because he knows what constitutes a Russian mafia talking-to. Steven Howard, or whoever he is, is about to have a lot in common with a plucked turkey. Assuming he goes quietly, which Jason isn’t entirely sure of; they still don’t know what wing-boy is capable of.

As he returns to the skylight, he notes Tim already standing and doing a pat-down check of his equipment.

“If they’re here to address a grudge with this guy, we need to get down there before it gets ugly. I figure we have about four minutes before they infiltrate the place.”

“What happened to not just jumping in?”

“About two dozen Bratva members.”

“Yeah, so? What should we care?” Jason counters. “A bunch of scumbags tearing each other apart sounds like a night off to me. And if Feathers there takes a bullet or three, even better.”

Tim faces him dead-on then, and Jason can imagine the reproachful look beneath his stupid cowl. “Theft isn’t a capital offense.”

“Rape is.”

In his mind, anyway.

“Not according to New Jersey Law, and we don’t get to make that call. That’s what the courts are for, and that’s where this guy is going after I interrogate him.”

Jason huffs and narrows his eyes. “We really gonna have this discussion now, kid?”

Tim bristles and turns away.

“No,” he retorts, “because we don’t have time. I’m going in—with or without you.”

And without sparing another glance at him, Tim takes a running leap and jumps through the skylight to mitigate impending disaster.

Jason remains still for a beat, watching as Red Robin plummet through the air to the warehouse below, glass and metal exploding around him, and then curses.

Because, of course his replacement is going to make it his business. Jason’s perfectly content to let these low lives take each other out—death by mobster is a pretty karmic fate for a rapist, in his opinion.

Tim hits the ground several feet behind their mark, who whirls around and stares with wide eyes. The feathers in his giant wings puff up, and he bends into a defensive crouch, a snarl upon his lips.

“Who the—you! What are you doing here?” ‘Howard’ snaps, clenching his fists.

“Getting you out of here before you become a pincushion,” Red Robin growls, snapping a hand outward to grab at him. “And you’re going to answer some questions.”

“Don’t touch me—!”

“Then get moving, or we’re both—”

Apparently, Tim’s estimate was about three minutes off, because there are muffled explosions from the entrances of the warehouse and then the mobsters are piling in, shouting commands and threats, guns in hand.

“—in trouble.”

Several men fire warning shots into the air, some of which bury themselves in the frame of the portraits nearest Tim and Howard, who gives a growl and shoves away from Tim, stalking toward the incoming threat. His wings flare up in anger. “You brutes dare to—!”

But his approach startles the mobsters, who apparently weren’t expecting to encounter a shirtless winged man coming after them.

Easily startled and trigger-happy—never a good combination.

Tim’s leg snaps out, sweeping Steve’s feet out from under him, just in time to save him from the next wave of bullets ripping through the air where his head was. As Tim lands on the ground with one hand, he uses his other to throw a fistful of R-shuriken that embed themselves in the shoulder of the nearest mobster, who drops his gun with pained curses.

Ah, hell.

Jason leaps over the ruined frame of the skylight.

If anyone asks later, it’s because he doesn’t want to explain to Alfred why the poster child of the family got killed in a mob shoot-out on his watch.

(And yes, just Alfred, because while everyone else can go fuck themselves, the number one rule of the family is that you don’t upset the kindly old Englishman that puts up with literal batshit.)

But the reality is, he’s not about to let the only Bat he trusts become riddled with bullets.

Tim isn’t his family, or a friend—they don’t know each other well enough for that—but there’s always been a kind of certainty to him, so Jason knows exactly where he stands with the other vigilante. And that he can turn his back on him without having to worry about an incoming knife or a nerve-strike.

When they first met, he zeroed in on Tim because of lingering resentment and a burning desire for vengeance on his replacement, misdirected as that might have been. Now that he’s mostly over the madness of the Lazarus Pit and endured a few grudging family team-ups in the face of Gotham’s usual psychopaths, his tendency to cross paths with Red Robin feels like it’s motivated by something more complicated. There’s a connection between them, a shared experience of being the replacement that no one really wanted, constantly measured against the legacy of their predecessor and then cast aside with painful ease. They’re outsiders in the family, in a way that neither Dick nor Damian will ever be, and in his own screwed up way, Jason is a bit protective of the kid.

(Not that he intends ever to admit that.)

So yeah, going after Tim isn’t really a choice.

Can’t promise I won’t shoot that winged fucker for causing all this trouble, though.

As he lands in a heavy crouch, Jason notices Tim’s mouth part in surprise; he can’t help being insulted by that.

Sure, they’re relationship can at best be described as limbo, but the kid should know by now Jason no longer hates him with a fiery passion. If he must partner with any of the Bats, he sticks close by Tim, and not only because he has less trouble asking him for help than Dick or Bruce.

(Seriously, the last time he called in a favor with Dick, he couldn’t even get the word out.)

Tim, back on his feet now, sends another hapless gunman flying in Jason’s direction with a well-placed right hook; the guy’s eyes go wide at the sight of the Red Hood, who swings and backhands him into unconsciousness. As the body goes limp, Jason grabs the falling gun with one hand, and uses the other to prop the mobster up as a shield.

Shoving him out in front of him, Jason ducks behind the body to avoid the rain of bullets now coming at him courtesy of this guy’s buddies, carefully inching forward behind his human shield.

“No killing!” Red Robin snaps from across the room; he tosses a tiny device at two more guys, and as it explodes, a controlled concussive blast knocks them to the ground.

“I’m not killing anyone.”

“You’re not exactly preventing it!”

“Everyone’s a critic…”

Still, at the next opportune moment, he throws the man aside and shoots the guns out of the hands of the three shooters, before whirling around to kneecap the fourth that sneaks up from behind him.

One of the injured men tries to come at him again, this time with a knife, but Jason ducks the clumsy blow with ease, punching him in the gut and dragging him into a headlock as he doubles over. He swings him to the ground, takes another shot to hobble him, and then ducks as the two other mobsters crowd him.

Howard looks like he’s trying to inch away from the firefight, but he’s sent back to the ground with a well-placed tap from Red Robin’s bo staff.

“Don’t go flying off just yet,” Tim growls, then vaults over him and puts himself between the winged man and another cadre of mobsters, sweeping his cape in front of them both to shield them.

Must have upgraded it to be bulletproof since I last saw him…

Jason throws one arm up to catch a downward swing from his nearest opponent, twists his body to avoid his comrade, and then strikes the latter in the face, rolling and twisting the arm in his grasp to send the man backward. Both now on the floor, he downs them with two precise shots to the knees, and then stalks forward to finish another with a front-kick to the sternum.

Nine down—how many left?

There’s a lull in the gunfire, and Jason engages his helmet’s infrared system to find the remaining mobsters; they appear to be retreating for the moment, but the thermal readings suggest they aren’t going far.

“Got an exit strategy?” he prompts, backing toward Tim and their hapless charge, guns still primed to shoot.

“You seriously still need to ask?”

“Does it involve going up? Because I don’t think that’s going to work.”

Tim follows Jason’s gaze toward the skylight where the Slade lookalike is perched, disengaging the safety on what Jason recognizes almost too late as a Dragunov.

And ten to one the fucker’s primed with armor-piercing rounds!

There’s only time for Jason to get one person down and to safety, and between the winged bastard that caused all of this, and Tim, there’s no contest.

He vaults forward as the first shots thunder through the air, throwing himself at Tim as bullets careen into Howard. Jason doesn’t know if it hits him anywhere vital, but they do pierce through the thick wings, sending him to the ground in a crumpled heap.

Several of the same bullets plow into Jason’s shoulder when he can’t quite move out of the way in time. He feels blood blossoming across his skin—not the numbing, bone-deep ache of a major injury, but more of a graze—as he lands on Tim’s less than cushioning body.

“Christ, kid, eat a sandwich,” he growls, tightening his hold on the kid and rolling them both out of the path of fire. With an inelegant inchworm crawl that should embarrass anyone trained by Dick Grayson, he manages to get them over to a bunch of crates to provide cover.

It’s just in time, too, since another stray bullet glances across Jason’s helmet; this isn’t as lucky as the body armor. The screen shatters and his comm fizzles out from the force of the shot, and Jason snarls out a breathless oath at the pain and sudden disorientation.

There’s another dull roar, a second round of automatic fire, and this time its Tim knocking him out of its path, dragging them lower down behind the crates.

A beat later, Jason senses fingers scrabbling at the catches of his helmet—

“Ja—! Hood—you alrigh—?!”

And then the helmet is off, and Tim looms over him. He is surprisingly clear in Jason’s vision considering the hit he just took. The cowl hides his eyes, but the way his jaw clenches suggests worry.

Something shoots through Jason then, hitting him like a blow to the gut, as if someone snuck up behind him and sucker-punched him. But there’s no one near him except Tim, probably wouldn’t coldcock someone while he’s down.

For a moment, Jason imagines the entire world slows, and the roar of gunfire fades out, replaced by a puzzling whispering that drowns everything else out:

“—should e’er I go, will you go with me--?”

“—come back to me—”

“—I would that you would leave them all to perish—”

“—bury us together—”

There’s a harsh, swooping sensation in his stomach and Jason gasps for breath, the pain of the action refocussing him on his immediate surroundings. Sound returns, the echoing words bleeding into Red Robin’s voice in an eerie double timbre.

“Hood, answer me! Are you okay?!” Red Robin demands, and then lowers his voice into a hiss, “Jason!”

Physically shaking his head to clear it, Jason forces his concentration past the strange haze surrounding him and pushes the other vigilante away, pausing only briefly to assess that he hasn’t been shot too.

“Not cool, man, secret identity, remember?” he grumbles.

“You’re still wearing a mask,” Tim shoots back, but what would normally sound waspish for him sounds tense. “Or half of one at least.”

Jason grunts in response, digging into his pocket for the spare domino he keeps on hand, peels the backing off the adhesive strip and fixes it to his face. He peeks around the edge of the crates to study the sniper up high, while Tim cranes to check on their mark; Howard is still moving, shoulders and wings shifting like he’s trying to get up. They need to get him out of the line of fire, much as Jason would rather not, and stop the guy from bleeding out.

Another barrage of bullets demolishes the top edges of the crates.

“Police are on their way,” Tim tells him, flicking something on his wrist computer.

“Awesome. Just in time to identify our corpses.”

“As if you haven’t had worse,” Tim snorts, studying the projected display. “All the exits are covered; unfriendlies on our four, six and nine.”

“And the one up top.”

Another bullet embeds itself three inches from Jason’s head. He and Tim consider each other for a second, and the younger man digs another handful of gadgets from his bandolier. He juts his chin at the skylight, his meaning plain, and Jason nods.

Simple enough plan. Of course, it’d be nice if there was something to distract them a bit more. I really don’t want to get shot again just now—

Their buddy Howard decides that’s the optimal moment to try to get up again, pushing himself to his feet with a snarl. His wings unfurl with a whump sound, the blast of air rippling from them sending a few of the nearer mobsters staggering. It has the added effect of drawing their attention, and for a moment, there’s a lull in the amount of projectiles heading for Jason and Tim as the gunmen focus on the new threat.

“That’ll work.”

“Go!”

They burst out from behind the crates, Jason already shooting several rounds at the sniper up top, while Tim flings a handful of circular pods at the nearest enemies. This first wave of devices are knockout gas, which downs the two closest mobsters and makes Steve cough and stagger.

Jason’s target pulls back to avoid his attack, but isn’t fast enough, ends up taking a shot to the calf and staggering forward. He plummets to the ground, and there’s a familiar sound of bone cracking—Sorry, asshole, that sounded like a femur—and then Jason swings around to take out the trio sneaking up on them from behind.

Tim automatically ducks beneath his arms, neatly avoiding the barrage of bullets, and tosses another handful of gadgets; this time, upon contact, wires snap out and wrap around the attackers, making several overbalance while the others lose grip on their weapons. Jason’s clip is empty now, and so he drops his own guns, pulls out the modified grapple gun and fires; it punches through the shoulder of one guy, and Jason retracts it, pulling him forward and then downing him with a punch to the jaw.

Red Robin’s last device is something metallic that lands in the middle of the floor and vibrates with a startling intensity; Jason’s about to make a lewd joke, when his grapple is tugged out of his hands—along with every other metallic weapon nearby, which collect in a pile around the device.

“Really?” Jason grouses.

“Like you really need a weapon,” Tim shoots back; he’s already got his bo staff primed and ready—Must be made of some non-metallic polymer this time around—and sweeps the legs out from under some stragglers.

Jason decides to show his feelings on the matter by plowing forward and brawling with the remaining members of the mob. He doesn’t pull his punches, listening to the snap of forearms and crack of broken ankles and cries of pain.

And as suddenly as it started, it’s quiet again.

The warehouse is in ruins—along with quite a few of the relics.

Howard gapes around. “You animals. You absolute savages! You just…look at this!”

“Hope you have insurance,” Jason quips.

“Don’t really care if you don’t,” Tim adds, bringing out one of the remaining pods; he snaps it open before Steven can say anything, and rope wires explode outward to wrap around him, wings and all. “Now, let’s go have a conversation before the police show up.”

Grabbing hold of the guy by the front, he fires his grapple and flies upward; Jason stares after him for a bit longer than a blink, shakes his head. After tugging his grapple out of the pile of weapons (with more difficulty than he’d like), he follows.

Sirens scream in the distance, as he and Tim face down the winged man who is teetering a bit as he tries to keep balance.

“Well, that’s just rude,” he mutters, his pinched expression reminiscent of Damian’s permanently constipated look. “And a waste, really.”

He closes his eyes in concentration, and the wings vanish, causing Tim’s bindings to loosen. Both Tim and Jason leap forward to grab him in case he tries to make a run for it, but he sidesteps them with surprising ease.

“Knock it off, I’m not going anywhere,” he snaps before they can try again. “What’s the point, you just destroyed my pad.”

“You’d think you’d be more bothered about having been shot,” Tim deadpans, and then studies the shirtless man with a frown on his lips. “Or not.”

There isn’t a sign injury on him.

“I heal fast.”

“Good to know,” Jason says.

Without another word, he snaps head forward and headbutts the pasty-faced bastard. Who crumples to the ground once more.

“Hood!” Red Robin cries in protest and recrimination.

“What? It was that or a bullet.”

Red Robin pulls him backward and away from their detainee, mouth turning downward. Jason intends to mirror the expression right back—he isn’t in the mood for Tim’s bitch-face—but his vision falters a bit, tunneling a little as it settles on Tim’s form.

Okay, so that was a bad idea. If I didn’t have a concussion before…

“Man, you really shouldn’t have done that…” their winged detainee mumbles, picking himself back off the ground and glares at Jason through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “I mean, if you weren’t screwed before by the bullet, you definitely will be now.” His gaze flicks to Tim, and the corner of his mouth ticks up in a way Jason doesn’t like. “Probably quite literally.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jason snaps, finger itching towards a trigger once again.

“That’s not important,” Tim interrupts. “I want to know who this guy is. Metas tend to avoid Gotham.”

“Well, darling, I’m not a meta.”

“Then what the hell are you? Because those wings ain’t human,” Jason growls. “And this is the only time we’ll ask nicely.”

The winged man draws himself up, somehow managing to loom despite the fact he’s perhaps an inch taller than Tim and narrows his eyes at them like he’s looking at vermin.

“I am Eros,” he says, lifting his chin, “the God of Love.”

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

#jaytimweek2019 #jaytimweek #jaytim #jaytimbingo2019 #fanfic #jaytim fic #batfic #tim drake #jason todd #eros (new earth)#mythology #art #gods in disguise #wings #violet writes #drama #angst #introspection

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gracecarmella · 5 years ago

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Black Fashion and Where to Find It

I attend Parsons School of Design, a powerhouse known for producing some of the most well-known fashion designers working today. Marc Jacobs, Anna Sui, Donna Karan, Alexander Wang, Tom Ford, Jason Wu, and more have attended this infamous university, but there are some major names still missing: black names. Only 3.31 percent of Parsons graduates were African-American in 2014. This number is not unique in the slightest compared to other prominent American fashion schools, with the Fashion Institute of Technology with 8 percent of graduates being black and the Pratt Institute at only 1.9 percent. Comparatively, Asian-American graduates at the respective fashion schools were 10 percent at F.I.T., 13.78 at Parsons, and about 15 percent at Pratt. The rates of disproportionately less black fashion graduates are examples of not only historical underrepresentation of black designers in the industry, but also a systemic racial divide in America that African-American artists and designers bear the burden of immensely.

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(Parsons MFA Runway 2019)

I reached out to Nadia Williams, Director of Parsons Scholars Program and BFA Fashion Design graduate, and asked her about what the school was doing regarding diversity and inclusion. Williams explained a lot of Parsons’ initiatives were on the local level. “We do a lot of work with New York high schools that are in communities of color, exploring college education and careers in art and design. We have some spaces dedicated to racial minorities already integrated into into the school and its curriculum, but a lot can be said about how little black students we’re admitting.” Her words reflect a shared sentiment among every fashion education institution from Central Saint Martins to Vogue Scholars: Black people don’t have a presence. It seemed like a lot of black at Parsons were all to familiar with how different it is for black people in the fashion industry, as seen in my conversation with professor Karen Rippy. She’s been training the future forces of fashion in New York City for years (Fashion Institute of Technology, Pratt, Parsons) and has amassed an incredible retrospective on the industry and the education behind it. The following is an excerpt from my interview with Rippy:

Does your own personal identity play a significant role in your teaching/designing?

I’d like to say it doesn’t affect how I work. I guess with some exceptions, I’d like to keep my art and my identity separate. Being a black woman is apart of who I am, but it’s kind of refreshing for it not to be apart of everything I do.

Are there any experiences as a black designer you think differ greatly from your white contemporaries?

Almost everything! (laughs) It’s a lot harder to be taken seriously, even when you’ve done just as much work in a company. People are hesitant to even credit your own designs and sketches to you or give you more work to do without a feeling of scrutiny.

Who do you think have been the most influential designers of color?

Tracy Reese has been very relevant for awhile now, especially since she designed for Mrs. Obama. She has opened a lot of eyes and been the first to follow the path that she has and been extremely successful.

What are the most significant changes you’ve witnessed in the fashion industry during your time working?

I think the biggest change is just how fast people and things can come and go. Trends are almost even trendier now. There’s so much going on, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but the fact that ideas are shifting and ideas are becoming obsolete so fast is something to get used to if you’re used to the old ways like me.

Do you think the state of the fashion industry today has improved enough for designers of color since you entering it?

I want to say yes, because there’s just so much more room for us now. My generation has paved the way for yours to show off everything we can do. Technology has made it possible for everyone regardless of race to learn how to design and sew and just get a foot in the door. There’s still a lot of work to be done though. I’d like to see a lot more black students!

Rippy’s insights got me thinking about the career paths young black designers take and how they navigate an industry that has normalized the exclusion of black professionals. The design sector lacks comprehensive and actionable inclusion on an executive level. There’s more than enough money and audiences invested in black culture and art, and often appropriating it (see: Dolce & Gabbana). This is a phenomenon deeply connected with the anti-blackness of world economic practices. Designer Kibwe Chase-Marshall proposes a program tackle these issues to the Council of Fashion Designers of America and American Vogue (who already collaborate on the transformative Fashion Fund Award). The proposed program has three parts:

Design

Purpose: address the non-meritocratic appraisal of design talent that most consistently disadvantages Black professionals.

Design-studio racial stats disclosure.

Immersive hiring manager bias elimination training.

Pledge of commitment to creating equitable inroads for Black talent via meritocratic hiring practices.

Headhunting & Recruitment

Purpose: address the consistent denial of fair access and representation for prime opportunities for Black design talent.

Compliance with auditing of recruitment and headhunting practices by contracted third party.

Pledge of commitment to creating equitable inroads for Black talent via meritocratic representation.

Talent Pool & Academic Communities

Purpose: bring greater visibility to consumers, students, talent pool and media regarding overall industry commitment to change regarding inroads for Black design professionals.

Annual disclosure/endorsement by CFDA/Vogue of participating brands, along with statistics regarding the racial composition of their design teams.

Annual disclosure/endorsement of participating headhunters and recruitment firms.

Chase-Marshall’s corporate model for a new millennium of black fashion designers is ballsy: It targets the big dogs and and immediate institutional change. Aurora James of Brother Vellies told New York Magazine, “Fashion has a bad habit of making very surface-level changes. It’s not just about adding more black models. People don’t think about the factory workers who are, honestly, almost always people of color. How meaningful would it be to make something beautiful that is also empowering?” This raises the question: What designers have created empowering, culturally relevant, and successful names for themselves in the industry? The answer contains an array of black names who are reaching a level of relevance that used to be reserved for white designers. Fashion is undeniably witnessing a golden age of black creativity in high-end fashion.

Some of the most obvious examples come from music artists crossing over into the fashion world, most notably Kanye West’s Yeezy and Rihanna’s Fenty empire. Launching her luxury fashion house under LVMH earlier this year, Rihanna has quickly made significant strides in both beauty and fashion. Her lingerie brand Savage x Fenty is indirectly credited with putting Victoria’s Secret out of business, as well as her makeup line creating a new industry standard with a 40-shade range foundation. What Rihanna is doing in traditionally white spaces is adding a legacy to the role of African-Americans in the fashion canon, largely because of her presence in social media and e-commerce spaces. Rihanna joins Virgil Abloh, Oliver Rousteing, and Shayne Oliver, black men who serve at the helm of luxury fashion houses Louis Vuitton, Balmain and Helmut Lang, respectively.

(Abloh, LV Creative Director, and Rihanna, Fenty Creative Director)

Virgil Abloh brought the streetwear aesthetic of his own brand, Off-White, to high-fashion after becoming Louis Vuitton’s creative director in 2017. His new position was undoubtedly a product of the cultural shift in fashion at the time, as seen in Supreme and Louis Vuitton’s collaboration that same year. Abloh’s recent FW 2020 pre-collection emphasis his direction for Louis Vuitton: camouflage, chest rigs, oversized pockets, sherpa jackets, and sequin-embellished suits, all characteristic of his work for Off-White. The fashion world is finally seeing how trendsetting people like Rihanna and Virgil Abloh are, and giving them access,” says Claire Sulmers, founder of blog Fashion Bomb Daily. Shayne Oliver resurrected his high fashion streetwear brand Hood by Air in 2012 and put the brand on hiatus to take up a position as creative director of Helmut Lang. “That’s our role: to wear it, look cool in it, put lifestyle in it, as opposed to being the person pushing the ideas out. Making clothes is not seen as a man’s job in black culture,” Oliver described fashion’s role in his life. His sentiment pushes one of the biggest oxymoronic strengths of the African-American fashion presence: in a society where black culture is relentlessly commodified, black people are still the best at selling it. “Diversity” and “inclusion” might be buzzwords in 2019 and into the future, but the effortless cool of black creativity will never fade to trends. Oliver Rousteing became the head designer of Balmain at only 25, responding to grumblings about his new placement: “People were like, 'Oh my God, he's a minority taking over a French house!”

A favorite of Parsons students and creator of “Brooklyn Birkin” is Telfar Clemens’ titular brand Telfar. The relatively new house created a strong brand identity with their sleek signature Shopping Bag and collections featuring flares, high-waisted denim, and deconstructed sportswear that caught attention from the influencers of 2019 looking for unisex sensibility. Tracy Reese made a name for herself after regularly dressing Michelle Obama in couture and delivering consistently strong collections since, making her arguably the most well known black woman designer working today.

One show that particularly stuck out to me at the most recent New York Fashion Week this past September was the unapologetically black Pyer Moss show. I sat down and watched the critically acclaimed runway collection, which was one of the highlights of an increasingly irrelevant NYFW and a peak in head designer Kerby-Jean Raymond’s career. The show was the final installment of “American, Also,” a three-part series that highlights the untold stories of Black people's major contributions to American culture. The live music throughout the entire runway was performed by the Pyer Moss Tabernacle Drip Choir Drenched in The Blood, singing soul, R&B, gospel, and hip-hop classics. From Anita Baker’s “Sweet Love” to tracks by Missy Elliot, the choir really seemed to contextualize the show in its blackness as well instilling a concert-like giddiness in the star-studded audience. Jean-Raymond’s designs didn’t disappoint either, clearly showcasing his musical inspirations: billowy eveningwear with dramatic draping was reminiscent of 70s divas like Diana Ross. Music-inspired details (piano keys hemming a top, a brown leather bag shaped like a guitar, guitar head print motif) and oversized suits were also all united under the show’s bold and contrasting colorways. I think the otherwise strong and thematically strong collection faltered towards the athleisure at the end, which felt overdone and branded with the Reebok logo.

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Jean-Raymond’s greatest strength remains in his practice of bringing black artists and black-owned brands to the forefront of his collections. “American, Also” contains the work of recently exonerated artist Richard Phillips, whose watercolor paintings (from when he was in prison for 45 years for a crime he didn’t commit) adorn pieces in this collection as vibrant prints. Gold jewelry designed by Johnny Nelson is also featured; the custom portrait necklaces depicting 21 famous black women musicians such as Aretha Franklin, Nina Simone, Janet Jackson, Mary J. Blige, Beyoncé, Lauryn Hill, Aaliyah, Erykah Badu, Queen Latifah, Rihanna, Janelle Monae, Solange and more.

Pyer Moss serves as an example of high-fashion made by and for African-Americans, forcing a space for itself in an otherwise exclusive establishment. There are other brands attempting similar collections, notably Gucci’s “partnership” with Dapper Dan. In 2017, Gucci was under fire for allegedly copying the signature design of Dapper Dan’s 1984 jacket. While many on social media called it a blatant disregard for black creativity, the fashion house quickly met with the legendary Harlem designer and agreed to work together on Gucci’s 2018 menswear line. “All luxury brands should look at Dapper Dan and Gucci as an example of what to do and what not to do,” said blogger Claire Sulmers. “But in the end, it’s a wonderful time to be a person of color in the fashion industry.”

Despite setbacks, it is a wonderful time indeed- with entering and influencing the industry has never been more accessible for young black creatives through social media like Instagram. A lot of black designers are rising to prominence with an online presence, where the high-end white establishment can never fully grasp. The extremely fresh and somewhat dystopian new class of “influencer” has a huge impact on what consumers and trends will follow. It-Boy Rickey Thompson and modern Club Kid Luka Sabbat have amassed huge followings for their Instagram styling and Youtube projects. Rappers like Playboi Carti, Lil Uzi, and A$AP Mob are perfect examples of music artists crossing over into the world of high-end fashion boosted by their Instagram or Twitter spheres. The trendiness of African-American culture that has historically been so coveted by the fashion industry is now publicly broadcast straight from the source.

Words: 2257

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