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holyhikari · 6 years ago

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The Wayne-Todd Literary and Tea Society

In which Damian and Jason bond over books and complicated feelings.

Batman (Comics) one-shot. Characters: Damian Wayne & Jason Todd.

Word count: 2695. For General Audiences. No pairings.

Read on Ao3: The Wayne-Todd Literary and Tea Society by Beatriz Caelum

When Damian sees Jason Todd, he is always tempted to ask a few questions.

You see, differently from most, what he wishes to say usually isn’t about the killing that happens when Jason puts on the infamous red helmet. That he is capable of understanding. Damian didn’t use to kill for anything related to ethics — a natural aspect of his birthright more than anything else —, as grey as morality can get in both sides of his family, but he has blood on his hands nonetheless.

There isn’t much to say about dying, either. They’ve both been there, at different times, in almost different worlds, clinging to what Bruce Wayne once meant, but Death is timeless and the same to everyone it touches. (It is life that is different. Damian woke up to love and Jason to absence.)

Sure, there were some scattered talks about it over a rooftop or two, mostly questions, “What do you remember of it?” and “Do you feel wrong when you breathe?”, that were met with, “I’m not sure,” and “Being alive to me has always felt somewhat unsettling,” but it wasn’t long before they realized that it was the last thing they wished to talk about, even with someone who could understand.

Good thing they can work just fine with silence.

Even though almost a full year has gone by after Damian was bought back to the unfortunate land of the living, he still catches the Red Hood looking out for him more than what is necessary whenever they happen to meet under Gotham’s night sky. It’s something he does even when they are in different sides of a fight, “not opposite sides,” Hood would say, “you know what I want for this hell of a city is the same that you want, too.”

(Damian supposes it is the same in more ways than it is not, but Father has a more abrasive opinion on the matter.)

Regardless of how many times Damian has snarled for him to stay out of his way — like a little brother would be upset rather than an acquaintance or an ally —, that he does not need the extra protection, especially not from him, the Red Hood is insistent. Merciless even about this.

Father’s face twitched when he mentioned the gesture. Drake teased, “you complain when we don’t like you, you complain when we try to help.” Richard gave him a sad smile that Damian couldn’t shake off for days; Nightwing is also prone to reckless protection around Robin, closer to endangering himself than he would be otherwise.

It makes it harder to work. It makes it more painful to love and be loved by Richard. It makes him more sensitive to what persisted of Father’s grief. But, right now, Damian can only think of how it makes him more curious about Jason Todd — he could write a list. How can you be so ruthless, yet so caring? How much of your idiocy is staged? How was Father before he lost you? Do you truly not realize the hole you left inside his heart?

But, most of the time, he wishes to ask him about Mother.

Damian knows they spent some time together. What of her that he knows that her own son doesn’t? He wonders, sometimes, what would have been of their weird brotherhood — if you could call it that — if Mother was to tell him about the ex-Robin’s leap into the Lazarus Pit. They could’ve met. He was very young then, but his tender age had never been an issue to the League. Perhaps, after probably trying to murder Jason for planning to hurt the Batman of all people, he would grow to admire that… unique determination. Like he does now, although reluctantly.

However, what actually pulls the trigger and has Damian swallowing his pride has nothing to do with blood — in any sense of the word.

“What do I own the visit?”

The way Damian stiffs, full on Robin gear and with only one foot into the apartment’s window, could only be caught by someone trained under his Father. The Red Hood snorts, a sound distorted by the helmet’s voice modulator.

“I assume you let me in,” he chooses to say. “Otherwise your security methods could be compared to the skillset of a babbling infant. And that is me being polite.”

“It sure is,” Hood sits down, couch worn out and small like most of his safehouses, reaching for a mug resting on a table. The room smells like cheap coffee — the kind that offends Drake to a personal level —, but Damian suspects that this is tea. “Alfred called. Like, a few minutes ago. Said that if I let my window open I might catch a bird.”

Damian clicks his tongue, “I didn’t tell Pennyworth to inform you of my arrival.”

“Are you embarrassed?”

He presses the bag he is holding a little too forcefully to his chest. ��No.”

The Red Hood hums and takes off the helmet. Then, Jason Todd blows on his drink. “You must have noticed by now, but Alfie kinda does what he wants.”

(Damian has very much noticed.)

“Were you about to go out to do any of your nonsense?” He asks. Then, more shyly: “I could come back another time.”

For a moment, Todd looks like he’s about to ask what Damian wants from him, but instead, he raises an eyebrow. “You don’t get to boss me. Weren’t you supposed to be getting ready to patrol now, baby bat?”

Damian frowns at the nickname. “We’re going in later tonight for a specific mission, but, for once, I am not here to discuss any crime-related activity. It is more… personal.”

“Oh, no.” He groans louder than Damian wants to hear. “Is this any kind of family meeting? I know I have been on kinda-friendly terms with most of you for a while now, but I’m not in the mood for anything personal. ”

“It is not a family meeting.”

“Whatever it is, go to Dick.”

He clears his throat. “I think it will be of your interest.”

“Surprise me, then.” Todd sighs, stretching his arms. The mug is now empty and there’s probably more where it came from, but he doesn’t offer any beverage to Damian. Rude. “Do your worst, but you know I’m badder.”

He refuses the urge to roll his eyes at the insulting use of the English language — Todd is above this! — and drops his bag’s content onto the living room table with little to no ceremony, almost pushing the mug off. Jason curses at him.

Then, nine bangs. One from each Sherlock Holmes book colliding with the wood.

Todd's expression shifts in a way that Damian knows he wishes he still had the helmet on.

“These are mine,” he draws out, slow.

“Indeed.”

“You —,” Todd narrows his eyes, the greenish blue glowing accusingly. “You stole my books?”

Damian bristles, “I am above stealing.”

“I don’t remember giving them to you,” he points out. “Or letting you borrow them.”

“They were in the Manor’s library,” he says. “With some other books that also belonged — belong to you, I believe. They had a special place just for them.”

“Wh—”

“Pennyworth.”

Todd’s shoulders are still tense, but the lines around his eyes soften at Alfred’s name. Damian can see that there’s some sort of internal struggle by the way Jason’s body carries itself in what he recognizes as the most unforgiving self-discipline; as if his fingers itch to run through the books’ covers, open them, press gently to the pages’ margins to see — to feel — if the notes he took so fervently all those years ago are still intact, but he doesn’t want to have this moment in front of Damian.

“You came here to tell me you found out Alfie is a good person,” Todd deadpans, but Damian catches the constipated emotion nonetheless. “Amazing job, Detective.”

“I came here,” he hesitates, “because I saw your notes.”

Todd wrote on all the nine volumes, a rushed, clumsy but determined calligraphy squeezed between the edges and Arthur Conan Doyle’s words, mostly untouched with the exception of a few phrases carefully circled by Alfred where Todd had made a grammar or spelling mistake. By the end of each and every book, there’s Father’s handwriting complementing Todd’s observations and theories about the plot, the mysteries and the characters throughout the pages.

It made Damian heart’s ache when he saw it all. Younger Todd’s excited rambling about what he was reading was very, very bright. More often than not, he grasped even the more obscure clues and foreshadowings Doyle left within the narrative — a detective in making. A natural.

Damian had imagined Jason Todd as this dense, unruly kid that would only pick up a book if someone made him. Someone who worshipped senseless violence. It’s what almost everyone says. It’s what Todd himself tells people.

I was Robin. The bad one.

“And you’re here to tell me how stupid they were? How much better you were at my age?” Todd scowls, getting up a little too fast, already walking towards him. “Because I don’t want to hear any of it. Get out.”

“Thank you,” Damian blurts out before the most Al Ghul part of him shuts his mouth and before Jason pushes him out of the window. “It was a privilege to read them.”

Surprise bursts into Todd’s face and he almost loses his balance when his steps come to an abrupt stop. “What?”

“You were — I saw your other books,” he says. “You have excellent taste in Literature and your notes were filled with very pertinent insights.”

“You’re complimenting me.”

“Yes,” Damian rolls his eyes. “It would be foolish of me not to admit it.”

Todd opens his mouth, then closes it. He repeats the action a few more times.

“You’re welcome, I guess?” He says, exasperation coloring his tone. “I wish I had a camera.”

“Only the Sherlock Holmes collection had notes on them,” Damian decides to push his look. “I checked it twice.”

Todd’s lips twitch, forming a thin line. A sort of bitterness clings to him and Damian is suddenly too aware of the fact that the boy who wrote what he read is lost to more than time itself.

“B gave me them so the deductive skills part of training wouldn’t be so boring,” he sits down again, not looking at anything specific. “He — we decided to make it a sort of game. The notes were for him. So he could see my progress.”

“We don’t do this sort of activity,” Damian finds himself saying. He swallows, hand to his throat. The words hurt to pass through.

"I'd offer you tea, but I just ran out of it."

"Next time."

Todd’s smile is tired, “You can just ask Bruce to do stuff like this with you, gremlin.”

“I suppose I could,” he mumbles. Then, louder: “There are many clean books.”

“Don’t touch my stuff,” he snaps, but there’s no venom to it. “You hadn’t read Sherlock Holmes before?”

Damian’s back straightens. He puffs his cheeks involuntarily, “Of course I had. I wanted to re-read it. Who do you take me for? I’ve read the most celebrated literary works to date from authors all across the world!”

“To Kill a Mockingbird?” He challenges. “One Hundred Years of Solitude? Beloved? Fahrenheit 451? The Color Purple? The Left Hand of Darkness?”

“Please,” Damian scoffs. “I could’ve written an award-winning analysis on all of these when I was four.”

“What’s the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything?”

“42.”

“Impressive.”

He shoots back at Todd a list of his own and isn’t all that surprised that Jason only stops him once, “Dom Casmurro? Never heard of it.”

“It’s from Machado de Assis,” Damian for once in his life tries not to sound arrogant when explaining something. “Brilliant writer from Brazil.”

“They’ve got Clarice Lispector too,” Todd’s eyes widen in recognition. “I’ll look it up.”

“No need,” Damian waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’ll have a copy delivered to you in no time. We can discuss it later if Capitu did or did not cheat on Bentinho and why it is unclear to this day.”

“I don’t know who these people are, but I bet she didn’t and, if she did, he deserved it.”

Damian almost smiles, “Good guess.”

“Uh,” he blinks. “Are you okay, Damian?”

“Do I not seem in a good condition to you?”

“You want to spend time with me,” Todd says, pointing to himself. “With me. ”

Damian tries to mask the disappointment that creeps up on him with his usual scowl. “If you find it unpleasant and does not wish to—”

“I’m just surprised,” he interrupts. “God. Did I wake up looking like Dick Grayson and no one told me?”

“You’re not entirely impossible to be around, I’ll give you that, but you aren’t Richard either.” He smirks wolfishly. “But you do have a chance to prove to me that you can discuss art better than anyone else in our family.”

The last two words envelop the room in a heavy sort of silence. No one dares to move for far too long, and, despite the stillness of it all, despite how little effort one has to make in order to unveil the exact pace of their heartbeats and what they hide, no noise from the outside is brave enough to interrupt whatever flows between Damian and Jason in this instant.

Damian doesn’t know if Pennyworth keeping the books made him sentimental, or if the Bat Signal is shining behind him for Father, or if the way he said our family was just like Richard says it, or if something about his careful way of approaching reminds Todd of how he and Drake started sorting out their own issues, or if the act of sharing words and finding meaning in it makes Todd’s mind wander off to Cain. Damian has no idea.

But, somehow, they’re all here. With them.

And Todd could run away. He could — and he doesn’t.

His hand finally finds its way to one of the books, with such care and devotion that, if it wasn’t for the bat plastered on Todd’s chest and the gun attached to his waist, no one would believe he’s the Red Hood.

“These stories,” Todd’s voice is not above a whisper, “made me feel like I had a home when you guys couldn’t.”

Damian’s eyes burn behind Robin’s mask. “You can have more than stories now. If you wish.”

The look in Todd’s eyes carries the kind of intensity that makes people afraid to live another day. Damian waits, without as much as breathing, for something to shatter; for having to turn his back and walk out with Todd’s rejection at his trail.

Instead, “Damian Wayne wants me to join his book club.”

Stunned, he almost falters. “If you want to put it that way.”

Todd turns away to put on his helmet before Damian can get a better look at his expression, but, if there’s anything feigned about Todd’s agreement, he isn't able to see. He seems to be getting ready for the night, back turned to Damian and a serenity to his movements that wasn’t there before.

“The things I do for art,” the voice modulator makes his dramatic sigh sound like static.

“I only expect the best,” Damian warns. “I choose the books.”

“Always?” Todd protests. “But then we’ll never know in which Hogwarts house you’re in, or who is your godly parent and if you’re in Camp Half-Blood or Camp Jupiter, if you’re Team Edward or Team Jacob, and I won’t get to see your face when Prim goes boom, or —”

Damian is almost regretting this already. “What even is this nonsense?”

“Oh, I’ll let you know.” Todd has one foot out of the window. “This is going to be priceless.”

“I won’t read any garba—”

“See ya in the Slytherin common room!”

“Where?”

Damian still has many questions to ask, but he is already gone, of course, and Robin is completely alone in the apartment.

But nowhere near as lonely as the other times Jason walked out on a conversation.

#Damian Wayne #Jason Todd #batfamily #dc comics #batman #my writing

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distracteddaddonaldduck · 6 years ago

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Secret Santa 2018

I decided to participate in the protest on the 17th, so I am going to post my gift on the 16th. As a slight variation my gift has nothing to do with the Three Caballeros, because there was a slight mix-up with the secret santa pairs. And it is written, because I can’t draw. So this is my one and only Fenro one-shot.

So with that out of the way: Happy Holidays @darkwingownsthenight! I hope you like it!

Gyro paced around his lab, muttering to himself. The computers were dark for the most part, only lighting up periodically to wail at him to go sleep. He ignored them and that only made their noise more insistent. Normally he would have given up and gone to bed, but it was not a normal day.

Night.

Whatever, arbitrary timekeeping measures have never stopped a genius of his caliber, and they would not stop him now. Because tomorrow would be the one year anniversary of Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera becoming his intern.

At the time it didn't seem like such a big thing, just one more intern to leave after a few days, not prepared for the pressure of science. None of them ever stuck around until Fenton. None of them slowly wormed their way beyond the wall of acerbic barbs, so gradually that Gyro didn't even notice until too late. When he finally realized what was happening, the warm squirmy feelings were already there.

He tried ignoring them, hoping they would stop, then he tried chasing Fenton away. Being cruel to him, not knowing what else to do. Nothing worked.

Which is why he was here in the middle of the night, brainstorming. Because he lived his life by logic and science. And if he couldn't stop his feelings, then he would embrace them.

So he was going to confess and ask Fenton out.

Now he just needed the perfect plan.

And what would be a better time to try than an anniversary. After all anniversaries were important in relationships. Pre-relationships. Whatever, if his plan worked they would be dating before the day was done.

Now he just needed that plan.

While he was pacing Lil’ Bulb and Manny watched him silently.

“WHAT IF YOU JUST TOLD HIM?” Manny clopped. Gyro ignored them. What could a man-horse with Scrooge Mcduck's head know about romance?

The two onlookers exchanged a glance.

Gyro ignored that too. He had better things to do than than educate idiots.

He told them this.

“Isn't Fenton also an idiot according to you?” Lil' bulb blinked.

“No he isn't!” he exclaimed, then realized what he said. “I mean he is,” he corrected himself, “but he is a different kind of idiot. He is slightly smarter than everyone else.”

Manny and Lil’ Bulb exchanged a meaningful glance.

“I don't need to explain myself to you,” Gyro snapped. “Besides, who said being an idiot was a bad thing?”

The two of them just stared at him in disbelief.

“I don't need this sass right now.” Gyro straightened his shoulders, turned around and strode out of the door. He ignored the silent ‘Really?’ radiating from behind him.

Six hours later he still didn't have a plan and the time when Fenton would arrive at the lab was fast approaching.

The new day found him in a room barely better than a supply closet, used to house the less volatile materials and equipment for the laboratory. It was also out of the way and no one had any reason to come here. It gave him some much needed quiet.

Not that it helped.

Who would have thought finding something nice, but undeniably romantic would be so hard. A genius of his caliber should be able to do it in a flash and yet it stumped him.

He had a crumpled list in his hand, most of the items crossed out. The two that were still readable were clothes with three question marks after it and flowers. He didn't like either of them, but he had to keep at least some of them, no matter how generic. So they stayed, almost mocking his inability to be romantic.

He never needed romance before now! He never felt things like this before.

He was interrupted from his contemplation of his feelings when the door banged open.

“Sorry!” exclaimed the voice he wanted to hear the least right now, before Fenton stuck his head in the room. His eyes grew when he noticed Gyro, standing in the middle of a dusty storage room.

“Oh my god, Mr. Gearloose, I'm sorry,” he babbled. ”I didn't know you were here! Not that I normally act so violent with the lab equipment, I just-” he stopped talking when Gyro raised his hand. Gyro grit his teeth. This conversation started sooner than than he expected, but he was a genius. He could handle being nice.

“I hope you didn't break anything,” he snapped.

So perhaps he couldn't handle being nice.

“I'm really sorry Mr. Gearloose.” Fenton started again, but a glare was enough to get him to stop.

“I'm also... sorry,” Gyro gritted out. “I didn't mean to sound so-”

“It's not a brother, Mr. Gearloose! You don't-”

“Stop interrupting me!” Gyro snapped. Fenton closed his mouth with a click.

“Yes, it is,” Gyro continued, calmer now that Fenton let him get his thoughts into order. “In fact,” he took a deep breath to prepare himself. He has tried to think of a plan for weeks now and it didn't work. So he could as well take a page out of Mr. Mcduck’s book and just take the plunge. “I have been wanting to say this you for a while now. I…” Another deep breath. “appreciate you. In fact you are the intern I hate the least.”

There, he said it.

Fenton blinked, and looked stunned for a moment. The expression disappeared as fast as it came and then he started smiling. The smile was big, happy and blatantly false.

“Thank you! I appreciate you too! You are the best employer I ever had. Not that I had a lot.” The last sentence he muttered to himself.

What? No, that's not what Gyro meant. He tried to get Fenton’s attention, but the duck wasn't looking at him. He also evaded Gyro’s hand, raised to put on his shoulder and didn’t stop talking.

“Especially if we don't count Walmart. And I don’t count it.” He perked up, but still didn’t look at Gyro. “Now I have to go check up on something! See you later.”

He almost ran out of the room, leaving Gyro to stand there.

That definitely didn't go like Gyro hoped it would.

Gyro found Fenton again in the main lab, the strange behavior already gone behind a genuine smile. He was in the middle of setting up the equipment for the next in a line of experiments they started almost two months ago.

If there was something that went against Gyro’s plan then it was something routine.

“We are not continuing this today,” he said. Fenton jumped at his voice and twirled around, barely missing sweeping a beaker off the table.

“What? What do you mean?” he squeaked, waving his arms around. “We have been working on this for months!” He started wringing his hands.

Gyro took a step forward and raised his hand to do something. Stop him. Take his hands. Perhaps even saying something that could make his intentions clear. He was stopped from doing anything by Fenton speaking up.

“We are close to a breakthrough,” he exclaimed and that stopped Gyro short.

“That's not true.” His eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms. “And you are not as much of an idiot to believe that.”

Gyro expected him to back down, acknowledge his superior intellect. That’s what Fenton always did when they disagreed on something. So he was surprised when he didn't. In fact, he squared his shoulders and glared. Granted, it was a weak glare and didn’t even phase Gyro, but it's surprisingly aggressive from Fenton.

“You are wrong,” he stated with a wobble in his voice and that ruined any intimidation factor he had. He seemed to realize this, because he poked Gyro in the chest.

“In fact,” He turned and grabbed the crate full of supplies. “I'm going to prove it.”

He lifted it, wobbled under the weight and stormed out of the room.

In the lab Gyro was left looking at his interns back for the second time today.

Fenton's office was empty, just as it was the last two times Gyro looked. He knew it was, but he still checked. He was rapidly running out of options for where Fenton could be. He checked every lab they had, every storage room, broom closet and toilet in the whole building. He even crawled through the entire vent system.

Being covered in dust definitely didn't help his mood, but he persisted.

But speaking of something ruining his mood.

“What are you doing?” He turned to Manny who was silently walking behind him. Well, as silently as someone with hooves could walk. “Don't you have a job to do?”

“SOMEONE HAS TO SAVE YOU FROM YOUR IDIOCY,” they clopped.

“I am a genius.” Gyro replied indignantly.

“SIGH,” Manny clopped, actually spelling out the word. Gyro had the feeling that if Manny had functioning eyes they would be rolling them.

Gyro turned his back to them.

“If you are only here to mock me I am leaving.”

“I AM TRYING TO HELP.” Manny's clopping was more agitated now, a sharp staccato burst.

“You are bad at it.” Gyro told them, but begrudgingly turned back around.

Manny let out a frustrated clop, but didn't say anything about it.

“I WILL SHOW YOU WERE HE IS.” He said instead, turning and marching down the hall.

Gyto followed him, struggling to keep up. Not that he was going to admit it.

Manny led him to the entrance to the freezer for living samples. Gyro couldn't help but be impressed by Fenton's resourcefulness. Gyro hadn't even thought to look there, the cold enough to dissuade him from trying. But with a layer of the new skintight heat retaining jumpsuits they were working on it would be a cakewalk to hide there. And the experiment wasn't affected by heat, so he could even work on it.

Not that he was working when Gyro opened the door, too busy solemnly watching Lil’ Bulb blink, nodding at the appropriate times.

He was attractive like this, seriousness so at odds with his normal happy-go-lucky nature.

He was so absorbed in cataloging the panes of Fenton's face that he completely missed what Lil’ Bulb was saying. He only tuned back in when Fenton nodded, turned and then jumped when he noticed Gyro. For a moment he looked ready to bolt, but then he noticeably forced himself to calm down.

“You got this,” he muttered to himself, but in the silence everybody heard him. He curled his hands into fists and looked straight at Gyro.

“Please don’t fire me.” In contrast to his determined body language, his voice was high pitched with the beginnings of panic.

“What?” Gyro asked with what he felt was appropriate bafflement. Fenton misunderstood the meaning, thought, because he started babbling.

“Please, am I not a good intern? I make you the best coffee and take notes and I can do anything. I can cook!”

“Crackshell.” Gyro tried to interject, but Fenton didn’t notice it.

“Or do you need someone to wash your clothes. I can do that!”

“Cabrera.”

“Or a leg rest? I can do anything!”

“Fenton!” Gyro shouted.

That finally shut him up, but he shrank back.

“I am not going to fire you.” Gyro pinched his nose. “What gave you that idea?”

“You were acting unnatural, I thought…” Fenton trailed off. “So you aren’t going to fire me?” His eyes were shining.

“Of course not,” Gyro said, but he couldn’t keep hold of his annoyance with those large eyes on him. “Do you really think that I am nice to people I am about to fire?

“Now that you say it like that it does sound stupid,” Fenton let out a relieved giggle. “But then why were you nice to me?”

“Well,” Gyro started, suddenly feeling embarrassed at his grand romantic plans. “Today is the one year anniversary of you starting to work here so, I thought it appropriate.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he took a deep breath, “because I appreciate you-” Fenton’s eyes shone and his heart skipped a beat. ”your work. Yes.”

Lil’ Bulb sizzled in disappointment. Gyro ignored him.

“LOVE,” Manny clopped and Gyro wanted to step on their foot. Except they didn't have one.

“How is the experiment going?” He squawked, trying to cover Manny’s words.

“What?” Fenton asked distractedly.

“The experiment?” Gyro said this time in a voice just a little higher than normal.

“Not you.” Fenton put his hand on Gyro’s arm, leaning towards Manny. Gyro shut up at the unexpected, but welcome contact and so didn’t have enough composure to stop Manny.

“GYRO LOVES YOU.” Manny clopped and if they had a face that could emote they would have a shiteating grin.

“What?” Fenton asked again, this time more forcefully. He didn't wait for Manny’s answer and instead turned towards Gyro, who was still looking at the hand on his arm with a faintly flushed face.

“You... like me?” Fenton asked hesitantly.

“I don't dislike you.” He tried for his normal dismissive tone and failed.

“You like me.” Fenton said again, slower.

“You are not as much of an idiot as everyone else I have to deal with.”

“You like me.” Fenton exclaimed with a grin. Then he grabbed Gyro and pulled him into a kiss.

It was warm. He didn’t even have time to noticed anything else, because Fenton pulled away and the kiss was over as fast as it began.

“Sorry, I shouldn't just have done that.” Fenton’s voice was nervous as he let Gyro go. “Oh god, you are going to fire me now.”

That broke Gyro out of the stupor the kiss put him in.

“Shut up.” He grabbed Fenton by his shoulders and kissed him back.

Fenton melted into the kiss, tension seeping out of his shoulders and how had Gyro never noticed that before? He was supposed to be a genius. He was distracted by Fenton opening his mouth and then he didn’t think any more.

They didn't even notice when Manny and Lil’ Bulb left the room.

#fenro #gyro gearloose #fenton crackshell cabrera #ducktalessecretsanta2018

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mal-likes-biscuits · 6 years ago

Note

*A crackle of magic and a puff of smoke, a letter drops onto the floor of the Library. Some sort of...fluff, is scattered everywhere. The penmanship is scratchy, and a little hard to read.* Greetings, inter-dimensional double. I have been made aware that I am not the only one of myself fallen to Sanctuary, and I request some advice: How does one not resort to fratricide and kill their infinitely annoying brethren? Asking for a friend. - Signed, Malthael.

[@fluffy-angels]

Malthael tentatively raises the parchment to eye level, suspended on each corner between pinched fingers–

–Tilts his head, and, stares. For an exceptionally long, lingering moment. Until he determines he has not misread the letter. Nor is he seemingly suffering from a lapse of his faculties.

He has questions.

A plethora.

But, well. Those will not be answered unless he manages to respond to the unexpected query.

(Still. Feathers? Down? He captures some of the fluff between his fingers, marveling at its silken, almost dimensionless feel.)

Greetings, in return. If you are indeed myself, then you will understand if I disregard with further pleasantries. Answering your question may prove difficult, owing to the already-apparent differences between us.

His raises an eyebrow at the handwriting. The loops certainly bear similarities to his own–if his writing were imitated by handing a quill to a chicken and letting it scribble about the page.

He glances at the fluff again, even more certain now that it is feathers. Strange.

However, I will try and provide advice. Yes, our siblings can be tiring. This has always been the case, and is to be expected from beings crafted from markedly different Aspects.

Since you claim you have Fallen, I assume you are mortal? Or, in a similar state. Your brethren, as well. Still, do not assume they are now malleable due to their…absence of immortality.

Frowning, he taps the quill against the parchment. Trying to predict potential future questions from himself is more difficult than he anticipated.

You cannot change them. Angels are static, permanent beings. Mortals, though capable of adaptation, are also governed by certain base drives and personalities.

What I have found useful is to consider my own feelings, and to take steps to ensure I am in a frame of mind conducive to managing their rather persistent idiocy. Are you angry about something specific? Often when I am short of temper, it is because I am preoccupied attempting to sort my own difficulties. Determining that, and taking steps to solve any internal problems, sometimes helps.

Requesting moments alone is also beneficial. As are sense-distractions. A warm cup of tea? Perhaps a book. Choose a distant ridge and climb it. And if you have not tried already, a hot bath. Water to the nose. It is not the Pools, but it is close enough to provide the same peaceful contemplation.

What Malthael really wishes to know is what his other-brethren have done to irritate him so completely. Perhaps he will find that out in the future. In the meantime, an amusing thought comes to mind, and he quickly jots it down before common-sense overtakes him. Hopefully this other-Malthael has the same sordid sense of humor.

Though, if things become quite unreasonable, and you accidentally indulge in murder, I suggest blaming Lyndon. Things of that sort are usually his fault, anyway.

#ask replies #my asks #ask malthael #i am not actually sure if this advice is going to help or make the situation worse pbbbbft #he always could just blame lyndon #Mal-pals

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generationsocial · 3 years ago

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Canadian Election: A Youth Perspective

So it’s officially been over a week since the 2021 Canadian Federal Election was called, and not much has changed. Sure, the left won a few extra seats through the Liberals and NDP, even the Bloc gained a seat, and Trudeau secured himself at least an extra four years in office, but essentially we’re left in the same place we were after the 2019 election. Pretty uneventful for the last election I’ll watch as a minor. Next term I’ll be voting, and I sincerely hope the social climate changes by then. Fair warning, I’ll do a lot of shameless Trudeau-bashing in this article, but please do not mistake that for any support of the right, I’ll judge them even more harshly.

Overall, I think we can all agree this was a pointless, and frankly selfish, vanity grab by Trudeau and we’re lucky the consequences weren’t catastrophic. To call an election just to prove you can still win, in the middle of a deadly pandemic with rising case numbers and an ever growing party of idiocy to rival Trump’s (yes, the PPC) was quite possibly the most dangerous thing Trudeau has done for Canadians during his time as PM. This election could have very easily gone to the Conservatives, a party who would no doubt give in to their far-right supporters and loosen up pandemic measures, putting us all at risk. I shudder to think of the thousands of lives that would have been lost to a government who cares more for made up “rights” and economic gains than the health of its citizens. So while I could never imagine supporting Trudeau myself, and in a perfect world I would have basked in an NDP win, I’m still glad he won. (Shoutout to the PPC’s insanity for splitting the Conservative vote).

I also know that a lot of left-leaning voters were put off the NDP because of Singh’s criticism of Trudeau. Personally, I fully support judging moral wrongs wherever you can even without having all the answers (after all, pointing fingers may not be a solution, but you can’t find the answer without identifying the problem). Let he who is with sin throw as many stones as he pleases. But, I don’t think that’s the case with the NDP. In fairness, I have taken the time that many haven’t to research the Liberal’s downfalls and the NDP positions and plans that weren’t shared during debates, so I know Singh’s criticisms aren’t baseless. Nonetheless, there’s nothing more frustrating than someone who wants to appear to make strong statements but cannot back them up, so let me share my reasoning for where I fall on the political spectrum.

Firstly, I won’t validate the PPC enough to even share my reasons to not support them, although the list is long. They shouldn’t even be considered a party, and if you vote PPC I unapologetically have zero respect for you. As for the conservatives, I’ll give a little leniency. Growing up in the era right before this generation’s social justice boom, my parents were realtors so I heard a lot about conservative views on the economy, from housing markets to inflation, and I won’t discount them all, not when small businesses are suffering through the pandemic. I can understand the draw to their economic push. That being said, I still prefer the leftist economic policies, such as higher taxes for the rich, more investment in social programs, and fairer wages, and there is no scenario in which I could ignore the flip-flopping human rights beliefs of the Conservatives. Especially not when they push to create a country more like our gun-ridden, anti-choice, American neighbours.

Now for the hot-topic Liberals. I used to like Trudeau, after all, I was only 10 when he was first elected. I obviously wasn’t doing any research beyond hearing adult’s opinions. As a little native kid, it sounded great to have a Prime Minister who made all these grand promises to end water advisories on reserves and focus on reconciliation. He was quite literally born and raised to be in office and handled himself on the global stage with such confidence that my young brain couldn’t imagine how anyone wouldn’t respect him. Now, I’m almost finished high school, and I can’t stand Trudeau. He has failed on every promise to Indigenous peoples and continuously dismissed any criticism of his broken promises during the election by attempting to guilt-trip us with the “hard work” of his task force. I’m not falling for it, sorry not sorry if he doesn’t feel validated in giving my people clean water if he isn’t being praised for it. Frankly, while it’s great that they’ve ended some advisories, it’s not enough, as long as there are children who have spent their entire lives on reserves where they can’t drink water without boiling it, it will never be enough. It is especially not enough while he actively fights residential school survivors in court. Even further, I cannot comprehend - never mind support - the level of arrogance it takes to call a pointless election during a pandemic. So, liberals are out of the question for me as long as Trudeau and his in-crowd lead them.

While I admire the persistence of the Green party on environmental issues, they don’t seem to have strong enough opinions on other issues and, just like the Bloc, they are too much of a fringe party with not enough of a chance to ever win to earn my support. They mainly just succeed in splitting much-needed left votes.

As for the only party I would vote for if I could, the NDP. Canada is in desperate need of a leader who, to put it quite plainly, isn’t an old white man. While he himself is quite privileged, Singh is a person of colour who would understand the trials of POC in this country better than the other main parties. I’d hope that a personal understanding of these issues would lead to a far greater push from the NDP to solve humanitarian problems than parties led by white men pretending to care for anything other than votes. Additionally, while some POC feel that Singh is just as out of touch because of his wealth, I think that might actually draw some of the less progressive left supporters (who like NDP policies but are still internally racist enough that they wouldn’t support a poor person of colour in politics) to support him.

In the end though, my opinions don’t matter to the federal government yet. I’m only seventeen and until I can win them a vote, I’m just another voice in the crowd. Still, I encourage any young followers I have to start using your voice now, even without voting. Breakthrough the crowd, put a crack in their façade. This will be our country, our opinions matter too.

#writing #writer #journalism #politics #Canada #election #federal election #government #activism #blog #liberal #conservative #NDP #green #bloc #PPC #left

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secret-diary-of-an-fa · 4 years ago

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A Farewell to Tossers (Or ‘Trump is Out: Hooray!’)

TRIGGER WARNING: COVID; Discussion of Racism; ‘It’s the Great Rape Satsuma, Charlie Brown!’

Well then. Trump is no longer President Elect of the United States and the world breathes a sigh of relief. At last, we can all stop worrying that the increasingly unstable leader of the free world is going to blow us all up with nukes because he mistook the big red thermonuclear button for the ‘send’ button on fucking Twitter! It actually feels nice to go back to worrying about more nebulous threats that don’t come with a fuck-ugly face and a dubious web presence attached. This being space-year 2020, we still have to cower in fear of COVID, the collapse of the global economy and a slow, choking death courtesy of a climate and planetary ecology that are frankly sick of our bullshit, but it’s still good to celebrate the fact that there’s one less dangerous, narcissistic prick with serious political power. The last four years have felt like a deeply disturbing docudrama answering the question ‘What if the Annoying Orange Ever Got its Hands on Real Power’, but the nightmare is over now. Well, I say ‘Annoying Orange’. He’s really more of a Rapey Satsuma, but let’s not split hairs of semantics. The tosser’s on his way out and that’s a cause for delight.

Now, obviously, this blog is somewhat overdue. Sorry, humans, but I just haven’t had the time to compose snarky think-pieces on major news items in real time. I’ve been busy being in love with- and making love to- an amazing woman (who’s also my sometime glamorous assistant over on my Youtube channel where I post magic vids), writing four novels, playing through the recent rash of Crash Bandicoot games and trying weed for the first, last and only time in my life (the only effect it had on me was to make me crave Mars Bars, which happens to me on a semi-regular basis anyway). However, don’t mistake my taciturnity for ambiguity! I am overjoyed that America has finally gotten rid of the psychotic Cheesy Whatsit who spent not quite half a decade shitting on the poor and disenfranchised while stumbling disastrously around the international stage like a very stupid, ill-tempered bear that’s suddenly found itself in the middle of a production of The Importance of Being Earnest. Like most of my American readers and probably every sane, right-thinking person outside America, I greeted the news that he was on his way out with a fist-pump and a little dance of happiness. I might have twerked. I can neither confirm nor deny twerking.

But what lessons can we learn from this election and the fact that Trump clawed his way into power in the first place? Surely the last four years weren’t just the result of one nation’s collective brain-fart and their abrupt end nothing more than a spontaneous return to sanity? Well, no. The main reason Trump managed to grab hold of power was because he pretended to care about the American working classes. He didn’t, obviously: as soon as he got into power, he started taking away the social securities on which many of the poorest depend and dismantling their access to healthcare, because he’s a megalomaniacal rich dickhead. But he pretended to care well enough to convince an enormous quantity of people who felt alienated and disenfranchised by modern politics and- in particular- by a version of liberalism that seemed entirely focused on city-dwelling, self-consciously woke hipsters and regarded everyone else as a joke. A large part of the reason Joe Biden was able to wrest power back from the tantrum-throwing saveloy wanker was because he bothered to go out to the most impoverished parts of his country and remind that them that yes, the Democratic party did know they existed and did give a shit. Admittedly, he wasn’t the best candidate for working class voters- that would have been Bernie Sanders- but he was the best guy to get the message across in a way that wouldn’t seem patronising. So, Lesson One: ignore the gargantuan body of unskilled and menial labourers who power your country’s economy only at your own peril.

The second, related lesson should probably be something along the lines of ‘maybe prioritise rigorous analytical thinking as part of your country’s education strategy from a young age’. Seriously, it might seem obvious to you or I that Trump is a dangerous bullshit artist, but he hoodwinked a lot of people. And no, they’re not just naturally, randomly stupid. Okay, some of them are- nature bestows a fresh bounty of total fucking clods on the human race with every new generation, after all. But the point is that natural idiocy doesn’t adequately explain why so many people voted for a twat who clearly didn’t have their best interests at heart. The ability to recognise predatory charlatans is a subset of the ability to think critically about information with which you’re presented. Both the US and the UK education systems fail spectacularly to give people the mental tools they need to do this early on, with a heavier emphasis on learning rote facts and formulas which- while useful- only help to build crystallised intelligence not vital fluid intelligence (one is just stats and dry information, the other is the skills you need to navigate modern civilisation). Because fluid intelligence becomes harder and harder to acquire as one gets older, teaching people critical thinking skills early on is really important. Neither the UK nor US education systems really start to seriously teach it until pupils are almost adolescent, meaning that by the time they get to adulthood, they just don’t have the ability to peer through the miasma of obfuscating horseshit that surrounds most political candidates and accurately assess who is going to fuck them in the gall-bladder least. Biden was able to win this time round partly because he was really good at putting his message in a non-obfuscating way that helped to mobilise people regardless of their level of critical thinking. That’s great for him, and anything that helped oust Trump is a good thing, but it doesn’t address the underlying problem. The underlying problem, of course, is that, so long as education doesn’t take analytical skills seriously, the political system will always favour candidates with big, simple messages over more nuanced politicians with complex and ambiguous views, regardless of who the most qualified person is.

If Lessons One and Two were about understanding why people voted for Trump four years ago and why the didn’t this time, Lesson Three is our big ‘fuck humans’ moment, because one thing the election of Trump made is clear is that racism is alive and well in modern America. Yes, many of his voters were hoodwinked. Yes, many of them were legitimately alienated. But a significant percentage of them were also just xenophobic, racist arseholes who voted for him because they thought he’d get rid of some Mexicans for them. It’s tragic that these attitudes still persist in the modern world, but they do. Worse still, I’m not sure how you could easily address it. Fear and hatred of difference- even if it’s a superficial difference like skin colour or accent- seems to be hardwired into some people. While we can work to build a world where these attitudes aren’t acceptable, so long as we humans think of ourselves as belonging to different nations and groups, it’s almost impossible to extinguish them entirely. We’re just not at the point we need to be at: the point where we think of ourselves as a species with common goals and needs, not a disparate collection of tribes and interest groups. Trump and his election to power were symptomatic of this problem. His recent de-election might help alleviate it for awhile. However, only time and repeated, positive mutual interaction between different groups of people (on both the global and individual level) can ever cure the disease itself. And that shit’s going to take time. There’s years of genocide and exploitation and war and rivalry and mistrust to make up for and, frankly, it’s still going on, which just makes it harder to drag the human race in the right direction.

Fuck, that got deep. This was meant to be a funny, celebratory blog about how we no longer have to put up with that prat Trump, and instead it turned into a lengthy disquisition on the failure of education and the problems inherent in how humans relate to one another through Tajfel’s Social Identity Theory (that’s the whole in-group/out-group/fear-and-distrust-among-nations-and-peoples thing I was going on about). Sorry, folks, sometimes life is just like that: you tune in for laughs and get punched in the dick with a dry, depressing polemic on our failings as a species. Happy 2020, everyone! Anyway, tune in soon for a review of Crash Bandicoot 4: It’s About Time, which I promise not to turn into a didactic on the role of Nietzsche’s hypothetical superman in a civilisation that relies on the suppression of certain, key choices… aaaaaalthough…

#Secret Diary of a Fat Admirer

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kristinsimmons · 5 years ago

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Sexism vs. Cultural Imperialism

By SARAH HEARNE

As I was getting ready for bed last night a friend shared a tweet that immediately caught my attention.

https://twitter.com/sbattrawden/status/1143465003409915905

The tweet was of a paper that has just been published online, titled “Does physician gender have a significant impact on first-pass success rate of emergency endotracheal intubation?” and showed the abstract which began,

It is unknown whether female physicians can perform equivalently to male physicians with respect to emergency procedures.

Understandably, this got the backs up of a lot of people, myself included. Who on earth thinks that’s a valid question to be researching in this day and age? Are we really still having to battle assumptions of female inferiority when it comes to things like this? Who on earth gave this ethics approval, let alone got it though peer review?

I then took a deep breath and asked myself why a respected journal, The American Journal of Emergency Medicine, would publish such idiocy. Maybe there was something else going on. The best way to find out is to read the paper so I got a copy and started reading. The first thing that struck me was the author affiliations – both are associated with hospitals in Seoul, South Korea. The second author had an online profile, he is a Clinical Professor of Emergency Medicine. I couldn’t find the first author anywhere which made me think they are probably quite early in their career. The subject matter wasn’t something I could imagine a male early career researcher being interested in so figured they are probably female (not knowing Korean names I couldn’t work out if the name was feminine or masculine).

This immediately gave it a different slant. Sexism is a massive problem in Korea. Gender roles are heavily enforced and gender inequality is among the worst in the world. At the beginning of this year its neighbour Japan announced that women have been outperforming men in medical entrance exams since they stopped rigging them to prevent women from getting through. Japan has the lowest percentage of female doctors in the OECD at 21.1% and Korea is only just above them at 22.1%. It hardly seems a stretch, therefore, to assume that female Korean doctors experience persistent sexism in their work. And here we have a doctor at the beginning of her career trying to tackle that sexism by providing incontrovertible evidence that she and her female colleagues are every bit as capable of performing a life-saving procedure as her male colleagues.

Why did they chose intubation? I can’t say for sure but the paper gives some hints.

We hypothesized that… while successful endotracheal intubation may require both skill and strength, the importance of correct technique far outweighs physical strength.

In other words, female doctors are being told they can’t be any good at intubation because they don’t have the requisite strength, and the authors of this paper are aiming to test this assumption.

So we have a paper being written in a non-first language about a topic that gets very little attention in Korea but blights the careers of many female professionals. That’s incredibly brave in my mind. The paper has flaws – every paper has flaws – and one flaw is that doesn’t put the problem of sexism in medicine into a context, and that’s something that the reviewers and editors should have picked up on. But the research is sound. They spent 3 years (2013-2016) collecting data and it’s taken until now to get it analysed and through peer review to be published. This isn’t something cobbled together one night over beers.

It finally gets published online, gets spotted by someone on Twitter and all hell breaks loose. No matter the cries of people who try to provide context,

https://twitter.com/medicaldork/status/1143512215774875648?s=19

it’s apparently been decided that the paper is sexism at its worst and must be stopped.

So now we have a woman at the start of her career who was probably incredibly proud that she’d not only got a paper published, but in an international journal and on a subject that matters to her and her colleagues. Her paper might even reduce the sexism they face every time they perform an intubation. And she’s worked with an established male researcher who has used his position of authority to help guide this paper to publication because he’s aware that the sexism in Korea is rife and needs challenging. These are two people doing good work that should be celebrated and applauded.

But instead we have this,

https://twitter.com/joonghee_emdoc/status/1143927857174831104?s=19

That’s right. They’re going to withdraw the paper.

I can’t tell you how angry this makes me. Feminists who support equality and want women to enter into traditionally-male fields have forced a woman at the beginning of her career to withdraw a paper from publication because it wasn’t framed the way they wanted. This paper could have been the ammunition female physicians around Korea needed to shut their sexist colleagues up when they attempted to perform an intubation but instead they’ll have nothing.

It’s all very well to say that asking these sorts of questions assumes that women are inherently worse than men but the problem is men assume that already. I wish we didn’t need this sort of research, and part of me fears that no matter the evidence there’ll always be some who’ll believe women are worse than men, but until most men around the world accept that the lack of a penis doesn’t mean you can’t perform medical procedures research of this type is needed as ammunition against them.

This case is a perfect example of not everything being about you. Just because it’s published in an American journal doesn’t mean the primary audience is American and to impose American moral frames is cultural imperialism. No one has disputed the evidence, only the way it was framed. Whilst it could have been worded better from a Western perspective, that doesn’t invalidate the evidence. It also ignores the fact that this paper was aimed at those in Korea and the wider Asian medical community for whom sexist assumptions about the abilities of women are ingrained. The publication in a US journal is to add prestige to the paper so that the results are seen as worthy of consideration. It probably wouldn’t have made a seismic difference but even a small improvement is a start. And now it won’t even do that because the authors have been forced into withdrawing it by people who misunderstood its aims and intentions. This is not a win for feminism. This is not a win for academic rigour. It’s a loss for all who aim to improve the position of women around the world and I go to bed tonight feeling angry, sad and ashamed.

ADDENDUM

It’s been brought to my attention by Andrew Althouse that the noninferiority test that was used in this paper was not, as some readers assumed, a dig at the presumed inferiority of women, but is a standard statistical test used in clinical medicine. If you google the term you’ll find lots of papers discussing its use. The noninferiority test has a null hypothesis that the new method is inferior (so in this case, that women are less good at intubating than men) and the research hypothesis is that the new method is equal to or better than previous ones (so in this case, that women are as good as or better than men at intubating). If you’re trying to prove that something is better than something else it’s the best statistical test to use.

source: https://ift.tt/2KUIc9t

Sarah Hearne is a PhD student studying marine ecology. She is a feminist with a particular interest in the issues facing women in STEM. She can be found at @sarahvhearne. This post originally appeared on Sarah’s blog here.

Sexism vs. Cultural Imperialism published first on https://wittooth.tumblr.com/

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lauramalchowblog · 5 years ago

Text

Sexism vs. Cultural Imperialism

By SARAH HEARNE

As I was getting ready for bed last night a friend shared a tweet that immediately caught my attention.

https://twitter.com/sbattrawden/status/1143465003409915905

It is unknown whether female physicians can perform equivalently to male physicians with respect to emergency procedures.

Why did they chose intubation? I can’t say for sure but the paper gives some hints.

We hypothesized that… while successful endotracheal intubation may require both skill and strength, the importance of correct technique far outweighs physical strength.

It finally gets published online, gets spotted by someone on Twitter and all hell breaks loose. No matter the cries of people who try to provide context,

https://twitter.com/medicaldork/status/1143512215774875648?s=19

it’s apparently been decided that the paper is sexism at its worst and must be stopped.

But instead we have this,

https://twitter.com/joonghee_emdoc/status/1143927857174831104?s=19

That’s right. They’re going to withdraw the paper.

ADDENDUM

source: https://ift.tt/2KUIc9t

Sarah Hearne is a PhD student studying marine ecology. She is a feminist with a particular interest in the issues facing women in STEM. She can be found at @sarahvhearne.

Sexism vs. Cultural Imperialism published first on https://venabeahan.tumblr.com

0 notes

nyalapeno · 5 years ago

Text

Fic: Unbalanced Heart, ch.1

It’s already on my Ao3, but reposting it here to celebrate February 29.

Warnings: mentions of child abuse, vomiting and serious injury. Also, one of the main characters has DID/OSDD; it’s an artistic interpretation and I mean no offence.

Let’s go! *:･ﾟ✧(=✪ ᆺ ✪=)*:･ﾟ✧

Chapter 1 : I’m a fighter, now let me prove it

Hitoshi trudged forward on autopilot, not registering anything around him. The voices of other candidates turned into a dull buzz and the world seemed distant, separated from him by a barrier which blocked out everything but the thoughts in his head.

It was his own fault. He'd let the ease with which he'd solved the written test go to his head. Academics were his strength; he was capable of doing very well even with minimal preparation and this time he'd prepared thoroughly, studied ahead and solved a ton of mock exams, knowing that U.A. would have a more challenging written test than anything he'd ever taken. And he was right; a lot of the questions were advanced and the sheer number was enough to overwhelm even those who knew the answers. It didn't matter; Hitoshi had practiced speed-solving too and after putting the pen down he could tell his score would be above 90%, which according to the data from previous years would be enough to net him a place in U.A.'s General Education course. And then he'd stupidly let this fill him with confidence and optimism, started thinking that maybe he'd do well on the practical too and be able to get into Heroics straight away instead of being promoted from the GenEd track as he’d planned. Idiocy. It was like he'd forgotten who he was, what quirk he had, and allowed himself to float away on a cloud made of hopes and dreams like a naive, idealistic fool. Then he paid for it when the proctor explained the practical exam, reality hit and he fell down and crashed on the ground. The naive hope left him, replaced by an all-consuming numbness. He should’ve known better. Of course the teachers wanted to see students with powerful, damage-dealing, stereotypically heroic quirks in the Hero course. Of course they’d prepare the practical exam in such a way that it allowed only those students who fit this profile to shine. Of course.

Robots. It could be argued that robots had a type of “brain”, namely AI and programming, and some robots were capable of speech, but while he never got to try using Brainwashing on one to see if it’d take, he was pretty sure it wouldn't. Besides the ones in the exam were of a different type. These were designed to attack people, not talk to them.

In short, he was screwed. Not that it was unusual. Everyone who had a quirk that wasn’t typically associated with hero work was screwed to an extent. Most of the time the world of heroics refused to give them a chance, and Hitoshi got a double dose because not only was his quirk atypical, it also had an unfortunate enough nature that people automatically discriminated against him and assumed he was going to become a villain with no evidence. He hated it – the discrimination, the assumptions, the comparative ease with which people blessed with more heroic quirks could reach their goals. Goals such as getting enough points in the practical exam to be accepted anywhere other than the GenEd track. Feeling defeated, he couldn’t think of anything that could let him fight a robot. If the exam was set up in a way which allowed only students with a certain type of quirk to do well then that was that.

If only a good strategy for someone with his quirk would just fall down from the sky… Again, naive hope and wishful thinking. Still, it’d be nice.

For now he walked on, staring blankly ahead. The throng of students was moving briskly, people heading to their designated areas. Hitoshi wondered if there’ll be enough space to fit everyone. Probably. U.A. was a school with a reputation, after all. He also wondered how many students were blessed with quirks perfectly suited for this kind of exam. How many of them were now cockily thinking that they had the exam in the bag and busy coming up with ways to best show off their quirk, instead of wondering why they were even trying.

Up ahead someone yelped, then more someones yelped in unison, then there was a noise like a herd of stampeding elephants. It rapidly drew closer, chasing away the gloomy fog that had settled over Hitoshi and he blinked, coming back to himself and turning his head just in time to see a… unique-looking guy skid to a halt next to him.

The guy fell into step beside Hitoshi as though he did it everyday. “Whew, what a crowd. Hey there! You looking forward to the exam? I’m just glad I’m taking it at all,” he barreled onward, sparing Hitoshi the effort of coming up with a tactful reply. “I was supposed to be taking this other one but then I was like no, if I’m gonna get into U.A. then I’ma do it myself, not some sorta privilege thing ‘cause what the hell? I’m not Bastard, I don’t need privileges. And get this--” Hitoshi ducked to avoid a flailing hand as the other boy gestured wildly. “I somehow got the whole plot past Bastard! Didn’t notice or whatever, still don’t know how. Must be karma. And now I’m already here so he can suck it. And this is something he can spin in his favor if he bothers to think so he prolly won’t do anymore shit than he usually does. And then I’m off to school and he’ll have less time to do shit to me so all the better!” The guy gave Hitoshi a thumbs-up. Oddly enough, his face remained mostly blank the whole time but he was smiling with his eyes. “Ah, but here I am going on... I’m not used to talking to people my age, not like that anyway, the last time I did was uhhhh, actually I think never? Eh, whatever. So what’s your name?” The question was so unexpected after the rapid-fire monologue that it actually took Hitoshi a few seconds to remember what the answer was.

“Shinsou Hitoshi,” he said, internally debating the pros and cons of using Brainwashing on the guy to stop the verbal equivalent of a machine gun.

“Hi Hitoshi!” the guy casually first-named him, causing Hitoshi to choke on air. “And I’m uhhh, you can call me Shouto. Because that’s my name, I mean not only mine, it’s his name too, but there’s prolly a bunch of people named Shouto so it wouldn’t be weird for us both to be called that even if it wasn’t us.” Hitoshi blinked, having understood literally nothing from the last sentence. And the guy – Shouto – maintained a poker face so he couldn’t even tell if he was messing with him. “So. Robots! Whatcha gonna do? You got a plan?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Hitoshi couldn’t believe it. What sort of person asked a fellow competitor to reveal their strategy? Not that Hitoshi had one, but it was the principle of the thing.

Shouto tilted his head like a cat. “How do you ask something unseriously? I’m just curious. Not like I can use what you tell me, we’re two different people.” Which... actually made sense. Strategies were usually tailored to a person’s quirk and therefore individual. Figuring out another person’s strategy could only really be used to sabotage them, but that would be counterproductive in this exam – someone who tried messing with another person may not have enough time left to gain points, and then they both would fail. Not that Hitoshi suspected the guy of attempting sabotage; he seemed too straightforward for that.

“So. Your plan?” Shouto asked once again. Straightforward and persistent.

“Don’t have one,” Hitoshi admitted, seeing no harm in it. Not replying could actually be more harmful, as the guy seemed to be the type to pester him endlessly if his question went ignored.

“Ohh. So you’re gonna wing it? Instinct and spontaneity and all that. Is that it? ‘Cause you don’t look like the wing-it type to me, with those eye bags you look more like the type to plot and plan for ages.” Hitoshi stared at Shouto, wondering if he realized how tactless he was being. It didn’t seem like he did. He could recall him saying something about never having talked to people his own age, something believable going by his behavior, but strange and disturbing. Hitoshi could also recall vague insinuations of the guy being mistreated in some way, which was even more disturbing especially when paired with the scar on his face, but he wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-meter pole. It was entirely possible that he misunderstood due to pre-exam nerves, or that Shouto was prattling nonsense for the same reason, or maybe he was just making assumptions because of his own unfortunate past experiences.

Besides the guy was his age. If there really was something wrong with his family situation surely someone would’ve noticed by now? Especially since Shouto was so open about it.

“I don’t have a plan, but I’m not going to wing it either,” he said, trying to put the whole thing out of his mind. His companion stared at him, allowing Hitoshi to see that his eyes were two different colors. Much like his hair.

“Seriously? What’re you gonna do then? What else is there?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I mean, not much I can do. My quirk is… not suited for this type of thing.” True, to the point, and something Shouto would realize by himself if he stuck around during the exam.

“What d’ya mean, not suited? What’s your quirk anyway?” Of course he’d ask. Hitoshi sighed and shifted uncomfortably. Revealing his quirk to people who didn’t already know about it tended to end badly. Not to mention the exam was about to start and Shouto was possible competition. But he made his bed and now he had to lie in it. The guy was too persistent to let him escape. Already he was waving his hand in front of Hitoshi’s face, his eyes full of a guileless kind of curiosity with sparks of concern mixed in.

“You okay?” Hitoshi met the earnest stare. All the bad precedents and insecurities floating around his brain warred with the desire to respond to that earnestness, take a chance. Today seemed to be the day of foolish hopes. Then again this could be their first and last meeting ever, so maybe he could tell him with minimal damage? Or maybe Shouto would surprise him and take it well? No, an absurd idea, this revelation never ended well. There were rare cases of people accepting his quirk, but most would grow scared, or suspicious, or…

But this weirdo wasn’t most people, was he?

Oh, to hell with it.

“It’s called Brainwashing,” he said quietly, not wanting anyone else to overhear. “It lets me control people who talk to me.” Muscles tensing, he kept a careful eye on Shouto, looking for microexpressions which heralded a negative reaction. He might have an impressive and persisting poker face, but his eyes betrayed him.

“Oh. Cool! I knew you were a brainy type.” Hitoshi stared. That sounded almost… approving. Or rather, Shouto had all but shrugged and moved on, as if a quirk was a quirk to him. He felt the corners of his lips curl up, unbidden. Maybe some hopes were not so foolish after all. “Hmmm, so it only works on people huh? Can’t take down robots with it. But, wait… Who says you gotta take down robots, you just gotta get points. What if you like, tail someone and wait until they almost down a robot then use your quirk to freeze them? Then you finish the job and hey presto: clean, efficient and creative!” He gave Hitoshi a thumbs-up, mismatched eyes sparkling happily, apparently happy with himself.

For his part, Hitoshi could only stare in astonishment. It had not occurred to him to use his quirk in such a manner. From the moment he first heard about the robots he’d assumed that it was over, that his quirk was useless for taking down robots, that there was no way he could succeed. And it was partly true – his quirk couldn’t take down a robot. But that didn’t mean there was no way to use it in the exam. You just had to stay focused, to not give up, to think outside the box and come up with a way to use your quirk which will allow you to get enough points to pass. As demonstrated by Shouto, who’d known about his quirk for all of thirty seconds and not only accepted it, but was able to form a workable strategy.

Wait. Hadn’t he wished that a strategy would just drop down from the sky?

...Impossible.

“Hmm, but just punching these things with your bare hands? Not safe at all. I’m sure they have a weak spot or two ‘cause it’s an exam but still, defensive wounds-- wait. On the drawings the robots had limbs, right? So you can detach a leg or arm or some other part from a dead robot and use it as a blunt weapon. Efficient use of resources! And I doubt the robots are resistant to whatever material they’re made of so even if you whack one at random it’ll prolly cause more damage than a fist,” Shouto elaborated on his idea, then tilted his head again. “So. You interested?”

“What?” Hitoshi said blankly, still processing. Shouto huffed.

“The strategy. You wanna use it or not?” Hitoshi shook his head to clear it. Today he’d had more surprises and revelations that he normally did in a week, and he was only halfway through the exam. It’d left him off-balance, but it wasn’t a bad feeling. If anything it-- no, no. He’d learned his lesson about feeling hopeful after the written exam.

“It’s interesting,” he said. “But, is this even allowed? Present Mic said no attacking other competitors...”

“Actually, using your quirk on someone if the quirk isn’t a damage-dealing kind doesn’t count as attacking that person. Says so in hero laws, it’s just unauthorized quirk usage, and in the exam every usage is authorized. Two people fighting the same robot doesn’t count either as long as they don’t hit each other. So it's all fine! And you’ll be approaching the challenge creatively, if anything you should get extra credit for that.” Shouto, for his part, should get extra credit for enthusiasm. Even though he was only coming up with a strategy for a person he’d met like a minute ago he was really fired up about it, for all that it didn’t show on his face. The left side of his head was smoking a bit, leaving Hitoshi to wonder what his quirk was.

Shouto's idea... it exploited a loophole in the rules, and discovering said loophole required outside-the-box thinking and knowledge of hero laws. Perhaps Hitoshi had been wrong about the exam being designed to eliminate students with non-damaging quirks. Perhaps this was a test within a test, U.A.'s way of checking who had enough brains and determination to persevere. After all, the world of heroics put people like Hitoshi at a disadvantage, and it wouldn't do to pass someone who couldn't deal with it. Maybe this was a taste of what being in the Hero course, among students with powerful quirks, would be like.

Maybe he was overthinking this. When something seemed too good to be true it usually was. It was equally likely that Shouto's interpretation, however logical, wouldn't be accepted by the examiners because it went against some kind of unspoken moral code governing the exam, breaking which would see you receive negative points for lack of moral fiber. Or something.

Maybe he was overthinking again. But until the exam was over he wouldn't know the truth. It was probably somewhere between the two extremes, but Hitoshi preferred to err on the negative side. It wouldn't do to get too comfortable like he had after the written exam. On the other hand, it wouldn't do to just ignore Shouto's plan on the off chance that it might get him in trouble and do nothing at all during the exam. Doing nothing was literally the only thing which resulted in a 0% chance of passing, while doing something, anything, meant he'd still have a chance, no matter how small. The choice was obvious, yet he couldn't help but hesitate...

"Hitoshi?" A hand waving in front of his eyes caused him to return to the present. "You okay? Are you plotting?"

Plotting? No, Shouto had already done all the plotting for him. He was just... waffling, really. Despite his doubts, he knew that taking action was better than not doing anything. To regret failing the exam due to making a bad choice, and to regret failing the exam because you've given up and done nothing... Both options were unpleasant, but the first one would at least allow you to look people in the eye and say ‘I tried my best’. The second was just... pitiful. The kind of thing which years later would cause you to wallow in regrets and what-ifs. Hitoshi wanted nothing to do with it. Plus, it would be rude to just ignore Shouto's efforts.

"I'm fine," he said just before the silence crossed the magical line between long and awkward. "I'm just... being paranoid, I guess," he tried to make light of his doubts in order to get rid of them. They wouldn't help him any. “I was worried that they might dock points for lack of moral fiber.” Shouto stared, looking thrown, and then his mouth twitched.

“Pfft--” he covered his mouth, then glanced at Hitoshi and lost it. “Ahahaha!” Shaking with laughter, he leaned forward, staggering a bit, poker face completely gone. Hitoshi watched him and felt his own lips curl up involuntarily. Shouto looked ridiculous, face turning as red as his hair. Well, half of his hair. Eventually his laughter died down and he straightened himself up, wiping at his eyes.

“Points for moral fiber,” he snorted again. “Yanno, this really sound like something U.A. might be shelling out. But docking? Don’t think so. How would they even justify it? Or quantify it? And there's no way they dock points for immorality or Bastard would've never been admitted in his time. But there you go, U.A. alumni and a licensed hero. Bleh! Worse than a villain, so I know they don't screen for it or someone would've caught on and put him in jail. Oh well, that's life," Shouto shrugged, but the angry glint in his eyes belied the attempt at nonchalance. "Not that you need to worry about that, you're not villainy in the least. I mean you're actually worrying about this stuff! Someone like Bastard wouldn't give two shits. You can't help that you gotta use loopholes 'cause you're disadvantaged. Your aim is to pass the exam in the cleanest way you can, not stomp all over people's faces. Nothing to feel guilty about."

"...You're right," Hitoshi nodded slowly, choosing to focus on the part of Shouto's tirade which related to him and the current events. On the inside he was reeling from the new information Shouto had casually mixed in with encouragement. For once he hadn't been overthinking things: there really was an abusive man in Shouto's life – his father? – and said abuser apparently pretended to be a hero when out in public, well enough that he had a license. Stories like this really pissed him off. A lot of people who had the heart of a hero but a weaker quirk were forced to give up their dreams, while unsuitable people entered the Hero industry just because they happened to be born with a suitable quirk. He bet this particular bastard had a flashy, powerful quirk too. Oh, bastard... now he could see where the 'nickname' came from.

“So,” Shouto clapped, bringing Hitoshi down to earth. “Strategy. Yay or nay?”

“Yay,” Hitoshi replied automatically and then almost facepalmed. Not because he’d agreed, the plan was good, but because he was copying Shouto’s speech patterns. Totally Shouto's fault, the guy kept catching him mid-thought.

“Great!” Shouto sent him a thumbs-up again. Didn’t he know any other gestures? “Looks like we’re almost there.” Indeed, a few more meters and they’d be right before the entrance to a giant complex that could only be an examination area.

“That’s really Plus Ultra,” Hitoshi was impressed.

“That’s U.A. for you, I guess.” He and Shouto walked towards the gate, sticking together automatically. Once inside they settled in for a wait, taking the time to look around. The arena looked like a city district and Hitoshi wondered what the reason was.

“Are they trying to make it more realistic?” he wondered out loud.

Shouto shrugged. “Or maybe checking how much collateral damage we’ll cause.” He had a point, heroes were supposed to be able to keep such things to a minimum. “Oh well. Just gotta be careful out there!” He punched his open palm with a fist and there was a brief flash. Hitoshi stared.

“Shouto?” It felt odd to use his first name, but he had no other choice – Shouto never revealed his surname. Besides, the guy was first-naming him too so they were even.

“Yeah?”

“What is your quirk, anyway?”

“Right, I never told you.” Shouto held out his left hand, palm up. “It’s this.” With a quiet whoosh, a tiny fireball appeared over his hand, then disappeared in less than a second.

“Fire, huh?” Hitoshi studied Shouto, thinking about all the privileged kids he’d ever met, with their flashy, powerful quirks. Fire manipulation undoubtedly made Shouto a part of that group. Usually he ended up disliking kids with such quirks, but was self-aware enough to admit that part of it was prejudice born out of resentment, and part was just a reaction to those kids’ prior dismissive treatment of him, or in some cases downright bullying. But Shouto hadn’t dismissed him and wasn’t discriminating or tooting his own horn. Not to mention the Bastard issue… Hitoshi just couldn’t dislike him. Mostly, he thought of how energetic and vibrant and free-spirited the guy was, and that fire suited him.

“It explains why your head started smoking before,” he said, for lack of a better and non-cheesy response.

“It did?” Shouto patted his head, belatedly. “I didn’t notice! Good think it didn’t set off the fire alarm.”

“We’re outside,” Hitoshi reminded him. Shouto tilted his head.

“Fire alarms don’t work outside?”

“...never mind.”

Soon enough, Present Mic spoke to the gathered students, giving some additional information about the exam. Most of it was just recap of the stuff already said after the written exam and the rest was fancily phrased encouragement with a side of taunting, but everyone listened intently. Hitoshi noted that Shouto’s eyes were sparkling happily throughout the speech. Was he that excited?

“And GO!” the pro hero finished. Hitoshi barely managed to blink in confusion at the abrupt ending when his wrist was seized in an iron grip and pulled, dragging his body sideways.

“Oof!” he tripped on his own feet, but was able to right himself quickly thanks to the force puling on his arm. It was Shouto, running full tilt towards one of the fake alleys between the fake buildings and pulling Hitoshi with him. “What the--”

“You heard him, go!” They ran into the alley. “No time to waste!”

“I know how to run without you holding my hand!” Hitoshi complained.

“I know, but-- Oh, I heard something!” Letting go of Hitoshi’s wrist Shouto pivoted on his heel, dashed into a side alley and disappeared from view. Due to the momentum Hitoshi ran forward a few more steps before skidding to a halt. Feeling off balance in more ways than one, Hitoshi ran back towards the side alley.

“Oi, wait up!” He was answered by a distant whooshing sound, followed by a screeching of metal and a loud crash which echoed off the walls. Hitoshi shook his head and ran forward. In the back of his mind he wondered what he was doing. This wasn’t how he imagined his exam going. Not that he’d had a clear idea, but the reality was like a roller coaster. Losing hope at finding out what the task was, meeting Shouto and getting a bit of that hope back, reaching the stage of the exam and being dragged along at his companion’s pace… A day ago, even an hour ago, if you told him he’d be teaming up with another student who knew his quirk and accepted it, Hitoshi would laugh. Inconceivable. But it was happening, and it was making his heart beat faster and a warm, bubbly feeling he couldn’t name rush through his blood.

He could hear noise from all sides, shouts of other students echoing from adjacent alleys and loud, metallic booming from the direction where Shouto had been headed. The alley veered left so he turned the corner, ran forward a few more meters then skidded to a stop with a stifled curse when the image in front of him registered. The exit of the alley was blocked by a robot! He tensed, preparing to – what, fight it? Bare-handed? Absurd – but then he realized that the robot couldn't attack him. It couldn't do much of anything because, as a second look at it revealed, it no longer had limbs. It was large, one of the ones which looked like a mountain with legs... or without, as it was. Cautiously, he approached the robot. It was twitching, visibly trying to move but unable to, so it just sort of shifted in place like a giant metal spider with its legs cut off. When he got almost close enough to touch the robot there was yelling from behind him and he glanced back to see a guy who'd taken the same path Hitoshi had, running full tilt towards the robot, apparently unable to see it from behind him.

"Stop!" Hitoshi called out, preparing to use his quirk if necessary. The guy snorted.

"Like hellaaAAAH!!" The initial protest gave way to fear in a blink of an eye, the guy’s face blanching in horror as he turned on his heel and ran back the way he came. Hitoshi blinked. He must've seen the robot but failed to realize it was incapacitated--

Boom!

Years later he would still maintain that no, he did not shriek when the robot suddenly landed in front of him with a huge crash, thank you very much. It didn’t matter what Shouto said he’d heard, obviously all the noise from collapsing robots caused some auditory hallucinations. Anyway. After his heart attack had passed he realized that was what had freaked the guy out; he must've seen the robot flying through the air. From where it landed it wouldn't have hit either of them, but panic could mess with perception. And who threw robots anyway? Rhetorical question, he knew exactly who.

"What the hell are you doing?!" he yelled in the direction the robot flew in from. There was no doubt Shouto was behind this. There was no response apart from more crashing and banging and screeching of metal. "Hello?" A dull boom and the ground shook as though something large fell over. He could feel irritation giving way to concern. "Shouto?"

"What?" Never mind, the irritation was back. Took him long enough!

“You alright?” he shouted back.

“Yeah! But the robots aren't!” Which was kind of the point, so it sounded like Shouto was doing well. And he was wasting time. He glanced at the remains of the second robot, in pieces after the crash. Hitoshi walked over and picked up one of the parts which looked like a cross between a giant claw and a baseball bat. It was lighter than it looked and covered in soot on one side. Weapon acquired, he returned to the still-alive robot. What could its weak spots be? Most likely joints, bare wires and any gaps in the plating through which you could get at the internal wiring. And the red, glass-like hemisphere could be a weak point too. It would be realistic, most creatures died after being skewered through the eye and this was clearly the robot’s equivalent thereof.

He experimentally swung the robot leg around like he would a baseball bat, took a deep breath and let it out. Then, before he could overthink it he hefted the bat – er, robot leg – over his shoulder and let it swing, hitting the eye dead on. He expected to maybe crack the eye; instead, with a sound like breaking glass, it shattered into a million pieces. Hitoshi blinked. A weak point indeed. With an electric whine, the robot fell still – apparently destroying the eye meant an automatic shutdown.

The robot was down.

He’d taken down a robot.

A part of him couldn’t believe it was real, even with the evidence in front of him. It felt like he was dreaming... but he quickly woke up at the sound of something large whizzing through the air, followed by a deafening clangor which made him wince, a shiver running down his spine. Shaking off the feeling, he studied the KO’ed robot. It was only partially blocking the exit of the alley, there was a fair bit of space on the right. Hitoshi squeezed through it and was faced with four more twitching, limbless robots, two scorpions and two mountains, stacked like a misshapen pyramid and blocking the view. He shook his head. He should probably be annoyed but instead the image made him think of his cats, who’d sometimes slip away and bring back small rodents or birds as offerings, some of them still alive. Trying valiantly not to imagine a cat-eared Shouto carrying robot scorpions in his mouth, he attempted to distract himself from his own brain by smashing more robot eyes. That done, he circled around the corpses to find Shouto and entered a disaster zone.

The moderately-sized square area bordered by buildings on all sides was covered in downed robots. They were in varying states of dismemberment, some of them half buried in the ground, and quite a few were smoking. The air was gray from the billowing smoke and he could see fire in some places, though what was burning was anyone’s guess. Surely not metal? Hitoshi stared at the scrap heap in disbelief. The place looked like a fire tornado had rampaged through. How had Shouto managed to wreak such destruction in… actually, how much time had passed? He wasn’t sure.

"Hitoshi!" Shouto accosted him, jumping out from behind the closest robot corpse and nearly giving him a heart attack. "You done?"

"Yeah," he shrugged. He was beginning to realize that interacting with Shouto required chill and nerves of steel. "I see you're done too," he added, eyeing the piles upon piles of metal which were once robots. How many, he couldn't say.

"To be fair, a bunch of them just fell into traps when they tried to rush me and then they were sitting ducks," Shouto explained and shepherded him towards one of the side alleys. All three of them seemed to be blocked off by conveniently placed robot corpses. "Traps! They're really testing us here."

"It is an exam."

Shouto ignored the snark and jabbered on. “And then a guy swung in on some tape that grew out of his arm and snagged one robot and threw it! It fell somewhere near you.” Hitoshi blinked, rapidly reevaluating his initial idea of the robot being thrown by Shouto via a bastardized version of a rocket launch. So it was some Tarzan wannabe instead? “Then he swung away, didn’t want to inhale all the smoke I guess. Still, it was smart, I didn’t think of moving over the buildings. Here, there’s space to squeeze through.” Having reached the alley by now, Shouto threw out this non sequitur and promptly crawled through the gap between the robot and the wall. Deciding to just go with it, Hitoshi quickly followed.

"Now let's go look for others!" Once again, Shouto grabbed his wrist and began to drag him off. They ran through the alley, which was fortunately free of robots.

“Others?"

“Sure! You still haven’t tried your strategy,” Shouto reminded him as they reached a square, much larger that the one they’d just left, with wider side alleys and much more chaotic. A wild crowd of contestants was moving around frantically, people shooting off blasts from their quirks, arguing over who saw which robot first, almost coming to blows before recalling that fighting other contestants was forbidden and running off, bumping into already downed robots… Pandemonium.

“Strategy,” Hitoshi muttered, trying to focus. The idea was sound, but challenging to put into practice in the chaos that was the examination site. He needed to find a good target, someone focused enough to realize he was speaking to them and to respond-- wait, he could see someone. A girl with poofy brown hair was tapping robots, causing them to rise and float in midair at a moderate height. There were already a few robots floating on each side of her, and she was adding more. He ran towards the girl, aware of Shouto following behind. The second she noticed him, he struck.

"Is that a gravity quirk?"

"What?" she blurted, then her eyes glazed over in a familiar manner.

"Don’t move," Hitoshi said and eyed the closest robot. They weren't floating that high up and his climbing was better than his aim. He had extensive experience in scaling jungle gyms, trees and the like to escape from other kids. From higher ground he could still hear what they were saying about him if they stood close enough, but they usually left him alone quickly. Maybe they disliked having to look up at him in order to insult him. Anyway, he eventually became a pro at hoisting himself up on jungle gyms and branches, a special skill acquired through necessity. The girl, or maybe someone else, had already defeated some robots, and the metallic bodies lying on the ground could serve well as a cross between a ladder and a platform. So Hitoshi placed his makeshift weapon on the ground, swiftly climbed onto one of the robots, then jumped up, getting a hold of the closest floating one and hoisting himself up on it. The whole thing barely took a few seconds. A good result, but less so when taking into account that he likely didn’t have much time.

"Catch!" Shouto had thrown the robot part up in such a way that it was easy to catch it in midair. Hitoshi didn't even have to ask him to do it. He was beginning to understand why some heroes worked in teams. He quickly found weak spots to aim at. From atop the robot the angle was a bit awkward, but he was able to attack successfully after adjusting his stance a little and KO the scorpion. There was no time to waste, so without thinking much about it, which could cause him to over-analyze and start freaking out, he jumped from one robot to the next. Considering that the robots were hovering in mid-air and held up by a quirk it seemed like it would be a challenge, but actually wasn't that much different than jumping from rock to rock to get across a river. If anything it was easier – robots were much larger than rocks and they weren't treacherously slippery due to water and erosion. The height was a problem, but only a mental one – on a technical level there was no difference between jumping from robot to robot on ground level and in the air, as long as one didn't freak out and fall.

Hitoshi killed the second scorpion and was still standing on it when it began to shake. Not in the twitchy manner typical of legless robots tottering on the ground, but in a way which indicated that the poofy-haired girl was losing control of her quirk. Deciding not to risk it, Hitoshi looked down the side of the robot. The distance to the ground wasn’t that big, but just to be safe he slid down the scorpion-like robot’s tail like he would a tree branch, hanging down from it before letting go. He dropped to the ground, then quickly ran a few steps forward to avoid getting squashed by a falling robot. And not a moment too soon – they were beginning to really wobble.

"Whoo, congrats!" Shouto materialized next to him. "That was great! You're more athletic than you look," he continued. Hitoshi stared at him. Nope, still didn't look like he realized how he sounded. Oh well, if Shouto meant it as a genuine compliment Hitoshi would take it as one.

"Thanks," Hitoshi raised his hand for a high-five. It was silly, but he'd always wanted to exchange this gesture with someone other than his dad, who didn't really count. The floating robots chose that moment to fall down, crashing loudly against the pavement and shaking the ground a bit. It paralleled the state of Hitoshi's mind as he took in his companion's reaction. Shouto did not quite flinch; it was more like a sudden tenseness, all his muscles locking in the initial stages of fight-or-flight reaction. He seemed to have stopped breathing and his alert eyes were glued to Hitoshi's hand watching it cautiously, unblinking and with dilated pupils. Feeling ill, Hitoshi lowered his hand. Did Shouto really think--

"Hey!" the poofy-haired girl's shout broke him from his stupor. "What did you do? The proctor said no fighting!"

"That's why I didn't fight you," Hitoshi replied automatically, half of his mind stuck on what just happened. "I just used my quirk on you. Which wasn't forbidden."

"Wha-- but--" the girl spluttered faced with this bit of logic. "Argh!" She rushed off, apparently abandoning the argument in favor of getting more points. The girl had one of those round, friendly faces, and while Hitoshi knew appearances can be deceptive he really would have preferred to target someone who was obviously an unscrupulous asshole. Because, all logic aside, targeting the round-faced girl made him feel like an unscrupulous asshole. Especially after the high five fiasco.

"So,” Shouto distracted him. “What was that earlier? With the hand?" He no longer looked so wary. So he knew Hitoshi wouldn't… Good. It must've been a reflex, Hitoshi understood those. He tried not to contemplate why Shouto would have this reflex, not wanting to feel anymore sick than he already did.

"Raise your hand like this," he chose to explain instead, demonstrating with his own. Once Shouto complied, he firmly clapped his palm against Shouto's. "It's called a high five. Ever heard of it?"

"Once or twice," Shouto slapped his palm against Hitoshi's in a double high five. Atmosphere cleared, they both winced as a loud, static screech took that time to reverberate across the training ground.

"Two minutes left on the clock!", Present Mic informed them through the speakers. Hitoshi noticed that Shouto's eyes began to sparkle happily in response.

"You sure look happy to be done with the exam," he pointed out. Shouto blinked.

"Huh? No, I just--"

Boom. Alarms began to howl and the ground shook.

"What the hell?"

"Hasn’t been two minutes.”

"Wait. Didn't he say that there's a fourth type of robot and that right before the exam ends--"

Boom. The ground shook again, and something metal appeared in the distance over the top of one of the buildings.

It moved.

People started screaming and running in the opposite direction, which just happened to be where Hitoshi and Shouto were standing. Thinking fast, they ran towards one of the downed robots and jumped on it to not get swept away by the crowd.

"That's the fourth type? It's taller than the buildings, I thought it'd be smaller."

Hitoshi shrugged. "It is what it is." The thing was humongous, but also slow from what he could see. There was no need to run around like headless chickens. At this point he was more likely to get trampled by a fellow competitor than by the robot.

"Didn't look that big on paper," Shouto complained.

"Of course it didn't-- oh shit," now that he was standing in an elevated spot Hitoshi could see the whole area. "Look!" There was rubble everywhere and on the ground, pinned by what seemed to be the largest piece, was the round-faced girl from before. Hitoshi clenched his fists. "Why won't she float it?"

"Maybe she can't twist around enough to touch it."

"Damn it." A weight settled in Hitoshi’s chest. Was it his fault? Did his mind control cause her to be unable to use her quirk to save herself now? Was she injured? Would she even have gone that way if they hadn’t met?

"Hitoshi?" Shouto poked him in the arm. Hitoshi flinched and stared helplessly at the crowd in between them and the girl.

"How am I supposed to get there?" He'd get trampled two steps in, and then the girl would get trampled by the giant robot and they'd both be turned into paste. He could feel the onset of panic but couldn't help it. This was an exam! Why wasn't someone helping her? Stopping the robot? Where were the proctors?

“Not a problem, follow me," Shouto tugged his sleeve and crouched down. "Okay people, OUTTA THE WAY!" the bellow was followed by a blast of fire cutting through the air above the contestants’ heads. People screamed and jumped to the sides, some patting their hair and glaring even though no one was hit. "Come on!" They jumped down and ran through the space which had cleared in the wake of Shouto’s flamethrower-like move.

"Nice one." The method was questionable, but it had worked.

"Somebody has to save our skins!" They reached the girl in a few seconds. She was struggling, trying to get out from underneath the boulder but was immobilized almost completely and all she could do was wiggle around. Something knocked into Hitoshi's shoulder.

"Oof!" gasped the something, which was actually a green-haired guy.

"Ow," Hitoshi muttered.

"Oh!” the girl gasped, gaze zeroing in on Hitoshi's face. Apparently she remembered him.

"Hi. Rescue team to the res...cue, oh shit," Shouto pointed towards the robot. "It's heading this way." They all stared at it in mute horror.

"Run!" the girl snapped out of it first. "It's an exam, I'm sure-- I'm sure--"

"No!" the new guy yelled, determination shining in his eyes. "A true hero doesn't leave anyone behind!" Then he grabbed the edge of the boulder and began to push it up. Or trying to, it didn't even move a millimeter.

"Okay, all together," Hitoshi heard his own voice say. He was pretty sure he was operating on pure adrenaline at this point. His heartbeat was echoing in his ears and in his throat and the edge of his field of vision was oddly blurry. He and Shouto also took hold of the boulder and heaved, but even with the three of them it wasn't enough.

"It's getting closer!" New guy parroted after Shouto. The robot was slow due to its size, but they were immobile. It would reach them soon.

"I can stall it," Shouto said. "It's just... Hitoshi!" He moved closer, speaking quietly. "If you wanna talk to me again force me to use fire!"

What?

"What?" Hitoshi stared. What was he going on about? Was it really the time? Shouto didn't answer, his eyes were closed and he appeared to be concentrating. And then there was a subtle change coming over him. His posture, the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head... and his aura, which suddenly seemed different, colder.

Then Shouto moved his right hand.

Krrrr!

Hitoshi felt his jaw drop. A sheet of ice spread across the ground, starting at Shouto’s right foot and instantly covering the distance between them and the robot. Without stopping, the ice climbed up its legs, then up its torso, thickening as it went and eventually encasing the robot in a makeshift glacier up to its neck.

Ice. Shouto used ice. But his quirk was fire manipulation! So it wasn’t possible. Was it?

Shouto turned towards the girl. “Are you injured? Any broken bones?”

“No, I’m only pinned--”

“Good, because we’ll have to run,” Shouto turned to Hitoshi and Hitoshi’s breath caught. His eyes... they were cold and dark. Emotionless. Nothing like before. “I will use ice to lift the boulder, prepare yourselves.” Quickly, Hitoshi grabbed the girl’s wrists and she grabbed his. Everyone was very aware of the crackling sounds coming from the giant robot’s direction as it tried to free itself. It was slow but strong, and the ice was cracking steadily, more and more pieces falling on the ground and breaking with a sound like shards of glass. Shouto placed his right hand against the debris under the boulder. With a creaking sound, it iced over and thick columns of ice began to form, lifting the boulder as they grew. “I can freeze the robot again if needed, but I’d rather not have to,” Shouto spoke over the tense silence, reassuring them. He had a point, Hitoshi would rather just get out of here too. The ice spread quickly and the second there was enough slack Hitoshi pulled, the girl helping as much as she could, and then she was free. They both stumbled, but righted themselves quickly by leaning on each other.

“Let’s go-- oh!” the girl gasped and pointed at the giant robot. Filled with dread, Hitoshi turned, expecting to see the robot ice-free and already upon them. In truth, while it had shaken off a lot of the ice it wasn’t free yet, and in the worst case Shouto could just re-freeze it like he said. On the other hand, the sight of the new guy (who, he now realized, had disappeared somewhere around the time Shouto lifted the boulder) flying through the air like a cannonball, heading for the robot’s face, was completely unexpected. The three of them froze, staring at the impeding train wreck.

Boom!

The boy and the robot collided, the thing’s head bursting open, and the whole robot started collapsing like a house of cards. Hitoshi briefly remembered that eyes were the robots’ weak point, but had no time to analyze with the shower of metal debris falling towards them. Along with the boy, who seemed to be unconscious going by his limp stature. The girl let out an anxious gasp and Shouto frowned.

“I can’t stop his fall with ice, it might--”

“I’ll do it!” the girl said, already running forward, heedless of the falling debris. She skidded to a halt and looked up, then bit her lip. Hitoshi half expected her to float up towards the guy, but maybe she couldn't use her quirk on herself?

“Here,” Shouto moved his right hand and a narrow strip of ice whooshed across the ground, reaching the girl’s feet and extending upwards, not freezing her but fluidly turning into a wide, icy platform which carried her up. It rose quickly like a dangerous, open elevator. The girl was able to keep her balance and kept looking towards the falling boy. When he was almost next to her she jumped off, grabbing him with one hand and slapping her own cheek with the other, activating her quirk. They began floating slowly downwards, Shouto using the time to transform the platform into a makeshift umbrella, spreading icicles outwards from the top to catch or push away the pieces of debris which could hit the duo. Hitoshi kept his eyes on the girl’s face which was turning pale, then a pale green, then just green. He ran towards the pair and jumped up, grabbing the girl’s shoe and pulling them both downwards. It barely took a second and was easy because they weighted as much as a feather. The moment they were on the ground the girl canceled her quirk, leaned away from them and retched. Hitoshi felt like joining her when he saw the state the green-haired guy was in. He was… a mess was putting it mildly. Three of his limbs were so damaged that they were shapeless, like bags of meat. How many breaks did it take to end up in such a state? Hitoshi had no idea what the guy’s injuries looked like on the inside, and didn’t want to know.

And, despite what they'd assumed before, he was still conscious.

How.

Shouto knelt down next to the green-haired guy. He placed his right hand on his shoulder and a thin layer of ice-frost formed over the damaged limbs, a mixture of a cast and coolant. The girl was turning towards them, wiping her mouth. It seemed she was felling better.

"Once the exam is over, a medical team should be dispatched. When they make the announcement I will--" there was a crackling sound. Shouto paused. They all looked down at the green-haired guy who was trying to move the limbs Shouto had iced, causing the noise. The broken limbs. In which the bones were probably in pieces the size of a button.

"What're you doing?" the girl panicked. "You shouldn't move!" He shouldn't be able to!

"One point... just one point..." the guy mumbled and tried to move again. Something in Hitoshi snapped. After the fighting and the guilt and the rescuing and magic quirk switches and personality switches and giant robots exploding and determined green-haired guys injuring themselves to the point where their limbs turned into paste, he was on his last nerve and it was just too fucking much.

"Are points more important than your health?!" he yelled.

"I..." the guy tried to respond and his eyes glazed over.

"Shut up! Don't move!" Hitoshi ordered and watched him fall still. "Fuck." He wiped his forehead. It was covered with cold sweat.

"Good thinking," Shouto commended. Then he tried to say something else, but it was drowned out by a piercing screech from the sound system.

"Ladies and gentleman, the entrance exam is henceforth OVER!" Present Mic’s voice rang out over the square. "Our medical staff will now--"

"There you go," Shouto nodded. "As I was saying, injuries this severe should be prioritized. Stay here while I alert them,” he ordered and promptly ran off. Hitoshi took a deep breath. Damn it all. He was here to take an exam, not play paramedic! He glanced at the girl who was staring at the green-haired guy, aghast. He did look pretty horrible.

"You okay? No lasting damage?" The girl blinked and stared at him.

"...he didn't even get one point?" she asked incredulously. Hitoshi stared at her with equal incredulity. Was insanity contagious? Or were they both in shock? He could hear footsteps and glanced up to see Shouto, along with... yes, that was Recovery Girl. Wow. The girl seemed similarly awed despite her worry while the guy, still under the influence of Hitoshi's quirk, could only glance from one of them to the other, eyes being the only body part he could move. The icy casts over his limbs were still intact. Hitoshi wondered if the cold was helping with the pain.

Ice. Besides the initial shock he'd felt when he first saw Shouto wield the element, he hadn't wondered about that – there just wasn't time with all that was going on. But now his mind got hung up on it. Shouto's quirk was fire! He'd seen him use it several times. What was with the ice? With the personality switch that happened at the same time? There was also Shouto’s vague forewarning...

Shouto and Recovery Girl reached them quickly. Hitoshi was pretty sure the examiners who'd been watching did basic triage and sent help where it was needed the most, and the healing hero had simply bumped into Shouto on her way towards her designed patient. It didn't really matter, he was just glad that help was there. He stared at Shouto who knelt down next to him, at his dual-colored hair – red like fire and white like ice. He recalled how his head only smoked on the left side – the red side, how he only used his left hand to create fire and used his right to create ice.

"--you to cancel your quirks?" he heard Recovery Girl say. Apparently he'd missed something.

"Of course," Shouto placed his hand – left hand, Hitoshi noted – on the green-haired guy's shoulder. With a hiss the makeshift ice casts disappeared without a trace, turning directly to water vapor. Despite his earlier inattention Hitoshi got with the program quickly and canceled his quirk as well. Unlike Shouto he didn't have to do or say anything, the deactivation was purely mental and required him to 'abandon' the connection. That done, both boys stepped away to make room for the professional, while the poofy-haired girl watched the treatment, concern mingling with curiosity on her face.

"He'll be fine now," Hitoshi said, partly to reassure himself, partly because he honestly thought so. Recovery Girl's quirk was legendary.

"Course he will. At least physically, dunno about his ego," Shouto said. Hitoshi turned his head so fast he almost got whiplash. "Then again lives matter more than egos, yeah? Anyway Recovery Girl’s awesome, look, his limbs’re already looking bett—erk ! Hitoshi, your face looks scary!” Yeah, the post-exam adrenaline crash mixed with the Shouto situation left him wired and angry and entirely done and he felt more than a little crazy and it was probably showing on his face. A lot.

"You don’t say?!" he hissed at Shouto. The one he'd initially met, with lively eyes set in a blank face. With a fire quirk and machine-gun-style prattling and casual speech patterns.

"Uh... heh," Shouto muttered nonsensically. “Hello again!”

Hitoshi goggled. “Again? What the hell happened here?”

“Ah, yeah. I should explain, huh?”

“No shit!”

“I can do that,” he agreed easily. “The question is, if I told you the truth would you believe me?”

Hitoshi heaved a sigh. This was the ‘to try or not to try’ thing all over again. If he left without hearing Shouto’s explanation and seeing this strange story to its conclusion he would end up forever wondering what would’ve happened. “Shouto.” He ended up sounding more like ‘you dumbass.’ “I saw you do something that should be impossible. So if your explanation also sounds impossible I can accept that.”

Shouto studied him for a moment, then eye-smiled. “You’re something else, you know?”

“Don’t call me a thing.” Shouto seemed about to protest, but then realized he was just sassing and settled down. Nearby the green-haired boy, who seemed to be doing a lot better thanks to Recovery Girl, was slowly standing up. Recovery Girl had moved on and could be seen passing out candy farther away. The girl was still hanging around, looking relieved at the boy’s recovery but unwilling to approach. Maybe she felt too awkward. The students who didn’t need medical attention were slowly heading back to U.A. to get their phones and bags and all the stuff they’d been told to leave behind before the exam started. It didn’t happen that long ago, but to Hitoshi it seemed like a lifetime had passed. As for Shouto, they’ve only known each other for… a little more than ten minutes. Hitoshi was surprised when he realized this. The brief time was eventful so it felt longer. He shook his head to clear it. What a crazy day. Shouto, the source of the craziness, stood next to him, waiting for him to gather his thoughts.

“So,” Hitoshi caught his attention. “Everyone’s leaving… Walk and talk?”

“Sure.”

"Then let's go."

Together, they headed towards the main building. They didn’t know it at the time, but that day was the first chapter in the story of how they became great heroes, and the best of friends.

#fic:unbalancedheart #shinsou hitoshi #todoroki shouto #bnhafic

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how2to18 · 7 years ago

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I liked the idea of a story in episodes that would go on for a long time.

— David Lynch (1997)

DAVID LYNCH AGES GRACEFULLY. Proof is in footage from the making of Eraserhead, confirming that Lynch was not born with his silver, pomaded hairstyle, and that the lines of maturity make him look less goofy than he did in his post-college years. Almost unfaltering critical success and international fame have made the concept of Lynch plausible: his once curious, shambolic persona has been a brand since the 1990s. In “Part 14” of the much-awaited — and one-year overdue — return of Twin Peaks, FBI Deputy Director Gordon Cole (David Lynch) retells a fresh “Monica Bellucci dream,” in which Cole and Bellucci (as herself) have a terrace coffee in a Paris street. Asking who is “the dreamer [who dreams and then lives inside the dream],” Bellucci makes a sign for Cole to look over his shoulder. The dream cuts to a shot from Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (1992), showing Cole at his FBI headquarters desk, 25-odd years previous, brown-haired, full-cheeked, with an air of concern on his face. Present-day Cole recounts: “I saw myself. I saw myself from … long ago. In the old Philadelphia offices.” Philadelphia holds significance in Lynch’s personal mythology. It is the city where Lynch, as an art student, first started experimenting with animation and, soon after, film. The dreamer who Bellucci referenced a moment before, he who lives within his own dream, might very well be David Lynch looking back on himself as a cultural subject — one for whom thinking creatively accounts for such a great part in biography and idiosyncrasy.

From the moment he was given a platform to talk about his journey into cinema and television, Lynch has talked about life in Philadelphia — where he attended art school, got married, became a father — as a source of dread and inspiration in and of itself. The influence of his college education on his artistic development seems to pale in comparison to that of the city itself, and it has been suggested, whether in good faith or not, that Lynch’s primary sources are rooted in his perception of the physical and social environment rather than in aesthetic and theoretical teachings he received. Candidly, in a BBC documentary on the history of the Surrealists in film that he was asked to host in 1987, Lynch talked about Philadelphia as “one of the sickest, most corrupt, decadent, fear-ridden cities that exists.” The dramatic quote has followed him everywhere, but he has not, to my knowledge, nuanced it since. The memories from Philadelphia are so strong partly because they are always interpreted in contrast with an earlier, idyllic past in Lynch’s Midwestern childhood. Against this comparatively happy, easy, wholesome time and place, urban societies have always seemed — if only at first sight — toxic. (This is with the exception perhaps of Los Angeles, a city where the sun shines and where, Lynch claims, there is “something in the air.”) However, as his manifest attachment to past selves and identities suggests (see the persistence of his birthplace, Missoula, Montana, and of his Eagle Scout ranking on his Twitter bio), a preserved naïveté is an integral part of his mature artistic persona.

In the opening sequence of last year’s documentary David Lynch: The Art Life, a montage of Super 8 family film footage gives a glimpse of this “simple” and elated postwar American childhood. The film director’s voice retells fragments from a happy early life among a loving mother, father, brother, and sister, and each memory sounds sensorily close and relevant. On a hot summer day in Idaho, Lynch remembers having been placed in a man-made pool of muddied water in the garden of his parents’ house in the company of Dickie Smith, another toddler from the neighborhood who was his friend. The two boys had been sent there together for protection against the scorching heat, and Lynch remembers how this simple arrangement enabled him to enjoy the garden, the pleasantness of the mud forming under his fingers, and the proximity of a friend who was sharing in his excitement. The memory of this scene, today, is so palpable that it becomes a bit overwhelming: “Forget it,” Lynch concludes with a smile.

Much of Lynch’s artistic coming of age, as he retells it in the documentary, involves the thematic elements of this happy anecdote: the immediate excitement of creative experimentation and the joy of sharing this work, this lifestyle — the “art life.” Through the rest of the film, the director is pictured handling rust-colored paint, which he smears onto the flat surface of a canvas in his current Los Angeles studio. Though his hands are clad in surgical gloves, the idea of the mud of the opening memory is not distant. Viewers may feel far removed from the clean and remote technicality of film, the medium with which Lynch’s work is predominantly associated. Yet the documentary closely examines this other, enduring side of Lynch’s artistic process, one that relies on primary, unmediated experimentation with matter and texture. Lula, Lynch’s two-year-old daughter, is walking around the studio, grasping the look and feel of various objects from her own perspective. There is a shot of a furry gray moth fluttering against a window pane. Later, Lynch comments on the amazing textures hidden within the body of the smallest organic creatures: insects, fish, small animals.

The life and death of organic matter can be as curious and spectacular in Lynch’s aesthetic as the workings of technology. Such curiosity brings his work to tread a fine line between the sheer beauty of changing organic forms and the abject horror that bodies conventionally represent when they are subject to death and decay. Lynch recounts that as an art student in Philadelphia he kept a special room in his building’s basement for artistic “experimentations,” which consisted in gathering organic matter, animal or vegetal, and leaving it to rot while recording all the successive physical changes of these transformations. This experimental preoccupation anticipates the dead cat in Eraserhead, the ear in Blue Velvet, or even the fantastic “Children’s Fish Kit” Lynch assembled in a 1979 photo-based art piece, giving instructions to assemble a (dead) mackerel he had chopped up into three pieces, like the parts of a mechanic toy. The bloody mess around the pieces of this gory puzzle testified to either the idiocy or malevolence of the maker of the “kit.” As Lynch remembered it, his father’s reaction when he showed him the experimental basement room was, unsurprisingly perhaps, one of palpable sadness and concern. This impression was confirmed to him when his father advised him a moment later, à propos de rien, never to have any children.

There is, and always has been, a sustained critical interest in discovering, as David Foster Wallace once put it, “what David Lynch is really like.” A question that arises, for example, is whether the concept of Lynch as a sui generis figure in cinema is fair, or even plausible. Film critic Peter Bradshaw, in his review of The Art Life, notes that the documentary gives little to no indication that Lynch is aware of an experimental film tradition happening before him, and concomitantly with him, as he describes the way he came to the realization that there could be such a thing as a “moving painting.” This realization, which led him to apply for and obtain a grant from the American Film Institute, is presented by Lynch, like many of his artistic decisions, as a purely intuitive move. “What is so extraordinary about this film,” Bradshaw writes, “is that it doesn’t show Lynch as the cinephile or the movie brat or even someone with any great interest in art history […] It is as if Lynch was in a state of innocent primitivism, without ever knowing about anyone else doing the same thing.” In Chris Rodley’s book of interviews, Lynch on Lynch, the names of Fellini, Kubrick, or Wilder occasionally come up, but the comments that they inspire are always succinct and superficial. “Sunset Boulevard is in my top five movies for sure,” says Lynch, before claiming he is not sure it has anything to do with Eraserhead beyond perhaps the “experience of a certain mood.” Watching or reading any interview with Lynch since the release of Eraserhead leaves open the question of whether the director performs his innocent remoteness to such a film tradition, or whether this lack of awareness, which amounts to a form of phenomenal self-involvement, is genuine.

Wallace, among others, believes it is. The concept of a “primitive” or “infantile” approach to filmmaking has marked much of Lynch Studies since its ignition in the 1990s. Both Surrealism and the Freudian Uncanny, important intertexts for Lynch’s interpreters, identify regression into infantile or primitive states as a condition of their existence. The primitive self, or the child-like self, is the only aspect of human life that André Breton sees as artistically promising and liberating, and his 1924 Surrealist Manifesto promoted Surrealism as no less than a “second chance” to experience the freedom of childhood — free from the constraints of rational language and self-presentation. Though he readily admitted the limitations of his own tentative, preliminary theories on the subject, Freud, meanwhile, insisted on this notion of infantile primitivism as the return of animistic beliefs that should have been bypassed in psycho-sexual development, but which nonetheless return to create the specific experience of the uncanny. My favorite moment in the Art Life involves Lynch’s retelling of a hazy, ominous memory, of saying goodbye to a male neighbor named Mr. Smith (Dickie’s father?) before his family set off to leave Boise, Idaho. It is unclear whether the man, almost a stranger to the young boy, represents the loss of a happy past or, on the contrary, some kind of threat. Lynch pauses; his voice wavers; and the story is never completed. Trying to define that special brand of creepiness that would come to define the term “Lynchian,” Wallace suggested that Lynch seemed to be “one of these people with unusual access to their own unconscious,” suggesting that if these unconscious fixations are often too much for words, Lynch’s lack of emotional distance from them allows for their comparatively unfiltered expressions in his visual art and film.

Despite his unrelenting aesthetic interest in making the unconscious visible, Lynch claims to be ignorant of psychoanalytic theory, and Peter Bradshaw is not the first critic to have drawn a parallel between his quasi-contempt for theoretical knowledge and his seemingly innocent, unadulterated creative persona. His own contributions to interpretations of his work rarely take us further than autobiographical sources. For example, while hosting the history of Surrealism in film, he only admitted to feeling an affinity with “people who are interested in cinema as a means of experimentation,” whomever these people might be after the Surrealists. Jeff Johnson even identifies “an undercurrent of anti-intellectualism” in Lynch’s films, evident from the early shorts The Alphabet (1968) and The Grandmother (1970), where the movement from the intuitive to the symbolic, from pre-verbal freedom to the constraints of language, is represented as a trauma. Johnson thus interprets the streak of happy naïveté in Lynch’s work as the expression of intrinsically American values, pointing that the rationalist approach always fails in Twin Peaks, and that Voltaire, in Lynch’s work generally speaking, “always loses to Rousseau.” Agent Cooper, the iconic hero of the TV series, is one of the clearest and most sophisticated expressions of Lynch’s postlapsarian American ideal. Wholesome, empathetic, spontaneous, trusting in his own intuitions and honest appetites, nevertheless hard-working and ever-respectful of social hierarchy, Cooper is the alter ego of the “naïve genius” Pauline Kael saw in Lynch upon the release of Blue Velvet: a childish, solipsistic, albeit clairvoyant, man.

The return of Twin Peaks has given new life to Lynch’s “naïve genius” persona, which has lived through a number of variations in Lynch’s work, from awkward Henry in Eraserhead to Mulholland Drive’s ingénue heroine, Betty. In Season Three of Twin Peaks, Agent Cooper, already known as a naïve prodigy, is subjected to an interminably stretched-out “return” via catatonic Dougie Jones, a somewhat radical new incarnation in this genealogy of naïveté. Fifteen episodes into the much awaited Return of the 1990s cult TV show, Cooper, the hermeneutic force and spirit of Twin Peaks, had yet to recover the capacity to form sentences, or make willing decisions, a state that had led TV reviewers worldwide to compare the new Coop, or “Dougie,” with a robot, a simulacrum of himself, or even the eponymous Sims of the once-widely popular life-simulation video game (see, for example, Dougie’s helpless reaction when he needs to go to the toilet in “Part 5,” clasping his crotch with both hands, unable to relieve himself unless told to do so). Cooper’s 25-year sojourn in the remote time of the Black Lodge — a place where language is spoken backward but where even deceased people, like Laura Palmer, go on living and aging — comes to an end no sooner than three episodes into the new series. Even after this phenomenally delayed return, the transmission fails to restore Cooper to his terrestrial self. Perhaps as a result of his extended absence in between worlds, or as a consequence of the trauma for changing from one substance to another in his passage back from nowhere to Earth, Agent Cooper has then to go through a long and directionless process of restoration to the character he once was. I call it a process, but it is one that shows hardly encouraging, almost imperceptible, progress — an impossibly elongated delivery that will have resigned many viewers to accepting that perhaps this catatonic state was what the character Cooper was supposed to be for the whole series, that there would be no further “return” than this innocent, familiar body in a suit.

In line with Coop in the original series, the Cooper who has infiltrated the life of Dougie Jones in The Return is responsive to the simple, almost invariably sweet, food that his wife, Janey-E (Naomi Watts), feeds him as she would a child. The new, temporary Coop doesn’t dream, but he is guided by a good intuition (a.k.a. the Black Lodge) that helps him dodge the traps that his now almost nonexistent rational logic would fail to discern. Finally, Coop is still pure at heart to the point of taking an embarrassingly innocent approach to heterosexual relationships, which leads him to engage in a disturbing sex scene with Janey-E without previously having shown signs of consent. This is, up to this point, the only sex scene the show will put Cooper through, as if the character had to be stripped of agency to support — and perhaps accidentally enjoy — this less-than-pure experience of adult physicality. Coop, however, renews along with his old sensory memories. Through the comical, aphasic demands for coffee of Coop-as-Dougie-Jones, the longtime viewer can satisfy their knowledge that, doppelgängers and mind-bending dimension-crossing aside, this is the “real” Coop, in essence. In fact, Cooper’s initial rediscovery of coffee in “Part 4,” and of cherry pie in “Part 11,” tease the audience’s longing to see Cooper restored to his true self while failing to produce a suitable “trigger” for his return. So Coop, for the most part of The Return is reduced to a sort of Faulknerian man-child, but with added magic: he may be slowed down, incapacitated, limited to the feel of simple emotions and easily satiated hungers, but he is never angered by this condition, or shown to have become selfish in this disposition. He is fully dependent on the care of others but also flourishes under this care, seemingly blind to danger but actually blessed by protective intuition, good reflexes (as when attacked by Ike the Spike, the hitman sent to kill him), and the unfaltering guidance of mysterious protective forces.

And yet in the episode aired a week before the two-part finale, the show got Cooper back. Indulging in this subversive timeline, Lynch forces his audience to experience the world of Twin Peaks — which now comprises many more locations than the town of Twin Peaks itself and many new characters that draw, more or less closely, on the original series — beyond or before its movement toward narrative resolution. The “spirit” of this irresponsible timeline occasionally crystalizes through the wide, innocent, experimental eyes of Cooper-as-Dougie-Jones.

Twin Peaks has always affected a great innocence over the way it managed time and the release of information, a process that always privileged environmental components such as food, nature, technology, weather, and time. As Michel Chion noted in the mid-1990s, Twin Peaks was the first television series where the characters were seen interrupting the action altogether to enjoy simple physical gratifications such as fresh air, the taste of a good cup of coffee with a slice of pie, a “notion of ease” that was so completely new to the time-tight world of television series. Lynch was famously forced by ABC to reveal the identity of Laura Palmer’s killer early on in Season Two out of concern for the general longing for narrative resolution, a move that went against Lynch and Mark Frost’s initial plan to let the murder plot recede to the background, while savoring all the minor sub-narratives of the various characters and the atmosphere, in a word, of the show. This decision, he realized immediately, would “kill” the show, and it did, at least for a time.

The decision to make Fire Walk With Me in 1992 was, for Lynch, an opportunity to reexperience the world of the show, a universe that he had become obsessed with. Yet one of the reasons why the film was initially so badly received was that, due to new time constraints, the more light-hearted tone of the TV series had to be stripped away from the prequel narrative, leaving us with only the bleakest elements of the plot. It seems clear now that the show has taken complete liberty over the deliverance — and delivery — of Cooper, and therefore of time. It made the return of the hero not the beginning but almost the end of the Return’s plot and through this device, restored the show’s initial pace of suspended action, fruitful confusion, and slow, all-too-frequently pausing, dialogue. A bit like Gordon Cole’s deafness or Andy and Lucy’s heightened emotional sincerity, this is also a device to submit character interactions to a certain kind of experimental pace.

The extreme delay in restoring Cooper has enabled some of the greatest comedy the show has delivered yet, such as the gloriously incongruous casino scenes, the insurance company scenes in which Dougie behaves in a less-than-office-appropriate manner and gets away with it, and the desert rendezvous scene in which Dougie evades the Mitchum brothers’ plan to kill him by delivering them a $30 million check from his boss with a complementary cherry pie in a cardboard box. All of these scenes offer comically providential outcomes to seemingly desperate situations, deploying money and professional resources with a simplicity that only a child at play could come up with. Paradoxically then, the delayed recovery of Coop has enabled the return of the Twin Peaks spirit: a goofiness restored, rebooted. In Rodley’s book of interviews, to this day the most substantial collection of published words from the filmmaker, Lynch points out that he generally looks back to an era when filmmaking could take its time.

Things go so fast when you’re making a movie now that you’re not able to give the world enough — what it deserves. It wants to be lived in a little bit, it’s got so much to offer, and you’re going just a little too fast. It’s just sad.

In pure Lynch fashion, this statement fails to say whether it is referring to an actual era in film history or to Lynch’s own early experience of feature-filmmaking, a period when, for lack of funds, he stretched the making of Eraserhead over more than five years, a time that allowed him to create a vision and feel time within it — to explore it and believe in its reality. “Everything should be looked at,” is Lynch’s overall message. “There could be clues in it.” This is what the format of the television series certainly allowed him to do, which he found attractive from the beginning, in spite of the initial losses that TV would imply in terms of sound and image quality back in the 1990s.

A paradox remains in this scenario. For all its impossible delay, The Return is incredibly contemporary in its handling of media and sensitive to their evolution in time — from the ubiquitous radio in the enigmatic 1940s flashbacks of “Part 8,” to the new present day’s use of Skype, video blogging channels, smart phones, and geolocation. Many of these illustrations of hyper-connectivity are topped with representations of metaphorical and actual screens, at times futuristic or retro or both, as in the case of the mysterious glass box seen in “Part 1.” Only Sarah Palmer’s viewing of nature television programs and a boxing match seem resolutely from another time, the latter actually stuck in a terrifying time loop: a nod to the death of television as we once knew it. This, and a Roadhouse music listing that feels up-to-date, save for a few fan-serving callbacks (James Hurley, Audrey Horne’s ever-haunting dead-to-the-world dance, and to an extent, Rebekah Del Rio’s timely return), makes you think David Lynch is very much in tune with a contemporary cultural moment, which he consciously haunts. Meanwhile, the rarely interrupted continuum of an authorial vision is a place of indiscriminate duration, an elongated present moment prone to uncanny returns: mud, heat, hit songs, nuclear explosions, places where personal recollections eventually form the substance of the collective past.

Elsa Court’s monograph Émigré Representations of the American Roadside 1955-85: Explorations in Literature, Film, and Photography is forthcoming with Palgrave Macmillan. Court researches expat cultures for the Financial Times and reads fiction for Granta magazine.

The post Return of the Naïve Genius: “David Lynch: The Art Life” and “Twin Peaks: The Return” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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